Also the man who drinks it steadily and quietly never
enters on any inheritance of length of days.
So it came to pass that one night Gavin Balchrystie did not come home at
all--at least, not till he was brought lying comfortably on the door
of a disused third-class carriage, which was now seeing out its career
anchored under the bank at Loch Merrick, where Gavin had used it as a
shelter. The driver of the "six-fifty up" train had seen him walking
soberly along toward The Huts (and the Railway Inn), letting his long
surface-man's hammer fall against the rail-keys occasionally as he
walked. He saw him bend once, as though his keen ear detected a false
ring in a loose length between two plates. This was the last that was
seen of him till the driver of the "nine-thirty-seven down" express--the
"boat-train," as the employees of the P.P.R. call it, with a touch of
respect in their voices--passed Gavin fallen forward on his face just
when he was flying down grade under a full head of steam. It was duskily
clear, with a great lake of crimson light dying into purple over the
hills of midsummer heather. The driver was John Platt, the Englishman
from Crewe, who had been brought from the great London and Northwestern
Railway, locally known as "The Ell-nen-doubleyou.
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