Read the book: «Erchie, My Droll Friend», page 5

XII DUFFY’S FIRST FAMILY

More than a year after the King’s visit Erchie and I one day passed, a piano-organ in the street playing “Dark Lochnagar.” The air attracted him; he hummed it very much out of tune for some minutes after.

“Do ye hear that?” said he, “‘Dark Lochnagar’; I used ance to could nearly play’t on the mooth harmonium. I learned it aff Duffy. Him and me was mairried aboot the same time. We lived in the same close up in the Coocaddens – him on the top flet, and Jinnet and me in the flet below. Oor wifes had turn aboot o’ the same credle – and it was kept gey throng, I’m tellin’ ye. If it wasna Duffy up the stair at nicht, efter his wark was done, rockin’ awa’ wi’ a grudge’ter the tune o’ ‘Dark Lochnagar,’ it was me below at no’ ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ but yon ither yin ye ken fine. I daresay it was rockin’ the credle helped to mak’ my feet flet, and it micht hae happened in a far waur cause.

“It was Duffy’s first wife; she dee’d, I think, to get rid o’ him – the cratur! Duffy’s yin o’ thae men wi’ a great big lump o’ a hert that brocht the tear to his ain een when he was singin’ ‘Bonny Annie Laurie’ doon in the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, but wad see his wife to bleezes afore he wad brush his ain boots for Sunday, and her no’ weel. She fair adored him, too. She thocht Duffy was jist the ordinar’ kind o’ man, and that I was a kind o’ eccentric peely-wally sowl, because I sometimes dried the dishes, and didna noo an’ then gie Jinnet a beltin’.

“‘His looks is the best o’ him,’ she wad tell Jinnet.

“‘Then he’s gey hard up!’ I wad say to Jinnet when she tellt me this.

“‘He’s no’ very strong,’ – that was aye her cry, when she was fryin’ anither pun’ o’ ham and a pair o’ kippers for his breakfast.

“Duffy’s first wean was Wullie John. Ye wad think, to hear Duffy brag abobt him, that it was a new patent kind o’ wean, and there wasna anither in Coocaddens, whaur, I’m tellin’ ye, weans is that rife ye hae to walk to yer work skliffin’ yer feet in case ye tramp on them.

“Duffy’s notion was to rear a race o’ kind o’ gladiators, and he rubbed him a’ ower every nicht wi’ olive-oil to mak’ him soople. Nane o’ your fancy foods for weans for Wullie John. It was rale auld Caledonia – parridge and soor dook, that soor the puir wee smout went aboot grewin’ wi’ its mooth a’ slewed to the side, as if it was practising the wye the women haud their hairpins.

“Mony a time I’ve seen oor Jinnet sneak him into oor hoose to gie him curds-and-cream; he said he liked them fine, because they were sae slippy.

“‘Show your temper, Wullie John,’ Duffy wad tell him when onybody was in the hoose; and the wee cratur was trained at that to put on a fearfu’ face and haud up his claws.

“‘See that!’ Duffy wad say as prood as ony-thing; ‘the game’s there, I’m tellin’ ye.’

“Then Duffy began to harden him. He wad haud him up by the lug to see if he was game, and if he grat that was coonted wan to Duffy, and Wullie John got nae jeely on his piece. He was washed every mornin’, winter and summer, in cauld watter in the jaw-box, and rubbed wi’ a tooel as coorse as a carrot-grater till the skin was peelin’ aff his back.

“‘Ye need to bring oot the glow,’ Duffy wad say to me.

“‘If it gangs on much further,’ I tellt him, ‘I’ll bring oot the polis.’

“Wullie John was fair on the road for bein’ an A1 gladiator, but he went and dee’d on Duffy, and I never saw a man mair chawed.

“Duffy’s next was a laddie too – they ca’d him Alexander. There was gaun to be nane o’ their hardenin’ dydoes wi’ Alexander.

