We are a quiet, law-abiding people doon here in Saltcoats. Indeed, I havna seen a polisman for sax weeks, an' trooly when I think o' hoo happy we a' are I'm aye reminded o' the hundred and thirty-third Saum.
Being orderly folk, an' in oor beds at a proper oor, the street-lamps are a' screwed oot every nicht at twal o'clock—an' quite late eneuch tae, for if folk are no hame by that time they should be. Oor gas, I may remark, is cheaper and better than the Glasgow thing; altho' we don't make a great wark aboot it bein' equal ta sae mony "caunle po'er," an' ither nonsense o' that kin'. Bein' savin' folk, moreover, on nichts when the mune's up the lamps are no lichtit at a'. It wad be o' nae use, you see, an' a perfect throwin' awa o' gas. But that brings me to what I was goin' tae say.
The ither nicht, though it wis vera dark, no a lamp was lichtet, a matter that rather bothered the inhabitants. By-an'-by a few o' the principal folk cam' doon tae my place jist as I wis closin', an' after a bit crack we made up oor mind tae gie a ca' on the lamplighter. The reg'lar man wisthrough at Kirkliston—he's East country himsel', if I don't mistak he belangs tae Manuel—buryin' his wife's auntie; so it wis jist, as ye micht say, a depute-proxy that wis daein' the wark. Weel, we daunnert up tae this depute-proxy's hoose; bit he wis in bed, on' a' oor chappin' at the door couldna rouse him. Seein' this, we borrow't a lether, frae a slater that steys next door, an' twa o' the ithers steadin' it, I crept up the rungs an' twirlt at the window wi' my fingers, singin' a' the time—
O are ye sleeping, Wullie!O are ye sleeping, Wullie!O are ye——
O are ye sleeping, Wullie!O are ye sleeping, Wullie!O are ye——
O are ye sleeping, Wullie!O are ye sleeping, Wullie!O are ye——
"Whit ye oh-in' at?" cries Wullie, comin' tae the window: "a body wid think it wis some lass you were serenadin'."
"Wullie," says I solemnly, "what's this ye hae been daein' at a' at a'?"
"I've been daein' naething but sleepin': it's you that's kicking up the row."
"But ye hivna lichtet the lamps the nicht."
"This is no my nicht: it's the mune the nicht."
"Surely ye've made a mistak, Wullie: there's nae mune that I see."
"I've made nae mistak, for I lookit the almanac."
"But will ye no listen tae reason? Put yer heid oot an' see for yersel'."
Wullie put his heid oot. "Woel," he says, "there's nae mune, certainly; but ye surely widna hae me responsible for that. I go by the almanac; an' if it says there's to be a mune, it's a' one tae me whether there's nae mune or a million o' munes, not a lamp will I licht."
"That's quite richt, Wullie: nae doot ye maun hae some rule to go by—Gentlemen," I cries doon, "he has the best o' the argument: what am I tae dae noo?"
"Haul him oot the window," they cried up.
"Oh! if ye're goin' tae begin fechtin' I'll come doon," I replies, "and let some o' the rest o' ye up." But they cried, that I'd better jist settle it when I wis there, so I says, "Wullie, whit almanac d'ye go by? Is't Orr's, or the Belfast?"
"Here it's up on the mantlepiece, ye can see it for yersel';" and he took it doon, an' held it oot tae me, giein' me a cannle at the same time to read it by. One look, hooever, explainedthe hale affair. "Gracious guidness, Wullie," I cries, "this is last year's!"
"Eh! what! last year's?"
"It is that," says I.
"Mr Kaye," says Wullie, "don't say another word. Wait a minute, an' I'll put on my troosers, an' in hauf an oor every lamp'll be shinin' sae that ye wid think it wis a general illumination."
He wis as guid as his word; an' we a' accompanied him on his rounds, an' the cheers the laddies gied as each lamp wis lichtet wid 'a' dune yer hert guid. We had a meetin' in the coalree afterwards; an' I proposed that Wullie, for his strict attention tae duty—it was only an error o' judgment he had made, very different frae carelessness—should get the first vacant place we had, at a guid wage; an' the motion wis carried, an' Wullie an' us a' went hame happy.