Janet and Annie came up to me to-night. "Hullo!" I cried, "what's become of Ellen and Gladys and Jean?"
"We're no speakin' to them," said Annie loftily.
"Cheeky things!" said Janet with scorn.
I became interested at once.
"Rivals in a love affair?" I asked.
They sniffed, and ignored the query.
"It was Jean," said Annie bitterly. "She went and telt the Mester that Aw spoke when he was oot o' the room."
"Aye," said Janet, "she put doon my name tae. Wait er I get her at hame the nicht!"
I understood. Macdonald evidently favours the obnoxious practice of setting a bairn to spy on the others ... a silly thing to do.
"Aye," went on Annie, "and she called us navvies' lasses!"
"And you replied?"
"Aw telt her to g'wa hame and darn the hole in her stockin'. 'Aye,' Aw said, 'and ye can wash yer neck at the same time, Jean Broon!'"
"But," I said, "Jean never has a dirty neck, Annie."
"Weel, what did she say that Aw was a navvy's lass for then?" she demanded indignantly.
"I'm afraid that she has seen you speaking to navvies, Annie."
Annie became excited. She clutched Janet by the sleeve.
"Eh! What an insult!" she cried. "Janet Broon, div Aw speak to navvies?"
"Never in a' yer life," said Janet firmly, "never wance ... unless yon day that the twa o' them speered at ye the wye to the huts."
"But Aw didna answer," said Annie quickly; "Aw just pointed."
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Sure as daith," she declared solemnly, and she cut her breath. "Aw maybe wud ha' spoken," she admitted, "but Aw had a muckle lump o' jaw-stickin' toffee in my mooth, and Aw cudna speak supposin' Aw had wanted to."
"Pointing was as bad as speaking," I said.
"If it was," said Annie tensely, "Jean never washes her neck. So there!"
They departed, and in half-an-hour the enemy came up. They sat in the bothy in silence for a time.
"Well," I said cheerily, "what's the news to-night?"
"We're fechtin'," said Gladys, "fechtin' wi' Annie and Janet."
"What's it all about, eh?"
"The Mester gar me write doon the names o' them that was speakin'," blurted out Jean, "and Aw put doon their names."
"Yes," chimed in Ellen, "and syne they ca'ed Jean a tramp, and said that the Mester gae her the job o' writin' doon the names cos she was sic a bad writer and needed practice."
"Aye," said Gladys, "and they telt me my mither got my pink frock dyed black when my faither deed."
"And it wasna her pink frock," cried Ellen; "it was her green ane."
"This is alarming," I said with concern. "But tell me, Jean, did you say anything to them?"
"Aw never said a word!"
"Not one word?"
"They cried to us that we was navvies' dochters, and Aw just said: 'Aw wud rather be a navvy's dochter than the dochter o' Annie Miller's faither onywye.'"
"They telt Jean to wash her neck," said Gladys.
Jean smiled grimly.
"Aye, but they got mair than they bargained for! I just says to them, Aw says: 'Annie Miller, gang hame and tell yer faither to redd up his farm-yaird. Aye, and tell yer mither to wash yer heid ilka week instead o' twice a year!'"
"But," I protested, "Annie gets her hair washed every Saturday night!"
"And Aw get my neck washen ilka mornin'!"
"All right, Jean, but you haven't told me what you said to Janet."
"Jan! I soon settled her! I just says toher says Aw: 'Wha stailt the plums that mither brocht hame on Saturday nicht?'"
"And did Jan steal the plums?" I asked.
"She did that!"
"And you never touched them?"
"No the plums," she said frankly; "Aw wasna sic a thief as that. Aw only took a wee corner o' the fig toffee."
I scratched my head thoughtfully.
"This is a bonny racket, girls. I don't know what to make of it. I think you'll better make it up."
"Never!" cried Jean stoutly. "Ellen and Gladys and me's never to speak to them again; are'n we no, Ellen?"
"Never!" cried Ellen.
"No if they were to gang doon on their bended knees!" declared Gladys.
"That's awkward for you, Jean," I said. "Do you mean to tell me that you won't speak to Jan when you are sleeping together?"
"Aw'll just gie her a dig in the ribs wi' my elbow to mak her lie ower, but Aw'll no open my mooth."
"And what if your mother says to you: 'Jean, tell Janet to feed the hens?'"
"Aw'll just hand her the corn-dish and point to the henhoose."
"And put oot my tongue at her," she added.
"Jean," I said suddenly, "I'll bet you a shilling that you are speaking to Jan and Annie by to-morrow night at four."
"Aw dinna hae a shillin'," she said ruefully, "but Aw bet ye a hapenny Aw'm no!"
* * *
To-night Jean came running up to me when school was dismissed.
"Gie's my hapenny!" she cried; "Aw didna speak to Annie and Janet a' day!"
"Honest?"
