Auld Jeremiah/Chapter 7

The sign painter stared her, then laughed. Ailsa liked his laugh. It was boyish and merry, and showed a double row of very nice white teeth.

“Is that a joke?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she protested. “I should much rather be a sign painter than a nursery governess. One is more free and independent, and lives out in the open air. Besides, I like to paint—and really I'm not half bad at it.”

“You can paint better than I,” he answered, and stared at her thoughtfully. “It's rather hard work; but, after all, you have the rainy days to rest up.”

“On rainy days one could make sketches and block them out to enlarge to scale,” said Ailsa.

“That's so. After all, why not, if you'd really like to tackle it? But would you be let?”

“There is absolutely nobody to prevent me,” she answered. “You see, I'm a foreigner, and have not been long in this country. I've got to earn my living—and I won't go back to the last place I left.” She looked at him doubtfully for an instant, then said, with a sudden burst of confidence: “I ran away.”

“I thought you'd run away from some place,” he observed; but did not add that he had casually inquired at the store if there was any young ladies' seminary or similar institution in the neighborhood.

“Yes,” said Ailsa; “I ran away last evening. I got lost in the woods, and spent the night in a deserted fishing boat.”

“Well, upon my word! Weren't you frightened to death?”

“I was too tired—and then I had Mac.”

“Mac looks efficient. Is he yours?”

“Yes. He gave himself to me.” She laughed.

“Well,” said the sign painter, “since you are your own mistress, and have got to earn your living, I don't see why you shouldn't paint signs if you want to. It's a good proposition for me, as you seem to understand the business; and, besides, I can use you for a model I'll give you fifty dollars a month, and all expenses paid, with the prospect of a raise to seventy-five if I can make the company boost me, say, twenty-five per cent when they see the sort of work they're getting. We can travel together as brother and sister. My name is Joshua Reynolds Jones, and yours is Rosa Bonheur Jones. How does that strike you?”

“It should be a famous combination, I am sure.”

“Well, then, Rosa, I'll pitch in and finish this pastoral. You can't turn to until I get you a paint blouse like mine way, and some gloves. By the way, how about your kit?”

“I shall write to the place I left, and have my things sent to the house of an acquaintance; then I will write her, and ask her to send me on what I will be needing.”

“Right! I'll finish up then, and we'll walk back to the town. You can go to the post office and write your letters, and I'll get the rig and call for you there. We've got a lot of work along this railway line.”

And, without more ado, he sloshed about a quart of green paint into a bucket, added yellow and blue until he had obtained the required tint, and set blithely to work to paint several square yards of lush grass and clover.

Ailsa watched him for a while; then, disregarding his caution, she slipped off her light jacket, and, picking up a brush, proceeded to work in such of the detail as she could reach. He glanced down with disapproval at the softly rounded forearm, bare to the dimpled elbow, and the spotless, openwork blouse.

“Hold on, Rosa,” said he; “if you insist on painting, slip on this blouse of mine. I can work in my shirt sleeves. Besides, somebody might be looking for you.”

“Perhaps you are right, Joshua.”

“Josh,” he corrected. “That is more sisterly, and a popular name in the rural districts.”

“Very well, Josh.” Her eyes sparkled, and the dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. He helped her into the garment, which enveloped her to the ankles, and the work was cheerfully resumed.

“I'll buy another stepladder, and get a piece of plank to rig out between the two,” said Josh. “Then we can make the paint fly. How are you on interiors?”

“I am none so bad.”

“That's good! I want to make the subjects all different, with the lettering the same. That holds the eye, besides giving the traveling public an artistic treat—like turning the pages of an illustrated magazine. At the top I paint in big shadow letters: 'ALFALFA DAIRY PRODUCTS,' and at the bottom, in running script:  'The Epic of the Cream.' 

“Number one, grass, trees, river, lovely milkmaid caressing cow; number two, milking scene, with galaxy of charming damsels extracting milk from mild-eyed kine, and Priscilla in foreground sterilizing paddies; number three, nursery scene—fat pink-and- white infant on lap of beautiful young mother, who is feeding him 'Alfalfa Dairy Product' with spoon, papa looking proudly on; number four, plump and happy children clamoring to pretty nursey for A. D. P.; number five, football training table, with stalwart heroes of gridiron holding glasses to seductive waitress, who pours out gallons of creamy A. D. P., thereby winning the game for Yale; number five, automobile party stopping in front of plant of A. D. P.—fascinating heiress at wheel smilingly accepting growler of milk from blushing dairymaid, while ex-tanks in tonneau lap up buttermilk; number six, old Willy Rockerbilt being fed clabber by ravishing trained nurse; number seven, Old Guard gumming ration of curds and whey served out by tantalizing granddaughter of buxom figure and sunny hair. Catch the idea? The Seven Ages in the Epic of the Cream.”.

He glanced back over his shoulder to flash his brilliant smile at Ailsa, who had sunk back on the grass in a convulsion of laughter.

“Now you see where you come in,” he remarked. “Same pretty girl in foreground. The sales of traffic literature will go to pot when we get these beautiful and artistic object lessons lined up along the track at intervals of a mile or so, and the railroad will have all sorts of damages to pay for silly commuters' heads rapped off as they rubber out the windows. As I said before, the secret of successful advertising is a pretty girl.”

