diff options
Diffstat (limited to '12215-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 12215-0.txt | 7729 |
1 files changed, 7729 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/12215-0.txt b/12215-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..165427f --- /dev/null +++ b/12215-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7729 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12215 *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +ODD CRAFT + + +By W. W. JACOBS + +Illustrated by Will Owen + +1911 + + + + +CONTENTS + + THE MONEY-BOX + THE CASTAWAY + BLUNDELL’S IMPROVEMENT + BILL’S LAPSE + LAWYER QUINCE + BREAKING A SPELL + ESTABLISHING RELATIONS + THE CHANGING NUMBERS + THE PERSECUTION OF BOB PRETTY + DIXON’S RETURN + A SPIRIT OF AVARICE + THE THIRD STRING + ODD CHARGES + ADMIRAL PETERS + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + “SAILORMEN ARE NOT GOOD ’ANDS AT SAVING MONEY AS A RULE.” + “‘I AIN’T HIT A MAN FOR FIVE YEARS,’ ’E SES, STILL DANCING UP AND DOWN.” + “‘WOT’S THIS FOR?’ SES GINGER.” + “THEY PUT OLD ISAAC’S CLOTHES UP FOR FIFTEEN SHILLINGS.” + “OLD ISAAC KEPT ’EM THERE FOR THREE DAYS.” + “MRS. JOHN BOXER STOOD AT THE DOOR OF THE SHOP WITH HER HANDS CLASPED ON HER APRON.” + “‘WELL, LOOK ’ERE,’ SAID MR. BOXER, ‘I’VE TOLD YOU MY STORY AND I’VE GOT WITNESSES TO PROVE IT.’” + “THERE IS SOMETHING FORMING OVER YOU.” + “AH! WHAT IS THIS? A PIECE OF WRECKAGE WITH A MONKEY CLINGING TO IT?” + “‘HAVE YOU LEFT ANYTHING INSIDE THAT YOU WANT?’ SHE INQUIRED.” + “‘YOU VILLAIN!’ CRIED MRS. GIMPSON, VIOLENTLY. ‘I ALWAYS DISTRUSTED YOU.’” + “‘FATHER WAS SO PLEASED TO SEE YOU BOTH COME IN,’ SHE SAID, SOFTLY.” + “SHE ASKED ME WHETHER YOU USED A WARMING-PAN.” + “‘BAH! YOU ARE BACKING OUT OF IT,’ SAID THE IRRITATED MR. TURNBULL.” + “WITH A WILD SHRIEK, HE SHOT SUDDENLY OVER THE EDGE AND DISAPPEARED.” + “YOU TAKE MY ADVICE AND GET ’OME AND GET TO BED.” + “WHEN ANY OF THE THREE QUARRELLED HE USED TO ACT THE PART OF PEACEMAKER.” + “BILL JUMPED INTO A CAB AND PULLED PETER RUSSET IN ARTER ’IM.” + “PATTED BILL ON THE BACK, VERY GENTLE.” + “PICKED OUT THE SOFTEST STAIR ’E COULD FIND.” + “OLD SAM SAID ’OW SURPRISED HE WAS AT THEM FOR LETTING BILL DO IT.” + “LAWYER QUINCE.” + “‘COME DOWN TO HAVE A LOOK AT THE PRISONER?’ INQUIRED THE FARMER.” + “‘NONE O’ YER IMPUDENCE,’ SAID THE FARMER.” + “I THOUGHT ALL ALONG LAWYER QUINCE WOULD HAVE THE LAUGH OF YOU.” + “‘HOW DID YOU GET IN THAT SHED?’ DEMANDED HER PARENT.” + “HE GOT ’IMSELF VERY MUCH LIKED, ESPECIALLY BY THE OLD LADIES.” + “MRS. PRINCE WAS SITTING AT ’ER FRONT DOOR NURSING ’ER THREE CATS.” + “HE TOOK IT ROUND, AND EVERYBODY ’AD A LOOK AT IT.” + “SHE SAT LISTENING QUITE QUIET AT FUST.” + “THE DOCTOR FELT ’IS PULSE AND LOOKED AT ’IS TONGUE.” + “MR. RICHARD CATESBY, SECOND OFFICER OF THE SS. WIZARD, EMERGED FROM THE DOCK-GATES IN HIGH GOOD-HUMOUR.” + “MR. CATESBY MADE A FEW INQUIRIES.” + “‘I’M JUST GOING AS FAR AS THE CORNER,’ SAID MRS. TRUEFITT.” + “I’LL GO AND PUT ON A CLEAN COLLAR.” + “I’LL LOOK AFTER THAT, MA’AM.” + “MR. SAMUEL GUNNILL CAME STEALTHILY DOWN THE WINDING STAIRCASE.” + “THE CONSTABLE WATCHED HIM WITH THE AIR OF A PROPRIETOR.” + “HE SAW THE DOOR JUST OPENING TO ADMIT THE FORTUNATE HERBERT.” + “MR. SIMS WATCHED HER TENDERLY AS SHE DREW THE BEER.” + “FROM THE KITCHEN CAME SOUNDS OF HAMMERING.” + “‘DON’T CALL ON ME AS A WITNESS, THAT’S ALL,’ CONTINUED MR. DRILL.” + “‘POACHING,’ SAID THE OLD MAN, ‘AIN’T WOT IT USED TO BE IN THESE ’ERE PARTS.’” + “‘I SHALL ’AVE ’EM AFORE LONG,’ SES MR. CUTTS.” + “THREE MEN BURST OUT O’ THE PLANTATION.” + “BOB PRETTY POINTED WITH ’IS FINGER EXACTLY WHERE ’E THOUGHT IT WAS.” + “‘YOU OUGHT TO BE MORE CAREFUL,’ SES BOB.” + “TALKING ABOUT EDDICATION, SAID THE NIGHT-WATCHMAN.” + “‘GO AND SLEEP SOMEWHERE ELSE, THEN,’ SES DIXON.” + “YOU’D BETTER GO UPSTAIRS AND PUT ON SOME DECENT CLOTHES.” + “CHARLIE HAD ’AD AS MUCH AS ’E WANTED AND WAS LYING ON THE SEA-CHEST.” + “THE WAY SHE ANSWERED HER ’USBAND WAS A PLEASURE TO EVERY MARRIED MAN IN THE BAR.” + “MR. JOHN BLOWS STOOD LISTENING TO THE FOREMAN WITH AN AIR OF LOFTY DISDAIN.” + “‘JOE!’ SHOUTED MR. BLOWS. ‘J-O-O-OE!’” + “‘THEY DRAGGED THE RIVER,’ RESUMED HIS WIFE, ‘AND FOUND THE CAP.’” + “IN A PITIABLE STATE OF ‘NERVES’ HE SAT AT THE EXTREME END OF A BENCH.” + “MR. BLOWS, CONSCIOUS OF THE STRENGTH OF HIS POSITION, WALKED UP TO THEM.” + “DON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT LOVE, BECAUSE I’VE SUFFERED ENOUGH THROUGH IT.” + “MISS TUCKER.” + “‘LET GO O’ THAT YOUNG LADY’S ARM,’ HE SES.” + “BILL LUMM, ’AVING PEELED, STOOD LOOKING ON WHILE GINGER TOOK ’IS THINGS OFF.” + “THE WAY HE CARRIED ON WHEN THE LANDLADY FRIED THE STEAK SHOWED ’OW UPSET HE WAS.” + “SEATED AT HIS EASE IN THE WARM TAP-ROOM OF THE CAULIFLOWER.” + “PUTTING HIS ’AND TO BILL’S MUG, HE TOOK OUT A LIVE FROG.” + “HE WAS RUNNING ALONG TO BOB PRETTY’S AS FAST AS ’IS LEGS WOULD TAKE ’IM.” + “AFORE ANYBODY COULD MOVE, HE BROUGHT IT DOWN BANG ON THE FACE O’ THE WATCH.” + “THE SCREAM ’E GAVE AS GEORGE KETTLE POINTED THE PISTOL AT ’IM WAS AWFUL.” + “SAT AT THE DOOR OF HIS LODGINGS GAZING IN PLACID CONTENT AT THE SEA.” + “MR. STILES WAS AFFECTING A STATELINESS OF MANNER WHICH WAS NOT WITHOUT DISTINCTION.” + “MR. STILES CALLED THE WIDOW A ‘SAUCY LITTLE BAGGAGE.’” + “‘GOOD RIDDANCE,’ SAID MR. BURTON, SAVAGELY.” + + + + +THE MONEY-BOX + + +Sailormen are not good ’ands at saving money as a rule, said the +night-watchman, as he wistfully toyed with a bad shilling on his +watch-chain, though to ’ear ’em talk of saving when they’re at sea and +there isn’t a pub within a thousand miles of ’em, you might think +different. + + +[Illustration] + +It ain’t for the want of trying either with some of ’em, and I’ve known +men do all sorts o’ things as soon as they was paid off, with a view to +saving. I knew one man as used to keep all but a shilling or two in a +belt next to ’is skin so that he couldn’t get at it easy, but it was +all no good. He was always running short in the most inconvenient +places. I’ve seen ’im wriggle for five minutes right off, with a +tramcar conductor standing over ’im and the other people in the tram +reading their papers with one eye and watching him with the other. + +Ginger Dick and Peter Russet—two men I’ve spoke of to you afore—tried +to save their money once. They’d got so sick and tired of spending it +all in p’r’aps a week or ten days arter coming ashore, and ’aving to go +to sea agin sooner than they ’ad intended, that they determined some +way or other to ’ave things different. + +They was homeward bound on a steamer from Melbourne when they made +their minds up; and Isaac Lunn, the oldest fireman aboard—a very steady +old teetotaler—gave them a lot of good advice about it. They all wanted +to rejoin the ship when she sailed agin, and ’e offered to take a room +ashore with them and mind their money, giving ’em what ’e called a +moderate amount each day. + +They would ha’ laughed at any other man, but they knew that old Isaac +was as honest as could be and that their money would be safe with ’im, +and at last, after a lot of palaver, they wrote out a paper saying as +they were willing for ’im to ’ave their money and give it to ’em bit by +bit, till they went to sea agin. + +Anybody but Ginger Dick and Peter Russet or a fool would ha’ known +better than to do such a thing, but old Isaac ’ad got such a oily +tongue and seemed so fair-minded about wot ’e called moderate drinking +that they never thought wot they was letting themselves in for, and +when they took their pay—close on sixteen pounds each—they put the odd +change in their pockets and ’anded the rest over to him. + +The first day they was as pleased as Punch. Old Isaac got a nice, +respectable bedroom for them all, and arter they’d ’ad a few drinks +they humoured ’im by ’aving a nice ’ot cup o’ tea, and then goin’ off +with ’im to see a magic-lantern performance. + +It was called “The Drunkard’s Downfall,” and it begun with a young man +going into a nice-looking pub and being served by a nice-looking +barmaid with a glass of ale. Then it got on to ’arf pints and pints in +the next picture, and arter Ginger ’ad seen the lost young man put away +six pints in about ’arf a minute, ’e got such a raging thirst on ’im +that ’e couldn’t sit still, and ’e whispered to Peter Russet to go out +with ’im. + +“You’ll lose the best of it if you go now,” ses old Isaac, in a +whisper; “in the next picture there’s little frogs and devils sitting +on the edge of the pot as ’e goes to drink.” + +“Ginger Dick got up and nodded to Peter.” + +“Arter that ’e kills ’is mother with a razor,” ses old Isaac, pleading +with ’im and ’olding on to ’is coat. + +Ginger Dick sat down agin, and when the murder was over ’e said it made +’im feel faint, and ’im and Peter Russet went out for a breath of fresh +air. They ’ad three at the first place, and then they moved on to +another and forgot all about Isaac and the dissolving views until ten +o’clock, when Ginger, who ’ad been very liberal to some friends ’e’d +made in a pub, found ’e’d spent ’is last penny. + +“This comes o’ listening to a parcel o’ teetotalers,” ’e ses, very +cross, when ’e found that Peter ’ad spent all ’is money too. “Here we +are just beginning the evening and not a farthing in our pockets.” + +They went off ’ome in a very bad temper. Old Isaac was asleep in ’is +bed, and when they woke ’im up and said that they was going to take +charge of their money themselves ’e kept dropping off to sleep agin and +snoring that ’ard they could scarcely hear themselves speak. Then Peter +tipped Ginger a wink and pointed to Isaac’s trousers, which were +’anging over the foot of the bed. + +Ginger Dick smiled and took ’em up softly, and Peter Russet smiled too; +but ’e wasn’t best pleased to see old Isaac a-smiling in ’is sleep, as +though ’e was ’aving amusing dreams. All Ginger found was a ha’-penny, +a bunch o’ keys, and a cough lozenge. In the coat and waistcoat ’e +found a few tracks folded up, a broken pen-knife, a ball of string, and +some other rubbish. Then ’e set down on the foot o’ their bed and made +eyes over at Peter. + +“Wake ’im up agin,” ses Peter, in a temper. + +Ginger Dick got up and, leaning over the bed, took old Isaac by the +shoulders and shook ’im as if ’e’d been a bottle o’ medicine. + +“Time to get up, lads?” ses old Isaac, putting one leg out o’ bed. + +“No, it ain’t,” ses Ginger, very rough; “we ain’t been to bed yet. We +want our money back.” + +Isaac drew ’is leg back into bed agin. “Goo’ night,” he ses, and fell +fast asleep. + +“He’s shamming, that’s wot ’e is,” ses Peter Russet. “Let’s look for +it. It must be in the room somewhere.” + +They turned the room upside down pretty near, and then Ginger Dick +struck a match and looked up the chimney, but all ’e found was that it +’adn’t been swept for about twenty years, and wot with temper and soot +’e looked so frightful that Peter was arf afraid of ’im. + +“I’ve ’ad enough of this,” ses Ginger, running up to the bed and +’olding his sooty fist under old Isaac’s nose. “Now, then, where’s that +money? If you don’t give us our money, our ’ard-earned money, inside o’ +two minutes, I’ll break every bone in your body.” + +“This is wot comes o’ trying to do you a favour, Ginger,” ses the old +man, reproachfully. + +“Don’t talk to me,” ses Ginger, “cos I won’t have it. Come on; where is +it?” + +Old Isaac looked at ’im, and then he gave a sigh and got up and put on +’is boots and ’is trousers. + +“I thought I should ’ave a little trouble with you,” he ses, slowly, +“but I was prepared for that.” + +“You’ll ’ave more if you don’t hurry up,” ses Ginger, glaring at ’im. + +“We don’t want to ’urt you, Isaac,” ses Peter Russet, “we on’y want our +money.” + +“I know that,” ses Isaac; “you keep still, Peter, and see fair-play, +and I’ll knock you silly arterwards.” + +He pushed some o’ the things into a corner and then ’e spat on ’is +’ands, and began to prance up and down, and duck ’is ’ead about and hit +the air in a way that surprised ’em. + +“I ain’t hit a man for five years,” ’e ses, still dancing up and +down—“fighting’s sinful except in a good cause—but afore I got a new +’art, Ginger, I’d lick three men like you afore breakfast, just to git +up a appetite.” + + +[Illustration] + +“Look, ’ere,” ses Ginger; “you’re an old man and I don’t want to ’urt +you; tell us where our money is, our ’ard-earned money, and I won’t lay +a finger on you.” + +“I’m taking care of it for you,” ses the old man. + +Ginger Dick gave a howl and rushed at him, and the next moment Isaac’s +fist shot out and give ’im a drive that sent ’im spinning across the +room until ’e fell in a heap in the fireplace. It was like a kick from +a ’orse, and Peter looked very serious as ’e picked ’im up and dusted +’im down. + +“You should keep your eye on ’is fist,” he ses, sharply. + +It was a silly thing to say, seeing that that was just wot ’ad +’appened, and Ginger told ’im wot ’e’d do for ’im when ’e’d finished +with Isaac. He went at the old man agin, but ’e never ’ad a chance, and +in about three minutes ’e was very glad to let Peter ’elp ’im into bed. + +“It’s your turn to fight him now, Peter,” he ses. “Just move this +piller so as I can see.” + +“Come on, lad,” ses the old man. + +Peter shook ’is ’ead. “I have no wish to ’urt you, Isaac,” he ses, +kindly; “excitement like fighting is dangerous for an old man. Give us +our money and we’ll say no more about it.” + +“No, my lads,” ses Isaac. “I’ve undertook to take charge o’ this money +and I’m going to do it; and I ’ope that when we all sign on aboard the +_Planet_ there’ll be a matter o’ twelve pounds each left. Now, I don’t +want to be ’arsh with you, but I’m going back to bed, and if I ’ave to +get up and dress agin you’ll wish yourselves dead.” + +He went back to bed agin, and Peter, taking no notice of Ginger Dick, +who kept calling ’im a coward, got into bed alongside of Ginger and +fell fast asleep. + +They all ’ad breakfast in a coffee-shop next morning, and arter it was +over Ginger, who ’adn’t spoke a word till then, said that ’e and Peter +Russet wanted a little money to go on with. He said they preferred to +get their meals alone, as Isaac’s face took their appetite away. + +“Very good,” ses the old man. “I don’t want to force my company on +nobody,” and after thinking ’ard for a minute or two he put ’is ’and in +’is trouser-pocket and gave them eighteen-pence each. + + +[Illustration] + +“That’s your day’s allowance,” ses Isaac, “and it’s plenty. There’s +ninepence for your dinner, fourpence for your tea, and twopence for a +crust o’ bread and cheese for supper. And if you must go and drown +yourselves in beer, that leaves threepence each to go and do it with.” + +Ginger tried to speak to ’im, but ’is feelings was too much for ’im, +and ’e couldn’t. Then Peter Russet swallered something ’e was going to +say and asked old Isaac very perlite to make it a quid for _’im_ +because he was going down to Colchester to see ’is mother, and ’e +didn’t want to go empty-’anded. + +“You’re a good son, Peter,” ses old Isaac, “and I wish there was more +like you. I’ll come down with you, if you like; I’ve got nothing to +do.” + +Peter said it was very kind of ’im, but ’e’d sooner go alone, owing to +his mother being very shy afore strangers. + +“Well, I’ll come down to the station and take a ticket for you,” ses +Isaac. + +Then Peter lost ’is temper altogether, and banged ’is fist on the table +and smashed ’arf the crockery. He asked Isaac whether ’e thought ’im +and Ginger Dick was a couple o’ children, and ’e said if ’e didn’t give +’em all their money right away ’e’d give ’im in charge to the first +policeman they met. + +“I’m afraid you didn’t intend for to go and see your mother, Peter,” +ses the old man. + +“Look ’ere,” ses Peter, “are you going to give us that money?” + +“Not if you went down on your bended knees,” ses the old man. + +“Very good,” says Peter, getting up and walking outside; “then come +along o’ me to find a policeman.” + +“I’m agreeable,” ses Isaac, “but I’ve got the paper you signed.” + +Peter said ’e didn’t care twopence if ’e’d got fifty papers, and they +walked along looking for a policeman, which was a very unusual thing +for them to do. + +“I ’ope for your sakes it won’t be the same policeman that you and +Ginger Dick set on in Gun Alley the night afore you shipped on the +_Planet_,” ses Isaac, pursing up ’is lips. + +“’Tain’t likely to be,” ses Peter, beginning to wish ’e ’adn’t been so +free with ’is tongue. + +“Still, if I tell ’im, I dessay he’ll soon find ’im,” ses Isaac; +“there’s one coming along now, Peter; shall I stop ’im?” + +Peter Russet looked at ’im and then he looked at Ginger, and they +walked by grinding their teeth. They stuck to Isaac all day, trying to +get their money out of ’im, and the names they called ’im was a +surprise even to themselves. And at night they turned the room +topsy-turvy agin looking for their money and ’ad more unpleasantness +when they wanted Isaac to get up and let ’em search the bed. + +They ’ad breakfast together agin next morning and Ginger tried another +tack. He spoke quite nice to Isaac, and ’ad three large cups o’ tea to +show ’im ’ow ’e was beginning to like it, and when the old man gave ’em +their eighteen-pences ’e smiled and said ’e’d like a few shillings +extra that day. + +“It’ll be all right, Isaac,” he ses. “I wouldn’t ’ave a drink if you +asked me to. Don’t seem to care for it now. I was saying so to you on’y +last night, wasn’t I, Peter?” + +“You was,” ses Peter; “so was I.” + +“Then I’ve done you good, Ginger,” ses Isaac, clapping ’im on the back. + +“You ’ave,” ses Ginger, speaking between his teeth, “and I thank you +for it. I don’t want drink; but I thought o’ going to a music-’all this +evening.” + +“Going to _wot?_” ses old Isaac, drawing ’imself up and looking very +shocked. + +“A music-’all,” ses Ginger, trying to keep ’is temper. + +“A music-’all,” ses Isaac; “why, it’s worse than a pub, Ginger. I +should be a very poor friend o’ yours if I let you go there—I couldn’t +think of it.” + +“Wot’s it got to do with you, you gray-whiskered serpent?” screams +Ginger, arf mad with rage. “Why don’t you leave us alone? Why don’t you +mind your own business? It’s our money.” + +Isaac tried to talk to ’im, but ’e wouldn’t listen, and he made such a +fuss that at last the coffee-shop keeper told ’im to go outside. Peter +follered ’im out, and being very upset they went and spent their day’s +allowance in the first hour, and then they walked about the streets +quarrelling as to the death they’d like old Isaac to ’ave when ’is time +came. + +They went back to their lodgings at dinner-time; but there was no sign +of the old man, and, being ’ungry and thirsty, they took all their +spare clothes to a pawnbroker and got enough money to go on with. Just +to show their independence they went to two music-’alls, and with a +sort of idea that they was doing Isaac a bad turn they spent every +farthing afore they got ’ome, and sat up in bed telling ’im about the +spree they’d ’ad. + +At five o’clock in the morning Peter woke up and saw, to ’is surprise, +that Ginger Dick was dressed and carefully folding up old Isaac’s +clothes. At first ’e thought that Ginger ’ad gone mad, taking care of +the old man’s things like that, but afore ’e could speak Ginger noticed +that ’e was awake, and stepped over to ’im and whispered to ’im to +dress without making a noise. Peter did as ’e was told, and, more +puzzled than ever, saw Ginger make up all the old man’s clothes in a +bundle and creep out of the room on tiptoe. + +“Going to ’ide ’is clothes?” ’e ses. + +“Yes,” ses Ginger, leading the way downstairs; “in a pawnshop. We’ll +make the old man pay for to-day’s amusements.” + +Then Peter see the joke and ’e begun to laugh so ’ard that Ginger ’ad +to threaten to knock ’is head off to quiet ’im. Ginger laughed ’imself +when they got outside, and at last, arter walking about till the shops +opened, they got into a pawnbroker’s and put old Isaac’s clothes up for +fifteen shillings. + + +[Illustration] + +First thing they did was to ’ave a good breakfast, and after that they +came out smiling all over and began to spend a ’appy day. Ginger was in +tip-top spirits and so was Peter, and the idea that old Isaac was in +bed while they was drinking ’is clothes pleased them more than +anything. Twice that evening policemen spoke to Ginger for dancing on +the pavement, and by the time the money was spent it took Peter all ’is +time to get ’im ’ome. + +Old Isaac was in bed when they got there, and the temper ’e was in was +shocking; but Ginger sat on ’is bed and smiled at ’im as if ’e was +saying compliments to ’im. + +“Where’s my clothes?” ses the old man, shaking ’is fist at the two of +’em. + +Ginger smiled at ’im; then ’e shut ’is eyes and dropped off to sleep. + +“Where’s my clothes?” ses Isaac, turning to Peter. “Closhe?” ses Peter, +staring at ’im. + +“Where are they?” ses Isaac. + +It was a long time afore Peter could understand wot ’e meant, but as +soon as ’e did ’e started to look for ’em. Drink takes people in +different ways, and the way it always took Peter was to make ’im one o’ +the most obliging men that ever lived. He spent arf the night crawling +about on all fours looking for the clothes, and four or five times old +Isaac woke up from dreams of earthquakes to find Peter ’ad got jammed +under ’is bed, and was wondering what ’ad ’appened to ’im. + +None of ’em was in the best o’ tempers when they woke up next morning, +and Ginger ’ad ’ardly got ’is eyes open before Isaac was asking ’im +about ’is clothes agin. + +“Don’t bother me about your clothes,” ses Ginger; “talk about something +else for a change.” + +“Where are they?” ses Isaac, sitting on the edge of ’is bed. + +Ginger yawned and felt in ’is waistcoat pocket—for neither of ’em ’ad +undressed—and then ’e took the pawn-ticket out and threw it on the +floor. Isaac picked it up, and then ’e began to dance about the room as +if ’e’d gone mad. + +“Do you mean to tell me you’ve pawned my clothes?” he shouts. + +“Me and Peter did,” ses Ginger, sitting up in bed and getting ready for +a row. + +Isaac dropped on the bed agin all of a ’eap. “And wot am I to do?” he +ses. + +“If you be’ave yourself,” ses Ginger, “and give us our money, me and +Peter’ll go and get ’em out agin. When we’ve ’ad breakfast, that is. +There’s no hurry.” + +“But I ’aven’t got the money,” ses Isaac; “it was all sewn up in the +lining of the coat. I’ve on’y got about five shillings. You’ve made a +nice mess of it, Ginger, you ’ave.” + +“You’re a silly fool, Ginger, that’s wot you are,” ses Peter. + +“_Sewn up in the lining of the coat?_” ses Ginger, staring. + +“The bank-notes was,” ses Isaac, “and three pounds in gold ’idden in +the cap. Did you pawn that too?” + +Ginger got up in ’is excitement and walked up and down the room. “We +must go and get ’em out at once,” he ses. + +“And where’s the money to do it with?” ses Peter. + +Ginger ’adn’t thought of that, and it struck ’im all of a heap. None of +’em seemed to be able to think of a way of getting the other ten +shillings wot was wanted, and Ginger was so upset that ’e took no +notice of the things Peter kept saying to ’im. + +“Let’s go and ask to see ’em, and say we left a railway-ticket in the +pocket,” ses Peter. + +Isaac shook ’is ’ead. “There’s on’y one way to do it,” he ses. “We +shall ’ave to pawn your clothes, Ginger, to get mine out with.” + +“That’s the on’y way, Ginger,” ses Peter, brightening up. “Now, wot’s +the good o’ carrying on like that? It’s no worse for you to be without +your clothes for a little while than it was for pore old Isaac.” + +It took ’em quite arf an hour afore they could get Ginger to see it. +First of all ’e wanted Peter’s clothes to be took instead of ’is, and +when Peter pointed out that they was too shabby to fetch ten shillings +’e ’ad a lot o’ nasty things to say about wearing such old rags, and at +last, in a terrible temper, ’e took ’is clothes off and pitched ’em in +a ’eap on the floor. + +“If you ain’t back in arf an hour, Peter,” ’e ses, scowling at ’im, +“you’ll ’ear from me, I can tell you.” + +“Don’t you worry about that,” ses Isaac, with a smile. “_I’m_ going to +take ’em.” + +“You?” ses Ginger; “but you can’t. You ain’t got no clothes.” + +“I’m going to wear Peter’s,” ses Isaac, with a smile. + +Peter asked ’im to listen to reason, but it was all no good. He’d got +the pawn-ticket, and at last Peter, forgetting all he’d said to Ginger +Dick about using bad langwidge, took ’is clothes off, one by one, and +dashed ’em on the floor, and told Isaac some of the things ’e thought +of ’im. + +The old man didn’t take any notice of ’im. He dressed ’imself up very +slow and careful in Peter’s clothes, and then ’e drove ’em nearly crazy +by wasting time making ’is bed. + +“Be as quick as you can, Isaac,” ses Ginger, at last; “think of us two +a-sitting ’ere waiting for you.” + +“I sha’n’t forget it,” ses Isaac, and ’e came back to the door after +’e’d gone arf-way down the stairs to ask ’em not to go out on the drink +while ’e was away. + +It was nine o’clock when he went, and at ha’-past nine Ginger began to +get impatient and wondered wot ’ad ’appened to ’im, and when ten +o’clock came and no Isaac they was both leaning out of the winder with +blankets over their shoulders looking up the road. By eleven o’clock +Peter was in very low spirits and Ginger was so mad ’e was afraid to +speak to ’im. + +They spent the rest o’ that day ’anging out of the winder, but it was +not till ha’-past four in the afternoon that Isaac, still wearing +Peter’s clothes and carrying a couple of large green plants under ’is +arm, turned into the road, and from the way ’e was smiling they thought +it must be all right. + +“Wot ’ave you been such a long time for?” ses Ginger, in a low, fierce +voice, as Isaac stopped underneath the winder and nodded up to ’em. + +“I met a old friend,” ses Isaac. + +“Met a old friend?” ses Ginger, in a passion. “Wot d’ye mean, wasting +time like that while we was sitting up ’ere waiting and starving?” + +“I ’adn’t seen ’im for years,” ses Isaac, “and time slipped away afore +I noticed it.” + +“I dessay,” ses Ginger, in a bitter voice. “Well, is the money all +right?” + +“I don’t know,” ses Isaac; “I ain’t got the clothes.” + +“_Wot?_” ses Ginger, nearly falling out of the winder. “Well, wot ’ave +you done with mine, then? Where are they? Come upstairs.” + +“I won’t come upstairs, Ginger,” ses Isaac, “because I’m not quite sure +whether I’ve done right. But I’m not used to going into pawnshops, and +I walked about trying to make up my mind to go in and couldn’t.” + +“Well, wot did you do then?” ses Ginger, ’ardly able to contain +hisself. + +“While I was trying to make up my mind,” ses old Isaac, “I see a man +with a barrer of lovely plants. ’E wasn’t asking money for ’em, only +old clothes.” + +“_Old clothes?_” ses Ginger, in a voice as if ’e was being suffocated. + +“I thought they’d be a bit o’ green for you to look at,” ses the old +man, ’olding the plants up; “there’s no knowing ’ow long you’ll be up +there. The big one is yours, Ginger, and the other is for Peter.” + +“’Ave you gone mad, Isaac?” ses Peter, in a trembling voice, arter +Ginger ’ad tried to speak and couldn’t. + +Isaac shook ’is ’ead and smiled up at ’em, and then, arter telling +Peter to put Ginger’s blanket a little more round ’is shoulders, for +fear ’e should catch cold, ’e said ’e’d ask the landlady to send ’em up +some bread and butter and a cup o’ tea. + +They ’eard ’im talking to the landlady at the door, and then ’e went +off in a hurry without looking behind ’im, and the landlady walked up +and down on the other side of the road with ’er apron stuffed in ’er +mouth, pretending to be looking at ’er chimney-pots. + +Isaac didn’t turn up at all that night, and by next morning those two +unfortunate men see ’ow they’d been done. It was quite plain to them +that Isaac ’ad been deceiving them, and Peter was pretty certain that +’e took the money out of the bed while ’e was fussing about making it. +Old Isaac kept ’em there for three days, sending ’em in their clothes +bit by bit and two shillings a day to live on; but they didn’t set eyes +on ’im agin until they all signed on aboard the _Planet_, and they +didn’t set eyes on their money until they was two miles below +Gravesend. + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE CASTAWAY + + +Mrs. John Boxer stood at the door of the shop with her hands clasped on +her apron. The short day had drawn to a close, and the lamps in the +narrow little thorough-fares of Shinglesea were already lit. For a time +she stood listening to the regular beat of the sea on the beach some +half-mile distant, and then with a slight shiver stepped back into the +shop and closed the door. + + +[Illustration] + +The little shop with its wide-mouthed bottles of sweets was one of her +earliest memories. Until her marriage she had known no other home, and +when her husband was lost with the _North Star_ some three years +before, she gave up her home in Poplar and returned to assist her +mother in the little shop. + +In a restless mood she took up a piece of needle-work, and a minute or +two later put it down again. A glance through the glass of the door +leading into the small parlour revealed Mrs. Gimpson, with a red shawl +round her shoulders, asleep in her easy-chair. + +Mrs. Boxer turned at the clang of the shop bell, and then, with a wild +cry, stood gazing at the figure of a man standing in the door-way. He +was short and bearded, with oddly shaped shoulders, and a left leg +which was not a match; but the next moment Mrs. Boxer was in his arms +sobbing and laughing together. + +Mrs. Gimpson, whose nerves were still quivering owing to the suddenness +with which she had been awakened, came into the shop; Mr. Boxer freed +an arm, and placing it round her waist kissed her with some affection +on the chin. + +“He’s come back!” cried Mrs. Boxer, hysterically. + +“Thank goodness,” said Mrs. Gimpson, after a moment’s deliberation. + +“He’s alive!” cried Mrs. Boxer. “He’s alive!” + +She half-dragged and half-led him into the small parlour, and thrusting +him into the easy-chair lately vacated by Mrs. Gimpson seated herself +upon his knee, regardless in her excitement that the rightful owner was +with elaborate care selecting the most uncomfortable chair in the room. + +“Fancy his coming back!” said Mrs. Boxer, wiping her eyes. “How did you +escape, John? Where have you been? Tell us all about it.” + +Mr. Boxer sighed. “It ’ud be a long story if I had the gift of telling +of it,” he said, slowly, “but I’ll cut it short for the present. When +the _North Star_ went down in the South Pacific most o’ the hands got +away in the boats, but I was too late. I got this crack on the head +with something falling on it from aloft. Look here.” + +He bent his head, and Mrs. Boxer, separating the stubble with her +fingers, uttered an exclamation of pity and alarm at the extent of the +scar; Mrs. Gimpson, craning forward, uttered a sound which might mean +anything—even pity. + +“When I come to my senses,” continued Mr. Boxer, “the ship was sinking, +and I just got to my feet when she went down and took me with her. How +I escaped I don’t know. I seemed to be choking and fighting for my +breath for years, and then I found myself floating on the sea and +clinging to a grating. I clung to it all night, and next day I was +picked up by a native who was paddling about in a canoe, and taken +ashore to an island, where I lived for over two years. It was right out +o’ the way o’ craft, but at last I was picked up by a trading schooner +named the _Pearl_, belonging to Sydney, and taken there. At Sydney I +shipped aboard the _Marston Towers_, a steamer, and landed at the +Albert Docks this morning.” + +“Poor John,” said his wife, holding on to his arm. “How you must have +suffered!” + +“I did,” said Mr. Boxer. “Mother got a cold?” he inquired, eying that +lady. + +“No, I ain’t,” said Mrs. Gimpson, answering for herself. “Why didn’t +you write when you got to Sydney?” + +“Didn’t know where to write to,” replied Mr. Boxer, staring. “I didn’t +know where Mary had gone to.” + +“You might ha’ wrote here,” said Mrs. Gimpson. + +“Didn’t think of it at the time,” said Mr. Boxer. “One thing is, I was +very busy at Sydney, looking for a ship. However, I’m ’ere now.” + +“I always felt you’d turn up some day,” said Mrs. Gimpson. “I felt +certain of it in my own mind. Mary made sure you was dead, but I said +‘no, I knew better.’” + +There was something in Mrs. Gimpson’s manner of saying this that +impressed her listeners unfavourably. The impression was deepened when, +after a short, dry laugh _à propos_ of nothing, she sniffed again—three +times. + +“Well, you turned out to be right,” said Mr. Boxer, shortly. + +“I gin’rally am,” was the reply; “there’s very few people can take me +in.” + +She sniffed again. + +“Were the natives kind to you?” inquired Mrs. Boxer, hastily, as she +turned to her husband. + +“Very kind,” said the latter. “Ah! you ought to have seen that island. +Beautiful yellow sands and palm-trees; cocoa-nuts to be ’ad for the +picking, and nothing to do all day but lay about in the sun and swim in +the sea.” + +“Any public-’ouses there?” inquired Mrs. Gimpson. + +“Cert’nly not,” said her son-in-law. “This was an island—one o’ the +little islands in the South Pacific Ocean.” + +“What did you say the name o’ the schooner was?” inquired Mrs. Gimpson. + +“_Pearl_,” replied Mr. Boxer, with the air of a resentful witness under +cross-examination. + +“And what was the name o’ the captin?” said Mrs. Gimpson. + +“Thomas—Henery—Walter—Smith,” said Mr. Boxer, with somewhat unpleasant +emphasis. + +“An’ the mate’s name?” + +“John Brown,” was the reply. + +“Common names,” commented Mrs. Gimpson, “very common. But I knew you’d +come back all right—_I_ never ’ad no alarm. ‘He’s safe and happy, my +dear,’ I says. ‘He’ll come back all in his own good time.’” + +“What d’you mean by that?” demanded the sensitive Mr. Boxer. “I come +back as soon as I could.” + +“You know you were anxious, mother,” interposed her daughter. “Why, you +insisted upon our going to see old Mr. Silver about it.” + +“Ah! but I wasn’t uneasy or anxious afterwards,” said Mrs. Gimpson, +compressing her lips. + +“Who’s old Mr. Silver, and what should he know about it?” inquired Mr. +Boxer. + +“He’s a fortune-teller,” replied his wife. “Reads the stars,” said his +mother-in-law. + +Mr. Boxer laughed—a good ringing laugh. “What did he tell you?” he +inquired. “Nothing,” said his wife, hastily. “Ah!” said Mr. Boxer, +waggishly, “that was wise of ’im. Most of us could tell fortunes that +way.” + +“That’s wrong,” said Mrs. Gimpson to her daughter, sharply. “Right’s +right any day, and truth’s truth. He said that he knew all about John +and what he’d been doing, but he wouldn’t tell us for fear of ’urting +our feelings and making mischief.” + +“Here, look ’ere,” said Mr. Boxer, starting up; “I’ve ’ad about enough +o’ this. Why don’t you speak out what you mean? I’ll mischief ’im, the +old humbug. Old rascal.” + +“Never mind, John,” said his wife, laying her hand upon his arm. “Here +you are safe and sound, and as for old Mr. Silver, there’s a lot o’ +people don’t believe in him.” + +“Ah! they don’t want to,” said Mrs. Gimpson, obstinately. “But don’t +forget that he foretold my cough last winter.” + +“Well, look ’ere,” said Mr. Boxer, twisting his short, blunt nose into +as near an imitation of a sneer as he could manage, “I’ve told you my +story and I’ve got witnesses to prove it. You can write to the master +of the _Marston Towers_ if you like, and other people besides. Very +well, then; let’s go and see your precious old fortune-teller. You +needn’t say who I am; say I’m a friend, and tell ’im never to mind +about making mischief, but to say right out where I am and what I’ve +been doing all this time. I have my ’opes it’ll cure you of your +superstitiousness.” + + +[Illustration] + +“We’ll go round after we’ve shut up, mother,” said Mrs. Boxer. “We’ll +have a bit o’ supper first and then start early.” + +Mrs. Gimpson hesitated. It is never pleasant to submit one’s +superstitions to the tests of the unbelieving, but after the attitude +she had taken up she was extremely loath to allow her son-in-law a +triumph. + +“Never mind, we’ll say no more about it,” she said, primly, “but I ’ave +my own ideas.” + +“I dessay,” said Mr. Boxer; “but you’re afraid for us to go to your old +fortune-teller. It would be too much of a show-up for ’im.” + +“It’s no good your trying to aggravate me, John Boxer, because you +can’t do it,” said Mrs. Gimpson, in a voice trembling with passion. + +“O’ course, if people like being deceived they must be,” said Mr. +Boxer; “we’ve all got to live, and if we’d all got our common sense +fortune-tellers couldn’t. Does he tell fortunes by tea-leaves or by the +colour of your eyes?” + +“Laugh away, John Boxer,” said Mrs. Gimpson, icily; “but I shouldn’t +have been alive now if it hadn’t ha’ been for Mr. Silver’s warnings.” + +“Mother stayed in bed for the first ten days in July,” explained Mrs. +Boxer, “to avoid being bit by a mad dog.” + +“_Tchee—tchee—tchee_,” said the hapless Mr. Boxer, putting his hand +over his mouth and making noble efforts to restrain himself; +“_tchee—tch——_” + +“I s’pose you’d ha’ laughed more if I ’ad been bit?” said the glaring +Mrs. Gimpson. + +“Well, who did the dog bite after all?” inquired Mr. Boxer, recovering. + +“You don’t understand,” replied Mrs. Gimpson, pityingly; “me being safe +up in bed and the door locked, there was no mad dog. There was no use +for it.” + +“Well,” said Mr. Boxer, “me and Mary’s going round to see that old +deceiver after supper, whether you come or not. Mary shall tell ’im I’m +a friend, and ask him to tell her everything about ’er husband. Nobody +knows me here, and Mary and me’ll be affectionate like, and give ’im to +understand we want to marry. Then he won’t mind making mischief.” + +“You’d better leave well alone,” said Mrs. Gimpson. + +Mr. Boxer shook his head. “I was always one for a bit o’ fun,” he said, +slowly. “I want to see his face when he finds out who I am.” + +Mrs. Gimpson made no reply; she was looking round for the +market-basket, and having found it she left the reunited couple to keep +house while she went out to obtain a supper which should, in her +daughter’s eyes, be worthy of the occasion. + +She went to the High Street first and made her purchases, and was on +the way back again when, in response to a sudden impulse, as she passed +the end of Crowner’s Alley, she turned into that small by-way and +knocked at the astrologer’s door. + +A slow, dragging footstep was heard approaching in reply to the +summons, and the astrologer, recognising his visitor as one of his most +faithful and credulous clients, invited her to step inside. Mrs. +Gimpson complied, and, taking a chair, gazed at the venerable white +beard and small, red-rimmed eyes of her host in some perplexity as to +how to begin. + +“My daughter’s coming round to see you presently,” she said, at last. + +The astrologer nodded. + +“She—she wants to ask you about ’er husband,” faltered Mrs. Gimpson; +“she’s going to bring a friend with her—a man who doesn’t believe in +your knowledge. He—he knows all about my daughter’s husband, and he +wants to see what you say you know about him.” + +The old man put on a pair of huge horn spectacles and eyed her +carefully. + +“You’ve got something on your mind,” he said, at last; “you’d better +tell me everything.” + +Mrs. Gimpson shook her head. + +“There’s some danger hanging over you,” continued Mr. Silver, in a low, +thrilling voice; “some danger in connection with your son-in-law. +There,” he waved a lean, shrivelled hand backward and forward as though +dispelling a fog, and peered into distance—“there is something forming +over you. You—or somebody—are hiding something from me.” + + +[Illustration] + +Mrs. Gimpson, aghast at such omniscience, sank backward in her chair. + +“Speak,” said the old man, gently; “there is no reason why you should +be sacrificed for others.” + +Mrs. Gimpson was of the same opinion, and in some haste she reeled off +the events of the evening. She had a good memory, and no detail was +lost. + +“Strange, strange,” said the venerable Mr. Silver, when he had +finished. “He is an ingenious man.” + +“Isn’t it true?” inquired his listener. “He says he can prove it. And +he is going to find out what you meant by saying you were afraid of +making mischief.” + +“He can prove some of it,” said the old man, his eyes snapping +spitefully. “I can guarantee that.” + +“But it wouldn’t have made mischief if you had told us that,” ventured +Mrs. Gimpson. “A man can’t help being cast away.” + +“True,” said the astrologer, slowly; “true. But let them come and +question me; and whatever you do, for your own sake don’t let a soul +know that you have been here. If you do, the danger to yourself will be +so terrible that even _I_ may be unable to help you.” + +Mrs. Gimpson shivered, and more than ever impressed by his marvellous +powers made her way slowly home, where she found the unconscious Mr. +Boxer relating his adventures again with much gusto to a married couple +from next door. + +“It’s a wonder he’s alive,” said Mr. Jem Thompson, looking up as the +old woman entered the room; “it sounds like a story-book. Show us that +cut on your head again, mate.” + +The obliging Mr. Boxer complied. + +“We’re going on with ’em after they’ve ’ad supper,” continued Mr. +Thompson, as he and his wife rose to depart. “It’ll be a fair treat to +me to see old Silver bowled out.” + +Mrs. Gimpson sniffed and eyed his retreating figure disparagingly; Mrs. +Boxer, prompted by her husband, began to set the table for supper. + +It was a lengthy meal, owing principally to Mr. Boxer, but it was over +at last, and after that gentleman had assisted in shutting up the shop +they joined the Thompsons, who were waiting outside, and set off for +Crowner’s Alley. The way was enlivened by Mr. Boxer, who had thrills of +horror every ten yards at the idea of the supernatural things he was +about to witness, and by Mr. Thompson, who, not to be outdone, +persisted in standing stock-still at frequent intervals until he had +received the assurances of his giggling better-half that he would not +be made to vanish in a cloud of smoke. + +By the time they reached Mr. Silver’s abode the party had regained its +decorum, and, except for a tremendous shudder on the part of Mr. Boxer +as his gaze fell on a couple of skulls which decorated the magician’s +table, their behaviour left nothing to be desired. Mrs. Gimpson, in a +few awkward words, announced the occasion of their visit. Mr. Boxer she +introduced as a friend of the family from London. + +“I will do what I can,” said the old man, slowly, as his visitors +seated themselves, “but I can only tell you what I see. If I do not see +all, or see clearly, it cannot be helped.” + +Mr. Boxer winked at Mr. Thompson, and received an understanding pinch +in return; Mrs. Thompson in a hot whisper told them to behave +themselves. + +The mystic preparations were soon complete. A little cloud of smoke, +through which the fierce red eyes of the astrologer peered keenly at +Mr. Boxer, rose from the table. Then he poured various liquids into a +small china bowl and, holding up his hand to command silence, gazed +steadfastly into it. “I see pictures,” he announced, in a deep voice. +“The docks of a great city; London. I see an ill-shaped man with a bent +left leg standing on the deck of a ship.” + +Mr. Thompson, his eyes wide open with surprise, jerked Mr. Boxer in the +ribs, but Mr. Boxer, whose figure was a sore point with him, made no +response. + +“The ship leaves the docks,” continued Mr. Silver, still peering into +the bowl. “As she passes through the entrance her stern comes into view +with the name painted on it. The—the—the——” + +“Look agin, old chap,” growled Mr. Boxer, in an undertone. + +“The _North Star_,” said the astrologer. “The ill-shaped man is still +standing on the fore-part of the ship; I do not know his name or who he +is. He takes the portrait of a beautiful young woman from his pocket +and gazes at it earnestly.” + +Mrs. Boxer, who had no illusions on the subject of her personal +appearance, sat up as though she had been stung; Mr. Thompson, who was +about to nudge Mr. Boxer in the ribs again, thought better of it and +assumed an air of uncompromising virtue. + +“The picture disappears,” said Mr. Silver. “Ah! I see; I see. A ship in +a gale at sea. It is the _North Star;_ it is sinking. The ill-shaped +man sheds tears and loses his head. I cannot discover the name of this +man.” + +Mr. Boxer, who had been several times on the point of interrupting, +cleared his throat and endeavoured to look unconcerned. + +“The ship sinks,” continued the astrologer, in thrilling tones. “Ah! +what is this? a piece of wreckage with a monkey clinging to it? No, +no-o. The ill-shaped man again. Dear me!” + + +[Illustration] + +His listeners sat spellbound. Only the laboured and intense breathing +of Mr. Boxer broke the silence. + +“He is alone on the boundless sea,” pursued the seer; “night falls. Day +breaks, and a canoe propelled by a slender and pretty but dusky maiden +approaches the castaway. She assists him into the canoe and his head +sinks on her lap, as with vigorous strokes of her paddle she propels +the canoe toward a small island fringed with palm trees.” + +“Here, look ’ere—” began the overwrought Mr. Boxer. + +“_H’sh, h’sh!