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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Captains All, by W.W. Jacobs
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Captains All
+
+Author: W.W. Jacobs
+
+Release Date: October 30, 2006 [eBook #11191]
+[Most recently updated: December 17, 2022]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: David Widger
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPTAINS ALL ***
+
+
+
+
+                             *CAPTAINS ALL*
+
+                                  _By_
+
+                              W. W. JACOBS
+
+
+                                  1911
+
+                                  ――――
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+    ILLUSTRATIONS
+    CAPTAINS ALL
+    THE BOATSWAIN'S MATE
+    THE NEST EGG
+    THE CONSTABLE'S MOVE
+    BOB'S REDEMPTION
+    OVER THE SIDE
+    THE FOUR PIGEONS
+    THE TEMPTATION OF SAMUEL BURGE
+    THE MADNESS OF MR. LISTER
+    THE WHITE CAT
+
+                                  ――――
+
+                                  ――――
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+
+    “Captains All.”
+    “The Boatswain's Mate.”
+    “'I Gives You the Two Quid Afore You Go Into The House,'
+            Continued the Boatswain.”
+    “The Nest Egg.”
+    “He Said It Was a Bad Road and A Little Shop, And 'ad Got A Look
+            About It he Didn't Like.”
+    “The Constable's Move.”
+    “Mr. Grummit, Suddenly Remembering Himself, Stopped Short And
+            Attacked the Bed With Extraordinary Fury.”
+    “Bob's Redemption.”
+    “Afore George Had Settled With the Cabman, There Was A Policeman
+            Moving the Crowd On.”
+    “Over the Side.”
+    “The Four Pigeons.”
+    “The Fust Bob Pretty 'eard of It Was up at The cauliflower at
+            Eight O'clock That Evening.”
+    “The Temptation of Samuel Burge.”
+    “The Madness of Mr. Lister.”
+    “A Friendship Sprang up Between the Two Men Which Puzzled The
+            Remainder of the Crew Not a Little.”
+    “The White Cat.”
+    “He 'ad a Little Collar and Chain Made for It, And Took It Out
+            for a Walk.”
+
+
+
+
+CAPTAINS ALL
+
+
+
+
+Every sailorman grumbles about the sea, said the night-watchman,
+thoughtfully. It's human nature to grumble, and I s'pose they keep on
+grumbling and sticking to it because there ain't much else they can do.
+There's not many shore-going berths that a sailorman is fit for, and
+those that they are—such as a night-watchman's, for instance—wants such
+a good character that there's few as are to equal it.
+
+Sometimes they get things to do ashore. I knew one man that took up
+butchering, and 'e did very well at it till the police took him up.
+Another man I knew gave up the sea to marry a washerwoman, and they
+hadn't been married six months afore she died, and back he 'ad to go to
+sea agin, pore chap.
+
+A man who used to grumble awful about the sea was old Sam Small—a man
+I've spoke of to you before. To hear 'im go on about the sea, arter he
+'ad spent four or five months' money in a fortnight, was 'artbreaking.
+He used to ask us wot was going to happen to 'im in his old age, and
+when we pointed out that he wouldn't be likely to 'ave any old age if he
+wasn't more careful of 'imself he used to fly into a temper and call us
+everything 'e could lay his tongue to.
+
+One time when 'e was ashore with Peter Russet and Ginger Dick he seemed
+to 'ave got it on the brain. He started being careful of 'is money
+instead o' spending it, and three mornings running he bought a newspaper
+and read the advertisements, to see whether there was any comfortable
+berth for a strong, good-'arted man wot didn't like work.
+
+He actually went arter one situation, and, if it hadn't ha' been for
+seventy-nine other men, he said he believed he'd ha' had a good chance
+of getting it. As it was, all 'e got was a black eye for shoving another
+man, and for a day or two he was so down-'arted that 'e was no company
+at all for the other two.
+
+For three or four days 'e went out by 'imself, and then, all of a
+sudden, Ginger Dick and Peter began to notice a great change in him. He
+seemed to 'ave got quite cheerful and 'appy. He answered 'em back
+pleasant when they spoke to 'im, and one night he lay in 'is bed
+whistling comic songs until Ginger and Peter Russet 'ad to get out o'
+bed to him. When he bought a new necktie and a smart cap and washed
+'imself twice in one day they fust began to ask each other wot was up,
+and then they asked him.
+
+“Up?” ses Sam; “nothing.”
+
+“He's in love,” ses Peter Russet.
+
+“You're a liar,” ses Sam, without turning round.
+
+“He'll 'ave it bad at 'is age,” ses Ginger.
+
+Sam didn't say nothing, but he kept fidgeting about as though 'e'd got
+something on his mind. Fust he looked out o' the winder, then he 'ummed
+a tune, and at last, looking at 'em very fierce, he took a tooth-brush
+wrapped in paper out of 'is pocket and began to clean 'is teeth.
+
+“He is in love,” ses Ginger, as soon as he could speak.
+
+“Or else 'e's gorn mad,” ses Peter, watching 'im. “Which is it, Sam?”
+
+Sam made believe that he couldn't answer 'im because o' the tooth-brush,
+and arter he'd finished he 'ad such a raging toothache that 'e sat in a
+corner holding 'is face and looking the pictur' o' misery. They couldn't
+get a word out of him till they asked 'im to go out with them, and then
+he said 'e was going to bed. Twenty minutes arterwards, when Ginger Dick
+stepped back for 'is pipe, he found he 'ad gorn.
+
+He tried the same game next night, but the other two wouldn't 'ave it,
+and they stayed in so long that at last 'e lost 'is temper, and, arter
+wondering wot Ginger's father and mother could ha' been a-thinking
+about, and saying that he believed Peter Russet 'ad been changed at
+birth for a sea-sick monkey, he put on 'is cap and went out. Both of 'em
+follered 'im sharp, but when he led 'em to a mission-hall, and actually
+went inside, they left 'im and went off on their own.
+
+They talked it over that night between themselves, and next evening they
+went out fust and hid themselves round the corner. Ten minutes
+arterwards old Sam came out, walking as though 'e was going to catch a
+train; and smiling to think 'ow he 'ad shaken them off. At the corner of
+Commercial Road he stopped and bought 'imself a button-hole for 'is
+coat, and Ginger was so surprised that 'e pinched Peter Russet to make
+sure that he wasn't dreaming.
+
+Old Sam walked straight on whistling, and every now and then looking
+down at 'is button-hole, until by-and-by he turned down a street on the
+right and went into a little shop. Ginger Dick and Peter waited for 'im
+at the corner, but he was inside for so long that at last they got tired
+o' waiting and crept up and peeped through the winder.
+
+It was a little tobacconist's shop, with newspapers and penny toys and
+such-like; but, as far as Ginger could see through two rows o' pipes and
+the Police News, it was empty. They stood there with their noses pressed
+against the glass for some time, wondering wot had 'appened to Sam, but
+by-and-by a little boy went in and then they began to 'ave an idea wot
+Sam's little game was.
+
+As the shop-bell went the door of a little parlour at the back of the
+shop opened, and a stout and uncommon good-looking woman of about forty
+came out. Her 'ead pushed the Police News out o' the way and her 'and
+came groping into the winder arter a toy.
+
+Ginger 'ad a good look at 'er out o' the corner of one eye, while he
+pretended to be looking at a tobacco-jar with the other. As the little
+boy came out 'im and Peter Russet went in.
+
+“I want a pipe, please,” he ses, smiling at 'er; “a clay pipe—one o'
+your best.” The woman handed 'im down a box to choose from, and just
+then Peter, wot 'ad been staring in at the arf-open door at a boot wot
+wanted lacing up, gave a big start and ses, “Why! Halloa!”
+
+“Wot's the matter?” ses the woman, looking at 'im.
+
+“I'd know that foot anywhere,” ses Peter, still staring at it; and the
+words was hardly out of 'is mouth afore the foot 'ad moved itself away
+and tucked itself under its chair. “Why, that's my dear old friend Sam
+Small, ain't it?”
+
+“Do you know the captin?” ses the woman, smiling at 'im.
+
+“Cap——?” ses Peter. “Cap——? Oh, yes; why, he's the biggest friend I've
+got.” “'Ow strange!” ses the woman.
+
+“We've been wanting to see 'im for some time,” ses Ginger. “He was kind
+enough to lend me arf a crown the other day, and I've been wanting to
+pay 'im.”
+
+“Captin Small,” ses the woman, pushing open the door, “here's some old
+friends o' yours.”
+
+Old Sam turned 'is face round and looked at 'em, and if looks could ha'
+killed, as the saying is, they'd ha' been dead men there and then.
+
+“Oh, yes,” he ses, in a choking voice; “'ow are you?”
+
+“Pretty well, thank you, captin,” ses Ginger, grinning at 'im; “and
+'ow's yourself arter all this long time?”
+
+He held out 'is hand and Sam shook it, and then shook 'ands with Peter
+Russet, who was grinning so 'ard that he couldn't speak.
+
+“These are two old friends o' mine, Mrs. Finch,” ses old Sam, giving 'em
+a warning look; “Captin Dick and Captin Russet, two o' the oldest and
+best friends a man ever 'ad.”
+
+“Captin Dick 'as got arf a crown for you,” ses Peter Russet, still
+grinning.
+
+“There now,” ses Ginger, looking vexed, “if I ain't been and forgot it;
+I've on'y got arf a sovereign.”
+
+“I can give you change, sir,” ses Mrs. Finch. “P'r'aps you'd like to sit
+down for five minutes?”
+
+Ginger thanked 'er, and 'im and Peter Russet took a chair apiece in
+front o' the fire and began asking old Sam about 'is 'ealth, and wot
+he'd been doing since they saw 'im last.
+
+“Fancy your reckernizing his foot,” ses Mrs. Finch, coming in with the
+change.
+
+“I'd know it anywhere,” ses Peter, who was watching Ginger pretending to
+give Sam Small the 'arf-dollar, and Sam pretending in a most lifelike
+manner to take it.
+
+Ginger Dick looked round the room. It was a comfortable little place,
+with pictures on the walls and antimacassars on all the chairs, and a
+row of pink vases on the mantelpiece. Then 'e looked at Mrs. Finch, and
+thought wot a nice-looking woman she was.
+
+“This is nicer than being aboard ship with a crew o' nasty, troublesome
+sailormen to look arter, Captin Small,” he ses.
+
+“It's wonderful the way he manages 'em,” ses Peter Russet to Mrs. Finch.
+“Like a lion he is.”
+
+“A roaring lion,” ses Ginger, looking at Sam. “He don't know wot fear
+is.”
+
+Sam began to smile, and Mrs. Finch looked at 'im so pleased that Peter
+Russet, who 'ad been looking at 'er and the room, and thinking much the
+same way as Ginger, began to think that they was on the wrong tack.
+
+“Afore 'e got stout and old,” he ses, shaking his 'ead, “there wasn't a
+smarter skipper afloat.”
+
+“We all 'ave our day,” ses Ginger, shaking his 'ead too.
+
+“I dessay he's good for another year or two afloat, yet,” ses Peter
+Russet, considering. “With care,” ses Ginger.
+
+Old Sam was going to say something, but 'e stopped himself just in time.
+“They will 'ave their joke,” he ses, turning to Mrs. Finch and trying to
+smile. “I feel as young as ever I did.”
+
+Mrs. Finch said that anybody with arf an eye could see that, and then
+she looked at a kettle that was singing on the 'ob.
+
+“I s'pose you gentlemen wouldn't care for a cup o' cocoa?” she ses,
+turning to them.
+
+Ginger Dick and Peter both said that they liked it better than anything
+else, and, arter she 'ad got out the cups and saucers and a tin o'
+cocoa, Ginger held the kettle and poured the water in the cups while she
+stirred them, and old Sam sat looking on 'elpless.
+
+“It does seem funny to see you drinking cocoa, captin,” ses Ginger, as
+old Sam took his cup.
+
+“Ho!” ses Sam, firing up; “and why, if I might make so bold as to ask?”
+
+“'Cos I've generally seen you drinking something out of a bottle,” ses
+Ginger.
+
+“Now, look 'ere,” ses Sam, starting up and spilling some of the hot
+cocoa over 'is lap.
+
+“A ginger-beer bottle,” ses Peter Russet, making faces at Ginger to keep
+quiet.
+
+“Yes, o' course, that's wot I meant,” ses Ginger.
+
+Old Sam wiped the cocoa off 'is knees without saying a word, but his
+weskit kept going up and down till Peter Russet felt quite sorry for
+'im.
+
+“There's nothing like it,” he ses to Mrs. Finch. “It was by sticking to
+ginger-beer and milk and such-like that Captain Small 'ad command of a
+ship afore 'e was twenty-five.”
+
+“Lor'!” ses Mrs. Finch.
+
+She smiled at old Sam till Peter got uneasy agin, and began to think
+p'r'aps 'e'd been praising 'im too much.
+
+“Of course, I'm speaking of long ago now,” he ses.
+
+“Years and years afore you was born, ma'am,” ses Ginger.
+
+Old Sam was going to say something, but Mrs. Finch looked so pleased
+that 'e thought better of it. Some o' the cocoa 'e was drinking went the
+wrong way, and then Ginger patted 'im on the back and told 'im to be
+careful not to bring on 'is brownchitis agin. Wot with temper and being
+afraid to speak for fear they should let Mrs. Finch know that 'e wasn't
+a captin, he could 'ardly bear 'imself, but he very near broke out when
+Peter Russet advised 'im to 'ave his weskit lined with red flannel. They
+all stayed on till closing time, and by the time they left they 'ad made
+theirselves so pleasant that Mrs. Finch said she'd be pleased to see
+them any time they liked to look in.
+
+Sam Small waited till they 'ad turned the corner, and then he broke out
+so alarming that they could 'ardly do anything with 'im. Twice policemen
+spoke to 'im and advised 'im to go home afore they altered their minds;
+and he 'ad to hold 'imself in and keep quiet while Ginger and Peter
+Russet took 'is arms and said they were seeing him 'ome.
+
+He started the row agin when they got in-doors, and sat up in 'is bed
+smacking 'is lips over the things he'd like to 'ave done to them if he
+could. And then, arter saying 'ow he'd like to see Ginger boiled alive
+like a lobster, he said he knew that 'e was a noble-'arted feller who
+wouldn't try and cut an old pal out, and that it was a case of love at
+first sight on top of a tram-car.
+
+“She's too young for you,” ses Ginger; “and too good-looking besides.”
+
+“It's the nice little bisness he's fallen in love with, Ginger,” ses
+Peter Russet. “I'll toss you who 'as it.”
+
+Ginger, who was siting on the foot o' Sam's bed, said “no” at fust, but
+arter a time he pulled out arf a dollar and spun it in the air.
+
+That was the last 'e see of it, although he 'ad Sam out o' bed and all
+the clothes stripped off of it twice. He spent over arf an hour on his
+'ands and knees looking for it, and Sam said when he was tired of
+playing bears p'r'aps he'd go to bed and get to sleep like a Christian.
+
+They 'ad it all over agin next morning, and at last, as nobody would
+agree to keep quiet and let the others 'ave a fair chance, they made up
+their minds to let the best man win. Ginger Dick bought a necktie that
+took all the colour out o' Sam's, and Peter Russet went in for a collar
+so big that 'e was lost in it.
+
+They all strolled into the widow's shop separate that night. Ginger Dick
+'ad smashed his pipe and wanted another; Peter Russet wanted some
+tobacco; and old Sam Small walked in smiling, with a little silver
+brooch for 'er, that he said 'e had picked up.
+
+It was a very nice brooch, and Mrs. Finch was so pleased with it that
+Ginger and Peter sat there as mad as they could be because they 'adn't
+thought of the same thing.
+
+“Captain Small is very lucky at finding things,” ses Ginger, at last.
+
+“He's got the name for it,” ses Peter Russet.
+
+“It's a handy 'abit,” ses Ginger; “it saves spending money. Who did you
+give that gold bracelet to you picked up the other night, captin?” he
+ses, turning to Sam.
+
+“Gold bracelet?” ses Sam. “I didn't pick up no gold bracelet. Wot are
+you talking about?”
+
+“All right, captin; no offence,” ses Ginger, holding up his 'and. “I
+dreamt I saw one on your mantelpiece, I s'pose. P'r'aps I oughtn't to
+ha' said anything about it.”
+
+Old Sam looked as though he'd like to eat 'im, especially as he noticed
+Mrs. Finch listening and pretending not to. “Oh! that one,” he ses,
+arter a bit o' hard thinking. “Oh! I found out who it belonged to. You
+wouldn't believe 'ow pleased they was at getting it back agin.”
+
+Ginger Dick coughed and began to think as 'ow old Sam was sharper than
+he 'ad given 'im credit for, but afore he could think of anything else
+to say Mrs. Finch looked at old Sam and began to talk about 'is ship,
+and to say 'ow much she should like to see over it.
+
+“I wish I could take you,” ses Sam, looking at the other two out o' the
+corner of his eye, “but my ship's over at Dunkirk, in France. I've just
+run over to London for a week or two to look round.”
+
+“And mine's there too,” ses Peter Russet, speaking a'most afore old Sam
+'ad finished; “side by side they lay in the harbour.”
+
+“Oh, dear,” ses Mrs. Finch, folding her 'ands and shaking her 'cad. “I
+should like to go over a ship one arternoon. I'd quite made up my mind
+to it, knowing three captins.”
+
+She smiled and looked at Ginger; and Sam and Peter looked at 'im too,
+wondering whether he was going to berth his ship at Dunkirk alongside o'
+theirs.
+
+“Ah, I wish I 'ad met you a fortnight ago,” ses Ginger, very sad. “I
+gave up my ship, the High flyer, then, and I'm waiting for one my owners
+are 'aving built for me at New-castle. They said the High flyer wasn't
+big enough for me. She was a nice little ship, though. I believe I've
+got 'er picture somewhere about me!”
+
+He felt in 'is pocket and pulled out a little, crumpled-up photograph of
+a ship he'd been fireman aboard of some years afore, and showed it to
+'er.
+
+“That's me standing on the bridge,” he ses, pointing out a little dot
+with the stem of 'is pipe.
+
+“It's your figger,” ses Mrs. Finch, straining her eyes. “I should know
+it anywhere.”
+
+“You've got wonderful eyes, ma'am,” ses old Sam, choking with 'is pipe.
+
+“Anybody can see that,” ses Ginger. “They're the largest and the bluest
+I've ever seen.”
+
+Mrs. Finch told 'im not to talk nonsense, but both Sam and Peter Russet
+could see 'ow pleased she was.
+
+“Truth is truth,” ses Ginger. “I'm a plain man, and I speak my mind.”
+
+“Blue is my fav'rit' colour,” ses old Sam, in a tender voice. “True
+blue.”
+
+Peter Russet began to feel out of it. “I thought brown was,” he ses.
+
+“Ho!” ses Sam, turning on 'im; “and why?”
+
+“I 'ad my reasons,” ses Peter, nodding, and shutting 'is mouth very
+firm.
+
+“I thought brown was 'is fav'rit colour too,” ses Ginger. “I don't know
+why. It's no use asking me; because if you did I couldn't tell you.”
+
+“Brown's a very nice colour,” ses Mrs. Finch, wondering wot was the
+matter with old Sam.
+
+“Blue,” ses Ginger; “big blue eyes—they're the ones for me. Other people
+may 'ave their blacks and their browns,” he ses, looking at Sam and
+Peter Russet, “but give me blue.”
+
+They went on like that all the evening, and every time the shop-bell
+went and the widow 'ad to go out to serve a customer they said in
+w'ispers wot they thought of each other; and once when she came back
+rather sudden Ginger 'ad to explain to 'er that 'e was showing Peter
+Russet a scratch on his knuckle.
+
+Ginger Dick was the fust there next night, and took 'er a little chiney
+teapot he 'ad picked up dirt cheap because it was cracked right acrost
+the middle; but, as he explained that he 'ad dropped it in hurrying to
+see 'er, she was just as pleased. She stuck it up on the mantelpiece,
+and the things she said about Ginger's kindness and generosity made
+Peter Russet spend good money that he wanted for 'imself on a painted
+flower-pot next evening.
+
+With three men all courting 'er at the same time Mrs. Finch had 'er
+hands full, but she took to it wonderful considering. She was so nice
+and kind to 'em all that even arter a week's 'ard work none of 'em was
+really certain which she liked best.
+
+They took to going in at odd times o' the day for tobacco and such-like.
+They used to go alone then, but they all met and did the polite to each
+other there of an evening, and then quarrelled all the way 'ome.
+
+Then all of a sudden, without any warning, Ginger Dick and Peter Russet
+left off going there. The fust evening Sam sat expecting them every
+minute, and was so surprised that he couldn't take any advantage of it;
+but on the second, beginning by squeezing Mrs. Finch's 'and at ha'-past
+seven, he 'ad got best part of his arm round 'er waist by a quarter to
+ten. He didn't do more that night because she told him to be'ave
+'imself, and threatened to scream if he didn't leave off.
+
+He was arf-way home afore 'e thought of the reason for Ginger Dick and
+Peter Russet giving up, and then he went along smiling to 'imself to
+such an extent that people thought 'e was mad. He went off to sleep with
+the smile still on 'is lips, and when Peter and Ginger came in soon
+arter closing time and 'e woke up and asked them where they'd been, 'e
+was still smiling.
+
+“I didn't 'ave the pleasure o' seeing you at Mrs. Finch's to-night,” he
+ses.
+
+“No,” ses Ginger, very short. “We got tired of it.”
+
+“So un'ealthy sitting in that stuffy little room every evening,” ses
+Peter.
+
+Old Sam put his 'ead under the bedclothes and laughed till the bed
+shook; and every now and then he'd put his 'ead out and look at Peter
+and Ginger and laugh agin till he choked.
+
+“I see 'ow it is,” he ses, sitting up and wiping his eyes on the sheet.
+“Well, we cant all win.”
+
+“Wot d'ye mean?” ses Ginger, very disagreeable.
+
+“She wouldn't 'ave you, Sam, thats wot I mean. And I don't wonder at it.
+I wouldn't 'ave you if I was a gal.”
+
+“You're dreaming, ses Peter Russet, sneering at 'im.
+
+“That flower-pot o' yours'll come in handy,” ses Sam, thinking 'ow he
+'ad put 'is arm round the widow's waist; “and I thank you kindly for the
+teapot, Ginger.
+
+“You don't mean to say as you've asked 'er to marry you?” ses Ginger,
+looking at Peter Russet.
+
+“Not quite; but I'm going to,” ses Sam, “and I'll bet you even
+arf-crowns she ses 'yes.'”
+
+Ginger wouldn't take 'im, and no more would Peter, not even when he
+raised it to five shillings; and the vain way old Sam lay there boasting
+and talking about 'is way with the gals made 'em both feel ill.
+
+“I wouldn't 'ave her if she asked me on 'er bended knees,” ses Ginger,
+holding up his 'ead.
+
+“Nor me,” ses Peter. “You're welcome to 'er, Sam. When I think of the
+evenings I've wasted over a fat old woman I feel——”
+
+“That'll do,” ses old Sam, very sharp; “that ain't the way to speak of a
+lady, even if she 'as said 'no.'”
+
+“All right, Sam,” ses Ginger. “You go in and win if you think you're so
+precious clever.”
+
+Old Sam said that that was wot 'e was going to do, and he spent so much
+time next morning making 'imself look pretty that the other two could
+'ardly be civil to him.
+
+He went off a'most direckly arter breakfast, and they didn't see 'im
+agin till twelve o'clock that night. He 'ad brought a bottle o' whisky
+in with 'im, and he was so 'appy that they see plain wot had 'appened.
+
+“She said 'yes' at two o'clock in the arternoon,” ses old Sam, smiling,
+arter they had 'ad a glass apiece. “I'd nearly done the trick at one
+o'clock, and then the shop-bell went, and I 'ad to begin all over agin.
+Still, it wasn't unpleasant.”
+
+“Do you mean to tell us you've asked 'er to marry you?” ses Ginger,
+'olding out 'is glass to be filled agin.
+
+“I do,” ses Sam; “but I 'ope there's no ill-feeling. You never 'ad a
+chance, neither of you; she told me so.”
+
+Ginger Dick and Peter Russet stared at each other.
+
+“She said she 'ad been in love with me all along,” ses Sam, filling
+their glasses agin to cheer 'em up. “We went out arter tea and bought
+the engagement-ring, and then she got somebody to mind the shop and we
+went to the Pagoda music-'all.”
+
+“I 'ope you didn't pay much for the ring, Sam,” ses Ginger, who always
+got very kind-'arted arter two or three glasses o' whisky. “If I'd known
+you was going to be in such a hurry I might ha' told you before.”
+
+“We ought to ha' done,” ses Peter, shaking his 'ead.
+
+“Told me?” ses Sam, staring at 'em. “Told me wot?”
+
+“Why me and Peter gave it up,” ses Ginger; “but, o' course, p'r'aps you
+don't mind.”
+
+“Mind wot?” ses Sam.
+
+“It's wonderful 'ow quiet she kept it,” ses Peter.
+
+Old Sam stared at 'em agin, and then he asked 'em to speak in plain
+English wot they'd got to say, and not to go taking away the character
+of a woman wot wasn't there to speak up for herself.
+
+“It's nothing agin 'er character,” ses Ginger. “It's a credit to her,
+looked at properly,” ses Peter Russet.
+
+“And Sam'll 'ave the pleasure of bringing of 'em up,” ses Ginger.
+
+“Bringing of 'em up?” ses Sam, in a trembling voice and turning pale;
+“bringing who up?”
+
+“Why, 'er children,” ses Ginger. “Didn't she tell you? She's got nine of
+'em.”
+
+Sam pretended not to believe 'em at fust, and said they was jealous; but
+next day he crept down to the greengrocer's shop in the same street,
+where Ginger had 'appened to buy some oranges one day, and found that it
+was only too true. Nine children, the eldest of 'em only fifteen, was
+staying with diff'rent relations owing to scarlet-fever next door.
+
+Old Sam crept back 'ome like a man in a dream, with a bag of oranges he
+didn't want, and, arter making a present of the engagement-ring to
+Ginger—if 'e could get it—he took the fust train to Tilbury and signed
+on for a v'y'ge to China.
+
+
+
+
+THE BOATSWAIN'S MATE
+
+
+
+
+Mr. George Benn, retired boat-swain, sighed noisily, and with a
+despondent gesture, turned to the door and stood with the handle in his
+hand; Mrs. Waters, sitting behind the tiny bar in a tall Windsor-chair,
+eyed him with some heat.
+
+“My feelings'll never change,” said the boatswain.
+
+“Nor mine either,” said the landlady, sharply. “It's a strange thing,
+Mr. Benn, but you always ask me to marry you after the third mug.”
+
+“It's only to get my courage up,” pleaded the boatswain. “Next time I'll
+do it afore I 'ave a drop; that'll prove to you I'm in earnest.”
+
+He stepped outside and closed the door before the landlady could make a
+selection from the many retorts that crowded to her lips.
+
+After the cool bar, with its smell of damp saw-dust, the road seemed hot
+and dusty; but the boatswain, a prey to gloom natural to a man whose
+hand has been refused five times in a fortnight, walked on unheeding.
+His steps lagged, but his brain was active.
+
+He walked for two miles deep in thought, and then coming to a shady bank
+took a seat upon an inviting piece of turf and lit his pipe. The heat
+and the drowsy hum of bees made him nod; his pipe hung from the corner
+of his mouth, and his eyes closed.
+
+He opened them at the sound of approaching footsteps, and, feeling in
+his pocket for matches, gazed lazily at the intruder. He saw a tall man
+carrying a small bundle over his shoulder, and in the erect carriage,
+the keen eyes, and bronzed face had little difficulty in detecting the
+old soldier.
+
+The stranger stopped as he reached the seated boatswain and eyed him
+pleasantly.
