“What!”.The tailor's heavy shears went off at such a bias across the cloth he was cutting that Lawyer Stedman's coat, when completed, never could be coaxed to set exactly right under the left arm. “I--I only ast ye,” said the visitor, somewhat disconcerted. “What's Meg doin' now?” Three inches lower--the Little Red Doctor assured Henry a few moments after his ill-advised query, binding up the spot where the flung scissors had struck--and he would never again have sung second tenor nor anything else calling for the employment of intact vocal cords. Henry sent a messenger after the waistcoat. That night MacLachan reeled home bellowing “The Cork Leg” in a voice that brought Terry the Cop bounding across Our Square like a dissuasive antelope. My one first-hand experience with the ballad of MacLachan's lapse from sobriety was brought about long after through the Bonnie Lassie's procuring. She thrust a sunny head from her studio window and beckoned me from the sidewalk with her modeling tool. “Dominie, have you seen MacLachan, the tailor, to-day?” she called when she secured my attention. “No. Is he looking for me?” “You should be looking for him.” I examined my clothing for possible rents or stains. My sober black was respectable if shiny. The Bonnie Lassie made a gesture of annoyance with the modeling tool which nearly cost her latest creation its head. “Do you know what day this is?” “Tuesday, the sev--” “Don't be a calendar, please! What day is it in MacLachan's life?” I groped. “Is it his birthday?” (Not that we are much given to celebrating birthdays in Our Square.) “Oh, you men! You men! I've just telephoned the Little Red Doctor and he didn't know either. It's the second anniversary of the day MacLachan's Meg left him. Do you remember what happened last year, dominie?” Did I remember! When Lawyer Sted-man had lured me to perjure my immortal soul before a magistrate, who let Mac off only upon the strength of a character sketch (by me) that would have overpraised any one of the Twelve Apostles! I did remember. “Very well, then. You and the doctor are to take him away this evening. Far away and bring him back sober.” We did our best. And we almost succeeded. For it was close on midnight and Mac was sleepily homebound between us before what he had drunk--against a rising current of our protests--awoke the devil of music in his brain. We were cutting across Second Avenue when he began: “I'll tell you a story without any sham. In Holland there lived Mynheer van Flam, Who every morning said: 'I am The richest merchant in Rotterdam, Ri-tu, di-nu, di-nu--da--na--day! Ri-tu, di-nu, di-nay!” From the shadow of a tree there moved one of those brazen and piteous she-ghosts that haunt the locality. She addressed the three of us with hopeful impartiality. MacLachan shook himself free of our arms and walked close to her, staring strangely into her face. “I've got a daughter in your line of trade,” he said.