# The Misadventures of Joseph/His Old Enemy

pp. 153–170.

### IX
#### HIS OLD ENEMY

OF the few passengers to disembark from the yellow-funnelled steamer on a certain fine March evening, Mr. Redhorn was the last. Apart from the fact that he was not a pushful person in any circumstances, he was burdened with two bulky parcels containing rolls of wall-paper purchased that day in the city. Mr. Redhorn was tired. He had a moderate headache, the effect of the city's racket plus a twopenny mutton pie consumed in haste after a seven hours' fast. His feet were very cold—"perishin'," as he would have described them. Altogether he was ready for his carpet slippers, easy-chair and fireside, also a cup of tea and, perchance, a dose of the Elixir.
Therefore he looked none too well pleased when the piermaster, having received his penny, took his arm and, with furtive glances in the direction of the village, drew him into the little office, saying: "I've something to say to ye, Joseph."
"Is't important, Tammas?"
"It's aboot Danks, the fishmonger," the piermaster replied with much solemnity of manner.
"Oh dear me!" sighed Mr. Redhorn wearily. "I'm no' interrested in Danks this evenin'—even if he has been playin' another o' his dirty tricks on me. I'm no' interrested in ony human bein', nor in onything animal, vegetable or mineral, excep' Joseph Ridhorn. I'm ower wearied. So I'll bid ye guid nicht, or adieu—whichever ye prefer."
"Haud on, man!" cried the piermaster, catching him by the sleeve. "I'm gled to hear ye say ye're no' interrested in Peter Danks!" The words were uttered most impressively.
"Eh?" Mr. Redhorn's expression became more alert. "What dae ye mean, Tammas? There's mair in yer remark nor meets the eye."
"I mean exac'ly what I say, an' I hope ye'll tak' it as a frien'ly hint."
Mr. Redhorn stared. "A frien'ly hint?"
"Jist that," said Thomas a trifle impatiently. "Ye're a saft-hearted sort o' chap, Joseph," he went on mildly, "an' although Danks an' you ha'e been enemies as far back as I can mind, if Danks was comin' on ye sudden-like for to borrow a hunderd pound—"
"Tits, man! what are ye talkin' aboot? Danks borrow a hunderd pound? Ye'll see him ridin' an elephant first!"
"Weel, I can only assure ye that some o' us in Fairport—I needna mention names—ha'e been asked to lend the sum I've mentioned."
"To Peter Danks?" Mr. Redhorn let fall one of his parcels.
"Ay, to Peter Danks.... An' I thought I wud jist gi'e ye a hint—"
"But—but Banks is the solidest man in Fairport!"
"So it has been supposed," said the piermaster drily. "Of course, what I'm tellin' ye is confeedential."
"Oh, I'm as secret as the tomb," Mr. Redhorn returned, stroking his nose. "But I'm stupefied. I canna comprehend it, Tammas." Suddenly he peeped through the small window. "See! Thonder's Danks at his door, chattin' wi' his cronies; jist the same as he's been daein' every fine evenin' for twinty year. I'm thinkin' he's been takin' a rise oot o' you an' the others."
Thomas shook his head. "Danks there is daein' his best to keep up appearances. His cronies ken naething aboot his affairs; naebody in Fairport does, excep' you an' me an' twa-three ithers. But the man's in a bad way—desperate for cash.... Aweel, I've warned ye, Joseph, an' the subjec' is closed at ween us."
"An' I'm obleeged to ye, Tammas, though in a way yer warnin' 's wasted, for Danks wud never come to me—no' if he was on the verge of bankruptcy. Weel, I'll be movin' hame." The painter recovered hold of his parcel, bade his friend goodnight, and left the office.
In order to reach his abode it was necessary to pass by the fish-shop. To all appearances Mr. Danks was swelling with as much importance as ever, and his harsh sneering laugh fell more than once on the painter's ears. Yet, for the first time in many years, Mr. Redhorn was spared the mental exertion of producing a smart retort to his enemy's sarcastic personal ramarks. With a nod to the group of idlers, who were plainly astonished at the fishmonger's silence, he proceeded to his bachelor abode, where to his surprise and gratification, he discovered Willie, his apprentice, in the act of preparing tea.
