He took up the hammer, struck a stone, dropped the implement with an oath, and put both hands to his ears. “Mercy on me! My heid’s burstin’!” he cried.

He was a wild figure, about my own size but much bent, with a week’s beard on his chin, and a pair of big horn spectacles.

“I canna dae’t,” he cried again. “The Surveyor maun just report me. I’m for my bed.”

I asked him what was the trouble, though indeed that was clear enough.

“The trouble is that I’m no sober. Last nicht my dochter Merran was waddit, and they danced till fower in the byre. Me and some ither chiels sat down to the drinkin’, and here I am. Peety that I ever lookit on the wine when it was red!”

I agreed with him about bed.