The Misadventures of Joseph/The Treat and the Treatment

N a certain Saturday afternoon in March Mr. Redhorn was returning home from an afternoon-dinner walk, which he had undertaken more for the benefit of his body than for his own pleasure. As he occasionally ex- plained to sympathizers, his "members were aye mair or less at war" among themselves. For example, if, as now, he sought pedestrian practice for digestion's sake, his corns immediately became "excruciatin'"; or did an unwonted peace in his pedal extremities suggest exercise, he was sure to be threatened with a shocking cold in the head. To-day Mr. Redhorn had not been sorry to curtail his walk, accepting the lowering aspect of the southern sky as a good and sufficient excuse for permitting a triumph of the flesh.

Thinking of his bachelor fireside, his ancient easy-chair, his carpet slippers, and a penny novelette, he was proceeding somewhat gingerly across a recently-mended patch of roadway, when 'he narrowly escaped a fall over a small girl who had emerged from a cottage garden on his right. She was sobbing bitterly.

"Mercy!" he ejaculated, recovering his balance, "did I hurt ye, lassie?"

She shook her flaxen head and continued to sob.

"What for are ye greetin'?" he kindly enquired.

"Ma mither skelpit me."

"Oh, indeed!" he murmured. "An—an' what for did she skelp ye?"

"For greetin'."

Mr. Redhorn softly scratched the back of his head. "I'm no' keen on interferin' in domestic affairs," he said slowly, and removed his hand from his head to his pocket, "but I believe I've a thrupp'ny-bit in ma purse—Oh, here's yer mither comin'!"

"Aw, Maister Ridhorn," cried the hot, tired-looking woman, as she came down to the gate, "dinna pet her, if ye please. She's been that bad the day, an' her brithers an' sisters ha'ena been muckle better. I didna mean for to hurt her. But ma man's in his bed wi' a twisted knee, an' his mither's busy turnin' the hoose upside doon, an' ma youngest is cuttin' a terrible tooth, an' I'm a week behind wi' ma washin', an'—weel, is it ony wonder if I whiles loss ma temper an' gi'e a scud here an' there? What wi' seeven bairns, an' the auldest no' yet ten—"

"Say nae mair, Mistress Tosh. A' the sympathy I used to lavish on Job is hereby transferred to yersel'! I dinna wonder at ye lossin' yer temper in a sma' way, but I marvel at ye keepin' yer youth—"

"Hoots, Maister Ridhorn, I'm gettin' like an auld wife." Nevertheless, Mrs. Tosh looked a trifle less distracted, and began to tidy her hair in absent fashion.

"Noo, if ye've nae objections," said the painter, recovering from the effort involved in producing the compliment, and from the self-consciousness that had followed its utterance, "I'll tak' this wee lassie to the village an' see her buy a wheen sweeties."

Ere the pleased mother and the now beaming daughter could express themselves, a little chorus of wails arose from behind the hedge, and next moment five youngsters appeared at the gate.

"Are we no' gaun to get buyin' sweeties, too?" they cried, with one accord.

"Jessie'll gi'e ye some o' hers," Mrs. Tosh said hastily.

Whereupon the eldest daughter exclaimed, "I wudna trust her," while the youngest son piped, "Want to buy wheeties for masel'." A childish babel ensued.

It must be confessed that the middle-aged bachelor was miserably embarrassed. With all his desire to be kind to children, he was utterly unfamiliar with them and their ways. A vision of himself entering the village with half-a-dozen "weans" in his charge made him feel warm. He stood blinking his pale blue eyes and stroking the bridge of his nose—sure sign of his feeling at a loss.

"Please, Maister Ridhorn!" said the eldest daughter, with an alluring look.

"Whisht, Mary!" sharply muttered the mother.

"Please, Maister Ridhorn!" cried all the other children excepting Jessie, who need not be condemned as greedy because her lip quivered. She had been promised a whole threepenny-bit, and now it was likely to dwindle to a ha'penny. Such a slump is ill to be borne by people older than Jessie; besides, even the older people prefer to handle their own—for a time, at least—before they give any of it away.

Surreptitiously she gave the painter's sleeve a timid tug.

