Feet asked if he knew who he was talking to, and the picket said Ay, fine that, think I’m blind? Look here, if you want to know who started the pepper business look out for the next birn of pickets that relieves us and spot a long, dark-like chap of my age.

Feet nearly louped in his meikle boots, but he showed not a sign, just gave a bit purr: Tavendale, d’you mean? and the picket said Ay. The bastard hasn’t been able to keep his hands to himself—or other things about his rotten self either. He’s done me dirty and it’s my turn now.

Feet said You’ll come and give evidence? but the picket said Away to hell with you. Think I’m your pimp, you bap-faced peeler? Find out your evidence for yourself.

Feet thought of taking him a whack on the head, with his truncheon, like, to teach him manners; but the rest of the picket was getting suspicious and rising to its feet and dandering near, it wouldn’t do to rouse the coarse brutes, they might heave even a sergeant into the Docks, they’d no respect for the weight of the Law. So Feet swung away down to the Gowans gate to the constable body that was stationed there; and the picket came up and cried Hey, Alick, what was that whoreson gabbing about?

Alick Watson turned up the collar of his coat, and the chaps thought it funny he was shivering like that.

Chris stood in her room and looked out of the window at the quick-darkening February afternoon. It was this day only a year ago that Robert had died in the pulpit of Segget, the blood gushing suddenly up on his lips as he preached his last sermon with a broken heart, Robert, kind, a dreamer, a lover of men, lover of his Chris once with passion and humour, sweet and leal and compassionate. And the world had broken his heart and his mind, his dreams grey ash that had once been fire. In that last sermon he’d preached for salvation ‘A stark, sure creed that will cut like a knife, a surgeon’s knife through the doubt and disease—men with unblinded eyes may yet find it—’ not Christianity, or love, or his Socialism, some dreadful faith that he might not envisage. And then he had died; and she minded his lips, stained red, bubbly red, and the curl of the hair on his head, dear alive hair on a head that was dead….

… Oh, less kind to you than I might have been. And I can’t help it now, that’s by and put past, nothing helps now, as little as you can I ever see a way out of all the ill soss. Not that I think I would look if I could, I’ve no patience with crowds or the things they want, only for myself I suppose I can plan. And I stand in the bareness, alone, tormented, and you … Oh, Robert man, had you stayed to help somehow we might have found the road together….