Part 6

“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.”

XV THE STUDENT LODGER

|It was with genuine astonishment Erchie one day had his wife come to him with a proposal that she should keep a lodger.

“A ludger!” he cried. “It wad be mair like the thing if ye keepit a servant lassie, for whiles I think ye’re fair wrocht aff yer feet.”

“Oh, I’m no’ sae faur done as a’ that,” said Jinnet. “I’m shair I’m jist as smert on my feet as ever I was, and I could be daein’ wi’ a ludger fine. It wad keep me frae wearyin’.”

“Wearyin’!” said her husband. “It’s comin’ to’t when my ain ‘wife tells me I’m no’ company for her. Whit is’t ye’re wantin’, and I’ll see whit I can dae. If it’s music ye’re for, I’ll buy a melodian and play’t every nicht efter my tea. If it’s improvin’ conversation ye feel the want o’, I’ll ask Duffy up every ither nicht and we’ll can argue on Fore Ordination and the chance o’ the Celtic Fitba’ Club to win the League Championship the time ye’re darnin’ stockin’s. ‘Wearyin’’ says she! Perhaps ye wad like to jine a dancin’ school; weel, I’ll no’ hinder ye, I’m shair, but I’ll no’ promise to walk to the hall wi’ ye every nicht cairryin’ yer slippers. Start a ludger! I’m shair we’re no’ that hard up!”

“No, we’re no’ that hard up,” Jinnet confessed, “but for a’ the use we mak’ o’ the room we micht hae somebody in it, and it wad jist be found money. I was jist thinkin’ it wad be kind o’ cheery to have a dacent young chap gaun oot and in. I’m no’ for ony weemen ludgers; they’re jist a fair bother, aye hingin’ aboot the hoose and puttin’ their nose into the kitchen, tellin’ ye the richt wye to dae this and that, and burnin’ coal and gas the time a man ludger wad be oot takin’ the air.”

“Takin’ drink, mair likely,” said Erchie, “and comin’ hame singin’ ‘Sodgers o’ the Queen,’ and scandalisin’ the hale stair.”

“And I’m no’ for a tredsman,” Jinnet went on, with the air of one whose plans were all made.

“Of course no’,” said her husband, “tredsmen’s low. They’re, no’ cless. It’s a peety ye mairried yin. Perhaps ye’re thinkin’ o’ takin’ in a Chartered Accoontant, or maybe a polisman. Weel I’m jist tellin’ ye I wadna hae a polisman in my paurlor; his helmet wadna gang richt wi’ the furniture, and the blecknin’ for his boots wad cost ye mair than whit he pyed for his room.”

“No, nor a polisman!” said Jinnet. “I was thinkin’ o’ maybe a quate lad in a warehouse, or a nice factor’s clerk, or something o’ that sort. He wad be nae bother. It’s jist the ae makin’ o’ parridge in the mornin’. Ye’re no’ to thraw wi’ me aboot this, Erchie; my mind’s made up I’m gaun to keep a ludger.”

“If your mind’s made up,” he replied, “then there’s nae use o’ me argy-bargyin’ wi’ ye. I’m only your man. It bates me to ken whit ye’re gaun to dae wi’ the money, if it’s no’ to buy a motor-cairrage. Gie me your word ye’re no’ gaun in for ony sports o’ that kind. I wad hate to see ony wife o’ mine gaun skooshin’ oot the Great Western Road on a machine like a tar-biler, wi’ goggles on her een and a kahoutchy trumpet skriechin’ ‘pip! pip!”’

“Ye’re jist an auld haver,” said Jinnet, and turned to her sewing, her point gained.

A fortnight after, as a result of a ticket with the legend “Apartments” in the parlour window, Jinnet was able to meet her husband’s return to tea one night with the announcement that she had got a lodger. “A rale gentleman!” she explained. “That weel put-on! wi’ twa Gled-stone bags, yin o’ them carpet, and an alerm clock for waukenin’ him in the mornin’. He cam’ this efternoon in a cab, and I think he’ll be easy put up wi’ and tak’ jist whit we tak’ oorsels.”

“I hope he’s no’ a theatrical,” said Erchie. “Me bein’ a beadle in a kirk it wadna be becomin’ to hae a theatrical for a ludger. Forbye, they never rise oot o’ their beds on the Sunday, but lie there drinkin’ porter and readin’ whit the papers says aboot their playactin’.”

“No, nor a theatrical!” cried Jinnet. “I wadna mak’ a show o’ my hoose for ony o’ them: it’s a rale nice wee fair-heided student.”

