V
A COSTLY NAP
"HELP yersel', John." Mr. Redhorn passed the ginger wine to his guest and glanced at the clock.
"Thenk ye, thenk ye." The reputed oldest inhabitant refilled his glass with a steadiness of hand remarkable at his time of life, took a mouthful of the harmless warming liquid, smacked his lips, and lay back in his chair with an air of satisfaction. "Ye're no' sayin' muckle for yersel' the nicht, Joseph," he remarked, pleasantly. "I've been waitin' to hear aboot yer veesit to the pictur' palace. I've been hearin' a lot aboot pictur' palaces lately. What did ye think o' it?"
The painter, who had been up at five a.m.—it was now ten p.m.—swallowed a yawn. "Oh, it was vera divertin' in its way. I confess I preferred the wild beasts to the human bein's that appeared afore ma gaze. The comic element was so-so—made ye laugh at the time, but never efterwards. As for the sensation, it was strong enough—an' plenty o' folk like their tea biled."
"What was the sensation?"
"I canna mind it a', I'm thenkful to be able to say. But among ither items, I seen a young female pit a carvin'-knife into a chap that was tryin' to sleep off the fumes o' noxious liquors. Moreover, I witnessed a bad man gettin' run ower by a steam road-roller. That gi'ed me a grue, I admit."
"What like was the corp?" Mr. McNab inquired with an interest worthier of a happier subject.
"I didna wait to see the remains, if ony," Mr. Redhorn replied.
"In ma youth," said the old man, "I wrought for a while on a traction ingine; an' on a dark mornin' we gaed ower a hen—or maybe it was a hedgehog."
"It wud be a' the same efter the mishap." The painter concealed another yawn. "On the whole, I dinna disapprove o' the cinematograph; like maist things in this warld, it has its guid p'ints. Ye should tak' Mistress McNab across the water some fine Seturday, an' see for yersel' what the pictur' palace is like. Efter a', an indiveedual subjec' like masel' to dyspeepsia an' ither fleshly ills isna the best qualified person for to criticise popular pleesures, an' I daresay you, John, bein' hale and hearty, wud find plenty to yer taste in the pictur' palace."
"I wud like fine to gang, but I ha'e ma doobts aboot the wife. Is—is the performance respectable?"
Mr. Redhorn removed his gaze from the clock to the fire. "Respectabeelity," he observed, "is a slacker belt nor it used to be. The great thing nooadays is breadth o' mind; depth is no' sae important. It's for the police to say what is an' what isna respectable—an' that saves oor consciences a heap o' worry. But I'm no sayin' the pictur' palace is disrespectable. Folk that like it say ti's elevatin'; folk that dinna like it say it's lowerin'. As a matter o' fac', it's partly the yin an' partly the ither. I wudna advise ye to gang, John, if I thought ye wud get demoralised."
"Oh, it wud tak' a queer lot to demoralise me," said the reputed oldest inhabitant, recklessly. "It's the wife I'm thinkin' o'. She's that easy affronted. I think I best gang wi'oot her the first time, an' see what it's like. Eh, Joseph?"
Mr. Redhorn hesitated to reply. Not for years had Mr. McNab gone to the town across the firth without his wife's escort. "I dinna think sich drastic measures are necessary," he said at last. "I'm sure Mistress McNab wud be offended at naething—I mean to say, there wud be naething to offend her. When I was there the place was chock-a-block wi' females."
"'Mphm!" Mr. McNab muttered, dubiously. "Still, the sensations micht frichten her."
"I wudna say yer wife was timid—for a female," said the painter, who was growing tired of the conversation.
"A' the same," the other persisted, "it's the best to be on the safe side. I'll gang to Gourock the first fine Seturday, an' ha'e a spy at the pictur', palace. Of course," he added, rather hurriedly, "ye'll no' mention ma plan to her, or onybody else, Joseph."
"Oh, I'll respec' yer confidence, John," Mr. Redhorn returned, good-humouredly. He was as certain as he was sure of anything in this world that the old man would never find an opportunity of leaving Fairport alone; and in all probability (he told himself) the whole matter would be forgotten by the following morning.
Nevertheless, the old man appeared to be in earnest. "Ye'll no' betray me?" he persisted anxiously.
