The Misadventures of Joseph

Front matter

The Misadventures of Joseph

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And now the rain came down in earnest (see page 33)

Namesakes

I

NAMESAKES

MR. JOSEPH REDHORN, the Fairport painter, paper-hanger and decorator, as he was given to styling himself, was never in the best of humours when roused from a Saturday afternoon nap; and on this occasion his irritation was not lessened by the discovery of Mr. John McNab, the reputed oldest inhabitant, on the doorstep of his bachelor abode. So far as Joseph's experience went, a visit from Mr. McNab meant little more than a dreary dissertation on the latter's great age and a notable shrinkage in the former's stock of ginger-wine.

Nevertheless, the painter's invitation to enter, though interrupted by a yawn, was not inhospitable. "I hope ye're weel, John," he said, guiding the old man to the shabby, comfortable easy chair.

"Fine." The reply was delivered with unwonted briskness, Mr. McNab seated himself, looked about him, grinned and rubbed his hands. "I'm no' gaun to bide a meenute, Joseph. I merely drapped in to bid ye come an' ha'e yer supper wi' us the nicht."

"Aw!" exclaimed Mr. Redhorn, who was more used to entertaining than to being entertained. He stroked his long nose and blinked doubtingly at his visitor.

"I'm no' jokin'," said Mr. McNab. "The auld wife has made a pie, an' I've got a gran' surprise for ye!"

"Weel, I'm sure it's excessively kind o' ye," the painter said, recovering confidence in himself and humanity generally. "If ye'll wait for three meenutes, I'll gi'e masel' a bit tosh up. Fortunately, I pit on a clean sark, etceetera, afore I had ma dinner the day." He went over to the sink. "I'll jist get rid o' the dews o' kindly sleep, as it were, an' then—"

"Phoo!" exclaimed Mr. McNab, "it's terrible warm the day!" He cast a wistful glance in the direction of a certain cupboard.

"It is that," agreed Joseph, turning on the tap. "It's no' the weather for ginger-wine, or I wud—"

"There's a chill in the heat, too," said Mr. MdNab. "If ye was as auld as me—"

"Wud ye try a taste o' ginger-wine, John?"

"Oh, weel, I'm no parteec'lar; but I'll tak' a taste—for comp'ny's sake. I'll wait till ye've feenished washin' yer face."

"I'll no' be a jiffy."

"Dinna hurry yersel' for me," Mr. McNab said condescendingly, and quite unconsciously smacked his lips. "Ye'll be wonderin' what that gran' surprise is," he remarked presently.

"'Deed, ay," returned Joseph, who was much afraid it would be something to eat in addition to the pie. "But I'm curbin' ma' curiosity."

Mr. McNab gave a hoarse but happy chuckle. "Ma gran'son Peter an' his wife arrived the day," he announced. "Likewise their offspring."

"D'ye tell me that?" said Mr. Redhorn, from behind a towel. "Is the offspring numerous?" he inquired in a tone of well-feigned interest.

"Na, na. It's their first." Another chuckle.

"A singular offspring!" commented the painter, polishing his bald forehead. Then, suddenly, he dropped the towel. "Criftens!" he cried, striding across the room and grasping the other's hand, "So ye're a great gran'fayther!"

"But that's no' the gran' surprise," said the old man a little later, as he sipped, with grateful sounds, the ginger-wine which his host had made haste to set before him. "I've aye wanted to dae ye a guid turn, Joseph, for ye've been rael kind to the auld wife an' me—"

"Whisht, man!" The painter picked up and reapplied the towel.

"Weel, I'll no' say ony mair aboot it the noo." Mr. McNab laid down his empty glass with a thump. "I'll spare yer blushes."

"Help yersel', John."

"Thenk ye."

An hour passed ere Mr. McNab, who had become more than usually garrulous, declared himself ready for the road. "We maunna forget the pie," he remarked gaily.

