"Is he a wee fou?" said the Deacon eagerly.
"Wee be damned," said Wabster; "he's as fou as the Baltic Sea! If you wait here, you'll be sure to see him! He'll be round the corner directly."
"De-ar me, is he so bad as that?" said the ex-Provost, raising his hands in solemn reprobation. He raised his eyes to heaven at the same time, as if it pained them to look on a world that endured the burden of a young Gourlay. "In broad daylight, too!" he sighed. "De-ar me, has he come to this?"
"Yis, Pravast," hiccupped Brown, "he has! He's as phull of drink as a whelk-shell's phull of whelk. He's nearly as phull as meself—and begorra, that's mighty phull." He stared suddenly, scratching his head solemnly as if the fact had just occurred to him. Then he winked.
"You could set fire to his braith!" cried Wabster. "A match to his mouth would send him in a lowe."
"A living gas jet!" said Brown.
They staggered away, sometimes rubbing shoulders as they lurched together, sometimes with the road between them.
"I kenned young Gourlay was on the fuddle when I saw him swinging off this morning in his greatcoat," cried Sandy Toddle. "There was debauch in the flap o' the tails o't."
"Man, have you noticed that too!" cried another eagerly. "He's aye warst wi' the coat on!"