te hair--twise as big's me, Gibbie--is seein' him deid
drunk i' the gutter o' the pump. He drank 'maist a' thing there
was, Gibbie--lan's an' lordship, till there was hardly an accre left
upo' haill Daurside to come to my father--'maist naething but a
wheen sma' hooses. He was a guid man, my father; but his father
learnt him to drink afore he was 'maist oot o' 's coaties, an' gae
him nae schuilin'; an' gien he red himsel' o' a' 'at was left, it
was sma' won'er--only, ye see, Gibbie, what was to come o' me? I
pit it till ye, Gibbie--what was to come o' me?--Gien a kin' neiper,
'at kent what it was to drink, an' sae had a fallow-feelin', hadna
ta'en an' learnt me my trade, the Lord kens what wad hae come o' you
an' me, Gibbie, my man!--Gang to yer bed, noo, an' lea' me to my ain
thouchts; no' 'at they're aye the best o' company, laddie.--But
whiles they're no that ill," he concluded, with a weak smile, as
some reflex of himself not quite unsatisfactory gloomed faintly in
the besmeared mirror of his uncertain consciousness.

Gibbie obeyed, and getting under the Gordon tartan, lay and looked
out, like a weasel from its hole, at his father's back. For half an
hour or so Sir George went on drinking. All at once he started to
his feet, and turning towards the bed a white face distorted with
agony, kneeled down on the box and groaned out:

"O God, the pains o' hell hae gotten haud upo' me. O Lord, I'm i'
the grup o' Sawtan. The deevil o' drink has me by the hause. I
doobt, O Lord, ye're gauin' to damn me dreidfu'. What guid that'll
do ye, O Lord, I dinna ken, but I doobtna ye'll dee what's richt,
only I wuss I hed never crossed ye i' yer wull. I kenna what I'm to
dee, or what's to be deene wi' me, or whaur ony help's to come frae.
I hae tried an' tried to maister the drink, but I was aye whumled.
For ye see, Lord, kennin' a' thing as ye dee, 'at until I hae a
drap i' my skin, I canna even think; I canna min' the sangs I used
to sing, or the prayers my mither learnt me sittin' upo' her lap.
Till I hae swallowed a mou'fu' or twa, things luik sae awfu'-like
'at I'm fit to cut my thro't; an' syne ance I'm begun, there's nae
mair thoucht o' endeevourin' to behaud (withhold) till I canna drink
a drap mair. O God, what garred ye mak things 'at wad mak whusky,
whan ye kenned it wad mak sic a beast o' me?"

He paused, stretched down his hand to the floor, lifted the mug, and
drank a huge mouthful; then with a cough that so