Tales of Northumbria

THE ‘CALEB JAY’
(THE ‘QUEL OBJÊT’)

I.

The ‘Caleb Jay’[14] was not, as his nickname of itself might testify, popular in our pit village of Black Winning. His appearance was against him in the first instance, and he continued to be shy and reserved even after you might be said to have made his acquaintance. Reserve is unpopular in any society, but in the lower social grades, where life is of a freer and more hearty character than in the propriety-loving circles of the well-to-do, it may be said to be one of the ‘seven deadly sins.’

There was no reserve about Tom, his elder brother, who was a good-looking, idle, somewhat dissolute youth of twenty-three years of age.

Tom was always ready to ‘stand in’ for a ‘ha’penny loo,’ never flinched from a ‘bout at the beer,’ could throw a quoit well, when his eye was clear and his hand steady, and was never at a loss with the lasses.

Tom, therefore, was a general favourite, being ‘well ta’en up wi’’ by all save a few of the more serious-minded people; and ‘Caleb Jay’ suffered, I think, partly through contrast with his brother.

‘Caleb Jay’ had been injured when working as a putter down the pit, and consequently was ‘game of one leg.’ He wore the cast-off finery of his brother, the coloured scarves and embroidered waistcoats of his festive occasions—out of economy, no doubt, but some said ‘oot o’ foolishness.’

Certainly they did not suit well with his sallow complexion and thin, peaked countenance, and with the big and weary eyes.

He worked now at any odd job he could find. He had the care of the viewer’s strip of kitchen garden, and went round with papers, etc.; but it was not much that he earned, apparently, for his mother, who doted on her handsome son Tom, was often heard to complain that he wasn’t worth his keep.

He had a strange way of mysteriously disappearing for some days on occasion, sometimes even for a week at a stretch, and sundry persons, annoyed perhaps by his reticence, hinted at secret dissipation.

If closely questioned, he would admit having had a ‘job i’ the toon,’ or ‘ower away yonder,’ pointing vaguely this way or that; and gossip had at least this confirmation for its uncharitable suspicion, that he always returned pale, tired and haggard-looking.

Some of the boys had tried to ‘nab’ him either coming or going on one of these expeditions of his, but he was ‘cuter nor a cushat’[15] as I overheard a sporting youth lament who had followed him in early morning all the way to Oldcastle, and there in the suburbs had suddenly lost him just on the brink of discovering the secret.

Gradually we became accustomed to his flittings, and he was spied upon no more; but for my own part I thought I had, by a comparison of the times and seasons of his absences, at least discovered this much—that he was usually away at the incidence of fairs and festivals.

I think I knew him more intimately than any other person in the village, except, perhaps, our Methodist minister, who never rested till he had succoured any who might be in ‘sickness, sorrow, or distress’; but to neither of us, I found, on comparing notes, had he ever vouchsafed any confidences.

The only way in which I eventually discovered I could be of any use to him was by lending him books. He was extremely fond of reading, and had a special taste for dramatic poetry, which he occasionally gratified by coming to my lodgings, and there devouring the historical plays and tragedies of Shakespeare.

I had once or twice on these occasions endeavoured to extort from him the secret of his absences, but the only result had been an increased reserve on his part, followed by an almost immediate departure from my presence, so that I had soon desisted from further questioning him on the point.

At the same time, I confess I entertained a lingering hope that I might one day be able to penetrate the mystery; for mystery of some sort I was convinced it was, though not of a vulgar kind.

II.

It so chanced that I was detained in Bridgeton on the day of the annual fair and hiring, and having two hours to wait for my train, I determined to pass the time away by noting the humours of the festival. Farmers’ wives, laden with ‘remnants’ and cheap bargains in the hardware line, were slowly surging through the throng, towards the various publics, in search of their ‘men’ and the ‘trap.’ Hinds, male and female, having now ‘bound their bargains’ with their masters, were coasting round the booths and stalls, ‘putting in’ at all the ale-houses they passed in their uncertain voyaging.

The men were somewhat sheepish still, not having taken sufficient beer on board as yet to lose the shyness of the countryman in town. They confined themselves to chaffing one another, to casting stray glances at their sweethearts, who tittered in their wake, and to offering, when moved to gallantry, ‘anuther glass o’ yel.’

A squad of pitmen here and there, their customary rivalries heated with liquor, were challenging each other noisily at the various ‘try-your-strengths’ and ‘prove-your-powers’ that were anchored in the corners of the market-place.

My attention was next attracted by the clash of cymbals and flamboyant drum-drubbings. ‘’Ere y’are, ladies and gents, ’ere y’are! Yo’r friend an’ acquaintance Bob Stevens, wiv his high-class dancin’, trapezin’, Shakespearian an’ variety entertainment!’

The great flaring gas-brackets, with their smoky tongues stabbing the darkness fitfully, lit up a most delectable advertisement. I produced ‘tuppence,’ ‘walked up,’ as invited, to the tent, and found myself in the ‘hall of amusement and instruction combined.’ It was already crowded, but I eventually discovered a seat in the far corner.

Cries of ‘Back! back!’[16] were still ringing in the air, and after a moment or two a most cadaverous-looking clown reappeared and advanced to the footlights.

His haggard, melancholy mien was in admirable artistic contrast to his garb and the burlesque humour of his song. ‘And oh,’ sang he, at the end of each verse relating some contretemps of the bashful lover, ‘it makes me very, very lively! Very, very lively!’ he repeated, as he step-danced up and down the tiny stage amidst the guffaws of his audience.

