The lamp dropped from Jack Rennie’s hand, and lay smoking at his feet. His huge frame seemed to have shrunk by at least a quarter of its size; and for many minutes he sat, silent and motionless, seeing as little of the objects around him as did the blind boy at his side.
At last he roused himself, picked up his lamp, and rose to his feet.
“Well, lad, Bennie, I mus’ be a-goin’; good-by till ye. Will the brither come for ye?”
“Oh, yes!” answered Bennie, “Tom al’ays stops for me; he aint come up from the foot yet, but he’ll come.”
Rennie turned away, then turned back again.
“Whaur’s the lamp?” he asked; “have ye no licht?”
“No; I don’t ever have any. It wouldn’t be any good to me, you know.”
Once more the man started down the heading, but, after he had gone a short distance, a thought seemed to strike him, and he came back to where Bennie was still sitting.
“Lad, I thocht to tell ye; ye s’all go to the city wi’ your eyes. I ha’ money to sen’ ye, an’ ye s’all go. I—I—knew—the father, lad.”