"Ye ken weel eneuch that ye're a drucken vratch, Peter Peterson. An' ye
ken weel eneuch that ye're nane better, forbye, than ye sud be. Naebody
ever accused ye o' stealin'; but gin ye haud on as ye're doin', that'll
come neist. But I doobt the wrath o' the Almichty'll be doon upo' 's
like a spate, as it was i' the days o' Noah, afore ye hae time to learn
to steal, Peter Peterson. Ye'll hae _your_ share in bringin'
destruction upo' this toon, and a' its belongin's. The verra kirk-yard
winna hide ye that day frae the wrath o' Him that sitteth upo' the
throne. Tak' ye tent, and repent, Peter; or it'll be the waur for ye."
The object of this terrible denunciation of the wrath of the Almighty
was a wretched little object indeed, just like a white rabbit--with
pink eyes, a grey face and head, poor thin legs, a long tail-coat that
came nearly to his heels, an awfully ragged pair of trowsers, and a
liver charred with whisky. He had kept a whisky-shop till he had drunk
all his own whisky; and as no distiller would let him have any on
trust, he now hung about the inn-yard, and got a penny from one, and
twopence from another, for running errands.--Had they been sovereigns
they would all have gone the same way--namely, for whisky.
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