Well, Erchie; not away on the Fair holidays?” I asked the old man one July day on meeting him as he came out of a little grocer’s shop in the New City Road. The dignity of his profession is ever dear to Erchie; he kept his purchase behind his back, but I saw later it was kindling material for the morning fire.
“Not me!” said he. “There’s nae Fair holidays for puir auld Erchie, no’ even on the Sunday, or I might hae ta’en the skoosh car doon the wye o’ Yoker, noo that a hurl on Sunday’s no’ that awfu’ sair looked doon on, or the ‘Mornin’ Star’ ‘bus to Paisley. But Jinnet went awa’ on Settur-day wi’ her guid-sister to Dunoon, and I’m my lee-lane in the hoose till the morn’s mornin’. It’s nae divert, I’m tellin’ ye; there’s a lot o’ things to mind forbye the windin’ o’ the nock on Setturday and watering the fuchsia. I can wait a municeepal banquet wi’ ony man in my tred, but I’m no’ great hand at cookin’ for mysel’.
“Did I ever tell ye aboot the time the wife was awa’ afore at a Fair, and I took a notion o’ a seedcake Duffy’s first wife had to the tea she trated me to on the Sawbath?
“‘It’s as easy to mak’ as boilin’ an egg,’ says Mrs Duffy, and gied me the receipt for’t on con-deetion that when I made it I was to bring her a sample. Something went wrang, and I brought her the sample next day in a bottle. It was a gey damp seedcake thon!
“I havena been awa’ at a Fair mysel’ since aboot the time Wullie was in the Foondry Boys, and used to gang to the Hielan’s. I mind o’t fine. Nooadays, in oor hoose, ye wad never jalouse it was the Fair at a’ if it wasna for the nae parridge in the mornin’s.
“Ye’ll hae noticed, maybe, that though we’re a’ fearfu’ fond o’ oor parridge in Scotland, and some men mak’ a brag o’ takin’ them every mornin’ just as if they were a cauld bath, we’re gey gled to skip them at a holiday, and just be daein’ wi’ ham and eggs.
“But in thae days, as I was sayin’, the Fair was something like the thing. There was Mumford’s and Glenroy’s shows, and if ye hadna the money to get in, ye could aye pap eggs at the musicianers playing on the ootside, and the thing was as broad as it was lang. Forbye ye didna get the name o’ bein’ keen on the theatricals if your faither was parteecular.
“I mind ance I hit a skeely-e’ed trombone, or maybe it was an awfuclyde, wi’ an egg at Vinegar Hill. The glee pairty—as ye might ca’ him if ye were funny—chased me as far doon as the Wee Doo Hill. I could rin in thae days; noo I’ve ower flet feet, though I’ve a warm hert too, I’m tellin’ ye.
“If ye werena at the Shows in thae days ye went a trip wi’ the steamerBonnie Doon, and ye had an awfu’ fine time o’t on the Setturday if ye could jist mind aboot it on the Sunday mornin’. Duffy’s gey coorse, bein’ in the retail coal trade and cry in’ for himsel’; I’m no’ like that at a’ mysel’; it widna dae, and me in the poseetion, but I mind ance o’ Duffy tellin’ me he could never fa’ asleep at the Fair Time till his wife gave him the idea o’ lyin’ on his left side, and coontin’ yin by yin a’ the drams he had the night afore. He said it worked on him like chloryform.
“I hope ye’ll no’ mind me speakin’ aboot drink; it’s awfu’ vulgar coonted noo, I hear, to let on ye ever heard that folk tak’ it, but in thae days there was an awfu’ lot o’t partaken o’ aboot Gleska. I’m tellt noo it’s gaen clean oot o’ fashion, and stane ginger’s a’ the go, and I see in the papers every Monday efter the Fair Setturday that ‘there has been a gratifying decrease in the number o’ cases at the Central Police Court compared wi’ last year.’ I’m that gled! I have been seein’ that bit o’ news in the papers for the last thirty years, and I hae nae doot that in a year or twa drunks and disorderlies’ll be sae scarce in Gleska at the Fair, the polis’ll hae to gang huntin’ for them wi’ bloodhounds.
“It’s a fine thing the Press. It’s aye keen to keep oor herts up. Ye’ll notice, perhaps, that at every Gleska holiday the papers aye say the croods that left the stations were unprecedented. They were never kent to be ony ither wye.
“I daursay it’s true enough. I went doon to the Broomielaw on Setturday to see Jinnet aff, and the croods on the Irish and Hielan’ boats was that awfu’, the men at the steerage end hadna room to pu’ oot their pocket-hankies if they needed them. It’s lucky they could dae withoot. When the butter-and-egg boats for Belfast and Derry left the quay, the pursers had a’ to have on twa watches—at least they had the twa watch-chains, ane on each side, for fear the steamer wad capsize. I says to mysel’, ‘It’s a peety a lot o’ thae folk for Clachnacudden and County Doon dinna lose their return tickets and bide awa’ when they’re at it, for Gleska’s a fine toon, but jist a wee bit owre crooded nooadays.’
“I hae nae great notion for doon the watter mysel’ at the Fair. Jinnet jist goes and says she’ll tell me whit it’s like. Whit she likes it for is that ye’re never lonely.
“And ‘it’s that homely doon aboot Rothesay and Dunoon, wi’ the Gleska wifes hangin’ ower the windows tryin’ as hard as they can to see the scenery, between the whiles they’re fryin’ herrin’ for Wull. And then there’s wee Hughie awfu’ ill wi’ eatin’ ower mony hairy grossets.
