“Nobody in London would look at me twice now. But you remember how we were stared at when first we came,” said Malcolm.
“Ow ay!” returned Peter with almost a groan; “there’s a sair cheenge past upo’ you, but I’m gauin’ hame to the auld w’y o’ things. The herrin’ ’ll be aye to the fore, I’m thinkin’; an’ gien we getna a harbour we’ll get a h’aven.”
Judging it better to take no notice of this pretty strong expression of distrust and disappointment, Malcolm led him aside, and putting a few sovereigns in his hand, said,
“Here, Peter, that will take you home.”
“It’s ower muckle—a heap ower muckle. I’ll tak naething frae ye but what’ll pay my w’y.”
“And what is such a trifle between friends?”
“There was a time, Ma’colm, whan what was mine was yours, an’ what was yours was mine, but that time’s gane.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Peter; but still I owe you as much as that for bare wages.”
“There was no word o’ wauges when ye said, Peter, come to Lon’on wi’ me.—Davie there—he maun hae his wauges.”
“Weel,” said Malcolm, thinking it better to give way, “I’m no abune bein’ obleeged to ye, Peter. I maun bide my time, I see, for ye winna lippen till me. Eh man! your faith’s sune at the wa’.”