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+Project Gutenberg's Sailor's Knots (Entire Collection), by W.W. Jacobs
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost
+no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use
+it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
+eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Sailor's Knots (Entire Collection)
+
+Author: W.W. Jacobs
+
+Release Date: October 29, 2006 [EBook #10793]
+Last Updated: November 14, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAILOR'S KNOTS (ENTIRE
+COLLECTION) ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+SAILORS' KNOTS
+
+
+By W.W. Jacobs
+
+
+
+1909
+
+
+
+title (50K)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+DESERTED
+
+HOMEWARD BOUND
+
+SELF-HELP
+
+SENTENCE DEFERRED
+
+“MATRIMONIAL OPENINGS”
+
+ODD MAN OUT
+
+“THE TOLL-HOUSE”
+
+PETER'S PENCE
+
+THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY
+
+PRIZE MONEY
+
+DOUBLE DEALING
+
+KEEPING UP APPEARANCES
+
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+
+He Seemed to Take a Fancy To Rupert from the Fust.
+
+An Elderly Old Party Wot Would Keep Jabbing 'im in The Ribs With Her
+Umbrella.
+
+“Back!” Ses Rupert in a Whisper, Pointing.
+
+She Stood Blocking up the Doorway With Her 'ands on Her 'ips.
+
+Taking One of the Vases from The Mantelpiece, he Dashed It To Pieces on
+the Fender.
+
+“I Called About the Bill in The Window.”
+
+“'I—i Thought I Smelled Something Cooking,' he Said.”
+
+“'K-k-k-kch! K-kch!' he Said, Explosively.”
+
+“''E Comes Along and Hits You over Your Tenderest Corn With a Oar.'”
+
+“Mr. Cubbins Winked at 'im and Tapped 'is Nose.”
+
+“Let Drive With All his Might in 'is Face. “
+
+“'Wot on Earth's the Matter, Ginger?'”
+
+“An Elderly Man With a Wooden Leg, Who Joined The Indignant Officer in
+the Pursuit.”
+
+“He Was Administering First Aid to a Right Leg.”
+
+“She Took up a Handful of Coal-dust And, Ordering Him To Stoop,
+Shampooed Him With Hearty Good-will.”
+
+“Give This to the Skipper, Will You, My Lad?” Said The Sergeant.
+
+“Miss Dowson, Subsiding in Her Chair, Went on With Her Book.”
+
+“I Just Came in to Tell You a Joke.”
+
+“He Edged his Chair a Little Nearer to Flora.”
+
+“Mr. Foss Bade Them Good-night Suddenly.”
+
+“She Muttered Some Strange Words and Bent Her Head Lower Over the Girl's
+Hand.”
+
+“Friendship, he Said, Decidedly, is a Deloosion and A Snare.”
+
+“When They Turned up They Found Emma and 'er Friend Waiting for Them.”
+
+“He Put his Arm Round Mrs. Jennings's Waist and Made 'er Dance to a
+Piano-organ.”
+
+“He Was Running Down the Road Without 'is Hat As Hard As He Could Run.”
+
+“I'm a Poor Man, But I Wouldn't Spend the Night in That House for a
+Hundred Pounds.”
+
+“They Saw the Gates of The House Before Them.”
+
+“Barnes, Stood Peering at the Sleepers in Silence And Dropping Tallow
+over the Floor.”
+
+“Into a Vast Bare Kitchen With Damp Walls and A Broken Floor.”
+
+“All Three Stood Gazing at the Dead Man Below.”
+
+“Put a Bishop in My Clothes, and You'd Ask 'im to 'ave A 'arf-pint As
+Soon As You Would Me.”
+
+“Mr. Goodman Came in a Four-wheel Cab With A Big Bag and A Fat
+Umbrella.”
+
+“'It Aint So 'orrid As I 'ad Fancied.' Ses Sam.”
+
+“He Reached Acrost the Table and Shook 'ands With Peter.”
+
+“After Some Years Spent in Long Voyages”
+
+“Then and There Mr. Letts's Mind Was Made Up.
+
+“A Disagreeable-looking Man Was Eying Them in Some Astonishment from the
+Doorway.”
+
+“What's Mine is Mother's.”
+
+“The Sign of the Cauliflower Was Stiff With Snow.”
+
+“He's Won It!” he Ses, in a Choky Voice. “it's Number 1.”
+
+“The Door Opened and Henery Walker Came Staggering In.”
+
+“'Where's Henery Walker?' he Ses, in a Loud Voice.”
+
+“Stood on the Spacious Common, Inhaling The Salt Smell Of The Sea
+Below.”
+
+“An Elderly Boatman, Who, After Looking at Him Hard, Took His Pipe from
+his Mouth and Bade Him 'good-evening.'”
+
+“She Piled Mr. Carter's Plate up So Generously That Her Father and
+Brother Had Ample Time at Their Disposal to Watch Him Eat.”
+
+“A Gentleman of Middle Age Was Peeping Round the Door.”
+
+“Superstitiousness is Right and Proper, to a Certain Extent.”
+
+“Silas Was Very Perlite at Fust.”
+
+“She Saw Silas Winch Standing at the Foot of The Bed.”
+
+“With Tears in his Eyes 'e Emptied a Little Barrel O' Beer Down the
+Sink.”
+
+“Other wimmen 'as to be satisfied looking at new 'ats.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+DESERTED
+
+“Sailormen ain't wot you might call dandyfied as a rule,” said the
+night-watchman, who had just had a passage of arms with a lighterman and
+been advised to let somebody else wash him and make a good job of it;
+“they've got too much sense. They leave dressing up and making eyesores
+of theirselves to men wot 'ave never smelt salt water; men wot drift up
+and down the river in lighters and get in everybody's way.”
+
+He glanced fiercely at the retreating figure of the lighterman, and,
+turning a deaf ear to a request for a lock of his hair to patch a
+favorite doormat with, resumed with much vigor his task of sweeping up
+the litter.
+
+The most dressy sailorman I ever knew, he continued, as he stood the
+broom up in a corner and seated himself on a keg, was a young feller
+named Rupert Brown. His mother gave 'im the name of Rupert while his
+father was away at sea, and when he came 'ome it was too late to alter
+it. All that a man could do he did do, and Mrs. Brown 'ad a black eye
+till 'e went to sea agin. She was a very obstinate woman, though—like
+most of 'em—and a little over a year arterwards got pore old Brown three
+months' hard by naming 'er next boy Roderick Alfonso.
+
+Young Rupert was on a barge when I knew 'im fust, but he got tired
+of always 'aving dirty hands arter a time, and went and enlisted as a
+soldier. I lost sight of 'im for a while, and then one evening he turned
+up on furlough and come to see me.
+
+O' course, by this time 'e was tired of soldiering, but wot upset 'im
+more than anything was always 'aving to be dressed the same and not
+being able to wear a collar and neck-tie. He said that if it wasn't for
+the sake of good old England, and the chance o' getting six months, he'd
+desert. I tried to give 'im good advice, and, if I'd only known 'ow I
+was to be dragged into it, I'd ha' given 'im a lot more.
+
+As it 'appened he deserted the very next arternoon. He was in the Three
+Widders at Aldgate, in the saloon bar—which is a place where you get
+a penn'orth of ale in a glass and pay twopence for it—and, arter being
+told by the barmaid that she had got one monkey at 'ome, he got into
+conversation with another man wot was in there.
+
+He was a big man with a black moustache and a red face, and 'is fingers
+all smothered in di'mond rings. He 'ad got on a gold watch-chain as
+thick as a rope, and a scarf-pin the size of a large walnut, and he had
+'ad a few words with the barmaid on 'is own account. He seemed to take
+a fancy to Rupert from the fust, and in a few minutes he 'ad given 'im a
+big cigar out of a sealskin case and ordered 'im a glass of sherry wine.
+
+He Seemed to Take a Fancy To Rupert from the Fust.
+
+“Have you ever thought o' going on the stage?” he ses, arter Rupert 'ad
+told 'im of his dislike for the Army.
+
+“No,” ses Rupert, staring.
+
+“You s'prise me,” ses the big man; “you're wasting of your life by not
+doing so.”
+
+“But I can't act,” ses Rupert.
+
+“Stuff and nonsense!” ses the big man. “Don't tell me. You've got an
+actor's face. I'm a manager myself, and I know. I don't mind telling you
+that I refused twenty-three men and forty-eight ladies only yesterday.”
+
+“I wonder you don't drop down dead,” ses the barmaid, lifting up 'is
+glass to wipe down the counter.
+
+The manager looked at her, and, arter she 'ad gone to talk to a
+gentleman in the next bar wot was knocking double knocks on the counter
+with a pint pot, he whispered to Rupert that she 'ad been one of them.
+
+“She can't act a bit,” he ses. “Now, look 'ere; I'm a business man and
+my time is valuable. I don't know nothing, and I don't want to know
+nothing; but, if a nice young feller, like yourself, for example, was
+tired of the Army and wanted to escape, I've got one part left in my
+company that 'ud suit 'im down to the ground.”
+
+“Wot about being reckernized?” ses Rupert.
+
+The manager winked at 'im. “It's the part of a Zulu chief,” he ses, in a
+whisper.
+
+Rupert started. “But I should 'ave to black my face,” he ses.
+
+“A little,” ses the manager; “but you'd soon get on to better parts—and
+see wot a fine disguise it is.”
+
+He stood 'im two more glasses o' sherry wine, and, arter he' ad drunk
+'em, Rupert gave way. The manager patted 'im on the back, and said that
+if he wasn't earning fifty pounds a week in a year's time he'd eat his
+'ead; and the barmaid, wot 'ad come back agin, said it was the best
+thing he could do with it, and she wondered he 'adn't thought of it
+afore.
+
+They went out separate, as the manager said it would be better for them
+not to be seen together, and Rupert, keeping about a dozen yards behind,
+follered 'im down the Mile End Road. By and by the manager stopped
+outside a shop-window wot 'ad been boarded up and stuck all over with
+savages dancing and killing white people and hunting elephants, and,
+arter turning round and giving Rupert a nod, opened the door with a key
+and went inside.
+
+“That's all right,” he ses, as Rupert follered 'im in. “This is my wife,
+Mrs. Alfredi,” he ses, introducing 'im to a fat, red-'aired lady wot was
+sitting inside sewing. “She has performed before all the crowned 'eads
+of Europe. That di'mond brooch she's wearing was a present from the
+Emperor of Germany, but, being a married man, he asked 'er to keep it
+quiet.”
+
+Rupert shook 'ands with Mrs. Alfredi, and then her 'usband led 'im to
+a room at the back, where a little lame man was cleaning up things, and
+told 'im to take his clothes off.
+
+“If they was mine,” he ses, squinting at the fire-place, “I should know
+wot to do with 'em.”
+
+Rupert laughed and slapped 'im on the back, and, arter cutting his
+uniform into pieces, stuffed it into the fireplace and pulled the
+dampers out. He burnt up 'is boots and socks and everything else, and
+they all three laughed as though it was the best joke in the world. Then
+Mr. Alfredi took his coat off and, dipping a piece of rag into a basin
+of stuff wot George 'ad fetched, did Rupert a lovely brown all over.
+
+“That's the fust coat,” he ses. “Now take a stool in front of the fire
+and let it soak in.”
+
+He gave 'im another coat arf an hour arterwards, while George curled his
+'air, and when 'e was dressed in bracelets round 'is ankles and wrists,
+and a leopard-skin over his shoulder, he was as fine a Zulu as you could
+wish for to see. His lips was naturally thick and his nose flat, and
+even his eyes 'appened to be about the right color.
+
+“He's a fair perfect treat,” ses Mr. Alfredi. “Fetch Kumbo in, George.”
+
+The little man went out, and came back agin shoving in a fat, stumpy
+Zulu woman wot began to grin and chatter like a poll-parrot the moment
+she saw Rupert.
+
+“It's all right,” ses Mr. Alfredi; “she's took a fancy to you.”
+
+“Is—is she an actress?” ses Rupert.
+
+“One o' the best,” ses the manager. “She'll teach you to dance and shy
+assegais. Pore thing! she buried her 'usband the day afore we come here,
+but you'll be surprised to see 'ow skittish she can be when she has got
+over it a bit.”
+
+They sat there while Rupert practised—till he started shying the
+assegais, that is—and then they went out and left 'im with Kumbo.
+Considering that she 'ad only just buried her 'usband, Rupert found her
+quite skittish enough, and he couldn't 'elp wondering wot she'd be like
+when she'd got over her grief a bit more.
+
+The manager and George said he 'ad got on wonderfully, and arter talking
+it over with Mrs. Alfredi they decided to open that evening, and pore
+Rupert found out that the shop was the theatre, and all the acting he'd
+got to do was to dance war-dances and sing in Zulu to people wot had
+paid a penny a 'ead. He was a bit nervous at fust, for fear anybody
+should find out that 'e wasn't a real Zulu, because the manager said
+they'd tear 'im to pieces if they did, and eat 'im arterwards, but arter
+a time 'is nervousness wore off and he jumped about like a monkey.
+
+They gave performances every arf hour from ha'-past six to ten, and
+Rupert felt ready to drop. His feet was sore with dancing and his throat
+ached with singing Zulu, but wot upset 'im more than anything was
+an elderly old party wot would keep jabbing 'im in the ribs with her
+umbrella to see whether he could laugh.
+
+An Elderly Old Party Wot Would Keep Jabbing 'im in The Ribs With Her
+Umbrella.
+
+They 'ad supper arter they 'ad closed, and then Mr. Alfredi and 'is wife
+went off, and Rupert and George made up beds for themselves in the shop,
+while Kumbo 'ad a little place to herself at the back.
+
+He did better than ever next night, and they all said he was improving
+fast; and Mr. Alfredi told 'im in a whisper that he thought he was
+better at it than Kumbo. “Not that I should mind 'er knowing much,” he
+ses, “seeing that she's took such a fancy to you.”
+
+“Ah, I was going to speak to you about that,” ses Rupert. “Forwardness
+is no name for it; if she don't keep 'erself to 'erself, I shall chuck
+the whole thing up.”
+
+The manager coughed behind his 'and. “And go back to the Army?” he ses.
+“Well, I should be sorry to lose you, but I won't stand in your way.”
+
+Mrs. Alfredi, wot was standing by, stuffed her pocket-'ankercher in 'er
+mouth, and Rupert began to feel a bit uneasy in his mind.
+
+“If I did,” he ses, “you'd get into trouble for 'elping me to desert.”
+
+“Desert!” ses Mr. Alfredi. “I don't know anything about your deserting.”
+
+“Ho!” ses Rupert. “And wot about my uniform?”
+
+“Uniform?” ses Mr. Alfredi. “Wot uniform? I ain't seen no uniform. Where
+is it?”
+
+Rupert didn't answer 'im, but arter they 'ad gone 'ome he told George
+that he 'ad 'ad enough of acting and he should go.
+
+“Where to?” ses George.
+
+“I'll find somewhere,” ses Rupert. “I sha'n't starve.”
+
+“You might ketch your death o' cold, though,” ses George.
+
+Rupert said he didn't mind, and then he shut 'is eyes and pretended to
+be asleep. His idea was to wait till George was asleep and then pinch
+'is clothes; consequently 'is feelings when 'e opened one eye and saw
+George getting into bed with 'is clothes on won't bear thinking about.
+He laid awake for hours, and three times that night George, who was a
+very heavy sleeper, woke up and found Rupert busy tucking him in.
+
+By the end of the week Rupert was getting desperate. He hated being
+black for one thing, and the more he washed the better color he looked.
+He didn't mind the black for out o' doors, in case the Army was looking
+for 'im, but 'aving no clothes he couldn't get out o' doors; and when he
+said he wouldn't perform unless he got some, Mr. Alfredi dropped 'ints
+about having 'im took up for a deserter.
+
+“I've 'ad my suspicions of it for some days,” he ses, with a wink,
+“though you did come to me in a nice serge suit and tell me you was an
+actor. Now, you be a good boy for another week and I'll advance you a
+couple o' pounds to get some clothes with.”
+
+Rupert asked him to let 'im have it then, but 'e wouldn't, and for
+another week he 'ad to pretend 'e was a Zulu of an evening, and try and
+persuade Kumbo that he was an English gentleman of a daytime.
+
+He got the money at the end of the week and 'ad to sign a paper to give
+a month's notice any time he wanted to leave, but he didn't mind that at
+all, being determined the fust time he got outside the place to run away
+and ship as a nigger cook if 'e couldn't get the black off.
+
+He made a list o' things out for George to get for 'im, but there seemed
+to be such a lot for two pounds that Mr. Alfredi shook his 'ead over it;
+and arter calling 'imself a soft-'arted fool, and saying he'd finish up
+in the workhouse, he made it three pounds and told George to look sharp.
+
+“He's a very good marketer,” he ses, arter George 'ad gone; “he don't
+mind wot trouble he takes. He'll very likely haggle for hours to get
+sixpence knocked off the trousers or twopence off the shirt.”
+
+It was twelve o'clock in the morning when George went, and at ha'-past
+four Rupert turned nasty, and said 'e was afraid he was trying to get
+them for nothing. At five o'clock he said George was a fool, and at
+ha'-past he said 'e was something I won't repeat.
+
+It was just eleven o'clock, and they 'ad shut up for the night, when the
+front door opened, and George stood there smiling at 'em and shaking his
+'ead.
+
+“Sush a lark,” he ses, catching 'old of Mr. Alfredi's arm to steady
+'imself. “I gave 'im shlip.”
+
+“Wot d'ye mean?” ses the manager, shaking him off. “Gave who the slip?
+Where's them clothes?”
+
+“Boy's got 'em,” ses George, smiling agin and catching hold of Kumbo's
+arm. “Sush a lark; he's been car-carrying 'em all day—all day. Now I've
+given 'im the—the shlip, 'stead o'—'stead o' giving 'im fourpence. Take
+care o' the pensh, an' pouns—”
+
+He let go o' Kumbo's arm, turned round twice, and then sat down 'eavy
+and fell fast asleep. The manager rushed to the door and looked out, but
+there was no signs of the boy, and he came back shaking his 'ead, and
+said that George 'ad been drinking agin.
+
+“Well, wot about my clothes?” ses Rupert, hardly able to speak.
+
+“P'r'aps he didn't buy 'em arter all,” ses the manager. “Let's try 'is
+pockets.”
+
+He tried fust, and found some strawberries that George 'ad spoilt by
+sitting on. Then he told Rupert to have a try, and Rupert found some
+bits of string, a few buttons, two penny stamps, and twopence ha'penny
+in coppers.
+
+“Never mind,” ses Mr. Alfredi; “I'll go round to the police-station in
+the morning; p'r'aps the boy 'as taken them there. I'm disapp'inted in
+George. I shall tell 'im so, too.”
+
+He bid Rupert good-night and went off with Mrs. Alfredi; and Rupert,
+wishful to make the best o' things, decided that he would undress George
+and go off in 'is clothes. He waited till Kumbo 'ad gone off to bed, and
+then he started to take George's coat off. He got the two top buttons
+undone all right, and then George turned over in 'is sleep. It surprised
+Rupert, but wot surprised 'im more when he rolled George over was to
+find them two buttons done up agin. Arter it had 'appened three times he
+see 'ow it was, and he come to the belief that George was no more drunk
+than wot he was, and that it was all a put-up thing between 'im and Mr.
+Alfredi.
+
+He went to bed then to think it over, and by the morning he 'ad made
+up his mind to keep quiet and bide his time, as the saying is. He spoke
+quite cheerful to Mr. Alfredi, and pretended to believe 'im when he said
+that he 'ad been to the police-station about the clothes.
+
+Two days arterwards he thought of something; he remembered me. He 'ad
+found a dirty old envelope on the floor, and with a bit o' lead pencil
+he wrote me a letter on the back of one o' the bills, telling me all his
+troubles, and asking me to bring some clothes and rescue 'im. He stuck
+on one of the stamps he 'ad found in George's pocket, and opening the
+door just afore going to bed threw it out on the pavement.
+
+The world is full of officious, interfering busy-bodies. I should no
+more think of posting a letter that didn't belong to me, with an unused
+stamp on it, than I should think o' flying; but some meddle-some son of
+a ——a gun posted that letter and I got it.
+
+I was never more surprised in my life. He asked me to be outside the
+shop next night at ha'-past eleven with any old clothes I could pick up.
+If I didn't, he said he should 'ang 'imself as the clock struck twelve,
+and that his ghost would sit on the wharf and keep watch with me every
+night for the rest o' my life. He said he expected it 'ud have a black
+face, same as in life.
+
+A wharf is a lonely place of a night; especially our wharf, which is
+full of dark corners, and, being a silly, good-natured fool, I went.
+I got a pal off of one of the boats to keep watch for me, and, arter
+getting some old rags off of another sailorman as owed me arf a dollar,
+I 'ad a drink and started off for the Mile End Road.
+
+I found the place easy enough. The door was just on the jar, and as I
+tapped on it with my finger-nails a wild-looking black man, arf naked,
+opened it and said “H'sh!” and pulled me inside. There was a bit o'
+candle on the floor, shaded by a box, and a man fast asleep and snoring
+up in one corner. Rupert dressed like lightning, and he 'ad just put on
+'is cap when the door at the back opened and a 'orrid fat black woman
+came out and began to chatter.
+
+Rupert told her to hush, and she 'ushed, and then he waved 'is hand to
+'er to say “good-bye,” and afore you could say Jack Robinson she 'ad
+grabbed up a bit o' dirty blanket, a bundle of assegais, and a spear,
+and come out arter us.
+
+“Back!” ses Rupert in a whisper, pointing.
+
+'Back!' Ses Rupert in a Whisper, Pointing.
+
+Kumbo shook her 'ead, and then he took hold of 'er and tried to shove
+'er back, but she wouldn't go. I lent him a 'and, but all wimmen are the
+same, black or white, and afore I knew where I was she 'ad clawed my cap
+off and scratched me all down one side of the face.
+
+“Walk fast,” ses Rupert.
+
+I started to run, but it was all no good; Kumbo kept up with us easy,
+and she was so pleased at being out in the open air that she began
+to dance and play about like a kitten. Instead o' minding their own
+business people turned and follered us, and quite a crowd collected.
+
+“We shall 'ave the police in a minute,” ses Rupert. “Come in 'ere—
+quick.”
+
+He pointed to a pub up a side street, and went in with Kumbo holding on
+to his arm. The barman was for sending us out at fust, but such a crowd
+follered us in that he altered 'is mind. I ordered three pints, and,
+while I was 'anding Rupert his, Kumbo finished 'ers and began on mine.
+I tried to explain, but she held on to it like grim death, and in the
+confusion Rupert slipped out.
+
+He 'adn't been gone five seconds afore she missed 'im, and I never see
+anybody so upset in all my life. She spilt the beer all down the place
+where 'er bodice ought to ha' been, and then she dropped the pot and
+went arter 'im like a hare. I follered in a different way, and when I
+got round the corner I found she 'ad caught 'im and was holding 'im by
+the arm.
+
+O' course, the crowd was round us agin, and to get rid of 'em I did a
+thing I'd seldom done afore—I called a cab, and we all bundled in and
+drove off to the wharf, with the spear sticking out o' the window, and
+most of the assegais sticking into me.
+
+“This is getting serious,” ses Rupert.
+
+“Yes,” I ses; “and wot 'ave I done to be dragged into it? You must ha'
+been paying 'er some attention to make 'er carry on like this.”
+
+I thought Rupert would ha' bust, and the things he said to the man wot
+was spending money like water to rescue 'im was disgraceful.
+
+We got to the wharf at last, and I was glad to see that my pal 'ad got
+tired of night-watching and 'ad gone off, leaving the gate open. Kumbo
+went in 'anging on to Rupert's arm, and I follered with the spear, which
+I 'ad held in my 'and while I paid the cabman.
+
+They went into the office, and Rupert and me talked it over while Kumbo
+kept patting 'is cheek. He was afraid that the manager would track 'im
+to the wharf, and I was afraid that the guv'nor would find out that I
+'ad been neglecting my dooty, for the fust time in my life.
+
+We talked all night pretty near, and then, at ha'-past five, arf an hour
+afore the 'ands came on, I made up my mind to fetch a cab and drive 'em
+to my 'ouse. I wanted Rupert to go somewhere else, but 'e said he 'ad
+got nowhere else to go, and it was the only thing to get 'em off the
+wharf. I opened the gates at ten minutes to six, and just as the fust
+man come on and walked down the wharf we slipped in and drove away.
+
+We was all tired and yawning. There's something about the motion of a
+cab or an omnibus that always makes me feel sleepy, and arter a time I
+closed my eyes and went off sound. I remember I was dreaming that I 'ad
+found a bag o' money, when the cab pulled up with a jerk in front of my
+'ouse and woke me up. Opposite me sat Kumbo fast asleep, and Rupert 'ad
+disappeared!
+
+I was dazed for a moment, and afore I could do anything Kumbo woke up
+and missed Rupert. Wot made matters worse than anything was that my
+missis was kneeling down in the passage doing 'er door-step, and 'er
+face, as I got down out o' that cab with Kumbo 'anging on to my arm was
+something too awful for words. It seemed to rise up slow-like from near
+the door-step, and to go on rising till I thought it 'ud never stop. And
+every inch it rose it got worse and worse to look at.
+
+She Stood Blocking up the Doorway With Her 'ands on Her 'ips.
+
+She stood blocking up the doorway with her 'ands on her 'ips, while I
+explained, with Kumbo still 'anging on my arm and a crowd collecting
+behind, and the more I explained, the more I could see she didn't
+believe a word of it.
+
+She never 'as believed it. I sent for Mr. Alfredi to come and take Kumbo
+away, and when I spoke to 'im about Rupert he said I was dreaming, and
+asked me whether I wasn't ashamed o' myself for carrying off a pore
+black gal wot 'ad got no father or mother to look arter her. He said
+that afore my missis, and my character 'as been under a cloud ever
+since, waiting for Rupert to turn up and clear it away.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+HOMEWARD BOUND
+
+Mr. Hatchard's conversation for nearly a week had been confined to
+fault-finding and grunts, a system of treatment designed to wean Mrs.
+Hatchard from her besetting sin of extravagance. On other occasions the
+treatment had, for short periods, proved successful, but it was quite
+evident that his wife's constitution was becoming inured to this physic
+and required a change of treatment. The evidence stared at him from
+the mantelpiece in the shape of a pair of huge pink vases, which had
+certainly not been there when he left in the morning. He looked at them
+and breathed heavily.
+
+“Pretty, ain't they?” said his wife, nodding at them.
+
+“Who gave 'em to you?” inquired Mr. Hatchard, sternly.
+
+His wife shook her head. “You don't get vases like that given to you,”
+she said, slowly. “Leastways, I don't.”
+
+“Do you mean to say you bought 'em?” demanded her husband.
+
+Mrs. Hatchard nodded.
+
+“After all I said to you about wasting my money?” persisted Mr.
+Hatchard, in amazed accents.
+
+Mrs. Hatchard nodded, more brightly than before.
+
+“There has got to be an end to this!” said her husband, desperately. “I
+won't have it! D'ye hear? I won't—have—it!”
+
+“I bought 'em with my own money,” said his wife, tossing her head.
+
+“Your money?” said Mr. Hatchard. “To hear you talk anybody 'ud think
+you'd got three hundred a year, instead o' thirty. Your money ought to
+be spent in useful things, same as what mine is. Why should I spend
+my money keeping you, while you waste yours on pink vases and having
+friends in to tea?”
+
+Mrs. Hatchard's still comely face took on a deeper tinge.
+
+“Keeping me?” she said, sharply. “You'd better stop before you say
+anything you might be sorry for, Alfred.”
+
+“I should have to talk a long time before I said that,” retorted the
+other.
+
+“I'm not so sure,” said his wife. “I'm beginning to be tired of it.”
+
+“I've reasoned with you,” continued Mr. Hatchard, “I've argued with
+you, and I've pointed out the error of your ways to you, and it's all no
+good.”
+
+“Oh, be quiet, and don't talk nonsense,” said his wife.
+
+“Talking,” continued Mr. Hatchard, “as I said before, is no good. Deeds,
+not words, is what is wanted.”
+
+He rose suddenly from his chair and, taking one of the vases from the
+mantelpiece, dashed it to pieces on the fender. Example is contagious,
+and two seconds later he was in his chair again, softly feeling a
+rapidly growing bump on his head, and gazing goggle-eyed at his wife.
+
+Taking One of the Vases from The Mantelpiece, he Dashed It To Pieces on
+the Fender.
+
+“And I'd do it again,” said that lady, breathlessly, “if there was
+another vase.”
+
+Mr. Hatchard opened his mouth, but speech failed him. He got up and left
+the room without a word, and, making his way to the scullery, turned
+on the tap and held his head beneath it. A sharp intake of the breath
+announced that a tributary stream was looking for the bump down the neck
+of his shirt.
+
+He was away a long time—so long that the half-penitent Mrs. Hatchard was
+beginning to think of giving first aid to the wounded. Then she heard
+him coming slowly back along the passage. He entered the room, drying
+his wet hair on a hand-kerchief.
+
+“I—I hope I didn't hurt you—much?” said his wife.
+
+Mr. Hatchard drew himself up and regarded her with lofty indignation.
+
+“You might have killed me,” he said at last, in thrilling tones. “Then
+what would you have done?”
+
+“Swept up the pieces, and said you came home injured and died in my
+arms,” said Mrs. Hatchard, glibly. “I don't want to be unfeeling, but
+you'd try the temper of a saint. I'm sure I wonder I haven't done it
+before. Why I married a stingy man I don't know.”
+
+“Why I married at all I don't know,” said her husband, in a deep voice.
+
+“We were both fools,” said Mrs. Hatchard, in a resigned voice; “that's
+what it was. However, it can't be helped now.”
+
+“Some men would go and leave you,” said Mr. Hatchard.
+
+“Well, go,” said his wife, bridling. “I don't want you.”
+
+“Don't talk nonsense,” said the other.
+
+“It ain't nonsense,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “If you want to go, go. I don't
+want to keep you.”
+
+“I only wish I could,” said her husband, wistfully.
+
+“There's the door,” said Mrs. Hatchard, pointing. “What's to prevent
+you?”
+
+“And have you going to the magistrate?” observed Mr. Hatchard.
+
+“Not me,” was the reply.
+
+“Or coming up, full of complaints, to the ware-house?”
+
+“Not me,” said his wife again.
+
+“It makes my mouth water to think of it,” said Mr. Hatchard. “Four years
+ago I hadn't a care in the world.”
+
+“Me neither,” said Mrs. Hatchard; “but then I never thought I should
+marry you. I remember the first time I saw you I had to stuff my
+handkerchief in my mouth.”
+
+“What for?” inquired Mr. Hatchard.
+
+“Keep from laughing,” was the reply.
+
+“You took care not to let me see you laugh,” said Mr. Hatchard, grimly.
+“You were polite enough in them days. I only wish I could have my time
+over again; that's all.”
+
+“You can go, as I said before,” said his wife.
+
+“I'd go this minute,” said Mr. Hatchard, “but I know what it 'ud be:
+in three or four days you'd be coming and begging me to take you back
+again.”
+
+“You try me,” said Mrs. Hatchard, with a hard laugh. “I can keep myself.
+You leave me the furniture—most of it is mine—and I sha'n't worry you
+again.”
+
+“Mind!” said Mr. Hatchard, raising his hand with great solemnity. “If I
+go, I never come back again.”
+
+“I'll take care of that,” said his wife, equably. “You are far more
+likely to ask to come back than I am.”
+
+Mr. Hatchard stood for some time in deep thought, and then, spurred on
+by a short, contemptuous laugh from his wife, went to the small passage
+and, putting on his overcoat and hat, stood in the parlor doorway
+regarding her.
+
+“I've a good mind to take you at your word,” he said, at last.
+
+“Good-night,” said his wife, briskly. “If you send me your address, I'll
+send your things on to you. There's no need for you to call about them.”
+
+Hardly realizing the seriousness of the step, Mr. Hatchard closed the
+front door behind him with a bang, and then discovered that it was
+raining. Too proud to return for his umbrella, he turned up his
+coat-collar and, thrusting his hands in his pockets, walked slowly down
+the desolate little street. By the time he had walked a dozen yards
+he began to think that he might as well have waited until the morning;
+before he had walked fifty he was certain of it.
+
+He passed the night at a coffee-house, and rose so early in the morning
+that the proprietor took it as a personal affront, and advised him to
+get his breakfast elsewhere. It was the longest day in Mr. Hatchard's
+experience, and, securing modest lodgings that evening, he overslept
+himself and was late at the warehouse next morning for the first time in
+ten years.
