Watching that you minded your time in the army, the rain and stink and that first queer time your feet slipped in a soss of blood and guts, going up to the front at Ypres—Christ, long syne that, you’d not thought then to come to this, to come to the wife with the face she had now, and the weans—by God, you would see about things! Communionists like Big Jim might blether damned stite but they tried to win you your rights for you. And all the march spat on its hands again and gripped the banners and fell in line, and looked sideways and saw the pavements half-blocked, half Duncairn had heard of the march on the Town House—and och, blast it if there wasn’t the wife again, thin-faced, greeting, the silly bitch, making you shake like this, the great sumph, by the side of those oozing creashes of bobbies, shining their capes in the rain.

But now you’d wheeled into Royal Mile, a jam of traffic, the trams had slowed down, flutter, flutter the banners, here the wind drove, your mates shrinking under the sleety drive, Woolworth’s to the right, where all the mecks went, and there the big Commercial Bank and the office of the Daily Runner, the rag, it had tried to put a stop to this march, the sods had said you never looked for work, you that tramped out your guts day on day on the search—to the Docks, to the granite works, the country around, as far to the north as Stonehyve. Boomr-oomr, wee Jake’ll brain that damn drum if he isn’t careful, God, how folk stare! A new song ebbing down the damp column, you’d aye thought it daft to sing afore this, a lot of faeces, who was an outcast? But damn’t, man, now—

Arise, ye outcasts and ye hounded,

Arise, ye slaves of want and fear—

And what the hell else were you, all of you? Singing, you’d never sung so before, all your mates about you, marching as one, you forgot all the chave and trauchle of things, the sting of your feet, nothing could stop you. Rain in your face—that was easy to face, if not the fretting of the wife back there (to hell with her to vex a man’s mind, why couldn’t she have bidden at home, the fool?).

She’d take no hurt, you were all of you peaceable, the singing even in a wee died off, they’d shooed the traffic to the side of the Mile, a gang of the Mounted riding in front, their fat-buttocked horses swaying away, well-fed like their riders, the rain sheeting down from their tippets, the Bulgars, easy for them to boss it on us—

What the devil was up down there?

The whole column had slowed, came bang to a stop, more Mounties with their wee thick sticks in their hands strung out there across the Mile, rain-pelted, the horses chafing at the bridles, impatient, Christ, rotten to face if a brute came at you. And a growl and a murmur went through the column, what was wrong up there, why had they stopped? Chaps cried Get on with it, Jim, what’s wrong? Syne the news came down, childes passing it on, their faces twisted with rage or laughing, they hardly bothered to curse about it, the police were turning the procession back down into Paldy by way of the wynds. It wasn’t to be let near the Town Hall at all, the Provost had refused to see them or Trease.