You waited a tram by the Windmill Steps, it came showding and banging up from the Station, green like a garden slug, in you got, and sat down and closed your eyes and thought hard, the things you’d to order, where you’d best get them. Fish, beef, eggs, butter, go swear at the grocer, the laundry hadn’t sent back those sheets, Ma Cleghorn wanted the chimney-sweep, you needed a new frock and must bear with the need…. Out into Royal Mile you stepped,—there on his stance, unmoving, King Edward, bald as a turkey and with much the same face, ready to gobble from a ton of grey granite. In the seats round the plinth the unemployed, aye plenty of them, yawning and wearied, with their flat-soled boots and their half-shaved faces, they’d cry their bit bars as they stared at the stir, or chirp a bit filth to a passing quean, sometimes though seldom they did it to you. You didn’t much mind, were you wearied yourself and half-fed, you thought, with nothing to do, you’d do worse than chirp.

Only once had that worse ever happened to you, you’d run down the steps from the Mile to the lane that led to the Gallowgate’s guff one evening, to a dairy there that sold good eggs. Day above, but already half-dark in that place, no body about as you hurried along, or so you thought till you sighted the man. He’d been leaning in the doorway of an empty warehouse, heard you coming and looked up and down: and as you came near he got in your way. I’m starving, wifie. Gi’me a tanner.

His face was thin and dirty and brown, he’d no shirt, his jacket pinned over his breast, smelt awful, great knuckled hands, should you scream? And then you’d known that that would be daft, you’d said All right, though I haven’t one to spare. And you’d opened your bag, heart thumping as you did it, what if he grabbed and made off with the lot? But he didn’t, stood waiting, face red with shame. You’d found him the sixpence, handed it over, he’d nodded, no thanks, and looked away. And you’d hurried on down the lane to the dairy, suddenly trembling and your lips grown wet.

You’d get back to tea with the netbag full, have a first cup ere the others came, Archie Clearmont first, banging up the stairs, he’d meet you and smile, ’Lo, Mrs Colquohoun. That’s a nice frock. You’d tease him and say There’s a nice woman in it, and he’d blush, boy-clear, I know that as well. If only Ewan were as simple as he! … Mr Piddle tearing in from his office, all in a fash to be off to the Station and catch the 6.30 bound for Dunedin. Not that he’d catch the train himself, he’d send off the latest news of Duncairn and make a bit extra salary, he-he! from the linage the Tory Pictman would print…. Miss Ena Lyon trailing in half-dead from the work in her office, half the rouge gone, the other half sprinkled about like a rash, she’d drawl on the Awful Rush in the firm, and the Boss no more than a Vulgar Keelie…. Ewan at last, black-streaked, black-haired, as cool and composed from Gowans and Gloag’s as he’d been when haunting the hills of the Howe seeking the flints of the ancient men.