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diff --git a/11482-0.txt b/11482-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6348c15 --- /dev/null +++ b/11482-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5573 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11482 *** + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + + + +DEEP WATERS + +By W. W. JACOBS + +1911 + + + + +CONTENTS + + SHAREHOLDERS + PAYING OFF + MADE TO MEASURE + SAM’S GHOST + BEDRIDDEN + THE CONVERT + HUSBANDRY + FAMILY CARES + THE WINTER OFFENSIVE + THE SUBSTITUTE + STRIKING HARD + DIRTY WORK + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + “Found It over There, Just by the Mint,” Ses The Man, Pointing. + In the Light of The Lamp I Saw The Dead White Face. + Right Afore My Wife and the Party Next Door She Put Her Arm Round My Waist. + She Learnt the News in The First Half-hour from Her Landlady. + + + + +SHAREHOLDERS + + +Sailor man—said the night-watchman, musingly—a sailorman is like a fish +he is safest when ’e is at sea. When a fish comes ashore it is in for +trouble, and so is sailorman. One poor chap I knew ’ardly ever came +ashore without getting married; and he was found out there was no less +than six wimmen in the court all taking away ’is character at once. And +when he spoke up Solomon the magistrate pretty near bit ’is ’ead off. + +Then look at the trouble they get in with their money! They come ashore +from a long trip, smelling of it a’most, and they go from port to port +like a lord. Everybody has got their eye on that money—everybody except +the sailorman, that is—and afore he knows wot’s ’appened, and who ’as +got it, he’s looking for a ship agin. When he ain’t robbed of ’is +money, he wastes it; and when ’e don’t do either, he loses it. + +I knew one chap who hid ’is money. He’d been away ten months, and, +knowing ’ow easy money goes, ’e made up sixteen pounds in a nice little +parcel and hid it where nobody could find it. That’s wot he said, and +p’r’aps ’e was right. All I know is, he never found it. I did the same +thing myself once with a couple o’ quid I ran acrost unexpected, on’y, +unfortunately for me, I hid it the day afore my missus started ’er +spring-cleaning. + +One o’ the worst men I ever knew for getting into trouble when he came +ashore was old Sam Small. If he couldn’t find it by ’imself, Ginger +Dick and Peter Russet would help ’im look for it. Generally speaking +they found it without straining their eyesight. + +I remember one time they was home, arter being away pretty near a year, +and when they was paid off they felt like walking gold-mines. They went +about smiling all over with good-temper and ’appiness, and for the +first three days they was like brothers. That didn’t last, of course, +and on the fourth day Sam Small, arter saying wot ’e would do to Ginger +and Peter if it wasn’t for the police, went off by ’imself. + +His temper passed off arter a time, and ’e began to look cheerful agin. +It was a lovely morning, and, having nothing to do and plenty in ’is +pocket to do it with, he went along like a schoolboy with a ’arf +holiday. He went as far as Stratford on the top of a tram for a +mouthful o’ fresh air, and came back to his favourite coffee-shop with +a fine appetite for dinner. There was a very nice gentlemanly chap +sitting opposite ’im, and the way he begged Sam’s pardon for splashing +gravy over ’im made Sam take a liking to him at once. Nicely dressed he +was, with a gold pin in ’is tie, and a fine gold watch-chain acrost his +weskit; and Sam could see he ’ad been brought up well by the way he +used ’is knife and fork. He kept looking at Sam in a thoughtful kind o’ +way, and at last he said wot a beautiful morning it was, and wot a fine +day it must be in the country. In a little while they began to talk +like a couple of old friends, and he told Sam all about ’is father, wot +was a clergyman in the country, and Sam talked about a father of his as +was living private on three ’undred a year. + +“Ah, money’s a useful thing,” ses the man. + +“It ain’t everything,” ses Sam. “It won’t give you ’appiness. I’ve run +through a lot in my time, so I ought to know.” + +“I expect you’ve got a bit left, though,” ses the man, with a wink. + +Sam laughed and smacked ’is pocket. “I’ve got a trifle to go on with,” +he ses, winking back. “I never feel comfortable without a pound or two +in my pocket.” + +“You look as though you’re just back from a vy’ge,” ses the man, +looking at ’im very hard. + +“I am,” ses Sam, nodding. “Just back arter ten months, and I’m going to +spend a bit o’ money afore I sign on agin, I can tell you.” + +“That’s wot it was given to us for,” ses the man, nodding at him. + +They both got up to go at the same time and walked out into the street +together, and, when Sam asked ’im whether he might have the pleasure of +standing ’im a drink, he said he might. He talked about the different +kinds of drink as they walked along till Sam, wot was looking for a +high-class pub, got such a raging thirst on ’im he hardly knew wot to +do with ’imself. He passed several pubs, and walked on as fast as he +could to the Three Widders. + +“Do you want to go in there partikler?” ses the man, stopping at the +door. + +“No,” ses Sam, staring. + +“’Cos I know a place where they sell the best glass o’ port wine in +London,” ses the man. + +He took Sam up two or three turnings, and then led him into a quiet +little pub in a back street. There was a cosy little saloon bar with +nobody in it, and, arter Sam had ’ad two port wines for the look of the +thing, he ’ad a pint o’ six-ale because he liked it. His new pal had +one too, and he ’ad just taken a pull at it and wiped his mouth, when +’e noticed a little bill pinned up at the back of the bar. + +“Lost, between—the Mint and—Tower Stairs,” he ses, leaning forward and +reading very slow, “a gold—locket—set with—diamonds. Whoever +will—return—the same to—Mr. Smith—Orange Villa—Barnet—will receive +—thirty pounds—reward.” + +“’Ow much?” ses Sam, starting. “Thirty pounds,” ses the man. “Must be a +good locket. Where’d you get that?” he ses, turning to the barmaid. + +“Gentleman came in an hour ago,” ses the gal, “and, arter he had ’ad +two or three drinks with the guv’nor, he asks ’im to stick it up. ’Arf +crying he was—said ’it ’ad belonged to his old woman wot died.” + +She went off to serve a customer at the other end of the bar wot was +making little dents in it with his pot, and the man came back and sat +down by Sam agin, and began to talk about horse-racing. At least, he +tried to, but Sam couldn’t talk of nothing but that locket, and wot a +nice steady sailorman could do with thirty pounds. + +“Well, p’r’aps you’ll find it,” ses the man, chaffing-like. “’Ave +another pint.” + +Sam had one, but it only made ’im more solemn, and he got in quite a +temper as ’e spoke about casuals loafing about on Tower Hill with their +’ands in their pockets, and taking gold lockets out of the mouths of +hard-working sailormen. + +“It mightn’t be found yet,” ses the man, speaking thoughtful-like. +“It’s wonderful how long a thing’ll lay sometimes. Wot about going and +’aving a look for it?” + +Sam shook his ’ead at fust, but arter turning the thing over in his +mind, and ’aving another look at the bill, and copying down the name +and address for luck, ’e said p’r’aps they might as well walk that way +as anywhere else. + +“Something seems to tell me we’ve got a chance,” ses the man, as they +stepped outside. + +“It’s a funny feeling and I can’t explain it, but it always means good +luck. Last time I had it an aunt o’ mine swallered ’er false teeth and +left me five ’undred pounds.” + +“There’s aunts and aunts,” ses Sam, grunting. “I ’ad one once, but if +she had swallered ’er teeth she’d ha’ been round to me to help ’er buy +some new ones. That’s the sort she was.” + +“Mind!” ses the man, patting ’im on the shoulder, “if we do find this, +I don’t want any of it. I’ve got all I want. It’s all for you.” + +They went on like a couple o’ brothers arter that, especially Sam, and +when they got to the Mint they walked along slow down Tower Hill +looking for the locket. It was awkward work, because, if people saw +them looking about, they’d ’ave started looking too, and twice Sam +nearly fell over owing to walking like a man with a stiff neck and +squinting down both sides of his nose at once. When they got as far as +the Stairs they came back on the other side of the road, and they ’ad +turned to go back agin when a docker-looking chap stopped Sam’s friend +and spoke to ’im. + +“I’ve got no change, my man,” ses Sam’s pal, pushing past him. + +“I ain’t begging, guv’nor,” ses the chap, follering ’im up. “I’m trying +to sell some-thing.” + +“Wot is it?” ses the other, stopping. + +The man looked up and down the street, and then he put his ’ead near +them and whispered. + +“Eh?” ses Sam’s pal. + +“Something I picked up,” ses the man, still a-whispering. + +Sam got a pinch on the arm from ’is pal that nearly made him scream, +then they both stood still, staring at the docker. + +“Wot is it?” ses Sam, at last. + +The docker looked over his shoulder agin, and then ’e put his ’and in +his trouser-pocket and just showed ’em a big, fat gold locket with +diamonds stuck all over it. Then he shoved it back in ’is pocket, while +Sam’s pal was giving ’im a pinch worse than wot the other was. + +“It’s the one,” he ses, in a whisper. “Let’s ’ave another look at it,” +he ses to the docker. + +The man fished it out of his pocket agin, and held on to it tight while +they looked at it. + +“Where did you find it?” ses Sam. + +“Found it over there, just by the Mint,” ses the man, pointing. + +[Illustration: “Found it over there, just by the Mint,” ses the man, +pointing.] + +“As much as I can get,” ses the man. “I don’t quite know ’ow much it’s +worth, that’s the worst of it. Wot d’ye say to twenty pounds, and +chance it?” + +Sam laughed—the sort of laugh a pal ’ad once give him a black eye for. + +“Twenty pounds!” he ses; “twenty pounds! ’Ave you gorn out of your +mind, or wot? I’ll give you a couple of quid for it.” + +“Well, it’s all right, captin,” ses the man, “there’s no ’arm done. +I’ll try somebody else—or p’r’aps there’ll be a big reward for it. I +don’t believe it was bought for a ’undred pounds.” + +He was just sheering off when Sam’s pal caught ’im by the arm and asked +him to let ’im have another look at it. Then he came back to Sam and +led ’im a little way off, whispering to ’im that it was the chance of a +life time. + +“And if you prefer to keep it for a little while and then sell it, +instead of getting the reward for it, I dare say it would be worth a +hundred pounds to you,” ’e ses. + +“I ain’t got twenty pounds,” ses Sam. + +“’Ow much ’ave you got?” ses his pal. + +Sam felt in ’is pockets, and the docker came up and stood watching +while he counted it. Altogether it was nine pounds fourteen shillings +and tuppence. + +“P’r’aps you’ve got some more at ’ome,” ses his pal. + +“Not a farthing,” ses Sam, which was true as far as the farthing went. + +“Or p’r’aps you could borrer some,” ses his pal, in a soft, kind voice. +“I’d lend it to you with pleasure, on’y I haven’t got it with me.” + +Sam shook his ’ead, and at last, arter the docker ’ad said he wouldn’t +let it go for less than twenty, even to save ’is life, he let it go for +the nine pounds odd, a silver watch-chain, two cigars wot Sam ’ad been +sitting on by mistake, and a sheath-knife. + +“Shove it in your pocket and don’t let a soul see it,” ses the man, +handing over the locket. “I might as well give it away a’most. But it +can’t be ’elped.” + +He went off up the ’ill shaking his ’ead, and Sam’s pal, arter watching +him for a few seconds, said good-bye in a hurry and went off arter ’im +to tell him to keep ’is mouth shut about it. + +Sam walked back to his lodgings on air, as the saying is, and even did +a little bit of a skirt-dance to a pianner-organ wot was playing. Peter +and Ginger was out, and so was his land-lady, a respectable woman as +was minding the rest of ’is money for him, and when he asked ’er little +gal, a kid of eleven, to trust ’im for some tin she gave ’im a lecture +on wasting his money instead wot took ’is breath away—all but a word or +two. + +He got some of ’is money from his landlady at eight o’clock, arter +listening to ’er for ’arf an hour, and then he ’ad to pick it up off of +the floor, and say “Thank you” for it. + +He went to bed afore Ginger and Peter came in, but ’e was so excited he +couldn’t sleep, and long arter they was in bed he laid there and +thought of all the different ways of spending a ’undred pounds. He kept +taking the locket from under ’is piller and feeling it; then he felt ’e +must ’ave another look at it, and arter coughing ’ard two or three +times and calling out to the other two not to snore—to see if they was +awake—he got out o’ bed and lit the candle. Ginger and Peter was both +fast asleep, with their eyes screwed up and their mouths wide open, and +’e sat on the bed and looked at the locket until he was a’most dazzled. + +“’Ullo, Sam!” ses a voice. “Wot ’ave you got there?” + +Sam nearly fell off the bed with surprise and temper. Then ’e hid the +locket in his ’and and blew out the candle. + +“Who gave it to you?” ses Ginger. + +“You get off to sleep, and mind your own bisness,” ses Sam, grinding +’is teeth. + +He got back into bed agin and laid there listening to Ginger waking up +Peter. Peter woke up disagreeable, but when Ginger told ’im that Sam +’ad stole a gold locket as big as a saucer, covered with diamonds, he +altered ’is mind. + +“Let’s ’ave a look at it,” he ses, sitting up. + +“Ginger’s dreaming,” ses Sam, in a shaky voice. “I ain’t got no locket. +Wot d’you think I want a locket for?” + +Ginger got out o’ bed and lit the candle agin. “Come on!” he ses, +“let’s ’ave a look at it. I wasn’t dreaming. I’ve been awake all the +time, watching you.” + +Sam shut ’is eyes and turned his back to them. + +“He’s gone to sleep, pore old chap,” ses Ginger. “We’ll ’ave a look at +it without waking ’im. You take that side, Peter! Mind you don’t +disturb ’im.” + +He put his ’and in under the bed-clo’es and felt all up and down Sam’s +back, very careful. Sam stood it for ’arf a minute, and then ’e sat up +in bed and behaved more like a windmill than a man. + +“Hold his ’ands,” ses Ginger. + +“Hold ’em yourself,” ses Peter, dabbing ’is nose with his shirt-sleeve. + +“Well, we’re going to see it,” ses Ginger, “if we have to make enough +noise to rouse the ’ouse. Fust of all we’re going to ask you perlite; +then we shall get louder and louder. Show us the locket wot you stole, +Sam!” + +“Show—us—the—diamond locket!” ses Peter. + +“It’s my turn, Peter,” ses Ginger. “One, two, three. SHOW—US—TH’——” + +“Shut up,” ses Sam, trembling all over. “I’ll show it to you if you +stop your noise.” + +He put his ’and under his piller, but afore he showed it to ’em he sat +up in bed and made ’em a little speech. He said ’e never wanted to see +their faces agin as long as he lived, and why Ginger’s mother ’adn’t +put ’im in a pail o’ cold water when ’e was born ’e couldn’t +understand. He said ’e didn’t believe that even a mother could love a +baby that looked like a cod-fish with red ’air, and as for Peter +Russet, ’e believed his mother died of fright. + +“That’ll do,” ses Ginger, as Sam stopped to get ’is breath. “Are you +going to show us the locket, or ’ave we got to shout agin?” + +Sam swallered something that nearly choked ’im, and then he opened his +’and and showed it to them. Peter told ’im to wave it so as they could +see the diamonds flash, and then Ginger waved the candle to see ’ow +they looked that way, and pretty near set pore Sam’s whiskers on fire. + +They didn’t leave ’im alone till they knew as much about it as he could +tell ’em, and they both of ’em told ’im that if he took a reward of +thirty pounds for it, instead of selling it for a ’undred, he was a +bigger fool than he looked. + +“I shall turn it over in my mind,” ses Sam, sucking ’is teeth. “When I +want your advice I’ll ask you for it.” + +“We wasn’t thinking of you,” ses Ginger; “we was thinking of +ourselves.” + +“You!” ses Sam, with a bit of a start. “Wot’s it got to do with you?” + +“Our share’ll be bigger, that’s all,” ses Ginger. + +“Much bigger,” ses Peter. “I couldn’t dream of letting it go at thirty. +It’s chucking money away. Why, we might get two ’undred for it. Who +knows?” + +Sam sat on the edge of ’is bed like a man in a dream, then ’e began to +make a noise like a cat with a fish-bone in its throat, and then ’e +stood up and let fly. + +“Don’t stop ’im, Peter,” ses Ginger. “Let ’im go on; it’ll do him +good.” + +“He’s forgot all about that penknife you picked up and went shares in,” +ses Peter. “I wouldn’t be mean for twenty lockets.” + +“Nor me neither,” ses Ginger. “But we won’t let ’im be mean—for ’is own +sake. We’ll ’ave our rights.” + +“Rights!” ses Sam. “Rights! You didn’t find it.” + +“We always go shares if we find anything,” ses Ginger. “Where’s your +memory, Sam?” “But I didn’t find it,” ses Sam. + +“No, you bought it,” ses Peter, “and if you don’t go shares we’ll split +on you—see? Then you can’t sell it anyway, and perhaps you won’t even +get the reward. We can be at Orange Villa as soon as wot you can.” + +“Sooner,” ses Ginger, nodding. “But there’s no need to do that. If ’e +don’t go shares I’ll slip round to the police-station fust thing in the +morning.” + +“You know the way there all right,” ses Sam, very bitter. + +“And we don’t want none o’ your back-answers,” ses Ginger. “Are you +going shares or not?” + +“Wot about the money I paid for it?” ses Sam, “and my trouble?” + +Ginger and Peter sat down on the bed to talk it over, and at last, +arter calling themselves a lot o’ bad names for being too kind-’earted, +they offered ’im five pounds each for their share in the locket. + +“And that means you’ve got your share for next to nothing, Sam,” ses +Ginger. + +“Some people wouldn’t ’ave given you any-thing,” ses Peter. + +Sam gave way at last, and then ’e stood by making nasty remarks while +Ginger wrote out a paper for them all to sign, because he said he had +known Sam such a long time. + +It was a’most daylight afore they got to sleep, and the fust thing +Ginger did when he woke was to wake Sam up, and offer to shake ’ands +with him. The noise woke Peter up, and, as Sam wouldn’t shake ’ands +with ’im either, they both patted him on the back instead. + +They made him take ’em to the little pub, arter breakfast, to read the +bill about the reward. Sam didn’t mind going, as it ’appened, as he +’oped to meet ’is new pal there and tell ’im his troubles, but, though +they stayed there some time, ’e didn’t turn up. He wasn’t at the +coffee-shop for dinner, neither. + +Peter and Ginger was in ’igh spirits, and, though Sam told ’em plain +that he would sooner walk about with a couple of real pickpockets, they +wouldn’t leave ’im an inch. + +“Anybody could steal it off of you, Sam,” ses Ginger, patting ’im on +the weskit to make sure the locket was still there. “It’s a good job +you’ve got us to look arter you.” + +“We must buy ’im a money-belt with a pocket in it,” ses Peter. + +Ginger nodded at ’im. “Yes,” he ses, “that would be safer. And he’d +better wear it next to ’is skin, with everything over it. I should feel +more comfortable then.” + +“And wot about me?” says Sam, turning on ’im. + +“Well, we’ll take it in turns,” ses Ginger. “You one day, and then me, +and then Peter.” + +Sam gave way at last, as arter all he could see it was the safest thing +to do, but he ’ad so much to say about it that they got fair sick of +the sound of ’is voice. They ’ad to go ’ome for ’im to put the belt on; +and then at seven o’clock in the evening, arter Sam had ’ad two or +three pints, they had to go ’ome agin, ’cos he was complaining of +tight-lacing. + +Ginger had it on next day and he went ’ome five times. The other two +went with ’im in case he lost ’imself, and stood there making nasty +remarks while he messed ’imself up with a penn’orth of cold cream. It +was a cheap belt, and pore Ginger said that, when they ’ad done with +it, it would come in handy for sand-paper. + +Peter didn’t like it any better than the other two did, and twice they +’ad to speak to ’im about stopping in the street and trying to make +’imself more comfortable by wriggling. Sam said people misunderstood +it. + +Arter that they agreed to wear it outside their shirt, and even then +Ginger said it scratched ’im. And every day they got more and more +worried about wot was the best thing to do with the locket, and whether +it would be safe to try and sell it. The idea o’ walking about with a +fortune in their pockets that they couldn’t spend a’most drove ’em +crazy. + +“The longer we keep it, the safer it’ll be,” ses Sam, as they was +walking down Hounds-ditch one day. + +“We’ll sell it when I’m sixty,” ses Ginger, nasty-like. + +“Then old Sam won’t be ’ere to have ’is share,” ses Peter. + +Sam was just going to answer ’em back, when he stopped and began to +smile instead. Straight in front of ’im was the gentleman he ’ad met in +the coffee-shop, coming along with another man, and he just ’ad time to +see that it was the docker who ’ad sold him the locket, when they both +saw ’im. They turned like a flash, and, afore Sam could get ’is breath, +bolted up a little alley and disappeared. + +“Wot’s the row?” ses Ginger, staring. + +Sam didn’t answer ’im. He stood there struck all of a heap. + +“Do you know ’em?” ses Peter. + +Sam couldn’t answer ’im for a time. He was doing a bit of ’ard +thinking. + +“Chap I ’ad a row with the other night,” he ses, at last. + +He walked on very thoughtful, and the more ’e thought, the less ’e +liked it. He was so pale that Ginger thought ’e was ill and advised ’im +to ’ave a drop o’ brandy. Peter recommended rum, so to please ’em he +’ad both. It brought ’is colour back, but not ’is cheerfulness. + +He gave ’em both the slip next morning; which was easy, as Ginger was +wearing the locket, and, arter fust ’aving a long ride for nothing +owing to getting in the wrong train, he got to Barnet. + +It was a big place; big enough to ’ave a dozen Orange Villas, but pore +Sam couldn’t find one. It wasn’t for want of trying neither. + +He asked at over twenty shops, and the post-office, and even went to +the police-station. He must ha’ walked six or seven miles looking for +it, and at last, ’arf ready to drop, ’e took the train back. + +He ’ad some sausages and mashed potatoes with a pint o’ stout at a +place in Bishopsgate, and then ’e started to walk ’ome. The only +comfort he ’ad was the thought of the ten pounds Ginger and Peter ’ad +paid ’im; and when he remembered that he began to cheer up and even +smile. By the time he got ’ome ’e was beaming all over ’is face. + +“Where’ve you been?” ses Ginger. + +“Enjoying myself by myself,” ses Sam. + +“Please yourself,” ses Peter, very severe, “but where’d you ha’ been if +we ’ad sold the locket and skipped, eh?” + +“You wouldn’t ’ave enjoyed yourself by yourself then,” ses Ginger. +“Yes, you may laugh!” + +Sam didn’t answer ’im, but he sat down on ’is bed and ’is shoulders +shook till Ginger lost his temper and gave him a couple o’ thumps on +the back that pretty near broke it. + +“All right,” ses Sam, very firm. “Now you ’ave done for yourselves. I +’ad a’most made up my mind to go shares; now you sha’n’t ’ave a +ha’penny.” + +Ginger laughed then. “Ho!” he ses, “and ’ow are you going to prevent +it?” + +“We’ve got the locket, Sam,” ses Peter, smiling and shaking his ’ead at +’im. + +“And we’ll mind it till it’s sold,” ses Ginger. + +Sam laughed agin, short and nasty. Then he undressed ’imself very slow +and got into bed. At twelve o’clock, just as Ginger was dropping off, +he began to laugh agin, and ’e only stopped when ’e heard Ginger +getting out of bed to ’im. + +He stayed in bed next morning, ’cos he said ’is sides was aching, but +’e laughed agin as they was going out, and when they came back he ’ad +gorn. + +We never know ’ow much we’ like anything till we lose it. A week +arterwards, as Ginger was being ’elped out of a pawnshop by Peter, he +said ’e would give all he ’adn’t got for the locket to be near enough +to Sam to hear ’im laugh agin. + + + + +PAYING OFF + + +My biggest fault, said the night-watchman, gloomily, has been good +nature. I’ve spent the best part of my life trying to do my +fellow-creeturs a good turn. And what do I get for it? If all the +people I’ve helped was to come ’ere now there wouldn’t be standing room +for them on this wharf. ’Arf of them would be pushed overboard—and a +good place for ’em, too. + +I’ve been like it all my life. I was good-natured enough to go to sea +as a boy because a skipper took a fancy to me and wanted my ’elp, and +when I got older I was good-natured enough to get married. All my life +I’ve given ’elp and advice free, and only a day or two ago one of ’em +wot I ’ad given it to came round here with her ’usband and ’er two +brothers and ’er mother and two or three people from the same street, +to see her give me “wot for.” + +Another fault o’ mine has been being sharp. Most people make mistakes, +and they can’t bear to see anybody as don’t. Over and over agin I have +showed people ’ow silly they ’ave been to do certain things, and told +’em wot I should ha’ done in their place, but I can’t remember one that +ever gave me a “thank you” for it. + +There was a man ’ere ’arf an hour ago that reminded me of both of these +faults. He came in a-purpose to remind me, and ’e brought a couple o’ +grinning, brass-faced monkeys with ’im to see ’im do it. I was sitting +on that barrel when he came, and arter two minutes I felt as if I was +sitting on red-’ot cinders. He purtended he ’ad come in for the sake of +old times and to ask arter my ’ealth, and all the time he was doing ’is +best to upset me to amuse them two pore objecks ’e ’ad brought with +’im. + +Capt’in Mellun is his name, and ’e was always a foolish, soft-’eaded +sort o’ man, and how he ’as kept ’is job I can’t think. He used to +trade between this wharf and Bristol on a little schooner called the +Firefly, and seeing wot a silly, foolish kind o’ man he was, I took a +little bit o’ notice of ’im. Many and many a time when ’e was going to +do something he’d ha’ been sorry for arterwards I ’ave taken ’im round +to the Bear’s Head and stood ’im pint arter pint until he began to see +reason and own up that I was in the right. + +His crew was a’most as bad as wot he was, and all in one month one o’ +the ’ands gave a man ten shillings for a di’mond ring he saw ’im pick +up, wot turned out to be worth fourpence, and another one gave five bob +for a meerschaum pipe made o’ chalk. When I pointed out to ’em wot +fools they was they didn’t like it, and a week arterwards, when the +skipper gave a man in a pub ’is watch and chain and two pounds to hold, +to show ’is confidence in ’im, and I told ’im exactly wot I thought of +him, ’e didn’t like it. + +“You’re too sharp, Bill,” he says, sneering like. “My opinion is that +the pore man was run over. He told me ’e should only be away five +minutes. And he ’ad got an honest face: nice open blue eyes, and a +smile that done you good to look at.” + +“You’ve been swindled,” I ses, “and you know it. If I’d been done like +that I should never hold up my ’ead agin. Why, a child o’ five would +know better. You and your crew all seem to be tarred with the same +brush. You ain’t fit to be trusted out alone.” + +I believe ’e told his ’ands wot I said; anyway, two bits o’ coke missed +me by ’arf an inch next evening, and for some weeks not one of ’em +spoke a word to me. When they see me coming they just used to stand up +straight and twist their nose. + +It didn’t ’urt me, o’ course. I took no notice of ’em. Even when one of +’em fell over the broom I was sweeping with I took no notice of ’im. I +just went on with my work as if ’e wasn’t there. + +I suppose they ’ad been in the sulks about a month, and I was sitting +’ere one evening getting my breath arter a couple o’ hours’ ’ard work, +when one of ’em, George Tebb by name, came off the ship and nodded to +me as he passed. + +“Evening, Bill,” he ses. + +“Evening,” I ses, rather stiff. + +“I wanted a word with you, Bill,” he ses, in a low voice. “In fact, I +might go so far as to say I want to ask you to do me a favour.” + +I looked at him so ’ard that he coughed and looked away. + +“We might talk about it over a ’arf-pint,” he ses. + +“No, thank you,” I ses. “I ’ad a ’arf-pint the day before yesterday, +and I’m not thirsty.” + +He stood there fidgeting about for a bit, and then he puts his ’and on +my shoulder. + +“Well, come to the end of the jetty,” he ses. “I’ve got something +private to say.” + +I got up slow-like and followed ’im. I wasn’t a bit curious. Not a bit. +But if a man asks for my ’elp I always give it. + +“It’s like this,” he ses, looking round careful, “only I don’t want the +other chaps to hear because I don’t want to be laughed at. Last week an +old uncle o’ mine died and left me thirty pounds. It’s just a week ago, +and I’ve already got through five of ’em, and besides that the number +of chaps that want to borrow ten bob for a couple o’ days would +surprise you.” + +“I ain’t so easy surprised,” I ses, shaking my ’ead. + +“It ain’t safe with me,” he ses; “and the favour I want you to do is to +take care of it for me. I know it’ll go if I keep it. I’ve got it +locked up in this box. And if you keep the box I’ll keep the key, and +when I want a bit I’ll come and see you about it.” + +He pulled a little box out of ’is pocket and rattled it in my ear. + +“There’s five-and-twenty golden goblins in there,” he ses. “If you take +charge of ’em they’ll be all right. If you don’t, I’m pretty certain I +sha’n’t ’ave one of ’em in a week or two’s time.” + +At fust I said I wouldn’t ’ave anything to do with it, but he begged so +’ard that I began