"Man," he continued, "yon's the place for sichts! Could anything beat
the procession at the Lord Mayor's show, eh?"
I meekly admitted that I had never seen the Lord Mayor's show, and he
raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"But I'll tell ye what's just as good, mister, and that's the King and
Queen opening Parliament. Man, yon's a sicht, isn't it?"
"I--er--I haven't had the opportunity of seeing it," I said.
He looked more surprised than ever.
"But, man, I'll tell ye what's just as good, and that's a big London
fire. Man, to see the way the firemen go up the ladders like monkeys.
Yon's a sicht for sair een!"
"I never had the luck to see a fire in London," I said hesitatingly.
"When were you last in town?"
He did not seem to hear my question; he was evidently thinking of other
London thrills.
"Man," he said ruminatingly, "often while I sit in the Tarbonny Kirk I
just sit and think aboot Westminster Abbey. Man, yon's a kirk! I
suppose you'll be there ilka Sunday?"
I found it difficult to tell him that I had never been in the Abbey,
but I managed to get the words out, and then I avoided his reproachful
eye. He knocked out his pipe, and I took the action to be a symbolic
one meaning: You are an empty sort of person. He studied me critically
for a time, then he brightened.
"Aye," he said cheerfully, "London's a graund place, but, for sichts
give me New York."
I felt more humble than ever, for I had never travelled. He seemed to
guess that by the look of me, for he never asked my opinion of New York.
"Man," he said warmly, "yon's a place! Yon skyscrapers! Phew!" and he
whistled his wonder and admiration. "And the streets! Man, ye canna
walk on the sidewalk at the busy times. A wonderfu' place, New York,
but, as for me, give me the West, California and Frisco."
"You have travelled much, sir," I said reverently. The "sir" seemed to
come naturally; my inferiority complex was touched on the raw.
Again he ignored me.
"To see yon cowboys! Man, yon's what I call riding! And the Indians!"
He sighed; it was obvious that he was living over again his life in the
western wilds. A wistful look crept into his eyes, and I began to
construct his sad story. He loved a maid, but the bruiser of the camp
loved her also . . . hence the broken-down clothes, the dirty collar.
But anon he cheered up again.
"Yes," he said, "I love the West, but for colour and climate give me
Japan."
I was so confused now that I had to blow out my pipe vigorously. I
glanced at Dauvit, but he was sharpening his knife on the emery hone,
and did not appear to be interested. I felt a vague anger against
Dauvit; why wasn't he helping me in my trial?
"Japan," continued the irrepressible stranger, "is one of the finest
countries in the world, but, for climate give me Siberia."
I hastily thought to myself that if I were Lenin I . . . but I did not
follow out my daydream, for the stranger brought me back to earth by
inquiring what was my honest and unbiassed opinion of the Peruvians. I
very cleverly pretended that I had swallowed some nicotine, and, after
a polite pause for my answer, he went off to the subject of pearl
fishing at Thursday Island. Then he looked at Dauvit's clock.
"Jerusalem!" he gasped, "the pub shuts at twa o'clock!" and he rushed
out of the shop. I heaved a great sigh of relief, and then I heaved a
greater sigh of relief.