that I felt like a miser towards the days to come.

I had about finished supper, when I was joined by another guest.
Seen in the light of that infamous lamp, he seemed a small, alert
fellow, with a bushy, black moustache, and black hair parted in the
middle. He had fed already and appeared to be hungering for
human society.

In three minutes he had told me that he had come down from
Portree and was on his way to Leith. A minute later he had whipped
out a card on which I read 'J. J. Linklater', and in the corner the
name of Hatherwick Bros. His accent betrayed that he hailed from
the west.

'I've been up among the distilleries,' he informed me. 'It's a poor
business distillin' in these times, wi' the teetotallers yowlin' about
the nation's shame and the way to lose the war. I'm a temperate
man mysel', but I would think shame to spile decent folks' business.
If the Government want to stop the drink, let them buy us out.
They've permitted us to invest good money in the trade, and they
must see that we get it back. The other way will wreck public
credit. That's what I say. Supposin' some Labour Government
takes the notion that soap's bad for the nation? Are they goin' to
shut up Port Sunlight? Or good clothes? Or lum hats? There's no
end to their daftness if they once start on that track. A lawfu'
trade's a lawfu' trade, says I, and it's contrary to public policy to pit
it at the mercy of wheen cranks. D'ye no agree, sir? By the way, I
havena got your name?'

I told him and he rambled on.