Read the book: «Erchie, My Droll Friend», page 3
VI MRS DUFFY DESERTS HER MAN
They’re yatterin’ awa’ in the papers there like sweetie-wives aboot Carlyle and his wife,” said Erchie. “It’s no’ the thing at a’ makin’ an exposure. I kent Carlyle fine; he had a wee baker’s shop in Balmano Brae, and his wife made potted heid. It was quite clean; there was naething wrang wi’t. If they quarrelled it was naebody’s business but their ain.
“It’s a gey droll hoose whaur there’s no’ whiles a rippit. Though my fit’s flet my hert’s warm; but even me and Jinnet hae a cast-oot noo and then. I’m aye the mair angry if I ken I’m wrang, and I’ve seen me that bleezin’ bad tempered that I couldna light my pipe, and we wadna speak to ane anither for oors and oors.
“It’ll come to nicht, and me wi’ a job at waitin’ to gang to, and my collar that hard to button I nearly break my thoombs.
“For a while Jinnet’ll say naethin’, and then she’ll cry, ‘See’s a haud o’t, ye auld fuiter!’ I’ll be glowerin’ awfu’ solemn up at the corner o’ the ceilin’ when she’s workin’ at the button, lettin’ on I’m fair ferocious yet, and she’ll say, Whit are ye glowerin’ at? Dae ye see ony spiders’ webs?’
“‘No, nor spiders’ webs,’ I says, as gruff as onything. ‘I never saw a spider’s web in this hoose.’
“At that she gets red in the face and tries no’ to laugh.
“‘There ye are laughin’! Ye’re bate!’ I says.
“So are you laughin’,’ says she; ‘and I saw ye first. Awa’, ye’re daft! Will I buy onything tasty for your supper?’
“Duffy’s different. I’m no’ blamin’ him, for his wife’s different too. When they quarrel it scandalises the close and gies the land a bad name. The wife washes even-on, and greets into her washin’-byne till she mak’s the water cauld, and Duffy sits a’ nicht wi’ his feet on the kitchen-hobs singin’ ‘Boyne Water,’ because her mither was a Bark, called M’Ginty, and cam’ frae Connaught. The folk in the flet abin them hae to rap doon at them wi’ a poker afore they’ll get their nicht’s sleep, and the broken delf that gangs oot to the ash-pit in the mornin’ wad fill a crate.
“I’m no’ sayin’, mind ye, that Duffy doesna like her; it’s jist his wye, for he hasna ony edication. He was awfu’ vexed the time she broke her leg; it pit him aff his wark for three days, and he spent the time lamentin’ aboot her doon in the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults.
“The biggest row they ever had that I can mind o’ was aboot the time the weemen wore the dolmans. Duffy’s wife took the notion o’ a dolman, and told him that seein’ there was a bawbee up in the bag o’ coal that week she thocht he could very weel afford it.
“‘There’s a lot o’ things we’ll hae to get afore the dolman,’ says he; ‘I’m needin’ a new kep mysel’, and I’m in a menoj for a bicycle.’
“‘I’m fair affronted wi’ my claes,’ says she; ‘I havena had onything new for a year or twa, and there’s Carmichael’s wife wi’ her, sealskin jaicket.’
“‘Let her!’ says Duffy; ‘wi’ a face like thon she’s no’ oot the need o’t.’
“They started wi’ that and kept it up till the neighbours near brocht doon the ceilin’ on them.
“‘That’s the worst o’ leevin’ in a close,’ said Duffy, ‘ye daurna show ye’re the maister in yer ain hoose withoot a lot o’ nyafs above ye spilin’ a’ the plaister.’
“Duffy’s wife left him the very next day, and went hame to her mither’s. She left oot clean sox for him and a bowl o’ mulk on the dresser in case he micht be hungry afore he could mak’ his ain tea.
“When Duffy cam’ hame and found whit had happened, he was awfu’ vexed for himsel’ and begood to greet.
“I heard aboot the thing, and went in to see him, and found him drinkin’ the mulk and eatin’ shaves o’ breid at twa bites to the shave the same as if it was for a wager.
