Chapter VI: Meeting McClure

Monday.

“_Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-g-g-g._” And the great town-clock, towering in solitary state above the noisy, dirty city, proclaimed it one o’clock. One o’clock! The hour when the great army of poorly-paid clerks, clerks with little lungs, little vitality, and less prospects, clerks with wives and large families dependent upon them, put down their pens with weary sigh, and, turning to the modest sandwich bulked in the packet with a banana, begin their mid-day meal; the hour when ministers of the crown, heads of departments, proprietors, directors and managers of business houses, bank managers, promoters of gold mines, coal mines and delusive oil mines, and the horde of affluent purse-proud members of city society swagger forth with air of rare importance into the main thoroughfares to advertise their persons and prosperity and to dine largely and expensively at the clubs, the grand hotels, and the swell tea-rooms. One o’clock! the hour when doors of smellsome factories open to emit teams of men and women, boys and girls, into the open for a mouthful of fresh air, some to collect in circles about the doors, munching their bit of lunch, some to hang round the nearest street corner, others to play quoits or gamble for pence on some vacant allotment or down a dark lane; the hour when followers of the turf or football and cricket congregate before the sporting rendezvous to smoke cigars and cigarettes, and to criticise all that happened, or that should have happened, on the Saturday before; the hour, too, when the labour agitator, seizing time by the forelock, takes the stump in park and square to straighten out the political question of the day and arrange things with the working man for the effective belting of “boodle” with the heavy end of the ballot box.

And, standing beneath that great clock, old John and Peter stared up at its giddy height and wondered by what means it was ever elevated to such a position. And while they debated the matter with each other a burly, hairy form in a new roomy tweed suit and a new hat waddled from the crowd and greeted them in cheery, familiar voice.

“Mah gracious me if ’n ain’t Duncan McClure!” cried old John, holding out his hand, while Peter started to laugh with delight at the welcome and unexpected appearance of their good-natured country cousin.

“By criky!” said Duncan, his humorous little eyes twinkling merrily from behind the rolls of fat that gathered in his hairy cheeks, “I was standin’ ower there a’maist cryin’ harrd, while I was listenin’ tae a chap singin’ ‘Th’ Bonnie Hills o’ Scotland’ when I keeked ower here an’ saw ye. ‘By cripes!’ I said, ‘if that’s no auld John Dashwood an’ Peter, I’ll eat ma bloomin’ bonnet.’”

“Ah-h,” laughed old John, “you’ve good eyes, Duncan; an’ yow won’t have to eat yow’re hat.”

“By gosh, an’ I’m jolly glad aboot it, for Ah jist bocht it oot o’ a shop the noo, and it cost me five an’ saxpence,” and, taking his hat off, McClure invited his friends to pass their friendly opinion upon the merits of his purchase.

They both gazed on the felt and at McClure’s bare head and smiled.

“Dae ye no think it’s dirt cheap at five an saxpence?” asked McClure proudly. “It’s sic a lang time sin’ I bocht onything mysel wi’oot th’ wife that I had maist forgotten hoo tae make a deal wi’ th’ skaff-raff ahind th’ coonter.”

Old John dragged his own “nail-can” off, and answered:

“Well, Ah paid fourteen shillins for yon.”

“Holy Smoke!” and McClure pulled a long and serious face. “Ye maun be gaun balmy.”

“It’s a good het, though,” John said, in justification of the expenditure.

“Weel, it’s a different sorrt tae mine,” Duncan drawled, “that ane o’ yours is th’ sorrt Tam o’ Todshaw an’ auld George Reid an’ some o’ th’ blackfellows that gets hats gi’en tae them for naething wears. I dinna care for that style mysel’ a bit. They look well eneuch on you, though, Dashwood; a lot better than on George Reid.”

Peter removed _his_ head-gear and remarked that he only paid “eight bob” for it.

“I wadna be seen deid wi’ a hat like that, Peter,” Duncan said. “By cripes, I dinna ken where ye got ane like it.”

Peter laughed, and all three replaced their hats on their heads, quite oblivious of the fact that a number of people standing by were smiling hard at them.

“I didn’t know yow were dahn here, McClure,” old John remarked, opening up fresh conversation.