+
+His personal effects arrived next day, but no letter came from his wife,
+and one which he wrote concerning a pair of missing garments received no
+reply. He wrote again, referring to them in laudatory terms, and got a
+brief reply to the effect that they had been exchanged in part payment
+on a pair of valuable pink vases, the pieces of which he could have by
+paying the carriage.
+
+In six weeks Mr. Hatchard changed his lodgings twice. A lack of those
+home comforts which he had taken as a matter of course during his
+married life was a source of much tribulation, and it was clear that
+his weekly bills were compiled by a clever writer of fiction. It was his
+first experience of lodgings, and the difficulty of saying unpleasant
+things to a woman other than his wife was not the least of his troubles.
+He changed his lodgings for a third time, and, much surprised at his
+wife's continued silence, sought out a cousin of hers named Joe Pett,
+and poured his troubles into that gentleman's reluctant ear.
+
+“If she was to ask me to take her back,” he concluded, “I'm not sure,
+mind you, that I wouldn't do so.”
+
+“It does you credit,” said Mr. Pett. “Well, ta-ta; I must be off.”
+
+“And I expect she'd be very much obliged to anybody that told her so,”
+said Mr. Hatchard, clutching at the other's sleeve.
+
+Mr. Pett, gazing into space, said that he thought it highly probable.
+
+“It wants to be done cleverly, though,” said Mr. Hatchard, “else she
+might get the idea that I wanted to go back.”
+
+“I s'pose you know she's moved?” said Mr. Pett, with the air of a man
+anxious to change the conversation.
+
+“Eh?” said the other.
+
+“Number thirty-seven, John Street,” said Mr. Pett. “Told my wife she's
+going to take in lodgers. Calling herself Mrs. Harris, after her maiden
+name.”
+
+He went off before Mr. Hatchard could recover, and the latter at once
+verified the information in part by walking round to his old house. Bits
+of straw and paper littered the front garden, the blinds were down,
+and a bill was pasted on the front parlor window. Aghast at such
+determination, he walked back to his lodgings in gloomy thought.
+
+On Saturday afternoon he walked round to John Street, and from the
+corner of his eye, as he passed, stole a glance at No. 37. He recognized
+the curtains at once, and, seeing that there was nobody in the
+room, leaned over the palings and peered at a card that stood on the
+window-sash:
+
+    FURNISHED APARTMENTS FOR SINGLE YOUNG MAN BOARD IF DESIRED.
+
+He walked away whistling, and after going a little way turned and
+passed it again. He passed in all four times, and then, with an odd grin
+lurking at the corners of his mouth, strode up to the front door and
+knocked loudly. He heard somebody moving about inside, and, more with
+the idea of keeping his courage up than anything else, gave another
+heavy knock at the door. It was thrown open hastily, and the astonished
+face of his wife appeared before him.
+
+“What do you want?” she inquired, sharply.
+
+Mr. Hatchard raised his hat. “Good-afternoon, ma'am,” he said, politely.
+
+“What do you want?” repeated his wife.
+
+“I called,” said Mr. Hatchard, clearing his throat—“I called about the
+bill in the window.”
+
+'i Called About the Bill in The Window.'
+
+Mrs. Hatchard clutched at the door-post.
+
+“Well?” she gasped.
+
+“I'd like to see the rooms,” said the other.
+
+“But you ain't a single young man,” said his wife, recovering.
+
+“I'm as good as single,” said Mr. Hatchard. “I should say, better.”
+
+“You ain't young,” objected Mrs. Hatchard. “I'm three years younger than
+what you are,” said Mr. Hatchard, dispassionately.
+
+His wife's lips tightened and her hand closed on the door; Mr. Hatchard
+put his foot in.
+
+“If you don't want lodgers, why do you put a bill up?” he inquired.
+
+“I don't take the first that comes,” said his wife.
+
+“I'll pay a week in advance,” said Mr. Hatchard, putting his hand in his
+pocket. “Of course, if you're afraid of having me here—afraid o' giving
+way to tenderness, I mean——”
+
+“Afraid?” choked Mrs. Hatchard. “Tenderness! I—I——”
+
+“Just a matter o' business,” continued her husband; “that's my way of
+looking at it—that's a man's way. I s'pose women are different. They
+can't——”
+
+“Come in,” said Mrs. Hatchard, breathing hard. Mr. Hatchard obeyed, and
+clapping a hand over his mouth ascended the stairs behind her. At the
+top she threw open the door of a tiny bedroom, and stood aside for him
+to enter. Mr. Hatchard sniffed critically.
+
+“Smells rather stuffy,” he said, at last.
+
+“You needn't have it,” said his wife, abruptly. “There's plenty of other
+fish in the sea.”
+
+“Yes; and I expect they'd stay there if they saw this room,” said the
+other.
+
+“Don't think I want you to have it; because I don't,” said Mrs.
+Hatchard, making a preliminary movement to showing him downstairs.
+
+“They might suit me,” said Mr. Hatchard, musingly, as he peeped in at
+the sitting-room door. “I shouldn't be at home much. I'm a man that's
+fond of spending his evenings out.”
+
+Mrs. Hatchard, checking a retort, eyed him grimly.
+
+“I've seen worse,” he said, slowly; “but then I've seen a good many. How
+much are you asking?”
+
+“Seven shillings a week,” replied his wife. “With breakfast, tea, and
+supper, a pound a week.”
+
+Mr. Hatchard nearly whistled, but checked himself just in time.
+
+“I'll give it a trial,” he said, with an air of unbearable patronage.
+
+Mrs. Hatchard hesitated.
+
+“If you come here, you quite understand it's on a business footing,” she
+said.
+
+“O' course,” said the other, with affected surprise. “What do you think
+I want it on?”
+
+“You come here as a stranger, and I look after you as a stranger,”
+continued his wife.
+
+“Certainly,” said the other. “I shall be made more comfortable that way,
+I'm sure. But, of course, if you're afraid, as I said before, of giving
+way to tender——”
+
+“Tender fiddlesticks!” interrupted his wife, flushing and eying him
+angrily.
+
+“I'll come in and bring my things at nine o'clock to-night,” said Mr.
+Hatchard. “I'd like the windows open and the rooms aired a bit. And what
+about the sheets?”
+
+“What about them?” inquired his wife.
+
+“Don't put me in damp sheets, that's all,” said Mr. Hatchard. “One place
+I was at——”
+
+He broke off suddenly.
+
+“Well!” said his wife, quickly.
+
+“Was very particular about them,” said Mr. Hatchard, recovering. “Well,
+good-afternoon to you, ma'am.”
+
+“I want three weeks in advance,” said his wife.
+
+“Three—” exclaimed the other. “Three weeks in advance? Why——”
+
+“Those are my terms,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “Take 'em or leave 'em.
+P'r'aps it would be better if you left 'em.”
+
+Mr. Hatchard looked thoughtful, and then with obvious reluctance took
+his purse from one pocket and some silver from another, and made up the
+required sum.
+
+“And what if I'm not comfortable here?” he inquired, as his wife hastily
+pocketed the money. “It'll be your own fault,” was the reply.
+
+Mr. Hatchard looked dubious, and, in a thoughtful fashion, walked
+downstairs and let himself out. He began to think that the joke was of
+a more complicated nature than he had expected, and it was not without
+forebodings that he came back at nine o'clock that night accompanied by
+a boy with his baggage.
+
+His gloom disappeared the moment the door opened. The air inside was
+warm and comfortable, and pervaded by an appetizing smell of cooked
+meats. Upstairs a small bright fire and a neatly laid supper-table
+awaited his arrival.
+
+He sank into an easy-chair and rubbed his hands. Then his gaze fell on a
+small bell on the table, and opening the door he rang for supper.
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Hatchard, entering the room. “Supper, please,”
+said the new lodger, with dignity.
+
+Mrs. Hatchard looked bewildered. “Well, there it is,” she said,
+indicating the table. “You don't want me to feed you, do you?”
+
+The lodger eyed the small, dry piece of cheese, the bread and butter,
+and his face fell. “I—I thought I smelled something cooking,” he said at
+last.
+
+'i—i Thought I Smelled Something Cooking,' he Said.'
+
+“Oh, that was my supper,” said Mrs. Hatchard, with a smile.
+
+“I—I'm very hungry,” said Mr. Hatchard, trying to keep his temper.
+
+“It's the cold weather, I expect,” said Mrs. Hatchard, thoughtfully;
+“it does affect some people that way, I know. Please ring if you want
+anything.”
+
+She left the room, humming blithely, and Mr. Hatchard, after sitting for
+some time in silent consternation, got up and ate his frugal meal. The
+fact that the water-jug held three pints and was filled to the brim gave
+him no satisfaction.
+
+He was still hungry when he arose next morning, and, with curiosity
+tempered by uneasiness, waited for his breakfast. Mrs. Hatchard came in
+at last, and after polite inquiries as to how he had slept proceeded to
+lay breakfast. A fresh loaf and a large teapot appeared, and the smell
+of frizzling bacon ascended from below. Then Mrs. Hatchard came in
+again, and, smiling benevolently, placed an egg before him and withdrew.
+Two minutes later he rang the bell.
+
+“You can clear away,” he said, as Mrs. Hatchard entered the room.
+
+“What, no breakfast?” she said, holding up her hands. “Well, I've heard
+of you single young men, but I never thought——”
+
+“The tea's cold and as black as ink,” growled the indignant lodger, “and
+the egg isn't eatable.”
+
+“I'm afraid you're a bit of a fault-finder,” said Mrs. Hatchard, shaking
+her head at him. “I'm sure I try my best to please. I don't mind what I
+do, but if you're not satisfied you'd better go.”
+
+“Look here, Emily—” began her husband.
+
+“Don't you 'Emily' me!” said Mrs. Hatchard, quickly. “The idea! A
+lodger, too! You know the arrangement. You'd better go, I think, if you
+can't behave yourself.”
+
+“I won't go till my three weeks are up,” said Mr. Hatchard, doggedly,
+“so you may as well behave yourself.”
+
+“I can't pamper you for a pound a week,” said Mrs. Hatchard, walking to
+the door. “If you want pampering, you had better go.”
+
+A week passed, and the additional expense caused by getting most of
+his meals out began to affect Mr. Hatchard's health. His wife, on the
+contrary, was in excellent spirits, and, coming in one day, explained
+the absence of the easy-chair by stating that it was wanted for a new
+lodger.
+
+“He's taken my other two rooms,” she said, smiling—“the little back
+parlor and the front bedroom—I'm full up now.”
+
+“Wouldn't he like my table, too?” inquired Mr. Hatchard, with bitter
+sarcasm.
+
+His wife said that she would inquire, and brought back word next day
+that Mr. Sadler, the new lodger, would like it. It disappeared during
+Mr. Hatchard's enforced absence at business, and a small bamboo table,
+weak in the joints, did duty in its stead.
+
+The new lodger, a man of middle age with a ready tongue, was a success
+from the first, and it was only too evident that Mrs. Hatchard was
+trying her best to please him. Mr. Hatchard, supping on bread and
+cheese, more than once left that wholesome meal to lean over the
+balusters and smell the hot meats going into Mr. Sadler.
+
+“You're spoiling him,” he said to Mrs. Hatchard, after the new lodger
+had been there a week. “Mark my words—he'll get above himself.”
+
+“That's my look-out,” said his wife briefly.
+
+“Don't come to me if youget into trouble, that's all,” said the other.
+
+Mrs. Hatchard laughed derisively. “You don't like him, that's what it
+is,” she remarked. “He asked me yesterday whether he had offended you in
+any way.”
+
+“Oh! He did, did he?” snarled Mr. Hatchard. “Let him keep himself to
+himself, and mind his own business.”
+
+“He said he thinks you have got a bad temper,” continued his wife. “He
+thinks, perhaps, it's indigestion, caused by eating cheese for supper
+always.”
+
+Mr. Hatchard affected not to hear, and, lighting his pipe, listened fer
+some time to the hum of conversation between his wife and Mr. Sadler
+below. With an expression of resignation on his face that was almost
+saintly he knocked out his pipe at last and went to bed.
+
+Half an hour passed, and he was still awake. His wife's voice had
+ceased, but the gruff tones of Mr. Sadler were still audible. Then he
+sat up in bed and listened, as a faint cry of alarm and the sound of
+somebody rushing upstairs fell on his ears. The next moment the door
+of his room burst open, and a wild figure, stumbling in the darkness,
+rushed over to the bed and clasped him in its arms.
+
+“Help!” gasped his wife's voice. “Oh, Alfred! Alfred!”
+
+“Ma'am!” said Mr. Hatchard in a prim voice, as he struggled in vain to
+free himself.
+
+“I'm so—so—fr-frightened!” sobbed Mrs. Hatchard.
+
+“That's no reason for coming into a lodger's room and throwing your arms
+round his neck,” said her husband, severely.
+
+“Don't be stu-stu-stupid,” gasped Mrs. Hatchard. “He—he's sitting
+downstairs in my room with a paper cap on his head and a fire-shovel in
+his hand, and he—he says he's the—the Emperor of China.”
+
+“He? Who?” inquired her husband.
+
+“Mr. Sad-Sadler,” replied Mrs. Hatchard, almost strangling him. “He made
+me kneel in front o' him and keep touching the floor with my head.”
+
+The chair-bedstead shook in sympathy with Mr. Hatchard's husbandly
+emotion.
+
+“Well, it's nothing to do with me,” he said at last.
+
+“He's mad,” said his wife, in a tense whisper; “stark staring mad. He
+says I'm his favorite wife, and he made me stroke his forehead.”
+
+The bed shook again.
+
+“I don't see that I have any right to interfere,” said Mr. Hatchard,
+after he had quieted the bedstead. “He's your lodger.”
+
+“You're my husband,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “Ho!” said Mr. Hatchard.
+“You've remembered that, have you?”
+
+“Yes, Alfred,” said his wife.
+
+“And are you sorry for all your bad behavior?” demanded Mr. Hatchard.
+
+Mrs. Hatchard hesitated. Then a clatter of fire-irons downstairs moved
+her to speech.
+
+“Ye-yes,” she sobbed.
+
+“And you want me to take you back?” queried the generous Mr. Hatchard.
+
+“Ye-ye-yes,” said his wife.
+
+Mr. Hatchard got out of bed and striking a match lit the candle, and,
+taking his overcoat from a peg behind the door, put it on and marched
+downstairs. Mrs. Hatchard, still trembling, followed behind.
+
+“What's all this?” he demanded, throwing the door open with a flourish.
+
+Mr. Sadler, still holding the fire-shovel sceptre-fashion and still with
+the paper cap on his head, opened his mouth to reply. Then, as he saw
+the unkempt figure of Mr. Hatchard with the scared face of Mrs. Hatchard
+peeping over his shoulder, his face grew red, his eyes watered, and his
+cheeks swelled.
+
+“K-K-K-Kch! K-Kch!” he said, explosively. “Talk English, not Chinese,”
+said Mr. Hatchard, sternly.
+
+'K-k-k-kch! K-kch!' he Said, Explosively.'
+
+Mr. Sadler threw down the fire-shovel, and to Mr. Hatchard's great
+annoyance, clapped his open hand over his mouth and rocked with
+merriment.
+
+“Sh—sh—she—she—” he spluttered.
+
+“That'll do,” said Mr. Hatchard, hastily, with a warning frown.
+
+“Kow-towed to me,” gurgled Mr. Sadler. “You ought to have seen it, Alf.
+I shall never get over it—never. It's—no—no good win-winking at me; I
+can't help myself.”
+
+He put his handkerchief to his eyes and leaned back exhausted. When he
+removed it, he found himself alone and everything still but for a murmur
+of voices overhead. Anon steps sounded on the stairs, and Mr. Hatchard,
+grave of face, entered the room.
+
+“Outside!” he said, briefly.
+
+“What!” said the astounded Mr. Sadler. “Why, it's eleven o'clock.”
+
+“I can't help it if it's twelve o'clock,” was the reply. “You shouldn't
+play the fool and spoil things by laughing. Now, are you going, or have
+I got to put you out?”
+
+He crossed the room and, putting his hand on the shoulder of the
+protesting Mr. Sadler, pushed him into the passage, and taking his coat
+from the peg held it up for him. Mr. Sadler, abandoning himself to his
+fate, got into it slowly and indulged in a few remarks on the subject of
+ingratitude.
+
+“I can't help it,” said his friend, in a low voice. “I've had to swear
+I've never seen you before.”
+
+“Does she believe you?” said the staring Mr. Sadler, shivering at the
+open door.
+
+“No,” said Mr. Hatchard, slowly, “but she pretends to.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+SELF-HELP
+
+The night-watchman sat brooding darkly over life and its troubles. A
+shooting corn on the little toe of his left foot, and a touch of liver,
+due, he was convinced, to the unlawful cellar work of the landlord of
+the Queen's Head, had induced in him a vein of profound depression. A
+discarded boot stood by his side, and his gray-stockinged foot protruded
+over the edge of the jetty until a passing waterman gave it a playful
+rap with his oar. A subsequent inquiry as to the price of pigs' trotters
+fell on ears rendered deaf by suffering.
+
+“I might 'ave expected it,” said the watchman, at last. “I done that
+man—if you can call him a man—a kindness once, and this is my reward for
+it. Do a man a kindness, and years arterwards 'e comes along and hits
+you over your tenderest corn with a oar.”
+
+'E Comes Along and Hits You over Your Tenderest Corn With a Oar.''
+
+He took up his boot, and, inserting his foot with loving care, stooped
+down and fastened the laces.
+
+Do a man a kindness, he continued, assuming a safer posture, and 'e
+tries to borrow money off of you; do a woman a kindness and she thinks
+you want to marry 'er; do an animal a kindness and it tries to bite
+you—same as a horse bit a sailorman I knew once, when 'e sat on its head
+to 'elp it get up. He sat too far for'ard, pore chap.
+
+Kindness never gets any thanks. I remember a man whose pal broke 'is leg
+while they was working together unloading a barge; and he went off to
+break the news to 'is pal's wife. A kind-'earted man 'e was as ever you
+see, and, knowing 'ow she would take on when she 'eard the news, he
+told her fust of all that 'er husband was killed. She took on like a mad
+thing, and at last, when she couldn't do anything more and 'ad quieted
+down a bit, he told 'er that it was on'y a case of a broken leg,
+thinking that 'er joy would be so great that she wouldn't think anything
+of that. He 'ad to tell her three times afore she understood 'im, and
+then, instead of being thankful to 'im for 'is thoughtfulness, she
+chased him 'arf over Wapping with a chopper, screaming with temper.
+
+I remember Ginger Dick and Peter Russet trying to do old Sam Small a
+kindness one time when they was 'aving a rest ashore arter a v'y'ge.
+They 'ad took a room together as usual, and for the fust two or three
+days they was like brothers. That couldn't last, o' course, and Sam
+was so annoyed one evening at Ginger's suspiciousness by biting a
+'arf-dollar Sam owed 'im and finding it was a bad 'un, that 'e went off
+to spend the evening all alone by himself.
+
+He felt a bit dull at fust, but arter he had 'ad two or three 'arf-pints
+'e began to take a brighter view of things. He found a very nice, cosey
+little public-'ouse he hadn't been in before, and, arter getting two and
+threepence and a pint for the 'arf-dollar with Ginger's tooth-marks on,
+he began to think that the world wasn't 'arf as bad a place as people
+tried to make out.
+
+There was on'y one other man in the little bar Sam was in—a tall, dark
+chap, with black side-whiskers and spectacles, wot kept peeping round
+the partition and looking very 'ard at everybody that came in.
+
+“I'm just keeping my eye on 'em, cap'n,” he ses to Sam, in a low voice.
+
+“Ho!” ses Sam.
+
+“They don't know me in this disguise,” ses the dark man, “but I see
+as 'ow you spotted me at once. Anybody 'ud have a 'ard time of it to
+deceive you; and then they wouldn't gain nothing by it.”
+
+“Nobody ever 'as yet,” ses Sam, smiling at 'im.
+
+“And nobody ever will,” ses the dark man, shaking his 'ead; “if they was
+all as fly as you, I might as well put the shutters up. How did you twig
+I was a detective officer, cap'n?”
+
+Sam, wot was taking a drink, got some beer up 'is nose with surprise.
+
+“That's my secret,” he ses, arter the tec 'ad patted 'im on the back and
+brought 'im round.
+
+“You're a marvel, that's wot you are,” ses the tec, shaking his 'ead.
+“Have one with me.”
+
+Sam said he didn't mind if 'e did, and arter drinking each other's
+healths very perlite 'e ordered a couple o' twopenny smokes, and by way
+of showing off paid for 'em with 'arf a quid.
+
+“That's right, ain't it?” ses the barmaid, as he stood staring very 'ard
+at the change. “I ain't sure about that 'arf-crown, now I come to look
+at it; but it's the one you gave me.”
+
+Pore Sam, with a tec standing alongside of 'im, said it was quite right,
+and put it into 'is pocket in a hurry and began to talk to the tec as
+fast as he could about a murder he 'ad been reading about in the paper
+that morning. They went and sat down by a comfortable little fire that
+was burning in the bar, and the tec told 'im about a lot o' murder cases
+he 'ad been on himself.
+
+“I'm down 'ere now on special work,” he ses, “looking arter sailormen.”
+
+“Wot ha' they been doing?” ses Sam.
+
+“When I say looking arter, I mean protecting 'em,” ses the tec. “Over
+and over agin some pore feller, arter working 'ard for months at sea,
+comes 'ome with a few pounds in 'is pocket and gets robbed of the lot.
+There's a couple o' chaps down 'ere I'm told off to look arter special,
+but it's no good unless I can catch 'em red-'anded.”
+
+“Red-'anded?” ses Sam.
+
+“With their hands in the chap's pockets, I mean,” ses the tec.
+
+Sam gave a shiver. “Somebody had their 'ands in my pockets once,” he
+ses. “Four pun ten and some coppers they got.”
+
+“Wot was they like?” ses the tee, starting.
+
+Sam shook his 'ead. “They seemed to me to be all hands, that's all I
+know about 'em,” he ses. “Arter they 'ad finished they leaned me up agin
+the dock wall an' went off.”
+
+“It sounds like 'em,” ses the tec, thoughtfully. “It was Long Pete and
+Fair Alf, for a quid; that's the two I'm arter.”
+
+He put his finger in 'is weskit-pocket. “That's who I am,” he ses,
+'anding Sam a card; “Detective-Sergeant Cubbins. If you ever get into
+any trouble at any time, you come to me.”
+
+Sam said 'e would, and arter they had 'ad another drink together the tec
+shifted 'is seat alongside of 'im and talked in his ear.
+
+“If I can nab them two chaps I shall get promotion,” he ses; “and it's a
+fi'-pun note to anybody that helps me. I wish I could persuade you to.”
+
+“'Ow's it to be done?” ses Sam, looking at 'im.
+
+“I want a respectable-looking seafaring man,” ses the tec, speaking
+very slow; “that's you. He goes up Tower Hill to-morrow night at nine
+o'clock, walking very slow and very unsteady on 'is pins, and giving my
+two beauties the idea that 'e is three sheets in the wind. They come up
+and rob 'im, and I catch them red-'anded. I get promotion, and you get a
+fiver.”
+
+“But 'ow do you know they'll be there?” ses Sam, staring at 'im.
+
+Mr. Cubbins winked at 'im and tapped 'is nose.
+
+'Mr. Cubbins Winked at 'im and Tapped 'is Nose.'
+
+“We 'ave to know a good deal in our line o' business,” he ses.
+
+“Still,” ses Sam, “I don't see——”
+
+“Narks,” says the tec; “coppers' narks. You've 'eard of them, cap'n?
+Now, look 'ere. Have you got any money?”
+
+“I got a matter o' twelve quid or so,” ses Sam, in a off-hand way.
+
+“The very thing,” says the tec. “Well, to-morrow night you put that
+in your pocket, and be walking up Tower Hill just as the clock strikes
+nine. I promise you you'll be robbed afore two minutes past, and by two
+and a 'arf past I shall 'ave my hands on both of 'em. Have all the money
+in one pocket, so as they can get it neat and quick, in case they get
+interrupted. Better still, 'ave it in a purse; that makes it easier to
+bring it 'ome to 'em.”
+
+“Wouldn't it be enough if they stole the purse?” ses Sam. “I should feel
+safer that way, too.”
+
+Mr. Cubbins shook his 'ead, very slow and solemn. “That wouldn't do at
+all,” he ses. “The more money they steal, the longer they'll get; you
+know that, cap'n, without me telling you. If you could put fifty quid
+in it would be so much the better. And, what-ever you do, don't make
+a noise. I don't want a lot o' clumsy policemen interfering in my
+business.”
+
+“Still, s'pose you didn't catch 'em,” ses Sam, “where should I be?”
+
+“You needn't be afraid o' that,” ses the tec, with a laugh. “Here, I'll
+tell you wot I'll do, and that'll show you the trust I put in you.”
+
+He drew a big di'mond ring off of 'is finger and handed it to Sam.
+
+“Put that on your finger,” he ses, “and keep it there till I give you
+your money back and the fi'-pun note reward. It's worth seventy quid
+if it's worth a farthing, and was given to me by a lady of title for
+getting back 'er jewellery for 'er. Put it on, and wotever you do, don't
+lose it!”
+
+He sat and watched while Sam forced it on 'is finger.
+
+“You don't need to flash it about too much,” he ses, looking at 'im
+rather anxious. “There's men I know as 'ud cut your finger off to get
+that.”
+
+Sam shoved his 'and in his pocket, but he kept taking it out every now
+and then and 'olding his finger up to the light to look at the di'mond.
+Mr. Cubbins got up to go at last, saying that he 'ad got a call to make
+at the police-station, and they went out together.
+
+“Nine o'clock sharp,” he ses, as they shook hands, “on Tower Hill.”
+
+“I'll be there,” ses Sam.
+
+“And, wotever you do, no noise, no calling out,” ses the tec, “and don't
+mention a word of this to a living soul.”
+
+Sam shook 'ands with 'im agin, and then, hiding his 'and in his pocket,
+went off 'ome, and, finding Ginger and Peter Russet wasn't back, went
+off to bed.
+
+He 'eard 'em coming upstairs in the dark in about an hour's time, and,
+putting the 'and with the ring on it on the counterpane, shut 'is eyes
+and pretended to be fast asleep. Ginger lit the candle, and they was
+both beginning to undress when Peter made a noise and pointed to Sam's
+'and.
+
+“Wot's up?” ses Ginger, taking the candle and going over to Sam's bed.
+“Who've you been robbing, you fat pirate?”
+
+Sam kept 'is eyes shut and 'eard 'em whispering; then he felt 'em take
+'is hand up and look at it. “Where did you get it, Sam?” ses Peter.
+
+“He's asleep,” ses Ginger, “sound asleep. I b'lieve if I was to put 'is
+finger in the candle he wouldn't wake up.”
+
+“You try it,” ses Sam, sitting up in bed very sharp and snatching his
+'and away. “Wot d'ye mean coming 'ome at all hours and waking me up?”
+“Where did you get that ring?” ses Ginger. “Friend o' mine,” ses Sam,
+very short.
+
+“Who was it?” ses Peter.
+
+“It's a secret,” ses Sam.
+
+“You wouldn't 'ave a secret from your old pal Ginger, Sam, would you?”
+ses Ginger.
+
+“Old wot?” ses Sam. “Wot did you call me this arternoon?”
+
+“I called you a lot o' things I'm sorry for,” ses Ginger, who was
+bursting with curiosity, “and I beg your pardin, Sam.”
+
+“Shake 'ands on it,” ses Peter, who was nearly as curious as Ginger.
+
+They shook hands, but Sam said he couldn't tell 'em about the ring; and
+several times Ginger was on the point of calling 'im the names he 'ad
+called 'im in the arternoon, on'y Peter trod on 'is foot and stopped
+him. They wouldn't let 'im go to sleep for talking, and at last, when 'e
+was pretty near tired out, he told 'em all about it.
+
+“Going—to 'ave your—pocket picked?” ses Ginger, staring at 'im, when 'e
+had finished.
+
+“I shall be watched over,” ses Sam.
+
+“He's gorn stark, staring mad,” ses Ginger. “Wot a good job it is he's
+got me and you to look arter 'im, Peter.”
+
+“Wot d'ye mean?” ses Sam.
+
+“Mean?” ses Ginger. “Why, it's a put-up job to rob you, o' course. I
+should ha' thought even your fat 'ead could ha' seen that':”
+
+“When I want your advice I'll ask you for it,” ses Sam, losing 'is
+temper. “Wot about the di'mond ring—eh?”
+
+“You stick to it,” ses Ginger, “and keep out o' Mr. Cubbins's way.
+That's my advice to you. 'Sides, p'r'aps it ain't a real one.”
+
+Sam told 'im agin he didn't want none of 'is advice, and, as Ginger
+wouldn't leave off talking, he pretended to go to sleep. Ginger woke 'im
+up three times to tell 'im wot a fool 'e was, but 'e got so fierce that
+he gave it up at last and told 'im to go 'is own way.
+
+Sam wouldn't speak to either of 'em next morning, and arter breakfast
+he went off on 'is own. He came back while Peter and Ginger was out, and
+they wasted best part o' the day trying to find 'im.
+
+“We'll be on Tower Hill just afore nine and keep 'im out o' mischief,
+any way,” ses Peter.
+
+Ginger nodded. “And be called names for our pains,” he ses. “I've a good
+mind to let 'im be robbed.”
+
+“It 'ud serve 'im right,” ses Peter, “on'y then he'd want to borrer off
+of us. Look here! Why not—why not rob 'im ourselves?”
+
+“Wot?” ses Ginger, starting.
+
+“Walk up behind 'im and rob 'im,” ses Peter. “He'll think it's them two
+chaps he spoke about, and when 'e comes 'ome complaining to us we'll
+tell 'im it serves 'im right. Arter we've 'ad a game with 'im for a day
+or two we'll give 'im 'is money back.”
+
+“But he'd reckernize us,” ses Ginger.
+
+“We must disguise ourselves,” ses Peter, in a whisper. “There's a
+barber's shop in Cable Street, where I've seen beards in the winder. You
+hook 'em on over your ears. Get one o' them each, pull our caps over our
+eyes and turn our collars up, and there you are.”
+
+Ginger made a lot of objections, not because he didn't think it was a
+good idea, but because he didn't like Peter thinking of it instead of
+'im; but he gave way at last, and, arter he 'ad got the beard, he stood
+for a long time in front o' the glass thinking wot a difference it would
+ha' made to his looks if he had 'ad black 'air instead o' red.
+
+Waiting for the evening made the day seem very long to 'em; but it came
+at last, and, with the beards in their pockets, they slipped out and
+went for a walk round. They 'ad 'arf a pint each at a public-'ouse at
+the top of the Minories, just to steady themselves, and then they came
+out and hooked on their beards; and wot with them, and pulling their
+caps down and turning their coat-collars up, there wasn't much of their
+faces to be seen by anybody.
+
+It was just five minutes to nine when they got to Tower Hill, and they
+walked down the middle of the road, keeping a bright lookout for old
+Sam. A little way down they saw a couple o' chaps leaning up agin a
+closed gate in the dock wall lighting their pipes, and Peter and Ginger
+both nudged each other with their elbows at the same time. They 'ad just
+got to the bottom of the Hill when Sam turned the corner.
+
+Peter wouldn't believe at fust that the old man wasn't really the worse
+for liquor, 'e was so lifelike. Many a drunken man would ha' been proud
+to ha' done it 'arf so well, and it made 'im pleased to think that Sam
+was a pal of 'is. Him and Ginger turned and crept up behind the old man
+on tiptoe, and then all of a sudden he tilted Sam's cap over 'is eyes
+and flung his arms round 'im, while Ginger felt in 'is coat-pockets and
+took out a leather purse chock full o' money.
+
+It was all done and over in a moment, and then, to Ginger's great
+surprise, Sam suddenly lifted 'is foot and gave 'im a fearful kick on
+the shin of 'is leg, and at the same time let drive with all his might
+in 'is face. Ginger went down as if he 'ad been shot, and as Peter went
+to 'elp him up he got a bang over the 'ead that put 'im alongside o'
+Ginger, arter which Sam turned and trotted off down the Hill like a
+dancing-bear.
+
+'Let Drive With All his Might in 'is Face. '
+
+For 'arf a minute Ginger didn't know where 'e was, and afore he found
+out the two men they'd seen in the gateway came up, and one of 'em put
+his knee in Ginger's back and 'eld him, while the other caught hold of
+his 'and and dragged the purse out of it. Arter which they both made
+off up the Hill as 'ard as they could go, while Peter Russet in a faint
+voice called “Police!” arter them.
+
+He got up presently and helped Ginger up, and they both stood there
+pitying themselves, and 'elping each other to think of names to call
+Sam.
+
+“Well, the money's gorn, and it's 'is own silly fault,” ses Ginger. “But
+wotever 'appens, he mustn't know that we had a 'and in it, mind that.”
