It was with genuine astonishment Erchie one day had his wife come to him with a proposal that she should keep a lodger.

“A ludger!” he cried. “It wad be mair like the thing if ye keepit a servant lassie, for whiles I think ye’re fair wrocht aff yer feet.”

“Oh, I’m no’ sae faur done as a’ that,” said Jinnet. “I’m shair I’m jist as smert on my feet as ever I was, and I could be daein’ wi’ a ludger fine. It wad keep me frae wearyin’.”

“Wearyin’!” said her husband. “It’s comin’ to’t when my ain ‘wife tells me I’m no’ company for her. Whit is’t ye’re wantin’, and I’ll see whit I can dae. If it’s music ye’re for, I’ll buy a melodian and play’t every nicht efter my tea. If it’s improvin’ conversation ye feel the want o’, I’ll ask Duffy up every ither nicht and we’ll can argue on Fore Ordination and the chance o’ the Celtic Fitba’ Club to win the League Championship the time ye’re darnin’ stockin’s. ‘Wearyin’’ says she! Perhaps ye wad like to jine a dancin’ school; weel, I’ll no’ hinder ye, I’m shair, but I’ll no’ promise to walk to the hall wi’ ye every nicht cairryin’ yer slippers. Start a ludger! I’m shair we’re no’ that hard up!”

“No, we’re no’ that hard up,” Jinnet confessed, “but for a’ the use we mak’ o’ the room we micht hae somebody in it, and it wad jist be found money. I was jist thinkin’ it wad be kind o’ cheery to have a dacent young chap gaun oot and in. I’m no’ for ony weemen ludgers; they’re jist a fair bother, aye hingin’ aboot the hoose and puttin’ their nose into the kitchen, tellin’ ye the richt wye to dae this and that, and burnin’ coal and gas the time a man ludger wad be oot takin’ the air.”

“Takin’ drink, mair likely,” said Erchie, “and comin’ hame singin’ ‘Sodgers o’ the Queen,’ and scandalisin’ the hale stair.”

“And I’m no’ for a tredsman,” Jinnet went on, with the air of one whose plans were all made.

“Of course no’,” said her husband, “tredsmen’s low. They’re, no’ cless. It’s a peety ye mairried yin. Perhaps ye’re thinkin’ o’ takin’ in a Chartered Accoontant, or maybe a polisman. Weel I’m jist tellin’ ye I wadna hae a polisman in my paurlor; his helmet wadna gang richt wi’ the furniture, and the blecknin’ for his boots wad cost ye mair than whit he pyed for his room.”

“No, nor a polisman!” said Jinnet. “I was thinkin’ o’ maybe a quate lad in a warehouse, or a nice factor’s clerk, or something o’ that sort. He wad be nae bother. It’s jist the ae makin’ o’ parridge in the mornin’. Ye’re no’ to thraw wi’ me aboot this, Erchie; my mind’s made up I’m gaun to keep a ludger.”

“If your mind’s made up,” he replied, “then there’s nae use o’ me argy-bargyin’ wi’ ye. I’m only your man. It bates me to ken whit ye’re gaun to dae wi’ the money, if it’s no’ to buy a motor-cairrage. Gie me your word ye’re no’ gaun in for ony sports o’ that kind. I wad hate to see ony wife o’ mine gaun skooshin’ oot the Great Western Road on a machine like a tar-biler, wi’ goggles on her een and a kahoutchy trumpet skriechin’ ‘pip! pip!”’

“Ye’re jist an auld haver,” said Jinnet, and turned to her sewing, her point gained.

A fortnight after, as a result of a ticket with the legend “Apartments” in the parlour window, Jinnet was able to meet her husband’s return to tea one night with the announcement that she had got a lodger. “A rale gentleman!” she explained. “That weel put-on! wi’ twa Gled-stone bags, yin o’ them carpet, and an alerm clock for waukenin’ him in the mornin’. He cam’ this efternoon in a cab, and I think he’ll be easy put up wi’ and tak’ jist whit we tak’ oorsels.”

