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PREFACE
The majority of the following chapters are selections from “Erchie” articles contributed to the pages of the ‘Glasgow Evening News’ during the past three years. A number of the sketches are now published for the first time.
I INTRODUCTORY TO AN ODD CHARACTER
On Sundays he is the beadle of our church; at other times he Waits. In his ecclesiastical character there is a solemn dignity about his deportment that compels most of us to call him Mr MacPherson; in his secular hours, when passing the fruit at a city banquet, or when at the close of the repast he sweeps away the fragments of the dinner-rolls, and whisperingly expresses in your left ear a fervent hope that “ye’ve enjoyed your dinner,” he is simply Erchie.
Once I forgot, deluded a moment into a Sunday train of thought by his reverent way of laying down a bottle of Pommery, and called him Mr MacPherson. He reproved me with a glance of his eye.
“There’s nae Mr MacPhersons here,” said he afterwards; “at whit ye might call the social board I’m jist Erchie, or whiles Easy-gaun Erchie wi’ them that kens me langest. There’s sae mony folks in this world don’t like to hurt your feelings that if I was kent as Mr MacPherson on this kind o’ job I wadna mak’ enough to pay for starchin’ my shirts.”
I suppose Mr MacPherson has been snibbing-in preachers in St Kentigern’s Kirk pulpit and then going for twenty minutes’ sleep in the vestry since the Disruption; and the more privileged citizens of Glasgow during two or three generations of public dinners have experienced the kindly ministrations of Erchie, whose proud motto is “A flet fit but a warm hert.” I think, however, I was the first to discover his long pent-up and precious strain of philosophy.
On Saturday nights, in his office as beadle of St Kentigern’s, he lights the furnaces that take the chill off the Sunday devotions. I found him stoking the kirk fires one Saturday, not very much like a beadle in appearance, and much less like a waiter. It was what, in England, they call the festive season.
“There’s mair nor guid preachin’ wanted to keep a kirk gaun,” said he; “if I was puttin’ as muckle dross on my fires as the Doctor whiles puts in his sermons, efter a Setturday at the gowf, ye wad see a bonny difference on the plate. But it’s nae odds-a beadle gets sma’ credit, though it’s him that keeps the kirk tosh and warm, and jist at that nice easy-osy temperature whaur even a gey cauldrife member o’ the congregation can tak’ his nap and no’ let his lozenge slip doon his throat for chitterin wi’ the cauld.”
There was a remarkably small congregation at St Kentigern’s on the following day, and when the worthy beadle had locked the door after dismissal and joined me on the pavement, “Man,” he said, “it was a puir turn-oot yon – hardly worth puttin’ on fires for. It’s aye the wye; when I mak’ the kirk a wee bit fancy, and jalouse there’s shair to be twa pound ten in the plate, on comes a blash o’ rain, and there’s hardly whit wid pay for the starchin’ o’ the Doctor’s bands.
“Christmas! They ca’t Christmas, but I could gie anither name for’t. I looked it up in the penny almanac, and it said, ‘Keen frost; probably snow,’ and I declare-to if I hadna nearly to soom frae the hoose.
“The almanacs is no’ whit they used to be; the auld chaps that used to mak’ them maun be deid.
“They used to could do’t wi’ the least wee bit touch, and tell ye in January whit kind o’ day it wad be at Halloween, besides lettin’ ye ken the places whaur the Fair days and the ‘ool-markets was, and when they were to tak’ place-a’ kind o’ information that maist o’ us that bocht the almanacs couldna sleep at nicht wantin’. I’ve seen me get up at three on a cauld winter’s mornin’ and strikin’ a licht to turn up Orr’s Penny Commercial and see whit day was the Fair at Dunse. I never was at Dunse in a’ my days, and hae nae intention o’ gaun, but it’s a grand thing knowledge, and it’s no’ ill to cairry. It’s like poetry-’The Star o’ Rabbie Burns’ and that kind o’ thing-ye can aye be givin’ it a ca’ roond in your mind when ye hae naething better to dae.
“Oh, ay! A puir turn-oot the day for Kenti-gern’s; that’s the drawback o’ a genteel congregation like oors-mair nor half o’ them’s sufferin’ frae Christmas turkey and puttin’ the blame on the weather.”
