"Are ye sure, sir, that ye brocht them hame?" said the waiter, an acute lad, who had served his apprenticeship at a commercial tavern in the Gorbals; "Ye was gey an' fou when ye cam in here yestreen."
"What do you mean, you rascal?"
"Ye ken ye wadna gang to bed till ye had anither tumbler."
"Don't talk trash! It was the weakest cold-without in the creation."
"And then ye had a sair fecht on politics wi' anither man in the coffee-room."
"Ha! I remember now—the bagman, who is a member of the League! Where is the commercial villain?"
"He gaed aff at sax preceesely, this morning, in his gig, to Kelso."
"Then, by the head of Thistlewood!" cried Strachan, frantically, "my ticker will be turned into tracts against the corn-laws!"
"Hoot na!" said the waiter, "I canna think that. He looked an unco respectable-like man."
"No man can be respectable," replied the aristocratic Thomas, "who sports such infernal opinions as I heard him utter last night. My poor studs! Fred.—they were a gift from Mary Rivers before we quarreled, and I would not have lost them for the universe! Only think of them being exposed for sale at a free-trade bazar!"