“Bourtree,” says I, “I am prood to see ye.”

“‘Deed, Drumquhat, an’ I’m prood to see mysel’.  For thirty year I was drunk every Monday nicht, and that often atweenwhiles that it fair bate me to tell when ae spree feenished and the next began!  But it’s three month since I’ve seen the thick end o’ a tumbler.  It’s fac’ as death!”

“And what began a’ this, Bourtree?” said I.

“Juist a fecht wi’ M’Kelvie, the sweep, that ca’s himsel’ a pugilist!”

“A fecht made ye a sober man, Bourtree!—­hoo in the creation was that?”

“It was this way, Drumquhat.  M’Kelvie, a rank Tipperairy Micky, wi’ a nose on him like a danger-signal”—­here Bourtree glanced down at his own, which had hardly yet had time to bleach—­“me an’ M’Kelvie had been drinkin’ verra britherly in the Blue Bell till M’Kelvie got fechtin’ drunk, an’ misca’ed me for a hungry Gallowa’ Scot, an’ nae doot I gaed into the particulars o’ his ain birth an’ yeddication.  In twa or three minutes we had oor coats aff and were fechtin’ wi’ the bluid rinnin’ on to the verra street.

“The fowk made a ring, but nane dared bid us to stop.  Some cried, ’Fetch the polis!’ But little we cared for that, for we kenned brawly that the polisman had gane awa’ to Whunnyliggate to summon auld John Grey for pasturing his coo on the roadside, as soon as ever he heard that M’Kelvie an’ me war drinkin’ in the toon.  Oh, he’s a fine polisman!  He’s aye great for peace.  Weel, I was thinkin’ that the next time I got in my left, it wad settle M’Kelvie.  An’ what M’Kelvie was thinkin’ I do not ken, for M’Kelvie is nocht but an Irishman.  But oot o’ the grund there raise a great muckle man in grey claes, and took fechtin’ M’Kelvie an’ me by the cuff o’ the neck, and dauded oor heids thegither till we saw a guano-bagfu’ o’ stars.

“‘Noo, wull ye shake hands or come to the lock-up?’ says he.

“We thocht he maun be the chief o’ a’ the chief constables, an’ we didna want to gang to nae lock-ups, so we just shook haun’s freendly-like.  Then he sent a’ them that was lookin’ on awa’ wi’ a flee in their lugs.

“‘Forty men,’ says he, ‘an’ feared to stop twa men fechtin’—­cowards or brutes, eyther o’ the twa!’ says he.

“There was a bailie amang them he spoke to, so we thocht he was bound to be a prince o’ the bluid, at the least.  This is what I thocht, but I canna tell what M’Kelvie thocht, for he was but an Irishman.  So it does not matter what M’Kelvie thocht.

“But the big man in grey says, ’Noo, lads, I’ve done ye a good turn.  You come and hear me preach the morn in the kirk at the fit o’ the hill.’  ’A minister!’ cried M’Kelvie an’ me.  A wastril whalp could hae dung us owre with its tail.  We war that surprised like.”

So that is the way “Drucken” Bourtree became a God-fearing quarryman.  And as for M’Kelvie, he got three months for assaulting and battering the policeman that very night; but then, M’Kelvie was only an Irishman!