But Cupples???-from whose veins
alcohol had expelled the blood, whose skull was a Circean cup of
hurtful spells???-would not delirium follow for him?
Suddenly Alec laid his hand on the bottle. Mr Cupples trembled. Was he
going to break his vow already?
"Wadna't be better to fling this into the neist yard, Mr Cupples?" said
Alec. "We daurna fling 't i' the fire. It wad set the chimley in a
low (flame)."
"Na, na. Lat ye 't sit," returned Mr Cupples.
"I wad be clean affrontit gin I cudna see and forbear. Ye may jist pit
it into the press though. A body needna lay burdens grievous to be
borne upo' himsel' mair nor upo' ither fowk. Noo, lat's hae a game o'
cribbage, to haud's ohn thocht aboot it."
They played two or three games. It was pathetic to see how Mr Cupples's
right hand, while he looked at the cards in his left, would go blindly
flitting about the spot where his glass had always used to stand; and
how, when he looked up unable to find it, his face shadowed over with
disappointment. After those two or three games, he threw down the
cards, saying,
"It winna do, bantam. I dinna like the cairts the nicht. Wi'oot ony
thing to weet them, they're dooms dry.
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