"I'm thinkin', my lord, that maun be a modern touch," remarked
Malcolm here, interrupting himself: "there wasna glaiss i' thae
times--was there?"
"What do I know!" said the marquis. "Go on with your story."
"But there's mair intill 't than that," persisted Malcolm. "I
doobt gien there was ony whusky i' thae times aither; for I hard a
gentleman say the ither day 'at hoo he had tastit the first whusky
'at was ever distillt in Scotlan', an' horrible stuff it was, he
said, though it was 'maist as auld as the forty-five."
"Confound your long wind! Go on," said the marquis peremptorily.
"We s' ca' 't whusky, than, ony gait," said Malcolm, and resumed.
"The butler did again as he was bidden, an' fiess (fetched) a tum'ler,
or mair likely a siller cup, an' the prence took the decanter, or
what it micht be, an' filled it to the verra brim. The butler's een
'maist startit frae 's heid, but naebody said naething. He liftit
it, greedy like, an' drank aff the whusky as gien 't had been watter.
'That's middlin',' he said, as he set it o' the table again. They
luikit to see him fa' doon deid, but in place o' that he begoud to
gether himsel' a bit, an' says he, 'We brew the same drink i' my
country, but a wee mair pooerfu'.' Syne he askit for a slice o'
boar ham an' a raw aipple'; an' that was a' he ate. But he took
anither waucht (large draught) o' the whusky, an' his een grew
brichter, an' the stanes aboot him began to flash again; an' my
leddy admired him the mair, that what wad hae felled ony ither man
ony waukened him up a bit.
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