Wee Macgreegor/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI.
"Can I get oarin', paw?" said Macgregor from the stern, where he was sitting beside his mother and little sister.
"Dod, ay; ye'll get oarin'," replied his father, who was rowing leisurely and enjoying his pipe.
"Na; ye canna get oarin'," exclaimed Lizzie.
"Whit wey, maw?"
"Jist because ye canna. Keep yer sate, too, or ye'll ha'e the boat coupit."
"Aw, the wean's fine," said John. "If he wants to get oarin', let him"
"Macgreegor maun bide whaur he is," returned Lizzie. "Near a' the accidents i' the papers comes o' folk changin' their sates. An' ye ken fine, John, I wudna ha'e come wi' ye the day if ye hadna tell 't me there wud be nae cairry-ons in the boat."
"Och, ye're awfu' easy frichtit," remarked her husband, good-humoredly.
"Ay; I'm easy frichtit. Whit wud I dae wi' wee Jeannie if the boat wis capsizin'? I'm fur nae wattery graves, thenk ye, John 1"
"Havers, wumman! Come on, Macgreegor, an' I'll learn ye to "
"Dinna stir a fit, Macgreegor, or I'll"
"I want to get oarin', maw."
"Weel, I'm tellin' ye ye canna get oarin'; an' that's jist a' aboot it! Luk at wee Jeannie, noo, an' her that nice an' quate. She's no' wantin' to get oarin' an' ha'e us a' droondit—are ye, ma doo?"
Wee Jeannie continued to apply herself to a stick of barley-sugar, and said nothing.
"She's ower wee fur to oar," said Macgregor, scornfully. " Whit wey can I no' get oarin', maw?"
"Michty me! Can ye no' tak' a tellin', laddie? See the yatts thonder! See thon big yin wi' the yella lum!"
"It's no' a lum; it's a funnel," returned Macgregor, coldly.
"Aweel, it's a' yin," said his mother, agreeably. "See thon steamboat comin' to the pier! Whit a reek! It's got yella lums—funnels—tae."
"I like rid funnels better nor yella yins. Can I get oarin' noo, maw?"
"Tits, Macgreegor! I wunner at ye gaun on aboot oarin' when I've tell 't ye ye canna. A fine job it wud be if ye coupit the boat an' a whale got the haud o' ye!"
"There's nae whales at Rothesay."
"Is there no'?"
"Granpaw said there was nane; an' he kens."
John chuckled. "He had ye there, Lizzie," he said. "Ye canna doot yer ain feyther's word."
"Aweel," said Lizzie, "there may be nae whales as a rule, but nae man kens whit's in the sea, as Solyman says."
"Whales is feart fur folk," observed her son.
"The whale wisna feart fur puir Jonah, Macgreegor."
"If I had been Jonah"
"Ye wud jist ha'e been ett up fur 'orty days and forty nichts."
"I wudna!"
"Ah, but ye wud! An' it wudna be vera nice in the whale's inside."
"I wud ha'e jaggit it wi' knifes an' preens till it let me oot," said the valiant Macgregor.
John laughed loudly, and Lizzie said, reprovingly: "Ye sudna laugh when Macgreegor says sic daft-like things. Ye jist encourage him wi' his blethers an' boastin'.... Macgreegor, I tell ye, if ye wis in the whale's inside ye wud jist be roarin' an' greetin' fur yer maw."
"I wudna!"
"Ay, wud ye! Sae ye needna be boastin' aboot knifes an' preens."
"Wis Jonah roarin' an' greetin' fur his maw, maw?"
"Ach, haud yer tongue! See thon wee boat wi' the sail."
"Whit wey has this boat no' got a sail, maw?"
"It's got nae mast, ye see, Macgreegor," said his father.
"Whit wey has it no' got a mast, paw?"
"Weel, ma mannie, it's jist a boat fur oarin'," said John.
"Can I get oarin' noo?" asked Macgregor.
"I'm shair I've tell 't ye a dizzen times ye canna," cried his mother, who was engaged in fixing a fresh bit of paper to one end of wee Jeannie's barley-sugar.
"When 'll I get oarin'?"
"No' the noo, onywey."
"Wull I get oarin' in a wee while, maw?"
"Ye'll no' get oarin' the day, sae ye needna be"
"Will I get oarin' the morn, maw?"
"Oh, my! Wis there ever sic a wean! Deed, Macgreegor, ye wad spile the patients o' Job! Whit are ye wantin' to oar fur?"
"I jist want to oar."
"Let the wean oar, Lizzie!" said John mildly.
