The House With the Green Shutters (11 page)

When Mrs. Wilson was behind the counter, Wilson was out "distributing."
He was not always out, of course—his volume of trade at first was not
big enough for that; but in the mornings, and the long summer dusks, he
made his way to the many outlying places of which Barbie was the centre.
There, in one and the same visit, he distributed goods and collected
orders for the future. Though his bill had spoken of "carts," as if he
had several, that was only a bit of splurge on his part; his one
conveyance at the first was a stout spring cart, with a good brown cob
between the shafts. But with this he did such a trade as had never been
known in Barbie. The Provost said it was "shtupendous."

When Wilson was jogging homeward in the balmy evenings of his first
summer at Barbie, no eye had he for the large evening star, tremulous
above the woods, or for the dreaming sprays against the yellow west. It
wasn't his business; he had other things to mind. Yet Wilson was a
dreamer too. His close, musing eye, peering at the dusky-brown nodge of
his pony's hip through the gloom, saw not that, but visions of chances,
opportunities, occasions. When the lights of Barbie twinkled before him
in the dusk, he used to start from a pleasant dream of some commercial
enterprise suggested by the country round. "Yon holm would make a fine
bleaching green—pure water, fine air, labour cheap, and everything
handy. Or the Lintie's Linn among the woods—water power running to
waste yonder—surely something could be made of that." He would follow
his idea through all its mazes and developments, oblivious of the
passing miles. His delight in his visions was exactly the same as the
author's delight in the figments of his brain. They were the same good
company along the twilight roads. The author, happy with his thronging
thoughts (when they are kind enough to throng), is no happier than
Wilson was on nights like these.

He had not been a week on his rounds when he saw a "chance" waiting for
development. When out "delivering" he used to visit the upland farms to
buy butter and eggs for the Emporium. He got them cheaper so. But more
eggs and butter could be had than were required in the neighbourhood of
Barbie. Here was a chance for Wilson! He became a collector for
merchants at a distance. Barbie, before it got the railway, had only a
silly little market once a fortnight, which was a very poor outlet for
stuff. Wilson provided a better one. Another thing played into his
hands, too, in that connection. It is a cheese-making countryside about
Barbie, and the less butter produced at a cheese-making place, the
better for the cheese. Still, a good many pounds are often churned on
the sly. What need the cheese merchant ken? it keepit the gudewife in
bawbees frae week to week; and if she took a little cream frae the
cheese now and than they werena a pin the waur o't, for she aye did it
wi' decency and caution! Still, it is as well to dispose of this kind of
butter quietly, to avoid gabble among ill-speakers. Wilson, slithering
up the back road with his spring cart in the gloaming, was the man to
dispose of it quietly. And he got it dirt cheap, of course, seeing it
was a kind of contraband. All that he made in this way was not much to
be sure—threepence a dozen on the eggs, perhaps, and fourpence on the
pound of butter—still, you know, every little makes a mickle, and
hained gear helps weel.
[4]
And more important than the immediate profit
was the ultimate result. For Wilson in this way established with
merchants, in far-off Fechars and Poltandie, a connection for the sale
of country produce which meant a great deal to him in future, when he
launched out as cheese-buyer in opposition to Gourlay.