“Tae tell th’ truth,” Duncan answered, “I didna mean tae come doon till I kent ye were here yoursel’, Dashwood. ‘I’ll swear be ma soul,’ I said tae the wife, ’auld Johnny Dashwood’s hae’n a deil o’ a gude time o’ it,’ an’ she said: ‘Well, can ye nae gang doon yoursel’?’ ‘By cripes, now,’ I thocht, ‘I just will,’ and I had nae sooner thocht it than a chap frae th’ railway came along an’ telt us a’ aboot th’ cheap fares——”

Here a sudden gust of wind lifted McClure’s hat from his head and propelled it into the centre of the street, amongst the traffic. Peter pursued it on Duncan’s behalf. Before he could rescue it, however, a cabman’s horse put his foot in it, and cut gashes in the crown of it. Peter, smiling, returned with it in his hand.

“By cripes, now!” Duncan said, staring at the ruin, “isn’t that a holy terror. It’s eneuch tae make a bloomin’ pairson swear.”

Old John went off into laughter: “Hoh! hoh! hoh! hoh! hoh!” he roared, while he rocked and rolled about on the pavement.

“Bust ye!” Duncan said, and, punching the damaged felt into some sort of shape with his fat fist, pulled it over his head again, leaving a tuft of his hair sticking up through it like the comb on a cock’s head.

Old John and Peter laughed more.

“Yow can’t wear yon now, McClure,” old John said, advisedly, “yow moost get anoother.”

“I’ll need tae get a bit o’ a snack first,” answered Duncan, plunging both hands into his roomy pockets and looking quite happy as he stared about him. Then after a silence:

“Hae you fellows had a feed yet?”

Neither old John or Peter had had lunch, but both were hungry.

“There’s a rrattlin’ gude place just roon this corner,” McClure suggested. “A blackfellow keeps it—weel he’s na exac’ly a blackfellow, either, he’s mair o’ a yaller fellow, but he keeps gude stuff, an’ he gi’es ye a grreat lump o’ steak what’s a’ fu’ o’ juice. By crikey! an’ when ye takes a mouthfu’ o’ it ye hae tae eat like a rracehorse tae keep it frae a’ rinnin’ oot down yer cheeks,” and, waddling off through the thronging people, McClure conducted John and Peter to his favoured restaurant.

When they had comfortably seated themselves at a small table, and given their orders to a robust-looking waiter, Duncan, staring before him, observed dryly:

“By Christmas, that’s a braw necktie ye hae on, Dashwood. I can see it quite plain i’ that lookin’-glass ower there!”

Peter, starting to giggle, began adjusting his tie in the mirror.

“Oh, yours isn’t nearly sae gran’, Peter,” Duncan added, noticing the action of the other.

But old John offered no remark. He neither excused nor denied the gaiety of his neck adornments. He merely groaned, and glared about to see if there were any signs of the lunch arriving.

Duncan, catching Peter’s eye in the mirror, winked and remarked further:

“It reminds me o’ a grreat joke I used tae hae wi’ auld Sam Snather and Paddy O’Regan th’ first year that I started selectin’ at Craig-lea. I’ them days we a’ had tae borrow quite a lot o’ things frae each ither, an’ these twa auld beggars that I’m gaun tae tell ye aboot were as harrd as th’ deil hissel to borrow a thing frae. De ye recollec’ any o’ them, Dashwood?”

Old John said he remembered them well.

“But Peter wadna,” Duncan continued, “he was anely a wean then crawlin’ aboot pu’in’ th’ cat’s tail. Weel, when it became rreal necessary tae beg th’ lane o’ onything frae auld O’Regan I used tae pu’ roon’ ma neck a wallopin’ grreat green muffler, an’ bring th’ end o’ it richt back roon’d me waist an’ ride ower wi’ it showin’ like a rainbow. An’ auld O’Regan he’d be sae awfu’ pleased that he’d gie me anything he had aboot th’ farm. In fac’ I believe he’d hae gi’en me his auld saw o’ a wife tae take away on ma shouther for th’ askin’.”

“I didn’t know he had a wife,” old John remarked.

