Part 6

"I wonder you can laugh, dear," said Mrs. M'Cranky a few minutes later; "didn't you see one of the Wales men knocked over, and his trousers are all mud, and the clumsy fellow who did it never stopped to apologise. No wonder the English think we're a set of savages. Hold your tongue, dear; don't shout like that. I wouldn't encourage them, and the people will hear you. There's another man down; it's perfectly disgraceful; and there's that stupid policeman looking on and pretending he doesn't see it. Now, if that were to happen in the street, he would take the man up quick enough. If I were these men from Wales, I would never come back."

"Well stopped, Cameron!" shouted M'Cranky.

"Oh, do you know them, dear? He's knocked down, I declare. The Welshmen are no better than ours. Is the little one Cameron?"

"Yes, yes; don't haver, it was well stopped."

"But that Welshman ought to be ashamed of himself; he's so much bigger than Cameron. Is he nice?--Cameron, I mean."

"Yes, a very nice fellow."

"Well, I think it's cruel to behave like that; he might have been hurt. What's the use of behaving like that? I don't understand what they're trying to do. What's the use of--look at that! I'm not going to stay here any longer; somebody is sure to get hurt. There was a man took another by the neck and deliberately threw him on the ground, just because he had the ball, I suppose. What's the use of fighting like that over a ball? Can they not take the other one--I saw them bring in two--and let each side use their own ball? Do you see any fun in that? Come away home, dear; you're shaking with cold."

M'Cranky was shaking, but it was with excitement.

"Not precious likely," he said. "I wouldn't miss this for anything. Pass! The idiot! why didn't he pass?"

"He couldn't get past, dear. You shouldn't speak like that. Didn't you see that man took a hold of him as if he had been a pickpocket? What are they doing now?"

"Scrimmage."

"I declare the people are all mad, shouting 'Scotland.' Can't they see the poor fellows are doing their best; and, besides, it's bad taste before the visitors. I can't understand you men; you wouldn't hurt a fly, and yet you laugh and shout 'well played' or something when a man throws another down and falls on the top of him. I didn't think you could be so cruel."

"Rubbish! Well saved again, Cameron! Played, MacGregor!"

"If you know the gentlemen, you should speak to them, dear; tell them not to be so rough, and I'm sure they would enjoy the game better. What will their mothers say when they go home with their clothes in such a mess! I wouldn't let them play if they were mine."

"Half-time. Well, the Scotch should do something next half, with what wind there is in their favour."

"Is it not finished, dear? I don't think we should stay. I'm sure you'll catch cold; you've just been shivering all the time. Is that slices of lemon they're getting? I think they should get some nice warm water to wash themselves, they are all so dirty; and I'm sure they would be the better of a cup of tea. It seems very difficult to do what they are trying, and no wonder; when any one got the ball and was running away, that gentleman with the flag blew a whistle and brought him back. What business has he to interfere?"

"He's referee, and it must have been thrown forward."

"Well, but one couldn't help that, if it's wrong. If I had the ball I would just run on, and pretend not to hear the whistle. He spoilt the game several times, and I'm sure they're all gentlemen, who wouldn't do anything unfair, though they are rough with each other."

"They're off again; Sco--otland!"

"Hold your tongue, dear; they're just working like slaves. I don't see how they can call that a game."

"D-- it, they're in! Isn't--that--most----"

"For shame, dear! You shouldn't speak like that. I don't see why you should pay to get in here, for you don't seem to have enjoyed it a bit. Has Wales won?"

"They've got a try--humbug!"

"Well, I'm very glad, after all their trouble coming here."

"Well played, Leggat! He's always on the spot when wanted."

"Now, isn't that simply disgraceful! They've torn a man's jersey. I believe the Welsh are just as bad as our fellows. Now, it's enough to give that poor fellow his death of cold, when he's heated; and the people are laughing, too, as if it was fun; but they seem to expect that sort of thing, for there's a man coming with another. I think they would require to keep a stock of wooden legs, if they go on that way. That's not the way gentlemen should behave."

"Our backs are weak," said M'Cranky to himself.