+
+“He can starve for all I care,” ses Peter, feeling his 'ead. “I won't
+lend 'im a ha'penny—not a single, blessed ha'penny.”
+
+“Who'd ha' thought 'e could ha' hit like that?” says Ginger. “That's
+wot gets over me. I never 'ad such a bang in my life—never. I'm going to
+'ave a little drop o' brandy—my 'ead is fair swimming.”
+
+Peter 'ad one, too; but though they went into the private bar, it wasn't
+private enough for them; and when the landlady asked Ginger who'd been
+kissing 'im, he put 'is glass down with a bang and walked straight off
+'ome.
+
+Sam 'adn't turned up by the time they got there, and pore Ginger took
+advantage of it to put a little warm candle-grease on 'is bad leg. Then
+he bathed 'is face very careful and 'elped Peter bathe his 'ead. They
+'ad just finished when they heard Sam coming upstairs, and Ginger sat
+down on 'is bed and began to whistle, while Peter took up a bit o'
+newspaper and stood by the candle reading it.
+
+“Lor' lumme, Ginger!” ses Sam, staring at 'im. “What ha' you been
+a-doing to your face?”
+
+“Me?” ses Ginger, careless-like. “Oh, we 'ad a bit of a scrap down
+Limehouse way with some Scotchies. Peter got a crack over the 'ead at
+the same time.”
+
+“Ah, I've 'ad a bit of a scrap, too,” ses Sam, smiling all over, “but I
+didn't get marked.”
+
+“Oh!” ses Peter, without looking up from 'is paper. “Was it a little
+boy, then?” ses Ginger.
+
+“No, it wasn't a little boy neither, Ginger,” ses Sam; “it was a couple
+o' men twice the size of you and Peter here, and I licked 'em both. It
+was the two men I spoke to you about last night.”
+
+“Oh!” ses Peter agin, yawning.
+
+“I did a bit o' thinking this morning,” ses Sam, nodding at 'em, “and I
+don't mind owning up that it was owing to wot you said. You was right,
+Ginger, arter all.”
+
+“Fust thing I did arter breakfast,” ses Sam, “I took that di'mond ring
+to a pawnshop and found out it wasn't a di'mond ring. Then I did a bit
+more thinking, and I went round to a shop I know and bought a couple o'
+knuckle-dusters.”
+
+“Couple o' wot?” ses Ginger, in a choking voice.
+
+“Knuckle-dusters,” ses Sam, “and I turned up to-night at Tower Hill
+with one on each 'and just as the clock was striking nine. I see 'em
+the moment I turned the corner—two enormous big chaps, a yard acrost
+the shoulders, coming down the middle of the road—You've got a cold,
+Ginger!”
+
+“No, I ain't,” ses Ginger.
+
+“I pretended to be drunk, same as the tec told me,” ses Sam, “and then
+I felt 'em turn round and creep up behind me. One of 'em come up behind
+and put 'is knee in my back and caught me by the throat, and the other
+gave me a punch in the chest, and while I was gasping for breath took my
+purse away. Then I started on 'em.”
+
+“Lor'!” ses Ginger, very nasty.
+
+“I fought like a lion,” ses Sam. “Twice they 'ad me down, and twice I
+got up agin and hammered 'em. They both of 'em 'ad knives, but my blood
+was up, and I didn't take no more notice of 'em than if they was made
+of paper. I knocked 'em both out o' their hands, and if I hit 'em in the
+face once I did a dozen times. I surprised myself.”
+
+“You surprise me,” ses Ginger.
+
+“All of a sudden,” ses Sam, “they see they 'ad got to do with a man wot
+didn't know wot fear was, and they turned round and ran off as hard as
+they could run. You ought to ha' been there, Ginger. You'd 'ave enjoyed
+it.”
+
+Ginger Dick didn't answer 'im. Having to sit still and listen to all
+them lies without being able to say anything nearly choked 'im. He sat
+there gasping for breath.
+
+“O' course, you got your purse back in the fight, Sam?” ses Peter.
+
+“No, mate,” ses Sam. “I ain't going to tell you no lies—I did not.”
+
+“And 'ow are you going to live, then, till you get a ship, Sam?” ses
+Ginger, in a nasty voice. “You won't get nothing out o' me, so you
+needn't think it.”
+
+“Wot on earth's the matter, Ginger?”
+
+“Nor me,” ses Peter. “Not a brass farthing.”
+
+“There's no call to be nasty about it, mates,” ses Sam. “I 'ad the best
+fight I ever 'ad in my life, and I must put up with the loss. A man
+can't 'ave it all his own way.”
+
+“'Ow much was it?” ses Peter.
+
+“Ten brace-buttons, three French ha'pennies, and a bit o' tin,” ses Sam.
+“Wot on earth's the matter, Ginger?”
+
+'Wot on Earth's the Matter, Ginger?''
+
+Ginger didn't answer him.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+SENTENCE DEFERRED
+
+'An Elderly Man With a Wooden Leg, Who Joined The Indignant Officer in
+the Pursuit.'
+
+Fortunately for Captain Bligh, there were but few people about, and the
+only person who saw him trip Police-Sergeant Pilbeam was an elderly man
+with a wooden leg, who joined the indignant officer in the pursuit. The
+captain had youth on his side, and, diving into the narrow alley-ways
+that constitute the older portion of Woodhatch, he moderated his pace
+and listened acutely. The sounds of pursuit died away in the distance,
+and he had already dropped into a walk when the hurried tap of the
+wooden leg sounded from one corner and a chorus of hurried voices from
+the other. It was clear that the number of hunters had increased.
+
+He paused a second, irresolute. The next, he pushed open a door
+that stood ajar in an old flint wall and peeped in. He saw a small,
+brick-paved yard, in which trim myrtles and flowering plants stood about
+in freshly ochred pots, and, opening the door a little wider, he slipped
+in and closed it behind him.
+
+“Well?” said a voice, sharply. “What do you want?”
+
+Captain Bligh turned, and saw a girl standing in a hostile attitude in
+the doorway of the house. “H'sh!” he said, holding up his finger.
+
+The girl's cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled.
+
+“What are you doing in our yard?” she demanded.
+
+The captain's face relaxed as the sound of voices died away. He gave his
+moustache a twist, and eyed her with frank admiration.
+
+“Escaping,” he said, briefly. “They nearly had me, though.”
+
+“You had no business to escape into our yard,” said the girl. “What have
+you been escaping from?”
+
+“Fat policeman,” said the skipper, jauntily, twisting his moustache.
+
+Miss Pilbeam, only daughter of Sergeant Pilbeam, caught her breath
+sharply.
+
+“What have you been doing?” she inquired, as soon as she could control
+her voice.
+
+“Nothing,” said the skipper, airily, “nothing. I was kicking a stone
+along the path and he told me to stop it.”
+
+“Well?” said Miss Pilbeam, impatiently.
+
+“We had words,” said the skipper. “I don't like policemen—fat
+policemen—and while we were talking he happened to lose his balance and
+go over into some mud that was swept up at the side of the road.”
+
+“Lost his balance?” gasped the horrified Miss Pilbeam.
+
+The skipper was flattered at her concern. “You would have laughed if you
+had seen him,” he said, smiling. “Don't look so frightened; he hasn't
+got me yet.”
+
+“No,” said the girl, slowly. “Not yet.”
+
+She gazed at him with such a world of longing in her eyes that the
+skipper, despite a somewhat large share of self-esteem, was almost
+startled.
+
+“And he shan't have me,” he said, returning her gaze with interest.
+
+Miss Pilbeam stood in silent thought. She was a strong, well-grown girl,
+but she realized fully that she was no match for the villain who stood
+before her, twisting his moustache and adjusting his neck-tie. And her
+father would not be off duty until nine.
+
+“I suppose you would like to wait here until it is dark?” she said at
+last.
+
+“I would sooner wait here than anywhere,” said the skipper, with
+respectful ardor.
+
+“Perhaps you would like to come in and sit down?” said the girl.
+
+Captain Bligh thanked her, and removing his cap followed her into a
+small parlor in the front of the house.
+
+“Father is out,” she said, as she motioned him to an easy-chair, “but
+I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you when he comes in.”
+
+“And I shall be pleased to see him,” said the innocent skipper.
+
+Miss Pilbeam kept her doubts to herself and sat in a brown study,
+wondering how the capture was to be effected. She had a strong
+presentiment that the appearance of her father at the front door would
+be the signal for her visitor's departure at the back. For a time there
+was an awkward silence.
+
+“Lucky thing for me I upset that policeman,” said the skipper, at last.
+
+“Why?” inquired the girl.
+
+“Else I shouldn't have come into your yard,” was the reply. “It's the
+first time we have ever put into Woodhatch, and I might have sailed
+away and never seen you. Where should we have been but for that fat
+policeman?”
+
+Miss Pilbeam—as soon as she could get her breath—said, “Ah, where
+indeed!” and for the first time in her life began to feel the need of a
+chaperon.
+
+“Funny to think of him hunting for me high and low while I am sitting
+here,” said the skipper.
+
+Miss Pilbeam agreed with him, and began to laugh—to laugh so heartily
+that he was fain at last to draw his chair close to hers and pat her
+somewhat anxiously on the back. The treatment sobered her at once, and
+she drew apart and eyed him coldly.
+
+“I was afraid you would lose your breath,” explained the skipper,
+awkwardly. “You are not angry, are you?”
+
+He was so genuinely relieved when she said, “No,” that Miss Pilbeam,
+despite her father's wrongs, began to soften a little. The upsetter
+of policemen was certainly good-looking; and his manner towards her so
+nicely balanced between boldness and timidity that a slight feeling of
+sadness at his lack of moral character began to assail her.
+
+“Suppose you are caught after all?” she said, presently. “You will go to
+prison.”
+
+The skipper shrugged his shoulders. “I don't suppose I shall be,” he
+replied.
+
+“Aren't you sorry?” persisted Miss Pilbeam, in a vibrant voice.
+
+“Certainly not,” said the skipper. “Why, I shouldn't have seen you if I
+hadn't done it.”
+
+Miss Pilbeam looked at the clock and pondered. It wanted but five
+minutes to nine. Five minutes in which to make up a mind that was in a
+state of strong unrest.
+
+“I suppose it is time for me to go,” said the skipper, watching her.
+Miss Pilbeam rose. “No, don't go,” she said, hastily. “Do be quiet. I
+want to think.”
+
+Captain Bligh waited in respectful silence, heedless of the fateful
+seconds ticking from the mantelpiece. At the sound of a slow, measured
+footfall on the cobblestone path outside Miss Pilbeam caught his arm and
+drew him towards the door.
+
+“Go!” she breathed. “No, stop!”
+
+She stood trying in vain to make up her mind. “Upstairs,” she said.
+“Quick!” and, leading the way, entered her father's bedroom, and, after
+a moment's thought, opened the door of a cupboard in the corner.
+
+“Get in there,” she whispered.
+
+“But—” objected the astonished Bligh.
+
+The front door was heard to open.
+
+“Police!” said Miss Pilbeam, in a thrilling whisper. The skipper stepped
+into the cupboard without further parley, and the girl, turning the key,
+slipped it into her pocket and sped downstairs.
+
+Sergeant Pilbeam was in the easy-chair, with his belt unfastened, when
+she entered the parlor, and, with a hungry reference to supper, sat
+watching her as she lit the lamp and drew down the blind. With a
+lifelong knowledge of the requirements of the Force, she drew a jug of
+beer and placed it by his side while she set the table.
+
+“Ah! I wanted that,” said the sergeant. “I've been running.”
+
+Miss Pilbeam raised her eyebrows.
+
+“After some sailor-looking chap that capsized me when I wasn't prepared
+for it,” said her father, putting down his glass. “It was a neat bit o'
+work, and I shall tell him so when I catch him. Look here!”
+
+He stood up and exhibited the damage.
+
+“I've rubbed off what I could,” he said, resuming his seat, “and I
+s'pose the rest'll brush off when it's dry. To-morrow morning I shall go
+down to the harbor and try and spot my lord.”
+
+He drew his chair to the table and helped himself, and, filling his
+mouth with cold meat and pickles, enlarged on his plans for the capture
+of his assailant; plans to which the undecided Miss Pilbeam turned a
+somewhat abstracted ear.
+
+By the time her father had finished his supper she was trying, but in
+vain, to devise means for the prisoner's escape. The sergeant had opened
+the door of the room for the sake of fresh air, and it was impossible
+for anybody to come downstairs without being seen. The story of a sickly
+geranium in the back-yard left him unmoved.
+
+“I wouldn't get up for all the geraniums in the world,” he declared.
+“I'm just going to have one more pipe and then I'm off to bed. Running
+don't agree with me.”
+
+He went, despite his daughter's utmost efforts to prevent him, and she
+sat in silent consternation, listening to his heavy tread overhead. She
+heard the bed creak in noisy protest as he climbed in, and ten minutes
+later the lusty snoring of a healthy man of full habit resounded through
+the house.
+
+She went to bed herself at last, and, after lying awake for nearly a
+couple of hours, closed her eyes in order to think better. She awoke
+with the sun pouring in at the window and the sounds of vigorous
+brushing in the yard beneath.
+
+“I've nearly got it off,” said the sergeant, looking up. “It's
+destroying evidence in a sense, I suppose; but I can't go about with my
+uniform plastered with mud. I've had enough chaff about it as it is.”
+
+Miss Pilbeam stole to the door of the next room and peeped stealthily
+in. Not a sound came from the cupboard, and a horrible idea that the
+prisoner might have been suffocated set her trembling with apprehension.
+
+“H'sh!” she whispered.
+
+An eager but stifled “H'st!” came from the cup-board, and Miss Pilbeam,
+her fears allayed, stepped softly into the room.
+
+“He's downstairs brushing the mud off,” she said, in a low voice.
+
+“Who is?” said the skipper.
+
+“The fat policeman,” said the girl, in a hard voice, as she remembered
+her father's wrongs.
+
+“What's he doing it here for?” demanded the astonished skipper.
+
+“Because he lives here.”
+
+“Lodger?” queried the skipper, more astonished than before.
+
+“Father,” said Miss Pilbeam.
+
+A horrified groan from the cupboard fell like music on her ears. Then
+the smile forsook her lips, and she stood quivering with indignation as
+the groan gave way to suppressed but unmistakable laughter.
+
+“H'sh!” she said sharply, and with head erect sailed out of the room and
+went downstairs to give Mr. Pilbeam his breakfast.
+
+To the skipper in the confined space and darkness of the cupboard the
+breakfast seemed unending. The sergeant evidently believed in sitting
+over his meals, and his deep, rumbling voice, punctuated by good-natured
+laughter, was plainly audible. To pass the time the skipper fell to
+counting, and, tired of that, recited some verses that he had acquired
+at school. After that, and with far more heartiness, he declaimed a
+few things that he had learned since; and still the clatter and rumble
+sounded from below.
+
+It was a relief to him when he heard the sergeant push his chair back
+and move heavily about the room. A minute later he heard him ascending
+the stairs, and then he held his breath with horror as the foot-steps
+entered the room and a heavy hand was laid on the cupboard door.
+
+“Elsie!” bawled the sergeant. “Where's the key of my cupboard? I want my
+other boots.”
+
+“They're down here,” cried the voice of Miss Pilbeam, and the skipper,
+hardly able to believe in his good fortune, heard the sergeant go
+downstairs again.
+
+At the expiration of another week—by his own reckoning—he heard the
+light, hurried footsteps of Miss Pilbeam come up the stairs and pause at
+the door.
+
+“H'st!” he said, recklessly.
+
+“I'm coming,” said the girl. “Don't be impatient.”
+
+A key turned in the lock, the door was flung open, and the skipper,
+dazed and blinking with the sudden light, stumbled into the room.
+
+“Father's gone,” said Miss Pilbeam.
+
+The skipper made no answer. He was administering first aid to a right
+leg which had temporarily forgotten how to perform its duties, varied
+with slaps and pinches at a left which had gone to sleep. At intervals
+he turned a red-rimmed and reproachful eye on Miss Pilbeam.
+
+'He Was Administering First Aid to a Right Leg.'
+
+“You want a wash and some breakfast,” she said, softly, “especially a
+wash. There's water and a towel, and while you're making yourself tidy
+I'll be getting breakfast.”
+
+The skipper hobbled to the wash-stand, and, dipping his head in a basin
+of cool water, began to feel himself again. By the time he had done his
+hair in the sergeant's glass and twisted his moustache into shape he
+felt better still, and he went downstairs almost blithely.
+
+“I'm very sorry it was your father,” he said, as he took a seat at the
+table. “Very.”
+
+“That's why you laughed, I suppose?” said the girl, tossing her head.
+
+“Well, I've had the worst of it,” said the other. “I'd sooner be upset
+a hundred times than spend a night in that cupboard. However, all's well
+that ends well.”
+
+“Ah!” said Miss Pilbeam, dolefully, “but is it the end?”
+
+Captain Bligh put down his knife and fork and eyed her uneasily.
+
+“What do you mean?” he said.
+
+“Never mind; don't spoil your breakfast,” said the girl. “I'll tell you
+afterwards. It's horrid to think, after all my trouble, of your doing
+two months as well as a night in the cupboard.”
+
+“Beastly,” said the unfortunate, eying her in great concern. “But what's
+the matter?”
+
+“One can't think of everything,” said Miss Pilbeam, “but, of course, we
+ought to have thought of the mate getting uneasy when you didn't turn up
+last night, and going to the police-station with a description of you.”
+
+The skipper started and smote the table with his fist.
+
+“Father's gone down to watch the ship now,” said Miss Pilbeam. “Of
+course, it's the exact description of the man that assaulted him.
+Providential he called it.”
+
+“That's the worst of having a fool for a mate,” said the skipper,
+bitterly. “What business was it of his, I should like to know? What's
+it got to do with him whether I turn up or not? What does he want to
+interfere for?”
+
+“It's no good blaming him,” said Miss Pilbeam, thinking deeply, with her
+chin on her finger. “The thing is, what is to be done? Once father gets
+his hand on you——”
+
+She shuddered; so did the skipper.
+
+“I might get off with a fine; I didn't hurt him,” he remarked.
+
+Miss Pilbeam shook her head. “They're very strict in Woodhatch,” she
+said.
+
+“I was a fool to touch him at all,” said the repentant skipper. “High
+spirits, that's what it was. High spirits, and being spoken to as if I
+was a child.”
+
+“The thing is, how are you to escape?” said the girl. “It's no good
+going out of doors with the police and half the people in Woodhatch all
+on the look-out for you.”
+
+“If I could only get aboard I should be all right,” muttered the
+skipper. “I could keep down the fo'-c's'le while the mate took the ship
+out.”
+
+Miss Pilbeam sat in deep thought. “It's the getting aboard that's the
+trouble,” she said, slowly. “You'd have to disguise yourself. It would
+have to be a good disguise, too, to pass my father, I can tell you.”
+
+Captain Bligh gave a gloomy assent.
+
+“The only thing for you to do, so far as I can see,” said the girl,
+slowly, “is to make yourself up like a coalie. There are one or two
+colliers in the harbor, and if you took off your coat—I could send it on
+afterwards—rubbed yourself all over with coal-dust, and shaved off your
+moustache, I believe you would escape.”
+
+“Shave!” ejaculated the skipper, in choking accents. “Rub—! Coal-dust!”
+
+“It's your only chance,” said Miss Pilbeam.
+
+Captain Bligh leaned back frowning, and from sheer force of habit passed
+the ends of his moustache slowly through his fingers. “I think the
+coal-dust would be enough,” he said at last.
+
+The girl shook her head. “Father particularly noticed your moustache,”
+she said.
+
+“Everybody does,” said the skipper, with mournful pride. “I won't part
+with it.”
+
+“Not for my sake?” inquired Miss Pilbeam, eying him mournfully. “Not
+after all I've done for you?”
+
+“No,” said the other, stoutly.
+
+Miss Pilbeam put her handkerchief to her eyes and, with a suspicious
+little sniff, hurried from the room. Captain Bligh, much affected,
+waited for a few seconds and then went in pursuit of her. Fifteen
+minutes later, shorn of his moustache, he stood in the coal-hole,
+sulkily smearing himself with coal.
+
+“That's better,” said the girl; “you look horrible.”
+
+She took up a handful of coal-dust and, ordering him to stoop, shampooed
+him with hearty good-will.
+
+'She Took up a Handful of Coal-dust And, Ordering Him To Stoop,
+Shampooed Him With Hearty Good-will.'
+
+“No good half doing it,” she declared. “Now go and look at yourself in
+the glass in the kitchen.”
+
+The skipper went, and came back in a state of wild-eyed misery. Even
+Miss Pilbeam's statement that his own mother would not know him failed
+to lift the cloud from his brow. He stood disconsolate as the girl
+opened the front door.
+
+“Good-by,” she said, gently. “Write and tell me when you are safe.”
+
+Captain Bligh promised, and walked slowly up the road. So far from
+people attempting to arrest him, they vied with each other in giving
+him elbow-room. He reached the harbor unmolested, and, lurking at a
+convenient corner, made a careful survey. A couple of craft were
+working out their coal, a small steamer was just casting loose, and a
+fishing-boat gliding slowly over the still water to its berth. His own
+schooner, which lay near the colliers, had apparently knocked off work
+pending his arrival. For Sergeant Pilbeam he looked in vain.
+
+He waited a minute or two, and then, with a furtive glance right and
+left, strolled in a careless fashion until he was abreast of one of
+the colliers. Nobody took any notice of him, and, with his hands in his
+pockets, he gazed meditatively into the water and edged along towards
+his own craft. His foot trembled as he placed it on the plank that
+formed the gangway, but, resisting the temptation to look behind, he
+gained the deck and walked forward.
+
+“Halloa! What do you want?” inquired a sea-man, coming out of the
+galley.
+
+“All right, Bill,” said the skipper, in a low voice. “Don't take any
+notice of me.”
+
+“Eh?” said the seaman, starting. “Good lor'! What ha' you——”
+
+“Shut up!” said the skipper, fiercely; and, walking to the forecastle,
+placed his hand on the scuttle and descended with studied slowness. As
+he reached the floor the perturbed face of Bill blocked the opening.
+
+“Had an accident, cap'n?” he inquired, respectfully.
+
+“No,” snapped the skipper. “Come down here—quick! Don't stand up there
+attracting attention. Do you want the whole town round you? Come down!”
+
+“I'm all right where I am,” said Bill, backing hastily as the skipper,
+putting a foot on the ladder, thrust a black and furious face close to
+his.
+
+“Clear out, then,” hissed the skipper. “Go and send the mate to me.
+Don't hurry. And if anybody noticed me come aboard and should ask you
+who I am, say I'm a pal of yours.”
+
+The seaman, marvelling greatly, withdrew, and the skipper, throwing
+himself on a locker, wiped a bit of grit out of his eye and sat down to
+wait for the mate. He was so long in coming that he waxed impatient, and
+ascending a step of the ladder again peeped on to the deck. The first
+object that met his gaze was the figure of the mate leaning against the
+side of the ship with a wary eye on the scuttle.
+
+“Come here,” said the skipper.
+
+“Anything wrong?” inquired the mate, retreating a couple of paces in
+disorder.
+
+“Come—here!” repeated the skipper.
+
+The mate advanced slowly, and in response to an imperative command from
+the skipper slowly descended and stood regarding him nervously.
+
+“Yes; you may look,” said the skipper, with sudden ferocity. “This is
+all your doing. Where are you going?”
+
+He caught the mate by the coat as he was making for the ladder, and
+hauled him back again.
+
+“You'll go when I've finished with you,” he said, grimly. “Now, what do
+you mean by it? Eh? What do you mean by it?”
+
+“That's all right,” said the mate, in a soothing voice. “Don't get
+excited.”
+
+“Look at me!” said the skipper. “All through your interfering. How dare
+you go making inquiries about me?”
+
+“Me?” said the mate, backing as far as possible. “Inquiries?”
+
+“What's it got to do with you if I stay out all night?” pursued the
+skipper.
+
+“Nothing,” said the other, feebly.
+
+“What did you go to the police about me for, then?” demanded the
+skipper.
+
+“Me?” said the mate, in the shrill accents of astonishment. “Me? I
+didn't go to no police about you. Why should I?”
+
+“Do you mean to say you didn't report my absence last night to the
+police?” said the skipper, sternly.
+
+“Cert'nly not,” said the mate, plucking up courage. “Why should I? If
+you like to take a night off it's nothing to do with me. I 'ope I know
+my duty better. I don't know what you're talking about.”
+
+“And the police haven't been watching the ship and inquiring for me?”
+asked the skipper.
+
+The mate shook his bewildered head. “Why should they?” he inquired.
+
+The skipper made no reply. He sat goggle-eyed, staring straight before
+him, trying in vain to realize the hardness of the heart that had been
+responsible for such a scurvy trick.
+
+“Besides, it ain't the fust time you've been out all night,” remarked
+the mate, aggressively.
+
+The skipper favored him with a glance the dignity of which was somewhat
+impaired by his complexion, and in a slow and stately fashion ascended
+to the deck. Then he caught his breath sharply and paled beneath the
+coaldust as he saw Sergeant Pilbeam standing on the quay, opposite the
+ship. By his side stood Miss Pilbeam, and both, with a far-away look
+in their eyes, were smiling vaguely but contentedly at the horizon. The
+sergeant appeared to be the first to see the skipper.
+
+“Ahoy, Darkie!” he cried.
+
+Captain Bligh, who was creeping slowly aft, halted, and, clenching his
+fists, regarded him ferociously.
+
+“Give this to the skipper, will you, my lad?” said the sergeant, holding
+up the jacket Bligh had left behind. “Good-looking young man with a very
+fine moustache he is.”
+
+'Give This to the Skipper, Will You, My Lad?' Said The Sergeant.
+
+“Was,” said his daughter, in a mournful voice.
+
+“And a rather dark complexion,” continued the sergeant, grinning madly.
+“I was going to take him—for stealing my coal—but I thought better
+of it. Thought of a better way. At least, my daughter did. So long,
+Darkie.”
+
+He kissed the top of a fat middle finger, and, turning away, walked
+off with Miss Pilbeam. The skipper stood watching them with his head
+swimming until, arrived at the corner, they stopped and the sergeant
+came slowly back.
+
+“I was nearly forgetting,” he said, slowly. “Tell your skipper that if
+so be as he wants to apologize—for stealing my coal—I shall be at home
+at tea at five o'clock.”
+
+He jerked his thumb in the direction of Miss Pilbeam and winked with
+slow deliberation. “She'll be there, too,” he added. “Savvy?”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+“MATRIMONIAL OPENINGS”
+
+Mr. Dowson sat by the kitchen fire smoking and turning a docile and
+well-trained ear to the heated words which fell from his wife's lips.
+
+“She'll go and do the same as her sister Jenny done,” said Mrs. Dowson,
+with a side glance at her daughter Flora; “marry a man and then 'ave to
+work and slave herself to skin and bone to keep him.”
+
+“I see Jenny yesterday,” said her husband, nodding. “Getting quite fat,
+she is.”
+
+“That's right,” said Mrs. Dowson, violently, “that's right! The moment I
+say something you go and try and upset it.”
+
+“Un'ealthy fat, p'r'aps,” said Mr. Dowson, hurriedly; “don't get enough
+exercise, I s'pose.”
+
+“Anybody who didn't know you, Joe Dowson,” said his wife, fiercely,
+“would think you was doing it a purpose.”
+
+“Doing wot?” inquired Mr. Dowson, removing his pipe and regarding her
+open-mouthed. “I only said——”
+
+“I know what you said,” retorted his wife. “Here I do my best from
+morning to night to make everybody 'appy and comfortable; and what
+happens?”
+
+“Nothing,” said the sympathetic Mr. Dowson, shaking his head. “Nothing.”
+
+“Anyway, Jenny ain't married a fool,” said Mrs. Dowson, hotly; “she's
+got that consolation.”
+
+“That's right, mother,” said the innocent Mr. Dowson, “look on the
+bright side o' things a bit. If Jenny 'ad married a better chap I don't
+suppose we should see half as much of her as wot we do.”
+
+“I'm talking of Flora,” said his wife, restraining herself by an effort.
+“One unfortunate marriage in the family is enough; and here, instead
+o' walking out with young Ben Lippet, who'll be 'is own master when
+his father dies, she's gadding about with that good-for-nothing Charlie
+Foss.”
+
+Mr. Dowson shook his head. “He's so good-looking, is Charlie,” he said,
+slowly; “that's the worst of it. Wot with 'is dark eyes and his curly
+'air——”
+
+“Go on!” said his wife, passionately, “go on!”
+
+Mr. Dowson, dimly conscious that something was wrong, stopped and
+puffed hard at his pipe. Through the cover of the smoke he bestowed a
+sympathetic wink upon his daughter.
+
+“You needn't go on too fast,” said the latter, turning to her mother. “I
+haven't made up my mind yet. Charlie's looks are all right, but he ain't
+over and above steady, and Ben is steady, but he ain't much to look at.”
+
+“What does your 'art say?” inquired the sentimental Mr. Dowson.
+
+Neither lady took the slightest notice.
+
+“Charlie Foss is too larky,” said Mrs. Dowson, solemnly; “it's easy come
+and easy go with 'im. He's just such another as your father's cousin
+Bill—and look what 'appened to him!”
+
+Miss Dowson shrugged her shoulders and subsiding in her chair, went
+on with her book, until a loud knock at the door and a cheerful, but
+peculiarly shrill, whistle sounded outside.
+
+'Miss Dowson, Subsiding in Her Chair, Went on With Her Book.'
+
+“There is my lord,” exclaimed Mrs. Dowson, waspishly; “anybody might
+think the 'ouse belonged to him. And now he's dancing on my clean
+doorstep.”
+
+“Might be only knocking the mud off afore coming in,” said Mr. Dowson,
+as he rose to open the door. “I've noticed he's very careful.”
+
+“I just came in to tell you a joke,” said Mr. Foss, as he followed his
+host into the kitchen and gazed tenderly at Miss Dowson—“best joke I
+ever had in my life; I've 'ad my fortune told—guess what it was! I've
+been laughing to myself ever since.”
+
+“Who told it?” inquired Mrs. Dowson, after a somewhat awkward silence.
+
+“Old gypsy woman in Peter Street,” replied Mr. Foss. “I gave 'er a wrong
+name and address, just in case she might ha' heard about me, and she did
+make a mess of it; upon my word she did.”
+
+“Wot did she say?” inquired Mr. Dowson.
+
+Mr. Foss laughed. “Said I was a wrong 'un,” he said, cheerfully, “and
+would bring my mother's gray hairs to the grave with sorrow. I'm to 'ave
+bad companions and take to drink; I'm to steal money to gamble with,
+and after all that I'm to 'ave five years for bigamy. I told her I
+was disappointed I wasn't to be hung, and she said it would be a
+disappointment to a lot of other people too. Laugh! I thought I should
+'ave killed myself.”
+
+“I don't see nothing to laugh at,” said Mrs. Dowson, coldly.
+
+“I shouldn't tell anybody else, Charlie,” said her husband. “Keep it a
+secret, my boy.”
+
+“But you—you don't believe it?” stammered the crestfallen Mr. Foss.
+
+Mrs. Dowson cast a stealthy glance at her daughter. “Its wonderful
+'ow some o' those fortune-tellers can see into the future,” she said,
+shaking her head.
+
+“Ah!” said her husband, with a confirmatory nod. “Wonderful is no name
+for it. I 'ad my fortune told once when I was a boy, and she told me I
+should marry the prettiest, and the nicest, and the sweetest-tempered
+gal in Poplar.”
+
+Mr. Foss, with a triumphant smile, barely waited for him to finish.
+“There you—” he began, and stopped suddenly.
+
+'I Just Came in to Tell You a Joke.'
+
+“What was you about to remark?” inquired Mrs. Dowson, icily.
+
+“I was going to say,” replied Mr. Foss—“I was going to say—I 'ad just
+got it on the tip o' my tongue to say, 'There you—you—you 'ad all the
+luck, Mr. Dowson.'”
+
+He edged his chair a little nearer to Flora; but there was a chilliness
+in the atmosphere against which his high spirits strove in vain. Mr.
+Dowson remembered other predictions which had come true, notably the
+case of one man who, learning that he was to come in for a legacy, gave
+up a two-pound-a-week job, and did actually come in for twenty pounds
+and a bird-cage seven years afterwards.
+
+'He Edged his Chair a Little Nearer to Flora.'
+
+“It's all nonsense,” protested Mr. Foss; “she only said all that because
+I made fun of her. You don't believe it, do you, Flora?”
+
+“I don't see anything to laugh at,” returned Miss Dowson. “Fancy five
+years for bigamy! Fancy the disgrace of it!”
