'
'What do you do then, Geordie?' I asked.
'Oo ay, I juist gang for a bit walk wi' the lad, and then pits the
kettle on an' maks a cup o' tea or coffee, an' aff he gangs tae sleep
like a bairn.'
'Poor Billy,' I said pityingly, 'there's no hope for him in the future,
I fear.'
'Hoot awa, man,' said Geordie quickly. 'Ye wadna keep oot a puir cratur
frae creepin' in, that's daein' his best?'
'But, Geordie,' I remonstrated, 'he doesn't know anything of the
doctrines. I don't believe he could give us "The Chief End of Man."'
'An' wha's tae blame for that?' said Geordie, with fine indignation.
'An' maybe you remember the prood Pharisee and the puir wumman that cam'
creepin' in ahint the Maister.'
The mingled tenderness and indignation in Geordie's face were beautiful
to see, so I meekly answered, 'Well, I hope Mr. Craig won't be too
strict with the boys.'
Geordie shot a suspicious glance at me, but I kept my face like a summer
morn, and he replied cautiously--
'Ay, he's no' that streect: but he maun exerceese discreemination.
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