Loe raamatut: «Erchie, My Droll Friend», lehekülg 4

IX ERCHIE ON THE KING’S CRUISE

I deliberately sought out Erchie one day in order to elicit his views upon the Royal progress through the Western Isles, and found him full of the subject, with the happiest disposition to eloquence thereon.

“Man! I’m that gled I’m to the fore to see this prood day for Scotland,” said he. “I’m daein’ hardly onything but read the mornin’ and evenin’ papers, and if the Royal yacht comes up the length o’ Yoker I’m gaun doon mysel’ to wave a hanky. ‘His Majesty in Arran. Great Reception,’ says they. ‘His Majesty in Glorious Health. Waves his hand to a Wee Lassie, and Nearly Shoots a Deer,’ says they. ‘His Majesty’s Yacht Surrounded by the Natives. Escape round the Mull. Vexation of Campbeltown, and Vote of Censure by the Golfers of Machrihanish,’ says they. Then the telegrams frae ‘Oor Special Correspondent’: ‘Oban, i p.m. – It is confidently expected that the Royal yacht will come into the bay this evenin’ in time for tea. The esplanade is being washed with eau-de-Cologne, and a’ the magistrates is up at Rankine’s barber shop gettin’ a dry shampoo.’ ‘Oban, 1.30 p.m. – A wire frae Colons says the Royal yacht is about to set sail for Oban. Tremendous excitement prevails here, and the price o’ hotel bedrooms is raised 200 per cent. It is decided to mobilise the local Boys’ Brigade, and engage Johnny M’Coll to play the pipes afore the King when he’s comin’ ashore.’ ‘6 p.m. – The Royal yacht has just passed Kerrara, and it is now certain that Oban will not be visited by the Royal party. All the flags have been taken down, and scathing comments on the extraordinary affair are anticipated from the local press.’

“Maybe ye wadna think it, but his Majesty’s gaun roond the West Coast for the sake o’ his health.

“‘Ye’ll hae to tak’ a month o’ the rest cure,’ the doctors tellt him, ‘a drap o’ claret wine to dinner, and nae worry aboot business.’

“‘Can I afford it?’ said his Majesty, that vexed-like, for he was puttin’ aff his coat and rollin’ up his sleeves to start work for the day.

“‘There’s nae choice in the maitter,’ said the doctors; ‘we order it.’

“‘But can I afford it?’ again said his Majesty. ‘Ye ken yoursels, doctors, I have had a lot o’ expense lately, wi’ trouble in the hoose, and wi’ the Coronation and aething and another. Could I no’ be doin’ the noo wi’ Setturday-to-Monday trips doon the watter?’

“But no; the doctors said there was naethin’ for him but rest. So his Majesty had to buy a new topcoat and a yachtin’ bunnet, and start oot on the Victoria and Albert.

“It’s a twa-funnelled boat, but I’m tellt that, bein’ Government built, yin 6’ the funnels has a blaw-doon, and they daurna light the furnace below’t if the win’s no’ in a certain airt.

“The yacht made first for the Isle o’ Man, and wasna five meenutes in the place when the great novelist, Hall Corelli or Mary Caine, or whichever it is, was aboard o’ her distributin’ hand-bills advertisin’ the latest novel, and the King took fright, and left the place as soon as he could.

“I’m tellin’ ye it’s a gey sair trauchle bein’ a King. The puir sowl thought the Hielan’s wad be a nice quate place where naebody wad bother him, and so he set sail then for Arran.

“‘What is that I see afore me?’ said he, comin’ up past Pladda.

“The captain put his spy-gless to his e’e, and got as white’s a cloot.

“‘It’s your Majesty’s joyous and expectant subjects,’ says he. ‘They’ve sixty-seven Gleska steamers oot yonder waitin’ on us, and every skipper has his hand on the string o’ the steam-hooter.’

“‘My God!’ groaned the puir King, ‘I thought I was sent awa’ here for the guid o’ my health.’

“Before he could say knife, a’ the Gleska steamers and ten thoosan’ wee rowin’-boats were scrapin’ the pent aff the sides o’ the Victoria and Albert, and half a million Scottish taxpayers were cheerin’ their beloved Sovereign, Edward VII., every mortal yin o’ them sayin’, ‘Yon’s him yonder!’ and p’intin’ at him.

