“Why, yes, you be—your hand is bleeding. Come under my tilt and let me tie it up.”
“Please let me look for my sixpence.”
“How did you come by that?”
“Miss Vye gied it to me for keeping up her bonfire.”
The sixpence was found, and the man went to the van, the boy behind, almost holding his breath.
The man took a piece of rag from a satchel containing sewing materials, tore off a strip, which, like everything else, was tinged red, and proceeded to bind up the wound.
“My eyes have got foggy-like—please may I sit down, master?” said the boy.
“To be sure, poor chap. ’Tis enough to make you feel fainty. Sit on that bundle.”
The man finished tying up the gash, and the boy said, “I think I’ll go home now, master.”
“You are rather afraid of me. Do you know what I be?”
The child surveyed his vermilion figure up and down with much misgiving and finally said, “Yes.”
“Well, what?”
“The reddleman!” he faltered.
“Yes, that’s what I be. Though there’s more than one. You little children think there’s only one cuckoo, one fox, one giant, one devil, and one reddleman, when there’s lots of us all.”
“Is there? You won’t carry me off in your bags, will ye, master? ’Tis said that the reddleman will sometimes.”
“Nonsense. All that reddlemen do is sell reddle. You see all these bags at the back of my cart? They are not full of little boys—only full of red stuff.”
“Was you born a reddleman?”
“No, I took to it. I should be as white as you if I were to give up the trade—that is, I should be white in time—perhaps six months; not at first, because ’tis grow’d into my skin and won’t wash out. Now, you’ll never be afraid of a reddleman again, will ye?”
“No, never. Willy Orchard said he seed a red ghost here t’other day—perhaps that was you?”
“I was here t’other day.”
“Were you making that dusty light I saw by now?”
“Oh yes, I was beating out some bags. And have you had a good bonfire up there? I saw the light. Why did Miss Vye want a bonfire so bad that she should give you sixpence to keep it up?”
“I don’t know. I was tired, but she made me bide and keep up the fire just the same, while she kept going up across Rainbarrow way.”
“And how long did that last?”
“Until a hopfrog jumped into the pond.”
The reddleman suddenly ceased to talk idly. “A hopfrog?” he inquired. “Hopfrogs don’t jump into ponds this time of year.”
“They do, for I heard one.”
“Certain-sure?”
“Yes. She told me afore that I should hear’n; and so I did. They say she’s clever and deep, and perhaps she charmed ’en to come.”
“And what then?”
“Then I came down here, and I was afeard, and I went back; but I didn’t like to speak to her, because of the gentleman, and I came on here again.”
“A gentleman—ah! What did she say to him, my man?”
“Told him she supposed he had not married the other woman because he liked his old sweetheart best; and things like that.”
“What did the gentleman say to her, my sonny?”
“He only said he did like her best, and how he was coming to see her again under Rainbarrow o’ nights.”
“Ha!” cried the reddleman, slapping his hand against the side of his van so that the whole fabric shook under the blow. “That’s the secret o’t!”
The little boy jumped clean from the stool.
“My man, don’t you be afraid,” said the dealer in red, suddenly becoming gentle. “I forgot you were here. That’s only a curious way reddlemen have of going mad for a moment; but they don’t hurt anybody. And what did the lady say then?”
“I can’t mind. Please, Master Reddleman, may I go home-along now?”
“Ay, to be sure you may. I’ll go a bit of ways with you.”
He conducted the boy out of the gravel pit and into the path leading to his mother’s cottage. When the little figure had vanished in the darkness the reddleman returned, resumed his seat by the fire, and proceeded to darn again.
Love Leads a Shrewd Man into Strategy
Reddlemen of the old school are now but seldom seen. Since the introduction of railways Wessex farmers have managed to do without these Mephistophelian visitants, and the bright pigment so largely used by shepherds in preparing sheep for the fair is obtained by other routes. Even those who yet survive are losing the poetry of existence which characterized them when the pursuit of the trade meant periodical journeys to the pit whence the material was dug, a regular camping out from month to month, except in the depth of winter, a peregrination among farms which could be counted by the hundred, and in spite of this Arab existence the preservation of that respectability which is insured by the never-failing production of a well-lined purse.
Reddle spreads its lively hues over everything it lights on, and stamps unmistakably, as with the mark of Cain, any person who has handled it half an hour.
A child’s first sight of a reddleman was an epoch in his life. That blood-coloured figure was a sublimation of all the horrid dreams which had afflicted the juvenile spirit since imagination began. “The reddleman is coming for you!” had been the formulated threat of Wessex mothers for many generations. He was successfully supplanted for a while, at the beginning of the present century, by Buonaparte; but as process of time rendered the latter personage stale and ineffective the older phrase resumed its early prominence. And now the reddleman has in his turn followed Buonaparte to the land of worn-out bogeys, and his place is filled by modern inventions.
The reddleman lived like a gipsy; but gipsies he scorned. He was about as thriving as travelling basket and mat makers; but he had nothing to do with them. He was more decently born and brought up than the cattledrovers who passed and repassed him in his wanderings; but they merely nodded to him. His stock was more valuable than that of pedlars; but they did not think so, and passed his cart with eyes straight ahead. He was such an unnatural colour to look at that the men of roundabouts
