The whinny of a horse upon the hillside, the low cry of a young cow, the bleat of a sheep, all added to his feeling of dread, until the sweat streamed down his body, as he swung along the moor.

At last he came to a little village, about six miles from Lowwood, and, entering the inn, he called for a supply of whisky.

“It’s kind o’ cauld the day,” the landlady said in an affable way, as he stepped into the bar.

“Warm enough where I have been,” he replied bluntly.  “Gie’s something to drink in whusky!”

“So it wad seem,” she said in reply, noting his beaded forehead, as he wiped it with a colored handkerchief.

“You’ve surely been gey hard ca’d wherever you hae been,” and there was a note of curiosity in her voice.

“I want a drink,” he broke in abruptly, “an’ it doesna matter a damn to you whether I hae been hard ca’d or no’.  You’re surely hellish keen to hae news.  Dis a’ your customers get the Catechism when they come in here?” he queried.  “If they do, I may as well tell you to begin with, that I came in for whusky, an’ no’ to staun’ an examination.”

She saw at once that he resented her leisurely way and her attempt at affability, and she hastened to apologize.

“Look dam’d sharp,” he growled, as she attended to his order.  “I want whusky and plenty o’ it.”

“You are in an unco’ hurry,” she replied, getting nettled, as she filled a glass.  “It doesna’ do to be so snottery as a’ that.”

“Well, dammit, look alive.  I’m dying for a drink.  Bring in a bottle,” as she placed a glass before him filled with whisky, “an’ tak’ the price o’ your dam’d poison aff that!” and he flung down a sovereign upon the table.

“Look here,” said the landlady, “I’ll tak’ nane o’ your snash, so mind that.  If folk come in here to be served, they’ve got to be ceevil.”

“Oh, there’s nae harm,” he said apologetically, with a forced laugh, “but I’m in a hurry, and I want a drink.”

“Weel, I maun hae ceevility.  So if you don’t gi’e the yin, you’ll no’ get the ither.”

“That’s all right,” he said.  “Keep the sovereign.  I may need more.  Tell me when it is all spent,” and he filled a bumper and drained it without a halt.

“Weel, ye may be dirty at many a thing,” she observed, as she noted his action, “but you’re a gey clean drinker o’ whusky anyway,” and she left him with his bottle to fuddle alone.

“A gey queer body that,” she mused, as she returned to the bar.  “Lod! he’s like a wannert thunder-storm, growlin’ and grumblin’, as if he had got lost frae the rest o’ his company.  But he seems to hae plenty o’ siller anyway,” she concluded, “an’ he can drink whusky wi’ anybody I ever seen try it.”

By and by a village worthy came in, and he was at once hailed by Black Jock, and invited to have a glass.

“What are you drinkin’, chappie?” he enquired.

“Same as you,” was the reply, while a smile of pleased anticipation hovered round the worthy’s face at this unexpected good fortune.  “I jist ay tak’ a moothfu’ o’ whusky.  As a maitter o’ fact, I was brocht up on the bottle, and I hae never been spained yet.”