“When the rain’s blashin’ doon at nicht on the puir miserable craturs workin’ at their front plots in Deid Slow, or trippin’ ower hens that’ll no’ lay ony eggs, I can be improvin’ my mind wi’ Duffy at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, or daunderin’ alang the Coocaddens wi’ my hand tight on. my watch-pocket, lookin’ at the shop windows and jinkin’ the members o’ the Sons of Toil Social Club (Limited), as they tak’ the breadth o’ the pavement.
“Gleska! Some day when I’m in the key for’t I’ll mak’ a song aboot her. Here the triumphs o’ civilisation meet ye at the stair-fit, and three bawbee mornin’ rolls can be had efter six o’clock at nicht for a penny.
“There’s libraries scattered a’ ower the place; I ken, for I’ve seen them often, and the brass plate at the door tellin’ ye whit they are.
“Art’s a’ the go in Gleska, too; there’s something aboot it every ither nicht in the papers, when Lord Somebody-or-ither’s no’ divorcin’ his wife, and takin’ up the space; and I hear there’s hunders o’ pictures oot in yon place at Kelvin-grove.
“Theatres, concerts, balls, swarees, lectures—ony mortal thing ye like that’ll keep ye oot o’ your bed, ye’ll get in Gleska if ye have the money to pay for’t.”
“It’s true, Erchie.”
“Whit’s true?” said the old man, wrapping the paper more carefully round his flower-pot. “Man, I’m only coddin’. Toon or country, it doesna muckle maitter if, like me, ye stay in yer ain hoose. I don’t stay in Gleska; not me! it’s only the place I mak’ my money in; I stay wi’ Jinnet.”