He glanced out of the window as he spoke to where his old mother was cooking dinner al fresco—boiling a pot as the gipsy does, hung from a tripod.
"I know, I know," said Archie.
"How old are you now, Master Archie?"
"Going on for fourteen."
"Is that all? Why ye're big eno' for a lad o' seventeen!"
This was true. Archie was wondrous tall, and wondrous brown and handsome. His hardy upbringing and constant out-door exercise, in summer's shine or winter's snow, fully accounted for his stature and looks.
"I'm almost getting too big for my pony."
"Ah! no, lad; Shetlands'll carry most anything."
"Well, I must be going, Bob Cooper. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Master Archie. Ah! lad, if there were more o' your kind and your father's in the country, there would be fewer bad men like—like me."