# The Misadventures of Joseph/'The Wee Dug'

pp. 119–130.

### VII
#### "THE WEE DUG"

BUSINESS was slack, and Mr. Redhorn, egged on by his apprentice, had almost decided to apply his professional energies and talents to the beautifying of his own abode.
"I've been intendin' to dae it for quarter o' a century," he said, in reply to one of the boy's questions. "Stric'ly speakin', it's ma landlord's affair, but the man has aye been that hard up that I've never had the face to mention the subjec' to him. It near ruined him when the frost brustit the upstairs pipes, fifteen year back, an' flooded his entire property."
"But what way did ye no' jist dae it yersel'? It's no' a big job."
"Procrastination, Wullie, procrastination. An' it wasna the pentin' and paperin', that I dreaded; it was the necessary preparations for the same—the clearin' o' shelfs, an' presses, an' cupboards, an' corners. I like thoroughness. But when I meditated on the accumulations o' years, an' the dust o' ages, as the poet says, I—weel, I procrastinated."
"Ye funked it?"
"Put it that way if ye like. If ye want a sma' example o' the accumulations afore mentioned, get up an' open the wee doors ablow the dresser—bearin' in mind that this has been ma hame for near thirty year."
Willie left his seat by the hearth, and opened the first of the three doors.
"What dae ye behold?" said Mr. Redhorn.
"Penny novels—aboot ten thoosan' o' them. What for dae ye keep them?"
"Dear knows. At the present time I'm askin' masel' what for I've kep' ony o' the miscellaneous trash that'll ha'e to be shifted afore we can get to work. Maybe it's because I'm a single man. Maybe I've hoarded rubbish because I've never had onything worth the hoardin'. Try the next door. I think ye'll find mair variety there. If there's onything ye think worth while the annexin', help yersel." Mr. Redhorn dropped back in his chair, and lit a cigarette of the worst possible quality.
Presently the apprentice put the question: "What dae ye keep this for?"
"What?" said the painter, lazily. Then he sat up.
The boy was holding out a heavy piece of white earthenware, very dusty, on which was printed in thick black letters the word
DOG.
"Did ye once keep a dog, Maister Ridhorn?"
"I did," slowly the man answered, and quickly added, "pro tem."
"What kin' o' dug was it?"
"If ye've ony use for the dish," said Mr. Redhorn, as though he had not heard, "ye can tak' it hame wi' ye. I've never used it—I mean to say, it's never been used." He got up, crossed the floor, and began to rummage in a drawer. "There was a collar, likewise, that was never used. Oh, here it is! Ye'll maybe get a dug to fit it some o' these days. It's got ma name on it, but the plate could easy be changed. There ye are!"
"Thenk ye.... When was it ye had the dug, Maister Ridhorn?"
"Afore your time." The reply was curt, and perhaps the man realized as much, for he added kindly, "I'll maybe tell ye aboot ma—the wee dug anither day, Wullie, though it's no' a story worth the tellin'."
Perhaps not—as Joseph Redhorn would have told it. But as Joseph Redhorn knew it?—well, it is for the reader to say.
"Afore your time," he had said to his apprentice, and the precise date is immaterial.
The thing happened in the blackest hour of Mr. Redhorn's life—at the blackest moment of that hour. Any grown-up person in Fairport could have told you how once, for a period of years, the painter, apart from his day's work, had appeared to be a confirmed recluse, and such a person could also, doubtless, have proffered theories to account for this choice of solitude. The simple facts are these: Joseph had always been too shy to be what is commonly termed sociable, and when he first shut himself up, the neighbours made no attempt to disturb him. He shut himself up to begin with because he had fallen into a most miserable state of health; he continued to shut himself up because in his natural melancholy and loneliness he allowed his bodily wretchedness to become spiritual. Simply that and nothing more—but that is a great deal. Other men besides Joseph Redhorn have in such wise been pressed to the verge—and over.
It was one of those nights which we may call—according to our mood—late autumn or early winter. A tempest of wind and rain raged over the loch. Doors and windows rattled, chimney-cans toppled, slates and tiles hurtled from the village roofs. Fairport, save one man, was abed, for the hour was late, yet Fairport for the greater part was awake, quaking.
