# Wee Macgreegor/Chapter 7

pp. 84–96.

### CHAPTER VII.

It was evident that the Robinson family, as it tramped along Argyll street that Saturday afternoon, was bent on business of importance. Lizzie and wee Jeannie were dressed in their best, which would take rather long to describe; Macgregor had on his Sunday suit and a new glengarry bonnet; and John wore his pot hat a little to one side, and suffered from a high, tight collar, the points of which nipped his neck every time he moved his head.
"Are we near there, paw?" inquired Macgregor, looking up to his father's face.
John looked down at his son, smothering an exclamation of agony, and replied in the affirmative.
"Whit wey dae folk get likenesses tooken?" asked the boy.
"Dod, ye may weel speir, Macgreegor! It's yer maw wants a pictur' fur to gi'e to yer granpaw Purdie."
"I'm no' wantin' to be tooken, paw."
"Are ye no', ma man? Deed I'm gey sweirt masel'. But yer maw wants the pictur'."
"Whit's that ye're sayin' to Macgreegor, John?" said Lizzie.
"Aw," replied her husband, turning to her, and wincing as the collar bit him, "Macgreegor an' me wis thinkin' we wis feart fur the photygrapher."
"Oh, ay," said Lizzie, with a good-humored smile. "Aweel, wee Jeannie an' me 'll no' let him hurt ye—wull we, ma doo? But whit's wrang wi' ye, John? Ye're makin' maist frichtsome faces!" ^
"It's the collar, wumman. Ye wud ha'e me to pit it on."
"It luks rale nice. Is 't a wee thing ticht?"
"Dod, it's like to nip the neck aff me!"
"Weel, never heed, John. It'll come oot fine in the photygraph. Mercy me! whaur's Macgreegor?"
They retraced their steps anxiously, and discovered their son standing on the curb, gazing longingly at the barrow of a vender of hokey-pokey or some similarly elusive dainty.
"Macgreegor, tak' yer paw's haun', an' dinna let me catch ye stravaygin' awa' again, or ye'll get nae carvies to yer tea," said Lizzie, glad enough to have found the youngster so speedily.
"John," she added, "fur ony sake, keep a grup o' the wean."
"Come on, Macgreegor," said John, holding out his hand. "We're jist comin' to the photygrapher's."
Presently they began to climb a long, narrow stair.
"Gi'e wee Jeannie to me, Lizzie," said John.
"Ay; ye'll manage her better nor me. I'm no' wantin' to be photygraphed wi' a rid face an' pechin," said Lizzie, handing over her burden, on receipt of which John suffered fresh torments from his collar.
"Maw, wull I get ma likeness tooken wi' ma greengarry bunnet on?" asked Macgregor, as they toiled upward.
"Ye'll see whit the man says," returned his mother.
"I'm no' wantin' him to tak' it aff."
"Weel, weel, ye'll see whit he says."
"Wull ye tak' aff yer ain bunnet, maw?"
"That's a daft-like thing to be askin'."
"Whit wey——"
"Whisht, whisht!" said Lizzie, who was evidently anxious to save her breath.
At last they reached the top flat, and were accommodated with seats in the reception-room. Lizzie took wee Jeannie on her knee, and proceeded to make the child as neat as a new pin, conversing with her the while.
"Paw," inquired Macgregor, staring at a number of photographs on the wall, "whit wey dae folk mak' faces when they get their likenesses tooken?"
"Thae's jist real faces," said John, laughing and putting his hand to his throat.
"Can I get makin' a face when I'm gettin' ma likeness tooken?"
"Yer maw wudna like that."
"Whit wey, paw?"
"Och, jist—jist because she wudna. See, Macgreegor, yer maw's wantin' ye."
Lizzie beckoned the boy to her. "Macgreegor, pu' up yer stockin', an' dinna screw yer face like that.... Oh, laddie, whit wey did ye gang an' mak' yer heid sae toosie? Staun' till I get yer hair to lie." She fished a comb from her pocket and used it till she had reduced the unruly locks to order. "Noo, sit doon on that chair, an' dinna stir a fit till the man's ready fur us. John!"
"Weel, Lizzie?"
"Come ower here till I pu' doon yer jayket. It gars ye look fair humphy-backit."
"Hoots, wumman, I'm no' gaun to get ma back tooken," said John, coming over, nevertheless.
"Ye never ken hoo ye'll get tooken," said Lizzie, sagely. "I wis lukin' at some o' the pictur's here, an' some o' them's no' jist whit I wud ca' inchantin'."
"Ye better no' let wee Jeannie see them, or she'll be gettin' frichtit. Eh, wee Jeannie, whit dae ye say, ma duckie?" he said, laughing and chucking his daughter under the chin.
"Paw!" exclaimed wee Jeannie. "Paw-aw-aw!"
"Fine, lassie, fine!" cried her father. He was in great form now, his collar-stud having given way a minute previously.
"Noo, yer jayket's lyin' better, John," said his wife. "But yer tie—oh, man, yer tie's awa' up the back o' yer heid!"
"I canna help it, wumman. If I pit on yin o' thae masher collars, ma tie slips ower it, as shair's daith!"
"But whit wey dae ye no' use the tabs?"
"Och, I'm fur nane o' yer tabs! Never heed, Lizzie. I'll pu' it doon masel'."
"Tits!" exclaimed Lizzie. "I near had it that time! Noo—noo I've got it. There!"
At the word of triumph the tie slipped into its place, but the collar flew open.
