I think one of the proudest times of my life was the first Saturday nicht when I could look back on a week when I had had a concert engagement each night in a different town.  It was after that, too, that for the first time I flatly refused an engagement.  I had the offer of a guinea, but I had fixed a guinea and a half as my minimum fee, and I would’na tak’ less, though, after I’d sent the laddie awa’ who offered me the guinea, I could ha’ kicked myself.

There were some amusing experiences during those concert days.  I often appeared with singers who had won considerable fame—­artists who rendered classical numbers and opertic selections.  I sometimes envied them for their musical gifts, but not seriously—­my efforts were in a different field.  As a rule I got along extremely well with my fellow performers, but sometimes they were inclined to look down on a mere comedian.  Yell ken that I was making a name for myself then, and that I engaged for some concerts at which, as a rule, no comic singer would have been heard.

One night a concert had been arranged by a musical society in a town near Glasgow—­a suburb of the city.  I was to appear with a quartet soprano, contralto, tenor and bass.  The two ladies and the tenor greeted me cheerfully enough, and seemed glad to see me—­the contralto, indeed, was very friendly, and said she always went to hear me when she had the chance.  But the bass was very distant.  He glared at me when I came in, and did not return my greeting.  He sat and scowled, and grew angrier and angrier.

“Well!” he said, suddenly.  “The rest of you can do as you please, but I shall not sing to-night!  I’m an artist, and I value my professional reputation too highly to appear with a vulgarian like this comic singer!”

“Oh, I say, old chap!” said the tenor, looking uncomfortable.  “That’s a bit thick!  Harry’s a good sort—­I’ve heard him——­”

“I’m not concerned with his personality!” said the bass.  “I resent being associated with a man who makes a mountebank, a clown, of himself!”

I listened and said nothing.  But I’ll no be sayin’ I did no wink at my friend, the contralto.

The other singers tried to soothe the bass down, but they couldn’t.  He looked like a great pouter pigeon, strutting about the room, and then he got red, and I thought he looked like an angry turkey cock.  The secretary of the society came in, and the basso attacked him at once.

“I say, Mr. Smith!” he cried.  “There’s something wrong here, what!  Fancy expecting me to appear on the same platform with this—­this person in petticoats!”

The secretary looked surprised, as well he micht!!

“I’ll not do it!” said the basso, getting angrier each second.  “You can keep him or me—­both you can’t have!”

I was not much concerned.  I was angry; I’ll admit that.  But I didna let him fash me.  I just made up my mind that if I was no allowed to sing I’d have something to say to that basso before the evening was oot.  And I looked at him, and listened to him bluster, and thought maybe I’d have a bit to do wi’ him as well.  I’m a wee man and a’, but I’m awfu’ strong from the work I did in the pit, and I’m never afraid of a bully.