Joseph Redhorn was the one man not abed, yet to all appearances he had been sleeping for hours. He sat at his kitchen table, his head in his arms. Behind him was a dead fire, on his left a window, which each blattering gust threatened to burst in, on his right the door which he was shortly going to open—for the last time.
The clock wheezed, and slowly, loudly, fatally, told out midnight. A little later, Joseph Redhorn rose stiffly. His face was ghastly in the lamplight; his pale blue eyes were glazed and strange. He wiped his wet brow, muttering—"God, it's nae use. I couldna thole anither day.... There'll be naebody aboot noo.... I'll mak' an end—A man that doesna matter to onybody—doesna matter to onybody." He crossed to the door, steadily enough, and automatically took his hat from the peg. The house shook; he appeared unconscious of any storm. He turned the key. With his fingers on the handle he looked back.
"Na, na. No' anither day, no' anither nicht, Almighty God, I couldna thole—it doesna matter to onybody."
He opened the door and peered into the roaring blackness. He heard the sound of many waters. A white thing brushed over his feet. He reeled and recovered his balance, and looked downwards.
A little fox-terrier was crouching there, whining, looking up imploringly.
"A wee dug," he murmured weakly, staring, "a wee dug. Lost—like masel'."
At the softness of his voice the terrier rose, placing its forepaws against his knee.
"Puir beastie!" He bent and patted its head, stroked its back. "Ye've got terrible wat an' dirty, wee dug. But I've got to gang awa'. What am I to dae wi' ye?"
The terrier licked the back of his hand.
And something happened to Joseph Redhorn. Leaning against the wall, he put his hands to his face. "Ma God, ma God!" he sobbed.
Presently he closed and locked the door, and signing to the terrier to follow him, went over to the hearth and sat down in his easy-chair. The terrier squatted on the ragged rug, shivering painfully, and gazed up in his face expectantly.
"Ye're cauld—perishin'," he said unsteadily, for he also was shivering. "An' ye'll be hungry." He got up and fetched some biscuits, broke them, and began to feed his visitor. "Ye're fair starvin'! I think I best licht the fire."
Within three minutes, thanks to a plentiful supply of wood drenched with paraffin, he had a glorious blaze, upon which he threw coal.
"Wee dug, ye've surely had a lang, weary journey," he said, for the terrier had collapsed upon its side before the warmth. "I wonder if ye wud bite me if I was to gi'e ye a warm bath. Wud ye bite me? Even so, I'll try the bath. Ye're that cauld an' dirty."
The terrier made no attempt to bite him while he washed it in his own tin basin. It licked his face while he dried it with a warm towel. It appeared to be refreshed, for it followed him briskly when he went to forage for a scrap of meat and a drop of milk....
From the easy-chair the man watched it eat its fill. When it was satisfied he said—
"I wonder what they ca' ye, wee dug. There's naething on yer collar but 'Marlow, Harrington Hoose'—an' Marlow's no' the name o' a dug, an' there's nae Harrington Hoose within ten miles o' Fairport. What's yer name, wee dug?"
The terrier, cocking its ears, looked as if it would fain have told him; then, unexpectedly, it sprang upon his knees.
"Oh, ye're fine an' cosy noo," he said, stroking the smooth hair. "I suppose I'll ha'e to see the polisman aboot ye in the mornin'."
An hour later he procured an old blanket, wrapped his guest in it, and laid the bundle before the fire, which he replenished.
How he himself passed the remainder of that wild night is not to be set down here.
In the morning he approached the village constable, who promised to make inquiries and do all things possible in order to discover the owner.
"Can I get keepin' it in the meantime?" the painter asked rather anxiously. "I dinna ken a thing aboot dugs."
"Same here—except that I ken this yin's a 'she' an' no' an 'it.' Ye should speak to Mason, the grocer."
So the painter went diffidently to the grocer, an old man who once or twice in the past had asked him to supper.
"A bonny wee thing—no lang since she was a pup," said the grocer. "If I was you," he added, smiling, "I wud be prayin' for an accident to the owner."
"Maybe I am," said Joseph, and was surprised by his own words.
