Part 10

“Hae ye nae syrup to put on them?” asked her husband with a sly glance.

“Nane o’ yer nonsense,” she exclaimed, and attempted a diversion in the conversation, but Erchie plainly had a joke to retail.

“I’ll tell ye a bawr aboot watter biscuits and syrup,” said he. “When I was coortin’ my first lass I wasna mair nor nineteen years o’ age, and jist a thin peely-wally callant, mair like playin’ moshy at the bools than rinnin’ efter lassies. The lassie’s faither and mither jist made fun o’ us, and when I wad be gaun up to her hoose, lettin’ on it was her brither I wanted to see, they used to affront me afore their dochter wi’ speakin’ aboot the Sunday-School and the Band o’ Hope I belanged to (because the lassie belanged to them tae), and askin’ me if I was fond o’ sugar to my parridge, and when I was thinkin’ o’ startin’ the shavin’. I didna like it, but I jist had to put up wi’t. But the worst blow ever I got frae them was yince when I gaed up wi’ a new pair o’ lavender breeks, and the lassie’s mither, for the fun o’ the thing, asked me if I wad hae a piece and jeely. I tellt her I wasna heedin’, that I was jist efter haein’ my tea; but she went and spread syrup on a watter biscuit and handed it to me the same as if I was a wee lauddie wi’ a grauvit on.”

Jinnet laughed softly at the picture.

“Oh, ye may lauch,” said her husband. “There was nae lauchin’ in my heid, I’m tellin’ ye. For there was the syrup comin’ dreepin’ through the holes in the watter biscuit, so that I had to haud the biscuit up every noo and then and lick in below’t so as to keep the syrup frae gaun on my braw lavender breeks. A bonny object for a lass to look at, and it was jist to mak’ me look reediculous her mither did it. She thocht I was faur ower young to be comin’ efter her dochter.”

“So ye were,” said Jinnet. “I’m shair ye hadna muckle sense at the time, or it wadna be yon yin ye went coortin’.”

“Maybe no’; but I never rued it,” said Erchie.

“She was as glaikit as yersel’,” said Jinnet.

“She was the cleverest, lass in the place,” protested Erchie. “My! the things she could sew, and crochet, and mak’ doon, and bake!”

“Her sister Phemie was faur cleverer than she was,” said Jinnet. “She couldna haud a candle to her sister Phemie in tambourin’ or in ginger-breid.”

“And dancin’! She could dance on a cobweb and no’ put a toe through’t.”

“Ye’ll need a line wi’ that yin, Erchie,” said his wife, who did not seem remarkably jealous of this first love.

“Ye should hear her singin’------”

“She wad hae been far better mendin’ her wee brither’s stockin’s, and no’ leavin’ her mither to dae’t,” said Jinnet. “She was a gey licht-heided yin.”

Erchie seemed merciless in his reminiscence,--I really felt sorry for his wife.

“Ye may say whit ye like to run her doon, but ye canna deny her looks.”.

“Her looks dinna concern me,” said Jinnet abruptly. “Ye’re jist an auld haver; think shame o’ yersel’!”

“Ye ken ye canna deny’t,” he went on. “It was alooed all over the place she was the belle. I wasna the only yin that was efter her wi’ my lavender breeks. She kept the Band o’ Hope for nearly twa years frae burstin’ up.”

“I’ll no’ listen to anither word,” protested Jinnet, now in obvious vexation; and mercifully there came a rapping at the door.

She returned to the kitchen with an envelope and a little parcel. Erchie winked at me, hugging to himself a great delight.

“I wonder wha in the world can be writin’ to me,” said she, looking at the addresses.

“It’ll likely be an accoont for di’mond tararas or dressmaking,” said Erchie. “Oh you weemen! Ye’re a perfect ruination. But if I was you I wad open them and see.”

She opened the envelope first. It was Erchie’s valentine, and she knew it, for when she read the verse she shook her head at him laughingly, and a little ashamed. “When will ye be wise?” said she.

Then she opened the little parcel: it contained a trivial birthday gift from an anonymous friend in whose confidence only I, of all the three in the room, happened to be. Vainly they speculated about his identity without suspecting me; but I noticed that it was on her valentine Jinnet set most value. She held it long in her hand, thinking, and was about to put it into a chest of drawers without letting me see it.