Erchie threw up his hands in amazement. “Michty me!” said he, “a student. Ye micht as weel hae taen in a brass baun’ or the Cairter’s Trip when ye were at it. Dae ye ken whit students is, Jinnet? I ken them fine, though I was never at the college mysel’, but yince I was engaged to hand roond beer at whit they ca’d a Gaudiamus. Ye have only to tak’ the mildest wee laddie that has bad e’e-sicht and subject to sair heids frae the country and mak’ a student o’ him to rouse the warst passions o’ his nature. His mither, far awa’ in Clachnacudden, thinks he’s hurtin’ his health wi’ ower muckle study, but the only hairm he’s daein’ himsel’ is to crack his voice cryin’ oot impidence to his professors. I’m vexed it’s a student, and a fair-heided yin at that: I’ve noticed that the fair-heided yins were aye the warst.”

“Weel, he’s there onywye, and we’ll jist hae to mak’ the best we can wi’ him,” said Jinnet. “Forbye, I think he’s a guid-leevin’ lad, Erchie; he tellt me he was comin’ oot for a minister.”

“Comin’ oot for a minister!” said Erchie. “Then that’s the last straw! I’m sorry for your chevalier and book-case; he’ll be sclimbin’ int’t some nicht thinkin’ it’s the concealed bed.”

The room door opened, a voice bawled in the lobby, “Mrs MacPherson, hey! Mrs MacPherson,” and the student, without waiting his landlady’s-appearance, walked coolly into the kitchen.

“Hulloo! old chap, how’s biz?” he said to Erchie, and seated himself airily on the table, with a pipe in his mouth. He was a lad of twenty, with spectacles.

“I canna complain,” said Erchie. “I hope ye’re makin’ yersel’ at hame.”

“Allow me for that!” said the student.

“That’s nice,” said Erchie, blandly. “See and no’ be ower blate, and if there’s onything ye’re wantin’ that we havena got, we’ll get it for ye. Ye’ll no’ know whit ye need till ye see whit ye require. It’s a prood day for us to hae a diveenity student in oor room. If we had expected it we wad hae had a harmonium.”

“Never mind the harmonium,” said the student. “For music lean on me, George P. Tod. I sing from morn till dewy eve. When I get up in the morning, jocund day stands on the misty mountain top, and I give weight away to the bloomin’ lark. Shakespeare, Mr MacPherson. The Swan of Avon. He wrote a fairly good play. What I wanted to know was if by any chance Mrs MacPherson was a weepist?”

“Sir?” said Jinnet.

“Do you, by any chance, let the tear doon fa’?”

“Not me!” said Jinnet, “I’m a cheery wee woman.”

“Good!” said Tod. “Then you’re lucky to secure a sympathetic and desirable lodger. To be gay is my forte. The last landlady I had was thrice a widow. She shed the tears of unavailing regret into my lacteal nourishment with the aid of a filler, I think, and the milk got thinner and thinner. I was compelled at last to fold-my tent like the justly celebrated Arabs of song and silently steal away. ‘Why weep ye by the tide, ladye?’ I said to her. ‘If it were by the pint I should not care so much, but methinks your lachrymal ducts are too much on the hair trigger.’ It was no use, she could not help it, and--in short, here I am.”

“I’m shair we’ll dae whit we can for ye,” said Jinnet. “I never had a ludger before.”

“So much the better,” said George Tod. “I’m delighted to be the object of experiment--the _corpus vile_, as we say in the classics, Mr MacPher-son,--and you will learn a good deal with me. I will now proceed to burn the essential midnight oil. Ah, thought, thought! You little know, Mr MacPherson, the weary hours of study----”

“It’s no’ ile we hae in the room, it’s gas,” said Erchie. “But if ye wad raither hae ile’, say the word and we’ll get it for ye.”

“Gas will do,” said the student; “it is equally conducive to study, and more popular in all great congeries of thought.”

“When dae ye rise in the mornin’, Mr Tod?” asked Jinnet. “I wad like to ken when I should hae your breakfast ready.”

“Rise!” said Tod. “Oh, any time! ‘When the morn, with russet mantle clad, walks o’er the dew on yon high eastern hill.’”

“Is’t Garnethill or Gilshochill?” said Erchie, anxiously. “I wad rise, mysel’, early in the mornin’, and gang oot to whichever o’ them it is to see the first meenute the dew comes, so that ye wadna lose ony time in gettin’ up and started wi’ your wark.”

The lodger for the first time looked at his landlord with a suspicious eye. He had a faint fear that the old man might be chaffing him, but the innocence of Erchie’s face restored his perkiness.

