And then again, later in the day, I heard of him, but in a less pleasant fashion.
It was my father who came home in the evening with his mouth full of poor Jim.

He had been deadly drunk since midday, had been down to Westhouse Links to fight the gipsy champion, and it was not certain that the man would live through the night.

My father had met Jim on the highroad, dour as a thunder-cloud, and with an insult in his eye for every man that passed him.

"Guid sakes!" said the old man.

"He'll make a fine practice for himsel', if breaking banes will do it." Cousin Edie laughed at all this, and I laughed because she did; but I was not so sure that it was funny.
On the third day afterwards, I was going up Corriemuir by the sheep-track, when who should I see striding down but Jim himself.
But he was a different man from the big, kindly fellow who had supped his porridge with us the other morning.