“It’s a’ richt, Jinnet,” said Erchie; “you syne oot the dishes and I’ll dry them if ye’ll feenish yer greetin’. It’s no’ the last tea-pairty we’ll hae if we hae oor health, but the next yin ye hae see and pick the company better.”
XVII THE NATIVES OF CLACHNACUDDEN
You are looking somewhat tired, Erchie,” I said to the old man on Saturday. “I suppose you were waiter at some dinner last night?”
“Not me!” said he promptly. “I wasna at my tred at a’ last nicht; I was wi’ Jinnet at the Clachnacudden conversashion. My! but we’re gettin’ grand. You should hae seen the twa o’ us sittin’ as hard as onything in a corner o’ the hall watchin’ the young yins dancin’, and wishin’ we were hame. Och, it’s a fine thing a conversashion; there’s naething wrang wi’t; it’s better nor standin’ aboot the street corners, or haudin’ up the coonter at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults. But I’ll tell ye whit, it’s no’ much o’ a game for an auld couple weel ower sixty, though no’ compleenin’, and haein’ their health, and able to read the smallest type withoot specs. I wadna hae been there at a’, but Macrae, the nicht polisman that’s efter Jinnet’s niece, cam’ cravin’ me to buy tickets.”
“‘I’m no’ a Clachnacudden native,’ says I till him. ‘If it was a reunion o’ the natives o’ Gorbals and district, it micht be a’ richt, for that’s the place I belang to; and if a’ the auld natives cam’ to a Gorbals swaree I micht get some o’ the money some o’ them’s owin’ me. But Clachnacudden!—I never saw the place; I aye thocht it was jist yin o’ thae comic names they put on the labels o’ the whisky bottles to mak’ them look fancy.’
“Ye’ll no’ believ’t, but Macrae, bein’ Hielan’ and no’ haein richt English, was that angry for me sayin’ that aboot Clachnacudden, that he was nearly breakin’ the engagement wi’ Jinnet’s niece, and I had to tak’ the tickets at the hinder-end jist for peace’ sake. Jinnet said it was a bonny-like thing spilin’ Sarah’s chances for the sake o’ a shillin’ or twa.
“So that’s the wye I was wi’ the Clachnacudden chats. Dae ye no’ feel the smell o’ peat-reek aff me? If it wasna that my feet were flet I could gie ye the Hielan’ Fling.
“But thae natives’ reunions in Gleska’s no’ whit they used to be. They’re gettin’ far ower genteel. It’ll soon be comin’ to’t that ye’ll no’ can gang to ony o’ them unless ye have a gold watch and chain, a dress suit, and £10 in the Savin’s Bank. It used to be in the auld days when I went to natives’ gatherin’s for fun, and no’ to please the nicht polis, that they were ca’d a swaree and ball, and the ticket was four-and-six for yoursel’ and your pairtner. If ye didna get the worth o’ your money there was something wrang wi’ your stomach, or ye werena very smert. Mony a yin I’ve bin at, either in the wye o’ tred, or because some o’ Jinnet’s Hielan’ kizzens cam’ up to the hoose in their kilts to sell us tickets. There was nae dress suits nor fal-lals aboot a reunion in thae days; ye jist put on your Sunday claes and some scent on your hanky, wi’ a dram in your pocket (if ye werena in the committee), turned up the feet o’ your breeks, and walked doon to the hall in the extra-wide welt shoes ye were gaun to dance in. Your lass—or your wife, if it was your wife—sat up the nicht before, washin’ her white shawl and sewin’ frillin’ on the neck o’ her guid frock, and a’ the expense ye had wi’ her if ye werena merried to her was that ye had to buy her a pair o’ white shammy leather gloves, size seeven.