Part 9

“I daursay that was because the Hielan’man never had onything worth while to put in a pocket if he had yin. He hung his snuff-mull and his knife and fork ootside his claes, and kept his skean-dhu in his stockin’. . .

“It’s a proof that weemen’s no’ richt ceevilised yet that they can be daein’, like the men I’m speakin’ aboot, withoot ony pooches. Jinnet tells me there’s nae pooch in a woman’s frock nooadays, because it wad spoil her sate on the bicycle. That’s the wye ye see weemen gaun aboot wi’ their purses in their haunds, and their bawbees for the skoosh car inside their glove, and their bonny wee watches that never gang because they’re never rowed up, hinging just ony place they’ll hook on to ootside their claes.

“I was yince gaun doon to Whiteinch on a Clutha to see a kizzen o’ the wife’s, and Jinnet was wi’ me. Me bein’ caury-haunded, I got aff by mistake at Govan on the wrang side o’ the river, when Jinnet was crackin’ awa’ like a pen-gun wi’ some auld wife at the sherp end o’ the boat, and she didna see me.

“‘Oh! Erchie!’ she says when she cam’ hame, ‘the time I’ve put in! I thocht ye wis drooned.’

“‘And ye hurried hame for the Prudential Insurance book, I suppose?’ says I.

“‘No,’ says she, ‘but I made up my mind to hae a pooch o’ my ain efter this, if I merrit again, to haud my ain Clutha fares, and no’ be lippenin’ to onybody.’”

XXII ERCHIE IN AN ART TEA-ROOM

|I saw you and Duffy looking wonderfully smart in Sauchiehall Street on Saturday,” I said to Erchie one morning.

“Man, were we no’?” replied the old man, with an amused countenance. “I must tell ye the pant we had. Ye’ll no’ guess where I had Duffy. Him and me was in thon new tea-room wi’ the comic windows. Yin o’ his horses dee’d on him, and he was doon the toon liftin’ the insurance for’t. I met him comin’ hame wi’ his Sunday claes on, and the three pound ten he got for the horse. He was that prood he was walkin’ sae far back on his heels that a waff o’ win’ wad hae couped him, and whustlin’ ‘Dark Lochnagar.’

“‘Come on in somewhere and hae something,’ says he, quite joco.

“‘Not me,’ says I--’ I’m nane o’ the kind; a beadle’s a public man, and he disna ken wha may be lookin’ at him, but I’ll tell ye whit I’ll dae wi’ ye--I’ll tak’ ye into a tea-room.’ ‘A’ richt,’ says Duffy; ‘I’m game for a pie or onything.’

“And I took him like a lamb to the new place. When we came foment it, he glowered, and ‘Michty!’ says he, ‘wha did this?’

“‘Miss Cranston,’ says I.

“‘Was she tryin’?’ says Duffy.

“‘She took baith hands to’t,’ I tellt him. ‘And a gey smert wumman, too, if ye ask me.’ He stood five meenutes afore I could get him in, wi’ his een glued on the fancy doors.

“Do ye hae to break yer wey in?’ says he. “‘No, nor in, I tells him; look slippy in case some o’ yer customers sees ye!’

“‘Och! I havena claes for a place o’ the kind,’ says he, and his face red.

“‘Man!’ I says, ‘ye’ve henned--that’s whit’s wrang wi’ ye: come in jist for the pant; naebody ‘ll touch ye, and ye’ll can come oot if it’s sore.’

“In we goes, Duffy wi’ his kep aff. He gave the wan look roond him, and put his hand in his pooch to feel his money. ‘Mind I have only the three flaffers and a half, Erchie,’ says he.

“‘It’ll cost ye nae mair than the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults,’ I tellt him, and we began sclimmin’ the stairs. Between every rail there was a piece o’ gless like the bottom o’ a soda-water bottle, hangin’ on a wire; Duffy touched every yin o’ them for luck.

“‘Whit dae ye think o’ that, noo?’ I asked him.

“‘It’s gey fancy,’ says Duffy; ‘will we be lang?’ “‘Ye puir ignorant cratur!’ I says, losin’ my patience a’thegither, ‘ye havena a mind in the dietin’ line above a sate on the trams o’ a lorry wi’ a can o’ soup in your hand.’

