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The Deacon and another idler or two gathered about the steps in the darkness, to see that royal going off. Peter Riney's bunched-up little old figure could be seen on the front seat of the gig; Aird was already mounted behind. A widening cone of light shone out from the leftward lamp of the gig, full on a glistering laurel, which Simpson had growing by his porch.
"Peter Riney's bringin'd from Skeighan in the afternune. My father says there winna be its equal in the parish!" The faces of the boys lowered uncomfortably. They felt it was a silly thing of Gourlay to blow his own trumpet in this way, but, being boys, they could not prick his conceit with a quick rejoinder. It is only grown-ups who can be ironical; physical violence is the boy's repartee.
Peter Riney's queer little old face edged timorously into the room. He only opened the door the width of his face, and looked ready to bolt at a word. "Tam's deid!" he blurted. Gourlay gashed himself frightfully with his razor, and a big red blob stood out on his cheek. "Deid!" he stared. "Yes," stammered Peter.
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