. . . . .

In Paldy Parish and the Gallowgate, in Kirrieben, Eccles-griegs and Lower Footforthie, folk stood and debated with a bit of a laugh this hunger march that the Reds were planning. And those that had jobs said Christ, look out, they’re just leading you off to get broken heads, they don’t care a damn for themselves or any other, the Communionists, the sods aren’t canny. And those that hadn’t jobs said Maybe ay, maybe no. Who got the PAC rates raised if it wasn’t the Reds, tell us that?

Not that you were a Red, Christ, no, you had more sense, and you wouldn’t be found in this daft-like March, you hadn’t the boots for it for one thing. And the wife said Mind, Jim … or Sam … or Rob … you’re not being taken in by this coarse March of the Reds, are you now? And you said to her Away to hell. Think I’ve gone gyte?; and took a stroll out, all the Gallowgate dripping and drookèd, most folk indoors but chaps here and there nipping in and out of the wynds and courts, what mucking palaver was on with them now?

Then, afore you could do a sneak back and miss him, there was Big Jim Trease bearing down upon you, crying your name, he’d been looking for you as one of the most active and sure of the chaps. The March wouldn’t be a march unless you were in it to stiffen the backbone of the younger lads. And you said To hell, you hadn’t any boots; and he said that they’d be provided all right and wrote your name down in a little book, and you saw Will’s there and Geordie’s and Ian’s and even old Malcolm’s—Christ, you could go if they were going; and it was true what Big Jim said, you wanted a pickle of the older men to put some guts in the younger sods—

. . . . .

And in and out through the courts and wynds and about the pubs all through that last week were Trease and that mad young devil Εwan Tavendale, prigging with folk and taking down names and raising the wind to buy chaps boots. The bobbies kept trailing after them, the sergeant called Feet and a couple of constables, who the hell were they to interfere? They’d never let up on young Tavendale since he’d shown up the explosion at Gowans and Gloag’s as the work of the Government testing out gas to see its effect in a crowded shed. So you guarded him and Trease in a bit of a bouroch, a bodyguard, like, wherever they went, young Tavendale whistling and joking about it, a clever young Bee—and Christ, how he could fight! They said he was a devil with the queans as well, though you hadn’t heard that he’d bairned one yet.

. . . . .

Trease said the last afternoon to Ewan that he’d better get home and put in a bit sleep, he’d want it afore setting out the morn to tackle the chave of the march down south, the windy five hundred miles to London. Lucky young devil that he was to be going, Trease wished it was him that was leading the March, but the EC had given its instructions for Ewan and intended keeping him down there in London as a new organizer—right in the thick…. And for God’s sake take care on the line of march to keep the sods from straying or stealing or raising up trouble through lying with queans, they’d find the Labour locals en route were forced to give them shelter and help, never heed that, never heed that, rub it well in through all the speeches that the workers had no hope but the Communist Party.