Jinnet had money in the Savings Bank. Erchie used to chuckle when some neighbour had gone out to whom she had casually mentioned the fact and say, “That’s it, Jinnet, you be bragging o’ your deposits like that, and they’ll be thinking I mairried ye for your fortune.” But the truth was that when their savings at first were lodged in Erchie’s name, they had an unfortunate way of disappearing without Jinnet’s knowledge, and it was to protect himself from himself that the husband finally opened the account in the name of his wife.

The first day she went to the bank with money it was with no little trepidation. “Maybe they’ll no’ tak’ sae much as twenty-wan pounds,” she suggested; “it’s a guid pickle money to hae the responsibility o’.”

“Ay, and gled to get it!” he replied. “That’s whit they’re there for. If it was twice twenty-wan they wad mak’ room for’t, even if they had to shift forrit the coonter. Ye hae nae idea o’ the dacency o’ thae banks!”

“But whit if the bank was to burst?” said Jinnet. “Lots o’ folk losses their money wi’ banks burstin’, and hae to go on the Board a’ the rest o’ their days.”

“Burst!” laughed Erchie. “Man! ye wad think it was a kitchen biler ye were talkin’ aboot. It’ll no’ burst wi’ a’ we’ll put into’t, I’ll warrant ye.”

“Will ye hae to pay them much for takin’ care o’t?” she asked, still dubious of these immense financial operations.

Erchie laughed till the tears ran into his tea. “Oh, my!” said he, “but ye’re the caution! It’s them that pays you. If ye leave the twenty-wan pound in for a twelvemonth, they’ll gie ye something like twenty-wan pound ten shillin’s when ye gang to lift it.”

This troubled Tennet worse than ever. “It’s rale nice o’ them,” said she, “but I’m no’ needin’ their ten shillin’s; we’re no’ that faur doon in the warld, and it’s like enough they wad just be takin’ it aff some ither puir cratur.”

But eventually the money was lodged in Jinnet’s name. She used to take out her bank-book and examine it once a-week, to make sure, as she said, “the money was still there,” a proceeding at which Erchie would wink to himself, and with difficulty restrain his laughter.

On Saturday, Jinnet expressed a wish that she had some of her money to make some purchases for Christmas and the New Year.

“Weel,” said her husband, “whit’s to hinder ye gaun to the bank and liftin’ a pound or twa?”

Her face turned white at the very thought. “Me!” she cried. “I wadna ask for money at that bank if I was stervin’.”

“But, bless my sowl! it’s yer ain money; they canna keep ye frae gettin’ it if ye want it,” said her husband.

“I’m no carin’,” Jinnet protested. “I divna like to ask for’t, and them maybe busy. Perhaps the puir crat’urs havena got it to spare the noo.”

“Weel, they can jist send oot for a wee lend o’t frae somebody they ken,” said Erchie. “It’s your money, and if ye want ony o’t oot they must gie ye’t; that’s whit banks is for.”

“Will you no’ gang for the twa pound ten for me, and I’ll mak’ something nice and tasty for your tea the nicht?” said Jinnet coaxingly; but Erchie had his own way of teaching Jinnet self-confidence, and refused. “They wadna gie’t to me without a lot o’ palaver,” he explained; “ye’ll jist hae to gang yersel’. Speak nice to them, and they’ll no’ touch ye. There hasna been a customer murdered in a Gleska bank for years and years.” He explained the process she was to follow, and she set out with great misgivings.

“Weel, hoo did ye get on?” Erchie asked her when she returned. “Ye got the money onywye,—I can see by the wye yer niefs shut.”

“Oh, Erchie!” she cried hysterically, and dropped into a chair. “I wad never mak’ a man o’ business. My hert’s in a palpitation—jist fair stottin’. I peety them that has the bother o’ muckle money.”

“Myjove!” said Erchie in alarm, “were they no’ nice to ye? If they werena nice and ceevil, I’ll—I’ll tak’ oot every penny, and then they’ll see whaur they are.”

“Oh, they were as nice as they could be,” Jinnet hurried to explain. “And I got the money a’ richt. But oh! I was that put-aboot. Thon slippy floor aye frichtens me, and the gentlemen inside the coonter in their wee cages like Duffy’s goldy——”

“Goldies—ay, that’s jist whit they are,” said Erchie. “It’s a fine bird a goldie if ye get a guid yin; it can whustle better nor a canary.”

“——like Duffy’s goldie, and that rale weel put-on. Each o’ them had as muckle gold and silver aboot him as wad fill a bakie. I nearly fented when yin o’ them spoke to me awfu’ Englified, and askit whit he could dae for me the day.

“‘Oh,’ says I, ‘I see ye’re throng; I’ll can come back anither time,’ and I was makin’ for the door when he cried me back, and said he wasna that throng but that he wad be gled to dae onything he could for me. I thocht he wad gie me the money wi’ a grudge when he found I wanted twa pound ten in silver, but he coonted it oot like lichtnin’, and bangs it foment me. A rale obleegin’ lad he was, but no’ lookin’ awfu’ strong; I think I’ll knit him a pair o’ warm socks or a muffler for his New Year.”

“Ye’re a rale divert, Jinnet!” said Erchie.

“I jist picked up the money withoot coontin’ it and turned to gang awa’. ‘Hold on, Mistress MacPherson,’ he cries; ‘ye’ll be as weel to coont yer siller afore ye leave the bank in case I’m cheatin’ ye,’ and my face got as red’s the fire. ‘I wadna hae the cheek to doot ye efter seein’ ye coontin’t yersel’,’ I tellt him, and cam’ awa’. But I went up a close further along the street and coonted it.”