"We maunna forget the pie," Joseph solemnly echoed, and, going to the mantel-piece, helped himself to a draught from a bottle labelled "Dyspepsia Elixir," observing, not for the first time, that prevention was better than cure.

Then, taking the old man's arm, he conducted him, puffing cheerfully, homewards.

The necessary introductions were in the little garden in front of the cottage.

"This is ma gran'son Peter," said Mr. McNab to Joseph. "Ye'll mind his fayther."

Mr. Redhorn nodded and shook hands with the smiling young man.

"An' this is Peter's wife, Jessie."

Mr. Redhorn blushed, touched his bowler hat, and gently clasped the fingers of the pale, pretty girl who sat on the old green bench with a shawl-covered bundle in her arms.

"An' this—" The old man put out trembling fingers and withdrew them. "I'm feart I'll hurt it, Jessie. You draw back the shawl." When she had done so "An' this," he said, with a soft chuckle, "is ma great-gran'son!"

Much embarrassed, Mr. Redhorn peered into the tiny, slumbering face.

"A bonny wee lad, is he no'?" murmured the great-grandmother, approaching softly.

"Ay, ay," said Joseph, helplessly. Then feeling it incumbent upon him to make some intelligent remark, he added: "It'll be forty year since I was as close to an infant."

Mr. McNab created a welcome diversion.

"And noo for the gran' surprise!" he cried. "Joseph, what dae ye think we're for namin' ma great-gran'son?"

"Whisht, man!" said old Mrs. McNab; "ye maun ask Maister Ridhorn's leave first."

"Tits, wife! Ye dinna need to ask leave to pay a man a compliment." He dug the painter in the ribs. "Ma great-gran'son's name is to be Joseph—efter yer noble sel'!"

Mr. Redhorn gasped. "Me!" he cried in dire confusion, as red as a turkey-cock. But when the young couple modestly begged his permission, his confusion became merged in gratification, and by supper-time he was swelling somewhat with pride, though, having drunk the infant's health in tea, he modestly expressed the hope that he might live to be worthy of his namesake.

On the way home he encountered his apprentice, Willie McWattie.

"Wullie," he said, after explaining matters, "if it wasna for thon pie and the corn on ma wee toe, I wud feel like as if I was treadin' on air! Remember me to raise yer wages a shillin' next Seturday."

Four days later he called at the cottage.

"I believe it's a custom—an' an excellent custom it is," he stammered—"for a party in ma prood poseetion to—to—" Here he broke down so far as speech was concerned, and presented the young mother, on her offspring's behalf, with a silver mug bearing the inscription: "Joseph John McNab, I4th July, 1912 A.D. (to the silversmith he had insisted on the "A.D.") from his well-wisher, J. R."

About three weeks after the christening, Mr. Redhorn fell into a depressed state. Such a condition was not infrequently his, and as a rule he attributed it to the fact of Providence's having seen fit to supply him with "interior organs o' inferior quality." Now, however, a combination of circumstances by no means supernatural were to be held accountable. Within the space of a few hours he had been worsted in a philosophical argument with his old enemy, Danks the fishmonger; he had received news which meant a "bad debt" of several pounds; a lady had flatly refused to permit him to decorate her hall and staircase with a stencil pattern of his own invention which he proudly designated, "The Redhorn Conventional Comet"; a consignment of linseed oil, urgently needed, had not come to hand; and Willie, the apprentice, had departed on a fortnight's holiday. Further, the old McNabs had gone on a visit to friends in the city.

Mr. Redhorn, engaged in applying green paint to a summer-house in the grounds of the laird, smote a fly on his nose, and came to the conclusion that he was, among other dismal things, a "shupremely shuperfluous indiveedual," which, being interpreted, meant simply that he was feeling lonesome.

Thus it came to pass that he welcomed the greeting of Jamie Caldwell, a gardener on the estate, and a person with whom he had hitherto enjoyed little more than a nodding acquaintance.

