“‘People o’ Gleska,’ he says, ‘I have seen your toon. It’s fine—there’s naething wrang wi’t,’ and then the gaird blew his whustle, and the train went aff.
“The great event was ower, the rain begood to fa’ again; the Gilmorehill student hurried hame to blacken his face and put on his sister’s frock. The coloured ping-pong balls strung ower Sauchieha’ Street was lighted, the illuminated skoosh cars began to skoosh up and doon the street, the public-hooses did a fine tred.
“‘I’m gled it’s a’ bye,’ says Jinnet, when we got hame to oor ain hoose.
“‘Indeed, and so am I,’ says I. ‘There wad be fine fun in this warld a’ the time if we werena tryin’ for’t.’”
XI ERCHIE RETURNS
For weeks I had not seen Erchie. He was not to be met on the accustomed streets, and St Kentigern’s Kirk having been closed since July for alterations and repairs, it was useless to go there in search of its beadle. Once I met Duffy, and asked him what had become of the old man.
“Alloo you Erchie!” was all the information he would vouchsafe; “if he’s keepin’ oot o’ sicht, he’ll hae his ain reason for’t. Mind, I’m no’ sayin’ onything against the cratur, though him and me’s had mony a row. He’s a’ richt if ye tak’ him the richt wye. But sly! He’s that sly, the auld yin, ye can whiles see him winkin’ awa’ to himsel’ ower something he kens that naebody else kens, and that he’s no gaun to tell to them. I havena seen the auld fuiter since the Fair week; perhaps he’s gotten genteel and bidin’ doon at Rothesay till the summer steamboats stop. There’s yin thing sure—it’s no’ a case o’ wife-desertion, for Jinnet’s wi’ him. I can tell by the Venetian blinds and the handle o’ their door. Sly! Did ye say sly? Man, it’s no’ the word for’t. Erchie MacPherson’s fair lost at the waitin’; he should hae been a poet, or a statesman, or something in the fancy line like that.”
It was with the joy of a man who has made up his mind he has lost a sovereign and finds it weeks after in the lining of his waistcoat, I unexpectedly met Erchie on Saturday.