Erchie came closer and looked at the bearded face, and put his hand tremblingly upon the young man’s shoulder.
“Willie!” said he. “Willie!” he repeated. “Man, ye’re sair needin’ shavin’.” He shook his son, and “O, Willie,” said he, “whit’ll yer mither say? I suppose if I was the rale thing mysel’, I should kill the fatted calf or start the greetin’; but as shair’s death we havena kept a calf in this hoose since ye left it yoursel’, and I was never yin o’ the greetin’ kind. My goodness! Willie!”
He was so bewildered he forgot his visitor stood on the door-mat, until Willie lifted his dunnage-bag, and then he urged him into the kitchen.
“Where’s—where’s mother?” said the sailor.
“She micht be deid and in her grave for you,” said his father; “but she’s no’. She’s doon at Lindsay the grocer’s for a loaf. Oh ye rogue! ye rogue! Whit’ll she say to ye? Seeven years, come the fifth o’ June! Oh ye’re awfu’ needin’ shavin’. I hope—I hope the health’s fine?”
“Fine,” said Willie, and sat in a chair uneasily, like a stranger.
“And whaur in a’ the warld did ye come frae?” said his father, putting the kettle on the fire. They had not even shaken hands.
“China and roond aboot there,” said the son.
“China!” said his father. “And hoo did ye leave them a’ in China? They’re throng at the war there the noo, I see. I hope ye werena hurted.”
“No, nor hurted,” said Willie. “I hope ye’re fine yersel’—and mother?”