“But it’s fine for the weans too, to be gaun sclimbin’ aboot the braes pu’in’ the daisies and the dockens and the dentylions and—and—and a’ thae kin’ o’ flooers ye’ll can touch withoot onybody findin’ fau’t wi’ ye. It’s better for the puir wee smouts nor moshy in the back-coort, and puttin’ bunnets doon the stanks. They’ll mind it a’ their days—the flooers and the dulse for naething, and the grossets and the Gregory’s mixture. It’s Nature; it’s the Rale Oreeginal.
“It does the wife a lot o’ guid to gae doon the watter at the Fair. She’s that throng when she’s at hame she hasna had time yet to try a new shooglin’-chair we got at the flittin’; but ‘it’s a rest,’ she’ll say when she comes back, a’ moth-eaten wi’ the midges. And then she’ll say, ‘I’m that gled it’s ower for the year.’
“That’s the droll thing aboot the Fair and the New Year; ye’re aye in the notion that somethin’ awfu’ nice is gaun to happen, and naethin’ happens at a’, unless it’s that ye get your hand awfu’ sair hashed pu’in’ the cork oot o’ a bottle o’ beer.”
“You’ll be glad, I’m sure, to have the goodwife back, Erchie?” I said, with an eye on the fire-kindlers.
He betrayed some confusion at being discovered, and then laughed.
“Ye see I’ve been for sticks,” said he. “That’s a sample o’ my hoose-keepin’. I kent there was something parteecular to get on the Setturday night, and thought it was pipeclye. The grocer in there wad be thinkin’ I was awa’ on the ping-pong if he didna ken I was a beadle. Will ye be puttin’ ony o’ this bit crack in the papers?”
“Well, I don’t know, Erchie; I hope you won’t mind if I do.”
“Oh! I’m no heedin’; it’s a’ yin to Erchie, and does nae hairm to my repitation, though I think sometimes your spellin’s a wee aff the plumb. Ye can say that I said keepin’ a hoose is like ridin’ the bicycle; ye think it’s awfu’ easy till ye try’t.”
“That’s a very old discovery, Erchie; I fail to understand why you should be anxious to have it published now.”
Erchie winked. “I ken fine whit I’m aboot,” said he. “It’ll please the leddies to ken that Erchie said it, and I like fine to be popular. My private opeenion is that a man could keep a hoose as weel as a woman ony day if he could only bring his mind doon to’t.”
It was with genuine astonishment Erchie one day had his wife come to him with a proposal that she should keep a lodger.
“A ludger!” he cried. “It wad be mair like the thing if ye keepit a servant lassie, for whiles I think ye’re fair wrocht aff yer feet.”
“Oh, I’m no’ sae faur done as a’ that,” said Jinnet. “I’m shair I’m jist as smert on my feet as ever I was, and I could be daein’ wi’ a ludger fine. It wad keep me frae wearyin’.”
“Wearyin’!” said her husband. “It’s comin’ to’t when my ain ‘wife tells me I’m no’ company for her. Whit is’t ye’re wantin’, and I’ll see whit I can dae. If it’s music ye’re for, I’ll buy a melodian and play’t every nicht efter my tea. If it’s improvin’ conversation ye feel the want o’, I’ll ask Duffy up every ither nicht and we’ll can argue on Fore Ordination and the chance o’ the Celtic Fitba’ Club to win the League Championship the time ye’re darnin’ stockin’s. ‘Wearyin’’ says she! Perhaps ye wad like to jine a dancin’ school; weel, I’ll no’ hinder ye, I’m shair, but I’ll no’ promise to walk to the hall wi’ ye every nicht cairryin’ yer slippers. Start a ludger! I’m shair we’re no’ that hard up!”
“No, we’re no’ that hard up,” Jinnet confessed, “but for a’ the use we mak’ o’ the room we micht hae somebody in it, and it wad jist be found money. I was jist thinkin’ it wad be kind o’ cheery to have a dacent young chap gaun oot and in. I’m no’ for ony weemen ludgers; they’re jist a fair bother, aye hingin’ aboot the hoose and puttin’ their nose into the kitchen, tellin’ ye the richt wye to dae this and that, and burnin’ coal and gas the time a man ludger wad be oot takin’ the air.”
“Takin’ drink, mair likely,” said Erchie, “and comin’ hame singin’ ‘Sodgers o’ the Queen,’ and scandalisin’ the hale stair.”
“And I’m no’ for a tredsman,” Jinnet went on, with the air of one whose plans were all made.
“Of course no’,” said her husband, “tredsmen’s low. They’re, no’ cless. It’s a peety ye mairried yin. Perhaps ye’re thinkin’ o’ takin’ in a Chartered Accoontant, or maybe a polisman. Weel I’m jist tellin’ ye I wadna hae a polisman in my paurlor; his helmet wadna gang richt wi’ the furniture, and the blecknin’ for his boots wad cost ye mair than whit he pyed for his room.”
“No, nor a polisman!” said Jinnet. “I was thinkin’ o’ maybe a quate lad in a warehouse, or a nice factor’s clerk, or something o’ that sort. He wad be nae bother. It’s jist the ae makin’ o’ parridge in the mornin’. Ye’re no’ to thraw wi’ me aboot this, Erchie; my mind’s made up I’m gaun to keep a ludger.”
“If your mind’s made up,” he replied, “then there’s nae use o’ me argy-bargyin’ wi’ ye. I’m only your man. It bates me to ken whit ye’re gaun to dae wi’ the money, if it’s no’ to buy a motor-cairrage. Gie me your word ye’re no’ gaun in for ony sports o’ that kind. I wad hate to see ony wife o’ mine gaun skooshin’ oot the Great Western Road on a machine like a tar-biler, wi’ goggles on her een and a kahoutchy trumpet skriechin’ ‘pip! pip!”’
“Ye’re jist an auld haver,” said Jinnet, and turned to her sewing, her point gained.
