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This was specially carefully done after a sad occasion upon which his mother, having poured in the fine milk for Andra's dinner fresh from Crummie the cow, out of the flask mouth there crawled a number of healthy worms which that enterprising youth had collected from various quarters which it is best not to specify. Not that Andra objected in the least.
Later the same night Matthew Maitland observed to Peter, as they sat on their "hunkers" at the corner: "Andra's back again, I suppose." "Ay," was the answer, "he was telt his place was stopped." "Imphm," said Matthew, "it's a damn fine excuse. It's a pity but somethin' could be done." "It's the Block," said Peter.
But in spite of his disapproval, the young people went so far as to hold a meeting at which to discuss the possibility of their purchasing the coveted instrument. Miss Cotton, the chief dress and mischiefmaker in the village, although no longer absolutely young, was the leader of the rising generation, and she counselled just going ahead without Splinterin' Andra's advice.
At heart he was respectful and dutiful and if any one had dared to breathe a word against his father in his presence, Splinterin' Andra's son would soon have shown himself worthy of his sire's appellation; nevertheless, partly from love of fun and partly through a good-natured stupidity, he proved a veritable thorn in the flesh to his unhappy father.
He had loved and revered the young man so long, in spite of his many failures, that his resentment was now in proportion to his former confidence. Peter McNabb saw the danger, and burst in with a not altogether irrelevant remark about there being thunder in the air; but he was too late; already Splinterin' Andra's stick had darted from its place like a sword from its scabbard.
His first attempt at stemming the tide of the mail-carrier's gossip met with wonderful success, however. People discovered that for some inexplicable reason, Coonie seemed to have no interest whatever in Splinterin' Andra's behaviour over the proposal of an organ, and with the chief stoker idle, the fire of gossip soon died for want of fuel.
His voice died away, he sat motionless, his long slender hands hanging at his side, his eyes seeing wondrous sights on the purple slope of the opposite hillside. Andrew Johnstone ceased his vicious whacking of Duncan's asters and conveyed his stick to its decorous Sabbath position behind him. His friend's sublime spirituality always cooled Splinterin' Andra's wrath.
His own parish followed the trial with intense interest, and were much pleased with Andra's appearance. "Sall," said Hillocks, "Andra has mair gumption than ye wud think, and yon advocat didna mak muckle o' him.
"Do you intend to insult me again?" he demanded, his face white. "I was merely going to add," said Donald with a smile, "that it's rather hard on the profession." Mr. Watson caught his pastor round the waist in a determined grasp. "Splinterin' Andra's coming down the path!" he whispered wildly. "He'll be here in two minutes! Don Neil, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Mr.
Bet it scared next Sunday's sermon clean out o' his head!" Then Wee Andra's deep voice, "Jimminy! It was a better show than all the monkeys at the circus!" "Was he scared?" It was Donald Neil who dared to ask that question. "Looked mighty skittish for a minit, but I was weepin' that hard I couldn't see very good. Catchach swore like a trooper.
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