Kidnapped | Page 8

the window-sill;
and it was after quite a long pause, and with a curious change of voice, that the next
question followed:
"Is your father dead?"
I was so much surprised at this, that I could find no voice to answer, but stood staring.
"Ay" the man resumed, "he'll be dead, no doubt; and that'll be what brings ye chapping to
my door." Another pause, and then defiantly, "Well, man," he said, "I'll let ye in;" and he
disappeared from the window.

CHAPTER III

I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE
Presently there came a great rattling of chains and bolts, and the door was cautiously
opened and shut to again behind me as soon as I had passed.
"Go into the kitchen and touch naething," said the voice; and while the person of the
house set himself to replacing the defences of the door, I groped my way forward and
entered the kitchen.
The fire had burned up fairly bright, and showed me the barest room I think I ever put my
eyes on. Half-a-dozen dishes stood upon the shelves; the table was laid for supper with a
bowl of porridge, a horn spoon, and a cup of small beer. Besides what I have named,
there was not another thing in that great, stone-vaulted, empty chamber but lockfast
chests arranged along the wall and a corner cupboard with a padlock.
As soon as the last chain was up, the man rejoined me. He was a mean, stooping,
narrow-shouldered, clay-faced creature; and his age might have been anything between
fifty and seventy. His nightcap was of flannel, and so was the nightgown that he wore,
instead of coat and waistcoat, over his ragged shirt. He was long unshaved; but what most
distressed and even daunted me, he would neither take his eyes away from me nor look
me fairly in the face. What he was, whether by trade or birth, was more than I could
fathom; but he seemed most like an old, unprofitable serving-man, who should have been
left in charge of that big house upon board wages.
"Are ye sharp-set?" he asked, glancing at about the level of my knee. "Ye can eat that
drop parritch?"
I said I feared it was his own supper.
"O," said he, "I can do fine wanting it. I'll take the ale, though, for it slockens (moistens)
my cough." He drank the cup about half out, still keeping an eye upon me as he drank;
and then suddenly held out his hand. "Let's see the letter," said he.
I told him the letter was for Mr. Balfour; not for him.
"And who do ye think I am?" says he. "Give me Alexander's letter."
"You know my father's name?"
"It would be strange if I didnae," he returned, "for he was my born brother; and little as
ye seem to like either me or my house, or my good parritch, I'm your born uncle, Davie,
my man, and you my born nephew. So give us the letter, and sit down and fill your kyte."
If I had been some years younger, what with shame, weariness, and disappointment, I
believe I had burst into tears. As it was, I could find no words, neither black nor white,
but handed him the letter, and sat down to the porridge with as little appetite for meat as
ever a young man had.

Meanwhile, my uncle, stooping over the fire, turned the letter over and over in his hands.
"Do ye ken what's in it?" he asked, suddenly.
"You see for yourself, sir," said I, "that the seal has not been broken."
"Ay," said he, "but what brought you here?"
"To give the letter," said I.
"No," says he, cunningly, "but ye'll have had some hopes, nae doubt?"
"I confess, sir," said I, "when I was told that I had kinsfolk well-to-do, I did indeed
indulge the hope that they might help me in my life. But I am no beggar; I look for no
favours at your hands, and I want none that are not freely given. For as poor as I appear, I
have friends of my own that will be blithe to help me."
"Hoot-toot!" said Uncle Ebenezer, "dinnae fly up in the snuff at me. We'll agree fine yet.
And, Davie, my man, if you're done with that bit parritch, I could just take a sup of it
myself. Ay," he continued, as soon as he had ousted me from the stool and spoon,
"they're fine, halesome food--they're grand food, parritch." He murmured a little grace to
himself and fell to. "Your father was very fond of his meat, I mind; he was a hearty, if not
a great eater; but as for me, I could never do mair than pyke at food." He took