CHAPTER XI
The lark will make her hymn to God,
The partridge call her brood,
While I forget the heath I trod,
The fields wherein I stood.
'Tis dule to know not night from morn,
But deeper dule to know
I can but hear the hunter's horn
That once I used to blow.—The Only Son.
It was the third clay after Torpenhow's return, and his heart was heavy.
'Do you mean to tell me that you can't see to work without whiskey? It's generally the other way about.'
'Can a drunkard swear on his honour?' said Dick.
'Yes, if he has been as good a man as you.'
'Then I give you my word of honour,' said Dick, speaking hurriedly through parched lips. 'Old man, I can hardly see your face now. You've kept me sober for two days,—if I ever was drunk,—and I've done no work. Don't keep me back any more.
