The Misadventures of Joseph/A Bid for Fame

EY! Hold on!" cried the apprentice so sharply that Mr. Redhorn dropped his brush and all but fell from the ladder.

Recovering his balance, the painter, with natural enough irritation, but with unwonted asperity, exclaimed: "What the mischief did ye yell like that for, laddie? I micht ha'e broke ma neck."

"I couldna help yellin' when I seen ye was for puttin' the wrang colour on the cornice."

"The wrang colour!" Mr. Redhorn looked down at the pot in his left hand, the pot with which he had mounted the ladder a minute previously. "Criftens!" he muttered, and proceeded to descend cautiously to the floor.

Arrived there, he set down the paint-pot and solemnly presented his apprentice with his hand.

"Wullie," he said to the astonished youth, "if ye risked ma neck, ye saved ma reputation. What wud Mistress Carvey ha'e said if I had put sky-blue where she ordered sawmon-pink? Thenk ye, laddie—thenk ye!"

"Aw, it was naething," muttered Willie. "I jist didna want to see ye mak' a cod o' yersel'. A' the same, I dinna think ye could break yer neck fallin' that wee height."

"The human neck," said Mr. Redhorn seriously, "is easier broke nor ye seem to think, ma lad, an' I never was skilled at the acrobatics. I never yet fell wi'oot hurtin' masel' an' beholdin' a superabundance o' stars. At the same time, as previously observed, I'm grateful to ye for stayin' ma hand afore it could mak' a false step."

During these remarks Willie had lifted a pot, and now he offered it to his employer. "Here's the sawmon-pink, Maister Ridhorn, an' I'll whisper the next time instead o' yellin'."

But Mr. Redhorn shook his head, and motioned the pot away, saying:

"Na, Wullie, I'll leave the cornice till the morn's mornin', and meantime I'll help ye wi' the skirtin'-board." He consulted his watch. "Five o'clock. Ay! we'll manage to feenish the skirtin'-board afore we knock off."

"Are ye—are ye feared to gang up the ladder again?" the boy inquired.

"I am that," the painter replied with a sigh. "But it's ma reputation mair nor ma neck that I'm feared for. The truth is, I'm no' in the humour for performin' delicate operations." He hesitated for a moment. "Maybe ye've noticed that something has been preyin' on ma mind the day, eh?"

"Is it yer dyspeepsia again?"

"I said ma mind, laddie. Maybe I should ha'e said ma intellec'."

"Ye've got me there," said Willie.

"Ye ha'ena noticed onything?"

Willie shook his head. "Has Danks, the fishmonger, been teasin' ye again?" he inquired, as with an after-thought.

"Na; it's no' Danks this time, though I daresay it'll no' be lang afore he'll be wantin' his revenge."

"Revenge?"

"Ay! For, ye see, I got the better o' him last nicht—and noo I wish I hadna. But this'll no' dae. Time's money to Miss Carvey, as weel as to Joseph Ridhorn. Get to work on the skirtin'-board, laddie."

For three minutes they painted diligently and in silence. Then Willie's curiosity got the better of him.

"What did ye dae to Danks last nicht?" he casually inquired.

"Pay attention to yer job," said Mr. Redhorn, not very firmly, however. He was longing to confide in the only confidant he possessed.

Willie's ears detected the weakness in the command. "Come on; tell us, Maister Ridhorn," he said softly, persuasively. "What did ye dae to Danks?"

"Naething, direc'ly; but I could see he left the meetin' in a huff."

"What meetin'?"

"Pay attention to yer job." Mr. Redhorn dipped his brush, made a few strokes with it, gently scratched the tip of his nose with the point of the handle, and continued: "I suppose ye're aweer that Samuel M'Tavish, the Fairport polisman—or constable, as he prefers to be designated—has got promotion to the city?"