+
+“But you're talking as if I was going to do it,” objected Mr. Foss. “I
+wish you'd go and 'ave your fortune told. Go and see what she says about
+you. P'r'aps you won't believe so much in fortune-telling afterwards.”
+
+Mrs. Dowson looked up quickly, and then, lowering her eyes, took her
+hand out of the stocking she had been darning and, placing it beside its
+companion, rolled the pair into a ball.
+
+“You go round to-morrow night, Flora,” she said, deliberately. “It
+sha'n't be said a daughter of mine was afraid to hear the truth about
+herself; father'll find the money.”
+
+“And she can say what she likes about you, but I sha'n't believe it,”
+said Mr. Foss, reproachfully.
+
+“I don't suppose it'll be anything to be ashamed of,” said Miss Dowson,
+sharply.
+
+Mr. Foss bade them good-night suddenly, and, finding himself accompanied
+to the door by Mr. Dowson, gave way to gloom. He stood for so long
+with one foot on the step and the other on the mat that Mr. Dowson, who
+disliked draughts, got impatient.
+
+'Mr. Foss Bade Them Good-night Suddenly.'
+
+“You'll catch cold, Charlie,” he said at last.
+
+“That's what I'm trying to do,” said Mr. Foss; “my death o' cold. Then I
+sha'n't get five years for bigamy,” he added bitterly.
+
+“Cheer up,” said Mr. Dowson; “five years ain't much out of a lifetime;
+and you can't expect to 'ave your fun without—”
+
+He watched the retreating figure of Mr. Foss as it stamped its way down
+the street, and closing the door returned to the kitchen to discuss
+palmistry and other sciences until bedtime.
+
+Mrs. Dowson saw husband and daughter off to work in the morning, and
+after washing up the breakfast things drew her chair up to the kitchen
+fire and became absorbed in memories of the past. All the leading
+incidents in Flora's career passed in review before her. Measles,
+whooping-cough, school-prizes, and other things peculiar to the age
+of innocence were all there. In her enthusiasm she nearly gave her a
+sprained ankle which had belonged to her sister. Still shaking her head
+over her mistake, she drew Flora's latest portrait carefully from its
+place in the album, and putting on her hat and jacket went round to make
+a call in Peter Street.
+
+By the time Flora returned home Mrs. Dowson appeared to have forgotten
+the arrangement made the night before, and, being reminded by her
+daughter, questioned whether any good could come of attempts to peer
+into the future. Mr. Dowson was still more emphatic, but his objections,
+being recognized by both ladies as trouser-pocket ones, carried no
+weight. It ended in Flora going off with half a crown in her glove and
+an urgent request from her father to make it as difficult as possible
+for the sibyl by giving a false name and address.
+
+No name was asked for, however, as Miss Dowson was shown into the untidy
+little back room on the first floor, in which the sorceress ate, slept,
+and received visitors. She rose from an old rocking-chair as the visitor
+entered, and, regarding her with a pair of beady black eyes, bade her
+sit down.
+
+“Are you the fortune-teller?” inquired the girl.
+
+“Men call me so,” was the reply.
+
+“Yes, but are you?” persisted Miss Dowson, who inherited her father's
+fondness for half crowns.
+
+“Yes,” said the other, in a more natural voice.
+
+She took the girl's left hand, and pouring a little dark liquid into the
+palm gazed at it intently. “Left for the past; right for the future,”
+she said, in a deep voice.
+
+She muttered some strange words and bent her head lower over the girl's
+hand.
+
+'She Muttered Some Strange Words and Bent Her Head Lower Over the Girl's
+Hand.'
+
+“I see a fair-haired infant,” she said, slowly; “I see a little girl of
+four racked with the whooping-cough; I see her later, eight she appears
+to be. She is in bed with measles.”
+
+Miss Dowson stared at her open-mouthed.
+
+“She goes away to the seaside to get strong,” continued the sorceress;
+“she is paddling; she falls into the water and spoils her frock; her
+mother——”
+
+“Never mind about that,” interrupted the staring Miss Dowson, hastily.
+“I was only eight at the time and mother always was ready with her
+hands.”
+
+“People on the beach smile,” resumed the other. “They--”
+
+“It don't take much to make some people laugh,” said Miss Dowson, with
+bitterness.
+
+“At fourteen she and a boy next door but seven both have the mumps.”
+
+“And why not?” demanded Miss Dowson with great warmth. “Why not?”
+
+“I'm only reading what I see in your hand,” said the other. “At fifteen
+I see her knocked down by a boat-swing; a boy from opposite brings her
+home.”
+
+“Passing at the time,” murmured Miss Dowson.
+
+“His head is done up with sticking-plaster. I see her apprenticed to a
+dressmaker. I see her——”
+
+The voice went on monotonously, and Flora, gasping with astonishment,
+listened to a long recital of the remaining interesting points in her
+career.
+
+“That brings us to the present,” said the soothsayer, dropping her hand.
+“Now for the future.”
+
+She took the girl's other hand and poured some of the liquid into it.
+Miss Dowson shrank back.
+
+“If it's anything dreadful,” she said, quickly, “I don't want to hear
+it. It—it ain't natural.”
+
+“I can warn you of dangers to keep clear of,” said the other, detaining
+her hand. “I can let you peep into the future and see what to do and
+what to avoid. Ah!”
+
+She bent over the girl's hand again and uttered little ejaculations of
+surprise and perplexity.
+
+“I see you moving in gay scenes surrounded by happy faces,” she said,
+slowly. “You are much sought after. Handsome presents and fine clothes
+are showered upon you. You will cross the sea. I see a dark young man
+and a fair young man. They will both influence your life. The fair young
+man works in his father's shop. He will have great riches.”
+
+“What about the other?” inquired Miss Dowson, after a somewhat lengthy
+pause.
+
+The fortune-teller shook her head. “He is his own worst enemy,” she
+said, “and he will drag down those he loves with him. You are going to
+marry one of them, but I can't see clear—I can't see which.”
+
+“Look again,” said the trembling Flora.
+
+“I can't see,” was the reply, “therefore it isn't meant for me to see.
+It's for you to choose. I can see them now as plain as I can see you.
+You are all three standing where two roads meet. The fair young man
+is beckoning to you and pointing to a big house and a motor-car and a
+yacht.”
+
+“And the other?” said the surprised Miss Dowson.
+
+“He's in knickerbockers,” said the other, doubtfully. “What does that
+mean? Ah, I see! They've got the broad arrow on them, and he is pointing
+to a jail. It's all gone—I can see no more.”
+
+She dropped the girl's hand and, drawing her hand across her eyes, sank
+back into her chair. Miss Dowson, with trembling fingers, dropped the
+half crown into her lap, and, with her head in a whirl, made her way
+downstairs.
+
+After such marvels the streets seemed oddly commonplace as she walked
+swiftly home. She decided as she went to keep her knowledge to herself,
+but inclination on the one hand and Mrs. Dowson on the other got the
+better of her resolution. With the exception of a few things in her
+past, already known and therefore not worth dwelling upon, the whole of
+the interview was disclosed.
+
+“It fair takes your breath away,” declared the astounded Mr. Dowson.
+
+“The fair young man is meant for Ben Lippet,” said his wife, “and the
+dark one is Charlie Foss. It must be. It's no use shutting your eyes to
+things.”
+
+“It's as plain as a pikestaff,” agreed her husband. “And she told
+Charlie five years for bigamy, and when she's telling Flora's Fortune
+she sees 'im in convict's clothes. How she does it I can't think.”
+
+“It's a gift,” said Mrs. Dowson, briefly, “and I do hope that Flora is
+going to act sensible. Anyhow, she can let Ben Lippet come and see her,
+without going upstairs with the tooth-ache.”
+
+“He can come if he likes,” said Flora; “though why Charlie couldn't have
+'ad the motor-car and 'im the five years, I don't know.”
+
+Mr. Lippet came in the next evening, and the evening after. In fact, so
+easy is it to fall into habits of an agreeable nature that nearly every
+evening saw him the happy guest of Mr. Dowson. A spirit of resignation,
+fostered by a present or two and a visit to the theatre, descended upon
+Miss Dowson. Fate and her mother combined were in a fair way to overcome
+her inclinations, when Mr. Foss, who had been out of town on a job, came
+in to hear the result of her visit to the fortune-teller, and found Mr.
+Lippet installed in the seat that used to be his.
+
+At first Mrs. Dowson turned a deaf ear to his request for information,
+and it was only when his jocularity on the subject passed the bounds of
+endurance that she consented to gratify his curiosity.
+
+“I didn't want to tell you,” she said, when she had finished, “but you
+asked for it, and now you've got it.”
+
+“It's very amusing,” said Mr. Foss. “I wonder who the dark young man in
+the fancy knickers is?”
+
+“Ah, I daresay you'll know some day,” said Mrs. Dowson.
+
+“Was the fair young man a good-looking chap?” inquired the inquisitive
+Mr. Foss.
+
+Mrs. Dowson hesitated. “Yes,” she said, defiantly.
+
+“Wonder who it can be?” muttered Mr. Foss, in perplexity.
+
+“You'll know that too some day, no doubt,” was the reply.
+
+“I'm glad it's to be a good-looking chap,” he said; “not that I think
+Flora believes in such rubbish as fortune-telling. She's too sensible.”
+
+“I do,” said Flora. “How should she know all the things I did when I was
+a little girl? Tell me that.”
+
+“I believe in it, too,” said Mrs. Dowson. “P'r'aps you'll tell me I'm
+not sensible!”
+
+Mr. Foss quailed at the challenge and relapsed into moody silence. The
+talk turned on an aunt of Mr. Lippet's, rumored to possess money, and an
+uncle who was “rolling” in it. He began to feel in the way, and only his
+native obstinacy prevented him from going.
+
+It was a relief to him when the front door opened and the heavy step of
+Mr. Dowson was heard in the tiny passage. If anything it seemed heavier
+than usual, and Mr. Dowson's manner when he entered the room and greeted
+his guests was singularly lacking in its usual cheerfulness. He drew
+a chair to the fire, and putting his feet on the fender gazed moodily
+between the bars.
+
+“I've been wondering as I came along,” he said at last, with an obvious
+attempt to speak carelessly, “whether this 'ere fortune-telling as we've
+been hearing so much about lately always comes out true.”
+
+“It depends on the fortune-teller,” said his wife.
+
+“I mean,” said Mr. Dowson, slowly, “I mean that gypsy woman that Charlie
+and Flora went to.”
+
+“Of course it does,” snapped his wife. “I'd trust what she says afore
+anything.”
+
+“I know five or six that she has told,” said Mr. Lippet, plucking up
+courage; “and they all believe 'er. They couldn't help themselves; they
+said so.”
+
+“Still, she might make a mistake sometimes,” said Mr. Dowson, faintly.
+“Might get mixed up, so to speak.”
+
+“Never!” said Mrs. Dowson, firmly.
+
+“Never!” echoed Flora and Mr. Lippet.
+
+Mr. Dowson heaved a big sigh, and his eye wandered round the room. It
+lighted on Mr. Foss.
+
+“She's an old humbug,” said that gentleman. “I've a good mind to put the
+police on to her.”
+
+Mr. Dowson reached over and gripped his hand. Then he sighed again.
+
+“Of course, it suits Charlie Foss to say so,” said Mrs. Dowson;
+“naturally he'd say so; he's got reasons. I believe every word she says.
+If she told me I was coming in for a fortune I should believe her; and
+if she told me I was going to have misfortunes I should believe her.”
+
+“Don't say that,” shouted Mr. Dowson, with startling energy. “Don't say
+that. That's what she did say!”
+
+“What?” cried his wife, sharply. “What are you talking about?”
+
+“I won eighteenpence off of Bob Stevens,” said her husband, staring at
+the table. “Eighteenpence is 'er price for telling the future only, and,
+being curious and feeling I'd like to know what's going to 'appen to me,
+I went in and had eighteenpennorth.”
+
+“Well, you're upset,” said Mrs. Dowson, with a quick glance at him. “You
+get upstairs to bed.”
+
+“I'd sooner stay 'ere,” said her husband, resuming his seat; “it seems
+more cheerful and lifelike. I wish I 'adn't gorn, that's what I wish.”
+
+“What did she tell you?” inquired Mr. Foss.
+
+Mr. Dowson thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and spoke
+desperately. “She says I'm to live to ninety, and I'm to travel to
+foreign parts——”
+
+“You get to bed,” said his wife. “Come along.”
+
+Mr. Dowson shook his head doggedly. “I'm to be rich,” he continued,
+slowly—“rich and loved. After my pore dear wife's death I'm to marry
+again; a young woman with money and stormy brown eyes.”
+
+Mrs. Dowson sprang from her chair and stood over him quivering with
+passion. “How dare you?” she gasped. “You—you've been drinking.”
+
+“I've 'ad two arf-pints,” said her husband, solemnly. “I shouldn't 'ave
+'ad the second only I felt so miserable. I know I sha'n't be 'appy with
+a young woman.”
+
+Mrs. Dowson, past speech, sank back in her chair and stared at him.
+
+“I shouldn't worry about it if I was you, Mrs. Dowson,” said Mr. Foss,
+kindly. “Look what she said about me. That ought to show you she ain't
+to be relied on.”
+
+“Eyes like lamps,” said Mr. Dowson, musingly, “and I'm forty-nine next
+month. Well, they do say every eye 'as its own idea of beauty.”
+
+A strange sound, half laugh and half cry, broke from the lips of the
+over-wrought Mrs. Dowson. She controlled herself by an effort.
+
+“If she said it,” she said, doggedly, with a fierce glance at Mr. Foss,
+“it'll come true. If, after my death, my 'usband is going to marry a
+young woman with—with——”
+
+“Stormy brown eyes,” interjected Mr. Foss, softly.
+
+“It's his fate and it can't be avoided,” concluded Mrs. Dowson.
+
+“But it's so soon,” said the unfortunate husband. “You're to die in
+three weeks and I'm to be married three months after.”
+
+Mrs. Dowson moistened her lips and tried, but in vain, to avoid the
+glittering eye of Mr. Foss. “Three!” she said, mechanically, “three!
+three weeks!”
+
+“Don't be frightened,” said Mr. Foss, in a winning voice. “I don't
+believe it; and, besides, we shall soon see! And if you don't die in
+three weeks, perhaps I sha'n't get five years for bigamy, and perhaps
+Flora won't marry a fair man with millions of money and motor-cars.”
+
+“No; perhaps she is wrong after all, mother,” said Mr. Dowson,
+hopefully.
+
+Mrs. Dowson gave him a singularly unkind look for one about to leave him
+so soon, and, afraid to trust herself to speech, left the room and went
+up-stairs. As the door closed behind her, Mr. Foss took the chair which
+Mr. Lippet had thoughtlessly vacated, and offered such consolations to
+Flora as he considered suitable to the occasion.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+ODD MAN OUT
+
+The night watchman pursed up his lips and shook his head. Friendship, he
+said, decidedly, is a deloosion and a snare. I've 'ad more friendships
+in my life than most people—owing to being took a fancy to for some
+reason or other—and they nearly all came to a sudden ending.
+
+'Friendship, he Said, Decidedly, is a Deloosion and A Snare.'
+
+I remember one man who used to think I couldn't do wrong; everything
+I did was right to 'im; and now if I pass 'im in the street he makes
+a face as if he'd got a hair in 'is mouth. All because I told 'im the
+truth one day when he was thinking of getting married. Being a bit
+uneasy-like in his mind, he asked me 'ow, supposing I was a gal, his
+looks would strike me.
+
+It was an orkard question, and I told him that he 'ad got a good 'art
+and that no man could 'ave a better pal. I said he 'ad got a good temper
+and was free with 'is money. O' course, that didn't satisfy 'im, and at
+last he told me to take a good look at 'im and tell him wot I thought of
+'is looks. There was no getting out of it, and at last I 'ad to tell him
+plain that everybody 'ad diff'rent ideas about looks; that looks wasn't
+everything; and that 'andsome is as 'andsome does. Even then 'e wasn't
+satisfied, and at last I told 'im, speaking as a pal to a pal, that if
+I was a gal and he came along trying to court me, I should go to the
+police about it.
+
+I remember two young fellers that was shipmates with me some years ago,
+and they was such out-and-out pals that everybody called 'em the Siamese
+twins. They always shipped together and shared lodgings together when
+they was ashore, and Ted Denver would no more 'ave thought of going out
+without Charlie Brice than Charlie Brice would 'ave thought of going
+out without 'im. They shared their baccy and their money and everything
+else, and it's my opinion that if they 'ad only 'ad one pair o' boots
+between 'em they'd 'ave hopped along in one each.
+
+They 'ad been like it for years, and they kept it up when they left the
+sea and got berths ashore. Anybody knowing them would ha' thought that
+nothing but death could part 'em; but it happened otherwise.
+
+There was a gal in it, of course. A gal that Ted Denver got into
+conversation with on top of a bus, owing to her steadying 'erself by
+putting her hand on 'is shoulder as she passed 'im. Bright, lively sort
+o' gal she seemed, and, afore Ted knew where he was, they was talking
+away as though they 'ad known each other for years.
+
+Charlie didn't seem to care much for it at fust, but he didn't raise no
+objection; and when the gal got up to go he stopped the bus for 'er by
+poking the driver in the back, and they all got off together. Ted went
+fust to break her fall, in case the bus started off too sudden, and
+Charlie 'elped her down behind by catching hold of a lace collar she
+was wearing. When she turned to speak to 'im about it, she knocked
+the conductor's hat off with 'er umbrella, and there was so much
+unpleasantness that by the time they 'ad got to the pavement she told
+Charlie that she never wanted to see his silly fat face agin.
+
+“It ain't fat,” ses Ted, speaking up for 'im; “it's the shape of it.”
+
+“And it ain't silly,” ses Charlie, speaking very quick; “mind that!”
+
+“It's a bit o' real lace,” ses the gal, twisting her 'ead round to look
+at the collar; “it cost me one and two-three only last night.”
+
+“One an' wot?” ses Charlie, who, not being a married man, didn't
+understand 'er.
+
+“One shilling,” ses the gal, “two pennies, and three farthings. D'ye
+understand that?”
+
+“Yes,” ses Charlie.
+
+“He's cleverer than he looks,” ses the gal, turning to Ted. “I s'pose
+you're right, and it is the shape after all.”
+
+Ted walked along one side of 'er and Charlie the other, till they came
+to the corner of the road where she lived, and then Ted and 'er stood
+there talking till Charlie got sick and tired of it, and kept tugging at
+Ted's coat for 'im to come away.
+
+“I'm coming,” ses Ted, at last. “I s'pose you won't be this way
+to-morrow night?” he ses, turning to the gal.
+
+“I might if I thought there was no chance of seeing you,” she ses,
+tossing her 'ead.
+
+“You needn't be alarmed,” ses Charlie, shoving in his oar; “we're going
+to a music-'all to-morrow night.”
+
+“Oh, go to your blessed music-'all,” ses the gal to Ted; “I don't want
+you.”
+
+She turned round and a'most ran up the road, with Ted follering 'er and
+begging of 'er not to be so hasty, and afore they parted she told 'im
+that 'er name was Emma White, and promised to meet 'im there the next
+night at seven.
+
+O' course Mr. Charlie Brice turned up alongside o' Ted the next night,
+and at fust Emma said she was going straight off 'ome agin. She did go
+part o' the way, and then, when she found that Ted wouldn't send his
+mate off, she came back and, woman-like, said as 'ow she wasn't going to
+go 'ome just to please Charlie Brice. She wouldn't speak a word to 'im,
+and when they all went to the music-'all together she sat with her face
+turned away from 'im and her elbow sticking in 'is chest. Doing that and
+watching the performance at the same time gave 'er a stiff neck, and she
+got in such a temper over it she wouldn't hardly speak to Ted, and when
+Charlie—meaning well—told 'er to rub it with a bit o' mutton-fat she
+nearly went off her 'ead.
+
+“Who asked you to come with us?” she ses, as soon as she could speak.
+“'Ow dare you force yourself where you ain't wanted?”
+
+“Ted wants me,” ses Charlie.
+
+“We've been together for years,” ses Ted. “You'll like Charlie when you
+get used to 'im—everybody does.”
+
+“Not me!” ses Emma, with a shiver. “It gives me the fair creeps to look
+at him. You'll 'ave to choose between us. If he comes, I sha'n't. Which
+is it to be?”
+
+Neither of 'em answered 'er, but the next night they both turned up as
+usual, and Emma White stood there looking at 'em and nearly crying with
+temper.
+
+“'Ow would you like it if I brought another young lady with me?” she ses
+to Ted.
+
+“It wouldn't make no difference to me,” ses Ted. “Any friend o' yours is
+welcome.”
+
+Emma stood looking at 'em, and then she patted 'er eyes with a
+pocket-'ankercher and began to look more cheerful.
+
+“You ain't the only one that has got a dear friend,” she says, looking
+at 'im and wiping 'er lips with the 'ankercher. “I've got one, and if
+Charlie Brice don't promise to stay at 'ome to-morrow night I'll bring
+her with me.”
+
+“Bring 'er, and welcome,” ses Ted.
+
+“I sha'n't stay at 'ome for fifty dear friends,” ses Charlie.
+
+“Have it your own way,” ses Emma. “If you come, Sophy Jennings comes,
+that's all.”
+
+She was as good as 'er word, too, and next night when they turned up
+they found Emma and 'er friend waiting for them. Charlie thought it was
+the friend's mother at fust, but he found out arterwards that she was a
+widder-woman. She had 'ad two husbands, and both of 'em 'ad passed away
+with a smile on their face. She seemed to take a fancy to Charlie the
+moment she set eyes on 'im, and two or three times, they'd 'ave lost Ted
+and Emma if it hadn't been for 'im.
+
+'When They Turned up They Found Emma and 'er Friend Waiting for Them.'
+
+They did lose 'em the next night, and Charlie Brice 'ad Mrs. Jennings
+all alone to himself for over a couple of hours walking up and down the
+Commercial Road talking about the weather; Charles saying 'ow wet and
+cold it was, and thinking p'r'aps they 'ad better go off 'ome afore she
+got a chill.
+
+He complained to Ted about it when 'e got 'ome, and Ted promised as
+it shouldn't 'appen agin. He said that 'im and Emma 'ad been so busy
+talking about getting married that he 'ad forgotten to keep an eye on
+him.
+
+“Married!” ses Charlie, very upset. “Married! And wot's to become o'
+me?”
+
+“Come and lodge with us,” ses Ted.
+
+They shook hands on it, but Ted said they 'ad both better keep it to
+themselves a bit and wait until Emma 'ad got more used to Charlie afore
+they told her. Ted let 'er get used to 'im for three days more afore he
+broke the news to 'er, and the way she went on was alarming. She went
+on for over ten minutes without taking breath, and she was just going to
+start again when Mrs. Jennings stopped her.
+
+“He's all right,” she ses. “You leave 'im alone.”
+
+“I'm not touching 'im,” ses Emma, very scornful.
+
+“You leave 'im alone,” ses Mrs. Jennings, taking hold of Charlie's arm.
+“I don't say things about your young man.”
+
+Charlie Brice started as if he 'ad been shot, and twice he opened 'is
+mouth to speak and show Mrs. Jennings 'er mistake; but, wot with trying
+to find 'is voice in the fust place, and then finding words to use
+it with in the second, he didn't say anything. He just walked along
+gasping, with 'is mouth open like a fish.
+
+“Don't take no notice of 'er, Charlie,” ses Mrs. Jennings.
+
+“I—I don't mind wot she ses,” ses pore Charlie; “but you're making a
+great——”
+
+“She's quick-tempered, is Emma,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “But, there, so am
+I. Wot you might call a generous temper, but quick.”
+
+Charlie went cold all over.
+
+“Treat me well and I treat other people well,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “I
+can't say fairer than that, can I?”
+
+Charlie said “Nobody could,” and then 'e walked along with her hanging
+on to 'is arm, arf wondering whether it would be wrong to shove 'er
+under a bus that was passing, and arf wondering whether 'e could do it
+if it wasn't.
+
+“As for Emma saying she won't 'ave you for a lodger,” ses Mrs. Jennings,
+“let 'er wait till she's asked. She'll wait a long time if I 'ave my
+say.”
+
+Charlie didn't answer her. He walked along with 'is mouth shut, his idea
+being that the least said the soonest mended. Even Emma asked 'im
+at last whether he 'ad lost 'is tongue, and said it was curious 'ow
+different love took different people.
+
+He talked fast enough going 'ome with Ted though, and pretty near lost
+'is temper with 'im when Ted asked 'im why he didn't tell Mrs. Jennings
+straight that she 'ad made a mistake.
+
+“She knows well enough,” he says, grinding 'is teeth; “she was just
+trying it on. That's 'ow it is widders get married agin. You'll 'ave
+to choose between going out with me or Emma, Ted. I can't face Mrs.
+Jennings again. I didn't think anybody could 'ave parted us like that.”
+
+Ted said it was all nonsense, but it was no good, and the next night he
+went off alone and came back very cross, saying that Mrs. Jennings 'ad
+been with 'em all the time, and when 'e spoke to Emma about it she said
+it was just tit for tat, and reminded 'im 'ow she had 'ad to put up
+with Charlie. For four nights running 'e went out for walks, with Emma
+holding one of 'is arms and Mrs. Jennings the other.
+
+“It's miserable for you all alone 'ere by yourself; Charlie,” he ses.
+“Why not come? She can't marry you against your will. Besides, I miss
+you.”
+
+Charlie shook 'ands with 'im, but 'e said 'e wouldn't walk out with Mrs.
+Jennings for a fortune. And all that Ted could say made no difference.
+He stayed indoors of an evening reading the paper, or going for little
+walks by 'imself, until at last Ted came 'ome one evening, smiling
+all over his face, and told 'im they had both been making fools of
+themselves for nothing.
+
+“Mrs. Jennings is going to be married,” he ses, clapping Charlie on the
+back.
+
+“Wot?” ses Charlie.
+
+Ted nodded. “Her and Emma 'ad words to-night,” he ses, laughing, “and
+it all come out. She's been keeping company for some time. He's away at
+present, and they're going to be married as soon as 'e comes back.”
+
+“Well,” ses Charlie, “why did she——”
+
+“To oblige Emma,” ses Ted, “to frighten you into staying at 'ome. I'd
+'ad my suspicions for some time, from one or two things I picked up.”
+
+“Ho!” ses Charlie. “Well, it'll be my turn to laugh to-morrow night.
+We'll see whether she can shake me off agin.”
+
+Ted looked at 'im a bit worried. “It's a bit orkard,” he ses, speaking
+very slow. “You see, they made it up arterwards, and then they both made
+me promise not to tell you, and if you come, they'll know I 'ave.”
+
+Charlie did a bit o' thinking. “Not if I pretend to make love to Mrs.
+Jennings?” he ses, at last, winking at 'im. “And it'll serve her right
+for being deceitful. We'll see 'ow she likes it. Wot sort o' chap is the
+young man—big?”
+
+“Can't be,” ses Ted; “cos Emma called 'im a little shrimp.”
+
+“I'll come,” ses Charlie; “and it'll be your own fault if they find out
+you told me about it.”
+
+They fell asleep talking of it, and the next evening Charlie put on a
+new neck-tie he 'ad bought, and arter letting Ted have arf an hour's
+start went out and met 'em accidental. The fust Mrs. Jennings knew of
+'is being there was by finding an arm put round 'er waist.
+
+“Good-evening, Sophy,” he ses.
+
+“'Ow—'ow dare you?” ses Mrs. Jennings, giving a scream and pushing him
+away.
+
+Charlie looked surprised.
+
+“Why, ain't you pleased to see me?” he ses. “I've 'ad the raging
+toothache for over a week; I've got it now a bit, but I couldn't stay
+away from you any longer.”
+
+“You behave yourself,” ses Mrs. Jennings.
+
+“Ted didn't say anything about your toothache,” ses Emma.
+
+“I wouldn't let 'im, for fear of alarming Sophy,” ses Charlie.
+
+Mrs. Jennings gave a sort of laugh and a sniff mixed.
+
+“Ain't you pleased to see me agin?” ses Charlie.
+
+“I don't want to see you,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “Wot d'ye think I want to
+see you for?”
+
+“Change your mind pretty quick, don't you?” ses Charlie. “It's blow 'ot
+and blow cold with you seemingly. Why, I've been counting the minutes
+till I should see you agin.”
+
+Mrs. Jennings told 'im not to make a fool of 'imself, and Charlie saw
+'er look at Emma in a puzzled sort of way, as if she didn't know wot to
+make of it. She kept drawing away from 'im and he kept drawing close to
+'er; other people on the pavement dodging and trying to get out of their
+way, and asking them which side they was going and to stick to it.
+
+“Why don't you behave yourself?” ses Emma, at last.
+
+“We're all right,” ses Charlie; “you look arter your own young man. We
+can look arter ourselves.”
+
+“Speak for yourself,” ses Mrs. Jennings, very sharp.
+
+Charlie laughed, and the more Mrs. Jennings showed 'er dislike for 'is
+nonsense the more he gave way to it. Even Ted thought it was going too
+far, and tried to interfere when he put his arm round Mrs. Jennings's
+waist and made 'er dance to a piano-organ; but there was no stopping
+'im, and at last Mrs. Jennings said she had 'ad enough of it, and told
+Emma she was going off 'ome.
+
+'He Put his Arm Round Mrs. Jennings's Waist and Made 'er Dance to a
+Piano-organ.'
+
+“Don't take no notice of 'im,” ses Emma.
+
+“I must,” ses Mrs. Jennings, who was arf crying with rage.
+
+“Well, if you go 'ome, I shall go,” ses Emma. “I don't want 'is company.
+I believe he's doing it on purpose.
+
+“Behave yourself, Charlie,” ses Ted.
+
+“All right, old man,” ses Charlie. “You look arter your young woman and
+I'll look arter mine.”
+
+“Your wot?” ses Mrs. Jennings, very loud.
+
+“My young woman,” ses Charlie.
+
+“Look 'ere,” ses Emma. “You may as well know first as last—Sophy 'as got
+a young man.”
+
+“O' course she 'as,” ses Charlie. “Twenty-seven on the second of next
+January, he is; same as me.”
+
+“She's going to be married,” ses Emma, very solemn.
+
+“Yes, to me,” ses Charlie, pretending to be surprised. “Didn't you know
+that?”
+
+He looked so pleased with 'imself at his cleverness that Emma arf put up
+her 'and, and then she thought better of it and turned away.
+
+“He's just doing it to get rid of you,” she ses to Mrs. Jennings, “and
+if you give way you're a bigger silly than I took you for. Let 'im go on
+and 'ave his own way, and tell your intended about 'im when you see 'im.
+Arter all, you started it.”
+
+“I was only 'aving a bit o' fun,” ses Mrs. Jennings.
+
+“Well, so is he,” ses Emma.
+
+“Not me!” ses Charlie, turning his eyes up. “I'm in dead earnest; and so
+is she. It's only shyness on 'er part; it'll soon wear off.”
+
+He took 'old of Mrs. Jennings's arm agin and began to tell 'er 'ow
+lonely 'is life was afore she came acrost his path like an angel that
+had lost its way. And he went on like that till she told Emma that she'd
+either 'ave to go off 'ome or scream. Ted interfered agin then, and,
+arter listening to wot he 'ad got to say, Charlie said as 'ow he'd try
+and keep his love under control a bit more.
+
+“She won't stand much more of it,” he ses to Ted, arter they 'ad
+got 'ome that night. “I shouldn't be surprised if she don't turn up
+to-morrow.”
+
+Ted shook his 'ead. “She'll turn up to oblige Emma,” he ses; “but
+there's no need for you to overdo it, Charlie. If her young man 'appened
+to get to 'ear of it it might cause trouble.”
+
+“I ain't afraid of 'im,” ses Charlie, “not if your description of 'im is
+right.”
+
+“Emma knows 'im,” ses Ted, “and I know she don't think much of 'im. She
+says he ain't as big as I am.”
+
+Charlie smiled to himself and laid awake for a little while thinking
+of pet names to surprise Mrs. Jennings with. He called 'er a fresh one
+every night for a week, and every night he took 'er a little bunch o'
+flowers with 'is love. When she flung 'em on the pavement he pretended
+to think she 'ad dropped 'em; but, do wot he would, 'e couldn't frighten
+'er into staying away, and 'is share of music-'alls and bus rides and
+things like that was more than 'e cared to think of. All the time Ted
+was as happy as a sand-boy, and one evening when Emma asked 'im to go
+'ome to supper 'e was so pleased 'e could 'ardly speak.
+
+“Father thought he'd like to see you,” ses Emma. “I shall be proud to
+shake 'im by the 'and,” ses Ted, going red with joy.
+
+“And you're to come, too, Sophy,” ses Emma, turning to Mrs. Jennings.
