Gi’en I had stayed a miner, I doubt I’d ever ha’ laid een on Andy again, or heard of him, since he came no more to Hamilton, and I’d, most like, ha’ stayed there, savin’ a trip to Glasga noo and then, all the days of my life.  But, as ye ken, I didna stay there.  I’ll be tellin’, ye ken, hoo it was I came to gang on the stage and become the Harry you’re all so good to when he sings to ye.  But the noo I’ll just say that it was years later, and I was singing in London, in four or five halls the same nicht, when I met Andy one day.  I was fair glad to see him; I’m always glad to see a face from hame.  And Andy was looking fine and braw.  He’d good clothes on his back, and he was sleek and well fed and prosperous looking.  We made our way to a hotel; and there we sat ourselves doon and chatted for three hours.

“Aye, and I’ll ha’ seen most of the world since I last clapped my een on you, Harry,” he said.  “I’ve heard much about you, and it’s glad I am to be seein’ you.”

He told me his story.  He’d gone for a soldier, richt enough, and been sent to India.  He’d had trouble from the start; he was always fighting, and while that’s a soldier’s trade, he’s no supposed to practice it with his fellows, ye ken, but to save his anger for the enemy.  But, for once in a way, Andy’s quarrelsome ways did him good.  He was punished once for fighting wi’ his corporal, and when his captain came to look into things he found the trouble started because the corporal called him, the captain, out of his name.  So he made Andy his servant, and Andy served wi’ him till he was killed in South Africa.

Andy was wounded there, and invalided home.  He was discharged, and said he’d ha’ no more of the army—­he’d liked that job no better than any other he’d ever had.  His captain, in his will, left Andy twa hunder pounds sterlin’—­more siller than Andy’s ever thought to finger in his life.

“So it was that siller gave you your start, Andy, man?” I said.

He laughed.

“Oh, aye!” he said.  “And came near to givin’ me my finish, too, Harry.  I put the siller into a business down Portsmouth way—­I set up for a contractor.  I was doin’ fine, too, but a touring company came along, and there was a lassie wi’ ’em so braw and bonnie I’d like to have deed for love of her, man, Harry.”

It was a sad little story, that, but what you’d expect.  Andy, the lady killer, had ne’er had een for the lassies up home, who’d ha’ asked nothin’ better than to ha’ him notice them.  But this bit lass, whom he knew was no better than she should be, could ha’ her will o’ him from the start.  He followed her aboot; he spent his siller on her.  His business went to the dogs, and when she’d milked him dry she laughed and slipped awa’, and he never saw her again.  I’m thinkin’, at that, Andy was lucky; had he had more siller she’d maybe ha’ married him for it.

’Twas after that Andy shipped before the mast.  He saw Australia and America, but he was never content to settle doon anywhere, though there were times when he had more siller than he’d lost at Portsmouth.  Once he was robbed; twa or three times he just threw his siller away.  It was always the same story; no matter how much he was earning it was never enough; he should always ha’ had more.