‘Aunty Nomyun or Uncle Nomyun,’ replied Abe, boiling hot, ‘my mother was a Methodist, and I’ll back any blanked Methodist against any blankety blank long-faced, lantern-jawed, skinflint Presbyterian,’ and this he was eager to maintain to any man’s satisfaction if he would step outside.
Geordie was quite unmoved, but hastened to assure Abe that he meant no disrespect to his mother, who he had ‘nae doot was a clever enough buddie, tae judge by her son.’ Abe was speedily appeased, and offered to set up the drinks all round. But Geordie, with evident reluctance, had to decline, saying, ‘Na, na, lad, I’m a League man ye ken,’ and I was sure that Geordie at that moment felt that membership in the League had its drawbacks.
Nor was Geordie too sure of Craig’s orthodoxy; while as to Mrs. Mavor, whose slave he was, he was in the habit of lamenting her doctrinal condition—
‘She’s a fine wumman, nae doot; but, puir cratur, she’s fair carried awa wi’ the errors o’ thae Epeescopawlyuns.’
It fell to Geordie, therefore, as a sacred duty, in view of the laxity of those who seemed to be the pillars of the Church, to be all the more watchful and unyielding. But he was delightfully inconsistent when confronted with particulars. In conversation with him one night after one of the meetings, when he had been specially hard upon the ignorant and godless, I innocently changed the subject to Billy Breen, whom Geordie had taken to his shack since the night of the League. He was very proud of Billy’s success in the fight against whisky, the credit of which he divided unevenly between Mrs. Mavor and himself.
‘He’s fair daft aboot her,’ he explained to me, ‘an’ I’ll no’ deny but she’s a great help, ay, a verra conseederable asseestance; but, man, she doesna ken the whusky, an’ the inside o’ a man that’s wantin’ it. Ay, puir buddie, she diz her pairt, an’ when ye’re a bit restless an thrawn aifter yer day’s wark, it’s like a walk in a bonnie glen on a simmer eve, with the birds liltin’ aboot, tae sit in yon roomie and hear her sing; but when the night is on, an’ ye canna sleep, but wauken wi’ an’ awfu’ thurst and wi’ dreams o’ cosy firesides, and the bonnie sparklin’ glosses, as it is wi’ puir Billy, ay, it’s then ye need a man wi’ a guid grup beside ye.’
‘What do you do then, Geordie?’ I asked.
‘Oo ay, I juist gang for a bit walk wi’ the lad, and then pits the kettle on an’ maks a cup o’ tea or coffee, an’ aff he gangs tae sleep like a bairn.’
‘Poor Billy,’ I said pityingly, ‘there’s no hope for him in the future, I fear.’
‘Hoot awa, man,’ said Geordie quickly. ‘Ye wadna keep oot a puir cratur frae creepin’ in, that’s daein’ his best?’