“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.