The bellman, sitting on a soap-box, slapped his thigh and said: “I'm telling ye; I had it long ago from Kate MacNeill that her name on the stage was going to be Wallace—Winifred Wallace—and there it is in print. Tra—tragedienny, tragediennys are the head ones in the trade; I've seen them in the shows—tr-r-r-emen-dous women!”
The Provost, who had just stepped in to P. & A.'s for his Sunday sweeties, smiled tolerantly and passed his taddy-box. “Bud Dyce,” said he, “is never likely to be round this way in a caravan to do the deid-drap three times every night for front-seats sixpence. I doubt we have seen the last of her unless we have the money and the clothes for London theatres.”
“It's really her, then?” said the grocer.
“You can take Wull's word for that,” said the Provost, “and I have just been talking to her uncle. Her history's in the morning paper, and I'm the civic head of a town renowned for genius.”
Wanton Wully went out to drift along the street in the light of the bright shop windows before which bairns played “chaps me,” making choice of treasures for their gaudiness alone, like most of us, who should know better. He met George Jordon. “Geordie,” said he, “you'll have heard the latest? You should be in London; yon's the place for oddity,” and George, with misty comprehension, turned about for the road to London town. Out of the inn came Colin Cleland, hurried, in his hand the business-looking packet of tattered documents that were always his excuse for being there.
“Winifred Wallace—Great Tragedienny! It's a droll thing life, according to the way you look at it. Stirring times in London, Mr. Cleland! Changed her name to Wallace, having come of decent worthy, people. We know, but we'll not let on.”
“Not a word!” said Colin Cleland, comically. “Perhaps she may get better and the thing blow by. Are you under the impression that celebrity's a thing to be ashamed of? I tell you she's a credit to us all.”
“Lord bless me! do you say so?” asked Wull Oliver. “If I was a tragedienny I would be ashamed to show my face in the place again. We all expected something better from the wee one—she was such a caution! It was myself, as you might say, invented her; I gave her a start at devilment by letting her ring the New Year bell. After that she always called me Mr. Wanton, and kindly inquired at me about my legs. She was always quite the leddy.”
Miss Minto's shop was busy: a boy was in with a very red face demanding the remnants that by rights should have gone home with his mother's jacket, and the Misses Duff were buying chiffon.
“This is startling news about young Lennox Dyce,” remarked Miss Minto. “It's caused what you might call a stir. There's not a weekly paper to be had for love or money.”