CHAPTER XVII
DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER
Then happened that event which in an hour, as it were, made a man out of a rather foolish boy. The postman comes twice to our doors during the day with letters—once for those from the neighbourhood of Breckonside, once for the mails that come in from London and all the countries of the world. Not that there were many of these, save now and then one or two for my father, about hams and flour. I used to annex the stamps, of course—generally from the United States they were, but once in a while from France.
One dullish December morning, in the early part of the month, my father got a letter which seemed to cause him some annoyance. He did not usually refer to his correspondence. But I was standing near him—for after all, on account of certain business reasons, I had not yet gone to Edinburgh—and I heard him mutter, "I suppose I had better go to Longtown Tryst, or I may never see my money. Still, it is a nuisance. I wish old——"
Here he broke off suddenly, and turning round ordered our man Bob—Bob Kingsman, to saddle the mare. Then he called out to mother to put up something for him, for he had to ride to Longtown, and might be away all day.
"But, father——" she began.
He waved his hand impatiently.
"It is a money payment," he said, "long outstanding, and if I do not get the man to-day at Longtown Tryst I may say good-bye to my chance of it."
He scarcely stayed to get the breakfast my mother had prepared. He did not answer when she pressed upon him this or that as "an extry." However, along with sundry sandwiches, she slid a small "neat" flask into the side pocket of his riding-coat—"in case" as she said. For this was no habit of my father's.