The Reformation of James Reddy Page #4

"The Reformation of James Reddy" is a short story by Bret Harte that explores themes of redemption and transformation in a Western setting. The narrative follows the character of James Reddy, a man with a dubious reputation who undergoes a significant change in his behavior and perspective. Through a series of events and encounters with other characters, Reddy grapples with his past mistakes and seeks to redefine himself. Harte's storytelling combines humor and social commentary, highlighting the complexities of human nature and the possibility of change against a backdrop of frontier life.

• Short story

								

be high-toned work, but work's WORK anyhow you can fix it; and the only
difference I kin see is in the work that a man does squarely, and the
work that he shirks."

"But," said Reddy hurriedly, "there's a mistake. I came here only to"--

"Work like the others, I understand. Well, you see you CAN'T. You do
your best, I know. I ain't findin' fault, but it ain't in your line.
THIS is, and the pay is better."

"But," stammered Reddy, "Miss Woodridge didn't understand"--

"Yes, she did," returned Woodridge impatiently, "and she told me. She
says she'll show you round at first. You'll catch on all right. Sit down
and eat your breakfast, and she'll be along before you're through.
Ez for ME, I must get up and get. So long!" and before Reddy had an
opportunity to continue his protest, he turned away.

The young man glanced vexatiously around him. A breakfast much better in
service and quality than the one he had been accustomed to smoked on the
table. There was no one else in the room. He could hear the voices of
the Chinese waiters in the kitchen beyond. He was healthily hungry,
and after a moment's hesitation sat down and began his meal. He could
expostulate with her afterward, and withdraw his promise. He was
entitled to his breakfast, anyway!

Once or twice, while thus engaged, he heard the door of the kitchen
open and the clipping tread of the Chinese waiters, who deposited some
rattling burden on the adjacent tables, but he thought it prudent not
to seem to notice them. When he had finished, the pleasant, hesitating,
boyish contralto of Miss Woodridge fell upon his ear.

"When you're ready, I'll show you how to begin your work."

He turned quickly, with a flush of mortification at being discovered
at his repast, and his anger returned. But as his eyes fell upon
her delicately colored but tranquil face, her well-shaped figure,
coquettishly and spotlessly cuffed, collared, and aproned, and her clear
blue but half-averted eyes, he again underwent a change. She certainly
was very pretty--that most seductive prettiness which seemed to be
warmed into life by her consciousness of himself. Why should he take her
or himself so seriously? Why not play out the farce, and let those
who would criticise him and think his acceptance of the work degrading
understand that it was only an affair of gallantry. He could afford
to serve Woodridge at least a few weeks for the favor of this Rachel!
Forgetful of his rebuff of the night before, he fixed his brown eyes on
hers with an audacious levity.

"Oh yes--the work! Let us see it. I'm ready in name and nature for
anything that Miss Woodridge wants of me. I'm just dying to begin."

His voice was raised slightly, with a high comedy jauntiness, for
the benefit of the Chinese waiters who might be lingering to see the
"Mellican man" assume their functions. But it failed in effect. With
their characteristic calm acceptance of any eccentricity in a "foreign
devil," they scarcely lifted their eyes. The young girl pointed to
a deep basket filled with dishes which had been placed on the larger
table, and said, without looking at Reddy:--

"You had better begin by 'checking' the crockery. That is, counting the
pieces separately and then arranging them in sets as they come back from
washing. There's the book to compare them with and to set down what is
broken, missing, or chipped. You'll have a clean towel with you to wipe
the pieces that have not been cleaned enough; or, if they are too dirty,
you'll send them back to the kitchen."

"Couldn't I wash them myself?" said Reddy, continuing his ostentatious
levity.

"Not yet," said the girl, with grave hesitation; "you'd break them."

She stood watching him, as with affected hilarity he began to take the
dishes from the basket. But she noticed that in spite of this jocular
simulation his grasp was firm and delicate, and that there was no
clatter--which would have affected her sensitive ear--as he put them
down. She laid a pencil and account book beside him and turned away.

"But you are not going?" he said, in genuine surprise.

"Yes," she said quietly, "until you get through 'checking.' Then I'll
come back and show you what you have to do next. You're getting on very
well."

"But that was because you were with me."

She colored slightly and, without looking at him, moved slowly to the
door and disappeared.

Reddy went back to his work, disappointed but not discomfited. He was
getting accustomed to the girl's eccentricities. Whether it was the
freshness of the morning air and sunlight streaming in at the open
windows, the unlooked-for solitude and security of the empty room, or
that there was nothing really unpleasant in his occupation, he went on
cheerfully "checking" the dishes, narrowly examining them for chips and
cracks, and noting them in the book. Again discovering that a few were
imperfectly cleaned and wiped, he repaired the defect with cold water
and a towel without the least thought of the operation being degrading.
He had finished his task in half an hour; she had not returned; why
should he not go on and set the table? As he straightened and turned the
coarse table-cloth, he made the discovery that the long table was
really composed of half a dozen smaller ones, and that the hideous
parallelogram which had always so offended him was merely the outcome of
carelessness and want of taste. Without a moment's hesitation he set
at work to break up the monotonous line and rearranged the tables
laterally, with small open spaces between them. The task was no light
one, even for a stronger man, but he persevered in it with a new-found
energy until he had changed the whole aspect of the room. It looked
larger, wider, and less crowded; its hard practical, workhouse-like
formality had disappeared. He had paused to survey it, panting still
with his unusual exertion, when a voice broke upon his solitude.

"Well, I wanter know!"

The voice was not Nelly's, but that of her mother,--a large-boned,
angular woman of fifty,--who had entered the room unperceived. The
accents were simply those of surprise, but on James Reddy's present
sensitive mood, coupled with the feeling that here was a new witness
to his degradation, he might have resented it; but he detected the
handsome, reserved figure of the daughter a few steps behind her. Their
eyes met; wonderful to relate, the young girl's no longer evaded him,
but looked squarely into his with a bright expression of pleasure he
had not seen before. He checked himself with a sudden thrill of
gratification.

"Well, I declare," continued Mrs. Woodridge; "is that YOUR idea--or
yours, Helen?"

Here Reddy simply pointed out the advantages for serving afforded by the
new arrangement; that all the tables were equally and quickly accessible
from the serving-table and sideboard, and that it was no longer
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