, they tell me, up in Embro."

"Just a little bit," swaggered Gourlay, right hand on outshot hip, left
hand flaunting a cigarette in air most delicate, tobacco smoke curling
from his lofty nose. He looked down his face at the Deacon. "Just a
little bit, Mr. Allardyce, just a little bit. I tossed the thing off in
a twinkling."

"Ay man, Dyohn," said the Deacon with great solicitude; "but you maunna
work that brain o' yours too hard, though. A heid like yours doesna come
through the hatter's hand ilka day o' the week; you mutht be careful not
to put too great a thtrain on't. Ay, ay; often the best machine's the
easiest broken and the warst to mend. You should take a rest and enjoy
yourself. But there! what need I be telling _you_ that? A College-bred
man like you kenth far better about it than a thilly auld country bodie!
You'll be meaning to have a grand holiday and lots o' fun--a dram now
and then, eh, and mony a rattle in the auld man's gig?"

At this assault on his weak place Gourlay threw away his important
manner with the end of his cigarette. He could never maintain the lofty
pose for more than five minutes at a time.

"You're _right_, Deacon," he said, nodding his head with splurging
sincerity. "I mean to have a demned good holiday. One's glad to get back
to the old place after six months in Edinburgh."

"Atweel," said the Deacon. "But, man, have you tried the new whisky at
the Black Bull?--I thaw ye in wi' Pate Wylie. It'th extr'ornar
gude--thaft as the thang o' a mavis on a nicht at e'en, and fiery as a
Highland charge."--It was not in character for the Deacon to say such a
thing, but whisky makes the meanest of Scots poetical. He elevates the
manner to the matter, and attains the perfect style.--"But no doubt,"
the cunning old prier went on, with a smiling suavity in his voice--"but
no doubt a man who knowth Edinburgh tho well as you will have a
favourite blend of hith own. I notice that University men have a fine
taste in thpirits."

"I generally prefer 'Kinblythmont's Cure,'" said Gourlay, with the air
of a connoisseur. "But 'Anderson's Sting o' Delight' 's very good, and
so's 'Balsillie's Brig o' the Mains.'"

"Ay," said the Deacon. "Ay, ay! 'Brig o' the Mains' ith what Jock Allan
drinks. He'll pree noathing else. I dare thay you thee a great deal of
him in Embro."

"Oh, every week," swaggered Gourlay. "We're always together, he and I."

"Alwayth thegither!" said the Deacon.

It was not true that