"Well, that one who had his jersey torn off has a very strong back; don't you think so? Now, there's one of the Welshmen hurt! I knew something would happen. It's perfectly disgraceful in a civilised country. Somebody should really write to the papers about it; and what are the policemen doing here if they allow that sort of conduct? They're taking off his stocking, poor fellow; I hope he'll have more sense than try football again, but there's not one better than another."

"Oh, he's all right; he's getting up again."

"Well, if I were him I would just say I wouldn't play; he's quite lame, poor fellow. I can't understand it; he's going to play again. Well, I hope it'll be a lesson to them all to be more careful; but I would like to go home, dear. I'm afraid some one will get hurt. You might come away; you know you're just exciting yourself for nothing. What do you say to having a cup of tea with----"

"Tea, be blowed! I'm not going to move. Scotland hasn't scored yet, and it's time they were hurrying up."

"I wonder you can be so cruel, dear. I think they have all more need of a rest."

"By jingo! there's Menzies in! No, he's brought back. Isn't that most----"

"Be careful, dear; people will hear you."

"Another try for Wales--well, I'm----"

"Hush, dear, we should really go away; you're getting quite cross."

"No wonder; it would make a saint swear--two tries to nothing!"

As Wales added a goal and a try to their score, M'Cranky got more excited, and his language waxed stronger; and when the game was over, he left in the worst of humours.

"I'm sure you haven't enjoyed it a bit," said Mrs. M'Cranky, "and I'm very glad, for you'll not go back again. I know I wouldn't sit again to see young men treat each other so roughly."

M'Cranky wished the game was to be played over again, and regretted there was not to be another International Match in Scotland this year; in any case, Mrs. M'Cranky won't be asked to go again.

MR. M'CRANKY

Mr. M'Cranky is not a bad sort of man--as long as things go smoothly, but he hasn't a morsel of patience, and gets out of temper if his wife can't find anything he wants at once.

One night at dinner he said: "By the by, I've got two tickets for the concert to-night; care to go? I'm not one of those fellows who never think of taking their wives anywhere; in fact, I think wives would be much cheerier to their husbands if they were taken out oftener."

"Oh, that will be delightful!" said Mrs. M'Cranky, "only I wish you had told me yesterday, so that I could have had my dress----"

"Had your dress turned or trimmed, or something; that's the worst of asking a woman to go anywhere; as much trouble about it."

M'Cranky settled down to the evening paper, in front of the fire, with his feet on the grate, and Mrs. M'Cranky bustled away to get out his dress suit, and put studs and links in his shirt, laying them all out, ready to put on.

When she was half dressed she cried: "It's time you were getting ready, dear."

"All right. I don't take an afternoon to dress; five minutes 'll do me."

After being called on about a dozen times, he went to dress, and found his wife struggling with a hook-and-eye at her back.

"Will you put in this hook, dear?" she said.

"H'm, you might be able to put on your own clothes by this time; con--found--" then he gave a tug, and his finger slipped and got scratched against the hook, and he said something that sounded like "damaged."

"Never mind, dear, I'll do it myself."

"Where's my shirt?"

"On the bed, dear."

"It isn't."

"I put everything out, ready for you; rise--oh! that's too bad, you've been sitting on it; your best one too, and look at it!"

"Never mind, gimme't. Hullo, as usual, no button on the back; you might manage to keep one button on a shirt; if I were a woman----"

"That's the new patent one you bought; it doesn't require a button."

"Oh, you just glue the collar to it, eh? or fix it with a screw-nail to the back of my neck? D'ye think I'm going with a collar up the back of my ears, like Sir Walter Raleigh? Gimme a one-button shirt."

"That's the one you got to--; it only requires a stud at the back; you said it was a 'great idea.'"

"See a stud, then."

"I haven't one, dear; didn't you get one with the shirt? Never mind, I'll fix it with a pin; it'll do for the night."

"All right, look alive. What are you--? You needn't pin it to my neck. Where's my tie? fasten it up."

"Can't you put on your own clothes yet, dear?" said Mrs. M'Cranky venturing on a mild retaliation.

