“Ready?” asked the man who was superintending the record.

“Aye,” I cried.  “When ye please!”

Sae I began, and it wasna sae bad.  I sang the first verse o’ ma song.  And then, as usual, while the orchestra played a sort o’ vampin’ accompaniment, I sprang a gag, the way I do on the stage.  I should ha’ gone straight on, then.  But I didn’t.  D’ye ken what?  Man, I waited for the applause!  Aye, I did so—­there in front o’ that great yawnin’ horn, that was ma only listener, and that cared nae mair for hoo I sang than a cat micht ha’ done!

It was a meenit before I realized what a thing I was doing.  And then I laughed; I couldna help it.  And I laughed sae hard I fell clean off the stool they’d set me on!  The record was spoiled, for the players o’ the orchestra laughed wi’ me, and the operator came runnin’ oot tae see what was wrang, and he fell to laughin’, too.

“Here’s a daft thing I’m doing for ye!” I said to the manager, who stud there, still laughin’ at me.  “Hoo much am I tae be paid for this, I’ll no mak’ a fool o’ masel’, singing into that great tin tube, unless ye mak’ the reason worth my while.”

He spoke up then—­it had been nae mair than an experiment we’d planned, ye’ll ken.  And I’ll tell ye straight that what he tauld me surprised me—­I’d had nae idea that there was sae muckle siller to be made frae such foolishness, as I thocht it a’ was then.  I’ll admit that the figures he named fair tuk my breath awa’.  I’ll no be tellin’ ye what they were, but, after he’d tauld them tae me, I’d ha’ made a good record for my first one had I had to stay there trying all nicht.

“All richt,” I said.  “Ca’ awa’—­I’m the man for ye if it’s sae muckle ye’re willin’ tae pay me.”

“Oh, aye—­but we’ll get it all back, and more beside,” said the manager.  “Ye’re a rare find for us, Harry, my lad.  Ye’ll mak’ more money frae these records we’ll mak’ togither than ye ha’ ever done upon the stage.  You’re going to be the most popular comic the London halls have ever known, but still, before we’re done with you, we’ll pay you more in a year than you’ll make from all your theatrical engagements.”

“Talk sense, man,” I tauld him, wi’ a laugh.  “That can never be.”

Weel, ye’ll not be asking me whether what he said has come true or nicht.  But I don’t mind tellin’ ye the man was no sica fool as I thocht him!

Eh, noo—­here’s what I’m thinking.  Here am I, Harry Lauder.  For ane reason or anither, I can do something that others do not do, whether or no they can—­as to that I ken nothing.  All I know is that I do something others ha’ nae done, and that folk enow ha’ been willin’ and eager to pay me their gude siller, that they’ve worked for.  Am I a criminal because o’ that?  Has any man the richt to use me despitefully because I’ve hit upon a thing tae do that ithers do no do, whether or no they can?  Should ithers be fashed wi’ me because I’ve made ma bit siller?  I canna see why!