Another surprise—his gait and general appearance showed that he was quite sober. This was gratifying, even if it was the result of his credit being exhausted.
During the preceding week it may be mentioned that he had worked more steadily than usual, having made several trips in his boat, and had thus been enabled to pay something on his score at the tavern.
John Trafton sat down before the fire.
His wife was mending stockings by the light of a candle which burned on the table at her side and Robert was absorbed by the fascinating pages of Scott’s “Rob Roy.”
A side glance showed the fisherman how his nephew was employed, and, rightly judging where the book came from, he seized upon it as likely to lead to the questions he wanted to ask.
“What book have you got there, Bob?” he inquired.
“It Is a story by Sir Walter Scott, uncle.”
“Never heard of him. Does he live in Boston?” asked Trafton.
“No, he was a Scotchman.”
“Some Scotchmen are pretty smart, I’ve heard tell.”