sang Merton, gliding from the strains of Robert Burns into those of Mr. Boothby. ‘Jean’s a Lanerick wumman,’ he added, ‘she’s in service in the Pleasance. Aw ’m ganging to my Jo. Ye’ll a’ hae Jos, billies?’
‘Aw ’m sayin’,’ the intoxicated rough persisted, ‘ye’re no a Lanerick man. Ye’re the English gentleman birkie that cam’ to Kirkburn yestreen. Or else ye’re ane o’ the polis’ (police).
‘Me ane o’ the polis! Aw ’m askin’ the company, div a look like a polisman? Div a look like an English birkie, or ane o’ the gentry?’
The other passengers, decent people, thus appealed to, murmured negatives, and shook their heads. Merton certainly did not resemble a policeman, an Englishman, or a gentleman.
‘Ye see naebody lippens to ye,’ Merton went on. ‘Man, if we were na a’ freens, a wad gie ye a jaud atween yer twa een! But ye’ve been drinking. Tak anither sook!’
The rough did not reject the conciliatory offer.
‘The whiskey’s low,’ said Merton, holding up the bottle to the light, ‘but there’s mair at Embro’ station.’
They were now drawing up at the station. Merton floundered out, threw his arms round the necks of each of the roughs, yelled to their companions in the next carriage to follow, and staggered into the third-class refreshment room. Here he leaned against the counter and feebly ogled the attendant nymph.
‘Ma lonny bassie, a mean ma bonny lassie,’ he said, ‘gie’s five gills, five o’ the Auld Kirk’ (whisky).
‘Hoots man!’ he heard one of the roughs remark to another. ‘This falla’s no the English birkie. English he canna be.’