a rather prolonged
wait, but, when the train moved on, the inquiring rough returned to the
charge. He was suspicious, and also was drunk, and obstinate with all
the brainless obstinacy of intoxication.

'Aw 'm sayin',' he remarked to Merton, 'you're no Lairdie Bower.'

'Hear till the man! Aw 'm Tammy Hamilton, o' Moss End in Lanerick. Aw
'm ganging to see ma Jean.

'For day or night
Ma fancy's flight
Is ever wi' ma Jean--
Ma bonny, bonny, flat-footed Jean,'

sang Merton, gliding from the strains of Robert Burns into those of Mr.
Boothby. 'Jean's a Lanerick wumman,' he added, 'she's in service in the
Pleasance. Aw 'm ganging to my Jo. Ye'll a' hae Jos, billies?'

'Aw 'm sayin',' the intoxicated rough persisted, 'ye're no a Lanerick
man. Ye're the English gentleman birkie that cam' to Kirkburn yestreen.
Or else ye're ane o' the polis' (police).

'_Me_ ane o' the polis! Aw 'm askin' the company, _div_ a look like a
polisman? _Div_ a look like an English birkie, or ane o' the gentry?'

The other passengers, decent people, thus appealed to, murmured
negatives, and shook their heads. Merton certainly did not resemble a
policeman, an Englishman, or a gentleman.

'Ye see naebody lippens to ye,' Merton went on. 'Man, if we were na a'
freens, a wad gie ye a jaud atween yer twa een! But ye've been drinking.
Tak anither sook!'

The rough did not reject the conciliatory offer.

'The whiskey's low,' said Merton, holding up the bottle to the light,
'but there's mair at Embro' station.'

They were now drawing up at the station. Merton floundered out, threw
his arms round the necks of each of the roughs, yelled to their
companions in the next carriage to follow, and staggered into the third-
class refreshment room. Here he leaned against the counter and feebly
ogled the attendant nymph.

'Ma lonny bassie, a mean ma bonny lassie,' he said, 'gie's five gills,
five o' the Auld Kirk' (whisky).

'Hoots man!' he heard one of the roughs remark to another. 'This falla's
no the English birkie. English he canna be.'

'But aiblins he's ane o' oor ain polis,' said the man of suspicions.

'Nane o' oor polis has the gumption; and him as fou as a fiddler.'

Merton, waving his glass, swallowed its contents at three gulps. He then
fell on the floor, scrambled to his feet, tumbled out, and dashed his own
whisky bottle through the window of the refreshment room.

'Me ane o' the polis!' he