A crowd of little boys were collected on the pavement; for the company which emerged from the Miss Robertsons’ house on Sundays was as good as a peep-show to them, and the laird of Whanland was, to their minds, the most choice flower of fashion and chivalry which this weekly entertainment could offer. Not that that fact exempted him from their criticism--no fact yet in existence could protect any person from the tongue of the Scotch street-boy--and the groom, who had been exposed to their comment for nearly twenty minutes, was beginning, between the mare and the audience, to come to the end of his temper. ‘Did ever ye see sic a wee, wee mannie?’ exclaimed one of the older boys, pointing at him. ‘He’s terrible like a monkey.’ ‘An’ a’m fell feared he’ll no grow. What auld are ye, mun?’ continued the other, raising his voice to a shout. There was no reply. ‘Hech! he winna speak!’ ‘He’ll no be bigger nor Jockie Thompson. Come awa here, Jockie, an’ let’s see!’ A small boy was hauled out from the crowd and pushed forward. ‘Just stand you aside him an’ put your heedie up the same prood way he does.’ The urchin stepped down off the pavement, and standing as near the victim as he dared, began to inflate himself and to pull such faces as he conceived suitable. As mimicry they had no merit, but as insult they were simply beyond belief. A yell of approval arose. The groom was beginning to meditate a dive at the whip-socket when the solid shape of Jockie Thompson’s father appeared in the distance. His son, who had eluded him before kirk and who still wore his Sunday clothes, sprang back to the pavement, and was instantly swallowed up by the group. By the time that the groom had recovered his equanimity the mare began to paw the stones, for she also had had enough of her present position. ‘Whoa, then!’ cried he sharply, raising his hand. ‘Gie her the wheep,’ suggested one of the boys. Though there was an interested pause, the advice had no effect. ‘He’s feared,’ said a boy with an unnaturally deep voice. ‘He’s no muckle use. The laird doesna let him drive; ye’ll see when he comes oot o’ the close an’ wins into the machine, he’ll put the mannie up ahint him an’ just drive himsel’.’ ‘Ay, will he.’ The man threw a vindictive glance into the group, and the mare, having resumed her stride, tossed her head up and down, sending a snow-shower of foam into the air. A spot lit upon his smart livery coat, and he pulled out his handkerchief to flick it off. A baleful idea suggested itself to the crowd. ‘Eh, look--see!’ cried a tow-headed boy, ‘gie’s a handfu’ o’ yon black durt an’ we’ll put a piece on his breeks that’ll match the t’other ane!’ Two or three precipitated themselves upon the mud, and it is impossible to say what might have happened had not Gilbert, at this moment, come up the close. ‘Whisht! whisht! here’s Whanland! Michty, but he’s fine! See, now, he’ll no let the mannie drive.’ ‘Gosh! but he’s a braw-lookin’ deevil!’