“‘Isn’t this an awfu’ thing that’s come on me, MacPherson?’ says he; ‘I’m nae better nor a weedower except for the mournin’s.’
“‘It hasna pit ye aff yer meat onywye, says I.
“‘Oh!’ he says, ‘ye may think I’m callous, but I hae been greetin’ for twa oors afore I could tak’ a bite, and I’m gaun to start again as soon as I’m done wi’ this mulk.’
“‘Ye should gang oot,’ I tells him, ‘and buy the mistress a poke o’ grapes and gang roond wi’t to her mither’s and tell her ye’re an eediot and canna help it.’
“But wad he? No fears o’ him!
“‘Oh! I can dae fine withoot her,’ he tells me quite cocky. ‘I could keep a hoose wi’ my least wee bit touch.’
“‘Ye puir deluded crature,’ I tell’t him, ‘ye micht as well try to keep a hyena. It looks gey like a collie-dug, but it’ll no’ sup saps, and a hoose looks an awfu’ simple thing till ye try’t; I ken fine because Jinnet aften tellt me.’
“He begood to soop the floor wi’ a whitenin’-brush, and put the stour under the bed.
“‘Go on,’ says I, ‘ye’re daein’ fine for a start. A’ ye want’s a week or twa at the nicht-schools, where they learn ye laundry-work and cookin’, and when ye’re at it ye should tak’ lessons in scientific dressmakin’. I’ll look for ye comin’ up the street next week wi’ the charts under your oxter and your lad wi’ ye.’
“For a hale week Duffy kept his ain hoose.
“He aye forgot to buy sticks for the fire at nicht, and had to mak’ it in the mornin’ wi’ a dizzen or twa o’ claes-pins. He didna mak’ tea, for he couldna tak’ tea withoot cream till’t, and he couldna get cream because he didna ken the wye to wash a poorie, so he made his breakfast o’ cocoa and his tea o’ cocoa till he was gaun aboot wi’ a broon taste in his mooth.
“On the Sunday he tried to mak’ a dinner, and biled the plates wi’ soap and soda to get the creesh aff them when he found it wadna come aff wi’ cauld water and a washin’-clout.
“‘Hoo are ye gettin’ on in yer ain bonny wee hoose noo?’ I asks him ae dirty, wet, cauld day, takin’ in a bowl o’ broth to him frae Jinnet.
“‘Fine,’ says he, quite brazen; ‘it’s jist like haein’ a yacht. I could be daein’ first-rate if it was the summer-time.’
“He wore them long kahoutchy boots up to your knees on wet days at his wark, and he couldna get them aff him withoot a hand frae his wife, so he had jist to gang to his bed wi’ them on. He ordered pipe-clay by the hunderwicht and soap by the yard; he blackleaded his boots, and didna gang to the kirk because he couldna get on his ain collar.
“;Duffy,’ I says, ‘ye’ll mak’ an awfu’ nice auld wife if ye leeve lang enough. I’ll hae to get Jinnet started to knit ye a Shetland shawl.’
“Efter a week it begood to tell awfu’ bad on Duffy’s health. He got that thin, and so wake in the voice he lost orders, for a wheen o’ his auldest customers didna ken him when he cried, and gave a’ their tred to MacTurk, the coalman, that had a wife and twa sisters-in-law to coother him up wi’ beef-tea on wet days and a’ his orders.
“Duffy’s mind was affected too; he gave the richt wicht, and lost twa chances in ae day o’ pittin’ a ha’penny on the bag wi’ auld blin’ weemen that couldna read his board.
“Then he ca’d on a doctor. The doctor tellt him he couldna mak’ it oot at a’, but thocht it was appen – what d’ye ca’t? – the same trouble as the King had, and that Duffy had it in five or six different places. There was naething for him but carefu’ dietin’ and a voyage to the Cape.
“That very day Duffy, gaun hame frae his wark gey shauchly, wi’ a tin o’ salmon in his pooch for his tea, saw his wife comin’ doon the street. When she saw him she turned and ran awa’, and him efter her as hard’s he could pelt. She thocht he was that wild he was gaun to gie her a clourin’; and she was jist fair bate wi’ the runnin’ when he caught up on her in a back coort.