"It's true," said Ellen, "isn't it Gladys?"
"Then I'll pay up my debt of honour," I said, and I held out a ha'penny.
Jean took it, and then she set off round the steading in great haste. She returned with her arms round Janet and Annie.
"Aw got Bets Burnett to tell them aboot the ha'penny," she confessed, "and to speer them no to speak to me a' day and Aw wud gie them a bit o' sugarelly."
"You scheming besom!" I cried and I laid her on my bothy table and sat on her.
"Eh! Jean!" said Gladys, "if only ye had said ye wud bet a shillin'!"
"Dear me," I said hastily, "when I come to think of it I did bet a shilling. Jean bet a hapenny, but I distinctly remember saying that I was betting a shilling. Here you are, Jean!" but Jean refused it with indignation. Not one of them would touch it.
"Right!" I cried. "I'm going down to get cigarettes. Who's coming?"
I spent a shilling on sweets and chocolate. No one would accept a single sweetie.
"I'll give myself toothache if I eat them," I said. They paid no heed.
"I won't invite one of you to my marriage if you don't take them." They wavered, but did not give way.
"All right," I said with an air of great determination, "here goes!" and I tossed the bag into the field. They made no sign of interest, and we walked up the brae. Jim Jackson was coming down with his milk.
"Jim," I began, "if you go down to that first gate, and look over the hedge you'll find—"
I got no farther.
"Come on!" cried Janet, "Aw dinna want them, but Jim Jackson's no to get them onywye!"
I was glad to note that they gave Jim a handful as he passed.
* * *
To-day was fair day, and the bairns all went to town. I cycled in in the afternoon, and took the girls on the hobby-horses. I also stood Jim Jackson and Dickie Gibson into the stirring drama entitled: "The Moaning Spirit of the Moat ... a Drama of the Supernatural." I had a few shies at the hairy-dolls, and won two cocoanuts and a gold tie-pin. Then I stood fascinated by the style of the gentleman who kept the ring stall. Several articles were hung from hooks, and you tried to throw a ring on to a hook. His invariable comment on a ploughman's attempt was: "Hard luckfor the alarum-clock! Give the gentleman a collar-stud."
About five o'clock Jim came up to me.
"How now, duke," I said breezily, "how much money have you left?"
I was astonished to hear that he had half-a-crown.
"Why!" I cried, "you told me at three o'clock that you had only ninepence left!"
He smiled enigmatically.
"Aw've been speculatin'," he said proudly. "Have ye seen the mannie that's sellin' watches and things at the Cross? Aw was standin' there wi' Geordie Steel this mornin', and the mannie speered if onybody wud gie him a penny for a shillin', and naebody wud dae it at first. Syne a ploughman gae him a penny and he got the shillin'. Syne the mannie speers again, and Geordie got a shillin' for a ha'penny. Syne he began to sell watches, and the first man that bocht a watch got his money back. Syne he held up a gold chain, and the man that bocht that he got his money back. Syne he held up anither gold chain and said he wud sell it for half-a-crown. So Geordie ups and hauds oot his half-croon, and it was a' the money he had. Weel, he gets the chain, but no his money back. 'Don't go away,' says the mannie; 'each and every man as buys an article of jewellery will have his reward.'
"Weel, Aw waited for half-an-hoor, but Geordie hadna got onything by that time, so Aw goes and sees the boxin' show. After thatAw had a shot o' the shoagin' boats, and syne Aw went back to the Cross. Geordie was ay waitin' for his reward. So Aw says to him: 'He's likely forgot a' aboot it, Geordie; tell him!' So Geordie hauds up his gold chain and says: 'Hi, mannie, ye said Aw was to get a reward!' 'O, yes,' says the mannie, 'and so you shall! I want you to keep these eighteen carat gold sleeve-links as a memento of this occasion,' and he shoved a pair o' links into Geordie's hands. After that he shut his box and said he wud hae anither sale at four punctual.
"Weel, Aw began to think aboot the thing, and when he began again he did the same thing. 'Will anyone oblige me by giving me a penny for half-a-crown?' he says, and Aw was just puttin' up my hand when a man held up his penny. 'Hi!' I cried, 'Aw'll gie ye tuppence if ye like!' and the mannie that was selling the things he lauched and handed me the half-croon. 'You're the kind of lad I'm looking for for an apprentice,' he says, but whenever Aw got the money Aw turned and ran awa, and he cries after me: 'Yes, you are the lad I want, but I see you are too clever for me.'"
I asked Jim to show me the half-crown, and I examined it. It was quite genuine, but I said to Jim: "Men like that usually give away bad money." He was off like a flash, and when he came back he carried twenty-five pennies and ten hapennies.
"If he starts to sell again," he announced, "Aw'll get Geordie to hand up the penny, but Aw'll no stand aside him."