“Ye needna be hidin’ it,” said her husband then. “He saw it already. Faith! he helped me to pick it.”

“I’m fair affronted,” she exclaimed, reddening at this exposure. “You and your valenteens!”

“There’s naething wrang wi’ valenteens,” said her husband. “If it wasna for a valenteen I wad never hae got ye. I could never say to your face but that I liked ye; but the valenteen had a word that’s far mair brazen than ‘like,’ ye mind.”

“Oh, Erchie!” I cried, “you must have been blate in these days. The word was----”

He put up his hand in alarm and stopped me. “Wheesht!” said he. “It’s a word that need never be mentioned here where we’re a’ three Scotch!”

“But what came over the first lass, Erchie?” I asked, determined to have the end of that romance.

He looked across at his wife and smiled. “She’s there hersel’,” said he, “and ye better ask her.”

“What! Jinnet?” I cried, amazed at my own obtuseness.

“Jinnet of course,” said he. “Wha else wad it be if it wasna Jinnet? She’s the Rale Oreeginal.”

XXV AMONG THE PICTURES

|Whaur are ye gaun the day?” said Erchie to Duffy on Saturday afternoon when he came on the worthy coalman standing at his own close-mouth, looking up and down the street with the hesitation of a man who deliberates how he is to make the most of his Saturday half-holiday.

“I was jist switherin’,” said Duffy. “Since I got mairried and stopped gaun to the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, there’s no’ much choice for a chap. I micht as weel be leevin’ in the country for a’ the life I see.”

“Man, aye!” said Erchie, “that’s the warst o’ Gleska; there’s nae life in’t--naethin’ daein’. Ye should try yer hand at takin’ oot the wife for a walk, jist for the novelty o’ the thing.”

“Catch me!” said Duffy. “She wad see ower mony things in the shop windows she was needin’. I was jist wonderin’ whether I wad buy a ‘Weekly Mail’ or gang to the fitba’ match at Parkheid.”

Erchie looked pityingly at him. “A fitba’ match!” said he. “Whit’s the use o’ gaun to a fitba’ match when ye can see a’ aboot it in the late edeetion? Forbye, a fitba’ match doesna improve the mind; it’s only sport. I’ll tell ye whit I’ll dae wi’ ye if ye’re game. I’ll tak’ ye to the Art Institute; the minister gied me twa tickets. Awa’ and put on your collar and I’ll wait here on ye.”

“Do ye need a collar for the gallery?” asked Duffy, who thought the Art Institute was a music-hall. On this point Erchie set him right, and ten minutes later, with a collar whose rough edges rasped his neck and made him unhappy, he was on his way to Sauchiehall Street.

The band was playing a waltz tune as they entered the Institute.

“Mind, I’m no’ on for ony dancin’,” Duffy explained. “I canna be bothered dancin’.”

“There’s naebody gaun to ask ye to dance,” said Erchie. “Do you think there couldna be a baun’ playin’ withoot dancin’? It’s jist here to cod a lot o’ folk into the notion that they can be cheery enough in a place o’ the kind in spite o’ the pictures. And ye can get aifternoon tea here, too.”

“I could be daein’ wi’ a gless o’ beer,” said Duffy.

“No. They’re no’ that length yet,” Erchie explained. “There’s only the tea. The mair determined lovers o’ the Fine Arts can dae the hale show in an aifternoon noo wi’ the help o’ a cup o’ tea, so that they needna come back again. It’s a great savin’. They used to hae to gang hame for their tea afore, and whiles they never got back. The Institute wasna popular in thae days; it was that quate and secluded that if a chap had done onything wrang and the detectives were efter him he took a season ticket, and spent a’ his days here. Noo, ye can see for yersel’ the place is gaun like an inn. That’s the effect o’ the baun’ and the aifternoon tea. If they added a baby incubator to the attractions the same’s they hae in the East-End Exhibeetion, they would need the Fire Brigade wi’ a hose to keep the croods oot. Ye hae nae idea o’ the fascination Art has for the people o’ Gleska if they’re no’ driven to’t.”

“My jove!” exclaimed Duffy, at the sight of the first gallery. “Whit a lot o’ pictures! There’ll be a pile o’ money in a place o’ this kind. Hiv they no water-shoot, or a shootin’ jungle, or onything lively like that?”

