“Thankye, sir,” said Tom Morrison, stolidly, and again Fullerton said no more till he was some distance away, when he rubbed his hands softly and smiled a satisfied smile, saying to himself—
“I should like to save Tom Morrison and his wife from the pit.”
Tom Morrison was hard at work, thinking sometimes of his pretty little wife in the cottage, and how thin and careworn she had grown of late. He wondered whether it was his fault, and because he had been so hard and cold since he had lost his little child and quarrelled with the Rector; whether, too, he ought not to try and bring back some of the brightness to her face, when it seemed as if so much light as usual did not shine in upon his work.
He raised his head, and found that there were a pair of thick arms leaning on the window-sill, and a great bearded face resting upon them, the owner’s eyes staring hard at him.
“Hallo, Jock!” he said, quietly.
“What, Tommy!” was the deep-toned reply; and then there was a pause, as Tom Morrison felt angry as he thought of his brothers ne’er-do-well life, and then of his having been hard and cold of late, and this seemed the time for beginning in another line.
“Long time since I’ve seen you, Jock,” he said, quietly.
“Ay, ’tis, Tommy. Working hard as usual.”
“Ay, working hard, Jock,” said Tom, resting his spoke-shave. “Thou used to be a good workman, Jock. Why not take to it again?”
“Me? Work? Wheer?”