The dock-boys, of course, greeted us with cries of "Yellow Hammer!" The butcher-boy had once even dared to fling that taunt at us within our own yard; and we left him in no doubt about the hammering, gallant fellow though he was and wore a spur on his left heel.

But no bodily deformity could have corroded us as did those thrice-accursed garments with terror of the world without and of its laughter.
Of a world yet more distant we were taught the gloomiest views.
Twice a week regularly, and incidentally whenever he found occasion, Mr.Scougall painted the flames of hell for us in the liveliest colours.

We never doubted his word that our chances of escaping them were small indeed; but somehow, as life did not allure, so eternity did not greatly frighten us.

Meanwhile we played at our marbles.
We knew, in spite of the legend over the gateway, that at the age of ten or so our elder companions disappeared.

They went, as a fact, into various trades and callings, like ordinary parish apprentices.
Perhaps we guessed this; if so, it must have been vaguely, and I incline to believe that we confused their disappearance with death in our childish musings on the common lot.