The Misadventures of Joseph/The Pledge

R. REDHORN, drowsily absorbed in giving his toes a final toasting preparatory to putting them and the rest of himself to bed, was startled by a light tapping on the door of his bachelor abode.

"Wha can it be at this time o'nicht?" he muttered, getting into his ancient carpet slippers.

The tapping was repeated, still softly, but more insistently.

Mr. Redhorn, buttoning his waistcoat, shuffled unwillingly to the door.

"Wha's there?"

"Me.... John Forgie!"

"John Forgie!" The painter's astonishment was not unnatural, considering that Mr. Forgie, though familiar as a neighbour, had never called upon him before. "I was preparin' to retire," he continued. "Is't onything important?"

"Ay, it's important, but I'll no' keep ye lang."

Mr. Redhorn opened the door.

"Step in," he said hospitably enough.

"Thenk ye," replied the visitor, entering. He was a little, middle-aged man, with moist blue eyes, a fat, foolish, kindly countenance, side-whiskers of a faded reddish hue, and a notably bald head. "I'm vexed for disturbin' ye at this time o' nicht," he remarked, crossing to the hearth while the host closed the door. "But the thing couldna stan', for I've got to gang to Glesca the morn by the early boat." Without waiting for an invitation he seated himself in Mr. Redhorn's easy-chair, and smiled blandly at nothing in particular.

"I'm sorry I canna offer ye a ceegar," said the painter, with an ironical grimace, as he came towards the hearth.

"Thenk ye; but I'll jist try yin o' yer ceegarettes"—he helped himself from a packet on the shelf at his elbow—"though to ma mind ceegarettes arena worth the smokin'. Ha'e ye a match?"

Mr. Redhorn, repressing his irritation, passed a box from the mantelpiece.

"Thenk ye." The little man lit up, and put the box in his pocket. "I suppose ye dinna happen to ha'e a bottle o' beer handy, Ridhorn?" he said pleasantly.

"Yer supposeetion," replied the painter stiffly, "is correc'."

Mr. Forgie sighed. "Or whusky?"

"The answer is in the negative."

"Or... rum?"

"I can gi'e ye a nice gless o' castor-ile," said Redhorn grimly.

Undismayed, the visitor sniggered. "It's you for the jocular," he remarked, bending forward to poke up the embers in the grate.

"See here, Maister Forgie," the painter said, restraining his temper with difficulty, "I'm sorry to disapp'int ye in yer quest for fluid refreshment, but the time is noo ten-forty p.m., an' I've a job at six the morn's mornin'."

"Ay, it's a peety aboot the refreshment. I could ha'e done fine wi' a dram, but I'm no' the man to tak' offence when I ken nae offence is intended. Ye see—"

"Weel, weel," the host interrupted impatiently, "I'll maybe ha'e a bottle o' ginger wine on tap the next time ye favour me wi' a call—if it's no' later nor nine o'clock."

"Thenk ye," said Mr. Forgie, as he helped himself to a fresh cigarette, having chewed most of the first. "But ye're no' to think I cam' here the nicht lookin' for hospitality. Na, na Ridhorn! Ye're no' to think that!"

"What am I to think?"

"Sit doon, an' I'll tell ye."

"Is—is it a lang story?"

Mr. Forgie shook his shiny head emphatically.

"Sit doon, an' I'll tell ye."

With considerable reluctance Mr. Redhorn took the deal chair at the table. "Proceed," he said, in a weary voice, passing his hand over his hair.

The other smirked. "Ye'll never guess what I'm here for, Ridhorn."

"I ha'e nae intention o' tryin'."

"Weel, I'll tell ye. I'm here"—snigger—"for to sign the pledge."

"The pledge?" Mr. Redhorn looked hard at his visitor. "Ye appear to be sober."

"Ay, I'm sober. I ha'ena tasted a drap the day."

Mr. Redhorn stroked his nose. "But—but ye've jist been askin' me for beer, whusky, etceetera!"

"I could ha'e done wi' a fareweel dram," said Mr. Forgie, with a sigh. "But a' the same, I'm here to sign the pledge—the teetotal pledge."

"Are ye in earnest?"

