Mr Mingin Read Free

duties, Mither streetched oot on the sofae and sterted unwrappin a wafer-thin chocolate mint. She allooed hersel yin chocolate mint a day. She nabbled it sae slowly she could mak yin mint last a haill oor.
    “Somebody’s chored anither yin o ma Bendicks luxury chocolate mints!” she cawed oot.
    Annabelle gied Chloe an accusin look afore gaun back tae the dinin room tae bring oot mair plates. “I bet it wis you, fattygus!” she hished.
    “Be guid tae yer sister, Annabelle,” said Da.
    Chloe felt guilty, even though it wisnae her that had been chorin her mither’s chocolates. Her Da and her taen up their usual positions at the jaw-boax.
    “Chloe, why were ye tryin tae hide yin o yer sassidges?” he spiered. “If ye didnae like it, ye could hae jist telt me.”
    “I wisnae tryin tae hide it, Da.”
    “Then whit were ye daein wi it?”
    Aw o a sudden Annabelle brocht in anither stack o clarty plates and the pair o them wheesht. They waitit a wee meenit until she’d gane.
    “Weel, Da, ye ken that tink that aye sits on the same bench ilka—”
    “Mr Mingin?”
    “Aye. Weel, I thocht his dug looked hungert and I wantit tae bring her a sassidge or twa.”
    It wis a lee but it wisnae a muckle yin.
    “Weel, I suppose there’s nae herm in giein his puir dug a bit o scran,” said Da. “Jist this yince though, ye unnerstaun?”
    “But—”
    “Jist this yince, Chloe. Or Mr Mingin will expect ye tae feed his dug ilka day. Noo, I posed anither packet o sassidges ahint the crème fraîche, whitever yon is when it’s at hame. I’ll cook them up for ye afore yer mither gets up the morn’s mornin and ye can gie them—”
    “WHIT ARE YOUS TWA SCHEMIN AT?” demandit Mither fae the front room.
    “Oh, eh, we were jist talkin aboot which o the Queen’s fower bairns we admire the maist,” said Da. “I am pittin forrit Princess Anne as she’s awfie skeelie wi the cuddies. Mind ye, Chloe is makkin a strang case for Prince Chairlie and his ootstaundin reenge o organic biscuits.”
    “Guid topic. Cairry on!” soonded the voice fae nixt door.
    Da gied Chloe a gallus wee smile.

3
The Stravaiger
    Mr Mingin ate the sassidges in an unexpectedly fantoosh wey. First he taen oot a wee linen clootie and tucked it unner his chin. Nixt he taen an antique siller knife and fork oot o his breist pooch. Finally he brocht oot a clatty gowdrimmed cheena plate, which he gied tae the Duchess tae lick clean afore he pit the sassidges neatly doon on it.
    Chloe gawped at his cutlery and plate. This looked like anither clue tae his past. Had he mibbe been a gentleman thief that creepit intae country hooses at midnicht and made aff wi the faimlie siller?
    “Ye got ony mair sassidges?” spiered Mr Mingin, his mooth aye stappit fu o sassidge.
    “Naw, I ainly had eicht and ye’ve had them aw,” replied Chloe.
    She stood at a safe distance fae the tink, sae her een widnae stert greetin fae the guff. The Duchess keeked up at Mr Mingin as he ate the sassidges wi a hert-brekkin look that seemed tae say that aw love and aw that wis bonnie existit inside thae tubes o meat.
    “There ye go, Duchess,” said Mr Mingin, flingin hauf a sassidge intae his dug’s mooth. The Duchess wis that stervin she didnae even chaw; insteid she swallaed it in hauf a milli-saicont afore returnin tae her expression that said ‘Gie’s anither sassidge!’ Did ony man or beastie ever eat a sassidge as fast as that dug? Chloe wis hauf-expectin a mannie in a smairt blazer and breeks wi a clipboard and a stapwatch tae appear and annoonce that the wee bleck dug had set a new sassidge-scrannin international warld record!
    “Sae, young Chloe, is awthin awricht at hame?” spiered Mr Mingin, as he let the Duchess sook the slavers o sassidge juice aff his fingers.
    “Whit?” replied a dumfoonert Chloe.
    “I spiered if awthin wis awricht at hame. If things were tickety-boo, I am no sure ye wid be spendin yer Sunday bletherin tae an auld gaberlunzie like me.”
    “