The girls each brought my "market" to me to-night ... a packet of rock. I asked about their spendings. Janet had bought three lucky-bags and nine lucky eggs. She had had no luck, and was somewhat grieved at the fact that Jean had bought only one lucky-egg and had got a new hapenny in it. Janet would have bought another egg with the hapenny, but I was not surprised to hear that Jean had bought sugarelly. Ellen had bought a tupenny note-book and a copying-ink pencil, a rubber and a card of assorted pen-nibs. Gladys had spent her all on lemon-kailie, the heavenly powder you get in oval boxes, with two wee tin spoons to sup it with.
Jim came up later. His pockets contained three trumps, or Jewish harps as they are called in catalogues, three copying-ink pencils, a pencil that wrote red at one end and blue at the other, two mouth-organs, a wire puzzle, and ... Geordie's gold chain. The latter he had bought for tuppence and a double-stringed trump.
"Aw spent three and fowerpence," he said, "but dinna tell the Mester!"
"Why not, Jim?"
"Cos he'll be angry. He told us yesterday no to spend oor money at the market, but to bring it and put it in the Savin's Bank."
I wonder what becomes of the money thatchildren put into the Savings Bank. I think that their parents usually collar it at some time or another. I half suspect that quite a number of cottage pianos owe their appearance to the children's bank-books. I stopped the saving business when I was down in the school. Bairns seldom get money, and sugarelly is like Robinson Crusoe: you must tackle it when you are young, or you never enjoy it thoroughly. I think it cruel to make a bairn bank the penny it gets for running a message. Spending is always a pleasant thing, but a bairn gets more delirious joy out of buying a hapenny lucky-bag than an adult gets out of buying a thousand guinea Rolls Royce motor.
Some parents are foolish enough to give their bairns too much to spend. Little Mary Wallace has a penny every day of the year. I think that foolish of her mother. Spending must be a very rare thing if it is to yield the highest pleasure.
I would advise bairns to save when they have a definite object in view. To lay up treasure in the Post Office Savings Bank is, for a bairn, about as tempting as laying up treasure in heaven. Bairns can't entertain remote possibilities. You can tell a boy that a sum in the bank will help him to buy clothes or a bicycle when he is a man, and the prospect does not thrill him. You can't persuade a boy to cast his eyes on the years to come when his eyes are rivetted on a cake of chewing-gum in the village shop window. If he saves itshould be for a direct tangible object. He takes up a Gamage catalogue (the most delightful of books to a boy), and he sees an illustration of a water-pistol costing a shilling. If he is a boy of spirit he will deny himself sweeties for a month in order to get that pistol. The self-discipline necessary to enable a village boy to buy a water-pistol will do him infinitely more good than all the discipline of all the Macdonalds in Scotland. I would have all children poor in money, but I would give them the opportunity of earning enough money to buy their toys. A little poverty is good for anybody; I would recommend a young man to live on twelve shillings a week for a year or two; he would begin to see things in proportion.
A friend of mine bases his antipathy to Socialism on this view of poverty. He argues that poverty brings out self-reliance, pluck, grit. When I ask him why he doesn't support Socialism as a means of bringing all these advantages to the poor wealthy folk, he is at a loss. In a manner I agree with him; poverty will often give a race splendid characteristics. But Socialism recognises that the wealth of the world is divided most unequally. At one end you have luxury that makes men degenerate; at the other end you have poverty that makes men swine. If Shaw's idea of equal incomes could be carried out each person would be in the position of a member of the present lower middle class; he would be rich enough to be well-fed and happy, and he would bepoor enough to discipline himself to make sacrifices to attain an object. I don't think that any man should satisfy more than one desire at a time. If Andrew Carnegie wants a motor-car and a four manual organ he has simply to tell his secretary to write out two cheques. But if I want a motor-cycle and an Angelus player-piano I've got to give up one desire. I know that I'll tire of either, and all I have to do is to sit down and wonder which novelty will last the longer. I want both very much. A 2¾-h.p. Douglas would be delightful, and an Angelus with lots of rolls would charm the long nights away. But ... there is Margaret. I begin to think of blankets and sheets and pots and pans. I don't want any of these plebeian articles, but I want Margaret very much, and I know that along with her I must take the whole bunch of kitchen utensils.
I begin to feel sorry for millionaires. One of the finer pleasures of life is the desiring of a thing you can't buy. The sorriest man in story is the millionaire who arrived at a big hotel very late, so late that he couldn't be served with supper. He straightway sent for the proprietor and asked the price of the hotel. He wrote out a cheque on the spot ... and called for his sausage and mashed—or whatever the dish was. No wonder that millionaires complain of indigestion.
