Waddell, playing a stuffy but useful game at half, gained fifty yards
for his side by a series of judicious little kicks into touch, the
spectators groaned aloud, and remarked caustically--

"This maun be a Cup-Tie, boys! They are playin' for a draw, for tae
get a second gate!"

Altogether a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, both for players and
spectators. And so home to tea, domesticity, and social intercourse.
In this connection it may be noted that our relations with the
inhabitants are of the friendliest. On the stroke of six--oh yes, we
have our licensing restrictions out here too!--half a dozen kilted
warriors stroll into the farm-kitchen, and mumble affably to Madame--

"Bone sworr! Beer?"

France boasts one enormous advantage over Scotland. At home, you have
at least to walk to the corner of the street to obtain a drink: "oot
here" you can purchase beer in practically every house in a village.
The French licensing laws are a thing of mystery, but the system
appears roughly to be this. Either you possess a license, or you do
not. If you do you may sell beer, and nothing else. If you do not, you
may--or at any rate do--sell anything you like, including beer.

However, we have left our friends thirsty.

Their wants are supplied with cheerful alacrity, and, having been
accommodated with seats round the stove, they converse with the
family. Heaven only knows what they talk about, but talk they do--in
the throaty unintelligible Doric of the Clydeside, with an occasional