‘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?’