+
+“Got a pipe o' baccy, mate?” he inquired.
+
+The boatswain handed him the small metal box in which he kept that
+luxury.
+
+“Lobster, ain't you?” he said, affably.
+
+The tall man nodded. “Was,” he replied. “Now I'm my own
+commander-in-chief.”
+
+“Padding it?” suggested the boatswain, taking the box from him and
+refilling his pipe.
+
+The other nodded, and with the air of one disposed to conversation
+dropped his bundle in the ditch and took a seat beside him. “I've got
+plenty of time,” he remarked.
+
+Mr. Benn nodded, and for a while smoked on in silence. A dim idea which
+had been in his mind for some time began to clarify. He stole a glance
+at his companion—a man of about thirty-eight, clear eyes, with humorous
+wrinkles at the corners, a heavy moustache, and a cheerful expression
+more than tinged with recklessness.
+
+“Ain't over and above fond o' work?” suggested the boatswain, when he
+had finished his inspection.
+
+“I love it,” said the other, blowing a cloud of smoke in the air, “but
+we can't have all we want in this world; it wouldn't be good for us.”
+
+The boatswain thought of Mrs. Waters, and sighed. Then he rattled his
+pocket.
+
+“Would arf a quid be any good to you?” he inquired.
+
+“Look here,” began the soldier; “just because I asked you for a pipe o'
+baccy—”
+
+“No offence,” said the other, quickly. “I mean if you earned it?”
+
+The soldier nodded and took his pipe from his mouth. “Gardening and
+windows?” he hazarded, with a shrug of his shoulders.
+
+The boatswain shook his head.
+
+“Scrubbing, p'r'aps?” said the soldier, with a sigh of resignation.
+“Last house I scrubbed out I did it so thoroughly they accused me of
+pouching the soap. Hang 'em!”
+
+“And you didn't?” queried the boatswain, eyeing him keenly.
+
+The soldier rose and, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, gazed at him
+darkly. “I can't give it back to you,” he said, slowly, “because I've
+smoked some of it, and I can't pay you for it because I've only got
+twopence, and that I want for myself. So long, matey, and next time a
+poor wretch asks you for a pipe, be civil.”
+
+“I never see such a man for taking offence in all my born days,”
+expostulated the boat-swain. “I 'ad my reasons for that remark, mate.
+Good reasons they was.”
+
+The soldier grunted and, stooping, picked up his bundle.
+
+“I spoke of arf a sovereign just now,” continued the boatswain,
+impressively, “and when I tell you that I offer it to you to do a bit o'
+burgling, you'll see 'ow necessary it is for me to be certain of your
+honesty.”
+
+“Burgling?” gasped the astonished soldier. “Honesty? 'Struth; are you
+drunk or am I?”
+
+“Meaning,” said the boatswain, waving the imputation away with his hand,
+“for you to pretend to be a burglar.”
+
+“We're both drunk, that's what it is,” said the other, resignedly.
+
+The boatswain fidgeted. “If you don't agree, mum's the word and no 'arm
+done,” he said, holding out his hand.
+
+“Mum's the word,” said the soldier, taking it. “My name's Ned Travers,
+and, barring cells for a spree now and again, there's nothing against
+it. Mind that.”
+
+“Might 'appen to anybody,” said Mr. Benn, soothingly. “You fill your
+pipe and don't go chucking good tobacco away agin.”
+
+Mr. Travers took the offered box and, with economy born of adversity,
+stooped and filled up first with the plug he had thrown away. Then he
+resumed his seat and, leaning back luxuriously, bade the other “fire
+away.”
+
+“I ain't got it all ship-shape and proper yet,” said Mr. Benn, slowly,
+“but it's in my mind's eye. It's been there off and on like for some
+time.”
+
+He lit his pipe again and gazed fixedly at the opposite hedge. “Two
+miles from here, where I live,” he said, after several vigorous puffs,
+“there's a little public-'ouse called the Beehive, kept by a lady wot
+I've got my eye on.”
+
+The soldier sat up.
+
+“She won't 'ave me,” said the boatswain, with an air of mild surprise.
+
+The soldier leaned back again.
+
+“She's a lone widder,” continued Mr. Benn, shaking his head, “and the
+Beehive is in a lonely place. It's right through the village, and the
+nearest house is arf a mile off.”
+
+“Silly place for a pub,” commented Mr. Travers.
+
+“I've been telling her 'ow unsafe it is,” said the boatswain. “I've been
+telling her that she wants a man to protect her, and she only laughs at
+me. She don't believe it; d'ye see? Likewise I'm a small man—small, but
+stiff. She likes tall men.”
+
+“Most women do,” said Mr. Travers, sitting upright and instinctively
+twisting his moustache. “When I was in the ranks—”
+
+“My idea is,” continued the boatswain, slightly raising his voice, “to
+kill two birds with one stone—prove to her that she does want being
+protected, and that I'm the man to protect her. D'ye take my meaning,
+mate?”
+
+The soldier reached out a hand and felt the other's biceps. “Like a lump
+o' wood,” he said, approvingly.
+
+“My opinion is,” said the boatswain, with a faint smirk, “that she loves
+me without knowing it.”
+
+“They often do,” said Mr. Travers, with a grave shake of his head.
+
+“Consequently I don't want 'er to be disappointed,” said the other.
+
+“It does you credit,” remarked Mr. Travers.
+
+“I've got a good head,” said Mr. Benn, “else I shouldn't 'ave got my
+rating as boatswain as soon as I did; and I've been turning it over in
+my mind, over and over agin, till my brain-pan fair aches with it. Now,
+if you do what I want you to to-night and it comes off all right, damme
+I'll make it a quid.”
+
+“Go on, Vanderbilt,” said Mr. Travers; “I'm listening.”
+
+The boatswain gazed at him fixedly. “You meet me 'ere in this spot at
+eleven o'clock to-night,” he said, solemnly; “and I'll take you to her
+'ouse and put you through a little winder I know of. You goes upstairs
+and alarms her, and she screams for help. I'm watching the house,
+faithful-like, and hear 'er scream. I dashes in at the winder, knocks
+you down, and rescues her. D'ye see?”
+
+“I hear,” corrected Mr. Travers, coldly.
+
+“She clings to me,” continued the boat-swain, with a rapt expression of
+face, “in her gratitood, and, proud of my strength and pluck, she
+marries me.”
+
+“An' I get a five years' honeymoon,” said the soldier.
+
+The boatswain shook his head and patted the other's shoulder. “In the
+excitement of the moment you spring up and escape,” he said, with a
+kindly smile. “I've thought it all out. You can run much faster than I
+can; any-ways, you will. The nearest 'ouse is arf a mile off, as I said,
+and her servant is staying till to-morrow at 'er mother's, ten miles
+away.”
+
+Mr. Travers rose to his feet and stretched himself. “Time I was
+toddling,” he said, with a yawn. “Thanks for amusing me, mate.”
+
+“You won't do it?” said the boatswain, eyeing him with much concern.
+
+“I'm hanged if I do,” said the soldier, emphatically. “Accidents will
+happen, and then where should I be?”
+
+“If they did,” said the boatswain, “I'd own up and clear you.”
+
+“You might,” said Mr. Travers, “and then again you mightn't. So long,
+mate.”
+
+“I—I'll make it two quid,” said the boat-swain, trembling with
+eagerness. “I've took a fancy to you; you're just the man for the job.”
+
+The soldier, adjusting his bundle, glanced at him over his shoulder.
+“Thankee,” he said, with mock gratitude.
+
+“Look 'ere,” said the boatswain, springing up and catching him by the
+sleeve; “I'll give it to you in writing. Come, you ain't faint-hearted?
+Why, a bluejacket 'ud do it for the fun o' the thing. If I give it to
+you in writing, and there should be an accident, it's worse for me than
+it is for you, ain't it?”
+
+Mr. Travers hesitated and, pushing his cap back, scratched his head.
+
+“I gives you the two quid afore you go into the house,” continued the
+boatswain, hastily following up the impression he had made. “I'd give
+'em to you now if I'd got 'em with me. That's my confidence in you; I
+likes the look of you. Soldier or sailor, when there is a man's work to
+be done, give 'em to me afore anybody.”
+
+The soldier seated himself again and let his bundle fall to the ground.
+“Go on,” he said, slowly. “Write it out fair and square and sign it, and
+I'm your man.”
+
+The boatswain clapped him on the shoulder and produced a bundle of
+papers from his pocket. “There's letters there with my name and address
+on 'em,” he said. “It's all fair, square, and above-board. When you've
+cast your eyes over them I'll give you the writing.”
+
+Mr. Travers took them and, re-lighting his pipe, smoked in silence, with
+various side glances at his companion as that enthusiast sucked his
+pencil and sat twisting in the agonies of composition. The document
+finished—after several failures had been retrieved and burnt by the
+careful Mr. Travers—the boat-swain heaved a sigh of relief, and handing
+it over to him, leaned back with a complacent air while he read it.
+
+“Seems all right,” said the soldier, folding it up and putting it in his
+waistcoat-pocket. “I'll be here at eleven to-night.”
+
+“Eleven it is,” said the boatswain, briskly, “and, between pals—here's
+arf a dollar to go on with.”
+
+He patted him on the shoulder again, and with a caution to keep out of
+sight as much as possible till night walked slowly home. His step was
+light, but he carried a face in which care and exultation were strangely
+mingled.
+
+By ten o'clock that night care was in the ascendant, and by eleven, when
+he discerned the red glow of Mr. Travers's pipe set as a beacon against
+a dark background of hedge, the boatswain was ready to curse his
+inventive powers. Mr. Travers greeted him cheerily and, honestly
+attributing the fact to good food and a couple of pints of beer he had
+had since the boatswain left him, said that he was ready for anything.
+
+Mr. Benn grunted and led the way in silence. There was no moon, but the
+night was clear, and Mr. Travers, after one or two light-hearted
+attempts at conversation, abandoned the effort and fell to whistling
+softly instead.
+
+Except for one lighted window the village slept in darkness, but the
+boatswain, who had been walking with the stealth of a Red Indian on the
+war-path, breathed more freely after they had left it behind. A renewal
+of his antics a little farther on apprised Mr. Travers that they were
+approaching their destination, and a minute or two later they came to a
+small inn standing just off the road. “All shut up and Mrs. Waters abed,
+bless her,” whispered the boatswain, after walking care-fully round the
+house. “How do you feel?”
+
+“I'm all right,” said Mr. Travers. “I feel as if I'd been burgling all
+my life. How do you feel?”
+
+“Narvous,” said Mr. Benn, pausing under a small window at the rear of
+the house. “This is the one.”
+
+Mr. Travers stepped back a few paces and gazed up at the house. All was
+still. For a few moments he stood listening and then re-joined the
+boatswain.
+
+“Good-bye, mate,” he said, hoisting himself on to the sill. “Death or
+victory.”
+
+The boatswain whispered and thrust a couple of sovereigns into his hand.
+“Take your time; there's no hurry,” he muttered. “I want to pull myself
+together. Frighten 'er enough, but not too much. When she screams I'll
+come in.”
+
+Mr. Travers slipped inside and then thrust his head out of the window.
+“Won't she think it funny you should be so handy?” he inquired.
+
+“No; it's my faithful 'art,” said the boat-swain, “keeping watch over
+her every night, that's the ticket. She won't know no better.”
+
+Mr. Travers grinned, and removing his boots passed them out to the
+other. “We don't want her to hear me till I'm upstairs,” he whispered.
+“Put 'em outside, handy for me to pick up.”
+
+The boatswain obeyed, and Mr. Travers—who was by no means a good hand at
+darning socks—shivered as he trod lightly over a stone floor. Then,
+following the instructions of Mr. Benn, he made his way to the stairs
+and mounted noiselessly.
+
+But for a slight stumble half-way up his progress was very creditable
+for an amateur. He paused and listened and, all being silent, made his
+way to the landing and stopped out-side a door. Despite himself his
+heart was beating faster than usual.
+
+He pushed the door open slowly and started as it creaked. Nothing
+happening he pushed again, and standing just inside saw, by a small ewer
+silhouetted against the casement, that he was in a bedroom. He listened
+for the sound of breathing, but in vain.
+
+“Quiet sleeper,” he reflected; “or perhaps it is an empty room. Now, I
+wonder whether—”
+
+The sound of an opening door made him start violently, and he stood
+still, scarcely breathing, with his ears on the alert. A light shone on
+the landing, and peeping round the door he saw a woman coming along the
+corridor—a younger and better-looking woman than he had expected to see.
+In one hand she held aloft a candle, in the other she bore a
+double-barrelled gun. Mr. Travers withdrew into the room and, as the
+light came nearer, slipped into a big cupboard by the side of the
+fireplace and, standing bolt upright, waited. The light came into the
+room.
+
+“Must have been my fancy,” said a pleasant voice.
+
+“Bless her,” smiled Mr. Travers.
+
+His trained ear recognized the sound of cocking triggers. The next
+moment a heavy body bumped against the door of the cupboard and the key
+turned in the lock.
+
+“Got you!” said the voice, triumphantly. “Keep still; if you try and
+break out I shall shoot you.”
+
+“All right,” said Mr. Travers, hastily; “I won't move.”
+
+“Better not,” said the voice. “Mind, I've got a gun pointing straight at
+you.”
+
+“Point it downwards, there's a good girl,” said Mr. Travers, earnestly;
+“and take your finger off the trigger. If anything happened to me you'd
+never forgive yourself.”
+
+“It's all right so long as you don't move,” said the voice; “and I'm not
+a girl,” it added, sternly.
+
+“Yes, you are,” said the prisoner. “I saw you. I thought it was an angel
+at first. I saw your little bare feet and—”
+
+A faint scream interrupted him.
+
+“You'll catch cold,” urged Mr. Travers.
+
+“Don't you trouble about me,” said the voice, tartly.
+
+“I won't give any trouble,” said Mr. Travers, who began to think it was
+time for the boatswain to appear on the scene. “Why don't you call for
+help? I'll go like a lamb.”
+
+“I don't want your advice,” was the reply. “I know what to do. Now,
+don't you try and break out. I'm going to fire one barrel out of the
+window, but I've got the other one for you if you move.”
+
+“My dear girl,” protested the horrified Mr. Travers, “you'll alarm the
+neighbourhood.”
+
+“Just what I want to do,” said the voice. “Keep still, mind.”
+
+Mr. Travers hesitated. The game was up, and it was clear that in any
+case the stratagem of the ingenious Mr. Benn would have to be disclosed.
+
+“Stop!” he said, earnestly. “Don't do anything rash. I'm not a burglar;
+I'm doing this for a friend of yours—Mr. Benn.”
+
+“What?” said an amazed voice.
+
+“True as I stand here,” asseverated Mr. Travers. “Here, here's my
+instructions. I'll put 'em under the door, and if you go to the back
+window you'll see him in the garden waiting.”
+
+He rustled the paper under the door, and it was at once snatched from
+his fingers. He regained an upright position and stood listening to the
+startled and indignant exclamations of his gaoler as she read the
+boatswain's permit:
+
+        “This is to give notice that I, George Benn, being of
+        sound mind and body, have told Ned Travers to pretend to
+        be a burglar at Mrs. Waters's.  He ain't a burglar, and
+        I shall be outside all the time. It's all above-board
+        and ship-shape.
+
+        “(Signed) George Benn”
+
+    “Sound mind—above-board—ship-shape,” repeated a dazed voice.
+    “Where is he?”
+
+“Out at the back,” replied Mr. Travers. “If you go to the window you can
+see him. Now, do put something round your shoulders, there's a good
+girl.”
+
+There was no reply, but a board creaked. He waited for what seemed a
+long time, and then the board creaked again.
+
+“Did you see him?” he inquired.
+
+“I did,” was the sharp reply. “You both ought to be ashamed of
+yourselves. You ought to be punished.”
+
+“There is a clothes-peg sticking into the back of my head,” remarked Mr.
+Travers. “What are you going to do?”
+
+There was no reply.
+
+“What are you going to do?” repeated Mr. Travers, somewhat uneasily.
+“You look too nice to do anything hard; leastways, so far as I can judge
+through this crack.”
+
+There was a smothered exclamation, and then sounds of somebody moving
+hastily about the room and the swish of clothing hastily donned.
+
+“You ought to have done it before,” commented the thoughtful Mr.
+Travers. “It's enough to give you your death of cold.”
+
+“Mind your business,” said the voice, sharply. “Now, if I let you out,
+will you promise to do exactly as I tell you?”
+
+“Honour bright,” said Mr. Travers, fervently.
+
+“I'm going to give Mr. Benn a lesson he won't forget,” proceeded the
+other, grimly. “I'm going to fire off this gun, and then run down and
+tell him I've killed you.”
+
+“Eh?” said the amazed Mr. Travers. “Oh, Lord!”
+
+“H'sh! Stop that laughing,” commanded the voice. “He'll hear you. Be
+quiet!”
+
+The key turned in the lock, and Mr. Travers, stepping forth, clapped his
+hand over his mouth and endeavoured to obey. Mrs. Waters, stepping back
+with the gun ready, scrutinized him closely.
+
+“Come on to the landing,” said Mr. Travers, eagerly. “We don't want
+anybody else to hear. Fire into this.”
+
+He snatched a patchwork rug from the floor and stuck it up against the
+balusters. “You stay here,” said Mrs. Waters. He nodded.
+
+She pointed the gun at the hearth-rug, the walls shook with the
+explosion, and, with a shriek that set Mr. Travers's teeth on edge, she
+rushed downstairs and, drawing back the bolts of the back door, tottered
+outside and into the arms of the agitated boatswain.
+
+“Oh! oh! oh!” she cried.
+
+“What—what's the matter?” gasped the boatswain.
+
+The widow struggled in his arms. “A burglar,” she said, in a tense
+whisper. “But it's all right; I've killed him.”
+
+“Kill—” stuttered the other. “Kill——Killed him?”
+
+Mrs. Waters nodded and released herself, “First shot,” she said, with a
+satisfied air.
+
+The boatswain wrung his hands. “Good heavens!” he said, moving slowly
+towards the door. “Poor fellow!”
+
+“Come back,” said the widow, tugging at his coat.
+
+“I was—was going to see—whether I could do anything for 'im,” quavered
+the boatswain. “Poor fellow!”
+
+“You stay where you are,” commanded Mrs. Waters. “I don't want any
+witnesses. I don't want this house to have a bad name. I'm going to keep
+it quiet.”
+
+“Quiet?” said the shaking boatswain. “How?”
+
+“First thing to do,” said the widow, thoughtfully, “is to get rid of the
+body. I'll bury him in the garden, I think. There's a very good bit of
+ground behind those potatoes. You'll find the spade in the tool-house.”
+
+The horrified Mr. Benn stood stock-still regarding her.
+
+“While you're digging the grave,” continued Mrs. 'Waters, calmly, “I'll
+go in and clean up the mess.”
+
+The boatswain reeled and then fumbled with trembling fingers at his
+collar.
+
+Like a man in a dream he stood watching as she ran to the tool-house and
+returned with a spade and pick; like a man in a dream he followed her on
+to the garden.
+
+“Be careful,” she said, sharply; “you're treading down my potatoes.”
+
+The boatswain stopped dead and stared at her. Apparently unconscious of
+his gaze, she began to pace out the measurements and then, placing the
+tools in his hands, urged him to lose no time.
+
+“I'll bring him down when you're gone,” she said, looking towards the
+house.
+
+The boatswain wiped his damp brow with the back of his hand. “How are
+you going to get it downstairs?” he breathed.
+
+“Drag it,” said Mrs. Waters, briefly.
+
+“Suppose he isn't dead?” said the boat-swain, with a gleam of hope.
+
+“Fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Waters. “Do you think I don't know? Now, don't
+waste time talking; and mind you dig it deep. I'll put a few cabbages on
+top afterwards—I've got more than I want.”
+
+She re-entered the house and ran lightly upstairs. The candle was still
+alight and the gun was leaning against the bed-post; but the visitor had
+disappeared. Conscious of an odd feeling of disappointment, she looked
+round the empty room.
+
+“Come and look at him,” entreated a voice, and she turned and beheld the
+amused countenance of her late prisoner at the door.
+
+“I've been watching from the back window,” he said, nodding. “You're a
+wonder; that's what you are. Come and look at him.”
+
+Mrs. Waters followed, and leaning out of the window watched with simple
+pleasure the efforts of the amateur sexton. Mr. Benn was digging like
+one possessed, only pausing at intervals to straighten his back and to
+cast a fearsome glance around him. The only thing that marred her
+pleasure was the behaviour of Mr. Travers, who was struggling for a
+place with all the fervour of a citizen at the Lord Mayor's show.
+
+“Get back,” she said, in a fierce whisper. “He'll see you.”
+
+Mr. Travers with obvious reluctance obeyed, just as the victim looked
+up.
+
+“Is that you, Mrs. Waters?” inquired the boatswain, fearfully.
+
+“Yes, of course it is,” snapped the widow. “Who else should it be, do
+you think? Go on! What are you stopping for?”
+
+Mr. Benn's breathing as he bent to his task again was distinctly
+audible. The head of Mr. Travers ranged itself once more alongside the
+widow's. For a long time they watched in silence.
+
+“Won't you come down here, Mrs. Waters?” called the boatswain, looking
+up so suddenly that Mr. Travers's head bumped painfully against the side
+of the window. “It's a bit creepy, all alone.”
+
+“I'm all right,” said Mrs. Waters.
+
+“I keep fancying there's something dodging behind them currant bushes,”
+pursued the unfortunate Mr. Benn, hoarsely. “How you can stay there
+alone I can't think. I thought I saw something looking over your
+shoulder just now. Fancy if it came creeping up behind and caught hold
+of you! The widow gave a sudden faint scream.
+
+“If you do that again!” she said, turning fiercely on Mr. Travers.
+
+“He put it into my head,” said the culprit, humbly; “I should never have
+thought of such a thing by myself. I'm one of the quietest and
+best-behaved——”
+
+“Make haste, Mr. Benn,” said the widow, turning to the window again;
+“I've got a lot to do when you've finished.”
+
+The boatswain groaned and fell to digging again, and Mrs. Waters, after
+watching a little while longer, gave Mr. Travers some pointed
+instructions about the window and went down to the garden again.
+
+“That will do, I think,” she said, stepping into the hole and regarding
+it critically. “Now you'd better go straight off home, and, mind, not a
+word to a soul about this.”
+
+She put her hand on his shoulder, and noticing with pleasure that he
+shuddered at her touch led the way to the gate. The boat-swain paused
+for a moment, as though about to speak, and then, apparently thinking
+better of it, bade her good-bye in a hoarse voice and walked feebly up
+the road. Mrs. Waters stood watching until his steps died away in the
+distance, and then, returning to the garden, took up the spade and stood
+regarding with some dismay the mountainous result of his industry. Mr.
+Travers, who was standing just inside the back door, joined her.
+
+“Let me,” he said, gallantly.
+
+The day was breaking as he finished his task. The clean, sweet air and
+the exercise had given him an appetite to which the smell of cooking
+bacon and hot coffee that proceeded from the house had set a sharper
+edge. He took his coat from a bush and put it on. Mrs. Waters appeared
+at the door.
+
+“You had better come in and have some breakfast before you go,” she
+said, brusquely; “there's no more sleep for me now.”
+
+Mr. Travers obeyed with alacrity, and after a satisfying wash in the
+scullery came into the big kitchen with his face shining and took a seat
+at the table. The cloth was neatly laid, and Mrs. Waters, fresh and
+cool, with a smile upon her pleasant face, sat behind the tray. She
+looked at her guest curiously, Mr. Travers's spirits being somewhat
+higher than the state of his wardrobe appeared to justify.
+
+“Why don't you get some settled work?” she inquired, with gentle
+severity, as he imparted snatches of his history between bites.
+
+“Easier said than done,” said Mr. Travers, serenely. “But don't you run
+away with the idea that I'm a beggar, because I'm not. I pay my way,
+such as it is. And, by-the-bye, I s'pose I haven't earned that two
+pounds Benn gave me?”
+
+His face lengthened, and he felt uneasily in his pocket.
+
+“I'll give them to him when I'm tired of the joke,” said the widow,
+holding out her hand and watching him closely.
+
+Mr. Travers passed the coins over to her. “Soft hand you've got,” he
+said, musingly. “I don't wonder Benn was desperate. I dare say I should
+have done the same in his place.”
+
+Mrs. Waters bit her lip and looked out at the window; Mr. Travers
+resumed his breakfast.
+
+“There's only one job that I'm really fit for, now that I'm too old for
+the Army,” he said, confidentially, as, breakfast finished, he stood at
+the door ready to depart.
+
+“Playing at burglars?” hazarded Mrs. Waters.
+
+“Landlord of a little country public-house,” said Mr. Travers, simply.
+
+Mrs. Waters fell back and regarded him with open-eyed amazement.
+
+“Good morning,” she said, as soon as she could trust her voice.
+
+“Good-bye,” said Mr. Travers, reluctantly. “I should like to hear how
+old Benn takes this joke, though.”
+
+Mrs. Waters retreated into the house and stood regarding him. “If you're
+passing this way again and like to look in—I'll tell you,” she said,
+after a long pause. “Good-bye.”
+
+“I'll look in in a week's time,” said Mr. Travers.
+
+He took the proffered hand and shook it warmly. “It would be the best
+joke of all,” he said, turning away.
+
+“What would?”
+
+The soldier confronted her again.
+
+“For old Benn to come round here one evening and find me landlord. Think
+it over.”
+
+Mrs. Waters met his gaze soberly. “I'll think it over when you have
+gone,” she said, softly. “Now go.”
+
+
+
+
+THE NEST EGG
+
+
+
+
+Artfulness,” said the night-watch-man, smoking placidly, “is a gift; but
+it don't pay always. I've met some artful ones in my time—plenty of 'em;
+but I can't truthfully say as 'ow any of them was the better for meeting
+me.”
+
+He rose slowly from the packing-case on which he had been sitting and,
+stamping down the point of a rusty nail with his heel, resumed his seat,
+remarking that he had endured it for some time under the impression that
+it was only a splinter.
+
+“I've surprised more than one in my time,” he continued, slowly. “When I
+met one of these 'ere artful ones I used fust of all to pretend to be
+more stupid than wot I really am.”
+
+He stopped and stared fixedly.
+
+“More stupid than I looked,” he said. He stopped again.
+
+“More stupid than wot they thought I looked,” he said, speaking with
+marked deliberation. And I'd let 'em go on and on until I thought I had
+'ad about enough, and then turn round on 'em. Nobody ever got the better
+o' me except my wife, and that was only before we was married. Two
+nights arterwards she found a fish-hook in my trouser-pocket, and arter
+that I could ha' left untold gold there—if I'd ha' had it. It spoilt wot
+some people call the honey-moon, but it paid in the long run.
+
+One o' the worst things a man can do is to take up artfulness all of a
+sudden. I never knew it to answer yet, and I can tell you of a case
+that'll prove my words true.
+
+It's some years ago now, and the chap it 'appened to was a young man, a
+shipmate o' mine, named Charlie Tagg. Very steady young chap he was, too
+steady for most of 'em. That's 'ow it was me and 'im got to be such
+pals.
+
+He'd been saving up for years to get married, and all the advice we
+could give 'im didn't 'ave any effect. He saved up nearly every penny of
+'is money and gave it to his gal to keep for 'im, and the time I'm
+speaking of she'd got seventy-two pounds of 'is and seventeen-and-six of
+'er own to set up house-keeping with.
+
+Then a thing happened that I've known to 'appen to sailormen afore. At
+Sydney 'e got silly on another gal, and started walking out with her,
+and afore he knew wot he was about he'd promised to marry 'er too.