“I hope he’s no’ a theatrical,” said Erchie. “Me bein’ a beadle in a kirk it wadna be becomin’ to hae a theatrical for a ludger. Forbye, they never rise oot o’ their beds on the Sunday, but lie there drinkin’ porter and readin’ whit the papers says aboot their playactin’.”

“No, nor a theatrical!” cried Jinnet. “I wadna mak’ a show o’ my hoose for ony o’ them: it’s a rale nice wee fair-heided student.”

Erchie threw up his hands in amazement. “Michty me!” said he, “a student. Ye micht as weel hae taen in a brass baun’ or the Cairter’s Trip when ye were at it. Dae ye ken whit students is, Jinnet? I ken them fine, though I was never at the college mysel’, but yince I was engaged to hand roond beer at whit they ca’d a Gaudiamus. Ye have only to tak’ the mildest wee laddie that has bad e’e-sicht and subject to sair heids frae the country and mak’ a student o’ him to rouse the warst passions o’ his nature. His mither, far awa’ in Clachnacudden, thinks he’s hurtin’ his health wi’ ower muckle study, but the only hairm he’s daein’ himsel’ is to crack his voice cryin’ oot impidence to his professors. I’m vexed it’s a student, and a fair-heided yin at that: I’ve noticed that the fair-heided yins were aye the warst.”

“Weel, he’s there onywye, and we’ll jist hae to mak’ the best we can wi’ him,” said Jinnet. “Forbye, I think he’s a guid-leevin’ lad, Erchie; he tellt me he was comin’ oot for a minister.”

“Comin’ oot for a minister!” said Erchie. “Then that’s the last straw! I’m sorry for your chevalier and book-case; he’ll be sclimbin’ int’t some nicht thinkin’ it’s the concealed bed.”

The room door opened, a voice bawled in the lobby, “Mrs MacPherson, hey! Mrs MacPherson,” and the student, without waiting his landlady’s-appearance, walked coolly into the kitchen.

“Hulloo! old chap, how’s biz?” he said to Erchie, and seated himself airily on the table, with a pipe in his mouth. He was a lad of twenty, with spectacles.

“I canna complain,” said Erchie. “I hope ye’re makin’ yersel’ at hame.”

“Allow me for that!” said the student.

“That’s nice,” said Erchie, blandly. “See and no’ be ower blate, and if there’s onything ye’re wantin’ that we havena got, we’ll get it for ye. Ye’ll no’ know whit ye need till ye see whit ye require. It’s a prood day for us to hae a diveenity student in oor room. If we had expected it we wad hae had a harmonium.”

“Never mind the harmonium,” said the student. “For music lean on me, George P. Tod. I sing from morn till dewy eve. When I get up in the morning, jocund day stands on the misty mountain top, and I give weight away to the bloomin’ lark. Shakespeare, Mr MacPherson. The Swan of Avon. He wrote a fairly good play. What I wanted to know was if by any chance Mrs MacPherson was a weepist?”

“Sir?” said Jinnet.

“Do you, by any chance, let the tear doon fa’?”

“Not me!” said Jinnet, “I’m a cheery wee woman.”

“Good!” said Tod. “Then you’re lucky to secure a sympathetic and desirable lodger. To be gay is my forte. The last landlady I had was thrice a widow. She shed the tears of unavailing regret into my lacteal nourishment with the aid of a filler, I think, and the milk got thinner and thinner. I was compelled at last to fold-my tent like the justly celebrated Arabs of song and silently steal away. ‘Why weep ye by the tide, ladye?’ I said to her. ‘If it were by the pint I should not care so much, but methinks your lachrymal ducts are too much on the hair trigger.’ It was no use, she could not help it, and—in short, here I am.”

“I’m shair we’ll dae whit we can for ye,” said Jinnet. “I never had a ludger before.”

“So much the better,” said George Tod. “I’m delighted to be the object of experiment—the corpus vile, as we say in the classics, Mr MacPher-son,—and you will learn a good deal with me. I will now proceed to burn the essential midnight oil. Ah, thought, thought! You little know, Mr MacPherson, the weary hours of study——”

“It’s no’ ile we hae in the room, it’s gas,” said Erchie. “But if ye wad raither hae ile’, say the word and we’ll get it for ye.”