“By cripes, then,” said McClure, “if it wasna his ane it was some ither yin’s. There was ane there. But wi’ auld Sam Snather,” he went on, “it was dufferent. Sam, he was one o’ them wild, blatherin’ Orangemen, an’ when Ah wantit tae borrow onything frae Sam I was a’ways maist carefu’ tae pit on a grreat yaller muffler. An’ soon’s I came beside th’ hoose wi’ mae heid concealed frae view ahint th’ peach trees, I’d start whusslin’ ‘Th’ Battle o’ th’ Boyne’ michty harrd. By crikey, auld Sam wad be awfu’ pleased. He’d bring me intae th’ hoose tae show me a pictur’ o’ th’ grreat battle whaur William fought an’ bled——”

Here the waiter turned up with the “juicy” steak, and all three eagerly settled down to business.

“Dinna yae think it’s gude beef, Dashwood?” Duncan enquired, eating noisily.

Old John agreed that it was.

“D’ ye like it, Peter?” and Duncan looked to see how Dashwood junior was faring.

Peter’s mouth was too full to reply at the moment, but his eyes and bulging cheeks conveyed all the answer that Duncan required.

For quite a long interval no conversation was carried on, but as the steak disappeared from his plate Duncan found his tongue again.

“Auld Dill Mackay’s a grreat Orangeman,” he said “Hae ye ever heard him preach, Dashwood?”

Old John said he hadn’t.

“Naither hae Ah,” said Duncan, “but Ah hae seen a pictur’ o’ his legs i’ th’ _Bulletin_. D’ ever ye rread th’ _Bulletin_, Dashwood?”

Old John shook his head.

“I suppose you rread th’ _Maissenger_. Ah rread that, too, sometimes, but there’s a deil o’ a lot o’ religion in it. Th’ _Bulletin_ is deefferent tae th’ _Maissenger_. It’s a maist irreverent bloomin’ paper, an’ I dinna see what’s tae preevent them as write it frae a’ gaun tae hell thegither; but this pictur’ Ah’m tellin’ ye aboot wi’ auld Dill’s twa legs wi’ his trews rolled abune th’ knee, would make th’ deil himsel’ laugh, by cripes it would. An’ by crikey, he’s got sic’ grreat legs, too. Oor auld pairson hasna got legs near like them. We keep him too beggarin’ puir tae let them get as fat as Dill Mackay’s. Cripes, he maun eat an awfu’ lot tae get legs like what he has. Mine are pretty big anes——”

Duncan was interrupted by the waiter enquiring if he’d take plum-pudding or rice pudding.

“Weel,” he said, “Ah’m no a beggarin’ Chinaman. I’ll hae a lump o’ ye’re plum-puddin’.”

Peter said he’d have some rice pudding.

“By cripes!” Duncan said, staring solemnly at Peter, “ye’ll hae tae eat it wi’ twa lang sticks!”

Peter’s eye started to dance with painful apprehension, and he gasped:

“Eh?”

“Ye will that, Peter!” and the solemnity of Duncan’s face increased the other’s feelings of apprehension.

“Oh, here; heigh! heigh!” Peter called to the departing waiter, “I’ll have plum-pudding, too!”

Duncan laughed inwardly at the simplicity of Peter.

“I don’t want any of their sticks,” Peter growled in a determined sort of way.

“It’s a gude job ye had me wi’ ye, Peter,” Duncan said, slyly, “or ye wad hae had them, though!”

Peter agreed that it was.

Luncheon over the three were ready to leave.

“That adds a big lump tae th’ expense o’ my trip doon here, Dashwood,” Duncan said, with a sorrowful look on his face as he regarded his damaged hat reflectively.

“But hadn’t yow better make haste an’ buy anoother yun,” replied old John, “yow might as well go bare head as wear that!”

Duncan thought hard for a while.

“Ah’ll telt ye what Ah’ll dae, Dashwood,” he said, with a roguish look in his eye, “Ah’ll toss ye tae see whither ye pey for th’ three dinners or buy me a new hat,” and he took out a silver coin and began spinning it in the air.

Old John was in sporting humour. “Spin yow th’ coin, then,” he said.

“Wha’ ever wins takes th’ choice,” Duncan explained, as he twirled the coin.

“Heads!” cried old John excitedly.

“Gosh, no! it’s a bloomin’ tail!” shouted Duncan, securing the coin again. “Ye’ve tae buy me a new hat, Dashwood.”