to alter my mind. + +“You’re as honest as daylight, Bill,” he ses, very earnest. “I don’t +know another man in the world I could trust with twenty-five quid— +especially myself. Now, put it in your pocket and look arter it for me. +One of the quids in it is for you, for your trouble.” + +He slipped the box in my coat-pocket, and then he said ’is mind was so +relieved that ’e felt like ’arf a pint. I was for going to the Bear’s +Head, the place I generally go to, because it is next door to the +wharf, so to speak, but George wanted me to try the beer at another +place he knew of. + +“The wharf’s all right,” he ses. “There’s one or two ’ands on the ship, +and they won’t let anybody run away with it.” + +From wot he said I thought the pub was quite close, but instead o’ that +I should think we walked pretty nearly a mile afore we got there. Nice +snug place it was, and the beer was all right, although, as I told +George Tebb, it didn’t seem to me any better than the stuff at the +Bear’s Head. + +He stood me two ’arf-pints and was just going to order another, when ’e +found ’e ’adn’t got any money left, and he wouldn’t hear of me paying +for it, because ’e said it was his treat. + +“We’ll ’ave a quid out o’ the box,” he ses. “I must ’ave one to go on +with, anyway.” I shook my ’ead at ’im. + +“Only one,” he ses, “and that’ll last me a fortnight. Besides, I want +to give you the quid I promised you.” + +I gave way at last, and he put his ’and in ’is trouser-pocket for the +key, and then found it wasn’t there. + +“I must ha’ left it in my chest,” he ses. “I’ll ’op back and get it.” +And afore I could prevent ’im he ’ad waved his ’and at me and gorn. + +My fust idea was to go arter ’im, but I knew I couldn’t catch ’im, and +if I tried to meet ’im coming back I should most likely miss ’im +through the side streets. So I sat there with my pipe and waited. + +I suppose I ’ad been sitting down waiting for him for about ten +minutes, when a couple o’ sailormen came into the bar and began to make +themselves a nuisance. Big fat chaps they was, and both of ’em more +than ’arf sprung. And arter calling for a pint apiece they began to +take a little notice of me. + +“Where d’you come from?” ses one of ’em. “’Ome,” I ses, very quiet. + +“It’s a good place—’ome,” ses the chap, shaking his ’ead. “Can you sing +‘’Ome, Sweet ’Ome’? You seem to ’ave got wot I might call a ‘singing +face.’” + +“Never mind about my face,” I ses, very sharp. “You mind wot you’re +doing with that beer. You’ll ’ave it over in a minute.” + +The words was ’ardly out of my mouth afore ’e gave a lurch and spilt +his pint all over me. From ’ead to foot I was dripping with beer, and I +was in such a temper I wonder I didn’t murder ’im; but afore I could +move they both pulled out their pocket-’ankerchers and started to rub +me down. + +“That’ll do,” I ses at last, arter they ’ad walked round me +’arf-a-dozen times and patted me all over to see if I was dry. “You get +off while you’re safe.” + +“It was my mistake, mate,” ses the chap who ’ad spilt the beer. + +“You get outside,” I ses. “Go on, both of you, afore I put you out.” + +They gave one look at me, standing there with my fists clenched, and +then they went out like lambs, and I ’eard ’em trot round the corner as +though they was afraid I was following. I felt a little bit damp and +chilly, but beer is like sea-water—you don’t catch cold through it—and +I sat down agin to wait for George Tebb. + +He came in smiling and out ’o breath in about ten minutes’ time, with +the key in ’is ’and, and as soon as I told ’im wot had ’appened to me +with the beer he turned to the landlord and ordered me six o’ rum ’ot +at once. + +“Drink that up,” he ses, ’anding it to me; “but fust of all give me the +box, so as I can pay for it.” + +I put my ’and in my pocket. Then I put it in the other one, and arter +that I stood staring at George Tebb and shaking all over. + +“Wot’s the matter? Wot are you looking like that for?” he ses. + +“It must ha’ been them two,” I ses, choking. “While they was purtending +to dry me and patting me all over they must ’ave taken it out of my +pocket.” + +“Wot are you talking about?” ses George, staring at me. + +“The box ’as gorn,” I ses, putting down the ’ot rum and feeling in my +trouser-pocket. “The box ’as gorn, and them two must ’ave taken it.” + +“Gorn!” ses George. “Gorn! My box with twenty-five pounds in, wot I +trusted you with, gorn? Wot are you talking about? It can’t be—it’s too +crool!” + +He made such a noise that the landlord wot was waiting for ’is money, +asked ’im wot he meant by it, and, arter he ’ad explained, I’m blest if +the landlord didn’t advise him to search me. I stood still and let +George go through my pockets, and then I told ’im I ’ad done with ’im +and I never wanted to see ’im agin as long as I lived. + +“I dare say,” ses George, “I dare say. But you’ll come along with me to +the wharf and see the skipper. I’m not going to lose five-and-twenty +quid through your carelessness.” + +I marched along in front of ’im with my ’ead in the air, and when he +spoke to me I didn’t answer him. He went aboard the ship when we got to +the wharf, and a minute or two arterwards ’e came to the side and said +the skipper wanted to see me. + +The airs the skipper gave ’imself was sickening. He sat down there in +’is miserable little rat-’ole of a cabin and acted as if ’e was a judge +and I was a prisoner. Most of the ’ands ’ad squeezed in there too, and +the things they advised George to do to me was remarkable. + +“Silence!” ses the skipper. “Now, watchman, tell me exactly ’ow this +thing ’appened.” + +“I’ve told you once,” I ses. + +“I know,” ses the skipper, “but I want you to tell me again to see if +you contradict yourself. I can’t understand ’ow such a clever man as +you could be done so easy.” + +I thought I should ha’ bust, but I kept my face wonderful. I just asked +’im wot the men was like that got off with ’is watch and chain and two +pounds, in case they might be the same. + +“That’s different,” he ses. + +“Oh!” ses I. “’Ow?” + +“I lost my own property,” he ses, “but you lost George’s, and ’ow a man +like you, that’s so much sharper and cleverer than other people, could +be had so easy, I can’t think. Why, a child of five would ha’ known +better.” + +“A baby in arms would ha’ known better,” ses the man wot ’ad bought the +di’mond ring. “’Ow could you ’ave been so silly, Bill? At your time o’ +life, too!” + +“That’s neither ’ere nor there,” ses the skip-per. “The watchman has +lost twenty-five quid belonging to one o’ my men. The question is, wot +is he going to do about it?” + +“Nothing,” I ses. “I didn’t ask ’im to let me mind the box. He done it +of ’is own free will. It’s got nothing to do with me.” + +“Oh, hasn’t it?” ses the skipper, drawing ’imself up. “I don’t want to +be too ’ard on you, but at the same time I can’t let my man suffer. +I’ll make it as easy as I can, and I order you to pay ’im five +shillings a week till the twenty-five pounds is cleared off.” + +I laughed; I couldn’t ’elp it. I just stood there and laughed at ’im. + +“If you don’t,” ses the skipper, “then I shall lay the facts of the +case afore the guv’nor. Whether he’ll object to you being in a pub a +mile away, taking care of a box of gold while you was supposed to be +taking care of the wharf, is his bisness. My bisness is to see that my +man ’as ’is rights.” + +“’Ear, ’ear !” ses the crew. + +“You please yourself, watchman,” ses the skipper. “You’re such a clever +man that no doubt you could get a better job to-morrow. There must be +’eaps of people wanting a man like you. It’s for you to decide. That’s +all I’ve got to say—five bob a week till pore George ’as got ’is money +back, or else I put the case afore the guv’nor. Wot did you say?” + +I said it agin, and, as ’e didn’t seem to understand, I said it once +more. + +“Please yourself,” ’e ses, when I ’ad finished. “You’re an old man, and +five bob a week can’t be much loss to you. You’ve got nothing to spend +it on, at your time o’ life. And you’ve got a very soft job ’ere. Wot?” + +I didn’t answer ’im. I just turned round, and, arter giving a man wot +stood in my way a punch in the chest, I got up on deck and on to the +wharf, and said my little say all alone to myself, behind the crane. + +I paid the fust five bob to George Tebb the next time the ship was up, +and arter biting ’em over and over agin and then ringing ’em on the +deck ’e took the other chaps round to the Bear’s Head. + +“P’r’aps it’s just as well it’s ’appened,” he ses. “Five bob a week for +nearly two years ain’t to be sneezed at. It’s slow, but it’s sure.” + +I thought ’e was joking at fust, but arter working it out in the office +with a bit o’ pencil and paper I thought I should ha’ gorn crazy. And +when I complained about the time to George ’e said I could make it +shorter if I liked by paying ten bob a week, but ’e thought the steady +five bob a week was best for both of us. + +I got to ’ate the sight of ’im. Every week regular as clockwork he used +to come round to me with his ’and out, and then go and treat ’is mates +to beer with my money. If the ship came up in the day-time, at six +o’clock in the evening he’d be at the wharf gate waiting for me; and if +it came up at night she was no sooner made fast than ’e was over the +side patting my trouser-pocket and saying wot a good job it was for +both of us that I was in steady employment. + +Week arter week and month arter month I went on paying. I a’most forgot +the taste o’ beer, and if I could manage to get a screw o’ baccy a week +I thought myself lucky. And at last, just as I thought I couldn’t stand +it any longer, the end came. + +I ’ad just given George ’is week’s money—and ’ow I got it together that +week I don’t know—when one o’ the chaps came up and said the skipper +wanted to see me on board at once. + +“Tell ’im if he wants to see me I’m to be found on the wharf,” I ses, +very sharp. + +“He wants to see you about George’s money,” ses the chap. “I should go +if I was you. My opinion is he wants to do you a good turn.” + +I ’ung fire for a bit, and then, arter sweeping up for a little while +deliberate-like, I put down my broom and stepped aboard to see the +skipper, wot was sitting on the cabin skylight purtending to read a +newspaper. + +He put it down when ’e see me, and George and the others, wot ’ad been +standing in a little bunch for’ard, came aft and stood looking on. + +“I wanted to see you about this money, watchman,” ses the skipper, +putting on ’is beastly frills agin. “O’ course, we all feel that to a +pore man like you it’s a bit of a strain, and, as George ses, arter all +you have been more foolish than wicked.” + +“Much more,” ses George. + +“I find that you ’ave now paid five bob a week for nineteen weeks,” ses +the skipper, “and George ’as been kind enough and generous enough to +let you off the rest. There’s no need for you to look bashful, George; +it’s a credit to you.” + +I could ’ardly believe my ears. George stood there grinning like a +stuck fool, and two o’ the chaps was on their best behaviour with their +’ands over their mouths and their eyes sticking out. + +“That’s all, watchman,” ses the skipper; “and I ’ope it’ll be a lesson +to you not to neglect your dooty by going into public-’ouses and taking +charge of other people’s money when you ain’t fit for it.” + +“I sha’n’t try to do anybody else a kindness agin, if that’s wot you +mean,” I ses, looking at ’im. + +“No, you’d better not,” he ses. “This partickler bit o’ kindness ’as +cost you four pounds fifteen, and that’s a curious thing when you come +to think of it. Very curious.” + +“Wot d’ye mean?” I ses. + +“Why,” he ses, grinning like a madman, “it’s just wot we lost between +us. I lost a watch and chain worth two pounds, and another couple o’ +pounds besides; Joe lost ten shillings over ’is di’mond ring; and +Charlie lost five bob over a pipe. ‘That’s four pounds fifteen—just the +same as you.” + +Them silly fools stood there choking and sobbing and patting each other +on the back as though they’d never leave off, and all of a sudden I ’ad +a ’orrible suspicion that I ’ad been done. + +“Did you see the sovereigns in the box?” I ses, turning to the skipper. + +“No,” he ses, shaking his ’ead. + +“’Ow do you know they was there, then?” ses I. + +“Because you took charge of ’em,” said the skipper; “and I know wot a +clever, sharp chap you are. It stands to reason that you wouldn’t be +responsible for a box like that unless you saw inside of it. Why, a +child o’ five wouldn’t!” + +I stood there looking at ’im, but he couldn’t meet my eye. None of ’em +could; and arter waiting there for a minute or two to give ’em a +chance, I turned my back on ’em and went off to my dooty. + + + + +MADE TO MEASURE + + +Mr. Mott brought his niece home from the station with considerable +pride. Although he had received a photograph to assist identification, +he had been very dubious about accosting the pretty, well-dressed girl +who had stepped from the train and gazed around with dove-like eyes in +search of him. Now he was comfortably conscious of the admiring gaze of +his younger fellow-townsmen. + +“You’ll find it a bit dull after London, I expect,” he remarked, as he +inserted his key in the door of a small house in a quiet street. + +“I’m tired of London,” said Miss Garland. “I think this is a beautiful +little old town—so peaceful.” + +Mr. Mott looked gratified. + +“I hope you’ll stay a long time,” he said, as he led the way into the +small front room. “I’m a lonely old man.” + +His niece sank into an easy chair, and looked about her. + +“Thank you,” she said, slowly. “I hope I shall. I feel better already. +There is so much to upset one in London.” + +“Noise?” queried Mr. Mott. + +“And other things,” said Miss Garland, with a slight shudder. + +Mr. Mott sighed in sympathy with the unknown, and, judging by his +niece’s expression, the unknowable. He rearranged the teacups, and, +going to the kitchen, returned in a few minutes with a pot of tea. + +“Mrs. Pett leaves at three,” he said, in explanation, “to look after +her children, but she comes back again at eight to look after my +supper. And how is your mother?” + +Miss Garland told him. + +“Last letter I had from her,” said Mr. Mott, stealing a glance at the +girl’s ring-finger, “I understood you were engaged.” + +His niece drew herself up. + +“Certainly not,” she said, with considerable vigour. “I have seen too +much of married life. I prefer my freedom. Besides, I don’t like men.” + +Mr. Mott said modestly that he didn’t wonder at it, and, finding the +subject uncongenial, turned the conversation on to worthier subjects. +Miss Garland’s taste, it seemed, lay in the direction of hospital +nursing, or some other occupation beneficial to mankind at large. +Simple and demure, she filled the simpler Mr. Mott with a strong sense +of the shortcomings of his unworthy sex. + +Within two days, under the darkling glance of Mrs. Pett, she had +altered the arrangements of the house. Flowers appeared on the +meal-table, knives and forks were properly cleaned, and plates no +longer appeared ornamented with the mustard of a previous meal. Fresh +air circulated through the house, and, passing from Mrs. Pett’s left +knee to the lumbar region of Mr. Mott, went on its beneficent way +rejoicing. + +On the fifth day of her visit, Mr. Mott sat alone in the front parlour. +The window was closed, the door was closed, and Mr. Mott, sitting in an +easy chair with his feet up, was aroused from a sound nap by the door +opening to admit a young man, who, deserted by Mrs. Pett, stood bowing +awkwardly in the doorway. + +“Is Miss Garland in?” he stammered. + +Mr. Mott rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyelids. + +“She has gone for a walk,” he said, slowly. + +The young man stood fingering his hat. + +“My name is Hurst,” he said, with slight emphasis. “Mr. Alfred Hurst.” + +Mr. Mott, still somewhat confused, murmured that he was glad to hear +it. + +“I have come from London to see Florrie,” continued the intruder. “I +suppose she won’t be long?” + +Mr. Mott thought not, and after a moment’s hesitation invited Mr. Hurst +to take a chair. + +“I suppose she told you we are engaged?” said the latter. + +“Engaged!” said the startled Mr. Mott. “Why, she told me she didn’t +like men.” + +“Playfulness,” replied Mr. Hurst, with an odd look. “Ah, here she is!” + +The handle of the front door turned, and a moment later the door of the +room was opened and the charming head of Miss Garland appeared in the +opening. + +“Back again,” she said, brightly. “I’ve just been——” + +She caught sight of Mr. Hurst, and the words died away on her lips. The +door slammed, and the two gentlemen, exchanging glances, heard a +hurried rush upstairs and the slamming of another door. Also a key was +heard to turn sharply in a lock. + +“She doesn’t want to see you,” said Mr. Mott, staring. + +The young man turned pale. + +“Perhaps she has gone upstairs to take her things off,” he muttered, +resuming his seat. “Don’t—don’t hurry her!” + +“I wasn’t going to,” said Mr. Mott. + +He twisted his beard uneasily, and at the end of ten minutes looked +from the clock to Mr. Hurst and coughed. + +“If you wouldn’t mind letting her know I’m waiting,” said the young +man, brokenly. + +Mr. Mott rose, and went slowly upstairs. More slowly still, after an +interval of a few minutes, he came back again. + +“She doesn’t want to see you,” he said, slowly. + +Mr. Hurst gasped. + +“I—I must see her,” he faltered. + +“She won’t see you,” repeated Mr. Mott. “And she told me to say she was +surprised at you following her down here.” + +Mr. Hurst uttered a faint moan, and with bent head passed into the +little passage and out into the street, leaving Mr. Mott to return to +the sitting-room and listen to such explanations as Miss Garland deemed +advisable. Great goodness of heart in the face of persistent and +unwelcome attentions appeared to be responsible for the late +engagement. + +“Well, it’s over now,” said her uncle, kindly, “and no doubt he’ll soon +find somebody else. There are plenty of girls would jump at him, I +expect.” + +Miss Garland shook her head. + +“He said he couldn’t live without me,” she remarked, soberly. + +Mr. Mott laughed. + +“In less than three months I expect he’ll be congratulating himself,” +he said, cheerfully. “Why, I was nearly cau—married, four times. It’s a +silly age.” + +His niece said “Indeed!” and, informing him in somewhat hostile tones +that she was suffering from a severe headache, retired to her room. + +Mr. Mott spent the evening by himself, and retiring to bed at +ten-thirty was awakened by a persistent knocking at the front door at +half-past one. Half awakened, he lit a candle, and, stumbling +downstairs, drew back the bolt of the door, and stood gaping angrily at +the pathetic features of Mr. Hurst. + +“Sorry to disturb you,” said the young man, “but would you mind giving +this letter to Miss Garland?” + +“Sorry to disturb me!” stuttered Mr. Mott. “What do you mean by it? Eh? +What do you mean by it?” + +“It is important,” said Mr. Hurst. “I can’t rest. I’ve eaten nothing +all day.” + +“Glad to hear it,” snapped the irritated Mr. Mott. + +“If you will give her that letter, I shall feel easier,” said Mr. +Hurst. + +“I’ll give it to her in the morning,” said the other, snatching it from +him. “Now get off.” + +Mr. Hurst still murmuring apologies, went, and Mr. Mott, also +murmuring, returned to bed. The night was chilly, and it was some time +before he could get to sleep again. He succeeded at last, only to be +awakened an hour later by a knocking more violent than before. In a +state of mind bordering upon frenzy, he dived into his trousers again +and went blundering downstairs in the dark. + +“Sorry to—” began Mr. Hurst. + +Mr. Mott made uncouth noises at him. + +“I have altered my mind,” said the young man. “Would you mind letting +me have that letter back again? It was too final.” + +“You—get—off!” said the other, trembling with cold and passion. + +“I must have that letter,” said Mr. Hurst, doggedly. “All my future +happiness may depend upon it.” + +Mr. Mott, afraid to trust himself with speech, dashed upstairs, and +after a search for the matches found the letter, and, returning to the +front door, shut it on the visitor’s thanks. His niece’s door opened as +he passed it, and a gentle voice asked for enlightenment. + +“How silly of him!” she said, softly. “I hope he won’t catch cold. What +did you say?” + +“I was coughing,” said Mr. Mott, hastily. + +“You’ll get cold if you’re not careful,” said his thoughtful niece. +“That’s the worst of men, they never seem to have any thought. Did he +seem angry, or mournful, or what? I suppose you couldn’t see his face?” + +“I didn’t try,” said Mr. Mott, crisply. “Good night.” + +By the morning his ill-humour had vanished, and he even became slightly +facetious over the events of the night. The mood passed at the same +moment that Mr. Hurst passed the window. + +“Better have him in and get it over,” he said, irritably. + +Miss Garland shuddered. + +“Never!” she said, firmly. “He’d be down on his knees. It would be too +painful. You don’t know him.” + +“Don’t want to,” said Mr. Mott. + +He finished his breakfast in silence, and, after a digestive pipe, +proposed a walk. The profile of Mr. Hurst, as it went forlornly past +the window again, served to illustrate Miss Garland’s refusal. + +“I’ll go out and see him,” said Mr. Mott, starting up. “Are you going +to be a prisoner here until this young idiot chooses to go home? It’s +preposterous!” + +He crammed his hat on firmly and set out in pursuit of Mr. Hurst, who +was walking slowly up the street, glancing over his shoulder. +“Morning!” said Mr. Mott, fiercely. “Good morning,” said the other. + +“Now, look here,” said Mr. Mott. “This has gone far enough, and I won’t +have any more of it. Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, +chivvying a young lady that doesn’t want you. Haven’t you got any +pride?” + +“No,” said the young man, “not where she is concerned.” + +“I don’t believe you have,” said the other, regarding him, “and I +expect that’s where the trouble is. Did she ever have reason to think +you were looking after any other girls?” + +“Never, I swear it,” said Mr. Hurst, eagerly. + +“Just so,” said Mr. Mott, with a satisfied nod. “That’s where you made +a mistake. She was too sure of you; it was too easy. No excitement. +Girls like a man that other girls want; they don’t want a turtle-dove +in fancy trousers.” + +Mr. Hurst coughed. + +“And they like a determined man,” continued Miss Garland’s uncle. “Why, +in my young days, if I had been jilted, and come down to see about it, +d’you think I’d have gone out of the house without seeing her? I might +have been put out—by half-a-dozen—but I’d have taken the mantelpiece +and a few other things with me. And you are bigger than I am.” + +“We aren’t all made the same,” said Mr. Hurst, feebly. + +“No, we’re not,” said Mr. Mott. “I’m not blaming you; in a way, I’m +sorry for you. If you’re not born with a high spirit, nothing’ll give +it to you.” + +“It might be learnt,” said Mr. Hurst. Mr. Mott laughed. + +“High spirits are born, not made,” he said. “The best thing you can do +is to go and find another girl, and marry her before she finds you +out.” + +Mr. Hurst shook his head. + +“There’s no other girl for me,” he said, miserably. “And everything +seemed to be going so well. We’ve been buying things for the house for +the last six months, and I’ve just got a good rise in my screw.” + +“It’ll do for another girl,” said Mr. Mott, briskly. “Now, you get off +back to town. You are worrying Florrie by staying here, and you are +doing no good to anybody. Good-bye.” + +“I’ll walk back as far as the door with you,” said Mr. Hurst. “You’ve +done me good. It’s a pity I didn’t meet you before.” + +“Remember what I’ve told you, and you’ll do well yet,” he said, patting +the young man on the arm. + +“I will,” said Mr. Hurst, and walked on by his side, deep in thought. + +“I can’t ask you in,” said Mr. Mott, jocularly, as he reached his door, +and turned the key in the lock. “Good-bye.” + +“Good-bye,” said Mr. Hurst. + +He grasped the other’s outstretched hand, and with a violent jerk +pulled him into the street. Then he pushed open the door, and, slipping +into the passage, passed hastily into the front room, closely followed +by the infuriated Mr. Mott. + +“What—what—what!” stammered that gentleman. + +“I’m taking your tip,” said Mr. Hurst, pale but determined. “I’m going +to stay here until I have seen Florrie.” + +“You—you’re a serpent,” said Mr. Mott, struggling for breath. “I—I’m +surprised at you. You go out before you get hurt.” + +“Not without the mantelpiece,” said Mr. Hurst, with a distorted grin. + +“A viper!” said Mr. Mott, with extreme bitterness. “If you are not out +in two minutes I’ll send for the police.” + +“Florrie wouldn’t like that,” said Mr. Hurst. “She’s awfully particular +about what people think. You just trot upstairs and tell her that a +gentleman wants to see her.” + +He threw himself into Mr. Mott’s own particular easy chair, and, +crossing his knees, turned a deaf ear to the threats of that incensed +gentleman. Not until the latter had left the room did his features +reveal the timorousness of the soul within. Muffled voices sounded from +upstairs, and it was evident that an argument of considerable length +was in progress. It was also evident from the return of Mr. Mott alone +that his niece had had the best of it. + +“I’ve done all I could,” he said, “but she declines to see you. She +says she won’t see you if you stay here for a month, and you couldn’t +do that, you know.” + +“Why not?” inquired Mr. Hurst. + +“Why not?” repeated Mr. Mott, repressing his feelings with some +difficulty. “Food!” + +Mr. Hurst started. + +“And drink,” said Mr. Mott, following up his advantage. “There’s no +good in starving yourself for nothing, so you may as well go.” + +“When I’ve seen Florrie,” said the young man, firmly. + +Mr. Mott slammed the door, and for the rest of the day Mr. Hurst saw +him no more. At one o’clock a savoury smell passed the door on its way +upstairs, and at five o’clock a middle-aged woman with an inane smile +looked into the room on her way aloft with a loaded tea-tray. By +supper-time he was suffering considerably from hunger and thirst. + +At ten o’clock he heard the footsteps of Mr. Mott descending the +stairs. The door opened an inch, and a gruff voice demanded to know +whether he was going to stay there all night. Receiving a cheerful +reply in the affirmative, Mr. Mott secured the front door with +considerable violence, and went off to bed without another word. + +He was awakened an hour or two later by the sound of something falling, +and, sitting up in bed to listen, became aware of a warm and agreeable +odour. It was somewhere about the hour of midnight, but a breakfast +smell of eggs and bacon would not be denied. + +He put on some clothes and went downstairs. A crack of light showed +under the kitchen door, and, pushing it open with some force, he gazed +spellbound at the spectacle before him. + +“Come in,” said Mr. Hurst, heartily. “I’ve just finished.” + +He rocked an empty beer-bottle and patted another that was half full. +Satiety was written on his face as he pushed an empty plate from him, +and, leaning back in his chair, smiled lazily at Mr. Mott. + +“Go on,” said that gentleman, hoarsely. Mr. Hurst shook his head. + +“Enough is as good as a feast,” he said, reasonably. “I’ll have some +more to-morrow.” + +“Oh, will you?” said the other. “Will you?” + +Mr. Hurst nodded, and, opening his coat, disclosed a bottle of beer in +each breast-pocket. The other pockets, it appeared, contained food. + +“And here’s the money for it,” he said, putting down some silver on the +table. “I am determined, but honest.” + +With a sweep of his hand, Mr. Mott sent the money flying. + +“To-morrow morning I send for the police. Mind that!” he roared. + +“I’d better have my breakfast early, then,” said Mr. Hurst, tapping his +pockets. “Good night. And thank you for your advice.” + +He sat for some time after the disappearance of his host, and then, +returning to the front room, placed a chair at the end of the sofa and, +with the tablecloth for a quilt, managed to secure a few hours’ +troubled sleep. At eight o’clock he washed at the scullery sink, and at +ten o’clock Mr. Mott, with an air of great determination, came in to +deliver his ultimatum. + +“If you’re not outside the front door in five minutes, I’m going to +fetch the police,” he said, fiercely. + +“I want to see Florrie,” said the other. + +“Well, you won’t see her,” shouted Mr. Mott. + +Mr. Hurst stood feeling his chin. + +“Well, would you mind taking a message for me?” he asked. “I just want +you to ask her whether I am really free. Ask her whether I am free to +marry again.” + +Mr. Mott eyed him in amazement. + +“You see, I only heard from her mother,” pursued Mr. Hurst, “and a +friend of mine who is in a solicitor’s office says that isn’t good +enough. I only came down here to make sure, and I think the least she +can do is to tell me herself. If she won’t see me, perhaps she’d put it +in writing. You see, there’s another lady.” + +“But!” said the mystified Mr. Mott. + +“You told me——” + +“You tell her that,” said the other. + +Mr. Mott stood for a few seconds staring at him, and then without a +word turned on his heel and went upstairs. Left to himself, Mr. Hurst +walked nervously up and down the room, and, catching sight of his face +in the old-fashioned glass on the mantel-piece, heightened its colour +by a few pinches. The minutes seemed inter-minable, but at last he +heard the steps of Mr. Mott on the stairs again. + +“She’s coming down to see you herself,” said the latter, solemnly. + +Mr. Hurst nodded, and, turning to the window, tried in vain to take an +interest in passing