“Man, ye’re awfu’ common, whiles, Duffy,” said Erchie. “I’m fear’t I wasted my ticket on ye. This is no’ an ordinary show for haein’ fun at; it’s for enlargin’ the mind, openin’ the e’en to the beauties o’ nature, and sellin’ pictures.”

“Are they a’ for sale?” asked Duffy, looking with great intentness at a foggy impression by Sidaner, the French artist.

“No’ the hale o’ them; there’s some on lend.”

“I could hae lent them a topper,” said Duffy,--“faur aheid o’ onything here. It’s a drawin’ o’ a horse I yince had in my first lorry; it was pented for me by a penter that lodged above us, and had a great name for signboards. It cost me nearly a pound wan wye or anither, though I provided the pent mysel’.”

“Ay, Art’s a costly thing,” said Erchie. “Ye’ll seldom get a good picture under a pound. It’s no’ athegither the pent, it’s the layin’ o’t on by hand.”

“This yin’s done by hand onywye,” said Duffy, pointing to the foggy impression by Sidaner. “It’s awfu’ like as if somebody had done it themsel’s in their spare time.”

“You and me’s no’ judges o’ that sort o’ thing,” said Erchie. “Maybe it’s no’ near so bad as it looks.”

“Ye see,” Erchie went on, “Art pentin’s a tred by itsel’. There used to be hardly ony picture-penters in Gleska; it was a’ shipbuildin’ and calanderin’, whitever that is, and chemical works that needed big lums. When a Gleska man did a guid stroke o’ business on the Stock Exchange, or had money left him in thae days, and his wife wanted a present, he had his photy-graph ta’en big size, ile-coloured by hand. It was gey like him, the photygraph, and so everybody kent it wasna the rale Art. Folk got rich that quick in Gleska, and had sae much money to spend, that the photygraphers couldna keep up wi’ the’demand, and then the hand-pentin’ chaps began to open works in different pairts o’ the city. Ye’ll hardly gang into a hoose noo whaur ye’ll no’ see the guidman’s picture in ile, and it micht be bilin’ ile sometimes, judgin’ from the agony in his face.”

“My jove!” said Duffy, “is it sore to get done that wye?”

“Sore!” replied Erchie; “no, nor sore. At least, no’ that awfu’ sore. They wadna need to dae’t unless they liked. When maistly a’ the weel-aff Gleska folk had got their photygraphs done and then de’ed, the penters had to start the landscape brench o’ the business. Them’s landscapes a’ roon’ aboot”--and Erchie gave his arm a comprehensive sweep to suggest all the walls.

“They must be pretty smert chaps that does them,” said Duffy. “I wish I had gone in for the pentin’ mysel’; it’s cleaner nor the coals. Dae ye hae to serve your time?”

“No, nor time; ye can see for yersel’ that it’s jist a kind o’ knack like poetry--or waitin’. And the plant doesna cost much; a’ ye need to start wi’s paper, brushes, pent, and a saft hat.”

“A saft hat!”

“Ay; a saft hat’s the sure sign o’ an artist. I ken hunners o’ them; Gleska’s fair hotchin’ wi’ artists. If the Cairters’ Trip wasna abolished, ye wad see the artists’ tred union walkin’ oot wi’ the rest o’ them.”

The two friends went conscientiously round the rooms, Erchie expounding on the dimensions, frames, and literary merits of the pictures, Duffy a patient, humble student, sometime’s bewildered at the less obvious transcripts of nature and life pointed out to him.

“Is there much mair o’ this to see?” he asked at last, after having gone through the fourth gallery. “I’m gettin’ dizzy. Could we no’ hae something at the tea bar if we gied them a tip? They micht send oot for’t. Or we micht get a pass-oot check.”

“Mair to see!” exclaimed Erchie. “Ye’re awfu’ easy made dizzy! The like o’ you wad faur raither be oot skreichin’ yer heid aff at the fitba’ match at Parkheid, instead o’ improvin’ the mind here. Ye canna get onything at the tea place but jist tea, I’m tellin’ ye, and there’s nae pass-oot checks. They ken better nor to gie ye pass-oot checks; haulf o’ your kind wad never come back again if yince ye escaped.”

