in his blouse had made him too wide, and wriggle as he would he could not escape. When Derek told this story, Newbigging laughed. They both laughed uproariously. After another drink Derek drew his chair closer and told the story again with more detail. This time Newbigging looked very grave, and they stared at each other in sorrowful silence. Still another drink. Derek repeated the story. "Picture me, Newbigging," he ended, his voice shaking a little, "a poor, miserable little fella, c-caught there, between those bars, the apples on my tummy, and f-farmer at my back!"
Newbigging reached across the table and held out his hand. Derek took and retained it. Then they both sang together in voices mellow with feeling—
"And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine;
And we'll tak' a right guid willie-waught
For auld lang syne."
Derek did not awaken until the bright spring sunshine had flooded the room. He heard the familiar liquid calling of the hen turkeys and the thunderous note of the gobbler. He heard the hiss and scrape of his tail feathers as they were unfurled.
He scarcely remembered how he had got to bed the night before, but there were his clothes neatly hung on their stretchers. He remembered seeing Newbigging disappear up the stair in his stockinged feet, the candle in his hand dripping wax over the steps, and there had been singing. Wonderful soul-stirring singing. . . .
It was a wonder Buckskin was not up and doing. Playing peek-a-boo under the sheet or trying to put his toe in his mouth. He turned over to look at him. Buckskin lay