A fortnight after, as a result of a ticket with the legend “Apartments” in the parlour window, Jinnet was able to meet her husband’s return to tea one night with the announcement that she had got a lodger. “A rale gentleman!” she explained. “That weel put-on! wi’ twa Gled-stone bags, yin o’ them carpet, and an alerm clock for waukenin’ him in the mornin’. He cam’ this efternoon in a cab, and I think he’ll be easy put up wi’ and tak’ jist whit we tak’ oorsels.”
“I hope he’s no’ a theatrical,” said Erchie. “Me bein’ a beadle in a kirk it wadna be becomin’ to hae a theatrical for a ludger. Forbye, they never rise oot o’ their beds on the Sunday, but lie there drinkin’ porter and readin’ whit the papers says aboot their playactin’.”
“No, nor a theatrical!” cried Jinnet. “I wadna mak’ a show o’ my hoose for ony o’ them: it’s a rale nice wee fair-heided student.”
Erchie threw up his hands in amazement. “Michty me!” said he, “a student. Ye micht as weel hae taen in a brass baun’ or the Cairter’s Trip when ye were at it. Dae ye ken whit students is, Jinnet? I ken them fine, though I was never at the college mysel’, but yince I was engaged to hand roond beer at whit they ca’d a Gaudiamus. Ye have only to tak’ the mildest wee laddie that has bad e’e-sicht and subject to sair heids frae the country and mak’ a student o’ him to rouse the warst passions o’ his nature. His mither, far awa’ in Clachnacudden, thinks he’s hurtin’ his health wi’ ower muckle study, but the only hairm he’s daein’ himsel’ is to crack his voice cryin’ oot impidence to his professors. I’m vexed it’s a student, and a fair-heided yin at that: I’ve noticed that the fair-heided yins were aye the warst.”
“Weel, he’s there onywye, and we’ll jist hae to mak’ the best we can wi’ him,” said Jinnet. “Forbye, I think he’s a guid-leevin’ lad, Erchie; he tellt me he was comin’ oot for a minister.”
“Comin’ oot for a minister!” said Erchie. “Then that’s the last straw! I’m sorry for your chevalier and book-case; he’ll be sclimbin’ int’t some nicht thinkin’ it’s the concealed bed.”
The room door opened, a voice bawled in the lobby, “Mrs MacPherson, hey! Mrs MacPherson,” and the student, without waiting his landlady’s-appearance, walked coolly into the kitchen.
“Hulloo! old chap, how’s biz?” he said to Erchie, and seated himself airily on the table, with a pipe in his mouth. He was a lad of twenty, with spectacles.
“I canna complain,” said Erchie. “I hope ye’re makin’ yersel’ at hame.”
“Allow me for that!” said the student.
“That’s nice,” said Erchie, blandly. “See and no’ be ower blate, and if there’s onything ye’re wantin’ that we havena got, we’ll get it for ye. Ye’ll no’ know whit ye need till ye see whit ye require. It’s a prood day for us to hae a diveenity student in oor room. If we had expected it we wad hae had a harmonium.”
“Never mind the harmonium,” said the student. “For music lean on me, George P. Tod. I sing from morn till dewy eve. When I get up in the morning, jocund day stands on the misty mountain top, and I give weight away to the bloomin’ lark. Shakespeare, Mr MacPherson. The Swan of Avon. He wrote a fairly good play. What I wanted to know was if by any chance Mrs MacPherson was a weepist?”
“Sir?” said Jinnet.
“Do you, by any chance, let the tear doon fa’?”
“Not me!” said Jinnet, “I’m a cheery wee woman.”
“Good!” said Tod. “Then you’re lucky to secure a sympathetic and desirable lodger. To be gay is my forte. The last landlady I had was thrice a widow. She shed the tears of unavailing regret into my lacteal nourishment with the aid of a filler, I think, and the milk got thinner and thinner. I was compelled at last to fold-my tent like the justly celebrated Arabs of song and silently steal away. ‘Why weep ye by the tide, ladye?’ I said to her. ‘If it were by the pint I should not care so much, but methinks your lachrymal ducts are too much on the hair trigger.’ It was no use, she could not help it, and—in short, here I am.”
“I’m shair we’ll dae whit we can for ye,” said Jinnet. “I never had a ludger before.”
“So much the better,” said George Tod. “I’m delighted to be the object of experiment—thecorpus vile, as we say in the classics, Mr MacPher-son,—and you will learn a good deal with me. I will now proceed to burn the essential midnight oil. Ah, thought, thought! You little know, Mr MacPherson, the weary hours of study——”
“It’s no’ ile we hae in the room, it’s gas,” said Erchie. “But if ye wad raither hae ile’, say the word and we’ll get it for ye.”
“Gas will do,” said the student; “it is equally conducive to study, and more popular in all great congeries of thought.”
“When dae ye rise in the mornin’, Mr Tod?” asked Jinnet. “I wad like to ken when I should hae your breakfast ready.”
“Rise!” said Tod. “Oh, any time! ‘When the morn, with russet mantle clad, walks o’er the dew on yon high eastern hill.’”
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“Is’t Garnethill or Gilshochill?” said Erchie, anxiously. “I wad rise, mysel’, early in the mornin’, and gang oot to whichever o’ them it is to see the first meenute the dew comes, so that ye wadna lose ony time in gettin’ up and started wi’ your wark.”
The lodger for the first time looked at his landlord with a suspicious eye. He had a faint fear that the old man might be chaffing him, but the innocence of Erchie’s face restored his perkiness.
“I was only quoting the bard,” he explained, as he left the kitchen. “Strictly speaking, the morn with russet mantle clad can go to the deuce for me, for I have an alarm clock. Do not be startled if you hear it in the morning. It goes off with incredible animation.”
