Part 7

M'Cranky will not profit by experience; he has a feeling that whenever he puts out the gas, his slippers quietly creep under the bed or the dressing-table, and he has not yet discovered that their apparently supernatural disappearance is due to the way he throws them off. He has also to learn, in spite of years of experience, that looking for anything is not his forte, and that the missing article is generally where he left it, or in his pocket.

"If you left it there, it must be----"

"Left it there? Of course I did; I always put it in that tray; but of all the idiots you ever had, I think this one beats them. Tell her to go for a cab."

Mrs. M'Cranky rang, and hearing her say: "Tell Dickson to send a cab in about five minutes, Sarah," her husband continued: "Look alive, then, an' get dressed. The concert's to-night, you know. Where's my hanky? You always let me out without one, unless I remember.

"I laid one out for you, dear."

"Let's see you lift it then."

Mrs. M'Cranky was busy coiling up her hair and fastening it with hairpins, taking them from the usual receptacle (her mouth), so that she could not speak distinctly.

"I waid it on the beb, dear."

"Oh, you 'waid it on the beb,' did you? Would you just indicate where that is?"

Mrs. M'Cranky looked round and said: "There it's in your breast, dear."

"Look alive then; I don't want to go in late, as if it were church, and you had a new bonnet on. Hurry up; I'm all ready."

"Are you going in your stocking soles, dear?"

"Where's my shoes? Oh, here they are, now; hurry up, if you intend to go."

"I'm ready, dear; have you got everything?"

"Yes, yes; come on, for any sake."

Mrs. M'Cranky can't leave the house without giving the domestic a lot of instructions, and, as usual, when she was in the lobby, she began: "Sarah, put out the gas in the dining-room and shut the door, and keep the cat in the----"

"Oh, come on."

"I'm coming, dear; and, Sarah--"; then she whispered something, finishing with--"for supper, when we come home."

"Are you coming to-night?"

"Yes, dear; have you got the opera glass?"

"No; where is it?"

"In the drawer there. Sarah, have a good fire on, and--" and then followed more whispered injunctions, concluding with "for breakfast."

When they were seated in the cab, Mrs. M'Cranky said: "Have you got the tickets, dear?"

"No; con--found it. Hi! cabby; turn back; that's the worst of taking women anywhere."

"How, dear; can you get in without a ticket?"

Mr. M'Cranky was so long looking for the tickets that Mrs. M'Cranky went into help him, but he had just discovered them in his topcoat pocket.

"What did you worry me about the tickets for?" he asked, angrily. "I had them all right."

"Sarah, have you put out the----?"

"Oh, come on."

In paying the cabman, M'Cranky found he hadn't the necessary sixpence, and after fumbling in his pockets, he asked his wife: "Have you a sixpence?"

"No, dear, I'm sorry."

"H'm! you never have any money."

"I know, dear; I wish you would give me some more frequently."

The doors were not open, and M'Cranky's small stock of patience had long been exhausted, and though he had been bustling his wife, he said: "Now, you see! you would rush me out; we've half an hour to wait. Just like you women; no idea of the value of time. I might have had a comfortable smoke."

"Do you make money smoking, dear? we ought to be quite wealthy."

Though there was a considerable time to wait, Mrs. M'Cranky quite enjoyed herself, studying the dresses of the new arrivals, and pleased to bow to those she knew, as it showed them she had a considerate husband, and M'Cranky had the satisfactory feeling that he had done his duty as a husband.

On their return from the concert, Mrs. M'Cranky observed her husband taking the missing watch-key from his vest pocket; but her previous experiences in similar circumstances made her take no notice of his mistake.

THE SINGING LESSON

I once had a lesson in singing, though those who have heard me sing are sceptical. I got it from a dairyman--a peculiar speaker. His tongue seemed too large for his mouth, as if it had been made for his big brother. I knew that he was fond of singing, because he had told me he had "A chertificate frae the Choral Union. Oh, I got it framed up in the hooth yonder"; and knowing this, I asked him on one occasion how he was getting on with singing. "Oh, I'm gettin' on first rate noo. Man, I wath goin' on the wrang sthyle a'thegither, but I got thum letth'ns frae an Italian chap--what wath this his name wath again? Ye wad ken him fine; he wath in the Italian opery. Aye, hith name was thignor--aye, his first name was thignor something. Dash't, I wath thorry for the puir chap. Dash't, his very pianny wath p'inded! Ay, its an' awfu' thing that drink! By the by, thpeakin' aboot drink, I've left the auld man an' thartit a public hooth. Aweel, thinks I, thith ith a fine chance to get thum letth'ns in thingin' on the cheap, theein' he wuth hard up; tho' when I wath therv'n' um wi' milk, thays I, 'What d'ye chairge for letth'ns in thingin'?' Thays he, 'Fower guineaths for twelve letth'ns.' 'Oh, dash it,' thays I, 'thath's ower much for me,' an' I wath gaun awa' oot at th' door, an' of course he thocht he was gaun to loose a customer, so says he, 'What'll ye thtand us?' Oh, he could thpeak English as weelth mysel'. 'I'll stand ye a shovrin,' I thays. 'Very weel,' thays he. 'Noo let me hear ye thing yer favourite thang, so that I can get the thtyle o' yere v'ice. 'So I starths him on 'Annie Laurie'--thath's my favrit yin, ye ken--an' here's the way ye gang at it"; and taking a big breath, and pointing to the middle of his vest, he explained, "They dae a' thing frae here nooadays," and started: "'Hey, Maxwelton braes are bonnie.' Div ye see, accent on the 'max'; then there was anither bit I wath gaun on the wrang style a'thegither--thath's the bit whaur it says, 'I wad lay me doon and dee.' Hereth the way I was singin' 't, 'I wad lay-hay me do-hoon and a dee-he.' 'Stop a meenit,' this Italian chaps ays; 'stop wan meenit. Wha the devil,' he thays, 'ever heard,' says he, 'o' onybody,' he says, "'Lay-hayin themsel's do-hoon an' dee-heein'."' An' it's dasht nonsense when ye come to think o't. Then there was anither bit I was gaun on the wrang style a'thegither--thath's the bit that thays, 'Which ne'er forgot shall be'; an' this is the way ye gang at it: 'Which ne'er forgot shall be--and for bonnie.' Div ye thee jist let ye're v'ice die away, an' fill yersel' up wi' wind, an' on to the next line. 'Noo,' thays he, 'when ye're gaun up the scale, tak' the broad Italian _a_; for inst'nce, when ye come to the tap notes, ye'll find ye're compress'n twa-thirds o' yer thrapple thegethir.' An' the chap's quite richt. I've seen me when I was at the Corn Exchange, when Wully Gladstone was there, hear Sir John Cowan o' Beeslack; an' thays he--a thpeakin' frae his thrapple; jist what the Italian chap was sayin'--'Gentlemen, electurth of Midlothian,' compressin' his thrapple. Dash't, ye couldna' hear him back three sates; but when Wully Gladstone cam' to the front o' the pletform, what a difference--a' wind"; and as an example he repeated "Gentlemen electors" in a deep stentorian voice, contrasting with his high-pitched imitation of the chairman, as he remarked about Gladstone: "That's the very way he spoke. I didna ken till I gaed up to this Italian that a' they thingers an' elocutionists an' ministers, an' a' they devils, they a' go in for this new-fashioned v'ice production."

