I began wi’ “Tobermory,” a great favorite among my songs in yon days.  And at the middle o’ the first verse I heard a sound that warmed me and cheered me—­the beginnings of a great laugh.  The sound was like wind rising in the trees.  It came down from the gallery, leaped across the stalls from the pit—­oh, but it was the bonny, bonny sound to ma ears!  It reached my heart—­it went into my feet as I danced, it raised my voice for me!

“Tobermory” settled it—­when they sang the chorus wi’ me on the second voice, in a great, roaring measure, I knew I was safe.  I gave them “Calligan-Vall-Again” then, and ended with “The Lass o’ Killicrankie.”  I’d been supposed to ha’ but a short turn, but it was hard for me to get off the stage.  I never had an audience treat me better.  ’Tis a great memory to this day—­I’ll ne’er forget that night in Gatti’s old hall, no matter hoo lang I live.

But I was glad when I heard the shootin’ and the clappin’ dee doon, and they let the next turn go on.  I was weak——­I was nigh to faintin’ as I made my way to my dressing room.  I had no the strength to be changin’ ma clothes, just at first, and I was still sittin’ still, tryin’ to pull mysel’ together, when Tinsley came rushing in.  He clapped his hand on my shoulder.

“Lauder, my lad, you’ve done it!” he cried.  “I never thought you could—­you’ve proved every manager in London an ass to-night!”

“You think I’ll do?” I asked.

He was a generous man, was Tinsley.

“Do!” he said.  “You’ve made the greatest hit of the week when the news gets out, and you’ll be having the managers from the West End halls camping on your doorstep.  I’ve seen nothing like it in years.  All London will be flocking here the rest in a long time.”

I needn’t say, I suppose, that I was immediately engaged for the rest of that week at Gatti’s.  And Tinsley’s predictions were verified, for the managers from the west end came to me as soon as the news of the hit I had made reached them.  I bore them no malice, though some of them had been ruder than they need ha’ been when I went to see them.  They’d had their chance; had they listened to me and recognized what I could do, they could ha’ saved their siller.  I’d ha’ signed a contract at a pretty figure less the day after I reached London than I was willin’ to consider the morning after I’d had my show at Gatti’s.

I made verra profitable and happy arrangements wi’ several halls, thanks to the London custom that’s never spread much to America, that lets an artist appear at sometimes as many as five halls in a nicht.  The managers were still surprised; so was my agent.

“There’s something about you they take to, though I’m blowed if I see what it is!” said one manager, with extreme frankness.

Noo, I’m a modest man, and it’s no for me to be tellin’ them that feel as he did what it is, maybe, they don’t see.  ’Deed, and I’m no sure I know mysel’.  But here’s a bit o’ talk I heard between two costers as I was leavin’ Gatti’s that first nicht.