+
+Charlie coughed, feeling a bit orkard-like, and Emma stood there as if
+waiting for 'im to go.
+
+“Well, so long,” ses Charlie at last. “Take care o' my little prize
+packet.”
+
+“You can come, too, if you like,” ses Emma. “Father said I was to bring
+you. Don't 'ave none of your nonsense there, that's all.”
+
+Charlie thanked 'er, and they was all walking along, him and Mrs.
+Jennings behind, when Emma looked over 'er shoulder.
+
+“Sophy's young man is coming,” she ses.
+
+“Ho!” ses Charlie. He walked along doing a bit o' thinking, and by and
+by 'e gives a little laugh, and he ses, “I—I don't think p'r'aps I'll
+come arter all.”
+
+“Afraid?” ses Emma, with a nasty laugh.
+
+“No,” ses Charlie.
+
+“Well, it looks like it,” ses Emma.
+
+“He's brave enough where wimmen are concerned,” ses Mrs. Jennings.
+
+“I was thinking of you,” ses Charlie.
+
+“You needn't trouble about me,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “I can look after
+myself, thank you.”
+
+Charlie looked round, but there was no help for it. He got as far away
+from Mrs. Jennings as possible, and when they got to Emma's house he
+went in last.
+
+Emma's father and mother was there and two or three of 'er brothers and
+sisters, but the fust thing that Charlie noticed was a great lump of a
+man standing by the mantelpiece staring at 'im.
+
+“Come in, and make yourselves at 'ome,” ses Mr. White. “I'm glad to see
+you both. Emma 'as told me all about you.”
+
+Charlie's 'art went down into 'is boots, but every-body was so busy
+drawing their chairs up to the table that they didn't notice 'ow pale
+he 'ad gone. He sat between Mr. White and Mrs. Jennings, and by and by,
+when everybody was talking, he turned to 'im in a whisper, and asked 'im
+who the big chap was.
+
+“Mrs. Jennings's brother,” ses Mr. White; “brewer's drayman he is.”
+
+Charlie said, “Oh!” and went on eating, a bit relieved in 'is mind.
+
+“Your friend and my gal 'll make a nice couple,” ses Mr. White, looking
+at Ted and Emma, sitting 'and in 'and.
+
+“She couldn't 'ave a better husband,” ses Charlie, whispering again;
+“but where is Mrs. Jennings's young man? I 'eard he was to be here.”
+
+Mr. White put down 'is knife and fork. “Eh?” he ses, staring at 'im.
+
+“Mrs. Jennings's intended?” ses Charlie.
+
+“Who are you getting at?” ses Mr. White, winking at 'im.
+
+“But she 'as got one, ain't she?” ses Charlie. “That'll do,” ses Mr.
+White, with another wink. “Try it on somebody else.”
+
+“Wot are you two talking about?” ses Emma, who 'ad been watching 'em.
+
+“He's trying to pull my leg,” ses 'er father, smiling all over his face.
+“Been asking me where Mrs. Jennings's young man is. P'r'aps you oughtn't
+to 'ave told us yet, Emma.”
+
+“It's all right,” ses Emma. “He's got a very jealous disposition, poor
+fellow; and me and Sophy have been telling 'im about a young man just
+to tease 'im. We've been describing him to 'imself all along, and he
+thought it was somebody else.”
+
+She caught Charlie's eye, and all in a flash he saw 'ow he 'ad been
+done. Some of 'em began to laugh, and Mrs. Jennings put her 'and on his
+and gave it a squeeze. He sat there struck all of a heap, wondering wot
+he was going to do, and just at that moment there was a knock at the
+street door.
+
+“I'll open it,” he ses.
+
+He jumped up before anybody could stop 'im and went to the door. Two
+seconds arter Ted Denver followed 'im, and that is last he ever saw of
+Charlie Brice, he was running down the road without 'is hat as hard as
+he could run.
+
+'He Was Running Down the Road Without 'is Hat As Hard As He Could Run.'
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+“THE TOLL-HOUSE”
+
+“It's all nonsense,” said Jack Barnes. “Of course people have died in
+the house; people die in every house. As for the noises—wind in the
+chimney and rats in the wainscot are very convincing to a nervous man.
+Give me another cup of tea, Meagle.”
+
+“Lester and White are first,” said Meagle, who was presiding at the
+tea-table of the Three Feathers Inn. “You've had two.”
+
+Lester and White finished their cups with irritating slowness, pausing
+between sips to sniff the aroma, and to discover the sex and dates
+of arrival of the “strangers” which floated in some numbers in the
+beverage. Mr. Meagle served them to the brim, and then, turning to
+the grimly expectant Mr. Barnes, blandly requested him to ring for hot
+water.
+
+“We'll try and keep your nerves in their present healthy condition,”
+he remarked. “For my part I have a sort of half-and-half belief in the
+super-natural.”
+
+“All sensible people have,” said Lester. “An aunt of mine saw a ghost
+once.”
+
+White nodded.
+
+“I had an uncle that saw one,” he said.
+
+“It always is somebody else that sees them,” said Barnes.
+
+“Well, there is a house,” said Meagle, “a large house at an absurdly low
+rent, and nobody will take it. It has taken toll of at least one life
+of every family that has lived there—however short the time—and since
+it has stood empty caretaker after caretaker has died there. The last
+caretaker died fifteen years ago.”
+
+“Exactly,” said Barnes. “Long enough ago for legends to accumulate.”
+
+“I'll bet you a sovereign you won't spend the night there alone, for all
+your talk,” said White, suddenly.
+
+“And I,” said Lester.
+
+“No,” said Barnes slowly. “I don't believe in ghosts nor in any
+supernatural things whatever; all the same I admit that I should not
+care to pass a night there alone.”
+
+“But why not?” inquired White.
+
+“Wind in the chimney,” said Meagle with a grin.
+
+“Rats in the wainscot,” chimed in Lester.
+
+“As you like,” said Barnes coloring.
+
+“Suppose we all go,” said Meagle. “Start after supper, and get
+there about eleven. We have been walking for ten days now without an
+adventure—except Barnes's discovery that ditchwater smells longest.
+It will be a novelty, at any rate, and, if we break the spell by all
+surviving, the grateful owner ought to come down handsome.”
+
+“Let's see what the landlord has to say about it first,” said Lester.
+“There is no fun in passing a night in an ordinary empty house. Let us
+make sure that it is haunted.”
+
+He rang the bell, and, sending for the landlord, appealed to him in the
+name of our common humanity not to let them waste a night watching in a
+house in which spectres and hobgoblins had no part. The reply was more
+than reassuring, and the landlord, after describing with considerable
+art the exact appearance of a head which had been seen hanging out of a
+window in the moonlight, wound up with a polite but urgent request that
+they would settle his bill before they went.
+
+“It's all very well for you young gentlemen to have your fun,” he
+said indulgently; “but supposing as how you are all found dead in the
+morning, what about me? It ain't called the Toll-House for nothing, you
+know.”
+
+“Who died there last?” inquired Barnes, with an air of polite derision.
+
+“A tramp,” was the reply. “He went there for the sake of half a crown,
+and they found him next morning hanging from the balusters, dead.”
+
+“Suicide,” said Barnes. “Unsound mind.”
+
+The landlord nodded. “That's what the jury brought it in,” he said
+slowly; “but his mind was sound enough when he went in there. I'd known
+him, off and on, for years. I'm a poor man, but I wouldn't spend the
+night in that house for a hundred pounds.”
+
+'I'm a Poor Man, But I Wouldn't Spend the Night in That House for a
+Hundred Pounds.'
+
+He repeated this remark as they started on their expedition a few
+hours later. They left as the inn was closing for the night; bolts
+shot noisily behind them, and, as the regular customers trudged slowly
+homewards, they set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the house.
+Most of the cottages were already in darkness, and lights in others went
+out as they passed.
+
+“It seems rather hard that we have got to lose a night's rest in order
+to convince Barnes of the existence of ghosts,” said White.
+
+“It's in a good cause,” said Meagle. “A most worthy object; and
+something seems to tell me that we shall succeed. You didn't forget the
+candles, Lester?”
+
+“I have brought two,” was the reply; “all the old man could spare.”
+
+There was but little moon, and the night was cloudy. The road between
+high hedges was dark, and in one place, where it ran through a wood, so
+black that they twice stumbled in the uneven ground at the side of it.
+
+“Fancy leaving our comfortable beds for this!” said White again. “Let
+me see; this desirable residential sepulchre lies to the right, doesn't
+it?”
+
+“Farther on,” said Meagle.
+
+They walked on for some time in silence, broken only by White's tribute
+to the softness, the cleanliness, and the comfort of the bed which was
+receding farther and farther into the distance. Under Meagle's guidance
+they turned off at last to the right, and, after a walk of a quarter of
+a mile, saw the gates of the house before them.
+
+'They Saw the Gates of The House Before Them.'
+
+The lodge was almost hidden by overgrown shrubs and the drive was choked
+with rank growths. Meagle leading, they pushed through it until the dark
+pile of the house loomed above them.
+
+“There is a window at the back where we can get in, so the landlord
+says,” said Lester, as they stood before the hall door.
+
+“Window?” said Meagle. “Nonsense. Let's do the thing properly. Where's
+the knocker?”
+
+He felt for it in the darkness and gave a thundering rat-tat-tat at the
+door.
+
+“Don't play the fool,” said Barnes crossly.
+
+“Ghostly servants are all asleep,” said Meagle gravely, “but I'll wake
+them up before I've done with them. It's scandalous keeping us out here
+in the dark.”
+
+He plied the knocker again, and the noise volleyed in the emptiness
+beyond. Then with a sudden exclamation he put out his hands and stumbled
+forward.
+
+“Why, it was open all the time,” he said, with an odd catch in his
+voice. “Come on.”
+
+“I don't believe it was open,” said Lester, hanging back. “Somebody is
+playing us a trick.”
+
+“Nonsense,” said Meagle sharply. “Give me a candle. Thanks. Who's got a
+match?”
+
+Barnes produced a box and struck one, and Meagle, shielding the candle
+with his hand, led the way forward to the foot of the stairs. “Shut the
+door, somebody,” he said, “there's too much draught.”
+
+“It is shut,” said White, glancing behind him.
+
+Meagle fingered his chin. “Who shut it?” he inquired, looking from one
+to the other. “Who came in last?”
+
+“I did,” said Lester, “but I don't remember shutting it—perhaps I did,
+though.”
+
+Meagle, about to speak, thought better of it, and, still carefully
+guarding the flame, began to explore the house, with the others close
+behind. Shadows danced on the walls and lurked in the corners as they
+proceeded. At the end of the passage they found a second staircase, and
+ascending it slowly gained the first floor.
+
+“Careful!” said Meagle, as they gained the landing.
+
+He held the candle forward and showed where the balusters had broken
+away. Then he peered curiously into the void beneath.
+
+“This is where the tramp hanged himself, I suppose,” he said
+thoughtfully.
+
+“You've got an unwholesome mind,” said White, as they walked on. “This
+place is quite creepy enough without your remembering that. Now let's
+find a comfortable room and have a little nip of whiskey apiece and a
+pipe. How will this do?”
+
+He opened a door at the end of the passage and revealed a small square
+room. Meagle led the way with the candle, and, first melting a drop or
+two of tallow, stuck it on the mantelpiece. The others seated themselves
+on the floor and watched pleasantly as White drew from his pocket a
+small bottle of whiskey and a tin cup.
+
+“H'm! I've forgotten the water,” he exclaimed.
+
+“I'll soon get some,” said Meagle.
+
+He tugged violently at the bell-handle, and the rusty jangling of a bell
+sounded from a distant kitchen. He rang again.
+
+“Don't play the fool,” said Barnes roughly.
+
+Meagle laughed. “I only wanted to convince you,” he said kindly. “There
+ought to be, at any rate, one ghost in the servants' hall.”
+
+Barnes held up his hand for silence.
+
+“Yes?” said Meagle with a grin at the other two. “Is anybody coming?”
+
+“Suppose we drop this game and go back,” said Barnes suddenly. “I don't
+believe in spirits, but nerves are outside anybody's command. You may
+laugh as you like, but it really seemed to me that I heard a door open
+below and steps on the stairs.”
+
+His voice was drowned in a roar of laughter.
+
+“He is coming round,” said Meagle with a smirk. “By the time I have done
+with him he will be a confirmed believer. Well, who will go and get some
+water? Will you, Barnes?”
+
+“No,” was the reply.
+
+“If there is any it might not be safe to drink after all these years,”
+said Lester. “We must do without it.”
+
+Meagle nodded, and taking a seat on the floor held out his hand for the
+cup. Pipes were lit and the clean, wholesome smell of tobacco filled the
+room. White produced a pack of cards; talk and laughter rang through the
+room and died away reluctantly in distant corridors.
+
+“Empty rooms always delude me into the belief that I possess a deep
+voice,” said Meagle. “To-morrow——”
+
+He started up with a smothered exclamation as the light went out
+suddenly and something struck him on the head. The others sprang to
+their feet. Then Meagle laughed.
+
+“It's the candle,” he exclaimed. “I didn't stick it enough.”
+
+Barnes struck a match and relighting the candle stuck it on the
+mantelpiece, and sitting down took up his cards again.
+
+“What was I going to say?” said Meagle. “Oh, I know; to-morrow I——”
+
+“Listen!” said White, laying his hand on the other's sleeve. “Upon my
+word I really thought I heard a laugh.”
+
+“Look here!” said Barnes. “What do you say to going back? I've had
+enough of this. I keep fancying that I hear things too; sounds of
+something moving about in the passage outside. I know it's only fancy,
+but it's uncomfortable.”
+
+“You go if you want to,” said Meagle, “and we will play dummy. Or you
+might ask the tramp to take your hand for you, as you go downstairs.”
+
+Barnes shivered and exclaimed angrily. He got up and, walking to the
+half-closed door, listened.
+
+“Go outside,” said Meagle, winking at the other two. “I'll dare you to
+go down to the hall door and back by yourself.”
+
+Barnes came back and, bending forward, lit his pipe at the candle.
+
+“I am nervous but rational,” he said, blowing out a thin cloud of smoke.
+“My nerves tell me that there is something prowling up and down the long
+passage outside; my reason tells me that it is all nonsense. Where are
+my cards?”
+
+He sat down again, and taking up his hand, looked through it carefully
+and led.
+
+“Your play, White,” he said after a pause. White made no sign.
+
+“Why, he is asleep,” said Meagle. “Wake up, old man. Wake up and play.”
+
+Lester, who was sitting next to him, took the sleeping man by the arm
+and shook him, gently at first and then with some roughness; but White,
+with his back against the wall and his head bowed, made no sign. Meagle
+bawled in his ear and then turned a puzzled face to the others.
+
+“He sleeps like the dead,” he said, grimacing. “Well, there are still
+three of us to keep each other company.”
+
+“Yes,” said Lester, nodding. “Unless—Good Lord! suppose——”
+
+He broke off and eyed them trembling.
+
+“Suppose what?” inquired Meagle.
+
+“Nothing,” stammered Lester. “Let's wake him. Try him again. White!
+White!”
+
+“It's no good,” said Meagle seriously; “there's something wrong about
+that sleep.”
+
+“That's what I meant,” said Lester; “and if he goes to sleep like that,
+why shouldn't——”
+
+Meagle sprang to his feet. “Nonsense,” he said roughly. “He's tired out;
+that's all. Still, let's take him up and clear out. You take his legs
+and Barnes will lead the way with the candle. Yes? Who's that?”
+
+He looked up quickly towards the door. “Thought I heard somebody tap,”
+he said with a shamefaced laugh. “Now, Lester, up with him. One, two—
+Lester! Lester!”
+
+He sprang forward too late; Lester, with his face buried in his arms,
+had rolled over on the floor fast asleep, and his utmost efforts failed
+to awaken him.
+
+“He—is—asleep,” he stammered. “Asleep!”
+
+Barnes, who had taken the candle from the mantel-piece, stood peering at
+the sleepers in silence and dropping tallow over the floor.
+
+'Barnes, Stood Peering at the Sleepers in Silence And Dropping Tallow
+over the Floor.'
+
+“We must get out of this,” said Meagle. “Quick!” Barnes hesitated. “We
+can't leave them here—” he began.
+
+“We must,” said Meagle in strident tones. “If you go to sleep I shall
+go—Quick! Come.”
+
+He seized the other by the arm and strove to drag him to the door.
+Barnes shook him off, and putting the candle back on the mantelpiece,
+tried again to arouse the sleepers.
+
+“It's no good,” he said at last, and, turning from them, watched Meagle.
+“Don't you go to sleep,” he said anxiously.
+
+Meagle shook his head, and they stood for some time in uneasy silence.
+“May as well shut the door,” said Barnes at last.
+
+He crossed over and closed it gently. Then at a scuffling noise behind
+him he turned and saw Meagle in a heap on the hearthstone.
+
+With a sharp catch in his breath he stood motionless. Inside the room
+the candle, fluttering in the draught, showed dimly the grotesque
+attitudes of the sleepers. Beyond the door there seemed to his
+over-wrought imagination a strange and stealthy unrest. He tried to
+whistle, but his lips were parched, and in a mechanical fashion he
+stooped, and began to pick up the cards which littered the floor.
+
+He stopped once or twice and stood with bent head listening. The unrest
+outside seemed to increase; a loud creaking sounded from the stairs.
+
+“Who is there?” he cried loudly.
+
+The creaking ceased. He crossed to the door and flinging it open, strode
+out into the corridor. As he walked his fears left him suddenly.
+
+“Come on!” he cried with a low laugh. “All of you! All of you! Show your
+faces—your infernal ugly faces! Don't skulk!”
+
+He laughed again and walked on; and the heap in the fireplace put out
+his head tortoise fashion and listened in horror to the retreating
+footsteps. Not until they had become inaudible in the distance did the
+listeners' features relax.
+
+“Good Lord, Lester, we've driven him mad,” he said in a frightened
+whisper. “We must go after him.”
+
+There was no reply. Meagle sprung to his feet. “Do you hear?” he cried.
+“Stop your fooling now; this is serious. White! Lester! Do you hear?”
+
+He bent and surveyed them in angry bewilderment. “All right,” he said in
+a trembling voice. “You won't frighten me, you know.”
+
+He turned away and walked with exaggerated carelessness in the direction
+of the door. He even went outside and peeped through the crack, but the
+sleepers did not stir. He glanced into the blackness behind, and then
+came hastily into the room again.
+
+He stood for a few seconds regarding them. The stillness in the house
+was horrible; he could not even hear them breathe. With a sudden
+resolution he snatched the candle from the mantelpiece and held the
+flame to White's finger. Then as he reeled back stupefied the footsteps
+again became audible.
+
+He stood with the candle in his shaking hand listening. He heard them
+ascending the farther staircase, but they stopped suddenly as he went
+to the door. He walked a little way along the passage, and they went
+scurrying down the stairs and then at a jog-trot along the corridor
+below. He went back to the main staircase, and they ceased again.
+
+For a time he hung over the balusters, listening and trying to pierce
+the blackness below; then slowly, step by step, he made his way
+downstairs, and, holding the candle above his head, peered about him.
+
+“Barnes!” he called. “Where are you?” Shaking with fright, he made his
+way along the passage, and summoning up all his courage pushed open
+doors and gazed fearfully into empty rooms. Then, quite suddenly, he
+heard the footsteps in front of him.
+
+He followed slowly for fear of extinguishing the candle, until they led
+him at last into a vast bare kitchen with damp walls and a broken floor.
+In front of him a door leading into an inside room had just closed. He
+ran towards it and flung it open, and a cold air blew out the candle. He
+stood aghast.
+
+'Into a Vast Bare Kitchen With Damp Walls and A Broken Floor.'
+
+“Barnes!” he cried again. “Don't be afraid! It is I—Meagle!”
+
+There was no answer. He stood gazing into the darkness, and all the time
+the idea of something close at hand watching was upon him. Then suddenly
+the steps broke out overhead again.
+
+He drew back hastily, and passing through the kitchen groped his way
+along the narrow passages. He could now see better in the darkness, and
+finding himself at last at the foot of the staircase began to ascend
+it noiselessly. He reached the landing just in time to see a figure
+disappear round the angle of a wall. Still careful to make no noise, he
+followed the sound of the steps until they led him to the top floor, and
+he cornered the chase at the end of a short passage.
+
+“Barnes!” he whispered. “Barnes!”
+
+Something stirred in the darkness. A small circular window at the end of
+the passage just softened the blackness and revealed the dim outlines
+of a motionless figure. Meagle, in place of advancing, stood almost as
+still as a sudden horrible doubt took possession of him. With his eyes
+fixed on the shape in front he fell back slowly and, as it advanced upon
+him, burst into a terrible cry.
+
+“Barnes! For God's sake! Is it you?”
+
+The echoes of his voice left the air quivering, but the figure before
+him paid no heed. For a moment he tried to brace his courage up to
+endure its approach, then with a smothered cry he turned and fled.
+
+The passages wound like a maze, and he threaded them blindly in a vain
+search for the stairs. If he could get down and open the hall door——
+
+He caught his breath in a sob; the steps had begun again. At a lumbering
+trot they clattered up and down the bare passages, in and out, up and
+down, as though in search of him. He stood appalled, and then as they
+drew near entered a small room and stood behind the door as they rushed
+by. He came out and ran swiftly and noiselessly in the other direction,
+and in a moment the steps were after him. He found the long corridor
+and raced along it at top speed. The stairs he knew were at the end, and
+with the steps close behind he descended them in blind haste. The
+steps gained on him, and he shrank to the side to let them pass, still
+continuing his headlong flight. Then suddenly he seemed to slip off the
+earth into space.
+
+Lester awoke in the morning to find the sunshine streaming into the
+room, and White sitting up and regarding with some perplexity a badly
+blistered finger.
+
+“Where are the others?” inquired Lester. “Gone, I suppose,” said White.
+“We must have been asleep.”
+
+Lester arose, and stretching his stiffened limbs, dusted his clothes
+with his hands, and went out into the corridor. White followed. At the
+noise of their approach a figure which had been lying asleep at the
+other end sat up and revealed the face of Barnes. “Why, I've been
+asleep,” he said in surprise. “I don't remember coming here. How did I
+get here?”
+
+“Nice place to come for a nap,” said Lester, severely, as he pointed to
+the gap in the balusters. “Look there! Another yard and where would you
+have been?”
+
+He walked carelessly to the edge and looked over. In response to his
+startled cry the others drew near, and all three stood gazing at the
+dead man below.
+
+'All Three Stood Gazing at the Dead Man Below.'
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+PETER'S PENCE
+
+Sailormen don't bother much about their relations, as a rule, said the
+night-watchman; sometimes because a railway-ticket costs as much as a
+barrel o' beer, and they ain't got the money for both, and sometimes
+because most relations run away with the idea that a sailorman has been
+knocking about 'arf over the world just to bring them 'ome presents.
+
+Then, agin, some relations are partikler about appearances, and they
+don't like it if a chap don't wear a collar and tidy 'imself up. Dress
+is everything nowadays; put me in a top 'at and a tail-coat, with a
+twopenny smoke stuck in my mouth, and who would know the difference
+between me and a lord? Put a bishop in my clothes, and you'd ask 'im to
+'ave a 'arf-pint as soon as you would me—sooner, p'r'aps.
+
+'Put a Bishop in My Clothes, and You'd Ask 'im to 'ave A 'arf-pint As
+Soon As You Would Me.'
+
+Talking of relations reminds me of Peter Russet's uncle. It's some years
+ago now, and Peter and old Sam Small and Ginger Dick 'ad just come back
+arter being away for nearly ten months. They 'ad all got money in their
+pockets, and they was just talking about the spree they was going to
+have, when a letter was brought to Peter, wot had been waiting for 'im
+at the office.
+
+He didn't like opening it at fust. The last letter he had 'ad kept 'im
+hiding indoors for a week, and then made him ship a fortnight afore 'e
+had meant to. He stood turning it over and over, and at last, arter Sam,
+wot was always a curious man, 'ad told 'im that if he didn't open it
+he'd do it for 'im, he tore it open and read it.
+
+“It's from my old uncle, George Goodman,” he ses, staring. “Why, I ain't
+seen 'im for over twenty years.”
+
+“Do you owe 'im any money?” ses Sam.
+
+Peter shook his 'ead. “He's up in London,” he ses, looking at the letter
+agin, “up in London for the fust time in thirty-three years, and he
+wants to come and stay with me so that I can show 'im about.”
+
+“Wot is he?” ses Sam.
+
+“He's retired,” ses Peter, trying not to speak proud.
+
+“Got money?” ses Sam, with a start.
+
+“I b'leeve so,” ses Peter, in a off-hand way. “I don't s'pose 'e lives
+on air.”
+
+“Any wives or children?” ses Sam.
+
+“No,” ses Peter. “He 'ad a wife, but she died.”
+
+“Then you have 'im, Peter,” ses Sam, wot was always looking out for
+money. “Don't throw away a oppertunity like that. Why, if you treat 'im
+well he might leave it all to you.”
+
+“No such luck,” ses Peter.
+
+“You do as Sam ses,” ses Ginger. “I wish I'd got an uncle.”
+
+“We'll try and give 'im a good time,” ses Sam, “and if he's anything
+like Peter we shall enjoy ourselves.”
+
+“Yes; but he ain't,” ses Peter. “He's a very solemn, serious-minded
+man, and a strong teetotaller. Wot you'd call a glass o' beer he'd call
+pison. That's 'ow he got on. He's thought a great deal of in 'is place,
+I can tell you, but he ain't my sort.”
+
+“That's a bit orkard,” ses Sam, scratching his 'ead. “Same time, it
+don't do to throw away a chance. If 'e was my uncle I should pretend to
+be a teetotaller while 'e was here, just to please 'im.”
+
+“And when you felt like a drink, Peter,” ses Ginger, “me and Sam would
+look arter 'im while you slipped off to get it.”
+
+“He could 'ave the room below us,” ses Sam. “It is empty.”
+
+Peter gave a sniff. “Wot about you and Ginger?” he ses.
+
+“Wot about us?” ses Sam and Ginger, both together.
+
+“Why, you'd 'ave to be teetotallers, too,” ses Peter. “Wot's the good o'
+me pretending to be steady if 'e sees I've got pals like you?”
+
+Sam scratched his 'ead agin, ever so long, and at last he ses, “Well,
+mate,” he ses, “drink don't trouble me nor Ginger. We can do without it,
+as far as that goes; and we must all take it in turns to keep the old
+gentleman busy while the others go and get wot they want. You'd better
+go and take the room downstairs for 'im, afore it goes.”
+
+Peter looked at 'im in surprise, but that was Sam all over. The idea o'
+knowing a man with money was too much for 'im, and he sat there giving
+good advice to Peter about 'is behavior until Peter didn't know whether
+it was 'is uncle or Sam's. 'Owever, he took the room and wrote the
+letter, and next arternoon at three o'clock Mr. Goodman came in
+a four-wheel cab with a big bag and a fat umbrella. A short,
+stiffish-built man of about sixty he was, with 'is top lip shaved and a
+bit o' short gray beard. He 'ad on a top 'at and a tail-coat, black kid
+gloves and a little black bow, and he didn't answer the cabman back a
+single word.
+
+'Mr. Goodman Came in a Four-wheel Cab With A Big Bag and A Fat
+Umbrella.'
+
+He seemed quite pleased to see Peter, and by and by Sam, who was
+bursting with curiosity, came down-stairs to ask Peter to lend 'im a
+boot-lace, and was interduced. Then Ginger came down to look for Sam,
+and in a few minutes they was all talking as comfortable as possible.
+
+“I ain't seen Peter for twenty years,” ses Mr. Goodman—“twenty long
+years!”
+
+Sam shook his 'ead and looked at the floor.
+
+“I happened to go and see Peter's sister—my niece Polly,” ses Mr.
+Goodman, “and she told me the name of 'is ship. It was quite by chance,
+because she told me it was the fust letter she had 'ad from him in seven
+years.”
+
+“I didn't think it was so long as that,” ses Peter. “Time passes so
+quick.”
+
+His uncle nodded. “Ah, so it does,” 'e ses. “It's all the same whether
+we spend it on the foaming ocean or pass our little lives ashore. Afore
+we can turn round, in a manner o' speaking, it 'as gorn.”
+
+“The main thing,” ses Peter, in a good voice, “is to pass it properly.”
+
+“Then it don't matter,” ses Ginger.
+
+“So it don't,” ses Sam, very serious.
+
+“I held 'im in my arms when 'e was a baby,” ses Mr. Goodman, looking at
+Peter.
+
+“Fond o' children?” ses Sam.
+
+Mr. Goodman nodded. “Fond of everybody,” he ses.
+
+“That's 'ow Peter is,” ses Ginger; “specially young——”
+
+Peter Russet and Sam both turned and looked at 'im very sharp.
+
+“Children,” ses Ginger, remembering 'imself, “and teetotallers. I s'pose
+it is being a teetotaller 'imself.”
+
+“Is Peter a teetotaller?” ses Mr. Goodman. “I'd no idea of it. Wot a
+joyful thing!”
+
+“It was your example wot put it into his 'ead fust, I b'leeve,” ses Sam,
+looking at Peter for 'im to notice 'ow clever he was.
+
+“And then, Sam and Ginger Dick being teetotallers too,” ses Peter, “we
+all, natural-like, keep together.”
+
+Mr. Goodman said they was wise men, and, arter a little more talk, he
+said 'ow would it be if they went out and saw a little bit of the great
+wicked city? They all said they would, and Ginger got quite excited
+about it until he found that it meant London.
+
+They got on a bus at Aldgate, and fust of all they went to the British
+Museum, and when Mr. Goodman was tired o' that—and long arter the others
+was—they went into a place and 'ad a nice strong cup of tea and a piece
+o' cake each. When they come out o' there they all walked about looking
+at the shops until they was tired out, and arter wot Mr. Goodman said
+was a very improving evening they all went 'ome.
+
+Sam and Ginger went 'ome just for the look 'o the thing, and arter
+waiting a few minutes in their room they crept downstairs agin to spend
+wot was left of the evening. They went down as quiet as mice, but, for
+all that, just as they was passing Mr. Goodman's room the door opened,
+and Peter, in a polite voice, asked 'em to step inside.
+
+“We was just thinking you'd be dull up there all alone,” he ses.
+
+Sam lost 'is presence o' mind, and afore he knew wot 'e was doing 'im
+and Ginger 'ad walked in and sat down. They sat there for over an hour
+and a 'arf talking, and then Sam, with a look at Ginger, said they must
+be going, because he 'ad got to call for a pair o' boots he 'ad left to
+be mended.
+
+“Why, Sam, wot are you thinking of?” ses Peter, who didn't want anybody
+to 'ave wot he couldn't. “Why, the shop's shut.”
+
+“I don't think so,” ses Sam, glaring at 'im. “Anyway, we can go and
+see.”
+
+Peter said he'd go with 'im, and just as they got to the door Mr.
+Goodman said he'd go too. O' course, the shops was shut, and arter Mr.
+Goodman 'ad stood on Tower Hill admiring the Tower by moonlight till Sam
+felt ready to drop, they all walked back. Three times Sam's boot-lace
+come undone, but as the ethers all stopped too to see 'im do it up it
+didn't do 'im much good. Wot with temper and dryness 'e could 'ardly bid
+Peter “Good-night.”
+
+Sam and Ginger 'ad something the next morning, but morning ain't the
+time for it; and arter they had 'ad dinner Mr. Goodman asked 'em to go
+to the Zoological Gardens with 'im. He paid for them all, and he 'ad a
+lot to say about kindness to animals and 'ow you could do anything with
+'em a'most by kindness. He walked about the place talking like a book,
+and when a fat monkey, wot was pretending to be asleep, got a bit o'
+Sam's whisker, he said it was on'y instink, and the animal had no wish
+to do 'im 'arm.
+
+“Very likely thought it was doing you a kindness, Sam,” ses Ginger.
+
+Mr. Goodman said it was very likely, afore Sam could speak, and arter
+walking about and looking at the other things they come out and 'ad a
+nice, strong, 'ot cup o' tea, same as they 'ad the day before, and then
+walked about, not knowing what to do with themselves.
+
+Sam got tired of it fust, and catching Ginger's eye said he thought it
+was time to get 'ome in case too much enjoyment wasn't good for 'em.
+His idea was to get off with Ginger and make a night of it, and when 'e
+found Peter and his uncle was coming too, he began to think that things
+was looking serious.
+
+“I don't want to spile your evening,” he says, very perlite. “I must get
+'ome to mend a pair o' trowsis o' mine, but there's no need for you to
+come.”
+
+“I'll come and watch you,” ses Peter's uncle.
+
+“And then I'm going off to bed early,” ses Sam. “Me, too,” ses Ginger,
+and Peter said he could hardly keep 'is eyes open.
