"I say, friend, wha may ye be?" said the man—in the common routine of the ship, I had never noticed his Scotch accent before; more Scotch now, by the way, than it usually was—"I say, friend, what for do you persevere in haunting me in this way?"
"Why, my good man, I am only lending a hand to see you and the rest of the wounded properly cared for—believe me, I have no desire to bother you or any one else."
"It may be all vera true," said he, turning himself, apparently with great pain, on his back; "it may be vera true—but noo, sin' I am persuaded that I dinna dream, let me gather the sma' wits God has gi'en me weel about me. Let me see—let me see—we all ken the service we were ordered on this blessed morning—nane better than Saunders Skelp—what am I dreaming o'? Jack Lennox, I mean—gude hae a care o' us, my harns[[1]] are strangely confused." Then, after a pause, during which he appeared to be exerting himself to call in his scattered thoughts—"Weel a-weel, ye a' ken wha focht, and wha sang sma, and mony a stalwart blow was struck—that I ken—and sickly as I was, it behoved me, the son o' auld Pate Skelp of Lincomdodie, to do my devoir, as Sir Walter says, and to it I buckled; but I shall believe in second sicht or any other miracle noo, for we drave a' obstruction before us like chaff, until we encountered wi' that wee wudden goddity; when, to stop our advance (I saw it as plain as peas), the creature whirled aff its perch, and flew crack against the midriff of me, Saunders, like a stane frae a testudo—Hoot, no, of Jack Lennox, I mean."
[[1]] Brains.
"My good friend," said I, "you must be very ill—compose yourself." Then aside to one of the men, "Are you sure Lennox is not tipsy?" The poor fellow overheard me.
"Tipsy! me foo!" and he lay back and drew a long breath like a porpoise. He immediately continued—"Ay, and I believe I am foo after all—but wha may ye be that taunts me thereanent sae unceremoniously, and me mair than half dead? It was na yeer siller that slokened me, I'se warrant, if foo I am—Foo!—sma' manners have ye to taunt a puir chiel like me with being foo—my certie, whisky maun hae been plentier than gentlemen among us the day; or foo I neer wad hae been—Foo!"
I was now much interested about the poor fellow, and as I incommoded the wounded man who lay in the cot next him to port, I moved round to the other side, and again addressed our eccentric friend. "Now, my good man," said I, "I don't want to teaze you; but as the doctor says he has great doubts of you, I again ask you if I can do any thing for you; have you any bequest to leave?"
"I say, freen'," rapped out the poor fellow, "the doctor may go be damned,"—this was certainly very plain, if not very complimentary;—"and it will not break my heart if ye're no that far ahint him. But I shall live to dance at his dregy[[2]] yet. What can he say to a man like me? But you, sir, it was you that accused me of getting drunk—and drunk I may be after all, for my head sooms most awfu'."
[[2]] Dirge—burial.
The poor creature's mind was now utterly a wool-gathering. Presently he called out, "I say, my lad, what are you abusing that brute beast for? Haud aff the dog, sir—that's the beast that wanted to worry Mr Brail; but never mind, dinna massacre him, noo since you have ta'en him—never abuse a prisoner."