"Whit's ado wi' ye, John?" she cried, a little crossly. "Whit wey did you unbutton it?"
"The stud's broke!"
"The stud's broke? Oh, John, an' you gaun to ha'e yer photygraph tooken!"
"Ach, it's a' richt, dearie. I'll jist button my jayket, an' that 'll haud it thegither. See, that's fine!"
"Oh, John," she began, but just then a voice requested the family to step into the adjoining room.
"Mind, John, it's to be a caybinet growp," whispered Lizzie, as she took a last survey of wee Jeannie and Macgregor.
John explained his wishes to the photographer, and presently the group was arranged—Lizzie with wee Jeannie on her knee, Macgregor standing beside her with his toes turned well out, and John behind with one hand resting affectionately on her shoulder. Then the photographer dived under the black cloth.
"Whit's he daein', paw?" inquired Macgregor, in a hoarse whisper.
"Whisht!" murmured Lizzie.
"He's spyin'," said John, softly.
"Whit wey is he spyin', paw?"
"Jist to see hoo we're a' behavin'," returned his father, jocularly. "Eh, Lizzie?"
"Be quate, John!" whispered Lizzie, severely. She was sitting very stiff and dignified. Wee Jeannie began to show signs of restlessness, but ere long the photographer reappeared. He suggested that the little boy should remove his hat, and that the gentleman should open his jacket.
"I'm dune fur noo," muttered John, with a wry smile.
"Macgreegor, tak' aff yer bunnet," said Lizzie, miserably, fearful of what would shortly happen behind her.
"I'm no' wantin' to tak' aff ma bunnet, maw," said Macgregor.
"Dae whit ye' re tell 't. Ye can haud it in yer haun'."
"Yes, just so. Hold your bonnet in your hand, my little man," said the photographer, pleasantly.
Macgregor obeyed sulkily.
"Kindly undo all the buttons—all the buttons, please," said the photographer to John, with great politeness, and turned to the camera.
With a feeble snigger John undid the last but one. Lizzie's head had been sinking lower and lower. She felt she was about to be affronted.
"Maw," said Macgregor, suddenly, "I—I've toosied ma heid. Wull I pit on my greengarry bunnet again?"
Lizzie looked up quickly, and whipped something from near her waist. "John," she said, "gang to the ither room, an' see if I left me caim on the table." Her voice sank to a whisper. "An'—an'—here's twa preens." She turned to the photographer. "Ye'll excuse me keepin' ye waitin' a meenit, sir?" she said to him. "This laddie's a rale wee tease," she added, softly.
The photographer smiled good-humoredly, and immediately she discovered that the comb was in her pocket, after all. She tidied her son's hair carefully, and said: "I think I wud like him tooken in his bunnet, if ye've nae objections."
"Oh, very well," replied the man, agreeably. "His expression was certainly happier with it than without."
John entered grinning, his jacket thrown open. "I cudna fin' yer caim onywhere, Lizzie."
"Och, I had it in ma pocket, efter a'. Noo, we're ready, if you please, sir," she said to the photographer, who, without delay, set about his business.
He waited till the smiles had died down somewhat, when he instructed them where and how to look, and made an exposure, which Macgregor spoiled by scratching his nose at the critical moment.
"I cudna help it, paw, ma neb wis that kitly," said the boy.
"Weel, ye maun jist thole the next time, Macgreegor. Noo he's gaun to tak' anither yin."
"Whit's that wee thing he scoots wi'?"
"Whisht!"
"Steady, please," requested the photographer.
Wee Jeannie began to wiggle on her mother's knee.
"Oh, see! oh, see!" said Lizzie, pointing to the camera. "Oh, see, a boney wee winda!"
"Paw, whit's inside the boax?" asked Macgregor.
"If you please," said the photographer. "Now when I say three—One—two—th——"
"Am I tooken, paw?"
"No' yet, Macgreegor, no' yet. Ye near spilet anither photygraph. Keep quate, noo.
"Noona, noona," said Lizzie, dandling wee Jeannie, who was exhibiting fractious symptoms. "Wee Jeannie's gaun to ha'e her likeness tooken i' the boney wee winda! (My! John, I wisht I had brocht her auld jumpin'-jake.) Oh, see! oh, see!"
A lull at last occurred, and the photographer took advantage of it; and after another period of unrest, he secured a third negative, which he assured Lizzie would prove highly successful. John had expected to take the photographs away with him, but his wife informed him in a whisper that he mustn't think of such a thing. "Caybinet growps" took time. Matters having been settled, the family departed from the studio.
"Maw, wull my greengarry bunnet ha'e a rid toorie in the likeness?" inquired Macgregor.
"It 'll no' be rid, onywey, dearie."
"Whit wey, maw?" He was obviously deeply disappointed.
"Speir at yer paw, ma mannie."
Macgregor repeated the question.
"Aweel, if it disna come oot rid," said John, "I'll ha'e it pentit rid fur ye. Dod, I wull, fur ye're jist a jool! Is he no', Lizzie?"
"Oh, wee toosie heid!" cried his mother, with a laugh and a sigh.