# The Misadventures of Joseph/Five and Thirty Shillings

pp. 131–152.

### VIII
#### FIVE AND THIRTY SHILLINGS

MR. REDHORN lay back in his shabby chair, his eyes half-closed, his left palm pressed upon his scalp. His long, sad nose looked even longer and sadder, his moustache drooped more despondingly, than usual. At brief intervals he heaved a hopeless sigh.
On the opposite side of the hearth sat his apprentice, Willie McWattie, whom he had invited that evening to tea and a game of draughts. Strangely enough, the restless, fun-loving boy had of late become a devotee of the sober game—much to his employer's gratification. Yet to-night, though the meal was over half an hour ago, Mr. Redhorn seemed to have forgotten all about draughts. During tea he had glanced at an evening paper, groaned, ceased eating, and relapsed into a silence that had remained almost unbroken until now. Willie was not unaccustomed to his employer's fits of moodiness—indeed, they had been fairly frequent during the past two months—but the prolongation of the present spell was becoming too much for his patience. He shuffled his feet softly, cleared his throat, and remarked:
"It's gettin' near the New Year."
The clock ticked a dozen times ere Mr. Redhorn signified that he had heard.
"Ay," he breathed heavily. "As ye say, Wullie, it's gettin' near the New Year—a season o' gloomy reflections an' dire forebodin's. Ay!" His hand slid down and rested on his nose, covering his eyes.
There was a pause, and then Willie inquired sympathetically:
"Is't the chilblains or the dyspeepsia, Maister Ridhorn?"
"Both," was the curt reply. "But ye needna think they're the cause o' the reflections an' forebodin's. Ma pheesical afflictions are ill to bear, laddie," the painter continued in something like his own kindly voice, "but they're naething to the mental species, or variety, that I've got to endure—chiefly through ma ain foolishness," he added with a groan.
"But what's up?" the boy asked with anxiety.
Mr. Redhorn uncovered his face. He smiled with exceeding bitterness.
"It's no' so much what's up as what's doon," he said, and allowed his apprentice to look blank for fifteen seconds or so. "Maybe," he resumed, "I betrayed ma emotion in the midst o' ma tea the nicht. Did ye notice onything when I was lookin' at the paper?"
"Ay; ye grunted as if something was hurtin' ye. But I thought it wud jist be the chalblains on yer toes."
"Weel, ye thought wrang," said Mr. Redhorn, with asperity. "I've a guid mind to keep ma trouble to masel', but they say confession's guid for the soul—"
"Ha'e ye got them on yer sole, forbye?"
"Haud yer tongue, laddie! I'm no' referrin' to chilblains at a'. I tell't ye ma affliction was mental. Ma emotion on lookin' at the paper the nicht was due to the fac' that Jingoes is doon anither eighteenpence. Of course that statement conveys naething whatever to you."
"I'm sure I dinna ken what ye're gas—speakin' aboot," said Willie, a little irritably. "Ha'e ye been bettin' on horses?"
"What!" Mr. Redhorn sat up.
"Weel," said Willie, abashed, "that's what they're sayin' aboot ye in Fairport."
"Wha's sayin' it? Wha dares to say that aboot me?"
"Danks, the fishmonger, an'—an' everybody."
Mr. Redhorn gasped. "An' dae you think I'm bettin' on horses, Wullie McWattie? I'm sure I've tell't ye a score o' times that I wud as sune put masel' as ma siller on a 'horse!"
"Ay, but ye see—ye see, ye buy a paper every nicht. Ye've been buyin' a paper every nicht for a while back."
Mr. Redhorn recoiled; he smote his forehead. "This," he groaned, "this is redistribution—I mean retribution! Ma character forbye ma money is gone—completely went!"
"But if ye ha'ena been bettin' on horses, Maister Ridhorn," said the boy, "I'll sune let Danks an' the rest ken they're tellin' falsehoods. An' even if ye had been tryin' yer luck, I wud sune let them see—"
"Whisht, laddie—I ken ye're loyal, but—"
"I'll gang noo an' tell Danks—"
"Na, na!" the painter cried hastily. "Let well alone—nae matter hoo bad it is. In this case the truth isna muckle better nor what they imagine aboot me. Hoo am I to explain it to ye?" Mr. Redhorn stroked his nose.
