"Ye may lauch, bantam! but I want no companion in hell to cast his damnation in my teeth. Gin ye touch that bottle again, faith, I'll brain ye, and sen' ye into the ither warl' withoot that handle at least for Sawtan to catch a grip o' ye by. And there may be a handle somewhaur o' the richt side o' ye for some saft-hertit angel to lay han' upo' and gie ye a lift whaur ye ill deserve to gang, ye thrawn buckie! Efter a' that I hae said to ye!—Damn ye!"
Alec burst into a loud roar of laughter. For there was the little man standing in his shirt, shaking a trembling fist at him, stammering with eagerness, and half-choked with excitement.
"Gang to yer bed, Mr Cupples, or ye'll tak' yer deith o' cauld. Luik here."
And Alec seized the bottle once more. Mr Cupples flew at him, and would have knocked the bottle after the glass, had not Alec held it high above his reach, exclaiming,
"Toots, man! I'm gaein' to pit it intil its ain neuk. Gang ye to yer bed, and lippen to me."
"Ye gie me yer word, ye winna pit it to yer mou'?"
"I do," answered Alec.
The same moment Mr Cupples was floundering on the bed in a perplexed attempt to get under the bed-clothes. A violent fit of coughing was the consequence of the exertion.
"Ye're like to toom yer ain kist afore ye brain my pan, Mr Cupples," said Alec.
"Haud yer tongue, and lat me host (cough) in peace," panted Mr Cupples.