“I may tell ye I was a wee bit put aboot mysel’, though I’m a waiter by tred, and seen mony a dydo in my time. There was naething in the hale place was the way I was accustomed to; the very snecks o’ the doors were kind o’ contrairy.

“‘This way for the threepeny cups and the guid bargains,’ says I to Duffy, and I lands him into whit they ca’ the Room de Looks. Maybe ye havena seen the Room de Looks; it’s the colour o’ a goon Jinnet used to hae afore we mairried: there’s whit Jinnet ca’s insertion on the table-cloths, and wee beads stitched a’ owre the wa’s the same as if somebody had done it themsel’s. The chairs is no’ like ony ither chairs ever I clapped eyes on, but ye could easy guess they were chairs; and a’ roond the place there’s a lump o’ lookin’-gless wi’ purple leeks pented on it every noo and then. The gasalier in the middle was the thing that stunned me. It’s hung a’ roond wi’ hunners o’ big gless bools, the size o’ yer nief--but ye don’t get pappin’ onything at them.

“Duffy could only speak in whispers. ‘My jove!’ says he, ‘ye’ll no’ get smokin’ here, I’ll bate.’

“‘Smokin’!’ says I; ‘ye micht as weel talk o’ gowfin’.’

“‘I never in a’ my life saw the like o’t afore. This cows a’!’ says he, quite nervous and frich-teried lookin’.’

“‘Och!’ says I, ‘it’s no’ your fau’t; you didna dae’t onyway. Sit doon.’

“There was a wheen lassies wi’ white frocks and tippets on for waitresses, and every yin o’ them wi’ a string of big red beads roond her neck.

“‘Ye’ll notice, Duffy,’ says I, ‘that though ye canna get ony drink here, ye can tak’ a fine bead onyway,’ but he didna see my joke.

“Chaps me no’!’ says he. ‘Whit did ye say the name o’ this room was?’

“‘The Room de books,’ I tellt him.

“‘It’ll likely be the Room de Good Looks,’ says he, lookin’ at the waitress that cam’ for oor order. ‘I’m for a pie and a bottle o’ Broon Robin.’

“Ye’ll get naething o’ the kind. Ye’ll jist tak’ tea, and stretch yer hand like a Christian for ony pastry ye want,’ said I, and Duffy did it like a lamb. Oh! I had the better o’ him; the puir sowl never saw onything fancy in his life afore since the time Glenroy’s was shut in the New City Road, where the Zoo is. It was a rale’ divert. It was the first time ever he had a knife and fork to eat cookies wi’, and he thocht his teaspoon was a’ bashed oot o’ its richt shape till I tellt him that was whit made it Art.

“‘Art,’ says he; ‘whit the mischief’s Art?’

“‘I can easy tell ye whit Art is,’ says I, ‘for it cost me mony a penny. When I got mairried, Duffy, haircloth chairs was a’ the go; the sofas had twa ends to them, and you had to hae six books wi’ different coloured batters spread oot on the paurlor table, wi’ the tap o’ yer weddin’-cake under a gless globe in the middle. Wally dugs on the mantelpiece, worsted things on the chair-backs, a picture o’ John Knox ower the kist o’ drawers, and ‘Heaven Help Our Home’ under the kitchen clock--that was whit Jinnet and me started wi’. There’s mony a man in Gleska the day buyin’ hand-done pictures and wearin’ tile hats to their work that begun jist like that. When Art broke oot----’

“‘I never took it yet,’ says Duffy.

“‘I ken that,’ says I, ‘but it’s ragin’ a’ ower the place; ye’ll be a lucky man if ye’re no’ smit wi’t cairryin’ coals up thae new tenements they ca’ mansions, for that’s a hotbed o’ Art. But as I say, when Art broke oot, Jinnet took it bad, though she didna ken the name o’ the trouble, and the haircloth chairs had to go, and leather yins got, and the sofa wi’ the twa ends had to be swapped for yin wi’ an end cut aff and no’ richt back. The wally dugs, and the worsted things, and the picture o’ John Knox, were nae langer whit Jinnet ca’d the fashion, and something else had to tak’ their place. That was Art: it’s a lingerin’ disease; she has the dregs o’t yet, and whiles buys shilling things that’s nae use for ony-thing except for dustin’.’

“‘Oh! is that it?’says Duffy; ‘I wish I had a pie.’