DAVID AND GOLIATH

The moral of this story is, "Ne sutor ultra crepidam," or "The shoemaker should stick to his stool," or creepie, as it is in the Latin, and in this case it is illustrated by the result of a butcher trying to preach.

Before the Forth Bridge was built--of course the incident happened a considerable time before the famous structure was erected; but previous to its means of transit, a steamer used to cross daily to the Fife shore, and on Thursday nights among the passengers there was a revival preacher; but one night, on account of a storm, the boat did not venture to cross, and the people of a Fife village were left without one to conduct the service. After waiting some time, Tom Carmichael, the village butcher, was pressed to take the position of pastor. Unfortunately, Tom had never previously spoken in public, and he had the further drawback of having an impediment in his speech, which was accentuated when, as in his present position, he was nervous through excitement.

As the audience was principally composed of children, on account of the mental food supplied, Tom had the brilliant idea of adopting the thrilling story of David and Goliath, to show the boys what they might be able to achieve if they tried very hard, and proceeded after the following fashion: "I--I--I'm called on rather su-suddenly to address the meetin'--address the meetin'; hooever, I'll tell ye aboot David an' Goliath. When David was a little boy, ye know--a little boy, jist like some o' yersel's, he was jist a wee bit chappie, a curly-heided callant; maby dozin' his peerie, his top, or playin' at bools in front o' his faither's door, on the ca-ca-causeway, on the pa-pavement, the plainstanes, when his fa-faither comes oot, cries 'Dauvit,' or maby 'Davie'--'Here, I want ye to rin awa' ower to the battlefield wi' some denner to the laddies.' An' of course Dauvit was quite pleased to gang, ye ken, bicus he had twa brithers in the militia, an' he wad like to gang up to hear the band playin'. So he gaed awa'--gaed awa' to the battlefield, an' the chi-chi-children of Israel were a' there; the ch-ildren of Israel--an' their parents nae doot--an' they were a' brused frae fechtin'. It was their denner-hour, an' they were a' afraid--no man would go oot an' meet the giant, this was Goliath of the Phillipstines. He was a big man, a muckle man; he stood aboot eight feet six in his stockin' soles--in fact, a' the giants were big men in those days. But David says to them, says he, 'What are ye a' feard for?' says he; 'I'll gang oot an' meet him.' So they took him ower to Saul's tent an' put some airmour on; but David said, 'That'll no dae for me; tak' it off, tak' it off.' So he gaed awa' doon to the burnside--no a big burn, nor a river, nor an ocean, but jist a common wee bit burnie brook; an' he pickit up some stanes, no big stanes, nor a lump o' rock, but jist a pebble, a ch-ch-uckie, an' he gaed awa' oot to meet this giant, this was Goliath o' the Phillictsines, a man aboot the height o'--a common haystack. An' when Goliath saw the laddie, says he--stickin' his thumbs in his waistcoat sleeves, 'What are ye wantin' here?' says he. An' David says, 'I'll sune let ye see.' An' Goliath says, 'Wull ye, my man; I'm thinkin' ye'll sune be goin' back in the ambulance waggon.' But David never let on he heard him, but he just put a chuckie in the sling an' let him have it; struck him on his big fozie heid--on the brow, the temple, atween his een, abune the nose; an' Goliath cries oot: 'What are ye dain? D'ye ken that's sair.' Aye, he hadna time to cry a barly, he was fair dumbfoundered--sic a thing as a chuckie had never entered his heid before; but David jist felled him to the ground, an' syne up came the ch-ch-ildren of Israel, rinnin,' an' says they: 'What are ye dain' lyin' there, ye muckle sumph; can ye no' get up an' fecht the laddie?' An', says Goliath: 'Hoo can I get up an' fecht the laddie? D'ye no' see I'm thrang deein'.' But David jist ran awa' roond an' got oot his sword an' cutt it aff his heid--cuttit aff his heid, an' took it hame wi' him--took it hame wi' him, and--eh--there's a fine moral kickin' aboot here somewhere; I forget what it is, but if ye meet wi' ony big difficulty like Goliath o' the Phillipstines, jist act like little David, the wee boy."