"Wullie!" he cried, "this is rael kind o' ye."
"I had a message for ye aboot that paper for Miss Grogan's bedroom," the boy replied, "an' I thought I micht as weel come early an' get ready yer tea. An' here"—he took a glass from the mantelpiece—"here's a dose o' the Elixir. I thought ye wud be the better o' it efter yer day in Glesca."
"Upon ma word," said Mr. Redhorn, accepting the dose, though somewhat staggered by his apprentice's attention, "I'm fair amazed at yer thoughtfulness, laddie. Here's to ye!"
"Oh, that's a' richt," said Willie easily. "It's guid for ye, an' I like fine to see ye makin' faces."
When a full week had elapsed without anything special happening to stimulate the gossips of Fairport, Mr. Redhorn began to doubt the accuracy of the piermaster's estimate of the fishmonger's financial condition, and at the end of three weeks he decided that the Danks panic had been either merely temporary or (which was far more likely) an elaborate piece of "codding" on that sardonic person's part. He had known Danks for many years as the most close-fisted person in the village; he was aware that five years ago Danks had inherited a couple of thousand pounds; moreover, Danks, like himself, was a bachelor without a dependent. The painter was not the sort of man who finds entertainment in prying into and discussing his neighbours' business; indeed, he shrank from revelations of all kinds, but more especially from those of an unhappy nature. So he made no enquiries and let the matter slip from his mind, gladly enough.
On the evening of the first of April Mr. Redhorn sat at his untidy fireside trying to darn a sock. The atmosphere around him was redolent of eucalyptus. He was beginning to recover from what he called his "annual Spring cauld in the heid," which had kept him indoors for the past three days. As he was wont to explain to those who accused him of malingering, there were, doubtless, professions for which a clear head was unnecessary, but the painting trade was not one of them; also, he was not going to risk his reputation as a paper-hanger and decorator by sneezing in the midst of a delicate operation; finally, no other human head had ever been afflicted with such a cold as his—it was unique in the annals of influenza.
Mr. Red'horn regarded the sock in his hand with extreme disfavour. "There'll sune be nane o' the oreeginal left," he muttered. "Darns, darns, darns! Oh, for the moral courage to fling it in the fire!"
He threw it under the table instead and took up a penny novelette with a coloured frontispiece depicting a very dark gentleman about to stab a very fair lady without giving her time to put up her hair. The title was "False yet True."
Mr. Redhorn read steadily for five minutes, and then returned the novelette to the shelf at the side of the fireplace. "It's no' as guid as usual," he reflected, "or else ma passion for literature is failin'." He sighed heavily.
The truth was, Mr. Redhorn was seriously depressed. No doubt his cold, and perhaps also the sock, had contributed to his gloom, but the primary cause was his apprentice. For Willie had accepted an invitation to draughts and lemonade for seven-thirty prompt, and it was now near to nine o'clock. An hour ago Mr. Redhorn, glancing out of the window, prior to lowering the blind, had observed the boy in earnest conversation with a damsel of about his own age, fifteen, and not lacking in personal charms.
"H'm! I suppose it had to come suner or later," the painter drearily soliloquised, as the little scene now recurred to him. "In the Spring, accordin' to the poet Byron, a young man's fancy turns to thoughts o' love. Aweel, it's better nor bettin' on horses, onyway. An' I dare say it's maybe mair excitin' nor draughts. Ay, youth's a fine thing, an' even auld age has been said to ha'e its beauties. But middle-age, wi' a cauld in the heid an' a tendency to dyspeepsia, no' to mention chilblains, lumpy socks an' nae comp'ny—middle-age, I declare, is— Come in, come in! The door's no' bolted."
Willie entered, panting, his eyes shining.
"Sit doon, laddie," said Mr. Redhorn, with less cordiality of tone than the apprentice was accustomed to.
