Chapter III: Part 3

"I canna just say I like the look o't; be quiet, wumman; they dowgs is just daft to get oot. I wadna wonder, though, if it clears up by the efternoon. The dowgs ken fine what's up when they see you gentlemen; bit as lang's ye keep on the move, a drap rain'll no hurt ye, though the birds'll no sit sae weel."

The dogs seemed to throw some of their eagerness into the company, and it was resolved to make a start--the first few shots almost making them forget the rain, further than in keeping their cartridges dry. Half an hour, however, brought back to M'Cranky's memory the unpleasant aspect of the sport; the exercise and excitement kept his heart thumping with extra violence, his feet were soaking, and every step made a slushy sound. There is as much inspiration, however, in following a dog as there is in "the sound of the drum," and M'Cranky persevered, wiping rain and perspiration from his face.

The following days were much the same, and as the birds were wild and the bags not large, M'Cranky would not take more than a brace of birds and a hare on leaving.

"No, no," he said, in reply to his host insisting on his taking more, "I like game well enough, but the sport better."

"Is that all you've brought home," said Mrs. M'Cranky. "I thought----"

"I wouldn't take any more; we had bad sport."

"I'll tell you what we'll do then; we'll send them to Mrs. Wallace. You know she----"

"You'll do nothing of the sort, by jingo! Those birds have cost me," but M'Cranky suddenly remembered he had better not mention the sum, as his wife would immediately think of the dress which could have been got for the money--her usual idea of comparison. So he changed his sentence to--"It's not every day I can go to shoot."

"You had a good deal of shooting last season," said Mrs. M'Cranky, not in a tone of reproach, but to put her husband in the good humour she wished, and set him on pleasant reminiscences.

"Well, you know," he said, with a smile of satisfaction with himself, "I couldn't help it; they were always wanting me to give them a hand when they wanted a bag."

"And we can have some lovely hare soup," continued Mrs. M'Cranky, taking the gift of grouse for granted. Generosity, no doubt, was her principal feeling, though there was an under-current of satisfaction in the knowledge that the gift would be understood to reflect credit on her husband as a sportsman, and he was not long out of the house till the birds were despatched to "Mrs. Wallace, with Mr. M'Cranky's compliments."

"What do you think I've got?" said Mrs. Wallace, in the usual enigmatical fashion of females. "A brace of grouse from the M'Crankys. I like the parcel post, but I just hate telegrams; I'm always afraid to open them in case some one's dead."

"I know," said Mr. Wallace, "it's a failing of the sex; you would like the boy to tell you what's inside before you open the envelope."

"And we've got an invitation to go over and stay with Nell for a few days, so I was just thinking we might send the grouse to Mrs. Clark. I want to take the bounce out of her, at any rate, and let her know we have swell friends, too; you can't talk to her five minutes till she is on to her 'county friends,' her 'West End friends,' and her 'carriage people.' I know she won't like taking grouse from me, so I'll just send them."

"You're a rum lot, you women; I've to want the grouse to satisfy your stupid idea, I suppose."

"They were addressed to me, and you can get plenty later on; but I wouldn't miss this chance for anything. She'll perhaps think you've been at the shooting, and she'll be just wild."

"That'll be nice," said Mr. Wallace, with mild sarcasm; but he had more sense than to argue the subject, and the grouse were passed on to "Mrs. Clark, with Mr. Wallace's compliments."

Mrs. Clark put on a careless air when the grouse were brought in, as if she were expecting a few more similar parcels from her various "county friends"; but when she read, "With Mr. Wallace's compliments," the expression on her face changed.

"The i--dea," she said. "Well, I never! Set them up! Mrs. Wallace either wants me to think her husband has been shooting, or that they have got more from their country friends than they can use. I'll have to write and thank her--perfectly annoying."

Mrs. Clark gave vent to her feelings while writing:

"My DEAR MRS. WALLACE--[impertinence].--Thanks so much for the lovely grouse. [I would rather--I don't know what--than she had sent them.] You evidently know my weakness, dear, and yours is the first we have received this season. [That'll let her know we are in the habit of getting game.] I am already looking forward to the treat. [I won't touch them.] Thanking you again, and with love.--Yours affectionately, MARY CLARK.

"I know what--yes. Mrs. M'Cranky called the other day for nothing else, I'm sure, than to let me know her husband was away shooting. I'll let her know we have friends who have shootings as well as she has; she'll not know where we got them."

When Mr. Clark came home at night he had reluctantly to consent to take them with him the following morning and send them to M'Cranky's office.

"Generosity has been rewarded," said M'Cranky, when he took the birds home at night. "Clark sent these to the office; very good of him. Met him at the club at lunch, and asked him to bring his wife on Thursday to help us with them. Young birds won't keep."

"We may as well ask Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, too," said Mrs. M'Cranky; "they haven't been here since they were married."

"All right; but you'll have to buy another brace."

"That will be too many, unless we were to ask Mr. and Mrs. Wilson."

"All right; please yourself."

