John gave a good-humoured laugh. “Oh, I see! Ye dinna like the overtime! Aweel, that’s nateral at your age, Macgreegor”――he patted his son’s shoulder――“but when ye’re aulder, wi’ a wife an’ weans, maybe, ye’ll be gled o’ overtime whiles, I’m thinkin’.” “It’s no the overtime,” said Macgregor. “What is’t, then? What’s wrang wi’ the trade?” The question was lightly put. “There’s――there’s nae prospec’s in it for a man.” “Nae prospec’s! Hoots, Macgreegor! there’s as guid prospec’s in the pentin’ as in ony ither trade. Dinna fash yer heid aboot that――no’ but what I’m pleased to ken ye’re thinkin’ aboot yer prospec’s, ma son. But we’ll speak aboot it on the road hame.” “I wish,” said Macgregor, with the greatest effort of all, “I wish I had never gaed into it. I wish I had gaed into Uncle Purdie’s business.” John sat down again. At last he said: “D’ye mean that, Macgreegor?” “Ay, I mean it.” For the first time within his memory John Robinson felt disappointed――in a vague fashion, it is true, yet none the less unpleasantly disappointed――in his son. “But ye’ve been at the pentin’ for three year,” he said a little impatiently. “I ken that, fayther.” “An’ ye mind ye had the chance o’ gaun into yer uncle’s business when ye left the schule?” “Ay.” “But ye wud ha’e naething but the pentin’.” Macgregor nodded. “Maybe ye mind that yer Aunt Purdie was unco offended, for it was her notion――at least, it was her that spoke aboot it――an’ she declared ye wud never get a second chance. D’ye no’ mind, Macgreegor?” “I mind aboot her bein’ offended, but I dinna mind aboot――the ither thing,” Macgregor answered dully. “But _I_ mind it, for she was rale nesty to yer mither at the time. In fac’, I dinna ken hoo yer mither stood her impiddence. An’, in a way, it was a’ ma fau’t, for it was me that said ye was to choose the trade that ye liked best――an’ I thocht I was daein’ the richt thing, because I had seen lads spiled wi’ bein’ forced into trades they didna fancy. Ay, I thocht I was daein’ the richt thing――――An’ noo ye’re tellin’ me I did the wrang thing.” “Fayther, it’s me that’s to blame. I――I didna mean to vex ye.” “Aweel, I dinna suppose ye did,” said John sadly. “But for the life o’ me I canna see hoo ye can hope to get into yer uncle’s business at this time o’ day.... But we’ll be keepin’ yer mither waitin’.” He rose slowly and Macgregor joined him. At the gate John apparently forgot to light his pipe. They were half way home ere he spoke.