“‘Tig!’ says Duffy, touchin’ her; ‘you’re het!’
“‘Oh, Jimmy!’ she says, ‘are ye in wi’ me?’
“‘Am I no’?’ says Duffy, and they went hame thegither.
“‘There was a stranger in my tea this mornin’,’ says Duffy: ‘I kent fine somebody wad be comin’.’
“His wife tellt Jinnet a while efter that that she was a great dale the better o’ the rest she got the time she went hame to her mither’s; it was jist the very thing she was needin’; and, forbye, she got the dolman.”
VII CARNEGIE’S WEE LASSIE
Erchie sought me out on Saturday with a copy of that day’s ‘News’ containing a portrait of Carnegie’s little daughter Margaret.
“Man, isn’t she the rale wee divert?” said he, glowing. “That like her faither, and sae weel-put-on! She minds me terrible o’ oor wee Teenie when she was jist her age.”
“She has been born into an enviable state, Erchie,” I said.
“Oh, I’m no’ sae shair aboot that,” said Erchie.
“It’s a gey hard thing, whiles, bein’ a millionaire’s only wean. She canna hae mony wee lassies like hersel’ to play the peever wi’, or lift things oot o’ the stanks o’ Skibo Castle wi’ a bit o’ clye and a string. I’m shair it must be a hard job for the auld man, her paw, to provide diversions for the puir wee smout. And she’ll hae that mony things that she’ll no’ can say whit she wants next. I ken fine the wye it’ll be up yonder at Skibo.
“It’ll be, ‘Paw, I’m wantin’ something.’
“‘Whit is’t, my dawtie, and ye’ll get it to break?’ Mr Carnegie’ll say, and lift her on his knee, and let her play wi’ the works o’ his twa thoosand pound repeater watch.
“‘I dinna’ ken,’ says the wee lassie, ‘but I want it awfu’ fast.’
“‘Whit wad ye be sayin’ to an electric doll wi’ a phonograph inside it to mak’ it speak?’ asks Mr Carnegie.
“‘I’m tired o’ dolls,’ says the wee yin, ‘and, besides, I wad raither dae the speakin’ mysel’.’
“‘Ye’re a rale wee woman there, Maggie,’ says her paw.
“‘Weel, whit dae ye say to a wee totey motorcar a’ for your ain sel’, and jewelled in four-and-twenty holes?’ says he efter that, takin’ the hands o’ his watch frae her in case she micht swallow them.
“‘Oh! a motor-car,’ says the wee lassie. ‘No, I’m no carin’ for ony mair motor-cars; ‘I canna get takin’ them to my bed wi’ me.’
“‘Ye’re weel aff there,’ says he. ‘I’ve had the hale o’ the Pittsburg works to my bed wi’ me,’ he says. ‘They were in my heid a’ the time when I couldna sleep, and they were on my chest a’ the time when I was sleepin’?’
“‘Whit wye that, paw?’ says the wee lassie. “‘I was feart something wad gae wrang, and I wad lose a’ the tred, and be puir again.’
“‘But I thocht ye wanted to die puir, paw?’ says the wee lassie.
“‘Ay, but I never had ony notion o’ leevin’ puir,’ says Mr Carnegie as smert’s ye like, ‘and that mak’s a’ the difference. If ye’re, no’ for anither motor carriage, wad ye no’ tak’ a new watch?’
“‘No, paw,’ says the wee lassie, ‘I’m no’ for anither watch. The only thing a watch tells ye is when it’s time to gang to bed, and then I’m no wantin’ to gang onywye. Whit I wad like wad be ane o’ thae watches that has haunds that dinna move when ye’re haein’ awfu’ fine fun.’
“‘Oh, ay!’ says her paw at that; ‘that’s the kind we’re a’ wantin’, but they’re no’ makin’ them, and I’m no’ shair that I wad hae muckle use for yin nooadays eyen if they were. If ye’ll no’ hae a watch, will ye hae a yacht, or a brass band, or a fleein’-machine, or a piebald pony?’
“‘I wad raither mak’ mud-pies,’ says the wee innocent.
