“Efter the mandoline went, the boys begood to scramble for Duffy’s dochters as if they were bowl-money. The close-mooth was never clear o’ cabs, and the rice was always up to your ankles on the stair. Duffy sang ‘Dark Lochnagar’ even-on, and aye kept winkin’ at me. “‘That’s the mandoline awa’,’ says he, ‘and the scientific dressmakin’, and the shorthand, and the “Curfew must hot Ring To-night,” and the revival meetin’s, and the no’ very-weel yin that needs a nice quate hame; they’re a’ gane, Erchie, and I’m no’ gien jeely-dishes awa’ wi’ them either. I’m my lee-lane, me and Annie; if ony o’ thae chaps cam’ efter Annie, I wad chase him doon the stair.’ “‘Man! Duffy,’ I says till him, ‘ye’re selfish enough workin’ aff a’ them ornamental dochters on the young men o’ Gleska that did ye nae hairm, and keepin’ the best o’ the hale jing-bang in the hoose a’ the time in case they see her.’ “‘Let them tak’ it!’ says Duffy, ‘I’m no’ a bit vexed for them,’ and he started to sing ‘Dark Lochnagar’ as lood as ever, while Annie was puttin’ on his boots. “That was in Duffy’s auld days. He merried a second wife, and it was a fair tak’-in, for he thocht a wee greengrocer’s shop she had was her ain, and a’ the time it was her brither’s. “‘That’s the mandoline for you, Duffy,’ says I, when he tellt me. “But that yin died on him too; she died last Mertinmas; Duffy’s kind o’ oot o’ wifes the noo. And the warst o’t is that his dochter Annie’s gettin’ merried.” XIII ERCHIE GOES TO A BAZAAR |There was a very self-conscious look in Erchie’s face on Saturday when I met him with a hand-painted drain-pipe of the most generous proportions under his arm. “It’s aye the way,” said he. “Did ye ever hae ony o’ yer parteecular freen’s meet ye when ye were takin’ hame a brace o’ grouse? No’ a bit o’ ye! But if it’s a poke o’ onything, or a parcel frae the country, whaur they havena ony broon paper, but jist ‘The Weekly Mail,’ and nae richt twine, ye’ll no’ can gang the length o’ the street without comin’ across everybody that gangs to yer kirk.” He put the drain-pipe down on the pavement--it was the evening--and sat on the end of it. “So you are the latest victim to the art movement, Erchie?” I said. “You will be putting away your haircloth chairs and introducing the sticky plush variety; I was suspicious of that new dado in your parlour the day we had the tousy tea after Big Macphee’s burial.”