It was no great thing to do, perhaps; but it was admirably done. There was no extravagance in his accompanying actions, nor exaggeration of emphasis anywhere. In short, there was something of the genuine artist in him, and it was evident that he held his quaintly assorted ‘tuppeny’ audience in his grasp.

I grew strangely interested in the queer little figure before me. Something about him appealed strongly to the imagination.

He was encored again, and as I watched him more narrowly his aspect became more and more pathetic. I grew convinced that he was suffering physical pain; the blot of vermilion on his nose glowed brighter; beneath his mask of white I could see ashen-coloured lines streaking a colourless face.

‘Poor little chap,’ thought I; ‘he’s starving!’

Just at that moment he concluded at the ‘wings,’ bowing to the audience. His linen blouse blew open as he turned, and below a ragged shirt thus momentarily visible I saw that which made me suddenly feel sick. Before I recovered myself he had passed out on a step, humming his refrain, ‘Oh, it makes me very, very lively!’

Now, what I saw was a tumour which could only mean one thing, and that was death—an early and painful death probably. ‘He’s not starving,’ I muttered to myself; ‘poor little chap, he’s dying!’

I thought I would go out into the fresh air, but as I prepared to rise my eye caught sight of a chink in the canvas through which the ‘green room’ was visible.

The trapeze gentleman was now performing, and the clown was removing his ‘make up.’ Now that he was off the stage I could see that he had a limp. A gust of wind came suddenly, enlarging the opening. He turned, apparently to close the orifice; his eyes met mine, and in that startled second I knew him to be the ‘Caleb Jay.’

Repressing a cry of surprise, I came out, and went round to the back to wait for him.

III.

‘Now, tell me,’ said I, as I led him up to the station, ‘why do you do it? You know you oughtn’t to, for it will kill you if you exert yourself like that.’

‘Ay, an’ that’s why,’ replied he, ‘for I ken I’m dyin’; I went an’ axed a doctor a while back, iv Oldcastle, an’ he says, “I’ll gie ye a year ti live at the ootside,” says he.’

‘Then, why do it?’ I urged. ‘Do you love it so, or is it for the sake of the money?’

‘Ay,’ he replied, gasping a little, as we mounted the slope to the station, ‘that’s it. It’s for the brass. Ye ken Tom, my brother? Well, it’s for him i’ pairt, an’ i’ pairt for my mother, who wants a bit frae me for my keep, ye ken. Noo, Tom’s a bonny fellow, ain’t he?—just a joy ti the eye ti look upon; an’ he’s aye wantin’ a bit mair brass for this, an’ that, an’ t’ither, an’, man, it’s a pleasure ti me ti slave a bit for him. There’s nae use o’ brass for me—me that’ just the puir “Caleb Jay”—but Tom’s like a live lord when he’s plenty of brass; an’, man, but he spends it weel!’

I was silent for a while, thinking of the tragedy of it all. Then I inquired again: ‘Well, but how did you know you had this gift of acting and singing and impersonation? and why did you hide your talent so carefully from us all?’

‘It came ower us first, I think,’ he answered, ‘when reading Shakespeare an’ tragedies an’ sic like. I seemed ti see the vary actors theirselves before my eyes, an’ I fair felt like them, ye ken. Ye’ll think it strange, mevvies, but grandfeythor, he had a bit talent that way, an’ ran awa frae his home, an’ made his livin’ play-acting an’ piano-playin’, an’ singin’, an’ aal. He took ill somewhere aboot here, an’ died, an’ feythor, he took ti warkin’ at the pits, an’ that’s the story of it,’ concluded my little companion shyly.

‘But with a gift like yours, why didn’t you tell me of it, for example, or the minister, and perhaps we could have got you a proper start somewhere?’

‘Ay, I kenned that,’ said he, ‘an’ thank ye kindlies; but I found, on tryin’ it, that I wesn’t strang enow for’t iv a reg’lor way; an’ forbye that, I didn’t want the laddies ti ken aboot it, lest they might call us “Hamlet,” mevvies, or “clownie,” or sic like, an’ my mother divvent like play-actin’; it was she as made my feythor give it up, sayin’ it wes nae bettor than a mugger’s[17] life, elwis wanderin’ frae one place tiv anuther, an’ nae brass iv it at aal.’

There was no time for further talk, for the train was waiting, and, arriving at our destination, I found my companion so tired that it was all he could do to walk home.

The minister and I put our heads together after this, and collected enough money to send our little friend down to a seaside home for a few weeks.

On Saturday night, however, a message came from the doctor that he was rapidly sinking. His mother and brother were both out, as it happened, but the minister and I arrived just in time to bid farewell to the poor little ‘Caleb Jay.’

As we proceeded silently homeward, an idea came into my head.

‘In an age of public testimonials and memorials,’ I said, ‘humble self-sacrifice goes unrewarded. Our little friend ought to have a statue at the least; but, of course, it is no good doing anything. You, therefore, should bring him into your sermon to-morrow evening, and give a few people a hint of it beforehand.’

The idea seemed to strike my companion, and he said he would gladly do so.

I had not seen Tom, but as I walked to my lodgings I passed him standing at the street corner amidst a knot of companions.