events. A light step sounded on the stairs, the +door creaked, and he turned to find himself con-fronted by Miss +Garland. + +“Uncle told me!” she began, coldly. Mr. Hurst bowed. + +“I am sorry to have caused you so much trouble,” he said, trying to +control his voice, “but you see my position, don’t you?” + +“No,” said the girl. + +“Well, I wanted to make sure,” said Mr. Hurst. “It’s best for all of +us, isn’t it? Best for you, best for me, and, of course, for my young +lady.” + +“You never said anything about her before,” said Miss Garland, her eyes +darkening. + +“Of course not,” said Mr. Hurst. “How could I? I was engaged to you, +and then she wasn’t my young lady; but, of course, as soon as you broke +it off—” + +“Who is she?” inquired Miss Garland, in a casual voice. + +“You don’t know her,” said Mr. Hurst. + +“What is she like?” + +“I can’t describe her very well,” said Mr. Hurst. “I can only say she’s +the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I think that’s what made me +take to her. And she’s easily pleased. She liked the things I have been +buying for the house tremendously.” + +“Did she?” said Miss Garland, with a gasp. + +“All except that pair of vases you chose,” continued the veracious Mr. +Hurst. “She says they are in bad taste, but she can give them to the +charwoman.” + +“Oh!” said the girl. “Oh, indeed! Very kind of her. Isn’t there +anything else she doesn’t like?” + +Mr. Hurst stood considering. + +“She doesn’t like the upholstering of the best chairs,” he said at +last. “She thinks they are too showy, so she’s going to put covers over +them.” + +There was a long pause, during which Mr. Mott, taking his niece gently +by the arm, assisted her to a chair. + +“Otherwise she is quite satisfied,” concluded Mr. Hurst. + +Miss Garland took a deep breath, but made no reply. + +“I have got to satisfy her that I am free,” said the young man, after +another pause. “I suppose that I can do so?” + +“I—I’ll think it over,” said Miss Garland, in a low voice. “I am not +sure what is the right thing to do. I don’t want to see you made +miserable for life. It’s nothing to me, of course, but still—” + +She got up and, shaking off the proffered assistance of her uncle, went +slowly and languidly up to her room. Mr. Mott followed her as far as +the door, and then turned indignantly upon Mr. Hurst. + +“You—you’ve broke her heart,” he said, solemnly. + +“That’s all right,” said Mr. Hurst, with a delighted wink. “I’ll mend +it again.” + + + + +SAM’S GHOST + + +Yes, I know, said the night-watchman, thoughtfully, as he sat with a +cold pipe in his mouth gazing across the river. I’ve ’eard it afore. +People tell me they don’t believe in ghosts and make a laugh of ’em, +and all I say is: let them take on a night-watchman’s job. Let ’em sit +’ere all alone of a night with the water lapping against the posts and +the wind moaning in the corners; especially if a pal of theirs has +slipped overboard, and there is little nasty bills stuck up just +outside in the High Street offering a reward for the body. Twice men +’ave fallen overboard from this jetty, and I’ve ’ad to stand my watch +here the same night, and not a farthing more for it. + +One of the worst and artfullest ghosts I ever ’ad anything to do with +was Sam Bullet. He was a waterman at the stairs near by ’ere; the sort +o’ man that ’ud get you to pay for drinks, and drink yours up by +mistake arter he ’ad finished his own. The sort of man that ’ad always +left his baccy-box at ’ome, but always ’ad a big pipe in ’is pocket. + +He fell overboard off of a lighter one evening, and all that his mates +could save was ’is cap. It was on’y two nights afore that he ’ad +knocked down an old man and bit a policeman’s little finger to the +bone, so that, as they pointed out to the widder, p’r’aps he was taken +for a wise purpose. P’r’aps he was ’appier where he was than doing six +months. + +“He was the sort o’ chap that’ll make himself ’appy anywhere,” ses one +of ’em, comforting-like. + +“Not without me,” ses Mrs. Bullet, sobbing, and wiping her eyes on +something she used for a pocket-hankercher. “He never could bear to be +away from me. Was there no last words?” + +“On’y one,” ses one o’ the chaps, Joe Peel by name. + +“As ’e fell overboard,” ses the other. + +Mrs. Bullet began to cry agin, and say wot a good ’usband he ’ad been. +“Seventeen years come Michaelmas,” she ses, “and never a cross word. +Nothing was too good for me. Nothing. I ’ad only to ask to ’ave.” + +“Well, he’s gorn now,” ses Joe, “and we thought we ought to come round +and tell you.” + +“So as you can tell the police,” ses the other chap. + +That was ’ow I came to hear of it fust; a policeman told me that night +as I stood outside the gate ’aving a quiet pipe. He wasn’t shedding +tears; his only idea was that Sam ’ad got off too easy. + +“Well, well,” I ses, trying to pacify ’im, “he won’t bite no more +fingers; there’s no policemen where he’s gorn to.” + +He went off grumbling and telling me to be careful, and I put my pipe +out and walked up and down the wharf thinking. On’y a month afore I ’ad +lent Sam fifteen shillings on a gold watch and chain wot he said an +uncle ’ad left ’im. I wasn’t wearing it because ’e said ’is uncle +wouldn’t like it, but I ’ad it in my pocket, and I took it out under +one of the lamps and wondered wot I ought to do. + +My fust idea was to take it to Mrs. Bullet, and then, all of a sudden, +the thought struck me: “Suppose he ’adn’t come by it honest?” + +I walked up and down agin, thinking. If he ’adn’t, and it was found +out, it would blacken his good name and break ’is pore wife’s ’art. +That’s the way I looked at it, and for his sake and ’er sake I +determined to stick to it. + +I felt ’appier in my mind when I ’ad decided on that, and I went round +to the Bear’s Head and ’ad a pint. Arter that I ’ad another, and then I +come back to the wharf and put the watch and chain on and went on with +my work. + +Every time I looked down at the chain on my waistcoat it reminded me of +Sam. I looked on to the river and thought of ’im going down on the ebb. +Then I got a sort o’ lonesome feeling standing on the end of the jetty +all alone, and I went back to the Bear’s Head and ’ad another pint. + +They didn’t find the body, and I was a’most forgetting about Sam when +one evening, as I was sitting on a box waiting to get my breath back to +’ave another go at sweeping, Joe Peel, Sam’s mate, came on to the wharf +to see me. + +He came in a mysterious sort o’ way that I didn’t like: looking be’ind +’im as though he was afraid of being follered, and speaking in a +whisper as if ’e was afraid of being heard. He wasn’t a man I liked, +and I was glad that the watch and chain was stowed safe away in my +trowsis-pocket. + +“I’ve ’ad a shock, watchman,” he ses. + +“Oh!” I ses. + +“A shock wot’s shook me all up,” he ses, working up a shiver. “I’ve +seen something wot I thought people never could see, and wot I never +want to see agin. I’ve seen Sam!” + +I thought a bit afore I spoke. “Why, I thought he was drownded,” I ses. + +“So ’e is,” ses Joe. “When I say I’ve seen ’im I mean that I ’ave seen +his ghost!” + +He began to shiver agin, all over. + +“Wot was it like?” I ses, very calm. + +“Like Sam,” he ses, rather short. + +“When was it?” I ses. + +“Last night at a quarter to twelve,” he ses. “It was standing at my +front door waiting for me.” + +“And ’ave you been shivering like that ever since?” I ses. + +“Worse than that,” ses Joe, looking at me very ’ard. “It’s wearing off +now. The ghost gave me a message for you.” + +I put my ’and in my trowsis-pocket and looked at ’im. Then I walked +very slow, towards the gate. + +“It gave me a message for you,” ses Joe, walking beside me. “‘We was +always pals, Joe,’” it ses, “‘you and me, and I want you to pay up +fifteen bob for me wot I borrowed off of Bill the watchman. I can’t +rest until it’s paid,’ it ses. So here’s the fifteen bob, watchman.” + +He put his ’and in ’is pocket and takes out fifteen bob and ’olds it +out to me. + +“No, no,” I ses. “I can’t take your money, Joe Peel. It wouldn’t be +right. Pore Sam is welcome to the fifteen bob—I don’t want it.” + +“You must take it,” ses Joe. “The ghost said if you didn’t it would +come to me agin and agin till you did, and I can’t stand any more of +it.” + +“I can’t ’elp your troubles,” I ses. + +“You must,” ses Joe. “‘Give Bill the fifteen bob,’ it ses, ‘and he’ll +give you a gold watch and chain wot I gave ’im to mind till it was +paid.’” + +I see his little game then. “Gold watch and chain,” I ses, laughing. +“You must ha’ misunderstood it, Joe.” + +“I understood it right enough,” ses Joe, getting a bit closer to me as +I stepped outside the gate. “Here’s your fifteen bob; are you going to +give me that watch and chain?” + +“Sartainly not,” I ses. “I don’t know wot you mean by a watch and +chain. If I ’ad it and I gave it to anybody, I should give it to Sam’s +widder, not to you.” + +“It’s nothing to do with ’er,” ses Joe, very quick. “Sam was most +pertikler about that.” + +“I expect you dreamt it all,” I ses. “Where would pore Sam get a gold +watch and chain from? And why should ’e go to you about it? Why didn’t +’e come to me? If ’e thinks I ’ave got it let ’im come to me.” + +“All right, I’ll go to the police-station,” ses Joe. + +“I’ll come with you,” I ses. “But ’ere’s a policeman coming along. +Let’s go to ’im.” + +I moved towards ’im, but Joe hung back, and, arter using one or two +words that would ha’ made any ghost ashamed to know ’im, he sheered +off. I ’ad a word or two with the policeman about the weather, and then +I went inside and locked the gate. + +My idea was that Sam ’ad told Joe about the watch and chain afore he +fell overboard. Joe was a nasty customer, and I could see that I should +’ave to be a bit careful. Some men might ha’ told the police about +it—but I never cared much for them. They’re like kids in a way, always +asking questions—most of which you can’t answer. + +It was a little bit creepy all alone on the wharf that night. I don’t +deny it. Twice I thought I ’eard something coming up on tip-toe behind +me. The second time I was so nervous that I began to sing to keep my +spirits up, and I went on singing till three of the hands of the Susan +Emily, wot was lying alongside, came up from the fo’c’sle and offered +to fight me. I was thankful when daylight came. + +Five nights arterwards I ’ad the shock of my life. It was the fust +night for some time that there was no craft up. A dark night, and a +nasty moaning sort of a wind. I ’ad just lighted the lamp at the corner +of the warehouse, wot ’ad blown out, and was sitting down to rest afore +putting the ladder away, when I ’appened to look along the jetty and +saw a head coming up over the edge of it. In the light of the lamp I +saw the dead white face of Sam Bullet’s ghost making faces at me. + +[Illustration: In the light of the lamp I saw the dead white face of +Sam Bullet’s ghost making faces at me.] + +I just caught my breath, sharp like, and then turned and ran for the +gate like a race-horse. I ’ad left the key in the padlock, in case of +anything happening, and I just gave it one turn, flung the wicket open +and slammed it in the ghost’s face, and tumbled out into the road. + +I ran slap into the arms of a young policeman wot was passing. Nasty, +short-tempered chap he was, but I don’t think I was more glad to see +anybody in my life. I hugged ’im till ’e nearly lost ’is breath, and +then he sat me down on the kerb-stone and asked me wot I meant by it. + +Wot with the excitement and the running I couldn’t speak at fust, and +when I did he said I was trying to deceive ’im. + +“There ain’t no such thing as ghosts,” he ses; “you’ve been drinking.” + +“It came up out o’ the river and run arter me like the wind,” I ses. + +“Why didn’t it catch you, then?” he ses, looking me up and down and all +round about. “Talk sense.” + +He went up to the gate and peeped in, and, arter watching a moment, +stepped inside and walked down the wharf, with me follering. It was my +dooty; besides, I didn’t like being left all alone by myself. + +Twice we walked up and down and all over the wharf. He flashed his +lantern into all the dark corners, into empty barrels and boxes, and +then he turned and flashed it right into my face and shook his ’ead at +me. + +“You’ve been having a bit of a lark with me,” he ses, “and for two pins +I’d take you. Mind, if you say a word about this to anybody, I will.” + +He stalked off with his ’ead in the air, and left me all alone in +charge of a wharf with a ghost on it. I stayed outside in the street, +of course, but every now and then I fancied I heard something moving +about the other side of the gate, and once it was so distinct that I +run along to the Bear’s Head and knocked ’em up and asked them for a +little brandy, for illness. + +I didn’t get it, of course; I didn’t expect to; but I ’ad a little +conversation with the landlord from ’is bedroom-winder that did me more +good than the brandy would ha’ done. Once or twice I thought he would +’ave fallen out, and many a man has ’ad his licence taken away for less +than a quarter of wot ’e said to me that night. Arter he thought he ’ad +finished and was going back to bed agin, I pointed’ out to ’im that he +’adn’t kissed me “good night,” and if it ’adn’t ha’ been for ’is missis +and two grown-up daughters and the potman I believe he’d ha’ talked to +me till daylight. + +’Ow I got through the rest of the night I don’t know. It seemed to be +twenty nights instead of one, but the day came at last, and when the +hands came on at six o’clock they found the gate open and me on dooty +same as usual. + +I slept like a tired child when I got ’ome, and arter a steak and +onions for dinner I sat down and lit my pipe and tried to think wot was +to be done. One thing I was quite certain about: I wasn’t going to +spend another night on that wharf alone. + +I went out arter a bit, as far as the Clarendon Arms, for a breath of +fresh air, and I ’ad just finished a pint and was wondering whether I +ought to ’ave another, when Ted Dennis came in, and my mind was made +up. He ’ad been in the Army all ’is life, and, so far, he ’ad never +seen anything that ’ad frightened ’im. I’ve seen him myself take on men +twice ’is size just for the love of the thing, and, arter knocking them +silly, stand ’em a pint out of ’is own pocket. When I asked ’im whether +he was afraid of ghosts he laughed so ’ard that the landlord came from +the other end of the bar to see wot was the matter. + +I stood Ted a pint, and arter he ’ad finished it I told ’im just how +things was. I didn’t say anything about the watch and chain, because +there was no need to, and when we came outside agin I ’ad engaged an +assistant-watchman for ninepence a night. + +“All you’ve got to do,” I ses, “is to keep me company. You needn’t turn +up till eight o’clock of a night, and you can leave ’arf an hour afore +me in the morning.” + +“Right-o!” ses Ted. “And if I see the ghost I’ll make it wish it ’ad +never been born.” + +It was a load off my mind, and I went ’ome and ate a tea that made my +missis talk about the work-’ouse, and orstritches in ’uman shape wot +would eat a woman out of ’ouse and ’ome if she would let ’em. + +I got to the wharf just as it was striking six, and at a quarter to +seven the wicket was pushed open gentle and the ugly ’ead of Mr. Joe +Peel was shoved inside. + +“Hullo!” I ses. “Wot do you want?” + +“I want to save your life,” he ses, in a solemn voice. “You was within +a inch of death last night, watchman.” + +“Oh!” I ses, careless-like. “’Ow do you know!” + +“The ghost o’ Sam Bullet told me,” ses Joe. “Arter it ’ad chased you up +the wharf screaming for ’elp, it came round and told me all about it.” + +“It seems fond of you,” I ses. “I wonder why?” + +“It was in a terrible temper,” ses Joe, “and its face was awful to look +at. ‘Tell the watchman,’ it ses, ‘that if he don’t give you the watch +and chain I shall appear to ’im agin and kill ’im.’” + +“All right,” I ses, looking behind me to where three of the ’ands of +the Daisy was sitting on the fo’c’sle smoking. “I’ve got plenty of +company to-night.” + +“Company won’t save you,” ses Joe. “For the last time, are you going to +give me that watch and chain, or not? Here’s your fifteen bob.” + +“No,” I ses; “even if I ’ad got it I shouldn’t give it to you; and it’s +no use giving’ it to the ghost, because, being made of air, he ’asn’t +got anywhere to put it.” + +“Very good,” ses Joe, giving me a black look. “I’ve done all I can to +save you, but if you won’t listen to sense, you won’t. You’ll see Sam +Bullet agin, and you’ll not on’y lose the watch and chain but your life +as well.” + +“All right,” I ses, “and thank you kindly, but I’ve got an assistant, +as it ’appens—a man wot wants to see a ghost.” + +“An’ assistant?” ses Joe, staring. + +“An old soldier,” I ses. “A man wot likes trouble and danger. His idea +is to shoot the ghost and see wot ’appens.” + +“Shoot!” ses Joe. “Shoot a pore ’armless ghost. Does he want to be +’ung? Ain’t it enough for a pore man to be drownded, but wot you must +try and shoot ’im arterwards? Why, you ought to be ashamed o’ yourself. +Where’s your ’art?” + +“It won’t be shot if it don’t come on my wharf,” I ses. “Though I don’t +mind if it does when I’ve got somebody with me. I ain’t afraid of +anything living, and I don’t mind ghosts when there’s two of us. +Besides which, the noise of the pistol ’ll wake up ’arf the river.” + +“You take care you don’t get woke up,” ses Joe, ’ardly able to speak +for temper. + +He went off stamping, and grinding ’is teeth, and at eight o’clock to +the minute, Ted Dennis turned up with ’is pistol and helped me take +care of the wharf. Happy as a skylark ’e was, and to see him ’iding +behind a barrel with his pistol ready, waiting for the ghost, a’most +made me forget the expense of it all. + +It never came near us that night, and Ted was a bit disappointed next +morning as he took ’is ninepence and went off. Next night was the same, +and the next, and then Ted gave up hiding on the wharf for it, and sat +and snoozed in the office instead. + +A week went by, and then another, and still there was no sign of Sam +Bullet’s ghost, or Joe Peel, and every morning I ’ad to try and work up +a smile as I shelled out ninepence for Ted. It nearly ruined me, and, +worse than that, I couldn’t explain why I was short to the missis. Fust +of all she asked me wot I was spending it on, then she asked me who I +was spending it on. It nearly broke up my ’ome—she did smash one +kitchen-chair and a vase off the parlour mantelpiece—but I wouldn’t +tell ’er, and then, led away by some men on strike at Smith’s wharf, +Ted went on strike for a bob a night. + +That was arter he ’ad been with me for three weeks, and when Saturday +came, of course I was more short than ever, and people came and stood +at their doors all the way down our street to listen to the missis +taking my character away. + +I stood it as long as I could, and then, when ’er back was turned for +’arf a moment, I slipped out. While she’d been talking I’d been +thinking, and it came to me clear as daylight that there was no need +for me to sacrifice myself any longer looking arter a dead man’s watch +and chain. + +I didn’t know exactly where Joe Peel lived, but I knew the part, and +arter peeping into seven public-’ouses I see the man I wanted sitting +by ’imself in a little bar. I walked in quiet-like, and sat down +opposite ’im. + +“Morning,” I ses. + +Joe Peel grunted. + +“’Ave one with me?” I ses. + +He grunted agin, but not quite so fierce, and I fetched the two pints +from the counter and took a seat alongside of ’im. + +“I’ve been looking for you,” I ses. + +“Oh!” he ses, looking me up and down and all over. “Well, you’ve found +me now.” + +“I want to talk to you about the ghost of pore Sam Bullet,” I ses. + +Joe Peel put ’is mug down sudden and looked at me fierce. “Look ’ere! +Don’t you come and try to be funny with me,” he ses. “’Cos I won’t ’ave +it.” + +“I don’t want to be funny,” I ses. “Wot I want to know is, are you in +the same mind about that watch and chain as you was the other day?” + +He didn’t seem to be able to speak at fust, but arter a time ’e gives a +gasp. “Woes the game?” he ses. + +“Wot I want to know is, if I give you that watch and chain for fifteen +bob, will that keep the ghost from ’anging round my wharf agin?” I ses. + +“Why, o’ course,” he ses, staring; “but you ain’t been seeing it agin, +’ave you?” + +“I’ve not, and I don’t want to,” I ses. “If it wants you to ’ave the +watch and chain, give me the fifteen bob, and it’s yours.” + +He looked at me for a moment as if he couldn’t believe ’is eyesight, +and then ’e puts his ’and into ’is trowsis-pocket and pulls out one +shilling and fourpence, ’arf a clay-pipe, and a bit o’ lead-pencil. + +“That’s all I’ve got with me,” he ses. “I’ll owe you the rest. You +ought to ha’ took the fifteen bob when I ’ad it.” + +There was no ’elp for it, and arter making ’im swear to give me the +rest o’ the money when ’e got it, and that I shouldn’t see the ghost +agin, I ’anded the things over to ’im and came away. He came to the +door to see me off, and if ever a man looked puzzled, ’e did. Pleased +at the same time. + +It was a load off of my mind. My con-science told me I’d done right, +and arter sending a little boy with a note to Ted Dennis to tell ’im +not to come any more, I felt ’appier than I ’ad done for a long time. +When I got to the wharf that evening it seemed like a diff’rent place, +and I was whistling and smiling over my work quite in my old way, when +the young policeman passed. + +“Hullo!” he ses. “’Ave you seen the ghost agin?” + +“I ’ave not,” I ses, drawing myself up. “’Ave you?” + +“No,” he ses. + +“We missed it.” + +“Missed it?” I ses, staring at ’im. + +“Yes,” he ses, nodding. “The day arter you came out screaming, and +cuddling me like a frightened baby, it shipped as A.B. on the barque +Ocean King, for Valparaiso. We missed it by a few hours. Next time you +see a ghost, knock it down fust and go and cuddle the police +arterwards.” + + + + +BEDRIDDEN + + +July 12, 1915.—Disquieting rumours to the effect that epidemic of +Billetitis hitherto confined to the north of King’s Road shows signs of +spreading. + +July 14.—Report that two Inns of Court men have been seen peeping over +my gate. + +July 16.—Informed that soldier of agreeable appearance and charming +manners requests interview with me. Took a dose of Phospherine and +went. Found composite photograph of French, Joffre, and Hindenburg +waiting for me in the hall. Smiled (he did, I mean) and gave me the +mutilated form of salute reserved for civilians. Introduced himself as +Quartermaster-Sergeant Beddem, and stated that the Inns of Court O.T.C. +was going under canvas next week. After which he gulped. Meantime could +I take in a billet. Questioned as to what day the corps was going into +camp said that he believed it was Monday, but was not quite sure—might +possibly be Tuesday. Swallowed again and coughed a little. Accepted +billet and felt completely re-warded by smile. Q.M.S. bade me good-bye, +and then with the air of a man suddenly remembering something, asked me +whether I could take two. Excused myself and interviewed my C.O. behind +the dining-room door. Came back and accepted. Q.M.S. so overjoyed +(apparently) that he fell over the scraper. Seemed to jog his memory. +He paused, and gazing in absent fashion at the topmost rose on the +climber in the porch, asked whether I could take three! Added hopefully +that the third was only a boy. Excused myself. Heated debate with C.O. +Subject: sheets. Returned with me to explain to the Q.M.S. He smiled. +C.O. accepted at once, and, returning smile, expressed regret at size +and position of bedrooms available. Q.M.S. went off swinging cane +jauntily. + +July 17.—Billets arrived. Spoke to them about next Monday and canvas. +They seemed surprised. Strange how the military authorities decline to +take men into their confidence merely because they are privates. Let +them upstairs. They went (for first and last time) on tiptoe. + +July 18.—Saw Q.M.S. Beddem in the town. Took shelter in the King’s +Arms. + +Jug. 3.—Went to Cornwall. + +Aug. 31.—Returned. Billets received me very hospitably. + +Sept. 4.—Private Budd, electrical engineer, dissatisfied with +appearance of bell-push in dining-room, altered it. + +Sept. 5.—Bells out of order. + +Sept. 6.—Private Merited, also an electrical engineer, helped Private +Budd to repair bells. + +Sept. 7.—Private Budd helped Private Merited to repair bells. + +Sept. 8.—Privates Budd and Merited helped each other to repair bells. + +Sept. 9.—Sent to local tradesman to put my bells in order. + +Sept. 15.—Told that Q.M.S. Beddem wished to see me. Saw C.O. first. She +thought he had possibly come to take some of the billets away. Q.M.S. +met my approach with a smile that re-minded me vaguely of +picture-postcards I had seen. Awfully sorry to trouble me, but Private +Montease, just back from three weeks’ holiday with bronchitis, was +sleeping in the wood-shed on three planks and a tin-tack. Beamed at me +and waited. Went and bought another bed-stead. + +Sept. 16.—Private Montease and a cough entered into residence. + +Sept. 17, 11.45 p.m.—Maid came to bedroom-door with some cough lozenges +which she asked me to take to the new billet. Took them. Private +Montease thanked me, but said he didn’t mind coughing. Said it was an +heirloom; Montease cough, known in highest circles all over Scotland +since time of Young Pretender. + +Sept. 20.—Private Montease installed in easy-chair in dining-room with +touch of bronchitis, looking up trains to Bournemouth. + +Sept. 21.—Private Montease in bed all day. Cook anxious “to do her bit” +rubbed his chest with home-made embrocation. Believe it is same stuff +she rubs chests in hall with. Smells the same anyway. + +Sept. 24.—Private Montease, complaining of slight rawness of chest, but +otherwise well, returned to duty. + +Oct. 5.—Cough worse again. Private Montease thinks that with care it +may turn to bronchitis. Borrowed an A.B.C. + +Oct. 6.—Private Montease relates uncanny experience. Woke up with +feeling of suffocation to find an enormous black-currant and glycerine +jujube wedged in his gullet. Never owned such a thing in his life. +Seems to be unaware that he always sleeps with his mouth open. + +Nov. 14.—Private Bowser, youngest and tallest of my billets, gazetted. + +Nov. 15, 10.35 a.m.—Private Bowser in tip-top spirits said good-bye to +us all. + +10.45.—Told that Q.M.S. Beddem desired to see me. Capitulated. New +billet, Private Early, armed to the teeth, turned up in the evening. +Said that he was a Yorkshireman. Said that Yorkshire was the finest +county in England, and Yorkshiremen the finest men in the world. Stood +toying with his bayonet and waiting for contradiction. + +Jan. 5, 1916.—Standing in the garden just after lunch was witness to +startling phenomenon. Q.M.S. Beddem came towards front-gate with a +smile so expansive that gate after first trembling violently on its +hinges swung open of its own accord. Q.M.S., with smile (sad), said he +was in trouble. Very old member of the Inns of Court, Private Keen, had +re-joined, and he wanted a good billet for him. Would cheerfully give +up his own bed, but it wasn’t long enough. Not to be outdone in +hospitality by my own gate accepted Private Keen. Q.M.S. digging hole +in my path with toe of right boot, and for first and only time +manifesting signs of nervousness, murmured that two life-long friends +of Private Keen’s had rejoined with him. Known as the Three +Inseparables. Where they were to sleep, unless I——. Fled to house, and +locking myself in top-attic watched Q.M.S. from window. He departed +with bent head and swagger-cane reversed. + +Jan 6.—Private Keen arrived. Turned out to be son of an old Chief of +mine. Resolved not to visit the sins of the father on the head of a +child six feet two high and broad in proportion. + +Feb. 6.—Private Keen came home with a temperature. + +Feb. 7.—M.O. diagnosed influenza. Was afraid it would spread. + +Feb. 8.—Warned the other four billets. They seemed amused. Pointed out +that influenza had no terrors for men in No. 2 Company, who were doomed +to weekly night-ops. under Major Carryon. + +Feb. 9.—House strangely and pleasantly quiet. Went to see how Private +Keen was progressing, and found the other four billets sitting in a row +on his bed practising deep-breathing exercises. + +Feb. 16.—Billets on night-ops. until late hour. Spoke in highest terms +of Major Carryon’s marching powers—also in other terms. + +March 3.—Waited up until midnight for Private Merited, who had gone to +Slough on his motor-bike. + +March 4, 1.5 a.m.—Awakened by series of explosions from over-worked, or +badly-worked, motor-bike. Put head out of window and threw key to +Private Merited. He seemed excited. Said he had been chased all the way +from Chesham by a pink rat with yellow spots. Advised him to go to bed. +Set him an example. + +1.10. a.m.—Heard somebody in the pantry. 2.10. a.m.—Heard Private +Merited going upstairs to bed. + +2.16 a.m.—Heard Private Merited still going upstairs to bed. + +2.20-3.15. a.m.—Heard Private Merited getting to bed. + +April 3, 12.30 a.m.—Town-hooter announced Zeppelins and excited soldier +called up my billets from their beds to go and frighten them off. +Pleasant to see superiority of billets over the hooter: that only +emitted three blasts. + +12.50 a.m.—Billets returned with exception of Private Merited, who was +retained for sake of his motor-bike. + +9 a.m.—On way to bath-room ran into Private Merited, who, looking very +glum and sleepy, inquired whether I had a copy of the Exchange and Mart +in the house. + +10 p.m.—Overheard billets discussing whether it was worth while +removing boots before going to bed until the Zeppelin scare was over. +Joined in discussion. + +May 2.