“Right you are, cocky!  Drink up!  You’re the man I am lookin’ for to help me to spend an hour or twa.”

“That’ll suit me a’ to bits,” was the reply, “an’ you are jist the man I hae been lookin’ for.  It’s a guid thing we hae met, or we’d baith hae been unhappy.”

So the hours passed, and each newcomer was invited to join the company, until it grew so large that the “big room” was requisitioned, and it soon held a laughing, joking, drinking, good-natured set of as drouthy individuals as ever met together in company.  Every worthy for miles around seemed to get the news of the free drinks, and whisky and beer flowed like water, and the company grew more and more cheerful and happy.

Bottle after bottle of drink was consumed, and as the company got hilarious, a song was sung or a story was told, until the whole place had the air of a fair day about it.

Jock spent his money freely, and his company drank his health as freely as he paid for the drinks.  So the merry hours went past, and the darkness came on.  Yet for all the whisky that Walker consumed, he never seemed to get drunk.  He was certainly a bit intoxicated, but was in that condition described by one of the company next day as being “sensibly drunk.”

“Come on, damn you, you son of a tinkler,” he urged.  “Drink up, an’ let us mak’ a nicht o’t,” and thus urged they drained their glasses, and had them refilled again and again.

“Gie’s a sang, Geordie,” cried one of the company across the room to an old shaggy-faced individual, who sat and laughed and drank with happy demeanor, rubbing his bristly chin, which resembled the back of a hedgehog, with dirty gnarled fingers which seemed made for lifting glasses, having a natural crook in them, into which the glass as naturally fitted.  “You hinna sung anything yet.  Gie’s yin o’ your ain makin’.”

“Lodsake, I canna sing,” said Geordie, with the air of a man who wanted to be told he could sing.

“Ach, you can sing fine,” was the chorused reply from nearly everyone in the company.

“Come on, Geordie, you ken you can sing fine.  Man, there’s no’ a better singer in the place, auld and a’ as ye are.”

“Och, I canna sing noo, Charlie,” replied Geordie, clearing his throat, “but I’ll confess that I hae seen the day when I could lilt it wi’ the best o’ them.”

“Oh, but we a’ ken fine that you can sing.  Man, it’s a treat to hear him,” said Charlie, turning to Black Jock.  “He could wile the bird aff the bush.  Gie’s yin o’ your ain, Geordie.  It’s aye best to hear you at yin o’ your ain.”

“Oh, weel,” said Geordie with a show of reluctance, as he rose to his feet, making a noise in his throat, like the exhaust pipe of an engine, “seein’ that you are all so pressin’ on the maitter, I’ll gi’e ye a bit verse or twa.”

A roar of applause greeted Geordie as he sat down, and words of appreciation broke from everyone in the room.