'Mr. Ericson!' exclaimed Robert. 'Ye'll get yer deith gin ye stan' that gait i' the weet.'
'Amen,' said Ericson, turning with a smile that glimmered wan through the misty night. Then changing his tone, he went on: 'What are you after, Robert?'
'You,' answered Robert. 'I cudna bide to be left my lane whan I micht be wi' ye a' the time—gin ye wad lat me. Ye war oot o' the hoose afore I weel kent what ye was aboot. It's no a fit nicht for ye to be oot at a', mair by token 'at ye're no the ablest to stan' cauld an' weet.'
'I've stood a great deal of both in my time,' returned Ericson; 'but come along. We'll go and get that fiddle-string.'
'Dinna ye think it wad be fully better to gang hame?' Robert ventured to suggest.
'What would be the use? I'm in no mood for Plato to-night,' he answered, trying hard to keep from shivering.
'Ye hae an ill cauld upo' ye,' persisted Robert; 'an' ye maun be as weet 's a dishcloot.'
Ericson laughed—a strange, hollow laugh.
'Come along,' he said. 'A walk will do me good. We'll get the string, and then you shall play to me. That will do me more good yet.'
Robert ceased opposing him, and they walked together to the new town. Robert bought the string, and they set out, as he thought, to return.