Five minutes later, Andy was rising from the tea-table, when Sam Petch burst panting into the room with a plate of butter in his hand.
“Here,” he said; “take it. Butter your bread on both sides with it. And I’m durned if I touch another drop o’ beer until further notice.”
Andy looked at Sam, and he understood.
“Thank you, Sam,” he said. But a great deal more than that passed unspoken between them.
“Have a bit now,” said Sam, nervously anxious to avoid comment, though he usually welcomed it. “Here! Butter a bit and try!”
So Andy buttered and ate a piece of bread, while Sam stood over him, watching every mouthful.
“Delicious butter. Where do you get it?” said Andy.
“Mrs. Will Werrit’s. She’s a rare hand for butter-making,” answered Sam. “Well, I’ll get home to my tea. Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon, Sam,” said Andy.
But as the two men parted on those words their souls drew quite near and said: “We are brothers.”