+
+They got on a bus, and as Sam was about to foller Ginger and Peter on
+top, Mr. Goodman took hold of 'im by the arm and said they'd go inside.
+He paid two penny fares, and while Sam was wondering 'ow to tell 'im
+that it would be threepence each, the bus stopped to take up a passenger
+and he got up and moved to the door.
+
+“They've gone up there,” he ses, pointing.
+
+Afore Sam could stop 'im he got off, and Sam, full o' surprise, got off
+too, and follered 'im' on to the pavement.
+
+“Who's gone up there?” he ses, as the bus went on agin.
+
+“Peter and Mr. Ginger Dick,” ses Mr. Goodman. “But don't you trouble.
+You go 'ome and mend your trowsis.”
+
+“But they're on the bus,” ses Sam, staring. “Dick and Peter, I mean.”
+
+Mr. Goodman shook his 'ead.
+
+“They got off. Didn't you see 'em?” he ses.
+
+“No,” ses Sam, “I'll swear they didn't.”
+
+“Well, it's my mistake, I s'pose,” ses Peter's uncle. “But you get off
+home; I'm not tired yet, and I'll walk.”
+
+Sam said 'e wasn't very tired, and he walked along wondering whether
+Mr. Goodman was quite right in his 'ead. For one thing, 'e seemed upset
+about something or other, and kept taking little peeps at 'im in a way
+he couldn't understand at all.
+
+“It was nice tea we 'ad this arternoon,” ses Mr. Goodman at last.
+
+“De-licious,” ses Sam.
+
+“Trust a teetotaller for knowing good tea,” ses Mr. Goodman. “I expect
+Peter enjoyed it. I s'pose 'e is a very strict teetotaller?”
+
+“Strict ain't the word for it,” ses Sam, trying to do 'is duty by Peter.
+“We all are.”
+
+“That's right,” ses Mr. Goodman, and he pushed his 'at back and looked
+at Sam very serious. They walked on a bit further, and then Peter's
+uncle stopped sudden just as they was passing a large public-'ouse and
+looked at Sam.
+
+“I don't want Peter to know, 'cos it might alarm 'im,” he ses, “but I've
+come over a bit faint. I'll go in 'ere for 'arf a minnit and sit down.
+You'd better wait outside.”
+
+“I'll come in with you, in case you want help,” ses Sam. “I don't mind
+wot people think.”
+
+Mr. Goodman tried to persuade 'im not to, but it was all no good, and at
+last 'e walked in and sat down on a tall stool that stood agin the bar,
+and put his hand to his 'ead.
+
+“I s'pose we shall 'ave to 'ave something,” he ses in a whisper to Sam;
+“we can't expect to come in and sit down for nothing. What'll you take?”
+
+Sam looked at 'im, but he might just as well ha' looked at a brass
+door-knob.
+
+“I—I—I'll 'ave a small ginger-beer,” he ses at last, “a very small one.”
+
+“One small ginger,” ses Mr. Goodman to the bar-maid, “and one special
+Scotch.”
+
+Sam could 'ardly believe his ears, and he stood there 'oldin' his glass
+o' ginger-beer and watching Peter's teetotal uncle drink whiskey, and
+thought 'e must be dreaming.
+
+“I dessay it seems very shocking to you,” ses Mr. Goodman, putting down
+'is glass and dryin' 'is lips on each other, “but I find it useful for
+these attacks.”
+
+“I—I s'pose the flavor's very nasty?” ses Sam, taking a sip at 'is
+ginger-beer.
+
+“Not exactly wot you could call nasty,” ses Mr. Goodman, “though I
+dessay it would seem so to you. I don't suppose you could swallow it.”
+
+“I don't s'pose I could,” ses Sam, “but I've a good mind to 'ave a
+try. If it's good for one teetotaller I don't see why it should hurt
+another.”
+
+Mr. Goodman looked at 'im very hard, and then he ordered a whiskey and
+stood watching while Sam, arter pretending for a minnit to look at it
+as though 'e didn't know wot to do with it, took a sip and let it roll
+round 'is mouth.
+
+“Well?” ses Mr. Goodman, looking at 'im anxious-like.
+
+“It ain't so 'orrid as I 'ad fancied,” ses Sam, lapping up the rest
+very gentle.
+
+'It Aint So 'orrid As I 'ad Fancied.' Ses Sam.'
+
+“'Ave you 'ad enough to do you all the good it ought to?”
+
+Mr. Goodman said that it was no good 'arf doing a thing, and p'r'aps he
+'ad better 'ave one more; and arter Sam 'ad paid for the next two they
+went out arm-in-arm.
+
+“'Ow cheerful everybody looks!” ses Mr. Goodman, smiling.
+
+“They're going to amuse theirselves, I expect,” ses Sam—“music-'alls and
+such-like.”
+
+Mr. Goodman shook his 'ead at 'em.
+
+“Music-'alls ain't so bad as some people try to make out,” ses Sam.
+
+“Look 'ere; I took some drink to see what the flavor was like; suppose
+you go to a music-'all to see wot that's like?”
+
+“It seems on'y fair,” ses Peter's uncle, considering.
+
+“It is fair,” ses Sam, and twenty minutes arterwards they was sitting in
+a music-'all drinking each other's 'ealths and listening to the songs—
+Mr. Goodman with a big cigar in 'is mouth and his 'at cocked over one
+eye, and Sam beating time to the music with 'is pipe.
+
+“'Ow do you like it?” he ses.
+
+Mr. Goodman didn't answer 'im because 'e was joining in the chorus with
+one side of 'is mouth and keeping 'is cigar alight with the other.
+He just nodded at 'im; but 'e looked so 'appy that Sam felt it was a
+pleasure to sit there and look at 'im.
+
+“I wonder wot Peter and Ginger is doin'?” he ses, when the song was
+finished.
+
+“I don't know,” ses Mr. Goodman, “and, wot's more, I don't care. If I'd
+'ad any idea that Peter was like wot he is I should never 'ave wrote to
+'im. I can't think 'ow you can stand 'im.”
+
+“He ain't so bad,” ses Sam, wondering whether he ought to tell 'im 'arf
+of wot Peter really was like.
+
+“Bad!” ses Mr. Goodman. “I come up to London for a 'oliday—a change,
+mind you—and I thought Peter and me was going to 'ave a good time.
+Instead o' that, he goes about with a face as long as a fiddle. He don't
+drink, 'e don't go to places of amusement—innercent places of amusement
+—and 'is idea of enjoying life is to go walking about the streets and
+drinking cups o' tea.”
+
+“We must try and alter 'im,” ses Sam, arter doing a bit o' thinking.
+
+“Certainly not,” ses Mr. Goodman, laying his 'and on Sam's knee. “Far be
+it from me to interfere with a feller-creature's ideas o' wot's right.
+Besides, he might get writing to 'is sister agin, and she might tell my
+wife.”
+
+“But Peter said she was dead,” ses Sam, very puzzled.
+
+“I married agin,” ses Peter's uncle, in a whisper, 'cos people was
+telling 'im to keep quiet, “a tartar—a perfect tartar. She's in a
+'orsepittle at present, else I shouldn't be 'ere. And I shouldn't ha'
+been able to come if I 'adn't found five pounds wot she'd hid in a
+match-box up the chimbley.”
+
+“But wot'll you do when she finds it out?” ses Sam, opening 'is eyes.
+
+“I'm going to 'ave the house cleaned and the chimbleys swept to welcome
+her 'ome,” ses Mr. Goodman, taking a sip o' whiskey. “It'll be a little
+surprise for her.”
+
+They stayed till it was over, and on the bus he gave Sam some strong
+peppermint lozenges wot 'e always carried about with 'im, and took some
+'imself. He said 'e found 'em helpful.
+
+“What are we going to tell Peter and Ginger?” ses Sam, as they got near
+the 'ouse.
+
+“Tell 'em?” ses Mr. Goodman. “Tell 'em the truth. How we follered 'em
+when they got off the bus, and 'ave been looking for 'em ever since.
+I'm not going to 'ave my 'oliday spoilt by a teetotal nevvy, I can tell
+you.”
+
+He started on Peter, wot was sitting on his bed with Ginger waiting
+for them, the moment he got inside, and all Ginger and Peter could say
+didn't make any difference.
+
+“Mr. Small see you as plain as what I did,” he ses.
+
+“Plainer,” ses Sam.
+
+“But I tell you we come straight 'ome,” ses Ginger, “and we've been
+waiting for you 'ere ever since.”
+
+Mr. Goodman shook his 'ead at 'im. “Say no more about it,” he ses, in
+a kind voice. “I dessay it's rather tiresome for young men to go about
+with two old ones, and in future, if you and Peter keep together, me and
+my friend Mr. Small will do the same.”
+
+Sam shook 'ands with 'im, and though Peter tried his 'ardest to make 'im
+alter his mind it was no good. His uncle patted 'im on the shoulder, and
+said they'd try it for a few days, at any rate, and Ginger, wot thought
+it was a very good idea, backed 'im up. Everybody seemed pleased with
+the idea except Peter Russet, but arter Sam 'ad told 'im in private wot
+a high opinion 'is uncle 'ad got of 'im, and 'ow well off he was, 'e
+gave way.
+
+They all enjoyed the next evening, and Sam and Mr. Goodman got on
+together like twin brothers. They went to a place of amusement every
+night, and the on'y unpleasantness that happened was when Peter's uncle
+knocked a chemist's shop up at a quarter-past twelve one night to buy a
+penn'orth o' peppermint lozenges.
+
+They 'ad four of the 'appiest evenings together that Sam 'ad ever known;
+and Mr. Goodman would 'ave been just as 'appy too if it hadn't ha' been
+for the thoughts o' that five pounds. The more 'e thought of it the more
+unlikely it seemed that 'is wife would blame it on to the sweep, and one
+night he took the match-box out of 'is pocket and shook his 'ead over it
+till Sam felt quite sorry for 'im.
+
+“Don't take up your troubles afore they come,” he ses. “Orsepittles are
+dangerous places.”
+
+Mr. Goodman cheered up a bit at that, but he got miserable agin the next
+night because 'is money was getting low and he wanted another week in
+London.
+
+“I've got seven shillings and fourpence and two stamps left,” he ses.
+“Where it's all gone to I can't think.”
+
+“Don't you worry about that,” ses Sam. “I've got a pound or two left
+yet.”
+
+“No, I ain't going to be a burden on you,” ses Mr. Goodman, “but another
+week I must 'ave, so I must get the money somehow. Peter can't spend
+much, the way he goes on.”
+
+Sam gave a little cough.
+
+“I'll get a pound or two out of 'im,” ses Mr. Goodman.
+
+Sam coughed agin. “Won't he think it rather funny?” he ses, arter a bit.
+
+“Not if it's managed properly,” ses Mr. Goodman, thinking 'ard. “I'll
+tell you 'ow we'll do it. To-morrow morning, while we are eating of our
+breakfast, you ask me to lend you a pound or two.”
+
+Sam, what 'ad just taken up 'is glass for a drink, put it down agin and
+stared at 'im.
+
+“But I don't want no money,” he ses; “and, besides, you 'aven't got
+any.”
+
+“You do as I tell you,” ses Mr. Goodman, “and when you've got it, you
+hand it over to me, see? Ask me to lend you five pounds.”
+
+Sam thought as 'ow the whiskey 'ad got to Mr. Goodman's 'ead at last.
+'Owever, to pacify 'im he promised to do wot 'e was told, and next
+morning, when they was all at breakfast, he looks over and catches Mr.
+Goodman's eye.
+
+“I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask a favor of you?” he ses.
+
+“Certainly,” ses Peter's uncle, “and glad I shall be to oblige you.
+There is no man I've got a greater respect for.”
+
+“Thankee,” ses Sam. “The fact is, I've run a bit short owing to paying a
+man some money I owed 'im. If you could lend me five pounds, I couldn't
+thank you enough.”
+
+Mr. Goodman put down 'is knife and fork and wrinkled up 'is forehead.
+
+“I'm very sorry,” he ses, feeling in 'is pockets; “do you want it
+to-day?”
+
+“Yes; I should like it,” ses Sam.
+
+“It's most annoying,” ses Mr. Goodman, “but I was so afraid o'
+pickpockets that I didn't bring much away with me. If you could wait
+till the day arter to-morrow, when my money is sent to me, you can 'ave
+ten if you like.”
+
+“You're very kind,” ses Sam, “but that 'ud be too late for me. I must
+try and get it somewhere else.” Peter and Ginger went on eating their
+breakfast, but every time Peter looked up he caught 'is uncle looking at
+'im in such a surprised and disappointed sort o' way that 'e didn't like
+the look of it at all.
+
+“I could just do it for a couple o' days, Sam,” he ses at last, “but
+it'll leave me very short.”
+
+“That's right,” ses his uncle, smiling. “My nevvy, Peter Russet, will
+lend it to you, Mr. Small, of 'is own free will. He 'as offered afore he
+was asked, and that's the proper way to do it, in my opinion.”
+
+He reached acrost the table and shook 'ands with Peter, and said that
+generosity ran in their family, and something seemed to tell 'im as
+Peter wouldn't lose by it. Everybody seemed pleased with each other,
+and arter Ginger Dick and Peter 'ad gone out Mr. Goodman took the five
+pounds off of old Sam and stowed 'em away very careful in the match-box.
+
+'He Reached Acrost the Table and Shook 'ands With Peter.'
+
+“It's nice to 'ave money agin,” he ses. “There's enough for a week's
+enjoyment here.”
+
+“Yes,” ses Sam, slow-like; “but wot I want to know is, wot about the day
+arter to-morrow, when Peter expects 'is money?”
+
+Mr. Goodman patted 'im on the shoulder. “Don't you worry about Peter's
+troubles,” he ses. “I know exactly wot to do; it's all planned out. Now
+I'm going to 'ave a lay down for an hour—I didn't get much sleep last
+night—and if you'll call me at twelve o'clock we'll go somewhere. Knock
+loud.”
+
+He patted 'im on the shoulder agin, and Sam, arter fidgeting about a
+bit, went out. The last time he ever see Peter's uncle he was laying
+on the bed with 'is eyes shut, smiling in his sleep. And Peter Russet
+didn't see Sam for eighteen months.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY
+
+Mr. Letts had left his ship by mutual arrangement, and the whole of the
+crew had mustered to see him off and to express their sense of relief at
+his departure. After some years spent in long voyages, he had fancied
+a trip on a coaster as a change, and, the schooner Curlew having no use
+for a ship's carpenter, had shipped as cook. He had done his best, and
+the unpleasant epithets that followed him along the quay at Dunchurch
+as he followed in the wake of his sea-chest were the result. Master and
+mate nodded in grim appreciation of the crew's efforts.
+
+'After Some Years Spent in Long Voyages'
+
+He put his chest up at a seamen's lodging-house, and, by no means
+perturbed at this sudden change in his fortunes, sat on a seat
+overlooking the sea, with a cigarette between his lips, forming plans
+for his future. His eyes closed, and he opened them with a start to find
+that a middle-aged woman of pleasant but careworn appearance had taken
+the other end of the bench.
+
+“Fine day,” said Mr. Letts, lighting another cigarette.
+
+The woman assented and sat looking over the sea.
+
+“Ever done any cooking?” asked Mr. Letts, presently.
+
+“Plenty,” was the surprised reply. “Why?”
+
+“I just wanted to ask you how long you would boil a bit o' beef,” said
+Mr. Letts. “Only from curiosity; I should never ship as cook again.”
+
+He narrated his experience of the last few days, and, finding the
+listener sympathetic, talked at some length about himself and his
+voyages; also of his plans for the future.
+
+“I lost my son at sea,” said the woman, with a sigh. “You favor him
+rather.”
+
+Mr. Letts's face softened. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry you lost him, I
+mean.”
+
+“At least, I suppose he would have been like you,” said the other; “but
+it's nine years ago now. He was just sixteen.”
+
+Mr. Letts—after a calculation—nodded. “Just my age,” he said. “I was
+twenty-five last March.”
+
+“Sailed for Melbourne,” said the woman. “My only boy.”
+
+Mr. Letts cleared his throat, sympathetically.
+
+“His father died a week after he sailed,” continued the other, “and
+three months afterwards my boy's ship went down. Two years ago, like a
+fool, I married again. I don't know why I'm talking to you like this. I
+suppose it is because you remind me of him.”
+
+“You talk away as much as you like,” said Mr. Letts, kindly. “I've got
+nothing to do.”
+
+He lit another cigarette, and, sitting in an attitude of attention,
+listened to a recital of domestic trouble that made him congratulate
+himself upon remaining single.
+
+“Since I married Mr. Green I can't call my soul my own,” said the victim
+of matrimony as she rose to depart. “If my poor boy had lived things
+would have been different. His father left the house and furniture to
+him, and that's all my second married me for, I'm sure. That and the bit
+o' money that was left to me. He's selling some of my boy's furniture at
+this very moment. That's why I came out; I couldn't bear it.”
+
+“P'r'aps he'll turn up after all,” said Mr. Letts. “Never say die.”
+
+Mrs. Green shook her head.
+
+“I s'pose,” said Mr. Letts, regarding her—“I s'pose you don't let
+lodgings for a night or two?” Mrs. Green shook her head again.
+
+“It don't matter,” said the young man. “Only I would sooner stay with
+you than at a lodging-house. I've taken a fancy to you. I say, it would
+be a lark if you did, and I went there and your husband thought I was
+your son, wouldn't it?”
+
+Mrs. Green caught her breath, and sitting down again took his arm in her
+trembling fingers.
+
+“Suppose,” she said, unsteadily—“suppose you came round and pretended to
+be my son—pretended to be my son, and stood up for me?”
+
+Mr. Letts stared at her in amazement, and then began to laugh.
+
+“Nobody would know,” continued the other, quickly. “We only came to this
+place just before he sailed, and his sister was only ten at the time.
+She wouldn't remember.”
+
+Mr. Letts said he couldn't think of it, and sat staring, with an air
+of great determination, at the sea. Arguments and entreaties left him
+unmoved, and he was just about to express his sorrow for her troubles
+and leave, when she gave a sudden start and put her arm through his.
+
+“Here comes your sister!” she exclaimed.
+
+Mr. Letts started in his turn.
+
+“She has seen me holding your arm,” continued Mrs. Green, in a tense
+whisper. “It's the only way I can explain it. Mind, your name is Jack
+Foster and hers is Betty.”
+
+Mr. Letts gazed at her in consternation, and then, raising his eyes,
+regarded with much approval the girl who was approaching. It seemed
+impossible that she could be Mrs. Green's daughter, and in the
+excitement of the moment he nearly said so.
+
+“Betty,” said Mrs. Green, in a voice to which nervousness had imparted
+almost the correct note—“Betty, this is your brother Jack!”
+
+Mr. Letts rose sheepishly, and then to his great amazement a pair of
+strong young arms were flung round his neck, and a pair of warm lips—
+after but slight trouble—found his. Then and there Mr. Letts's mind was
+made up.
+
+'Then and There Mr. Letts's Mind Was Made Up.
+
+“Oh, Jack!” said Miss Foster, and began to cry softly.
+
+“Oh, Jack!” said Mrs. Green, and, moved by thoughts, perhaps, of what
+might have been, began to cry too.
+
+“There, there!” said Mr. Letts.
+
+He drew Miss Foster to the seat, and, sitting between them, sat with an
+arm round each. There was nothing in sight but a sail or two in the far
+distance, and he allowed Miss Foster's head to lie upon his shoulder
+undisturbed. An only child, and an orphan, he felt for the first time
+the blessing of a sister's love.
+
+“Why didn't you come home before?” murmured the girl.
+
+Mr. Letts started and squinted reproachfully at the top of her hat.
+Then he turned and looked at Mrs. Green in search of the required
+information. “He was shipwrecked,” said Mrs. Green.
+
+“I was shipwrecked,” repeated Mr. Letts, nodding.
+
+“And had brain-fever after it through being in the water so long, and
+lost his memory,” continued Mrs. Green.
+
+“It's wonderful what water will do—salt water,” said Mr. Letts, in
+confirmation.
+
+Miss Foster sighed, and, raising the hand which was round her waist,
+bent her head and kissed it. Mr. Letts colored, and squeezed her
+convulsively.
+
+Assisted by Mrs. Green he became reminiscent, and, in a low voice,
+narrated such incidents of his career as had escaped the assaults of the
+brain-fever. That his head was not permanently injured was proved by
+the perfect manner in which he remembered incidents of his childhood
+narrated by his newly found mother and sister. He even volunteered one
+or two himself which had happened when the latter was a year or two old.
+
+“And now,” said Mrs. Green, in a somewhat trembling voice, “we must go
+and tell your step-father.”
+
+Mr. Letts responded, but without briskness, and, with such moral support
+as an arm of each could afford, walked slowly back. Arrived at a road
+of substantial cottages at the back of the town, Mrs. Green gasped, and,
+coming to a standstill, nodded at a van that stood half-way up the road.
+
+“There it is,” she exclaimed.
+
+“What?” demanded Mr. Letts.
+
+“The furniture I told you about,” said Mrs. Green. “The furniture that
+your poor father thought such a lot of, because it used to belong to his
+grandfather. He's selling it to Simpson, though I begged and prayed him
+not to.”
+
+Mr. Letts encouraged himself with a deep cough. “My furniture?” he
+demanded.
+
+Mrs. Green took courage. “Yes,” she said, hopefully; “your father left
+it to you.”
+
+Mr. Letts, carrying his head very erect, took a firmer grip of their
+arms and gazed steadily at a disagreeable-looking man who was eying them
+in some astonishment from the doorway. With arms still linked they
+found the narrow gateway somewhat difficult, but they negotiated it by
+a turning movement, and, standing in the front garden, waited while Mrs.
+Green tried to find her voice.
+
+'A Disagreeable-looking Man Was Eying Them in Some Astonishment from the
+Doorway.'
+
+“Jack,” she said at last, “this is your stepfather.”
+
+Mr. Letts, in some difficulty as to the etiquette on such occasions,
+released his right arm and extended his hand.
+
+“Good-evening, stepfather,” he said, cheerfully.
+
+Mr. Green drew back a little and regarded him unfavorably.
+
+“We—we thought you was drowned,” he said at last.
+
+“I was nearly,” said Mr. Letts.
+
+“We all thought so,” pursued Mr. Green, grudgingly. “Everybody thought
+so.”
+
+He stood aside, as a short, hot-faced man, with a small bureau clasped
+in his arms and supported on his knees, emerged from the house and
+staggered towards the gate. Mr. Letts reflected.
+
+“Halloa!” he said, suddenly. “Why, are you moving, mother?”
+
+Mrs. Green sniffed sadly and shook her head. “Well,” said Mr. Letts,
+with an admirable stare, “what's that chap doing with my furniture?”
+
+“Eh?” spluttered Mr. Green. “What?”
+
+“I say, what's he doing with my furniture?” repeated Mr. Letts, sternly.
+
+Mr. Green waved his arm. “That's all right,” he said, conclusively;
+“he's bought it. Your mother knows.”
+
+“But it ain't all right,” said Mr. Letts. “Here! bring that back, and
+those chairs too.”
+
+The dealer, who had just placed the bureau on the tail-board of the van,
+came back wiping his brow with his sleeve.
+
+“Wots the little game?” he demanded.
+
+Mr. Letts left the answer to Mr. Green, and going to the van took up the
+bureau and walked back to the house with it. Mr. Green and the dealer
+parted a little at his approach, and after widening the parting with the
+bureau he placed it in the front room while he went back for the chairs.
+He came back with three of them, and was, not without reason, called a
+porcupine by the indignant dealer.
+
+He was relieved to find, after Mr. Simpson had taken his departure, that
+Mr. Green was in no mood for catechising him, and had evidently accepted
+the story of his escape and return as a particularly disagreeable fact.
+So disagreeable that the less he heard of it the better.
+
+“I hope you've not come home after all these years to make things
+unpleasant?” he remarked presently, as they sat at tea.
+
+“I couldn't be unpleasant if I tried,” said Mr. Letts.
+
+“We've been very happy and comfortable here—me and your mother and
+sister,” continued Mr. Green. “Haven't we, Emily?”
+
+“Yes,” said his wife, with nervous quickness.
+
+“And I hope you'll be the same,” said Mr. Green. “It's my wish that you
+should make yourself quite comfortable here—till you go to sea again.”
+
+“Thankee,” said Mr. Letts; “but I don't think I shall go to sea any
+more. Ship's carpenter is my trade, and I've been told more than once
+that I should do better ashore. Besides, I don't want to lose mother and
+Betty again.”
+
+He placed his arm round the girl's waist, and, drawing her head on to
+his shoulder, met with a blank stare the troubled gaze of Mrs. Green.
+
+“I'm told there's wonderful openings for carpenters in Australia,” said
+Mr. Green, trying to speak in level tones. “Wonderful! A good carpenter
+can make a fortune there in ten years, so I'm told.”
+
+Mr. Letts, with a slight wink at Mrs. Green and a reassuring squeeze
+with his left arm, turned an attentive ear.
+
+“O' course, there's a difficulty,” he said, slowly, as Mr. Green
+finished a vivid picture of the joys of carpentering in Australia.
+
+“Difficulty?” said the other.
+
+“Money to start with,” explained Mr. Letts. “It's no good starting
+without money. I wonder how much this house and furniture would fetch?
+Is it all mine, mother?”
+
+“M-m-most of it,” stammered Mrs. Green, gazing in a fascinated fashion
+at the contorted visage of her husband.
+
+“All except a chair in the kitchen and three stair-rods,” said Betty.
+
+“Speak when you're spoke to, miss!” snarled her stepfather. “When we
+married we mixed our furniture up together—mixed it up so that it would
+be impossible to tell which is which. Nobody could.”
+
+“For the matter o' that, you could have all the kitchen chairs and all
+the stair-rods,” said Mr. Letts, generously. “However, I don't want
+to do anything in a hurry, and I shouldn't dream of going to Australia
+without Betty. It rests with her.”
+
+“She's going to be married,” said Mr. Green, hastily; “and if she wasn't
+she wouldn't turn her poor, ailing mother out of house and home, that
+I'm certain of. She's not that sort. We've had a word or two at times—me
+and her—but I know a good daughter when I see one.”
+
+“Married?” echoed Mr. Letts, as his left arm relaxed its pressure. “Who
+to?”
+
+“Young fellow o' the name of Henry Widden,” replied Mr. Green, “a very
+steady young fellow; a great friend of mine.”
+
+“Oh!” said Mr. Letts, blankly.
+
+“I'd got an idea, which I've been keeping as a little surprise,”
+continued Mr. Green, speaking very rapidly, “of them living here with
+us, and saving house-rent and furniture.”
+
+Mr. Letts surveyed him with a dejected eye.
+
+“It would be a fine start for them,” continued the benevolent Mr. Green.
+
+Mr. Letts, by a strong effort, regained his composure.
+
+“I must have a look at him first,” he said, briskly. “He mightn't meet
+with my approval.”
+
+“Eh?” said Mr. Green, starting. “Why, if Betty——”
+
+“I must think it over,” interrupted Mr. Letts, with a wave of his hand.
+“Betty is only nineteen, and, as head of the family, I don't think
+she can marry without my consent. I'm not sure, but I don't think so.
+Anyway, if she does, I won't have her husband here sitting in my chairs,
+eating off my tables, sleeping in my beds, wearing out my stair-rods,
+helping himself——”
+
+“Stow it,” said Miss Foster, calmly.
+
+Mr. Letts started, and lost the thread of his discourse. “I must have
+a look at him,” he concluded, lamely; “he may be all right, but then,
+again, he mightn't.”
+
+He finished his tea almost in silence, and, the meal over, emphasized
+his position as head of the family by taking the easy-chair, a piece
+of furniture sacred to Mr. Green, and subjecting that injured man to
+a catechism which strained his powers of endurance almost to
+breaking-point.
+
+“Well, I sha'n't make any change at present,” said Mr. Letts, when the
+task was finished. “There's plenty of room here for us all, and, so long
+as you and me agree, things can go on as they are. To-morrow morning I
+shall go out and look for a job.”
+
+He found a temporary one almost at once, and, determined to make a
+favorable impression, worked hard all day. He came home tired and dirty,
+and was about to go straight to the wash-house to make his toilet when
+Mr. Green called him in.
+
+“My friend, Mr. Widden,” he said, with a satisfied air, as he pointed to
+a slight, fair young man with a well-trimmed moustache.
+
+Mr. Letts shook hands.
+
+“Fine day,” said Mr. Widden.
+
+“Beautiful,” said the other. “I'll come in and have a talk about it when
+I've had a wash.”
+
+“Me and Miss Foster are going out for a bit of a stroll,” said Mr.
+Widden.
+
+“Quite right,” agreed Mr. Letts. “Much more healthy than staying indoors
+all the evening. If you just wait while I have a wash and a bit o'
+something to eat I'll come with you.”
+
+“Co-come with us!” said Mr. Widden, after an astonished pause.
+
+Mr. Letts nodded. “You see, I don't know you yet,” he explained, “and
+as head of the family I want to see how you behave yourself. Properly
+speaking, my consent ought to have been asked before you walked out with
+her; still, as everybody thought I was drowned, I'll say no more about
+it.”
+
+“Mr. Green knows all about me,” said Mr. Widden, rebelliously.
+
+“It's nothing to do with him,” declared Mr. Letts. “And, besides, he's
+not what I should call a judge of character. I dare say you are all
+right, but I'm going to see for myself. You go on in the ordinary way
+with your love-making, without taking any notice of me. Try and forget
+I'm watching you. Be as natural as you can be, and if you do anything I
+don't like I'll soon tell you of it.”
+
+The bewildered Mr. Widden turned, but, reading no hope of assistance in
+the infuriated eyes of Mr. Green, appealed in despair to Betty.
+
+“I don't mind,” she said. “Why should I?”
+
+Mr. Widden could have supplied her with many reasons, but he refrained,
+and sat in sulky silence while Mr. Letts got ready. From his point of
+view the experiment was by no means a success, his efforts to be natural
+being met with amazed glances from Mr. Letts and disdainful requests
+from Miss Foster to go home if he couldn't behave himself. When he
+relapsed into moody silence Mr. Letts cleared his throat and spoke.
+
+“There's no need to be like a monkey-on-a-stick, and at the same time
+there's no need to be sulky,” he pointed out; “there's a happy medium.”
+
+“Like you, I s'pose?” said the frantic suitor. “Like me,” said the
+other, gravely. “Now, you watch; fall in behind and watch.”
+
+He drew Miss Foster's arm through his and, leaning towards her with
+tender deference, began a long conversation. At the end of ten minutes
+Mr. Widden intimated that he thought he had learned enough to go on
+with.
+
+“Ah! that's only your conceit,” said Mr. Letts over his shoulder. “I was
+afraid you was conceited.”
+
+He turned to Miss Foster again, and Mr. Widden, with a despairing
+gesture, abandoned himself to gloom. He made no further interruptions,
+but at the conclusion of the walk hesitated so long on the door-step
+that Mr. Letts had to take the initiative.
+
+“Good-night,” he said, shaking hands. “Come round to-morrow night and
+I'll give you another lesson. You're a slow learner, that's what you
+are; a slow learner.”
+
+He gave Mr. Widden a lesson on the following evening, but cautioned him
+sternly against imitating the display of brotherly fondness of which, in
+a secluded lane, he had been a wide-eyed observer.
+
+“When you've known her as long as I have—nineteen years,” said Mr.
+Letts, as the other protested, “things'll be a bit different. I might
+not be here, for one thing.”
+
+By exercise of great self-control Mr. Widden checked the obvious retort
+and walked doggedly in the rear of Miss Foster. Then, hardly able to
+believe his ears, he heard her say something to Mr. Letts.
+
+“Eh?” said that gentleman, in amazed accents.
+
+“You fall behind,” said Miss Foster.
+
+“That—that's not the way to talk to the head of the family,” said Mr.
+Letts, feebly.
+
+“It's the way I talk to him,” rejoined the girl.
+
+It was a position for which Mr. Letts was totally unprepared, and the
+satisfied smile of Mr. Widden as he took the vacant place by no means
+improved matters. In a state of considerable dismay Mr. Letts dropped
+farther and farther behind until, looking up, he saw Miss Foster,
+attended by her restive escort, quietly waiting for him. An odd look in
+her eyes as they met his gave him food for thought for the rest of the
+evening.
+
+At the end of what Mr. Letts was pleased to term a month's trial,
+Mr. Widden was still unable to satisfy him as to his fitness for the
+position of brother-in-law. In a spirit of gloom he made suggestions of
+a mutinous nature to Mr. Green, but that gentleman, who had returned one
+day pale and furious, but tamed, from an interview that related to his
+treatment of his wife, held out no hopes of assistance.
