But the trammie held fast, a squat, buirdly bird with a face like a badly-made barn door. And he said Not so fast, wasn’t he Union as well? Here, he’d pay the ticket. Sit down and wait.

That shortened the run, in a minute the Docks, the trammie slowed down at a bend where he shouldn’t, the nearest to Gowans, and Alick jumped off and cried his thanks and took to his heels and ran like the wind.

When the four o’clock picket went on that day there hadn’t been as big a birn as usual of idle folk to look on and claik. The cold was biting across Footforthie gnawing through the thin breeks and jackets of Broo men, sending them talking off to the Library to read last Sunday’s Sunday Post, the racing news and the story of a lassie raped, bairned, killed, and fried up in chips—Ay, fairly educative, the Scottish newspapers…. But a dozen or so still hung about, not expecting much of a shindy at all: but you never knew when a strike was on, there might be a bit of snot flying ere long.

There was only one of the bobbies there, the young country cuddy, he grinned at the picket and one cried him the old tale of the bobby whose beat was fair littered with whores: and a new sergeant came on the beat one night and set the bobby to jailing each whore: but at last the bobby put his splay feet down: I’ve run in my sisters and my auntie to please you, my wife and my daughter and my cousin Jean, but I’m damned if I’ll run in my mother as well—

And they all guffawed, they’d no spite against him, he none against them, funny a chap like that should have joined up with the lousy police though you couldn’t much blame him, fine uniform to keep out the cold, good pay and a pension and perks for the picking. And you blew your chilled hands and spat in the Docks and were just thinking about dandering away home again when you looked up and saw a half-dozen police coming swaggering down to the Gowans gates, the meikle sergeant, Feet, in the lead. You cleared your throat and spat on the ground to get the stink of their wind from your thrapple, but the birn went by with hardly a look, they were all speaking low and chief-like together: what dirty sodding were they planning now?

The only chap of the picket who stood in the road was the young toff childe folk said was half-Red. He drew back a bit to let the bobbies gang by, but they weren’t looking and one of the stots gave a stumble and nearly tripped over the toff. Then, afore you could wink, a queer thing was on, the bobby had grabbed the young toff by the neck and Feet cried out: What’s that—assaulting the police? Right, my lad, you can come on up to the Station.