At this rate we came to the summit of a ridge, and saw the track
descend in front of us abruptly into a desert vale, about a league
in length, and closed at the farther end by no less barren
hilltops. Upon this point of vantage Sim came to a halt, took off
his hat, and mopped his brow.
'Weel,' he said, 'here we're at the top o' Howden.'
'The top o' Howden, sure eneuch,' said Candlish.
'Mr. St. Ivey, are ye dry?' said the first.
'Now, really,' said I, 'is not this Satan reproving sin?'
'What ails ye, man?' said he. 'I'm offerin' ye a dram.'
'Oh, if it be anything to drink,' said I, 'I am as dry as my
neighbours.'
Whereupon Sim produced from the corner of his plaid a black bottle,
and we all drank and pledged each other. I found these gentlemen
followed upon such occasions an invariable etiquette, which you may
be certain I made haste to imitate. Each wiped his mouth with the
back of his left hand, held up the bottle in his right, remarked
with emphasis, 'Here's to ye!' and swallowed as much of the spirit
as his fancy prompted. This little ceremony, which was the nearest
thing to manners I could perceive in either of my companions, was
repeated at becoming intervals, generally after an ascent.
Occasionally we shared a mouthful of ewe-milk cheese and an
inglorious form of bread, which I understood (but am far from
engaging my honour on the point) to be called 'shearer's bannock.
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