The House With the Green Shutters (9 page)

"Oh, auld Wilson, the mole-catcher!" said contemptuous Gourlay. "What's
this they christened him now? 'Toddling Johnnie,' was it noat?"

Wilson coloured. But he sniggered to gloss over the awkwardness of the
remark. A coward always sniggers when insulted, pretending that the
insult is only a joke of his opponent, and therefore to be laughed
aside. So he escapes the quarrel which he fears a show of displeasure
might provoke.

But though Wilson was not a hardy man, it was not timidity only that
caused his tame submission to Gourlay.

He had come back after an absence of fifteen years, with a good deal of
money in his pocket, and he had a fond desire that he, the son of the
mole-catcher, should get some recognition of his prosperity from the
most important man in the locality. If Gourlay had said, with solemn and
fat-lipped approval, "Man, I'm glad to see that you have done so well,"
he would have swelled with gratified pride. For it is often the
favourable estimate of their own little village—"What they'll think of
me at home"—that matters most to Scotsmen who go out to make their way
in the world. No doubt that is why so many of them go home and cut a
dash when they have made their fortunes; they want the cronies of their
youth to see the big men they have become. Wilson was not exempt from
that weakness. As far back as he remembered Gourlay had been the big man
of Barbie; as a boy he had viewed him with admiring awe; to be received
by him now, as one of the well-to-do, were a sweet recognition of his
greatness. It was a fawning desire for that recognition that caused his
smirking approach to the grain merchant. So strong was the desire that,
though he coloured and felt awkward at the contemptuous reference to his
father, he sniggered and went on talking, as if nothing untoward had
been said. He was one of the band impossible to snub, not because they
are endowed with superior moral courage, but because their easy
self-importance is so great that an insult rarely pierces it enough to
divert them from their purpose. They walk through life wrapped
comfortably round in the wool of their own conceit. Gourlay, though a
dull man—perhaps because he was a dull man—suspected insult in a
moment. But it rarely entered Wilson's brain (though he was cleverer
than most) that the world could find anything to scoff at in such a fine
fellow as James Wilson. A less ironic brute than Gourlay would never
have pierced the thickness of his hide. It was because Gourlay succeeded
in piercing it that morning that Wilson hated him for ever—with a hate
the more bitter because he was rebuffed so seldom.

"Is business brisk?" he asked, irrepressible.

Business! Heavens, did ye hear him talking? What did Toddling Johnny's
son know about business? What was the world coming to? To hear him
setting up his face there, and asking the best merchant in the town
whether business was brisk! It was high time to put him in his place,
the conceited upstart, shoving himself forward like an equal!

For it was the assumption of equality implied by Wilson's manner that
offended Gourlay—as if mole-catcher's son and monopolist were
discussing, on equal terms, matters of interest to them both.

"Business!" he said gravely. "Well, I'm not well acquainted with your
line, but I believe mole traps are cheap—if ye have any idea of taking
up the oald trade."

Wilson's eyes flickered over him, hurt and dubious. His mouth
opened—then shut—then he decided to speak after all. "Oh, I was
thinking Barbie would be very quiet," said he, "compared wi' places
where they have the railway. I was thinking it would need stirring up a
bit."

"Oh, ye was thinking that, was ye?" birred Gourlay, with a stupid man's
repetition of his jibe. "Well, I believe there's a grand opening in the
moleskin line, so
there's
a chance for ye. My quarrymen wear out their
breeks in no time."

Wilson's face, which had swelled with red shame, went a dead white.
"Good-morning!" he said, and started rapidly away with a vicious dig of
his stick upon the wet road.

"Goo-ood mor-r-ning, serr!" Gourlay birred after him; "goo-ood
mor-r-ning, serr!" He felt he had been bright this morning. He had put
the branks on Wilson!

Wilson was as furious at himself as at Gourlay. Why the devil had he
said "Good-morning"? It had slipped out of him unawares, and Gourlay had
taken it up with an ironic birr that rang in his ears now, poisoning his
blood. He felt equal in fancy to a thousand Gourlays now—so strong was
he in wrath against him. He had gone forward to pass pleasant remarks
about the weather, and why should he noat?—he was no disgrace to
Barbie, but a credit rather. It was not every working-man's son that
came back with five hundred in the bank. And here Gourlay had treated
him like a doag! Ah, well, he would maybe be upsides with Gourlay yet,
so he might!