“It was aboot the time Duffy took to politics, and said the thing the Democratic pairty wanted was educated men wi’ brains. He made up his mind that Alexander wad never cairry a coal-poke, but get the best o’ learnin’ if it cost a pound.

“He wasna very strong, was Alexander, and Duffy fed him maist o’ the time on Gregory’s mixture, cod-ile, and ony ither stuff he could buy by word o’ mooth at the apothecary’s withoot a doctor’s line. Alexander was getting medicine poored into him that often he was feared to gant in case he wad jar his teeth on a table-spoon when his een was shut. He wore hot-water bottles to his feet in the deid o’ summer, and if he had a sair heid in the mornin’ afore he started for the school on the geography days he was put to his bed and fed on tapioca. Everything went wrang wi’ puir wee Alexander. The hives went in wi’ him, and the dregs o’ the measles cam’ oot. He took every trouble that was gaun aboot except gymnastics; Duffy took him to Professor Coats, the bump-man, and had his heid examined; the Professor said it was as fine a heid o’ its kind as ever he saw, and Duffy put a bawbee on the bag o’ coals richt aff, and began to put the money bye for Alexander’s college fees.

“Alexander’s a man nod, and daein’ fine. He’s in the gas office; the only time he went to college was to read the meter there.

“Ye canna tell whit laddies’ll turn oot, and it’s no’ ony better wi’ lassies. Duffy had a wheen o’ lassies; I forget hoo mony there was a’thegither, but when they were coortin’ ye wad think ye were gaim doon the middle o’ the Haymakers’ country dance when ye cam’ up the close at nicht.

“The auldest – she was Annie – was naething particular fancy; she jist nursed the rest, and made their peenies, and washed for them, and trimmed her ain hats, and made Duffy’s auld waistcoats into suits for the wee yins, and never got to the dancin’, so naebody merried her, and she’s there yet.

“A’ the chaps cam’ efter her sisters.

“The sisters never let on aboot the coal-ree and Duffy’s lorry, but said their paw was in the coal tred – a kind o’ a coal-maister. It was a bonny sicht to see them merchin’ oot to their cookery lessons in the efternoons, their hair as curly’s onything, and their beds no’ made.

“The days they tried new dishes frae the cookery lessons at hame, Duffy took his meat in the Western Cookin’ Depot, and cam’ hame when it was dark. Yin o’ them played the mandoline. The mandoline’s a noble instrument; it cheers the workman’s hame; a lassie gaun alang the street wi’ a nice print dress, and a case wi’ a mandoline’, is jist the sort I wad fancy mysel’ if I was a young yin and there wasna Jinnet. A fruiterer merried the mandoline. The nicht she was merrit, Duffy sang ‘Dark Lochnagar,’ and winked at me like a’ that.

“‘Learn your dochters the mandoline, Erchie,’ says he in my lug, ‘and they’ll gang aff your haunds like snaw aff a dyke. That’s the advice I wad gie ye if ye had ony dochters left. I wad hae made it the piano, but we couldna get a piano up past the bend on the stair.’

“Efter the mandoline went, the boys begood to scramble for Duffy’s dochters as if they were bowl-money. The close-mooth was never clear o’ cabs, and the rice was always up to your ankles on the stair. Duffy sang ‘Dark Lochnagar’ even-on, and aye kept winkin’ at me.

“‘That’s the mandoline awa’,’ says he, ‘and the scientific dressmakin’, and the shorthand, and the “Curfew must hot Ring To-night,” and the revival meetin’s, and the no’ very-weel yin that needs a nice quate hame; they’re a’ gane, Erchie, and I’m no’ gien jeely-dishes awa’ wi’ them either. I’m my lee-lane, me and Annie; if ony o’ thae chaps cam’ efter Annie, I wad chase him doon the stair.’

“‘Man! Duffy,’ I says till him, ‘ye’re selfish enough workin’ aff a’ them ornamental dochters on the young men o’ Gleska that did ye nae hairm, and keepin’ the best o’ the hale jing-bang in the hoose a’ the time in case they see her.’