_” ejaculated the keenly interested Mr. Thompson. “W’y +don’t you keep quiet?” + +“The picture fades,” continued the old man. “I see another: a native +wedding. It is the dusky maiden and the man she rescued. Ah! the +wedding is interrupted; a young man, a native, breaks into the group. +He has a long knife in his hand. He springs upon the ill-shaped man and +wounds him in the head.” + +Involuntarily Mr. Boxer’s hand went up to his honourable scar, and the +heads of the others swung round to gaze at it. Mrs. Boxer’s face was +terrible in its expression, but Mrs. Gimpson’s bore the look of sad and +patient triumph of one who knew men and could not be surprised at +anything they do. + +“The scene vanishes,” resumed the monotonous voice, “and another one +forms. The same man stands on the deck of a small ship. The name on the +stern is the _Peer_—no, _Paris_—no, no, no, _Pearl_. It fades from the +shore where the dusky maiden stands with hands stretched out +imploringly. The ill-shaped man smiles and takes the portrait of the +young and beautiful girl from his pocket.” + +“Look ’ere,” said the infuriated Mr. Boxer, “I think we’ve ’ad about +enough of this rubbish. I have—more than enough.” + +“I don’t wonder at it,” said his wife, trembling furiously. “You can go +if you like. I’m going to stay and hear all that there is to hear.” + +“You sit quiet,” urged the intensely interested Mr. Thompson. “He ain’t +said it’s you. There’s more than one misshaped man in the world, I +s’pose?” + +“I see an ocean liner,” said the seer, who had appeared to be in a +trance state during this colloquy. “She is sailing for England from +Australia. I see the name distinctly: the _Marston Towers_. The same +man is on board of her. The ship arrives at London. The scene closes; +another one forms. The ill-shaped man is sitting with a woman with a +beautiful face—not the same as the photograph.” + +“What they can see in him I can’t think,” muttered Mr. Thompson, in an +envious whisper. “He’s a perfick terror, and to look at him——” + +“They sit hand in hand,” continued the astrologer, raising his voice. +“She smiles up at him and gently strokes his head; he——” + +A loud smack rang through the room and startled the entire company; +Mrs. Boxer, unable to contain herself any longer, had, so far from +profiting by the example, gone to the other extreme and slapped her +husband’s head with hearty good-will. Mr. Boxer sprang raging to his +feet, and in the confusion which ensued the fortune-teller, to the +great regret of Mr. Thompson, upset the contents of the magic bowl. + +“I can see no more,” he said, sinking hastily into his chair behind the +table as Mr. Boxer advanced upon him. + +Mrs. Gimpson pushed her son-in-law aside, and laying a modest fee upon +the table took her daughter’s arm and led her out. The Thompsons +followed, and Mr. Boxer, after an irresolute glance in the direction of +the ingenuous Mr. Silver, made his way after them and fell into the +rear. The people in front walked on for some time in silence, and then +the voice of the greatly impressed Mrs. Thompson was heard, to the +effect that if there were only more fortune-tellers in the world there +would be a lot more better men. + +Mr. Boxer trotted up to his wife’s side. “Look here, Mary,” he began. + +“Don’t you speak to me,” said his wife, drawing closer to her mother, +“because I won’t answer you.” + +Mr. Boxer laughed, bitterly. “This is a nice home-coming,” he remarked. + +He fell to the rear again and walked along raging, his temper by no +means being improved by observing that Mrs. Thompson, doubtless with a +firm belief in the saying that “Evil communications corrupt good +manners,” kept a tight hold of her husband’s arm. His position as an +outcast was clearly defined, and he ground his teeth with rage as he +observed the virtuous uprightness of Mrs. Gimpson’s back. By the time +they reached home he was in a spirit of mad recklessness far in advance +of the character given him by the astrologer. + +His wife gazed at him with a look of such strong interrogation as he +was about to follow her into the house that he paused with his foot on +the step and eyed her dumbly. + +“Have you left anything inside that you want?” she inquired. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Boxer shook his head. “I only wanted to come in and make a clean +breast of it,” he said, in a curious voice; “then I’ll go.” + +Mrs. Gimpson stood aside to let him pass, and Mr. Thompson, not to be +denied, followed close behind with his faintly protesting wife. They +sat down in a row against the wall, and Mr. Boxer, sitting opposite in +a hang-dog fashion, eyed them with scornful wrath. + +“Well?” said Mrs. Boxer, at last. + +“All that he said was quite true,” said her husband, defiantly. “The +only thing is, he didn’t tell the arf of it. Altogether, I married +three dusky maidens.” + +Everybody but Mr. Thompson shuddered with horror. + +“Then I married a white girl in Australia,” pursued Mr. Boxer, +musingly. “I wonder old Silver didn’t see that in the bowl; not arf a +fortune-teller, I call ’im.” + +“What they _see_ in ’im!” whispered the astounded Mr. Thompson to his +wife. + +“And did you marry the beautiful girl in the photograph?” demanded Mrs. +Boxer, in trembling accents. + +“I did,” said her husband. + +“Hussy,” cried Mrs. Boxer. + +“I married her,” said Mr. Boxer, considering—“I married her at +Camberwell, in eighteen ninety-three.” + +“Eighteen _ninety-three!_” said his wife, in a startled voice. “But you +couldn’t. Why, you didn’t marry me till eighteen ninety-_four_.” + +“What’s that got to do with it?” inquired the monster, calmly. + +Mrs. Boxer, pale as ashes, rose from her seat and stood gazing at him +with horror-struck eyes, trying in vain to speak. + +“You villain!” cried Mrs. Gimpson, violently. “I always distrusted +you.” + + +[Illustration] + +“I know you did,” said Mr. Boxer, calmly. “You’ve been committing +bigamy,” cried Mrs. Gimpson. + +“Over and over agin,” assented Mr. Boxer, cheerfully. “It’s got to be a +’obby with me.” + +“Was the first wife alive when you married my daughter?” demanded Mrs. +Gimpson. + +“Alive?” said Mr. Boxer. “O’ course she was. She’s alive now—bless +her.” + +He leaned back in his chair and regarded with intense satisfaction the +horrified faces of the group in front. + +“You—you’ll go to jail for this,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, breathlessly. +“What is your first wife’s address?” + +“I decline to answer that question,” said her son-in-law. + +“What is your first wife’s address?” repeated Mrs. Gimpson. + +“Ask the fortune-teller,” said Mr. Boxer, with an aggravating smile. +“And then get ’im up in the box as a witness, little bowl and all. He +can tell you more than I can.” + +“I demand to know her name and address,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, putting a +bony arm around the waist of the trembling Mrs. Boxer. + +“I decline to give it,” said Mr. Boxer, with great relish. “It ain’t +likely I’m going to give myself away like that; besides, it’s agin the +law for a man to criminate himself. You go on and start your bigamy +case, and call old red-eyes as a witness.” + +Mrs. Gimpson gazed at him in speechless wrath and then stooping down +conversed in excited whispers with Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Boxer crossed +over to her husband. + +“Oh, John,” she wailed, “say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true.” + +Mr. Boxer hesitated. “What’s the good o’ me saying anything?” he said, +doggedly. + +“It isn’t true,” persisted his wife. “Say it isn’t true.” + +“What I told you when I first came in this evening was quite true,” +said her husband, slowly. “And what I’ve just told you is as true as +what that lying old fortune-teller told you. You can please yourself +what you believe.” + +“I believe you, John,” said his wife, humbly. + +Mr. Boxer’s countenance cleared and he drew her on to his knee. + +“That’s right,” he said, cheerfully. “So long as you believe in me I +don’t care what other people think. And before I’m much older I’ll find +out how that old rascal got to know the names of the ships I was +aboard. Seems to me somebody’s been talking.” + + + + +BLUNDELL’S IMPROVEMENT + + +Venia Turnbull in a quiet, unobtrusive fashion was enjoying herself. +The cool living-room at Turnbull’s farm was a delightful contrast to +the hot sunshine without, and the drowsy humming of bees floating in at +the open window was charged with hints of slumber to the middle-aged. +From her seat by the window she watched with amused interest the +efforts of her father—kept from his Sunday afternoon nap by the +assiduous attentions of her two admirers—to maintain his politeness. + +“Father was so pleased to see you both come in,” she said, softly; +“it’s very dull for him here of an afternoon with only me.” + + +[Illustration] + +“I can’t imagine anybody being dull with only you,” said Sergeant Dick +Daly, turning a bold brown eye upon her. + +Mr. John Blundell scowled; this was the third time the sergeant had +said the thing that he would have liked to say if he had thought of it. + +“I don’t mind being dull,” remarked Mr. Turnbull, casually. + +Neither gentleman made any comment. + +“I like it,” pursued Mr. Turnbull, longingly; “always did, from a +child.” + +The two young men looked at each other; then they looked at Venia; the +sergeant assumed an expression of careless ease, while John Blundell +sat his chair like a human limpet. Mr. Turnbull almost groaned as he +remembered his tenacity. + +“The garden’s looking very nice,” he said, with a pathetic glance +round. + +“Beautiful,” assented the sergeant. “I saw it yesterday.” + +“Some o’ the roses on that big bush have opened a bit more since then,” +said the farmer. + +Sergeant Daly expressed his gratification, and said that he was not +surprised. It was only ten days since he had arrived in the village on +a visit to a relative, but in that short space of time he had, to the +great discomfort of Mr. Blundell, made himself wonderfully at home at +Mr. Turnbull’s. To Venia he related strange adventures by sea and land, +and on subjects of which he was sure the farmer knew nothing he was a +perfect mine of information. He began to talk in low tones to Venia, +and the heart of Mr. Blundell sank within him as he noted her interest. +Their voices fell to a gentle murmur, and the sergeant’s sleek, +well-brushed head bent closer to that of his listener. Relieved from +his attentions, Mr. Turnbull fell asleep without more ado. + +Blundell sat neglected, the unwilling witness of a flirtation he was +powerless to prevent. Considering her limited opportunities, Miss +Turnbull displayed a proficiency which astonished him. Even the +sergeant was amazed, and suspected her of long practice. + +“I wonder whether it is very hot outside?” she said, at last, rising +and looking out of the window. + +“Only pleasantly warm,” said the sergeant. “It would be nice down by +the water.” + +“I’m afraid of disturbing father by our talk,” said the considerate +daughter. “You might tell him we’ve gone for a little stroll when he +wakes,” she added, turning to Blundell. + +Mr. Blundell, who had risen with the idea of acting the humble but, in +his opinion, highly necessary part of chaperon, sat down again and +watched blankly from the window until they were out of sight. He was +half inclined to think that the exigencies of the case warranted him in +arousing the farmer at once. + +It was an hour later when the farmer awoke, to find himself alone with +Mr. Blundell, a state of affairs for which he strove with some +pertinacity to make that aggrieved gentleman responsible. + +“Why didn’t you go with them?” he demanded. “Because I wasn’t asked,” +replied the other. + +Mr. Turnbull sat up in his chair and eyed him disdainfully. “For a +great, big chap like you are, John Blundell,” he exclaimed, “it’s +surprising what a little pluck you’ve got.” + +“I don’t want to go where I’m not wanted,” retorted Mr. Blundell. + +“That’s where you make a mistake,” said the other, regarding him +severely; “girls like a masterful man, and, instead of getting your own +way, you sit down quietly and do as you’re told, like a tame—tame—” + +“Tame what?” inquired Mr. Blundell, resentfully. + +“I don’t know,” said the other, frankly; “the tamest thing you can +think of. There’s Daly laughing in his sleeve at you, and talking to +Venia about Waterloo and the Crimea as though he’d been there. I +thought it was pretty near settled between you.” + +“So did I,” said Mr. Blundell. + +“You’re a big man, John,” said the other, “but you’re slow. You’re all +muscle and no head.” + +“I think of things afterward,” said Blundell, humbly; “generally after +I get to bed.” + +Mr. Turnbull sniffed, and took a turn up and down the room; then he +closed the door and came toward his friend again. + +“I dare say you’re surprised at me being so anxious to get rid of +Venia,” he said, slowly, “but the fact is I’m thinking of marrying +again myself.” + +“_You!_” said the startled Mr. Blundell. + +“Yes, me,” said the other, somewhat sharply. “But she won’t marry so +long as Venia is at home. It’s a secret, because if Venia got to hear +of it she’d keep single to prevent it. She’s just that sort of girl.” + +Mr. Blundell coughed, but did not deny it. “Who is it?” he inquired. + +“Miss Sippet,” was the reply. “She couldn’t hold her own for half an +hour against Venia.” + +Mr. Blundell, a great stickler for accuracy, reduced the time to five +minutes. + +“And now,” said the aggrieved Mr. Turnbull, “now, so far as I can see, +she’s struck with Daly. If she has him it’ll be years and years before +they can marry. She seems crazy about heroes. She was talking to me the +other night about them. Not to put too fine a point on it, she was +talking about you.” + +Mr. Blundell blushed with pleased surprise. + +“Said you were _not_ a hero,” explained Mr. Turnbull. “Of course, I +stuck up for you. I said you’d got too much sense to go putting your +life into danger. I said you were a very careful man, and I told her +how particular you was about damp sheets. Your housekeeper told me.” + +“It’s all nonsense,” said Blundell, with a fiery face. “I’ll send that +old fool packing if she can’t keep her tongue quiet.” + +“It’s very sensible of you, John,” said Mr. Turnbull, “and a sensible +girl would appreciate it. Instead of that, she only sniffed when I told +her how careful you always were to wear flannel next to your skin. She +said she liked dare-devils.” + +“I suppose she thinks Daly is a dare-devil,” said the offended Mr. +Blundell. “And I wish people wouldn’t talk about me and my skin. Why +can’t they mind their own business?” + +Mr. Turnbull eyed him indignantly, and then, sitting in a very upright +position, slowly filled his pipe, and declining a proffered match rose +and took one from the mantel-piece. + +“I was doing the best I could for you,” he said, staring hard at the +ingrate. “I was trying to make Venia see what a careful husband you +would make. Miss Sippet herself is most particular about such +things—and Venia seemed to think something of it, because she asked me +whether you used a warming-pan.” + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Blundell got up from his chair and, without going through the +formality of bidding his host good-by, quitted the room and closed the +door violently behind him. He was red with rage, and he brooded darkly +as he made his way home on the folly of carrying on the traditions of a +devoted mother without thinking for himself. + +For the next two or three days, to Venia’s secret concern, he failed to +put in an appearance at the farm—a fact which made flirtation with the +sergeant a somewhat uninteresting business. Her sole recompense was the +dismay of her father, and for his benefit she dwelt upon the advantages +of the Army in a manner that would have made the fortune of a +recruiting-sergeant. + +“She’s just crazy after the soldiers,” he said to Mr. Blundell, whom he +was trying to spur on to a desperate effort. “I’ve been watching her +close, and I can see what it is now; she’s romantic. You’re too slow +and ordinary for her. She wants somebody more dazzling. She told Daly +only yesterday afternoon that she loved heroes. Told it to him to his +face. I sat there and heard her. It’s a pity you ain’t a hero, John.” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Blundell; “then, if I was, I expect she’d like +something else.” + +The other shook his head. “If you could only do something daring,” he +murmured; “half-kill somebody, or save somebody’s life, and let her see +you do it. Couldn’t you dive off the quay and save somebody’s life from +drowning?” + +“Yes, I could,” said Blundell, “if somebody would only tumble in.” + +“You might pretend that you thought you saw somebody drowning,” +suggested Mr. Turnbull. + +“And be laughed at,” said Mr. Blundell, who knew his Venia by heart. + +“You always seem to be able to think of objections,” complained Mr. +Turnbull; “I’ve noticed that in you before.” + +“I’d go in fast enough if there was anybody there,” said Blundell. “I’m +not much of a swimmer, but—” + +“All the better,” interrupted the other; “that would make it all the +more daring.” + +“And I don’t much care if I’m drowned,” pursued the younger man, +gloomily. + +Mr. Turnbull thrust his hands in his pockets and took a turn or two up +and down the room. His brows were knitted and his lips pursed. In the +presence of this mental stress Mr. Blundell preserved a respectful +silence. + +“We’ll all four go for a walk on the quay on Sunday afternoon,” said +Mr. Turnbull, at last. + +“On the chance?” inquired his staring friend. + +“On the chance,” assented the other; “it’s just possible Daly might +fall in.” + +“He might if we walked up and down five million times,” said Blundell, +unpleasantly. + +“He might if we walked up and down three or four times,” said Mr. +Turnbull, “especially if you happened to stumble.” + +“I never stumble,” said the matter-of-fact Mr. Blundell. “I don’t know +anybody more sure-footed than I am.” + +“Or thick-headed,” added the exasperated Mr. Turnbull. + +Mr. Blundell regarded him patiently; he had a strong suspicion that his +friend had been drinking. + +“Stumbling,” said Mr. Turnbull, conquering his annoyance with an effort +“stumbling is a thing that might happen to anybody. You trip your foot +against a stone and lurch up against Daly; he tumbles overboard, and +you off with your jacket and dive in off the quay after him. He can’t +swim a stroke.” + +Mr. Blundell caught his breath and gazed at him in speechless amaze. + +“There’s sure to be several people on the quay if it’s a fine +afternoon,” continued his instructor. “You’ll have half Dunchurch round +you, praising you and patting you on the back—all in front of Venia, +mind you. It’ll be put in all the papers and you’ll get a medal.” + +“And suppose we are both drowned?” said Mr. Blundell, soberly. + +“Drowned? Fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Turnbull. “However, please yourself. +If you’re afraid——” + +“I’ll do it,” said Blundell, decidedly. + +“And mind,” said the other, “don’t do it as if it’s as easy as kissing +your fingers; be half-drowned yourself, or at least pretend to be. And +when you’re on the quay take your time about coming round. Be longer +than Daly is; you don’t want him to get all the pity.” + +“All right,” said the other. + +“After a time you can open your eyes,” went on his instructor; “then, +if I were you, I should say, ‘Good-bye, Venia,’ and close ’em again. +Work it up affecting, and send messages to your aunts.” + +“It sounds all right,” said Blundell. + +“It _is_ all right,” said Mr. Turnbull. “That’s just the bare idea I’ve +given you. It’s for you to improve upon it. You’ve got two days to +think about it.” + +Mr. Blundell thanked him, and for the next two days thought of little +else. Being a careful man he made his will, and it was in a +comparatively cheerful frame of mind that he made his way on Sunday +afternoon to Mr. Turnbull’s. + +The sergeant was already there conversing in low tones with Venia by +the window, while Mr. Turnbull, sitting opposite in an oaken armchair, +regarded him with an expression which would have shocked Iago. + +“We were just thinking of having a blow down by the water,” he said, as +Blundell entered. + +“What! a hot day like this?” said Venia. + +“I was just thinking how beautifully cool it is in here,” said the +sergeant, who was hoping for a repetition of the previous Sunday’s +performance. + +“It’s cooler outside,” said Mr. Turnbull, with a wilful ignoring of +facts; “much cooler when you get used to it.” + +He led the way with Blundell, and Venia and the sergeant, keeping as +much as possible in the shade of the dust-powdered hedges, followed. +The sun was blazing in the sky, and scarce half-a-dozen people were to +be seen on the little curved quay which constituted the usual Sunday +afternoon promenade. The water, a dozen feet below, lapped cool and +green against the stone sides. + +At the extreme end of the quay, underneath the lantern, they all +stopped, ostensibly to admire a full-rigged ship sailing slowly by in +the distance, but really to effect the change of partners necessary to +the afternoon’s business. The change gave Mr. Turnbull some trouble ere +it was effected, but he was successful at last, and, walking behind the +two young men, waited somewhat nervously for developments. + +Twice they paraded the length of the quay and nothing happened. The +ship was still visible, and, the sergeant halting to gaze at it, the +company lost their formation, and he led the complaisant Venia off from +beneath her father’s very nose. + +“You’re a pretty manager, you are, John Blundell,” said the incensed +Mr. Turnbull. + +“I know what I’m about,” said Blundell, slowly. + +“Well, why don’t you do it?” demanded the other. “I suppose you are +going to wait until there are more people about, and then perhaps some +of them will see you push him over.” + +“It isn’t that,” said Blundell, slowly, “but you told me to improve on +your plan, you know, and I’ve been thinking out improvements.” + +“Well?” said the other. + +“It doesn’t seem much good saving Daly,” said Blundell; “that’s what +I’ve been thinking. He would be in as much danger as I should, and he’d +get as much sympathy; perhaps more.” + +“Do you mean to tell me that you are backing out of it?” demanded Mr. +Turnbull. + +“No,” said Blundell, slowly, “but it would be much better if I saved +somebody else. I don’t want Daly to be pitied.” + +“Bah! you are backing out of it,” said the irritated Mr. Turnbull. +“You’re afraid of a little cold water.” + + +[Illustration] + +“No, I’m not,” said Blundell; “but it would be better in every way to +save somebody else. She’ll see Daly standing there doing nothing, while +I am struggling for my life. I’ve thought it all out very carefully. I +know I’m not quick, but I’m sure, and when I make up my mind to do a +thing, I do it. You ought to know that.” + +“That’s all very well,” said the other; “but who else is there to push +in?” + +“That’s all right,” said Blundell, vaguely. “Don’t you worry about +that; I shall find somebody.” + +Mr. Turnbull turned and cast a speculative eye along the quay. As a +rule, he had great confidence in Blundell’s determination, but on this +occasion he had his doubts. + +“Well, it’s a riddle to me,” he said, slowly. “I give it up. It seems— +_Halloa!_ Good heavens, be careful. You nearly had _me_ in then.” + +“Did I?” said Blundell, thickly. “I’m very sorry.” + +Mr. Turnbull, angry at such carelessness, accepted the apology in a +grudging spirit and trudged along in silence. Then he started nervously +as a monstrous and unworthy suspicion occurred to him. It was an +incredible thing to suppose, but at the same time he felt that there +was nothing like being on the safe side, and in tones not quite free +from significance he intimated his desire of changing places with his +awkward friend. + +“It’s all right,” said Blundell, soothingly. + +“I know it is,” said Mr. Turnbull, regarding him fixedly; “but I prefer +this side. You very near had me over just now.” + +“I staggered,” said Mr. Blundell. + +“Another inch and I should have been overboard,” said Mr. Turnbull, +with a shudder. “That would have been a nice how d’ye do.” + +Mr. Blundell coughed and looked seaward. “Accidents will happen,” he +murmured. + +They reached the end of the quay again and stood talking, and when they +turned once more the sergeant was surprised and gratified at the ease +with which he bore off Venia. Mr. Turnbull and Blundell followed some +little way behind, and the former gentleman’s suspicions were somewhat +lulled by finding that his friend made no attempt to take the inside +place. He looked about him with interest for a likely victim, but in +vain. + +“What are you looking at?” he demanded, impatiently, as Blundell +suddenly came to a stop and gazed curiously into the harbour. + +“Jelly-fish,” said the other, briefly. “I never saw such a monster. It +must be a yard across.” + +Mr. Turnbull stopped, but could see nothing, and even when Blundell +pointed it out with his finger he had no better success. He stepped +forward a pace, and his suspicions returned with renewed vigour as a +hand was laid caressingly on his shoulder. The next moment, with a wild +shriek, he shot suddenly over the edge and disappeared. Venia and the +sergeant, turning hastily, were just in time to see the fountain which +ensued on his immersion. + + +[Illustration] + +“Oh, save him!” cried Venia. + +The sergeant ran to the edge and gazed in helpless dismay as Mr. +Turnbull came to the surface and disappeared again. At the same moment +Blundell, who had thrown off his coat, dived into the harbour and, +rising rapidly to the surface, caught the fast-choking Mr. Turnbull by +the collar. + +“Keep still,” he cried, sharply, as the farmer tried to clutch him; +“keep still or I’ll let you go.” + +“Help!” choked the farmer, gazing up at the little knot of people which +had collected on the quay. + +A stout fisherman who had not run for thirty years came along the edge +of the quay at a shambling trot, with a coil of rope over his arm. John +Blundell saw him and, mindful of the farmer’s warning about kissing of +fingers, etc., raised his disengaged arm and took that frenzied +gentleman below the surface again. By the time they came up he was very +glad for his own sake to catch the line skilfully thrown by the old +fisherman and be drawn gently to the side. + +“I’ll tow you to the steps,” said the fisherman; “don’t let go o’ the +line.” + +Mr. Turnbull saw to that; he wound the rope round his wrist and began +to regain his presence of mind as they were drawn steadily toward the +steps. Willing hands drew them out of the water and helped them up on +to the quay, where Mr. Turnbull, sitting in his own puddle, coughed up +salt water and glared ferociously at the inanimate form of Mr. +Blundell. Sergeant Daly and another man were rendering what they +piously believed to be first aid to the apparently drowned, while the +stout fisherman, with both hands to his mouth, was yelling in +heart-rending accents for a barrel. + +“He—he—push—pushed me in,” gasped the choking Mr. Turnbull. + +Nobody paid any attention to him; even Venia, seeing that he was safe, +was on her knees by the side of the unconscious Blundell. + +“He—he’s shamming,” bawled the neglected Mr. Turnbull. + +“Shame!” said somebody, without even looking round. + +“He pushed me in,” repeated Mr. Turnbull. “He pushed me in.” + +“Oh, father,” said Venia, with a scandalised glance at him, “how can +you?” + +“Shame!” said the bystanders, briefly, as they, watched anxiously for +signs of returning life on the part of Mr. Blundell. He lay still with +his eyes closed, but his hearing was still acute, and the sounds of a +rapidly approaching barrel trundled by a breathless Samaritan did him +more good than anything. + +“Good-bye, Venia,” he said, in a faint voice; “good-bye.” + +Miss Turnbull sobbed and took his hand. + +“He’s shamming,” roared Mr. Turnbull, incensed beyond measure at the +faithful manner in which Blundell was carrying out his instructions. +“He pushed me in.” + +There was an angry murmur from the bystanders. “Be reasonable, Mr. +Turnbull,” said the sergeant, somewhat sharply. + +“He nearly lost ’is life over you,” said the stout fisherman. “As +plucky a thing as ever I see. If I ’adn’t ha’ been ’andy with that +there line you’d both ha’ been drownded.” + +“Give—my love—to everybody,” said Blundell, faintly. “Good-bye, Venia. +Good-bye, Mr. Turnbull.” + +“Where’s that barrel?” demanded the stout fisherman, crisply. “Going +to be all night with it? Now, two of you——” + +Mr. Blundell, with a great effort, and assisted by Venia and the +sergeant, sat up. He felt that he had made a good impression, and had +no desire to spoil it by riding the barrel. With one exception, +everybody was regarding him with moist-eyed admiration. The exception’s +eyes were, perhaps, the moistest of them all, but admiration had no +place in them. + +“You’re all being made fools of,” he said, getting up and stamping. “I +tell you he pushed me overboard for the purpose.” + +“Oh, father! how can you?” demanded Venia, angrily. “He saved your +life.” + +“He pushed me in,” repeated the farmer. “Told me to look at a +jelly-fish and pushed me in.” + +“What for?” inquired Sergeant Daly. + +“Because—” said Mr. Turnbull. He looked at the unconscious sergeant, +and the words on his lips died away in an inarticulate growl. + +“What for?” pursued the sergeant, in triumph. “Be reasonable, Mr. +Turnbull. Where’s the reason in pushing you overboard and then nearly +losing his life saving you? That would be a fool’s trick. It was as +fine a thing as ever I saw.” + +“What you ’ad, Mr. Turnbull,” said the stout fisherman, tapping him on +the arm, “was a little touch o’ the sun.” + +“What felt to you like a push,” said another man, “and over you went.” + +“As easy as easy,” said a third. + +“You’re red in the face now,” said the stout fisherman, regarding him +critically, “and your eyes are starting. You take my advice and get +’ome and get to bed, and the first thing you’ll do when you get your +senses back will be to go round and thank Mr. Blundell for all ’e’s +done for you.” + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Turnbull looked at them, and the circle of intelligent faces grew +misty before his angry eyes. One man, ignoring his sodden condition, +recommended a wet handkerchief tied round his brow. + +“I don’t want any thanks, Mr. Turnbull,” said Blundell, feebly, as he +was assisted to his feet. “I’d do as much for you again.” + +The stout fisherman patted him admiringly on the back, and Mr. Turnbull +felt like a prophet beholding a realised vision as the spectators +clustered round Mr. Blundell and followed their friends’ example. +Tenderly but firmly they led the hero in triumph up the quay toward +home, shouting out eulogistic descriptions of his valour to curious +neighbours as they passed. Mr. Turnbull, churlishly keeping his +distance in the rear of the procession, received in grim silence the +congratulations of his friends. + +The extraordinary hallucination caused by the sun-stroke lasted with +him for over a week, but at the end of that time his mind cleared and +he saw things in the same light as reasonable folk. Venia was the first +to congratulate him upon his recovery; but his extraordinary behaviour +in proposing to Miss Sippet the very day on which she herself became +Mrs. Blundell convinced her that his recovery was only partial. + + + + +BILL’S LAPSE + + +Strength and good-nature—said the night-watchman, musingly, as he felt +his biceps—strength and good-nature always go together. Sometimes you +find a strong man who is not good-natured, but then, as everybody he +comes in contack with is, it comes to the same thing. + +The strongest and kindest-’earted man I ever come across was a man o’ +the name of Bill Burton, a ship-mate of Ginger Dick’s. For that matter +’e was a shipmate o’ Peter Russet’s and old Sam Small’s too. Not over +and above tall; just about my height, his arms was like another man’s +legs for size, and ’is chest and his back and shoulders might ha’ been +made for a giant. And with all that he’d got a soft blue eye like a +gal’s (blue’s my favourite colour for gals’ eyes), and a nice, soft, +curly brown beard. He was an A.B., too, and that showed ’ow +good-natured he was, to pick up with firemen. + +He got so fond of ’em that when they was all paid off from the _Ocean +King_ he asked to be allowed to join them in taking a room ashore. It +pleased everybody, four coming cheaper than three, and Bill being that +good-tempered that ’e’d put up with anything, and when any of the three +quarrelled he used to act the part of peacemaker. + + +[Illustration] + +The only thing about ’im that they didn’t like was that ’e was a +teetotaler. He’d go into public-’ouses with ’em, but he wouldn’t drink; +leastways, that is to say, he wouldn’t drink beer, and Ginger used to +say that it made ’im feel uncomfortable to see Bill put away a bottle +o’ lemonade every time they ’ad a drink. One night arter ’e had ’ad +seventeen bottles he could ’ardly got home, and Peter Russet, who knew +a lot about pills and such-like, pointed out to ’im ’ow bad it was for +his constitushon. He proved that the lemonade would eat away the coats +o’ Bill’s stomach, and that if ’e kept on ’e might drop down dead at +any moment. + +That frightened Bill a bit, and the next night, instead of ’aving +lemonade, ’e had five bottles o’ stone ginger-beer, six of different +kinds of teetotal beer, three of soda-water, and two cups of coffee. +I’m not counting the drink he ’ad at the chemist’s shop arterward, +because he took that as medicine, but he was so queer in ’is inside +next morning that ’e began to be afraid he’d ’ave to give up drink +altogether. + +He went without the next night, but ’e was such a generous man that ’e +would pay every fourth time, and there was no pleasure to the other +chaps to see ’im pay and ’ave nothing out of it. It spoilt their +evening, and owing to ’aving only about ’arf wot they was accustomed to +they all got up very disagreeable next morning. + +“Why not take just a _little_ beer, Bill?” asks Ginger. + +Bill ’ung his ’ead and looked a bit silly. “I’d rather not, mate,” he +ses, at last. “I’ve been teetotal for eleven months now.” + +“Think of your ’ealth, Bill,” ses Peter Russet; “your ’ealth is more +important than the pledge. Wot made you take it?” + +Bill coughed. “I ’ad reasons,” he ses, slowly. “A mate o’ mine wished +me to.” + +“He ought to ha’ known better,” ses Sam. “He ’ad ’is reasons,” ses +Bill. + +“Well, all I can say is, Bill,” ses Ginger, “all I can say is, it’s +very disobligin’ of you.” + +“Disobligin’?” ses Bill, with a start; “don’t say that, mate.” + +“I must say it,” ses Ginger, speaking very firm. + +“You needn’t take a lot, Bill,” ses Sam; “nobody wants you to do that. +Just drink in moderation, same as wot we do.” + +“It gets into my ’ead,” ses Bill, at last. + +“Well, and wot of it?” ses Ginger; “it gets into everybody’s ’ead +occasionally. Why, one night old Sam ’ere went up behind a policeman +and tickled ’im under the arms; didn’t you, Sam?” + +“I did nothing o’ the kind,” ses Sam, firing up. + +“Well, you was fined ten bob for it next morning, that’s all I know,” +ses Ginger. + +“I was fined ten bob for punching ’im,” ses old Sam, very wild. “I +never tickled a policeman in my life. I never thought o’ such a thing. +I’d no more tickle a policeman than I’d fly. Anybody that ses I did is +a liar. Why should I? Where does the sense come in? Wot should I want +to do it for?” + +“All _right_, Sam,” ses Ginger, sticking ’is fingers in ’is ears, “you +didn’t, then.” + +“No, I didn’t,” ses Sam, “and don’t you forget it. This ain’t the fust +time you’ve told that lie about me. I can take a joke with any man; but +anybody that goes and ses I tickled—” + +“All right,” ses Ginger and Peter Russet together. “You’ll ’ave tickled +policeman on the brain if you ain’t careful, Sam,” ses Peter. + +Old Sam sat down growling, and Ginger Dick turned to Bill agin. “It +gets into everybody’s ’ead at times,” he ses, “and where’s the ’arm? +It’s wot it was meant for.” + +Bill shook his ’ead, but when Ginger called ’im disobligin’ agin he +gave way and he broke the pledge that very evening with a pint o’ six +’arf. + +Ginger was surprised to see the way ’e took his liquor. Arter three or +four pints he’d expected to see ’im turn a bit silly, or sing, or do +something o’ the kind, but Bill kept on as if ’e was drinking water. + +“Think of the ’armless pleasure you’ve been losing all these months, +Bill,” ses Ginger, smiling at him. + +Bill said it wouldn’t bear thinking of, and, the next place they came +to he said some rather ’ard things of the man who’d persuaded ’im to +take the pledge. He ’ad two or three more there, and then they began to +see that it was beginning to have an effect on ’im. The first one that +noticed it was Ginger Dick. Bill ’ad just lit ’is pipe, and as he threw +the match down he ses: “I don’t like these ’ere safety matches,” he +ses. + +“Don’t you, Bill?” ses Ginger. “I do, rather.” + +“Oh, you