"Na, I'll no' let him oar! An' I think ye micht ha'e mair sense nor to say 'let him oar' when I've tell 't him fifty times he canna get oarin'."
"But the wean's that disappintit," urged her husband.
"Better disappintit nor droondit," quoth Lizzie, shortly. "Whaur are ye gaun noo, John?" she suddenly inquired.
"Oot to get thon steamboat's waves," he returned, laying down his pipe and bending to the oars.
"Whit's that ye say?"
"I'm gaun to tak' ye oot to get a wee shoogy-shoo wi' thon steamboat's waves."
"I'm for nane o' yer shoogy-shoos, John."
"Whit fur no'? Macgreegor likes a shoogy-shoo. Eh, Macgreegor?"
"Ay, paw," replied Macgregor, roused from apparently gloomy reflections. "I like when the boat's whumlin' aboot."
"I'll whumble ye!" cried his mother. "Noo, John, ye' re no' to dae 't. We'll get sookit into the paiddles, as shair 's daith!"
"Nae fears, wumman."
"Ah, but there is fears! I'm no' wantin' to get ma heid an' ma airms an' ma legs ca'ed aff, an' droondit furbye!"
"Wud the paiddles ca' wur heids aff?" inquired Macgregor, with interest.
"They wud that," said Lizzie, relieved to see her husband altering his course.
"An' wud wur heids gang intil the ingynes?" pursued the youngster.
"Oh, haud yer tongue, Macgreegor!" cried his horrified mother. "Whit a notion fur a wean!" she observed to John.
"Paw, wud wur heids gang"
"Whisht, laddie!" said his father. "Yer maw disna like it."
"Whit wey?"
Getting no answer, he relapsed into a thoughtful silence, which lasted for about three minutes.
"Can I no' get oarin' noo?" he at length inquired.
"Here's a boat wi' a rid funnel comin'," said John.
"Can I no' get"
"Dod, there's an awfu' crood on board her. D' ye see the folk, Macgreegor?"
"Ay. But can I no'"
"Ha'e, Macgreegor," said Lizzie, who had been fumbling in her pocket, "there's a lozenger fur ye."
"Thenk ye, maw," he returned, and remained quiet for a little.
Then, "Ma fit's sleepin'!" he exclaimed. "I want to dance."
"Ye canna dance here," said his mother. "Rub yer leg an' dunt yer fit on the floor. But dinna get aff yer sate."
Macgregor rubbed and dunted for some time, but without obtaining relief. "It's fu' o' preens an' needles, an' it's gettin' waur," he complained.
"Weel, ye maun jist thole it, fur ye canna get up an' dance in the boat,'" said Lizzie, not unsympathetically. "Try wagglin' yer leg, dearie."
Macgregor waggled violently, but to little purpose. His countenance expressed extreme discomfort. "It's awfu' jaggy," he said several times.
"Puir laddie," said his father. "It's a nesty thing a sleepin'-fit. Is 't no', Lizzie?"
"Ay, I mind I yinst had it in the kirk, an' I wis near dementit. Is 't no' gettin' better, Macgreegor?"
"Naw; it's gettin' waur, maw."
The parents became quite concerned about the sufferer.
"I doot ye'll ha'e to gang to the shore, John," said Lizzie, "an' let him get streetchin' hissel'!"
"Ay, he's got crampit wi' sittin' there sae lang. Weans isna used to sittin' quate. Is 't rale bad, ma mannie?"
"A' ma leg's jaggy noo," replied the boy.
"Lizzie," said John, suddenly, "if the wean wis gettin' oarin' fur a wee, dae ye no' think"
"Na, na. I canna thole folk gallivantin' aboot in boats. Mercy me! ther's folk droondit every day jist wi' changin' their sates."
"I cud creep to the ither sate, maw," said Macgregor, who had suddenly ceased rubbing, dunting, and waggling.
"An' he's ower wee, furbye," objected Lizzie.
"I'm no', maw. Wullie Thomson's wee'er nor me, an' he aye gets oarin'."
"Is yer fit better?" asked Lizzie.
"Naw," said her son, hastily resuming operations. "Wullie Thomson's maw lets him oar," he added.
"I suppose ye wud shinner ha'e Wullie's maw nor yer ain," she said, glancing at her husband.
Apparently Macgregor did not hear.
"D' ye hear whit yer maw's say in', Macgreegor?" said John. "She's speirin' if ye wud like Mrs. Thomson fur yer maw instead o' hersel'."
"Nae fears," said Macgregor, promptly. "I like ma ain maw best."
"Ye're an awfu' laddie," sighed Lizzie. "Wull ye be rale canny if I let ye get oarin'?"