“‘Let them tak’ it!’ says Duffy, ‘I’m no’ a bit vexed for them,’ and he started to sing ‘Dark Lochnagar’ as lood as ever, while Annie was puttin’ on his boots.

“That was in Duffy’s auld days. He merried a second wife, and it was a fair tak’-in, for he thocht a wee greengrocer’s shop she had was her ain, and a’ the time it was her brither’s.

“‘That’s the mandoline for you, Duffy,’ says I, when he tellt me.

“But that yin died on him too; she died last Mertinmas; Duffy’s kind o’ oot o’ wifes the noo. And the warst o’t is that his dochter Annie’s gettin’ merried.”

XIII ERCHIE GOES TO A BAZAAR

There was a very self-conscious look in Erchie’s face on Saturday when I met him with a hand-painted drain-pipe of the most generous proportions under his arm.

“It’s aye the way,” said he. “Did ye ever hae ony o’ yer parteecular freen’s meet ye when ye were takin’ hame a brace o’ grouse? No’ a bit o’ ye! But if it’s a poke o’ onything, or a parcel frae the country, whaur they havena ony broon paper, but jist ‘The Weekly Mail,’ and nae richt twine, ye’ll no’ can gang the length o’ the street without comin’ across everybody that gangs to yer kirk.”

He put the drain-pipe down on the pavement – it was the evening – and sat on the end of it.

“So you are the latest victim to the art movement, Erchie?” I said. “You will be putting away your haircloth chairs and introducing the sticky plush variety; I was suspicious of that new dado in your parlour the day we had the tousy tea after Big Macphee’s burial.”

“Catch me!” said Erchie. “Them and their art! I wadna be encouragin’ the deevils. If ye want to ken the way I’m gaun hame wi’ this wally umbrella-staun’, I’ll tell ye the rale truth. It’s jist this, that. Jinnet’s doon yonder at the Freemason’s Bazaar wi’ red-hot money in her pooch, and canna get awa’ till it’s done. She’s bocht a tea-cosy besides this drain-pipe, and a toaster wi’ puce ribbons on’t for haudin’ letters and papers, and she’ll be in luck for yince if she disna win the raffle for the lady’s bicycle that she had twa tickets for. Fancy me oot in Grove Street in the early mornin’ learnin’ Jinnet the bicycle, and her the granny o’ seeven!

“Of course, Jinnet’s no’ needin’ ony bicycle ony mair than she’s needin’ a bassinette, but she has a saft hert and canna say no unless she’s awfu’ angry, and a young chap, speakin’ awfu’ Englified, wi’ his hair a’ vasaline, got roond her. She’s waitin’ behin’ there to see if she wins the raffle, and to pick up ony bargains jist a wee while afore the place shuts up – the rale time for bazaar bargains if ye divna get yer leg broken in the crush. I only went there mysel’ to see if I could get her to come hame as lang as she had enough left to pay her fare on the skoosh car, but I micht as weel speak to the wind. She was fair raised ower a bargain in rabbits. It’s an awfu’ thing when yer wife tak’s to bazaars; it’s waur nor drink.

“It’s a female complaint; ye’ll no’ find mony men bothered wi’t unless they happen to be ministers. Ye’ll no’ see Duffy sittin’ late at nicht knittin’ wee bootees for weans they’ll never in this warld fit, nor crochetin’ doyleys, to aid the funds o’ the Celtic Fitba’ Club. Ye micht watch a lang while afore ye wad see me makin’ tinsey ‘ool ornaments wi’ paste-heided preens for hingin’ up in the best room o’ dacent folk that never did me ony hairm.

“There wad be nae such thing as bazaars if there werena ony weemen. In thoosands o’ weel-daein’ hames in this Christian toon o’ Gleska there’s weemen at this very meenute neglectin’ their men’s suppers to sit doon and think as hard’s they can whit they can mak’ wi’ a cut and a half o’ three-ply fingerin’ worsted, that’ll no’ be ony use to onybody, but’ll look worth eighteenpence in a bazaar. If ye miss your lum hat, and canna find it to gang to a funeral, ye may be shair it was cut in scollops a’ roond the rim, and covered wi’ velvet, and that wee Jeanie pented flooers on’t in her ain time to gie’t the richt feenish for bein’ an Art work-basket at yer wife’s stall in some bazaar.

