Now the peaceful occupation of delivering evening newspapers is not a breach of the peace nor yet a contravention of the city bylaws. Constable Gilchrist was disappointed. He was certain that he had seen that boy "loitering with intent"; but here he was peacefully pursuing a lawful avocation. The Drabble had a reason, or at least an excuse, for being on the spot. So the chase was in vain, and Constable Gilchrist knew it. But his companion was not so easily put off the scent. "Cleg Kelly," he cried, "I see you; hae you a care, my son, or you'll end up alongside of your father." "Thank ye, sir," said Cleg Kelly. "Buy a News, sir?" "Be off, you impudent young shaver!" cried the sergeant, laughing. And Cleg went off. "That's a smart boy, and doing well," said Constable Gilchrist. "Decent enough," returned the sergeant, "but he's in a bad shop at Roy's, and he'll get no good from that Drabble loon!" And this was a truth. But at that moment, at the back of the Tinklers' Lands, the Drabble was getting much good from Cleg Kelly. Cleg had off his coat and the Drabble was being "warmed." "That'll learn ye to touch the Kavannahs' bed!" cried Cleg. And the Drabble sat down. "That's for miscaain' my faither!" The Drabble sat down again at full length. "That's for tellin' me to say my prayers! I learn you to meddle wi' my prayers!" Thus Cleg upheld the Conscience Clause. But the Drabble soon had enough. He warded Cleg off with a knee and elbow, and stated what he would do when he met him again on a future unnamed occasion. He would tell his big brother, so he would, and his big brother would smash the face of all the Kellys that ever breathed. Cleg was not to be outdone. "I'll tell _my_ big brother o' you, Drabble. He can fecht ten polissmen, and he could dicht the street wi' your brither, and throw him ower a lamp-post to dry." Cleg and the Drabble felt that they must do something for the honour of their respective houses, for this sort of family pride is a noble thing and much practised in genealogies. So, pausing every ten yards to state what their several big brothers would do, and with the fellest intentions as to future breaches of the peace, the combatants parted. The afternoon air bore to the Drabble from the next street— "_You—let—the Kavannahs—alane frae this oot—or it'll be the waur for you!_" The Drabble rubbed his nose on his sleeve, and thought that on the whole it might be so. Then he took out three papers which he had secreted up his sleeve, and went joyfully and sold them. The Drabble was a boy of resource. Cleg had to come good for these papers to Mistress Roy, and also bear her tongue for having lost them. She stopped them out of his wages. Then Cleg's language became as bad as that of an angry Sunday school superintendent. The wise men say that the Scots dialect is only Early English. Cleg's was that kind, but debased by an admixture of Later Decorated.