“I was only quoting the bard,” he explained, as he left the kitchen. “Strictly speaking, the morn with russet mantle clad can go to the deuce for me, for I have an alarm clock. Do not be startled if you hear it in the morning. It goes off with incredible animation.”

“Oh, Erchie’ isn’t he nice?” said Jinnet, when the lodger had withdrawn. “That smert, and aye talks that jovial, wi’ a lot o’ words I canna mak’ heid nor tail o’.”

Erchie filled his pipe and thought a little. “Smert’s the word, Jinnet,” said he. “That’s whit students is for.”

“I don’t think he’s very strong,” said Jinnet. “If he was in his mither’s hoose she wad be giein’ him hough soup for his dinner. I think I’ll jist mak’ some for him to-morrow, and put a hot-water bottle in his bed.”

“That’s richt,” said Erchie; “and if ye hae a haddie or a kippered herrin’, or onything else handy, it’ll dae for me.”.

“Ye’re jist a haver!” said Jinnet.

For a week George P. Tod was a model lodger. He came in at early hours of the evening and went to bed timeously, and was no great trouble to his landlady, whose cookery exploits in his interest were a great improvement on anything he had ever experienced in lodgings before.

When he was in his room in the evenings Jinnet insisted on the utmost quietness on the part of her husband. “Mr Tod’s at his hame lessons,” she would say. “It’ll no’ dae to disturb him. Oh, that heid wark! that heid wark! It must be an awfu’ thing to hae to be thinkin’ even-on.”

“Heid wark!” said her husband. “I ken the heid wark he’s like enough at; he’s learnin’ the words o’ ‘Mush Mush, tu-ral-i-ady’ to sing at the students’ procession, or he’s busy wi’ a dictionary writin’ hame to his paw to send him a post office order for twa pounds to jine the Y.M.C.A. But he’s no’ thinkin’ o’ jinin’ the Y.M.C.A.; he’s mair likely to start takin’ lessons at a boxin’ cless.”

But even Erchie was compelled to admit that the lad was no unsatisfactory lodger.

“I declare, Jinnet,” he said, “I think he’s yin o’ the kind o’ students ye read aboot but very seldom see. His faither’ll be a wee fairmer up aboot Clachnacudden, hainin’ a’ the money he can, and no’ giein’ his wife her richt meat, that he may see his son through the college and waggin’ his heid in a pulpit. Him and his faither’s the stuff they mak’ the six shillin’ Scotch novells oot o’--the kind ye greet at frae the very, start,--for ye ken the puir lad, that was aye that smert in the school, and won a’ the bursaries, is gaun to dee in the last chapter wi’ a decline.”

“Puir things,” said Jinnet.

“Ye divna see ony signs o’ decline aboot Mr Tod, do ye?” asked Erchie, anxiously.

“I didna notice,” replied Jinnet, “but he taks his meat weel enough.”

“The meat’s the main thing! But watch you if he hasna a hoast and thon hectic flush that aye breaks oot in chapter nine jist aboot the time he wins the gold medal.”

“Och, ye’re jist an auld haver, Erchie,” said the wife. “Ye’re no’ to be frichtenin’ me aboot the puir callant, jist the same age as oor ain Willie.”

The time of the Rectorial Election approached, and Tod began to display some erratic habits. It was sometimes the small hours of the morning before he came home, and though he had a latchkey, Jinnet could never go to bed until her lodger was in for the night. Sometimes she went out to the close-mouth to look if he might be coming, and the first night that, Erchie, coming home late from working at a civic banquet, found her there, Tod narrowly escaped being told to take his two bags and his alarm clock elsewhere.

“I was needin’ a moothfu’ o’ fresh air onywye,” was Jinnet’s excuse for being out at such an hour. “But I’m feared that puir lad’s workin’ himsel’ to death.”

“Whaur dae ye think he’s toilin’?” asked her husband.

“At the nicht-school,” said Jinnet. “I’m shair the college through the day’s plenty for him.”

“The nicht-school!” cried Erchie. “Bonny on the nicht-school! He’s mair likely to be roond in Gibson Street batterin’ in the doors o’ the Conservative committee-rooms, for I ken by his specs and his plush weskit he’s a Leeberal. Come awa’ in to your bed and never mind him. Ye wad be daein’ him a better turn maybe if ye chairged the gazogene to be ready for the mornin’, when he’ll be badly wantin’t, if I’m no’ faur mistaken.” Erchie was right--the-gazogene would have been welcome next morning. As it was, the lodger was indifferent to breakfast, and expressed an ardent desire for Health Salts.

