Never ye drink anything but watter, caller watter, my man." As he said the words, he stretched out his own hand to the mug, lifted it to his lips, and swallowed a great gulp.
"Dinna do't, I tell ye, Gibbie," he repeated.
Gibbie shook his head with positive repudiation.
"That's richt, my man," responded his father with satisfaction.
"Gien ever I see ye pree (taste) the boatle, I'll warstle frae my grave an' fleg ye oot o' the sma' wuts ye hae, my man." Here followed another gulp from the mug.
The threat had conveyed nothing to Gibbie.

Even had he understood, it would have carried anything but terror to his father-worshipping heart.
"Gibbie," resumed Sir George, after a brief pause, "div ye ken what fowk'll ca' ye whan I'm deid ?" Gibbie again shook his head--with expression this time of mere ignorance.
"They'll ca' ye Sir Gibbie Galbraith, my man," said his father, "an' richtly, for it'll be no nickname, though some may lauch 'cause yer father was a sutor, an' mair 'at, for a' that, ye haena a shee to yer fut yersel', puir fallow! Heedna ye what they say, Gibbie.
Min' 'at ye're Sir Gibbie, an' hae the honour o' the faimily to haud up, my man--an' that ye can not dee an' drink.

This cursit drink's been the ruin o' a' the Galbraiths as far back as I ken.
'Maist the only thing I can min' o' my gran'father--a big bonny man, wi' lang white hair--twise as big's me, Gibbie--is seein' him deid drunk i' the gutter o' the pump.

He drank 'maist a' thing there was, Gibbie--lan's an' lordship, till there was hardly an accre left upo' haill Daurside to come to my father--'maist naething but a wheen sma' hooses.

He was a guid man, my father; but his father learnt him to drink afore he was 'maist oot o' 's coaties, an' gae him nae schuilin'; an' gien he red himsel' o' a' 'at was left, it was sma' won'er--only, ye see, Gibbie, what was to come o' me?
I pit it till ye, Gibbie--what was to come o' me ?--Gien a kin' neiper, 'at kent what it was to drink, an' sae had a fallow-feelin', hadna ta'en an' learnt me my trade, the Lord kens what wad hae come o' you an' me, Gibbie, my man!--Gang to yer bed, noo, an' lea' me to my ain thouchts; no' 'at they're aye the best o' company, laddie .-- But whiles they're no that ill," he concluded, with a weak smile, as some reflex of himself not quite unsatisfactory gloomed faintly in the besmeared mirror of his uncertain consciousness.
Gibbie obeyed, and getting under the Gordon tartan, lay and looked out, like a weasel from its hole, at his father's back.