“It’s a good thing I didna see ye there, or I wad maybe hae gien ye a clourin’.”
“I wad hae liked it fine if ye had,” said the young man. “A clourin’ was the very thing I was needin’, and I kent it mysel, I was an awfu’ fool, faither.”
“That’s jist whit ye were,” Erchie admitted. “It’s a lingerin’ disease, and that’s the warst o’t. I hope ye’ll maybe get ower’t.”
“If I didna think I had got ower’t I wadna hae been here the nicht,” said the son. “I’ll warrant ye’ll no’ hae to complain o’ me again.” Erchie took his hand. “Willie,” said he, “gie me your thoomb on that. I ken the MacPhersons, if their mind’s made up, and I think ye’re auld enough noo to try your hand at sense. It’ll no’ hurt ye. Willie, Willie, it wasna mysel’ I worried aboot thae seeven years, nor you either; for I kent fine the prodigal wad come back, if it was only to see if his faither de’ed and left him onything. The prodigal son! Awfu’ needin’ a shave! Your mither’ll be the prood wumman this nicht.”
Before Jinnet had come back from the grocer’s Erchie put his son into the parlour, so that the returned wanderer might not too abruptly confront his mother. She suspected nothing for a little, going about her ordinary offices in the kitchen till something fidgety in her husband’s appearance directed her more close attention to him, and there was seen then an elation in his countenance that made her ask him what the matter was.
“Ye’re awfu’ joco,” said she. “Are ye plannin’ some bawr for Duffy?”
“Not me,” said Erchie. “I’m jist wearyin’ for my tea. And, by the wye, Jinnet,” he added, “ye micht put doon anither cup for a frien’ o’ mine I’m expectin’ frae abroad.”
“Frae abroad!” cried Jinnet, turning pale.
“Ye havena heard onything o’—o’——”
“Have I no’?” said Erchie. “There’s a chap in the room at this meenute that wad be awfu’ like Willie if he had a clean shave.”