“Gas will do,” said the student; “it is equally conducive to study, and more popular in all great congeries of thought.”

“When dae ye rise in the mornin’, Mr Tod?” asked Jinnet. “I wad like to ken when I should hae your breakfast ready.”

“Rise!” said Tod. “Oh, any time! ‘When the morn, with russet mantle clad, walks o’er the dew on yon high eastern hill.’”

Original

“Is’t Garnethill or Gilshochill?” said Erchie, anxiously. “I wad rise, mysel’, early in the mornin’, and gang oot to whichever o’ them it is to see the first meenute the dew comes, so that ye wadna lose ony time in gettin’ up and started wi’ your wark.”

The lodger for the first time looked at his landlord with a suspicious eye. He had a faint fear that the old man might be chaffing him, but the innocence of Erchie’s face restored his perkiness.

“I was only quoting the bard,” he explained, as he left the kitchen. “Strictly speaking, the morn with russet mantle clad can go to the deuce for me, for I have an alarm clock. Do not be startled if you hear it in the morning. It goes off with incredible animation.”

“Oh, Erchie’ isn’t he nice?” said Jinnet, when the lodger had withdrawn. “That smert, and aye talks that jovial, wi’ a lot o’ words I canna mak’ heid nor tail o’.”

Erchie filled his pipe and thought a little. “Smert’s the word, Jinnet,” said he. “That’s whit students is for.”

“I don’t think he’s very strong,” said Jinnet. “If he was in his mither’s hoose she wad be giein’ him hough soup for his dinner. I think I’ll jist mak’ some for him to-morrow, and put a hot-water bottle in his bed.”

“That’s richt,” said Erchie; “and if ye hae a haddie or a kippered herrin’, or onything else handy, it’ll dae for me.”.

“Ye’re jist a haver!” said Jinnet.

For a week George P. Tod was a model lodger. He came in at early hours of the evening and went to bed timeously, and was no great trouble to his landlady, whose cookery exploits in his interest were a great improvement on anything he had ever experienced in lodgings before.

When he was in his room in the evenings Jinnet insisted on the utmost quietness on the part of her husband. “Mr Tod’s at his hame lessons,” she would say. “It’ll no’ dae to disturb him. Oh, that heid wark! that heid wark! It must be an awfu’ thing to hae to be thinkin’ even-on.”

“Heid wark!” said her husband. “I ken the heid wark he’s like enough at; he’s learnin’ the words o’ ‘Mush Mush, tu-ral-i-ady’ to sing at the students’ procession, or he’s busy wi’ a dictionary writin’ hame to his paw to send him a post office order for twa pounds to jine the Y.M.C.A. But he’s no’ thinkin’ o’ jinin’ the Y.M.C.A.; he’s mair likely to start takin’ lessons at a boxin’ cless.”

But even Erchie was compelled to admit that the lad was no unsatisfactory lodger.

“I declare, Jinnet,” he said, “I think he’s yin o’ the kind o’ students ye read aboot but very seldom see. His faither’ll be a wee fairmer up aboot Clachnacudden, hainin’ a’ the money he can, and no’ giein’ his wife her richt meat, that he may see his son through the college and waggin’ his heid in a pulpit. Him and his faither’s the stuff they mak’ the six shillin’ Scotch novells oot o’—the kind ye greet at frae the very, start,—for ye ken the puir lad, that was aye that smert in the school, and won a’ the bursaries, is gaun to dee in the last chapter wi’ a decline.”

“Puir things,” said Jinnet.

“Ye divna see ony signs o’ decline aboot Mr Tod, do ye?” asked Erchie, anxiously.

“I didna notice,” replied Jinnet, “but he taks his meat weel enough.”

“The meat’s the main thing! But watch you if he hasna a hoast and thon hectic flush that aye breaks oot in chapter nine jist aboot the time he wins the gold medal.”

“Och, ye’re jist an auld haver, Erchie,” said the wife. “Ye’re no’ to be frichtenin’ me aboot the puir callant, jist the same age as oor ain Willie.”

