It didna last, you’ll be saying.  Aye, I ken that.  All the rules union labor had made were lifted i’ the end.  Labor in Britain took its place on the firing line, like the laddies that went oot there to ficht.  Mind you, I’m saying no word against a man because he stayed at hame and didna ficht.  There were reasons to mak’ it richt for many a man tae do that.  I’ve no sympathy wi’ those who went aboot giving a white feather to every young man they saw who was no in uniform.  There was much cruel unfairness in a’ that.

But I’m saying it was a dreadfu’ thing that men didna see for themselves, frae the very first, where their duty lay.  I’m saying it was a dreadfu’ thing for a man to be thinking just of the profit he could be making for himself oot of the war.  And we had too many of that ilk in Britain—­in labor and in capital as well.  Mind you there were men i’ London and elsewhere, rich men, who grew richer because of their work as profiteers.

And do you see what I mean now?  The war was a great calamity.  It cost us a great toll of grief and agony and suffering.  But it showed us, a’ too plainly, where the bad, rotten spots had been.  It showed us that things hadna been sae richt as we’d supposed before.  And are we no going to mak’ use of the lesson it has taught us?

CHAPTER XXIII

I’ve had a muckle to say in this book aboot hoo other folk should be acting.  That’s what my wife tells me, noo that she’s read sae far.  “Eh, man Harry,” she says, “they’ll be calling you a preacher next.  Dinna forget you’re no but a wee comic, after a’!”

Aye, and she’s richt!  It’s a good thing for me to remember that.  I’m but old Harry Lauder, after a’.  I’ve sung my songs, and I’ve told my stories, all over the world to please folk.  And if I’ve done a bit more talking, lately, than some think I should, it’s no been all my ain fault.  Folk have seemed to want to listen to me.  They’ve asked me questions.  And there’s this much more to be said aboot it a’.

When you’ve given maist of the best years of your life to the public you come to ken it well.  And—­you respect it.  I’ve known of actors and other artists on the stage who thought they were better than their public—­aye.  And what’s come tae them?  We serve a great master, we folk of the stage.  He has many minds and many tongues, and he tells us quickly when we please him—­and when we do not.  And always, since the nicht when I first sang in public, so many yearst agane that it hurts a little to count the tale o’ them, I’ve been like a doctor who keeps his finger on the pulse of his patient.

I’ve tried to ken, always, day in, day oot, how I was pleasing you—­ the public.  You make up my audiences.  And—­it is you who send the other audiences, that hae no heard me yet, to come to the theatre.  To-morrow nicht’s audience is in the making to-nicht.  If you folk who are out in front the noo, beyond the glare of the footlights, dinna care for me, dinna like the way I’m trying to please you, and amuse you, there’ll be empty seats in the hoose to-morrow and the next day.