How that Lowland Scot came to the rescue just in the nick of time is soon told.
“Mither,” said he one evening, striding into his father’s dwelling—a simple cottage on a moor—and sitting down in front of a bright old woman in a black dress, whose head was adorned with that frilled and baggy affair which is called in Scotland a mutch, “I’m gawin’ to Lun’on.”
“Hoots! havers, David.”
“It’s no’ havers, mither. Times are guid. We’ve saved a pickle siller. Faither can spare me for a wee while—sae I’m aff to Lun’on the morn’s mornin’.”
“An’ what for?” demanded Mrs Laidlaw, letting her hands and the sock on which they were engaged drop on her lap, as she looked inquiringly into the grave countenance of her handsome son.
“To seek a wife, maybe,” replied the youth, relaxing into that very slight smile with which grave and stern-featured men sometimes betray the presence of latent fun.
Mrs Laidlaw resumed her sock and needle with no further remark than “Hoots! ye’re haverin’,” for she knew that her son was only jesting in regard to the wife. Indeed nothing was further from that son’s intention or thoughts at the time than marriage, so, allowing the ripple to pass from his naturally grave and earnest countenance, he continued—
“Ye see, mither, I’m twunty-three noo, an’ I wad like to see something o’ the warld afore I grow aulder an’ settle doon to my wark. As I said, faither can spare me a while, so I’ll jist tak’ my fit in my haund an’ awa’ to see the Great Bawbylon.”
“Ye speak o’ gaun to see the warld, laddie, as if ’ee was a gentleman.”
“Div ’ee think, mother, that the warld was made only for gentlemen to travel in?” demanded the youth, with the gentlest touch of scorn in his tone.