—Rumours that the Inns of Court were going under canvas. +Discredited them. + +May 5.—Rumours grow stronger. + +May 6.—Billets depressed. Begin to think perhaps there is something in +rumours after all. + +May 9.-All doubts removed. Tents begin to spring up with the suddenness +of mushrooms in fields below Berkhamsted Place. + +May 18, LIBERATION DAY.—Bade a facetious good-bye to my billets; +response lacking in bonhomie. + +May 19.-House delightfully quiet. Presented caller of unkempt +appearance at back-door with remains of pair of military boots, three +empty shaving-stick tins, and a couple of partially bald tooth-brushes. + +May 21.—In afternoon went round and looked at camp. Came home smiling, +and went to favourite seat in garden to smoke. Discovered Private Early +lying on it fast asleep. Went to study. Private Merited at table +writing long and well-reasoned letter to his tailor. As he said he +could never write properly with anybody else in the room, left him and +went to bath-room. Door locked. Peevish but familiar voice, with a +Scotch accent, asked me what I wanted; also complained of temperature +of water. + +May 22.—After comparing notes with neighbours, feel deeply grateful to +Q.M.S. Beddem for sending me the best six men in the corps. + +July 15.—Feel glad to have been associated, however remotely and +humbly, with a corps, the names of whose members appear on the Roll of +Honour of every British regiment. + + + + +THE CONVERT + + +Mr. Purnip took the arm of the new recruit and hung over him almost +tenderly as they walked along; Mr. Billing, with a look of conscious +virtue on his jolly face, listened with much satisfaction to his +friend’s compliments. + +“It’s such an example,” said the latter. “Now we’ve got you the others +will follow like sheep. You will be a bright lamp in the darkness.” + +“Wot’s good enough for me ought to be good enough for them,” said Mr. +Billing, modestly. “They’d better not let me catch—” + +“H’sh! H’sh!” breathed Mr. Purnip, tilting his hat and wiping his bald, +benevolent head. + +“I forgot,” said the other, with something like a sigh. “No more +fighting; but suppose somebody hits me?” + +“Turn the other cheek,” replied Mr. Purnip. + +“They won’t hit that; and when they see you standing there smiling at +them—” + +“After being hit?” interrupted Mr. Billing. + +“After being hit,” assented the other, “they’ll be ashamed of +themselves, and it’ll hurt them more than if you struck them.” + +“Let’s ’ope so,” said the convert; “but it don’t sound reasonable. I +can hit a man pretty ’ard. Not that I’m bad-tempered, mind you; a bit +quick, p’r’aps. And, after all, a good smack in the jaw saves any +amount of argufying.” + +Mr. Purnip smiled, and, as they walked along, painted a glowing picture +of the influence to be wielded by a first-class fighting-man who +refused to fight. It was a rough neighbourhood, and he recognized with +sorrow that more respect was paid to a heavy fist than to a noble +intellect or a loving heart. + +“And you combine them all,” he said, patting his companion’s arm. + +Mr. Billing smiled. “You ought to know best,” he said, modestly. + +“You’ll be surprised to find how easy it is,” continued Mr. Purnip. +“You will go from strength to strength. Old habits will disappear, and +you will hardly know you have lost them. In a few months’ time you will +probably be wondering what you could ever have seen in beer, for +example.” + +“I thought you said you didn’t want me to give up beer?” said the +other. + +“We don’t,” said Mr. Purnip. “I mean that as you grow in stature you +will simply lose the taste for it.” + +Mr. Billing came to a sudden full stop. “D’ye mean I shall lose my +liking for a drop o’ beer without being able to help myself?” he +demanded, in an anxious voice. + +“Of course, it doesn’t happen in every case,” he said, hastily. + +Mr. Billing’s features relaxed. “Well, let’s ’ope I shall be one of the +fortunate ones,” he said, simply. “I can put up with a good deal, but +when it comes to beer——” + +“We shall see,” said the other, smiling. + +“We don’t want to interfere with anybody’s comfort; we want to make +them happier, that’s all. A little more kindness between man and man; a +little more consideration for each other; a little more brightness in +dull lives.” + +He paused at the corner of the street, and, with a hearty handshake, +went off. Mr. Billing, a prey to somewhat mixed emotions, continued on +his way home. The little knot of earnest men and women who had settled +in the district to spread light and culture had been angling for him +for some time. He wondered, as he walked, what particular bait it was +that had done the mischief. + +“They’ve got me at last,” he remarked, as he opened the house-door and +walked into his small kitchen. “I couldn’t say ‘no’ to Mr. Purnip.” + +“Wish ’em joy,” said Mrs. Billing, briefly. “Did you wipe your boots?” + +Her husband turned without a word, and, retreating to the mat, executed +a prolonged double-shuffle. + +“You needn’t wear it out,” said the surprised Mrs. Billing. + +“We’ve got to make people ’appier,” said her husband, seriously; “be +kinder to ’em, and brighten up their dull lives a bit. That’s wot Mr. +Purnip says.” + +“You’ll brighten ’em up all right,” declared Mrs. Billing, with a +sniff. “I sha’n’t forget last Tuesday week—no, not if I live to be a +hundred. You’d ha’ brightened up the police-station if I ’adn’t got you +home just in the nick of time.” + +Her husband, who was by this time busy under the scullery-tap, made no +reply. He came from it spluttering, and, seizing a small towel, stood +in the door-way burnishing his face and regarding his wife with a smile +which Mr. Purnip himself could not have surpassed. He sat down to +supper, and between bites explained in some detail the lines on which +his future life was to be run. As an earnest of good faith, he +consented, after a short struggle, to a slip of oil-cloth for the +passage; a pair of vases for the front room; and a new and somewhat +expensive corn-cure for Mrs. Billing. + +“And let’s ’ope you go on as you’ve begun,” said that gratified lady. +“There’s something in old Purnip after all. I’ve been worrying you for +months for that oilcloth. Are you going to help me wash up? Mr. Purnip +would.” + +Mr. Billing appeared not to hear, and, taking up his cap, strolled +slowly in the direction of the Blue Lion. It was a beautiful summer +evening, and his bosom swelled as he thought of the improvements that a +little brotherliness might effect in Elk Street. Engrossed in such +ideas, it almost hurt him to find that, as he entered one door of the +Blue Lion, two gentlemen, forgetting all about their beer, disappeared +through the other. + +“Wot ’ave they run away like that for?” he demanded, looking round. “I +wouldn’t hurt ’em.” + +“Depends on wot you call hurting, Joe,” said a friend. + +Mr. Billing shook his head. “They’ve no call to be afraid of me,” he +said, gravely. “I wouldn’t hurt a fly; I’ve got a new ’art.” + +“A new wot?” inquired his friend, staring. + +“A new ’art,” repeated the other. “I’ve given up fighting and swearing, +and drinking too much. I’m going to lead a new life and do all the good +I can; I’m going—” + +“Glory! Glory!” ejaculated a long, thin youth, and, making a dash for +the door, disappeared. + +“He’ll know me better in time,” said Mr. Billing. “Why, I wouldn’t hurt +a fly. I want to do good to people; not to hurt ’em. I’ll have a pint,” +he added, turning to the bar. + +“Not here you won’t,” said the landlord, eyeing him coldly. + +“Why not?” demanded the astonished Mr. Billing. + +“You’ve had all you ought to have already,” was the reply. “And there’s +one thing I’ll swear to—you ain’t had it ’ere.” + +“I haven’t ’ad a drop pass my lips began the outraged Mr. Billing. + +“Yes, I know,” said the other, wearily, as he shifted one or two +glasses and wiped the counter; “I’ve heard it all before, over and over +again. Mind you, I’ve been in this business thirty years, and if I +don’t know when a man’s had his whack, and a drop more, nobody does. +You get off ’ome and ask your missis to make you a nice cup o’ good +strong tea, and then get up to bed and sleep it off.” + +“I dare say,” said Mr. Billing, with cold dignity, as he paused at the +door—“I dare say I may give up beer altogether.” + +He stood outside pondering over the unforeseen difficulties attendant +upon his new career, moving a few inches to one side as Mr. Ricketts, a +foe of long standing, came towards the public-house, and, halting a +yard or two away, eyed him warily. + +“Come along,” said Mr. Billing, speaking somewhat loudly, for the +benefit of the men in the bar; “I sha’n’t hurt you; my fighting days +are over.” + +“Yes, I dessay,” replied the other, edging away. + +“It’s all right, Bill,” said a mutual friend, through the half-open +door; “he’s got a new ’art.” + +Mr. Ricketts looked perplexed. “’Art disease, d’ye mean?” he inquired, +hopefully. “Can’t he fight no more?” + +“A new ’art,” said Mr. Billing. “It’s as strong as ever it was, but +it’s changed—brother.” + +“If you call me ‘brother’ agin I’ll give you something for yourself, +and chance it,” said Mr. Ricketts, ferociously. “I’m a pore man, but +I’ve got my pride.” + +Mr. Billing, with a smile charged with brotherly love, leaned his left +cheek towards him. “Hit it,” he said, gently. + +“Give it a smack and run, Bill,” said the voice of a well-wisher +inside. + +“There’d be no need for ’im to run,” said Mr. Billing. “I wouldn’t hit +’im back for anything. I should turn the other cheek.” + +“Whaffor?” inquired the amazed Mr. Ricketts. + +“For another swipe,” said Mr. Billing, radiantly. + +In the fraction of a second he got the first, and reeled back +staggering. The onlookers from the bar came out hastily. Mr. Ricketts, +somewhat pale, stood his ground. + +“You see, I don’t hit you,” said Mr. Billing, with a ghastly attempt at +a smile. + +He stood rubbing his cheek gently, and, remembering Mr. Purnip’s +statements, slowly, inch by inch, turned the other in the direction of +his adversary. The circuit was still incomplete when Mr. Ricketts, +balancing himself carefully, fetched it a smash that nearly burst it. +Mr. Billing, somewhat jarred by his contact with the pavement, rose +painfully and confronted him. + +“I’ve only got two cheeks, mind,” he said, slowly. + +Mr. Ricketts sighed. “I wish you’d got a blinking dozen,” he said, +wistfully. “Well, so long. Be good.” + +He walked into the Blue Lion absolutely free from that sense of shame +which Mr. Purnip had predicted, and, accepting a pint from an admirer, +boasted noisily of his exploit. Mr. Billing, suffering both mentally +and physically, walked slowly home to his astonished wife. + +“P’r’aps he’ll be ashamed of hisself when ’e comes to think it over,” +he murmured, as Mrs. Billing, rendered almost perfect by practice, +administered first aid. + +“I s’pect he’s crying his eyes out,” she said, with a sniff. “Tell me +if that ’urts.” + +Mr. Billing told her, then, suddenly remembering himself, issued an +expurgated edition. + +“I’m sorry for the next man that ’its you,” said his wife, as she drew +back and regarded her handiwork. + +“‘Well, you needn’t be,” said Mr. Billing, with dignity. “It would take +more than a couple o’ props in the jaw to make me alter my mind when +I’ve made it up. You ought to know that by this time. Hurry up and +finish. I want you to go to the corner and fetch me a pot.” + +“What, ain’t you going out agin?” demanded his astonished wife. + +Mr. Billing shook his head. “Somebody else might want to give me one,” +he said, resignedly, “and I’ve ’ad about all I want to-night.” + +His face was still painful next morning, but as he sat at breakfast in +the small kitchen he was able to refer to Mr. Ricketts in terms which +were an eloquent testimony to Mr. Purnip’s teaching. Mrs. Billing, +unable to contain herself, wandered off into the front room with a +duster. + +“Are you nearly ready to go?” she inquired, returning after a short +interval. + +“Five minutes,” said Mr. Billing, nodding. “I’ll just light my pipe and +then I’m off.” + +“’Cos there’s two or three waiting outside for you,” added his wife. + +Mr. Billing rose. “Ho, is there?” he said, grimly, as he removed his +coat and proceeded to roll up his shirt-sleeves. “I’ll learn ’em. I’ll +give ’em something to wait for. I’ll——” + +His voice died away as he saw the triumph in his wife’s face, and, +drawing down his sleeves again, he took up his coat and stood eyeing +her in genuine perplexity. + +“Tell ’em I’ve gorn,” he said, at last. + +“And what about telling lies?” demanded his wife. “What would your Mr. +Purnip say to that?” + +“You do as you’re told,” exclaimed the harassed Mr. Billing. “I’m not +going to tell ’em; it’s you.” + +Mrs. Billing returned to the parlour, and, with Mr. Billing lurking in +the background, busied herself over a china flower-pot that stood in +the window, and turned an anxious eye upon three men waiting outside. +After a glance or two she went to the door. + +“Did you want to see my husband?” she inquired. + +The biggest of the three nodded. “Yus,” he said, shortly. + +“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Billing, “but he ’ad to go early this morning. +Was it anything partikler?” + +“Gorn?” said the other, in disappointed tones. “Well, you tell ’im I’ll +see ’im later on.” + +He turned away, and, followed by the other two, walked slowly up the +road. Mr. Billing, after waiting till the coast was clear, went off in +the other direction. + +He sought counsel of his friend and mentor that afternoon, and stood +beaming with pride at the praise lavished upon him. Mr. Purnip’s +co-workers were no less enthusiastic than their chief; and various +suggestions were made to Mr. Billing as to his behaviour in the +unlikely event of further attacks upon his noble person. + +He tried to remember the suggestions in the harassing days that +followed; baiting Joe Billing becoming popular as a pastime from which +no evil results need be feared. It was creditable to his +fellow-citizens that most of them refrained from violence with a man +who declined to hit back, but as a butt his success was assured. The +night when a gawky lad of eighteen drank up his beer, and then invited +him to step outside if he didn’t like it, dwelt long in his memory. And +Elk Street thrilled one evening at the sight of their erstwhile +champion flying up the road hotly pursued by a foeman half his size. +His explanation to his indignant wife that, having turned the other +cheek the night before, he was in no mood for further punishment, was +received in chilling silence. + +“They’ll soon get tired of it,” he said, hopefully; “and I ain’t going +to be beat by a lot of chaps wot I could lick with one ’and tied behind +me. They’ll get to understand in time; Mr. Purnip says so. It’s a pity +that you don’t try and do some good yourself.” + +Mrs. Billing received the suggestion with a sniff; but the seed was +sown. She thought the matter over in private, and came to the +conclusion that, if her husband wished her to participate in good +works, it was not for her to deny him. Hitherto her efforts in that +direction had been promptly suppressed; Mr. Billing’s idea being that +if a woman looked after her home and her husband properly there should +be neither time nor desire for anything else. His surprise on arriving +home to tea on Saturday afternoon, and finding a couple of hard-working +neighbours devouring his substance, almost deprived him of speech. + +“Poor things,” said his wife, after the guests had gone; “they did +enjoy it. It’s cheered ’em up wonderful. You and Mr. Purnip are quite +right. I can see that now. You can tell him that it was you what put it +into my ’art.” + +“Me? Why, I never dreamt o’ such a thing,” declared the surprised Mr. +Billing. “And there’s other ways of doing good besides asking a pack of +old women in to tea.” + +“I know there is,” said his wife. “All in good time,” she added, with a +far-away look in her eyes. + +Mr. Billing cleared his throat, but nothing came of it. He cleared it +again. + +“I couldn’t let you do all the good,” said his wife, hastily. “It +wouldn’t be fair. I must help.” + +Mr. Billing lit his pipe noisily, and then took it out into the +back-yard and sat down to think over the situation. The ungenerous idea +that his wife was making goodness serve her own ends was the first that +occurred to him. + +His suspicions increased with time. Mrs. Billing’s good works seemed to +be almost entirely connected with hospitality. True, she had +entertained Mr. Purnip and one of the ladies from the Settlement to +tea, but that only riveted his bonds more firmly. Other visitors +included his sister-in-law, for whom he had a great distaste, and some +of the worst-behaved children in the street. + +“It’s only high spirits,” said Mrs. Billing; “all children are like +that. And I do it to help the mothers.” + +“And ’cos you like children,” said her husband, preserving his +good-humour with an effort. + +There was a touch of monotony about the new life, and the good deeds +that accompanied it, which, to a man of ardent temperament, was apt to +pall. And Elk Street, instead of giving him the credit which was his +due, preferred to ascribe the change in his behaviour to what they +called being “a bit barmy on the crumpet.” + +He came home one evening somewhat dejected, brightening up as he stood +in the passage and inhaled the ravishing odours from the kitchen. Mrs. +Billing, with a trace of nervousness somewhat unaccountable in view of +the excellent quality of the repast provided, poured him out a glass of +beer, and passed flattering comment upon his appearance. + +“Wot’s the game?” he inquired. + +“Game?” repeated his wife, in a trembling voice. “Nothing. ’Ow do you +find that steak-pudding? I thought of giving you one every Wednesday.” + +Mr. Billing put down his knife and fork and sat regarding her +thoughtfully. Then he pushed back his chair suddenly, and, a picture of +consternation and wrath, held up his hand for silence. + +“W-w-wot is it?” he demanded. “A cat?” + +Mrs. Billing made no reply, and her husband sprang to his feet as a +long, thin wailing sounded through the house. A note of temper crept +into it and strengthened it. + +“Wot is it?” demanded Mr. Billing again. “It’s—it’s Mrs. Smith’s +Charlie,” stammered his wife. + +“In—in my bedroom?” exclaimed her husband, in incredulous accents. +“Wot’s it doing there?” + +“I took it for the night,” said his wife hurriedly. “Poor thing, what +with the others being ill she’s ’ad a dreadful time, and she said if +I’d take Charlie for a few—for a night, she might be able to get some +sleep.” + +Mr. Billing choked. “And what about my sleep?” he shouted. “Chuck it +outside at once. D’ye hear me?” + +His words fell on empty air, his wife having already sped upstairs to +pacify Master Smith by a rhythmical and monotonous thumping on the +back. Also she lifted up a thin and not particularly sweet voice and +sang to him. Mr. Billing, finishing his supper in indignant silence, +told himself grimly that he was “beginning to have enough of it.” + +He spent the evening at the Charlton Arms, and, returning late, went +slowly and heavily up to bed. In the light of a shaded candle he saw a +small, objectionable-looking infant fast asleep on two chairs by the +side of the bed. + +“H’sh!” said his wife, in a thrilling whisper. “He’s just gone off.” + +“D’ye mean I mustn’t open my mouth in my own bedroom?” demanded the +indignant man, loudly. + +“H’sh!” said his wife again. + +It was too late. Master Smith, opening first one eye and then the +other, finished by opening his mouth. The noise was appalling. + +“H’sh! H’sh!” repeated Mrs. Billing, as her husband began to add to the +noise. “Don’t wake ’im right up.” + +“Right up?” repeated the astonished man. “Right up? Why, is he doing +this in ’is sleep?” + +He subsided into silence, and, undressing with stealthy care, crept +into bed and lay there, marvelling at his self-control. He was a sound +sleeper, but six times at least he was awakened by Mrs. Billing +slipping out of bed—regardless of draughts to her liege lord—and +marching up and down the room with the visitor in her arms. He rose in +the morning and dressed in ominous silence. + +“I ’ope he didn’t disturb you,” said his wife, anxiously. + +“You’ve done it,” replied Mr. Billing. “You’ve upset everything now. +Since I joined the Purnip lot everybody’s took advantage of me; now I’m +going to get some of my own back. You wouldn’t ha’ dreamt of behaving +like this a few weeks ago.” + +“Oh, Joe!” said his wife, entreatingly; “and everybody’s been so +happy!” + +“Except me,” retorted Joe Billing. “You come down and get my breakfast +ready. If I start early I shall catch Mr. Bill Ricketts on ’is way to +work. And mind, if I find that steam-orgin ’ere when I come ’ome +to-night you’ll hear of it.” + +He left the house with head erect and the light of battle in his eyes, +and, meeting Mr. Ricketts at the corner, gave that justly aggrieved +gentleman the surprise of his life. Elk Street thrilled to the fact +that Mr. Billing had broken out again, and spoke darkly of what the +evening might bring forth. Curious eyes followed his progress as he +returned home from work, and a little later on the news was spread +abroad that he was out and paying off old scores with an ardour that +nothing could withstand. + +“And wot about your change of ’art?” demanded one indignant matron, as +her husband reached home five seconds ahead of Mr. Billing and hid in +the scullery. + +“It’s changed agin,” said Mr. Billing, simply. + +He finished the evening in the Blue Lion, where he had one bar almost +to himself, and, avoiding his wife’s reproachful glance when he arrived +home, procured some warm water and began to bathe his honourable scars. + +“Mr. Purnip ’as been round with another gentleman,” said his wife. + +Mr. Billing said, “Oh!” + +“Very much upset they was, and ’ope you’ll go and see them,” she +continued. + +Mr. Billing said “Oh!” again; and, after thinking the matter over, +called next day at the Settlement and explained his position. + +“It’s all right for gentlemen like you,” he said civilly. “But a man. +like me can’t call his soul ’is own—or even ’is bedroom. Everybody +takes advantage of ’im. Nobody ever gives you a punch, and, as for +putting babies in your bedroom, they wouldn’t dream of it.” + +He left amid expressions of general regret, turning a deaf ear to all +suggestions about making another start, and went off exulting in his +freedom. + +His one trouble was Mr. Purnip, that estimable gentleman, who seemed to +have a weird gift of meeting him at all sorts of times and places, +never making any allusion to his desertion, but showing quite clearly +by his manner that he still hoped for the return of the wanderer. It +was awkward for a man of sensitive disposition, and Mr. Billing, before +entering a street, got into the habit of peering round the corner +first. + +He pulled up suddenly one evening as he saw his tenacious friend, +accompanied by a lady-member, some little distance ahead. Then he +sprang forward with fists clenched as a passer-by, after scowling at +Mr. Purnip, leaned forward and deliberately blew a mouthful of smoke +into the face of his companion. + +Mr. Billing stopped again and stood gaping with astonishment. The +aggressor was getting up from the pavement, while Mr. Purnip, in an +absolutely correct attitude, stood waiting for him. Mr. Billing in a +glow of delight edged forward, and, with a few other fortunates, stood +by watching one of the best fights that had ever been seen in the +district. Mr. Purnip’s foot-work was excellent, and the way he timed +his blows made Mr. Billing’s eyes moist with admiration. + +It was over at last. The aggressor went limping off, and Mr. Purnip, +wiping his bald head, picked up his battered and dusty hat from the +roadway and brushed it on his sleeve. He turned with a start and a +blush to meet the delighted gaze of Mr. Billing. + +“I’m ashamed of myself,” he murmured, brokenly—“ashamed.” + +“Ashamed!” exclaimed the amazed Mr. Billing. “Why, a pro couldn’t ha’ +done better.” + +“Such an awful example,” moaned the other. “All my good work here +thrown away.” + +“Don’t you believe it, sir,” said Mr. Billing, earnestly. “As soon as +this gets about you’ll get more members than you want a’most. I’m +coming back, for one.” + +Mr. Purnip turned and grasped his hand. + +“I understand things now,” said Mr. Billing, nodding sagely. “Turning +the other cheek’s all right so long as you don’t do it always. If you +don’t let ’em know whether you are going to turn the other cheek or +knock their blessed heads off, it’s all right. ’Arf the trouble in the +world is caused by letting people know too much.” + + + + +HUSBANDRY + + +Dealing with a man, said the night-watchman, thoughtfully, is as easy +as a teetotaller walking along a nice wide pavement; dealing with a +woman is like the same teetotaller, arter four or five whiskies, trying +to get up a step that ain’t there. If a man can’t get ’is own way he +eases ’is mind with a little nasty language, and then forgets all about +it; if a woman can’t get ’er own way she flies into a temper and +reminds you of something you oughtn’t to ha’ done ten years ago. Wot a +woman would do whose ’usband had never done anything wrong I can’t +think. + +I remember a young feller telling me about a row he ’ad with ’is wife +once. He ’adn’t been married long and he talked as if the way she +carried on was unusual. Fust of all, he said, she spoke to ’im in a +cooing sort o’ voice and pulled his moustache, then when he wouldn’t +give way she worked herself up into a temper and said things about ’is +sister. Arter which she went out o’ the room and banged the door so +hard it blew down a vase off the fireplace. Four times she came back to +tell ’im other things she ’ad thought of, and then she got so upset she +’ad to go up to bed and lay down instead of getting his tea. When that +didn’t do no good she refused her food, and when ’e took her up toast +and tea she wouldn’t look at it. Said she wanted to die. He got quite +uneasy till ’e came ’ome the next night and found the best part of a +loaf o’ bread, a quarter o’ butter, and a couple o’ chops he ’ad got in +for ’is supper had gorn; and then when he said ’e was glad she ’ad got +’er appetite back she turned round and said that he grudged ’er the +food she ate. + +And no woman ever owned up as ’ow she was wrong; and the more you try +and prove it to ’em the louder they talk about something else. I know +wot I’m talking about because a woman made a mistake about me once, and +though she was proved to be in the wrong, and it was years ago, my +missus shakes her ’ead about it to this day. + +It was about eight years arter I ’ad left off going to sea and took up +night-watching. A beautiful summer evening it was, and I was sitting by +the gate smoking a pipe till it should be time to light up, when I +noticed a woman who ’ad just passed turn back and stand staring at me. +I’ve ’ad that sort o’ thing before, and I went on smoking and looking +straight in front of me. Fat middle-aged woman she was, wot ’ad lost +her good looks and found others. She stood there staring and staring, +and by and by she tries a little cough. + +I got up very slow then, and, arter looking all round at the evening, +without seeing ’er, I was just going to step inside and shut the +wicket, when she came closer. + +“Bill!” she ses, in a choking sort o’ voice. + +“Bill!” + +I gave her a look that made her catch ’er breath, and I was just +stepping through the wicket, when she laid hold of my coat and tried to +hold me back. + +“Do you know wot you’re a-doing of?” I ses, turning on her. + +“Oh, Bill dear,” she ses, “don’t talk to me like that. Do you want to +break my ’art? Arter all these years!” + +She pulled out a dirt-coloured pocket-’ankercher and stood there +dabbing her eyes with it. One eye at a time she dabbed, while she +looked at me reproachful with the other. And arter eight dabs, four to +each eye, she began to sob as if her ’art would break. + +“Go away,” I ses, very slow. “You can’t stand making that noise outside +my wharf. Go away and give somebody else a treat.” + +Afore she could say anything the potman from the Tiger, a nasty +ginger-’aired little chap that nobody liked, come by and stopped to pat +her on the back. + +“There, there, don’t take on, mother,” he ses. “Wot’s he been a-doing +to you?” + +“You get off ’ome,” I ses, losing my temper. + +“Wot d’ye mean trying to drag me into it? I’ve never seen the woman +afore in my life.” + +“Oh, Bill!” ses the woman, sobbing louder than ever. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” + +“’Ow does she know your name, then?” ses the little beast of a potman. + +I didn’t answer him. I might have told ’im that there’s about five +million Bills in England, but I didn’t. I stood there with my arms +folded acrost my chest, and looked at him, superior. + +“Where ’ave you been all this long, long time?” she ses, between her +sobs. “Why did you leave your happy ’ome and your children wot loved +you?” + +The potman let off a whistle that you could have ’eard acrost the +river, and as for me, I thought I should ha’ dropped. To have a woman +standing sobbing and taking my character away like that was a’most more +than I could bear. + +“Did he run away from you?” ses the potman. + +“Ye-ye-yes,” she ses. “He went off on a vy’ge to China over nine years +ago, and that’s the last I saw of ’im till to-night. A lady friend o’ +mine thought she reckernized ’im yesterday, and told me.” + +“I shouldn’t cry over ’im,” ses the potman, shaking his ’ead: “he ain’t +worth it. If I was you I should just give ’im a bang or two over the +’ead with my umberella, and then give ’im in charge.” + +I stepped inside the wicket—backwards—and then I slammed it in their +faces, and putting the key in my pocket, walked up the wharf. I knew it +was no good standing out there argufying. I felt sorry for the pore +thing in a way. If she really thought I was her ’usband, and she ’ad +lost me—— I put one or two things straight and then, for the sake of +distracting my mind, I ’ad a word or two with the skipper of the John +Henry, who was leaning against the side of his ship, smoking. + +“Wot’s that tapping noise?” he ses, all of a sudden. “’Ark!” + +I knew wot it was. It was the handle of that umberella ’ammering on the +gate. I went cold all over, and then when I thought that the pot-man +was most likely encouraging ’er to do it I began to boil. + +“Somebody at the gate,” ses the skipper. + +“Aye, aye,” I ses. “I know all about it.” + +I went on talking until at last the skipper asked me whether he was +wandering in ’is mind, or whether I was. The mate came up from the +cabin just then, and o’ course he ’ad to tell me there was somebody +knocking at the gate. + +“Ain’t you going to open it?” ses the skipper, staring at me. + +“Let ’em ring,” I ses, off-hand. + +The words was ’ardly out of my mouth afore they did ring, and if they +’ad been selling muffins they couldn’t ha’ kept it up harder. And all +the time the umberella was doing rat-a-tat tats on the gate, while a +voice— much too loud for the potman’s—started calling out: “Watch-man +ahoy!” + +“They’re calling you, Bill,” ses the skipper. “I ain’t deaf,” I ses, +very cold. + +“Well, I wish I was,” ses the skipper. “It’s fair making my ear ache. +Why the blazes don’t you do your dooty, and open the gate?” + +“You mind your bisness and I’ll mind mine,” I ses. “I know wot I’m +doing. It’s just some silly fools ’aving a game with me, and I’m not +going to encourage ’em.” + +“Game with you?” ses the skipper. “Ain’t they got anything better than +that to play with? Look ’ere, if you don’t open that gate, I will.” + +“It’s nothing to do with you,” I ses. “You look arter your ship and +I’ll look arter my wharf. See? If you don’t like the noise, go down in +the cabin and stick your ’ead in a biscuit-bag.” + +To my surprise he took the mate by the arm and went, and I was just +thinking wot a good thing it was to be a bit firm with people +sometimes, when they came back dressed up in their coats and +bowler-hats and climbed on to the wharf. + +“Watchman!” ses the skipper, in a hoity-toity sort o’ voice, “me and +the mate is going as far as Aldgate for a breath o’ fresh air. Open the +gate.” + +I gave him a look that might ha’ melted a ’art of stone, and all it +done to ’im was to make ’im laugh. + +“Hurry up,” he ses. “It a’most seems to me that there’s somebody +ringing the bell, and you can let them in same time as you let us out. +Is it the bell, or is it my fancy, Joe?” he ses, turning to the mate. + +They marched on in front of me with their noses cocked in the air, and +all the time the noise at the gate got worse and worse. So far as I +could make out, there was quite a crowd outside, and I stood there with +the key in the lock, trembling all over. Then I unlocked it very +careful, and put my hand on the skipper’s arm. + +“Nip out quick,” I ses, in a whisper. + +“I’m in no hurry,” ses the skipper. “Here! Halloa, wot’s up?” + +It was like opening the door at a theatre, and the fust one through was +that woman, shoved behind by the potman. Arter ’im came a car-man, two +big ’ulking brewers’ draymen, a little scrap of a woman with ’er bonnet +cocked over one eye, and a couple of dirty little boys. + +“Wot is it?” ses the skipper, shutting the wicket behind ’em. “A +beanfeast?” + +“This lady wants her ’usband,” ses the pot-man, pointing at me. “He run +away from her nine years ago, and now he says he ’as never seen ’er +before. He ought to be ’ung.” + +“Bill,” ses the skipper, shaking his silly ’ead at me. “I can ’ardly +believe it.” + +“It’s all a pack o’ silly lies,” I ses, firing up. “She’s made a +mistake.” + +“She made a mistake when she married you,” ses the thin little woman. +“If I was in ’er shoes I’d take ’old of you and tear you limb from +limb.” + +“I don’t want to hurt ’im, ma’am,” ses the other woman. “I on’y want +him to come ’ome to me and my five. Why, he’s never seen the youngest, +little Annie. She’s as like ’im as two peas.” + +“Pore little devil,” ses the carman. + +“Look here!” I ses, “you clear off. All of you. ’Ow dare you come on to +my wharf? If you aren’t gone in two minutes I’ll give you all in +charge.” + +“Who to?” ses one of the draymen, sticking his face into mine. “You go +’ome to your wife and kids. Go on now, afore I put up my ’ands to you.” + +“That’s the way to talk to ’im,” ses the pot-man, nodding at ’em. + +They all began to talk to me then and tell me wot I was to do, and wot +they would do if I didn’t. I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. When I +reminded the mate that when he was up in London ’e always passed +himself off as a single man, ’e wouldn’t listen; and when I asked the +skipper whether ’is pore missus was blind, he on’y went on shouting at +the top of ’is voice. It on’y showed me ’ow anxious most people are +that everybody else should be good. + +I thought they was never going to stop, and, if it ’adn’t been for a +fit of coughing, I don’t believe that the scraggy little woman could +ha’ stopped. Arter one o’ the draymen ’ad saved her life and spoilt ’er +temper by patting ’er on the back with a hand the size of a leg o’ +mutton, the carman turned to me and told me to tell the truth, if it +choked me. + +“I have told you the truth,” I ses. “She ses I’m her ’usband and I say +I ain’t. Ow’s she going to prove it? Why should you believe her, and +not me?” + +“She’s got a truthful face,” ses the carman. + +“Look here!” ses the skipper, speaking very slow, “I’ve got an idea, +wot’ll settle it p’raps. You get outside,” he ses, turning sharp on the +two little boys. + +One o’ the draymen ’elped ’em to go out, and ’arf a minute arterwards a +stone came over the gate and cut the potman’s lip open. Boys will be +boys. + +“Now!” ses the skipper, turning to the woman, and smiling with +conceitedness. “Had your ’usband got any marks on ’im? Birth-mark, or +moles, or anything of that sort?” + +“I’m sure he is my ’usband,” ses the woman, dabbing her eyes. + +“Yes, yes,” ses the skipper, “but answer my question. If you can tell +us any marks your ’usband had, we can take Bill down into my cabin +and——” + +“You’ll do WOT?” I ses, in a loud voice. + +“You speak when you’re spoke to,” ses the carman. “It’s got nothing to +do with you.” + +“No, he ain’t got no birthmarks,” ses the woman, speaking very slow—and +I could see she was afraid of making a mistake and losing me—“but he’s +got tattoo marks. He’s got a mermaid tattooed on ’im.” + +“Where?” ses the skipper, a’most jumping. + +I ’eld my breath. Five sailormen out of ten have been tattooed with +mermaids, and I was one of ’em. When she spoke agin I thought I should +ha’ dropped. + +“On ’is right arm,” she ses, “unless he’s ’ad it rubbed off.” + +“You can’t rub out tattoo marks,” ses the skipper. + +They all stood looking at me as if they was waiting for something. I +folded my arms—tight—and stared back at ’em. + +“If you ain’t this lady’s ’usband,” ses the skipper, turning to me, +“you can take off your coat and prove it.” + +“And if you don’t we’ll take it off for you,” ses the carman, coming a +bit closer. + +Arter that things ’appened so quick, I hardly knew whether I was +standing on my ’cad or my heels. Both, I think. They was all on top o’ +me at once, and the next thing I can remember is sitting on the ground +in my shirt-sleeves listening to the potman, who was making a fearful +fuss because somebody ’ad bit his ear ’arf off. My coat was ripped up +the back, and one of the draymen was holding up my arm and showing them +all the mermaid, while the other struck matches so as they could see +better. + +“That’s your ’usband right enough,” he ses to the woman. “Take ’im.” + +“P’raps she’ll carry ’im ’ome,” I ses, very fierce and sarcastic. + +“And we don’t want none of your lip,” ses the carman, who was in a bad +temper because he ’ad got a fearful kick on the shin from somewhere. + +I got up very slow and began to put my coat on again, and twice I ’ad +to tell that silly woman that when I wanted her ’elp I’d let ’er know. +Then I ’eard slow, heavy footsteps in the road outside, and, afore any +of ’em could stop me, I was calling for the police. + +I don’t like policemen as a rule; they’re too inquisitive, but when the +wicket was pushed open and I saw a face with a helmet on it peeping in, +I felt quite a liking for ’em. + +“Wot’s up?” ses the policeman, staring ’ard at my little party. + +They all started telling ’im at once, and I should think if the potman +showed him ’is ear once he showed it to ’im twenty times. He lost his +temper and pushed it away at last, and the potman gave a ’owl that set +my teeth on edge. I waited till they was all finished, and the +policeman trying to get ’is hearing back, and then I spoke up in a +quiet way and told ’im to clear them all off of my wharf. + +“They’re trespassing,” I ses, “all except the skipper and mate here. +They belong to a little wash-tub that’s laying alongside, and they’re +both as ’armless as they look.” + +It’s wonderful wot a uniform will do. The policeman just jerked his +’ead and said “out-side,” and the men went out like a flock of sheep. +The on’y man that said a word was the carman, who was in such a hurry +that ’e knocked his bad shin against my foot as ’e went by. The thin +little woman was passed out by the policeman in the middle of a speech +she was making, and he was just going for the other, when the skipper +stopped ’im. + +“This lady is coming on my ship,” he ses, puffing out ’is chest. + +I looked at ’im, and then I turned to the policeman. “So long as she +goes off my wharf, I don’t mind where she goes,” I ses. “The skipper’s +goings-on ’ave got nothing to do with me.” + +“Then she can foller him ’ome in the morning,” ses the skipper. “Good +night, watch-man.” + +Him and the mate ’elped the silly old thing to the ship, and, arter I +’ad been round to the Bear’s Head and fetched a pint for the +police-man, I locked up and sat down to think things out; and the more +I thought the worse they seemed. I’ve ’eard people say that if you have +a clear conscience nothing can hurt you. They didn’t know my missus. + +I got up at last and walked on to the jetty, and the woman, wot was +sitting on the deck of the John Henry, kept calling out: “Bill!” like a +sick baa-lamb crying for its ma. I went back, and ’ad four pints at the +Bear’s Head, but it didn’t seem to do me any good, and at last I went +and sat down in the office to wait for morning. + +It came at last, a lovely morning with a beautiful sunrise; and that +woman sitting up wide awake, waiting to foller me ’ome. When I opened +the gate at six o’clock she was there with the mate and the skipper, +waiting, and when I left at five minutes past she was trotting along +beside me. + +Twice I stopped and spoke to ’er, but it was no good. Other people +stopped too, and I ’ad to move on agin; and every step was bringing me +nearer to my house and the missus. + +I turned into our street, arter passing it three times, and the first +thing I saw was my missus standing on the doorstep ’aving a few words +with the lady next door. Then she ’appened to look up and see us, just +as that silly woman was trying to walk arm-in-arm. + +Twice I knocked her ’and away, and then, right afore my wife and the +party next door, she put her arm round my waist. By the time I got to +the ’ouse my legs was trembling so I could hardly stand, and when I got +into the passage I ’ad to lean up against the wall for a bit. + +[Illustration: Right afore my wife and the party next door, she put +her arm round my waist.] + +“Keep ’er out,” I ses. + +“Wot do you want?” ses my missus, trembling with passion. “Wot do you +think you’re doing?” + +“I want my ’usband, Bill,” ses the woman. + +My missus put her ’and to her throat and came in without a word, and +the woman follered ’er. If I hadn’t kept my presence o’ mind and shut +the door two or three more would ’ave come in too. + +I went into the kitchen about ten minutes arterwards to see ’ow they +was getting on. Besides which they was both calling for me. + +“Now then!” ses my missus, who was leaning up against the dresser with +’er arms folded, “wot ’ave you got to say for yourself walking in as +bold as brass with this hussy?” + +“Bill!” ses the woman, “did you hear wot she called me?” + +She spoke to me like that afore my wife, and in two minutes they was at +it, hammer and tongs. + +Fust of all they spoke about each other, and then my missus started +speaking about me. She’s got a better memory than most people, because +she can remember things that never ’appened, and every time I coughed +she turned on me like a tiger. + +“And as for you,” she ses, turning to the woman, “if you did marry ’im +you should ha’ made sure that he ’adn’t got a wife already.” + +“He married me fust,” ses the woman. + +“When?” ses my wife. “Wot was the date?” + +“Wot was the date you married ’im?” ses the other one. + +They stood looking at each other like a couple o’ game-cocks, and I +could see as plain as a pike-staff ’ow frightened both of ’em was o’ +losing me. + +“Look here!” I ses at last, to my missus, “talk sense. ’Ow could I be +married to ’er? When I was at sea I was at sea, and when I was ashore I +was with you.” + +“Did you use to go down to the ship to see ’im off?” ses the woman. + +“No,” ses my wife. “I’d something better to do.” + +“Neither did I,” ses the woman. “P’raps that’s where we both made a +mistake.” + +“You get out of my ’ouse!” ses my missus, very sudden. “Go on, afore I +put you out.” + +“Not without my Bill,” ses the woman. “If you lay a finger on me I’ll +scream the house down.” + +“You brought her ’ere,” ses my wife, turning to me, “now you can take +’er away?” + +“I didn’t bring ’er,” I ses. “She follered me.” + +“Well, she can foller you agin,” she ses. “Go on!” she ses, trembling +all over. “Git out afore I start on you.” + +I was in such a temper that I daren’t trust myself to stop. I just gave +’er one look, and then I drew myself up and went out. ’Alf the fools in +our street was standing in front of the ’ouse, ’umming like bees, but I +took no notice. I held my ’ead up and walked through them with that +woman trailing arter me. + +I was in such a state of mind that I went on like a man in a dream. If +it had ha’ been a dream I should ha’ pushed ’er under an omnibus, but +you can’t do things like that in real life. + +“Penny for your thoughts, Bill,” she ses. I didn’t answer her. + +“Why don’t you speak to me?” she ses. + +“You don’t know wot you’re asking for,” I ses. + +I was hungry and sleepy, and ’ow I was going to get through the day I +couldn’t think. I went into a pub and ’ad a couple o’ pints o’ stout +and a crust o’ bread and cheese for brekfuss. I don’t know wot she ’ad, +but when the barman tried to take for it out o’ my money, I surprised +’im. + +We walked about till I was ready to drop. Then we got to Victoria Park, +and I ’ad no sooner got on to the grass than I laid down and went +straight off to sleep. It was two o’clock when I woke, and, arter a +couple o’ pork-pies and a pint or two, I sat on a seat in the Park +smoking, while she kep’ dabbing ’er eyes agin and asking me to come +’ome. + +At five o’clock I got up to go back to the wharf, and, taking no notice +of ’er, I walked into the street and jumped on a ’bus that was passing. +She jumped too, and, arter the conductor had ’elped ’er up off of ’er +knees and taken her arms away from his waist, I’m blest if he didn’t +turn on me and ask me why I ’adn’t left her at ’ome. + +We got to the wharf just afore six. The John Henry ’ad gorn, but the +skipper ’ad done all the ’arm he could afore he sailed, and, if I +’adn’t kept my temper, I should ha’ murdered arf a dozen of ’em. + +The woman wanted to come on to the wharf, but I ’ad a word or two with +one o’ the fore-men, who owed me arf-a-dollar, and he made that all +right. + +“We all ’ave our faults, Bill,” he ses as ’e went out, “and I suppose +she was better looking once upon a time?” + +I didn’t answer ’im. I shut the wicket arter ’im, quick, and turned the +key, and then I went on with my work. For a long time everything was as +quiet as the grave, and then there came just one little pull at the +bell. Five minutes arterwards there was another. + +I thought it was that woman, but I ’ad to make sure. When it came the +third time I crept up to the gate. + +“Halloa!” I ses. “Who is it?” + +“Me, darling,” ses a voice I reckernized as the potman’s. “Your missus +wants to come in and sit down.” + +I could ’ear several people talking, and it seemed to me there was +quite a crowd out there, and by and by that bell was going like mad. +Then people started kicking the gate, and shouting, but I took no +notice until, presently, it left off all of a sudden, and I ’eard a +loud voice asking what it was all about. I suppose there was about +fifty of ’em all telling it at once, and then there was the sound of a +fist on the gate. + +“Who is it?” I ses. + +“Police,” ses the voice. + +I opened the wicket then and looked out. A couple o’ policemen was +standing by the gate and arf the riff-raff of Wapping behind ’em. + +“Wot’s all this about?” ses one o’ the policemen. + +I shook my ’ead. “Ask me another,” I ses. “Your missus is causing a +disturbance,” he ses. + +“She’s not my missus,” I ses; “she’s a complete stranger to me.” + +“And causing a crowd to collect and refusing to go away,” ses the other +policeman. + +“That’s your business,” I ses. “It’s nothing to do with me.” + +They talked to each other for a moment, and then they spoke to the +woman. I didn’t ’ear wot she said, but I saw her shake her ’ead, and +a’most direckly arterwards she was marching away between the two +policemen with the crowd follering and advising ’er where to kick ’em. + +I was a bit worried at fust—not about her—and then I began to think +that p’raps it was the best thing that could have ’appened. + +I went ’ome in the morning with a load lifted off my mind; but I ’adn’t +been in the ’ouse two seconds afore my missus started to put it on +agin. Fust of all she asked me ’ow I dared to come into the ’ouse, and +then she wanted to know wot I meant by leaving her at ’ome and going +out for the day with another woman. + +“You told me to,” I ses. + +“Oh, yes,” she ses, trembling with temper. “You always do wot I tell +you, don’t you? Al-ways ’ave, especially when it’s anything you like.” + +She fetched a bucket o’ water and scrubbed the kitchen while I was +having my brekfuss, but I kept my eye on ’er, and, the moment she ’ad +finished, I did the perlite and emptied the bucket for ’er, to prevent +mistakes. + +I read about the case in the Sunday paper, and I’m thankful to say my +name wasn’t in it. All the magistrate done was to make ’er promise that +she wouldn’t do it again, and then he let ’er go. I should ha’ felt +more comfortable if he ’ad given ’er five years, but, as it turned out, +it didn’t matter. Her ’usband happened to read it, and, whether ’e was +tired of living alone, or whether he was excited by ’caring that she +’ad got a little general shop, ’e went back to her. + +The fust I knew about it was they came round to the wharf to see me. He +’ad been a fine-looking chap in ’is day, and even then ’e was enough +like me for me to see ’ow she ’ad made the mistake; and all the time +she was telling me ’ow it ’appened, he was looking me up and down and +sniffing. + +“’Ave you got a cold?” I ses, at last. + +“Wot’s that got to do with you?” he ses. “Wot do you mean by walking +out with my wife? That’s what I’ve come to talk about.” + +For a moment I thought that his bad luck ’ad turned ’is brain. “You’ve +got it wrong,” I ses, as soon as I could speak. “She walked out with +me.” + +“Cos she thought you was her ’usband,” he ses, “but you didn’t think +you was me, did you?” + +“’Course I didn’t,” I ses. + +“Then ’ow dare you walk out with ’er?” he ses. + +“Look ’ere!” I ses. “You get off ’ome as quick as you like. I’ve ’ad +about enough of your family. Go on, hook it.” + +Afore I could put my ’ands up he ’it me hard in the mouth, and the next +moment we was at it as ’ard as we could go. Nearly every time I hit ’im +he wasn’t there, and every time ’e hit me I wished I hadn’t ha’ been. +When I said I had ’ad enough, ’e contradicted me and kept on, but he +got tired of it at last, and, arter telling me wot he would do if I +ever walked ’is wife out agin, they went off like a couple o’ +love-birds. + +By the time I got ’ome next morning my eyes was so swelled up I could +’ardly see, and my nose wouldn’t let me touch it. I was so done up I +could ’ardly speak, but I managed to tell my missus about it arter I +had ’ad a cup o’ tea. Judging by her face anybody might ha’ thought I +was telling ’er something funny, and, when I ’ad finished, she looks up +at the ceiling and ses: + +“I ’ope it’ll be a lesson to you,” she ses. + + + + +FAMILY CARES + + +Mr. Jernshaw, who was taking the opportunity of a lull in business to +weigh out pound packets of sugar, knocked his hands together and stood +waiting for the order of the tall bronzed man who had just entered the +shop—a well-built man of about forty—who was regarding him with blue +eyes set in quizzical wrinkles. + +“What, Harry!” exclaimed Mr. Jernshaw, in response to the wrinkles. +“Harry Barrett!” + +“That’s me,” said the other, extending his hand. “The rolling stone +come home covered with moss.” + +Mr. Jernshaw, somewhat excited, shook hands, and led the way into the +little parlour behind the shop. + +“Fifteen years,” said Mr. Barrett, sinking into a chair, “and the old +place hasn’t altered a bit.” + +“Smithson told me he had let that house in Webb Street to a Barrett,” +said the grocer, regarding him, “but I never thought of you. I suppose +you’ve done well, then?” + +Mr. Barrett nodded. “Can’t grumble,” he said modestly. “I’ve got enough +to live on. Melbourne’s all right, but I thought I’d come home for the +evening of my life.” + +“Evening!” repeated his friend. “Forty-three,” said Mr. Barrett, +gravely. “I’m getting on.” + +“You haven’t changed much,” said the grocer, passing his hand through +his spare grey whiskers. “Wait till you have a wife and seven +youngsters. Why, boots alone——” + +Mr. Barrett uttered a groan intended for sympathy. “Perhaps you could +help me with the furnishing,” he said, slowly. “I’ve never had a place +of my own before, and I don’t know much about it.” + +“Anything I can do,” said his friend. “Better not get much yet; you +might marry, and my taste mightn’t be hers.” + +Mr. Barrett laughed. “I’m not marrying,” he said, with conviction. + +“Seen anything of Miss Prentice yet?” inquired Mr. Jernshaw. + +“No,” said the other, with a slight flush. “Why?” + +“She’s still single,” said the grocer. + +“What of it?” demanded Mr. Barrett, with warmth. “What of it?” + +“Nothing,” said Mr. Jernshaw, slowly. “Nothing; only I——” + +“Well?” said the other, as he paused. + +“I—there was an idea that you went to Australia to—to better your +condition,” murmured the grocer. “That—that you were not in a position +to marry—that——” + +“Boy and girl nonsense,” said Mr. Barrett, sharply. “Why, it’s fifteen +years ago. I don’t suppose I should know her if I saw her. Is her +mother alive?” + +“Rather!” said Mr. Jernshaw, with emphasis. “Louisa is something like +what her mother was when you went away.” + +Mr. Barrett shivered. + +“But you’ll see for yourself,” continued the other. “You’ll have to go +and see them. They’ll wonder you haven’t been before.” + +“Let ’em wonder,” said the embarrassed Mr. Barrett. “I shall go and see +all my old friends in their turn; casual-like. You might let ’em hear +that I’ve been to see you before seeing them, and then, if they’re +thinking any nonsense, it’ll be a hint. I’m stopping in town while the +house is being decorated; next time I come down I’ll call and see +somebody else.” + +“That’ll be another hint,” assented Mr. Jernshaw. “Not that hints are +much good to Mrs. Prentice.” + +“We’ll see,” said Mr. Barrett. + +In accordance with his plan his return to his native town was heralded +by a few short visits at respectable intervals. A sort of human +butterfly, he streaked rapidly across one or two streets, alighted for +half an hour to resume an old friendship, and then disappeared again. +Having given at least half-a-dozen hints of this kind, he made a final +return to Ramsbury and entered into occupation of his new house. + +“It does you credit, Jernshaw,” he said, gratefully. “I should have +made a rare mess of it without your help.” + +“It looks very nice,” admitted his friend. “Too nice.” + +“That’s all nonsense,” said the owner, irritably. + +“All right,” said Mr. Jernshaw. “I don’t know the sex, then, that’s +all. If you think that you’re going to keep a nice house like this all +to yourself, you’re mistaken. It’s a home; and where there’s a home a +woman comes in, somehow.” + +Mr. Barrett grunted his disbelief. + +“I give you four days,” said Mr. Jernshaw. + +As a matter of fact, Mrs. Prentice and her daughter came on the fifth. +Mr. Barrett, who was in an easy-chair, wooing slumber with a +handkerchief over his head, heard their voices at the front door and +the cordial invitation of his housekeeper. They entered the room as he +sat hastily smoothing his rumpled hair. + +“Good afternoon,” he said, shaking hands. + +Mrs. Prentice returned the greeting in a level voice, and, accepting a +chair, gazed around the room. + +“Nice weather,” said Mr. Barrett. + +“Very,” said Mrs. Prentice. + +“It’s—it’s quite a pleasure to see you again,” said Mr. Barrett. + +“We thought we should have seen you before,” said Mrs. Prentice, “but I +told Louisa that no doubt you were busy, and wanted to surprise her. I +like the carpet; don’t you, Louisa?” + +Miss Prentice said she did. + +“The room is nice and airy,” said Mrs. Prentice, “but it’s a pity you +didn’t come to me before deciding. I could have told you of a better +house for the same money.” + +“I’m very well satisfied with this,” said Mr. Barrett. “It’s all I +want.” + +“It’s well enough,” conceded Mrs. Prentice, amiably. “And how have you +been all these years?” + +Mr. Barrett, with some haste, replied that his health and spirits had +been excellent. + +“You look well,” said Mrs. Prentice. “Neither of you seem to have +changed much,” she added, looking from him to her daughter. “And I +think you did quite well not to write. I think it was much the best.” + +Mr. Barrett sought for a question: a natural, artless question, that +would neutralize the hideous suggestion conveyed by this remark, but it +eluded him. He sat and gazed in growing fear at Mrs. Prentice. + +“I—I couldn’t write,” he said at last, in desperation; “my wife——” + +“Your what?” exclaimed Mrs. Prentice, loudly. + +“Wife,” said Mr. Barrett, suddenly calm now that he had taken the +plunge. “She wouldn’t have liked it.” + +Mrs. Prentice tried to control her voice. “I never heard you were +married!” she gasped. “Why isn’t she here?” + +“We couldn’t agree,” said the veracious Mr. Barrett. “She was very +difficult; so I left the children with her and——” + +“Chil——” said Mrs. Prentice, and paused, unable to complete the word. + +“Five,” said Mr. Barrett, in tones of resignation. “It was rather a +wrench, parting with them, especially the baby. He got his first tooth +the day I left.” + +The information fell on deaf ears. Mrs. Prentice, for once in her life +thoroughly at a loss, sat trying to collect her scattered faculties. +She had come out prepared for a hard job, but not an impossible one. +All things considered, she took her defeat with admirable composure. + +“I have no doubt it is much the best thing for the children to remain +with their mother,” she said, rising. + +“Much the best,” agreed Mr. Barrett. “Whatever she is like,” continued +the old lady. “Are you ready, Louisa?” + +Mr. Barrett followed them to the door, and then, returning to the room, +watched, with glad eyes, their progress up the street. + +“Wonder whether she’ll keep it to herself?” he muttered. + +His doubts were set at rest next day. All Ramsbury knew by then of his +matrimonial complications, and seemed anxious to talk about them; +complications which tended to increase until Mr. Barrett wrote out a +list of his children’s names and ages and learnt it off by heart. + +Relieved of the attentions of the Prentice family, he walked the +streets a free man; and it was counted to him for righteousness that he +never said a hard word about his wife. She had her faults, he said, but +they were many thousand miles away, and he preferred to forget them. +And he added, with some truth, that he owed her a good deal. + +For a few months he had no reason to alter his opinion. Thanks to his +presence of mind, the Prentice family had no terrors for him. +Heart-whole and fancy free, he led the easy life of a man of leisure, a +condition of things suddenly upset by the arrival of Miss Grace Lindsay +to take up a post at the elementary school. Mr. Barrett succumbed +almost at once, and, after a few encounters in the street and meetings +at mutual friends’, went to unbosom him-self to Mr. Jernshaw. + +“What has she got to do with you?” demanded that gentleman. + +“I—I’m rather struck with her,” said Mr. Barrett. + +“Struck with her?” repeated his friend, sharply. “I’m surprised at you. +You’ve no business to think of such things.” + +“Why not?” demanded Mr. Barrett, in tones that were sharper still. + +“Why not?” repeated the other. “Have you forgotten your wife and +children?” + +Mr. Barrett, who, to do him justice, had forgotten, fell back in his +chair and sat gazing at