"I couldna come ony earlier," Willie gasped, seating himself. "I've been that busy gatherin' news. I've got some rare news for ye."
"I preshume," the painter remarked ironically, "ye ha'e deigned to appear in order to inform me o' yer approachin' nuptials."
"I dinna ken what ye're gassin'—speakin' aboot," returned Willie. "I cam' to tell ye that Danks is burst."
"Eh?—what's that?"
"I'm sayin', Danks is burst."
Mr. Redhorn recovered himself. "Tits, laddie! that's an auld canary! Wha has been coddin' ye?" he coolly enquired.
"There's nae coddin' aboot it," was the indignant reply. "It's the solemn truth. It's a' through Fairport. If ye hadna had the cauld in yer nose ye wud ha'e heard aboot it afore noo."
Mr. Redhorn shook his head. "Na, na, Wullie. Ye've been the victim o' a rumour which is entirely devoid o' foondation. Danks is no' the sort to burst."
"But he is burst—as sure as ye're sittin' there," the boy asserted. "I heard it first frae Jessie Forrest, when I was comin' to see ye, an' then I went an' listened to different folk to see what I could hear. They were a' speakin' aboot Danks. He's been gettin' the lend o' money, an' he canna pay it back, an'—"
"That'll dae, laddie." Mr. Redhorn rose. "I'll return in twa meenutes. Ye'll find a bottle o' leemonade in the press," he said, and hurrying to the door, snatched his cap from a peg and left the house.
The piermaster's abode was almost next door, and the piermaster was at home.
"Ay, it's true," he said in answer to the painter's question. "Ye wouldna believe me afore, Joseph, but I was richt. Danks has been speculatin' in secret for years an' lossin' a' he made at his business an' a heap mair besides. He's been borrowin' frae moneylenders, an' he's had a bill dishonoured. I was tell't the day that his name is in this week's black list—"
"What? The Black List—that vilest publication o' modern ceevilization!"
"The same," said Thomas. "An' I ken for a fac' that if Danks canna produce twa hunderd pound by the morn's mornin', he's a done man. An' he's that already, for wha's gaun to trust him wi' twa hunderd pound? No' me, nor you either, I'm thinkin'!"
A short pause, and Mr. Redhorn enquired: "Ha'e ye seen him the nicht?"
"No' to speak to. I gaed up to the shop wi' the intention o' speakin', but the door was shut, an' when I keeked through the wee hole in the shutters I seen him sittin' there wi' his heid in his han's—an' so I turned an' cam' awa'. God! I was kin' o' vexed for the man, though I never liked him."
"Sittin' there," said Mr. Redhorn musingly, "surrounded by his faithful but helpless fish—criftens! it's a sad job."
"It is; but he's only got hissel' to blame. He canna expec' us to help him noo. There's naebody in Fairport wi' siller to put in a sinkin' ship."
"True, Tammas, true," the painter slowly admitted. "Weel, I'll awa' back to—"
"He hasna been at you—has he?" suddenly asked the piermaster.
"Na, na. He kens better nor to come to me." And Mr. Redhorn retreated to his own abode.
"Wullie," he said on entering, "I owe ye an apology, for it appears that yer report was only too true." With a sigh he sank into his chair.
Willie stared at him over his tumbler of lemonade. "Are ye no' pleased, Maister Redhorn?"
"Pleased! What for wud I be pleased?"
"The man's burst!"
"Laddie," said Mr. Redhorn, heavily, "the spectacle o' a human bein' feenancially exploded is mair excruciatin' to ma feelin's than onything in Shakespeare or 'East Lynne'."
"But—but ye hate the man."
"Even hatred has its leemits. Ye wouldna hit a man when he was doon, wud ye, Wullie?"
"Wha said I wud? But I wudna be sorry for him, if I hated him, an' if he had played me dirty tricks."
"An' if ye wudna 'hit him, what wud ye dae?"
"Let him lie."
Mr. Redhorn sighed and stroked his nose. "Onybody could dae that," he said at last.