"It's no' a thing I wud joke aboot," replied the visitor, relieving himself rather violently of some shreds of tobacco.

"But what way dae ye come to me? I've never pledged masel', though I'm for temperance in a' shapes an' sizes. It's true I'm an abstainer, but, unlike Timothy, I avoid wine for the sake o' ma interior. Ma abstention is naething to ma credit. If ye want to sign the pledge, John, ye should gang to the meenister."

"I'm no' in wi' the meenister the noo," returned Mr. Forgie, taking a third cigarette. "He was awfu' snuffy aboot the account I sent him for testin' his drains. He couldna see that their bein' in guid order had done me oot o' a job."

"An honest plumber," observed Mr. Redhorn, "is yin o' heaven's maist wondrous handiworks."

"If I was gaun to the meenister for to sign the pledge," continued Mr. Forgie, ignoring the remark, "he micht tak' it as a sort o' apology. Besides it was ower later to gang there, an' as I tell't ye, I'm off in the early boat to the city—wi' a' its temptations."

"I see," said the painter, more kindly than he had yet spoken. "Weel, John, if it's to witness yer signature, I'm ready. Ye're daein' a wise thing, an' I'm sure ye'll never repent it."

"I hope no'. I cam' to ye because I ken ye're a discreet sort o' chap—"

"Ye can rely on ma discreetion. I confess it's much the better part of valour in ma case. If it hadna been for ma discreetion, I micht ha'e been servin' ma country instead o' merely beautifyin' it," said the painter modestly, and rose. "Noo I'll provide pen, ink an' paper, an' then we'll carry through the operation wi' the least possible delay."

Mr. Forgie nodded, then sighed in a reflective fashion. "I suppose," he said, in a far-away voice, "it was the truth?"

"What?" inquired the painter, setting out writing materials on the table.

"That ye've nae refreshment handy. It's gey dry work signin' the pledge. I could dae wi' a final, an' you could drink to ma keepin' the pledge—in water, if ye prefer it."

"Come, come, John!" the painter said good-humouredly. "I can gi'e ye ma word of honour there's no' a drap in the hoose. Besides, it's better to dae the deed wi'oot ony artifeecial stimulation. It's a deed to be done in cauld blood."

"So let it be!" said Mr. Forgie resignedly. "You write oot the pledge, an' I'll sign it."

"I'll dae that." Mr. Redhorn seated himself at the table and pressed the end of the penholder against the point of his nose. "What am I to say?"

"Dear knows."

"Ye leave the composeetion to me? Vera well. I'll dae ma best."

At the end of ten minutes Mr. Redhorn read aloud the following:

"I, John Forgie, Plumber, of Fairport, being of sound mind and sober, doth hereby promise, in the presence of Joseph Redhorn, Painter, Paperhanger and Decorator, also of Fairport, to solemnly abstain now and for evermore from all self-indulgence in all manner and species of intoxicating beverages, including Whisky, Brandy, Beer, Rum, Port, Sherry, &c., &c., &c. Given at Fairport on the 3rd day of March, 1913, A.D. Witness my hand and seal. God save the King."

"Gosh!" exclaimed Mr. Forgie. "Am I to sign that?"

"What's wrang wi' it?"

"Oh, naething—naething! I'll no' deny ye've the gift o' the gab, Ridhorn, but it's a fearsome document."

"It's maybe no' the orthodox form o' pledge," said the painter, "but I'll guarantee it leaves nae loophole for escape. Are ye afraid to sign it?"

"N-na, I wudna say I was afraid. I could ha'e done fine wi' a fareweel dr—"

"Tits, man! Ye'll feel different when ye've signed it. Come awa'! Here's the pen waitin' for ye."

With a doubtful grunt, Mr. Forgie rose and came to the table.

"That's where ye sign," said the painter encouragingly, indicating the place with the pen, which he then handed to his visitor.

"I see ye've made a blot," remarked the latter.

"That," said the painter, somewhat nettled, "represents yer seal. When ye've signed yer name, ye touch it wi' yer finger—"

"Strikes me there's a queer lot o' hanky-panky aboot this pledge," mumbled the other, as he scratched his name. "But onything for peace," he added, gingerly applying his forefinger to the blot.

