THE SURGEON'S TALES.
THE WAGER.[3]
About thirty years ago, the office of carrier between Edinburgh and a certain town on the north of the Tay was discharged by a person of the name of George Skirving. At the time of which we speak he might be about forty-five years of age, a man of considerable physical strength, and with as much mental firmness as will be found among the generality of mankind. His occupation, in travelling during night, required often the confirming influence of personal courage, to keep him from being alarmed; and his activity, and exposure to the fresh air of both land and water, were conducive to bodily health and elasticity of spirits. He was at once a faithful carrier and a good companion on the road, along which he was generally respected; and, by attention to business and economical habits of living, he had been enabled to realize as much money as might suffice to sustain him, with his wife and three children, in the event of his being disabled, by accident or ill health, from following his ordinary employment.
[3] This strange tale is given from materials supplied by the Surgeon with whom I was brought up.
The day in which George Skirving left the northern town for Edinburgh, was Wednesday of each week; and he started at the hour of seven, both in winter and summer. On one occasion, in the month of August, he set out from his quarters at his usual hour; and having crossed the Tay with his goods, proceeded on his way
through Fife. He had with him his dog Wolf, who usually served him as a companion; his waggons were loaded with goods, the proceeds of the carriage of which he counted as he trudged along; and he now and then had recourse to a small flask of spirits which his wife had, without his knowledge, and contrary to her usual custom, placed in the breast-pocket of his great-coat. He was thus in good spirits; and as he applied himself with great moderation—for he was a sober man—to his inspiring companion, he jocularly blamed Betty (such was the name of his consort) for defrauding his houses of call on the road of the custom he used to bestow on them.
"It was kind o' ye, Betty," he said; "but it saves naething; for if I, wha have travelled this road for sae mony years, were to pass John Sharpe's, or Widow M'Murdo's, or Andrew Gemmel's, without takin' my usual allowance, I would be set doun as fey or mad. I maun gae through a' my usual routine—mak my ca's, order my drams, drink them, and pay for them, as I hae dune for twenty years. Men are just like clocks—some gae owre fast, and some owre slow; but the carrier, beyond a', maun keep to his time aye, and chap at the proper time and place, or idleness and beggary would soon mak time hang weary on his hands."
He had trudged onwards in his slow pace for a space of about eight miles, and was at the distance of about three from Cupar, when he was accosted by a person of the name of James Cowie, an inhabitant of Dundee, with whom he had for a long time been in habits of intimacy.
"You are weel forward the day, George," said Cowie. "Ye'll be in Cupar before your time. There's rowth a parcels for ye at John Sharpe's door, yonder. But, mercy on me!" he continued, starting and looking amazed, "what's the matter wi' ye, man?"
"Naething," replied George. "I hae been takin' a few draps o' Betty's cordial, here," pointing to the flask, "and maybe the colour may have mounted to my face."