As we moved away from that station my companion woke up. He fixed me with a

wandering glance, kicked his dog viciously, and inquired where he was. Clearly

he was very drunk.

 

“That’s what comes o’ bein’ a teetotaller,” he observed in bitter regret.

 

I expressed my surprise that in him I should have met a blue-ribbon stalwart.

 

“Ay, but I’m a strong teetotaller,” he said pugnaciously. “I took the pledge

last Martinmas, and I havena touched a drop o’ whisky sinsyne.

 

Not even at Hogmanay, though I was sair temptit.”

 

He swung his heels up on the seat, and burrowed a frowsy head into the cushions.

 

“And that’s a’ I get,” he moaned. “A heid better than hell fire, and twae een

lookin’ different ways for the Sabbath.”

 

“What did it?” I asked.

 

“A drink they ca’ brandy. Bein’ a teetotaller I keepit off the whisky, but I was

nip-nippin’ a’ day at this brandy, and I doubt I’ll no be weel for a fortnicht.”

His voice died away into a splutter, and sleep once more laid its heavy hand on

him.