+
+Sydney and London being a long way from each other was in 'is favour,
+but the thing that troubled 'im was 'ow to get that seventy-two pounds
+out of Emma Cook, 'is London gal, so as he could marry the other with
+it. It worried 'im all the way home, and by the time we got into the
+London river 'is head was all in a maze with it. Emma Cook 'ad got it
+all saved up in the bank, to take a little shop with when they got
+spliced, and 'ow to get it he could not think.
+
+He went straight off to Poplar, where she lived, as soon as the ship was
+berthed. He walked all the way so as to 'ave more time for thinking, but
+wot with bumping into two old gentlemen with bad tempers, and being
+nearly run over by a cabman with a white 'orse and red whiskers, he got
+to the house without 'aving thought of anything.
+
+They was just finishing their tea as 'e got there, and they all seemed
+so pleased to see 'im that it made it worse than ever for 'im. Mrs.
+Cook, who 'ad pretty near finished, gave 'im her own cup to drink out
+of, and said that she 'ad dreamt of 'im the night afore last, and old
+Cook said that he 'ad got so good-looking 'e shouldn't 'ave known him.
+
+“I should 'ave passed 'im in the street,” he ses. “I never see such an
+alteration.”
+
+“They'll be a nice-looking couple,” ses his wife, looking at a young
+chap, named George Smith, that 'ad been sitting next to Emma.
+
+Charlie Tagg filled 'is mouth with bread and butter, and wondered 'ow he
+was to begin. He squeezed Emma's 'and just for the sake of keeping up
+appearances, and all the time 'e was thinking of the other gal waiting
+for 'im thousands o' miles away.
+
+“You've come 'ome just in the nick o' time,” ses old Cook; “if you'd
+done it o' purpose you couldn't 'ave arranged it better.”
+
+“Somebody's birthday?” ses Charlie, trying to smile.
+
+Old Cook shook his 'ead. “Though mine is next Wednesday,” he ses, “and
+thank you for thinking of it. No; you're just in time for the biggest
+bargain in the chandlery line that anybody ever 'ad a chance of. If you
+'adn't ha' come back we should have 'ad to ha' done it without you.”
+
+“Eighty pounds,” ses Mrs. Cook, smiling at Charlie. “With the money
+Emma's got saved and your wages this trip you'll 'ave plenty. You must
+come round arter tea and 'ave a look at it.”
+
+“Little place not arf a mile from 'ere,” ses old Cook. “Properly worked
+up, the way Emma'll do it, it'll be a little fortune. I wish I'd had a
+chance like it in my young time.”
+
+He sat shaking his 'ead to think wot he'd lost, and Charlie Tagg sat
+staring at 'im and wondering wot he was to do.
+
+“My idea is for Charlie to go for a few more v'y'ges arter they're
+married while Emma works up the business,” ses Mrs. Cook; “she'll be all
+right with young Bill and Sarah Ann to 'elp her and keep 'er company
+while he's away.”
+
+“We'll see as she ain't lonely,” ses George Smith, turning to Charlie.
+
+Charlie Tagg gave a bit of a cough and said it wanted considering. He
+said it was no good doing things in a 'urry and then repenting of 'em
+all the rest of your life. And 'e said he'd been given to understand
+that chandlery wasn't wot it 'ad been, and some of the cleverest people
+'e knew thought that it would be worse before it was better. By the time
+he'd finished they was all looking at 'im as though they couldn't
+believe their ears.
+
+“You just step round and 'ave a look at the place,” ses old Cook; “if
+that don't make you alter your tune, call me a sinner.”
+
+Charlie Tagg felt as though 'e could ha' called 'im a lot o' worse
+things than that, but he took up 'is hat and Mrs. Cook and Emma got
+their bonnets on and they went round.
+
+“I don't think much of it for eighty pounds,” ses Charlie, beginning his
+artfulness as they came near a big shop, with plate-glass and a double
+front.
+
+“Eh?” ses old Cook, staring at 'im. “Why, that ain't the place. Why, you
+wouldn't get that for eight 'undred.”
+
+“Well, I don't think much of it,” ses Charlie; “if it's worse than that
+I can't look at it—I can't, indeed.”
+
+“You ain't been drinking, Charlie?” ses old Cook, in a puzzled voice.
+
+“Certainly not,” ses Charlie.
+
+He was pleased to see 'ow anxious they all looked, and when they did
+come to the shop 'e set up a laugh that old Cook said chilled the marrer
+in 'is bones. He stood looking in a 'elpless sort o' way at his wife and
+Emma, and then at last he ses, “There it is; and a fair bargain at the
+price.”
+
+“I s'pose you ain't been drinking?” ses Charlie.
+
+“Wot's the matter with it?” ses Mrs. Cook flaring up.
+
+“Come inside and look at it,” ses Emma, taking 'old of his arm.
+
+“Not me,” ses Charlie, hanging back. “Why, I wouldn't take it at a
+gift.”
+
+He stood there on the kerbstone, and all they could do 'e wouldn't
+budge. He said it was a bad road and a little shop, and 'ad got a look
+about it he didn't like. They walked back 'ome like a funeral
+procession, and Emma 'ad to keep saying “H's!” in w'ispers to 'er mother
+all the way.
+
+“I don't know wot Charlie does want, I'm sure,” ses Mrs. Cook, taking
+off 'er bonnet as soon as she got indoors and pitching it on the chair
+he was just going to set down on.
+
+“It's so awk'ard,” ses old Cook, rubbing his 'cad. “Fact is, Charlie, we
+pretty near gave 'em to understand as we'd buy it.”
+
+“It's as good as settled,” ses Mrs. Cook, trembling all over with
+temper.
+
+“They won't settle till they get the money,” ses Charlie. “You may make
+your mind easy about that.”
+
+“Emma's drawn it all out of the bank ready,” ses old Cook, eager like.
+
+Charlie felt 'ot and cold all over. “I'd better take care of it,” he
+ses, in a trembling voice. “You might be robbed.”
+
+“So might you be,” ses Mrs. Cook. “Don't you worry; it's in a safe
+place.”
+
+“Sailormen are always being robbed,” ses George Smith, who 'ad been
+helping young Bill with 'is sums while they 'ad gone to look at the
+shop. “There's more sailormen robbed than all the rest put together.”
+
+“They won't rob Charlie,” ses Mrs. Cook, pressing 'er lips together.
+“I'll take care o' that.”
+
+Charlie tried to laugh, but 'e made such a queer noise that young Bill
+made a large blot on 'is exercise-book, and old Cook, wot was lighting
+his pipe, burnt 'is fingers through not looking wot 'e was doing.
+
+“You see,” ses Charlie, “if I was robbed, which ain't at all likely, it
+'ud only be me losing my own money; but if you was robbed of it you'd
+never forgive yourselves.”
+
+“I dessay I should get over it,” ses Mrs. Cook, sniffing. “I'd 'ave a
+try, at all events.”
+
+Charlie started to laugh agin, and old Cook, who had struck another
+match, blew it out and waited till he'd finished.
+
+“The whole truth is,” ses Charlie, looking round, “I've got something
+better to do with the money. I've got a chance offered me that'll make
+me able to double it afore you know where you are.”
+
+“Not afore I know where I am,” ses Mrs. Cook, with a laugh that was
+worse than Charlie's.
+
+“The chance of a lifetime,” ses Charlie, trying to keep 'is temper. “I
+can't tell you wot it is, because I've promised to keep it secret for a
+time. You'll be surprised when I do tell you.”
+
+“If I wait till then till I'm surprised,” ses Mrs. Cook, “I shall 'ave
+to wait a long time. My advice to you is to take that shop and ha' done
+with it.”
+
+Charlie sat there arguing all the evening, but it was no good, and the
+idea o' them people sitting there and refusing to let 'im have his own
+money pretty near sent 'im crazy. It was all 'e could do to kiss Emma
+good-night, and 'e couldn't have 'elped slamming the front door if he'd
+been paid for it. The only comfort he 'ad got left was the Sydney gal's
+photygraph, and he took that out and looked at it under nearly every
+lamp-post he passed.
+
+He went round the next night and 'ad an-other try to get 'is money, but
+it was no use; and all the good he done was to make Mrs. Cook in such a
+temper that she 'ad to go to bed before he 'ad arf finished. It was no
+good talking to old Cook and Emma, because they daren't do anything
+without 'er, and it was no good calling things up the stairs to her
+because she didn't answer. Three nights running Mrs. Cook went off to
+bed afore eight o'clock, for fear she should say something to 'im as
+she'd be sorry for arterwards; and for three nights Charlie made 'imself
+so disagreeable that Emma told 'im plain the sooner 'e went back to sea
+agin the better she should like it. The only one who seemed to enjoy it
+was George Smith, and 'e used to bring bits out o' newspapers and read
+to 'em, showing 'ow silly people was done out of their money.
+
+On the fourth night Charlie dropped it and made 'imself so amiable that
+Mrs. Cook stayed up and made 'im a Welsh rare-bit for 'is supper, and
+made 'im drink two glasses o' beer instead o' one, while old Cook sat
+and drank three glasses o' water just out of temper, and to show that 'e
+didn't mind. When she started on the chandler's shop agin Charlie said
+he'd think it over, and when 'e went away Mrs. Cook called 'im her
+sailor-boy and wished 'im pleasant dreams.
+
+But Charlie Tagg 'ad got better things to do than to dream, and 'e sat
+up in bed arf the night thinking out a new plan he'd thought of to get
+that money. When 'e did fall asleep at last 'e dreamt of taking a little
+farm in Australia and riding about on 'orseback with the Sydney gal
+watching his men at work.
+
+In the morning he went and hunted up a shipmate of 'is, a young feller
+named Jack Bates. Jack was one o' these 'ere chaps, nobody's enemy but
+their own, as the saying is; a good-'arted, free-'anded chap as you
+could wish to see. Everybody liked 'im, and the ship's cat loved 'im.
+He'd ha' sold the shirt off 'is back to oblige a pal, and three times in
+one week he got 'is face scratched for trying to prevent 'usbands
+knocking their wives about.
+
+Charlie Tagg went to 'im because he was the only man 'e could trust, and
+for over arf an hour he was telling Jack Bates all 'is troubles, and at
+last, as a great favour, he let 'im see the Sydney gal's photygraph, and
+told him that all that pore gal's future 'appiness depended upon 'im.
+
+“I'll step round to-night and rob 'em of that seventy-two pounds,” ses
+Jack; “it's your money, and you've a right to it.”
+
+Charlie shook his 'ead. “That wouldn't do,” he ses; “besides, I don't
+know where they keep it. No; I've got a better plan than that. Come
+round to the Crooked Billet, so as we can talk it over in peace and
+quiet.”
+
+He stood Jack three or four arf-pints afore 'e told 'im his plan, and
+Jack was so pleased with it that he wanted to start at once, but Charlie
+persuaded 'im to wait.
+
+“And don't you spare me, mind, out o' friendship,” ses Charlie, “because
+the blacker you paint me the better I shall like it.”
+
+“You trust me, mate,” ses Jack Bates; “if I don't get that seventy-two
+pounds for you, you may call me a Dutchman. Why, it's fair robbery, I
+call it, sticking to your money like that.”
+
+They spent the rest o' the day together, and when evening came Charlie
+went off to the Cooks'. Emma 'ad arf expected they was going to a
+theayter that night, but Charlie said he wasn't feeling the thing, and
+he sat there so quiet and miserable they didn't know wot to make of 'im.
+
+“'Ave you got any trouble on your mind, Charlie,” ses Mrs. Cook, “or is
+it the tooth-ache?”
+
+“It ain't the toothache,” ses Charlie.
+
+He sat there pulling a long face and staring at the floor, but all Mrs.
+Cook and Emma could do 'e wouldn't tell them wot was the matter with
+'im. He said 'e didn't want to worry other people with 'is troubles; let
+everybody bear their own, that was 'is motto. Even when George Smith
+offered to go to the theayter with Emma instead of 'im he didn't fire
+up, and, if it 'adn't ha' been for Mrs. Cook, George wouldn't ha' been
+sorry that 'e spoke.
+
+“Theayters ain't for me,” ses Charlie, with a groan. “I'm more likely to
+go to gaol, so far as I can see, than a theayter.”
+
+Mrs. Cook and Emma both screamed and Sarah Ann did 'er first
+highstericks, and very well, too, considering that she 'ad only just
+turned fifteen.
+
+“Gaol!” ses old Cook, as soon as they 'ad quieted Sarah Ann with a bowl
+o' cold water that young Bill 'ad the presence o' mind to go and fetch.
+“Gaol! What for?”
+
+“You wouldn't believe if I was to tell you.” ses Charlie, getting up to
+go, “and besides, I don't want any of you to think as 'ow I am worse
+than wot I am.”
+
+He shook his 'cad at them sorrowful-like, and afore they could stop 'im
+he 'ad gone. Old Cook shouted arter 'im, but it was no use, and the
+others was running into the scullery to fill the bowl agin for Emma.
+
+Mrs. Cook went round to 'is lodgings next morning, but found that 'e was
+out. They began to fancy all sorts o' things then, but Charlie turned up
+agin that evening more miserable than ever.
+
+“I went round to see you this morning,” ses Mrs. Cook, “but you wasn't
+at 'ome.”
+
+“I never am, 'ardly,” ses Charlie. “I can't be—it ain't safe.”
+
+“Why not?” ses Mrs. Cook, fidgeting.
+
+“If I was to tell you, you'd lose your good opinion of me,” ses Charlie.
+
+“It wouldn't be much to lose,” ses Mrs. Cook, firing up.
+
+Charlie didn't answer 'er. When he did speak he spoke to the old man,
+and he was so down-'arted that 'e gave 'im the chills a'most, He 'ardly
+took any notice of Emma, and, when Mrs. Cook spoke about the shop agin,
+said that chandlers' shops was for happy people, not for 'im.
+
+By the time they sat down to supper they was nearly all as miserable as
+Charlie 'imself. From words he let drop they all seemed to 'ave the idea
+that the police was arter 'im, and Mrs. Cook was just asking 'im for wot
+she called the third and last time, but wot was more likely the hundred
+and third, wot he'd done, when there was a knock at the front door, so
+loud and so sudden that old Cook and young Bill both cut their mouths at
+the same time.
+
+“Anybody 'ere o' the name of Emma Cook?” ses a man's voice, when young
+Bill opened the door.
+
+“She's inside,” ses the boy, and the next moment Jack Bates followed 'im
+into the room, and then fell back with a start as 'e saw Charlie Tagg.
+
+“Ho, 'ere you are, are you?” he ses, looking at 'im very black. “Wot's
+the matter?” ses Mrs. Cook, very sharp.
+
+“I didn't expect to 'ave the pleasure o' seeing you 'ere, my lad,” ses
+Jack, still staring at Charlie, and twisting 'is face up into awful
+scowls. “Which is Emma Cook?”
+
+“Miss Cook is my name,” ses Emma, very sharp. “Wot d'ye want?”
+
+“Very good,” ses Jack Bates, looking at Charlie agin; “then p'r'aps
+you'll do me the kindness of telling that lie o' yours agin afore this
+young lady.”
+
+“It's the truth,” ses Charlie, looking down at 'is plate.
+
+“If somebody don't tell me wot all this is about in two minutes, I shall
+do something desprit,” ses Mrs. Cook, getting up.
+
+“This 'ere—er—man,” ses Jack Bates, pointing at Charlie, “owes me
+seventy-five pounds and won't pay. When I ask 'im for it he ses a party
+he's keeping company with, by the name of Emma Cook, 'as got it, and he
+can't get it.”
+
+“So she has,” ses Charlie, without looking up.
+
+“Wot does 'e owe you the money for?” ses Mrs. Cook.
+
+“'Cos I lent it to 'im,” ses Jack.
+
+“Lent it? What for?” ses Mrs. Cook.
+
+“'Cos I was a fool, I s'pose,” ses jack Bates; “a good-natured fool.
+Anyway, I'm sick and tired of asking for it, and if I don't get it
+to-night I'm going to see the police about it.”
+
+He sat down on a chair with 'is hat cocked over one eye, and they all
+sat staring at 'im as though they didn't know wot to say next.
+
+“So this is wot you meant when you said you'd got the chance of a
+lifetime, is it?” ses Mrs. Cook to Charlie. “This is wot you wanted it
+for, is it? Wot did you borrow all that money for?”
+
+“Spend,” ses Charlie, in a sulky voice.
+
+“Spend!” ses Mrs. Cook, with a scream; “wot in?”
+
+“Drink and cards mostly,” ses Jack Bates, remembering wot Charlie 'ad
+told 'im about blackening 'is character.
+
+You might ha' heard a pin drop a'most, and Charlie sat there without
+saying a word.
+
+“Charlie's been led away,” ses Mrs. Cook, looking 'ard at Jack Bates. “I
+s'pose you lent 'im the money to win it back from 'im at cards, didn't
+you?”
+
+“And gave 'im too much licker fust,” ses old Cook. “I've 'eard of your
+kind. If Charlie takes my advice 'e won't pay you a farthing. I should
+let you do your worst if I was 'im; that's wot I should do. You've got a
+low face; a nasty, ugly, low face.”
+
+“One o' the worst I ever see,” ses Mrs. Cook. “It looks as though it
+might ha' been cut out o' the Police News.”
+
+“'Owever could you ha' trusted a man with a face like that, Charlie?”
+ses old Cook. “Come away from 'im, Bill; I don't like such a chap in the
+room.”
+
+Jack Bates began to feel very awk'ard. They was all glaring at 'im as
+though they could eat 'im, and he wasn't used to such treatment. And, as
+a matter o' fact, he'd got a very good-'arted face.
+
+“You go out o' that door,” ses old Cook, pointing to it. “Go and do your
+worst. You won't get any money 'ere.”
+
+“Stop a minute,” ses Emma, and afore they could stop 'er she ran
+upstairs. Mrs. Cook went arter 'er and 'igh words was heard up in the
+bedroom, but by-and-by Emma came down holding her head very 'igh and
+looking at Jack Bates as though he was dirt.
+
+“How am I to know Charlie owes you this money?” she ses.
+
+Jack Bates turned very red, and arter fumbling in 'is pockets took out
+about a dozen dirty bits o' paper, which Charlie 'ad given 'im for I O
+U's. Emma read 'em all, and then she threw a little parcel on the table.
+
+“There's your money,” she ses; “take it and go.”
+
+Mrs. Cook and 'er father began to call out, but it was no good.
+
+“There's seventy-two pounds there,” ses Emma, who was very pale; “and
+'ere's a ring you can have to 'elp make up the rest.” And she drew
+Charlie's ring off and throwed it on the table. “I've done with 'im for
+good,” she ses, with a look at 'er mother.
+
+Jack Bates took up the money and the ring and stood there looking at 'er
+and trying to think wot to say. He'd always been uncommon partial to the
+sex, and it did seem 'ard to stand there and take all that on account of
+Charlie Tagg.
+
+“I only wanted my own,” he ses, at last, shuffling about the floor.
+
+“Well, you've got it,” ses Mrs. Cook, “and now you can go.”
+
+“You're pi'soning the air of my front parlour,” ses old Cook, opening
+the winder a little at the top.
+
+“P'r'aps I ain't so bad as you think I am,” ses Jack Bates, still
+looking at Emma, and with that 'e walked over to Charlie and dumped down
+the money on the table in front of 'im. “Take it,” he ses, “and don't
+borrow any more. I make you a free gift of it. P'r'aps my 'art ain't as
+black as my face,” he ses, turning to Mrs. Cook.
+
+They was all so surprised at fust that they couldn't speak, but old Cook
+smiled at 'im and put the winder up agin. And Charlie Tagg sat there arf
+mad with temper, locking as though 'e could eat Jack Bates without any
+salt, as the saying is.
+
+“I—I can't take it,” he ses at last, with a stammer.
+
+“Can't take it? Why not?” ses old Cook, staring. “This gentleman 'as
+given it to you.” “A free gift,” ses Mrs. Cook, smiling at Jack very
+sweet.
+
+“I can't take it,” ses Charlie, winking at Jack to take the money up and
+give it to 'im quiet, as arranged. “I 'ave my pride.”
+
+“So 'ave I,” ses Jack. “Are you going to take it?”
+
+Charlie gave another look. “No,” he ses, “I cant take a favour. I
+borrowed the money and I'll pay it back.
+
+“Very good,” ses Jack, taking it up. “It's my money, ain't it?”
+
+“Yes,” ses Charlie, taking no notice of Mrs. Cook and 'er husband, wot
+was both talking to 'im at once, and trying to persuade 'im to alter his
+mind.
+
+“Then I give it to Miss Emma Cook,” ses Jack Bates, putting it into her
+hands. “Good-night everybody and good luck.”
+
+He slammed the front door behind 'im and they 'eard 'im go off down the
+road as if 'e was going for fire-engines. Charlie sat there for a moment
+struck all of a heap, and then 'e jumped up and dashed arter 'im. He
+just saw 'im disappearing round a corner, and he didn't see 'im agin for
+a couple o' year arterwards, by which time the Sydney gal had 'ad three
+or four young men arter 'im, and Emma, who 'ad changed her name to
+Smith, was doing one o' the best businesses in the chandlery line in
+Poplar.
+
+
+
+
+THE CONSTABLE'S MOVE
+
+
+
+
+Mr. Bob Grummit sat in the kitchen with his corduroy-clad legs stretched
+on the fender. His wife's half-eaten dinner was getting cold on the
+table; Mr. Grummit, who was badly in need of cheering up, emptied her
+half-empty glass of beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
+
+“Come away, I tell you,” he called. “D'ye hear? Come away. You'll be
+locked up if you don't.”
+
+He gave a little laugh at the sarcasm, and sticking his short pipe in
+his mouth lurched slowly to the front-room door and scowled at his wife
+as she lurked at the back of the window watching intently the furniture
+which was being carried in next door.
+
+“Come away or else you'll be locked up,” repeated Mr. Grummit. “You
+mustn't look at policemen's furniture; it's agin the law.”
+
+Mrs. Grummit made no reply, but, throwing appearances to the winds,
+stepped to the window until her nose touched, as a walnut sideboard with
+bevelled glass back was tenderly borne inside under the personal
+supervision of Police-Constable Evans.
+
+“They'll be 'aving a pianner next,” said the indignant Mr. Grummit,
+peering from the depths of the room.
+
+“They've got one,” responded his wife; “there's the end if it stickin'
+up in the van.”
+
+Mr. Grummit advanced and regarded the end fixedly. “Did you throw all
+them tin cans and things into their yard wot I told you to?” he
+demanded.
+
+“He picked up three of 'em while I was upstairs,” replied his wife. “I
+'eard 'im tell her that they'd come in handy for paint and things.”
+
+“That's 'ow coppers get on and buy pianners,” said the incensed Mr.
+Grummit, “sneaking other people's property. I didn't tell you to throw
+good 'uns over, did I? Wot d'ye mean by it?”
+
+Mrs. Grummit made no reply, but watched with bated breath the triumphal
+entrance of the piano. The carman set it tenderly on the narrow
+footpath, while P. C. Evans, stooping low, examined it at all points,
+and Mrs. Evans, raising the lid, struck a few careless chords.
+
+“Showing off,” explained Mrs. Grummit, with a half turn; “and she's got
+fingers like carrots.”
+
+“It's a disgrace to Mulberry Gardens to 'ave a copper come and live in
+it,” said the indignant Grummit; “and to come and live next to me!—
+that's what I can't get over. To come and live next door to a man wot
+has been fined twice, and both times wrong. Why, for two pins I'd go in
+and smash 'is pianner first and 'im after it. He won't live 'ere long,
+you take my word for it.”
+
+“Why not?” inquired his wife.
+
+“Why?” repeated Mr. Grummit. “Why? Why, becos I'll make the place too
+'ot to hold him. Ain't there enough houses in Tunwich without 'im
+a-coming and living next door to me?”
+
+For a whole week the brain concealed in Mr. Grummit's bullet-shaped head
+worked in vain, and his temper got correspondingly bad. The day after
+the Evans' arrival he had found his yard littered with tins which he
+recognized as old acquaintances, and since that time they had travelled
+backwards and forwards with monotonous regularity. They sometimes made
+as many as three journeys a day, and on one occasion the heavens opened
+to drop a battered tin bucket on the back of Mr. Grummit as he was tying
+his bootlace. Five minutes later he spoke of the outrage to Mr. Evans,
+who had come out to admire the sunset.
+
+“I heard something fall,” said the constable, eyeing the pail curiously.
+
+“You threw it,” said Mr. Grummit, breathing furiously.
+
+“Me? Nonsense,” said the other, easily. “I was having tea in the parlour
+with my wife and my mother-in-law, and my brother Joe and his young
+lady.”
+
+“Any more of 'em?” demanded the hapless Mr. Grummit, aghast at this list
+of witnesses for an alibi.
+
+“It ain't a bad pail, if you look at it properly,” said the constable.
+“I should keep it if I was you; unless the owner offers a reward for it.
+It'll hold enough water for your wants.”
+
+Mr. Grummit flung indoors and, after wasting some time concocting
+impossible measures of retaliation with his sympathetic partner, went
+off to discuss affairs with his intimates at the Bricklayers' Arms. The
+company, although unanimously agreeing that Mr. Evans ought to be
+boiled, were miserably deficient in ideas as to the means by which such
+a desirable end was to be attained.
+
+“Make 'im a laughing-stock, that's the best thing,” said an elderly
+labourer. “The police don't like being laughed at.”
+
+“'Ow?” demanded Mr. Grummit, with some asperity.
+
+“There's plenty o' ways,” said the old man.
+
+“I should find 'em out fast enough if I 'ad a bucket dropped on my back,
+I know.”
+
+Mr. Grummit made a retort the feebleness of which was somewhat balanced
+by its ferocity, and subsided into glum silence. His back still ached,
+but, despite that aid to intellectual effort, the only ways he could
+imagine of making the constable look foolish contained an almost certain
+risk of hard labour for himself.
+
+He pondered the question for a week, and meanwhile the tins—to the
+secret disappointment of Mr. Evans—remained untouched in his yard. For
+the whole of the time he went about looking, as Mrs. Grummit expressed
+it, as though his dinner had disagreed with him.
+
+“I've been talking to old Bill Smith,” he said, suddenly, as he came in
+one night.
+
+Mrs. Grummit looked up, and noticed with wifely pleasure that he was
+looking almost cheerful.
+
+“He's given me a tip,” said Mr. Grummit, with a faint smile; “a copper
+mustn't come into a free-born Englishman's 'ouse unless he's invited.”
+
+“Wot of it?” inquired his wife. “You wasn't think of asking him in, was
+you?”
+
+Mr. Grummit regarded her almost play-fully. “If a copper comes in
+without being told to,” he continued, “he gets into trouble for it. Now
+d'ye see?”
+
+“But he won't come,” said the puzzled Mrs. Grummit.
+
+Mr. Grummit winked. “Yes 'e will if you scream loud enough,” he
+retorted. “Where's the copper-stick?”
+
+“Have you gone mad?” demanded his wife, “or do you think I 'ave?”
+
+“You go up into the bedroom,” said Mr. Grummit, emphasizing his remarks
+with his forefinger. “I come up and beat the bed black and blue with the
+copper-stick; you scream for mercy and call out 'Help!' 'Murder!' and
+things like that. Don't call out 'Police!' cos Bill ain't sure about
+that part. Evans comes bursting in to save your life—I'll leave the door
+on the latch—and there you are. He's sure to get into trouble for it.
+Bill said so. He's made a study o' that sort o' thing.”
+
+Mrs. Grummit pondered this simple plan so long that her husband began to
+lose patience. At last, against her better sense, she rose and fetched
+the weapon in question.
+
+“And you be careful what you're hitting,” she said, as they went
+upstairs to bed. “We'd better have 'igh words first, I s'pose?”
+
+“You pitch into me with your tongue,” said Mr. Grummit, amiably.