"Warm," said Jamie, briefly but pleasantly, halting as though to light his pipe.

"Ay, it's warm," said Joseph, "and the flies is something atrocious."

"Ay, they're bad the day—A' the same, I wish I had your job, Ridhorn."

"Dae ye?" said the painter dryly. "What's wrang with the gardenin'?"

"In ma opeenion," the gardener remarked, not without hesitation, "the pentin's what ye might ca' a noble trade."

Mr. Redhorn methodically laid his brush across the rim of the paint-pot, folded his arms, and faced the speaker.

"Caldwell," he said warmly, "I didna ken there was a man in Fairport wi' sich a lofty mind. Though it has been prostituted by obscene characters that ha'e caused it to stink in the estimation of the public through their gross unpunctuality, slovenliness, trickery, etceetera—the pentin' trade—is, as ye observe, a noble trade or profession—and I'm prood to be its devotee. An' I'm obleeged to ye for yer inspirin' words o' appreciation—Dash the flies!"

It must be confessed that Mr. Caldwell was somewhat taken aback by the unexpected torrent of eloquence, the source of which he had unwittingly tapped. Recovering his wits, he spat gracefully upon a calceolaria, and said: "It's you for the speechifyin'! Ye should be in the Hoose o' Commons, Ridhorn. By gum! ye would mak' the sleepy-heids sit up."

Mr. Redhorn shook his head. "Ma verbosity got the better o' me the noo," he said modestly. "Still, I couldna but be gratified at yer remark, espaycially comin' frae a beautifier o' the universe like yersel'."

"Oh, we're a' daein' oor best in that line, I hope," Mr. Caldwell returned carelessly. "But I suppose ye prefer something fancier nor a summer-house to pent. This doesna gi'e ye a chance for to show yer skill."

"True," replied the painter, flicking an insect from his ear; "but we've got to tak' the rough wi' the fine, the plain wi' the elaborate, etceetera."

There was a pause, during which the gardener's eyes roved the neighbourhood as though in search of further inspiration.

"The ither day I heard yer 'Conventional Comets' spoken highly o'," he said at last.

"Did ye that?" Mr. Redhorn looked pleased. "Wha was the appreciator o' ma modest creation?"

"I canna mind, but I heard it sure enough. And that reminds me, I was gaun to tell ye, Ridhorn, that the greenhooses up thonder are due a coat o' pent, and I was thinkin' I wud gi'e a hint to Sir Archibald to let you ha'e the job—that is, if ye're wantin' it."

"Man," cried Joseph, "that's exceedin' kind o' ye. I'll be glad to ha'e the job, for the prospec's o' trade in Fairport are no' brilliant at the moment. Thenk ye, thenk ye!"

"Dinna mention it." Mr. Caldwell looked at his watch. "Gor! it's five o'clock! Ye'll be stoppin' sune—eh? Ye best come up and tak' ye tea wi' us the nicht. Ye ken the cottage?"

"Aw, but—"

"Ye dinna need to gang hame for yer tea?"

"Na—I'm a bachelor, ye ken—but yer kindness—"

"Ye'll be welcome. I'll expec' ye at the back o' six," said Mr. Caldwell.

He left the painter glowing with more than the warmth of the sun.

Mr. Redhorn enjoyed his tea that night. He found Mr. Caldwell a genial host, and made the acquaintance of his five children, who behaved with wondrous decorum and treated the guest with the utmost respect. He made the acquaintance, also, of a "fine boy" just three days old....

On a black and stormy night, in November, Mr. Redhorn rang—after several feebly-futile attempts—the bell of one of the larger houses in Fairport, and, the door being opened, inquired in a faltering voice—

"Is the doctor in?"

The new housekeeper—Joseph was thankful she was a stranger—led the way to the consulting room.

"Take a seat, please. What is the name?" she said.

"Ridhorn, the penter."

"I don't think he'll keep you waiting long," she said, sympathetically, encouragingly, judging from voice and countenance that the patient was in considerable agony.

