Luik at my han' hoo it
trimles. Luik at my hert. It's brunt oot. There's no a leevin' crater
but yersel' that I hae ony regaird for, sin my auld mither deid. Gin it
warna for buiks, I wad amaist cut my throat. And the senawtus disna
think me bye and aboon half a proper companion for buiks even; as gin
Cupples micht corrup' Milton himsel, although he was ten feet ower his
heid bottled in a buik. And whan I saw ye poor oot the whusky in that
mad-like mainner, as gin 't had been some sma' tipple o' penny ale, it
jist drave me mad wi' anger."
"Weel, Mr Cupples," Alec ventured to say, "what for dinna ye sen' the
bottle to the devil?"
"What, my ain auld tappit hen!" exclaimed Mr Cupples, with a sudden
reaction from the seriousness of his late mood; "Na, na, she shanna
gang to the deil till we gang thegither. Eh! but we'll baith hae dry
insides or we win frae him again, I doobt. That drouth's an awfu' thing
to contemplate. But speyk o' giein' ower the drink! The verra
attemp'--an' dinna ye think that I haena made it--aich! What for sud I
gang to hell afore my time? The deils themselves compleen o' that. Na,
na. Ance ye hae learned to drink, ye _canna_ do wantin' 't.
Pages:
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632