"Smart, eh? where's my--. Oh, here it is. Now, hurry up; you're no further on than when I came into the room, and I'm nearly dressed."

"I've been attending to you, dear."

"Now, look here, we've only--. Hullo, my watch is standing."

"Perhaps you forgot to wind it up when you came home from that dinner last n--this morning."

"Where's the key? it's a strange thing women must dust everything out of sight. I've spoken till I'm tired, but you're all the same. Where is the key? I put it in the tray last night, and it's away. Can you not get it into that idiot's head to leave these things where she finds them?"

M'Cranky will not profit by experience; he has a feeling that whenever he puts out the gas, his slippers quietly creep under the bed or the dressing-table, and he has not yet discovered that their apparently supernatural disappearance is due to the way he throws them off. He has also to learn, in spite of years of experience, that looking for anything is not his forte, and that the missing article is generally where he left it, or in his pocket.

"If you left it there, it must be----"

"Left it there? Of course I did; I always put it in that tray; but of all the idiots you ever had, I think this one beats them. Tell her to go for a cab."

Mrs. M'Cranky rang, and hearing her say: "Tell Dickson to send a cab in about five minutes, Sarah," her husband continued: "Look alive, then, an' get dressed. The concert's to-night, you know. Where's my hanky? You always let me out without one, unless I remember.

"I laid one out for you, dear."

"Let's see you lift it then."

Mrs. M'Cranky was busy coiling up her hair and fastening it with hairpins, taking them from the usual receptacle (her mouth), so that she could not speak distinctly.

"I waid it on the beb, dear."

"Oh, you 'waid it on the beb,' did you? Would you just indicate where that is?"

Mrs. M'Cranky looked round and said: "There it's in your breast, dear."

"Look alive then; I don't want to go in late, as if it were church, and you had a new bonnet on. Hurry up; I'm all ready."

"Are you going in your stocking soles, dear?"

"Where's my shoes? Oh, here they are, now; hurry up, if you intend to go."

"I'm ready, dear; have you got everything?"

"Yes, yes; come on, for any sake."

Mrs. M'Cranky can't leave the house without giving the domestic a lot of instructions, and, as usual, when she was in the lobby, she began: "Sarah, put out the gas in the dining-room and shut the door, and keep the cat in the----"

"Oh, come on."

"I'm coming, dear; and, Sarah--"; then she whispered something, finishing with--"for supper, when we come home."

"Are you coming to-night?"

"Yes, dear; have you got the opera glass?"

"No; where is it?"

"In the drawer there. Sarah, have a good fire on, and--" and then followed more whispered injunctions, concluding with "for breakfast."

When they were seated in the cab, Mrs. M'Cranky said: "Have you got the tickets, dear?"

"No; con--found it. Hi! cabby; turn back; that's the worst of taking women anywhere."

"How, dear; can you get in without a ticket?"

Mr. M'Cranky was so long looking for the tickets that Mrs. M'Cranky went into help him, but he had just discovered them in his topcoat pocket.

"What did you worry me about the tickets for?" he asked, angrily. "I had them all right."

"Sarah, have you put out the----?"

"Oh, come on."

In paying the cabman, M'Cranky found he hadn't the necessary sixpence, and after fumbling in his pockets, he asked his wife: "Have you a sixpence?"

"No, dear, I'm sorry."

"H'm! you never have any money."

"I know, dear; I wish you would give me some more frequently."

The doors were not open, and M'Cranky's small stock of patience had long been exhausted, and though he had been bustling his wife, he said: "Now, you see! you would rush me out; we've half an hour to wait. Just like you women; no idea of the value of time. I might have had a comfortable smoke."

"Do you make money smoking, dear? we ought to be quite wealthy."

Though there was a considerable time to wait, Mrs. M'Cranky quite enjoyed herself, studying the dresses of the new arrivals, and pleased to bow to those she knew, as it showed them she had a considerate husband, and M'Cranky had the satisfactory feeling that he had done his duty as a husband.