do, do you?” ses Bill, turning on ’im like lightning; “well, +take that for contradictin’,” he ses, an’ he gave Ginger a smack that +nearly knocked his ’ead off. + +It was so sudden that old Sam and Peter put their beer down and stared +at each other as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. Then they stooped +down and helped pore Ginger on to ’is legs agin and began to brush ’im +down. + +“Never mind about ’im, mates,” ses Bill, looking at Ginger very wicked. +“P’r’aps he won’t be so ready to give me ’is lip next time. Let’s come +to another pub and enjoy ourselves.” + +Sam and Peter followed ’im out like lambs, ’ardly daring to look over +their shoulder at Ginger, who was staggering arter them some distance +behind a ’olding a handerchief to ’is face. + +“It’s your turn to pay, Sam,” ses Bill, when they’d got inside the next +place. “Wot’s it to be? Give it a name.” + +“Three ’arf pints o’ four ale, miss,” ses Sam, not because ’e was mean, +but because it wasn’t ’is turn. “Three wot?” ses Bill, turning on ’im. + +“Three pots o’ six ale, miss,” ses Sam, in a hurry. + +“That wasn’t wot you said afore,” ses Bill. “Take that,” he ses, giving +pore old Sam a wipe in the mouth and knocking ’im over a stool; “take +that for your sauce.” + +Peter Russet stood staring at Sam and wondering wot Bill ud be like +when he’d ’ad a little more. Sam picked hisself up arter a time and +went outside to talk to Ginger about it, and then Bill put ’is arm +round Peter’s neck and began to cry a bit and say ’e was the only pal +he’d got left in the world. It was very awkward for Peter, and more +awkward still when the barman came up and told ’im to take Bill +outside. + +“Go on,” he ses, “out with ’im.” + +“He’s all right,” ses Peter, trembling; “we’s the truest-’arted +gentleman in London. Ain’t you, Bill?” + +Bill said he was, and ’e asked the barman to go and hide ’is face +because it reminded ’im of a little dog ’e had ’ad once wot ’ad died. + +“You get outside afore you’re hurt,” ses the barman. + +Bill punched at ’im over the bar, and not being able to reach ’im threw +Peter’s pot o’ beer at ’im. There was a fearful to-do then, and the +landlord jumped over the bar and stood in the doorway, whistling for +the police. Bill struck out right and left, and the men in the bar went +down like skittles, Peter among them. Then they got outside, and Bill, +arter giving the landlord a thump in the back wot nearly made him +swallow the whistle, jumped into a cab and pulled Peter Russet in arter +’im. + + +[Illustration] + +“I’ll talk to you by-and-by,” he ses, as the cab drove off at a gallop; +“there ain’t room in this cab. You wait, my lad, that’s all. You just +wait till we get out, and I’ll knock you silly.” + +“Wot for, Bill?” ses Peter, staring. + +“Don’t you talk to me,” roars Bill. “If I choose to knock you about +that’s my business, ain’t it? Besides, you know very well.” + +He wouldn’t let Peter say another word, but coming to a quiet place +near the docks he stopped the cab and pulling ’im out gave ’im such a +dressing down that Peter thought ’is last hour ’ad arrived. He let ’im +go at last, and after first making him pay the cab-man took ’im along +till they came to a public-’ouse and made ’im pay for drinks. + +They stayed there till nearly eleven o’clock, and then Bill set off +home ’olding the unfortunit Peter by the scruff o’ the neck, and +wondering out loud whether ’e ought to pay ’im a bit more or not. Afore +’e could make up ’is mind, however, he turned sleepy, and, throwing +’imself down on the bed which was meant for the two of ’em, fell into a +peaceful sleep. + +Sam and Ginger Dick came in a little while arterward, both badly marked +where Bill ’ad hit them, and sat talking to Peter in whispers as to wot +was to be done. Ginger, who ’ad plenty of pluck, was for them all to +set on to ’im, but Sam wouldn’t ’ear of it, and as for Peter he was so +sore he could ’ardly move. + +They all turned in to the other bed at last, ’arf afraid to move for +fear of disturbing Bill, and when they woke up in the morning and see +’im sitting up in ’is bed they lay as still as mice. + +“Why, Ginger, old chap,” ses Bill, with a ’earty smile, “wot are you +all three in one bed for?” + +“We was a bit cold,” ses Ginger. + +“Cold?” ses Bill. “Wot, this weather? We ’ad a bit of a spree last +night, old man, didn’t we? My throat’s as dry as a cinder.” + +“It ain’t my idea of a spree,” ses Ginger, sitting up and looking at +’im. + +“Good ’eavens, Ginger!” ses Bill, starting back, “wotever ’ave you been +a-doing to your face? Have you been tumbling off of a ’bus?” + +Ginger couldn’t answer; and Sam Small and Peter sat up in bed alongside +of ’im, and Bill, getting as far back on ’is bed as he could, sat +staring at their pore faces as if ’e was having a ’orrible dream. + +“And there’s Sam,” he ses. “Where ever did you get that mouth, Sam?” + +“Same place as Ginger got ’is eye and pore Peter got ’is face,” ses +Sam, grinding his teeth. + +“You don’t mean to tell me,” ses Bill, in a sad voice—“you don’t mean +to tell me that I did it?” + +“You know well enough,” ses Ginger. + +Bill looked at ’em, and ’is face got as long as a yard measure. + +“I’d ’oped I’d growed out of it, mates,” he ses, at last, “but drink +always takes me like that. I can’t keep a pal.” + +“You surprise me,” ses Ginger, sarcastic-like. “Don’t talk like that, +Ginger,” ses Bill, ’arf crying. + +“It ain’t my fault; it’s my weakness. Wot did I do it for?” + +“I don’t know,” ses Ginger, “but you won’t get the chance of doing it +agin, I’ll tell you that much.” + +“I daresay I shall be better to-night, Ginger,” ses Bill, very humble; +“it don’t always take me that way. + +“Well, we don’t want you with us any more,” ses old Sam, ’olding his +’ead very high. + +“You’ll ’ave to go and get your beer by yourself, Bill,” ses Peter +Russet, feeling ’is bruises with the tips of ’is fingers. + +“But then I should be worse,” ses Bill. “I want cheerful company when +I’m like that. I should very likely come ’ome and ’arf kill you all in +your beds. You don’t ’arf know what I’m like. Last night was nothing, +else I should ’ave remembered it.” + +“Cheerful company?” ses old Sam. “’Ow do you think company’s going to +be cheerful when you’re carrying on like that, Bill? Why don’t you go +away and leave us alone?” + +“Because I’ve got a ’art,” ses Bill. “I can’t chuck up pals in that +free-and-easy way. Once I take a liking to anybody I’d do anything for +’em, and I’ve never met three chaps I like better than wot I do you. +Three nicer, straight-forrad, free-’anded mates I’ve never met afore.” + +“Why not take the pledge agin, Bill?” ses Peter Russet. + +“No, mate,” ses Bill, with a kind smile; “it’s just a weakness, and I +must try and grow out of it. I’ll tie a bit o’ string round my little +finger to-night as a reminder.” + +He got out of bed and began to wash ’is face, and Ginger Dick, who was +doing a bit o’ thinking, gave a whisper to Sam and Peter Russet. + +“All right, Bill, old man,” he ses, getting out of bed and beginning to +put his clothes on; “but first of all we’ll try and find out ’ow the +landlord is.” + +“Landlord?” ses Bill, puffing and blowing in the basin. “Wot landlord?” + +“Why, the one you bashed,” ses Ginger, with a wink at the other two. +“He ’adn’t got ’is senses back when me and Sam came away.” + +Bill gave a groan and sat on the bed while ’e dried himself, and Ginger +told ’im ’ow he ’ad bent a quart pot on the landlord’s ’ead, and ’ow +the landlord ’ad been carried upstairs and the doctor sent for. He +began to tremble all over, and when Ginger said he’d go out and see ’ow +the land lay ’e could ’ardly thank ’im enough. + +He stayed in the bedroom all day, with the blinds down, and wouldn’t +eat anything, and when Ginger looked in about eight o’clock to find out +whether he ’ad gone, he found ’im sitting on the bed clean shaved, and +’is face cut about all over where the razor ’ad slipped. + +Ginger was gone about two hours, and when ’e came back he looked so +solemn that old Sam asked ’im whether he ’ad seen a ghost. Ginger +didn’t answer ’im; he set down on the side o’ the bed and sat thinking. + +“I s’pose—I s’pose it’s nice and fresh in the streets this morning?” +ses Bill, at last, in a trembling voice. + +Ginger started and looked at ’im. “I didn’t notice, mate,” he ses. Then +’e got up and patted Bill on the back, very gentle, and sat down again. + + +[Illustration] + +“Anything wrong, Ginger?” asks Peter Russet, staring at ’im. + +“It’s that landlord,” ses Ginger; “there’s straw down in the road +outside, and they say that he’s dying. Pore old Bill don’t know ’is own +strength. The best thing you can do, old pal, is to go as far away as +you can, at once.” + +“I shouldn’t wait a minnit if it was me,” ses old Sam. + +Bill groaned and hid ’is face in his ’ands, and then Peter Russet went +and spoilt things by saying that the safest place for a murderer to +’ide in was London. Bill gave a dreadful groan when ’e said murderer, +but ’e up and agreed with Peter, and all Sam and Ginger Dick could do +wouldn’t make ’im alter his mind. He said that he would shave off ’is +beard and moustache, and when night came ’e would creep out and take a +lodging somewhere right the other end of London. + +“It’ll soon be dark,” ses Ginger, “and your own brother wouldn’t know +you now, Bill. Where d’you think of going?” + +Bill shook his ’ead. “Nobody must know that, mate,” he ses. “I must go +into hiding for as long as I can—as long as my money lasts; I’ve only +got six pounds left.” + +“That’ll last a long time if you’re careful,” ses Ginger. + +“I want a lot more,” ses Bill. “I want you to take this silver ring as +a keepsake, Ginger. If I ’ad another six pounds or so I should feel +much safer. ’Ow much ’ave you got, Ginger?” + +“Not much,” ses Ginger, shaking his ’ead. + +“Lend it to me, mate,” ses Bill, stretching out his ’and. “You can easy +get another ship. Ah, I wish I was you; I’d be as ’appy as ’appy if I +hadn’t got a penny.” + +“I’m very sorry, Bill,” ses Ginger, trying to smile, “but I’ve already +promised to lend it to a man wot we met this evening. A promise is a +promise, else I’d lend it to you with pleasure.” + +“Would you let me be ’ung for the sake of a few pounds, Ginger?” ses +Bill, looking at ’im reproachfully. “I’m a desprit man, Ginger, and I +must ’ave that money.” + +Afore pore Ginger could move he suddenly clapped ’is hand over ’is +mouth and flung ’im on the bed. Ginger was like a child in ’is hands, +although he struggled like a madman, and in five minutes ’e was laying +there with a towel tied round his mouth and ’is arms and legs tied up +with the cord off of Sam’s chest. + +“I’m very sorry, Ginger,” ses Bill, as ’e took a little over eight +pounds out of Ginger’s pocket. “I’ll pay you back one o’ these days, if +I can. If you’d got a rope round your neck same as I ’ave you’d do the +same as I’ve done.” + +He lifted up the bedclothes and put Ginger inside and tucked ’im up. +Ginger’s face was red with passion and ’is eyes starting out of his +’ead. + +“Eight and six is fifteen,” ses Bill, and just then he ’eard somebody +coming up the stairs. Ginger ’eard it, too, and as Peter Russet came +into the room ’e tried all ’e could to attract ’is attention by rolling +’is ’ead from side to side. + +“Why, ’as Ginger gone to bed?” ses Peter. “Wot’s up, Ginger?” + +“He’s all right,” ses Bill; “just a bit of a ’eadache.” + +Peter stood staring at the bed, and then ’e pulled the clothes off and +saw pore Ginger all tied up, and making awful eyes at ’im to undo him. + +“I ’ad to do it, Peter,” ses Bill. “I wanted some more money to escape +with, and ’e wouldn’t lend it to me. I ’aven’t got as much as I want +now. You just came in in the nick of time. Another minute and you’d ha’ +missed me. ’Ow much ’ave you got?” + +“Ah, I wish I could lend you some, Bill,” ses Peter Russet, turning +pale, “but I’ve ’ad my pocket picked; that’s wot I came back for, to +get some from Ginger.” + +Bill didn’t say a word. + +“You see ’ow it is, Bill,” ses Peter, edging back toward the door; +“three men laid ’old of me and took every farthing I’d got.” + +“Well, I can’t rob you, then,” ses Bill, catching ’old of ’im. +“Whoever’s money this is,” he ses, pulling a handful out o’ Peter’s +pocket, “it can’t be yours. Now, if you make another sound I’ll knock +your ’ead off afore I tie you up.” + +“Don’t tie me up, Bill,” ses Peter, struggling. + +“I can’t trust you,” ses Bill, dragging ’im over to the washstand and +taking up the other towel; “turn round.” + +Peter was a much easier job than Ginger Dick, and arter Bill ’ad done +’im ’e put ’im in alongside o’ Ginger and covered ’em up, arter first +tying both the gags round with some string to prevent ’em slipping. + +“Mind, I’ve only borrowed it,” he ses, standing by the side o’ the bed; +“but I must say, mates, I’m disappointed in both of you. If either of +you ’ad ’ad the misfortune wot I’ve ’ad, I’d have sold the clothes off +my back to ’elp you. And I wouldn’t ’ave waited to be asked neither.” + +He stood there for a minute very sorrowful, and then ’e patted both +their ’eads and went downstairs. Ginger and Peter lay listening for a +bit, and then they turned their pore bound-up faces to each other and +tried to talk with their eyes. + +Then Ginger began to wriggle and try and twist the cords off, but ’e +might as well ’ave tried to wriggle out of ’is skin. The worst of it +was they couldn’t make known their intentions to each other, and when +Peter Russet leaned over ’im and tried to work ’is gag off by rubbing +it up agin ’is nose, Ginger pretty near went crazy with temper. He +banged Peter with his ’ead, and Peter banged back, and they kept it up +till they’d both got splitting ’eadaches, and at last they gave up in +despair and lay in the darkness waiting for Sam. + +And all this time Sam was sitting in the Red Lion, waiting for them. He +sat there quite patient till twelve o’clock and then walked slowly +’ome, wondering wot ’ad happened and whether Bill had gone. + +Ginger was the fust to ’ear ’is foot on the stairs, and as he came into +the room, in the darkness, him an’ Peter Russet started shaking their +bed in a way that scared old Sam nearly to death. He thought it was +Bill carrying on agin, and ’e was out o’ that door and ’arf-way +downstairs afore he stopped to take breath. He stood there trembling +for about ten minutes, and then, as nothing ’appened, he walked slowly +upstairs agin on tiptoe, and as soon as they heard the door creak Peter +and Ginger made that bed do everything but speak. + +“Is that you, Bill?” ses old Sam, in a shaky voice, and standing ready +to dash downstairs agin. + +There was no answer except for the bed, and Sam didn’t know whether +Bill was dying or whether ’e ’ad got delirium trimmings. All ’e did +know was that ’e wasn’t going to sleep in that room. He shut the door +gently and went downstairs agin, feeling in ’is pocket for a match, +and, not finding one, ’e picked out the softest stair ’e could find +and, leaning his ’ead agin the banisters, went to sleep. + + +[Illustration] + +It was about six o’clock when ’e woke up, and broad daylight. He was +stiff and sore all over, and feeling braver in the light ’e stepped +softly upstairs and opened the door. Peter and Ginger was waiting for +’im, and as he peeped in ’e saw two things sitting up in bed with their +’air standing up all over like mops and their faces tied up with +bandages. He was that startled ’e nearly screamed, and then ’e stepped +into the room and stared at ’em as if he couldn’t believe ’is eyes. + +“Is that you, Ginger?” he ses. “Wot d’ye mean by making sights of +yourselves like that? ’Ave you took leave of your senses?” + +Ginger and Peter shook their ’eads and rolled their eyes, and then Sam +see wot was the matter with ’em. Fust thing ’e did was to pull out ’is +knife and cut Ginger’s gag off, and the fust thing Ginger did was to +call ’im every name ’e could lay his tongue to. + +“You wait a moment,” he screams, ’arf crying with rage. “You wait till +I get my ’ands loose and I’ll pull you to pieces. The idea o’ leaving +us like this all night, you old crocodile. I ’eard you come in. I’ll +pay you.” + +Sam didn’t answer ’im. He cut off Peter Russet’s gag, and Peter Russet +called ’im ’arf a score o’ names without taking breath. + +“And when Ginger’s finished I’ll ’ave a go at you,” he ses. “Cut off +these lines.” + +“At once, d’ye hear?” ses Ginger. “Oh, you wait till I get my ’ands on +you.” + +Sam didn’t answer ’em; he shut up ’is knife with a click and then ’e +sat at the foot o’ the bed on Ginger’s feet and looked at ’em. It +wasn’t the fust time they’d been rude to ’im, but as a rule he’d ’ad to +put up with it. He sat and listened while Ginger swore ’imself faint. + +“That’ll do,” he ses, at last; “another word and I shall put the +bedclothes over your ’ead. Afore I do anything more I want to know wot +it’s all about.” + +Peter told ’im, arter fust calling ’im some more names, because Ginger +was past it, and when ’e’d finished old Sam said ’ow surprised he was +at them for letting Bill do it, and told ’em how they ought to ’ave +prevented it. He sat there talking as though ’e enjoyed the sound of +’is own voice, and he told Peter and Ginger all their faults and said +wot sorrow it caused their friends. Twice he ’ad to throw the +bedclothes over their ’eads because o’ the noise they was making. + + +[Illustration] + +“_Are you going—to undo—us?_” ses Ginger, at last. + +“No, Ginger,” ses old Sam; “in justice to myself I couldn’t do it. +Arter wot you’ve said—and arter wot I’ve said—my life wouldn’t be safe. +Besides which, you’d want to go shares in my money.” + +He took up ’is chest and marched downstairs with it, and about ’arf an +hour arterward the landlady’s ’usband came up and set ’em free. As soon +as they’d got the use of their legs back they started out to look for +Sam, but they didn’t find ’im for nearly a year, and as for Bill, they +never set eyes on ’im again. + + + + +LAWYER QUINCE + + +Lawyer Quince, so called by his neighbours in Little Haven from his +readiness at all times to place at their disposal the legal lore he had +acquired from a few old books while following his useful occupation of +making boots, sat in a kind of wooden hutch at the side of his cottage +plying his trade. The London coach had gone by in a cloud of dust some +three hours before, and since then the wide village street had +slumbered almost undisturbed in the sunshine. + + +[Illustration] + +Hearing footsteps and the sound of voices raised in dispute caused him +to look up from his work. Mr. Rose, of Holly Farm, Hogg, the miller, +and one or two neighbours of lesser degree appeared to be in earnest +debate over some point of unusual difficulty. + +Lawyer Quince took a pinch of snuff and bent to his work again. Mr. +Rose was one of the very few who openly questioned his legal knowledge, +and his gibes concerning it were only too frequent. Moreover, he had a +taste for practical joking, which to a grave man was sometimes +offensive. + +“Well, here he be,” said Mr. Hogg to the farmer, as the group halted in +front of the hutch. “Now ask Lawyer Quince and see whether I ain’t told +you true. I’m willing to abide by what he says.” + +Mr. Quince put down his hammer and, brushing a little snuff from his +coat, leaned back in his chair and eyed them with grave confidence. + +“It’s like this,” said the farmer. “Young Pascoe has been hanging round +after my girl Celia, though I told her she wasn’t to have nothing to do +with him. Half an hour ago I was going to put my pony in its stable +when I see a young man sitting there waiting.” + +“Well?” said Mr. Quince, after a pause. + +“He’s there yet,” said the farmer. “I locked him in, and Hogg here says +that I’ve got the right to keep him locked up there as long as I like. +I say it’s agin the law, but Hogg he says no. I say his folks would +come and try to break open my stable, but Hogg says if they do I can +have the law of ’em for damaging my property.” + +“So you can,” interposed Mr. Hogg, firmly. “You see whether Lawyer +Quince don’t say I’m right.” + +Mr. Quince frowned, and in order to think more deeply closed his eyes. +Taking advantage of this three of his auditors, with remarkable +unanimity, each closed one. + +“It’s your stable,” said Mr. Quince, opening his eyes and speaking with +great deliberation, “and you have a right to lock it up when you like.” + +“There you are,” said Mr. Hogg; “what did I tell you?” + +“If anybody’s there that’s got no business there, that’s his look-out,” +continued Mr. Quince. “You didn’t induce him to go in?” + +“Certainly not,” replied the farmer. + +“I told him he can keep him there as long as he likes,” said the +jubilant Mr. Hogg, “and pass him in bread and water through the winder; +it’s got bars to it.” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Quince, nodding, “he can do that. As for his folks +knocking the place about, if you like to tie up one or two of them +nasty, savage dogs of yours to the stable, well, it’s your stable, and +you can fasten your dogs to it if you like. And you’ve generally got a +man about the yard.” + +Mr. Hogg smacked his thigh in ecstasy. + +“But—” began the farmer. + +“That’s the law,” said the autocratic Mr. Quince, sharply. “O’ course, +if you think you know more about it than I do, I’ve nothing more to +say.” + +“I don’t want to do nothing I could get into trouble for,” murmured Mr. +Rose. + +“You can’t get into trouble by doing as I tell you,” said the +shoemaker, impatiently. “However, to be quite on the safe side, if I +was in your place I should lose the key.” + +“Lose the key?” said the farmer, blankly. + +“Lose the key,” repeated the shoemaker, his eyes watering with intense +appreciation of his own resourcefulness. “You can find it any time you +want to, you know. Keep him there till he promises to give up your +daughter, and tell him that as soon as he does you’ll have a hunt for +the key.” + +Mr. Rose regarded him with what the shoemaker easily understood to be +speechless admiration. + +“I—I’m glad I came to you,” said the farmer, at last. + +“You’re welcome,” said the shoemaker, loftily. “I’m always ready to +give advice to them as require it.” + +“And good advice it is,” said the smiling Mr. Hogg. “Why don’t you +behave yourself, Joe Garnham?” he demanded, turning fiercely on a +listener. + +Mr. Garnham, whose eyes were watering with emotion, attempted to +explain, but, becoming hysterical, thrust a huge red handkerchief to +his mouth and was led away by a friend. Mr. Quince regarded his +departure with mild disdain. + +“Little things please little minds,” he remarked. + +“So they do,” said Mr. Hogg. “I never thought—What’s the matter with +you, George Askew?” + +Mr. Askew, turning his back on him, threw up his hands with a helpless +gesture and followed in the wake of Mr. Garnham. Mr. Hogg appeared to +be about to apologise, and then suddenly altering his mind made a hasty +and unceremonious exit, accompanied by the farmer. + +Mr. Quince raised his eyebrows and then, after a long and meditative +pinch of snuff, resumed his work. The sun went down and the light faded +slowly; distant voices sounded close on the still evening air, snatches +of hoarse laughter jarred upon his ears. It was clear that the story of +the imprisoned swain was giving pleasure to Little Haven. + +He rose at last from his chair and, stretching his long, gaunt frame, +removed his leather apron, and after a wash at the pump went into the +house. Supper was laid, and he gazed with approval on the home-made +sausage rolls, the piece of cold pork, and the cheese which awaited his +onslaught. + +“We won’t wait for Ned,” said Mrs. Quince, as she brought in a jug of +ale and placed it by her husband’s elbow. + +Mr. Quince nodded and filled his glass. + +“You’ve been giving more advice, I hear,” said Mrs. Quince. + +Her husband, who was very busy, nodded again. + +“It wouldn’t make no difference to young Pascoe’s chance, anyway,” said +Mrs. Quince, thoughtfully. + +Mr. Quince continued his labours. “Why?” he inquired, at last. + +His wife smiled and tossed her head. + +“Young Pascoe’s no chance against our Ned,” she said, swelling with +maternal pride. + +“Eh?” said the shoemaker, laying down his knife and fork. “Our Ned?” + +“They are as fond of each other as they can be,” said Mrs. Quince, +“though I don’t suppose Farmer Rose’ll care for it; not but what our +Ned’s as good as he is.” + +“Is Ned up there now?” demanded the shoemaker, turning pale, as the +mirthful face of Mr. Garnham suddenly occurred to him. + +“Sure to be,” tittered his wife. “And to think o’ poor young Pascoe +shut up in that stable while he’s courting Celia!” + +Mr. Quince took up his knife and fork again, but his appetite had gone. +Whoever might be paying attention to Miss Rose at that moment he felt +quite certain that it was not Mr. Ned Quince, and he trembled with +anger as he saw the absurd situation into which the humorous Mr. Rose +had led him. For years Little Haven had accepted his decisions as final +and boasted of his sharpness to neighbouring hamlets, and many a +cottager had brought his boots to be mended a whole week before their +time for the sake of an interview. + +He moved his chair from the table and smoked a pipe. Then he rose, and +putting a couple of formidable law-books under his arm, walked slowly +down the road in the direction of Holly Farm. + +The road was very quiet and the White Swan, usually full at this hour, +was almost deserted, but if any doubts as to the identity of the +prisoner lingered in his mind they were speedily dissipated by the +behaviour of the few customers who crowded to the door to see him pass. + +A hum of voices fell on his ear as he approached the farm; half the +male and a goodly proportion of the female population of Little Haven +were leaning against the fence or standing in little knots in the road, +while a few of higher social status stood in the farm-yard itself. + +“Come down to have a look at the prisoner?” inquired the farmer, who +was standing surrounded by a little group of admirers. + + +[Illustration] + +“I came down to see you about that advice I gave you this afternoon,” +said Mr. Quince. + +“Ah!” said the other. + +“I was busy when you came,” continued Mr. Quince, in a voice of easy +unconcern, “and I gave you advice from memory. Looking up the subject +after you’d gone I found that I was wrong.” + +“You don’t say so?” said the farmer, uneasily. “If I’ve done wrong I’m +only doing what you told me I could do.” + +“Mistakes will happen with the best of us,” said the shoemaker, loudly, +for the benefit of one or two murmurers. “I’ve known a man to marry a +woman for her money before now and find out afterward that she hadn’t +got any.” + +One unit of the group detached itself and wandered listlessly toward +the gate. + +“Well, I hope I ain’t done nothing wrong,” said Mr. Rose, anxiously. +“You gave me the advice; there’s men here as can prove it. I don’t want +to do nothing agin the law. What had I better do?” + +“Well, if I was you,” said Mr. Quince, concealing his satisfaction with +difficulty, “I should let him out at once and beg his pardon, and say +you hope he’ll do nothing about it. I’ll put in a word for you if you +like with old Pascoe.” + +Mr. Rose coughed and eyed him queerly. + +“You’re a Briton,” he said, warmly. “I’ll go and let him out at once.” + +He strode off to the stable, despite the protests of Mr. Hogg, and, +standing by the door, appeared to be deep in thought; then he came back +slowly, feeling in his pockets as he walked. + +“William,” he said, turning toward Mr. Hogg, “I s’pose you didn’t +happen to notice where I put that key?” + +“That I didn’t,” said Mr. Hogg, his face clearing suddenly. + +“I had it in my hand not half an hour ago,” said the agitated Mr. Rose, +thrusting one hand into his trouser-pocket and groping. “It can’t be +far.” + +Mr. Quince attempted to speak, and, failing, blew his nose violently. + +“My memory ain’t what it used to be,” said the farmer. “Howsomever, I +dare say it’ll turn up in a day or two.” + +“You—you’d better force the door,” suggested Mr. Quince, struggling to +preserve an air of judicial calm. + +“No, no,” said Mr. Rose; “I ain’t going to damage my property like +that. I can lock my stable-door and unlock it when I like; if people +get in there as have no business there, it’s their look-out.” + +“That’s law,” said Mr. Hogg; “I’ll eat my hat if it ain’t.” + +“Do you mean to tell me you’ve really lost the key?” demanded Mr. +Quince, eyeing the farmer sternly. + +“Seems like it,” said Mr. Rose. “However, he won’t come to no hurt. +I’ll put in some bread and water for him, same as you advised me to.” + +Mr. Quince mastered his wrath by an effort, and with no sign of +discomposure moved away without making any reference to the identity of +the unfortunate in the stable. + +“Good-night,” said the farmer, “and thank you for coming and giving me +the fresh advice. It ain’t everybody that ’ud ha’ taken the trouble. If +I hadn’t lost that key——” + +The shoemaker scowled, and with the two fat books under his arm passed +the listening neighbours with the air of a thoughtful man out for an +evening stroll. Once inside his house, however, his manner changed, the +attitude of Mrs. Quince demanding, at any rate, a show of concern. + +“It’s no good talking,” he said at last. “Ned shouldn’t have gone +there, and as for going to law about it, I sha’n’t do any such thing; I +should never hear the end of it. I shall just go on as usual, as if +nothing had happened, and when Rose is tired of keeping him there he +must let him out. I’ll bide my time.” + +Mrs. Quince subsided into vague mutterings as to what she would do if +she were a man, coupled with sundry aspersions upon the character, +looks, and family connections of Farmer Rose, which somewhat consoled +her for being what she was. + +“He has always made jokes about your advice,” she said at length, “and +now everybody’ll think he’s right. I sha’n’t be able to look anybody in +the face. I should have seen through it at once if it had been me. I’m +going down to give him a bit o’ my mind.” + +“You stay where you are,” said Mr. Quince, sharply, “and, mind, you are +not to talk about it to anybody. Farmer Rose ’ud like nothing better +than to see us upset about it. I ain’t done with him yet. You wait.” + +Mrs. Quince, having no option, waited, but nothing happened. The +following day found Ned Quince still a prisoner, and, considering the +circumstances, remarkably cheerful. He declined point-blank to renounce +his preposterous attentions, and said that, living on the premises, he +felt half like a son-in-law already. He also complimented the farmer +upon the quality of his bread. + +The next morning found him still unsubdued, and, under interrogation +from the farmer, he admitted that he liked it, and said that the +feeling of being at home was growing upon him. + +“If you’re satisfied, I am,” said Mr. Rose, grimly. “I’ll keep you here +till you promise; mind that.” + +“It’s a nobleman’s life,” said Ned, peeping through the window, “and +I’m beginning to like you as much as my real father.” + +“I don’t want none o’ yer impudence,” said the farmer, reddening. + + +[Illustration] + +“You’ll like me better when you’ve had me here a little longer,” said +Ned; “I shall grow on you. Why not be reasonable and make up your mind +to it? Celia and I have.” + +“I’m going to send Celia away on Saturday,” said Mr. Rose; “make +yourself happy and comfortable in here till then. If you’d like another +crust o’ bread or an extra half pint o’ water you’ve only got to +mention it. When she’s gone I’ll have a hunt for that key, so as you +can go back to your father and help him to understand his law-books +better.” + +He strode off with the air of a conqueror, and having occasion to go to +the village looked in at the shoemaker’s window as he passed and +smiled broadly. For years Little Haven had regarded Mr. Quince with +awe, as being far too dangerous a man for the lay mind to tamper with, +and at one stroke the farmer had revealed the hollowness of his +pretensions. Only that morning the wife of a labourer had called and +asked him to hurry the mending of a pair of boots. She was a voluble +woman, and having overcome her preliminary nervousness more than hinted +that if he gave less time to the law and more to his trade it would be +better for himself and everybody else. + +Miss Rose accepted her lot in a spirit of dutiful resignation, and on +Saturday morning after her father’s admonition not to forget that the +coach left the White Swan at two sharp, set off to pay a few farewell +visits. By half-past twelve she had finished, and Lawyer Quince +becoming conscious of a shadow on his work looked up to see her +standing before the window. He replied to a bewitching smile with a +short nod and became intent upon his work again. + +For a short time Celia lingered, then to his astonishment she opened +the gate and walked past the side of the house into the garden. With +growing astonishment he observed her enter his tool-shed and close the +door behind her. + +For ten minutes he worked on and then, curiosity getting the better of +him, he walked slowly to the tool-shed and, opening the door a little +way, peeped in. It was a small shed, crowded with agricultural +implements. The floor was occupied by an upturned wheelbarrow, and +sitting on the barrow, with her soft cheek leaning against the wall, +sat Miss Rose fast asleep. Mr. Quince coughed several times, each cough +being louder than the last, and then, treading softly, was about to +return to the workshop when the girl stirred and muttered in her sleep. +At first she was unintelligible, then he distinctly caught the words +“idiot” and “blockhead.” + +“She’s dreaming of somebody,” said Mr. Quince to himself with +conviction. “Wonder who it is?” + +“Can’t see—a thing—under—his—nose,” murmured the fair sleeper. + +“Celia!” said Mr. Quince, sharply. “_Celia!_” + +He took a hoe from the wall and prodded her gently with the handle. A +singularly vicious expression marred the soft features, but that was +all. + +“_Ce-lia!_” said the shoemaker, who feared sun-stroke. + +“Fancy if he—had—a moment’s common sense,” murmured Celia, drowsily, +“and locked—the door.” + +Lawyer Quince dropped the hoe with a clatter and stood regarding her +open-mouthed. He was a careful man with his property, and the stout +door boasted a good lock. He sped to the house on tip-toe, and taking +the key from its nail on the kitchen dresser returned to the shed, and +after another puzzled glance at the sleeping girl locked her in. + +For half an hour he sat in silent enjoyment of the situation—enjoyment +which would have been increased if he could have seen Mr. Rose standing +at the gate of Holly Farm, casting anxious glances up and down the +road. Celia’s luggage had gone down to the White Swan, and an excellent +cold luncheon was awaiting her attention in the living-room. + +Half-past one came and no Celia, and five minutes later two farm +labourers and a boy lumbered off in different directions in search of +the missing girl, with instructions that she was to go straight to the +White Swan to meet the coach. The farmer himself walked down to the +inn, turning over in his mind a heated lecture composed for the +occasion, but the coach came and, after a cheerful bustle and the +consumption of sundry mugs of beer, sped on its way again. + +He returned home in silent consternation, seeking in vain for a +satisfactory explanation of the mystery. For a robust young woman to +disappear in broad daylight and leave no trace behind her was +extraordinary. Then a sudden sinking sensation in the region of the +waistcoat and an idea occurred simultaneously. + +He walked down to the village again, the idea growing steadily all the +way. Lawyer Quince was hard at work, as usual, as he passed. He went by +the window three times and gazed wistfully at the cottage. Coming to +the conclusion at last that two heads were better than one in such a +business, he walked on to the mill and sought Mr. Hogg. + +“That’s what it is,” said the miller, as he breathed his suspicions. “I +thought all along Lawyer Quince would have the laugh of you. He’s +wonderful deep. Now, let’s go to work cautious like. Try and look as if +nothing had happened.” + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Rose tried. + +“Try agin,” said the miller, with some severity. “Get the red out o’ +your face and let your eyes go back and don’t look as though you’re +going to bite somebody.” + +Mr. Rose swallowed an angry retort, and with an attempt at careless +ease sauntered up the road with the miller to the shoemaker’s. Lawyer +Quince was still busy, and looked up inquiringly as they passed before +him. + +“I s’pose,” said the diplomatic Mr. Hogg, who was well acquainted with +his neighbour’s tidy and methodical habits—“I s’pose you couldn’t lend +me your barrow for half an hour? The wheel’s off mine.” + +Mr. Quince hesitated, and then favoured him with a glance intended to +remind him of his scurvy behaviour three days before. + +“You can have it,” he said at last, rising. + +Mr. Hogg pinched his friend in his excitement, and both watched Mr. +Quince with bated breath as he took long, slow strides toward the +tool-shed. He tried the door and then went into the house, and even +before his reappearance both gentlemen knew only too well what was +about to happen. Red was all too poor a word to apply to Mr. Rose’s +countenance as the shoemaker came toward them, feeling in his +waistcoat pocket with hooked fingers and thumb, while Mr. Hogg’s +expressive features were twisted into an appearance of rosy +appreciation. + +“Did you want the barrow very particular?” inquired the shoemaker, in a +regretful voice. + +“Very particular,” said Mr. Hogg. + +Mr. Quince went through the performance of feeling in all his pockets, +and then stood meditatively rubbing his chin. + +“The door’s locked,” he said, slowly, “and what I’ve done with that +there key——” + +“You open that door,” vociferated Mr. Rose, “else I’ll break it in. +You’ve got my daughter in that shed and I’m going to have her out.” + +“Your daughter?” said Mr. Quince, with an air of faint surprise. “What +should she be doing in my shed?” + +“You let her out,” stormed Mr. Rose, trying to push past him. + +“Don’t trespass on my premises,” said Lawyer Quince, interposing his +long, gaunt frame. “If you want that door opened you’ll have to wait +till my boy Ned comes home. I expect he knows where to find the key.” + +Mr. Rose’s hands fell limply by his side and his tongue, turning +prudish, refused its office. He turned and stared at Mr. Hogg in silent +consternation. + +“Never known him to be beaten yet,” said that admiring weather-cock. + +“Ned’s been away three days,” said the shoemaker, “but I expect him +home soon.” + +Mr. Rose made a strange noise in his throat and then, accepting his +defeat, set off at a rapid pace in the direction of home. In a +marvellously short space of time, considering his age and figure, he +was seen returning with Ned Quince, flushed and dishevelled, walking by +his side. + +“Here he is,” said the farmer. “Now where’s that key?” + +Lawyer Quince took his son by the arm and led him into the house, from +whence they almost immediately emerged with Ned waving the key. + +“I thought it wasn’t far,” said the sapient Mr. Hogg. + +Ned put the key in the lock and flinging the door open revealed Celia +Rose, blinking and confused in the sudden sunshine. She drew back as +she saw her father and began to cry with considerable fervour. + +“How did you get in that shed, miss?” demanded her parent, stamping. + + +[Illustration] + +“I—I went there,” she sobbed. “I didn’t want to go away.” + +“Well, you’d better stay there,” shouted the overwrought Mr. Rose. +“I’ve done with you. A girl that ’ud turn against her own father I—I—” + +He drove his right fist into his left palm and stamped out into the +road. Lawyer Quince and Mr. Hogg, after a moment’s hesitation, +followed. + +“The laugh’s agin you, farmer,” said the latter gentleman, taking his +arm. + +Mr. Rose shook him off. + +“Better make the best of it,” continued the peace-maker. + +“She’s a girl to be proud of,” said Lawyer Quince, keeping pace with +the farmer on the other side. “She’s got a head that’s worth yours and +mine put together, with Hogg’s thrown in as a little makeweight.” + +“And here’s the White Swan,” said Mr. Hogg, who had a hazy idea of a +compliment, “and all of us as dry as a bone. Why not all go in and have +a glass to shut folks’ mouths?” + +“And cry quits,” said the shoemaker. + +“And let bygones be bygones,” said Mr. Hogg, taking the farmer’s arm +again. + +Mr. Rose stopped and shook his head obstinately, and then, under the +skilful pilotage of Mr. Hogg, was steered in the direction of the +hospitable doors of the White Swan. He made a last bid for liberty on +the step and then disappeared inside. Lawyer Quince brought up the +rear. + + + + +BREAKING A SPELL + + +“Witchcraft?” said the old man, thoughtfully, as he scratched his +scanty whiskers. No, I ain’t heard o’ none in these parts for a long +time. There used to be a little of it about when I was a boy, and there +was some talk of it arter I’d growed up, but Claybury folk never took +much count of it. The last bit