him, open-mouthed. + +“You’re in a false position—in a way,” said Mr. Jernshaw, sternly. + +“False is no name for it,” said Mr. Barrett, huskily. “What am I to +do?” + +“Do?” repeated the other, staring at him. “Nothing! Unless, perhaps, +you send for your wife and children. I suppose, in any case, you would +have to have the little ones if anything happened to her?” + +Mr. Barrett grinned ruefully. + +“Think it over,” said Mr. Jernshaw. “I will,” said the other, heartily. + +He walked home deep in thought. He was a kindly man, and he spent some +time thinking out the easiest death for Mrs. Barrett. He decided at +last upon heart-disease, and a fort-night later all Ramsbury knew of +the letter from Australia conveying the mournful intelligence. It was +generally agreed that the mourning and the general behaviour of the +widower left nothing to be desired. + +“She’s at peace at last,” he said, solemnly, to Jernshaw. + +“I believe you killed her,” said his friend. Mr. Barrett started +violently. + +“I mean your leaving broke her heart,” explained the other. + +Mr. Barrett breathed easily again. + +“It’s your duty to look after the children,” said Jernshaw, firmly. +“And I’m not the only one that thinks so.” + +“They are with their grandfather and grand-mother,” said Mr. Barrett. + +Mr. Jernshaw sniffed. + +“And four uncles and five aunts,” added Mr. Barrett, triumphantly. + +“Think how they would brighten up your house,” said Mr. Jernshaw. + +His friend shook his head. “It wouldn’t be fair to their grandmother,” +he said, decidedly. “Besides, Australia wants population.” + +He found to his annoyance that Mr. Jernshaw’s statement that he was not +alone in his views was correct. Public opinion seemed to expect the +arrival of the children, and one citizen even went so far as to +recommend a girl he knew, as nurse. + +Ramsbury understood at last that his decision was final, and, observing +his attentions to the new schoolmistress, flattered itself that it had +discovered the reason. It is possible that Miss Lindsay shared their +views, but if so she made no sign, and on the many occasions on which +she met Mr. Barrett on her way to and from school greeted him with +frank cordiality. Even when he referred to his loneliness, which he did +frequently, she made no comment. + +He went into half-mourning at the end of two months, and a month later +bore no outward signs of his loss. Added to that his step was springy +and his manner youthful. Miss Lindsay was twenty-eight, and he +persuaded himself that, sexes considered, there was no disparity worth +mentioning. + +He was only restrained from proposing by a question of etiquette. Even +a shilling book on the science failed to state the interval that should +elapse between the death of one wife and the negotiations for another. +It preferred instead to give minute instructions with regard to the +eating of asparagus. In this dilemma he consulted Jernshaw. + +“Don’t know, I’m sure,” said that gentle-man; “besides, it doesn’t +matter.” + +“Doesn’t matter?” repeated Mr. Barrett. “Why not?” + +“Because I think Tillett is paying her attentions,” was the reply. +“He’s ten years younger than you are, and a bachelor. A girl would +naturally prefer him to a middle-aged widower with five children.” + +“In Australia,” the other reminded him. + +“Man for man, bachelor for bachelor,” said Mr. Jernshaw, regarding him, +“she might prefer you; as things are—” + +“I shall ask her,” said Mr. Barrett, doggedly. “I was going to wait a +bit longer, but if there’s any chance of her wrecking her prospects for +life by marrying that tailor’s dummy it’s my duty to risk it—for her +sake. I’ve seen him talking to her twice myself, but I never thought +he’d dream of such a thing.” + +Apprehension and indignation kept him awake half the night, but when he +arose next morning it was with the firm resolve to put his fortune to +the test that day. At four o’clock he changed his neck-tie for the +third time, and at ten past sallied out in the direction of the school. +He met Miss Lindsay just coming out, and, after a well-deserved +compliment to the weather, turned and walked with her. + +“I was hoping to meet you,” he said, slowly. + +“Yes?” said the girl. + +“I—I have been feeling rather lonely to-day,” he continued. + +“You often do,” said Miss Lindsay, guardedly. + +“It gets worse and worse,” said Mr. Barrett, sadly. + +“I think I know what is the matter with you,” said the girl, in a soft +voice; “you have got nothing to do all day, and you live alone, except +for your housekeeper.” + +Mr. Barrett assented with some eagerness, and stole a hopeful glance at +her. + +“You—you miss something,” continued Miss. Lindsay, in a faltering +voice. + +“I do,” said Mr. Barrett, with ardour. + +“You miss”—the girl made an effort—“you miss the footsteps and voices +of your little children.” + +Mr. Barrett stopped suddenly in the street, and then, with a jerk, went +blindly on. + +“I’ve never spoken of it before because it’s your business, not mine,” +continued the girl. “I wouldn’t have spoken now, but when you referred +to your loneliness I thought perhaps you didn’t realize the cause of +it.” + +Mr. Barrett walked on in silent misery. + +“Poor little motherless things!” said Miss Lindsay, softly. “Motherless +and—fatherless.” + +“Better for them,” said Mr. Barrett, finding his voice at last. + +“It almost looks like it,” said Miss Lindsay, with a sigh. + +Mr. Barrett tried to think clearly, but the circumstances were hardly +favourable. “Suppose,” he said, speaking very slowly, “suppose I wanted +to get married?” + +Miss Lindsay started. “What, again?” she said, with an air of surprise. + +“How could I ask a girl to come and take over five children?” + +“No woman that was worth having would let little children be sacrificed +for her sake,” said Miss Lindsay, decidedly. + +“Do you think anybody would marry me with five children?” demanded Mr. +Barrett. + +“She might,” said the girl, edging away from him a little. “It depends +on the woman.” + +“Would—you, for instance?” said Mr. Barrett, desperately. + +Miss Lindsay shrank still farther away. “I don’t know; it would depend +upon circumstances,” she murmured. + +“I will write and send for them,” said Mr. Barrett, significantly. + +Miss Lindsay made no reply. They had arrived at her gate by this time, +and, with a hurried handshake, she disappeared indoors. + +Mr. Barrett, somewhat troubled in mind, went home to tea. + +He resolved, after a little natural hesitation, to drown the children, +and reproached himself bitterly for not having disposed of them at the +same time as their mother. Now he would have to go through another +period of mourning and the consequent delay in pressing his suit. +Moreover, he would have to allow a decent interval between his +conversation with Miss Lindsay and their untimely end. + +The news of the catastrophe arrived two or three days before the return +of the girl from her summer holidays. She learnt it in the first +half-hour from her landlady, and sat in a dazed condition listening to +a description of the grief-stricken father and the sympathy extended to +him by his fellow-citizens. It appeared that nothing had passed his +lips for two days. + +[Illustration: She learnt the news in the first half-hour from her +landlady.] + +“Shocking!” said Miss Lindsay, briefly. “Shocking!” + +An instinctive feeling that the right and proper thing to do was to +nurse his grief in solitude kept Mr. Barrett out of her way for nearly +a week. When she did meet him she received a limp handshake and a +greeting in a voice from which all hope seemed to have departed. + +“I am very sorry,” she said, with a sort of measured gentleness. + +Mr. Barrett, in his hushed voice, thanked her. + +“I am all alone now,” he said, pathetically. “There is nobody now to +care whether I live or die.” + +Miss Lindsay did not contradict him. + +“How did it happen?” she inquired, after they had gone some distance in +silence. + +“They were out in a sailing-boat,” said Mr. Barrett; “the boat capsized +in a puff of wind, and they were all drowned.” + +“Who was in charge of them?” inquired the girl, after a decent +interval. + +“Boatman,” replied the other. + +“How did you hear?” + +“I had a letter from one of my sisters-in-law, Charlotte,” said Mr. +Barrett. “A most affecting letter. Poor Charlotte was like a second +mother to them. She’ll never be the same woman again. Never!” + +“I should like to see the letter,” said Miss Lindsay, musingly. + +Mr. Barrett suppressed a start. “I should like to show it to you,” he +said, “but I’m afraid I have destroyed it. It made me shudder every +time I looked at it.” + +“It’s a pity,” said the girl, dryly. “I should have liked to see it. +I’ve got my own idea about the matter. Are you sure she was very fond +of them?” + +“She lived only for them,” said Mr. Barrett, in a rapt voice. + +“Exactly. I don’t believe they are drowned at all,” said Miss Lindsay, +suddenly. “I believe you have had all this terrible anguish for +nothing. It’s too cruel.” + +Mr. Barrett stared at her in anxious amazement. + +“I see it all now,” continued the girl. “Their Aunt Charlotte was +devoted to them. She always had the fear that some day you would return +and claim them, and to prevent that she invented the story of their +death.” + +“Charlotte is the most truthful woman that ever breathed,” said the +distressed Mr. Barrett. + +Miss Lindsay shook her head. “You are like all other honourable, +truthful people,” she said, looking at him gravely. “You can’t imagine +anybody else telling a falsehood. I don’t believe you could tell one if +you tried.” + +Mr. Barrett gazed about him with the despairing look of a drowning +mariner. + +“I’m certain I’m right,” continued the girl. “I can see Charlotte +exulting in her wickedness. Why!” + +“What’s the matter?” inquired Mr. Barrett, greatly worried. + +“I’ve just thought of it,” said Miss Lindsay. “She’s told you that your +children are drowned, and she has probably told them you are dead. A +woman like that would stick at nothing to gain her ends.” + +“You don’t know Charlotte,” said Mr. Barrett, feebly. + +“I think I do,” was the reply. “However, we’ll make sure. I suppose +you’ve got friends in Melbourne?” + +“A few,” said Mr. Barrett, guardedly. + +“Come down to the post-office and cable to one of them.” + +Mr. Barrett hesitated. “I’ll write,” he said, slowly. “It’s an awkward +thing to cable; and there’s no hurry. I’ll write to Jack Adams, I +think.” + +“It’s no good writing,” said Miss Lindsay, firmly. “You ought to know +that.” + +“Why not?” demanded the other. + +“Because, you foolish man,” said the girl, calmly, “before your letter +got there, there would be one from Melbourne saying that he had been +choked by a fish-bone, or died of measles, or something of that sort.” + +Mr. Barrett, hardly able to believe his ears, stopped short and looked +at her. The girl’s eyes were moist with mirth and her lips trembling. +He put out his hand and took her wrist in a strong grip. + +“That’s all right,” he said, with a great gasp of relief. “Phew! At one +time I thought I had lost you.” + +“By heart-disease, or drowning?” inquired Miss Lindsay, softly. + + + + +THE WINTER OFFENSIVE + + +N.B.—Having regard to the eccentricities of the Law of Libel it must be +distinctly understood that the following does not refer to the +distinguished officer, Lieut. Troup Horne, of the Inns of Court. +Anybody trying to cause mischief between a civilian of eight stone and +a soldier of seventeen by a statement to the contrary will hear from my +solicitors. + +Aug. 29, 1916.—We returned from the sea to find our house still our +own, and the military still in undisputed possession of the remains of +the grass in the fields of Berkhamsted Place. As in previous years, it +was impossible to go in search of wild-flowers without stumbling over +sleeping members of the Inns of Court; but war is war, and we grumble +as little as possible. + +Sept. 28.—Unpleasant rumours to the effect that several members of the +Inns of Court had attributed cases of curvature of the spine to +sleeping on ground that had been insufficiently rolled. Also that they +had been heard to smack their lips and speak darkly of featherbeds. +Respected neighbour of gloomy disposition said that if Pharaoh were +still alive he could suggest an eleventh plague to him beside which +frogs and flies were an afternoon’s diversion. + +Oct. 3.—Householders of Berkhamsted busy mending bedsteads broken by +last year’s billets, and buying patent taps for their beer-barrels. + +Oct. 15.—Informed that a representative of the Army wished to see me. +Instead of my old friend Q.M.S. Beddem, who generally returns to life +at this time of year, found that it was an officer of magnificent +presence and two pips. A fine figure of a man, with a great resemblance +to the late lamented Bismarck, minus the moustache and the three hairs +on the top of the head. Asked him to be seated. He selected a chair +that was all arms and legs and no hips to speak of and crushed himself +into it. After which he unfastened his belt and “swelled wisibly afore +my werry eyes.” Said that his name was True Born and asked if it made +any difference to me whether I had one officer or half-a-dozen men +billeted on me. Said that he was the officer, and that as the +rank-and-file were not allowed to pollute the same atmosphere, thought +I should score. After a mental review of all I could remember of the +Weights and Measures Table, accepted him. He bade a lingering farewell +to the chair, and departed. + +Oct. 16.—Saw Q.M.S. Beddem on the other side of the road and gave him +an absolutely new thrill by crossing to meet him. Asked diffidently—as +diffidently as he could, that is—how many men my house would hold. +Replied eight—or ten at a pinch. He gave me a surprised and beaming +smile and whipped out a huge note-book. Informed him with as much +regret as I could put into a voice not always under perfect control, +that I had already got an officer. Q.M.S., favouring me with a look +very appropriate to the Devil’s Own, turned on his heel and set off in +pursuit of a lady-billetee, pulling up short on the threshold of the +baby-linen shop in which she took refuge. Left him on guard with a +Casablanca-like look on his face. + +Nov. 1.—Lieut. True Born took up his quarters with us. Gave him my +dressing-room for bedchamber. Was awakened several times in the night +by what I took to be Zeppelins, flying low. + +Nov. 2.—Lieut. True Born offered to bet me five pounds to twenty that +the war would be over by 1922. + +Nov. 3.—Offered to teach me auction-bridge. + +Nov. 4.—Asked me whether I could play “shove ha’penny.” + +Nov. 10.—Lieut. True Born gave one of the regimental horses a +riding-lesson. Came home grumpy and went to bed early. + +Nov. 13.—Another riding-lesson. Over-heard him asking one of the maids +whether there was such a thing as a water-bed in the house. + +Nov. 17.—Complained bitterly of horse-copers. Said that his poor mount +was discovered to be suffering from saddle-soreness, broken wind, +splints, weak hocks, and two bones of the neck out of place. + +Dec. 9.—7 p.m.—One of last year’s billets, Private Merited, on leave +from a gunnery course, called to see me and to find out whether his old +bed had improved since last year. Left his motor-bike in the garage, +and the smell in front of the dining-room window. + +8 to 12 p.m.—Sat with Private Merited, listening to Lieut. True Born on +the mistakes of Wellington. + +12.5 a.m.—Rose to go to bed. Was about to turn out gas in hall when I +discovered the lieutenant standing with his face to the wall playing +pat-a-cake with it. Gave him three-parts of a tumbler of brandy. Said +he felt better and went upstairs. Arrived in his bed-room, he looked +about him carefully, and then, with a superb sweep of his left arm, +swept the best Chippendale looking-glass in the family off the dressing +table and dived face down-wards to the floor, missing death and the +corner of the chest of drawers by an inch. + +12:15 a.m.—Rolled him on to his back and got his feet on the bed. They +fell off again as soon as they were cleaner than the quilt. The +lieutenant, startled by the crash, opened his eyes and climbed into bed +unaided. + +12.20 a.m.—Sent Private Merited for the M.O., Captain Geranium. + +12.25 a.m.—Mixed a dose of brandy and castor-oil in a tumbler. Am told +it slips down like an oyster that way—bad oyster, I should think. +Lieut. True Born jibbed. Reminded him that England expects that every +man will take his castor-oil. Reply unprintable. Apologized a moment +later. Said that his mind was wandering and that he thought he was a +colonel. Reassured him. + +12.40 a.m.—Private Merited returned with the M.O. Latter nicely dressed +in musical-comedy pyjamas of ravishing hue, and great-coat, with +rose-tinted feet thrust into red morocco slippers. Held consultation +and explained my treatment. M.O. much impressed, anxious to know +whether I was a doctor. Told him “No,” but that I knew all the ropes. +First give patient castor-oil, then diet him and call every day to make +sure that he doesn’t like his food. After that, if he shows signs of +getting well too soon, give him a tonic. . . . M.O. stuffy. + +Dec. 10.—M.O. diagnosed attack as due to something which True Born +believes to be tobacco, with which he disinfects the house, the +mess-sheds, and the streets of Berkhamsted. + +Dec. 11.—True Born, shorn of thirteen pipes a day out of sixteen, +disparages the whole race of M.O.’s. + +Dec. 14.—He obtains leave to attend wedding of a great-aunt and +ransacks London for a specialist who advocates strong tobacco. + +Dec. 15.—He classes specialists with M.O.’s. Is surprised (and +apparently disappointed) that, so far, the breaking of the +looking-glass has brought me no ill-luck. Feel somewhat uneasy myself +until glass is repaired by local cabinet-maker. + +Jan. 10, 1917.—Lieut. True Born starts to break in another horse. + +Feb. 1.—Horse broken. + +March 3.—Running short of tobacco, go to my billet’s room and try a +pipe of his. Take all the remedies except the castor-oil. + +April 4, 8.30 a.m.—Awakened by an infernal crash and discover that my +poor looking-glass is in pieces again on the floor. True Born explains +that its position, between the open door and the open window, was too +much for it. Don’t believe a word of it. Shall believe to my dying day +that it burst in a frantic but hopeless attempt to tell Lieut. True +Born the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. + +April 6.—The lieutenant watching for some sign of misfortune to me. +Says that I can’t break a mirror twice without ill-luck following it. +Me! + +April 9.—Lieut. True Born comes up to me with a face full of +conflicting emotions. “Your ill-luck has come at last,” he says with +gloomy satisfaction. “We go under canvas on the 23rd. You are losing +me!” + + + + +THE SUBSTITUTE + + +The night watchman had just returned to the office fire after leaving +it to attend a ring at the wharf bell. He sat for some time puffing +fiercely at his pipe and breathing heavily. + +“Boys!” he said, at last. “That’s the third time this week, and yet if +I was to catch one and skin ’im alive I suppose I should get into +trouble over it. Even ’is own father and mother would make a fuss, most +like. Some people have boys, and other people ’ave the trouble of ’em. +Our street’s full of ’em, and the way they carry on would make a +monkey-’ouse ashamed of itself. The man next door to me’s got seven of +’em, and when I spoke to ’im friendly about it over a pint one night, +he put the blame on ’is wife. + +“The worst boy I ever knew used to be office-boy in this ’ere office, +and I can’t understand now why I wasn’t ’ung for him. Undersized little +chap he was, with a face the colour o’ bad pie-crust, and two little +black eyes like shoe-buttons. To see ’im with his little white cuffs, +and a stand-up collar, and a little black bow, and a little bowler-’at, +was enough to make a cat laugh. I told ’im so one day, and arter that +we knew where we was. Both of us. + +“By rights he ought to ’ave left the office at six—just my time for +coming on. As it was, he used to stay late, purtending to work ’ard so +as to get a rise. Arter all the clerks ’ad gorn ’ome he used to sit +perched up on a stool yards too ’igh for him, with one eye on the +ledger and the other looking through the winder at me. I remember once +going off for ’arf a pint, and when I come back I found ’im with a +policeman, two carmen, and all the hands off of the Maid Marian, +standing on the edge of the jetty, waiting for me to come up. He said +that, not finding me on the wharf, ’e made sure that I must ’ave +tumbled overboard, as he felt certain that I wouldn’t neglect my dooty +while there was breath in my body; but ’e was sorry to find ’e was +mistook. He stood there talking like a little clergyman, until one of +the carmen knocked his ’at over ’is eyes, and then he forgot ’imself +for a bit. + +“Arter that I used to wait until he ’ad gorn afore I ’ad my arf-pint. I +didn’t want my good name taken away, and I had to be careful, and +many’s the good arf-pint I ’ad to refuse because that little imitation +monkey was sitting in the office drawing faces on ’is blotting-paper. +But sometimes it don’t matter ’ow careful you are, you make a mistake. + +“There was a little steamer, called the Eastern Monarch, used to come +up here in them days, once a week. Fat little tub she was, with a crew +o’ fattish old men, and a skipper that I didn’t like. He’d been in the +coasting trade all ’is life, while I’ve knocked about all over the +world, but to hear ’im talk you’d think he knew more about things than +I did. + +“Eddication, Bill,’ he ses one evening, ‘that’s the thing! You can’t +argufy without it; you only talk foolish, like you are doing now.’ + +“‘There’s eddication and there’s common sense,’ I ses. ‘Some people ’as +one and some people ’as the other. Give me common sense.’ + +“‘That’s wot you want,’ he ses, nodding. + +“‘And, o’ course,’ I ses, looking at ’im, ‘there’s some people ’asn’t +got either one or the other.’ + +“The office-boy came out of the office afore he could think of an +answer, and the pair of ’em stood there talking to show off their +cleverness, till their tongues ached. I took up my broom and went on +sweeping, and they was so busy talking long words they didn’t know the +meaning of to each other that they was arf choked with dust afore they +noticed it. When they did notice it they left off using long words, and +the skipper tried to hurt my feelings with a few short ones ’e knew. + +“‘It’s no good wasting your breath on ’im,’ ses the boy. ‘You might as +well talk to a beer-barrel.’ + +“He went off, dusting ’imself down with his little pocket-’ankercher, +and arter the skipper ’ad told me wot he’d like to do, only he was too +sorry for me to do it, ’e went back to the ship to put on a clean +collar, and went off for the evening. + +“He always used to go off by hisself of a evening, and I used to wonder +’ow he passed the time. Then one night I found out. + +“I had just come out of the Bear’s Head, and stopped to look round +afore going back to the wharf, when I see a couple o’ people standing +on the swing-bridge saying ‘Good-bye’ to each other. One of ’em was a +man and the other wasn’t. + +“‘Evening, cap’n,’ I ses, as he came towards me, and gave a little +start. ‘I didn’t know you ’ad brought your missis up with you this +trip.’ + +“‘Evening, Bill,’ he ses, very peaceful. ‘Wot a lovely evening!’ + +“‘Bee-utiful!’ I ses. + +“‘So fresh,’ ses the skipper, sniffing in some of the air. + +“‘Makes you feel quite young agin,’ I ses. + +“He didn’t say nothing to that, except to look at me out of the corner +of ’is eye; and stepping on to the wharf had another look at the sky to +admire it, and then went aboard his ship. If he ’ad only stood me a +pint, and trusted me, things might ha’ turned out different. + +“Quite by chance I happened to be in the Bear’s Head a week arterwards, +and, quite by chance, as I came out I saw the skipper saying ‘Good-bye’ +on the bridge agin. He seemed to be put out about something, and when I +said ‘Wot a lovely evening it would be if only it wasn’t raining ’ard!’ +he said something about knocking my ’ead off. + +“‘And you keep your nose out o’ my bisness,’ he ses, very fierce. + +“‘Your bisness!’ I ses. ‘Wot bisness?’ + +“‘There’s some people as might like to know that you leave the wharf to +look arter itself while you’re sitting in a pub swilling gallons and +gallons o’ beer,’ he ses, in a nasty sort o’ way. ‘Live and let live, +that’s my motter.” + +“‘I don’t know wot you’re talking about,’ I ses, ‘but it don’t matter +anyways. I’ve got a clear conscience; that’s the main thing. I’m as +open as the day, and there’s nothing about me that I’d mind anybody +knowing. Wot a pity it is everybody can’t say the same!’ + +“I didn’t see ’im saying ‘Good-bye’ the next week or the week arter +that either, but the third week, arter just calling in at the Bear’s +Head, I strolled on casual-like and got as far as the bottom of Tower +Hill afore I remembered myself. Turning the corner, I a’most fell over +the skipper, wot was right in the fair way, shaking ’ands with his +lady-friend under the lamp-post. Both of ’em started, and I couldn’t +make up my mind which gave me the most unpleasant look. + +“‘Peep-bo!’ I ses, cheerful-like. + +“He stood making a gobbling noise at me, like a turkey. + +“‘Give me quite a start, you did,’ I ses. ‘I didn’t dream of you being +there.’ + +“‘Get off!’ he ses, spluttering. ‘Get off, afore I tear you limb from +limb! ’Ow dare you follow me about and come spying round corners at me? +Wot d’ye mean by it?’ + +“I stood there with my arms folded acrost my chest, as calm as a +cucumber. The other party stood there watching us, and wot ’e could +’ave seen in her, I can’t think. She was dressed more like a man than a +woman, and it would have taken the good looks of twenty like her to +’ave made one barmaid. I stood looking at ’er like a man in a dream. + +“‘Well, will you know me agin?’ she ses, in a nasty cracked sort of +voice. + +“‘I could pick you out of a million,’ I ses—‘if I wanted to.’ + +“‘Clear out!’ ses the skipper. ‘Clear out! And thank your stars there’s +a lady present.’ + +“‘Don’t take no notice of ’im, Captain Pratt,’ ses the lady. ‘He’s +beneath you. You only encourage people like that by taking notice of +’em. Good-bye.’ + +“She held out her ’and, and while the skipper was shaking it I began to +walk back to the wharf. I ’adn’t gorn far afore I heard ’im coming up +behind me, and next moment ’e was walking alongside and saying things +to try and make me lose my temper. + +“‘Ah, it’s a pity your pore missis can’t ’ear you!’ I ses. ‘I expect +she thinks you are stowed away in your bunk dreaming of ’er, instead of +saying things about a face as don’t belong to you.’ + +“‘You mind your bisness,’ he ses, shouting. ‘And not so much about my +missis! D’ye hear? Wot’s it got to do with you? Who asked you to shove +your oar in?’ + +“‘You’re quite mistook,’ I ses, very calm. ‘I’d no idea that there was +anything on as shouldn’t be. I was never more surprised in my life. If +anybody ’ad told me, I shouldn’t ’ave believed ’em. I couldn’t. Knowing +you, and knowing ’ow respectable you ’ave always purtended to be, and +also and likewise that you ain’t no chicken——’ + +“I thought ’e was going to ’ave a fit. He ’opped about, waving his arms +and stuttering and going on in such a silly way that I didn’t like to +be seen with ’im. Twice he knocked my ’at off, and arter telling him +wot would ’appen if ’e did it agin, I walked off and left him. + +“Even then ’e wasn’t satisfied, and arter coming on to the wharf and +following me up and down like a little dog, he got in front of me and +told me some more things he ’ad thought of. + +“‘If I catch you spying on me agin,’ he ses, ‘you’ll wish you’d never +been born!’ + +“‘You get aboard and ’ave a quiet sleep,’ I ses. ‘You’re wandering in +your mind.’ + +“‘The lady you saw me with,’ he ses, looking at me very fierce, ’is a +friend o’ mine that I meet sometimes for the sake of her talk.’ + +“‘Talk!’ I ses, staring at ’im. ‘Talk! Wot, can’t one woman talk enough +for you? Is your missis dumb? or wot?’ + +“‘You don’t understand,’ he ses, cocking up ’is nose at me. ‘She’s a +interleckshal woman; full of eddication and information. When my missis +talks, she talks about the price o’ things and says she must ’ave more +money. Or else she talks about things I’ve done, or sometimes things I +’aven’t done. It’s all one to her. There’s no pleasure in that sort o’ +talk. It don’t help a man.’ + +“‘I never ’eard of any talk as did,’ I ses. + +“‘I don’t suppose you did,’ he ses, sneering-like. ‘Now, to-night, fust +of all, we talked about the House of Lords and whether it ought to be +allowed; and arter that she gave me quite a little lecture on insecks.’ + +“‘It don’t seem proper to me,’ I ses. ‘I ’ave spoke to my wife about +’em once or twice, but I should no more think of talking about such +things to a single lady——’ + +“He began to jump about agin as if I’d bit ’im, and he ’ad so much to +say about my ’ed and blocks of wood that I pretty near lost my temper. +I should ha’ lost it with some men, but ’e was a very stiff-built chap +and as hard as nails. + +“‘Beer’s your trouble,’ he ses, at last. ‘Fust of all you put it down, +and then it climbs up and soaks wot little brains you’ve got. Wot you +want is a kind friend to prevent you from getting it.’ + +“I don’t know wot it was, but I ’ad a sort of sinking feeling inside as +’e spoke, and next evening, when I saw ’im walk to the end of the jetty +with the office-boy and stand there talking to ’im with his ’and on his +shoulder, it came on worse than ever. And I put two and two together +when the guv’nor came up to me next day, and, arter talking about +‘dooty’ and ’ow easy it was to get night-watchmen, mentioned in ’a +off-’and sort of way that, if I left the wharf at all between six and +six, I could stay away altogether. + +“I didn’t answer ’im a word. I might ha’ told ’im that there was plenty +of people arter me ready to give me double the money, but I knew he +could never get anybody to do their dooty by the wharf like I ’ad done, +so I kept quiet. It’s the way I treat my missis nowadays, and it pays; +in the old days I used to waste my breath answering ’er back. + +“I wouldn’t ha’ minded so much if it ’adn’t ha’ been for that boy. He +used to pass me, as ’e went off of a evening, with a little sly smile +on ’is ugly little face, and sometimes when I was standing at the gate +he’d give a sniff or two and say that he could smell beer, and he +supposed it came from the Bear’s Head. + +“It was about three weeks arter the guv’nor ’ad forgot ’imself, and I +was standing by the gate one evening, when I saw a woman coming along +carrying a big bag in her ’and. I ’adn’t seen ’er afore, and when she +stopped in front of me and smiled I was on my guard at once. I don’t +smile at other people, and I don’t expect them to smile at me. + +“‘At last!’ she ses, setting down ’er bag and giving me another smile. +‘I thought I was never going to get ’ere.” + +“I coughed and backed inside a little bit on to my own ground. I didn’t +want to ’ave that little beast of a office-boy spreading tales about +me. + +“‘I’ve come up to ’ave a little fling,’ she ses, smiling away harder +than ever. ‘My husband don’t know I’m ’ere. He thinks I’m at ’ome.’ + +“I think I went back pretty near three yards. + +“‘I come up by train,’ she ses, nodding. + +“‘Yes,’ I ses, very severe, ‘and wot about going back by it?’ + +“‘Oh, I shall go back by ship,’ she ses. ‘Wot time do you expect the +Eastern Monarch up?’ + +“‘Well,’ I ses, ’ardly knowing wot to make of ’er, ‘she ought to be up +this tide; but there’s no reckoning on wot an old washtub with a engine +like a sewing-machine inside ’er will do.’ + +“‘Oh, indeed!’ she ses, leaving off smiling very sudden. ‘Oh, indeed! +My husband might ’ave something to say about that.’ + +“‘Your ’usband?’ I ses. + +“‘Captain Pratt,’ she ses, drawing ’erself up. ‘I’m Mrs. Pratt. He left +yesterday morning, and I’ve come up ’ere by train to give ’im a little +surprise.’ + +“You might ha’ knocked me down with a feather, and I stood there +staring at her with my mouth open, trying to think. + +“‘Take care,’ I ses at last. ‘Take care as you don’t give ’im too much +of a surprise!’ + +“‘Wot do you mean?’ she ses, firing up. + +“‘Nothing,’ I ses. ‘Nothing, only I’ve known ’usbands in my time as +didn’t like being surprised—that’s all. If you take my advice, you’ll +go straight back home agin.’ + +“‘I’ll tell ’im wot you say,’ she ses, ’as soon as ’is ship comes in.’ + +“That’s a woman all over; the moment they get into a temper they want +to hurt somebody; and I made up my mind at once that, if anybody was +going to be ’urt, it wasn’t me. And, besides, I thought it might be for +the skipper’s good—in the long run. + +“I broke it to her as gentle as I could. I didn’t tell ’er much, I just +gave her a few ’ints. Just enough to make her ask for more. + +“‘And mind,’ I ses, ‘I don’t want to be brought into it. If you should +’appen to take a fancy into your ’ed to wait behind a pile of empties +till the ship comes in, and then slip out and foller your ’usband and +give ’im the little surprise you spoke of, it’s nothing to do with me.’ + +“‘I understand,’ she ses, biting her lip. ‘There’s no need for ’im to +know that I’ve been on the wharf at all.’ + +“I gave ’er a smile—I thought she deserved it—but she didn’t smile +back. She was rather a nice-looking woman in the ordinary way, but I +could easy see ’ow temper spoils a woman’s looks. She stood there +giving little shivers and looking as if she wanted to bite somebody. + +“‘I’ll go and hide now,’ she ses. + +“‘Not yet,’ I ses. ‘You’ll ’ave to wait till that little blackbeetle in +the office ’as gorn.’ ‘Blackbeetle?’ she ses, staring. + +“‘Office-boy,’ I ses. ‘He’d better not see you at all. S’pose you go +off for a bit and come back when I whistle?’ + +“Afore she could answer the boy came out of the office, ready to go +’ome. He gave a little bit of a start when ’e saw me talking to a lady, +and then ’e nips down sudden, about a couple o’ yards away, and begins +to do ’is bootlace up. It took ’im some time, because he ’ad to undo it +fust, but ’e finished it at last, and arter a quick look at Mrs. Pratt, +and one at me that I could ha’ smacked his ’ed for, ’e went off +whistling and showing ’is little cuffs. + +“I stepped out into the road and watched ’im out o’ sight. Then I told +Mrs. Pratt to pick up ’er bag and foller me. + +“As it ’appened there was a big pile of empties in the corner of the +ware’ouse wall, just opposite the Eastern Monarch’s berth. It might ha’ +been made for the job, and, arter I ’ad tucked her away behind and +given ’er a box to sit on, I picked up my broom and began to make up +for lost time. + +“She sat there as quiet as a cat watching a mouse’ole, and I was going +on with my work, stopping every now and then to look and see whether +the Monarch was in sight, when I ’appened to turn round and see the +office-boy standing on the edge of the wharf with his back to the +empties, looking down at the water. I nearly dropped my broom. + +“‘’Ullo!’ I ses, going up to ’im. ‘I thought you ’ad gorn ’ome.’ + +“‘I was going,’ he ses, with a nasty oily little smile, ‘and then it +struck me all of a sudden ’ow lonely it was for you all alone ’ere, and +I come back to keep you company.’ + +“He winked at something acrost the river as ’e spoke, and I stood there +thinking my ’ardest wot was the best thing to be done. I couldn’t get +Mrs. Pratt away while ’e was there; besides which I felt quite sartain +she wouldn’t go. The only ’ope I ’ad was that he’d get tired of spying +on me and go away before he found out she was ’iding on the wharf. + +“I walked off in a unconcerned way—not too far—and, with one eye on ’im +and the other on where Mrs. Pratt was ’iding, went on with my work. +There’s nothing like ’ard work when a man is worried, and I was a’most +forgetting my troubles, when I looked up and saw the Monarch coming up +the river. + +“She turned to come into ’er berth, with the skipper shouting away on +the bridge and making as much fuss as if ’e was berthing a liner. I +helped to make ’er fast, and the skipper, arter ’e had ’ad a good look +round to see wot ’e could find fault with, went below to clean ’imself. + +“He was up agin in about ten minutes, with a clean collar and a clean +face, and a blue neck-tie that looked as though it ’ad got yeller +measles. Good temper ’e was in, too, and arter pulling the office-boy’s +ear, gentle, as ’e was passing, he stopped for a moment to ’ave a word +with ’im. + +“‘Bit late, ain’t you?’ he ses. + +“‘I’ve been keeping a eye on the watchman,’ ses the boy. ‘He works +better when ’e knows there’s somebody watching ’im.’ + +“‘Look ’ere!’ I ses. ‘You take yourself off; I’ve had about enough of +you. You take your little face ’ome and ask your mother to wipe its +nose. Strickly speaking, you’ve no right to be on the wharf at all at +this time.’ + +“‘I’ve as much right as other people,’ he ses, giving me a wicked look. +‘I’ve got more right than some people, p’r’aps.’ + +“He stooped down deliberate and, picking up a bit o’ coke from the ’eap +by the crane, pitched it over at the empties. + +“‘Stop that!’ I ses, shouting at ’im. + +“‘What for?’ ’e ses, shying another piece. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ + +“’Cos I won’t ’ave it,’ I ses. ‘D’ye hear? Stop it!’ + +“I rushed at ’im as he sent another piece over, and for the next two or +three minutes ’e was dodging me and chucking coke at the empties, with +the fool of a skipper standing by laughing, and two or three of the +crew leaning over the side and cheering ’im on. + +“‘All right,’ he ses, at last, dusting ’is hands together. ‘I’ve +finished. There’s no need to make such a fuss over a bit of coke.’ + +“‘You’ve wasted pretty near arf a ’undered-weight,’ I ses. ‘I’ve a good +mind to report you.’ + +“‘Don’t do that, watchman!’ he ses, in a pitiful voice. ‘Don’t do that! +’Ere, I tell you wot I’ll do. I’ll pick it all up agin.’ + +“Afore I could move ’and or foot he ’ad shifted a couple o’ cases out +of ’is way and was in among the empties. I stood there dazed-like while +two bits o’ coke came flying back past my ’ed; then I ’eard a loud +whistle, and ’e came out agin with ’is eyes rolling and ’is mouth wide +open. + +“‘Wot’s the matter?’ ses the skipper, staring at ’im. + +“‘I—I—I’m sorry, watchman,’ ses that beast of a boy, purtending ’e was +’ardly able to speak. ‘I’d no idea——’ + +“‘All right,’ I ses, very quick. + +“‘Wot’s the matter?’ ses the skipper agin; and as ’e spoke it came over +me like a flash wot a false persition I was in, and wot a +nasty-tempered man ’e could be when ’e liked. + +“‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d got a lady-friend there?’ ses the boy, +shaking his ’ed at me. ‘Why, I might ’ave hit ’er with a bit o’ coke, +and never forgiven myself!’ + +“‘Lady-friend!’ ses the skipper, with a start. ‘Oh, Bill, I am +surprised!’ + +“My throat was so dry I couldn’t ’ardly speak. ‘It’s my missis,’ I ses, +at last. + +“‘Your missis?’ ses the skipper. ‘Woes she ’iding behind there for?’ + +“‘She—she’s shy,’ I ses. ‘Always was, all ’er life. She can’t bear +other people. She likes to be alone with me.’ + +“‘Oh, watchman!’ ses the boy. ‘I wonder where you expect to go to?’ + +“‘Missis my grandmother!’ ses the skipper, with a wink. ‘I’m going to +’ave a peep.’ + +“‘Stand back!’ I ses, pushing ’im off. ‘I don’t spy on you, and I don’t +want you to come spying on me. You get off! D’ye hear me? Get off!’ + +“We had a bit of a struggle, till my foot slipped, and while I was +waving my arms and trying to get my balance back ’e made a dash for the +empties. Next moment he was roaring like a mad bull that ’ad sat down +in a sorsepan of boiling water, and rushing back agin to kill me. + +“I believe that if it ’adn’t ha’ been for a couple o’ lightermen wot +’ad just come on to the jetty from their skiff, and two of his own +’ands, he’d ha’ done it. Crazy with passion ’e was, and it was all the +four of ’em could do to hold ’im. Every now and then he’d get a yard +nearer to me, and then they’d pull ’im back a couple o’ yards and beg +of ’im to listen to reason and ’ear wot I ’ad to say. And as soon as I +started and began to tell ’em about ’is lady-friend he broke out worse +than ever. People acrost the river must ha’ wondered wot was ’appening. +There was two lightermen, two sailormen, me and the skipper, and Mrs. +Pratt all talking at once, and nobody listening but the office-boy. And +in the middle of it all the wicket was pushed open and the ’ed of the +lady wot all the trouble was about peeped in, and drew back agin. + +“‘There you are!’ I ses, shouting my ’ardest. ‘There she is. That’s the +lady I was telling you about. Now, then: put ’em face to face and clear +my character. Don’t let ’er escape.’ + +“One o’ the lightermen let go o’ the skipper and went arter ’er, and, +just as I was giving the other three a helping ’and, ’e came back with +’er. Mrs. Pratt caught ’er breath, and as for the skipper, ’e didn’t +know where to look, as the saying is. I just saw the lady give ’im one +quick look, and then afore I could dream of wot was coming, she rushes +up to me and flings ’er long, bony arms round my neck. + +“‘Why, William!’ she ses, ‘wot’s the matter? Why didn’t you meet me? +Didn’t you get my letter? Or ’ave you ceased to care for me?” + +“‘Let go!’ I ses, struggling. ‘Let go! D’ye ’ear? Wot d’ye mean by it? +You’ve got ’old of the wrong one.’ + +“‘Oh, William!’ she ses, arf strangling me. ‘’Ow can you talk to me +like that? Where’s your ’art?’ + +“I never knew a woman so strong. I don’t suppose she’d ever ’ad the +chance of getting ’er arms round a man’s neck afore, and she hung on to +me as if she’d never let go. And all the time I was trying to explain +things to them over ’er shoulder I could see they didn’t believe a word +I was saying. One o’ the lightermen said I was a ‘wonder,’ and the +other said I was a ‘fair cough-drop.’ Me! + +“She got tired of it at last, but by that time I was so done up I +couldn’t say a word. I just dropped on to a box and sat there getting +my breath back while the skipper forgave ’is wife for ’er unjust +suspicions of ’im—but told ’er not to do it agin—and the office-boy was +saying I’d surprised even ’im. The last I saw of the lady-friend, the +two lightermen was helping ’er to walk to the gate, and the two +sailormen was follering ’er up behind, carrying ’er pocket-’ankercher +and upberella.” + + + + +STRIKING HARD + + +You’ve what?” demanded Mrs. Porter, placing the hot iron carefully on +its stand and turning a heated face on the head of the family. + +“Struck,” repeated Mr. Porter; “and the only wonder to me is we’ve +stood it so long as we have. If I was to tell you all we’ve ’ad to put +up with I don’t suppose you’d believe me.” + +“Very likely,” was the reply. “You can keep your fairy-tales for them +that like ’em. They’re no good to me.” + +“We stood it till flesh and blood could stand it no longer,” declared +her husband, “and at last we came out, shoulder to shoulder, singing. +The people cheered us, and one of our leaders made ’em a speech.” + +“I should have liked to ’ave heard the singing,” remarked his wife. “If +they all sang like you, it must ha’ been as good as a pantermime! Do +you remember the last time you went on strike?” + +“This is different,” said Mr. Porter, with dignity. + +“All our things went, bit by bit,” pursued his wife, “all the money we +had put by for a rainy day, and we ’ad to begin all over again. What +are we going to live on? O’ course, you might earn something by singing +in the street; people who like funny faces might give you something! +Why not go upstairs and put your ’ead under the bed-clothes and +practise a bit?” + +Mr. Porter coughed. “It’ll be all right,” he said, confidently. “Our +committee knows what it’s about; Bert Robinson is one of the best +speakers I’ve ever ’eard. If we don’t all get five bob a week more I’ll +eat my ’ead.” + +“It’s the best thing you could do with it,” snapped his wife. She took +up her iron again, and turning an obstinate back to his remarks resumed +her work. + +Mr. Porter lay long next morning, and, dressing with comfortable +slowness, noticed with pleasure that the sun was shining. Visions of a +good breakfast and a digestive pipe, followed by a walk in the fresh +air, passed before his eyes as he laced his boots. Whistling cheerfully +he went briskly downstairs. + +It was an October morning, but despite the invigorating chill in the +air the kitchen-grate was cold and dull. Herring-bones and a disorderly +collection of dirty cups and platters graced the table. Perplexed and +angry, he looked around for his wife, and then, opening the back-door, +stood gaping with astonishment. The wife of his bosom, who should have +had a bright fire and a good breakfast waiting for him, was sitting on +a box in the sunshine, elbows on knees and puffing laboriously at a +cigarette. + +“Susan!” he exclaimed. + +Mrs. Porter turned, and, puffing out her lips, blew an immense volume +of smoke. “Halloa!” she said, carelessly. + +“Wot—wot does this mean?” demanded her husband. + +Mrs. Porter smiled with conscious pride. “I made it come out of my nose +just now,” she replied. “At least, some of it did, and I swallowed the +rest. Will it hurt me?” + +“Where’s my breakfast?” inquired the other, hotly. “Why ain’t the +kitchen-fire alight? Wot do you think you’re doing of?” + +“I’m not doing anything,” said his wife, with an aggrieved air. “I’m on +strike.” + +Mr. Porter reeled against the door-post. “Wot!” he stammered. “On +strike? Nonsense! You can’t be.” + +“O, yes, I can,” retorted Mrs. Porter, closing one eye and ministering +to it hastily with the corner of her apron. “Not ’aving no Bert +Robinson to do it for me, I made a little speech all to myself, and +here I am.” + +She dropped her apron, replaced the cigarette, and, with her hands on +her plump knees, eyes him steadily. + +“But—but this ain’t a factory,” objected the dismayed man; “and, +besides —I won’t ’ave it!” + +Mrs. Porter laughed—a fat, comfortable laugh, but with a touch of +hardness in it. + +“All right, mate,” she said, comfortably. “What are you out on strike +for?” + +“Shorter hours and more money,” said Mr. Porter, glaring at her. + +His wife nodded. “So am I,” she said. “I wonder who gets it first?” + +She smiled agreeably at the bewildered Mr. Porter, and, extracting a +paper packet of cigarettes from her pocket, lit a fresh one at the stub +of the first. + +“That’s the worst of a woman,” said her husband, avoiding her eye and +addressing a sanitary dustbin of severe aspect; “they do things without +thinking first. That’s why men are superior; before they do a thing +they look at it all round, and upside down, and—and—make sure it can be +done. Now, you get up in a temper this morning, and the first thing you +do—not even waiting to get my breakfast ready first—is to go on strike. +If you’d thought for two minutes you’d see as ’ow it’s impossible for +you to go on strike for more than a couple of hours or so.” + +“Why?” inquired Mrs. Porter. + +“Kids,” replied her husband, triumphantly. “They’ll be coming ’ome from +school soon, won’t they? And they’ll be wanting their dinner, won’t +they?” + +“That’s all right,” murmured the other, vaguely. + +“After which, when night comes,” pursued Mr. Porter, “they’ll ’ave to +be put to bed. In the morning they’ll ’ave to be got up and washed and +dressed and given their breakfast and sent off to school. Then there’s +shopping wot must be done, and beds wot must be made.” + +“I’ll make ours,” said his wife, decidedly. “For my own sake.” + +“And wot about the others?” inquired Mr. Porter. + +“The others’ll be made by the same party as washes the children, and +cooks their dinner for ’em, and puts ’em to bed, and cleans the ’ouse,” +was the reply. + +“I’m not going to have your mother ’ere,” exclaimed Mr. Porter, with +sudden heat. “Mind that!” + +“I don’t want her,” said Mrs. Porter. “It’s a job for a strong, healthy +man, not a pore old thing with swelled legs and short in the breath.” + +“Strong—’ealthy—man!” repeated her husband, in a dazed voice. +“Strong—’eal—— Wot are you talking about?” + +Mrs. Porter beamed on him. “You,” she said, sweetly. + +There was a long silence, broken at last by a firework display of +expletives. Mrs. Porter, still smiling, sat unmoved. + +“You may smile!” raved the indignant Mr. Porter. “You may sit there +smiling and smoking like a—like a man, but if you think that I’m going +to get the meals ready, and soil my ’ands with making beds and +washing-up, you’re mistook. There’s some ’usbands I know as would set +about you!” + +Mrs. Porter rose. “Well, I can’t sit here gossiping with you all day,” +she said, entering the house. + +“Wot are you going to do?” demanded her husband, following her. + +“Going to see Aunt Jane and ’ave a bit o’ dinner with her,” was the +reply. “And after that I think I shall go to the ‘pictures.’ If you +’ave bloaters for dinner be very careful with little Jemmy and the +bones.” + +“I forbid you to leave this ’ouse!” said Mr. Porter, in a thrilling +voice. “If you do you won’t find nothing done when you come home, and +all the kids dirty and starving.” + +“Cheerio!” said Mrs. Porter. + +Arrayed in her Sunday best she left the house half an hour later. A +glance over her shoulder revealed her husband huddled up in a chair in +the dirty kitchen, gazing straight before him at the empty grate. + +He made a hearty breakfast at a neighbouring coffee-shop, and, +returning home, lit the fire and sat before it, smoking. The return of +the four children from school, soon after midday, found him still +wrestling with the difficulties of the situation. His announcement that +their mother was out and that there would be no dinner was received at +first in stupefied silence. Then Jemmy, opening his mouth to its widest +extent, acted as conductor to an all-too-willing chorus. + +The noise was unbearable, and Mr. Porter said so. Pleased with the +tribute, the choir re-doubled its efforts, and Mr. Porter, vociferating +orders for silence, saw only too clearly the base advantage his wife +had taken of his affection for his children. He took some money from +his pocket and sent the leading treble out marketing, after which, with +the assistance of a soprano aged eight, he washed up the breakfast +things and placed one of them in the dustbin. + +The entire family stood at his elbow as he cooked the dinner, and +watched, with bated breath, his frantic efforts to recover a sausage +which had fallen out of the frying-pan into the fire. A fourfold sigh +of relief heralded its return to the pan. + +“Mother always—” began the eldest boy. + +Mr. Porter took his scorched fingers out of his mouth and smacked the +critic’s head. + +The dinner was not a success. Portions of half-cooked sausages returned +to the pan, and coming back in the guise of cinders failed to find +their rightful owners. + +“Last time we had sausages,” said the eight-year-old Muriel, “they +melted in your mouth.” Mr. Porter glowered at her. + +“Instead of in the fire,” said the eldest boy, with a mournful snigger. + +“If I get up to you, my lad,” said the harassed Mr. Porter, “you’ll +know it! Pity you don’t keep your sharpness for your lessons! Wot +country is Africa in?” + +“Why, Africa’s a continent!” said the startled youth. + +“Jes so,” said his father; “but wot I’m asking you is: wot country is +it in?” + +“Asia,” said the reckless one, with a side-glance at Muriel. + +“And why couldn’t you say so before?” demanded Mr. Porter, sternly. +“Now, you go to the sink and give yourself a thorough good wash. And +mind you come straight home from school. There’s work to be done.” + +He did some of it himself after the children had gone, and finished up +the afternoon with a little shopping, in the course of which he twice +changed his grocer and was threatened with an action for slander by his +fishmonger. He returned home with his clothes bulging, although a +couple of eggs in the left-hand coat-pocket had done their best to +accommodate themselves to his figure. + +He went to bed at eleven o’clock, and at a quarter past, clad all too +lightly for the job, sped rapidly downstairs to admit his wife. + +“Some ’usbands would ’ave let you sleep on the doorstep all night,” he +said, crisply. + +“I know they would,” returned his wife, cheerfully. “That’s why I +married you. I remember the first time I let you come ’ome with me, +mother ses: ‘There ain’t much of ’im, Susan,’ she ses; ‘still, arf a +loaf is better than—’” + +The bedroom-door slammed behind the indignant Mr. Porter, and the three +lumps and a depression which had once been a bed received his quivering +frame again. With the sheet obstinately drawn over his head he turned a +deaf ear to his wife’s panegyrics on striking and her heartfelt tribute +to the end of a perfect day. Even when standing on the cold floor while +she remade the bed he maintained an attitude of unbending dignity, only +relaxing when she smote him light-heartedly with the bolster. In a few +ill-chosen words he expressed his opinion of her mother and her +deplorable methods of bringing up her daughters. + +He rose early next morning, and, after getting his own breakfast, put +on his cap and went out, closing the street-door with a bang that awoke +the entire family and caused the somnolent Mrs. Porter to open one eye +for the purpose of winking with it. Slowly, as became a man of leisure, +he strolled down to the works, and, moving from knot to knot of his +colleagues, discussed the prospects of victory. Later on, with a little +natural diffidence, he drew Mr. Bert Robinson apart and asked his +advice upon a situation which was growing more and more difficult. + +“I’ve got my hands pretty full as it is, you know,” said Mr. Robinson, +hastily. + +“I know you ’ave, Bert,” murmured the other. “But, you see, she told me +last night she’s going to try and get some of the other chaps’ wives to +join ’er, so I thought I ought to tell you.” + +Mr. Robinson started. “Have you tried giving her a hiding?” he +inquired. + +Mr. Porter shook his head. “I daren’t trust myself,” he replied. “I +might go too far, once I started.” + +“What about appealing to her better nature?” inquired the other. + +“She ain’t got one,” said the unfortunate. “Well, I’m sorry for you,” +said Mr. Robinson, “but I’m busy. I’ve got to see a Labour-leader this +afternoon, and two reporters, and this evening there’s the meeting. Try +kindness first, and if that don’t do, lock her up in her bedroom and +keep her on bread and water.” + +He moved off to confer with his supporters, and Mr. Porter, after +wandering aimlessly about for an hour or two, returned home at mid-day +with a faint hope that his wife might have seen the error of her ways +and provided dinner for him. He found the house empty and the beds +unmade. The remains of breakfast stood on the kitchen-table, and a +puddle of cold tea decorated the floor. The arrival of the children +from school, hungry and eager, completed his discomfiture. + +For several days he wrestled grimly with the situation, while Mrs. +Porter, who had planned out her week into four days of charing, two of +amusement, and Sunday in bed, looked on with smiling approval. She even +offered to give him a little instruction—verbal—in scrubbing the +kitchen-floor. + +Mr. Porter, who was on his knees at the time, rose slowly to his full +height, and, with a superb gesture, emptied the bucket, which also +contained a scrubbing-brush and lump of soap, into the back-yard. Then +he set off down the street in quest of a staff. + +He found it in the person of Maudie Stevens, aged fourteen, who lived a +few doors lower down. Fresh from school the week before, she cheerfully +undertook to do the housework and cooking, and to act as nursemaid in +her spare time. Her father, on his part, cheerfully under-took to take +care of her wages for her, the first week’s, payable in advance, being +banked the same evening at the Lord Nelson. + +It was another mouth to feed, but the strike-pay was coming in very +well, and Mr. Porter, relieved from his unmanly tasks, walked the +streets a free man. Beds were made without his interference, meals were +ready (roughly) at the appointed hour, and for the first time since the +strike he experienced satisfaction in finding fault with the cook. The +children’s content was not so great, Maudie possessing a faith in the +virtues of soap and water that they made no attempt to share. They were +greatly relieved when their mother returned home after spending a +couple of days with Aunt Jane. + +“What’s all this?” she demanded, as she entered the kitchen, followed +by a lady-friend. + +“What’s all what?” inquired Mr. Porter, who was sitting at dinner with +the family. + +“That,” said his wife, pointing at the cook-general. + +Mr. Porter put down his knife and fork. “Got ’er in to help,” he +replied, uneasily. + +“Do you hear that?” demanded his wife, turning to her friend, Mrs. +Gorman. “Oh, these masters!” + +“Ah!” said her friend, vaguely. + +“A strike-breaker!” said Mrs. Porter, rolling her eyes. + +“Shame!” said Mrs. Gorman, beginning to understand. + +“Coming after my job, and taking the bread out of my mouth,” continued +Mrs. Porter, fluently. “Underselling me too, I’ll be bound. That’s what +comes of not having pickets.” + +“Unskilled labour,” said Mrs. Gorman, tightening her lips and shaking +her head. + +“A scab!” cried Mrs. Porter, wildly. “A scab!” + +“Put her out,” counselled her friend. + +“Put her out!” repeated Mrs. Porter, in a terrible voice. “Put her out! +I’ll tear her limb from limb! I’ll put her in the copper and boil her!” + +Her voice was so loud and her appearance so alarming that the +unfortunate Maudie, emitting three piercing shrieks, rose hastily from +the table and looked around for a way of escape. The road to the +front-door was barred, and with a final yelp that set her employer’s +teeth on edge she dashed into the yard and went home via the +back-fences. Housewives busy in their kitchens looked up in amazement +at the spectacle of a pair of thin black legs descending one fence, +scudding across the yard to the accompaniment of a terrified moaning, +and scrambling madly over the other. At her own back-door Maudie +collapsed on the step, and, to the intense discomfort and annoyance of +her father, had her first fit of hysterics. + +“And the next scab that comes into my house won’t get off so easy,” +said Mrs. Porter to her husband. “D’you understand?” + +“If you ’ad some husbands—” began Mr. Porter, trembling with rage. + +“Yes, I know,” said his wife, nodding. “Don’t cry, Jemmy,” she added, +taking the youngest on her knee. “Mother’s only having a little game. +She and dad are both on strike for more pay and less work.” + +Mr. Porter got up, and without going through the formality of saying +good-bye to the hard-featured Mrs. Gorman, put on his cap and went out. +Over a couple of half-pints taken as a sedative, he realized the +growing seriousness of his position. + +In a dull resigned fashion he took up his household duties again, made +harder now than before by the scandalous gossip of the aggrieved Mr. +Stevens. The anonymous present of a much-worn apron put the finishing +touch to his discomfiture; and the well-meant offer of a fair neighbour +to teach him how to shake a mat without choking himself met with a +reception that took her breath away. + +It was a surprise to him one afternoon to find that