Mrs. M'Cranky is one of a numerous class who delight in worrying over preparations for a dinner, and who feel well rewarded when any of the ladies remark that "the table is beautifully laid out," and her excitement was kept up till the guests arrived, when the conversation became general, and every one seemed prepared to laugh at the mildest of jokes; but when the grouse were brought in, three of the ladies felt as if the sword of Damocles was hanging over their heads by a very slender thread. Just before going to the dining-room, Mrs. M'Cranky had a final look into the kitchen to see that all was right, when the cook upset her equilibrium by saying:

"Do you know, mum, that the two grouse the master brought in are the same you sent to Mrs. Wallace?"

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. M'Cranky; "surely you are mistaken."

"The self an' same birds, mum. I knew the string; an' one of them had a little grass sticking under the wing, where it had been bleeding."

Mrs. M'Cranky tried to banish the unpleasant thought from her mind, but it would return, as if asking for a solution.

"The grouse is very nice," said Mrs. Wilson. "One enjoys it so much at the beginning of the season."

"You have Mr. Clark to thank," said the innocent M'Cranky, and three swords fell.

Mrs. M'Cranky tried to catch her husband's eye, but he would not look her way, and it was too late, at any rate. Mr. Clark got a warning look from his wife, and though he did not comprehend it fully, he knew he was to say nothing. Mrs. Wallace's cheeks turned red, and she tried to hide her blushes by bending over her plate, feeling she had made Mrs. Clark her enemy.

The stereotyped compliment was repeated by everyone on leaving--"Thank you so much for a very pleasant evening"; but a different sentiment was expressed in two of the cabs on the way home.

"Well, that was a good spread," said Mr. Wallace, with the satisfied tone of one who is at peace with all mankind.

"Don't light that cigar, for any sake; I feel just like to cry; I never was so miserable in my life."

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong! Can't you see? Mrs. M'Cranky got back her grouse, and we're all found out."

"Ha, ha! well, that's a good one."

"Do you think so? I call it just beastly."

"M'Cranky does the thing well," said Mr. Clark.

"Don't speak about it. I never felt so glad to get out of a house."

"How?"

"That Mrs. Wallace knows I gave away her grouse, but thank goodness she's found out too."

"I don't understand."

"No; men are donkeys."

"Women are mysteries."

M'CRANKY'S DECEPTIONS ABOUT GOLF

It is a pity that evil should be mixed with our most healthy and, in themselves, innocent amusements. Some bad men, who are otherwise modest, boast of and exaggerate their achievements, tell of the good things done, and omit the stupid, as in the case of the sportsman of whom it was said, "What he hit was history, what he missed was mystery."

Golf is generally admitted to be one of the best recreations for combining the necessary amount of excitement, removing all thoughts of business cares, and at the same time giving exercise in the open air, making it all the more regrettable that it should be capable of leading to the debasing and humiliating position experienced by Mr. M'Cranky.

Golfers could be found who are considered--and consider themselves--strictly honest, who would omit to count a miss if they were not observed, or surreptitiously move their ball to a better position.

"There is one thing I like about golf," said an Englishman who has only been a few months at the game, "It is impossible to cheat at it."

"You don't know," said his friend, smiling. "Two caddies were playing for a sovereign, at Musselburgh, and, in going to Mrs. Forman's, one lost his ball, and as the five minutes allowed to look for a lost ball were about up, and he saw the hole would be lost to him, he quietly dropped another ball and said, 'Oh, here it is!' when his opponent, who had apparently been assisting him to find the ball, turned on him reproachfully and said, 'That's a lie! I've had your ball in my pocket all the time.'"

Though M'Cranky is almost invariably in the wrong in the many arguments he has with his better half, he has the greatest dislike to being found out, and never admits being mistaken; and--argue as he may with himself--he feels that his duplicity has been discovered by his wife.

Their friend Mrs. Watson had spent June and July at a farmhouse near Crieff, and one day at tea she told Mrs. M'Cranky how much she and the children had enjoyed the place, and benefited by it.

"You should certainly take it for August and September," she said; and Mrs. M'Cranky, knowing that the selection of summer quarters was generally left to herself, at once determined to write and secure the house, little thinking that M'Cranky had another scheme on hand. She was impatient for the dinner hour, being anxious to impart the glowing account of the place as described by Mrs. Watson.

"Mrs. Watson's home from Crieff," she began, "and she was awfully sorry to leave, and she says it's just the place for us, and I'm going to write after dinner to secure it, in case any one should be after it."

"You'll have to go yourself, then; I can't."

"But you must, dear; you know quite well that you require a rest, and it's a fine bracing place, and plenty of nice milk and eggs, and--"

"I don't care for milk, and in any case I tell you I can't go."

"And the people are so kind, Mrs. Watson says."

"Why did she come home, then?"

"Oh! she had to, you know; and there's a horse and a trap we can have the use of. The farmer used to drive Mrs. Watson and the girls every day, but he says he couldn't drive now, as he'll be so busy; but that'll be all the better, because we'll have it all to ourselves, and you can drive fine. You remember when----"

"Drive! you would drive anybody out of his mind with your talk. Didn't I tell you I can't go."

