The Misadventures of Joseph/The Opposition Man

HEN the door had closed on the bringer of ill-tidings, Mr. Redhorn reseated himself at the table, smoothed his remaining hairs with an unsteady palm, sighed, and turned to his apprentice, whom he happened to be entertaining to tea.

"Proceed wi' yer eatin', laddie," he said kindly. "Tak' plenty jam. When ye're young ye maun pey attention to yer inside, whatever happens. As for me, I'll try a ceegarette, though I doobt it's a dooble dose o' the Elixir I'm requirin'."

"I wish Banks was deid!" the boy cried hotly. "I wish he was—"

"Na, na; ye maunna wish that aboot onybody, Wullie. He was boun' to hear the bad news suner or later—"

"But it was the way he tell't ye it."

"Ay, ay"—Mr. Redhorn produced a cigarette from a packet—"it was the way he tell't me. I confess to bilin' inwardly masel', though I trust I didna betray ma feelin's. But, ye see, Banks has never got ower his spite at me for no' takin' his nephew for ma apprentice instead o' yersel'. Moreover, he was aye cauld-heartit, like the fish he sells. Oh, ay, he was rale delighted to be the bearer o' the bad news. It's a curious thing," the painter continued, reflectively, "hoo humanity delights in inhumanity on what I micht ca' a sma' scale. It doesna rej'ice in a railway accident, but it likes fine to behold a man tummle on a slide; it doesna cry 'hurray!' when a bank breaks, but, apparently, it canna keep back a bit snicker when it sees a neighbour lossin' money. An' it hasna aye the excuse Danks has for rej'icin' at ma misfortune."

"What excuse has Danks, Maister Ridhorn?" inquired Willie, still flushed, reaching for the jam-pot.

"I've jist been tellin' ye." The bachelor struck a match, applied it cautionsly to his cigarette, coughed violently, and wiped his faded blue eyes. "I wish I had never startit the smokin', Wullie," he resumed; "but I was tell't it was soothin' to the nerves. Strikes me I micht as weel try it for ma chilblains." He took a puff or two. "Nevertheless, Danks is a cruel enemy. If I was a blackamoor that believed in the transfiguration o' souls, I wud say Danks was oreeginally a finnan haddie. But there's nae use talkin' aboot it, Wullie. We'll jist ha'e to try an' bear it."

"Ay," said Willie, "but what are ye gaun to dae aboot the opposeetion, when it comes?"

"Ye've a practical mind, ma lad. Whiles I doobt mine's is becomin' ower pheelosophical. Yer question is to the p'int, though it's maybe a wee thing previous. What wud you advise me to dae aboot the opposeetion—when it comes?"

"Burst it," was the prompt reply.

"That wud be exceedin' excellent advice if the opposeetion was appearin' in the shape of a balloon; but as it happens to assume the form o' a human bein' conseederably younger nor masel' an', accordin' to Danks, supplied wi' plenty o' capital, I canna but feel that ye spoke hasty—"

"I meant that ye could keep on daein' jobs cheaper nor the opposeetion man till ye burst him."

Mr. Redhorn shook his head. "It's a guid thing ye're gaun to be a penter, Wullie, or ye micht live to be what they ca' a high feenancier. But I may tell ye I've been the sole penter, paperhanger an' decorator in Fairport for upwards o' thirty year, an—weel, I ha'ena made a fortune. An' though ye're but an apprentice in the first blush o' youth, as the novelles say, ye ken as weel as I dae that there's no' enough business in Fairport to keep two penters busy."

"Maybe the folk'll no' gang to the opposeetion man," said Willie. "It's likely they'll stick to you."

The painter sighed. "When ye're as auld as me ye'll ken mair aboot the flightiness o' the public. Changes are lichtsome. The new shop aye gets custom—maybe no' enough to mak' it prosper, but suffeecient to hurt the auld shop, if no' to ruin it completely."

