. . . . .

The Reverend Edward MacShilluck preached from his pulpit next Sunday and said the catastrophe was the Hand of Gawd, mysteriously at work, ahhhhhhhhhhhh, my brethren, what if it was a direct chastisement of the proud and terrible spirit of the times, the young turning from the Kirk and its sacred message, from purity and chastity and clean-living? And Craigneuks thought it a bonny sermon, and nearly clapped, it was so excited; and the Reverend MacShilluck went home to his lunch and fell asleep when he’d eaten it and woke with a nasty taste in his mouth and went a little bit stroll up to Pootsy’s room, and opened the door and peeped in at her and shoggled his mouth like a teething tiger—

. . . . .

Jim Trease said to Ewan they hadn’t done so bad, twenty new members had joined the local, damn neat idea that of Ewan’s to have the Gowans windows bashed in. Ewan was to take Kirrieben for the weekend meetings, he himself Paldy and Selden Footforthie. And be sure and rub in the blood and snot well and for God’s sake manage a decent collection, he’d be getting in a row with the EC in London, they were so far behind with the Press contribution.

Eh? Of course the Works had been well-protected, that kind of accident would happen anywhere. But Ewan had been right, that was hardly the point, he could rub in if he liked that there had been culpable negligence…. Eh, what was that? Suggest it had all been deliberately planned to see the effect of poison-gas on a crowd? Hell! Anyhow, Ewan could try it. But for Christ’s sake mind about the collection—

. . . . .

Alick Watson said in his barrack-room: See what’s waiting us in the next war, chaps? Skinned to death or else toasted alive like a winkle in front of a fire, see? And the rookies said Christ, they all saw that, what was there to be done about it? And Alick said to organize and stick up for their rights, would they back him today down in the mess if he made a complaint about the mucking meat? They could force they sods to feed them proper, no fear of that if they’d stick together, no need to knuckle-down to the bloody NCO’s. And if a war came and the chaps in the companies were well-organized: what the hell could the officers do to them then?

. . . . .

Norman Cruickshank lay in the hospital and didn’t say a word, quiet and unmoving, half of his face had been eaten away by the flame.

. . . . .

Jess would never see Bob again. She thought at his graveside, decent in her black, Young Erchie’s been awful kind to me. Maybe the furniture me and Bob’s bought will do if he’s really serious, like…. But she mustn’t think of that, even with her Trouble, poor Bob that had been so kind and sensible even though he’d once mixed with those dirt, the Reds—