And there _may_ be a handle
somewhaur o' the richt side o' ye for some saft-hertit angel to lay
han' upo' and gie ye a lift whaur ye ill deserve to gang, ye thrawn
buckie! Efter a' that I hae said to ye!--Damn ye!"
Alec burst into a loud roar of laughter. For there was the little man
standing in his shirt, shaking a trembling fist at him, stammering with
eagerness, and half-choked with excitement.
"Gang to yer bed, Mr Cupples, or ye'll tak' yer deith o' cauld. Luik
here."
And Alec seized the bottle once more. Mr Cupples flew at him, and would
have knocked the bottle after the glass, had not Alec held it high
above his reach, exclaiming,
"Toots, man! I'm gaein' to pit it intil its ain neuk. Gang ye to yer
bed, and lippen to me."
"Ye gie me yer word, ye winna pit it to yer mou'?"
"I do," answered Alec.
The same moment Mr Cupples was floundering on the bed in a perplexed
attempt to get under the bed-clothes. A violent fit of coughing was the
consequence of the exertion.
"Ye're like to toom yer ain kist afore ye brain my pan, Mr Cupples,"
said Alec.
"Haud yer tongue, and lat me host (cough) in peace," panted Mr Cupples.
When the fit was over, he lay still, and stared at Alec.
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