Peter laughed and jeered at his parent for having lost.

Old John accepted the verdict in silence.

Duncan paid three shillings in settlement of the bill of fare, and off they trooped into the street again.

“By crikey!” Duncan said, as they approached a draper’s shop, “that’s the first time I ever won a wager!”

A few steps further on and a shopman in a long-tailed coat greeted them as lost brothers.

Old John acted as spokesman.

“This way, sir,” and the shopman led the way past piles of drapery and goods of all descriptions to a small counter at the far end of the building, where he introduced old John to a pale, youthful counter-hand.

McClure and Peter loitered in the rear, examining the general display.

“Listen here, lad,” old John whispered hoarsely to the pale, youthful counter-hand, “Ah only wants a shellin’ hat. I don’t want any other kahnd!”

“About what size, sir?”

“The biggest yow can get. It’s to fit mah friend comin’ along there,” and he pointed down the floor to the burly McClure.

“We have a line of shilling hats, sir,” said the counter-hand, “but I couldn’t recommend them. If——”

“It doesn’t matter what they be lahke so long as they’re only a shellin’,” old John interrupted eagerly.

The counter-jumper went away and returned with a pile of flimsy felt hats and stacked them on the counter.

Old John beckoned Duncan forward.

Duncan breasted the counter and breathed heavily on the display of head-gear.

“Now, dinna ye buy anything that’s rreal dear, Dashwood,” he said, as though his conscience was smiting him.

Old John winked at the counter-hand. The counter-hand seemed to sum up the situation, and assured Duncan that “they were a very reasonable line.”

Duncan selected one from the pile, and, removing his own, fitted it on his head.

“By crikey!” he said, “th’ vera first fits me like a glove.”

“And it suits yower complexion,” old John remarked.

“There’s a glass there, sir,” from the counter-hand.

Duncan turned and surveyed himself from head to toe in a large mirror.

“Crikey!” he remarked philosophically, “I never thocht I was sae fat as that.” Then, as he straightened the hat and pulled it well over his ears. “This one’ll do gran’ if it’s nae costin’ a lot o’ money.”

“I don’t think you’ll find it too dear, sir,” the counter-hand said reassuringly.

“Oh, Ah have na got tae pay for it,” Duncan said, with a pleased laugh. “I won it i’ a toss.”

Old John winked at Peter. Peter had a vague sort of idea that there was a joke lurking somewhere about his parent, but he couldn’t exactly locate it.

“Is there anything else, sir?” asked the counter-hand, as he handed old John a slip for the amount of his purchase.

“Ye’ll get nae mair oot o’ him th’ day,” Duncan informed the shopman, with a chuckle.

The counter-hand smiled and bowed, and his custom departed.

When they reached the street, Duncan said:

“I don’t want tae be too harrd on ye, Dashwood; an’ sae as tae make things a little bit even I think th’ three o’ us’ll gang an’ hae a drink o’ something.”

Old John consented, and the three of them marched into the nearest hotel and drank eighteenpennorth, for which Duncan promptly paid.

“That clears ma conscience a bit anyway,” Duncan said, with a feeling of satisfaction, as they reached the street again.

Old John winked at Peter, and Peter felt more mysterious than ever as to the whereabouts of the suspected joke.

“Weel, noo,” McClure said, “I’ve got a lot o’ things tae look after yet, sae I hae’d better gang awa’. I’ll call roon’ though sometime and see ye a’ at yer pub.”

“Well, yow had better take this with yow,” old John said, handing Duncan the shopman’s slip for the price of the hat.

“Oh, by crikey, yes,” Duncan said, putting the slip into his vest pocket. “It’ll do when I get hame tae show th’ wife hoo I got th’ best o’ auld John Dashwood,” and off Duncan wobbled along the street.

“Hoh! hoh! hoh! Hoh! hoh-h-h!” laughed old John as he and Peter went off the other way. “Do you know how much Ah paid for the hat, lad?”

Peter hadn’t the slightest idea.

“A _shellin’_!”

“Hah! hah! hah! Hah! hah!” and Peter jumped about and slapped himself on the knee and attracted the attention of the police and passers-by. “By George it takes you, father! It takes you! I knew you had something on!”