“I tell ye it’s no use,” he said, a little impatiently.  “I know What my audiences like and what they don’t.  That’s why I keep my hall going these days.”

But Munroe spoke up in my favor, too; discouraging though he was we were getting more notice from Tinsley than we had had frae any o’ the ithers!  Ye can judge by that hoo they’d handled us.

“Oh, come, Tom,” said Munroe.  “It won’t take much of your time to hear the man sing a song you do as much for all sorts of people every week.  As a favor to me—­come, now——­”

“Well, if you put it like that,” said Tinsley, reluctantly.  He turned to me.  “All right, Scotty,” he said.  “Drop around to my office at half past four and I’ll see what’s to be done for you.  You can thank this nuisance of a Munroe for that—­though it’ll do you no good in the long run, you’ll find, and just waste your time as well as mine!”

There was little enough incentive for me to keep that appointment.  But I went, naturally.  And, when I got there, I didn’t sing for Tinsley.  He was too busy to listen to me.

“You’re in luck, just the same, Scotty,” he said.  “I’m a turn short, because someone’s got sick.  Just for to-night.  If you’ll bring your traps down about ten o’clock you can have a show.  But I don’t expect you to catch on.  Don’t be too disappointed if you don’t.  London’s tired of your line.”

“Leave that to me, Mr. Tinsley,” I said.  “I’ve knocked ’em in the provinces and I’ll be surprised if I don’t get a hand here in London.  Folks must be the same here as in Birkenhead or Glasga!”

“Don’t you ever believe that, or it will steer you out of your way,” he answered.  “They’re a different sort altogether.  You’ve got one of the hardest audiences in the world to please, right in this hall.  I don’t blame you for wanting to try it, though.  If you should happen to bring it off your fortune’s made.”

I knew that as well as he.  And I knew that now it was all for me to settle.  I didn’t mean to blame the audience if I didn’t catch on; I knew there would be no one to blame but myself.  If I sang as well as I could, if I remembered all my business, if, in a word, I did here what I’d been doing richt along at hame and in the north of England, I needn’t be afraid of the result, I was sure.

And then, I knew then, as I know noo, that when ye fail it’s aye yer ain fault, one way or anither.

I wadna ha’ been late that nicht for anything.  ’Twas lang before ten o’clock when I was at Gatti’s, waiting for it to be my turn.  I was verra tired; I’d been going aboot since the early morn, and when it had come supper time I’d been sae nervous I’d had no thought o’ food, nor could I ha’ eaten any, I do believe, had it been set before me.

Weel, waitin’ came to an end, and they called me on.  I went oot upon the stage, laughin’ fit to kill mysel’, and did the walk aroond.  I was used, by that time, to havin’ the hoose break into laughter at the first wee waggle o’ my kilt, but that nicht it was awfu’ still.  I keened in that moment what they’d all meant when they’d tauld me a London audience was different frae any ever I’d clapped een upon.  Not that my een saw that one—­the hoose micht ha’ been ampty, for ought I knew!  The stage went around and around me.