CHAPTER VI
I maun e'en wander again from what I've been tellin' ye. Not that in this book there's any great plan; it's just as if we were speerin' together. But one thing puts me in mind o' another. And it so happened that that gay morn at Montrose when Mac and I tried our hands at the gowf brought me in touch with another and very different experience.
Ye'll mind I've talked a bit already of them that work and those they work for. I've been a laboring man myself; in those days I was close enough to the pit to mind only too well what it was like to be dependent on another man for all I earned and ate and drank. And I'd been oot on strike, too. There was some bit trouble over wages. In the beginning it was no great matter; five minutes of good give and tak' in talk wad ha' settled it, had masters and men got together as folk should do. But the masters wouldna listen, and the men were sair angry, and so there was the strike.
It was easy enough for me. I'd money in the savings bank. My brothers were a' at work in other pits where there was no strike called. I was able to see it through, and I cheered with a good will when the District Agents of the miners made speeches and urged us to stay oot till the masters gave in. But I could see, even then, that, there were men who did no feel sae easy in their minds over the strike. Jamie Lowden was one o' them. Jamie and I were good friends, though not sae close as some.
I could see that Jamie was taking the strike much more to heart than I. He'd come oot wi' the rest of us at the first, and he went to all the mass meetings, though I didna hear him, ever mak' a speech, as most of us did, one time or another. And so, one day, when I fell into step beside him, on the way hame frae a meetin', I made to see what he was thinking.
"Dinna look sae glum, Jamie, man," I said. "The strike won't last for aye. We've the richt on our side, and when we've that we're bound to win in the end."
"Aye, we may win!" he said, bitterly. "And what then, Harry? Strikes are for them that can afford them, Harry—they're no for workingman wi' a wife that's sick on his hands and a wean that's dyin' for lack o' the proper food. Gie'en my wife and my bairn should dee, what good would it be to me to ha' won this strike?"
"But we'll a' be better off if we win——"
"Better off?" he said, angrily. "Oh, aye—but what'll mak' up to' us for what we'll lose? Nine weeks I've been oot. All that pay I've lost. It would have kept the wean well fed and the wife could ha' had the medicine she needs. Much good it will do me to win the strike and the shillin' or twa extra a week we're striking for if I lose them!"
I'm ashamed to say I hadn't thought of the strike in that licht before. It had been a grand chance to be idle wi'oot havin' to reproach myself; to enjoy life a bit, and lie abed of a morn wi' a clear conscience. But I could see, the noo Jamie talked, how it was some of the older men did not seem to put much heart into it when they shouted wi' the rest of us: "We'll never gie in!"
It was weel enough for the boys; for them it was a time o' skylarkin' and irresponsibility. It was weel enough for me, and others like me, who'd been able to put by a bit siller, and could afford to do wi'oot our wages for a space. But it was black tragedy for Jamie and his wife and bairn.
Still ye'll be wonderin' how I was reminded of all this at Montrose, where Mac and I showed how bad we were at gowf! Weel, it was there I saw Jamie Lowden again, and heard how he had come through the time of the strike. I'll tell the tale myself; you may depend on't that I'm giving it to ye straight, as I had it from the man himself.
His wife, lying sick in her bed, always asked Jamie the same question when he came in from a meeting.
"Is there ony settlement yet, Jamie?" she would say.
"Not yet," he had to answer, time after time. "The masters are rich and proud. They say they can afford to keep the pits, closed. And we're telling them, after every meeting, that we'll een starve, if needs must, before we'll gie in to them. I'm thinkin' it's to starvin' we'll come, the way things look. Hoo are ye, Annie—better old girl?"
"I'm no that bad, Jamie," she answered, always, affectionately. He knew she was lying to spare his feelings; they loved one another very dearly, did those two. She looked down at the wee yin beside her in the bed. "It's the wean I'm thinkin' of, Jamie," she whispered. "He's asleep, at last, but he's nae richt, Jamie—he's far frae richt."
Jamie sighed, and turned to the stove. He put the kettle on, that he might make himself a cup of tea. Annie was not strong enough to get up and do any of the work, though it hurt her sair to see her man busy about the wee hoose. She could eat no solid food; the doctor had ordered milk for her, and beef tea, and jellies. Jamie could just manage the milk, but it was out of the question for him to buy the sick room delicacies she should have had every day of her life. The bairn was born but a week after the strike began; Jamie and Annie had been married little more than a year. It was hard enough for Annie to bring the wean into the world; it seemed that keeping him and herself there was going to be too much for her, with things going as they were.
"She was nae strong enough, Jamie, man," the doctor told him. "Yell ha' an invalid wife on your hands for months. Gie her gude food, and plenty on't, when she can eat again let her ha' plenty rest. She'll be richt then—she'll be better, indeed, than she's ever been. But not if things go badly—she can never stand that."
Jamie had aye been carefu' wi' his siller; when he knew the wife was going to present him wi' a bairn he'd done his part to mak' ready. So the few pound he had in the bank had served, at the start, weel enough. The strikers got a few shillings each week frae the union; just enough, it turned out, in Jamie's case, to pay the rent and buy the bare necessities of life. His own siller went fast to keep mither and wean alive when she was worst. And when they were gone, as they were before that day I talked wi' him, things looked black indeed for Jamie and the bit family he was tryin' to raise.
He could see no way oot. And then, one nicht, there came a knocking at the door. It was the doctor—a kindly, brusque man, who'd been in the army once. He was popular, but it was because he made his patients afraid of him, some said. They got well because they were afraid to disobey him. He had a very large practice, and, since he was a bachelor, with none but himself to care for, he was supposed to be almost wealthy—certainly he was rich for a country doctor.
"Weel, Jamie, man, and ho's the wife and the wean the day?" he asked.
"They're nane so braw, doctor," said Jamie, dolefully. "But yell see that for yersel', I'm thinkin'."
The doctor went in, talked to Jamie's wife a spell, told her some things to do, and looked carefully at the sleeping bairn, which he would not have awakened. Then he took Jamie by the arm.
"Come ootside, Jamie," he said. "I want to hae a word wi' ye."
Jamie went oot, wondering. The doctor walked along wi' him in silence a wee bit; then spoke, straight oot, after his manner.
"Yon's a bonnie wean o' yours, Jamie," he said. "I've brought many a yin into the world, and I'm likin' him fine. But ye can no care for him, and he's like to dee on your hands. Yer wife's in the same case. She maun ha' nourishin' food, and plenty on't. Noo, I'm rich enough, and I'm a bachelor, with no wife nor bairn o' my ain. For reasons I'll not tell ye I'll dee, as I've lived, by my lain. I'll not be marryin' a wife, I mean by that.
"But I like that yin of yours. And here's what I'm offerin' ye. I'll adopt him, gi'en you'll let me ha' him for my ain. I'll save his life. I'll bring him up strong and healthy, as a gentleman and a gentleman's son. And I'll gie ye a hundred pounds to boot—a hundred pounds that'll be the saving of your wife's life, so that she can be made strong and healthy to bear ye other bairns when you're at work again."
"Gie up the wean?" cried Jamie, his face working. "The wean my Annie near died to gie me? Doctor, is it sense you're talking?"
