Part 17 (2/2)

trust him in great things as well as sma'.

It took me a lang time to get used to knowing I had arrived, as the saying is. Whiles I'd still be worried, sometimes, aboot the future.

But soon it got so's I could scarce imagine a time when getting an engagement had seemed a great thing. In the old days I used to look in the wee book I kept, and I'd see a week's engagement marked, a long time ahead, and be thankfu' that that week, at least, there'd be siller coming in.

And noo--well, the noo it's when I look in the book and see, maybe a year ahead, a blank week, when I've no singing the do, that I'm pleased.

”Eh, Tom,” I'll say. ”Here's a bit o' luck! Here's the week frae September fifteenth on next year when I've no dates!”

”Aye, Harry,” he'll answer me. ”D'ye no remember? We'll be on the ocean then, bound for America. That's why there's no dates that week.”

But the time will be coming soon when I can stop and rest and tak'

life easy. 'Twill no be as happy a time as I'd dreamed it micht be.

His mither and I had looked forward to settling doon when ma work was done, wi' my boy John living nearby. I bought my farm at Dunoon that he micht ha' a place o' his ain to tak' his wife tae when he married her, and where his bairns could be brought up as bairns should be, wi'

glen and hill to play wi'. Aweel, G.o.d has not willed that it should be sae. Mrs. Lauder and I canna have the grandchildren we'd dreamed aboot to play at our knees.

But we've one another still, and there's muckle tae be thankfu' for.

One thing I liked fine aboot living in London as I did. I got to know my boy better than I could ha' done had we stayed at hame ayant the Tweed. I could sleep hame almost every nicht, and I'd get up early enough i' the morning to spend some time wi' him. He was at school a great deal, but he was always glad tae see his dad. He was a rare hand wi' the piano, was John--a far better musician than ever I was or shall be. He'd play accompaniments for me often, and I've never had an accompanist I liked sae well. It's no because he was my boy I say that he had a touch, and a way of understanding just what I was trying tae do when I sang a song, that made his accompaniment a part of the song and no just something that supported ma voice.

But John had no liking for the stage or the concert platform. It was the law that interested him. That aye seemed a little strange tae me.

But I was glad that he should do as it pleased him. It was a grand thing, his mother and I thought, that we could see him gae to Cambridge, as we'd dreamed, once, many years before it ever seemed possible, that he micht do. And before the country called him to war he took his degree, and was ready to begin to read law.

We played many a game o' billiards together, John and I, i' the wee hoose at Tooting. We were both fond o' the game, though I think neither one of us was a great player. John was better than I, but I was the stronger in yon days, and I'd tak' a great swipe sometimes and pocket a' the b.a.l.l.s. John was never quite sure whether I meant to mak'

some o' the shots, but he was a polite laddie, and he'd no like to be accusing his faither o' just being lucky.

”Did ye mean that shot, pal” he'd ask me, sometimes. I'd aye say yes, and, in a manner o' speaking, I had.

Aweel, yon days canna come again! But it's gude to think upon them.

And it's better to ha' had them than no, no matter what Tennyson sang once. ”A sorrow's crown of sorrow--to remember happier things.” Was it no sae it went? I'm no thinking sae! I'm glad o' every memory I have of the boy that lies in France.

CHAPTER XVII

There was talk that I micht gae to America lang before the time came.

I'd offers--oh, aye! But I was uncertain. It was a tricky business, tae go sae far frae hame. A body would be a fool to do sae unless he waur sure and siccar against loss. All the time I was doing better and better in Britain. And it seems that American visitors to Britain, tourists and the like, came to hear me often, and carried hame reports--to say nothing of the scouts the American managers always have abroad.

Still, I was verra reluctant tae mak' the journey. I was no kennin'

what sort of a hand I'd be for an ocean voyage. And then, I was liking my ain hame fine, and the idea of going awa' frae it for many months was trying tae me. It was William Morris persuaded me in the end, of course. There's a man would persuade a'body at a' tae do his will.

He'll be richt sae, often, you see, that you canna hault oot against the laddie at all. I'm awfu' fond o' Wullie Morris. He should ha' been a Scot.

He made me great promises. I didna believe them a', for it seemed impossible that they could be true. But I liked the man, and I decided that if the half of what he said was true it would be verra interesting--verra interesting indeed. Whiles, when you deal w' a man and he tells you more than you think he can do, you come to distrust him altogether. It was not so that I felt aboot Wull Morris.

It was a great time when I went off to America at last. My friends made a great to-do aboot my going. There were pipers to play me off--I mind the way they skirled. Verra soft they were playing at the end, ane of my favorite tunes--”Will ye no come back again?” And so I went.

I was a better sailor than I micht ha' thought. I enjoyed the voyage.

And I'll ne'er forget my first sicht o' New York. It's e'en more wonderfu' the noo; there's skysc.r.a.pers they'd not dared dream of, so high they are, when I was first there. Maybe they've reached the leemit now, but I hae ma doots--I'm never thinking a Yankee has reached a leemit, for I've ma doots that he has ane!

I kenned fine that they'd heard o' me in America. Wull Morris and others had told me that. I knew that there'd be Scots there tae bid me welcome, for the sake of the old country. Scots are clansmen, first and last; they make much of any chance to keep the memory and the spirit of Scotland fresh in a strange land, when they are far frae hame. And so I thought, when I saw land, that I'd be having soon a bit reception frae some fellow Scots, and it was a bonny thing to think upon, sae far frae all I'd known all my life lang.

<script>