“The bubbly-jock is the symbol o’ Scotland’s decline and fa’; we maybe bate the English at Bannockburn, but noo they’re haein’ their revenge and underminin’ oor constitution wi’ the aid o’ a bird that has neither a braw plumage nor a bonny sang, and costs mair nor the price o’ three or four ducks. England gave us her bubbly-jock and took oor barley-bree.
“But it’s a’ richt; Ne’erday’s comin’; it’s begun this year gey early, for I saw Duffy gaun up his close last nicht wi’ his nose peeled.
“‘Am I gaun hame, or am I comin’ frae’t, can ye tell me?’ says he, and he was carryin’ something roond-shaped in his pocket-naipkin.
“‘Whit’s wrang wi’ ye, puir cratur?’ I says to him.
“‘I was struck wi’ a sheet o’ lichtnin’,’ says he, and by that I ken’t he had been doon drinkin’ at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, and that the season o’ peace on earth, guid-will to men was fairly started.
“‘MacPherson,’ he says, wi’ the tear at his e’e, ‘I canna help it, but I’m a guid man.’
“‘Ye are that, Duffy,’ I says, ‘when ye’re in your bed sleepin’; at ither times ye’re like the rest o’ us, and that’s gey middlin’. Whit hae’ye in the naipkin?’
“He gied a dazed look at it, and says, ‘I’m no shair, but I think it’s a curlin’-stane, and me maybe gaun to a bonspiel at Carsbreck.’
“He opened it oot, and found it was a wee, roond, red cheese.
“‘That’s me, a’ ower,’ says he – ‘a Christmas for the wife,’ and I declare there was as much drink jaupin’ in him as wad hae done for a water-’shute.’
“Scotland’s last stand in the way o’ national customs is bein’ made at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, whaur the flet half-mutchkin, wrapped up in magenta tissue paper so that it’ll look tidy, is retreatin’ doggedly, and fechtin’ every fit o’ the way, before the invadin’ English Christmas caird. Ten years ago the like o’ you and me couldna’ prove to a freen’ that we liked him fine unless we took him at this time o’ the year into five or six public-hooses, leaned him up against the coonter, and grat on his dickie. Whit dae we dae noo? We send wee Jennie oot for a shilling box o’ the year afore last’s patterns in Christmas cairds, and show oor continued affection and esteem at the ha’penny postage rate.
“Instead o’, takin’ Duffy roon’ the toon on Ne’erday, and hurtin’ my heid wi’ tryin’ to be jolly, I send him a Christmas caird, wi’ the picture o’ a hayfield on the ootside and ‘Wishin’ you the Old, Old Wish, Dear,’ on the inside, and stay in the hoose till the thing blaws bye.
“The shilling box o’ Christmas cairds is the great peace-maker; a gross or twa should hae been sent oot to Russia and Japan, and it wad hae stopped the war.’ Ye may hae thocht for a twelvemonth the MacTurks were a disgrace to the tenement, wi’ their lassie learnin’ the mandolin’, and them haein’ their gas cut aff at the meter for no’ payin’ the last quarter; but let them send a comic caird to your lassie – ‘Wee Wullie to Wee Jennie,’ and they wad get the len’ o’ your wife’s best jeely-pan.
“No’ but whit there’s trouble wi’ the Christmas caird. It’s only when ye buy a shillin’ box and sit doon wi’ the wife and weans to consider wha ye’ll send them to that ye fin’ oot whit an awfu’ lot o’ freen’s ye hae. A score o’ shillin’ boxes wadna gae ower half the kizzens I hae, wi’ my grandfaither belangin’ to the Hielan’s, so Jinnet an’ me jist let’s on to some o’ them we’re no’ sendin’ ony cairds oot this year because it’s no’ the kin’ o’ society go ony langer. And ye have aye to keep pairt o’ the box till Ne’erday to send to some o’ the mair parteeclar anes ye forgot a’ thegither were freen’s o’ yours till they sent ye a caird.
“Anither fau’t I hae to the Christmas cairds is that the writin’ on them’s generally fair rideeculous.
“‘May Christmas Day be Blythe and Gay, and bring your household Peace and Joy,’ is on the only caird left ower to send to Mrs Maclure; and when ye’re shearin’ aff the selvedges o’t to mak’ it fit a wee envelope, ye canna but think that it’s a droll message for a hoose wi’ five weans lyin’ ill wi’ the whoopin’-cough, and the man cairryin’ on the wye Maclure does.