"Such a rickle of furniture I never saw!" said the Provost.

"Whose is it?" said Brodie.

"Oh, have ye noat heard?" said the Head of the Town with eyebrows in
air. "It beloangs to that fellow Wilson, doan't ye know? He's a son of
oald Wilson, the mowdie-man of Brigabee. It seems we're to have him for
a neighbour, or all's bye wi't. I declare I doan't know what this
world's coming to!"

"Man, Provost," said Brodie, "d'ye tell me tha-at? I've been over at
Fleckie for the last ten days—my brother Rab's dead and won away, as I
dare say you have heard—oh yes, we must all go—so, ye see, I'm
scarcely abreast o' the latest intelligence. What's Wilson doing here? I
thought he had been a pawnbroker in Embro."

"Noat he! It's
whispered
indeed, that he left Brigabee to go and help
in a pawmbroker's, but it seems he married an Aberdeen lass and sattled
there after a while, the manager of a store, I have been given to
understa-and. He has taken oald Rab Jamieson's barn at the bottom of the
Cross—for what purpose it beats even me to tell! And that's his
furniture—"

"I declare!" said the astonished Brodie. "He's a smart-looking boy that.
Will that be a son of his?"

He pointed to a sharp-faced urchin of twelve who was busy carrying
chairs round the corner of the barn, to the tiny house where Wilson
meant to live. He was a red-haired boy with an upturned nose, dressed in
shirt and knickerbockers only. The cross of his braces came comically
near his neck—so short was the space of shirt between the top line of
his breeches and his shoulders. His knickers were open at the knee, and
the black stockings below them were wrinkled slackly down his thin legs,
being tied loosely above the calf with dirty white strips of cloth
instead of garters. He had no cap, and it was seen that his hair had a
"cow-lick" in front; it slanted up from his brow, that is, in a sleek
kind of tuft. There was a violent squint in one of his sharp gray eyes,
so that it seemed to flash at the world across the bridge of his nose.
He was so eager at his work that his clumsy-looking boots—they only
looked
clumsy because the legs they were stuck to were so
thin—skidded on the cobbles as he whipped round the barn with a chair
inverted on his poll. When he came back for another chair, he sometimes
wheepled a tune of his own making, in shrill, disconnected jerks, and
sometimes wiped his nose on his sleeve. And the bodies watched him.

"Faith, he's keen," said the Provost.

"But what on earth has Wilson ta'en auld Jamieson's house and barn for?
They have stude empty since I kenna whan," quoth Alexander Toddle,
forgetting his English in surprise.

"They say he means to start a business! He's made some bawbees in
Aiberdeen, they're telling me, and he thinks he'll set Barbie in a lowe
wi't."

"Ou, he means to work a perfect revolution," said Johnny Coe.

"In Barbie!" cried astounded Toddle.

"In Barbie e'en't," said the Provost.

"It would take a heap to revolutionize
hit
," said the baker, the
ironic man.

"There's a chance in that hoose," Brodie burst out, ignoring the baker's
gibe. "Dod, there's a chance, sirs. I wonder it never occurred to me
before."

"Are ye thinking ye have missed a gude thing?" grinned the Deacon.

But Brodie's lips were working in the throes of commercial speculation,
and he stared, heedless of the jibe. So Johnny Coe took up his sapient
parable.

"Atweel," said he, "there's a chance, Mr. Brodie. That road round to the
back's a handy thing. You could take a horse and cart brawly through an
opening like that. And there's a gey bit ground at the back, too, when a
body comes to think o't."

"What line's he meaning to purshoo?" queried Brodie, whose mind,
quickened by the chance he saw at No. 1 The Cross, was hot on the hunt
of its possibilities.

"He's been very close about that," said the Provost. "I asked Johnny
Gibson—it was him had the selling o't—but he couldn't give me ainy
satisfaction. All he could say was that Wilson had bought it and paid
it. 'But, losh,' said I, 'he maun 'a' lat peep what he wanted the place
for!' But na; it seems he was owre auld-farrant for the like of that.
'We'll let the folk wonder for a while, Mr. Gibson,' he had said. 'The
less we tell them, the keener they'll be to ken; and they'll advertise
me for noathing by speiring one another what I'm up till.'"

"Cunning!" said Brodie, breathing the word low in expressive admiration.

"Demned cute!" said Sandy Toddle.

