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One mid-day in spring, just as the last of a hail-shower was passing away, and a sickly sunbeam was struggling out, the schoolroom-door opened, and in came Andrew Truffey, with a smile on his worn face, which shone in touching harmony with the watery gleam of the sun between the two hail-storms for another was close at hand.
With face livid as that of a corpse, he gave a scared look around, and not seeing little Truffey concealed behind one of the pillars, concluded the place empty, and half crawled, half tumbled down the stair to the vestry, where the sexton was waiting him.
And the master and Truffey did go down to the sea together. The master borrowed a gig and hired a horse and driver; and they sat all three in the space meant for two, and their boxes went by the carrier. To happy Truffey a lame leg or two was not to be compared with the exultant glory of that day. Was he not the master's friend henceforth? And was he not riding in a gig bliss supreme?
But being short-sighted and inquisitive, he set off after Truffey as fast as the dignity proper to an elderly weaver and a deacon of the missionars would permit. As Alec came near the mill he saw two men standing together on the verge of the brown torrent which separated them from it.
"Truffey," said Mr Malison, after a long pause, during which he had been staring into the fire, "how's your leg?" "Quite weel, thank ye, sir," answered Truffey, unconsciously putting out the foot of the wrong leg on the fender. "There wasna onything the maitter wi' 't." "I mean the other leg, Truffey the one that I that I hurt." "Perfectly weel, sir. It's no worth speirin' efter.
The stone bridge was full of spectators, eagerly watching the boat, for Truffey had spread the rumour of the attempt; while the report of the situation of Tibbie and Annie having reached even the Wan Water, those who had been watching it were now hurrying across to the bridge of the Glamour.
"Ask your grandfather, Andrew, if he will allow you to go down to the seaside with me for a fortnight or three weeks," said the master. "Yes, sir," Truffey meant to say, but the attempt produced in reality an unearthly screech of delight, with which he went off on a series of bounds worthy of a kangaroo, lasting all the way to his grandfather's, and taking him there in half the usual time.
If one wants to make a hard-mouthed horse more responsive to the rein, he must relax the pressure and friction of the bit, and make the horse feel that he has got to hold up his own head. If the rider supports himself by the reins, the horse will pull. But the marvel was to see how Andrew Truffey haunted and dogged the master. He was as it were a conscious shadow to him.
Perhaps a sticket minister might have a hand in making a minister that would not stick. Then the master read Truffey's queer composition aloud, and notwithstanding all his conscientious criticism, Truffey was delighted with his own work when removed to an objective distance by the master's reading. At length Mr Malison said: "It's time to go home, Andrew Truffey. Put on my cloak there.
"Tibbie Dyster!" sobbed Truffey in reply. "Here's Jeames Johnstone!" said Thomas; "he'll tell's a' aboot it." He surmised the facts, but waited in painful expectation of assurance from the deacon, who came slipping and sliding along the wet ridges. "What's this?" he cried fiercely, as James came within hearing. "What is't?" returned the weaver eagerly.
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