“‘Mud-pies!’ cries her faither in horror, lookin’ roond to see that naebody heard her. ‘Wheesh! Maggie, it wadna look nice to see the like o’ you makin’ mud-pies. Ye havena the claes for’t. Beside, I’m tellt they’re no’ the go nooadays at a’.
“‘Weel,’ says she at that, ‘I think I’ll hae a hairy-heided lion.’
“‘Hairy-heided lion. Right!’ says Mr Carnegie. ‘Ye’ll get that, my wee lassie,” and cries doon the turret stair to the kitchen for his No. 9 secretary.
“The No. 9 secretary comes up in his shirt sleeves, chewin’ blot-sheet and dichting the ink aff his elbows.
“‘Whit are ye thrang at the noo?’ asks Mr Carnegie as nice as onything to him, though he’s only a kind o’ a workin’ man.
“‘Sendin’ aff the week’s orders for new kirk organs,’ says the No. 9 secretary, ‘and it’ll tak’ us till Wednesday.’
“‘Where’s a’ the rest o’ my secretaries?’ asks Mr Carnegie.
“‘Half o’ them’s makin’ oot cheques for new leebraries up and doon the country, and the ither halfs oot in the back-coort burning letters frae weedows wi’ nineteen weans, nane o’ them daein’ for themsel’s, and frae men that were dacent and steady a’ their days, but had awfu’ bad luck.’
“‘If it gangs on like this we’ll hae to put ye on the night-shift,’ says Mr Carnegie. ‘It’s comin’ to’t when I hae to write my ain letters. I’ll be expected to write my ain books next. But I’ll no’ dae onything o’ the kind. Jist you telegraph to India, or Africa, or Japan, or wherever the hairy-heided lions comes frae, and tell them to send wee Maggie ane o’ the very best at 50 per cent aff for cash.’
“Early ae mornin’ some weeks efter that, when the steam-hooter for wakenin’ the secretaries starts howlin’ at five o’clock, Mr Carnegie comes doon stair and sees the hairy-heided lion in a crate bein’ pit aff a lorry. He has it wheeled into the wee lassie when she’s at her breakfast.
“‘Let it oot,’ she says; ‘I want to play wi’t.’
“‘Ye wee fuiter!’ he says, lauchin’ like onything, ‘ye canna get playin’ wi’t oot o’ the cage, but ye’ll can get feedin’t wi’ sultana-cake.’
“But that disna suit wee Maggie, and she jist tells him to send it awa’ to the Bronx Zoo in New York.
“‘Bronx Zoo. Right!’ says her paw, and cries on his No. 22 secretary to send it aff wi’ the parcel post at yince.
“‘That minds me,’ he says, ‘there’s a cryin’ heed for hairy-heided lions all over Europe and the United States. The moral and educative influence o’ the common or bald-heided lion is of no account. Noo that maist o’ the kirks has twa organs apiece, and there’s a leebrary in every clachan in the country, I must think o’ some ither wye o’ gettin’ rid o’ this cursed wealth. It was rale’ cute o’ you, Maggie, to think o’t; I’ll pay half the price o’ a hairy-heided lion for every toon in the country wi’ a population o’ over five hundred that can mak’ up the ither half by public subscription.’
“And then the wee lassie says she canna tak’ her parridge.
“‘Whit for no’?’ he asks her, anxious-like. ‘Are they no guid?’
“‘Oh, they’re maybe guid enough,’ she says, ‘but I wad raither hae toffie.’
“‘Toffie. Right!’ says her paw, and orders up the chef to mak’ toffie in a hurry.
“‘Whit’s he gaun to mak’ it wi’?’ asks the wee yin.
“‘Oh, jist in the ordinar’ wye – wi’ butter and sugar,’ says her paw.
“‘That’s jist common toffie,’ says the wee lassie; ‘I want some ither kind.’
“‘As shair’s death, Maggie,’ he says, ‘there’s only the ae wye o’ makin’ toffie.’
“‘Then whit’s the use o’ haein’ a millionaire for a paw?’ she asks.
“‘True for you,’ he says, and thinks hard. ‘I could mak’ the chef put in champed rubies or a di’mond or twa grated doon.’
