"Aye, I've heerd zay a' was very clever to his traäde. 'Uxtable an'
Co., his employers, spoke very handsome of 'en, they tell me. I can't
call to maind, tho', that I've a-zet eyes 'pon the young man since he
was a little tacker."
The old man began to fumble in his breastpocket, and drawing out a
photograph, handed it across.
"That's the last that was took of 'en."
"Pore young chap," said the farmer, holding the likeness level with
his eyes and studying it; "Pore young chap! Zuch a respectable lad to
look at! They tell me a' made ye a gude zon, too."
"Gude?" The tears ran down the father's face and splashed on his
hands, trembling as they folded over the knob of his stout stick.
"Gude? I b'lieve, vriends, ye'll call it gude when a young man zends
the third o' his earnin's week by week to help his parents. That's
what my zon did, vrum the taime he left whome. An' presunts--never a
month went by, but zome little gift ud come by the postman; an' little
'twas he'd got to live 'pon, at the best, the dear lad--"
The farmer was passing back the photograph. "May I see it?" I asked:
and the old man nodded.
It was the same face--the same suit, even--that had roused my contempt
eighteen months before.