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 day 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 god 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.

I don't know when my eyes may give out.
The spots and dots and the pains and things are crowding worse than ever.

I swear I can see all right when I'm--when I'm moderately screwed, as you say.