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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:27:37 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6465-0.txt b/6465-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ee8e817 --- /dev/null +++ b/6465-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7067 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Short Cruises, 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: Short Cruises + +Author: W. W. Jacobs + +Illustrator: Will Owen + +Release Date: September 1, 2004 [eBook #6465] +[Most recently updated: December 6, 2023] + +Language: English + +Produced by: Tonya Allen, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT CRUISES *** + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +SHORT CRUISES + +By W. W. JACOBS + + + + +CONTENTS + + THE CHANGELING + MIXED RELATIONS + HIS LORDSHIP + ALF’S DREAM + A DISTANT RELATIVE + THE TEST + IN THE FAMILY + A LOVE-KNOT + HER UNCLE + THE DREAMER + ANGELS’ VISITS + A CIRCULAR TOUR + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + +FROM DRAWINGS BY WILL OWEN + + “‘And what about my voice?’ he demanded” + “‘George!’ she exclaimed sharply” + “He struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked up at the window” + “Mr. Stokes, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away” + “The mate smiled too” + “Sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more than hold his own” + “‘Good-by,’ he said slowly; ‘and I wish you both every happiness’” + “‘She’s got your eyes,’ said his lordship” + “‘I like fools better than lords’” + “He patted ’im on the shoulder and said ’ow well he was filling out” + “Mr. Potter was then introduced and received a gracious reception” + “A gold watch and chain lent an air of substance to his waistcoat” + “‘And we don’t want you following us about,’ said Mr. Dix, sharply” + “‘I tell you he can’t swim,’ repeated Mr. Heard, passionately” + “‘You leave go o’ my lodger,’ ses Bob Pretty” + “He slammed the door in Bob Pretty’s face” + “On the third morning he took Mrs. Bowman out for a walk” + “‘I had forgotten it was there,’ he said, nervously” + “The corner of the trunk took the gesticulating Mr. Wragg by the side of the head” + “‘What did you do that for?’ demanded Mr. Gale, sitting up” + “‘Why didn’t you tell me then?’ ses Ted” + “‘I shall take my opportunity,’ he ses, ‘and break it to ’er gentle like’” + “He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a geranium” + “They offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least a hundred plans for bringing him to his senses” + “‘She asked ’im whether ’e’d got a fancy for any partikler spot to be buried in” + “‘All right,’ ses the cabman, taking his ’orse out and leading it into a stable, ‘mind you don’t catch cold’” + “So long” + + + + +THE CHANGELING + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE CHANGELING + + +Mr. George Henshaw let himself in at the front door, and stood for some +time wiping his boots on the mat. The little house was ominously still, +and a faint feeling, only partially due to the lapse of time since +breakfast, manifested itself behind his waistcoat. He coughed—a +matter-of-fact cough—and, with an attempt to hum a tune, hung his hat +on the peg and entered the kitchen. + +Mrs. Henshaw had just finished dinner. The neatly cleaned bone of a +chop was on a plate by her side; a small dish which had contained a +rice-pudding was empty; and the only food left on the table was a +small rind of cheese and a piece of stale bread. Mr. Henshaw’s face +fell, but he drew his chair up to the table and waited. + +His wife regarded him with a fixed and offensive stare. Her face was +red and her eyes were blazing. It was hard to ignore her gaze; harder +still to meet it. Mr. Henshaw, steering a middle course, allowed his +eyes to wander round the room and to dwell, for the fraction of a +second, on her angry face. + +“You’ve had dinner early?” he said at last, in a trembling voice. + +“Have I?” was the reply. + +Mr. Henshaw sought for a comforting explanation. “Clock’s fast,” he +said, rising and adjusting it. + +His wife rose almost at the same moment, and with slow deliberate +movements began to clear the table. + +“What—what about dinner?” said Mr. Henshaw, still trying to control his +fears. + +“Dinner!” repeated Mrs. Henshaw, in a terrible voice. “You go and tell +that creature you were on the ’bus with to get your dinner.” + +Mr. Henshaw made a gesture of despair. “I tell you,” he said +emphatically, “it wasn’t me. I told you so last night. You get an idea +in your head and—” + +“That’ll do,” said his wife, sharply. “I saw you, George Henshaw, as +plain as I see you now. You were tickling her ear with a bit o’ straw, +and that good-for-nothing friend of yours, Ted Stokes, was sitting +behind with another beauty. Nice way o’ going on, and me at ’ome all +alone by myself, slaving and slaving to keep things respectable!” + +“It wasn’t me,” reiterated the unfortunate. + +“When I called out to you,” pursued the unheeding Mrs. Henshaw, “you +started and pulled your hat over your eyes and turned away. I should +have caught you if it hadn’t been for all them carts in the way and +falling down. I can’t understand now how it was I wasn’t killed; I was +a mask of mud from head to foot.” + +Despite his utmost efforts to prevent it, a faint smile flitted across +the pallid features of Mr. Henshaw. + +“Yes, you may laugh,” stormed his wife, “and I’ve no doubt them two +beauties laughed too. I’ll take care you don’t have much more to laugh +at, my man.” + +She flung out of the room and began to wash up the crockery. Mr. +Henshaw, after standing irresolute for some time with his hands in his +pockets, put on his hat again and left the house. + +He dined badly at a small eating-house, and returned home at six +o’clock that evening to find his wife out and the cupboard empty. He +went back to the same restaurant for tea, and after a gloomy meal went +round to discuss the situation with Ted Stokes. That gentleman’s +suggestion of a double alibi he thrust aside with disdain and a stern +appeal to talk sense. + +“Mind, if my wife speaks to you about it,” he said, warningly, “it +wasn’t me, but somebody like me. You might say he ’ad been mistook for +me before.” + +Mr. Stokes grinned and, meeting a freezing glance from his friend, at +once became serious again. + +“Why not say it was you?” he said stoutly. “There’s no harm in going +for a ’bus-ride with a friend and a couple o’ ladies.” + +“O’ course there ain’t,” said the other, hotly, “else I shouldn’t ha’ +done it. But you know what my wife is.” + +Mr. Stokes, who was by no means a favorite of the lady in question, +nodded. “You _were_ a bit larky, too,” he said thoughtfully. “You ’ad +quite a little slapping game after you pretended to steal her brooch.” + +“I s’pose when a gentleman’s with a lady he ’as got to make ’imself +pleasant?” said Mr. Henshaw, with dignity. “Now, if my missis speaks to +you about it, you say that it wasn’t me, but a friend of yours up from +the country who is as like me as two peas. See?” + +“Name o’ Dodd,” said Mr. Stokes, with a knowing nod. “Tommy Dodd.” + +“I’m not playing the giddy goat,” said the other, bitterly, “and I’d +thank you not to.” + +“All right,” said Mr. Stokes, somewhat taken aback. “Any name you like; +I don’t mind.” + +Mr. Henshaw pondered. “Any sensible name’ll do,” he said, stiffly. + +“Bell?” suggested Mr. Stokes. “Alfred Bell? I did know a man o’ that +name once. He tried to borrow a bob off of me.” + +“That’ll do,” said his friend, after some consideration; “but mind you +stick to the same name. And you’d better make up something about +him—where he lives, and all that sort of thing—so that you can stand +being questioned without looking more like a silly fool than you can +help.” + +“I’ll do what I can for you,” said Mr. Stokes, “but I don’t s’pose your +missis’ll come to me at all. She saw you plain enough.” + +They walked on in silence and, still deep in thought over the matter, +turned into a neighboring tavern for refreshment. Mr. Henshaw drank his +with the air of a man performing a duty to his constitution; but Mr. +Stokes, smacking his lips, waxed eloquent over the brew. + +“I hardly know what I’m drinking,” said his friend, forlornly. “I +suppose it’s four-half, because that’s what I asked for.” + +Mr. Stokes gazed at him in deep sympathy. “It can’t be so bad as that,” +he said, with concern. + +“You wait till you’re married,” said Mr. Henshaw, brusquely. “You’d no +business to ask me to go with you, and I was a good-natured fool to do +it.” + +“You stick to your tale and it’ll be all right,” said the other. “Tell +her that you spoke to me about it, and that his name is Alfred Bell—B E +double L—and that he lives in—in Ireland. Here! I say!” + +“Well,” said Mr. Henshaw, shaking off the hand which the other had laid +on his arm. + +“You—you be Alfred Bell,” said Mr. Stokes, breathlessly. + +Mr. Henshaw started and eyed him nervously. His friend’s eyes were +bright and, he fancied, a bit wild. + +“Be Alfred Bell,” repeated Mr. Stokes. “Don’t you see? Pretend to be +Alfred Bell and go with me to your missis. I’ll lend you a suit o’ +clothes and a fresh neck-tie, and there you are.” + +“_What?_” roared the astounded Mr. Henshaw. + +“It’s as easy as easy,” declared the other. “Tomorrow evening, in a new +rig-out, I walks you up to your house and asks for you to show you to +yourself. Of course, I’m sorry you ain’t in, and perhaps we walks in to +wait for you.” + +“Show me to myself?” gasped Mr. Henshaw. + +Mr. Stokes winked. “On account o’ the surprising likeness,” he said, +smiling. “It is surprising, ain’t it? Fancy the two of us sitting there +and talking to her and waiting for you to come in and wondering what’s +making you so late!” + +Mr. Henshaw regarded him steadfastly for some seconds, and then, taking +a firm hold of his mug, slowly drained the contents. + +“And what about my voice?” he demanded, with something approaching a +sneer. + +“That’s right,” said Mr. Stokes, hotly; “it wouldn’t be you if you +didn’t try to make difficulties.” + +“But what about it?” said Mr. Henshaw, obstinately. + +“You can alter it, can’t you?” said the other. + +They were alone in the bar, and Mr. Henshaw, after some persuasion, was +induced to try a few experiments. He ranged from bass, which hurt his +throat, to a falsetto which put Mr. Stokes’s teeth on edge, but in +vain. The rehearsal was stopped at last by the landlord, who, having +twice come into the bar under the impression that fresh customers had +entered, spoke his mind at some length. “Seem to think you’re in a +blessed monkey-house,” he concluded, severely. + +“We thought we was,” said Mr. Stokes, with a long appraising sniff, as +he opened the door. “It’s a mistake anybody might make.” + +He pushed Mr. Henshaw into the street as the landlord placed a hand on +the flap of the bar, and followed him out. + +“You’ll have to ’ave a bad cold and talk in ’usky whispers,” he said +slowly, as they walked along. “You caught a cold travelling in the +train from Ireland day before yesterday, and you made it worse going +for a ride on the outside of a ’bus with me and a couple o’ ladies. +See? Try ’usky whispers now.” + +Mr. Henshaw tried, and his friend, observing that he was taking but a +languid interest in the scheme, was loud in his praises. “I should +never ’ave known you,” he declared. “Why, it’s wonderful! Why didn’t +you tell me you could act like that?” + +Mr. Henshaw remarked modestly that he had not been aware of it himself, +and, taking a more hopeful view of the situation, whispered himself +into such a state of hoarseness that another visit for refreshment +became absolutely necessary. + +“Keep your ’art up and practise,” said Mr. Stokes, as he shook hands +with him some time later. “And if you can manage it, get off at four +o’clock to-morrow and we’ll go round to see her while she thinks you’re +still at work.” + + +[Illustration: “‘And what about my voice?’ he demanded.”] + + +Mr. Henshaw complimented him upon his artfulness, and, with some +confidence in a man of such resource, walked home in a more cheerful +frame of mind. His heart sank as he reached the house, but to his +relief the lights were out and his wife was in bed. + +He was up early next morning, but his wife showed no signs of rising. +The cupboard was still empty, and for some time he moved about hungry +and undecided. Finally he mounted the stairs again, and with a view to +arranging matters for the evening remonstrated with her upon her +behavior and loudly announced his intention of not coming home until +she was in a better frame of mind. From a disciplinary point of view +the effect of the remonstrance was somewhat lost by being shouted +through the closed door, and he also broke off too abruptly when Mrs. +Henshaw opened it suddenly and confronted him. Fragments of the +peroration reached her through the front door. + +Despite the fact that he left two hours earlier, the day passed but +slowly, and he was in a very despondent state of mind by the time he +reached Mr. Stokes’s lodging. The latter, however, had cheerfulness +enough for both, and, after helping his visitor to change into fresh +clothes and part his hair in the middle instead of at the side, +surveyed him with grinning satisfaction. Under his directions Mr. +Henshaw also darkened his eyebrows and beard with a little burnt cork +until Mr. Stokes declared that his own mother wouldn’t know him. + +“Now, be careful,” said Mr. Stokes, as they set off. “Be bright and +cheerful; be a sort o’ ladies’ man to her, same as she saw you with the +one on the ’bus. Be as unlike yourself as you can, and don’t forget +yourself and call her by ’er pet name.” + +“Pet name!” said Mr. Henshaw, indignantly. “Pet name! You’ll alter your +ideas of married life when you’re caught, my lad, I can tell you!” + +He walked on in scornful silence, lagging farther and farther behind as +they neared his house. When Mr. Stokes knocked at the door he stood +modestly aside with his back against the wall of the next house. + +“Is George in?” inquired Mr. Stokes, carelessly, as Mrs. Henshaw opened +the door. + +“No,” was the reply. + +Mr. Stokes affected to ponder; Mr. Henshaw instinctively edged away. + +“He ain’t in,” said Mrs. Henshaw, preparing to close the door. + +“I wanted to see ’im partikler,” said Mr. Stokes, slowly. “I brought a +friend o’ mine, name o’ Alfred Bell, up here on purpose to see ’im.” + +Mrs. Henshaw, following the direction of his eyes, put her head round +the door. + +“George!” she exclaimed, sharply. + +Mr. Stokes smiled. “That ain’t George,” he said, gleefully; “That’s my +friend, Mr. Alfred Bell. Ain’t it a extraordinary likeness? Ain’t it +wonderful? That’s why I brought ’im up; I wanted George to see ’im.” + +Mrs. Henshaw looked from one to the other in wrathful bewilderment. + +“His living image, ain’t he?” said Mr. Stokes. “This is my pal George’s +missis,” he added, turning to Mr. Bell. + +“Good afternoon to you,” said that gentleman, huskily. + +“He got a bad cold coming from Ireland,” explained Mr. Stokes, “and, +foolish-like, he went outside a ’bus with me the other night and made +it worse.” + +“Oh-h!” said Mrs. Henshaw, slowly. “Indeed! Really!” + +“He’s quite curious to see George,” said Mr. Stokes. “In fact, he was +going back to Ireland tonight if it ’adn’t been for that. He’s waiting +till to-morrow just to see George.” + +Mr. Bell, in a voice huskier than ever, said that he had altered his +mind again. + + +[Illustration: “‘George!’ she exclaimed, sharply.”] + + +“Nonsense!” said Mr. Stokes, sternly. “Besides, George would like to +see you. I s’pose he won’t be long?” he added, turning to Mrs. Henshaw, +who was regarding Mr. Bell much as a hungry cat regards a plump +sparrow. + +“I don’t suppose so,” she said, slowly. + +“I dare say if we wait a little while—” began Mr. Stokes, ignoring a +frantic glance from Mr. Henshaw. + +“Come in,” said Mrs. Henshaw, suddenly. + +Mr. Stokes entered and, finding that his friend hung back, went out +again and half led, half pushed him indoors. Mr. Bell’s shyness he +attributed to his having lived so long in Ireland. + +“He is quite the ladies’ man, though,” he said, artfully, as they +followed their hostess into the front room. “You should ha’ seen ’im +the other night on the ’bus. We had a couple o’ lady friends o’ mine +with us, and even the conductor was surprised at his goings on.” + +Mr. Bell, by no means easy as to the results of the experiment, scowled +at him despairingly. + +“Carrying on, was he?” said Mrs. Henshaw, regarding the culprit +steadily. + +“Carrying on like one o’clock,” said the imaginative Mr. Stokes. +“Called one of ’em his little wife, and asked her where ’er +wedding-ring was.” + +“I didn’t,” said Mr. Bell, in a suffocating voice. “I didn’t.” + +“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Mr. Stokes, virtuously. “Only, +as I said to you at the time, ‘Alfred,’ I says, ‘it’s all right for you +as a single man, but you might be the twin-brother of a pal o’ +mine—George Henshaw by name—and if some people was to see you they +might think it was ’im.’ Didn’t I say that?” + +“You did,” said Mr. Bell, helplessly. + +“And he wouldn’t believe me,” said Mr. Stokes, turning to Mrs. Henshaw. +“That’s why I brought him round to see George.” + +“I should like to see the two of ’em together myself,” said Mrs. +Henshaw, quietly. “I should have taken him for my husband anywhere.” + +“You wouldn’t if you’d seen ’im last night,” said Mr. Stokes, shaking +his head and smiling. + +“Carrying on again, was he?” inquired Mrs. Henshaw, quickly. + +“No!” said Mr. Bell, in a stentorian whisper. + +His glance was so fierce that Mr. Stokes almost quailed. “I won’t tell +tales out of school,” he said, nodding. + +“Not if I ask you to?” said Mrs. Henshaw, with a winning smile. + +“Ask ’im,” said Mr. Stokes. + +“Last night,” said the whisperer, hastily, “I went for a quiet walk +round Victoria Park all by myself. Then I met Mr. Stokes, and we had +one half-pint together at a public-house. That’s all.” + +Mrs. Henshaw looked at Mr. Stokes. Mr. Stokes winked at her. + +“It’s as true as my name is—Alfred Bell,” said that gentleman, with +slight but natural hesitation. + +“Have it your own way,” said Mr. Stokes, somewhat perturbed at Mr. +Bell’s refusal to live up to the character he had arranged for him. + +“I wish my husband spent his evenings in the same quiet way,” said Mrs. +Henshaw, shaking her head. + +“Don’t he?” said Mr. Stokes. “Why, he always seems quiet enough to me. +Too quiet, I should say. Why, I never knew a quieter man. I chaff ’im +about it sometimes.” + +“That’s his artfulness,” said Mrs. Henshaw. + +“Always in a hurry to get ’ome,” pursued the benevolent Mr. Stokes. + +“He may say so to you to get away from you,” said Mrs. Henshaw, +thoughtfully. “He does say you’re hard to shake off sometimes.” + +Mr. Stokes sat stiffly upright and threw a fierce glance in the +direction of Mr. Henshaw. + +“Pity he didn’t tell me,” he said bitterly. “I ain’t one to force my +company where it ain’t wanted.” + +“I’ve said to him sometimes,” continued Mrs. Henshaw, “‘Why don’t you +tell Ted Stokes plain that you don’t like his company?’ but he won’t. +That ain’t his way. He’d sooner talk of you behind your back.” + +“What does he say?” inquired Mr. Stokes, coldly ignoring a frantic +headshake on the part of his friend. + +“Promise me you won’t tell him if I tell you,” said Mrs. Henshaw. + +Mr. Stokes promised. + +“I don’t know that I ought to tell you,” said Mrs. Henshaw, +reluctantly, “but I get so sick and tired of him coming home and +grumbling about you.” + +“Go on,” said the waiting Stokes. + +Mrs. Henshaw stole a glance at him. “He says you act as if you thought +yourself everybody,” she said, softly, “and your everlasting clack, +clack, clack, worries him to death.” + +“Go on,” said the listener, grimly. + +“And he says it’s so much trouble to get you to pay for your share of +the drinks that he’d sooner pay himself and have done with it.” + +Mr. Stokes sprang from his chair and, with clenched fists, stood +angrily regarding the horrified Mr. Bell. He composed himself by an +effort and resumed his seat. + +“Anything else?” he inquired. + +“Heaps and heaps of things,” said Mrs. Henshaw; “but I don’t want to +make bad blood between you.” + +“Don’t mind me,” said Mr. Stokes, glancing balefully over at his +agitated friend. “P’raps I’ll tell you some things about him some day.” + +“It would be only fair,” said Mrs. Henshaw, quickly. “Tell me now; I +don’t mind Mr. Bell hearing; not a bit.” + +Mr. Bell spoke up for himself. “I don’t want to hear family secrets,” +he whispered, with an imploring glance at the vindictive Mr. Stokes. +“It wouldn’t be right.” + +“Well, _I_ don’t want to say things behind a man’s back,” said the +latter, recovering himself. “Let’s wait till George comes in, and I’ll +say ’em before his face.” + +Mrs. Henshaw, biting her lip with annoyance, argued with him, but in +vain. Mr. Stokes was firm, and, with a glance at the clock, said that +George would be in soon and he would wait till he came. + +Conversation flagged despite the efforts of Mrs. Henshaw to draw Mr. +Bell out on the subject of Ireland. At an early stage of the catechism +he lost his voice entirely, and thereafter sat silent while Mrs. +Henshaw discussed the most intimate affairs of her husband’s family +with Mr. Stokes. She was in the middle of an anecdote about her +mother-in-law when Mr. Bell rose and, with some difficulty, intimated +his desire to depart. + +“What, without seeing George?” said Mrs. Henshaw. “He can’t be long +now, and I should like to see you together.” + +“P’r’aps we shall meet him,” said Mr. Stokes, who was getting rather +tired of the affair. “Good night.” + +He led the way to the door and, followed by the eager Mr. Bell, passed +out into the street. The knowledge that Mrs. Henshaw was watching him +from the door kept him silent until they had turned the corner, and +then, turning fiercely on Mr. Henshaw, he demanded to know what he +meant by it. + +“I’ve done with you,” he said, waving aside the other’s denials. “I’ve +got you out of this mess, and now I’ve done with you. It’s no good +talking, because I don’t want to hear it.” + +“Good-by, then,” said Mr. Henshaw, with unexpected hauteur, as he came +to a standstill. + +“I’ll ’ave my trousers first, though,” said Mr. Stokes, coldly, “and +then you can go, and welcome.” + +“It’s my opinion she recognized me, and said all that just to try us,” +said the other, gloomily. + +Mr. Stokes scorned to reply, and reaching his lodging stood by in +silence while the other changed his clothes. He refused Mr. Henshaw’s +hand with a gesture he had once seen on the stage, and, showing him +downstairs, closed the door behind him with a bang. + +Left to himself, the small remnants of Mr. Henshaw’s courage +disappeared. He wandered forlornly up and down the streets until past +ten o’clock, and then, cold and dispirited, set off in the direction of +home. At the corner of the street he pulled himself together by a great +effort, and walking rapidly to his house put the key in the lock and +turned it. + +The door was fast and the lights were out. He knocked, at first +lightly, but gradually increasing in loudness. At the fourth knock a +light appeared in the room above, the window was raised, and Mrs. +Henshaw leaned out + +“_Mr. Bell!_” she said, in tones of severe surprise. + +“_Bell?_” said her husband, in a more surprised voice still. “It’s me, +Polly.” + +“Go away at once, sir!” said Mrs. Henshaw, indignantly. “How dare you +call me by my Christian name? I’m surprised at you!” + +“It’s me, I tell you—George!” said her husband, desperately. “What do +you mean by calling me Bell?” + + +[Illustration: “He struck a match and, holding it before his face, +looked up at the window.”] + + +“If you’re Mr. Bell, as I suppose, you know well enough,” said Mrs. +Henshaw, leaning out and regarding him fixedly; “and if you’re George +you don’t.” + +“I’m George,” said Mr. Henshaw, hastily. + +“I’m sure I don’t know what to make of it,” said Mrs. Henshaw, with a +bewildered air. “Ted Stokes brought round a man named Bell this +afternoon so like you that I can’t tell the difference. I don’t know +what to do, but I do know this—I don’t let you in until I have seen you +both together, so that I can tell which is which.” + +“Both together!” exclaimed the startled Mr. Henshaw. “Here—look here!” + +He struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked up at the +window. Mrs. Henshaw scrutinized him gravely. + +“It’s no good,” she said, despairingly. “I can’t tell. I must see you +both together.” + +Mr. Henshaw ground his teeth. “But where is he?” he inquired. + +“He went off with Ted Stokes,” said his wife. “If you’re George you’d +better go and ask him.” + +She prepared to close the window, but Mr. Henshaw’s voice arrested her. + +“And suppose he is not there?” he said. + +Mrs. Henshaw reflected. “If he is not there bring Ted Stokes back with +you,” she said at last, “and if he says you’re George, I’ll let you +in.” The window closed and the light disappeared. Mr. Henshaw waited +for some time, but in vain, and, with a very clear idea of the +reception he would meet with at the hands of Mr. Stokes, set off to his +lodging. + +If anything, he had underestimated his friend’s powers. Mr. Stokes, +rudely disturbed just as he had got into bed, was the incarnation of +wrath. He was violent, bitter, and insulting in a breath, but Mr. +Henshaw was desperate, and Mr. Stokes, after vowing over and over again +that nothing should induce him to accompany him back to his house, was +at last so moved by his entreaties that he went upstairs and equipped +himself for the journey. + +“And, mind, after this I never want to see your face again,” he said, +as they walked swiftly back. + +Mr. Henshaw made no reply. The events of the day had almost exhausted +him, and silence was maintained until they reached the house. Much to +his relief he heard somebody moving about upstairs after the first +knock, and in a very short time the window was gently raised and Mrs. +Henshaw looked out. + +“What, you’ve come back?” she said, in a low, intense voice. “Well, of +all the impudence! How dare you carry on like this?” + +“It’s me,” said her husband. + +“Yes, I see it is,” was the reply. + +“It’s him right enough; it’s your husband,” said Mr. Stokes. “Alfred +Bell has gone.” + +“How dare you stand there and tell me them falsehoods!” exclaimed Mrs. +Henshaw. “I wonder the ground don’t open and swallow you up. It’s Mr. +Bell, and if he don’t go away I’ll call the police.” + +Messrs. Henshaw and Stokes, amazed at their reception, stood blinking +up at her. Then they conferred in whispers. + +“If you can’t tell ’em apart, how do you know this is Mr. Bell?” +inquired Mr. Stokes, turning to the window again. + +“How do I know?” repeated Mrs. Henshaw. “How do I know? Why, because my +husband came home almost directly Mr. Bell had gone. I wonder he didn’t +meet him.” + +“Came home?” cried Mr. Henshaw, shrilly. “_Came home_?” + +“Yes; and don’t make so much noise,” said Mrs. Henshaw, tartly; “he’s +asleep.” + +The two gentlemen turned and gazed at each other in stupefaction. Mr. +Stokes was the first to recover, and, taking his dazed friend by the +arm, led him gently away. At the end of the street he took a deep +breath, and, after a slight pause to collect his scattered energies, +summed up the situation. + + +[Illustration: “Mr. Stokes, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led +him gently away.”] + + +“She’s twigged it all along,” he said, with conviction. “You’ll have to +come home with me tonight, and to-morrow the best thing you can do is +to make a clean breast of it. It was a silly game, and, if you +remember, I was against it from the first.” + + + + +MIXED RELATIONS + + +[Illustration] + + + + +MIXED RELATIONS + + +The brig _Elizabeth Barstow_ came up the river as though in a hurry to +taste again the joys of the Metropolis. The skipper, leaning on the +wheel, was in the midst of a hot discussion with the mate, who was +placing before him the hygienic, economical, and moral advantages of +total abstinence in language of great strength but little variety. + +“Teetotallers eat more,” said the skipper, finally. + +The mate choked, and his eye sought the galley. “Eat more?” he +spluttered. “Yesterday the meat was like brick-bats; to-day it tasted +like a bit o’ dirty sponge. I’ve lived on biscuits this trip; and the +only tater I ate I’m going to see a doctor about direckly I get ashore. +It’s a sin and a shame to spoil good food the way ’e does.” + +“The moment I can ship another cook he goes,” said the skipper. “He +seems busy, judging by the noise.” + +“I’m making him clean up everything, ready for the next,” explained the +mate, grimly. “And he ’ad the cheek to tell me he’s +improving—improving!” + +“He’ll go as soon as I get another,” repeated the skipper, stooping and +peering ahead. “I don’t like being poisoned any more than you do. He +told me he could cook when I shipped him; said his sister had taught +him.” + +The mate grunted and, walking away, relieved his mind by putting his +head in at the galley and bidding the cook hold up each separate +utensil for his inspection. A hole in the frying-pan the cook modestly +attributed to elbow-grease. + +The river narrowed, and the brig, picking her way daintily through the +traffic, sought her old berth at Buller’s Wharf. It was occupied by a +deaf sailing-barge, which, moved at last by self-interest, not +unconnected with its paint, took up a less desirable position and +consoled itself with adjectives. + +The men on the wharf had gone for the day, and the crew of the +_Elizabeth Barstow_, after making fast, went below to prepare +themselves for an evening ashore. Standing before the largest +saucepan-lid in the galley, the cook was putting the finishing touches +to his toilet. + +A light, quick step on the wharf attracted the attention of the skipper +as he leaned against the side smoking. It stopped just behind him, and +turning round he found himself gazing into the soft brown eyes of the +prettiest girl he had ever seen. + +“Is Mr. Jewell on board, please?” she asked, with a smile. + +“Jewell?” repeated the skipper. “Jewell? Don’t know the name.” + +“He was on board,” said the girl, somewhat taken aback. “This is the +_Elizabeth Barstow_, isn’t it?” + +“What’s his Christian name?” inquired the skipper, thoughtfully. + +“Albert,” replied the girl. “Bert,” she added, as the other shook his +head. + +“Oh, the cook!” said the skipper. “I didn’t know his name was Jewell. +Yes, he’s in the galley.” + +He stood eyeing her and wondering in a dazed fashion what she could see +in a small, white-faced, slab-sided—— + +The girl broke in upon his meditations. “How does he cook?” she +inquired, smiling. + +He was about to tell her, when he suddenly remembered the cook’s +statement as to his instructor. + +“He’s getting on,” he said, slowly; “he’s getting on. Are you his +sister?” + +The girl smiled and nodded. “Ye—es,” she said, slowly. “Will you tell +him I am waiting for him, please?” + +The skipper started and drew himself up; then he walked forward and put +his head in at the galley. + +“Bert,” he said, in a friendly voice, “your sister wants to see you.” + +“_Who?_” inquired Mr. Jewell, in the accents of amazement. He put his +head out at the door and nodded, and then, somewhat red in the face +with the exercise, drew on his jacket and walked towards her. The +skipper followed. + +“Thank you,” said the girl, with a pleasant smile. + +“You’re quite welcome,” said the skipper. + +Mr. Jewell stepped ashore and, after a moment of indecision, shook +hands with his visitor. + +“If you’re down this way again,” said the skipper, as they turned away, +“perhaps you’d like to see the cabin. We’re in rather a pickle just +now, but if you should happen to come down for Bert to-morrow night—” + +The girl’s eyes grew mirthful and her lips trembled. “Thank you,” she +said. + +“Some people like looking over cabins,” murmured the skipper. + +He raised his hand to his cap and turned away. The mate, who had just +come on deck, stared after the retreating couple and gave vent to a low +whistle. + +“What a fine gal to pick up with Slushy,” he remarked. + +“It’s his sister,” said the skipper, somewhat sharply. + +“The one that taught him to cook?” said the other, hastily. “Here! I’d +like five minutes alone with her; I’d give ’er a piece o’ my mind that +’ud do her good. I’d learn ’er. I’d tell her wot I thought of her.” + +“That’ll do,” said the skipper; “that’ll do. He’s not so bad for a +beginner; I’ve known worse.” + +“Not so bad?” repeated the mate. “Not so bad? Why”—his voice +trembled—“ain’t you going to give ’im the chuck, then?” + +“I shall try him for another vy’ge, George,” said the skipper. “It’s +hard lines on a youngster if he don’t have a chance. I was never one to +be severe. Live and let live, that’s my motto. Do as you’d be done by.” + +“You’re turning soft-’arted in your old age,” grumbled the mate. + +“Old age!” said the other, in a startled voice. “Old age! I’m not +thirty-seven yet.” + +“You’re getting on,” said the mate; “besides, you look old.” + +The skipper investigated the charge in the cabin looking-glass ten +minutes later. He twisted his beard in his hand and tried to imagine +how he would look without it. As a compromise he went out and had it +cut short and trimmed to a point. The glass smiled approval on his +return; the mate smiled too, and, being caught in the act, said it made +him look like his own grandson. + +It was late when the cook returned, but the skipper was on deck, and, +stopping him for a match, entered into a little conversation. Mr. +Jewell, surprised at first, soon became at his ease, and, the talk +drifting in some unknown fashion to Miss Jewell, discussed her with +brotherly frankness. + +“You spent the evening together, I s’pose?” said the skipper, +carelessly. + +Mr. Jewell glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “Cooking,” he +said, and put his hand over his mouth with some suddenness. + +By the time they parted the skipper had his hand in a friendly fashion +on the cook’s shoulder, and was displaying an interest in his welfare +as unusual as it was gratifying. So unaccustomed was Mr. Jewell to such +consideration that he was fain to pause for a moment or two to regain +control of his features before plunging into the lamp-lit fo’c’sle. + + +[Illustration: “The mate smiled too.”] + + +The mate made but a poor breakfast next morning, but his superior, who +saw the hand of Miss Jewell in the muddy coffee and the cremated bacon, +ate his with relish. He was looking forward to the evening, the cook +having assured him that his sister had accepted his invitation to +inspect the cabin, and indeed had talked of little else. The boy was +set to work house-cleaning, and, having gleaned a few particulars, +cursed the sex with painstaking thoroughness. + +It seemed to the skipper a favorable omen that Miss Jewell descended +the companion-ladder as though to the manner born; and her exclamations +of delight at the cabin completed his satisfaction. The cook, who had +followed them below with some trepidation, became reassured, and +seating himself on a locker joined modestly in the conversation. + +“It’s like a doll’s-house,” declared the girl, as she finished by +examining the space-saving devices in the state-room. “Well, I mustn’t +take up any more of your time.” + +“I’ve got nothing to do,” said the skipper, hastily. “I—I was thinking +of going for a walk; but it’s lonely walking about by yourself.” + +Miss Jewell agreed. She lowered her eyes and looked under the lashes at +the skipper. + +“I never had a sister,” continued the latter, in melancholy accents. + +“I don’t suppose you would want to take her out if you had,” said the +girl. + +The skipper protested. “Bert takes you out,” he said. + +“He isn’t like most brothers,” said Miss Jewell, shifting along the +locker and placing her hand affectionately on the cook’s shoulder. + +“If I had a sister,” continued the skipper, in a somewhat uneven voice, +“I should take her out. This evening, for instance, I should take her +to a theatre.” + +Miss Jewell turned upon him the innocent face of a child. “It would be +nice to be your sister,” she said, calmly. + +The skipper attempted to speak, but his voice failed him. “Well, +pretend you are my sister,” he said, at last, “and we’ll go to one.” + +“Pretend?” said Miss Jewell, as she turned and eyed the cook. “Bert +wouldn’t like that,” she said, decidedly. + +“N—no,” said the cook, nervously, avoiding the skipper’s eye. + +“It wouldn’t be proper,” said Miss Jewell, sitting upright and looking +very proper indeed. + +“I—I meant Bert to come, too,” said the skipper; “of course,” he added. + +The severity of Miss Jewell’s expression relaxed. She stole an amused +glance at the cook and, reading her instructions in his eye, began to +temporize. Ten minutes later the crew of the _Elizabeth Barstow_ in +various attitudes of astonishment beheld their commander going ashore +with his cook. The mate so far forgot himself as to whistle, but with +great presence of mind cuffed the boy’s ear as the skipper turned. + +For some little distance the three walked along in silence. The skipper +was building castles in the air, the cook was not quite at his ease, +and the girl, gazing steadily in front of her, appeared slightly +embarrassed. + +By the time they reached Aldgate and stood waiting for an omnibus Miss +Jewell found herself assailed by doubts. She remembered that she did +not want to go to a theatre, and warmly pressed the two men to go +together and leave her to go home. The skipper remonstrated in vain, +but the cook came to the rescue, and Miss Jewell, still protesting, was +pushed on to a ’bus and propelled upstairs. She took a vacant seat in +front, and the skipper and Mr. Jewell shared one behind. + +The three hours at the theatre passed all too soon, although the girl +was so interested in the performance that she paid but slight attention +to her companions. During the waits she became interested in her +surroundings, and several times called the skipper’s attention to +smart-looking men in the stalls and boxes. At one man she stared so +persistently that an opera-glass was at last levelled in return. + +“How rude of him,” she said, smiling sweetly at the skipper. + +She shook her head in disapproval, but the next moment he saw her +gazing steadily at the opera-glasses again. + +“If you don’t look he’ll soon get tired of it,” he said, between his +teeth. + +“Yes, perhaps he will,” said Miss Jewell, without lowering her eyes in +the least. + +The skipper sat in torment until the lights were lowered and the +curtain went up again. When it fell he began to discuss the play, but +Miss Jewell returned such vague replies that it was evident her +thoughts were far away. + +“I wonder who he is?” she whispered, gazing meditatingly at the box. + +“A waiter, I should think,” snapped the skipper. + +The girl shook her head. “No, he is much too distinguished-looking,” +she said, seriously. “Well, I suppose he’ll know me again.” + +The skipper felt that he wanted to get up and smash things; beginning +with the man in the box. It was his first love episode for nearly ten +years, and he had forgotten the pains and penalties which attach to the +condition. When the performance was over he darted a threatening glance +at the box, and, keeping close to Miss Jewell, looked carefully about +him to make sure that they were not followed. + +“It was ripping,” said the cook, as they emerged into the fresh air. + +“Lovely,” said the girl, in a voice of gentle melancholy. “I shall come +and see it again, perhaps, when you are at sea.” + +“Not alone?” said the skipper, in a startled voice. + +“I don’t mind being alone,” said Miss Jewell, gently; “I’m used to it.” + +The other’s reply was lost in the rush for the ’bus, and for the second +time that evening the skipper had to find fault with the seating +arrangements. And when a vacancy by the side of Miss Jewell did occur, +he was promptly forestalled by a young man in a check suit smoking a +large cigar. + +They got off at Aldgate, and the girl thanked him for a pleasant +evening. A hesitating offer to see her home was at once negatived, and +the skipper, watching her and the cook until they disappeared in the +traffic, walked slowly and thoughtfully to his ship. + +The brig sailed the next evening at eight o’clock, and it was not until +six that the cook remarked, in the most casual manner, that his sister +was coming down to see him off. She arrived half an hour late, and, so +far from wanting to see the cabin again, discovered an inconvenient +love of fresh air. She came down at last, at the instance of the cook, +and, once below, her mood changed, and she treated the skipper with a +soft graciousness which raised him to the seventh heaven. “You’ll be +good to Bert, won’t you?” she inquired, with a smile at that young man. + +“I’ll treat him like my own brother,” said the skipper, fervently. “No, +better than that; I’ll treat him like your brother.” + +The cook sat erect and, the skipper being occupied with Miss Jewell, +winked solemnly at the skylight. + +“I know _you_ will,” said the girl, very softly; “but I don’t think the +men—” + +“The men’ll do as I wish,” said the skipper, sternly. “I’m the master +on this ship—she’s half mine, too—and anybody who interferes with him +interferes with me. If there’s anything you don’t like, Bert, you tell +me.” + +Mr. Jewell, his small, black eyes sparkling, promised, and then, +muttering something about his work, exchanged glances with the girl and +went up on deck. + +“It is a nice cabin,” said Miss Jewell, shifting an inch and a half +nearer to the skipper. “I suppose poor Bert has to have his meals in +that stuffy little place at the other end of the ship, doesn’t he?” + +“The fo’c’sle?” said the skipper, struggling between love and +discipline. “Yes.” + +The girl sighed, and the mate, who was listening at the skylight above, +held his breath with anxiety. Miss Jewell sighed again and in an +absent-minded fashion increased the distance between herself and +companion by six inches. + +“It’s usual,” faltered the skipper. + +“Yes, of course,” said the girl, coldly. + +“But if Bert likes to feed here, he’s welcome,” said the skipper, +desperately, “and he can sleep aft, too. The mate can say what he +likes.” + +The mate rose and, walking forward, raised his clenched fists to heaven +and availed himself of the permission to the fullest extent of a +somewhat extensive vocabulary. + +“Do you know what I think you are?” inquired Miss Jewell, bending +towards him with a radiant face. + +“No,” said the other, trembling. “What?” + +The girl paused. “It wouldn’t do to tell you,” she said, in a low +voice. “It might make you vain.” + +“Do you know what I think you are?” inquired the skipper in his turn. + +Miss Jewell eyed him composedly, albeit the corners of her mouth +trembled. “Yes,” she said, unexpectedly. + +Steps sounded above and came heavily down the companion-ladder. “Tide’s +a’most on the turn,” said the mate, gruffly, from the door. + +The skipper hesitated, but the mate stood aside for the girl to pass, +and he followed her up on deck and assisted her to the jetty. For hours +afterwards he debated with himself whether she really had allowed her +hand to stay in his a second or two longer than necessary, or whether +unconscious muscular action on his part was responsible for the +phenomenon. + +He became despondent as they left London behind, but the necessity of +interfering between a goggle-eyed and obtuse mate and a pallid but no +less obstinate cook helped to relieve him. + +“He says he is going to sleep aft,” choked the mate, pointing to the +cook’s bedding. + +“Quite right,” said the skipper. “I told him to. He’s going to take his +meals here, too. Anything to say against it?” + +The mate sat down on a locker and fought for breath. The cook, still +pale, felt his small, black mustache and eyed him with triumphant +malice. “I told ’im they was your orders,” he remarked. + +“And I told him I didn’t believe him,” said the mate. “Nobody would. +Whoever ’eard of a cook living aft? Why, they’d laugh at the idea.” + +He laughed himself, but in a strangely mirthless fashion, and, afraid +to trust himself, went up on deck and brooded savagely apart. Nor did +he come down to breakfast until the skipper and cook had finished. + +Mr. Jewell bore his new honors badly, and the inability to express +their dissatisfaction by means of violence had a bad effect on the +tempers of the crew. Sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could +more than hold his own, and, although the men doubted his ability at +first, he was able to prove to them by actual experiment that he could +cook worse than they supposed. + +The brig reached her destination—Creekhaven—on the fifth day, and Mr. +Jewell found himself an honored guest at the skipper’s cottage. It was +a comfortable place, but, as the cook pointed out, too large for one. +He also referred, incidentally, to his sister’s love of a country life, +and, finding himself on a subject of which the other never tired, gave +full reins to a somewhat picturesque imagination. + +They were back at London within the fortnight, and the skipper learned +to his dismay that Miss Jewell was absent on a visit. In these +circumstances he would have clung to the cook, but that gentleman, +pleading engagements, managed to elude him for two nights out of the +three. + +On the third day Miss Jewell returned to London, and, making her way to +the wharf, was just in time to wave farewells as the brig parted from +the wharf. + + +[Illustration: “Sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more +than hold his own.”] + +From the fact that the cook was not visible at the moment the skipper +took the salutation to himself. It cheered him for the time, but the +next day he was so despondent that the cook, by this time thoroughly in +his confidence, offered to write when they got to Creekhaven and fix up +an evening. + +“And there’s really no need for you to come, Bert,” said the skipper, +cheering up. + +Mr. Jewell shook his head. “She wouldn’t go without me,” he said, +gravely. “You’ve no idea ’ow particular she is. Always was from a +child.” + +“Well, we might lose you,” said the skipper, reflecting. “How would +that be?” + +“We might try it,” said the cook, without enthusiasm. + +To his dismay the skipper, before they reached London again, had +invented at least a score of ways by which he might enjoy Miss Jewell’s +company without the presence of a third person, some of them so +ingenious that the cook, despite his utmost efforts, could see no way +of opposing them. + +The skipper put his ideas into practice as soon as they reached London. +Between Wapping and Charing Cross he lost the cook three times. Miss +Jewell found him twice, and the third time she was so difficult that +the skipper had to join in the treasure-hunt himself. The cook listened +unmoved to a highly-colored picture of his carelessness from the lips +of Miss Jewell, and bestowed a sympathetic glance upon the skipper as +she paused for breath. + +“It’s as bad as taking a child out,” said the latter, with +well-affected indignation. + +“Worse,” said the girl, tightening her lips. + +With a perseverance worthy of a better cause the skipper nudged the +cook’s arm and tried again. This time he was successful beyond his +wildest dreams, and, after ten minutes’ frantic search, found that he +had lost them both. He wandered up and down for hours, and it was past +eleven when he returned to the ship and found the cook waiting for him. + +“We thought something ’ad happened to you,” said the cook. “Kate has +been in a fine way about it. Five minutes after you lost me she found +me, and we’ve been hunting ’igh and low ever since.” + +Miss Jewell expressed her relief the next evening, and, stealing a +glance at the face of the skipper, experienced a twinge of something +which she took to be remorse. Ignoring the cook’s hints as to theatres, +she elected to go for a long ’bus ride, and, sitting in front with the +skipper, left Mr. Jewell to keep a chaperon’s eye on them from three +seats behind. + +Conversation was for some time disjointed; then the brightness and +crowded state of the streets led the skipper to sound his companion as +to her avowed taste for a country life. + +“I should love it,” said Miss Jewell, with a sigh. “But there’s no +chance of it; I’ve got my living to earn.” + +“You might—might marry somebody living in the country,” said the +skipper, in trembling tones. + +Miss Jewell shuddered. “Marry!” she said, scornfully. + +“Most people do,” said the other. + +“Sensible people don’t,” said the girl. “You haven’t,” she added, with +a smile. + +“I’m very thankful I haven’t,” retorted the skipper, with great +meaning. + +“There you are!” said the girl, triumphantly. + +“I never saw anybody I liked,” said the skipper, “be—before.” + +“If ever I did marry,” said Miss Jewell, with remarkable composure, “if +ever I was foolish enough to do such a thing, I think I would marry a +man a few years younger than myself.” + +“Younger?” said the dismayed skipper. + +Miss Jewell nodded. “They make the best husbands,” she said, gravely. + +The skipper began to argue the point, and Mr. Jewell, at that moment +taking a seat behind, joined in with some heat. A more ardent supporter +could not have been found, although his repetition of the phrase “May +and December” revealed a want of tact of which the skipper had not +thought him capable. What had promised to be a red-letter day in his +existence was spoiled, and he went to bed that night with the full +conviction that he had better abandon a project so hopeless. + +With a fine morning his courage revived, but as voyage succeeded voyage +he became more and more perplexed. The devotion of the cook was patent +to all men, but Miss Jewell was as changeable as a weather-glass. The +skipper would leave her one night convinced that he had better forget +her as soon as possible, and the next her manner would be so kind, and +her glances so soft, that only the presence of the ever-watchful cook +prevented him from proposing on the spot. The end came one evening in +October. The skipper had hurried back from the City, laden with stores, +Miss Jewell having, after many refusals, consented to grace the +tea-table that afternoon. The table, set by the boy, groaned beneath +the weight of unusual luxuries, but the girl had not arrived. The cook +was also missing, and the only occupant of the cabin was the mate, who, +sitting at one corner, was eating with great relish. + +“Ain’t you going to get your tea?” he inquired. + +“No hurry,” said the skipper, somewhat incensed at his haste. “It +wouldn’t have hurt _you_ to have waited a bit.” + +“Waited?” said the other. “What for?” + +“For my visitors,” was the reply. + +The mate bit a piece off a crust and stirred his tea. “No use waiting +for them,” he said, with a grin. “They ain’t coming.” + +“What do you mean?” demanded the skipper. + +“I mean,” said the mate, continuing to stir his tea with great +enjoyment—“I mean that all that kind’artedness of yours was clean +chucked away on that cook. He’s got a berth ashore and he’s gone for +good. He left you ’is love; he left it with Bill Hemp.” + +“Berth ashore?” said the skipper, staring. + +“Ah!” said the mate, taking a large and noisy sip from his cup. “He’s +been fooling you all along for what he could get out of you. Sleeping +aft and feeding aft, nobody to speak a word to ’im, and going out and +being treated by the skipper; Bill said he laughed so much when he was +telling ’im that the tears was running down ’is face like rain. He said +he’d never been treated so much in his life.” + +“That’ll do,” said the skipper, quickly. + +“You ought to hear Bill tell it,” said the mate, regretfully. “I can’t +do it anything like as well as what he can. Made us all roar, he did. +What amused ’em most was you thinking that that gal was cookie’s +sister.” + +The skipper, with a sharp exclamation, leaned forward, staring at him. + +“They’re going to be married at Christmas,” said the mate, choking in +his cup. + +The skipper sat upright again, and tried manfully to compose his +features. Many things he had not understood before were suddenly made +clear, and he remembered now the odd way in which the girl had regarded +him as she bade him good-night on the previous evening. The mate eyed +him with interest, and was about to supply him with further details +when his attention was attracted by footsteps descending the +companion-ladder. Then he put down his cup with great care, and stared +in stolid amazement at the figure of Miss Jewell in the doorway. + +“I’m a bit late,” she said, flushing slightly. + +She crossed over and shook hands with the skipper, and, in the most +natural fashion in the world, took a seat and began to remove her +gloves. The mate swung round and regarded her open-mouthed; the +skipper, whose ideas were in a whirl, sat regarding her in silence. The +mate was the first to move; he left the cabin rubbing his shin, and +casting furious glances at the skipper. + +“You didn’t expect to see me?” said the girl, reddening again. + +“No,” was the reply. + +The girl looked at the tablecloth. “I came to beg your pardon,” she +said, in a low voice. + +“There’s nothing to beg my pardon for,” said the skipper, clearing his +throat. “By rights I ought to beg yours. You did quite right to make +fun of me. I can see it now.” + +“When you asked me whether I was Bert’s sister I didn’t like to say +‘no,’ continued the girl; “and at first I let you come out with me for +the fun of the thing, and then Bert said it would be good for him, and +then—then—” + +“Yes,” said the skipper, after a long pause. + +The girl broke a biscuit into small pieces, and arranged them on the +cloth. “Then I didn’t mind your coming so much,” she said, in a low +voice. + +The skipper caught his breath and tried to gaze at the averted face. + +The girl swept the crumbs aside and met his gaze squarely. “Not quite +so much,” she explained. + +“I’ve been a fool,” said the skipper. “I’ve been a fool. I’ve made +myself a laughing-stock all round, but if I could have it all over +again I would.” + +“That can never be,” said the girl, shaking her head. “Bert wouldn’t +come.” + + +[Illustration: “‘Good-by,’ he said, slowly; ‘and I wish you both +every happiness.’”] + + +“No, of course not,” asserted the other. + +The girl bit her lip. The skipper thought that he had never seen her +eyes so large and shining. There was a long silence. + +“Good-by,” said the girl at last, rising. + +The skipper rose to follow. “Good-by,” he said, slowly; “and I wish you +both every happiness.” + +“Happiness?” echoed the girl, in a surprised voice. “Why?” + +“When you are married.” + +“I am not going to be married,” said the girl. “I told Bert so this +afternoon. Good-by.” + +The skipper actually let her get nearly to the top of the ladder before +he regained his presence of mind. Then, in obedience to a powerful tug +at the hem of her skirt, she came down again, and accompanied him +meekly back to the cabin. + + + + +HIS LORDSHIP + + +[Illustration] + + + + +HIS LORDSHIP + + +Farmer Rose sat in his porch smoking an evening pipe. By his side, in a +comfortable Windsor chair, sat his friend the miller, also smoking, and +gazing with half-closed eyes at the landscape as he listened for the +thousandth time to his host’s complaints about his daughter. + +“The long and the short of it is, Cray,” said the farmer, with an air +of mournful pride, “she’s far too good-looking.” + +Mr. Cray grunted. + +“Truth is truth, though she’s my daughter,” continued Mr. Rose, +vaguely. “She’s too good-looking. Sometimes when I’ve taken her up to +market I’ve seen the folks fair turn their backs on the cattle and +stare at her instead.” + +Mr. Cray sniffed; louder, perhaps, than he had intended. “Beautiful +that rose-bush smells,” he remarked, as his friend turned and eyed him. + +“What is the consequence?” demanded the farmer, relaxing his gaze. “She +looks in the glass and sees herself, and then she gets miserable and +uppish because there ain’t nobody in these parts good enough for her to +marry.” + +“It’s a extraordinary thing to me where she gets them good looks from,” +said the miller, deliberately. + +“Ah!” said Mr. Rose, and sat trying to think of a means of enlightening +his friend without undue loss of modesty. + +“She ain’t a bit like her poor mother,” mused Mr. Cray. + +“No, she don’t get her looks from her,” assented the other. + +“It’s one o’ them things you can’t account for,” said Mr. Cray, who was +very tired of the subject; “it’s just like seeing a beautiful flower +blooming on an old cabbage-stump.” + +The farmer knocked his pipe out noisily and began to refill it. “People +have said that she takes after me a trifle,” he remarked, shortly. + +“You weren’t fool enough to believe that, I know,” said the miller. +“Why, she’s no more like you than you’re like a warming-pan—not so +much.” + +Mr. Rose regarded his friend fixedly. “You ain’t got a very nice way o’ +putting things, Cray,” he said, mournfully. + +“I’m no flatterer,” said the miller; “never was. And you can’t please +everybody. If I said your daughter took after you I don’t s’pose she’d +ever speak to me again.” + +“The worst of it is,” said the farmer, disregarding his remark, “she +won’t settle down. There’s young Walter Lomas after her now, and she +won’t look at him. He’s a decent young fellow is Walter, and she’s been +and named one o’ the pigs after him, and the way she mixes them up +together is disgraceful.” + +“If she was my girl she should marry young Walter,” said the miller, +firmly. “What’s wrong with him?” + +“She looks higher,” replied the other, mysteriously; “she’s always +reading them romantic books full o’ love tales, and she’s never tired +o’ talking of a girl her mother used to know that went on the stage and +married a baronet. She goes and sits in the best parlor every afternoon +now, and calls it the drawing-room. She’ll sit there till she’s past +the marrying age, and then she’ll turn round and blame me.” + +“She wants a lesson,” said Mr. Cray, firmly. “She wants to be taught +her position in life, not to go about turning up her nose at young men +and naming pigs after them.” + +Mr. Rose sighed. + +“What she wants to understand is that the upper classes wouldn’t look +at her,” pursued the miller. + +“It would be easier to make her understand that if they didn’t,” said +the farmer. + +“I mean,” said Mr. Cray, sternly, “with a view to marriage. What you +ought to do is to get somebody staying down here with you pretending to +be a lord or a nobleman, and ordering her about and not noticing her +good looks at all. Then, while she’s upset about that, in comes Walter +Lomas to comfort her and be a contrast to the other.” + +Mr. Rose withdrew his pipe and regarded him open-mouthed. + +“Yes; but how—” he began. + +“And it seems to me,” interrupted Mr. Cray, “that I know just the young +fellow to do it—nephew of my wife’s. He was coming to stay a fortnight +with us, but you can have him with pleasure—me and him don’t get on +over and above well.” + +“Perhaps he wouldn’t do it,” objected the farmer. + +“He’d do it like a shot,” said Mr. Cray, positively. “It would be fun +for us and it ’ud be a lesson for her. If you like, I’ll tell him to +write to you for lodgings, as he wants to come for a fortnight’s fresh +air after the fatiguing gayeties of town.” + +“Fatiguing gayeties of town,” repeated the admiring farmer. +“Fatiguing—” + +He sat back in his chair and laughed, and Mr. Cray, delighted at the +prospect of getting rid so easily of a tiresome guest, laughed too. +Overhead at the open window a third person laughed, but in so quiet and +well-bred a fashion that neither of them heard her. + +The farmer received a letter a day or two afterwards, and negotiations +between Jane Rose on the one side and Lord Fairmount on the other were +soon in progress; the farmer’s own composition being deemed somewhat +crude for such a correspondence. + +“I wish he didn’t want it kept so secret,” said Miss Rose, pondering +over the final letter. “I should like to let the Grays and one or two +more people know he is staying with us. However, I suppose he must have +his own way.” + +“You must do as he wishes,” said her father, using his handkerchief +violently. + +Jane sighed. “He’ll be a little company for me, at any rate,” she +remarked. “What is the matter, father?” + +“Bit of a cold,” said the farmer, indistinctly, as he made for the +door, still holding his handkerchief to his face. “Been coming on some +time.” + +He put on his hat and went out, and Miss Rose, watching him from the +window, was not without fears that the joke might prove too much for a +man of his habit. She regarded him thoughtfully, and when he returned +at one o’clock to dinner, and encountered instead a violent dust-storm +which was raging in the house, she noted with pleasure that his sense +of humor was more under control. + +“Dinner?” she said, as he strove to squeeze past the furniture which +was piled in the hall. “We’ve got no time to think of dinner, and if we +had there’s no place for you to eat it. You’d better go in the larder +and cut yourself a crust of bread and cheese.” + +Her father hesitated and glared at the servant, who, with her head +bound up in a duster, passed at the double with a broom. Then he walked +slowly into the kitchen. + +Miss Rose called out something after him. + +“Eh?” said her father, coming back hopefully. + +“How is your cold, dear?” + +The farmer made no reply, and his daughter smiled contentedly as she +heard him stamping about in the larder. He made but a poor meal, and +then, refusing point-blank to assist Annie in moving the piano, went +and smoked a very reflective pipe in the garden. + + +[Illustration: “‘She’s got your eyes,’ said his lordship.”] + + +Lord Fairmount arrived the following day on foot from the station, and +after acknowledging the farmer’s salute with a distant nod requested +him to send a cart for his luggage. He was a tall, good-looking young +man, and as he stood in the hall languidly twisting his mustache Miss +Rose deliberately decided upon his destruction. + +“These your daughters?” he inquired, carelessly, as he followed his +host into the parlor. + +“One of ’em is, my lord; the other is my servant,” replied the farmer. + +“She’s got your eyes,” said his lordship, tapping the astonished Annie +under the chin; “your nose too, I think.” + +“That’s my servant,” said the farmer, knitting his brows at him. + +“Oh, indeed!” said his lordship, airily. + +He turned round and regarded Jane, but, although she tried to meet him +half-way by elevating her chin a little, his audacity failed him and +the words died away on his tongue. A long silence followed, broken only +by the ill-suppressed giggles of Annie, who had retired to the kitchen. + +“I trust that we shall make your lordship comfortable,” said Miss Rose. + +“I hope so, my good girl,” was the reply. “And now will you show me my +room?” + +Miss Rose led the way upstairs and threw open the door; Lord Fairmount, +pausing on the threshold, gazed at it disparagingly. + +“Is this the best room you have?” he inquired, stiffly. + +“Oh, no,” said Miss Rose, smiling; “father’s room is much better than +this. Look here.” + +She threw open another door and, ignoring a gesticulating figure which +stood in the hall below, regarded him anxiously. “If you would prefer +father’s room he would be delighted for you to have it. Delighted.” + +“Yes, I will have this one,” said Lord Fairmount, entering. “Bring me +up some hot water, please, and clear these boots and leggings out.” + +Miss Rose tripped downstairs and, bestowing a witching smile upon her +sire, waved away his request for an explanation and hastened into the +kitchen, whence Annie shortly afterwards emerged with the water. + +It was with something of a shock that the farmer discovered that he had +to wait for his dinner while his lordship had luncheon. That meal, +under his daughter’s management, took a long time, and the joint when +it reached him was more than half cold. It was, moreover, quite clear +that the aristocracy had not even mastered the rudiments of carving, +but preferred instead to box the compass for tit-bits. + +He ate his meal in silence, and when it was over sought out his guest +to administer a few much-needed stage-directions. Owing, however, to +the ubiquity of Jane he wasted nearly the whole of the afternoon before +he obtained an opportunity. Even then the interview was short, the +farmer having to compress into ten seconds instructions for Lord +Fairmount to express a desire to take his meals with the family, and +his dinner at the respectable hour of 1 p.m. Instructions as to a +change of bedroom were frustrated by the reappearance of Jane. + +His lordship went for a walk after that, and coming back with a bored +air stood on the hearthrug in the living-room and watched Miss Rose +sewing. + +“Very dull place,” he said at last, in a dissatisfied voice. + +“Yes, my lord,” said Miss Rose, demurely. + +“Fearfully dull,” complained his lordship, stifling a yawn. “What I’m +to do to amuse myself for a fortnight I’m sure I don’t know.” + +Miss Rose raised her fine eyes and regarded him intently. Many a lesser +man would have looked no farther for amusement. + +“I’m afraid there is not much to do about here, my lord,” she said +quietly. “We are very plain folk in these parts.” + +“Yes,” assented the other. An obvious compliment rose of itself to his +lips, but he restrained himself, though with difficulty. Miss Rose bent +her head over her work and stitched industriously. His lordship took up +a book and, remembering his mission, read for a couple of hours without +taking the slightest notice of her. Miss Rose glanced over in his +direction once or twice, and then, with a somewhat vixenish expression +on her delicate features, resumed her sewing. + +“Wonderful eyes she’s got,” said the gentleman, as he sat on the edge +of his bed that night and thought over the events of the day. “It’s +pretty to see them flash.” + +He saw them flash several times during the next few days, and Mr. Rose +himself, was more than satisfied with the hauteur with which his guest +treated the household. + +“But I don’t like the way you have with me,” he complained. + +“It’s all in the part,” urged his lordship. + +“Well, you can leave that part out,” rejoined Mr. Rose, with some +acerbity. “I object to being spoke to as you speak to me before that +girl Annie. Be as proud and unpleasant as you like to my daughter, but +leave me alone. Mind that!” + +His lordship promised, and in pursuance of his host’s instructions +strove manfully to subdue feelings towards Miss Rose by no means in +accordance with them. The best of us are liable to absent-mindedness, +and he sometimes so far forgot himself as to address her in tones as +humble as any in her somewhat large experience. + +“I hope that we are making you comfortable here, my lord?” she said, as +they sat together one afternoon. + +“I have never been more comfortable in my life,” was the gracious +reply. + +Miss Rose shook her head. “Oh, my lord,” she said, in protest, “think +of your mansion.” + +His lordship thought of it. For two or three days he had been thinking +of houses and furniture and other things of that nature. + +“I have never seen an old country seat,” continued Miss Rose, clasping +her hands and gazing at him wistfully. “I should be so grateful if your +lordship would describe yours to me.” + +His lordship shifted uneasily, and then, in face of the girl’s +persistence, stood for some time divided between the contending claims +of Hampton Court Palace and the Tower of London. He finally decided +upon the former, after first refurnishing it at Maple’s. + +“How happy you must be!” said the breathless Jane, when he had +finished. + +He shook his head gravely. “My possessions have never given me any +happiness,” he remarked. “I would much rather be in a humble rank of +life. Live where I like, and—and marry whom I like.” + +There was no mistaking the meaning fall in his voice. Miss Rose sighed +gently and lowered her eyes—her lashes had often excited comment. Then, +in a soft voice, she asked him the sort of life he would prefer. + +In reply, his lordship, with an eloquence which surprised himself, +portrayed the joys of life in a seven-roomed house in town, with a +greenhouse six feet by three, and a garden large enough to contain it. +He really spoke well, and when he had finished his listener gazed at +him with eyes suffused with timid admiration. + +“Oh, my lord,” she said, prettily, “now I know what you’ve been doing. +You’ve been slumming.” + +“Slumming?” gasped his lordship. + +“You couldn’t have described a place like that unless you had been,” +said Miss Rose nodding. “I hope you took the poor people some nice hot +soup.” + +His lordship tried to explain, but without success. Miss Rose persisted +in regarding him as a missionary of food and warmth, and spoke +feelingly of the people who had to live in such places. She also warned +him against the risk of infection. + +“You don’t understand,” he repeated, impatiently. “These are nice +houses—nice enough for anybody to live in. If you took soup to people +like that, why, they’d throw it at you.” + +“Wretches!” murmured the indignant Jane, who was enjoying herself +amazingly. + +His lordship eyed her with sudden suspicion, but her face was quite +grave and bore traces of strong feeling. He explained again, but +without avail. + +“You never ought to go near such places, my lord,” she concluded, +solemnly, as she rose to quit the room. “Even a girl of my station +would draw the line at that.” + +She bowed deeply and withdrew. His lordship sank into a chair and, +thrusting his hands into his pockets, gazed gloomily at the dried +grasses in the grate. + +During the next day or two his appetite failed, and other well-known +symptoms set in. Miss Rose, diagnosing them all, prescribed by stealth +some bitter remedies. The farmer regarded his change of manner with +disapproval, and, concluding that it was due to his own complaints, +sought to reassure him. He also pointed out that his daughter’s opinion +of the aristocracy was hardly likely to increase if the only member she +knew went about the house as though he had just lost his grandmother. + +“You are longing for the gayeties of town, my lord,” he remarked one +morning at breakfast. + +His lordship shook his head. The gayeties comprised, amongst other +things, a stool and a desk. + +“I don’t like town,” he said, with a glance at Jane. “If I had my +choice I would live here always. I would sooner live here in this +charming spot with this charming society than anywhere.” + +Mr. Rose coughed and, having caught his eye, shook his head at him and +glanced significantly over at the unconscious Jane. The young man +ignored his action and, having got an opening, gave utterance in the +course of the next ten minutes to Radical heresies of so violent a type +that the farmer could hardly keep his seat. Social distinctions were +condemned utterly, and the House of Lords referred to as a human +dust-bin. The farmer gazed open-mouthed at this snake he had nourished. + +“Your lordship will alter your mind when you get to town,” said Jane, +demurely. + +“Never!” declared the other, impressively. + +The girl sighed, and gazing first with much interest at her parent, who +seemed to be doing his best to ward off a fit, turned her lustrous eyes +upon the guest. + +“We shall all miss you,” she said, softly. “You’ve been a lesson to all +of us.” + +“Lesson?” he repeated, flushing. + +“It has improved our behavior so, having a lord in the house,” said +Miss Rose, with painful humility. “I’m sure father hasn’t been like the +same man since you’ve been here.” + +“What d’ye mean Miss?” demanded the farmer, hotly. + +“Don’t speak like that before his lordship, father,” said his daughter, +hastily. “I’m not blaming you; you’re no worse than the other men about +here. You haven’t had an opportunity of learning before, that’s all. It +isn’t your fault.” + +“Learning?” bellowed the farmer, turning an inflamed visage upon his +apprehensive guest. “Have you noticed anything wrong about my +behavior?” + +“Certainly not,” said his lordship, hastily. + +“All I know is,” continued Miss Rose, positively, “I wish you were +going to stay here another six months for father’s sake.” + +“Look here—” began Mr. Rose, smiting the table. + +“And Annie’s,” said Jane, raising her voice above the din. “I don’t +know which has improved the most. I’m sure the way they both drink +their tea now—” + +Mr. Rose pushed his chair back loudly and got up from the table. For a +moment he stood struggling for words, then he turned suddenly with a +growl and quitted the room, banging the door after him in a fashion +which clearly indicated that he still had some lessons to learn. + +“You’ve made your father angry,” said his lordship. + +“It’s for his own good,” said Miss Rose. “Are you really sorry to leave +us?” + +“Sorry?” repeated the other. “Sorry is no word for it.” + +“You will miss father,” said the girl. + +He sighed gently. + +“And Annie,” she continued. + +He sighed again, and Jane took a slight glance at him cornerwise. + +“And me too, I hope,” she said, in a low voice. + +“_Miss_ you!” repeated his lordship, in a suffocating voice. “I should +miss the sun less.” + +“I am so glad,” said Jane, clasping her hands; “it is so nice to feel +that one is not quite forgotten. Of course, I can never forget you. You +are the only nobleman I have ever met.” + +“I hope that it is not only because of that,” he said, forlornly. + +Miss Rose pondered. When she pondered her eyes increased in size and +revealed unsuspected depths. + +“No-o,” she said at length, in a hesitating voice. + +“Suppose that I were not what I am represented to be,” he said slowly. +“Suppose that, instead of being Lord Fairmount, I were merely a clerk.” + +“A clerk?” repeated Miss Rose, with a very well-managed shudder. “How +can I suppose such an absurd thing as that?” + +“But if I were?” urged his lordship, feverishly. + +“It’s no use supposing such a thing as that,” said Miss Rose, briskly; +“your high birth is stamped on you.” + +His lordship shook his head. “I would sooner be a laborer on this farm +than a king anywhere else,” he said, with feeling. + +Miss Rose drew a pattern on the floor with the toe of her shoe. + +“The poorest laborer on the farm can have the pleasure of looking at +you every day,” continued his lordship passionately. “Every day of his +life he can see you, and feel a better man for it.” + +Miss Rose looked at him sharply. Only the day before the poorest +laborer had seen her—when he wasn’t expecting the honor—and received an +epitome of his character which had nearly stunned him. But his +lordship’s face was quite grave. + +“I go to-morrow,” he said. + +“Yes,” said Jane, in a hushed voice. + +He crossed the room gently and took a seat by her side. Miss Rose, +still gazing at the floor, wondered indignantly why it was she was not +blushing. His Lordship’s conversation had come to a sudden stop and the +silence was most awkward. + +“I’ve been a fool, Miss Rose,” he said at last, rising and standing +over her; “and I’ve been taking a great liberty. I’ve been deceiving +you for nearly a fortnight.” + +“Nonsense!” responded Miss Rose, briskly. + +“I have been deceiving you,” he repeated. “I have made you believe that +I am a person of title.” + +“Nonsense!” said Miss Rose again. + +The other started and eyed her uneasily. + +“Nobody would mistake you for a lord,” said Miss Rose, cruelly. “Why, I +shouldn’t think that you had ever seen one. You didn’t do it at all +properly. Why, your uncle Cray would have done it better.” Mr. Cray’s +nephew fell back in consternation and eyed her dumbly as she laughed. +All mirth is not contagious, and he was easily able to refrain from +joining in this. + +“I can’t understand,” said Miss Rose, as she wiped a tear-dimmed eye—“I +can’t understand how you could have thought I should be so stupid.” + +“I’ve been a fool,” said the other, bitterly, as he retreated to the +door. “Good-by.” + +“Good-by,” said Jane. She looked him full in the face, and the blushes +for which she had been waiting came in force. “You needn’t go, unless +you want to,” she said, softly. “I like fools better than lords.” + + +[Illustration: “‘I like fools better than lords.’”] + + + + + +ALF’S DREAM + + +[Illustration] + + + + +ALF’S DREAM + + +“I’ve just been drinking a man’s health,” said the night watchman, +coming slowly on to the wharf and wiping his mouth with the back of his +hand; “he’s come in for a matter of three ’undred and twenty pounds, +and he stood me arf a pint—arf a pint!” + +He dragged a small empty towards him, and after planing the surface +with his hand sat down and gazed scornfully across the river. + +“Four ale,” he said, with a hard laugh; “and when I asked ’im—just for +the look of the thing, and to give ’im a hint—whether he’d ’ave +another, he said ‘yes.’” + +The night watchman rose and paced restlessly up and down the jetty. + +“Money,” he said, at last, resuming his wonted calm and lowering +himself carefully to the box again—“money always gets left to the wrong +people; some of the kindest-’arted men I’ve ever known ’ave never had a +ha’penny left ’em, while teetotaler arter teetotaler wot I’ve heard of +’ave come in for fortins.” + +It’s ’ard lines though, sometimes, waiting for other people’s money. I +knew o’ one chap that waited over forty years for ’is grandmother to +die and leave ’im her money; and she died of catching cold at ’is +funeral. Another chap I knew, arter waiting years and years for ’is +rich aunt to die, was hung because she committed suicide. + +It’s always risky work waiting for other people to die and leave you +money. Sometimes they don’t die; sometimes they marry agin; and +sometimes they leave it to other people instead. + +Talking of marrying agin reminds me o’ something that ’appened to a +young fellow I knew named Alf Simms. Being an orphan ’e was brought up +by his uncle, George Hatchard, a widowed man of about sixty. Alf used +to go to sea off and on, but more off than on, his uncle ’aving quite a +tidy bit of ’ouse property, and it being understood that Alf was to +have it arter he ’ad gone. His uncle used to like to ’ave him at ’ome, +and Alf didn’t like work, so it suited both parties. + +I used to give Alf a bit of advice sometimes, sixty being a dangerous +age for a man, especially when he ’as been a widower for so long he ’as +had time to forget wot being married’s like; but I must do Alf the +credit to say it wasn’t wanted. He ’ad got a very old ’ead on his +shoulders, and always picked the housekeeper ’imself to save the old +man the trouble. I saw two of ’em, and I dare say I could ’ave seen +more, only I didn’t want to. + +Cleverness is a good thing in its way, but there’s such a thing as +being too clever, and the last ’ousekeeper young Alf picked died of old +age a week arter he ’ad gone to sea. She passed away while she was +drawing George Hatchard’s supper beer, and he lost ten gallons o’ the +best bitter ale and his ’ousekeeper at the same time. + +It was four months arter that afore Alf came ’ome, and the fust sight +of the new ’ousekeeper, wot opened the door to ’im, upset ’im terrible. +She was the right side o’ sixty to begin with, and only ordinary plain. +Then she was as clean as a new pin, and dressed up as though she was +going out to tea. + +“Oh, you’re Alfred, I s’pose?” she ses, looking at ’im. + +“Mr. Simms is my name,” ses young Alf, starting and drawing hisself up. + +“I know you by your portrait,” ses the ’ousekeeper. “Come in. ’Ave you +’ad a pleasant v’y’ge? Wipe your boots.” + +Alfred wiped ’is boots afore he thought of wot he was doing. Then he +drew hisself up stiff agin and marched into the parlor. + +“Sit down,” ses the ’ousekeeper, in a kind voice. + +Alfred sat down afore he thought wot ’e was doing agin. + +“I always like to see people comfortable,” ses the ’ousekeeper; “it’s +my way. It’s warm weather for the time o’ year, ain’t it? George is +upstairs, but he’ll be down in a minute.” + +“_Who?_” ses Alf, hardly able to believe his ears. + +“George,” ses the ’ousekeeper. + +“George? George who?” ses Alfred, very severe. + +“Why your uncle, of course,” ses the ’ousekeeper. “Do you think I’ve +got a houseful of Georges?” + +Young Alf sat staring at her and couldn’t say a word. He noticed that +the room ’ad been altered, and that there was a big photygraph of her +stuck up on the mantelpiece. He sat there fidgeting with ’is feet—until +the ’ousekeeper looked at them—and then ’e got up and walked upstairs. + +His uncle, wot was sitting on his bed when ’e went into the room and +pretended that he ’adn’t heard ’im come in, shook hands with ’im as +though he’d never leave off. + +“I’ve got something to tell you, Alf,” he ses, arter they ’ad said “How +d’ye do?” and he ’ad talked about the weather until Alf was fair tired +of it. + +“I’ve been and gone and done a foolish thing, and ’ow you’ll take it I +don’t know.” + +“Been and asked the new ’ousekeeper to marry you, I s’pose?” ses Alf, +looking at ’im very hard. + +His uncle shook his ’ead. “I never asked ’er; I’d take my Davy I +didn’t,” he ses. + +“Well, you ain’t going to marry her, then?” ses Alf, brightening up. + +His uncle shook his ’ead agin. “She didn’t want no asking,” he ses, +speaking very slow and mournful. “I just ’appened to put my arm round +her waist by accident one day and the thing was done.” + +“Accident? How could you do it by accident?” ses Alf, firing up. + +“How can I tell you that?” ses George Hatchard. “If I’d known ’ow, it +wouldn’t ’ave been an accident, would it?” + +“Don’t you want to marry her?” ses Alf, at last. “You needn’t marry ’er +if you don’t want to.” + +George Hatchard looked at ’im and sniffed. “When you know her as well +as I do you won’t talk so foolish,” he ses. “We’d better go down now, +else she’ll think we’ve been talking about ’er.” + +They went downstairs and ’ad tea together, and young Alf soon see the +truth of his uncle’s remarks. Mrs. Pearce—that was the ’ousekeeper’s +name—called his uncle “dear” every time she spoke to ’im, and arter tea +she sat on the sofa side by side with ’im and held his ’and. + +Alf lay awake arf that night thinking things over and ’ow to get Mrs. +Pearce out of the house, and he woke up next morning with it still on +’is mind. Every time he got ’is uncle alone he spoke to ’im about it, +and told ’im to pack Mrs. Pearce off with a month’s wages, but George +Hatchard wouldn’t listen to ’im. + +“She’d ’ave me up for breach of promise and ruin me,” he ses. “She +reads the paper to me every Sunday arternoon, mostly breach of promise +cases, and she’d ’ave me up for it as soon as look at me. She’s got +’eaps and ’eaps of love-letters o’ mine.” + +“Love-letters!” ses Alf, staring. “Love-letters when you live in the +same house!” + +“She started it,” ses his uncle; “she pushed one under my door one +morning, and I ’ad to answer it. She wouldn’t come down and get my +breakfast till I did. I have to send her one every morning.” + +“Do you sign ’em with your own name?” ses Alf, arter thinking a bit. + +“No,” ses ’is uncle, turning red. + +“Wot do you sign ’em, then?” ses Alf. + +“Never you mind,” ses his uncle, turning redder. “It’s my handwriting, +and that’s good enough for her. I did try writing backwards, but I only +did it once. I wouldn’t do it agin for fifty pounds. You ought to ha’ +heard ’er.” + +“If ’er fust husband was alive she couldn’t marry you,” ses Alf, very +slow and thoughtful. + +“No,” ses his uncle, nasty-like; “and if I was an old woman she +couldn’t marry me. You know as well as I do that he went down with the +_Evening Star_ fifteen years ago.” + +“So far as she knows,” ses Alf; “but there was four of them saved, so +why not five? Mightn’t ’e have floated away on a spar or something and +been picked up? Can’t you dream it three nights running, and tell ’er +that you feel certain sure he’s alive?” + +“If I dreamt it fifty times it wouldn’t make any difference,” ses +George Hatchard. “Here! wot are you up to? ’Ave you gone mad, or wot? +You poke me in the ribs like that agin if you dare.” + +“Her fust ’usband’s alive,” ses Alf, smiling at ’im. + +“_Wot?_” ses his uncle. + +“He floated away on a bit o’ wreckage,” ses Alf, nodding at ’im, “just +like they do in books, and was picked up more dead than alive and took +to Melbourne. He’s now living up-country working on a sheep station.” + +“Who’s dreaming now?” ses his uncle. + +“It’s a fact,” ses Alf. “I know a chap wot’s met ’im and talked to ’im. +She can’t marry you while he’s alive, can she?” + +“Certainly _not_,” ses George Hatchard, trembling all over; “but are +you sure you ’aven’t made a mistake?” + +“Certain sure,” ses Alf. + +“It’s too good to be true,” ses George Hatchard. + +“O’ course it is,” ses Alf, “but she won’t know that. Look ’ere; you +write down all the things that she ’as told you about herself and give +it to me, and I’ll soon find the chap I spoke of wot’s met ’im. He’d +meet a dozen men if it was made worth his while.” + +George Hatchard couldn’t understand ’im at fust, and when he did he +wouldn’t ’ave a hand in it because it wasn’t the right thing to do, and +because he felt sure that Mrs. Pearce would find it out. But at last ’e +wrote out all about her for Alf; her maiden name, and where she was +born, and everything; and then he told Alf that, if ’e dared to play +such a trick on an unsuspecting, loving woman, he’d never forgive ’im. + +“I shall want a couple o’ quid,” ses Alf. + +“Certainly not,” ses his uncle. “I won’t ’ave nothing to do with it, I +tell you.” + +“Only to buy chocolates with,” ses Alf. + +“Oh, all right,” ses George Hatchard; and he went upstairs to ’is +bedroom and came down with three pounds and gave ’im. “If that ain’t +enough,” he ses, “let me know, and you can ’ave more.” + +Alf winked at ’im, but the old man drew hisself up and stared at ’im, +and then ’e turned and walked away with his ’ead in the air. + +He ’ardly got a chance of speaking to Alf next day, Mrs. Pearce being +’ere, there, and everywhere, as the saying is, and finding so many +little odd jobs for Alf to do that there was no time for talking. But +the day arter he sidled up to ’im when the ’ouse-keeper was out of the +room and asked ’im whether he ’ad bought the chocolates. + +“Yes,” ses Alfred, taking one out of ’is pocket and eating it, “some of +’em.” + +George Hatchard coughed and fidgeted about. “When are you going to buy +the others?” he ses. + +“As I want ’em,” ses Alf. “They’d spoil if I got ’em all at once.” + +George Hatchard coughed agin. “I ’ope you haven’t been going on with +that wicked plan you spoke to me about the other night,” he ses. + +“Certainly not,” ses Alf, winking to ’imself; “not arter wot you said. +How could I?” + +“That’s right,” ses the old man. “I’m sorry for this marriage for your +sake, Alf. O’ course, I was going to leave you my little bit of ’ouse +property, but I suppose now it’ll ’ave to be left to her. Well, well, I +s’pose it’s best for a young man to make his own way in the world.” + +“I s’pose so,” ses Alf. + +“Mrs. Pearce was asking only yesterday when you was going back to sea +agin,” ses his uncle, looking at ’im. + +“Oh!” ses Alf. + +“She’s took a dislike to you, I think,” ses the old man. “It’s very +’ard, my fav’rite nephew, and the only one I’ve got. I forgot to tell +you the other day that her fust ’usband, Charlie Pearce, ’ad a kind of +a wart on ’is left ear. She’s often spoke to me about it.” + +“In—deed!” ses Alf. + +“Yes,” ses his uncle, “_left_ ear, and a scar on his forehead where a +friend of his kicked ’im one day.” + +Alf nodded, and then he winked at ’im agin. George Hatchard didn’t wink +back, but he patted ’im on the shoulder and said ’ow well he was +filling out, and ’ow he got more like ’is pore mother every day he +lived. + + +[Illustration: “He patted ’im on the shoulder and said ’ow well he +was filling out.”] + + +“I ’ad a dream last night,” ses Alf. “I dreamt that a man I know named +Bill Flurry, but wot called ’imself another name in my dream, and +didn’t know me then, came ’ere one evening when we was all sitting down +at supper, Joe Morgan and ’is missis being here, and said as ’ow Mrs. +Pearce’s fust husband was alive and well.” + +“That’s a very odd dream,” ses his uncle; “but wot was Joe Morgan and +his missis in it for?” + +“Witnesses,” ses Alf. + +George Hatchard fell over a footstool with surprise. “Go on,” he ses, +rubbing his leg. “It’s a queer thing, but I was going to ask the +Morgans ’ere to spend the evening next Wednesday.” + +“Or was it Tuesday?” ses Alf, considering. + +“I said Tuesday,” ses his uncle, looking over Alf’s ’ead so that he +needn’t see ’im wink agin. “Wot was the end of your dream, Alf?” + +“The end of it was,” ses Alf, “that you and Mrs. Pearce was both very +much upset, as o’ course you couldn’t marry while ’er fust was alive, +and the last thing I see afore I woke up was her boxes standing at the +front door waiting for a cab.” + +George Hatchard was going to ask ’im more about it, but just then Mrs. +Pearce came in with a pair of Alf’s socks that he ’ad been untidy +enough to leave in the middle of the floor instead of chucking ’em +under the bed. She was so unpleasant about it that, if it hadn’t ha’ +been for the thought of wot was going to ’appen on Tuesday, Alf +couldn’t ha’ stood it. + +For the next day or two George Hatchard was in such a state of +nervousness and excitement that Alf was afraid that the ’ousekeeper +would notice it. On Tuesday morning he was trembling so much that she +said he’d got a chill, and she told ’im to go to bed and she’d make ’im +a nice hot mustard poultice. George was afraid to say “no,” but while +she was in the kitchen making the poultice he slipped out for a walk +and cured ’is trembling with three whiskies. Alf nearly got the +poultice instead, she was so angry. + +She was unpleasant all dinner-time, but she got better in the +arternoon, and when the Morgans came in the evening, and she found that +Mrs. Morgan ’ad got a nasty sort o’ red swelling on her nose, she got +quite good-tempered. She talked about it nearly all supper-time, +telling ’er what she ought to do to it, and about a friend of hers that +’ad one and ’ad to turn teetotaler on account of it. + +“My nose is good enough for me,” ses Mrs. Morgan, at last. + +“It don’t affect ’er appetite,” ses George Hatchard, trying to make +things pleasant, “and that’s the main thing.” + +Mrs. Morgan got up to go, but arter George Hatchard ’ad explained wot +he didn’t mean she sat down agin and began to talk to Mrs. Pearce about +’er dress and ’ow beautifully it was made. And she asked Mrs. Pearce to +give ’er the pattern of it, because she should ’ave one like it herself +when she was old enough. “I do like to see people dressed suitable,” +she ses, with a smile. + +“I think you ought to ’ave a much deeper color than this,” ses Mrs. +Pearce, considering. + +“Not when I’m faded,” ses Mrs. Morgan. + +Mrs. Pearce, wot was filling ’er glass at the time, spilt a lot of beer +all over the tablecloth, and she was so cross about it that she sat +like a stone statue for pretty near ten minutes. By the time supper was +finished people was passing things to each other in whispers, and when +a bit o’ cheese went the wrong way with Joe Morgan he nearly suffocated +’imself for fear of making a noise. + +They ’ad a game o’ cards arter supper, counting twenty nuts as a penny, +and everybody got more cheerful. They was all laughing and talking, and +Joe Morgan was pretending to steal Mrs. Pearce’s nuts, when George +Hatchard held up his ’and. + +“Somebody at the street door, I think,” he ses. + +Young Alf got up to open it, and they ’eard a man’s voice in the +passage asking whether Mrs. Pearce lived there, and the next moment Alf +came into the room, followed by Bill Flurry. + +“Here’s a gentleman o’ the name o’ Smith asking arter you,” he ses, +looking at Mrs. Pearce. + +“Wot d’you want?” ses Mrs. Pearce rather sharp. + +“It is ’er,” ses Bill, stroking his long white beard and casting ’is +eyes up at the ceiling. “You don’t remember me, Mrs. Pearce, but I used +to see you years ago, when you and poor Charlie Pearce was living down +Poplar way.” + +“Well, wot about it?” ses Mrs. Pearce. + +“I’m coming to it,” ses Bill Flurry. “I’ve been two months trying to +find you, so there’s no need to be in a hurry for a minute or two. +Besides, what I’ve got to say ought to be broke gently, in case you +faint away with joy.” + +“Rubbish!” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I ain’t the fainting sort.” + +“I ’ope it’s nothing unpleasant,” ses George Hatchard, pouring ’im out +a glass of whisky. + +“Quite the opposite,” ses Bill. “It’s the best news she’s ’eard for +fifteen years.” + +“Are you going to tell me wot you want, or ain’t you?” ses Mrs. Pearce. + +“I’m coming to it,” ses Bill. “Six months ago I was in Melbourne, and +one day I was strolling about looking in at the shop-winders, when all +at once I thought I see a face I knew. It was a good bit older than +when I see it last, and the whiskers was gray, but I says to myself—” + +“I can see wot’s coming,” ses Mrs. Morgan, turning red with excitement +and pinching Joe’s arm. + +“I ses to myself,” ses Bill Flurry, “either that’s a ghost, I ses or +else it’s Charlie—” + +“Go on,” ses George Hatchard, as was sitting with ’is fists clinched on +the table and ’is eyes wide open, staring at ’im. + +“Pearce,” ses Bill Flurry. + +You might ’ave heard a pin drop. They all sat staring at ’im, and then +George Hatchard took out ’is handkerchief and ’eld it up to ’is face. + +“But he was drownded in the _Evening Star_,” ses Joe Morgan. + +Bill Flurry didn’t answer ’im. He poured out pretty near a tumbler of +whisky and offered it to Mrs. Pearce, but she pushed it away, and, +arter looking round in a ’elpless sort of way and shaking his ’ead once +or twice, he finished it up ’imself. + +“It couldn’t ’ave been ’im,” ses George Hatchard, speaking through ’is +handkerchief. “I can’t believe it. It’s too cruel.” + +“I tell you it was ’im,” ses Bill. “He floated off on a spar when the +ship went down, and was picked up two days arterwards by a bark and +taken to New Zealand. He told me all about it, and he told me if ever I +saw ’is wife to give her ’is kind regards.” + +“_Kind regards_!” ses Joe Morgan, starting up. “Why didn’t he let ’is +wife know ’e was alive?” + +“That’s wot I said to ’im,” ses Bill Flurry; “but he said he ’ad ’is +reasons.” + +“Ah, to be sure,” ses Mrs. Morgan, nodding. “Why, you and her can’t be +married now,” she ses, turning to George Hatchard. + +“Married?” ses Bill Flurry with a start, as George Hatchard gave a +groan that surprised ’imself. “Good gracious! what a good job I found +’er!” + +“I s’pose you don’t know where he is to be found now?” ses Mrs. Pearce, +in a low voice, turning to Bill. + +“I do not, ma’am,” ses Bill, “but I think you’d find ’im somewhere in +Australia. He keeps changing ’is name and shifting about, but I dare +say you’d ’ave as good a chance of finding ’im as anybody.” + +“It’s a terrible blow to me,” ses George Hatchard, dabbing his eyes. + +“I know it is,” ses Mrs. Pearce; “but there, you men are all alike. I +dare say if this hadn’t turned up you’d ha’ found something else.” + +“Oh, ’ow can you talk like that?” ses George Hatchard, very +reproachful. “It’s the only thing in the world that could ’ave +prevented our getting married. I’m surprised at you.” + +“Well, that’s all right, then,” ses Mrs. Pearce, “and we’ll get married +after all.” + +“But you can’t,” ses Alf. + +“It’s bigamy,” ses Joe Morgan. + +“You’d get six months,” ses his wife. + +“Don’t you worry, dear,” ses Mrs. Pearce, nodding at George Hatchard; +“that man’s made a mistake.” + +“Mistake!” ses Bill Flurry. “Why, I tell you I talked to ’im. It was +Charlie Pearce right enough; scar on ’is forehead and a wart on ’is +left ear and all.” + +“It’s wonderful,” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I can’t think where you got it all +from.” + +“Got it all from?” ses Bill, staring at her. “Why, from ’im.” + +“Oh, of course,” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I didn’t think of that; but that +only makes it the more wonderful, doesn’t it?—because, you see, he +didn’t go on the _Evening Star_.” + +“_Wot_?” ses George Hatchard. “Why you told me yourself—” + +“I know I did,” ses Mrs. Pearce, “but that was only just to spare your +feelings. Charlie _was_ going to sea in her, but he was prevented.” + +“Prevented?” ses two or three of ’em. + +“Yes,” ses Mrs. Pearce; “the night afore he was to ’ave sailed there +was some silly mistake over a diamond ring, and he got five years. He +gave a different name at the police-station, and naturally everybody +thought ’e went down with the ship. And when he died in prison I didn’t +undeceive ’em.” + +She took out her ’andkerchief, and while she was busy with it Bill +Flurry got up and went out on tiptoe. Young Alf got up a second or two +arterwards to see where he’d gone; and the last Joe Morgan and his +missis see of the happy couple they was sitting on one chair, and +George Hatchard was making desprit and ’artrending attempts to smile. + + + + +A DISTANT RELATIVE + + +[Illustration] + + + + +A DISTANT RELATIVE + + +Mr. Potter had just taken Ethel Spriggs into the kitchen to say +good-by; in the small front room Mr. Spriggs, with his fingers already +fumbling at the linen collar of ceremony, waited impatiently. + +“They get longer and longer over their good-bys,” he complained. + +“It’s only natural,” said Mrs. Spriggs, looking up from a piece of fine +sewing. “Don’t you remember—” + +“No, I don’t,” said her husband, doggedly. “I know that your pore +father never ’ad to put on a collar for me; and, mind you, I won’t wear +one after they’re married, not if you all went on your bended knees and +asked me to.” + +He composed his face as the door opened, and nodded good-night to the +rather over-dressed young man who came through the room with his +daughter. + +The latter opened the front-door and passing out with Mr. Potter, held +it slightly open. A penetrating draught played upon the exasperated Mr. +Spriggs. He coughed loudly. + +“Your father’s got a cold,” said Mr. Potter, in a concerned voice. + +“No; it’s only too much smoking,” said the girl. “He’s smoking all day +long.” + +The indignant Mr. Spriggs coughed again; but the young people had found +a new subject of conversation. It ended some minutes later in a playful +scuffle, during which the door acted the part of a ventilating fan. + +“It’s only for another fortnight,” said Mrs. Spriggs, hastily, as her +husband rose. + +“After they’re spliced,” said the vindictive Mr. Spriggs, resuming his +seat, “I’ll go round and I’ll play about with their front-door till—” + +He broke off abruptly as his daughter, darting into the room, closed +the door with a bang that nearly extinguished the lamp, and turned the +key. Before her flushed and laughing face Mr. Spriggs held his peace. + +“What’s the matter?” she asked, eying him. “What are you looking like +that for?” + +“Too much draught—for your mother,” said Mr. Spriggs, feebly. “I’m +afraid of her asthma agin.” + +He fell to work on the collar once more, and, escaping at last from the +clutches of that enemy, laid it on the table and unlaced his boots. An +attempt to remove his coat was promptly frustrated by his daughter. + +“You’ll get doing it when you come round to see us,” she explained. + +Mr. Spriggs sighed, and lighting a short clay pipe—forbidden in the +presence of his future son-in-law—fell to watching mother and daughter +as they gloated over dress materials and discussed double-widths. + +“Anybody who can’t be ’appy with her,” he said, half an hour later, as +his daughter slapped his head by way of bidding him good-night, and +retired, “don’t deserve to be ’appy.” + +“I wish it was over,” whispered his wife. “She’ll break her heart if +anything happens, and—and Gussie will be out now in a day or two.” + +“A gal can’t ’elp what her uncle does,” said Mr. Spriggs, fiercely; “if +Alfred throws her over for that, he’s no man.” + +“Pride is his great fault,” said his wife, mournfully. + +“It’s no good taking up troubles afore they come,” observed Mr. +Spriggs. “P’r’aps Gussie won’t come ’ere.” + +“He’ll come straight here,” said his wife, with conviction; “he’ll come +straight here and try and make a fuss of me, same as he used to do when +we was children and I’d got a ha’penny. I know him.” + +“Cheer up, old gal,” said Mr. Spriggs; “if he does, we must try and get +rid of ’im; and, if he won’t go, we must tell Alfred that he’s been to +Australia, same as we did Ethel.” + +His wife smiled faintly. + +“That’s the ticket,” continued Mr. Spriggs. “For one thing, I b’leeve +he’ll be ashamed to show his face here; but, if he does, he’s come back +from Australia. See? It’ll make it nicer for ’im too. You don’t suppose +he wants to boast of where he’s been?” + +“And suppose he comes while Alfred is here?” said his wife. + +“Then I say, ‘How ’ave you left ’em all in Australia?’ and wink at +him,” said the ready Mr. Spriggs. + +“And s’pose you’re not here?” objected his wife. + +“Then you say it and wink at him,” was the reply. “No; I know you +can’t,” he added, hastily, as Mrs. Spriggs raised another objection; +“you’ve been too well brought up. Still, you can try.” + +It was a slight comfort to Mrs. Spriggs that Mr. Augustus Price did, +after all, choose a convenient time for his reappearance. A faint knock +sounded on the door two days afterwards as she sat at tea with her +husband, and an anxious face with somewhat furtive eyes was thrust into +the room. + +“Emma!” said a mournful voice, as the upper part of the intruder’s body +followed the face. + +“Gussie!” said Mrs. Spriggs, rising in disorder. + +Mr. Price drew his legs into the room, and, closing the door with +extraordinary care, passed the cuff of his coat across his eyes and +surveyed them tenderly. + +“I’ve come home to die,” he said, slowly, and, tottering across the +room, embraced his sister with much unction. + +“What are you going to die of?” inquired Mr. Spriggs, reluctantly +accepting the extended hand. + +“Broken ’art, George,” replied his brother-in-law, sinking into a +chair. + +Mr. Spriggs grunted, and, moving his chair a little farther away, +watched the intruder as his wife handed him a plate. A troubled glance +from his wife reminded him of their arrangements for the occasion, and +he cleared his throat several times in vain attempts to begin. + +“I’m sorry that we can’t ask you to stay with us, Gussie, ’specially as +you’re so ill,” he said, at last; “but p’r’aps you’ll be better after +picking a bit.” + +Mr. Price, who was about to take a slice of bread and butter, +refrained, and, closing his eyes, uttered a faint moan. “I sha’n’t last +the night,” he muttered. + +“That’s just it,” said Mr. Spriggs, eagerly. “You see, Ethel is going +to be married in a fortnight, and if you died here that would put it +off.” + +“I might last longer if I was took care of,” said the other, opening +his eyes. + +“And, besides, Ethel don’t know where you’ve been,” continued Mr. +Spriggs. “We told ’er that you had gone to Australia. She’s going to +marry a very partikler young chap—a grocer—and if he found it out it +might be awk’ard.” + +Mr. Price closed his eyes again, but the lids quivered. + +“It took ’im some time to get over me being a bricklayer,” pursued Mr. +Spriggs. “What he’d say to you—” + +“Tell ’im I’ve come back from Australia, if you like,” said Mr. Price, +faintly. “I don’t mind.” + +Mr. Spriggs cleared his throat again. “But, you see, we told Ethel as +you was doing well out there,” he said, with an embarrassed laugh, “and +girl-like, and Alfred talking a good deal about his relations, +she—she’s made the most of it.” + +“It don’t matter,” said the complaisant Mr. Price; “you say what you +like. I sha’n’t interfere with you.” + +“But, you see, you don’t look as though you’ve been making money,” said +his sister, impatiently. “Look at your clothes.” + +Mr. Price held up his hand. “That’s easy got over,” he remarked; “while +I’m having a bit of tea George can go out and buy me some new ones. You +get what you think I should look richest in, George—a black tail-coat +would be best, I should think, but I leave it to you. A bit of a fancy +waistcoat, p’r’aps, lightish trousers, and a pair o’ nice boots, easy +sevens.” + +He sat upright in his chair and, ignoring the look of consternation +that passed between husband and wife, poured himself out a cup of tea +and took a slice of cake. + +“Have you got any money?” said Mr. Spriggs, after a long pause. + +“I left it behind me—in Australia,” said Mr. Price, with ill-timed +facetiousness. + +“Getting better, ain’t you?” said his brother-in-law, sharply. “How’s +that broken ’art getting on?” + +“It’ll go all right under a fancy waistcoat,” was the reply; “and while +you’re about it, George, you’d better get me a scarf-pin, and, if you +_could_ run to a gold watch and chain—” + +He was interrupted by a frenzied outburst from Mr. Spriggs; a somewhat +incoherent summary of Mr. Price’s past, coupled with unlawful and +heathenish hopes for his future. + +“You’re wasting time,” said Mr. Price, calmly, as he paused for breath. +“Don’t get ’em if you don’t want to. I’m trying to help you, that’s +all. I don’t mind anybody knowing where I’ve been. I was innercent. If +you will give way to sinful pride you must pay for it.” + +Mr. Spriggs, by a great effort, regained his self-control. “Will you go +away if I give you a quid?” he asked, quietly. + +“No,” said Mr. Price, with a placid smile. “I’ve got a better idea of +the value of money than that. Besides, I want to see my dear niece, and +see whether that young man’s good enough for her.” + +“Two quid?” suggested his brother-in-law. + +Mr. Price shook his head. “I couldn’t do it,” he said, calmly. “In +justice to myself I couldn’t do it. You’ll be feeling lonely when you +lose Ethel, and I’ll stay and keep you company.” + +The bricklayer nearly broke out again; but, obeying a glance from his +wife, closed his lips and followed her obediently upstairs. Mr. Price, +filling his pipe from a paper of tobacco on the mantelpiece, winked at +himself encouragingly in the glass, and smiled gently as he heard the +chinking of coins upstairs. + +“Be careful about the size,” he said, as Mr. Spriggs came down and took +his hat from a nail; “about a couple of inches shorter than yourself +and not near so much round the waist.” + +Mr. Spriggs regarded him sternly for a few seconds, and then, closing +the door with a bang, went off down the street. Left alone, Mr. Price +strolled about the room investigating, and then, drawing an easy-chair +up to the fire, put his feet on the fender and relapsed into thought. + +Two hours later he sat in the same place, a changed and resplendent +being. His thin legs were hidden in light check trousers, and the +companion waistcoat to Joseph’s Coat graced the upper part of his body. +A large chrysanthemum in the button-hole of his frock-coat completed +the picture of an Australian millionaire, as understood by Mr. Spriggs. + +“A nice watch and chain, and a little money in my pockets, and I shall +be all right,” murmured Mr. Price. + +“You won’t get any more out o’ me,” said Mr. Spriggs, fiercely. “I’ve +spent every farthing I’ve got.” + +“Except what’s in the bank,” said his brother-in-law. “It’ll take you a +day or two to get at it, I know. S’pose we say Saturday for the watch +and chain?” + +Mr. Spriggs looked helplessly at his wife, but she avoided his gaze. He +turned and gazed in a fascinated fashion at Mr. Price, and received a +cheerful nod in return. + +“I’ll come with you and help choose it,” said the latter. “It’ll save +you trouble if it don’t save your pocket.” + +He thrust his hands in his trouser-pockets and, spreading his legs wide +apart, tilted his head back and blew smoke to the ceiling. He was in +the same easy position when Ethel arrived home accompanied by Mr. +Potter. + +“It’s—it’s your Uncle Gussie,” said Mrs. Spriggs, as the girl stood +eying the visitor. + +“From Australia,” said her husband, thickly. + +Mr. Price smiled, and his niece, noticing that he removed his pipe and +wiped his lips with the back of his hand, crossed over and kissed his +eyebrow. Mr. Potter was then introduced and received a gracious +reception, Mr. Price commenting on the extraordinary likeness he bore +to a young friend of his who had just come in for forty thousand a +year. + +“That’s nearly as much as you’re worth, uncle, isn’t it?” inquired Miss +Spriggs, daringly. + +Mr. Price shook his head at her and pondered. “Rather more,” he said, +at last, “rather more.” + + +[Illustration: “Mr. Potter was then introduced and received a +gracious reception.”] + + +Mr. Potter caught his breath sharply; Mr. Spriggs, who was stooping to +get a light for his pipe, nearly fell into the fire. There was an +impressive silence. + +“Money isn’t everything,” said Mr. Price, looking round and shaking his +head. “It’s not much good, except to give away.” + +His eye roved round the room and came to rest finally upon Mr. Potter. +The young man noticed with a thrill that it beamed with benevolence. + +“Fancy coming over without saying a word to anybody, and taking us all +by surprise like this!” said Ethel. + +“I felt I must see you all once more before I died,” said her uncle, +simply. “Just a flying visit I meant it to be, but your father and +mother won’t hear of my going back just yet.” + +“Of course not,” said Ethel, who was helping the silent Mrs. Spriggs to +lay supper. + +“When I talked of going your father ’eld me down in my chair,” +continued the veracious Mr. Price. + +“Quite right, too,” said the girl. “Now draw your chair up and have +some supper, and tell us all about Australia.” + +Mr. Price drew his chair up, but, as to talking about Australia, he +said ungratefully that he was sick of the name of the place, and +preferred instead to discuss the past and future of Mr. Potter. He +learned, among other things, that that gentleman was of a careful and +thrifty disposition, and that his savings, augmented by a lucky legacy, +amounted to a hundred and ten pounds. + +“Alfred is going to stay with Palmer and Mays for another year, and +then we shall take a business of our own,” said Ethel. + +“Quite right,” said Mr. Price. “I like to see young people make their +own way,” he added meaningly. “It’s good for ’em.” + +It was plain to all that he had taken a great fancy to Mr. Potter. He +discussed the grocery trade with the air of a rich man seeking a good +investment, and threw out dark hints about returning to England after a +final visit to Australia and settling down in the bosom of his family. +He accepted a cigar from Mr. Potter after supper, and, when the young +man left—at an unusually late hour—walked home with him. + +It was the first of several pleasant evenings, and Mr. Price, who had +bought a book dealing with Australia from a second-hand bookstall, no +longer denied them an account of his adventures there. A gold watch and +chain, which had made a serious hole in his brother-in-law’s Savings +Bank account, lent an air of substance to his waistcoat, and a pin of +excellent paste sparkled in his neck-tie. Under the influence of good +food and home comforts he improved every day, and the unfortunate Mr. +Spriggs was at his wits’ end to resist further encroachments. From the +second day of their acquaintance he called Mr. Potter “Alf,” and the +young people listened with great attention to his discourse on “Money: +How to Make It and How to Keep It.” + +His own dealings with Mr. Spriggs afforded an example which he did not +quote. Beginning with shillings, he led up to half-crowns, and, +encouraged by success, one afternoon boldly demanded a half-sovereign +to buy a wedding-present with. Mrs. Spriggs drew her over-wrought +husband into the kitchen and argued with him in whispers. + +“Give him what he wants till they’re married,” she entreated; “after +that Alfred can’t help himself, and it’ll be as much to his interest to +keep quiet as anybody else.” + +Mr. Spriggs, who had been a careful man all his life, found the +half-sovereign and a few new names, which he bestowed upon Mr. Price at +the same time. The latter listened unmoved. In fact, a bright eye and a +pleasant smile seemed to indicate that he regarded them rather in the +nature of compliments than otherwise. + +“I telegraphed over to Australia this morning,” he said, as they all +sat at supper that evening. + + +[Illustration: “A gold watch and chain lent an air of substance to +his waistcoat.”] + + +“About my money?” said Mr. Potter, eagerly. + +Mr. Price frowned at him swiftly. “No; telling my head clerk to send +over a wedding-present for you,” he said, his face softening under the +eye of Mr. Spriggs. “I’ve got just the thing for you there. I can’t see +anything good enough over here.” + +The young couple were warm in their thanks. + +“What did you mean, about your money?” inquired Mr. Spriggs, turning to +his future son-in-law. + +“Nothing,” said the young man, evasively. + +“It’s a secret,” said Mr. Price. + +“What about?” persisted Mr. Spriggs, raising his voice. + +“It’s a little private business between me and Uncle Gussie,” said Mr. +Potter, somewhat stiffly. + +“You—you haven’t been lending him money?” stammered the bricklayer. + +“Don’t be silly, father,” said Miss Spriggs, sharply. “What good would +Alfred’s little bit o’ money be to Uncle Gussie? If you must know, +Alfred is drawing it out for uncle to invest it for him.” + +The eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Spriggs and Mr. Price engaged in a triangular +duel. The latter spoke first. + +“I’m putting it into my business for him,” he said, with a threatening +glance, “in Australia.” + +“And he didn’t want his generosity known,” added Mr. Potter. + +The bewildered Mr. Spriggs looked helplessly round the table. His +wife’s foot pressed his, and like a mechanical toy his lips snapped +together. + +“I didn’t know you had got your money handy,” said Mrs. Spriggs, in +trembling tones. + +“I made special application, and I’m to have it on Friday,” said Mr. +Potter, with a smile. “You don’t get a chance like that every day.” + +He filled Uncle Gussie’s glass for him, and that gentleman at once +raised it and proposed the health of the young couple. “If anything was +to ’appen to break it off now,” he said, with a swift glance at his +sister, “they’d be miserable for life, I can see that.” + +“Miserable for ever,” assented Mr. Potter, in a sepulchral voice, as he +squeezed the hand of Miss Spriggs under the table. + +“It’s the only thing worth ’aving—love,” continued Mr. Price, watching +his brother-in-law out of the corner of his eye. “Money is nothing.” + +Mr. Spriggs emptied his glass and, knitting his brows, drew patterns on +the cloth with the back of his knife. His wife’s foot was still +pressing on his, and he waited for instructions. + +For once, however, Mrs. Spriggs had none to give. Even when Mr. Potter +had gone and Ethel had retired upstairs she was still voiceless. She +sat for some time looking at the fire and stealing an occasional glance +at Uncle Gussie as he smoked a cigar; then she arose and bent over her +husband. + +“Do what you think best,” she said, in a weary voice. “Good-night.” + +“What about that money of young Alfred’s?” demanded Mr. Spriggs, as the +door closed behind her. + +“I’m going to put it in my business,” said Uncle Gussie, blandly; “my +business in Australia.” + +“Ho! You’ve got to talk to me about that first,” said the other. + +His brother-in-law leaned back and smoked with placid enjoyment. “You +do what you like,” he said, easily. “Of course, if you tell Alfred, I +sha’n’t get the money, and Ethel won’t get ’im. Besides that, he’ll +find out what lies you’ve been telling.” + +“I wonder you can look me in the face,” said the raging bricklayer. + +“And I should give him to understand that you were going shares in the +hundred and ten pounds and then thought better of it,” said the unmoved +Mr. Price. “He’s the sort o’ young chap as’ll believe anything. Bless +’im!” + +Mr. Spriggs bounced up from his chair and stood over him with his fists +clinched. Mr. Price glared defiance. + +“If you’re so partikler you can make it up to him,” he said, slowly. +“You’ve been a saving man, I know, and Emma ’ad a bit left her that I +ought to have ’ad. When you’ve done play-acting I’ll go to bed. So +long!” + +He got up, yawning, and walked to the door, and Mr. Spriggs, after a +momentary idea of breaking him in pieces and throwing him out into the +street, blew out the lamp and went upstairs to discuss the matter with +his wife until morning. + +Mr. Spriggs left for his work next day with the question still +undecided, but a pretty strong conviction that Mr. Price would have to +have his way. The wedding was only five days off, and the house was in +a bustle of preparation. A certain gloom which he could not shake off +he attributed to a raging toothache, turning a deaf ear to the various +remedies suggested by Uncle Gussie, and the name of an excellent +dentist who had broken a tooth of Mr. Potter’s three times before +extracting it. + +Uncle Gussie he treated with bare civility in public, and to +blood-curdling threats in private. Mr. Price, ascribing the latter to +the toothache, also varied his treatment to his company; prescribing +whisky held in the mouth, and other agreeable remedies when there were +listeners, and recommending him to fill his mouth with cold water and +sit on the fire till it boiled, when they were alone. + +He was at his worst on Thursday morning; on Thursday afternoon he came +home a bright and contented man. He hung his cap on the nail with a +flourish, kissed his wife, and, in full view of the disapproving Mr. +Price, executed a few clumsy steps on the hearthrug. + +“Come in for a fortune?” inquired the latter, eying him sourly. + +“No; I’ve saved one,” replied Mr. Spriggs, gayly. “I wonder I didn’t +think of it myself.” + +“Think of what?” inquired Mr. Price. + +“You’ll soon know,” said Mr. Spriggs, “and you’ve only got yourself to +thank for it.” + +Uncle Gussie sniffed suspiciously; Mrs. Spriggs pressed for +particulars. + +“I’ve got out of the difficulty,” said her husband, drawing his chair +to the tea-table. “Nobody’ll suffer but Gussie.” + +“Ho!” said that gentleman, sharply. + +“I took the day off,” said Mr. Spriggs, smiling contentedly at his +wife, “and went to see a friend of mine, Bill White the policeman, and +told him about Gussie.” + +Mr. Price stiffened in his chair. + +“Acting—under—his—advice,” said Mr. Spriggs, sipping his tea, “I wrote +to Scotland Yard and told ’em that Augustus Price, ticket-of-leave man, +was trying to obtain a hundred and ten pounds by false pretences.” + +Mr. Price, white and breathless, rose and confronted him. + +“The beauty o’ that is, as Bill says,” continued Mr. Spriggs, with much +enjoyment, “that Gussie’ll ’ave to set out on his travels again. He’ll +have to go into hiding, because if they catch him he’ll ’ave to finish +his time. And Bill says if he writes letters to any of us it’ll only +make it easier to find him. You’d better take the first train to +Australia, Gussie.” + +“What—what time did you post—the letter?” inquired Uncle Gussie, +jerkily. + +“’Bout two o’clock,” said Mr. Spriggs, glaring at the clock. “I reckon +you’ve just got time.” + +Mr. Price stepped swiftly to the small sideboard, and, taking up his +hat, clapped it on. He paused a moment at the door to glance up and +down the street, and then the door closed softly behind him. Mrs. +Spriggs looked at her husband. + +“Called away to Australia by special telegram,” said the latter, +winking. “Bill White is a trump; that’s what he is.” + +“Oh, George!” said his wife. “Did you really write that letter?” + +Mr. Spriggs winked again. + + + + +THE TEST + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE TEST + + +Pebblesea was dull, and Mr. Frederick Dix, mate of the ketch +_Starfish_, after a long and unsuccessful quest for amusement, returned +to the harbor with an idea of forgetting his disappointment in sleep. +The few shops in the High Street were closed, and the only +entertainment offered at the taverns was contained in glass and pewter. +The attitude of the landlord of the “Pilots’ Hope,” where Mr. Dix had +sought to enliven the proceedings by a song and dance, still rankled in +his memory. + +The skipper and the hands were still ashore and the ketch looked so +lonely that the mate, thinking better of his idea of retiring, thrust +his hands deep in his pockets and sauntered round the harbor. It was +nearly dark, and the only other man visible stood at the edge of the +quay gazing at the water. He stood for so long that the mate’s easily +aroused curiosity awoke, and, after twice passing, he edged up to him +and ventured a remark on the fineness of the night. + +“The night’s all right,” said the young man, gloomily. + +“You’re rather near the edge,” said the mate, after a pause. + +“I like being near the edge,” was the reply. + +Mr. Dix whistled softly and, glancing up at the tall, white-faced young +man before him, pushed his cap back and scratched his head. + +“Ain’t got anything on your mind, have you?” he inquired. + +The young man groaned and turned away, and the mate, scenting a little +excitement, took him gently by the coat-sleeve and led him from the +brink. Sympathy begets confidence, and, within the next ten minutes, he +had learned that Arthur Heard, rejected by Emma Smith, was +contemplating the awful crime of self-destruction. + +“Why, I’ve known ’er for seven years,” said Mr. Heard; “seven years, +and this is the end of it.” + +The mate shook his head. + +“I told ’er I was coming straight away to drownd myself,” pursued Mr. +Heard. “My last words to ’er was, ‘When you see my bloated corpse +you’ll be sorry.’” + +“I expect she’ll cry and carry on like anything,” said the mate, +politely. + +The other turned and regarded him. “Why, you don’t think I’m going to, +do you?” he inquired, sharply. “Why, I wouldn’t drownd myself for fifty +blooming gells.” + +“But what did you tell her you were going to for, then?” demanded the +puzzled mate. + +“’Cos I thought it would upset ’er and make ’er give way,” said the +other, bitterly; “and all it done was to make ’er laugh as though she’d +’ave a fit.” + +“It would serve her jolly well right if you did drown yourself,” said +Mr. Dix, judiciously. “It ’ud spoil her life for her.” + +“Ah, and it wouldn’t spoil mine, I s’pose?” rejoined Mr. Heard, with +ferocious sarcasm. + +“How she will laugh when she sees you to-morrow,” mused the mate. “Is +she the sort of girl that would spread it about?” + +Mr. Heard said that she was, and, forgetting for a moment his great +love, referred to her partiality for gossip in the most scathing terms +he could muster. The mate, averse to such a tame ending to a promising +adventure, eyed him thoughtfully. + +“Why not just go in and out again,” he said, seductively, “and run to +her house all dripping wet?” + +“That would be clever, wouldn’t it?” said the ungracious Mr. Heard. +“Starting to commit suicide, and then thinking better of it. Why, I +should be a bigger laughing-stock than ever.” + +“But suppose I saved you against your will?” breathed the tempter; “how +would that be?” + +“It would be all right if I cared to run the risk,” said the other, +“but I don’t. I should look well struggling in the water while you was +diving in the wrong places for me, shouldn’t I?” + +“I wasn’t thinking of such a thing,” said Mr. Dix, hastily; “twenty +strokes is about my mark—with my clothes off. My idea was to pull you +out.” + +Mr. Heard glanced at the black water a dozen feet below. “How?” he +inquired, shortly. + +“Not here,” said the mate. “Come to the end of the quay where the +ground slopes to the water. It’s shallow there, and you can tell her +that you jumped in off here. She won’t know the difference.” + +With an enthusiasm which Mr. Heard made no attempt to share, he led the +way to the place indicated, and dilating upon its manifold advantages, +urged him to go in at once and get it over. + +“You couldn’t have a better night for it,” he said, briskly. “Why, it +makes me feel like a dip myself to look at it.” + +Mr. Heard gave a surly grunt, and after testing the temperature of the +water with his hand, slowly and reluctantly immersed one foot. Then, +with sudden resolution, he waded in and, ducking his head, stood up +gasping. + +“Give yourself a good soaking while you’re about it,” said the +delighted mate. + +Mr. Heard ducked again, and once more emerging stumbled towards the +bank. + +“Pull me out,” he cried, sharply. + +Mr. Dix, smiling indulgently, extended his hands, which Mr. Heard +seized with the proverbial grasp of a drowning man. + +“All right, take it easy, don’t get excited,” said the smiling mate, +“four foot of water won’t hurt anyone. If—Here! Let go o’ me, d’ye +hear? Let go! If you don’t let go I’ll punch your head.” + +“You couldn’t save me against my will without coming in,” said Mr. +Heard. “Now we can tell ’er you dived in off the quay and got me just +as I was sinking for the last time. You’ll be a hero.” + +The mate’s remarks about heroes were mercifully cut short. He was three +stone lighter than Mr. Heard, and standing on shelving ground. The +latter’s victory was so sudden that he over-balanced, and only a +commotion at the surface of the water showed where they had +disappeared. Mr. Heard was first up and out, but almost immediately the +figure of the mate, who had gone under with his mouth open, emerged +from the water and crawled ashore. + +“You—wait—till I—get my breath back,” he gasped. + +“There’s no ill-feeling, I ’ope?” said Mr. Heard, anxiously. “I’ll tell +everybody of your bravery. Don’t spoil everything for the sake of a +little temper.” + +Mr. Dix stood up and clinched his fists, but at the spectacle of the +dripping, forlorn figure before him his wrath vanished and he broke +into a hearty laugh. + +“Come on, mate,” he said, clapping him on the back, “now let’s go and +find Emma. If she don’t fall in love with you now she never will. My +eye! you are a picture!” + +He began to walk towards the town, and Mr. Heard, with his legs wide +apart and his arms held stiffly from his body, waddled along beside +him. Two little streamlets followed. + +They walked along the quay in silence, and had nearly reached the end +of it, when the figure of a man turned the corner of the houses and +advanced at a shambling trot towards them. + +“Old Smith!” said Mr. Heard, in a hasty whisper. “Now, be careful. Hold +me tight.” + +The new-comer thankfully dropped into a walk as he saw them, and came +to a standstill with a cry of astonishment as the light of a +neighboring lamp revealed their miserable condition. + +“Wot, Arthur!” he exclaimed. + +“Halloa,” said Mr. Heard, drearily. + +“The idea o’ your being so sinful,” said Mr. Smith, severely. “Emma +told me wot you said, but I never thought as you’d got the pluck to go +and do it. I’m surprised at you.” + +“I ain’t done it,” said Mr. Heard, in a sullen voice; “nobody can +drownd themselves in comfort with a lot of interfering people about.” + +Mr. Smith turned and gazed at the mate, and a broad beam of admiration +shone in his face as he grasped that gentleman’s hand. + +“Come into the ’ouse both of you and get some dry clothes,” he said, +warmly. + +He thrust his strong, thick-set figure between them, and with a hand on +each coat-collar propelled them in the direction of home. The mate +muttered something about going back to his ship, but Mr. Smith refused +to listen, and stopping at the door of a neat cottage, turned the +handle and thrust his dripping charges over the threshold of a +comfortable sitting-room. + +A pleasant-faced woman of middle age and a pretty girl of twenty rose +at their entrance, and a faint scream fell pleasantly upon the ears of +Mr. Heard. + +“Here he is,” bawled Mr. Smith; “just saved at the last moment.” + +“What, two of them?” exclaimed Miss Smith, with a faint note of +gratification in her voice. Her gaze fell on the mate, and she smiled +approvingly. + +“No; this one jumped in and saved ’im,” said her father. + +“Oh, Arthur!” said Miss Smith. “How could you be so wicked! I never +dreamt you’d go and do such a thing—never! I didn’t think you’d got it +in you.” + +Mr. Heard grinned sheepishly. “I told you I would,” he muttered. + +“Don’t stand talking here,” said Mrs. Smith, gazing at the puddle which +was growing in the centre of the carpet; “they’ll catch cold. Take ’em +upstairs and give ’em some dry clothes. And I’ll bring some hot whisky +and water up to ’em.” + +“Rum is best,” said Mr. Smith, herding his charges and driving them up +the small staircase. “Send young Joe for some. Send up three glasses.” +They disappeared upstairs, and Joe appearing at that moment from the +kitchen, was hastily sent off to the “Blue Jay” for the rum. A couple +of curious neighbors helped him to carry it back, and, standing +modestly just inside the door, ventured on a few skilled directions as +to its preparation. After which, with an eye on Miss Smith, they stood +and conversed, mostly in head-shakes. + +Stimulated by the rum and the energetic Mr. Smith, the men were not +long in changing. Preceded by their host, they came down to the +sitting-room again; Mr. Heard with as desperate and unrepentant an air +as he could assume, and Mr. Dix trying to conceal his uneasiness by +taking great interest in a suit of clothes three sizes too large for +him. + +“They was both as near drownded as could be,” said Mr. Smith, looking +round; “he ses Arthur fought like a madman to prevent ’imself from +being saved.” + +“It was nothing, really,” said the mate, in an almost inaudible voice, +as he met Miss Smith’s admiring gaze. + +“Listen to ’im,” said the delighted Mr. Smith; “all brave men are like +that. That’s wot’s made us Englishmen wot we are.” + +“I don’t suppose he knew who it was he was saving,” said a voice from +the door. + +“I didn’t want to be saved,” said Mr. Heard, defiantly. + +“Well, you can easy do it again, Arthur,” said the same voice; “the +dock won’t run away.” + +Mr. Heard started and eyed the speaker with same malevolence. + +“Tell us all about it,” said Miss Smith, gazing at the mate, with her +hands clasped. “Did you see him jump in?” + +Mr. Dix shook his head and looked at Mr. Heard for guidance. “N—not +exactly,” he stammered; “I was just taking a stroll round the harbor +before turning in, when all of a sudden I heard a cry for help—” + +“No you didn’t,” broke in Mr. Heard, fiercely. + +“Well, it sounded like it,” said the mate, somewhat taken aback. + +“I don’t care what it sounded like,” said the other. “I didn’t say it. +It was the last thing I should ’ave called out. I didn’t want to be +saved.” + +“P’r’aps he cried ‘Emma,’” said the voice from the door. + +“Might ha’ been that,” admitted the mate. “Well, when I heard it I ran +to the edge and looked down at the water, and at first I couldn’t see +anything. Then I saw what I took to be a dog, but, knowing that dogs +can’t cry ‘help!’—” + +“Emma,” corrected Mr. Heard. + +“Emma,” said the mate, “I just put my hands up and dived in. When I +came to the surface I struck out for him and tried to seize him from +behind, but before I could do so he put his arms round my neck +like—like—” + +“Like as if it was Emma’s,” suggested the voice by the door. + +Miss Smith rose with majestic dignity and confronted the speaker. “And +who asked you in here, George Harris?” she inquired, coldly. + +“I see the door open,” stammered Mr. Harris—“I see the door open and I +thought—” + +“If you look again you’ll see the handle,” said Miss Smith. + +Mr. Harris looked, and, opening the door with extreme care, melted +slowly from a gaze too terrible for human endurance. + +“We went down like a stone,” continued the mate, as Miss Smith resumed +her seat and smiled at him. “When we came up he tried to get away +again. I think we went down again a few more times, but I ain’t sure. +Then we crawled out; leastways I did, and pulled him after me.” + +“He might have drowned you,” said Miss Smith, with a severe glance at +her unfortunate admirer. “And it’s my belief that he tumbled in after +all, and when you thought he was struggling to get away he was +struggling to be saved. That’s more like him.” + +“Well, they’re all right now,” said Mr. Smith, as Mr. Heard broke in +with some vehemence. “And this chap’s going to ’ave the Royal Society’s +medal for it, or I’ll know the reason why.” + +“No, no,” said the mate, hurriedly; “I wouldn’t take it, I couldn’t +think of it.” + +“Take it or leave it,” said Mr. Smith; “but I’m going to the police to +try and get it for you. I know the inspector a bit.” + +“I can’t take it,” said the horrified mate; “it—it—besides, don’t you +see, if this isn’t kept quiet Mr. Heard will be locked up for trying to +commit suicide.” + +“So he would be,” said the other man from his post by the door; “he’s +quite right.” + +“And I’d sooner lose fifty medals,” said Mr. Dix. “What’s the good of +me saving him for that?” + +A murmur of admiration at the mate’s extraordinary nobility of +character jarred harshly on the ears of Mr. Heard. Most persistent of +all was the voice of Miss Smith, and hardly able to endure things +quietly, he sat and watched the tender glances which passed between her +and Mr. Dix. Miss Smith, conscious at last of his regards, turned and +looked at him. + +“You could say you tumbled in, Arthur, and then he would get the +medal,” she said, softly. + +“_Say!_” shouted the overwrought Mr. Heard. “Say I tum—” + +Words failed him. He stood swaying and regarding the company for a +moment, and then, flinging open the door, closed it behind him with a +bang that made the house tremble. + +The mate followed half an hour later, escorted to the ship by the +entire Smith family. Fortified by the presence of Miss Smith, he +pointed out the exact scene of the rescue without a tremor, and, when +her father narrated the affair to the skipper, whom they found sitting +on deck smoking a last pipe, listened undismayed to that astonished +mariner’s comments. + +News of the mate’s heroic conduct became general the next day, and work +on the ketch was somewhat impeded in consequence. It became a point of +honor with Mr. Heard’s fellow-townsmen to allude to the affair as an +accident, but the romantic nature of the transaction was well +understood, and full credit given to Mr. Dix for his self-denial in the +matter of the medal. Small boys followed him in the street, and half +Pebblesea knew when he paid a visit to the Smith’s, and discussed his +chances. Two nights afterwards, when he and Miss Smith went for a walk +in the loneliest spot they could find, conversation turned almost +entirely upon the over-crowded condition of the British Isles. + +The _Starfish_ was away for three weeks, but the little town no longer +looked dull to the mate as she entered the harbor one evening and +glided slowly towards her old berth. Emma Smith was waiting to see the +ship come in, and his taste for all other amusements had temporarily +disappeared. + +For two or three days the course of true love ran perfectly smooth; +then, like a dark shadow, the figure of Arthur Heard was thrown across +its path. It haunted the quay, hung about the house, and cropped up +unexpectedly in the most distant solitudes. It came up behind the mate +one evening just as he left the ship and walked beside him in silence. + +“Halloa,” said the mate, at last. + +“Halloa,” said Mr. Heard. “Going to see Emma?” + +“I’m going to see Miss Smith,” said the mate. + +Mr. Heard laughed; a forced, mirthless laugh. + +“And we don’t want you following us about,” said Mr. Dix, sharply. “If +it’ll ease your mind, and do you any good to know, you never had a +chance. She told me so.” + +“I sha’n’t follow you,” said Mr. Heard; “it’s your last evening, so +you’d better make the most of it.” + +He turned on his heel, and the mate, pondering on his last words, went +thoughtfully on to the house. + + +[Illustration: “‘And we don’t want you following us about,’ said Mr. +Dix, sharply.”] + + +Amid the distraction of pleasant society and a long walk, the matter +passed from his mind, and he only remembered it at nine o’clock that +evening as a knock sounded on the door and the sallow face of Mr. Heard +was thrust into the room. + +“Good-evening all,” said the intruder. + +“Evening, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, affably. + +Mr. Heard with a melancholy countenance entered the room and closed the +door gently behind him. Then he coughed slightly and shook his head. + +“Anything the matter, Arthur?” inquired Mr. Smith, somewhat disturbed +by these manifestations. + +“I’ve got something on my mind,” said Mr. Heard, with a diabolical +glance at the mate—“something wot’s been worrying me for a long time. +I’ve been deceiving you.” + +“That was always your failing, Arthur—deceitfulness,” said Mrs. Smith. +“I remember—” + +“We’ve both been deceiving you,” interrupted Mr. Heard, loudly. “I +didn’t jump into the harbor the other night, and I didn’t tumble in, +and Mr. Fred Dix didn’t jump in after me; we just went to the end of +the harbor and walked in and wetted ourselves.” + +There was a moment’s intense silence and all eyes turned on the mate. +The latter met them boldly. + +“It’s a habit o’ mine to walk into the water and spoil my clothes for +the sake of people I’ve never met before,” he said, with a laugh. + +“For shame, Arthur!” said Mr. Smith, with a huge sigh of relief. + +“’Ow can you?” said Mrs. Smith. + +“Arthur’s been asleep since then,” said the mate, still smiling. “All +the same, the next time he jumps in he can get out by himself.” + +Mr. Heard, raising his voice, entered into a minute description of the +affair, but in vain. Mr. Smith, rising to his feet, denounced his +ingratitude in language which was seldom allowed to pass unchallenged +in the presence of his wife, while that lady contributed examples of +deceitfulness in the past of Mr. Heard, which he strove in vain to +refute. Meanwhile, her daughter patted the mate’s hand. + +“It’s a bit too thin, Arthur,” said the latter, with a mocking smile; +“try something better next time.” + +“Very well,” said Mr. Heard, in quieter tones; “I dare you to come +along to the harbor and jump in, just as you are, where you said you +jumped in after me. They’ll soon see who’s telling the truth.” + +“He’ll do that,” said Mr. Smith, with conviction. + +For a fraction of a second Mr. Dix hesitated, then, with a steady +glance at Miss Smith, he sprang to his feet and accepted the challenge. +Mrs. Smith besought him not to be foolish, and, with a vague idea of +dissuading him, told him a slanderous anecdote concerning Mr. Heard’s +aunt. Her daughter gazed at the mate with proud confidence, and, taking +his arm, bade her mother to get some dry clothes ready and led the way +to the harbor. + +The night was fine but dark, and a chill breeze blew up from the sea. +Twice the hapless mate thought of backing out, but a glance at Miss +Smith’s profile and the tender pressure of her arm deterred him. The +tide was running out and he had a faint hope that he might keep afloat +long enough to be washed ashore alive. He talked rapidly, and his laugh +rang across the water. Arrived at the spot they stopped, and Miss Smith +looking down into the darkness was unable to repress a shiver. + +“Be careful, Fred,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm. + +The mate looked at her oddly. “All right,” he said, gayly, “I’ll be out +almost before I’m in. You run back to the house and help your mother +get the dry clothes ready for me.” + +His tones were so confident, and his laugh so buoyant, that Mr. Heard, +who had been fully expecting him to withdraw from the affair, began to +feel that he had under-rated his swimming powers. “Just jumping in and +swimming out again is not quite the same as saving a drownding man,” he +said, with a sneer. + +In a flash the mate saw a chance of escape. + +“Why, there’s no satisfying you,” he said, slowly. “If I do go in I can +see that you won’t own up that you’ve been lying.” + +“He’ll ’ave to,” said Mr. Smith, who, having made up his mind for a +little excitement, was in no mind to lose it. + +“I don’t believe he would,” said the mate. “Look here!” he said, +suddenly, as he laid an affectionate arm on the old man’s shoulder. “I +know what we’ll do.” + +“Well?” said Mr. Smith. + +“I’ll save _you_,” said the mate, with a smile of great relief. + +“Save _me_?” said the puzzled Mr. Smith, as his daughter uttered a +faint cry. “How?” + +“Just as I saved him,” said the other, nodding. “You jump in, and after +you’ve sunk twice—same as he did—I’ll dive in and save you. At any rate +I’ll do my best; I promise you I won’t come ashore without you.” + +Mr. Smith hastily flung off the encircling arm and retired a few paces +inland. “’Ave you—ever been—in a lunatic asylum at any time?” he +inquired, as soon as he could speak. + +“No,” said the mate, gravely. + +“Neither ’ave I,” said Mr. Smith; “and, what’s more, I’m not going.” + +He took a deep breath and stood simmering. Miss Smith came forward and, +with a smothered giggle, took the mate’s arm and squeezed it. + +“It’ll have to be Arthur again, then,” said the latter, in a resigned +voice. + +“_Me_?” cried Mr. Heard, with a start. + +“Yes, you!” said the mate, in a decided voice. “After what you said +just now I’m not going in without saving somebody. It would be no good. +Come on, in you go.” + +“He couldn’t speak fairer than that, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, +dispassionately, as he came forward again. + +“But I tell you he can’t swim,” protested Mr. Heard, “not properly. He +didn’t swim last time; I told you so.” + +“Never mind; we know what you said,” retorted the mate. “All you’ve got +to do is to jump in and I’ll follow and save you—same as I did the +other night.” + +“Go on, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, encouragingly. “It ain’t cold.” + +“I tell you he can’t swim,” repeated Mr. Heard, passionately. “I should +be drownded before your eyes.” + + +[Illustration: “‘I tell you he can’t swim,’ repeated Mr. Heard, +passionately.”] + + +“Rubbish,” said Mr. Smith. “Why, I believe you’re afraid.” + +“I should be drownded, I tell you,” said Mr. Heard. “He wouldn’t come +in after me.” + +“Yes, he would,” said Mr. Smith, passing a muscular arm round the +mate’s waist; “’cos the moment you’re overboard I’ll drop ’im in. Are +you ready?” + +He stood embracing the mate and waiting, but Mr. Heard, with an +infuriated exclamation, walked away. A parting glance showed him that +the old man had released the mate, and that the latter was now +embracing Miss Smith. + + + + +IN THE FAMILY + + +[Illustration] + + + + +IN THE FAMILY + + +The oldest inhabitant of Claybury sat beneath the sign of the +“Cauliflower” and gazed with affectionate, but dim, old eyes in the +direction of the village street. + +“No; Claybury men ain’t never been much of ones for emigrating,” he +said, turning to the youthful traveller who was resting in the shade +with a mug of ale and a cigarette. “They know they’d ’ave to go a long +way afore they’d find a place as ’ud come up to this.” + +He finished the tablespoonful of beer in his mug and sat for so long +with his head back and the inverted vessel on his face that the +traveller, who at first thought it was the beginning of a conjuring +trick, colored furiously, and asked permission to refill it. + +Now and then a Claybury man has gone to foreign parts, said the old +man, drinking from the replenished mug, and placing it where the +traveller could mark progress without undue strain; but they’ve, +generally speaking, come back and wished as they’d never gone. + +The on’y man as I ever heard of that made his fortune by emigrating was +Henery Walker’s great-uncle, Josiah Walker by name, and he wasn’t a +Claybury man at all. He made his fortune out o’ sheep in Australey, and +he was so rich and well-to-do that he could never find time to answer +the letters that Henery Walker used to send him when he was hard up. + +Henery Walker used to hear of ’im through a relation of his up in +London, and tell us all about ’im and his money up at this here +“Cauliflower” public-house. And he used to sit and drink his beer and +wonder who would ’ave the old man’s money arter he was dead. + +When the relation in London died Henery Walker left off hearing about +his uncle, and he got so worried over thinking that the old man might +die and leave his money to strangers that he got quite thin. He talked +of emigrating to Australey ’imself, and then, acting on the advice of +Bill Chambers—who said it was a cheaper thing to do—he wrote to his +uncle instead, and, arter reminding ’im that ’e was an old man living +in a strange country, ’e asked ’im to come to Claybury and make his +’ome with ’is loving grand-nephew. + +It was a good letter, because more than one gave ’im a hand with it, +and there was little bits o’ Scripture in it to make it more +solemn-like. It was wrote on pink paper with pie-crust edges and put in +a green envelope, and Bill Chambers said a man must ’ave a ’art of +stone if that didn’t touch it. + +Four months arterwards Henery Walker got an answer to ’is letter from +’is great-uncle. It was a nice letter, and, arter thanking Henery +Walker for all his kindness, ’is uncle said that he was getting an old +man, and p’r’aps he should come and lay ’is bones in England arter all, +and if he did ’e should certainly come and see his grand-nephew, Henery +Walker. + +Most of us thought Henery Walker’s fortune was as good as made, but Bob +Pretty, a nasty, low poaching chap that has done wot he could to give +Claybury a bad name, turned up his nose at it. + +“I’ll believe he’s coming ’ome when I see him,” he ses. “It’s my belief +he went to Australey to get out o’ your way, Henery.” + +“As it ’appened he went there afore I was born,” ses Henery Walker, +firing up. + +“He knew your father,” ses Bob Pretty, “and he didn’t want to take no +risks.” + +They ’ad words then, and arter that every time Bob Pretty met ’im he +asked arter his great-uncle’s ’ealth, and used to pretend to think ’e +was living with ’im. + +“You ought to get the old gentleman out a bit more, Henery,” he would +say; “it can’t be good for ’im to be shut up in the ’ouse so +much—especially your ’ouse.” + +Henery Walker used to get that riled he didn’t know wot to do with +’imself, and as time went on, and he began to be afraid that ’is uncle +never would come back to England, he used to get quite nasty if anybody +on’y so much as used the word “uncle” in ’is company. + +It was over six months since he ’ad had the letter from ’is uncle, and +’e was up here at the “Cauliflower” with some more of us one night, +when Dicky Weed, the tailor, turns to Bob Pretty and he ses, “Who’s the +old gentleman that’s staying with you, Bob?” + +Bob Pretty puts down ’is beer very careful and turns round on ’im. + +“Old gentleman?” he ses, very slow. “Wot are you talking about?” + +“I mean the little old gentleman with white whiskers and a squeaky +voice,” ses Dicky Weed. + +“You’ve been dreaming,” ses Bob, taking up ’is beer ag’in. + +“I see ’im too, Bob,” ses Bill Chambers. + +“Ho, you did, did you?” ses Bob Pretty, putting down ’is mug with a +bang. “And wot d’ye mean by coming spying round my place, eh? Wot d’ye +mean by it?” + +“Spying?” ses Bill Chambers, gaping at ’im with ’is mouth open; “I +wasn’t spying. Anyone ’ud think you ’ad done something you was ashamed +of.” + +“You mind your business and I’ll mind mine,” ses Bob, very fierce. + +“I was passing the ’ouse,” ses Bill Chambers, looking round at us, “and +I see an old man’s face at the bedroom winder, and while I was +wondering who ’e was a hand come and drawed ’im away. I see ’im as +plain as ever I see anything in my life, and the hand, too. Big and +dirty it was.” + +“And he’s got a cough,” ses Dicky Weed—“a churchyard cough—I ’eard it.” + +“It ain’t much you don’t hear, Dicky,” ses Bob Pretty, turning on ’im; +“the on’y thing you never did ’ear, and never will ’ear, is any good of +yourself.” + +He kicked over a chair wot was in ’is way and went off in such a temper +as we’d never seen ’im in afore, and, wot was more surprising still, +but I know it’s true, ’cos I drunk it up myself, he’d left over arf a +pint o’ beer in ’is mug. + +“He’s up to something,” ses Sam Jones, starting arter him; “mark my +words.” + +We couldn’t make head nor tail out of it, but for some days arterward +you’d ha’ thought that Bob Pretty’s ’ouse was a peep-show. Everybody +stared at the winders as they went by, and the children played in front +of the ’ouse and stared in all day long. Then the old gentleman was +seen one day as bold as brass sitting at the winder, and we heard that +it was a pore old tramp Bob Pretty ’ad met on the road and given a home +to, and he didn’t like ’is good-’artedness to be known for fear he +should be made fun of. + +Nobody believed that, o’ course, and things got more puzzling than +ever. Once or twice the old gentleman went out for a walk, but Bob +Pretty or ’is missis was always with ’im, and if anybody tried to speak +to him they always said ’e was deaf and took ’im off as fast as they +could. Then one night up at the “Cauliflower” here Dicky Weed came +rushing in with a bit o’ news that took everybody’s breath away. + +“I’ve just come from the post-office,” he ses, “and there’s a letter +for Bob Pretty’s old gentleman! Wot d’ye think o’ that?” + +“If you could tell us wot’s inside it you might ’ave something to brag +about,” ses Henery Walker. + +“I don’t want to see the inside,” ses Dicky Weed; “the name on the +outside was good enough for me. I couldn’t hardly believe my own eyes, +but there it was: ‘Mr. Josiah Walker,’ as plain as the nose on your +face.” + +O’ course, we see it all then, and wondered why we hadn’t thought of it +afore; and we stood quiet listening to the things that Henery Walker +said about a man that would go and steal another man’s great-uncle from +’im. Three times Smith, the landlord, said, “_Hush!_” and the fourth +time he put Henery Walker outside and told ’im to stay there till he +’ad lost his voice. + +Henery Walker stayed outside five minutes, and then ’e come back in +ag’in to ask for advice. His idea seemed to be that, as the old +gentleman was deaf, Bob Pretty was passing ’isself off as Henery +Walker, and the disgrace was a’most more than ’e could bear. He began +to get excited ag’in, and Smith ’ad just said “_Hush!_” once more when +we ’eard somebody whistling outside, and in come Bob Pretty. + +He ’ad hardly got ’is face in at the door afore Henery Walker started +on ’im, and Bob Pretty stood there, struck all of a heap, and staring +at ’im as though he couldn’t believe his ears. + +“’Ave you gone mad, Henery?” he ses, at last. + +“Give me back my great-uncle,” ses Henery Walker, at the top of ’is +voice. + +Bob Pretty shook his ’ead at him. “I haven’t got your great-uncle, +Henery,” he ses, very gentle. “I know the name is the same, but wot of +it? There’s more than one Josiah Walker in the world. This one is no +relation to you at all; he’s a very respectable old gentleman.” + +“I’ll go and ask ’im,” ses Henery Walker, getting up, “and I’ll tell +’im wot sort o’ man you are, Bob Pretty.” + +“He’s gone to bed now, Henery,” ses Bob Pretty. + +“I’ll come in the fust thing to-morrow morning, then,” ses Henery +Walker. + +“Not in my ’ouse, Henery,” ses Bob Pretty; “not arter the things you’ve +been sayin’ about me. I’m a pore man, but I’ve got my pride. Besides, I +tell you he ain’t your uncle. He’s a pore old man I’m giving a ’ome to, +and I won’t ’ave ’im worried.” + +“’Ow much does ’e pay you a week, Bob?” ses Bill Chambers. + +Bob Pretty pretended not to hear ’im. + +“Where did your wife get the money to buy that bonnet she ’ad on on +Sunday?” ses Bill Chambers. “My wife ses it’s the fust new bonnet she +has ’ad since she was married.” + +“And where did the new winder curtains come from?” ses Peter Gubbins. + +Bob Pretty drank up ’is beer and stood looking at them very thoughtful; +then he opened the door and went out without saying a word. + +“He’s got your great-uncle a prisoner in his ’ouse, Henery,” ses Bill +Chambers; “it’s easy for to see that the pore old gentleman is getting +past things, and I shouldn’t wonder if Bob Pretty don’t make ’im leave +all ’is money to ’im.” + +Henery Walker started raving ag’in, and for the next few days he tried +his ’ardest to get a few words with ’is great-uncle, but Bob Pretty was +too much for ’im. Everybody in Claybury said wot a shame it was, but it +was all no good, and Henery Walker used to leave ’is work and stand +outside Bob Pretty’s for hours at a time in the ’opes of getting a word +with the old man. + +He got ’is chance at last, in quite a unexpected way. We was up ’ere at +the “Cauliflower” one evening, and, as it ’appened, we was talking +about Henery Walker’s great-uncle, when the door opened, and who should +walk in but the old gentleman ’imself. Everybody left off talking and +stared at ’im, but he walked up to the bar and ordered a glass o’ gin +and beer as comfortable as you please. + +Bill Chambers was the fust to get ’is presence of mind back, and he set +off arter Henery Walker as fast as ’is legs could carry ’im, and in a +wunnerful short time, considering, he came back with Henery, both of +’em puffing and blowing their ’ardest. + +“There—he—is!” ses Bill Chambers, pointing to the old gentleman. + +Henery Walker gave one look, and then ’e slipped over to the old man +and stood all of a tremble, smiling at ’im. “Good-evening,” he ses. + +“Wot?” ses the old gentleman. + +“Good-evening!” ses Henery Walker ag’in. + +“I’m a bit deaf,” ses the old gentleman, putting his ’and to his ear. + +“GOOD-EVENING!” ses Henery Walker ag’in, shouting. “I’m your +grand-nephew, Henery Walker!” + +“Ho, are you?” ses the old gentleman, not at all surprised. “Bob Pretty +was telling me all about you.” + +“I ’ope you didn’t listen to ’im,” ses Henery Walker, all of a tremble. +“Bob Pretty’d say anything except his prayers.” + +“He ses you’re arter my money,” ses the old gentleman, looking at ’im. + +“He’s a liar, then,” ses Henery Walker; “he’s arter it ’imself. And it +ain’t a respectable place for you to stay at. Anybody’ll tell you wot a +rascal Bob Pretty is. Why, he’s a byword.” + +“Everybody is arter my money,” ses the old gentleman, looking round. +“Everybody.” + +“I ’ope you’ll know me better afore you’ve done with me, uncle,” ses +Henery Walker, taking a seat alongside of Mm. “Will you ’ave another +mug o’ beer?” + +“Gin and beer,” ses the old gentleman, cocking his eye up very fierce +at Smith, the landlord; “and mind the gin don’t get out ag’in, same as +it did in the last.” + +Smith asked ’im wot he meant, but ’is deafness come on ag’in. Henery +Walker ’ad an extra dose o’ gin put in, and arter he ’ad tasted it the +old gentleman seemed to get more amiable-like, and ’im and Henery +Walker sat by theirselves talking quite comfortable. + +“Why not come and stay with me?” ses Henery Walker, at last. “You can +do as you please and have the best of everything.” + +“Bob Pretty ses you’re arter my money,” ses the old gentleman, shaking +his ’ead. “I couldn’t trust you.” + +“He ses that to put you ag’in me,” ses Henery Walker, pleading-like. + +“Well, wot do you want me to come and live with you for, then?” ses old +Mr. Walker. + +“Because you’re my great-uncle,” ses Henery Walker, “and my ’ouse is +the proper place for you. Blood is thicker than water.” + +“And you don’t want my money?” ses the old man, looking at ’im very +sharp. + +“Certainly not,” ses Henery Walker. + +“And ’ow much ’ave I got to pay a week?” ses old Mr. Walker. “That’s +the question?” + +“Pay?” ses Henery Walker, speaking afore he ’ad time to think. “Pay? +Why, I don’t want you to pay anything.” + +The old gentleman said as ’ow he’d think it over, and Henery started to +talk to ’im about his father and an old aunt named Maria, but ’e +stopped ’im sharp, and said he was sick and tired of the whole Walker +family, and didn’t want to ’ear their names ag’in as long as he lived. +Henery Walker began to talk about Australey then, and asked ’im ’ow +many sheep he’d got, and the words was ’ardly out of ’is mouth afore +the old gentleman stood up and said he was arter his money ag’in. + +Henery Walker at once gave ’im some more gin and beer, and arter he ’ad +drunk it the old gentleman said that he’d go and live with ’im for a +little while to see ’ow he liked it. + + +[Illustration: “‘You leave go o’ my lodger,’ ses Bob Pretty.”] + + +“But I sha’n’t pay anything,” he ses, very sharp; “mind that.” + +“I wouldn’t take it if you offered it to me,” ses Henery Walker. +“You’ll come straight ’ome with me to-night, won’t you?” + +Afore old Mr. Walker could answer the door opened and in came Bob +Pretty. He gave one look at Henery Walker and then he walked straight +over to the old gentleman and put his ’and on his shoulder. + +“Why, I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Mr. Walker,” he ses. “I +couldn’t think wot had ’appened to you.” + +“You needn’t worry yourself, Bob,” ses Henery Walker; “he’s coming to +live with me now.” + +“Don’t you believe it,” ses Bob Pretty, taking hold of old Mr. Walker +by the arm; “he’s my lodger, and he’s coming with me.” + +He began to lead the old gentleman towards the door, but Henery Walker, +wot was still sitting down, threw ’is arms round his legs and held ’im +tight. Bob Pretty pulled one way and Henery Walker pulled the other, +and both of ’em shouted to each other to leave go. The row they made +was awful, but old Mr. Walker made more noise than the two of ’em put +together. + +“You leave go o’ my lodger,” ses Bob Pretty. + +“You leave go o’ my great-uncle—my dear great-uncle,” ses Henery +Walker, as the old gentleman called ’im a bad name and asked ’im +whether he thought he was made of iron. + +I believe they’d ha’ been at it till closing-time, on’y Smith, the +landlord, came running in from the back and told them to go outside. He +’ad to shout to make ’imself heard, and all four of ’em seemed to be +trying which could make the most noise. + +“He’s my lodger,” ses Bob Pretty, “and he can’t go without giving me +proper notice; that’s the lor—a week’s notice.” + +They all shouted ag’in then, and at last the old gentleman told Henery +Walker to give Bob Pretty ten shillings for the week’s notice and ha’ +done with ’im. Henery Walker ’ad only got four shillings with ’im, but +’e borrowed the rest from Smith, and arter he ’ad told Bob Pretty wot +he thought of ’im he took old Mr. Walker by the arm and led him ’ome +a’most dancing for joy. + +Mrs. Walker was nearly as pleased as wot ’e was, and the fuss they made +of the old gentleman was sinful a’most. He ’ad to speak about it +’imself at last, and he told ’em plain that when ’e wanted arf-a-dozen +sore-eyed children to be brought down in their night-gowns to kiss ’im +while he was eating sausages, he’d say so. + +Arter that Mrs. Walker was afraid that ’e might object when her and her +’usband gave up their bedroom to ’im; but he didn’t. He took it all as +’is right, and when Henery Walker, who was sleeping in the next room +with three of ’is boys, fell out o’ bed for the second time, he got up +and rapped on the wall. + +Bob Pretty came round the next morning with a tin box that belonged to +the old man, and ’e was so perlite and nice to ’im that Henery Walker +could see that he ’ad ’opes of getting ’im back ag’in. The box was +carried upstairs and put under old Mr. Walker’s bed, and ’e was so +partikler about its being locked, and about nobody being about when ’e +opened it, that Mrs. Walker went arf out of her mind with curiosity. + +“I s’pose you’ve looked to see that Bob Pretty didn’t take anything out +of it?” ses Henery Walker. + +“He didn’t ’ave the chance,” ses the old gentleman. “It’s always kep’ +locked.” + +“It’s a box that looks as though it might ’ave been made in Australey,” +ses Henery Walker, who was longing to talk about them parts. + +“If you say another word about Australey to me,” ses old Mr. Walker, +firing up, “off I go. Mind that! You’re arter my money, and if you’re +not careful you sha’n’t ’ave a farthing of it.” + +That was the last time the word “Australey” passed Henery Walker’s +lips, and even when ’e saw his great-uncle writing letters there he +didn’t say anything. And the old man was so suspicious of Mrs. Walker’s +curiosity that all the letters that was wrote to ’im he ’ad sent to Bob +Pretty’s. He used to call there pretty near every morning to see +whether any ’ad come for ’im. + +In three months Henery Walker ’adn’t seen the color of ’is money once, +and, wot was worse still, he took to giving Henery’s things away. Mrs. +Walker ’ad been complaining for some time of ’ow bad the hens had been +laying, and one morning at breakfast-time she told her ’usband that, +besides missing eggs, two of ’er best hens ’ad been stolen in the +night. + +“They wasn’t stolen,” ses old Mr. Walker, putting down ’is teacup. “I +took ’em round this morning and give ’em to Bob Pretty.” + +“Give ’em to Bob Pretty?” ses Henery Walker, arf choking. “Wot for?” + +“’Cos he asked me for ’em,” ses the old gentleman. “Wot are you looking +at me like that for?” + +Henery couldn’t answer ’im, and the old gentleman, looking very fierce, +got up from the table and told Mrs. Walker to give ’im his hat. Henery +Walker clung to ’im with tears in his eyes a’most and begged ’im not to +go, and arter a lot of talk old Mr. Walker said he’d look over it this +time, but it mustn’t occur ag’in. + +Arter that ’e did as ’e liked with Henery Walker’s things, and Henery +dursen’t say a word to ’im. Bob Pretty used to come up and flatter ’im +and beg ’im to go back and lodge with ’im, and Henery was so afraid +he’d go that he didn’t say a word when old Mr. Walker used to give Bob +Pretty things to make up for ’is disappointment. He ’eard on the quiet +from Bill Chambers, who said that the old man ’ad told it to Bob Pretty +as a dead secret, that ’e ’ad left ’im all his money, and he was ready +to put up with anything. + +The old man must ha’ been living with Henery Walker for over eighteen +months when one night he passed away in ’is sleep. Henery knew that his +’art was wrong, because he ’ad just paid Dr. Green ’is bill for saying +that ’e couldn’t do anything for ’im, but it was a surprise to ’im all +the same. He blew his nose ’ard and Mrs. Walker kept rubbing ’er eyes +with her apron while they talked in whispers and wondered ’ow much +money they ’ad come in for. + +In less than ten minutes the news was all over Claybury, and arf the +people in the place hanging round in front of the ’ouse waiting to hear +’ow much the Walkers ’ad come in for. Henery Walker pulled the blind on +one side for a moment and shook his ’ead at them to go away. Some of +them did go back a yard or two, and then they stood staring at Bob +Pretty, wot come up as bold as brass and knocked at the door. + +“Wot’s this I ’ear?” he ses, when Henery Walker opened it. “You don’t +mean to tell me that the pore old gentleman has really gone? I told ’im +wot would happen if ’e came to lodge with you.” + +“You be off,” ses Henery Walker; “he hasn’t left you anything.” + +“I know that,” ses Bob Pretty, shaking his ’ead. “You’re welcome to it, +Henery. if there is anything. I never bore any malice to you for taking +of ’im away from us. I could see you’d took a fancy to ’im from the +fust. The way you pretended ’e was your great-uncle showed me that.” + +“Wot are you talking about?” ses Henery Walker. “He was my +great-uncle!” + +“Have it your own way, Henery,” ses Bob Pretty; “on’y, if you asked me, +I should say that he was my wife’s grandfather.” + +“_Your—wife’s—grandfather_?” ses Henery Walker, in a choking voice. + +He stood staring at ’im, stupid-like, for a minute or two, but he +couldn’t get out another word. In a flash ’e saw ’ow he’d been done, +and how Bob Pretty ’ad been deceiving ’im all along, and the idea that +he ’ad arf ruined himself keeping Mrs. Pretty’s grandfather for ’em +pretty near sent ’im out of his mind. + + +[Illustration: “He slammed the door in Bob Pretty’s face.”] + + +“But how is it ’is name was Josiah Walker, same as Henery’s +great-uncle?” ses Bill Chambers, who ’ad been crowding round with the +others. “Tell me that!” + +“He ’ad a fancy for it,” ses Bob Pretty, “and being a ’armless +amusement we let him ’ave his own way. I told Henery Walker over and +over ag’in that it wasn’t his uncle, but he wouldn’t believe me. I’ve +got witnesses to it. Wot did you say, Henery?” + +Henery Walker drew ’imself up as tall as he could and stared at him. +Twice he opened ’is mouth to speak but couldn’t, and then he made a odd +sort o’ choking noise in his throat, and slammed the door in Bob +Pretty’s face. + + + + +A LOVE-KNOT + + +[Illustration] + + + + +A LOVE-KNOT + + +Mr. Nathaniel Clark and Mrs. Bowman had just finished their third game +of draughts. It had been a difficult game for Mr. Clark, the lady’s +mind having been so occupied with other matters that he had had great +difficulty in losing. Indeed, it was only by pushing an occasional +piece of his own off the board that he had succeeded. + +“A penny for your thoughts, Amelia,” he said, at last. + +Mrs. Bowman smiled faintly. “They were far away,” she confessed. + +Mr. Clark assumed an expression of great solemnity; allusions of this +kind to the late Mr. Bowman were only too frequent. He was fortunate +when they did not grow into reminiscences of a career too blameless for +successful imitation. + +“I suppose,” said the widow, slowly—“I suppose I ought to tell you: +I’ve had a letter.” + +Mr. Clark’s face relaxed. + +“It took me back to the old scenes,” continued Mrs. Bowman, dreamily. +“I have never kept anything back from you, Nathaniel. I told you all +about the first man I ever thought anything of—Charlie Tucker?” + +Mr. Clark cleared his throat. “You did,” he said, a trifle hoarsely. +“More than once.” + +“I’ve just had a letter from him,” said Mrs. Bowman, simpering. “Fancy, +after all these years! Poor fellow, he has only just heard of my +husband’s death, and, by the way he writes—” + +She broke off and drummed nervously on the table. + +“He hasn’t heard about me, you mean,” said Mr. Clark, after waiting to +give her time to finish. + +“How should he?” said the widow. + +“If he heard one thing, he might have heard the other,” retorted Mr. +Clark. “Better write and tell him. Tell him that in six weeks’ time +you’ll be Mrs. Clark. Then, perhaps, he won’t write again.” + +Mrs. Bowman sighed. “I thought, after all these years, that he must be +dead,” she said, slowly, “or else married. But he says in his letter +that he has kept single for my sake all these years.” + +“Well, he’ll be able to go on doing it,” said Mr. Clark; “it’ll come +easy to him after so much practice.” + +“He—he says in his letter that he is coming to see me,” said the widow, +in a low voice, “to—to—this evening.” + +“Coming to see you?” repeated Mr. Clark, sharply. “What for?” + +“To talk over old times, he says,” was the reply. “I expect he has +altered a great deal; he was a fine-looking fellow—and so dashing. +After I gave him up he didn’t care what he did. The last I heard of him +he had gone abroad.” + +Mr. Clark muttered something under his breath, and, in a mechanical +fashion, began to build little castles with the draughts. He was just +about to add to an already swaying structure when a thundering +rat-tat-tat at the door dispersed the draughts to the four corners of +the room. The servant opened the door, and the next moment ushered in +Mrs. Bowman’s visitor. + +A tall, good-looking man in a frock-coat, with a huge spray of +mignonette in his button-hole, met the critical gaze of Mr. Clark. He +paused at the door and, striking an attitude, pronounced in tones of +great amazement the Christian name of the lady of the house. + +“Mr. Tucker!” said the widow, blushing. + +“The same girl,” said the visitor, looking round wildly, “the same as +the day she left me. Not a bit changed; not a hair different.” + +He took her extended hand and, bending over it, kissed it respectfully. + +“It’s—it’s very strange to see you again, Mr. Tucker,” said Mrs. +Bowman, withdrawing her hand in some confusion. + +“Mr. Tucker!” said that gentleman, reproachfully; “it used to be +Charlie.” + +Mrs. Bowman blushed again, and, with a side glance at the frowning Mr. +Clark, called her visitor’s attention to him and introduced them. The +gentlemen shook hands stiffly. + +“Any friend of yours is a friend of mine,” said Mr. Tucker, with a +patronizing air. “How are you, sir?” + +Mr. Clark replied that he was well, and, after some hesitation, said +that he hoped he was the same. Mr. Tucker took a chair and, leaning +back, stroked his huge mustache and devoured the widow with his eyes. +“Fancy seeing you again!” said the latter, in some embarrassment. “How +did you find me out?” + +“It’s a long story,” replied the visitor, “but I always had the idea +that we should meet again. Your photograph has been with me all over +the world. In the backwoods of Canada, in the bush of Australia, it has +been my one comfort and guiding star. If ever I was tempted to do +wrong, I used to take your photograph out and look at it.” + +“I s’pose you took it out pretty often?” said Mr. Clark, restlessly. +“To look at, I mean,” he added, hastily, as Mrs. Bowman gave him an +indignant glance. + +“Every day,” said the visitor, solemnly. “Once when I injured myself +out hunting, and was five days without food or drink, it was the only +thing that kept me alive.” + +Mr. Clark’s gibe as to the size of the photograph was lost in Mrs. +Bowman’s exclamations of pity. + +“_I_ once lived on two ounces of gruel and a cup of milk a day for ten +days,” he said, trying to catch the widow’s eye. “After the ten days—” + +“When the Indians found me I was delirious,” continued Mr. Tucker, in a +hushed voice, “and when I came to my senses I found that they were +calling me ‘Amelia.’” + +Mr. Clark attempted to relieve the situation by a jocose inquiry as to +whether he was wearing a mustache at the time, but Mrs. Bowman frowned +him down. He began to whistle under his breath, and Mrs. Bowman +promptly said, “_H’sh_!” + +“But how did you discover me?” she inquired, turning again to the +visitor. + +“Wandering over the world,” continued Mr. Tucker, “here to-day and +there to-morrow, and unable to settle down anywhere, I returned to +Northtown about two years ago. Three days since, in a tramcar, I heard +your name mentioned. I pricked up my ears and listened; when I heard +that you were free I could hardly contain myself. I got into +conversation with the lady and obtained your address, and after +travelling fourteen hours here I am.” + +“How very extraordinary!” said the widow. “I wonder who it could have +been? Did she mention her name?” + +Mr. Tucker shook his head. Inquiries as to the lady’s appearance, age, +and dress were alike fruitless. “There was a mist before my eyes,” he +explained. “I couldn’t realize it. I couldn’t believe in my good +fortune.” + +“I can’t think—” began Mrs. Bowman. + +“What does it matter?” inquired Mr. Tucker, softly. “Here we are +together again, with life all before us and the misunderstandings of +long ago all forgotten.” + +Mr. Clark cleared his throat preparatory to speech, but a peremptory +glance from Mrs. Bowman restrained him. + +“I thought you were dead,” she said, turning to the smiling Mr. Tucker. +“I never dreamed of seeing you again.” + +“Nobody would,” chimed in Mr. Clark. “When do you go back?” + +“Back?” said the visitor. “Where?” + +“Australia,” replied Mr. Clark, with a glance of defiance at the widow. +“You must ha’ been missed a great deal all this time.” + +Mr. Tucker regarded him with a haughty stare. Then he bent towards Mrs. +Bowman. + +“Do you wish me to go back?” he asked, impressively, + +“We don’t wish either one way or the other,” said Mr. Clark, before the +widow could speak. “It don’t matter to us.” + +“We?” said Mr. Tucker, knitting his brows and gazing anxiously at Mrs. +Bowman. “_We_?” + +“We are going to be married in six weeks’ time,” said Mr. Clark. + +Mr. Tucker looked from one to the other in silent misery; then, +shielding his eyes with his hand, he averted his head. Mrs. Bowman, +with her hands folded in her lap, regarded him with anxious solicitude. + +“I thought perhaps you ought to know,” said Mr. Clark. + +Mr. Tucker sat bolt upright and gazed at him fixedly. “I wish you joy,” +he said, in a hollow voice. + +“Thankee,” said Mr. Clark; “we expect to be pretty happy.” He smiled at +Mrs. Bowman, but she made no response. Her looks wandered from one to +the other—from the good-looking, interesting companion of her youth to +the short, prosaic little man who was exulting only too plainly in his +discomfiture. + +Mr. Tucker rose with a sigh. “Good-by,” he said, extending his hand. + +“You are not going—yet?” said the widow. + +Mr. Tucker’s low-breathed “I must” was just audible. The widow renewed +her expostulations. + +“Perhaps he has got a train to catch,” said the thoughtful Mr. Clark. + +“No, sir,” said Mr. Tucker. “As a matter of fact, I had taken a room at +the George Hotel for a week, but I suppose I had better get back home +again.” + +“No; why should you?” said Mrs. Bowman, with a rebellious glance at Mr. +Clark. “Stay, and come in and see me sometimes and talk over old times. +And Mr. Clark will be glad to see you, I’m sure. Won’t you Nath—Mr. +Clark?” + +“I shall be—delighted,” said Mr. Clark, staring hard at the +mantelpiece. “De-lighted.” + + +[Illustration: “On the third morning he took Mrs. Bowman out for a +walk.”] + + +Mr. Tucker thanked them both, and after groping for some time for the +hand of Mr. Clark, who was still intent upon the mantelpiece, pressed +it warmly and withdrew. Mrs. Bowman saw him to the door, and a +low-voiced colloquy, in which Mr. Clark caught the word “afternoon,” +ensued. By the time the widow returned to the room he was busy building +with the draughts again. + +Mr. Tucker came the next day at three o’clock, and the day after at +two. On the third morning he took Mrs. Bowman out for a walk, airily +explaining to Mr. Clark, who met them on the way, that they had come +out to call for him. The day after, when Mr. Clark met them returning +from a walk, he was assured that his silence of the day before was +understood to indicate a distaste for exercise. + +“And, you see, I like a long walk,” said Mrs. Bowman, “and you are not +what I should call a good walker.” + +“You never used to complain,” said Mr. Clark; “in fact, it was +generally you that used to suggest turning back.” + +“She wants to be amused as well,” remarked Mr. Tucker; “then she +doesn’t feel the fatigue.” + +Mr. Clark glared at him, and then, shortly declining Mrs. Bowman’s +invitation to accompany them home, on the ground that he required +exercise, proceeded on his way. He carried himself so stiffly, and his +manner was so fierce, that a well-meaning neighbor who had crossed the +road to join him, and offer a little sympathy if occasion offered, +talked of the weather for five minutes and inconsequently faded away at +a corner. + +Trimington as a whole watched the affair with amusement, although Mr. +Clark’s friends adopted an inflection of voice in speaking to him which +reminded him strongly of funerals. Mr. Tucker’s week was up, but the +landlord of the George was responsible for the statement that he had +postponed his departure indefinitely. + +Matters being in this state, Mr. Clark went round to the widow’s one +evening with the air of a man who has made up his mind to decisive +action. He entered the room with a bounce and, hardly deigning to +notice the greeting of Mr. Tucker, planted himself in a chair and +surveyed him grimly. “I thought I should find you here,” he remarked. + +“Well, I always am here, ain’t I?” retorted Mr. Tucker, removing his +cigar and regarding him with mild surprise. + +“Mr. Tucker is my friend,” interposed Mrs. Bowman. “I am the only +friend he has got in Trimington. It’s natural he should be here.” + +Mr. Clark quailed at her glance. + +“People are beginning to talk,” he muttered, feebly. + +“Talk?” said the widow, with an air of mystification belied by her +color. “What about?” + +Mr. Clark quailed again. “About—about our wedding,” he stammered. + +Mr. Tucker and the widow exchanged glances. Then the former took his +cigar from his mouth and, with a hopeless gesture threw it into the +grate. + +“Plenty of time to talk about that,” said Mrs. Bowman, after a pause. + +“Time is going,” remarked Mr. Clark. “I was thinking, if it was +agreeable to you, of putting up the banns to-morrow.” + +“There—there’s no hurry,” was the reply. + +“‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure,’” quoted Mr. Tucker, gravely. + +“Don’t you want me to put ’em up?” demanded Mr. Clark, turning to Mrs. +Bowman. + +“There’s no hurry,” said Mrs. Bowman again. “I—I want time to think.” + +Mr. Clark rose and stood over her, and after a vain attempt to meet his +gaze she looked down at the carpet. + +“I understand,” he said, loftily. “I am not blind.” + +“It isn’t my fault,” murmured the widow, drawing patterns with her toe +on the carpet. “One can’t help their feelings.” + +Mr. Clark gave a short, hard laugh. “What about my feelings?” he said, +severely. “What about the life you have spoiled? I couldn’t have +believed it of you.” + +“I’m sure I’m very sorry,” murmured Mrs. Bowman, “and anything that I +can do I will. I never expected to see Charles again. And it was so +sudden; it took me unawares. I hope we shall still be friends.” + +“Friends!” exclaimed Mr. Clark, with extraordinary vigor. “With _him?_” + +He folded his arms and regarded the pair with a bitter smile; Mrs. +Bowman, quite unable to meet his eyes, still gazed intently at the +floor. + +“You have made me the laughing-stock of Trimington,” pursued Mr. Clark. +“You have wounded me in my tenderest feelings; you have destroyed my +faith in women. I shall never be the same man again. I hope that you +will never find out what a terrible mistake you’ve made.” + +Mrs. Bowman made a noise half-way between a sniff and a sob; Mr. +Tucker’s sniff was unmistakable. + +“I will return your presents to-morrow,” said Mr. Clark, rising. +“Good-by, forever!” + +He paused at the door, but Mrs. Bowman did not look up. A second later +the front door closed and she heard him walk rapidly away. + +For some time after his departure she preserved a silence which Mr. +Tucker endeavored in vain to break. He took a chair by her side, and at +the third attempt managed to gain possession of her hand. + +“I deserved all he said,” she cried, at last. “Poor fellow, I hope he +will do nothing desperate.” + +“No, no,” said Mr. Tucker, soothingly. + +“His eyes were quite wild,” continued the widow. “If anything happens +to him I shall never forgive myself. I have spoilt his life.” + +Mr. Tucker pressed her hand and spoke of the well-known refining +influence a hopeless passion for a good woman had on a man. He cited +his own case as an example. + +“Disappointment spoilt my life so far as worldly success goes,” he +said, softly, “but no doubt the discipline was good for me.” + +Mrs. Bowman smiled faintly, and began to be a little comforted. +Conversation shifted from the future of Mr. Clark to the past of Mr. +Tucker; the widow’s curiosity as to the extent of the latter’s worldly +success remaining unanswered by reason of Mr. Tucker’s sudden +remembrance of a bear-fight. + +Their future was discussed after supper, and the advisability of +leaving Trimington considered at some length. The towns and villages of +England were at their disposal; Mr. Tucker’s business, it appeared, +being independent of place. He drew a picture of life in a bungalow +with modern improvements at some seaside town, and, the cloth having +been removed, took out his pocket-book and, extracting an old envelope, +drew plans on the back. + +It was a delightful pastime and made Mrs. Bowman feel that she was +twenty and beginning life again. She toyed with the pocket-book and +complimented Mr. Tucker on his skill as a draughtsman. + +A letter or two fell out and she replaced them. Then a small newspaper +cutting, which had fluttered out with them, met her eye. + +“A little veranda with roses climbing up it,” murmured Mr. Tucker, +still drawing, “and a couple of—” + +His pencil was arrested by an odd, gasping noise from the window. He +looked up and saw her sitting stiffly in her chair. Her face seemed to +have swollen and to be colored in patches; her eyes were round and +amazed. + +“Aren’t you well?” he inquired, rising in disorder. + +Mrs. Bowman opened her lips, but no sound came from them. Then she gave +a long, shivering sigh. + +“Heat of the room too much for you?” inquired the other, anxiously. + +Mrs. Bowman took another long, shivering breath. Still incapable of +speech, she took the slip of paper in her trembling fingers and an +involuntary exclamation of dismay broke from Mr. Tucker. She dabbed +fiercely at her burning eyes with her handkerchief and read it again. + +“TUCKER.—_If this should meet the eye of Charles Tucker, who knew +Amelia Wyborn twenty-five years ago, he will hear of something greatly +to his advantage by communicating with N. C., Royal Hotel, Northtown._” + +Mrs. Bowman found speech at last. “N. C.—Nathaniel Clark,” she said, in +broken tones. “So that is where he went last month. Oh, what a fool +I’ve been! Oh, what a simple fool!” + +Mr. Tucker gave a deprecatory cough. “I—I had forgotten it was there,” +he said, nervously. + +“Yes,” breathed the widow, “I can quite believe that.” + +“I was going to show you later on,” declared the other, regarding her +carefully. “I was, really. I couldn’t bear the idea of keeping a secret +from you long.” + + +[Illustration: “‘I had forgotten it was there,’ he said, nervously.”] + + +Mrs. Bowman smiled—a terrible smile. “The audacity of the man,” she +broke out, “to stand there and lecture me on my behavior. To talk about +his spoilt life, and all the time—” + +She got up and walked about the room, angrily brushing aside the +proffered attentions of Mr. Tucker. + +“Laughing-stock of Trimington, is he?” she stormed. “He shall be more +than that before I have done with him. The wickedness of the man; the +artfulness!” + +“That’s what I thought,” said Mr. Tucker, shaking his head. “I said to +him—” + +“You’re as bad,” said the widow, turning on him fiercely. “All the time +you two men were talking at each other you were laughing in your +sleeves at me. And I sat there like a child taking it all in. I’ve no +doubt you met every night and arranged what you were to do next day.” + +Mr. Tucker’s lips twitched. “I would do more than that to win you, +Amelia,” he said, humbly. + +“You’ll have to,” was the grim reply. “Now I want to hear all about +this from the beginning. And don’t keep anything from me, or it’ll be +the worse for you.” + +She sat down again and motioned him to proceed. + +“When I saw the advertisement in the _Northtown Chronicle_,” began Mr. +Tucker, in husky voice, “I danced with—” + +“Never mind about that,” interrupted the widow, dryly. + +“I went to the hotel and saw Mr. Clark,” resumed Mr. Tucker, somewhat +crestfallen. “When I heard that you were a widow, all the old times +came back to me again. The years fell from me like a mantle. Once again +I saw myself walking with you over the footpath to Cooper’s farm; once +again I felt your hand in mine. Your voice sounded in my ears—” + +“You saw Mr. Clark,” the widow reminded him. + +“He had heard all about our early love from you,” said Mr. Tucker, “and +as a last desperate chance for freedom he had come down to try and hunt +me up, and induce me to take you off his hands.” + +Mrs. Bowman uttered a smothered exclamation. + +“He tempted me for two days,” said Mr. Tucker, gravely. “The temptation +was too great and I fell. Besides that, I wanted to rescue you from the +clutches of such a man.” + +“Why didn’t he tell me himself?” inquired the widow. + +“Just what I asked him,” said the other, “but he said that you were +much too fond of him to give him up. He is not worthy of you, Amelia; +he is fickle. He has got his eye on another lady.” + +“WHAT?” said the widow, with sudden loudness. + +Mr. Tucker nodded mournfully. “Miss Hackbutt,” he said, slowly. “I saw +her the other day, and what he can see in her I can’t think.” + +“Miss Hackbutt?” repeated the widow in a smothered voice. “Miss—” She +got up and began to pace the room again. + +“He must be blind,” said Mr. Tucker, positively. + +Mrs. Bowman stopped suddenly and stood regarding him. There was a light +in her eye which made him feel anything but comfortable. He was glad +when she transferred her gaze to the clock. She looked at it so long +that he murmured something about going. + +“Good-by,” she said. + +Mr. Tucker began to repeat his excuses, but she interrupted him. “Not +now,” she said, decidedly. “I’m tired. Good-night.” + +Mr. Tucker pressed her hand. “Good-night,” he said, tenderly. “I am +afraid the excitement has been too much for you. May I come round at +the usual time to-morrow?” + +“Yes,” said the widow. + +She took the advertisement from the table and, folding it carefully, +placed it in her purse. Mr. Tucker withdrew as she looked up. + +He walked back to the “George” deep in thought, and over a couple of +pipes in bed thought over the events of the evening. He fell asleep at +last and dreamed that he and Miss Hackbutt were being united in the +bonds of holy matrimony by the Rev. Nathaniel Clark. + +The vague misgivings of the previous night disappeared in the morning +sunshine. He shaved carefully and spent some time in the selection of a +tie. + +Over an excellent breakfast he arranged further explanations and +excuses for the appeasement of Mrs. Bowman. + +He was still engaged on the task when he started to call on her. +Half-way to the house he arrived at the conclusion that he was looking +too cheerful. His face took on an expression of deep seriousness, only +to give way the next moment to one of the blankest amazement. In front +of him, and approaching with faltering steps, was Mr. Clark, and +leaning trustfully on his arm the comfortable figure of Mrs. Bowman. +Her brow was unruffled and her lips smiling. + +“Beautiful morning,” she said, pleasantly, as they met. + +“Lovely!” murmured the wondering Mr. Tucker, trying, but in vain, to +catch the eye of Mr. Clark. + +“I have been paying an early visit,” said the widow, still smiling. “I +surprised you, didn’t I, Nathaniel?” + +“You did,” said Mr. Clark, in an unearthly voice. + +“We got talking about last night,” continued the widow, “and Nathaniel +started pleading with me to give him another chance. I suppose that I +am softhearted, but he was so miserable—You were never so miserable in +your life before, were you, Nathaniel?” + +“Never,” said Mr. Clark, in the same strange voice. + +“He was so wretched that at last I gave way,” said Mrs. Bowman, with a +simper. “Poor fellow, it was such a shock to him that he hasn’t got +back his cheerfulness yet.” + +Mr. Tucker said, “Indeed!” + +“He’ll be all right soon,” said Mrs. Bowman, in confidential tones. “We +are on the way to put our banns up, and once that is done he will feel +safe. You are not really afraid of losing me again, are you, +Nathaniel?” + +Mr. Clark shook his head, and, meeting the eye of Mr. Tucker in the +process, favored him with a glance of such utter venom that the latter +was almost startled. + +“Good-by, Mr. Tucker,” said the widow, holding out her hand. “Nathaniel +did think of inviting you to come to my wedding, but perhaps it is best +not. However, if I alter my mind, I will get him to advertise for you +again. Good-by.” + +She placed her arm in Mr. Clark’s again, and led him slowly away. Mr. +Tucker stood watching them for some time, and then, with a glance in +the direction of the “George,” where he had left a very small +portmanteau, he did a hasty sum in comparative values and made his way +to the railway-station. + + + + +HER UNCLE + + +[Illustration] + + + + +HER UNCLE + + +Mr. Wragg sat in a high-backed Windsor chair at the door of his house, +smoking. Before him the road descended steeply to the harbor, a small +blue patch of which was visible from his door. Children over five were +at school: children under that age, and suspiciously large for their +years, played about in careless disregard of the remarks which Mr. +Wragg occasionally launched at them. Twice a ball had whizzed past him; +and a small but select party, with a tip-cat of huge dimensions and +awesome points, played just out of reach. Mr. Wragg, snapping his eyes +nervously, threatened in vain. + +“Morning, old crusty-patch,” said a cheerful voice at his elbow. + +Mr. Wragg glanced up at the young fisherman towering above him, and +eyed him disdainfully. + +“Why don’t you leave ’em alone?” inquired the young man. “Be cheerful +and smile at ’em. You’d soon be able to smile with a little practice.” +“You mind your business, George Gale, and I’ll mind mine,” said Mr. +Wragg, fiercely; “I’ve ’ad enough of your impudence, and I’m not going +to have any more. And don’t lean up agin my house, ’cos I won’t ’ave +it.” + +Mr. Gale laughed. “Got out o’ bed the wrong side again, haven’t you?” +he inquired. “Why don’t you put that side up against the wall?” + +Mr. Wragg puffed on in silence and became absorbed in a fishing-boat +gliding past at the bottom of the hill. + +“I hear you’ve got a niece coming to live with you?” pursued the young +man. + +Mr. Wragg smoked on. + +“Poor thing!” said the other, with a sigh. “Does she take after you—in +looks, I mean?” + +“If I was twenty years younger nor what I am,” said Mr. Wragg, +sententiously, “I’d give you a hiding, George Gale.” + +“It’s what I want,” agreed Mr. Gale, placidly. “Well, so long, Mr. +Wragg. I can’t stand talking to you all day.” + +He was about to move off, after pretending to pinch the ear of the +infuriated Mr. Wragg, when he noticed a station-fly, with a big trunk +on the box-seat, crawling slowly up the hill towards them. + +“Good riddance,” said Mr. Wragg, suggestively. + +The other paid no heed. The vehicle came nearer, and a girl, who +plainly owed none of her looks to Mr. Wragg’s side of the family, came +into view behind the trunk. She waved her hand, and Mr. Wragg, removing +his pipe from his mouth, waved it in return. Mr. Gale edged away about +eighteen inches, and, with an air of assumed carelessness, gazed idly +about him. + +He saluted the driver as the fly stopped and gazed hard at the +apparition that descended. Then he caught his breath as the girl, +approaching her uncle, kissed him affectionately. Mr. Wragg, looking up +fiercely at Mr. Gale, was surprised at the expression on that +gentleman’s face. + +“Isn’t it lovely here?” said the girl, looking about her; “and isn’t +the air nice?” + +She followed Mr. Wragg inside, and the driver, a small man and elderly, +began tugging at the huge trunk. Mr. Gale’s moment had arrived. + +“Stand away, Joe,” he said, stepping forward. “I’ll take that in for +you.” + +He hoisted the trunk on his shoulders, and, rather glad of his lowered +face, advanced slowly into the house. Uncle and niece had just vanished +at the head of the stairs, and Mr. Gale, after a moment’s hesitation, +followed. + +“In ’ere,” said Mr. Wragg, throwing open a door. + +“Halloa! What are you doing in my house? Put it down. Put it down at +once; d’ye hear?” + +Mr. Gale caught the girl’s surprised glance and, somewhat flustered, +swung round so suddenly that the corner of the trunk took the +gesticulating Mr. Wragg by the side of the head and bumped it against +the wall. Deaf to his outcries, Mr. Gale entered the room and placed +the box on the floor. + +“Where shall I put it?” he inquired of the girl, respectfully. + +“You go out of my house,” stormed Mr. Wragg, entering with his hand to +his head. “Go on. Out you go.” + +The young man surveyed him with solicitude. “I’m very sorry if I hurt +you, Mr. Wragg—” he began. + +“Out you go,” repeated the other. + +“It was a pure accident,” pleaded Mr. Gale. + +“And don’t you set foot in my ’ouse agin,” said the vengeful Mr. Wragg. +“You made yourself officious bringing that box in a-purpose to give me +a clump o’ the side of the head with it.” + +Mr. Gale denied the charge so eagerly, and withal so politely, that the +elder man regarded him in amazement. Then his glance fell on his niece, +and he smiled with sudden malice as Mr. Gale slowly and humbly +descended the stairs. + + +[Illustration: “The corner of the trunk took the gesticulating Mr. +Wragg by the side of the head.”] + + +“One o’ the worst chaps about here, my dear,” he said, loudly. “Mate o’ +one o’ the fishing-boats, and as impudent as they make ’em. Many’s the +time I’ve clouted his head for ’im.” + +The girl regarded his small figure with surprised respect. + +“When he was a boy, I mean,” continued Mr. Wragg. “Now, there’s your +room, and when you’ve put things to rights, come down and I’ll show you +over the house.” + +He glanced at his niece several times during the day, trying hard to +trace a likeness, first to his dead sister and then to himself. Several +times he scrutinized himself in the small glass on the mantelpiece, but +in vain. Even when he twisted his thin beard in his hand and tried to +ignore his mustache, the likeness still eluded him. + +His opinion of Miss Miller’s looks was more than shared by the young +men of Waterside. It was a busy youth who could not spare five minutes +to chat with an uncle so fortunate, and in less than a couple of weeks +Mr. Wragg was astonished at his popularity, and the deference accorded +to his opinions. + +The most humble of them all was Mr. Gale, and, with a pertinacity which +was almost proof against insult, he strove to force his company upon +the indignant Mr. Wragg. Debarred from that, he took to haunting the +road, on one occasion passing the house no fewer than fifty-seven times +in one afternoon. His infatuation was plain to be seen of all men. Wise +men closed their eyes to it; others had theirs closed for them, Mr. +Gale being naturally incensed to think that there was anything in his +behavior that attracted attention. + +His father was at sea, and, to the dismay of the old woman who kept +house for him, he began to neglect his food. A melancholy but not +unpleasing idea that he was slowly fading occurred to him when he found +that he could eat only two herrings for breakfast instead of four. His +particular friend, Joe Harris, to whom he confided the fact, +remonstrated hotly. + +“There’s plenty of other girls,” he suggested. + +“Not like her,” said Mr. Gale. + +“You’re getting to be a by-word in the place,” complained his friend. + +Mr. Gale flushed. “I’d do more than that for her sake,” he said, +softly. + +“It ain’t the way,” said Mr. Harris, impatiently. “Girls like a man o’ +spirit; not a chap who hangs about without speaking, and looks as +though he has been caught stealing the cat’s milk. Why don’t you go +round and see her one afternoon when old Wragg is out?” + +Mr. Gale shivered. “I dursen’t,” he confessed. + +Mr. Harris pondered. “She was going to be a hospital nurse afore she +came down here,” he said, slowly. “P’r’aps if you was to break your leg +or something she’d come and nurse you. She’s wonderful fond of it, I +understand.” + +“But then, you see, I haven’t broken it,” said the other, impatiently. + +“You’ve got a bicycle,” said Mr. Harris. “You—wait a minute—” he +half-closed his eyes and waved aside a remark of his friend’s. “Suppose +you ’ad an accident and fell off it, just in front of the house?” + +“I never fall off,” said Mr. Gale, simply. + +“Old Wragg is out, and me and Charlie Brown carry you into the house,” +continued Mr. Harris, closing his eyes entirely. “When you come to your +senses, she’s bending over you and crying.” + +He opened his eyes suddenly and then, closing one, gazed hard at the +bewildered Gale. “To-morrow afternoon at two,” he said, briskly, “me +and Charlie’ll be there waiting.” + +“Suppose old Wragg ain’t out?” objected Mr. Gale, after ten minutes’ +explanation. + +“He’s at the ‘Lobster Pot’ five days out of six at that time,” was the +reply; “if he ain’t there tomorrow, it can’t be helped.” + +Mr. Gale spent the evening practising falls in a quiet lane, and by the +time night came had attained to such proficiency that on the way home +he fell off without intending it. It seemed an easier thing than he had +imagined, and next day at two o’clock punctually he put his lessons +into practice. + +By a slight error in judgment his head came into contact with Mr. +Wragg’s doorstep, and, half-stunned, he was about to rise, when Mr. +Harris rushed up and forced him down again. Mr. Brown, who was also in +attendance, helped to restore his faculties by a well-placed kick. + +“He’s lost his senses,” said Mr. Harris, looking up at Miss Miller, as +she came to the door. + +“You could ha’ heard him fall arf a mile away,” added Mr. Brown. + +Miss Miller stooped and examined the victim carefully. There was a +nasty cut on the side of his head, and a general limpness of body which +was alarming. She went indoors for some water, and by the time she +returned the enterprising Mr. Harris had got the patient in the +passage. + +“I’m afraid he’s going,” he said, in answer to the girl’s glance. + +“Run for the doctor,” she said, hastily. “Quick!” + +“We don’t like to leave ’im, miss,” said Mr. Harris, tenderly. “I +s’pose it would be too much to ask you to go?” + +Miss Miller, with a parting glance at the prostrate man, departed at +once. + +“What did you do that for?” demanded Mr. Gale, sitting up. “I don’t +want the doctor; he’ll spoil everything. Why didn’t you go away and +leave us?” + +“I sent ’er for the doctor,” said Mr. Harris, slowly. “I sent ’er for +the doctor so as we can get you to bed afore she comes back.” + +“_Bed_?” exclaimed Mr. Gale. + +“Up you go,” said Mr. Harris, briefly. “We’ll tell _her_ we carried you +up. Now, don’t waste time.” + +Pushed by his friends, and stopping to expostulate at every step, Mr. +Gale was thrust at last into Mr. Wragg’s bedroom. + +“Off with your clothes,” said the leading spirit. “What’s the matter +with you, Charlie Brown?” + +“Don’t mind me; I’ll be all right in a minute,” said that gentleman, +wiping his eyes. “I’m thinking of old Wragg.” + + +[Illustration: “‘What did you do that for?’ demanded Mr. Gale, +sitting up.”] + + +Before Mr. Gale had made up his mind his coat and waistcoat were off, +and Mr. Brown was at work on his boots. In five minutes’ time he was +tucked up in Mr. Wragg’s bed; his clothes were in a neat little pile on +a chair, and Messrs. Harris and Brown were indulging in a +congratulatory double-shuffle by the window. + +“Don’t come to your senses yet awhile,” said the former; “and when you +do, tell the doctor you can’t move your limbs.” + +“If they try to pull you out o’ bed,” said Mr. Brown, “scream as though +you’re being killed. _H’sh_! Here they are.” + +Voices sounded below; Miss Miller and the doctor had met at the door +with Mr. Wragg, and a violent outburst on that gentleman’s part died +away as he saw that the intruders had disappeared. He was still +grumbling when Mr. Harris, putting his head over the balusters, asked +him to make a little less noise. + +Mr. Wragg came upstairs in three bounds, and his mien was so terrible +that Messrs. Harris and Brown huddled together for protection. Then his +gaze fell on the bed and he strove in vain for speech. + +“We done it for the best,” faltered Mr. Harris. + +Mr. Wragg made a gurgling noise in his throat, and, as the doctor +entered the room, pointed with a trembling finger at the bed. The other +two gentlemen edged toward the door. + +“Take him away; take him away at once,” vociferated Mr. Wragg. + +The doctor motioned him to silence, and Joe Harris and Mr. Brown held +their breaths nervously as he made an examination. For ten minutes he +prodded and puzzled over the insensible form in the bed; then he turned +to the couple at the door. + +“How did it happen?” he inquired. + +Mr. Harris told him. He also added that he thought it was best to put +him to bed at once before he came round. + +“Quite right,” said the doctor, nodding. “It’s a very serious case.” + +“Well, I can’t ’ave him ’ere,” broke in Mr. Wragg. + +“It won’t be for long,” said the doctor, shaking his head. + +“I can’t ’ave him ’ere at all, and, what’s more, I won’t. Let him go to +his own bed,” said Mr. Wragg, quivering with excitement. + +“He is not to be moved,” said the doctor, decidedly. “If he comes to +his senses and gets out of bed you must coax him back again.” + +“_Coax_?” stuttered Mr. Wragg. “_Coax?