out of their pewter-pots. It choked him at first, and then he got used
to it, and liked it. Some relics of Miss Betty's teachings kept him
honest. He would not condescend to sip by the way out of the soldiers'
jugs and bottles, as other errand-boys did, but he came to feel rather
proud of laying his twopence on the counter, and emptying his own pot of
beer with a grimace to the bystanders through the glass at the bottom.

One day he was winking through the froth of a pint of porter at the
canteen sergeant's daughter, who was in fits of laughing, when the
pewter was knocked out of his grasp, and the big Highlander's hand was
laid on his shoulder and bore him twenty or thirty yards from the place
in one swoop.

"I'll trouble ye to give me your attention," said the Highlander, when
they came to a standstill, "and to speak the truth. Did ye ever see me
the worse of liquor?"

John Broom had several remembrances of the clearest kind to that effect,
so he put up his arms to shield his head from the probable blow, and
said, "Yes, M'Alister."

"How often?" asked the Scotchman.

"I never counted," said John Broom; "pretty often."

"How many good-conduct stripes do you ken me to have lost of your ain
knowledge?"

"Three, M'Alister."