"That's capital!" cried Mr. Redhorn in a tone of satisfaction, and seizing the pen, inscribed his name as witness. Then, having carefully dried the signatures with a scrap of blotting-paper in the last stage of dissolution, he folded the document, and—

"Here!" exclaimed Mr. Forgie. "Are you gaun to keep it?"

"Certainly! It'll be preserved among the archives o' the Hoose—sich as it is—o' Ridhorn." With these words Mr. Redhorn conveyed the document to the cupboard wherein he kept his cashbox and business papers. "Ye're pledge'll be safe here," he added kindly, "an' you, John, 'll be safe wherever ye gang."

Mr. Forgie rose and returned to the easy-chair. "I've done it noo!" he sighed, and helped himself to the last of the cigarettes.

The host winced, but said mildly enough:

"They say that virtue is its ain reward, but I hope ye'll be luckier in that respec' nor I've ever been. I think I may prophesy that ye'll sune be able to contemplate an improvin' bank account; an' while ye may ha'e to gang to bed feelin' less glorious nor in the past, ye'll rise in the mornin' less gloomy. Moreover—"

"Man, ye're a spokesman!" interrupted the visitor, yawning and getting up. "Weel, I'm no sorry I signed it—yet."

"Ye'll never be sorry," said Mr. Redhorn, coming back to the hearth. "Ye see, John, if ye was gettin' a wife—I beg yer pardon," he apologised in haste, for the fat, foolish, kindly face had gone scarlet.

"Haw, haw!" Mr. Forgie laughed awkwardly. "What wud I dae wi' a wife? What put that into yer heid, Ridhorn?"

"Aw, I shouldna ha'e mentioned sic a thing," said the painter, bashfully. "But ye maun excuse me for no' bein' blin' to the fac' that a certain lady, wha shall be nameless, has recently been receivin' the attentions o' a certain gentleman wha shall likewise be minus a cognomen."

"A what?"

"Aw, ye ken what I mean," said Mr. Redhorn pleasantly. "An' I'm sure ye ha'e ma best wishes in yer amorous pursuit."

"Thenk ye, thenk ye!" murmured Mr. Forgie, still blushing profusely. "I'm sure I never thought ye guessed onything, but seein' ye've done it, I'll ask anither favour o' ye. If ye should happen to see her the morn, casual-like, I wish ye wud mention to her that I've signed the pledge. To tell ye the plain truth, it was her that got me to dae it. She said—But never heed about that the noo. Will ye tell her, if ye see her?"

"I'll mak' a p'int o' seem' her," was the warm reply. "Depend on me! It is—is it ower early for congratulations, etceetera?"

"Ay, it's a wee thing early yet. I'm greatly obleeged to ye. But ye'll no' mention it to onybody but her—eh?"

"As heaven is ma witness," declared the painter, who was not a little excited, "I'll no' breathe it to a livin' soul excep' her."

"Thenk ye.... Weel, I'll awa' hame to ma bed. I could ha'e done fine wi' a—"

"Listen, John! If at ony time ye are tormented by a consumin' thirst, jist drap in here. I'll ha'e a bottle o' ginger wine ready. It's no' a beverage that induces ye to sing, dance, or break windows, but it's cosy on the interior an' is said to promote digeestion. So mind that, John, an' come when the spirit moves ye."

Once more the visitor expressed gratitude, and having again received the painter's assurance of secrecy, took his departure.

Mr. Redhorn went to bed, tired but unwontedly happy. It is true that until this evening he had been quite unaffected one way or another by the existence of John Forgie. It is equally true, however, that he would have done as much for any other man who happened to need a helping hand.

Fairport was eating its midday meal when Mr. Redhorn kept his promise to Mr. Forgie. The lady dwelt in a trim two-roomed cottage, a furlong beyond the village, wherein she plied the genteel trade of dressmaking with moderate satisfaction to her customers and no great profit to herself.