“My jove!” said Duffy, suddenly, “here’s a corker!” and he indicated a rather peculiar drawing with a lady artist’s name attached to it.

Erchie himself was staggered. “It’s ca’d ‘The Sleeper’ in the catalogue,” said he. “It’s a wumman, and her dozin’. The leddy that pented it wasna ower lavish wi’ her pent. That’s whit they ca’ New Art, Duffy; it jist shows ye whit weemen can dae if ye let them.”

“And dae ye tell me there’s weemen penters!” asked Duffy in astonishment.

“Of course there’s weemen penters.”

“And hoo dae they get up and doon lethers?” asked Duffy.

“I’m tellin’ ye Art pentin’s a brench by itsel’,” said Erchie. “The lady Art penters divna pent windows and rhones and hooses; they bash brass, and hack wud, and draw pictures.”

“And can they mak’ a livin’ at that?”

“Whiles. And whiles their paw helps.”

“My jove!” said Duffy, bewildered.

“We’ll gang on to the next room noo,” said Erchie.

“I wad raither come back some ither day,” said Duffy. “I’m enjoyin’ this fine, but I promised the wife I wad be hame early for my tea.” And together they hastily made an exit into Sauchie-hall Street.

“I wonder wha won the semi-final at Parkheid,” said Duffy. “We’ll awa’ doon the toon and see; whit’s the use o’ hurryin’ hame?”

XXVI THE PROBATIONARY GHOST

|One day I observed Erchie going off the pavement rather than walk under a ladder.

“And are you superstitious too?” I asked him, surprised at this unsuspected trait in a character so generally sensible.

“I don’t care whither ye ca’t supresteetion or no,” he replied, “but walkin’ under lethers is a gey chancy thing; and there’s mony a chancy thing, and I’m neither that young nor that weel aff that I can afford to be takin’ ony risks.”

“Dear me!” I said; “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that you believed in ghosts.”

“Do I no’?” he answered. “And guid reason for’t! Did I no’ yince see yin? It was the time I had the rheumatic fever, when we were stayin’ in Garnethill. I was jist gettin’ better, and sittin’ up a wee while in the evenin’ to air the bed, and Jinnet was oot for a message. The nicht was wild and wet, and the win’ was daudin’ awa’ at the window like onything, and I was feelin’ gey eerie, and wearyin’ for the wife to come back. I was listenin’ for her fit on the stair, when the ootside door opens, and in a second there was a chap at the kitchen door.

“‘Come in if your feet’s clean,’ says I, pretty snappy. ‘Seein’ ye’ve made sae free wi’ the ae door ye needna mak’ ony ceremony wi’ this ane.’ I heard the hinges screechin’, but naebody cam’ in, and I looks roon’ frae where I was sittin’ wi’ a blanket roond me at the fire, and there was the ghost keekin’ in. He was a wee nyaf o’ a thing, wi’ a Paisley whisker, a face no bigger than a Geneva watch, a nickerbocker suit on, Rab Roy tartan tops to his gowfin’ stockings, and pot-bellied to the bargain. I kent fine he was a ghost at the first gae-aff.

“‘It’s you,’ says I. ‘Come in and gies yer crack till Jinnet comes. Losh, it’s no’ a nicht for stravaigin’.’

“He cam’ glidin’ in withoot makin’ ony soond at a’, and sat doon on a chair.

“‘Ye’re no’ feared,’ says he, tryin’ to gnash his teeth, and makin’ a puir job o’t, for they were maistly artifeecial.

“‘Feared?’ says I. ‘No’ me! I never did onybody ony hairm that wad mak’ it worth ony ghost’s while to meddle wi’ me. A flet fit but a warm hert.’

“‘We’ll see aboot that,’ says he, as cocky as onything. ‘I had a fine job findin’ oot where ye were. Fancy me gaun awa’ doon to Millport on a nicht like this to haunt ye, and findin’ that ye had flitted up here last term.’ And he begood to gnash his teeth again.

“‘Millport!’ says I. ‘Man! I was never near the place, and I’ve lived in this hoose for seventeen year, and brocht up a faimily in’t.’

“I never seen a ghost mair vexed than he was when I tellt him that. His jaw fell; he was nearly greetin’.

