“Can ye fancy Duffy gaun roond tryin’ to sell tickets for a raffle o’ a canary in a cage?
“‘Here ye are, chaps and cairters! the chance o’ yer lifes for a grand whustler, and no’ ill to feed!’
“Na, na! a man o’ the Duffy stamp wad be nae use for a bazaar, even wi’ a dress suit on and his face washed. It wad need young stockbrokers, and chaps wi’ the richt kind o’ claes, wi’ a crease doon the front o’ their breeks—Gros-venor Restaurant chaps, wi’ the smell o’ cigars aff their topcoats, and either ca’d Fred or Vincent. Then ye micht see that the ither sex that hiv a’ the best o’t wi’ bazaars, the wye they’re managed noo, wad flock to the man’s bazaar and buy like onything. And maybe no’.”
Erchie rose off the drain-pipe, and prepared to resume his way home with that ingenious object that proves how the lowliest things of life may be made dignified and beautiful—if fashion says they are so.
“Well; good night, old friend,” I said. “I hope Mrs MacPherson will be lucky and get the bicycle.”
“Dae ye, indeed?” said he. “Then ye’re nae freen’ o’ mine. We’re faur mair in the need o’ a mangle.”
“Then you can exchange for one.”
“I’m no’ that shair. Did I ever tell ye I ance won a powney in a raffle? It was at the bazaar oor kirk had in Dr Jardine’s time when they got the organ. I was helpin’ at the buffet, and I think they micht hae left me alane, me no’ bein’ there for fun, but at my tred, but wha cam’ cravin’ me to buy a ticket aff her but the doctor’s guid-sister.
“‘There’s three prizes,’ she says, ‘a powney wi’ broon harness, a marble nock, and a dizzen knifes and forks.
“‘I wad maybe risk it if it wisna for the powney,’ I tellt her; ‘I havena kep’ a coachman for years, and I’m oot o’ the way o’ drivin’ mysel’.’