"Ye may weel say't, laddie. Drink's the curse o' a' sons o' Adaam. I wes a stickit meenister, foreby, and didnae wag ma pow in a pu-pit, mair's the peety. Aye, aye," he sighed, "whusky's the deil's broth, I'm theenking."
"How did you fall so low?" Angus asked his old preceptor.
"Whusky! Whusky!" said the old reprobate, "tho' I've tacken to gin as cheaper. But 'tis weary wark at times, for gin's nae sa quick as it micht be, in bringing oot the glorious points o' a mon."
"It doesn't make you drunk enough, I suppose you mean?"
"Joost sae. Ye micht pit it yon way."
"What a mercy you never married, Gowrie."
"Ca' me Meester Gowrie, be decent to your elders, laddie. Marrit, is it?" He chuckled again, and cast a strange glance at Herries from out his inflamed eyes. "Ou aye, marrit. Weel,--weel,--we're a' son's o Adaam, ye ken."
"Then are you----?"
"Hold your tongue, sir," interrupted Gowrie, in fierce English, "respect the secret of a gentleman. You an' me's met in a queer gait," he pursued in the homely Scotch, "maister an' pupil, an' baith doon on oor hunkers, as ye may say. It's a waefu' warld, I'm theenking."
Herries made no direct reply, being occupied with his thoughts. Ten years before he had been a pupil of the Rev. Michael Gowrie in Edinburgh, and even then the wreck before him now, had not been noted for sobriety. When Herries went to the University, he had lost sight of his old preceptor, and was therefore much surprised to meet him in these out-of-the-way parts, and in such straits.