+
+“I wash my hands of him,” he said bitterly. “You stick to it; that's all
+you can do.”
+
+“They lost me last night,” said the unfortunate. “I stayed behind just
+to take a stone out of my shoe, and the earth seemed to swallow them up.
+He's so strong. That's the worst of it.”
+
+“Strong?” said Mr. Green.
+
+Mr. Widden nodded. “Tuesday evening he showed her how he upset a man
+once and stood him on his head,” he said, irritably. “I was what he
+showed her with.”
+
+“Stick to it!” counselled Mr. Green again. “A brother and sister are
+bound to get tired of each other before long; it's nature.”
+
+Mr. Widden sighed and obeyed. But brother and sister showed no signs of
+tiring of each other's company, while they displayed unmistakable
+signs of weariness with his. And three weeks later Mr. Letts, in a few
+well-chosen words, kindly but firmly dismissed him.
+
+“I should never give my consent,” he said, gravely, “so it's only
+wasting your time. You run off and play.”
+
+Mr. Widden ran off to Mr. Green, but before he could get a word out
+discovered that something unusual had happened. Mrs. Green, a picture
+of distress, sat at one end of the room with a handkerchief to her
+eyes; Mr. Green, in a condition compounded of joy and rage, was striding
+violently up and down the room.
+
+“He's a fraud!” he shouted. “A fraud! I've had my suspicions for some
+time, and this evening I got it out of her.”
+
+Mr. Widden stared in amazement.
+
+“I got it out of her,” repeated Mr. Green, pointing at the trembling
+woman. “He's no more her son than what you are.”
+
+“What?” said the amazed listener.
+
+“She's been deceiving me,” said Mr. Green, with a scowl, “but I don't
+think she'll do it again in a hurry. You stay here,” he shouted, as his
+wife rose to leave the room. “I want you to be here when he comes in.”
+
+Mrs. Green stayed, and the other two, heedless of her presence,
+discussed the situation until the front door was heard to open, and Mr.
+Letts and Betty came into the room. With a little cry the girl ran to
+her mother.
+
+“What's the matter?” she cried.
+
+“She's lost another son,” said Mr. Green, with a ferocious sneer—“a
+flash, bullying, ugly chap of the name o' Letts.”
+
+“Halloa!” said Mr. Letts, starting.
+
+“A chap she picked up out of the street, and tried to pass off on me as
+her son,” continued Mr. Green, raising his voice. “She ain't heard the
+end of it yet, I can tell you.”
+
+Mr. Letts fidgeted. “You leave her alone,” he said, mildly. “It's true
+I'm not her son, but it don't matter, because I've been to see a lawyer
+about her, and he told me that this house and half the furniture belongs
+by law to Betty. It's got nothing to do with you.”
+
+“Indeed!” said Mr. Green. “Now you take yourself off before I put the
+police on to you. Take your face off these premises.”
+
+Mr. Letts, scratching his head, looked vaguely round the room.
+
+“Go on!” vociferated Mr. Green. “Or will you have the police to put you
+out?”
+
+Mr. Letts cleared his throat and moved towards the door. “You stick up
+for your rights, my girl,” he said, turning to Betty. “If he don't
+treat your mother well, give him back his kitchen chair and his three
+stair-rods and pack him off.”
+
+“Henry,” said Mr. Green, with dangerous calm, “go and fetch a
+policeman.”
+
+“I'm going,” said Mr. Letts, hastily. “Good-by, Betty; good-by, mother.
+I sha'n't be long. I'm only going as far as the post-office. And that
+reminds me. I've been talking so much that I quite forget to tell you
+that Betty and me were married yesterday morning.”
+
+He nodded pleasantly at the stupefied Mr. Green, and, turning to Mr.
+Widden, gave him a friendly dig in the ribs with his finger.
+
+“What's mine is Betty's,” he said, in a clear voice, “and what's Betty's
+is MINE! D'ye understand, step-father?”
+
+He stepped over to Mrs. Green, and putting a strong arm around her
+raised her to her feet. “And what's mine is mother's,” he concluded,
+and, helping her across the room, placed her in the best arm-chair.
+
+'What's Mine is Mother's.'
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+PRIZE MONEY
+
+The old man stood by the window, gazing at the frozen fields beyond. The
+sign of the Cauliflower was stiff with snow, and the breath of a pair of
+waiting horses in a wagon beneath ascended in clouds of steam.
+
+'The Sign of the Cauliflower Was Stiff With Snow.'
+
+“Amusements” he said slowly, as he came back with a shiver and, resuming
+his seat by the tap-room fire, looked at the wayfarer who had been idly
+questioning him. “Claybury men don't have much time for amusements.
+The last one I can call to mind was Bill Chambers being nailed up in a
+pig-sty he was cleaning out, but there was such a fuss made over that
+—by Bill—that it sort o' disheartened people.”
+
+He got up again restlessly, and, walking round the table, gazed long and
+hard into three or four mugs.
+
+“Sometimes a little gets left in them,” he explained, meeting the
+stranger's inquiring glance. The latter started, and, knocking on the
+table with the handle of his knife, explained that he had been informed
+by a man outside that his companion was the bitterest teetotaller in
+Claybury.
+
+“That's one o' Bob Pretty's larks,” said the old man, flushing. “I
+see you talking to 'im, and I thought as 'ow he warn't up to no good.
+Biggest rascal in Claybury, he is. I've said so afore, and I'll say so
+agin.”
+
+He bowed to the donor and buried his old face in the mug.
+
+“A poacher!” he said, taking breath. “A thief!” he continued, after
+another draught. “I wonder whether Smith spilt any of this a-carrying of
+it in?”
+
+He put down the empty mug and made a careful examination of the floor,
+until a musical rapping on the table brought the landlord into the room
+again.
+
+“My best respects,” he said, gratefully, as he placed the mug on the
+settle by his side and slowly filled a long clay pipe. Next time you see
+Bob Pretty ask 'im wot happened to the prize hamper. He's done a good
+many things has Bob, but it'll be a long time afore Claybury men'll look
+over that.
+
+It was Henery Walker's idea. Henery 'ad been away to see an uncle of
+'is wife's wot had money and nobody to leave it to—leastways, so Henery
+thought when he wasted his money going over to see 'im—and he came back
+full of the idea, which he 'ad picked up from the old man.
+
+“We each pay twopence a week till Christmas,” he ses, “and we buy a
+hamper with a goose or a turkey in it, and bottles o' rum and whiskey
+and gin, as far as the money'll go, and then we all draw lots for it,
+and the one that wins has it.”
+
+It took a lot of explaining to some of 'em, but Smith, the landlord,
+helped Henery, and in less than four days twenty-three men had paid
+their tuppences to Henery, who 'ad been made the seckitary, and told him
+to hand them over to Smith in case he lost his memory.
+
+Bob Pretty joined one arternoon on the quiet, and more than one of 'em
+talked of 'aving their money back, but, arter Smith 'ad explained as 'ow
+he would see fair play, they thought better of it.
+
+“He'll 'ave the same chance as all of you,” he ses. “No more and no
+less.”
+
+“I'd feel more easy in my mind, though, if'e wasn't in it,” ses Bill
+Chambers, staring at Bob. “I never knew 'im to lose anything yet.”
+
+“You don't know everything, Bill,” ses Bob, shaking his 'ead. “You don't
+know me; else you wouldn't talk like that. I've never been caught doing
+wrong yet, and I 'ope I never shall.”
+
+“It's all right, Bill,” ses George Kettle. “Mr. Smith'll see fair, and
+I'd sooner win Bob Pretty's money than anybody's.”
+
+“I 'ope you will, mate,” ses Bob; “that's what I joined for.”
+
+“Bob's money is as good as anybody else's,” ses George Kettle, looking
+round at the others. “It don't signify to me where he got it from.”
+
+“Ah, I don't like to hear you talk like that George,” ses Bob Pretty.
+“I've thought more than once that you 'ad them ideas.”
+
+He drank up his beer and went off 'ome, shaking his 'ead, and, arter
+three or four of 'em 'ad explained to George Kettle wot he meant, George
+went off 'ome, too.
+
+The week afore Christmas, Smith, the landlord, said as 'ow he 'ad got
+enough money, and three days arter we all came up 'ere to see the prize
+drawn. It was one o' the biggest hampers Smith could get; and there
+was a fine, large turkey in it, a large goose, three pounds o' pork
+sausages, a bottle o' whiskey, a bottle o' rum, a bottle o' brandy, a
+bottle o' gin, and two bottles o' wine. The hamper was all decorated
+with holly, and a little flag was stuck in the top.
+
+On'y men as belonged was allowed to feel the turkey and the goose, and
+arter a time Smith said as 'ow p'r'aps they'd better leave off, and 'e
+put all the things back in the hamper and fastened up the lid.
+
+“How are we going to draw the lottery?” ses John Biggs, the blacksmith.
+
+“There'll be twenty-three bits o' paper,” ses Smith, “and they'll be
+numbered from one to twenty-three. Then they'll be twisted up all the
+same shape and put in this 'ere paper bag, which I shall 'old as each
+man draws. The chap that draws the paper with the figger '1' on it wins.”
+
+He tore up twenty-three bits o' paper all about the same size, and then
+with a black-lead pencil 'e put the numbers on, while everybody leaned
+over 'im to see fair play. Then he twisted every bit o' paper up and
+held them in his 'and.
+
+“Is that satisfactory?” he ses.
+
+“Couldn't be fairer,” ses Bill Chambers.
+
+“Mind,” ses Smith, putting them into a tall paper bag that had 'ad sugar
+in it and shaking them up, “Number '1' wins the prize. Who's going to draw
+fust?”
+
+All of 'em hung back and looked at each other; they all seemed to think
+they'd 'ave a better chance when there wasn't so many numbers left in
+the bag.
+
+“Come on,” ses Smith, the landlord. “Somebody must be fust.”
+
+“Go on, George Kettle,” ses Bob Pretty. “You're sure to win. I 'ad a
+dream you did.”
+
+“Go on yourself,” ses George.
+
+“I never 'ave no luck,” ses Bob; “but if Henery Walker will draw fust,
+I'll draw second. Somebody must begin.”
+
+“O' course they must,” ses Henery, “and if you're so anxious why don't
+you 'ave fust try?”
+
+Bob Pretty tried to laugh it off, but they wouldn't 'ave it, and at last
+he takes out a pocket-'andkerchief and offers it to Smith, the landlord.
+
+“All right, I'll go fust if you'll blindfold me,” he ses.
+
+“There ain't no need for that, Bob,” ses Mr. Smith. “You can't see in
+the bag, and even if you could it wouldn't help you.”
+
+“Never mind; you blindfold me,” ses Bob; “it'll set a good example to
+the others.”
+
+Smith did it at last, and when Bob Pretty put his 'and in the bag and
+pulled out a paper you might ha' heard a pin drop.
+
+“Open it and see what number it is, Mr. Smith,” ses Bob Pretty.
+“Twenty-three, I expect; I never 'ave no luck.”
+
+Smith rolled out the paper, and then 'e turned pale and 'is eyes seemed
+to stick right out of his 'ead.
+
+“He's won it!” he ses, in a choky voice. “It's Number 1. Bob Pretty 'as
+won the prize.”
+
+'He's Won It!' he Ses, in a Choky Voice. 'it's Number 1.'
+
+You never 'eard such a noise in this 'ere public-'ouse afore or since;
+everybody shouting their 'ardest, and Bill Chambers stamping up and down
+the room as if he'd gone right out of his mind.
+
+“Silence!” ses Mr. Smith, at last. “Silence! How dare you make that
+noise in my 'ouse, giving it a bad name? Bob Pretty 'as won it fair
+and square. Nothing could ha' been fairer. You ought to be ashamed o'
+yourselves.”
+
+Bob Pretty wouldn't believe it at fust. He said that Smith was making
+game of 'im, and, when Smith held the paper under 'is nose, he kept the
+handkerchief on his eyes and wouldn't look at it.
+
+“I've seen you afore to-day,” he says, nodding his 'ead. “I like a joke
+as well as anybody, but it ain't fair to try and make fun of a pore,
+'ard-working man like that.”
+
+I never see a man so astonished in my life as Bob Pretty was, when 'e
+found out it was really true. He seemed fair 'mazed-like, and stood
+there scratching his 'ead, as if he didn't know where 'e was. He come
+round at last, arter a pint o' beer that Smith 'ad stood 'im, and then
+he made a little speech, thanking Smith for the fair way he 'ad acted,
+and took up the hamper.
+
+“'Strewth, it is heavy,” he ses, getting it up on his back. “Well, so
+long, mates.”
+
+“Ain't you—ain't you going to stand us a drink out o' one o' them
+bottles?” ses Peter Gubbins, as Bob got to the door.
+
+Bob Pretty went out as if he didn't 'ear; then he stopped, sudden-like,
+and turned round and put his 'ead in at the door agin, and stood looking
+at 'em.
+
+“No, mates,” he ses, at last, “and I wonder at you for asking, arter
+what you've all said about me. I'm a pore man, but I've got my feelings.
+I drawed fust becos nobody else would, and all the thanks I get for it
+is to be called a thief.”
+
+He went off down the road, and by and by Bill Chambers, wot 'ad been
+sitting staring straight in front of 'im, got up and went to the door,
+and stood looking arter 'im like a man in a dream. None of 'em seemed to
+be able to believe that the lottery could be all over so soon, and Bob
+Pretty going off with it, and when they did make up their minds to it,
+it was one o' the most miserable sights you ever see. The idea that they
+'ad been paying a pint a week for Bob Pretty for months nearly sent some
+of 'em out of their minds.
+
+“It can't be 'elped,” ses Mr. Smith. “He 'ad the pluck to draw fust, and
+he won; anybody else might ha' done it. He gave you the offer, George
+Kettle, and you, too, Henery Walker.”
+
+Henery Walker was too low-spirited to answer 'im; and arter Smith 'ad
+said “Hush!” to George Kettle three times, he up and put 'im outside for
+the sake of the 'ouse.
+
+When 'e came back it was all quiet and everybody was staring their
+'ardest at little Dicky Weed, the tailor, who was sitting with his head
+in his 'ands, thinking, and every now and then taking them away and
+looking up at the ceiling, or else leaning forward with a start and
+looking as if 'e saw something crawling on the wall.
+
+“Wot's the matter with you?” ses Mr. Smith.
+
+Dicky Weed didn't answer 'im. He shut his eyes tight and then 'e jumps
+up all of a sudden. “I've got it!” he says. “Where's that bag?”
+
+“Wot bag?” ses Mr. Smith, staring at 'im. “The bag with the papers in,”
+ses Dicky.
+
+“Where Bob Pretty ought to be,” ses Bill Chambers. “On the fire.”
+
+“Wot?” screams Dicky Weed. “Now you've been and spoilt everything!”
+
+“Speak English,” ses Bill.
+
+“I will!” ses Dicky, trembling all over with temper. “Who asked you to
+put it on the fire? Who asked you to put yourself forward? I see it all
+now, and it's too late.”
+
+“Wot's too late?” ses Sam Tones.
+
+“When Bob Pretty put his 'and in that bag,” ses Dicky Weed, holding up
+'is finger and looking at them, “he'd got a bit o' paper already in it—a
+bit o' paper with the figger 1 on it. That's 'ow he done it. While we
+was all watching Mr. Smith, he was getting 'is own bit o' paper ready.”
+
+He 'ad to say it three times afore they understood 'im, and then they
+went down on their knees and burnt their fingers picking up bits o'
+paper that 'ad fallen in the fireplace. They found six pieces in all,
+but not one with the number they was looking for on it, and then they
+all got up and said wot ought to be done to Bob Pretty.
+
+“You can't do anything,” ses Smith, the landlord. “You can't prove it.
+After all, it's only Dicky's idea.”
+
+Arf-a-dozen of 'em all began speaking at once, but Bill Chambers gave
+'em the wink, and pretended to agree with 'im.
+
+“We're going to have that hamper back,” he ses, as soon as Mr. Smith 'ad
+gone back to the bar, “but it won't do to let 'im know. He don't like to
+think that Bob Pretty was one too many for 'im.”
+
+“Let's all go to Bob Pretty's and take it,” ses Peter Gubbins, wot 'ad
+been in the Militia.
+
+Dicky Weed shook his 'ead. “He'd 'ave the lor on us for robbery,” he
+ses; “there's nothing he'd like better.”
+
+They talked it over till closing-time, but nobody seemed to know wot to
+do, and they stood outside in the bitter cold for over arf an hour still
+trying to make up their minds 'ow to get that hamper back. Fust one went
+off 'ome and then another, and at last, when there was on'y three or
+four of 'em left, Henery Walker, wot prided himself on 'is artfulness,
+'ad an idea.
+
+“One of us must get Bob Pretty up 'ere to-morrow night and stand 'im a
+pint, or p'r'aps two pints,” he ses. “While he's here two other chaps
+must 'ave a row close by his 'ouse and pretend to fight. Mrs. Pretty and
+the young 'uns are sure to run out to look at it, and while they are out
+another chap can go in quiet-like and get the hamper.”
+
+It seemed a wunnerful good idea, and Bill Chambers said so; and 'e
+flattered Henery Walker up until Henery didn't know where to look, as
+the saying is.
+
+“And wot's to be done with the hamper when we've got it?” ses Sam Jones.
+
+“Have it drawed for agin,” ses Henery. “It'll 'ave to be done on the
+quiet, o' course.”
+
+Sam Jones stood thinking for a bit. “Burn the hamper and draw lots for
+everything separate,” 'e ses, very slow. “If Bob Pretty ses it's 'is
+turkey and goose and spirits, tell 'im to prove it. We sha'n't know
+nothing about it.”
+
+Henery Walker said it was a good plan; and arter talking it over they
+walked 'ome all very pleased with theirselves. They talked it over next
+day with the other chaps; and Henery Walker said arterwards that p'r'aps
+it was talked over a bit too much.
+
+It took 'em some time to make up their minds about it, but at last it
+was settled that Peter Gubbins was to stand Bob Pretty the beer; Ted
+Brown, who was well known for his 'ot temper, and Joe Smith was to 'ave
+the quarrel; and Henery Walker was to slip in and steal the hamper, and
+'ide the things up at his place.
+
+Bob Pretty fell into the trap at once. He was standing at 'is gate
+in the dark, next day, smoking a pipe, when Peter Gubbins passed, and
+Peter, arter stopping and asking 'im for a light, spoke about 'is luck
+in getting the hamper, and told 'im he didn't bear no malice for it.
+
+“You 'ad the pluck to draw fust,” he ses, “and you won.”
+
+Bob Pretty said he was a Briton, and arter a little more talk Peter
+asked 'im to go and 'ave a pint with 'im to show that there was no
+ill-feeling. They came into this 'ere Cauliflower public-'ouse like
+brothers, and in less than ten minutes everybody was making as much fuss
+o' Bob Pretty as if 'e'd been the best man in Claybury.
+
+“Arter all, a man can't 'elp winning a prize,” ses Bill Chambers,
+looking round.
+
+“I couldn't,” ses Bob.
+
+He sat down and 'elped hisself out o' Sam Jones's baccy-box; and one or
+two got up on the quiet and went outside to listen to wot was going on
+down the road. Everybody was wondering wot was happening, and when Bob
+Pretty got up and said 'e must be going, Bill Chambers caught 'old of
+him by the coat and asked 'im to have arf a pint with 'im.
+
+Bob had the arf-pint, and arter that another one with Sam Jones, and
+then 'e said 'e really must be going, as his wife was expecting 'im. He
+pushed Bill Chambers's 'at over his eyes—a thing Bill can't abear—and
+arter filling 'is pipe agin from Sam Jones's box he got up and went.
+
+“Mind you,” ses Bill Chambers, looking round, “if 'e comes back and ses
+somebody 'as taken his hamper, nobody knows nothing about it.”
+
+“I 'ope Henery Walker 'as got it all right,” ses Dicky Weed. “When shall
+we know?”
+
+“He'll come up 'ere and tell us,” ses Bill Chambers. “It's time 'e was
+here, a'most.”
+
+Five minutes arterwards the door opened and Henery Walker came
+staggering in. He was as white as a sheet, his 'at was knocked on one
+side of his 'ead, and there was two or three nasty-looking scratches
+on 'is cheek. He came straight to Bill Chambers's mug—wot 'ad just
+been filled—and emptied it, and then 'e sat down on a seat gasping for
+breath.
+
+'The Door Opened and Henery Walker Came Staggering In.'
+
+“Wots the matter, Henery?” ses Bill, staring at 'im with 'is mouth open.
+
+Henery Walker groaned and shook his 'ead. “Didn't you get the hamper?”
+ses Bill, turning pale. Henery Walker shook his 'ead agin.
+
+“Shut up!” he ses, as Bill Chambers started finding fault. “I done the
+best I could. Nothing could ha' 'appened better—to start with. Directly
+Ted Brown and Joe Smith started, Mrs. Pretty and her sister, and all
+the kids excepting the baby, run out, and they'd 'ardly gone afore I was
+inside the back door and looking for that hamper, and I'd hardly started
+afore I heard them coming back agin. I was at the foot o' the stairs at
+the time, and, not knowing wot to do, I went up 'em into Bob's bedroom.”
+
+“Well?” ses Bill Chambers, as Henery Walker stopped and looked round.
+
+“A'most direckly arterwards I 'eard Mrs. Pretty and her sister coming
+upstairs,” ses Henery Walker, with a shudder. “I was under the bed at
+the time, and afore I could say a word Mrs. Pretty gave a loud screech
+and scratched my face something cruel. I thought she'd gone mad.”
+
+“You've made a nice mess of it!” ses Bill Chambers.
+
+“Mess!” ses Henery, firing up. “Wot would you ha' done?”
+
+“I should ha' managed diff'rent,” ses Bill Chambers. “Did she know who
+you was?”
+
+“Know who I was?” ses Henery. “O' course she did. It's my belief that
+Bob knew all about it and told 'er wot to do.”
+
+“Well, you've done it now, Henery,” ses Bill Chambers. “Still, that's
+your affair.”
+
+“Ho, is it?” ses Henery Walker. “You 'ad as much to do with it as I 'ad,
+excepting that you was sitting up 'ere in comfort while I was doing all
+the work. It's a wonder to me I got off as well as I did.”
+
+Bill Chambers sat staring at 'im and scratching his 'ead, and just then
+they all 'eard the voice of Bob Pretty, very distinct, outside, asking
+for Henery Walker. Then the door opened, and Bob Pretty, carrying his
+'ead very 'igh, walked into the room.
+
+“Where's Henery Walker?” he ses, in a loud voice.
+
+'Where's Henery Walker?' he Ses, in a Loud Voice.'
+
+Henery Walker put down the empty mug wot he'd been pretending to drink
+out of and tried to smile at 'im.
+
+“Halloa, Bob!” he ses.
+
+“What was you doing in my 'ouse?” ses Bob Pretty, very severe.
+
+“I—I just looked in to see whether you was in, Bob,” ses Henery.
+
+“That's why you was found under my bed, I s'pose?” ses Bob Pretty. “I
+want a straight answer, Henery Walker, and I mean to 'ave it, else I'm
+going off to Cudford for Policeman White.”
+
+“I went there to get that hamper,” ses Henery Walker, plucking up
+spirit. “You won it unfair last night, and we determined for to get it
+back. So now you know.”
+
+“I call on all of you to witness that,” ses Bob, looking round. “Henery
+Walker went into my 'ouse to steal my hamper. He ses so, and it wasn't
+'is fault he couldn't find it. I'm a pore man and I can't afford such
+things; I sold it this morning, a bargain, for thirty bob.”
+
+“Well, then there's no call to make a fuss over it, Bob,” ses Bill
+Chambers.
+
+“I sold it for thirty bob,” ses Bob Pretty, “and when I went out this
+evening I left the money on my bedroom mantelpiece—one pound, two
+arf-crowns, two two-shilling pieces, and two sixpences. My wife and her
+sister both saw it there. That they'll swear to.”
+
+“Well, wot about it?” ses Sam Jones, staring at 'im.
+
+“Arter my pore wife 'ad begged and prayed Henery Walker on 'er bended
+knees to spare 'er life and go,” ses Bob Pretty, “she looked at the
+mantel-piece and found the money 'ad disappeared.”
+
+Henery Walker got up all white and shaking and flung 'is arms about,
+trying to get 'is breath.
+
+“Do you mean to say I stole it?” he ses, at last.
+
+“O' course I do,” ses Bob Pretty. “Why, you said yourself afore these
+witnesses and Mr. Smith that you came to steal the hamper. Wot's the
+difference between stealing the hamper and the money I sold it for?”
+
+Henery Walker tried for to answer 'im, but he couldn't speak a word.
+
+“I left my pore wife with 'er apron over her 'ead sobbing as if her 'art
+would break,” ses Bob Pretty; “not because o' the loss of the money so
+much, but to think of Henery Walker doing such a thing—and 'aving to go
+to jail for it.”
+
+“I never touched your money, and you know it,” ses Henery Walker,
+finding his breath at last. “I don't believe it was there. You and your
+wife 'ud swear anything.”
+
+“As you please, Henery,” ses Bob Pretty. “Only I'm going straight off to
+Cudford to see Policeman White; he'll be glad of a job, I know. There's
+three of us to swear to it, and you was found under my bed.”
+
+“Let bygones be bygones, Bob,” ses Bill Chambers, trying to smile at
+'im.
+
+“No, mate,” ses Bob Pretty. “I'm going to 'ave my rights, but I don't
+want to be 'ard on a man I've known all my life; and if, afore I go to
+my bed to-night, the thirty shillings is brought to me, I won't say as I
+won't look over it.”
+
+He stood for a moment shaking his 'ead at them, and then, still holding
+it very 'igh, he turned round and walked out.
+
+“He never left no money on the mantelpiece,” ses Sam Jones, at last.
+
+“Don't you believe it. You go to jail, Henery.”
+
+“Anything sooner than be done by Bob Pretty,” ses George Kettle.
+
+“There's not much doing now, Henery,” ses Bill Chambers, in a soft
+voice.
+
+Henery Walker wouldn't listen to 'em, and he jumped up and carried on
+like a madman. His idea was for 'em all to club together to pay the
+money, and to borrow it from Smith, the landlord, to go on with. They
+wouldn't 'ear of it at fust, but arter Smith 'ad pointed out that they
+might 'ave to go to jail with Henery, and said things about 'is license,
+they gave way. Bob Pretty was just starting off to see Policeman White
+when they took the money, and instead o' telling 'im wot they thought
+of 'im, as they 'ad intended, Henery Walker 'ad to walk alongside of 'im
+and beg and pray of 'im to take the money. He took it at last as a
+favor to Henery, and bought the hamper back with it next morning—cheap.
+Leastways, he said so.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+DOUBLE DEALING
+
+Mr. Fred Carter stood on the spacious common, inhaling with all the
+joy of the holiday-making Londoner the salt smell of the sea below, and
+regarding with some interest the movements of a couple of men who had
+come to a stop a short distance away. As he looked they came on again,
+eying him closely as they approached—a strongly built, shambling man of
+fifty, and a younger man, evidently his son.
+
+'Stood on the Spacious Common, Inhaling The Salt Smell Of The Sea
+Below.'
+
+“Good-evening,” said the former, as they came abreast of Mr. Carter.
+
+“Good-evening,” he replied.
+
+“That's him,” said both together.
+
+They stood regarding him in a fashion unmistakably hostile. Mr. Carter,
+with an uneasy smile, awaited developments.
+
+“What have you got to say for yourself?” demanded the elder man, at
+last. “Do you call yourself a man?”
+
+“I don't call myself anything,” said the puzzled Mr. Carter. “Perhaps
+you're mistaking me for somebody else.”
+
+“Didn't I tell you,” said the younger man, turning to the other—“didn't
+I tell you he'd say that?”
+
+“He can say what he likes,” said the other, “but we've got him now. If
+he gets away from me he'll be cleverer than what he thinks he is.”
+
+“What are we to do with him now we've got him?” inquired his son.
+
+The elder man clenched a huge fist and eyed Mr. Carter savagely. “If I
+was just considering myself,” he said, “I should hammer him till I was
+tired and then chuck him into the sea.”
+
+His son nodded. “That wouldn't do Nancy much good, though,” he remarked.
+
+“I want to do everything for the best,” said the other, “and I s'pose
+the right and proper thing to do is to take him by the scruff of his
+neck and run him along to Nancy.”
+
+“You try it,” said Mr. Carter, hotly. “Who is Nancy?”
+
+The other growled, and was about to aim a blow at him when his son threw
+himself upon him and besought him to be calm.
+
+“Just one,” said his father, struggling, “only one. It would do me good;
+and perhaps he'd come along the quieter for it.”
+
+“Look here!” said Mr. Carter. “You're mistaking me for somebody else,
+that's what you are doing. What am I supposed to have done?”
+
+“You're supposed to have come courting my daughter, Mr. Somebody Else,”
+said the other, releasing himself and thrusting his face into Mr.
+Carter's, “and, after getting her promise to marry you, nipping off to
+London to arrange for the wedding. She's been mourning over you for four
+years now, having an idea that you had been made away with.”
+
+“Being true to your memory, you skunk,” said the son.
+
+“And won't look at decent chaps that want to marry her,” added the
+other.
+
+“It's all a mistake,” said Mr. Carter. “I came down here this morning
+for the first time in my life.”
+
+“Bring him along,” said the son, impatiently. “It's a waste of time
+talking to him.”
+
+Mr. Carter took a step back and parleyed. “I'll come along with you
+of my own free will,” he said, hastily, “just to show you that you are
+wrong; but I won't be forced.”
+
+He turned and walked back with them towards the town, pausing
+occasionally to admire the view. Once he paused so long that an ominous
+growl arose from the elder of his captors.
+
+“I was just thinking,” said Mr. Carter, eying him in consternation;
+“suppose that she makes the same mistake that you have made? Oh, Lord!”
+
+“Keeps it up pretty well, don't he, Jim?” said the father.
+
+The other grunted and, drawing nearer to Mr. Carter as they entered the
+town, stepped along in silence. Questions which Mr. Carter asked with
+the laudable desire of showing his ignorance concerning the neighborhood
+elicited no reply. His discomfiture was increased by the behavior of an
+elderly boatman, who, after looking at him hard, took his pipe from his
+mouth and bade him “Good-evening.” Father and son exchanged significant
+glances.
+
+'An Elderly Boatman, Who, After Looking at Him Hard, Took His Pipe from
+his Mouth and Bade Him 'good-evening.''
+
+They turned at last into a small street, and the elder man, opening the
+door of a neat cottage, laid his hand on the prisoner's shoulder
+and motioned him in. Mr. Carter obeyed, and, entering a spotless
+living-room, removed his hat and with affected composure seated himself
+in an easy-chair.
+
+“I'll go up and tell Nan,” said Jim. “Don't let him run away.”
+
+He sprang up the stairs, which led from a corner of the room, and
+the next moment the voice of a young lady, laboring under intense
+excitement, fell on the ears of Mr. Carter. With a fine attempt at
+unconcern he rose and inspected an aged engraving of “The Sailor's
+Return.”
+
+“She'll be down in a minute,” said Jim, returning.
+
+“P'r'aps it's as well that I didn't set about him, after all,” said his
+father. “If I had done what I should like to do, his own mother wouldn't
+have known him.”
+
+Mr. Carter sniffed defiantly and, with a bored air, resumed his seat.
+Ten minutes passed—fifteen; at the end of half an hour the elder man's
+impatience found vent in a tirade against the entire sex.
+
+“She's dressing up; that's what it is,” explained Jim. “For him!”
+
+A door opened above and a step sounded on the stairs. Mr. Carter looked
+up uneasily, and, after the first sensation of astonishment had passed,
+wondered vaguely what his double had run away for. The girl, her lips
+parted and her eyes bright, came swiftly down into the room.
+
+“Where is he?” she said, quickly.
+
+“Eh?” said her father, in surprise. “Why, there! Can't you see?”
+
+The light died out of the girl's face and she looked round in dismay.
+The watchful Mr. Carter thought that he also detected in her glance a
+spice of that temper which had made her relatives so objectionable.
+
+“That!” she said, loudly. “That! That's not my Bert!”
+
+“That's what I told 'em,” said Mr. Carter, deferentially, “over and over
+again.”
+
+“What!” said her father, loudly. “Look again.”
+
+“If I looked all night it wouldn't make any difference,” said the
+disappointed Miss Evans. “The idea of making such a mistake!”
+
+“We're all liable to mistakes,” said Mr. Carter, magnanimously, “even
+the best of us.”
+
+“You take a good look at him,” urged her brother, “and don't forget that
+it's four years since you saw him. Isn't that Bert's nose?”
+
+“No,” said the girl, glancing at the feature in question, “not a bit
+like it. Bert had a beautiful nose.”
+
+“Look at his eyes,” said Jim.