"But ye'll no' let the opposeetion man burst ye?" the boy exclaimed. "I meant for to say—"

"That'll dae, Wullie, that'll dae. I'm no' in the habit o' meetin' trouble hauf-roads—unless the trouble happens to be dyspeepsia," with which remark Mr. Redhorn rose, and taking the bottle of "Elixir" from the mantel-piece, removed the cork and helped himself to a mouthful. "Ay," he went on with sundry grimaces, "we'll see what the public o' Fairport is made o'."

"But what'll ye dae when ye see the opposeetion man?" persisted the apprentice.

"An' what wud you ha'e me dae?" the painter asked a little impatiently. "Pit oot ma tongue at him?"

"I'll dae that if ye like, Maister Ridhorn; but I wud suner hand him a bat on the nose, or knock him ower the pierheid, an'—"

"Wullie," said Mr. Redhorn impressively, "politeness costs naething—in cash, at ony rate. When the man starts business here the eye o' Fairport'll be on you an' me as weel. Mind that! Be dignified, be discreet. Conceal yer feelin's o' righteous indignation. Pay attention to yer job, whatever it happens to be, as if naething extraor'nar was occurrin'. In ither words, let Fairport see that we dinna care a fig—help yersel' to jam, laddie—for a' the opposeetion in the world!"

Presently Willie having finished his repast, remarked: "They say Maister Hood up the hill is for gettin' his hoose pentit sune. Ye should hurry up and get the order afore—"

"I think we'll leave Maister Hood to the opposeetion," Mr. Redhorn interrupted, with a faint smile.

"What way that?"

"Weel, ye see, Wullie, Maister Hood, as ye may learn frae ma ledger, which is a record o' disapp'intments, tak's frae twa an' a hauf to three years' credit. Efter a', there's a few customers I wudna grudge to the opposeetion."

"'Deed, ye're fly!"

"I wud prefer ye to use the word 'discreet,' ma lad. Noo ye best rin hame an' see if ye canna dae anything to help yer mither. See an' be at yer work prompt to time in the mornin', an' no' gi'e Fairport ony excuse for complaints."

"But ye're no' feart for the opposeetion, are ye?" said Willie, taking up his cap.

"Dae I look feart?" demanded the painter.

"N-na," Willie replied, from the door. "No' exac'ly feart. Maybe it's yer dyspeepsia. I hope it'll sune be better. Guid nicht, Maister Ridhorn."

"Guid nicht, laddie." Mr. Redhorn stroked his nose. "Am I feart?" he muttered. "Or is't ma face?"

The Opposition Man had made his preliminary visits to Fairport incog.; he had spied the land without proclaiming his intentions to any of the inhabitants, whom, as a matter of fact, he misled by certain actions into taking him for an inspector of telegraph poles. It was not until he had rented a cottage on the shore and instructed the local joiner to erect a wooden workship that the truth so disturbing to Mr. Redhorn, so gratifying to Mr. Danks, became known. Mr. Redhorn, being the sort of man who does not become popular until death has covered a few little weaknesses and uncovered many good deeds, was not an object for the united sympathy of the villagers and owners of villas in the vicinity. People began to remember his failings, his sins of omission and commission. Some expressed the opinion that the opposition would serve him right, others the pious hope that it might improve the quality of his workmanship and materials.

"It'll maybe learn him to feenish his jobs when he says he'll feenish them," said old Miss McPhun, who for seven weary years had been disputing the correctness of an account for painting a hen-house.

"Ay," said her neighbour, Mrs. Dory, whose husband had once been offended by Mr. Redhorn's refusal to accept cabbages instead of cash for the varnishing of a dinghy. "I was hearin' that the opposeetion man is frae the toon, so he'll be smart an' up-to-date, as they say. Ridhorn'll ha'e to look slippy if he doesna want to loss custom."

The village was full of rumours. The new man was "backed" by a powerful firm in the city; he was determined to capture the painting trade of Fairport; already he had secured the contract for painting the pier; sooner or later he would buy out Joseph Redhorn. As for Redhorn, he was thinking of retiring; he would retire at the end of the year; he had decided to retire forthwith; he had declared his intention of fighting to his last penny. And so on. Willie reported all he heard to his master, who looked angry or miserable or impatient, but for the most part held his tongue. The opposition was casting its shadow before. Already Mr. Redhorn was disappointed by several old customers on whose patronage he reckoned at that time of the year. It was plain to him that those people were waiting to see what the new painter was like.