That settled it. Mr. Redhorn pulled himself together—and his purse from his pocket. A general sigh went up as the small coin passed into Jessie's little hand. "It's hers to dae what she likes wi'," he said; "but if the ithers like to come to the shop, they'll each get a pennyworth o' sweeties." A chorus of approval interrupted the speech. "Will ye let them come, Mistress Tosh? I—I'll see that they dinna meet wi' ony accident, an' it'll gi'e you ten meenutes breathin' space, as is were."

At first Mrs. Tosh protested; then she thanked the painter and gave her consent, with numerous admonitions to her offspring to "behave" themselves.

Let us slur over the progress to the village. The children discussed what sweets they would choose, but the painter, as anxious as a hen for the safety of her brood, said never a word. The youngest got tired, and demanded to be carried, and eventually the painter, who had never in his life held a child, picked him up awkwardly, and bore him along with nervous care, pulling faces unconsciously and perspiring profusely. All the way Jessie clutched his jacket with one hand, while with the other she warmed her precious piece of silver. Evidently she already regarded the giver no less than the gift as her especial property.

Mr. Redhorn entered the village with acute misgivings. The amusement of his neighbours and the curiosity of his neighbours' children were certainly trying to his sense of dignity.

"Is it a Sabbath schule treat or a circus?" the piermaster jocularly enquired, and Mr. Danks, the fishmonger, demanded of Heaven to declare why Redhorn had gone and got married on the sly. Some unfeeling humorist addressed him as "Paw," and goodness knows what he might have retorted had not the little boy in his arms incontinently embraced and kissed him, whereat a semi-ironical cheer went up.

But, somehow, the little boy had drawn the sting from it all. "Let them gas!" said Mr. Redhorn under his breath, and strode onward with his trotting "family" to the sweet shop.

Amid such a display of "goodies" the six children were loth to choose; none would "burst" his or her whole penny on one sort of sweet, and several insisted on making farthing purchases. Moreover, the old woman was as slow of movement as she was hard of hearing.

At the end of twenty minutes Mr. Redhorn found courage to remonstrate, and business proceeded in something like earnest. It was then that Mr. Redhorn, turning for the first time to the window, perceived that it was beginning to rain. Also he perceived that the shop was watched by a throng of children with solemn round eyes, envious, wistful.

"This," said the painter to himself, "is mair nor I expected in ma worst forebodin's."

At long last everybody in the shop was satisfied.

"Bide a meenute," commanded Mr. Redhorn, opening the door. The rain had thickened, but the "outsiders" were still there. He counted them—seventeen. He blinked at them, stroked his nose, and muttered "Criftens! I hadna bargained for this—an' it's no' even the New Year." Then—"In for a penny, etceetera," he said aloud, and took out his purse once more. To the old woman he gave money, to the "outsiders" a faltering intimation that they had merely to enter the shop in order to obtain a pennyworth of sweets each.

There was practically no demonstration until he and his band had left the shop, and then the yells went up and the rush began. Of the old woman it may be recorded how, an hour later, she devoutly thanked her Maker that the next day was the Sabbath.

And now the rain came down in earnest.

"This is awfu'!" cried Mr. Redhorn, picturing himself returning six dripping bairns to a wearied mother. "What's to be done? Whaur can we gang? We best try—"

Jessie gave his sleeve a little tug, not so timid as the first. "We could gang to your hoose," she said softly.

For a moment he hesitated, then threw up his head and led the way, the youngest again in his arms. Let the neighbours laugh!

But in the untidy, dingy kitchen, which he called home, he once more stroked his nose. What on earth was to be done with "a' they weans?" He was beginning to feel desperate, when through the streaming window he caught sight of his apprentice, Willie McWattie, hurrying along, clad in oilskins. He got the sash up just in time.

"Wullie—here!"

"Hullo!" said Willie, returning. "My! ye've got comp'ny, Maister Ridhorn."

"Ay.... Wullie, are ye busy the noo?"

"There's a chap comin' to his tea at oor hoose. Was ye wantin' me for onything?"

