nd what was it, Sandy?"

"Ou, just drinking, ye know, wi'--wi' Swipey Broon--and, eh, and that
M'Craw, ye know--and Sandy Hull--and a wheen mair o' that kind--ye ken
the kind; a verra bad lot!" said Sandy, and wagged a disapproving pow.
"Here they all got as drunk as drunk could be, and started fighting wi'
the colliers! Young Gourlay got a bloodied nose! Then nothing would
serve him but he must drive back wi' young Pin-oe, who was even drunker
than himsell. They drave at sic a rate that when they dashed from this
side o' Skeighan Drone the stour o' their career was rising at the far
end. They roared and sang till it was a perfect affront to God's day,
and frae sidie to sidie they swung till the splash-brods were skreighing
on the wheels. At a quick turn o' the road they wintled owre; and there
they were, sitting on their doups in the atoms o' the gig, and glowering
frae them! When young Gourlay slid hame at dark he was in such a state
that his mother had to hide him frae the auld man. She had that, puir
body! The twa women were obliged to carry the drunk lump to his
bedroom--and yon lassie far ga'en in consumption, too, they tell me! Ou,
he was in a perfectly awful condition--perfectly awful!"

"Ay, man," nodded Brodie. "I hadna heard o't. Curious that I didna hear
o' that!"

"It was Drucken Wabster's wife that telled it. There's not a haet that
happens at the Gourlays but she clypes. I speired her mysell, and she
says young Gourlay has a black eye."

"Ay, ay; there'th thmall hope for the Gourlayth in _him_!" said the
Deacon.

"How do _you_ ken?" cried the baker. "He's no the first youngster I've
seen the wiseacres o' the world wagging their sagacious pows owre; and,
eh, but he was _this_ waster!--according to their way of it--and, oh,
but he was the _other_ waster! and, ochonee, but he was the _wild_
fellow. And a' the while they werena fit to be his doormat; for it was
only the fire in the ruffian made him seem sae daft."

"True!" said the ex-Provost, "true! Still there's a decency in daftness.
And there's no decency in young Gourlay. He's just a mouth! 'Start
canny, and you'll steer weel,' my mother used to say; but he has started
unco ill, and he'll steer to ruin."

"Dinna spae ill-fortune!" said the baker, "dinna spae ill-fortune! And
never despise a youngster for a random start. It's the blood makes a
breenge."

"Well, I like young men to be quiet," said Sandy Toddle. "I would rather
have them a wee sof