Erchie, My Droll Friend

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Munro Neil. Erchie, My Droll Friend

PREFACE

I INTRODUCTORY TO AN ODD CHARACTER

II ERCHIE’S FLITTING

III DEGENERATE DAYS

IV THE BURIAL OF BIG MACPHEE

V THE PRODIGAL SON

VI MRS DUFFY DESERTS HER MAN

VII CARNEGIE’S WEE LASSIE

VIII A SON OF THE CITY

IX ERCHIE ON THE KING’S CRUISE

X HOW JINNET SAW THE KING

XI ERCHIE RETURNS

XII DUFFY’S FIRST FAMILY

XIII ERCHIE GOES TO A BAZAAR

XIV HOLIDAYS

XV THE STUDENT LODGER

XVI JINNET’S TEA-PARTY

XVII THE NATIVES OF CLACHNACUDDEN

XVIII MARY ANN

XIX DUFFY’S, WEDDING

XX ON CORPORAL PUNISHMENT

XXI THE FOLLIES OF FASHION

XXII ERCHIE IN AN ART TEA-ROOM

XXIII THE HIDDEN TREASURE

XXIV THE VALENTEEN

XXV AMONG THE PICTURES

XXVI THE PROBATIONARY GHOST

XXVII JINNET’S CHRISTMAS SHOPPING

XXVIII A BET ON BURNS

XXIX THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN

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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.

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“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.

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