On the first of March the local postman delivered to most of the inhabitants of Fairport envelopes bearing half-penny stamps and a city postmark. The envelopes contained squares of glossy pink paper, printed in seven styles of type as follows

Willie's mother having received a copy, the boy took it along to his master, who chanced to be painting a summer-house. After a prolonged inspection Mr. Redhorn carefully folded and returned it.

"Wullie," he said slowly, "I've nae fault to find wi' the language o' Maister P. Smith, an' his motto is unreproachable. But the man that sends oot a circular on paper like that has nae mair artistic feelin's nor a—plumber."

"I thought it was a pretty colour, Maister Ridhorn."

"Ay; it's vera suitable for a sweetie-poke or a love letter. But ye're young yet, laddie. I'm no' blamin' ye. I've made blunders in ma time. I mind when I papered a parlor a vera pale yella for a leddy wi' a rid nose—"

"But what kin' o' paper wud ye pit on for a leddy wi' a rid nose?" inquired Willie, with genuine interest.

"A rich crimson wi' a decided pattern," replied Mr. Redhorn gravely. "Aye try to study yer customers. In the meantime pay attention to yer pentin'."

Two days later, on a wet and windy afternoon, arrived Mr. P. Smith, a youngish man with a neat moustache, alert eyes and a jaunty step. His progress from the pier was witnessed by the bulk of Fairport's population. Mr. Redhorn, however, remained in his workshop, pretending to mix a supply of paint which he had no immediate occasion to use.

To him came the apprentice panting—"I seen him, Maister Ridhorn, I seen him!"

"Seen wha?"

"The opposeetion. He's jist come off the boat!"

"Did ye expec' him to come off an airyplane?"

Willie looked hurt. "I ran to tell ye as hard as I could," he protested.

"Thenk ye, laddie." Mr. Redhorn's expression lost some of its stiffness. "Thenk ye; but I'm no' deeply interrested in the advent o' P. Smith, Esquire, penter, paperhanger an' decorator."

"I thought ye was."

"Did ye?"

Willie glanced at his master and went over to the bench at the far end of the shop, where he began playing with a lump of putty.

At the end of a three minutes' silence, Mr. Redhorn, in a voice strange to his apprentice said:

"Wullie, mark ma words, I'm no gaun to lie doon to ony man in the pentin' trade. An', in the language o' yersel', I'm gaun to burst P. Smith inside o' a couple o' years!"

"My!" exclaimed Willie.

"What's the man like?" said Mr. Redhorn coldly.

"I didna see him extra weel. He was carryin' a baby."

"A baby!"

"Ay. So was his wife."

"His wife!"

"Ay. Did ye no' hear he had a wife an' five weans, Maister Ridhorn?"

"Five weans!"

"Maybe it's six."

Mr. Redhorn let go the stick with which he had been stirring the paint. He smoothed his hair; he stroked his nose. "Five weans!" he murmured.

"Peter Shaw said he coonted six."

Mr. Redhorn did not seem to hear. After a longish silence he said—

"Wullie, there's naething daein' the day, so ye best awa' an' amuse yersel'."

"Wud ye no' like me to gang an' see hoo the opposeetion's gettin' on? His furniture's got soaked wi' the rain, an' I heard three o' his weans was sea-seeck on the boat."

Mr. Redhorn looked at his apprentice. "Jist you gang hame an' tell that to yer mither, an' see what she says," he said gently.

When Willie had gone he resumed stirring the paint.

"Five weans!" he murmured. "Criftens! that's a handicap—on Joseph Ridhorn!"

Few things evaporate so quickly as the public's interest in an individual; few so slowly as the individual's interest in the public. For a week or so Fairport wondered about P. Smith. (His Christian name had not come to light; he never mentioned or wrote it, and his wife, a pretty woman with a patient mouth and anxious eyes, invariably addressed or referred to him as "Father.") After a week or so P. Smith began to wonder about Fairport. It was as though he had taken a high dive before a crowd, and had risen, gasping, only to ask himself where all the people had gone, and later, to doubt if anyone had really cared whether he sank or swam.

