’But just a wee drap in oor ‘ee!’

‘The curse of Scotland,’ muttered the old gentleman, whether with reference to alcohol or to Robert Burns, is uncertain.

‘The Curse o’ Scotland,’ said Merton, ‘that’s the nine o’ diamonds.  I hae the cairts on me, maybe ye’d take a hand, sir, at Beggar ma Neebour, or Catch the Ten?  Ye needna be feared, a can pay gin I lose.’  He dragged out his cards, and a handful of silver.

The rough customers between whom Merton was sitting began to laugh hoarsely.  The old gentleman frowned.

‘I shall change my carriage at the next station,’ he said, ’and I shall report you for gambling.’

‘A’ freens!’ said Merton, as if horrified by the austere reception of his cordial advances.  ‘Wha’s gaumlin’?  We mauna play, billies, till he’s gane.  An unco pernicketty auld carl, thon ane,’ he remarked, sotto voce.  ’But there’s naething in the Company’s by-laws again refraishments,’ Merton added.  He uncorked his bottle, made a pretence of sucking at it, and passed it to his neighbours, the rough customers.  They imbibed with freedom.

The carriage was very dark, the lamp ‘moved like a moon in a wane,’ as Merton might have quoted in happier circumstances.  The rough customers glared at him, but his cap had a peak, and he wore his comforter high.

‘Man, ye’re the kind o’ lad I like,’ said one of the rough customers.

‘A’ freens!’ said Merton, again applying himself to the bottle, and passing it.  ‘Ony ither gentleman tak’ a sook?’ asked Merton, including all the passengers in his hospitable glance.  ‘Nane o’ ye dry?

’Oh! fill yer ain glass,
And let the jug pass,
Hoo d’ye ken but yer neighbour’s dry?’

Merton carolled.

‘Thon’s no a Scotch lilt,’ remarked one of the roughs.

‘A ken it’s Irish,’ said Merton.  ‘But, billie, the whusky’s Scotch!’

The train slowed and the old gentleman got out.  From the platform he stormed at Merton.

‘Ye’re no an awakened character, ma freend,’ answered Merton.  ’Gude nicht to ye!  Gie ma love to the gude wife and the weans!’

The train pursued her course.

’Aw ’m saying, billie, aw ‘m saying,’ remarked one of the roughs, thrusting his dirty beard into Merton’s face.

‘Weel, be saying,’ said Merton.

‘You’re no Lairdie Bower, ye ken, ye haena the neb o’ him.’

’And wha the deil said a was Lairdie Bower?  Aw ’m a Lanerick man.  Lairdie’s at hame wi’ a sair hoast,’ answered Merton.

‘But ye’re wearing Lairdie Bower’s auld big coat.’

’And what for no?  Lairdie has anither coat, a brawer yin, and he lent me the auld yin because the nichts is cauld, and I hae a hoast ma’sel!  Div ye ken Lairdie Bower?  I’ve been wi’ his auld faither and the lasses half the day, but speakin’s awfu’ dry work.’

Here Merton repeated the bottle trick, and showed symptoms of going to sleep, his head rolling on to the shoulder of the rough.