And all that night they re-fought the fight, in tenements, courts, this room and that, and the bairns lay listening how the bobbies had run, of the young toff who’d appeared when Trease was knocked down and shouted Break down the lorry for bottles! and led them all off when the bottles were finished, him and Steve Selden, and told them to scatter. By God, he’d lots of guts had that loon, though, toff-like, he’d been sick as a dog of a sudden, down in the Cowgate when binding a wound. You wanted more of his kind for the next bit time…. And the wife would say What’s the use of more bashing? and you said a man had to die only once and ’twould be worth while doing that if you kicked the bucket with your nails well twined in a bobby’s liver—

. . . . .

A week later the Daily Runner came out and announced that after a special sitting the Council had raised the PAC rates.

Ma Cleghorn heard the story from Chris: Ah well, if that’s how your Ewan feels. I’d never much liking for bobbies myself, though maybe the meikle sumph, you know, was doing no more than his duty, like. Chris said His duty? To bash a young boy—before the boy had done anything to him? And Ma said Well, well, you’re fair stirred up. I’ll think up some sonsy lie as excuse, and tell him the morn to look out other lodgings.

And next morning Ma tackled the sacking of Feet, he’d spluttered a bit and put on the heavy as she told Chris when she came back to the kitchen. But she’d soon settled up his hash for the billy, telling him his room was needed for another, a childe they’d promised it a long while back. He’d told her she’d better look out, she had, and not get in ill with the Force, they’d heard things in headquarters about that quean Johns and were keeping an eye on the house already—

Ma had fair lost her rag at that and told him she didn’t care a twopenny damn though all the bobbies in Duncairn toun were to glue themselves on to her front door knocker, the meikle lice—who was he to insult a decent woman who paid her rent and rates on the nail? If my man had been alive, he’d have kicked you out, sergeant’s stripes and all, you great coarse bap-faced goloch that you are. Feet had habbered I wasn’t trying to insult you, and Ma had said Give me more of your lip and I’ll tackle the kicking of your dowp myself, and left him fair in fluster, poor childe, hardly kenning whether he stood on his head or meikle feet, fair convinced he was in the wrong, and packing up his case to get out of the house.—So there you are, lass, and we’re short of a lodger.

Chris said she was sorry, she’d try and get another, and Ma said Och, not to worry about that, some creature would soon come talking around. Chris thought the same, not heeding a lot, though it was a shame to lose Feet’s fee. But he couldn’t have bidden in the house at all after that tale that Ewan had told her—Ewan with a pale, cool angry face, stirred as she’d never seen him stirred.