+
+Miss Evans looked, and meeting Mr. Carter's steady gaze tossed her head
+scornfully and endeavored to stare him down. Realizing too late the
+magnitude of the task, but unwilling to accept defeat, she stood
+confronting him with indignant eyes.
+
+“Well?” said Mr. Evans, misunderstanding.
+
+“Not a bit like,” said his daughter, turning thankfully. “And if you
+don't like Bert, you needn't insult him.”
+
+She sat down with her back towards Mr. Carter and looked out at the
+window.
+
+“Well, I could ha' sworn it was Bert Simmons,” said the discomfited Mr.
+Evans.
+
+“Me, too,” said his son. “I'd ha' sworn to him anywhere. It's the most
+extraordinary likeness I've ever seen.”
+
+He caught his father's eye, and with a jerk of his thumb telegraphed for
+instructions as to the disposal of Mr. Carter.
+
+“He can go,” said Mr. Evans, with an attempt at dignity; “he can go this
+time, and I hope that this'll be a lesson to him not to go about looking
+like other people. If he does, next time, p'r'aps, he won't escape so
+easy.”
+
+“You're quite right,” said Mr. Carter, blandly. “I'll get a new face
+first thing to-morrow morning. I ought to have done it before.”
+
+He crossed to the door and, nodding to the fermenting Mr. Evans, bowed
+to the profile of Miss Evans and walked slowly out. Envy of Mr. Simmons
+was mingled with amazement at his deplorable lack of taste and common
+sense. He would willingly have changed places with him. There was
+evidently a strong likeness, and——
+
+Busy with his thoughts he came to a standstill in the centre of the
+footpath, and then, with a sudden air of determination, walked slowly
+back to the house.
+
+“Yes?” said Mr. Evans, as the door opened and the face of Mr. Carter was
+thrust in. “What have you come back for?”
+
+The other stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind him.
+“I have come back,” he said, slowly—“I have come back because I feel
+ashamed of myself.”
+
+“Ashamed of yourself?” repeated Mr. Evans, rising and confronting him.
+
+Mr. Carter hung his head and gazed nervously in the direction of the
+girl. “I can't keep up this deception,” he said, in a low but distinct
+voice. “I am Bert Simmons. At least, that is the name I told you four
+years ago.”
+
+“I knew I hadn't made a mistake,” roared Mr. Evans to his son. “I knew
+him well enough. Shut the door, Jim. Don't let him go.”
+
+“I don't want to go,” said Mr. Carter, with a glance in the direction of
+Nancy. “I have come back to make amends.”
+
+“Fancy Nancy not knowing him!” said Jim, gazing at the astonished Miss
+Evans.
+
+“She was afraid of getting me into trouble,” said Mr. Carter, “and I
+just gave her a wink not to recognize me; but she knew me well enough,
+bless her.”
+
+“How dare you!” said the girl, starting up. “Why, I've never seen you
+before in my life.”
+
+“All right, Nan,” said the brazen Mr. Carter; “but it's no good keeping
+it up now. I've come back to act fair and square.”
+
+Miss Evans struggled for breath.
+
+“There he is, my girl,” said her father, patting her on the back. “He's
+not much to look at, and he treated you very shabby, but if you want him
+I suppose you must have him.”
+
+“Want him?” repeated the incensed Miss Evans. “Want him? I tell you it's
+not Bert. How dare he come here and call me Nan?”
+
+“You used not to mind it,” said Mr. Carter, plaintively.
+
+“I tell you,” said Miss Evans, turning to her father and brother, “it's
+not Bert. Do you think I don't know?”
+
+“Well, he ought to know who he is,” said her father, reasonably.
+
+“Of course I ought,” said Mr. Carter, smiling at her. “Besides, what
+reason should I have for saying I am Bert if I am not?”
+
+“That's a fair question,” said Jim, as the girl bit her lip. “Why should
+he?”
+
+“Ask him,” said the girl, tartly.
+
+“Look here, my girl,” said Mr. Evans, in ominous accents. “For four
+years you've been grieving over Bert, and me and Jim have been hunting
+high and low for him. We've got him at last, and now you've got to have
+him.”
+
+“If he don't run away again,” said Jim. “I wouldn't trust him farther
+than I could see him.”
+
+Mr. Evans sat and glowered at his prospective son-in-law as the
+difficulties of the situation developed themselves. Even Mr. Carter's
+reminders that he had come back and surrendered of his own free will
+failed to move him, and he was hesitating between tying him up and
+locking him in the attic and hiring a man to watch him, when Mr. Carter
+himself suggested a way out of the difficulty.
+
+“I'll lodge with you,” he said, “and I'll give you all my money and
+things to take care of. I can't run away without money.”
+
+He turned out his pockets on the table. Seven pounds eighteen shillings
+and fourpence with his return ticket made one heap; his watch and
+chain, penknife, and a few other accessories another. A suggestion
+of Jim's that he should add his boots was vetoed by the elder man as
+unnecessary.
+
+“There you are,” said Mr. Evans, sweeping the things into his own
+pockets; “and the day you are married I hand them back to you.”
+
+His temper improved as the evening wore on. By the time supper was
+finished and his pipe alight he became almost jocular, and the coldness
+of Miss Evans was the only drawback to an otherwise enjoyable evening.
+
+“Just showing off a little temper,” said her father, after she had
+withdrawn; “and wants to show she ain't going to forgive you too easy.
+Not but what you behaved badly; however, let bygones be bygones, that's
+my idea.”
+
+The behavior of Miss Evans was so much better next day that it really
+seemed as though her father's diagnosis was correct. At dinner, when the
+men came home from work, she piled Mr. Carter's plate up so generously
+that her father and brother had ample time at their disposal to watch
+him eat. And when he put his hand over his glass she poured half a
+pint of good beer, that other men would have been thankful for, up his
+sleeve.
+
+'She Piled Mr. Carter's Plate up So Generously That Her Father and
+Brother Had Ample Time at Their Disposal to Watch Him Eat.'
+
+She was out all the afternoon, but at tea time she sat next to Mr.
+Carter, and joined brightly in the conversation concerning her marriage.
+She addressed him as Bert, and when he furtively pressed her hand
+beneath the table-cloth she made no attempt to withdraw it.
+
+“I can't think how it was you didn't know him at first,” said her
+father. “You're usually wide-awake enough.”
+
+“Silly of me,” said Nancy; “but I am silly sometimes.”
+
+Mr. Carter pressed her hand again, and gazing tenderly into her eyes
+received a glance in return which set him thinking. It was too cold and
+calculating for real affection; in fact, after another glance, he began
+to doubt if it indicated affection at all.
+
+“It's like old times, Bert,” said Miss Evans, with an odd smile. “Do you
+remember what you said that afternoon when I put the hot spoon on your
+neck?”
+
+“Yes,” was the reply.
+
+“What was it?” inquired the girl.
+
+“I won't repeat it,” said Mr. Carter, firmly.
+
+He was reminded of other episodes during the meal, but, by the exercise
+of tact and the plea of a bad memory, did fairly well. He felt that
+he had done very well indeed when, having cleared the tea-things away,
+Nancy came and sat beside him with her hand in his. Her brother grunted,
+but Mr. Evans, in whom a vein of sentiment still lingered, watched them
+with much satisfaction.
+
+Mr. Carter had got possession of both hands and was murmuring fulsome
+flatteries when the sound of somebody pausing at the open door caused
+them to be hastily withdrawn.
+
+“Evening, Mr. Evans,” said a young man, putting his head in. “Why,
+halloa! Bert! Well, of all the——”
+
+“Halloa!” said Mr. Carter, with attempted enthusiasm, as he rose from
+his chair.
+
+“I thought you was lost,” said the other, stepping in and gripping his
+hand. “I never thought I was going to set eyes on you again. Well, this
+is a surprise. You ain't forgot Joe Wilson, have you?”
+
+“Course I haven't, Joe,” said Mr. Carter. “I'd have known you anywhere.”
+
+He shook hands effusively, and Mr. Wilson, after a little pretended
+hesitation, accepted a chair and began to talk about old times.
+
+“I lay you ain't forgot one thing, Bert,” he said at last.
+
+“What's that?” inquired the other.
+
+“That arf-quid I lent you,” said Mr. Wilson.
+
+Mr. Carter, after the first shock of surprise, pretended to think, Mr.
+Wilson supplying him with details as to time and place, which he was in
+no position to dispute. He turned to Mr. Evans, who was still acting
+as his banker, and, after a little hesitation, requested him to pay the
+money. Conversation seemed to fail somewhat after that, and Mr. Wilson,
+during an awkward pause, went off whistling.
+
+“Same old Joe,” said Mr. Carter, lightly, after he had gone. “He hasn't
+altered a bit.”
+
+Miss Evans glanced at him, but said nothing. She was looking instead
+towards a gentleman of middle age who was peeping round the door
+indulging in a waggish game of peep-bo with the unconscious Mr. Carter.
+Finding that he had at last attracted his attention, the gentleman came
+inside and, breathing somewhat heavily after his exertions, stood before
+him with outstretched hand.
+
+'A Gentleman of Middle Age Was Peeping Round the Door.'
+
+“How goes it?” said Mr. Carter, forcing a smile and shaking hands.
+
+“He's grown better-looking than ever,” said the gentleman, subsiding
+into a chair.
+
+“So have you,” said Mr. Carter. “I should hardly have known you.”
+
+“Well, I' m glad to see you again,” said the other in a more subdued
+fashion. “We're all glad to see you back, and I 'ope that when the
+wedding cake is sent out there'll be a bit for old Ben Prout.”
+
+“You'll be the first, Ben,” said Mr. Carter, quickly.
+
+Mr. Prout got up and shook hands with him again. “It only shows what
+mistakes a man can make,” he said, resuming his seat. “It only shows how
+easy it is to misjudge one's fellow-creeturs. When you went away sudden
+four years ago, I says to myself, 'Ben Prout,' I says, 'make up your
+mind to it, that two quid has gorn.'”
+
+The smile vanished from Mr. Carter's face, and a sudden chill descended
+upon the company.
+
+“Two quid?” he said, stiffly. “What two quid?”
+
+“The two quid I lent you,” said Mr. Prout, in a pained voice.
+
+“When?” said Mr. Carter, struggling.
+
+“When you and I met him that evening on the pier,” said Miss Evans, in a
+matter-of-fact voice.
+
+Mr. Carter started, and gazed at her uneasily. The smile on her lip and
+the triumphant gleam in her eye were a revelation to him. He turned to
+Mr. Evans and in as calm a voice as he could assume, requested him to
+discharge the debt. Mr. Prout, his fingers twitching, stood waiting
+“Well, it's your money,” said Mr. Evans, grudgingly extracting a purse
+from his trouser-pocket; “and I suppose you ought to pay your debts;
+still——”
+
+He put down two pounds on the table and broke off in sudden amazement
+as Mr. Prout, snatching up the money, bolted headlong from the room.
+His surprise was shared by his son, but the other two made no sign. Mr.
+Carter was now prepared for the worst, and his voice was quite calm as
+he gave instructions for the payment of the other three gentlemen who
+presented claims during the evening endorsed by Miss Evans. As the last
+departed Mr. Evans, whose temper had been gradually getting beyond his
+control, crossed over and handed him his watch and chain, a few coppers,
+and the return half of his railway ticket.
+
+“I think we can do without you, after all,” he said, breathing thickly.
+“I've no doubt you owe money all over England. You're a cadger, that's
+what you are.”
+
+He pointed to the door, and Mr. Carter, after twice opening his lips
+to speak and failing, blundered towards it. Miss Evans watched him
+curiously.
+
+“Cheats never prosper,” she said, with gentle severity.
+
+“Good-by,” said Mr. Carter, pausing at the door.
+
+“It's your own fault,” continued Miss Evans, who was suffering from a
+slight touch of conscience. “If you hadn't come here pretending to be
+Bert Simmons and calling me 'Nan' as if you had known me all my life, I
+wouldn't have done it.”
+
+“It doesn't matter,” said Mr. Carter. “I wish I was Bert Simmons, that's
+all. Good-by.”
+
+“Wish you was!” said Mr. Evans, who had been listening in open-mouthed
+astonishment. “Look here! Man to man—are you Bert Simmons or are you
+not?”
+
+“No,” said Mr. Carter.
+
+“Of course not,” said Nancy.
+
+“And you didn't owe that money?”
+
+“Nobody owed it,” said Nancy. “It was done just to punish him.”
+
+Mr. Evans, with a strange cry, blundered towards the door. “I'll have
+that money out of 'em,” he roared, “if I have to hold 'em up and shake
+it out of their trouser-pockets. You stay here.”
+
+He hurried up the road, and Jim, with the set face of a man going into
+action against heavy odds, followed him.
+
+“Your father told me to stay,” said Mr. Carter, coming farther into the
+room.
+
+Nancy looked up at him through her eyelashes. “You need not unless you
+want to,” she said, very softly.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+KEEPING UP APPEARANCES
+
+“Everybody is superstitious,” said the night-watchman, as he gave
+utterance to a series of chirruping endearments to a black cat with one
+eye that had just been using a leg of his trousers as a serviette; “if
+that cat 'ad stole some men's suppers they'd have acted foolish, and
+suffered for it all the rest of their lives.”
+
+He scratched the cat behind the ear, and despite himself his face
+darkened. “Slung it over the side, they would,” he said, longingly, “and
+chucked bits o' coke at it till it sank. As I said afore, everybody is
+superstitious, and those that ain't ought to be night-watchmen for a
+time—that 'ud cure 'em. I knew one man that killed a black cat, and
+arter that for the rest of his life he could never get three sheets in
+the wind without seeing its ghost. Spoilt his life for 'im, it did.”
+
+He scratched the cat's other ear. “I only left it a moment, while I
+went round to the Bull's Head,” he said, slowly filling his pipe, “and I
+thought I'd put it out o' reach. Some men——”
+
+His fingers twined round the animal's neck; then, with a sigh, he rose
+and took a turn or two on the jetty.
+
+Superstitiousness is right and proper, to a certain extent, he said,
+resuming his seat; but, o' course, like everything else, some people
+carry it too far—they'd believe anything. Weak-minded they are, and
+if you're in no hurry I can tell you a tale of a pal o' mine, Bill
+Burtenshaw by name, that'll prove my words.
+
+'Superstitiousness is Right and Proper, to a Certain Extent.'
+
+His mother was superstitious afore 'im, and always knew when 'er friends
+died by hearing three loud taps on the wall. The on'y mistake she ever
+made was one night when, arter losing no less than seven friends, she
+found out it was the man next door hanging pictures at three o'clock in
+the morning. She found it out by 'im hitting 'is thumb-nail.
+
+For the first few years arter he grew up Bill went to sea, and that on'y
+made 'im more superstitious than ever. Him and a pal named Silas Winch
+went several v'y'ges together, and their talk used to be that creepy
+that some o' the chaps was a'most afraid to be left on deck alone of a
+night. Silas was a long-faced, miserable sort o' chap, always looking
+on the black side o' things, and shaking his 'ead over it. He thought
+nothing o' seeing ghosts, and pore old Ben Huggins slept on the floor
+for a week by reason of a ghost with its throat cut that Silas saw in
+his bunk. He gave Silas arf a dollar and a neck-tie to change bunks with
+'im.
+
+When Bill Burtenshaw left the sea and got married he lost sight of Silas
+altogether, and the on'y thing he 'ad to remind him of 'im was a piece
+o' paper which they 'ad both signed with their blood, promising that
+the fust one that died would appear to the other. Bill agreed to it one
+evenin' when he didn't know wot he was doing, and for years arterwards
+'e used to get the cold creeps down 'is back when he thought of Silas
+dying fust. And the idea of dying fust 'imself gave 'im cold creeps all
+over.
+
+Bill was a very good husband when he was sober, but 'is money was two
+pounds a week, and when a man has all that and on'y a wife to keep out
+of it, it's natural for 'im to drink. Mrs. Burtenshaw tried all sorts o'
+ways and means of curing 'im, but it was no use. Bill used to think o'
+ways, too, knowing the 'arm the drink was doing 'im, and his fav'rite
+plan was for 'is missis to empty a bucket o' cold water over 'im every
+time he came 'ome the worse for licker. She did it once, but as she 'ad
+to spend the rest o' the night in the back yard it wasn't tried again.
+
+Bill got worse as he got older, and even made away with the furniture to
+get drink with. And then he used to tell 'is missis that he was drove to
+the pub because his 'ome was so uncomfortable.
+
+Just at that time things was at their worst Silas Winch, who 'appened to
+be ashore and 'ad got Bill's address from a pal, called to see 'im. It
+was a Saturday arternoon when he called, and, o' course, Bill was out,
+but 'is missis showed him in, and, arter fetching another chair from the
+kitchen, asked 'im to sit down.
+
+Silas was very perlite at fust, but arter looking round the room and
+seeing 'ow bare it was, he gave a little cough, and he ses, “I thought
+Bill was doing well?” he ses.
+
+'Silas Was Very Perlite at Fust.'
+
+“So he is,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw.
+
+Silas Winch coughed again.
+
+“I suppose he likes room to stretch 'imself about in?” he ses, looking
+round.
+
+Mrs. Burtenshaw wiped 'er eyes and then, knowing 'ow Silas had been an
+old friend o' Bill's, she drew 'er chair a bit closer and told him 'ow
+it was. “A better 'usband, when he's sober, you couldn't wish to see,”
+she ses, wiping her eyes agin. “He'd give me anything—if he 'ad it.”
+
+Silas's face got longer than ever. “As a matter o' fact,” he ses, “I'm
+a bit down on my luck, and I called round with the 'ope that Bill could
+lend me a bit, just till I can pull round.”
+
+Mrs. Burtenshaw shook her 'ead.
+
+“Well, I s'pose I can stay and see 'im?” ses Silas. “Me and 'im used to
+be great pals at one time, and many's the good turn I've done him. Wot
+time'll he be 'ome?”
+
+“Any time after twelve,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw; “but you'd better not be
+here then. You see, 'im being in that condition, he might think you was
+your own ghost come according to promise and be frightened out of 'is
+life. He's often talked about it.”
+
+Silas Winch scratched his head and looked at 'er thoughtful-like.
+
+“Why shouldn't he mistake me for a ghost?” he ses at last; “the shock
+might do 'im good. And, if you come to that, why shouldn't I pretend to
+be my own ghost and warn 'im off the drink?”
+
+Mrs. Burtenshaw got so excited at the idea she couldn't 'ardly speak,
+but at last, arter saying over and over agin she wouldn't do such a
+thing for worlds, she and Silas arranged that he should come in at about
+three o'clock in the morning and give Bill a solemn warning. She gave
+'im her key, and Silas said he'd come in with his 'air and cap all wet
+and pretend he'd been drowned.
+
+“It's very kind of you to take all this trouble for nothing,” ses Mrs.
+Burtenshaw as Silas got up to go.
+
+“Don't mention it,” ses Silas. “It ain't the fust time, and I don't
+suppose it'll be the last, that I've put myself out to help my
+feller-creeturs. We all ought to do wot we can for each other.”
+
+“Mind, if he finds it out,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw, all of a tremble,
+“I don't know nothing about it. P'r'aps to make it more life-like I'd
+better pretend not to see you.”
+
+“P'r'aps it would be better,” ses Silas, stopping at the street door.
+“All I ask is that you'll 'ide the poker and anything else that might be
+laying about handy. And you 'ad better oil the lock so as the key won't
+make a noise.”
+
+Mrs. Burtenshaw shut the door arter 'im, and then she went in and 'ad
+a quiet sit-down all by 'erself to think it over. The only thing that
+comforted 'er was that Bill would be in licker, and also that 'e would
+believe anything in the ghost line.
+
+It was past twelve when a couple o' pals brought him 'ome, and, arter
+offering to fight all six of 'em, one after the other, Bill hit the wall
+for getting in 'is way, and tumbled upstairs to bed. In less than ten
+minutes 'e was fast asleep, and pore Mrs. Burtenshaw, arter trying her
+best to keep awake, fell asleep too.
+
+She was woke up suddenly by a noise that froze the marrer in 'er bones—
+the most 'art-rending groan she 'ad ever heard in 'er life; and, raising
+her 'ead, she saw Silas Winch standing at the foot of the bed. He 'ad
+done his face and hands over with wot is called loominous paint, his cap
+was pushed at the back of his 'ead, and wet wisps of 'air was hanging
+over his eyes. For a moment Mrs. Burtenshaw's 'art stood still and then
+Silas let off another groan that put her on edge all over. It was a
+groan that seemed to come from nothing a'most until it spread into a
+roar that made the room tremble and rattled the jug in the wash-stand
+basin. It shook everything in the room but Bill, and he went on sleeping
+like an infant. Silas did two more groans, and then 'e leaned over the
+foot o' the bed, and stared at Bill, as though 'e couldn't believe his
+eyesight.
+
+'She Saw Silas Winch Standing at the Foot of The Bed.'
+
+“Try a squeaky one,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw.
+
+Silas tried five squeaky ones, and then he 'ad a fit o' coughing that
+would ha' woke the dead, as they say, but it didn't wake Bill.
+
+“Now some more deep ones,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw, in a w'isper.
+
+Silas licked his lips—forgetting the paint—and tried the deep ones agin.
+
+“Now mix 'em a bit,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw.
+
+Silas stared at her. “Look 'ere,” he ses, very short, “do you think I'm
+a fog-horn, or wot?”
+
+He stood there sulky for a moment, and then 'e invented a noise that
+nothing living could miss hearing; even Bill couldn't. He moved in 'is
+sleep, and arter Silas 'ad done it twice more he turned and spoke to 'is
+missis about it. “D'ye hear?” he ses; “stop it. Stop it at once.”
+
+Mrs. Burtenshaw pretended to be asleep, and Bill was just going to turn
+over agin when Silas let off another groan. It was on'y a little one
+this time, but Bill sat up as though he 'ad been shot, and he no sooner
+caught sight of Silas standing there than 'e gave a dreadful 'owl and,
+rolling over, wropped 'imself up in all the bed-clothes 'e could lay his
+'ands on. Then Mrs. Burtenshaw gave a 'owl and tried to get some of 'em
+back; but Bill, thinking it was the ghost, only held on tighter than
+ever.
+
+“Bill!” ses Silas Winch, in an awful voice.
+
+Bill gave a kick, and tried to bore a hole through the bed.
+
+“Bill,” ses Silas agin, “why don't you answer me? I've come all the way
+from the bottom of the Pacific Ocean to see you, and this is all I get
+for it. Haven't you got anything to say to me?”
+
+“Good-by,” ses Bill, in a voice all smothered with the bed-clothes.
+
+Silas Winch groaned agin, and Bill, as the shock 'ad made a'most sober,
+trembled all over.
+
+“The moment I died,” ses Silas, “I thought of my promise towards you.
+'Bill's expecting me,' I ses, and, instead of staying in comfort at
+the bottom of the sea, I kicked off the body of the cabin-boy wot was
+clinging round my leg, and 'ere I am.”
+
+“It was very—t-t-thoughtful—of you—Silas,” ses Bill; “but you always—
+w-w-was—thoughtful. Good-by.”
+
+Afore Silas could answer, Mrs. Burtenshaw, who felt more comfortable,
+'aving got a bit o' the clothes back, thought it was time to put 'er
+spoke in.
+
+“Lor' bless me, Bill,” she ses. “Wotever are you a-talking to yourself
+like this for? 'Ave you been dreaming?”
+
+“Dreaming!” ses pore Bill, catching hold of her 'and and gripping it
+till she nearly screamed. “I wish I was. Can't you see it?”
+
+“See it?” ses his wife. “See wot?”
+
+“The ghost,” ses Bill, in a 'orrible whisper; “the ghost of my dear,
+kind old pal, Silas Winch. The best and noblest pal a man ever 'ad. The
+kindest-'arted——”
+
+“Rubbish,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw. “You've been dreaming. And as for the
+kindest-'arted pal, why I've often heard you say—”
+
+“H'sh!” ses Bill. “I didn't. I'll swear I didn't. I never thought of
+such a thing.”
+
+“You turn over and go to sleep,” ses his wife, “hiding your 'ead under
+the clothes like a child that's afraid o' the dark! There's nothing
+there, I tell you. Wot next will you see, I wonder? Last time it was a
+pink rat.”
+
+“This is fifty million times worse than pink rats,” ses Bill. “I on'y
+wish it was a pink rat.”
+
+“I tell you there is nothing there,” ses his wife. “Look!”
+
+Bill put his 'ead up and looked, and then 'e gave a dreadful scream and
+dived under the bed-clothes agin.
+
+“Oh, well, 'ave it your own way, then,” ses his wife. “If it pleases you
+to think there is a ghost there, and to go on talking to it, do so, and
+welcome.”
+
+She turned over and pretended to go to sleep agin, and arter a minute or
+two Silas spoke agin in the same hollow voice.
+
+“Bill!” he ses.
+
+“Yes,” ses Bill, with a groan of his own.
+
+“She can't see me,” ses Silas, “and she can't 'ear me; but I'm 'ere all
+right. Look!”
+
+“I 'ave looked,” ses Bill, with his 'ead still under the clothes.
+
+“We was always pals, Bill, you and me,” ses Silas; “many a v'y'ge 'ave
+we had together, mate, and now I'm a-laying at the bottom of the Pacific
+Ocean, and you are snug and 'appy in your own warm bed. I 'ad to come
+to see you, according to promise, and over and above that, since I was
+drowned my eyes 'ave been opened. Bill, you're drinking yourself to
+death!”
+
+“I—I—didn't know it,” ses Bill, shaking all over. “I'll knock it—off a
+bit, and—thank you—for—w-w-warning me. G-G-Good-by.”
+
+“You'll knock it off altogether,” ses Silas Winch, in a awful voice.
+“You're not to touch another drop of beer, wine, or spirits as long as
+you live. D'ye hear me?”
+
+“Not—not as medicine?” ses Bill, holding the clothes up a bit so as to
+be more distinct.
+
+“Not as anything,” ses Silas; “not even over Christmas pudding. Raise
+your right arm above your 'ead and swear by the ghost of pore Silas
+Winch, as is laying at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, that you won't
+touch another drop.”
+
+Bill Burtenshaw put 'is arm up and swore it.
+
+Then 'e took 'is arm in agin and lay there wondering wot was going to
+'appen next.
+
+“If you ever break your oath by on'y so much as a teaspoonful,” ses
+Silas, “you'll see me agin, and the second time you see me you'll die as
+if struck by lightning. No man can see me twice and live.”
+
+Bill broke out in a cold perspiration all over. “You'll be careful,
+won't you, Silas?” he ses. “You'll remember you 'ave seen me once, I
+mean?”
+
+“And there's another thing afore I go,” ses Silas. “I've left a widder,
+and if she don't get 'elp from some one she'll starve.”
+
+“Pore thing,” ses Bill. “Pore thing.”
+
+“If you 'ad died afore me,” ses Silas, “I should 'ave looked arter your
+good wife—wot I've now put in a sound sleep—as long as I lived.”
+
+Bill didn't say anything.
+
+“I should 'ave given 'er fifteen shillings a week,” ses Silas.
+
+“'Ow much?” ses Bill, nearly putting his 'ead up over the clothes, while
+'is wife almost woke up with surprise and anger.
+
+“Fifteen shillings,” ses Silas, in 'is most awful voice. “You'll save
+that over the drink.”
+
+“I—I'll go round and see her,” ses Bill. “She might be one o' these
+'ere independent—”
+
+“I forbid you to go near the place,” ses Silas. “Send it by post every
+week; 15 Shap Street will find her. Put your arm up and swear it; same
+as you did afore.”
+
+Bill did as 'e was told, and then 'e lay and trembled, as Silas gave
+three more awful groans.
+
+“Farewell, Bill,” he ses. “Farewell. I am going back to my bed at the
+bottom o' the sea. So long as you keep both your oaths I shall stay
+there. If you break one of 'em or go to see my pore wife I shall appear
+agin. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!”
+
+Bill said “Good-by,” and arter a long silence he ventured to put an eye
+over the edge of the clothes and discovered that the ghost 'ad gone. He
+lay awake for a couple o' hours, wondering and saying over the address
+to himself so that he shouldn't forget it, and just afore it was time to
+get up he fell into a peaceful slumber. His wife didn't get a wink, and
+she lay there trembling with passion to think 'ow she'd been done, and
+wondering 'ow she was to alter it.
+
+Bill told 'er all about it in the morning; and then with tears in his
+eyes 'e went downstairs and emptied a little barrel o' beer down the
+sink. For the fust two or three days 'e went about with a thirst that
+he'd ha' given pounds for if 'e'd been allowed to satisfy it, but arter
+a time it went off, and then, like all teetotallers, 'e began to run
+down drink and call it pison.
+
+'With Tears in his Eyes 'e Emptied a Little Barrel O' Beer Down the
+Sink.'
+
+The fust thing 'e did when 'e got his money on Friday was to send off
+a post-office order to Shap Street, and Mrs. Burtenshaw cried with
+rage and 'ad to put it down to the headache. She 'ad the headache every
+Friday for a month, and Bill, wot was feeling stronger and better than
+he 'ad done for years, felt quite sorry for her.
+
+By the time Bill 'ad sent off six orders she was worn to skin and bone
+a'most a-worrying over the way Silas Winch was spending her money. She
+dursn't undeceive Bill for two reasons: fust of all, because she didn't
+want 'im to take to drink agin; and secondly, for fear of wot he might
+do to 'er if 'e found out 'ow she'd been deceiving 'im.
+
+She was laying awake thinking it over one night while Bill was sleeping
+peaceful by her side, when all of a sudden she 'ad an idea. The more she
+thought of it the better it seemed; but she laid awake for ever so long
+afore she dared to do more than think. Three or four times she turned
+and looked at Bill and listened to 'im breathing, and then, trembling
+all over with fear and excitement, she began 'er little game.
+
+“He did send it,” she ses, with a piercing scream. “He did send it.”
+
+“W-w-wot's the matter?” ses Bill, beginning to wake up.
+
+Mrs. Burtenshaw didn't take any notice of 'im.
+
+“He did send it,” she ses, screaming agin. “Every Friday night reg'lar.
+Oh, don't let 'im see you agin.”
+
+Bill, wot was just going to ask 'er whether she 'ad gone mad, gave a
+awful 'owl and disappeared right down in the middle o' the bed.
+
+“There's some mistake,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw, in a voice that could ha'
+been 'eard through arf-a-dozen beds easy. “It must ha' been lost in the
+post. It must ha' been.”
+
+She was silent for a few seconds, then she ses, “All right,” she ses,
+“I'll bring it myself, then, by hand every week. No, Bill sha'n't come;
+I'll promise that for 'im. Do go away; he might put his 'ead up at any
+moment.”
+
+She began to gasp and sob, and Bill began to think wot a good wife he
+'ad got, when he felt 'er put a couple of pillers over where she judged
+his 'ead to be, and hold 'em down with her arm.
+
+“Thank you, Mr. Winch,” she ses, very loud. “Thank you. Good-by,
+Good-by.”
+
+She began to quieten down a bit, although little sobs, like wimmen use
+when they pretend that they want to leave off crying but can't, kept
+breaking out of 'er. Then, by and by, she quieted down altogether and a
+husky voice from near the foot of the bed ses: “Has it gorn?”
+
+“Oh, Bill,” she ses, with another sob, “I've seen the ghost!”
+
+“Has it gorn?” ses Bill, agin.
+
+“Yes, it's gorn,” ses his wife, shivering. “Oh, Bill, it stood at the
+foot of the bed looking at me, with its face and 'ands all shiny white,
+and damp curls on its forehead. Oh!”
+
+Bill came up very slow and careful, but with 'is eyes still shut.
+
+“His wife didn't get the money this week,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw; “but as
+he thought there might be a mistake somewhere he appeared to me instead
+of to you. I've got to take the money by hand.”
+
+“Yes, I heard,” ses Bill; “and mind, if you should lose it or be robbed
+of it, let me know at once. D'ye hear? At once!”
+
+“Yes, Bill,” ses 'is wife.
+
+They lay quiet for some time, although Mrs. Burtenshaw still kept
+trembling and shaking; and then Bill ses. “Next time a man tells you he
+'as seen a ghost, p'r'aps you'll believe in 'im.”
+
+Mrs. Burtenshaw took out the end of the sheet wot she 'ad stuffed in 'er
+mouth when 'e began to speak.
+
+“Yes, Bill,” she ses.
+
+Bill Burtenshaw gave 'er the fifteen shillings next morning and every
+Friday night arterwards; and that's 'ow it is that, while other wimmen
+'as to be satisfied looking at new hats and clothes in the shop-winders,
+Mrs. Burtenshaw is able to wear 'em.
+
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+End of Project Gutenberg's Sailor's Knots (Entire Collection), by W.W.
+Jacobs
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