Willie regarded his master enquiringly. "What wud you dae?"
"Dear knows.... But it maun be an awfu' thing to ha'e to pay in every mortal way—excep' in cash. Ye're ower young to understan' what I mean, Wullie."
"I understan' fine what ye're drivin' at. Ye mean that Danks'll ha'e to gi'e up his shop an' everything. Serves him richt!"
"Come, come, laddie! what has Danks ever done to you?"
"He's tried to mak' mischief atween you an' me. He's—"
"That's true enough. But, ye see, he was annoyed at me for takin' you on as apprentice instead o' his nephew. I daresay he's forgotten a' aboot that by noo."
"He's tried to mak' a cod o' you heaps o' times, Maister Ridhorn."
"I've aye been able to defend masel'. Wi'oot undue immodesty, I think I may say I've aye managed to confound him suner or later. Ye can conseeder us quits, Danks an' me."
"I believe ye're stickin' up for the man!" cried Willie. "I didna think ye was sae saft."
"Aw!" murmured the painter, and fell to stroking his nose again.
"I believe," the boy pursued with sudden conviction, "I believe ye wud try to gi'e Danks a leg up, if ye wasna afraid."
"Afraid! Afraid o' what?" demanded Mr. Redhorn.
The boy hesitated, looking uneasy. "Afraid o' what the folk wud say," he mumbled.
Mr. Redhorn drew a long breath, expelled it, and said: "By Jupiter, ye've hit the nail on the heid!" Putting his hand over his eyes, he lay back in his chair.
The long silence that followed was broken by Willie.
"Maister Ridhorn, I—I didna mean to vex ye."
"Ye didna vex me.... But what wud you say if I was to try to gi'e Danks a leg up, as ye expressed it?" The painter looked through his fingers at his apprentice.
The latter shook his head and shut his mouth as much as to signify that he was not going to commit himself this time.
"Wud ye say I was daft?"
"N—no' exac'ly."
"Wud ye say I was saft?"
"Something like that."
"I suppose that's what a' the folk wud say?"
Willie nodded reluctantly.
"Oh, criftens!" groaned the painter, "what a terrifyin' thing is public opeenion, an' yet it's no' once a week that it's worth a damn!... I beg yer pardon, laddie, for usin' a bad word."
"I'm no' heedin'," said Willie reassuringly. "Maybe it helps ye."
Mr. Redhorn ignored the remark. "Wullie," he bitterly declared, "I'm a poltroon!"
"What's that?"
"A poltroon is a species o' coward."
"Oh, I thought it was a kin' o' beast—a sort o' monkey. But what for are ye callin' yersel' names, Maister Ridhorn."
"Because I ha'ena the moral courage to gi'e Danks a leg up."
"I suppose ye wud never get yer money back."
"That's no' precisely the p'int," said the painter, a trifle shortly.
"Is't no?"
"I dinna mean to suggest that I'm keen on lossin' money—quite the obverse; but I would rayther loss money nor ha'e folk think I had lost it. Ye see?"
Willie prevented a yawn with a timely gulp of lemonade. "I dinna see the sense in that," he remarked, wiping his lips on his sleeve. "But ye could easy loss money wi'oot folk kennin' onything aboot it."
Mr. Redhorn shook his head. "There's nae secret safe frae the Almighty an' the public of Fairport. Suner or later they wud find oot that I had gi'ed Danks a leg up."
"But ye're no' really gaun to gi'e him a leg up?"
The painter blushed, rose and took a cigarette from a packet on the mantelpiece. He lit it with deliberation.
On recovering from a severe fit of choking and coughing he said: "Wullie, if you was standin' on the pier thonder, an' yer worst enemy fell into the water, wud ye no' throw him a rope? ... Of course ye wud! If necessary, ye wud even plunge in to the rescue. Ye wud risk yer life—"
"Wud I?"
