The various lodgings of my bachelor days was never quite of the conventional sort. The Cambuslang quarters certainly were not. The house was large and old-fashioned. Originally it had been two smallish houses: the two front doors still remained side by side, but only one was used. The rooms on the ground floor were small, the original building composed of one storey only, but another had been added of quite spacious dimensions. We had two excellent, large well-furnished rooms upstairs. The landlady was an interesting character and so was her husband. She was Irish, he Scotch; she about seventy years of age, he under fifty; she ruddy, healthy, hearty, good-looking; he, pale, nervous, shy, retiring. But on the last Thursday of each month he was quite another man. On that day he went to Glasgow to collect the rents of some small houses he owned; and generally came home rather “fou” and hilarious, when the old lady would take him in hand, and put him to bed.
They had an only child, a son, a grown up man, an uncouth ill-looking ungainly fellow, who did no work, smoked and loafed about, but was the idol of his mother. He resembled neither parent in the least, and, except that such vagaries of nature are not unknown, it might have been supposed that some cuckoo had visited the parental nest.
A gaunt, hard-featured domestic completed this interesting family, and she was uncommon too. By no means young, what Balzac calls “a woman of canonical age,” she resembled Père Grandet’s tall Nanon. Like Nanon, she had been the devoted servant of the family for nearly a quarter of a century,
and like her, had no interest outside that of her master and mistress. She was always working, rarely went out, spoke little, but ministered to the wants of Tom and myself, and waited on us with unremitting attention.
Despite all drawbacks, however, they were fine lodgings. The old lady was a wonderful cook and had all the liberality of her race.
New Year’s Day, the great Scotch holiday, Tom and I spent in Edinburgh, and returned much impressed with its stately beauty.
The next morning I entered upon my work at St. Rollox, where the stores department of the Caledonian Railway is situated. The head of the department was styled Stores Superintendent. I thought him the most impressive looking man I had ever seen. He overpowered me; in his presence I never felt at ease. He was a big man, and looked bigger than he was; good-looking too; ruddy, portly, well-dressed and formal. An embodiment of commercial energy and dignity. In his face gravity, keenness, and good health were blended. Soon after I joined his staff he left the Caledonian to become General Manager of Young’s Paraffin Oil Company, and subsequently its Managing Director. Success, I believe, always attended him. No position could lose any of its importance in his hands. When he left St. Rollox a great blank was felt; he filled so large a space. He has lately gone to his rest full of years and honors.
I fear he never liked me, nor had any great opinion of my abilities. This was not to be wondered at, for I am sure I did not display any excessive zeal for the work on which I was then employed, and which I found monotonous and uninteresting.
He confided to his chief clerk, who was my friend, that one day he had seen me, in business hours, in the city, smoking a cigarette and looking at the girls, and was sure I would never do much good. He had very strict business notions. I confessed to the cigarette, but not to the graver charge. It was a wholesome tonic, however, and pulled me up. I wanted to get on in life; ambition was stirring within me; and I formed some good resolutions which, as time went on, I kept more or less faithfully.
At St. Rollox one’s daily lunch was a matter of some difficulty. It was a district of factories, and the only restaurants were the Great Western Cooking Depots, where one could get a steak and bread and cheese for