of it I remember was about forty years +ago, and that wasn’t so much witchcraft as foolishness. + +There was a man in this place then—Joe Barlcomb by name—who was a firm +believer in it, and ’e used to do all sorts of things to save hisself +from it. He was a new-comer in Claybury, and there was such a lot of it +about in the parts he came from that the people thought o’ nothing else +hardly. + +He was a man as got ’imself very much liked at fust, especially by the +old ladies, owing to his being so perlite to them, that they used to +’old ’im up for an example to the other men, and say wot nice, pretty +ways he ’ad. Joe Barlcomb was everything at fust, but when they got to +’ear that his perliteness was because ’e thought ’arf of ’em was +witches, and didn’t know which ’arf, they altered their minds. + + +[Illustration] + +In a month or two he was the laughing-stock of the place; but wot was +worse to ’im than that was that he’d made enemies of all the old +ladies. Some of ’em was free-spoken women, and ’e couldn’t sleep for +thinking of the ’arm they might do ’im. + +He was terrible uneasy about it at fust, but, as nothing ’appened and +he seemed to go on very prosperous-like, ’e began to forget ’is fears, +when all of a sudden ’e went ’ome one day and found ’is wife in bed +with a broken leg. + +She was standing on a broken chair to reach something down from the +dresser when it ’appened, and it was pointed out to Joe Barlcomb that +it was a thing anybody might ha’ done without being bewitched; but he +said ’e knew better, and that they’d kept that broken chair for +standing on for years and years to save the others, and nothing ’ad +ever ’appened afore. + +In less than a week arter that three of his young ’uns was down with +the measles, and, ’is wife being laid up, he sent for ’er mother to +come and nurse ’em. It’s as true as I sit ’ere, but that pore old lady +’adn’t been in the house two hours afore she went to bed with the +yellow jaundice. + +Joe Barlcomb went out of ’is mind a’most. He’d never liked ’is wife’s +mother, and he wouldn’t ’ave had ’er in the house on’y ’e wanted her to +nurse ’is wife and children, and when she came and laid up and wanted +waiting on ’e couldn’t dislike her enough. + +He was quite certain all along that somebody was putting a spell on +’im, and when ’e went out a morning or two arterward and found ’is best +pig lying dead in a corner of the sty he gave up and, going into the +’ouse, told ’em all that they’d ’ave to die ’cause he couldn’t do +anything more for ’em. His wife’s mother and ’is wife and the children +all started crying together, and Joe Barlcomb, when ’e thought of ’is +pig, he sat down and cried too. + +He sat up late that night thinking it over, and, arter looking at it +all ways, he made up ’is mind to go and see Mrs. Prince, an old lady +that lived all alone by ’erself in a cottage near Smith’s farm. He’d +set ’er down for wot he called a white witch, which is the best kind +and on’y do useful things, such as charming warts away or telling gals +about their future ’usbands; and the next arternoon, arter telling ’is +wife’s mother that fresh air and travelling was the best cure for the +yellow jaundice, he set off to see ’er. + + +[Illustration] + +Mrs. Prince was sitting at ’er front door nursing ’er three cats when +’e got there. She was an ugly, little old woman with piercing black +eyes and a hook nose, and she ’ad a quiet, artful sort of a way with +’er that made ’er very much disliked. One thing was she was always +making fun of people, and for another she seemed to be able to tell +their thoughts, and that don’t get anybody liked much, especially when +they don’t keep it to theirselves. She’d been a lady’s maid all ’er +young days, and it was very ’ard to be taken for a witch just because +she was old. + +“Fine day, ma’am,” ses Joe Barlcomb. + +“Very fine,” ses Mrs. Prince. + +“Being as I was passing, I just thought I’d look in,” ses Joe Barlcomb, +eyeing the cats. + +“Take a chair,” ses Mrs. Prince, getting up and dusting one down with +’er apron. + +Joe sat down. “I’m in a bit o’ trouble, ma’am,” he ses, “and I thought +p’r’aps as you could help me out of it. My pore pig’s been bewitched, +and it’s dead.” + +“Bewitched?” ses Mrs. Prince, who’d ’eard of ’is ideas. “Rubbish. Don’t +talk to me.” + +“It ain’t rubbish, ma’am,” ses Joe Barlcomb; “three o’ my children is +down with the measles, my wife’s broke ’er leg, ’er mother is laid up +in my little place with the yellow jaundice, and the pig’s dead.” + +“Wot, another one?” ses Mrs. Prince. + +“No; the same one,” ses Joe. + +“Well, ’ow am I to help you?” ses Mrs. Prince. “Do you want me to come +and nurse ’em?” + +“No, no,” ses Joe, starting and turning pale; “unless you’d like to +come and nurse my wife’s mother,” he ses, arter thinking a bit. “I was +hoping that you’d know who’d been overlooking me and that you’d make +’em take the spell off.” + +Mrs. Prince got up from ’er chair and looked round for the broom she’d +been sweeping with, but, not finding it, she set down agin and stared +in a curious sort o’ way at Joe Barlcomb. + +“Oh, I see,” she ses, nodding. “Fancy you guessing I was a witch.” + +“You can’t deceive me,” ses Joe; “I’ve ’ad too much experience; I knew +it the fust time I saw you by the mole on your nose.” + +Mrs. Prince got up and went into her back-place, trying her ’ardest to +remember wot she’d done with that broom. She couldn’t find it anywhere, +and at last she came back and sat staring at Joe for so long that ’e +was ’arf frightened out of his life. And by-and-by she gave a ’orrible +smile and sat rubbing the side of ’er nose with ’er finger. + +“If I help you,” she ses at last, “will you promise to keep it a dead +secret and do exactly as I tell you? If you don’t, dead pigs’ll be +nothing to the misfortunes that you will ’ave.” + +“I will,” ses Joe Barlcomb, very pale. + +“The spell,” ses Mrs. Prince, holding up her ’ands and shutting ’er +eyes, “was put upon you by a man. It is one out of six men as is +jealous of you because you’re so clever, but which one it is I can’t +tell without your assistance. Have you got any money?” + +“A little,” ses Joe, anxious-like—“a very little. Wot with the yellow +jaundice and other things, I——” + +“Fust thing to do,” ses Mrs. Prince, still with her eyes shut, “you go +up to the Cauliflower to-night; the six men’ll all be there, and you +must buy six ha’pennies off of them; one each.” + +“Buy six ha’pennies?” ses Joe, staring at her. + +“Don’t repeat wot I say,” ses Mrs. Prince; “it’s unlucky. You buy six +ha’pennies for a shilling each, without saying wot it’s for. You’ll be +able to buy ’em all right if you’re civil.” + +“It seems to me it don’t need much civility for that,” ses Joe, pulling +a long face. + +“When you’ve got the ha’pennies,” ses Mrs. Prince, “bring ’em to me and +I’ll tell you wot to do with ’em. Don’t lose no time, because I can see +that something worse is going to ’appen if it ain’t prevented.” + +“Is it anything to do with my wife’s mother getting worse?” ses Joe +Barlcomb, who was a careful man and didn’t want to waste six shillings. + +“No, something to you,” ses Mrs. Prince. + +Joe Barlcomb went cold all over, and then he put down a couple of eggs +he’d brought round for ’er and went off ’ome agin, and Mrs. Prince +stood in the doorway with a cat on each shoulder and watched ’im till +’e was out of sight. + +That night Joe Barlcomb came up to this ’ere Cauliflower public-house, +same as he’d been told, and by-and-by, arter he ’ad ’ad a pint, he +looked round, and taking a shilling out of ’is pocket put it on the +table, and he ses, “Who’ll give me a ha’penny for that?” he ses. + +None of ’em seemed to be in a hurry. Bill Jones took it up and bit it, +and rang it on the table and squinted at it, and then he bit it agin, +and turned round and asked Joe Barlcomb wot was wrong with it. + +“Wrong?” ses Joe; “nothing.” + +Bill Jones put it down agin. “You’re wide awake, Joe,” he ses, “but so +am I.” + +“Won’t nobody give me a ha’penny for it?” ses Joe, looking round. + +Then Peter Lamb came up, and he looked at it and rang it, and at last +he gave Joe a ha’penny for it and took it round, and everybody ’ad a +look at it. + + +[Illustration] + +“It stands to reason it’s a bad ’un,” ses Bill Jones, “but it’s so well +done I wish as I’d bought it.” + +“H-s-h!” ses Peter Lamb; “don’t let the landlord ’ear you.” + +The landlord ’ad just that moment come in, and Peter walked up and +ordered a pint, and took his tenpence change as bold as brass. Arter +that Joe Barbcomb bought five more ha’pennies afore you could wink +a’most, and every man wot sold one went up to the bar and ’ad a pint +and got tenpence change, and drank Joe Barlcomb’s health. + +“There seems to be a lot o’ money knocking about to-night,” ses the +landlord, as Sam Martin, the last of ’em, was drinking ’is pint. + +Sam Martin choked and put ’is pot down on the counter with a bang, and +him and the other five was out o’ that door and sailing up the road +with their tenpences afore the landlord could get his breath. He stood +to the bar scratching his ’ead and staring, but he couldn’t understand +it a bit till a man wot was too late to sell his ha’penny up and told +’im all about it. The fuss ’e made was terrible. The shillings was in a +little heap on a shelf at the back o’ the bar, and he did all sorts o’ +things to ’em to prove that they was bad, and threatened Joe Barlcomb +with the police. At last, however, ’e saw wot a fool he was making of +himself, and arter nearly breaking his teeth ’e dropped them into a +drawer and stirred ’em up with the others. + +Joe Barlcomb went round the next night to see Mrs. Prince, and she +asked ’im a lot o’ questions about the men as ’ad sold ’im the +ha’pennies. + +“The fust part ’as been done very well,” she ses, nodding her ’ead at +’im; “if you do the second part as well, you’ll soon know who your +enemy is.” + +“Nothing’ll bring the pig back,” ses Joe. + +“There’s worse misfortunes than that, as I’ve told you,” ses Mrs. +Prince, sharply. “Now, listen to wot I’m going to say to you. When the +clock strikes twelve to-night——” + +“Our clock don’t strike,” ses Joe. + +“Then you must borrow one that does,” ses Mrs. Prince, “and when it +strikes twelve you must go round to each o’ them six men and sell them +a ha’penny for a shilling.” + +Joe Barlcomb looked at ’er. “’Ow?” he ses, short-like. + +“Same way as you sold ’em a shilling for a ha’-penny,” ses Mrs. Prince; +“it don’t matter whether they buy the ha’pennies or not. All you’ve got +to do is to go and ask ’em, and the man as makes the most fuss is the +man that ’as put the trouble on you.” + +“It seems a roundabout way o’ going to work,” ses Joe. + +“_Wot!_” screams Mrs. Prince, jumping up and waving her arms about. +“_Wot!_ Go your own way; I’ll have nothing more to do with you. And +don’t blame me for anything that happens. It’s a very bad thing to come +to a witch for advice and then not to do as she tells you. You ought to +know that.” + +“I’ll do it, ma’am,” ses Joe Barlcomb, trembling. + +“You’d better,” ses Mrs. Prince; “and mind—not a word to anybody.” + +Joe promised her agin, and ’e went off and borrered a clock from Albert +Price, and at twelve o’clock that night he jumped up out of bed and +began to dress ’imself and pretend not to ’ear his wife when she asked +’im where he was going. + +It was a dark, nasty sort o’ night, blowing and raining, and, o’ +course, everybody ’ad gone to bed long since. The fust cottage Joe came +to was Bill Jones’s, and, knowing Bill’s temper, he stood for some time +afore he could make up ’is mind to knock; but at last he up with ’is +stick and banged away at the door. + +A minute arterward he ’eard the bedroom winder pushed open, and then +Bill Jones popped his ’ead out and called to know wot was the matter +and who it was. + +“It’s me—Joe Barlcomb,” ses Joe, “and I want to speak to you very +partikler.” + +“Well, speak away,” ses Bill. “You go into the back room,” he ses, +turning to his wife. + +“Whaffor?” ses Mrs. Jones. + +“’Cos I don’t know wot Joe is going to say,” ses Bill. “You go in now, +afore I make you.” + +His wife went off grumbling, and then Bill told Joe Barlcomb to hurry +up wot he’d got to say as ’e ’adn’t got much on and the weather wasn’t +as warm as it might be. + +“I sold you a shilling for a ha’penny last night, Bill,” ses Joe. + +“Do you want to sell any more?” ses Bill Jones, putting his ’and down +to where ’is trouser pocket ought to be. + +“Not exactly that,” ses Joe Barlcomb. “This time I want you to sell me +a shilling for a ha’penny.” + +Bill leaned out of the winder and stared down at Joe Barlcomb, and then +he ses, in a choking voice, “Is that wot you’ve come disturbing my +sleep for at this time o’ night?” he ses. + +“I must ’ave it, Bill,” ses Joe. + +“Well, if you’ll wait a moment,” ses Bill, trying to speak perlitely, +“I’ll come down and give it to you.” + +Joe didn’t like ’is tone of voice, but he waited, and all of a sudden +Bill Jones came out o’ that door like a gun going off and threw ’imself +on Joe Barlcomb. Both of ’em was strong men, and by the time they’d +finished they was so tired they could ’ardly stand. Then Bill Jones +went back to bed, and Joe Barlcomb, arter sitting down on the doorstep +to rest ’imself, went off and knocked up Peter Lamb. + +Peter Lamb was a little man and no good as a fighter, but the things he +said to Joe Barlcomb as he leaned out o’ the winder and shook ’is fist +at him was ’arder to bear than blows. He screamed away at the top of +’is voice for ten minutes, and then ’e pulled the winder to with a bang +and went back to bed. + +Joe Barlcomb was very tired, but he walked on to Jasper Potts’s ’ouse, +trying ’ard as he walked to decide which o’ the fust two ’ad made the +most fuss. Arter he ’ad left Jasper Potts ’e got more puzzled than +ever, Jasper being just as bad as the other two, and Joe leaving ’im at +last in the middle of loading ’is gun. + +By the time he’d made ’is last call—at Sam Martin’s—it was past three +o’clock, and he could no more tell Mrs. Prince which ’ad made the most +fuss than ’e could fly. There didn’t seem to be a pin to choose between +’em, and, ’arf worried out of ’is life, he went straight on to Mrs. +Prince and knocked ’er up to tell ’er. She thought the ’ouse was afire +at fust, and came screaming out o’ the front door in ’er bedgown, and +when she found out who it was she was worse to deal with than the men +’ad been. + +She ’ad quieted down by the time Joe went round to see ’er the next +evening, and asked ’im to describe exactly wot the six men ’ad done and +said. She sat listening quite quiet at fust, but arter a time she +scared Joe by making a odd, croupy sort o’ noise in ’er throat, and at +last she got up and walked into the back-place. She was there a long +time making funny noises, and at last Joe walked toward the door on +tip-toe and peeped through the crack and saw ’er in a sort o’ fit, +sitting in a chair with ’er arms folded acrost her bodice and rocking +’erself up and down and moaning. Joe stood as if ’e’d been frozen +a’most, and then ’e crept back to ’is seat and waited, and when she +came into the room agin she said as the trouble ’ad all been caused by +Bill Jones. She sat still for nearly ’arf an hour, thinking ’ard, and +then she turned to Joe and ses: + + +[Illustration] + +“Can you read?” she ses. + +“No,” ses Joe, wondering wot was coming next. + +“That’s all right, then,” she ses, “because if you could I couldn’t do +wot I’m going to do.” + +“That shows the ’arm of eddication,” ses Joe. “I never did believe in +it.” + +Mrs. Prince nodded, and then she went and got a bottle with something +in it which looked to Joe like gin, and arter getting out ’er pen and +ink and printing some words on a piece o’ paper she stuck it on the +bottle, and sat looking at Joe and thinking. + +“Take this up to the Cauliflower,” she ses, “make friends with Bill +Jones, and give him as much beer as he’ll drink, and give ’im a little +o’ this gin in each mug. If he drinks it the spell will be broken, and +you’ll be luckier than you ’ave ever been in your life afore. When ’e’s +drunk some, and not before, leave the bottle standing on the table.” + +Joe Barlcomb thanked ’er, and with the bottle in ’is pocket went off to +the Cauliflower, whistling. Bill Jones was there, and Peter Lamb, and +two or three more of ’em, and at fust they said some pretty ’ard things +to him about being woke up in the night. + +“Don’t bear malice, Bill,” ses Joe Barlcomb; “’ave a pint with me.” + +He ordered two pints, and then sat down along-side o’ Bill, and in five +minutes they was like brothers. + +“’Ave a drop o’ gin in it, Bill,” he ses, taking the bottle out of ’is +pocket. + +Bill thanked ’im and had a drop, and then, thoughtful-like, he wanted +Joe to ’ave some in his too, but Joe said no, he’d got a touch o’ +toothache, and it was bad for it. + +“I don’t mind ’aving a drop in my beer, Joe,” ses Peter Lamb. + +“Not to-night, mate,” ses Joe; “it’s all for Bill. I bought it on +purpose for ’im.” + +Bill shook ’ands with him, and when Joe called for another pint and put +some more gin in it he said that ’e was the noblest-’arted man that +ever lived. + +“You wasn’t saying so ’arf an hour ago,” ses Peter Lamb. + +“’Cos I didn’t know ’im so well then,” ses Bill Jones. + +“You soon change your mind, don’t you?” ses Peter. + +Bill didn’t answer ’im. He was leaning back on the bench and staring at +the bottle as if ’e couldn’t believe his eyesight. His face was all +white and shining, and ’is hair as wet as if it ’ad just been dipped in +a bucket o’ water. + +“See a ghost, Bill?” ses Peter, looking at ’im. + +Bill made a ’orrible noise in his throat, and kept on staring at the +bottle till they thought ’e’d gone crazy. Then Jasper Potts bent his +’ead down and began to read out loud wot was on the bottle. +“P-o-i—POISON FOR BILL JONES,” he ses, in a voice as if ’e couldn’t +believe it. + +You might ’ave heard a pin drop. Everybody turned and looked at Bill +Jones, as he sat there trembling all over. Then those that could read +took up the bottle and read it out loud all over agin. + +“Pore Bill,” ses Peter Lamb. “I ’ad a feeling come over me that +something was wrong.” + +“You’re a murderer,” ses Sam Martin, catching ’old of Joe Barlcomb. +“You’ll be ’ung for this. Look at pore Bill, cut off in ’is prime.” + +“Run for the doctor,” ses someone. + +Two of ’em ran off as ’ard as they could go, and then the landlord came +round the bar and asked Bill to go and die outside, because ’e didn’t +want to be brought into it. Jasper Potts told ’im to clear off, and +then he bent down and asked Bill where the pain was. + +“I don’t think he’ll ’ave much pain,” ses Peter Lamb, who always +pretended to know a lot more than other people. “It’ll soon be over, +Bill.” + +“We’ve all got to go some day,” ses Sam Martin. “Better to die young +than live to be a trouble to yourself,” ses Bob Harris. + +To ’ear them talk everybody seemed to think that Bill Jones was in +luck; everybody but Bill Jones ’imself, that is. + +“I ain’t fit to die,” he ses, shivering. “You don’t know ’ow bad I’ve +been.” + +“Wot ’ave you done, Bill?” ses Peter Lamb, in a soft voice. “If it’ll +ease your feelings afore you go to make a clean breast of it, we’re all +friends here.” + +Bill groaned. + +“And it’s too late for you to be punished for anything,” ses Peter, +arter a moment. + +Bill Jones groaned agin, and then, shaking ’is ’ead, began to w’isper +’is wrong-doings. When the doctor came in ’arf an hour arterward all +the men was as quiet as mice, and pore Bill was still w’ispering as +’ard as he could w’isper. + +The doctor pushed ’em out of the way in a moment, and then ’e bent over +Bill and felt ’is pulse and looked at ’is tongue. Then he listened to +his ’art, and in a puzzled way smelt at the bottle, which Jasper Potts +was a-minding of, and wetted ’is finger and tasted it. + + +[Illustration] + +“Somebody’s been making a fool of you and me too,” he ses, in a angry +voice. “It’s only gin, and very good gin at that. Get up and go home.” + +It all came out next morning, and Joe Barlcomb was the laughing-stock +of the place. Most people said that Mrs. Prince ’ad done quite right, +and they ’oped that it ud be a lesson to him, but nobody ever talked +much of witchcraft in Claybury agin. One thing was that Bill Jones +wouldn’t ’ave the word used in ’is hearing. + + + + +ESTABLISHING RELATIONS + + +Mr. Richard Catesby, second officer of the ss. _Wizard_, emerged from +the dock-gates in high good-humour to spend an evening ashore. The +bustle of the day had departed, and the inhabitants of Wapping, in +search of coolness and fresh air, were sitting at open doors and +windows indulging in general conversation with anybody within earshot. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Catesby, turning into Bashford’s Lane, lost in a moment all this +life and colour. The hum of distant voices certainly reached there, but +that was all, for Bashford’s Lane, a retiring thoroughfare facing a +blank dock wall, capped here and there by towering spars, set an +example of gentility which neighbouring streets had long ago decided +crossly was impossible for ordinary people to follow. Its neatly +grained shutters, fastened back by the sides of the windows, gave a +pleasing idea of uniformity, while its white steps and polished brass +knockers were suggestive of almost a Dutch cleanliness. + +Mr. Catesby, strolling comfortably along, stopped suddenly for another +look at a girl who was standing in the ground-floor window of No. 5. He +went on a few paces and then walked back slowly, trying to look as +though he had forgotten something. The girl was still there, and met +his ardent glances unmoved: a fine girl, with large, dark eyes, and a +complexion which was the subject of much scandalous discussion among +neighbouring matrons. + +“It must be something wrong with the glass, or else it’s the bad +light,” said Mr. Catesby to himself; “no girl is so beautiful as that.” + +He went by again to make sure. The object of his solicitude was still +there and apparently unconscious of his existence. He passed very +slowly and sighed deeply. + +“You’ve got it at last, Dick Catesby,” he said, solemnly; “fair and +square in the most dangerous part of the heart. It’s serious this +time.” + +He stood still on the narrow pavement, pondering, and then, in excuse +of his flagrant misbehaviour, murmured, “It was meant to be,” and went +by again. This time he fancied that he detected a somewhat supercilious +expression in the dark eyes—a faint raising of well-arched eyebrows. + +His engagement to wait at Aldgate Station for the second-engineer and +spend an evening together was dismissed as too slow to be considered. +He stood for some time in uncertainty, and then turning slowly into the +Beehive, which stood at the corner, went into the private bar and +ordered a glass of beer. + +He was the only person in the bar, and the landlord, a stout man in +his shirt-sleeves, was the soul of affability. Mr. Catesby, after +various general remarks, made a few inquiries about an uncle aged five +minutes, whom he thought was living in Bashford’s Lane. + + +[Illustration] + +“I don’t know ’im,” said the landlord. + +“I had an idea that he lived at No. 5,” said Catesby. + +The landlord shook his head. “That’s Mrs. Truefitt’s house,” he said, +slowly. + +Mr. Catesby pondered. “Truefitt, Truefitt,” he repeated; “what sort of +a woman is she?” + +“Widder-woman,” said the landlord; “she lives there with ’er daughter +Prudence.” + +Mr. Catesby said “Indeed!” and being a good listener learned that Mrs. +Truefitt was the widow of a master-lighterman, and that her son, Fred +Truefitt, after an absence of seven years in New Zealand, was now on +his way home. He finished his glass slowly and, the landlord departing +to attend to another customer, made his way into the street again. + +He walked along slowly, picturing as he went the home-coming of the +long-absent son. Things were oddly ordered in this world, and Fred +Truefitt would probably think nothing of his brotherly privileges. He +wondered whether he was like Prudence. He wondered—— + +“By Jove, I’ll do it!” he said, recklessly, as he turned. “Now for a +row.” + +He walked back rapidly to Bashford’s Lane, and without giving his +courage time to cool plied the knocker of No. 5 briskly. + +The door was opened by an elderly woman, thin, and somewhat querulous +in expression. Mr. Catesby had just time to notice this, and then he +flung his arm round her waist, and hailing her as “Mother!” saluted her +warmly. + +The faint scream of the astounded Mrs. Truefitt brought her daughter +hastily into the passage. Mr. Catesby’s idea was ever to do a thing +thoroughly, and, relinquishing Mrs. Truefitt, he kissed Prudence with +all the ardour which a seven-years’ absence might be supposed to +engender in the heart of a devoted brother. In return he received a box +on the ears which made his head ring. + +“He’s been drinking,” gasped the dismayed Mrs. Truefitt. + +“Don’t you know me, mother?” inquired Mr. Richard Catesby, in grievous +astonishment. + +“He’s mad,” said her daughter. + +“Am I so altered that _you_ don’t know me, Prudence?” inquired Mr. +Catesby; with pathos. “Don’t you know your Fred?” + +“Go out,” said Mrs. Truefitt, recovering; “go out at once.” + +Mr. Catesby looked from one to the other in consternation. + +“I know I’ve altered,” he said, at last, “but I’d no idea—” + +“If you don’t go out at once I’ll send for the police,” said the elder +woman, sharply. “Prudence, scream!” + +“I’m not going to scream,” said Prudence, eyeing the intruder with +great composure. “I’m not afraid of him.” + +Despite her reluctance to have a scene—a thing which was strongly +opposed to the traditions of Bashford’s Lane—Mrs. Truefitt had got as +far as the doorstep in search of assistance, when a sudden terrible +thought occurred to her: Fred was dead, and the visitor had hit upon +this extraordinary fashion of breaking the news gently. + +“Come into the parlour,” she said, faintly. + +Mr. Catesby, suppressing his surprise, followed her into the room. +Prudence, her fine figure erect and her large eyes meeting his +steadily, took up a position by the side of her mother. + +“You have brought bad news?” inquired the latter. + +“No, mother,” said Mr. Catesby, simply, “only myself, that’s all.” + +Mrs. Truefitt made a gesture of impatience, and her daughter, watching +him closely, tried to remember something she had once read about +detecting insanity by the expression of the eyes. Those of Mr. Catesby +were blue, and the only expression in them at the present moment was +one of tender and respectful admiration. + +“When did you see Fred last?” inquired Mrs. Truefitt, making another +effort. + +“Mother,” said Mr. Catesby, with great pathos, “don’t you know me?” + +“He has brought bad news of Fred,” said Mrs. Truefitt, turning to her +daughter; “I am sure he has.” + +“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Catesby, with a bewildered glance +from one to the other. “I am Fred. Am I much changed? You look the same +as you always did, and it seems only yesterday since I kissed Prudence +good-bye at the docks. You were crying, Prudence.” + +Miss Truefitt made no reply; she gazed at him unflinchingly and then +bent toward her mother. + +“He is mad,” she whispered; “we must try and get him out quietly. Don’t +contradict him.” + +“Keep close to me,” said Mrs. Truefitt, who had a great horror of the +insane. “If he turns violent open the window and scream. I thought he +had brought bad news of Fred. How did he know about him?” + +Her daughter shook her head and gazed curiously at their afflicted +visitor. She put his age down at twenty-five, and she could not help +thinking it a pity that so good-looking a young man should have lost +his wits. + +“Bade Prudence good-bye at the docks,” continued Mr. Catesby, dreamily. +“You drew me behind a pile of luggage, Prudence, and put your head on +my shoulder. I have thought of it ever since.” + +Miss Truefitt did not deny it, but she bit her lips, and shot a sharp +glance at him. She began to think that her pity was uncalled-for. + +“I’m just going as far as the corner.” + +“Tell me all that’s happened since I’ve been away,” said Mr. Catesby. + +Mrs. Truefitt turned to her daughter and whispered. It might have been +merely the effect of a guilty conscience, but the visitor thought that +he caught the word “policeman.” + +“I’m just going as far as the corner,” said Mrs. Truefitt, rising, and +crossing hastily to the door. + + +[Illustration] + +The young man nodded affectionately and sat in doubtful consideration +as the front door closed behind her. “Where is mother going?” he asked, +in a voice which betrayed a little pardonable anxiety. + +“Not far, I hope,” said Prudence. + +“I really think,” said Mr. Catesby, rising—“I really think that I had +better go after her. At her age——” + +He walked into the small passage and put his hand on the latch. +Prudence, now quite certain of his sanity, felt sorely reluctant to let +such impudence go unpunished. + +“Are you going?” she inquired. + +“I think I’d better,” said Mr. Catesby, gravely. “Dear mother—” + +“You’re afraid,” said the girl, calmly. + +Mr. Catesby coloured and his buoyancy failed him. He felt a little bit +cheap. + +“You are brave enough with two women,” continued the girl, +disdainfully; “but you had better go if you’re afraid.” + +Mr. Catesby regarded the temptress uneasily. “Would you like me to +stay?” he asked. + +“I?” said Miss Truefitt, tossing her head. “No, I don’t want you. +Besides, you’re frightened.” + +Mr. Catesby turned, and with a firm step made his way back to the room; +Prudence, with a half-smile, took a chair near the door and regarded +her prisoner with unholy triumph. + +“I shouldn’t like to be in your shoes,” she said, agreeably; “mother +has gone for a policeman.” + +“Bless her,” said Mr. Catesby, fervently. “What had we better say to +him when he comes?” + +“You’ll be locked up,” said Prudence; “and it will serve you right for +your bad behaviour.” + +Mr. Catesby sighed. “It’s the heart,” he said, gravely. “I’m not to +blame, really. I saw you standing in the window, and I could see at +once that you were beautiful, and good, and kind.” + +“I never heard of such impudence,” continued Miss Truefitt. + +“I surprised myself,” admitted Mr. Catesby. “In the usual way I am very +quiet and well-behaved, not to say shy.” + +Miss Truefitt looked at him scornfully. “I think that you had better +stop your nonsense and go,” she remarked. + +“Don’t you want me to be punished?” inquired the other, in a soft +voice. + +“I think that you had better go while you can,” said the girl, and at +that moment there was a heavy knock at the front-door. Mr. Catesby, +despite his assurance, changed colour; the girl eyed him in perplexity. +Then she opened the small folding-doors at the back of the room. + +“You’re only—stupid,” she whispered. “Quick! Go in there. I’ll say +you’ve gone. Keep quiet, and I’ll let you out by-and-by.” + +She pushed him in and closed the doors. From his hiding-place he heard +an animated conversation at the street-door and minute particulars as +to the time which had elapsed since his departure and the direction he +had taken. + +“I never heard such impudence,” said Mrs. Truefitt, going into the +front-room and sinking into a chair after the constable had taken his +departure. “I don’t believe he was mad.” + +“Only a little weak in the head, I think,” said Prudence, in a clear +voice. “He was very frightened after you had gone; I don’t think he +will trouble us again.” + +“He’d better not,” said Mrs. Truefitt, sharply. “I never heard of such +a thing—never.” + +She continued to grumble, while Prudence, in a low voice, endeavoured +to soothe her. Her efforts were evidently successful, as the prisoner +was, after a time, surprised to hear the older woman laugh—at first +gently, and then with so much enjoyment that her daughter was at some +pains to restrain her. He sat in patience until evening deepened into +night, and a line of light beneath the folding-doors announced the +lighting of the lamp in the front-room. By a pleasant clatter of +crockery he became aware that they were at supper, and he pricked up +his ears as Prudence made another reference to him. + +“If he comes to-morrow night while you are out I sha’n’t open the +door,” she said. “You’ll be back by nine, I suppose.” + +Mrs. Truefitt assented. + +“And you won’t be leaving before seven,” continued Prudence. “I shall +be all right.” + +Mr. Catesby’s face glowed and his eyes grew tender; Prudence was as +clever as she was beautiful. The delicacy with which she had intimated +the fact of the unconscious Mrs. Truefitt’s absence on the following +evening was beyond all praise. The only depressing thought was that +such resourcefulness savoured of practice. + +He sat in the darkness for so long that even the proximity of Prudence +was not sufficient amends for the monotony of it, and it was not until +past ten o’clock that the folding-doors were opened and he stood +blinking at the girl in the glare of the lamp. + +“Quick!” she whispered. + +Mr. Catesby stepped into the lighted room. + +“The front-door is open,” whispered Prudence. “Make haste. I’ll close +it.” + +She followed him to the door; he made an ineffectual attempt to seize +her hand, and the next moment was pushed gently outside and the door +closed behind him. He stood a moment gazing at the house, and then +hastened back to his ship. + +“Seven to-morrow,” he murmured; “seven to-morrow. After all, there’s +nothing pays in this world like cheek—nothing.” + +He slept soundly that night, though the things that the second-engineer +said to him about wasting a hard-working man’s evening would have lain +heavy on the conscience of a more scrupulous man. The only thing that +troubled him was the manifest intention of his friend not to let him +slip through his fingers on the following evening. At last, in sheer +despair at his inability to shake him off, he had to tell him that he +had an appointment with a lady. + +“Well, I’ll come, too,” said the other, glowering at him. “It’s very +like she’ll have a friend with her; they generally do.” + +“I’ll run round and tell her,” said Catesby. “I’d have arranged it +before, only I thought you didn’t care about that sort of thing.” + +“Female society is softening,” said the second-engineer. “I’ll go and +put on a clean collar.” + + +[Illustration] + +Catesby watched him into his cabin and then, though it still wanted an +hour to seven, hastily quitted the ship and secreted himself in the +private bar of the Beehive. + +He waited there until a quarter past seven, and then, adjusting his tie +for about the tenth time that evening in the glass behind the bar, +sallied out in the direction of No. 5. + +He knocked lightly, and waited. There was no response, and he knocked +again. When the fourth knock brought no response, his heart sank within +him and he indulged in vain speculations as to the reasons for this +unexpected hitch in the programme. He knocked again, and then the door +opened suddenly and Prudence, with a little cry of surprise and dismay, +backed into the passage. + +“You!” she said, regarding him with large eyes. Mr. Catesby bowed +tenderly, and passing in closed the door behind him. + +“I wanted to thank you for your kindness last night,” he said, humbly. + +“Very well,” said Prudence; “good-bye.” + +Mr. Catesby smiled. “It’ll take me a long time to thank you as I ought +to thank you,” he murmured. “And then I want to apologise; that’ll take +time, too.” + +“You had better go,” said Prudence, severely; “kindness is thrown away +upon you. I ought to have let you be punished.” + +“You are too good and kind,” said the other, drifting by easy stages +into the parlour. + +Miss Truefitt made no reply, but following him into the room seated +herself in an easy-chair and sat coldly watchful. + +“How do you know what I am?” she inquired. + +“Your face tells me,” said the infatuated Richard. “I hope you will +forgive me for my rudeness last night. It was all done on the spur of +the moment.” + +“I am glad you are sorry,” said the girl, softening. + +“All the same, if I hadn’t done it,” pursued Mr. Catesby, “I shouldn’t +be sitting here talking to you now.” + +Miss Truefitt raised her eyes to his, and then lowered them modestly to +the ground. “That is true,” she said, quietly. + +“And I would sooner be sitting here than anywhere,” pursued Catesby. +“That is,” he added, rising, and taking a chair by her side, “except +here.” + +Miss Truefitt appeared to tremble, and made as though to rise. Then she +sat still and took a gentle peep at Mr. Catesby from the corner of her +eye. + +“I hope that you are not sorry that I am here?” said that gentleman. + +Miss Truefitt hesitated. “No,” she said, at last. + +“Are you—are you glad?” asked the modest Richard. + +Miss Truefitt averted her eyes altogether. “Yes,” she said, faintly. + +A strange feeling of solemnity came over the triumphant Richard. He +took the hand nearest to him and pressed it gently. + +“I—I can hardly believe in my good luck,” he murmured. + +“Good luck?” said Prudence, innocently. + +“Isn’t it good luck to hear you say that you are glad I’m here?” said +Catesby. + +“You’re the best judge of that,” said the girl, withdrawing her hand. +“It doesn’t seem to me much to be pleased about.” + +Mr. Catesby eyed her in perplexity, and was about to address another +tender remark to her when she was overcome by a slight fit of coughing. +At the same moment he started at the sound of a shuffling footstep in +the passage. Somebody tapped at the door. + +“Yes?” said Prudence. + +“Can’t find the knife-powder, miss,” said a harsh voice. The door was +pushed open and disclosed a tall, bony woman of about forty. Her red +arms were bare to the elbow, and she betrayed several evidences of a +long and arduous day’s charing. + +“It’s in the cupboard,” said Prudence. “Why, what’s the matter, Mrs. +Porter?” + +Mrs. Porter made no reply. Her mouth was wide open and she was gazing +with starting eyeballs at Mr. Catesby. + +“_Joe!_” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “_Joe!_” + +Mr. Catesby gazed at her in chilling silence. Miss Truefitt, with an +air of great surprise, glanced from one to the other. + +“_Joe!_” said Mrs. Porter again. “Ain’t you goin’ to speak to me?” + +Mr. Catesby continued to gaze at her in speechless astonishment. She +skipped clumsily round the table and stood before him with her hands +clasped. + +“Where ’ave you been all this long time?” she demanded, in a higher +key. + +“You—you’ve made a mistake,” said the bewildered Richard. + +“Mistake?” wailed Mrs. Porter. “Mistake! Oh, where’s your ’art?” + +Before he could get out of her way she flung her arms round the +horrified young man’s neck and embraced him copiously. Over her bony +left shoulder the frantic Richard met the ecstatic gaze of Miss +Truefitt, and, in a flash, he realised the trap into which he had +fallen. + +“_Mrs. Porter!