+
+Mrs. Grummit, first listening to make sure that the constable and his
+wife were in the bedroom the other side of the flimsy wall, complied,
+and in a voice that rose gradually to a piercing falsetto told Mr.
+Grummit things that had been rankling in her mind for some months. She
+raked up misdemeanours that he had long since forgotten, and, not
+content with that, had a fling at the entire Grummit family, beginning
+with her mother-in-law and ending with Mr. Grummit's youngest sister.
+The hand that held the copper-stick itched.
+
+“Any more to say?” demanded Mr. Grummit advancing upon her.
+
+Mrs. Grummit emitted a genuine shriek, and Mr. Grummit, suddenly
+remembering himself, stopped short and attacked the bed with
+extraordinary fury. The room resounded with the blows, and the efforts
+of Mrs. Grummit were a revelation even to her husband.
+
+“I can hear 'im moving,” whispered Mr. Grummit, pausing to take breath.
+
+“Mur—der!” wailed his wife. “Help! Help!”
+
+Mr. Grummit, changing the stick into his left hand, renewed the attack;
+Mrs. Grummit, whose voice was becoming exhausted, sought a temporary
+relief in moans.
+
+“Is—he——deaf?” panted the wife-beater, “or wot?”
+
+He knocked over a chair, and Mrs. Grummit contrived another frenzied
+scream. A loud knocking sounded on the wall.
+
+“Hel—lp!” moaned Mrs. Grummit.
+
+“Halloa, there!” came the voice of the constable. “Why don't you keep
+that baby quiet? We can't get a wink of sleep.”
+
+Mr. Grummit dropped the stick on the bed and turned a dazed face to his
+wife.
+
+“He—he's afraid—to come in,” he gasped. “Keep it up, old gal.”
+
+He took up the stick again and Mrs. Grummit did her best, but the heart
+had gone out of the thing, and he was about to give up the task as
+hopeless when the door below was heard to open with a bang.
+
+“Here he is,” cried the jubilant Grummit. “Now!”
+
+His wife responded, and at the same moment the bedroom door was flung
+open, and her brother, who had been hastily fetched by the neighbours on
+the other side, burst into the room and with one hearty blow sent Mr.
+Grummit sprawling.
+
+“Hit my sister, will you?” he roared, as the astounded Mr. Grummit rose.
+“Take that!”
+
+Mr. Grummit took it, and several other favours, while his wife, tugging
+at her brother, endeavoured to explain. It was not, however, until Mr.
+Grummit claimed the usual sanctuary of the defeated by refusing to rise
+that she could make herself heard.
+
+“Joke?” repeated her brother, incredulously. “Joke?”
+
+Mrs. Grummit in a husky voice explained.
+
+Her brother passed from incredulity to amazement and from amazement to
+mirth. He sat down gurgling, and the indignant face of the injured
+Grummit only added to his distress.
+
+“Best joke I ever heard in my life,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Don't
+look at me like that, Bob; I can't bear it.”
+
+“Get off 'ome,” responded Mr. Grummit, glowering at him.
+
+“There's a crowd outside, and half the doors in the place open,” said
+the other. “Well, it's a good job there's no harm done. So long.”
+
+He passed, beaming, down the stairs, and Mr. Grummit, drawing near the
+window, heard him explaining in a broken voice to the neighbours
+outside. Strong men patted him on the back and urged him gruffly to say
+what he had to say and laugh afterwards. Mr. Grummit turned from the
+window, and in a slow and stately fashion prepared to retire for the
+night. Even the sudden and startling disappearance of Mrs. Grummit as
+she got into bed failed to move him.
+
+“The bed's broke, Bob,” she said faintly.
+
+“Beds won't last for ever,” he said, shortly; “sleep on the floor.”
+
+Mrs. Grummit clambered out, and after some trouble secured the
+bedclothes and made up a bed in a corner of the room. In a short time
+she was fast asleep; but her husband, broad awake, spent the night in
+devising further impracticable schemes for the discomfiture of the foe
+next door.
+
+He saw Mr. Evans next morning as he passed on his way to work. The
+constable was at the door smoking in his shirt-sleeves, and Mr. Grummit
+felt instinctively that he was waiting there to see him pass.
+
+“I heard you last night,” said the constable, playfully. “My word! Good
+gracious!”
+
+“Wot's the matter with you?” demanded Mr. Grummit, stopping short.
+
+The constable stared at him. “She has been knocking you about,” he
+gasped. “Why, it must ha' been you screaming, then! I thought it sounded
+loud. Why don't you go and get a summons and have her locked up? I
+should be pleased to take her.”
+
+Mr. Grummit faced him, quivering with passion. “Wot would it cost if I
+set about you?” he demanded, huskily.
+
+“Two months,” said Mr. Evans, smiling serenely; “p'r'aps three.”
+
+Mr. Grummit hesitated and his fists clenched nervously. The constable,
+lounging against his door-post, surveyed him with a dispassionate smile.
+“That would be besides what you'd get from me,” he said, softly.
+
+“Come out in the road,” said Mr. Grummit, with sudden violence.
+
+“It's agin the rules,” said Mr. Evans; “sorry I can't. Why not go and
+ask your wife's brother to oblige you?”
+
+He went in laughing and closed the door, and Mr. Grummit, after a
+frenzied outburst, proceeded on his way, returning the smiles of such
+acquaintances as he passed with an icy stare or a strongly-worded offer
+to make them laugh the other side of their face. The rest of the day he
+spent in working so hard that he had no time to reply to the anxious
+inquiries of his fellow-workmen.
+
+He came home at night glum and silent, the hardship of not being able to
+give Mr. Evans his deserts without incurring hard labour having weighed
+on his spirits all day. To avoid the annoyance of the piano next door,
+which was slowly and reluctantly yielding up “The Last Rose of Summer”
+note by note, he went out at the back, and the first thing he saw was
+Mr. Evans mending his path with tins and other bric-a-brac.
+
+“Nothing like it,” said the constable, looking up. “Your missus gave 'em
+to us this morning. A little gravel on top, and there you are.”
+
+He turned whistling to his work again, and the other, after endeavouring
+in vain to frame a suitable reply, took a seat on an inverted wash-tub
+and lit his pipe. His one hope was that Constable Evans was going to try
+and cultivate a garden.
+
+The hope was realized a few days later, and Mr. Grummit at the back
+window sat gloating over a dozen fine geraniums, some lobelias and
+calceolarias, which decorated the constable's plot of ground. He could
+not sleep for thinking of them.
+
+He rose early the next morning, and, after remarking to Mrs. Grummit
+that Mr. Evans's flowers looked as though they wanted rain, went off to
+his work. The cloud which had been on his spirits for some time had
+lifted, and he whistled as he walked. The sight of flowers in front
+windows added to his good humour.
+
+He was still in good spirits when he left off work that afternoon, but
+some slight hesitation about returning home sent him to the
+Brick-layers' firms instead. He stayed there until closing time, and
+then, being still disinclined for home, paid a visit to Bill Smith, who
+lived the other side of Tunwich. By the time he started for home it was
+nearly midnight.
+
+The outskirts of the town were deserted and the houses in darkness. The
+clock of Tunwich church struck twelve, and the last stroke was just
+dying away as he turned a corner and ran almost into the arms of the man
+he had been trying to avoid.
+
+“Halloa!” said Constable Evans, sharply. “Here, I want a word with you.”
+
+Mr. Grummit quailed. “With me, sir?” he said, with involuntary respect.
+
+“What have you been doing to my flowers?” demanded the other, hotly.
+
+“Flowers?” repeated Mr. Grummit, as though the word were new to him.
+“Flowers? What flowers?”
+
+“You know well enough,” retorted the constable. “You got over my fence
+last night and smashed all my flowers down.”
+
+“You be careful wot you're saying,” urged Mr. Grummit. “Why, I love
+flowers. You don't mean to tell me that all them beautiful flowers wot
+you put in so careful 'as been spoiled?”
+
+“You know all about it,” said the constable, choking. “I shall take out
+a summons against you for it.”
+
+“Ho!” said Mr. Grummit. “And wot time do you say it was when I done it?”
+
+“Never you mind the time,” said the other.
+
+“Cos it's important,” said Mr. Grummit.
+
+“My wife's brother—the one you're so fond of—slept in my 'ouse last
+night. He was ill arf the night, pore chap; but, come to think of it,
+it'll make 'im a good witness for my innocence.”
+
+“If I wasn't a policeman,” said Mr. Evans, speaking with great
+deliberation, “I'd take hold o' you, Bob Grummit, and I'd give you the
+biggest hiding you've ever had in your life.”
+
+“If you wasn't a policeman,” said Mr. Grummit, yearningly, “I'd arf
+murder you.”
+
+The two men eyed each other wistfully, loth to part.
+
+“If I gave you what you deserve I should get into trouble,” said the
+constable.
+
+“If I gave you a quarter of wot you ought to 'ave I should go to quod,”
+sighed Mr. Grummit.
+
+“I wouldn't put you there,” said the constable, earnestly; “I swear I
+wouldn't.”
+
+“Everything's beautiful and quiet,” said Mr. Grummit, trembling with
+eagerness, “and I wouldn't say a word to a soul. I'll take my solemn
+davit I wouldn't.”
+
+“When I think o' my garden—” began the constable. With a sudden movement
+he knocked off Mr. Grummit's cap, and then, seizing him by the coat,
+began to hustle him along the road. In the twinkling of an eye they had
+closed.
+
+Tunwich church chimed the half-hour as they finished, and Mr. Grummit,
+forgetting his own injuries, stood smiling at the wreck before him. The
+constable's helmet had been smashed and trodden on; his uniform was torn
+and covered with blood and dirt, and his good looks marred for a
+fortnight at least. He stooped with a groan, and, recovering his helmet,
+tried mechanically to punch it into shape. He stuck the battered relic
+on his head, and Mr. Grummit fell back—awed, despite himself.
+
+“It was a fair fight,” he stammered.
+
+The constable waved him away. “Get out o' my sight before I change my
+mind,” he said, fiercely; “and mind, if you say a word about this it'll
+be the worse for you.”
+
+“Do you think I've gone mad?” said the other. He took another look at
+his victim and, turning away, danced fantastically along the road home.
+The constable, making his way to a gas-lamp, began to inspect damages.
+
+They were worse even than he had thought, and, leaning against the
+lamp-post, he sought in vain for an explanation that, in the absence of
+a prisoner, would satisfy the inspector. A button which was hanging by a
+thread fell tinkling on to the footpath, and he had just picked it up
+and placed it in his pocket when a faint distant outcry broke upon his
+ear.
+
+He turned and walked as rapidly as his condition would permit in the
+direction of the noise. It became louder and more imperative, and cries
+of “Police!” became distinctly audible. He quickened into a run, and
+turning a corner beheld a little knot of people standing at the gate of
+a large house. Other people only partially clad were hastening to-wards
+them. The constable arrived out of breath.
+
+“Better late than never,” said the owner of the house, sarcastically.
+
+Mr. Evans, breathing painfully, supported himself with his hand on the
+fence.
+
+“They went that way, but I suppose you didn't see them,” continued the
+householder. “Halloa!” he added, as somebody opened the hall door and
+the constable's damaged condition became visible in the gas-light. “Are
+you hurt?”
+
+“Yes,” said Mr. Evans, who was trying hard to think clearly. To gain
+time he blew a loud call on his whistle.
+
+“The rascals!” continued the other. “I think I should know the big chap
+with a beard again, but the others were too quick for me.”
+
+Mr. Evans blew his whistle again—thoughtfully. The opportunity seemed
+too good to lose.
+
+“Did they get anything?” he inquired.
+
+“Not a thing,” said the owner, triumphantly. “I was disturbed just in
+time.”
+
+The constable gave a slight gulp. “I saw the three running by the side
+of the road,” he said, slowly. “Their behaviour seemed suspicious, so I
+collared the big one, but they set on me like wild cats. They had me
+down three times; the last time I laid my head open against the kerb,
+and when I came to my senses again they had gone.”
+
+He took off his battered helmet with a flourish and, amid a murmur of
+sympathy, displayed a nasty cut on his head. A sergeant and a constable,
+both running, appeared round the corner and made towards' them.
+
+“Get back to the station and make your report,” said the former, as
+Constable Evans, in a somewhat defiant voice, repeated his story.
+“You've done your best; I can see that.”
+
+Mr. Evans, enacting to perfection the part of a wounded hero, limped
+painfully off, praying devoutly as he went that the criminals might make
+good their escape. If not, he reflected that the word of a policeman was
+at least equal to that of three burglars.
+
+He repeated his story at the station, and, after having his head
+dressed, was sent home and advised to keep himself quiet for a day or
+two. He was off duty for four days, and, the Tunwich Gazette having
+devoted a column to the affair, headed “A Gallant Constable,” modestly
+secluded himself from the public gaze for the whole of that time.
+
+To Mr. Grummit, who had read the article in question until he could have
+repeated it backwards, this modesty was particularly trying. The
+constable's yard was deserted and the front door ever closed. Once Mr.
+Grummit even went so far as to tap with his nails on the front parlour
+window, and the only response was the sudden lowering of the blind. It
+was not until a week afterwards that his eyes were gladdened by a sight
+of the constable sitting in his yard; and fearing that even then he
+might escape him, he ran out on tip-toe and put his face over the fence
+before the latter was aware of his presence.
+
+“Wot about that 'ere burglary?” he demanded in truculent tones.
+
+“Good evening, Grummit,” said the constable, with a patronizing air.
+
+“Wot about that burglary?” repeated Mr. Grummit, with a scowl. “I don't
+believe you ever saw a burglar.”
+
+Mr. Evans rose and stretched himself gracefully. “You'd better run
+indoors, my good man,” he said, slowly.
+
+“Telling all them lies about burglars,” continued the indignant Mr.
+Grummit, producing his newspaper and waving it. “Why, I gave you that
+black eye, I smashed your 'elmet, I cut your silly 'ead open, I——”
+
+“You've been drinking,” said the other, severely.
+
+“You mean to say I didn't?” demanded Mr. Grummit, ferociously.
+
+Mr. Evans came closer and eyed him steadily. “I don't know what you're
+talking about,” he said, calmly.
+
+Mr. Grummit, about to speak, stopped appalled at such hardihood.
+
+“Of course, if you mean to say that you were one o' them burglars,”
+continued the constable, “why, say it and I'll take you with pleasure.
+Come to think of it, I did seem to remember one o' their voices.”
+
+Mr. Grummit, with his eyes fixed on the other's, backed a couple of
+yards and breathed heavily.
+
+“About your height, too, he was,” mused the constable. “I hope for your
+sake you haven't been saying to anybody else what you said to me just
+now.”
+
+Mr. Grummit shook his head. “Not a word,” he faltered.
+
+“That's all right, then,” said Mr. Evans. “I shouldn't like to be hard
+on a neighbour; not that we shall be neighbours much longer.”
+
+Mr. Grummit, feeling that a reply was expected of him, gave utterance to
+a feeble “Oh!”
+
+“No,” said Mr. Evans, looking round disparagingly. “It ain't good enough
+for us now; I was promoted to sergeant this morning. A sergeant can't
+live in a common place like this.”
+
+Mr. Grummit, a prey to a sickening fear, drew near the fence again. “A—
+a sergeant?” he stammered.
+
+Mr. Evans smiled and gazed carefully at a distant cloud. “For my bravery
+with them burglars the other night, Grummit,” he said, modestly. “I
+might have waited years if it hadn't been for them.”
+
+He nodded to the frantic Grummit and turned away; Mr. Grummit, without
+any adieu at all, turned and crept back to the house.
+
+
+
+
+BOB'S REDEMPTION
+
+
+
+
+GRATITOODE!” said the night-watchman, with a hard laugh. “Hmf! Don't
+talk to me about gratitoode; I've seen too much of it. If people wot
+I've helped in my time 'ad only done arf their dooty—arf, mind you—I
+should be riding in my carriage.”
+
+Forgetful of the limitations of soap-boxes he attempted to illustrate
+his remark by lolling, and nearly went over backwards. Recovering
+himself by an effort he gazed sternly across the river and smoked
+fiercely. It was evident that he was brooding over an ill-used past.
+
+'Arry Thomson was one of them, he said, at last. For over six months I
+wrote all 'is love-letters for him, 'e being an iggernerant sort of man
+and only being able to do the kisses at the end, which he always
+insisted on doing 'imself: being jealous. Only three weeks arter he was
+married 'e come up to where I was standing one day and set about me
+without saying a word. I was a single man at the time and I didn't
+understand it. My idea was that he 'ad gone mad, and, being pretty
+artful and always 'aving a horror of mad people, I let 'im chase me into
+a police-station. Leastways, I would ha' let 'im, but he didn't come,
+and I all but got fourteen days for being drunk and disorderly.
+
+Then there was Bill Clark. He 'ad been keeping comp'ny with a gal and
+got tired of it, and to oblige 'im I went to her and told 'er he was a
+married man with five children. Bill was as pleased as Punch at fust,
+but as soon as she took up with another chap he came round to see me and
+said as I'd ruined his life. We 'ad words about it—naturally—and I did
+ruin it then to the extent of a couple o' ribs. I went to see 'im in the
+horsepittle—place I've always been fond of—and the langwidge he used to
+me was so bad that they sent for the Sister to 'ear it.
+
+That's on'y two out of dozens I could name. Arf the unpleasantnesses in
+my life 'ave come out of doing kindnesses to people, and all the
+gratitoode I've 'ad for it I could put in a pint-pot with a pint o' beer
+already in it.
+
+The only case o' real gratitoode I ever heard of 'appened to a shipmate
+o' mine—a young chap named Bob Evans. Coming home from Auckland in a
+barque called the Dragon Fly he fell overboard, and another chap named
+George Crofts, one o' the best swimmers I ever knew, went overboard
+arter 'im and saved his life.
+
+We was hardly moving at the time, and the sea was like a duck pond, but
+to 'ear Bob Evans talk you'd ha' thought that George Crofts was the
+bravest-'arted chap that ever lived. He 'adn't liked him afore, same as
+the rest of us, George being a sly, mean sort o' chap; but arter George
+'ad saved his life 'e couldn't praise 'im enough. He said that so long
+as he 'ad a crust George should share it, and wotever George asked 'im
+he should have.
+
+The unfortnit part of it was that George took 'im at his word, and all
+the rest of the v'y'ge he acted as though Bob belonged to 'im, and by
+the time we got into the London river Bob couldn't call his soul 'is
+own. He used to take a room when he was ashore and live very steady, as
+'e was saving up to get married, and as soon as he found that out George
+invited 'imself to stay with him.
+
+“It won't cost you a bit more,” he ses, “not if you work it properly.”
+
+Bob didn't work it properly, but George having saved his life, and never
+letting 'im forget it, he didn't like to tell him so. He thought he'd
+let 'im see gradual that he'd got to be careful because of 'is gal, and
+the fust evening they was ashore 'e took 'im along with 'im there to
+tea.
+
+Gerty Mitchell—that was the gal's name—'adn't heard of Bob's accident,
+and when she did she gave a little scream, and putting 'er arms round
+his neck, began to kiss 'im right in front of George and her mother.
+
+“You ought to give him one too,” ses Mrs. Mitchell, pointing to George.
+
+George wiped 'is mouth on the back of his 'and, but Gerty pretended not
+to 'ear.
+
+“Fancy if you'd been drownded!” she ses, hugging Bob agin.
+
+“He was pretty near,” ses George, shaking his 'ead. “I'm a pore swimmer,
+but I made up my mind either to save 'im or else go down to a watery
+grave myself.”
+
+He wiped his mouth on the back of his 'and agin, but all the notice
+Gerty took of it was to send her young brother Ted out for some beer.
+Then they all 'ad supper together, and Mrs. Mitchell drank good luck to
+George in a glass o' beer, and said she 'oped that 'er own boy would
+grow up like him. “Let 'im grow up a good and brave man, that's all I
+ask,” she ses. “I don't care about 'is looks.”
+
+“He might have both,” ses George, sharp-like. “Why not?”
+
+Mrs. Mitchell said she supposed he might, and then she cuffed young
+Ted's ears for making a noise while 'e was eating, and then cuffed 'im
+agin for saying that he'd finished 'is supper five minutes ago.
+
+George and Bob walked 'ome together, and all the way there George said
+wot a pretty gal Gerty was and 'ow lucky it was for Bob that he 'adn't
+been drownded. He went round to tea with 'im the next day to Mrs.
+Mitchell's, and arter tea, when Bob and Gerty said they was going out to
+spend the evening together, got 'imself asked too.
+
+They took a tram-car and went to a music-hall, and Bob paid for the
+three of 'em. George never seemed to think of putting his 'and in his
+pocket, and even arter the music-hall, when they all went into a shop
+and 'ad stewed eels, he let Bob pay.
+
+As I said afore, Bob Evans was chock-full of gratefulness, and it seemed
+only fair that he shouldn't grumble at spending a little over the man
+wot 'ad risked 'is life to save his; but wot with keeping George at his
+room, and paying for 'im every time they went out, he was spending a lot
+more money than 'e could afford.
+
+“You're on'y young once, Bob,” George said to him when 'e made a remark
+one arternoon as to the fast way his money was going, “and if it hadn't
+ha' been for me you'd never 'ave lived to grow old.”
+
+Wot with spending the money and always 'aving George with them when they
+went out, it wasn't long afore Bob and Gerty 'ad a quarrel. “I don't
+like a pore-spirited man,” she ses. “Two's company and three's none,
+and, besides, why can't he pay for 'imself? He's big enough. Why should
+you spend your money on 'im? He never pays a farthing.”
+
+Bob explained that he couldn't say anything because 'e owed his life to
+George, but 'e might as well 'ave talked to a lamp-post. The more he
+argued the more angry Gerty got, and at last she ses, “Two's company and
+three's none, and if you and me can't go out without George Crofts, then
+me and 'im 'll go out with-out you.”
+
+She was as good as her word, too, and the next night, while Bob 'ad gone
+out to get some 'bacca, she went off alone with George. It was ten
+o'clock afore they came back agin, and Gerty's eyes were all shining and
+'er cheeks as pink as roses. She shut 'er mother up like a concertina
+the moment she began to find fault with 'er, and at supper she sat next
+to George and laughed at everything 'e said.
+
+George and Bob walked all the way 'ome arter supper without saying a
+word, but arter they got to their room George took a side-look at Bob,
+and then he ses, suddenlike, “Look 'ere! I saved your life, didn't I?”
+
+“You did,” ses Bob, “and I thank you for it.”
+
+“I saved your life,” ses George agin, very solemn. “If it hadn't ha'
+been for me you couldn't ha' married anybody.”
+
+“That's true,” ses Bob.
+
+“Me and Gerty 'ave been having a talk,” ses George, bending down to undo
+his boots. “We've been getting on very well together; you can't 'elp
+your feelings, and the long and the short of it is, the pore gal has
+fallen in love with me.”
+
+Bob didn't say a word.
+
+“If you look at it this way it's fair enough,” ses George. “I gave you
+your life and you give me your gal. We're quits now. You don't owe me
+anything and I don't owe you anything. That's the way Gerty puts it, and
+she told me to tell you so.”
+
+“If—if she don't want me I'm agreeable,” ses Bob, in a choking voice.
+“We'll call it quits, and next time I tumble overboard I 'ope you won't
+be handy.”
+
+He took Gerty's photygraph out of 'is box and handed it to George.
+“You've got more right to it now than wot I 'ave,” he ses. “I shan't go
+round there any more; I shall look out for a ship to-morrow.”
+
+George Crofts said that perhaps it was the best thing he could do, and
+'e asked 'im in a offhand sort o' way 'ow long the room was paid up for.
+
+Mrs. Mitchell 'ad a few words to say about it next day, but Gerty told
+'er to save 'er breath for walking upstairs. The on'y thing that George
+didn't like when they went out was that young Ted was with them, but
+Gerty said she preferred it till she knew 'im better; and she 'ad so
+much to say about his noble behaviour in saving life that George gave
+way. They went out looking at the shops, George thinking that that was
+the cheapest way of spending an evening, and they were as happy as
+possible till Gerty saw a brooch she liked so much in a window that he
+couldn't get 'er away.
+
+“It is a beauty,” she ses. “I don't know when I've seen a brooch I liked
+better. Look here! Let's all guess the price and then go in and see
+who's right.”
+
+They 'ad their guesses, and then they went in and asked, and as soon as
+Gerty found that it was only three-and-sixpence she began to feel in her
+pocket for 'er purse, just like your wife does when you go out with 'er,
+knowing all the time that it's on the mantelpiece with twopence-ha'penny
+and a cough lozenge in it.
+
+“I must ha' left it at 'ome,” she ses, looking at George.
+
+“Just wot I've done,” ses George, arter patting 'is pockets.
+
+Gerty bit 'er lips and, for a minute or two, be civil to George she
+could not. Then she gave a little smile and took 'is arm agin, and they
+walked on talking and laughing till she turned round of a sudden and
+asked a big chap as was passing wot 'e was shoving 'er for.
+
+“Shoving you?” ses he. “Wot do you think I want to shove you for?”
+
+“Don't you talk to me,” ses Gerty, firing up. “George, make 'im beg my
+pardon.”
+
+“You ought to be more careful,” ses George, in a gentle sort o' way.
+
+“Make 'im beg my pardon,” ses Gerty, stamping 'er foot; “if he don't,
+knock 'im down.”
+
+“Yes, knock 'im down,” ses the big man, taking hold o' George's cap and
+rumpling his 'air.
+
+Pore George, who was never much good with his fists, hit 'im in the
+chest, and the next moment he was on 'is back in the middle o' the road
+wondering wot had 'appened to 'im. By the time 'e got up the other man
+was arf a mile away; and young Ted stepped up and wiped 'im down with a
+pocket-'andkerchief while Gerty explained to 'im 'ow she saw 'im slip on
+a piece o' banana peel.
+
+“It's 'ard lines,” she ses; “but never mind, you frightened 'im away,
+and I don't wonder at it. You do look terrible when you're angry,
+George; I didn't know you.”
+
+She praised 'im all the way 'ome, and if it 'adn't been for his mouth
+and nose George would 'ave enjoyed it more than 'e did. She told 'er
+mother how 'e had flown at a big man wot 'ad insulted her, and Mrs.
+Mitchell shook her 'ead at 'im and said his bold spirit would lead 'im
+into trouble afore he 'ad done.
+
+They didn't seem to be able to make enough of 'im, and next day when he
+went round Gerty was so upset at the sight of 'is bruises that he
+thought she was going to cry. When he had 'ad his tea she gave 'im a
+cigar she had bought for 'im herself, and when he 'ad finished smoking
+it she smiled at him, and said that she was going to take 'im out for a
+pleasant evening to try and make up to 'im for wot he 'ad suffered for
+'er.
+
+“We're all going to stand treat to each other,” she ses. “Bob always
+would insist on paying for everything, but I like to feel a bit
+independent. Give and take—that's the way I like to do things.”
+
+“There's nothing like being independent,” ses George. “Bob ought to ha'
+known that.”
+
+“I'm sure it's the best plan,” ses Gerty. “Now, get your 'at on. We're
+going to a theayter, and Ted shall pay the 'bus fares.”
+
+George wanted to ask about the theayter, but 'e didn't like to, and
+arter Gerty was dressed they went out and Ted paid the 'bus fares like a
+man.
+
+“Here you are,” ses Gerty, as the 'bus stopped outside the theayter.
+“Hurry up and get the tickets, George; ask for three upper circles.”
+
+She bustled George up to the pay place, and as soon as she 'ad picked
+out the seats she grabbed 'old of the tickets and told George to make
+haste.
+
+“Twelve shillings it is,” ses the man, as George put down arf a crown.
+
+“Twelve?” ses George, beginning to stammer. “Twelve? Twelve? Twel—?”
+
+“Twelve shillings,” ses the man; “three upper circles you've 'ad.”
