For weeks I had not seen Erchie. He was not to be met on the accustomed streets, and St Kentigern’s Kirk having been closed since July for alterations and repairs, it was useless to go there in search of its beadle. Once I met Duffy, and asked him what had become of the old man.

“Alloo you Erchie!” was all the information he would vouchsafe; “if he’s keepin’ oot o’ sicht, he’ll hae his ain reason for’t. Mind, I’m no’ sayin’ onything against the cratur, though him and me’s had mony a row. He’s a’ richt if ye tak’ him the richt wye. But sly! He’s that sly, the auld yin, ye can whiles see him winkin’ awa’ to himsel’ ower something he kens that naebody else kens, and that he’s no gaun to tell to them. I havena seen the auld fuiter since the Fair week; perhaps he’s gotten genteel and bidin’ doon at Rothesay till the summer steamboats stop. There’s yin thing sure—it’s no’ a case o’ wife-desertion, for Jinnet’s wi’ him. I can tell by the Venetian blinds and the handle o’ their door. Sly! Did ye say sly? Man, it’s no’ the word for’t. Erchie MacPherson’s fair lost at the waitin’; he should hae been a poet, or a statesman, or something in the fancy line like that.”

It was with the joy of a man who has made up his mind he has lost a sovereign and finds it weeks after in the lining of his waistcoat, I unexpectedly met Erchie on Saturday.

“Upon my word, old friend,” I said, “I thought you were dead.”

“No, nor deid!” retorted Erchie. “Catch me! I’m nane o’ the deein’ kind. But I micht nearly as weel be deid, for I’ve been thae twa months in Edinburgh. Yon’s the place for a man in a decline; it’s that slow he wad hae a chance o’ livin’ to a grand auld age. There’s mair o’ a bustle on the road to Sichthill Cemetery ony day in the week than there is in Princes Street on a Setter-day nicht. I had a bit job there for the last ten weeks, and the only pleesure I had was gaun doon noo and then to the Waverley Station to see the bonny wee trains frae Gleska. They’re a’ richt for scenery and the like o’ that in Edinburgh, but they’re no’ smert.”

“But it’s an old saying, Erchie, that all the wise men in Glasgow come from the East—that’s to say, they come from Edinburgh.”

“Yes, and the wiser they are the quicker they come,” said Erchie. “Man! and it’s only an ‘oor’s journey, and to see the wye some o’ them gae on bidin’ ower yonder ye wad think they had the Atlantic Ocean to cross. There should be missionaries sent ower to Edinburgh explainin’ things to the puir deluded craturs. Ony folk that wad put thon big humplock o’ a hill they ca’ the Castle in the middle o’ the street, spilin’ the view, and hing their washin’s on hay-rakes stuck oot at their windows, hae muckle to learn.”

“Still, I have no doubt Edinburgh’s doing its best, Erchie,” I said.

“Maybe, but they’re no’ smert; ye wad hae yer pouch picked half a dizzen times in Gleska in the time an Edinburgh polisman tak’s to rub his een to waken himsel’ when ye ask him the road to Leith.

“Did ye ever hear tell o’ the Edinburgh man that ance ventured to Gleska and saw the hopper dredgers clawtin’ up the glaur frae the Clyde at Broomielaw?

“‘Whit are ye standin’ here for? Come awa’ and hae a gless o’ milk,’ said a freen’ to him.

“‘No, nor awa’,’ said he, glowerin’ like ony-thing; ‘I’ve coonted 364 o’ thae wee buckets comin’ oot the watter, and I’ll no’ move a step oot o’ here till I see the last o’ them!’

“The puir cratur never saw a rale river in his life afore. Och! but Edinburgh’s no’ that bad; ye can aye be sure o’ gettin’ yer nicht’s sleep in’t at ony’oor o’ the day, it’s that quate. They’re aye braggin’ that it’s cleaner than Gleska, as if there was onything smert aboot that.

“‘There’s naething dirtier nor a dirty Gleska man,’ said yin o’ them to me ae day.