On their return from the concert, Mrs. M'Cranky observed her husband taking the missing watch-key from his vest pocket; but her previous experiences in similar circumstances made her take no notice of his mistake.

THE SINGING LESSON

I once had a lesson in singing, though those who have heard me sing are sceptical. I got it from a dairyman--a peculiar speaker. His tongue seemed too large for his mouth, as if it had been made for his big brother. I knew that he was fond of singing, because he had told me he had "A chertificate frae the Choral Union. Oh, I got it framed up in the hooth yonder"; and knowing this, I asked him on one occasion how he was getting on with singing. "Oh, I'm gettin' on first rate noo. Man, I wath goin' on the wrang sthyle a'thegither, but I got thum letth'ns frae an Italian chap--what wath this his name wath again? Ye wad ken him fine; he wath in the Italian opery. Aye, hith name was thignor--aye, his first name was thignor something. Dash't, I wath thorry for the puir chap. Dash't, his very pianny wath p'inded! Ay, its an' awfu' thing that drink! By the by, thpeakin' aboot drink, I've left the auld man an' thartit a public hooth. Aweel, thinks I, thith ith a fine chance to get thum letth'ns in thingin' on the cheap, theein' he wuth hard up; tho' when I wath therv'n' um wi' milk, thays I, 'What d'ye chairge for letth'ns in thingin'?' Thays he, 'Fower guineaths for twelve letth'ns.' 'Oh, dash it,' thays I, 'thath's ower much for me,' an' I wath gaun awa' oot at th' door, an' of course he thocht he was gaun to loose a customer, so says he, 'What'll ye thtand us?' Oh, he could thpeak English as weelth mysel'. 'I'll stand ye a shovrin,' I thays. 'Very weel,' thays he. 'Noo let me hear ye thing yer favourite thang, so that I can get the thtyle o' yere v'ice. 'So I starths him on 'Annie Laurie'--thath's my favrit yin, ye ken--an' here's the way ye gang at it"; and taking a big breath, and pointing to the middle of his vest, he explained, "They dae a' thing frae here nooadays," and started: "'Hey, Maxwelton braes are bonnie.' Div ye see, accent on the 'max'; then there was anither bit I wath gaun on the wrang style a'thegither--thath's the bit whaur it says, 'I wad lay me doon and dee.' Hereth the way I was singin' 't, 'I wad lay-hay me do-hoon and a dee-he.' 'Stop a meenit,' this Italian chaps ays; 'stop wan meenit. Wha the devil,' he thays, 'ever heard,' says he, 'o' onybody,' he says, "'Lay-hayin themsel's do-hoon an' dee-heein'."' An' it's dasht nonsense when ye come to think o't. Then there was anither bit I was gaun on the wrang style a'thegither--thath's the bit that thays, 'Which ne'er forgot shall be'; an' this is the way ye gang at it: 'Which ne'er forgot shall be--and for bonnie.' Div ye thee jist let ye're v'ice die away, an' fill yersel' up wi' wind, an' on to the next line. 'Noo,' thays he, 'when ye're gaun up the scale, tak' the broad Italian _a_; for inst'nce, when ye come to the tap notes, ye'll find ye're compress'n twa-thirds o' yer thrapple thegethir.' An' the chap's quite richt. I've seen me when I was at the Corn Exchange, when Wully Gladstone was there, hear Sir John Cowan o' Beeslack; an' thays he--a thpeakin' frae his thrapple; jist what the Italian chap was sayin'--'Gentlemen, electurth of Midlothian,' compressin' his thrapple. Dash't, ye couldna' hear him back three sates; but when Wully Gladstone cam' to the front o' the pletform, what a difference--a' wind"; and as an example he repeated "Gentlemen electors" in a deep stentorian voice, contrasting with his high-pitched imitation of the chairman, as he remarked about Gladstone: "That's the very way he spoke. I didna ken till I gaed up to this Italian that a' they thingers an' elocutionists an' ministers, an' a' they devils, they a' go in for this new-fashioned v'ice production."