"Aye, and gude, hard sense it is, too, Jamie, man. I know it sounds dour and hard. It's a sair thing to be giving up your ain flesh and blood. But think o' the bairn, man! Through no fault o' your ain, through misfortune that's come upon ye, ye can no gie him the care he needs to keep him alive. Wad ye rather see him dead or in my care? Think it ower, man. I'll gie ye two days to think and to talk it ower wi' the wife. And—I'm tellin' ye're a muckle ass and no the sensible man I've thought ye if ye do not say aye."
The doctor did no wait for Jamie to answer him. He was a wise man, that doctor; he knew how Jamie wad be feelin' just then, and he turned away. Sure enough, Jamie was ready to curse him and bid him keep his money. But when he was left alone, and walked home, slowly, thinking of the offer, he began to see that love for the wean urged him nigh as much to accept the offer as to reject it.
It was true, as the doctor had said, that it was better for the bairn to live and grow strong and well than to dee and be buried. Wad it no be selfish for Jamie, for the love he had for his first born, to insist on keeping him when to keep him wad mean his death? But there was Annie to think of, too. Wad she be willing? Jamie was sair beset. He didna ken how to think, much less what he should be doing.
It grieved him to bear such an offer to Annie, so wan and sick, puir body. He thought of not telling her. But when he went in she was sair afraid the doctor had told him the bairn could no live, and to reassure her he was obliged to tell just why the doctor had called him oot wi' him.
"Tak' him away for gude and a', Jamie?" she moaned, and looked down at the wailing mite beside her. "That's what he means? Oh, my bairn—my wean——!"
"Aye, but he shall not!" Jamie vowed, fiercely, dropping to his knees beside the bed, and putting his arms about her. "Dinna fash yersel', Annie, darling. Ye shall keep your wean—our wean."
"But it's true, what the doctor said, that it wad be better for our bairn, Jamie——"
"Oh, aye—no doot he meant it in kindness and weel enow, Annie. But how should he understand, that's never had bairn o' his own to twine its fingers around one o' his? Nor seen the licht in his wife's een as she laid them on her wean?"
Annie was comforted by the love in his voice, and fell asleep. But when the morn came the bairn was worse, and greetin' pitifully. And it was Annie herself who spoke, timidly, of what the doctor had offered. Jamie had told her nothing of the hundred pounds; he knew she would feel as he did, that if they gave up the bairn it wad be for his ain sake, and not for the siller.
"Oh, Jamie, my man, I've been thinkin'," said puir Annie. "The wean's sae sick! And if we let the doctor hae him he'd be well and strong. And it micht be we could see him sometimes. The doctor wad let us do sae, do ye nae think it?"
Lang they talked of it. But they could came tae nae ither thought than that it was better to lose the bairn and gie him his chance to live and to grow up than to lose him by havin' him dee. Lose him they must, it seemed, and Jamie cried out against God, at last, and swore that there was no help, even though a man was ready and willing to work his fingers to the bone for wife and bairn. And sae, wi' the heaviest of hearts, he made his way to the doctor's door and rang the bell.
"Weel, and ye and the wife are showing yer good sense," said the doctor, heartily, when he heard what Jamie had to say. "We'll pull the wean through. He's of gude stock on both sides—that's why I want to adopt him. I'll bring a nurse round wi' me tomorrow, come afternoon, and I'll hae the papers ready for ye to sign, that give me the richt to adopt him as my ain son. And when ye sign ye shall hae yer hundred pounds."
"Ye—ye can keep the siller, doctor," said Jamie, suppressing a wish to say something violent. "'Tis no for the money we're letting ye hae the wean—'tis that ye may save his life and keep him in the world to hae his chance that I canna gie him, God help me!"
"A bargain's a bargain, Jamie, man," said the doctor, more gently than was his wont. "Ye shall e'en hae the hundred pounds, for you'll be needin' it for the puir wife. Puir lassie—dinna think I'm not sorry for you and her, as well."
Jamie shook his head and went off. He could no trust himself to speak again. And he went back to Annie wi' tears in his een, and the heart within him heavy as it were lead. Still, when he reached hame, and saw Annie looking at him wi' such grief in her moist een, he could no bear to tell her of the hundred pounds. He could no bear to let her think it was selling the bairn they were. And, in truth, whether he was to tak' the siller or not, it was no that had moved him.
It was a sair, dour nicht for Jamie and the wife. They lay awake, the twa of them. They listened to the breathing of the wean; whiles and again he'd rouse and greet a wee, and every sound he made tore at their heart strings. They were to say gude-bye to him the morrow, never to see him again; Annie was to hold him in her mither's arms for the last time. Oh, it was the sair nicht for those twa, yell ken withoot ma tellin' ye!
Come three o' the clock next afternoon and there was the sound o' wheels ootside the wee hoose. Jamie started and looked at Annie, and the tears sprang to their een as they turned to the wean. In came the doctor, and wi' him a nurse, all starched and clean.
"Weel, Jamie, an' hoo are the patients the day? None so braw, Annie, I'm fearin'. 'Tis a hard thing, my lassie, but the best in the end. We'll hae ye on yer feet again in no time the noo, and ye can gie yer man a bonnier bairn next time! It's glad I am ye'll let me tak' the wean and care for him."
Annie could not answer. She was clasping the bairn close to her, and the tears were running down her twa cheeks. She kissed him again and again. And the doctor, staring, grew uncomfortable. He beckoned to the nurse, and she stepped toward the bed to take the wean from its mither. Annie saw her, and held the bairn to Jamie.
"Puir wean—oh, oor puir wean!" she sighed. "Jamie, my man—kiss him— kiss him for the last time——"
Jamie sobbed and caught the bairn in his great arms. He held it as tenderly as ever its mither could ha' done. And then, suddenly, still holding the wean, he turned on the doctor.
"We canna do it, Doctor!" he cried. "I cried out against God yesterday. But—there is a God! I believe in Him, and I will put my trust in Him. If it is His will that oor wean shall dee—dee he must. But if he dees it shall be in his mither's arms."
His eyes were blazing, and the doctor, a little frightened, as if he thought Jamie had gone mad, gave ground. But Jamie went on in a gentler voice.
"I ken weel ye meant it a' for the best, and to be gude to us and the wean, doctor," he said, earnestly. "But we canna part with our bairn. Live or dee he must stay wi' his mither!"
He knelt down. He saw Annie's eyes, swimming with new tears, meeting his in a happiness such as he had never seen before. She held out her hungry arms, and Jamie put the bairn within them.
"I'm sorry, doctor," he said, simply.
But the doctor said nothing. Without ane word he turned, and went oot the door, wi' the nurse following him. And Jamie dropped to his knees beside his wife and bairn and prayed to the God in whom he had resolved to put his trust.
Ne'er tell me God does not hear or heed such prayers! Ne'er tell me that He betrays those who put their trust in Him, according to His word.
Frae that sair day of grief and fear mither and wean grew better. Next day a wee laddie brocht a great hamper to Jamie's door. Jamie thocht there was some mistake.
"Who sent ye, laddie?" he asked.
"I dinna ken, and what I do ken I maun not tell," the boy answered.
"But there's no mistake. 'Tis for ye, Jamie Lowden."
