"I hear we're off soon," said Alec McPhail to him one day.
"There's no telling," said Tom laconically.
"Ay, but we shall," replied Alec, "and I shall be glad, I'm getting sick of this life in the camps."
"I doan't wonder at it," said Tom.
"What micht ye mean by that?" asked the Scotchman.
"I am fair stalled wi' thee," said Tom. "I thought that you, being a thinking sort o' chap, would know better. You saw what a fool I was making of myself, and yet you kept on drinking and carousing, and making a ninny of yourself, as though you had no more brains nor a waterhen. Why, lad, with your education and cleverness, you might have been sergeant-major by now. Nay, nay, keep thee temper; I mean nowt wrong."
The Scotchman looked at Tom angrily for some seconds. He seemed on the point of striking him, then mastering himself he said, "Ay, Tom, you're richt, and yet I'm no' sure."
"What do you mean?" asked Tom.
"Tom, man," said the Scotchman, "ye canna think worse of me than I think of mysel'. I had a good home too, and a godly mither; as for my father he was a hard man, but just, very just. Ay, I know I ought to have known better, but the whisky got hold of me. Besides——"
"Besides what?" asked Tom.