“Na, na, Doctor, that’ll no dae at a’,” Jimms sturdily exclaimed, when explanations of the plan had been laid before him.
“Well, but I have resolved to have it done,” Dr. Alexander said, and quietly reminded Jimms that he was there to carry out orders.
“Nae doot, Doctor, in a certain sense that’s true,” was the prompt reply. “Still I’m here to prevent ye frae spoilin’ the property.”
When, however, the new walk was an accomplished fact, and approved of by the visitors, Jimms took his full share of the credit.
“Ou, ay,” he would say, “nane o’ yer landscape gardeners here. Me an’ the Doctor, we managed it a’.”
In course of time this “Jimms” went where all good beadles go, and his mantle fell on his successor, John Sloan. This worthy and the Doctor got on capitally together.
“There were never words atween me an’ the Doctor,” said Sloan. “I did my wark, and said straicht what cam’ into my head, an’ the Doctor liked it.”
Sloan seldom volunteered advice, but when he did, it was always with good effect. On one occasion he found himself in the Deacons’ vestry putting coals on the fire, when the subject under discussion was whether a service, at which a special collection was to be asked, should be held on Sunday afternoon or evening. Dr. Alexander had just said that he would prefer the afternoon, when Sloan paused for a moment, coal-scuttle in hand, and facing round, said, “The Doctor’s richt. In the afternoon we’ll ha’e oor ain fouk; at nicht there’ll be a wheen Presbyterians—I reckon them at thruppence a dizzen!”
He did not wait to see the effect of his shot, but it ended the discussion.
“I don’t think I should put on my gown to-day, John,” said a country minister to his beadle, “the weather is so very hot. I will preach better without it.”