§ 112 The Life of the Party, as It Were
Three aged Scots were in the habit of meeting on Saturday evening at the home of first one and then another of the group for social purposes. Their social demands were simple, just as their tastes were similar. All they craved was an opportunity to sit by a fire with their pipes lit and their whiskey glasses handy, in silence.
One evening there had been an especially enjoyable session. Two quarts of liquor had been consumed and hardly a word had been spoken. At the approach of midnight the two guests stood up to go. One of them, with difficulty focusing his vision upon his host, who sat in the inglenook, remarked to the third member of the party in an undertone:
“What an awfu’ look Sandy has on his face.”
“Aye,” said his crony, “he’s dead.”
“How long has he been dead?” inquired the first speaker in shocked tones.
“The better part of twa hours.”
“Why did ye nae tell me before?”
“Hoots, mon,” said his crony, “I’m nae the one to brek up a pleasant evenin’.”