Not that he was a marrying
man, he would sometimes protest; far from it, indeed. Yet they did say
that the landlord of a rival inn was heard to remark that "the cauptain
gaed ower aften to Lucky G----'s howf. It wasna hardlys decent, an' her
man no deid a twalmonth." Maybe, however, the good widow's brand of
whisky was more grateful to the captain's palate, or the company
assembled in her snug parlour lightsomer, or at least less dour, than
was to be found at the rival inn, where the landlord was an elder of the
kirk and most stern opponent of all lightness and frivolity. Whatever
the cause, however, it is certain that the captain did acquire the habit
of dropping in very frequently at the widow's, where he was always a
welcome guest. And it was from a merry evening there that, with a
"tumbler" or two inside his ample waistcoat, he set out for home one
black February night when a gusty wind drove thin sleety rain rattling
against the window panes of the quiet little town, and emptied the
silent, moss-grown streets very effectively.
An hour or two later, it might be, two men, Adam Hislop and William
Wallace, were noisily steering a somewhat devious and uncertain course
homeward, when one of them tripped over a bulky object huddled on the
ground, and with an astonished curse fell heavily.
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