“It’s easy speakin’,” he moaned. “But I got a post-caird yestereen sayin’ that the new Road Surveyor would be round the day. He’ll come and he’ll no find me, or else he’ll find me fou, and either way I’m a done man. I’ll awa’ back to my bed and say I’m no weel, but I doot that’ll no help me, for they ken my kind o’ no-weel-ness.”

Then I had an inspiration. “Does the new Surveyor know you?” I asked.

“No him. He’s just been a week at the job. He rins about in a wee motor-cawr, and wad speir the inside oot o’ a whelk.”

“Where’s your house?” I asked, and was directed by a wavering finger to the cottage by the stream.

“Well, back to your bed,” I said, “and sleep in peace. I’ll take on your job for a bit and see the Surveyor.”

He stared at me blankly; then, as the notion dawned on his fuddled brain, his face broke into the vacant drunkard’s smile.