“‘Will I hae to shoogle hands wi’ a’ that crood?’ he asked the captain o’ the Victoria and Albert, and was told it wad dae if he jist took aff his kep noo and then.

“And so, takin’ aff his kep noo and then, wi’ a’ the Gleska steamers and the ten thoosan’ wee rowin’-boats hingin’ on to the side o’ the yacht, and half a million devoted subjects takin’ turn aboot at keekin’ in through the port-holes to see what he had for dinner, his Majesty sailed into Brodick Bay.

“‘The doctors were right,’ says he; ‘efter a’ there’s naething like a rest cure; it’s a mercy we’re a’ spared.’

“The following day his Majesty hunted the deer in Arran. I see frae the papers that he was intelligently and actively assisted in this by the well-known ghillies, Dugald M’Fadyen, Donald Campbell, Sandy M’Neill, and Peter M’Phedran.

“They went up the hill and picked oot a nice quate he-deer, and drove it doon in front o’ where his Majesty sat beside a stack o’ loaded guns. His Majesty was graciously pleased to tak’ up yin o’ the guns, and let bang at the deer.

“‘Weel done! That wass gey near him,’ said Dugald M’Fadyen, strikin’ the deer wi’ his stick to mak’ it stop eatin’ the gress.

“His Majesty fired a second time, and the deer couldna stand it ony langer, but went aff wi’ a breenge.

“‘Weel, it’s a fine day to be oot on the hull onywye,’ says M’Phedran, resigned-like, and the things that the heid ghillie Campbell didna say was terrible.

“The papers a’ said the deer was shot, and a bloody business too; but it wasna till lang efter the cauld-clye corpse o’t was found on the hill.

“‘Here it is!’ said M’Fadyen.

“‘I daursay it is,’ said M’Neill.

“‘It’ll hae to be it onywye,’ said the heid man, and they had it weighed.

“If it was sold in Gleska the day it would fetch ten shillin’s a-pound.

“If there’s ae thing I’ve noticed mair nor anither aboot Hielan’ ghillies, it’s that they’ll no’ hurt your feelin’s if they can help it. I’m Hielan’ mysel’; my name’s MacPherson; a flet fit but a warm hert, and I ken.

“Meanwhile Campbeltoon washed it’s face, put a clove in its mooth, and tried to look as spruce as it could for a place that has mair distilleries than kirks. The Royal veesit was generally regairded as providential, because the supremacy o’ Speyside whiskies over Campbeltoon whiskies o’ recent years wad hae a chance o’ being overcome if his Majesty could be prevailed on to gang through a’ the distilleries and hae a sample frae each o’ them.

“It was to be a gala day, and the bellman went roond the toon orderin’ every loyal ceetizen to put oot a flag, cheer like onything when the King was gaun to the distilleries, and bide inside their hooses when he was comin’ back frae them. But ye’ll no’ believ’t – the yacht passed Campbeltoon!

“The Provost and Magistrates and the hale community was doon on the quay to cairry the Royal pairty shouther-high if necessary, and when they saw the Victoria and Albert– they cheered sae lood they could be heard the length o’ Larne.

“‘Whit’s that?’ said his Majesty.

“‘By the smell o’t I wad say Campbeltoon,’ said his skipper, ‘and that’s mair o’ your Majesty’s subjects, awfu’ interested in your recovery.’

“‘Oh man!’ said the puir King, nearly greetin’, ‘we divna ken whit health is, ony o’ us, till we lose it. Steam as far aff frae the shore as ye can, and it’ll maybe no’ be sae bad.’

“So the yacht ran bye Campbeltoon.

“The folk couldna believe’t at first.

“‘They must hae made a mistake,’ says they; ‘perhaps they didna notice the distillery lums,’ and the polis sergeant birled his whustle by order of the Provost, to ca’ the King’s attention, but it was o’ no avail. A rale divert!

“The yacht went on to Colonsay.