"No' for a' the gold o' Crusoes!" declared the painter, yawning openly.
Just then there was a gentle tapping at the door. Old Mrs. McNab had come to take her man home.
*****
Mrs. McNab was "washing up" after breakfast the following Saturday, when her husband, seated at the hearth, said, in a casual, yet not very natural tone:
"It's a fine day—I think I'll tak' a trip to Gourock in the efternune."
"Ye'll what, John?"
"I'm sayin' I think I'll tak' a trip to Gourock in the efternune."
"What wud ye dae at Gourock?" she inquired, mildly enough.
"It's a lang while since I had a crack wi' Peter McTavish." It must not be supposed that Mr. McNab was in the habit of prevaricating—unless, perhaps, in the matter of his age. But now the spirit of adventure was driving him hard.
"The last time ye seen Peter McTavish, him an' you cast oot aboot some stupid politics, an' ye said ye wud never darken his door again."
"It's time we made it up."
Mrs. McNab finished the drying of a dish before she responded. "I canna gang wi' ye the day, John. The parlour's got to be cleaned afore nicht-time. I'll see if I canna manage next Seturday, or the next again."
Mr. McNab wriggled on his chair and cleared his throat. "I—I can gang to Gourock ma lane, Mary."
"Havers, man!"
"But I can so! Ye talk as if I was a wean."
"Noo, John, ye ken fine ye canna gang to Gourock yer lane—"
"An' what for no?"
"Because I wudna let ye gang yer lane!"
"See here, Mary," he cried, irritably, "I'm fair seeck o' yer hingin' on to ma coat tails! I canna move a fit but ye're hingin' there!"
She gazed at him in gentle amazement. "John, hoo mony years is it since ye gaed to Gourock yer lane?"
"That's naething to dae wi' it! I—I dinna mean to hurt yer feelin's, but—but—"
"I wud gang wi' ye the day if I could," she interrupted, without the slightest resentment. "Listen, John! I'll promise to gang wi' next Seturday. Will that no content ye?"
"I'll maybe no' want to gang next Seturday."
"Aw, ye're a contrairy auld man!" she rejoined, smiling. "Awa' oot to the garden an' sit in the sun this fine mornin'. We'll speak aboot it at dinner-time."
But at dinner-time he made no reference to the matter, and she was not sorry to think that he had forgotten all about it. The meal being over, he returned to the garden, to sit once more in the sun—so, at least, she presumed.
About three o'clock Mr. Redhorn, setting forth for an after-dinner walk, encountered Mrs. McNab, worried and excited.
"I was comin' to see ye," she said. "Ha'e ye seen onything o' John?"
"No' the day, Mistress McNab. Was he comin' to see me?"
"He's awa' to Gourock!"
"Gourock!" exclaimed the painter with a sudden sense of dismay.
"Ay—an' him in his auld coat—no' even a clean collar to his neck! But I ken where to find him if I gang on the next boat—an' if naething has happened to him."
"Ye ken where to find him! Did he tell ye he was gaun to—Gourock?"
"He was speakin' aboot it this mornin'. But I tell't him I couldna gang wi' him, an' I promised to gang next Seturday—an' I thought that he would ha'e contented him. I never thought he wud treat me like this, efter three-an'-fifty year—efter the way I've ta'en care o' him. But a man's a man for a' that, as he used to sing it. I suppose it means that a man can never be onything better nor a man, if he lives for a hunderd years. But I thought John wud—"
"Dinna tak' it to heart like that," the painter softly interrupted. "I'm sure John didna mean to hurt yer feelin's. But ye—ye said ye kent where to find him?"
"He said he wanted to see a man, Peter McTavish."
"Oh!... Aweel, if ye ha'e nae objections, I'll come in the boat wi' ye."
"I'll be gled o' yer comp'ny, Maister Ridhorn. Ye've aye been a guid frien' to John."
Mr. Redhorn shook his head, wishing he had said less—or, better, nothing whatever—about picture palaces to the old man. He looked at his watch. "We ha'e twinty-five meenutes till the boat comes," he said, "so we'll jist step up to ma hoose an' ha'e a dish o' tea. I left a guid fire. Come awa', Mistress McNab. Keep up yer heart. We'll find yer guid man safe an' soun', or ma name's no' Joseph Ridhorn. An' I wud humbly implore ye no' to be severe wi' him. To err is human, etceetera."