“‘Wad it mak’ the toffie taste ony better?’ asks the wee cratur’.
“‘No’ a bit better,’ he says. ‘It wadna taste sae guid as the ordinary toffie, but it wad be nice and dear.’
“‘Then I’ll jist hae to hae the plain, chape toffie,’ says wee Maggie.
“‘That’s jist whit I hae to hae mysel’ wi’ a great mony things,’ says her paw. ‘Being a millionaire’s nice enough some wyes, but there’s a wheen things money canna buy, and paupers wi’ three or four thoosand paltry, pounds a-year is able to get jist as guid toffie and ither things as I can. I canna even dress mysel’ different frae ither folks, for it wad look rideeculous to see me gaun aboot wi’ gold cloth waistcoats and a hat wi’ strings o’ pearls on it, so a’ I can dae is to get my nickerbocker suits made wi’ an extra big check. I hae the pattern that big noo there’s only a check-and-a-half to the suit; but if it wasna for the honour o’t I wad just as soon be wearin’ Harris tweed.’”
“Upon my word, Erchie,” I said, “you make me sorry for our philanthropic friend, and particularly for his little girl.”
“Oh, there’s no occasion!” protested Erchie. “There’s no condeetion in life that hasna its compensations, and even Mr Carnegie’s wee lassie has them. I hae nae doot the best fun her and her paw gets is when they’re playin’ at bein’ puir. The auld man’ll nae doot whiles hide his pocket-money in the press, and sit doon readin’ his newspaper, wi’ his feet on the chimneypiece, and she’ll come in and ask for a bawbee.
“‘I declare to ye I havena a farden, Maggie,’ he’ll say; ‘but I’ll gie ye a penny on Setturday when I get my pay.’
“‘I dinna believe ye,’ she’ll say.
“‘Then ye can ripe me,’ says her paw, and the wee tot’ll feel in a’ his pooches, and find half a sovereign in his waistcoat. They’ll let on it’s jist a bawbee (the wee thing never saw a rale bawbee in her life, I’ll warrant), and he’ll wonner whit wye he forgot aboot it, and tell her to keep it and buy jujubes wi’t, and she’ll be awa’ like a whitteruck and come back in a while wi’ her face a’ sticky for a kiss, jist like rale.
“Fine I ken the wee smouts; it was that wye wi’ oor ain Teenie.
“Other whiles she’ll hae a wee tin bank wi’ a bee-skep on’t, and she’ll hae’t fu’ o’ sovereigns her faither’s veesitors slip’t in her haund when they were gaun awa’, and she’ll put it on the mantelpiece and gang out. Then her paw’ll get up lauchin’ like onything to himsel’, and tak’ doon the wee bank and rattle awa’ at it, lettin’ on he’s robbin’t for a schooner o’ beer, and at that she’ll come rinnin’ in and catch him at it, and they’ll hae great fun wi’ that game. I have nae doot her faither and mither get mony a laugh at her playin’ at wee washin’s, too, and lettin’ on she’s fair trauchled aff the face o’ the earth wi’ a family o’ nine dolls, an’ three o’ them doon wi’ the hoopin’-cough. Oh! they’re no’ that bad aff for fine fun even in Skibo Castle.”
VIII A SON OF THE CITY
My old friend came daundering down the street with what might have been a bag of cherries, if cherries were in season, and what I surmised were really the twopenny pies with which Jinnet and he sometimes made the Saturday evenings festive. When we met he displayed a blue hyacinth in a flower-pot.
“Saw’t in a fruiterer’s window,” said he, “and took the notion. Ninepence; dod! I dinna ken hoo they mak’ them for the money. I thocht it wad please the wife, and min’ her o’ Dunoon and the Lairgs and a’ thae places that’s doon the watter in the summer-time.
“Ye may say whit ye like, I’m shair they shut up a’ thae coast toons when us bonny wee Gleska buddies is no’ comin’ doon wi’ oor tin boxes, and cheerin’ them up wi’ a clog-wallop on the quay.
“It’s a fine thing a flooer; no’ dear to buy at the start, and chaper to keep than a canary. It’s Nature – the Rale Oreeginal. Ninepence! And the smell o’t! Jist a fair phenomena!”