“‘Ye’ll get a pie then,’ I tellt him, ‘but ye canna expect it here; a pie’s no becomin’ enough for the Room de Looks. Them’s no’ chairs for a coalman to sit on eatin’ pies.’

“We went doon the stair then, and I edged him into the solid meat department. There was a lassie sittin’ at a desk wi’ a wheen o’ different coloured bools afore her, and when the waitresses cam’ to her for an order for haricot mutton or roast beef or onything like that frae the kitchen, she puts yin o’ the bools doon a pipe into the kitchen, and the stuff comes up wi’ naething said.

“‘Whit dae ye ca’ that game?’ asks Duffy, lookin’ at her pappin’ doon the bools; ‘it’s no’ moshy onywey.’

“‘No, nor moshy,’ I says to him. ‘That’s Art. Ye can hae yer pie frae the kitchen withoot them yellin’ doon a pipe for’t and lettin’ a’ the ither customers ken whit ye want.’

“When the pie cam’ up, it was jist the shape o’ an ordinary pie, wi’ nae beads nor onything Art aboot it, and Duffy cheered up at that, and said he enjoyed his tea.”

“I hope the refining and elevating influence of Miss Cranston’s beautiful rooms will have a permanent effect on Duffy’s taste,” I said.

“Perhaps it will,” said Erchie; “but we were nae sooner oot than he was wonderin’ where the nearest place wad be for a gless o’ beer.”

XXIII THE HIDDEN TREASURE

“I wish somebody would leave me some money,” said Jinnet, “and the first thing I would dae wi’t would be to buy ye a new topcoat. That yin’s Erchie gettin’ gey shabby, and that glazed I can almaist see my face in the back o’t.”

“Then ye’re weel aff,” said Erchie, “for there’s seldom ye’ll see a bonnier yin in a better lookin’-gless.”

“Oh, ye auld haver!” cried Jinnet, pushing him. “I wonder ye divna think shame to be talkin’ like a laddie to his first lass; and me jist a done auld body! If I could jist get a shape I wad buy a remnant and mak’ ye a topcoat mysel’. I could dae’t quite easy.”

“I ken fine that,” said her husband, “but I’ll bate ye would put the buttons on the wrang side, the way ye did wi’ yon waistcoat. It’s a droll thing aboot weemen’s claes that they aye hae their buttons on caurey-handed. It jist lets ye see their contrariness.”

“Oh! it’s a peety ye mairried me,” said Jinnet; “a contrairy wife must be an awfu’ handfu’.”

“Weel, so ye are contrairy,” said Erchie firmly.

“It tak’s twa to be contrairy, jist the same wye as it tak’s twa to mak’ a quarrel,” said Jinnet, picking some fluff off his sleeve. “Whit wye am I contrairy I would like to ken?”

“If ye werena contrairy, ye would be thinkin’ o’ buyin’ something for yersel’ instead o’ a topcoat for me, and ye’re far mair needn’t,” said Erchie, and with that a knock came to the door.

“There’s somebody,” said Jinnet hastily, “put on the kettle.”

“Come awa’ in, Mr Duffy, and you, Mrs Duffy,” said Jinnet; “we’re rale gled to see ye, Erchie and me. I was jist puttin’ on the kettle to mak’ a drap tea.”

Duffy and his wife came into the cosy light and warmth of the kitchen, and sat down. There was an elation in the coalman’s eye that could not be concealed.

“My jove! I’ve news for ye the nicht,” said he, taking out his pipe and lighting it.

“If it’s that the bag o’ coals is up anither bawbee,” said Erchie, “there’s nae hurry for’t. It’s no’ awfu’ new news that onywye.”

“Ye needna be aye castin’ up my tred to me,” protested Duffy. “Whaur would ye be wantin’ coals?”

“Mr MacPherson’s quite richt,” said Mrs Duffy; “everybody kens it’s no’ an awfu’ genteel thing sellin’ coals, they’re that--that black. I’m aye at him, Mrs MacPherson, to gie up the ree and the lorries and start a eatin’-house. I could bake and cook for’t fine. Noo that this money’s com’ in’ to us, we could dae’t quite easy. Look at the profit’ aff mulk itsel’!”

“Dear me! hae ye come into a fortune?” cried Jinnet eagerly. “Isn’t that droll? I was jist sayin’ to Erchie that I, wisht somebody would leave me something and I would buy him a new topcoat.”

