“Naw,” was the ungracious reply. “It’s naebody’s business whether I tak’ the car or tramp it. See’s the butter, Jeannie.” There was a short silence. An outbreak of temper on Macgregor’s part was not of frequent occurrence. Then John turned the conversation to a big fire that had taken place in Glasgow the previous night, and the son finished his meal in silence. At the earliest possible moment Macgregor left the kitchen. For some reason or other the desire to get away from his elders was paramount. A few minutes later he was in the little room which belonged to him and Jimsie. On the inside of the door was a bolt, screwed there by himself some months ago. He shot it now. With a towel that hung on the door he rubbed his wet face savagely. He had washed his hands in turpentine ere leaving the scene of his work. He donned a clean collar. As he was fixing his Sunday tie a summons came to the door. He went and opened it, looking cross. “Weel, what are ye wantin’, Jimsie?” “Did ye bring ma putty, Macgreegor?” “Och, I clean forgot.” Jimsie’s face fell. “Ye promised,” he complained. Macgregor patted the youngster’s head. “I’ll bring it the morn’s nicht, as sure as death,” he said. “I’m sorry, Jimsie,” he added apologetically. “See an’ no’ forget again,” said Jimsie, and retired. Macgregor closed the door and attended to his tie. Then he looked closely at his face in the mirror hanging near the window. He was not a particularly good-looking lad, yet his countenance suggested nothing coarse or mean. His features as features, however, did not concern him now. From his vest pocket he brought a knife, with a blade thinned by stone and polished by leather. He tried its keen edge on his thumb, shook his head, and applied the steel to his boot. Presently he began to scrape his upper lip. It pained him, and he desisted. Not for the first time he wished he had a real razor. Having put the knife away, he looked at his watch――his grandfather’s prize for “good conduct” of eight years ago――and proceeded hastily to brush his hair. His hair, as his mother had often remarked during his childhood, was “awfu’ ill to lie.” For a moment or two he regarded his garments. He would have changed them had he had time――or was it courage? Finally he took from his pockets a key and two pennies. He opened a drawer in the old chest, and placed the pennies in a disused tobacco tin, which already contained a few coins. He knew very well the total sum therein, but he reckoned it up once more. One shilling and sevenpence. Every Saturday he handed his wages to his mother, who returned him sixpence. His present hoard was the result of two weeks’ abstinence from cigarettes and walking instead of taking the car. He knew the job in the west-end would take at least another week, which meant another sixpence, and the coming Saturday would bring a second sixpence. Total in the near future:――two shillings and sevenpence. He smiled uncertainly, and locked up the treasure.