Erchie’s goodwife came to him one day full of thrilling news from the dairy, where she had been for twopence worth of sticks.

“Oh, Erchie, dae ye ken the latest?” said she. “The big fat yin in the dairy’s gaun to mairry Duffy!”

“Lord peety Duffy! Somebody should tell the puir sowl she has her e’e on him. I’ll bate ye he disna’ ken onything aboot it,” said Erchie.

“Havers!” said Jinnet. “It’s him that’s wantin’ her, and I’m shair it’s a guid thing, for his hoose is a’ gaun to wreck and ruin since his last wife dee’d. Every time he comes hame to dry his claes on a wet day he’s doon in the dairy for anither bawbee’s worth o’ mulk. The man’s fair hoved up wi’ drinkin’ mulk he’s no’ needin’. I hae catched him there that aften that he’s kind o’ affronted to see me. ‘I’m here again, Mrs MacPherson,’ says he to me yesterday when I went doon and found him leanin’ ower the coonter wi’ a tumbler in his haund. He was that ta’en he nearly dropped the gless.”

“It wasna for the want o’ practice—I’ll wager ye that!” said Erchie. “He could haud a schooner a hale nicht and him haulf sleepin’.”

“‘I’m here again,’ says he, onywye; ‘the doctor tellt me yon time I had the illness I was to keep up my strength. There’s a lot o’ nourishment in mulk.’ And the big yin’s face was as red as her short-goon.

“‘It’s a blessin’ the health, Mr Duffy,’ says I; ‘we divna ken whit a mercy it is till we lose it,’ and I never said anither word, but took my bit sticks and cam’ awa’.”

“And is that a’ ye hae to gang on to be blamin’ the chap?” said Erchie. “Mony’s a man’ll tak’ a gless o’ mulk and no’ go ower faur wi’t. But I think mysel’ ye’re maybe richt aboot the big yin, for I see Duffy’s shaved aff his Paisley whiskers, and wears a tie on the Sundays.”

Less than a week later the girl in the dairy gave in her notice, and Duffy put up the price of coals another ha’penny. He came up the stair with two bags for Jinnet, who was one of his customers.

“Whit wye are they up a bawbee the day?” says she.

“It’s because o’ the Americans dumpin’,” said Duffy. “They’re takin’ a’ the tred frae us, and there’s a kind o’ tariff war.”

“Bless me!, is there, anither war?” said Jinnet. “Weel, they’re gettin’ a fine day for’t onywye. I hope it’ll no’ put up the price o’ the mulk.”

Duffy looked at her and laughed uneasily. “I’m kind o’ aff the mulk diet the noo,” he said, seeing disguise was useless. “Ye’re gey gleg, you weemen. I needna be tellin’ ye me and big Leezie’s sort o’ chief this while back.”

“Man! dae ye tell me?” said Jinnet, innocently. “A rale dacent lassie, and bakes a bonny scone. And she’s to be the new mistress, is she? We’ll hae to be savin’ up for the jeely-pan. I’m shair I aye tellt Erchie a wife was sair wanted in your hoose since Maggie dee’d.”

“Jist at the very time I was thrangest,” said Duffy, with regret. “I was awfu’ chawed at her.”

“Ye’ll hae to bring yer lass up to see me and Erchie some nicht,” said Jinnet. “It’s a tryin’ time the mairryin’.”

“There faur ower mony palavers aboot it,” confided the coalman. “I wish it was ower and done wi’, and I could get wearin’ my grauvit at nicht again. Leezie’s awfu’ pernicketty aboot me haein’ on a collar when we gang for a walk.”

“Oh, ye rascal!” said Jinnet roguishly. “You men! you men! Ah, the coortin’ time’s the best time.”

“Ach! it’s richt enough, I daursay; but there’s a lot o’ nonsense aboot it. Ye get awfu’ cauld feet standin’ in the close. And it’s aye in yer mind. I went to Leezie’s close-mooth the ither nicht to whistle on her, and did I no’ forget, and cry oot ‘Coal!’ thinkin’ I was on business.”

