‘See there noo, Francie! Ye tak yersel for unco courteous, and
honourable, and generous, and k-nichtly, and a’ that--oh, I ken a’
aboot it--and it’s a’ verra weel sae far as it gangs; but what the
better are ye for ’t, whan, a’ the time ye’re despisin a body ’cause
she’s but a quean; ye maun hae ilka advantage o’ her, or ye winna gie
her a chance o’ lickin ye!--Here! I’ll put on my sheen, and rin ye
alang the laich grun’! My sheen’s twice the weicht o’ yours, and they
dinna fit me!’
The boy did not dare go on refusing: he feared what Kirsty would say
next. But he relished nothing at all in the challenge. It was not fit
for a man to run races with a girl: there were no laurels, nothing but
laughter to be won by victory over her! and in his heart he was not at
all sure of beating Kirsty: she had always beaten him when they were
children. Since then they had been at the parish school together, but
there public opinion kept the boys and girls to their own special
sports. Now Kirsty had left school, and Francis was going to the
grammar-school at the county-town. They were both about fifteen. All
the sense was on the side of the girl, and she had been doing her best
to make the boy practical like herself--hitherto without much success,
although he was by no means a bad sort of fellow. He had not yet passed
the stage--some appear never to pass it in this world--in which an
admirer feels himself in the same category with his hero. Many are
content with themselves because they side with those whose ways they do
not endeavour to follow. Such are most who call themselves Christians.
If men admired themselves only for what they did, their conceit would
be greatly moderated.
Kirsty put on her heavy tacketed (_hob-nailed_) shoes--much too large
for her, having been made for her brother--stood up erect, and putting
her elbows back, said,
‘I’ll gie ye the start o’ me up to yon stane wi’ the heather growin oot
o’ the tap o’ ’t.’
‘Na, na; I’ll hae nane o’ that!’ answered Francis. ‘Fairplay to a’!’
‘Ye’d better tak it!’
‘Aff wi’ ye, or I winna rin at a’!’ cried the boy,--and away they went.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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