“Oh, Erchie’ isn’t he nice?” said Jinnet, when the lodger had withdrawn. “That smert, and aye talks that jovial, wi’ a lot o’ words I canna mak’ heid nor tail o’.”
Erchie filled his pipe and thought a little. “Smert’s the word, Jinnet,” said he. “That’s whit students is for.”
“I don’t think he’s very strong,” said Jinnet. “If he was in his mither’s hoose she wad be giein’ him hough soup for his dinner. I think I’ll jist mak’ some for him to-morrow, and put a hot-water bottle in his bed.”
“That’s richt,” said Erchie; “and if ye hae a haddie or a kippered herrin’, or onything else handy, it’ll dae for me.”.
“Ye’re jist a haver!” said Jinnet.
For a week George P. Tod was a model lodger. He came in at early hours of the evening and went to bed timeously, and was no great trouble to his landlady, whose cookery exploits in his interest were a great improvement on anything he had ever experienced in lodgings before.
When he was in his room in the evenings Jinnet insisted on the utmost quietness on the part of her husband. “Mr Tod’s at his hame lessons,” she would say. “It’ll no’ dae to disturb him. Oh, that heid wark! that heid wark! It must be an awfu’ thing to hae to be thinkin’ even-on.”
“Heid wark!” said her husband. “I ken the heid wark he’s like enough at; he’s learnin’ the words o’ ‘Mush Mush, tu-ral-i-ady’ to sing at the students’ procession, or he’s busy wi’ a dictionary writin’ hame to his paw to send him a post office order for twa pounds to jine the Y.M.C.A. But he’s no’ thinkin’ o’ jinin’ the Y.M.C.A.; he’s mair likely to start takin’ lessons at a boxin’ cless.”
But even Erchie was compelled to admit that the lad was no unsatisfactory lodger.
“I declare, Jinnet,” he said, “I think he’s yin o’ the kind o’ students ye read aboot but very seldom see. His faither’ll be a wee fairmer up aboot Clachnacudden, hainin’ a’ the money he can, and no’ giein’ his wife her richt meat, that he may see his son through the college and waggin’ his heid in a pulpit. Him and his faither’s the stuff they mak’ the six shillin’ Scotch novells oot o’—the kind ye greet at frae the very, start,—for ye ken the puir lad, that was aye that smert in the school, and won a’ the bursaries, is gaun to dee in the last chapter wi’ a decline.”
“Puir things,” said Jinnet.
“Ye divna see ony signs o’ decline aboot Mr Tod, do ye?” asked Erchie, anxiously.
“I didna notice,” replied Jinnet, “but he taks his meat weel enough.”
“The meat’s the main thing! But watch you if he hasna a hoast and thon hectic flush that aye breaks oot in chapter nine jist aboot the time he wins the gold medal.”
“Och, ye’re jist an auld haver, Erchie,” said the wife. “Ye’re no’ to be frichtenin’ me aboot the puir callant, jist the same age as oor ain Willie.”
The time of the Rectorial Election approached, and Tod began to display some erratic habits. It was sometimes the small hours of the morning before he came home, and though he had a latchkey, Jinnet could never go to bed until her lodger was in for the night. Sometimes she went out to the close-mouth to look if he might be coming, and the first night that, Erchie, coming home late from working at a civic banquet, found her there, Tod narrowly escaped being told to take his two bags and his alarm clock elsewhere.
“I was needin’ a moothfu’ o’ fresh air onywye,” was Jinnet’s excuse for being out at such an hour. “But I’m feared that puir lad’s workin’ himsel’ to death.”
“Whaur dae ye think he’s toilin’?” asked her husband.
“At the nicht-school,” said Jinnet. “I’m shair the college through the day’s plenty for him.”
“The nicht-school!” cried Erchie. “Bonny on the nicht-school! He’s mair likely to be roond in Gibson Street batterin’ in the doors o’ the Conservative committee-rooms, for I ken by his specs and his plush weskit he’s a Leeberal. Come awa’ in to your bed and never mind him. Ye wad be daein’ him a better turn maybe if ye chairged the gazogene to be ready for the mornin’, when he’ll be badly wantin’t, if I’m no’ faur mistaken.” Erchie was right—the-gazogene would have been welcome next morning. As it was, the lodger was indifferent to breakfast, and expressed an ardent desire for Health Salts.
Erchie took them in to him, and found him groaning with a headache.
“The dew’s awfu’ late on the high eastern hills this mornin’, Mr Tod,” said Erchie. “Losh, ye’re as gash as the Laird o’ Garscadden! I’m feart ye’re studyin’ far ower hard; it’s no’ for the young and growin’ to be hurtin’ their heids wi’ nicht-schools and day-schools; ye should whiles tak’ a bit rest to yersel’. And no’ a bit o’ yer breakfast touched! Mrs MacPherson’ll no’ be the pleased woman wi’ ye this day, I can tell ye!”
Tod looked up with a lack-lustre eye. “Thought, Mr MacPherson, thought!” said he. “Hard, incessant, brain-corroding thought! In the words of the Bard of Avon, ‘He who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.’”
“I aye thocht that was ‘Ecclesiastes,’ Mr Tod,” said Erchie, meekly.
“In a way, yes,” hastily admitted Tod. “Itwas‘Ecclesiastes,’ as you say; but Shakespeare had pretty much the same idea. You will find it in—in—in his plays.”
That afternoon began the more serious of Jinnet’s experiences of’ divinity students. Nine young gentlemen with thick walking-sticks visited Tod’s apartmenten masse; the strains of “Mush Mush, tu-ral-i-ady,” bellowed inharmoniously by ten voices, and accompanied by the beating of the walking-sticks on the floor, kept a crowd of children round the close-mouth for hours, and somewhat impeded the ordinary traffic of the street.
