‘An’ noo he’s the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor o’ Ballarat, or some such place, an’ cannot mak’ enough ov his missus and bairns, they say.
‘There’s some women mevvies,’ added ‘the Heckler’ in conclusion, ‘who wouldn’t have pardoned their man, but she was one o’ the sort that are just faithfu’ ti death—nowt can tarr’fy them aff, an’ it’s fair providential that it should be so, for there’s many men noo livin’ who wud just have been iv hell lang syne else.’
‘THE HECKLER’ UPON WOMENFOLK
‘Men are kittle cattle enough,’ replied ‘the Heckler’ oracularly, from his position of vantage on the top of a gate, to some question of mine concerning an indignation meeting held recently to protest against some matter about which no two people could give a like account; ‘but they’re nowt ti what womenfolk is. Ye can get roond most men easy enough if ye’ve a bit tax.’
‘Tax?’ I queried aloud, somewhat mystified. ‘What tax? not rates an’ tax——’
‘Gan on wi’ thoo—rates an’ taxes be d——!’ retorted the oracle swiftly. ‘No, nowt ti do wi’ them things; just tax, or tacts, mevvies it is, meanin’ a pleasant way wi’ ye, a bit touch o’ the cap when the manager’s vext wi’ ye, a turn o’ management when a drunken man wants ti fight ye for nowt at aal, ye ken, an’ sae forth. Wow, but ye can fettle most things amangst men wiv a little o’ that social lubricant, but wi’ women it’s different aaltigether; tax is nae use wi’ them; it’s just throwin’ pearls before swine.’
‘Holloa!’ I interrupted again. ‘What would the missus say to that?’
‘Not hevin’ heard it, she’ll say nowt,’ retorted ‘the Heckler’ severely.
‘Well, as I was aboot to say when thoo forgot theeself, and disturbed the meetin’ wi’ yor interruptions, most men has foibles—some’s dog-men like myself, some’s book-men, some’s gard’ners, some’s beer-barrils, an’ sae forth, an’ if ye mind this ye can get what ye want usuallies oot o’ them. But women’s a different breed aaltigether. They divvn’t care for the same things as men, an’ ye cannet get roond them, I’s warn’d, for they elwis gets roond ye instead. A man has no ambitions till he’s married, Maistor John. Mevvies he’s keen aboot this, an’ that, an’ ’tother thing, but that’s nowt. Noo, woman’s just chockfull ov ambitions aal her life long, an’s nivvor, no, nivvor, satisfied from her cradle tiv her grave, an’ even then she’s wantin’ fower horses tiv her hearse. Tak’ a wee girlie for an instance: she’s elwis wantin’ new claes; then she’s wantin’ a man, then bairns, then a hoos ov her own, then a better cloak than Mariarann nex’ door; an’ when she gets them aal she’s not satisfied, not one little bit, but’s warse than ivvor.