My attention was withdrawn from him, however, by the sound of the rattling of tin cans in another corner which was partly partitioned from the main bar-room. I followed the new sound.
A tattered individual was seated there, his feet among a cluster of pots and pans all strung together. His head was in his hands and his red-bearded face was a study of dejection and misery.
There was something strangely familiar in the appearance of the man.
Suddenly I remembered, and I laughed.
I went over and sat down opposite him, setting my golf clubs by my side. He ignored my arriving. That same old trick of his!
"Donald,—Donald Robertson!" I exclaimed, laughing again.
Still he did not look across.
Suddenly he spoke, and in a voice that knew neither hope nor gladness.
"Ye laugh,—ye name me by my Christian name,—but ye don't say, 'Donald, will ye taste?'"
I leaned over and pulled his hands away from his head. He flopped forward, then glared at me. His eyes opened wide.