“A sign of spring, Erchie,” I said; “thank heaven! the primrose is in the wood, and the buds bursting on the hedge in the country, though you and I are not there to see it.”
“I daursay,” said he, “I’ll hae to mak’ a perusal doon the length o’ Yoker on the skoosh car when the floods is ower. I’m that used to them noo, as shair’s death I canna get my naitural sleep on dry nichts unless Jinnet gangs oot to the back and throws chuckies at the window, lettin’ on it’s rain and hailstanes. When I hear the gravel on the window I cod mysel’ it’s the genuine auld Caledonian climate, say my wee ‘Noo I lay me,’ and gang to sleep as balmy as a nicht polisman.
“There’s a great cry the noo aboot folks comin’ frae the country and croodin’ into the toons and livin’ in slums and degenerating the bone and muscle o’ Britain wi’ eatin’ kippered herrin’ and ice-cream. Thoosands o’ them’s gaun aboot Gleska daein’ their bit turns the best way they can, and no’ kennin’, puir craturs! there’s a Commission sittin’ on them as hard’s it can.
“‘Whit’s wanted,’ says the Inspectors o’ Poor, ‘is to hustle them aboot frae place to place till the soles o’ their feet gets red-hot wi’ the speed they’re gaun at; then gie them a bar o’ carbolic soap and a keg o’ Keatin’s poother, and put them on the first train for Edinburgh.
“‘Tear doon the rookeries,’ says anither man, ‘and pit up rooms and kitchens wi’ wally jawboxes and tiled closes at a rent o’ eighteenpence a-week when ye get it.’
“‘That’s a’ very fine,’ says the economists, ‘but if ye let guid wally jawbox hooses at ten shillin’s a-year less than the auld-established and justly-popular slum hoose, will’t no’ tempt mair puir folk frae the country into Gleska and conjest the Gorbals worse than ever?’ The puir economists thinks the folks oot aboot Skye and Kamerhash-injoo’s waitin’ for telegrams tellin’ them the single apairtment hoose in Lyon Street, Garscube Road,’s doon ten shillin’s a-year, afore they pack their carpet-bags and start on the Clansman for the Broomielaw. But they’re no’. They, divna ken onything aboot the rent o’ hooses in Gleska, and they’re no’ carin’, for maybe they’ll no’ pay’t ony-wye. They jist come awa’ to Gleska when the wife tells them, and Hughie’s auld enough for a polisman.
“Slums! wha wants to abolish slums? It’s no’-the like o’ me nor Duffy. If there werena folk leevin’ in slums I couldna buy chape shirts, and the celebrated Stand Fast Craigroyston serge breeks at 2s. 11d. the pair, bespoke, guaranteed, shrunk, and wan hip-pocket.
“When they’re proposin’ the toast o’ the ‘Army, Navy, and Reserve Forces,’ they ought to add the Force that live in Slums. They’re the men and women that’s aye ready to sweat for their country – when their money’s done. A man that wants the chapest kind o’ chape labour kens he’ll aye can get it in the slums; if it wasna for that, my Stand Fast Craigroyston breeks wad maybe cost 7s. 6d., and some of the elders in the kirk I’m beadle for wad hae to smoke tuppenny cigars instead o’ sixpenny yins.
“The slums’ll no’ touch ye if ye don’t gang near them.
“Whit a lot o’ folk want to dae’s to run the skoosh cars away oot into the country whaur the clegs and the midges and the nae gas is, and coup them oot at Deid Slow on the Clyde, and leave them there wander’t. Hoo wad they like it themsel’s? The idea is that Duffy, when he’s done wi’ his last rake o’ coals,’ll mak’ the breenge for Deid Slow, and tak’ his tea and wash his face wi’ watter that hard it stots aff his face like a kahootchy ba’, and spend a joyous and invigoratin’ evenin’ sheuchin’ leeks and prunin’ cauliflooer-bushes in the front plot o’ his cottage home.
“I think I see him! He wad faur sooner pay twelve pounds rent in Grove Street, and hae the cheery lowe o’ the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults forenent his paurlor window, than get his boots a’ glaur wi’ plantin’ syboes roond his cottage home at £6, 10s.