“That’s the droll thing aboot this trip o’ his Majesty’s; it’s no’ ony nice, cheery sort o’ places he gangs to at a’, but oot-o’-the-wye wee places wi’ naethin’ aboot them but hills and things – wee trashy places wi’ nae nice braw new villas aboot them, and nae minstrels or banjo-singers on the esplanade singin’ ‘O! Lucky Jim!’ and clautin’ on the bawbees. I divna suppose they had half a dizzen flags in a’ Colonsay, and ye wad fancy the King’s een’s no’ that sair lookin’ at flags but whit he wad be pleased to see mair o’ them.

“Colonsay! Man, it’s fair peetifu’! No’ a Provost or a Bylie in’t to hear a bit speech frae; nae steamboat trips to gang roond the Royal yacht and keek in the port-holes; but everything as quate as a kirk on a Setturday mornin’.

“A’ the rest o’ Scotland wanted to wag flags at his Majesty Edward VII., and here he maun put up at Colonsay! The thing was awfu’ badly managed.

“If Campbeltoon was chawed at the yacht passin’ withoot giein’ a cry in, whit’s to describe the vexation o’ Oban?

“Oban had its hert set on’t. It never occurred to the mind o’ Oban for wan meenute that the King could pass the ‘Charin’ Cross o’ the Hielan’s’ withoot spendin’ a week there at the very least, and everything was arranged to mak’ the Royal convalescent comfortable.

“The bay was fair jammed wi’ yachts, and a’ the steam-whustles were oiled. The hotels were packed to the roof wi’ English tourists, some o’ them sleepin’ under the slates, wi’ their feet in the cisterns, and gled to pay gey dear for the preevilege o’ breathin’ the same air as Edward VII.

“Early in the day somebody sent the alarmin’ tidin’s frae Colonsay that the Victoria and Albert micht pass Oban efter a’, and to prevent this, herrin’-nets were stretched aff Kerrara to catch her if ony such dastardly move was made.

“But it was nae use; Oban’s in sackcloth and ashes.

“‘Where are we noo?’ asked the Royal voyager, aff Kerrara. ‘Is this Shingleton-on-the-Sea?’

“‘No, your Majesty,’ says the skipper of the Royal yacht, ‘it’s Oban, the place whaur the German waiters get their education.’

“‘Heavens!’ cried his Majesty, shudderin’; ‘we’re terrible close; put a fire under the aft funnel at a’ costs and get past as quick as we can.’

“It was pointed oot to his Majesty that the toon was evidently expectin’ him, and so, to mak’ things pleasant, he ordered the steam pinnace to land the week’s washin’ at the Charin’. Cross o’ the Hielan’s – while the Victoria and Albert went on her way to Ballachulish.”

X HOW JINNET SAW THE KING

I saw him and her on Thursday,” said Erchie, “as nate’s ye like, and it didna cost me mair nor havin’ my hair cut. They gaed past oor kirk, and the session put up a stand, and chairges ten shillin’s a sate.

“‘Not for Joe,’ says I; ‘I’d sooner buy mysel’ a new pair o’ boots;’ and I went to Duffy and says I, ‘Duffy, are ye no’ gaun to hae oot yer bonny wee lorry at the heid o’ Gairbraid Street and ask the wife and Jinnet and me to stand on’t?’

“‘Right,’ says Duffy, ‘bring you Jinnet and I’ll tak’ my wife, and we’ll hae a rale pant.’

“So there was the four o’ us standin’ five mortal ‘oors on Duffy’s coal-lorry. I was that gled when it was a’ bye. But I’ll wager there was naebody gledder nor the King himsel’, puir sowl! Frae the time he cam’ into Gleska at Queen Street Station till the time he left Maryhill, he lifted his hat three million seven hundred and sixty-eight thousand and sixty-three times.

“Talk aboot it bein’ a fine job bein’ a King! I can tell ye the money’s gey hard earned. Afore he starts oot to see his beloved people, he has to practise for a week wi’ the dumb-bells, and feed himsel’ up on Force, Grape-nuts, Plasmon, Pianolio, and a’ thae strengthenin’ diets that Sunny Jim eats.