"But you must, dear. I can't let you kill yourself with work, and Mrs. Watson says it is very cheap. She got the rooms for eight pounds and ten pounds, but she thinks it might be twelve pounds for August, only if we stayed on we might get it in September for six pounds, and then there's a great saving. You know when she was at Luss last year she paid about thirty shillings to get her luggage taken to the house, and then she had to pay for the cartage of the coals--I forget how much, but we would save all that because the farmer would send a cart, and that all helps to reduce the rent, you know."

"Well, we can't go there this month, and that's all about it. I don't care much where we go, but I must get into business every morning, and as you're on the economical tack, we can get the place cheaper in September. Now there's North Berwick; I know several fellows who come into town every morning, and we can all come together; in fact, I was told of a house close to the links--to the station; and then you know"--he added with more than his usual consideration--"it'll not be so lonely for you, as you'll meet a lot of your lady friends, and I can easily spare the Saturdays."

Mrs. M'Cranky was very reluctant to give up the dream of driving about the country without having to think of the cost per hour for a trap. Still she felt business must not be neglected, and September is often a nice month. M'Cranky was in a bad humour with himself. The idea of going to North Berwick had been a week in his head, and he was annoyed that he had not spoken of it before Mrs. Watson called, as he would have simply said, as he intended, that he would take a house there, for the sake of the golf. Now, he had, without thinking of the result, pretended that his object in going there was in order to be able to attend to business. He must now, however, keep up the deception.

"Is there any use putting in your knickerbockers," said Mrs. M'Cranky, the night before they were leaving.

"I dare say you may," said M'Cranky; "I may get a round in the evenings, you know"; and immediately he had spoken he was annoyed that he had not had courage to say he intended having more than a round in the evenings; it made him feel that he was afraid of his wife, though he would not admit to himself that such a thing was possible. It was just the way the thing had come about, but he would let her know soon, though, like most people, he put off the evil day of confession till too late.

"There's no use going in to town to-day," he said on the first morning. "I'll stay and see the things unpacked, and they know to write or wire if there's anything important. Where's my knickerbockers?"

Mrs. M'Cranky was pleased with her husband's thoughtfulness, knowing that he hated to be asked even to untie a rope; but he had little intention of ruffling his temper with the hated work. He was looking at his watch every few minutes, and asking if breakfast wasn't ready.

"Hurry up," he said to the girl; "just bring in whatever you have ready. I smell ham; if it's not ready, I couldn't take any--I mean I don't wish ham this morning, unless it's--; look sharp with whatever you have."

Mrs. M'Cranky was still in the bedroom, and he was hurrying with his breakfast as if he had only a few minutes to catch the morning train, so that he had just about finished when she entered.

"You haven't finished already?" she said, as he rose from the table.

"Yes; you've been a long time of dressing. Just help yourself to the ham, and I'll go out and have a saunter."

He had great difficulty in keeping his hands from his watch, and in restraining himself to walk slowly out of the room with the necessary aimlessness of one who has nothing to do. In the lobby he was careful not to make a noise in lifting the clubs, and though a door in the back garden opened to the Links, he walked out by the front, as the dining-room window commanded a view of the back garden; and no sooner had he got away from the house than he doubled his pace, making up his mind that he wouldn't sneak away in that manner again, but just say he was going to golf--not thinking how much easier it is to get into deceit than to get out of it.

"What's kept you?" said his friend Macfarlane at the teeing ground; "our number has been called."

"Well, there's a lot of things to unpack, you know."

This was literally true, but M'Cranky felt that his expression of it was fallacious, and, as he remembered reading at school, very nearly related to falsehood. It was humiliating, but he would put it all right to-morrow morning, and he might have acted up to his intentions if he had been able to adopt the proverb of thinking twice before speaking once; but when, next morning, Mrs. M'Cranky said, "You're not going to town in your knickerbockers, are you?" he hastily said:

"Oh, I don't know; there's nobody in town you know; but, in fact, I wasn't thinking----"

"Oh yes, keep them on. I like you in knickerbockers. I wish everybody wore them--gentlemen, I mean."

The interruption was unfortunate for poor M'Cranky's resolution; he was screwing himself up to say that he wasn't thinking of going to town, and giving up the pretence of not being able to get away from business. He did not like the idea of going round the Links, continually looking about him in fear of meeting his wife; but she had no suspicion, as he walked out without clubs, having told his caddie to keep them for him; and when she said, "You're not going to town with these clumsy boots on? Put on your brown shoes; they are much neater," he mumbled something about hurting his feet when he had thick stockings on.

The deception had been going on for about a fortnight, and M'Cranky was getting hardened in it, when his friend said, "Mrs. Macfarlane was telling me she had asked Mrs. M'Cranky along to supper to-night, and I was to bring you along with me."

