'That ought to be enough for a top-coat, you rascal, with only yourself to feed,' said Mr. Ancrum, stretching himself in his hard armchair, so as to let his lame leg with its heavy boot rest comfortably on the fender. David had noticed at first sight of him that his old playfellow had grown to look much older than in the Clough End days. His hair was nearly white, and lay in a large smooth wave across the broad brow. And in that brow there were deep furrows, and many a new and premature line in the hollow cheeks. Something withering and blighting seemed to have passed over the whole man since those Sunday school lessons in the Christian Brethren's upper room, which David still remembered so well. But the eyes with their irresistible intensity and force were the same. In them the minister's youth—he was not yet thirty-five—still spoke, as from a last stronghold in a failing realm. They had a strange look too, the look as of a secret life, not for the passer-by.
David smiled at Ancrum's last remark, and for a moment or two looked into the fire without speaking.
'Well, if I'd bought clothes or anything else this winter, I should be in a precious worse hole than I am,' he said reflectively.
'Hole? What's wrong, Davy?'
'My master gave me the sack Monday.'
'Humph!' said Ancrum, surveying him. 'Well, you don't look much cast down about it, I must say.'
'Well, you see, I'd laid my plans,' said the young man, an irrepressible gaiety and audacity in every feature. 'It isn't as though I were taken by surprise.'
'Plans for a new place, I suppose?'
'No; I have done with that. I am going to set up for myself. I know the trade, and I've got some money.'
'How old are you, Davy?'