"What's Jingoes, onyway?" Willie inquired.
"Jingoes," the painter replied sadly, "is ile—at least, it's an ile comp'ny, leemited. I'm no' sure where it gets the ile—if ony; but I've got fifty shares in it that cost me fifty pound odds. That's Jingoes!"
"Aw," murmured Willie, apparently not deeply impressed.
Mr. Redhorn looked disappointed. "I suppose ye dinna ken what a share is—an' I hope, for yer ain sake, ye never will," he said. "But seein' I've been suspected o' bettin' on horses, it's up to me, as the French says—in their ain tongue, of course—to inform ye o' the true state o' affairs. D'ye see?"
"Ay, I see," Willie answered, dubiously. "But are ye no' for a game at the draughts the nicht, Maister Ridhorn?"
"The draughts ha'e to wait. But, of course, if ye dinna want to hear the truth—if ye're no' interested in ma woe—"
"Ay; I want to hear aboot it," said Willie, with forced eagerness.
"Aweel, I'll unbosom masel', as it were.... Noo, pay attention! If ye dinna aye understan' what I'm sayin', preserve yer queries till I've concluded ma remarks. In the first place—weel, I wud maybe be the better o' a dose o' the Elixir." Having risen and helped himself from the physic bottle on the mentelpiece, he resumed his seat with a very wry face. "In the first place, Wullie—"
"Ye're at the second place noo."
"I'm what?"
"The Elixir was in the first place."
"Tits, laddie! The Elixir was merely an aside, as William Shakespeare says. In the first place, I'm prepared to sweer that previous to the present I never bought a share in ony concern—I'm prepared to tak' ma solemn oath—"
"I believe ye."
"It isna necessary to interrup' me. I was aboot to say—in ony concern excep' a burial society that gaed bankrupt shortly efter obtainin' ma cash. Ye micht think that wud be a lesson to me, but it wasna." Mr. Redhorn heaved a heavy sigh. "The years passed by, an' on the first Seturday in October o' this rotten year I payed ma quarterly veesit to Glesca. As is ma custom, I called on McCorkindale, the ile an' colour merchant, to pay ma account, an' to complain o' the scandalous prices he had been chargin' me for linseed. His sole excuse was that ile was high an' still risin'. Then he changed the subjec', as was maybe nateral, an' we had some conversation entirely irreverent to the pentin' trade, an' consumed a ceegarette apiece. I was for makin' ma exit, so to speak, when he gi'es a bit laugh an' says, says he: 'Ridhorn, dae ye never try a flutter?' I thought he was for takin' a rise oot o' me, an' I retorted in these words: 'Maister McCorkindale, dae I look like a man that wud risk his neck on an airyplane?'"
"Ye had him there," observed Willie, who was getting tired of saying nothing.
"Weel, I thought I had—but I hadna. It appeared that I had misconstrued him. Accordin' to Maister McCorkindale, the word 'flutter' means a speculation—which is jist aboot as safe a game as the thing I thought it was. Then it further appeared that ile shares was boomin', as they say, on the Stock Exchange, an' was likely to conteenue the performance for anither five year or so. Then Maister McCorkindale tell't me a lang story aboot Jingoe shares bein' the best in the market. They hadna commenced boomin' then, but they was expected to commence at ony moment. 'Buy Jingoes,' says he, 'an ye'll never regret it!' 'By Jingo,' says I, 'I'll eat ma hat first!'"
"Weel, ye had him that time, onyway," remarked the apprentice, checking a yawn.
Mr. Redhorn shook his head. "Wud ye believe me, Wullie, the man persuaded me agin ma better judgment! It took time, but he done it! The next I knew was him introducin' me to a stockbroker, a weel-set-up young man wi' a pleasin' smile, an' lovely collar an' cuffs, an' a scent o' breath-perfumers at a penny per ounce, an' a gorgeously app'inted office. He stood me a ceegarette wi' a gold neb to it, an' was extremely affable. He kenned a' aboot Fairport, for he had once passed it in his yacht, three year back. An' so we cam' to business.—Wullie, there's a bottle o' leemonade in the press. Help yersel'."