"Thank you," said M'Cranky, with an idea that exposure was imminent. Would he ask his friend not to allude to golf? No; that would be a confession that he was afraid of his wife, and he would have no one think that. He must trust to luck. It would be bad enough for his wife to find it out, but worse if before other people. That was his least enjoyable day; and as golf requires all one's attention, and M'Cranky's thoughts were wandering, he played a bad game. He was wishing the night safely over, and he would certainly put an end to the deceit next day.

"Aren't our husbands looking well?" said Mrs. Macfarlane to Mrs. M'Cranky. "But no wonder they are brown; the two of them are never off the----"

"You have a fine view here," M'Cranky interrupted, trying to change the subject.

"Yes; I suppose you haven't been as far east before? You men never think of anything but the Links; you never think of taking out your wives."

"Well, you know, Mr. M'Cranky hasn't much time just now, and I know he is the better of any exercise he can get. However, next month we are going to Crieff, and he'll have no business to worry him; but when one has to go in to business every day, it just spoils the----"

"May we have a smoke?" said M'Cranky perspiring with excitement. "We might go outside"; and the two women were left to have a talk by themselves.

"Does your wife think you go in to town every morning?" Macfarlane asked, laughing, when they got outside.

"Oh, I don't think so," said M'Cranky, with assumed carelessness. "You see, she wanted to go to Crieff this month, and I--eh--didn't see my way at the time, and--eh--perhaps I didn't say anything about it after. She's always late for breakfast, and, in fact, I never thought anything about it."

The two ladies laughed when their husbands returned; and when Mrs. Macfarlane said, "There's not one better than another; men were deceivers ever," M'Cranky felt that the secret was out. "He has been telling his wife," he thought; "some men can't keep anything from their wives." Still he felt that he was only trying to excuse himself, and that he was in the wrong--a bitter admission for him to have to admit even to himself. And what was the cause of all his deceit? Simply that Davidson had asked him to have a day at Kinghorn, and had beaten him; and he had determined to have a month's practice, and challenge him again. "I could easily beat Davidson," he said, when asked how they got on; "he has a bad style of addressing the ball, and only takes a half swing."

Davidson, however, had been practising too, and has beaten him again in the return match, and now M'Cranky has not even the satisfaction of feeling that his subterfuge and humiliation have been compensated.

MRS. M'CRANKY AT THE
INTERNATIONAL FOOTBALL MATCH...

"You don't require uour ulster to-day, dear," said Mrs. M'Cranky on Saturday afternoon, seeing her husband preparing to go out; "it's quite mild, and your ulster's so shabby at any rate, and you've got your heavy shoes on too--are you going to golf?"

"No, I was thinking of going to the football match."

This was said as if his mind had not been made up on the subject, though he had bought two tickets for the stand the week before, one of which he had forgotten to give to the friend for whom he intended it.

"Is that where all the people are going? They were going down Queensferry Street in crowds just now when I came along. I wonder you can be bothered going to such a thing. May I come with you?"

"You'll be tired; you've just been out; and you don't think it will be worth seeing."

"I'll not be tired if I'm with you, and I don't care what it is as long as I'm beside you. I was at the Exhibition."

"Come along, then; we must hurry up to get a good seat."

"What a crowd of people!" said Mrs. M'Cranky, as they were entering the gate. "What do they charge for admission?"

"A shilling," said Mr. M'Cranky, truthfully, but fallaciously, handing over two tickets for which he had paid 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

"There's nothing to be seen but people. What are these men doing at that table?"

"These are the reporters."

"Is it so interesting as that? Will people read about it?"

"I should think so; it's the first thing a lot of fellows look at."

"But what is the game? What do they try to do?"

"Well, you see, the match to-day is between Scotland and Wales. The Scotch will try to drive the ball one way, and the Welsh the other; and if they kick it over that bar, that's a goal, and counts five."

"And do you mean to say that men will come all the way from Wales to kick a ball over a post?"

"Yes, and crowds will come with them to see it."

"Well, I didn't think men could be so stupid."

"Wait till you see them at it, and you'll understand. Here they come! I hear the people shouting. There they are! That's Wales!"

"They look very nice in their red jerseys. I hope they'll win."

"I hope not, by jingo! or I'll lose half a--eh; why do you hope they'll win? Wouldn't you be better pleased if Scotland won?"

"No; I think if they are at the trouble to come all this length, it would be only kindness of our side to let them win, and then they would go home pleased."

"There's Scotland coming in at the other end; hooray!"

"I hope they'll win too. They look very nice, but their jerseys are not so clean; they might have had them washed when they are receiving company. That's not a rough game. I've heard they were sometimes rough with each other."

"They haven't begun yet; that's only a bit fun to stretch themselves. There's a pigeon away."

"Where did it come from, dear?"

"The reporters; there, it's away to the office with a message."

"The dear, sweet, innocent thing; I hope it will find its way; it's flying round about, poor thing."

"Oh, it's all right. Scotland's lost the toss; they're kicking off."

