"My time's no come for that, Mac." "Maybe no," said Mac.

"But it will come--mark my words, Harry.

Ye've got what London'll be as mad to hear as these folk here.

Ye've a way wi' ye, Harry, my wee man!" 'Deed, and I did believe that mysel'! It's hard for a man like me to know what he can do, and say so when the time comes, wi'oot making thoughtless folk think he's conceited.

An artist's feeling aboot such things is a curious one, and hard for any but artists to understand.
It's a grand presumption in a man, if ye look at it in one way, that leads him to think he's got the right to stand up on a stage and ask a thousand people, or five thousand, to listen to him--to laugh when he bids them laugh, greet when he would ha' them sad.
To bid an audience gather, gie up its plans and its pursuits, tak' an hoor or two of its time--that's a muckle thing to ask! And then to mak' them pay siller, too, for the chance to hear you! It's past belief, almost, how we can do it, in the beginning.