"Thenk ye," said Willie, obeying with alacrity. "An' what happened then, Maister Ridhorn?"
"The worst!" sighed the painter. "It appeared that Jingoes was then standin' aboot par—par bein' the price a share's supposed to be worth, bar accidents, which is frequent. In this case par was a pound sterlin'. The upshot was that I said I wud buy fifty. At that the stockbroker says to the telephone: 'Buy fifty Jingoes.'... An' it done it! Fifty Jingoes at twinty shillin's an' fowerpence-ha'penny per Jingoe! I was gettin' oot a cheque when the stockbroker said it wasna necessary, an' McCorkindale said I didna need to pay onything unless Jingoes gaed doon—fancy him sayin' that, efter assurin' me they was gaun up! But I wasna gaun in for ony hanky-panky, an' I drew the cheque, an' got a receipt, an' cam' awa'. Mind ye, I was neither vexed nor ashamed at the time. I was puffed up wi' importance an cupeedity; an' if I hadna had to run for the train I wud ha'e bought masel' a new necktie." Mr. Redhorn paused.
"Was that the end?" inquired Willie, resuming his seat, glass in hand.
"The end? Ye mean the beginnin'?"
"But what did ye get for yer money?"
"A month rolled on," said the painter heavily, "an' then I got what they ca' a certeeficate. I confess it was a work o' art, beautifully printed on the sort o' paper ye buy butter in. I'll maybe let ye see it some day. Meantime I canna endure the sicht o' it. Even since I bought the shares, they've been ablow par—an' so ha'e I. An' noo they're doon to fifteen shillin's, or thereabouts. If I was sellin' them noo, I wud drap twelve pound, ten. But if I dinna sell them I'll maybe loss ma fifty pound. On the ither hand, McCorkindale says their time's comin', an', if I haud on, I'll mak' a hunderd pound profit. My! it's an awfu' quandary to be in, laddie. I canna sleep at nicht for thinkin' o' it. Chilblains an' dyspeepsia are naething to shares.... If I could jist get back the money I paid for them!"
"If I was you," said Willie, who had gained but the vaguest notion of what his employer was talking about, "I wud ha'e a try for a hunderd pound."
"If I made a hunderd pound," said the painter, "I wud never again be able to look ma conscience in the face. For, ye see, I've aye been doon on gamblin' in ony shape or form. An' if that wudna be gamblin', I dinna ken what gamblin' is."
"But what did ye buy the Jingoes for?"
"Weel, to tell ye the honest truth, Wullie—for it's nae excuse to say I lost ma heid—I thought if I could mak' twinty pound off the Jingoes, it wud pay for the bad debt that a certain gentleman let me in for at the beginnin' o' the year. Moreover, it's been a rotten bad year, takin' it a' roun': naething but petty jobs, an' no' enough o' them. Trade's been poorer nor I can mind. But I shouldna ha'e let masel' be tempted; an' if I loss ma money noo, it'll be neither mair nor less nor just retribution."
Willie paused in the act of raising the tumbler to his lips. "I wud like fine to see ye mak' a hunderd pound, Maister Ridhorn," he said.
Mr. Redhorn put up his hand. "Whisht, laddie! Forget what I've tell't ye. I had to tell somebody, an' it seemed there was naebody but you.... Fetch the draughts."
Whether or not Mr. Redhorn's confession benefited his soul, it did not appear to have any improving effect on his spirits. As the days passed he became more melancholy, more irritable, and, what chiefly disturbed the mind of his apprentice, more given to long fits of silence. Hitherto his afflictions—mental or "pheesical"—had by no means rendered him mute; on the contrary, he had been often ready to discuss them, and not without a certain dry humour, which Willie rather enjoyed, though he did not always catch the full significance thereof. At all events, the boy preferred any conversation to none, and the day's work in company with his elderly employer became a dull business. Only once did he venture to refer to Jingoes, and then Mr. Redhorn cut him short, requesting him to forget forthwith that such things existed in this unhappy world, or words to that effect. And there were no more invitations to tea or a game of draughts. It is to the credit of Willie McWattie that he nourished no resentment. Youth does not, as a rule, dwell upon the memories of past benefits, and it is highly doubtful whether Willie gave a minute's reflection to the many kindnesses, numerous pardons, and all the patient treatment received of his master during his apprenticeship. But he did feel sorry for his master, and was ready to champion the latter's name and fame against the whole of Fairport, if necessary.