At the same time, P. Smith made friends in Fairport. He was a pleasant fellow and avoided exhibiting his city ways and wit at the expense of his more sluggish-minded neighbours. Though he could not play bowls he became a member of the club, of which Mr. Banks, the fishmonger, was president. Possessed of a fair voice, he joined the church choir. He was first to put his hand in his pocket when a collection was taken for the widow Waldie.

And so far as work was concerned, he made a fair start. He was commissioned by the fishmonger to paint his shop inside and out, and he obtained the pier contract. It is true that after the former job was finished, Mr. Danks proposed settling the bill with a year's supply of fish, and, that being gratefully but firmly refused, withheld payment in cash until the creditor was fain to submit to a deduction of ten per cent. by way of discount. Then the second job must have resulted, according to Mr. Redhorn's calculations, in a net loss of £7. 15s.

It must not be imagined, however, that these things gave Mr. Redhorn any great satisfaction or prevented him from treating his opponent in courteous, if chilly, fashion.

"I seen ye speakin' to Smith again the day," said Willie one evening in May. "Did ye no' hear he had gotten the job at the Manse?"

Said Mr. Redhorn: "He's welcome to that job. As for speakin' to the man, did ye never hear o' gladiators salutin' each ither afore commencin' to stab each ither in the vittles? As I've already informed ye, politeness costs naething. P. Smith kens as weel as I dae that it's war to the knife—"

"My! Wud ye stab the man, Maister Ridhorn?"

"Metaphorically speakin'," said Mr. Redhorn, "I wud! But as lang as he salutes me, I'll salute him."

"Aw," said Willie, disappointedly. "There's awfu' little trade for us the noo," he added.

"Ye're gettin' yer wages a' the same."

"D'ye think ye'll manage to burst him in twa years?"

"Less nor that," replied the painter, in a boastful tone that was new to the boy. "Gi'e me a twelve-month, ma lad."

"Ye're a corker!" cried Willie, involuntarily. "I mean ye're awfu' savage—brave, I mean."

"Wullie, I'm gaun to confide in ye. I've swallowed an insult, an' it hasna agreed wi' me. In the course o' oor conversation the day, P. Smith informed me that he had been through the Manse, inspectin' it afore concoctin' his estimate. The word 'concoctin’' is mine's. He likewise informed me that it appeared to be mony years since the Manse was last pentit an' papered, an' that, in his opeenion, the man that done the job maun ha'e had the notions an' taste o' a hippopotamus sufferin' frae hydrophobia—"

Willie laughed and stopped short.

"The man that done it," said Mr. Redhorn hoarsely, "was me."

"Did ye tell him? I wonder ye didna hand him a bat on—"

"I—I preferred that he should learn the truth frae some ither party. But, as aforesaid, the insult has disagreed wi' me."

"Like the tinned sawmon ye had last week?"

"That's enough!" said the painter sternly.

After a pause the boy asked. "Dae ye want me to tell him aboot the Manse, Maister Ridhorn?"

"In the meantime I prefer him to conteenue in his meeserable eegnorance, laddie. Let the truth confound him in due season. I may say that he referred to ma oreeginal stencil o' conventional comets on the staircase as deleerious sassiges—"

"I doobt he kent it was you a' the time, an' was takin' a rise oot o' ye."

"A rise oot o' me?" Mr. Redhorn sat down in his easy-chair.

"I've a guid mind to heave a brick through his window the nicht," said Willie sympathisingly.

"Na, na. Nae violence," said Mr. Redhorn. "Ye best awa' hame," he said presently in an almost natural voice. "Divulge naething o' what ye've heard here. But—gi'e me a twelve-month frae this date!"

Left to himself he took up a penny novelette and endeavoured to become absorbed in its villainies and virtues. But as he read he muttered: "Hippopotamus—hydrophobia—deleerious sassiges!"

Verily there were worse afflictions than the loss of money.