“‘Whit’s yer name?’ he asked.

“‘Erchie MacPherson, and I’m no’ ashamed o’t. Its no’ in ony grocers’ nor tylers’ books that I ken o’, and if I ever murdered ony weans or onything o’ that sort, it must hae been when I was sleepin’. I doot, my man, ye’re up the wrang close.’

“The ghost begood to swear. Oh my! such swearin’. I never listened to the bate o’t. There was fancy words in’t I never heard in a’ my life, and I’ve kent a wheen o’ cairters.

“‘That’s jist like them,’ says he. ‘They tellt me Millport; and efter I couldna find the man I was wantin’ at Millport, I was tellt it was here, No. 16 Buccleuch Street. Fancy me bungin’ awa’ through the air on a nicht like this! My nicker-bockers is fair stickin’ to my knees wi’ wet.’

“‘Peter,’ says I (of course I didna ken his richt name, but I thocht I wad be nice wi’ the chap see-in’ he had made such a mistake), ‘Peter,’ said I, ‘ye’re needin’ yer specs on. This is no’ No. 16, it’s number 18, and I think the man ye maun be lookin’ for is Jeckson, that canvasses for the sewin’-machines. He came here last term frae aboot Millport. If he’s done ony hairm to ony-body in his past life--murdered a wife, and buried her under the hearth-stane or ony daft-like thing o’ that sort,--I’m no’ wantin’ to hear onything aboot it, for he’s a guid enough neebour, has twa bonny wee weans, comes hame regular to his tea, and gangs to the kirk wi’ his wife. He’s been teetotal ever since he came here. Gie the chap a chance!’

“‘Jeckson!’ said the ghost, and whips oot a wee book. ‘That’s the very man!’ said he. ‘Man! is’t no’ aggravatin’? Here’s me skooshin’ up and doon the coast wi’ my thin flannels on lookin’ for him, and him toastin’ his taes at a fire in Buccleuch Street! Jist you wait. It shows ye the wye the books in oor place is kept. If the office was richt up-to-date, Jeckson wadna be flitted ten meenutes when his new address wad be marked doon. No wonder the Americans is batin’ us! Weel, it’s no’ my faut if I’m up the wrang close, and I’m no’ gaun to start the job the nicht. I’m far ower cauld.’

“There was an empty gless and a teaspoon on the dresser, for Jinnet had been giein’ me a drap toddy afore she gaed oot. The ghost ‘sat doon on a chair and looked at the gless.

“‘Could ye save a life?’ said he.

“‘Whit wad be the use o’ giein’ it to you, Peter?’ I asked him; ‘ye havena ony inside, seein’ ye’re a ghost.’

“Have I no’?’ says he. ‘Jist try me.’ So I pointed to the press, and he took oot the decanter as smert’s ye like and helped himsel’.

“He turned oot a rale nice chap in spite o’ his tred, and he gave me a’ the oots and ins o’t. ‘I’ve nae luck’ he said. ‘It’s my first job at the hauntin’, and I’ve made a kind o’ botch o’t, though it’s no’ my faut. I’m a probationer; jist on my trial, like yin o’ thae U.F. ministers. Maybe ye think it’s easy gettin’ a haunter’s job; but I’m tellin’ ye it’s no’ that easy, and when ye get it, it’s wark that tak’s it oot o’ ye. There’s mair gangs in for the job there than for the Ceevil Service here, and the jobs go to compeetition. “Ye hae’ to pass an examination, and ye hae nae chance o’ gettin’ yin if ye divna mak? mair nor ninety per cent o’ points. Mind ye, there’s mair than jist plain ghost-wark! It used to be, in the auld days, that a haunter wad be sent to dae onything,--to rattle chains, or gie ye the clammy hand, or be a blood-curdler.

Nooadays there’s half a dizzen different kinds o’ haunters. I’m a blood-curdler mysel’,’ and he gied a skreich that nearly broke a’ the delf on the dresser.

‘Nane o’ that!’ says I, no’ very weel pleased. ‘Ye’ll hae the neebours doon on us. Forbye, there’s naething patent aboot that sort o’ skreich. Duffy the coalman could dae better himsel’. That’s no’ the wye a dacent ghost should cairry on in ony hoose whaur he’s gettin’ a dram.’

