The Scotchman was certainly frugal, and counted his pennies carefully, but he was not mean, and had conceived a strong affection for his young companion, whom he regarded much as a son or a nephew.
"Suppose you take the money now, John," said Tom.
"Shall I scribble a receipt, Tom? I am afraid my writing materials have given out."
"I don't want any receipt," said Tom; "I'll trust you without one."
"Nevertheless, lad," said the cautious Scotchman, "it may be well—"
"Yes, Tom, Mr. Ferguson is right. Of course I know that you trust me; but if anything should happen to me,—any accident, I mean,—the paper may be useful to you."
"Just as you like, Mr. Miles, but I don't ask it, remember that."
"Yes, I will remember it, and I don't mean to meet with any accident if I can help it. Mr. Ferguson, can you oblige me with a pipeful of tobacco? I'll join you in smoking."
Smoking was the Scotchman's solitary extravagance, not a costly one, however, as he never smoked cigars, but indulged only in a democratic clay pipe.
John Miles threw himself on the ground between Tom and his Scotch friend, and watched complacently the wreaths of smoke as they curled upwards.