"Ay! he'll maybe get quit o' some o' his fat there. He's liker a hippopotamus nor a man—"

"Whisht, laddie! Dinna speak evil o' the departed—or, at ony rate, the aboot-to-be-departed. For a man that's had sae little to dae for ten year, Samuel's no' a bad chap. Onyway, it has been decided to compliment him wi' a presentation afore he departs, this day week. A commytee was formed some time back to gather funds, etceetera. The presentation will consist o' a purse o' twinty sovereigns in gold—"

"Gor!"

"—an' a clock, for he's getting married shortly."

"My! it's fine to be a slop!"

"That's an awfu' unseemly word, Wullie. A polisman's is an honourable profession, though it involves mair boots nor brains. Still, I've nae doobt Samuel'll need to use his heid for a' it's worth when he gets to the city."

"But what aboot Danks? Would he no' put onything in the purse?"

"Oh, Danks subscribed his share. Gi'e the man credit for that. But the meetin' last nicht wasna entirely feenancial. In fac', the chief business was to choose the party that wud mak' the presentation, likewise a speech. That was where the trouble commenced, Wullie. They didna choose Danks."

"Wha did they choose?"

"Me," said the painter sadly. "On' noo I wish it had been the other way. But I was kin' o' elevated last nicht."

"Eh?" Willie regarded his employer with increased interest.

"I'm sayin' I was kin' o' elevated. Ye see, the meetin' was in ma hoose, and I felt it ma duty to stan' the comp'ny a bottle o' ginger wine; an' what wi' the fumes o' the wine, as the poets say, an' the popular acclamations, I lost ma heid for the time bein', and consented to mak' the presentation on Thursday, the third prox."

"When?"

"This day week. An' noo I'm sorry."

"But ye can draw back yet, and let Danks get the job."

"A Ridhorn never draws back," said the painter, adding under his breath, "espaycially when there's a Danks in the field."

"Is the polisman to get his purse an' clock in a field?" inquired Willie.

"Tits, laddie, I was speakin' metaphorically. The ceremony'll tak' place in the public hall, an' a' Fairport'll be there. An', as sure as death, I'll mak' a cod o' masel', and be the laughin'-stock o' Fairport, Danks included. Aweel, let it be a lesson to ye. See that ye never let yer vanity get the better o' yer sober judgment. Turn a deaf ear to popular applause, an' avoid—"

"I wudna drink ginger wine if I was payed for V said Willie. "But I'm sure," he added kindly, "ye can mak' as guid a speech as ony man in Fairport, Maister Ridhorn."

"On paper, Wullie, on paper—or, at ony rate, on the taiblets o' ma imagination," said Mr. Redhorn modestly. "That was another metaphor, ye wud observe. Oh, I wouldna shrink if it was merely a case o' composeetion—in fac', I think I rway say wi'oot ostentation"—he smacked his lips over the word—"that, barrin' the meenister, I would beat ony man in Fairport an' the viceenity at the game."

"My! ye're a demon for fancy words!"

Mr. Redhorn let the compliment pass. "But," he went on sadly, "when it comes to gi'ein' an oral demonstration o' ma oratorical an' rhetororical abeelities—"

"Eh?"

"When it comes to openin' ma mooth for to emit the fruits o' ma lucubrations—"

Unfortunately at this point Willie permitted himself to snigger, and although he blew his nose almost simultaneously, Mr. Redhorn's suspicion was stirred.

"Pay attention to yer job," said the painter, "an' we'll work till ten meenutes past the hour the nicht"

"But I've got a footba' match the nicht!"

"In that case we'll start ten meenutes earlier the morn's mornin'. Noo proceed. Keep yer brush busy, an' gi'e yer tongue a rest."

Which was rather unjust of Mr. Redhorn, considering that he had been doing the most of the talking. He sought to make up for his sharpness later by inviting the boy to tea, and was honestly disappointed when Willie, who bore no ill-will, reminded him of the football match.

"I—I was thinkin' ye micht care to gi'e me a hand wi' the speech," he said diffidently, as they were about to part.

