He consulted the barometer. "Something under three miles."
Dalmahoy heard and whooped. "Hi! you fellows, come to lunch! Sandwiches, shortbread, and cleanest Glenlivet—Elshander's Feast:—
'Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies'
Sheepshanks provided the whiskey. Rise, Elshander—observe that you have no worlds left to conquer, and having shed the perfunctory tear, pass the corkscrew. Come along, Ducie; come my Dædalian boy; if you are not hungry, I am, and so is—Sheepshanks—What the dickens do you mean by consorting with a singular verb? Verbum cum nominativo—I should say, so are sheepshanks."
Byfield produced from one of the lockers a pork pie and a bottle of sherry (the viaticum in choice and assortment almost explained the man) and we sat down to the repast. Dalmahoy's tongue ran like a brook. He addressed Mr. Sheepshanks with light-hearted impartiality as Philip's royal son, as the Man of Ross, as the divine Clarinda. He elected him Professor of Marital Diplomacy to the University of Cramond. He passed the bottle and called on him for a toast, a song—"Oblige me. Sheepshanks, by making the welkin ring." Mr. Sheepshanks beamed, and gave us a sentiment instead. The little man was enjoying himself amazingly. "Fund of spirits your friend has, to be sure, sir, quite a fund."
Either my own spirits were running low or the bitter cold had congealed them. I was conscious of my thin ball suit, and moreover of a masterful desire of sleep. I felt no inclination for food, but drained half a tumblerful of the Sheepshanks whiskey, and crawled beneath the pile
