His
mind is so nimble and his thoughts so extravagant, that
your own break away from their usual grooves, and
surprise you by their activity. You feel pleased at
your own inventiveness and originality, when you are
really like the wren when it took a lift on the eagle's
shoulder. Old Peterson, you remember, used to have a
similar effect upon you in the Linlithgow days.
In the middle of dinner he plunged off, and came back
with a round bag about the size of a pomegranate in his
hand.
"What d'ye think this is, Munro? Eh?"
"I have no idea."
"Our day's take. Eh, Hetty?" He undid a string, and
in an instant a pile of gold and silver rattled down upon
the cloth, the coins whirling and clinking among the
dishes. One rolled off the table and was retrieved by
the maid from some distant corner.
"What is it, Mary? A half sovereign? Put it in your
pocket. What did the lot come to, Hetty?"
"Thirty-one pound eight."
"You see, Munro! One day's work." He plunged his
hand into his trouser pocket and brought out a pile of
sovereigns, which he balanced in his palm. "Look at
that, laddie. Rather different from my Avonmouth
form, eh? What?"
"It will be good news for them," I suggested.
He was scowling at me in an instant with all his old
ferocity. You cannot imagine a more savage-looking
creature than Cullingworth is when his temper goes wrong.
He gets a perfectly fiendish expression in his light blue
eyes, and all his hair bristles up like a striking cobra.
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