The time of the Rectorial Election approached, and Tod began to display some erratic habits. It was sometimes the small hours of the morning before he came home, and though he had a latchkey, Jinnet could never go to bed until her lodger was in for the night. Sometimes she went out to the close-mouth to look if he might be coming, and the first night that, Erchie, coming home late from working at a civic banquet, found her there, Tod narrowly escaped being told to take his two bags and his alarm clock elsewhere.

“I was needin’ a moothfu’ o’ fresh air onywye,” was Jinnet’s excuse for being out at such an hour. “But I’m feared that puir lad’s workin’ himsel’ to death.”

“Whaur dae ye think he’s toilin’?” asked her husband.

“At the nicht-school,” said Jinnet. “I’m shair the college through the day’s plenty for him.”

“The nicht-school!” cried Erchie. “Bonny on the nicht-school! He’s mair likely to be roond in Gibson Street batterin’ in the doors o’ the Conservative committee-rooms, for I ken by his specs and his plush weskit he’s a Leeberal. Come awa’ in to your bed and never mind him. Ye wad be daein’ him a better turn maybe if ye chairged the gazogene to be ready for the mornin’, when he’ll be badly wantin’t, if I’m no’ faur mistaken.” Erchie was right—the-gazogene would have been welcome next morning. As it was, the lodger was indifferent to breakfast, and expressed an ardent desire for Health Salts.

Erchie took them in to him, and found him groaning with a headache.

“The dew’s awfu’ late on the high eastern hills this mornin’, Mr Tod,” said Erchie. “Losh, ye’re as gash as the Laird o’ Garscadden! I’m feart ye’re studyin’ far ower hard; it’s no’ for the young and growin’ to be hurtin’ their heids wi’ nicht-schools and day-schools; ye should whiles tak’ a bit rest to yersel’. And no’ a bit o’ yer breakfast touched! Mrs MacPherson’ll no’ be the pleased woman wi’ ye this day, I can tell ye!”

Tod looked up with a lack-lustre eye. “Thought, Mr MacPherson, thought!” said he. “Hard, incessant, brain-corroding thought! In the words of the Bard of Avon, ‘He who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.’”

“I aye thocht that was ‘Ecclesiastes,’ Mr Tod,” said Erchie, meekly.

“In a way, yes,” hastily admitted Tod. “It was ‘Ecclesiastes,’ as you say; but Shakespeare had pretty much the same idea. You will find it in—in—in his plays.”

That afternoon began the more serious of Jinnet’s experiences of’ divinity students. Nine young gentlemen with thick walking-sticks visited Tod’s apartment en masse; the strains of “Mush Mush, tu-ral-i-ady,” bellowed inharmoniously by ten voices, and accompanied by the beating of the walking-sticks on the floor, kept a crowd of children round the close-mouth for hours, and somewhat impeded the ordinary traffic of the street.

“There must be a spree on in auld Mac-Pherson’s,” said the tenement. When Erchie came home he found Jinnet distracted. “Oh, whit a day I’ve had wi’ them students!” she wailed.

“But look at the money ye’re makin’ aff your room,” said her husband. “Wi’ whit ye get frae Tod, ye’ll soon hae enough for the motor, cairrage and a yacht forbye.”

“I’m feart to tell ye, Erchie,” said Jinnet, “but I havena seen the colour o’ his money yet.”

“Study! study!” said Erchie. “Ye canna expect the puir lad to be thinkin’ even-on aboot his lessons, and learnin’ Latin and the rest o’t, no’ to mention ‘Mush Mush,’ and still keep mind o’ your twa or three paltry bawbees.”

“I mentioned it to him on Setturday and he was rale annoyed. He yoked on me and said I was jist as bad as the weedow he lodged wi’ afore; that he was shair I was gaun to let the tear doon-fa’. He gied me warnin’ that if I let the tear doon-fa’ he wad leave.”

“If I was you I wad start greetin’ at yince,” said Erchie. “And he’ll leave onywye, this very Setturday.”