I heard one of them mention the ‘Caleb Jay,’ and I stayed my steps a moment to hear the reply.

‘Ay,’ said Tom, ‘he was a plucky little beggor iv his way, an’ useful tae, an’ I was often sorry for him, he wes sae tarr’ble ugly! But, ho-way, I’s plenty brass on me, and I’ll treat ye aal tiv anuthor beor!’

GEORDIE ARMSTRONG, ‘THE JESU-YTE’

I.

Geordie Armstrong, after a somewhat stormy past, had become a steady hewer, and a local preacher of some repute. Never a Sunday but he was ‘planned’ to speak at this or that village, and frequently, as he found opportunity, would ‘pit in a bit overtime’ at a ‘class-meeting’ or ‘knife-an’-fork tea,’ when the ‘asking a blessing’ or a returning of thanks might furnish occasion for a ‘bit extemporizin’.’ He was in receipt of excellent wages down the pit; his wordly goods comprised, as he often proclaimed, a ‘bonny, an’ what’s o’ far mair importance, a godly missus, three canny bairns, a cosy hoos, a fine little librairee, an’ a tarr’ble fertile garden.’

As he thought upon the sum of his blessings one Saturday night when, after having ‘weshed hissel’ an’ had his tea,’ he proceeded to light his pipe, he felt he could only properly describe himself as a ‘varitable corn-u-cop-ye-ar ov happiness.’

Yet even then, even in that depth of felicity, an uneasy feeling would intrude: the memory of Scotty would float to the surface of his mind, and the thought of the ‘parlous state’ in which his old ‘marrow’ (mate) stood would ruffle its calm placidity.

This was ‘the little rift within the lute’; here was the caterpillar in the ‘corn-u-cop-ye-ar,’ and, like the Apostle Paul of old, he was fain to accept his trial, in the spirit of true humility, as a judgment upon him for the failings of his past life.

It was not for lack of trying that Scotty refused to come to chapel; indeed, Geordie had so vexed him with his importunity that Scotty had refused to work with him any longer, and was now employed further ‘in-by’ with another mate. But for all that, Geordie felt certain that the cause of failure lay with himself, due probably to his weakness in faith, to lack of some essential or other, and that the blame of Scotty’s not being ‘brought to the Lord’ lay at his door.

It had been evident to him for some time that he must try other means, and, being a great reader, he had latterly come across, and been much attracted by, a remarkable account of some ancient methods of the ‘Jesu-ytes’ in cases of this sort.

Sometimes the sinner in question had been unwittingly tempted into the ‘narrow path’ by the gratification of his ambitions on some point or other, conversion resulting, as in the case of Tom Appleby—once a fire-hot Socialist, now a sleek Conservative—from unexpected prosperity.

At other times the same end had been attained by a crafty flattery. Suppose a man ambitious of eminence and State distinction: he might be diverted from politics to the Church, and many were the instances given of bold and ambitious men who had done great work and attained high place as the servants of St. Peter.

Could Scotty not be caught hold of in some such fashion? queried Geordie to himself, as he sat by his fireside that night, deeply pondering the records he had just been studying. ‘I divvn’t think he’s ambitious, for he cares nowt aboot politics, an’ he never even thought o’ stannin’ for election on wor Parish Cooncil. Aal he cares for is his beer, an’ his quoits, an’ bettin’, an’—an’—his pansies; an’ I doot I cannot catch haud ov him in any one of those partic’lors, for it wouldn’t be fittin’ for us that’s a local preacher to gan an’ send him a barril o’ beer, or back him at a quoitin’ match. But stay—there’s the pansies; he’s pansy champion, dootless; but then I’s leek champion, an’ if I can grow leeks, I’s warn’d but I can grow pansies, for flooers is easier grown nor vegetables.’

Geordie puffed at his pipe vigorously for a minute or two in silence as he turned the matter over in his mind.

A light kindled slowly in the back of his deep-set eye, a smile showed upon his lips, then he cuffed himself vigorously upon the knee.

‘Ho-way, gan on, Geordie!’ he encouraged himself aloud; ‘thoo’s turnin’ a fair Jesu-yte, I’s warn’d!’

* * * * *

As the day appointed for the annual meeting of the Flower Show drew near, Geordie had been heard to drop hints of the ‘wonnerfu’ new specie’ of pansies he had become possessed of—‘seedlin’s’ he had obtained ‘doon the south-country way,’ and it was not long before the rumour reached the ears of Scotty.

Nothing could exceed the contempt of the latter when he heard of Geordie’s trying to grow pansies—‘him that’s just a vegetable man, a tormut (turnip) grower, a sort o’ ha’penny farmer,’ and as for anything good in the way of seedlings coming out of the south-country, it was just ‘bang ridi’klous, for a’ folk kenned that a’ the best growers lived in auld Scotland.’

By-and-by some mischievous individual told Scotty that Geordie was ‘full’ set upon being pansy champion, and was so cock-sure about it that he was willing to back himself to win.

Scotty was so annoyed at this that the next time he came across Geordie he could not refrain from jeering at his attempt at pansy growing. ‘Wey, it’ll be as muckle as ye can do to tell a pansy frae a vi’let!’ he cried.

Geordie looked at him seriously from under his bushy eyebrows as he replied, ‘I’s gannin’ to show—an’ I’s gannin’ to win—wi’ pansies, not vi’lets.’

‘Will ye back yorsel’, then?’ retorted his opponent sneeringly.