As for Mr. Redhorn's depression, it was far from being entirely due to the depression of Jingoes. To lose money was as little agreeable to the painter as it is to most men, but to lose reputation was a still more serious calamity. The thought of his neighbours regarding him as a "sportsman" rankled horribly. He might just as well, he acknowledged bitterly to himself, have put his money on horses; he deserved the worst his neighbours could say of him. Moreover, he was plagued by a suspicion that he had been "done"—or "diddled," as he would have expressed it; and perhaps it was this that accounted for his irritability, for hitherto he had rather flattered himself on his discretion in matters of finance.
But the most depressing thoughts of all had to do with his apprentice. He wished most fervently that he had never confided in Willie, not that he dreaded betrayal of his secret, but simply because he was quite sure that Willie must despise him for a fool and a hypocrite. For while Joseph desired to stand well in the eyes of the public—i.e. the inhabitants of the village and its vicinity—he prized above all things the respect and regard of his apprentice. And during those dismal days he got into the way of stealing furtive wistful glances at the boy's face, compressing his lips and shaking his head, telling himself that Willie was now "workin' for wages an' naething else."
He stopped purchasing the evening paper—and almost immediately, thanks to Mr. Danks and his cronies, Fairport was browsing on rumours of varied plausibility, but all to the effect, that Redhorn, the painter, had "burst hissel' on horses" and was on the verge of financial ruin. Needless to say, the gossip reached Willie's ears; indeed, a youthful acquaintance went so far as to warn Willie that he might soon be "out of a job." Willie's indignation was great, yet not equal to his anxiety on his master's account. The punch which the youthful acquaintance promptly received upon his nose was but half-hearted, and the fight that followed was perfunctory so far as Willie was concerned; he merely defended himself until his opponent was tired out, and then went off to bathe a cut lip.
"But what was it aboot?" Mr. Redhorn inquired that afternoon, speaking for almost the first time that day.
"Naething," the boy replied, more curtly than he intended.
There was a pause ere Mr. Redhorn said sadly: "Ye ken I dinna like ye fightin', Wullie.... But I suppose it's no' ma' place to interfere wi' ye in ony way."
For the better part of a week Mr. Redhorn did without a newspaper. He purchased a supply of penny novelettes. For many years—until his introduction to Jingoes—he had spent most of his lonely evenings in the perusal of such works. But now the heroines had lost their charm, the villains their thrill. For four nights he persevered with the pleasure that had become a task. On the fifth evening, in a storm of wind and rain, he set out for Kilmabeg, the next village, about three miles distant. He arrived there to find the shop of the only newsagent locked up and shuttered. He came home drenched to the skin.
Mr. Redhorn was wont to describe a cold in the head as "the shupreme acme o' meesery." In his case it was certainly always a serious affair. Within twenty-four hours he was prostrated. He sent word to his apprentice, bidding him enjoy three idle days, and himself prepared for strict seclusion from his fellow-creatures for a like period. Huddled in his chair in front of the fire, the unhappy man denied himself to all comers, including Mr. Danks, who, it is to be feared, called less out of sympathy than curiosity.
The refusal of admittance roused the fishmonger's worst suspicions, and within an hour Fairport was whispering that the painter was already bankrupt and merely feigning illness because he was ashamed to appear.
There was a discreet tapping at the door.
Mr. Redhorn moved impatiently in his chair, but did not answer.
The tapping was repeated several times.
"Wha's there?" the invalid at last demanded crossly.
"Me."
"Wullie?"
"Ay."
"Aweel, I canna let ye in the nicht."
A pause.
"Please let me in, Maister Ridhorn."
"What dae ye want?"
"I—I've a message for ye."
"I canna attend to business the noo."
"It's no' business. Please let me in."