“I thocht first Jinnet maybe wadna gang, her bein’ in the Co-operative Store and no’ awfu’ ta’en up wi’ Royalty, but, dod! she jumped at the chance.

“‘The Queen’s a rale nice buddy,’ she says; ‘no that I’m personally acquainted wi’ her, but I hear them sayin’. And she used to mak’ a’ her ain claes afore she mairried the King.’

“So Jinnet and me were oot on Duffy’s lorry, sittin’ on auld copies o’ ‘Reynolds’s News,’ and hurrayin’ awa’ like a pair o’ young yins.

“The first thing Jinnet saw was a woman wi’ a wean and it’s face no’ richt washed.

“‘Fancy her bringin’ oot her wean to see the King, wi’ a face like that,’ says Jinnet, and gies the puir wee smout a sweetie.

“Frae that till it was time for us to gang hame Jinnet saw naething but weans, and her and Duffy’s wife talked aboot weans even on. Ye wad think it was a baby-show we were at and no’ a King’s procession.

“Duffy sat wi’ a Tontine face on him maist o’ the time, but every noo and then gaun up the street at the back o’ us to buy himsel’ a bottle o’ broon robin, for he couldna get near a pub; and I sat tryin’ as hard’s I could to think hoo I wad like to be a King, and what kind o’ waistcoats I wad wear if I had the job. On every hand the flags were wavin’, and the folk were eatin’ Abernaithy biscuits.

“At aboot twelve o’clock cannons begood to bang.

“‘Oh my! I hope there’s nae weans near thae cannons or they micht get hurt,’ says Jinnet.

“Little did she think that at that parteecular meenute the King was comin’ doon the tunnel frae Cowlairs, and tellin’ her Majesty no’ to be frichted.

“When the King set foot in the Queen Street Station he gied the wan look roond him, and says he, ‘Is this Gleska can ony o’ ye tell me?’

“‘It is that, wi’ your Majesty’s gracious permission,’ says the porter; ‘sees a haud o’ yer bag.’

“‘I mind fine o’ bein’ here yince afore,’ says the King, and gangs oot into George Square.

“‘Whitna graveyaird’s this?’ he asks, lookin’ at the statues.

“‘It’s no’ a graveyaird; it’s a square, and that’s the Municeepal Buildin’,’ somebody tells him. His Majesty then laid a foundation-stone as smert’s ye like wi’ his least wee bit touch, and then went into the Municeepal Buildin’s and had a snack.

“He cam’ oot feelin’ fine. ‘The Second City o’ the Empire!’ he says. ‘I can weel believ’t. If it wasna for my business bein’ in London I wad hae a hoose here. Whit am I to dae next?’

“They took his Majesty doon Buchanan Street.

“‘No bad!’ says he.

“Then he cam’ to Argyle Street, and gaed west, past the Hielan’man’s Cross at the heid o’ Jamaica Street. He sees a lot o’ chaps there wi’ the heather stickin’ oot o’ their ears, and a tartan brogue that thick it nearly spiled the procession.

“‘The Hielan’man’s Cross,’ says he; ‘man, ay! I’ve heard o’t. Kamerhashendoo. If I had thocht o’t I wad hae brocht my kilts and my pibroch and a’ that.’

“A’ the wey doon the Dumbarton Road the folk were fair hingin’ oot o’ their windows, wavin’ onything at a’ they could get a haud o’, and the Royal carriage was bump-bump-bumpin’ like a’ that ower the granite setts.

“‘Whit’s wrang wi’ the streets o’ Gleska?’ says the King, him bein’ used to wud streets in London, whaur he works.’

“‘It’s granite, if ye please,’ says they.

“‘Oh ay!’ says the King; ‘man, it mak’s a fine noise. Will we soon be there? I’ like this fine, but I wadna like to keep onybody waitin’.’

“At Finnieston the folk cam’ up frae the side streets and fair grat wi’ patriotic fervour. For-bye, a’ the pubs were shut for an’oor or twa.

“‘Whit I want to see’s the poor,’ says the King. ‘I’m tired lookin’ at the folk that’s weel aff; they’re faur ower common.’