That story contains a fine moral. I don't exactly know what the moral is, but I hazardthe opinion that the moral is this:—Never buy a hotel in order to get a plate of sausage and mashed. Millionaires might be defined as men who buy hotels in order to get sausage and mashed ... and they can't digest the sausage when they have got it. When a Carnegie builds a great organ in a great hall he is really buying the whole hotel. He is taking an unfair advantage of his fellow music-lovers. A plate of sausage and mashed would be of far greater moment to G. K. Chesterton than to the millionaire, but G. K. couldn't buy the whole hotel; he would merely swear volubly and tighten the belt of his waistcoat ... if that were possible. The millionaire should not have this advantage over Chesterton. So a millionaire should not have any advantage over a music-lover. Collinson, the Edinburgh University organist, has no doubt a greater appreciation of organ music than a Carnegie, but he has to go down to his church organ on a winter night if he wants to play a Bach fugue. Money is power, they say, but money is worse than power; it is tyranny. A successful pork-merchant whose one talent is his ability to tell at a glance how much pig it takes to fill a thousand tins of lamb cutlet, may buy up half the treasures of the world if he likes. Priceless pictures and violins lie in millionaires' halls, while students of genius study prints and practise on two guinea fiddles. At first sight this seems a problem that Horatio Bottomley would handle eagerly andpopularly, but the problem is really a deep one. When humanity abolishes the power to amass millions who is to have the priceless treasures? In the case of art the community of course. (I see in to-day's paper that Rodin has bequeathed all his works to France.) But what of the Stradivarius violins? I would have them lent to the geniuses. Who is to decide who the geniuses are? That is a question of fundamentals, and if I had left the question to Mr. Bottomley I think he would have recommended his readers to "write to John Bull about it."
I begin to feel that I am talking through my hat as the vulgar phrase has it. My baccy's finished, and I can't concentrate my attention on any subject. What I meant to do was to show that a millionaire is a man to be pitied. To buy a Titian painting when your tastes lie in the direction of Heath Robinson'sFrightful War Picturesis as pathetic a thing to do as to sit out a classical concert when your tastes lead you to a passionate love for ragtime. And buying a Titian is a simple case of buying the hotel in order to get the sausage and mashed that you can't eat.
Millionaires ... no, it's no good; I'll have to fold up my typewriter till I get some more baccy.
Margaret was reading a few pages of my diary to-night.
"Why," she said, "it's all about yourself!"
"Not all," I said hastily, "some of it is about you ... but I won't let you read that part until you are my wife. If you knew the terrible things I have written about you you would go off straightway and marry Joe Smith."
"You think quite a lot of yourself," she said with a laugh.
"Everybody thinks a lot of himself, Margaret. If I died to-night you would probably have forgotten the shape of my nose by the time you were sixty, but you'll never forget that I told you your neck was the loveliest neck in the county. My old grandmother used to tell me again and again of the man who stopped her on the road when she was seven and told her that her eyes were like blue stars. His name was Donald Gunn ... but she could never recollect the names of the girls she played with.
"The people who don't think much of themselves are people who have no personality to be proud of ... personally I haven't yet met any of the brand. We all have something that we're conceited about, dear. You are conceited about your eyes and your neck and your hair. Jean Hardie is about the plainestgirl in the village, but I could bet that she thinks her hair the most glorious in the place ... and it is too.
"Very often we are conceited about the things that we can do worst. I can draw pretty well, but I'm not conceited about it. I can't sing for nuts ... and if anyone left the room when I was warbling I should hate him to all eternity. I like a man to be an egotist ... if he has got an ego of any value. Peter MacMannish is a type of egotist that should be put into a lethal chamber. He has no ego to talk about, but he imagines that his stomach is his ego, and he will talk to you for an hour about the 'yirkin'' of the organ in question."
"What is an ego?" asked Margaret. "I never heard the word before."
"It is the Latin word for 'I,' and a person who uses the pronoun 'I' very often is called an egotist. The other word egoist has a different meaning; it means a person who thinks of himself all the time, a selfish person. You can be an egotist without being an egoist, and vice versa. Peter Mitchell never talks about himself; while you talk about yourself he is thinking out a method of selling you something at double its value.
"There are two kinds of egotist ... the man who talks about what he does, and the man who talks about what he thinks. When I get letters from my friends they are full of "I's." Dorothy Westbrook, a college friend of mine, a medallist in half-a-dozen classes, fills eightpages with small talk.... 'I went to see Tree in the Darling of the Gods last night,' and so on. I generally skip the eight pages and look at the post-script. May Baxter, another college friend, a girl who wouldn't recognise a medal if you showed her one, writes ten pages, and she usually commences with something like this:—'I was re-readingThe New Machiavellilast night, and I think that I begin to despise Wells now.' I read her letter a dozen times. When she does take a fancy for the other kind of egotism she is delightful: she doesn't tell me what she does; she tells me what she is.
