"Oh, that's nothing, mother; nothing but the fortune of war. If I'd lost my head instead of my leg, mother, I wouldn't have been here to tell my own story."
"That's Gude's truth; an' great reason hae we to be thankfu it's nae waur. But, oh! it's a sair dispensation."
"Ah, old boy! how are you?" said Tom, shaking his father heartily by the hand; "all alive and hearty—eh?"
"Weel aneugh, weel aneugh, Tam; just choppin on; but richt glad am I to see ye again, my son. But, Tam, that wasna the gate ye wad hae spoken to yer auld faither afore ye gaed frae hame."
"My manner of speaking may be changed, father," replied the young man, respectfully; "but there's no change in my heart—that's true-blue still; and it'll be long before I can clear off my reckoning with you for all your kindness to me. No, no, father, my heart's in the right place still."
"Weel, my man, I hope sae. Sit doon an' tell us a' that's happened ye sin' we last heard frae ye. But wait a wee. Janet, seek oot the best that's in the hoose for the puir fallow; an', whan he's had a guid supper, he'll be in better fettle for giein us his cracks."
"Tak aff yer jacket, my bonny man," said his mother; "an' hing it up afore the fire, an' draw in till't yersel. Willie, I'm thinkin there's something in the bottle. I'll put on the kettle, an' we'll gie the lad something he'll be nane the waur o'."
After the sailor had done his devoirs at the supper-table, the whole party drew round the fire, and the old man, lighting his "cutty," said—
"Noo, Tam, tell us a' aboot what ye've been doin, an' hoo ye cam to lose yer leg."
"It's a terrible long yarn, father, and I'm afeared ye'll be glad to sing out Avast! before I've spun it out; besides, you'll not understand my sea lingo."