“Thank you kindly, Mr. Moore,” the boy replied. “I've to see squire first; and then yo' may be sure I'll be after you.”
The Master faltered a moment.
“David, ha'n yo' spoke to yer father yet?” he asked in low voice. “Yo' should, lad.”
The boy made a gesture of dissent.
“I canna,” he said petulantly.
“I would, lad,” the other advised. “An' yo' don't yo' may be sorry after.”
As he turned away he heard the boy's steps, dull and sodden, as he crossed the hall; and then a thin, would-be cordial voice in the emptiness:
“I declar' if 'tisna David! The return o' the Prodeegal—he! he! So ye've seen yer auld dad at last, and the last; the proper place, say ye, for yen father—he! he! Eh, lad, but I'm blithe to see ye. D'ye mind when we was last thegither? Ye was kneelin' on ma chest: 'Your time's come, dad,' says you, and wangs me o'er the face—he! he! I mind it as if 'twas yesterday. Weel, weel, we'll say nae mair about it. Boys will be boys. Sons will be sons. Accidents will happen. And if at first ye don't succeed, why, try, try again—he! he!”
Dusk was merging into darkness when the Master and Andrew reached the Dalesman's Daughter. It had been long dark when they emerged from the cosy parlor of the inn and plunged out into the night.