he
nodded to the warring heavens.

The baker did not understand. "Have you seen your faither?" he asked.

"My faither!" John gasped in terror. If his father should find him
playing truant!

"Yes; did ye no ken he was in Skeighan? We come up thegither by the ten
train, and are meaning to gang hame by this. I expect him every moment."

John turned to escape. In the doorway stood his father.

When Gourlay was in wrath he had a widening glower that enveloped the
offender; yet his eye seemed to stab--a flash shot from its centre to
transfix and pierce. Gaze at a tiger through the bars of his cage, and
you will see the look. It widens and concentrates at once.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, with the wild-beast glower on his
son.

"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 roare