There was method in my madness, tho', ye'll ken. Here was I, nearer far to London, in Birkenhead than I was in Glasga. Gi'en I was gae'in there some time, I could save my siller by going then. So off I went- resolved to go and look for opportunity where opportunity lived.

Ye'll ken I could see London was no comin' after me-didna like the long journey by train, maybe. So I was like Mahomet when the mountain wouldna gang to him. I needed London mair then than London needed me, and 'twas no for me to be prood and sit twiddlin' my thumbs till times changed.

I was nervous, I'll admit, when I reached the great toon. I was wrong to lash mysel', maybe, but it means a great deal to an artist to ha' the stamp o' London's approval upon him. 'Tis like the hall mark on a bit o' siller plate. Still and a' I could no see hoo they made oot I was sae foolish to be tryin' for London. Mebbe they were richt who said I could get no opening in a London hall. Mebbe the ithers were richt, too, who said that if I did the audience would howl me down and they'd ring doon the curtain on me. I didna believe that last, though, I'm tellin' ye-I was sure that I'd be as well received in London as I had been in Birkenhead, could I but mak' a manager risk giving me a turn.

Still I was nervous. The way it lookit to me, I had a' to gain and nothin' much tae lose. If I succeeded-ah, then there were no bounds to the future I saw before me! Success in London is like no success in the provinces. It means far more. I'd ha' sung for nothin'-'deed, and I'd ha' paid oot ma own good siller to get a turn at one of the big halls.

I had a London agent by that time, a mannie who booked engagements for me in the provinces. That was his specialty; he did little business in London itself. He was a decent body; he'd got me the week in Birkenhead, and I liked him fine. When I went to his office he jumped up and shook hands with me.

"Glad to see you, Lauder," he said. "Wish more of you singers and performers from the provinces would run up to London for a visit from time to time."

"I'm no precisely here on a veesit," I said, rather dryly. "What's chances of finding a shop here?"

"Lord, Lord have you got that bee in your bonnet, too, Harry," he asked, with a sigh. "You all do. You're doing splendidly in the provinces, Harry. You're making more money than some that are doing their turns at the Pay. and the Tiv. Why can't you be content?"

"I'm just not, that's a'," I said. "You think there's nae a chance for me here, then?"

"Not a chance in the world," he said, promptly. "It's no good, Harry, my boy. They don't want Scotch comics here any more. No manager would give you a turn now. If he did he'd be a fool, because his audience wouldn't stand for you. Stay where you belong in Scotland and the north. They can understand you, there, and know what you're singing about."

I could see there was no use arguing wi' him. And I could see something else, too. He was a good agent, and it was to his interest to get me as many engagements, and as good ones, as he could, since he got a commission on all I earned through him. But if he did not believe I could win an audience, what sort of man was he to be persuading a manner to gang against his judgment and gie me a chance in his theatre?

So I determined that I must see the managers mysel'. For, as I've taul ye before, I'm an awfu' persistent wee man when my mind's made up, and no easily to be moved from a resolution I've once ta'en. I was shaken a bit by the agent, I'll not mind tellin' ye, for it seemed to me he must know better than I. Who was Harry Lauder, after a', to set his judgment against that o' a man whose business it was to ken all aboot such things? Still, I was sae sure that I went on.

Next morning I met Mr. Walter F. Munroe, and he was gude enow to promise to introduce me to several managers. He took me off wi' him then and there, and we made a round o' all the music hall offices, and saw the managers, richt enow. Yell mind they were all agreeable and pleasant tae me. They said they were glad tae see me, and wrote me passes for their halls, and did a' they could tae mak' me feel at hame. But they wouldna gie me the turn I was asking for!

I think Munroe hadna been verra hopefu' frae the first, but he did a' I wanted o' him-gie'd me the opportunity to talk to the managers mysel'. Still, they made me feel my agent had been richt. They didna want a Scot on any terms at a', and that was all to it.

I was feelin' blue enow when it came time for lunch, but I couldna do less than ask Munroe if he'd ha' bit and sup wi' me, after the kindness he'd shown me. We went into a restaurant in the Strand. I was no hungry; I was tae sair at heart, for it lookit as if I maun gang hame and tell the wife my first trip to London had been a failure.