DAVID AND GOLIATH

The moral of this story is, "Ne sutor ultra crepidam," or "The shoemaker should stick to his stool," or creepie, as it is in the Latin, and in this case it is illustrated by the result of a butcher trying to preach.

Before the Forth Bridge was built--of course the incident happened a considerable time before the famous structure was erected; but previous to its means of transit, a steamer used to cross daily to the Fife shore, and on Thursday nights among the passengers there was a revival preacher; but one night, on account of a storm, the boat did not venture to cross, and the people of a Fife village were left without one to conduct the service. After waiting some time, Tom Carmichael, the village butcher, was pressed to take the position of pastor. Unfortunately, Tom had never previously spoken in public, and he had the further drawback of having an impediment in his speech, which was accentuated when, as in his present position, he was nervous through excitement.

As the audience was principally composed of children, on account of the mental food supplied, Tom had the brilliant idea of adopting the thrilling story of David and Goliath, to show the boys what they might be able to achieve if they tried very hard, and proceeded after the following fashion: "I--I--I'm called on rather su-suddenly to address the meetin'--address the meetin'; hooever, I'll tell ye aboot David an' Goliath. When David was a little boy, ye know--a little boy, jist like some o' yersel's, he was jist a wee bit chappie, a curly-heided callant; maby dozin' his peerie, his top, or playin' at bools in front o' his faither's door, on the ca-ca-causeway, on the pa-pavement, the plainstanes, when his fa-faither comes oot, cries 'Dauvit,' or maby 'Davie'--'Here, I want ye to rin awa' ower to the battlefield wi' some denner to the laddies.' An' of course Dauvit was quite pleased to gang, ye ken, bicus he had twa brithers in the militia, an' he wad like to gang up to hear the band playin'. So he gaed awa'--gaed awa' to the battlefield, an' the chi-chi-children of Israel were a' there; the ch-ildren of Israel--an' their parents nae doot--an' they were a' brused frae fechtin'. It was their denner-hour, an' they were a' afraid--no man would go oot an' meet the giant, this was Goliath of the Phillipstines. He was a big man, a muckle man; he stood aboot eight feet six in his stockin' soles--in fact, a' the giants were big men in those days. But David says to them, says he, 'What are ye a' feard for?' says he; 'I'll gang oot an' meet him.' So they took him ower to Saul's tent an' put some airmour on; but David said, 'That'll no dae for me; tak' it off, tak' it off.' So he gaed awa' doon to the burnside--no a big burn, nor a river, nor an ocean, but jist a common wee bit burnie brook; an' he pickit up some stanes, no big stanes, nor a lump o' rock, but jist a pebble, a ch-ch-uckie, an' he gaed awa' oot to meet this giant, this was Goliath o' the Phillictsines, a man aboot the height o'--a common haystack. An' when Goliath saw the laddie, says he--stickin' his thumbs in his waistcoat sleeves, 'What are ye wantin' here?' says he. An' David says, 'I'll sune let ye see.' An' Goliath says, 'Wull ye, my man; I'm thinkin' ye'll sune be goin' back in the ambulance waggon.' But David never let on he heard him, but he just put a chuckie in the sling an' let him have it; struck him on his big fozie heid--on the brow, the temple, atween his een, abune the nose; an' Goliath cries oot: 'What are ye dain? D'ye ken that's sair.' Aye, he hadna time to cry a barly, he was fair dumbfoundered--sic a thing as a chuckie had never entered his heid before; but David jist felled him to the ground, an' syne up came the ch-ch-ildren of Israel, rinnin,' an' says they: 'What are ye dain' lyin' there, ye muckle sumph; can ye no' get up an' fecht the laddie?' An', says Goliath: 'Hoo can I get up an' fecht the laddie? D'ye no' see I'm thrang deein'.' But David jist ran awa' roond an' got oot his sword an' cutt it aff his heid--cuttit aff his heid, an' took it hame wi' him--took it hame wi' him, and--eh--there's a fine moral kickin' aboot here somewhere; I forget what it is, but if ye meet wi' ony big difficulty like Goliath o' the Phillipstines, jist act like little David, the wee boy."