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Updated: June 15, 2025
'What for wasna ye at the schuil the day? 'I spier ae queston at you, and ye answer me wi' anither. 'Weel, I hae nae hame to gang till. But whaur's yer hame gane till than? 'The hoose is there a' richt, but whaur my mither is I dinna ken. The door's lockit, an' Jeames Jaup, they tell me 's tane awa' the key.
Hendry stopped to have what he called a tove with any likely person he encountered, and, indeed, though he and I often took a walk on Saturdays, I generally lost him before we were clear of the town. In a few moments Leeby and I were at home to give Jess the news. "Whaur's yer father?" asked Jess, as if Hendry's way of dropping behind was still unknown to her.
No one was in the little anteroom to the editorial offices beside a young clerk, but at sight of a red-headed, freckle-faced Heriot laddie of Bobby's puppyhood days Mr. Traill's spirits rose. "A gude day to you, Sandy McGregor; and whaur's your auld twin conspirator, Geordie Ross?" "He's a student in the Medical College, Mr. Traill.
"Whaur's Annie Anderson?" he cried, as he burst into Robert Bruce's shop. "What's your business?" asked the Bruce a question which evidently looked for no answer. "Alec wants her." "Weel, he will want her," retorted Robert, shutting his jaws with a snap, and grinning a smileless grin from ear to ear, like the steel clasp of a purse.
"Whaur's your freend?" she asked, peering over her spectacles towards the garden gate. The waiting Mr. Heritage, seeing he eyes moving in his direction, took off his cap with a brave gesture and advanced. "Glorious weather, madam," he declared. "English," whispered Dickson to the woman, in explanation. She examined the Poet's neat clothes and Mr.
Whaur's the sense of a jaiket that'll no button upon you, if it should come to be weet? What do ye ca' thir things? Demmy brokens, d'ye say? They'll be brokens wi' a vengeance or ye can win back! Weel, I have nae thing to do wi' it it's no good taste." Clem, whose purse had thus metamorphosed his sister, and who was not insensible to the advertisement, had come to the rescue with a "Hoot, woman!
An' whaur's it tae come frae?" asked Jean in despair. Marcella flushed a little then and said quickly: "I expect he was back in the past, Jean. But perhaps he's more for the folks than meat and drink, really." But as she ran along the gusty passage to the green baize door all her pride rose savagely to think that guests should come, bidden autocratically to the house, and go away unfed.
A fear may be crowded back into the mind and stoutly denied so long as it is not named. At the good landlord's very natural question "Whaur's Auld Jock?" there was the shape of the little dog's fear that he had lost his master. With a whimpering cry he struggled free. Out of the door he went, like a shot. He tumbled down the steep curve and doubled on his tracks around the market-place.
The cook shrank back before their gleaming eyes and threatening fists, and they crowded into the galley, where, as fate determined, the mild little steward was gathering up the cabin dinner. He seized his brick. "Now, here, you men," he said, bravely, "you get right out of this galley. Do you hear?" And he waved his brick threateningly. "Whaur's the mate? Giv's the mate, ye man-killers."
They had never taken account of the days when meat was due, ascribing the fixed hiatuses to the unkindness of the Chinese cook; and when they mustered at the galley door at noon and the cook handed them a huge pan of bean soup they raged at him, incoherently, but vehemently. "Whaur's th' mate the mate? Giv's the mate, ye haythen! giv's the mate, domyersool!"
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