“‘Excuse me,’ he says; ‘it’s the dram that’s ta’en my heid. Ye see, I’m no’ used to’t. It’s mony a day since I had yin.’

“‘Are they that strict yonder?’ I asked.

“‘Strict’s no’ the word for’t! If a blood-curdler on probation was kent to gang to his work wi’ the smell o’ drink aff him, he wad lose his job:’ and he helped himsel’ to anither dram.

“‘Weel, ye’re no’ blate ony wye,’ says I.

“‘Blate! Catch me,’ says he. ‘I wadna need to be blate at this tred, I’m tellin’ ye. Jist you think o’ the kind o’ customers we hae to dale wi’! They wad sooner see a tax-collector comin’ into their hooses than yin o’ us chaps. There’s some hooses ye hae to gang to work in where it’s easy. I ken a ghost that’s been fifteen years on the same job, and gettin’ fat on’t. He has the name o’ bein’ the best white-sheet ghost in the Depairt-men’, and he’s stationed in an auld castle up aboot the Hielan’s, a job he got because he had the Gaelic. He made it sae hot for the folk, walkin’ aboot their bedrooms at a’ ‘oors o’ the nicht, that naebody’ll stay in the place but himsel’ and an auld deaf and dumb housekeeper. There’s naething for him to dae, so he can lie in his bed a’ nicht and no’ bother himsel’ aboot onything. It’s a very different thing wi’ anither chap I ken--a chain-clanker in England. He has to drag ten yairds o’ heavy chain up and doon stairs every nicht; and it’s no easy job, I’m tellin’ ye, wi’ the folk the hoose belang to pappin’ things and shootin’ at whaur they think the soond comes frae. Oh ay! there’s a great run on the best jobs. My ain ambeetion is to be in the clammy-hand brench o’ the business in some quate wee place at the coast. I hae my eye on a likely thing at Rothesay. Of course the clammy hand’s no’ a very nice occupation for the winter, but this is a hoose that’s shut up in the winter, and I wad only hae to work it in the fine summer nichts.’

“‘Hoo dae ye dae the clammy hand, Peter?’ I asked him, and he jist winked.

“‘If I was tellin’ ye that,’ says he, ‘ye wad be as wise as mysel’. Never you mind, MacPherson; ask me nae questions and I’ll tell ye nae lees. Weel, as I was sayin’, I aye had a notion o’ a quate job at the coast. I couldna stand Gleska; there’s, such a rush aboot it, and sae mony stairs to sclim, and pianos aye playin’ next door. And the accent’s awfu’! Gie me a nice wee country hoose whaur somebody hanged himsel’, wi’ roses on the wa’, and dandelions in the front plot. But there’s plenty o’ us lookin’ efter jobs o’ that sort,--far ower mony; and it’s generally them wi’ influence that gets them at the hinder-end.’

“‘That’s whit everybody says aboot the situations here, Peter,’ says I. ‘If they’re nae use at their tred they talk a lot aboot influence. I’m thinkin’ ye wad soon get a job at the coast if ye were fit for’t.’

“He was the shortest-tempered ghost ever I seen. I had nae sooner said that than he gied anither skreich, and disappeared in a blue lowe wi’ an awfu’ smell o’ brimstone.

“‘Come oot o’ that!’ I says to him; ‘I can see the taps o’ yer gowfin’ stockings;’ and at that he gied a kind o’ shamed lauch and was sittin’ in the chair again, helpin’ himsel’ to anither dram.

“‘I’ll tell ye whit I’ll dae wi’ ye,’ said he. ‘I’ll no’ mind aboot Jeckson at a’, but I’ll hing aboot your hoose for a week or a fortnight, and they’ll never ken at the office. I canna think to gang into Jeckson’s hoose if he’s a teetotaler. Teetotalers is aye that--that--that teetotal. I wad never get sittin’ doon in Jeckson’s to a jovial gless like this.’

“‘Ye’re far ower jovial for me,’ says I. ‘See’s that decanter,’ and I took it frae him. ‘I’m awfu’ prood to see ye, but ye better be slidin’ afore her ladyship the wife comes in, or she’ll put the hems on ye. She canna stand ghosts.’

“‘Michty!’ said he, ‘have ye a wife?’