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The father and the mother were in the shadow but little Gordon, Stephen's boy, made of himself a central figure by running forward at the last to fling up a sturdy arm and cry: "Good-bye, Auntie Wob come back soon!" It had been a white Christmas, and the snow had fallen lightly all day long. It was coming faster now, and the wind was rising, to Richard's intense satisfaction.
"I'm going down there," she said. "I'm going to see about that, I am." "What?" said the grandfather, looking at the little thing fondly. "About Henrietta. I'm a-goin' down with Wob Wiley." "Hello! you air, air you?" Now it happened that in her fit of repentance and homesickness Henrietta had written: "I wish you would send dear little Periwinkle down here some time.
Duthie and Ramsay Cameron thinking of the morning when they set off on the same errand but the results were different, and Mr. Duthie is now a minister, and Ramsay is in the middle of another wob.
Up to that time they only trifled with the other sex's affections at a distance filling a maid's water-pails, perhaps, when no one was looking, or carrying her wob; at the recollection of which they would slap their knees almost jovially on Saturday night.
Without a loom in addition many of them would have starved, and on Saturdays the big farmer and his wife, driving home in a gig, would pass the little farmer carrying or wheeling his wob to Thrums.
'Hoo 'ill she manage that, honest woman? She maun hae but little to spare frae the cleedin' o' 'm. 'She's a gude manager, Mistress Faukner. And, ye see, she has the bleachgreen yet. 'She doesna weir cotton sarks, growled MacGregor. 'Mony's the wob o' mine she's bleached and boucht tu! Nobody heeding him yet, he began to feel insulted, and broke in upon the conversation with intent.
Gran'ma said some things, and gran'pa said some things, and Wob Wiley he looked bad, and I thought maybe I'd just come down and see about you; and gran'ma said you wanted to make a picture of me. You don't want to make a picture to-night, do you? 'cause I'm awful sleepy.
Joey became a pedler, and was found dead one raw morning dangling over a high wall within a few miles of Thrums. When climbing the dyke his pack had slipped back, the strap round his neck, and choked him. You could generally tell an Auld Licht in Thrums when you passed him, his dull, vacant face wrinkled over a heavy wob.
Without a loom in addition many of them would have starved, and on Saturdays the big farmer and his wife, driving home in a gig, would pass the little farmer carrying or wheeling his wob to Thrums.
That was what we all felt, but none of us had put it so simply before. "What's this?" the man said, as he was gathering up the rest of the bandages. It was the Simpson-thing, and it did look very funny by daylight, I must say, just a wob of blue flannel tied with a string. I was going to explain, but Jerry said, with his mouth full: "Oh, just something we had," and stuffed it away in the kit-bag.
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