The terrier evinced much distress when he made to tie her up before going to his work. Fortunately his work was out-of-doors that day, a calm having followed the storm, and he decided to take her with him. Going and returning he met neighbours who seemed interested in his new comrade; the "doggy" ones stopped to ask questions, or to praise the creature's "points," and they also gave advice. They said she was a valuable one, but Joseph did not need to be told that.
By evening he was in a curiously excited state of mind. In those twelve hours he had spoken socially with more people than in the past twelve months. All the same, he spent a dreadful night with himself. But the next night was not quite so bad, and the next again was almost tolerable.
On the fourth night from the coming of the "wee dug" he enjoyed the best rest he had had for many a long month. He wakened but once, and it was not an unhappy wakening. He was disturbed by a tugging at the bedclothes.
"Eh, what's that?... Oh, it's yersel', is it? What are ye wantin', wee dug?" He reached down his hand in the dark, and felt the comforting lick. Then the terrier made springs at the edge of the bed. "Was ye wantin' up? Was ye feelin' lanesome? Come then!" He drew her up to him. She nestled against him, licking his face.
"Oh, wee dug," he whispered, "ye've surely got a soul, for it's only the things wi' souls that feel lanesome."
On the fifth and following nights she slept on the bed. Joseph continued to rest well, but his days were unsettled by hopes and fears—hopes that the owner might never turn up, fears lest he should arrive at any moment. And he discovered that these hopes and fears were sympathetically shared by quite a number of his neighbours.
Daily he held a consultation with the policeman. On the tenth morning the policeman said—
"I'm thinkin' she's yours, but wait ither three days in case onything comes o' that advertisement in the weekly paper."
Three days later—"Is she mine noo?" the painter asked in little more than a whisper.
"Wha's is she?" the other laughed.
"But—legally?"
The constable scratched his head. "If I had her, she would be mine's," he said at last. "An' I wud get a new collar for 'her."
The same afternoon Joseph Redhorn took boat for the town across the firth.
In the early evening he returned. On his way from pier to house he spoke a word to nearly every person he met—but only a word, for he was in a great hurry.
The terrier greeted him ecstatically. He sat down, wiping his eyes.
"Wee dug," he said, "yer mine's noo. Come an' see if yer new collar fits. An' see the bonny dish I've got for ye to drink at. Noo, nane o' yer fun! Be sober for a meenute, for I want to get off that ugly auld collar. Come here, ye wee rascal!—ma wee dug!—"
Without warning the door opened. The constable looked in.
"Ridhorn," he said, thickly, "it's hellish—but a lady has come for yer wee dug."
It is doubtful if he understood the explanation of the beautiful lady in the costly furs, or if he noticed the great car with the pale gentleman in the tonneau. They belonged to a distant town. A fortnight ago they had been motoring through the district. During a stoppage some miles south of Fairport, the terrier has disappeared, unnoticed. Many miles north of Fairport they had met with an accident. The gentleman had been seriously injured. The terrier had been forgotten at first then advertised for—and so on and so on.... What did it all matter to Joseph Redhorn? His "wee dug" was in the beautiful lady's arms and she was calling it "Judy darling." It seemed to know her, yet cried piteously to its late protector....
The beautiful lady had said all that a lady need say in the way of gratitude, and now she fumbled at a golden bag.
Ere she could open it, Joseph's hand made a pushing-away motion. "I've been paid," he said in a strange voice. "Ye'll excuse me." And, turning, he entered his house and shut the door.
At the end of an hour he opened it to find the old grocer on his step.
"I jist cam' to say, Ridhorn, that if ye was wantin' it, I could get ye a nice wee dug."
"It—it's rale kind o' ye," said the painter, after a little while, "but it wud never be the same."
The old grocer hesitated. "Weel, I can understan' ye feelin' that way, so I'll no' say ony mair aboot it. But noo the wife an' me wud like ye to come an' tak' a bite o' supper. It's ready, waitin' for us. Will ye come?"
Joseph was about to refuse, when something welled up in his heart. "God bless ye," he said suddenly; "I will."
After Willie had gone away with the dish and collar and sundry articles he had fancied, Mr. Redhorn sat still in the gathering dusk. And at last he spoke—very softly:
"Wee dug, ye're no' to think I forgot ye because I gi'ed awa' the things ye never used. If ye had used them, they wudna ha'e been laid by wi' the rubbish—no' likely, wee dug!... ma wee dug!"