"Hurray!" yelled Mhor.

Jock was preparing for a further flight of fancy, when Mrs. M'Cosh,
having finished washing the dishes, came in to say that Thomson had
never sent the sausages for Mr. David's breakfast, and she could not
see him depart for England unfortified by sausages and poached eggs.

"I'll just slip down and get them," she announced, being by no means
averse to a stroll along the lighted Highgate. It was certainly neither
Argyle Street nor the Paisley Road, but it bore a far-off resemblance to
those gay places, and for that Mrs. M'Cosh was thankful. There was a
cinema, too, and that was a touch of home. Talking over Priorsford with
Glasgow friends she would say, "It's no' juist whit I wud ca' the deid
country--no juist paraffin-ile and glaury roads, ye ken. We hev gas an'
plain-stanes an' a pictur hoose."

When Mrs. M'Cosh left the room Jock returned to his books, and the Mhor,
his imagination fermenting with the thought of bombs on Priorsford,
retired to the window-seat to think out further damage.

* * * * *

Some hours later, when Jock and Mhor were fast asleep and David, his
packing finished, was preparing to go to bed, Jean slipped into the
room.

She stood looking at the open trunk on the floor, at the shelves from
which the books had been taken, at the empty boot cupboard.