It "occurred" to him also (things were always occurring to Wilson) that
the "Scotch cuddy" business had as fine a chance in "Barbie and
surrounding neighbourhood" as ever it had in North and Middle England.
The "Scotch cuddy" is so called because he is a beast of burden, and not
from the nature of his wits. He is a travelling packman, who infests
communities of working-men, and disposes of his goods on the credit
system, receiving payment in instalments. You go into a working-man's
house (when he is away from home for preference), and laying a swatch of
cloth across his wife's knee, "What do you think of that, mistress?" you
inquire, watching the effect keenly. Instantly all her covetous heart is
in her eye, and, thinks she to herself, "Oh, but John would look well in
that at the kirk on Sunday!" She has no ready money, and would never
have the cheek to go into a draper's and order the suit; but when she
sees it lying there across her knee, she just cannot resist it. (And
fine you knew that when you clinked it down before her!) Now that the
goods are in the house, she cannot bear to let them out the door again.
But she hints a scarcity of cash. "Tut, woman!" quoth you, bounteous and
kind, "there's no obstacle in
that
! You can pay me in instalments!"
How much would the instalments be, she inquires. "Oh, a mere
trifle—half a crown a week, say." She hesitates and hankers. "John's
Sunday coat's getting quite shabby, so it is, and Tam Macalister has a
new suit, she was noticing—the Macalisters are always flaunting in
their braws! And, there's that Paisley shawl for herself, too; eh, but
they would be the canty pair, cocking down the road on Sunday in
that
rig! they would take the licht frae Meg Macalister's een—thae
Macalisters are always so en-vy-fu'!" Love, vanity, covetousness,
present opportunity, are all at work upon the poor body. She succumbs.
But the half-crown weekly payments have a habit of lengthening
themselves out till the packman has made fifty per cent. by the
business. And why not? a man must have some interest on his money!
Then there's the risk of bad debts, too—that falls to be considered.
But there was little risk of bad debts when Wilson took to
cloth-distributing. For success in that game depends on pertinacity in
pursuit of your victim, and Wilson was the man for that.

He was jogging home from Brigabee, where he had been distributing
groceries at a score of wee houses, when there flashed on his mind a
whole scheme for cloth-distribution on a large scale; for mining
villages were clustering in about Barbie by this time, and he saw his
way to a big thing.

He was thinking of Sandy Toddle, who had been a Scotch cuddy in the
Midlands, and had retired to Barbie on a snug bit fortune—he was
thinking of Sandy when the plan rose generous on his mind. He would soon
have more horses than one on the road; why shouldn't they carry swatches
of cloth as well as groceries? If he had responsible men under him, it
would be their own interest, for a small commission on the profits, to
see that payments were levied correctly every week. And those colliers
were reckless with their cash, far readier to commit themselves to
buying than the cannier country bodies round. Lord! there was money in
the scheme. No sooner thought of than put in practice. Wilson gave up
the cloth-peddling after five or six years—he had other fish to fry by
that time—but while he was at it he made money hand over fist at the
job.

But what boots it to tell of all his schemes? He had the lucky eye, and
everything he looked on prospered.

Before he had been a week in Barbie he met Gourlay, just at the Bend o'
the Brae, in full presence of the bodies. Remembering their first
encounter, the grocer tried to outstare him; but Gourlay hardened his
glower, and the grocer blinked. When the two passed, "I declare!" said
the bodies, "did ye see yon?—they're not on speaking terms!" And they
hotched with glee to think that Gourlay had another enemy.

Judge of their delight when they saw one day about a month later, just
as Gourlay was passing up the street, Wilson come down it with a load of
coals for a customer! For he was often out Auchterwheeze road in the
early morning, and what was the use of an empty journey back again,
especially as he had plenty of time in the middle of the day to attend
to other folk's affairs? So here he was, started as a carrier, in full
opposition to Gourlay.

"Did you see Gourlay's face?" chuckled the bodies when the cart went by.
"Yon was a bash in the eye to him. Ha, ha! he's not to have it all his
own way now!"

Wilson had slid into the carrying in the natural development of
business. It was another of the possibilities which he saw and turned to
his advantage. The two other chief grocers in the place, Cunningham the
dirty and Calderwood the drunken, having no carts or horses of their
own, were dependent on Gourlay for conveyance of their goods from
Skeighan. But Wilson brought his own. Naturally, he was asked by his
customers to bring a parcel now and then, and naturally, being the man
he was, he made them pay for the privilege. With that for a start the
rest was soon accomplished. Gourlay had to pay now for his years of
insolence and tyranny; all who had irked beneath his domineering ways
got their carrying done by Wilson. Ere long that prosperous gentleman
had three carts on the road, and two men under him to help in his
various affairs.

Carting was only one of several new developments in the business of J.
W. When the navvies came in about the town and accommodation was ill to
find, Wilson rigged up an old shed in the corner of his holm as a
hostelry for ten of them—and they had to pay through the nose for their
night's lodging. Their food they obtained from the Emporium, and thus
the Wilsons bled them both ways. Then there was the scheme for supplying
milk—another of the "possibeelities." Hitherto in winter, Barbie was
dependent for its milk supply on heavy farm-carts that came lumbering
down the street, about half-past seven in the morning, jangling bells to
waken sleepy customers, and carrying lanterns that carved circles of
fairy yellow out the raw air. But Mrs. Wilson got four cows,
back-calvers who would be milking strong in December, and supplied milk
to all the folk about the Cross.