_” said Prudence. + +“It’s my ’usband, miss,” said the Amazon, reluctantly releasing the +flushed and dishevelled Richard; “’e left me and my five eighteen +months ago. For eighteen months I ’aven’t ’ad a sight of ’is blessed +face.” + +She lifted the hem of her apron to her face and broke into discordant +weeping. + +“Don’t cry,” said Prudence, softly; “I’m sure he isn’t worth it.” + +Mr. Catesby looked at her wanly. He was beyond further astonishment, +and when Mrs. Truefitt entered the room with a laudable attempt to +twist her features into an expression of surprise, he scarcely noticed +her. + +“It’s my Joe,” said Mrs. Porter, simply. + +“Good gracious!” said Mrs. Truefitt. “Well, you’ve got him now; take +care he doesn’t run away from you again.” + +“I’ll look after that, ma’am,” said Mrs. Porter, with a glare at the +startled Richard. + + +[Illustration] + +“She’s very forgiving,” said Prudence. “She kissed him just now.” + +“Did she, though,” said the admiring Mrs. Truefitt. “I wish I’d been +here.” + +“I can do it agin, ma’am,” said the obliging Mrs. Porter. + +“If you come near me again—” said the breathless Richard, stepping back +a pace. + +“I shouldn’t force his love,” said Mrs. Truefitt; “it’ll come back in +time, I dare say.” + +“I’m sure he’s affectionate,” said Prudence. + +Mr. Catesby eyed his tormentors in silence; the faces of Prudence and +her mother betokened much innocent enjoyment, but the austerity of Mrs. +Porter’s visage was unrelaxed. + +“Better let bygones be bygones,” said Mrs. Truefitt; “he’ll be sorry +by-and-by for all the trouble he has caused.” + +“He’ll be ashamed of himself—if you give him time,” added Prudence. + +Mr. Catesby had heard enough; he took up his hat and crossed to the +door. + +“Take care he doesn’t run away from you again,” repeated Mrs. Truefitt. + +“I’ll see to that, ma’am,” said Mrs. Porter, taking him by the arm. +“Come along, Joe.” + +Mr. Catesby attempted to shake her off, but in vain, and he ground his +teeth as he realised the absurdity of his position. A man he could have +dealt with, but Mrs. Porter was invulnerable. Sooner than walk down the +road with her he preferred the sallies of the parlour. He walked back +to his old position by the fireplace, and stood gazing moodily at the +floor. + +Mrs. Truefitt tired of the sport at last. She wanted her supper, and +with a significant glance at her daughter she beckoned the redoubtable +and reluctant Mrs. Porter from the room. Catesby heard the kitchen-door +close behind them, but he made no move. Prudence stood gazing at him in +silence. + +“If you want to go,” she said, at last, “now is your chance.” + +Catesby followed her into the passage without a word, and waited +quietly while she opened the door. Still silent, he put on his hat and +passed out into the darkening street. He turned after a short distance +for a last look at the house and, with a sudden sense of elation, saw +that she was standing on the step. He hesitated, and then walked slowly +back. + +“Yes?” said Prudence. + +“I should like to tell your mother that I am sorry,” he said, in a low +voice. + +“It is getting late,” said the girl, softly; “but, if you really wish +to tell her—Mrs. Porter will not be here to-morrow night.” + +She stepped back into the house and the door closed behind her. + + + + +THE CHANGING NUMBERS + + +The tall clock in the corner of the small living-room had just struck +eight as Mr. Samuel Gunnill came stealthily down the winding staircase +and, opening the door at the foot, stepped with an appearance of great +care and humility into the room. He noticed with some anxiety that his +daughter Selina was apparently engrossed in her task of attending to +the plants in the window, and that no preparations whatever had been +made for breakfast. + + +[Illustration] + +Miss Gunnill’s horticultural duties seemed interminable. She snipped +off dead leaves with painstaking precision, and administered water with +the jealous care of a druggist compounding a prescription; then, with +her back still toward him, she gave vent to a sigh far too intense in +its nature to have reference to such trivialities as plants. She +repeated it twice, and at the second time Mr. Gunnill, almost without +his knowledge, uttered a deprecatory cough. + +His daughter turned with alarming swiftness and, holding herself very +upright, favoured him with a glance in which indignation and surprise +were very fairly mingled. + +“That white one—that one at the end,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an +appearance of concentrated interest, “that’s my fav’rite.” + +Miss Gunnill put her hands together, and a look of infinite +long-suffering came upon her face, but she made no reply. + +“Always has been,” continued Mr. Gunnill, feverishly, “from a—from a +cutting.” + +“Bailed out,” said Miss Gunnill, in a deep and thrilling voice; “bailed +out at one o’clock in the morning, brought home singing loud enough for +half-a-dozen, and then talking about flowers!” + +Mr. Gunnill coughed again. + +“I was dreaming,” pursued Miss Gunnill, plaintively, “sleeping +peacefully, when I was awoke by a horrible noise.” + +“That couldn’t ha’ been me,” protested her father. “I was only a bit +cheerful. It was Benjamin Ely’s birthday yesterday, and after we left +the Lion they started singing, and I just hummed to keep ’em company. I +wasn’t singing, mind you, only humming—when up comes that interfering +Cooper and takes me off.” + +Miss Gunnill shivered, and with her pretty cheek in her hand sat by the +window the very picture of despondency. “Why didn’t he take the +others?” she inquired. + +“Ah!” said Mr. Gunnill, with great emphasis, “that’s what a lot more of +us would like to know. P’r’aps if you’d been more polite to Mrs. +Cooper, instead o’ putting it about that she looked young enough to be +his mother, it wouldn’t have happened.” + +His daughter shook her head impatiently and, on Mr. Gunnill making an +allusion to breakfast, expressed surprise that he had got the heart to +eat anything. Mr. Gunnill pressing the point, however, she arose and +began to set the table, the undue care with which she smoothed out the +creases of the table-cloth, and the mathematical exactness with which +she placed the various articles, all being so many extra smarts in his +wound. When she finally placed on the table enough food for a dozen +people he began to show signs of a little spirit. + +“Ain’t you going to have any?” he demanded, as Miss Gunnill resumed her +seat by the window. + +“_Me?_” said the girl, with a shudder. “Breakfast? The disgrace is +breakfast enough for me. I couldn’t eat a morsel; it would choke me.” + +Mr. Gunnill eyed her over the rim of his teacup. “I come down an hour +ago,” he said, casually, as he helped himself to some bacon. + +Miss Gunnill started despite herself. “Oh!” she said, listlessly. + +“And I see you making a very good breakfast all by yourself in the +kitchen,” continued her father, in a voice not free from the taint of +triumph. + +The discomfited Selina rose and stood regarding him; Mr. Gunnill, after +a vain attempt to meet her gaze, busied himself with his meal. + +“The idea of watching every mouthful I eat!” said Miss Gunnill, +tragically; “the idea of complaining because I have some breakfast! I’d +never have believed it of you, never! It’s shameful! Fancy grudging +your own daughter the food she eats!” + +Mr. Gunnill eyed her in dismay. In his confusion he had overestimated +the capacity of his mouth, and he now strove in vain to reply to this +shameful perversion of his meaning. His daughter stood watching him +with grief in one eye and calculation in the other, and, just as he had +put himself into a position to exercise his rights of free speech, gave +a pathetic sniff and walked out of the room. + +She stayed indoors all day, but the necessity of establishing his +innocence took Mr. Gunnill out a great deal. His neighbours, in the +hope of further excitement, warmly pressed him to go to prison rather +than pay a fine, and instanced the example of an officer in the +Salvation Army, who, in very different circumstances, had elected to +take that course. Mr. Gunnill assured them that only his known +antipathy to the army, and the fear of being regarded as one of its +followers, prevented him from doing so. He paid instead a fine of ten +shillings, and after listening to a sermon, in which his silver hairs +served as the text, was permitted to depart. His feeling against +Police-constable Cooper increased with the passing of the days. The +constable watched him with the air of a proprietor, and Mrs. Cooper’s +remark that “her husband had had his eye upon him for a long time, and +that he had better be careful for the future,” was faithfully retailed +to him within half an hour of its utterance. Convivial friends counted +his cups for him; teetotal friends more than hinted that Cooper was in +the employ of his good angel. + + +[Illustration] + +Miss Gunnill’s two principal admirers had an arduous task to perform. +They had to attribute Mr. Gunnill’s disaster to the vindictiveness of +Cooper, and at the same time to agree with his daughter that it served +him right. Between father and daughter they had a difficult time, Mr. +Gunnill’s sensitiveness having been much heightened by his troubles. + +“Cooper ought not to have taken you,” said Herbert Sims for the +fiftieth time. + +“He must ha’ seen you like it dozens o’ times before,” said Ted Drill, +who, in his determination not to be outdone by Mr. Sims, was not +displaying his usual judgment. “Why didn’t he take you then? That’s +what you ought to have asked the magistrate.” + +“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an air of cold +dignity. + +“Why,” said Mr. Drill, “what I mean is—look at that night, for +instance, when——” + +He broke off suddenly, even his enthusiasm not being proof against the +extraordinary contortions of visage in which Mr. Gunnill was indulging. + +“When?” prompted Selina and Mr. Sims together. Mr. Gunnill, after first +daring him with his eye, followed suit. + +“That night at the Crown,” said Mr. Drill, awkwardly. “You know; when +you thought that Joe Baggs was the landlord. You tell ’em; you tell it +best. I’ve roared over it.” + +“I don’t know what you’re driving at,” said the harassed Mr. Gunnill, +bitterly. + +“_H’m!_” said Mr. Drill, with a weak laugh. “I’ve been mixing you up +with somebody else.” + +Mr. Gunnill, obviously relieved, said that he ought to be more careful, +and pointed out, with some feeling, that a lot of mischief was caused +that way. + +“Cooper wants a lesson, that’s what he wants,” said Mr. Sims, +valiantly. “He’ll get his head broke one of these days.” + +Mr. Gunnill acquiesced. “I remember when I was on the _Peewit_,” he +said, musingly, “one time when we were lying at Cardiff, there was a +policeman there run one of our chaps in, and two nights afterward +another of our chaps pushed the policeman down in the mud and ran off +with his staff and his helmet.” + +Miss Gunnill’s eyes glistened. “What happened?” she inquired. + +“He had to leave the force,” replied her father; “he couldn’t stand the +disgrace of it. The chap that pushed him over was quite a little chap, +too. About the size of Herbert here.” + +Mr. Sims started. + +“Very much like him in face, too,” pursued Mr. Gunnill; “daring chap he +was.” + +Miss Gunnill sighed. “I wish he lived in Little-stow,” she said, +slowly. “I’d give anything to take that horrid Mrs. Cooper down a bit. +Cooper would be the laughing-stock of the town.” + +Messrs. Sims and Drill looked unhappy. It was hard to have to affect an +attitude of indifference in the face of Miss Gunnill’s lawless +yearnings; to stand before her as respectable and law-abiding cravens. +Her eyes, large and sorrowful; dwelt on them both. + +“If I—I only get a chance at Cooper!” murmured Mr. Sims, vaguely. + +To his surprise, Mr. Gunnill started up from his chair and, gripping +his hand, shook it fervently. He looked round, and Selina was regarding +him with a glance so tender that he lost his head completely. Before he +had recovered he had pledged himself to lay the helmet and truncheon of +the redoubtable Mr. Cooper at the feet of Miss Gunnill; exact date not +specified. + +“Of course, I shall have to wait my opportunity,” he said, at last. + +“You wait as long as you like, my boy,” said the thoughtless Mr. +Gunnill. + +Mr. Sims thanked him. + +“Wait till Cooper’s an old man,” urged Mr. Drill. + +Miss Gunnill, secretly disappointed at the lack of boldness and +devotion on the part of the latter gentleman, eyed his stalwart frame +indignantly and accused him of trying to make Mr. Sims as timid as +himself. She turned to the valiant Sims and made herself so agreeable +to that daring blade that Mr. Drill, a prey to violent jealousy, bade +the company a curt good-night and withdrew. + +He stayed away for nearly a week, and then one evening as he approached +the house, carrying a carpet-bag, he saw the door just opening to admit +the fortunate Herbert. He quickened his pace and arrived just in time +to follow him in. Mr. Sims, who bore under his arm a brown-paper +parcel, seemed somewhat embarrassed at seeing him, and after a brief +greeting walked into the room, and with a triumphant glance at Mr. +Gunnill and Selina placed his burden on the table. + + +[Illustration] + +“You—you ain’t got it?” said Mr. Gunnill, leaning forward. + +“How foolish of you to run such a risk!” said Selina. + +“I brought it for Miss Gunnill,” said the young man, simply. He +unfastened the parcel, and to the astonishment of all present revealed +a policeman’s helmet and a short boxwood truncheon. + +“You—you’re a wonder,” said the gloating Mr. Gunnill. “Look at it, +Ted!” + +Mr. Drill _was_ looking at it; it may be doubted whether the head of +Mr. Cooper itself could have caused him more astonishment. Then his +eyes sought those of Mr. Sims, but that gentleman was gazing tenderly +at the gratified but shocked Selina. + +“How ever did you do it?” inquired Mr. Gunnill. + +“Came behind him and threw him down,” said Mr. Sims, nonchalantly. “He +was that scared I believe I could have taken his boots as well if I’d +wanted them.” + +Mr. Gunnill patted him on the back. “I fancy I can see him running +bare-headed through the town calling for help,” he said, smiling. + +Mr. Sims shook his head. “Like as not it’ll be kept quiet for the +credit of the force,” he said, slowly, “unless, of course, they +discover who did it.” + +A slight shade fell on the good-humoured countenance of Mr. Gunnill, +but it was chased away almost immediately by Sims reminding him of the +chaff of Cooper’s brother-constables. + +“And you might take the others away,” said Mr. Gunnill, brightening; +“you might keep on doing it.” + +Mr. Sims said doubtfully that he might, but pointed out that Cooper +would probably be on his guard for the future. + +“Yes, you’ve done your share,” said Miss Gunnill, with a half-glance at +Mr. Drill, who was still gazing in a bewildered fashion at the +trophies. “You can come into the kitchen and help me draw some beer if +you like.” + +Mr. Sims followed her joyfully, and reaching down a jug for her watched +her tenderly as she drew the beer. All women love valour, but Miss +Gunnill, gazing sadly at the slight figure of Mr. Sims, could not help +wishing that Mr. Drill possessed a little of his spirit. + + +[Illustration] + +She had just finished her task when a tremendous bumping noise was +heard in the living-room, and the plates on the dresser were nearly +shaken off their shelves. + +“What’s that?” she cried. + +They ran to the room and stood aghast in the doorway at the spectacle +of Mr. Gunnill, with his clenched fists held tightly by his side, +bounding into the air with all the grace of a trained acrobat, while +Mr. Drill encouraged him from an easy-chair. Mr. Gunnill smiled broadly +as he met their astonished gaze, and with a final bound kicked +something along the floor and subsided into his seat panting. + +Mr. Sims, suddenly enlightened, uttered a cry of dismay and, darting +under the table, picked up what had once been a policeman’s helmet. +Then he snatched a partially consumed truncheon from the fire, and +stood white and trembling before the astonished Mr. Gunnill. + +“What’s the matter?” inquired the latter. + +“You—you’ve spoilt ’em,” gasped Mr. Sims. + +“What of it?” said Mr. Gunnill, staring. + +“I was—going to take ’em away,” stammered Mr. Sims. + +“Well, they’ll be easier to carry now,” said Mr. Drill, simply. + +Mr. Sims glanced at him sharply, and then, to the extreme astonishment +of Mr. Gunnill, snatched up the relics and, wrapping them up in the +paper, dashed out of the house. Mr. Gunnill turned a look of blank +inquiry upon Mr. Drill. + +“It wasn’t Cooper’s number on the helmet,” said that gentleman. + +“_Eh?_” shouted Mr. Gunnill. + +“How do you know?” inquired Selina. + +“I just happened to notice,” replied Mr. Drill. He reached down as +though to take up the carpet-bag which he had placed by the side of his +chair, and then, apparently thinking better of it, leaned back in his +seat and eyed Mr. Gunnill. + +“Do you mean to tell me,” said the latter, “that he’s been and upset +the wrong man?” + +Mr. Drill shook his head. “That’s the puzzle,” he said, softly. + +He smiled over at Miss Gunnill, but that young lady, who found him +somewhat mysterious, looked away and frowned. Her father sat and +exhausted conjecture, his final conclusion being that Mr. Sims had +attacked the first policeman that had come in his way and was now +suffering the agonies of remorse. + +He raised his head sharply at the sound of hurried footsteps outside. +There was a smart rap at the street door, then the handle was turned, +and the next moment, to the dismay of all present, the red and angry +face of one of Mr. Cooper’s brother-constables was thrust into the +room. + +Mr. Gunnill gazed at it in helpless fascination. The body of the +constable garbed in plain clothes followed the face and, standing +before him in a menacing fashion, held out a broken helmet and staff. + +“Have you seen these afore?” he inquired, in a terrible voice. + +“No,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an attempt at surprise. “What are they?” + +“I’ll tell you what they are,” said Police-constable Jenkins, +ferociously; “they’re my helmet and truncheon. You’ve been spoiling His +Majesty’s property, and you’ll be locked up.” + +“_Yours?_” said the astonished Mr. Gunnill. + +“I lent ’em to young Sims, just for a joke,” said the constable. “I +felt all along I was doing a silly thing.” + +“It’s no joke,” said Mr. Gunnill, severely. “I’ll tell young Herbert +what I think of him trying to deceive me like that.” + +“Never mind about deceiving,” interrupted the constable. “What are you +going to do about it?” + +“What are you?” inquired Mr. Gunnill, hardily. “It seems to me it’s +between you and him; you’ll very likely be dismissed from the force, +and all through trying to deceive. I wash my hands of it.” + +“You’d no business to lend it,” said Drill, interrupting the +constable’s indignant retort; “especially for Sims to pretend that he +had stolen it from Cooper. It’s a roundabout sort of thing, but you +can’t tell of Mr. Gunnill without getting into trouble yourself.” + +“I shall have to put up with that,” said the constable, desperately; +“it’s got to be explained. It’s my day-helmet, too, and the night one’s +as shabby as can be. Twenty years in the force and never a mark against +my name till now.” + +“If you’d only keep quiet a bit instead of talking so much,” said Mr. +Drill, who had been doing some hard thinking, “I might be able to help +you, p’r’aps.” + +“How?” inquired the constable. + +“Help him if you can, Ted,” said Mr. Gunnill, eagerly; “we ought all to +help others when we get a chance.” + +Mr. Drill sat bolt upright and looked very wise. + +He took the smashed helmet from the table and examined it carefully. It +was broken in at least half-a-dozen places, and he laboured in vain to +push it into shape. He might as well have tried to make a silk hat out +of a concertina. The only thing that had escaped injury was the metal +plate with the number. + +“Why don’t you mend it?” he inquired, at last. + +“_Mend_ it?” shouted the incensed Mr. Jenkins. “Why don’t you?” + +“I think I could,” said Mr. Drill, slowly; “give me half an hour in the +kitchen and I’ll try.” + +“Have as long as you like,” said Mr. Gunnill. + +“And I shall want some glue, and Miss Gunnill, and some tin-tacks,” +said Drill. + +“What do you want me for?” inquired Selina. + +“To hold the things for me,” replied Mr. Drill. + +Miss Gunnill tossed her head, but after a little demur consented; and +Drill, ignoring the impatience of the constable, picked up his bag and +led the way into the kitchen. Messrs. Gunnill and Jenkins, left behind +in the living-room, sought for some neutral topic of discourse, but in +vain; conversation would revolve round hard labour and lost pensions. +From the kitchen came sounds of hammering, then a loud “_Ooh!_” from +Miss Gunnill, followed by a burst of laughter and a clapping of hands. +Mr. Jenkins shifted in his seat and exchanged glances with Mr. Gunnill. + + +[Illustration] + +“He’s a clever fellow,” said that gentleman, hopefully. “You should +hear him imitate a canary; life-like it is.” + +Mr. Jenkins was about to make a hasty and obvious rejoinder, when the +kitchen door opened and Selina emerged, followed by Drill. The snarl +which the constable had prepared died away in a murmur of astonishment +as he took the helmet. It looked as good as ever. + +He turned it over and over in amaze, and looked in vain for any signs +of the disastrous cracks. It was stiff and upright. He looked at the +number: it was his own. His eyes round with astonishment he tried it +on, and then his face relaxed. + +“It don’t fit as well as it did,” he said. + +“Well, upon my word, some people are never satisfied,” said the +indignant Drill. “There isn’t another man in England could have done it +better.” + +“I’m not grumbling,” said the constable, hastily; “it’s a wonderful +piece o’ work. Wonderful! I can’t even see where it was broke. How on +earth did you do it?” + +Drill shook his head. “It’s a secret process,” he said, slowly. “I +might want to go into the hat trade some day, and I’m not going to give +things away.” + +“Quite right,” said Mr. Jenkins. “Still—well, it’s a marvel, that’s +what it is; a fair marvel. If you take my advice you’ll go in the hat +trade to-morrow, my lad.” + +“I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Gunnill, whose face as he spoke was a map +of astonishment. “Not a bit. I’ve seen him do more surprising things +than that. Have a go at the staff now, Teddy.” + +“I’ll see about it,” said Mr. Drill, modestly. “I can’t do +impossibilities. You leave it here, Mr. Jenkins, and we’ll talk about +it later on.” + +Mr. Jenkins, still marvelling over his helmet, assented, and, after +another reference to the possibilities in the hat trade to a man with a +born gift for repairs, wrapped his property in a piece of newspaper and +departed, whistling. + +“Ted,” said Mr. Gunnill, impressively, as he sank into his chair with a +sigh of relief. “How you done it I don’t know. It’s a surprise even to +me.” + +“He is very clever,” said Selina, with a kind smile. + +Mr. Drill turned pale, and then, somewhat emboldened by praise from +such a quarter, dropped into a chair by her side and began to talk in +low tones. The grateful Mr. Gunnill, more relieved than he cared to +confess, thoughtfully closed his eyes. + +“I didn’t think all along that you’d let Herbert outdo you,” said +Selina. + +“I want to outdo _him_,” said Mr. Drill, in a voice of much meaning. + +Miss Gunnill cast down her eyes and Mr. Drill had just plucked up +sufficient courage to take her hand when footsteps stopped at the +house, the handle of the door was turned, and, for the second time that +evening, the inflamed visage of Mr. Jenkins confronted the company. + +“Don’t tell me it’s a failure,” said Mr. Gunnill, starting from his +chair. “You must have been handling it roughly. It was as good as new +when you took it away.” + +Mr. Jenkins waved him away and fixed his eyes upon Drill. + +“You think you’re mighty clever, I dare say,” he said, grimly; “but I +can put two and two together. I’ve just heard of it.” + +“Heard of two and two?” said Drill, looking puzzled. + +“I don’t want any of your nonsense,” said Mr. Jenkins. “I’m not on duty +now, but I warn you not to say anything that may be used against you.” + +“I never do,” said Mr. Drill, piously. + +“Somebody threw a handful o’ flour in poor Cooper’s face a couple of +hours ago,” said Mr. Jenkins, watching him closely, “and while he was +getting it out of his eyes they upset him and made off with his helmet +and truncheon. I just met Brown and he says Cooper’s been going on like +a madman.” + +“By Jove! it’s a good job I mended your helmet for you,” said Mr. +Drill, “or else they might have suspected you.” + +Mr. Jenkins stared at him. “I know who did do it,” he said, +significantly. + +“Herbert Sims?” guessed Mr. Drill, in a stage whisper. + +“You’ll be one o’ the first to know,” said Mr. Jenkins, darkly; “he’ll +be arrested to-morrow. Fancy the impudence of it! It’s shocking.” + +Mr. Drill whistled. “Nell, don’t let that little affair o’ yours with +Sims be known,” he said, quietly. “Have that kept quiet—_if you can_.” + +Mr. Jenkins started as though he had been stung. In the joy of a case +he had overlooked one or two things. He turned and regarded the young +man wistfully. + +“Don’t call on me as a witness, that’s all,” continued Mr. Drill. “I +never was a mischief-maker, and I shouldn’t like to have to tell how +you lent your helmet to Sims so that he could pretend he had knocked +Cooper down and taken it from him.” + + +[Illustration] + +“Wouldn’t look at all well,” said Mr. Gunnill, nodding his head sagely. + +Mr. Jenkins breathed hard and looked from one to the other. It was +plain that it was no good reminding them that he had not had a case for +five years. + +“When I say that I know who did it,” he said, slowly, “I mean that I +have my suspicions.” + +“Ah,” said Mr. Drill, “that’s a very different thing.” + +“Nothing like the same,” said Mr. Gunnill, pouring the constable a +glass of ale. + +Mr. Jenkins drank it and smacked his lips feebly. + +“Sims needn’t know anything about that helmet being repaired,” he said +at last. + +“Certainly not,” said everybody. + +Mr. Jenkins sighed and turned to Drill. + +“It’s no good spoiling the ship for a ha’porth o’ tar,” he said, with a +faint suspicion of a wink. + +“No,” said Drill, looking puzzled. + +“Anything that’s worth doing at all is worth doing well,” continued the +constable, “and while I’m drinking another glass with Mr. Gunnill here, +suppose you go into the kitchen with that useful bag o’ yours and +finish repairing my truncheon?” + + + + +THE PERSECUTION OF BOB PRETTY + + +The old man sat on his accustomed bench outside the Cauliflower. A +generous measure of beer stood in a blue and white jug by his elbow, +and little wisps of smoke curled slowly upward from the bowl of his +churchwarden pipe. The knapsacks of two young men lay where they were +flung on the table, and the owners, taking a noon-tide rest, turned a +polite, if bored, ear to the reminiscences of grateful old age. + +Poaching, said the old man, who had tried topics ranging from early +turnips to horseshoeing—poaching ain’t wot it used to be in these ’ere +parts. Nothing is like it used to be, poaching nor anything else; but +that there man you might ha’ noticed as went out about ten minutes ago +and called me “Old Truthfulness” as ’e passed is the worst one I know. +Bob Pretty ’is name is, and of all the sly, artful, deceiving men that +ever lived in Claybury ’e is the worst—never did a honest day’s work in +’is life and never wanted the price of a glass of ale. + + +[Illustration] + +Bob Pretty’s worst time was just after old Squire Brown died. The old +squire couldn’t afford to preserve much, but by-and-by a gentleman with +plenty o’ money, from London, named Rockett, took ’is place and things +began to look up. Pheasants was ’is favourites, and ’e spent no end o’ +money rearing of ’em, but anything that could be shot at suited ’im, +too. + +He started by sneering at the little game that Squire Brown ’ad left, +but all ’e could do didn’t seem to make much difference; things +disappeared in a most eggstrordinary way, and the keepers went pretty +near crazy, while the things the squire said about Claybury and +Claybury men was disgraceful. + +Everybody knew as it was Bob Pretty and one or two of ’is mates from +other places, but they couldn’t prove it. They couldn’t catch ’im +nohow, and at last the squire ’ad two keepers set off to watch ’im by +night and by day. + +Bob Pretty wouldn’t believe it; he said ’e couldn’t. And even when it +was pointed out to ’im that Keeper Lewis was follering of ’im he said +that it just ’appened he was going the same way, that was all. And +sometimes ’e’d get up in the middle of the night and go for a +fifteen-mile walk ’cos ’e’d got the toothache, and Mr. Lewis, who +’adn’t got it, had to tag along arter ’im till he was fit to drop. O’ +course, it was one keeper the less to look arter the game, and +by-and-by the squire see that and took ’im off. + +All the same they kept a pretty close watch on Bob, and at last one +arternoon they sprang out on ’im as he was walking past Gray’s farm, +and asked him wot it was he ’ad in his pockets. + +“That’s my bisness, Mr. Lewis,” ses Bob Pretty. + +Mr. Smith, the other keeper, passed ’is hands over Bob’s coat and felt +something soft and bulgy. + +“You take your ’ands off of me,” ses Bob; “you don’t know ’ow partikler +I am.” + +He jerked ’imself away, but they caught ’old of ’im agin, and Mr. Lewis +put ’is hand in his inside pocket and pulled out two brace o’ +partridges. + +“You’ll come along of us,” he ses, catching ’im by the arm. + +“We’ve been looking for you a long time,” ses Keeper Smith, “and it’s a +pleasure for us to ’ave your company.” + +Bob Pretty said ’e wouldn’t go, but they forced ’im along and took ’im +all the way to Cudford, four miles off, so that Policeman White could +lock ’im up for the night. Mr. White was a’most as pleased as the +keepers, and ’e warned Bob solemn not to speak becos all ’e said would +be used agin ’im. + +“Never mind about that,” ses Bob Pretty. “I’ve got a clear conscience, +and talking can’t ’urt me. I’m very glad to see you, Mr. White; if +these two clever, experienced keepers hadn’t brought me I should ’ave +looked you up myself. They’ve been and stole my partridges.” + +Them as was standing round laughed, and even Policeman White couldn’t +’elp giving a little smile. + +“There’s nothing to laugh at,” ses Bob, ’olding his ’ead up. “It’s a +fine thing when a working man—a ’ardworking man—can’t take home a +little game for ’is family without being stopped and robbed.” + +“I s’pose they flew into your pocket?” ses Policeman White. + +“No, they didn’t,” ses Bob. “I’m not going to tell any lies about it; I +put ’em there. The partridges in my inside coat-pocket and the bill in +my waistcoat-pocket.” + +“The _bill?_” ses Keeper Lewis, staring at ’im. + +“Yes, the bill,” ses Bob Pretty, staring back at ’im; “the bill from +Mr. Keen, the poulterer, at Wickham.” + +He fetched it out of ’is pocket and showed it to Mr. White, and the +keepers was like madmen a’most ’cos it was plain to see that Bob Pretty +’ad been and bought them partridges just for to play a game on ’em. + +“I was curious to know wot they tasted like,” he ses to the policeman. +“Worst of it is, I don’t s’pose my pore wife’ll know ’ow to cook ’em.” + +“You get off ’ome,” ses Policeman White, staring at ’im. + +“But ain’t I goin’ to be locked up?” ses Bob. “’Ave I been brought all +this way just to ’ave a little chat with a policeman I don’t like.” + +“You go ’ome,” ses Policeman White, handing the partridges back to ’im. + +“All right,” ses Bob, “and I may ’ave to call you to witness that these +’ere two men laid hold o’ me and tried to steal my partridges. I shall +go up and see my loryer about it.” + +He walked off ’ome with his ’ead up as high as ’e could hold it, and +the airs ’e used to give ’imself arter this was terrible for to behold. +He got ’is eldest boy to write a long letter to the squire about it, +saying that ’e’d overlook it this time, but ’e couldn’t promise for the +future. Wot with Bob Pretty on one side and Squire Rockett on the +other, them two keepers’ lives was ’ardly worth living. + +Then the squire got a head-keeper named Cutts, a man as was said to +know more about the ways of poachers than they did themselves. He was +said to ’ave cleared out all the poachers for miles round the place ’e +came from, and pheasants could walk into people’s cottages and not be +touched. + +He was a sharp-looking man, tall and thin, with screwed-up eyes and a +little red beard. The second day ’e came ’e was up here at this ’ere +Cauliflower, having a pint o’ beer and looking round at the chaps as he +talked to the landlord. The odd thing was that men who’d never taken a +hare or a pheasant in their lives could ’ardly meet ’is eye, while Bob +Pretty stared at ’im as if ’e was a wax-works. + +“I ’ear you ’ad a little poaching in these parts afore I came,” ses Mr. +Cutts to the landlord. + +“I think I ’ave ’eard something o’ the kind,” ses the landlord, staring +over his ’ead with a far-away look in ’is eyes. + +“You won’t hear of much more,” ses the keeper. “I’ve invented a new way +of catching the dirty rascals; afore I came ’ere I caught all the +poachers on three estates. I clear ’em out just like a ferret clears +out rats.” + +“Sort o’ man-trap?” ses the landlord. + +“Ah, that’s tellings,” ses Mr. Cutts. + +“Well, I ’ope you’ll catch ’em here,” ses Bob Pretty; “there’s far too +many of ’em about for my liking. Far too many.” + +“I shall ’ave ’em afore long,” ses Mr. Cutts, nodding his ’ead. + + +[Illustration] + +“Your good ’ealth,” ses Bob Pretty, holding up ’is mug. “We’ve been +wanting a man like you for a long time.” + +“I don’t want any of your impidence, my man,” ses the keeper. “I’ve +’eard about you, and nothing good either. You be careful.” + +“I am careful,” ses Bob, winking at the others. “I ’ope you’ll catch +all them low poaching chaps; they give the place a bad name, and I’m +a’most afraid to go out arter dark for fear of meeting ’em.” + +Peter Gubbins and Sam Jones began to laugh, but Bob Pretty got angry +with ’em and said he didn’t see there was anything to laugh at. He said +that poaching was a disgrace to their native place, and instead o’ +laughing they ought to be thankful to Mr. Cutts for coming to do away +with it all. + +“Any help I can give you shall be given cheerful,” he ses to the +keeper. + +“When I want your help I’ll ask you for it,” ses Mr. Cutts. + +“Thankee,” ses Bob Pretty. “I on’y ’ope I sha’n’t get my face knocked +about like yours ’as been, that’s all; ’cos my wife’s so partikler.” + +“Wot d’ye mean?” ses Mr. Cutts, turning on him. “My face ain’t been +knocked about.” + +“Oh, I beg your pardin,” ses Bob; “I didn’t know it was natural.” + +Mr. Cutts went black in the face a’most and stared at Bob Pretty as if +’e was going to eat ’im, and Bob stared back, looking fust at the +keeper’s nose and then at ’is eyes and mouth, and then at ’is nose +agin. + +“You’ll know me agin, I s’pose?” ses Mr. Cutts, at last. + +“Yes,” ses Bob, smiling; “I should know you a mile off—on the darkest +night.” + +“We shall see,” ses Mr. Cutts, taking up ’is beer and turning ’is back +on him. “Those of us as live the longest’ll see the most.” + +“I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to see ’im,” ses Bob to Bill Chambers. +“I feel more satisfied with _myself_ now.” + +Bill Chambers coughed, and Mr. Cutts, arter finishing ’is beer, took +another look at Bob Pretty, and went off boiling a’most. + +The trouble he took to catch Bob Pretty arter that you wouldn’t +believe, and all the time the game seemed to be simply melting away, +and Squire Rockett was finding fault with ’im all day long. He was worn +to a shadder a’most with watching, and Bob Pretty seemed to be more +prosperous than ever. + +Sometimes Mr. Cutts watched in the plantations, and sometimes ’e hid +’imself near Bob’s house, and at last one night, when ’e was crouching +behind the fence of Frederick Scott’s front garden, ’e saw Bob Pretty +come out of ’is house and, arter a careful look round, walk up the +road. He held ’is breath as Bob passed ’im, and was just getting up to +foller ’im when Bob stopped and walked slowly back agin, sniffing. + +“Wot a delicious smell o’ roses!” he ses, out loud. + +He stood in the middle o’ the road nearly opposite where the keeper was +hiding, and sniffed so that you could ha’ ’eard him the other end o’ +the village. + +“It can’t be roses,” he ses, in a puzzled voice, “becos there ain’t no +roses hereabouts, and, besides, it’s late for ’em. It must be Mr. +Cutts, the clever new keeper.” + +He put his ’ead over the fence and bid ’im good evening, and said wot a +fine night for a stroll it was, and asked ’im whether ’e was waiting +for Frederick Scott’s aunt. Mr. Cutts didn’t answer ’im a word; ’e was +pretty near bursting with passion. He got up and shook ’is fist in Bob +Pretty’s face, and then ’e went off stamping down the road as if ’e was +going mad. + +And for a time Bob Pretty seemed to ’ave all the luck on ’is side. +Keeper Lewis got rheumatic fever, which ’e put down to sitting about +night arter night in damp places watching for Bob, and, while ’e was in +the thick of it, with the doctor going every day, Mr. Cutts fell in +getting over a fence and broke ’is leg. Then all the work fell on +Keeper Smith, and to ’ear ’im talk you’d think that rheumatic fever and +broken legs was better than anything else in the world. He asked the +squire for ’elp, but the squire wouldn’t give it to ’im, and he kept +telling ’im wot a feather in ’is cap it would be if ’e did wot the +other two couldn’t do, and caught Bob Pretty. It was all very well, +but, as Smith said, wot ’e wanted was feathers in ’is piller, instead +of ’aving to snatch a bit o’ sleep in ’is chair or sitting down with +his ’ead agin a tree. When I tell you that ’e fell asleep in this +public-’ouse one night while the landlord was drawing a pint o’ beer he +’ad ordered, you’ll know wot ’e suffered. + +O’ course, all this suited Bob Pretty as well as could be, and ’e was +that good-tempered ’e’d got a nice word for everybody, and when Bill +Chambers told ’im ’e was foolhardy ’e only laughed and said ’e knew wot +’e was about. + +But the very next night ’e had reason to remember Bill Chambers’s +words. He was walking along Farmer Hall’s field—the one next to the +squire’s plantation—and, so far from being nervous, ’e was actually +a-whistling. He’d got a sack over ’is shoulder, loaded as full as it +could be, and ’e ’ad just stopped to light ’is pipe when three men +burst out o’ the plantation and ran toward ’im as ’ard as they could +run. + + +[Illustration] + +Bob Pretty just gave one look and then ’e dropped ’is pipe and set off +like a hare. It was no good dropping the sack, because Smith, the +keeper, ’ad recognised ’im and called ’im by name, so ’e just put ’is +teeth together and did the best he could, and there’s no doubt that if +it ’adn’t ha’ been for the sack ’e could ’ave got clear away. + +As it was, ’e ran for pretty near a mile, and they could ’ear ’im +breathing like a pair o’ bellows; but at last ’e saw that the game was +up. He just managed to struggle as far as Farmer Pinnock’s pond, and +then, waving the sack round his ’ead, ’e flung it into the middle of +it, and fell down gasping for breath. + +“Got—you—this time—Bob Pretty,” ses one o’ the men, as they came up. + +“Wot—_Mr. Cutts?_” ses Bob, with a start. + +“That’s me, my man,” ses the keeper. + +“Why—I thought—you was. Is that _Mr. Lewis?_ It can’t be.” + +“That’s me,” ses Keeper Lewis. “We both got well sudden-like, Bob +Pretty, when we ’eard you was out. You ain’t so sharp as you thought +you was.” + +Bob Pretty sat still, getting ’is breath back and doing a bit o’ +thinking at the same time. + +“You give me a start,” he ses, at last. “I thought you was both in bed, +and, knowing ’ow hard worked Mr. Smith ’as been, I just came round to +’elp ’im keep watch like. I promised to ’elp you, Mr. Cutts, if you +remember.” + +“Wot was that you threw in the pond just now?” ses Mr. Cutts. + +“A sack,” ses Bob Pretty; “a sack I found in Farmer Hall’s field. It +felt to me as though it might ’ave birds in it, so I picked it up, and +I was just on my way to your ’ouse with it, Mr. Cutts, when you started +arter me.” + +“Ah!” ses the keeper, “and wot did you run for?” + +Bob Pretty tried to laugh. “Becos I thought it was the poachers arter +me,” he ses. “It seems ridikilous, don’t it?” + +“Yes, it does,” ses Lewis. + +“I thought you’d know me a mile off,” ses Mr. Cutts. “I should ha’ +thought the smell o’ roses would ha’ told you I was near.” + +Bob Pretty scratched ’is ’ead and looked at ’im out of the corner of +’is eye, but he ’adn’t got any answer. Then ’e sat biting his +finger-nails and thinking while the keepers stood argyfying as to who +should take ’is clothes off and go into the pond arter the pheasants. +It was a very cold night and the pond was pretty deep in places, and +none of ’em seemed anxious. + +“Make ’im go in for it,” ses Lewis, looking at Bob; “’e chucked it in.” + +“On’y becos I thought you was poachers,” ses Bob. “I’m sorry to ’ave +caused so much trouble.” + +“Well, you go in and get it out,” ses Lewis, who pretty well guessed +who’d ’ave to do it if Bob didn’t. “It’ll look better for you, too.” + +“I’ve got my defence all right,” ses Bob Pretty. “I ain’t set a foot on +the squire’s preserves, and I found this sack a ’undred yards away from +it.” + +“Don’t waste more time,” ses Mr. Cutts to Lewis. + +“Off with your clothes and in with you. Anybody’d think you was afraid +of a little cold water.” + +“Whereabouts did ’e pitch it in?” ses Lewis. + +Bob Pretty pointed with ’is finger exactly where ’e thought it was, but +they wouldn’t listen to ’im, and then Lewis, arter twice saying wot a +bad cold he’d got, took ’is coat off very slow and careful. + + +[Illustration] + +“I wouldn’t mind going in to oblige you,” ses Bob Pretty, “but the pond +is so full o’ them cold, slimy efts; I don’t fancy them crawling up +agin me, and, besides that, there’s such a lot o’ deep holes in it. And +wotever you do don’t put your ’ead under; you know ’ow foul that water +is.” + +Keeper Lewis pretended not to listen to ’im. He took off ’is clothes +very slowly and then ’e put one foot in and stood shivering, although +Smith, who felt the water with his ’and, said it was quite warm. Then +Lewis put the other foot in and began to walk about careful, ’arf-way +up to ’is knees. + +“I can’t find it,” he ses, with ’is teeth chattering. + +“You ’aven’t looked,” ses Mr. Cutts; “walk about more; you can’t expect +to find it all at once. Try the middle.” + +Lewis tried the middle, and ’e stood there up to ’is neck, feeling +about with his foot and saying things out loud about Bob Pretty, and +other things under ’is breath about Mr. Cutts. + +“Well, I’m going off ’ome,” ses Bob Pretty, getting up. “I’m too +tender-’arted to stop and see a man drownded.” + +“You stay ’ere,” ses Mr. Cutts, catching ’old of him. + +“Wot for?” ses Bob; “you’ve got no right to keep me ’ere.” + +“Catch ’old of ’im, Joe,” ses Mr. Cutts, quick-like. + +Smith caught ’old of his other arm, and Lewis left off trying to find +the sack to watch the struggle. Bob Pretty fought ’ard, and once or +twice ’e nearly tumbled Mr. Cutts into the pond, but at last ’e gave in +and lay down panting and talking about ’is loryer. Smith ’eld him down +on the ground while Mr. Cutts kept pointing out places with ’is finger +for Lewis to walk to. The last place ’e pointed to wanted a much taller +man, but it wasn’t found out till too late, and the fuss Keeper Lewis +made when ’e could speak agin was terrible. + +“You’d better come out,” ses Mr. Cutts; “you ain’t doing no good. We +know where they are and we’ll watch the pond till daylight—that is, +unless Smith ’ud like to ’ave a try.” + +“It’s pretty near daylight now, I think,” ses Smith. + +Lewis came out and ran up and down to dry ’imself, and finished off on +’is pocket-’andkerchief, and then with ’is teeth chattering ’e began to +dress ’imself. He got ’is shirt on, and then ’e stood turning over ’is +clothes as if ’e was looking for something. + +“Never mind about your stud now,” ses Mr. Cutts; “hurry up and dress.” + +“_Stud?