They'll be thinking he's mean, most like. I've heard them, after he's oot the door, turn to ane anither, and say:
"Did ye ever see a man sae mean as Wully?"
And he kens fine the way they're talking, but never a bean does he care. He kens, d'ye see, hoo he maun be using his money. And the siller a second round o' drinks wad ha' cost him went to his family— and, sometimes, if the truth be known, one o' them that was no sae "mean" wad come aroond to see Wully at his shop.
"Man, Wull," he'd say. "I'm awfu' short. Can ye no lend me the loan o' five bob till Setterday?"
And he'd get the siller—and not always be paying it back come Setterday, neither. But Wull wad no be caring, if he knew the man needed it. Wull, thanks to his "meanness," was always able to find the siller for sicca loan. And I mind they did no think he was so close then. And he's just one o' many I've known; one o' many who's heaped coals o' fire on the heads of them that's thocht to mak' him a laughing stock.
I'm a grand hand for saving. I believe in it. I'll preach thrift, and I'm no ashamed to say I've practiced it. I like to see it, for I ken, ye'll mind, what it means to be puir and no to ken where the next day's needs are to be met. And there's things worth saving beside siller. Ha' ye ne'er seen a lad who spent a' his time a coortin' the wee lassies? He'd gang wi' this yin and that. Nicht after nicht ye'd see him oot—wi' a different lassie each week, belike. They'd a' like him fine; they'd be glad tae see him comin' to their door. He'd ha' a reputation in the toon for being a great one wi' the lassies, and ither men, maybe, wad envy him.
Oftimes there'll be a chiel o' anither stamp to compare wi' such a one as that. They'll ca' him a woman hater, when the puir laddie's nae sicca thing. But he's no the trick o' making himsel' liked by the bit lassies. He'd no the arts and graces o' the other. But all the time, mind ye, he's saving something the other laddie's spending.
I mind twa such laddies I knew once, when I was younger. Andy could ha' his way wi' any lassie, a'most, i' the toon. Just so far he'd gang. Ye'd see him, in the gloamin', roamin' wi' this yin and that one. They'd talk aboot him, and admire him. Jamie—he was reserved and bashfu', and the lassies were wont to laugh at him. They thocht he was afraid of them; whiles they thocht he had nae use for them, whatever, and was a woman hater. It was nae so; it was just that Jamie was waiting. He knew that, soon or late, he'd find the yin who meant mair to him than a' the ither lassies i' the world put together.
And it was sae. She came to toon, a stranger. She was a wee, bonnie creature, wi' bricht een and bright cheeks; she had a laugh that was like music in your ears. Half the young men in the toon went coortin' her frae the moment they first clapped een upon her. Andy and Jamie was among them—aye, Jamie the woman hater, the bashfu' yin!
And, wad ye believe it, it was Jamie hung on and on when all the ithers had gie'n up the chase and left the field to Andy? She liked them both richt weel; that much we could all see. But noo it was that Andy found oot that he'd been spending what he had wi' tae free a hand. Noo that he loved a lassie as he'd never dreamed he could love anyone, he found he could say nowt to her he had no said to a dozen or a score before her. The protestations that he made rang wi' a familiar sound in his ain ears—hoo could he mak' them convincing to her?