I saw you and Duffy looking wonderfully smart in Sauchiehall Street on Saturday,” I said to Erchie one morning.

“Man, were we no’?” replied the old man, with an amused countenance. “I must tell ye the pant we had. Ye’ll no’ guess where I had Duffy. Him and me was in thon new tea-room wi’ the comic windows. Yin o’ his horses dee’d on him, and he was doon the toon liftin’ the insurance for’t. I met him comin’ hame wi’ his Sunday claes on, and the three pound ten he got for the horse. He was that prood he was walkin’ sae far back on his heels that a waff o’ win’ wad hae couped him, and whustlin’ ‘Dark Lochnagar.’

“‘Come on in somewhere and hae something,’ says he, quite joco.

“‘Not me,’ says I—’ I’m nane o’ the kind; a beadle’s a public man, and he disna ken wha may be lookin’ at him, but I’ll tell ye whit I’ll dae wi’ ye—I’ll tak’ ye into a tea-room.’ ‘A’ richt,’ says Duffy; ‘I’m game for a pie or onything.’

“And I took him like a lamb to the new place. When we came foment it, he glowered, and ‘Michty!’ says he, ‘wha did this?’

“‘Miss Cranston,’ says I.

“‘Was she tryin’?’ says Duffy.

“‘She took baith hands to’t,’ I tellt him. ‘And a gey smert wumman, too, if ye ask me.’ He stood five meenutes afore I could get him in, wi’ his een glued on the fancy doors.

“Do ye hae to break yer wey in?’ says he. “‘No, nor in, I tells him; look slippy in case some o’ yer customers sees ye!’

“‘Och! I havena claes for a place o’ the kind,’ says he, and his face red.

“‘Man!’ I says, ‘ye’ve henned—that’s whit’s wrang wi’ ye: come in jist for the pant; naebody ‘ll touch ye, and ye’ll can come oot if it’s sore.’

“In we goes, Duffy wi’ his kep aff. He gave the wan look roond him, and put his hand in his pooch to feel his money. ‘Mind I have only the three flaffers and a half, Erchie,’ says he.

“‘It’ll cost ye nae mair than the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults,’ I tellt him, and we began sclimmin’ the stairs. Between every rail there was a piece o’ gless like the bottom o’ a soda-water bottle, hangin’ on a wire; Duffy touched every yin o’ them for luck.

“‘Whit dae ye think o’ that, noo?’ I asked him.

“‘It’s gey fancy,’ says Duffy; ‘will we be lang?’ “‘Ye puir ignorant cratur!’ I says, losin’ my patience a’thegither, ‘ye havena a mind in the dietin’ line above a sate on the trams o’ a lorry wi’ a can o’ soup in your hand.’

“I may tell ye I was a wee bit put aboot mysel’, though I’m a waiter by tred, and seen mony a dydo in my time. There was naething in the hale place was the way I was accustomed to; the very snecks o’ the doors were kind o’ contrairy.

“‘This way for the threepeny cups and the guid bargains,’ says I to Duffy, and I lands him into whit they ca’ the Room de Looks. Maybe ye havena seen the Room de Looks; it’s the colour o’ a goon Jinnet used to hae afore we mairried: there’s whit Jinnet ca’s insertion on the table-cloths, and wee beads stitched a’ owre the wa’s the same as if somebody had done it themsel’s. The chairs is no’ like ony ither chairs ever I clapped eyes on, but ye could easy guess they were chairs; and a’ roond the place there’s a lump o’ lookin’-gless wi’ purple leeks pented on it every noo and then. The gasalier in the middle was the thing that stunned me. It’s hung a’ roond wi’ hunners o’ big gless bools, the size o’ yer nief—but ye don’t get pappin’ onything at them.

“Duffy could only speak in whispers. ‘My jove!’ says he, ‘ye’ll no’ get smokin’ here, I’ll bate.’

“‘Smokin’!’ says I; ‘ye micht as weel talk o’ gowfin’.’

“‘I never in a’ my life saw the like o’t afore. This cows a’!’ says he, quite nervous and frich-teried lookin’.’

“‘Och!’ says I, ‘it’s no’ your fau’t; you didna dae’t onyway. Sit doon.’