_ What’s he got to do with me? +This house isn’t a ’orsepittle. Put his clothes on and take ’im away.” + +“Do nothing of the kind,” was the stern reply. “In fact, his clothes +had better be taken out of the room, in case he comes round and tries +to dress.” + +Mr. Harris skipped across to the clothes and tucked them gleefully +under his arm; Mr. Brown secured the boots. + +“When he will come out of this stupor I can’t say,” continued the +doctor. “Keep him perfectly quiet and don’t let him see a soul.” + +“Look ’ere—” began Mr. Wragg, in a broken voice. + +“As to diet—water,” said the doctor, looking round. + +“Water?” said Miss Miller, who had come quietly into the room. + +“Water,” repeated the doctor; “as much as he likes to take, of course. +Let me see: to-day is Tuesday. I’ll look in on Friday, or Saturday at +latest; but till then he must have nothing but clear cold water.” + +Mr. Harris shot a horrified glance at the bed, which happened just then +to creak. “But s’pose he asks for food, sir?” he said, respectfully. + +“He mustn’t have it,” said the other, sharply. “If he is very +insistent,” he added, turning to the sullen Mr. Wragg, “tell him that +he has just had food. He won’t know any better, and he will be quite +satisfied.” + +He motioned them out of the room, and then, lowering the blinds, +followed downstairs on tiptoe. A murmur of voices, followed by the +closing of the front door, sounded from below; and Mr. Gale, getting +cautiously out of bed, saw Messrs. Harris and Brown walk up the street +talking earnestly. He stole back on tiptoe to the door, and strove in +vain to catch the purport of the low-voiced discussion below. Mr. +Wragg’s voice was raised, but indistinct. Then he fancied that he heard +a laugh. + +He waited until the door closed behind the doctor, and then went back +to bed, to try and think out a situation which was fast becoming +mysterious. + +He lay in the darkened room until a cheerful clatter of crockery below +heralded the approach of tea-time. He heard Miss Miller call her uncle +in from the garden, and with some satisfaction heard her pleasant voice +engaged in brisk talk. At intervals Mr. Wragg laughed loud and long. + +Tea was cleared away, and the long evening dragged along in silence. +Uncle and niece were apparently sitting in the garden, but they came in +to supper, and later on the fumes of Mr. Wragg’s pipe pervaded the +house. At ten o’clock he heard footsteps ascending the stairs, and +through half-closed eyes saw Mr. Wragg enter the bedroom with a candle. + +“Time the pore feller had ’is water,” he said to his niece, who +remained outside. + +“Unless he is still insensible,” was the reply. + +Mr. Gale, who was feeling both thirsty and hungry, slowly opened his +eyes, and fixed them in a vacant stare on Mr. Wragg. + +“Where am I?” he inquired, in a faint voice. + +“Buckingham Pallis,” replied Mr. Wragg, promptly. + +Mr. Gale ground his teeth. “How did I come here?” he said, at last. + +“The fairies brought you,” said Mr. Wragg. + +The young man rubbed his eyes and blinked at the candle. “I seem to +remember falling,” he said, slowly; “has anything happened?” + +“One o’ the fairies dropped you,” said Mr. Wragg, with great readiness; +“fortunately, you fell on your head.” + +A sound suspiciously like a giggle came from the landing and fell +heavily on Gale’s ears. He closed his eyes and tried to think. + +“How did I get into your bedroom, Mr. Wragg?” he inquired, after a long +pause. + +“Light-’eaded,” confided Mr. Wragg to the landing, and significantly +tapping his forehead. + +“This ain’t my bedroom,” he said, turning to the invalid. “It’s the +King’s. His Majesty gave up ’is bed at once, direckly he ’eard you was +’urt.” + +“And he’s going to sleep on three chairs in the front parlor—if he +can,” said a low voice from the landing. + +The humor faded from Mr. Wragg’s face and was succeeded by an +expression of great sourness. “Where is the pore feller’s supper?” he +inquired. “I don’t suppose he can eat anything, but he might try.” + +He went to the door and a low-voiced colloquy ensued. The rival merits +of cold chicken versus steak-pie as an invalid diet were discussed at +some length. Finally the voice of Miss Miller insisted on chicken, and +a glass of port-wine. + +“I’ll tell ’im it’s chicken and port-wine then,” said Mr. Wragg, +reappearing with a bedroom jug and a tumbler, which he placed on a +small table by the bedside. + +“Don’t let him eat too much, mind,” said the voice from the landing, +anxiously. + +Mr. Wragg said that he would be careful, and addressing Mr. Gale +implored him not to overeat himself. The young man stared at him +offensively, and, pretty certain now of the true state of affairs, +thought only of escape. + +“I feel better,” he said, slowly. “I think I will go home.” + +“Yes, yes,” said the other, soothingly. + +“If you will fetch my clothes,” continued Mr. Gale, “I will go now.” + +“_Clothes_!” said Mr. Wragg, in an astonished voice. “Why, you didn’t +’ave any.” + +Mr. Gale sat up suddenly in bed and shook his fist at him. “Look here—” +he began, in a choking voice. + +“The fairies brought you as you was,” continued Mr. Wragg, grinning +furiously; “and of all the perfect picturs—” + +A series of gasping sobs sounded from the landing, the stairs creaked, +and a door slammed violently below. In spite of this precaution the +sounds of a maiden in dire distress were distinctly audible. + +“You give me my clothes,” shouted the now furious Mr. Gale, springing +out of bed. + +Mr. Wragg drew back. “I’ll go and fetch ’em,” he said, hastily. + +He ran lightly downstairs, and the young man, sitting on the edge of +the bed, waited. Ten minutes passed, and he heard Mr. Wragg returning, +followed by his niece. He slipped back into bed again. + +“It’s a pore brain again,” he heard, in the unctuous tones which Mr. +Wragg appeared to keep for this emergency. “It’s clothes he wants now; +by and by I suppose it’ll be something else. Well, the doctor said we’d +got to humor him.” + +“Poor fellow!” sighed Miss Miller, with a break in her voice. + +“See ’ow his face’ll light up when he sees them,” said her uncle. + +He pushed the door open, and after surveying the patient with a +benevolent smile triumphantly held up a collar and tie for his +inspection and threw them on the bed. Then he disappeared hastily and, +closing the door, turned the key in the lock. + +“If you want any more chicken or anything,” he cried through the door, +“ring the bell.” + +The horrified prisoner heard them pass downstairs again, and, after a +glass of water, sat down by the window and tried to think. He got up +and tried the door, but it opened inwards, and after a severe onslaught +the handle came off in his hand. Tired out at last he went to bed +again, and slept fitfully until morning. + +Mr. Wragg visited him again after breakfast, but with great foresight +only put his head in at the door, while Miss Miller remained outside in +case of need. In these circumstances Mr. Gale met his anxious inquiries +with a sullen silence, and the other, tired at last of baiting him, +turned to go. + +“I’ll be back soon,” he said, with a grin. “I’m just going out to tell +folks ’ow you’re getting on. There’s a lot of ’em anxious.” + +He was as good as his word, and Mr. Gale, peeping from the window, +raged helplessly as little knots of neighbors stood smiling up at the +house. Unable to endure it any longer he returned to bed, resolving to +wait until night came, and then drop from the window and run home in a +blanket. + +The smell of dinner was almost painful, but he made no sign. Mr. Wragg +in high good humor smoked a pipe after his meal, and then went out +again. The house was silent except for the occasional movements of the +girl below. Then there was a sudden tap at his door. + +“Well?” said Mr. Gale. + +The door opened and, hardly able to believe his eyes, he saw his +clothes thrown into the room. Hunger was forgotten, and he almost +smiled as he hastily dressed himself. + +The smile vanished as he thought of the people in the streets, and in a +thoughtful fashion he made his way slowly downstairs. The bright face +of Miss Miller appeared at the parlor door. + +“Better?” she smiled. + +Mr. Gale reddened and, drawing himself up stiffly, made no reply. + +“That’s polite,” said the girl, indignantly. “After giving you your +clothes, too. What do you think my uncle will say to me? He was going +to keep you here till Friday.” + +Mr. Gale muttered an apology. “I’ve made a fool of myself,” he added. + +Miss Miller nodded cheerfully. “Are you hungry?” she inquired. + +The other drew himself up again. + +“Because there is some nice cold beef left,” said the girl, glancing +into the room. + +Mr. Gale started and, hardly able to believe in his good fortune, +followed her inside. In a very short time the cold beef was a thing of +the past, and the young man, toying with his beer-glass, sat listening +to a lecture on his behavior couched in the severest terms his hostess +could devise. + +“You’ll be the laughing-stock of the place,” she concluded. + +“I shall go away,” he said, gloomily. + +“I shouldn’t do that,” said the girl, with a judicial air; “live it +down.” + +“I shall go away,” repeated Mr. Gale, decidedly. “I shall ship for a +deep-sea voyage.” + +Miss Miller sighed. “It’s too bad,” she said, slowly; “perhaps you +wouldn’t look so foolish if—” + +“If what?” inquired the other, after a long pause. + +“If,” said Miss Miller, looking down, “if—if—” + +Mr. Gale started and trembled violently, as a wild idea, born of her +blushes, occurred to him. + +“If,” he said, in quivering tones, “if—if—” + +“Go on,” said the girl, softly. “Why, I got as far as that: and you are +a man.” + +Mr. Gale’s voice became almost inaudible. “If we got married, do you +mean?” he said, at last. + +“Married!” exclaimed Miss Miller, starting back a full two inches. +“Good gracious! the man is mad after all.” + +The bitter and loudly expressed opinion of Mr. Wragg when he returned +an hour later was that they were both mad. + + + + +THE DREAMER + + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE DREAMER + + +Dreams and warnings are things I don’t believe in, said the night +watchman. The only dream I ever ’ad that come anything like true was +once when I dreamt I came in for a fortune, and next morning I found +half a crown in the street, which I sold to a man for fourpence. And +once, two days arter my missis ’ad dreamt she ’ad spilt a cup of tea +down the front of ’er Sunday dress, she spoilt a pot o’ paint of mine +by sitting in it. + +The only other dream I know of that come true happened to the cook of a +bark I was aboard of once, called the _Southern Belle_. He was a silly, +pasty-faced sort o’ chap, always giving hisself airs about eddication +to sailormen who didn’t believe in it, and one night, when we was +homeward-bound from Sydney, he suddenly sat up in ’is bunk and laughed +so loud that he woke us all up. + +“Wot’s wrong, cookie?” ses one o’ the chaps. + +“I was dreaming,” ses the cook, “such a funny dream. I dreamt old Bill +Foster fell out o’ the foretop and broke ’is leg.” + +“Well, wot is there to laugh at in that?” ses old Bill, very sharp. + +“It was funny in my dream,” ses the cook. “You looked so comic with +your leg doubled up under you, you can’t think. It would ha’ made a cat +laugh.” + +Bill Foster said he’d make ’im laugh the other side of his face if he +wasn’t careful, and then we went off to sleep agin and forgot all about +it. + +If you’ll believe me, on’y three days arterwards pore Bill did fall out +o’ the foretop and break his leg. He was surprised, but I never see a +man so surprised as the cook was. His eyes was nearly starting out of +’is head, but by the time the other chaps ’ad picked Bill up and asked +’im whether he was hurt, cook ’ad pulled ’imself together agin and was +giving himself such airs it was perfectly sickening. + +“My dreams always come true,” he ses. “It’s a kind o’ second sight with +me. It’s a gift, and, being tender-’arted, it worries me terrible +sometimes.” + +He was going on like that, taking credit for a pure accident, when the +second officer came up and told ’em to carry Bill below. He was in +agony, of course, but he kept ’is presence of mind, and as they passed +the cook he gave ’im such a clip on the side of the ’ead as nearly +broke it. + +“That’s for dreaming about me,” he ses. + +The skipper and the fust officer and most of the hands set ’is leg +between them, and arter the skipper ’ad made him wot he called +comfortable, but wot Bill called something that I won’t soil my ears by +repeating, the officers went off and the cook came and sat down by the +side o’ Bill and talked about his gift. + +“I don’t talk about it as a rule,” he ses, “’cos it frightens people.” + +“It’s a wonderful gift, cookie,” ses Charlie Epps. + +All of ’em thought the same, not knowing wot a fust-class liar the cook +was, and he sat there and lied to ’em till he couldn’t ’ardly speak, he +was so ’oarse. + +“My grandmother was a gypsy,” he ses, “and it’s in the family. Things +that are going to ’appen to people I know come to me in dreams, same as +pore Bill’s did. It’s curious to me sometimes when I look round at you +chaps, seeing you going about ’appy and comfortable, and knowing all +the time ’orrible things that is going to ’appen to you. Sometimes it +gives me the fair shivers.” + +“Horrible things to us, slushy?” ses Charlie, staring. + +“Yes,” ses the cook, nodding. “I never was on a ship afore with such a +lot of unfortunit men aboard. Never. There’s two pore fellers wot’ll be +dead corpses inside o’ six months, sitting ’ere laughing and talking as +if they was going to live to ninety. Thank your stars you don’t ’ave +such dreams.” + +“Who—who are the two, cookie?” ses Charlie, arter a bit. + +“Never mind, Charlie,” ses the cook, in a sad voice; “it would do no +good if I was to tell you. Nothing can alter it.” + +“Give us a hint,” ses Charlie. + +“Well, I’ll tell you this much,” ses the cook, arter sitting with his +’ead in his ’ands, thinking; “one of ’em is nearly the ugliest man in +the fo’c’s’le and the other ain’t.” + +O’ course, that didn’t ’elp ’em much, but it caused a lot of argufying, +and the ugliest man aboard, instead o’ being grateful, behaved more +like a wild beast than a Christian when it was pointed out to him that +he was safe. + +Arter that dream about Bill, there was no keeping the cook in his +place. He ’ad dreams pretty near every night, and talked little bits of +’em in his sleep. Little bits that you couldn’t make head nor tail of, +and when we asked ’im next morning he’d always shake his ’ead and say, +“Never mind.” Sometimes he’d mention a chap’s name in ’is sleep and +make ’im nervous for days. + +It was an unlucky v’y’ge that, for some of ’em. About a week arter pore +Bill’s accident Ted Jones started playing catch-ball with another chap +and a empty beer-bottle, and about the fifth chuck Ted caught it with +his face. We thought ’e was killed at fust—he made such a noise; but +they got ’im down below, and, arter they ’ad picked out as much broken +glass as Ted would let ’em, the second officer did ’im up in +sticking-plaster and told ’im to keep quiet for an hour or two. + +Ted was very proud of ’is looks, and the way he went on was alarming. +Fust of all he found fault with the chap ’e was playing with, and then +he turned on the cook. + +“It’s a pity you didn’t see that in a dream,” he ses, tryin’ to sneer, +on’y the sticking-plaster was too strong for ’im. + +“But I did see it,” ses the cook, drawin’ ’imself up. + +“_Wot_?” ses Ted, starting. + +“I dreamt it night afore last, just exactly as it ’appened,” ses the +cook, in a offhand way. + +“Why didn’t you tell me, then?” ses Ted choking. + +“It ’ud ha’ been no good,” ses the cook, smiling and shaking his ’ead. +“Wot I see must ’appen. I on’y see the future, and that must be.” + +“But you stood there watching me chucking the bottle about,” ses Ted, +getting out of ’is bunk. “Why didn’t you stop me?” + +“You don’t understand,” ses the cook. “If you’d ’ad more eddication—” + +He didn’t ’ave time to say any more afore Ted was on him, and cookie, +being no fighter, ’ad to cook with one eye for the next two or three +days. He kept quiet about ’is dreams for some time arter that, but it +was no good, because George Hall, wot was a firm believer, gave ’im a +licking for not warning ’im of a sprained ankle he got skylarking, and +Bob Law took it out of ’im for not telling ’im that he was going to +lose ’is suit of shore-going togs at cards. + + +[Illustration: “‘Why didn’t you tell me, then?’ ses Ted.”] + + +The only chap that seemed to show any good feeling for the cook was a +young feller named Joseph Meek, a steady young chap wot was goin’ to be +married to old Bill Foster’s niece as soon as we got ’ome. Nobody else +knew it, but he told the cook all about it on the quiet. He said she +was too good for ’im, but, do all he could, he couldn’t get her to see +it. + +“My feelings ’ave changed,” he ses. + +“P’r’aps they’ll change agin,” ses the cook, trying to comfort ’im. + +Joseph shook his ’ead. “No, I’ve made up my mind,” he ses, very slow. +“I’m young yet, and, besides, I can’t afford it; but ’ow to get out of +it I don’t know. Couldn’t you ’ave a dream agin it for me?” + +“Wot d’ye mean?” ses the cook, firing up. “Do you think I make my +dreams up?” + +“No, no; cert’inly not,” ses Joseph, patting ’im on the shoulder; “but +couldn’t you do it just for once? ’Ave a dream that me and Emily are +killed a few days arter the wedding. Don’t say in wot way, ’cos she +might think we could avoid it; just dream we are killed. Bill’s always +been a superstitious man, and since you dreamt about his leg he’d +believe anything; and he’s that fond of Emily I believe he’d ’ave the +wedding put off, at any rate—if I put him up to it.” + +It took ’im three days and a silver watch-chain to persuade the cook, +but he did at last; and one arternoon, when old Bill, who was getting +on fust-class, was resting ’is leg in ’is bunk, the cook went below and +turned in for a quiet sleep. + +For ten minutes he was as peaceful as a lamb, and old Bill, who ’ad +been laying in ’is bunk with an eye open watching ’im, was just +dropping off ’imself, when the cook began to talk in ’is sleep, and the +very fust words made Bill sit up as though something ’ad bit ’im. + +“There they go,” ses the cook, “Emily Foster and Joseph Meek—and +there’s old Bill, good old Bill, going to give the bride away. How +’appy they all look, especially Joseph!” + +Old Bill put his ’and to his ear and leaned out of his bunk. + +“There they go,” ses the cook agin; “but wot is that ’orrible black +thing with claws that’s ’anging over Bill?” + +Pore Bill nearly fell out of ’is bunk, but he saved ’imself at the last +moment and lay there as pale as death, listening. + +“It must be meant for Bill,” ses the cook. “Well, pore Bill; he won’t +know of it, that’s one thing. Let’s ’ope it’ll be sudden.” + +He lay quiet for some time and then he began again. + +“No,” he ses, “it isn’t Bill; it’s Joseph and Emily, stark and stiff, +and they’ve on’y been married a week. ’Ow awful they look! Pore things. +Oh! oh! o-oh!” + +He woke up with a shiver and began to groan and then ’e sat up in his +bunk and saw old Bill leaning out and staring at ’im. + +“You’ve been dreaming, cook,” ses Bill, in a trembling voice. + +“’Ave I?” ses the cook. “How do you know?” + +“About me and my niece,” ses Bill; “you was talking in your sleep.” + +“You oughtn’t to ’ave listened,” ses the cook, getting out of ’is bunk +and going over to ’im. “I ’ope you didn’t ’ear all I dreamt. ’Ow much +did you hear?” + +Bill told ’im, and the cook sat there, shaking his ’ead. “Thank +goodness, you didn’t ’ear the worst of it,” he ses. + +“_Worst_!” ses Bill. “Wot, was there any more of it?” + +“Lot’s more,” ses the cook. “But promise me you won’t tell Joseph, +Bill. Let ’im be happy while he can; it would on’y make ’im miserable, +and it wouldn’t do any good.” + +“I don’t know so much about that,” ses Bill, thinking about the +arguments some of them had ’ad with Ted about the bottle. “Was it arter +they was married, cookie, that it ’appened? Are you sure?” + +“Certain sure. It was a week arter,” ses the cook. + +“Very well, then,” ses Bill, slapping ’is bad leg by mistake; “if they +didn’t marry, it couldn’t ’appen, could it?” + +“Don’t talk foolish,” ses the cook; “they must marry. I saw it in my +dream.” + +“Well, we’ll see,” ses Bill. “I’m going to ’ave a quiet talk with +Joseph about it, and see wot he ses. I ain’t a-going to ’ave my pore +gal murdered just to please you and make your dreams come true.” + +He ’ad a quiet talk with Joseph, but Joseph wouldn’t ’ear of it at +fust. He said it was all the cook’s nonsense, though ’e owned up that +it was funny that the cook should know about the wedding and Emily’s +name, and at last he said that they would put it afore Emily and let +her decide. + +That was about the last dream the cook had that v’y’ge, although he +told old Bill one day that he had ’ad the same dream about Joseph and +Emily agin, so that he was quite certain they ’ad got to be married and +killed. He wouldn’t tell Bill ’ow they was to be killed, because ’e +said it would make ’im an old man afore his time; but, of course, he +’ad to say that _if_ they wasn’t married the other part couldn’t come +true. He said that as he ’ad never told ’is dreams before—except in the +case of Bill’s leg—he couldn’t say for certain that they couldn’t be +prevented by taking care, but p’r’aps, they could; and Bill pointed out +to ’im wot a useful man he would be if he could dream and warn people +in time. + +By the time we got into the London river old Bill’s leg was getting on +fust-rate, and he got along splendid on a pair of crutches the +carpenter ’ad made for him. Him and Joseph and the cook had ’ad a good +many talks about the dream, and the old man ’ad invited the cook to +come along ’ome with ’em, to be referred to when he told the tale. + +“I shall take my opportunity,” he ses, “and break it to ’er gentle +like. When I speak to you, you chip in, and not afore. D’ye +understand?” + +We went into the East India Docks that v’y’ge, and got there early on a +lovely summer’s evening. Everybody was ’arf crazy at the idea o’ going +ashore agin, and working as cheerful and as willing as if they liked +it. There was a few people standing on the pier-head as we went in, and +among ’em several very nice-looking young wimmen. + +“My eye, Joseph,” ses the cook, who ’ad been staring hard at one of +’em, “there’s a fine gal—lively, too. Look ’ere!” + + +[Illustration: “‘I shall take my opportunity,’ he ses, ‘and break it +to ’er gentle like.’”] + + +He kissed ’is dirty paw—which is more than I should ’ave liked to ’ave +done it if it ’ad been mine—and waved it, and the gal turned round and +shook her ’ead at ’im. + +“Here, that’ll do,” ses Joseph, very cross. “That’s my gal; that’s my +Emily.” + +“Eh?” says the cook. “Well, ’ow was I to know? Besides, you’re a-giving +of her up.” + +Joseph didn’t answer ’im. He was staring at Emily, and the more he +stared the better-looking she seemed to grow. She really was an +uncommon nice-looking gal, and more than the cook was struck with her. + +“Who’s that chap standing alongside of her?” ses the cook. + +“It’s one o’ Bill’s sister’s lodgers,” ses Joseph, who was looking very +bad-tempered. “I should like to know wot right he ’as to come ’ere to +welcome me ’ome. I don’t want ’im.” + +“P’r’aps he’s fond of ’er,” ses the cook. “I could be, very easy.” + +“I’ll chuck ’im in the dock if he ain’t careful,” ses Joseph, turning +red in the face. + +He waved his ’and to Emily, who didn’t ’appen to be looking at the +moment, but the lodger waved back in a careless sort of way and then +spoke to Emily, and they both waved to old Bill who was standing on his +crutches further aft. + +By the time the ship was berthed and everything snug it was quite dark, +and old Bill didn’t know whether to take the cook ’ome with ’im and +break the news that night, or wait a bit. He made up his mind at last +to get it over and done with, and arter waiting till the cook ’ad +cleaned ’imself they got a cab and drove off. + +Bert Simmons, the lodger, ’ad to ride on the box, and Bill took up so +much room with ’is bad leg that Emily found it more comfortable to sit +on Joseph’s knee; and by the time they got to the ’ouse he began to see +wot a silly mistake he was making. + +“Keep that dream o’ yours to yourself till I make up my mind,” he ses +to the cook, while Bill and the cabman were calling each other names. + +“Bill’s going to speak fust,” whispers the cook. + +The lodger and Emily ’ad gone inside, and Joseph stood there, +fidgeting, while the cabman asked Bill, as a friend, why he ’adn’t paid +twopence more for his face, and Bill was wasting his time trying to +think of something to say to ’urt the cabman’s feelings. Then he took +Bill by the arm as the cab drove off and told ’im not to say nothing +about the dream, because he was going to risk it. + +“Stuff and nonsense,” ses Bill. “I’m going to tell Emily. It’s my +dooty. Wot’s the good o’ being married if you’re going to be killed?” + +He stumped in on his crutches afore Joseph could say any more, and, +arter letting his sister kiss ’im, went into the front room and sat +down. There was cold beef and pickles on the table and two jugs o’ +beer, and arter just telling his sister ’ow he fell and broke ’is leg, +they all sat down to supper. + +Bert Simmons sat on one side of Emily and Joseph the other, and the +cook couldn’t ’elp feeling sorry for ’er, seeing as he did that +sometimes she was ’aving both hands squeezed at once under the table +and could ’ardly get a bite in edgeways. + +Old Bill lit his pipe arter supper, and then, taking another glass o’ +beer, he told ’em about the cook dreaming of his accident three days +afore it happened. They couldn’t ’ardly believe it at fust, but when he +went on to tell ’em the other things the cook ’ad dreamt, and that +everything ’ad ’appened just as he dreamt it, they all edged away from +the cook and sat staring at him with their mouths open. + +“And that ain’t the worst of it,” ses Bill. + +“That’s enough for one night, Bill,” ses Joseph, who was staring at +Bert Simmons as though he could eat him. “Besides, I believe it was +on’y chance. When cook told you ’is dream it made you nervous, and +that’s why you fell.” + +“Nervous be blowed!” ses Bill; and then he told ’em about the dream he +’ad heard while he was laying in ’is bunk. + +Bill’s sister gave a scream when he ’ad finished, and Emily, wot was +sitting next to Joseph, got up with a shiver and went and sat next to +Bert Simmons and squeezed his coat-sleeve. + +“It’s all nonsense!” ses Joseph, starting up. “And if it wasn’t, true +love would run the risk. I ain’t afraid!” + +“It’s too much to ask a gal,” ses Bert Simmons, shaking his ’ead. + +“I couldn’t dream of it,” ses Emily. “Wot’s the use of being married +for a week? Look at uncle’s leg—that’s enough for me!” + +They all talked at once then, and Joseph tried all he could to persuade +Emily to prove to the cook that ’is dreams didn’t always come true; but +it was no good. Emily said she wouldn’t marry ’im if he ’ad a million a +year, and her aunt and uncle backed her up in it—to say nothing of Bert +Simmons. + +“I’ll go up and get your presents, Joseph,” she ses; and she ran +upstairs afore anybody could stop her. + +Joseph sat there as if he was dazed, while everybody gave ’im good +advice, and said ’ow thankful he ought to be that the cook ’ad saved +him by ’is dreaming. And by and by Emily came downstairs agin with the +presents he ’ad given ’er and put them on the table in front of ’im. + +“There’s everything there but that little silver brooch you gave me, +Joseph,” she ses, “and I lost that the other evening when I was out +with—with—for a walk.” + +Joseph tried to speak, but couldn’t. + +“It was six-and-six, ’cos I was with you when you bought it,” ses +Emily; “and as I’ve lost it, it’s on’y fair I should pay for it.” + +She put down ’arf a sovereign with the presents, and Joseph sat staring +at it as if he ’ad never seen one afore. + +“And you needn’t mind about the change, Joseph,” ses Emily; “that’ll +’elp to make up for your disappointment.” + +Old Bill tried to turn things off with a bit of a laugh. “Why, you’re +made o’ money, Emily,” he ses. + +“Ah! I haven’t told you yet,” ses Emily, smiling at him; “that’s a +little surprise I was keeping for you. Aunt Emma—pore Aunt Emma, I +should say—died while you was away and left me all ’er furniture and +two hundred pounds.” + +Joseph made a choking noise in his throat and then ’e got up, leaving +the presents and the ’arf-sovereign on the table, and stood by the +door, staring at them. + +“Good-night all,” he ses. Then he went to the front door and opened it, +and arter standing there a moment came back as though he ’ad forgotten +something. + +“Are you coming along now?” he ses to the cook. + +“Not just yet,” ses the cook, very quick. + +“I’ll wait outside for you, then,” ses Joseph, grinding his teeth. +“Don’t be long.” + + + + +ANGELS’ VISITS + + +[Illustration] + + + + +ANGELS’ VISITS + + +Mr. William Jobling leaned against his door-post, smoking. The evening +air, pleasant in its coolness after the heat of the day, caressed his +shirt-sleeved arms. Children played noisily in the long, dreary street, +and an organ sounded faintly in the distance. To Mr. Jobling, who had +just consumed three herrings and a pint and a half of strong tea, the +scene was delightful. He blew a little cloud of smoke in the air, and +with half-closed eyes corrected his first impression as to the tune +being played round the corner. + +“Bill!” cried the voice of Mrs. Jobling, who was washing-up in the tiny +scullery. + +“’Ullo!” responded Mr. Jobling, gruffly. + +“You’ve been putting your wet teaspoon in the sugar-basin, and—well, I +declare, if you haven’t done it again.” + +“Done what?” inquired her husband, hunching his shoulders. + +“Putting your herringy knife in the butter. Well, you can eat it now; I +won’t. A lot of good me slaving from morning to night and buying good +food when you go and spoil it like that.” + +Mr. Jobling removed the pipe from his mouth. “Not so much of it,” he +commanded. “I like butter with a little flavor to it. As for your +slaving all day, you ought to come to the works for a week; you’d know +what slavery was then.” + +Mrs. Jobling permitted herself a thin, derisive cackle, drowned +hurriedly in a clatter of tea-cups as her husband turned and looked +angrily up the little passage. + +“Nag! nag! nag!” said Mr. Jobling. + +He paused expectantly. + +“Nag! nag! nag! from morning till night,” he resumed. “It begins in the +morning and it goes on till bedtime.” + +“It’s a pity—” began Mrs. Jobling. + +“Hold your tongue,” said her husband, sternly; “I don’t want any of +your back answers. It goes on all day long up to bedtime, and last +night I laid awake for two hours listening to you nagging in your +sleep.” + +He paused again. + +“Nagging in your sleep,” he repeated. + +There was no reply. + +“Two hours!” he said, invitingly; “two whole hours, without a stop.” + +“I ’ope it done you good,” retorted his wife. “I noticed you did wipe +one foot when you come in to-night.” + +Mr. Jobling denied the charge hotly, and, by way of emphasizing his +denial, raised his foot and sent the mat flying along the passage. +Honor satisfied, he returned to the door-post and, looking idly out on +the street again, exchanged a few desultory remarks with Mr. Joe Brown, +who, with his hands in his pockets, was balancing himself with great +skill on the edge of the curb opposite. + +His gaze wandered from Mr. Brown to a young and rather +stylishly-dressed woman who was approaching—a tall, good-looking girl +with a slight limp, whose hat encountered unspoken feminine criticism +at every step. Their eyes met as she came up, and recognition flashed +suddenly into both faces. + +“Fancy seeing you here!” said the girl. “Well, this is a pleasant +surprise.” + +She held out her hand, and Mr. Jobling, with a fierce glance at Mr. +Brown, who was not behaving, shook it respectfully. + +“I’m so glad to see you again,” said the girl; “I know I didn’t thank +you half enough the other night, but I was too upset.” + +“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Jobling, in a voice the humility of which +was in strong contrast to the expression with which he was regarding +the antics of Mr. Brown, as that gentleman wafted kisses to the four +winds of heaven. + +There was a pause, broken by a short, dry cough from the parlor window. +The girl, who was almost touching the sill, started nervously. + +“It’s only my missis,” said Mr. Jobling. + +The girl turned and gazed in at the window. Mr. Jobling, with the stem +of his pipe, performed a brief ceremony of introduction. + +“Good-evening,” said Mrs. Jobling, in a thin voice. “I don’t know who +you are, but I s’pose my ’usband does.” + +“I met him the other night,” said the girl, with a bright smile; “I +slipped on a piece of peel or something and fell, and he was passing +and helped me up.” + +Mrs. Jobling coughed again. “First I’ve heard of it,” she remarked. + +“I forgot to tell you,” said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. “I hope you +wasn’t hurt much, miss?” + +“I twisted my ankle a bit, that’s all,” said the girl; “it’s painful +when I walk.” + +“Painful now?” inquired Mr. Jobling, in concern. + +The girl nodded. “A little; not very.” + +Mr. Jobling hesitated; the contortions of Mr. Brown’s face as he strove +to make a wink carry across the road would have given pause to a bolder +man; and twice his wife’s husky little cough had sounded from the +window. + +“I s’pose you wouldn’t like to step inside and rest for five minutes?” +he said, slowly. + +“Oh, thank you,” said the girl, gratefully; “I should like to. It—it +really is very painful. I ought not to have walked so far.” + +She limped in behind Mr. Jobling, and after bowing to Mrs. Jobling sank +into the easy-chair with a sigh of relief and looked keenly round the +room. Mr. Jobling disappeared, and his wife flushed darkly as he came +back with his coat on and his hair wet from combing. An awkward silence +ensued. + +“How strong your husband is!” said the girl, clasping her hands +impulsively. + +“Is he?” said Mrs. Jobling. + +“He lifted me up as though I had been a feather,” responded the girl. +“He just put his arm round my waist and had me on my feet before I knew +where I was.” + +“Round your waist?” repeated Mrs. Jobling. + +“Where else should I put it?” broke in her husband, with sudden +violence. + +His wife made no reply, but sat gazing in a hostile fashion at the +bold, dark eyes and stylish hat of the visitor. + +“I should like to be strong,” said the latter, smiling agreeably over +at Mr. Jobling. + +“When I was younger,” said that gratified man, “I can assure you I +didn’t know my own strength, as the saying is. I used to hurt people +just in play like, without knowing it. I used to have a hug like a +bear.” + +“Fancy being hugged like that!” said the girl. “How awful!” she added, +hastily, as she caught the eye of the speechless Mrs. Jobling. + +“Like a bear,” repeated Mr. Jobling, highly pleased at the impression +he had made. “I’m pretty strong now; there ain’t many as I’m afraid +of.” + +He bent his arm and thoughtfully felt his biceps, and Mrs. Jobling +almost persuaded herself that she must be dreaming, as she saw the girl +lean forward and pinch Mr. Jobling’s arm. Mr. Jobling was surprised +too, but he had the presence of mind to bend the other. + +“Enormous!” said the girl, “and as hard as iron. What a prize-fighter +you’d have made!” + +“He don’t want to do no prize-fighting,” said Mrs. Jobling, recovering +her speech; “he’s a respectable married man.” + +Mr. Jobling shook his head over lost opportunities. “I’m too old,” he +remarked. + +“He’s forty-seven,” said his wife. + +“Best age for a man, in my opinion,” said the girl; “just entering his +prime. And a man is as old as he feels, you know.” + +Mr. Jobling nodded acquiescence and observed that he always felt about +twenty-two; a state of affairs which he ascribed to regular habits, and +a great partiality for the company of young people. + +“I was just twenty-two when I married,” he mused, “and my missis was +just six months—” + +“You leave my age alone,” interrupted his wife, trembling with passion. +“I’m not so fond of telling my age to strangers.” + +“You told mine,” retorted Mr. Jobling, “and nobody asked you to do +that. Very free you was in coming out with mine.” + +“I ain’t the only one that’s free,” breathed the quivering Mrs. +Jobling. “I ’ope your ankle is better?” she added, turning to the +visitor. + +“Much better, thank you,” was the reply. + +“Got far to go?” queried Mrs. Jobling. + +The girl nodded. “But I shall take a tram at the end of the street,” +she said, rising. + +Mr. Jobling rose too, and all that he had ever heard or read about +etiquette came crowding into his mind. A weekly journal patronized by +his wife had three columns regularly, but he taxed his memory in vain +for any instructions concerning brown-eyed strangers with sprained +ankles. He felt that the path of duty led to the tram-lines. In a +somewhat blundering fashion he proffered his services; the girl +accepted them as a matter of course. + +Mrs. Jobling, with lips tightly compressed, watched them from the door. +The girl, limping slightly, walked along with the utmost composure, but +the bearing of her escort betokened a mind fully conscious of the +scrutiny of the street. + +He returned in about half an hour, and having this time to run the +gauntlet of the street alone, entered with a mien which caused his +wife’s complaints to remain unspoken. The cough of Mr. Brown, a +particularly contagious one, still rang in his ears, and he sat for +some time in fierce silence. + +“I see her on the tram,” he said, at last “Her name’s Robinson—Miss +Robinson.” + +“In-deed!” said his wife. + +“Seems a nice sort o’ girl,” said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. “She’s took +quite a fancy to you.” + +“I’m sure I’m much obliged to her,” retorted his wife. + + +[Illustration: “He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a +geranium.”] + + +“So I—so I asked her to give you a look in now and then,” continued Mr. +Jobling, filling his pipe with great care, “and she said she would. +It’ll cheer you up a bit.” + +Mrs. Jobling bit her lip and, although she had never felt more fluent +in her life, said nothing. Her husband lit his pipe, and after a rapid +glance in her direction took up an old newspaper and began to read. + +He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a geranium in full +bloom. Surprise impeded her utterance, but she thanked him at last with +some warmth, and after a little deliberation decided to put it in the +bedroom. + +Mr. Jobling looked like a man who has suddenly discovered a flaw in his +calculations. “I was thinking of the front parlor winder,” he said, at +last. + +“It’ll get more sun upstairs,” said his wife. + +She took the pot in her arms, and disappeared. Her surprise when she +came down again and found Mr. Jobling rearranging the furniture, and +even adding a choice ornament or two from the kitchen, was too +elaborate to escape his notice. + +“Been going to do it for some time,” he remarked. + +Mrs. Jobling left the room and strove with herself in the scullery. She +came back pale of face and with a gleam in her eye which her husband +was too busy to notice. + +“It’ll never look much till we get a new hearthrug,” she said, shaking +her head. “They’ve got one at Jackson’s that would be just the thing; +and they’ve got a couple of tall pink vases that would brighten up the +fireplace wonderful. They’re going for next to nothing, too.” + +Mr. Jobling’s reply took the form of uncouth and disagreeable +growlings. After that phase had passed he sat for some time with his +hand placed protectingly in his trouser-pocket. Finally, in a fierce +voice, he inquired the cost. + +Ten minutes later, in a state fairly evenly divided between pleasure +and fury, Mrs. Jobling departed with the money. Wild yearnings for +courage that would enable her to spend the money differently, and +confront the dismayed Mr. Jobling in a new hat and jacket, possessed +her on the way; but they were only yearnings, twenty-five years’ +experience of her husband’s temper being a sufficient safeguard. + +Miss Robinson came in the day after as they were sitting down to tea. +Mr. Jobling, who was in his shirt-sleeves, just had time to disappear +as the girl passed the window. His wife let her in, and after five +remarks about the weather sat listening in grim pleasure to the efforts +of Mr. Jobling to find his coat. He found it at last, under a chair +cushion, and, somewhat red of face, entered the room and greeted the +visitor. + +Conversation was at first rather awkward. The girl’s eyes wandered +round the room and paused in astonishment on the pink vases; the beauty +of the rug also called for notice. + +“Yes, they’re pretty good,” said Mr. Jobling, much gratified by her +approval. + +“Beautiful,” murmured the girl. “What a thing it is to have money!” she +said, wistfully. + +“I could do with some,” said Mr. Jobling, with jocularity. He helped +himself to bread and butter and began to discuss money and how to spend +it. His ideas favored retirement and a nice little place in the +country. + +“I wonder you don’t do it,” said the girl, softly. + +Mr. Jobling laughed. “Gingell and Watson don’t pay on those lines,” he +said. “We do the work and they take the money.” + +“It’s always the way,” said the girl, indignantly; “they have all the +luxuries, and the men who make the money for them all the hardships. I +seem to know the name Gingell and Watson. I wonder where I’ve seen it?” + +“In the paper, p’r’aps,” said Mr. Jobling. + +“Advertising?” asked the girl. + +Mr. Jobling shook his head. “Robbery,” he replied, seriously. “It was +in last week’s paper. Somebody got to the safe and got away with nine +hundred pounds in gold and bank-notes.” + +“I remember now,” said the girl, nodding. “Did they catch them?” + +“No, and not likely to,” was the reply. + +Miss Robinson opened her big eyes and looked round with an air of +pretty defiance. “I am glad of it,” she said. + +“Glad?” said Mrs. Jobling, involuntarily breaking a self-imposed vow of +silence. “Glad?” + +The girl nodded. “I like pluck,” she said, with a glance in the +direction of Mr. Jobling; “and, besides, whoever took it had as much +right to it as Gingell and Watson; they didn’t earn it.” + +Mrs. Jobling, appalled at such ideas, glanced at her husband to see how +he received them. “The man’s a thief,” she said, with great energy, +“and he won’t enjoy his gains.” + +“I dare say—I dare say he’ll enjoy it right enough,” said Mr. Jobling, +“if he ain’t caught, that is.” + +“I believe he is the sort of man I should like,” declared Miss +Robinson, obstinately. + +“I dare say,” said Mrs. Jobling; “and I’ve no doubt he’d like you. +Birds of a—” + +“That’ll do,” said her husband, peremptorily; “that’s enough about it. +The guv’nors can afford to lose it; that’s one comfort.” + +He leaned over as the girl asked for more sugar and dropped a spoonful +in her cup, expressing surprise that she should like her tea so sweet. +Miss Robinson, denying the sweetness, proffered her cup in proof, and +Mrs. Jobling sat watching with blazing eyes the antics of her husband +as he sipped at it. + +“Sweets to the sweet,” he said, gallantly, as he handed it back. + +Miss Robinson pouted, and, raising the cup to her lips, gazed ardently +at him over the rim. Mr. Jobling, who certainly felt not more than +twenty-two that evening, stole her cake and received in return a rap +from a teaspoon. Mr. Jobling retaliated, and Mrs. Jobling, unable to +eat, sat looking on in helpless fury at little arts of fascination +which she had discarded—at Mr. Jobling’s earnest request—soon after +their marriage. + + +[Illustration: “They offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least a +hundred plans for bringing him to his senses.”] + + +By dint of considerable self-control, aided by an occasional glance +from her husband, she managed to preserve her calm until he returned +from seeing the visitor to her tram. Then her pent-up feelings found +vent. Quietly scornful at first, she soon waxed hysterical over his age +and figure. Tears followed as she bade him remember what a good wife +she had been to him, loudly claiming that any other woman would have +poisoned him long ago. Speedily finding that tears were of no avail, +and that Mr. Jobling seemed to regard them rather as a tribute to his +worth than otherwise, she gave way to fury, and, in a fine, but +unpunctuated passage, told him her exact opinion of Miss Robinson. + +“It’s no good carrying on like that,” said Mr. Jobling, magisterially, +“and, what’s more, I won’t have it.” + +“Walking into my house and making eyes at my ’usband,” stormed his +wife. + +“So long as I don’t make eyes at her there’s no harm done,” retorted +Mr. Jobling. “I can’t help her taking a fancy to me, poor thing.” + +“I’d poor thing her,” said his wife. + +“She’s to be pitied,” said Mr. Jobling, sternly. “I know how she feels. +She can’t help herself, but she’ll get over it in time. I don’t suppose +she thinks for a moment we have noticed her—her—her liking for me, and +I’m not going to have her feelings hurt.” + +“What about my feelings?” demanded his wife. + +“_You_ have got me,” Mr. Jobling reminded her. + +The nine points of the law was Mrs. Jobling’s only consolation for the +next few days. Neighboring matrons, exchanging sympathy for +information, wished, strangely enough, that Mr. Jobling was their +husband. Failing that they offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least +a hundred plans for bringing him to his senses. + +Mr. Jobling, who was a proud man, met their hostile glances as he +passed to and from his work with scorn, until a day came when the +hostility vanished and gave place to smiles. Never so many people in +the street, he thought, as he returned from work; certainly never so +many smiles. People came hurriedly from their back premises to smile at +him, and, as he reached his door, Mr. Joe Brown opposite had all the +appearance of a human sunbeam. Tired of smiling faces, he yearned for +that of his wife. She came out of the kitchen and met him with a look +of sly content. The perplexed Mr. Jobling eyed her morosely. + +“What are you laughing at me for?” he demanded. + +“I wasn’t laughing at you,” said his wife. + +She went back into the kitchen and sang blithely as she bustled over +the preparations for tea. Her voice was feeble, but there was a +triumphant effectiveness about the high notes which perplexed the +listener sorely. He seated himself in the new easy-chair—procured to +satisfy the supposed aesthetic tastes of Miss Robinson—and stared at +the window. + +“You seem very happy all of a sudden,” he growled, as his wife came in +with the tray. + +“Well, why shouldn’t I be?” inquired Mrs. Jobling. “I’ve got everything +to make me so.” + +Mr. Jobling looked at her in undisguised amazement. + +“New easy-chair, new vases, and a new hearthrug,” explained his wife, +looking round the room. “Did you order that little table you said you +would?” + +“Yes,” growled Mr. Jobling. + +“Pay for it?” inquired his wife, with a trace of anxiety. + +“Yes,” said Mr. Jobling again. + +Mrs. Jobling’s face relaxed. “I shouldn’t like to lose it at the last +moment,” she said. “You ’ave been good to me lately, Bill; buying all +these nice things. There’s not many women have got such a thoughtful +husband as what I have.” + +“Have you gone dotty? or what?” inquired her bewildered husband. + +“It’s no wonder people like you,” pursued Mrs. Jobling, ignoring the +question, and smiling again as she placed three chairs at the table. +“I’ll wait a minute or two before I soak the tea; I expect Miss +Robinson won’t be long, and she likes it fresh.” + +Mr. Jobling, to conceal his amazement and to obtain a little fresh air +walked out of the room and opened the front door. + +“Cheer oh!” said the watchful Mr. Brown, with a benignant smile. + +Mr. Jobling scowled at him. + +“It’s all right,” said Mr. Brown. “You go in and set down; I’m watching +for her.” + +He nodded reassuringly, and, not having curiosity enough to accept the +other’s offer and step across the road and see what he would get, +shaded his eyes with his hand and looked with exaggerated anxiety up +the road. Mr. Jobling, heavy of brow, returned to the parlor and looked +hard at his wife. + +“She’s late,” said Mrs. Jobling, glancing at the clock. “I do hope +she’s all right, but I should feel anxious about her if she was my gal. +It’s a dangerous life.” + +“Dangerous life!” said Mr. Jobling, roughly. “What’s a dangerous life?” + +“Why, hers,” replied his wife, with a nervous smile. “Joe Brown told +me. He followed her ’ome last night, and this morning he found out all +about her.” + +The mention of Mr. Brown’s name caused Mr. Jobling at first to assume +an air of indifference; but curiosity overpowered him. + +“What lies has he been telling?” he demanded. + +“I don’t think it’s a lie, Bill,” said his wife, mildly. “Putting two +and two—” + +“What did he say?” cried Mr. Jobling, raising his voice. + +“He said, ‘She—she’s a lady detective,’” stammered Mrs. Jobling, +putting her handkerchief to her unruly mouth. + +“A tec!” repeated her husband. “A lady tec?” + +Mrs. Jobling nodded. “Yes, Bill. She—she—she—” + +“Well?” said Mr. Jobling, in exasperation. + +“She’s being employed by Gingell and Watson,” said his wife. + +Mr. Jobling sprang to his feet, and with scarlet face and clinched +fists strove to assimilate the information and all its meaning. + +“What—what did she come here for? Do you mean to tell me she thinks _I_ +took the money?” he said, huskily, after a long pause. + +Mrs. Jobling bent before the storm. “I think she took a fancy to you, +Bill,” she said, timidly. + +Mr. Jobling appeared to swallow something; then he took a step nearer +to her. “You let me see you laugh again, that’s all,” he said, +fiercely. “As for that Jezzybill—” + +“There she is,” said his wife, as a knock sounded at the door. “Don’t +say anything to hurt her feelings, Bill. You said she was to be pitied. +And it must be a hard life to ’ave to go round and flatter old married +men. I shouldn’t like it.” + +Mr. Jobling, past speech, stood and glared at her. Then, with an +inarticulate cry, he rushed to the front door and flung it open. Miss +Robinson, fresh and bright, stood smiling outside. Within easy distance +a little group of neighbors were making conversation, while opposite +Mr. Brown awaited events. + +“What d’you want?” demanded Mr. Jobling, harshly. + +Miss Robinson, who had put out her hand, drew it back and gave him a +swift glance. His red face and knitted brows told their own story. + +“Oh!” she said, with a winning smile, “will you please tell Mrs. +Jobling that I can’t come to tea with her this evening?” + +“Isn’t there anything else you’d like to say?” inquired Mr. Jobling, +disdainfully, as she turned away. + +The girl paused and appeared to reflect. “You can say that I am sorry +to miss an amusing evening,” she said, regarding him steadily. +“Good-by.” + +Mr. Jobling slammed the door. + + + + +A CIRCULAR TOUR + + +[Illustration] + + + + +A CIRCULAR TOUR + + +Illness? said the night watchman, slowly. Yes, sailormen get ill +sometimes, but not ’aving the time for it that other people have, and +there being no doctors at sea, they soon pick up agin. Ashore, if a +man’s ill he goes to a horse-pittle and ’as a nice nurse to wait on +’im; at sea the mate comes down and tells ’im that there is nothing the +matter with ’im, and asks ’im if he ain’t ashamed of ’imself. The only +mate I ever knew that showed any feeling was one who ’ad been a doctor +and ’ad gone to sea to better ’imself. He didn’t believe in medicine; +his idea was to cut things out, and he was so kind and tender, and so +fond of ’is little box of knives and saws, that you wouldn’t ha’ +thought anybody could ’ave had the ’art to say “no” to him. But they +did. I remember ’im getting up at four o’clock one morning to cut a +man’s leg off, and at ha’-past three the chap was sitting up aloft with +four pairs o’ trousers on and a belaying-pin in his ’and. + +One chap I knew, Joe Summers by name, got so sick o’ work one v’y’ge +that he went mad. Not dangerous mad, mind you. Just silly. One thing he +did was to pretend that the skipper was ’is little boy, and foller ’im +up unbeknown and pat his ’ead. At last, to pacify him, the old man +pretended that he was ’is little boy, and a precious handful of a boy +he was too, I can tell you. Fust of all he showed ’is father ’ow they +wrestled at school, and arter that he showed ’im ’ow he ’arf killed +another boy in fifteen rounds. Leastways he was going to, but arter +seven rounds Joe’s madness left ’im all of a sudden and he was as right +as ever he was. + +Sailormen are more frequent ill ashore than at sea; they’ve got more +time for it, I s’pose. Old Sam Small, a man you may remember by name as +a pal o’ mine, got ill once, and, like most ’ealthy men who get a +little something the matter with ’em, he made sure ’e was dying. He was +sharing a bedroom with Ginger Dick and Peter Russet at the time, and +early one morning he woke up groaning with a chill or something which +he couldn’t account for, but which Ginger thought might ha’ been partly +caused through ’im sleeping in the fireplace. + +“Is that you, Sam?” ses Ginger, waking up with the noise and rubbing +his eyes. “Wot’s the matter?” + +“I’m dying,” ses Sam, with another awful groan. “Good-by, Ginger.” + +“Goo’-by,” ses Ginger, turning over and falling fast asleep agin. + +Old Sam picked ’imself up arter two or three tries, and then he +staggered over to Peter Russet’s bed and sat on the foot of it, +groaning, until Peter woke up very cross and tried to push ’im off with +his feet. + +“I’m dying, Peter,” ses Sam, and ’e rolled over and buried his face in +the bed-clo’es and kicked. Peter Russet, who was a bit scared, sat up +in bed and called for Ginger, and arter he ’ad called pretty near a +dozen times Ginger ’arf woke up and asked ’im wot was the matter. + +“Poor old Sam’s dying,” ses Peter. + +“I know,” ses Ginger, laying down and cuddling into the piller agin. +“He told me just now. I’ve bid ’im good-by.” + +Peter Russet asked ’im where his ’art was, but Ginger was asleep agin. +Then Peter sat up in bed and tried to comfort Sam, and listened while +’e told ’im wot it felt like to die. How ’e was ’ot and cold all over, +burning and shivering, with pains in his inside that he couldn’t +describe if ’e tried. + +“It’ll soon be over, Sam,” ses Peter, kindly, “and all your troubles +will be at an end. While me and Ginger are knocking about at sea trying +to earn a crust o’ bread to keep ourselves alive, you’ll be quiet and +at peace.” + +Sam groaned. “I don’t like being too quiet,” he ses. “I was always one +for a bit o’ fun—innercent fun.” + +Peter coughed. + +“You and Ginger ’av been good pals,” ses Sam; “it’s hard to go and +leave you.” + +“We’ve all got to go some time or other, Sam,” ses Peter, +soothing-like. “It’s a wonder to me, with your habits, that you’ve +lasted as long as you ’ave.” + +“My _habits_?” ses Sam, sitting up all of a sudden. “Why, you +monkey-faced son of a sea-cook, for two pins I’d chuck you out of the +winder.” + +“Don’t talk like that on your death-bed,” ses Peter, very shocked. + +Sam was going to answer ’im sharp agin, but just then ’e got a pain +which made ’im roll about on the bed and groan to such an extent that +Ginger woke up agin and got out o’ bed. + +“Pore old Sam!” he ses, walking across the room and looking at ’im. +“’Ave you got any pain anywhere?” + +“_Pain_?” ses Sam. “Pain? I’m a mask o’ pains all over.” + +Ginger and Peter looked at ’im and shook their ’eds, and then they went +a little way off and talked about ’im in whispers. + +“He looks ’arf dead now,” ses Peter, coming back and staring at ’im. +“Let’s take ’is clothes off, Ginger; it’s more decent to die with ’em +off.” + +“I think I’ll ’ave a doctor,” ses Sam, in a faint voice. + +“You’re past doctors, Sam,” ses Ginger, in a kind voice. + +“Better ’ave your last moments in peace,” ses Peter, “and keep your +money in your trouser-pockets.” + +“You go and fetch a doctor, you murderers,” ses Sam, groaning, as Peter +started to undress ’im. “Go on, else I’ll haunt you with my ghost.” + +Ginger tried to talk to ’im about the sin o’ wasting money, but it was +all no good, and arter telling Peter wot to do in case Sam died afore +he come back, he went off. He was gone about ’arf an hour, and then he +come back with a sandy-’aired young man with red eyelids and a black +bag. + +“Am I dying, sir?” ses Sam, arter the doctor ’ad listened to his lungs +and his ’art and prodded ’im all over. + +“We’re all dying,” ses the doctor, “only some of us’ll go sooner than +others.” + +“Will he last the day, sir?” ses Ginger. + +The doctor looked at Sam agin, and Sam held ’is breath while ’e waited +for him to answer. “Yes,” ses the doctor at last, “if he does just wot +I tell him and takes the medicine I send ’im.” + +He wasn’t in the room ’arf an hour altogether, and he charged pore Sam +a shilling; but wot ’urt Sam even more than that was to hear ’im go off +downstairs whistling as cheerful as if there wasn’t a dying man within +a ’undred miles. + +Peter and Ginger Dick took turns to be with Sam that morning, but in +the arternoon the landlady’s mother, an old lady who was almost as fat +as Sam ’imself, came up to look arter ’im a bit. She sat on a chair by +the side of ’is bed and tried to amuse ’im by telling ’im of all the +death-beds she’d been at, and partikler of one man, the living image +of Sam, who passed away in his sleep. It was past ten o’clock when +Peter and Ginger came ’ome, but they found pore Sam still awake and +sitting up in bed holding ’is eyes open with his fingers. + + +[Illustration: “She asked ’im whether ’e’d got a fancy for any +partikler spot to be buried in.”] + + +Sam had another shilling’s-worth the next day, and ’is medicine was +changed for the worse. If anything he seemed a trifle better, but the +landlady’s mother, wot came up to nurse ’im agin, said it was a bad +sign, and that people often brightened up just afore the end. She asked +’im whether ’e’d got a fancy for any partikler spot to be buried in, +and, talking about wot a lot o’ people ’ad been buried alive, said +she’d ask the doctor to cut Sam’s ’ead off to prevent mistakes. She got +quite annoyed with Sam for saying, supposing there _was_ a mistake and +he came round in the middle of it, how’d he feel? and said there was no +satisfying some people, do wot you would. + +At the end o’ six days Sam was still alive and losing a shilling a day, +to say nothing of buying ’is own beef-tea and such-like. Ginger said it +was fair highway robbery, and tried to persuade Sam to go to a +’orsepittle, where he’d ’ave lovely nurses to wait on ’im hand and +foot, and wouldn’t keep ’is best friends awake of a night making +’orrible noises. + +Sam didn’t take kindly to the idea at fust, but as the doctor forbid +’im to get up, although he felt much better, and his money was wasting +away, he gave way at last, and at seven o’clock one evening he sent +Ginger off to fetch a cab to take ’im to the London Horsepittle. Sam +said something about putting ’is clothes on, but Peter Russet said the +horsepittle would be more likely to take him in if he went in the +blanket and counterpane, and at last Sam gave way. Ginger and Peter +helped ’im downstairs, and the cabman laid hold o’ one end o’ the +blanket as they got to the street-door, under the idea that he was +helping, and very near gave Sam another chill. + +“Keep your hair on,” he ses, as Sam started on ’im. “It’ll be +three-and-six for the fare, and I’ll take the money now.” + +“You’ll ’ave it when you get there,” ses Ginger. + +“I’ll ’ave it now,” ses the cabman. “I ’ad a fare die on the way once +afore.” + +Ginger—who was minding Sam’s money for ’im because there wasn’t a +pocket in the counterpane—paid ’im, and the cab started. It jolted and +rattled over the stones, but Sam said the air was doing ’im good. He +kept ’is pluck up until they got close to the horsepittle, and then ’e +got nervous. And ’e got more nervous when the cabman got down off ’is +box and put his ’ed in at the winder and spoke to ’im. + +“’Ave you got any partikler fancy for the London Horsepittle?” he ses. + +“No,” ses Sam. “Why?” + +“Well, I s’pose it don’t matter, if wot your mate ses is true—that +you’re dying,” ses the cabman. + +“Wot d’ye mean?” says Sam. + +“Nothing,” ses the cabman; “only, fust and last, I s’pose I’ve driven +five ’undred people to that ’orsepittle, and only one ever came out +agin—and he was smuggled out in a bread-basket.” + +Sam’s flesh began to creep all over. + +“It’s a pity they don’t ’ave the same rules as Charing Cross +Horsepittle,” ses the cabman. “The doctors ’ave five pounds apiece for +every patient that gets well there, and the consequence is they ain’t +’ad the blinds down for over five months.” + +“Drive me there,” ses Sam. + +“It’s a long way,” ses the cabman, shaking his ’ed, “and it ’ud cost +you another ’arf dollar. S’pose you give the London a try?” + +“You drive to Charing Cross,” ses Sam, telling Ginger to give ’im the +’arf-dollar. “And look sharp; these things ain’t as warm as they might +be.” + +The cabman turned his ’orse round and set off agin, singing. The cab +stopped once or twice for a little while, and then it stopped for quite +a long time, and the cabman climbed down off ’is box and came to the +winder agin. + +“I’m sorry, mate,” he ses, “but did you see me speak to that party just +now?” + +“The one you flicked with your whip?” ses Ginger. + +“No; he was speaking to me,” ses the cabman. “The last one, I mean.” + +“Wot about it?” ses Peter. + +“He’s the under-porter at the horsepittle,” ses the cabman, spitting; +“and he tells me that every bed is bung full, and two patients apiece +in some of ’em.” + +“I don’t mind sleeping two in a bed,” ses Sam, who was very tired and +cold. + +“No,” ses the cabman, looking at ’im; “but wot about the other one?” + +“Well, what’s to be done?” ses Peter. + +“You might go to Guy’s,” ses the cabman; “that’s as good as Charing +Cross.” + +“I b’lieve you’re telling a pack o’ lies,” ses Ginger. + +“Come out o’ my cab,” ses the cabman, very fierce. “Come on, all of +you. Out you get.” + +Ginger and Peter was for getting out, but Sam wouldn’t ’ear of it. It +was bad enough being wrapped up in a blanket in a cab, without being +turned out in ’is bare feet on the pavement, and at last Ginger +apologized to the cabman by saying ’e supposed if he was a liar he +couldn’t ’elp it. The cabman collected three shillings more to go to +Guy’s ’orsepittle, and, arter a few words with Ginger, climbed up on +’is box and drove off agin. + +They were all rather tired of the cab by this time, and, going over +Waterloo Bridge, Ginger began to feel uncommon thirsty, and, leaning +out of the winder, he told the cabman to pull up for a drink. He was so +long about it that Ginger began to think he was bearing malice, but +just as he was going to tell ’im agin, the cab pulled up in a quiet +little street opposite a small pub. Ginger Dick and Peter went in and +’ad something and brought one out for Sam. They ’ad another arter that, +and Ginger, getting ’is good temper back agin, asked the cabman to ’ave +one. + +“Look lively about it, Ginger,” ses Sam, very sharp. “You forget ’ow +ill I am.” + +Ginger said they wouldn’t be two seconds, and, the cabman calling a boy +to mind his ’orse, they went inside. It was a quiet little place, but +very cosey, and Sam, peeping out of the winder, could see all three of +’em leaning against the bar and making themselves comfortable. Twice he +made the boy go in to hurry them up, and all the notice they took was +to go on at the boy for leaving the horse. + +Pore old Sam sat there hugging ’imself in the bed-clo’es, and getting +wilder and wilder. He couldn’t get out of the cab, and ’e couldn’t call +to them for fear of people coming up and staring at ’im. Ginger, +smiling all over with ’appiness, had got a big cigar on and was +pretending to pinch the barmaid’s flowers, and Peter and the cabman was +talking to some other chaps there. The only change Sam ’ad was when the +boy walked the ’orse up and down the road. + +He sat there for an hour and then ’e sent the boy in agin. This time +the cabman lost ’is temper, and, arter chasing the boy up the road, +gave a young feller twopence to take ’is place and promised ’im another +twopence when he came out. Sam tried to get a word with ’im as ’e +passed, but he wouldn’t listen, and it was pretty near ’arf an hour +later afore they all came out, talking and laughing. + +“Now for the ’orsepittle,” ses Ginger, opening the door. “Come on, +Peter; don’t keep pore old Sam waiting all night.” + +“’Arf a tic,” ses the cabman, “’arf a tic; there’s five shillings for +waiting, fust.” + +“_Wot_?” ses Ginger, staring at ’im. “Arter giving you all them +drinks?” + +“Five shillings,” ses the cabman; “two hours’ waiting at half a crown +an hour. That’s the proper charge.” + +Ginger thought ’e was joking at fust, and when he found ’e wasn’t he +called ’im all the names he could think of, while Peter Russet stood by +smiling and trying to think where ’e was and wot it was all about. + +“Pay ’im the five bob, Ginger, and ’ave done with it,” ses pore Sam, at +last. “I shall never get to the horsepittle at this rate.” + +“Cert’inly not,” ses Ginger, “not if we stay ’ere all night.” + +“Pay ’im the five bob,” ses Sam, raising ’is voice; “it’s my money.” + +“You keep quiet,” ses Ginger, “and speak when your spoke to. Get +inside, Peter.” + +Peter, wot was standing by blinking and smiling, misunderstood ’im, and +went back inside the pub. Ginger went arter ’im to fetch ’im back, and +hearing a noise turned round and saw the cabman pulling Sam out o’ the +cab. He was just in time to shove ’im back agin, and for the next two +or three minutes ’im and the cabman was ’ard at it. Sam was too busy +holding ’is clothes on to do much, and twice the cabman got ’im ’arf +out, and twice Ginger got him back agin and bumped ’im back in ’is seat +and shut the door. Then they both stopped and took breath. + +“We’ll see which gets tired fust,” ses Ginger. “Hold the door inside, +Sam.” + +The cabman looked at ’im, and then ’e climbed up on to ’is seat and, +just as Ginger ran back for Peter Russet, drove off at full speed. + +Pore Sam leaned back in ’is seat panting and trying to wrap ’imself up +better in the counterpane, which ’ad got torn in the struggle. They +went through street arter street, and ’e was just thinking of a nice +warm bed and a kind nurse listening to all ’is troubles when ’e found +they was going over London Bridge. + +“You’ve passed it,” he ses, putting his ’ead out of the winder. + +The cabman took no notice, and afore Sam could think wot to make of it +they was in the Whitechapel Road, and arter that, although Sam kept +putting his ’ead out of the winder and asking ’im questions, they kept +going through a lot o’ little back streets until ’e began to think the +cabman ’ad lost ’is way. They stopped at last in a dark little road, in +front of a brick wall, and then the cabman got down and opened a door +and led his ’orse and cab into a yard. + +“Do you call this Guy’s Horsepittle?” ses Sam. + +“Hullo!” ses the cabman. “Why, I thought I put you out o’ my cab once.” + +“I’ll give you five minutes to drive me to the ’orsepittle,” ses Sam. +“Arter that I shall go for the police.” + +“All right,” ses the cabman, taking his ’orse out and leading it into a +stable. “Mind you don’t catch cold.” + +He lighted a lantern and began to look arter the ’orse, and pore Sam +sat there getting colder and colder and wondering wot ’e was going to +do. + +“I shall give you in charge for kidnapping me,” he calls out very loud. + +“Kidnapping?” ses the cabman. “Who do you think wants to kidnap you? +The gate’s open, and you can go as soon as you like.” + +Sam climbed out of the cab, and holding up the counterpane walked +across the yard in ’is bare feet to the stable. “Well, will you drive +me ’ome?” he ses. + +“Cert’inly not,” ses the cabman; “I’m going ’ome myself now. It’s time +you went, ’cos I’m going to lock up.” + +“’Ow can I go like this?” ses Sam, bursting with passion. “Ain’t you +got any sense?” + +“Well, wot are you going to do?” ses the cabman, picking ’is teeth with +a bit o’ straw. + +“Wot would you do if you was me?” ses Sam, calming down a bit and +trying to speak civil. + + +[Illustration: “‘All right,’ ses the cabman, taking his ’orse out and +leading it into a stable. ‘Mind you don’t catch cold.’”] + + +“Well, if I was you,” said the cabman, speaking very slow, “I should be +more perlite to begin with; you accused me just now—me, a ’ard-working +man—o’ kidnapping you.” + +“It was only my fun,” ses Sam, very quick. + +“I ain’t kidnapping you, am I?” ses the cabman. + +“Cert’inly not,” ses Sam. + +“Well, then,” ses the cabman, “if I was you I should pay ’arf a crown +for a night’s lodging in this nice warm stable, and in the morning I +should ask the man it belongs to—that’s me—to go up to my lodging with +a letter, asking for a suit o’ clothes and eleven-and-six.” + +“Eleven-and-six?” ses Sam, staring. + +“Five bob for two hours’ wait,” ses the cabman, “four shillings for the +drive here, and ’arf a crown for the stable. That’s fair, ain’t it?” + +Sam said it was—as soon as he was able to speak—and then the cabman +gave ’im a truss of straw to lay on and a rug to cover ’im up with. + +And then, calling ’imself a fool for being so tender-’earted, he left +Sam the lantern, and locked the stable-door and went off. + +It seemed like a ’orrid dream to Sam, and the only thing that comforted +’im was the fact that he felt much better. His illness seemed to ’ave +gone, and arter hunting round the stable to see whether ’e could find +anything to eat, ’e pulled the rug over him and went to sleep. + +He was woke up at six o’clock in the morning by the cabman opening the +door. There was a lovely smell o’ hot tea from a tin he ’ad in one +’and, and a lovelier smell still from a plate o’ bread and butter and +bloaters in the other. Sam sniffed so ’ard that at last the cabman +noticed it, and asked ’im whether he ’ad got a cold. When Sam explained +he seemed to think a minute or two, and then ’e said that it was ’is +breakfast, but Sam could ’ave it if ’e liked to make up the money to a +pound. + +“Take it or leave it,” he ses, as Sam began to grumble. + +Poor Sam was so ’ungry he took it, and it done him good. By the time he +’ad eaten it he felt as right as ninepence, and ’e took such a dislike +to the cabman ’e could hardly be civil to ’im. And when the cabman +spoke about the letter to Ginger Dick he spoke up and tried to bate ’im +down to seven-and-six. + +“You write that letter for a pound,” ses the cabman, looking at ’im +very fierce, “or else you can walk ’ome in your counterpane, with ’arf +the boys in London follering you and trying to pull it off.” + +Sam rose ’im to seventeen-and-six, but it was all no good, and at last +’e wrote a letter to Ginger Dick, telling ’im to give the cabman a suit +of clothes and a pound. + +“And look sharp about it,” he ses. “I shall expect ’em in ’arf an +hour.” + +“You’ll ’ave ’em, if you’re lucky, when I come back to change ’orses at +four o’clock,” ses the cabman. “D’ye think I’ve got nothing to do but +fuss about arter you?” + +“Why not drive me back in the cab?” ses Sam. + +“'Cos I wasn’t born yesterday,” ses the cabman. + +He winked at Sam, and then, whistling very cheerful, took his ’orse out +and put it in the cab. He was so good-tempered that ’e got quite +playful, and Sam ’ad to tell him that when ’e wanted to ’ave his legs +tickled with a straw he’d let ’im know. + +Some people can’t take a ’int, and, as the cabman wouldn’t be’ave +’imself, Sam walked into a shed that was handy and pulled the door to, +and he stayed there until he ’eard ’im go back to the stable for ’is +rug. It was only a yard or two from the shed to the cab, and, ’ardly +thinking wot he was doing, Sam nipped out and got into it and sat +huddled up on the floor. + +He sat there holding ’is breath and not daring to move until the cabman +’ad shut the gate and was driving off up the road, and then ’e got up +on the seat and lolled back out of sight. The shops were just opening, +the sun was shining, and Sam felt so well that ’e was thankful that ’e +hadn’t got to the horsepittle arter all. + +The cab was going very slow, and two or three times the cabman ’arf +pulled up and waved his whip at people wot he thought wanted a cab, but +at last an old lady and gentleman, standing on the edge of the curb +with a big bag, held up their ’ands to ’im. The cab pulled in to the +curb, and the old gentleman ’ad just got hold of the door and was +trying to open it when he caught sight of Sam. + +“Why, you’ve got a fare,” he ses. + +“No, sir,” ses the cabman. + +“But I say you ’ave,” ses the old gentleman. + +The cabman climbed down off ’is box and looked in at the winder, and +for over two minutes he couldn’t speak a word. He just stood there +looking at Sam and getting purpler and purpler about the face. + +“Drive on, cabby,” ses Sam, “Wot are you stopping for?” + +The cabman tried to tell ’im, but just then a policeman came walking up +to see wot was the matter, and ’e got on the box agin and drove off. +Cabmen love policemen just about as much as cats love dogs, and he +drove down two streets afore he stopped and got down agin to finish ’is +remarks. + +“Not so much talk, cabman,” ses Sam, who was beginning to enjoy +’imself, “else I shall call the police.” + +“Are you coming out o’ my cab?” ses the cabman, “or ’ave I got to put +you out?” + +“You put me out!” ses Sam, who ’ad tied ’is clothes up with string +while ’e was in the stable, and ’ad got his arms free. + +The cabman looked at ’im ’elpless for a moment, and then he got up and +drove off agin. At fust Sam thought ’e was going to drive back to the +stable, and he clinched ’is teeth and made up ’is mind to ’ave a fight +for it. Then he saw that ’e was really being driven ’ome, and at last +the cab pulled up in the next street to ’is lodgings, and the cabman, +asking a man to give an eye to his ’orse, walked on with the letter. He +was back agin in a few minutes, and Sam could see by ’is face that +something had ’appened. + +“They ain’t been ’ome all night,” he ses, sulky-like. + +“Well, I shall ’ave to send the money on to you,” ses Sam, in a +off-hand way. “Unless you like to call for it.” + + +[Illustration: “So long.”] + + +“I’ll call for it, matey,” ses the cabman, with a kind smile, as he +took ’old of his ’orse and led it up to Sam’s lodgings. “I know I can +trust you, but it’ll save you trouble. But s’pose he’s been on the +drink and lost the money?” + +Sam got out and made a dash for the door, which ’appened to be open. +“It won’t make no difference,” he ses. + +“No difference?” ses the cabman, staring. + +“Not to you, I mean,” ses Sam, shutting the door very slow. “So long.” + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT CRUISES *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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W. Jacobs</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Short Cruises</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: W. W. Jacobs</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Illustrator: Will Owen</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 1, 2004 [eBook #6465]<br /> +[Most recently updated: December 6, 2023]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Tonya Allen, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT CRUISES ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>SHORT CRUISES</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">By W. W. JACOBS</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">THE CHANGELING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">MIXED RELATIONS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">HIS LORDSHIP</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">ALF’S DREAM</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">A DISTANT RELATIVE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">THE TEST</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">IN THE FAMILY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">A LOVE-KNOT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">HER UNCLE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">THE DREAMER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">ANGELS’ VISITS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">A CIRCULAR TOUR</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + +<h5>FROM DRAWINGS BY WILL OWEN</h5> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus01">“‘And what about my voice?’ he demanded”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus02">“‘George!’ she exclaimed sharply”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus03">“He struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked up at the window”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus04">“Mr. Stokes, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus05">“The mate smiled too”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus06">“Sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more than hold his own”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus07">“‘Good-by,’ he said slowly; ‘and I wish you both every happiness’”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus08">“‘She’s got your eyes,’ said his lordship”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus09">“‘I like fools better than lords’”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus10">“He patted ’im on the shoulder and said ’ow well he was filling out”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus11">“Mr. Potter was then introduced and received a gracious reception”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus12">“A gold watch and chain lent an air of substance to his waistcoat”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus13">“‘And we don’t want you following us about,’ said Mr. Dix, sharply”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus14">“‘I tell you he can’t swim,’ repeated Mr. Heard, passionately”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus15">“‘You leave go o’ my lodger,’ ses Bob Pretty”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus16">“He slammed the door in Bob Pretty’s face”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus17">“On the third morning he took Mrs. Bowman out for a walk”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus18">“‘I had forgotten it was there,’ he said, nervously”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus19">“The corner of the trunk took the gesticulating Mr. Wragg by the side of the head”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus20">“‘What did you do that for?’ demanded Mr. Gale, sitting up”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus21">“‘Why didn’t you tell me then?’ ses Ted”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus22">“‘I shall take my opportunity,’ he ses, ‘and break it to ’er gentle like’”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus23">“He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a geranium”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus24">“They offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least a hundred plans for bringing him to his senses”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus25">“‘She asked ’im whether ’e’d got a fancy for any partikler spot to be buried in”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus26">“‘All right,’ ses the cabman, taking his ’orse out and leading it into a stable, ‘mind you don’t catch cold’”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus27">“So long”</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +THE CHANGELING +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<img src="images/img01.jpg" width="600" height="466" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>THE CHANGELING</h2> + +<p> +Mr. George Henshaw let himself in at the front door, and stood for some time +wiping his boots on the mat. The little house was ominously still, and a faint +feeling, only partially due to the lapse of time since breakfast, manifested +itself behind his waistcoat. He coughed—a matter-of-fact cough—and, with an +attempt to hum a tune, hung his hat on the peg and entered the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Henshaw had just finished dinner. The neatly cleaned bone of a chop was on +a plate by her side; a small dish which had contained a rice-pudding was empty; +and the only food left on the table was a small rind of cheese and a piece of +stale bread. Mr. Henshaw’s face fell, but he drew his chair up to the table and +waited. +</p> + +<p> +His wife regarded him with a fixed and offensive stare. Her face was red +and her eyes were blazing. It was hard to ignore her gaze; harder still +to meet it. Mr. Henshaw, steering a middle course, allowed his eyes to +wander round the room and to dwell, for the fraction of a second, on her +angry face. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve had dinner early?” he said at last, in a trembling voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Have I?” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henshaw sought for a comforting explanation. “Clock’s fast,” he +said, rising and adjusting it. +</p> + +<p> +His wife rose almost at the same moment, and with slow deliberate +movements began to clear the table. +</p> + +<p> +“What—what about dinner?” said Mr. Henshaw, still trying to control his +fears. +</p> + +<p> +“Dinner!” repeated Mrs. Henshaw, in a terrible voice. “You go and tell +that creature you were on the ’bus with to get your dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henshaw made a gesture of despair. “I tell you,” he said +emphatically, “it wasn’t me. I told you so last night. You get an idea +in your head and—” +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll do,” said his wife, sharply. “I saw you, George Henshaw, as +plain as I see you now. You were tickling her ear with a bit o’ straw, +and that good-for-nothing friend of yours, Ted Stokes, was sitting +behind with another beauty. Nice way o’ going on, and me at ’ome all +alone by myself, slaving and slaving to keep things respectable!” +</p> + +<p> +“It wasn’t me,” reiterated the unfortunate. +</p> + +<p> +“When I called out to you,” pursued the unheeding Mrs. Henshaw, “you +started and pulled your hat over your eyes and turned away. I should +have caught you if it hadn’t been for all them carts in the way and +falling down. I can’t understand now how it was I wasn’t killed; I was a +mask of mud from head to foot.” +</p> + +<p> +Despite his utmost efforts to prevent it, a faint smile flitted across +the pallid features of Mr. Henshaw. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you may laugh,” stormed his wife, “and I’ve no doubt them two +beauties laughed too. I’ll take care you don’t have much more to laugh +at, my man.” +</p> + +<p> +She flung out of the room and began to wash up the crockery. Mr. +Henshaw, after standing irresolute for some time with his hands in his +pockets, put on his hat again and left the house. +</p> + +<p> +He dined badly at a small eating-house, and returned home at six o’clock +that evening to find his wife out and the cupboard empty. He went back +to the same restaurant for tea, and after a gloomy meal went round to +discuss the situation with Ted Stokes. That gentleman’s suggestion of a +double alibi he thrust aside with disdain and a stern appeal to talk +sense. +</p> + +<p> +“Mind, if my wife speaks to you about it,” he said, warningly, “it +wasn’t me, but somebody like me. You might say he ’ad been mistook for +me before.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stokes grinned and, meeting a freezing glance from his friend, at +once became serious again. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not say it was you?” he said stoutly. “There’s no harm in going for +a ’bus-ride with a friend and a couple o’ ladies.” +</p> + +<p> +“O’ course there ain’t,” said the other, hotly, “else I shouldn’t ha’ +done it. But you know what my wife is.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stokes, who was by no means a favorite of the lady in question, +nodded. “You <i>were</i> a bit larky, too,” he said thoughtfully. “You +’ad quite a little slapping game after you pretended to steal her +brooch.” +</p> + +<p> +“I s’pose when a gentleman’s with a lady he ’as got to make ’imself +pleasant?” said Mr. Henshaw, with dignity. “Now, if my missis speaks to +you about it, you say that it wasn’t me, but a friend of yours up from +the country who is as like me as two peas. See?” +</p> + +<p> +“Name o’ Dodd,” said Mr. Stokes, with a knowing nod. “Tommy Dodd.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not playing the giddy goat,” said the other, bitterly, “and I’d +thank you not to.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Mr. Stokes, somewhat taken aback. “Any name you like; +I don’t mind.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henshaw pondered. “Any sensible name’ll do,” he said, stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +“Bell?” suggested Mr. Stokes. “Alfred Bell? I did know a man o’ that +name once. He tried to borrow a bob off of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll do,” said his friend, after some consideration; “but mind you stick to +the same name. And you’d better make up something about him—where he lives, and +all that sort of thing—so that you can stand being questioned without looking +more like a silly fool than you can help.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll do what I can for you,” said Mr. Stokes, “but I don’t s’pose your +missis’ll come to me at all. She saw you plain enough.” +</p> + +<p> +They walked on in silence and, still deep in thought over the matter, +turned into a neighboring tavern for refreshment. Mr. Henshaw drank his +with the air of a man performing a duty to his constitution; but Mr. +Stokes, smacking his lips, waxed eloquent over the brew. +</p> + +<p> +“I hardly know what I’m drinking,” said his friend, forlornly. “I +suppose it’s four-half, because that’s what I asked for.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stokes gazed at him in deep sympathy. “It can’t be so bad as that,” +he said, with concern. +</p> + +<p> +“You wait till you’re married,” said Mr. Henshaw, brusquely. “You’d no +business to ask me to go with you, and I was a good-natured fool to do +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You stick to your tale and it’ll be all right,” said the other. “Tell +her that you spoke to me about it, and that his name is Alfred Bell—B E +double L—and that he lives in—in Ireland. Here! I say!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr. Henshaw, shaking off the hand which the other had laid +on his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“You—you be Alfred Bell,” said Mr. Stokes, breathlessly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henshaw started and eyed him nervously. His friend’s eyes were +bright and, he fancied, a bit wild. +</p> + +<p> +“Be Alfred Bell,” repeated Mr. Stokes. “Don’t you see? Pretend to be +Alfred Bell and go with me to your missis. I’ll lend you a suit o’ +clothes and a fresh neck-tie, and there you are.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>What?</i>” roared the astounded Mr. Henshaw. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s as easy as easy,” declared the other. “Tomorrow evening, in a new +rig-out, I walks you up to your house and asks for you to show you to +yourself. Of course, I’m sorry you ain’t in, and perhaps we walks in to +wait for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Show me to myself?” gasped Mr. Henshaw. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stokes winked. “On account o’ the surprising likeness,” he said, +smiling. “It is surprising, ain’t it? Fancy the two of us sitting there +and talking to her and waiting for you to come in and wondering what’s +making you so late!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henshaw regarded him steadfastly for some seconds, and then, taking +a firm hold of his mug, slowly drained the contents. +</p> + +<p> +“And what about my voice?” he demanded, with something approaching a +sneer. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” said Mr. Stokes, hotly; “it wouldn’t be you if you +didn’t try to make difficulties.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what about it?” said Mr. Henshaw, obstinately. +</p> + +<p> +“You can alter it, can’t you?” said the other. +</p> + +<p> +They were alone in the bar, and Mr. Henshaw, after some persuasion, was +induced to try a few experiments. He ranged from bass, which hurt his +throat, to a falsetto which put Mr. Stokes’s teeth on edge, but in vain. +The rehearsal was stopped at last by the landlord, who, having twice +come into the bar under the impression that fresh customers had entered, +spoke his mind at some length. “Seem to think you’re in a blessed +monkey-house,” he concluded, severely. +</p> + +<p> +“We thought we was,” said Mr. Stokes, with a long appraising sniff, as +he opened the door. “It’s a mistake anybody might make.” +</p> + +<p> +He pushed Mr. Henshaw into the street as the landlord placed a hand on +the flap of the bar, and followed him out. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll have to ’ave a bad cold and talk in ’usky whispers,” he said +slowly, as they walked along. “You caught a cold travelling in the train +from Ireland day before yesterday, and you made it worse going for a +ride on the outside of a ’bus with me and a couple o’ ladies. See? Try +’usky whispers now.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henshaw tried, and his friend, observing that he was taking but a +languid interest in the scheme, was loud in his praises. “I should never +’ave known you,” he declared. “Why, it’s wonderful! Why didn’t you tell +me you could act like that?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henshaw remarked modestly that he had not been aware of it himself, +and, taking a more hopeful view of the situation, whispered himself into +such a state of hoarseness that another visit for refreshment became +absolutely necessary. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep your ’art up and practise,” said Mr. Stokes, as he shook hands +with him some time later. “And if you can manage it, get off at four +o’clock to-morrow and we’ll go round to see her while she thinks you’re +still at work.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus01"></a> +<img src="images/img02.jpg" width="500" height="501" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘And what about my voice?’ he demanded.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +Mr. Henshaw complimented him upon his artfulness, and, with some +confidence in a man of such resource, walked home in a more cheerful +frame of mind. His heart sank as he reached the house, but to his relief +the lights were out and his wife was in bed. +</p> + +<p> +He was up early next morning, but his wife showed no signs of rising. +The cupboard was still empty, and for some time he moved about hungry +and undecided. Finally he mounted the stairs again, and with a view to +arranging matters for the evening remonstrated with her upon her +behavior and loudly announced his intention of not coming home until she +was in a better frame of mind. From a disciplinary point of view the +effect of the remonstrance was somewhat lost by being shouted through +the closed door, and he also broke off too abruptly when Mrs. Henshaw +opened it suddenly and confronted him. Fragments of the peroration +reached her through the front door. +</p> + +<p> +Despite the fact that he left two hours earlier, the day passed but +slowly, and he was in a very despondent state of mind by the time he +reached Mr. Stokes’s lodging. The latter, however, had cheerfulness +enough for both, and, after helping his visitor to change into fresh +clothes and part his hair in the middle instead of at the side, surveyed +him with grinning satisfaction. Under his directions Mr. Henshaw also +darkened his eyebrows and beard with a little burnt cork until Mr. +Stokes declared that his own mother wouldn’t know him. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, be careful,” said Mr. Stokes, as they set off. “Be bright and +cheerful; be a sort o’ ladies’ man to her, same as she saw you with the +one on the ’bus. Be as unlike yourself as you can, and don’t forget +yourself and call her by ’er pet name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pet name!” said Mr. Henshaw, indignantly. “Pet name! You’ll alter your +ideas of married life when you’re caught, my lad, I can tell you!” +</p> + +<p> +He walked on in scornful silence, lagging farther and farther behind as +they neared his house. When Mr. Stokes knocked at the door he stood +modestly aside with his back against the wall of the next house. +</p> + +<p> +“Is George in?” inquired Mr. Stokes, carelessly, as Mrs. Henshaw opened +the door. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stokes affected to ponder; Mr. Henshaw instinctively edged away. +</p> + +<p> +“He ain’t in,” said Mrs. Henshaw, preparing to close the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted to see ’im partikler,” said Mr. Stokes, slowly. “I brought a +friend o’ mine, name o’ Alfred Bell, up here on purpose to see ’im.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Henshaw, following the direction of his eyes, put her head round +the door. +</p> + +<p> +“George!” she exclaimed, sharply. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stokes smiled. “That ain’t George,” he said, gleefully; “That’s my +friend, Mr. Alfred Bell. Ain’t it a extraordinary likeness? Ain’t it +wonderful? That’s why I brought ’im up; I wanted George to see ’im.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Henshaw looked from one to the other in wrathful bewilderment. +</p> + +<p> +“His living image, ain’t he?” said Mr. Stokes. “This is my pal George’s +missis,” he added, turning to Mr. Bell. +</p> + +<p> +“Good afternoon to you,” said that gentleman, huskily. +</p> + +<p> +“He got a bad cold coming from Ireland,” explained Mr. Stokes, “and, +foolish-like, he went outside a ’bus with me the other night and made it +worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh-h!” said Mrs. Henshaw, slowly. “Indeed! Really!” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s quite curious to see George,” said Mr. Stokes. “In fact, he was +going back to Ireland tonight if it ’adn’t been for that. He’s waiting +till to-morrow just to see George.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bell, in a voice huskier than ever, said that he had altered his +mind again. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus02"></a> +<img src="images/img03.jpg" width="524" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘George!’ she exclaimed, sharply.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” said Mr. Stokes, sternly. “Besides, George would like to see +you. I s’pose he won’t be long?” he added, turning to Mrs. Henshaw, who +was regarding Mr. Bell much as a hungry cat regards a plump sparrow. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t suppose so,” she said, slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say if we wait a little while—” began Mr. Stokes, ignoring a +frantic glance from Mr. Henshaw. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in,” said Mrs. Henshaw, suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stokes entered and, finding that his friend hung back, went out +again and half led, half pushed him indoors. Mr. Bell’s shyness he +attributed to his having lived so long in Ireland. +</p> + +<p> +“He is quite the ladies’ man, though,” he said, artfully, as they +followed their hostess into the front room. “You should ha’ seen ’im the +other night on the ’bus. We had a couple o’ lady friends o’ mine with +us, and even the conductor was surprised at his goings on.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bell, by no means easy as to the results of the experiment, scowled +at him despairingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Carrying on, was he?” said Mrs. Henshaw, regarding the culprit +steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“Carrying on like one o’clock,” said the imaginative Mr. Stokes. “Called +one of ’em his little wife, and asked her where ’er wedding-ring was.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t,” said Mr. Bell, in a suffocating voice. “I didn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Mr. Stokes, virtuously. “Only, as I +said to you at the time, ‘Alfred,’ I says, ‘it’s all right for you as a single +man, but you might be the twin-brother of a pal o’ mine—George Henshaw by +name—and if some people was to see you they might think it was ’im.’ Didn’t I +say that?” +</p> + +<p> +“You did,” said Mr. Bell, helplessly. +</p> + +<p> +“And he wouldn’t believe me,” said Mr. Stokes, turning to Mrs. Henshaw. +“That’s why I brought him round to see George.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to see the two of ’em together myself,” said Mrs. +Henshaw, quietly. “I should have taken him for my husband anywhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“You wouldn’t if you’d seen ’im last night,” said Mr. Stokes, shaking +his head and smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Carrying on again, was he?” inquired Mrs. Henshaw, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” said Mr. Bell, in a stentorian whisper. +</p> + +<p> +His glance was so fierce that Mr. Stokes almost quailed. “I won’t tell +tales out of school,” he said, nodding. +</p> + +<p> +“Not if I ask you to?” said Mrs. Henshaw, with a winning smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Ask ’im,” said Mr. Stokes. +</p> + +<p> +“Last night,” said the whisperer, hastily, “I went for a quiet walk +round Victoria Park all by myself. Then I met Mr. Stokes, and we had one +half-pint together at a public-house. That’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Henshaw looked at Mr. Stokes. Mr. Stokes winked at her. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s as true as my name is—Alfred Bell,” said that gentleman, with +slight but natural hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +“Have it your own way,” said Mr. Stokes, somewhat perturbed at Mr. +Bell’s refusal to live up to the character he had arranged for him. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish my husband spent his evenings in the same quiet way,” said Mrs. +Henshaw, shaking her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t he?” said Mr. Stokes. “Why, he always seems quiet enough to me. +Too quiet, I should say. Why, I never knew a quieter man. I chaff ’im +about it sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s his artfulness,” said Mrs. Henshaw. +</p> + +<p> +“Always in a hurry to get ’ome,” pursued the benevolent Mr. Stokes. +</p> + +<p> +“He may say so to you to get away from you,” said Mrs. Henshaw, +thoughtfully. “He does say you’re hard to shake off sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stokes sat stiffly upright and threw a fierce glance in the +direction of Mr. Henshaw. +</p> + +<p> +“Pity he didn’t tell me,” he said bitterly. “I ain’t one to force my +company where it ain’t wanted.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve said to him sometimes,” continued Mrs. Henshaw, “‘Why don’t you +tell Ted Stokes plain that you don’t like his company?’ but he won’t. +That ain’t his way. He’d sooner talk of you behind your back.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he say?” inquired Mr. Stokes, coldly ignoring a frantic +headshake on the part of his friend. +</p> + +<p> +“Promise me you won’t tell him if I tell you,” said Mrs. Henshaw. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stokes promised. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know that I ought to tell you,” said Mrs. Henshaw, reluctantly, +“but I get so sick and tired of him coming home and grumbling about +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on,” said the waiting Stokes. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Henshaw stole a glance at him. “He says you act as if you thought +yourself everybody,” she said, softly, “and your everlasting clack, +clack, clack, worries him to death.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on,” said the listener, grimly. +</p> + +<p> +“And he says it’s so much trouble to get you to pay for your share of +the drinks that he’d sooner pay himself and have done with it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stokes sprang from his chair and, with clenched fists, stood angrily +regarding the horrified Mr. Bell. He composed himself by an effort and +resumed his seat. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything else?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaps and heaps of things,” said Mrs. Henshaw; “but I don’t want to +make bad blood between you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t mind me,” said Mr. Stokes, glancing balefully over at his +agitated friend. “P’raps I’ll tell you some things about him some day.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be only fair,” said Mrs. Henshaw, quickly. “Tell me now; I +don’t mind Mr. Bell hearing; not a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bell spoke up for himself. “I don’t want to hear family secrets,” he +whispered, with an imploring glance at the vindictive Mr. Stokes. “It +wouldn’t be right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, <i>I</i> don’t want to say things behind a man’s back,” said the +latter, recovering himself. “Let’s wait till George comes in, and I’ll +say ’em before his face.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Henshaw, biting her lip with annoyance, argued with him, but in +vain. Mr. Stokes was firm, and, with a glance at the clock, said that +George would be in soon and he would wait till he came. +</p> + +<p> +Conversation flagged despite the efforts of Mrs. Henshaw to draw Mr. +Bell out on the subject of Ireland. At an early stage of the catechism +he lost his voice entirely, and thereafter sat silent while Mrs. Henshaw +discussed the most intimate affairs of her husband’s family with Mr. +Stokes. She was in the middle of an anecdote about her mother-in-law +when Mr. Bell rose and, with some difficulty, intimated his desire to +depart. +</p> + +<p> +“What, without seeing George?” said Mrs. Henshaw. “He can’t be long now, +and I should like to see you together.” +</p> + +<p> +“P’r’aps we shall meet him,” said Mr. Stokes, who was getting rather +tired of the affair. “Good night.” +</p> + +<p> +He led the way to the door and, followed by the eager Mr. Bell, passed +out into the street. The knowledge that Mrs. Henshaw was watching him +from the door kept him silent until they had turned the corner, and +then, turning fiercely on Mr. Henshaw, he demanded to know what he meant +by it. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve done with you,” he said, waving aside the other’s denials. “I’ve +got you out of this mess, and now I’ve done with you. It’s no good +talking, because I don’t want to hear it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-by, then,” said Mr. Henshaw, with unexpected hauteur, as he came +to a standstill. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll ’ave my trousers first, though,” said Mr. Stokes, coldly, “and +then you can go, and welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s my opinion she recognized me, and said all that just to try us,” +said the other, gloomily. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stokes scorned to reply, and reaching his lodging stood by in +silence while the other changed his clothes. He refused Mr. Henshaw’s +hand with a gesture he had once seen on the stage, and, showing him +downstairs, closed the door behind him with a bang. +</p> + +<p> +Left to himself, the small remnants of Mr. Henshaw’s courage +disappeared. He wandered forlornly up and down the streets until past +ten o’clock, and then, cold and dispirited, set off in the direction of +home. At the corner of the street he pulled himself together by a great +effort, and walking rapidly to his house put the key in the lock and +turned it. +</p> + +<p> +The door was fast and the lights were out. He knocked, at first lightly, +but gradually increasing in loudness. At the fourth knock a light +appeared in the room above, the window was raised, and Mrs. Henshaw +leaned out +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Mr. Bell!</i>” she said, in tones of severe surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Bell?</i>” said her husband, in a more surprised voice still. “It’s +me, Polly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go away at once, sir!” said Mrs. Henshaw, indignantly. “How dare you +call me by my Christian name? I’m surprised at you!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s me, I tell you—George!” said her husband, desperately. “What do +you mean by calling me Bell?” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus03"></a> +<img src="images/img04.jpg" width="389" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“He struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked +up at the window.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“If you’re Mr. Bell, as I suppose, you know well enough,” said Mrs. +Henshaw, leaning out and regarding him fixedly; “and if you’re George +you don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m George,” said Mr. Henshaw, hastily. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure I don’t know what to make of it,” said Mrs. Henshaw, with a +bewildered air. “Ted Stokes brought round a man named Bell this +afternoon so like you that I can’t tell the difference. I don’t know +what to do, but I do know this—I don’t let you in until I have seen you +both together, so that I can tell which is which.” +</p> + +<p> +“Both together!” exclaimed the startled Mr. Henshaw. “Here—look here!” +</p> + +<p> +He struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked up at the +window. Mrs. Henshaw scrutinized him gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no good,” she said, despairingly. “I can’t tell. I must see you +both together.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henshaw ground his teeth. “But where is he?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“He went off with Ted Stokes,” said his wife. “If you’re George you’d +better go and ask him.” +</p> + +<p> +She prepared to close the window, but Mr. Henshaw’s voice arrested her. +</p> + +<p> +“And suppose he is not there?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Henshaw reflected. “If he is not there bring Ted Stokes back with +you,” she said at last, “and if he says you’re George, I’ll let you in.” +The window closed and the light disappeared. Mr. Henshaw waited for some +time, but in vain, and, with a very clear idea of the reception he would +meet with at the hands of Mr. Stokes, set off to his lodging. +</p> + +<p> +If anything, he had underestimated his friend’s powers. Mr. Stokes, +rudely disturbed just as he had got into bed, was the incarnation of +wrath. He was violent, bitter, and insulting in a breath, but Mr. +Henshaw was desperate, and Mr. Stokes, after vowing over and over again +that nothing should induce him to accompany him back to his house, was +at last so moved by his entreaties that he went upstairs and equipped +himself for the journey. +</p> + +<p> +“And, mind, after this I never want to see your face again,” he said, as +they walked swiftly back. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Henshaw made no reply. The events of the day had almost exhausted +him, and silence was maintained until they reached the house. Much to +his relief he heard somebody moving about upstairs after the first +knock, and in a very short time the window was gently raised and Mrs. +Henshaw looked out. +</p> + +<p> +“What, you’ve come back?” she said, in a low, intense voice. “Well, of +all the impudence! How dare you carry on like this?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s me,” said her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I see it is,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s him right enough; it’s your husband,” said Mr. Stokes. “Alfred +Bell has gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“How dare you stand there and tell me them falsehoods!” exclaimed Mrs. +Henshaw. “I wonder the ground don’t open and swallow you up. It’s Mr. +Bell, and if he don’t go away I’ll call the police.” +</p> + +<p> +Messrs. Henshaw and Stokes, amazed at their reception, stood blinking up +at her. Then they conferred in whispers. +</p> + +<p> +“If you can’t tell ’em apart, how do you know this is Mr. Bell?” +inquired Mr. Stokes, turning to the window again. +</p> + +<p> +“How do I know?” repeated Mrs. Henshaw. “How do I know? Why, because my +husband came home almost directly Mr. Bell had gone. I wonder he didn’t +meet him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Came home?” cried Mr. Henshaw, shrilly. “<i>Came home</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; and don’t make so much noise,” said Mrs. Henshaw, tartly; “he’s +asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +The two gentlemen turned and gazed at each other in stupefaction. Mr. +Stokes was the first to recover, and, taking his dazed friend by the +arm, led him gently away. At the end of the street he took a deep +breath, and, after a slight pause to collect his scattered energies, +summed up the situation. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus04"></a> +<img src="images/img05.jpg" width="455" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“Mr. Stokes, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him +gently away.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“She’s twigged it all along,” he said, with conviction. “You’ll have to +come home with me tonight, and to-morrow the best thing you can do is to +make a clean breast of it. It was a silly game, and, if you remember, I +was against it from the first.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +MIXED RELATIONS +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<img src="images/img06.jpg" width="600" height="573" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>MIXED RELATIONS</h2> + +<p> +The brig <i>Elizabeth Barstow</i> came up the river as though in a hurry +to taste again the joys of the Metropolis. The skipper, leaning on the +wheel, was in the midst of a hot discussion with the mate, who was +placing before him the hygienic, economical, and moral advantages of +total abstinence in language of great strength but little variety. +</p> + +<p> +“Teetotallers eat more,” said the skipper, finally. +</p> + +<p> +The mate choked, and his eye sought the galley. “Eat more?” he +spluttered. “Yesterday the meat was like brick-bats; to-day it tasted +like a bit o’ dirty sponge. I’ve lived on biscuits this trip; and the +only tater I ate I’m going to see a doctor about direckly I get ashore. +It’s a sin and a shame to spoil good food the way ’e does.” +</p> + +<p> +“The moment I can ship another cook he goes,” said the skipper. “He +seems busy, judging by the noise.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m making him clean up everything, ready for the next,” explained the +mate, grimly. “And he ’ad the cheek to tell me he’s improving—improving!” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll go as soon as I get another,” repeated the skipper, stooping and +peering ahead. “I don’t like being poisoned any more than you do. He +told me he could cook when I shipped him; said his sister had taught +him.” +</p> + +<p> +The mate grunted and, walking away, relieved his mind by putting his +head in at the galley and bidding the cook hold up each separate utensil +for his inspection. A hole in the frying-pan the cook modestly +attributed to elbow-grease. +</p> + +<p> +The river narrowed, and the brig, picking her way daintily through the +traffic, sought her old berth at Buller’s Wharf. It was occupied by a +deaf sailing-barge, which, moved at last by self-interest, not +unconnected with its paint, took up a less desirable position and +consoled itself with adjectives. +</p> + +<p> +The men on the wharf had gone for the day, and the crew of the <i>Elizabeth +Barstow</i>, after making fast, went below to prepare themselves for an evening +ashore. Standing before the largest saucepan-lid in the galley, the cook was +putting the finishing touches to his toilet. +</p> + +<p> +A light, quick step on the wharf attracted the attention of the skipper +as he leaned against the side smoking. It stopped just behind him, and +turning round he found himself gazing into the soft brown eyes of the +prettiest girl he had ever seen. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mr. Jewell on board, please?” she asked, with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Jewell?” repeated the skipper. “Jewell? Don’t know the name.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was on board,” said the girl, somewhat taken aback. “This is the +<i>Elizabeth Barstow</i>, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s his Christian name?” inquired the skipper, thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Albert,” replied the girl. “Bert,” she added, as the other shook his +head. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the cook!” said the skipper. “I didn’t know his name was Jewell. +Yes, he’s in the galley.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood eyeing her and wondering in a dazed fashion what she could see +in a small, white-faced, slab-sided—— +</p> + +<p> +The girl broke in upon his meditations. “How does he cook?” she +inquired, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +He was about to tell her, when he suddenly remembered the cook’s +statement as to his instructor. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s getting on,” he said, slowly; “he’s getting on. Are you his +sister?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl smiled and nodded. “Ye—es,” she said, slowly. “Will you tell +him I am waiting for him, please?” +</p> + +<p> +The skipper started and drew himself up; then he walked forward and put +his head in at the galley. +</p> + +<p> +“Bert,” he said, in a friendly voice, “your sister wants to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Who?</i>” inquired Mr. Jewell, in the accents of amazement. He put +his head out at the door and nodded, and then, somewhat red in the face +with the exercise, drew on his jacket and walked towards her. The +skipper followed. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said the girl, with a pleasant smile. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re quite welcome,” said the skipper. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jewell stepped ashore and, after a moment of indecision, shook hands +with his visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“If you’re down this way again,” said the skipper, as they turned away, +“perhaps you’d like to see the cabin. We’re in rather a pickle just now, +but if you should happen to come down for Bert to-morrow night—” +</p> + +<p> +The girl’s eyes grew mirthful and her lips trembled. “Thank you,” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +“Some people like looking over cabins,” murmured the skipper. +</p> + +<p> +He raised his hand to his cap and turned away. The mate, who had just +come on deck, stared after the retreating couple and gave vent to a low +whistle. +</p> + +<p> +“What a fine gal to pick up with Slushy,” he remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s his sister,” said the skipper, somewhat sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“The one that taught him to cook?” said the other, hastily. “Here! I’d +like five minutes alone with her; I’d give ’er a piece o’ my mind that +’ud do her good. I’d learn ’er. I’d tell her wot I thought of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll do,” said the skipper; “that’ll do. He’s not so bad for a +beginner; I’ve known worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so bad?” repeated the mate. “Not so bad? Why”—his voice trembled—“ain’t +you going to give ’im the chuck, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall try him for another vy’ge, George,” said the skipper. “It’s +hard lines on a youngster if he don’t have a chance. I was never one to +be severe. Live and let live, that’s my motto. Do as you’d be done by.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re turning soft-’arted in your old age,” grumbled the mate. +</p> + +<p> +“Old age!” said the other, in a startled voice. “Old age! I’m not +thirty-seven yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re getting on,” said the mate; “besides, you look old.” +</p> + +<p> +The skipper investigated the charge in the cabin looking-glass ten +minutes later. He twisted his beard in his hand and tried to imagine how +he would look without it. As a compromise he went out and had it cut +short and trimmed to a point. The glass smiled approval on his return; +the mate smiled too, and, being caught in the act, said it made him look +like his own grandson. +</p> + +<p> +It was late when the cook returned, but the skipper was on deck, and, +stopping him for a match, entered into a little conversation. Mr. +Jewell, surprised at first, soon became at his ease, and, the talk +drifting in some unknown fashion to Miss Jewell, discussed her with +brotherly frankness. +</p> + +<p> +“You spent the evening together, I s’pose?” said the skipper, +carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jewell glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “Cooking,” he +said, and put his hand over his mouth with some suddenness. +</p> + +<p> +By the time they parted the skipper had his hand in a friendly fashion +on the cook’s shoulder, and was displaying an interest in his welfare as +unusual as it was gratifying. So unaccustomed was Mr. Jewell to such +consideration that he was fain to pause for a moment or two to regain +control of his features before plunging into the lamp-lit fo’c’sle. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus05"></a> +<img src="images/img07.jpg" width="521" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“The mate smiled too.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +The mate made but a poor breakfast next morning, but his superior, who +saw the hand of Miss Jewell in the muddy coffee and the cremated bacon, +ate his with relish. He was looking forward to the evening, the cook +having assured him that his sister had accepted his invitation to +inspect the cabin, and indeed had talked of little else. The boy was set +to work house-cleaning, and, having gleaned a few particulars, cursed +the sex with painstaking thoroughness. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to the skipper a favorable omen that Miss Jewell descended the +companion-ladder as though to the manner born; and her exclamations of +delight at the cabin completed his satisfaction. The cook, who had +followed them below with some trepidation, became reassured, and seating +himself on a locker joined modestly in the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s like a doll’s-house,” declared the girl, as she finished by +examining the space-saving devices in the state-room. “Well, I mustn’t +take up any more of your time.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got nothing to do,” said the skipper, hastily. “I—I was thinking +of going for a walk; but it’s lonely walking about by yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Jewell agreed. She lowered her eyes and looked under the lashes at +the skipper. +</p> + +<p> +“I never had a sister,” continued the latter, in melancholy accents. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t suppose you would want to take her out if you had,” said the +girl. +</p> + +<p> +The skipper protested. “Bert takes you out,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“He isn’t like most brothers,” said Miss Jewell, shifting along the +locker and placing her hand affectionately on the cook’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“If I had a sister,” continued the skipper, in a somewhat uneven voice, +“I should take her out. This evening, for instance, I should take her to +a theatre.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Jewell turned upon him the innocent face of a child. “It would be +nice to be your sister,” she said, calmly. +</p> + +<p> +The skipper attempted to speak, but his voice failed him. “Well, pretend +you are my sister,” he said, at last, “and we’ll go to one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pretend?” said Miss Jewell, as she turned and eyed the cook. “Bert +wouldn’t like that,” she said, decidedly. +</p> + +<p> +“N—no,” said the cook, nervously, avoiding the skipper’s eye. +</p> + +<p> +“It wouldn’t be proper,” said Miss Jewell, sitting upright and looking +very proper indeed. +</p> + +<p> +“I—I meant Bert to come, too,” said the skipper; “of course,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +The severity of Miss Jewell’s expression relaxed. She stole an amused +glance at the cook and, reading her instructions in his eye, began to +temporize. Ten minutes later the crew of the <i>Elizabeth Barstow</i> in +various attitudes of astonishment beheld their commander going ashore +with his cook. The mate so far forgot himself as to whistle, but with +great presence of mind cuffed the boy’s ear as the skipper turned. +</p> + +<p> +For some little distance the three walked along in silence. The skipper +was building castles in the air, the cook was not quite at his ease, and +the girl, gazing steadily in front of her, appeared slightly +embarrassed. +</p> + +<p> +By the time they reached Aldgate and stood waiting for an omnibus Miss +Jewell found herself assailed by doubts. She remembered that she did not +want to go to a theatre, and warmly pressed the two men to go together +and leave her to go home. The skipper remonstrated in vain, but the cook +came to the rescue, and Miss Jewell, still protesting, was pushed on to +a ’bus and propelled upstairs. She took a vacant seat in front, and the +skipper and Mr. Jewell shared one behind. +</p> + +<p> +The three hours at the theatre passed all too soon, although the girl was so +interested in the performance that she paid but slight attention to her +companions. During the waits she became interested in her surroundings, and +several times called the skipper’s attention to smart-looking men in the stalls +and boxes. At one man she stared so persistently that an opera-glass was at +last levelled in return. +</p> + +<p> +“How rude of him,” she said, smiling sweetly at the skipper. +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head in disapproval, but the next moment he saw her gazing +steadily at the opera-glasses again. +</p> + +<p> +“If you don’t look he’ll soon get tired of it,” he said, between his +teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, perhaps he will,” said Miss Jewell, without lowering her eyes in +the least. +</p> + +<p> +The skipper sat in torment until the lights were lowered and the curtain +went up again. When it fell he began to discuss the play, but Miss +Jewell returned such vague replies that it was evident her thoughts were +far away. