McRankine was not to expect me before morning. A
good enough tale in itself; but the dreadful pickle I was in made
it out of the question. I could not go home till I had found
harbourage, a fire to dry my clothes at, and a bed where I might
lie till they were ready.
Fortune favoured me again. I had scarce got to the top of the
first hill when I spied a light on my left, about a furlong away.
It might be a case of sickness; what else it was likely to be--in
so rustic a neighbourhood, and at such an ungodly time of the
morning--was beyond my fancy. A faint sound of singing became
audible, and gradually swelled as I drew near, until at last I
could make out the words, which were singularly appropriate both to
the hour and to the condition of the singers. 'The cock may craw,
the day may daw,' they sang; and sang it with such laxity both in
time and tune, and such sentimental complaisance in the expression,
as assured me they had got far into the third bottle at least.
I found a plain rustic cottage by the wayside, of the sort called
double, with a signboard over the door; and, the lights within
streaming forth and somewhat mitigating the darkness of the
morning, I was enabled to decipher the inscription: 'The Hunters'
Tryst, by Alexander Hendry. Porter Ales, and British Spirits.
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