Upon what precisely Joseph Redhorn based his estimate of his opponent's financial staying power will probably never be known. Perhaps he gained a hint from the man's manner, which to his shrewd enough intelligence seemed artificially buoyant; perhaps he guessed something from the face of the man's wife. Or it may have been only bluff when he named a twelve-month to his apprentice. The fact remains that his estimate turned out to be correct. If anything, it had erred on the safe side. As Mr. Redhorn had said, there was not sufficient work in Fairport for two painters, and that particular year brought even fewer orders than usual. Then in the autumn Mrs. P. Smith had a baby, and in the winter three of her children took measles. Just before the new year P. Smith's paint store went on fire, and the damage was not covered by insurance. P. Smith was seen less frequently in the choir and oftener in the beer-shop. He avoided his rival in trade. But his manner was more buoyant than ever. He talked briskly, perhaps feverishly, of the orders he was going to secure for the approaching Spring.

On a snowy night in February Mr. Redhorn, seated at his hearth, was turning over the pages of his ledger, and muttering pessimistic comments, when Willie dropped in without invitation. He was a bearer of news.

"Maister Ridhorn, d'ye ken what they're sayin' ootbye?"

"They're sayin' it's bitter cauld, I suppose. The fragidity o' ma feet has never been surpassed."

"They're sayin' that P. Smith hasna bought ony butcher meat for a month, an' they're sayin' that Danks the fishmonger is gaun to summon him to the court for his fish accoont. I seen him gaun into the beer-shop as I cam' by.

Mr. Redhorn, having set the boy's usual refreshment on the table, sat down slowly.

"Aw!" he muttered.

"An they're sayin there was a man here frae Glesca the day, tryin' to get money oot o' him."

Mr. Redhorn reopened his ledger without remark.

"So," said Willie, "it strikes me ye've aboot burst P. Smith—eh?"

"I've jist been reckonin' up that I've lost aboot sixty pound in the twelve-month."

"But ye've burst him noo."

"Haud yer tongue, laddie!"

Willie gaped at his master. "I thought ye wud be pleased," he said at last.

"Maybe I'm ower pleased for words," was the reply. The painter continued more gently: "Onyway, we'll converse on ither subjects, Wullie. Efter a', it's a terrible thing to see a fellow creature beat—espaycially a fellow creature wi' a wife an' five sma' weans—"

"Six," said Willie.

"Ay, six. I had got into the habit o' thinkin' o' five.... Drink up, an' I'll walk hame wi' ye."

About two hours later P. Smith came out of the beer-shop. He had had some beer—not much, for his money was done, and no one had offered to treat him. He had spent the evening in a corner by himself. He came forth alone. The snow was falling densely, driven by a breeze from the southeast. He could see no one abroad in the village. He crossed the road and stood against the sea-wall, beyond the rays of light from the few windows which had not been shuttered. Gradually his figure became white. Beneath him, invisible, the sea cried softly....

Ere long the door of the beer-shop opened; the last of its patrons came forth and hurried homewards. The outer door was shut and bolted; a little later the window went black. Other lights went out in the village until only two were left—one close at hand, the other very far (so it seemed) away. The near light was in the home of Joseph Redhorn, the distant one in that of the man standing by the sea-wall.

Some minutes passed, and then P. Smith moved in the direction of the nearer light. But he did not move far. Halting, he shook his head. A sob burst from his throat. Turning abruptly, he almost ran towards the pier. Presently he was fumbling at the gate.

"I think it's locked," said a timid voice, and Mr. Redhorn stepped from the porch of the pier-house.

For a moment P. Smith peered at him; then he leaned against the gate, speechless, trembling.

Mr. Redhorn cleared his throat. "It—it—it's a bad nicht for folk wi' chilblains," he remarked, "but I—I had to come oot for a breather for ma dyspeepsia. That's hoo I happen to be here.... Weel, seein' we've met, what d'ye say to a gless o' ginger wine at ma fireside, afore ye gang hame, Smith?" Without waiting a reply, he put him arm through the other's.

P. Smith went with him like a sleepy child. Indoors he allowed himself to be conducted to his host's chair, a glass of ginger wine placed in his hand—without a word.