"I wonder you can laugh, dear," said Mrs. M'Cranky a few minutes later; "didn't you see one of the Wales men knocked over, and his trousers are all mud, and the clumsy fellow who did it never stopped to apologise. No wonder the English think we're a set of savages. Hold your tongue, dear; don't shout like that. I wouldn't encourage them, and the people will hear you. There's another man down; it's perfectly disgraceful; and there's that stupid policeman looking on and pretending he doesn't see it. Now, if that were to happen in the street, he would take the man up quick enough. If I were these men from Wales, I would never come back."

"Well stopped, Cameron!" shouted M'Cranky.

"Oh, do you know them, dear? He's knocked down, I declare. The Welshmen are no better than ours. Is the little one Cameron?"

"Yes, yes; don't haver, it was well stopped."

"But that Welshman ought to be ashamed of himself; he's so much bigger than Cameron. Is he nice?--Cameron, I mean."

"Yes, a very nice fellow."

"Well, I think it's cruel to behave like that; he might have been hurt. What's the use of behaving like that? I don't understand what they're trying to do. What's the use of--look at that! I'm not going to stay here any longer; somebody is sure to get hurt. There was a man took another by the neck and deliberately threw him on the ground, just because he had the ball, I suppose. What's the use of fighting like that over a ball? Can they not take the other one--I saw them bring in two--and let each side use their own ball? Do you see any fun in that? Come away home, dear; you're shaking with cold."

M'Cranky was shaking, but it was with excitement.

"Not precious likely," he said. "I wouldn't miss this for anything. Pass! The idiot! why didn't he pass?"

"He couldn't get past, dear. You shouldn't speak like that. Didn't you see that man took a hold of him as if he had been a pickpocket? What are they doing now?"

"Scrimmage."

"I declare the people are all mad, shouting 'Scotland.' Can't they see the poor fellows are doing their best; and, besides, it's bad taste before the visitors. I can't understand you men; you wouldn't hurt a fly, and yet you laugh and shout 'well played' or something when a man throws another down and falls on the top of him. I didn't think you could be so cruel."

"Rubbish! Well saved again, Cameron! Played, MacGregor!"

"If you know the gentlemen, you should speak to them, dear; tell them not to be so rough, and I'm sure they would enjoy the game better. What will their mothers say when they go home with their clothes in such a mess! I wouldn't let them play if they were mine."

"Half-time. Well, the Scotch should do something next half, with what wind there is in their favour."

"Is it not finished, dear? I don't think we should stay. I'm sure you'll catch cold; you've just been shivering all the time. Is that slices of lemon they're getting? I think they should get some nice warm water to wash themselves, they are all so dirty; and I'm sure they would be the better of a cup of tea. It seems very difficult to do what they are trying, and no wonder; when any one got the ball and was running away, that gentleman with the flag blew a whistle and brought him back. What business has he to interfere?"

"He's referee, and it must have been thrown forward."

"Well, but one couldn't help that, if it's wrong. If I had the ball I would just run on, and pretend not to hear the whistle. He spoilt the game several times, and I'm sure they're all gentlemen, who wouldn't do anything unfair, though they are rough with each other."

"They're off again; Sco--otland!"

"Hold your tongue, dear; they're just working like slaves. I don't see how they can call that a game."

"D-- it, they're in! Isn't--that--most----"

"For shame, dear! You shouldn't speak like that. I don't see why you should pay to get in here, for you don't seem to have enjoyed it a bit. Has Wales won?"

"They've got a try--humbug!"

"Well, I'm very glad, after all their trouble coming here."

"Well played, Leggat! He's always on the spot when wanted."

"Now, isn't that simply disgraceful! They've torn a man's jersey. I believe the Welsh are just as bad as our fellows. Now, it's enough to give that poor fellow his death of cold, when he's heated; and the people are laughing, too, as if it was fun; but they seem to expect that sort of thing, for there's a man coming with another. I think they would require to keep a stock of wooden legs, if they go on that way. That's not the way gentlemen should behave."

"Our backs are weak," said M'Cranky to himself.

"Well, that one who had his jersey torn off has a very strong back; don't you think so? Now, there's one of the Welshmen hurt! I knew something would happen. It's perfectly disgraceful in a civilised country. Somebody should really write to the papers about it; and what are the policemen doing here if they allow that sort of conduct? They're taking off his stocking, poor fellow; I hope he'll have more sense than try football again, but there's not one better than another."

"Oh, he's all right; he's getting up again."

"Well, if I were him I would just say I wouldn't play; he's quite lame, poor fellow. I can't understand it; he's going to play again. Well, I hope it'll be a lesson to them all to be more careful; but I would like to go home, dear. I'm afraid some one will get hurt. You might come away; you know you're just exciting yourself for nothing. What do you say to having a cup of tea with----"

"Tea, be blowed! I'm not going to move. Scotland hasn't scored yet, and it's time they were hurrying up."

"I wonder you can be so cruel, dear. I think they have all more need of a rest."

"By jingo! there's Menzies in! No, he's brought back. Isn't that most----"

"Be careful, dear; people will hear you."

"Another try for Wales--well, I'm----"

"Hush, dear, we should really go away; you're getting quite cross."

