“Maybe no’ that awfu’ wild,” said Erchie. “Ye’re aye harpin’ on the wild. Burns was like a man takin’ a daunder oot in a country road on a fine nicht: he kept his een sae much on the stars that sometimes he tripped in the sheuch. If it was the like o’ you and me, Duffy, we wad be keepin’ oor e’e a’ the time on the road at oor feet to see if onybody hadna dropped onything, and there wad be nae fears o’ us fa’in in the sheuch. Except for his habit o’ makin’ sangs when he micht be makin’ money, Burns wasna very different frae the rest o’ us. There was ae thing aboot him—he aye payed his way, and never forgot his freen’s. He had a warm hert.”
“Man, ye should be doon at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults Haggis Club on Monday and propose the toast,” said Duffy, admiringly.
“I’m better whaur I am,” said Erchie; “the best Burns Club a man can hae’s a weel-thumbed copy o’ the poems on his chevalier and book-case, and a wife that can sing ‘Ye Banks and Braes’ like por Jinnet.”
XXIX THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN
A sailor-man with a thick black beard, and all his belongings apparently on his back,—for the dunnage-bag he carried was so poorly stuffed it could have held little more than a pair of sea-boots,—went into Erchie’s close one afternoon, and slowly climbed the stair. He put the bag at his feet when he came to Erchie’s door with “MacPherson” on the name-plate, scratched his head, hitched his waist-belt once or twice, and seemed in a mood to turn and flee rather than to ring or knock. At last he faintly tugged the bell-pull, and leaned against the door-post with the air of one who expected he might have some parley before getting admittance.
There was a step in the lobby, and Erchie himself in his shirt-sleeves came to the door.
“We’re no’ for onything the day,” said he. “We have a sewin’-machine already, and we’re a’ in the Prudential Insurance, and the staircase windows were cleaned on Setturday, and——”
“Faither,” said the sailor-man, “do ye no’ ken me?”