“‘Hallo!’ Adam cried.
“‘He is mine,’ I said. ‘Gavin,
come here.’ But Margaret held you back.
“‘Here’s a go,’ Adam muttered,
and scratched his head. Then he slapped his thigh.
‘Gavin,’ he said, in his friendliest way,
‘we’ll toss for him.’
“He pulled the knife that is now in my desk
from his pocket, spat on it, and flung it up.
‘Dry, the kid’s ours, Meggy,’ he
explained; ‘wet, he goes to Gavin,’ I clinched
my fist to—–But what was the use?
He caught the knife, and showed it to me.
“‘Dry,’ he said triumphantly; ’so
he is ours, Meggy. Kiddy, catch the knife.
It is yours; and, mind, you have changed dads.
And now that we have settled that, Gavin, there’s
my hand again.’
“I went away and left them, and I never saw
Margaret again until the day you brought her to Thrums.
But I saw you once, a few days after Adam came back.
I was in the school-house, packing my books, and you
were playing on the waste ground. I asked you
how your mother was, and you said, ’She’s
fleid to come to the door till you gang awa, and my
father’s buying a boat.’
“‘I’m your father,’ I said;
but you answered confidently:
“’You’re no a living man. You’re
just a man I dreamed about; and I promised my mother
no to dream about you again.’
“‘I am your father,’ I repeated.
“‘My father’s awa buying a fishing-boat,’
you insisted; ’and when I speir at my mother
whaur my first father is, she says I’m havering.’
“‘Gavin Ogilvy is your name,’ I
said. ‘No,’ you answered, ’I
have a new name. My mother telled me my name
is aye to be Gavin Dishart now. She telled me,
too, to fling awa this knife my father gave me, and
I’ve flung it awa a lot o’ times, but I
aye pick it up again.’
“‘Give it to me,’ I said, with the
wicked thoughts of a fool in my head.
“That is how your knife came into my possession.
I left Harvie that night in the carrier’s cart,
but I had not the heart to return to college.
Accident brought me here, and I thought it a fitting
place in which to bury myself from Margaret.”
Second journey of the dominie
to Thrums during the twenty-four
hours.
Here was a nauseous draught for me. Having finished
my tale, I turned to Gavin for sympathy; and, behold,
he had been listening for the cannon instead of to
my final words. So, like an old woman at her
hearth, we warm our hands at our sorrows and drop in
faggots, and each thinks his own fire a sun, in presence
of which all other fires should go out. I was
soured to see Gavin prove this, and then I could have
laughed without mirth, for had not my bitterness proved
it too?
“And now,” I said, rising, “whether
Margaret is to hold up her head henceforth lies no
longer with me, but with you.”