“I could bate a pound ye did,” said Erchie.

And now, having got out her money, Jinnet had to go shopping. Ordinary shopping had no terrors for her; she loved to drop into Lindsay, the grocer’s, and discourse upon the prices of simple things to eat, and feel important when he offered to send his boy with the goods; she was quite at home in the little side-street shops where they sell trimming, and bolts of tape, and remnants of print; or the oil and colour shops where she was known and could spend a pleasant ten minutes’ gossip over the purchase of a gallon of paraffin. But Christmas shopping was no ordinary shopping, and was entered on with almost as much apprehension as her expedition to the bank. It had to be done in big warehouses, where the attendants were utter strangers to her, and had ways frigid and unfamiliar.

“Put on your kep and come awa’ doon the toon wi’ me,” she said to Erchie. “I hate gaun into some o’ thae big shops mysel’.”

“Then whit wye dae ye no’ jist gang into the wee yins ye ken?” he asked her. “If ye’re feared they’ll eat ye in the big yins I wadna gang to them.”

“Oh, that’s a’ very weel, but the wee yins havena the turnover,” she explained. “Ye get things far fresher at this time o’ the year doon the toon.”

“I’ll gang wi’ ye, for I ken that if I didna gang they wad tak’ a fair lend o’ ye,” Erchie agreed at last; “but mind, I’m no’ gaun to stand lookin’ in at baby-linen shop-windows or onything o’ that sort. Me bein’ a public man in a kind o’ wye, it disna dae.”

“I’ll no’ ask ye to dae onything o’ the kind, ye pridefu’ auld thing ye,” she promised, and off, they set.

She wanted a pair of gloves for a favourite grand-daughter, an umbrella for a sister of Erchie’s, who was a widow and poor, and something as a wedding-present for Duffy’s fiancee.

There was scarcely a drapery warehouse in Argyle Street whose window did not attract her. Erchie never looked into any of them, but patiently stood apart on the edge of the pavement or walked slowly ahead.

“Come here and see this at seevenpence three-fardens,” she entreated him.

“It’s fine, a rale bargain; I wad tak’ that,” he replied, looking towards the window from afar off, and quite ignorant of what she alluded to, but determined not to be caught by any one who knew him as waiter or beadle, looking into a shop-window full of the most delicate feminine mysteries of attire.

She went into the warehouse, while he walked on to the next shop—a cutler’s—and looked intently in at the window of it, as if he were contemplating the purchase of a costly pocket-knife with five blades, a corkscrew, and an appliance popularly supposed to be for taking stones out of a horse’s hoof. When he was joined by Jinnet, she had plainly begun to lose her nerve.

“I’ve got gloves,” said she, “and a thing for Duffy’s lass, but they’re naither o’ them whit I was wantin’.”

“Of course they’re no’,” said Erchie. “Ye’ve got a grate concait o’ yersel’ if ye think a puir auld body like you can get exactly whit ye want in yin o’ them warehooses wi’ the big turnover ye aye talk aboot. Was it a pe’erie and a fiddle ye wanted that made ye tak’ gloves?”

“Oh! dinna bother me, Erchie; I canna help it; the lassies that serve ye in there’s that Englified and that smert that when they havena got whit I’m wantin’ I jist aye tak’ whit they can gie me.”

“I’ve seen you in a big shop afore noo,” said her husband, “and I ken fine the wye ye aye spile yersel’ wi’ them Englified smert yins. Ye gang forrit to the coonter as if ye were gaun to ask if they had ony windows to clean, or back-stairs to wash oot, and ye get red in the face and tak’ yer money oot o’ yer pocket to show ye have it, and ye lauch to the lassie as if ye kent her fine, and ye say, ‘If you please’ to her; or, ‘Oh! it’s a bother to ye.’ That mak’s the lassie see at yince ye’re no’ cless; she get’s a’ the mair Englified, lettin’ on to hersel’ she’s the Duchess o’ Montrose, and can put the like o’ you in your place wi’ the least wee bit touch. That’s no’ the wye to dae in a shop o’ that kind. Ye should breenge up to the coonter, and cry ‘Gloves!’ as hard as Duffy cries ‘Coals!’ then sit doon withoot askin’ on a chair, and wi’ a gant noo and then watch them puttin’ oot gloves by the hunderwicht in front o’ ye, and them a’ in the shakers in case ye’ll no’ think they’re smert enough.

“Dinna be blate; that’s my advice to ye. Talk Englified yersel’, and sniff wi’ yer nose noo and then as if ye felt a nesty smell in the place, and run doon the goods like dirt. Never let your e’e rest on the folk that serve ye, unless they happen to hae a shabby tie on or a button aff somewhere; glower at that, and it’ll mak’ them uncomfortable, and——

“Oh, that’s a’ richt, Erchie,” said Jinnet; “ye’ll hae to come into the next shop I gang to, and show me the wye.”

“No fears o’ me,” said Erchie promptly; “I’m tellin’ ye whit to dae, but I divna say I could dae’t mysel’.”

But when it came to the purchase of the umbrella he did go into the shop with her, and she got what she thought was a bargain, as well as the finest affability and courtesy from the gentleman who sold it.

“That’s because I was wi’ ye,” said Erchie when they came out.

“I daresay,” she agreed; “there’s aye some use for a man.”