“‘Them’s the poor,’ he was tellt; ‘it’s the best we can dae for your Majesty.’

“‘But they’re awfu’ bien-lookin’ and weel put on,’ says he.

“‘Oh ay!’ they tells him, ‘that’s their Sunday claes.’”

“And so the Royal procession passed on its way, the King being supplied wi’ a new hat every, ten minutes, to mak’ up for the yins he spiled liftin’ them to his frantic and patriotic subjects.

“In ten to fifteen minutes he examined the pictures in the Art Galleries – the Dutch, the English, the Italian, and the Gleska schools o’ painters; the stuffed birds, and the sugaraully hats the polis used to hae when you and me was jinkin’ them.

“‘Och, it’s fine,’ says he; ‘there’s naething wrang wi’ the place. Are we no’ near Maryhill noo?’

“Ye see his Majesty had on a bate he could see the hale o’ Gleska in five ‘oors or less, an’ be oot sooner nor ony ither king that ever set a fit in it. They wanted him to mak’ a circular tour o’t, and come back to the Municeepal Buildin’s for his tea.

“‘Catch me,’ says he. ‘I’m gaun back to Dalkeith.’

“A’ this time we were standin’ on Duffy’s lorry, flanked on the left by the Boy’s Brigade, lookin’ awfu’ fierce, and the riflemen frae Dunoon on the richt. Every noo an’ then a sodger went bye on a horse, or a lassie nearly fainted and had to be led alang the line by a polisman, and him no’ awfu’ carin’ for the job. Duffy was gaun up the street to buy broon robin that aften he was gettin’ sunburnt, and my wife Jinnet nearly hurt her een lookin’ for weans.

“‘’Look at thon wee wean, Erchie,’ she wad aye be tellin’ me, ‘does’t no’ put ye in mind o’ Rubbert’s wee Hughie? Oh, the cratur!’

“‘Wumman,’ I tellt her, ‘this is no’ a kinderspiel ye’re at; it’s a Royal procession. I wonder to me ye wad be wastin’ yer e’esicht lookin’ at weans when there’s sae mony braw sodgers.’

“‘Oh, Erchie!’ says she, ‘I’m bye wi’ the sodgers;’ and jist wi’ that the procession cam’ up the street. First the Lancers wi’ their dickies stickin’ ootside their waistcoats.

“‘Man, them’s fine horses,’ says Duffy, wi’ a professional eye on the beasts. ‘Chaps me that broon yin wi’ the white feet.’

“Then cam’ the King and Queen.

“‘Whaur’s their croons?’ asks Duffy’s wife. ‘I divna believe that’s them at a’.’

“‘That’s them, I’ll bate ony money,’ I says. ‘Ye can tell by the hurry they’re in.’

“‘Oh, the craturs!’ says Jinnet, and then says she, ‘Oh, Erchie! look at the wean hanging ower that window. I’m feart it’ll fa’ ower.’

“Afore she could get her een aff the wean the King’s cairrage was past, and the rest o’ the Lancers cam’ clatterin’ after them.

“‘Noo for the brass bands!’ says Duffy, lookin’ doon the street. But there was nae brass bands. The show was bye.

“‘If I had kent that was to be a’ that was in’t, I wad never hae ta’en oot my lorry,’ says Duffy, as angry as onything, and made a breenge for anither bottle o’ broon robin.

“‘Och, it was fine,’ says Jinnet. ‘I never saw sae mony weans in a’ my days.’.

“And the crood began to scale.

“His Majesty reached Maryhill Station exact to the minute, wi’ his eye on his watch.

“‘Weel, that’s bye ony wye,’ says he, and somebody cries for a speech.

“‘People o’ Gleska,’ he says, ‘I have seen your toon. It’s fine – there’s naething wrang wi’t,’ and then the gaird blew his whustle, and the train went aff.

“The great event was ower, the rain begood to fa’ again; the Gilmorehill student hurried hame to blacken his face and put on his sister’s frock. The coloured ping-pong balls strung ower Sauchieha’ Street was lighted, the illuminated skoosh cars began to skoosh up and doon the street, the public-hooses did a fine tred.

