Erchie himself was staggered. “It’s ca’d ‘The Sleeper’ in the catalogue,” said he. “It’s a wumman, and her dozin’. The leddy that pented it wasna ower lavish wi’ her pent. That’s whit they ca’ New Art, Duffy; it jist shows ye whit weemen can dae if ye let them.” “And dae ye tell me there’s weemen penters!” asked Duffy in astonishment. “Of course there’s weemen penters.” “And hoo dae they get up and doon lethers?” asked Duffy. “I’m tellin’ ye Art pentin’s a brench by itsel’,” said Erchie. “The lady Art penters divna pent windows and rhones and hooses; they bash brass, and hack wud, and draw pictures.” “And can they mak’ a livin’ at that?” “Whiles. And whiles their paw helps.” “My jove!” said Duffy, bewildered. “We’ll gang on to the next room noo,” said Erchie. “I wad raither come back some ither day,” said Duffy. “I’m enjoyin’ this fine, but I promised the wife I wad be hame early for my tea.” And together they hastily made an exit into Sauchie-hall Street. “I wonder wha won the semi-final at Parkheid,” said Duffy. “We’ll awa’ doon the toon and see; whit’s the use o’ hurryin’ hame?” XXVI THE PROBATIONARY GHOST |One day I observed Erchie going off the pavement rather than walk under a ladder. “And are you superstitious too?” I asked him, surprised at this unsuspected trait in a character so generally sensible. “I don’t care whither ye ca’t supresteetion or no,” he replied, “but walkin’ under lethers is a gey chancy thing; and there’s mony a chancy thing, and I’m neither that young nor that weel aff that I can afford to be takin’ ony risks.” “Dear me!” I said; “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that you believed in ghosts.” “Do I no’?” he answered. “And guid reason for’t! Did I no’ yince see yin? It was the time I had the rheumatic fever, when we were stayin’ in Garnethill. I was jist gettin’ better, and sittin’ up a wee while in the evenin’ to air the bed, and Jinnet was oot for a message. The nicht was wild and wet, and the win’ was daudin’ awa’ at the window like onything, and I was feelin’ gey eerie, and wearyin’ for the wife to come back. I was listenin’ for her fit on the stair, when the ootside door opens, and in a second there was a chap at the kitchen door. “‘Come in if your feet’s clean,’ says I, pretty snappy. ‘Seein’ ye’ve made sae free wi’ the ae door ye needna mak’ ony ceremony wi’ this ane.’ I heard the hinges screechin’, but naebody cam’ in, and I looks roon’ frae where I was sittin’ wi’ a blanket roond me at the fire, and there was the ghost keekin’ in. He was a wee nyaf o’ a thing, wi’ a Paisley whisker, a face no bigger than a Geneva watch, a nickerbocker suit on, Rab Roy tartan tops to his gowfin’ stockings, and pot-bellied to the bargain. I kent fine he was a ghost at the first gae-aff. “‘It’s you,’ says I. ‘Come in and gies yer crack till Jinnet comes. Losh, it’s no’ a nicht for stravaigin’.’ “He cam’ glidin’ in withoot makin’ ony soond at a’, and sat doon on a chair.