“‘There is,’ says I.

“‘Whit?’ says he.

“‘Twa clean Edinburgh yins,’ says I.

“Och! but I’m only in fun. Edinburgh’s a’ richt; there’s naething wrang wi’ the place ance ye’re in it if ye hae a book to read. I hate to hear the wye Duffy and some o’ them speak aboot Edinburgh, the same as if it was shut up a’thegither; hoo wad we like it oorsels? I hae maybe a flet fit, but I hae a warm hert, and I’ll aye stick up for Edinburgh. I had an uncle that near got the jyle there for running ower yin o’ their tramway caurs. They’ve no skoosh cars in Edinburgh; they’re thon ither kin’ that’s pu’ed wi’ a rope, and whiles the rope breaks; but it doesna maitter, naebody’s in ony hurry gaun to ony place in Edinburgh, and the passengers jist sit where they are till it’s mended.”

“Well, anyhow, Erchie, we’re glad to see you back,” I said.

“Gled to see me back!” he cried. “I’ll wager ye didna ken I was awa’, and the only folk that kent we werena in Gleska for the past twa or three months was the dairy and the wee shop we get oor vegetables frae.

“When I was in Edinburgh yonder, skliffin’ alang the streets as fast’s I could, and nippin’ mysel’ every noo and them to keep mysel’ frae fa’in’ asleep, I wad be thinkin’ to mysel’, ‘Hoo are they gettin’ on in Gleska wantin’ Erchie MacPherson? Noo that they’ve lost me, they’ll ken the worth o’ me.’ I made shair that, at least, the skoosh cars wad hae to stop runnin’ when I was awa’, and that the polis band wad come doon to the station to meet me when I cam’ hame.

“Dod! ye wad hardly believe it, but ever since I cam’ back I meet naebody but folk that never ken’t I was awa’. It’s a gey hertless place Gleska that way. Noo, in Edinburgh it’s different. They’re gey sweart to lose ye in Edinburgh ance they get haud o’ ye; that’s the way they keep up the price o’ the railway ticket to Gleska.

“I was tellin’ Duffy aboot Edinburgh, and he’s gaun through wi’ a trip to see’t on Monday. It’ll be a puir holiday for the cratur, but let him jist tak’ it. He’ll be better there than wastin’ his money in a toon. When Duffy goes onywhere on ony o’ the Gleska holidays, it’s generally to Airdrie, or Coatbrig, or Clydebank he goes, and walks aboot the streets till the polis put him on the last train hame for Gleska, and him singin’ ‘Dark Lochnagar’ wi’ the tears in his een.

“He’ll say to me next mornin’, ‘Man! Erchie, thon’s a thrivin’ place, Coatbrig, but awfu’ bad whisky.’

“There’s a lot like him aboot a Gleska holiday. They’ll be gettin’ up to a late breakfast wi’ no parridge till’t on Monday mornin’, and sayin’, ‘Man! it’s a grand day for Dunoon,’ and then start druggin’ themsel’s wi’ drams. Ye wad think they were gaun to get twa teeth ta’en oot instead o’ gaun on a holiday.

“That’s no’ my notion o’ a holiday, either in the Autumn or the Spring. I’m takin’ Jinnet oot on Monday to Milliken Park to see her kizzen that keeps a gairden. We’ll hae an awfu’ wrastle in the mornin’ catchin’ the train, and it’ll be that crooded we’ll hae to stand a’ the way. The wife’s kizzen’ll be that gled to see us she’ll mak’ tea for us every half-’oor and send oot each time to the grocer’s for mair o’ thon biled ham ye aye get at burials. I’ll get my feet a’ sair walkin’ up and doon the gairden coontin’ the wife’s kizzen’s aipples that’s no’ richt ripe yet, and Jinnet and me’ll hae to cairry hame a big poke o’ rhuburb or greens, or some ither stuff we’re no wantin’, and the train’ll be an ‘oor late o’ gettin’ into Gleska.

“That’s a holiday. The only time ye enjoy a holiday is when it’s a’ bye.”