his wife had so far +unbent as to tidy up the parlour. Ornaments had been dusted and +polished and the carpet swept. She had even altered the position of the +furniture. The table had been pushed against the wall, and the +easy-chair, with its back to the window, stood stiffly confronting six +or seven assorted chairs, two of which at least had been promoted from +a lower sphere. + +“It’s for the meeting,” said Muriel, peeping in. + +“Meeting?” repeated her father, in a dazed voice. + +“Strike-meetings,” was the reply. “Mrs. Gorman and some other ladies +are coming at four o’clock. Didn’t mother tell you?” + +Mr. Porter, staring helplessly at the row of chairs, shook his head. + +“Mrs. Evans is coming,” continued Muriel, in a hushed voice—“the lady +what punched Mr. Brown because he kept Bobbie Evans in one day. He +ain’t been kept in since. I wish you——” + +She stopped suddenly, and, held by her father’s gaze, backed slowly out +of the room. Mr. Porter, left with the chairs, stood regarding them +thoughtfully. Their emptiness made an appeal that no right-minded man +could ignore. He put his hand over his mouth and his eyes watered. + +He spent the next half-hour in issuing invitations, and at half-past +three every chair was filled by fellow-strikers. Three cans of beer, +clay pipes, and a paper of shag stood on the table. Mr. Benjamin Todd, +an obese, fresh-coloured gentleman of middle age, took the easy-chair. +Glasses and teacups were filled. + +“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Todd, lighting his pipe, “afore we get on to the +business of this meeting I want to remind you that there is another +meeting, of ladies, at four o’clock; so we’ve got to hurry up. O’ +course, if it should happen that we ain’t finished——” + +“Go on, Bennie!” said a delighted admirer. “I see a female ’ead peeping +in at the winder already,” said a voice. + +“Let ’em peep,” said Mr. Todd, benignly. “Then p’r’aps they’ll be able +to see how to run a meeting.” + +“There’s two more ’eads,” said the other. “Oh, Lord, I know I sha’n’t +be able to keep a straight face!” + +“H’sh!” commanded Mr. Todd, sternly, as the street-door was heard to +open. “Be’ave yourself. As I was saying, the thing we’ve got to +consider about this strike——” + +The door opened, and six ladies, headed by Mrs. Porter, entered the +room in single file and ranged themselves silently along the wall. + +“Strike,” proceeded Mr. Todd, who found himself gazing uneasily into +the eyes of Mrs. Gorman——“strike—er—strike——” + +“He said that before,” said a stout lady, in a loud whisper; “I’m sure +he did.” + +“Is,” continued Mr. Todd, “that we have got to keep this—this—er—” + +“Strike,” prompted the same voice. + +Mr. Todd paused, and, wiping his mouth with a red pocket-handkerchief, +sat staring straight before him. + +“I move,” said Mrs. Evans, her sharp features twitching with +excitement, “that Mrs. Gorman takes the chair.” + +“’Ow can I take it when he’s sitting in it?” demanded that lady. + +“She’s a lady that knows what she wants and how to get it,” pursued +Mrs. Evans, unheeding. “She understands men—” + +“I’ve buried two ’usbands,” murmured Mrs. Gorman, nodding. + +“And how to manage them,” continued Mrs. Evans. “I move that Mrs. +Gorman takes the chair. Those in favour—” + +Mr. Todd, leaning back in his chair and gripping the arms, gazed +defiantly at a row of palms. + +“Carried unanimously!” snapped Mrs. Evans. + +Mrs. Gorman, tall and bony, advanced and stood over Mr. Todd. Strong +men held their breath. + +“It’s my chair,” she said, gruffly. “I’ve been moved into it.” + +“Possession,” said Mr. Todd, in as firm a voice as he could manage, “is +nine points of the law. I’m here and—” + +Mrs. Gorman turned, and, without the slightest warning, sat down +suddenly and heavily in his lap. A hum of admiration greeted the +achievement. + +“Get up!” shouted the horrified Mr. Todd. “Get up!” + +Mrs. Gorman settled herself more firmly. + +“Let me get up,” said Mr. Todd, panting. + +Mrs. Gorman rose, but remained in a hovering position, between which +and the chair Mr. Todd, flushed and dishevelled, extricated himself in +all haste. A shrill titter of laughter and a clapping of hands greeted +his appearance. He turned furiously on the pallid Mr. Porter. + +“What d’you mean by it?” he demanded. “Are you the master, or ain’t +you? A man what can’t keep order in his own house ain’t fit to be +called a man. If my wife was carrying on like this——” + +“I wish I was your wife,” said Mrs. Gorman, moistening her lips. + +Mr. Todd turned slowly and surveyed her. + +“I don’t,” he said, simply, and, being by this time near the door, +faded gently from the room. + +“Order!” cried Mrs. Gorman, thumping the arm of her chair with a large, +hard-working fist. “Take your seats, ladies.” + +A strange thrill passed through the bodies of her companions and +communicated itself to the men in the chairs. There was a moment’s +tense pause, and then the end man, muttering something about “going to +see what had happened to poor old Ben Todd,” rose slowly and went out. +His companions, with heads erect and a look of cold disdain upon their +faces, followed him. + +It was Mr. Porter’s last meeting, but his wife had several more. They +lasted, in fact, until the day, a fortnight later, when he came in with +flushed face and sparkling eyes to announce that the strike was over +and the men victorious. + +“Six bob a week more!” he said, with enthusiasm. “You see, I was right +to strike, after all.” + +Mrs. Porter eyed him. “I am out for four bob a week more,” she said, +calmly. + +Her husband swallowed. “You—you don’t understand ’ow these things are +done,” he said, at last. “It takes time. We ought to ne—negotiate.” + +“All right,” said Mrs. Porter, readily. “Seven shillings a week, then.” + +“Let’s say four and have done with it,” exclaimed the other, hastily. + +And Mrs. Porter said it. + + + + +DIRTY WORK + + +It was nearly high-water, and the night-watchman, who had stepped +aboard a lighter lying alongside the wharf to smoke a pipe, sat with +half-closed eyes enjoying the summer evening. The bustle of the day was +over, the wharves were deserted, and hardly a craft moved on the river. +Perfumed clouds of shag, hovering for a time over the lighter, floated +lazily towards the Surrey shore. + +“There’s one thing about my job,” said the night-watchman, slowly, +“it’s done all alone by yourself. There’s no foreman a-hollering at you +and offering you a penny for your thoughts, and no mates to run into +you from behind with a loaded truck and then ask you why you didn’t +look where you’re going to. From six o’clock in the evening to six +o’clock next morning I’m my own master.” + +He rammed down the tobacco with an experienced forefinger and puffed +contentedly. + +People like you ’ud find it lonely (he continued, after a pause); I did +at fust. I used to let people come and sit ’ere with me of an evening +talking, but I got tired of it arter a time, and when one chap fell +overboard while ’e was showing me ’ow he put his wife’s mother in ’er +place, I gave it up altogether. There was three foot o’ mud in the dock +at the time, and arter I ’ad got ’im out, he fainted in my arms. + +Arter that I kept myself to myself. Say wot you like, a man’s best +friend is ’imself. There’s nobody else’ll do as much for ’im, or let +’im off easier when he makes a mistake. If I felt a bit lonely I used +to open the wicket in the gate and sit there watching the road, and +p’r’aps pass a word or two with the policeman. Then something ’appened +one night that made me take quite a dislike to it for a time. + +I was sitting there with my feet outside, smoking a quiet pipe, when I +’eard a bit of a noise in the distance. Then I ’eard people running and +shouts of “Stop, thief!” A man came along round the corner full pelt, +and, just as I got up, dashed through the wicket and ran on to the +wharf. I was arter ’im like a shot and got up to ’im just in time to +see him throw something into the dock. And at the same moment I ’eard +the other people run past the gate. + +“Wot’s up?” I ses, collaring ’im. + +“Nothing,” he ses, breathing ’ard and struggling. “Let me go.” + +He was a little wisp of a man, and I shook ’im like a dog shakes a rat. +I remembered my own pocket being picked, and I nearly shook the breath +out of ’im. + +“And now I’m going to give you in charge,” I ses, pushing ’im along +towards the gate. + +“Wot for?” he ses, purtending to be surprised. + +“Stealing,” I ses. + +“You’ve made a mistake,” he ses; “you can search me if you like.” + +“More use to search the dock,” I ses. “I see you throw it in. Now you +keep quiet, else you’ll get ’urt. If you get five years I shall be all +the more pleased.” + +I don’t know ’ow he did it, but ’e did. He seemed to sink away between +my legs, and afore I knew wot was ’appening, I was standing upside down +with all the blood rushing to my ’ead. As I rolled over he bolted +through the wicket, and was off like a flash of lightning. + +A couple o’ minutes arterwards the people wot I ’ad ’eard run past came +back agin. There was a big fat policeman with ’em—a man I’d seen afore +on the beat—and, when they ’ad gorn on, he stopped to ’ave a word with +me. + +“’Ot work,” he ses, taking off his ’elmet and wiping his bald ’ead with +a large red handkerchief. “I’ve lost all my puff.” + +“Been running?” I ses, very perlite. + +“Arter a pickpocket,” he ses. “He snatched a lady’s purse just as she +was stepping aboard the French boat with her ’usband. ‘Twelve pounds in +it in gold, two peppermint lozenges, and a postage stamp.’” + +He shook his ’ead, and put his ’elmet on agin. + +“Holding it in her little ’and as usual,” he ses. “Asking for trouble, +I call it. I believe if a woman ’ad one hand off and only a finger and +thumb left on the other, she’d carry ’er purse in it.” + +He knew a’most as much about wimmen as I do. When ’is fust wife died, +she said ’er only wish was that she could take ’im with her, and she +made ’im promise her faithful that ’e’d never marry agin. His second +wife, arter a long illness, passed away while he was playing hymns on +the concertina to her, and ’er mother, arter looking at ’er very hard, +went to the doctor and said she wanted an inquest. + +He went on talking for a long time, but I was busy doing a bit of +’ead-work and didn’t pay much attention to ’im. I was thinking o’ +twelve pounds, two lozenges, and a postage stamp laying in the mud at +the bottom of my dock, and arter a time ’e said ’e see as ’ow I was +waiting to get back to my night’s rest, and went off—stamping. + +I locked the wicket when he ’ad gorn away, and then I went to the edge +of the dock and stood looking down at the spot where the purse ’ad been +chucked in. The tide was on the ebb, but there was still a foot or two +of water atop of the mud. I walked up and down, thinking. + +I thought for a long time, and then I made up my mind. If I got the +purse and took it to the police-station, the police would share the +money out between ’em, and tell me they ’ad given it back to the lady. +If I found it and put a notice in the newspaper—which would cost +money—very likely a dozen or two ladies would come and see me and say +it was theirs. Then if I gave it to the best-looking one and the one it +belonged to turned up, there’d be trouble. My idea was to keep it—for a +time—and then if the lady who lost it came to me and asked me for it I +would give it to ’er. + +Once I had made up my mind to do wot was right I felt quite ’appy, and +arter a look up and down, I stepped round to the Bear’s Head and ’ad a +couple o’ goes o’ rum to keep the cold out. There was nobody in there +but the landlord, and ’e started at once talking about the thief, and +’ow he ’ad run arter him in ’is shirt-sleeves. + +“My opinion is,” he ses, “that ’e bolted on one of the wharves and ’id +’imself. He disappeared like magic. Was that little gate o’ yours +open?” + +“I was on the wharf,” I ses, very cold. + +“You might ha’ been on the wharf and yet not ’ave seen anybody come +on,” he ses, nodding. + +“Wot d’ye mean?” I ses, very sharp. “Nothing,” he ses. “Nothing.” + +“Are you trying to take my character away?” I ses, fixing ’im with my +eye. + +“Lo’ bless me, no!” he ses, staring at me. “It’s no good to me.” + +He sat down in ’is chair behind the bar and went straight off to sleep +with his eyes screwed up as tight as they would go. Then ’e opened his +mouth and snored till the glasses shook. I suppose I’ve been one of the +best customers he ever ’ad, and that’s the way he treated me. For two +pins I’d ha’ knocked ’is ugly ’ead off, but arter waking him up very +sudden by dropping my glass on the floor I went off back to the wharf. + +I locked up agin, and ’ad another look at the dock. The water ’ad +nearly gone and the mud was showing in patches. My mind went back to a +sailorman wot had dropped ’is watch over-board two years before, and +found it by walking about in the dock in ’is bare feet. He found it +more easy because the glass broke when he trod on it. + +The evening was a trifle chilly for June, but I’ve been used to +roughing it all my life, especially when I was afloat, and I went into +the office and began to take my clothes off. I took off everything but +my pants, and I made sure o’ them by making braces for ’em out of a bit +of string. Then I turned the gas low, and, arter slipping on my boots, +went outside. + +It was so cold that at fust I thought I’d give up the idea. The longer +I stood on the edge looking at the mud the colder it looked, but at +last I turned round and went slowly down the ladder. I waited a moment +at the bottom, and was just going to step off when I remembered that I +’ad got my boots on, and I ’ad to go up agin and take ’em off. + +I went down very slow the next time, and anybody who ’as been down an +iron ladder with thin, cold rungs, in their bare feet, will know why, +and I had just dipped my left foot in, when the wharf-bell rang. + +I ’oped at fust that it was a runaway-ring, but it kept on, and the +longer it kept on, the worse it got. I went up that ladder agin and +called out that I was coming, and then I went into the office and just +slipped on my coat and trousers and went to the gate. + +“Wot d’you want?” I ses, opening the wicket three or four inches and +looking out at a man wot was standing there. + +“Are you old Bill?” he ses. + +“I’m the watchman,” I ses, sharp-like. “Wot d’you want?” + +“Don’t bite me!” he ses, purtending to draw back. “I ain’t done no +’arm. I’ve come round about that glass you smashed at the Bear’s Head.” + +“Glass!” I ses, ’ardly able to speak. + +“Yes, glass,” he ses—“thing wot yer drink out of. The landlord says +it’ll cost you a tanner, and ’e wants it now in case you pass away in +your sleep. He couldn’t come ’imself cos he’s got nobody to mind the +bar, so ’e sent me. Why! Halloa! Where’s your boots? Ain’t you afraid +o’ ketching cold?” + +“You clear off,” I ses, shouting at him. “D’ye ’ear me? Clear off while +you’re safe, and you tell the landlord that next time ’e insults me +I’ll smash every glass in ’is place and then sit ’im on top of ’cm! +Tell ’im if ’e wants a tanner out o’ me, to come round ’imself, and see +wot he gets.” + +It was a silly thing to say, and I saw it arterwards, but I was in such +a temper I ’ardly knew wot I was saying. I slammed the wicket in ’is +face and turned the key and then I took off my clothes and went down +that ladder agin. + +It seemed colder than ever, and the mud when I got fairly into it was +worse than I thought it could ha’ been. It stuck to me like glue, and +every step I took seemed colder than the one before. ’Owever, when I +make up my mind to do a thing, I do it. I fixed my eyes on the place +where I thought the purse was, and every time I felt anything under my +foot I reached down and picked it up—and then chucked it away as far as +I could so as not to pick it up agin. Dirty job it was, too, and in +five minutes I was mud up to the neck, a’most. And I ’ad just got to +wot I thought was the right place, and feeling about very careful, when +the bell rang agin. + +I thought I should ha’ gorn out o’ my mind. It was just a little tinkle +at first, then another tinkle, but, as I stood there all in the dark +and cold trying to make up my mind to take no notice of it, it began to +ring like mad. I ’ad to go—I’ve known men climb over the gate afore +now—and I didn’t want to be caught in that dock. + +The mud seemed stickier than ever, but I got out at last, and, arter +scraping some of it off with a bit o’ stick, I put on my coat and +trousers and boots just as I was and went to the gate, with the bell +going its ’ardest all the time. + +When I opened the gate and see the landlord of the Bear’s Head standing +there I turned quite dizzy, and there was a noise in my ears like the +roaring of the sea. I should think I stood there for a couple o’ +minutes without being able to say a word. I could think of ’em. + +“Don’t be frightened, Bill,” ses the landlord. “I’m not going to eat +you.” + +“He looks as if he’s walking in ’is sleep,” ses the fat policeman, wot +was standing near by. “Don’t startle ’im.” + +“He always looks like that,” ses the landlord. + +I stood looking at ’im. I could speak then, but I couldn’t think of any +words good enough; not with a policeman standing by with a notebook in +’is pocket. + +“Wot was you ringing my bell for?” I ses, at last. + +“Why didn’t you answer it before?” ses the landlord. “D’you think I’ve +got nothing better to do than to stand ringing your bell for +three-quarters of an hour? Some people would report you.” + +“I know my dooty,” I ses; “there’s no craft up to-night, and no reason +for anybody to come to my bell. If I was to open the gate every time a +parcel of overgrown boys rang my bell I should ’ave enough to do.” + +“Well, I’ll overlook it this time, seeing as you’re an old man and +couldn’t get another sleeping-in job,” he ses, looking at the policeman +for him to see ’ow clever ’e was. “Wot about that tanner? That’s wot +I’ve come for.” + +“You be off,” I ses, starting to shut the wicket. “You won’t get no +tanner out of me.” + +“All right,” he ses, “I shall stand here and go on ringing the bell +till you pay up, that’s all.” + +He gave it another tug, and the policeman instead of locking ’im up for +it stood there laughing. + +I gave ’im the tanner. It was no use standing there arguing over a +tanner, with a purse of twelve quid waiting for me in the dock, but I +told ’im wot people thought of ’im. + +“Arf a second, watchman,” ses the policeman, as I started to shut the +wicket agin. “You didn’t see anything of that pickpocket, did you?” + +“I did not,” I ses. + +“’Cos this gentleman thought he might ’ave come in here,” ses the +policeman. + +“’Ow could he ’ave come in here without me knowing it?” I ses, firing +up. + +“Easy,” ses the landlord, “and stole your boots into the bargain!” + +“He might ’ave come when your back was turned,” ses the policeman, “and +if so, he might be ’iding there now. I wonder whether you’d mind me +having a look round?” + +“I tell you he ain’t ’ere,” I ses, very short, “but, to ease your mind, +I’ll ’ave a look round myself arter you’ve gorn.” + +The policeman shook his ’ead. “Well, o’ course, I can’t come in without +your permission,” he ses, with a little cough, “but I ’ave an idea, +that if it was your guv’nor ’ere instead of you he’d ha’ been on’y too +pleased to do anything ’e could to help the law. I’ll beg his pardon +tomorrow for asking you, in case he might object.” + +That settled it. That’s the police all over, and that’s ’ow they get +their way and do as they like. I could see ’im in my mind’s eye talking +to the guv’nor, and letting out little things about broken glasses and +such-like by accident. I drew back to let ’im pass, and I was so upset +that when that little rat of a landlord follered ’im I didn’t say a +word. + +I stood and watched them poking and prying about the wharf as if it +belonged to ’em, with the light from the policeman’s lantern flashing +about all over the place. I was shivering with cold and temper. The mud +was drying on me. + +“If you’ve finished ’unting for the pickpocket I’ll let you out and get +on with my work,” I ses, drawing myself up. + +“Good night,” ses the policeman, moving off. “Good night, dear,” ses +the landlord. “Mind you tuck yourself up warm.” + +I lost my temper for the moment and afore I knew wot I was doing I ’ad +got hold of him and was shoving ’im towards the gate as ’ard as I could +shove. He pretty near got my coat off in the struggle, and next moment +the police-man ’ad turned his lantern on me and they was both staring +at me as if they couldn’t believe their eyesight. + +“He—he’s turning black!” ses the landlord. + +“He’s turned black!” ses the policeman. + +They both stood there looking at me with their mouths open, and then +afore I knew wot he was up to, the policeman came close up to me and +scratched my chest with his finger-nail. + +“It’s mud!” he ses. + +“You keep your nails to yourself,” I ses. “It’s nothing to do with +you.” and I couldn’t ’elp noticing the smell of it. Nobody could. And +wot was worse than all was, that the tide ’ad turned and was creeping +over the mud in the dock. + +They got tired of it at last and came back to where I was and stood +there shaking their ’eads at me. + +“If he was on the wharf ’e must ’ave made his escape while you was in +the Bear’s Head,” ses the policeman. + +“He was in my place a long time,” ses the landlord. + +“Well, it’s no use crying over spilt milk,” ses the policeman. “Funny +smell about ’ere, ain’t there?” he ses, sniffing, and turning to the +landlord. “Wot is it?” + +“I dunno,” ses the landlord. “I noticed it while we was talking to ’im +at the gate. It seems to foller ’im about.” + +“I’ve smelt things I like better,” ses the policeman, sniffing agin. +“It’s just like the foreshore when somebody ’as been stirring the mud +up a bit.” + +“Unless it’s a case of ’tempted suicide,” he ses, looking at me very +’ard. + +“Ah!” ses the landlord. + +“There’s no mud on ’is clothes,” ses the policeman, looking me over +with his lantern agin. + +“He must ’ave gone in naked, but I should like to see ’is legs to make— +All right! All right! Keep your ’air on.” + +“You look arter your own legs, then,” I ses, very sharp, “and mind your +own business.” + +“It is my business,” he ses, turning to the landlord. “Was ’e strange +in his manner at all when ’e was in your place to-night?” + +“He smashed one o’ my best glasses,” ses the landlord. + +“So he did,” ses the policeman. “So he did. I’d forgot that. Do you +know ’im well?” + +“Not more than I can ’elp,” ses the landlord. “He’s been in my place a +good bit, but I never knew of any reason why ’e should try and do away +with ’imself. If he’s been disappointed in love, he ain’t told me +anything about it.” + +I suppose that couple o’ fools ’ud ’ave stood there talking about me +all night if I’d ha’ let ’em, but I had about enough of it. + +“Look ’ere,” I ses, “you’re very clever, both of you, but you needn’t +worry your ’eads about me. I’ve just been having a mud-bath, that’s +all.” + +“A mud-bath!” ses both of ’em, squeaking like a couple o’ silly +parrots. + +“For rheumatics,” I ses. “I ’ad it some-thing cruel to-night, and I +thought that p’r’aps the mud ’ud do it good. I read about it in the +papers. There’s places where you pay pounds and pounds for ’em, but, +being a pore man, I ’ad to ’ave mine on the cheap.” + +The policeman stood there looking at me for a moment, and then ’e began +to laugh till he couldn’t stop ’imself. + +“Love-a-duck!” he ses, at last, wiping his eyes. “I wish I’d seen it.” + +“Must ha’ looked like a fat mermaid,” ses the landlord, wagging his +silly ’ead at me. “I can just see old Bill sitting in the mud a-combing +his ’air and singing.” + +They ’ad some more talk o’ that sort, just to show each other ’ow funny +they was, but they went off at last, and I fastened up the gate and +went into the office to clean myself up as well as I could. One comfort +was they ’adn’t got the least idea of wot I was arter, and I ’ad a +fancy that the one as laughed last would be the one as got that twelve +quid. + +I was so tired that I slept nearly all day arter I ’ad got ’ome, and I +’ad no sooner got back to the wharf in the evening than I see that the +landlord ’ad been busy. If there was one silly fool that asked me the +best way of making mud-pies, I should think there was fifty. Little +things please little minds, and the silly way some of ’em went on made +me feel sorry for my sects. + +By eight o’clock, ’owever, they ’ad all sheered off, and I got a broom +and began to sweep up to ’elp pass the time away until low-water. On’y +one craft ’ad come up that day—a ketch called the Peewit—and as she was +berthed at the end of the jetty she wasn’t in my way at all. + +Her skipper came on to the wharf just afore ten. Fat, silly old man ’e +was, named Fogg. Always talking about ’is ’ealth and taking medicine to +do it good. He came up to me slow like, and, when ’e stopped and asked +me about the rheumatics, the broom shook in my ’and. + +“Look here,” I ses, “if you want to be funny, go and be funny with them +as likes it. I’m fair sick of it, so I give you warning.” + +“Funny?” he ses, staring at me with eyes like a cow. “Wot d’ye mean? +There’s nothing funny about rheumatics; I ought to know; I’m a martyr +to it. Did you find as ’ow the mud did you any good?” + +I looked at ’im hard, but ’e stood there looking at me with his fat +baby-face, and I knew he didn’t mean any harm; so I answered ’im +perlite and wished ’im good night. + +“I’ve ’ad pretty near everything a man can have,” he ses, casting +anchor on a empty box, “but I think the rheumatics was about the worst +of ’em all. I even tried bees for it once.” + +“Bees!” I ses. “Bees!” + +“Bee-stings,” he ses. “A man told me that if I could on’y persuade a +few bees to sting me, that ’ud cure me. I don’t know what ’e meant by +persuading! they didn’t want no persuading. I took off my coat and +shirt and went and rocked one of my neighbour’s bee-hives next door, +and I thought my last hour ’ad come.” + +He sat on that box and shivered at the memory of it. + +“Now I take Dr. Pepper’s pellets instead,” he ses. “I’ve got a box in +my state-room, and if you’d like to try ’em you’re welcome.” + +He sat there talking about the complaints he had ’ad and wot he ’ad +done for them till I thought I should never have got rid of ’im. He got +up at last, though, and, arter telling me to always wear flannel next +to my skin, climbed aboard and went below. + +I knew the hands was aboard, and arter watching ’is cabin-skylight +until the light was out, I went and undressed. Then I crept back on to +the jetty, and arter listening by the Peewit to make sure that they was +all asleep, I went back and climbed down the ladder. + +It was colder than ever. The cold seemed to get into my bones, but I +made up my mind to ’ave that twelve quid if I died for it. I trod round +and round the place where I ’ad seen that purse chucked in until I was +tired, and the rubbish I picked up by mistake you wouldn’t believe. + +I suppose I ’ad been in there arf an hour, and I was standing up with +my teeth clenched to keep them from chattering, when I ’appened to look +round and see something like a white ball coming down the ladder. My +’art seemed to stand still for a moment, and then it began to beat as +though it would burst. The white thing came down lower and lower, and +then all of a sudden it stood in the mud and said, “Ow!” + +“Who is it?” I ses. “Who are you?” “Halloa, Bill!” it ses. “Ain’t it +perishing cold?” + +It was the voice o’ Cap’n Fogg, and if ever I wanted to kill a +fellow-creetur, I wanted to then. + +“’Ave you been in long, Bill?” he ses. “About ten minutes,” I ses, +grinding my teeth. + +“Is it doing you good?” he ses. + +I didn’t answer ’im. + +“I was just going off to sleep,” he ses, “when I felt a sort of hot +pain in my left knee. O’ course, I knew what it meant at once, and +instead o’ taking some of the pellets I thought I’d try your remedy +instead. It’s a bit nippy, but I don’t mind that if it does me good.” + +He laughed a silly sort o’ laugh, and then I’m blest if ’e didn’t sit +down in that mud and waller in it. Then he’d get up and come for’ard +two or three steps and sit down agin. + +“Ain’t you sitting down, Bill?” he ses, arter a time. + +“No,” I ses, “I’m not.” + +“I don’t think you can expect to get the full benefit unless you do,” +he ses, coming up close to me and sitting down agin. “It’s a bit of a +shock at fust, but Halloa!” + +“Wot’s up?” I ses. + +“Sitting on something hard,” he ses. “I wish people ’ud be more +careful.” + +He took a list to port and felt under the star-board side. Then he +brought his ’and up and tried to wipe the mud off and see wot he ’ad +got. + +“Wot is it?” I ses, with a nasty sinking sort o’ feeling inside me. + +“I don’t know,” he ses, going on wiping. “It’s soft outside and ’ard +inside. It——” + +“Let’s ’ave a look at it,” I ses, holding out my ’and. + +“It’s nothing,” he ses, in a queer voice, getting up and steering for +the ladder. “Bit of oyster-shell, I think.” + +He was up that ladder hand over fist, with me close behind ’im, and as +soon as he ’ad got on to the wharf started to run to ’is ship. + +“Good night, Bill,” he ses, over ’is shoulder. + +“Arf a moment.” I ses, follering ’im. + +“I must get aboard,” he ses; “I believe I’ve got a chill,” and afore I +could stop ’im he ’ad jumped on and run down to ’is cabin. + +I stood on the jetty for a minute or two, trembling all over with cold +and temper. Then I saw he ’ad got a light in ’is cabin, and I crept +aboard and peeped down the skylight. And I just ’ad time to see some +sovereigns on the table, when he looked up and blew out the light. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11482 *** |