"Come the morn, Wullie.... I'm no' fit to speak to ye the nicht—I'm no' fit for human consumption."
Another pause.
"Maister Ridhorn."
"Weel, what is't?"
"If—if ye dinna let me in, I'll bide here a' nicht—an' it's freezin' hard."
At that Mr. Redhorn rose.
"Is't important, laddie?"
"Ay—terrible!"
Mr. Redhorn opened the door. "Come in—quick." He sneezed violently. "Are ye no' feart ye get the cauld frae me?"
"Na.... Ma mither was bakin', an' she sent ye some treacle scones." The boy laid a parcel on the table. His eyes avoided his employer. Perhaps he didn't want to laugh. Mr. Redhorn, muffled in an old overcoat and shawl, with a red woollen nightcap on his head, was a grotesque enough object.
"I'm greatly obleeged to yer mither," said the painter gently. "Why did ye no' say it was a message frae her?"
"It wasna the only message," replied Willie, his eyes on the floor.
"Aweel, ye best sit doon," Mr. Redhorn said, pointing to a chair. "Ye'll excuse ma present condeetion o' meesery. I'm sorry I've nae leemonade on the premises." He sighed, and dropped into his seat. "Draw yer chair to the fire."
Willie did so, still avoiding his host's glances.
"Hoo's yer cauld?" he inquired.
"It'll be worse afore it's better. But it's only yin o' ma troubles."
"Ye'll be feelin' yer chilblains?"
"Ay... On the whole, laddie, I'm feelin' ripe for the tomb. An'—an' ma heart's as heavy as ma heid.... But ye said ye had a message. Wha frae?"
The boy reddened. "Me," he said at last, lookingly desperately uncomfortable.
"You?"
"Ay."
The painter seemed to shrink in his chair. "Ha'e ye—ha'e ye come to tell me ye want to leave me?" he asked huskily.
"Leave ye!"
"Leave ma employment. Ye're no' bound to me in ony way—"
"I dinna ken what ye're talkin' aboot," said Willie, regarding his host for the first time. Then—"Dae ye want me to leave?" he cried in great anxiety.
"Na, na, laddie," Mr. Redhorn replied hurriedly, turning away to conceal his relief. "I merely meant.... Weel, I'll say nae mair aboot it." He smiled feebly. "I'm afraid I've been broodin' in solitude till I ha'e got stupid notions in ma heid.... But I'm ready to hear yer message."
Once more the boy became ill at ease.
"I'm listenin'," said the painter encouragingly. "Speak up."
Willie wet his lips. "I—I bought a paper the nicht," he said in a low voice. "An' I seen yer Jingoes priced at three-ha'pence. I—I was vexed for ye." He did not mention what a puzzle the financial columns had been to him. "I hope ye're no offended wi' me for buyin' the paper," he went on, his courage failing at the silence of the other. "I—I was kin' o' anxious for ye. I've got five—"
"Three-ha'pence!" gasped Mr. Redhorn. "Aweel"—bitterly, "it's as much as I deserved."
Willie looked up. "Did ye no' ken?"
"I ha'ena seen a paper for a week.... Three-ha'pence! Man, but that's deplorable!"
"M—Maister Ridhorn." Willie looked down again.
"Ay?"
The words came with a rush. "I've got five an' thirty shillin's in the savin's bank, an' ye're awfu' welcome."
It was a sight to see the red fly to the man's face: "Oh, Wullie!" he whispered; and again, "Oh, Wullie, Wullie!... A cauld in the heid aye mak's ma eyes that watery."
"Ye'll tak' it?" the boy cried eagerly. "It's no' much, but—"
"It's a' ye've got, an' ye offer it to me! Weel, it'll tak' a lot o' affliction to mak' me forget this! Thenk ye, laddie, thenk ye. But thenk the Lord, also, I dinna need yer bit honest savin's."
"Ye dinna need it?" Willie was plainly dismayed. "Are ye—are ye no' burst—ruined?"
"Wha said I was ruined?" exclaimed the painter. "Oh, it's no' as bad as that, an'"—a soft smile lit up the melancholy visage—"in yin respec' I'm a heap richer nor I was aweer." Suddenly he laughed. "I see ye've the paper in yer pooch. I'll tak' a look at Jingoes for the last time."