That afternoon the students were having a torchlight procession, when, as usual, most of them marched in masquerade. It was the day of the Rectorial Election, and the dust of far-flung pease-meal—favourite missile of the student—filled the air all over the classic slopes of Gilmorehill. It had been one of Erchie’s idle days; he had been in the house all afternoon, and still was unbedded, though Jinnet for once had retired without waiting the home-coming of her lodger.

There came a riotous singing of student’s along the street, accompanied by the wheezy strains of a barrel-organ, and for twenty minutes uproar reigned at the entrance to the MacPherson’s close.

Then Tod came up and opened the door with his latch-key. He had on part of Erchie’s professional habiliments—the waiter’s dress-coat and also Erchie’s Sunday silk hat, both surreptitiously taken from a press in the lobby. They were foul with pease-meal and the melted rosin from torches. On his shoulders Tod had strapped a barrel-organ, and the noise of it, as it thumped against the door-posts on his entry, brought Erchie out to see what was the matter.

He took in the situation at a glance, though at first he did not recognise his own clothes.

“It’s you, Mr Tod!” said he. “I was jist sittin’ here thinkin’ on ye slavin’ awa’ at your lessons yonder in the Deveenity Hall. It maun be an awfu’ strain on the intelleck. I’m gled I never went to the college mysel’, but jist got my education, as it were, by word o’ mooth.”

Tod breathed heavily. He looked very foolish with his borrowed and begrimed clothes, and the organ on his back, and he realised the fact himself.

“‘S all ri’, Mr MacPherson,” he said. “Music hath charms. Not a word! I found this—this instrument outside, and just took it home. Thought it might be useful. Music in the house makes cheerful happy homes—see advertisements—so I borrowed this from old friend, what’s name —Angina Pectoris, Italian virtuosa, leaving him the monkey. Listen.”

He unslung the organ and was starting to play it in the lobby when Erchie caught him by the arm and restrained him.

“Canny, man, canny,” said he. “Did I no’ think it was a box wi’ your bursary. I never kent richt whit a bursary was, but the lad o’ pairts in the novells aye comes hame wi’ a bursary, and hurts the spine o’ his back carryin’ his prizes frae the college. I jalouse that’s the hectic flush on your face; puir laddie, ye’re no’ lang for this warld.”

Erchie stared more closely at his lodger, and for the first time recognised his own swallow-tail coat.

“My goodness!” said he, “my business coat, and my beadlin’ hat. It was rale ill-done o’ ye, Mr Tod, to tak’ them oot withoot my leave. It’s the first time ever I was ashamed o’ them. Jist a puir auld waiter’s coat and hat. I wonder whit they wad say if they kent o’t up in Clachna-cudden. The auld dominie that was sae prood o’ ye wad be black affronted. My business coat! Tak’ it aff and gang to your bed like a wise man. Leave the hurdy-gurdy on the stair-heid; ye divna ken whit the other monkey micht hae left aboot it, and Jinnet’s awfu’ parteecular.”

Next day Mr Tod got a week’s notice to remove, and went reluctantly, for he knew good lodgings when he got them. He paid his bill when he went, too, “like a gentleman,” as Jinnet put it. “He was a rale cheery wee chap,” she said.

“I’ve seen faur worse,” Erchie admitted’. “Foolish a wee, but Nature, the Rale Oreeginal! I was gey throughither mysel’ when I was his age. Ye never tellt me yet whit ye wanted wi’ the ludging money.”

“I was jist thinkin’ I wad like to see ye wi’ a gold watch the same as Carmichael’s, next door,” said Jinnet. “It’s a thing a man at your time o’ life, and in your poseetion, should hae, and I was ettlin’ to gie ye’t for your New Year.”

“A gold watch!” cried her husband. “Whit nonsense!”

“It’s no’ nonsense at a’,” said Jinnet. “It gies a man a kind o’ bien, weel-daein’ look, and I thocht I could mak’ enough aff ludgers to buy ye yin.”

“If it was for that ye wanted the ludger, and no’ for a motor cairrage,” said Erchie, “I’m gled Tod’s awa’. You and your watch! I wad be a bonny like la-di-da wi’ a watch at the waitin’; the folks wad be feared to tip me in case I wad be angry wi’ them.”

And so Erchie has not yet got a gold watch.