“-----and the laundries is there. ‘Colin Campbell’ over yin o’ them, him that bate Bonypart, ye ken, and twenty yairds frae the pend-close is richt under twenty ton o’ coal I put in last week. It’s no’ M’Callum’s wid-yaird; it’s my ree.” “My papa was the sole proprietor of a large wid-yaird,” irrelevantly remarked Mrs Duffy; who was getting more and more Englified as the details of the prospective fortune came put. “Was he, indeed,” said Jinnet. “That was nice!” “Noo, whit I wanted you to dae for me,” Duffy went on, “was to come awa’ doon wi’ me the nicht and gie’s a hand to shift thae coals. I daurna ask ony o’ my men to come, for they wad claim halfers.” Erchie toyed with a teaspoon and looked at the coalman, half in pity, half with amusement. “Man, ye’re a rale divert,” said he at last. “Do ye think the newspapers would be at the bother o’ puttin’ their medallion under twenty ton o’ coal in your coal-ree, or ony body else’s? Na, na, they can mak’ their money easier nor that. If ye tak’, my advice, ye’ll put a penny on the bag o’ coal and gie short wecht, and ye’ll mak’ your fortune far shairer than lookin’ under’t for medallions.”’ “Then ye’re no’ game to gie’s a hand?” said Duffy, starting another cookie. “See’s the sugar.” “Not me!” said Erchie promptly. “I’ve a flet fit and a warm hert, but I’m no’ a’thegither a born idiot to howk coal for medallions that’s no’ there.” Next day Duffy came up with two bags of coals which Jinnet had ordered. “Did ye find the medallion?” she asked him. “I didna need to look for’t,” he replied. “I heard efter I left here last nicht that a man found it in a back-coort in the Garscube Road. Them sort of dydoes should be put doon by the polis.” “Oh, whit a peety!” said Jinnet. “And hoo’s the mistress the day?” “She’s fine,” said Duffy. “She’s ca’in’ me Jimmy again; it was naething but Mr Duffy wi’ her as lang’s she thocht we were to get rid o’ the ree.” XXIV THE VALENTEEN |On the night of the last Trades House dinner I walked home with Erchie when his work was done. It was the 13th of February. There are little oil-and-colour shops in New City Road, where at that season the windows become literary and artistic, and display mock valentines. One of these windows caught my old friend’s eye, and he stopped to look in. “My!” he said, “time flies! It was only yesterday we had the last o’ oor Ne’erday currant-bun, and here’s the valenteens! That minds me I maun buy-----” He stopped and looked at me, a little embarrassed. I could only look inquiry back at him. “Ye’ll think I’m droll,” said he, “but it just cam’ in my heid to buy a valenteen. To-morrow’s Jinnet’s birthday, and it wad be a rale divert to send her ladyship yin and tak’ a kind o; rise oot o’ her. Come and gie’s a hand to pick a nice yin.” I went into the oil-and-colour shop, but, alas! for the ancient lover, he found there that the day of sentiment was done so far as the 14th of February was concerned. .