“Hi, Alf, wot’ jer fink o’ that Scotch bloke?” one of them asked his mate.

The other began to laugh.

“Blow me, ’Ennery, d’ye twig what ’e meant?  I didn’t,” he said.  “Not ’arf!  But, lu’mme, eyen’t he funny?”

Weel, after a’, a manager can no do mair than his best, puir chiel.  They thocht they were richt when they would no give me a turn.  They thocht they knew their audiences.  But the two costers could ha’ told them a thing or two.  It was just sicca they my agent and the managers and a’ had thocht would stand between me and winning a success in London.  And as it’s turned out it’s the costers are my firmest friends in the great city!

Real folk know one anither, wherever they meet.  If I just steppit oot upon the stage and sang a bit song or twa, I’d no be touring the world to-day.  I’d be by hame in Scotland, belike I’d be workin’ in the pit still.  But whene’er I sing a character song I study that character.  I know all aboot him.  I ken hoo he feels and thinks, as weel as hoo he looks.  Every character artist must do that, whether he is dealing with Scottish types or costers or whatever.

It was astonishin’ to me hoo soon they came to ken me in London, so that I wad be recognized in the streets and wherever I went.  I had an experience soon after I reached the big toon that was a bit scary at the first o’ it.

I was oot in a fog.  Noo, I’m a Scot, and I’ve seen fogs in my time, but that first “London Particular” had me fair puzzled.  Try as I would I couldna find ma way down Holborn to the Strand.  I was glad tae see a big policeman looming up in the mist.

“Here, ma chiel,” I asked him, “can ye not put me in the road for the Strand?”

He looked at me, and then began to laugh.  I was surprised.

“Has onything come ower you?” I asked him.  I could no see it was a laughing matter that I should be lost in a London fog.  I was beginning to feel angry, too.  But he only laughed louder and louder, and I thocht the man was fou, so I made to jump away, and trust someone else to guide me.  But he seized my arm, and pulled me back, and I decided, as he kept on peering at my face, that I must look like some criminal who was wanted by the police.

“Look here—­leave me go!” I cried, thoroughly alarmed.  “You’ve got the wrong man.  I’m no the one you’re after.”

“Are ye no?” he asked me, laughing still.  “Are ye no Harry Lauder?  Ye look like him, ye talk like him!  An’ fancy meetin’ ye here!  Last time I saw ye was in New Cumnock—­gie’s a shak o’ yer haund!”

I shook hands wi’ him gladly enough, in my relief, even though he nearly shook the hand off of me.  I told him where I was playing the nicht.

“Come and see me,” I said.  “Here’s a bob to buy you a ticket wi’.”

He took it, and thanked me.  Then, when he had put it awa’, he leaned forward.

“Can ye no gie me a free pass for the show, man Harry?” he whispered.