“No, not lazy; but averse to steady, hard, confining work,” said Longman.
“An’ for that same did the feyther of ye turn ye adrift, me poor Sam?” inquired Mike, striking into the talk.
“No, not my father—he was dead; but my mother did.”
“Your mither! Hivenly mither av us all!” exclaimed Mike, stupidly staring at the hunter.
“I deserved it, Michael,” said the hunter.
“Och, thin, tell us all and about it, Sam, dear,” said Mike sympathetically.
And Longman briefly told his little story.
“You see, my father was a small farmer at Chuxton, in the North Riding of Yorkshire. I do not remember him, though I hope some day to make his acquaintance in the upper world. He left this one when I was a very young child—the first and only child,” he began.
“‘The only son of his mother, and she a widow?’ Ye’ll be looked after, Sam, be the Lord Himsilf, or ilse all the howly fathers have taiched me is not true,” put in Mike.
“Our neighbors used to say that my mother spoiled me. I have often heard them say it to her before my face when I was a bairn.”