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Fifty years ago, the little burgh-town of Sandyriggs was a sleepy place. The inhabitants led, what they themselves called, “an easy-osy life.” So little stir was there in the life of the small shopkeeper or tradesman, that he might be said to “vegetate.” He grew and flourished where he had been born, and among his own schoolmates and his parents’ cronies, who still called him by the fond familiar name of his boyhood, “Johnny,” or “Jamie,” or “Robby,” as the case might be. His place of business was part of his home; and during the day he oscillated comfortably between the front shop and the back parlour. There was little competition, and very little anxiety about his trade. His customers were his friends, and he could rely implicitly on their support. It happened, therefore, that even in what he called his busiest time, he had many intervals of leisure during which he was at a loss what to do.