The painter suppressed a sigh. "Na, na.... But, Wullie—eh—since ye'll be passin' Tosh's cottage, I wish ye wud tell Mistress Tosh that 'm keepin' her weans here to gi'e the rain a chance to stop. Tell her no' to be anxious. They're a' in the best of health, etceetera."

"I'll tell her. Is that a'?"

"Ay. Thenk ye, laddie.... Oh, bide a meenute! Eh—Wullie, what—what does a body dae wi' weans for to please them?"

"Gi'e them things to eat."

"What-like things?"

"Oh, sweeties an' pastries an' leemonade."

"I see. It's a wonder I didna think o' that. Weel, I happen to ha'e a fersh dizzen o' leemonade in the hoose, but ye can tell the baker to send me twa shillins' worth o' his best pastries—instanter."

"I'll dae that," said Wullie, receiving the money.

"Stop, Wullie! D'ye think twa shillin's' worth'll be ample?"

Willie surveyed the children. "Oh, ay," he replied, "there's nane o' them extra big. Is that a', Maister Ridhorn?"

"That's a', an' may Heaven reward ye."

As Mr. Redhorn turned from the window several young voices put the enquiry—

"Is the pastries for us?"

"Surely."

"An' the leemonade?"

"Jist that."

They regarded him in silent awe and admiration, until Jessie tugged his sleeve, and whispered, "Are ye no' for a sweety?"

"Criftens!" cried the painter, "I ha'ena ett a sweety for five-an'-thirty year!"

Two hours—also all the pastries and most of the lemonade—had gone.

Mr, Redhorn lay back in his chair and anxiously surveyed his young guests who were working their wills on his household possessions. The four girls were playing at "shops," with everything they had cared to lay hands on. The elder boy was enjoying a lump of putty as big as his head, and the younger, having lately removed the pendulum from the eight-day clock, was gazing fascinated at the venerable thing's crazy performance.

Mr. Redhorn was troubled; yet neither personal discomfort nor fear for his property was the cause of his anxiety. To gratify Jessie he had eaten half a penny pastry, and the result to himself had been so dire that he was now filled with forebodings as to what would happen to the small persons who had consumed three or four—possibly five—whole ones apiece, with unstinted washings-down of lemonade.

Through the window he could see the sinking sun breaking through the clouds, and he guessed that the weather would soon permit of home-going. "I thought I had mair discreetion," he sadly reflected. "If they become martyrs to dyspeepsia like masel', what'll they think o' me? An' what'll their mither say? Oh, dear! I should ha'e kent better."

Just then Jessie made him one of her periodic visits. "Are ye no' for a sweety?"

"I couldna," he groaned, "as sure's death I couldna. An' dinna eat ony mair yersel', like a guid lassie."

"I've ett them a' excep' this yin. I'll gi'e ye a kiss instead, if ye like."

Mr. Redhorn, after a hurried glance at the others, took the offering, blushing to the roots of his few remaining hairs. Jessie retired as if nothing had happened.

The little boy, suddenly wearying of the clock, came over. "Want to sit on yer knee," he piped. And Mr. Redhorn took him up, murmuring awkwardly, "Ye're welcome."

For a brief space the painter forgot his anxiety in the novelty of the experience. Then the little boy began to emit sounds of a hiccupy nature, suggesting that he was still in a highly aerated condition.

"Does it hurt ye?" Mr. Redhorn stammered, and was only partially reassured by an emphatic shake of the small head.

A knock at the door. The mother had come for her own.

"I hope they'll be nane the waur," said Mr. Redhorn, interrupting her final flow of thanks from the doorstep.

"Oh, it's been a splendid treat for them," she repeated, while her elder son, laden with his putty, asserted that it had knocked the last Sabbathschool treat into a cocked hat.

Mr. Redhorn smiled sadly. "I'm maybe a pessimist," he said, "but I've a motto which says: 'Efter the treat comes the treatment'; an' I trust ye'll no' be offended if ye receive the treatment later. Guid nicht," he concluded hurriedly.

Mrs. Tosh's mystification over the motto evaporated an hour later, when she opened an oblong parcel delivered by the grocer's boy. Under the brown paper she found a full-size bottle of "Dyspepsia Elixir."