“That’s what comes o’ bein’ a teetotaller,” he observed in bitter regret.

I expressed my surprise that in him I should have met a blue-ribbon stalwart.

“Ay, but I’m a strong teetotaller,” he said pugnaciously. “I took the pledge last Martinmas, and I havena touched a drop o’ whisky sinsyne. Not even at Hogmanay, though I was sair temptit.”

He swung his heels up on the seat, and burrowed a frowsy head into the cushions.

“And that’s a’ I get,” he moaned. “A heid better than hell fire, and twae een lookin’ different ways for the Sabbath.”

“What did it?” I asked.