“Catch me!” said Erchie. “Them and their art! I wadna be encouragin’ the deevils. If ye want to ken the way I’m gaun hame wi’ this wally umbrella-staun’, I’ll tell ye the rale truth. It’s jist this, that. Jinnet’s doon yonder at the Freemason’s Bazaar wi’ red-hot money in her pooch, and canna get awa’ till it’s done. She’s bocht a tea-cosy besides this drain-pipe, and a toaster wi’ puce ribbons on’t for haudin’ letters and papers, and she’ll be in luck for yince if she disna win the raffle for the lady’s bicycle that she had twa tickets for. Fancy me oot in Grove Street in the early mornin’ learnin’ Jinnet the bicycle, and her the granny o’ seeven! “Of course, Jinnet’s no’ needin’ ony bicycle ony mair than she’s needin’ a bassinette, but she has a saft hert and canna say no unless she’s awfu’ angry, and a young chap, speakin’ awfu’ Englified, wi’ his hair a’ vasaline, got roond her. She’s waitin’ behin’ there to see if she wins the raffle, and to pick up ony bargains jist a wee while afore the place shuts up--the rale time for bazaar bargains if ye divna get yer leg broken in the crush. I only went there mysel’ to see if I could get her to come hame as lang as she had enough left to pay her fare on the skoosh car, but I micht as weel speak to the wind. She was fair raised ower a bargain in rabbits. It’s an awfu’ thing when yer wife tak’s to bazaars; it’s waur nor drink. “It’s a female complaint; ye’ll no’ find mony men bothered wi’t unless they happen to be ministers. Ye’ll no’ see Duffy sittin’ late at nicht knittin’ wee bootees for weans they’ll never in this warld fit, nor crochetin’ doyleys, to aid the funds o’ the Celtic Fitba’ Club. Ye micht watch a lang while afore ye wad see me makin’ tinsey ‘ool ornaments wi’ paste-heided preens for hingin’ up in the best room o’ dacent folk that never did me ony hairm. “There wad be nae such thing as bazaars if there werena ony weemen. In thoosands o’ weel-daein’ hames in this Christian toon o’ Gleska there’s weemen at this very meenute neglectin’ their men’s suppers to sit doon and think as hard’s they can whit they can mak’ wi’ a cut and a half o’ three-ply fingerin’ worsted, that’ll no’ be ony use to onybody, but’ll look worth eighteenpence in a bazaar. If ye miss your lum hat, and canna find it to gang to a funeral, ye may be shair it was cut in scollops a’ roond the rim, and covered wi’ velvet, and that wee Jeanie pented flooers on’t in her ain time to gie’t the richt feenish for bein’ an Art work-basket at yer wife’s stall in some bazaar.