Until a few weeks ago her living had been entirely dependent on the work of her hands, and no one doubted that she had difficulty in making ends meet. Happily this was no longer so. The timely death of a relative in Canada had endowed her with a sum of money, the interest on which, as variously calculated by her neighbours, would amount to something between one hundred and one hundred and fifty pounds a year. A month of comfort, physical and mental, had removed the harassed expression from her wizened, homely countenance; she no longer looked much more than her age, which was forty-three. To Mr. Redhorn, however, she, standing in her doorway, appeared the same as ever, for it is to be remembered that he and she were as strange to each other as two people in a small community like Fairport may be. A passing salutation on the road, a bow on entering or leaving church—such was the extent of their acquaintanceship.

Having remarked that it was a fine day, and having received a solemn assent, Mr. Redhorn proceeded without delay to fulfil his mission.

"Miss Thomson," he said, "I ha'e called to inform ye that our mutual frien' John Forgie duly signed the pledge in ma presence, at eleeven o'clock or thereaboots, last nicht. Bein' boun' for Glesca the day, he deputed me to advise ye privately o' the fac'. I—I hope ye feel gratified."

"I'm gled to hear it," Miss Thomson replied, more calmly than the painter had anticipated. "I've been at him to sign it for a while back. I hope he'll keep it."

"Oh, I can assure ye there's nae escape frae the document he signed last nicht," said Mr. Redhorn earnestly.

"Weel, I'm obleeged to ye," she returned. "But I wasna aweer that you was a reformer, Maister Ridhorn. Are ye pledged yersel'?"

"Me?"

"Because, if ye're no', I'll be pleased to receive yer pledge, though, as a rule, I prefer to send ma reformed characters to the meenister."

It must be confessed that Mr. Redhorn simply gaped.

"Even if ye're no' in the habit o' drinkin', ye'll be safer when ye've ta'en the pledge," she continued. "I've aye understood ye to be a sober man, Maister Ridhorn, but even at your time o' life ye canna tell what temptations are afore ye. It's no' lang since I read aboot the case o' a man that fell for the first time at the age o' eighty-five. Ye'll maybe no' live as long as that; still—"

"Excuse me for interruptin' ye," said the painter, pulling his wits and dignity together. "I've naething to say against the pledge for them that needs it, but for me it wud be a pure redundancy. The details o' ma complaint—dyspeepsia—arena c'h'ice enough for female ears, but I may tell ye in confidence that the flowin' bowl can never ha'e charms for me."

"Ye micht get better o' yer complaint," said Miss Thomson, in a tone that sounded heartless to the painter.

"In the event o' sich a miracle takin' place," he returned almost sharply, "I wud feel justified in drainin' a bumper to the man or medicine that cured me."

Miss Thomson shook her head.

"I didna think ye was a man o' levity," she sighed.

"Weel, I didna come here to hurt yer feelin's," he said gently, "nor to discuss masel', either. If there's ony answer, I'll be pleased to convey it to him when he comes off the evenin' boat."

"Oh, ye can say I'm exceedin'ly pleased at what he's done," she said, adding, as though it was an afterthought: "An' ye can tell him he needna trouble to call the nicht, because I'll ha'e anither veesitor."

"Yer instructions'll ha'e ma best attention," Mr. Redhorn replied. He touched his hat, and left her looking rather wistfully after him.

As he passed down the path leading to the main road, he felt depressed.

"She doesna seem," he reflected, "to be passionately attached to him.... But maybe she's coy."

Turning into the road, he encountered Danks, the fishmonger.

"Weel, Ridhorn," said that worthy, "has she got ye to sign the pledge?"

The painter was taken aback, but managed to reply—

"Whether she has or no', Danks, we'll no' laugh at her."

"I'm thinkin' the laugh's on her side. D'ye ken hoo mony men she's got to sign the pledge, since she cam' into 'her money? Nine! An' every man o' them is a bachelor, excep' yin that's a widower. An' nane o' them was ever a hard drinker; some was practically teetotal."

"Criftens!" the painter ejaculated.

Banks grinned.

"An' each man o' the nine—or is it ten, Ridhorn?—thinks he's gaun to marry her an' her siller! Gor! it's a queer world." He passed on, leaving the painter dazed.

Mr. Forgie disembarked from the evening steamer without that glassiness of eye which usually distinguished him immediately after a trip to the city. At the same time he looked far from cheerful, and expressed himself to Mr. Redhorn as being "fair meeserable."