“Then you'd better be getting one,” said Ailsa.

“Did you say you came from a Scotch fishing port? Well, we won't argue about that. Pretty or not, my ar-r-rt will so interpret you.”

“Why do you think I come from a Scotch fishing port?”

“You appear to have angling propensities. Also, you have let slip two or three nautical expressions, and you speak with a Hieland accent which you have praiseworthily done your best to eliminate. However, I should not harbor it against you, as among my many other misfortunes I am of Scotch descent myself. I do hope, however, that you don't happen to hail from a dreary community called Dornoch?”

“And why so?” demanded Ailsa beligerently [sic]. “What do you know of Dornoch?”

“I stopped there a few days while on a painting tour in the north of Scotland. That was before I had arrived at my present well-established position in art. I was doing a marine, when a frost-bitten old fool came out of his cottage, and looked over my shoulder. 'How about it?' I asked, expecting the customary praise. 'Mon,' says he, 'if e'er a vessel was to hit yon cloud, she'd go to glory wi' all hands and the cook.' His name, as I learned from a whelp in sea boots, was Graeme.”

Ailsa smothered a gasp. The world seemed to her at that moment very small.

“No doubt he was right,” said she tartly.

“Nae doot. It was the uncomfortable feeling that he might be that aroused my resentment. However, he did not know to what dizzy heights I was destined. The top of this ladder for instance. I fell off it the other day, and landed in my paint bucket. That is a good thing to remember. Always place your ammunition at a little distance from your base. Here comes a train. Now, watch 'em stare. The girl will certainly hit 'em in the eye on the asphyxiation coach.”

A matinal train of city employees rushed past, with a flourish of hands from the open windows of the smoking car to the pretty girl in the paint blouse who turned to look at them. Joshua removed his hat with a bow of acknowledgment.

“Genius is finally being recognized,” said he. “Do you think that the caudal appendage of that lord of the herd in the middle distance is long enough?”

“His tail is too long, if that is what you mean,” said Ailsa.

“Oh, no. He is a bull, not a bulldog. However, you are more au courant of such matters than I. Don't you want to paint in the cow getting up while I smoke a pipe? Speaking of the bull reminds me that I have not yet had my morning's heart poison. Besides, I have forgotten how Sukie yonder looked when she got up, and don't like to disturb her again.”

Nothing loath, Ailsa took a couple of brushes, and mounted the ladder. She had made quite a study of sheep and cattle, and with a few deft strokes drew in the rising bovine, doing it remarkably well.

“I see that you have me beaten from here to the model,” said Joshua pleasantly. “I see where I am destined to shine with reflected glory. Joking apart, I am almost tempted to think that you are wasted in this profession. However, if we are industrious, you may be able to save enough from your summer's work to take a small studio and try to do some magazine illustrating during the winter. That line of work is scarcely on the same elevated plane as this, but they tell me it pays better. I might even do some sketches myself of the well-dressed gentlemen who appear in the advertising supplement.”

In this cheerful and light-hearted manner, the morning passed. But Ailsa quickly discovered that her newly found employer was not an idler. He worked rapidly, and to such good purpose that by eleven the sign was completed; whereupon, Joshua affixed his modest signature, “J. R. Jones,” and proceeded to pack up his utensils. Shouldering his light stepladder, he slung his brushes over his back, took his paint bucket in one hand, and the remaining tins in the other, and, having filled his pipe, announced that they were ready to go. Ailsa begged to carry some of the paint tins, but he shook his head.

“No, Rosa,” said he; “I am not the man to make a pack animal of my only sister. We will not often do this. Usually I leave Dobbin to eat the paper off these cheap lithograph signs while I work, but to-day my host was in such sore need of his services that I denied myself the pleasure of his society. Also, it pays the board bill.”

They strolled blithely up the road, and on the outskirts of the town Joshua paused.

“Here,” said he, reaching in his pocket, and taking out a roll of bills; “it is customary in this profession to pay your assistant half a month's wages in advance.” And he peeled off two tens and a five. “Never mind about the receipt.”

Ailsa took the bank notes with a flush. “You are very kind,” she said, looking at the ground.

“Merely business. Of course, since you are my sister”—he faintly emphasized the last word—“I shall expect you to count upon my absolutely brotherly care and protection on any occasion that may arise.” His clear blue eyes looked frankly and a bit fixedly into her gray ones. “Wait for me in the post office. I will not be long, and then we will get some lunch, and start.”

Ailsa hesitated. “Hadn't you better take Mac with you?” she asked. “You see, the—the people at the place I ran away from might be on the lookout for me, and he is rather conspicuous.”

Joshua nodded. “You are right.” said he. “It would be a terrible family disgrace to have my only sister arrested for stealing a dog. On the whole, perhaps you had better not go to the post office. Wait for me here behind those bushes. I will bring some note paper, and you can write your letters with my fountain pen, and we will post them in the next village we pass.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Maybe I can get you a sunbonnet from the farmer's wife. Do you mind another cold meal? It would be safer.”

“Not in the least,” she answered. “I love cold things.”

“Then get under cover, and wait. Keep Mac with you on your leash. I won't be long.”

With a slight nod, he turned on his heel, and strode off in the direction of the farm.