“There’s—there’s nae prospec’s in it for a man.”
“Nae prospec’s! Hoots, Macgreegor! there’s as guid prospec’s in the pentin’ as in ony ither trade. Dinna fash yer heid aboot that—no’ but what I’m pleased to ken ye’re thinkin’ aboot yer prospec’s, ma son. But we’ll speak aboot it on the road hame.”
“I wish,” said Macgregor, with the greatest effort of all, “I wish I had never gaed into it. I wish I had gaed into Uncle Purdie’s business.”
John sat down again. At last he said: “D’ye mean that, Macgreegor?”
“Ay, I mean it.”
For the first time within his memory John Robinson felt disappointed—in a vague fashion, it is true, yet none the less unpleasantly disappointed—in his son.
“But ye’ve been at the pentin’ for three year,” he said a little impatiently.
“I ken that, fayther.”
“An’ ye mind ye had the chance o’ gaun into yer uncle’s business when ye left the schule?”
“Ay.”