"I--I--I----" John stammered and choked. "What are you doing here?" said his father. John's fingers worked before him; his eyes were large and aghast on his father; though his mouth hung open no words would come. "How lang has he been here, baker?" There was a curious regard between Gourlay and the baker. Gourlay spoke with a firm civility. "Oh, just a wee whilie," said the baker. "I see. You want to shield him.--You have been playing the truant, have 'ee? Am I to throw away gude money on _you_ for this to be the end o't?" "Dinna be hard on him, John," pleaded the baker. "A boy's but a boy. Dinna thrash him." "Me thrash him!" cried Gourlay. "I pay the High School of Skeighan to thrash him, and I'll take damned good care I get my money's worth. I don't mean to hire dowgs and bark for mysell." He grabbed his son by the coat collar and swung him out the room. Down High Street he marched, carrying his cub by the scruff of the neck as you might carry a dirty puppy to an outhouse. John was black in the face; time and again in his wrath Gourlay swung him off the ground. Grocers coming to their doors, to scatter fresh yellow sawdust on the old, now trampled black and wet on the sills, stared sideways, chins up and mouths open, after the strange spectacle. But Gourlay splashed on amid the staring crowd, never looking to the right or left. Opposite the Fiddler's Inn whom should they meet but Wilson! A snigger shot to his features at the sight. Gourlay swung the boy up; for a moment a wild impulse surged within him to club his rival with his own son. He marched into the vestibule of the High School, the boy dangling from his great hand. "Where's your gaffer?" he roared at the janitor. "Gaffer?" blinked the janitor. "Gaffer, dominie, whatever the damn you ca' him--the fellow that runs the business." "The Headmaster!" said the janitor. "Heidmaister, ay," said Gourlay in scorn, and went trampling after the janitor down a long wooden corridor. A door was flung open showing a classroom where the Headmaster was seated teaching Greek. The sudden appearance of the great-chested figure in the door, with his fierce, gleaming eyes, and the rain-beads shining on his frieze coat, brought into the close academic air the sharp, strong gust of an outer world. "I believe I pay _you_ to look after that boy," thundered Gourlay. "Is this the way you do your work?" And with the word he sent his son spinning along the floor like a curling-stone, till he rattled, a wet, huddled lump, against a row of chairs. John slunk bleeding behind the master. "Really?" said MacCandlish, rising in protest. "Don't 'really' me, sir! I pay _you_ to teach that boy, and you allow him to run idle in the streets. What have you to seh?" "But what can I do?" bleated MacCandlish, with a white spread of deprecating hands. The stronger man took the grit from his limbs.