The High Street is teeming with humanity as the two young men make their way down its steep incline. Filthy children, their faces already wizened like those of the very old, fight and play together on the pavements and in the gutters, which are flowing with mud and filthy debris of every kind. Every now and then, the Macleods find themselves having to walk around a dung heap which has built up in the centre of a close. On at least two occasions, Murdoch sees that filth has simply been thrown through the open window of an uninhabited, ground floor flat and left to accumulate.
Large, fat rats scavenge amongst the detritus. By the side of one of these dung heaps a frail, old man potters about with a broom, vainly attempting to remove the waste that has built up outside his home. The smell is awful.
Women hang around the closes, wynds and vennels, enfolding dirty infants in their ragged shawls and exchanging pleasantries with their friends. A few, already drunk although it is not yet midday, sit or lie against the walls, rendered senseless by cheap alcohol. Their children play around their prone bodies, paying no attention, or sit wailing by their mothers’ sides.
Little knots of men gather in various places all along the cousins’ route: some are listless, stupefied by drink and despair. Others, their blood made hot by alcohol and frustration, quarrel fiercely amongst themselves. Now and then, violence erupts and men exchange blows, egged on by the others. Blood flows freely and no one makes any attempt to put a stop to the fighting, preferring to watch until one of the combatants has managed to fell the other and render him unconscious.
At the bottom of the hill, the cousins turn into Shuttle Street. The roadway is narrower and the crowd on the pavements more dense.
“My goodness,” says the minister, mopping his forehead with a white handkerchief, “I don’t believe I have ever seen so many people out on the streets.”
“Aye,” Calum nods, grinning. “There are 5,000 souls for you to save in this part of the city alone, Murdoch.”
His cousin shakes his head. “So many?” he says, “But where do they all live?”
Calum gestures with his arms outstretched. “Here, in the tenements around us. The lives of these people are wretched: their dwellings overcrowded and filthy. Your father would not keep his cattle in them. They live in single ends, like my own, but whereas I am fortunate and prosperous enough to be the sole tenant, commonly four or five but sometimes as many as twelve will stay together.”
“Twelve?” says Murdoch, horrified. “But where do they put all the beds?”
Calum laughs. “There are no beds. These people sleep on the bare floor, or, if they are lucky, on heaps of straw, like beasts. Many migrate from place to place, spending only a night or two in the same room. They pay a small sum to the party who rents the premises. They dare not remove their clothes while they sleep, for fear they will be stolen, so many of the people you see here will not have undressed, far less washed themselves, for months at a time. Is it any wonder that diseases thrive here?”

At the entrance to one of the closes, a group of women are standing together, gossiping. Another woman, her hair an unnaturally bright, yellow colour, with a chalk-white face disfigured by two hectic spots of colour on her cheeks, saunters past them, swaying her hips and flaunting her shabby, green velvet dress and battered, pillbox hat. The women screech obscenities after her; she turns, makes a dismissive gesture with her crooked fingers, and then carries on walking, swinging her body even more extravagantly. She approaches the two young men. Calum steps into the gutter to make way for her, while his cousin continues on his way, deliberately avoiding eye contact and pulling away when her arm brushes against his sleeve. He takes a step forward, but is abruptly stopped when the woman grabs at the tail of his jacket and pulls it, cursing in a hoarse voice. When he spins round to face her, however, her face, which has been distorted with anger, is immediately illuminated by a huge smile, which is somewhat marred by her broken, greenish teeth
and the foul breath which comes from her clumsily- painted mouth. She stretches out a filthy hand and begins to stroke the Minister’s face, cooing endearments at him. The women at the close mouth are all hooting with laughter, cackling like a flock of bedraggled geese and cheering the prostitute on, their sympathies having abruptly switched at the sight of the Minister’s horrified expression. Calum, registering his cousin’s shocked reaction, suppresses a smile and then gently disengages the woman’s other arm, which she has wrapped round Macleod’s neck in an attempt to pull his face nearer to her own. He presses a few coins into her hand and tells her to be on her way in a quiet, but firm tone which, along with the money, persuades her to move on. As she sways away from the two men, however, she turns back and blows a kiss at them, then sashays onwards, looking out for customers.

The two men walk on in silence, side by side. The brows of one of them are deeply furrowed in contemplation, while around the lips of the other a wry smile is gently playing. The coarse guffaws and cheers of the close-mouth women follow them down the street. Finally, the Minister stops walking and turns to his cousin with a stony look on his face.
“You should not have handed money to a woman like that,” he says, indignantly.
“Why not ? “ Calum replies, stiffening his shoulders and glaring back, annoyed by his cousin’s tone.
“Why not?” the Minister explodes, his already ruddy face darkening. “You know perfectly well that she is a harlot, Calum. She…”
“She is a poor woman who works to provide herself and her family with food and shelter,” Calum interrupts. “You may disapprove of the kind of work she does, but perhaps she has no other option, have you thought of that? I can only hope that the few shillings I gave her might enable her to fill her stomach tonight without having to sell her body first. I am sorry that I can do no more to help her.”
“You are a fool, Calum,” says Macleod, shaking his head. “The money you gave her will be spent on drink.”
“Well, even so,” the other replies, standing his ground.” I am glad to have given it.
Perhaps the poor soul’s life is so unbearable that it would drive even such a great man as yourself to the bottle, Murdoch? “ He looks the Minister straight in the eye, challenging him to think about what he has just suggested, but Macleod makes a gesture as if to brush away an irritating fly and responds, tetchily, “You are talking nonsense, man. That sort of woman…”
Again, Calum cuts in on Macleod’s words.
“Oh, you are familiar with a great many prostitutes, then? I had not realised the extent of your experience, Murdoch. Perhaps I should not have intervened in the transaction at all?”
Macleod is spluttering with rage. “You are going too far now, Calum,” he says, bunching his fists and then thrusting them into his pockets. “I am a man of the cloth.
I would never enter into any such relationship, as you know very well.”
Calum widens his eyes as if in surprise.
“But did not our Lord Jesus Christ himself keep the prostitute Mary Magdalene at his side throughout his ministry? Didn’t she accompany him to Calvary and witness his final agonies? Wasn’t she the first to bear witness to his Resurrection? You cannot be placing yourself on a higher moral plane than our Saviour, Murdoch? Who are you to judge a person, when Christ would not? He did not teach us to despise sinners, but rather to forgive them and give them our love; to help them as best we can. I wish I had wealth enough to provide for all such poor women, so that they would have no need to sell their bodies, but since I have not, I will refrain from condemning their actions.”