“Weel,” said John, getting out his pipe preparatory to lighting it on passing the gate, “we best be movin’.”
It was now or never. Macgregor cleared his throat.
“The pentin’ trade’s rotten,” he said in a voice not his own.
“Eh?” said John, rather staggered by the statement which was without relevance to any of the preceding conversation. “What’s rotten aboot it?”
“Everything.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard o’ ’t. In fac’, I’m tell’t the pentin’ trade is extra brisk the noo.”
“That’s no’ what I meant,” Macgregor forced himself to say. “I meant it was a rotten trade to be in.”
John gave a good-humoured laugh. “Oh, I see! Ye dinna like the overtime! Aweel, that’s nateral at your age, Macgreegor”—he patted his son’s shoulder—“but when ye’re aulder, wi’ a wife an’ weans, maybe, ye’ll be gled o’ overtime whiles, I’m thinkin’.”
“It’s no the overtime,” said Macgregor.
“What is’t, then? What’s wrang wi’ the trade?” The question was lightly put.