. . .I had no desire to dull my wits with strong drink, so, as I helped myself to a scone and a piece of cheese, I asked Luckie if she could let me have a little water.

"Watter!" cried Thomson. "Whit the deevil d'ye want wi' watter? Surely you're no' gaun to rot your inside wi' sic' feckless trash."

"No," I said, "I just want to let down the whisky."

"Whit!" he shouted, "spile guid Blednoch wi' pump watter!--it's a desecration, a fair abomination in the sicht o' the Lord. I thought frae yer brogue ye were an Englishman. This proves it; nae stammick for guid drink; nae heid for theology. Puir deevil!"--and he shook his head pityingly.

I laughed as I watched my insatiable companion once more empty his glass and refill it.

"An' whit are ye daein' on the road sae late the nicht, young man?" said Luckie, suddenly. "Lag's men are usually bedded long afore noo. Are ye a. . . Read More