“The country’s a’ richt for folks that havena their health and dinna want to wear a collar to their wark, and Deid Slow and places like that may be fine for gaun to if ye want to get ower the dregs o’ the measles, but they’re nae places for ony man that loves his fellow-men.
“And still there’s mony a phenomena! I ken a man that says he wad stay in the country a’ the year roond if he hadna to bide in Gleska and keep his eye on ither men in the same tred’s himsel’, to see they’re no’ risin’ early in the mornin’ and gettin’ the better o’ him.
“It wadna suit Easy-gaun Erchie. Fine I ken whit the country is; did I no’ leeve a hale winter aboot Dairy when I was a halflin’?
“It’s maybe a’ richt in summer, when you and me gangs oot on an excursion, and cheers them up wi’ oor melodeon wi’ bell accompaniment; but the puir sowls havena much diversion at the time o’ year the V-shaped depression’s deckin’ on Ben Nevis, and the weather prophets in the evening papers is promisin’ a welcome change o’ weather every Setturday. All ye can dae when your wark’s done and ye’ve ta’en your tea’s to put on a pair o’ top-boots and a waterproof, and gang oot in the dark. There’s no’ even a close to coort in, and if ye want to walk alang a country road at nicht thinkin’ hoo much money ye hae in the bank, ye must be gey smert no’ to fa’ into a ditch. Stars? Wha wants to bother glowerin’ at stars? There’s never ony change in the programme wi’ them in the country. If I want stars I gang to the Britannia.
“Na, na, Gleska’s the place, and it’s nae wonder a’ the country-folks is croodin’ into’t as fast’s they can get their cottage homes sublet.
“This is the place for intellect and the big pennyworth of skim-milk.
“I declare I’m that ta’en wi’ Gleska I get up sometimes afore the fire’s lichted to look oot at the window and see if it’s still to the fore.
“Fifteen, public-hooses within forty yairds o’ the close-mooth; a guttapercha works at the tap o’ the street, and twa cab-stances at the foot. My mornin’ ‘oors are made merry wi’ the de-lightfu’ strains o’ factory hooters and the sound o’ the dust-cart man kickin’ his horse like ony-thing whaur it’ll dae maist guid.
“I can get onywhere I want to gang on the skoosh cars for a bawbee or a penny, but the only place I hae to gang to generally is my wark, and I wad jist as soon walk it, for I’m no in ony hurry.
“When the rain’s blashin’ doon at nicht on the puir miserable craturs workin’ at their front plots in Deid Slow, or trippin’ ower hens that’ll no’ lay ony eggs, I can be improvin’ my mind wi’ Duffy at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, or daunderin’ alang the Coocaddens wi’ my hand tight on. my watch-pocket, lookin’ at the shop windows and jinkin’ the members o’ the Sons of Toil Social Club (Limited), as they tak’ the breadth o’ the pavement.
“Gleska! Some day when I’m in the key for’t I’ll mak’ a song aboot her. Here the triumphs o’ civilisation meet ye at the stair-fit, and three bawbee mornin’ rolls can be had efter six o’clock at nicht for a penny.
“There’s libraries scattered a’ ower the place; I ken, for I’ve seen them often, and the brass plate at the door tellin’ ye whit they are.
“Art’s a’ the go in Gleska, too; there’s something aboot it every ither nicht in the papers, when Lord Somebody-or-ither’s no’ divorcin’ his wife, and takin’ up the space; and I hear there’s hunders o’ pictures oot in yon place at Kelvin-grove.
“Theatres, concerts, balls, swarees, lectures – ony mortal thing ye like that’ll keep ye oot o’ your bed, ye’ll get in Gleska if ye have the money to pay for’t.”
“It’s true, Erchie.”
“Whit’s true?” said the old man, wrapping the paper more carefully round his flower-pot. “Man, I’m only coddin’. Toon or country, it doesna muckle maitter if, like me, ye stay in yer ain hoose. I don’t stay in Gleska; not me! it’s only the place I mak’ my money in; I stay wi’ Jinnet.”