“Maist weemen start it withoot meanin’ ony hairm, maybe wi’ a table-centre, or a lamp-shade, or a pair o’ bedroom slippers. There’s no’ much wrang wi’ that; but it’s a beginnin’, and the habit grows on them till they’re scoorin’ the country lookin’ for a chance to contribute whit they ca’ work to kirk bazaars and ony ither kinds o’ bazaars that’s handy. It mak’s my hert sair sometimes to see weel-put-on weemen wi’ men o’ their ain and dacent faimilies, comin’ hame through back-streets staggerin’ wi’ parcels o’ remnants for dressin’ dolls or makin’ cushions wi’. They’ll hide it frae their men as long as they can, and then, when they’re found oot, they’ll brazen it oot and deny that it’s ony great hairm.

“That’s wan way the trouble shows itsel’.

“There’s ither weemen – maistly younger and no’ mairried – that’s dyin’ for a chance to be assistant stall-keepers, and wear white keps and aiprons, jist like tablemaids.

“That’s the kind I’m feared for, and I’m nae chicken.

“When they see a man come into the bazaar and nae wife wi’ him to tak’ care o’ him, they come swoopin’ doon on him, gie him ony amount o’ deck, jist in fun, and ripe his pooches before he can button his jaicket.

“I’m no’ sayin’ they put their hands in his pooches, but jist as bad; they look that nice, and sae fond o’ his tie and the way he has o’ wearin’ his moustache, that he’s kittley doon to the soles o’ his feet, and wad buy a steam road-roller frae them if he had the money for’t. But they’re no’ sellin’ steam road-rollers, the craturs! They’re sellin’ shillin’ dolls at twa-and-six that can open and shut their een, and say ‘Maw’ and ‘Paw.’ They’re sellin’ carpet slippers, or bonny wee bunches o’ flooers, or raffle tickets for a rale heliotrope Persian cat. It’s the flyest game I ken. When that puir sowl gets oot o’ the place wi’ naething in his pooches but his hands, and a dazed look in his een, the only thing he can mind is that she said her name was Maud, and that her hair was crimp, and that she didna put a preen in his coat-lapelle when she was puttin’ the shillin’ rose there, because she said a preen wad cut love. She said that to every customer she had for her flooers that day, wi’ a quick look up in their face, and then droppin’ her eyes confused like, and her face red, and a’ the time, her, as like as no’, engaged to a man in India.

“I wonder hoo it wad dae to hae a man’s bazaar? They ocht to have made the Freemason’s bazaar a man’s yin, seein’ the Freemasons ‘ll no tell the weemen their secrets nor let them into their lodges.

“A man’s bazaar wad be a rale divert: naethin’ to be sold in’t but things for use, like meerschaum pipes, and kahootchy collars, and sox the richt size, and chairs, and tables, and concertinas – everything guaranteed to be made by men and them tryin’.

“The stalls wad be kept by a’ the baronets that could be scraped thegither and could be trusted withoot cash registers, and the stall assistants wad be the pick o’ the best-lookin’ men in the toon – if ye could get them sober enough. If Jinnet wad let me, I wad be willin’ to gie a hand mysel’; for though I’ve a flet fit I’ve a warm hert, I’m tellin’ ye.

“I think I see Duffy walkin’ roond the St Andrew’s Hall, and it got up to look like the Fall o’ Babylon, tryin’ to sell bunches o’ flooers. Dae ye think he wad sell mony to the young chaps like whit Maud riped? Nae fears! He wad hae to tak’ every customer oot and stand him a drink afore he wad get a flooer aff his hands.

“Can ye fancy Duffy gaun roond tryin’ to sell tickets for a raffle o’ a canary in a cage?

