“I—I only ast ye,” said the visitor, somewhat disconcerted. “What's Meg doin' now?”
Three inches lower—the Little Red Doctor assured Henry a few moments after his ill-advised query, binding up the spot where the flung scissors had struck—and he would never again have sung second tenor nor anything else calling for the employment of intact vocal cords. Henry sent a messenger after the waistcoat. That night MacLachan reeled home bellowing “The Cork Leg” in a voice that brought Terry the Cop bounding across Our Square like a dissuasive antelope.
My one first-hand experience with the ballad of MacLachan's lapse from sobriety was brought about long after through the Bonnie Lassie's procuring. She thrust a sunny head from her studio window and beckoned me from the sidewalk with her modeling tool.
“Dominie, have you seen MacLachan, the tailor, to-day?” she called when she secured my attention.
“No. Is he looking for me?”
“You should be looking for him.”
I examined my clothing for possible rents or stains. My sober black was respectable if shiny. The Bonnie Lassie made a gesture of annoyance with the modeling tool which nearly cost her latest creation its head.
“Do you know what day this is?”
“Tuesday, the sev—”
“Don't be a calendar, please! What day is it in MacLachan's life?”