+
+George was going to fetch Gerty back and 'ave cheaper seats, but she 'ad
+gone inside with young Ted, and at last, arter making an awful fuss, he
+paid the rest o' the money and rushed in arter her, arf crazy at the
+idea o' spending so much money.
+
+“Make 'aste,” ses Gerty, afore he could say anything; “the band 'as just
+begun.”
+
+She started running upstairs, and she was so excited that, when they got
+their seats and George started complaining about the price, she didn't
+pay any attention to wot he was saying, but kept pointing out ladies'
+dresses to 'im in w'ispers and wondering wot they 'ad paid for them.
+George gave it up at last, and then he sat wondering whether he 'ad done
+right arter all in taking Bob's gal away from him.
+
+Gerty enjoyed it very much, but when the curtain came down after the
+first act she leaned back in her chair and looked up at George and said
+she felt faint and thought she'd like to 'ave an ice-cream. “And you
+'ave one too, dear,” she ses, when young Ted 'ad got up and beckoned to
+the gal, “and Ted 'ud like one too, I'm sure.”
+
+She put her 'ead on George's shoulder and looked up at 'im. Then she put
+her 'and on his and stroked it, and George, reckoning that arter all
+ice-creams were on'y a ha'penny or at the most a penny each, altered 'is
+mind about not spending any more money and ordered three.
+
+The way he carried on when the gal said they was three shillings was
+alarming. At fust 'e thought she was 'aving a joke with 'im, and it took
+another gal and the fireman and an old gentleman wot was sitting behind
+'im to persuade 'im different. He was so upset that 'e couldn't eat his
+arter paying for it, and Ted and Gerty had to finish it for 'im.
+
+“They're expensive, but they're worth the money,” ses Gerty. “You are
+good to me, George. I could go on eating 'em all night, but you mustn't
+fling your money away like this always.”
+
+“I'll see to that,” ses George, very bitter.
+
+“I thought we was going to stand treat to each other? That was the idea,
+I understood.”
+
+“So we are,” ses Gerty. “Ted stood the 'bus fares, didn't he?”
+
+“He did,” ses George, “wot there was of 'em; but wot about you?”
+
+“Me?” ses Gerty, drawing her 'ead back and staring at 'im. “Why, 'ave
+you forgot that cigar already, George?”
+
+George opened 'is mouth, but 'e couldn't speak a word. He sat looking at
+'er and making a gasping noise in 'is throat, and fortunately just as 'e
+got 'is voice back the curtain went up agin, and everybody said, “H'sh!”
+
+He couldn't enjoy the play at all, 'e was so upset, and he began to see
+more than ever 'ow wrong he 'ad been in taking Bob's gal away from 'im.
+He walked downstairs into the street like a man in a dream, with Gerty
+sticking to 'is arm and young Ted treading on 'is heels behind.
+
+“Now, you mustn't waste any more money, George,” ses Gerty, when they
+got outside. “We'll walk 'ome.”
+
+George 'ad got arf a mind to say something about a 'bus, but he
+remembered in time that very likely young Ted hadn't got any more money.
+Then Gerty said she knew a short cut, and she took them, walking along
+little, dark, narrow streets and places, until at last, just as George
+thought they must be pretty near 'ome, she began to dab her eyes with
+'er pocket-'andkerchief and say she'd lost 'er way.
+
+“You two go 'ome and leave me,” she ses, arf crying. “I can't walk
+another step.”
+
+“Where are we?” ses George, looking round.
+
+“I don't know,” ses Gerty. “I couldn't tell you if you paid me. I must
+'ave taken a wrong turning. Oh, hurrah! Here's a cab!”
+
+Afore George could stop 'er she held up 'er umbrella, and a 'ansom cab,
+with bells on its horse, crossed the road and pulled up in front of 'em.
+Ted nipped in first and Gerty followed 'im.
+
+“Tell 'im the address, dear, and make 'aste and get in,” ses Gerty.
+
+George told the cabman, and then he got in and sat on Ted's knee, partly
+on Gerty's umbrella, and mostly on nothing.
+
+“You are good to me, George,” ses Gerty, touching the back of 'is neck
+with the brim of her hat. “It ain't often I get a ride in a cab. All the
+time I was keeping company with Bob we never 'ad one once. I only wish
+I'd got the money to pay for it.”
+
+George, who was going to ask a question, stopped 'imself, and then he
+kept striking matches and trying to read all about cab fares on a bill
+in front of 'im.
+
+“'Ow are we to know 'ow many miles it is?” he ses, at last.
+
+“I don't know,” ses Gerty; “leave it to the cabman. It's his bisness,
+ain't it? And if 'e don't know he must suffer for it.”
+
+There was hardly a soul in Gerty's road when they got there, but afore
+George 'ad settled with the cabman there was a policeman moving the
+crowd on and arf the winders in the road up. By the time George had paid
+'im and the cabman 'ad told him wot 'e looked like, Gerty and Ted 'ad
+disappeared indoors, all the lights was out, and, in a state o' mind
+that won't bear thinking of, George walked 'ome to his lodging.
+
+Bob was asleep when he got there, but 'e woke 'im up and told 'im about
+it, and then arter a time he said that he thought Bob ought to pay arf
+because he 'ad saved 'is life.
+
+“Cert'nly not,” ses Bob. “We're quits now; that was the arrangement. I
+only wish it was me spending the money on her; I shouldn't grumble.”
+
+George didn't get a wink o' sleep all night for thinking of the money he
+'ad spent, and next day when he went round he 'ad almost made up 'is
+mind to tell Bob that if 'e liked to pay up the money he could 'ave
+Gerty back; but she looked so pretty, and praised 'im up so much for 'is
+generosity, that he began to think better of it. One thing 'e was
+determined on, and that was never to spend money like that agin for
+fifty Gertys.
+
+There was a very sensible man there that evening that George liked very
+much. His name was Uncle Joe, and when Gerty was praising George to 'is
+face for the money he 'ad been spending, Uncle Joe, instead o' looking
+pleased, shook his 'ead over it.
+
+“Young people will be young people, I know,” he ses, “but still I don't
+approve of extravagance. Bob Evans would never 'ave spent all that money
+over you.”
+
+“Bob Evans ain't everybody,” ses Mrs. Mitchell, standing up for Gerty.
+
+“He was steady, anyway,” ses Uncle Joe. “Besides, Gerty ought not to ha'
+let Mr. Crofts spend his money like that. She could ha' prevented it if
+she'd ha' put 'er foot down and insisted on it.”
+
+He was so solemn about it that everybody began to feel a bit upset, and
+Gerty borrowed Ted's pocket-'andkerchief, and then wiped 'er eyes on the
+cuff of her dress instead.
+
+“Well, well,” ses Uncle Joe; “I didn't mean to be 'ard, but don't do it
+no more. You are young people, and can't afford it.”
+
+“We must 'ave a little pleasure sometimes,” ses Gerty.
+
+“Yes, I know,” ses Uncle Joe; “but there's moderation in everything.
+Look 'ere, it's time somebody paid for Mr. Crofts. To-morrow's Saturday,
+and, if you like, I'll take you all to the Crystal Palace.”
+
+Gerty jumped up off of 'er chair and kissed 'im, while Mrs. Mitchell
+said she knew 'is bark was worse than 'is bite, and asked 'im who was
+wasting his money now?
+
+“You meet me at London Bridge Station at two o'clock,” ses Uncle Joe,
+getting up to go. “It ain't extravagance for a man as can afford it.”
+
+He shook 'ands with George Crofts and went, and, arter George 'ad stayed
+long enough to hear a lot o' things about Uncle Joe which made 'im think
+they'd get on very well together, he went off too.
+
+They all turned up very early the next arternoon, and Gerty was dressed
+so nice that George couldn't take his eyes off of her. Besides her there
+was Mrs. Mitchell and Ted and a friend of 'is named Charlie Smith.
+
+They waited some time, but Uncle Joe didn't turn up, and they all got
+looking at the clock and talking about it, and 'oping he wouldn't make
+'em miss the train.
+
+“Here he comes!” ses Ted, at last.
+
+Uncle Joe came rushing in, puffing and blowing as though he'd bust.
+“Take 'em on by this train, will you?” he ses, catching 'old o' George
+by the arm. “I've just been stopped by a bit o' business I must do, and
+I'll come on by the next, or as soon arter as I can.”
+
+He rushed off again, puffing and blowing his 'ardest, in such a hurry
+that he forgot to give George the money for the tickets. However, George
+borrowed a pencil of Mrs. Mitchell in the train, and put down on paper
+'ow much they cost, and Mrs. Mitchell said if George didn't like to
+remind 'im she would.
+
+They left young Ted and Charlie to stay near the station when they got
+to the Palace, Uncle Joe 'aving forgotten to say where he'd meet 'em,
+but train arter train came in without 'im, and at last the two boys gave
+it up.
+
+“We're sure to run across 'im sooner or later,” ses Gerty. “Let's 'ave
+something to eat; I'm so hungry.”
+
+George said something about buns and milk, but Gerty took 'im up sharp.
+“Buns and milk?” she ses. “Why, uncle would never forgive us if we
+spoilt his treat like that.”
+
+She walked into a refreshment place and they 'ad cold meat and bread and
+pickles and beer and tarts and cheese, till even young Ted said he'd 'ad
+enough, but still they couldn't see any signs of Uncle Joe. They went on
+to the roundabouts to look for 'im, and then into all sorts o' shows at
+sixpence a head, but still there was no signs of 'im, and George had 'ad
+to start on a fresh bit o' paper to put down wot he'd spent.
+
+“I suppose he must ha' been detained on important business,” ses Gerty,
+at last.
+
+“Unless it's one of 'is jokes,” ses Mrs. Mitchell, shaking her 'ead.
+“You know wot your uncle is, Gerty.”
+
+“There now, I never thought o' that,” ses Gerty, with a start; “p'r'aps
+it is.”
+
+“Joke?” ses George, choking and staring from one to the other.
+
+“I was wondering where he'd get the money from,” ses Mrs. Mitchell to
+Gerty. “I see it all now; I never see such a man for a bit o' fun in all
+my born days. And the solemn way he went on last night, too. Why, he
+must ha' been laughing in 'is sleeve all the time. It's as good as a
+play.”
+
+“Look here!” ses George, 'ardly able to speak; “do you mean to tell me
+he never meant to come?”
+
+“I'm afraid not,” ses Mrs. Mitchell, “knowing wot he is. But don't you
+worry; I'll give him a bit o' my mind when I see 'im.”
+
+George Crofts felt as though he'd burst, and then 'e got his breath, and
+the things 'e said about Uncle Joe was so awful that Mrs. Mitchell told
+the boys to go away.
+
+“How dare you talk of my uncle like that?” ses Gerty, firing up.
+
+“You forget yourself, George,” ses Mrs. Mitchell. “You'll like 'im when
+you get to know 'im better.”
+
+“Don't you call me George,” ses George Crofts, turning on 'er. “I've
+been done, that's wot I've been. I 'ad fourteen pounds when I was paid
+off, and it's melting like butter.”
+
+“Well, we've enjoyed ourselves,” ses Gerty, “and that's what money was
+given us for. I'm sure those two boys 'ave had a splendid time, thanks
+to you. Don't go and spoil all by a little bit o' temper.”
+
+“Temper!” ses George, turning on her. “I've done with you, I wouldn't
+marry you if you was the on'y gal in the world. I wouldn't marry you if
+you paid me.”
+
+“Oh, indeed!” ses Gerty; “but if you think you can get out of it like
+that you're mistaken. I've lost my young man through you, and I'm not
+going to lose you too. I'll send my two big cousins round to see you
+to-morrow.”
+
+“They won't put up with no nonsense, I can tell you,” ses Mrs. Mitchell.
+
+She called the boys to her, and then she and Gerty, arter holding their
+'eads very high and staring at George, went off and left 'im alone. He
+went straight off 'ome, counting 'is money all the way and trying to
+make it more, and, arter telling Bob 'ow he'd been treated, and trying
+hard to get 'im to go shares in his losses, packed up his things and
+cleared out, all boiling over with temper.
+
+Bob was so dazed he couldn't make head or tail out of it, but 'e went
+round to see Gerty the first thing next morning, and she explained
+things to him.
+
+“I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much,” she ses, wiping her
+eyes, “but I've had enough gadding about for once, and if you come round
+this evening we'll have a nice quiet time together looking at the
+furniture shops.”
+
+
+
+
+OVER THE SIDE
+
+
+
+
+Of all classes of men, those who follow the sea are probably the most
+prone to superstition. Afloat upon the black waste of waters, at the
+mercy of wind and sea, with vast depths and strange creatures below
+them, a belief in the supernatural is easier than ashore, under the
+cheerful gas-lamps. Strange stories of the sea are plentiful, and an
+incident which happened within my own experience has made me somewhat
+chary of dubbing a man fool or coward because he has encountered
+something he cannot explain. There are stories of the supernatural with
+prosaic sequels; there are others to which the sequel has never been
+published.
+
+I was fifteen years old at the time, and as my father, who had a strong
+objection to the sea, would not apprentice me to it, I shipped before
+the mast on a sturdy little brig called the Endeavour, bound for Riga.
+She was a small craft, but the skipper was as fine a seaman as one could
+wish for, and, in fair weather, an easy man to sail under. Most boys
+have a rough time of it when they first go to sea, but, with a strong
+sense of what was good for me, I had attached myself to a brawny,
+good-natured infant, named Bill Smith, and it was soon understood that
+whoever hit me struck Bill by proxy. Not that the crew were particularly
+brutal, but a sound cuffing occasionally is held by most seamen to be
+beneficial to a lad's health and morals. The only really spiteful fellow
+among them was a man named Jem Dadd. He was a morose, sallow-looking
+man, of about forty, with a strong taste for the supernatural, and a
+stronger taste still for frightening his fellows with it. I have seen
+Bill almost afraid to go on deck of a night for his trick at the wheel,
+after a few of his reminiscences. Rats were a favourite topic with him,
+and he would never allow one to be killed if he could help it, for he
+claimed for them that they were the souls of drowned sailors, hence
+their love of ships and their habit of leaving them when they became
+unseaworthy. He was a firm believer in the transmigration of souls, some
+idea of which he had, no doubt, picked up in Eastern ports, and gave his
+shivering auditors to understand that his arrangements for his own
+immediate future were already perfected.
+
+We were six or seven days out when a strange thing happened. Dadd had
+the second watch one night, and Bill was to relieve him. They were not
+very strict aboard the brig in fair weather, and when a man's time was
+up he just made the wheel fast, and, running for'ard, shouted down the
+fo'c's'le. On this night I happened to awake suddenly, in time to see
+Bill slip out of his bunk and stand by me, rubbing his red eyelids with
+his knuckles.
+
+“Dadd's giving me a long time,” he whispered, seeing that I was awake;
+“it's a whole hour after his time.”
+
+He pattered up on deck, and I was just turning over, thankful that I was
+too young to have a watch to keep, when he came softly down again, and,
+taking me by the shoulders, shook me roughly.
+
+“Jack,” he whispered. “Jack.”
+
+I raised myself on my elbows, and, in the light of the smoking lamp, saw
+that he was shaking all over.
+
+“Come on deck,” he said, thickly.
+
+I put on my clothes, and followed him quietly to the sweet, cool air
+above. It was a beautiful clear night, but, from his manner, I looked
+nervously around for some cause of alarm. I saw nothing. The deck was
+deserted, except for the solitary figure at the wheel.
+
+“Look at him,” whispered Bill, bending a contorted face to mine.
+
+I walked aft a few steps, and Bill followed slowly. Then I saw that Jem
+Dadd was leaning forward clumsily on the wheel, with his hands clenched
+on the spokes.
+
+“He's asleep,” said I, stopping short.
+
+Bill breathed hard. “He's in a queer sleep,” said he; “kind o' trance
+more like. Go closer.”
+
+I took fast hold of Bill's sleeve, and we both went. The light of the
+stars was sufficient to show that Dadd's face was very white, and that
+his dim, black eyes were wide open, and staring in a very strange and
+dreadful manner straight before him.
+
+“Dadd,” said I, softly, “Dadd!”
+
+There was no reply, and, with a view of arousing him, I tapped one
+sinewy hand as it gripped the wheel, and even tried to loosen it.
+
+He remained immovable, and, suddenly with a great cry, my courage
+deserted me, and Bill and I fairly bolted down into the cabin and woke
+the skipper.
+
+Then we saw how it was with Jem, and two strong seamen forcibly loosened
+the grip of those rigid fingers, and, laying him on the deck, covered
+him with a piece of canvas. The rest of the night two men stayed at the
+wheel, and, gazing fearfully at the outline of the canvas, longed for
+dawn.
+
+It came at last, and, breakfast over, the body was sewn up in canvas,
+and the skipper held a short service compiled from a Bible which
+belonged to the mate, and what he remembered of the Burial Service
+proper. Then the corpse went overboard with a splash, and the men, after
+standing awkwardly together for a few minutes, slowly dispersed to their
+duties.
+
+For the rest of that day we were all very quiet and restrained; pity for
+the dead man being mingled with a dread of taking the wheel when night
+came.
+
+“The wheel's haunted,” said the cook, solemnly; “mark my words, there's
+more of you will be took the same way Dadd was.”
+
+The cook, like myself, had no watch to keep.
+
+The men bore up pretty well until night came on again, and then they
+unanimously resolved to have a double watch. The cook, sorely against
+his will, was impressed into the service, and I, glad to oblige my
+patron, agreed to stay up with Bill.
+
+Some of the pleasure had vanished by the time night came, and I seemed
+only just to have closed my eyes when Bill came, and, with a rough shake
+or two, informed me that the time had come. Any hope that I might have
+had of escaping the ordeal was at once dispelled by his expectant
+demeanour, and the helpful way in which he assisted me with my clothes,
+and, yawning terribly, I followed him on deck.
+
+The night was not so clear as the preceding one, and the air was chilly,
+with a little moisture in it. I buttoned up my jacket, and thrust my
+hands in my pockets.
+
+“Everything quiet?” asked Bill as he stepped up and took the wheel.
+
+“Ay, ay,” said Roberts, “quiet as the grave,” and, followed by his
+willing mate, he went below.
+
+I sat on the deck by Bill's side as, with a light touch on the wheel, he
+kept the brig to her course. It was weary work sitting there, doing
+nothing, and thinking of the warm berth below, and I believe that I
+should have fallen asleep, but that my watchful companion stirred me
+with his foot whenever he saw me nodding.
+
+I suppose I must have sat there, shivering and yawning, for about an
+hour, when, tired of inactivity, I got up and went and leaned over the
+side of the vessel. The sound of the water gurgling and lapping by was
+so soothing that I began to doze.
+
+I was recalled to my senses by a smothered cry from Bill, and, running
+to him, I found him staring to port in an intense and uncomfortable
+fashion. At my approach, he took one hand from the wheel, and gripped my
+arm so tightly that I was like to have screamed with the pain of it.
+
+“Jack,” said he, in a shaky voice, “while you was away something popped
+its head up, and looked over the ship's side.”
+
+“You've been dreaming,” said I, in a voice which was a very fair
+imitation of Bill's own.
+
+“Dreaming,” repeated Bill, “dreaming! Ah, look there!”
+
+He pointed with outstretched finger, and my heart seemed to stop beating
+as I saw a man's head appear above the side. For a brief space it peered
+at us in silence, and then a dark figure sprang like a cat on to the
+deck, and stood crouching a short distance away.
+
+A mist came before my eyes, and my tongue failed me, but Bill let off a
+roar, such as I have never heard before or since. It was answered from
+below, both aft and for'ard, and the men came running up on deck just as
+they left their beds.
+
+“What's up?” shouted the skipper, glancing aloft.
+
+For answer, Bill pointed to the intruder, and the men, who had just
+caught sight of him, came up and formed a compact knot by the wheel.
+
+“Come over the side, it did,” panted Bill, “come over like a ghost out
+of the sea.”
+
+The skipper took one of the small lamps from the binnacle, and, holding
+it aloft, walked boldly up to the cause of alarm. In the little patch of
+light we saw a ghastly black-bearded man, dripping with water, regarding
+us with unwinking eyes, which glowed red in the light of the lamp.
+
+“Where did you come from?” asked the skipper.
+
+The figure shook its head.
+
+“Where did you come from?” he repeated, walking up, and laying his hand
+on the other's shoulder.
+
+Then the intruder spoke, but in a strange fashion and in strange words.
+We leaned forward to listen, but, even when he repeated them, we could
+make nothing of them.
+
+“He's a furriner,” said Roberts.
+
+“Blest if I've ever 'eard the lingo afore,” said Bill. “Does anybody
+rekernize it?”
+
+Nobody did, and the skipper, after another attempt, gave it up, and,
+falling back upon the universal language of signs, pointed first to the
+man and then to the sea. The other understood him, and, in a heavy,
+slovenly fashion, portrayed a man drifting in an open boat, and
+clutching and clambering up the side of a passing ship. As his meaning
+dawned upon us, we rushed to the stern, and, leaning over, peered into
+the gloom, but the night was dark, and we saw nothing.
+
+“Well,” said the skipper, turning to Bill, with a mighty yawn, “take him
+below, and give him some grub, and the next time a gentleman calls on
+you, don't make such a confounded row about it.”
+
+He went below, followed by the mate, and after some slight hesitation,
+Roberts stepped up to the intruder, and signed to him to follow. He came
+stolidly enough, leaving a trail of water on the deck, and, after
+changing into the dry things we gave him, fell to, but without much
+appearance of hunger, upon some salt beef and biscuits, regarding us
+between bites with black, lack-lustre eyes.
+
+“He seems as though he's a-walking in his sleep,” said the cook.
+
+“He ain't very hungry,” said one of the men; “he seems to mumble his
+food.”
+
+“Hungry!” repeated Bill, who had just left the wheel. “Course he ain't
+famished. He had his tea last night.”
+
+The men stared at him in bewilderment.
+
+“Don't you see?” said Bill, still in a hoarse whisper; “ain't you ever
+seen them eyes afore? Don't you know what he used to say about dying?
+It's Jem Dadd come back to us. Jem Dadd got another man's body, as he
+always said he would.”
+
+“Rot!” said Roberts, trying to speak bravely, but he got up, and, with
+the others, huddled together at the end of the fo'c's'le, and stared in
+a bewildered fashion at the sodden face and short, squat figure of our
+visitor. For his part, having finished his meal, he pushed his plate
+from him, and, leaning back on the locker, looked at the empty bunks.
+
+Roberts caught his eye, and, with a nod and a wave of his hand,
+indicated the bunks. The fellow rose from the locker, and, amid a
+breathless silence, climbed into one of them—Jem Dadd's!
+
+He slept in the dead sailor's bed that night, the only man in the
+fo'c's'le who did sleep properly, and turned out heavily and lumpishly
+in the morning for breakfast.
+
+The skipper had him on deck after the meal, but could make nothing of
+him. To all his questions he replied in the strange tongue of the night
+before, and, though our fellows had been to many ports, and knew a word
+or two of several languages, none of them recognized it. The skipper
+gave it up at last, and, left to himself, he stared about him for some
+time, regardless of our interest in his movements, and then, leaning
+heavily against the side of the ship, stayed there so long that we
+thought he must have fallen asleep.
+
+“He's half-dead now!” whispered Roberts.
+
+“Hush!” said Bill, “mebbe he's been in the water a week or two, and
+can't quite make it out. See how he's looking at it now.”
+
+He stayed on deck all day in the sun, but, as night came on, returned to
+the warmth of the fo'c's'le. The food we gave him remained untouched,
+and he took little or no notice of us, though I fancied that he saw the
+fear we had of him. He slept again in the dead man's bunk, and when
+morning came still lay there.
+
+Until dinner-time, nobody interfered with him, and then Roberts, pushed
+forward by the others, approached him with some food. He motioned, it
+away with a dirty, bloated hand, and, making signs for water, drank it
+eagerly.
+
+For two days he stayed there quietly, the black eyes always open, the
+stubby fingers always on the move. On the third morning Bill, who had
+conquered his fear sufficiently to give him water occasionally, called
+softly to us.
+
+“Come and look at him,” said he. “What's the matter with him?”
+
+“He's dying!” said the cook, with a shudder.
+
+“He can't be going to die yet!” said Bill, blankly.
+
+As he spoke the man's eyes seemed to get softer and more life-like, and
+he looked at us piteously and helplessly. From face to face he gazed in
+mute inquiry, and then, striking his chest feebly with his fist, uttered
+two words.
+
+We looked at each other blankly, and he repeated them eagerly, and again
+touched his chest.
+
+“It's his name,” said the cook, and we all repeated them.
+
+He smiled in an exhausted fashion, and then, rallying his energies, held
+up a forefinger; as we stared at this new riddle, he lowered it, and
+held up all four fingers, doubled.
+
+“Come away,” quavered the cook; “he's putting a spell on us.”
+
+We drew back at that, and back farther still, as he repeated the
+motions. Then Bill's face cleared suddenly, and he stepped towards him.
+
+“He means his wife and younkers!” he shouted eagerly. “This ain't no Jem
+Dadd!”
+
+It was good then to see how our fellows drew round the dying sailor, and
+strove to cheer him. Bill, to show he understood the finger business,
+nodded cheerily, and held his hand at four different heights from the
+floor. The last was very low, so low that the man set his lips together,
+and strove to turn his heavy head from us.
+
+“Poor devil!” said Bill, “he wants us to tell his wife and children
+what's become of him. He must ha' been dying when he come aboard. What
+was his name, again?”
+
+But the name was not easy to English lips, and we had already forgotten
+it.
+
+“Ask him again,” said the cook, “and write it down. Who's got a pen?”
+
+He went to look for one as Bill turned to the sailor to get him to
+repeat it. Then he turned round again, and eyed us blankly, for, by this
+time, the owner had himself forgotten it.
+
+
+
+
+THE FOUR PIGEONS
+
+
+
+
+The old man took up his mug and shifted along the bench until he was in
+the shade of the elms that stood before the Cauliflower. The action also
+had the advantage of bringing him opposite the two strangers who were
+refreshing themselves after the toils of a long walk in the sun.
+
+“My hearing ain't wot it used to be,” he said, tremulously. “When you
+asked me to have a mug o' ale I 'ardly heard you; and if you was to ask
+me to 'ave another, I mightn't hear you at all.”
+
+One of the men nodded.
+
+“Not over there,” piped the old man. “That's why I come over here,” he
+added, after a pause. “It 'ud be rude like to take no notice; if you was
+to ask me.”
+
+He looked round as the landlord approached, and pushed his mug gently in
+his direction. The landlord, obeying a nod from the second stranger,
+filled it.
+
+“It puts life into me,” said the old man, raising it to his lips and
+bowing. “It makes me talk.”
+
+“Time we were moving, Jack,” said the first traveller. The second,
+assenting to this as an abstract proposition, expressed, however, a
+determination to finish his pipe first.
+
+I heard you saying something about shooting, continued the old man, and
+that reminds me of some shooting we 'ad here once in Claybury. We've
+always 'ad a lot o' game in these parts, and if it wasn't for a low,
+poaching fellow named Bob Pretty—Claybury's disgrace I call 'im—we'd
+'ave a lot more.
+
+It happened in this way. Squire Rockett was going abroad to foreign
+parts for a year, and he let the Hall to a gentleman from London named
+Sutton. A real gentleman 'e was, open-'anded and free, and just about
+October he 'ad a lot of 'is friends come down from London to 'elp 'im
+kill the pheasants.
+
+The first day they frightened more than they killed, but they enjoyed
+theirselves all right until one gentleman, who 'adn't shot a single
+thing all day, shot pore Bill Chambers wot was beating with about a
+dozen more.
+
+Bill got most of it in the shoulder and a little in the cheek, but the
+row he see fit to make you'd ha' thought he'd been killed. He laid on
+the ground groaning with 'is eyes shut, and everybody thought 'e was
+dying till Henery Walker stooped down and asked 'im whether 'e was hurt.