"Oh, weel, I'll see if I've time," said Willie carelessly.

In spite of his brave words, Mr. Redhorn discovered that even mere "composeetion" was not lightly to be achieved. At eight-thirty Willie found him groaning over a table littered with scraps of paper and cigarette ash.

"Ha'e ye no' had yer tea yet?" the apprentice inquired, after a glance round the untidy room.

Mr. Redhorn shook his head.

"Hoo mony ceegarettes ha'e ye smoked?"

"Dear knows," the painter wearily replied. "I thought they would maybe stimulate ma brain—"

"If ye wud smoke guid ceegarettes instead o' that rotten sort—"

"I've tell't ye afore, I canna afford to be a connisewer." Mr. Redhorn passed his hand over his scalp.

"Is yer heid hurtin' ye?"

"No' jist exactly hurtin' me, but I'm begginin' to understan' why so mony o' the world's greatest thinkers ha'e ended their days in the madhoose." He groaned, dipped his pen, and brought from the depths of the ink-pot a blob of sediment. "That," he said, regarding it bitterly, "is what happens every time I'm seized wi' an aspiration."

Willie, having passed to the mentelpiece [sic], missed the significance of the last remark. He now returned carrying a large bottle of medicinal appearance.

"Ye better drink a dose o' the Elixir, Maister Ridhorn."

"Tits, laddie, I've got nae dyspeepsia the noo. Ma trouble is mental—intellectual."

"An' that brings on the dyspeepsia later—ye've tell't me often."

"True! An' onyway, as wiser men nor me ha'e remarked, prevention is better nor cure. Gi'e me the bottle." Uncorking it, he lowered a goodly pull, much to the gratification of Willie, who never tired of seeing his employer take physic. "Aw, laddie, that's a terrible taste. Remove it! I've been absorbin' that Elixir for nine years, but if I was livin' to be a hundred, I doobt I wudna get to like it."

"But it's guid for ye," said Willie, returning the bottle to the mentelshelf. "I think I'll put the kettle on, and ye'll get a cup o' tea, eh?"

"Ye're a thoughtful laddie," the painter returned gratefully, cleaning his pen, and preparing to resume his task.

Presently, Willie, having mended the fire, which had burned low, rejoined him.

"Hoo are ye gettin' on, Maister Rid'horn?"

Mr. Redhorn sighed. "Ma brain feels burstin' wi' ideas, but as sure as I start to write them doon—feugh! they're awa'!"

"Ha'e ye nae notion o' what ye want to say?"

"Oh, I ken fine what I want to say," said the painter a trifle sharply. "The deeficulty is to command ma ideas. I think the best way'll be to begin wi' a synopsis—"

"What's that?"

"French. Ye'll see what it means immediately."

Mr. Redhorn laid a fresh scrap of paper before him, and cautiously dipped his pen. "For instance, we'll ha'e to speak o' the polisman's connection wi' Fairport, and the great respec' and esteem he enjoyed—"

"No' frae me!"

"Whisht, laddie! When a prominent man is leavin' the community for ony place excep' the jail, it's usual to mention 'respec' and esteem.' Then," the painter continued, "we wud need to refer to the absence o' serious crime durin' his residence here. I canna deny that ma remarks wud be mair pungent if he had nabbed a burglar, or detected a homicide, or performed a gallant deed o' some description—"

"He once got a motorist fined—an' d'ye mind when he was for arrestin' a photographer for—"

"Oh, we'll no' refer to these incidents. We'll jist say he done his duty, an' then we'll congratulate him on his promotion to a wider sphere, which is tempered wi' unspeakable grief to think that his feet will never (D.V.) tread these hospitable shores again. That's the synopsis." Mr. Redhorn concluded with a wave of his pen and a long breath.

"My! ye're a demon at speeches!" cried Willie, in honest admiration.