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder who he is?” she whispered, gazing meditatingly at the box. +</p> + +<p> +“A waiter, I should think,” snapped the skipper. +</p> + +<p> +The girl shook her head. “No, he is much too distinguished-looking,” she +said, seriously. “Well, I suppose he’ll know me again.” +</p> + +<p> +The skipper felt that he wanted to get up and smash things; beginning +with the man in the box. It was his first love episode for nearly ten +years, and he had forgotten the pains and penalties which attach to the +condition. When the performance was over he darted a threatening glance +at the box, and, keeping close to Miss Jewell, looked carefully about +him to make sure that they were not followed. +</p> + +<p> +“It was ripping,” said the cook, as they emerged into the fresh air. +</p> + +<p> +“Lovely,” said the girl, in a voice of gentle melancholy. “I shall come +and see it again, perhaps, when you are at sea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not alone?” said the skipper, in a startled voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mind being alone,” said Miss Jewell, gently; “I’m used to it.” +</p> + +<p> +The other’s reply was lost in the rush for the ’bus, and for the second +time that evening the skipper had to find fault with the seating +arrangements. And when a vacancy by the side of Miss Jewell did occur, +he was promptly forestalled by a young man in a check suit smoking a +large cigar. +</p> + +<p> +They got off at Aldgate, and the girl thanked him for a pleasant +evening. A hesitating offer to see her home was at once negatived, and +the skipper, watching her and the cook until they disappeared in the +traffic, walked slowly and thoughtfully to his ship. +</p> + +<p> +The brig sailed the next evening at eight o’clock, and it was not until +six that the cook remarked, in the most casual manner, that his sister +was coming down to see him off. She arrived half an hour late, and, so +far from wanting to see the cabin again, discovered an inconvenient love +of fresh air. She came down at last, at the instance of the cook, and, +once below, her mood changed, and she treated the skipper with a soft +graciousness which raised him to the seventh heaven. “You’ll be good to +Bert, won’t you?” she inquired, with a smile at that young man. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll treat him like my own brother,” said the skipper, fervently. “No, +better than that; I’ll treat him like your brother.” +</p> + +<p> +The cook sat erect and, the skipper being occupied with Miss Jewell, +winked solemnly at the skylight. +</p> + +<p> +“I know <i>you</i> will,” said the girl, very softly; “but I don’t think +the men—” +</p> + +<p> +“The men’ll do as I wish,” said the skipper, sternly. “I’m the master on +this ship—she’s half mine, too—and anybody who interferes with him +interferes with me. If there’s anything you don’t like, Bert, you tell +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jewell, his small, black eyes sparkling, promised, and then, +muttering something about his work, exchanged glances with the girl and +went up on deck. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a nice cabin,” said Miss Jewell, shifting an inch and a half +nearer to the skipper. “I suppose poor Bert has to have his meals in +that stuffy little place at the other end of the ship, doesn’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +“The fo’c’sle?” said the skipper, struggling between love and +discipline. “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl sighed, and the mate, who was listening at the skylight above, held +his breath with anxiety. Miss Jewell sighed again and in an absent-minded +fashion increased the distance between herself and companion by six inches. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s usual,” faltered the skipper. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course,” said the girl, coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“But if Bert likes to feed here, he’s welcome,” said the skipper, +desperately, “and he can sleep aft, too. The mate can say what he +likes.” +</p> + +<p> +The mate rose and, walking forward, raised his clenched fists to heaven +and availed himself of the permission to the fullest extent of a +somewhat extensive vocabulary. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what I think you are?” inquired Miss Jewell, bending +towards him with a radiant face. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said the other, trembling. “What?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl paused. “It wouldn’t do to tell you,” she said, in a low voice. +“It might make you vain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what I think you are?” inquired the skipper in his turn. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Jewell eyed him composedly, albeit the corners of her mouth +trembled. “Yes,” she said, unexpectedly. +</p> + +<p> +Steps sounded above and came heavily down the companion-ladder. “Tide’s +a’most on the turn,” said the mate, gruffly, from the door. +</p> + +<p> +The skipper hesitated, but the mate stood aside for the girl to pass, +and he followed her up on deck and assisted her to the jetty. For hours +afterwards he debated with himself whether she really had allowed her +hand to stay in his a second or two longer than necessary, or whether +unconscious muscular action on his part was responsible for the +phenomenon. +</p> + +<p> +He became despondent as they left London behind, but the necessity of +interfering between a goggle-eyed and obtuse mate and a pallid but no +less obstinate cook helped to relieve him. +</p> + +<p> +“He says he is going to sleep aft,” choked the mate, pointing to the +cook’s bedding. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right,” said the skipper. “I told him to. He’s going to take his +meals here, too. Anything to say against it?” +</p> + +<p> +The mate sat down on a locker and fought for breath. The cook, still +pale, felt his small, black mustache and eyed him with triumphant +malice. “I told ’im they was your orders,” he remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“And I told him I didn’t believe him,” said the mate. “Nobody would. +Whoever ’eard of a cook living aft? Why, they’d laugh at the idea.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed himself, but in a strangely mirthless fashion, and, afraid to +trust himself, went up on deck and brooded savagely apart. Nor did he +come down to breakfast until the skipper and cook had finished. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jewell bore his new honors badly, and the inability to express their +dissatisfaction by means of violence had a bad effect on the tempers of +the crew. Sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more than +hold his own, and, although the men doubted his ability at first, he was +able to prove to them by actual experiment that he could cook worse than +they supposed. +</p> + +<p> +The brig reached her destination—Creekhaven—on the fifth day, and Mr. +Jewell found himself an honored guest at the skipper’s cottage. It was a +comfortable place, but, as the cook pointed out, too large for one. He +also referred, incidentally, to his sister’s love of a country life, +and, finding himself on a subject of which the other never tired, gave +full reins to a somewhat picturesque imagination. +</p> + +<p> +They were back at London within the fortnight, and the skipper learned +to his dismay that Miss Jewell was absent on a visit. In these +circumstances he would have clung to the cook, but that gentleman, +pleading engagements, managed to elude him for two nights out of the +three. +</p> + +<p> +On the third day Miss Jewell returned to London, and, making her way to +the wharf, was just in time to wave farewells as the brig parted from +the wharf. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus06"></a> +<img src="images/img08.jpg" width="459" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“Sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more than +hold his own.”</p> +</div> +<p> +From the fact that the cook was not visible at the moment the skipper +took the salutation to himself. It cheered him for the time, but the +next day he was so despondent that the cook, by this time thoroughly in +his confidence, offered to write when they got to Creekhaven and fix up +an evening. +</p> + +<p> +“And there’s really no need for you to come, Bert,” said the skipper, +cheering up. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jewell shook his head. “She wouldn’t go without me,” he said, +gravely. “You’ve no idea ’ow particular she is. Always was from a +child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we might lose you,” said the skipper, reflecting. “How would that +be?” +</p> + +<p> +“We might try it,” said the cook, without enthusiasm. +</p> + +<p> +To his dismay the skipper, before they reached London again, had +invented at least a score of ways by which he might enjoy Miss Jewell’s +company without the presence of a third person, some of them so +ingenious that the cook, despite his utmost efforts, could see no way of +opposing them. +</p> + +<p> +The skipper put his ideas into practice as soon as they reached London. +Between Wapping and Charing Cross he lost the cook three times. Miss +Jewell found him twice, and the third time she was so difficult that the +skipper had to join in the treasure-hunt himself. The cook listened +unmoved to a highly-colored picture of his carelessness from the lips +of Miss Jewell, and bestowed a sympathetic glance upon the skipper as +she paused for breath. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s as bad as taking a child out,” said the latter, with well-affected +indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“Worse,” said the girl, tightening her lips. +</p> + +<p> +With a perseverance worthy of a better cause the skipper nudged the +cook’s arm and tried again. This time he was successful beyond his +wildest dreams, and, after ten minutes’ frantic search, found that he +had lost them both. He wandered up and down for hours, and it was past +eleven when he returned to the ship and found the cook waiting for him. +</p> + +<p> +“We thought something ’ad happened to you,” said the cook. “Kate has +been in a fine way about it. Five minutes after you lost me she found +me, and we’ve been hunting ’igh and low ever since.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Jewell expressed her relief the next evening, and, stealing a +glance at the face of the skipper, experienced a twinge of something +which she took to be remorse. Ignoring the cook’s hints as to theatres, +she elected to go for a long ’bus ride, and, sitting in front with the +skipper, left Mr. Jewell to keep a chaperon’s eye on them from three +seats behind. +</p> + +<p> +Conversation was for some time disjointed; then the brightness and +crowded state of the streets led the skipper to sound his companion as +to her avowed taste for a country life. +</p> + +<p> +“I should love it,” said Miss Jewell, with a sigh. “But there’s no +chance of it; I’ve got my living to earn.” +</p> + +<p> +“You might—might marry somebody living in the country,” said the +skipper, in trembling tones. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Jewell shuddered. “Marry!” she said, scornfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Most people do,” said the other. +</p> + +<p> +“Sensible people don’t,” said the girl. “You haven’t,” she added, with a +smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very thankful I haven’t,” retorted the skipper, with great meaning. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are!” said the girl, triumphantly. +</p> + +<p> +“I never saw anybody I liked,” said the skipper, “be—before.” +</p> + +<p> +“If ever I did marry,” said Miss Jewell, with remarkable composure, “if +ever I was foolish enough to do such a thing, I think I would marry a +man a few years younger than myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Younger?” said the dismayed skipper. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Jewell nodded. “They make the best husbands,” she said, gravely. +</p> + +<p> +The skipper began to argue the point, and Mr. Jewell, at that moment +taking a seat behind, joined in with some heat. A more ardent supporter +could not have been found, although his repetition of the phrase “May +and December” revealed a want of tact of which the skipper had not +thought him capable. What had promised to be a red-letter day in his +existence was spoiled, and he went to bed that night with the full +conviction that he had better abandon a project so hopeless. +</p> + +<p> +With a fine morning his courage revived, but as voyage succeeded voyage he +became more and more perplexed. The devotion of the cook was patent to all men, +but Miss Jewell was as changeable as a weather-glass. The skipper would leave +her one night convinced that he had better forget her as soon as possible, and +the next her manner would be so kind, and her glances so soft, that only the +presence of the ever-watchful cook prevented him from proposing on the spot. +The end came one evening in October. The skipper had hurried back from the +City, laden with stores, Miss Jewell having, after many refusals, consented to +grace the tea-table that afternoon. The table, set by the boy, groaned beneath +the weight of unusual luxuries, but the girl had not arrived. The cook was also +missing, and the only occupant of the cabin was the mate, who, sitting at one +corner, was eating with great relish. +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t you going to get your tea?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“No hurry,” said the skipper, somewhat incensed at his haste. “It +wouldn’t have hurt <i>you</i> to have waited a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Waited?” said the other. “What for?” +</p> + +<p> +“For my visitors,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +The mate bit a piece off a crust and stirred his tea. “No use waiting +for them,” he said, with a grin. “They ain’t coming.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” demanded the skipper. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean,” said the mate, continuing to stir his tea with great +enjoyment—“I mean that all that kind’artedness of yours was clean +chucked away on that cook. He’s got a berth ashore and he’s gone for +good. He left you ’is love; he left it with Bill Hemp.” +</p> + +<p> +“Berth ashore?” said the skipper, staring. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said the mate, taking a large and noisy sip from his cup. “He’s +been fooling you all along for what he could get out of you. Sleeping +aft and feeding aft, nobody to speak a word to ’im, and going out and +being treated by the skipper; Bill said he laughed so much when he was +telling ’im that the tears was running down ’is face like rain. He said +he’d never been treated so much in his life.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll do,” said the skipper, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to hear Bill tell it,” said the mate, regretfully. “I can’t +do it anything like as well as what he can. Made us all roar, he did. +What amused ’em most was you thinking that that gal was cookie’s +sister.” +</p> + +<p> +The skipper, with a sharp exclamation, leaned forward, staring at him. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re going to be married at Christmas,” said the mate, choking in +his cup. +</p> + +<p> +The skipper sat upright again, and tried manfully to compose his features. Many +things he had not understood before were suddenly made clear, and he remembered +now the odd way in which the girl had regarded him as she bade him good-night +on the previous evening. The mate eyed him with interest, and was about to +supply him with further details when his attention was attracted by footsteps +descending the companion-ladder. Then he put down his cup with great care, and +stared in stolid amazement at the figure of Miss Jewell in the doorway. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m a bit late,” she said, flushing slightly. +</p> + +<p> +She crossed over and shook hands with the skipper, and, in the most +natural fashion in the world, took a seat and began to remove her +gloves. The mate swung round and regarded her open-mouthed; the skipper, +whose ideas were in a whirl, sat regarding her in silence. The mate was +the first to move; he left the cabin rubbing his shin, and casting +furious glances at the skipper. +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t expect to see me?” said the girl, reddening again. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +The girl looked at the tablecloth. “I came to beg your pardon,” she +said, in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing to beg my pardon for,” said the skipper, clearing his +throat. “By rights I ought to beg yours. You did quite right to make fun +of me. I can see it now.” +</p> + +<p> +“When you asked me whether I was Bert’s sister I didn’t like to say +‘no,’ continued the girl; “and at first I let you come out with me for +the fun of the thing, and then Bert said it would be good for him, and +then—then—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the skipper, after a long pause. +</p> + +<p> +The girl broke a biscuit into small pieces, and arranged them on the +cloth. “Then I didn’t mind your coming so much,” she said, in a low +voice. +</p> + +<p> +The skipper caught his breath and tried to gaze at the averted face. +</p> + +<p> +The girl swept the crumbs aside and met his gaze squarely. “Not quite so +much,” she explained. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been a fool,” said the skipper. “I’ve been a fool. I’ve made +myself a laughing-stock all round, but if I could have it all over again +I would.” +</p> + +<p> +“That can never be,” said the girl, shaking her head. “Bert wouldn’t +come.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus07"></a> +<img src="images/img09.jpg" width="596" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘Good-by,’ he said, slowly; ‘and I wish you both every +happiness.’”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“No, of course not,” asserted the other. +</p> + +<p> +The girl bit her lip. The skipper thought that he had never seen her +eyes so large and shining. There was a long silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-by,” said the girl at last, rising. +</p> + +<p> +The skipper rose to follow. “Good-by,” he said, slowly; “and I wish you +both every happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Happiness?” echoed the girl, in a surprised voice. “Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“When you are married.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not going to be married,” said the girl. “I told Bert so this +afternoon. Good-by.” +</p> + +<p> +The skipper actually let her get nearly to the top of the ladder before +he regained his presence of mind. Then, in obedience to a powerful tug +at the hem of her skirt, she came down again, and accompanied him meekly +back to the cabin. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +HIS LORDSHIP +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<img src="images/img10.jpg" width="600" height="346" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>HIS LORDSHIP</h2> + +<p> +Farmer Rose sat in his porch smoking an evening pipe. By his side, in a +comfortable Windsor chair, sat his friend the miller, also smoking, and +gazing with half-closed eyes at the landscape as he listened for the +thousandth time to his host’s complaints about his daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“The long and the short of it is, Cray,” said the farmer, with an air of +mournful pride, “she’s far too good-looking.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cray grunted. +</p> + +<p> +“Truth is truth, though she’s my daughter,” continued Mr. Rose, vaguely. +“She’s too good-looking. Sometimes when I’ve taken her up to market I’ve +seen the folks fair turn their backs on the cattle and stare at her +instead.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cray sniffed; louder, perhaps, than he had intended. “Beautiful that +rose-bush smells,” he remarked, as his friend turned and eyed him. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the consequence?” demanded the farmer, relaxing his gaze. “She +looks in the glass and sees herself, and then she gets miserable and +uppish because there ain’t nobody in these parts good enough for her to +marry.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a extraordinary thing to me where she gets them good looks from,” +said the miller, deliberately. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Mr. Rose, and sat trying to think of a means of enlightening +his friend without undue loss of modesty. +</p> + +<p> +“She ain’t a bit like her poor mother,” mused Mr. Cray. +</p> + +<p> +“No, she don’t get her looks from her,” assented the other. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s one o’ them things you can’t account for,” said Mr. Cray, who was +very tired of the subject; “it’s just like seeing a beautiful flower +blooming on an old cabbage-stump.” +</p> + +<p> +The farmer knocked his pipe out noisily and began to refill it. “People +have said that she takes after me a trifle,” he remarked, shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“You weren’t fool enough to believe that, I know,” said the miller. +“Why, she’s no more like you than you’re like a warming-pan—not so +much.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Rose regarded his friend fixedly. “You ain’t got a very nice way o’ +putting things, Cray,” he said, mournfully. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m no flatterer,” said the miller; “never was. And you can’t please +everybody. If I said your daughter took after you I don’t s’pose she’d +ever speak to me again.” +</p> + +<p> +“The worst of it is,” said the farmer, disregarding his remark, “she +won’t settle down. There’s young Walter Lomas after her now, and she +won’t look at him. He’s a decent young fellow is Walter, and she’s been +and named one o’ the pigs after him, and the way she mixes them up +together is disgraceful.” +</p> + +<p> +“If she was my girl she should marry young Walter,” said the miller, +firmly. “What’s wrong with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“She looks higher,” replied the other, mysteriously; “she’s always +reading them romantic books full o’ love tales, and she’s never tired o’ +talking of a girl her mother used to know that went on the stage and +married a baronet. She goes and sits in the best parlor every afternoon +now, and calls it the drawing-room. She’ll sit there till she’s past the +marrying age, and then she’ll turn round and blame me.” +</p> + +<p> +“She wants a lesson,” said Mr. Cray, firmly. “She wants to be taught her +position in life, not to go about turning up her nose at young men and +naming pigs after them.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Rose sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“What she wants to understand is that the upper classes wouldn’t look at +her,” pursued the miller. +</p> + +<p> +“It would be easier to make her understand that if they didn’t,” said +the farmer. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean,” said Mr. Cray, sternly, “with a view to marriage. What you +ought to do is to get somebody staying down here with you pretending to +be a lord or a nobleman, and ordering her about and not noticing her +good looks at all. Then, while she’s upset about that, in comes Walter +Lomas to comfort her and be a contrast to the other.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Rose withdrew his pipe and regarded him open-mouthed. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but how—” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“And it seems to me,” interrupted Mr. Cray, “that I know just the young +fellow to do it—nephew of my wife’s. He was coming to stay a fortnight +with us, but you can have him with pleasure—me and him don’t get on +over and above well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps he wouldn’t do it,” objected the farmer. +</p> + +<p> +“He’d do it like a shot,” said Mr. Cray, positively. “It would be fun +for us and it ’ud be a lesson for her. If you like, I’ll tell him to +write to you for lodgings, as he wants to come for a fortnight’s fresh +air after the fatiguing gayeties of town.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fatiguing gayeties of town,” repeated the admiring farmer. “Fatiguing—” +</p> + +<p> +He sat back in his chair and laughed, and Mr. Cray, delighted at the +prospect of getting rid so easily of a tiresome guest, laughed too. +Overhead at the open window a third person laughed, but in so quiet and +well-bred a fashion that neither of them heard her. +</p> + +<p> +The farmer received a letter a day or two afterwards, and negotiations +between Jane Rose on the one side and Lord Fairmount on the other were +soon in progress; the farmer’s own composition being deemed somewhat +crude for such a correspondence. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish he didn’t want it kept so secret,” said Miss Rose, pondering +over the final letter. “I should like to let the Grays and one or two +more people know he is staying with us. However, I suppose he must have +his own way.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must do as he wishes,” said her father, using his handkerchief +violently. +</p> + +<p> +Jane sighed. “He’ll be a little company for me, at any rate,” she +remarked. “What is the matter, father?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bit of a cold,” said the farmer, indistinctly, as he made for the door, +still holding his handkerchief to his face. “Been coming on some time.” +</p> + +<p> +He put on his hat and went out, and Miss Rose, watching him from the +window, was not without fears that the joke might prove too much for a +man of his habit. She regarded him thoughtfully, and when he returned at +one o’clock to dinner, and encountered instead a violent dust-storm +which was raging in the house, she noted with pleasure that his sense of +humor was more under control. +</p> + +<p> +“Dinner?” she said, as he strove to squeeze past the furniture which was +piled in the hall. “We’ve got no time to think of dinner, and if we had +there’s no place for you to eat it. You’d better go in the larder and +cut yourself a crust of bread and cheese.” +</p> + +<p> +Her father hesitated and glared at the servant, who, with her head bound +up in a duster, passed at the double with a broom. Then he walked slowly +into the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Rose called out something after him. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” said her father, coming back hopefully. +</p> + +<p> +“How is your cold, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +The farmer made no reply, and his daughter smiled contentedly as she +heard him stamping about in the larder. He made but a poor meal, and +then, refusing point-blank to assist Annie in moving the piano, went and +smoked a very reflective pipe in the garden. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus08"></a> +<img src="images/img11.jpg" width="600" height="517" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘She’s got your eyes,’ said his lordship.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +Lord Fairmount arrived the following day on foot from the station, and +after acknowledging the farmer’s salute with a distant nod requested him +to send a cart for his luggage. He was a tall, good-looking young man, +and as he stood in the hall languidly twisting his mustache Miss Rose +deliberately decided upon his destruction. +</p> + +<p> +“These your daughters?” he inquired, carelessly, as he followed his host +into the parlor. +</p> + +<p> +“One of ’em is, my lord; the other is my servant,” replied the farmer. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s got your eyes,” said his lordship, tapping the astonished Annie +under the chin; “your nose too, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s my servant,” said the farmer, knitting his brows at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, indeed!” said his lordship, airily. +</p> + +<p> +He turned round and regarded Jane, but, although she tried to meet him +half-way by elevating her chin a little, his audacity failed him and the +words died away on his tongue. A long silence followed, broken only by +the ill-suppressed giggles of Annie, who had retired to the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +“I trust that we shall make your lordship comfortable,” said Miss Rose. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so, my good girl,” was the reply. “And now will you show me my +room?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Rose led the way upstairs and threw open the door; Lord Fairmount, +pausing on the threshold, gazed at it disparagingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this the best room you have?” he inquired, stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” said Miss Rose, smiling; “father’s room is much better than +this. Look here.” +</p> + +<p> +She threw open another door and, ignoring a gesticulating figure which +stood in the hall below, regarded him anxiously. “If you would prefer +father’s room he would be delighted for you to have it. Delighted.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I will have this one,” said Lord Fairmount, entering. “Bring me up +some hot water, please, and clear these boots and leggings out.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Rose tripped downstairs and, bestowing a witching smile upon her +sire, waved away his request for an explanation and hastened into the +kitchen, whence Annie shortly afterwards emerged with the water. +</p> + +<p> +It was with something of a shock that the farmer discovered that he had +to wait for his dinner while his lordship had luncheon. That meal, under +his daughter’s management, took a long time, and the joint when it +reached him was more than half cold. It was, moreover, quite clear that +the aristocracy had not even mastered the rudiments of carving, but +preferred instead to box the compass for tit-bits. +</p> + +<p> +He ate his meal in silence, and when it was over sought out his guest to +administer a few much-needed stage-directions. Owing, however, to the +ubiquity of Jane he wasted nearly the whole of the afternoon before he +obtained an opportunity. Even then the interview was short, the farmer +having to compress into ten seconds instructions for Lord Fairmount to +express a desire to take his meals with the family, and his dinner at +the respectable hour of 1 p.m. Instructions as to a change of bedroom +were frustrated by the reappearance of Jane. +</p> + +<p> +His lordship went for a walk after that, and coming back with a bored +air stood on the hearthrug in the living-room and watched Miss Rose +sewing. +</p> + +<p> +“Very dull place,” he said at last, in a dissatisfied voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lord,” said Miss Rose, demurely. +</p> + +<p> +“Fearfully dull,” complained his lordship, stifling a yawn. “What I’m to +do to amuse myself for a fortnight I’m sure I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Rose raised her fine eyes and regarded him intently. Many a lesser +man would have looked no farther for amusement. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid there is not much to do about here, my lord,” she said +quietly. “We are very plain folk in these parts.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” assented the other. An obvious compliment rose of itself to his +lips, but he restrained himself, though with difficulty. Miss Rose bent +her head over her work and stitched industriously. His lordship took up +a book and, remembering his mission, read for a couple of hours without +taking the slightest notice of her. Miss Rose glanced over in his +direction once or twice, and then, with a somewhat vixenish expression +on her delicate features, resumed her sewing. +</p> + +<p> +“Wonderful eyes she’s got,” said the gentleman, as he sat on the edge of +his bed that night and thought over the events of the day. “It’s pretty +to see them flash.” +</p> + +<p> +He saw them flash several times during the next few days, and Mr. Rose +himself, was more than satisfied with the hauteur with which his guest +treated the household. +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t like the way you have with me,” he complained. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all in the part,” urged his lordship. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you can leave that part out,” rejoined Mr. Rose, with some +acerbity. “I object to being spoke to as you speak to me before that +girl Annie. Be as proud and unpleasant as you like to my daughter, but +leave me alone. Mind that!” +</p> + +<p> +His lordship promised, and in pursuance of his host’s instructions +strove manfully to subdue feelings towards Miss Rose by no means in +accordance with them. The best of us are liable to absent-mindedness, +and he sometimes so far forgot himself as to address her in tones as +humble as any in her somewhat large experience. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope that we are making you comfortable here, my lord?” she said, as +they sat together one afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“I have never been more comfortable in my life,” was the gracious reply. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Rose shook her head. “Oh, my lord,” she said, in protest, “think of +your mansion.” +</p> + +<p> +His lordship thought of it. For two or three days he had been thinking +of houses and furniture and other things of that nature. +</p> + +<p> +“I have never seen an old country seat,” continued Miss Rose, clasping +her hands and gazing at him wistfully. “I should be so grateful if your +lordship would describe yours to me.” +</p> + +<p> +His lordship shifted uneasily, and then, in face of the girl’s +persistence, stood for some time divided between the contending claims +of Hampton Court Palace and the Tower of London. He finally decided upon +the former, after first refurnishing it at Maple’s. +</p> + +<p> +“How happy you must be!” said the breathless Jane, when he had finished. +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head gravely. “My possessions have never given me any +happiness,” he remarked. “I would much rather be in a humble rank of +life. Live where I like, and—and marry whom I like.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no mistaking the meaning fall in his voice. Miss Rose sighed +gently and lowered her eyes—her lashes had often excited comment. Then, +in a soft voice, she asked him the sort of life he would prefer. +</p> + +<p> +In reply, his lordship, with an eloquence which surprised himself, +portrayed the joys of life in a seven-roomed house in town, with a +greenhouse six feet by three, and a garden large enough to contain it. +He really spoke well, and when he had finished his listener gazed at him +with eyes suffused with timid admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my lord,” she said, prettily, “now I know what you’ve been doing. +You’ve been slumming.” +</p> + +<p> +“Slumming?” gasped his lordship. +</p> + +<p> +“You couldn’t have described a place like that unless you had been,” +said Miss Rose nodding. “I hope you took the poor people some nice hot +soup.” +</p> + +<p> +His lordship tried to explain, but without success. Miss Rose persisted +in regarding him as a missionary of food and warmth, and spoke feelingly +of the people who had to live in such places. She also warned him +against the risk of infection. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t understand,” he repeated, impatiently. “These are nice +houses—nice enough for anybody to live in. If you took soup to people +like that, why, they’d throw it at you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wretches!” murmured the indignant Jane, who was enjoying herself +amazingly. +</p> + +<p> +His lordship eyed her with sudden suspicion, but her face was quite +grave and bore traces of strong feeling. He explained again, but without +avail. +</p> + +<p> +“You never ought to go near such places, my lord,” she concluded, +solemnly, as she rose to quit the room. “Even a girl of my station would +draw the line at that.” +</p> + +<p> +She bowed deeply and withdrew. His lordship sank into a chair and, +thrusting his hands into his pockets, gazed gloomily at the dried +grasses in the grate. +</p> + +<p> +During the next day or two his appetite failed, and other well-known +symptoms set in. Miss Rose, diagnosing them all, prescribed by stealth +some bitter remedies. The farmer regarded his change of manner with +disapproval, and, concluding that it was due to his own complaints, +sought to reassure him. He also pointed out that his daughter’s opinion +of the aristocracy was hardly likely to increase if the only member she +knew went about the house as though he had just lost his grandmother. +</p> + +<p> +“You are longing for the gayeties of town, my lord,” he remarked one +morning at breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +His lordship shook his head. The gayeties comprised, amongst other +things, a stool and a desk. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like town,” he said, with a glance at Jane. “If I had my choice +I would live here always. I would sooner live here in this charming spot +with this charming society than anywhere.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Rose coughed and, having caught his eye, shook his head at him and glanced +significantly over at the unconscious Jane. The young man ignored his action +and, having got an opening, gave utterance in the course of the next ten +minutes to Radical heresies of so violent a type that the farmer could hardly +keep his seat. Social distinctions were condemned utterly, and the House of +Lords referred to as a human dust-bin. The farmer gazed open-mouthed at this +snake he had nourished. +</p> + +<p> +“Your lordship will alter your mind when you get to town,” said Jane, +demurely. +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” declared the other, impressively. +</p> + +<p> +The girl sighed, and gazing first with much interest at her parent, who +seemed to be doing his best to ward off a fit, turned her lustrous eyes +upon the guest. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall all miss you,” she said, softly. “You’ve been a lesson to all +of us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lesson?” he repeated, flushing. +</p> + +<p> +“It has improved our behavior so, having a lord in the house,” said Miss +Rose, with painful humility. “I’m sure father hasn’t been like the same +man since you’ve been here.” +</p> + +<p> +“What d’ye mean Miss?” demanded the farmer, hotly. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t speak like that before his lordship, father,” said his daughter, +hastily. “I’m not blaming you; you’re no worse than the other men about +here. You haven’t had an opportunity of learning before, that’s all. It +isn’t your fault.” +</p> + +<p> +“Learning?” bellowed the farmer, turning an inflamed visage upon his +apprehensive guest. “Have you noticed anything wrong about my behavior?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not,” said his lordship, hastily. +</p> + +<p> +“All I know is,” continued Miss Rose, positively, “I wish you were going +to stay here another six months for father’s sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here—” began Mr. Rose, smiting the table. +</p> + +<p> +“And Annie’s,” said Jane, raising her voice above the din. “I don’t know +which has improved the most. I’m sure the way they both drink their tea +now—” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Rose pushed his chair back loudly and got up from the table. For a +moment he stood struggling for words, then he turned suddenly with a +growl and quitted the room, banging the door after him in a fashion +which clearly indicated that he still had some lessons to learn. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve made your father angry,” said his lordship. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s for his own good,” said Miss Rose. “Are you really sorry to leave +us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry?” repeated the other. “Sorry is no word for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will miss father,” said the girl. +</p> + +<p> +He sighed gently. +</p> + +<p> +“And Annie,” she continued. +</p> + +<p> +He sighed again, and Jane took a slight glance at him cornerwise. +</p> + +<p> +“And me too, I hope,” she said, in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Miss</i> you!” repeated his lordship, in a suffocating voice. “I +should miss the sun less.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am so glad,” said Jane, clasping her hands; “it is so nice to feel +that one is not quite forgotten. Of course, I can never forget you. You +are the only nobleman I have ever met.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope that it is not only because of that,” he said, forlornly. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Rose pondered. When she pondered her eyes increased in size and +revealed unsuspected depths. +</p> + +<p> +“No-o,” she said at length, in a hesitating voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose that I were not what I am represented to be,” he said slowly. +“Suppose that, instead of being Lord Fairmount, I were merely a clerk.” +</p> + +<p> +“A clerk?” repeated Miss Rose, with a very well-managed shudder. “How +can I suppose such an absurd thing as that?” +</p> + +<p> +“But if I were?” urged his lordship, feverishly. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no use supposing such a thing as that,” said Miss Rose, briskly; +“your high birth is stamped on you.” +</p> + +<p> +His lordship shook his head. “I would sooner be a laborer on this farm +than a king anywhere else,” he said, with feeling. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Rose drew a pattern on the floor with the toe of her shoe. +</p> + +<p> +“The poorest laborer on the farm can have the pleasure of looking at you +every day,” continued his lordship passionately. “Every day of his life +he can see you, and feel a better man for it.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Rose looked at him sharply. Only the day before the poorest laborer +had seen her—when he wasn’t expecting the honor—and received an +epitome of his character which had nearly stunned him. But his +lordship’s face was quite grave. +</p> + +<p> +“I go to-morrow,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Jane, in a hushed voice. +</p> + +<p> +He crossed the room gently and took a seat by her side. Miss Rose, still +gazing at the floor, wondered indignantly why it was she was not +blushing. His Lordship’s conversation had come to a sudden stop and the +silence was most awkward. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been a fool, Miss Rose,” he said at last, rising and standing over +her; “and I’ve been taking a great liberty. I’ve been deceiving you for +nearly a fortnight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” responded Miss Rose, briskly. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been deceiving you,” he repeated. “I have made you believe that +I am a person of title.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” said Miss Rose again. +</p> + +<p> +The other started and eyed her uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody would mistake you for a lord,” said Miss Rose, cruelly. “Why, I +shouldn’t think that you had ever seen one. You didn’t do it at all +properly. Why, your uncle Cray would have done it better.” Mr. Cray’s +nephew fell back in consternation and eyed her dumbly as she laughed. +All mirth is not contagious, and he was easily able to refrain from +joining in this. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t understand,” said Miss Rose, as she wiped a tear-dimmed eye—“I +can’t understand how you could have thought I should be so stupid.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been a fool,” said the other, bitterly, as he retreated to the +door. “Good-by.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-by,” said Jane. She looked him full in the face, and the blushes +for which she had been waiting came in force. “You needn’t go, unless +you want to,” she said, softly. “I like fools better than lords.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus09"></a> +<img src="images/img12.jpg" width="579" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘I like fools better than lords.’”</p> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +ALF’S DREAM +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<img src="images/img13.jpg" width="600" height="478" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>ALF’S DREAM</h2> + +<p> +“I’ve just been drinking a man’s health,” said the night watchman, +coming slowly on to the wharf and wiping his mouth with the back of his +hand; “he’s come in for a matter of three ’undred and twenty pounds, and +he stood me arf a pint—arf a pint!” +</p> + +<p> +He dragged a small empty towards him, and after planing the surface with +his hand sat down and gazed scornfully across the river. +</p> + +<p> +“Four ale,” he said, with a hard laugh; “and when I asked ’im—just for +the look of the thing, and to give ’im a hint—whether he’d ’ave +another, he said ‘yes.’” +</p> + +<p> +The night watchman rose and paced restlessly up and down the jetty. +</p> + +<p> +“Money,” he said, at last, resuming his wonted calm and lowering himself +carefully to the box again—“money always gets left to the wrong +people; some of the kindest-’arted men I’ve ever known ’ave never had a +ha’penny left ’em, while teetotaler arter teetotaler wot I’ve heard of +’ave come in for fortins.” +</p> + +<p> +It’s ’ard lines though, sometimes, waiting for other people’s money. I +knew o’ one chap that waited over forty years for ’is grandmother to die +and leave ’im her money; and she died of catching cold at ’is funeral. +Another chap I knew, arter waiting years and years for ’is rich aunt to +die, was hung because she committed suicide. +</p> + +<p> +It’s always risky work waiting for other people to die and leave you +money. Sometimes they don’t die; sometimes they marry agin; and +sometimes they leave it to other people instead. +</p> + +<p> +Talking of marrying agin reminds me o’ something that ’appened to a +young fellow I knew named Alf Simms. Being an orphan ’e was brought up +by his uncle, George Hatchard, a widowed man of about sixty. Alf used to +go to sea off and on, but more off than on, his uncle ’aving quite a +tidy bit of ’ouse property, and it being understood that Alf was to have +it arter he ’ad gone. His uncle used to like to ’ave him at ’ome, and +Alf didn’t like work, so it suited both parties. +</p> + +<p> +I used to give Alf a bit of advice sometimes, sixty being a dangerous +age for a man, especially when he ’as been a widower for so long he ’as +had time to forget wot being married’s like; but I must do Alf the +credit to say it wasn’t wanted. He ’ad got a very old ’ead on his +shoulders, and always picked the housekeeper ’imself to save the old man +the trouble. I saw two of ’em, and I dare say I could ’ave seen more, +only I didn’t want to. +</p> + +<p> +Cleverness is a good thing in its way, but there’s such a thing as being +too clever, and the last ’ousekeeper young Alf picked died of old age a +week arter he ’ad gone to sea. She passed away while she was drawing +George Hatchard’s supper beer, and he lost ten gallons o’ the best +bitter ale and his ’ousekeeper at the same time. +</p> + +<p> +It was four months arter that afore Alf came ’ome, and the fust sight of +the new ’ousekeeper, wot opened the door to ’im, upset ’im terrible. She +was the right side o’ sixty to begin with, and only ordinary plain. Then +she was as clean as a new pin, and dressed up as though she was going +out to tea. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you’re Alfred, I s’pose?” she ses, looking at ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Simms is my name,” ses young Alf, starting and drawing hisself up. +</p> + +<p> +“I know you by your portrait,” ses the ’ousekeeper. “Come in. ’Ave you +’ad a pleasant v’y’ge? Wipe your boots.” +</p> + +<p> +Alfred wiped ’is boots afore he thought of wot he was doing. Then he +drew hisself up stiff agin and marched into the parlor. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down,” ses the ’ousekeeper, in a kind voice. +</p> + +<p> +Alfred sat down afore he thought wot ’e was doing agin. +</p> + +<p> +“I always like to see people comfortable,” ses the ’ousekeeper; “it’s my +way. It’s warm weather for the time o’ year, ain’t it? George is +upstairs, but he’ll be down in a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Who?</i>” ses Alf, hardly able to believe his ears. +</p> + +<p> +“George,” ses the ’ousekeeper. +</p> + +<p> +“George? George who?” ses Alfred, very severe. +</p> + +<p> +“Why your uncle, of course,” ses the ’ousekeeper. “Do you think I’ve got +a houseful of Georges?” +</p> + +<p> +Young Alf sat staring at her and couldn’t say a word. He noticed that +the room ’ad been altered, and that there was a big photygraph of her +stuck up on the mantelpiece. He sat there fidgeting with ’is feet—until +the ’ousekeeper looked at them—and then ’e got up and walked upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +His uncle, wot was sitting on his bed when ’e went into the room and +pretended that he ’adn’t heard ’im come in, shook hands with ’im as +though he’d never leave off. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got something to tell you, Alf,” he ses, arter they ’ad said “How +d’ye do?” and he ’ad talked about the weather until Alf was fair tired +of it. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been and gone and done a foolish thing, and ’ow you’ll take it I +don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Been and asked the new ’ousekeeper to marry you, I s’pose?” ses Alf, +looking at ’im very hard. +</p> + +<p> +His uncle shook his ’ead. “I never asked ’er; I’d take my Davy I +didn’t,” he ses. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you ain’t going to marry her, then?” ses Alf, brightening up. +</p> + +<p> +His uncle shook his ’ead agin. “She didn’t want no asking,” he ses, +speaking very slow and mournful. “I just ’appened to put my arm round +her waist by accident one day and the thing was done.” +</p> + +<p> +“Accident? How could you do it by accident?” ses Alf, firing up. +</p> + +<p> +“How can I tell you that?” ses George Hatchard. “If I’d known ’ow, it +wouldn’t ’ave been an accident, would it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you want to marry her?” ses Alf, at last. “You needn’t marry ’er +if you don’t want to.” +</p> + +<p> +George Hatchard looked at ’im and sniffed. “When you know her as well as +I do you won’t talk so foolish,” he ses. “We’d better go down now, else +she’ll think we’ve been talking about ’er.” +</p> + +<p> +They went downstairs and ’ad tea together, and young Alf soon see the +truth of his uncle’s remarks. Mrs. Pearce—that was the ’ousekeeper’s +name—called his uncle “dear” every time she spoke to ’im, and arter +tea she sat on the sofa side by side with ’im and held his ’and. +</p> + +<p> +Alf lay awake arf that night thinking things over and ’ow to get Mrs. +Pearce out of the house, and he woke up next morning with it still on +’is mind. Every time he got ’is uncle alone he spoke to ’im about it, +and told ’im to pack Mrs. Pearce off with a month’s wages, but George +Hatchard wouldn’t listen to ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“She’d ’ave me up for breach of promise and ruin me,” he ses. “She reads +the paper to me every Sunday arternoon, mostly breach of promise cases, +and she’d ’ave me up for it as soon as look at me. She’s got ’eaps and +’eaps of love-letters o’ mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Love-letters!” ses Alf, staring. “Love-letters when you live in the +same house!” +</p> + +<p> +“She started it,” ses his uncle; “she pushed one under my door one +morning, and I ’ad to answer it. She wouldn’t come down and get my +breakfast till I did. I have to send her one every morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you sign ’em with your own name?” ses Alf, arter thinking a bit. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” ses ’is uncle, turning red. +</p> + +<p> +“Wot do you sign ’em, then?” ses Alf. +</p> + +<p> +“Never you mind,” ses his uncle, turning redder. “It’s my handwriting, +and that’s good enough for her. I did try writing backwards, but I only +did it once. I wouldn’t do it agin for fifty pounds. You ought to ha’ +heard ’er.” +</p> + +<p> +“If ’er fust husband was alive she couldn’t marry you,” ses Alf, very +slow and thoughtful. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” ses his uncle, nasty-like; “and if I was an old woman she couldn’t +marry me. You know as well as I do that he went down with the <i>Evening +Star</i> fifteen years ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“So far as she knows,” ses Alf; “but there was four of them saved, so +why not five? Mightn’t ’e have floated away on a spar or something and +been picked up? Can’t you dream it three nights running, and tell ’er +that you feel certain sure he’s alive?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I dreamt it fifty times it wouldn’t make any difference,” ses George +Hatchard. “Here! wot are you up to? ’Ave you gone mad, or wot? You poke +me in the ribs like that agin if you dare.” +</p> + +<p> +“Her fust ’usband’s alive,” ses Alf, smiling at ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Wot?</i>” ses his uncle. +</p> + +<p> +“He floated away on a bit o’ wreckage,” ses Alf, nodding at ’im, “just +like they do in books, and was picked up more dead than alive and took +to Melbourne. He’s now living up-country working on a sheep station.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s dreaming now?” ses his uncle. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a fact,” ses Alf. “I know a chap wot’s met ’im and talked to ’im. +She can’t marry you while he’s alive, can she?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly <i>not</i>,” ses George Hatchard, trembling all over; “but +are you sure you ’aven’t made a mistake?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certain sure,” ses Alf. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s too good to be true,” ses George Hatchard. +</p> + +<p> +“O’ course it is,” ses Alf, “but she won’t know that. Look ’ere; you +write down all the things that she ’as told you about herself and give +it to me, and I’ll soon find the chap I spoke of wot’s met ’im. He’d +meet a dozen men if it was made worth his while.” +</p> + +<p> +George Hatchard couldn’t understand ’im at fust, and when he did he +wouldn’t ’ave a hand in it because it wasn’t the right thing to do, and +because he felt sure that Mrs. Pearce would find it out. But at last ’e +wrote out all about her for Alf; her maiden name, and where she was +born, and everything; and then he told Alf that, if ’e dared to play +such a trick on an unsuspecting, loving woman, he’d never forgive ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall want a couple o’ quid,” ses Alf. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not,” ses his uncle. “I won’t ’ave nothing to do with it, I +tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only to buy chocolates with,” ses Alf. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, all right,” ses George Hatchard; and he went upstairs to ’is +bedroom and came down with three pounds and gave ’im. “If that ain’t +enough,” he ses, “let me know, and you can ’ave more.” +</p> + +<p> +Alf winked at ’im, but the old man drew hisself up and stared at ’im, +and then ’e turned and walked away with his ’ead in the air. +</p> + +<p> +He ’ardly got a chance of speaking to Alf next day, Mrs. Pearce being +’ere, there, and everywhere, as the saying is, and finding so many +little odd jobs for Alf to do that there was no time for talking. But +the day arter he sidled up to ’im when the ’ouse-keeper was out of the +room and asked ’im whether he ’ad bought the chocolates. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” ses Alfred, taking one out of ’is pocket and eating it, “some of +’em.” +</p> + +<p> +George Hatchard coughed and fidgeted about. “When are you going to buy +the others?” he ses. +</p> + +<p> +“As I want ’em,” ses Alf. “They’d spoil if I got ’em all at once.” +</p> + +<p> +George Hatchard coughed agin. “I ’ope you haven’t been going on with +that wicked plan you spoke to me about the other night,” he ses. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not,” ses Alf, winking to ’imself; “not arter wot you said. +How could I?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” ses the old man. “I’m sorry for this marriage for your +sake, Alf. O’ course, I was going to leave you my little bit of ’ouse +property, but I suppose now it’ll ’ave to be left to her. Well, well, I +s’pose it’s best for a young man to make his own way in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“I s’pose so,” ses Alf. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Pearce was asking only yesterday when you was going back to sea +agin,” ses his uncle, looking at ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” ses Alf. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s took a dislike to you, I think,” ses the old man. “It’s very +’ard, my fav’rite nephew, and the only one I’ve got. I forgot to tell +you the other day that her fust ’usband, Charlie Pearce, ’ad a kind of a +wart on ’is left ear. She’s often spoke to me about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“In—deed!” ses Alf. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” ses his uncle, “<i>left</i> ear, and a scar on his forehead where +a friend of his kicked ’im one day.” +</p> + +<p> +Alf nodded, and then he winked at ’im agin. George Hatchard didn’t wink +back, but he patted ’im on the shoulder and said ’ow well he was filling +out, and ’ow he got more like ’is pore mother every day he lived. +</p> + + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus10"></a> +<img src="images/img14.jpg" width="570" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“He patted ’im on the shoulder and said ’ow well he was +filling out.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“I ’ad a dream last night,” ses Alf. “I dreamt that a man I know named +Bill Flurry, but wot called ’imself another name in my dream, and didn’t +know me then, came ’ere one evening when we was all sitting down at +supper, Joe Morgan and ’is missis being here, and said as ’ow Mrs. +Pearce’s fust husband was alive and well.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a very odd dream,” ses his uncle; “but wot was Joe Morgan and +his missis in it for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Witnesses,” ses Alf. +</p> + +<p> +George Hatchard fell over a footstool with surprise. “Go on,” he ses, +rubbing his leg. “It’s a queer thing, but I was going to ask the Morgans +’ere to spend the evening next Wednesday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or was it Tuesday?” ses Alf, considering. +</p> + +<p> +“I said Tuesday,” ses his uncle, looking over Alf’s ’ead so that he +needn’t see ’im wink agin. “Wot was the end of your dream, Alf?” +</p> + +<p> +“The end of it was,” ses Alf, “that you and Mrs. Pearce was both very +much upset, as o’ course you couldn’t marry while ’er fust was alive, +and the last thing I see afore I woke up was her boxes standing at the +front door waiting for a cab.” +</p> + +<p> +George Hatchard was going to ask ’im more about it, but just then Mrs. +Pearce came in with a pair of Alf’s socks that he ’ad been untidy enough +to leave in the middle of the floor instead of chucking ’em under the +bed. She was so unpleasant about it that, if it hadn’t ha’ been for the +thought of wot was going to ’appen on Tuesday, Alf couldn’t ha’ stood +it. +</p> + +<p> +For the next day or two George Hatchard was in such a state of +nervousness and excitement that Alf was afraid that the ’ousekeeper +would notice it. On Tuesday morning he was trembling so much that she +said he’d got a chill, and she told ’im to go to bed and she’d make ’im +a nice hot mustard poultice. George was afraid to say “no,” but while +she was in the kitchen making the poultice he slipped out for a walk and +cured ’is trembling with three whiskies. Alf nearly got the poultice +instead, she was so angry. +</p> + +<p> +She was unpleasant all dinner-time, but she got better in the arternoon, and +when the Morgans came in the evening, and she found that Mrs. Morgan ’ad got a +nasty sort o’ red swelling on her nose, she got quite good-tempered. She talked +about it nearly all supper-time, telling ’er what she ought to do to it, and +about a friend of hers that ’ad one and ’ad to turn teetotaler on account of +it. +</p> + +<p> +“My nose is good enough for me,” ses Mrs. Morgan, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“It don’t affect ’er appetite,” ses George Hatchard, trying to make +things pleasant, “and that’s the main thing.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Morgan got up to go, but arter George Hatchard ’ad explained wot he +didn’t mean she sat down agin and began to talk to Mrs. Pearce about ’er +dress and ’ow beautifully it was made. And she asked Mrs. Pearce to give +’er the pattern of it, because she should ’ave one like it herself when +she was old enough. “I do like to see people dressed suitable,” she ses, +with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you ought to ’ave a much deeper color than this,” ses Mrs. +Pearce, considering. +</p> + +<p> +“Not when I’m faded,” ses Mrs. Morgan. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Pearce, wot was filling ’er glass at the time, spilt a lot of beer +all over the tablecloth, and she was so cross about it that she sat like +a stone statue for pretty near ten minutes. By the time supper was +finished people was passing things to each other in whispers, and when a +bit o’ cheese went the wrong way with Joe Morgan he nearly suffocated +’imself for fear of making a noise. +</p> + +<p> +They ’ad a game o’ cards arter supper, counting twenty nuts as a penny, +and everybody got more cheerful. They was all laughing and talking, and +Joe Morgan was pretending to steal Mrs. Pearce’s nuts, when George +Hatchard held up his ’and. +</p> + +<p> +“Somebody at the street door, I think,” he ses. +</p> + +<p> +Young Alf got up to open it, and they ’eard a man’s voice in the passage +asking whether Mrs. Pearce lived there, and the next moment Alf came +into the room, followed by Bill Flurry. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s a gentleman o’ the name o’ Smith asking arter you,” he ses, +looking at Mrs. Pearce. +</p> + +<p> +“Wot d’you want?” ses Mrs. Pearce rather sharp. +</p> + +<p> +“It is ’er,” ses Bill, stroking his long white beard and casting ’is +eyes up at the ceiling. “You don’t remember me, Mrs. Pearce, but I used +to see you years ago, when you and poor Charlie Pearce was living down +Poplar way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, wot about it?” ses Mrs. Pearce. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m coming to it,” ses Bill Flurry. “I’ve been two months trying to +find you, so there’s no need to be in a hurry for a minute or two. +Besides, what I’ve got to say ought to be broke gently, in case you +faint away with joy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rubbish!” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I ain’t the fainting sort.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ’ope it’s nothing unpleasant,” ses George Hatchard, pouring ’im out a +glass of whisky. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite the opposite,” ses Bill. “It’s the best news she’s ’eard for +fifteen years.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to tell me wot you want, or ain’t you?” ses Mrs. Pearce. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m coming to it,” ses Bill. “Six months ago I was in Melbourne, and +one day I was strolling about looking in at the shop-winders, when all +at once I thought I see a face I knew. It was a good bit older than when +I see it last, and the whiskers was gray, but I says to myself—” +</p> + +<p> +“I can see wot’s coming,” ses Mrs. Morgan, turning red with excitement +and pinching Joe’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“I ses to myself,” ses Bill Flurry, “either that’s a ghost, I ses or +else it’s Charlie—” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on,” ses George Hatchard, as was sitting with ’is fists clinched on +the table and ’is eyes wide open, staring at ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“Pearce,” ses Bill Flurry. +</p> + +<p> +You might ’ave heard a pin drop. They all sat staring at ’im, and then +George Hatchard took out ’is handkerchief and ’eld it up to ’is face. +</p> + +<p> +“But he was drownded in the <i>Evening Star</i>,” ses Joe Morgan. +</p> + +<p> +Bill Flurry didn’t answer ’im. He poured out pretty near a tumbler of +whisky and offered it to Mrs. Pearce, but she pushed it away, and, arter +looking round in a ’elpless sort of way and shaking his ’ead once or +twice, he finished it up ’imself. +</p> + +<p> +“It couldn’t ’ave been ’im,” ses George Hatchard, speaking through ’is +handkerchief. “I can’t believe it. It’s too cruel.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you it was ’im,” ses Bill. “He floated off on a spar when the +ship went down, and was picked up two days arterwards by a bark and +taken to New Zealand. He told me all about it, and he told me if ever I +saw ’is wife to give her ’is kind regards.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Kind regards</i>!” ses Joe Morgan, starting up. “Why didn’t he let +’is wife know ’e was alive?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s wot I said to ’im,” ses Bill Flurry; “but he said he ’ad ’is +reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, to be sure,” ses Mrs. Morgan, nodding. “Why, you and her can’t be +married now,” she ses, turning to George Hatchard. +</p> + +<p> +“Married?” ses Bill Flurry with a start, as George Hatchard gave a groan +that surprised ’imself. “Good gracious! what a good job I found ’er!” +</p> + +<p> +“I s’pose you don’t know where he is to be found now?” ses Mrs. Pearce, +in a low voice, turning to Bill. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not, ma’am,” ses Bill, “but I think you’d find ’im somewhere in +Australia. He keeps changing ’is name and shifting about, but I dare say +you’d ’ave as good a chance of finding ’im as anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a terrible blow to me,” ses George Hatchard, dabbing his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I know it is,” ses Mrs. Pearce; “but there, you men are all alike. I +dare say if this hadn’t turned up you’d ha’ found something else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, ’ow can you talk like that?” ses George Hatchard, very reproachful. +“It’s the only thing in the world that could ’ave prevented our getting +married. I’m surprised at you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s all right, then,” ses Mrs. Pearce, “and we’ll get married +after all.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you can’t,” ses Alf. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s bigamy,” ses Joe Morgan. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d get six months,” ses his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you worry, dear,” ses Mrs. Pearce, nodding at George Hatchard; +“that man’s made a mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mistake!” ses Bill Flurry. “Why, I tell you I talked to ’im. It was +Charlie Pearce right enough; scar on ’is forehead and a wart on ’is left +ear and all.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s wonderful,” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I can’t think where you got it all +from.” +</p> + +<p> +“Got it all from?” ses Bill, staring at her. “Why, from ’im.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, of course,” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I didn’t think of that; but that only +makes it the more wonderful, doesn’t it?—because, you see, he didn’t go +on the <i>Evening Star</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Wot</i>?” ses George Hatchard. “Why you told me yourself—” +</p> + +<p> +“I know I did,” ses Mrs. Pearce, “but that was only just to spare your +feelings. Charlie <i>was</i> going to sea in her, but he was prevented.” +</p> + +<p> +“Prevented?” ses two or three of ’em. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” ses Mrs. Pearce; “the night afore he was to ’ave sailed there was +some silly mistake over a diamond ring, and he got five years. He gave a +different name at the police-station, and naturally everybody thought ’e +went down with the ship. And when he died in prison I didn’t undeceive +’em.” +</p> + +<p> +She took out her ’andkerchief, and while she was busy with it Bill +Flurry got up and went out on tiptoe. Young Alf got up a second or two +arterwards to see where he’d gone; and the last Joe Morgan and his +missis see of the happy couple they was sitting on one chair, and George +Hatchard was making desprit and ’artrending attempts to smile. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +A DISTANT RELATIVE +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<img src="images/img15.jpg" width="600" height="555" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>A DISTANT RELATIVE</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Potter had just taken Ethel Spriggs into the kitchen to say good-by; in the +small front room Mr. Spriggs, with his fingers already fumbling at the linen +collar of ceremony, waited impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“They get longer and longer over their good-bys,” he complained. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s only natural,” said Mrs. Spriggs, looking up from a piece of fine +sewing. “Don’t you remember—” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t,” said her husband, doggedly. “I know that your pore father +never ’ad to put on a collar for me; and, mind you, I won’t wear one +after they’re married, not if you all went on your bended knees and +asked me to.” +</p> + +<p> +He composed his face as the door opened, and nodded good-night to the +rather over-dressed young man who came through the room with his +daughter. +</p> + +<p> +The latter opened the front-door and passing out with Mr. Potter, held +it slightly open. A penetrating draught played upon the exasperated Mr. +Spriggs. He coughed loudly. +</p> + +<p> +“Your father’s got a cold,” said Mr. Potter, in a concerned voice. +</p> + +<p> +“No; it’s only too much smoking,” said the girl. “He’s smoking all day +long.” +</p> + +<p> +The indignant Mr. Spriggs coughed again; but the young people had found +a new subject of conversation. It ended some minutes later in a playful +scuffle, during which the door acted the part of a ventilating fan. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s only for another fortnight,” said Mrs. Spriggs, hastily, as her +husband rose. +</p> + +<p> +“After they’re spliced,” said the vindictive Mr. Spriggs, resuming his +seat, “I’ll go round and I’ll play about with their front-door till—” +</p> + +<p> +He broke off abruptly as his daughter, darting into the room, closed the +door with a bang that nearly extinguished the lamp, and turned the key. +Before her flushed and laughing face Mr. Spriggs held his peace. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter?” she asked, eying him. “What are you looking like +that for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Too much draught—for your mother,” said Mr. Spriggs, feebly. “I’m +afraid of her asthma agin.” +</p> + +<p> +He fell to work on the collar once more, and, escaping at last from the +clutches of that enemy, laid it on the table and unlaced his boots. An +attempt to remove his coat was promptly frustrated by his daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll get doing it when you come round to see us,” she explained. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Spriggs sighed, and lighting a short clay pipe—forbidden in the +presence of his future son-in-law—fell to watching mother and daughter +as they gloated over dress materials and discussed double-widths. +</p> + +<p> +“Anybody who can’t be ’appy with her,” he said, half an hour later, as +his daughter slapped his head by way of bidding him good-night, and +retired, “don’t deserve to be ’appy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish it was over,” whispered his wife. “She’ll break her heart if +anything happens, and—and Gussie will be out now in a day or two.” +</p> + +<p> +“A gal can’t ’elp what her uncle does,” said Mr. Spriggs, fiercely; “if +Alfred throws her over for that, he’s no man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pride is his great fault,” said his wife, mournfully. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no good taking up troubles afore they come,” observed Mr. Spriggs. +“P’r’aps Gussie won’t come ’ere.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll come straight here,” said his wife, with conviction; “he’ll come +straight here and try and make a fuss of me, same as he used to do when +we was children and I’d got a ha’penny. I know him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cheer up, old gal,” said Mr. Spriggs; “if he does, we must try and get +rid of ’im; and, if he won’t go, we must tell Alfred that he’s been to +Australia, same as we did Ethel.” +</p> + +<p> +His wife smiled faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the ticket,” continued Mr. Spriggs. “For one thing, I b’leeve +he’ll be ashamed to show his face here; but, if he does, he’s come back +from Australia. See? It’ll make it nicer for ’im too. You don’t suppose +he wants to boast of where he’s been?” +</p> + +<p> +“And suppose he comes while Alfred is here?” said his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I say, ‘How ’ave you left ’em all in Australia?’ and wink at him,” +said the ready Mr. Spriggs. +</p> + +<p> +“And s’pose you’re not here?” objected his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you say it and wink at him,” was the reply. “No; I know you +can’t,” he added, hastily, as Mrs. Spriggs raised another objection; +“you’ve been too well brought up. Still, you can try.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a slight comfort to Mrs. Spriggs that Mr. Augustus Price did, +after all, choose a convenient time for his reappearance. A faint knock +sounded on the door two days afterwards as she sat at tea with her +husband, and an anxious face with somewhat furtive eyes was thrust into +the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Emma!” said a mournful voice, as the upper part of the intruder’s body +followed the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Gussie!” said Mrs. Spriggs, rising in disorder. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price drew his legs into the room, and, closing the door with +extraordinary care, passed the cuff of his coat across his eyes and +surveyed them tenderly. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve come home to die,” he said, slowly, and, tottering across the +room, embraced his sister with much unction. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to die of?” inquired Mr. Spriggs, reluctantly +accepting the extended hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Broken ’art, George,” replied his brother-in-law, sinking into a chair. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Spriggs grunted, and, moving his chair a little farther away, +watched the intruder as his wife handed him a plate. A troubled glance +from his wife reminded him of their arrangements for the occasion, and +he cleared his throat several times in vain attempts to begin. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry that we can’t ask you to stay with us, Gussie, ’specially as +you’re so ill,” he said, at last; “but p’r’aps you’ll be better after +picking a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price, who was about to take a slice of bread and butter, refrained, +and, closing his eyes, uttered a faint moan. “I sha’n’t last the night,” +he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s just it,” said Mr. Spriggs, eagerly. “You see, Ethel is going to +be married in a fortnight, and if you died here that would put it off.” +</p> + +<p> +“I might last longer if I was took care of,” said the other, opening his +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“And, besides, Ethel don’t know where you’ve been,” continued Mr. +Spriggs. “We told ’er that you had gone to Australia. She’s going to +marry a very partikler young chap—a grocer—and if he found it out it +might be awk’ard.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price closed his eyes again, but the lids quivered. +</p> + +<p> +“It took ’im some time to get over me being a bricklayer,” pursued Mr. +Spriggs. “What he’d say to you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell ’im I’ve come back from Australia, if you like,” said Mr. Price, +faintly. “I don’t mind.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Spriggs cleared his throat again. “But, you see, we told Ethel as you was +doing well out there,” he said, with an embarrassed laugh, “and girl-like, and +Alfred talking a good deal about his relations, she—she’s made the most of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It don’t matter,” said the complaisant Mr. Price; “you say what you +like. I sha’n’t interfere with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, you see, you don’t look as though you’ve been making money,” said +his sister, impatiently. “Look at your clothes.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price held up his hand. “That’s easy got over,” he remarked; “while +I’m having a bit of tea George can go out and buy me some new ones. You +get what you think I should look richest in, George—a black tail-coat +would be best, I should think, but I leave it to you. A bit of a fancy +waistcoat, p’r’aps, lightish trousers, and a pair o’ nice boots, easy +sevens.” +</p> + +<p> +He sat upright in his chair and, ignoring the look of consternation that +passed between husband and wife, poured himself out a cup of tea and +took a slice of cake. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got any money?” said Mr. Spriggs, after a long pause. +</p> + +<p> +“I left it behind me—in Australia,” said Mr. Price, with ill-timed +facetiousness. +</p> + +<p> +“Getting better, ain’t you?” said his brother-in-law, sharply. “How’s +that broken ’art getting on?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll go all right under a fancy waistcoat,” was the reply; “and while +you’re about it, George, you’d better get me a scarf-pin, and, if you +<i>could</i> run to a gold watch and chain—” +</p> + +<p> +He was interrupted by a frenzied outburst from Mr. Spriggs; a somewhat +incoherent summary of Mr. Price’s past, coupled with unlawful and +heathenish hopes for his future. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re wasting time,” said Mr. Price, calmly, as he paused for breath. +“Don’t get ’em if you don’t want to. I’m trying to help you, that’s all. +I don’t mind anybody knowing where I’ve been. I was innercent. If you +will give way to sinful pride you must pay for it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Spriggs, by a great effort, regained his self-control. “Will you go +away if I give you a quid?” he asked, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mr. Price, with a placid smile. “I’ve got a better idea of +the value of money than that. Besides, I want to see my dear niece, and +see whether that young man’s good enough for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Two quid?” suggested his brother-in-law. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price shook his head. “I couldn’t do it,” he said, calmly. “In +justice to myself I couldn’t do it. You’ll be feeling lonely when you +lose Ethel, and I’ll stay and keep you company.” +</p> + +<p> +The bricklayer nearly broke out again; but, obeying a glance from his +wife, closed his lips and followed her obediently upstairs. Mr. Price, +filling his pipe from a paper of tobacco on the mantelpiece, winked at +himself encouragingly in the glass, and smiled gently as he heard the +chinking of coins upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Be careful about the size,” he said, as Mr. Spriggs came down and took +his hat from a nail; “about a couple of inches shorter than yourself and +not near so much round the waist.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Spriggs regarded him sternly for a few seconds, and then, closing +the door with a bang, went off down the street. Left alone, Mr. Price +strolled about the room investigating, and then, drawing an easy-chair +up to the fire, put his feet on the fender and relapsed into thought. +</p> + +<p> +Two hours later he sat in the same place, a changed and resplendent +being. His thin legs were hidden in light check trousers, and the +companion waistcoat to Joseph’s Coat graced the upper part of his body. +A large chrysanthemum in the button-hole of his frock-coat completed the +picture of an Australian millionaire, as understood by Mr. Spriggs. +</p> + +<p> +“A nice watch and chain, and a little money in my pockets, and I shall +be all right,” murmured Mr. Price. +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t get any more out o’ me,” said Mr. Spriggs, fiercely. “I’ve +spent every farthing I’ve got.” +</p> + +<p> +“Except what’s in the bank,” said his brother-in-law. “It’ll take you a +day or two to get at it, I know. S’pose we say Saturday for the watch +and chain?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Spriggs looked helplessly at his wife, but she avoided his gaze. He +turned and gazed in a fascinated fashion at Mr. Price, and received a +cheerful nod in return. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll come with you and help choose it,” said the latter. “It’ll save +you trouble if it don’t save your pocket.” +</p> + +<p> +He thrust his hands in his trouser-pockets and, spreading his legs wide +apart, tilted his head back and blew smoke to the ceiling. He was in the +same easy position when Ethel arrived home accompanied by Mr. Potter. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s—it’s your Uncle Gussie,” said Mrs. Spriggs, as the girl stood +eying the visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“From Australia,” said her husband, thickly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price smiled, and his niece, noticing that he removed his pipe and +wiped his lips with the back of his hand, crossed over and kissed his +eyebrow. Mr. Potter was then introduced and received a gracious +reception, Mr. Price commenting on the extraordinary likeness he bore to +a young friend of his who had just come in for forty thousand a year. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s nearly as much as you’re worth, uncle, isn’t it?” inquired Miss +Spriggs, daringly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price shook his head at her and pondered. “Rather more,” he said, at +last, “rather more.” +</p> + + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus11"></a> +<img src="images/img16.jpg" width="600" height="449" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“Mr. Potter was then introduced and received a gracious +reception.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +Mr. Potter caught his breath sharply; Mr. Spriggs, who was stooping to +get a light for his pipe, nearly fell into the fire. There was an +impressive silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Money isn’t everything,” said Mr. Price, looking round and shaking his +head. “It’s not much good, except to give away.” +</p> + +<p> +His eye roved round the room and came to rest finally upon Mr. Potter. +The young man noticed with a thrill that it beamed with benevolence. +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy coming over without saying a word to anybody, and taking us all +by surprise like this!” said Ethel. +</p> + +<p> +“I felt I must see you all once more before I died,” said her uncle, +simply. “Just a flying visit I meant it to be, but your father and +mother won’t hear of my going back just yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not,” said Ethel, who was helping the silent Mrs. Spriggs to +lay supper. +</p> + +<p> +“When I talked of going your father ’eld me down in my chair,” continued +the veracious Mr. Price. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right, too,” said the girl. “Now draw your chair up and have some +supper, and tell us all about Australia.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price drew his chair up, but, as to talking about Australia, he said +ungratefully that he was sick of the name of the place, and preferred +instead to discuss the past and future of Mr. Potter. He learned, among +other things, that that gentleman was of a careful and thrifty +disposition, and that his savings, augmented by a lucky legacy, amounted +to a hundred and ten pounds. +</p> + +<p> +“Alfred is going to stay with Palmer and Mays for another year, and then +we shall take a business of our own,” said Ethel. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right,” said Mr. Price. “I like to see young people make their +own way,” he added meaningly. “It’s good for ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +It was plain to all that he had taken a great fancy to Mr. Potter. He +discussed the grocery trade with the air of a rich man seeking a good +investment, and threw out dark hints about returning to England after a +final visit to Australia and settling down in the bosom of his family. +He accepted a cigar from Mr. Potter after supper, and, when the young +man left—at an unusually late hour—walked home with him. +</p> + +<p> +It was the first of several pleasant evenings, and Mr. Price, who had +bought a book dealing with Australia from a second-hand bookstall, no +longer denied them an account of his adventures there. A gold watch and +chain, which had made a serious hole in his brother-in-law’s Savings +Bank account, lent an air of substance to his waistcoat, and a pin of +excellent paste sparkled in his neck-tie. Under the influence of good +food and home comforts he improved every day, and the unfortunate Mr. +Spriggs was at his wits’ end to resist further encroachments. From the +second day of their acquaintance he called Mr. Potter “Alf,” and the +young people listened with great attention to his discourse on “Money: +How to Make It and How to Keep It.” +</p> + +<p> +His own dealings with Mr. Spriggs afforded an example which he did not +quote. Beginning with shillings, he led up to half-crowns, and, +encouraged by success, one afternoon boldly demanded a half-sovereign to +buy a wedding-present with. Mrs. Spriggs drew her over-wrought husband +into the kitchen and argued with him in whispers. +</p> + +<p> +“Give him what he wants till they’re married,” she entreated; “after +that Alfred can’t help himself, and it’ll be as much to his interest to +keep quiet as anybody else.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Spriggs, who had been a careful man all his life, found the half-sovereign +and a few new names, which he bestowed upon Mr. Price at the same time. The +latter listened unmoved. In fact, a bright eye and a pleasant smile seemed to +indicate that he regarded them rather in the nature of compliments than +otherwise. +</p> + +<p> +“I telegraphed over to Australia this morning,” he said, as they all sat +at supper that evening. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus12"></a> +<img src="images/img17.jpg" width="409" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“A gold watch and chain lent an air of substance to his +waistcoat.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“About my money?” said Mr. Potter, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price frowned at him swiftly. “No; telling my head clerk to send +over a wedding-present for you,” he said, his face softening under the +eye of Mr. Spriggs. “I’ve got just the thing for you there. I can’t see +anything good enough over here.” +</p> + +<p> +The young couple were warm in their thanks. +</p> + +<p> +“What did you mean, about your money?” inquired Mr. Spriggs, turning to +his future son-in-law. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” said the young man, evasively. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a secret,” said Mr. Price. +</p> + +<p> +“What about?” persisted Mr. Spriggs, raising his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a little private business between me and Uncle Gussie,” said Mr. +Potter, somewhat stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +“You—you haven’t been lending him money?” stammered the bricklayer. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be silly, father,” said Miss Spriggs, sharply. “What good would +Alfred’s little bit o’ money be to Uncle Gussie? If you must know, +Alfred is drawing it out for uncle to invest it for him.” +</p> + +<p> +The eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Spriggs and Mr. Price engaged in a triangular +duel. The latter spoke first. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m putting it into my business for him,” he said, with a threatening +glance, “in Australia.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he didn’t want his generosity known,” added Mr. Potter. +</p> + +<p> +The bewildered Mr. Spriggs looked helplessly round the table. His wife’s +foot pressed his, and like a mechanical toy his lips snapped together. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t know you had got your money handy,” said Mrs. Spriggs, in +trembling tones. +</p> + +<p> +“I made special application, and I’m to have it on Friday,” said Mr. +Potter, with a smile. “You don’t get a chance like that every day.” +</p> + +<p> +He filled Uncle Gussie’s glass for him, and that gentleman at once +raised it and proposed the health of the young couple. “If anything was +to ’appen to break it off now,” he said, with a swift glance at his +sister, “they’d be miserable for life, I can see that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miserable for ever,” assented Mr. Potter, in a sepulchral voice, as he +squeezed the hand of Miss Spriggs under the table. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the only thing worth ’aving—love,” continued Mr. Price, watching +his brother-in-law out of the corner of his eye. “Money is nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Spriggs emptied his glass and, knitting his brows, drew patterns on +the cloth with the back of his knife. His wife’s foot was still pressing +on his, and he waited for instructions. +</p> + +<p> +For once, however, Mrs. Spriggs had none to give. Even when Mr. Potter +had gone and Ethel had retired upstairs she was still voiceless. She sat +for some time looking at the fire and stealing an occasional glance at +Uncle Gussie as he smoked a cigar; then she arose and bent over her +husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Do what you think best,” she said, in a weary voice. “Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“What about that money of young Alfred’s?” demanded Mr. Spriggs, as the +door closed behind her. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going to put it in my business,” said Uncle Gussie, blandly; “my +business in Australia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ho! You’ve got to talk to me about that first,” said the other. +</p> + +<p> +His brother-in-law leaned back and smoked with placid enjoyment. “You do +what you like,” he said, easily. “Of course, if you tell Alfred, I +sha’n’t get the money, and Ethel won’t get ’im. Besides that, he’ll find +out what lies you’ve been telling.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder you can look me in the face,” said the raging bricklayer. +</p> + +<p> +“And I should give him to understand that you were going shares in the +hundred and ten pounds and then thought better of it,” said the unmoved +Mr. Price. “He’s the sort o’ young chap as’ll believe anything. Bless +’im!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Spriggs bounced up from his chair and stood over him with his fists +clinched. Mr. Price glared defiance. +</p> + +<p> +“If you’re so partikler you can make it up to him,” he said, slowly. +“You’ve been a saving man, I know, and Emma ’ad a bit left her that I +ought to have ’ad. When you’ve done play-acting I’ll go to bed. So +long!” +</p> + +<p> +He got up, yawning, and walked to the door, and Mr. Spriggs, after a +momentary idea of breaking him in pieces and throwing him out into the +street, blew out the lamp and went upstairs to discuss the matter with +his wife until morning. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Spriggs left for his work next day with the question still +undecided, but a pretty strong conviction that Mr. Price would have to +have his way. The wedding was only five days off, and the house was in a +bustle of preparation. A certain gloom which he could not shake off he +attributed to a raging toothache, turning a deaf ear to the various +remedies suggested by Uncle Gussie, and the name of an excellent dentist +who had broken a tooth of Mr. Potter’s three times before extracting it. +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Gussie he treated with bare civility in public, and to blood-curdling +threats in private. Mr. Price, ascribing the latter to the toothache, also +varied his treatment to his company; prescribing whisky held in the mouth, and +other agreeable remedies when there were listeners, and recommending him to +fill his mouth with cold water and sit on the fire till it boiled, when they +were alone. +</p> + +<p> +He was at his worst on Thursday morning; on Thursday afternoon he came +home a bright and contented man. He hung his cap on the nail with a +flourish, kissed his wife, and, in full view of the disapproving Mr. +Price, executed a few clumsy steps on the hearthrug. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in for a fortune?” inquired the latter, eying him sourly. +</p> + +<p> +“No; I’ve saved one,” replied Mr. Spriggs, gayly. “I wonder I didn’t +think of it myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Think of what?” inquired Mr. Price. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll soon know,” said Mr. Spriggs, “and you’ve only got yourself to +thank for it.” +</p> + +<p> +Uncle Gussie sniffed suspiciously; Mrs. Spriggs pressed for particulars. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got out of the difficulty,” said her husband, drawing his chair to +the tea-table. “Nobody’ll suffer but Gussie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ho!” said that gentleman, sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“I took the day off,” said Mr. Spriggs, smiling contentedly at his wife, +“and went to see a friend of mine, Bill White the policeman, and told +him about Gussie.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price stiffened in his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Acting—under—his—advice,” said Mr. Spriggs, sipping his tea, “I +wrote to Scotland Yard and told ’em that Augustus Price, ticket-of-leave +man, was trying to obtain a hundred and ten pounds by false pretences.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price, white and breathless, rose and confronted him. +</p> + +<p> +“The beauty o’ that is, as Bill says,” continued Mr. Spriggs, with much +enjoyment, “that Gussie’ll ’ave to set out on his travels again. He’ll +have to go into hiding, because if they catch him he’ll ’ave to finish +his time. And Bill says if he writes letters to any of us it’ll only +make it easier to find him. You’d better take the first train to +Australia, Gussie.” +</p> + +<p> +“What—what time did you post—the letter?” inquired Uncle Gussie, +jerkily. +</p> + +<p> +“’Bout two o’clock,” said Mr. Spriggs, glaring at the clock. “I reckon +you’ve just got time.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Price stepped swiftly to the small sideboard, and, taking up his +hat, clapped it on. He paused a moment at the door to glance up and down +the street, and then the door closed softly behind him. Mrs. Spriggs +looked at her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Called away to Australia by special telegram,” said the latter, +winking. “Bill White is a trump; that’s what he is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, George!” said his wife. “Did you really write that letter?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Spriggs winked again. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +THE TEST +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<img src="images/img18.jpg" width="600" height="432" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>THE TEST</h2> + +<p> +Pebblesea was dull, and Mr. Frederick Dix, mate of the ketch +<i>Starfish</i>, after a long and unsuccessful quest for amusement, +returned to the harbor with an idea of forgetting his disappointment in +sleep. The few shops in the High Street were closed, and the only +entertainment offered at the taverns was contained in glass and pewter. +The attitude of the landlord of the “Pilots’ Hope,” where Mr. Dix had +sought to enliven the proceedings by a song and dance, still rankled in +his memory. +</p> + +<p> +The skipper and the hands were still ashore and the ketch looked so +lonely that the mate, thinking better of his idea of retiring, thrust +his hands deep in his pockets and sauntered round the harbor. It was +nearly dark, and the only other man visible stood at the edge of the +quay gazing at the water. He stood for so long that the mate’s easily +aroused curiosity awoke, and, after twice passing, he edged up to him +and ventured a remark on the fineness of the night. +</p> + +<p> +“The night’s all right,” said the young man, gloomily. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re rather near the edge,” said the mate, after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“I like being near the edge,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Dix whistled softly and, glancing up at the tall, white-faced young +man before him, pushed his cap back and scratched his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t got anything on your mind, have you?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +The young man groaned and turned away, and the mate, scenting a little +excitement, took him gently by the coat-sleeve and led him from the +brink. Sympathy begets confidence, and, within the next ten minutes, he +had learned that Arthur Heard, rejected by Emma Smith, was contemplating +the awful crime of self-destruction. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I’ve known ’er for seven years,” said Mr. Heard; “seven years, and +this is the end of it.” +</p> + +<p> +The mate shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I told ’er I was coming straight away to drownd myself,” pursued Mr. +Heard. “My last words to ’er was, ‘When you see my bloated corpse you’ll +be sorry.’” +</p> + +<p> +“I expect she’ll cry and carry on like anything,” said the mate, +politely. +</p> + +<p> +The other turned and regarded him. “Why, you don’t think I’m going to, +do you?” he inquired, sharply. “Why, I wouldn’t drownd myself for fifty +blooming gells.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what did you tell her you were going to for, then?” demanded the +puzzled mate. +</p> + +<p> +“’Cos I thought it would upset ’er and make ’er give way,” said the +other, bitterly; “and all it done was to make ’er laugh as though she’d +’ave a fit.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would serve her jolly well right if you did drown yourself,” said +Mr. Dix, judiciously. “It ’ud spoil her life for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, and it wouldn’t spoil mine, I s’pose?” rejoined Mr. Heard, with +ferocious sarcasm. +</p> + +<p> +“How she will laugh when she sees you to-morrow,” mused the mate. “Is +she the sort of girl that would spread it about?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Heard said that she was, and, forgetting for a moment his great +love, referred to her partiality for gossip in the most scathing terms +he could muster. The mate, averse to such a tame ending to a promising +adventure, eyed him thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not just go in and out again,” he said, seductively, “and run to +her house all dripping wet?” +</p> + +<p> +“That would be clever, wouldn’t it?” said the ungracious Mr. Heard. +“Starting to commit suicide, and then thinking better of it. Why, I +should be a bigger laughing-stock than ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“But suppose I saved you against your will?” breathed the tempter; “how +would that be?” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be all right if I cared to run the risk,” said the other, “but +I don’t. I should look well struggling in the water while you was diving +in the wrong places for me, shouldn’t I?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wasn’t thinking of such a thing,” said Mr. Dix, hastily; “twenty +strokes is about my mark—with my clothes off. My idea was to pull you +out.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Heard glanced at the black water a dozen feet below. “How?” he +inquired, shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“Not here,” said the mate. “Come to the end of the quay where the ground +slopes to the water. It’s shallow there, and you can tell her that you +jumped in off here. She won’t know the difference.” +</p> + +<p> +With an enthusiasm which Mr. Heard made no attempt to share, he led the +way to the place indicated, and dilating upon its manifold advantages, +urged him to go in at once and get it over. +</p> + +<p> +“You couldn’t have a better night for it,” he said, briskly. “Why, it +makes me feel like a dip myself to look at it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Heard gave a surly grunt, and after testing the temperature of the +water with his hand, slowly and reluctantly immersed one foot. Then, +with sudden resolution, he waded in and, ducking his head, stood up +gasping. +</p> + +<p> +“Give yourself a good soaking while you’re about it,” said the delighted +mate. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Heard ducked again, and once more emerging stumbled towards the +bank. +</p> + +<p> +“Pull me out,” he cried, sharply. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Dix, smiling indulgently, extended his hands, which Mr. Heard seized +with the proverbial grasp of a drowning man. +</p> + +<p> +“All right, take it easy, don’t get excited,” said the smiling mate, +“four foot of water won’t hurt anyone. If—Here! Let go o’ me, d’ye +hear? Let go! If you don’t let go I’ll punch your head.” +</p> + +<p> +“You couldn’t save me against my will without coming in,” said Mr. +Heard. “Now we can tell ’er you dived in off the quay and got me just as +I was sinking for the last time. You’ll be a hero.” +</p> + +<p> +The mate’s remarks about heroes were mercifully cut short. He was three +stone lighter than Mr. Heard, and standing on shelving ground. The +latter’s victory was so sudden that he over-balanced, and only a +commotion at the surface of the water showed where they had disappeared. +Mr. Heard was first up and out, but almost immediately the figure of the +mate, who had gone under with his mouth open, emerged from the water and +crawled ashore. +</p> + +<p> +“You—wait—till I—get my breath back,” he gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no ill-feeling, I ’ope?” said Mr. Heard, anxiously. “I’ll tell +everybody of your bravery. Don’t spoil everything for the sake of a +little temper.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Dix stood up and clinched his fists, but at the spectacle of the +dripping, forlorn figure before him his wrath vanished and he broke into +a hearty laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, mate,” he said, clapping him on the back, “now let’s go and +find Emma. If she don’t fall in love with you now she never will. My +eye! you are a picture!” +</p> + +<p> +He began to walk towards the town, and Mr. Heard, with his legs wide +apart and his arms held stiffly from his body, waddled along beside him. +Two little streamlets followed. +</p> + +<p> +They walked along the quay in silence, and had nearly reached the end of +it, when the figure of a man turned the corner of the houses and +advanced at a shambling trot towards them. +</p> + +<p> +“Old Smith!” said Mr. Heard, in a hasty whisper. “Now, be careful. Hold +me tight.” +</p> + +<p> +The new-comer thankfully dropped into a walk as he saw them, and came to +a standstill with a cry of astonishment as the light of a neighboring +lamp revealed their miserable condition. +</p> + +<p> +“Wot, Arthur!” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Halloa,” said Mr. Heard, drearily. +</p> + +<p> +“The idea o’ your being so sinful,” said Mr. Smith, severely. “Emma told +me wot you said, but I never thought as you’d got the pluck to go and do +it. I’m surprised at you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t done it,” said Mr. Heard, in a sullen voice; “nobody can drownd +themselves in comfort with a lot of interfering people about.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Smith turned and gazed at the mate, and a broad beam of admiration +shone in his face as he grasped that gentleman’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Come into the ’ouse both of you and get some dry clothes,” he said, +warmly. +</p> + +<p> +He thrust his strong, thick-set figure between them, and with a hand on +each coat-collar propelled them in the direction of home. The mate +muttered something about going back to his ship, but Mr. Smith refused +to listen, and stopping at the door of a neat cottage, turned the handle +and thrust his dripping charges over the threshold of a comfortable +sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +A pleasant-faced woman of middle age and a pretty girl of twenty rose at +their entrance, and a faint scream fell pleasantly upon the ears of Mr. +Heard. +</p> + +<p> +“Here he is,” bawled Mr. Smith; “just saved at the last moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, two of them?” exclaimed Miss Smith, with a faint note of +gratification in her voice. Her gaze fell on the mate, and she smiled +approvingly. +</p> + +<p> +“No; this one jumped in and saved ’im,” said her father. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Arthur!” said Miss Smith. “How could you be so wicked! I never +dreamt you’d go and do such a thing—never! I didn’t think you’d got it +in you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Heard grinned sheepishly. “I told you I would,” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t stand talking here,” said Mrs. Smith, gazing at the puddle which +was growing in the centre of the carpet; “they’ll catch cold. Take ’em +upstairs and give ’em some dry clothes. And I’ll bring some hot whisky +and water up to ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rum is best,” said Mr. Smith, herding his charges and driving them up +the small staircase. “Send young Joe for some. Send up three glasses.” +They disappeared upstairs, and Joe appearing at that moment from the +kitchen, was hastily sent off to the “Blue Jay” for the rum. A couple of +curious neighbors helped him to carry it back, and, standing modestly +just inside the door, ventured on a few skilled directions as to its +preparation. After which, with an eye on Miss Smith, they stood and +conversed, mostly in head-shakes. +</p> + +<p> +Stimulated by the rum and the energetic Mr. Smith, the men were not long +in changing. Preceded by their host, they came down to the sitting-room +again; Mr. Heard with as desperate and unrepentant an air as he could +assume, and Mr. Dix trying to conceal his uneasiness by taking great +interest in a suit of clothes three sizes too large for him. +</p> + +<p> +“They was both as near drownded as could be,” said Mr. Smith, looking +round; “he ses Arthur fought like a madman to prevent ’imself from being +saved.