"Never heed, John," said the painter comfortingly, as they left the pier. "Ye'll sune get used to it. Temperance, like mony anither guid thing, is an acquired taste."

"I believe ye!" returned the novice bitterly. "Weel, did ye see her?" It was the question Mr. Redhorn had been dreading all the afternoon.

"I did. She was exceedin'ly gratified."

"Was she? Did she say onything else?"

"N-naething special, excep' that ye wasna to trouble to call on her the nicht, because she wud be ha'ein' a veesitor."

"Aw!" muttered the little man.

"I ha'ena had ma tea yet," said Mr. Redhorn hastily. "I'll be gled if ye'll jine me."

Mr. Forgie's acceptance of the invitation was more ready than gracious.

"I got in a bottle of ginger wine for ye."

Mr. Forgie groaned. "I tried a gless in the city. Thon's a terrible drink."

"Maybe ye didna get the best vintage," said the painter pleasantly, despite his wounded feelings. "A great deal depends on the vintage. Wait till ye sample mine's. I think I'll gi'e ye a stiff gless in bilin' water. The fumes alane are invigoratin'. By the way, I hope ye're partial to tinned sawmon, John, because I got in a tin for oor tea."

Apparently Mr. Forgie's feelings were not altogether invulnerable.

"My! ye're a dacent sort o' chap, Ridhorn!" he said. "I can shift tinned sawmon wi' ony man in Fairport."

"That's fine!" said the painter, opening the door of his abode.

Whether the change was due to the tinned salmon, or to the ginger wine, or to both, is immaterial, since the fact remains that the guest grew brighter as the night waxed older. By ten o'clock hope was in full bloom.

Mr. Forgie nodded blithely over his reeking tumbler, which his host had just charged for the fourth time.

"Here's to ye, Ridhorn! But ye're no' drinkin' yersel'."

"I've got to be abstemious, even wi' ginger wine," the painter replied. "But I'm gled ye find it palatable, John."

"Aw, it's no' so bad if ye tak' plenty," said Mr. Forgie, after a generous gulp. "I'll help masel' to anither o' yer ceegarettes, if ye've nae objections," he went on, suiting the action to the words. "On the whole, Ridhorn, I feel inclined to hope for the best wi' regard to to her. D'ye no' agree wi' me?"

"'Nil desperandum'  is a fine motto as lang as ye're no' bettin' on horses or dealin' in stocks. An' it's no' as if ye had proposed an' she had rejected yer suit—"

"But I ha'e proposed." Mr. Forgie wiped his brow, and went red in the face. "Ach, I better tell ye a' aboot it," he said, laughing feebly. "I proposed last nicht, an' she said she wud need a month to conseeder it. Of course, she couldna conseeder it at a' unless I signed the pledge, for she said she could never respec' ony man that hadna signed it. That's the poseetion, pure an' simple."

"So ye'll no' ken for a month?" Mr. Redhorn's glance strayed from his guest to the depleted bottle, and thence to the clock. Then he pulled himself together. "Weel, ma best wishes are yours, John," he said kindly.

Mr. Forgie drew a long breath, and his countenance grew rosier than ever.

"I wud like ye to understan', Ridhorn," he said, eyeing his cigarette, "that I'm no' courtin' her for her siller alane."

The painter's soul was touched. "Ye're a noble character!" he exclaimed and held out his hand.

The other took it with a sigh. "I'm afraid I'm no' exactly that," he said modestly, "for, to tell ye the truth, it was the siller that catched me to begin wi'. But when I seen her takin' sic an interest in ma—ma behaviour, an' so forth, I began to feel different. In fac', I wud marry her if she hadna a penny. Trade's no' half bad the noo." And Mr. Forgie buried his nose in his tumbler.

"Spoke like a man!" cried Mr. Redhorn: "Forby bein' a noble character, ye're in ma opeenion a maist deservin' suitor. Could ye eat a bit toasted cheese, jist to feenish off the evenin'?"

"I could!" was the ready reply.

It was after midnight when Mr. Redhorn found himself free to go to bed.

"This wudna need to happen every nicht," he told himself as he blew out the candle. "I wudna like to see Forgie dae a backslide, but a week o' similar dissipation wud leave me a corp."