"Ma mither aye wanted me to be a meenister," said the gratified painter; "but I couldna think to soar that high. Still, I'm gled ye approve o' the synopsis, Wullie, which, ye must understan', is merely the entrails o' the observations at present seethin' in ma brain. If I can jist manage to get a tenth part o' ma thoughts on to paper, an' a tenth part o' the result oot o' ma mooth, I promise ye I'll gi'e Fairport something to talk aboot for a month—or at least a week. I confess, laddie, yer kind words ha'e filled me wi' a new enthusiasm, an' I'll proceed wi' ma task in hope. Noo I hear the kettle singin', so we'll get oot the dishes preparatory to enjoyin' a dish o' tea."

"Strikes me," said Willie, "ye're feelin' the better of the Elixir."

"I'll no' deny it," returned Mr. Redhorn, rising briskly; "nor will I deny that I feel at this blessed meenute like a young lion—or an ostrich—I mean to say, an eagle—which has renewed its youth."

When Willie had recovered from a severe fit of coughing, he said:

"Maister Ridhorn—" and halted.

"What is it, laddie?"

"What d'ye think I was hearin' the nicht? I was for tellin' ye suner, but I forgot."

From the cupboard where he kept his provisions, Mr. Redhorn had taken a plate of butter. "What did ye hear?" he asked fearfully, and laid the plate of butter on the dresser.

"There's a reporter frae the Greenhill Herald comin' to the polisman's meetin' next week."

"A reporter! Great guidness!"

"He's some relation o' the polisman's. I suppose he'll be writin' doon yer speech for the paper, Maister Ridhorn."

For several seconds Mr. Redhorn remained absolutely motionless. Then he strode noiselessly to the door and turned the key. Then he walked over to the hearth, and stood there for a moment or two, gently stroking his drooping moustache. Then he stepped firmly across to the dresser, half-turned, and faced his staring apprentice.

"If this," he said, with emotion, raising his clenched fist, "if this isna fame, Wullie, it—it's dashed near it!" The clenched fist fell with a muffled thump.

"Oh, the butter!" yelled Willie.

The prospect of beholding his speech in print was as a spur to Mr. Redhorn's flagging ambition and faltering self-confidence. Yet a spur means pain no less than encouragement, and the painter's sufferings during the next six days—and nights—shall not be described in these pages.

It was about nine o'clock on the sixth evening that Mr. Redhorn made the announcement to Willie, who had several times fallen asleep in the easy-chair, of the completion of the great work.

"Gor!" said Willie, sitting up.

"Noo, in the first place," said the author, "is yer mither aware that ye're here the nicht?"

"Ay."

"Secondly, will she be alarmed if ye're no' hame afore nine-thirty?"

"No' her!" was the prompt reply.

"Then," said Mr. Redhorn, "seein' I've got to gang to Glesca the morn, to settle quarterly accounts, etceetera, I think I best read ye the speech noo. Accordin' to ma calculations, it'll tak' forty meenutes to deliver, an'—"

"Holy Moses!" the boy exclaimed involuntarily.

Mr. Redhorn permitted Himself to smile. "Yer remark," he said, "suggests to me, Wullie, that I've composed a sermon; and I may say I'm no' wantin' in hope that ma speech contains sundry moral reflections. At the same time, it is aboundin', mair or less, in humour and innocent pleasantries. Moreover, it is rich in poetry. The poetry, hooever, is unoriginal."

"Is it?"

"But, on the whole, appropriate. Aweel, I'll begin—an' if there's onythirg ye dinna understan', kindly preserve inquiries till I come to 'finis.'"

"Could I get a drink o' water first?"

"Mercy, laddie, I clean forgot to inform ye o' the presence in thonder press o' a bottle o' leemonade, specially purchased for yer ain consumption. Help yersel', quick; but try no' to let the gas get the better o' ye durin' ma recital. I doobt I'll ha'e trouble enough tryin' to read ma ain deplorable penmanship, wi'oot ony exterior interruptions."