+
+It took four men to carry Bill 'ome, and he was that particular you
+wouldn't believe. They 'ad to talk in whispers, and when Peter Gubbins
+forgot 'imself and began to whistle he asked him where his 'art was.
+When they walked fast he said they jolted 'im, and when they walked slow
+'e asked 'em whether they'd gone to sleep or wot.
+
+Bill was in bed for nearly a week, but the gentleman was very nice about
+it and said that it was his fault. He was a very pleasant-spoken
+gentleman, and, arter sending Dr. Green to him and saying he'd pay the
+bill, 'e gave Bill Chambers ten pounds to make up for 'is sufferings.
+
+Bill 'ad intended to lay up for another week, and the doctor, wot 'ad
+been calling twice a day, said he wouldn't be responsible for 'is life
+if he didn't; but the ten pounds was too much for 'im, and one evening,
+just a week arter the accident, he turned up at this Cauliflower
+public-'ouse and began to spend 'is money.
+
+His face was bandaged up, and when 'e come in he walked feeble-like and
+spoke in a faint sort o' voice. Smith, the landlord, got 'im a
+easy-chair and a couple of pillers out o' the parlour, and Bill sat
+there like a king, telling us all his sufferings and wot it felt like to
+be shot.
+
+I always have said wot a good thing beer is, and it done Bill more good
+than doctor's medicine. When he came in he could 'ardly crawl, and at
+nine o'clock 'e was out of the easy-chair and dancing on the table as
+well as possible. He smashed three mugs and upset about two pints o'
+beer, but he just put his 'and in his pocket and paid for 'em without a
+word.
+
+“There's plenty more where that came from,” he ses, pulling out a
+handful o' money.
+
+Peter Gubbins looked at it, 'ardly able to speak. “It's worth while
+being shot to 'ave all that money,” he ses, at last.
+
+“Don't you worry yourself, Peter,” ses Bob Pretty; “there's plenty more
+of you as'll be shot afore them gentlemen at the Hall 'as finished.
+Bill's the fust, but 'e won't be the last—not by a long chalk.”
+
+“They're more careful now,” ses Dicky Weed, the tailor.
+
+“All right; 'ave it your own way,” ses Bob, nasty-like. “I don't know
+much about shooting, being on'y a pore labourin' man. All I know is I
+shouldn't like to go beating for them. I'm too fond o' my wife and
+family.”
+
+“There won't be no more shot,” ses Sam Jones.
+
+“We're too careful,” ses Peter Gubbins.
+
+“Bob Pretty don't know everything,” ses Dicky Weed.
+
+“I'll bet you what you like there'll be some more of you shot,” ses Bob
+Pretty, in a temper. “Now, then.”
+
+“'Ow much'll you bet, Bob,” ses Sam Jones, with a wink at the others. “I
+can see you winking, Sam Jones,” ses Bob Pretty, “but I'll do more than
+bet. The last bet I won is still owing to me. Now, look 'ere; I'll pay
+you sixpence a week all the time you're beating if you promise to give
+me arf of wot you get if you're shot. I can't say fairer than that.”
+
+“Will you give me sixpence a week, too?” ses Henery Walker, jumping up.
+
+“I will,” ses Bob; “and anybody else that likes. And wot's more, I'll
+pay in advance. Fust sixpences now.”
+
+Claybury men 'ave never been backward when there's been money to be made
+easy, and they all wanted to join Bob Pretty's club, as he called it.
+But fust of all 'e asked for a pen and ink, and then he got Smith, the
+land-lord, being a scholard, to write out a paper for them to sign.
+Henery Walker was the fust to write 'is name, and then Sam Jones, Peter
+Gubbins, Ralph Thomson, Jem Hall, and Walter Bell wrote theirs. Bob
+stopped 'em then, and said six 'ud be enough to go on with; and then 'e
+paid up the sixpences and wished 'em luck.
+
+Wot they liked a'most as well as the sixpences was the idea o' getting
+the better o' Bob Pretty. As I said afore, he was a poacher, and that
+artful that up to that time nobody 'ad ever got the better of 'im.
+
+They made so much fun of 'im the next night that Bob turned sulky and
+went off 'ome, and for two or three nights he 'ardly showed his face;
+and the next shoot they 'ad he went off to Wickham and nobody saw 'im
+all day.
+
+That very day Henery Walker was shot. Several gentlemen fired at a
+rabbit that was started, and the next thing they knew Henery Walker was
+lying on the ground calling out that 'is leg 'ad been shot off.
+
+He made more fuss than Bill Chambers a'most, 'specially when they
+dropped 'im off a hurdle carrying him 'ome, and the things he said to
+Dr. Green for rubbing his 'ands as he came into the bedroom was
+disgraceful.
+
+The fust Bob Pretty 'eard of it was up at the Cauliflower at eight
+o'clock that evening, and he set down 'is beer and set off to see Henery
+as fast as 'is legs could carry 'im. Henery was asleep when 'e got
+there, and, do all he could, Bob Pretty couldn't wake 'im till he sat
+down gentle on 'is bad leg.
+
+“It's on'y me, old pal,” he ses, smiling at 'im as Henery woke up and
+shouted at 'im to get up.
+
+Henery Walker was going to say something bad, but 'e thought better of
+it, and he lay there arf busting with rage, and watching Bob out of the
+corner of one eye.
+
+“I quite forgot you was on my club till Smith reminded me of it,” ses
+Bob. “Don't you take a farthing less than ten pounds, Henery.”
+
+Henery Walker shut his eyes again. “I forgot to tell you I made up my
+mind this morning not to belong to your club any more, Bob,” he ses.
+
+“Why didn't you come and tell me, Henery, instead of leaving it till it
+was too late?” ses Bob, shaking his 'ead at 'im.
+
+“I shall want all that money,” ses Henery in a weak voice. “I might 'ave
+to have a wooden leg, Bob.”
+
+“Don't meet troubles arf way, Henery,” ses Bob, in a kind voice. “I've
+no doubt Mr. Sutton'll throw in a wooden leg if you want it, and look
+here, if he does, I won't trouble you for my arf of it.”
+
+He said good-night to Henery and went off, and when Mrs. Walker went up
+to see 'ow Henery was getting on he was carrying on that alarming that
+she couldn't do nothing with 'im.
+
+He was laid up for over a week, though it's my opinion he wasn't much
+hurt, and the trouble was that nobody knew which gentleman 'ad shot 'im.
+Mr. Sutton talked it over with them, and at last, arter a good deal o'
+trouble, and Henery pulling up 'is trousers and showing them 'is leg
+till they was fair sick of the sight of it, they paid 'im ten pounds,
+the same as they 'ad Bill.
+
+It took Bob Pretty two days to get his arf, but he kept very quiet about
+it, not wishing to make a fuss in the village for fear Mr. Sutton should
+get to hear of the club. At last he told Henery Walker that 'e was going
+to Wickham to see 'is lawyer about it, and arter Smith the landlord 'ad
+read the paper to Henery and explained 'ow he'd very likely 'ave to pay
+more than the whole ten pounds then, 'e gave Bob his arf and said he
+never wanted to see 'im again as long as he lived.
+
+Bob stood treat up at the Cauliflower that night, and said 'ow bad he'd
+been treated. The tears stood in 'is eyes a'most, and at last 'e said
+that if 'e thought there was going to be any more fuss of that kind he'd
+wind up the club.
+
+“It's the best thing you can do,” ses Sam Jones; “I'm not going to
+belong to it any longer, so I give you notice. If so be as I get shot I
+want the money for myself.”
+
+“Me, too,” ses Peter Gubbins; “it 'ud fair break my 'art to give Bob
+Pretty five pounds. I'd sooner give it to my wife.”
+
+All the other chaps said the same thing, but Bob pointed out to them
+that they 'ad taken their sixpences on'y the night afore, and they must
+stay in for the week. He said that was the law. Some of 'em talked about
+giving 'im 'is sixpences back, but Bob said if they did they must pay up
+all the sixpences they had 'ad for three weeks. The end of it was they
+said they'd stay in for that week and not a moment longer.
+
+The next day Sam Jones and Peter Gubbins altered their minds. Sam found
+a couple o' shillings that his wife 'ad hidden in her Sunday bonnet, and
+Peter Gubbins opened 'is boy's money-box to see 'ow much there was in
+it. They came up to the Cauliflower to pay Bob their eighteen-pences,
+but he wasn't there, and when they went to his 'ouse Mrs. Pretty said as
+'ow he'd gone off to Wickham and wouldn't be back till Saturday. So they
+'ad to spend the money on beer instead.
+
+That was on Tuesday, and things went on all right till Friday, when Mr.
+Sutton 'ad another shoot. The birds was getting scarce and the gentlemen
+that anxious to shoot them there was no 'olding them. Once or twice the
+keepers spoke to 'em about carefulness, and said wot large families
+they'd got, but it wasn't much good. They went on blazing away, and just
+at the corner of the wood Sam Jones and Peter Gubbins was both hit; Sam
+in the leg and Peter in the arm.
+
+The noise that was made was awful—everybody shouting that they 'adn't
+done it, and all speaking at once, and Mr. Sutton was dancing about
+a'most beside 'imself with rage. Pore Sam and Peter was 'elped along by
+the others; Sam being carried and Peter led, and both of 'em with the
+idea of getting all they could out of it, making such 'orrible noises
+that Mr. Sutton couldn't hear 'imself calling his friends names.
+
+“There seems to be wounded men calling out all over the place,” he ses,
+in a temper.
+
+“I think there is another one over there, sir,” ses one o' the keepers,
+pointing.
+
+Sam Jones and Peter Gubbins both left off to listen, and then they all
+heard it distinctly. A dreadful noise it was, and when Mr. Sutton and
+one or two more follered it up they found poor Walter Bell lying on 'is
+face in a bramble.
+
+“Wot's the matter?” ses Mr. Sutton, shouting at 'im.
+
+“I've been shot from behind,” ses Walter. “I'd got something in my boot,
+and I was just stooping down to fasten it up agin when I got it.
+
+“But there oughtn't to be anybody 'ere,” ses Mr. Sutton to one of the
+keepers.
+
+“They get all over the place, sir,” ses the 'keeper, scratching his
+'ead. “I fancied I 'eard a gun go off here a minute or two arter the
+others was shot.”
+
+“I believe he's done it 'imself,” says Mr. Sutton, stamping his foot.
+
+“I don't see 'ow he could, sir,” ses the keeper, touching his cap and
+looking at Walter as was still lying with 'is face on 'is arms.
+
+They carried Walter 'ome that way on a hurdle, and Dr. Green spent all
+the rest o' that day picking shots out o' them three men and telling 'em
+to keep still. He 'ad to do Sam Jones by candle-light, with Mrs. Jones
+'olding the candle with one hand and crying with the other. Twice the
+doctor told her to keep it steady, and poor Sam 'ad only just passed the
+remark, “How 'ot it was for October,” when they discovered that the bed
+was on fire. The doctor said that Sam was no trouble. He got off of the
+bed by 'imself, and, when it was all over and the fire put out, the
+doctor found him sitting on the stairs with the leg of a broken chair in
+'is hand calling for 'is wife.
+
+Of course, there was a terrible to-do about it in Claybury, and up at
+the Hall, too. All of the gentlemen said as 'ow they hadn't done it, and
+Mr. Sutton was arf crazy with rage. He said that they 'ad made 'im the
+laughing-stock of the neighbourhood, and that they oughtn't to shoot
+with anything but pop-guns. They got to such high words over it that two
+of the gentlemen went off 'ome that very night.
+
+There was a lot of talk up at the Cauliflower, too, and more than one
+pointed out 'ow lucky Bob Pretty was in getting four men out of the six
+in his club. As I said afore, Bob was away at the time, but he came back
+the next night and we 'ad the biggest row here you could wish for to
+see.
+
+Henery Walker began it. “I s'pose you've 'eard the dreadful news, Bob
+Pretty?” he ses, looking at 'im.
+
+“I 'ave,” ses Bob; “and my 'art bled for 'em. I told you wot those
+gentlemen was like, didn't I? But none of you would believe me. Now you
+can see as I was right.”
+
+“It's very strange,” ses Henery Walker, looking round; “it's very
+strange that all of us wot's been shot belonged to Bob Pretty's precious
+club.”
+
+“It's my luck, Henery,” ses Bob, “always was lucky from a child.”
+
+“And I s'pose you think you're going to 'ave arf of the money they get?”
+ses Henery Walker.
+
+“Don't talk about money while them pore chaps is suffering,” ses Bob.
+“I'm surprised at you, Henery.”
+
+“You won't 'ave a farthing of it,” ses Henery Walker; “and wot's more,
+Bob Pretty, I'm going to 'ave my five pounds back.”
+
+“Don't you believe it, Henery,” ses Bob, smiling at 'im.
+
+“I'm going to 'ave my five pounds back,” ses Henery, “and you know why.
+I know wot your club was for now, and we was all a pack o' silly fools
+not to see it afore.”
+
+“Speak for yourself, Henery,” ses John Biggs, who thought Henery was
+looking at 'im.
+
+“I've been putting two and two together,” ses Henery, looking round,
+“and it's as plain as the nose on your face. Bob Pretty hid up in the
+wood and shot us all himself!”
+
+For a moment you might 'ave heard a pin drop, and then there was such a
+noise nobody could hear theirselves speak. Everybody was shouting his
+'ardest, and the on'y quiet one there was Bob Pretty 'imself.
+
+“Poor Henery; he's gorn mad,” he ses, shaking his 'ead.
+
+“You're a murderer,” ses Ralph Thomson, shaking 'is fist at him.
+
+“Henery Walker's gorn mad,” ses Bob agin. “Why, I ain't been near the
+place. There's a dozen men'll swear that I was at Wickham each time
+these misfortunate accidents 'appened.”
+
+“Men like you, they'd swear anything for a pot o' beer,” ses Henery.
+“But I'm not going to waste time talking to you, Bob Pretty. I'm going
+straight off to tell Mr. Sutton.”
+
+“I shouldn't do that if I was you, Henery,” ses Bob.
+
+“I dessay,” ses Henery Walker; “but then you see I am.”
+
+“I thought you'd gorn mad, Henery,” ses Bob, taking a drink o' beer that
+somebody 'ad left on the table by mistake, “and now I'm sure of it. Why,
+if you tell Mr. Sutton that it wasn't his friends that shot them pore
+fellers he won't pay them anything. 'Tain't likely 'e would, is it?”
+
+Henery Walker, wot 'ad been standing up looking fierce at 'im, sat down
+agin, struck all of a heap.
+
+“And he might want your ten pounds back, Henery,” said Bob in a soft
+voice. “And seeing as 'ow you was kind enough to give five to me, and
+spent most of the other, it 'ud come 'ard on you, wouldn't it? Always
+think afore you speak, Henery. I always do.”
+
+Henery Walker got up and tried to speak, but 'e couldn't, and he didn't
+get 'is breath back till Bob said it was plain to see that he 'adn't got
+a word to say for 'imself. Then he shook 'is fist at Bob and called 'im
+a low, thieving, poaching murderer.
+
+“You're not yourself, Henery,” ses Bob. “When you come round you'll be
+sorry for trying to take away the character of a pore labourin' man with
+a ailing wife and a large family. But if you take my advice you won't
+say anything more about your wicked ideas; if you do, these pore fellers
+won't get a farthing. And you'd better keep quiet about the club mates
+for their sakes. Other people might get the same crazy ideas in their
+silly 'eads as Henery. Keepers especially.”
+
+That was on'y common sense; but, as John Biggs said, it did seem 'ard to
+think as 'ow Bob Pretty should be allowed to get off scot-free, and with
+Henery Walker's five pounds too. “There's one thing,” he ses to Bob;
+“you won't 'ave any of these other pore chaps money; and, if they're
+men, they ought to make it up to Henery Walker for the money he 'as
+saved 'em by finding you out.”
+
+“They've got to pay me fust,” ses Bob. “I'm a pore man, but I'll stick
+up for my rights. As for me shooting 'em, they'd ha' been 'urt a good
+deal more if I'd done it—especially Mr. Henery Walker. Why, they're
+hardly 'urt at all.”
+
+“Don't answer 'im, Henery,” ses John Biggs. “You save your breath to go
+and tell Sam Jones and the others about it. It'll cheer 'em up.”
+
+“And tell 'em about my arf, in case they get too cheerful and go
+overdoing it,” ses Bob Pretty, stopping at the door. “Good-night all.”
+
+Nobody answered 'im; and arter waiting a little bit Henery Walker set
+off to see Sam Jones and the others. John Biggs was quite right about
+its making 'em cheerful, but they see as plain as Bob 'imself that it
+'ad got to be kept quiet. “Till we've spent the money, at any rate,” ses
+Walter Bell; “then p'r'aps Mr. Sutton might get Bob locked up for it.”
+
+Mr. Sutton went down to see 'em all a day or two afterwards. The
+shooting-party was broken up and gone 'ome, but they left some money
+behind 'em. Ten pounds each they was to 'ave, same as the others, but
+Mr. Sutton said that he 'ad heard 'ow the other money was wasted at the
+Cauliflower, and 'e was going to give it out to 'em ten shillings a week
+until the money was gorn. He 'ad to say it over and over agin afore they
+understood 'im, and Walter Bell 'ad to stuff the bedclo'es in 'is mouth
+to keep civil.
+
+Peter Gubbins, with 'is arm tied up in a sling, was the fust one to turn
+up at the Cauliflower, and he was that down-'arted about it we couldn't
+do nothing with 'im. He 'ad expected to be able to pull out ten golden
+sovereigns, and the disapp'intment was too much for 'im.
+
+“I wonder 'ow they heard about it,” ses Dicky Weed.
+
+“I can tell you,” ses Bob Pretty, wot 'ad been sitting up in a corner by
+himself, nodding and smiling at Peter, wot wouldn't look at 'im. “A
+friend o' mine at Wickham wrote to him about it. He was so disgusted at
+the way Bill Chambers and Henery Walker come up 'ere wasting their
+'ard-earned money, that he sent 'im a letter, signed 'A Friend of the
+Working Man,' telling 'im about it and advising 'im what to do.”
+
+“A friend o' yours?” ses John Biggs, staring at 'im. “What for?”
+
+“I don't know,” ses Bob; “he's a wunnerful good scholard, and he likes
+writin' letters. He's going to write another to-morrer, unless I go over
+and stop 'im.”
+
+“Another?” ses Peter, who 'ad been tellin' everybody that 'e wouldn't
+speak to 'im agin as long as he lived. “Wot about?”
+
+“About the idea that I shot you all,” ses Bob. “I want my character
+cleared. O' course, they can't prove anything against me—I've got my
+witnesses. But, taking one thing with another, I see now that it does
+look suspicious, and I don't suppose any of you'll get any more of your
+money. Mr. Sutton is so sick o' being laughed at, he'll jump at
+anything.”
+
+“You dursn't do it, Bob,” ses Peter, all of a tremble.
+
+“It ain't me, Peter, old pal,” ses Bob, “it's my friend. But I don't
+mind stopping 'im for the sake of old times if I get my arf. He'd listen
+to me, I feel sure.”
+
+At fust Peter said he wouldn't get a farthing out of 'im if his friend
+wrote letters till Dooms-day; but by-and-by he thought better of it, and
+asked Bob to stay there while he went down to see Sam and Walter about
+it. When 'e came back he'd got the fust week's money for Bob Pretty; but
+he said he left Walter Bell carrying on like a madman, and, as for Sam
+Jones, he was that upset 'e didn't believe he'd last out the night.
+
+
+
+
+THE TEMPTATION OF SAMUEL BURGE
+
+
+
+
+Mr. Higgs, jeweller, sat in the small parlour behind his shop, gazing
+hungrily at a supper-table which had been laid some time before. It was
+a quarter to ten by the small town clock on the mantelpiece, and the
+jeweller rubbing his hands over the fire tried in vain to remember what
+etiquette had to say about starting a meal before the arrival of an
+expected guest.
+
+“He must be coming by the last train after all, sir,” said the
+housekeeper entering the room and glancing at the clock. “I suppose
+these London gentlemen keep such late hours they don't understand us
+country folk wanting to get to bed in decent time. You must be wanting
+your supper, sir.”
+
+Mr. Higgs sighed. “I shall be glad of my supper,” he said slowly, “but I
+dare say our friend is hungrier still. Travelling is hungry work.”
+
+“Perhaps he is thinking over his words for the seventh day,” said the
+housekeeper solemnly. “Forgetting hunger and thirst and all our poor
+earthly feelings in the blessedness of his work.”
+
+“Perhaps so,” assented the other, whose own earthly feelings were
+particularly strong just at that moment.
+
+“Brother Simpson used to forget all about meal-times when he stayed
+here,” said the housekeeper, clasping her hands. “He used to sit by the
+window with his eyes half-closed and shake his head at the smell from
+the kitchen and call it flesh-pots of Egypt. He said that if it wasn't
+for keeping up his strength for the work, luscious bread and fair water
+was all he wanted. I expect Brother Burge will be a similar sort of
+man.”
+
+“Brother Clark wrote and told me that he only lives for the work,” said
+the jeweller, with another glance at the clock. “The chapel at
+Clerkenwell is crowded to hear him. It's a blessed favour and privilege
+to have such a selected instrument staying in the house. I'm curious to
+see him; from what Brother Clark said I rather fancy that he was a
+little bit wild in his younger days.”
+
+“Hallelujah!” exclaimed the housekeeper with fervour. “I mean to think
+as he's seen the error of his ways,” she added sharply, as her master
+looked up.
+
+“There he is,” said the latter, as the bell rang.
+
+The housekeeper went to the side-door, and drawing back the bolt
+admitted the gentleman whose preaching had done so much for the small
+but select sect known as the Seventh Day Primitive Apostles. She came
+back into the room followed by a tall stout man, whose upper lip and
+short stubby beard streaked with grey seemed a poor match for the beady
+eyes which lurked behind a pair of clumsy spectacles.
+
+“Brother Samuel Burge?” inquired the jeweller, rising.
+
+The visitor nodded, and regarding him with a smile charged with
+fraternal love, took his hand in a huge grip and shook it fervently.
+
+“I am glad to see you, Brother Higgs,” he said, regarding him fondly.
+“Oh, 'ow my eyes have yearned to be set upon you! Oh, 'ow my ears 'ave
+longed to hearken unto the words of your voice!”
+
+He breathed thickly, and taking a seat sat with his hands upon his
+knees, looking at a fine piece of cold beef which the housekeeper had
+just placed upon the table.
+
+“Is Brother Clark well?” inquired the jeweller, placing a chair for him
+at the table and taking up his carving-knife.
+
+“Dear Brother Clark is in excellent 'ealth, I thank you,” said the
+other, taking the proffered chair. “Oh! what a man he is; what a
+instrument for good. Always stretching out them blessed hands of 'is to
+make one of the fallen a Seventh Day Primitive.”
+
+“And success attends his efforts?” said the jeweller.
+
+“Success, Brother!” repeated Mr. Burge, eating rapidly and gesticulating
+with his knife. “Success ain't no name for it. Why, since this day last
+week he has saved three pick-pockets, two Salvationists, one bigamist
+and a Roman Catholic.”
+
+Brother Higgs murmured his admiration. “You are also a power for good,”
+he said wistfully. “Brother Clark tells me in his letter that your
+exhortations have been abundantly blessed.”
+
+Mr. Burge shook his head. “A lot of it falls by the wayside,” he said
+modestly, “but some of it is an eye-opener to them as don't entirely
+shut their ears. Only the day before yesterday I 'ad two jemmies and a
+dark lantern sent me with a letter saying as 'ow the owner had no
+further use for 'em.”
+
+The jeweller's eyes glistened with admiration not quite untinged with
+envy. “Have you expounded the Word for long?” he inquired.
+
+“Six months,” replied the other. “It come to me quite natural—I was on
+the penitent bench on the Saturday, and the Wednesday afterwards I
+preached as good a sermon as ever I've preached in my life. Brother
+Clark said it took 'is breath away.”
+
+“And he's a judge too,” said the admiring jeweller.
+
+“Now,” continued Brother Burge, helping himself plentifully to pickled
+walnuts. “Now there ain't standing room in our Bethel when I'm
+expounding. People come to hear me from all parts—old and young—rich and
+poor—and the Apostles that don't come early 'ave to stand outside and
+catch the crumbs I throw 'em through the winders.”
+
+“It is enough,” sighed Brother Higgs, whose own audience was frequently
+content to be on the wrong side of the window, “it is enough to make a
+man vain.”
+
+“I struggle against it, Brother,” said Mr. Burge, passing his cup up for
+some more tea. “I fight against it hard, but once the Evil One was
+almost too much for me; and in spite of myself, and knowing besides that
+it was a plot of 'is, I nearly felt uplifted.”
+
+Brother Higgs, passing him some more beef, pressed for details.
+
+“He sent me two policemen,” replied the other, scowling darkly at the
+meanness of the trick. “One I might 'ave stood, but two come to being
+pretty near too much for me. They sat under me while I gave 'em the Word
+'ot and strong, and the feeling I had standing up there and telling
+policemen what they ought to do I shall never forget.”
+
+“But why should policemen make you proud?” asked his puzzled listener.
+
+Mr. Burge looked puzzled in his turn. “Why, hasn't Brother Clark told
+you about me?” he inquired.
+
+Mr. Higgs shook his head. “He sort of—suggested that—that you had been a
+little bit wild before you came to us,” he murmured apologetically.
+
+“A—little—bit—wild?” repeated Brother Burge, in horrified accents. “ME?
+a little bit wild?”
+
+“No doubt he exaggerated a little,” said the jeweller hurriedly. “Being
+such a good man himself, no doubt things would seem wild to him that
+wouldn't to us—to me, I mean.”
+
+“A little bit wild,” said his visitor again. “Sam Burge, the Converted
+Burglar, a little bit wild. Well, well!”
+
+“Converted what?” shouted the jeweller, half-rising from his chair.
+
+“Burglar,” said the other shortly. “Why, I should think I know more
+about the inside o' gaols than anybody in England; I've pretty near
+killed three policemen, besides breaking a gent's leg and throwing a
+footman out of window, and then Brother Clark goes and says I've been a
+little bit wild. I wonder what he would 'ave?”
+
+“But you—you've quite reformed now?” said the jeweller, resuming his
+seat and making a great effort to hide his consternation.
+
+“I 'ope so,” said Mr. Burge, with alarming humility; “but it's an
+uncertain world, and far be it from me to boast. That's why I've come
+here.”
+
+Mr. Higgs, only half-comprehending, sat back gasping.
+
+“If I can stand this,” pursued Brother Burge, gesticulating wildly in
+the direction of the shop, “if I can stand being here with all these
+'ere pretty little things to be 'ad for the trouble of picking of 'em
+up, I can stand anything. Tempt me, I says to Brother Clark. Put me in
+the way o' temptation, I says. Let me see whether the Evil One or me is
+the strongest; let me 'ave a good old up and down with the Powers o'
+Darkness, and see who wins.”
+
+Mr. Higgs, gripping the edge of the table with both hands, gazed at this
+new Michael in speechless consternation.
+
+“I think I see his face now,” said Brother Burge, with tender
+enthusiasm. “All in a glow it was, and he patted me on the shoulder and
+says, 'I'll send you on a week's mission to Duncombe,' he says, and 'you
+shall stop with Brother Higgs who 'as a shop full o' cunning wrought
+vanities in silver and gold.'”
+
+“But suppose,” said the jeweller, finding his voice by a great effort,
+“suppose victory is not given unto you.”
+
+“It won't make any difference,” replied his visitor. “Brother Clark
+promised that it shouldn't. 'If you fall, Brother,' he says, 'we'll help
+you up again. When you are tired of sin come back to us—there's always a
+welcome.'”
