'Is't bled, Wullie?' Macgregor presently inquired with compunction
as well as satisfaction.

'It's near broke, ye----!' groaned the sufferer, adding, 'I kent
fine ye wud bate me.'

'What for did ye fecht then?'

'Nane o' your business.'

'Weel, get up. Yer breeks'll get soakit sittin' there.' The
victor donned his jacket.

'Ma breeks is nane o' your business, neither.'

'Ach, Wullie, dinna be a wean. Get up an' shake han's. I've got
to gang.'

'Gang then! Awa' an' boast to yer girl that ye hut a man on his
nose behind his back----'

'Havers, man! What's wrang wi' ye?'

'I'll tell ye what's wrang wi' you, Macgreegor Robi'son!' Willie
cleared his throat noisily. 'Listen! Ye're ower weel aff. Ye've
got a dacent fayther an' mither an' brither an' sister; ye've got a
dacent uncle; ye've got a dacent girl. . . . An' what the hell
ha'e I got? A rotten aunt!' Maybe she canna help bein' rotten, but
she is--damp rotten! She wud be gled, though she wud greet, if I
got a bullet the morn. There ye are! That's me!'