'Na, na, I'm naebody. Naething ava (at all). Robert 'll be hame in
ae meenit.--I'm Robert's tyke (dog),' concluded Shargar, with a
sudden inspiration.
This answer seemed to satisfy Ericson, for he closed his eyes and
lay still; nor did he speak again till Robert arrived with the
doctor.
Poor food, scanty clothing, undue exertion in travelling to and from
the university, hard mental effort against weakness, disquietude of
mind, all borne with an endurance unconscious of itself, had reduced
Eric Ericson to his present condition. Strength had given way at
last, and he was now lying in the low border wash of a dead sea of
fever.
The last of an ancient race of poor men, he had no relative but a
second cousin, and no means except the little he advanced him,
chiefly in kind, to be paid for when Eric had a profession. This
cousin was in the herring trade, and the chief assistance he gave
him was to send him by sea, from Wick to Aberdeen, a small barrel of
his fish every session. One herring, with two or three potatoes,
formed his dinner as long as the barrel lasted. But at Aberdeen or
elsewhere no one carried his head more erect than Eric Ericson--not
from pride, but from simplicity and inborn dignity; and there was
not a man during his curriculum more respected than he. An
excellent classical scholar--as scholarship went in those days--he
was almost the only man in the university who made his knowledge of
Latin serve towards an acquaintance with the Romance languages.
Pages:
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341