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was nothing, really,” said the mate, in an almost inaudible voice, +as he met Miss Smith’s admiring gaze. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to ’im,” said the delighted Mr. Smith; “all brave men are like +that. That’s wot’s made us Englishmen wot we are.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t suppose he knew who it was he was saving,” said a voice from +the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t want to be saved,” said Mr. Heard, defiantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you can easy do it again, Arthur,” said the same voice; “the dock +won’t run away.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Heard started and eyed the speaker with same malevolence. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell us all about it,” said Miss Smith, gazing at the mate, with her +hands clasped. “Did you see him jump in?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Dix shook his head and looked at Mr. Heard for guidance. “N—not +exactly,” he stammered; “I was just taking a stroll round the harbor +before turning in, when all of a sudden I heard a cry for help—” +</p> + +<p> +“No you didn’t,” broke in Mr. Heard, fiercely. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it sounded like it,” said the mate, somewhat taken aback. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t care what it sounded like,” said the other. “I didn’t say it. +It was the last thing I should ’ave called out. I didn’t want to be +saved.” +</p> + +<p> +“P’r’aps he cried ‘Emma,’” said the voice from the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Might ha’ been that,” admitted the mate. “Well, when I heard it I ran +to the edge and looked down at the water, and at first I couldn’t see +anything. Then I saw what I took to be a dog, but, knowing that dogs +can’t cry ‘help!’—” +</p> + +<p> +“Emma,” corrected Mr. Heard. +</p> + +<p> +“Emma,” said the mate, “I just put my hands up and dived in. When I came +to the surface I struck out for him and tried to seize him from behind, +but before I could do so he put his arms round my neck like—like—” +</p> + +<p> +“Like as if it was Emma’s,” suggested the voice by the door. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Smith rose with majestic dignity and confronted the speaker. “And +who asked you in here, George Harris?” she inquired, coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“I see the door open,” stammered Mr. Harris—“I see the door open and I +thought—” +</p> + +<p> +“If you look again you’ll see the handle,” said Miss Smith. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Harris looked, and, opening the door with extreme care, melted +slowly from a gaze too terrible for human endurance. +</p> + +<p> +“We went down like a stone,” continued the mate, as Miss Smith resumed +her seat and smiled at him. “When we came up he tried to get away again. +I think we went down again a few more times, but I ain’t sure. Then we +crawled out; leastways I did, and pulled him after me.” +</p> + +<p> +“He might have drowned you,” said Miss Smith, with a severe glance at +her unfortunate admirer. “And it’s my belief that he tumbled in after +all, and when you thought he was struggling to get away he was +struggling to be saved. That’s more like him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, they’re all right now,” said Mr. Smith, as Mr. Heard broke in +with some vehemence. “And this chap’s going to ’ave the Royal Society’s +medal for it, or I’ll know the reason why.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said the mate, hurriedly; “I wouldn’t take it, I couldn’t +think of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Take it or leave it,” said Mr. Smith; “but I’m going to the police to +try and get it for you. I know the inspector a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t take it,” said the horrified mate; “it—it—besides, don’t you +see, if this isn’t kept quiet Mr. Heard will be locked up for trying to +commit suicide.” +</p> + +<p> +“So he would be,” said the other man from his post by the door; “he’s +quite right.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I’d sooner lose fifty medals,” said Mr. Dix. “What’s the good of me +saving him for that?” +</p> + +<p> +A murmur of admiration at the mate’s extraordinary nobility of character +jarred harshly on the ears of Mr. Heard. Most persistent of all was the +voice of Miss Smith, and hardly able to endure things quietly, he sat +and watched the tender glances which passed between her and Mr. Dix. +Miss Smith, conscious at last of his regards, turned and looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +“You could say you tumbled in, Arthur, and then he would get the medal,” +she said, softly. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Say!</i>” shouted the overwrought Mr. Heard. “Say I tum—” +</p> + +<p> +Words failed him. He stood swaying and regarding the company for a +moment, and then, flinging open the door, closed it behind him with a +bang that made the house tremble. +</p> + +<p> +The mate followed half an hour later, escorted to the ship by the entire +Smith family. Fortified by the presence of Miss Smith, he pointed out +the exact scene of the rescue without a tremor, and, when her father +narrated the affair to the skipper, whom they found sitting on deck +smoking a last pipe, listened undismayed to that astonished mariner’s +comments. +</p> + +<p> +News of the mate’s heroic conduct became general the next day, and work +on the ketch was somewhat impeded in consequence. It became a point of +honor with Mr. Heard’s fellow-townsmen to allude to the affair as an +accident, but the romantic nature of the transaction was well +understood, and full credit given to Mr. Dix for his self-denial in the +matter of the medal. Small boys followed him in the street, and half +Pebblesea knew when he paid a visit to the Smith’s, and discussed his +chances. Two nights afterwards, when he and Miss Smith went for a walk +in the loneliest spot they could find, conversation turned almost +entirely upon the over-crowded condition of the British Isles. +</p> + +<p> +The <i>Starfish</i> was away for three weeks, but the little town no +longer looked dull to the mate as she entered the harbor one evening and +glided slowly towards her old berth. Emma Smith was waiting to see the +ship come in, and his taste for all other amusements had temporarily +disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +For two or three days the course of true love ran perfectly smooth; +then, like a dark shadow, the figure of Arthur Heard was thrown across +its path. It haunted the quay, hung about the house, and cropped up +unexpectedly in the most distant solitudes. It came up behind the mate +one evening just as he left the ship and walked beside him in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Halloa,” said the mate, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Halloa,” said Mr. Heard. “Going to see Emma?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going to see Miss Smith,” said the mate. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Heard laughed; a forced, mirthless laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“And we don’t want you following us about,” said Mr. Dix, sharply. “If +it’ll ease your mind, and do you any good to know, you never had a +chance. She told me so.” +</p> + +<p> +“I sha’n’t follow you,” said Mr. Heard; “it’s your last evening, so +you’d better make the most of it.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned on his heel, and the mate, pondering on his last words, went +thoughtfully on to the house. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus13"></a> +<img src="images/img19.jpg" width="600" height="507" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘And we don’t want you following us about,’ said Mr. +Dix, sharply.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +Amid the distraction of pleasant society and a long walk, the matter +passed from his mind, and he only remembered it at nine o’clock that +evening as a knock sounded on the door and the sallow face of Mr. Heard +was thrust into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-evening all,” said the intruder. +</p> + +<p> +“Evening, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, affably. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Heard with a melancholy countenance entered the room and closed the +door gently behind him. Then he coughed slightly and shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything the matter, Arthur?” inquired Mr. Smith, somewhat disturbed by +these manifestations. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got something on my mind,” said Mr. Heard, with a diabolical +glance at the mate—“something wot’s been worrying me for a long time. +I’ve been deceiving you.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was always your failing, Arthur—deceitfulness,” said Mrs. Smith. +“I remember—” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve both been deceiving you,” interrupted Mr. Heard, loudly. “I +didn’t jump into the harbor the other night, and I didn’t tumble in, and +Mr. Fred Dix didn’t jump in after me; we just went to the end of the +harbor and walked in and wetted ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a moment’s intense silence and all eyes turned on the mate. +The latter met them boldly. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a habit o’ mine to walk into the water and spoil my clothes for +the sake of people I’ve never met before,” he said, with a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“For shame, Arthur!” said Mr. Smith, with a huge sigh of relief. +</p> + +<p> +“’Ow can you?” said Mrs. Smith. +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur’s been asleep since then,” said the mate, still smiling. “All +the same, the next time he jumps in he can get out by himself.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Heard, raising his voice, entered into a minute description of the +affair, but in vain. Mr. Smith, rising to his feet, denounced his +ingratitude in language which was seldom allowed to pass unchallenged in +the presence of his wife, while that lady contributed examples of +deceitfulness in the past of Mr. Heard, which he strove in vain to +refute. Meanwhile, her daughter patted the mate’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a bit too thin, Arthur,” said the latter, with a mocking smile; +“try something better next time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Mr. Heard, in quieter tones; “I dare you to come along +to the harbor and jump in, just as you are, where you said you jumped in +after me. They’ll soon see who’s telling the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll do that,” said Mr. Smith, with conviction. +</p> + +<p> +For a fraction of a second Mr. Dix hesitated, then, with a steady glance +at Miss Smith, he sprang to his feet and accepted the challenge. Mrs. +Smith besought him not to be foolish, and, with a vague idea of +dissuading him, told him a slanderous anecdote concerning Mr. Heard’s +aunt. Her daughter gazed at the mate with proud confidence, and, taking +his arm, bade her mother to get some dry clothes ready and led the way +to the harbor. +</p> + +<p> +The night was fine but dark, and a chill breeze blew up from the sea. +Twice the hapless mate thought of backing out, but a glance at Miss +Smith’s profile and the tender pressure of her arm deterred him. The +tide was running out and he had a faint hope that he might keep afloat +long enough to be washed ashore alive. He talked rapidly, and his laugh +rang across the water. Arrived at the spot they stopped, and Miss Smith +looking down into the darkness was unable to repress a shiver. +</p> + +<p> +“Be careful, Fred,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm. +</p> + +<p> +The mate looked at her oddly. “All right,” he said, gayly, “I’ll be out +almost before I’m in. You run back to the house and help your mother get +the dry clothes ready for me.” +</p> + +<p> +His tones were so confident, and his laugh so buoyant, that Mr. Heard, +who had been fully expecting him to withdraw from the affair, began to +feel that he had under-rated his swimming powers. “Just jumping in and +swimming out again is not quite the same as saving a drownding man,” he +said, with a sneer. +</p> + +<p> +In a flash the mate saw a chance of escape. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, there’s no satisfying you,” he said, slowly. “If I do go in I can +see that you won’t own up that you’ve been lying.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll ’ave to,” said Mr. Smith, who, having made up his mind for a +little excitement, was in no mind to lose it. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe he would,” said the mate. “Look here!” he said, +suddenly, as he laid an affectionate arm on the old man’s shoulder. “I +know what we’ll do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Mr. Smith. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll save <i>you</i>,” said the mate, with a smile of great relief. +</p> + +<p> +“Save <i>me</i>?” said the puzzled Mr. Smith, as his daughter uttered a +faint cry. “How?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just as I saved him,” said the other, nodding. “You jump in, and after +you’ve sunk twice—same as he did—I’ll dive in and save you. At any +rate I’ll do my best; I promise you I won’t come ashore without you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Smith hastily flung off the encircling arm and retired a few paces +inland. “’Ave you—ever been—in a lunatic asylum at any time?” he +inquired, as soon as he could speak. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said the mate, gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Neither ’ave I,” said Mr. Smith; “and, what’s more, I’m not going.” +</p> + +<p> +He took a deep breath and stood simmering. Miss Smith came forward and, +with a smothered giggle, took the mate’s arm and squeezed it. +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll have to be Arthur again, then,” said the latter, in a resigned +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Me</i>?” cried Mr. Heard, with a start. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you!” said the mate, in a decided voice. “After what you said just +now I’m not going in without saving somebody. It would be no good. Come +on, in you go.” +</p> + +<p> +“He couldn’t speak fairer than that, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, +dispassionately, as he came forward again. +</p> + +<p> +“But I tell you he can’t swim,” protested Mr. Heard, “not properly. He +didn’t swim last time; I told you so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind; we know what you said,” retorted the mate. “All you’ve got +to do is to jump in and I’ll follow and save you—same as I did the +other night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, encouragingly. “It ain’t cold.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you he can’t swim,” repeated Mr. Heard, passionately. “I should +be drownded before your eyes.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus14"></a> +<img src="images/img20.jpg" width="600" height="436" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘I tell you he can’t swim,’ repeated Mr. Heard, +passionately.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“Rubbish,” said Mr. Smith. “Why, I believe you’re afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be drownded, I tell you,” said Mr. Heard. “He wouldn’t come in +after me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he would,” said Mr. Smith, passing a muscular arm round the mate’s +waist; “’cos the moment you’re overboard I’ll drop ’im in. Are you +ready?” +</p> + +<p> +He stood embracing the mate and waiting, but Mr. Heard, with an +infuriated exclamation, walked away. A parting glance showed him that +the old man had released the mate, and that the latter was now embracing +Miss Smith. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +IN THE FAMILY +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<img src="images/img21.jpg" width="600" height="573" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>IN THE FAMILY</h2> + +<p> +The oldest inhabitant of Claybury sat beneath the sign of the +“Cauliflower” and gazed with affectionate, but dim, old eyes in the +direction of the village street. +</p> + +<p> +“No; Claybury men ain’t never been much of ones for emigrating,” he +said, turning to the youthful traveller who was resting in the shade +with a mug of ale and a cigarette. “They know they’d ’ave to go a long +way afore they’d find a place as ’ud come up to this.” +</p> + +<p> +He finished the tablespoonful of beer in his mug and sat for so long +with his head back and the inverted vessel on his face that the +traveller, who at first thought it was the beginning of a conjuring +trick, colored furiously, and asked permission to refill it. +</p> + +<p> +Now and then a Claybury man has gone to foreign parts, said the old man, +drinking from the replenished mug, and placing it where the traveller +could mark progress without undue strain; but they’ve, generally +speaking, come back and wished as they’d never gone. +</p> + +<p> +The on’y man as I ever heard of that made his fortune by emigrating was +Henery Walker’s great-uncle, Josiah Walker by name, and he wasn’t a +Claybury man at all. He made his fortune out o’ sheep in Australey, and +he was so rich and well-to-do that he could never find time to answer +the letters that Henery Walker used to send him when he was hard up. +</p> + +<p> +Henery Walker used to hear of ’im through a relation of his up in +London, and tell us all about ’im and his money up at this here +“Cauliflower” public-house. And he used to sit and drink his beer and +wonder who would ’ave the old man’s money arter he was dead. +</p> + +<p> +When the relation in London died Henery Walker left off hearing about +his uncle, and he got so worried over thinking that the old man might +die and leave his money to strangers that he got quite thin. He talked +of emigrating to Australey ’imself, and then, acting on the advice of +Bill Chambers—who said it was a cheaper thing to do—he wrote to his +uncle instead, and, arter reminding ’im that ’e was an old man living in +a strange country, ’e asked ’im to come to Claybury and make his ’ome +with ’is loving grand-nephew. +</p> + +<p> +It was a good letter, because more than one gave ’im a hand with it, and +there was little bits o’ Scripture in it to make it more solemn-like. It +was wrote on pink paper with pie-crust edges and put in a green +envelope, and Bill Chambers said a man must ’ave a ’art of stone if that +didn’t touch it. +</p> + +<p> +Four months arterwards Henery Walker got an answer to ’is letter from +’is great-uncle. It was a nice letter, and, arter thanking Henery Walker +for all his kindness, ’is uncle said that he was getting an old man, and +p’r’aps he should come and lay ’is bones in England arter all, and if he +did ’e should certainly come and see his grand-nephew, Henery Walker. +</p> + +<p> +Most of us thought Henery Walker’s fortune was as good as made, but Bob +Pretty, a nasty, low poaching chap that has done wot he could to give +Claybury a bad name, turned up his nose at it. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll believe he’s coming ’ome when I see him,” he ses. “It’s my belief +he went to Australey to get out o’ your way, Henery.” +</p> + +<p> +“As it ’appened he went there afore I was born,” ses Henery Walker, +firing up. +</p> + +<p> +“He knew your father,” ses Bob Pretty, “and he didn’t want to take no +risks.” +</p> + +<p> +They ’ad words then, and arter that every time Bob Pretty met ’im he +asked arter his great-uncle’s ’ealth, and used to pretend to think ’e +was living with ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to get the old gentleman out a bit more, Henery,” he would say; “it +can’t be good for ’im to be shut up in the ’ouse so much—especially your +’ouse.” +</p> + +<p> +Henery Walker used to get that riled he didn’t know wot to do with +’imself, and as time went on, and he began to be afraid that ’is uncle +never would come back to England, he used to get quite nasty if anybody +on’y so much as used the word “uncle” in ’is company. +</p> + +<p> +It was over six months since he ’ad had the letter from ’is uncle, and +’e was up here at the “Cauliflower” with some more of us one night, when +Dicky Weed, the tailor, turns to Bob Pretty and he ses, “Who’s the old +gentleman that’s staying with you, Bob?” +</p> + +<p> +Bob Pretty puts down ’is beer very careful and turns round on ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“Old gentleman?” he ses, very slow. “Wot are you talking about?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean the little old gentleman with white whiskers and a squeaky +voice,” ses Dicky Weed. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve been dreaming,” ses Bob, taking up ’is beer ag’in. +</p> + +<p> +“I see ’im too, Bob,” ses Bill Chambers. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, you did, did you?” ses Bob Pretty, putting down ’is mug with a +bang. “And wot d’ye mean by coming spying round my place, eh? Wot d’ye +mean by it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Spying?” ses Bill Chambers, gaping at ’im with ’is mouth open; “I +wasn’t spying. Anyone ’ud think you ’ad done something you was ashamed +of.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mind your business and I’ll mind mine,” ses Bob, very fierce. +</p> + +<p> +“I was passing the ’ouse,” ses Bill Chambers, looking round at us, “and +I see an old man’s face at the bedroom winder, and while I was wondering +who ’e was a hand come and drawed ’im away. I see ’im as plain as ever I +see anything in my life, and the hand, too. Big and dirty it was.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he’s got a cough,” ses Dicky Weed—“a churchyard cough—I ’eard +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It ain’t much you don’t hear, Dicky,” ses Bob Pretty, turning on ’im; +“the on’y thing you never did ’ear, and never will ’ear, is any good of +yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +He kicked over a chair wot was in ’is way and went off in such a temper +as we’d never seen ’im in afore, and, wot was more surprising still, but +I know it’s true, ’cos I drunk it up myself, he’d left over arf a pint +o’ beer in ’is mug. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s up to something,” ses Sam Jones, starting arter him; “mark my +words.” +</p> + +<p> +We couldn’t make head nor tail out of it, but for some days arterward +you’d ha’ thought that Bob Pretty’s ’ouse was a peep-show. Everybody +stared at the winders as they went by, and the children played in front +of the ’ouse and stared in all day long. Then the old gentleman was seen +one day as bold as brass sitting at the winder, and we heard that it was +a pore old tramp Bob Pretty ’ad met on the road and given a home to, and +he didn’t like ’is good-’artedness to be known for fear he should be +made fun of. +</p> + +<p> +Nobody believed that, o’ course, and things got more puzzling than ever. +Once or twice the old gentleman went out for a walk, but Bob Pretty or +’is missis was always with ’im, and if anybody tried to speak to him +they always said ’e was deaf and took ’im off as fast as they could. +Then one night up at the “Cauliflower” here Dicky Weed came rushing in +with a bit o’ news that took everybody’s breath away. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve just come from the post-office,” he ses, “and there’s a letter for +Bob Pretty’s old gentleman! Wot d’ye think o’ that?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you could tell us wot’s inside it you might ’ave something to brag +about,” ses Henery Walker. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to see the inside,” ses Dicky Weed; “the name on the +outside was good enough for me. I couldn’t hardly believe my own eyes, +but there it was: ‘Mr. Josiah Walker,’ as plain as the nose on your +face.” +</p> + +<p> +O’ course, we see it all then, and wondered why we hadn’t thought of it +afore; and we stood quiet listening to the things that Henery Walker +said about a man that would go and steal another man’s great-uncle from +’im. Three times Smith, the landlord, said, “<i>Hush!</i>” and the +fourth time he put Henery Walker outside and told ’im to stay there till +he ’ad lost his voice. +</p> + +<p> +Henery Walker stayed outside five minutes, and then ’e come back in +ag’in to ask for advice. His idea seemed to be that, as the old +gentleman was deaf, Bob Pretty was passing ’isself off as Henery Walker, +and the disgrace was a’most more than ’e could bear. He began to get +excited ag’in, and Smith ’ad just said “<i>Hush!</i>” once more when we +’eard somebody whistling outside, and in come Bob Pretty. +</p> + +<p> +He ’ad hardly got ’is face in at the door afore Henery Walker started on +’im, and Bob Pretty stood there, struck all of a heap, and staring at +’im as though he couldn’t believe his ears. +</p> + +<p> +“’Ave you gone mad, Henery?” he ses, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Give me back my great-uncle,” ses Henery Walker, at the top of ’is +voice. +</p> + +<p> +Bob Pretty shook his ’ead at him. “I haven’t got your great-uncle, +Henery,” he ses, very gentle. “I know the name is the same, but wot of +it? There’s more than one Josiah Walker in the world. This one is no +relation to you at all; he’s a very respectable old gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go and ask ’im,” ses Henery Walker, getting up, “and I’ll tell ’im +wot sort o’ man you are, Bob Pretty.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s gone to bed now, Henery,” ses Bob Pretty. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll come in the fust thing to-morrow morning, then,” ses Henery +Walker. +</p> + +<p> +“Not in my ’ouse, Henery,” ses Bob Pretty; “not arter the things you’ve +been sayin’ about me. I’m a pore man, but I’ve got my pride. Besides, I +tell you he ain’t your uncle. He’s a pore old man I’m giving a ’ome to, +and I won’t ’ave ’im worried.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Ow much does ’e pay you a week, Bob?” ses Bill Chambers. +</p> + +<p> +Bob Pretty pretended not to hear ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“Where did your wife get the money to buy that bonnet she ’ad on on +Sunday?” ses Bill Chambers. “My wife ses it’s the fust new bonnet she +has ’ad since she was married.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where did the new winder curtains come from?” ses Peter Gubbins. +</p> + +<p> +Bob Pretty drank up ’is beer and stood looking at them very thoughtful; +then he opened the door and went out without saying a word. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s got your great-uncle a prisoner in his ’ouse, Henery,” ses Bill +Chambers; “it’s easy for to see that the pore old gentleman is getting +past things, and I shouldn’t wonder if Bob Pretty don’t make ’im leave +all ’is money to ’im.” +</p> + +<p> +Henery Walker started raving ag’in, and for the next few days he tried +his ’ardest to get a few words with ’is great-uncle, but Bob Pretty was +too much for ’im. Everybody in Claybury said wot a shame it was, but it +was all no good, and Henery Walker used to leave ’is work and stand +outside Bob Pretty’s for hours at a time in the ’opes of getting a word +with the old man. +</p> + +<p> +He got ’is chance at last, in quite a unexpected way. We was up ’ere at +the “Cauliflower” one evening, and, as it ’appened, we was talking about +Henery Walker’s great-uncle, when the door opened, and who should walk +in but the old gentleman ’imself. Everybody left off talking and stared +at ’im, but he walked up to the bar and ordered a glass o’ gin and beer +as comfortable as you please. +</p> + +<p> +Bill Chambers was the fust to get ’is presence of mind back, and he set +off arter Henery Walker as fast as ’is legs could carry ’im, and in a +wunnerful short time, considering, he came back with Henery, both of ’em +puffing and blowing their ’ardest. +</p> + +<p> +“There—he—is!” ses Bill Chambers, pointing to the old gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +Henery Walker gave one look, and then ’e slipped over to the old man and +stood all of a tremble, smiling at ’im. “Good-evening,” he ses. +</p> + +<p> +“Wot?” ses the old gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-evening!” ses Henery Walker ag’in. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m a bit deaf,” ses the old gentleman, putting his ’and to his ear. +</p> + +<p> +“G<small>OOD</small>-<small>EVENING</small>!” ses Henery Walker ag’in, +shouting. “I’m your grand-nephew, Henery Walker!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ho, are you?” ses the old gentleman, not at all surprised. “Bob Pretty +was telling me all about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ’ope you didn’t listen to ’im,” ses Henery Walker, all of a tremble. +“Bob Pretty’d say anything except his prayers.” +</p> + +<p> +“He ses you’re arter my money,” ses the old gentleman, looking at ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a liar, then,” ses Henery Walker; “he’s arter it ’imself. And it +ain’t a respectable place for you to stay at. Anybody’ll tell you wot a +rascal Bob Pretty is. Why, he’s a byword.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everybody is arter my money,” ses the old gentleman, looking round. +“Everybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ’ope you’ll know me better afore you’ve done with me, uncle,” ses +Henery Walker, taking a seat alongside of Mm. “Will you ’ave another mug +o’ beer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gin and beer,” ses the old gentleman, cocking his eye up very fierce at +Smith, the landlord; “and mind the gin don’t get out ag’in, same as it +did in the last.” +</p> + +<p> +Smith asked ’im wot he meant, but ’is deafness come on ag’in. Henery +Walker ’ad an extra dose o’ gin put in, and arter he ’ad tasted it the +old gentleman seemed to get more amiable-like, and ’im and Henery Walker +sat by theirselves talking quite comfortable. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not come and stay with me?” ses Henery Walker, at last. “You can do +as you please and have the best of everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bob Pretty ses you’re arter my money,” ses the old gentleman, shaking +his ’ead. “I couldn’t trust you.” +</p> + +<p> +“He ses that to put you ag’in me,” ses Henery Walker, pleading-like. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, wot do you want me to come and live with you for, then?” ses old +Mr. Walker. +</p> + +<p> +“Because you’re my great-uncle,” ses Henery Walker, “and my ’ouse is the +proper place for you. Blood is thicker than water.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you don’t want my money?” ses the old man, looking at ’im very +sharp. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not,” ses Henery Walker. +</p> + +<p> +“And ’ow much ’ave I got to pay a week?” ses old Mr. Walker. “That’s the +question?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pay?” ses Henery Walker, speaking afore he ’ad time to think. “Pay? +Why, I don’t want you to pay anything.” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman said as ’ow he’d think it over, and Henery started to +talk to ’im about his father and an old aunt named Maria, but ’e stopped +’im sharp, and said he was sick and tired of the whole Walker family, +and didn’t want to ’ear their names ag’in as long as he lived. Henery +Walker began to talk about Australey then, and asked ’im ’ow many sheep +he’d got, and the words was ’ardly out of ’is mouth afore the old +gentleman stood up and said he was arter his money ag’in. +</p> + +<p> +Henery Walker at once gave ’im some more gin and beer, and arter he ’ad +drunk it the old gentleman said that he’d go and live with ’im for a +little while to see ’ow he liked it. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus15"></a> +<img src="images/img22.jpg" width="600" height="568" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘You leave go o’ my lodger,’ ses Bob Pretty.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“But I sha’n’t pay anything,” he ses, very sharp; “mind that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t take it if you offered it to me,” ses Henery Walker. “You’ll +come straight ’ome with me to-night, won’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +Afore old Mr. Walker could answer the door opened and in came Bob +Pretty. He gave one look at Henery Walker and then he walked straight +over to the old gentleman and put his ’and on his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Mr. Walker,” he ses. “I +couldn’t think wot had ’appened to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t worry yourself, Bob,” ses Henery Walker; “he’s coming to +live with me now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you believe it,” ses Bob Pretty, taking hold of old Mr. Walker by +the arm; “he’s my lodger, and he’s coming with me.” +</p> + +<p> +He began to lead the old gentleman towards the door, but Henery Walker, +wot was still sitting down, threw ’is arms round his legs and held ’im +tight. Bob Pretty pulled one way and Henery Walker pulled the other, and +both of ’em shouted to each other to leave go. The row they made was +awful, but old Mr. Walker made more noise than the two of ’em put +together. +</p> + +<p> +“You leave go o’ my lodger,” ses Bob Pretty. +</p> + +<p> +“You leave go o’ my great-uncle—my dear great-uncle,” ses Henery +Walker, as the old gentleman called ’im a bad name and asked ’im whether +he thought he was made of iron. +</p> + +<p> +I believe they’d ha’ been at it till closing-time, on’y Smith, the +landlord, came running in from the back and told them to go outside. He +’ad to shout to make ’imself heard, and all four of ’em seemed to be +trying which could make the most noise. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s my lodger,” ses Bob Pretty, “and he can’t go without giving me +proper notice; that’s the lor—a week’s notice.” +</p> + +<p> +They all shouted ag’in then, and at last the old gentleman told Henery +Walker to give Bob Pretty ten shillings for the week’s notice and ha’ +done with ’im. Henery Walker ’ad only got four shillings with ’im, but +’e borrowed the rest from Smith, and arter he ’ad told Bob Pretty wot he +thought of ’im he took old Mr. Walker by the arm and led him ’ome a’most +dancing for joy. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Walker was nearly as pleased as wot ’e was, and the fuss they made +of the old gentleman was sinful a’most. He ’ad to speak about it ’imself +at last, and he told ’em plain that when ’e wanted arf-a-dozen sore-eyed +children to be brought down in their night-gowns to kiss ’im while he +was eating sausages, he’d say so. +</p> + +<p> +Arter that Mrs. Walker was afraid that ’e might object when her and her +’usband gave up their bedroom to ’im; but he didn’t. He took it all as +’is right, and when Henery Walker, who was sleeping in the next room +with three of ’is boys, fell out o’ bed for the second time, he got up +and rapped on the wall. +</p> + +<p> +Bob Pretty came round the next morning with a tin box that belonged to +the old man, and ’e was so perlite and nice to ’im that Henery Walker +could see that he ’ad ’opes of getting ’im back ag’in. The box was +carried upstairs and put under old Mr. Walker’s bed, and ’e was so +partikler about its being locked, and about nobody being about when ’e +opened it, that Mrs. Walker went arf out of her mind with curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +“I s’pose you’ve looked to see that Bob Pretty didn’t take anything out +of it?” ses Henery Walker. +</p> + +<p> +“He didn’t ’ave the chance,” ses the old gentleman. “It’s always kep’ +locked.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a box that looks as though it might ’ave been made in Australey,” +ses Henery Walker, who was longing to talk about them parts. +</p> + +<p> +“If you say another word about Australey to me,” ses old Mr. Walker, +firing up, “off I go. Mind that! You’re arter my money, and if you’re +not careful you sha’n’t ’ave a farthing of it.” +</p> + +<p> +That was the last time the word “Australey” passed Henery Walker’s lips, +and even when ’e saw his great-uncle writing letters there he didn’t say +anything. And the old man was so suspicious of Mrs. Walker’s curiosity +that all the letters that was wrote to ’im he ’ad sent to Bob Pretty’s. +He used to call there pretty near every morning to see whether any ’ad +come for ’im. +</p> + +<p> +In three months Henery Walker ’adn’t seen the color of ’is money once, +and, wot was worse still, he took to giving Henery’s things away. Mrs. +Walker ’ad been complaining for some time of ’ow bad the hens had been +laying, and one morning at breakfast-time she told her ’usband that, +besides missing eggs, two of ’er best hens ’ad been stolen in the night. +</p> + +<p> +“They wasn’t stolen,” ses old Mr. Walker, putting down ’is teacup. “I +took ’em round this morning and give ’em to Bob Pretty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give ’em to Bob Pretty?” ses Henery Walker, arf choking. “Wot for?” +</p> + +<p> +“’Cos he asked me for ’em,” ses the old gentleman. “Wot are you looking +at me like that for?” +</p> + +<p> +Henery couldn’t answer ’im, and the old gentleman, looking very fierce, +got up from the table and told Mrs. Walker to give ’im his hat. Henery +Walker clung to ’im with tears in his eyes a’most and begged ’im not to +go, and arter a lot of talk old Mr. Walker said he’d look over it this +time, but it mustn’t occur ag’in. +</p> + +<p> +Arter that ’e did as ’e liked with Henery Walker’s things, and Henery +dursen’t say a word to ’im. Bob Pretty used to come up and flatter ’im +and beg ’im to go back and lodge with ’im, and Henery was so afraid he’d +go that he didn’t say a word when old Mr. Walker used to give Bob Pretty +things to make up for ’is disappointment. He ’eard on the quiet from +Bill Chambers, who said that the old man ’ad told it to Bob Pretty as a +dead secret, that ’e ’ad left ’im all his money, and he was ready to put +up with anything. +</p> + +<p> +The old man must ha’ been living with Henery Walker for over eighteen +months when one night he passed away in ’is sleep. Henery knew that his +’art was wrong, because he ’ad just paid Dr. Green ’is bill for saying +that ’e couldn’t do anything for ’im, but it was a surprise to ’im all +the same. He blew his nose ’ard and Mrs. Walker kept rubbing ’er eyes +with her apron while they talked in whispers and wondered ’ow much money +they ’ad come in for. +</p> + +<p> +In less than ten minutes the news was all over Claybury, and arf the +people in the place hanging round in front of the ’ouse waiting to hear +’ow much the Walkers ’ad come in for. Henery Walker pulled the blind on +one side for a moment and shook his ’ead at them to go away. Some of +them did go back a yard or two, and then they stood staring at Bob +Pretty, wot come up as bold as brass and knocked at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Wot’s this I ’ear?” he ses, when Henery Walker opened it. “You don’t +mean to tell me that the pore old gentleman has really gone? I told ’im +wot would happen if ’e came to lodge with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You be off,” ses Henery Walker; “he hasn’t left you anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that,” ses Bob Pretty, shaking his ’ead. “You’re welcome to it, +Henery. if there is anything. I never bore any malice to you for taking +of ’im away from us. I could see you’d took a fancy to ’im from the +fust. The way you pretended ’e was your great-uncle showed me that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wot are you talking about?” ses Henery Walker. “He was my great-uncle!” +</p> + +<p> +“Have it your own way, Henery,” ses Bob Pretty; “on’y, if you asked me, +I should say that he was my wife’s grandfather.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Your—wife’s—grandfather</i>?” ses Henery Walker, in a choking +voice. +</p> + +<p> +He stood staring at ’im, stupid-like, for a minute or two, but he +couldn’t get out another word. In a flash ’e saw ’ow he’d been done, and +how Bob Pretty ’ad been deceiving ’im all along, and the idea that he +’ad arf ruined himself keeping Mrs. Pretty’s grandfather for ’em pretty +near sent ’im out of his mind. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus16"></a> +<img src="images/img23.jpg" width="600" height="485" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“He slammed the door in Bob Pretty’s face.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“But how is it ’is name was Josiah Walker, same as Henery’s great-uncle?” ses +Bill Chambers, who ’ad been crowding round with the others. “Tell me that!” +</p> + +<p> +“He ’ad a fancy for it,” ses Bob Pretty, “and being a ’armless amusement +we let him ’ave his own way. I told Henery Walker over and over ag’in +that it wasn’t his uncle, but he wouldn’t believe me. I’ve got witnesses +to it. Wot did you say, Henery?” +</p> + +<p> +Henery Walker drew ’imself up as tall as he could and stared at him. +Twice he opened ’is mouth to speak but couldn’t, and then he made a odd +sort o’ choking noise in his throat, and slammed the door in Bob +Pretty’s face. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +A LOVE-KNOT +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<img src="images/img24.jpg" width="600" height="428" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>A LOVE-KNOT</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Nathaniel Clark and Mrs. Bowman had just finished their third game +of draughts. It had been a difficult game for Mr. Clark, the lady’s mind +having been so occupied with other matters that he had had great +difficulty in losing. Indeed, it was only by pushing an occasional piece +of his own off the board that he had succeeded. +</p> + +<p> +“A penny for your thoughts, Amelia,” he said, at last. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bowman smiled faintly. “They were far away,” she confessed. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark assumed an expression of great solemnity; allusions of this +kind to the late Mr. Bowman were only too frequent. He was fortunate +when they did not grow into reminiscences of a career too blameless for +successful imitation. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” said the widow, slowly—“I suppose I ought to tell you: +I’ve had a letter.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark’s face relaxed. +</p> + +<p> +“It took me back to the old scenes,” continued Mrs. Bowman, dreamily. “I +have never kept anything back from you, Nathaniel. I told you all about +the first man I ever thought anything of—Charlie Tucker?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark cleared his throat. “You did,” he said, a trifle hoarsely. +“More than once.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve just had a letter from him,” said Mrs. Bowman, simpering. “Fancy, +after all these years! Poor fellow, he has only just heard of my +husband’s death, and, by the way he writes—” +</p> + +<p> +She broke off and drummed nervously on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“He hasn’t heard about me, you mean,” said Mr. Clark, after waiting to +give her time to finish. +</p> + +<p> +“How should he?” said the widow. +</p> + +<p> +“If he heard one thing, he might have heard the other,” retorted Mr. +Clark. “Better write and tell him. Tell him that in six weeks’ time +you’ll be Mrs. Clark. Then, perhaps, he won’t write again.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bowman sighed. “I thought, after all these years, that he must be +dead,” she said, slowly, “or else married. But he says in his letter +that he has kept single for my sake all these years.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he’ll be able to go on doing it,” said Mr. Clark; “it’ll come +easy to him after so much practice.” +</p> + +<p> +“He—he says in his letter that he is coming to see me,” said the widow, +in a low voice, “to—to—this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Coming to see you?” repeated Mr. Clark, sharply. “What for?” +</p> + +<p> +“To talk over old times, he says,” was the reply. “I expect he has +altered a great deal; he was a fine-looking fellow—and so dashing. +After I gave him up he didn’t care what he did. The last I heard of him +he had gone abroad.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark muttered something under his breath, and, in a mechanical fashion, +began to build little castles with the draughts. He was just about to add to an +already swaying structure when a thundering rat-tat-tat at the door dispersed +the draughts to the four corners of the room. The servant opened the door, and +the next moment ushered in Mrs. Bowman’s visitor. +</p> + +<p> +A tall, good-looking man in a frock-coat, with a huge spray of +mignonette in his button-hole, met the critical gaze of Mr. Clark. He +paused at the door and, striking an attitude, pronounced in tones of +great amazement the Christian name of the lady of the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Tucker!” said the widow, blushing. +</p> + +<p> +“The same girl,” said the visitor, looking round wildly, “the same as +the day she left me. Not a bit changed; not a hair different.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her extended hand and, bending over it, kissed it respectfully. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s—it’s very strange to see you again, Mr. Tucker,” said Mrs. +Bowman, withdrawing her hand in some confusion. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Tucker!” said that gentleman, reproachfully; “it used to be +Charlie.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bowman blushed again, and, with a side glance at the frowning Mr. +Clark, called her visitor’s attention to him and introduced them. The +gentlemen shook hands stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +“Any friend of yours is a friend of mine,” said Mr. Tucker, with a +patronizing air. “How are you, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark replied that he was well, and, after some hesitation, said +that he hoped he was the same. Mr. Tucker took a chair and, leaning +back, stroked his huge mustache and devoured the widow with his eyes. +“Fancy seeing you again!” said the latter, in some embarrassment. “How +did you find me out?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a long story,” replied the visitor, “but I always had the idea +that we should meet again. Your photograph has been with me all over the +world. In the backwoods of Canada, in the bush of Australia, it has been +my one comfort and guiding star. If ever I was tempted to do wrong, I +used to take your photograph out and look at it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I s’pose you took it out pretty often?” said Mr. Clark, restlessly. “To +look at, I mean,” he added, hastily, as Mrs. Bowman gave him an +indignant glance. +</p> + +<p> +“Every day,” said the visitor, solemnly. “Once when I injured myself out +hunting, and was five days without food or drink, it was the only thing +that kept me alive.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark’s gibe as to the size of the photograph was lost in Mrs. +Bowman’s exclamations of pity. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> once lived on two ounces of gruel and a cup of milk a day for +ten days,” he said, trying to catch the widow’s eye. “After the ten +days—” +</p> + +<p> +“When the Indians found me I was delirious,” continued Mr. Tucker, in a +hushed voice, “and when I came to my senses I found that they were +calling me ‘Amelia.’” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark attempted to relieve the situation by a jocose inquiry as to +whether he was wearing a mustache at the time, but Mrs. Bowman frowned +him down. He began to whistle under his breath, and Mrs. Bowman promptly +said, “<i>H’sh</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +“But how did you discover me?” she inquired, turning again to the +visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Wandering over the world,” continued Mr. Tucker, “here to-day and there +to-morrow, and unable to settle down anywhere, I returned to Northtown +about two years ago. Three days since, in a tramcar, I heard your name +mentioned. I pricked up my ears and listened; when I heard that you were +free I could hardly contain myself. I got into conversation with the +lady and obtained your address, and after travelling fourteen hours here +I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“How very extraordinary!” said the widow. “I wonder who it could have +been? Did she mention her name?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker shook his head. Inquiries as to the lady’s appearance, age, +and dress were alike fruitless. “There was a mist before my eyes,” he +explained. “I couldn’t realize it. I couldn’t believe in my good +fortune.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t think—” began Mrs. Bowman. +</p> + +<p> +“What does it matter?” inquired Mr. Tucker, softly. “Here we are +together again, with life all before us and the misunderstandings of +long ago all forgotten.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark cleared his throat preparatory to speech, but a peremptory +glance from Mrs. Bowman restrained him. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you were dead,” she said, turning to the smiling Mr. Tucker. +“I never dreamed of seeing you again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody would,” chimed in Mr. Clark. “When do you go back?” +</p> + +<p> +“Back?” said the visitor. “Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“Australia,” replied Mr. Clark, with a glance of defiance at the widow. +“You must ha’ been missed a great deal all this time.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker regarded him with a haughty stare. Then he bent towards Mrs. +Bowman. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you wish me to go back?” he asked, impressively, +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t wish either one way or the other,” said Mr. Clark, before the +widow could speak. “It don’t matter to us.” +</p> + +<p> +“We?” said Mr. Tucker, knitting his brows and gazing anxiously at Mrs. +Bowman. “<i>We</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“We are going to be married in six weeks’ time,” said Mr. Clark. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker looked from one to the other in silent misery; then, +shielding his eyes with his hand, he averted his head. Mrs. Bowman, with +her hands folded in her lap, regarded him with anxious solicitude. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought perhaps you ought to know,” said Mr. Clark. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker sat bolt upright and gazed at him fixedly. “I wish you joy,” +he said, in a hollow voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Thankee,” said Mr. Clark; “we expect to be pretty happy.” He smiled at +Mrs. Bowman, but she made no response. Her looks wandered from one to +the other—from the good-looking, interesting companion of her youth to +the short, prosaic little man who was exulting only too plainly in his +discomfiture. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker rose with a sigh. “Good-by,” he said, extending his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not going—yet?” said the widow. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker’s low-breathed “I must” was just audible. The widow renewed +her expostulations. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps he has got a train to catch,” said the thoughtful Mr. Clark. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” said Mr. Tucker. “As a matter of fact, I had taken a room at +the George Hotel for a week, but I suppose I had better get back home +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; why should you?” said Mrs. Bowman, with a rebellious glance at Mr. +Clark. “Stay, and come in and see me sometimes and talk over old times. +And Mr. Clark will be glad to see you, I’m sure. Won’t you Nath—Mr. +Clark?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be—delighted,” said Mr. Clark, staring hard at the +mantelpiece. “De-lighted.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus17"></a> +<img src="images/img25.jpg" width="600" height="489" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“On the third morning he took Mrs. Bowman out for a walk.” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker thanked them both, and after groping for some time for the +hand of Mr. Clark, who was still intent upon the mantelpiece, pressed it +warmly and withdrew. Mrs. Bowman saw him to the door, and a low-voiced +colloquy, in which Mr. Clark caught the word “afternoon,” ensued. By the +time the widow returned to the room he was busy building with the +draughts again. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker came the next day at three o’clock, and the day after at two. +On the third morning he took Mrs. Bowman out for a walk, airily +explaining to Mr. Clark, who met them on the way, that they had come out +to call for him. The day after, when Mr. Clark met them returning from a +walk, he was assured that his silence of the day before was understood +to indicate a distaste for exercise. +</p> + +<p> +“And, you see, I like a long walk,” said Mrs. Bowman, “and you are not +what I should call a good walker.” +</p> + +<p> +“You never used to complain,” said Mr. Clark; “in fact, it was generally +you that used to suggest turning back.” +</p> + +<p> +“She wants to be amused as well,” remarked Mr. Tucker; “then she doesn’t +feel the fatigue.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark glared at him, and then, shortly declining Mrs. Bowman’s +invitation to accompany them home, on the ground that he required +exercise, proceeded on his way. He carried himself so stiffly, and his +manner was so fierce, that a well-meaning neighbor who had crossed the +road to join him, and offer a little sympathy if occasion offered, +talked of the weather for five minutes and inconsequently faded away at +a corner. +</p> + +<p> +Trimington as a whole watched the affair with amusement, although Mr. +Clark’s friends adopted an inflection of voice in speaking to him which +reminded him strongly of funerals. Mr. Tucker’s week was up, but the +landlord of the George was responsible for the statement that he had +postponed his departure indefinitely. +</p> + +<p> +Matters being in this state, Mr. Clark went round to the widow’s one +evening with the air of a man who has made up his mind to decisive +action. He entered the room with a bounce and, hardly deigning to notice +the greeting of Mr. Tucker, planted himself in a chair and surveyed him +grimly. “I thought I should find you here,” he remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I always am here, ain’t I?” retorted Mr. Tucker, removing his +cigar and regarding him with mild surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Tucker is my friend,” interposed Mrs. Bowman. “I am the only friend +he has got in Trimington. It’s natural he should be here.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark quailed at her glance. +</p> + +<p> +“People are beginning to talk,” he muttered, feebly. +</p> + +<p> +“Talk?” said the widow, with an air of mystification belied by her +color. “What about?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark quailed again. “About—about our wedding,” he stammered. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker and the widow exchanged glances. Then the former took his +cigar from his mouth and, with a hopeless gesture threw it into the +grate. +</p> + +<p> +“Plenty of time to talk about that,” said Mrs. Bowman, after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Time is going,” remarked Mr. Clark. “I was thinking, if it was +agreeable to you, of putting up the banns to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“There—there’s no hurry,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure,’” quoted Mr. Tucker, gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you want me to put ’em up?” demanded Mr. Clark, turning to Mrs. +Bowman. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no hurry,” said Mrs. Bowman again. “I—I want time to think.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark rose and stood over her, and after a vain attempt to meet his +gaze she looked down at the carpet. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand,” he said, loftily. “I am not blind.” +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t my fault,” murmured the widow, drawing patterns with her toe +on the carpet. “One can’t help their feelings.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark gave a short, hard laugh. “What about my feelings?” he said, +severely. “What about the life you have spoiled? I couldn’t have +believed it of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure I’m very sorry,” murmured Mrs. Bowman, “and anything that I +can do I will. I never expected to see Charles again. And it was so +sudden; it took me unawares. I hope we shall still be friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“Friends!” exclaimed Mr. Clark, with extraordinary vigor. “With +<i>him?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +He folded his arms and regarded the pair with a bitter smile; Mrs. +Bowman, quite unable to meet his eyes, still gazed intently at the +floor. +</p> + +<p> +“You have made me the laughing-stock of Trimington,” pursued Mr. Clark. +“You have wounded me in my tenderest feelings; you have destroyed my +faith in women. I shall never be the same man again. I hope that you +will never find out what a terrible mistake you’ve made.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bowman made a noise half-way between a sniff and a sob; Mr. +Tucker’s sniff was unmistakable. +</p> + +<p> +“I will return your presents to-morrow,” said Mr. Clark, rising. “Good-by, +forever!” +</p> + +<p> +He paused at the door, but Mrs. Bowman did not look up. A second later +the front door closed and she heard him walk rapidly away. +</p> + +<p> +For some time after his departure she preserved a silence which Mr. +Tucker endeavored in vain to break. He took a chair by her side, and at +the third attempt managed to gain possession of her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I deserved all he said,” she cried, at last. “Poor fellow, I hope he +will do nothing desperate.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said Mr. Tucker, soothingly. +</p> + +<p> +“His eyes were quite wild,” continued the widow. “If anything happens to +him I shall never forgive myself. I have spoilt his life.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker pressed her hand and spoke of the well-known refining +influence a hopeless passion for a good woman had on a man. He cited his +own case as an example. +</p> + +<p> +“Disappointment spoilt my life so far as worldly success goes,” he said, +softly, “but no doubt the discipline was good for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bowman smiled faintly, and began to be a little comforted. +Conversation shifted from the future of Mr. Clark to the past of Mr. +Tucker; the widow’s curiosity as to the extent of the latter’s worldly +success remaining unanswered by reason of Mr. Tucker’s sudden +remembrance of a bear-fight. +</p> + +<p> +Their future was discussed after supper, and the advisability of leaving +Trimington considered at some length. The towns and villages of England +were at their disposal; Mr. Tucker’s business, it appeared, being +independent of place. He drew a picture of life in a bungalow with +modern improvements at some seaside town, and, the cloth having been +removed, took out his pocket-book and, extracting an old envelope, drew +plans on the back. +</p> + +<p> +It was a delightful pastime and made Mrs. Bowman feel that she was +twenty and beginning life again. She toyed with the pocket-book and +complimented Mr. Tucker on his skill as a draughtsman. +</p> + +<p> +A letter or two fell out and she replaced them. Then a small newspaper +cutting, which had fluttered out with them, met her eye. +</p> + +<p> +“A little veranda with roses climbing up it,” murmured Mr. Tucker, still +drawing, “and a couple of—” +</p> + +<p> +His pencil was arrested by an odd, gasping noise from the window. He +looked up and saw her sitting stiffly in her chair. Her face seemed to +have swollen and to be colored in patches; her eyes were round and +amazed. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you well?” he inquired, rising in disorder. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bowman opened her lips, but no sound came from them. Then she gave +a long, shivering sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“Heat of the room too much for you?” inquired the other, anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bowman took another long, shivering breath. Still incapable of +speech, she took the slip of paper in her trembling fingers and an +involuntary exclamation of dismay broke from Mr. Tucker. She dabbed +fiercely at her burning eyes with her handkerchief and read it again. +</p> + +<p> +“TUCKER.—<i>If this should meet the eye of Charles Tucker, who knew +Amelia Wyborn twenty-five years ago, he will hear of something greatly +to his advantage by communicating with N. C., Royal Hotel, +Northtown.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bowman found speech at last. “N. C.—Nathaniel Clark,” she said, +in broken tones. “So that is where he went last month. Oh, what a fool +I’ve been! Oh, what a simple fool!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker gave a deprecatory cough. “I—I had forgotten it was there,” +he said, nervously. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” breathed the widow, “I can quite believe that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was going to show you later on,” declared the other, regarding her +carefully. “I was, really. I couldn’t bear the idea of keeping a secret +from you long.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus18"></a> +<img src="images/img26.jpg" width="600" height="599" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘I had forgotten it was there,’ he said, nervously.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +Mrs. Bowman smiled—a terrible smile. “The audacity of the man,” she +broke out, “to stand there and lecture me on my behavior. To talk about +his spoilt life, and all the time—” +</p> + +<p> +She got up and walked about the room, angrily brushing aside the +proffered attentions of Mr. Tucker. +</p> + +<p> +“Laughing-stock of Trimington, is he?” she stormed. “He shall be more +than that before I have done with him. The wickedness of the man; the +artfulness!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what I thought,” said Mr. Tucker, shaking his head. “I said to +him—” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re as bad,” said the widow, turning on him fiercely. “All the time +you two men were talking at each other you were laughing in your sleeves +at me. And I sat there like a child taking it all in. I’ve no doubt you +met every night and arranged what you were to do next day.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker’s lips twitched. “I would do more than that to win you, +Amelia,” he said, humbly. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll have to,” was the grim reply. “Now I want to hear all about this +from the beginning. And don’t keep anything from me, or it’ll be the +worse for you.” +</p> + +<p> +She sat down again and motioned him to proceed. +</p> + +<p> +“When I saw the advertisement in the <i>Northtown Chronicle</i>,” began +Mr. Tucker, in husky voice, “I danced with—” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind about that,” interrupted the widow, dryly. +</p> + +<p> +“I went to the hotel and saw Mr. Clark,” resumed Mr. Tucker, somewhat +crestfallen. “When I heard that you were a widow, all the old times came +back to me again. The years fell from me like a mantle. Once again I saw +myself walking with you over the footpath to Cooper’s farm; once again I +felt your hand in mine. Your voice sounded in my ears—” +</p> + +<p> +“You saw Mr. Clark,” the widow reminded him. +</p> + +<p> +“He had heard all about our early love from you,” said Mr. Tucker, “and +as a last desperate chance for freedom he had come down to try and hunt +me up, and induce me to take you off his hands.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bowman uttered a smothered exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“He tempted me for two days,” said Mr. Tucker, gravely. “The temptation +was too great and I fell. Besides that, I wanted to rescue you from the +clutches of such a man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t he tell me himself?” inquired the widow. +</p> + +<p> +“Just what I asked him,” said the other, “but he said that you were much +too fond of him to give him up. He is not worthy of you, Amelia; he is +fickle. He has got his eye on another lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“WHAT?” said the widow, with sudden loudness. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker nodded mournfully. “Miss Hackbutt,” he said, slowly. “I saw +her the other day, and what he can see in her I can’t think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Hackbutt?” repeated the widow in a smothered voice. “Miss—” She +got up and began to pace the room again. +</p> + +<p> +“He must be blind,” said Mr. Tucker, positively. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bowman stopped suddenly and stood regarding him. There was a light +in her eye which made him feel anything but comfortable. He was glad +when she transferred her gaze to the clock. She looked at it so long +that he murmured something about going. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-by,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker began to repeat his excuses, but she interrupted him. “Not +now,” she said, decidedly. “I’m tired. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker pressed her hand. “Good-night,” he said, tenderly. “I am +afraid the excitement has been too much for you. May I come round at the +usual time to-morrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the widow. +</p> + +<p> +She took the advertisement from the table and, folding it carefully, +placed it in her purse. Mr. Tucker withdrew as she looked up. +</p> + +<p> +He walked back to the “George” deep in thought, and over a couple of +pipes in bed thought over the events of the evening. He fell asleep at +last and dreamed that he and Miss Hackbutt were being united in the +bonds of holy matrimony by the Rev. Nathaniel Clark. +</p> + +<p> +The vague misgivings of the previous night disappeared in the morning +sunshine. He shaved carefully and spent some time in the selection of a +tie. +</p> + +<p> +Over an excellent breakfast he arranged further explanations and excuses +for the appeasement of Mrs. Bowman. +</p> + +<p> +He was still engaged on the task when he started to call on her. Half-way to +the house he arrived at the conclusion that he was looking too cheerful. His +face took on an expression of deep seriousness, only to give way the next +moment to one of the blankest amazement. In front of him, and approaching with +faltering steps, was Mr. Clark, and leaning trustfully on his arm the +comfortable figure of Mrs. Bowman. Her brow was unruffled and her lips smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Beautiful morning,” she said, pleasantly, as they met. +</p> + +<p> +“Lovely!” murmured the wondering Mr. Tucker, trying, but in vain, to +catch the eye of Mr. Clark. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been paying an early visit,” said the widow, still smiling. “I +surprised you, didn’t I, Nathaniel?” +</p> + +<p> +“You did,” said Mr. Clark, in an unearthly voice. +</p> + +<p> +“We got talking about last night,” continued the widow, “and Nathaniel +started pleading with me to give him another chance. I suppose that I am +softhearted, but he was so miserable—You were never so miserable in +your life before, were you, Nathaniel?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” said Mr. Clark, in the same strange voice. +</p> + +<p> +“He was so wretched that at last I gave way,” said Mrs. Bowman, with a +simper. “Poor fellow, it was such a shock to him that he hasn’t got back +his cheerfulness yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tucker said, “Indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll be all right soon,” said Mrs. Bowman, in confidential tones. “We +are on the way to put our banns up, and once that is done he will feel +safe. You are not really afraid of losing me again, are you, Nathaniel?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Clark shook his head, and, meeting the eye of Mr. Tucker in the +process, favored him with a glance of such utter venom that the latter +was almost startled. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-by, Mr. Tucker,” said the widow, holding out her hand. “Nathaniel +did think of inviting you to come to my wedding, but perhaps it is best +not. However, if I alter my mind, I will get him to advertise for you +again. Good-by.” +</p> + +<p> +She placed her arm in Mr. Clark’s again, and led him slowly away. Mr. +Tucker stood watching them for some time, and then, with a glance in the +direction of the “George,” where he had left a very small portmanteau, +he did a hasty sum in comparative values and made his way to the +railway-station. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +HER UNCLE +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<img src="images/img27.jpg" width="600" height="500" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>HER UNCLE</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Wragg sat in a high-backed Windsor chair at the door of his house, +smoking. Before him the road descended steeply to the harbor, a small +blue patch of which was visible from his door. Children over five were +at school: children under that age, and suspiciously large for their +years, played about in careless disregard of the remarks which Mr. Wragg +occasionally launched at them. Twice a ball had whizzed past him; and a +small but select party, with a tip-cat of huge dimensions and awesome +points, played just out of reach. Mr. Wragg, snapping his eyes +nervously, threatened in vain. +</p> + +<p> +“Morning, old crusty-patch,” said a cheerful voice at his elbow. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Wragg glanced up at the young fisherman towering above him, and eyed +him disdainfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you leave ’em alone?” inquired the young man. “Be cheerful +and smile at ’em. You’d soon be able to smile with a little practice.” +“You mind your business, George Gale, and I’ll mind mine,” said Mr. +Wragg, fiercely; “I’ve ’ad enough of your impudence, and I’m not going +to have any more. And don’t lean up agin my house, ’cos I won’t ’ave +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale laughed. “Got out o’ bed the wrong side again, haven’t you?” he +inquired. “Why don’t you put that side up against the wall?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Wragg puffed on in silence and became absorbed in a fishing-boat +gliding past at the bottom of the hill. +</p> + +<p> +“I hear you’ve got a niece coming to live with you?” pursued the young +man. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Wragg smoked on. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor thing!” said the other, with a sigh. “Does she take after you—in +looks, I mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I was twenty years younger nor what I am,” said Mr. Wragg, +sententiously, “I’d give you a hiding, George Gale.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s what I want,” agreed Mr. Gale, placidly. “Well, so long, Mr. +Wragg. I can’t stand talking to you all day.” +</p> + +<p> +He was about to move off, after pretending to pinch the ear of the +infuriated Mr. Wragg, when he noticed a station-fly, with a big trunk on +the box-seat, crawling slowly up the hill towards them. +</p> + +<p> +“Good riddance,” said Mr. Wragg, suggestively. +</p> + +<p> +The other paid no heed. The vehicle came nearer, and a girl, who plainly +owed none of her looks to Mr. Wragg’s side of the family, came into view +behind the trunk. She waved her hand, and Mr. Wragg, removing his pipe +from his mouth, waved it in return. Mr. Gale edged away about eighteen +inches, and, with an air of assumed carelessness, gazed idly about him. +</p> + +<p> +He saluted the driver as the fly stopped and gazed hard at the +apparition that descended. Then he caught his breath as the girl, +approaching her uncle, kissed him affectionately. Mr. Wragg, looking up +fiercely at Mr. Gale, was surprised at the expression on that +gentleman’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it lovely here?” said the girl, looking about her; “and isn’t the +air nice?” +</p> + +<p> +She followed Mr. Wragg inside, and the driver, a small man and elderly, +began tugging at the huge trunk. Mr. Gale’s moment had arrived. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand away, Joe,” he said, stepping forward. “I’ll take that in for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +He hoisted the trunk on his shoulders, and, rather glad of his lowered +face, advanced slowly into the house. Uncle and niece had just vanished +at the head of the stairs, and Mr. Gale, after a moment’s hesitation, +followed. +</p> + +<p> +“In ’ere,” said Mr. Wragg, throwing open a door. +</p> + +<p> +“Halloa! What are you doing in my house? Put it down. Put it down at +once; d’ye hear?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale caught the girl’s surprised glance and, somewhat flustered, +swung round so suddenly that the corner of the trunk took the +gesticulating Mr. Wragg by the side of the head and bumped it against +the wall. Deaf to his outcries, Mr. Gale entered the room and placed the +box on the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Where shall I put it?” he inquired of the girl, respectfully. +</p> + +<p> +“You go out of my house,” stormed Mr. Wragg, entering with his hand to +his head. “Go on. Out you go.” +</p> + +<p> +The young man surveyed him with solicitude. “I’m very sorry if I hurt +you, Mr. Wragg—” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“Out you go,” repeated the other. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a pure accident,” pleaded Mr. Gale. +</p> + +<p> +“And don’t you set foot in my ’ouse agin,” said the vengeful Mr. Wragg. +“You made yourself officious bringing that box in a-purpose to give me a +clump o’ the side of the head with it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale denied the charge so eagerly, and withal so politely, that the +elder man regarded him in amazement. Then his glance fell on his niece, +and he smiled with sudden malice as Mr. Gale slowly and humbly descended +the stairs. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus19"></a> +<img src="images/img28.jpg" width="490" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“The corner of the trunk took the gesticulating Mr. Wragg by +the side of the head.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“One o’ the worst chaps about here, my dear,” he said, loudly. “Mate o’ +one o’ the fishing-boats, and as impudent as they make ’em. Many’s the +time I’ve clouted his head for ’im.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl regarded his small figure with surprised respect. +</p> + +<p> +“When he was a boy, I mean,” continued Mr. Wragg. “Now, there’s your +room, and when you’ve put things to rights, come down and I’ll show you +over the house.” +</p> + +<p> +He glanced at his niece several times during the day, trying hard to +trace a likeness, first to his dead sister and then to himself. Several +times he scrutinized himself in the small glass on the mantelpiece, but +in vain. Even when he twisted his thin beard in his hand and tried to +ignore his mustache, the likeness still eluded him. +</p> + +<p> +His opinion of Miss Miller’s looks was more than shared by the young men +of Waterside. It was a busy youth who could not spare five minutes to +chat with an uncle so fortunate, and in less than a couple of weeks Mr. +Wragg was astonished at his popularity, and the deference accorded to +his opinions. +</p> + +<p> +The most humble of them all was Mr. Gale, and, with a pertinacity which +was almost proof against insult, he strove to force his company upon the +indignant Mr. Wragg. Debarred from that, he took to haunting the road, +on one occasion passing the house no fewer than fifty-seven times in one +afternoon. His infatuation was plain to be seen of all men. Wise men +closed their eyes to it; others had theirs closed for them, Mr. Gale +being naturally incensed to think that there was anything in his +behavior that attracted attention. +</p> + +<p> +His father was at sea, and, to the dismay of the old woman who kept +house for him, he began to neglect his food. A melancholy but not +unpleasing idea that he was slowly fading occurred to him when he found +that he could eat only two herrings for breakfast instead of four. His +particular friend, Joe Harris, to whom he confided the fact, +remonstrated hotly. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s plenty of other girls,” he suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“Not like her,” said Mr. Gale. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re getting to be a by-word in the place,” complained his friend. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale flushed. “I’d do more than that for her sake,” he said, softly. +</p> + +<p> +“It ain’t the way,” said Mr. Harris, impatiently. “Girls like a man o’ +spirit; not a chap who hangs about without speaking, and looks as though +he has been caught stealing the cat’s milk. Why don’t you go round and +see her one afternoon when old Wragg is out?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale shivered. “I dursen’t,” he confessed. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Harris pondered. “She was going to be a hospital nurse afore she +came down here,” he said, slowly. “P’r’aps if you was to break your leg +or something she’d come and nurse you. She’s wonderful fond of it, I +understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“But then, you see, I haven’t broken it,” said the other, impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got a bicycle,” said Mr. Harris. “You—wait a minute—” he +half-closed his eyes and waved aside a remark of his friend’s. “Suppose +you ’ad an accident and fell off it, just in front of the house?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never fall off,” said Mr. Gale, simply. +</p> + +<p> +“Old Wragg is out, and me and Charlie Brown carry you into the house,” +continued Mr. Harris, closing his eyes entirely. “When you come to your +senses, she’s bending over you and crying.” +</p> + +<p> +He opened his eyes suddenly and then, closing one, gazed hard at the +bewildered Gale. “To-morrow afternoon at two,” he said, briskly, “me and +Charlie’ll be there waiting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose old Wragg ain’t out?” objected Mr. Gale, after ten minutes’ +explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s at the ‘Lobster Pot’ five days out of six at that time,” was the +reply; “if he ain’t there tomorrow, it can’t be helped.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale spent the evening practising falls in a quiet lane, and by the +time night came had attained to such proficiency that on the way home he +fell off without intending it. It seemed an easier thing than he had +imagined, and next day at two o’clock punctually he put his lessons into +practice. +</p> + +<p> +By a slight error in judgment his head came into contact with Mr. +Wragg’s doorstep, and, half-stunned, he was about to rise, when Mr. +Harris rushed up and forced him down again. Mr. Brown, who was also in +attendance, helped to restore his faculties by a well-placed kick. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s lost his senses,” said Mr. Harris, looking up at Miss Miller, as +she came to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“You could ha’ heard him fall arf a mile away,” added Mr. Brown. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Miller stooped and examined the victim carefully. There was a nasty +cut on the side of his head, and a general limpness of body which was +alarming. She went indoors for some water, and by the time she returned +the enterprising Mr. Harris had got the patient in the passage. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid he’s going,” he said, in answer to the girl’s glance. +</p> + +<p> +“Run for the doctor,” she said, hastily. “Quick!” +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t like to leave ’im, miss,” said Mr. Harris, tenderly. “I s’pose +it would be too much to ask you to go?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Miller, with a parting glance at the prostrate man, departed at +once. +</p> + +<p> +“What did you do that for?” demanded Mr. Gale, sitting up. “I don’t want +the doctor; he’ll spoil everything. Why didn’t you go away and leave +us?” +</p> + +<p> +“I sent ’er for the doctor,” said Mr. Harris, slowly. “I sent ’er for +the doctor so as we can get you to bed afore she comes back.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Bed</i>?” exclaimed Mr. Gale. +</p> + +<p> +“Up you go,” said Mr. Harris, briefly. “We’ll tell <i>her</i> we carried +you up. Now, don’t waste time.” +</p> + +<p> +Pushed by his friends, and stopping to expostulate at every step, Mr. +Gale was thrust at last into Mr. Wragg’s bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +“Off with your clothes,” said the leading spirit. “What’s the matter +with you, Charlie Brown?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t mind me; I’ll be all right in a minute,” said that gentleman, +wiping his eyes. “I’m thinking of old Wragg.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus20"></a> +<img src="images/img29.jpg" width="521" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘What did you do that for?’ demanded Mr. Gale, sitting up.” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +Before Mr. Gale had made up his mind his coat and waistcoat were off, +and Mr. Brown was at work on his boots. In five minutes’ time he was +tucked up in Mr. Wragg’s bed; his clothes were in a neat little pile on +a chair, and Messrs. Harris and Brown were indulging in a congratulatory +double-shuffle by the window. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t come to your senses yet awhile,” said the former; “and when you +do, tell the doctor you can’t move your limbs.” +</p> + +<p> +“If they try to pull you out o’ bed,” said Mr. Brown, “scream as though +you’re being killed. <i>H’sh</i>! Here they are.” +</p> + +<p> +Voices sounded below; Miss Miller and the doctor had met at the door +with Mr. Wragg, and a violent outburst on that gentleman’s part died +away as he saw that the intruders had disappeared. He was still +grumbling when Mr. Harris, putting his head over the balusters, asked +him to make a little less noise. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Wragg came upstairs in three bounds, and his mien was so terrible +that Messrs. Harris and Brown huddled together for protection. Then his +gaze fell on the bed and he strove in vain for speech. +</p> + +<p> +“We done it for the best,” faltered Mr. Harris. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Wragg made a gurgling noise in his throat, and, as the doctor +entered the room, pointed with a trembling finger at the bed. The other +two gentlemen edged toward the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Take him away; take him away at once,” vociferated Mr. Wragg. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor motioned him to silence, and Joe Harris and Mr. Brown held +their breaths nervously as he made an examination. For ten minutes he +prodded and puzzled over the insensible form in the bed; then he turned +to the couple at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“How did it happen?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Harris told him. He also added that he thought it was best to put +him to bed at once before he came round. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right,” said the doctor, nodding. “It’s a very serious case.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I can’t ’ave him ’ere,” broke in Mr. Wragg. +</p> + +<p> +“It won’t be for long,” said the doctor, shaking his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t ’ave him ’ere at all, and, what’s more, I won’t. Let him go to +his own bed,” said Mr. Wragg, quivering with excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“He is not to be moved,” said the doctor, decidedly. “If he comes to his +senses and gets out of bed you must coax him back again.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Coax</i>?” stuttered Mr. Wragg. “<i>Coax?</i> What’s he got to do +with me? This house isn’t a ’orsepittle. Put his clothes on and take ’im +away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do nothing of the kind,” was the stern reply. “In fact, his clothes had +better be taken out of the room, in case he comes round and tries to +dress.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Harris skipped across to the clothes and tucked them gleefully under +his arm; Mr. Brown secured the boots. +</p> + +<p> +“When he will come out of this stupor I can’t say,” continued the +doctor. “Keep him perfectly quiet and don’t let him see a soul.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look ’ere—” began Mr. Wragg, in a broken voice. +</p> + +<p> +“As to diet—water,” said the doctor, looking round. +</p> + +<p> +“Water?” said Miss Miller, who had come quietly into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Water,” repeated the doctor; “as much as he likes to take, of course. +Let me see: to-day is Tuesday. I’ll look in on Friday, or Saturday at +latest; but till then he must have nothing but clear cold water.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Harris shot a horrified glance at the bed, which happened just then +to creak. “But s’pose he asks for food, sir?” he said, respectfully. +</p> + +<p> +“He mustn’t have it,” said the other, sharply. “If he is very +insistent,” he added, turning to the sullen Mr. Wragg, “tell him that he +has just had food. He won’t know any better, and he will be quite +satisfied.” +</p> + +<p> +He motioned them out of the room, and then, lowering the blinds, +followed downstairs on tiptoe. A murmur of voices, followed by the +closing of the front door, sounded from below; and Mr. Gale, getting +cautiously out of bed, saw Messrs. Harris and Brown walk up the street +talking earnestly. He stole back on tiptoe to the door, and strove in +vain to catch the purport of the low-voiced discussion below. Mr. +Wragg’s voice was raised, but indistinct. Then he fancied that he heard +a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +He waited until the door closed behind the doctor, and then went back to +bed, to try and think out a situation which was fast becoming +mysterious. +</p> + +<p> +He lay in the darkened room until a cheerful clatter of crockery below +heralded the approach of tea-time. He heard Miss Miller call her uncle +in from the garden, and with some satisfaction heard her pleasant voice +engaged in brisk talk. At intervals Mr. Wragg laughed loud and long. +</p> + +<p> +Tea was cleared away, and the long evening dragged along in silence. +Uncle and niece were apparently sitting in the garden, but they came in +to supper, and later on the fumes of Mr. Wragg’s pipe pervaded the +house. At ten o’clock he heard footsteps ascending the stairs, and +through half-closed eyes saw Mr. Wragg enter the bedroom with a candle. +</p> + +<p> +“Time the pore feller had ’is water,” he said to his niece, who remained +outside. +</p> + +<p> +“Unless he is still insensible,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale, who was feeling both thirsty and hungry, slowly opened his +eyes, and fixed them in a vacant stare on Mr. Wragg. +</p> + +<p> +“Where am I?” he inquired, in a faint voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Buckingham Pallis,” replied Mr. Wragg, promptly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale ground his teeth. “How did I come here?” he said, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“The fairies brought you,” said Mr. Wragg. +</p> + +<p> +The young man rubbed his eyes and blinked at the candle. “I seem to +remember falling,” he said, slowly; “has anything happened?” +</p> + +<p> +“One o’ the fairies dropped you,” said Mr. Wragg, with great readiness; +“fortunately, you fell on your head.” +</p> + +<p> +A sound suspiciously like a giggle came from the landing and fell +heavily on Gale’s ears. He closed his eyes and tried to think. +</p> + +<p> +“How did I get into your bedroom, Mr. Wragg?” he inquired, after a long +pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Light-’eaded,” confided Mr. Wragg to the landing, and significantly +tapping his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“This ain’t my bedroom,” he said, turning to the invalid. “It’s the +King’s. His Majesty gave up ’is bed at once, direckly he ’eard you was +’urt.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he’s going to sleep on three chairs in the front parlor—if he +can,” said a low voice from the landing. +</p> + +<p> +The humor faded from Mr. Wragg’s face and was succeeded by an expression +of great sourness. “Where is the pore feller’s supper?” he inquired. “I +don’t suppose he can eat anything, but he might try.” +</p> + +<p> +He went to the door and a low-voiced colloquy ensued. The rival merits +of cold chicken versus steak-pie as an invalid diet were discussed at +some length. Finally the voice of Miss Miller insisted on chicken, and a +glass of port-wine. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell ’im it’s chicken and port-wine then,” said Mr. Wragg, +reappearing with a bedroom jug and a tumbler, which he placed on a small +table by the bedside. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t let him eat too much, mind,” said the voice from the landing, +anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Wragg said that he would be careful, and addressing Mr. Gale +implored him not to overeat himself. The young man stared at him +offensively, and, pretty certain now of the true state of affairs, +thought only of escape. +</p> + +<p> +“I feel better,” he said, slowly. “I think I will go home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” said the other, soothingly. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will fetch my clothes,” continued Mr. Gale, “I will go now.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Clothes</i>!” said Mr. Wragg, in an astonished voice. “Why, you +didn’t ’ave any.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale sat up suddenly in bed and shook his fist at him. “Look here—” +he began, in a choking voice. +</p> + +<p> +“The fairies brought you as you was,” continued Mr. Wragg, grinning +furiously; “and of all the perfect picturs—” +</p> + +<p> +A series of gasping sobs sounded from the landing, the stairs creaked, +and a door slammed violently below. In spite of this precaution the +sounds of a maiden in dire distress were distinctly audible. +</p> + +<p> +“You give me my clothes,” shouted the now furious Mr. Gale, springing +out of bed. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Wragg drew back. “I’ll go and fetch ’em,” he said, hastily. +</p> + +<p> +He ran lightly downstairs, and the young man, sitting on the edge of the +bed, waited. Ten minutes passed, and he heard Mr. Wragg returning, +followed by his niece. He slipped back into bed again. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a pore brain again,” he heard, in the unctuous tones which Mr. +Wragg appeared to keep for this emergency. “It’s clothes he wants now; +by and by I suppose it’ll be something else. Well, the doctor said we’d +got to humor him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor fellow!” sighed Miss Miller, with a break in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“See ’ow his face’ll light up when he sees them,” said her uncle. +</p> + +<p> +He pushed the door open, and after surveying the patient with a +benevolent smile triumphantly held up a collar and tie for his +inspection and threw them on the bed. Then he disappeared hastily and, +closing the door, turned the key in the lock. +</p> + +<p> +“If you want any more chicken or anything,” he cried through the door, +“ring the bell.” +</p> + +<p> +The horrified prisoner heard them pass downstairs again, and, after a +glass of water, sat down by the window and tried to think. He got up and +tried the door, but it opened inwards, and after a severe onslaught the +handle came off in his hand. Tired out at last he went to bed again, and +slept fitfully until morning. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Wragg visited him again after breakfast, but with great foresight +only put his head in at the door, while Miss Miller remained outside in +case of need. In these circumstances Mr. Gale met his anxious inquiries +with a sullen silence, and the other, tired at last of baiting him, +turned to go. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be back soon,” he said, with a grin. “I’m just going out to tell +folks ’ow you’re getting on. There’s a lot of ’em anxious.” +</p> + +<p> +He was as good as his word, and Mr. Gale, peeping from the window, raged +helplessly as little knots of neighbors stood smiling up at the house. +Unable to endure it any longer he returned to bed, resolving to wait +until night came, and then drop from the window and run home in a +blanket. +</p> + +<p> +The smell of dinner was almost painful, but he made no sign. Mr. Wragg +in high good humor smoked a pipe after his meal, and then went out +again. The house was silent except for the occasional movements of the +girl below. Then there was a sudden tap at his door. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Mr. Gale. +</p> + +<p> +The door opened and, hardly able to believe his eyes, he saw his clothes +thrown into the room. Hunger was forgotten, and he almost smiled as he +hastily dressed himself. +</p> + +<p> +The smile vanished as he thought of the people in the streets, and in a +thoughtful fashion he made his way slowly downstairs. The bright face of +Miss Miller appeared at the parlor door. +</p> + +<p> +“Better?” she smiled. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale reddened and, drawing himself up stiffly, made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s polite,” said the girl, indignantly. “After giving you your +clothes, too. What do you think my uncle will say to me? He was going to +keep you here till Friday.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale muttered an apology. “I’ve made a fool of myself,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Miller nodded cheerfully. “Are you hungry?” she inquired. +</p> + +<p> +The other drew himself up again. +</p> + +<p> +“Because there is some nice cold beef left,” said the girl, glancing +into the room. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale started and, hardly able to believe in his good fortune, +followed her inside. In a very short time the cold beef was a thing of +the past, and the young man, toying with his beer-glass, sat listening +to a lecture on his behavior couched in the severest terms his hostess +could devise. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be the laughing-stock of the place,” she concluded. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall go away,” he said, gloomily. +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t do that,” said the girl, with a judicial air; “live it +down.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall go away,” repeated Mr. Gale, decidedly. “I shall ship for a +deep-sea voyage.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Miller sighed. “It’s too bad,” she said, slowly; “perhaps you +wouldn’t look so foolish if—” +</p> + +<p> +“If what?” inquired the other, after a long pause. +</p> + +<p> +“If,” said Miss Miller, looking down, “if—if—” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale started and trembled violently, as a wild idea, born of her +blushes, occurred to him. +</p> + +<p> +“If,” he said, in quivering tones, “if—if—” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on,” said the girl, softly. “Why, I got as far as that: and you are +a man.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gale’s voice became almost inaudible. “If we got married, do you +mean?” he said, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Married!” exclaimed Miss Miller, starting back a full two inches. “Good +gracious! the man is mad after all.” +</p> + +<p> +The bitter and loudly expressed opinion of Mr. Wragg when he returned an +hour later was that they were both mad. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +THE DREAMER +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<img src="images/img30.jpg" width="600" height="495" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>THE DREAMER</h2> + +<p> +Dreams and warnings are things I don’t believe in, said the night +watchman. The only dream I ever ’ad that come anything like true was +once when I dreamt I came in for a fortune, and next morning I found +half a crown in the street, which I sold to a man for fourpence. And +once, two days arter my missis ’ad dreamt she ’ad spilt a cup of tea +down the front of ’er Sunday dress, she spoilt a pot o’ paint of mine by +sitting in it. +</p> + +<p> +The only other dream I know of that come true happened to the cook of a +bark I was aboard of once, called the <i>Southern Belle</i>. He was a +silly, pasty-faced sort o’ chap, always giving hisself airs about +eddication to sailormen who didn’t believe in it, and one night, when we +was homeward-bound from Sydney, he suddenly sat up in ’is bunk and +laughed so loud that he woke us all up. +</p> + +<p> +“Wot’s wrong, cookie?” ses one o’ the chaps. +</p> + +<p> +“I was dreaming,” ses the cook, “such a funny dream. I dreamt old Bill +Foster fell out o’ the foretop and broke ’is leg.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, wot is there to laugh at in that?” ses old Bill, very sharp. +</p> + +<p> +“It was funny in my dream,” ses the cook. “You looked so comic with your +leg doubled up under you, you can’t think. It would ha’ made a cat +laugh.” +</p> + +<p> +Bill Foster said he’d make ’im laugh the other side of his face if he +wasn’t careful, and then we went off to sleep agin and forgot all about +it. +</p> + +<p> +If you’ll believe me, on’y three days arterwards pore Bill did fall out +o’ the foretop and break his leg. He was surprised, but I never see a +man so surprised as the cook was. His eyes was nearly starting out of +’is head, but by the time the other chaps ’ad picked Bill up and asked +’im whether he was hurt, cook ’ad pulled ’imself together agin and was +giving himself such airs it was perfectly sickening. +</p> + +<p> +“My dreams always come true,” he ses. “It’s a kind o’ second sight with +me. It’s a gift, and, being tender-’arted, it worries me terrible +sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +He was going on like that, taking credit for a pure accident, when the +second officer came up and told ’em to carry Bill below. He was in +agony, of course, but he kept ’is presence of mind, and as they passed +the cook he gave ’im such a clip on the side of the ’ead as nearly broke +it. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s for dreaming about me,” he ses. +</p> + +<p> +The skipper and the fust officer and most of the hands set ’is leg +between them, and arter the skipper ’ad made him wot he called +comfortable, but wot Bill called something that I won’t soil my ears by +repeating, the officers went off and the cook came and sat down by the +side o’ Bill and talked about his gift. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t talk about it as a rule,” he ses, “’cos it frightens people.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a wonderful gift, cookie,” ses Charlie Epps. +</p> + +<p> +All of ’em thought the same, not knowing wot a fust-class liar the cook +was, and he sat there and lied to ’em till he couldn’t ’ardly speak, he +was so ’oarse. +</p> + +<p> +“My grandmother was a gypsy,” he ses, “and it’s in the family. Things +that are going to ’appen to people I know come to me in dreams, same as +pore Bill’s did. It’s curious to me sometimes when I look round at you +chaps, seeing you going about ’appy and comfortable, and knowing all the +time ’orrible things that is going to ’appen to you. Sometimes it gives +me the fair shivers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Horrible things to us, slushy?” ses Charlie, staring. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” ses the cook, nodding. “I never was on a ship afore with such a +lot of unfortunit men aboard. Never. There’s two pore fellers wot’ll be +dead corpses inside o’ six months, sitting ’ere laughing and talking as +if they was going to live to ninety. Thank your stars you don’t ’ave +such dreams.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who—who are the two, cookie?” ses Charlie, arter a bit. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, Charlie,” ses the cook, in a sad voice; “it would do no +good if I was to tell you. Nothing can alter it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give us a hint,” ses Charlie. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll tell you this much,” ses the cook, arter sitting with his +’ead in his ’ands, thinking; “one of ’em is nearly the ugliest man in +the fo’c’s’le and the other ain’t.” +</p> + +<p> +O’ course, that didn’t ’elp ’em much, but it caused a lot of argufying, +and the ugliest man aboard, instead o’ being grateful, behaved more like +a wild beast than a Christian when it was pointed out to him that he was +safe. +</p> + +<p> +Arter that dream about Bill, there was no keeping the cook in his place. +He ’ad dreams pretty near every night, and talked little bits of ’em in +his sleep. Little bits that you couldn’t make head nor tail of, and when +we asked ’im next morning he’d always shake his ’ead and say, “Never +mind.” Sometimes he’d mention a chap’s name in ’is sleep and make ’im +nervous for days. +</p> + +<p> +It was an unlucky v’y’ge that, for some of ’em. About a week arter pore Bill’s +accident Ted Jones started playing catch-ball with another chap and a empty +beer-bottle, and about the fifth chuck Ted caught it with his face. We thought +’e was killed at fust—he made such a noise; but they got ’im down below, and, +arter they ’ad picked out as much broken glass as Ted would let ’em, the second +officer did ’im up in sticking-plaster and told ’im to keep quiet for an hour +or two. +</p> + +<p> +Ted was very proud of ’is looks, and the way he went on was alarming. +Fust of all he found fault with the chap ’e was playing with, and then +he turned on the cook. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a pity you didn’t see that in a dream,” he ses, tryin’ to sneer, +on’y the sticking-plaster was too strong for ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“But I did see it,” ses the cook, drawin’ ’imself up. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Wot</i>?” ses Ted, starting. +</p> + +<p> +“I dreamt it night afore last, just exactly as it ’appened,” ses the +cook, in a offhand way. +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t you tell me, then?” ses Ted choking. +</p> + +<p> +“It ’ud ha’ been no good,” ses the cook, smiling and shaking his ’ead. +“Wot I see must ’appen. I on’y see the future, and that must be.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you stood there watching me chucking the bottle about,” ses Ted, +getting out of ’is bunk. “Why didn’t you stop me?” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t understand,” ses the cook. “If you’d ’ad more eddication—” +</p> + +<p> +He didn’t ’ave time to say any more afore Ted was on him, and cookie, +being no fighter, ’ad to cook with one eye for the next two or three +days. He kept quiet about ’is dreams for some time arter that, but it +was no good, because George Hall, wot was a firm believer, gave ’im a +licking for not warning ’im of a sprained ankle he got skylarking, and +Bob Law took it out of ’im for not telling ’im that he was going to lose +’is suit of shore-going togs at cards. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus21"></a> +<img src="images/img31.jpg" width="600" height="537" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘Why didn’t you tell me, then?’ ses Ted.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +The only chap that seemed to show any good feeling for the cook was a +young feller named Joseph Meek, a steady young chap wot was goin’ to be +married to old Bill Foster’s niece as soon as we got ’ome. Nobody else +knew it, but he told the cook all about it on the quiet. He said she was +too good for ’im, but, do all he could, he couldn’t get her to see it. +</p> + +<p> +“My feelings ’ave changed,” he ses. +</p> + +<p> +“P’r’aps they’ll change agin,” ses the cook, trying to comfort ’im. +</p> + +<p> +Joseph shook his ’ead. “No, I’ve made up my mind,” he ses, very slow. +“I’m young yet, and, besides, I can’t afford it; but ’ow to get out of +it I don’t know. Couldn’t you ’ave a dream agin it for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wot d’ye mean?” ses the cook, firing up. “Do you think I make my dreams +up?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; cert’inly not,” ses Joseph, patting ’im on the shoulder; “but +couldn’t you do it just for once? ’Ave a dream that me and Emily are +killed a few days arter the wedding. Don’t say in wot way, ’cos she +might think we could avoid it; just dream we are killed. Bill’s always +been a superstitious man, and since you dreamt about his leg he’d +believe anything; and he’s that fond of Emily I believe he’d ’ave the +wedding put off, at any rate—if I put him up to it.” +</p> + +<p> +It took ’im three days and a silver watch-chain to persuade the cook, +but he did at last; and one arternoon, when old Bill, who was getting on +fust-class, was resting ’is leg in ’is bunk, the cook went below and +turned in for a quiet sleep. +</p> + +<p> +For ten minutes he was as peaceful as a lamb, and old Bill, who ’ad been +laying in ’is bunk with an eye open watching ’im, was just dropping off +’imself, when the cook began to talk in ’is sleep, and the very fust +words made Bill sit up as though something ’ad bit ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“There they go,” ses the cook, “Emily Foster and Joseph Meek—and +there’s old Bill, good old Bill, going to give the bride away. How ’appy +they all look, especially Joseph!” +</p> + +<p> +Old Bill put his ’and to his ear and leaned out of his bunk. +</p> + +<p> +“There they go,” ses the cook agin; “but wot is that ’orrible black +thing with claws that’s ’anging over Bill?” +</p> + +<p> +Pore Bill nearly fell out of ’is bunk, but he saved ’imself at the last +moment and lay there as pale as death, listening. +</p> + +<p> +“It must be meant for Bill,” ses the cook. “Well, pore Bill; he won’t +know of it, that’s one thing. Let’s ’ope it’ll be sudden.” +</p> + +<p> +He lay quiet for some time and then he began again. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he ses, “it isn’t Bill; it’s Joseph and Emily, stark and stiff, +and they’ve on’y been married a week. ’Ow awful they look! Pore things. +Oh! oh! o-oh!” +</p> + +<p> +He woke up with a shiver and began to groan and then ’e sat up in his +bunk and saw old Bill leaning out and staring at ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve been dreaming, cook,” ses Bill, in a trembling voice. +</p> + +<p> +“’Ave I?” ses the cook. “How do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“About me and my niece,” ses Bill; “you was talking in your sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“You oughtn’t to ’ave listened,” ses the cook, getting out of ’is bunk +and going over to ’im. “I ’ope you didn’t ’ear all I dreamt. ’Ow much +did you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +Bill told ’im, and the cook sat there, shaking his ’ead. “Thank +goodness, you didn’t ’ear the worst of it,” he ses. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Worst</i>!” ses Bill. “Wot, was there any more of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lot’s more,” ses the cook. “But promise me you won’t tell Joseph, Bill. +Let ’im be happy while he can; it would on’y make ’im miserable, and it +wouldn’t do any good.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know so much about that,” ses Bill, thinking about the +arguments some of them had ’ad with Ted about the bottle. “Was it arter +they was married, cookie, that it ’appened? Are you sure?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certain sure. It was a week arter,” ses the cook. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then,” ses Bill, slapping ’is bad leg by mistake; “if they +didn’t marry, it couldn’t ’appen, could it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t talk foolish,” ses the cook; “they must marry. I saw it in my +dream.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we’ll see,” ses Bill. “I’m going to ’ave a quiet talk with Joseph +about it, and see wot he ses. I ain’t a-going to ’ave my pore gal +murdered just to please you and make your dreams come true.” +</p> + +<p> +He ’ad a quiet talk with Joseph, but Joseph wouldn’t ’ear of it at fust. +He said it was all the cook’s nonsense, though ’e owned up that it was +funny that the cook should know about the wedding and Emily’s name, and +at last he said that they would put it afore Emily and let her decide. +</p> + +<p> +That was about the last dream the cook had that v’y’ge, although he told +old Bill one day that he had ’ad the same dream about Joseph and Emily +agin, so that he was quite certain they ’ad got to be married and +killed. He wouldn’t tell Bill ’ow they was to be killed, because ’e said +it would make ’im an old man afore his time; but, of course, he ’ad to +say that <i>if</i> they wasn’t married the other part couldn’t come +true. He said that as he ’ad never told ’is dreams before—except in the +case of Bill’s leg—he couldn’t say for certain that they couldn’t be +prevented by taking care, but p’r’aps, they could; and Bill pointed out +to ’im wot a useful man he would be if he could dream and warn people in +time. +</p> + +<p> +By the time we got into the London river old Bill’s leg was getting on +fust-rate, and he got along splendid on a pair of crutches the carpenter +’ad made for him. Him and Joseph and the cook had ’ad a good many talks +about the dream, and the old man ’ad invited the cook to come along ’ome +with ’em, to be referred to when he told the tale. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall take my opportunity,” he ses, “and break it to ’er gentle like. +When I speak to you, you chip in, and not afore. D’ye understand?” +</p> + +<p> +We went into the East India Docks that v’y’ge, and got there early on a +lovely summer’s evening. Everybody was ’arf crazy at the idea o’ going +ashore agin, and working as cheerful and as willing as if they liked it. +There was a few people standing on the pier-head as we went in, and +among ’em several very nice-looking young wimmen. +</p> + +<p> +“My eye, Joseph,” ses the cook, who ’ad been staring hard at one of ’em, +“there’s a fine gal—lively, too. Look ’ere!” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus22"></a> +<img src="images/img32.jpg" width="546" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘I shall take my opportunity,’ he ses, ‘and break it to +’er gentle like.’”</p> +</div> + +<p> +He kissed ’is dirty paw—which is more than I should ’ave liked to ’ave +done it if it ’ad been mine—and waved it, and the gal turned round and +shook her ’ead at ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, that’ll do,” ses Joseph, very cross. “That’s my gal; that’s my +Emily.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” says the cook. “Well, ’ow was I to know? Besides, you’re a-giving +of her up.” +</p> + +<p> +Joseph didn’t answer ’im. He was staring at Emily, and the more he +stared the better-looking she seemed to grow. She really was an uncommon +nice-looking gal, and more than the cook was struck with her. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s that chap standing alongside of her?” ses the cook. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s one o’ Bill’s sister’s lodgers,” ses Joseph, who was looking very +bad-tempered. “I should like to know wot right he ’as to come ’ere to +welcome me ’ome. I don’t want ’im.” +</p> + +<p> +“P’r’aps he’s fond of ’er,” ses the cook. “I could be, very easy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll chuck ’im in the dock if he ain’t careful,” ses Joseph, turning +red in the face. +</p> + +<p> +He waved his ’and to Emily, who didn’t ’appen to be looking at the +moment, but the lodger waved back in a careless sort of way and then +spoke to Emily, and they both waved to old Bill who was standing on his +crutches further aft. +</p> + +<p> +By the time the ship was berthed and everything snug it was quite dark, +and old Bill didn’t know whether to take the cook ’ome with ’im and +break the news that night, or wait a bit. He made up his mind at last to +get it over and done with, and arter waiting till the cook ’ad cleaned +’imself they got a cab and drove off. +</p> + +<p> +Bert Simmons, the lodger, ’ad to ride on the box, and Bill took up so +much room with ’is bad leg that Emily found it more comfortable to sit +on Joseph’s knee; and by the time they got to the ’ouse he began to see +wot a silly mistake he was making. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep that dream o’ yours to yourself till I make up my mind,” he ses to +the cook, while Bill and the cabman were calling each other names. +</p> + +<p> +“Bill’s going to speak fust,” whispers the cook. +</p> + +<p> +The lodger and Emily ’ad gone inside, and Joseph stood there, fidgeting, +while the cabman asked Bill, as a friend, why he ’adn’t paid twopence +more for his face, and Bill was wasting his time trying to think of +something to say to ’urt the cabman’s feelings. Then he took Bill by the +arm as the cab drove off and told ’im not to say nothing about the +dream, because he was going to risk it. +</p> + +<p> +“Stuff and nonsense,” ses Bill. “I’m going to tell Emily. It’s my dooty. +Wot’s the good o’ being married if you’re going to be killed?” +</p> + +<p> +He stumped in on his crutches afore Joseph could say any more, and, +arter letting his sister kiss ’im, went into the front room and sat +down. There was cold beef and pickles on the table and two jugs o’ beer, +and arter just telling his sister ’ow he fell and broke ’is leg, they +all sat down to supper. +</p> + +<p> +Bert Simmons sat on one side of Emily and Joseph the other, and the cook +couldn’t ’elp feeling sorry for ’er, seeing as he did that sometimes she +was ’aving both hands squeezed at once under the table and could ’ardly +get a bite in edgeways. +</p> + +<p> +Old Bill lit his pipe arter supper, and then, taking another glass o’ +beer, he told ’em about the cook dreaming of his accident three days +afore it happened. They couldn’t ’ardly believe it at fust, but when he +went on to tell ’em the other things the cook ’ad dreamt, and that +everything ’ad ’appened just as he dreamt it, they all edged away from +the cook and sat staring at him with their mouths open. +</p> + +<p> +“And that ain’t the worst of it,” ses Bill. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s enough for one night, Bill,” ses Joseph, who was staring at Bert +Simmons as though he could eat him. “Besides, I believe it was on’y +chance. When cook told you ’is dream it made you nervous, and that’s why +you fell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nervous be blowed!” ses Bill; and then he told ’em about the dream he +’ad heard while he was laying in ’is bunk. +</p> + +<p> +Bill’s sister gave a scream when he ’ad finished, and Emily, wot was +sitting next to Joseph, got up with a shiver and went and sat next to +Bert Simmons and squeezed his coat-sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all nonsense!” ses Joseph, starting up. “And if it wasn’t, true +love would run the risk. I ain’t afraid!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s too much to ask a gal,” ses Bert Simmons, shaking his ’ead. +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t dream of it,” ses Emily. “Wot’s the use of being married for +a week? Look at uncle’s leg—that’s enough for me!” +</p> + +<p> +They all talked at once then, and Joseph tried all he could to persuade +Emily to prove to the cook that ’is dreams didn’t always come true; but +it was no good. Emily said she wouldn’t marry ’im if he ’ad a million a +year, and her aunt and uncle backed her up in it—to say nothing of Bert +Simmons. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go up and get your presents, Joseph,” she ses; and she ran +upstairs afore anybody could stop her. +</p> + +<p> +Joseph sat there as if he was dazed, while everybody gave ’im good +advice, and said ’ow thankful he ought to be that the cook ’ad saved him +by ’is dreaming. And by and by Emily came downstairs agin with the +presents he ’ad given ’er and put them on the table in front of ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s everything there but that little silver brooch you gave me, +Joseph,” she ses, “and I lost that the other evening when I was out +with—with—for a walk.” +</p> + +<p> +Joseph tried to speak, but couldn’t. +</p> + +<p> +“It was six-and-six, ’cos I was with you when you bought it,” ses Emily; +“and as I’ve lost it, it’s on’y fair I should pay for it.” +</p> + +<p> +She put down ’arf a sovereign with the presents, and Joseph sat staring +at it as if he ’ad never seen one afore. +</p> + +<p> +“And you needn’t mind about the change, Joseph,” ses Emily; “that’ll +’elp to make up for your disappointment.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Bill tried to turn things off with a bit of a laugh. “Why, you’re +made o’ money, Emily,” he ses. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I haven’t told you yet,” ses Emily, smiling at him; “that’s a +little surprise I was keeping for you. Aunt Emma—pore Aunt Emma, I +should say—died while you was away and left me all ’er furniture and +two hundred pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +Joseph made a choking noise in his throat and then ’e got up, leaving +the presents and the ’arf-sovereign on the table, and stood by the door, +staring at them. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night all,” he ses. Then he went to the front door and opened it, +and arter standing there a moment came back as though he ’ad forgotten +something. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you coming along now?” he ses to the cook. +</p> + +<p> +“Not just yet,” ses the cook, very quick. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll wait outside for you, then,” ses Joseph, grinding his teeth. +“Don’t be long.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +ANGELS’ VISITS +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<img src="images/img33.jpg" width="600" height="519" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>ANGELS’ VISITS</h2> + +<p> +Mr. William Jobling leaned against his door-post, smoking. The evening +air, pleasant in its coolness after the heat of the day, caressed his +shirt-sleeved arms. Children played noisily in the long, dreary street, +and an organ sounded faintly in the distance. To Mr. Jobling, who had +just consumed three herrings and a pint and a half of strong tea, the +scene was delightful. He blew a little cloud of smoke in the air, and +with half-closed eyes corrected his first impression as to the tune +being played round the corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Bill!” cried the voice of Mrs. Jobling, who was washing-up in the tiny +scullery. +</p> + +<p> +“’Ullo!” responded Mr. Jobling, gruffly. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve been putting your wet teaspoon in the sugar-basin, and—well, I +declare, if you haven’t done it again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Done what?” inquired her husband, hunching his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Putting your herringy knife in the butter. Well, you can eat it now; I +won’t. A lot of good me slaving from morning to night and buying good +food when you go and spoil it like that.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling removed the pipe from his mouth. “Not so much of it,” he +commanded. “I like butter with a little flavor to it. As for your +slaving all day, you ought to come to the works for a week; you’d know +what slavery was then.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jobling permitted herself a thin, derisive cackle, drowned +hurriedly in a clatter of tea-cups as her husband turned and looked +angrily up the little passage. +</p> + +<p> +“Nag! nag! nag!” said Mr. Jobling. +</p> + +<p> +He paused expectantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Nag! nag! nag! from morning till night,” he resumed. “It begins in the +morning and it goes on till bedtime.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a pity—” began Mrs. Jobling. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue,” said her husband, sternly; “I don’t want any of your +back answers. It goes on all day long up to bedtime, and last night I +laid awake for two hours listening to you nagging in your sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused again. +</p> + +<p> +“Nagging in your sleep,” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +There was no reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Two hours!” he said, invitingly; “two whole hours, without a stop.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ’ope it done you good,” retorted his wife. “I noticed you did wipe +one foot when you come in to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling denied the charge hotly, and, by way of emphasizing his +denial, raised his foot and sent the mat flying along the passage. Honor +satisfied, he returned to the door-post and, looking idly out on the +street again, exchanged a few desultory remarks with Mr. Joe Brown, who, +with his hands in his pockets, was balancing himself with great skill on +the edge of the curb opposite. +</p> + +<p> +His gaze wandered from Mr. Brown to a young and rather stylishly-dressed +woman who was approaching—a tall, good-looking girl with a slight limp, +whose hat encountered unspoken feminine criticism at every step. Their +eyes met as she came up, and recognition flashed suddenly into both +faces. +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy seeing you here!” said the girl. “Well, this is a pleasant +surprise.” +</p> + +<p> +She held out her hand, and Mr. Jobling, with a fierce glance at Mr. +Brown, who was not behaving, shook it respectfully. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m so glad to see you again,” said the girl; “I know I didn’t thank +you half enough the other night, but I was too upset.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Jobling, in a voice the humility of which +was in strong contrast to the expression with which he was regarding the +antics of Mr. Brown, as that gentleman wafted kisses to the four winds +of heaven. +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause, broken by a short, dry cough from the parlor window. +The girl, who was almost touching the sill, started nervously. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s only my missis,” said Mr. Jobling. +</p> + +<p> +The girl turned and gazed in at the window. Mr. Jobling, with the stem +of his pipe, performed a brief ceremony of introduction. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-evening,” said Mrs. Jobling, in a thin voice. “I don’t know who +you are, but I s’pose my ’usband does.” +</p> + +<p> +“I met him the other night,” said the girl, with a bright smile; “I +slipped on a piece of peel or something and fell, and he was passing and +helped me up.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jobling coughed again. “First I’ve heard of it,” she remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“I forgot to tell you,” said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. “I hope you wasn’t +hurt much, miss?” +</p> + +<p> +“I twisted my ankle a bit, that’s all,” said the girl; “it’s painful +when I walk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Painful now?” inquired Mr. Jobling, in concern. +</p> + +<p> +The girl nodded. “A little; not very.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling hesitated; the contortions of Mr. Brown’s face as he strove +to make a wink carry across the road would have given pause to a bolder +man; and twice his wife’s husky little cough had sounded from the +window. +</p> + +<p> +“I s’pose you wouldn’t like to step inside and rest for five minutes?” +he said, slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thank you,” said the girl, gratefully; “I should like to. It—it +really is very painful. I ought not to have walked so far.” +</p> + +<p> +She limped in behind Mr. Jobling, and after bowing to Mrs. Jobling sank +into the easy-chair with a sigh of relief and looked keenly round the +room. Mr. Jobling disappeared, and his wife flushed darkly as he came +back with his coat on and his hair wet from combing. An awkward silence +ensued. +</p> + +<p> +“How strong your husband is!” said the girl, clasping her hands +impulsively. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he?” said Mrs. Jobling. +</p> + +<p> +“He lifted me up as though I had been a feather,” responded the girl. +“He just put his arm round my waist and had me on my feet before I knew +where I was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Round your waist?” repeated Mrs. Jobling. +</p> + +<p> +“Where else should I put it?” broke in her husband, with sudden +violence. +</p> + +<p> +His wife made no reply, but sat gazing in a hostile fashion at the bold, +dark eyes and stylish hat of the visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to be strong,” said the latter, smiling agreeably over at +Mr. Jobling. +</p> + +<p> +“When I was younger,” said that gratified man, “I can assure you I +didn’t know my own strength, as the saying is. I used to hurt people +just in play like, without knowing it. I used to have a hug like a +bear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy being hugged like that!” said the girl. “How awful!” she added, +hastily, as she caught the eye of the speechless Mrs. Jobling. +</p> + +<p> +“Like a bear,” repeated Mr. Jobling, highly pleased at the impression he +had made. “I’m pretty strong now; there ain’t many as I’m afraid of.” +</p> + +<p> +He bent his arm and thoughtfully felt his biceps, and Mrs. Jobling +almost persuaded herself that she must be dreaming, as she saw the girl +lean forward and pinch Mr. Jobling’s arm. Mr. Jobling was surprised too, +but he had the presence of mind to bend the other. +</p> + +<p> +“Enormous!” said the girl, “and as hard as iron. What a prize-fighter +you’d have made!” +</p> + +<p> +“He don’t want to do no prize-fighting,” said Mrs. Jobling, recovering +her speech; “he’s a respectable married man.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling shook his head over lost opportunities. “I’m too old,” he +remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s forty-seven,” said his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Best age for a man, in my opinion,” said the girl; “just entering his +prime. And a man is as old as he feels, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling nodded acquiescence and observed that he always felt about +twenty-two; a state of affairs which he ascribed to regular habits, and +a great partiality for the company of young people. +</p> + +<p> +“I was just twenty-two when I married,” he mused, “and my missis was +just six months—” +</p> + +<p> +“You leave my age alone,” interrupted his wife, trembling with passion. +“I’m not so fond of telling my age to strangers.” +</p> + +<p> +“You told mine,” retorted Mr. Jobling, “and nobody asked you to do that. +Very free you was in coming out with mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t the only one that’s free,” breathed the quivering Mrs. Jobling. +“I ’ope your ankle is better?” she added, turning to the visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Much better, thank you,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Got far to go?” queried Mrs. Jobling. +</p> + +<p> +The girl nodded. “But I shall take a tram at the end of the street,” she +said, rising. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling rose too, and all that he had ever heard or read about +etiquette came crowding into his mind. A weekly journal patronized by +his wife had three columns regularly, but he taxed his memory in vain +for any instructions concerning brown-eyed strangers with sprained +ankles. He felt that the path of duty led to the tram-lines. In a +somewhat blundering fashion he proffered his services; the girl accepted +them as a matter of course. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jobling, with lips tightly compressed, watched them from the door. +The girl, limping slightly, walked along with the utmost composure, but +the bearing of her escort betokened a mind fully conscious of the +scrutiny of the street. +</p> + +<p> +He returned in about half an hour, and having this time to run the +gauntlet of the street alone, entered with a mien which caused his +wife’s complaints to remain unspoken. The cough of Mr. Brown, a +particularly contagious one, still rang in his ears, and he sat for some +time in fierce silence. +</p> + +<p> +“I see her on the tram,” he said, at last “Her name’s Robinson—Miss +Robinson.” +</p> + +<p> +“In-deed!” said his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Seems a nice sort o’ girl,” said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. “She’s took +quite a fancy to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure I’m much obliged to her,” retorted his wife. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus23"></a> +<img src="images/img34.jpg" width="445" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a +geranium.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“So I—so I asked her to give you a look in now and then,” continued Mr. +Jobling, filling his pipe with great care, “and she said she would. +It’ll cheer you up a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jobling bit her lip and, although she had never felt more fluent in +her life, said nothing. Her husband lit his pipe, and after a rapid +glance in her direction took up an old newspaper and began to read. +</p> + +<p> +He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a geranium in full +bloom. Surprise impeded her utterance, but she thanked him at last with +some warmth, and after a little deliberation decided to put it in the +bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling looked like a man who has suddenly discovered a flaw in his +calculations. “I was thinking of the front parlor winder,” he said, at +last. +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll get more sun upstairs,” said his wife. +</p> + +<p> +She took the pot in her arms, and disappeared. Her surprise when she +came down again and found Mr. Jobling rearranging the furniture, and +even adding a choice ornament or two from the kitchen, was too elaborate +to escape his notice. +</p> + +<p> +“Been going to do it for some time,” he remarked. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jobling left the room and strove with herself in the scullery. She +came back pale of face and with a gleam in her eye which her husband was +too busy to notice. +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll never look much till we get a new hearthrug,” she said, shaking +her head. “They’ve got one at Jackson’s that would be just the thing; +and they’ve got a couple of tall pink vases that would brighten up the +fireplace wonderful. They’re going for next to nothing, too.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling’s reply took the form of uncouth and disagreeable growlings. +After that phase had passed he sat for some time with his hand placed +protectingly in his trouser-pocket. Finally, in a fierce voice, he +inquired the cost. +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes later, in a state fairly evenly divided between pleasure and +fury, Mrs. Jobling departed with the money. Wild yearnings for courage +that would enable her to spend the money differently, and confront the +dismayed Mr. Jobling in a new hat and jacket, possessed her on the way; +but they were only yearnings, twenty-five years’ experience of her +husband’s temper being a sufficient safeguard. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Robinson came in the day after as they were sitting down to tea. +Mr. Jobling, who was in his shirt-sleeves, just had time to disappear as +the girl passed the window. His wife let her in, and after five remarks +about the weather sat listening in grim pleasure to the efforts of Mr. +Jobling to find his coat. He found it at last, under a chair cushion, +and, somewhat red of face, entered the room and greeted the visitor. +</p> + +<p> +Conversation was at first rather awkward. The girl’s eyes wandered round +the room and paused in astonishment on the pink vases; the beauty of the +rug also called for notice. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, they’re pretty good,” said Mr. Jobling, much gratified by her +approval. +</p> + +<p> +“Beautiful,” murmured the girl. “What a thing it is to have money!” she +said, wistfully. +</p> + +<p> +“I could do with some,” said Mr. Jobling, with jocularity. He helped +himself to bread and butter and began to discuss money and how to spend +it. His ideas favored retirement and a nice little place in the country. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder you don’t do it,” said the girl, softly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling laughed. “Gingell and Watson don’t pay on those lines,” he +said. “We do the work and they take the money.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s always the way,” said the girl, indignantly; “they have all the +luxuries, and the men who make the money for them all the hardships. I +seem to know the name Gingell and Watson. I wonder where I’ve seen it?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the paper, p’r’aps,” said Mr. Jobling. +</p> + +<p> +“Advertising?” asked the girl. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling shook his head. “Robbery,” he replied, seriously. “It was in +last week’s paper. Somebody got to the safe and got away with nine +hundred pounds in gold and bank-notes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember now,” said the girl, nodding. “Did they catch them?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, and not likely to,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Robinson opened her big eyes and looked round with an air of pretty +defiance. “I am glad of it,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Glad?” said Mrs. Jobling, involuntarily breaking a self-imposed vow of +silence. “Glad?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl nodded. “I like pluck,” she said, with a glance in the +direction of Mr. Jobling; “and, besides, whoever took it had as much +right to it as Gingell and Watson; they didn’t earn it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jobling, appalled at such ideas, glanced at her husband to see how +he received them. “The man’s a thief,” she said, with great energy, “and +he won’t enjoy his gains.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say—I dare say he’ll enjoy it right enough,” said Mr. Jobling, +“if he ain’t caught, that is.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe he is the sort of man I should like,” declared Miss Robinson, +obstinately. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say,” said Mrs. Jobling; “and I’ve no doubt he’d like you. Birds +of a—” +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll do,” said her husband, peremptorily; “that’s enough about it. +The guv’nors can afford to lose it; that’s one comfort.” +</p> + +<p> +He leaned over as the girl asked for more sugar and dropped a spoonful +in her cup, expressing surprise that she should like her tea so sweet. +Miss Robinson, denying the sweetness, proffered her cup in proof, and +Mrs. Jobling sat watching with blazing eyes the antics of her husband as +he sipped at it. +</p> + +<p> +“Sweets to the sweet,” he said, gallantly, as he handed it back. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Robinson pouted, and, raising the cup to her lips, gazed ardently +at him over the rim. Mr. Jobling, who certainly felt not more than +twenty-two that evening, stole her cake and received in return a rap +from a teaspoon. Mr. Jobling retaliated, and Mrs. Jobling, unable to +eat, sat looking on in helpless fury at little arts of fascination which +she had discarded—at Mr. Jobling’s earnest request—soon after their +marriage. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus24"></a> +<img src="images/img35.jpg" width="600" height="539" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“They offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least a hundred +plans for bringing him to his senses.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +By dint of considerable self-control, aided by an occasional glance from +her husband, she managed to preserve her calm until he returned from +seeing the visitor to her tram. Then her pent-up feelings found vent. +Quietly scornful at first, she soon waxed hysterical over his age and +figure. Tears followed as she bade him remember what a good wife she had +been to him, loudly claiming that any other woman would have poisoned +him long ago. Speedily finding that tears were of no avail, and that Mr. +Jobling seemed to regard them rather as a tribute to his worth than +otherwise, she gave way to fury, and, in a fine, but unpunctuated +passage, told him her exact opinion of Miss Robinson. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no good carrying on like that,” said Mr. Jobling, magisterially, +“and, what’s more, I won’t have it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Walking into my house and making eyes at my ’usband,” stormed his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“So long as I don’t make eyes at her there’s no harm done,” retorted Mr. +Jobling. “I can’t help her taking a fancy to me, poor thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d poor thing her,” said his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s to be pitied,” said Mr. Jobling, sternly. “I know how she feels. +She can’t help herself, but she’ll get over it in time. I don’t suppose +she thinks for a moment we have noticed her—her—her liking for me, and +I’m not going to have her feelings hurt.” +</p> + +<p> +“What about my feelings?” demanded his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You</i> have got me,” Mr. Jobling reminded her. +</p> + +<p> +The nine points of the law was Mrs. Jobling’s only consolation for the +next few days. Neighboring matrons, exchanging sympathy for information, +wished, strangely enough, that Mr. Jobling was their husband. Failing +that they offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least a hundred plans +for bringing him to his senses. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling, who was a proud man, met their hostile glances as he passed +to and from his work with scorn, until a day came when the hostility +vanished and gave place to smiles. Never so many people in the street, +he thought, as he returned from work; certainly never so many smiles. +People came hurriedly from their back premises to smile at him, and, as +he reached his door, Mr. Joe Brown opposite had all the appearance of a +human sunbeam. Tired of smiling faces, he yearned for that of his wife. +She came out of the kitchen and met him with a look of sly content. The +perplexed Mr. Jobling eyed her morosely. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you laughing at me for?” he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“I wasn’t laughing at you,” said his wife. +</p> + +<p> +She went back into the kitchen and sang blithely as she bustled over the +preparations for tea. Her voice was feeble, but there was a triumphant +effectiveness about the high notes which perplexed the listener sorely. +He seated himself in the new easy-chair—procured to satisfy the +supposed aesthetic tastes of Miss Robinson—and stared at the window. +</p> + +<p> +“You seem very happy all of a sudden,” he growled, as his wife came in +with the tray. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, why shouldn’t I be?” inquired Mrs. Jobling. “I’ve got everything +to make me so.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling looked at her in undisguised amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“New easy-chair, new vases, and a new hearthrug,” explained his wife, +looking round the room. “Did you order that little table you said you +would?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” growled Mr. Jobling. +</p> + +<p> +“Pay for it?” inquired his wife, with a trace of anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr. Jobling again. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jobling’s face relaxed. “I shouldn’t like to lose it at the last +moment,” she said. “You ’ave been good to me lately, Bill; buying all +these nice things. There’s not many women have got such a thoughtful +husband as what I have.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you gone dotty? or what?” inquired her bewildered husband. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no wonder people like you,” pursued Mrs. Jobling, ignoring the +question, and smiling again as she placed three chairs at the table. +“I’ll wait a minute or two before I soak the tea; I expect Miss Robinson +won’t be long, and she likes it fresh.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling, to conceal his amazement and to obtain a little fresh air +walked out of the room and opened the front door. +</p> + +<p> +“Cheer oh!” said the watchful Mr. Brown, with a benignant smile. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling scowled at him. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all right,” said Mr. Brown. “You go in and set down; I’m watching +for her.” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded reassuringly, and, not having curiosity enough to accept the +other’s offer and step across the road and see what he would get, shaded +his eyes with his hand and looked with exaggerated anxiety up the road. +Mr. Jobling, heavy of brow, returned to the parlor and looked hard at +his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s late,” said Mrs. Jobling, glancing at the clock. “I do hope she’s +all right, but I should feel anxious about her if she was my gal. It’s a +dangerous life.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dangerous life!” said Mr. Jobling, roughly. “What’s a dangerous life?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, hers,” replied his wife, with a nervous smile. “Joe Brown told me. +He followed her ’ome last night, and this morning he found out all about +her.” +</p> + +<p> +The mention of Mr. Brown’s name caused Mr. Jobling at first to assume an +air of indifference; but curiosity overpowered him. +</p> + +<p> +“What lies has he been telling?” he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think it’s a lie, Bill,” said his wife, mildly. “Putting two +and two—” +</p> + +<p> +“What did he say?” cried Mr. Jobling, raising his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“He said, ‘She—she’s a lady detective,’” stammered Mrs. Jobling, +putting her handkerchief to her unruly mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“A tec!” repeated her husband. “A lady tec?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jobling nodded. “Yes, Bill. She—she—she—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Mr. Jobling, in exasperation. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s being employed by Gingell and Watson,” said his wife. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling sprang to his feet, and with scarlet face and clinched fists +strove to assimilate the information and all its meaning. +</p> + +<p> +“What—what did she come here for? Do you mean to tell me she thinks +<i>I</i> took the money?” he said, huskily, after a long pause. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jobling bent before the storm. “I think she took a fancy to you, +Bill,” she said, timidly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling appeared to swallow something; then he took a step nearer to +her. “You let me see you laugh again, that’s all,” he said, fiercely. +“As for that Jezzybill—” +</p> + +<p> +“There she is,” said his wife, as a knock sounded at the door. “Don’t +say anything to hurt her feelings, Bill. You said she was to be pitied. +And it must be a hard life to ’ave to go round and flatter old married +men. I shouldn’t like it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling, past speech, stood and glared at her. Then, with an +inarticulate cry, he rushed to the front door and flung it open. Miss +Robinson, fresh and bright, stood smiling outside. Within easy distance +a little group of neighbors were making conversation, while opposite Mr. +Brown awaited events. +</p> + +<p> +“What d’you want?” demanded Mr. Jobling, harshly. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Robinson, who had put out her hand, drew it back and gave him a +swift glance. His red face and knitted brows told their own story. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she said, with a winning smile, “will you please tell Mrs. Jobling +that I can’t come to tea with her this evening?” +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t there anything else you’d like to say?” inquired Mr. Jobling, +disdainfully, as she turned away. +</p> + +<p> +The girl paused and appeared to reflect. “You can say that I am sorry to +miss an amusing evening,” she said, regarding him steadily. “Good-by.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Jobling slammed the door. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +A CIRCULAR TOUR +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<img src="images/img36.jpg" width="600" height="523" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>A CIRCULAR TOUR</h2> + +<p> +Illness? said the night watchman, slowly. Yes, sailormen get ill +sometimes, but not ’aving the time for it that other people have, and +there being no doctors at sea, they soon pick up agin. Ashore, if a +man’s ill he goes to a horse-pittle and ’as a nice nurse to wait on ’im; +at sea the mate comes down and tells ’im that there is nothing the +matter with ’im, and asks ’im if he ain’t ashamed of ’imself. The only +mate I ever knew that showed any feeling was one who ’ad been a doctor +and ’ad gone to sea to better ’imself. He didn’t believe in medicine; +his idea was to cut things out, and he was so kind and tender, and so +fond of ’is little box of knives and saws, that you wouldn’t ha’ thought +anybody could ’ave had the ’art to say “no” to him. But they did. I +remember ’im getting up at four o’clock one morning to cut a man’s leg +off, and at ha’-past three the chap was sitting up aloft with four pairs +o’ trousers on and a belaying-pin in his ’and. +</p> + +<p> +One chap I knew, Joe Summers by name, got so sick o’ work one v’y’ge +that he went mad. Not dangerous mad, mind you. Just silly. One thing he +did was to pretend that the skipper was ’is little boy, and foller ’im +up unbeknown and pat his ’ead. At last, to pacify him, the old man +pretended that he was ’is little boy, and a precious handful of a boy he +was too, I can tell you. Fust of all he showed ’is father ’ow they +wrestled at school, and arter that he showed ’im ’ow he ’arf killed +another boy in fifteen rounds. Leastways he was going to, but arter +seven rounds Joe’s madness left ’im all of a sudden and he was as right +as ever he was. +</p> + +<p> +Sailormen are more frequent ill ashore than at sea; they’ve got more +time for it, I s’pose. Old Sam Small, a man you may remember by name as +a pal o’ mine, got ill once, and, like most ’ealthy men who get a little +something the matter with ’em, he made sure ’e was dying. He was sharing +a bedroom with Ginger Dick and Peter Russet at the time, and early one +morning he woke up groaning with a chill or something which he couldn’t +account for, but which Ginger thought might ha’ been partly caused +through ’im sleeping in the fireplace. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that you, Sam?” ses Ginger, waking up with the noise and rubbing his +eyes. “Wot’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m dying,” ses Sam, with another awful groan. “Good-by, Ginger.” +</p> + +<p> +“Goo’-by,” ses Ginger, turning over and falling fast asleep agin. +</p> + +<p> +Old Sam picked ’imself up arter two or three tries, and then he +staggered over to Peter Russet’s bed and sat on the foot of it, +groaning, until Peter woke up very cross and tried to push ’im off with +his feet. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m dying, Peter,” ses Sam, and ’e rolled over and buried his face in +the bed-clo’es and kicked. Peter Russet, who was a bit scared, sat up in +bed and called for Ginger, and arter he ’ad called pretty near a dozen +times Ginger ’arf woke up and asked ’im wot was the matter. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor old Sam’s dying,” ses Peter. +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” ses Ginger, laying down and cuddling into the piller agin. “He +told me just now. I’ve bid ’im good-by.” +</p> + +<p> +Peter Russet asked ’im where his ’art was, but Ginger was asleep agin. +Then Peter sat up in bed and tried to comfort Sam, and listened while ’e +told ’im wot it felt like to die. How ’e was ’ot and cold all over, +burning and shivering, with pains in his inside that he couldn’t +describe if ’e tried. +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll soon be over, Sam,” ses Peter, kindly, “and all your troubles +will be at an end. While me and Ginger are knocking about at sea trying +to earn a crust o’ bread to keep ourselves alive, you’ll be quiet and at +peace.” +</p> + +<p> +Sam groaned. “I don’t like being too quiet,” he ses. “I was always one +for a bit o’ fun—innercent fun.” +</p> + +<p> +Peter coughed. +</p> + +<p> +“You and Ginger ’av been good pals,” ses Sam; “it’s hard to go and leave +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve all got to go some time or other, Sam,” ses Peter, soothing-like. +“It’s a wonder to me, with your habits, that you’ve lasted as long as +you ’ave.” +</p> + +<p> +“My <i>habits</i>?” ses Sam, sitting up all of a sudden. “Why, you +monkey-faced son of a sea-cook, for two pins I’d chuck you out of the +winder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t talk like that on your death-bed,” ses Peter, very shocked. +</p> + +<p> +Sam was going to answer ’im sharp agin, but just then ’e got a pain +which made ’im roll about on the bed and groan to such an extent that +Ginger woke up agin and got out o’ bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Pore old Sam!” he ses, walking across the room and looking at ’im. +“’Ave you got any pain anywhere?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Pain</i>?” ses Sam. “Pain? I’m a mask o’ pains all over.” +</p> + +<p> +Ginger and Peter looked at ’im and shook their ’eds, and then they went +a little way off and talked about ’im in whispers. +</p> + +<p> +“He looks ’arf dead now,” ses Peter, coming back and staring at ’im. +“Let’s take ’is clothes off, Ginger; it’s more decent to die with ’em +off.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I’ll ’ave a doctor,” ses Sam, in a faint voice. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re past doctors, Sam,” ses Ginger, in a kind voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Better ’ave your last moments in peace,” ses Peter, “and keep your +money in your trouser-pockets.” +</p> + +<p> +“You go and fetch a doctor, you murderers,” ses Sam, groaning, as Peter +started to undress ’im. “Go on, else I’ll haunt you with my ghost.” +</p> + +<p> +Ginger tried to talk to ’im about the sin o’ wasting money, but it was +all no good, and arter telling Peter wot to do in case Sam died afore he +come back, he went off. He was gone about ’arf an hour, and then he come +back with a sandy-’aired young man with red eyelids and a black bag. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I dying, sir?” ses Sam, arter the doctor ’ad listened to his lungs +and his ’art and prodded ’im all over. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re all dying,” ses the doctor, “only some of us’ll go sooner than +others.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will he last the day, sir?” ses Ginger. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor looked at Sam agin, and Sam held ’is breath while ’e waited +for him to answer. “Yes,” ses the doctor at last, “if he does just wot I +tell him and takes the medicine I send ’im.” +</p> + +<p> +He wasn’t in the room ’arf an hour altogether, and he charged pore Sam a +shilling; but wot ’urt Sam even more than that was to hear ’im go off +downstairs whistling as cheerful as if there wasn’t a dying man within a +’undred miles. +</p> + +<p> +Peter and Ginger Dick took turns to be with Sam that morning, but in the +arternoon the landlady’s mother, an old lady who was almost as fat as Sam +’imself, came up to look arter ’im a bit. She sat on a chair by the side of ’is +bed and tried to amuse ’im by telling ’im of all the death-beds she’d been at, +and partikler of one man, the living image of Sam, who passed away in his +sleep. It was past ten o’clock when Peter and Ginger came ’ome, but they found +pore Sam still awake and sitting up in bed holding ’is eyes open with his +fingers. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus25"></a> +<img src="images/img37.jpg" width="600" height="551" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“She asked ’im whether ’e’d got a fancy for any partikler +spot to be buried in.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +Sam had another shilling’s-worth the next day, and ’is medicine was +changed for the worse. If anything he seemed a trifle better, but the +landlady’s mother, wot came up to nurse ’im agin, said it was a bad +sign, and that people often brightened up just afore the end. She asked +’im whether ’e’d got a fancy for any partikler spot to be buried in, +and, talking about wot a lot o’ people ’ad been buried alive, said she’d +ask the doctor to cut Sam’s ’ead off to prevent mistakes. She got quite +annoyed with Sam for saying, supposing there <i>was</i> a mistake and he +came round in the middle of it, how’d he feel? and said there was no +satisfying some people, do wot you would. +</p> + +<p> +At the end o’ six days Sam was still alive and losing a shilling a day, +to say nothing of buying ’is own beef-tea and such-like. Ginger said it +was fair highway robbery, and tried to persuade Sam to go to a +’orsepittle, where he’d ’ave lovely nurses to wait on ’im hand and foot, +and wouldn’t keep ’is best friends awake of a night making ’orrible +noises. +</p> + +<p> +Sam didn’t take kindly to the idea at fust, but as the doctor forbid ’im +to get up, although he felt much better, and his money was wasting away, +he gave way at last, and at seven o’clock one evening he sent Ginger off +to fetch a cab to take ’im to the London Horsepittle. Sam said something +about putting ’is clothes on, but Peter Russet said the horsepittle +would be more likely to take him in if he went in the blanket and +counterpane, and at last Sam gave way. Ginger and Peter helped ’im +downstairs, and the cabman laid hold o’ one end o’ the blanket as they +got to the street-door, under the idea that he was helping, and very +near gave Sam another chill. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep your hair on,” he ses, as Sam started on ’im. “It’ll be three-and-six for +the fare, and I’ll take the money now.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll ’ave it when you get there,” ses Ginger. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll ’ave it now,” ses the cabman. “I ’ad a fare die on the way once +afore.” +</p> + +<p> +Ginger—who was minding Sam’s money for ’im because there wasn’t a +pocket in the counterpane—paid ’im, and the cab started. It jolted and +rattled over the stones, but Sam said the air was doing ’im good. He +kept ’is pluck up until they got close to the horsepittle, and then ’e +got nervous. And ’e got more nervous when the cabman got down off ’is +box and put his ’ed in at the winder and spoke to ’im. +</p> + +<p> +“’Ave you got any partikler fancy for the London Horsepittle?” he ses. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” ses Sam. “Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I s’pose it don’t matter, if wot your mate ses is true—that +you’re dying,” ses the cabman. +</p> + +<p> +“Wot d’ye mean?” says Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” ses the cabman; “only, fust and last, I s’pose I’ve driven +five ’undred people to that ’orsepittle, and only one ever came out +agin—and he was smuggled out in a bread-basket.” +</p> + +<p> +Sam’s flesh began to creep all over. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a pity they don’t ’ave the same rules as Charing Cross +Horsepittle,” ses the cabman. “The doctors ’ave five pounds apiece for +every patient that gets well there, and the consequence is they ain’t +’ad the blinds down for over five months.” +</p> + +<p> +“Drive me there,” ses Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a long way,” ses the cabman, shaking his ’ed, “and it ’ud cost you +another ’arf dollar. S’pose you give the London a try?” +</p> + +<p> +“You drive to Charing Cross,” ses Sam, telling Ginger to give ’im the +’arf-dollar. “And look sharp; these things ain’t as warm as they might +be.” +</p> + +<p> +The cabman turned his ’orse round and set off agin, singing. The cab +stopped once or twice for a little while, and then it stopped for quite +a long time, and the cabman climbed down off ’is box and came to the +winder agin. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry, mate,” he ses, “but did you see me speak to that party just +now?” +</p> + +<p> +“The one you flicked with your whip?” ses Ginger. +</p> + +<p> +“No; he was speaking to me,” ses the cabman. “The last one, I mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wot about it?” ses Peter. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s the under-porter at the horsepittle,” ses the cabman, spitting; +“and he tells me that every bed is bung full, and two patients apiece in +some of ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mind sleeping two in a bed,” ses Sam, who was very tired and +cold. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” ses the cabman, looking at ’im; “but wot about the other one?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what’s to be done?” ses Peter. +</p> + +<p> +“You might go to Guy’s,” ses the cabman; “that’s as good as Charing +Cross.” +</p> + +<p> +“I b’lieve you’re telling a pack o’ lies,” ses Ginger. +</p> + +<p> +“Come out o’ my cab,” ses the cabman, very fierce. “Come on, all of you. +Out you get.” +</p> + +<p> +Ginger and Peter was for getting out, but Sam wouldn’t ’ear of it. It +was bad enough being wrapped up in a blanket in a cab, without being +turned out in ’is bare feet on the pavement, and at last Ginger +apologized to the cabman by saying ’e supposed if he was a liar he +couldn’t ’elp it. The cabman collected three shillings more to go to +Guy’s ’orsepittle, and, arter a few words with Ginger, climbed up on ’is +box and drove off agin. +</p> + +<p> +They were all rather tired of the cab by this time, and, going over +Waterloo Bridge, Ginger began to feel uncommon thirsty, and, leaning out +of the winder, he told the cabman to pull up for a drink. He was so long +about it that Ginger began to think he was bearing malice, but just as +he was going to tell ’im agin, the cab pulled up in a quiet little +street opposite a small pub. Ginger Dick and Peter went in and ’ad +something and brought one out for Sam. They ’ad another arter that, and +Ginger, getting ’is good temper back agin, asked the cabman to ’ave one. +</p> + +<p> +“Look lively about it, Ginger,” ses Sam, very sharp. “You forget ’ow ill +I am.” +</p> + +<p> +Ginger said they wouldn’t be two seconds, and, the cabman calling a boy +to mind his ’orse, they went inside. It was a quiet little place, but +very cosey, and Sam, peeping out of the winder, could see all three of +’em leaning against the bar and making themselves comfortable. Twice he +made the boy go in to hurry them up, and all the notice they took was to +go on at the boy for leaving the horse. +</p> + +<p> +Pore old Sam sat there hugging ’imself in the bed-clo’es, and getting +wilder and wilder. He couldn’t get out of the cab, and ’e couldn’t call +to them for fear of people coming up and staring at ’im. Ginger, smiling +all over with ’appiness, had got a big cigar on and was pretending to +pinch the barmaid’s flowers, and Peter and the cabman was talking to +some other chaps there. The only change Sam ’ad was when the boy walked +the ’orse up and down the road. +</p> + +<p> +He sat there for an hour and then ’e sent the boy in agin. This time the +cabman lost ’is temper, and, arter chasing the boy up the road, gave a +young feller twopence to take ’is place and promised ’im another +twopence when he came out. Sam tried to get a word with ’im as ’e +passed, but he wouldn’t listen, and it was pretty near ’arf an hour +later afore they all came out, talking and laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Now for the ’orsepittle,” ses Ginger, opening the door. “Come on, +Peter; don’t keep pore old Sam waiting all night.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Arf a tic,” ses the cabman, “’arf a tic; there’s five shillings for +waiting, fust.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Wot</i>?” ses Ginger, staring at ’im. “Arter giving you all them +drinks?” +</p> + +<p> +“Five shillings,” ses the cabman; “two hours’ waiting at half a crown an +hour. That’s the proper charge.” +</p> + +<p> +Ginger thought ’e was joking at fust, and when he found ’e wasn’t he +called ’im all the names he could think of, while Peter Russet stood by +smiling and trying to think where ’e was and wot it was all about. +</p> + +<p> +“Pay ’im the five bob, Ginger, and ’ave done with it,” ses pore Sam, at +last. “I shall never get to the horsepittle at this rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cert’inly not,” ses Ginger, “not if we stay ’ere all night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pay ’im the five bob,” ses Sam, raising ’is voice; “it’s my money.” +</p> + +<p> +“You keep quiet,” ses Ginger, “and speak when your spoke to. Get inside, +Peter.” +</p> + +<p> +Peter, wot was standing by blinking and smiling, misunderstood ’im, and +went back inside the pub. Ginger went arter ’im to fetch ’im back, and +hearing a noise turned round and saw the cabman pulling Sam out o’ the +cab. He was just in time to shove ’im back agin, and for the next two or +three minutes ’im and the cabman was ’ard at it. Sam was too busy +holding ’is clothes on to do much, and twice the cabman got ’im ’arf +out, and twice Ginger got him back agin and bumped ’im back in ’is seat +and shut the door. Then they both stopped and took breath. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll see which gets tired fust,” ses Ginger. “Hold the door inside, +Sam.” +</p> + +<p> +The cabman looked at ’im, and then ’e climbed up on to ’is seat and, +just as Ginger ran back for Peter Russet, drove off at full speed. +</p> + +<p> +Pore Sam leaned back in ’is seat panting and trying to wrap ’imself up +better in the counterpane, which ’ad got torn in the struggle. They went +through street arter street, and ’e was just thinking of a nice warm bed +and a kind nurse listening to all ’is troubles when ’e found they was +going over London Bridge. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve passed it,” he ses, putting his ’ead out of the winder. +</p> + +<p> +The cabman took no notice, and afore Sam could think wot to make of it +they was in the Whitechapel Road, and arter that, although Sam kept +putting his ’ead out of the winder and asking ’im questions, they kept +going through a lot o’ little back streets until ’e began to think the +cabman ’ad lost ’is way. They stopped at last in a dark little road, in +front of a brick wall, and then the cabman got down and opened a door +and led his ’orse and cab into a yard. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you call this Guy’s Horsepittle?” ses Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo!” ses the cabman. “Why, I thought I put you out o’ my cab once.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll give you five minutes to drive me to the ’orsepittle,” ses Sam. +“Arter that I shall go for the police.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” ses the cabman, taking his ’orse out and leading it into a +stable. “Mind you don’t catch cold.” +</p> + +<p> +He lighted a lantern and began to look arter the ’orse, and pore Sam sat +there getting colder and colder and wondering wot ’e was going to do. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall give you in charge for kidnapping me,” he calls out very loud. +</p> + +<p> +“Kidnapping?” ses the cabman. “Who do you think wants to kidnap you? The +gate’s open, and you can go as soon as you like.” +</p> + +<p> +Sam climbed out of the cab, and holding up the counterpane walked across +the yard in ’is bare feet to the stable. “Well, will you drive me ’ome?” +he ses. +</p> + +<p> +“Cert’inly not,” ses the cabman; “I’m going ’ome myself now. It’s time +you went, ’cos I’m going to lock up.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Ow can I go like this?” ses Sam, bursting with passion. “Ain’t you got +any sense?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, wot are you going to do?” ses the cabman, picking ’is teeth with +a bit o’ straw. +</p> + +<p> +“Wot would you do if you was me?” ses Sam, calming down a bit and trying +to speak civil. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus26"></a> +<img src="images/img38.jpg" width="600" height="475" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“‘All right,’ ses the cabman, taking his ’orse out and +leading it into a stable. ‘Mind you don’t catch cold.’”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“Well, if I was you,” said the cabman, speaking very slow, “I should be +more perlite to begin with; you accused me just now—me, a ’ard-working +man—o’ kidnapping you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was only my fun,” ses Sam, very quick. +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t kidnapping you, am I?” ses the cabman. +</p> + +<p> +“Cert’inly not,” ses Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then,” ses the cabman, “if I was you I should pay ’arf a crown +for a night’s lodging in this nice warm stable, and in the morning I +should ask the man it belongs to—that’s me—to go up to my lodging with +a letter, asking for a suit o’ clothes and eleven-and-six.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eleven-and-six?” ses Sam, staring. +</p> + +<p> +“Five bob for two hours’ wait,” ses the cabman, “four shillings for the +drive here, and ’arf a crown for the stable. That’s fair, ain’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +Sam said it was—as soon as he was able to speak—and then the cabman +gave ’im a truss of straw to lay on and a rug to cover ’im up with. +</p> + +<p> +And then, calling ’imself a fool for being so tender-’earted, he left +Sam the lantern, and locked the stable-door and went off. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed like a ’orrid dream to Sam, and the only thing that comforted +’im was the fact that he felt much better. His illness seemed to ’ave +gone, and arter hunting round the stable to see whether ’e could find +anything to eat, ’e pulled the rug over him and went to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +He was woke up at six o’clock in the morning by the cabman opening the +door. There was a lovely smell o’ hot tea from a tin he ’ad in one ’and, +and a lovelier smell still from a plate o’ bread and butter and bloaters +in the other. Sam sniffed so ’ard that at last the cabman noticed it, +and asked ’im whether he ’ad got a cold. When Sam explained he seemed to +think a minute or two, and then ’e said that it was ’is breakfast, but +Sam could ’ave it if ’e liked to make up the money to a pound. +</p> + +<p> +“Take it or leave it,” he ses, as Sam began to grumble. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Sam was so ’ungry he took it, and it done him good. By the time he +’ad eaten it he felt as right as ninepence, and ’e took such a dislike +to the cabman ’e could hardly be civil to ’im. And when the cabman spoke +about the letter to Ginger Dick he spoke up and tried to bate ’im down +to seven-and-six. +</p> + +<p> +“You write that letter for a pound,” ses the cabman, looking at ’im very +fierce, “or else you can walk ’ome in your counterpane, with ’arf the +boys in London follering you and trying to pull it off.” +</p> + +<p> +Sam rose ’im to seventeen-and-six, but it was all no good, and at last +’e wrote a letter to Ginger Dick, telling ’im to give the cabman a suit +of clothes and a pound. +</p> + +<p> +“And look sharp about it,” he ses. “I shall expect ’em in ’arf an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll ’ave ’em, if you’re lucky, when I come back to change ’orses at +four o’clock,” ses the cabman. “D’ye think I’ve got nothing to do but +fuss about arter you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not drive me back in the cab?” ses Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“'Cos I wasn’t born yesterday,” ses the cabman. +</p> + +<p> +He winked at Sam, and then, whistling very cheerful, took his ’orse out +and put it in the cab. He was so good-tempered that ’e got quite +playful, and Sam ’ad to tell him that when ’e wanted to ’ave his legs +tickled with a straw he’d let ’im know. +</p> + +<p> +Some people can’t take a ’int, and, as the cabman wouldn’t be’ave +’imself, Sam walked into a shed that was handy and pulled the door to, +and he stayed there until he ’eard ’im go back to the stable for ’is +rug. It was only a yard or two from the shed to the cab, and, ’ardly +thinking wot he was doing, Sam nipped out and got into it and sat +huddled up on the floor. +</p> + +<p> +He sat there holding ’is breath and not daring to move until the cabman +’ad shut the gate and was driving off up the road, and then ’e got up on +the seat and lolled back out of sight. The shops were just opening, the +sun was shining, and Sam felt so well that ’e was thankful that ’e +hadn’t got to the horsepittle arter all. +</p> + +<p> +The cab was going very slow, and two or three times the cabman ’arf +pulled up and waved his whip at people wot he thought wanted a cab, but +at last an old lady and gentleman, standing on the edge of the curb with +a big bag, held up their ’ands to ’im. The cab pulled in to the curb, +and the old gentleman ’ad just got hold of the door and was trying to +open it when he caught sight of Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you’ve got a fare,” he ses. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” ses the cabman. +</p> + +<p> +“But I say you ’ave,” ses the old gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +The cabman climbed down off ’is box and looked in at the winder, and for +over two minutes he couldn’t speak a word. He just stood there looking +at Sam and getting purpler and purpler about the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Drive on, cabby,” ses Sam, “Wot are you stopping for?” +</p> + +<p> +The cabman tried to tell ’im, but just then a policeman came walking up +to see wot was the matter, and ’e got on the box agin and drove off. +Cabmen love policemen just about as much as cats love dogs, and he drove +down two streets afore he stopped and got down agin to finish ’is +remarks. +</p> + +<p> +“Not so much talk, cabman,” ses Sam, who was beginning to enjoy ’imself, +“else I shall call the police.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you coming out o’ my cab?” ses the cabman, “or ’ave I got to put +you out?” +</p> + +<p> +“You put me out!” ses Sam, who ’ad tied ’is clothes up with string while +’e was in the stable, and ’ad got his arms free. +</p> + +<p> +The cabman looked at ’im ’elpless for a moment, and then he got up and +drove off agin. At fust Sam thought ’e was going to drive back to the +stable, and he clinched ’is teeth and made up ’is mind to ’ave a fight +for it. Then he saw that ’e was really being driven ’ome, and at last +the cab pulled up in the next street to ’is lodgings, and the cabman, +asking a man to give an eye to his ’orse, walked on with the letter. He +was back agin in a few minutes, and Sam could see by ’is face that +something had ’appened. +</p> + +<p> +“They ain’t been ’ome all night,” he ses, sulky-like. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I shall ’ave to send the money on to you,” ses Sam, in a off-hand +way. “Unless you like to call for it.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus27"></a> +<img src="images/img39.jpg" width="418" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption">“So long.”</p> +</div> + +<p> +“I’ll call for it, matey,” ses the cabman, with a kind smile, as he took +’old of his ’orse and led it up to Sam’s lodgings. “I know I can trust +you, but it’ll save you trouble. But s’pose he’s been on the drink and +lost the money?” +</p> + +<p> +Sam got out and made a dash for the door, which ’appened to be open. “It +won’t make no difference,” he ses. +</p> + +<p> +“No difference?” ses the cabman, staring. +</p> + +<p> +“Not to you, I mean,” ses Sam, shutting the door very slow. “So long.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT CRUISES ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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Jacobs + +Release Date: September, 2004 [EBook #6465] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on December 17, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT CRUISES *** + + + + +Produced by Tonya Allen, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +SHORT CRUISES + + +BY + + +W. W. JACOBS + + + + +CONTENTS + + + + +THE CHANGELING + +MIXED RELATIONS + +HIS LORDSHIP + +ALF'S DREAM + +A DISTANT RELATIVE + +THE TEST + +IN THE FAMILY + +A LOVE-KNOT + +HER UNCLE + +THE DREAMER + +ANGELS' VISITS + +A CIRCULAR TOUR + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + +FROM DRAWINGS BY WILL OWEN + + +"'And what about my voice?' he demanded" + +"'George!' she exclaimed sharply" + +"He struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked up at the +window" + +"Mr. Stokes, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away" + +"The mate smiled too" + +"Sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more than hold his +own" + +"'Good-by,' he said slowly; 'and I wish you both every happiness'" + +"'She's got your eyes,' said his lordship" + +"'I like fools better than lords'" + +"He patted 'im on the shoulder and said 'ow well he was filling out" + +"Mr. Potter was then introduced and received a gracious reception" + +"A gold watch and chain lent an air of substance to his waistcoat" + +"'And we don't want you following us about,' said Mr. Dix, sharply" + +"'I tell you he can't swim,' repeated Mr. Heard, passionately" + +"'You leave go o' my lodger,' ses Bob Pretty" + +"He slammed the door in Bob Pretty's face" + +"On the third morning he took Mrs. Bowman out for a walk" + +"'I had forgotten it was there,' he said, nervously" + +"The corner of the trunk took the gesticulating Mr. Wragg by the side of +the head" + +"'What did you do that for?' demanded Mr. Gale, sitting up" + +"'Why didn't you tell me then?' ses Ted" + +"'I shall take my opportunity,' he ses, 'and break it to 'er gentle +like'" + +"He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a geranium" + +"They offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least a hundred plans for +bringing him to his senses" + +"'She asked 'im whether 'e'd got a fancy for any partikler spot to be +buried in" + +"'All right,' ses the cabman, taking his 'orse out and leading it into a +stable, 'mind you don't catch cold'" "So long" + + + + +[Illustration: THE CHANGELING] + + + + +THE CHANGELING + + +Mr. George Henshaw let himself in at the front door, and stood for some +time wiping his boots on the mat. The little house was ominously still, +and a faint feeling, only partially due to the lapse of time since +breakfast, manifested itself behind his waistcoat. He coughed--a matter- +of-fact cough--and, with an attempt to hum a tune, hung his hat on the +peg and entered the kitchen. + +Mrs. Henshaw had just finished dinner. The neatly cleaned bone of a chop +was on a plate by her side; a small dish which had contained a rice- +pudding was empty; and the only food left on the table was a small rind +of cheese and a piece of stale bread. Mr. Henshaw's face fell, but he +drew his chair up to the table and waited. + +His wife regarded him with a fixed and offensive stare. Her face was red +and her eyes were blazing. It was hard to ignore her gaze; harder still +to meet it. Mr. Henshaw, steering a middle course, allowed his eyes to +wander round the room and to dwell, for the fraction of a second, on her +angry face. + +"You've had dinner early?" he said at last, in a trembling voice. + +"Have I?" was the reply. + +Mr. Henshaw sought for a comforting explanation. "Clock's fast," he +said, rising and adjusting it. + +His wife rose almost at the same moment, and with slow deliberate +movements began to clear the table. + +"What--what about dinner?" said Mr. Henshaw, still trying to control his +fears. + +"Dinner!" repeated Mrs. Henshaw, in a terrible voice. "You go and tell +that creature you were on the 'bus with to get your dinner." + +Mr. Henshaw made a gesture of despair. "I tell you," he said +emphatically, "it wasn't me. I told you so last night. You get an idea +in your head and--" + +"That'll do," said his wife, sharply. "I saw you, George Henshaw, as +plain as I see you now. You were tickling her ear with a bit o' straw, +and that good-for-nothing friend of yours, Ted Stokes, was sitting +behind with another beauty. Nice way o' going on, and me at 'ome all +alone by myself, slaving and slaving to keep things respectable!" + +"It wasn't me," reiterated the unfortunate. + +"When I called out to you," pursued the unheeding Mrs. Henshaw, "you +started and pulled your hat over your eyes and turned away. I should +have caught you if it hadn't been for all them carts in the way and +falling down. I can't understand now how it was I wasn't killed; I was a +mask of mud from head to foot." + +Despite his utmost efforts to prevent it, a faint smile flitted across +the pallid features of Mr. Henshaw. + +"Yes, you may laugh," stormed his wife, "and I've no doubt them two +beauties laughed too. I'll take care you don't have much more to laugh +at, my man." + +She flung out of the room and began to wash up the crockery. Mr. +Henshaw, after standing irresolute for some time with his hands in his +pockets, put on his hat again and left the house. + +He dined badly at a small eating-house, and returned home at six o'clock +that evening to find his wife out and the cupboard empty. He went back +to the same restaurant for tea, and after a gloomy meal went round to +discuss the situation with Ted Stokes. That gentleman's suggestion of a +double alibi he thrust aside with disdain and a stern appeal to talk +sense. + +"Mind, if my wife speaks to you about it," he said, warningly, "it +wasn't me, but somebody like me. You might say he 'ad been mistook for +me before." + +Mr. Stokes grinned and, meeting a freezing glance from his friend, at +once became serious again. + +"Why not say it was you?" he said stoutly. "There's no harm in going for +a 'bus-ride with a friend and a couple o' ladies." + +"O' course there ain't," said the other, hotly, "else I shouldn't ha' +done it. But you know what my wife is." + +Mr. Stokes, who was by no means a favorite of the lady in question, +nodded. "You _were_ a bit larky, too," he said thoughtfully. "You +'ad quite a little slapping game after you pretended to steal her +brooch." + +"I s'pose when a gentleman's with a lady he 'as got to make 'imself +pleasant?" said Mr. Henshaw, with dignity. "Now, if my missis speaks to +you about it, you say that it wasn't me, but a friend of yours up from +the country who is as like me as two peas. See?" + +"Name o' Dodd," said Mr. Stokes, with a knowing nod. "Tommy Dodd." + +"I'm not playing the giddy goat," said the other, bitterly, "and I'd +thank you not to." + +"All right," said Mr. Stokes, somewhat taken aback. "Any name you like; +I don't mind." + +Mr. Henshaw pondered. "Any sensible name'll do," he said, stiffly. + +"Bell?" suggested Mr. Stokes. "Alfred Bell? I did know a man o' that +name once. He tried to borrow a bob off of me." + +"That'll do," said his friend, after some consideration; "but mind you +stick to the same name. And you'd better make up something about him-- +where he lives, and all that sort of thing--so that you can stand being +questioned without looking more like a silly fool than you can help." + +"I'll do what I can for you," said Mr. Stokes, "but I don't s'pose your +missis'll come to me at all. She saw you plain enough." + +They walked on in silence and, still deep in thought over the matter, +turned into a neighboring tavern for refreshment. Mr. Henshaw drank his +with the air of a man performing a duty to his constitution; but Mr. +Stokes, smacking his lips, waxed eloquent over the brew. + +"I hardly know what I'm drinking," said his friend, forlornly. "I +suppose it's four-half, because that's what I asked for." + +Mr. Stokes gazed at him in deep sympathy. "It can't be so bad as that," +he said, with concern. + +"You wait till you're married," said Mr. Henshaw, brusquely. "You'd no +business to ask me to go with you, and I was a good-natured fool to do +it." + +"You stick to your tale and it'll be all right," said the other. "Tell +her that you spoke to me about it, and that his name is Alfred Bell--B E +double L--and that he lives in--in Ireland. Here! I say!" + +"Well," said Mr. Henshaw, shaking off the hand which the other had laid +on his arm. + +"You--you be Alfred Bell," said Mr. Stokes, breathlessly. + +Mr. Henshaw started and eyed him nervously. His friend's eyes were +bright and, he fancied, a bit wild. + +"Be Alfred Bell," repeated Mr. Stokes. "Don't you see? Pretend to be +Alfred Bell and go with me to your missis. I'll lend you a suit o' +clothes and a fresh neck-tie, and there you are." + +"_What?_" roared the astounded Mr. Henshaw. + +"It's as easy as easy," declared the other. "Tomorrow evening, in a new +rig-out, I walks you up to your house and asks for you to show you to +yourself. Of course, I'm sorry you ain't in, and perhaps we walks in to +wait for you." + +"Show me to myself?" gasped Mr. Henshaw. + +Mr. Stokes winked. "On account o' the surprising likeness," he said, +smiling. "It is surprising, ain't it? Fancy the two of us sitting there +and talking to her and waiting for you to come in and wondering what's +making you so late!" + +Mr. Henshaw regarded him steadfastly for some seconds, and then, taking +a firm hold of his mug, slowly drained the contents. + +"And what about my voice?" he demanded, with something approaching a +sneer. + +"That's right," said Mr. Stokes, hotly; "it wouldn't be you if you +didn't try to make difficulties." + +"But what about it?" said Mr. Henshaw, obstinately. + +"You can alter it, can't you?" said the other. + +They were alone in the bar, and Mr. Henshaw, after some persuasion, was +induced to try a few experiments. He ranged from bass, which hurt his +throat, to a falsetto which put Mr. Stokes's teeth on edge, but in vain. +The rehearsal was stopped at last by the landlord, who, having twice +come into the bar under the impression that fresh customers had entered, +spoke his mind at some length. "Seem to think you're in a blessed +monkey-house," he concluded, severely. + +"We thought we was," said Mr. Stokes, with a long appraising sniff, as +he opened the door. "It's a mistake anybody might make." + +He pushed Mr. Henshaw into the street as the landlord placed a hand on +the flap of the bar, and followed him out. + +"You'll have to 'ave a bad cold and talk in 'usky whispers," he said +slowly, as they walked along. "You caught a cold travelling in the train +from Ireland day before yesterday, and you made it worse going for a +ride on the outside of a 'bus with me and a couple o' ladies. See? Try +'usky whispers now." + +Mr. Henshaw tried, and his friend, observing that he was taking but a +languid interest in the scheme, was loud in his praises. "I should never +'ave known you," he declared. "Why, it's wonderful! Why didn't you tell +me you could act like that?" + +Mr. Henshaw remarked modestly that he had not been aware of it himself, +and, taking a more hopeful view of the situation, whispered himself into +such a state of hoarseness that another visit for refreshment became +absolutely necessary. + +"Keep your 'art up and practise," said Mr. Stokes, as he shook hands +with him some time later. "And if you can manage it, get off at four +o'clock to-morrow and we'll go round to see her while she thinks you're +still at work." + +[Illustration: "'And what about my voice?' he demanded."] + +Mr. Henshaw complimented him upon his artfulness, and, with some +confidence in a man of such resource, walked home in a more cheerful +frame of mind. His heart sank as he reached the house, but to his relief +the lights were out and his wife was in bed. + +He was up early next morning, but his wife showed no signs of rising. +The cupboard was still empty, and for some time he moved about hungry +and undecided. Finally he mounted the stairs again, and with a view to +arranging matters for the evening remonstrated with her upon her +behavior and loudly announced his intention of not coming home until she +was in a better frame of mind. From a disciplinary point of view the +effect of the remonstrance was somewhat lost by being shouted through +the closed door, and he also broke off too abruptly when Mrs. Henshaw +opened it suddenly and confronted him. Fragments of the peroration +reached her through the front door. + +Despite the fact that he left two hours earlier, the day passed but +slowly, and he was in a very despondent state of mind by the time he +reached Mr. Stokes's lodging. The latter, however, had cheerfulness +enough for both, and, after helping his visitor to change into fresh +clothes and part his hair in the middle instead of at the side, surveyed +him with grinning satisfaction. Under his directions Mr. Henshaw also +darkened his eyebrows and beard with a little burnt cork until Mr. +Stokes declared that his own mother wouldn't know him. + +"Now, be careful," said Mr. Stokes, as they set off. "Be bright and +cheerful; be a sort o' ladies' man to her, same as she saw you with the +one on the 'bus. Be as unlike yourself as you can, and don't forget +yourself and call her by 'er pet name." + +"Pet name!" said Mr. Henshaw, indignantly. "Pet name! You'll alter your +ideas of married life when you're caught, my lad, I can tell you!" + +He walked on in scornful silence, lagging farther and farther behind as +they neared his house. When Mr. Stokes knocked at the door he stood +modestly aside with his back against the wall of the next house. + +"Is George in?" inquired Mr. Stokes, carelessly, as Mrs. Henshaw opened +the door. + +"No," was the reply. + +Mr. Stokes affected to ponder; Mr. Henshaw instinctively edged away. + +"He ain't in," said Mrs. Henshaw, preparing to close the door. + +"I wanted to see 'im partikler," said Mr. Stokes, slowly. "I brought a +friend o' mine, name o' Alfred Bell, up here on purpose to see 'im." + +Mrs. Henshaw, following the direction of his eyes, put her head round +the door. + +"George!" she exclaimed, sharply. + +Mr. Stokes smiled. "That ain't George," he said, gleefully; "That's my +friend, Mr. Alfred Bell. Ain't it a extraordinary likeness? Ain't it +wonderful? That's why I brought 'im up; I wanted George to see 'im." + +Mrs. Henshaw looked from one to the other in wrathful bewilderment. + +"His living image, ain't he?" said Mr. Stokes. "This is my pal George's +missis," he added, turning to Mr. Bell. + +"Good afternoon to you," said that gentleman, huskily. + +"He got a bad cold coming from Ireland," explained Mr. Stokes, "and, +foolish-like, he went outside a 'bus with me the other night and made it +worse." + +"Oh-h!" said Mrs. Henshaw, slowly. "Indeed! Really!" + +"He's quite curious to see George," said Mr. Stokes. "In fact, he was +going back to Ireland tonight if it 'adn't been for that. He's waiting +till to-morrow just to see George." + +Mr. Bell, in a voice huskier than ever, said that he had altered his +mind again. + +[Illustration: "'George!' she exclaimed, sharply."] + +"Nonsense!" said Mr. Stokes, sternly. "Besides, George would like to see +you. I s'pose he won't be long?" he added, turning to Mrs. Henshaw, who +was regarding Mr. Bell much as a hungry cat regards a plump sparrow. + +"I don't suppose so," she said, slowly. + +"I dare say if we wait a little while--" began Mr. Stokes, ignoring a +frantic glance from Mr. Henshaw. + +"Come in," said Mrs. Henshaw, suddenly. + +Mr. Stokes entered and, finding that his friend hung back, went out +again and half led, half pushed him indoors. Mr. Bell's shyness he +attributed to his having lived so long in Ireland. + +"He is quite the ladies' man, though," he said, artfully, as they +followed their hostess into the front room. "You should ha' seen 'im the +other night on the 'bus. We had a couple o' lady friends o' mine with +us, and even the conductor was surprised at his goings on." + +Mr. Bell, by no means easy as to the results of the experiment, scowled +at him despairingly. + +"Carrying on, was he?" said Mrs. Henshaw, regarding the culprit +steadily. + +"Carrying on like one o'clock," said the imaginative Mr. Stokes. "Called +one of 'em his little wife, and asked her where 'er wedding-ring was." + +"I didn't," said Mr. Bell, in a suffocating voice. "I didn't." + +"There's nothing to be ashamed of," said Mr. Stokes, virtuously. "Only, +as I said to you at the time, 'Alfred,' I says, 'it's all right for you +as a single man, but you might be the twin-brother of a pal o' mine-- +George Henshaw by name--and if some people was to see you they might +think it was 'im.' Didn't I say that?" + +"You did," said Mr. Bell, helplessly. + +"And he wouldn't believe me," said Mr. Stokes, turning to Mrs. Henshaw. +"That's why I brought him round to see George." + +"I should like to see the two of 'em together myself," said Mrs. +Henshaw, quietly. "I should have taken him for my husband anywhere." + +"You wouldn't if you'd seen 'im last night," said Mr. Stokes, shaking +his head and smiling. + +"Carrying on again, was he?" inquired Mrs. Henshaw, quickly. + +"No!" said Mr. Bell, in a stentorian whisper. + +His glance was so fierce that Mr. Stokes almost quailed. "I won't tell +tales out of school," he said, nodding. + +"Not if I ask you to?" said Mrs. Henshaw, with a winning smile. + +"Ask 'im," said Mr. Stokes. + +"Last night," said the whisperer, hastily, "I went for a quiet walk +round Victoria Park all by myself. Then I met Mr. Stokes, and we had one +half-pint together at a public-house. That's all." + +Mrs. Henshaw looked at Mr. Stokes. Mr. Stokes winked at her. + +"It's as true as my name is--Alfred Bell," said that gentleman, with +slight but natural hesitation. + +"Have it your own way," said Mr. Stokes, somewhat perturbed at Mr. +Bell's refusal to live up to the character he had arranged for him. + +"I wish my husband spent his evenings in the same quiet way," said Mrs. +Henshaw, shaking her head. + +"Don't he?" said Mr. Stokes. "Why, he always seems quiet enough to me. +Too quiet, I should say. Why, I never knew a quieter man. I chaff 'im +about it sometimes." + +"That's his artfulness," said Mrs. Henshaw. + +"Always in a hurry to get 'ome," pursued the benevolent Mr. Stokes. + +"He may say so to you to get away from you," said Mrs. Henshaw, +thoughtfully. "He does say you're hard to shake off sometimes." + +Mr. Stokes sat stiffly upright and threw a fierce glance in the +direction of Mr. Henshaw. + +"Pity he didn't tell me," he said bitterly. "I ain't one to force my +company where it ain't wanted." + +"I've said to him sometimes," continued Mrs. Henshaw, "'Why don't you +tell Ted Stokes plain that you don't like his company?' but he won't. +That ain't his way. He'd sooner talk of you behind your back." + +"What does he say?" inquired Mr. Stokes, coldly ignoring a frantic +headshake on the part of his friend. + +"Promise me you won't tell him if I tell you," said Mrs. Henshaw. + +Mr. Stokes promised. + +"I don't know that I ought to tell you," said Mrs. Henshaw, reluctantly, +"but I get so sick and tired of him coming home and grumbling about +you." + +"Go on," said the waiting Stokes. + +Mrs. Henshaw stole a glance at him. "He says you act as if you thought +yourself everybody," she said, softly, "and your everlasting clack, +clack, clack, worries him to death." + +"Go on," said the listener, grimly. + +"And he says it's so much trouble to get you to pay for your share of +the drinks that he'd sooner pay himself and have done with it." + +Mr. Stokes sprang from his chair and, with clenched fists, stood angrily +regarding the horrified Mr. Bell. He composed himself by an effort and +resumed his seat. + +"Anything else?" he inquired. + +"Heaps and heaps of things," said Mrs. Henshaw; "but I don't want to +make bad blood between you." + +"Don't mind me," said Mr. Stokes, glancing balefully over at his +agitated friend. "P'raps I'll tell you some things about him some day." + +"It would be only fair," said Mrs. Henshaw, quickly. "Tell me now; I +don't mind Mr. Bell hearing; not a bit." + +Mr. Bell spoke up for himself. "I don't want to hear family secrets," he +whispered, with an imploring glance at the vindictive Mr. Stokes. "It +wouldn't be right." + +"Well, _I_ don't want to say things behind a man's back," said the +latter, recovering himself. "Let's wait till George comes in, and I'll +say 'em before his face." + +Mrs. Henshaw, biting her lip with annoyance, argued with him, but in +vain. Mr. Stokes was firm, and, with a glance at the clock, said that +George would be in soon and he would wait till he came. + +Conversation flagged despite the efforts of Mrs. Henshaw to draw Mr. +Bell out on the subject of Ireland. At an early stage of the catechism +he lost his voice entirely, and thereafter sat silent while Mrs. Henshaw +discussed the most intimate affairs of her husband's family with Mr. +Stokes. She was in the middle of an anecdote about her mother-in-law +when Mr. Bell rose and, with some difficulty, intimated his desire to +depart. + +"What, without seeing George?" said Mrs. Henshaw. "He can't be long now, +and I should like to see you together." + +"P'r'aps we shall meet him," said Mr. Stokes, who was getting rather +tired of the affair. "Good night." + +He led the way to the door and, followed by the eager Mr. Bell, passed +out into the street. The knowledge that Mrs. Henshaw was watching him +from the door kept him silent until they had turned the corner, and +then, turning fiercely on Mr. Henshaw, he demanded to know what he meant +by it. + +"I've done with you," he said, waving aside the other's denials. "I've +got you out of this mess, and now I've done with you. It's no good +talking, because I don't want to hear it." + +"Good-by, then," said Mr. Henshaw, with unexpected hauteur, as he came +to a standstill. + +"I'll 'ave my trousers first, though," said Mr. Stokes, coldly, "and +then you can go, and welcome." + +"It's my opinion she recognized me, and said all that just to try us," +said the other, gloomily. + +Mr. Stokes scorned to reply, and reaching his lodging stood by in +silence while the other changed his clothes. He refused Mr. Henshaw's +hand with a gesture he had once seen on the stage, and, showing him +downstairs, closed the door behind him with a bang. + +Left to himself, the small remnants of Mr. Henshaw's courage +disappeared. He wandered forlornly up and down the streets until past +ten o'clock, and then, cold and dispirited, set off in the direction of +home. At the corner of the street he pulled himself together by a great +effort, and walking rapidly to his house put the key in the lock and +turned it. + +The door was fast and the lights were out. He knocked, at first lightly, +but gradually increasing in loudness. At the fourth knock a light +appeared in the room above, the window was raised, and Mrs. Henshaw +leaned out + +"_Mr. Bell!_" she said, in tones of severe surprise. + +"_Bell?_" said her husband, in a more surprised voice still. "It's +me, Polly." + +"Go away at once, sir!" said Mrs. Henshaw, indignantly. "How dare you +call me by my Christian name? I'm surprised at you!" + +"It's me, I tell you--George!" said her husband, desperately. "What do +you mean by calling me Bell?" + +[Illustration: "He struck a match and, holding it before his face, +looked up at the window."] + +"If you're Mr. Bell, as I suppose, you know well enough," said Mrs. +Henshaw, leaning out and regarding him fixedly; "and if you're George +you don't." + +"I'm George," said Mr. Henshaw, hastily. + +"I'm sure I don't know what to make of it," said Mrs. Henshaw, with a +bewildered air. "Ted Stokes brought round a man named Bell this +afternoon so like you that I can't tell the difference. I don't know +what to do, but I do know this--I don't let you in until I have seen you +both together, so that I can tell which is which." + +"Both together!" exclaimed the startled Mr. Henshaw. "Here--look here!" + +He struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked up at the +window. Mrs. Henshaw scrutinized him gravely. + +"It's no good," she said, despairingly. "I can't tell. I must see you +both together." + +Mr. Henshaw ground his teeth. "But where is he?" he inquired. + +"He went off with Ted Stokes," said his wife. "If you're George you'd +better go and ask him." + +She prepared to close the window, but Mr. Henshaw's voice arrested her. + +"And suppose he is not there?" he said. + +Mrs. Henshaw reflected. "If he is not there bring Ted Stokes back with +you," she said at last, "and if he says you're George, I'll let you in." +The window closed and the light disappeared. Mr. Henshaw waited for some +time, but in vain, and, with a very clear idea of the reception he would +meet with at the hands of Mr. Stokes, set off to his lodging. + +If anything, he had underestimated his friend's powers. Mr. Stokes, +rudely disturbed just as he had got into bed, was the incarnation of +wrath. He was violent, bitter, and insulting in a breath, but Mr. +Henshaw was desperate, and Mr. Stokes, after vowing over and over again +that nothing should induce him to accompany him back to his house, was +at last so moved by his entreaties that he went upstairs and equipped +himself for the journey. + +"And, mind, after this I never want to see your face again," he said, as +they walked swiftly back. + +Mr. Henshaw made no reply. The events of the day had almost exhausted +him, and silence was maintained until they reached the house. Much to +his relief he heard somebody moving about upstairs after the first +knock, and in a very short time the window was gently raised and Mrs. +Henshaw looked out. + +"What, you've come back?" she said, in a low, intense voice. "Well, of +all the impudence! How dare you carry on like this?" + +"It's me," said her husband. + +"Yes, I see it is," was the reply. + +"It's him right enough; it's your husband," said Mr. Stokes. "Alfred +Bell has gone." + +"How dare you stand there and tell me them falsehoods!" exclaimed Mrs. +Henshaw. "I wonder the ground don't open and swallow you up. It's Mr. +Bell, and if he don't go away I'll call the police." + +Messrs. Henshaw and Stokes, amazed at their reception, stood blinking up +at her. Then they conferred in whispers. + +"If you can't tell 'em apart, how do you know this is Mr. Bell?" +inquired Mr. Stokes, turning to the window again. + +"How do I know?" repeated Mrs. Henshaw. "How do I know? Why, because my +husband came home almost directly Mr. Bell had gone. I wonder he didn't +meet him." + +"Came home?" cried Mr. Henshaw, shrilly. "_Came home_?" + +"Yes; and don't make so much noise," said Mrs. Henshaw, tartly; "he's +asleep." + +The two gentlemen turned and gazed at each other in stupefaction. Mr. +Stokes was the first to recover, and, taking his dazed friend by the +arm, led him gently away. At the end of the street he took a deep +breath, and, after a slight pause to collect his scattered energies, +summed up the situation. + +[Illustration: "Mr. Stokes, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him +gently away."] + +"She's twigged it all along," he said, with conviction. "You'll have to +come home with me tonight, and to-morrow the best thing you can do is to +make a clean breast of it. It was a silly game, and, if you remember, I +was against it from the first." + + + + +[Illustration: MIXED RELATIONS] + + + + +MIXED RELATIONS + + +The brig _Elizabeth Barstow_ came up the river as though in a hurry +to taste again the joys of the Metropolis. The skipper, leaning on the +wheel, was in the midst of a hot discussion with the mate, who was +placing before him the hygienic, economical, and moral advantages of +total abstinence in language of great strength but little variety. + +"Teetotallers eat more," said the skipper, finally. + +The mate choked, and his eye sought the galley. "Eat more?" he +spluttered. "Yesterday the meat was like brick-bats; to-day it tasted +like a bit o' dirty sponge. I've lived on biscuits this trip; and the +only tater I ate I'm going to see a doctor about direckly I get ashore. +It's a sin and a shame to spoil good food the way 'e does." + +"The moment I can ship another cook he goes," said the skipper. "He +seems busy, judging by the noise." + +"I'm making him clean up everything, ready for the next," explained the +mate, grimly. "And he 'ad the cheek to tell me he's improving-- +improving!" + +"He'll go as soon as I get another," repeated the skipper, stooping and +peering ahead. "I don't like being poisoned any more than you do. He +told me he could cook when I shipped him; said his sister had taught +him." + +The mate grunted and, walking away, relieved his mind by putting his +head in at the galley and bidding the cook hold up each separate utensil +for his inspection. A hole in the frying-pan the cook modestly +attributed to elbow-grease. + +The river narrowed, and the brig, picking her way daintily through the +traffic, sought her old berth at Buller's Wharf. It was occupied by a +deaf sailing-barge, which, moved at last by self-interest, not +unconnected with its paint, took up a less desirable position and +consoled itself with adjectives. + +The men on the wharf had gone for the day, and the crew of the +_Elizabeth Barstow_, after making fast, went below to prepare +themselves for an evening ashore. Standing before the largest saucepan- +lid in the galley, the cook was putting the finishing touches to his +toilet. + +A light, quick step on the wharf attracted the attention of the skipper +as he leaned against the side smoking. It stopped just behind him, and +turning round he found himself gazing into the soft brown eyes of the +prettiest girl he had ever seen. + +"Is Mr. Jewell on board, please?" she asked, with a smile. + +"Jewell?" repeated the skipper. "Jewell? Don't know the name." + +"He was on board," said the girl, somewhat taken aback. "This is the +_Elizabeth Barstow_, isn't it?" + +"What's his Christian name?" inquired the skipper, thoughtfully. + +"Albert," replied the girl. "Bert," she added, as the other shook his +head. + +"Oh, the cook!" said the skipper. "I didn't know his name was Jewell. +Yes, he's in the galley." + +He stood eyeing her and wondering in a dazed fashion what she could see +in a small, white-faced, slab-sided-- + +The girl broke in upon his meditations. "How does he cook?" she +inquired, smiling. + +He was about to tell her, when he suddenly remembered the cook's +statement as to his instructor. + +"He's getting on," he said, slowly; "he's getting on. Are you his +sister?" + +The girl smiled and nodded. "Ye--es," she said, slowly. "Will you tell +him I am waiting for him, please?" + +The skipper started and drew himself up; then he walked forward and put +his head in at the galley. + +"Bert," he said, in a friendly voice, "your sister wants to see you." + +"_Who?