"Sup it up," said Mr. Redhorn. "I'll ha'e yin masel'." They drank in silence.

It was not until the host had taken the guest's empty glass that the dazed look began to pass from the latter's face.

Said P. Smith, at last, huskily: "We came to Fairport, because I thought it would be good for the children."

"Surely," Mr. Redhorn murmured.

"And I—I had the notion o' startin' on my own account."

"Jist that."

"My wife—my wife thought I was better in the situation I was in."

"Did she?"

There was a pause.

"Noo an' then," said Mr. Redhorn cautiously, "a woman's richt. It happens so—occasionally. Ay—to be sure—precisely." He coughed. "Maybe Mistress Smith'll be wonderin'—"

The visitor half rose and sank back. He was not yet fit to go. His eyes once so bright and alert, fell before Mr. Redhorn's, always so dull and tired.

"My God!" he whispered, "I'm done!"

"Na, na!" said Mr. Redhorn, nervously. "Ye maun never say that, this side o' the tomb. Man—Smith!" he cried aloud, "I'm vexed for ye—sair vexed for ye. I—I didna want ye here; but—but I dinna like to see ony man beat. But maybe ye're no' beat yet?"

"I'm finished! Oh, you know it, after what you've seen to-night."

Mr. Redhorn stood up, his long thin body quivering. "Oh, Lord!" he whispered, "is there ony earthly business that isna someway damnable in Thy sicht?" He stole towards the other man, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Smith, if I had been a younger man, it's likely I wud ha'e got beat. It was jist a question c' age an' experience an' a wee bit o' capital."

"I've been an awful fool," mumbled P. Smith. "I saw I was wrong at the start, but I wouldn't turn back. My wife—"

"Ye didna ha'e a chance." Mr. Redhorn began to pat his guest's shoulder. "See here, Smith, what are ye gaun to dae?"

"Go bankrupt."

"Na, na! Are ye are—ye agin takin' a seetuation again?"

"There's a situation waiting for me in Glasgow—if I could get away from here."

"An' why—"

"Redhorn, I'm chained up here wi' debt."

"Much?"

A sob, or something like it.

"Hoo much, Smith?"

"N—near fifty pound."

Mr. Redhorn walked slowly to the window and back. After considerable hesitation he said:

"Yer stock-in-trade'll be something. What wud ye be askin' for it?"

"Redhorn, if I was offered a fair job to-morrow I couldn't take it—for want o' materials."

"Weel, weel!... What aboot goodwill?"

At this P. Smith laughed drearily. "Goodwill! Oh, hell! What goodwill has a broken business like mine?"

Again Mr. Redhorn laid his hand on his guest's shoulder.

"Apart frae yer business," he said awkwardly, "I hereby—I hereby offer ye fifty pound—cash—for yer—goodwill."

It was still snowing when they set out.

"Ye're lucky no' to ha'e chilblains." Mr. Redhorn spoke in cheerful jerky fashion. "An' ye'll no' come to ma hoose till late the morn's nicht, mind, for it's a secret atween us. I'm gled ye're no' afflicted wi' the dyspeepsia, which is a trial for onybody wi' artistic feelin's. An' I'll ha'e the cash ready, so as ye can get awa' frae Fairport when it suits ye. Mind, ye're no' to think ye got beat here. If ye had come twinty year later, I wud ha'e fled frae the fray, so to speak. Ye jist happened to arrive at the wrang time. An' I'll come an' see ye when I'm in Glesca, an' meybe Mistress Smith'll gi'e me a dish o' tea. An' trust ye'll be fruitful an' multiply—etceetera. I think I best awa' hame noo." He held out his hand. "An' I forgive ye for yer remark aboot the hydropathic hippopotamus an' the insane sassiges."

"Oh!" said poor P. Smith, and got no further, for Joseph Redhorn literally ran away.

The P. Smiths left Fairport within the week. Doubtless it was by the merest chance that Mr. Redhorn happened to be on the pier at their departure, and Mr. Danks for long afterwards declared it was just rank hypocrisy that made the painter shake hands with them all, including the infant.

And even Willie still believes that his master "burst the Opposeetion Man."