“There must be a spree on in auld Mac-Pherson’s,” said the tenement. When Erchie came home he found Jinnet distracted. “Oh, whit a day I’ve had wi’ them students!” she wailed.
“But look at the money ye’re makin’ aff your room,” said her husband. “Wi’ whit ye get frae Tod, ye’ll soon hae enough for the motor, cairrage and a yacht forbye.”
“I’m feart to tell ye, Erchie,” said Jinnet, “but I havena seen the colour o’ his money yet.”
“Study! study!” said Erchie. “Ye canna expect the puir lad to be thinkin’ even-on aboot his lessons, and learnin’ Latin and the rest o’t, no’ to mention ‘Mush Mush,’ and still keep mind o’ your twa or three paltry bawbees.”
“I mentioned it to him on Setturday and he was rale annoyed. He yoked on me and said I was jist as bad as the weedow he lodged wi’ afore; that he was shair I was gaun to let the tear doon-fa’. He gied me warnin’ that if I let the tear doon-fa’ he wad leave.”
“If I was you I wad start greetin’ at yince,” said Erchie. “And he’ll leave onywye, this very Setturday.”
That afternoon the students were having a torchlight procession, when, as usual, most of them marched in masquerade. It was the day of the Rectorial Election, and the dust of far-flung pease-meal—favourite missile of the student—filled the air all over the classic slopes of Gilmorehill. It had been one of Erchie’s idle days; he had been in the house all afternoon, and still was unbedded, though Jinnet for once had retired without waiting the home-coming of her lodger.
There came a riotous singing of student’s along the street, accompanied by the wheezy strains of a barrel-organ, and for twenty minutes uproar reigned at the entrance to the MacPherson’s close.
Then Tod came up and opened the door with his latch-key. He had on part of Erchie’s professional habiliments—the waiter’s dress-coat and also Erchie’s Sunday silk hat, both surreptitiously taken from a press in the lobby. They were foul with pease-meal and the melted rosin from torches. On his shoulders Tod had strapped a barrel-organ, and the noise of it, as it thumped against the door-posts on his entry, brought Erchie out to see what was the matter.
He took in the situation at a glance, though at first he did not recognise his own clothes.
“It’s you, Mr Tod!” said he. “I was jist sittin’ here thinkin’ on ye slavin’ awa’ at your lessons yonder in the Deveenity Hall. It maun be an awfu’ strain on the intelleck. I’m gled I never went to the college mysel’, but jist got my education, as it were, by word o’ mooth.”
Tod breathed heavily. He looked very foolish with his borrowed and begrimed clothes, and the organ on his back, and he realised the fact himself.
“‘S all ri’, Mr MacPherson,” he said. “Music hath charms. Not a word! I found this—this instrument outside, and just took it home. Thought it might be useful. Music in the house makes cheerful happy homes—see advertisements—so I borrowed this from old friend, what’s name —Angina Pectoris, Italian virtuosa, leaving him the monkey. Listen.”
He unslung the organ and was starting to play it in the lobby when Erchie caught him by the arm and restrained him.
“Canny, man, canny,” said he. “Did I no’ think it was a box wi’ your bursary. I never kent richt whit a bursary was, but the lad o’ pairts in the novells aye comes hame wi’ a bursary, and hurts the spine o’ his back carryin’ his prizes frae the college. I jalouse that’s the hectic flush on your face; puir laddie, ye’re no’ lang for this warld.”
Erchie stared more closely at his lodger, and for the first time recognised his own swallow-tail coat.
“My goodness!” said he, “my business coat, and my beadlin’ hat. It was rale ill-done o’ ye, Mr Tod, to tak’ them oot withoot my leave. It’s the first time ever I was ashamed o’ them. Jist a puir auld waiter’s coat and hat. I wonder whit they wad say if they kent o’t up in Clachna-cudden. The auld dominie that was sae prood o’ ye wad be black affronted. My business coat! Tak’ it aff and gang to your bed like a wise man. Leave the hurdy-gurdy on the stair-heid; ye divna ken whit the other monkey micht hae left aboot it, and Jinnet’s awfu’ parteecular.”
Next day Mr Tod got a week’s notice to remove, and went reluctantly, for he knew good lodgings when he got them. He paid his bill when he went, too, “like a gentleman,” as Jinnet put it. “He was a rale cheery wee chap,” she said.
“I’ve seen faur worse,” Erchie admitted’. “Foolish a wee, but Nature, the Rale Oreeginal! I was gey throughither mysel’ when I was his age. Ye never tellt me yet whit ye wanted wi’ the ludging money.”
“I was jist thinkin’ I wad like to see ye wi’ a gold watch the same as Carmichael’s, next door,” said Jinnet. “It’s a thing a man at your time o’ life, and in your poseetion, should hae, and I was ettlin’ to gie ye’t for your New Year.”
“A gold watch!” cried her husband. “Whit nonsense!”
“It’s no’ nonsense at a’,” said Jinnet. “It gies a man a kind o’ bien, weel-daein’ look, and I thocht I could mak’ enough aff ludgers to buy ye yin.”
“If it was for that ye wanted the ludger, and no’ for a motor cairrage,” said Erchie, “I’m gled Tod’s awa’. You and your watch! I wad be a bonny like la-di-da wi’ a watch at the waitin’; the folks wad be feared to tip me in case I wad be angry wi’ them.”
And so Erchie has not yet got a gold watch.
Erchie’s goodwife came to him one day full of thrilling news from the dairy, where she had been for twopence worth of sticks.
“Oh, Erchie, dae ye ken the latest?” said she. “The big fat yin in the dairy’s gaun to mairry Duffy!”
“Lord peety Duffy! Somebody should tell the puir sowl she has her e’e on him. I’ll bate ye he disna’ ken onything aboot it,” said Erchie.