“‘Old friends, old favourites, Joy be with you at this Season,’ says the caird for the MacTurks, and ye canna but mind that every third week there’s a row wi’ Mrs MacTurk and your wife aboot the key o’ the washin’-hoose and lettin’ the boiler rust that bad a’ the salts o’ sorrel in the Apothecaries’ll no tak’ the stains aff your shirts.
“Whit’s wanted is a kin’ o’ slidin’ scale o’ sentiment on Christmas cairds, so that they’ll taper doon frae a herty greetin’ ye can truthfully send to a dacent auld freen’ and the kind o’ cool ‘here’s to ye!’ suited for an acquaintance that borrowed five shillin’s frae ye at the Term, and hasna much chance o’ ever payin’t back again.
“If it wasna for the Christmas cairds a lot o’ us wad maybe never jalouse there was onything parteecular merry aboot the season. Every man that ye’re owin’ an accoont to sends it to ye then, thinkin’ your hert’s warm and your pouches rattlin’. On Christmas Day itsel’ ye’re aye expectin’ something; ye canna richt tell whit it is, but there’s ae thing certain – that it never comes. Jinnet, my wife, made a breenge for the door every time the post knocked on Thursday, and a’ she had for’t at the end o’ the day was an ashet fu’ o’ whit she ca’s valenteens, a’ written on so that they’ll no even dae for next year.
“I used to wonder whit the banks shut for at Christmas, but I ken noo; they’re feart that their customers, cairried awa’ wi’ their feelin’ o’ guid-will to men, wad be makin’ a rush on them to draw money for presents, and maybe create a panic.
“Sae far as I can judge there’s been nae panic at the banks this year.”
“Every Ne’erday for the past fifty years I hae made up my mind I was gaun to be a guid man,” he went on. “It jist wants a start, they tell me that’s tried it, and I’m no’ that auld. Naething bates a trial.
“I’m gaun to begin at twelve o’clock on Hogmanay, and mak’ a wee note o’t in my penny diary, and put a knot in my hankie to keep me in mind. Maist o’ us would be as guid’s there’s ony need for if we had naething else to think o’. It’s like a man that’s hen-taed – he could walk fine if he hadna a train to catch, or the rent to rin wi’ at the last meenute, or somethin’ else to bother him. I’m gey faur wrang if I dinna dae the trick this year, though.
“Oh! ay. I’m gaun to be a guid man. No’ that awfu’ guid that auld freen’s’ll rin up a close to hide when they see me comin’, but jist dacent – jist guid enough to please mysel’, like Duffy’s singin’. I’m no’ makin’ a breenge at the thing and sprainin’ my leg ower’t. I’m startin’ canny till I get into the wye o’t. Efter this Erchie MacPherson’s gaun to flype his ain socks and no’ leave his claes reel-rail aboot the hoose at night for his wife Jinnet to lay oot richt in the mornin’. I’ve lost money by that up till noo, for there was aye bound to be an odd sixpence droppin’ oot and me no’ lookin’. I’m gaun to stop skliffin’ wi’ my feet; it’s sair on the boots. I’m gaun to save preens by puttin’ my collar stud in a bowl and a flet-iron on the top o’t to keep Erchie’s Flitting it frae jinkin’ under the chevalier and book-case when I’m sleepin’. I’m gaun to wear oot a’ my auld waistcoats in the hoose. I’m – ”
“My dear Erchie,” I interrupted, “these seem very harmless reforms.”
“Are they?” said he. “They’ll dae to be gaun on wi’ the noo, for I’m nae phenomena; I’m jist Nature; jist the Rale Oreeginal.”
II ERCHIE’S FLITTING
He came down the street in the gloaming on Tuesday night with a bird-cage in one hand and a potato-masher in the other, and I knew at once, by these symptoms, that Erchie was flitting.
“On the long trail, the old trail, the trail that is always new, Erchie?” said I, as he tried to push the handle of the masher as far up his coat sleeve as possible, and so divert attention from a utensil so ridiculously domestic and undignified.
“Oh, we’re no’ that bad!” said he. “Six times in the four-and-forty year. We’ve been thirty years in the hoose we’re leavin’ the morn, and I’m fair oot o’ the wye o’ flittin’. I micht as weel start the dancin’ again.”
