Now then, now then, what’s this that you’re up to? Do you know you’re assaulting the police, my lad?

Ellen nipped past and caught up her clothes, struggled into her vest, into her knickers, the bulk of the bobby hiding Ewan from her. He was saying You’ll come along to the Station with me, the two of you, there’ll be a bonny bit charge, public indecency down at the Beach.

Ellen gave a gasp, Ewan said nothing, she could see him move quickly and dimly, getting in his clothes, he was dressing more quickly than she was, she knew, her shift stuck to her, it didn’t matter, yet she felt cold now, her mind a tumult. Oh, they COULDN’T charge anybody with THAT, just for nothing—

Come along, you’re all ready. Mind, none of your tricks. Here you—this to Ewan—have you matches on you?

Ewan made on that he hadn’t heard, the bobby swore and made to come between them. It was then that Ewan acted, Ellen saw the play, an instant, dim as a bad-made film, the bobby vanished, there came a crash and a slither from below, Ewan had said There’s a match for you, and flung him from the top of the high Beach steps.

He grabbed her hand Run like hell! and they ran like that till she gasped that she couldn’t do more, else she’d burst. He told her not to do that, it would be a mess, and released his hold, and halted beside her.

Out in the Links they stood listening: Nothing, nothing but the far cry of a seabird desolate about the turning tide, forward the glimmer of Duncairn in the rain warm and safe and all unaware. Ellen asked with a sudden catch of breath: What if the bobby has been badly hurt? and Ewan said Let him hurt, it will do the swine good, cool and unperturbed, she felt sick a moment. It was only that half-wit Sergeant Sim Leslie who used to dig with my mother, you know.

Things were fair kittling up at Gowans and Gloag, a lad had to keep nippy with the new tools that came, packing and storing and wondering about them, damned queer frames for new castings, too, nobody kenned what the bits were for. But there were orders enough to hand and the management was taking on folk again, it just showed you the papers were right what they said—that the Crisis was over and trade coming back.

And meeting Ewan Tavendale outside the office you cried to him, Ay! Ewan, what about the collapse of capitalism now? Doesn’t look very much like it, does it? He said No? D’you know what the new orders are for? You said you didn’t and you didn’t much care as long as it gave a bit work to folk, better any kind of a decent job than being pitched off on the bloody Broo.

Ewan said And better getting ready stuff to blow out another man’s guts in his face than starving yourself with an empty guts? Is that what you think? Then your head’s gone soft.