Souter regarded his cronie with a grim smile. He had no pity for Tam, nor for any man, in fact, who would not or could not rule his own household. (Souter, by the by, had remained a bachelor.) However, he did his best to console Tam whenever his marital troubles were discussed. “Never mind, Tam,” he said sympathetically, helping himself to a scone while Mistress Burns’ back was turned. “Ye ken where ye can find all the comfort and consolation ye can hold, if ye hae the tippence.” Tam wiped away a tear (tears came easily to the old tyke in his constant state of semi-intoxication) and gave a deep, prolonged sigh. “Aye, Souter, an’ I feel mair at home in the Inn than I do with my guidwife,” he answered mournfully. “I dinna mind telling ye, she’s driven me to the Deil himsel’, by her daur looks an’ ways. The only friend I hae left is Old John Barleycorn,” and he wailed in maudlin despair. “He’s your best enemy, ye mean,” retorted Souter dryly, relighting his pipe, after having demolished, with evident relish, the last of his stolen scone. “Waesucks, mon,” he continued, assuming the tone of Dominie Daddy Auld, who had tried in vain to convert the two old sinners, much to their amusement and inward elation. “Your guidwife told ye weel. Ye’re a skellum, Tam, a blethering, blustering, drunken blellum,” and the old rogue looked slyly at Mistress Burns to note the effect of his harangue. “Aye, ye’re right, Souter Johnny,” said the good dame, nodding approval to him, and going up to Tam, who was still sitting groaning by the fireside, she shook him vigorously by the shoulder. “Stop your groaning and grunting, ye old tyke, and listen to me,” she said sharply. “Take your friend’s advice and gi’ old John Barleycorn a wide berth.” Here her voice dropped to a whisper, “or some day ye’ll be catched wi’ warlocks in the mire, Tam O’Shanter.” He stopped his noise and straightened up in his chair. “Aye, and ghosties and witches will come yelpin’ after ye as ye pass the auld haunted kirk at Alloway,” added Souter sepulchrally, leaning over Tam with fixed eyes and hand outstretched, clutching spasmodically at imaginary objects floating before Tam’s suspicious, angry eyes. Tam, however, was not to be so easily frightened, and brushing Souter aside, he jumped to his feet. “Souter Johnny, dinna ye preach to me, mon,” he roared menacingly. “Ye hae no reght. Let Daddy Auld do that! I dinna fear the witches or ghosties, not I.” He staggered to the window and pointed to an old white horse standing meekly by the roadside.