Erchie took them in to him, and found him groaning with a headache.

“The dew’s awfu’ late on the high eastern hills this mornin’, Mr Tod,” said Erchie. “Losh, ye’re as gash as the Laird o’ Garscadden! I’m feart ye’re studyin’ far ower hard; it’s no’ for the young and growin’ to be hurtin’ their heids wi’ nicht-schools and day-schools; ye should whiles tak’ a bit rest to yersel’. And no’ a bit o’ yer breakfast touched! Mrs MacPherson’ll no’ be the pleased woman wi’ ye this day, I can tell ye!”

Tod looked up with a lack-lustre eye. “Thought, Mr MacPherson, thought!” said he. “Hard, incessant, brain-corroding thought! In the words of the Bard of Avon, ‘He who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.’”

“I aye thocht that was ‘Ecclesiastes,’ Mr Tod,” said Erchie, meekly.

“In a way, yes,” hastily admitted Tod. “It _was_ ‘Ecclesiastes,’ as you say; but Shakespeare had pretty much the same idea. You will find it in--in--in his plays.”

That afternoon began the more serious of Jinnet’s experiences of’ divinity students. Nine young gentlemen with thick walking-sticks visited Tod’s apartment _en masse_; the strains of “Mush Mush, tu-ral-i-ady,” bellowed inharmoniously by ten voices, and accompanied by the beating of the walking-sticks on the floor, kept a crowd of children round the close-mouth for hours, and somewhat impeded the ordinary traffic of the street.

“There must be a spree on in auld Mac-Pherson’s,” said the tenement. When Erchie came home he found Jinnet distracted. “Oh, whit a day I’ve had wi’ them students!” she wailed.

“But look at the money ye’re makin’ aff your room,” said her husband. “Wi’ whit ye get frae Tod, ye’ll soon hae enough for the motor, cairrage and a yacht forbye.”

“I’m feart to tell ye, Erchie,” said Jinnet, “but I havena seen the colour o’ his money yet.”

“Study! study!” said Erchie. “Ye canna expect the puir lad to be thinkin’ even-on aboot his lessons, and learnin’ Latin and the rest o’t, no’ to mention ‘Mush Mush,’ and still keep mind o’ your twa or three paltry bawbees.”

“I mentioned it to him on Setturday and he was rale annoyed. He yoked on me and said I was jist as bad as the weedow he lodged wi’ afore; that he was shair I was gaun to let the tear doon-fa’. He gied me warnin’ that if I let the tear doon-fa’ he wad leave.”

“If I was you I wad start greetin’ at yince,” said Erchie. “And he’ll leave onywye, this very Setturday.”

That afternoon the students were having a torchlight procession, when, as usual, most of them marched in masquerade. It was the day of the Rectorial Election, and the dust of far-flung pease-meal--favourite missile of the student--filled the air all over the classic slopes of Gilmorehill. It had been one of Erchie’s idle days; he had been in the house all afternoon, and still was unbedded, though Jinnet for once had retired without waiting the home-coming of her lodger.

There came a riotous singing of student’s along the street, accompanied by the wheezy strains of a barrel-organ, and for twenty minutes uproar reigned at the entrance to the MacPherson’s close.

Then Tod came up and opened the door with his latch-key. He had on part of Erchie’s professional habiliments--the waiter’s dress-coat and also Erchie’s Sunday silk hat, both surreptitiously taken from a press in the lobby. They were foul with pease-meal and the melted rosin from torches. On his shoulders Tod had strapped a barrel-organ, and the noise of it, as it thumped against the door-posts on his entry, brought Erchie out to see what was the matter.

He took in the situation at a glance, though at first he did not recognise his own clothes.

“It’s you, Mr Tod!” said he. “I was jist sittin’ here thinkin’ on ye slavin’ awa’ at your lessons yonder in the Deveenity Hall. It maun be an awfu’ strain on the intelleck. I’m gled I never went to the college mysel’, but jist got my education, as it were, by word o’ mooth.”

Tod breathed heavily. He looked very foolish with his borrowed and begrimed clothes, and the organ on his back, and he realised the fact himself.

“‘S all ri’, Mr MacPherson,” he said. “Music hath charms. Not a word! I found this--this instrument outside, and just took it home. Thought it might be useful. Music in the house makes cheerful happy homes--see advertisements--so I borrowed this from old friend, what’s name --Angina Pectoris, Italian virtuosa, leaving him the monkey. Listen.”

He unslung the organ and was starting to play it in the lobby when Erchie caught him by the arm and restrained him.