Martha Spreull/Willie Warstle—The Bursar

by Henry Johnston

CHAPTER IX.

WILLIE WARSTLE, THE BURSAR.

E may talk aboot Oreeginal Sin an' Moral Evil till ye argy the thing awa', but it's nae use, for a' yer reasons an' yer fine sophistries winna shake my belief i' the guid auld doctrine. My neebor, Mrs. Naismith, used to say that ony wumman wha had brocht up seeven o' a faimily, as she had dune, had nae need o' ony further proof o' human depravity; an' weel-a-wat she didna require to wait on sic a great haunfu', for if she had just offered a bursary, consistin' o' bed, board, an' washin', to puir laddie students for four years, like me, an' gotten a bursar like Willie Warstle, she wud hae been able to settle the matter to her ain satisfaction in a hantle less time.

Ye will understand better what I mean when I tell ye what happened to mysel', an' put me in a bonny rage forby gi'ein' me a fricht that I didna get the better o' for twa 'r three days.

Ae nicht efter the gloamin' I wis comin' hame, gey an' soople, doon ane o' thae by-streets no far frae Charing Cross. I had been layin' in something tasty for the breakfast i' the mornin'. Willie Warstle wis thrang at Cæsar's Commentaries on the Gallic and Civil Wars when I left, an' I wis wunnerin' what effect sic stirrin' an' heroic events wud hae on his openin' mind, when—a' o' a sudden—I wis grippit by the cauf o' the leg, an' held to the spot as if I had been tethered to a stake. I got a mortal fricht, no' to speak o' the narrow escape I had had o' fa'in' flet on my face on the plane-stanes.

On examination I fand that my leg wis encircled firm and fast by a guid stoot string.

Weel, seein’ it wis a runnin’ loop, I sune freed mysel’ frae peril. It had nae doot been lyin’ open on the fitpaith on purpose, an' when I stepped into it, must have been pu’d wi’ a sudden jerk, for the thing had tichtened on the thick pairt o’ my cauf, aboot a spang below the knee.

Thinks I, “ This is awfu’! ” I had heard o’ assassination societies amang the Irish, the hochin’ o’ cattle, an’ sic like things;

hut to be trappit at yer ain door in this Christian country, in the face o’ heavy pollis-money, wis past mortal belief an’ endurance. I could hae fentit fine; hooever when I saw there wis naebody near I got angry, an’ that saved me.

Weel, thinks I, this maun be bottomed. Body-liftin’ an’ burkin’ were common enough when I wis a lassie, but a’ that has been put an end to by the Anatomy Act; this, too, thinks I whatever it means, maun be put doon.

I followed the string, an’ saw that the tither end o ’t gaed into a trance that wis reached by a short flight o’ steps frae the street. It wisna a through-gaun close, an’ I could see it didna gang very far ben. So I planted mysel’ in front o’t, an’ commanded the culprit to gie himsel’ up to unconditional surrender.

I listened, an’ thocht I could hear a quick breath i’ the darkness, but there wisna a word in reply.

“Oh, ye may come oot,” quoth I, “for I’ll wait here till the pollis comes, though I should bide till daylicht i’ the mornin’.”

The breathin’ grew faster, but there wis nae word o’ surrender. “ What,” thinks I to mysel, “if the villain should get desperate an’ fa’ on me wi’ his nieves ? ”

There wisna a footstep in the street, an’ I felt it wis rinnin an unco risk, but the thocht inspired me with a happy idea that I lost nae time in carryin’ through. I seized the bell-handles on each side o’ the door and pulled them wi’ a vigour that alarmed even mysel’ when I heard the racket they made. In less time than I tak’ to write this doon, the doors were opened, an’ there, i’ the comer, wi’ the gaslicht suddenly turned upon him, wis my ain bursar—the lad Willie Warstle that I had left athame reading Caesar’s Commentaries, shakin’ frae head to fit like the leaf o’ a tree.

“Come here, ye young scape-grace,” says I, when I recovered my senses. “What ill-set trick is this the de’il has putten into yer head?”

He cam oot wi’ a face as white as a cloot, and tried to fa’ on my neck.

“Na, na,” quoth I, layin’ aboot his lugs till my neives were sair, “ I ’ll gar ye smairt weel for this my gentleman.” “ Honest folk,” quoth I, turning to the onlookers, “I ask yer pardon for causing ye sic disturbance; but the laddie played a trick on me, and as I thocht he wis a stranger—maybe a keelie — I wanted yer help to hand him ower to justice. The offender belangs to me;—sae I ’ll chasteese him mysel’.” An’ to show there wis truth in what I wis sayin’, I fell on him again.

Weel, before we got hame he apologeesed richt humbly, an said he wud never dae the like again.

“ But what did ye mean by daein’ sic a doonricht wicked thing ? ” quoth I.

“ Oh,” says he, “ I thoeht ye were a young lass.”

“ Waur an’ waur,” quoth I.

The remark set me a thinkin’. The idea o’ a mere callant like Willie Warstle sittin’ in a cauld close, in a quiet street, for hours, wi’ a string laid oot on the fitpaith, for the express purpose o’ catchin’ a young lass by the leg, showed a depth o’ depravity that wis unco sad to think o’ in ane sae young. The cratur wis badly brocht up. Ye maun mind that, for what could ye expect frae a laddie wha wis sae illversed i' the Catecheesm as no' to be able to answer "Man's Chief En'," when I tackled him in Dr. Threshie's schule on the examination day?

This valuable compendium o' faith and mainners had been a sealed book to him. Thinks I, there are twa sides to man's nature, and, as ane o' them is receivin' due attention frae the Professors o' the College, it lies at my door, as a Christian wumman, to see to the ither.

"Willie," said I, unco severe-like efter these reflections, "it wis a desperate wicked thing ye did, but it wis a far waur thing ye ettled to dae. What in this worl' could ye mean by layin' a string to catch a young lass by the cauf o' the leg? Noo," quoth I, "ye're badly in need o' mendin', and ye maun

mak' up yer mind to begin to yer Question-book the morn; for what ye maist want in yer present graceless condition, is to be weel grundet i' the Moral Law."