+
+“But—” began the dismayed jeweller.
+
+“We can only do our best,” said Brother Burge, “the rest we must leave.
+I 'ave girded my loins for the fray, and taken much spiritual sustenance
+on the way down from this little hymn-book.”
+
+Mr. Higgs paid no heed. He sat marvelling over the fatuousness of
+Brother Clark and trying to think of ways and means out of the dilemma
+into which that gentleman's perverted enthusiasm had placed him. He
+wondered whether it would be possible to induce Brother Burge to sleep
+elsewhere by offering to bear his hotel expenses, and at last, after
+some hesitation, broached the subject.
+
+“What!” exclaimed the other, pushing his plate from him and regarding
+him with great severity. “Go and sleep at a hotel? After Brother Clark
+has been and took all this trouble? Why, I wouldn't think of doing such
+a thing.”
+
+“Brother Clark has no right to expose you to such a trial,” said Mr.
+Higgs with great warmth.
+
+“I wonder what he'd say if he 'eard you,” remarked Mr. Burge sternly.
+“After his going and making all these arrangements, for you to try and
+go and upset 'em. To ask me to shun the fight like a coward; to ask me
+to go and hide in the rear-ranks in a hotel with everything locked up,
+or a Coffer Pallis with nothing to steal.”
+
+“I should sleep far more comfortably if I knew that you were not
+undergoing this tremendous strain,” said the unhappy Mr. Higgs, “and
+besides that, if you did give way, it would be a serious business for me
+—that's what I want you to look at. I am afraid that if—if unhappily you
+did fall, I couldn't prevent you.”
+
+“I'm sure you couldn't,” said the other cordially. “That's the beauty of
+it; that's when the Evil One's whispers get louder and louder. Why, I
+could choke you between my finger and thumb. If unfortunately my fallen
+nature should be too strong for me, don't interfere whatever you do. I
+mightn't be myself.”
+
+Mr. Higgs rose and faced him gasping.
+
+“Not even—call for—the police—I suppose,” he jerked out.
+
+“That would be interfering,” said Brother Burge coldly.
+
+The jeweller tried to think. It was past eleven. The housekeeper had
+gone to spend the night with an ailing sister, and a furtive glance at
+Brother Burge's small shifty eyes and fat unwholesome face was
+sufficient to deter him from leaving him alone with his property, while
+he went to ask the police to give an eye to his house for the night.
+Besides, it was more than probable that Mr. Burge would decline to allow
+such a proceeding. With a growing sense of his peril he resolved to try
+flattery.
+
+“It was a great thing for the Brethren to secure a man like you,” he
+said.
+
+“I never thought they'd ha' done it,” said Mr. Burge frankly. “I've 'ad
+all sorts trying to convert me; crying over me and praying over me. I
+remember the first dear good man that called me a lorst lamb. He didn't
+say anything else for a month.”
+
+“So upset,” hazarded the jeweller.
+
+“I broke his jor, pore feller,” said Brother Burge, a sad but withal
+indulgent smile lighting up his face at the vagaries of his former
+career. “What time do you go to bed, Brother?”
+
+“Any time,” said the other reluctantly. “I suppose you are tired with
+your journey?”
+
+Mr. Burge assented, and rising from his chair yawned loudly and
+stretched himself. In the small room with his huge arms raised he looked
+colossal.
+
+“I suppose,” said the jeweller, still seeking to re-assure himself, “I
+suppose dear Brother Clark felt pretty certain of you, else he wouldn't
+have sent you here?”
+
+“Brother Clark said 'What is a jeweller's shop compared with a 'uman
+soul, a priceless 'uman soul?'” replied Mr. Burge. “What is a few
+gew-gaws to decorate them that perish, and make them vain, when you come
+to consider the opportunity of such a trial, and the good it'll do and
+the draw it'll be—if I do win—and testify to the congregation to that
+effect? Why, there's sermons for a lifetime in it.”
+
+“So there is,” said the jeweller, trying to look cheerful. “You've got a
+good face, Brother Burge, and you'll do a lot of good by your preaching.
+There is honesty written in every feature.”
+
+Mr. Burge turned and surveyed himself in the small pier-glass. “Yes,” he
+said, somewhat discontentedly, “I don't look enough like a burglar to
+suit some of 'em.”
+
+“Some people are hard to please,” said the other warmly.
+
+Mr. Burge started and eyed him thoughtfully, and then as Mr. Higgs after
+some hesitation walked into the shop to turn the gas out, stood in the
+doorway watching him. A smothered sigh as he glanced round the shop bore
+witness to the state of his feelings.
+
+The jeweller hesitated again in the parlour, and then handing Brother
+Burge his candle turned out the gas, and led the way slowly upstairs to
+the room which had been prepared for the honoured visitor. He shook
+hands at the door and bade him an effusive good-night, his voice
+trembling despite himself as he expressed a hope that Mr. Burge would
+sleep well. He added casually that he himself was a very light sleeper.
+
+To-night sleep of any kind was impossible. He had given up the front
+room to his guest, and his own window looked out on an over-grown
+garden. He sat trying to read, with his ears alert for the slightest
+sound. Brother Burge seemed to be a long time undressing. For half an
+hour after he had retired he could hear him moving restlessly about his
+room.
+
+Twelve o'clock struck from the tower of the parish church, and was
+followed almost directly by the tall clock standing in the hall
+down-stairs. Scarcely had the sounds died away than a low moaning from
+the next room caused the affrighted jeweller to start from his chair and
+place his ear against the wall. Two or three hollow groans came through
+the plaster, followed by ejaculations which showed clearly that Brother
+Burge was at that moment engaged in a terrified combat with the Powers
+of Darkness to decide whether he should, or should not, rifle his host's
+shop. His hands clenched and his ear pressed close to the wall, the
+jeweller listened to a monologue which increased in interest with every
+word.
+
+“I tell you I won't,” said the voice in the next room with a groan, “I
+won't. Get thee behind me—Get thee—No, and don't shove me over to the
+door; if you can't get behind me without doing that, stay where you are.
+Yes, I know it's a fortune as well as what you do; but it ain't mine.”
+
+The listener caught his breath painfully.
+
+“Diamond rings,” continued Brother Burge in a suffocating voice. “Stop
+it, I tell you. No, I won't just go and look at 'em.”
+
+A series of groans which the jeweller noticed to his horror got weaker
+and weaker testified to the greatness of the temptation. He heard
+Brother Burge rise, and then a succession of panting snarls seemed to
+indicate a fierce bodily encounter.
+
+“I don't—want to look at 'em,” said Brother Burge in an exhausted voice.
+“What's—the good of—looking at 'em? It's like you, you know diamonds are
+my weakness. What does it matter if he is asleep? What's my knife got to
+do with you?”
+
+Brother Higgs reeled back and a mist passed before his eyes. He came to
+himself at the sound of a door opening, and impelled with a vague idea
+of defending his property, snatched up his candle and looked out on to
+the landing.
+
+The light fell on Brother Burge, fully dressed and holding his boots in
+his hand. For a moment they gazed at each other in silence; then the
+jeweller found his voice.
+
+“I thought you were ill, Brother,” he faltered.
+
+An ugly scowl lit up the other's features. “Don't you tell me any of
+your lies,” he said fiercely. “You're watching me; that's what you're
+doing. Spying on me.”
+
+“I thought that you were being tempted,” confessed the trembling Mr.
+Higgs.
+
+An expression of satisfaction which he strove to suppress appeared on
+Mr. Burge's face.
+
+“So I was,” he said sternly. “So I was; but that's my business. I don't
+want your assistance; I can fight my own battles. You go to bed—I'm
+going to tell the congregation I won the fight single-'anded.”
+
+“So you have, Brother,” said the other eagerly; “but it's doing me good
+to see it. It's a lesson to me; a lesson to all of us the way you
+wrestled.”
+
+“I thought you was asleep,” growled Brother Burge, turning back to his
+room and speaking over his shoulder. “You get back to bed; the fight
+ain't half over yet. Get back to bed and keep quiet.”
+
+The door closed behind him, and Mr. Higgs, still trembling, regained his
+room and looked in agony at the clock. It was only half-past twelve and
+the sun did not rise until six. He sat and shivered until a second
+instalment of groans in the next room brought him in desperation to his
+feet.
+
+Brother Burge was in the toils again, and the jeweller despite his fears
+could not help realizing what a sensation the story of his temptation
+would create. Brother Burge was now going round and round his room like
+an animal in a cage, and sounds as of a soul wrought almost beyond
+endurance smote upon the listener's quivering ear. Then there was a long
+silence more alarming even than the noise of the conflict. Had Brother
+Burge won, and was he now sleeping the sleep of the righteous, or—— Mr.
+Higgs shivered and put his other ear to the wall. Then he heard his
+guest move stealthily across the floor; the boards creaked and the
+handle of the door turned.
+
+Mr. Higgs started, and with a sudden flash of courage born of anger and
+desperation seized a small brass poker from the fire-place, and taking
+the candle in his other hand went out on to the landing again. Brother
+Burge was closing his door softly, and his face when he turned it upon
+the jeweller was terrible in its wrath. His small eyes snapped with
+fury, and his huge hands opened and shut convulsively.
+
+“What, agin!” he said in a low growl. “After all I told you!”
+
+Mr. Higgs backed slowly as he advanced.
+
+“No noise,” said Mr. Burge in a dreadful whisper. “One scream and I'll—
+What were you going to do with that poker?”
+
+He took a stealthy step forward.
+
+“I—I,” began the jeweller. His voice failed him. “Burglars,” he mouthed,
+“downstairs.”
+
+“What?” said the other, pausing.
+
+Mr. Higgs threw truth to the winds. “I heard them in the shop,” he said,
+recovering, “that's why I took up the poker. Can't you hear them?”
+
+Mr. Burge listened for the fraction of a second. “Nonsense,” he said
+huskily.
+
+“I heard them talking,” said the other recklessly. “Let's go down and
+call the police.”
+
+“Call 'em from the winder,” said Brother Burge, backing with some haste,
+“they might 'ave pistols or something, and they're ugly customers when
+they're disturbed.”
+
+He stood with strained face listening.
+
+“Here they come,” whispered the jeweller with a sudden movement of
+alarm.
+
+Brother Burge turned, and bolting into his room clapped the door to and
+locked it. The jeweller stood dumbfounded on the landing; then he heard
+the window go up and the voice of Brother Burge, much strengthened by
+the religious exercises of the past six months, bellowing lustily for
+the police.
+
+For a few seconds Mr. Higgs stood listening and wondering what
+explanation he should give. Still thinking, he ran downstairs, and,
+throwing open the pantry window, unlocked the door leading into the shop
+and scattered a few of his cherished possessions about the floor. By the
+time he had done this, people were already beating upon the street-door
+and exchanging hurried remarks with Mr. Burge at the window above. The
+jeweller shot back the bolts, and half-a-dozen neighbours, headed by the
+butcher opposite, clad in his nightgown and armed with a cleaver, burst
+into the passage. A constable came running up just as the pallid face of
+Brother Burge peered over the balusters. The constable went upstairs
+three at a time, and twisting his hand in the ex-burglar's neck-cloth
+bore him backwards.
+
+“I've got one,” he shouted. “Come up and hold him while I look round.”
+
+The butcher was beside him in a moment; Brother Burge struggling wildly,
+called loudly upon the name of Brother Higgs.
+
+“That's all right, constable,” said the latter, “that's a friend of
+mine.”
+
+“Friend o' yours, sir?” said the disappointed officer, still holding
+him.
+
+The jeweller nodded. “Mr. Samuel Burge the Converted Burglar,” he said
+mechanically.
+
+“Conver——” gasped the astonished constable. “Converted burglar? Here!”
+
+“He is a preacher now,” added Mr. Higgs.
+
+“Preacher?” retorted the constable. “Why it's as plain as a pikestaff.
+Confederates: his part was to go down and let 'em in.”
+
+Mr. Burge raised a piteous outcry. “I hope you may be forgiven for them
+words,” he cried piously.
+
+“What time did you go up to bed?” pursued the constable.
+
+“About half-past eleven,” replied Mr. Higgs.
+
+The other grunted with satisfaction. “And he's fully dressed, with his
+boots off,” he remarked. “Did you hear him go out of his room at all?”
+
+“He did go out,” said the jeweller truth-fully, “but——”
+
+“I thought so,” said the constable, turning to his prisoner with
+affectionate solicitude. “Now you come along o' me. Come quietly,
+because it'll be the best for you in the end.”
+
+“You won't get your skull split open then,” added the butcher, toying
+with his cleaver.
+
+The jeweller hesitated. He had no desire to be left alone with Mr. Burge
+again; and a sense of humour, which many years' association with the
+Primitive Apostles had not quite eradicated, strove for hearing.
+
+“Think of the sermon it'll make,” he said encouragingly to the frantic
+Mr. Burge, “think of the congregation!”
+
+Brother Burge replied in language which he had not used in public since
+he had joined the Apostles. The butcher and another man stood guard over
+him while the constable searched the premises and made all secure again.
+Then with a final appeal to Mr. Higgs who was keeping in the background,
+he was pitched to the police-station by the energetic constable and five
+zealous assistants.
+
+A diffidence, natural in the circumstances, prevented him from narrating
+the story of his temptation to the magistrates next morning, and Mr.
+Higgs was equally reticent. He was put back while the police
+communicated with London, and in the meantime Brother Clark and a band
+of Apostles flanked down to his support.
+
+On his second appearance before the magistrates he was confronted with
+his past; and his past to the great astonishment of the Brethren being
+free from all blemish with the solitary exception of fourteen days for
+stealing milk-cans, he was discharged with a caution. The disillusioned
+Primitive Apostles also gave him his freedom.
+
+
+
+
+THE MADNESS OF MR. LISTER
+
+
+
+
+Old Jem Lister, of the Susannah, was possessed of two devils—the love of
+strong drink and avarice—and the only thing the twain had in common was
+to get a drink without paying for it. When Mr. Lister paid for a drink,
+the demon of avarice masquerading as conscience preached a teetotal
+lecture, and when he showed signs of profiting by it, the demon of drink
+would send him hanging round public-house doors cadging for drinks in a
+way which his shipmates regarded as a slur upon the entire ship's
+company. Many a healthy thirst reared on salt beef and tickled with
+strong tobacco had been spoiled by the sight of Mr. Lister standing by
+the entrance, with a propitiatory smile, waiting to be invited in to
+share it, and on one occasion they had even seen him (him, Jem Lister,
+A.B.) holding a horse's head, with ulterior motives.
+
+It was pointed out to Mr. Lister at last that his conduct was reflecting
+discredit upon men who were fully able to look after themselves in that
+direction, without having any additional burden thrust upon them. Bill
+Henshaw was the spokesman, and on the score of violence (miscalled
+firmness) his remarks left little to be desired. On the score of
+profanity, Bill might recall with pride that in the opinion of his
+fellows he had left nothing unsaid.
+
+“You ought to ha' been a member o' Parliament, Bill,” said Harry Lea,
+when he had finished.
+
+“It wants money,” said Henshaw, shaking his head.
+
+Mr. Lister laughed, a senile laugh, but not lacking in venom.
+
+“That's what we've got to say,” said Henshaw, turning upon him suddenly.
+“If there's anything I hate in this world, it's a drinking miser. You
+know our opinion, and the best thing you can do is to turn over a new
+leaf now.”
+
+“Take us all in to the Goat and Compasses,” urged Lea; “bring out some
+o' those sovrins you've been hoarding.”
+
+Mr. Lister gazed at him with frigid scorn, and finding that the
+conversation still seemed to centre round his unworthy person, went up
+on deck and sat glowering over the insults which had been heaped upon
+him. His futile wrath when Bill dogged his footsteps ashore next day and
+revealed his character to a bibulous individual whom he had almost
+persuaded to be a Christian—from his point of view—bordered upon the
+maudlin, and he wandered back to the ship, wild-eyed and dry of throat.
+
+For the next two months it was safe to say that every drink he had he
+paid for. His eyes got brighter and his complexion clearer, nor was he
+as pleased as one of the other sex might have been when the
+self-satisfied Henshaw pointed out these improvements to his companions,
+and claimed entire responsibility for them. It is probable that Mr.
+Lister, under these circumstances, might in time have lived down his
+taste for strong drink, but that at just that time they shipped a new
+cook.
+
+He was a big, cadaverous young fellow, who looked too closely after his
+own interests to be much of a favourite with the other men forward. On
+the score of thrift, it was soon discovered that he and Mr. Lister had
+much in common, and the latter, pleased to find a congenial spirit, was
+disposed to make the most of him, and spent, despite the heat, much of
+his spare time in the galley.
+
+“You keep to it,” said the greybeard impressively; “money was made to be
+took care of; if you don't spend your money you've always got it. I've
+always been a saving man—what's the result?”
+
+The cook, waiting some time in patience to be told, gently inquired what
+it was.
+
+“'Ere am I,” said Mr. Lister, good-naturedly helping him to cut a
+cabbage, “at the age of sixty-two with a bank-book down below in my
+chest, with one hundered an' ninety pounds odd in it.”
+
+“One 'undered and ninety pounds!” repeated the cook, with awe.
+
+“To say nothing of other things,” continued Mr. Lister, with joyful
+appreciation of the effect he was producing. “Altogether I've got a
+little over four 'undered pounds.”
+
+The cook gasped, and with gentle firmness took the cabbage from him as
+being unfit work for a man of such wealth.
+
+“It's very nice,” he said, slowly. “It's very nice. You'll be able to
+live on it in your old age.”
+
+Mr. Lister shook his head mournfully, and his eyes became humid.
+
+“There's no old age for me,” he said, sadly; “but you needn't tell
+them,” and he jerked his thumb towards the forecastle.
+
+“No, no,” said the cook.
+
+“I've never been one to talk over my affairs,” said Mr. Lister, in a low
+voice. “I've never yet took fancy enough to anybody so to do. No, my
+lad, I'm saving up for somebody else.”
+
+“What are you going to live on when you're past work then?” demanded the
+other.
+
+Mr. Lister took him gently by the sleeve, and his voice sank with the
+solemnity of his subject: “I'm not going to have no old age,” he said,
+resignedly.
+
+“Not going to live!” repeated the cook, gazing uneasily at a knife by
+his side. “How do you know?”
+
+“I went to a orsepittle in London,” said Mr. Lister. “I've been to two
+or three altogether, while the money I've spent on doctors is more than
+I like to think of, and they're all surprised to think that I've lived
+so long. I'm so chock-full o' complaints, that they tell me I can't live
+more than two years, and I might go off at any moment.”
+
+“Well, you've got money,” said the cook, “why don't you knock off work
+now and spend the evenin' of your life ashore? Why should you save up
+for your relatives?”
+
+“I've got no relatives,” said Mr. Lister; “I'm all alone. I 'spose I
+shall leave my money to some nice young feller, and I hope it'll do 'im
+good.”
+
+With the dazzling thoughts which flashed through the cook's brain the
+cabbage dropped violently into the saucepan, and a shower of cooling
+drops fell on both men.
+
+“I 'spose you take medicine?” he said, at length.
+
+“A little rum,” said Mr. Lister, faintly; “the doctors tell me that it
+is the only thing that keeps me up—o' course, the chaps down there “—he
+indicated the forecastle again with a jerk of his head—“accuse me o'
+taking too much.”
+
+“What do ye take any notice of 'em for?” inquired the other,
+indignantly.
+
+“I 'spose it is foolish,” admitted Mr. Lister; “but I don't like being
+misunderstood. I keep my troubles to myself as a rule, cook. I don't
+know what's made me talk to you like this. I 'eard the other day you was
+keeping company with a young woman.”
+
+“Well, I won't say as I ain't,” replied the other, busying himself over
+the fire.
+
+“An' the best thing, too, my lad,” said the old man, warmly. “It keeps
+you stiddy, keeps you out of public-'ouses; not as they ain't good in
+moderation—I 'ope you'll be 'appy.”
+
+A friendship sprang up between the two men which puzzled the remainder
+of the crew not a little.
+
+The cook thanked him, and noticed that Mr. Lister was fidgeting with a
+piece of paper.
+
+“A little something I wrote the other day,” said the old man, catching
+his eye. “If I let you see it, will you promise not to tell a soul about
+it, and not to give me no thanks?”
+
+The wondering cook promised, and, the old man being somewhat emphatic on
+the subject, backed his promise with a home made affidavit of singular
+power and profanity.
+
+“Here it is, then,” said Mr. Lister.
+
+The cook took the paper, and as he read the letters danced before him.
+He blinked his eyes and started again, slowly. In plain black and white
+and nondescript-coloured finger-marks, Mr. Lister, after a general
+statement as to his bodily and mental health, left the whole of his
+estate to the cook. The will was properly dated and witnessed, and the
+cook's voice shook with excitement and emotion as he offered to hand it
+back.
+
+“I don't know what I've done for you to do this,” he said.
+
+Mr. Lister waved it away again. “Keep it,” he said, simply; “while
+you've got it on you, you'll know it's safe.”
+
+From this moment a friendship sprang up between the two men which
+puzzled the remainder of the crew not a little. The attitude of the cook
+was as that of a son to a father: the benignancy of Mr. Lister beautiful
+to behold. It was noticed, too, that he had abandoned the reprehensible
+practice of hanging round tavern doors in favour of going inside and
+drinking the cook's health.
+
+For about six months the cook, although always in somewhat straitened
+circumstances, was well content with the tacit bargain, and then, bit by
+bit, the character of Mr. Lister was revealed to him. It was not a nice
+character, but subtle; and when he made the startling discovery that a
+will could be rendered invalid by the simple process of making another
+one the next day, he became as a man possessed. When he ascertained that
+Mr. Lister when at home had free quarters at the house of a married
+niece, he used to sit about alone, and try and think of ways and means
+of securing capital sunk in a concern which seemed to show no signs of
+being wound-up.
+
+“I've got a touch of the 'art again, lad,” said the elderly invalid, as
+they sat alone in the forecastle one night at Seacole.
+
+“You move about too much,” said the cook. “Why not turn in and rest?”
+
+Mr. Lister, who had not expected this, fidgeted. “I think I'll go ashore
+a bit and try the air,” he said, suggestively. “I'll just go as far as
+the Black Horse and back. You won't have me long now, my lad.”
+
+“No, I know,” said the cook; “that's what's worrying me a bit.” “Don't
+worry about me,” said the old man, pausing with his hand on the other's
+shoulder; “I'm not worth it. Don't look so glum, lad.”
+
+“I've got something on my mind, Jem,” said the cook, staring straight in
+front of him.
+
+“What is it?” inquired Mr. Lister.
+
+“You know what you told me about those pains in your inside?” said the
+cook, without looking at him.
+
+Jem groaned and felt his side.
+
+“And what you said about its being a relief to die,” continued the
+other, “only you was afraid to commit suicide?”
+
+“Well?” said Mr. Lister.
+
+“It used to worry me,” continued the cook, earnestly. “I used to say to
+myself, 'Poor old Jem,' I ses, 'why should 'e suffer like this when he
+wants to die? It seemed 'ard.'”
+
+“It is 'ard,” said Mr. Lister, “but what about it?”
+
+The other made no reply, but looking at him for the first time, surveyed
+him with a troubled expression.
+
+“What about it?” repeated Mr. Lister, with some emphasis.
+
+“You did say you wanted to die, didn't you?” said the cook. “Now suppose
+suppose——”
+
+“Suppose what?” inquired the old man, sharply. “Why don't you say what
+you're agoing to say?”
+
+“Suppose,” said the cook, “some one what liked you, Jem—what liked you,
+mind—'eard you say this over and over again, an' see you sufferin' and
+'eard you groanin' and not able to do nothin' for you except lend you a
+few shillings here and there for medicine, or stand you a few glasses o'
+rum; suppose they knew a chap in a chemist's shop?”
+
+“Suppose they did?” said the other, turning pale.
+
+“A chap what knows all about p'isons,” continued the cook, “p'isons what
+a man can take without knowing it in 'is grub. Would it be wrong, do you
+think, if that friend I was speaking about put it in your food to put
+you out of your misery?”
+
+“Wrong,” said Mr. Lister, with glassy eyes. “Wrong. Look 'ere, cook—”
+
+“I don't mean anything to give him pain,” said the other, waving his
+hand; “you ain't felt no pain lately, 'ave you, Jem?”
+
+“Do you mean to say!” shouted Mr. Lister.
+
+“I don't mean to say anything,” said the cook. “Answer my question. You
+ain't felt no pain lately, 'ave you?”
+
+“Have—you—been—putting—p'ison—in—my—wittles?” demanded Mr. Lister, in
+trembling accents.
+
+“If I 'ad, Jem, supposin' that I 'ad,” said the cook, in accents of
+reproachful surprise, “do you mean to say that you'd mind?”
+
+“MIND,” said Mr. Lister, with fervour. “I'd 'ave you 'ung!”
+
+“But you said you wanted to die,” said the surprised cook.
+
+Mr. Lister swore at him with startling vigour. “I'll 'ave you 'ung,” he
+repeated, wildly.
+
+“Me,” said the cook, artlessly. “What for?”
+
+“For giving me p'ison,” said Mr. Lister, frantically. “Do you think you
+can deceive me by your roundabouts? Do you think I can't see through
+you?”
+
+The other with a sphinx-like smile sat unmoved. “Prove it,” he said,
+darkly. “But supposin' if anybody 'ad been givin' you p'ison, would you
+like to take something to prevent its acting?”
+
+“I'd take gallons of it,” said Mr. Lister, feverishly.
+
+The other sat pondering, while the old man watched him anxiously. “It's
+a pity you don't know your own mind, Jem,” he said, at length; “still,
+you know your own business best. But it's very expensive stuff.”
+
+“How much?” inquired the other.
+
+“Well, they won't sell more than two shillings-worth at a time,” said
+the cook, trying to speak carelessly, “but if you like to let me 'ave
+the money, I'll go ashore to the chemist's and get the first lot now.”
+
+Mr. Lister's face was a study in emotions, which the other tried in vain
+to decipher.
+
+Then he slowly extracted the amount from his trousers-pocket, and handed
+it over with-out a word.
+
+“I'll go at once,” said the cook, with a little feeling, “and I'll never
+take a man at his word again, Jem.”
+
+He ran blithely up on deck, and stepping ashore, spat on the coins for
+luck and dropped them in his pocket. Down below, Mr. Lister, with his
+chin in his hand, sat in a state of mind pretty evenly divided between
+rage and fear.
+
+The cook, who was in no mood for company, missed the rest of the crew by
+two public-houses, and having purchased a baby's teething powder and
+removed the label, had a congratulatory drink or two before going on
+board again. A chatter of voices from the forecastle warned him that the
+crew had returned, but the tongues ceased abruptly as he descended, and
+three pairs of eyes surveyed him in grim silence.
+
+“What's up?” he demanded.
+
+“Wot 'ave you been doin' to poor old Jem?” demanded Henshaw, sternly.
+
+“Nothin',” said the other, shortly.
+
+“You ain't been p'isoning 'im?” demanded Henshaw.
+
+“Certainly not,” said the cook, emphatically.
+
+“He ses you told 'im you p'isoned 'im,” said Henshaw, solemnly, “and 'e
+give you two shillings to get something to cure 'im. It's too late now.”
+
+“What?” stammered the bewildered cook. He looked round anxiously at the
+men.
+
+They were all very grave, and the silence became oppressive. “Where is
+he?” he demanded.
+
+Henshaw and the others exchanged glances. “He's gone mad,” said he,
+slowly.
+
+“Mad?” repeated the horrified cook, and, seeing the aversion of the
+crew, in a broken voice he narrated the way in which he had been
+victimized.
+
+“Well, you've done it now,” said Henshaw, when he had finished. “He's
+gone right orf 'is 'ed.”
+
+“Where is he?” inquired the cook.
+
+“Where you can't follow him,” said the other, slowly.