“Havers!” said Jinnet. “It’s him that’s wantin’ her, and I’m shair it’s a guid thing, for his hoose is a’ gaun to wreck and ruin since his last wife dee’d. Every time he comes hame to dry his claes on a wet day he’s doon in the dairy for anither bawbee’s worth o’ mulk. The man’s fair hoved up wi’ drinkin’ mulk he’s no’ needin’. I hae catched him there that aften that he’s kind o’ affronted to see me. ‘I’m here again, Mrs MacPherson,’ says he to me yesterday when I went doon and found him leanin’ ower the coonter wi’ a tumbler in his haund. He was that ta’en he nearly dropped the gless.”
“It wasna for the want o’ practice—I’ll wager ye that!” said Erchie. “He could haud a schooner a hale nicht and him haulf sleepin’.”
“‘I’m here again,’ says he, onywye; ‘the doctor tellt me yon time I had the illness I was to keep up my strength. There’s a lot o’ nourishment in mulk.’ And the big yin’s face was as red as her short-goon.
“‘It’s a blessin’ the health, Mr Duffy,’ says I; ‘we divna ken whit a mercy it is till we lose it,’ and I never said anither word, but took my bit sticks and cam’ awa’.”
“And is that a’ ye hae to gang on to be blamin’ the chap?” said Erchie. “Mony’s a man’ll tak’ a gless o’ mulk and no’ go ower faur wi’t. But I think mysel’ ye’re maybe richt aboot the big yin, for I see Duffy’s shaved aff his Paisley whiskers, and wears a tie on the Sundays.”
Less than a week later the girl in the dairy gave in her notice, and Duffy put up the price of coals another ha’penny. He came up the stair with two bags for Jinnet, who was one of his customers.
“Whit wye are they up a bawbee the day?” says she.
“It’s because o’ the Americans dumpin’,” said Duffy. “They’re takin’ a’ the tred frae us, and there’s a kind o’ tariff war.”
“Bless me!, is there, anither war?” said Jinnet. “Weel, they’re gettin’ a fine day for’t onywye. I hope it’ll no’ put up the price o’ the mulk.”
Duffy looked at her and laughed uneasily. “I’m kind o’ aff the mulk diet the noo,” he said, seeing disguise was useless. “Ye’re gey gleg, you weemen. I needna be tellin’ ye me and big Leezie’s sort o’ chief this while back.”
“Man! dae ye tell me?” said Jinnet, innocently. “A rale dacent lassie, and bakes a bonny scone. And she’s to be the new mistress, is she? We’ll hae to be savin’ up for the jeely-pan. I’m shair I aye tellt Erchie a wife was sair wanted in your hoose since Maggie dee’d.”
“Jist at the very time I was thrangest,” said Duffy, with regret. “I was awfu’ chawed at her.”
“Ye’ll hae to bring yer lass up to see me and Erchie some nicht,” said Jinnet. “It’s a tryin’ time the mairryin’.”
“There faur ower mony palavers aboot it,” confided the coalman. “I wish it was ower and done wi’, and I could get wearin’ my grauvit at nicht again. Leezie’s awfu’ pernicketty aboot me haein’ on a collar when we gang for a walk.”
“Oh, ye rascal!” said Jinnet roguishly. “You men! you men! Ah, the coortin’ time’s the best time.”
“Ach! it’s richt enough, I daursay; but there’s a lot o’ nonsense aboot it. Ye get awfu’ cauld feet standin’ in the close. And it’s aye in yer mind. I went to Leezie’s close-mooth the ither nicht to whistle on her, and did I no’ forget, and cry oot ‘Coal!’ thinkin’ I was on business.”
And thus it was that Jinnet’s tea-party came about. The tender pair of pigeons were the guests of honour, and Jinnet’s niece, and Macrae the night policeman, were likewise invited. Macrae was there because Jinnet thought her niece at thirty-five was old enough to marry. Jinnet did not know that he had drunk milk in Leezie’s dairy before Duffy had gone there, and he himself had come quite unsuspicious of whom he should meet. In all innocence Jinnet had brought together the elements of tragedy.
There was something cold in the atmosphere of the party. Erchie noticed it. “Ye wad think it was a Quaker’s meetin’,” he said to himself as all his wife’s efforts to encourage an airy conversation dismally failed.
“See and mak’ yer tea o’t, Mr Macrae,” she said to the night policeman. “And you, Sarah, I wish ye would tak’ yin o’ thae penny things, and pass the plate to Mr Duffy. Ye’ll excuse there bein’ nae scones, Mr Duffy; there hasna been a nice scone baked in the dairy since Leezie left. There’s wan thing ye’ll can be shair o’ haein’ when ye’re mairret till her, and that’s guid bakin’.”
Macrae snorted.
“What’s the maitter wi’ dough-feet, I wonder?” thought Erchie, as innocent as his wife was of any complication. “That’s the worst o’ askin’ the polis to yer pairties,—they’re no’ cless; and I’m shair, wi’ a’ Jinnet’s contrivance, Sarah wadna be made up wi’ him.”
“A wee tate mair tea, Mr Macrae? Leezie, gie me Mr Macrae’s cup if it’s oot.”
Macrae snorted again. “I’ll not pe puttin’ her to the bother, Mrs MacPherson,” said he.
“Murdo Macrae can pe passin’ his own teacups wisout botherin’ anybody.”
“Dough-feet’s in the dods,” thought Erchie, to whom the whole situation was now, for the first time, revealed like a flash.
“I think, Jinnet,” said he, “ye wad hae been nane the waur o’ a pun’ or twa o’ conversation-losengers.”
They ate oranges after tea, but still a depression hung upon the company like a cloud, till Erchie asked Macrae if he would sing.