‘Well, ye knaa,’ replied the other slowly, with evident embarrassment, ‘I’s not a bettin’ man, but if thoo thinks I’s not in earnest, I’s willin’ to gie a proof that I is. What d’ye say to yor takin’—if ye beat us, that is—anythin’ oot o’ my hoos thoo has a fancy for; an’—an’—if I beat thoo, wey, aal I axes is that thoo should come to chapel—noo an’ again, ye knaa—ov an evenin’,’ he hastily added, as his companion’s face assumed a look of infinite scorn.

‘Ha’ ye got that auld double-barrelled shot-gun yet?’ queried Scotty, after a pause in which he had arrived at the conclusion that the odds were ‘aboot a thoosand to one’ in his favour.

‘Yes,’ replied Geordie. ‘I still have her; she’s there hangin’ up above the mantelshelf.’

‘Well, I’ll tak’ up wi’ yor proposal,’ was Scotty’s reply.

‘Shake hands on’t, then,’ said Geordie slowly, unsuccessfully endeavouring to instil an apprehensive tremor into his voice.

His companion shook hands carelessly, and swung away whistling barefacedly, ‘And it’s up wi’ the bonnets o’ Bonnie Dundee.’

Geordie, on his part, walked away swiftly homewards, fearing lest his exultation might betray itself too openly. ‘Wow!’ he thought to himself, ‘but I’s fair a-feard o’ mysel’. I’s growin’ intiv a proper Jesu-yte!’

The morning of the show-day came, and Geordie, having finished packing his exhibits with extraordinary care, had just returned with the small cart the grocer had lent him to convey his treasures to the show-field, about a mile and a half distant, when up came Maggie, Scotty’s wife, who, notwithstanding the little difference between their respective men, had always kept up her friendship with Geordie’s wife. Her arms bore a large green case, tied round with a many-knotted cord. This she hastily set down beside the cart, then turned breathlessly to Geordie, who, with his son, was just about to drive off.

‘Eh noo, canny man,’ she cried, as she wiped her hot face with the tail of her gown, ‘do us a favour. Will thoo carry my man’s pansy-case up to the show wi’ yors? Wor Jimmy was to have taken it up first thing this mornin’, but he went aff for his school treat an’ left it—an’ my man’s awa playin’ hissel’ at quoits—an’ he’ll aboot kill Jimmy when he gans up to the show an’ finds his pansies isn’t there.’

Geordie willingly acceded, and the green case was carefully deposited alongside of his own at the bottom of the cart.

His nine-year-old son squatted on the seat opposite, his legs up to his chin, so as to be out of the way as much as possible in the crowded cart. The pony started off gallantly enough, and all went well till within about two or three hundred yards of the field. At that point, however, the pony suddenly shied at some stray paper on the road, and Tommy fell with a crash upon the green case below.

‘Eh, Tommy, lad!’ cried his father in dismay; ‘what hast thoo done? Wow! but thoo’s gan an’ smashed Scotty’s case right thro’ an’ thro’!’

His succeeding feeling was one of joy; for, the accident having irreparably damaged a third at least of his rival’s pansies, it was evident that Scotty was now ‘catched,’ and Geordie, with an inward acknowledgment to Providence, saw, as in a vision, Scotty sitting devoutly ‘under’ himself in chapel.

A few moments later, however, doubt and dismay entered his soul. What if Scotty should say Tommy had done it ‘o’ purpose’—at his instigation? Further reflection convinced him that this was exactly what Scotty would say, and doubtless there would be some folk unkind enough to back him up in it.

Scotty would likelies claim the gun. Well, he’d not mind parting with that, but he could not give up the prospect of saving Scotty’s soul alive without a groan.

‘Eh, Tommy, lad! Eh, Tommy! But thoo divvn’t knaa what thoo’s done; thoo’s put us in a fine quandary,’ he murmured, gazing sadly now at Tommy, who was rubbing his knee ruefully, and again at the splintered case. The problem was a ‘puzzlor;’ even a Jesu-yte might have found solution difficult; for Scotty, he knew, would not believe him if he told the simple story of the accident, and winning the prize would be useless in the face of Scotty’s insinuations of foul play.

The only way out of the difficulty, he determined sadly, was to exhibit his own pansies under Scotty’s name, and withdraw from the contest himself. The contents of the two cases were sufficiently alike for his purpose, though his own were superior in size and depth of colour. It was a ‘sair trial,’ for his pansies were bound to win; but his character as an honest, religious man was at stake, and Scotty’s triumph would be easier to endure than his sneers, if defeated, at a ‘chap who caa’s hissel’ releegious, an’ swindles ye like a Jew pedlar.’

With a groan he undid the label, and tied it on to his own beloved specimens, casting aside, as a temptation of the evil one, a disturbing suggestion that he was guilty of deception in passing off his own as Scotty’s pansies.

* * * * *

The judges had been round, and Scotty’s pansies easily gained the place of pride; pansies so perfectly developed, so dark and deep in colour, had never been shown before.

A crowd of admirers stood round. Scotty came lurching up, having evidently held a preliminary carouse in certain expectation of the championship, and, with a careless glance at his exhibits and the red card attached, cried triumphantly:

‘Ay! an’ whaur’s that Geordie body noo, wi’ his brags an’ a’? Wey, I’m tauld he daurna even exhibit his ain puir specimens by the side o’ mine! Look at thae pansies, an’ think o’ him wi’ his yaller sheep’s tormuts tryin’ to vie wi’ me that’s the auld established pansy champion! Ay, I’m that ower an’ ower again; an’ what’s mair, I’ve win his gun. Wey, I’ll gang an’ fetch her awa at aince!’