Mr. Redhorn seated himself on the corner of a chair, sniffed the iodoform-laden atmosphere, and groaned softly.

"This room has beheld a heap o' sufferin'," he reflected, his gaze on the crimson easy chair wherein the inhabitants of Fairport reclined when parting with their teeth. "Oh, I wish I hadna come," he was saying to himself when Dr. McLeod appeared.

"Well, Mr. Redhorn, this is a wild night. What can I do for you?"

"Ay, it's a wild nicht—I cam' to—to consult ye—" Joseph stuck fast.

"The old trouble?"

Joseph shook his head.

"Don't be afraid, man." The doctor smiled encouragingly. "Tooth bothering you?"

"Na; it's no' exac'ly a tooth, doctor," the painter forced himself to reply. "It's sharper than a serpent's tooth—"

The doctor seated himself in the crimson chair and leaned over and took Joseph's wrist. "Let me see your tongue."

Joseph meekly protruded the member mentioned.

"Been sticking to plain food?"

"I—I confess I had a bit o' sawmon for a treat the week afore last."

"H'm!"

"I had ma apprentice to his tea that nicht. In confidence, doctor, he ett the majority o' the tin. But he was at his wark the next day."

"H'm!" said the doctor again, and released the patient's wrist. "Tongue's all right and pulse isn't bad. Tell me what you feel wrong with you."

"Naething."

"Nothing?"

"Jist that, doctor."

"Then—then what do you want me to do for you?"

"I—I was wantin'"—Joseph produced his handkerchief and applied it to 'his forehead—"I was wantin' to consult ye."

"About what?"

"Heaven help me!" murmured the painter, "hoo am I to divulge the query?"

"Don't be afraid," the doctor once more said. "Anything you say here, short of a confession of murder, is sacred. I'm used to keeping secrets."

"Ye'll be as secret as the tomb?"

"As secret as the tomb," replied Dr. McLeod, solemnly, though his mouth twitched at the corners.

Mr. Redhorn took a furtive survey of the apartment. "Could onybody hear me speakin' in here?"

"Keep your mind easy on that score." The doctor rose. "But I'll lock the door." He did so, and came back to his seat. "Now, what's the trouble, my friend?"

Joseph moistened his lips and performed the act of swallowing several times. Then—"Is yer charge the same, whatever I consult ye aboot?"

"Oh, don't bother yourself about my charge. That will be all right—Yes, yes; my charge is the same for all consultations."

"It's no' that I wud grudge ye yer charge, doctor," said Joseph. "In fact I'll be real willin' to pay ye onything in reason if ye can tell me—" He stuck fast again.

"Tell you what, Redhorn?"

"Oh, this is terrible!... Aw, doctor, I canna say it. I best get awa' hame. I'm sorry for disturbin' ye. I—"

"Look here," said the doctor, reaching over to a small table for a pad and pencil; "if you can't say it, perhaps you can write it down."

"I'll try," said Joseph after a long hesitation. "I'll try—if ye'll no' look at me."

"I'll leave you alone for five minutes," the doctor said kindly, and with an encouraging smile went out.

Mr. Redhorn, groaning, was presently in the throes of composition.

The doctor returned, read what Joseph had written, went scarlet with suppressed emotion, and then exploded.

"I was feart ye would think it funny," said Joseph ruefully, preparing to depart.

But the other patted him on the shoulder and bade him sit down again.

On the following evening Mr. Redhorn and his apprentice were seated at the former's untidy, cosy hearth. On a chair between them rested a draughtboard.

To all appearances Mr. Redhorn was under a spell of absence of mind. He lay back in his easy-chair, gazing vacantly yet fixedly at the cigarette of the worst possible quality which he held between his finger and thumb, and which had gone out some minutes ago. He breathed heavily through his long nose. A survivor of the summer fly legions disported itself in half-hearted fashion over his few remaining hairs.

