His brother led him in as the Tailor spoke, not literally by his snub, though, but by the hand.  They were a handsome pair, this lazy couple.  Johnnie especially had the largest and roundest of foreheads, the reddest of cheeks, the brightest of eyes, the quaintest and most twitchy of chins, and looked altogether like a gutta-percha cherub in a chronic state of longitudinal squeeze.  They were locked together by two grubby paws, and had each an armful of moss, which they deposited on the floor as they came in.

“I’ve swept this floor once to-day,” said the father, “and I’m not going to do it again.  Put that rubbish outside.”  “Move it, Johnnie!” said his brother, seating himself on a stool, and taking out his knife and a piece of wood, at which he cut and sliced; while the apple-cheeked Johnnie stumbled and stamped over the moss, and scraped it out on the doorstep, leaving long trails of earth behind him, and then sat down also.

“And those chips the same,” added the Tailor; “I will not clear up the litter you lads make.”

“Pick ’em up, Johnnie,” said Thomas Trout, junior, with an exasperated sigh; and the apple tumbled up, rolled after the flying chips, and tumbled down again.

“Is there any supper, Father?” asked Tommy.

“No, there is not, Sir, unless you know how to get it,” said the Tailor; and taking his pipe, he went out of the house.

“Is there really nothing to eat, Granny?” asked the boy.

“No, my bairn, only some bread for breakfast to-morrow.”

“What makes Father so cross, Granny?”

“He’s wearied, and you don’t help him, my dear.”

“What could I do, Grandmother?”

“Many little things, if you tried,” said the old lady.  “He spent half-an-hour to-day, while you were on the moor, getting turf for the fire, and you could have got it just as well, and he been at his work.”

“He never told me,” said Tommy.

“You might help me a bit just now, if you would, my laddie,” said the old lady coaxingly; “these bits of cloth want tearing into lengths, and if you get ’em ready, I can go on knitting.  There’ll be some food when this mat is done and sold.”

“I’ll try,” said Tommy, lounging up with desperate resignation.  “Hold my knife, Johnnie.  Father’s been cross, and everything has been miserable, ever since the farm was sold.  I wish I were a big man, and could make a fortune.—­Will that do, Granny?”

The old lady put down her knitting and looked.  “My dear, that’s too short.  Bless me!  I gave the lad a piece to measure by.”

“I thought it was the same length.  Oh, dear!  I am so tired;” and he propped himself against the old lady’s chair.

“My dear! don’t lean so; you’ll tipple me over!” she shrieked.

“I beg your pardon, Grandmother.  Will that do?”

“It’s that much too long.”

“Tear that bit off.  Now it’s all right.”