"I have half a mind to leave you for a year, Margaret, just to give you a chance of writing about yourself. I won't be able to write to you in the same strain: I wrote myself out when I fell in love at twenty-two. You can only be a good letter-writer once, and that is when you are discovering yourself for the first time, and ramming it down on paper as fast as you can. I used to write letters of twenty foolscap pages, but now I never write a letter if I can help it. Life has lost most of its glamour when you realise that you have discovered yourself. It's a sad business discovering yourself, dear. You set out to persuade yourself that you are a genius or a saint, and, after a long examination of yourself you discover that you are a sorry creature. You set out with Faith and Hope at your elbow, and at the end you find that they have long since left you, but you find that Charityhas taken their place. Charity begins at home says the proverb, and I take this to mean that Charity comes to you when you find yourself at home, when you discover yourself. I used to be the most uncharitable of mortals, but now I seldom judge a man or woman. Peter MacMannish gets drunk; I do not condemn him, for I have looked on the wine when it was red. Mary MacWinnie has had two illegitimate children; I am a theoretical Don Juan. Shepherd, the rabbit-catcher, has an atrocious temper; I do not judge him, because, although my own temper is pretty equable, I can realise that the man can no more help his temper than I can the size of my feet. Charity comes to you when you have discovered how weak you are, and that's what kept me from being a good code teacher. I was such a poor weak devil that I couldn't bring myself to make the boys salute me or fear me."
"You say that, but you don't believe it."
"I believe it, Margaret. My whole theory of education is built on my abject humility. My chief objection to Macdonald is that he ignores his own weaknesses. He has never analysed himself to see what manner of man he is. If he could look into his heart and discover all the little meanesses and follies and hypocrisies he would not have the courage to make a boy salute him; he would not have the impudence to strap a boy for swearing. One of the worst things about Macdonald and a thousand other dominies is that they haveforgotten their childhood. A dominie should never grow up. I would take away from all students their text-books on School Management and Psychology, and put into their hands Barrie'sPeter Panand Stevenson'sA Child's Garden of Verses.
"Margaret, why can't people see that the Macdonald system is all wrong? What in all the world is the use of dominies and ministers and parents posing before children? What is respect but a pose? What is Macdonald's sternness but a pose? He is a kindly decent fellow outside his school. The bairns meet with pose the first thing in the morning when they enter the school. They stand up and repeat the Lord's Prayer monotonously, and without the faintest realisation of what they are saying. The dominie closes his eyes and clasps his hands in front of him, and I don't believe there is a single dominie in Scotland who really prays each morning. For that matter I don't believe that there are half-a-dozen ministers who repeat the prayer on Sundays with any thought of its meaning. The morning prayer is a gigantic sham. When I said to Macdonald that I would have it abolished in schools he almost had a fit. The bigger the sham is the louder is the screaming in its defence if you attack it.
"Think of all the shams that parents practise. They pretend that babies come in the doctor's pocket; they pretend that a lie is as much an abomination to them as it is to the Lord;they imply by their actions that they never stole apples in their lives; they hint that they don't know what bad language means. They live a life that is one continuous lie."
"I don't understand that," said Margaret with a puzzled look.
"A mother lies to her child when she tells it that it is wicked when it makes a noise; a father lies to his son when he tells him that he will come to a bad end if he smokes any more cigarettes. Worse than that they lie by negation. The father changes his 'Hell!' into 'Hades!' when he hits his thumb with a hammer; the mother says 'Tut Tut!' when she means 'Damnation!' Both go to church as an example to their offspring ... and going to church is in most cases a lie. Nearly every father of a family says grace before meat, and he generally delays the practice until his first-born is old enough to take notice. Then there is the lie about relationship. A child never discovers that its father has about as much love for its mother's aunt as he has for the King of Siam.
"Convention is one huge lie, Margaret. You lift your hat when a coffin goes by; you beg my pardon when I ask you to pass the marmalade; you stand bare-headed when a band plays the National Anthem. It's all a lie, dear, a pretty lie perhaps, but a lie all the same. But after all, the manners business is a minor affair; you can't abolish it, and if you try you will only make yourself ridiculous.But the other lies, the hypocritical lies that are told to children ... these are dangerous. An ardent republican will doff his hat when the band playsGod Save the King, and be none the worse; the unpleasantness that might follow his keeping his hat on his head wouldn't be worth it. But if I pretend to a child that I am above human frailty I am doing a hellish thing that may have devilish consequences."
"Your language is awful!" cried Margaret in feigned protest.
"I was quotingThe Ancient Mariner, dear; you read it at my evening class, and you have evidently forgotten it. Since the beginning of humanity children have been warped by the attitudinising of their elders. A child is imitative always; he hasn't the power to think out biggish things for himself. He is tremendously docile; he will believe almost anything you tell him, and he will accept an older person's pose without question. If one of the village boys were to see Macdonald stotting home drunk he would be like the countryman who, when he saw a giraffe for the first time, cried: 'Hell!... I don't believe it!' And the sad thing is that they never are able to distinguish between pose and truth. The villagers who used to tell my bairns that I was daft don't realise what pose is; they have never found the right values. When they criticise the minister or the dominie they invariably fasten on the wrong things. They are beginning to criticise Macdonald because he insists on abairn's bringing a written excuse when he has been absent, but they believe in all his poses—his love for respect, his authority, his whackings, his hiding of his pipe when a child is near, his passion for sex morality, his dignity, his ... his frayed frock coat that he wears in school."