_" inquired Mr. Jewell, in the accents of amazement. He put +his head out at the door and nodded, and then, somewhat red in the face +with the exercise, drew on his jacket and walked towards her. The +skipper followed. + +"Thank you," said the girl, with a pleasant smile. + +"You're quite welcome," said the skipper. + +Mr. Jewell stepped ashore and, after a moment of indecision, shook hands +with his visitor. + +"If you're down this way again," said the skipper, as they turned away, +"perhaps you'd like to see the cabin. We're in rather a pickle just now, +but if you should happen to come down for Bert to-morrow night--" + +The girl's eyes grew mirthful and her lips trembled. "Thank you," she +said. + +"Some people like looking over cabins," murmured the skipper. + +He raised his hand to his cap and turned away. The mate, who had just +come on deck, stared after the retreating couple and gave vent to a low +whistle. + +"What a fine gal to pick up with Slushy," he remarked. + +"It's his sister," said the skipper, somewhat sharply. + +"The one that taught him to cook?" said the other, hastily. "Here! I'd +like five minutes alone with her; I'd give 'er a piece o' my mind that +'ud do her good. I'd learn 'er. I'd tell her wot I thought of her." + +"That'll do," said the skipper; "that'll do. He's not so bad for a +beginner; I've known worse." + +"Not so bad?" repeated the mate. "Not so bad? Why"--his voice trembled-- +"ain't you going to give 'im the chuck, then?" + +"I shall try him for another vy'ge, George," said the skipper. "It's +hard lines on a youngster if he don't have a chance. I was never one to +be severe. Live and let live, that's my motto. Do as you'd be done by." + +"You're turning soft-'arted in your old age," grumbled the mate. + +"Old age!" said the other, in a startled voice. "Old age! I'm not +thirty-seven yet." + +"You're getting on," said the mate; "besides, you look old." + +The skipper investigated the charge in the cabin looking-glass ten +minutes later. He twisted his beard in his hand and tried to imagine how +he would look without it. As a compromise he went out and had it cut +short and trimmed to a point. The glass smiled approval on his return; +the mate smiled too, and, being caught in the act, said it made him look +like his own grandson. + +It was late when the cook returned, but the skipper was on deck, and, +stopping him for a match, entered into a little conversation. Mr. +Jewell, surprised at first, soon became at his ease, and, the talk +drifting in some unknown fashion to Miss Jewell, discussed her with +brotherly frankness. + +"You spent the evening together, I s'pose?" said the skipper, +carelessly. + +Mr. Jewell glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Cooking," he +said, and put his hand over his mouth with some suddenness. + +By the time they parted the skipper had his hand in a friendly fashion +on the cook's shoulder, and was displaying an interest in his welfare as +unusual as it was gratifying. So unaccustomed was Mr. Jewell to such +consideration that he was fain to pause for a moment or two to regain +control of his features before plunging into the lamp-lit fo'c'sle. + +[Illustration: "The mate smiled too."] + +The mate made but a poor breakfast next morning, but his superior, who +saw the hand of Miss Jewell in the muddy coffee and the cremated bacon, +ate his with relish. He was looking forward to the evening, the cook +having assured him that his sister had accepted his invitation to +inspect the cabin, and indeed had talked of little else. The boy was set +to work house-cleaning, and, having gleaned a few particulars, cursed +the sex with painstaking thoroughness. + +It seemed to the skipper a favorable omen that Miss Jewell descended the +companion-ladder as though to the manner born; and her exclamations of +delight at the cabin completed his satisfaction. The cook, who had +followed them below with some trepidation, became reassured, and seating +himself on a locker joined modestly in the conversation. + +"It's like a doll's-house," declared the girl, as she finished by +examining the space-saving devices in the state-room. "Well, I mustn't +take up any more of your time." + +"I've got nothing to do," said the skipper, hastily. "I--I was thinking +of going for a walk; but it's lonely walking about by yourself." + +Miss Jewell agreed. She lowered her eyes and looked under the lashes at +the skipper. + +"I never had a sister," continued the latter, in melancholy accents. + +"I don't suppose you would want to take her out if you had," said the +girl. + +The skipper protested. "Bert takes you out," he said. + +"He isn't like most brothers," said Miss Jewell, shifting along the +locker and placing her hand affectionately on the cook's shoulder. + +"If I had a sister," continued the skipper, in a somewhat uneven voice, +"I should take her out. This evening, for instance, I should take her to +a theatre." + +Miss Jewell turned upon him the innocent face of a child. "It would be +nice to be your sister," she said, calmly. + +The skipper attempted to speak, but his voice failed him. "Well, pretend +you are my sister," he said, at last, "and we'll go to one." + +"Pretend?" said Miss Jewell, as she turned and eyed the cook. "Bert +wouldn't like that," she said, decidedly. + +"N--no," said the cook, nervously, avoiding the skipper's eye. + +"It wouldn't be proper," said Miss Jewell, sitting upright and looking +very proper indeed. + +"I--I meant Bert to come, too," said the skipper; "of course," he added. + +The severity of Miss Jewell's expression relaxed. She stole an amused +glance at the cook and, reading her instructions in his eye, began to +temporize. Ten minutes later the crew of the _Elizabeth Barstow_ in +various attitudes of astonishment beheld their commander going ashore +with his cook. The mate so far forgot himself as to whistle, but with +great presence of mind cuffed the boy's ear as the skipper turned. + +For some little distance the three walked along in silence. The skipper +was building castles in the air, the cook was not quite at his ease, and +the girl, gazing steadily in front of her, appeared slightly +embarrassed. + +By the time they reached Aldgate and stood waiting for an omnibus Miss +Jewell found herself assailed by doubts. She remembered that she did not +want to go to a theatre, and warmly pressed the two men to go together +and leave her to go home. The skipper remonstrated in vain, but the cook +came to the rescue, and Miss Jewell, still protesting, was pushed on to +a 'bus and propelled upstairs. She took a vacant seat in front, and the +skipper and Mr. Jewell shared one behind. + +The three hours at the theatre passed all too soon, although the girl +was so interested in the performance that she paid but slight attention +to her companions. During the waits she became interested in her +surroundings, and several times called the skipper's attention to smart- +looking men in the stalls and boxes. At one man she stared so +persistently that an opera-glass was at last levelled in return. + +"How rude of him," she said, smiling sweetly at the skipper. + +She shook her head in disapproval, but the next moment he saw her gazing +steadily at the opera-glasses again. + +"If you don't look he'll soon get tired of it," he said, between his +teeth. + +"Yes, perhaps he will," said Miss Jewell, without lowering her eyes in +the least. + +The skipper sat in torment until the lights were lowered and the curtain +went up again. When it fell he began to discuss the play, but Miss +Jewell returned such vague replies that it was evident her thoughts were +far away. + +"I wonder who he is?" she whispered, gazing meditatingly at the box. + +"A waiter, I should think," snapped the skipper. + +The girl shook her head. "No, he is much too distinguished-looking," she +said, seriously. "Well, I suppose he'll know me again." + +The skipper felt that he wanted to get up and smash things; beginning +with the man in the box. It was his first love episode for nearly ten +years, and he had forgotten the pains and penalties which attach to the +condition. When the performance was over he darted a threatening glance +at the box, and, keeping close to Miss Jewell, looked carefully about +him to make sure that they were not followed. + +"It was ripping," said the cook, as they emerged into the fresh air. + +"Lovely," said the girl, in a voice of gentle melancholy. "I shall come +and see it again, perhaps, when you are at sea." + +"Not alone?" said the skipper, in a startled voice. + +"I don't mind being alone," said Miss Jewell, gently; "I'm used to it." + +The other's reply was lost in the rush for the 'bus, and for the second +time that evening the skipper had to find fault with the seating +arrangements. And when a vacancy by the side of Miss Jewell did occur, +he was promptly forestalled by a young man in a check suit smoking a +large cigar. + +They got off at Aldgate, and the girl thanked him for a pleasant +evening. A hesitating offer to see her home was at once negatived, and +the skipper, watching her and the cook until they disappeared in the +traffic, walked slowly and thoughtfully to his ship. + +The brig sailed the next evening at eight o'clock, and it was not until +six that the cook remarked, in the most casual manner, that his sister +was coming down to see him off. She arrived half an hour late, and, so +far from wanting to see the cabin again, discovered an inconvenient love +of fresh air. She came down at last, at the instance of the cook, and, +once below, her mood changed, and she treated the skipper with a soft +graciousness which raised him to the seventh heaven. "You'll be good to +Bert, won't you?" she inquired, with a smile at that young man. + +"I'll treat him like my own brother," said the skipper, fervently. "No, +better than that; I'll treat him like your brother." + +The cook sat erect and, the skipper being occupied with Miss Jewell, +winked solemnly at the skylight. + +"I know _you_ will," said the girl, very softly; "but I don't think +the men--" + +"The men'll do as I wish," said the skipper, sternly. "I'm the master on +this ship--she's half mine, too--and anybody who interferes with him +interferes with me. If there's anything you don't like, Bert, you tell +me." + +Mr. Jewell, his small, black eyes sparkling, promised, and then, +muttering something about his work, exchanged glances with the girl and +went up on deck. + +"It is a nice cabin," said Miss Jewell, shifting an inch and a half +nearer to the skipper. "I suppose poor Bert has to have his meals in +that stuffy little place at the other end of the ship, doesn't he?" + +"The fo'c'sle?" said the skipper, struggling between love and +discipline. "Yes." + +The girl sighed, and the mate, who was listening at the skylight above, +held his breath with anxiety. Miss Jewell sighed again and in an absent- +minded fashion increased the distance between herself and companion by +six inches. + +"It's usual," faltered the skipper. + +"Yes, of course," said the girl, coldly. + +"But if Bert likes to feed here, he's welcome," said the skipper, +desperately, "and he can sleep aft, too. The mate can say what he +likes." + +The mate rose and, walking forward, raised his clenched fists to heaven +and availed himself of the permission to the fullest extent of a +somewhat extensive vocabulary. + +"Do you know what I think you are?" inquired Miss Jewell, bending +towards him with a radiant face. + +"No," said the other, trembling. "What?" + +The girl paused. "It wouldn't do to tell you," she said, in a low voice. +"It might make you vain." + +"Do you know what I think you are?" inquired the skipper in his turn. + +Miss Jewell eyed him composedly, albeit the corners of her mouth +trembled. "Yes," she said, unexpectedly. + +Steps sounded above and came heavily down the companion-ladder. "Tide's +a'most on the turn," said the mate, gruffly, from the door. + +The skipper hesitated, but the mate stood aside for the girl to pass, +and he followed her up on deck and assisted her to the jetty. For hours +afterwards he debated with himself whether she really had allowed her +hand to stay in his a second or two longer than necessary, or whether +unconscious muscular action on his part was responsible for the +phenomenon. + +He became despondent as they left London behind, but the necessity of +interfering between a goggle-eyed and obtuse mate and a pallid but no +less obstinate cook helped to relieve him. + +"He says he is going to sleep aft," choked the mate, pointing to the +cook's bedding. + +"Quite right," said the skipper. "I told him to. He's going to take his +meals here, too. Anything to say against it?" + +The mate sat down on a locker and fought for breath. The cook, still +pale, felt his small, black mustache and eyed him with triumphant +malice. "I told 'im they was your orders," he remarked. + +"And I told him I didn't believe him," said the mate. "Nobody would. +Whoever 'eard of a cook living aft? Why, they'd laugh at the idea." + +He laughed himself, but in a strangely mirthless fashion, and, afraid to +trust himself, went up on deck and brooded savagely apart. Nor did he +come down to breakfast until the skipper and cook had finished. + +Mr. Jewell bore his new honors badly, and the inability to express their +dissatisfaction by means of violence had a bad effect on the tempers of +the crew. Sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more than +hold his own, and, although the men doubted his ability at first, he was +able to prove to them by actual experiment that he could cook worse than +they supposed. + +The brig reached her destination--Creekhaven--on the fifth day, and Mr. +Jewell found himself an honored guest at the skipper's cottage. It was a +comfortable place, but, as the cook pointed out, too large for one. He +also referred, incidentally, to his sister's love of a country life, +and, finding himself on a subject of which the other never tired, gave +full reins to a somewhat picturesque imagination. + +They were back at London within the fortnight, and the skipper learned +to his dismay that Miss Jewell was absent on a visit. In these +circumstances he would have clung to the cook, but that gentleman, +pleading engagements, managed to elude him for two nights out of the +three. + +On the third day Miss Jewell returned to London, and, making her way to +the wharf, was just in time to wave farewells as the brig parted from +the wharf. + +[Illustration: "Sarcasm they did try, but at that the cook could more +than hold his own."] + +From the fact that the cook was not visible at the moment the skipper +took the salutation to himself. It cheered him for the time, but the +next day he was so despondent that the cook, by this time thoroughly in +his confidence, offered to write when they got to Creekhaven and fix up +an evening. + +"And there's really no need for you to come, Bert," said the skipper, +cheering up. + +Mr. Jewell shook his head. "She wouldn't go without me," he said, +gravely. "You've no idea 'ow particular she is. Always was from a +child." + +"Well, we might lose you," said the skipper, reflecting. "How would that +be?" + +"We might try it," said the cook, without enthusiasm. + +To his dismay the skipper, before they reached London again, had +invented at least a score of ways by which he might enjoy Miss Jewell's +company without the presence of a third person, some of them so +ingenious that the cook, despite his utmost efforts, could see no way of +opposing them. + +The skipper put his ideas into practice as soon as they reached London. +Between Wapping and Charing Cross he lost the cook three times. Miss +Jewell found him twice, and the third time she was so difficult that the +skipper had to join in the treasure-hunt himself. The cook listened +unmoved to a highly-colored picture of his carelessness from the lips +of Miss Jewell, and bestowed a sympathetic glance upon the skipper as +she paused for breath. + +"It's as bad as taking a child out," said the latter, with well-affected +indignation. + +"Worse," said the girl, tightening her lips. + +With a perseverance worthy of a better cause the skipper nudged the +cook's arm and tried again. This time he was successful beyond his +wildest dreams, and, after ten minutes' frantic search, found that he +had lost them both. He wandered up and down for hours, and it was past +eleven when he returned to the ship and found the cook waiting for him. + +"We thought something 'ad happened to you," said the cook. "Kate has +been in a fine way about it. Five minutes after you lost me she found +me, and we've been hunting 'igh and low ever since." + +Miss Jewell expressed her relief the next evening, and, stealing a +glance at the face of the skipper, experienced a twinge of something +which she took to be remorse. Ignoring the cook's hints as to theatres, +she elected to go for a long 'bus ride, and, sitting in front with the +skipper, left Mr. Jewell to keep a chaperon's eye on them from three +seats behind. + +Conversation was for some time disjointed; then the brightness and +crowded state of the streets led the skipper to sound his companion as +to her avowed taste for a country life. + +"I should love it," said Miss Jewell, with a sigh. "But there's no +chance of it; I've got my living to earn." + +"You might--might marry somebody living in the country," said the +skipper, in trembling tones. + +Miss Jewell shuddered. "Marry!" she said, scornfully. + +"Most people do," said the other. + +"Sensible people don't," said the girl. "You haven't," she added, with a +smile. + +"I'm very thankful I haven't," retorted the skipper, with great meaning. + +"There you are!" said the girl, triumphantly. + +"I never saw anybody I liked," said the skipper, "be--before." + +"If ever I did marry," said Miss Jewell, with remarkable composure, "if +ever I was foolish enough to do such a thing, I think I would marry a +man a few years younger than myself." + +"Younger?" said the dismayed skipper. + +Miss Jewell nodded. "They make the best husbands," she said, gravely. + +The skipper began to argue the point, and Mr. Jewell, at that moment +taking a seat behind, joined in with some heat. A more ardent supporter +could not have been found, although his repetition of the phrase "May +and December" revealed a want of tact of which the skipper had not +thought him capable. What had promised to be a red-letter day in his +existence was spoiled, and he went to bed that night with the full +conviction that he had better abandon a project so hopeless. + +With a fine morning his courage revived, but as voyage succeeded voyage +he became more and more perplexed. The devotion of the cook was patent +to all men, but Miss Jewell was as changeable as a weather-glass. The +skipper would leave her one night convinced that he had better forget +her as soon as possible, and the next her manner would be so kind, and +her glances so soft, that only the presence of the ever-watchful cook +prevented him from proposing on the spot. The end came one evening in +October. The skipper had hurried back from the City, laden with stores, +Miss Jewell having, after many refusals, consented to grace the tea- +table that afternoon. The table, set by the boy, groaned beneath the +weight of unusual luxuries, but the girl had not arrived. The cook was +also missing, and the only occupant of the cabin was the mate, who, +sitting at one corner, was eating with great relish. + +"Ain't you going to get your tea?" he inquired. + +"No hurry," said the skipper, somewhat incensed at his haste. "It +wouldn't have hurt _you_ to have waited a bit." + +"Waited?" said the other. "What for?" + +"For my visitors," was the reply. + +The mate bit a piece off a crust and stirred his tea. "No use waiting +for them," he said, with a grin. "They ain't coming." + +"What do you mean?" demanded the skipper. + +"I mean," said the mate, continuing to stir his tea with great +enjoyment--"I mean that all that kind'artedness of yours was clean +chucked away on that cook. He's got a berth ashore and he's gone for +good. He left you 'is love; he left it with Bill Hemp." + +"Berth ashore?" said the skipper, staring. + +"Ah!" said the mate, taking a large and noisy sip from his cup. "He's +been fooling you all along for what he could get out of you. Sleeping +aft and feeding aft, nobody to speak a word to 'im, and going out and +being treated by the skipper; Bill said he laughed so much when he was +telling 'im that the tears was running down 'is face like rain. He said +he'd never been treated so much in his life." + +"That'll do," said the skipper, quickly. + +"You ought to hear Bill tell it," said the mate, regretfully. "I can't +do it anything like as well as what he can. Made us all roar, he did. +What amused 'em most was you thinking that that gal was cookie's +sister." + +The skipper, with a sharp exclamation, leaned forward, staring at him. + +"They're going to be married at Christmas," said the mate, choking in +his cup. + +The skipper sat upright again, and tried manfully to compose his +features. Many things he had not understood before were suddenly made +clear, and he remembered now the odd way in which the girl had regarded +him as she bade him good-night on the previous evening. The mate eyed +him with interest, and was about to supply him with further details when +his attention was attracted by footsteps descending the companion- +ladder. Then he put down his cup with great care, and stared in stolid +amazement at the figure of Miss Jewell in the doorway. + +"I'm a bit late," she said, flushing slightly. + +She crossed over and shook hands with the skipper, and, in the most +natural fashion in the world, took a seat and began to remove her +gloves. The mate swung round and regarded her open-mouthed; the skipper, +whose ideas were in a whirl, sat regarding her in silence. The mate was +the first to move; he left the cabin rubbing his shin, and casting +furious glances at the skipper. + +"You didn't expect to see me?" said the girl, reddening again. + +"No," was the reply. + +The girl looked at the tablecloth. "I came to beg your pardon," she +said, in a low voice. + +"There's nothing to beg my pardon for," said the skipper, clearing his +throat. "By rights I ought to beg yours. You did quite right to make fun +of me. I can see it now." + +"When you asked me whether I was Bert's sister I didn't like to say +'no,' continued the girl; "and at first I let you come out with me for +the fun of the thing, and then Bert said it would be good for him, and +then--then--" + +"Yes," said the skipper, after a long pause. + +The girl broke a biscuit into small pieces, and arranged them on the +cloth. "Then I didn't mind your coming so much," she said, in a low +voice. + +The skipper caught his breath and tried to gaze at the averted face. + +The girl swept the crumbs aside and met his gaze squarely. "Not quite so +much," she explained. + +"I've been a fool," said the skipper. "I've been a fool. I've made +myself a laughing-stock all round, but if I could have it all over again +I would." + +"That can never be," said the girl, shaking her head. "Bert wouldn't +come." + +[Illustration: "'Good-by,' he said, slowly; 'and I wish you both every +happiness.'"] + +"No, of course not," asserted the other. + +The girl bit her lip. The skipper thought that he had never seen her +eyes so large and shining. There was a long silence. + +"Good-by," said the girl at last, rising. + +The skipper rose to follow. "Good-by," he said, slowly; "and I wish you +both every happiness." + +"Happiness?" echoed the girl, in a surprised voice. "Why?" + +"When you are married." + +"I am not going to be married," said the girl. "I told Bert so this +afternoon. Good-by." + +The skipper actually let her get nearly to the top of the ladder before +he regained his presence of mind. Then, in obedience to a powerful tug +at the hem of her skirt, she came down again, and accompanied him meekly +back to the cabin. + + + + +[Illustration: HIS LORDSHIP] + + + + +HIS LORDSHIP + + +Farmer Rose sat in his porch smoking an evening pipe. By his side, in a +comfortable Windsor chair, sat his friend the miller, also smoking, and +gazing with half-closed eyes at the landscape as he listened for the +thousandth time to his host's complaints about his daughter. + +"The long and the short of it is, Cray," said the farmer, with an air of +mournful pride, "she's far too good-looking." + +Mr. Cray grunted. + +"Truth is truth, though she's my daughter," continued Mr. Rose, vaguely. +"She's too good-looking. Sometimes when I've taken her up to market I've +seen the folks fair turn their backs on the cattle and stare at her +instead." + +Mr. Cray sniffed; louder, perhaps, than he had intended. "Beautiful that +rose-bush smells," he remarked, as his friend turned and eyed him. + +"What is the consequence?" demanded the farmer, relaxing his gaze. "She +looks in the glass and sees herself, and then she gets miserable and +uppish because there ain't nobody in these parts good enough for her to +marry." + +"It's a extraordinary thing to me where she gets them good looks from," +said the miller, deliberately. + +"Ah!" said Mr. Rose, and sat trying to think of a means of enlightening +his friend without undue loss of modesty. + +"She ain't a bit like her poor mother," mused Mr. Cray. + +"No, she don't get her looks from her," assented the other. + +"It's one o' them things you can't account for," said Mr. Cray, who was +very tired of the subject; "it's just like seeing a beautiful flower +blooming on an old cabbage-stump." + +The farmer knocked his pipe out noisily and began to refill it. "People +have said that she takes after me a trifle," he remarked, shortly. + +"You weren't fool enough to believe that, I know," said the miller. +"Why, she's no more like you than you're like a warming-pan--not so +much." + +Mr. Rose regarded his friend fixedly. "You ain't got a very nice way o' +putting things, Cray," he said, mournfully. + +"I'm no flatterer," said the miller; "never was. And you can't please +everybody. If I said your daughter took after you I don't s'pose she'd +ever speak to me again." + +"The worst of it is," said the farmer, disregarding his remark, "she +won't settle down. There's young Walter Lomas after her now, and she +won't look at him. He's a decent young fellow is Walter, and she's been +and named one o' the pigs after him, and the way she mixes them up +together is disgraceful." + +"If she was my girl she should marry young Walter," said the miller, +firmly. "What's wrong with him?" + +"She looks higher," replied the other, mysteriously; "she's always +reading them romantic books full o' love tales, and she's never tired o' +talking of a girl her mother used to know that went on the stage and +married a baronet. She goes and sits in the best parlor every afternoon +now, and calls it the drawing-room. She'll sit there till she's past the +marrying age, and then she'll turn round and blame me." + +"She wants a lesson," said Mr. Cray, firmly. "She wants to be taught her +position in life, not to go about turning up her nose at young men and +naming pigs after them." + +Mr. Rose sighed. + +"What she wants to understand is that the upper classes wouldn't look at +her," pursued the miller. + +"It would be easier to make her understand that if they didn't," said +the farmer. + +"I mean," said Mr. Cray, sternly, "with a view to marriage. What you +ought to do is to get somebody staying down here with you pretending to +be a lord or a nobleman, and ordering her about and not noticing her +good looks at all. Then, while she's upset about that, in comes Walter +Lomas to comfort her and be a contrast to the other." + +Mr. Rose withdrew his pipe and regarded him open-mouthed. + +"Yes; but how--" he began. + +"And it seems to me," interrupted Mr. Cray, "that I know just the young +fellow to do it--nephew of my wife's. He was coming to stay a fortnight +with us, but you can have him with pleasure--me and him don't get on +over and above well." + +"Perhaps he wouldn't do it," objected the farmer. + +"He'd do it like a shot," said Mr. Cray, positively. "It would be fun +for us and it 'ud be a lesson for her. If you like, I'll tell him to +write to you for lodgings, as he wants to come for a fortnight's fresh +air after the fatiguing gayeties of town." + +"Fatiguing gayeties of town," repeated the admiring farmer. "Fatiguing--" + +He sat back in his chair and laughed, and Mr. Cray, delighted at the +prospect of getting rid so easily of a tiresome guest, laughed too. +Overhead at the open window a third person laughed, but in so quiet and +well-bred a fashion that neither of them heard her. + +The farmer received a letter a day or two afterwards, and negotiations +between Jane Rose on the one side and Lord Fairmount on the other were +soon in progress; the farmer's own composition being deemed somewhat +crude for such a correspondence. + +"I wish he didn't want it kept so secret," said Miss Rose, pondering +over the final letter. "I should like to let the Grays and one or two +more people know he is staying with us. However, I suppose he must have +his own way." + +"You must do as he wishes," said her father, using his handkerchief +violently. + +Jane sighed. "He'll be a little company for me, at any rate," she +remarked. "What is the matter, father?" + +"Bit of a cold," said the farmer, indistinctly, as he made for the door, +still holding his handkerchief to his face. "Been coming on some time." + +He put on his hat and went out, and Miss Rose, watching him from the +window, was not without fears that the joke might prove too much for a +man of his habit. She regarded him thoughtfully, and when he returned at +one o'clock to dinner, and encountered instead a violent dust-storm +which was raging in the house, she noted with pleasure that his sense of +humor was more under control. + +"Dinner?" she said, as he strove to squeeze past the furniture which was +piled in the hall. "We've got no time to think of dinner, and if we had +there's no place for you to eat it. You'd better go in the larder and +cut yourself a crust of bread and cheese." + +Her father hesitated and glared at the servant, who, with her head bound +up in a duster, passed at the double with a broom. Then he walked slowly +into the kitchen. + +Miss Rose called out something after him. + +"Eh?" said her father, coming back hopefully. + +"How is your cold, dear?" + +The farmer made no reply, and his daughter smiled contentedly as she +heard him stamping about in the larder. He made but a poor meal, and +then, refusing point-blank to assist Annie in moving the piano, went and +smoked a very reflective pipe in the garden. + +[Illustration: "'She's got your eyes,' said his lordship."] + +Lord Fairmount arrived the following day on foot from the station, and +after acknowledging the farmer's salute with a distant nod requested him +to send a cart for his luggage. He was a tall, good-looking young man, +and as he stood in the hall languidly twisting his mustache Miss Rose +deliberately decided upon his destruction. + +"These your daughters?" he inquired, carelessly, as he followed his host +into the parlor. + +"One of 'em is, my lord; the other is my servant," replied the farmer. + +"She's got your eyes," said his lordship, tapping the astonished Annie +under the chin; "your nose too, I think." + +"That's my servant," said the farmer, knitting his brows at him. + +"Oh, indeed!" said his lordship, airily. + +He turned round and regarded Jane, but, although she tried to meet him +half-way by elevating her chin a little, his audacity failed him and the +words died away on his tongue. A long silence followed, broken only by +the ill-suppressed giggles of Annie, who had retired to the kitchen. + +"I trust that we shall make your lordship comfortable," said Miss Rose. + +"I hope so, my good girl," was the reply. "And now will you show me my +room?" + +Miss Rose led the way upstairs and threw open the door; Lord Fairmount, +pausing on the threshold, gazed at it disparagingly. + +"Is this the best room you have?" he inquired, stiffly. + +"Oh, no," said Miss Rose, smiling; "father's room is much better than +this. Look here." + +She threw open another door and, ignoring a gesticulating figure which +stood in the hall below, regarded him anxiously. "If you would prefer +father's room he would be delighted for you to have it. Delighted." + +"Yes, I will have this one," said Lord Fairmount, entering. "Bring me up +some hot water, please, and clear these boots and leggings out." + +Miss Rose tripped downstairs and, bestowing a witching smile upon her +sire, waved away his request for an explanation and hastened into the +kitchen, whence Annie shortly afterwards emerged with the water. + +It was with something of a shock that the farmer discovered that he had +to wait for his dinner while his lordship had luncheon. That meal, under +his daughter's management, took a long time, and the joint when it +reached him was more than half cold. It was, moreover, quite clear that +the aristocracy had not even mastered the rudiments of carving, but +preferred instead to box the compass for tit-bits. + +He ate his meal in silence, and when it was over sought out his guest to +administer a few much-needed stage-directions. Owing, however, to the +ubiquity of Jane he wasted nearly the whole of the afternoon before he +obtained an opportunity. Even then the interview was short, the farmer +having to compress into ten seconds instructions for Lord Fairmount to +express a desire to take his meals with the family, and his dinner at +the respectable hour of 1 p.m. Instructions as to a change of bedroom +were frustrated by the reappearance of Jane. + +His lordship went for a walk after that, and coming back with a bored +air stood on the hearthrug in the living-room and watched Miss Rose +sewing. + +"Very dull place," he said at last, in a dissatisfied voice. + +"Yes, my lord," said Miss Rose, demurely. + +"Fearfully dull," complained his lordship, stifling a yawn. "What I'm to +do to amuse myself for a fortnight I'm sure I don't know." + +Miss Rose raised her fine eyes and regarded him intently. Many a lesser +man would have looked no farther for amusement. + +"I'm afraid there is not much to do about here, my lord," she said +quietly. "We are very plain folk in these parts." + +"Yes," assented the other. An obvious compliment rose of itself to his +lips, but he restrained himself, though with difficulty. Miss Rose bent +her head over her work and stitched industriously. His lordship took up +a book and, remembering his mission, read for a couple of hours without +taking the slightest notice of her. Miss Rose glanced over in his +direction once or twice, and then, with a somewhat vixenish expression +on her delicate features, resumed her sewing. + +"Wonderful eyes she's got," said the gentleman, as he sat on the edge of +his bed that night and thought over the events of the day. "It's pretty +to see them flash." + +He saw them flash several times during the next few days, and Mr. Rose +himself, was more than satisfied with the hauteur with which his guest +treated the household. + +"But I don't like the way you have with me," he complained. + +"It's all in the part," urged his lordship. + +"Well, you can leave that part out," rejoined Mr. Rose, with some +acerbity. "I object to being spoke to as you speak to me before that +girl Annie. Be as proud and unpleasant as you like to my daughter, but +leave me alone. Mind that!" + +His lordship promised, and in pursuance of his host's instructions +strove manfully to subdue feelings towards Miss Rose by no means in +accordance with them. The best of us are liable to absent-mindedness, +and he sometimes so far forgot himself as to address her in tones as +humble as any in her somewhat large experience. + +"I hope that we are making you comfortable here, my lord?" she said, as +they sat together one afternoon. + +"I have never been more comfortable in my life," was the gracious reply. + +Miss Rose shook her head. "Oh, my lord," she said, in protest, "think of +your mansion." + +His lordship thought of it. For two or three days he had been thinking +of houses and furniture and other things of that nature. + +"I have never seen an old country seat," continued Miss Rose, clasping +her hands and gazing at him wistfully. "I should be so grateful if your +lordship would describe yours to me." + +His lordship shifted uneasily, and then, in face of the girl's +persistence, stood for some time divided between the contending claims +of Hampton Court Palace and the Tower of London. He finally decided upon +the former, after first refurnishing it at Maple's. + +"How happy you must be!" said the breathless Jane, when he had finished. + +He shook his head gravely. "My possessions have never given me any +happiness," he remarked. "I would much rather be in a humble rank of +life. Live where I like, and--and marry whom I like." + +There was no mistaking the meaning fall in his voice. Miss Rose sighed +gently and lowered her eyes--her lashes had often excited comment. Then, +in a soft voice, she asked him the sort of life he would prefer. + +In reply, his lordship, with an eloquence which surprised himself, +portrayed the joys of life in a seven-roomed house in town, with a +greenhouse six feet by three, and a garden large enough to contain it. +He really spoke well, and when he had finished his listener gazed at him +with eyes suffused with timid admiration. + +"Oh, my lord," she said, prettily, "now I know what you've been doing. +You've been slumming." + +"Slumming?" gasped his lordship. + +"You couldn't have described a place like that unless you had been," +said Miss Rose nodding. "I hope you took the poor people some nice hot +soup." + +His lordship tried to explain, but without success. Miss Rose persisted +in regarding him as a missionary of food and warmth, and spoke feelingly +of the people who had to live in such places. She also warned him +against the risk of infection. + +"You don't understand," he repeated, impatiently. "These are nice +houses--nice enough for anybody to live in. If you took soup to people +like that, why, they'd throw it at you." + +"Wretches!" murmured the indignant Jane, who was enjoying herself +amazingly. + +His lordship eyed her with sudden suspicion, but her face was quite +grave and bore traces of strong feeling. He explained again, but without +avail. + +"You never ought to go near such places, my lord," she concluded, +solemnly, as she rose to quit the room. "Even a girl of my station would +draw the line at that." + +She bowed deeply and withdrew. His lordship sank into a chair and, +thrusting his hands into his pockets, gazed gloomily at the dried +grasses in the grate. + +During the next day or two his appetite failed, and other well-known +symptoms set in. Miss Rose, diagnosing them all, prescribed by stealth +some bitter remedies. The farmer regarded his change of manner with +disapproval, and, concluding that it was due to his own complaints, +sought to reassure him. He also pointed out that his daughter's opinion +of the aristocracy was hardly likely to increase if the only member she +knew went about the house as though he had just lost his grandmother. + +"You are longing for the gayeties of town, my lord," he remarked one +morning at breakfast. + +His lordship shook his head. The gayeties comprised, amongst other +things, a stool and a desk. + +"I don't like town," he said, with a glance at Jane. "If I had my choice +I would live here always. I would sooner live here in this charming spot +with this charming society than anywhere." + +Mr. Rose coughed and, having caught his eye, shook his head at him and +glanced significantly over at the unconscious Jane. The young man +ignored his action and, having got an opening, gave utterance in the +course of the next ten minutes to Radical heresies of so violent a type +that the farmer could hardly keep his seat. Social distinctions were +condemned utterly, and the House of Lords referred to as a human dust- +bin. The farmer gazed open-mouthed at this snake he had nourished. + +"Your lordship will alter your mind when you get to town," said Jane, +demurely. + +"Never!" declared the other, impressively. + +The girl sighed, and gazing first with much interest at her parent, who +seemed to be doing his best to ward off a fit, turned her lustrous eyes +upon the guest. + +"We shall all miss you," she said, softly. "You've been a lesson to all +of us." + +"Lesson?" he repeated, flushing. + +"It has improved our behavior so, having a lord in the house," said Miss +Rose, with painful humility. "I'm sure father hasn't been like the same +man since you've been here." + +"What d'ye mean Miss?" demanded the farmer, hotly. + +"Don't speak like that before his lordship, father," said his daughter, +hastily. "I'm not blaming you; you're no worse than the other men about +here. You haven't had an opportunity of learning before, that's all. It +isn't your fault." + +"Learning?" bellowed the farmer, turning an inflamed visage upon his +apprehensive guest. "Have you noticed anything wrong about my behavior?" + +"Certainly not," said his lordship, hastily. + +"All I know is," continued Miss Rose, positively, "I wish you were going +to stay here another six months for father's sake." + +"Look here--" began Mr. Rose, smiting the table. + +"And Annie's," said Jane, raising her voice above the din. "I don't know +which has improved the most. I'm sure the way they both drink their tea +now--" + +Mr. Rose pushed his chair back loudly and got up from the table. For a +moment he stood struggling for words, then he turned suddenly with a +growl and quitted the room, banging the door after him in a fashion +which clearly indicated that he still had some lessons to learn. + +"You've made your father angry," said his lordship. + +"It's for his own good," said Miss Rose. "Are you really sorry to leave +us?" + +"Sorry?" repeated the other. "Sorry is no word for it." + +"You will miss father," said the girl. + +He sighed gently. + +"And Annie," she continued. + +He sighed again, and Jane took a slight glance at him cornerwise. + +"And me too, I hope," she said, in a low voice. + +"_Miss_ you!" repeated his lordship, in a suffocating voice. "I +should miss the sun less." + +"I am so glad," said Jane, clasping her hands; "it is so nice to feel +that one is not quite forgotten. Of course, I can never forget you. You +are the only nobleman I have ever met." + +"I hope that it is not only because of that," he said, forlornly. + +Miss Rose pondered. When she pondered her eyes increased in size and +revealed unsuspected depths. + +"No-o," she said at length, in a hesitating voice. + +"Suppose that I were not what I am represented to be," he said slowly. +"Suppose that, instead of being Lord Fairmount, I were merely a clerk." + +"A clerk?" repeated Miss Rose, with a very well-managed shudder. "How +can I suppose such an absurd thing as that?" + +"But if I were?" urged his lordship, feverishly. + +"It's no use supposing such a thing as that," said Miss Rose, briskly; +"your high birth is stamped on you." + +His lordship shook his head. "I would sooner be a laborer on this farm +than a king anywhere else," he said, with feeling. + +Miss Rose drew a pattern on the floor with the toe of her shoe. + +"The poorest laborer on the farm can have the pleasure of looking at you +every day," continued his lordship passionately. "Every day of his life +he can see you, and feel a better man for it." + +Miss Rose looked at him sharply. Only the day before the poorest laborer +had seen her--when he wasn't expecting the honor--and received an +epitome of his character which had nearly stunned him. But his +lordship's face was quite grave. + +"I go to-morrow," he said. + +"Yes," said Jane, in a hushed voice. + +He crossed the room gently and took a seat by her side. Miss Rose, still +gazing at the floor, wondered indignantly why it was she was not +blushing. His Lordship's conversation had come to a sudden stop and the +silence was most awkward. + +"I've been a fool, Miss Rose," he said at last, rising and standing over +her; "and I've been taking a great liberty. I've been deceiving you for +nearly a fortnight." + +"Nonsense!" responded Miss Rose, briskly. + +"I have been deceiving you," he repeated. "I have made you believe that +I am a person of title." + +"Nonsense!" said Miss Rose again. + +The other started and eyed her uneasily. + +"Nobody would mistake you for a lord," said Miss Rose, cruelly. "Why, I +shouldn't think that you had ever seen one. You didn't do it at all +properly. Why, your uncle Cray would have done it better." Mr. Cray's +nephew fell back in consternation and eyed her dumbly as she laughed. +All mirth is not contagious, and he was easily able to refrain from +joining in this. + +"I can't understand," said Miss Rose, as she wiped a tear-dimmed eye--"I +can't understand how you could have thought I should be so stupid." + +"I've been a fool," said the other, bitterly, as he retreated to the +door. "Good-by." + +"Good-by," said Jane. She looked him full in the face, and the blushes +for which she had been waiting came in force. "You needn't go, unless +you want to," she said, softly. "I like fools better than lords." + +[Illustration: "'I like fools better than lords.'"] + + + + +[Illustration: ALF'S DREAM] + + + + +ALF'S DREAM + + +"I've just been drinking a man's health," said the night watchman, +coming slowly on to the wharf and wiping his mouth with the back of his +hand; "he's come in for a matter of three 'undred and twenty pounds, and +he stood me arf a pint--arf a pint!" + +He dragged a small empty towards him, and after planing the surface with +his hand sat down and gazed scornfully across the river. + +"Four ale," he said, with a hard laugh; "and when I asked 'im--just for +the look of the thing, and to give 'im a hint--whether he'd 'ave +another, he said 'yes.'" + +The night watchman rose and paced restlessly up and down the jetty. + +"Money," he said, at last, resuming his wonted calm and lowering himself +carefully to the box again--"money always gets left to the wrong +people; some of the kindest-'arted men I've ever known 'ave never had a +ha'penny left 'em, while teetotaler arter teetotaler wot I've heard of +'ave come in for fortins." + +It's 'ard lines though, sometimes, waiting for other people's money. I +knew o' one chap that waited over forty years for 'is grandmother to die +and leave 'im her money; and she died of catching cold at 'is funeral. +Another chap I knew, arter waiting years and years for 'is rich aunt to +die, was hung because she committed suicide. + +It's always risky work waiting for other people to die and leave you +money. Sometimes they don't die; sometimes they marry agin; and +sometimes they leave it to other people instead. + +Talking of marrying agin reminds me o' something that 'appened to a +young fellow I knew named Alf Simms. Being an orphan 'e was brought up +by his uncle, George Hatchard, a widowed man of about sixty. Alf used to +go to sea off and on, but more off than on, his uncle 'aving quite a +tidy bit of 'ouse property, and it being understood that Alf was to have +it arter he 'ad gone. His uncle used to like to 'ave him at 'ome, and +Alf didn't like work, so it suited both parties. + +I used to give Alf a bit of advice sometimes, sixty being a dangerous +age for a man, especially when he 'as been a widower for so long he 'as +had time to forget wot being married's like; but I must do Alf the +credit to say it wasn't wanted. He 'ad got a very old 'ead on his +shoulders, and always picked the housekeeper 'imself to save the old man +the trouble. I saw two of 'em, and I dare say I could 'ave seen more, +only I didn't want to. + +Cleverness is a good thing in its way, but there's such a thing as being +too clever, and the last 'ousekeeper young Alf picked died of old age a +week arter he 'ad gone to sea. She passed away while she was drawing +George Hatchard's supper beer, and he lost ten gallons o' the best +bitter ale and his 'ousekeeper at the same time. + +It was four months arter that afore Alf came 'ome, and the fust sight of +the new 'ousekeeper, wot opened the door to 'im, upset 'im terrible. She +was the right side o' sixty to begin with, and only ordinary plain. Then +she was as clean as a new pin, and dressed up as though she was going +out to tea. + +"Oh, you're Alfred, I s'pose?" she ses, looking at 'im. + +"Mr. Simms is my name," ses young Alf, starting and drawing hisself up. + +"I know you by your portrait," ses the 'ousekeeper. "Come in. 'Ave you +'ad a pleasant v'y'ge? Wipe your boots." + +Alfred wiped 'is boots afore he thought of wot he was doing. Then he +drew hisself up stiff agin and marched into the parlor. + +"Sit down," ses the 'ousekeeper, in a kind voice. + +Alfred sat down afore he thought wot 'e was doing agin. + +"I always like to see people comfortable," ses the 'ousekeeper; "it's my +way. It's warm weather for the time o' year, ain't it? George is +upstairs, but he'll be down in a minute." + +"_Who?_" ses Alf, hardly able to believe his ears. + +"George," ses the 'ousekeeper. + +"George? George who?" ses Alfred, very severe. + +"Why your uncle, of course," ses the 'ousekeeper. "Do you think I've got +a houseful of Georges?" + +Young Alf sat staring at her and couldn't say a word. He noticed that +the room 'ad been altered, and that there was a big photygraph of her +stuck up on the mantelpiece. He sat there fidgeting with 'is feet--until +the 'ousekeeper looked at them--and then 'e got up and walked upstairs. + +His uncle, wot was sitting on his bed when 'e went into the room and +pretended that he 'adn't heard 'im come in, shook hands with 'im as +though he'd never leave off. + +"I've got something to tell you, Alf," he ses, arter they 'ad said "How +d'ye do?" and he 'ad talked about the weather until Alf was fair tired +of it. + +"I've been and gone and done a foolish thing, and 'ow you'll take it I +don't know." + +"Been and asked the new 'ousekeeper to marry you, I s'pose?" ses Alf, +looking at 'im very hard. + +His uncle shook his 'ead. "I never asked 'er; I'd take my Davy I +didn't," he ses. + +"Well, you ain't going to marry her, then?" ses Alf, brightening up. + +His uncle shook his 'ead agin. "She didn't want no asking," he ses, +speaking very slow and mournful. "I just 'appened to put my arm round +her waist by accident one day and the thing was done." + +"Accident? How could you do it by accident?" ses Alf, firing up. + +"How can I tell you that?" ses George Hatchard. "If I'd known 'ow, it +wouldn't 'ave been an accident, would it?" + +"Don't you want to marry her?" ses Alf, at last. "You needn't marry 'er +if you don't want to." + +George Hatchard looked at 'im and sniffed. "When you know her as well as +I do you won't talk so foolish," he ses. "We'd better go down now, else +she'll think we've been talking about 'er." + +They went downstairs and 'ad tea together, and young Alf soon see the +truth of his uncle's remarks. Mrs. Pearce--that was the 'ousekeeper's +name--called his uncle "dear" every time she spoke to 'im, and arter +tea she sat on the sofa side by side with 'im and held his 'and. + +Alf lay awake arf that night thinking things over and 'ow to get Mrs. +Pearce out of the house, and he woke up next morning with it still on +'is mind. Every time he got 'is uncle alone he spoke to 'im about it, +and told 'im to pack Mrs. Pearce off with a month's wages, but George +Hatchard wouldn't listen to 'im. + +"She'd 'ave me up for breach of promise and ruin me," he ses. "She reads +the paper to me every Sunday arternoon, mostly breach of promise cases, +and she'd 'ave me up for it as soon as look at me. She's got 'eaps and +'eaps of love-letters o' mine." + +"Love-letters!" ses Alf, staring. "Love-letters when you live in the +same house!" + +"She started it," ses his uncle; "she pushed one under my door one +morning, and I 'ad to answer it. She wouldn't come down and get my +breakfast till I did. I have to send her one every morning." + +"Do you sign 'em with your own name?" ses Alf, arter thinking a bit. + +"No," ses 'is uncle, turning red. + +"Wot do you sign 'em, then?" ses Alf. + +"Never you mind," ses his uncle, turning redder. "It's my handwriting, +and that's good enough for her. I did try writing backwards, but I only +did it once. I wouldn't do it agin for fifty pounds. You ought to ha' +heard 'er." + +"If 'er fust husband was alive she couldn't marry you," ses Alf, very +slow and thoughtful. + +"No," ses his uncle, nasty-like; "and if I was an old woman she couldn't +marry me. You know as well as I do that he went down with the _Evening +Star_ fifteen years ago." + +"So far as she knows," ses Alf; "but there was four of them saved, so +why not five? Mightn't 'e have floated away on a spar or something and +been picked up? Can't you dream it three nights running, and tell 'er +that you feel certain sure he's alive?" + +"If I dreamt it fifty times it wouldn't make any difference," ses George +Hatchard. "Here! wot are you up to? 'Ave you gone mad, or wot? You poke +me in the ribs like that agin if you dare." + +"Her fust 'usband's alive," ses Alf, smiling at 'im. + +"_Wot?_" ses his uncle. + +"He floated away on a bit o' wreckage," ses Alf, nodding at 'im, "just +like they do in books, and was picked up more dead than alive and took +to Melbourne. He's now living up-country working on a sheep station." + +"Who's dreaming now?" ses his uncle. + +"It's a fact," ses Alf. "I know a chap wot's met 'im and talked to 'im. +She can't marry you while he's alive, can she?" + +"Certainly _not_," ses George Hatchard, trembling all over; "but +are you sure you 'aven't made a mistake?" + +"Certain sure," ses Alf. + +"It's too good to be true," ses George Hatchard. + +"O' course it is," ses Alf, "but she won't know that. Look 'ere; you +write down all the things that she 'as told you about herself and give +it to me, and I'll soon find the chap I spoke of wot's met 'im. He'd +meet a dozen men if it was made worth his while." + +George Hatchard couldn't understand 'im at fust, and when he did he +wouldn't 'ave a hand in it because it wasn't the right thing to do, and +because he felt sure that Mrs. Pearce would find it out. But at last 'e +wrote out all about her for Alf; her maiden name, and where she was +born, and everything; and then he told Alf that, if 'e dared to play +such a trick on an unsuspecting, loving woman, he'd never forgive 'im. + +"I shall want a couple o' quid," ses Alf. + +"Certainly not," ses his uncle. "I won't 'ave nothing to do with it, I +tell you." + +"Only to buy chocolates with," ses Alf. + +"Oh, all right," ses George Hatchard; and he went upstairs to 'is +bedroom and came down with three pounds and gave 'im. "If that ain't +enough," he ses, "let me know, and you can 'ave more." + +Alf winked at 'im, but the old man drew hisself up and stared at 'im, +and then 'e turned and walked away with his 'ead in the air. + +He 'ardly got a chance of speaking to Alf next day, Mrs. Pearce being +'ere, there, and everywhere, as the saying is, and finding so many +little odd jobs for Alf to do that there was no time for talking. But +the day arter he sidled up to 'im when the 'ouse-keeper was out of the +room and asked 'im whether he 'ad bought the chocolates. + +"Yes," ses Alfred, taking one out of 'is pocket and eating it, "some of +'em." + +George Hatchard coughed and fidgeted about. "When are you going to buy +the others?" he ses. + +"As I want 'em," ses Alf. "They'd spoil if I got 'em all at once." + +George Hatchard coughed agin. "I 'ope you haven't been going on with +that wicked plan you spoke to me about the other night," he ses. + +"Certainly not," ses Alf, winking to 'imself; "not arter wot you said. +How could I?" + +"That's right," ses the old man. "I'm sorry for this marriage for your +sake, Alf. O' course, I was going to leave you my little bit of 'ouse +property, but I suppose now it'll 'ave to be left to her. Well, well, I +s'pose it's best for a young man to make his own way in the world." + +"I s'pose so," ses Alf. + +"Mrs. Pearce was asking only yesterday when you was going back to sea +agin," ses his uncle, looking at 'im. + +"Oh!" ses Alf. + +"She's took a dislike to you, I think," ses the old man. "It's very +'ard, my fav'rite nephew, and the only one I've got. I forgot to tell +you the other day that her fust 'usband, Charlie Pearce, 'ad a kind of a +wart on 'is left ear. She's often spoke to me about it." + +"In--deed!" ses Alf. + +"Yes," ses his uncle, "_left_ ear, and a scar on his forehead where +a friend of his kicked 'im one day." + +Alf nodded, and then he winked at 'im agin. George Hatchard didn't wink +back, but he patted 'im on the shoulder and said 'ow well he was filling +out, and 'ow he got more like 'is pore mother every day he lived. + +[Illustration: "He patted 'im on the shoulder and said 'ow well he was +filling out."] + +"I 'ad a dream last night," ses Alf. "I dreamt that a man I know named +Bill Flurry, but wot called 'imself another name in my dream, and didn't +know me then, came 'ere one evening when we was all sitting down at +supper, Joe Morgan and 'is missis being here, and said as 'ow Mrs. +Pearce's fust husband was alive and well." + +"That's a very odd dream," ses his uncle; "but wot was Joe Morgan and +his missis in it for?" + +"Witnesses," ses Alf. + +George Hatchard fell over a footstool with surprise. "Go on," he ses, +rubbing his leg. "It's a queer thing, but I was going to ask the Morgans +'ere to spend the evening next Wednesday." + +"Or was it Tuesday?" ses Alf, considering. + +"I said Tuesday," ses his uncle, looking over Alf's 'ead so that he +needn't see 'im wink agin. "Wot was the end of your dream, Alf?" + +"The end of it was," ses Alf, "that you and Mrs. Pearce was both very +much upset, as o' course you couldn't marry while 'er fust was alive, +and the last thing I see afore I woke up was her boxes standing at the +front door waiting for a cab." + +George Hatchard was going to ask 'im more about it, but just then Mrs. +Pearce came in with a pair of Alf's socks that he 'ad been untidy enough +to leave in the middle of the floor instead of chucking 'em under the +bed. She was so unpleasant about it that, if it hadn't ha' been for the +thought of wot was going to 'appen on Tuesday, Alf couldn't ha' stood +it. + +For the next day or two George Hatchard was in such a state of +nervousness and excitement that Alf was afraid that the 'ousekeeper +would notice it. On Tuesday morning he was trembling so much that she +said he'd got a chill, and she told 'im to go to bed and she'd make 'im +a nice hot mustard poultice. George was afraid to say "no," but while +she was in the kitchen making the poultice he slipped out for a walk and +cured 'is trembling with three whiskies. Alf nearly got the poultice +instead, she was so angry. + +She was unpleasant all dinner-time, but she got better in the arternoon, +and when the Morgans came in the evening, and she found that Mrs. Morgan +'ad got a nasty sort o' red swelling on her nose, she got quite good- +tempered. She talked about it nearly all supper-time, telling 'er what +she ought to do to it, and about a friend of hers that 'ad one and 'ad +to turn teetotaler on account of it. + +"My nose is good enough for me," ses Mrs. Morgan, at last. + +"It don't affect 'er appetite," ses George Hatchard, trying to make +things pleasant, "and that's the main thing." + +Mrs. Morgan got up to go, but arter George Hatchard 'ad explained wot he +didn't mean she sat down agin and began to talk to Mrs. Pearce about 'er +dress and 'ow beautifully it was made. And she asked Mrs. Pearce to give +'er the pattern of it, because she should 'ave one like it herself when +she was old enough. "I do like to see people dressed suitable," she ses, +with a smile. + +"I think you ought to 'ave a much deeper color than this," ses Mrs. +Pearce, considering. + +"Not when I'm faded," ses Mrs. Morgan. + +Mrs. Pearce, wot was filling 'er glass at the time, spilt a lot of beer +all over the tablecloth, and she was so cross about it that she sat like +a stone statue for pretty near ten minutes. By the time supper was +finished people was passing things to each other in whispers, and when a +bit o' cheese went the wrong way with Joe Morgan he nearly suffocated +'imself for fear of making a noise. + +They 'ad a game o' cards arter supper, counting twenty nuts as a penny, +and everybody got more cheerful. They was all laughing and talking, and +Joe Morgan was pretending to steal Mrs. Pearce's nuts, when George +Hatchard held up his 'and. + +"Somebody at the street door, I think," he ses. + +Young Alf got up to open it, and they 'eard a man's voice in the passage +asking whether Mrs. Pearce lived there, and the next moment Alf came +into the room, followed by Bill Flurry. + +"Here's a gentleman o' the name o' Smith asking arter you," he ses, +looking at Mrs. Pearce. + +"Wot d'you want?" ses Mrs. Pearce rather sharp. + +"It is 'er," ses Bill, stroking his long white beard and casting 'is +eyes up at the ceiling. "You don't remember me, Mrs. Pearce, but I used +to see you years ago, when you and poor Charlie Pearce was living down +Poplar way." + +"Well, wot about it?" ses Mrs. Pearce. + +"I'm coming to it," ses Bill Flurry. "I've been two months trying to +find you, so there's no need to be in a hurry for a minute or two. +Besides, what I've got to say ought to be broke gently, in case you +faint away with joy." + +"Rubbish!" ses Mrs. Pearce. "I ain't the fainting sort." + +"I 'ope it's nothing unpleasant," ses George Hatchard, pouring 'im out a +glass of whisky. + +"Quite the opposite," ses Bill. "It's the best news she's 'eard for +fifteen years." + +"Are you going to tell me wot you want, or ain't you?" ses Mrs. Pearce. + +"I'm coming to it," ses Bill. "Six months ago I was in Melbourne, and +one day I was strolling about looking in at the shop-winders, when all +at once I thought I see a face I knew. It was a good bit older than when +I see it last, and the whiskers was gray, but I says to myself--" + +"I can see wot's coming," ses Mrs. Morgan, turning red with excitement +and pinching Joe's arm. + +"I ses to myself," ses Bill Flurry, "either that's a ghost, I ses or +else it's Charlie--" + +"Go on," ses George Hatchard, as was sitting with 'is fists clinched on +the table and 'is eyes wide open, staring at 'im. + +"Pearce," ses Bill Flurry. + +You might 'ave heard a pin drop. They all sat staring at 'im, and then +George Hatchard took out 'is handkerchief and 'eld it up to 'is face. + +"But he was drownded in the _Evening Star_," ses Joe Morgan. + +Bill Flurry didn't answer 'im. He poured out pretty near a tumbler of +whisky and offered it to Mrs. Pearce, but she pushed it away, and, arter +looking round in a 'elpless sort of way and shaking his 'ead once or +twice, he finished it up 'imself. + +"It couldn't 'ave been 'im," ses George Hatchard, speaking through 'is +handkerchief. "I can't believe it. It's too cruel." + +"I tell you it was 'im," ses Bill. "He floated off on a spar when the +ship went down, and was picked up two days arterwards by a bark and +taken to New Zealand. He told me all about it, and he told me if ever I +saw 'is wife to give her 'is kind regards." + +"_Kind regards_!" ses Joe Morgan, starting up. "Why didn't he let +'is wife know 'e was alive?" + +"That's wot I said to 'im," ses Bill Flurry; "but he said he 'ad 'is +reasons." + +"Ah, to be sure," ses Mrs. Morgan, nodding. "Why, you and her can't be +married now," she ses, turning to George Hatchard. + +"Married?" ses Bill Flurry with a start, as George Hatchard gave a groan +that surprised 'imself. "Good gracious! what a good job I found 'er!" + +"I s'pose you don't know where he is to be found now?" ses Mrs. Pearce, +in a low voice, turning to Bill. + +"I do not, ma'am," ses Bill, "but I think you'd find 'im somewhere in +Australia. He keeps changing 'is name and shifting about, but I dare say +you'd 'ave as good a chance of finding 'im as anybody." + +"It's a terrible blow to me," ses George Hatchard, dabbing his eyes. + +"I know it is," ses Mrs. Pearce; "but there, you men are all alike. I +dare say if this hadn't turned up you'd ha' found something else." + +"Oh, 'ow can you talk like that?" ses George Hatchard, very reproachful. +"It's the only thing in the world that could 'ave prevented our getting +married. I'm surprised at you." + +"Well, that's all right, then," ses Mrs. Pearce, "and we'll get married +after all." + +"But you can't," ses Alf. + +"It's bigamy," ses Joe Morgan. + +"You'd get six months," ses his wife. + +"Don't you worry, dear," ses Mrs. Pearce, nodding at George Hatchard; +"that man's made a mistake." + +"Mistake!" ses Bill Flurry. "Why, I tell you I talked to 'im. It was +Charlie Pearce right enough; scar on 'is forehead and a wart on 'is left +ear and all." + +"It's wonderful," ses Mrs. Pearce. "I can't think where you got it all +from." + +"Got it all from?" ses Bill, staring at her. "Why, from 'im." + +"Oh, of course," ses Mrs. Pearce. "I didn't think of that; but that only +makes it the more wonderful, doesn't it?--because, you see, he didn't go +on the _Evening Star_." + +"_Wot_?" ses George Hatchard. "Why you told me yourself--" + +"I know I did," ses Mrs. Pearce, "but that was only just to spare your +feelings. Charlie _was_ going to sea in her, but he was prevented." + +"Prevented?" ses two or three of 'em. + +"Yes," ses Mrs. Pearce; "the night afore he was to 'ave sailed there was +some silly mistake over a diamond ring, and he got five years. He gave a +different name at the police-station, and naturally everybody thought 'e +went down with the ship. And when he died in prison I didn't undeceive +'em." + +She took out her 'andkerchief, and while she was busy with it Bill +Flurry got up and went out on tiptoe. Young Alf got up a second or two +arterwards to see where he'd gone; and the last Joe Morgan and his +missis see of the happy couple they was sitting on one chair, and George +Hatchard was making desprit and 'artrending attempts to smile. + + + + +[Illustration: A DISTANT RELATIVE] + + + + +A DISTANT RELATIVE + + +Mr. Potter had just taken Ethel Spriggs into the kitchen to say good- +by; in the small front room Mr. Spriggs, with his fingers already +fumbling at the linen collar of ceremony, waited impatiently. + +"They get longer and longer over their good-bys," he complained. + +"It's only natural," said Mrs. Spriggs, looking up from a piece of fine +sewing. "Don't you remember--" + +"No, I don't," said her husband, doggedly. "I know that your pore father +never 'ad to put on a collar for me; and, mind you, I won't wear one +after they're married, not if you all went on your bended knees and +asked me to." + +He composed his face as the door opened, and nodded good-night to the +rather over-dressed young man who came through the room with his +daughter. + +The latter opened the front-door and passing out with Mr. Potter, held +it slightly open. A penetrating draught played upon the exasperated Mr. +Spriggs. He coughed loudly. + +"Your father's got a cold," said Mr. Potter, in a concerned voice. + +"No; it's only too much smoking," said the girl. "He's smoking all day +long." + +The indignant Mr. Spriggs coughed again; but the young people had found +a new subject of conversation. It ended some minutes later in a playful +scuffle, during which the door acted the part of a ventilating fan. + +"It's only for another fortnight," said Mrs. Spriggs, hastily, as her +husband rose. + +"After they're spliced," said the vindictive Mr. Spriggs, resuming his +seat, "I'll go round and I'll play about with their front-door till--" + +He broke off abruptly as his daughter, darting into the room, closed the +door with a bang that nearly extinguished the lamp, and turned the key. +Before her flushed and laughing face Mr. Spriggs held his peace. + +"What's the matter?" she asked, eying him. "What are you looking like +that for?" + +"Too much draught--for your mother," said Mr. Spriggs, feebly. "I'm +afraid of her asthma agin." + +He fell to work on the collar once more, and, escaping at last from the +clutches of that enemy, laid it on the table and unlaced his boots. An +attempt to remove his coat was promptly frustrated by his daughter. + +"You'll get doing it when you come round to see us," she explained. + +Mr. Spriggs sighed, and lighting a short clay pipe--forbidden in the +presence of his future son-in-law--fell to watching mother and daughter +as they gloated over dress materials and discussed double-widths. + +"Anybody who can't be 'appy with her," he said, half an hour later, as +his daughter slapped his head by way of bidding him good-night, and +retired, "don't deserve to be 'appy." + +"I wish it was over," whispered his wife. "She'll break her heart if +anything happens, and--and Gussie will be out now in a day or two." + +"A gal can't 'elp what her uncle does," said Mr. Spriggs, fiercely; "if +Alfred throws her over for that, he's no man." + +"Pride is his great fault," said his wife, mournfully. + +"It's no good taking up troubles afore they come," observed Mr. Spriggs. +"P'r'aps Gussie won't come 'ere." + +"He'll come straight here," said his wife, with conviction; "he'll come +straight here and try and make a fuss of me, same as he used to do when +we was children and I'd got a ha'penny. I know him." + +"Cheer up, old gal," said Mr. Spriggs; "if he does, we must try and get +rid of 'im; and, if he won't go, we must tell Alfred that he's been to +Australia, same as we did Ethel." + +His wife smiled faintly. + +"That's the ticket," continued Mr. Spriggs. "For one thing, I b'leeve +he'll be ashamed to show his face here; but, if he does, he's come back +from Australia. See? It'll make it nicer for 'im too. You don't suppose +he wants to boast of where he's been?" + +"And suppose he comes while Alfred is here?" said his wife. + +"Then I say, 'How 'ave you left 'em all in Australia?' and wink at him," +said the ready Mr. Spriggs. + +"And s'pose you're not here?" objected his wife. + +"Then you say it and wink at him," was the reply. "No; I know you +can't," he added, hastily, as Mrs. Spriggs raised another objection; +"you've been too well brought up. Still, you can try." + +It was a slight comfort to Mrs. Spriggs that Mr. Augustus Price did, +after all, choose a convenient time for his reappearance. A faint knock +sounded on the door two days afterwards as she sat at tea with her +husband, and an anxious face with somewhat furtive eyes was thrust into +the room. + +"Emma!" said a mournful voice, as the upper part of the intruder's body +followed the face. + +"Gussie!" said Mrs. Spriggs, rising in disorder. + +Mr. Price drew his legs into the room, and, closing the door with +extraordinary care, passed the cuff of his coat across his eyes and +surveyed them tenderly. + +"I've come home to die," he said, slowly, and, tottering across the +room, embraced his sister with much unction. + +"What are you going to die of?" inquired Mr. Spriggs, reluctantly +accepting the extended hand. + +"Broken 'art, George," replied his brother-in-law, sinking into a chair. + +Mr. Spriggs grunted, and, moving his chair a little farther away, +watched the intruder as his wife handed him a plate. A troubled glance +from his wife reminded him of their arrangements for the occasion, and +he cleared his throat several times in vain attempts to begin. + +"I'm sorry that we can't ask you to stay with us, Gussie, 'specially as +you're so ill," he said, at last; "but p'r'aps you'll be better after +picking a bit." + +Mr. Price, who was about to take a slice of bread and butter, refrained, +and, closing his eyes, uttered a faint moan. "I sha'n't last the night," +he muttered. + +"That's just it," said Mr. Spriggs, eagerly. "You see, Ethel is going to +be married in a fortnight, and if you died here that would put it off." + +"I might last longer if I was took care of," said the other, opening his +eyes. + +"And, besides, Ethel don't know where you've been," continued Mr. +Spriggs. "We told 'er that you had gone to Australia. She's going to +marry a very partikler young chap--a grocer--and if he found it out it +might be awk'ard." + +Mr. Price closed his eyes again, but the lids quivered. + +"It took 'im some time to get over me being a bricklayer," pursued Mr. +Spriggs. "What he'd say to you--" + +"Tell 'im I've come back from Australia, if you like," said Mr. Price, +faintly. "I don't mind." + +Mr. Spriggs cleared his throat again. "But, you see, we told Ethel as +you was doing well out there," he said, with an embarrassed laugh, "and +girl-like, and Alfred talking a good deal about his relations, she-- +she's made the most of it." + +"It don't matter," said the complaisant Mr. Price; "you say what you +like. I sha'n't interfere with you." + +"But, you see, you don't look as though you've been making money," said +his sister, impatiently. "Look at your clothes." + +Mr. Price held up his hand. "That's easy got over," he remarked; "while +I'm having a bit of tea George can go out and buy me some new ones. You +get what you think I should look richest in, George--a black tail-coat +would be best, I should think, but I leave it to you. A bit of a fancy +waistcoat, p'r'aps, lightish trousers, and a pair o' nice boots, easy +sevens." + +He sat upright in his chair and, ignoring the look of consternation that +passed between husband and wife, poured himself out a cup of tea and +took a slice of cake. + +"Have you got any money?" said Mr. Spriggs, after a long pause. + +"I left it behind me--in Australia," said Mr. Price, with ill-timed +facetiousness. + +"Getting better, ain't you?" said his brother-in-law, sharply. "How's +that broken 'art getting on?" + +"It'll go all right under a fancy waistcoat," was the reply; "and while +you're about it, George, you'd better get me a scarf-pin, and, if you +_could_ run to a gold watch and chain--" + +He was interrupted by a frenzied outburst from Mr. Spriggs; a somewhat +incoherent summary of Mr. Price's past, coupled with unlawful and +heathenish hopes for his future. + +"You're wasting time," said Mr. Price, calmly, as he paused for breath. +"Don't get 'em if you don't want to. I'm trying to help you, that's all. +I don't mind anybody knowing where I've been. I was innercent. If you +will give way to sinful pride you must pay for it." + +Mr. Spriggs, by a great effort, regained his self-control. "Will you go +away if I give you a quid?" he asked, quietly. + +"No," said Mr. Price, with a placid smile. "I've got a better idea of +the value of money than that. Besides, I want to see my dear niece, and +see whether that young man's good enough for her." + +"Two quid?" suggested his brother-in-law. + +Mr. Price shook his head. "I couldn't do it," he said, calmly. "In +justice to myself I couldn't do it. You'll be feeling lonely when you +lose Ethel, and I'll stay and keep you company." + +The bricklayer nearly broke out again; but, obeying a glance from his +wife, closed his lips and followed her obediently upstairs. Mr. Price, +filling his pipe from a paper of tobacco on the mantelpiece, winked at +himself encouragingly in the glass, and smiled gently as he heard the +chinking of coins upstairs. + +"Be careful about the size," he said, as Mr. Spriggs came down and took +his hat from a nail; "about a couple of inches shorter than yourself and +not near so much round the waist." + +Mr. Spriggs regarded him sternly for a few seconds, and then, closing +the door with a bang, went off down the street. Left alone, Mr. Price +strolled about the room investigating, and then, drawing an easy-chair +up to the fire, put his feet on the fender and relapsed into thought. + +Two hours later he sat in the same place, a changed and resplendent +being. His thin legs were hidden in light check trousers, and the +companion waistcoat to Joseph's Coat graced the upper part of his body. +A large chrysanthemum in the button-hole of his frock-coat completed the +picture of an Australian millionaire, as understood by Mr. Spriggs. + +"A nice watch and chain, and a little money in my pockets, and I shall +be all right," murmured Mr. Price. + +"You won't get any more out o' me," said Mr. Spriggs, fiercely. "I've +spent every farthing I've got." + +"Except what's in the bank," said his brother-in-law. "It'll take you a +day or two to get at it, I know. S'pose we say Saturday for the watch +and chain?" + +Mr. Spriggs looked helplessly at his wife, but she avoided his gaze. He +turned and gazed in a fascinated fashion at Mr. Price, and received a +cheerful nod in return. + +"I'll come with you and help choose it," said the latter. "It'll save +you trouble if it don't save your pocket." + +He thrust his hands in his trouser-pockets and, spreading his legs wide +apart, tilted his head back and blew smoke to the ceiling. He was in the +same easy position when Ethel arrived home accompanied by Mr. Potter. + +"It's--it's your Uncle Gussie," said Mrs. Spriggs, as the girl stood +eying the visitor. + +"From Australia," said her husband, thickly. + +Mr. Price smiled, and his niece, noticing that he removed his pipe and +wiped his lips with the back of his hand, crossed over and kissed his +eyebrow. Mr. Potter was then introduced and received a gracious +reception, Mr. Price commenting on the extraordinary likeness he bore to +a young friend of his who had just come in for forty thousand a year. + +"That's nearly as much as you're worth, uncle, isn't it?" inquired Miss +Spriggs, daringly. + +Mr. Price shook his head at her and pondered. "Rather more," he said, at +last, "rather more." + +[Illustration: "Mr. Potter was then introduced and received a gracious +reception."] + +Mr. Potter caught his breath sharply; Mr. Spriggs, who was stooping to +get a light for his pipe, nearly fell into the fire. There was an +impressive silence. + +"Money isn't everything," said Mr. Price, looking round and shaking his +head. "It's not much good, except to give away." + +His eye roved round the room and came to rest finally upon Mr. Potter. +The young man noticed with a thrill that it beamed with benevolence. + +"Fancy coming over without saying a word to anybody, and taking us all +by surprise like this!" said Ethel. + +"I felt I must see you all once more before I died," said her uncle, +simply. "Just a flying visit I meant it to be, but your father and +mother won't hear of my going back just yet." + +"Of course not," said Ethel, who was helping the silent Mrs. Spriggs to +lay supper. + +"When I talked of going your father 'eld me down in my chair," continued +the veracious Mr. Price. + +"Quite right, too," said the girl. "Now draw your chair up and have some +supper, and tell us all about Australia." + +Mr. Price drew his chair up, but, as to talking about Australia, he said +ungratefully that he was sick of the name of the place, and preferred +instead to discuss the past and future of Mr. Potter. He learned, among +other things, that that gentleman was of a careful and thrifty +disposition, and that his savings, augmented by a lucky legacy, amounted +to a hundred and ten pounds. + +"Alfred is going to stay with Palmer and Mays for another year, and then +we shall take a business of our own," said Ethel. + +"Quite right," said Mr. Price. "I like to see young people make their +own way," he added meaningly. "It's good for 'em." + +It was plain to all that he had taken a great fancy to Mr. Potter. He +discussed the grocery trade with the air of a rich man seeking a good +investment, and threw out dark hints about returning to England after a +final visit to Australia and settling down in the bosom of his family. +He accepted a cigar from Mr. Potter after supper, and, when the young +man left--at an unusually late hour--walked home with him. + +It was the first of several pleasant evenings, and Mr. Price, who had +bought a book dealing with Australia from a second-hand bookstall, no +longer denied them an account of his adventures there. A gold watch and +chain, which had made a serious hole in his brother-in-law's Savings +Bank account, lent an air of substance to his waistcoat, and a pin of +excellent paste sparkled in his neck-tie. Under the influence of good +food and home comforts he improved every day, and the unfortunate Mr. +Spriggs was at his wits' end to resist further encroachments. From the +second day of their acquaintance he called Mr. Potter "Alf," and the +young people listened with great attention to his discourse on "Money: +How to Make It and How to Keep It." + +His own dealings with Mr. Spriggs afforded an example which he did not +quote. Beginning with shillings, he led up to half-crowns, and, +encouraged by success, one afternoon boldly demanded a half-sovereign to +buy a wedding-present with. Mrs. Spriggs drew her over-wrought husband +into the kitchen and argued with him in whispers. + +"Give him what he wants till they're married," she entreated; "after +that Alfred can't help himself, and it'll be as much to his interest to +keep quiet as anybody else." + +Mr. Spriggs, who had been a careful man all his life, found the half- +sovereign and a few new names, which he bestowed upon Mr. Price at the +same time. The latter listened unmoved. In fact, a bright eye and a +pleasant smile seemed to indicate that he regarded them rather in the +nature of compliments than otherwise. + +"I telegraphed over to Australia this morning," he said, as they all sat +at supper that evening. + +[Illustration: "A gold watch and chain lent an air of substance to his +waistcoat."] + +"About my money?" said Mr. Potter, eagerly. + +Mr. Price frowned at him swiftly. "No; telling my head clerk to send +over a wedding-present for you," he said, his face softening under the +eye of Mr. Spriggs. "I've got just the thing for you there. I can't see +anything good enough over here." + +The young couple were warm in their thanks. + +"What did you mean, about your money?" inquired Mr. Spriggs, turning to +his future son-in-law. + +"Nothing," said the young man, evasively. + +"It's a secret," said Mr. Price. + +"What about?" persisted Mr. Spriggs, raising his voice. + +"It's a little private business between me and Uncle Gussie," said Mr. +Potter, somewhat stiffly. + +"You--you haven't been lending him money?" stammered the bricklayer. + +"Don't be silly, father," said Miss Spriggs, sharply. "What good would +Alfred's little bit o' money be to Uncle Gussie? If you must know, +Alfred is drawing it out for uncle to invest it for him." + +The eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Spriggs and Mr. Price engaged in a triangular +duel. The latter spoke first. + +"I'm putting it into my business for him," he said, with a threatening +glance, "in Australia." + +"And he didn't want his generosity known," added Mr. Potter. + +The bewildered Mr. Spriggs looked helplessly round the table. His wife's +foot pressed his, and like a mechanical toy his lips snapped together. + +"I didn't know you had got your money handy," said Mrs. Spriggs, in +trembling tones. + +"I made special application, and I'm to have it on Friday," said Mr. +Potter, with a smile. "You don't get a chance like that every day." + +He filled Uncle Gussie's glass for him, and that gentleman at once +raised it and proposed the health of the young couple. "If anything was +to 'appen to break it off now," he said, with a swift glance at his +sister, "they'd be miserable for life, I can see that." + +"Miserable for ever," assented Mr. Potter, in a sepulchral voice, as he +squeezed the hand of Miss Spriggs under the table. + +"It's the only thing worth 'aving--love," continued Mr. Price, watching +his brother-in-law out of the corner of his eye. "Money is nothing." + +Mr. Spriggs emptied his glass and, knitting his brows, drew patterns on +the cloth with the back of his knife. His wife's foot was still pressing +on his, and he waited for instructions. + +For once, however, Mrs. Spriggs had none to give. Even when Mr. Potter +had gone and Ethel had retired upstairs she was still voiceless. She sat +for some time looking at the fire and stealing an occasional glance at +Uncle Gussie as he smoked a cigar; then she arose and bent over her +husband. + +"Do what you think best," she said, in a weary voice. "Good-night." + +"What about that money of young Alfred's?" demanded Mr. Spriggs, as the +door closed behind her. + +"I'm going to put it in my business," said Uncle Gussie, blandly; "my +business in Australia." + +"Ho! You've got to talk to me about that first," said the other. + +His brother-in-law leaned back and smoked with placid enjoyment. "You do +what you like," he said, easily. "Of course, if you tell Alfred, I +sha'n't get the money, and Ethel won't get 'im. Besides that, he'll find +out what lies you've been telling." + +"I wonder you can look me in the face," said the raging bricklayer. + +"And I should give him to understand that you were going shares in the +hundred and ten pounds and then thought better of it," said the unmoved +Mr. Price. "He's the sort o' young chap as'll believe anything. Bless +'im!" + +Mr. Spriggs bounced up from his chair and stood over him with his fists +clinched. Mr. Price glared defiance. + +"If you're so partikler you can make it up to him," he said, slowly. +"You've been a saving man, I know, and Emma 'ad a bit left her that I +ought to have 'ad. When you've done play-acting I'll go to bed. So +long!" + +He got up, yawning, and walked to the door, and Mr. Spriggs, after a +momentary idea of breaking him in pieces and throwing him out into the +street, blew out the lamp and went upstairs to discuss the matter with +his wife until morning. + +Mr. Spriggs left for his work next day with the question still +undecided, but a pretty strong conviction that Mr. Price would have to +have his way. The wedding was only five days off, and the house was in a +bustle of preparation. A certain gloom which he could not shake off he +attributed to a raging toothache, turning a deaf ear to the various +remedies suggested by Uncle Gussie, and the name of an excellent dentist +who had broken a tooth of Mr. Potter's three times before extracting it. + +Uncle Gussie he treated with bare civility in public, and to blood- +curdling threats in private. Mr. Price, ascribing the latter to the +toothache, also varied his treatment to his company; prescribing whisky +held in the mouth, and other agreeable remedies when there were +listeners, and recommending him to fill his mouth with cold water and +sit on the fire till it boiled, when they were alone. + +He was at his worst on Thursday morning; on Thursday afternoon he came +home a bright and contented man. He hung his cap on the nail with a +flourish, kissed his wife, and, in full view of the disapproving Mr. +Price, executed a few clumsy steps on the hearthrug. + +"Come in for a fortune?" inquired the latter, eying him sourly. + +"No; I've saved one," replied Mr. Spriggs, gayly. "I wonder I didn't +think of it myself." + +"Think of what?" inquired Mr. Price. + +"You'll soon know," said Mr. Spriggs, "and you've only got yourself to +thank for it." + +Uncle Gussie sniffed suspiciously; Mrs. Spriggs pressed for particulars. + +"I've got out of the difficulty," said her husband, drawing his chair to +the tea-table. "Nobody'll suffer but Gussie." + +"Ho!" said that gentleman, sharply. + +"I took the day off," said Mr. Spriggs, smiling contentedly at his wife, +"and went to see a friend of mine, Bill White the policeman, and told +him about Gussie." + +Mr. Price stiffened in his chair. + +"Acting--under--his--advice," said Mr. Spriggs, sipping his tea, "I +wrote to Scotland Yard and told 'em that Augustus Price, ticket-of-leave +man, was trying to obtain a hundred and ten pounds by false pretences." + +Mr. Price, white and breathless, rose and confronted him. + +"The beauty o' that is, as Bill says," continued Mr. Spriggs, with much +enjoyment, "that Gussie'll 'ave to set out on his travels again. He'll +have to go into hiding, because if they catch him he'll 'ave to finish +his time. And Bill says if he writes letters to any of us it'll only +make it easier to find him. You'd better take the first train to +Australia, Gussie." + +"What--what time did you post--the letter?" inquired Uncle Gussie, +jerkily. + +"'Bout two o'clock," said Mr. Spriggs, glaring at the clock. "I reckon +you've just got time." + +Mr. Price stepped swiftly to the small sideboard, and, taking up his +hat, clapped it on. He paused a moment at the door to glance up and down +the street, and then the door closed softly behind him. Mrs. Spriggs +looked at her husband. + +"Called away to Australia by special telegram," said the latter, +winking. "Bill White is a trump; that's what he is." + +"Oh, George!" said his wife. "Did you really write that letter?" + +Mr. Spriggs winked again. + + + + +[Illustration: THE TEST] + + + + +THE TEST + + +Pebblesea was dull, and Mr. Frederick Dix, mate of the ketch +_Starfish_, after a long and unsuccessful quest for amusement, +returned to the harbor with an idea of forgetting his disappointment in +sleep. The few shops in the High Street were closed, and the only +entertainment offered at the taverns was contained in glass and pewter. +The attitude of the landlord of the "Pilots' Hope," where Mr. Dix had +sought to enliven the proceedings by a song and dance, still rankled in +his memory. + +The skipper and the hands were still ashore and the ketch looked so +lonely that the mate, thinking better of his idea of retiring, thrust +his hands deep in his pockets and sauntered round the harbor. It was +nearly dark, and the only other man visible stood at the edge of the +quay gazing at the water. He stood for so long that the mate's easily +aroused curiosity awoke, and, after twice passing, he edged up to him +and ventured a remark on the fineness of the night. + +"The night's all right," said the young man, gloomily. + +"You're rather near the edge," said the mate, after a pause. + +"I like being near the edge," was the reply. + +Mr. Dix whistled softly and, glancing up at the tall, white-faced young +man before him, pushed his cap back and scratched his head. + +"Ain't got anything on your mind, have you?" he inquired. + +The young man groaned and turned away, and the mate, scenting a little +excitement, took him gently by the coat-sleeve and led him from the +brink. Sympathy begets confidence, and, within the next ten minutes, he +had learned that Arthur Heard, rejected by Emma Smith, was contemplating +the awful crime of self-destruction. + +"Why, I've known 'er for seven years," said Mr. Heard; "seven years, and +this is the end of it." + +The mate shook his head. + +"I told 'er I was coming straight away to drownd myself," pursued Mr. +Heard. "My last words to 'er was, 'When you see my bloated corpse you'll +be sorry.'" + +"I expect she'll cry and carry on like anything," said the mate, +politely. + +The other turned and regarded him. "Why, you don't think I'm going to, +do you?" he inquired, sharply. "Why, I wouldn't drownd myself for fifty +blooming gells." + +"But what did you tell her you were going to for, then?" demanded the +puzzled mate. + +"'Cos I thought it would upset 'er and make 'er give way," said the +other, bitterly; "and all it done was to make 'er laugh as though she'd +'ave a fit." + +"It would serve her jolly well right if you did drown yourself," said +Mr. Dix, judiciously. "It 'ud spoil her life for her." + +"Ah, and it wouldn't spoil mine, I s'pose?" rejoined Mr. Heard, with +ferocious sarcasm. + +"How she will laugh when she sees you to-morrow," mused the mate. "Is +she the sort of girl that would spread it about?" + +Mr. Heard said that she was, and, forgetting for a moment his great +love, referred to her partiality for gossip in the most scathing terms +he could muster. The mate, averse to such a tame ending to a promising +adventure, eyed him thoughtfully. + +"Why not just go in and out again," he said, seductively, "and run to +her house all dripping wet?" + +"That would be clever, wouldn't it?" said the ungracious Mr. Heard. +"Starting to commit suicide, and then thinking better of it. Why, I +should be a bigger laughing-stock than ever." + +"But suppose I saved you against your will?" breathed the tempter; "how +would that be?" + +"It would be all right if I cared to run the risk," said the other, "but +I don't. I should look well struggling in the water while you was diving +in the wrong places for me, shouldn't I?" + +"I wasn't thinking of such a thing," said Mr. Dix, hastily; "twenty +strokes is about my mark--with my clothes off. My idea was to pull you +out." + +Mr. Heard glanced at the black water a dozen feet below. "How?" he +inquired, shortly. + +"Not here," said the mate. "Come to the end of the quay where the ground +slopes to the water. It's shallow there, and you can tell her that you +jumped in off here. She won't know the difference." + +With an enthusiasm which Mr. Heard made no attempt to share, he led the +way to the place indicated, and dilating upon its manifold advantages, +urged him to go in at once and get it over. + +"You couldn't have a better night for it," he said, briskly. "Why, it +makes me feel like a dip myself to look at it." + +Mr. Heard gave a surly grunt, and after testing the temperature of the +water with his hand, slowly and reluctantly immersed one foot. Then, +with sudden resolution, he waded in and, ducking his head, stood up +gasping. + +"Give yourself a good soaking while you're about it," said the delighted +mate. + +Mr. Heard ducked again, and once more emerging stumbled towards the +bank. + +"Pull me out," he cried, sharply. + +Mr. Dix, smiling indulgently, extended his hands, which Mr. Heard seized +with the proverbial grasp of a drowning man. + +"All right, take it easy, don't get excited," said the smiling mate, +"four foot of water won't hurt anyone. If--Here! Let go o' me, d'ye +hear? Let go! If you don't let go I'll punch your head." + +"You couldn't save me against my will without coming in," said Mr. +Heard. "Now we can tell 'er you dived in off the quay and got me just as +I was sinking for the last time. You'll be a hero." + +The mate's remarks about heroes were mercifully cut short. He was three +stone lighter than Mr. Heard, and standing on shelving ground. The +latter's victory was so sudden that he over-balanced, and only a +commotion at the surface of the water showed where they had disappeared. +Mr. Heard was first up and out, but almost immediately the figure of the +mate, who had gone under with his mouth open, emerged from the water and +crawled ashore. + +"You--wait--till I--get my breath back," he gasped. + +"There's no ill-feeling, I 'ope?" said Mr. Heard, anxiously. "I'll tell +everybody of your bravery. Don't spoil everything for the sake of a +little temper." + +Mr. Dix stood up and clinched his fists, but at the spectacle of the +dripping, forlorn figure before him his wrath vanished and he broke into +a hearty laugh. + +"Come on, mate," he said, clapping him on the back, "now let's go and +find Emma. If she don't fall in love with you now she never will. My +eye! you are a picture!" + +He began to walk towards the town, and Mr. Heard, with his legs wide +apart and his arms held stiffly from his body, waddled along beside him. +Two little streamlets followed. + +They walked along the quay in silence, and had nearly reached the end of +it, when the figure of a man turned the corner of the houses and +advanced at a shambling trot towards them. + +"Old Smith!" said Mr. Heard, in a hasty whisper. "Now, be careful. Hold +me tight." + +The new-comer thankfully dropped into a walk as he saw them, and came to +a standstill with a cry of astonishment as the light of a neighboring +lamp revealed their miserable condition. + +"Wot, Arthur!" he exclaimed. + +"Halloa," said Mr. Heard, drearily. + +"The idea o' your being so sinful," said Mr. Smith, severely. "Emma told +me wot you said, but I never thought as you'd got the pluck to go and do +it. I'm surprised at you." + +"I ain't done it," said Mr. Heard, in a sullen voice; "nobody can drownd +themselves in comfort with a lot of interfering people about." + +Mr. Smith turned and gazed at the mate, and a broad beam of admiration +shone in his face as he grasped that gentleman's hand. + +"Come into the 'ouse both of you and get some dry clothes," he said, +warmly. + +He thrust his strong, thick-set figure between them, and with a hand on +each coat-collar propelled them in the direction of home. The mate +muttered something about going back to his ship, but Mr. Smith refused +to listen, and stopping at the door of a neat cottage, turned the handle +and thrust his dripping charges over the threshold of a comfortable +sitting-room. + +A pleasant-faced woman of middle age and a pretty girl of twenty rose at +their entrance, and a faint scream fell pleasantly upon the ears of Mr. +Heard. + +"Here he is," bawled Mr. Smith; "just saved at the last moment." + +"What, two of them?" exclaimed Miss Smith, with a faint note of +gratification in her voice. Her gaze fell on the mate, and she smiled +approvingly. + +"No; this one jumped in and saved 'im," said her father. + +"Oh, Arthur!" said Miss Smith. "How could you be so wicked! I never +dreamt you'd go and do such a thing--never! I didn't think you'd got it +in you." + +Mr. Heard grinned sheepishly. "I told you I would," he muttered. + +"Don't stand talking here," said Mrs. Smith, gazing at the puddle which +was growing in the centre of the carpet; "they'll catch cold. Take 'em +upstairs and give 'em some dry clothes. And I'll bring some hot whisky +and water up to 'em." + +"Rum is best," said Mr. Smith, herding his charges and driving them up +the small staircase. "Send young Joe for some. Send up three glasses." +They disappeared upstairs, and Joe appearing at that moment from the +kitchen, was hastily sent off to the "Blue Jay" for the rum. A couple of +curious neighbors helped him to carry it back, and, standing modestly +just inside the door, ventured on a few skilled directions as to its +preparation. After which, with an eye on Miss Smith, they stood and +conversed, mostly in head-shakes. + +Stimulated by the rum and the energetic Mr. Smith, the men were not long +in changing. Preceded by their host, they came down to the sitting-room +again; Mr. Heard with as desperate and unrepentant an air as he could +assume, and Mr. Dix trying to conceal his uneasiness by taking great +interest in a suit of clothes three sizes too large for him. + +"They was both as near drownded as could be," said Mr. Smith, looking +round; "he ses Arthur fought like a madman to prevent 'imself from being +saved." + +"It was nothing, really," said the mate, in an almost inaudible voice, +as he met Miss Smith's admiring gaze. + +"Listen to 'im," said the delighted Mr. Smith; "all brave men are like +that. That's wot's made us Englishmen wot we are." + +"I don't suppose he knew who it was he was saving," said a voice from +the door. + +"I didn't want to be saved," said Mr. Heard, defiantly. + +"Well, you can easy do it again, Arthur," said the same voice; "the dock +won't run away." + +Mr. Heard started and eyed the speaker with same malevolence. + +"Tell us all about it," said Miss Smith, gazing at the mate, with her +hands clasped. "Did you see him jump in?" + +Mr. Dix shook his head and looked at Mr. Heard for guidance. "N--not +exactly," he stammered; "I was just taking a stroll round the harbor +before turning in, when all of a sudden I heard a cry for help--" + +"No you didn't," broke in Mr. Heard, fiercely. + +"Well, it sounded like it," said the mate, somewhat taken aback. + +"I don't care what it sounded like," said the other. "I didn't say it. +It was the last thing I should 'ave called out. I didn't want to be +saved." + +"P'r'aps he cried 'Emma,'" said the voice from the door. + +"Might ha' been that," admitted the mate. "Well, when I heard it I ran +to the edge and looked down at the water, and at first I couldn't see +anything. Then I saw what I took to be a dog, but, knowing that dogs +can't cry 'help!'--" + +"Emma," corrected Mr. Heard. + +"Emma," said the mate, "I just put my hands up and dived in. When I came +to the surface I struck out for him and tried to seize him from behind, +but before I could do so he put his arms round my neck like--like--" + +"Like as if it was Emma's," suggested the voice by the door. + +Miss Smith rose with majestic dignity and confronted the speaker. "And +who asked you in here, George Harris?" she inquired, coldly. + +"I see the door open," stammered Mr. Harris--"I see the door open and I +thought--" + +"If you look again you'll see the handle," said Miss Smith. + +Mr. Harris looked, and, opening the door with extreme care, melted +slowly from a gaze too terrible for human endurance. + +"We went down like a stone," continued the mate, as Miss Smith resumed +her seat and smiled at him. "When we came up he tried to get away again. +I think we went down again a few more times, but I ain't sure. Then we +crawled out; leastways I did, and pulled him after me." + +"He might have drowned you," said Miss Smith, with a severe glance at +her unfortunate admirer. "And it's my belief that he tumbled in after +all, and when you thought he was struggling to get away he was +struggling to be saved. That's more like him." + +"Well, they're all right now," said Mr. Smith, as Mr. Heard broke in +with some vehemence. "And this chap's going to 'ave the Royal Society's +medal for it, or I'll know the reason why." + +"No, no," said the mate, hurriedly; "I wouldn't take it, I couldn't +think of it." + +"Take it or leave it," said Mr. Smith; "but I'm going to the police to +try and get it for you. I know the inspector a bit." + +"I can't take it," said the horrified mate; "it--it--besides, don't you +see, if this isn't kept quiet Mr. Heard will be locked up for trying to +commit suicide." + +"So he would be," said the other man from his post by the door; "he's +quite right." + +"And I'd sooner lose fifty medals," said Mr. Dix. "What's the good of me +saving him for that?" + +A murmur of admiration at the mate's extraordinary nobility of character +jarred harshly on the ears of Mr. Heard. Most persistent of all was the +voice of Miss Smith, and hardly able to endure things quietly, he sat +and watched the tender glances which passed between her and Mr. Dix. +Miss Smith, conscious at last of his regards, turned and looked at him. + +"You could say you tumbled in, Arthur, and then he would get the medal," +she said, softly. + +"_Say!_" shouted the overwrought Mr. Heard. "Say I tum--" + +Words failed him. He stood swaying and regarding the company for a +moment, and then, flinging open the door, closed it behind him with a +bang that made the house tremble. + +The mate followed half an hour later, escorted to the ship by the entire +Smith family. Fortified by the presence of Miss Smith, he pointed out +the exact scene of the rescue without a tremor, and, when her father +narrated the affair to the skipper, whom they found sitting on deck +smoking a last pipe, listened undismayed to that astonished mariner's +comments. + +News of the mate's heroic conduct became general the next day, and work +on the ketch was somewhat impeded in consequence. It became a point of +honor with Mr. Heard's fellow-townsmen to allude to the affair as an +accident, but the romantic nature of the transaction was well +understood, and full credit given to Mr. Dix for his self-denial in the +matter of the medal. Small boys followed him in the street, and half +Pebblesea knew when he paid a visit to the Smith's, and discussed his +chances. Two nights afterwards, when he and Miss Smith went for a walk +in the loneliest spot they could find, conversation turned almost +entirely upon the over-crowded condition of the British Isles. + +The _Starfish_ was away for three weeks, but the little town no +longer looked dull to the mate as she entered the harbor one evening and +glided slowly towards her old berth. Emma Smith was waiting to see the +ship come in, and his taste for all other amusements had temporarily +disappeared. + +For two or three days the course of true love ran perfectly smooth; +then, like a dark shadow, the figure of Arthur Heard was thrown across +its path. It haunted the quay, hung about the house, and cropped up +unexpectedly in the most distant solitudes. It came up behind the mate +one evening just as he left the ship and walked beside him in silence. + +"Halloa," said the mate, at last. + +"Halloa," said Mr. Heard. "Going to see Emma?" + +"I'm going to see Miss Smith," said the mate. + +Mr. Heard laughed; a forced, mirthless laugh. + +"And we don't want you following us about," said Mr. Dix, sharply. "If +it'll ease your mind, and do you any good to know, you never had a +chance. She told me so." + +"I sha'n't follow you," said Mr. Heard; "it's your last evening, so +you'd better make the most of it." + +He turned on his heel, and the mate, pondering on his last words, went +thoughtfully on to the house. + +[Illustration: "'And we don't want you following us about,' said Mr. +Dix, sharply."] + +Amid the distraction of pleasant society and a long walk, the matter +passed from his mind, and he only remembered it at nine o'clock that +evening as a knock sounded on the door and the sallow face of Mr. Heard +was thrust into the room. + +"Good-evening all," said the intruder. + +"Evening, Arthur," said Mr. Smith, affably. + +Mr. Heard with a melancholy countenance entered the room and closed the +door gently behind him. Then he coughed slightly and shook his head. + +"Anything the matter, Arthur?" inquired Mr. Smith, somewhat disturbed by +these manifestations. + +"I've got something on my mind," said Mr. Heard, with a diabolical +glance at the mate--"something wot's been worrying me for a long time. +I've been deceiving you." + +"That was always your failing, Arthur--deceitfulness," said Mrs. Smith. +"I remember--" + +"We've both been deceiving you," interrupted Mr. Heard, loudly. "I +didn't jump into the harbor the other night, and I didn't tumble in, and +Mr. Fred Dix didn't jump in after me; we just went to the end of the +harbor and walked in and wetted ourselves." + +There was a moment's intense silence and all eyes turned on the mate. +The latter met them boldly. + +"It's a habit o' mine to walk into the water and spoil my clothes for +the sake of people I've never met before," he said, with a laugh. + +"For shame, Arthur!" said Mr. Smith, with a huge sigh of relief. + +"'Ow can you?" said Mrs. Smith. + +"Arthur's been asleep since then," said the mate, still smiling. "All +the same, the next time he jumps in he can get out by himself." + +Mr. Heard, raising his voice, entered into a minute description of the +affair, but in vain. Mr. Smith, rising to his feet, denounced his +ingratitude in language which was seldom allowed to pass unchallenged in +the presence of his wife, while that lady contributed examples of +deceitfulness in the past of Mr. Heard, which he strove in vain to +refute. Meanwhile, her daughter patted the mate's hand. + +"It's a bit too thin, Arthur," said the latter, with a mocking smile; +"try something better next time." + +"Very well," said Mr. Heard, in quieter tones; "I dare you to come along +to the harbor and jump in, just as you are, where you said you jumped in +after me. They'll soon see who's telling the truth." + +"He'll do that," said Mr. Smith, with conviction. + +For a fraction of a second Mr. Dix hesitated, then, with a steady glance +at Miss Smith, he sprang to his feet and accepted the challenge. Mrs. +Smith besought him not to be foolish, and, with a vague idea of +dissuading him, told him a slanderous anecdote concerning Mr. Heard's +aunt. Her daughter gazed at the mate with proud confidence, and, taking +his arm, bade her mother to get some dry clothes ready and led the way +to the harbor. + +The night was fine but dark, and a chill breeze blew up from the sea. +Twice the hapless mate thought of backing out, but a glance at Miss +Smith's profile and the tender pressure of her arm deterred him. The +tide was running out and he had a faint hope that he might keep afloat +long enough to be washed ashore alive. He talked rapidly, and his laugh +rang across the water. Arrived at the spot they stopped, and Miss Smith +looking down into the darkness was unable to repress a shiver. + +"Be careful, Fred," she said, laying her hand upon his arm. + +The mate looked at her oddly. "All right," he said, gayly, "I'll be out +almost before I'm in. You run back to the house and help your mother get +the dry clothes ready for me." + +His tones were so confident, and his laugh so buoyant, that Mr. Heard, +who had been fully expecting him to withdraw from the affair, began to +feel that he had under-rated his swimming powers. "Just jumping in and +swimming out again is not quite the same as saving a drownding man," he +said, with a sneer. + +In a flash the mate saw a chance of escape. + +"Why, there's no satisfying you," he said, slowly. "If I do go in I can +see that you won't own up that you've been lying." + +"He'll 'ave to," said Mr. Smith, who, having made up his mind for a +little excitement, was in no mind to lose it. + +"I don't believe he would," said the mate. "Look here!" he said, +suddenly, as he laid an affectionate arm on the old man's shoulder. "I +know what we'll do." + +"Well?" said Mr. Smith. + +"I'll save _you_," said the mate, with a smile of great relief. + +"Save _me_?" said the puzzled Mr. Smith, as his daughter uttered a +faint cry. "How?" + +"Just as I saved him," said the other, nodding. "You jump in, and after +you've sunk twice--same as he did--I'll dive in and save you. At any +rate I'll do my best; I promise you I won't come ashore without you." + +Mr. Smith hastily flung off the encircling arm and retired a few paces +inland. "'Ave you--ever been--in a lunatic asylum at any time?" he +inquired, as soon as he could speak. + +"No," said the mate, gravely. + +"Neither 'ave I," said Mr. Smith; "and, what's more, I'm not going." + +He took a deep breath and stood simmering. Miss Smith came forward and, +with a smothered giggle, took the mate's arm and squeezed it. + +"It'll have to be Arthur again, then," said the latter, in a resigned +voice. + +"_Me_?" cried Mr. Heard, with a start. + +"Yes, you!" said the mate, in a decided voice. "After what you said just +now I'm not going in without saving somebody. It would be no good. Come +on, in you go." + +"He couldn't speak fairer than that, Arthur," said Mr. Smith, +dispassionately, as he came forward again. + +"But I tell you he can't swim," protested Mr. Heard, "not properly. He +didn't swim last time; I told you so." + +"Never mind; we know what you said," retorted the mate. "All you've got +to do is to jump in and I'll follow and save you--same as I did the +other night." + +"Go on, Arthur," said Mr. Smith, encouragingly. "It ain't cold." + +"I tell you he can't swim," repeated Mr. Heard, passionately. "I should +be drownded before your eyes." + +[Illustration: "'I tell you he can't swim,' repeated Mr. Heard, +passionately."] + +"Rubbish," said Mr. Smith. "Why, I believe you're afraid." + +"I should be drownded, I tell you," said Mr. Heard. "He wouldn't come in +after me." + +"Yes, he would," said Mr. Smith, passing a muscular arm round the mate's +waist; "'cos the moment you're overboard I'll drop 'im in. Are you +ready?" + +He stood embracing the mate and waiting, but Mr. Heard, with an +infuriated exclamation, walked away. A parting glance showed him that +the old man had released the mate, and that the latter was now embracing +Miss Smith. + + + + +[Illustration: IN THE FAMILY] + + + + +IN THE FAMILY + + +The oldest inhabitant of Claybury sat beneath the sign of the +"Cauliflower" and gazed with affectionate, but dim, old eyes in the +direction of the village street. + +"No; Claybury men ain't never been much of ones for emigrating," he +said, turning to the youthful traveller who was resting in the shade +with a mug of ale and a cigarette. "They know they'd 'ave to go a long +way afore they'd find a place as 'ud come up to this." + +He finished the tablespoonful of beer in his mug and sat for so long +with his head back and the inverted vessel on his face that the +traveller, who at first thought it was the beginning of a conjuring +trick, colored furiously, and asked permission to refill it. + +Now and then a Claybury man has gone to foreign parts, said the old man, +drinking from the replenished mug, and placing it where the traveller +could mark progress without undue strain; but they've, generally +speaking, come back and wished as they'd never gone. + +The on'y man as I ever heard of that made his fortune by emigrating was +Henery Walker's great-uncle, Josiah Walker by name, and he wasn't a +Claybury man at all. He made his fortune out o' sheep in Australey, and +he was so rich and well-to-do that he could never find time to answer +the letters that Henery Walker used to send him when he was hard up. + +Henery Walker used to hear of 'im through a relation of his up in +London, and tell us all about 'im and his money up at this here +"Cauliflower" public-house. And he used to sit and drink his beer and +wonder who would 'ave the old man's money arter he was dead. + +When the relation in London died Henery Walker left off hearing about +his uncle, and he got so worried over thinking that the old man might +die and leave his money to strangers that he got quite thin. He talked +of emigrating to Australey 'imself, and then, acting on the advice of +Bill Chambers--who said it was a cheaper thing to do--he wrote to his +uncle instead, and, arter reminding 'im that 'e was an old man living in +a strange country, 'e asked 'im to come to Claybury and make his 'ome +with 'is loving grand-nephew. + +It was a good letter, because more than one gave 'im a hand with it, and +there was little bits o' Scripture in it to make it more solemn-like. It +was wrote on pink paper with pie-crust edges and put in a green +envelope, and Bill Chambers said a man must 'ave a 'art of stone if that +didn't touch it. + +Four months arterwards Henery Walker got an answer to 'is letter from +'is great-uncle. It was a nice letter, and, arter thanking Henery Walker +for all his kindness, 'is uncle said that he was getting an old man, and +p'r'aps he should come and lay 'is bones in England arter all, and if he +did 'e should certainly come and see his grand-nephew, Henery Walker. + +Most of us thought Henery Walker's fortune was as good as made, but Bob +Pretty, a nasty, low poaching chap that has done wot he could to give +Claybury a bad name, turned up his nose at it. + +"I'll believe he's coming 'ome when I see him," he ses. "It's my belief +he went to Australey to get out o' your way, Henery." + +"As it 'appened he went there afore I was born," ses Henery Walker, +firing up. + +"He knew your father," ses Bob Pretty, "and he didn't want to take no +risks." + +They 'ad words then, and arter that every time Bob Pretty met 'im he +asked arter his great-uncle's 'ealth, and used to pretend to think 'e +was living with 'im. + +"You ought to get the old gentleman out a bit more, Henery," he would +say; "it can't be good for 'im to be shut up in the 'ouse so much-- +especially your 'ouse." + +Henery Walker used to get that riled he didn't know wot to do with +'imself, and as time went on, and he began to be afraid that 'is uncle +never would come back to England, he used to get quite nasty if anybody +on'y so much as used the word "uncle" in 'is company. + +It was over six months since he 'ad had the letter from 'is uncle, and +'e was up here at the "Cauliflower" with some more of us one night, when +Dicky Weed, the tailor, turns to Bob Pretty and he ses, "Who's the old +gentleman that's staying with you, Bob?" + +Bob Pretty puts down 'is beer very careful and turns round on 'im. + +"Old gentleman?" he ses, very slow. "Wot are you talking about?" + +"I mean the little old gentleman with white whiskers and a squeaky +voice," ses Dicky Weed. + +"You've been dreaming," ses Bob, taking up 'is beer ag'in. + +"I see 'im too, Bob," ses Bill Chambers. + +"Ho, you did, did you?" ses Bob Pretty, putting down 'is mug with a +bang. "And wot d'ye mean by coming spying round my place, eh? Wot d'ye +mean by it?" + +"Spying?" ses Bill Chambers, gaping at 'im with 'is mouth open; "I +wasn't spying. Anyone 'ud think you 'ad done something you was ashamed +of." + +"You mind your business and I'll mind mine," ses Bob, very fierce. + +"I was passing the 'ouse," ses Bill Chambers, looking round at us, "and +I see an old man's face at the bedroom winder, and while I was wondering +who 'e was a hand come and drawed 'im away. I see 'im as plain as ever I +see anything in my life, and the hand, too. Big and dirty it was." + +"And he's got a cough," ses Dicky Weed--"a churchyard cough--I 'eard +it." + +"It ain't much you don't hear, Dicky," ses Bob Pretty, turning on 'im; +"the on'y thing you never did 'ear, and never will 'ear, is any good of +yourself." + +He kicked over a chair wot was in 'is way and went off in such a temper +as we'd never seen 'im in afore, and, wot was more surprising still, but +I know it's true, 'cos I drunk it up myself, he'd left over arf a pint +o' beer in 'is mug. + +"He's up to something," ses Sam Jones, starting arter him; "mark my +words." + +We couldn't make head nor tail out of it, but for some days arterward +you'd ha' thought that Bob Pretty's 'ouse was a peep-show. Everybody +stared at the winders as they went by, and the children played in front +of the 'ouse and stared in all day long. Then the old gentleman was seen +one day as bold as brass sitting at the winder, and we heard that it was +a pore old tramp Bob Pretty 'ad met on the road and given a home to, and +he didn't like 'is good-'artedness to be known for fear he should be +made fun of. + +Nobody believed that, o' course, and things got more puzzling than ever. +Once or twice the old gentleman went out for a walk, but Bob Pretty or +'is missis was always with 'im, and if anybody tried to speak to him +they always said 'e was deaf and took 'im off as fast as they could. +Then one night up at the "Cauliflower" here Dicky Weed came rushing in +with a bit o' news that took everybody's breath away. + +"I've just come from the post-office," he ses, "and there's a letter for +Bob Pretty's old gentleman! Wot d'ye think o' that?" + +"If you could tell us wot's inside it you might 'ave something to brag +about," ses Henery Walker. + +"I don't want to see the inside," ses Dicky Weed; "the name on the +outside was good enough for me. I couldn't hardly believe my own eyes, +but there it was: 'Mr. Josiah Walker,' as plain as the nose on your +face." + +O' course, we see it all then, and wondered why we hadn't thought of it +afore; and we stood quiet listening to the things that Henery Walker +said about a man that would go and steal another man's great-uncle from +'im. Three times Smith, the landlord, said, "_Hush!