*****
An hour later they stood on Gourock pier. The painter was nervous.
"I ha'e a suggestion to offer," he said. "Tell me where to find John, an' I'll fetch him to ye in the waitin' room here. It—it micht gi'e him a scare if ye was drappin' on him like a bolt f rae the blue, as it were."
"Ye're rael thoughtful for John," she returned, a trifle drily, perhaps. "But I canna quarrel wi' yer plan, for I wudna like to affront him afore Peter McTavish." She mentioned the address, adding, "As quick's ye can, please, for I'm anxious."
"Ye'll no' be severe on him?"
"Was I ever severe on him?"
"I ask yer pardon," said Mr. Redhorn, and straightway departed.
Fortunately the picture palace was but a little way from the pier.
At the pay-box Mr. Redhorn made inquiry. "Ha'e ye seen a vera auld man—an extra auld man—an antiquarian, in fac'—enter these premises recently?"
The box-keeper admitted that an aged person had paid for admission about two hours ago.
"I want to see him," said the painter.
"Sixpence."
"Can I no' gang in wi'oot payin?"
"No, but you can pay without going in."
"I perceive, young man," said Mr. Redhorn, "that ye're better at quotin' nor thinkin'. Weel, here's yer saxpence. Kindly pull the string, or press the button, or whatever ye dae for a livin'."
Presently he found himself inside, and in darkness. An attendant informed him that the lights would go up in about five minutes. In that period of time Mr. Redhorn witnessed the attempted murder of a dazzlingly fair damsel by an exceedingly swarthy gentleman, the rescue of the former and confounding of the latter by a noble-looking youth in an immaculate sailor suit, the suicide by slow poison of the swarthy one, and the bethrothal of the lovers.
On the theatre being illuminated he espied the object of his search not far away. Mr. McNab was rubbing his eyes. When the painter spoke to him he looked up in dazed fashion.
"Guidsakes! is it you, Joseph? What are ye daein' here?"
"Aw, I jist drapped in, thinkin' I micht find ye enjoyin' yersel'. But we'll get ootside noo—er, John?"
"But I ha'ena seen onything yet," the old man protested.
"Ye've been here for twa hours. Come; we'll get ootside."
Mr. McNab rose slowly. He was beginning to understand and to suspect. "Is—is She here, Joseph?" he whispered.
"No' exac'ly here, John.... She's at the pier, waitin' for us. We'll be in nice time to drink a gless o' ginger wine afore we catch the boat for Fairport."
"Did ye betray me, Joseph?"
"Na, na. When I left her at the pier I was to look for ye at McTavish's. She was sure ye had gaed there."
"Oh, dear me!" groaned Mr. McNab, and fell silent.
When they were in the street, the painter said, softly: "I think ye best tell her aboot everything, John."
"I've naething to tell her aboot. I never seen onything."
"I dinna understand ye, John. What dae ye mean?"
"What I say. Ye tell me I was in the place for twa hours, an' I believe ye. Still, I never seen onything excep' a pictur' o' a lot o' seagulls—an' I can see plenty o' seagulls ony day at Fairport—an' the place was warm an' dark, an' I was kin o' wearit, an' I thought I wud shut ma e'en for twa meenutes, an'—Weel, the next thing I seen was yersel'.... Oh, man, if I was a wee thing younger, I wud gang up a close an' kick masel'. Saxpence for a bit nap! The dearest nap I ever had! Joseph, ha'e ye ony extra bad language?"
"Ma sympathy is nane the weaker for bein' dumb, John," replied the painter. "It was indeed, as ye observe, a costly nap. In some o' the new London hotels—see advertizements—ye wud likely ha'e got breakfast thrown in, an' maybe a bath into the bargain.... But what are we to say to the guidwife, John?"
"Oh, she'll jist ha'e to get the truth—what there is o' it. Maybe the nap was a judgment on me. I'm sorry I vexed her.... But—as I've said afore—a man maun ha'e his fling."