_” ses Lewis, very snappish. “I’m looking for my trowsis.” + +“Your trowsis?” ses Smith, ’elping ’im look. + +“I put all my clothes together,” ses Lewis, a’most shouting. “Where are +they? I’m ’arf perished with cold. Where are they?” + +“He ’ad ’em on this evening,” ses Bob Pretty, “’cos I remember noticing +’em.” + +“They must be somewhere about,” ses Mr. Cutts; “why don’t you use your +eyes?” + +He walked up and down, peering about, and as for Lewis he was ’opping +round ’arf crazy. + +“I wonder,” ses Bob Pretty, in a thoughtful voice, to Smith—“I wonder +whether you or Mr. Cutts kicked ’em in the pond while you was +struggling with me. Come to think of it, I seem to remember ’earing a +splash.” + +“He’s done it, Mr. Cutts,” ses Smith; “never mind, it’ll go all the +’arder with ’im.” + +“But I do mind,” ses Lewis, shouting. “I’ll be even with you for this, +Bob Pretty. I’ll make you feel it. You wait till I’ve done with you. +You’ll get a month extra for this, you see if you don’t.” + +“Don’t you mind about me,” ses Bob; “you run off ’ome and cover up them +legs of yours. I found that sack, so my conscience is clear.” + +Lewis put on ’is coat and waistcoat and set off, and Mr. Cutts and +Smith, arter feeling about for a dry place, set theirselves down and +began to smoke. + +“Look ’ere,” ses Bob Pretty, “I’m not going to sit ’ere all night to +please you; I’m going off ’ome. If you want me you’ll know where to +find me.” + +“You stay where you are,” ses Mr. Cutts. “We ain’t going to let you out +of our sight.” + +“Very well, then, you take me ’ome,” ses Bob. “I’m not going to catch +my death o’ cold sitting ’ere. I’m not used to being out of a night +like you are. I was brought up respectable.” + +“I dare say,” ses Mr. Cutts. “Take you ’ome, and then ’ave one o’ your +mates come and get the sack while we’re away.” + +Then Bob Pretty lost ’is temper, and the things ’e said about Mr. Cutts +wasn’t fit for Smith to ’ear. He threw ’imself down at last full length +on the ground and sulked till the day broke. + +Keeper Lewis was there a’most as soon as it was light, with some long +hay-rakes he’d borrowed, and I should think that pretty near ’arf the +folks in Claybury ’ad turned up to see the fun. Mrs. Pretty was crying +and wringing ’er ’ands; but most folks seemed to be rather pleased that +Bob ’ad been caught at last. + +In next to no time ’arf-a-dozen rakes was at work, and the things they +brought out o’ that pond you wouldn’t believe. The edge of it was all +littered with rusty tin pails and saucepans and such-like, and +by-and-by Lewis found the things he’d ’ad to go ’ome without a few +hours afore, but they didn’t seem to find that sack, and Bob Pretty, +wot was talking to ’is wife, began to look ’opeful. + +But just then the squire came riding up with two friends as was staying +with ’im, and he offered a reward of five shillings to the man wot +found it. Three or four of ’em waded in up to their middle then and +raked their ’ardest, and at last Henery Walker give a cheer and brought +it to the side, all heavy with water. + +“That’s the sack I found, sir,” ses Bob, starting up. “It wasn’t on +your land at all, but on the field next to it. I’m an honest, +’ardworking man, and I’ve never been in trouble afore. Ask anybody ’ere +and they’ll tell you the same.” + +Squire Rockett took no notice of ’im. “Is that the sack?” he asks, +turning to Mr. Cutts. + +“That’s the one, sir,” ses Mr. Cutts. “I’d swear to it anywhere.” + +“You’d swear a man’s life away,” ses Bob. “’Ow can you swear to it when +it was dark?” + +Mr. Cutts didn’t answer ’im. He went down on ’is knees and cut the +string that tied up the mouth o’ the sack, and then ’e started back as +if ’e’d been shot, and ’is eyes a’most started out of ’is ’ead. + +“Wot’s the matter?” ses the squire. + +Mr. Cutts couldn’t speak; he could only stutter and point at the sack +with ’is finger, and Henery Walker, as was getting curious, lifted up +the other end of it and out rolled a score of as fine cabbages as you +could wish to see. + +I never see people so astonished afore in all my born days, and as for +Bob Pretty, ’e stood staring at them cabbages as if ’e couldn’t believe +’is eyesight. + +“And that’s wot I’ve been kept ’ere all night for,” he ses, at last, +shaking his ’ead. “That’s wot comes o’ trying to do a kindness to +keepers, and ’elping of ’em in their difficult work. P’r’aps that ain’t +the sack arter all, Mr. Cutts. I could ha’ sworn they was pheasants in +the one I found, but I may be mistook, never ’aving ’ad one in my ’ands +afore. Or p’r’aps somebody was trying to ’ave a game with you, Mr. +Cutts, and deceived me instead.” + +The keepers on’y stared at ’im. + +“You ought to be more careful,” ses Bob. “Very likely while you was +taking all that trouble over me, and Keeper Lewis was catching ’is +death o’ cold, the poachers was up at the plantation taking all they +wanted. And, besides, it ain’t right for Squire Rockett to ’ave to pay +Henery Walker five shillings for finding a lot of old cabbages. I +shouldn’t like it myself.” + + +[Illustration] + +He looked out of the corner of ’is eye at the squire, as was pretending +not to notice Henery Walker touching ’is cap to him, and then ’e turns +to ’is wife and he ses: + +“Come along, old gal,” ’e ses. “I want my breakfast bad, and arter that +I shall ’ave to lose a honest day’s work in bed.” + + + + +DIXON’S RETURN + + +Talking about eddication, said the night-watchman, thoughtfully, the +finest eddication you can give a lad is to send ’im to sea. School is +all right up to a certain p’int, but arter that comes the sea. I’ve +been there myself and I know wot I’m talking about. All that I am I owe +to ’aving been to sea. + + +[Illustration] + +There’s a saying that boys will be boys. That’s all right till they go +to sea, and then they ’ave to be men, and good men too. They get +knocked about a bit, o’ course, but that’s all part o’ the eddication, +and when they get bigger they pass the eddication they’ve received on +to other boys smaller than wot they are. Arter I’d been at sea a year I +spent all my fust time ashore going round and looking for boys wot ’ad +knocked me about afore I sailed, and there was only one out o’ the +whole lot that I wished I ’adn’t found. + +Most people, o’ course, go to sea as boys or else not at all, but I +mind one chap as was pretty near thirty years old when ’e started. It’s +a good many years ago now, and he was landlord of a public-’ouse as +used to stand in Wapping, called the Blue Lion. + +His mother, wot had ’ad the pub afore ’im, ’ad brought ’im up very +quiet and genteel, and when she died ’e went and married a fine, +handsome young woman who ’ad got her eye on the pub without thinking +much about ’im. I got to know about it through knowing the servant that +lived there. A nice, quiet gal she was, and there wasn’t much went on +that she didn’t hear. I’ve known ’er to cry for hours with the +ear-ache, pore gal. + +Not caring much for ’er ’usband, and being spoiled by ’im into the +bargain, Mrs. Dixon soon began to lead ’im a terrible life. She was +always throwing his meekness and mildness up into ’is face, and arter +they ’ad been married two or three years he was no more like the +landlord o’ that public-’ouse than I’m like a lord. Not so much. She +used to get into such terrible tempers there was no doing anything with +’er, and for the sake o’ peace and quietness he gave way to ’er till ’e +got into the habit of it and couldn’t break ’imself of it. + +They ’adn’t been married long afore she ’ad her cousin, Charlie Burge, +come in as barman, and a month or two arter that ’is brother Bob, who +’ad been spending a lot o’ time looking for work instead o’ doing it, +came too. They was so comfortable there that their father—a +’ouse-painter by trade—came round to see whether he couldn’t paint the +Blue Lion up a bit and make ’em look smart, so that they’d get more +trade. He was one o’ these ’ere fust-class ’ousepainters that can go to +sleep on a ladder holding a brush in one hand and a pot o’ paint in the +other, and by the time he ’ad finished painting the ’ouse it was ready +to be done all over agin. + +I dare say that George Dixon—that was ’is name—wouldn’t ha’ minded so +much if ’is wife ’ad only been civil, but instead o’ that she used to +make fun of ’im and order ’im about, and by-and-by the others began to +try the same thing. As I said afore, Dixon was a very quiet man, and if +there was ever anybody to be put outside Charlie or Bob used to do it. +They tried to put me outside once, the two of ’em, but they on’y did it +at last by telling me that somebody ’ad gone off and left a pot o’ beer +standing on the pavement. They was both of ’em fairly strong young +chaps with a lot of bounce in ’em, and she used to say to her ’usband +wot fine young fellers they was, and wot a pity it was he wasn’t like +’em. + +Talk like this used to upset George Dixon awful. Having been brought up +careful by ’is mother, and keeping a very quiet, respectable ’ouse—I +used it myself—he cert’nly was soft, and I remember ’im telling me once +that he didn’t believe in fighting, and that instead of hitting people +you ought to try and persuade them. He was uncommon fond of ’is wife, +but at last one day, arter she ’ad made a laughing-stock of ’im in the +bar, he up and spoke sharp to her. + +“_Wot?_” ses Mrs. Dixon, ’ardly able to believe her ears. + +“Remember who you’re speaking to; that’s wot I said,” ses Dixon. + +“’Ow dare you talk to me like that?” screams ’is wife, turning red with +rage. “Wot d’ye mean by it?” + +“Because you seem to forget who is master ’ere,” ses Dixon, in a +trembling voice. + +“_Master?_” she ses, firing up. “I’ll soon show you who’s master. Go +out o’ my bar; I won’t ’ave you in it. D’ye ’ear? Go out of it.” + +Dixon turned away and began to serve a customer. “D’ye hear wot I say?” +ses Mrs. Dixon, stamping ’er foot. “Go out o’ my bar. Here, Charlie!” + +“Hullo!” ses ’er cousin, who ’ad been standing looking on and grinning. + +“Take the _master_ and put ’im into the parlour,” ses Mrs. Dixon, “and +don’t let ’im come out till he’s begged my pardon.” + +“Go on,” ses Charlie, brushing up ’is shirt-sleeves; “in you go. You +’ear wot she said.” + +He caught ’old of George Dixon, who ’ad just turned to the back o’ the +bar to give a customer change out of ’arf a crown, and ran ’im kicking +and struggling into the parlour. George gave ’im a silly little punch +in the chest, and got such a bang on the ’ead back that at fust he +thought it was knocked off. + +When ’e came to ’is senses agin the door leading to the bar was shut, +and ’is wife’s uncle, who ’ad been asleep in the easy-chair, was +finding fault with ’im for waking ’im up. + +“Why can’t you be quiet and peaceable?” he ses, shaking his ’ead at +him. “I’ve been ’ard at work all the morning thinking wot colour to +paint the back-door, and this is the second time I’ve been woke up +since dinner. You’re old enough to know better.” + +“Go and sleep somewhere else, then,” ses Dixon. “I don’t want you ’ere +at all, or your boys neither. Go and give somebody else a treat; I’ve +’ad enough of the whole pack of you.” + + +[Illustration] + +He sat down and put ’is feet in the fender, and old Burge, as soon as +he ’ad got ’is senses back, went into the bar and complained to ’is +niece, and she came into the parlour like a thunderstorm. + +“You’ll beg my uncle’s pardon as well as mine afore you come out o’ +that room,” she said to her ’usband; “mind that.” + +George Dixon didn’t say a word; the shame of it was a’most more than ’e +could stand. Then ’e got up to go out o’ the parlour and Charlie pushed +’im back agin. Three times he tried, and then ’e stood up and looked at +’is wife. + +“I’ve been a good ’usband to you,” he ses; “but there’s no satisfying +you. You ought to ha’ married somebody that would ha’ knocked you +about, and then you’d ha’ been happy. I’m too fond of a quiet life to +suit you.” + +“Are you going to beg my pardon and my uncle’s pardon?” ses ’is wife, +stamping ’er foot. + +“No,” ses Dixon; “I am not. I’m surprised at you asking it.” + +“Well, you don’t come out o’ this room till you do,” ses ’is wife. + +“That won’t hurt me,” ses Dixon. “I couldn’t look anybody in the face +arter being pushed out o’ my own bar.” + +They kept ’im there all the rest o’ the day, and, as ’e was still +obstinate when bedtime came, Mrs. Dixon, who wasn’t to be beat, brought +down some bedclothes and ’ad a bed made up for ’im on the sofa. Some +men would ha’ ’ad the police in for less than that, but George Dixon +’ad got a great deal o’ pride and ’e couldn’t bear the shame of it. +Instead o’ that ’e acted like a fourteen-year-old boy and ran away to +sea. + +They found ’im gone when they came down in the morning, and the +side-door on the latch. He ’ad left a letter for ’is wife on the table, +telling ’er wot he ’ad done. Short and sweet it was, and wound up with +telling ’er to be careful that her uncle and cousins didn’t eat ’er out +of house and ’ome. + +She got another letter two days arterward, saying that he ’ad shipped +as ordinary seaman on an American barque called the _Seabird_, bound +for California, and that ’e expected to be away a year, or thereabouts. + +“It’ll do ’im good,” ses old Burge, when Mrs. Dixon read the letter to +’em. “It’s a ’ard life is the sea, and he’ll appreciate his ’ome when +’e comes back to it agin. He don’t know when ’e’s well off. It’s as +comfortable a ’ome as a man could wish to ’ave.” It was surprising wot +a little difference George Dixon’s being away made to the Blue Lion. +Nobody seemed to miss ’im much, and things went on just the same as +afore he went. Mrs. Dixon was all right with most people, and ’er +relations ’ad a very good time of it; old Burge began to put on flesh +at such a rate that the sight of a ladder made ’im ill a’most, and +Charlie and Bob went about as if the place belonged to ’em. + +They ’eard nothing for eight months, and then a letter came for Mrs. +Dixon from her ’usband in which he said that ’e had left the _Seabird_ +after ’aving had a time which made ’im shiver to think of. He said that +the men was the roughest of the rough and the officers was worse, and +that he ’ad hardly ’ad a day without a blow from one or the other since +he’d been aboard. He’d been knocked down with a hand-spike by the +second mate, and had ’ad a week in his bunk with a kick given ’im by +the boatswain. He said ’e was now on the _Rochester Castle_, bound for +Sydney, and he ’oped for better times. + +That was all they ’eard for some months, and then they got another +letter saying that the men on the _Rochester Castle_ was, if anything, +worse than those on the _Seabird_, and that he’d begun to think that +running away to sea was diff’rent to wot he’d expected, and that he +supposed ’e’d done it too late in life. He sent ’is love to ’is wife +and asked ’er as a favour to send Uncle Burge and ’is boys away, as ’e +didn’t want to find them there when ’e came home, because they was the +cause of all his sufferings. + +“He don’t know ’is best friends,” ses old Burge. “’E’s got a nasty +sperrit I don’t like to see.” + +“I’ll ’ave a word with ’im when ’e does come home,” ses Bob. “I s’pose +he thinks ’imself safe writing letters thousands o’ miles away.” + +The last letter they ’ad came from Auckland, and said that he ’ad +shipped on the _Monarch_, bound for the Albert Docks, and he ’oped soon +to be at ’ome and managing the Blue Lion, same as in the old happy days +afore he was fool enough to go to sea. + +That was the very last letter, and some time arterward the _Monarch_ +was in the missing list, and by-and-by it became known that she ’ad +gone down with all hands not long arter leaving New Zealand. The only +difference it made at the Blue Lion was that Mrs. Dixon ’ad two of ’er +dresses dyed black, and the others wore black neckties for a fortnight +and spoke of Dixon as pore George, and said it was a funny world, but +they supposed everything was for the best. + +It must ha’ been pretty near four years since George Dixon ’ad run off +to sea when Charlie, who was sitting in the bar one arternoon reading +the paper, things being dull, saw a man’s head peep through the door +for a minute and then disappear. A’most direckly arterward it looked in +at another door and then disappeared agin. When it looked in at the +third door Charlie ’ad put down ’is paper and was ready for it. + +“Who are you looking for?” he ses, rather sharp. “Wot d’ye want? Are +you ’aving a game of peepbo, or wot?” + +The man coughed and smiled, and then ’e pushed the door open gently and +came in, and stood there fingering ’is beard as though ’e didn’t know +wot to say. + +“I’ve come back, Charlie,” he ses at last. + +“Wot, _George!_” ses Charlie, starting. “Why, I didn’t know you in that +beard. We all thought you was dead, years ago.” + +“I was pretty nearly, Charlie,” ses Dixon, shaking his ’ead. “Ah! I’ve +’ad a terrible time since I left ’once.” + +“‘You don’t seem to ha’ made your fortune,” ses Charlie, looking down +at ’is clothes. “I’d ha’ been ashamed to come ’ome like that if it ’ad +been me.” + +“I’m wore out,” ses Dixon, leaning agin the bar. “I’ve got no pride +left; it’s all been knocked out of me. How’s Julia?” + +“She’s all right,” ses Charlie. “Here, Ju—” + +“_H’sh!_” ses Dixon, reaching over the bar and laying his ’and on his +arm. “Don’t let ’er know too sudden; break it to ’er gently.” + +“Fiddlesticks!” ses Charlie, throwing his ’and off and calling, “Here, +_Julia!_ He’s come back.” + +Mrs. Dixon came running downstairs and into the bar. “Good gracious!” +she ses, staring at her ’usband. “Whoever’d ha’ thought o’ seeing you +agin? Where ’ave you sprung from?” + +“Ain’t you glad to see me, Julia?” ses George Dixon. + +“Yes, I s’pose so; if you’ve come back to behave yourself,” ses Mrs. +Dixon. “What ’ave you got to say for yourself for running away and then +writing them letters, telling me to get rid of my relations?” + +“That’s a long time ago, Julia,” ses Dixon, raising the flap in the +counter and going into the bar. “I’ve gone through a great deal o’ +suffering since then. I’ve been knocked about till I ’adn’t got any +feeling left in me; I’ve been shipwrecked, and I’ve ’ad to fight for my +life with savages.” + +“Nobody asked you to run away,” ses his wife, edging away as he went to +put his arm round ’er waist. “You’d better go upstairs and put on some +decent clothes.” + + +[Illustration] + +Dixon looked at ’er for a moment and then he ’ung his ’ead. + +“I’ve been thinking o’ you and of seeing you agin every day since I +went away, Julia,” he ses. “You’d be the same to me if you was dressed +in rags.” + +He went upstairs without another word, and old Burge, who was coming +down, came down five of ’em at once owing to Dixon speaking to ’im +afore he knew who ’e was. The old man was still grumbling when Dixon +came down agin, and said he believed he’d done it a-purpose. + +“You run away from a good ’ome,” he ses, “and the best wife in Wapping, +and you come back and frighten people ’arf out o’ their lives. I never +see such a feller in all my born days.” + +“I was so glad to get ’ome agin I didn’t think,” ses Dixon. “I hope +you’re not ’urt.” + +He started telling them all about his ’ardships while they were at tea, +but none of ’em seemed to care much about hearing ’em. Bob said that +the sea was all right for men, and that other people were sure not to +like it. + +“And you brought it all on yourself,” ses Charlie. “You’ve only got +yourself to thank for it. I ’ad thought o’ picking a bone with you over +those letters you wrote.” + +“Let’s ’ope ’e’s come back more sensible than wot ’e was when ’e went +away,” ses old Burge, with ’is mouth full o’ toast. + +By the time he’d been back a couple o’ days George Dixon could see that +’is going away ’adn’t done any good at all. Nobody seemed to take any +notice of ’im or wot he said, and at last, arter a word or two with +Charlie about the rough way he spoke to some o’ the customers, Charlie +came in to Mrs. Dixon and said that he was at ’is old tricks of +interfering, and he would not ’ave it. + +“Well, he’d better keep out o’ the bar altogether,” ses Mrs. Dixon. +“There’s no need for ’im to go there; we managed all right while ’e was +away.” + +“Do you mean I’m not to go into my own bar?” ses Dixon, stammering. + +“Yes, I do,” ses Mrs. Dixon. “You kept out of it for four years to +please yourself, and now you can keep out of it to please me.” + +“I’ve put you out o’ the bar before,” ses Charlie, “and if you come +messing about with me any more I’ll do it agin. So now you know.” + +He walked back into the bar whistling, and George Dixon, arter sitting +still for a long time thinking, got up and went into the bar, and he’d +’ardly got his foot inside afore Charlie caught ’old of ’im by the +shoulder and shoved ’im back into the parlour agin. + +“I told you wot it would be,” ses Mrs. Dixon, looking up from ’er +sewing. “You’ve only got your interfering ways to thank for it.” + +“This is a fine state of affairs in my own ’ouse,” ses Dixon, ’ardly +able to speak. “You’ve got no proper feeling for your husband, Julia, +else you wouldn’t allow it. Why, I was happier at sea than wot I am +’ere.” + +“Well, you’d better go back to it if you’re so fond of it,” ses ’is +wife. + +“I think I ’ad,” ses Dixon. “If I can’t be master in my own ’ouse I’m +better at sea, hard as it is. You must choose between us, Julia—me or +your relations. I won’t sleep under the same roof as them for another +night. Am I to go?” + +“Please yourself,” ses ’is wife. “I don’t mind your staying ’ere so +long as you behave yourself, but the others won’t go; you can make your +mind easy on that.” + +“I’ll go and look for another ship, then,” ses Dixon, taking up ’is +cap. “I’m not wanted here. P’r’aps you wouldn’t mind ’aving some +clothes packed into a chest for me so as I can go away decent.” + +He looked round at ’is wife, as though ’e expected she’d ask ’im not to +go, but she took no notice, and he opened the door softly and went out, +while old Burge, who ’ad come into the room and ’eard what he was +saying, trotted off upstairs to pack ’is chest for ’im. + +In two hours ’e was back agin and more cheerful than he ’ad been since +he ’ad come ’ome. Bob was in the bar and the others were just sitting +down to tea, and a big chest, nicely corded, stood on the floor in the +corner of the room. + +“That’s right,” he ses, looking at it; “that’s just wot I wanted.” + +“It’s as full as it can be,” ses old Burge. “I done it for you myself. +’Ave you got a ship?” + +“I ’ave,” ses Dixon. “A jolly good ship. No more hardships for me this +time. I’ve got a berth as captain.” + +“_Wot?_” ses ’is wife. “Captain? You!” + +“Yes,” ses Dixon, smiling at her. “You can sail with me if you like.” + +“Thankee,” ses Mrs. Dixon, “I’m quite comfortable where I am.” + +“Do you mean to say _you’ve_ got a master’s berth?” ses Charlie, +staring at ’im. + +“I do,” ses Dixon; “master and owner.” + +Charlie coughed. “Wot’s the name of the ship?” he asks, winking at the +others. + +“The BLUE LION,” ses Dixon, in a voice that made ’em all start. “I’m +shipping a new crew and I pay off the old one to-night. You first, my +lad.” + +“Pay off,” ses Charlie, leaning back in ’is chair and staring at ’im in +a puzzled way. “_Blue Lion?_” + +“Yes,” ses Dixon, in the same loud voice. “When I came ’ome the other +day I thought p’r’aps I’d let bygones be bygones, and I laid low for a +bit to see whether any of you deserved it. I went to sea to get +hardened—and I got hard. I’ve fought men that would eat you at a meal. +I’ve ’ad more blows in a week than you’ve ’ad in a lifetime, you +fat-faced land-lubber.” + +He walked to the door leading to the bar, where Bob was doing ’is best +to serve customers and listen at the same time, and arter locking it +put the key in ’is pocket. Then ’e put his ’and in ’is pocket and +slapped some money down on the table in front o’ Charlie. + +“There’s a month’s pay instead o’ notice,” he ses. “Now git.” + +“George!” screams ’is wife. “’Ow dare you? ’Ave you gone crazy?” + +“I’m surprised at you,” ses old Burge, who’d been looking on with ’is +mouth wide open, and pinching ’imself to see whether ’e wasn’t +dreaming. + +“I don’t go for your orders,” ses Charlie, getting up. “Wot d’ye mean +by locking that door?” + +“_Wot!_” roars Dixon. “Hang it! I mustn’t lock a door without asking my +barman now. Pack up and be off, you swab, afore I start on you.” + +Charlie gave a growl and rushed at ’im, and the next moment ’e was down +on the floor with the ’ardest bang in the face that he’d ever ’ad in +’is life. Mrs. Dixon screamed and ran into the kitchen, follered by old +Burge, who went in to tell ’er not to be frightened. Charlie got up and +went for Dixon agin; but he ’ad come back as ’ard as nails and ’ad a +rushing style o’ fighting that took Charlie’s breath away. By the time +Bob ’ad left the bar to take care of itself, and run round and got in +the back way, Charlie had ’ad as much as ’e wanted and was lying on the +sea-chest in the corner trying to get ’is breath. + + +[Illustration] + +“Yes? Wot d’ye want?” ses Dixon, with a growl, as Bob came in at the +door. + +He was such a ’orrible figure, with the blood on ’is face and ’is beard +sticking out all ways, that Bob, instead of doing wot he ’ad come round +for, stood in the doorway staring at ’im without a word. + +“I’m paying off,” ses Dixon. “’Ave you got anything to say agin it?” + +“No,” ses Bob, drawing back. + +“You and Charlie’ll go now,” ses Dixon, taking out some money. “The old +man can stay on for a month to give ’im time to look round. Don’t look +at me that way, else I’ll knock your ’ead off.” + +He started counting out Bob’s money just as old Burge and Mrs. Dixon, +hearing all quiet, came in out of the kitchen. + +“Don’t you be alarmed on my account, my dear,” he ses, turning to ’is +wife; “it’s child’s play to wot I’ve been used to. I’ll just see these +two mistaken young fellers off the premises, and then we’ll ’ave a cup +o’ tea while the old man minds the bar.” + +Mrs. Dixon tried to speak, but ’er temper was too much for ’er. She +looked from her ’usband to Charlie and Bob and then back at ’im agin +and caught ’er breath. + +“That’s right,” ses Dixon, nodding his ’ead at her. “I’m master and +owner of the _Blue Lion_ and you’re first mate. When I’m speaking you +keep quiet; that’s dissipline.” + +I was in that bar about three months arterward, and I never saw such a +change in any woman as there was in Mrs. Dixon. Of all the +nice-mannered, soft-spoken landladies I’ve ever seen, she was the best, +and on’y to ’ear the way she answered her ’usband when he spoke to ’er +was a pleasure to every married man in the bar. + + +[Illustration] + + + + +A SPIRIT OF AVARICE + + +Mr. John Blows stood listening to the foreman with an air of lofty +disdain. He was a free-born Englishman, and yet he had been summarily +paid off at eleven o’clock in the morning and told that his valuable +services would no longer be required. More than that, the foreman had +passed certain strictures upon his features which, however true they +might be, were quite irrelevant to the fact that Mr. Blows had been +discovered slumbering in a shed when he should have been laying bricks. + + +[Illustration] + +“Take your ugly face off these ’ere works,” said the foreman; “take it +’ome and bury it in the back-yard. Anybody’ll be glad to lend you a +spade.” + +Mr. Blows, in a somewhat fluent reply, reflected severely on the +foreman’s immediate ancestors, and the strange lack of good-feeling and +public spirit they had exhibited by allowing him to grow up. + +“Take it ’ome and bury it,” said the foreman again. “Not under any +plants you’ve got a liking for.” + +“I suppose,” said Mr. Blows, still referring to his foe’s parents, and +now endeavouring to make excuses for them—“I s’pose they was so +pleased, and so surprised when they found that you _was_ a ’uman being, +that they didn’t mind anything else.” + +He walked off with his head in the air, and the other men, who had +partially suspended work to listen, resumed their labours. A modest +pint at the Rising Sun revived his drooping spirits, and he walked home +thinking of several things which he might have said to the foreman if +he had only thought of them in time. + +He paused at the open door of his house and, looking in, sniffed at the +smell of mottled soap and dirty water which pervaded it. The stairs +were wet, and a pail stood in the narrow passage. From the kitchen came +the sounds of crying children and a scolding mother. Master Joseph +Henry Blows, aged three, was “holding his breath,” and the family were +all aghast at the length of his performance. He re-covered it as his +father entered the room, and drowned, without distressing himself, the +impotent efforts of the others. Mrs. Blows turned upon her husband a +look of hot inquiry. + +“I’ve got the chuck,” he said, surlily. + +“What, again?” said the unfortunate woman. “Yes, again,” repeated her +husband. + +Mrs. Blows turned away, and dropping into a chair threw her apron over +her head and burst into discordant weeping. Two little Blows, who had +ceased their outcries, resumed them again from sheer sympathy. + +“Stop it,” yelled the indignant Mr. Blows; “stop it at once; d’ye +hear?” + +“I wish I’d never seen you,” sobbed his wife from behind her apron. “Of +all the lazy, idle, drunken, good-for-nothing——” + +“Go on,” said Mr. Blows, grimly. + +“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” declared Mrs. Blows. “Look at +your father, my dears,” she continued, taking the apron away from her +face; “take a good look at him, and mind you don’t grow up like it.” + +Mr. Blows met the combined gaze of his innocent offspring with a dark +scowl, and then fell to moodily walking up and down the passage until +he fell over the pail. At that his mood changed, and, turning fiercely, +he kicked that useful article up and down the passage until he was +tired. + +“I’ve ’ad enough of it,” he muttered. He stopped at the kitchen-door +and, putting his hand in his pocket, threw a handful of change on to +the floor and swung out of the house. + +Another pint of beer confirmed him in his resolution. He would go far +away and make a fresh start in the world. The morning was bright and +the air fresh, and a pleasant sense of freedom and adventure possessed +his soul as he walked. At a swinging pace he soon left Gravelton behind +him, and, coming to the river, sat down to smoke a final pipe before +turning his back forever on a town which had treated him so badly. + +The river murmured agreeably and the rushes stirred softly in the +breeze; Mr. Blows, who could fall asleep on an upturned pail, succumbed +to the influence at once; the pipe dropped from his mouth and he snored +peacefully. + +He was awakened by a choking scream, and, starting up hastily, looked +about for the cause. Then in the water he saw the little white face of +Billy Clements, and wading in up to his middle he reached out and, +catching the child by the hair, drew him to the bank and set him on his +feet. Still screaming with terror, Billy threw up some of the water he +had swallowed, and without turning his head made off in the direction +of home, calling piteously upon his mother. + +Mr. Blows, shivering on the bank, watched him out of sight, and, +missing his cap, was just in time to see that friend of several seasons +slowly sinking in the middle of the river. He squeezed the water from +his trousers and, crossing the bridge, set off across the meadows. + +His self-imposed term of bachelorhood lasted just three months, at the +end of which time he made up his mind to enact the part of the generous +husband and forgive his wife everything. He would not go into details, +but issue one big, magnanimous pardon. + +Full of these lofty ideas he set off in the direction of home again. It +was a three-days’ tramp, and the evening of the third day saw him but a +bare two miles from home. He clambered up the bank at the side of the +road and, sprawling at his ease, smoked quietly in the moonlight. + +A waggon piled up with straw came jolting and creaking toward him. The +driver sat dozing on the shafts, and Mr. Blows smiled pleasantly as he +recognised the first face of a friend he had seen for three months. He +thrust his pipe in his pocket and, rising to his feet, clambered on to +the back of the waggon, and lying face downward on the straw peered +down at the unconscious driver below. + +“I’ll give old Joe a surprise,” he said to himself. “He’ll be the first +to welcome me back.” + +“Joe,” he said, softly. “’Ow goes it, old pal?” + +Mr. Joe Carter, still dozing, opened his eyes at the sound of his name +and looked round; then, coming to the conclusion that he had been +dreaming, closed them again. + +“I’m a-looking at you, Joe,” said Mr. Blows, waggishly. “I can see +you.” + +Mr. Carter looked up sharply and, catching sight of the grinning +features of Mr. Blows protruding over the edge of the straw, threw up +his arms with a piercing shriek and fell off the shafts on to the road. +The astounded Mr. Blows, raising himself on his hands, saw him pick +himself up and, giving vent to a series of fearsome yelps, run clumsily +back along the road. + +“Joe!” shouted Mr. Blows. “J-o-o-oE!” + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Carter put his hands to his ears and ran on blindly, while his +friend, sitting on the top of the straw, regarded his proceedings with +mixed feelings of surprise and indignation. + +“It can’t be that tanner ’e owes me,” he mused, “and yet I don’t know +what else it can be. I never see a man so jumpy.” + +He continued to speculate while the old horse, undisturbed by the +driver’s absence, placidly continued its journey. A mile farther, +however, he got down to take the short cut by the fields. + +“If Joe can’t look after his ’orse and cart,” he said, primly, as he +watched it along the road, “it’s not my business.” + +The footpath was not much used at that time of night, and he only met +one man. They were in the shadow of the trees which fringed the new +cemetery as they passed, and both peered. The stranger was satisfied +first and, to Mr. Blows’s growing indignation, first gave a leap +backward which would not have disgraced an acrobat, and then made off +across the field with hideous outcries. + +“If I get ’old of some of you,” said the offended Mr. Blows, “I’ll give +you something to holler for.” + +He pursued his way grumbling, and insensibly slackened his pace as he +drew near home. A remnant of conscience which had stuck to him without +encouragement for thirty-five years persisted in suggesting that he had +behaved badly. It also made a few ill-bred inquiries as to how his wife +and children had subsisted for the last three months. He stood outside +the house for a short space, and then, opening the door softly, walked +in. + +The kitchen-door stood open, and his wife in a black dress sat sewing +by the light of a smoky lamp. She looked up as she heard his footsteps, +and then, without a word, slid from the chair full length to the floor. + +“Go on,” said Mr. Blows, bitterly; “keep it up. Don’t mind me.” + +Mrs. Blows paid no heed; her face was white and her eyes were closed. +Her husband, with a dawning perception of the state of affairs, drew a +mug of water from the tap and flung it over her. She opened her eyes +and gave a faint scream, and then, scrambling to her feet, tottered +toward him and sobbed on his breast. + +“There, there,” said Mr. Blows. “Don’t take on; I forgive you.” + +“Oh, John,” said his wife, sobbing convulsively, “I thought you was +dead. I thought you was dead. It’s only a fortnight ago since we buried +you!” + +“_Buried me?_” said the startled Mr. Blows. “_Buried me?