A minute later, tumbler in hand, Willie settled himself to listen. He had, during the past few days, hearkened to endless quotations from his employer's "notes," so that he did not expect to be vastly entertained. Nevertheless—so long, at least, as his refreshment lasted—he gave his best attention to the somewhat stumbling "recital." And he sometimes managed to laugh or look grave at the right moment. Mr. Redhorn never raised his eyes from the pages except to rub them, while he mildly cursed his own bad writing.

At a quarter to ten the bulky manuscript fell from the fingers of the exhausted maker thereof.

"Splendid!" cried Willie. "Splendid!" He really could not think of anything else to say. He had long since decided not to ask any questions.

"I dinna think onybody'll deny," said Mr. Redhorn, wiping his streaming forehead, "that it's a speech."

"I'll knock the face off onybody that does," the apprentice declared.

"Ye're loyal, laddie, ye're loyal! But between you and me, I'm thinkin it's no hauf bad—eh?"

"It's splendid!" said Willie, checking a yawn.

"I jist wish I hadna to gang to Glesca the morn. I wud like fine if there had been time to mak' a fresh copy o' the speech. I'm feared I'll boggle at some o' the words that I've altered, an' loss ma heid." Mr. Redhorn began to look gloomy.

Willie had been given a holiday on the morrow, and had planned to go fishing. But something impelled him to say:

"If ye like, I'll copy it for ye, an' ha'e it ready for ye when ye come hame at five o'clock."

"What! Ye wud dae that for me, Wullie? 'Deed, it wud mak' a' the difference in the world to me—an' ye're a grand writer, I ken."

"Ay, I'll dae it," said the boy, almost regretting his offer.

"Weel," the painter said, "it'll be a benefit that'll never be forgot. I'll bring ye the manuscript an' a supply o' paper afore I gang for the early boat, so as ye'll no' miss yer long lie. I dinna ken what to say to ye, laddie, but I'm gratefu'. An' noo I'm feared yer mither'll be anxious."

When, on the following evening, Mr. Redhorn stepped across the gangway, he was not surprised to see a strange policeman on the pier, for he was aware that the man had been in Fairport for several days, learning his way about under the guidance of Samuel M'Tavish. But he was surprised—nay, stricken with astonishment—when the piermaster, receiving his toll, remarked:

"We missed ye badly the day, Ridhorn."

"Eh?" exclaimed the painter, staring. Then assuming that he was being chaffed, he gave a good-humoured laugh. "Weel, I hope the rest o' Fairport has survived ma absence as weel as you appear to ha'e done, Tammas."

"But it was a pity ye left wi' the early boat," the other said seriously; "for the news arrived at eight o'clock—as sune as the telegraph wire was open."

"Wh-what news?"

"I suppose I best tell ye the truth," the piermaster replied reluctantly, for he was a sympathetic soul. "Samuel M'Tavish got a wire frae heidquarters commandin' him to report hissel' at the Glesca office first thing the morn's mornin'. So he gaed off wi' the efternune boat. A great pity ye wasna here."

Mr. Redhorn cleared his throat. "Dae ye mean to say the polisman has left wi'oot receivin' his presentation?" he stammered.

"Oh, he got his presentation richt enough. Danks seen to that. Danks made the commytee call a public meetin' for twa o'clock. The folk turned oot weel; in fac', the hall was packed. Danks put hissel' in the chair, an' made the presentation, an' a speech forbye."

"Danks made a speech?"

"Aw! it wasna worth hearin', but I thought it was best to tell ye, Ridhorn."

There was a short pause, during which the painter appeared to swallow something. Then he said, thickly, but gently: "I'm obleeged to ye, Tammas. Guid nicht!"

He made for his bachelor abode, avoiding several neighbours who would have spoken with him. He could not, however, avoid passing the fish-shop, in the doorway of which Danks, literally swollen with importance, was standing with some of his cronies.