“‘I’m gled it’s a’ bye,’ says Jinnet, when we got hame to oor ain hoose.

“‘Indeed, and so am I,’ says I. ‘There wad be fine fun in this warld a’ the time if we werena tryin’ for’t.’”

XI ERCHIE RETURNS

For weeks I had not seen Erchie. He was not to be met on the accustomed streets, and St Kentigern’s Kirk having been closed since July for alterations and repairs, it was useless to go there in search of its beadle. Once I met Duffy, and asked him what had become of the old man.

“Alloo you Erchie!” was all the information he would vouchsafe; “if he’s keepin’ oot o’ sicht, he’ll hae his ain reason for’t. Mind, I’m no’ sayin’ onything against the cratur, though him and me’s had mony a row. He’s a’ richt if ye tak’ him the richt wye. But sly! He’s that sly, the auld yin, ye can whiles see him winkin’ awa’ to himsel’ ower something he kens that naebody else kens, and that he’s no gaun to tell to them. I havena seen the auld fuiter since the Fair week; perhaps he’s gotten genteel and bidin’ doon at Rothesay till the summer steamboats stop. There’s yin thing sure – it’s no’ a case o’ wife-desertion, for Jinnet’s wi’ him. I can tell by the Venetian blinds and the handle o’ their door. Sly! Did ye say sly? Man, it’s no’ the word for’t. Erchie MacPherson’s fair lost at the waitin’; he should hae been a poet, or a statesman, or something in the fancy line like that.”

It was with the joy of a man who has made up his mind he has lost a sovereign and finds it weeks after in the lining of his waistcoat, I unexpectedly met Erchie on Saturday.

“Upon my word, old friend,” I said, “I thought you were dead.”

“No, nor deid!” retorted Erchie. “Catch me! I’m nane o’ the deein’ kind. But I micht nearly as weel be deid, for I’ve been thae twa months in Edinburgh. Yon’s the place for a man in a decline; it’s that slow he wad hae a chance o’ livin’ to a grand auld age. There’s mair o’ a bustle on the road to Sichthill Cemetery ony day in the week than there is in Princes Street on a Setter-day nicht. I had a bit job there for the last ten weeks, and the only pleesure I had was gaun doon noo and then to the Waverley Station to see the bonny wee trains frae Gleska. They’re a’ richt for scenery and the like o’ that in Edinburgh, but they’re no’ smert.”

“But it’s an old saying, Erchie, that all the wise men in Glasgow come from the East – that’s to say, they come from Edinburgh.”

“Yes, and the wiser they are the quicker they come,” said Erchie. “Man! and it’s only an ‘oor’s journey, and to see the wye some o’ them gae on bidin’ ower yonder ye wad think they had the Atlantic Ocean to cross. There should be missionaries sent ower to Edinburgh explainin’ things to the puir deluded craturs. Ony folk that wad put thon big humplock o’ a hill they ca’ the Castle in the middle o’ the street, spilin’ the view, and hing their washin’s on hay-rakes stuck oot at their windows, hae muckle to learn.”

“Still, I have no doubt Edinburgh’s doing its best, Erchie,” I said.

“Maybe, but they’re no’ smert; ye wad hae yer pouch picked half a dizzen times in Gleska in the time an Edinburgh polisman tak’s to rub his een to waken himsel’ when ye ask him the road to Leith.

“Did ye ever hear tell o’ the Edinburgh man that ance ventured to Gleska and saw the hopper dredgers clawtin’ up the glaur frae the Clyde at Broomielaw?

“‘Whit are ye standin’ here for? Come awa’ and hae a gless o’ milk,’ said a freen’ to him.

“‘No, nor awa’,’ said he, glowerin’ like ony-thing; ‘I’ve coonted 364 o’ thae wee buckets comin’ oot the watter, and I’ll no’ move a step oot o’ here till I see the last o’ them!’

“The puir cratur never saw a rale river in his life afore. Och! but Edinburgh’s no’ that bad; ye can aye be sure o’ gettin’ yer nicht’s sleep in’t at ony’oor o’ the day, it’s that quate. They’re aye braggin’ that it’s cleaner than Gleska, as if there was onything smert aboot that.

