The painter who did the three of them for fifteen
pounds (you may observe the canvases on the walls) has caught this
characteristic, perhaps accidentally, for David is almost stepping
out of his frame, as if to hurry off somewhere; while Alick and James
look as if they were pinned to the wall for life. All the six of
them, men and pictures, however, have a family resemblance, like
granite blocks from their own quarry. They are as Scotch as peat for
instance, and they might exchange eyes without any neighbour noticing
the difference, inquisitive little blue eyes that seem to be always
totting up the price of things.
The dambrod players pay no attention to David, nor does he regard
them. Dumping down on the sofa he removes his 'lastic sides, as his
Sabbath boots are called, by pushing one foot against the other, gets
into a pair of hand-sewn slippers, deposits the boots as according to
rule in the ottoman, and crosses to the fire. There must be something
on David's mind to-night, for he pays no attention to the game,
neither gives advice (than which nothing is more maddening) nor
exchanges a wink with Alick over the parlous condition of James's
crown. You can hear the wag-at-the-wall clock in the lobby ticking.
Then David lets himself go; it runs out of him like a hymn:)
DAVID. Oh, let the solid ground Not fail beneath my feet, Before my
life has found What some have found so sweet.
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