Willie, still crestfallen, drew the paper from his pocket reluctantly. "It's no' worth yer while lookin' at it. I mind fine what it says aboot Jingoes. It says Jingoes was strong at three-ha'pence. I marked it wi' a pencil." He held out the paper.
It was snatched from his fingers.
"What!... Strong!" cried Mr. Redhorn. His eyes found the place. "Criftens! Here, laddie! Quick! I canna see proper. What feegures is these?"
Willie went to his side. "A 'one' an' a 'half' —three-ha'-pence."
"Na, na!" It was a shout of glee. "It's one an' a half, richt enough, but it means one an' a half pounds—one pound, ten-thirty shillin's! Jingoes is up!—boomin'!" A succession of sneezes checked his excitement. "I'll sell the morn," he said more calmly. "An' that'll be near five an' twinty pound o' profit unless they gang up furder, an' then it'll be mair. Man, Wullie, is that no' splendid?"
Willie admitted this also, quite gravely.
Mr. Redhorn gave him money and sent him out for lemonade, and the twain caroused until near ten o'clock.
It was not until Willie had gone home that Redhorn discovered that the two following days happened to be holidays on the exchange. A lot might happen in two days, he reflected, somewhat dashed, and he retired to bed considerably sobered. And when Willie called next day he found his employer disinclined to talk of Jingoes, though by no means steeped in the gloom of the past weeks. For Mr. Redhorn was hugging in secret a treasure not subject to fluctuations in value nor within the influence of any purse on earth.
On the third morning Mr. Redhorn journeyed to Glasgow. His deeds there included the purchasing of a new necktie. (He wore it the following Sunday, and Danks inquired if he had been sober when he bought it. Mr. Redhorn cheerfully confessed that he had been intoxicated "in a sense," a dark saying which Danks did not understand at all.)
He returned home in a painful state of suppressed excitement. He had invited Willie to tea—otherwise it would not have been worth setting the meal on the table. For Mr. Redhorn could not eat a bite, and he used his teacup chiefly for concealing strange involuntary grimaces. He spoke little, and forced himself to look as miserable as possible. Willie began to fear that something had gone wrong in Glasgow.
After tea Mr. Redhorn refused draughts, covered his eyes with his hand, and groaned several times.
"Wullie," he said at last, in a voice not his own, "was ye in earnest, when—when ye offered me yer money?"
The boy was taken aback, but quickly recovered himself. "For sure," he said.
"Because I—I ha'e need o' it, efter a'," said the painter. "An' I wud rather ye didna ask me ony questions."
Willie got up. "It's lucky this is the nicht the bank's open," he said. "I'll be back in ten meenutes."
"Thenk ye, laddie," said Mr. Redhorn, and let him go without another word.
As the door closed the man bowed his face in his hands.
Willie placed a pound-note, a half-sovereign, and three pieces of silver in his employer's hand.
"Thenk ye, laddie," said the painter once more, and his voice shook.
"Ye're welcome," returned the boy, wondering whether he should go or stay.
"Sit doon, Wullie."
Willie obeyed, wishing he could say something comforting. But that was beyond him. He got as far as "Never heed, Maister Ridhorn," and stuck.
Then the man spoke—in a jumpy sort of voice. "When I got to Glesca the day," he said, "Jingoes had rose above two pound. I got rid o' mine at fifty pound profit. Here's the fifty pound—or at least a deposit receipt wi' the Bank o' Scotland for the same. Tak' a look at it." He passed the document to his apprentice. "Ye'll observe yer name on it." He rose abruptly and went to the door. "Ye'll maybe find it usefu' some day. But dinna ever try to mak' money the way it was made. I'm gaun for a stroll, Wullie. Jist gang hame when it suits ye. We'll ha'e the draughts anither nicht." He stepped out into the darkness. "Guid nicht."
"Fifty pound!" the boy panted softly, running to tell his mother. "Fifty pound!"
"Five an' thirty shillin's," muttered the man, standing by the sea-wall in the silence and privacy of the night, "an' it was a' he had. God, but it's a fortune!"