“Onything ye like,” said he, “as lang’s it’s no’ yin o’ yer tartan chats that has a hunder verses, and that needs ye to tramp time wi’ yer feet till’t. I’ve a flet fit mysel’, though my hert’s warm, and I’m nae use at batin’ time.”
Macrae looked at Leezie, who had all night studiously evaded his eye, cleared his throat, and started to sing a song with the chorus—
“Fause Maggie Jurdan,
She"made my life a burden;
I don’t want to live,
And I’m gey sweart to dee.
She’s left me a’ forlorn,
And I wish I’d ne’er been born,
Since fause Maggie Jurdan
Went and jilted me.”
Leezie only heard one verse, and then began hysterically to cry.
“Look you here, Mac,” broke in Erchie, “could ye no’ mak’ it the sword dance, or the Hoolichan, or something that wadna harrow oor feelin’s this way?”
“Onything that’ll gie us a rest,” said Duffy, soothing his fiancee. “The nicht air’s evidently no’ very guid for the voice.”
“Coals!” cried the policeman, in a very good imitation of Duffy’s business wail; and at that Leezie had to be assisted into the kitchen by the other two women.
Duffy glared at his jealous and defeated rival, thought hard of something withering to hurl at him, and then said “Saps!”
“What iss that you are saying?” asked Macrae. “Saps! Big Saps! That’s jist whit ye are,” said Duffy. “If I wasna engaged I wad gie ye yin in the ear.”
Jinnet’s tea-party broke up as quickly as possible after that. When her guests had gone, and she found herself alone in the kitchen with Erchie and the tea dishes he carried in for her, she fell into a chair and wept.
“I’ll never hae anither tea-pairty, and that’s tellin’ ye,” she exclaimed between her sobs. “Fancy a’ that cairry-on ower a big, fat, cat-witted cratur like thon! Her and her lads!”
“It’s a’ richt, Jinnet,” said Erchie; “you syne oot the dishes and I’ll dry them if ye’ll feenish yer greetin’. It’s no’ the last tea-pairty we’ll hae if we hae oor health, but the next yin ye hae see and pick the company better.”
You are looking somewhat tired, Erchie,” I said to the old man on Saturday. “I suppose you were waiter at some dinner last night?”
“Not me!” said he promptly. “I wasna at my tred at a’ last nicht; I was wi’ Jinnet at the Clachnacudden conversashion. My! but we’re gettin’ grand. You should hae seen the twa o’ us sittin’ as hard as onything in a corner o’ the hall watchin’ the young yins dancin’, and wishin’ we were hame. Och, it’s a fine thing a conversashion; there’s naething wrang wi’t; it’s better nor standin’ aboot the street corners, or haudin’ up the coonter at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults. But I’ll tell ye whit, it’s no’ much o’ a game for an auld couple weel ower sixty, though no’ compleenin’, and haein’ their health, and able to read the smallest type withoot specs. I wadna hae been there at a’, but Macrae, the nicht polisman that’s efter Jinnet’s niece, cam’ cravin’ me to buy tickets.”
“‘I’m no’ a Clachnacudden native,’ says I till him. ‘If it was a reunion o’ the natives o’ Gorbals and district, it micht be a’ richt, for that’s the place I belang to; and if a’ the auld natives cam’ to a Gorbals swaree I micht get some o’ the money some o’ them’s owin’ me. But Clachnacudden!—I never saw the place; I aye thocht it was jist yin o’ thae comic names they put on the labels o’ the whisky bottles to mak’ them look fancy.’
“Ye’ll no’ believ’t, but Macrae, bein’ Hielan’ and no’ haein richt English, was that angry for me sayin’ that aboot Clachnacudden, that he was nearly breakin’ the engagement wi’ Jinnet’s niece, and I had to tak’ the tickets at the hinder-end jist for peace’ sake. Jinnet said it was a bonny-like thing spilin’ Sarah’s chances for the sake o’ a shillin’ or twa.
“So that’s the wye I was wi’ the Clachnacudden chats. Dae ye no’ feel the smell o’ peat-reek aff me? If it wasna that my feet were flet I could gie ye the Hielan’ Fling.
“But thae natives’ reunions in Gleska’s no’ whit they used to be. They’re gettin’ far ower genteel. It’ll soon be comin’ to’t that ye’ll no’ can gang to ony o’ them unless ye have a gold watch and chain, a dress suit, and £10 in the Savin’s Bank. It used to be in the auld days when I went to natives’ gatherin’s for fun, and no’ to please the nicht polis, that they were ca’d a swaree and ball, and the ticket was four-and-six for yoursel’ and your pairtner. If ye didna get the worth o’ your money there was something wrang wi’ your stomach, or ye werena very smert. Mony a yin I’ve bin at, either in the wye o’ tred, or because some o’ Jinnet’s Hielan’ kizzens cam’ up to the hoose in their kilts to sell us tickets. There was nae dress suits nor fal-lals aboot a reunion in thae days; ye jist put on your Sunday claes and some scent on your hanky, wi’ a dram in your pocket (if ye werena in the committee), turned up the feet o’ your breeks, and walked doon to the hall in the extra-wide welt shoes ye were gaun to dance in. Your lass—or your wife, if it was your wife—sat up the nicht before, washin’ her white shawl and sewin’ frillin’ on the neck o’ her guid frock, and a’ the expense ye had wi’ her if ye werena merried to her was that ye had to buy her a pair o’ white shammy leather gloves, size seeven.