Nevertheless at the end of a month, nearly every night of which had meant a late sitting, Mr. Redhorn was still faithful to his self-imposed trust. It is true that he was afflicted with a feeling of "general debility," and was disposed to yawn at all hours of the day; but if his flesh was weak, his strength of spirit was surely proved by the fact that he had "laid doon," as he somewhat grandiloquently expressed it, a third dozen of ginger wine.

And so we come to that evening which Mr. Redhorn, in a bright outburst, described as "maybe the last o' a series o' ambrosial symposiums."

"Ye can ca' them what ye like, Joseph," said the guest with unusual warmth, "but I'll never forget them, nor you, either. Ye've been a guid, solid frien' to me; an' if it was her that got me to sign the pledge, it's been you that has made me keep it. That's flat!"

Mr. Redhorn blew his nose. It was one of the happiest and proudest moments of his life. "I think I micht risk a second gless the nicht," he said softly, uncorking the bottle. "An' so ye're feelin' quite hopeful aboot the morrow, John? Eh?"

"I'm no despairin', onyway. Ye see, when I've been seem' her lately, I've aye reminded her o' the date, an' every time I've done that she's been mair an' mair—" Mr. Forgie paused and scratched his head.

"Coy," suggested the painter. "I believe coyness is conseedered a favourable symptom by ardent suitiors."

"Maybe it was coy. At ony rate, she didna seem able to look me in the face, an' it used to be the ither way aboot."

"It soun's promisin', John, it soun's promisin'.... Weel, I hope I'll be the first to hear the joyful' news the morn's nicht."

"Ye can coont on that, Joseph! I doobt it'll mean anither symphonium, or whatever ye ca' it," the little man laughed, as he presented his empty tumbler. "Oh, ay, I'm no' dispairin'!"

On the following afternoon Mr. Redhorn found it necessary to make inquiries of the piermaster concerning the non-arrival of certain paints, of the despatch of which he had received notice by the morning post. When he reached the pier the steamer for the city was approaching, and the piermaster requested him to wait until her departure.

Mr. Redhorn, having nothing better to do, strolled up the pier. As usual, there were few travellers, and, with one exception, they did not interest the painter. The exception was Miss Thomson. Somehow he started at the sight of her. Perhaps she started, though less obviously, at the sight of him. But the head of a little pier like Fairport's is not the place for people who wish to avoid each other.

"Fine day—at least it was in the mornin'—remarked Mr. Redhorn, touching his hat. "Are ye for an hour on the ither side, Miss Thomson?" She had seemed quite a terrible person a month ago, but now she struck him as being merely pathetic. "This is a handy boat if ye want to dae a bit shoppin' an' be hame for tea," he added.

"Ay," she murmured, and glanced furtively shorewards. "Maister Ridhorn," she whispered abruptly, "I wish ye wud dae me a favour."

"Surely—Ha'e ye forgot yer purse?"

She shook her head. "Try and get John Forgie to keep the pledge," she said.

"Eh?"

"Because—because I'm no' comin' back to Fairport."

The steamer came alongside. The end of line struck Mr. Redhorn on the shoulder. He did not seem to notice it.

"Ye're no'—comin' back to Fairport!" he repeated slowly, wonderingly.

"Ma luggage is a' packed, an' it'll follow me the morn. I'm sellin' ma furniture. I—I'm leavin' quiet-like. It seemed the best way." She paused. Apparently, Mr. Redhorn had nothing to say. He was stroking his nose.

She checked a sob, and continued: I've bought a wee business in Glesca—baby-linen an' the like. I've been bargainin' for it for ower a month."

The steamer was warped; the gangway clattered aboard.

Still Mr. Redhorn said nothing.

"I—I wanted to dae some guid in Fairport afore I left," she said; and now the tears were running. "I got twelve to tak' the pledge." For an instant she lifted her head—defiantly. "I wish you had been the thirteenth, but it's no' ower late yet." She fumbled for her handkerchief. "But ye'll look efter John Forgie—promise, Maister Ridhorn!—for he was the worst o' the lot."

The painter found his voice. "Did ye—did ye no' care tuppence for John—or ony o' them?"