"Very thmart!" said the Deacon.

"But the place has been falling down since ever I have mind o't," said
Sandy Toddle. "He's a very clever man if he makes anything out of
that
."

"Well, well," said the Provost, "we'll soon see what he's meaning to be
at. Now that his furniture's in, he surely canna keep us in the dark
much loanger!"

Their curiosity was soon appeased. Within a week they were privileged to
read the notice here appended:—

"Mr. James Wilson begs to announce to the inhabitants of Barbie
and surrounding neighbourhood that he has taken these commodious
premises, No. 1 The Cross, which he intends to open shortly as a
Grocery, Ironmongery, and General Provision Store. J. W. is
apprised that such an Emporium has long been a felt want in the
locality. To meet this want is J. W.'s intention. He will try to do
so, not by making large profits on a small business, but by making
small profits on a large business. Indeed, owing to his long
acquaintance with the trade, Mr. Wilson will be able to supply all
commodities at a very little over cost price. For J. W. will use
those improved methods of business which have been confined
hitherto to the larger centres of population. At his Emporium you
will be able, as the saying goes, to buy everything from a needle
to an anchor. Moreover, to meet the convenience of his customers,
J. W. will deliver goods at your own doors, distributing them with
his own carts either in the town of Barbie or at any convenient
distance from the same. Being a native of the district, his
business hopes to secure a due share of your esteemed patronage.
Thanking you, in anticipation, for the favour of an early visit,

"Believe me, Ladies and Gentlemen,
"Yours faithfully,
"JAMES WILSON."

Such was the poster with which "Barbie and surrounding neighbourhood"
were besprinkled within a week of "J. W.'s" appearance on the scene. He
was known as "J. W." ever after. To be known by your initials is
sometimes a mark of affection, and sometimes a mark of disrespect. It
was not a mark of affection in the case of our "J. W." When Donald Scott
slapped him on the back and cried, "Hullo, J. W., how are the anchors
selling?" Barbie had found a cue which it was not slow to make use of.
Wilson even received letters addressed to "J. W., Anchor Merchant, No.
1 The Cross." Ours is a nippy locality.

But Wilson, cosy and cocky in his own good opinion, was impervious to
the chilly winds of scorn. His posters, in big blue letters, were on the
smiddy door and on the sides of every brig within a circuit of five
miles; they were pasted, in smaller letters, red on the gateposts of
every farm; and Robin Tam, the bellman, handed them about from door to
door. The folk could talk of nothing else.

"Dod!" said the Provost, when he read the bill, "we've a new departure
here! This is an unco splutter, as the oald sow said when she tumbled in
the gutter."

"Ay," said Sandy Toddle, "a fuff in the pan, I'm thinking. He promises
owre muckle to last long! He lauchs owre loud to be merry at the end
o't. For the loudest bummler's no the best bee, as my father, honest
man, used to tell the minister."

"Ah-ah, I'm no so sure o' that," said Tam Brodie. "I forgathered wi'
Wilson on Wednesday last, and I tell ye, sirs, he's worth the watching.
They'll need to stand on a baikie that put the branks on him. He has the
considering eye in his head—yon lang far-away glimmer at a thing from
out the end of the eyebrow. He turned it on mysell twa-three times, the
cunning devil, trying to keek into me, to see if he could use me. And
look at the chance he has! There's two stores in Barbie, to be sure. But
Kinnikum's a dirty beast, and folk have a scunner at his goods; and
Catherwood's a drucken swine, and his place but sairly guided. That's a
great stroke o' policy, too, promising to deliver folk's goods on their
own doorstep to them. There's a whole jing-bang of outlying clachans
round Barbie that he'll get the trade of by a dodge like that. The like
was never tried hereaway before. I wadna wonder but it works wonders."

It did.

It was partly policy and partly accident that brought Wilson back to
Barbie. He had been managing a wealthy old merchant's store for a long
time in Aberdeen, and he had been blithely looking forward to the
goodwill of it, when jink, at the old man's death, in stepped a nephew,
and ousted the poo-oor fellow. He had bawled shrilly, but to no purpose;
he had to be travelling. When he rose to greatness in Barbie it was
whispered that the nephew discovered he was feathering his own nest, and
that this was the reason of his sharp dismissal. But perhaps we should
credit that report to Barbie's disposition rather than to Wilson's
misdemeanour.