"The poor man's only wearing out his old Sunday coat!" protested Margaret.
"I never thought of that, Margaret; I'll cut out the coat. But he shouldn't have a frock coat anyway. When we get married I shall insist on dressing in an old golfing jacket, flannel bags, and a soft collar. The only danger is that men of my stamp are apt to make unconvention conventional. It's a very difficult thing to keep from posing when you are protesting against pose."
"Oh! I don't understand the half of what you say," said Margaret wearily.
"That means that you think my lips might be better employed, you schemer!" and I ... well, I don't think I need write everything down after all.
* * *
"There was a venter locust at the schule the day," remarked Annie. I was brushing my boots at the bothy door, and the girls sat on the step and watched me.
"A what?" I asked.
"A venter locust. Ye paid a penny to get in, and Jim Jackson gaithered the pennies inthe mannie's hat and got in for nothing, for he didna put his ain penny in."
"What sort of show was it, Annie?"
"He had a muckle doll wi' an awfu' ugly face, and he asked it questions."
"Did it answer them?"
"Aye. It opened its great big mooth."
"There maybe was a gramaphone inside," suggested Gladys.
"Jim Jackson said that it was the mannie that was speakin' a' the time," said Janet.
"Jim Jackson was bletherin'," said Annie with scorn. "Aw watched 'im, and his mooth never moved a' the time."
"Perhaps he was talking through his hat, Annie," I said.
"He wasna," she cried, "for his hat was on the Mester's desk fu' o' pennies!"
"Well," I ventured, "the proverb says that money talks, you know."
"Weel," tittered Annie, "there wasna much money to talk, for the pennies was nearly a' hapennies!"
"Aw dinna understand how that doll managed to speak," said Ellen, and I proceeded to explain the mysteries of ventriloquism to them. Then I told them my one ventriloquist yarn.
A broken-down ventriloquist stopped at a village inn one hot day, and stared longingly through the bar door. He hadn't a cent in his pocket. He sat down on the bench and gazed wearily at a stray mongrel dog thathad followed him for days. Suddenly inspiration came to him. He rose and walked into the bar.
"A pint of beer, mister!" he cried, and pretended to fumble for his money, when the landlord placed the tankard on the bar counter.
The dog looked up into his face.
"Here, mister," said the dog, "ain't I going to get one?"
The landlord started.
"That's a remarkable animal," he said with staring eyes.
"Pretty smart," said the ventriloquist indifferently.
"I'll—I'll buy that dog," said the landlord eagerly; "I'll give you five pounds for him."
The ventriloquist considered for a while.
"All right," he said at length, "I hate to part with an old friend like him, but I must live, and I have no money."
The landlord counted out the five sovereigns, and the ventriloquist drank up his beer and made for the door.
"Better come round and take hold of the dog," he said, "or he'll follow me."
The landlord lifted the bar-flap and took hold of the dog by the collar.
At the door the ventriloquist looked back. The dog gazed at him.
"You brute," it cried, "you've sold me for vulgar gold. I swear that I'll never speak again."
I paused.
"And, you know, girls, he never did."
"Eh," cried Janet, "what a shame! The public-hoose mannie wud leather the puir beast to mak' it speak."
"That's the real point of the story, Jan. A story is no good unless it leaves something to the imagination."
"The Mester gae us a story to write for composition the day," said Annie. "It was aboot a boy that was after a job and a' the boys were lined up and they had to go in to see the man, and he had a Bible lyin' on the floor, and a' the lads steppit over it, but this laddie he pickit it up and got the job."
"That's what you call a story with a moral, Annie. It is meant to teach you a lesson. The best stories have no morals ... neither have the people who listen to them."
"We had to write the story," said Ellen, "and syne we had to tell why the boy got the job. Aw said it was becos he was a guid boy and went to the Sunday Schule."
"Aw said it was becos he was a pernikity sort o' laddie that liked things to be tidy," said Gladys.
Annie laughed.
"Aw said the man was maybe a fat man that cudna bend doon to pick it up. What did you say, Jan?"
"Aw dinna mind," said Janet ruefully, "but when the Mester cried me oot for speakin', Aw picked up a geography book on the floor, just to mak the Mester think that Awhad learned a lesson frae his story, but he gae me a slap on the lug for wastin' time comin' oot."
"Jim Jackson got three scuds wi' the strap for his story," said Annie.
"Ah!" I cried, "what did he write?"
