The clash rose to the ears of Mr Cupples.
"Thank God!" he said with a sigh.--"Alec, no man that hasna gane throu
the same, can tell what I hae gane throu this past nicht, wi' that
deevil i' the press there cryin' 'Come pree (taste) me! come pree me!'
But I heard and hearkened not. And yet whiles i' the nicht, although
I'm sure I didna sleep a wink, I thocht I was fumblin' awa' at the lock
o' the press an' cudna get it opened. And the press was a coffin set up
upo' its en', an' I kent that there was a corp inside it, and yet I
tried sair to open't. An' syne again, I thocht it was the gate o'
Paradees afore which stud the angel wi' the flamin' sword that turned
ilka gait, and wadna lat me in. But I'm some better sin the licht cam,
and I wad fain hae a drappy o' that fine caller tipple they ca'
watter."
Alec ran down and brought it cold from the pump, saying, as Mr Cupples
returned the tumbler with a look of thanks,
"But there's the tappit hen. I doot gin we lea' her i' the press,
she'll be wantin' to lay."
"Na, na, nae fear o' that. She's as toom's a cock. Gang and luik. The
last drap in her wame flaw oot at the window i' that bottle. Eh! Alec,
but I'll hae a sair day, and ye maun be true to me.
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