He was handy with his fists; he could play well at football or any other game he tried.
He wasn't educated; had he been, we all used to think, he micht ha' made a name for himself.

I didn't see, in those days, that we were all wrong.

If Andy'd been a good miner, if he'd started by doing well, at least, as well as he could, the thing he had the chance to do, then we'd have been right to think that all he needed to be famous and successful was to have the chance.
But, as it was, Andy was always too busy greetin' over his bad luck.
It was bad luck that he had to work below ground, when he loved the sunshine.

It was bad luck that the wee toon was sae dull for a man of his spirit.

Andy seemed to think that some one should come around and make him happy and comfortable and rich--not that the only soul alive to whom he had a right to look for such blessings was himself.
I'll no say we weren't liking Andy all richt.