_” + +“I shall wake up and find I’m dreaming,” wailed Mrs. Blows; “I know I +shall. I’m always dreaming that you’re not dead. Night before last I +dreamt that you was alive, and I woke up sobbing as if my ’art would +break.” + +“Sobbing?” said Mr. Blows, with a scowl. + +“For joy, John,” explained his wife. + +Mr. Blows was about to ask for a further explanation of the mystery +when he stopped, and regarded with much interest a fair-sized cask +which stood in one corner. + +“A cask o’ beer,” he said, staring, as he took a glass from the dresser +and crossed over to it. “You don’t seem to ’ave taken much ’arm during +my—my going after work.” + +“We ’ad it for the funeral, John,” said his wife; “leastways, we ’ad +two; this is the second.” + +Mr. Blows, who had filled the glass, set it down on the table untasted; +things seemed a trifle uncanny. + +“Go on,” said Mrs. Blows; “you’ve got more right to it than anybody +else. Fancy ’aving you here drinking up the beer for your own funeral.” + +“I don’t understand what you’re a-driving at,” retorted Mr. Blows, +drinking somewhat gingerly from the glass. “’Ow could there be a +funeral without me?” + +“It’s all a mistake,” said the overjoyed Mrs. Blows; “we must have +buried somebody else. But such a funeral, John; you would ha’ been +proud if you could ha’ seen it. All Gravelton followed, nearly. There +was the boys’ drum and fife band, and the Ancient Order of Camels, what +you used to belong to, turned out with their brass band and banners—all +the people marching four abreast and sometimes five.” + +Mr. Blows’s face softened; he had no idea that he had established +himself so firmly in the affections of his fellow-townsmen. + +“Four mourning carriages,” continued his wife, “and the—the hearse, all +covered in flowers so that you couldn’t see it ’ardly. One wreath cost +two pounds.” + +Mr. Blows endeavoured to conceal his gratification beneath a mask of +surliness. “Waste o’ money,” he growled, and stooping to the cask drew +himself another glass of beer. + +“Some o’ the gentry sent their carriages to follow,” said Mrs. Blows, +sitting down and clasping her hands in her lap. + +“I know one or two that ’ad a liking for me,” said Mr. Blows, almost +blushing. + +“And to think that it’s all a mistake,” continued his wife. “But I +thought it was you; it was dressed like you, and your cap was found +near it.” + +“H’m,” said Mr. Blows; “a pretty mess you’ve been and made of it. +Here’s people been giving two pounds for wreaths and turning up with +brass bands and banners because they thought it was me, and it’s all +been wasted.” + +“It wasn’t my fault,” said his wife. “Little Billy Clements came +running ’ome the day you went away and said ’e’d fallen in the water, +and you’d gone in and pulled ’im out. He said ’e thought you was +drownded, and when you didn’t come ’ome I naturally thought so too. +What else could I think?” + +Mr. Blows coughed, and holding his glass up to the light regarded it +with a preoccupied air. + +“They dragged the river,” resumed his wife, “and found the cap, but +they didn’t find the body till nine weeks afterward. There was a +inquest at the Peal o’ Bells, and I identified you, and all that grand +funeral was because they thought you’d lost your life saving little +Billy. They said you was a hero.” + + +[Illustration] + +“You’ve made a nice mess of it,” repeated Mr. Blows. + +“The rector preached the sermon,” continued his wife; “a beautiful +sermon it was, too. I wish you’d been there to hear it; I should ’ave +enjoyed it ever so much better. He said that nobody was more surprised +than what ’e was at your doing such a thing, and that it only showed +’ow little we knowed our fellow-creatures. He said that it proved there +was good in all of us if we only gave it a chance to come out.” + +Mr. Blows eyed her suspiciously, but she sat thinking and staring at +the floor. + +“I s’pose we shall have to give the money back now,” she said, at last. + +“Money!” said the other; “what money?” + +“Money that was collected for us,” replied his wife. “One ’undered and +eighty-three pounds seven shillings and fourpence.” + +Mr. Blows took a long breath. “’Ow much?” he said, faintly; “say it +agin.” + +His wife obeyed. + +“Show it to me,” said the other, in trembling tones; “let’s ’ave a look +at it. Let’s ’old some of it.” + +“I can’t,” was the reply; “there’s a committee of the Camels took +charge of it, and they pay my rent and allow me ten shillings a week. +Now I s’pose it’ll have to be given back?” + +“Don’t you talk nonsense,” said Mr. Blows, violently. “You go to them +interfering Camels and say you want your money—all of it. Say you’re +going to Australia. Say it was my last dying wish.” + +Mrs. Blows puckered her brow. + +“I’ll keep quiet upstairs till you’ve got it,” continued her husband, +rapidly. “There was only two men saw me, and I can see now that they +thought I was my own ghost. Send the kids off to your mother for a few +days.” + +His wife sent them off next morning, and a little later was able to +tell him that his surmise as to his friends’ mistake was correct. All +Gravelton was thrilled by the news that the spiritual part of Mr. John +Blows was walking the earth, and much exercised as to his reasons for +so doing. + +“Seemed such a monkey trick for ’im to do,” complained Mr. Carter, to +the listening circle at the Peal o’ Bells. “‘I’m a-looking at you, +Joe,’ he ses, and he waggled his ’ead as if it was made of +india-rubber.” + +“He’d got something on ’is mind what he wanted to tell you,” said a +listener, severely; “you ought to ’ave stopped, Joe, and asked ’im what +it was.” + +“I think I see myself,” said the shivering Mr. Carter. “I think I see +myself.” + +“Then he wouldn’t ’ave troubled you any more,” said the other. + +Mr. Carter turned pale and eyed him fixedly. “P’r’aps it was only a +death-warning,” said another man. + +“What d’ye mean, ‘_only_ a death-warning’?” demanded the unfortunate +Mr. Carter; “you don’t know what you’re talking about.” + +“I ’ad an uncle o’ mine see a ghost once,” said a third man, anxious to +relieve the tension. + +“And what ’appened?” inquired the first speaker. + +“I’ll tell you after Joe’s gone,” said the other, with rare +consideration. + +Mr. Carter called for some more beer and told the barmaid to put a +little gin in it. In a pitiable state of “nerves” he sat at the extreme +end of a bench, and felt that he was an object of unwholesome interest +to his acquaintances. The finishing touch was put to his discomfiture +when a well-meaning friend in a vague and disjointed way advised him to +give up drink, swearing, and any other bad habits which he might have +contracted. + + +[Illustration] + +The committee of the Ancient Order of Camels took the news calmly, and +classed it with pink rats and other abnormalities. In reply to Mrs. +Blows’s request for the capital sum, they expressed astonishment that +she could be willing to tear herself away from the hero’s grave, and +spoke of the pain which such an act on her part would cause him in the +event of his being conscious of it. In order to show that they were +reasonable men, they allowed her an extra shilling that week. + +The hero threw the dole on the bedroom floor, and in a speech bristling +with personalities, consigned the committee to perdition. The +confinement was beginning to tell upon him, and two nights afterward, +just before midnight, he slipped out for a breath of fresh air. + +It was a clear night, and all Gravelton with one exception, appeared to +have gone to bed. The exception was Police-constable Collins, and he, +after tracking the skulking figure of Mr. Blows and finally bringing it +to bay in a doorway, kept his for a fortnight. As a sensible man, Mr. +Blows took no credit to himself for the circumstance, but a natural +feeling of satisfaction at the discomfiture of a member of a force for +which he had long entertained a strong objection could not be denied. + +Gravelton debated this new appearance with bated breath, and even the +purblind committee of the Camels had to alter their views. They no +longer denied the supernatural nature of the manifestations, but, with +a strange misunderstanding of Mr. Blows’s desires, attributed his +restlessness to dissatisfaction with the projected tombstone, and, +having plenty of funds, amended their order for a plain stone at ten +guineas to one in pink marble at twenty-five. + +“That there committee,” said Mr. Blows to his wife, in a trembling +voice, as he heard of the alteration—“that there committee seem to +think that they can play about with my money as they like. You go and +tell ’em you won’t ’ave it. And say you’ve given up the idea of going +to Australia and you want the money to open a shop with. We’ll take a +little pub somewhere.” + +Mrs. Blows went, and returned in tears, and for two entire days her +husband, a prey to gloom, sat trying to evolve fresh and original ideas +for the possession of the money. On the evening of the second day he +became low-spirited, and going down to the kitchen took a glass from +the dresser and sat down by the beer-cask. + +Almost insensibly he began to take a brighter view of things. It was +Saturday night and his wife was out. He shook his head indulgently as +he thought of her, and began to realise how foolish he had been to +entrust such a delicate mission to a woman. The Ancient Order of Camels +wanted a man to talk to them—a man who knew the world and could assail +them with unanswerable arguments. Having applied every known test to +make sure that the cask was empty, he took his cap from a nail and +sallied out into the street. + +Old Mrs. Martin, a neighbour, saw him first, and announced the fact +with a scream that brought a dozen people round her. Bereft of speech, +she mouthed dumbly at Mr. Blows. + +“I ain’t touch—touched her,” said that gentleman, earnestly. “I +ain’t—been near ’er.” + +The crowd regarded him wild-eyed. Fresh members came running up, and +pushing for a front place fell back hastily on the main body and +watched breathlessly. Mr. Blows, disquieted by their silence, renewed +his protestations. + +“I was coming ’long——” + +He broke off suddenly and, turning round, gazed with some heat at a +gentleman who was endeavouring to ascertain whether an umbrella would +pass through him. The investigator backed hastily into the crowd again, +and a faint murmur of surprise arose as the indignant Mr. Blows rubbed +the place. + +“He’s alive, I tell you,” said a voice. “What cheer, Jack!” + +“Ullo, Bill,” said Mr. Blows, genially. + +Bill came forward cautiously, and, first shaking hands, satisfied +himself by various little taps and prods that his friend was really +alive. + +“It’s all right,” he shouted; “come and feel.” + +At least fifty hands accepted the invitation, and, ignoring the threats +and entreaties of Mr. Blows, who was a highly ticklish subject, +wandered briskly over his anatomy. He broke free at last and, supported +by Bill and a friend, set off for the Peal o’ Bells. + +By the time he arrived there his following had swollen to immense +proportions. Windows were thrown up, and people standing on their +doorsteps shouted inquiries. Congratulations met him on all sides, and +the joy of Mr. Joseph Carter was so great that Mr. Blows was quite +affected. + +In high feather at the attention he was receiving, Mr. Blows pushed his +way through the idlers at the door and ascended the short flight of +stairs which led to the room where the members of the Ancient Order of +Camels were holding their lodge. The crowd swarmed up after him. + +The door was locked, but in response to his knocking it opened a couple +of inches, and a gruff voice demanded his business. Then, before he +could give it, the doorkeeper reeled back into the room, and Mr. Blows +with a large following pushed his way in. + +The president and his officers, who were sitting in state behind a long +table at the end of the room, started to their feet with mingled cries +of indignation and dismay at the intrusion. Mr. Blows, conscious of the +strength of his position, walked up to them. + + +[Illustration] + +“_Mr. Blows!_” gasped the president. + +“Ah, you didn’t expec’ see me,” said Mr. Blows, with a scornful laugh. +“They’re trying do me, do me out o’ my lill bit o’ money, Bill.” + +“But you ain’t got no money,” said his bewildered friend. + +Mr. Blows turned and eyed him haughtily; then he confronted the staring +president again. + +“I’ve come for—my money,” he said, impressively—“one ’under-eighty +pounds.” + +“But look ’ere,” said the scandalised Bill, tugging at his sleeve; “you +ain’t dead, Jack.” + +“You don’t understan’,” said Mr. Blows, impatiently. “They know wharri +mean; one ’undereighty pounds. They want to buy me a tombstone, an’ I +don’t want it. I want the money. Here, stop it! _D’ye hear?_” The words +were wrung from him by the action of the president, who, after eyeing +him doubtfully during his remarks, suddenly prodded him with the +butt-end of one of the property spears which leaned against his chair. +The solidity of Mr. Blows was unmistakable, and with a sudden +resumption of dignity the official seated himself and called for +silence. + +“I’m sorry to say there’s been a bit of a mistake made,” he said, +slowly, “but I’m glad to say that Mr. Blows has come back to support +his wife and family with the sweat of his own brow. Only a pound or two +of the money so kindly subscribed has been spent, and the remainder +will be handed back to the subscribers.” + +“Here,” said the incensed Mr. Blows, “listen me.” + +“Take him away,” said the president, with great dignity. “Clear the +room. Strangers outside.” + +Two of the members approached Mr. Blows and, placing their hands on his +shoulders, requested him to withdraw. He went at last, the centre of a +dozen panting men, and becoming wedged on the narrow staircase, spoke +fluently on such widely differing subjects as the rights of man and the +shape of the president’s nose. + +He finished his remarks in the street, but, becoming aware at last of a +strange lack of sympathy on the part of his audience, he shook off the +arm of the faithful Mr. Carter and stalked moodily home. + + + + +THE THIRD STRING + + +Love? said the night-watchman, as he watched in an abstracted fashion +the efforts of a skipper to reach a brother skipper on a passing barge +with a boathook. Don’t talk to me about love, because I’ve suffered +enough through it. There ought to be teetotalers for love the same as +wot there is for drink, and they ought to wear a piece o’ ribbon to +show it, the same as the teetotalers do; but not an attractive piece o’ +ribbon, mind you. I’ve seen as much mischief caused by love as by +drink, and the funny thing is, one often leads to the other. Love, +arter it is over, often leads to drink, and drink often leads to love +and to a man committing himself for life afore it is over. + + +[Illustration] + +Sailormen give way to it most; they see so little o’ wimmen that they +naturally ’ave a high opinion of ’em. Wait till they become +night-watchmen and, having to be at ’ome all day, see the other side of +’em. If people on’y started life as night-watchmen there wouldn’t be +one ’arf the falling in love that there is now. + +I remember one chap, as nice a fellow as you could wish to meet, too. +He always carried his sweet-heart’s photograph about with ’im, and it +was the on’y thing that cheered ’im up during the fourteen years he was +cast away on a deserted island. He was picked up at last and taken +’ome, and there she was still single and waiting for ’im; and arter +spending fourteen years on a deserted island he got another ten in quod +for shooting ’er because she ’ad altered so much in ’er looks. + +Then there was Ginger Dick, a red-’aired man I’ve spoken about before. +He went and fell in love one time when he was lodging in Wapping ’ere +with old Sam Small and Peter Russet, and a nice mess ’e made of it. + +They was just back from a v’y’ge, and they ’adn’t been ashore a week +afore both of ’em noticed a change for the worse in Ginger. He turned +quiet and peaceful and lost ’is taste for beer. He used to play with +’is food instead of eating it, and in place of going out of an evening +with Sam and Peter took to going off by ’imself. + +“It’s love,” ses Peter Russet, shaking his ’ead, “and he’ll be worse +afore he’s better.” + +“Who’s the gal?” ses old Sam. + +Peter didn’t know, but when they came ’ome that night ’e asked. Ginger, +who was sitting up in bed with a far-off look in ’is eyes, cuddling ’is +knees, went on staring but didn’t answer. + +“Who is it making a fool of you this time, Ginger?” ses old Sam. + +“You mind your bisness and I’ll mind mine,” ses Ginger, suddenly waking +up and looking very fierce. + +“No offence, mate,” ses Sam, winking at Peter. “I on’y asked in case I +might be able to do you a good turn.” + +“Well, you can do that by not letting her know you’re a pal o’ mine,” +ses Ginger, very nasty. + +Old Sam didn’t understand at fust, and when Peter explained to ’im he +wanted to hit ’im for trying to twist Ginger’s words about. + +“She don’t like fat old men,” ses Ginger. + +“Ho!” ses old Sam, who couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Ho! +don’t she? Ho! Ho! indeed!” + +He undressed ’imself and got into the bed he shared with Peter, and +kept ’im awake for hours by telling ’im in a loud voice about all the +gals he’d made love to in his life, and partikler about one gal that +always fainted dead away whenever she saw either a red-’aired man or a +monkey. + +Peter Russet found out all about it next day, and told Sam that it was +a barmaid with black ’air and eyes at the Jolly Pilots, and that she +wouldn’t ’ave anything to say to Ginger. + +He spoke to Ginger about it agin when they were going to bed that +night, and to ’is surprise found that he was quite civil. When ’e said +that he would do anything he could for ’im, Ginger was quite affected. + +“I can’t eat or drink,” he ses, in a miserable voice; “I lay awake all +last night thinking of her. She’s so diff’rent to other gals; she’s +got—If I start on you, Sam Small, you’ll know it. You go and make that +choking noise to them as likes it.” + +“It’s a bit o’ egg-shell I got in my throat at breakfast this morning, +Ginger,” ses Sam. “I wonder whether she lays awake all night thinking +of you?” + +“I dare say she does,” ses Peter Russet, giving ’im a little push. + +“Keep your ’art up, Ginger,” ses Sam; “I’ve known gals to ’ave the most +ext’ordinary likings afore now.” + +“Don’t take no notice of ’im,” ses Peter, holding Ginger back. “’Ow are +you getting on with her?” + +Ginger groaned and sat down on ’is bed and looked at the floor, and Sam +went and sat on his till it shook so that Ginger offered to step over +and break ’is neck for ’im. + +“I can’t ’elp the bed shaking,” ses Sam; “it ain’t my fault. I didn’t +make it. If being in love is going to make you so disagreeable to your +best friends, Ginger, you’d better go and live by yourself.” + +“I ’eard something about her to-day, Ginger,” ses Peter Russet. “I met +a chap I used to know at Bull’s Wharf, and he told me that she used to +keep company with a chap named Bill Lumm, a bit of a prize-fighter, and +since she gave ’im up she won’t look at anybody else.” + +“Was she very fond of ’im, then?” asks Ginger. + +“I don’t know,” ses Peter; “but this chap told me that she won’t walk +out with anybody agin, unless it’s another prize-fighter. Her pride +won’t let her, I s’pose.” + +“Well, that’s all right, Ginger,” ses Sam; “all you’ve got to do is to +go and be a prize-fighter.” + +“If I ’ave any more o’ your nonsense—” ses Ginger, starting up. + +“That’s right,” ses Sam; “jump down anybody’s throat when they’re +trying to do you a kindness. That’s you all over, Ginger, that is. +Wot’s to prevent you telling ’er that you’re a prize-fighter from +Australia or somewhere? She won’t know no better.” + +He got up off the bed and put his ’ands up as Ginger walked across the +room to ’im, but Ginger on’y wanted to shake ’ands, and arter he ’ad +done that ’e patted ’im on the back and smiled at ’im. + +“I’ll try it,” he ses. “I’d tell any lies for ’er sake. Ah! you don’t +know wot love is, Sam.” + +“I used to,” ses Sam, and then he sat down agin and began to tell ’em +all the love-affairs he could remember, until at last Peter Russet got +tired and said it was ’ard to believe, looking at ’im now, wot a +perfick terror he’d been with gals, and said that the face he’d got now +was a judgment on ’im. Sam shut up arter that, and got into trouble +with Peter in the middle o’ the night by waking ’im up to tell ’im +something that he ’ad just thought of about _his_ face. + +The more Ginger thought o’ Sam’s idea the more he liked it, and the +very next evening ’e took Peter Russet into the private bar o’ the +Jolly Pilots. He ordered port wine, which he thought seemed more +’igh-class than beer, and then Peter Russet started talking to Miss +Tucker and told her that Ginger was a prize-fighter from Sydney, where +he’d beat everybody that stood up to ’im. + +The gal seemed to change toward Ginger all in a flash, and ’er +beautiful black eyes looked at ’im so admiring that he felt quite +faint. She started talking to ’im about his fights at once, and when at +last ’e plucked up courage to ask ’er to go for a walk with ’im on +Sunday arternoon she seemed quite delighted. + +“It’ll be a nice change for me,” she ses, smiling. “I used to walk out +with a prize-fighter once before, and since I gave ’im up I began to +think I was never going to ’ave a young man agin. You can’t think ’ow +dull it’s been.” + +“Must ha’ been,” ses Ginger. + +“I s’pose you’ve got a taste for prize-fighters, miss,” ses Peter +Russet. + +“No,” ses Miss Tucker; “I don’t think that it’s that exactly, but, you +see, I couldn’t ’ave anybody else. Not for their own sakes.” + + +[Illustration] + +“Why not?” ses Ginger, looking puzzled. + +“Why not?” ses Miss Tucker. “Why, because o’ Bill. He’s such a ’orrid +jealous disposition. After I gave ’im up I walked out with a young +fellow named Smith; fine, big, strapping chap ’e was, too, and I never +saw such a change in any man as there was in ’im after Bill ’ad done +with ’im. I couldn’t believe it was ’im. I told Bill he ought to be +ashamed of ’imself.” + +“Wot did ’e say?” asks Ginger. + +“Don’t ask me wot ’e said,” ses Miss Tucker, tossing her ’ead. “Not +liking to be beat, I ’ad one more try with a young fellow named Charlie +Webb.” + +“Wot ’appened to ’im?” ses Peter Russet, arter waiting a bit for ’er to +finish. + +“I can’t bear to talk of it,” ses Miss Tucker, holding up Ginger’s +glass and giving the counter a wipe down. “_He_ met Bill, and I saw ’im +six weeks afterward just as ’e was being sent away from the ’ospital to +a seaside home. Bill disappeared after that.” + +“Has he gone far away?” ses Ginger, trying to speak in a off-’and way. + +“Oh, he’s back now,” ses Miss Tucker. “You’ll see ’im fast enough, and, +wotever you do, don’t let ’im know you’re a prize-fighter.” + +“Why not?” ses pore Ginger. + +“Because o’ the surprise it’ll be to ’im,” ses Miss Tucker. “Let ’im +rush on to ’is doom. He’ll get a lesson ’e don’t expect, the bully. +Don’t be afraid of ’urting ’im. Think o’ pore Smith and Charlie Webb.” + +“I am thinkin’ of ’em,” ses Ginger, slow-like. “Is—is Bill—very +quick—with his ’ands?” + +“_Rather_,” ses Miss Tucker; “but o’ course he ain’t up to your mark; +he’s on’y known in these parts.” + +She went off to serve a customer, and Ginger Dick tried to catch +Peter’s eye, but couldn’t, and when Miss Tucker came back he said ’e +must be going. + +“Sunday afternoon at a quarter past three sharp, outside ’ere,” she +ses. “Never mind about putting on your best clothes, because Bill is +sure to be hanging about. I’ll take care o’ that.” + +She reached over the bar and shook ’ands with ’im, and Ginger felt a +thrill go up ’is arm which lasted ’im all the way ’ome. + +He didn’t know whether to turn up on Sunday or not, and if it ’adn’t +ha’ been for Sam and Peter Russet he’d ha’ most likely stayed at home. +Not that ’e was a coward, being always ready for a scrap and gin’rally +speaking doing well at it, but he made a few inquiries about Bill Lumm +and ’e saw that ’e had about as much chance with ’im as a kitten would +’ave with a bulldog. + +Sam and Peter was delighted, and they talked about it as if it was a +pantermime, and old Sam said that _when_ he was a young man he’d ha’ +fought six Bill Lumms afore he’d ha’ given a gal up. He brushed +Ginger’s clothes for ’im with ’is own hands on Sunday afternoon, and, +when Ginger started, ’im and Peter follered some distance behind to see +fair play. + +The on’y person outside the Jolly Pilots when Ginger got there was a +man; a strong-built chap with a thick neck, very large ’ands, and a +nose which ’ad seen its best days some time afore. He looked ’ard at +Ginger as ’e came up, and then stuck his ’ands in ’is trouser pockets +and spat on the pavement. Ginger walked a little way past and then back +agin, and just as he was thinking that ’e might venture to go off, as +Miss Tucker ’adn’t come, the door opened and out she came. + +“I couldn’t find my ’at-pins,” she ses, taking Ginger’s arm and smiling +up into ’is face. + +Before Ginger could say anything the man he ’ad noticed took his ’ands +out of ’is pockets and stepped up to ’im. + +“Let go o’ that young lady’s arm,” he ses. + +“Sha’n’t,” ses Ginger, holding it so tight that Miss Tucker nearly +screamed. + +“Let go ’er arm and put your ’ands up,” ses the chap agin. + + +[Illustration] + +“Not ’ere,” ses Ginger, who ’ad laid awake the night afore thinking wot +to do if he met Bill Lumm. “If you wish to ’ave a spar with me, my lad, +you must ’ave it where we can’t be interrupted. When I start on a man I +like to make a good job of it.” + +“Good job of it!” ses the other, starting. “Do you know who I am?” + +“No, I don’t,” ses Ginger, “and, wot’s more, I don’t care.” + +“My name,” ses the chap, speaking in a slow, careful voice, “is Bill +Lumm.” + +“Wot a ’orrid name!” ses Ginger. + +“Otherwise known as the Wapping Basher,” ses Bill, shoving ’is face +into Ginger’s and glaring at ’im. + +“Ho!” ses Ginger, sniffing, “a amatoor.” + +“_Amatoor?_” ses Bill, shouting. + +“That’s wot we should call you over in Australia,” ses Ginger; “_my_ +name is Dick Duster, likewise known as the Sydney Puncher. I’ve killed +three men in the ring and ’ave never ’ad a defeat.” + +“Well, put ’em up,” ses Bill, doubling up ’is fists and shaping at ’im. + +“Not in the street, I tell you,” ses Ginger, still clinging tight to +Miss Tucker’s arm. “I was fined five pounds the other day for punching +a man in the street, and the magistrate said it would be ’ard labour +for me next time. You find a nice, quiet spot for some arternoon, and +I’ll knock your ’ead off with pleasure.” + +“I’d sooner ’ave it knocked off now,” ses Bill; “I don’t like waiting +for things.” + +“Thursday arternoon,” ses Ginger, very firm; “there’s one or two +gentlemen want to see a bit o’ my work afore backing me, and we can +combine bisness with pleasure.” + +He walked off with Miss Tucker, leaving Bill Lumm standing on the +pavement scratching his ’ead and staring arter ’im as though ’e didn’t +quite know wot to make of it. Bill stood there for pretty near five +minutes, and then arter asking Sam and Peter, who ’ad been standing by +listening, whether they wanted anything for themselves, walked off to +ask ’is pals wot they knew about the Sydney Puncher. + +Ginger Dick was so quiet and satisfied about the fight that old Sam and +Peter couldn’t make ’im out at all. He wouldn’t even practise punching +at a bolster that Peter rigged up for ’im, and when ’e got a message +from Bill Lumm naming a quiet place on the Lea Marshes he agreed to it +as comfortable as possible. + +“Well, I must say, Ginger, that I like your pluck,” ses Peter Russet. + +“I always ’ave said that for Ginger; ’e’s got pluck,” ses Sam. + +Ginger coughed and tried to smile at ’em in a superior sort o’ way. “I +thought you’d got more sense,” he ses, at last. “You don’t think I’m +going, do you?” + +“_Wot?_” ses old Sam, in a shocked voice. + +“You’re never going to back out of it, Ginger?” ses Peter. + +“I am,” ses Ginger. “If you think I’m going to be smashed up by a +prize-fighter just to show my pluck you’re mistook.” + +“You must go, Ginger,” ses old Sam, very severe. “It’s too late to back +out of it now. Think of the gal. Think of ’er feelings.” + +“For the sake of your good name,” ses Peter. + +“I should never speak to you agin, Ginger,” ses old Sam, pursing up ’is +lips. + +“Nor me neither,” ses Peter Russet. + +“To think of our Ginger being called a coward,” ses old Sam, with a +shudder, “and afore a gal, too.” + +“The loveliest gal in Wapping,” ses Peter. + +“Look ’ere,” ses Ginger, “you can shut up, both of you. I’m not going, +and that’s the long and short of it. I don’t mind an ordinary man, but +I draw the line at prize-fighters.” + +Old Sam sat down on the edge of ’is bed and looked the picture of +despair. “You must go, Ginger,” he ses, “for my sake.” + +“Your sake?” ses Ginger, staring. + +“I’ve got money on it,” ses Sam, “so’s Peter. If you don’t turn up all +bets’ll be off.” + +“Good job for you, too,” ses Ginger. “If I did turn up you’d lose it, +to a dead certainty.” + +Old Sam coughed and looked at Peter, and Peter ’e coughed and looked at +Sam. + +“You don’t understand, Ginger,” said Sam, in a soft voice; “it ain’t +often a chap gets the chance o’ making a bit o’ money these ’ard +times.” + +“So we’ve put all our money on Bill Lumm,” ses Peter. “It’s the safest +and easiest way o’ making money I ever ’eard of. You see, we know +you’re not a prize-fighter and the others don’t.” + +Pore Ginger looked at ’em, and then ’e called ’em all the names he +could lay ’is tongue to, but, with the idea o’ the money they was going +make, they didn’t mind a bit. They let him ’ave ’is say, and that night +they brought ’ome two other sailormen wot ’ad bet agin Ginger to share +their room, and, though they ’ad bet agin ’im, they was so fond of ’im +that it was evident that they wasn’t going to leave ’im till the fight +was over. + +Ginger gave up then, and at twelve o’clock next day they started off to +find the place. Mr. Webson, the landlord of the Jolly Pilots, a short, +fat man o’ fifty, wot ’ad spoke to Ginger once or twice, went with ’em, +and all the way to the station he kept saying wot a jolly spot it was +for that sort o’ thing. Perfickly private; nice soft green grass to be +knocked down on, and larks up in the air singing away as if they’d +never leave off. + +They took the train to Homerton, and, being a slack time o’ the day, +the porters was surprised to see wot a lot o’ people was travelling by +it. So was Ginger. There was the landlords of ’arf the public-’ouses in +Wapping, all smoking big cigars; two dock policemen in plain clothes, +wot ’ad got the arternoon off—one with a raging toothache and the other +with a baby wot wasn’t expected to last the day out. They was as full +o’ fun as kittens, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots pointed out to +Ginger wot reasonable ’uman beings policemen was at ’art. Besides them +there was quite a lot o’ sailormen, even skippers and mates, nearly all +of ’em smoking big cigars, too, and looking at Ginger out of the corner +of one eye and at the Wapping Basher out of the corner of the other. + +“Hit ’ard and hit straight,” ses the landlord to Ginger in a low voice, +as they got out of the train and walked up the road. “’Ow are you +feeling?” + +“I’ve got a cold coming on,” ses pore Ginger, looking at the Basher, +who was on in front, “and a splitting ’eadache, and a sharp pain all +down my left leg. I don’t think——” + +“Well, it’s a good job it’s no worse,” ses the landlord; “all you’ve +got to do is to hit ’ard. If you win it’s a ’undered pounds in my +pocket, and I’ll stand you a fiver of it. D’ye understand?” + +They turned down some little streets, several of ’em going diff’rent +ways, and arter crossing the River Lea got on to the marshes, and, as +the landlord said, the place might ha’ been made for it. + +A little chap from Mile End was the referee, and Bill Lumm, ’aving +peeled, stood looking on while Ginger took ’is things off and slowly +and carefully folded ’em up. Then they stepped toward each other, Bill +taking longer steps than Ginger, and shook ’ands; immediately arter +which Bill knocked Ginger head over ’eels. + + +[Illustration] + +“Time!” was called, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots, who was +nursing Ginger on ’is knee, said that it was nothing at all, and that +bleeding at the nose was a sign of ’ealth. But as it happened Ginger +was that mad ’e didn’t want any encouragement, he on’y wanted to kill +Bill Lumm. + +He got two or three taps in the next round which made his ’ead ring, +and then he got ’ome on the mark and follered it up by a left-’anded +punch on Bill’s jaw that surprised ’em both—Bill because he didn’t +think Ginger could hit so ’ard, and Ginger because ’e didn’t think that +prize-fighters ’ad any feelings. + +They clinched and fell that round, and the landlord patted Ginger on +the back and said that if he ever ’ad a son he ’oped he’d grow up like +’im. + +Ginger was surprised at the way ’e was getting on, and so was old Sam +and Peter Russet, and when Ginger knocked Bill down in the sixth round +Sam went as pale as death. Ginger was getting marked all over, but he +stuck, to ’is man, and the two dock policemen, wot ’ad put their money +on Bill Lumm, began to talk of their dooty, and say as ’ow the fight +ought to be stopped. + +At the tenth round Bill couldn’t see out of ’is eyes, and kept wasting +’is strength on the empty air, and once on the referee. Ginger watched +’is opportunity, and at last, with a terrific smash on the point o’ +Bill’s jaw, knocked ’im down and then looked round for the landlord’s +knee. + +Bill made a game try to get up when “Time!” was called, but couldn’t; +and the referee, who was ’olding a ’andkerchief to ’is nose, gave the +fight to Ginger. + +It was the proudest moment o’ Ginger Dick’s life. He sat there like a +king, smiling ’orribly, and Sam’s voice as he paid ’is losings sounded +to ’im like music, in spite o’ the words the old man see fit to use. It +was so ’ard to get Peter Russet’s money that it a’most looked as though +there was going to be another prize-fight, but ’e paid up at last and +went off, arter fust telling Ginger part of wot he thought of ’im. + +There was a lot o’ quarrelling, but the bets was all settled at last, +and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots, who was in ’igh feather with the +money he’d won, gave Ginger the five pounds he’d promised and took him +’ome in a cab. + +“You done well, my lad,” he ses. “No, don’t smile. It looks as though +your ’ead’s coming off.” + +“I ’ope you’ll tell Miss Tucker ’ow I fought,” ses Ginger. + +“I will, my lad,” ses the landlord; “but you’d better not see ’er for +some time, for both your sakes.” + +“I was thinking of ’aving a day or two in bed,” ses Ginger. + +“Best thing you can do,” ses the landlord; “and mind, don’t you ever +fight Bill Lumm agin. Keep out of ’is way.” + +“Why? I beat ’im once, an’ I can beat ’im agin,” ses Ginger, offended. + +“_Beat ’im?_” ses the landlord. He took ’is cigar out of ’is mouth as +though ’e was going to speak, and then put it back agin and looked out +of the window. + +“Yes, beat ’im,” ses Ginger’. “You was there and saw it.” + +“He lost the fight a-purpose,” ses the landlord, whispering. “Miss +Tucker found out that you wasn’t a prize-fighter—leastways, I did for +’er—and she told Bill that, if ’e loved ’er so much that he’d ’ave ’is +sinful pride took down by letting you beat ’im, she’d think diff’rent +of ’im. Why, ’e could ’ave settled you in a minute if he’d liked. He +was on’y playing with you.” + +Ginger stared at ’im as if ’e couldn’t believe ’is eyes. “Playing?” he +ses, feeling ’is face very gently with the tips of his fingers. + +“Yes,” ses the landlord; “and if he ever hits you agin you’ll know I’m +speaking the truth.” + +Ginger sat back all of a heap and tried to think. “Is Miss Tucker going +to keep company with ’im agin, then?” he ses, in a faint voice. + +“No,” ses the landlord; “you can make your mind easy on that point.” + +“Well, then, if I walk out with ’er I shall ’ave to fight Bill all over +agin,” ses Ginger. + +The landlord turned to ’im and patted ’im on the shoulder. “Don’t you +take up your troubles afore they come, my lad,” he ses, kindly; “and +mind and keep wot I’ve told you dark, for all our sakes.” + +He put ’im down at the door of ’is lodgings and, arter shaking ’ands +with ’im, gave the landlady a shilling and told ’er to get some +beefsteak and put on ’is face, and went home. Ginger went straight off +to bed, and the way he carried on when the landlady fried the steak +afore bringing it up showed ’ow upset he was. + + +[Illustration] + +It was over a week afore he felt ’e could risk letting Miss Tucker see +’im, and then at seven o’clock one evening he felt ’e couldn’t wait any +longer, and arter spending an hour cleaning ’imself he started out for +the Jolly Pilots. + +He felt so ’appy at the idea o’ seeing her agin that ’e forgot all +about Bill Lumm, and it gave ’im quite a shock when ’e saw ’im standing +outside the Pilots. Bill took his ’ands out of ’is pockets when he saw +’im and came toward ’im. + +“It’s no good to-night, mate,” he ses; and to Ginger’s great surprise +shook ’ands with ’im. + +“No good?” ses Ginger, staring. + +“No,” ses Bill; “he’s in the little back-parlour, like a whelk in ’is +shell; but we’ll ’ave ’im sooner or later.” + +“Him? Who?” ses Ginger, more puzzled than ever. + +“Who?” ses Bill; “why, Webson, the landlord. You don’t mean to tell me +you ain’t heard about it?” + +“Heard wot?” ses Ginger. “I haven’t ’eard anything. I’ve been indoors +with a bad cold all the week.” + +“Webson and Julia Tucker was married at eleven o’clock yesterday +morning,” ses Bill Lumm, in a hoarse voice. “When I think of the way +I’ve been done, and wot I’ve suffered, I feel ’arf crazy. He won a +’undered pounds through me, and then got the gal I let myself be +disgraced for. I ’ad an idea some time ago that he’d got ’is eye on +her.” + +Ginger Dick didn’t answer ’im a word. He staggered back and braced +’imself up agin the wall for a bit, and arter staring at Bill Lumm in a +wild way for pretty near three minutes he crawled back to ’is lodgings +and went straight to bed agin. + + + + +ODD CHARGES + + +Seated at his ease in the warm tap-room of the Cauliflower, the +stranger had been eating and drinking for some time, apparently +unconscious of the presence of the withered ancient who, huddled up in +that corner of the settle which was nearer to the fire, fidgeted +restlessly with an empty mug and blew with pathetic insistence through +a churchwarden pipe which had long been cold. The stranger finished his +meal with a sigh of content and then, rising from his chair, crossed +over to the settle and, placing his mug on the time-worn table before +him, began to fill his pipe. + + +[Illustration] + +The old man took a spill from the table and, holding it with trembling +fingers to the blaze, gave him a light. The other thanked him, and +then, leaning back in his corner of the settle, watched the smoke of +his pipe through half-closed eyes, and assented drowsily to the old +man’s remarks upon the weather. + +“Bad time o’ the year for going about,” said the latter, “though I +s’pose if you can eat and drink as much as you want it don’t matter. I +s’pose you mightn’t be a conjurer from London, sir?” + +The traveller shook his head. + +“I was ’oping you might be,” said the old man. The other manifested no +curiosity. + +“If you ’ad been,” said the old man, with a sigh, “I should ha’ asked +you to ha’ done something useful. Gin’rally speaking, conjurers do +things that are no use to anyone; wot I should like to see a conjurer +do would be to make this ’ere empty mug full o’ beer and this empty +pipe full o’ shag tobacco. That’s wot I should ha’ made bold to ask you +to do if you’d been one.” + +The traveller sighed, and, taking his short briar pipe from his mouth +by the bowl, rapped three times upon the table with it. In a very short +time a mug of ale and a paper cylinder of shag appeared on the table +before the old man. + +“Wot put me in mind o’ your being a conjurer,” said the latter, filling +his pipe after a satisfying draught from the mug, “is that you’re +uncommon like one that come to Claybury some time back and give a +performance in this very room where we’re now a-sitting. So far as +looks go, you might be his brother.” + +The traveller said that he never had a brother. + +We didn’t know ’e was a conjurer at fust, said the old man. He ’ad come +down for Wickham Fair and, being a day or two before ’and, ’e was going +to different villages round about to give performances. He came into +the bar ’ere and ordered a mug o’ beer, and while ’e was a-drinking of +it stood talking about the weather. Then ’e asked Bill Chambers to +excuse ’im for taking the liberty, and, putting his ’and to Bill’s mug, +took out a live frog. Bill was a very partikler man about wot ’e drunk, +and I thought he’d ha’ had a fit. He went on at Smith, the landlord, +something shocking, and at last, for the sake o’ peace and quietness, +Smith gave ’im another pint to make up for it. + + +[Illustration] + +“It must ha’ been asleep in the mug,” he ses. + +Bill said that ’e thought ’e knew who must ha’ been asleep, and was +just going to take a drink, when the conjurer asked ’im to excuse ’im +agin. Bill put down the mug in a ’urry, and the conjurer put his ’and +to the mug and took out a dead mouse. It would ha’ been a ’ard thing to +say which was the most upset, Bill Chambers or Smith, the landlord, and +Bill, who was in a terrible state, asked why it was everything seemed +to get into _his_ mug. + +“P’r’aps you’re fond o’ dumb animals, sir,” ses the conjurer. “Do you +’appen to notice your coat-pocket is all of a wriggle?” + +He put his ’and to Bill’s pocket and took out a little green snake; +then he put his ’and to Bill’s trouser-pocket and took out a frog, +while pore Bill’s eyes looked as if they was coming out o’ their +sockets. + +“Keep still,” ses the conjurer; “there’s a lot more to come yet.” + +Bill Chambers gave a ’owl that was dreadful to listen to, and then ’e +pushed the conjurer away and started undressing ’imself as fast as he +could move ’is fingers. I believe he’d ha’ taken off ’is shirt if it +’ad ’ad pockets in it, and then ’e stuck ’is feet close together and ’e +kept jumping into the air, and coming down on to ’is own clothes in his +hobnailed boots. + +“He _ain’t_ fond o’ dumb animals, then,” ses the conjurer. Then he put +his ’and on his ’art and bowed. + +“Gentlemen all,” he ses. “’Aving given you this specimen of wot I can +do, I beg to give notice that with the landlord’s kind permission I +shall give my celebrated conjuring entertainment in the tap-room this +evening at seven o’clock; ad—mission, three-pence each.” + +They didn’t understand ’im at fust, but at last they see wot ’e meant, +and arter explaining to Bill, who was still giving little jumps, they +led ’im up into a corner and coaxed ’im into dressing ’imself agin. He +wanted to fight the conjurer, but ’e was that tired ’e could scarcely +stand, and by-and-by Smith, who ’ad said ’e wouldn’t ’ave anything to +do with it, gave way and said he’d risk it. + +The tap-room was crowded that night, but we all ’ad to pay threepence +each—coining money, I call it. Some o’ the things wot he done was very +clever, but a’most from the fust start-off there was unpleasantness. +When he asked somebody to lend ’im a pocket-’andkercher to turn into a +white rabbit, Henery Walker rushed up and lent ’im ’is, but instead of +a white rabbit it turned into a black one with two white spots on it, +and arter Henery Walker ’ad sat for some time puzzling over it ’e got +up and went off ’ome without saying good-night to a soul. + +Then the conjurer borrowed Sam Jones’s hat, and arter looking into it +for some time ’e was that surprised and astonished that Sam Jones lost +’is temper and asked ’im whether he ’adn’t seen a hat afore. + +“Not like this,” ses the conjurer. And ’e pulled out a woman’s dress +and jacket and a pair o’ boots. Then ’e took out a pound or two o’ +taters and some crusts o’ bread and other things, and at last ’e gave +it back to Sam Jones and shook ’is head at ’im, and told ’im if he +wasn’t very careful he’d spoil the shape of it. + +Then ’e asked somebody to lend ’im a watch, and, arter he ’ad promised +to take the greatest care of it, Dicky Weed, the tailor, lent ’im a +gold watch wot ’ad been left ’im by ’is great-aunt when she died. Dicky +Weed thought a great deal o’ that watch, and when the conjurer took a +flat-iron and began to smash it up into little bits it took three men +to hold ’im down in ’is seat. + +“This is the most difficult trick o’ the lot,” ses the conjurer, +picking off a wheel wot ’ad stuck to the flat-iron. “Sometimes I can do +it and sometimes I can’t. Last time I tried it it was a failure, and it +cost me eighteenpence and a pint o’ beer afore the gentleman the watch +’ad belonged to was satisfied. I gave ’im the bits, too.” + +“If you don’t give me my watch back safe and sound,” ses Dicky Weed, in +a trembling voice, “it’ll cost you twenty pounds.” + +“’Ow much?” ses the conjurer, with a start. “Well, I wish you’d told me +that afore you lent it to me. Eighteenpence is my price.” + +He stirred the broken bits up with ’is finger and shook his ’ead. + +“I’ve never tried one o’ these old-fashioned watches afore,” he ses. +“’Owever, if I fail, gentlemen, it’ll be the fust and only trick I’ve +failed in to-night. You can’t expect everything to turn out right, but +if I do fail this time, gentlemen, I’ll try it agin if anybody else’ll +lend me another watch.” + +Dicky Weed tried to speak but couldn’t, and ’e sat there, with ’is face +pale, staring at the pieces of ’is watch on the conjurer’s table. Then +the conjurer took a big pistol with a trumpet-shaped barrel out of ’is +box, and arter putting in a charge o’ powder picked up the pieces o’ +watch and rammed them in arter it. We could hear the broken bits +grating agin the ramrod, and arter he ’ad loaded it ’e walked round and +handed it to us to look at. + +“It’s all right,” he ses to Dicky Weed; “it’s going to be a success; I +could tell in the loading.” + +He walked back to the other end of the room and held up the pistol. + +“I shall now fire this pistol,” ’e ses, “and in so doing mend the +watch. The explosion of the powder makes the bits o’ glass join +together agin; in flying through the air the wheels go round and round +collecting all the other parts, and the watch as good as new and +ticking away its ’ardest will be found in the coat-pocket o’ the +gentleman I shoot at.” + +He pointed the pistol fust at one and then at another, as if ’e +couldn’t make up ’is mind, and none of ’em seemed to ’ave much liking +for it. Peter Gubbins told ’im not to shoot at ’im because he ’ad a +’ole in his pocket, and Bill Chambers, when it pointed at ’im, up and +told ’im to let somebody else ’ave a turn. The only one that didn’t +flinch was Bob Pretty, the biggest poacher and the greatest rascal in +Claybury. He’d been making fun o’ the tricks all along, saying out loud +that he’d seen ’em all afore—and done better. + +“Go on,” he ses; “I ain’t afraid of you; you can’t shoot straight.” + +The conjurer pointed the pistol at ’im. Then ’e pulled the trigger and +the pistol went off bang, and the same moment o’ time Bob Pretty jumped +up with a ’orrible scream, and holding his ’ands over ’is eyes danced +about as though he’d gone mad. + +Everybody started up at once and got round ’im, and asked ’im wot was +the matter; but Bob didn’t answer ’em. He kept on making a dreadful +noise, and at last ’e broke out of the room and, holding ’is +’andkercher to ’is face, ran off ’ome as ’ard as he could run. + +“You’ve done it now, mate,” ses Bill Chambers to the conjurer. “I +thought you wouldn’t be satisfied till you’d done some ’arm. You’ve +been and blinded pore Bob Pretty.” + +“Nonsense,” ses the conjurer. “He’s frightened, that’s all.” + +“Frightened!” ses Peter Gubbins. “Why, you fired Dicky Weed’s watch +straight into ’is face.” + +“Rubbish,” ses the conjurer; “it dropped into ’is pocket, and he’ll +find it there when ’e comes to ’is senses.” + +“Do you mean to tell me that Bob Pretty ’as gone off with my watch in +’is pocket?” screams Dicky Weed. + +“I do,” ses the other. + +“You’d better get ’old of Bob afore ’e finds it out, Dicky,” ses Bill +Chambers. + +Dicky Weed didn’t answer ’im; he was already running along to Bob +Pretty’s as fast as ’is legs would take ’im, with most of us follering +behind to see wot ’appened. + + +[Illustration] + +The door was fastened when we got to it, but Dicky Weed banged away at +it as ’ard as he could bang, and at last the bedroom winder went up and +Mrs. Pretty stuck her ’ead out. + +“_H’sh!