“Thirty years! Your household gods plant a very firm foot, Erchie.”
“Man, ay! If it wisna for Jinnet and her new fandangles, I wad nae mair think o’ flittin’ than o’ buyin’ a balloon to mysel’; but ye ken women! They’re aye gaun to be better aff onywhaur else than whaur they are. I ken different, but I havena time to mak’ it plain to Jinnet.”
On the following day I met Erchie taking the air in the neighbourhood of his new domicile, and smoking a very magnificent meerschaum pipe.
“I was presented wi’ this pipe twenty years ago,” said he, “by a man that went to California, and I lost it a week or twa efter that. It turned up at the flittin’. That’s ane o’ the advantages o’ flittin’s; ye find things ye havena seen for years.”
“I hope the great trek came off all right, Erchie?”
“Oh, ay! no’ that bad, considerin’ we were sae much oot o’ practice. It’s no’ sae serious when ye’re only gaun roond the corner to the next street. I cairried a lot o’ the mair particular wee things roond mysel’ last nicht – the birdcage and Gledstane’s picture and the room vawzes and that sort o’ thing, but at the hinder-end Jinnet made me tak’ the maist o’ them back again.”
“Back again, Erchie?”
“Ay. She made oot that I had cairried ower sae muckle that the flittin’ wad hae nae appearance on Duffy’s cairt, and haein’ her mind set on the twa rakes, and a’ the fancy things lying at the close-mooth o’ the new hoose till the plain stuff was taken in, I had just to cairry back a guid part o’ whit I took ower last nicht. It’s a rale divert the pride o’ women! But I’m thinkin’ she’s vex’t for’t the day, because yin o’ the things I took back was a mirror, and it was broke in Duffy’s cairt. It’s a gey unlucky thing to break a lookin’-gless.”
“A mere superstition, Erchie.”
“Dod! I’m no’ sae shair o’ that. I kent a lookin’-gless broke at a flittin’ afore this, and the man took to drink a year efter’t, and has been that wye since.”
“How came you to remove at all?”
“It wad never hae happened if I hadna gane to a sale and seen a coal-scuttle. It’s a dangerous thing to introduce a new coal-scuttle into the bosom o’ your faimily. This was ane o’ thae coal-scuttles wi’ a pentin’ o’ the Falls o’ Clyde and Tillitudlem Castle on the lid. I got it for three-and-tuppence; but it cost me a guid dale mair nor I bargained for. The wife was rale ta’en wi’t, but efter a week or twa she made oot that it gar’d the auld room grate we had look shabby, and afore ye could say knife she had in a new grate wi’ wally sides till’t, and an ash-pan I couldna get spittin’ on. Then the mantelpiece wanted a bed pawn on’t to gie the grate a dacent look, and she pit on a plush yin. Ye wadna hinder her efter that to get plush-covered chairs instead o’ the auld hair-cloth we got when we were mairried. Her mither’s chist-o’-drawers didna gae very weel wi’ the plush chairs, she found oot in a while efter that, and they were swapped wi’ twa pound for a chevalier and book-case, though the only books I hae in the hoose is the Family Bible, Buchan’s Domestic Medicine,’ and the ‘Tales o’ the Borders.’ It wad hae been a’ richt if things had gane nae further, but when she went to a sale hersel’ and bought a Brussels carpet a yaird ower larig for the room, she made oot there was naethin’ for’t but to flit to a hoose wi’ a bigger room. And a’ that happened because a pented coal-scuttle took ma e’e.”
“It’s an old story, Erchie; ‘c’est le premier pas que coute,’ as the French say.”
“The French is the boys!” says Erchie, who never gives himself away. “Weel, we’re flittin’ onywye, and a bonny trauchle it is. I’ll no’ be able to find my razor for a week or twa.”
“It’s a costly process, and three flittin’s are worse than a fire, they say.”
“It’s worse nor that; it’s worse nor twa Irish lodgers.
“‘It’ll cost jist next to naethin’,’ says Jinnet. ‘Duffy’ll tak’ ower the furniture in his lorry for freen’ship’s sake, an’ there’s naethin’ ‘ll need to be done to the new hoose.’