She reddened painfully, yet there were remnants of the defiance in her breaking voice. "I did the best I could for them a'. I wanted to dae some guid—"

"Are ye gaun wi' the boat, Miss Thomson?" It was the piermaster's voice. "Time's up."

She turned and fled across the gangway, across the deck, and down the companion.

Mr. Redhorn, forgetting his appointment with the piermaster, went the way he had come.

"Puir thing!" he said to himself. "But she's got a unique conscience."

And then he thought of John Forgie, and was smitten with fear and trembling, not without reason.

"I'm sayin' I want back ma pledge!" The little man was half crazy.

"Sit doon, John, sit doon," said Mr. Redhorn, soothingly. "Ha'e ye had yer tea?"

"To blazes wi' tea! I want beer!"

"Sit doon an' tell me yer story."

"Ye ken it as weel as I dae. I've been diddled—that's a'!"

"Weel, tak' it like a man."

"I intend for to tak' it like the ither men she's diddled. They're a' in the beer shop noo—every man jack o' them!"

"Ha'e they a' been to the meenister to get back their pledges?"

"Their pledges was got under fause pretences. Their pledges is waste paper—that's what they say."

"Then yours'll be waste paper likewise, eh?"

"Maybe. But I canna—I canna—" Mr. Forgie's hand went to his unintellectual brow.

"Sit doon, man," said the painter softly, and pressed him into the easy-chair. "See—smoke a ceegarette—here's matches—till I get the tea ready. I ha'ena had mine's yet. I was waitin' for you, John. There's a nice bit o' corned beef an' plenty of mustard.... Will ye try a drap o' ginger wine to begin wi'? It'll maybe stimulate yer appetite."

Mr. Forgie shook his head, and waved away the cigarettes and matches.

"What for should I keep the teetotal noo?" he asked sullenly.

For several seconds Mr. Redforn stroked his nose. "Weel," he began slowly, "there's sundry reasons. First, ye've kep' it for a month. Secondly, there's nae credit in bein' a relapsed mass. Thirdly, in ma opeenion, it's the only way to prove to the public o' Fairport that ye ha'ena been diddled."

"Eh? Hoo d'ye mak' that oot?"

"Because, if ye keep yer pledge, the public'll naturally asshume that ye took it oreeginally for yer ain pleasure an' satisfaction."

"Oh!"

"I may say that I'm ready to drap a hint here an' there to that effec'. I dinna ask ye," the painter continued, "to conseeder ma feelin's in the matter, John. If ye demanded back the pledge, I wud jist ha'e to gi'e ye back yer ain property. An' then it wud be me that had been diddled."

"Na, na!"

"But ay! At least, that's the way I wud feel aboot it. It's true that I had naething to dae wi' hoistin' the flag o' temperance, so to speak, but—"

"But by Go!" suddenly cried the little man, "ye kep' it flyin'!"

"I didna mean that. Naebody could ha'e done that but yersel'. I was gaun to say I wud be vexed to se eit hauled doon noo." Mr. Redhorn laid a hand on the other's shoulder. "I wud like to think," he said heavily, "that there was one man in the dizzen that courted her."

There was a silence. Doubtless the picture then of these two middle-aged men—the long, melancholy visage, the fat, foolish, kindly countenance—was more odd than impressive; but we can't all look like 'heroes in our hours of crisis.

"Joseph," said Mr. Forgie huskily, "I'll tak' the ginger wine—neat."

The painter, his face illuminated, fetched a brimming glass.

"Here's to ye, Joseph!" Mr. Forgie gulped half of the stuff and puffed.

"John," said the host, with much diffidence, "could ye no' drink the rest to—her? She meant weel."

The little man's lips came together, and an angry colour suffused his face.

"I admit there's nae justifyin' her methods," Mr. Redhorn went on, "an' if ye was wantin' revenge, it could be easily managed, for she thinks she's left a dizzen reformed characters in Fairport. But if there's ony person been badly diddled in the affair, it's her, puir thing—John, ye can afford to drink her health—in silence, if ye prefer." The painter turned to the fire, for the kettle was boiling.

Shamefacedly the little man emptied the glass.