With a great effort, the painter raised his head and murmured "Fine nicht!" though the rain was drizzling in melancholy fashion.

One of the cronies answered affably enough, but the others sniggered, and the fishmonger broke out with a sarcastic cackle, which followed Mr. Redhorn to his door.

He had left the key with his apprentice, whom he expected to find awaiting him at the fireside. But the door was locked, and no answer came to his knocking, until a neighbour appeared with the key and the explanation that the boy had left it in her charge some hours previously.

Mr. Redhorn entered, to find the fire out and neither message nor manuscript from his apprentice. He threw himself into the shabby easy-chair.

"Even Wullie'll be laughin' at me," he sighed bitterly.

Threatenings of a cold in the head caused him to relight the fire and make a cup of tea. Thereafter he settled down to brood miserably, wrathfully, on the perfidy of the Glasgow police authorities, the triumph of Banks, the amusement of his neighbours, his own fatal conceit that had led to his dignity's downfall, and, last but not least, the foolish figure he must surely cut in the eyes of his apprentice.

Nine o'clock arrived, and the poor struggling hope that, in spite of all, Willie might turn up with a word of sympathy, died out. And as he once more called himself an old fool, a knock fell on the door, and a voice called cheerfully:

"It's me—Wullie!"

A moment later, he was admitted—dripping, mud-bespattered.

"Laddie, laddie, ye're drookit! Gang ower to the fire. I'll ha'e the kettle bilin' in nae time, an' ye'll drink a gless o' ginger-wine—hot—whether ye like it or no'. Man, I'm pleased to see ye!" Yet even as he uttered the last sentence Mr. Redhorn's heart flopped once more to the depths. "I suppose ye gaed to the fishin' efter a'," he said, trying not to speak coldly. "Weel, I suppose it was the best thing ye could ha'e done in the circumstances."

"Fishin'!" cried Willie, watching the steam rising from his garments. "I was busy wi' yer speech till twa o'clock. An awfu' lot o' writin'! I had to get ma mither to dae a share."

"But—but, oh, laddie, did ye no' ken that the polisman got a wire an'—"

"Fine! But I thought it wud be a peety to waste the speech—"

"But it was wasted afore ye started to copy—"

Willie laughed and shook his head. "Na; it's no' wasted. I had it ready in time for the meeting but, of course, the reporter wasna there, an' so I legged it to Greenhill."

"Greenhill?"

"I thought I wud gang an' see the man that has the weekly paper there. I was jist in time, for it comes oot the morn. He canna print a' yer speech, he says, but he's gaun to gi'e ye a column—"

"A column! Laddie, are ye tellin' me that a whole column o' ma speech is to be printed?"

"Jist that. The paper man said it was—splendid." Willie may be forgiven his suppression of the fact that the editor had muttered something like "screamingly funny" and choked a dozen times in the course of his perusal.

Mr. Redhorn sat slowly down, his hand to his head. "And ye've walked sixteen mile in this weather to dae that for me! Oh, Wullie, but ye're loyal!"

"It was a peety to waste it. Ye've burst Danks this time, eh?"

"Criftens!" cried the painter. "I 'had clean forgot aboot Danks. He—he'll be furious. I hope ye explained to the paper man that Danks was in the chair."

"Oh, the paper man's gaun to put in the paper that Danks said a few words," said Willie carelessly. "Danks canna speak for nuts. I heard him. It was like a moose squeakin'. Gor! I wud like to see his face when he gets the paper the morn's nicht. The paper man's gaun to send ye a dizzen copies, free."

Just then the kettle boiled over, and Mr. Redhorn, curbing his excitement, hastened to concoct the hot drink for his guest.

"'Deed, I think I'll ha'e a gless masel', he said suddenly; "for if this isna fame, it's dashed—" He paused. "It's kin' o' rough on Danks, too," he muttered thoughtfully. "Weel, weel, as ye grow aulder, Wullie, ye'll learn that every fly has its ointment."