radiant countenance. Sir George put forth his hands and took him
between his knees. An evil wind now swelled his sails, but the
cargo of the crazy human hull was not therefore evil.

"Gibbie," he said, solemnly, "never ye drink a drap o' whusky.
Never ye rax oot the han' to the boatle. Never ye drink anything
but watter, caller watter, my man."

As he said the words, he stretched out his own hand to the mug,
lifted it to his lips, and swallowed a great gulp.

"Dinna do't, I tell ye, Gibbie," he repeated.

Gibbie shook his head with positive repudiation.

"That's richt, my man," responded his father with satisfaction.
"Gien ever I see ye pree (taste) the boatle, I'll warstle frae my
grave an' fleg ye oot o' the sma' wuts ye hae, my man."

Here followed another gulp from the mug.

The threat had conveyed nothing to Gibbie. Even had he understood,
it would have carried anything but terror to his father-worshipping
heart.

"Gibbie," resumed Sir George, after a brief pause, "div ye ken what
fowk'll ca' ye whan I'm deid?"

Gibbie again shook his head -- with expression this time of mere
ignorance.