He had quarrelled with an older brother whose help would have been
sufficient. Well, God save us all! 'twas the old story o' pride
an' bitterness. He sought no help o' him. A year an' a half
passes an' a gusty night o' midwinter the bank burns. Books,
papers, everything is destroyed. Now the poor man has lost his
occupation. A week more an' his good name is gone; a month an'
he's homeless. A whisper goes down the long path o' gossip. Was
he a thief an' had he burned the record of his crime? The scene
changes, an' let me count the swift, relentless years."
The old man paused a moment, looking up thoughtfully.
"Well, say ten or mayhap a dozen passed--or more or less it matters
little. Boy an' man, where were they? O the sad world, sor! To
all that knew them they were as people buried in their graves.
Think o' this drowning in the flood o' years--the stately ships
sunk an' rotting in oblivion; some word of it, sor, may well go
into thy book."
The tinker paused a moment, lighting his pipe, and after a puff or
two went on with the tale.
"It is a winter day in a great city--there are buildings an' crowds
an' busy streets an' sleet'in the bitter wind. I am there,--an' me
path is one o' many crossing each other like--well, sor, like lines
on a slate, if thou were to make ten thousand o' them an' both eyes
shut.
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