"He said that the laddie maybe hadna a hankie, and his nose was needin' dichted and he didna like to let the man see him dichtin' it wi' the sleeve o' his jaicket, so he bent doon to pick up the Bible and dicht his nose on the sly at the same time."
"Yes," I said sadly, "that's Jim Jacksonese, pure and simple. Poor lad!"
"The Mester said he was a vulgar fellow," said Janet.
"A low-minded something or other, he ca'ed him," said Gladys.
"But he didna greet when he got the strap," said Annie, "he just sniffed thro' his nose and—and dichted it wi' his sleeve."
I knew then that all the Macdonalds in creation couldn't conquer my Jim.
Macdonald and I were comparing notes to-night.
"I found that Monday was always a noisy day in school," I said; "the bairns were always unsettled."
"I don't find that," he said; "Friday is their worst day. I don't understand that."
"Friday was my free day," I said.
"What do you mean by free day?"
"Every bairn did what it liked."
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Macdonald.
"That's nothing," I laughed, "why, I gave them a free week once."
"What was your idea. Laziness?"
"Laziness! My dear boy, I never put in such a hard week in my life. A boy would come out and ask for a certain kind of sum, then a girl would bring out a writing book and ask for a setting; by the time I had attended to these, a dozen were waiting."
"Did they all work?"
"They were all active. Dickie Gibson spent the week in sketching; Geordie Steel read five penny dreadfuls; Janet Brown played at anagrams; Annie Miller readThe Weekly Welcome; Ellen Smith worked arithmetic all week and Jock Miller wrote a novel. Jock spent half his dinner-hour writing."
"That's what a school should be," I added.
"Ah! So you think that reading penny dreadfuls is education?"
"Everything you do is education."
"So you say, but I want to know the exact educational value of penny dreadfuls. My idea is that they do boys harm."
"That's what the magistrates say, Macdonald. They trace all juvenile crime to penny dreadfuls and the cinema. The British have a passion for scapegoats. We have war with Germany. 'Who did this?' demand the public indignantly. 'Who's going to be whopped for this?' They look round and Haldane's rotund figure catches their eye. Haldane becomes the scapegoat. So with poor Birrell when the Sinn Fein rebellion occurred. So the magistrates fasten on the poor penny dreadful and the picture-film. Obviously they do so because they are too stupid to think out the problem of crime. Picture-houses have about as much to do with crime as Birrell had to do with the dissatisfaction in Ireland."
"Come, come," said Macdonald impatiently, "keep to the point: what educational value has the penny dreadful?"
"The educational value that any reading matter has. It doesn't give you many ideas, but you can say the same thing about Barrie's novels or Kipling's. It gives a boy a vocabulary and it exercises his imagination."
"Wouldn't he be better reading good literature? Dickens for instance?"
"I don't see it," I said; "he isn't ripe enoughto understand Dickens's humour, and for a boy I should say Dickens is bad. His style is grandiose and stilted, his periphrasis is the most delightful in the world to an educated person, but it is bad for a child. About half ofDavid Copperfieldis circumlocution, but a boy should learn to speak and write boldly. The penny dreadful goes straight to the point. 'Harold looked straight into the blue barrel of a Colt automatic.' Translate that into Dickensese (an ugly word to coin, I admit) and you have something like this:—'Harold contemplated with extreme apprehension the circular muzzle of a Cerulean blue automatic pistol of the kind specifically manufactured by the celebrated world-famous American firm of Colt.'"
"Poor Dickens," laughed Macdonald.
"But you see my point?" I persisted. "Circumlocution is a Victorian nuisance. Any man who has anything to say says it simply and without trappings. And, mind you, Macdonald, people who use circumlocution in style use it in thought. The average man loves flowery literature, and he loves flowery thoughts. The contest between the plain style and the aureate style is really the old contest between realism and romance. The romantic way to look at crime is to fix your attention on drink and penny dreadfuls and cinema shows; the realistic way is to look bravely at the economic division of wealth that causes poverty and disease, the father and mother of crime."
"You're away from the point again," said Macdonald with a smile. "How do you defend Janet Brown's week of anagrams?"
"It doesn't need any defence; it was Janet's fancy to play herself and I fail to see that she was wasting time. You really never waste time unless you are under coercion."
"Another rotten paradox," he laughed, "go on!"
"When I allow convention to force me to play cards I feel that I am wasting time, for I hate the blamed things. But if I spend a day pottering with the wheels of an old clock I am not wasting time: I am extremely interested all the time."
"No, no! It won't do! Janet was wasting time, and you know it, in spite of your arguing!"
"I'll tell you what's wrong with you and all your fellow educationists, Macdonald," I said. "You've got utilitarian commercial minds. You worship work and duty, and you have your eyes on monetary success all the time. You look upon bairns as a foreman mechanic looks upon workmen, and your idea of wasted time is the same as his. If I were Bruce, the linen merchant, I should certainly accuse a girl of wasting time if I caught her reading a novelette during working hours. Bruce has one definite aim—production of linen. He knows exactly what he wants to produce. You don't, and I don't. We don't know what effect puzzling out anagrams will have onJanet's mentality. We have no right to accuse her of wasting time."
