'What would be the use? I'm in no mood for Plato to-night,' he answered, trying hard to keep from shivering. 'Ye hae an ill cauld upo' ye,' persisted Robert; 'an' ye maun be as weet 's a dishcloot.' Ericson laughed--a strange, hollow laugh. 'Come along,' he said. 'A walk will do me good. We'll get the string, and then you shall play to me. That will do me more good yet.' Robert ceased opposing him, and they walked together to the new town. Robert bought the string, and they set out, as he thought, to return. But not yet did Ericson seem inclined to go home. He took the lead, and they emerged upon the quay. There were not many vessels. One of them was the Antwerp tub, already known to Robert. He recognized her even in the dull light of the quay lamps. Her captain being a prudent and well-to-do Dutchman, never slept on shore; he preferred saving his money; and therefore, as the friends passed, Robert caught sight of him walking his own deck and smoking a long clay pipe before turning in. 'A fine nicht, capt'n,' said Robert. 'It does rain,' returned the captain. 'Will you come on board and have one schnapps before you turn in?' 'I hae a frien' wi' me here,' said Robert, feeling his way. 'Let him come and be welcomed.' Ericson making no objection, they went on board, and down into the neat little cabin, which was all the roomier for the straightness of the vessel's quarter. The captain got out a square, coffin-shouldered bottle, and having respect to the condition of their garments, neither of the young men refused his hospitality, though Robert did feel a little compunction at the thought of the horror it would have caused his grandmother. Then the Dutchman got out his violin and asked Robert to play a Scotch air. But in the middle of it his eyes fell on Ericson, and he stopped at once. Ericson was sitting on a locker, leaning back against the side of the vessel: his eyes were open and fixed, and he seemed quite unconscious of what was passing. Robert fancied at first that the hollands he had taken had gone to his head, but he saw at the same moment, from his glass, that he had scarcely tasted the spirit. In great alarm they tried to rouse him, and at length succeeded. He closed his eyes, opened them again, rose up, and was going away. 'What's the maitter wi' ye, Mr. Ericson?' said Robert, in distress. 'Nothing, nothing,' answered Ericson, in a strange voice. 'I fell asleep, I believe. It was very bad manners, captain. I beg your pardon. I believe I am overtired.' The Dutchman was as kind as possible, and begged Ericson to stay the night and occupy his berth. But he insisted on going home, although he was clearly unfit for such a walk. They bade the skipper good-night, went on shore, and set out, Ericson leaning rather heavily upon Robert's arm. Robert led him up Marischal Street.