'I cudna bide to be left my lane whan I
micht be wi' ye a' the time--gin ye wad lat me. Ye war oot o' the
hoose afore I weel kent what ye was aboot. It's no a fit nicht for
ye to be oot at a', mair by token 'at ye're no the ablest to stan'
cauld an' weet.'
'I've stood a great deal of both in my time,' returned Ericson; 'but
come along. We'll go and get that fiddle-string.'
'Dinna ye think it wad be fully better to gang hame?' Robert
ventured to suggest.
'What would be the use? I'm in no mood for Plato to-night,' he
answered, trying hard to keep from shivering.
'Ye hae an ill cauld upo' ye,' persisted Robert; 'an' ye maun be as
weet 's a dishcloot.'
Ericson laughed--a strange, hollow laugh.
'Come along,' he said. 'A walk will do me good. We'll get the
string, and then you shall play to me. That will do me more good
yet.'
Robert ceased opposing him, and they walked together to the new
town. Robert bought the string, and they set out, as he thought, to
return.
But not yet did Ericson seem inclined to go home. He took the lead,
and they emerged upon the quay.
There were not many vessels. One of them was the Antwerp tub,
already known to Robert. He recognized her even in the dull light
of the quay lamps. Her captain being a prudent and well-to-do
Dutchman, never slept on shore; he preferred saving his money; and
therefore, as the friends passed, Robert caught sight of him walking
his own deck and smoking a long clay pipe before turning in.
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