"It's mebbe no' Solomon's exact words, but it's gey like them: 'A time to pit on the goon an' a time to tak' aff the coat'—an' it's the yae kin' o' proheebeetion that's ony guid forbye," said the other.
The groaning landlord was soon removed by the loving hands of his wife and the hostler; and as I convoyed Geordie out past their family sitting-room, tenderly so called, the phonograph breathed out the last expiring strains of "Wull ye no' come back again?" which the aforesaid landlord had selected in preference to Geordie's pious choice.
Measures for the sufferer's relief had been swift; the air was already rich with the fumes of high wines, the versatile healer of internal griefs and external wounds alike.
When Geordie and I were well upon the street a new difficulty presented itself.
"It's a sair shock, an' it'll kill the wife," I heard him muttering beneath his breath.
This gave me some little hope, for I detected in it the beauty of penitence.
"Your wife will forgive you, Geordie," I began; "and if this will only teach——"
But he stopped me; his face showed that he had been sorely misunderstood.
"Forgie me—forgie me! It's no' me she'll hae till forgie. Are ye no' the minister o' St. Cuthbert's? Ah, ye canna deny that. I ken that fine. I kent ye as sune as ye cam' slippin' ben the taivern. It'll fair kill the wife."
"What are you talking about?" I said testily.