In the interval of noise and talk and laughter that followed, it seemed to Ronald that half the people in the hall wanted him to drink with them. Fame came to him in the shape of unlimited proffers of glasses of whisky; and he experienced so much of the delight of having become a public character as consisted in absolute strangers assuming the right to make his acquaintance off-hand. Of course they were all members of the same club; and in no case was very strict etiquette observed within these four walls; nevertheless Ronald found that he had immediately and indefinitely enlarged the circle of his acquaintance; and that this meant drink.
'Another glass?' he said, to one of those strangers who had thus casually strolled up to the table where he sate. 'My good friend, there was nothing said in that wretched song about a caskful. I've had too many other ones already.'
However, relief came; the chairman hammered on the table; the business of the evening was resumed; and the skipper, Jaap, Laidlaw, and Ronald were left to themselves.
Now there is no doubt that this little circle of friends was highly elated over the success of the new song; and Ronald had been pleased enough to hear the words he had written so quickly caught up and echoed by that, to him, big assemblage. Probably, too, they had all of them, in the enthusiasm of the moment, been somewhat liberal in their cups; at all events, a little later on in the evening, when Jimmy Laidlaw stormily demanded that Ronald should sing a song from the platform—to show them what East Lothian could do, as Kate Menzies had said—Ronald did not at once, as usual, shrink from the thought of facing so large an audience. It was the question of the accompaniment, he said. He had had no practice in singing to a piano. He would put the man out. Why should he not sing here—if sing he must—at the table where they were sitting? That was what he was used to; he had no skill in keeping correct time; he would only bother the accompanist, and bewilder himself.
'No, I'll tell ye what it is, Ronald, my lad,' his friend Jaap said to him. 'I'll play the accompaniment for ye, if ye pick out something I'm familiar wi'; and don't you heed me; you look after yourself. Even if ye change the key—and that's not likely—I'll look after ye. Is't a bargain?'
Well, he was not afraid—on this occasion. It was announced from the chair that Mr. Ronald Strang, to whom they were already indebted, would favour the company with 'The MacGregors' Gathering,' accompanied by Mr. Jaap; and in the rattle of applause that followed this announcement, Ronald made his way across the floor and went up the couple of steps leading to the platform. Why he had consented he hardly knew, nor did he stay to ask. It was enough that he had to face this long hall, and its groups of faces seen through the pale haze of the tobacco smoke; and then the first notes of the piano startled him into the necessity of getting into the same key. He began—a little bewildered, perhaps, and hearing his own voice too consciously—
'The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,
And the clan has a name that is nameless by day.'
'Louder, man, louder!' the accompanist muttered, under his breath.
Whether it was this admonition, or whether it was that he gained confidence from feeling himself in harmony with the firm-struck notes of the accompaniment, his voice rose in clearness and courage, and he got through the first verse with very fair success. Nay, when he came to the second, and the music went into a pathetic minor, the sensitiveness of his ear still carried him through bravely—