And sae it was. There were all the things that Annie needed and Jamie had nae the siller to buy for her in that hamper. Beef tea, and fruit, and jellies—rare gude things! Jamie, his een full o' tears, had aye his suspicions of the doctor. But when he asked him, the doctor was said angry.
"Hamper? What hamper?" he asked gruffly. That was when he was making a professional call. "Ye're a sentimental fule, Jamie Lowden, and I'd hae no hand in helpin' ye! But if so be there was some beef extract in the hamper, 'tis so I'd hae ye mak' it—as I'm tellin' ye, mind, not as it says on the jar!"
He said nowt of what had come aboot the day before. But, just as he was aboot to go, he turned to Jamie.
"Oh, aye, Jamie, man, yell no haw been to the toon the day?" he asked. "I heard, as I was comin' up, that the strike was over and all the men were to go back to work the morn. Ye'll no be sorry to be earnin' money again, I'm thinkin'."
Jamie dropped to his knees again, beside his wife and bairn, when the doctor had left them alone. And this time it was to thank God, not to pray for favors, that he knelt.
Do ye ken why I hae set doon this tale for you to read? Is it no plain? The way we do—all of us! We think we may live our ain lives, and that what we do affects no one but ourselves? Was ever a falswer lee than that? Here was this strike, that was so quickly called because a few men quarreled among themselves. And yet it was only by a miracle that it did not bring death to Annie and her bairn and ruin to Jamie Lowden's whole life—a decent laddie that asked nowt but to work for his wife and his wean and be a good and useful citizen.
Canna men think twice before they bring such grief and trouble into the world? Canna they learn to get together and talk things over before the trouble, instead of afterward? Must we act amang ourselves as the Hun acted in the wide world? I'm thinking we need not, and shall not, much longer.
CHAPTER VII
The folks we met were awfu' good to Mackenzie Murdoch and me while we were on tour in yon old days. I've always liked to sit me doon, after a show, and talk to some of those in the audience, and then it was even easier than it is the noo. I mind the things we did! There was the time when we must be fishermen!
It was at Castle Douglas, in the Galloway district, that the landlord of our hotel asked us if we were fishermen. He said we should be, since, if we were, there was a loch nearby where the sport was grand.
"Eh, Mac?" I asked him. "Are ye as good a fisherman as ye are a gowfer?"
"Scarcely so good, Harry," he said, smiling.
"Aweel, ne'er mind that," I said. "We'll catch fish enough for our supper, for I'm a don with a rod, as you'll see."
Noo, I believed that I was strictly veracious when I said that, even though I think I had never held a rod in my hand. But I had seen many a man fishing, and it had always seemed to me the easiest thing in the world a man could do. So forth we fared together, and found the boat the landlord had promised us, and the tackle, and the bait. I'll no say whether we took ought else—'tis none of your affair, you'll ken! Nor am I making confession to the wife, syne she reads all I write, whether abody else does so or nicht.
The loch was verra beautiful. So were the fish, I'm never doubting, but for that yell hae to do e'en as did Mac and I—tak' the landlord's word for 't. For ne'er a one did we see, nor did we get a bite, all that day. But it was comfortable in the air, on the bonny blue water of the loch, and we were no sair grieved that the fish should play us false.
Mac sat there, dreamily.
"I mind a time when I was fishing, once," he said, and named a spot he knew I'd never seen. "Ah, man, Harry, but it was the grand day's sport we had that day! There was an old, great trout that every fisherman in those parts had been after for twa summers. Many had hooked him, but he'd got clean awa'. I had no thocht of seeing him, even. But by and by I felt a great pull on my line—and, sure enow, it was he, the big fellow!"
"That was rare luck, Mac," I said, wondering a little. Had Mac been overmodest, before, when he had said he was no great angler? Or was he——? Aweel, no matter. I'll let him tell his tale.
"Man, Harry," he went on, "can ye no see the ithers? They were excited. All offered me advice. But they never thocht that I could land him. I didna mysel'—he was a rare fish, that yin! Three hours I fought wi' him, Harry! But I brocht him ashore at last. And, Harry, wad ye guess what he weighed?"
I couldna, and said so. But I was verra thochtfu'.
"Thirty-one pounds," said Mac, impressively.
"Thirty-one pounds? Did he so?" I said, duly impressed. But I was still thochtfu', and Mac looked at me.
"Wasna he a whopper, Harry?" he asked. I think he was a wee bit disappointed, but he had no cause—I was just thinking.
"Aye," I said. "Deed an' he was, Mac. Ye were prood, the day, were ye no? I mind the biggest fish ever I caught. I wasna fit to speak to the Duke o' Argyle himsel' that day!"
"How big was yours?" asked Mac, and I could see he was angry wi' himself. Do ye mind the game the wee yins play, of noughts and crosses? Whoever draws three noughts or three crosses in a line wins, and sometimes it's for lettin' the other have last crack that ye lose. Weel, it was like a child who sees he's beaten himself in that game that Mac looked then.
"How big was mine, Mac?" I said. "Oh, no so big. Ye'd no be interested to know, I'm thinking."
"But I am," said Mac. "I always like to hear of the luck other fishermen ha' had."
"Aweel, yell be makin' me tell ye, I suppose," I said, as if verra reluctantly. "But—oh, no, Mac, dinna mak' me. I'm no wantin' to hurt yer feelings."
He laughed.
"Tell me, man," he said.
"Weel, then—twa thousand six hundred and fourteen pounds," I said.
Mac nearly fell oot o' the boat into the loch. He stared at me wi' een like saucers.
"What sort of a fish was that, ye muckle ass?" he roared.
"Oh, just a bit whale," I said, modestly. "Nowt to boast aboot. He gied me a battle, I'll admit, but he had nae chance frae the first——"
And then we both collapsed and began to roar wi' laughter. And we agreed that we'd tell no fish stories to one another after that, but only to others, and that we'd always mak' the other fellow tell the size of his fish before we gave the weighing of ours. That's the only safe rule for a fisherman who's telling of his catch, and there's a tip for ye if ye like.
Still and a' we caught us no fish, and whiles we talked we'd stopped rowing, until the boat drifted into the weeds and long grass that filled one end of the loch. We were caught as fine as ye please, and when we tried to push her free we lost an oar. Noo, we could not row hame wi'oot that oar, so I reached oot wi' my rod and tried to pull it in. I had nae sort of luck there, either, and broke the rod and fell head first into the loch as well!
It was no sae deep, but the grass and the weeds were verra thick, and they closed aboot me the way the arms of an octopus mich and it was scary work gettin' free. When I did my head and shoulders showed above the water, and that was all.
"Save me, Mac!" I cried, half in jest, half in earnest. But Mac couldna help me. The boat had got a strong push from me when I went over, and was ten or twelve feet awa'. Mac was tryin' to do all he could, but ye canna do muckle wi' a flat bottomed boat when ye're but the ane oar, and he gied up at last. Then he laughed.
"Man, Harry, but ye're a comical sicht!" he said. "Ye should appear so and write a song to go wi' yer looks! Noo, ye'll not droon, an', as ye're so wet already, why don't ye wade ower and get the oar while ye're there?"
He was richt, heartless though I thought him. So I waded over to where the oar rested on the surface of the water, as if it were grinning at me. It was tricksy work. I didna ken hoo deep the loch micht grow to be suddenly; sometimes there are deep holes in such places, that ye walk into when ye're the least expecting to find one.
I was glad enough when I got back to the boat wi' the oar. I started to climb in.
"Gie's the oar first," said Mac, cynically. "Ye micht fall in again, Harry, and I'll just be makin' siccar that ane of us twa gets hame the nicht!"
But I didna fall in again, and, verra wet and chilly, I was glad to do the rowing for a bit. We did no more fishing that day, and Mac laughed at me a good deal. But on the way hame we passed a field where some boys were playing football, and the ball came along, unbenknownst to either of us, and struck Mac on the nose. It set it to bleeding, and Mac lost his temper completely and gave chase, with the blood running down and covering his shirt.
It was my turn to laugh at him, and yell ken that I took full advantage o't! Mac ran fast, and he caught one of the youngsters who had kicked the ball at him and cuffed his ear. That came near to makin' trouble, too, for the boy's father came round and threatened to have Mac arrested. But a free seat for the show made him a friend instead of a foe.
Speakin' o' arrests, the wonder is to me that Mac and I ever stayed oot o' jail. Dear knows we had escapades enough that micht ha' landed us in the lock up! There was a time, soon after the day we went fishing, when we made friends wi' some folk who lived in a capital house with a big fruit garden attached to it. They let us lodgings, though it was not their habit to do so, and we were verra pleased wi' ourselves.
We sat in the sunshine in our room, having our tea. Ootside the birds were singing in the trees, and the air came in gently.
"Oh, it's good to be alive!" said Mac.
But I dinna ken whether it was the poetry of the day or the great biscuit he had just spread wi' jam that moved him! At any rate there was no doot at a' as to what moved a great wasp that flew in through the window just then. It wanted that jam biscuit, and Mac dropped it. But that enraged the wasp, and it stung Mac on the little finger. He yelled. The girl who was singing in the next room stopped; the birds, frightened, flew away. I leaped up—I wanted to help my suffering friend.
But I got up so quickly that I upset the teapot, and the scalding tea poured itself out all over poor Mac's legs. He screamed again, and went tearing about the room holding his finger. I followed him, and I had heard that one ought to do something at once if a man were scalded, so I seized the cream jug and poured that over his legs.
But, well as I meant, Mac was angrier than ever. I chased him round and round, seriously afraid that my friend was crazed by his sufferings.
"Are ye no better the noo, Mac?" I asked.
That was just as our landlady and her daughter came in. I'm afraid they heard language from Mac not fit for any woman's ears, but ye'll admit the man was not wi'oot provocation!
"Better?" he shouted. "Ye muckle fool, you—you've ruined a brand new pair of trousies cost me fifteen and six!"
It was amusing, but it had its serious side. We had no selections on the violin at that night's concert, nor for several nights after, for Mac's finger was badly swollen, and he could not use it. And for a long time I could make him as red as a beet and as angry as I pleased by just whispering in his ear, in the innocentest way: "Hoo's yer pinkie the noo, Mac?"
It was at Creetown, our next stopping place, that we had an adventure that micht weel ha' had serious results. We had a Sunday to spend, and decided to stay there and see some of the Galloway moorlands, of which we had all heard wondrous tales. And after our concert we were introduced to a man who asked us if we'd no like a little fun on the Sawbath nicht. It sounded harmless, as he put it so, and we thocht, syne it was to be on the Sunday, it could no be so verra boisterous. So we accepted his invitation gladly.
Next evening then, in the gloamin', he turned up at our lodgings, wi' two dogs at his heel, a greyhound and a lurcher—a lurcher is a coursing dog, a cross between a collie and a greyhound.
He wore dark clothes and a slouch hat. But, noo that I gied him a closer look, I saw a shifty look in his een that I didna like. He was a braw, big man, and fine looking enough, save for that look in his een. But it was too late to back oot then, so we went along.
I liked well enow to hear him talk. He knew his country, and spoke intelligently and well of the beauties of Galloway. Truly the scenery was superb. The hills in the west were all gold and purple in the last rays of the dying sun, and the heather was indescribably beautiful.
But by the time we reached the moorlands at the foot of the hills the sun and the licht were clean gone awa', and the darkness was closing down fast aboot us. We could hear the cry of the whaup, a mournful, plaintive note; our own voices were the only other sounds that broke the stillness. Then, suddenly, our host bent low and loosed his dogs, after whispering to them, and they were off as silently and as swiftly as ghosts in the heather.
We realized then what sort of fun it was we had been promised. And it was grand sport, that hunting in the darkness, wi' the wee dogs comin' back faithfully, noo and then, to their master, carrying a hare or a rabbit firmly in their mouths.
"Man, Mae, but this is grand sport!" I whispered.
"Aye!" he said, and turned to the owner of the dogs.
"I envy you," he said. "It must be grand to hae a moor like this, wi' dogs and guns."
"And the keepers," I suggested.
"Aye—there's keepers enow, and stern dells they are, too!"
Will ye no picture Mac and me, hangin' on to one anither's hands in the darkness, and feelin' the other tremble, each guilty one o' us? So it was poachin' we'd been, and never knowing it! I saw a licht across the moor.
"What's yon?" I asked our host, pointing to it.
"Oh, that's a keeper's hoose," he answered, indifferently. "I expect they'll be takin' a walk aroond verra soon, tae."
"Eh, then," I said, "would we no be doing well to be moving hameward? If anyone comes this way I'll be breaking the mile record between here and Creetown!"
The poacher laughed.
"Ay, maybe," he said. "But if it's old Adam Broom comes ye'll hae to be runnin' faster than the charge o' shot he'll be peppering your troosers wi' in the seat!"
"Eh, Harry," said Mac, "it's God's blessings ye did no put on yer kilt the nicht!"
He seemed to think there was something funny in the situation, but I did not, I'm telling ye.
And suddenly a grim, black figure loomed up nearby.
"We're pinched, for sure, Mac," I said.
"Eh, and if we are we are," he said, philosophically. "What's the fine for poaching, Harry?"
We stood clutching one anither, and waitin' for the gun to speak. But the poacher whispered.
"It's all richt," he said. "It's a farmer, and a gude friend o' mine."
So it proved. The farmer came up and greeted us, and said he'd been having a stroll through the heather before he went to bed. I gied him a cigar—the last I had, too, but I was too relieved to care for that. We walked along wi' him, and bade him gude nicht at the end of the road that led to his steading. But the poacher was not grateful, for he sent the dogs into one of the farmer's corn fields as soon as he was oot of our sicht.
"There's hares in there," he said, "and they're sure to come oot this gate. You watch and nail the hares as they show."
He went in after the dogs, and Mac got a couple of stones while I made ready to kick any animal that appeared. Soon two hares appeared, rustling through the corn. I kicked out. I missed them, but I caught Mac on the shins, and at the same moment he missed with his stones but hit me instead! We both fell doon, and thocht no mair of keeping still we were too sair hurt not to cry oot a bit and use some strong language as well, I'm fearing. We'd forgotten, d'ye ken, that it was the Sawbath eve!
Aweel, I staggered to my feet. Then oot came more hares and rabbits, and after them the twa dogs in full chase. One hit me as I was getting up and sent me rolling into the ditch full of stagnant water.
Oh, aye, it was a pleasant evening in its ending! Mac was as scared as I by that time, and when he'd helped me from the ditch we looked aroond for our poacher host. We were afraid to start hame alane. He showed presently, laughing at us for two puir loons, and awfu' well pleased with his nicht's work.
I canna say sae muckle for the twa loons! We were sorry looking wretches. An' we were awfu' remorsefu', too, when we minded the way we'd broken the Sawbath and a'—for a' we'd not known what was afoot when we set out.
But it was different in the morn! Oh, aye—as it sae often is! We woke wi' the sun streamin' in our window. Mac leaned on his hand and sniffed, and looked at me.
"Man, Harry," said he, "d'ye smell what I smell?"
And I sniffed too. Some pleasant odor came stealing up the stairs frae the kitchen. I leaped up.
"'Tis hare, Mac!" I cried. "Up wi' ye! Wad ye be late for the breakfast that came nigh to getting us shot?"
CHAPTER VIII
Could go on and on wi' tales of yon good days wi' Mac. We'd our times when we were no sae friendly, but they never lasted overnicht. There was much philosophy in Mac. He was a kindly man, for a' his quick temper; I never knew a kinder. And he taught me much that's been usefu' to me. He taught me to look for the gude in a' I saw and came in contact wi'. There's a bricht side to almost a' we meet, I've come to ken.
It was a strange thing, the way Mac drew comic things to himsel'. It seemed on our Galloway tour, in particular, that a' the funny, sidesplitting happenings saved themselves up till he was aboot to help to mak' them merrier. I was the comedian; he was the serious artist, the great violinist. But ye'd never ha' thocht our work was divided sae had ye been wi' us.
It was to me that fell one o' the few heart-rending episodes o' the whole tour. Again it's the story of a man who thocht the world owed him a living, and that his mission was but to collect it. Why it is that men like that never see that it' not the world that pays them, but puir individuals whom they leave worse off for knowing them, and trusting them, and seeking to help them?
I mind it was at Gatehouse-of-Fleet in Kircudbrightshire that, for once in a way, for some reason I do not bring to mind, Mac and I were separated for a nicht. I found a lodging for the night wi' an aged couple who had a wee cottage all covered wi' ivy, no sae far from the Solway Firth. I was glad o' that; I've aye loved the water.
It was nae mair than four o'clock o' the afternoon when I reached the cottage and found my landlady and her white-haired auld husband waitin' to greet me. They made me as welcome as though I'd been their ain son; ye'd ne'er ha' thocht they were just lettin' me a bit room and gie'n me bit and sup for siller. 'Deed, an' that's what I like fine about the Scots folk. They're a' full o' kindness o' that sort. There's something hamely aboot a Scots hotel ye'll no find south o' the border, and, as for a lodging, why there's nowt to compare wi' Scotland for that. Ye feel ye're ane o' the family so soon as ye set doon yer traps and settle doon for a crack wi' the gude woman o' the hoose.
This was a fine, quiet, pawky pair I found at Gatehouse-of-Fleet. I liked them fine frae the first, and it was a delight to think of them as a typical old Scottish couple, spending the twilight years of their lives at hame and in peace. They micht be alane, I thocht, but wi' loving sons and daughters supporting them and caring for them, even though their affairs called them to widely scattered places.
Aweel, I was wrong. We were doing fine wi' our talk, when a door burst open, and five beautiful children came running in.
"Gie's a piece, granny," they clamored. "Granny—is there no a piece for us? We're so hungry ye'd never ken——"
They stopped when they saw me, and drew awa', shyly.
But they need no' ha' minded me. Nor did their granny; she knew me by then. They got their piece—bread, thickly spread wi' gude, hame made jam. Then they were off again, scampering off toward the river. I couldna help wonderin' about the bairns; where was their mither? Hoo came it they were here wi' the auld folks? Aweel, it was not my affairs.
"They're fine bairns, yon," I said, for the sake of saying something.
"Oh, aye, gude enow," said the auld man. I noticed his gude wife was greetin' a bit; she wiped her een wi' the corner of her apron. I thocht I'd go for a bit walk; I had no mind to be preying into the business o' the hoose. So I did. But that nicht, after the bairns were safe in bed and sound asleep, we all sat aboot the kitchen fire. And then it seemed the auld lady was minded to talk, and I was glad enow to listen. For ane thing I've always liked to hear the stories folk ha' in their lives. And then, tae, I know from my ane experience, how it eases a sair heart, sometimes, to tell a stranger what's troublin' ye. Ye can talk to a stranger where ye wouldna and couldna to ane near and dear to ye. 'Tis a strange thing, that—I mind we often hurt those who love us best because we can talk to ithers and not to them. But so it is.
"I saw ye lookin' at the bairns the day," she said. "Aye, they're no mine, as ye can judge for yersel'. It was our dochter Lizzie bore them. A fine lassie, if I do say so. She's in service the noo at a big hoose not so far awa' but that she can slip over often to see them and us. As for her husband——"
Tears began to roll doon her cheeks as she spoke. I was glad the puir mither was no deed; it was hard enough, wi' such bonny bairns, to ha' to leave them to others, even her ane parents, to bring up.
"The father o' the bairns was a bad lot—is still, I've no doot, if he's still living. He was wild before they were wed, but no so bad, sae far as we knew then. We were no so awfu' pleased wi' her choice, but we knew nothing bad enough aboot him to forbid her tak' him. He was a handsome lad, and a clever yin. Everyone liked him fine, forbye they distrusted him, too. But he always said he'd never had a chance. He talked of how if one gie a dog a bad name one micht as well droon him and ha' done. And we believed in him enow to think he micht be richt, and that if he had the chance he'd settle doon and be a gude man enow."
He' ye no heard that tale before? The man who's never had a chance! I know a thousand men like that. And they've had chances you and I wad ha' gie'n whatever we had for and never had the manhood to tak' them! Eh, but I was sair angry, listening to her.
She told o' how she and her husband put their heads togither. They wanted their dochter to have a chance as gude as' any girl. And so what did they do but tak' all the savings of their lives, twa hundred pounds, and buy a bit schooner for him. He was a sailor lad, it seems, from the toon nearby, and used to the sea.
"'Twas but a wee boat we bought him, but gude for his use in journeying up and doon the coast wi' cargo. His first trip was fine; he made money, and we were all sae happy, syne it seemed we'd been richt in backing him, for a' the neighbors had called us fools. But then misfortune laid sair hands upon us a'. The wee schooner was wrecked on the rocks at Gairliestone. None was lost wi' her, sae it kicht ha' been worse—though I dinna ken, I dinna ken!
"We were a' sorry for the boy. It was no his fault the wee boat was lost; none blamed him for that. But, d'ye ken, he came and brocht himsel' and his wife and his bairns, as they came along, to live wi' us. We were old. We'd worked hard all our lives. We'd gie'n him a' we had. Wad ye no think he'd have gone to work and sought to pay us back? But no. Not he. He sat him doon, and was content to live upon us—faither and me, old and worn out though he knew we were.
"And that wasna the worst. He asked us for siller a' the time, and he beat Lizzie, and was cruel to the wee bairns when we wouldna or couldna find it for him. So it went on, for the years, till, in the end, we gied him twenty pounds more we'd put awa' for a rainy day that he micht tak' himself' off oot o' our sicht and leave us be in peace. He was aff tae Liverpool at once, and we've never clapped een upon him syne then.
"Puir Lizzie! She loves him still, for all he's done to her and to us. She says he'll come back yet, rich and well, and tak' her out o' service, and bring up the bairns like the sons and dochters of gentlefolk. And we—weel, we say nowt to shake her. She maybe happier thinking so, and it's a sair hard time she's had, puir lass. D'ye mind the wee lassie that was sae still till she began to know ye—the weest one of them a'? Aye? Weel, she was born six months after her faither went awa', and I think she's our favorite among them a'."
"And ye ha' the care and the feedin' and the clothin' o' all that brood?" I said. "Is it no cruel hard'?"
"Hard enow," said the auld man, breaking his silence. "But we'd no be wi'oot them. They brichten up the hoose it'd be dull' and drear wi'oot them. I'm hoping that daft lad never comes back, for all o' Lizzie's thinking on him!"
And I share his hope. Chance! Had ever man a greater chance than that sailor lad? He had gone wrong as a boy. Those old folk, because their daughter loved him, gave him the greatest chance a man can have—the chance to retrieve a bad start, to make up for a false step. How many men have that? How many men are there, handicapped as, no doubt, he was, who find those to put faith in them? If a man may not take advantage of sicca chance as that he needs no better chance again than a rope around his neck with a stone tied to it and a drop into the Firth o' Forth!
I've a reminder to this day of that wee hoose at Gatehouse-of-Fleet. There was an old fashioned wag-at-the-wa' in the bedroom where I slept. It had a very curiously shaped little china face, and it took my fancy greatly. Sae, next morning, I offered the old couple a good, stiff price for it mair than it was worth, maybe, but not mair than it was worth to me. They thought I was bidding far too much, and wanted to tak' half, but I would ha' my ain way, for sae I was sure neither of was being cheated. I carried it away wi' me, and the little clock wags awa' in my bedroom to this very day.
There's a bit story I micht as weel tell ye mesel', for yell hear it frae Mac in any case, if ever ye chance to come upon him. It's the tale o' Kirsty Lamont and her rent box. I played eavesdropper, or I wouldna know it to pass it on to ye, but it's tae gude tae lose, for a' that. I'll be saying, first, that I dinna know Kirsty Lamont, though I mak' sae free wi' her name, gude soul!
It was in Kirremuir, and there'd been a braw concert the nicht before. I was on my way to the post office, thinking there'd be maybe a bit letter from the wife—she wrote to me, sometimes, then, when I was frae hame, oor courtin' days not being so far behind us as they are noo. (Ah, she travels wi' me always the noo, ye ken, sae she has nae need to write to me!) Suddenly I heard my own name as I passed a bunch o' women gossiping.
"What thocht ye o' Harry Lauder?" one of them asked another.
And the one she asked was no slow to say! "I think this o' Harry Lauder, buddies!" she declared, vehemently. "I think it's a dirty trick he's played on me, the wee deeil. I'm not sayin' it was altogither his fault, though—he's not knowing he did it!"
"How was the way o' that, Kirsty Lamont?" asked another.
"I'm tellin' ye. Fan the lassies came in frae the mull last nicht they flang their working things frae them as though they were mad.
"'Fat's all the stushie?' I asked them. They just leuch at me, and said they were hurryin' so they could hear Harry Lauder sing. They said he was the comic frae Glasga, and they asked me was I no gang wi' them tae the Toon Ha' to hear his concert.
"'No,' I says. 'All the siller in the hoose maun gang for the rent, and it's due on Setterday. Fat wad the neighbors be sayin' if they saw Kirsty Lamont gang to a concert in a rent week—fashin' aboot like that!'"
"But Phem—that's my eldest dochter, ye ken—she wad ha' me gang alang. She bade me put on my bonnet and my dolman, and said she'd pay for me, so's to leave the siller for the rent. So I said I'd gang, since they were so keen like, and we set oot jist as John came hame for his tea. I roort at him that he could jist steer for himself for a nicht. And he asked why, and I said I was gang to hear Harry Lauder.
"'Damn Harry Lauder!" he answers, gey short. "Ye'll be sorry yet for this nicht's work, Kirsty Lamont. Leavin' yer auld man tae mak' his ain tea, and him workin' syne six o'clock o' the morn!'"
"I turn't at that, for John's a queer ane when he tak's it intil's head, but the lassies poo'd me oot th' door and in twa-three meenits we were at the ha'. Fat a crushin' a fechtin' the get in. The bobby at the door saw me—savin' that we'd no ha' got in. But the bobby kens me fine—I've bailed John oot twice, for a guinea ilka time, and they recognize steady customers there like anywheres else!
"The concert was fine till that wee man Harry came oot in his kilt. And then, losh, I startit to laugh till the watter ran doon my cheeks, and the lassies was that mortified they wushed they had nae brocht me. I'm no ane to laugh at a concert or a play, but that wee Harry made ithers laugh beside me, so I was no the only ane to disgrace mysel'.
"It was eleven and after when we got hame. And there was no sogn o' John. I lookit a' ower, and he wisna in the hoose. Richt then I knew what had happened. I went to the kist where I kep' the siller for the rent. Not a bawbee left! He'll be spendin' it in the pubs this meenit I'm talkie' to ye, and we'll no see him till he hasna a penny left to his name. So there's what I think of yer Harry Lauder. I wish I wis within half a mile o' him this meenit, and I'd tell him what I thocht o' him, instead o' you! It's three months rent yer fine Harry Lauder has costit me! Had he na been here in Kirrie last nicht de ye think I'd ever ha' left the rent box by its lane wi' a man like our Jock in the hoose?"
You may be sure I did not turn to let the good Kirsty see my face. She wasna sae angry as she pretended, maybe, but I'm thinkin' she'd maybe ha' scratched me a bit in the face o' me, just to get even wi' me, had she known I was so close!
I've heard such tales before and since the time I heard Kirsty say what she thocht o' me. Many's the man has had me for an explanation of why he was sae late. I'm sorry if I've made trouble t'wixt man and wife, but I'm flattered, too, and I may as well admit it!
Ye can guess hoo Mac took that story. I was sae unwise as tae tell it to him, and he told it to everyone else, and was always threatening me with Kirsty Lamont. He pretended that some one had pointed her oot to him, so that he knew her by sicht, and he wad say that he saw her in the audience. And sometimes he'd peep oot the stage door and say he saw her waiting for me.
And, the de'il! He worked up a great time with the wife, tellin' aboot this Kirsty Lamont that was so eager to see me, till Nance was jealous, almost, and I had to tell her the whole yarn before she'd forgie me! Heard ye ever the like o' such foolishness? But that was Mac's way. He could distil humor from every situation.
CHAPTER IX
Yon were grand days, that I spent touring aboot wi' Mac, singing in concerts. It was an easy going life. The work was light. My audiences were comin' to know me, and to depend on me. I had no need, after a time, to be worrying; we were always sure of a good hoose, wherever we went. But I was no quite content. I was always being eaten, in yon time, wi' a lettle de'il o' ambition, that gnawed at me, and wadna gie me peace.
"Man, Harry," he'd say, "I ken weel ye're doin' fine! But, man canna ye do better? Ca' canny, they'll be tellin' ye, but not I! Ye maun do as well as ye can. There's the wife to think of, and the bairn John— the wee laddie ye and the wife are so prood on!"
It was so, and I knew it. My son John was beginning to be the greatest joy to me. He was so bricht, sae full o' speerit. A likely laddie he was. His mither and I spent many a lang evening dreaming of his future and what micht be coming his way.
"He'll ne'er ha' to work as a laddie as his faither did before him," I used to say. "He shall gang to schule wi' the best in the land."
It was the wife had the grandest dream o' all.
"Could we no send him to the university?" she said. "I'd gie ma een teeth, Harry, to see him at Cambridge!"
I laughed at her, but it was with a twist in the corners o' ma mooth. There was money coming in regular by then, and there was siller piling up in the bank. I'd nowt to think of but the wee laddie, and there was time enow before it would be richt to be sending him off—time enow for me to earn as muckle siller as he micht need. Why should he no be a gentleman? His blood was gude on both sides, frae his mither and frae me. And, oh, I wish ye could ha' seen the bonnie laddie as his mither and I did! Ye'd ken, then, hoo it was I came to be sae ambitious that I paid no heed to them that thocht it next door to sinfu' for me to be aye thinkin' o' doing even better than I was!
There were plenty like that, ye'll ken. Some was a wee bit jealous. Some, who'd known me my life lang, couldna believe I could hope to do the things it was in my heart and mind to try. They believed they were giving me gude advice when they bade me be content and not tempt providence.
"Man, Harry, listen to me," said one old friend. "Ye've done fine. Ye're a braw laddie, and we're all prood o' ye the noo. Don't seek to be what ye can never be. Ye'll stand to lose all ye've got if ye let pride rule ye."
I never whispered my real ambition to anyone in yon days—saving the wife, and Mackenzie Murdoch. Indeed, and it was he who spoke first.
"Ye'll not be wasting all yer time in the north country, Harry," he said. "There's London calling to ye!"
"Aye—London!" I said, a bit wistfully, I'm thinking. For me, d'ye ken, a Scots comic, to think o' London was like an ordinary man thinkin' o' takin' a trip to the North Pole. "My time's no come for that, Mac."
"Maybe no," said Mac. "But it will come—mark my words, Harry. Ye've got what London'll be as mad to hear as these folk here. Ye've a way wi' ye, Harry, my wee man!"
'Deed, and I did believe that mysel'! It's hard for a man like me to know what he can do, and say so when the time comes, wi'oot making thoughtless folk think he's conceited. An artist's feeling aboot such things is a curious one, and hard for any but artists to understand. It's a grand presumption in a man, if ye look at it in one way, that leads him to think he's got the right to stand up on a stage and ask a thousand people, or five thousand, to listen to him—to laugh when he bids them laugh, greet when he would ha' them sad.
To bid an audience gather, gie up its plans and its pursuits, tak' an hoor or two of its time—that's a muckle thing to ask! And then to mak' them pay siller, too, for the chance to hear you! It's past belief, almost, how we can do it, in the beginning. I'm thinking, the noo, how gude a thing it was I did not know, when I first quit the pit and got J. C. MacDonald to send me oot, how much there was for me to learn. I ken it weel the noo—I ken how great a chance it was, in yon early days.
But when an artist's time has come, when he has come to know his audiences, and what they like, and why—then it is different. And by this time I was a veteran singer, as you micht say. I'd sung before all sorts of folk. They'd been quick enough to let me know the things they didn't like. In you days, if a man in a gallery didna like a song or the way I sang it, he'd call oot. Sometimes he'd get the crowd wi' him—sometimes they'd rally to me, and shout him doon.
"Go on, Harry—sing yer own way—gang yer ain gait!" I've heard encouraging cries like that many and many a time. But I've always learned from those that disapproved o' me. They're quieter the noo. I ha' to watch folk, and see, from the way they clap, and the way they look when they're listening, whether I'm doing richt or wrong.
It's a digression, maybe, but I micht tell ye hoo a new song gets into my list. I must add a new song every sae often, ye ken. An' I ha' always a dozen or mair ready to try. I help in the writing o' my ain songs, most often, and so I ken it frae the first. It's changed and changed, both in words and music, over and over again. Then, when I think it's finished, I begin to sing it to mysel'. I'll sing while I'm shaving, when I tak' my bath, as I wander aboot the hoose or sit still in a railway train. I try all sorts of different little tricks, shadings o' my voice, degrees of expression.
Sometimes a whole line maun be changed so as to get the right sort o' sound. It makes all the difference in the world if I can sing a long "oh" sound, sometimes, instead o' a clippit e or a short a. To be able to stand still, wi' ma moth open, big enow for a bird to fly in, will mak' an audience laugh o' itself.
Anyway, it's so I do wi' a new song. I'll ha' sung it maybe twa-three thousand times before ever I call it ready to try wi' an audience. And even then I'm just beginning to work on it. Until I know how the folk in front tak' it I can't be sure. It may strike them in a way quite different from my idea o' hoo it would. Then it may be I'll ha' to change ma business. My audiences always collaborate wi' me in my new songs—and in my old ones, too, bless 'em. Only they don't know it, and they don't realize how I'm cheating them by making them pay to hear me and then do a deal o' my work for me as well.
It's a great trick to get an audience to singing a chorus wi' ye. Not in Britain—it's no difficult there, or in a colony where there are many Britons in the hoose. But in America I must ha' been one o' the first to get an audience to singing. American audiences are the friendliest in the world, and the most liberal wi' applause ye could want to find. But they've always been a bit shy aboot singin' wi ye. They feel it's for ye to do that by yer lane.
But I've won them aroond noo, and they help me more than they ken. Ye'll see that when yer audience is singing wi' ye ye get a rare idea of hoo they tak' yer song. Sometimes, o' coorse, a song will be richt frae the first time I sing it on the stage; whiles it'll be a week or a month or mair before it suits me. There's nae end to the work if ye'd keep friends wi' those who come oot to hear ye, and it's just that some singers ha' never learned, so that they wonder why it is ithers are successfu' while they canna get an engagement to save them. They blame the managers, and say a man can't get a start unless he have friends at coort. But it's no so, and I can prove it by the way I won my way.
I had done most of my work in Scotland when Mac and I and the wife began first really to dream aloud aboot my gae'in to London. Oh, aye, I'd been on tours that had crossed the border; I'd been to Sunderland, and Newcastle on Tyne, but everywhere I'd been there was plenty Soots folk, and they knew the Scots talk and were used to the flutter o' ma kilts. Not that they were no sae in England, further south, too—'deed, and the trouble was they were used too well to Scotch comedians there.
There'd been a time when it was enow for a man to put on a kilt and a bit o' plaid and sing his song in anything he thocht was Scottish. There'd been a fair wave o' such false Scottish comics in the English halls, until everyone was sick and tired o' 'em. Sae it was the managers all laughed at the idea of anither, and the one or twa faint tries I made to get an engagement in or near London took me nowheres at a'.
Still and a' I was set upon goin' to the big village on the Thames before I deed, and I'm an awfu' determined wee man when ma mind's well made up. Times I'd whisper a word to a friend in the profession, but they all laughed at me.
"Stick to where they know ye and like ye, Harry," they said, one and a'. "Why tempt fortune when you're doin' so well here?"
It did seem foolish. I was successful now beyond any dreams I had had in the beginning. The days when a salary of thirty five shillings a week had looked enormous made me smile as I looked back upon them. And it would ha' been a bold manager the noo who'd dared to offer Harry Lauder a guinea to sing twa-three songs of a nicht at a concert.
Had the wife been like maist women, timid and sair afraid that things wad gang wrang, I'd be singing in Scotland yet, I do believe. But she was as bad as me. She was as sure as I was that I couldna fail if ever I got the chance to sing in London.
"There's the same sort of folks there as here, Harry," she said. "Folks are the same, here and there, the wide world ower. Tak' your chance if it comes—ye'll no be losin' owt ye've got the noo if ye fail. But ye'll not fail, laddie—I ken that weel."
Still, resolving to tak' a chance if it came was not ma way. It's no man's way who gets anywheres in this world, I've found. There are men who canna e'en do so much—to whom chances come they ha' neither the wit to see nor the energy to seize upon. Such men one can but pity; they are born wi' somethin' lacking in them that a man needs. But there is anither sort, that I do not pity—I despise. They are the men who are always waiting for a chance. They point to this man or to that, and how he seized a chance—or how, perhaps, he failed to do so.
"If ever an opportunity like that comes tae me," ye'll hear them say, "just watch me tak' it! Opportunity'll ne'er ha' to knock twice upon my door."
All well and good. But opportunity is no always oot seekin doors to knock upon. Whiles she'll be sittin' hame, snug as a bug in a rug, waitin' fer callers, her ear cocked for the sound o' the knock on her door. Whiles the knock comes she'll lep' up and open, and that man's fortune is made frae that day forth. Ye maun e'en go seekin' opportunity yersel, if so be she's slow in coming to ye. It's so at any rate, I've always felt. I've waited for my chance to come, whiles, but whiles I've made the chance mysel', as well.
It was after the most successful of the tours Mac and I got up together, one of those in Galloway, that I got a week in Birkenhead. Anither artist was ill, and they just wired wad I come? I was free at the time, and glad o' the siller to be made, for the offer was a gude one, so I just went. That was firther south than I'd been yet; the audiences were English to the backbone wi' no Scots to speak of amang them.
No Scots, I say! But what audience ha' I e'er seen that didna hae its sprinklin' o' gude Scots? I've sang in 'most every part o' the world, and always, frae somewhere i' the hoose, I'll hear a Scots voice callin' me by name. Scots ha' made their way to every part o' the world, I'm knowin' the noo, and I'm sure of at least ane friend in any audience, hoo'ever new it be to me.
So, o' coorse, there were some Scots in that audience at Birkenhead. But because in that Mersey town most of the crowd was sure to be English, wi' a sprinkling o' Irish, the management had suggested that I should leave out my Scottish favorites when I made up my list o' songs. So I began wi' a sentimental ballad, went on wi' an English comic song, and finished with "Calligan-Call-Again," the very successful Irish song I had just added to my list.
Ye'Il ken, mebbe, if ye've heard me, that I can sing in English as good as the King's own when I've the mind to do it. I love my native land. I love Scots talk, Scots food, Scots—aweel, I was aboot to say something that would only sadden many of my friends in America. Hoots, though mebbe they'll no put me in jail if I say I liked a wee drappie o' Scottish liquor noo and again!
But it was no a hard thing for me not to use my Scottish tongue when I was singing there in Birkenhead, though it went sair against ma judgment. And one nicht, at the start of ma engagement, they were clamorous as I'd ne'er seen them sae far south.
"Gi'es more, Harry," I heard a Scottish voice roar. I'd sung my three songs; I'd given encores; I was bowing acknowledgment of the continuing applause. But I couldna stop the applauding. In America they say an artist "stops" the show when the audience applauds him so hard that it will not let the next turn go on, and that was what had happened that nicht in Birkenhead. I didna want to sing any of ma three songs ower again, and I had no main that waur no Scottish.
So I stood there, bowing and scraping, wi' the cries of "Encore," "Sing again, Harry," "Give us another," rising in all directions from a packed house. I raised ma hand, and they were still.
"Wad ye like a little Scotch?" I asked,
There was a roar of laughter, and then one Scottish voice bawled oot an answer.
"Aye, thank ye kindly, man Harry," it roared. "I'll tak' a wee drappie o' Glenlivet——"
The house roared wi' laughter again, and learned doon and spoke to the orchestra leader. It happened that I'd the parts for some of my ain songs wi' me, so I could gie them "Tobermory" and then "The Lass o' Killiecrankie."
Weel, the Scots songs were far better received than ever the English ones or the Irish melody had been. I smiled to mysel' and went back to ma dressin' room to see what micht be coming. Sure enough 'twas but twa-three meenits when the manager came in.
"Harry," he said, "you knocked them dead with those Scotch songs. Now do you see I was right from the start when I said you ought to sing them?"
I looked at the man and just smiled. He richt frae the start! It was he had told me not to sing ma Scottish songs—that English audiences were tired o' everything that had to do wi' a kilt or a pair o' brogues! But I let it pass.
"Oh, aye," I said, "they liked them fine, didn't they? So ye're thinkin' I'd better sing more Scotch the rest o' the week?"
"Better?" he said, and he laughed. "You'll have no choice, man. What one audience has heard the next one knows about. They'll make you sing those songs again, whether or no."
I've found that that is so—'deed, I knew it before he did. I never appear but that I've requests for practically every song I've ever sung. Some one remembers hearing me before when I was including them, or they've heard someone speak. I've been asked within a year to sing "Torralladdie"—the song I won a medal wi' at Glasga while I was still workin' in the pit at Hamilton! No evening is lang enow to sing all my songs in—all those I've gi'en my friends in my audiences at one time and anither in all these nearly thirty years I've been upon the stage. Else I'd be tryin' it, for the gude fun it wad be.
Anyway, every nicht after that the audience wanted its wee drappie o' Scotch, and got it, in good measure, for I love to sing the Scottish songs. And when the week was at an end I was promptly re-engaged for a return visit the next season, at the biggest salary that had yet been offered to me. I was a prood man the day; I felt it was a great thing that had come to me, there on the banks o' the Mersey, sae far frae hame and a', in the England they'd a' tauld me was hae nane o' me and ma sangs!
And that week was a turning point in ma life, tae. It chanced that, what wi' ane thing and anither, I was free for the next twa-three weeks. I'd plenty of engagements I could get, ye'll ken, but I'd not closed ma time yet wi' anyone. Some plans I'd had had been changed. So there I was. I could gang hame, and write a letter or twa, and be off in a day or so, singing again in the same auld way. Or—I could do what a' my friends tauld me was madness and worse to attempt. What did I do? I bocht a ticket for London!