"No wonder; it would make a saint swear--two tries to nothing!"

As Wales added a goal and a try to their score, M'Cranky got more excited, and his language waxed stronger; and when the game was over, he left in the worst of humours.

"I'm sure you haven't enjoyed it a bit," said Mrs. M'Cranky, "and I'm very glad, for you'll not go back again. I know I wouldn't sit again to see young men treat each other so roughly."

M'Cranky wished the game was to be played over again, and regretted there was not to be another International Match in Scotland this year; in any case, Mrs. M'Cranky won't be asked to go again.

MR. M'CRANKY

Mr. M'Cranky is not a bad sort of man--as long as things go smoothly, but he hasn't a morsel of patience, and gets out of temper if his wife can't find anything he wants at once.

One night at dinner he said: "By the by, I've got two tickets for the concert to-night; care to go? I'm not one of those fellows who never think of taking their wives anywhere; in fact, I think wives would be much cheerier to their husbands if they were taken out oftener."

"Oh, that will be delightful!" said Mrs. M'Cranky, "only I wish you had told me yesterday, so that I could have had my dress----"

"Had your dress turned or trimmed, or something; that's the worst of asking a woman to go anywhere; as much trouble about it."

M'Cranky settled down to the evening paper, in front of the fire, with his feet on the grate, and Mrs. M'Cranky bustled away to get out his dress suit, and put studs and links in his shirt, laying them all out, ready to put on.

When she was half dressed she cried: "It's time you were getting ready, dear."

"All right. I don't take an afternoon to dress; five minutes 'll do me."

After being called on about a dozen times, he went to dress, and found his wife struggling with a hook-and-eye at her back.

"Will you put in this hook, dear?" she said.

"H'm, you might be able to put on your own clothes by this time; con--found--" then he gave a tug, and his finger slipped and got scratched against the hook, and he said something that sounded like "damaged."

"Never mind, dear, I'll do it myself."

"Where's my shirt?"

"On the bed, dear."

"It isn't."

"I put everything out, ready for you; rise--oh! that's too bad, you've been sitting on it; your best one too, and look at it!"

"Never mind, gimme't. Hullo, as usual, no button on the back; you might manage to keep one button on a shirt; if I were a woman----"

"That's the new patent one you bought; it doesn't require a button."

"Oh, you just glue the collar to it, eh? or fix it with a screw-nail to the back of my neck? D'ye think I'm going with a collar up the back of my ears, like Sir Walter Raleigh? Gimme a one-button shirt."

"That's the one you got to--; it only requires a stud at the back; you said it was a 'great idea.'"

"See a stud, then."

"I haven't one, dear; didn't you get one with the shirt? Never mind, I'll fix it with a pin; it'll do for the night."

"All right, look alive. What are you--? You needn't pin it to my neck. Where's my tie? fasten it up."

"Can't you put on your own clothes yet, dear?" said Mrs. M'Cranky venturing on a mild retaliation.

"Smart, eh? where's my--. Oh, here it is. Now, hurry up; you're no further on than when I came into the room, and I'm nearly dressed."

"I've been attending to you, dear."

"Now, look here, we've only--. Hullo, my watch is standing."

"Perhaps you forgot to wind it up when you came home from that dinner last n--this morning."

"Where's the key? it's a strange thing women must dust everything out of sight. I've spoken till I'm tired, but you're all the same. Where is the key? I put it in the tray last night, and it's away. Can you not get it into that idiot's head to leave these things where she finds them?"

M'Cranky will not profit by experience; he has a feeling that whenever he puts out the gas, his slippers quietly creep under the bed or the dressing-table, and he has not yet discovered that their apparently supernatural disappearance is due to the way he throws them off. He has also to learn, in spite of years of experience, that looking for anything is not his forte, and that the missing article is generally where he left it, or in his pocket.

"If you left it there, it must be----"

"Left it there? Of course I did; I always put it in that tray; but of all the idiots you ever had, I think this one beats them. Tell her to go for a cab."

Mrs. M'Cranky rang, and hearing her say: "Tell Dickson to send a cab in about five minutes, Sarah," her husband continued: "Look alive, then, an' get dressed. The concert's to-night, you know. Where's my hanky? You always let me out without one, unless I remember.

"I laid one out for you, dear."

"Let's see you lift it then."

Mrs. M'Cranky was busy coiling up her hair and fastening it with hairpins, taking them from the usual receptacle (her mouth), so that she could not speak distinctly.

"I waid it on the beb, dear."

"Oh, you 'waid it on the beb,' did you? Would you just indicate where that is?"

Mrs. M'Cranky looked round and said: "There it's in your breast, dear."

"Look alive then; I don't want to go in late, as if it were church, and you had a new bonnet on. Hurry up; I'm all ready."

"Are you going in your stocking soles, dear?"

"Where's my shoes? Oh, here they are, now; hurry up, if you intend to go."

"I'm ready, dear; have you got everything?"

"Yes, yes; come on, for any sake."

