rarer now than they used to be, etched upon the vague
consciousness of small towns as in a way mysterious and
uncanny; some said that Mother Beggarlegs was connected
with the aristocracy and some that she had been "let off"
being hanged. The alternative was allowed full swing,
but in any case it was clear that such persons contributed
little to the common good and, being reticent, were not
entertaining. So you bought your gingerbread, concealing,
as it were, your weapons, paying your copper coins with
a neutral nervous eye, and made off to a safe distance,
whence you turned to shout insultingly, if you were an
untrounced young male of Elgin, "Old Mother Beggarlegs!
Old Mother Beggarlegs!" And why "Beggarlegs" nobody in
the world could tell you. It might have been a dateless
waggery, or it might have been a corruption of some more
dignified surname, but it was all she ever got. Serious,
meticulous persons called her "Mrs" Beggarlegs, slightly
lowering their voices and slurring it, however, it must
be admitted. The name invested her with a graceless,
anatomical interest, it penetrated her wizened black and
derisively exposed her; her name went far indeed to make
her dramatic. Lorne Murchison, when he was quite a little
boy was affected by this and by the unfairness of the
way it singled her out. Moved partly by the oppression
of the feeling and partly by a desire for information he
asked her sociably one day, in the act of purchase, why
the gilt was generally off her gingerbread. He had been
looking long, as a matter of fact, for gingerbread with
the gilt on it, being accustomed to the phrase on the
lips of his father in connection with small profits.