“Man Johnson, will ye bide behind for a word?” said McClintock as the farewells were said.  When the others were gone, he made a sign to Van Lear, who left the room.

“I’m asking you to have Stanley back soon—­though he’ll be coming for the lassie’s sake, ony gate.  But I am wearyin’ for a sight of the lad’s face the once yet,” said the old man.  “And yoursel’, Mr. Johnson; if you visit to York State again, I should be blithe to have a crack with you.  But it must be early days, for I’ll be flittin’ soon.  I’ll tell you this, that I am real pleased to have met with you.  Man, I’ll tell ye a dead secret.  Ye ken the auld man ahint my chair—­him that the silly folk ca’ Rameses Second in their sport?  What think ye the auld body whispert to me but now?  That he likit ye weel—­no less!  Man, that sets ye up!  Cornelius has not said so much for ony man these twenty year—­so my jest is true enough, for all ‘twas said in fleerin’; ye bear your years well and the credentials of them in your face.  Ye’ll not be minding for an old man’s daffin’?”

“Sure not!  I’m a great hand at the joke-play myself,” said Pete.  “And it’s good for me to do the squirmin’ myself, for once.”

“I thought so much.  I likit ye mysel’, and I’ll be thinkin’ of you, nights, and your wild life out beyont.  I’ll tell you somethin’ now, and belike you’ll laugh at me.”  He lowered his voice and spoke wistfully.  “Man, I have ne’er fought wi’ my hands in a’ my life—­not since I was a wean; nor yet felt the pinch of ony pressin’ danger to be facit, that I might know how jeopardy sorts wi’ my stomach.  I became man-grown as a halflin’ boy, or e’er you were born yet—­a starvelin’ boy, workin’ for bare bread; and hard beset I was for’t.  So my thoughts turned all money-wise, till it became fixture and habit with me; and I took nae time for pleasures.  But when I heard of your fight yestreen, and how you begawked him that we are to mention no more, and of your skirmishes and by-falls with these gentry of your own land, my silly auld blood leapit in my briskit.  And when I was a limber lad like yourself, I do think truly that once I might hae likit weel to hae been lot and part of siclike stir and hazard, and to see the bale-fires burn.

“Bear with me a moment yet, and I’ll have done.  There is a hard question I would spier of you.  I thought but ill of my kind in my younger days.  Now, being old, I see, with a thankful heart, how many verra fine people inhabit here.  ‘Tis a rale bonny world.  And, lookin’ back, I see too often where I have made harsh judgings of my fellows.  There are more excuses for ill-doings to my old eyes.  Was’t so with you?”

“Yes,” said Pete.  “We’re not such a poor lot after all—­not when we stop to think or when we’re forced to see.  In fire or flood, or sickness, we’re all eager to bear a hand—­for we see, then.  Our purses and our hearts are open to any great disaster.  Why, take two cases—­the telephone girls and the elevator boys.  Don’t sound heroic much, do they?  But, by God, when the floods come, the telephone girls die at their desks, still sendin’ out warnings!  And when a big fire comes, and there are lives to save, them triflin’ cigarette-smoking, sassy, no-account boys run the elevators through hell and back as long as the cables hold!  Every time!”