"By George-there's a man we've not seen!" said Munroe, suddenly, as we sat, verra glum and silent.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Tom Tinsley-the best fellow in London. You'll like him, whether he can do anything for you or not. I'll hail him--"

He did, and Mr. Tinsley came over toward our table. I liked his looks.

"He's the manager of Gatti's, in the Westminster Bridge Road," whispered Munroe. "Know it?"

I knew it as one of the smaller halls, but one with a decided reputation for originality and interesting bills, owing to the personality of its manager, who was never afraid to do a new thing that was out of the ordinary. I was glad I was going to meet him.

"Here's Harry Lauder wants to meet you, Tom," said Munroe. "Shake hands with him. You're both good fellows."

Tinsley was as cordial as he could be. We sat and chatted for a bit, and I managed to banish my depression, and keep up my end of the conversation in gude enow fashion, bad as I felt. But when, Munroe put in a word aboot ma business in London I saw a shadow come over Tinsley's face. I could guess how many times in a day he had to meet ambitious, struggling artists.

"So you're here looking for a shop, hey?" he said, turning to me. His manner was still pleasant enough, but much of his effusive cordiality had vanished. But I was not to be cast down. "What's your line?"

"Scotch comedian," I said. "I--"

He raised his hand, and laughed.

"Stop right there-that's done the trick! You've said enough. Now, look here, my dear boy, don't be angry, but there's no use. We've had Scotch comedians here in London before, and they're no good to us. I wish I could help you, but I really can't risk it."

"But you've not heard me sing," I said. "I'm different frae them ye talk of. Why not let me sing you a bit song and see if ye'll not think sae yersel?"

"I tell ye it's no use," he said, a little impatiently. "I know What my audiences like and what they don't. That's why I keep my hall going these days."

But Munroe spoke up in my favor, too; discouraging though he was we were getting more notice from Tinsley than we had had frae any o' the ithers! Ye can judge by that hoo they'd handled us.

"Oh, come, Tom," said Munroe. "It won't take much of your time to hear the man sing a song you do as much for all sorts of people every week. As a favor to me-come, now--"

"Well, if you put it like that," said Tinsley, reluctantly. He turned to me. "All right, Scotty," he said. "Drop around to my office at half past four and I'll see what's to be done for you. You can thank this nuisance of a Munroe for that-though it'll do you no good in the long run, you'll find, and just waste your time as well as mine!"

There was little enough incentive for me to keep that appointment. But

I went, naturally. And, when I got there, I didn't sing for Tinsley.

He was too busy to listen to me.

"You're in luck, just the same, Scotty," he said. "I'm a turn short, because someone's got sick. Just for to-night. If you'll bring your traps down about ten o'clock you can have a show. But I don't expect you to catch on. Don't be too disappointed if you don't. London's tired of your line."

"Leave that to me, Mr. Tinsley," I said. "I've knocked 'em in the provinces and I'll be surprised if I don't get a hand here in London. Folks must be the same here as in Birkenhead or Glasga!"

"Don't you ever believe that, or it will steer you out of your way," he answered. "They're a different sort altogether. You've got one of the hardest audiences in the world to please, right in this hall. I don't blame you for wanting to try it, though. If you should happen to bring it off your fortune's made."

I knew that as well as he. And I knew that now it was all for me to settle. I didn't mean to blame the audience if I didn't catch on; I knew there would be no one to blame but myself. If I sang as well as I could, if I remembered all my business, if, in a word, I did here what I'd been doing richt along at hame and in the north of England, I needn't be afraid of the result, I was sure.

And then, I knew then, as I know noo, that when ye fail it's aye yer ain fault, one way or anither.

I wadna ha' been late that nicht for anything. 'Twas lang before ten o'clock when I was at Gatti's, waiting for it to be my turn. I was verra tired; I'd been going aboot since the early morn, and when it had come supper time I'd been sae nervous I'd had no thought o' food, nor could I ha' eaten any, I do believe, had it been set before me.

Weel, waitin' came to an end, and they called me on. I went oot upon the stage, laughin' fit to kill mysel', and did the walk aroond. I was used, by that time, to havin' the hoose break into laughter at the first wee waggle o' my kilt, but that nicht it was awfu' still. I keened in that moment what they'd all meant when they'd tauld me a London audience was different frae any ever I'd clapped een upon. Not that my een saw that one-the hoose micht ha' been ampty, for ought I knew! The stage went around and around me.

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.

"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.

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