_” she ses, in a whisper. “Go away.” + +“I want to see Bob,” ses Dicky Weed. + +“You can’t see ’im,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “I’m getting ’im to bed. He’s +been shot, pore dear. Can’t you ’ear ’im groaning?” + +We ’adn’t up to then, but a’most direckly arter she ’ad spoke you could +ha’ heard Bob’s groans a mile away. Dreadful, they was. + +“There, there, pore dear,” ses Mrs. Pretty. + +“Shall I come in and ’elp you get ’im to bed?” ses Dicky Weed, ’arf +crying. + +“No, thank you, Mr. Weed,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “It’s very kind of you to +offer, but ’e wouldn’t like any hands but mine to touch ’im. I’ll send +in and let you know ’ow he is fust thing in the morning.” + +“Try and get ’old of the coat, Dicky,” ses Bill Chambers, in a whisper. +“Offer to mend it for ’im. It’s sure to want it.” + +“Well, I’m sorry I can’t be no ’elp to you,” ses Dicky Weed, “but I +noticed a rent in Bob’s coat and, as ’e’s likely to be laid up a bit, +it ud be a good opportunity for me to mend it for ’im. I won’t charge +’im nothing. If you drop it down I’ll do it now.” + +“Thankee,” ses Mrs. Pretty; “if you just wait a moment I’ll clear the +pockets out and drop it down to you.” + +She turned back into the bedroom, and Dicky Weed ground ’is teeth +together and told Bill Chambers that the next time he took ’is advice +he’d remember it. He stood there trembling all over with temper, and +when Mrs. Pretty came to the winder agin and dropped the coat on his +’ead and said that Bob felt his kindness very much, and he ’oped Dicky +ud make a good job of it, because it was ’is favrite coat, he couldn’t +speak. He stood there shaking all over till Mrs. Pretty ’ad shut the +winder down agin, and then ’e turned to the conjurer, as ’ad come up +with the rest of us, and asked ’im wot he was going to do about it now. + +“I tell you he’s got the watch,” ses the conjurer, pointing up at the +winder. “It went into ’is pocket. I saw it go. He was no more shot than +you were. If ’e was, why doesn’t he send for the doctor?” + +“I can’t ’elp that,” ses Dicky Weed. “I want my watch or else twenty +pounds.” + +“We’ll talk it over in a day or two,” ses the conjurer. “I’m giving my +celebrated entertainment at Wickham Fair on Monday, but I’ll come back +’ere to the Cauliflower the Saturday before and give another +entertainment, and then we’ll see wot’s to be done. I can’t run away, +because in any case I can’t afford to miss the fair.” + +Dicky Weed gave way at last and went off ’ome to bed and told ’is wife +about it, and listening to ’er advice he got up at six o’clock in the +morning and went round to see ’ow Bob Pretty was. + +Mrs. Pretty was up when ’e got there, and arter calling up the stairs +to Bob told Dicky Weed to go upstairs. Bob Pretty was sitting up in bed +with ’is face covered in bandages, and he seemed quite pleased to see +’im. + +“It ain’t everybody that ud get up at six o’clock to see ’ow I’m +getting on,” he ses. “You’ve got a feeling ’art, Dicky.” + +Dicky Weed coughed and looked round, wondering whether the watch was in +the room, and, if so, where it was hidden. + +“Now I’m ’ere I may as well tidy up the room for you a bit,” he ses, +getting up. “I don’t like sitting idle.” + +“Thankee, mate,” ses Bob; and ’e lay still and watched Dicky Weed out +of the corner of the eye that wasn’t covered with the bandages. + +I don’t suppose that room ’ad ever been tidied up so thoroughly since +the Prettys ’ad lived there, but Dicky Weed couldn’t see anything o’ +the watch, and wot made ’im more angry than anything else was Mrs. +Pretty setting down in a chair with ’er ’ands folded in her lap and +pointing out places that he ’adn’t done. + +“You leave ’im alone,” ses Bob. “_He knows wot ’e’s arter_. Wot did you +do with those little bits o’ watch you found when you was bandaging me +up, missis?” + +“Don’t ask me,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “I was in such a state I don’t know +wot I was doing ’ardly.” + +“Well, they must be about somewhere,” ses Bob. “You ’ave a look for +’em, Dicky, and if you find ’em, keep ’em. They belong to you.” + +Dicky Weed tried to be civil and thank ’im, and then he went off ’ome +and talked it over with ’is wife agin. People couldn’t make up their +minds whether Bob Pretty ’ad found the watch in ’is pocket and was +shamming, or whether ’e was really shot, but they was all quite certain +that, whichever way it was, Dicky Weed would never see ’is watch agin. + +On the Saturday evening this ’ere Cauliflower public-’ouse was crowded, +everybody being anxious to see the watch trick done over agin. We had +’eard that it ’ad been done all right at Cudford and Monksham; but Bob +Pretty said as ’ow he’d believe it when ’e saw it, and not afore. + +He was one o’ the fust to turn up that night, because ’e said ’e wanted +to know wot the conjurer was going to pay him for all ’is pain and +suffering and having things said about ’is character. He came in +leaning on a stick, with ’is face still bandaged, and sat right up +close to the conjurer’s table, and watched him as ’ard as he could as +’e went through ’is tricks. + +“And now,” ses the conjurer, at last, “I come to my celebrated watch +trick. Some of you as wos ’ere last Tuesday when I did it will remember +that the man I fired the pistol at pretended that ’e’d been shot and +run off ’ome with it in ’is pocket.” + +“You’re a liar!” ses Bob Pretty, standing up. “Very good,” ses the +conjurer; “you take that bandage off and show us all where you’re +hurt.” + +“I shall do nothing o’ the kind,” ses Bob. I don’t take my orders from +you.” + +“Take the bandage off,” ses the conjurer, “and if there’s any shot +marks I’ll give you a couple o’ sovereigns.” + +“I’m afraid of the air getting to it,” ses Bob Pretty. + +“You don’t want to be afraid o’ that, Bob,” ses John Biggs, the +blacksmith, coming up behind and putting ’is great arms round ’im. +“Take off that rag, somebody; I’ve got hold of ’im.” + +Bob Pretty started to struggle at fust, but then, seeing it was no +good, kept quite quiet while they took off the bandages. + +“_There!_ look at ’im,” ses the conjurer, pointing. “Not a mark on ’is +face, not one.” + +“_Wot!_” ses Bob Pretty. “Do you mean to say there’s no marks?” + +“I do,” ses the conjurer. + +“Thank goodness,” ses Bob Pretty, clasping his ’ands. “Thank goodness! +I was afraid I was disfigured for life. Lend me a bit o’ looking-glass, +somebody. I can ’ardly believe it.” + +“You stole Dicky Weed’s watch,” ses John Biggs. “I ’ad my suspicions of +you all along. You’re a thief, Bob Pretty. That’s wot you are.” + +“Prove it,” ses Bob Pretty. “You ’eard wot the conjurer said the other +night, that the last time he tried ’e failed, and ’ad to give +eighteenpence to the man wot the watch ’ad belonged to.” + +“That was by way of a joke like,” ses the conjurer to John Biggs. “I +can always do it. I’m going to do it now. Will somebody ’ave the +kindness to lend me a watch?” + +He looked all round the room, but nobody offered—except other men’s +watches, wot wouldn’t lend ’em. + +“Come, come,” he ses; “ain’t none of you got any trust in me? It’ll be +as safe as if it was in your pocket. I want to prove to you that this +man is a thief.” + +He asked ’em agin, and at last John Biggs took out ’is silver watch and +offered it to ’im on the understanding that ’e was on no account to +fire it into Bob Pretty’s pocket. + +“Not likely,” ses the conjurer. “Now, everybody take a good look at +this watch, so as to make sure there’s no deceiving.” + +He ’anded it round, and arter everybody ’ad taken a look at it ’e took +it up to the table and laid it down. + +“Let me ’ave a look at it,” ses Bob Pretty, going up to the table. “I’m +not going to ’ave my good name took away for nothing if I can ’elp it.” + +He took it up and looked at it, and arter ’olding it to ’is ear put it +down agin. + +“Is that the flat-iron it’s going to be smashed with?” he ses. + +“It is,” ses the conjurer, looking at ’im nasty like; “p’r’aps you’d +like to examine it.” + +Bob Pretty took it and looked at it. “Yes, mates,” he ses, “it’s a +ordinary flat-iron. You couldn’t ’ave anything better for smashing a +watch with.” + +He ’eld it up in the air and, afore anybody could move, brought it down +bang on the face o’ the watch. The conjurer sprang at ’im and caught at +’is arm, but it was too late, and in a terrible state o’ mind ’e turned +round to John Biggs. + + +[Illustration] + +“He’s smashed your watch,” he ses; “he’s smashed your watch.” + +“Well,” ses John Biggs, “it ’ad got to be smashed, ’adn’t it?” + +“Yes, but not by ’im,” ses the conjurer, dancing about. “I wash my +’ands of it now.” + +“Look ’ere,” ses John Biggs; “don’t you talk to me about washing your +’ands of it. You finish your trick and give me my watch back agin same +as it was afore.” + +“Not now he’s been interfering with it,” ses the conjurer. “He’d better +do the trick now as he’s so clever.” + +“I’d sooner ’ave you do it,” ses John Biggs. “Wot did you let ’im +interfere for?” + +“’Ow was I to know wot ’e was going to do?” ses the conjurer. “You must +settle it between you now. I’ll ’ave nothing more to do with it.” + +“All right, John Biggs,” ses Bob Pretty; “if ’e won’t do it, I will. If +it can be done, I don’t s’pose it matters who does it. I don’t think +anybody could smash up a watch better than that.” + +John Biggs looked at it, and then ’e asked the conjurer once more to do +the trick, but ’e wouldn’t. + +“It can’t be done now,” he ses; “and I warn you that if that pistol is +fired I won’t be responsible for what’ll ’appen.” + +“George Kettle shall load the pistol and fire it if ’e won’t,” ses Bob +Pretty. “’Aving been in the Militia, there couldn’t be a better man for +the job.” + +George Kettle walked up to the table as red as fire at being praised +like that afore people and started loading the pistol. He seemed to be +more awkward about it than the conjurer ’ad been the last time, and he +’ad to roll the watch-cases up with the flat-iron afore ’e could get +’em in. But ’e loaded it at last and stood waiting. + +“Don’t shoot at me, George Kettle,” ses Bob. “I’ve been called a thief +once, and I don’t want to be agin.” + +“Put that pistol down, you fool, afore you do mischief,” ses the +conjurer. + +“Who shall I shoot at?” ses George Kettle, raising the pistol. + +“Better fire at the conjurer, I think,” ses Bob Pretty; “and if things +’appen as he says they will ’appen, the watch ought to be found in ’is +coat-pocket.” + +“Where is he?” ses George, looking round. + +Bill Chambers laid ’old of ’im just as he was going through the door to +fetch the landlord, and the scream ’e gave as he came back and George +Kettle pointed the pistol at ’im was awful. + + +[Illustration] + +“It’s no worse for you than it was for me,” ses Bob. + +“Put it down,” screams the conjurer; “put it down. You’ll kill ’arf the +men in the room if it goes off.” + +“Be careful where you aim, George,” ses Sam Jones. “P’r’aps he’d better +’ave a chair all by hisself in the middle of the room.” + +It was all very well for Sam Jones to talk, but the conjurer wouldn’t +sit on a chair by ’imself. He wouldn’t sit on it at all. He seemed to +be all legs and arms, and the way ’e struggled it took four or five men +to ’old ’im. + +“Why don’t you keep still?” ses John Biggs. “George Kettle’ll shoot it +in your pocket all right. He’s the best shot in Claybury.” + +“Help! Murder!” says the conjurer, struggling. “He’ll kill me. Nobody +can do the trick but me.” + +“But you say you won’t do it,” ses John Biggs. + +“Not now,” ses the conjurer; “I can’t.” + +“Well, I’m not going to ’ave my watch lost through want of trying,” ses +John Biggs. “Tie ’im to the chair, mates.” + +“All right, then,” ses the conjurer, very pale. “Don’t tie me; I’ll sit +still all right if you like, but you’d better bring the chair outside +in case of accidents. Bring it in the front.” + +George Kettle said it was all nonsense, but the conjurer said the trick +was always better done in the open air, and at last they gave way and +took ’im and the chair outside. + +“Now,” ses the conjurer, as ’e sat down, “all of you go and stand near +the man woe’s going to shoot. When I say ‘Three,’ fire. Why! there’s +the watch on the ground there!” + +He pointed with ’is finger, and as they all looked down he jumped up +out o’ that chair and set off on the road to Wickham as ’ard as ’e +could run. It was so sudden that nobody knew wot ’ad ’appened for a +moment, and then George Kettle, wot ’ad been looking with the rest, +turned round and pulled the trigger. + +There was a bang that pretty nigh deafened us, and the back o’ the +chair was blown nearly out. By the time we’d got our senses agin the +conjurer was a’most out o’ sight, and Bob Pretty was explaining to John +Biggs wot a good job it was ’is watch ’adn’t been a gold one. + +“That’s wot comes o’ trusting a foreigner afore a man wot you’ve known +all your life,” he ses, shaking his ’ead. “I ’ope the next man wot +tries to take my good name away won’t get off so easy. I felt all along +the trick couldn’t be done; it stands to reason it couldn’t. I done my +best, too.” + + + + +ADMIRAL PETERS + + +Mr. George Burton, naval pensioner, sat at the door of his lodgings +gazing in placid content at the sea. It was early summer, and the air +was heavy with the scent of flowers; Mr. Burton’s pipe was cold and +empty, and his pouch upstairs. He shook his head gently as he realised +this, and, yielding to the drowsy quiet of his surroundings, laid aside +the useless pipe and fell into a doze. + + +[Illustration] + +He was awakened half an hour later by the sound of footsteps. A tall, +strongly built man was approaching from the direction of the town, and +Mr. Burton, as he gazed at him sleepily, began to wonder where he had +seen him before. Even when the stranger stopped and stood smiling down +at him his memory proved unequal to the occasion, and he sat staring at +the handsome, shaven face, with its little fringe of grey whisker, +waiting for enlightenment. + +“George, my buck,” said the stranger, giving him a hearty slap on the +shoulder, “how goes it?” + +“D—— _Bless_ my eyes, I mean,” said Mr. Burton, correcting himself, “if +it ain’t Joe Stiles. I didn’t know you without your beard.” + +“That’s me,” said the other. “It’s quite by accident I heard where you +were living, George; I offered to go and sling my hammock with old +Dingle for a week or two, and he told me. Nice quiet little place, +Seacombe. Ah, you were lucky to get your pension, George.” + +“I deserved it,” said Mr. Burton, sharply, as he fancied he detected +something ambiguous in his friend’s remark. + +“Of course you did,” said Mr. Stiles; “so did I, but I didn’t get it. +Well, it’s a poor heart that never rejoices. What about that drink you +were speaking of, George?” + +“I hardly ever touch anything now,” replied his friend. + +“I was thinking about myself,” said Mr. Stiles. “I can’t bear the +stuff, but the doctor says I must have it. You know what doctors are, +George!” + +Mr. Burton did not deign to reply, but led the way indoors. + +“Very comfortable quarters, George,” remarked Mr. Stiles, gazing round +the room approvingly; “ship-shape and tidy. I’m glad I met old Dingle. +Why, I might never ha’ seen you again; and us such pals, too.” + +His host grunted, and from the back of a small cupboard, produced a +bottle of whisky and a glass, and set them on the table. After a +momentary hesitation he found another glass. + +“Our noble selves,” said Mr. Stiles, with a tinge of reproach in his +tones, “and may we never forget old friendships.” + +Mr. Burton drank the toast. “I hardly know what it’s like now, Joe,” he +said, slowly. “You wouldn’t believe how soon you can lose the taste for +it.” + +Mr. Stiles said he would take his word for it. “You’ve got some nice +little public-houses about here, too,” he remarked. “There’s one I +passed called the Cock and Flowerpot; nice cosy little place it would +be to spend the evening in.” + +“I never go there,” said Mr. Burton, hastily. “I—a friend o’ mine here +doesn’t approve o’ public-’ouses.” + +“What’s the matter with him?” inquired his friend, anxiously. + +“It’s—it’s a ’er,” said Mr. Burton, in some confusion. + +Mr. Stiles threw himself back in his chair and eyed him with amazement. +Then, recovering his presence of mind, he reached out his hand for the +bottle. + +“We’ll drink her health,” he said, in a deep voice. “What’s her name?” + +“Mrs. Dutton,” was the reply. + +Mr. Stiles, with one hand on his heart, toasted her feelingly; then, +filling up again, he drank to the “happy couple.” + +“She’s very strict about drink,” said Mr. Burton, eyeing these +proceedings with some severity. + +“Any—dibs?” inquired Mr. Stiles, slapping a pocket which failed to ring +in response. + +“She’s comfortable,” replied the other, awkwardly. “Got a little +stationer’s shop in the town; steady, old-fashioned business. She’s +chapel, and very strict.” + +“Just what you want,” remarked Mr. Stiles, placing his glass on the +table. “What d’ye say to a stroll?” + +Mr. Burton assented, and, having replaced the black bottle in the +cupboard, led the way along the cliffs toward the town some half-mile +distant, Mr. Stiles beguiling the way by narrating his adventures since +they had last met. A certain swagger and richness of deportment were +explained by his statement that he had been on the stage. + +“Only walking on,” he said, with a shake of his head. “The only +speaking part I ever had was a cough. You ought to ha’ heard that +cough, George!” + +Mr. Burton politely voiced his regrets and watched him anxiously. Mr. +Stiles, shaking his head over a somewhat unsuccessful career, was +making a bee-line for the Cock and Flowerpot. + +“Just for a small soda,” he explained, and, once inside, changed his +mind and had whisky instead. Mr. Burton, sacrificing principle to +friendship, had one with him. The bar more than fulfilled Mr. Stiles’s +ideas as to its cosiness, and within the space of ten minutes he was on +excellent terms with the regular clients. Into the little, old-world +bar, with its loud-ticking clock, its Windsor-chairs, and its cracked +jug full of roses, he brought a breath of the bustle of the great city +and tales of the great cities beyond the seas. Refreshment was forced +upon him, and Mr. Burton, pleased at his friend’s success, shared +mildly in his reception. It was nine o’clock before they departed, and +then they only left to please the landlord. + +“Nice lot o’ chaps,” said Mr. Stiles, as he stumbled out into the +sweet, cool air. “Catch hold—o’ my—arm, George. Brace me—up a bit.” + +Mr. Burton complied, and his friend, reassured as to his footing, burst +into song. In a stentorian voice he sang the latest song from comic +opera, and then with an adjuration to Mr. Burton to see what he was +about, and not to let him trip, he began, in a lumbering fashion, to +dance. + +Mr. Burton, still propping him up, trod a measure with fewer steps, and +cast uneasy glances up the lonely road. On their left the sea broke +quietly on the beach below; on their right were one or two scattered +cottages, at the doors of which an occasional figure appeared to gaze +in mute astonishment at the proceedings. + +“Dance, George,” said Mr. Stiles, who found his friend rather an +encumbrance. + +“_Hs’h! Stop!_” cried the frantic Mr. Burton, as he caught sight of a +woman’s figure bidding farewell in a lighted doorway. + +Mr. Stiles replied with a stentorian roar, and Mr. Burton, clinging +despairingly to his jigging friend lest a worse thing should happen, +cast an imploring glance at Mrs. Dutton as they danced by. The evening +was still light enough for him to see her face, and he piloted the +corybantic Mr. Stiles the rest of the way home in a mood which accorded +but ill with his steps. + +His manner at breakfast next morning was so offensive that Mr. Stiles, +who had risen fresh as a daisy and been out to inhale the air on the +cliffs, was somewhat offended. + +“You go down and see her,” he said, anxiously. “Don’t lose a moment; +and explain to her that it was the sea-air acting on an old sunstroke.” + +“She ain’t a fool,” said Mr. Burton, gloomily. + +He finished his breakfast in silence, and, leaving the repentant Mr. +Stiles sitting in the doorway with a pipe, went down to the widow’s to +make the best explanation he could think of on the way. Mrs. Dutton’s +fresh-coloured face changed as he entered the shop, and her still good +eyes regarded him with scornful interrogation. + +“I—saw you last night,” began Mr. Burton, timidly. + +“I saw you, too,” said Mrs. Dutton. “I couldn’t believe my eyesight at +first.” + +“It was an old shipmate of mine,” said Mr. Burton. “He hadn’t seen me +for years, and I suppose the sight of me upset ’im.” + +“I dare say,” replied the widow; “that and the Cock and Flowerpot, too. +I heard about it.” + +“He would go,” said the unfortunate. + +“_You_ needn’t have gone,” was the reply. + +“I ’ad to,” said Mr. Burton, with a gulp; “he—he’s an old officer o’ +mine, and it wouldn’t ha’ been discipline for me to refuse.” + +“Officer?” repeated Mrs. Dutton. + +“My old admiral,” said Mr. Burton, with a gulp that nearly choked him. +“You’ve heard me speak of Admiral Peters?” + +“_Admiral?_” gasped the astonished widow. “What, a-carrying on like +that?” + +“He’s a reg’lar old sea-dog,” said Mr. Burton. “He’s staying with me, +but of course ’e don’t want it known who he is. I couldn’t refuse to +’ave a drink with ’im. I was under orders, so to speak.” + +“No, I suppose not,” said Mrs. Dutton, softening. “Fancy him staying +with you!” + +“He just run down for the night, but I expect he’ll be going ’ome in an +hour or two,” said Mr. Burton, who saw an excellent reason now for +hastening his guest’s departure. + +Mrs. Dutton’s face fell. “Dear me,” she murmured, “I should have liked +to have seen him; you have told me so much about him. If he doesn’t go +quite so soon, and you would like to bring him here when you come +to-night, I’m sure I should be very pleased.” + +“I’ll mention it to ’im,” said Mr. Burton, marvelling at the change in +her manner. + +“Didn’t you say once that he was uncle to Lord Buckfast?” inquired Mrs. +Dutton, casually. + +“Yes,” said Mr. Burton, with unnecessary doggedness; “I did.” + +“The idea of an admiral staying with you!” said Mrs. Dutton. + +“Reg’lar old sea-dog,” said Mr. Burton again; “and, besides, he don’t +want it known. It’s a secret between us three, Mrs. Dutton.” + +“To be sure,” said the widow. “You can tell the admiral that I shall +not mention it to a soul,” she added, mincingly. + +Mr. Burton thanked her and withdrew, lest Mr. Stiles should follow him +up before apprised of his sudden promotion. He found that gentleman, +however, still sitting at the front door, smoking serenely. + +“I’ll stay with you for a week or two,” said Mr. Stiles, briskly, as +soon as the other had told his story. “It’ll do you a world o’ good to +be seen on friendly terms with an admiral, and I’ll put in a good word +for you.” + +Mr. Burton shook his head. “No, she might find out,” he said, slowly. +“I think that the best thing is for you to go home after dinner, Joe, +and just give ’er a look in on the way, p’r’aps. You could say a lot o’ +things about me in ’arf an hour.” + +“No, George,” said Mr. Stiles, beaming on him kindly; “when I put my +hand to the plough I don’t draw back. It’s a good speaking part, too, +an admiral’s. I wonder whether I might use old Peters’s language.” + +“Certainly not,” said Mr. Burton, in alarm. + +“You don’t know how particular she is.” + +Mr. Stiles sighed, and said that he would do the best he could without +it. He spent most of the day on the beach smoking, and when evening +came shaved himself with extreme care and brushed his serge suit with +great perseverance in preparation for his visit. + +Mr. Burton performed the ceremony of introduction with some +awkwardness; Mr. Stiles was affecting a stateliness of manner which was +not without distinction; and Mrs. Dutton, in a black silk dress and the +cameo brooch which had belonged to her mother, was no less important. +Mr. Burton had an odd feeling of inferiority. + + +[Illustration] + +“It’s a very small place to ask you to, Admiral Peters,” said the +widow, offering him a chair. + +“It’s comfortable, ma’am,” said Mr. Stiles, looking round approvingly. +“Ah, you should see some of the palaces I’ve been in abroad; all show +and no comfort. Not a decent chair in the place. And, as for the +antimacassars——” + +“Are you making a long stay, Admiral Peters?” inquired the delighted +widow. + +“It depends,” was the reply. “My intention was just to pay a flying +visit to my honest old friend Burton here—best man in my squadron—but +he is so hospitable, he’s been pressing me to stay for a few weeks.” + +“But the admiral says he _must_ get back to-morrow morning,” interposed +Mr. Burton, firmly. + +“Unless I have a letter at breakfast-time, Burton,” said Mr. Stiles, +serenely. + +Mr. Burton favoured him with a mutinous scowl. + +“Oh, I do hope you will,” said Mrs. Dutton. + +“I have a feeling that I shall,” said Mr. Stiles, crossing glances with +his friend. “The only thing is my people; they want me to join them at +Lord Tufton’s place.” + +Mrs. Dutton trembled with delight at being in the company of a man with +such friends. “What a change shore-life must be to you after the perils +of the sea!” she murmured. + +“Ah!” said Mr. Stiles. “True! True!” + +“The dreadful fighting,” said Mrs. Dutton, closing her eyes and +shuddering. + +“You get used to it,” said the hero, simply. “Hottest time I had I +think was at the bombardment of Alexandria. I stood alone. All the men +who hadn’t been shot down had fled, and the shells were bursting round +me like—like fireworks.” + +The widow clasped her hands and shuddered again. + +“I was standing just behind ’im, waiting any orders he might give,” +said Mr. Burton. + +“Were you?” said Mr. Stiles, sharply—“were you? I don’t remember it, +Burton.” + +“Why,” said Mr. Burton, with a faint laugh, “I was just behind you, +sir. If you remember, sir, I said to you that it was pretty hot work.” + +Mr. Stiles affected to consider. “No, Burton,” he said, bluffly—“no; so +far as my memory goes I was the only man there.” + +“A bit of a shell knocked my cap off, sir,” persisted Mr. Burton, +making laudable efforts to keep his temper. + +“That’ll do, my man,” said the other, sharply; “not another word. You +forget yourself.” + +He turned to the widow and began to chat about “his people” again to +divert her attention from Mr. Burton, who seemed likely to cause +unpleasantness by either bursting a blood-vessel or falling into a fit. + +“My people have heard of Burton,” he said, with a slight glance to see +how that injured gentleman was progressing. “He has often shared my +dangers. We have been in many tight places together. Do you remember +those two nights when we were hidden in the chimney at the palace of +the Sultan of Zanzibar, Burton?” + +“I should think I do,” said Mr. Burton, recovering somewhat. + +“Stuck so tight we could hardly breathe,” continued the other. + +“I shall never forget it as long as I live,” said Mr. Burton, who +thought that the other was trying to make amends for his recent +indiscretion. + +“Oh, do tell me about it, Admiral Peters,” cried Mrs. Dutton. + +“Surely Burton has told you that?” said Mr. Stiles. + +“Never breathed a word of it,” said the widow, gazing somewhat +reproachfully at the discomfited Mr. Burton. + +“Well, tell it now, Burton,” said Mr. Stiles. + +“You tell it better than I do, sir,” said the other. + +“No, no,” said Mr. Stiles, whose powers of invention were not always to +be relied upon. “You tell it; it’s your story.” + +The widow looked from one to the other. “It’s your story, sir,” said +Mr. Burton. + +“No, I won’t tell it,” said Mr. Stiles. “It wouldn’t be fair to you, +Burton. I’d forgotten that when I spoke. Of course, you were young at +the time, still——” + +“I done nothing that I’m ashamed of, sir,” said Mr. Burton, trembling +with passion. + +“I think it’s very hard if I’m not to hear it,” said Mrs. Dutton, with +her most fascinating air. + +Mr. Stiles gave her a significant glance, and screwing up his lips +nodded in the direction of Mr. Burton. + +“At any rate, you were in the chimney with me, sir,” said that +unfortunate. + +“Ah!” said the other, severely. “But what was I there for, my man?” + +Mr. Burton could not tell him; he could only stare at him in a frenzy +of passion and dismay. + +“What _were_ you there for, Admiral Peters?” inquired Mrs. Dutton. + +“I was there, ma’am,” said the unspeakable Mr. Stiles, slowly—“I was +there to save the life of Burton. I never deserted my men—never. +Whatever scrapes they got into I always did my best to get them out. +News was brought to me that Burton was suffocating in the chimney of +the Sultan’s favourite wife, and I——” + +“_Sultan’s favourite wife!_” gasped Mrs. Dutton, staring hard at Mr. +Burton, who had collapsed in his chair and was regarding the ingenious +Mr. Stiles with open-mouthed stupefaction. “Good gracious! I—I never +heard of such a thing. I _am_ surprised!” + +“So am I,” said Mr. Burton, thickly. “I—I——” + +“How did you escape, Admiral Peters?” inquired the widow, turning from +the flighty Burton in indignation. + +Mr. Stiles shook his head. “To tell you that would be to bring the +French Consul into it,” he said, gently. “I oughtn’t to have mentioned +the subject at all. Burton had the good sense not to.” + +The widow murmured acquiescence, and stole a look at the prosaic figure +of the latter gentleman which was full of scornful curiosity. With some +diffidence she invited the admiral to stay to supper, and was obviously +delighted when he accepted. + +In the character of admiral Mr. Stiles enjoyed himself amazingly, his +one regret being that no discriminating theatrical manager was present +to witness his performance. His dignity increased as the evening wore +on, and from good-natured patronage of the unfortunate Burton he +progressed gradually until he was shouting at him. Once, when he had +occasion to ask Mr. Burton if he intended to contradict him, his +appearance was so terrible that his hostess turned pale and trembled +with excitement. + +Mr. Burton adopted the air for his own use as soon as they were clear +of Mrs. Dutton’s doorstep, and in good round terms demanded of Mr. +Stiles what he meant by it. + +“It was a difficult part to play, George,” responded his friend. “We +ought to have rehearsed it a bit. I did the best I could.” + +“Best you could?” stormed Mr. Burton. “Telling lies and ordering me +about?” + +“I had to play the part without any preparation, George,” said the +other, firmly. “You got yourself into the difficulty by saying that I +was the admiral in the first place. I’ll do better next time we go.” + +Mr. Burton, with a nasty scowl, said that there was not going to be any +next time, but Mr. Stiles smiled as one having superior information. +Deaf first to hints and then to requests to seek his pleasure +elsewhere, he stayed on, and Mr. Burton was soon brought to realise the +difficulties which beset the path of the untruthful. + +The very next visit introduced a fresh complication, it being evident +to the most indifferent spectator that Mr. Stiles and the widow were +getting on very friendly terms. Glances of unmistakable tenderness +passed between them, and on the occasion of the third visit Mr. Burton +sat an amazed and scandalised spectator of a flirtation of the most +pronounced description. A despairing attempt on his part to lead the +conversation into safer and, to his mind, more becoming channels only +increased his discomfiture. Neither of them took any notice of it, and +a minute later Mr. Stiles called the widow a “saucy little baggage,” +and said that she reminded him of the Duchess of Marford. + + +[Illustration] + +“I _used_ to think she was the most charming woman in England,” he +said, meaningly. + +Mrs. Dutton simpered and looked down; Mr. Stiles moved his chair a +little closer to her, and then glanced thoughtfully at his friend. + +“Burton,” he said. + +“Sir,” snapped the other. + +“Run back and fetch my pipe for me,” said Mr. Stiles. “I left it on the +mantelpiece.” + +Mr. Burton hesitated, and, the widow happening to look away, shook his +fist at his superior officer. + +“Look sharp,” said Mr. Stiles, in a peremptory voice. + +“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Mr. Burton, whose wits were being sharpened +by misfortune, “but I broke it.” + +“Broke it?” repeated the other. + +“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Burton. “I knocked it on the floor and trod on it +by accident; smashed it to powder.” + +Mr. Stiles rated him roundly for his carelessness, and asked him +whether he knew that it was a present from the Italian Ambassador. + +“Burton was always a clumsy man,” he said, turning to the widow. “He +had the name for it when he was on the _Destruction_ with me; ‘Bungling +Burton’ they called him.” + +He divided the rest of the evening between flirting and recounting +various anecdotes of Mr. Burton, none of which were at all flattering +either to his intelligence or to his sobriety, and the victim, after +one or two futile attempts at contradiction, sat in helpless wrath as +he saw the infatuation of the widow. They were barely clear of the +house before his pent-up emotions fell in an avalanche of words on the +faithless Mr. Stiles. + +“I can’t help being good-looking,” said the latter, with a smirk. + +“Your good looks wouldn’t hurt anybody,” said Mr. Burton, in a grating +voice; “it’s the admiral business that fetches her. It’s turned ’er +head.” + +Mr. Stiles smiled. “She’ll say ‘snap’ to my ‘snip’ any time,” he +remarked. “And remember, George, there’ll always be a knife and fork +laid for you when you like to come.” + +“I dessay,” retorted Mr. Burton, with a dreadful sneer. “Only as it +happens I’m going to tell ’er the truth about you first thing to-morrow +morning. If I can’t have ’er you sha’n’t.” + +“That’ll spoil your chance, too,” said Mr. Stiles. “She’d never forgive +you for fooling her like that. It seems a pity neither of us should get +her.” + +“You’re a sarpent,” exclaimed Mr. Burton, savagely—“a sarpent that I’ve +warmed in my bosom and——” + +“There’s no call to be indelicate, George,” said Mr. Stiles, +reprovingly, as he paused at the door of the house. “Let’s sit down and +talk it over quietly.” + +Mr. Burton followed him into the room and, taking a chair, waited. + +“It’s evident she’s struck with me,” said Mr. Stiles, slowly; “it’s +also evident that if you tell her the truth it might spoil my chances. +I don’t say it would, but it might. That being so, I’m agreeable to +going back without seeing her again by the six-forty train to-morrow +morning if it’s made worth my while.” + +“Made worth your while?” repeated the other. + +“Certainly,” said the unblushing Mr. Stiles. “She’s not a bad-looking +woman—for her age—and it’s a snug little business.” + +Mr. Burton, suppressing his choler, affected to ponder. “If ’arf a +sovereign—” he said, at last. + +“Half a fiddlestick!” said the other, impatiently. “I want ten pounds. +You’ve just drawn your pension, and, besides, you’ve been a saving man +all your life.” + +“Ten pounds?” gasped the other. “D’ye think I’ve got a gold-mine in the +back garden?” + +Mr. Stiles leaned back in his chair and crossed his feet. “I don’t go +for a penny less,” he said, firmly. “Ten pounds and my ticket back. If +you call me any more o’ those names I’ll make it twelve.” + +“And what am I to explain to Mrs. Dutton?” demanded Mr. Burton, after a +quarter of an hour’s altercation. + +“Anything you like,” said his generous friend. “Tell her I’m engaged to +my cousin, and our marriage keeps being put off and off on account of +my eccentric behaviour. And you can say that that was caused by a +splinter of a shell striking my head. Tell any lies you like; I shall +never turn up again to contradict them. If she tries to find out things +about the admiral, remind her that she promised to keep his visit here +secret.” + +For over an hour Mr. Burton sat weighing the advantages and +disadvantages of this proposal, and then—Mr. Stiles refusing to seal +the bargain without—shook hands upon it and went off to bed in a state +of mind hovering between homicide and lunacy. + +He was up in good time next morning, and, returning the shortest +possible answers to the remarks of Mr. Stiles, who was in excellent +feather, went with him to the railway station to be certain of his +departure. + +It was a delightful morning, cool and bright, and, despite his +misfortunes. Mr. Burton’s spirits began to rise as he thought of his +approaching deliverance. Gloom again overtook him at the +booking-office, where the unconscionable Mr. Stiles insisted firmly +upon a first-class ticket. + +“Who ever heard of an admiral riding third?” he demanded, indignantly. + +“But they don’t know you’re an admiral,” urged Mr. Burton, trying to +humour him. + +“No; but I feel like one,” said Mr. Stiles, slapping his pocket. “I’ve +always felt curious to see what it feels like travelling first-class; +besides, you can tell Mrs. Dutton.” + +“I could tell ’er that in any case,” returned Mr. Burton. + +Mr. Stiles looked shocked, and, time pressing, Mr. Burton, breathing so +hard that it impeded his utterance, purchased a first-class ticket and +conducted him to the carriage. Mr. Stiles took a seat by the window and +lolling back put his foot up on the cushions opposite. A large bell +rang and the carriage-doors were slammed. + +“Good-bye, George,” said the traveller, putting his head to the window. +“I’ve enjoyed my visit very much.” + +“Good riddance,” said Mr. Burton, savagely. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Stiles shook his head. “I’m letting you off easy,” he said, slowly. +“If it hadn’t ha’ been for one little thing I’d have had the widow +myself.” + +“What little thing?” demanded the other, as the train began to glide +slowly out. + +“My wife,” said Mr. Stiles, as a huge smile spread slowly over his +face. “Good-bye, George, and don’t forget to give my love when you go +round.” + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12215 *** |