“A’ the auld folk frae Clachnacudden in Gleska were at thae swarees, as weel as a’ the young folk. Ye were packed in your sates like red herrin’ in a barrel, and on every hand ye heard folk tearin’ the tartan and misca’in’ somebody at hame in Clachnacudden. The natives wi’ the dress suits that had got on awfu’ weel in Gleska at the speerit tred or keepin’ banks, sat as dour as onything on the pletform lettin’ on they couldna speak the tartan. Ithers o’ them—that had the richt kind o’ legs for’t—wad hae on the kilts, wi’ a white goat-skin sporran the size o’ a door-bass hung doon to their knees foment them, haudin’ in their breaths in case the minister wad smell drink aff them, and tryin’ to feel like Rob Roy or Roderick Dhu.
“In thae days they started oot wi’ giein’ ye tea and a poke o’ fancy breid—penny things like London buns and fruit-cakes; and between the speeches oranges were passed roond, and wee roond hard sweeties, fine for pappin’ at the folk in front. Ye aye made a guid tea o’t, the same as if’ ye never saw tea in your life afore, and preferred it weel biled.
“When the tea was bye and the boys were blawin’ as much breath as they had left into the empty pokes, and bangin’ them aff like cannons, the chairman wad stand up on the pletform and make a speech aboot Clachnacudden. I used to ken that speech by hert; it was the same yin for a’ the natives’ reunions. He said that Clachnacudden was the bonniest place ever onybody clapped eyes on. That the Clachnacudden men, were notorious a’ ower the world for their honesty and push, and aye got on like onything if they were tryin’, and didna tak’ to the drink; and that the Clachnacuddem lassies were that braw, and nice, and smert, they were lookit up to every place they went. When he said that the natives o’ Clachnacudden kent fine it was the God’s truth he was tellin’ them, they got on their feet and waved their hankies and cheered for ten meenutes.
“Havin’ taken a drink o’ watter frae the caraffe at his side—efter makin’ a mistake and tryin’ to blaw the froth aff the tumbler—the chairman then begood generally to say that Gleska was a gey cauld, sooty, dirty, wicked place for onybody to hae to live in that had been born in the bonny wee glens, and the hulls, and hedges, and things aboot Clachnacudden, but still
‘Their herts were true, their herts were Hielan’,
And they in dreams beheld the Hebrides.’
At that ye wad see the hale o’ the Clachnacudden folk puttin’ whit was left o’ their pastry in their pouches and haudin’ their hankies wi’ baith hands to their e’en to kep the tears frae rinnin’ on their guid waistcoats or their silk weddin’-goons. And the droll thing was that for a’ they misca’d Gleska, and grat aboot Clachnacudden, ye couldna get yin o’ them to gang back to Clachnacudden if ye pyed the train ticket and guaranteed a pension o’ a pound a week.
“Clachnacudden bein’ Hielan’, they aye started the music efter the chairman’s speech wi’ a sang frae Harry Linn ca’d ‘Jock Macraw, the Fattest Man in the Forty-Twa,’ or some ither sang that kind o’ codded themsel’s. Then the minister made a comic speech wi’ jokes in’t, and tried to look as game as onything; and the folk frae Clachnacudden leaned forrit on their sates and asked the wifes in front if they had mind when his mither used to work in the tawtie field. ‘Fancy him a minister!’ says they, ‘and tryin’ to be comic, wi’ his mither jist yin o’ the Mac-Taggarts!’ A’ the time the puir minister was thinkin’ he was daein’ fine, and wonderin’ if ‘The Oban Times’ was takin’ doon a’ his speech.
“And then a lot o’ nyafs in the back sates aye began to heave orange-peelin’s at folk that was daein’ them nae hairm.
“Efter the swaree was ower, the weemen went into the ladies’ room to tak’ aff their galoshes, and tak’ the preens oot o’ their trains, and the men went ower to the Duke o’ Wellington Bar, rinnin’ like onything, for it was nearly eleeven o’clock. The folk the hall belanged to started to tak’ oot the sates for the dancin’, and sweep the corks aff the floor; and at eleeven prompt the Grand Merch started. Whiles they had Adams’s or Ilfs band, and whiles they jist had Fitzgerald, the fiddler that used to play on the Lochgoilhead boat. It didna maitter, for a’ the Clachnacudden folk were fine strong dancers, and could dance to onything. Man! I aye liked the Grand Merch. The man wi’ the reddest kilts aye started it at the Clachnacudden, and when the Grand Merch got a’ fankled, they jist started ‘Triumph,’ and did the best they could.
“That was in the grand auld days afore they got genteel. Nooadays, as I’m tellin’ ye, it’s a’ conversashions, and they work aff their speeches on ye wi’ no tea at a’ and no pokes o’ pastry, nor naething. Ye’re no use unless ye hae the lend o’ a dress suit, and your pairtner has to ‘hae pipe-clyed shoon, a muslin frock no’ richt hooked at the neck, her hair put up at Bamber’s, and a cab to tak’ her hame in. It’s naething but the waltzin’. I’m prood to say I never waltzed in a’ my born days, though they say I have the richt kind o’ feet for’t, me bein’ so lang at the waitin’. And a’ they auld classic dances, like La-va and the Guaracha Waltz and Circassian Circle’s oot o’ date \ I havena even seen Petronella for mony a day.
“And the music’s a’ spiled; it’s a’ fancy music they hae noo, wi’ nae tune ye can sing to’t as ye gang up the back or doon the middle. Ye’ll see them yonder wi’ their piano, three fiddles, and a cornet. If I was gaun to hae a cornet I wad hae a cornet and no’ a brass feenisher.
“Ye’ll no’ see ony o’ the dacent auld Clachnacudden folk at their modern reunions; the puir sowls has to bide at hame and gang to their beds early that they may get up in time to mak’ a cup o’ tea for their dochters that was at the conversashion. No; Jinnet and me’s no’ keen on Clachnacudden or onything o’ the kind nooa-days: we wad faur sooner stay at hame and read ‘The Weekly Mail.’”