You must come and tak a bite of dinner and set away with summat in yer pocket." "Hang the pocket! I must be off," said Robbie.

But the old man took him too firmly by the arm to allow of his escape without deliberate rudeness.

They turned and walked towards the weaver's cottage.
"What a maizelt fool I've been to spend my days and nights in this hole!" said Robbie, tipping his finger over his shoulder towards the Red Lion, from which they were walking.
"I've oft telt thee so," said Mattha, not fearing the character of a Job's comforter.
"And while this bad work has been afoot too," added Robbie, with a penitent drop of the head.
They had a tributary of the Wyth River to pass on the way to Mattha's house.

When they came up to it, Robbie cried, "Hold a minute!" Then running to the bank of the stream, he dropt on to his knees, and before his companions could prevent him he had pulled off his cap and plunged his head twice or thrice in the water.
"What, man!" said Mattha, "ye'd want mair ner the strength of men and pitchforks to stand again the like of that.

Why, the water is as biting as a stepmother welcome on a winter's mornin' same as this." "It's done me a power of good though," said Robbie shaking his wet hair, and then drying it with a handkerchief which Liza had handed him for the purpose.