So boasting, the proud champion reeled off in triumph, inadvertently knocking up against a silent looker-on, who was standing in melancholy guise against a tent-pole some little distance away.

One morning, a day or so after the flower-show, it chanced that Tommy was late for school, and, rounding a corner hurriedly, ran up against a big boy, who was sporting a pansy in his buttonhole. The big boy, who was Scotty’s son, immediately proceeded to cuff him for his carelessness, and Tommy retorted by “calling”[18] his opponent and his family connections with a ready profuseness.

‘Wey, even that pansy thoo’s sportin’ divvn’t belong thoo, nor thy feythor nowther, it’s my dad’s growin’; he showed his ain pansies as Scotty’s, ’cos Scotty’s happened an accident i’ the cart. Feythor took them up for yor mither, ’cos thoo had forgottened them, an’ to save thoo a strappin’; an’ feythor’s pansy champion, and Scotty’s nowt but a beer-barril!’

‘Liar!’ responded the other boy, with a punch of his fist.

‘Ax yor mither, then,’ shouted Tommy, as he ducked and broke away from his captor’s clutch.

A night or two after this encounter Geordie was surprised by a visit from Scotty.

‘Whatten a tale’s this ye’re spreadin’ aboot o’ yor showin’ yoor pansies as mine, I’d like to ken?’ demanded the intruder wrathfully.

Geordie looked up quietly from his book, and: ‘I’ve spread no tales aboot thoo or thy pansies,’ he replied.

‘Weel, it’s either thoo or that wee, impittent son o’ yoors, Tommy. Noo, I’ve been axin’ my missus aboot it, an’ she says she did gie ye my pansies to tak’ up to the show wi’ yoors; an’ what I want to be at is what i’ the deil’s name ye did to them.’

Geordie, in reply, exactly related what had occurred.

‘Then, wey didn’t ye tell us aboot it?’ demanded Scotty, still dissatisfied.

‘Because thoo has a tarr’ble sharp tongue i’ thy mouth, an’ I divvn’t want to be scandalized aboot the village as one who would sharp another for the sake o’ winnin’ a floo’er prize.’

‘Hum!’ ejaculated Scotty, ‘it’s an extraordinar’ thing this! But hoo can ye explain aboot the pansies, then? I’m pansy champion, an’ therefore thae pansies that win the prize mun ha’ been mine, yet here ye are sayin’ that they were yoors.’

Geordie got up from his seat, and, without immediately replying, went into the room at the back, and came forth again bearing in his arms a shattered green case.

‘Dis thoo recognise this?’ he asked quietly, as he set it down on the table in front of his visitor.

‘Ay,’ replied Scotty, after a minute inspection; ‘it’s mine dootless. But what then?’

‘Wey, then, thoo has my case, an’ my pansies inside ov it; an’ here’s yors still left i’ their holes, just as they were on show-day.’

Scotty bent over the broken lid incredulously, lifted a faded specimen out, and regarded it contemptuously.

‘Na, na,’ he asserted shortly, ‘that’s no my pansies; mine were champions, an’ these is weeny things. Na, na, there’s been a bit queer play about this. Maybe Tommy changed them frae the one case to the ither.’

‘Tommy did nowt o’ the sort,’ retaliated Geordie quickly. ‘Aal that was done was to untie the label an’ clagg (stick) it on to my case instead o’ yors.’

‘Weel, it’s a dommed queer thing aaltegither,’ replied Scotty, pushing his cap from his brow, ‘and beyont me; for I’m champion, nobody can deny that, an’ a proper professor at floo’er growin’, an’ ye’re but an ammytoor, d’ye see? An’ it’s just surprising to me that ye could e’er imagine ye could compete wi’ me. But I divvn’t wish to be ower hard on ye, an’ I’ll e’en gie ye the benefit o’ the doot, as the saying is; sae I’ll just send ye back yoor gun—that is,’ he continued slowly, eyeing Geordie wistfully, ‘if ye’re wishfu’ to ha’ her back.’

‘Thoo can keep her,’ replied Geordie, ‘for it’s nae use to me nowadays; but I would like—I would be tarr’ble pleased if thoo would come——’ Here he halted abruptly, on a sudden fear lest Scotty’s suspicions of some underhand play in regard to the pansies might be again roused if he too openly requested him to come to chapel.

The other hesitated a little. ‘Weel,’ he said finally, ‘it’s a canny wee gun, an’ I would gey like to keep her. An’ as for chapel gangin’—for I suppose that’s what ye’re after—if ye divvn’t blab aboot us, wey, I’ll just tak’ a look in noo an’ again.’

‘That’s right, noo,’ responded Geordie gratefully, and his deep-set eyes glowed with a warmer light. ‘Shake hands on’t.’

Scotty shook hands without demur and swiftly departed, fearful lest Geordie might regret the arrangement.

Geordie leant back in his chair and heaved a sigh of relief as he offered up a silent thanksgiving to Providence for having softened Scotty’s heart.

‘It’s aal right noo,’ he murmured. ‘Wi’ the help I’ve had from above I’ve catched him at the finish, an’ chapel will do the rest.’