"Don't tell me," he cried; "there is a difference between work and play. Janet has no more right to play during school hours than a mill-girl has to read novelettes during working hours."
"The mill-girl is a wage-slave, and I don't think that dominies should apply the ethics of wage-slavery to education. Her master, Bruce, goes golfing and fishing on working days, only, he is economically free, and he can do what he likes. And I don't suppose you will contend that tending a loom is the goal of humanity. If you want to make Janet an efficient mill-girl by all means coerce her to work in school. But, Macdonald, I have argued a score of times that education should not aim at turning out wage-slaves. If Janet is to be a mill-girl all your history and grammar won't make her tend a loom any better; so far as the loom is concerned the composing of anagrams will help her quite as much as grammar will."
When Macdonald had gone I made up my mind that I wouldn't argue about education with him again. I'll bring out my pack of cards when he next visits me.
* * *
I have had a sharp attack of influenza, and have been in bed for a week. When my temperature fell I commenced to read a book on political philosophy, but I had to give itup. I asked Margaret to borrow a few novels from Macdonald's school library, and I found content. I readThe Forest Lovers,King Solomon's Mines, and one of Guy Boothby's Dr. Nikola stories, and was entranced.
When you are ill you become primitive; the emotional part of you is uppermost, and you weep over mawkish drivel that you would laugh at when you are well. Any snivelling parson could have persuaded me to believe that I was a sinner, had he come to my bed-side three days ago.
Luckily no snivelling parson came, but the girls came every night.
"Aw hope ye dinna dee," said Annie.
"Ye wud need an awfu' lang coffin," said Janet as she measured me with her eye.
"You've got a cheerful sort of bed-side manner, Jan," I said.
"Wud ye hae an oak coffin?" she asked.
"Couldn't afford it, Jan. You see I'm saving up for my marriage."
"But if ye need a coffin ye'll no need a wife."
"The wedding-cake will do for the funeral feast," I said hopefully. "I've ordered it."
Janet laughed.
"Eh! It wud be awfu' funny to eat weddin' cake at a burial!" she cried. "Wud'n it?"
"I don't think I would be in a position to appreciate the fun of the thing, Janet."
"Maggie wudna see muckle fun in it either," said Gladys.
"Wud Jim Jackson be yer chief mourner?" asked Ellen.
"Possibly," I said, "but don't mention the fact to him. He'll become unsettled. He's an ambitious youth, Jim, and his position as best man at my marriage will merely make him long for other worlds to conquer."
"Ye wud hae a big funeral," said Janet thoughtfully.
"We wud get a holiday that day," she added brightly.
"Ah!" I said, "that settles it, Jan. Leave me to die in peace. Let me see—this is Tuesday; if I die now that will mean Saturday for the funeral. That's no good. What do you say to my putting off the evil day till Friday? That will mean a holiday on Tuesday."
"But ye canna dee when ye want to!" she laughed.
"I can easily borrow some of Mrs. Thomson's rat poison."
"Syne ye wud be committin' sooicide," cried Annie, "and they wud bury ye at nicht, and we wudna get oor holiday."
"Ah! Annie! You've raised a difficulty. I hear Jim whistling outside. Bring him in and we'll see if he can solve the problem."
They brought Jim to my bedside. I explained the difficulty, and Jim scratched his head.
"If ye was murdered they wudna bury ye at nicht," he said after some deliberation.
"A brilliant idea, Jim, but who is to murder me?"
"Joe Simpson wud dae it ... quick," he answered. "He has a notion o' Maggie."
"Aw wud get another holiday," he added, "when Joe was tried. Aw wud be a witness."
"So wud Aw," said Annie.
"And me too," said Janet.
"Ye wudna," said Jim with scorn, "lassies canna swear, and ye have to put yer hand on the Bible and swear when ye are a witness."
"We'll have to give up the murder idea," I said firmly: "it's unfair; I can't have Jim getting two holidays while the girls get only one."
"We micht get another holiday when Joe was buried," suggested Ellen.
"No," said Jim, "they bury a hanged man in the jile."
"Ye'll just need to get better again," said Janet.
"You'll lose your holiday in that case, Jan."
She put her arm round my neck.
"Aw was just funnin'," she said kindly, "Aw dinna want ye to dee. Aw wud greet."
"You would forget me in a week, Jan."
"Na Aw wudna," she protested. "Aw wud put flowers on yer grave ilka Sabbath, and Aw wud cut oot the verse o' pottery in the paper. Aw cut oot the verse aboot my auntie Liz."
"What was it?"
"Aw dinna mind, but it was something like this:—