But no decent lassies would listen to them, for they knew the Communionists were awful tinks who wanted to break up the home.

Every day as the Cowgate stirred Meg was up at the cheep of dawn, seeing to young Jessie and Geordie for school, getting ready breakfast, snapping back at Mother, Father the old devil lying snoozing in bed, he didn’t go down to the Docks till ten. He swore he could hardly get a wink of sleep because of the old trawl-skipper next door, awful religious and fond of a nip, who thrashed his old wife near every night, singing out hymn-tunes like hell the while. If other folk could sleep through the old skipper’s roar of Rock of Ages, cleft for me as he cleft his old woman under the bed, why couldn’t Father sleep as well?

Alick, Meg’s brother, would get into his clothes, grumbling as usual when he’d only porridge. He was barely Meg’s age, an apprentice-lad down at Gowans and Gloag’s in Footforthie. That might have been fine, the beginnings of a job, but when his apprenticeship was up—well, everybody kenned what happened to apprentices. They were sacked right off when they needed men’s wages, and Alick like others would be chucked on the Broo.

Alick said this morning when Meg sneered that, Ay, maybe to me the same as the others, but not to the dirty college sods. And he said that Gowans took college pups now, with a special apprenticeship, easy as winking, they served the first six months at the Furnace, same as the others, but what happened to them then? They squatted their dowps in office jobs, and put on clean collars and gave out their orders, bloody toffs, though no better than you or me. There’d been two of them in the last two years, training as managers, they weren’t sacked, when the last machinery came into the Works that would do all the doings without working-chaps: you’d still need somebody to oil it about, and they’d keep the mammie’s pets to do that. Another had come a two months back—a black-haired, stuck-up gypsy Bulgar, over-fine to speak to a chap like Alick, he’d get a sock in the kisser sometime.

Meg said Don’t blether, you haven’t the guts; you’re jealous he’s brains and you haven’t, that’s all. Alick snorted Brains? Him? He’s only got swank. And me and the chaps in the Furnaces are planning a little bit of a surprise for Mr Bloody Ewan Tavendale.

—WHO?

Alick said Wash out your lugs. Ewan Tavendale’s the name if you want to know. Here, get out of my way till I get on my boots, the hooter’ll be howling in a minute or so.

So that was where HER son worked, was it then? What had She to be stuck-up about? A lassie could bear with old Ma Cleghorn, an orra old bitch but not a bad heart. But the way that that Mrs Colquohoun took on, and looked at you cool, put a body off. And who was she to put on her airs that kept a lodging-house for a living and had her son only an apprentice like Alick?