"We'll say ye wud, for the sake of argument." Mr. Redhorn's tone was a little impatient. "An' then, when ye had saved yer worst enemy, the public wud cry 'hurray!' an' ca' ye a noble character.... But, supposin' yer worst enemy was strugglin' in the ocean o' feenancial deeficulties, an' ye threw him yer purse—"
"I never had a purse." There was no stopping the yawn this time. "An' what if it missed him?"
"Oh, me!" cried the painter, "d'ye no' ken a metaphor when ye hear it?" He glanced at the clock. "Tits! it's time ye was awa' hame to yer bed. Yer mither'll be wonderin' what's keepin' ye. Awa' wi' ye!"
"I didna' mean to offend ye," said the boy, rising and laying the empty tumbler on the table.
"Ye didna offend me.... But ye're ower young to appreciate ma present painful poseetion, an' so—"
"But—but—"
"Gang!"
Confused and crestfallen, Willie took up his cap and obeyed.
Mr. Redhorn threw the cigarette into the fire and himself into the easy-chair.
"I needna ha'e lost ma temper," he reflected, presently. "I shouldna ha'e expected him to grasp ma physicological (?psychological) observations. I couldna ha'e grasped them masel' at his age. But oh criftens! what am I to dae? Public opeenion...."
A shy tapping at the door startled him. He rose, unsteady and rather pale. Was it Danks come to him as a last desperate resource? He feared yet hoped it was.
But when he had opened the door—behold! Willie once more.
"Wh—what is it, laddie?" he stammered.
"I thought ye wud maybe like to hear aboot Danks."
"What aboot him noo?"
"The lamp was burnin' in the shop, so I had a squint through the hole in the shutter. Danks was sittin' at the counter—"
"Still?... What was he daein'? Writin'?"
"Na; he was jist daein' naething."
"What was he lookin' like?"
"I couldna see his face. He had his arms on the coonter, an' his face was doon on them. Maybe he was sleepin'."
"Maybe," said the painter with melancholy irony. "I daresay he's been sleepin' extra soun' recently!... Is that a' ye've got to tell me, laddie?"
"Ay; excep'..."
"Excep' what?"
"He—he looked queer—as if he had got—wee'er."
"Wee—er! Hoo dae ye mean, Wullie?"
"Weel, I used to think he was a great big man, an' noo he looks as if he had—jist as if he had got—burst."
"God!" said the painter under his breath, "surely he hasna.... Laddie, did ye see him move?"
"Whiles he gi'ed a bit jerk."
"The Lord be thankit!" Mr. Redhorn took the puzzled apprentice by the arm. "Come inside for a meenute. I'll apologise to yer mither the morn."
While Willie stood blinking his employer found writing materials and indited the following note—
"Fairport, April 1.
I can lend you £200 payable back when you can.
J. Redhorn."
"Wullie," he said, softly thumping the flap of the envelope, "ye behold me riskin' ma reputation as a sober man o' business. But for the moment I can honestly declare I dinna care that"—he smote the table—"for public opeenion!"
"Ye near upset the ink-pot."
"If I had it wud ha'e made nae difference to ma statement." Mr. Redhorn arose, and placed the letter in the boy's hand. "Carry that to Peter Danks. Chap at the door till he opens. See that he reads the enclosed communication at once. Then report to me."
"Are ye gi'ein' him a leg up, efter a'?"
"March!" commanded the painter.
Left to himself he reseated himself at the table, his head between his hands. The supreme moment of exaltation had passed, yet he did not regret what he had done.
"Ye've been a lang time, laddie."
"It was a lang time afore he opened the door."
"Ye delivered the letter?"
"Ay; I think he thought it was an accoont for pentin'; so I tell't him it wasna."
"An' then?"
"He opened it."
Mr. Redhorn's countenance was working in a curious fashion. "What did he say?" came the question, shakily.
"Naething."
"Naething?"
"He jist made faces an' waved me oot o' the shop."
"Made—faces?"
"Ay," said the boy, awkwardly.
A short pause.
"What sort o' faces, Wullie?"
"Same as you're m—makin'."
"Eh?"
But Willie turned and fled, for he realized that he was making faces, too.