Folk heard the news and took it through hand, he must fair have gone skite, the silly young mucker, wearied no doubt with the darg of the strike. Most knew he’d a hand in the drowning of old Johnny Edwards—well, what of that? More than a dozen had had a bit hand, and a damn good job, the lousy old scab. And they didn’t run off in a fear to ’list, they marched with the band that Jim Trease got up to demonstrate outside the Central Court where young Ewan Tavendale was coming up on Friday.

Banners and slogans, Jake Forbes with his drum, a cold, dreich, early April day. One or two as they slumped along thought of Alick ticking to another drum now. And what would young Tavendale get, would you say?

Then they heard a bit cheer break out up in front, and the news came flying down the ranks like fire, it was true enough, no it wasn’t, yes it was, there he was coming down the steps himself, his head all bandaged: he waved a hand. He’d been letten off with a bit of a fine, his mother had paid it for him at once, there she was behind—Christ, that his mother? I could sleep with her the morn and think her his sister…. Sulky-looking bitch…. Get out, she’s fine…. There’s Ewan. Now, lads, give him a cheer!

Into the procession, Chris never knew how, marching by the side of Ewan up the Mile, boomr the drum in the hands of the fat man, big Mr Trease stumping ahead with his grin and his twinkle, Ewan’s hand in hers. She wished they’d left her alone with her son, Ake had stood aside as they came from the court, No, not me, he had said to Jim Trease. I’m no body’s servant, the Broo folk’s or the bobbies’, Chris had liked him for that for she felt the same, had always felt so and felt more than ever that she belonged to herself alone. Except for Ewan: Ewan’s hand in hers. And he looked down and laughed, strained, cool from his bandages: Cheer up, Chris, it’ll soon be over and we can slip off and be respectable!

… Come dungeon dark or gallows grim

This song shall be our parting hymn!

The procession halted below Windmill Steps, Trease had seen to that, he did it for her, Chris knew: a little thing that wouldn’t hurt his propaganda. And the Paldy folk grabbed hold of Ewan and raised him up on the Steps: Come on, gi’es a word, Ewan! and a sudden hush fell, Chris stood back and waited and knew herself forgotten.

And he said in his clear and cool boy’s voice that they needn’t bother to make a fuss, he’d got no more than any might expect who was out to work for the revolution. One thing he had learned: the Communists were right. Only by force could we beat brute force, plans for peaceful reform were about as sane as hunting a Bengal tiger with a Bible. They must organize the masses, make them think, make them see, let them know there was no way they could ever win to power except through the fight of class against class, till they dragged down the masters and ground them to pulp—