And thus it was that Jinnet’s tea-party came about. The tender pair of pigeons were the guests of honour, and Jinnet’s niece, and Macrae the night policeman, were likewise invited. Macrae was there because Jinnet thought her niece at thirty-five was old enough to marry. Jinnet did not know that he had drunk milk in Leezie’s dairy before Duffy had gone there, and he himself had come quite unsuspicious of whom he should meet. In all innocence Jinnet had brought together the elements of tragedy.

There was something cold in the atmosphere of the party. Erchie noticed it. “Ye wad think it was a Quaker’s meetin’,” he said to himself as all his wife’s efforts to encourage an airy conversation dismally failed.

“See and mak’ yer tea o’t, Mr Macrae,” she said to the night policeman. “And you, Sarah, I wish ye would tak’ yin o’ thae penny things, and pass the plate to Mr Duffy. Ye’ll excuse there bein’ nae scones, Mr Duffy; there hasna been a nice scone baked in the dairy since Leezie left. There’s wan thing ye’ll can be shair o’ haein’ when ye’re mairret till her, and that’s guid bakin’.”

Macrae snorted.

“What’s the maitter wi’ dough-feet, I wonder?” thought Erchie, as innocent as his wife was of any complication. “That’s the worst o’ askin’ the polis to yer pairties,—they’re no’ cless; and I’m shair, wi’ a’ Jinnet’s contrivance, Sarah wadna be made up wi’ him.”

“A wee tate mair tea, Mr Macrae? Leezie, gie me Mr Macrae’s cup if it’s oot.”

Macrae snorted again. “I’ll not pe puttin’ her to the bother, Mrs MacPherson,” said he.

“Murdo Macrae can pe passin’ his own teacups wisout botherin’ anybody.”

“Dough-feet’s in the dods,” thought Erchie, to whom the whole situation was now, for the first time, revealed like a flash.

“I think, Jinnet,” said he, “ye wad hae been nane the waur o’ a pun’ or twa o’ conversation-losengers.”

They ate oranges after tea, but still a depression hung upon the company like a cloud, till Erchie asked Macrae if he would sing.

“Onything ye like,” said he, “as lang’s it’s no’ yin o’ yer tartan chats that has a hunder verses, and that needs ye to tramp time wi’ yer feet till’t. I’ve a flet fit mysel’, though my hert’s warm, and I’m nae use at batin’ time.”

Macrae looked at Leezie, who had all night studiously evaded his eye, cleared his throat, and started to sing a song with the chorus—

“Fause Maggie Jurdan,

She"made my life a burden;

I don’t want to live,

And I’m gey sweart to dee.

She’s left me a’ forlorn,

And I wish I’d ne’er been born,

Since fause Maggie Jurdan

Went and jilted me.”

Leezie only heard one verse, and then began hysterically to cry.

“Look you here, Mac,” broke in Erchie, “could ye no’ mak’ it the sword dance, or the Hoolichan, or something that wadna harrow oor feelin’s this way?”

“Onything that’ll gie us a rest,” said Duffy, soothing his fiancee. “The nicht air’s evidently no’ very guid for the voice.”

“Coals!” cried the policeman, in a very good imitation of Duffy’s business wail; and at that Leezie had to be assisted into the kitchen by the other two women.

Duffy glared at his jealous and defeated rival, thought hard of something withering to hurl at him, and then said “Saps!”

“What iss that you are saying?” asked Macrae. “Saps! Big Saps! That’s jist whit ye are,” said Duffy. “If I wasna engaged I wad gie ye yin in the ear.”

Jinnet’s tea-party broke up as quickly as possible after that. When her guests had gone, and she found herself alone in the kitchen with Erchie and the tea dishes he carried in for her, she fell into a chair and wept.

“I’ll never hae anither tea-pairty, and that’s tellin’ ye,” she exclaimed between her sobs. “Fancy a’ that cairry-on ower a big, fat, cat-witted cratur like thon! Her and her lads!”

“It’s a’ richt, Jinnet,” said Erchie; “you syne oot the dishes and I’ll dry them if ye’ll feenish yer greetin’. It’s no’ the last tea-pairty we’ll hae if we hae oor health, but the next yin ye hae see and pick the company better.”