“Why, look ye here, lad,” cried Jock. “Here am I as blithe and hearty as a bird, and here are you, plod, plod, plod, from day to day, round and round, like old Michael Ross’s blind horse in the bark mill. I look as hearty as a buck; you look ten years older, and as if life warn’t worth a gill o’ ale.”
“I wean’t argue with you, Jock,” said Tom, quietly. “You must go your own gate, I suppose, and I’ll go mine.”
“Ay, that’s it, Tommy.”
“But if ever you like to try being an honest man again, lad, I’m thy own brother, and I’ll give thee a lift best way I can for the old folks’ sake.”
Jock Morrison left the window, and came like a modern edition of Astur of the stately stride round to the door, walked in amongst the shavings and sawdust, gave his brother a tremendous slap on the back, and then seized his hand and stood shaking it for a good minute by the old Dutch clock in the corner.
He did not speak, but half sat down afterwards upon the bench, watching his brother as Tom resumed his work.
“How’s little wife?” said Jock at last.
“Not hearty, Jock,” said Tom Morrison. “She’s pined a deal lately. Never got over losing the bairn.”
There was a spell of silence here, and then Tom said quietly—
“Go in and have a crust o’ bread and cheese, Jock, and a mug of ale. The little lass has been baking this morning.”