“‘Here ye are, chaps and cairters! the chance o’ yer lifes for a grand whustler, and no’ ill to feed!’

“Na, na! a man o’ the Duffy stamp wad be nae use for a bazaar, even wi’ a dress suit on and his face washed. It wad need young stockbrokers, and chaps wi’ the richt kind o’ claes, wi’ a crease doon the front o’ their breeks – Gros-venor Restaurant chaps, wi’ the smell o’ cigars aff their topcoats, and either ca’d Fred or Vincent. Then ye micht see that the ither sex that hiv a’ the best o’t wi’ bazaars, the wye they’re managed noo, wad flock to the man’s bazaar and buy like onything. And maybe no’.”

Erchie rose off the drain-pipe, and prepared to resume his way home with that ingenious object that proves how the lowliest things of life may be made dignified and beautiful – if fashion says they are so.

“Well; good night, old friend,” I said. “I hope Mrs MacPherson will be lucky and get the bicycle.”

“Dae ye, indeed?” said he. “Then ye’re nae freen’ o’ mine. We’re faur mair in the need o’ a mangle.”

“Then you can exchange for one.”

“I’m no’ that shair. Did I ever tell ye I ance won a powney in a raffle? It was at the bazaar oor kirk had in Dr Jardine’s time when they got the organ. I was helpin’ at the buffet, and I think they micht hae left me alane, me no’ bein’ there for fun, but at my tred, but wha cam’ cravin’ me to buy a ticket aff her but the doctor’s guid-sister.

“‘There’s three prizes,’ she says, ‘a powney wi’ broon harness, a marble nock, and a dizzen knifes and forks.

“‘I wad maybe risk it if it wisna for the powney,’ I tellt her; ‘I havena kep’ a coachman for years, and I’m oot o’ the way o’ drivin’ mysel’.’

“‘Oh! ye needna be that feared, ye’ll maybe no’ get the powney,’ said she, and I went awa’ like a fool and took the ticket.

“The draw took place jist when the bazaar was shuttin’ on the Setturday nicht. And I won the powney wi’ the broon harness.

“I tore my ticket and thrieped it was a mistake, but I couldna get oot o’t; they a’ kent the powney was mine.

“It was stabled behind the bazaar, and had to be ta’en awa’ that nicht. I offered it to onybody that wanted it for naething, but naebody wad tak’ it aff my hands because they a’ said they had to tak’ the car hame, and they wadna be allooed to tak’ a powney into a car wi’ them. So they left me wi’ a bonny-like prize.

“I put its claes on the best way I could, fanklin’ a’ the straps, and dragged it hame. We lived in the close at the time, and I thocht maybe Jinnet wad let me keep it in the lobby till the Monday mornin’ till I could see whit I could dae. But she wadna hear tell o’t. She said, it wad scrape a’ the waxcloth wi’ it’s aim buits, and wad be a bonny-like thing to be nicherrin’ a’ Sunday, scandalisin’ the neebours, forbye there bein’ nae gress in the hoose to feed it on. I said I wad rise early in the mornin’ and gaither denty-lions for’t oot at the Three-Tree Well, but she wadna let me nor the powney inside the door.

“It wasna an awfu’ big broad powney, but a wee smout o’ a thing they ca’ a Shetland shawl powney, and its harness didna fit it ony place at a’. It looked at the twa o’ us, kind o’ dazed like.

“‘Ye’re, no’ gaun to turn my hoose into a stable, and me jist cleaned it this very day,’ said Jinnet.

“‘And am I gaun to walk the streets a’ nicht wi’t?’ I asked, near greetin’.

“‘Put it oot in the ash-pit, and the scavengers ‘ll tak’ it awa’ in the mornin’,’ she said, and I did that, forgettin’ that the mornin’ was the Sunday.

“But it didna maitter; the powney wasna there in the mornin’, and I took guid care no’ to ask for’t.”

XIV HOLIDAYS

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 steamer Bonnie 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.”