Thus for some time he reflected devoutly. Then of a sudden a smile broke upon his lips and he clapped his hand vigorously upon his thigh. ‘By!’ he exclaimed aloud, ‘but I’s a proper Jesu-yte efter aal!’

‘GEORDIE RIDE-THE-STANG’

There was French blood in Geordie Robertson’s wife, Mary, and it may perhaps have been owing to her origin that she was so eager for revenge when she found herself deceived by her husband.

She had begun to suspect him of infidelity even before a neighbour had given her a hint that he had a ‘fancy’ wife away in Bridgeton, for her husband brought home less and less with his ‘pack’ after his weekly tramp was over, and when she asked for explanations he ‘called’ her with most abusive virulence.

For her further satisfaction she determined to make trial, now that the pig was to be killed, of the ancient method of divination practised by the pit-wives, of which the following is the ritual:

When the animal has been slaughtered and the blood duly made into puddings, these puddings are ‘set away’ to boil by the inquirer of the oracle. Then, just before they are taken out of the ‘pot,’ the officiating priestess must say aloud that she ‘gives them’ to him who is suspected of infidelity. Should the puddings emerge whole, gossip is dumfoundered; should they come forth broken, the man is proved to have a ‘fancy’ wife.

Mary, indeed, found she could scarcely control her impatience when the fatal day came, and, the pig duly slaughtered, she ‘gave’ the puddings to her husband, Geordie.

She waited another minute to give the spell the lawful grace, then with a trembling hand plucked forth the puddings.

‘Ah—ah!’ she gasped, tremulous but triumphant, ‘then it is so; he has a fancy wife,’ and her quick brain fell to pondering a plan for discovery and revenge.

The first thing to be done was to lure her ‘man’ into a false security by subtle commiseration with him on the ‘slackness’ of trade, as also by a wonderful submissiveness, even to the extent of going without bacon for breakfast in order that she might save enough to buy him tobacco. Now this form of procedure with a selfish man usually produces excellent results. If he is sufficiently selfish, he does not stay to inquire why or wherefore, but takes all he can, as a cat her cream, without delay, without a thank you—nay, unlike tabby, without even an inward purr.

It was so with Geordie, who began incontinently to brag about his ‘missus’s trainin’,’ and how he was ‘champion’ at ‘fettlin’ a wife’s nonsense,’ and, swollen with self-satisfaction, began now to treat her with a sort of contemptuous toleration.

A fortnight or so after Mary had made trial of her puddings, Geordie carelessly mentioned the fact that he would be away over the ‘week-end’ in and about Bridgeton, and demanded some ‘brass’ from her for the replenishing of his ‘pack.’

Outwardly submissive, she gave him five shillings from her small savings, but inwardly determined that it was the last sum of money he should have from her.

On Friday night Geordie departed gaily for Bridgeton, and on the Saturday afternoon Mary followed suit, clad in a thick cloak which might serve her for a disguise upon occasion.

When she arrived there, the main street and market were thickly crowded with a swarm of holiday-making pitmen, country folk, farmers and their wives, hinds, male and female, for it was the date of the annual fair and hiring, of ‘the general assembly’ of tramps, pedlars, ‘tinklers’ (tinkers), show-men, and the like, whose business it is to attend such gatherings.

In such a crowd Mary felt safe from recognition, but it might be a difficult task to discover her ‘man’ in all that company.

An hour or two passed, and she had been up and down the long street twice without success; but just as she was turning into a cheap refreshment-room, with ‘Tea and coffy always redy’ written in a slovenly hand upon a dirty placard in the window, she caught the sound of a voice raised in semi-drunken irritation close behind her which caused her to turn her head hurriedly in that direction.

Yes, there he was without doubt, her Geordie, heavy with liquor already—not ‘mortal’ yet, but quarrelsome. Aha! and that was the ‘fancy’ wife, of course, who had him fast by the arm—a blousy, red-faced, fat-armed, big chested woman, who was evidently trying to persuade her charge to come home much against his inclination. At sight of her rival—immodest, gross, overpowering—Mary shrank back aghast, and it was only after a struggle with herself and a forcible iteration of her wrongs, that she could persuade herself slowly and reluctantly to follow the couple in front of her.

‘Ho-way!’ shouted Geordie; ‘there’s Tom Turnbull ower by there tryin’ ti lift weights an’ show ’s strength. Wey, but Tom cannet lift weights, he’s nowt but a wee bit beggor. Tom, thoo beggor!’ he challenged across the intervening throng of heads, ‘thoo cannet lift weights; wey, Aa’l lift weights wi’ thoo for a bottle o’ whisky!’

‘Ho-way, then, thoo aad fightin’-cock! but Aa give thoo fair warnin’ Aa can beat thoo, for Aa’s champion.’

At this, the ‘fancy’ wife seized her ‘man’ firmly by the sleeve, fearing doubtless lest, in his then ‘muzzy’ condition, Geordie would waste the scanty remainder of his brass upon a vain endeavour, and, by way of effectually dissuading him, indiscreetly praised his rival’s prowess.

‘No, no, Geordie, my man, come this way, an’ give us my fairin’; wey, there’s a mort o’ things ti see yet; there’s the shuttin’-gall’ry, an’ the twa-headed cat, an’ the giant, an’ the fat woman, an’ aal—ho-way. Ay, an’ Geordie, hinny, Tom Turnbull’s tarr’ble clivvor at liftin’ they handles things an’ drivin’ the bolt up the stick wi’ the hammer, an’ Aa’s warn’d but he’ll bang thoo at that game.’