Mrs. M'Cranky can't leave the house without giving the domestic a lot of instructions, and, as usual, when she was in the lobby, she began: "Sarah, put out the gas in the dining-room and shut the door, and keep the cat in the----"

"Oh, come on."

"I'm coming, dear; and, Sarah--"; then she whispered something, finishing with--"for supper, when we come home."

"Are you coming to-night?"

"Yes, dear; have you got the opera glass?"

"No; where is it?"

"In the drawer there. Sarah, have a good fire on, and--" and then followed more whispered injunctions, concluding with "for breakfast."

When they were seated in the cab, Mrs. M'Cranky said: "Have you got the tickets, dear?"

"No; con--found it. Hi! cabby; turn back; that's the worst of taking women anywhere."

"How, dear; can you get in without a ticket?"

Mr. M'Cranky was so long looking for the tickets that Mrs. M'Cranky went into help him, but he had just discovered them in his topcoat pocket.

"What did you worry me about the tickets for?" he asked, angrily. "I had them all right."

"Sarah, have you put out the----?"

"Oh, come on."

In paying the cabman, M'Cranky found he hadn't the necessary sixpence, and after fumbling in his pockets, he asked his wife: "Have you a sixpence?"

"No, dear, I'm sorry."

"H'm! you never have any money."

"I know, dear; I wish you would give me some more frequently."

The doors were not open, and M'Cranky's small stock of patience had long been exhausted, and though he had been bustling his wife, he said: "Now, you see! you would rush me out; we've half an hour to wait. Just like you women; no idea of the value of time. I might have had a comfortable smoke."

"Do you make money smoking, dear? we ought to be quite wealthy."

Though there was a considerable time to wait, Mrs. M'Cranky quite enjoyed herself, studying the dresses of the new arrivals, and pleased to bow to those she knew, as it showed them she had a considerate husband, and M'Cranky had the satisfactory feeling that he had done his duty as a husband.

On their return from the concert, Mrs. M'Cranky observed her husband taking the missing watch-key from his vest pocket; but her previous experiences in similar circumstances made her take no notice of his mistake.

THE SINGING LESSON

I once had a lesson in singing, though those who have heard me sing are sceptical. I got it from a dairyman--a peculiar speaker. His tongue seemed too large for his mouth, as if it had been made for his big brother. I knew that he was fond of singing, because he had told me he had "A chertificate frae the Choral Union. Oh, I got it framed up in the hooth yonder"; and knowing this, I asked him on one occasion how he was getting on with singing. "Oh, I'm gettin' on first rate noo. Man, I wath goin' on the wrang sthyle a'thegither, but I got thum letth'ns frae an Italian chap--what wath this his name wath again? Ye wad ken him fine; he wath in the Italian opery. Aye, hith name was thignor--aye, his first name was thignor something. Dash't, I wath thorry for the puir chap. Dash't, his very pianny wath p'inded! Ay, its an' awfu' thing that drink! By the by, thpeakin' aboot drink, I've left the auld man an' thartit a public hooth. Aweel, thinks I, thith ith a fine chance to get thum letth'ns in thingin' on the cheap, theein' he wuth hard up; tho' when I wath therv'n' um wi' milk, thays I, 'What d'ye chairge for letth'ns in thingin'?' Thays he, 'Fower guineaths for twelve letth'ns.' 'Oh, dash it,' thays I, 'thath's ower much for me,' an' I wath gaun awa' oot at th' door, an' of course he thocht he was gaun to loose a customer, so says he, 'What'll ye thtand us?' Oh, he could thpeak English as weelth mysel'. 'I'll stand ye a shovrin,' I thays. 'Very weel,' thays he. 'Noo let me hear ye thing yer favourite thang, so that I can get the thtyle o' yere v'ice. 'So I starths him on 'Annie Laurie'--thath's my favrit yin, ye ken--an' here's the way ye gang at it"; and taking a big breath, and pointing to the middle of his vest, he explained, "They dae a' thing frae here nooadays," and started: "'Hey, Maxwelton braes are bonnie.' Div ye see, accent on the 'max'; then there was anither bit I wath gaun on the wrang style a'thegither--thath's the bit whaur it says, 'I wad lay me doon and dee.' Hereth the way I was singin' 't, 'I wad lay-hay me do-hoon and a dee-he.' 'Stop a meenit,' this Italian chaps ays; 'stop wan meenit. Wha the devil,' he thays, 'ever heard,' says he, 'o' onybody,' he says, "'Lay-hayin themsel's do-hoon an' dee-heein'."' An' it's dasht nonsense when ye come to think o't. Then there was anither bit I was gaun on the wrang style a'thegither--thath's the bit that thays, 'Which ne'er forgot shall be'; an' this is the way ye gang at it: 'Which ne'er forgot shall be--and for bonnie.' Div ye thee jist let ye're v'ice die away, an' fill yersel' up wi' wind, an' on to the next line. 'Noo,' thays he, 'when ye're gaun up the scale, tak' the broad Italian _a_; for inst'nce, when ye come to the tap notes, ye'll find ye're compress'n twa-thirds o' yer thrapple thegethir.' An' the chap's quite richt. I've seen me when I was at the Corn Exchange, when Wully Gladstone was there, hear Sir John Cowan o' Beeslack; an' thays he--a thpeakin' frae his thrapple; jist what the Italian chap was sayin'--'Gentlemen, electurth of Midlothian,' compressin' his thrapple. Dash't, ye couldna' hear him back three sates; but when Wully Gladstone cam' to the front o' the pletform, what a difference--a' wind"; and as an example he repeated "Gentlemen electors" in a deep stentorian voice, contrasting with his high-pitched imitation of the chairman, as he remarked about Gladstone: "That's the very way he spoke. I didna ken till I gaed up to this Italian that a' they thingers an' elocutionists an' ministers, an' a' they devils, they a' go in for this new-fashioned v'ice production."