She had a lass to help her in the house now, and the red-headed boy was
always to be seen, jinking round corners like a weasel, running messages
hot-foot, errand boy to the "bisness" in general. Yet, though everybody
was busy and skelping at it, such a stress of work was accompanied with
much disarray. Wilson's yard was the strangest contrast to Gourlay's.
Gourlay's was a pleasure to the eye, everything of the best and
everything in order, since the master's pride would not allow it to be
other. But though Wilson's Emporium was clean, his back yard was
littered with dirty straw, broken boxes, old barrels, stable refuse, and
the sky-pointing shafts of carts, uptilted in between. When boxes and
barrels were flung out of the Emporium they were generally allowed to
lie on the dunghill until they were converted into firewood. "Mistress,
you're a trifle mixed," said the Provost in grave reproof, when he went
round to the back to see Wilson on a matter of business. But "Tut,"
cried Mrs. Wilson, as she threw down a plank, to make a path for him
across a dub—"Tut," she laughed, "the clartier the cosier!" And it was
as true as she said it. The thing went forward splendidly in spite of
its confusion.

Though trade was brisker in Barbie than it had ever been before, Wilson
had already done injury to Gourlay's business as general conveyor. But,
hitherto, he had not infringed on the gurly one's other monopolies. His
chance came at last.

He appeared on a market-day in front of the Red Lion, a piece of pinky
brown paper in his hand. That was the first telegram ever seen in
Barbie, and it had been brought by special messenger from Skeighan. It
was short and to the point. It ran: "Will buy 300 stone cheese 8
shillings stone
[5]
delivery at once," and was signed by a merchant in
Poltandie.

Gourlay was talking to old Tarmillan of Irrendavie, when Wilson pushed
in and addressed Tarmillan, without a glance at the grain-merchant.

"Have you a kane o' cheese to sell, Irrendavie?" was his blithe
salutation.

"I have," said Irrendavie, and he eyed him suspiciously. For what was
Wilson speiring for?
He
wasna a cheese-merchant.

"How much the stane are ye seeking for't?" said Wilson.

"I have just been asking Mr. Gourlay here for seven-and-six," said
Irrendavie, "but he winna rise a penny on the seven!"

"
I
'll gi'e ye seven-and-six," said Wilson, and slapped his long thin
flexible bank-book far too ostentatiously against the knuckles of his
left hand.

"But—but," stammered Irrendavie, suspicious still, but melting at the
offer, "
you
have no means of storing cheese."

"Oh," said Wilson, getting in a fine one at Gourlay, "there's no
drawback in that! The ways o' business have changed greatly since steam
came close to our doors. It's nothing but vanity nowadays when a country
merchant wastes money on a ramshackle of buildings for storing—there's
no need for that if he only had brains to develop quick deliveries. Some
folk, no doubt, like to build monuments to their own pride, but I'm not
one of that kind; there's not enough sense in that to satisfy a man like
me. My offer doesna hold, you understand, unless you deliver the cheese
at Skeighan Station. Do you accept the condition?"

"Oh yes," said Irrendavie, "I'm willing to agree to that."

"C'way into the Red Lion then," said Wilson, "and we'll wet the bargain
with a drink to make it hold the tighter!"

Then a strange thing happened. Gourlay had a curious stick of foreign
wood (one of the trifles he fed his pride on) the crook of which curved
back to the stem and inhered, leaving space only for the fingers. The
wood was of wonderful toughness, and Gourlay had been known to bet that
no man could break the handle of his stick by a single grip over the
crook and under it. Yet now, as he saw his bargain whisked away from him
and listened to Wilson's jibe, the thing snapped in his grip like a
rotten twig. He stared down at the broken pieces for a while, as if
wondering how they came there, then dashed them on the ground while
Wilson stood smiling by. And then he strode—with a look on his face
that made the folk fall away.