“But if ye ever flitted yersel’, ye’ll ken the funny wyes o’ the waxcloth that’s never cut the same wye in twa hooses; and I’ll need to be gey thrang at my tred for the next month of twa to pay for the odds and ends that Jinnet never thought o’.
“Duffy flitted us for naethin’, but ye couldna but gie the men a dram. A flittin’ dram’s by-ordinar; ye daurna be scrimp wi’t, or they’ll break your delf for spite, and ye canna be ower free wi’t either, or they’ll break everything else oot o’ fair guid-natur. I tried to dae the thing judeecious, but I forgot to hide the bottle, and Duffy’s heid man and his mate found it when I wasna there, and that’s wye the lookin’ gless was broken. Thae cairters divna ken their ain strength.
“It’s a humblin’ sicht your ain flittin’ when ye see’t on the tap o’ a coal-lorry.”
“Quite so, Erchie; chiffoniers are like a good many reputations – they look all right so long as you don’t get seeing the back of them.”
“And cairters hae nane o’ the finer feelin’s, I think. In spite o’ a’ that Jinnet could dae, they left the pots and pans a’ efternoon on the pavement, and hurried the plush chairs up the stair at the first gae-aff. A thing like that’s disheartenin’ to ony weel-daein’ woman.
“‘Hoots!’ says I to her, ‘whit’s the odds? There’s naebody heedin’ you nor your flittin’.’ “‘Are they no’?’ said Jinnet, keekin’ up at the front o’ the new land. ‘A’ the Venetian blinds is doon, and I’ll guarantee there’s een behind them.’
“We werena half-an-oor in the new hoose when the woman on the same stairheid chappet at the door and tellt us it was oor week o’ washin’ oot the close. It wasna weel meant, but it did Jinnet a lot o’ guid, for she was sitting in her braw new hoose greetin’.”
“Greetin’, Erchie? Why?”
“Ask that! Ye’ll maybe ken better nor I dae.”
“Well, you have earned your evening pipe at least, Erchie,” said I.
He knocked out its ashes on his palm with a sigh. “I hiv that! Man, it’s a gey dauntenin’ thing a flittin’, efter a’. I’ve a flet fit, but a warm hert; and efter thirty years o’ the auld hoose I was swear’t to leave’t. I brocht up a family in’t, and I wish Jinnet’s carpet had been a fit or twa shorter, or that I had never seen yon coal-scuttle wi’ the Falls o’ Clyde and Tillitudlem Castle.”
III DEGENERATE DAYS
The tred’s done,” said Erchie.
“What! beadling?” I asked him.
“Oh! there’s naethin’ wrang wi’ beadlin’,” said he; “there’s nae ups and doons there except to put the books on the pulpit desk, and they canna put ye aff the job if ye’re no jist a fair wreck. I’m a’ richt for the beadlin’ as lang’s I keep my health and hae Jinnet to button my collar, and it’s generally allo’ed – though maybe I shouldna say’t mysel’ – that I’m the kind o’ don at it roond aboot Gleska. I michtna be, if I wasna gey carefu’. Efter waitin’ at a Setterday nicht spree, I aye tak’ care to gie the bell an extra fancy ca’ or twa on the Sunday mornin’ jist to save clash and mak’ them ken Mac-Pherson’s there himsel’, and no’ some puir pick-up that never ca’d the handle o’ a kirk bell in his life afore.
“There’s no’ a man gangs to oor kirk wi’ better brushed boots than mysel’, as Jinnet’ll tell ye, and if I hae ae gift mair nor anither it’s discretioncy. A beadle that’s a waiter has to gae through life like the puir troot they caught in the Clyde the other day – wi’ his mooth shut, and he’s worse aff because he hasna ony gills – at least no’ the kind ye pronounce that way.
“Beadlin’s an art, jist like pentin’ photograph pictures, or playin’ the drum, and if it’s no’ in ye, naethin’ ‘ll put it there. I whiles see wee skina-malink craturs dottin’ up the passages in U.F. kirks carryin’ the books as if they were M.C.‘s at a dancin’-schule ball gaun to tack up the programme in front o’ the band; they lack thon rale releegious glide; they havena the feet for’t.
“Waitin’ is whit I mean; it’s fair done!
“When I began the tred forty-five year syne in the auld Saracen Heid Inn, a waiter was looked up to, and was well kent by the best folk in the toon, wha’ aye ca’d him by his first name when they wanted the pletform box o’ cigaurs handed doon instead o’ the Non Plus Ultras.
