but I whiles wish we had back the auld days I hae read aboot, when a laddie was kept under the table to lowse the grauvats o’ the gentlemen that fell under’t, in case they should choke themsel’s. Scotland was Scotland then!
“If they choked noo, in some places I’ve been in, it wad be wi’ thirst.
“The last whisk o’ the petticoat’s no roon’ the stair-landin’ when the man o’ the hoose puts the half o’ his cigarette bye for again, and says, ‘The ladies will be wonderin’ if we’ve forgotten them,’ and troosh a’ the puir deluded craturs afore him up the stair into the drawin’-room where his wife Eliza’s maskin’ tea, and a lady wi’ tousy hair’s kittlin’ the piano till it’s sair.
“ ‘Whit’s your opinion about Tschaikovski?’ I heard a wumman ask a Bylie at a dinner o’ this sort the ither nicht.
“ ‘I never heard o’ him,’ said the Bylie, wi’ a gant, ‘but if he’s in the proveesion tred, there’ll be an awfu’ run on his shop the morn’s morn’.’
“Anither thing that has helped to spoil oor tred is the smokin’ concerts. I tak’ a draw o’ the pipe mysel’ whiles, but I never cared to mak’ a meal o’t. Noo and then when I’m no’ very busy other ways I gie a hand at a smoker, and it mak’s me that gled I got ower my growth afore the thing cam’ into fashion; but it’s gey sair on an auld man to hear ‘Queen o’ the Earth’ five or six nichts in the week, and the man at the piano aye tryin’ to guess the richt key, or to get done first, so that the company’ll no’ rin awa’ when he’s no’ lookin’ withoot paying him his five shillin’s.
“I’ve done the waitin’ at a’ kinds o’ jobs in my time—Easy-gaun Erchie they ca’ me sometimes in the tred—a flet fit but a warm hert; I’ve even handed roond seed-cake and a wee drap o’ spirits at a burial, wi’ a bereaved and mournfu’ mainner that greatly consoled the weedow; but there’s nae depths in the business so low as poo’in’ corks for a smokin’ concert. And the tips get smaller and smaller every ane I gang to. At first we used to get them in a schooner gless; then it cam’ doon to a wee tumbler; and the last I was at I got the bawbees in an egg-cup.”
IV THE BURIAL OF BIG MACPHEE
Erchie looked pityingly at Big Macphee staggering down the street. “Puir sowl!” said he, “whit’s the maitter, wi’ ye noo?”
Big Macphee looked up, and caught his questioner by the coat collar to steady himself. “Beer,” said he; “jist beer. Plain beer, if ye want to ken. It’s no’ ham and eggs, I’ll bate ye. Beer, beer, glorious beer; I’m shair I’ve perished three gallons this very day. Three gallons hiv I in me, I’ll wager.”
“Ye wad be far better to cairry it hame in a pail,” said Erchie. “Man, I’m rale vexed to see a fine, big, smert chap like you gaun hame like this, takin’ the breadth o’ the street.”
“Hiv I no’ a richt to tak’ the breadth o’ the street if I want it?” said Big Macphee. “Am I no’ a ratepayer? I hiv a ludger’s vote, and I’m gaun to vote against Joe Chamberlain and the dear loaf.”
“Och! ye needna fash aboot the loaf for a’ the difference a tax on’t’ll mak’ to you,” said Erchie. “If ye gang on the wye ye’re daein’ wi’ the beer, it’s the Death Duties yer freends’ll be bothered aboot afore lang.”
And he led the erring one home.
Big Macphee was the man who for some months back had done the shouting for Duffy’s lorry No. 2. He sustained the vibrant penetrating quality, of a voice like the Cloch fog-horn on a regimen consisting of beer and the casual hard-boiled egg of the Mull of Kintyre Vaults. He had no relatives except a cousin “oot aboot Fintry,” and when he justified Erchie’s gloomy prediction about the Death Duties by dying of pneumonia a week afterwards, there was none to lament him, save in a mild, philosophical way, except Erchie’s wife, Jinnet.
Jinnet, who could never sleep at night till she heard Macphee go up the stairs to his lodgings, thought the funeral would be scandalously cold and heartless lacking the customary “tousy tea” to finish up with, and as Duffy, that particular day, was not in a position to provide this solace for the mourners on their return from Sighthill Cemetery, she invited them to her house. There were Duffy and a man Macphee owed money to; the cousin from “oot aboot Fintry” and his wife, who was, from the outset, jealous of the genteel way tea was served in Jinnet’s parlour, and suspicious of a “stuckupness” that was only in her own imagination.
“It’s been a nesty, wat, mochy, melancholy day for a burial,” said Duffy at the second helping of Jinnet’s cold boiled ham; “Macphee was jist as weel oot o’t. He aye hated to hae to change his jaicket afore the last rake, him no’ haein’ ony richt wumman buddy aboot him to dry’t.”
“Och, the puir cratur!” said Jinnet. “It’s like enough he had a disappointment ance upom a time. He was a cheery chap.”
“He was a’ that,” said Duffy. “See’s the haud o’ the cream-poorie.”
The cousin’s wife felt Jinnet’s home-baked seedcake was a deliberate taunt at her own inefficiency in the baking line. She sniffed as she nibbled it with a studied appearance of inappreciation. “It wasna a very cheery burial he had, onyway,” was her astounding comment, and at that Erchie winked to himself, realising the whole situation.
“Ye’re richt there, Mistress Grant,” said he. “Burials are no’ whit they used to be. ‘Perhaps—perhaps ye were expectin’ a brass band?” and at that the cousin’s wife saw this was a different man from her husband, and that there was a kind of back-chat they have in Glasgow quite unknown in Fintry.
“Oh! I wasna sayin’ onything aboot brass bands,” she retorted, very red-faced, and looking over to her husband for his support. He, however, was too replete with tea and cold boiled ham for any severe intellectual exercise, and was starting to fill his pipe. “I wasna saying onything aboot brass bands; we’re no’ used to thae kind o’ operatics at burials whaur I come frae. But I think oor ain wye o’ funerals is better than the Gleska wye.”
Erchie (fearful for a moment that something might have been overlooked) glanced at the fragments of the feast, and at the spirit-bottle that had discreetly circulated somewhat earlier. “We’re daein’ the best we can,” said he. “As shair as death your kizzen—peace be wi’ him!—‘s jist as nicely buried as if ye paid for it yersel’ instead o’ Duffy and—and Jinnet; if ye’ll no’ believe me ye can ask your man. ‘Nae doot Big Macphee deserved as fine a funeral as onybody, wi’ a wheen coaches, and a service at the kirk, wi’ the organ playin’ and a’ that, but that wasna the kind o’ man your kizzen was when he was livin’. He hated a’ kinds o’ falderals.”
“He was a cheery chap,” said Jinnet again, nervously, perceiving some electricity in the air.
“And he micht hae had a nicer burial,” said the cousin’s wife, with firmness.
“Preserve us!” cried Erchie. “Whit wad ye like?—Flags maybe? Or champagne wine at the liftin’? Or maybe wreaths o’ floo’ers? If it was cheeriness ye were wantin’ wi’ puir Macphee, ye should hae come a month ago and he