“That’ll be a’ richt,” said Duffy. “If he’ll gie me a haund wi’ this thing I called aboot the nicht, I’ll stand him the finest topcoat in Gleska, if it costs a pound.”

“If it’s ca’in on lawyers and the like o’ that ye want me to dae,” said Erchie, “I’m nae use to ye. I’ve a fine wye wi’ me for ministers and the like o’ that, that’s no’ aye wantin’ to get the better o’ ye, but lawyers is different. I yince went to a lawyer that was a member in oor kirk to ask him if he didna think it was time for him to pay his sate-rents. He said he would think it ower, and a week efter that he sent me an account for six- and-eightpence for consultation. But I’m prood to hear ye’ve come in for something, Duffy, whether I get a topcoat or no’. I never kent ye had ony rich freen’s at a’. Faith, ye’re weel aff; look at me, I havena a rich freen’ in the warld except--except Jinnet.”

“Oh, I never kent she was that weel aff,” cried Mrs Duffy.

“Is it her!” said Erchie. “She has that much money in the bank that the bank clerks touch their hats to her in the street if she has on her Sunday claes. But that wasna whit I was thinkin’ o’; there’s ither kinds o’ riches besides the sort they keep in banks.”

“Never mind him, he’s an auld fuiter,” said Jinnet, spreading a tablecloth on the table and preparing for the tea. “I’m shair I’m gled to hear o’ your good luck. It doesna dae to build oorsel’s up on money, for money’s no everything, as the pickpocket said when he took the watch as weel; but we’re a’ quite ready to thole’t. Ye’ll be plannin’ whit ye’ll dae wi’t, Mrs Duffy?”

“First and foremost we’re gaun to get rid o’ the ree, at onyrate,” said Mrs Duffy emphatically. “Then we’re gaun to get a piano.”

“Can ye play?” asked Erchie.

“No,” admitted Mrs Duffy, “but there’s nae need tae play sae lang’s ye can get a vinolia to play for ye. I think we’ll flit at the term to yin o’ yon hooses roond the corner, wi’ the tiled closes, and maybe keep a wee servant lassie. I’m that nervous at havin’ to rise for the mulk in the mornin’. No’ an awfu’ big servant wi’ keps and aiprons, ye understaund, but yin I could train into the thing. I’m no’ for nane o’ your late dinners, I jist like to tak’ something in my hand for my supper.”

“Och ay, ye’ll can easy get a wee no’ awfu’ strong yin frae the country, chape,” said Erchie.

“Ye must tak’ care o’ yer ain health, Mrs Duffy, and if ye’re nervous, risin’ in the mornin’ to tak’ in the mulk’s no’ for ye. But my! ye’ll no’ be for speakin’ to the like o’ us when ye come into your fortune.”

“It’s no’ exactly whit ye wad ca’ a fortune,” Duffy explained, as they drew in their chairs to the table. “But it’s a heap o’ money to get a’ at yince withoot daein’ onything for’t.”

“Will ye hae to gang into mournin’s for the body that left it?” Jinnet asked Mrs Duffy. “I ken a puir weedow wumman that would come to the hoose to sew for ye.”

“Ye’re aff it a’thegither,” said Duffy. “It’s naebody that left it to us--it’s a medallion. Whit I wanted to ask ye, Erchie, is this--whit’s a medallion?”

“Jist a kind o’ a medal,” said Erchie.

“My jove!” said Duffy, “the wife was richt efter a’. I thocht it was something for playin’ on, like a melodian. Weel, it doesna maitter, ye’ve heard o’ the hidden treasure the newspapers’s puttin’ here and there roond the country? I ken where yin o’ them’s hidden. At least I ken where there’s a medallion.”

“Oh, hoo nice!” said Jinnet. “It’s awfu’ smert o’ ye, Mr Duffy. I was just readin’ aboot them, and was jist hopin’ some puir body wad get them.”

“No’ that poor naither!” said Mrs Duffy, with a little warmth.

“Na, na, I wasna sayin’----I didna mean ony hairm,” said poor Jinnet. “Streetch yer hand, and tak’ a bit cake. That’s a rale nice brooch ye hae gotten.”

Erchie looked at Duffy dubiously. For a moment he feared the coalman might be trying on some elaborate new kind of joke, but the complacency of his face put it out of the question.

“Then my advice to you, Duffy, if ye ken where the medallion is,” said Erchie, “is to gang and howk it up at yince, or somebody’ll be there afore ye. I warrant it’ll no’ get time to tak’ root if it’s within a penny ride on the Gleska skoosh cars. There’s thoosands o’ people oot wi’ lanterns at this very meenute scrapin’ dirt in the hunt for that medallion. Hoo do ye ken whaur it is if ye havena seen it?”

“It’s there richt enough,” said Mrs Duffy; “it’s in the paper, and we’re gaun to gie up the ree; my mind’s made up on that. I hope ye’ll come and see us sometime in our new hoose--house.”

“It says in the paper,” said Duffy, “that the medallion’s up a street that has a public-hoose at each end o’t, and a wee pawn in the middle, roond the corner o’ anither street, where ye can see twa laundries at yince, and a sign ower yin o’ them that puts ye in mind o’ the battle o’ Waterloo, then in a parteecular place twenty yairds to the richt o’ a pend-close wi’ a barrow in’t.”

Erchie laughed. “Wi’ a barrow in’t?” said he. “They micht as weel hae said wi’ a polisman in’t; barrows is like bobbies--if ye think ye’ll get them where ye want them ye’re up a close yersel’. And whit’s the parteecular place, Duffy?”

Duffy leaned forward and whispered mysteriously, “My coal-ree.”

“But we’re gaun to gie’t up,” explained his wife. “Oh, ay, we’re gaun to give the ree up. Ye hae no idea whaur--where--I could get a smert wee lassie that would not eat awfu’ much, Mrs MacPherson?”

“I measured it a’ aff,” Duffy went on. “It’s oor street richt enough; the pubs is there----”

“-----I could bate ye they are,” said Erchie.

“If they werena there it wad be a miracle.”

“-----and the laundries is there. ‘Colin Campbell’ over yin o’ them, him that bate Bonypart, ye ken, and twenty yairds frae the pend-close is richt under twenty ton o’ coal I put in last week. It’s no’ M’Callum’s wid-yaird; it’s my ree.”

“My papa was the sole proprietor of a large wid-yaird,” irrelevantly remarked Mrs Duffy; who was getting more and more Englified as the details of the prospective fortune came put.

“Was he, indeed,” said Jinnet. “That was nice!”

“Noo, whit I wanted you to dae for me,” Duffy went on, “was to come awa’ doon wi’ me the nicht and gie’s a hand to shift thae coals. I daurna ask ony o’ my men to come, for they wad claim halfers.”

Erchie toyed with a teaspoon and looked at the coalman, half in pity, half with amusement.

“Man, ye’re a rale divert,” said he at last. “Do ye think the newspapers would be at the bother o’ puttin’ their medallion under twenty ton o’ coal in your coal-ree, or ony body else’s? Na, na, they can mak’ their money easier nor that. If ye tak’, my advice, ye’ll put a penny on the bag o’ coal and gie short wecht, and ye’ll mak’ your fortune far shairer than lookin’ under’t for medallions.”’

“Then ye’re no’ game to gie’s a hand?” said Duffy, starting another cookie. “See’s the sugar.”

“Not me!” said Erchie promptly. “I’ve a flet fit and a warm hert, but I’m no’ a’thegither a born idiot to howk coal for medallions that’s no’ there.”

Next day Duffy came up with two bags of coals which Jinnet had ordered.

“Did ye find the medallion?” she asked him.

“I didna need to look for’t,” he replied. “I heard efter I left here last nicht that a man found it in a back-coort in the Garscube Road. Them sort of dydoes should be put doon by the polis.”

“Oh, whit a peety!” said Jinnet. “And hoo’s the mistress the day?”

“She’s fine,” said Duffy. “She’s ca’in’ me Jimmy again; it was naething but Mr Duffy wi’ her as lang’s she thocht we were to get rid o’ the ree.”

XXIV THE VALENTEEN

|On the night of the last Trades House dinner I walked home with Erchie when his work was done. It was the 13th of February. There are little oil-and-colour shops in New City Road, where at that season the windows become literary and artistic, and display mock valentines. One of these windows caught my old friend’s eye, and he stopped to look in.

“My!” he said, “time flies! It was only yesterday we had the last o’ oor Ne’erday currant-bun, and here’s the valenteens! That minds me I maun buy-----” He stopped and looked at me, a little embarrassed.

I could only look inquiry back at him.

“Ye’ll think I’m droll,” said he, “but it just cam’ in my heid to buy a valenteen. To-morrow’s Jinnet’s birthday, and it wad be a rale divert to send her ladyship yin and tak’ a kind o; rise oot o’ her. Come and gie’s a hand to pick a nice yin.”

I went into the oil-and-colour shop, but, alas! for the ancient lover, he found there that the day of sentiment was done so far as the 14th of February was concerned. .

“Hae ye ony nice valenteens?” he asked a boy behind the counter.

“Is’t a comic ye mean?” asked the boy, apparently not much amazed at so strange an application from an elderly gentleman.

“A comic!” said my friend in disdain. “Dae I look like the kind o’ chap that sends mock valenteens? If ye gie me ony o’ your chat I’ll tell yer mither, ye wee--ye wee rascal! Ye’ll be asking me next if I want a mooth harmonium. Dae ye think I’m angry wi’ the cook in some hoose roond in-the terraces because she’s-chief wi’ the letter-carrier? I’ll comic ye!”

“Weel, it’s only comics we hae,” said the youthful shopkeeper; “the only ither kind we hae’s Christmas cairds, and I think we’re oot o’ them.”

He was a business-like boy,--he flung a pile of the mock valentines on the counter before us.

Erchie turned them over with contemptuous fingers. “It’s a gey droll age we live in,” said he to me. “We’re far ower funny, though ye wadna think it to see us. I have a great respect for valenteens, for if it wasna for a valenteen there maybe wadna hae been ony Jinnet--at least in my hoose. I wad gie a shillin’ for a rale auld-fashioned valenteen that gaed oot and in like a concertina, wi’ lace roond aboot it, and a smell o’ scent aff it, and twa silver herts on’t skewered through the middle the same as it was for brandering. Ye havena seen mony o’ that kind, laddie? Na, I daursay no’; they were oot afore your time, though I thocht ye micht hae some in the back-shop. They were the go when we werena nearly sae smert as we are nooadays. I’m gled I havena to start the coortin’ again.”

He came on one of the garish sheets that was less vulgar than the others, with the picture of a young lady under an umbrella, and a verse of not unkindly doggerel.

“That’ll hae to dae,” said he, “although it’s onything but fancy.”

“I hope,” said I dubiously, “that Mrs Mac-Pherson will appreciate it.”

“She’s the very yin that will,” he assured me as he put it in his pocket. “She’s like mysel’; she canna play the piano, but she has better gifts,--she has the fear o’ God and a sense o’ humour. You come up the morn’s nicht at eight, afore the post comes, and ye’ll see the ploy when she gets her valenteen. I’ll be slippin’ oot and postin’t in the forenoon. Though a young lassie canna get her valenteens ower early in the mornin’, a mairried wife’s’ll dae very weel efter her wark’s done for the day.”

“It’s yersel’?” said Mrs MacPherson when I went to her door. “Come awa’ in. I kent there was a stranger comin’,--though indeed I wadna be ca’in’ you a stranger,--for there was a stranger on the ribs o’ the grate this mornin’, and a knife fell aff the table when we were at oor tea.”

“Ay, and hoo knocked it aff deeliberate?” interposed her husband, rising to welcome me. “Oh, she’s the sly yin. She’s that fond to see folk come aboot the hoose she whiles knocks a knife aff the table to see if it’ll bring them.”

“Oh, Erchie MacPherson!” cried his wife.

“I’m no blamin’ ye,” he went on; “I ken I’m gey dreich company for onybody. I havena a heid for mindin’ ony scandal aboot the folk we ken, and I canna understaund politics noo that Gledstone’s no’ to the fore, and I danna sing, or play a tune on ony thing.”

“Listen to him!” cried Jinnet. “Isn’t he the awfu’ man? Did ye ever hear the like o’ him for nonsense?”

The kettle was on the fire: I knew from experience that it had been put there when my knock came to the door, for so the good lady’s hospitality always manifested itself, so that her kettle was off and on the fire a score of times a-day, ready to be brought to the boil if it was a visitor who knocked, and not a beggar or a pedlar of pipeclay.

“Tak’ a watter biscuit,” Jinnet pressed me as we sat at the table; “they’re awfu’ nice wi’ saut butter.”