Oh, aye, there are true Scots on the police in London!

CHAPTER XI

Many a strange experience has come to me frae the way it’s so easy for folk’s that ha’ seen me on the stage, or ha’ nae mair than seen my picture, maybe, to recognize me.  ’Tis an odd thing, too, the confidences that come to me—­and to all like mysel’, who are known to the public.  Folks will come to me, and when I’ve the time to listen, they’ll tell me their most private and sacred affairs.  I dinna quite ken why—­I know I’ve heard things told to me that ha’ made me feel as a priest hearing confession must.

Some of the experiences are amusing; some ha’ been close to being tragic—­not for me, but for those who came to me.  I’m always glad to help when I can, and it’s a strange thing how often ye can help just by lendin’ a fellow creature the use o’ your ears for a wee space.  I’ve a time or two in mind I’ll be tellin’ ye aboot.

But it’s the queer way a crowd gathers it took me the longest to grow used to.  It was mair sae in London than I’d ever known it before.  In Scotland they’d no be followin’ Harry Lauder aboot—­a Scot like themselves!  But in London, and in special when I wore ma kilt, it was different.

It wasna lang, after I’d once got ma start in London, before I was appearing regularly in the East End halls.  I was a great favorite there; the Jews, especially, seemed to like me fine.  One Sunday I was down Petticoat Lane, in Whitechapel, to see the sichts.  I never thocht anyone there wad recognize me, and I stood quietly watching a young Jew selling clothes from a coster’s barrow.  But all at once another Jew came up to me, slapped me on the back, and cried oot:  “Ach, Mr. Lauder, and how you vas to-day?  I vish there vas a kilt in the Lane—­ you would have it for nothing!”

In a minute they were flocking around me.  They all pulled me this way, and that, slapped me on the back, embraced me.  It was touching, but—­ weel, I was glad to get awa’, which I did so soon as I could wi’oot hurtin’ the feelings of my gude friends the Hebrews.

The Hebrews are always very demonstrative.  I’m as fond o’ them as, thank fortune, they are o’ me.  They make up a fine and appreciative audience.  They know weel what they like, and why they like it, and they let you ken hoo they feel.  They are an artistic race; more so than most others, I think.  They’ve had sair misfortunes to bear, and they’ve borne them weel.

One nicht I was at Shoreditch, playing in the old London Music Hall.  The East Enders had gi’en me a fairly terrific reception that evening, and when it was time for me to be off to the Pavilion for my next turn they were so crowded round the stage door that I had to ficht ma way to ma brougham.  It was a close call for me, onyway, that nicht, and I was far frae pleased when a young man clutched me by the hand.

“Let me get off, my lad!” I cried, sharply.  “I’m late for the ‘Pav.’ the noo!  Wait till anither nicht——­”