“There was a wheen lassies wi’ white frocks and tippets on for waitresses, and every yin o’ them wi’ a string of big red beads roond her neck.

“‘Ye’ll notice, Duffy,’ says I, ‘that though ye canna get ony drink here, ye can tak’ a fine bead onyway,’ but he didna see my joke.

“Chaps me no’!’ says he. ‘Whit did ye say the name o’ this room was?’

“‘The Room de books,’ I tellt him.

“‘It’ll likely be the Room de Good Looks,’ says he, lookin’ at the waitress that cam’ for oor order. ‘I’m for a pie and a bottle o’ Broon Robin.’

“Ye’ll get naething o’ the kind. Ye’ll jist tak’ tea, and stretch yer hand like a Christian for ony pastry ye want,’ said I, and Duffy did it like a lamb. Oh! I had the better o’ him; the puir sowl never saw onything fancy in his life afore since the time Glenroy’s was shut in the New City Road, where the Zoo is. It was a rale’ divert. It was the first time ever he had a knife and fork to eat cookies wi’, and he thocht his teaspoon was a’ bashed oot o’ its richt shape till I tellt him that was whit made it Art.

“‘Art,’ says he; ‘whit the mischief’s Art?’

“‘I can easy tell ye whit Art is,’ says I, ‘for it cost me mony a penny. When I got mairried, Duffy, haircloth chairs was a’ the go; the sofas had twa ends to them, and you had to hae six books wi’ different coloured batters spread oot on the paurlor table, wi’ the tap o’ yer weddin’-cake under a gless globe in the middle. Wally dugs on the mantelpiece, worsted things on the chair-backs, a picture o’ John Knox ower the kist o’ drawers, and ‘Heaven Help Our Home’ under the kitchen clock—that was whit Jinnet and me started wi’. There’s mony a man in Gleska the day buyin’ hand-done pictures and wearin’ tile hats to their work that begun jist like that. When Art broke oot——’

“‘I never took it yet,’ says Duffy.

“‘I ken that,’ says I, ‘but it’s ragin’ a’ ower the place; ye’ll be a lucky man if ye’re no’ smit wi’t cairryin’ coals up thae new tenements they ca’ mansions, for that’s a hotbed o’ Art. But as I say, when Art broke oot, Jinnet took it bad, though she didna ken the name o’ the trouble, and the haircloth chairs had to go, and leather yins got, and the sofa wi’ the twa ends had to be swapped for yin wi’ an end cut aff and no’ richt back. The wally dugs, and the worsted things, and the picture o’ John Knox, were nae langer whit Jinnet ca’d the fashion, and something else had to tak’ their place. That was Art: it’s a lingerin’ disease; she has the dregs o’t yet, and whiles buys shilling things that’s nae use for ony-thing except for dustin’.’

“‘Oh! is that it?’says Duffy; ‘I wish I had a pie.’

“‘Ye’ll get a pie then,’ I tellt him, ‘but ye canna expect it here; a pie’s no becomin’ enough for the Room de Looks. Them’s no’ chairs for a coalman to sit on eatin’ pies.’

“We went doon the stair then, and I edged him into the solid meat department. There was a lassie sittin’ at a desk wi’ a wheen o’ different coloured bools afore her, and when the waitresses cam’ to her for an order for haricot mutton or roast beef or onything like that frae the kitchen, she puts yin o’ the bools doon a pipe into the kitchen, and the stuff comes up wi’ naething said.

“‘Whit dae ye ca’ that game?’ asks Duffy, lookin’ at her pappin’ doon the bools; ‘it’s no’ moshy onywey.’

“‘No, nor moshy,’ I says to him. ‘That’s Art. Ye can hae yer pie frae the kitchen withoot them yellin’ doon a pipe for’t and lettin’ a’ the ither customers ken whit ye want.’

“When the pie cam’ up, it was jist the shape o’ an ordinary pie, wi’ nae beads nor onything Art aboot it, and Duffy cheered up at that, and said he enjoyed his tea.”

“I hope the refining and elevating influence of Miss Cranston’s beautiful rooms will have a permanent effect on Duffy’s taste,” I said.

“Perhaps it will,” said Erchie; “but we were nae sooner oot than he was wonderin’ where the nearest place wad be for a gless o’ beer.”