"When ye get to Glasgow, if ye are on the lookout for a place to slape,—try Barney O'Toole's in Argyle Street. The place is nothin' to look at, but it's a hummer inside, sor."
I yawned drowsily once more, but the hint did not stop him.
"If you'll excuse my inquisitiveness, sor,—or rather, what ye might call my natural insight,—I judge you're on either a moighty short tour, or a devil av a long one got up in a hurry."
The little clatterbag's uncanny guessing harried me.
"How do you arrive at your conclusions?" I asked, taking off my jacket and hanging it up.
"Och! shure it's by the size av your wardrobe. No man goes on a well-planned, long trip with a knapsack and a bag av golfsticks."
"Well,—it is likely to be long enough," I laughed ruefully.
"Had a row with the old man and clearin' out?" he sympathised. "Well, good luck to yer enterprise. I did the same meself when I was thirteen; after gettin' a hidin' with a bit av harness for doin' somethin' I never did at all. I've never seen the old man since and never want to. Bad cess to him.
"Would ye like a bite before ye turn in, sor? It's past supper-time, but I can find ye a scrapin' av something."
"A bite and a bath,—if I may?" I put in. "I'm sticky all over."