"That was the third game to me," remarked the apprentice, who had just finished setting the "men" in their places. He had done this with the utmost method and determination in order to allow his host a reasonable time for self-communion. But surely that time was now exhausted.

Mr. Redhorn paid no attention to the remark.

Willie waited for about thirty seconds. Then—"Maister Ridhorn, I'm sayin' it was the third game to me."

"Oh, was it?" the painter stirred with a sigh. "Weel, I'm sure ye're welcome, laddie."

"Ye're playin' shockin' bad the nicht," said Willie.

"Ah, I dare say."

"What's wrang wi' ye? Is it yer dyspeepsia again?"

There was no answer. The apprentice began to despair of getting another game before the hour for home-going, and Mr. Redhorn had evidently forgotten the customary eight o'clock refreshment in the shape of a bottle of lemonade.

Suddenly the host sat up. "Wullie," he said slowly, "wud ye say I was lackin' in moral courage, or merely in common sense?"

"Are ye thinkin' aboot the toasted cheese ye had for tea?"

"Na, na!"

Willie considered. "Are ye thinkin' aboot the silver mugs, Maister Ridhorn?"

"Ay.... Which am I lackin' in—moral courage, or—"

"Both," said Willie. "Are ye no' for anither game?"

Mr. Redhorn grunted. "But hoo, I ask ye, could I refuse to let Jamie Caldwell an' Tammas Broon an' Sam McLeod name their sons 'Joseph' efter masel'? I repeat, hoo could I refuse?"

"Ye didn't need to refuse—I'll play ye a man short this time, jist to gi'e ye a chance—but ye didna need to gi'e a' the babies mugs."

"But I had gi'ed McNab's great-gran'son a mug."

"Ach, weel, ye shouldna ha'e been sae saft. Ye should ha'e stopped at Caldwell, onyway."

Mr. Redhorn sighed. "It's no' that I grudge the puir wee innocents their mugs, but... Aweel, I suppose I should be thenkfu' that the baby born in Fairport the ither day—Finlay Thomson's—was o' the female gender." He paused for a moment. "I consulted the doctor confedentially yesterday, an' it was encouragin' to hear that he had nae prognostications o' further juvenile arrivals afore the Spring. Maybe by that time the name 'Joseph' 'll be oot o' fashion. Of course the doctor couldna guarantee—"

"I've moved," said Willie, a trifle impatiently.

"Itherwise we'll ha'e to pray for a boom in the Fairport pentin' trade.... Aweel, we'll get back to oor game, laddie. I've nae richt to cast a gloom on ye. An' I confess I'm feelin' mair hopeful since—Criftens! there's somebody at the door. See wha it is. It's ower late for auld John McNab."

Entered Mr. and Mrs. Finlay Thomson. The latter, frail-looking, flushed, bearing a bundle of shawls which emitted faint squeaks.

Said Mr. Thomson, after his wife was seated: "It was a fine nicht, so we thought we wad bring ye a dizzen fresh eggs, likewise oor wee lassie to let ye see her." He laughed. "Ye see, Ridhorn, ye've got the reputation o' bein' a judge o' babies!"

Mr. Redhorn laughed also. He felt safe enough this time, and though he was still shy of infants, he did not hesitate to draw near when Mrs. Thomson uncovered the little one's face.

"Vera satisfactory, vera satisfactory," he murmured, using the phrase that was in danger of becoming natural.

"If it had been a boy," said the father, bringing out his pipe, "we wud ha'e asked yer leave to call it Joseph."

"I'm sure," said Joseph cordially, "I wud ha'e been exceedin'ly gratified."

"Thenk ye," said Mr. Thomson. "In that case, and seein' it's a lassie, we'll name it—" He paused, smiling to his wife.

"Josephine," said Mrs. Thomson softly.

There was a crash. Willie had deliberately knocked over the draughtboard.

The Treat and the Treatment

II

THE TREAT AND THE TREATMENT

ON 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—