+
+“Heaven?” hazarded the unfortunate cook. “No; skipper's bunk,” said Lea.
+
+“Oh, can't I foller 'im?” said the cook, starting up. “I'll soon 'ave
+'im out o' that.”
+
+“Better leave 'im alone,” said Henshaw. “He was that wild we couldn't do
+nothing with 'im, singing an' larfin' and crying all together—I
+certainly thought he was p'isoned.”
+
+“I'll swear I ain't touched him,” said the cook.
+
+“Well, you've upset his reason,” said Henshaw; “there'll be an awful row
+when the skipper comes aboard and finds 'im in 'is bed.
+
+“'Well, come an' 'elp me to get 'im out,” said the cook.
+
+“I ain't going to be mixed up in it,” said Henshaw, shaking his head.
+
+“Don't you, Bill,” said the other two.
+
+“Wot the skipper'll say I don't know,” said Henshaw; “anyway, it'll be
+said to you, not——”
+
+“I'll go and get 'im out if 'e was five madmen,” said the cook,
+compressing his lips.
+
+“You'll harve to carry 'im out, then,” said Henshaw. “I don't wish you
+no 'arm, cook, and perhaps it would be as well to get 'im out afore the
+skipper or mate comes aboard. If it was me, I know what I should do.”
+
+“What?” inquired the cook, breathlessly.
+
+“Draw a sack over his head,” said Henshaw, impressively; “he'll scream
+like blazes as soon as you touch him, and rouse the folks ashore if you
+don't. Besides that, if you draw it well down it'll keep his arms fast.”
+
+The cook thanked him fervently, and routing out a sack, rushed hastily
+on deck, his departure being the signal for Mr. Henshaw and his friends
+to make preparations for retiring for the night so hastily as almost to
+savour of panic.
+
+The cook, after a hasty glance ashore, went softly below with the sack
+over his arm and felt his way in the darkness to the skipper's bunk. The
+sound of deep and regular breathing reassured him, and without undue
+haste he opened the mouth of the sack and gently raised the sleeper's
+head.
+
+“Eh? Wha——” began a sleepy voice.
+
+The next moment the cook had bagged him, and gripping him tightly round
+the middle, turned a deaf ear to the smothered cries of his victim as he
+strove to lift him out of the bunk. In the exciting time which followed,
+he had more than one reason for thinking that he had caught a centipede.
+
+“Now, you keep still,” he cried, breathlessly. “I'm not going to hurt
+you.”
+
+He got his burden out of bed at last, and staggered to the foot of the
+companion-ladder with it. Then there was a halt, two legs sticking
+obstinately across the narrow way and refusing to be moved, while a
+furious humming proceeded from the other end of the sack.
+
+Four times did the exhausted cook get his shoulder under his burden and
+try and push it up the ladder, and four times did it wriggle and fight
+its way down again. Half crazy with fear and rage, he essayed it for the
+fifth time, and had got it half-way up when there was a sudden
+exclamation of surprise from above, and the voice of the mate sharply
+demanding an explanation.
+
+“What the blazes are you up to?” he cried.
+
+“It's all right, sir,” said the panting cook; “old Jem's had a drop too
+much and got down aft, and I'm getting 'im for'ard again.”
+
+“Jem?” said the astonished mate. “Why, he's sitting up here on the
+fore-hatch. He came aboard with me.”
+
+“Sitting,” began the horrified cook; “sit—oh, lor!”
+
+He stood with his writhing burden wedged between his body and the
+ladder, and looked up despairingly at the mate.
+
+“I'm afraid I've made a mistake,” he said in a trembling voice.
+
+The mate struck a match and looked down.
+
+“Take that sack off,” he demanded, sternly.
+
+The cook placed his burden upon its feet, and running up the ladder
+stood by the mate shivering. The latter struck another match, and the
+twain watched in breathless silence the writhings of the strange
+creature below as the covering worked slowly upwards. In the fourth
+match it got free, and revealed the empurpled visage of the master of
+the Susannah. For the fraction of a second the cook gazed at him in
+speechless horror, and then, with a hopeless cry, sprang ashore and ran
+for it, hotly pursued by his enraged victim. At the time of sailing he
+was still absent, and the skipper, loth to part two such friends, sent
+Mr. James Lister, at the urgent request of the anxious crew, to look for
+him.
+
+
+
+
+THE WHITE CAT
+
+
+
+
+The traveller stood looking from the tap-room window of the Cauliflower
+at the falling rain. The village street below was empty, and everything
+was quiet with the exception of the garrulous old man smoking with much
+enjoyment on the settle behind him.
+
+“It'll do a power o' good,” said the ancient, craning his neck round the
+edge of the settle and turning a bleared eye on the window. “I ain't
+like some folk; I never did mind a drop o' rain.”
+
+The traveller grunted and, returning to the settle opposite the old man,
+fell to lazily stroking a cat which had strolled in attracted by the
+warmth of the small fire which smouldered in the grate.
+
+“He's a good mouser,” said the old man, “but I expect that Smith the
+landlord would sell 'im to anybody for arf a crown; but we 'ad a cat in
+Claybury once that you couldn't ha' bought for a hundred golden
+sovereigns.”
+
+The traveller continued to caress the cat.
+
+“A white cat, with one yaller eye and one blue one,” continued the old
+man. “It sounds queer, but it's as true as I sit 'ere wishing that I 'ad
+another mug o' ale as good as the last you gave me.”
+
+The traveller, with a start that upset the cat's nerves, finished his
+own mug, and then ordered both to be refilled. He stirred the fire into
+a blaze, and, lighting his pipe and putting one foot on to the hob,
+prepared to listen.
+
+It used to belong to old man Clark, young Joe Clark's uncle, said the
+ancient, smacking his lips delicately over the ale and extending a
+tremulous claw to the tobacco-pouch pushed towards him; and he was never
+tired of showing it off to people. He used to call it 'is blue-eyed
+darling, and the fuss 'e made o' that cat was sinful.
+
+Young Joe Clark couldn't bear it, but being down in 'is uncle's will for
+five cottages and a bit o' land bringing in about forty pounds a year,
+he 'ad to 'ide his feelings and pretend as he loved it. He used to take
+it little drops o' cream and tit-bits o' meat, and old Clark was so
+pleased that 'e promised 'im that he should 'ave the cat along with all
+the other property when 'e was dead.
+
+Young Joe said he couldn't thank 'im enough, and the old man, who 'ad
+been ailing a long time, made 'im come up every day to teach 'im 'ow to
+take care of it arter he was gone. He taught Joe 'ow to cook its meat
+and then chop it up fine; 'ow it liked a clean saucer every time for its
+milk; and 'ow he wasn't to make a noise when it was asleep.
+
+“Take care your children don't worry it, Joe,” he ses one day, very
+sharp. “One o' your boys was pulling its tail this morning, and I want
+you to clump his 'ead for 'im.”
+
+“Which one was it?” ses Joe.
+
+“The slobbery-nosed one,” ses old Clark.
+
+“I'll give 'im a clout as soon as I get 'ome,” ses Joe, who was very
+fond of 'is children.
+
+“Go and fetch 'im and do it 'ere,” ses the old man; “that'll teach 'im
+to love animals.”
+
+Joe went off 'ome to fetch the boy, and arter his mother 'ad washed his
+face, and wiped his nose, an' put a clean pinneyfore on 'im, he took 'im
+to 'is uncle's and clouted his 'ead for 'im. Arter that Joe and 'is wife
+'ad words all night long, and next morning old Clark, coming in from the
+garden, was just in time to see 'im kick the cat right acrost the
+kitchen.
+
+He could 'ardly speak for a minute, and when 'e could Joe see plain wot
+a fool he'd been. Fust of all 'e called Joe every name he could think
+of— which took 'im a long time—and then he ordered 'im out of 'is house.
+
+“You shall 'ave my money wen your betters have done with it,” he ses,
+“and not afore. That's all you've done for yourself.”
+
+Joe Clark didn't know wot he meant at the time, but when old Clark died
+three months arterwards 'e found out. His uncle 'ad made a new will and
+left everything to old George Barstow for as long as the cat lived,
+providing that he took care of it. When the cat was dead the property
+was to go to Joe.
+
+The cat was only two years old at the time, and George Barstow, who was
+arf crazy with joy, said it shouldn't be 'is fault if it didn't live
+another twenty years.
+
+The funny thing was the quiet way Joe Clark took it. He didn't seem to
+be at all cut up about it, and when Henery Walker said it was a shame,
+'e said he didn't mind, and that George Barstow was a old man, and he
+was quite welcome to 'ave the property as long as the cat lived.
+
+“It must come to me by the time I'm an old man,” he ses, “ard that's all
+I care about.”
+
+Henery Walker went off, and as 'e passed the cottage where old Clark
+used to live, and which George Barstow 'ad moved into, 'e spoke to the
+old man over the palings and told 'im wot Joe Clark 'ad said. George
+Barstow only grunted and went on stooping and prying over 'is front
+garden.
+
+“Bin and lost something?” ses Henery Walker, watching 'im.
+
+“No; I'm finding,” ses George Barstow, very fierce, and picking up
+something. “That's the fifth bit o' powdered liver I've found in my
+garden this morning.”
+
+Henery Walker went off whistling, and the opinion he'd 'ad o' Joe Clark
+began to improve. He spoke to Joe about it that arternoon, and Joe said
+that if 'e ever accused 'im o' such a thing again he'd knock 'is 'ead
+off. He said that he 'oped the cat 'ud live to be a hundred, and that
+'e'd no more think of giving it poisoned meat than Henery Walker would
+of paying for 'is drink so long as 'e could get anybody else to do it
+for 'im.
+
+They 'ad bets up at this 'ere Cauliflower public-'ouse that evening as
+to 'ow long that cat 'ud live. Nobody gave it more than a month, and
+Bill Chambers sat and thought o' so many ways o' killing it on the sly
+that it was wunnerful to hear 'im.
+
+George Barstow took fright when he 'eard of them, and the care 'e took
+o' that cat was wunnerful to behold. Arf its time it was shut up in the
+back bedroom, and the other arf George Barstow was fussing arter it till
+that cat got to hate 'im like pison. Instead o' giving up work as he'd
+thought to do, 'e told Henery Walker that 'e'd never worked so 'ard in
+his life.
+
+“Wot about fresh air and exercise for it?” ses Henery.
+
+“Wot about Joe Clark?” ses George Bar-stow. “I'm tied 'and and foot. I
+dursent leave the house for a moment. I ain't been to the Cauliflower
+since I've 'ad it, and three times I got out o' bed last night to see if
+it was safe.”
+
+“Mark my words,” ses Henery Walker; “if that cat don't 'ave exercise,
+you'll lose it.
+
+“I shall lose it if it does 'ave exercise,” ses George Barstow, “that I
+know.”
+
+He sat down thinking arter Henery Walker 'ad gone, and then he 'ad a
+little collar and chain made for it, and took it out for a walk. Pretty
+nearly every dog in Claybury went with 'em, and the cat was in such a
+state o' mind afore they got 'ome he couldn't do anything with it. It
+'ad a fit as soon as they got indoors, and George Barstow, who 'ad read
+about children's fits in the almanac, gave it a warm bath. It brought it
+round immediate, and then it began to tear round the room and up and
+downstairs till George Barstow was afraid to go near it.
+
+It was so bad that evening, sneezing, that George Barstow sent for Bill
+Chambers, who'd got a good name for doctoring animals, and asked 'im to
+give it something. Bill said he'd got some powders at 'ome that would
+cure it at once, and he went and fetched 'em and mixed one up with a bit
+o' butter.
+
+“That's the way to give a cat medicine,” he ses; “smear it with the
+butter and then it'll lick it off, powder and all.”
+
+He was just going to rub it on the cat when George Barstow caught 'old
+of 'is arm and stopped 'im.
+
+“How do I know it ain't pison?” he ses. “You're a friend o' Joe Clark's,
+and for all I know he may ha' paid you to pison it.”
+
+“I wouldn't do such a thing,” ses Bill. “You ought to know me better
+than that.”
+
+“All right,” ses George Barstow; “you eat it then, and I'll give you two
+shillings in stead o' one. You can easy mix some more.”
+
+“Not me,” ses Bill Chambers, making a face.
+
+“Well, three shillings, then,” ses George Barstow, getting more and more
+suspicious like; “four shillings—five shillings.”
+
+Bill Chambers shook his 'ead, and George Barstow, more and more certain
+that he 'ad caught 'im trying to kill 'is cat and that 'e wouldn't eat
+the stuff, rose 'im up to ten shillings.
+
+Bill looked at the butter and then 'e looked at the ten shillings on the
+table, and at last he shut 'is eyes and gulped it down and put the money
+in 'is pocket.
+
+“You see, I 'ave to be careful, Bill,” ses George Barstow, rather upset.
+
+Bill Chambers didn't answer 'im. He sat there as white as a sheet, and
+making such extraordinary faces that George was arf afraid of 'im.
+
+“Anything wrong, Bill?” he ses at last.
+
+Bill sat staring at 'im, and then all of a sudden he clapped 'is
+'andkerchief to 'is mouth and, getting up from his chair, opened the
+door and rushed out. George Barstow thought at fust that he 'ad eaten
+pison for the sake o' the ten shillings, but when 'e remembered that
+Bill Chambers 'ad got the most delikit stummick in Claybury he altered
+'is mind.
+
+The cat was better next morning, but George Barstow had 'ad such a
+fright about it 'e wouldn't let it go out of 'is sight, and Joe Clark
+began to think that 'e would 'ave to wait longer for that property than
+'e had thought, arter all. To 'ear 'im talk anybody'd ha' thought that
+'e loved that cat. We didn't pay much attention to it up at the
+Cauliflower 'ere, except maybe to wink at 'im—a thing he couldn't a
+bear—but at 'ome, o' course, his young 'uns thought as everything he
+said was Gospel; and one day, coming 'ome from work, as he was passing
+George Barstow's he was paid out for his deceitfulness.
+
+“I've wronged you, Joe Clark,” ses George Barstow, coming to the door,
+“and I'm sorry for it.”
+
+“Oh!” ses Joe, staring.
+
+“Give that to your little Jimmy,” ses George Barstow, giving 'im a
+shilling. “I've give 'im one, but I thought arterwards it wasn't
+enough.”
+
+“What for?” ses Joe, staring at 'im agin.
+
+“For bringing my cat 'ome,” ses George Barstow. “'Ow it got out I can't
+think, but I lost it for three hours, and I'd about given it up when
+your little Jimmy brought it to me in 'is arms. He's a fine little chap
+and 'e does you credit.”
+
+Joe Clark tried to speak, but he couldn't get a word out, and Henery
+Walker, wot 'ad just come up and 'eard wot passed, took hold of 'is arm
+and helped 'im home. He walked like a man in a dream, but arf-way he
+stopped and cut a stick from the hedge to take 'ome to little Jimmy. He
+said the boy 'ad been asking him for a stick for some time, but up till
+then 'e'd always forgotten it.
+
+At the end o' the fust year that cat was still alive, to everybody's
+surprise; but George Barstow took such care of it 'e never let it out of
+'is sight. Every time 'e went out he took it with 'im in a hamper, and,
+to prevent its being pisoned, he paid Isaac Sawyer, who 'ad the biggest
+family in Claybury, sixpence a week to let one of 'is boys taste its
+milk before it had it.
+
+The second year it was ill twice, but the horse-doctor that George
+Barstow got for it said that it was as 'ard as nails, and with care it
+might live to be twenty. He said that it wanted more fresh air and
+exercise; but when he 'eard 'ow George Barstow come by it he said that
+p'r'aps it would live longer indoors arter all.
+
+At last one day, when George Barstow 'ad been living on the fat o' the
+land for nearly three years, that cat got out agin. George 'ad raised
+the front-room winder two or three inches to throw something outside,
+and, afore he knew wot was 'appening, the cat was out-side and going up
+the road about twenty miles an hour.
+
+George Barstow went arter it, but he might as well ha' tried to catch
+the wind. The cat was arf wild with joy at getting out agin, and he
+couldn't get within arf a mile of it.
+
+He stayed out all day without food or drink, follering it about until it
+came on dark, and then, o' course, he lost sight of it, and, hoping
+against 'ope that it would come home for its food, he went 'ome and
+waited for it. He sat up all night dozing in a chair in the front room
+with the door left open, but it was all no use; and arter thinking for a
+long time wot was best to do, he went out and told some o' the folks it
+was lost and offered a reward of five pounds for it.
+
+You never saw such a hunt then in all your life. Nearly every man,
+woman, and child in Claybury left their work or school and went to try
+and earn that five pounds. By the arternoon George Barstow made it ten
+pounds provided the cat was brought 'ome safe and sound, and people as
+was too old to walk stood at their cottage doors to snap it up as it
+came by.
+
+Joe Clark was hunting for it 'igh and low, and so was 'is wife and the
+boys. In fact, I b'lieve that everybody in Claybury excepting the parson
+and Bob Pretty was trying to get that ten pounds.
+
+O' course, we could understand the parson—'is pride wouldn't let 'im;
+but a low, poaching, thieving rascal like Bob Pretty turning up 'is nose
+at ten pounds was more than we could make out. Even on the second day,
+when George Barstow made it ten pounds down and a shilling a week for a
+year besides, he didn't offer to stir; all he did was to try and make
+fun o' them as was looking for it.
+
+“Have you looked everywhere you can think of for it, Bill?” he ses to
+Bill Chambers. “Yes, I 'ave,” ses Bill.
+
+“Well, then, you want to look everywhere else,” ses Bob Pretty. “I know
+where I should look if I wanted to find it.”
+
+“Why don't you find it, then?” ses Bill.
+
+“'Cos I don't want to make mischief,” ses Bob Pretty. “I don't want to
+be unneighbourly to Joe Clark by interfering at all.”
+
+“Not for all that money?” ses Bill.
+
+“Not for fifty pounds,” ses Bob Pretty; “you ought to know me better
+than that, Bill Chambers.”
+
+“It's my belief that you know more about where that cat is than you
+ought to,” ses Joe Gubbins.
+
+“You go on looking for it, Joe,” ses Bob Pretty, grinning; “it's good
+exercise for you, and you've only lost two days' work.”
+
+“I'll give you arf a crown if you let me search your 'ouse, Bob,” ses
+Bill Chambers, looking at 'im very 'ard.
+
+“I couldn't do it at the price, Bill,” ses Bob Pretty, shaking his 'ead.
+“I'm a pore man, but I'm very partikler who I 'ave come into my 'ouse.”
+
+O' course, everybody left off looking at once when they heard about Bob—
+not that they believed that he'd be such a fool as to keep the cat in
+his 'ouse; and that evening, as soon as it was dark, Joe Clark went
+round to see 'im.
+
+“Don't tell me as that cat's found, Joe,” ses Bob Pretty, as Joe opened
+the door.
+
+“Not as I've 'eard of,” said Joe, stepping inside. “I wanted to speak to
+you about it; the sooner it's found the better I shall be pleased.”
+
+“It does you credit, Joe Clark,” ses Bob Pretty.
+
+“It's my belief that it's dead,” ses Joe, looking at 'im very 'ard; “but
+I want to make sure afore taking over the property.”
+
+Bob Pretty looked at 'im and then he gave a little cough. “Oh, you want
+it to be found dead,” he ses. “Now, I wonder whether that cat's worth
+most dead or alive?”
+
+Joe Clark coughed then. “Dead, I should think,” he ses at last. “George
+Barstow's just 'ad bills printed offering fifteen pounds for it,” ses
+Bob Pretty.
+
+“I'll give that or more when I come into the property,” ses Joe Clark.
+
+“There's nothing like ready-money, though, is there?” ses Bob.
+
+“I'll promise it to you in writing, Bob,” ses Joe, trembling.
+
+“There's some things that don't look well in writing, Joe,” says Bob
+Pretty, considering; “besides, why should you promise it to me?”
+
+“O' course, I meant if you found it,” ses Joe.
+
+“Well, I'll do my best, Joe,” ses Bob Pretty; “and none of us can do no
+more than that, can they?”
+
+They sat talking and argufying over it for over an hour, and twice Bob
+Pretty got up and said 'e was going to see whether George Barstow
+wouldn't offer more. By the time they parted they was as thick as
+thieves, and next morning Bob Pretty was wearing Joe Clark's watch and
+chain, and Mrs. Pretty was up at Joe's 'ouse to see whether there was
+any of 'is furniture as she 'ad a fancy for.
+
+She didn't seem to be able to make up 'er mind at fust between a chest
+o' drawers that 'ad belonged to Joe's mother and a grand-father clock.
+She walked from one to the other for about ten minutes, and then Bob,
+who 'ad come in to 'elp her, told 'er to 'ave both.
+
+“You're quite welcome,” he ses; “ain't she, Joe?”
+
+Joe Clark said “Yes,” and arter he 'ad helped them carry 'em 'ome the
+Prettys went back and took the best bedstead to pieces, cos Bob said as
+it was easier to carry that way. Mrs. Clark 'ad to go and sit down at
+the bottom o' the garden with the neck of 'er dress undone to give
+herself air, but when she saw the little Prettys each walking 'ome with
+one of 'er best chairs on their 'eads she got and walked up and down
+like a mad thing.
+
+“I'm sure I don't know where we are to put it all,” ses Bob Pretty to
+Joe Gubbins, wot was looking on with other folks, “but Joe Clark is that
+generous he won't 'ear of our leaving anything.”
+
+“Has 'e gorn mad?” ses Bill Chambers, staring at 'im.
+
+“Not as I knows on,” ses Bob Pretty. “It's 'is good-'artedness, that's
+all. He feels sure that that cat's dead, and that he'll 'ave George
+Barstow's cottage and furniture. I told 'im he'd better wait till he'd
+made sure, but 'e wouldn't.”
+
+Before they'd finished the Prettys 'ad picked that 'ouse as clean as a
+bone, and Joe Clark 'ad to go and get clean straw for his wife and
+children to sleep on; not that Mrs. Clark 'ad any sleep that night, nor
+Joe neither.
+
+Henery Walker was the fust to see what it really meant, and he went
+rushing off as fast as 'e could run to tell George Barstow. George
+couldn't believe 'im at fust, but when 'e did he swore that if a 'air of
+that cat's head was harmed 'e'd 'ave the law o' Bob Pretty, and arter
+Henery Walker 'ad gone 'e walked round to tell 'im so.
+
+“You're not yourself, George Barstow, else you wouldn't try and take
+away my character like that,” ses Bob Pretty.
+
+“Wot did Joe Clark give you all them things for?” ses George, pointing
+to the furniture.
+
+“Took a fancy to me, I s'pose,” ses Bob. “People do sometimes. There's
+something about me at times that makes 'em like me.”
+
+“He gave 'em to you to kill my cat,” ses George Barstow. “It's plain
+enough for any-body to see.”
+
+Bob Pretty smiled. “I expect it'll turn up safe and sound one o' these
+days,” he ses, “and then you'll come round and beg my pardon. P'r'aps—”
+
+“P'r'aps wot?” ses George Barstow, arter waiting a bit.
+
+“P'r'aps somebody 'as got it and is keeping it till you've drawed the
+fifteen pounds out o' the bank,” ses Bob, looking at 'im very hard.
+
+“I've taken it out o' the bank,” ses George, starting; “if that cat's
+alive, Bob, and you've got it, there's the fifteen pounds the moment you
+'and it over.”
+
+“Wot d'ye mean—me got it?” ses Bob Pretty. “You be careful o' my
+character.”
+
+“I mean if you know where it is,” ses George Barstow trembling all over.
+
+“I don't say I couldn't find it, if that's wot you mean,” ses Bob. “I
+can gin'rally find things when I want to.”
+
+“You find me that cat, alive and well, and the money's yours, Bob,” ses
+George, 'ardly able to speak, now that 'e fancied the cat was still
+alive.
+
+Bob Pretty shook his 'ead. “No; that won't do,” he ses. “S'pose I did
+'ave the luck to find that pore animal, you'd say I'd had it all the
+time and refuse to pay.”
+
+“I swear I wouldn't, Bob,” ses George Barstow, jumping up.
+
+“Best thing you can do if you want me to try and find that cat,” says
+Bob Pretty, “is to give me the fifteen pounds now, and I'll go and look
+for it at once. I can't trust you, George Barstow.”
+
+“And I can't trust you,” ses George Barstow.
+
+“Very good,” ses Bob, getting up; “there's no 'arm done. P'r'aps Joe
+Clark 'll find the cat is dead and p'r'aps you'll find it's alive. It's
+all one to me.”
+
+George Barstow walked off 'ome, but he was in such a state o' mind 'e
+didn't know wot to do. Bob Pretty turning up 'is nose at fifteen pounds
+like that made 'im think that Joe Clark 'ad promised to pay 'im more if
+the cat was dead; and at last, arter worrying about it for a couple o'
+hours, 'e came up to this 'ere Cauliflower and offered Bob the fifteen
+pounds.
+
+“Wot's this for?” ses Bob.
+
+“For finding my cat,” ses George.
+
+“Look here,” ses Bob, handing it back, “I've 'ad enough o' your insults;
+I don't know where your cat is.”
+
+“I mean for trying to find it, Bob,” ses George Barstow.
+
+“Oh, well, I don't mind that,” ses Bob, taking it. “I'm a 'ard-working
+man, and I've got to be paid for my time; it's on'y fair to my wife and
+children. I'll start now.”
+
+He finished up 'is beer, and while the other chaps was telling George
+Barstow wot a fool he was Joe Clark slipped out arter Bob Pretty and
+began to call 'im all the names he could think of.
+
+“Don't you worry,” ses Bob; “the cat ain't found yet.”
+
+“Is it dead?” ses Joe Clark, 'ardly able to speak.
+
+“'Ow should I know?” ses Bob; “that's wot I've got to try and find out.
+That's wot you gave me your furniture for, and wot George Barstow gave
+me the fifteen pounds for, ain't it? Now, don't you stop me now, 'cos
+I'm goin' to begin looking.”
+
+He started looking there and then, and for the next two or three days
+George Barstow and Joe Clark see 'im walking up and down with his 'ands
+in 'is pockets looking over garden fences and calling “Puss.” He asked
+everybody 'e see whether they 'ad seen a white cat with one blue eye and
+one yaller one, and every time 'e came into the Cauliflower he put his
+'ead over the bar and called “Puss,” 'cos, as 'e said, it was as likely
+to be there as anywhere else.
+
+It was about a week after the cat 'ad disappeared that George Barstow
+was standing at 'is door talking to Joe Clark, who was saying the cat
+must be dead and 'e wanted 'is property, when he sees a man coming up
+the road carrying a basket stop and speak to Bill Chambers. Just as 'e
+got near them an awful “miaow” come from the basket and George Barstow
+and Joe Clark started as if they'd been shot.
+
+“He's found it?” shouts Bill Chambers, pointing to the man.
+
+“It's been living with me over at Ling for a week pretty nearly,” ses
+the man. “I tried to drive it away several times, not knowing that there
+was fifteen pounds offered for it.”
+
+George Barstow tried to take 'old of the basket.
+
+“I want that fifteen pounds fust,” ses the man.
+
+“That's on'y right and fair, George,” ses Bob Pretty, who 'ad just come
+up. “You've got all the luck, mate. We've been hunting 'igh and low for
+that cat for a week.”
+
+Then George Barstow tried to explain to the man and call Bob Pretty
+names at the same time; but it was all no good. The man said it 'ad
+nothing to do with 'im wot he 'ad paid to Bob Pretty; and at last they
+fetched Policeman White over from Cudford, and George Barstow signed a
+paper to pay five shillings a week till the reward was paid.
+
+George Barstow 'ad the cat for five years arter that, but he never let
+it get away agin. They got to like each other in time and died within a
+fortnight of each other, so that Joe Clark got 'is property arter all.
+
+                                  ――――
+
+
+
+
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