“Nooadays they stick a wally door-knob wi’ a number on’t in the lapelle o’ his coat, and it’s Hey, No. 9, you wi’ the flet feet, dae ye ca’ this ham?’
“As if ye hadna been dacently christened and brocht up an honest faimily!
“In the auld days they didna drag a halflin callan’ in frae Stra’ven, cut his nails wi’ a hatchet, wash his face, put a dickie and a hired suit on him, and gie him the heave into a banquet-room, whaur he disna ken the difference between a finger-bowl and a box o’ fuzuvian lichts.
“I was speakin’ aboot that the ither nicht to Duffy, the coalman, and he says, ‘Whit’s the odds, MacPherson? Wha’ the bleezes couldna’ sling roon’ blue-mange at the richt time if he had the time-table, or the menu, or whitever ye ca’t, to keep him richt?’
“‘Wha’ couldna’ sell coal,’ said I, ‘if he had the jaw for’t? Man, Duffy,’ says I, ‘I never see ye openin’ your mooth to roar coal up a close but I wonder whit wye there should be sae much talk in the Gleska Toon Cooncil aboot the want o’ vacant spaces.’
“Duffy’s failin’; there’s nae doot o’t. He has a hump on him wi’ carryin’ bags o’ chape coal and dross up thae new, genteel, tiled stairs, and he let’s on it’s jist a knot in his gallowses, but I ken better. I’m as straucht as a wand mysel’ – faith, I micht weel be, for a’ that I get to cairry hame frae ony o’ the dinners nooadays. I’ve seen the day, when Blythswood Square and roond aboot it was a’ the go, that it was coonted kind o’ scrimp to let a waiter hame withoot a heel on him like yin o’ thae Clyde steamers gaun oot o’ Rothesay quay on a Fair Settu’rday.
“Noo they’ll ripe your very hip pooches for fear ye may be takin’ awa’ a daud o’ custard, or the toasted crumbs frae a dish o’ pheasant.
“They needna’ be sae awfu’ feart, some o’ them. I ken their dinners – cauld, clear, bane juice, wi’ some strings o’ vermicelli in’t; ling-fish hash; a spoonfu’ o’ red-currant jeely, wi’ a piece o’ mutton the size o’ a domino in’t, if ye had time to find it, only ye’re no’ playin’ kee-hoi; a game croquette that’s jist a flaff o’ windy paste; twa cheese straws; four green grapes, and a wee lend o’ a pair o’ silver nut-crackers, the wife o’ the hoose got at her silver weddin’.
“Man! it’s a rale divert! I see big, strong, healthy Bylies and members o’ the Treds’ Hoose and the Wine, Speerit, and Beer Tred risin’ frae dinners like that, wi’ their big, braw, gold watch-chains hingin’ doon to their knees.
“As I tell Jinnet mony a time, it’s women that hae fair ruined dinner-parties in oor generation. They tak’ the measure o’ the appetities o’ mankind by their ain, which hae been a’thegether spoiled wi’ efternoon tea, and they think a man can mak’ up wi’ music in the drawin’-room for whit he didna get at the dinner-table.
“I’m a temperate man mysel’, and hae to be, me bein’ a beadle, but I whiles wish we had back the auld days I hae read aboot, when a laddie was kept under the table to lowse the grauvats o’ the gentlemen that fell under’t, in case they should choke themsel’s. Scotland was Scotland then!
“If they choked noo, in some places I’ve been in, it wad be wi’ thirst.
“The last whisk o’ the petticoat’s no roon’ the stair-landin’ when the man o’ the hoose puts the half o’ his cigarette bye for again, and says, ‘The ladies will be wonderin’ if we’ve forgotten them,’ and troosh a’ the puir deluded craturs afore him up the stair into the drawin’-room where his wife Eliza’s maskin’ tea, and a lady wi’ tousy hair’s kittlin’ the piano till it’s sair.
“‘Whit’s your opinion about Tschaikovski?’ I heard a wumman ask a Bylie at a dinner o’ this sort the ither nicht.
“‘I never heard o’ him,’ said the Bylie, wi’ a gant, ‘but if he’s in the proveesion tred, there’ll be an awfu’ run on his shop the morn’s morn’.’