"No, but _I_ were when they telt me what mak of man it was."

The blacksmith laughed again over a chisel which he was tempering.

"It's nothing to me, is it, mother?"

"Nowt in the warld, Joey, ma lad."

"They are after him for a traitor, but I cannot see as it's anything
to me what they do with him when they catch hod on him; it's nothing
to me, is it, mother?"

"Nowt."

Garth chuckled audibly. Then in a low tone he added,--

"Nor nothing to me what comes of his kin afterwards."

He paused in his work; his manner changed; he turned to where Mrs.
Garth was coiled up before the fire.

"Had _he_ any kin, mother?"

Mrs. Garth glanced quickly up at her son.

"A brother, na mair."

"What sort of a man, mother?"

"The spit of hissel'."