‘Tom Turnbull!—that haalf-grown, bandy-legged beggor ov a bit tailor ov a man bang me? Gox! but Aa’ll larn him a lesson. Aa’ll cut his comb, Aa’s warn’d!’ and Geordie forthwith, murmuring maledictions, thrust blindly through the crowd till he reached the spot where his rival stood, the centre of an admiring circle of friends.

‘Noo,’ cried Geordie, turning up his wrist-cuffs, ‘Aa’ll show thoo hoo the thing’s done when it’s done proper. Wey, this bolt ’ll hit the beam at the top when Aa gie the stump a bat!’ and without more ado—amidst the jeers of some, and the encouragement of a few false friends—he seized the hammer, swung it round his head, and brought it down some feet wide of the mark—smash upon the cobble-stones of the market-place. ‘That’s done the business!’ cried Geordie triumphantly, conscious from the stinging of his hands that he had ‘gi’en it a champion bat,’ and certain that he had driven up the bolt some feet above his rival’s mark.

Through the roar of laughter, which Geordie complacently accepted as the proper accompaniment of Tom’s defeat, a voice pierced suddenly with a shrill note as of a fife.

‘Thoo great clumsy lubbert, see what thoo’s done! Thoo’s broke the hammer’s head off! That’s half a crown, my man, for the hammer, an’ a penny for the shot; an’ if thoo disn’t hand it ower, I’ll call the pollis, for it’s fair takin’ the livin’ oot ov a poor weeda woman’s mouth to break her hammer thet fashion!’ and a thin-faced female, with a red-lined nose, sharp cheekbones, and watery eyes, held up two skinny fists in anger against him.

‘Gan on, woman, gan on!’ retorted Geordie indignantly; ‘wey, it’s thoo sh’d pay us, or gie us a cigyar, or a cokienut; for that bat o’ mine hit the bull’s-eye, Aa’s warned.’

The shrill-voiced female renewed her protestations, and some of the bystanders joined in with additional explanations; but Geordie would have none of them. ‘Gan on,’ he retorted; ‘gan awa home, an’ wesh yor feyce! Wey, the hammer’s as rotten as pash, for Aa brought her fair doon like a pick reet on top o’ the stump. What else should maa hands be tinglin’ for?’

The proprietress of the hammer, however, continued to assail Geordie with abuse, while at the same time the ‘fancy’ wife upon his other side endeavoured to drag him away, so that it need not surprise us if Geordie suddenly lost his temper, and turned heavily upon his tormentors.

He shook off the one, and flung down a shilling in payment of the supposed damage to the hammer; the other—the ‘fancy’ wife—he pushed roughly from him, with the result that she lost her balance, and fell whimpering in the mud, while Geordie lurched off to the nearest hostelry, muttering indignantly as he went, ‘Aa’s been fair mucked ower wi’ women the day—just fair mucked ower.’

A swift inspiration gleamed in Mary’s mind. For the punishment of Geordie she had already made due preparation, and now, if she could only persuade the ‘fancy’ wife, her triumph would be complete.

She noticed the woman angrily brushing the muck off her ‘feast gown,’ and at once made her way up to her and touched her gently on the arm. ‘Ay,’ she said quietly, as the other looked up with red and testy face, ‘an’ it’s the same way he treats me;’ holding her left hand loosely so that her marriage-ring was plainly conspicuous.

‘So he has a lawful wife, an’ yore her?’ And the speaker gave a suspicious, all-embracing stare. ‘Well,’ she continued slowly, jealousy slipping, like some slow portcullis, from her eyes, ‘he’s had a change, has my lord! Forst, it was a thin lass like yorsel’, an’ noo it’s a plump one like me. Ay, he’s greedy, is Geordie; he winna be content wi’ the one, like Jack Spratt, but wants both.’

‘Ay, lass,’ replied the other woman quietly, ‘yore right: he’s greedy an’ selfish. That’s the sort—a selfish good-like nowt, that lives on women, makes them keep him through life just as one does a babby; an’ he’s treated the pair ov us shameful—just shameful; but, hinny, I’ve a plan for a bit payment for him, an’ if ye come aside a bit wi’ me, I’ll tell ye o’t.’ And she laid an appealing hand upon the other’s, and affected with the disengaged one to brush the remaining dirt from the ‘fancy’ wife’s skirt.

‘Well, what is’t?’ said the latter, suffering herself to be led through the crowd to a quiet corner.

Mary at once proceeded, but with a cautious self-effacement, to detail her schemes for Geordie’s discomfiture. ‘It will not hurt him,’ she protested, as her rival still sat silent, ‘but it will pay him a bit for the way he’s treated us’—here Mary’s hand again occupied itself with the soiled dress—‘and it will give ye the laugh over him. I’ve done wiv him mysel; I’m awa to France to-night or morning—that’s where Grandfeyther was bred; he came to these parts selling onions at first, an’ finally settled doon here to ’scape the soldierin’. An’ I’ve money enough to pay the expenses,’ she continued; ‘an’ for suthin’ to eat an’ drink an’ the ticket.’

