When she rose and went to look for the others she found them close on the ruined dyke, not sitting and kissing as they might have been (some sense in that, said her mind, still sleepy), Ewan perched on a stone, hands clasping his knees, looking down at Ellen sitting clasping hers, nice knees and long legs and the lot forgotten, talking, still talking—about history and Socialism and freedom for people in the modern world. And Εwan was saying Yes, that seems sense and I’ll look it up. I’ve always thought Socialism just a measly whine, MacDonaldish stuff and politicians’ patter. Different when you think of it as history making, the working class to be captured and led: all right, I’ll give the keelies a chance. Ellen said And don’t be so horridly superior; you’ll never lead if you can’t be an equal…. Oh, there’s your mother. Coo-ee, Mrs Colquohoun!

It seemed that their talk had run them clean dry, quiet enough in the afternoon quiet gathering up the papers and burning them, carrying the milk-bottles down the hill, the sun was dimming and all about bees homing like drunken men from a pub, one came bumbling against Chris’s face and tangled itself in her hair. She brushed it aside, quickly and quietly, and Ellen shivered I couldn’t do that! Chris asked What? and Ellen said That bee—I’d have jumped and hit it and it would have stung me. I’m a ghastly coward, and shivered again. Ewan didn’t notice, far off in thought, treading down from the breach in the Pictman’s fort to seek the like in the crumbling castle that prisoned the men of his time.

Alick Watson said Och, let the sod a-be. He gave me as good as I gave him; and Norman Cruickshank said He gave you a mucking sight more; who’d have thought a toff Bulgar had a punch like that?

So they wouldn’t have anything to do with the plan of Wee Geordie Bruce to send a bit note, insulting-like, to Tavendale’s address when he bade at home nursing the broken head he’d gotten in that fight with Alick in the yard—Christ, the place was splottered in blood, wee Geordie went out and glowered all about it and nearly got down on his knees to lick it, with his wee shrivelled face and shifty eyes, awful keen on blood and snot. Alick said You’re not right in your head, you wee whoreson, he seemed hardly right himself all that week, snapping a chap’s head off if you spoke to him praising him a bit how he’d bashed the toff Bulgar.

Norman wasn’t much better, they both worked like tinks doing Tavendale’s furnace as well as their own, trying to stick in with the foreman, were they? They got little thanks if that was their hope, Dallas came down and glowered God Almighty, is that the way to work at Gowans and Gloag’s? Alick said to him Ach, away to hell. We’re doing the work of a dozen here—if that doesn’t please you, gang off and clype. The foreman looked a bit ta’en aback, We’ve all to do more than our shift in Gowans, so give’s none of your lip, you Cowgate brat. And Alick said when the foreman had gone what he’d like to give the bastard was one in the guts, syne dance on his face with tacketty boots.