But there was not a stick of wood, the
bog-holes were little puddles, the stream was a slender trickle. There
was nothing but short heather, and bare hill bent, and the white highway.
Then in a tiny bight of road, beside a heap of stones, I found
the roadman.
He had just arrived, and was wearily flinging down his hammer.
He looked at me with a fishy eye and yawned.
'Confoond the day I ever left the herdin'!' he said, as if to the
world at large. 'There I was my ain maister. Now I'm a slave to the
Goavernment, tethered to the roadside, wi' sair een, and a back like
a suckle.'
He took up the hammer, struck a stone, dropped the implement
with an oath, and put both hands to his ears. 'Mercy on me! My
heid's burstin'!' he cried.
He was a wild figure, about my own size but much bent, with a
week's beard on his chin, and a pair of big horn spectacles.
'I canna dae't,' he cried again. 'The Surveyor maun just report
me. I'm for my bed.'
I asked him what was the trouble, though indeed that was
clear enough.
'The trouble is that I'm no sober. Last nicht my dochter Merran
was waddit, and they danced till fower in the byre. Me and some
ither chiels sat down to the drinkin', and here I am. Peety that I
ever lookit on the wine when it was red!'
I agreed with him about bed.
'It's easy speakin',' he moaned. 'But I got a postcard yestreen
sayin' that the new Road Surveyor would be round the day.
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