The ‘fancy’ wife looked at her somewhat hardly, suspicion rising to the surface of her eye. ‘An’ sae yore off to France, are ye?’ she queried; ‘ay, an’ yore tired ov him? Well, mevvies he would say as he was tired o’ thoo; but I’ve a grudge again’ him for the way he’s treat us to-day, spendin’ aal my brass ower himsel’ an’ clartin’ my gown an’ all, an’ I’ll pay him for’t, I’s warn’d.’ And her face darkened vindictively.

‘That’s right,’ replied Mary swiftly. ‘And now for the plan. Here’s money for you to treat him with. Get him awa oot o’ the public before he’s had too much, an’ bring him along wi’ you by the last train from Bridgeton, an’ I’ll meet you wi’ the “stang” ready for him, an’ the lads, an’ the music, an’ all. Oh, but it’ll all gan fine, ye-es, ye-es!’

So Mary, having handed over all that she could spare to her rival, departed for the railway-station with a view to catching an earlier train, and revising her preparations at the other end.

Her elation was complete. The only possible flaw in her subtly-devised plan lay in the moods of the ‘fancy’ wife. If Geordie continued to treat her roughly—and as he had now evidently settled down to the drink, he was almost certain to do so—she would be true to the arrangement; if not, she might relent, and keep Geordie from his house that night.

* * * * *

The train was overdue, and Mary waited with a feverish expectation at the station’s descent amidst a small crowd of young men and boys to whom the idea of making anyone ‘ride the stang’ had appealed with an irresistible sense of novelty.

The custom, indeed, was obsolete, but all had heard of it, and the older men had often witnessed it in their youth, and some of them had collected near the station to criticise and superintend the performance.

The ‘stang’ itself was in readiness—having been lent to Mary on this occasion by the schoolmaster and antiquary of the village, whose father had been, as constable, its custodian in the old days.

And now at last the rumble of an approaching train was audible, and the group at once assumed an alert and eager air.

A crowd of tired excursionists slowly descended the narrow path from the station, men and women together, but there was no sign of Geordie or the ‘fancy’ wife. Mary’s heart grew heavy within her; after all, then, she would have to depart without that sweet morsel—her revenge. The ‘fancy’ wife must have relented and informed Geordie of her plans.

‘Ho-way,’ cried a man in her ear, ‘he’s not comin’ back the night; thoo’s gi’en him a gliff mevvies.’

‘Stay!’ cried she swiftly, detaining him by the arm. ‘What’s that, then?’ she whispered triumphantly, as at the tail of the procession of pleasure-seekers a couple became visible descending fitfully with wayward lurches.

‘See there!’ continued Mary eagerly, ‘it’s Geordie an’ his “fancy” wife with him. Catch tight haud of him, an’ mount him, an’ carry him through the length o’ the village on the “stang”—right to his very door; he canna get in though, for I’ve the key i’ my pocket,’ and Mary laughed with an inward glee.

Down came the couple slowly, Geordie abusing his companion, as he lurched against her heavily, for not progressing with more even footsteps, the woman saying nothing, but tightly gripping him by the arm, in order, doubtless, to keep him upright and also to prevent any attempt at escape.

The wicket-gate swung open, Geordie lurched through, and in a moment he was seized, hoisted into the air, a rough pole thrust through his legs, and the triumphal march began to the tune of a penny whistle, played by the local champion, a carter to trade, and a number of Jews’ harps and toy trumpets with which a herd of small boys poured forth discordant revel.

‘Gox! Aa’s fallen intiv a sorcus (circus),’ cried Geordie, in the first moment of astonishment, then, ‘Leave haud ov us, ye great flamin’ Irish—— What the devil’s this Aa’s astride o’?’ adding with solemn dignity, ‘Yore makin’ a tarr’ble mistake. Aa’s not Blondin, ti walk on a tight rope for ye; Aa’s Geordie Campbell o’ the Raa (Row), whe lives i’ the hoos wi’ the brass handle tiv’t.’

‘Ay, ay, we knaa thoo!’ cried the chorus of urchins; ‘thoo’s Geordie, drunken Geordie, Geordie wi’ the “fancy” wife. Geordie, Geordie ride-the-stang! Eh, what a clivvor rider is Geordie! Thoo’s a proper jockey, Geordie, an’ thoo’ll mevvies ride the winner i’ “the Plate”[20] before thoo’s finished wiv it.’

This idea tickled the carriers of the ‘stang,’ and Geordie’s bearers were forthwith transformed into thorough-breds with a tendency to buck-jump. Hither and thither he rolled, dazed and bewildered, helplessly clutching at the heads of those near him for support, but his arms were seized, his legs tightly crossed below the ‘stang,’ and he swung from side to side, while the rougher boys, chanting rude doggerel over him, gathered and threw mud upon him. A trombone and a ‘sarpint’ here joined the noisy crowd, and to the varied strains of ‘The Campbells are coming,’ ‘Weel may the keel row,’ and ‘Canny Dog Cappie,’ Geordie was borne in triumph up the Row.

A ‘furrinor’ (foreigner, stranger) here joined the medley, a ‘South countryman’ from Yorkshire, who, chancing to have lately come to the village after some private experience of his own in stang-riding in one of the remoter Yorkshire vales, at once placed his services at the crowd’s disposal.

Marching at the head of the procession, like the drum-major of a band, and beating together two saucepan-lids, he led the anthem.

Between the ‘cling, cling, cling’ of the lids his voice rose lustily: