Chapter IV: A Strange Duel--Bad Boys’ Pranks

Some of the greatest treats Sandie enjoyed were his invitations out to breakfast with his professors, some even whose classes he was not yet attending inviting him. He could hardly have told you which of these he liked best to breakfast with. There was old Dr. Brown, for example, who filled the Greek chair, a very ugly but highly intellectual man, who spoke like a Northumbrian, with a burr or rattle in the throat, and whom, as he preferred the Doric dialect, the students had nicknamed “The Dorian.” The Dorian, on ordinary days, used to finish his breakfast on the street, and might be met in short cuts any morning eating a bap.[6] But on days when he had students to breakfast, he was all there indeed, and up betimes. He himself seemed blessed with the appetite of a Highland hunter, and he made the students eat consumedly. But it was also a feast of reason and flow of soul, and the number of racy anecdotes he told without apparent effort during the breakfast-hour was marvellous; so too was the number of buttered baps he got down.

Then there was Dr. Maclure, Professor of Humanity, that is, he filled the Latin chair. A little man, perky, proud, and fat. He was an Englishman, but a great admirer of Burns, whom he was constantly quoting. The students called him “Cockie Maclure,” but it is to be hoped he did not know this. However, breakfast with him, although not such a heavy meal as that with the Dorian, was always most enjoyable.

Sandie used to think he would give a good deal could he only speak English with so charming an accent.

Then there was poor Maxwell, so well known in the scientific world--brown haired, handsome, thoughtful, and wise; he always had some scientific marvel to tell his students about during breakfast. He was always smiling, but never laughed a deal. I suppose he had an idea that strong tea was not good for young fellows, for he invariably filled the cup half up with rich delicious cream before pouring in the beverage.

Poor Maxwell! he is dead and gone, and great loss his death has been to the world.

* * * * *

Would my young reader fight a duel if called out? I should not advise him to, though I myself have once or twice been foolish enough to appear on the field and duly take my stand to shoot and be shot at.

But in Sandie’s days duelling was not entirely unknown among the students. One King’s College student sent his bullet through the left arm of his opponent. Honour was declared to be satisfied after this, as well it might have been.

Well, among Sandie’s intimate friends was a tall, pale-faced, aristocratic-looking English lad named Coleman; a student our hero also knew was Tom Brierly, a far more robust and daring-looking youth--a scapegrace, I fear. At the University in the far North quarrels generate very simply sometimes. For example, there lived with her mother in Upper Kirkgate a girl of about seventeen. Sweet seventeen it was in her case, for she was very beautiful, with eyes of darkest hazel, eyelashes that swept her cheeks, and a complexion like strawberries and cream. Her mother and she made and sold tuppenny pies. They did a good trade all day, but towards evening and up till eleven o’clock that trade became a roaring one.

Well, Tom Brierly fell in love, or pretended to, with bonnie Mary Mayne, and used to appear upon the festive scene every evening and eat pies, till one could not have helped wondering how he could contain so many. He also got Mary to teach him how to make them, and after he became an adept he used to stand by her side and turn them out by the dozen. For Tom was not a bit shy. On Sunday evenings the pair used to go to church together if it rained, or out for a long walk if the weather was fine. In fact, they were looked upon by all as sweethearts, and it was even rumoured that Tom, who, by the way, was a clergyman’s son, was going to marry Mary soon, and take up a pie-shop on his own account, which of course would be doing infinite honour to his reverend daddie.

However, to make a long story short, who should Tom find one evening when he paid his usual visit, but tall young Coleman, leaning over the counter with a sickly smile on his face as he breathed sweet nothings and the flavour of caramels in bonnie Mary’s face.

Tom wasn’t a man of many words, so he simplified matters and brought them to an abrupt conclusion by seizing Coleman by his garments above and below, and flinging him straight into the street. Coleman gathered himself up.

“I cannot fight you with fists,” he said in a voice as like thunder as a hen’s might be, “but a friend of mine shall call on you within an hour.”

And sure enough a friend did.

Tom was laughing and joking with Mary, and turning out pie after pie with extraordinary agility.

He hardly looked up.

“I won’t disappoint you,” he said; “keep your mind easy. I choose pistols. My friend Smith, of 36 Union Terrace, will provide them. Yes, seven o’clock, or say 7.30. We’d hardly see before. Go now and look Smith up.”

And Tom coolly proceeded to turn out another pie. But poor Mary had turned pale.

“You’re not going to fight--with--guns--are you, and all about me?”

“Keep your mind easy, Mary dear,” said Tom. “I don’t suppose we shall hurt each other. And listen, Mary, I’ve made up my mind not to fire at his head or body. I might let his little life out, you know. I mean to aim at those thin legs of his.”

“Oh dear! oh dear!” mourned Mary, wringing her hands. “And where,” she asked innocently, “will you fecht?”

“Oh,” replied Tom, as he rolled out a piece of paste, “there is only one place. Smith knows it well, because I had a pugilistic encounter there with a butcher. Round at the seaside of the Broad Hill. There won’t be a soul there at that time of the morning. Pass the gravy, Mary.”

* * * * *

It was some time past eleven o’clock. At the police-station near the Tolbooth, a serjeant and one or two burly night-watchmen sat before a roaring fire talking and laughing, when there entered a very pretty dark-eyed maiden, with a shawl about her head. She appeared to be in very great grief and trouble. But after she had told her story, she seemed comforted, because in very kind tones the sergeant had replied--

“You keep your mind easy, my dear. Just go home and go to bed. We’ll make it all right. Shall one of my men see you safe home?”

“Oh, no,” was the reply, “I’ll soon run home.”

* * * * *

Tom and his second, Smith, were up and dressed even before the stars, that had been shining so brightly all night, had commenced to pale before the coming of day. Smith, after warming coffee, busied himself in getting the irons ready.

He was a brave, smart little fellow, Smith, and the idea of aiming at Coleman’s thin legs tickled him very much, and made him laugh as he cleaned the pistols.

“His thin legs, eh?” he said. “Well, friend Tom, you’ll be a smart shot if you hit ’em. Why, it will be like firing at a couple of raspberry canes.”

A little after seven both young men started for the links and Broad Hill.

They got right up over the top of the hill, and having gained the summit, looked beneath them. Yes, Coleman and his second were already there, although the time was not yet up.

What a heavenly morning it was too! The sun was not yet up, but red and crimson and golden clouds flecked all the eastern sky, and were reflected from the rolling waves till all the ocean seemed ablaze. Only on the yellow sands were the long lines of snow-white foam, where the seas broke lazily upon the beach.

“What a pity,” said Tom with a sigh, “to have to face so deadly an encounter on a morning like this!”

“I daresay,” said Smith, “if you were to apolo----”

He never got any further, Tom stopped him with a look.

Five minutes after this, Tom and his opponent had shaken hands, and stood facing each other at twelve paces waiting for the words, “One, two, three, fire!” when suddenly from behind a sandhill at no great distance started two burly policemen. They appeared to spring from the very earth.

“Halt!” That was the stentorian word of command they gave.

“Boys!” cried Smith, “there has been a magpie about. Policemen,” he added, “did you cry ‘halt’?”

“We cried ‘Halt!’”

“Then I cry something else, ‘Bolt!’”

He suited his own actions to the word, and before either of those policemen could say “Jack-knife,” the race for liberty had commenced.

All honour to the bobbies; they _did_ give chase, but as well might a tortoise try to catch a weasel. They were speedily distanced and left breathless far behind.

The four students went on to Balgownie Bridge, then crossed country to Woodside, when, coming to a farm, they succeeded in breakfasting on curds and cream, oatcakes, fresh butter, and new-laid eggs.

Both seconds declared that, under the circumstances, honour should be deemed satisfied. Then both principals shook hand, each, declaring himself in the wrong. Thus was a friendship established between Tom Brierly and Coleman, and--and--and they lived happy ever afterwards. But this is the true story of an Aberdeen University duel.

They never heard another word from the police-office about the escapade, so rightly judged that the magistrates had forgiven them.

* * * * *

My description of University life in the Granite City during Sandie’s curriculum would be incomplete were I to say nothing of what I may call the bad boys of the College. Of course, you find these everywhere, though in after life they are sure to look back with some degree of sorrow on the days that are gone never to return.

Tom Brierly was one of these. Sandie tried hard to reform him, but I fear with little success.

Sandie more than once, thinking that example was better than precept, accompanied Tom to Mother Robertson’s, an inn in the Guestrow, much frequented by the students. There were more merry faces round the tables of the coffee-room than there had any right to be; there were more steaming tumblers of toddy, and there would be more headaches in the morning. Sandie drank nothing but stone bottles of ginger-beer.

“How can you be so merry on that?” cried Tom.

“It’s all custom,” said Sandie. “I feel very happy and merry on this, and I won’t have the ghost of a heavy head in the morning.”

So Sandie sat with them, and he told stories that made every one laugh, and he sang songs that made some of them cry; but at ten o’clock he arose, and, in spite of their importunities, bade all good-night and walked straight home to his attic.

The principal practical jokes performed at night by the students in Sandie’s day were extinguishing gas lamps, wrenching off knockers with the twist of a strong stick, and pulling out bell-handles.

The night-watchmen, as they were called, were certainly a body of grand men. Their physique left nothing to be desired. But then they were not active.

They were called “Charlies,” just as the day-policemen were denominated “Bobbies.”

These sturdy fellows were dressed in strong broadcloth fear-nothing coats, that reached down to their heels; they wore broad Tam o’ Shanter bonnets, and were armed with oaken cudgels big enough to have felled an ox.

At nine o’clock each evening they were marshalled two deep in front of the watchhouse door. The officer gave the words of command in the broadest of Scotch.

“Are ye a’ richt there, Jamie?” This to the sergeant.

“A’ richt, sir,” Jamie would reply.

“Weel, richt fut foremaist. Quick mairch! awa’ ye gang.”

And away they went, filing off here and there at the corners of streets to take up their several beats.

But the bad boy students were the bane of those poor fellows’ lives. There was no saying when one or two would turn up.

They would see lamp after lamp extinguished right ahead of them, sometimes a whole street placed in darkness, and yet be powerless to give chase to the light-footed lads.

Or they would hear sounds like shots fired in the quiet streets, bang! bang! bang! here and there, and know that metal knockers were being broken, but knowing also that they might as well try to catch a will-o’-the-wisp as one of the perpetrators.

It must be admitted that playing such practical jokes as these is poor fun, and the only thing to be said for the students is, that they never paused to think.

* * * * *

Sandie still stuck to his little pupil, though he confessed more than once to Willie that the work was irksome in the extreme.

Our hero was no gourmand. And yet there were many Highland students at the University, who lived on far poorer fare than did Sandie, as we shall see as the story goes on.

Sandie had porridge and milk for breakfast, nothing else, but plenty of that. For dinner he usually had sheep’s-head broth of barley and vegetables, with potatoes and perhaps kail as auxiliaries. He allowed himself tea in the afternoon, and for supper a large dish of stiff pease-meal brose with plenty of creamy milk.

When fresh herrings could be got--but they were not now in season--he treated himself to a few of these.

This was plain, but it was also wholesome fare.

Herring and sand cadgers are quite a feature of the Granite City. What the poor people do with all the fine sea-sand it would be difficult to imagine. But the Aberdonians are a cleanly people, the very show of their white granite walls appears to suggest cleanliness, and the women folks are constantly seen scouring down their stairs and passages.

The sand is hawked in donkey-carts, and the boy hawkers’ are invariably all in rags and tatters.

“Twa buckets o’ fine sea-sand for three bawbees, and I’ll carry them upstairs for a cauld tattie or a bit o’ cake for the cuddy.”

I may state at once that the cuddy never gets the piece of cake.

The herring-cadgers are a cut above the sand-laddies.

In going to classes one day shortly before Christmas, Sandie was witness to a rather humorous episode. Let me premise that the streets were covered with mud and slime.

Well, a large cart-load of hay from the country had just met and passed a cadger’s cart laden with fresh herrings. This was an excellent opportunity to get a wisp of hay, thought the herring-man, so he was speedily helping himself to an armful. But Geordie spied him, and off he went to the cart and quite filled his arms with herrings.

“Faur (where) are ye gaun wi’ my herrin’?” cried the cadger aghast.

“Faur are ye gaun wi’ my hay?” answered Geordie.

“There’s you dirty hay,” shouted the cadger, throwing it on the ground.

“And there’s your dirty herrings,” cried Geordie, throwing the fish in the mud, which certainly would not improve either their flavour or quality.

But Geordie had the best of it.