“‘There’s naething dirtier nor a dirty Gleska man,’ said yin o’ them to me ae day.

“‘There is,’ says I.

“‘Whit?’ says he.

“‘Twa clean Edinburgh yins,’ says I.

“Och! but I’m only in fun. Edinburgh’s a’ richt; there’s naething wrang wi’ the place ance ye’re in it if ye hae a book to read. I hate to hear the wye Duffy and some o’ them speak aboot Edinburgh, the same as if it was shut up a’thegither; hoo wad we like it oorsels? I hae maybe a flet fit, but I hae a warm hert, and I’ll aye stick up for Edinburgh. I had an uncle that near got the jyle there for running ower yin o’ their tramway caurs. They’ve no skoosh cars in Edinburgh; they’re thon ither kin’ that’s pu’ed wi’ a rope, and whiles the rope breaks; but it doesna maitter, naebody’s in ony hurry gaun to ony place in Edinburgh, and the passengers jist sit where they are till it’s mended.”

“Well, anyhow, Erchie, we’re glad to see you back,” I said.

“Gled to see me back!” he cried. “I’ll wager ye didna ken I was awa’, and the only folk that kent we werena in Gleska for the past twa or three months was the dairy and the wee shop we get oor vegetables frae.

“When I was in Edinburgh yonder, skliffin’ alang the streets as fast’s I could, and nippin’ mysel’ every noo and them to keep mysel’ frae fa’in’ asleep, I wad be thinkin’ to mysel’, ‘Hoo are they gettin’ on in Gleska wantin’ Erchie MacPherson? Noo that they’ve lost me, they’ll ken the worth o’ me.’ I made shair that, at least, the skoosh cars wad hae to stop runnin’ when I was awa’, and that the polis band wad come doon to the station to meet me when I cam’ hame.

“Dod! ye wad hardly believe it, but ever since I cam’ back I meet naebody but folk that never ken’t I was awa’. It’s a gey hertless place Gleska that way. Noo, in Edinburgh it’s different. They’re gey sweart to lose ye in Edinburgh ance they get haud o’ ye; that’s the way they keep up the price o’ the railway ticket to Gleska.

“I was tellin’ Duffy aboot Edinburgh, and he’s gaun through wi’ a trip to see’t on Monday. It’ll be a puir holiday for the cratur, but let him jist tak’ it. He’ll be better there than wastin’ his money in a toon. When Duffy goes onywhere on ony o’ the Gleska holidays, it’s generally to Airdrie, or Coatbrig, or Clydebank he goes, and walks aboot the streets till the polis put him on the last train hame for Gleska, and him singin’ ‘Dark Lochnagar’ wi’ the tears in his een.

“He’ll say to me next mornin’, ‘Man! Erchie, thon’s a thrivin’ place, Coatbrig, but awfu’ bad whisky.’

“There’s a lot like him aboot a Gleska holiday. They’ll be gettin’ up to a late breakfast wi’ no parridge till’t on Monday mornin’, and sayin’, ‘Man! it’s a grand day for Dunoon,’ and then start druggin’ themsel’s wi’ drams. Ye wad think they were gaun to get twa teeth ta’en oot instead o’ gaun on a holiday.

“That’s no’ my notion o’ a holiday, either in the Autumn or the Spring. I’m takin’ Jinnet oot on Monday to Milliken Park to see her kizzen that keeps a gairden. We’ll hae an awfu’ wrastle in the mornin’ catchin’ the train, and it’ll be that crooded we’ll hae to stand a’ the way. The wife’s kizzen’ll be that gled to see us she’ll mak’ tea for us every half-’oor and send oot each time to the grocer’s for mair o’ thon biled ham ye aye get at burials. I’ll get my feet a’ sair walkin’ up and doon the gairden coontin’ the wife’s kizzen’s aipples that’s no’ richt ripe yet, and Jinnet and me’ll hae to cairry hame a big poke o’ rhuburb or greens, or some ither stuff we’re no wantin’, and the train’ll be an ‘oor late o’ gettin’ into Gleska.

“That’s a holiday. The only time ye enjoy a holiday is when it’s a’ bye.”