DAVID AND GOLIATH

The moral of this story is, "Ne sutor ultra crepidam," or "The shoemaker should stick to his stool," or creepie, as it is in the Latin, and in this case it is illustrated by the result of a butcher trying to preach.

Before the Forth Bridge was built--of course the incident happened a considerable time before the famous structure was erected; but previous to its means of transit, a steamer used to cross daily to the Fife shore, and on Thursday nights among the passengers there was a revival preacher; but one night, on account of a storm, the boat did not venture to cross, and the people of a Fife village were left without one to conduct the service. After waiting some time, Tom Carmichael, the village butcher, was pressed to take the position of pastor. Unfortunately, Tom had never previously spoken in public, and he had the further drawback of having an impediment in his speech, which was accentuated when, as in his present position, he was nervous through excitement.

As the audience was principally composed of children, on account of the mental food supplied, Tom had the brilliant idea of adopting the thrilling story of David and Goliath, to show the boys what they might be able to achieve if they tried very hard, and proceeded after the following fashion: "I--I--I'm called on rather su-suddenly to address the meetin'--address the meetin'; hooever, I'll tell ye aboot David an' Goliath. When David was a little boy, ye know--a little boy, jist like some o' yersel's, he was jist a wee bit chappie, a curly-heided callant; maby dozin' his peerie, his top, or playin' at bools in front o' his faither's door, on the ca-ca-causeway, on the pa-pavement, the plainstanes, when his fa-faither comes oot, cries 'Dauvit,' or maby 'Davie'--'Here, I want ye to rin awa' ower to the battlefield wi' some denner to the laddies.' An' of course Dauvit was quite pleased to gang, ye ken, bicus he had twa brithers in the militia, an' he wad like to gang up to hear the band playin'. So he gaed awa'--gaed awa' to the battlefield, an' the chi-chi-children of Israel were a' there; the ch-ildren of Israel--an' their parents nae doot--an' they were a' brused frae fechtin'. It was their denner-hour, an' they were a' afraid--no man would go oot an' meet the giant, this was Goliath of the Phillipstines. He was a big man, a muckle man; he stood aboot eight feet six in his stockin' soles--in fact, a' the giants were big men in those days. But David says to them, says he, 'What are ye a' feard for?' says he; 'I'll gang oot an' meet him.' So they took him ower to Saul's tent an' put some airmour on; but David said, 'That'll no dae for me; tak' it off, tak' it off.' So he gaed awa' doon to the burnside--no a big burn, nor a river, nor an ocean, but jist a common wee bit burnie brook; an' he pickit up some stanes, no big stanes, nor a lump o' rock, but jist a pebble, a ch-ch-uckie, an' he gaed awa' oot to meet this giant, this was Goliath o' the Phillictsines, a man aboot the height o'--a common haystack. An' when Goliath saw the laddie, says he--stickin' his thumbs in his waistcoat sleeves, 'What are ye wantin' here?' says he. An' David says, 'I'll sune let ye see.' An' Goliath says, 'Wull ye, my man; I'm thinkin' ye'll sune be goin' back in the ambulance waggon.' But David never let on he heard him, but he just put a chuckie in the sling an' let him have it; struck him on his big fozie heid--on the brow, the temple, atween his een, abune the nose; an' Goliath cries oot: 'What are ye dain? D'ye ken that's sair.' Aye, he hadna time to cry a barly, he was fair dumbfoundered--sic a thing as a chuckie had never entered his heid before; but David jist felled him to the ground, an' syne up came the ch-ch-ildren of Israel, rinnin,' an' says they: 'What are ye dain' lyin' there, ye muckle sumph; can ye no' get up an' fecht the laddie?' An', says Goliath: 'Hoo can I get up an' fecht the laddie? D'ye no' see I'm thrang deein'.' But David jist ran awa' roond an' got oot his sword an' cutt it aff his heid--cuttit aff his heid, an' took it hame wi' him--took it hame wi' him, and--eh--there's a fine moral kickin' aboot here somewhere; I forget what it is, but if ye meet wi' ony big difficulty like Goliath o' the Phillipstines, jist act like little David, the wee boy."