Alec merely glanced up, and bent again over his work. When he looked up a second time, the little man was standing with a book in his hand, pretending to consult it, but evidently using it as a pretext for taking stock of the new clerk. ‘Good-morning,’ said Alec. ‘Guid-day to ye, Mr. Lindsay,’ replied the other, extending a not very clean hand across the table. ‘I’m glad tae see ye. It’s a pleasure to see ony ane frae the auld country.’ ‘You’re in the office, I suppose,’ said Alec. The other nodded, put his hands in his trousers-pockets, and stared at Alec from the other side of the table. His appearance was certainly not prepossessing. His hair was long and untidy, his eyes bloodshot and shifty; and his chin was covered with an ill-shaved beard. He was evidently not a young man, but he had the manners of an ill-bred boy. His expression was a mixture of shrewdness, meanness, and presumption. Alec wanted to get rid of him, but he hardly knew how to do it. ‘You’re from Glasgow?’ said the red-haired man. ‘Yes.’ ‘And I’m from the Mearns. That’s no far from Glasgow. I used to ken the place weel. My name’s MacGowan. Ye’ve maybe heard o’ my uncle, Dr. MacGowan of Strathbogie?’ ‘Not that I remember;’ and Alec turned again to his papers. But the other took no notice of that. ‘An’ to think that you were in Glasgow but yesterday!’ exclaimed MacGowan. ‘Is it long since you came to London?’ asked Alec, by way of being civil. ‘Fifteen years; fifteen weary years, come Martinmas,’ answered MacGowan with an emphatic nod. ‘And, though I ken mair o’ what they ca’ law--though it’s a poor thing compared wi’ Scottish Jurisprudence--than either Mr. Hatchett, Mr. Small, or Mr. Beattie--and that’s no sayin’ muckle--I’m just where I was fifteen years ago, a clerk, wi’ thirty-five shillin’s a week.’ Alec murmured something by way of sympathy, and the other went on: ‘Paid monthly, Mr. Lindsay, paid monthly. And it’s sometimes very inconvenient to wait till the first o’ the month for the sma’ monthly steepend.’ Alec murmured something still more indistinct. ‘And the cashier here has a heart like the nether mill-stone. Precious little o’ the milk o’ human kindness in _his_ carcass. He’d see ye driven oot to dee on the street--he’d see a man wantin’ his denner, before he’d advance him a poor five shillings on his next month’s screw. An’ that minds me, Mr. Lindsay. Next Wednesday is the first o’ the month. If you could lend me a sma’ sum till that time--say five shillings.--Thank ye, sir. I look upon you as a true Scotchman, who will not see a brother Scot in extremities without extending the helping hand.’ He stopped suddenly, and had barely time to pocket the coins when the door opened, and Beattie came into the room. At the sight of his cold, impassive face, MacGowan shrank back, and turned in confusion to the bookcase. Beattie fixed him with his eye; and MacGowan, not daring to meet it, slipped past his superior into the passage.