_" and the +fourth time he put Henery Walker outside and told 'im to stay there till +he 'ad lost his voice. + +Henery Walker stayed outside five minutes, and then 'e come back in +ag'in to ask for advice. His idea seemed to be that, as the old +gentleman was deaf, Bob Pretty was passing 'isself off as Henery Walker, +and the disgrace was a'most more than 'e could bear. He began to get +excited ag'in, and Smith 'ad just said "_Hush!_" once more when we +'eard somebody whistling outside, and in come Bob Pretty. + +He 'ad hardly got 'is face in at the door afore Henery Walker started on +'im, and Bob Pretty stood there, struck all of a heap, and staring at +'im as though he couldn't believe his ears. + +"'Ave you gone mad, Henery?" he ses, at last. + +"Give me back my great-uncle," ses Henery Walker, at the top of 'is +voice. + +Bob Pretty shook his 'ead at him. "I haven't got your great-uncle, +Henery," he ses, very gentle. "I know the name is the same, but wot of +it? There's more than one Josiah Walker in the world. This one is no +relation to you at all; he's a very respectable old gentleman." + +"I'll go and ask 'im," ses Henery Walker, getting up, "and I'll tell 'im +wot sort o' man you are, Bob Pretty." + +"He's gone to bed now, Henery," ses Bob Pretty. + +"I'll come in the fust thing to-morrow morning, then," ses Henery +Walker. + +"Not in my 'ouse, Henery," ses Bob Pretty; "not arter the things you've +been sayin' about me. I'm a pore man, but I've got my pride. Besides, I +tell you he ain't your uncle. He's a pore old man I'm giving a 'ome to, +and I won't 'ave 'im worried." + +"'Ow much does 'e pay you a week, Bob?" ses Bill Chambers. + +Bob Pretty pretended not to hear 'im. + +"Where did your wife get the money to buy that bonnet she 'ad on on +Sunday?" ses Bill Chambers. "My wife ses it's the fust new bonnet she +has 'ad since she was married." + +"And where did the new winder curtains come from?" ses Peter Gubbins. + +Bob Pretty drank up 'is beer and stood looking at them very thoughtful; +then he opened the door and went out without saying a word. + +"He's got your great-uncle a prisoner in his 'ouse, Henery," ses Bill +Chambers; "it's easy for to see that the pore old gentleman is getting +past things, and I shouldn't wonder if Bob Pretty don't make 'im leave +all 'is money to 'im." + +Henery Walker started raving ag'in, and for the next few days he tried +his 'ardest to get a few words with 'is great-uncle, but Bob Pretty was +too much for 'im. Everybody in Claybury said wot a shame it was, but it +was all no good, and Henery Walker used to leave 'is work and stand +outside Bob Pretty's for hours at a time in the 'opes of getting a word +with the old man. + +He got 'is chance at last, in quite a unexpected way. We was up 'ere at +the "Cauliflower" one evening, and, as it 'appened, we was talking about +Henery Walker's great-uncle, when the door opened, and who should walk +in but the old gentleman 'imself. Everybody left off talking and stared +at 'im, but he walked up to the bar and ordered a glass o' gin and beer +as comfortable as you please. + +Bill Chambers was the fust to get 'is presence of mind back, and he set +off arter Henery Walker as fast as 'is legs could carry 'im, and in a +wunnerful short time, considering, he came back with Henery, both of 'em +puffing and blowing their 'ardest. + +"There--he--is!" ses Bill Chambers, pointing to the old gentleman. + +Henery Walker gave one look, and then 'e slipped over to the old man and +stood all of a tremble, smiling at 'im. "Good-evening," he ses. + +"Wot?" ses the old gentleman. + +"Good-evening!" ses Henery Walker ag'in. + +"I'm a bit deaf," ses the old gentleman, putting his 'and to his ear. + +"GOOD-EVENING!" ses Henery Walker ag'in, shouting. "I'm your grand- +nephew, Henery Walker!" + +"Ho, are you?" ses the old gentleman, not at all surprised. "Bob Pretty +was telling me all about you." + +"I 'ope you didn't listen to 'im," ses Henery Walker, all of a tremble. +"Bob Pretty'd say anything except his prayers." + +"He ses you're arter my money," ses the old gentleman, looking at 'im. + +"He's a liar, then," ses Henery Walker; "he's arter it 'imself. And it +ain't a respectable place for you to stay at. Anybody'll tell you wot a +rascal Bob Pretty is. Why, he's a byword." + +"Everybody is arter my money," ses the old gentleman, looking round. +"Everybody." + +"I 'ope you'll know me better afore you've done with me, uncle," ses +Henery Walker, taking a seat alongside of Mm. "Will you 'ave another mug +o' beer?" + +"Gin and beer," ses the old gentleman, cocking his eye up very fierce at +Smith, the landlord; "and mind the gin don't get out ag'in, same as it +did in the last." + +Smith asked 'im wot he meant, but 'is deafness come on ag'in. Henery +Walker 'ad an extra dose o' gin put in, and arter he 'ad tasted it the +old gentleman seemed to get more amiable-like, and 'im and Henery Walker +sat by theirselves talking quite comfortable. + +"Why not come and stay with me?" ses Henery Walker, at last. "You can do +as you please and have the best of everything." + +"Bob Pretty ses you're arter my money," ses the old gentleman, shaking +his 'ead. "I couldn't trust you." + +"He ses that to put you ag'in me," ses Henery Walker, pleading-like. + +"Well, wot do you want me to come and live with you for, then?" ses old +Mr. Walker. + +"Because you're my great-uncle," ses Henery Walker, "and my 'ouse is the +proper place for you. Blood is thicker than water." + +"And you don't want my money?" ses the old man, looking at 'im very +sharp. + +"Certainly not," ses Henery Walker. + +"And 'ow much 'ave I got to pay a week?" ses old Mr. Walker. "That's the +question?" + +"Pay?" ses Henery Walker, speaking afore he 'ad time to think. "Pay? +Why, I don't want you to pay anything." + +The old gentleman said as 'ow he'd think it over, and Henery started to +talk to 'im about his father and an old aunt named Maria, but 'e stopped +'im sharp, and said he was sick and tired of the whole Walker family, +and didn't want to 'ear their names ag'in as long as he lived. Henery +Walker began to talk about Australey then, and asked 'im 'ow many sheep +he'd got, and the words was 'ardly out of 'is mouth afore the old +gentleman stood up and said he was arter his money ag'in. + +Henery Walker at once gave 'im some more gin and beer, and arter he 'ad +drunk it the old gentleman said that he'd go and live with 'im for a +little while to see 'ow he liked it. + +[Illustration: "'You leave go o' my lodger,' ses Bob Pretty."] + +"But I sha'n't pay anything," he ses, very sharp; "mind that." + +"I wouldn't take it if you offered it to me," ses Henery Walker. "You'll +come straight 'ome with me to-night, won't you?" + +Afore old Mr. Walker could answer the door opened and in came Bob +Pretty. He gave one look at Henery Walker and then he walked straight +over to the old gentleman and put his 'and on his shoulder. + +"Why, I've been looking for you everywhere, Mr. Walker," he ses. "I +couldn't think wot had 'appened to you." + +"You needn't worry yourself, Bob," ses Henery Walker; "he's coming to +live with me now." + +"Don't you believe it," ses Bob Pretty, taking hold of old Mr. Walker by +the arm; "he's my lodger, and he's coming with me." + +He began to lead the old gentleman towards the door, but Henery Walker, +wot was still sitting down, threw 'is arms round his legs and held 'im +tight. Bob Pretty pulled one way and Henery Walker pulled the other, and +both of 'em shouted to each other to leave go. The row they made was +awful, but old Mr. Walker made more noise than the two of 'em put +together. + +"You leave go o' my lodger," ses Bob Pretty. + +"You leave go o' my great-uncle--my dear great-uncle," ses Henery +Walker, as the old gentleman called 'im a bad name and asked 'im whether +he thought he was made of iron. + +I believe they'd ha' been at it till closing-time, on'y Smith, the +landlord, came running in from the back and told them to go outside. He +'ad to shout to make 'imself heard, and all four of 'em seemed to be +trying which could make the most noise. + +"He's my lodger," ses Bob Pretty, "and he can't go without giving me +proper notice; that's the lor--a week's notice." + +They all shouted ag'in then, and at last the old gentleman told Henery +Walker to give Bob Pretty ten shillings for the week's notice and ha' +done with 'im. Henery Walker 'ad only got four shillings with 'im, but +'e borrowed the rest from Smith, and arter he 'ad told Bob Pretty wot he +thought of 'im he took old Mr. Walker by the arm and led him 'ome a'most +dancing for joy. + +Mrs. Walker was nearly as pleased as wot 'e was, and the fuss they made +of the old gentleman was sinful a'most. He 'ad to speak about it 'imself +at last, and he told 'em plain that when 'e wanted arf-a-dozen sore-eyed +children to be brought down in their night-gowns to kiss 'im while he +was eating sausages, he'd say so. + +Arter that Mrs. Walker was afraid that 'e might object when her and her +'usband gave up their bedroom to 'im; but he didn't. He took it all as +'is right, and when Henery Walker, who was sleeping in the next room +with three of 'is boys, fell out o' bed for the second time, he got up +and rapped on the wall. + +Bob Pretty came round the next morning with a tin box that belonged to +the old man, and 'e was so perlite and nice to 'im that Henery Walker +could see that he 'ad 'opes of getting 'im back ag'in. The box was +carried upstairs and put under old Mr. Walker's bed, and 'e was so +partikler about its being locked, and about nobody being about when 'e +opened it, that Mrs. Walker went arf out of her mind with curiosity. + +"I s'pose you've looked to see that Bob Pretty didn't take anything out +of it?" ses Henery Walker. + +"He didn't 'ave the chance," ses the old gentleman. "It's always kep' +locked." + +"It's a box that looks as though it might 'ave been made in Australey," +ses Henery Walker, who was longing to talk about them parts. + +"If you say another word about Australey to me," ses old Mr. Walker, +firing up, "off I go. Mind that! You're arter my money, and if you're +not careful you sha'n't 'ave a farthing of it." + +That was the last time the word "Australey" passed Henery Walker's lips, +and even when 'e saw his great-uncle writing letters there he didn't say +anything. And the old man was so suspicious of Mrs. Walker's curiosity +that all the letters that was wrote to 'im he 'ad sent to Bob Pretty's. +He used to call there pretty near every morning to see whether any 'ad +come for 'im. + +In three months Henery Walker 'adn't seen the color of 'is money once, +and, wot was worse still, he took to giving Henery's things away. Mrs. +Walker 'ad been complaining for some time of 'ow bad the hens had been +laying, and one morning at breakfast-time she told her 'usband that, +besides missing eggs, two of 'er best hens 'ad been stolen in the night. + +"They wasn't stolen," ses old Mr. Walker, putting down 'is teacup. "I +took 'em round this morning and give 'em to Bob Pretty." + +"Give 'em to Bob Pretty?" ses Henery Walker, arf choking. "Wot for?" + +"'Cos he asked me for 'em," ses the old gentleman. "Wot are you looking +at me like that for?" + +Henery couldn't answer 'im, and the old gentleman, looking very fierce, +got up from the table and told Mrs. Walker to give 'im his hat. Henery +Walker clung to 'im with tears in his eyes a'most and begged 'im not to +go, and arter a lot of talk old Mr. Walker said he'd look over it this +time, but it mustn't occur ag'in. + +Arter that 'e did as 'e liked with Henery Walker's things, and Henery +dursen't say a word to 'im. Bob Pretty used to come up and flatter 'im +and beg 'im to go back and lodge with 'im, and Henery was so afraid he'd +go that he didn't say a word when old Mr. Walker used to give Bob Pretty +things to make up for 'is disappointment. He 'eard on the quiet from +Bill Chambers, who said that the old man 'ad told it to Bob Pretty as a +dead secret, that 'e 'ad left 'im all his money, and he was ready to put +up with anything. + +The old man must ha' been living with Henery Walker for over eighteen +months when one night he passed away in 'is sleep. Henery knew that his +'art was wrong, because he 'ad just paid Dr. Green 'is bill for saying +that 'e couldn't do anything for 'im, but it was a surprise to 'im all +the same. He blew his nose 'ard and Mrs. Walker kept rubbing 'er eyes +with her apron while they talked in whispers and wondered 'ow much money +they 'ad come in for. + +In less than ten minutes the news was all over Claybury, and arf the +people in the place hanging round in front of the 'ouse waiting to hear +'ow much the Walkers 'ad come in for. Henery Walker pulled the blind on +one side for a moment and shook his 'ead at them to go away. Some of +them did go back a yard or two, and then they stood staring at Bob +Pretty, wot come up as bold as brass and knocked at the door. + +"Wot's this I 'ear?" he ses, when Henery Walker opened it. "You don't +mean to tell me that the pore old gentleman has really gone? I told 'im +wot would happen if 'e came to lodge with you." + +"You be off," ses Henery Walker; "he hasn't left you anything." + +"I know that," ses Bob Pretty, shaking his 'ead. "You're welcome to it, +Henery. if there is anything. I never bore any malice to you for taking +of 'im away from us. I could see you'd took a fancy to 'im from the +fust. The way you pretended 'e was your great-uncle showed me that." + +"Wot are you talking about?" ses Henery Walker. "He was my great-uncle!" + +"Have it your own way, Henery," ses Bob Pretty; "on'y, if you asked me, +I should say that he was my wife's grandfather." + +"_Your--wife's--grandfather_?" ses Henery Walker, in a choking +voice. + +He stood staring at 'im, stupid-like, for a minute or two, but he +couldn't get out another word. In a flash 'e saw 'ow he'd been done, and +how Bob Pretty 'ad been deceiving 'im all along, and the idea that he +'ad arf ruined himself keeping Mrs. Pretty's grandfather for 'em pretty +near sent 'im out of his mind. + +[Illustration: "He slammed the door in Bob Pretty's face."] + +"But how is it 'is name was Josiah Walker, same as Henery's great- +uncle?" ses Bill Chambers, who 'ad been crowding round with the others. +"Tell me that!" + +"He 'ad a fancy for it," ses Bob Pretty, "and being a 'armless amusement +we let him 'ave his own way. I told Henery Walker over and over ag'in +that it wasn't his uncle, but he wouldn't believe me. I've got witnesses +to it. Wot did you say, Henery?" + +Henery Walker drew 'imself up as tall as he could and stared at him. +Twice he opened 'is mouth to speak but couldn't, and then he made a odd +sort o' choking noise in his throat, and slammed the door in Bob +Pretty's face. + + + + +[Illustration: A LOVE-KNOT] + + + + +A Love-Knot + + +Mr. Nathaniel Clark and Mrs. Bowman had just finished their third game +of draughts. It had been a difficult game for Mr. Clark, the lady's mind +having been so occupied with other matters that he had had great +difficulty in losing. Indeed, it was only by pushing an occasional piece +of his own off the board that he had succeeded. + +"A penny for your thoughts, Amelia," he said, at last. + +Mrs. Bowman smiled faintly. "They were far away," she confessed. + +Mr. Clark assumed an expression of great solemnity; allusions of this +kind to the late Mr. Bowman were only too frequent. He was fortunate +when they did not grow into reminiscences of a career too blameless for +successful imitation. + +"I suppose," said the widow, slowly--"I suppose I ought to tell you: +I've had a letter." + +Mr. Clark's face relaxed. + +"It took me back to the old scenes," continued Mrs. Bowman, dreamily. "I +have never kept anything back from you, Nathaniel. I told you all about +the first man I ever thought anything of--Charlie Tucker?" + +Mr. Clark cleared his throat. "You did," he said, a trifle hoarsely. +"More than once." + +"I've just had a letter from him," said Mrs. Bowman, simpering. "Fancy, +after all these years! Poor fellow, he has only just heard of my +husband's death, and, by the way he writes--" + +She broke off and drummed nervously on the table. + +"He hasn't heard about me, you mean," said Mr. Clark, after waiting to +give her time to finish. + +"How should he?" said the widow. + +"If he heard one thing, he might have heard the other," retorted Mr. +Clark. "Better write and tell him. Tell him that in six weeks' time +you'll be Mrs. Clark. Then, perhaps, he won't write again." + +Mrs. Bowman sighed. "I thought, after all these years, that he must be +dead," she said, slowly, "or else married. But he says in his letter +that he has kept single for my sake all these years." + +"Well, he'll be able to go on doing it," said Mr. Clark; "it'll come +easy to him after so much practice." + +"He--he says in his letter that he is coming to see me," said the widow, +in a low voice, "to--to--this evening." + +"Coming to see you?" repeated Mr. Clark, sharply. "What for?" + +"To talk over old times, he says," was the reply. "I expect he has +altered a great deal; he was a fine-looking fellow--and so dashing. +After I gave him up he didn't care what he did. The last I heard of him +he had gone abroad." + +Mr. Clark muttered something under his breath, and, in a mechanical +fashion, began to build little castles with the draughts. He was just +about to add to an already swaying structure when a thundering rat-tat- +tat at the door dispersed the draughts to the four corners of the room. +The servant opened the door, and the next moment ushered in Mrs. +Bowman's visitor. + +A tall, good-looking man in a frock-coat, with a huge spray of +mignonette in his button-hole, met the critical gaze of Mr. Clark. He +paused at the door and, striking an attitude, pronounced in tones of +great amazement the Christian name of the lady of the house. + +"Mr. Tucker!" said the widow, blushing. + +"The same girl," said the visitor, looking round wildly, "the same as +the day she left me. Not a bit changed; not a hair different." + +He took her extended hand and, bending over it, kissed it respectfully. + +"It's--it's very strange to see you again, Mr. Tucker," said Mrs. +Bowman, withdrawing her hand in some confusion. + +"Mr. Tucker!" said that gentleman, reproachfully; "it used to be +Charlie." + +Mrs. Bowman blushed again, and, with a side glance at the frowning Mr. +Clark, called her visitor's attention to him and introduced them. The +gentlemen shook hands stiffly. + +"Any friend of yours is a friend of mine," said Mr. Tucker, with a +patronizing air. "How are you, sir?" + +Mr. Clark replied that he was well, and, after some hesitation, said +that he hoped he was the same. Mr. Tucker took a chair and, leaning +back, stroked his huge mustache and devoured the widow with his eyes. +"Fancy seeing you again!" said the latter, in some embarrassment. "How +did you find me out?" + +"It's a long story," replied the visitor, "but I always had the idea +that we should meet again. Your photograph has been with me all over the +world. In the backwoods of Canada, in the bush of Australia, it has been +my one comfort and guiding star. If ever I was tempted to do wrong, I +used to take your photograph out and look at it." + +"I s'pose you took it out pretty often?" said Mr. Clark, restlessly. "To +look at, I mean," he added, hastily, as Mrs. Bowman gave him an +indignant glance. + +"Every day," said the visitor, solemnly. "Once when I injured myself out +hunting, and was five days without food or drink, it was the only thing +that kept me alive." + +Mr. Clark's gibe as to the size of the photograph was lost in Mrs. +Bowman's exclamations of pity. + +"_I_ once lived on two ounces of gruel and a cup of milk a day for +ten days," he said, trying to catch the widow's eye. "After the ten +days--" + +"When the Indians found me I was delirious," continued Mr. Tucker, in a +hushed voice, "and when I came to my senses I found that they were +calling me 'Amelia.'" + +Mr. Clark attempted to relieve the situation by a jocose inquiry as to +whether he was wearing a mustache at the time, but Mrs. Bowman frowned +him down. He began to whistle under his breath, and Mrs. Bowman promptly +said, "_H'sh_!" + +"But how did you discover me?" she inquired, turning again to the +visitor. + +"Wandering over the world," continued Mr. Tucker, "here to-day and there +to-morrow, and unable to settle down anywhere, I returned to Northtown +about two years ago. Three days since, in a tramcar, I heard your name +mentioned. I pricked up my ears and listened; when I heard that you were +free I could hardly contain myself. I got into conversation with the +lady and obtained your address, and after travelling fourteen hours here +I am." + +"How very extraordinary!" said the widow. "I wonder who it could have +been? Did she mention her name?" + +Mr. Tucker shook his head. Inquiries as to the lady's appearance, age, +and dress were alike fruitless. "There was a mist before my eyes," he +explained. "I couldn't realize it. I couldn't believe in my good +fortune." + +"I can't think--" began Mrs. Bowman. + +"What does it matter?" inquired Mr. Tucker, softly. "Here we are +together again, with life all before us and the misunderstandings of +long ago all forgotten." + +Mr. Clark cleared his throat preparatory to speech, but a peremptory +glance from Mrs. Bowman restrained him. + +"I thought you were dead," she said, turning to the smiling Mr. Tucker. +"I never dreamed of seeing you again." + +"Nobody would," chimed in Mr. Clark. "When do you go back?" + +"Back?" said the visitor. "Where?" + +"Australia," replied Mr. Clark, with a glance of defiance at the widow. +"You must ha' been missed a great deal all this time." + +Mr. Tucker regarded him with a haughty stare. Then he bent towards Mrs. +Bowman. + +"Do you wish me to go back?" he asked, impressively, + +"We don't wish either one way or the other," said Mr. Clark, before the +widow could speak. "It don't matter to us." + +"We?" said Mr. Tucker, knitting his brows and gazing anxiously at Mrs. +Bowman. "_We_?" + +"We are going to be married in six weeks' time," said Mr. Clark. + +Mr. Tucker looked from one to the other in silent misery; then, +shielding his eyes with his hand, he averted his head. Mrs. Bowman, with +her hands folded in her lap, regarded him with anxious solicitude. + +"I thought perhaps you ought to know," said Mr. Clark. + +Mr. Tucker sat bolt upright and gazed at him fixedly. "I wish you joy," +he said, in a hollow voice. + +"Thankee," said Mr. Clark; "we expect to be pretty happy." He smiled at +Mrs. Bowman, but she made no response. Her looks wandered from one to +the other--from the good-looking, interesting companion of her youth to +the short, prosaic little man who was exulting only too plainly in his +discomfiture. + +Mr. Tucker rose with a sigh. "Good-by," he said, extending his hand. + +"You are not going--yet?" said the widow. + +Mr. Tucker's low-breathed "I must" was just audible. The widow renewed +her expostulations. + +"Perhaps he has got a train to catch," said the thoughtful Mr. Clark. + +"No, sir," said Mr. Tucker. "As a matter of fact, I had taken a room at +the George Hotel for a week, but I suppose I had better get back home +again." + +"No; why should you?" said Mrs. Bowman, with a rebellious glance at Mr. +Clark. "Stay, and come in and see me sometimes and talk over old times. +And Mr. Clark will be glad to see you, I'm sure. Won't you Nath--Mr. +Clark?" + +"I shall be--delighted," said Mr. Clark, staring hard at the +mantelpiece. "De-lighted." + +[Illustration: "On the third morning he took Mrs. Bowman out for a +walk."] + +Mr. Tucker thanked them both, and after groping for some time for the +hand of Mr. Clark, who was still intent upon the mantelpiece, pressed it +warmly and withdrew. Mrs. Bowman saw him to the door, and a low-voiced +colloquy, in which Mr. Clark caught the word "afternoon," ensued. By the +time the widow returned to the room he was busy building with the +draughts again. + +Mr. Tucker came the next day at three o'clock, and the day after at two. +On the third morning he took Mrs. Bowman out for a walk, airily +explaining to Mr. Clark, who met them on the way, that they had come out +to call for him. The day after, when Mr. Clark met them returning from a +walk, he was assured that his silence of the day before was understood +to indicate a distaste for exercise. + +"And, you see, I like a long walk," said Mrs. Bowman, "and you are not +what I should call a good walker." + +"You never used to complain," said Mr. Clark; "in fact, it was generally +you that used to suggest turning back." + +"She wants to be amused as well," remarked Mr. Tucker; "then she doesn't +feel the fatigue." + +Mr. Clark glared at him, and then, shortly declining Mrs. Bowman's +invitation to accompany them home, on the ground that he required +exercise, proceeded on his way. He carried himself so stiffly, and his +manner was so fierce, that a well-meaning neighbor who had crossed the +road to join him, and offer a little sympathy if occasion offered, +talked of the weather for five minutes and inconsequently faded away at +a corner. + +Trimington as a whole watched the affair with amusement, although Mr. +Clark's friends adopted an inflection of voice in speaking to him which +reminded him strongly of funerals. Mr. Tucker's week was up, but the +landlord of the George was responsible for the statement that he had +postponed his departure indefinitely. + +Matters being in this state, Mr. Clark went round to the widow's one +evening with the air of a man who has made up his mind to decisive +action. He entered the room with a bounce and, hardly deigning to notice +the greeting of Mr. Tucker, planted himself in a chair and surveyed him +grimly. "I thought I should find you here," he remarked. + +"Well, I always am here, ain't I?" retorted Mr. Tucker, removing his +cigar and regarding him with mild surprise. + +"Mr. Tucker is my friend," interposed Mrs. Bowman. "I am the only friend +he has got in Trimington. It's natural he should be here." + +Mr. Clark quailed at her glance. + +"People are beginning to talk," he muttered, feebly. + +"Talk?" said the widow, with an air of mystification belied by her +color. "What about?" + +Mr. Clark quailed again. "About--about our wedding," he stammered. + +Mr. Tucker and the widow exchanged glances. Then the former took his +cigar from his mouth and, with a hopeless gesture threw it into the +grate. + +"Plenty of time to talk about that," said Mrs. Bowman, after a pause. + +"Time is going," remarked Mr. Clark. "I was thinking, if it was +agreeable to you, of putting up the banns to-morrow." + +"There--there's no hurry," was the reply. + +"'Marry in haste, repent at leisure,'" quoted Mr. Tucker, gravely. + +"Don't you want me to put 'em up?" demanded Mr. Clark, turning to Mrs. +Bowman. + +"There's no hurry," said Mrs. Bowman again. "I--I want time to think." + +Mr. Clark rose and stood over her, and after a vain attempt to meet his +gaze she looked down at the carpet. + +"I understand," he said, loftily. "I am not blind." + +"It isn't my fault," murmured the widow, drawing patterns with her toe +on the carpet. "One can't help their feelings." + +Mr. Clark gave a short, hard laugh. "What about my feelings?" he said, +severely. "What about the life you have spoiled? I couldn't have +believed it of you." + +"I'm sure I'm very sorry," murmured Mrs. Bowman, "and anything that I +can do I will. I never expected to see Charles again. And it was so +sudden; it took me unawares. I hope we shall still be friends." + +"Friends!" exclaimed Mr. Clark, with extraordinary vigor. "With +_him?_" + +He folded his arms and regarded the pair with a bitter smile; Mrs. +Bowman, quite unable to meet his eyes, still gazed intently at the +floor. + +"You have made me the laughing-stock of Trimington," pursued Mr. Clark. +"You have wounded me in my tenderest feelings; you have destroyed my +faith in women. I shall never be the same man again. I hope that you +will never find out what a terrible mistake you've made." + +Mrs. Bowman made a noise half-way between a sniff and a sob; Mr. +Tucker's sniff was unmistakable. + +"I will return your presents to-morrow," said Mr. Clark, rising. "Good- +by, forever!" + +He paused at the door, but Mrs. Bowman did not look up. A second later +the front door closed and she heard him walk rapidly away. + +For some time after his departure she preserved a silence which Mr. +Tucker endeavored in vain to break. He took a chair by her side, and at +the third attempt managed to gain possession of her hand. + +"I deserved all he said," she cried, at last. "Poor fellow, I hope he +will do nothing desperate." + +"No, no," said Mr. Tucker, soothingly. + +"His eyes were quite wild," continued the widow. "If anything happens to +him I shall never forgive myself. I have spoilt his life." + +Mr. Tucker pressed her hand and spoke of the well-known refining +influence a hopeless passion for a good woman had on a man. He cited his +own case as an example. + +"Disappointment spoilt my life so far as worldly success goes," he said, +softly, "but no doubt the discipline was good for me." + +Mrs. Bowman smiled faintly, and began to be a little comforted. +Conversation shifted from the future of Mr. Clark to the past of Mr. +Tucker; the widow's curiosity as to the extent of the latter's worldly +success remaining unanswered by reason of Mr. Tucker's sudden +remembrance of a bear-fight. + +Their future was discussed after supper, and the advisability of leaving +Trimington considered at some length. The towns and villages of England +were at their disposal; Mr. Tucker's business, it appeared, being +independent of place. He drew a picture of life in a bungalow with +modern improvements at some seaside town, and, the cloth having been +removed, took out his pocket-book and, extracting an old envelope, drew +plans on the back. + +It was a delightful pastime and made Mrs. Bowman feel that she was +twenty and beginning life again. She toyed with the pocket-book and +complimented Mr. Tucker on his skill as a draughtsman. + +A letter or two fell out and she replaced them. Then a small newspaper +cutting, which had fluttered out with them, met her eye. + +"A little veranda with roses climbing up it," murmured Mr. Tucker, still +drawing, "and a couple of--" + +His pencil was arrested by an odd, gasping noise from the window. He +looked up and saw her sitting stiffly in her chair. Her face seemed to +have swollen and to be colored in patches; her eyes were round and +amazed. + +"Aren't you well?" he inquired, rising in disorder. + +Mrs. Bowman opened her lips, but no sound came from them. Then she gave +a long, shivering sigh. + +"Heat of the room too much for you?" inquired the other, anxiously. + +Mrs. Bowman took another long, shivering breath. Still incapable of +speech, she took the slip of paper in her trembling fingers and an +involuntary exclamation of dismay broke from Mr. Tucker. She dabbed +fiercely at her burning eyes with her handkerchief and read it again. + +"TUCKER.--_If this should meet the eye of Charles Tucker, who knew +Amelia Wyborn twenty-five years ago, he will hear of something greatly +to his advantage by communicating with N. C., Royal Hotel, +Northtown._" + +Mrs. Bowman found speech at last. "N. C.--Nathaniel Clark," she said, +in broken tones. "So that is where he went last month. Oh, what a fool +I've been! Oh, what a simple fool!" + +Mr. Tucker gave a deprecatory cough. "I--I had forgotten it was there," +he said, nervously. + +"Yes," breathed the widow, "I can quite believe that." + +"I was going to show you later on," declared the other, regarding her +carefully. "I was, really. I couldn't bear the idea of keeping a secret +from you long." + +[Illustration: "'I had forgotten it was there,' he said, nervously."] + +Mrs. Bowman smiled--a terrible smile. "The audacity of the man," she +broke out, "to stand there and lecture me on my behavior. To talk about +his spoilt life, and all the time--" + +She got up and walked about the room, angrily brushing aside the +proffered attentions of Mr. Tucker. + +"Laughing-stock of Trimington, is he?" she stormed. "He shall be more +than that before I have done with him. The wickedness of the man; the +artfulness!" + +"That's what I thought," said Mr. Tucker, shaking his head. "I said to +him--" + +"You're as bad," said the widow, turning on him fiercely. "All the time +you two men were talking at each other you were laughing in your sleeves +at me. And I sat there like a child taking it all in. I've no doubt you +met every night and arranged what you were to do next day." + +Mr. Tucker's lips twitched. "I would do more than that to win you, +Amelia," he said, humbly. + +"You'll have to," was the grim reply. "Now I want to hear all about this +from the beginning. And don't keep anything from me, or it'll be the +worse for you." + +She sat down again and motioned him to proceed. + +"When I saw the advertisement in the _Northtown Chronicle_," began +Mr. Tucker, in husky voice, "I danced with--" + +"Never mind about that," interrupted the widow, dryly. + +"I went to the hotel and saw Mr. Clark," resumed Mr. Tucker, somewhat +crestfallen. "When I heard that you were a widow, all the old times came +back to me again. The years fell from me like a mantle. Once again I saw +myself walking with you over the footpath to Cooper's farm; once again I +felt your hand in mine. Your voice sounded in my ears--" + +"You saw Mr. Clark," the widow reminded him. + +"He had heard all about our early love from you," said Mr. Tucker, "and +as a last desperate chance for freedom he had come down to try and hunt +me up, and induce me to take you off his hands." + +Mrs. Bowman uttered a smothered exclamation. + +"He tempted me for two days," said Mr. Tucker, gravely. "The temptation +was too great and I fell. Besides that, I wanted to rescue you from the +clutches of such a man." + +"Why didn't he tell me himself?" inquired the widow. + +"Just what I asked him," said the other, "but he said that you were much +too fond of him to give him up. He is not worthy of you, Amelia; he is +fickle. He has got his eye on another lady." + +"WHAT?" said the widow, with sudden loudness. + +Mr. Tucker nodded mournfully. "Miss Hackbutt," he said, slowly. "I saw +her the other day, and what he can see in her I can't think." + +"Miss Hackbutt?" repeated the widow in a smothered voice. "Miss--" She +got up and began to pace the room again. + +"He must be blind," said Mr. Tucker, positively. + +Mrs. Bowman stopped suddenly and stood regarding him. There was a light +in her eye which made him feel anything but comfortable. He was glad +when she transferred her gaze to the clock. She looked at it so long +that he murmured something about going. + +"Good-by," she said. + +Mr. Tucker began to repeat his excuses, but she interrupted him. "Not +now," she said, decidedly. "I'm tired. Good-night." + +Mr. Tucker pressed her hand. "Good-night," he said, tenderly. "I am +afraid the excitement has been too much for you. May I come round at the +usual time to-morrow?" + +"Yes," said the widow. + +She took the advertisement from the table and, folding it carefully, +placed it in her purse. Mr. Tucker withdrew as she looked up. + +He walked back to the "George" deep in thought, and over a couple of +pipes in bed thought over the events of the evening. He fell asleep at +last and dreamed that he and Miss Hackbutt were being united in the +bonds of holy matrimony by the Rev. Nathaniel Clark. + +The vague misgivings of the previous night disappeared in the morning +sunshine. He shaved carefully and spent some time in the selection of a +tie. + +Over an excellent breakfast he arranged further explanations and excuses +for the appeasement of Mrs. Bowman. + +He was still engaged on the task when he started to call on her. Half- +way to the house he arrived at the conclusion that he was looking too +cheerful. His face took on an expression of deep seriousness, only to +give way the next moment to one of the blankest amazement. In front of +him, and approaching with faltering steps, was Mr. Clark, and leaning +trustfully on his arm the comfortable figure of Mrs. Bowman. Her brow +was unruffled and her lips smiling. + +"Beautiful morning," she said, pleasantly, as they met. + +"Lovely!" murmured the wondering Mr. Tucker, trying, but in vain, to +catch the eye of Mr. Clark. + +"I have been paying an early visit," said the widow, still smiling. "I +surprised you, didn't I, Nathaniel?" + +"You did," said Mr. Clark, in an unearthly voice. + +"We got talking about last night," continued the widow, "and Nathaniel +started pleading with me to give him another chance. I suppose that I am +softhearted, but he was so miserable--You were never so miserable in +your life before, were you, Nathaniel?" + +"Never," said Mr. Clark, in the same strange voice. + +"He was so wretched that at last I gave way," said Mrs. Bowman, with a +simper. "Poor fellow, it was such a shock to him that he hasn't got back +his cheerfulness yet." + +Mr. Tucker said, "Indeed!" + +"He'll be all right soon," said Mrs. Bowman, in confidential tones. "We +are on the way to put our banns up, and once that is done he will feel +safe. You are not really afraid of losing me again, are you, Nathaniel?" + +Mr. Clark shook his head, and, meeting the eye of Mr. Tucker in the +process, favored him with a glance of such utter venom that the latter +was almost startled. + +"Good-by, Mr. Tucker," said the widow, holding out her hand. "Nathaniel +did think of inviting you to come to my wedding, but perhaps it is best +not. However, if I alter my mind, I will get him to advertise for you +again. Good-by." + +She placed her arm in Mr. Clark's again, and led him slowly away. Mr. +Tucker stood watching them for some time, and then, with a glance in the +direction of the "George," where he had left a very small portmanteau, +he did a hasty sum in comparative values and made his way to the +railway-station. + + + + +[Illustration: HER UNCLE] + + + + +Her Uncle + + +Mr. Wragg sat in a high-backed Windsor chair at the door of his house, +smoking. Before him the road descended steeply to the harbor, a small +blue patch of which was visible from his door. Children over five were +at school: children under that age, and suspiciously large for their +years, played about in careless disregard of the remarks which Mr. Wragg +occasionally launched at them. Twice a ball had whizzed past him; and a +small but select party, with a tip-cat of huge dimensions and awesome +points, played just out of reach. Mr. Wragg, snapping his eyes +nervously, threatened in vain. + +"Morning, old crusty-patch," said a cheerful voice at his elbow. + +Mr. Wragg glanced up at the young fisherman towering above him, and eyed +him disdainfully. + +"Why don't you leave 'em alone?" inquired the young man. "Be cheerful +and smile at 'em. You'd soon be able to smile with a little practice." +"You mind your business, George Gale, and I'll mind mine," said Mr. +Wragg, fiercely; "I've 'ad enough of your impudence, and I'm not going +to have any more. And don't lean up agin my house, 'cos I won't 'ave +it." + +Mr. Gale laughed. "Got out o' bed the wrong side again, haven't you?" he +inquired. "Why don't you put that side up against the wall?" + +Mr. Wragg puffed on in silence and became absorbed in a fishing-boat +gliding past at the bottom of the hill. + +"I hear you've got a niece coming to live with you?" pursued the young +man. + +Mr. Wragg smoked on. + +"Poor thing!" said the other, with a sigh. "Does she take after you--in +looks, I mean?" + +"If I was twenty years younger nor what I am," said Mr. Wragg, +sententiously, "I'd give you a hiding, George Gale." + +"It's what I want," agreed Mr. Gale, placidly. "Well, so long, Mr. +Wragg. I can't stand talking to you all day." + +He was about to move off, after pretending to pinch the ear of the +infuriated Mr. Wragg, when he noticed a station-fly, with a big trunk on +the box-seat, crawling slowly up the hill towards them. + +"Good riddance," said Mr. Wragg, suggestively. + +The other paid no heed. The vehicle came nearer, and a girl, who plainly +owed none of her looks to Mr. Wragg's side of the family, came into view +behind the trunk. She waved her hand, and Mr. Wragg, removing his pipe +from his mouth, waved it in return. Mr. Gale edged away about eighteen +inches, and, with an air of assumed carelessness, gazed idly about him. + +He saluted the driver as the fly stopped and gazed hard at the +apparition that descended. Then he caught his breath as the girl, +approaching her uncle, kissed him affectionately. Mr. Wragg, looking up +fiercely at Mr. Gale, was surprised at the expression on that +gentleman's face. + +"Isn't it lovely here?" said the girl, looking about her; "and isn't the +air nice?" + +She followed Mr. Wragg inside, and the driver, a small man and elderly, +began tugging at the huge trunk. Mr. Gale's moment had arrived. + +"Stand away, Joe," he said, stepping forward. "I'll take that in for +you." + +He hoisted the trunk on his shoulders, and, rather glad of his lowered +face, advanced slowly into the house. Uncle and niece had just vanished +at the head of the stairs, and Mr. Gale, after a moment's hesitation, +followed. + +"In 'ere," said Mr. Wragg, throwing open a door. + +"Halloa! What are you doing in my house? Put it down. Put it down at +once; d'ye hear?" + +Mr. Gale caught the girl's surprised glance and, somewhat flustered, +swung round so suddenly that the corner of the trunk took the +gesticulating Mr. Wragg by the side of the head and bumped it against +the wall. Deaf to his outcries, Mr. Gale entered the room and placed the +box on the floor. + +"Where shall I put it?" he inquired of the girl, respectfully. + +"You go out of my house," stormed Mr. Wragg, entering with his hand to +his head. "Go on. Out you go." + +The young man surveyed him with solicitude. "I'm very sorry if I hurt +you, Mr. Wragg--" he began. + +"Out you go," repeated the other. + +"It was a pure accident," pleaded Mr. Gale. + +"And don't you set foot in my 'ouse agin," said the vengeful Mr. Wragg. +"You made yourself officious bringing that box in a-purpose to give me a +clump o' the side of the head with it." + +Mr. Gale denied the charge so eagerly, and withal so politely, that the +elder man regarded him in amazement. Then his glance fell on his niece, +and he smiled with sudden malice as Mr. Gale slowly and humbly descended +the stairs. + +[Illustration: "The corner of the trunk took the gesticulating Mr. Wragg +by the side of the head."] + +"One o' the worst chaps about here, my dear," he said, loudly. "Mate o' +one o' the fishing-boats, and as impudent as they make 'em. Many's the +time I've clouted his head for 'im." + +The girl regarded his small figure with surprised respect. + +"When he was a boy, I mean," continued Mr. Wragg. "Now, there's your +room, and when you've put things to rights, come down and I'll show you +over the house." + +He glanced at his niece several times during the day, trying hard to +trace a likeness, first to his dead sister and then to himself. Several +times he scrutinized himself in the small glass on the mantelpiece, but +in vain. Even when he twisted his thin beard in his hand and tried to +ignore his mustache, the likeness still eluded him. + +His opinion of Miss Miller's looks was more than shared by the young men +of Waterside. It was a busy youth who could not spare five minutes to +chat with an uncle so fortunate, and in less than a couple of weeks Mr. +Wragg was astonished at his popularity, and the deference accorded to +his opinions. + +The most humble of them all was Mr. Gale, and, with a pertinacity which +was almost proof against insult, he strove to force his company upon the +indignant Mr. Wragg. Debarred from that, he took to haunting the road, +on one occasion passing the house no fewer than fifty-seven times in one +afternoon. His infatuation was plain to be seen of all men. Wise men +closed their eyes to it; others had theirs closed for them, Mr. Gale +being naturally incensed to think that there was anything in his +behavior that attracted attention. + +His father was at sea, and, to the dismay of the old woman who kept +house for him, he began to neglect his food. A melancholy but not +unpleasing idea that he was slowly fading occurred to him when he found +that he could eat only two herrings for breakfast instead of four. His +particular friend, Joe Harris, to whom he confided the fact, +remonstrated hotly. + +"There's plenty of other girls," he suggested. + +"Not like her," said Mr. Gale. + +"You're getting to be a by-word in the place," complained his friend. + +Mr. Gale flushed. "I'd do more than that for her sake," he said, softly. + +"It ain't the way," said Mr. Harris, impatiently. "Girls like a man o' +spirit; not a chap who hangs about without speaking, and looks as though +he has been caught stealing the cat's milk. Why don't you go round and +see her one afternoon when old Wragg is out?" + +Mr. Gale shivered. "I dursen't," he confessed. + +Mr. Harris pondered. "She was going to be a hospital nurse afore she +came down here," he said, slowly. "P'r'aps if you was to break your leg +or something she'd come and nurse you. She's wonderful fond of it, I +understand." + +"But then, you see, I haven't broken it," said the other, impatiently. + +"You've got a bicycle," said Mr. Harris. "You--wait a minute--" he +half-closed his eyes and waved aside a remark of his friend's. "Suppose +you 'ad an accident and fell off it, just in front of the house?" + +"I never fall off," said Mr. Gale, simply. + +"Old Wragg is out, and me and Charlie Brown carry you into the house," +continued Mr. Harris, closing his eyes entirely. "When you come to your +senses, she's bending over you and crying." + +He opened his eyes suddenly and then, closing one, gazed hard at the +bewildered Gale. "To-morrow afternoon at two," he said, briskly, "me and +Charlie'll be there waiting." + +"Suppose old Wragg ain't out?" objected Mr. Gale, after ten minutes' +explanation. + +"He's at the 'Lobster Pot' five days out of six at that time," was the +reply; "if he ain't there tomorrow, it can't be helped." + +Mr. Gale spent the evening practising falls in a quiet lane, and by the +time night came had attained to such proficiency that on the way home he +fell off without intending it. It seemed an easier thing than he had +imagined, and next day at two o'clock punctually he put his lessons into +practice. + +By a slight error in judgment his head came into contact with Mr. +Wragg's doorstep, and, half-stunned, he was about to rise, when Mr. +Harris rushed up and forced him down again. Mr. Brown, who was also in +attendance, helped to restore his faculties by a well-placed kick. + +"He's lost his senses," said Mr. Harris, looking up at Miss Miller, as +she came to the door. + +"You could ha' heard him fall arf a mile away," added Mr. Brown. + +Miss Miller stooped and examined the victim carefully. There was a nasty +cut on the side of his head, and a general limpness of body which was +alarming. She went indoors for some water, and by the time she returned +the enterprising Mr. Harris had got the patient in the passage. + +"I'm afraid he's going," he said, in answer to the girl's glance. + +"Run for the doctor," she said, hastily. "Quick!" + +"We don't like to leave 'im, miss," said Mr. Harris, tenderly. "I s'pose +it would be too much to ask you to go?" + +Miss Miller, with a parting glance at the prostrate man, departed at +once. + +"What did you do that for?" demanded Mr. Gale, sitting up. "I don't want +the doctor; he'll spoil everything. Why didn't you go away and leave +us?" + +"I sent 'er for the doctor," said Mr. Harris, slowly. "I sent 'er for +the doctor so as we can get you to bed afore she comes back." + +"_Bed_?" exclaimed Mr. Gale. + +"Up you go," said Mr. Harris, briefly. "We'll tell _her_ we carried +you up. Now, don't waste time." + +Pushed by his friends, and stopping to expostulate at every step, Mr. +Gale was thrust at last into Mr. Wragg's bedroom. + +"Off with your clothes," said the leading spirit. "What's the matter +with you, Charlie Brown?" + +"Don't mind me; I'll be all right in a minute," said that gentleman, +wiping his eyes. "I'm thinking of old Wragg." + +[Illustration: "'What did you do that for?' demanded Mr. Gale, sitting +up."] + +Before Mr. Gale had made up his mind his coat and waistcoat were off, +and Mr. Brown was at work on his boots. In five minutes' time he was +tucked up in Mr. Wragg's bed; his clothes were in a neat little pile on +a chair, and Messrs. Harris and Brown were indulging in a congratulatory +double-shuffle by the window. + +"Don't come to your senses yet awhile," said the former; "and when you +do, tell the doctor you can't move your limbs." + +"If they try to pull you out o' bed," said Mr. Brown, "scream as though +you're being killed. _H'sh_! Here they are." + +Voices sounded below; Miss Miller and the doctor had met at the door +with Mr. Wragg, and a violent outburst on that gentleman's part died +away as he saw that the intruders had disappeared. He was still +grumbling when Mr. Harris, putting his head over the balusters, asked +him to make a little less noise. + +Mr. Wragg came upstairs in three bounds, and his mien was so terrible +that Messrs. Harris and Brown huddled together for protection. Then his +gaze fell on the bed and he strove in vain for speech. + +"We done it for the best," faltered Mr. Harris. + +Mr. Wragg made a gurgling noise in his throat, and, as the doctor +entered the room, pointed with a trembling finger at the bed. The other +two gentlemen edged toward the door. + +"Take him away; take him away at once," vociferated Mr. Wragg. + +The doctor motioned him to silence, and Joe Harris and Mr. Brown held +their breaths nervously as he made an examination. For ten minutes he +prodded and puzzled over the insensible form in the bed; then he turned +to the couple at the door. + +"How did it happen?" he inquired. + +Mr. Harris told him. He also added that he thought it was best to put +him to bed at once before he came round. + +"Quite right," said the doctor, nodding. "It's a very serious case." + +"Well, I can't 'ave him 'ere," broke in Mr. Wragg. + +"It won't be for long," said the doctor, shaking his head. + +"I can't 'ave him 'ere at all, and, what's more, I won't. Let him go to +his own bed," said Mr. Wragg, quivering with excitement. + +"He is not to be moved," said the doctor, decidedly. "If he comes to his +senses and gets out of bed you must coax him back again." + +"_Coax_?" stuttered Mr. Wragg. "_Coax?_ What's he got to do +with me? This house isn't a 'orsepittle. Put his clothes on and take 'im +away." + +"Do nothing of the kind," was the stern reply. "In fact, his clothes had +better be taken out of the room, in case he comes round and tries to +dress." + +Mr. Harris skipped across to the clothes and tucked them gleefully under +his arm; Mr. Brown secured the boots. + +"When he will come out of this stupor I can't say," continued the +doctor. "Keep him perfectly quiet and don't let him see a soul." + +"Look 'ere--" began Mr. Wragg, in a broken voice. + +"As to diet--water," said the doctor, looking round. + +"Water?" said Miss Miller, who had come quietly into the room. + +"Water," repeated the doctor; "as much as he likes to take, of course. +Let me see: to-day is Tuesday. I'll look in on Friday, or Saturday at +latest; but till then he must have nothing but clear cold water." + +Mr. Harris shot a horrified glance at the bed, which happened just then +to creak. "But s'pose he asks for food, sir?" he said, respectfully. + +"He mustn't have it," said the other, sharply. "If he is very +insistent," he added, turning to the sullen Mr. Wragg, "tell him that he +has just had food. He won't know any better, and he will be quite +satisfied." + +He motioned them out of the room, and then, lowering the blinds, +followed downstairs on tiptoe. A murmur of voices, followed by the +closing of the front door, sounded from below; and Mr. Gale, getting +cautiously out of bed, saw Messrs. Harris and Brown walk up the street +talking earnestly. He stole back on tiptoe to the door, and strove in +vain to catch the purport of the low-voiced discussion below. Mr. +Wragg's voice was raised, but indistinct. Then he fancied that he heard +a laugh. + +He waited until the door closed behind the doctor, and then went back to +bed, to try and think out a situation which was fast becoming +mysterious. + +He lay in the darkened room until a cheerful clatter of crockery below +heralded the approach of tea-time. He heard Miss Miller call her uncle +in from the garden, and with some satisfaction heard her pleasant voice +engaged in brisk talk. At intervals Mr. Wragg laughed loud and long. + +Tea was cleared away, and the long evening dragged along in silence. +Uncle and niece were apparently sitting in the garden, but they came in +to supper, and later on the fumes of Mr. Wragg's pipe pervaded the +house. At ten o'clock he heard footsteps ascending the stairs, and +through half-closed eyes saw Mr. Wragg enter the bedroom with a candle. + +"Time the pore feller had 'is water," he said to his niece, who remained +outside. + +"Unless he is still insensible," was the reply. + +Mr. Gale, who was feeling both thirsty and hungry, slowly opened his +eyes, and fixed them in a vacant stare on Mr. Wragg. + +"Where am I?" he inquired, in a faint voice. + +"Buckingham Pallis," replied Mr. Wragg, promptly. + +Mr. Gale ground his teeth. "How did I come here?" he said, at last. + +"The fairies brought you," said Mr. Wragg. + +The young man rubbed his eyes and blinked at the candle. "I seem to +remember falling," he said, slowly; "has anything happened?" + +"One o' the fairies dropped you," said Mr. Wragg, with great readiness; +"fortunately, you fell on your head." + +A sound suspiciously like a giggle came from the landing and fell +heavily on Gale's ears. He closed his eyes and tried to think. + +"How did I get into your bedroom, Mr. Wragg?" he inquired, after a long +pause. + +"Light-'eaded," confided Mr. Wragg to the landing, and significantly +tapping his forehead. + +"This ain't my bedroom," he said, turning to the invalid. "It's the +King's. His Majesty gave up 'is bed at once, direckly he 'eard you was +'urt." + +"And he's going to sleep on three chairs in the front parlor--if he +can," said a low voice from the landing. + +The humor faded from Mr. Wragg's face and was succeeded by an expression +of great sourness. "Where is the pore feller's supper?" he inquired. "I +don't suppose he can eat anything, but he might try." + +He went to the door and a low-voiced colloquy ensued. The rival merits +of cold chicken versus steak-pie as an invalid diet were discussed at +some length. Finally the voice of Miss Miller insisted on chicken, and a +glass of port-wine. + +"I'll tell 'im it's chicken and port-wine then," said Mr. Wragg, +reappearing with a bedroom jug and a tumbler, which he placed on a small +table by the bedside. + +"Don't let him eat too much, mind," said the voice from the landing, +anxiously. + +Mr. Wragg said that he would be careful, and addressing Mr. Gale +implored him not to overeat himself. The young man stared at him +offensively, and, pretty certain now of the true state of affairs, +thought only of escape. + +"I feel better," he said, slowly. "I think I will go home." + +"Yes, yes," said the other, soothingly. + +"If you will fetch my clothes," continued Mr. Gale, "I will go now." + +"_Clothes_!" said Mr. Wragg, in an astonished voice. "Why, you +didn't 'ave any." + +Mr. Gale sat up suddenly in bed and shook his fist at him. "Look here--" +he began, in a choking voice. + +"The fairies brought you as you was," continued Mr. Wragg, grinning +furiously; "and of all the perfect picturs--" + +A series of gasping sobs sounded from the landing, the stairs creaked, +and a door slammed violently below. In spite of this precaution the +sounds of a maiden in dire distress were distinctly audible. + +"You give me my clothes," shouted the now furious Mr. Gale, springing +out of bed. + +Mr. Wragg drew back. "I'll go and fetch 'em," he said, hastily. + +He ran lightly downstairs, and the young man, sitting on the edge of the +bed, waited. Ten minutes passed, and he heard Mr. Wragg returning, +followed by his niece. He slipped back into bed again. + +"It's a pore brain again," he heard, in the unctuous tones which Mr. +Wragg appeared to keep for this emergency. "It's clothes he wants now; +by and by I suppose it'll be something else. Well, the doctor said we'd +got to humor him." + +"Poor fellow!" sighed Miss Miller, with a break in her voice. + +"See 'ow his face'll light up when he sees them," said her uncle. + +He pushed the door open, and after surveying the patient with a +benevolent smile triumphantly held up a collar and tie for his +inspection and threw them on the bed. Then he disappeared hastily and, +closing the door, turned the key in the lock. + +"If you want any more chicken or anything," he cried through the door, +"ring the bell." + +The horrified prisoner heard them pass downstairs again, and, after a +glass of water, sat down by the window and tried to think. He got up and +tried the door, but it opened inwards, and after a severe onslaught the +handle came off in his hand. Tired out at last he went to bed again, and +slept fitfully until morning. + +Mr. Wragg visited him again after breakfast, but with great foresight +only put his head in at the door, while Miss Miller remained outside in +case of need. In these circumstances Mr. Gale met his anxious inquiries +with a sullen silence, and the other, tired at last of baiting him, +turned to go. + +"I'll be back soon," he said, with a grin. "I'm just going out to tell +folks 'ow you're getting on. There's a lot of 'em anxious." + +He was as good as his word, and Mr. Gale, peeping from the window, raged +helplessly as little knots of neighbors stood smiling up at the house. +Unable to endure it any longer he returned to bed, resolving to wait +until night came, and then drop from the window and run home in a +blanket. + +The smell of dinner was almost painful, but he made no sign. Mr. Wragg +in high good humor smoked a pipe after his meal, and then went out +again. The house was silent except for the occasional movements of the +girl below. Then there was a sudden tap at his door. + +"Well?" said Mr. Gale. + +The door opened and, hardly able to believe his eyes, he saw his clothes +thrown into the room. Hunger was forgotten, and he almost smiled as he +hastily dressed himself. + +The smile vanished as he thought of the people in the streets, and in a +thoughtful fashion he made his way slowly downstairs. The bright face of +Miss Miller appeared at the parlor door. + +"Better?" she smiled. + +Mr. Gale reddened and, drawing himself up stiffly, made no reply. + +"That's polite," said the girl, indignantly. "After giving you your +clothes, too. What do you think my uncle will say to me? He was going to +keep you here till Friday." + +Mr. Gale muttered an apology. "I've made a fool of myself," he added. + +Miss Miller nodded cheerfully. "Are you hungry?" she inquired. + +The other drew himself up again. + +"Because there is some nice cold beef left," said the girl, glancing +into the room. + +Mr. Gale started and, hardly able to believe in his good fortune, +followed her inside. In a very short time the cold beef was a thing of +the past, and the young man, toying with his beer-glass, sat listening +to a lecture on his behavior couched in the severest terms his hostess +could devise. + +"You'll be the laughing-stock of the place," she concluded. + +"I shall go away," he said, gloomily. + +"I shouldn't do that," said the girl, with a judicial air; "live it +down." + +"I shall go away," repeated Mr. Gale, decidedly. "I shall ship for a +deep-sea voyage." + +Miss Miller sighed. "It's too bad," she said, slowly; "perhaps you +wouldn't look so foolish if--" + +"If what?" inquired the other, after a long pause. + +"If," said Miss Miller, looking down, "if--if--" + +Mr. Gale started and trembled violently, as a wild idea, born of her +blushes, occurred to him. + +"If," he said, in quivering tones, "if--if--" + +"Go on," said the girl, softly. "Why, I got as far as that: and you are +a man." + +Mr. Gale's voice became almost inaudible. "If we got married, do you +mean?" he said, at last. + +"Married!" exclaimed Miss Miller, starting back a full two inches. "Good +gracious! the man is mad after all." + +The bitter and loudly expressed opinion of Mr. Wragg when he returned an +hour later was that they were both mad. + + + + +[Illustration: THE DREAMER] + + + + +The Dreamer + + +Dreams and warnings are things I don't believe in, said the night +watchman. The only dream I ever 'ad that come anything like true was +once when I dreamt I came in for a fortune, and next morning I found +half a crown in the street, which I sold to a man for fourpence. And +once, two days arter my missis 'ad dreamt she 'ad spilt a cup of tea +down the front of 'er Sunday dress, she spoilt a pot o' paint of mine by +sitting in it. + +The only other dream I know of that come true happened to the cook of a +bark I was aboard of once, called the _Southern Belle_. He was a +silly, pasty-faced sort o' chap, always giving hisself airs about +eddication to sailormen who didn't believe in it, and one night, when we +was homeward-bound from Sydney, he suddenly sat up in 'is bunk and +laughed so loud that he woke us all up. + +"Wot's wrong, cookie?" ses one o' the chaps. + +"I was dreaming," ses the cook, "such a funny dream. I dreamt old Bill +Foster fell out o' the foretop and broke 'is leg." + +"Well, wot is there to laugh at in that?" ses old Bill, very sharp. + +"It was funny in my dream," ses the cook. "You looked so comic with your +leg doubled up under you, you can't think. It would ha' made a cat +laugh." + +Bill Foster said he'd make 'im laugh the other side of his face if he +wasn't careful, and then we went off to sleep agin and forgot all about +it. + +If you'll believe me, on'y three days arterwards pore Bill did fall out +o' the foretop and break his leg. He was surprised, but I never see a +man so surprised as the cook was. His eyes was nearly starting out of +'is head, but by the time the other chaps 'ad picked Bill up and asked +'im whether he was hurt, cook 'ad pulled 'imself together agin and was +giving himself such airs it was perfectly sickening. + +"My dreams always come true," he ses. "It's a kind o' second sight with +me. It's a gift, and, being tender-'arted, it worries me terrible +sometimes." + +He was going on like that, taking credit for a pure accident, when the +second officer came up and told 'em to carry Bill below. He was in +agony, of course, but he kept 'is presence of mind, and as they passed +the cook he gave 'im such a clip on the side of the 'ead as nearly broke +it. + +"That's for dreaming about me," he ses. + +The skipper and the fust officer and most of the hands set 'is leg +between them, and arter the skipper 'ad made him wot he called +comfortable, but wot Bill called something that I won't soil my ears by +repeating, the officers went off and the cook came and sat down by the +side o' Bill and talked about his gift. + +"I don't talk about it as a rule," he ses, "'cos it frightens people." + +"It's a wonderful gift, cookie," ses Charlie Epps. + +All of 'em thought the same, not knowing wot a fust-class liar the cook +was, and he sat there and lied to 'em till he couldn't 'ardly speak, he +was so 'oarse. + +"My grandmother was a gypsy," he ses, "and it's in the family. Things +that are going to 'appen to people I know come to me in dreams, same as +pore Bill's did. It's curious to me sometimes when I look round at you +chaps, seeing you going about 'appy and comfortable, and knowing all the +time 'orrible things that is going to 'appen to you. Sometimes it gives +me the fair shivers." + +"Horrible things to us, slushy?" ses Charlie, staring. + +"Yes," ses the cook, nodding. "I never was on a ship afore with such a +lot of unfortunit men aboard. Never. There's two pore fellers wot'll be +dead corpses inside o' six months, sitting 'ere laughing and talking as +if they was going to live to ninety. Thank your stars you don't 'ave +such dreams." + +"Who--who are the two, cookie?" ses Charlie, arter a bit. + +"Never mind, Charlie," ses the cook, in a sad voice; "it would do no +good if I was to tell you. Nothing can alter it." + +"Give us a hint," ses Charlie. + +"Well, I'll tell you this much," ses the cook, arter sitting with his +'ead in his 'ands, thinking; "one of 'em is nearly the ugliest man in +the fo'c's'le and the other ain't." + +O' course, that didn't 'elp 'em much, but it caused a lot of argufying, +and the ugliest man aboard, instead o' being grateful, behaved more like +a wild beast than a Christian when it was pointed out to him that he was +safe. + +Arter that dream about Bill, there was no keeping the cook in his place. +He 'ad dreams pretty near every night, and talked little bits of 'em in +his sleep. Little bits that you couldn't make head nor tail of, and when +we asked 'im next morning he'd always shake his 'ead and say, "Never +mind." Sometimes he'd mention a chap's name in 'is sleep and make 'im +nervous for days. + +It was an unlucky v'y'ge that, for some of 'em. About a week arter pore +Bill's accident Ted Jones started playing catch-ball with another chap +and a empty beer-bottle, and about the fifth chuck Ted caught it with +his face. We thought 'e was killed at fust--he made such a noise; but +they got 'im down below, and, arter they 'ad picked out as much broken +glass as Ted would let 'em, the second officer did 'im up in sticking- +plaster and told 'im to keep quiet for an hour or two. + +Ted was very proud of 'is looks, and the way he went on was alarming. +Fust of all he found fault with the chap 'e was playing with, and then +he turned on the cook. + +"It's a pity you didn't see that in a dream," he ses, tryin' to sneer, +on'y the sticking-plaster was too strong for 'im. + +"But I did see it," ses the cook, drawin' 'imself up. + +"_Wot_?" ses Ted, starting. + +"I dreamt it night afore last, just exactly as it 'appened," ses the +cook, in a offhand way. + +"Why didn't you tell me, then?" ses Ted choking. + +"It 'ud ha' been no good," ses the cook, smiling and shaking his 'ead. +"Wot I see must 'appen. I on'y see the future, and that must be." + +"But you stood there watching me chucking the bottle about," ses Ted, +getting out of 'is bunk. "Why didn't you stop me?" + +"You don't understand," ses the cook. "If you'd 'ad more eddication--" + +He didn't 'ave time to say any more afore Ted was on him, and cookie, +being no fighter, 'ad to cook with one eye for the next two or three +days. He kept quiet about 'is dreams for some time arter that, but it +was no good, because George Hall, wot was a firm believer, gave 'im a +licking for not warning 'im of a sprained ankle he got skylarking, and +Bob Law took it out of 'im for not telling 'im that he was going to lose +'is suit of shore-going togs at cards. + +[Illustration: "'Why didn't you tell me, then?' ses Ted."] + +The only chap that seemed to show any good feeling for the cook was a +young feller named Joseph Meek, a steady young chap wot was goin' to be +married to old Bill Foster's niece as soon as we got 'ome. Nobody else +knew it, but he told the cook all about it on the quiet. He said she was +too good for 'im, but, do all he could, he couldn't get her to see it. + +"My feelings 'ave changed," he ses. + +"P'r'aps they'll change agin," ses the cook, trying to comfort 'im. + +Joseph shook his 'ead. "No, I've made up my mind," he ses, very slow. +"I'm young yet, and, besides, I can't afford it; but 'ow to get out of +it I don't know. Couldn't you 'ave a dream agin it for me?" + +"Wot d'ye mean?" ses the cook, firing up. "Do you think I make my dreams +up?" + +"No, no; cert'inly not," ses Joseph, patting 'im on the shoulder; "but +couldn't you do it just for once? 'Ave a dream that me and Emily are +killed a few days arter the wedding. Don't say in wot way, 'cos she +might think we could avoid it; just dream we are killed. Bill's always +been a superstitious man, and since you dreamt about his leg he'd +believe anything; and he's that fond of Emily I believe he'd 'ave the +wedding put off, at any rate--if I put him up to it." + +It took 'im three days and a silver watch-chain to persuade the cook, +but he did at last; and one arternoon, when old Bill, who was getting on +fust-class, was resting 'is leg in 'is bunk, the cook went below and +turned in for a quiet sleep. + +For ten minutes he was as peaceful as a lamb, and old Bill, who 'ad been +laying in 'is bunk with an eye open watching 'im, was just dropping off +'imself, when the cook began to talk in 'is sleep, and the very fust +words made Bill sit up as though something 'ad bit 'im. + +"There they go," ses the cook, "Emily Foster and Joseph Meek--and +there's old Bill, good old Bill, going to give the bride away. How 'appy +they all look, especially Joseph!" + +Old Bill put his 'and to his ear and leaned out of his bunk. + +"There they go," ses the cook agin; "but wot is that 'orrible black +thing with claws that's 'anging over Bill?" + +Pore Bill nearly fell out of 'is bunk, but he saved 'imself at the last +moment and lay there as pale as death, listening. + +"It must be meant for Bill," ses the cook. "Well, pore Bill; he won't +know of it, that's one thing. Let's 'ope it'll be sudden." + +He lay quiet for some time and then he began again. + +"No," he ses, "it isn't Bill; it's Joseph and Emily, stark and stiff, +and they've on'y been married a week. 'Ow awful they look! Pore things. +Oh! oh! o-oh!" + +He woke up with a shiver and began to groan and then 'e sat up in his +bunk and saw old Bill leaning out and staring at 'im. + +"You've been dreaming, cook," ses Bill, in a trembling voice. + +"'Ave I?" ses the cook. "How do you know?" + +"About me and my niece," ses Bill; "you was talking in your sleep." + +"You oughtn't to 'ave listened," ses the cook, getting out of 'is bunk +and going over to 'im. "I 'ope you didn't 'ear all I dreamt. 'Ow much +did you hear?" + +Bill told 'im, and the cook sat there, shaking his 'ead. "Thank +goodness, you didn't 'ear the worst of it," he ses. + +"_Worst_!" ses Bill. "Wot, was there any more of it?" + +"Lot's more," ses the cook. "But promise me you won't tell Joseph, Bill. +Let 'im be happy while he can; it would on'y make 'im miserable, and it +wouldn't do any good." + +"I don't know so much about that," ses Bill, thinking about the +arguments some of them had 'ad with Ted about the bottle. "Was it arter +they was married, cookie, that it 'appened? Are you sure?" + +"Certain sure. It was a week arter," ses the cook. + +"Very well, then," ses Bill, slapping 'is bad leg by mistake; "if they +didn't marry, it couldn't 'appen, could it?" + +"Don't talk foolish," ses the cook; "they must marry. I saw it in my +dream." + +"Well, we'll see," ses Bill. "I'm going to 'ave a quiet talk with Joseph +about it, and see wot he ses. I ain't a-going to 'ave my pore gal +murdered just to please you and make your dreams come true." + +He 'ad a quiet talk with Joseph, but Joseph wouldn't 'ear of it at fust. +He said it was all the cook's nonsense, though 'e owned up that it was +funny that the cook should know about the wedding and Emily's name, and +at last he said that they would put it afore Emily and let her decide. + +That was about the last dream the cook had that v'y'ge, although he told +old Bill one day that he had 'ad the same dream about Joseph and Emily +agin, so that he was quite certain they 'ad got to be married and +killed. He wouldn't tell Bill 'ow they was to be killed, because 'e said +it would make 'im an old man afore his time; but, of course, he 'ad to +say that _if_ they wasn't married the other part couldn't come +true. He said that as he 'ad never told 'is dreams before--except in the +case of Bill's leg--he couldn't say for certain that they couldn't be +prevented by taking care, but p'r'aps, they could; and Bill pointed out +to 'im wot a useful man he would be if he could dream and warn people in +time. + +By the time we got into the London river old Bill's leg was getting on +fust-rate, and he got along splendid on a pair of crutches the carpenter +'ad made for him. Him and Joseph and the cook had 'ad a good many talks +about the dream, and the old man 'ad invited the cook to come along 'ome +with 'em, to be referred to when he told the tale. + +"I shall take my opportunity," he ses, "and break it to 'er gentle like. +When I speak to you, you chip in, and not afore. D'ye understand?" + +We went into the East India Docks that v'y'ge, and got there early on a +lovely summer's evening. Everybody was 'arf crazy at the idea o' going +ashore agin, and working as cheerful and as willing as if they liked it. +There was a few people standing on the pier-head as we went in, and +among 'em several very nice-looking young wimmen. + +"My eye, Joseph," ses the cook, who 'ad been staring hard at one of 'em, +"there's a fine gal--lively, too. Look 'ere!" + +[Illustration: "'I shall take my opportunity,' he ses, 'and break it to +'er gentle like.'"] + +He kissed 'is dirty paw--which is more than I should 'ave liked to 'ave +done it if it 'ad been mine--and waved it, and the gal turned round and +shook her 'ead at 'im. + +"Here, that'll do," ses Joseph, very cross. "That's my gal; that's my +Emily." + +"Eh?" says the cook. "Well, 'ow was I to know? Besides, you're a-giving +of her up." + +Joseph didn't answer 'im. He was staring at Emily, and the more he +stared the better-looking she seemed to grow. She really was an uncommon +nice-looking gal, and more than the cook was struck with her. + +"Who's that chap standing alongside of her?" ses the cook. + +"It's one o' Bill's sister's lodgers," ses Joseph, who was looking very +bad-tempered. "I should like to know wot right he 'as to come 'ere to +welcome me 'ome. I don't want 'im." + +"P'r'aps he's fond of 'er," ses the cook. "I could be, very easy." + +"I'll chuck 'im in the dock if he ain't careful," ses Joseph, turning +red in the face. + +He waved his 'and to Emily, who didn't 'appen to be looking at the +moment, but the lodger waved back in a careless sort of way and then +spoke to Emily, and they both waved to old Bill who was standing on his +crutches further aft. + +By the time the ship was berthed and everything snug it was quite dark, +and old Bill didn't know whether to take the cook 'ome with 'im and +break the news that night, or wait a bit. He made up his mind at last to +get it over and done with, and arter waiting till the cook 'ad cleaned +'imself they got a cab and drove off. + +Bert Simmons, the lodger, 'ad to ride on the box, and Bill took up so +much room with 'is bad leg that Emily found it more comfortable to sit +on Joseph's knee; and by the time they got to the 'ouse he began to see +wot a silly mistake he was making. + +"Keep that dream o' yours to yourself till I make up my mind," he ses to +the cook, while Bill and the cabman were calling each other names. + +"Bill's going to speak fust," whispers the cook. + +The lodger and Emily 'ad gone inside, and Joseph stood there, fidgeting, +while the cabman asked Bill, as a friend, why he 'adn't paid twopence +more for his face, and Bill was wasting his time trying to think of +something to say to 'urt the cabman's feelings. Then he took Bill by the +arm as the cab drove off and told 'im not to say nothing about the +dream, because he was going to risk it. + +"Stuff and nonsense," ses Bill. "I'm going to tell Emily. It's my dooty. +Wot's the good o' being married if you're going to be killed?" + +He stumped in on his crutches afore Joseph could say any more, and, +arter letting his sister kiss 'im, went into the front room and sat +down. There was cold beef and pickles on the table and two jugs o' beer, +and arter just telling his sister 'ow he fell and broke 'is leg, they +all sat down to supper. + +Bert Simmons sat on one side of Emily and Joseph the other, and the cook +couldn't 'elp feeling sorry for 'er, seeing as he did that sometimes she +was 'aving both hands squeezed at once under the table and could 'ardly +get a bite in edgeways. + +Old Bill lit his pipe arter supper, and then, taking another glass o' +beer, he told 'em about the cook dreaming of his accident three days +afore it happened. They couldn't 'ardly believe it at fust, but when he +went on to tell 'em the other things the cook 'ad dreamt, and that +everything 'ad 'appened just as he dreamt it, they all edged away from +the cook and sat staring at him with their mouths open. + +"And that ain't the worst of it," ses Bill. + +"That's enough for one night, Bill," ses Joseph, who was staring at Bert +Simmons as though he could eat him. "Besides, I believe it was on'y +chance. When cook told you 'is dream it made you nervous, and that's why +you fell." + +"Nervous be blowed!" ses Bill; and then he told 'em about the dream he +'ad heard while he was laying in 'is bunk. + +Bill's sister gave a scream when he 'ad finished, and Emily, wot was +sitting next to Joseph, got up with a shiver and went and sat next to +Bert Simmons and squeezed his coat-sleeve. + +"It's all nonsense!" ses Joseph, starting up. "And if it wasn't, true +love would run the risk. I ain't afraid!" + +"It's too much to ask a gal," ses Bert Simmons, shaking his 'ead. + +"I couldn't dream of it," ses Emily. "Wot's the use of being married for +a week? Look at uncle's leg--that's enough for me!" + +They all talked at once then, and Joseph tried all he could to persuade +Emily to prove to the cook that 'is dreams didn't always come true; but +it was no good. Emily said she wouldn't marry 'im if he 'ad a million a +year, and her aunt and uncle backed her up in it--to say nothing of Bert +Simmons. + +"I'll go up and get your presents, Joseph," she ses; and she ran +upstairs afore anybody could stop her. + +Joseph sat there as if he was dazed, while everybody gave 'im good +advice, and said 'ow thankful he ought to be that the cook 'ad saved him +by 'is dreaming. And by and by Emily came downstairs agin with the +presents he 'ad given 'er and put them on the table in front of 'im. + +"There's everything there but that little silver brooch you gave me, +Joseph," she ses, "and I lost that the other evening when I was out +with--with--for a walk." + +Joseph tried to speak, but couldn't. + +"It was six-and-six, 'cos I was with you when you bought it," ses Emily; +"and as I've lost it, it's on'y fair I should pay for it." + +She put down 'arf a sovereign with the presents, and Joseph sat staring +at it as if he 'ad never seen one afore. + +"And you needn't mind about the change, Joseph," ses Emily; "that'll +'elp to make up for your disappointment." + +Old Bill tried to turn things off with a bit of a laugh. "Why, you're +made o' money, Emily," he ses. + +"Ah! I haven't told you yet," ses Emily, smiling at him; "that's a +little surprise I was keeping for you. Aunt Emma--pore Aunt Emma, I +should say--died while you was away and left me all 'er furniture and +two hundred pounds." + +Joseph made a choking noise in his throat and then 'e got up, leaving +the presents and the 'arf-sovereign on the table, and stood by the door, +staring at them. + +"Good-night all," he ses. Then he went to the front door and opened it, +and arter standing there a moment came back as though he 'ad forgotten +something. + +"Are you coming along now?" he ses to the cook. + +"Not just yet," ses the cook, very quick. + +"I'll wait outside for you, then," ses Joseph, grinding his teeth. +"Don't be long." + + + + +[Illustration: ANGELS' VISITS] + + + + +ANGELS' VISITS + + +Mr. William Jobling leaned against his door-post, smoking. The evening +air, pleasant in its coolness after the heat of the day, caressed his +shirt-sleeved arms. Children played noisily in the long, dreary street, +and an organ sounded faintly in the distance. To Mr. Jobling, who had +just consumed three herrings and a pint and a half of strong tea, the +scene was delightful. He blew a little cloud of smoke in the air, and +with half-closed eyes corrected his first impression as to the tune +being played round the corner. + +"Bill!" cried the voice of Mrs. Jobling, who was washing-up in the tiny +scullery. + +"'Ullo!" responded Mr. Jobling, gruffly. + +"You've been putting your wet teaspoon in the sugar-basin, and--well, I +declare, if you haven't done it again." + +"Done what?" inquired her husband, hunching his shoulders. + +"Putting your herringy knife in the butter. Well, you can eat it now; I +won't. A lot of good me slaving from morning to night and buying good +food when you go and spoil it like that." + +Mr. Jobling removed the pipe from his mouth. "Not so much of it," he +commanded. "I like butter with a little flavor to it. As for your +slaving all day, you ought to come to the works for a week; you'd know +what slavery was then." + +Mrs. Jobling permitted herself a thin, derisive cackle, drowned +hurriedly in a clatter of tea-cups as her husband turned and looked +angrily up the little passage. + +"Nag! nag! nag!" said Mr. Jobling. + +He paused expectantly. + +"Nag! nag! nag! from morning till night," he resumed. "It begins in the +morning and it goes on till bedtime." + +"It's a pity--" began Mrs. Jobling. + +"Hold your tongue," said her husband, sternly; "I don't want any of your +back answers. It goes on all day long up to bedtime, and last night I +laid awake for two hours listening to you nagging in your sleep." + +He paused again. + +"Nagging in your sleep," he repeated. + +There was no reply. + +"Two hours!" he said, invitingly; "two whole hours, without a stop." + +"I 'ope it done you good," retorted his wife. "I noticed you did wipe +one foot when you come in to-night." + +Mr. Jobling denied the charge hotly, and, by way of emphasizing his +denial, raised his foot and sent the mat flying along the passage. Honor +satisfied, he returned to the door-post and, looking idly out on the +street again, exchanged a few desultory remarks with Mr. Joe Brown, who, +with his hands in his pockets, was balancing himself with great skill on +the edge of the curb opposite. + +His gaze wandered from Mr. Brown to a young and rather stylishly-dressed +woman who was approaching--a tall, good-looking girl with a slight limp, +whose hat encountered unspoken feminine criticism at every step. Their +eyes met as she came up, and recognition flashed suddenly into both +faces. + +"Fancy seeing you here!" said the girl. "Well, this is a pleasant +surprise." + +She held out her hand, and Mr. Jobling, with a fierce glance at Mr. +Brown, who was not behaving, shook it respectfully. + +"I'm so glad to see you again," said the girl; "I know I didn't thank +you half enough the other night, but I was too upset." + +"Don't mention it," said Mr. Jobling, in a voice the humility of which +was in strong contrast to the expression with which he was regarding the +antics of Mr. Brown, as that gentleman wafted kisses to the four winds +of heaven. + +There was a pause, broken by a short, dry cough from the parlor window. +The girl, who was almost touching the sill, started nervously. + +"It's only my missis," said Mr. Jobling. + +The girl turned and gazed in at the window. Mr. Jobling, with the stem +of his pipe, performed a brief ceremony of introduction. + +"Good-evening," said Mrs. Jobling, in a thin voice. "I don't know who +you are, but I s'pose my 'usband does." + +"I met him the other night," said the girl, with a bright smile; "I +slipped on a piece of peel or something and fell, and he was passing and +helped me up." + +Mrs. Jobling coughed again. "First I've heard of it," she remarked. + +"I forgot to tell you," said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. "I hope you wasn't +hurt much, miss?" + +"I twisted my ankle a bit, that's all," said the girl; "it's painful +when I walk." + +"Painful now?" inquired Mr. Jobling, in concern. + +The girl nodded. "A little; not very." + +Mr. Jobling hesitated; the contortions of Mr. Brown's face as he strove +to make a wink carry across the road would have given pause to a bolder +man; and twice his wife's husky little cough had sounded from the +window. + +"I s'pose you wouldn't like to step inside and rest for five minutes?" +he said, slowly. + +"Oh, thank you," said the girl, gratefully; "I should like to. It--it +really is very painful. I ought not to have walked so far." + +She limped in behind Mr. Jobling, and after bowing to Mrs. Jobling sank +into the easy-chair with a sigh of relief and looked keenly round the +room. Mr. Jobling disappeared, and his wife flushed darkly as he came +back with his coat on and his hair wet from combing. An awkward silence +ensued. + +"How strong your husband is!" said the girl, clasping her hands +impulsively. + +"Is he?" said Mrs. Jobling. + +"He lifted me up as though I had been a feather," responded the girl. +"He just put his arm round my waist and had me on my feet before I knew +where I was." + +"Round your waist?" repeated Mrs. Jobling. + +"Where else should I put it?" broke in her husband, with sudden +violence. + +His wife made no reply, but sat gazing in a hostile fashion at the bold, +dark eyes and stylish hat of the visitor. + +"I should like to be strong," said the latter, smiling agreeably over at +Mr. Jobling. + +"When I was younger," said that gratified man, "I can assure you I +didn't know my own strength, as the saying is. I used to hurt people +just in play like, without knowing it. I used to have a hug like a +bear." + +"Fancy being hugged like that!" said the girl. "How awful!" she added, +hastily, as she caught the eye of the speechless Mrs. Jobling. + +"Like a bear," repeated Mr. Jobling, highly pleased at the impression he +had made. "I'm pretty strong now; there ain't many as I'm afraid of." + +He bent his arm and thoughtfully felt his biceps, and Mrs. Jobling +almost persuaded herself that she must be dreaming, as she saw the girl +lean forward and pinch Mr. Jobling's arm. Mr. Jobling was surprised too, +but he had the presence of mind to bend the other. + +"Enormous!" said the girl, "and as hard as iron. What a prize-fighter +you'd have made!" + +"He don't want to do no prize-fighting," said Mrs. Jobling, recovering +her speech; "he's a respectable married man." + +Mr. Jobling shook his head over lost opportunities. "I'm too old," he +remarked. + +"He's forty-seven," said his wife. + +"Best age for a man, in my opinion," said the girl; "just entering his +prime. And a man is as old as he feels, you know." + +Mr. Jobling nodded acquiescence and observed that he always felt about +twenty-two; a state of affairs which he ascribed to regular habits, and +a great partiality for the company of young people. + +"I was just twenty-two when I married," he mused, "and my missis was +just six months--" + +"You leave my age alone," interrupted his wife, trembling with passion. +"I'm not so fond of telling my age to strangers." + +"You told mine," retorted Mr. Jobling, "and nobody asked you to do that. +Very free you was in coming out with mine." + +"I ain't the only one that's free," breathed the quivering Mrs. Jobling. +"I 'ope your ankle is better?" she added, turning to the visitor. + +"Much better, thank you," was the reply. + +"Got far to go?" queried Mrs. Jobling. + +The girl nodded. "But I shall take a tram at the end of the street," she +said, rising. + +Mr. Jobling rose too, and all that he had ever heard or read about +etiquette came crowding into his mind. A weekly journal patronized by +his wife had three columns regularly, but he taxed his memory in vain +for any instructions concerning brown-eyed strangers with sprained +ankles. He felt that the path of duty led to the tram-lines. In a +somewhat blundering fashion he proffered his services; the girl accepted +them as a matter of course. + +Mrs. Jobling, with lips tightly compressed, watched them from the door. +The girl, limping slightly, walked along with the utmost composure, but +the bearing of her escort betokened a mind fully conscious of the +scrutiny of the street. + +He returned in about half an hour, and having this time to run the +gauntlet of the street alone, entered with a mien which caused his +wife's complaints to remain unspoken. The cough of Mr. Brown, a +particularly contagious one, still rang in his ears, and he sat for some +time in fierce silence. + +"I see her on the tram," he said, at last "Her name's Robinson--Miss +Robinson." + +"In-deed!" said his wife. + +"Seems a nice sort o' girl," said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. "She's took +quite a fancy to you." + +"I'm sure I'm much obliged to her," retorted his wife. + +[Illustration: "He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a +geranium."] + +"So I--so I asked her to give you a look in now and then," continued Mr. +Jobling, filling his pipe with great care, "and she said she would. +It'll cheer you up a bit." + +Mrs. Jobling bit her lip and, although she had never felt more fluent in +her life, said nothing. Her husband lit his pipe, and after a rapid +glance in her direction took up an old newspaper and began to read. + +He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a geranium in full +bloom. Surprise impeded her utterance, but she thanked him at last with +some warmth, and after a little deliberation decided to put it in the +bedroom. + +Mr. Jobling looked like a man who has suddenly discovered a flaw in his +calculations. "I was thinking of the front parlor winder," he said, at +last. + +"It'll get more sun upstairs," said his wife. + +She took the pot in her arms, and disappeared. Her surprise when she +came down again and found Mr. Jobling rearranging the furniture, and +even adding a choice ornament or two from the kitchen, was too elaborate +to escape his notice. + +"Been going to do it for some time," he remarked. + +Mrs. Jobling left the room and strove with herself in the scullery. She +came back pale of face and with a gleam in her eye which her husband was +too busy to notice. + +"It'll never look much till we get a new hearthrug," she said, shaking +her head. "They've got one at Jackson's that would be just the thing; +and they've got a couple of tall pink vases that would brighten up the +fireplace wonderful. They're going for next to nothing, too." + +Mr. Jobling's reply took the form of uncouth and disagreeable growlings. +After that phase had passed he sat for some time with his hand placed +protectingly in his trouser-pocket. Finally, in a fierce voice, he +inquired the cost. + +Ten minutes later, in a state fairly evenly divided between pleasure and +fury, Mrs. Jobling departed with the money. Wild yearnings for courage +that would enable her to spend the money differently, and confront the +dismayed Mr. Jobling in a new hat and jacket, possessed her on the way; +but they were only yearnings, twenty-five years' experience of her +husband's temper being a sufficient safeguard. + +Miss Robinson came in the day after as they were sitting down to tea. +Mr. Jobling, who was in his shirt-sleeves, just had time to disappear as +the girl passed the window. His wife let her in, and after five remarks +about the weather sat listening in grim pleasure to the efforts of Mr. +Jobling to find his coat. He found it at last, under a chair cushion, +and, somewhat red of face, entered the room and greeted the visitor. + +Conversation was at first rather awkward. The girl's eyes wandered round +the room and paused in astonishment on the pink vases; the beauty of the +rug also called for notice. + +"Yes, they're pretty good," said Mr. Jobling, much gratified by her +approval. + +"Beautiful," murmured the girl. "What a thing it is to have money!" she +said, wistfully. + +"I could do with some," said Mr. Jobling, with jocularity. He helped +himself to bread and butter and began to discuss money and how to spend +it. His ideas favored retirement and a nice little place in the country. + +"I wonder you don't do it," said the girl, softly. + +Mr. Jobling laughed. "Gingell and Watson don't pay on those lines," he +said. "We do the work and they take the money." + +"It's always the way," said the girl, indignantly; "they have all the +luxuries, and the men who make the money for them all the hardships. I +seem to know the name Gingell and Watson. I wonder where I've seen it?" + +"In the paper, p'r'aps," said Mr. Jobling. + +"Advertising?" asked the girl. + +Mr. Jobling shook his head. "Robbery," he replied, seriously. "It was in +last week's paper. Somebody got to the safe and got away with nine +hundred pounds in gold and bank-notes." + +"I remember now," said the girl, nodding. "Did they catch them?" + +"No, and not likely to," was the reply. + +Miss Robinson opened her big eyes and looked round with an air of pretty +defiance. "I am glad of it," she said. + +"Glad?" said Mrs. Jobling, involuntarily breaking a self-imposed vow of +silence. "Glad?" + +The girl nodded. "I like pluck," she said, with a glance in the +direction of Mr. Jobling; "and, besides, whoever took it had as much +right to it as Gingell and Watson; they didn't earn it." + +Mrs. Jobling, appalled at such ideas, glanced at her husband to see how +he received them. "The man's a thief," she said, with great energy, "and +he won't enjoy his gains." + +"I dare say--I dare say he'll enjoy it right enough," said Mr. Jobling, +"if he ain't caught, that is." + +"I believe he is the sort of man I should like," declared Miss Robinson, +obstinately. + +"I dare say," said Mrs. Jobling; "and I've no doubt he'd like you. Birds +of a--" + +"That'll do," said her husband, peremptorily; "that's enough about it. +The guv'nors can afford to lose it; that's one comfort." + +He leaned over as the girl asked for more sugar and dropped a spoonful +in her cup, expressing surprise that she should like her tea so sweet. +Miss Robinson, denying the sweetness, proffered her cup in proof, and +Mrs. Jobling sat watching with blazing eyes the antics of her husband as +he sipped at it. + +"Sweets to the sweet," he said, gallantly, as he handed it back. + +Miss Robinson pouted, and, raising the cup to her lips, gazed ardently +at him over the rim. Mr. Jobling, who certainly felt not more than +twenty-two that evening, stole her cake and received in return a rap +from a teaspoon. Mr. Jobling retaliated, and Mrs. Jobling, unable to +eat, sat looking on in helpless fury at little arts of fascination which +she had discarded--at Mr. Jobling's earnest request--soon after their +marriage. + +[Illustration: "They offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least a +hundred plans for bringing him to his senses."] + +By dint of considerable self-control, aided by an occasional glance from +her husband, she managed to preserve her calm until he returned from +seeing the visitor to her tram. Then her pent-up feelings found vent. +Quietly scornful at first, she soon waxed hysterical over his age and +figure. Tears followed as she bade him remember what a good wife she had +been to him, loudly claiming that any other woman would have poisoned +him long ago. Speedily finding that tears were of no avail, and that Mr. +Jobling seemed to regard them rather as a tribute to his worth than +otherwise, she gave way to fury, and, in a fine, but unpunctuated +passage, told him her exact opinion of Miss Robinson. + +"It's no good carrying on like that," said Mr. Jobling, magisterially, +"and, what's more, I won't have it." + +"Walking into my house and making eyes at my 'usband," stormed his wife. + +"So long as I don't make eyes at her there's no harm done," retorted Mr. +Jobling. "I can't help her taking a fancy to me, poor thing." + +"I'd poor thing her," said his wife. + +"She's to be pitied," said Mr. Jobling, sternly. "I know how she feels. +She can't help herself, but she'll get over it in time. I don't suppose +she thinks for a moment we have noticed her--her--her liking for me, and +I'm not going to have her feelings hurt." + +"What about my feelings?" demanded his wife. + +"_You_ have got me," Mr. Jobling reminded her. + +The nine points of the law was Mrs. Jobling's only consolation for the +next few days. Neighboring matrons, exchanging sympathy for information, +wished, strangely enough, that Mr. Jobling was their husband. Failing +that they offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least a hundred plans +for bringing him to his senses. + +Mr. Jobling, who was a proud man, met their hostile glances as he passed +to and from his work with scorn, until a day came when the hostility +vanished and gave place to smiles. Never so many people in the street, +he thought, as he returned from work; certainly never so many smiles. +People came hurriedly from their back premises to smile at him, and, as +he reached his door, Mr. Joe Brown opposite had all the appearance of a +human sunbeam. Tired of smiling faces, he yearned for that of his wife. +She came out of the kitchen and met him with a look of sly content. The +perplexed Mr. Jobling eyed her morosely. + +"What are you laughing at me for?" he demanded. + +"I wasn't laughing at you," said his wife. + +She went back into the kitchen and sang blithely as she bustled over the +preparations for tea. Her voice was feeble, but there was a triumphant +effectiveness about the high notes which perplexed the listener sorely. +He seated himself in the new easy-chair--procured to satisfy the +supposed aesthetic tastes of Miss Robinson--and stared at the window. + +"You seem very happy all of a sudden," he growled, as his wife came in +with the tray. + +"Well, why shouldn't I be?" inquired Mrs. Jobling. "I've got everything +to make me so." + +Mr. Jobling looked at her in undisguised amazement. + +"New easy-chair, new vases, and a new hearthrug," explained his wife, +looking round the room. "Did you order that little table you said you +would?" + +"Yes," growled Mr. Jobling. + +"Pay for it?" inquired his wife, with a trace of anxiety. + +"Yes," said Mr. Jobling again. + +Mrs. Jobling's face relaxed. "I shouldn't like to lose it at the last +moment," she said. "You 'ave been good to me lately, Bill; buying all +these nice things. There's not many women have got such a thoughtful +husband as what I have." + +"Have you gone dotty? or what?" inquired her bewildered husband. + +"It's no wonder people like you," pursued Mrs. Jobling, ignoring the +question, and smiling again as she placed three chairs at the table. +"I'll wait a minute or two before I soak the tea; I expect Miss Robinson +won't be long, and she likes it fresh." + +Mr. Jobling, to conceal his amazement and to obtain a little fresh air +walked out of the room and opened the front door. + +"Cheer oh!" said the watchful Mr. Brown, with a benignant smile. + +Mr. Jobling scowled at him. + +"It's all right," said Mr. Brown. "You go in and set down; I'm watching +for her." + +He nodded reassuringly, and, not having curiosity enough to accept the +other's offer and step across the road and see what he would get, shaded +his eyes with his hand and looked with exaggerated anxiety up the road. +Mr. Jobling, heavy of brow, returned to the parlor and looked hard at +his wife. + +"She's late," said Mrs. Jobling, glancing at the clock. "I do hope she's +all right, but I should feel anxious about her if she was my gal. It's a +dangerous life." + +"Dangerous life!" said Mr. Jobling, roughly. "What's a dangerous life?" + +"Why, hers," replied his wife, with a nervous smile. "Joe Brown told me. +He followed her 'ome last night, and this morning he found out all about +her." + +The mention of Mr. Brown's name caused Mr. Jobling at first to assume an +air of indifference; but curiosity overpowered him. + +"What lies has he been telling?" he demanded. + +"I don't think it's a lie, Bill," said his wife, mildly. "Putting two +and two--" + +"What did he say?" cried Mr. Jobling, raising his voice. + +"He said, 'She--she's a lady detective,'" stammered Mrs. Jobling, +putting her handkerchief to her unruly mouth. + +"A tec!" repeated her husband. "A lady tec?" + +Mrs. Jobling nodded. "Yes, Bill. She--she--she--" + +"Well?" said Mr. Jobling, in exasperation. + +"She's being employed by Gingell and Watson," said his wife. + +Mr. Jobling sprang to his feet, and with scarlet face and clinched fists +strove to assimilate the information and all its meaning. + +"What--what did she come here for? Do you mean to tell me she thinks +_I_ took the money?" he said, huskily, after a long pause. + +Mrs. Jobling bent before the storm. "I think she took a fancy to you, +Bill," she said, timidly. + +Mr. Jobling appeared to swallow something; then he took a step nearer to +her. "You let me see you laugh again, that's all," he said, fiercely. +"As for that Jezzybill--" + +"There she is," said his wife, as a knock sounded at the door. "Don't +say anything to hurt her feelings, Bill. You said she was to be pitied. +And it must be a hard life to 'ave to go round and flatter old married +men. I shouldn't like it." + +Mr. Jobling, past speech, stood and glared at her. Then, with an +inarticulate cry, he rushed to the front door and flung it open. Miss +Robinson, fresh and bright, stood smiling outside. Within easy distance +a little group of neighbors were making conversation, while opposite Mr. +Brown awaited events. + +"What d'you want?" demanded Mr. Jobling, harshly. + +Miss Robinson, who had put out her hand, drew it back and gave him a +swift glance. His red face and knitted brows told their own story. + +"Oh!" she said, with a winning smile, "will you please tell Mrs. Jobling +that I can't come to tea with her this evening?" + +"Isn't there anything else you'd like to say?" inquired Mr. Jobling, +disdainfully, as she turned away. + +The girl paused and appeared to reflect. "You can say that I am sorry to +miss an amusing evening," she said, regarding him steadily. "Good-by." + +Mr. Jobling slammed the door. + + + + +[Illustration: A CIRCULAR TOUR] + + + + +A CIRCULAR TOUR + + +Illness? said the night watchman, slowly. Yes, sailormen get ill +sometimes, but not 'aving the time for it that other people have, and +there being no doctors at sea, they soon pick up agin. Ashore, if a +man's ill he goes to a horse-pittle and 'as a nice nurse to wait on 'im; +at sea the mate comes down and tells 'im that there is nothing the +matter with 'im, and asks 'im if he ain't ashamed of 'imself. The only +mate I ever knew that showed any feeling was one who 'ad been a doctor +and 'ad gone to sea to better 'imself. He didn't believe in medicine; +his idea was to cut things out, and he was so kind and tender, and so +fond of 'is little box of knives and saws, that you wouldn't ha' thought +anybody could 'ave had the 'art to say "no" to him. But they did. I +remember 'im getting up at four o'clock one morning to cut a man's leg +off, and at ha'-past three the chap was sitting up aloft with four pairs +o' trousers on and a belaying-pin in his 'and. + +One chap I knew, Joe Summers by name, got so sick o' work one v'y'ge +that he went mad. Not dangerous mad, mind you. Just silly. One thing he +did was to pretend that the skipper was 'is little boy, and foller 'im +up unbeknown and pat his 'ead. At last, to pacify him, the old man +pretended that he was 'is little boy, and a precious handful of a boy he +was too, I can tell you. Fust of all he showed 'is father 'ow they +wrestled at school, and arter that he showed 'im 'ow he 'arf killed +another boy in fifteen rounds. Leastways he was going to, but arter +seven rounds Joe's madness left 'im all of a sudden and he was as right +as ever he was. + +Sailormen are more frequent ill ashore than at sea; they've got more +time for it, I s'pose. Old Sam Small, a man you may remember by name as +a pal o' mine, got ill once, and, like most 'ealthy men who get a little +something the matter with 'em, he made sure 'e was dying. He was sharing +a bedroom with Ginger Dick and Peter Russet at the time, and early one +morning he woke up groaning with a chill or something which he couldn't +account for, but which Ginger thought might ha' been partly caused +through 'im sleeping in the fireplace. + +"Is that you, Sam?" ses Ginger, waking up with the noise and rubbing his +eyes. "Wot's the matter?" + +"I'm dying," ses Sam, with another awful groan. "Good-by, Ginger." + +"Goo'-by," ses Ginger, turning over and falling fast asleep agin. + +Old Sam picked 'imself up arter two or three tries, and then he +staggered over to Peter Russet's bed and sat on the foot of it, +groaning, until Peter woke up very cross and tried to push 'im off with +his feet. + +"I'm dying, Peter," ses Sam, and 'e rolled over and buried his face in +the bed-clo'es and kicked. Peter Russet, who was a bit scared, sat up in +bed and called for Ginger, and arter he 'ad called pretty near a dozen +times Ginger 'arf woke up and asked 'im wot was the matter. + +"Poor old Sam's dying," ses Peter. + +"I know," ses Ginger, laying down and cuddling into the piller agin. "He +told me just now. I've bid 'im good-by." + +Peter Russet asked 'im where his 'art was, but Ginger was asleep agin. +Then Peter sat up in bed and tried to comfort Sam, and listened while 'e +told 'im wot it felt like to die. How 'e was 'ot and cold all over, +burning and shivering, with pains in his inside that he couldn't +describe if 'e tried. + +"It'll soon be over, Sam," ses Peter, kindly, "and all your troubles +will be at an end. While me and Ginger are knocking about at sea trying +to earn a crust o' bread to keep ourselves alive, you'll be quiet and at +peace." + +Sam groaned. "I don't like being too quiet," he ses. "I was always one +for a bit o' fun--innercent fun." + +Peter coughed. + +"You and Ginger 'av been good pals," ses Sam; "it's hard to go and leave +you." + +"We've all got to go some time or other, Sam," ses Peter, soothing-like. +"It's a wonder to me, with your habits, that you've lasted as long as +you 'ave." + +"My _habits_?" ses Sam, sitting up all of a sudden. "Why, you +monkey-faced son of a sea-cook, for two pins I'd chuck you out of the +winder." + +"Don't talk like that on your death-bed," ses Peter, very shocked. + +Sam was going to answer 'im sharp agin, but just then 'e got a pain +which made 'im roll about on the bed and groan to such an extent that +Ginger woke up agin and got out o' bed. + +"Pore old Sam!" he ses, walking across the room and looking at 'im. +"'Ave you got any pain anywhere?" + +"_Pain_?" ses Sam. "Pain? I'm a mask o' pains all over." + +Ginger and Peter looked at 'im and shook their 'eds, and then they went +a little way off and talked about 'im in whispers. + +"He looks 'arf dead now," ses Peter, coming back and staring at 'im. +"Let's take 'is clothes off, Ginger; it's more decent to die with 'em +off." + +"I think I'll 'ave a doctor," ses Sam, in a faint voice. + +"You're past doctors, Sam," ses Ginger, in a kind voice. + +"Better 'ave your last moments in peace," ses Peter, "and keep your +money in your trouser-pockets." + +"You go and fetch a doctor, you murderers," ses Sam, groaning, as Peter +started to undress 'im. "Go on, else I'll haunt you with my ghost." + +Ginger tried to talk to 'im about the sin o' wasting money, but it was +all no good, and arter telling Peter wot to do in case Sam died afore he +come back, he went off. He was gone about 'arf an hour, and then he come +back with a sandy-'aired young man with red eyelids and a black bag. + +"Am I dying, sir?" ses Sam, arter the doctor 'ad listened to his lungs +and his 'art and prodded 'im all over. + +"We're all dying," ses the doctor, "only some of us'll go sooner than +others." + +"Will he last the day, sir?" ses Ginger. + +The doctor looked at Sam agin, and Sam held 'is breath while 'e waited +for him to answer. "Yes," ses the doctor at last, "if he does just wot I +tell him and takes the medicine I send 'im." + +He wasn't in the room 'arf an hour altogether, and he charged pore Sam a +shilling; but wot 'urt Sam even more than that was to hear 'im go off +downstairs whistling as cheerful as if there wasn't a dying man within a +'undred miles. + +Peter and Ginger Dick took turns to be with Sam that morning, but in the +arternoon the landlady's mother, an old lady who was almost as fat as +Sam 'imself, came up to look arter 'im a bit. She sat on a chair by the +side of 'is bed and tried to amuse 'im by telling 'im of all the death- +beds she'd been at, and partikler of one man, the living image of Sam, +who passed away in his sleep. It was past ten o'clock when Peter and +Ginger came 'ome, but they found pore Sam still awake and sitting up in +bed holding 'is eyes open with his fingers. + +[Illustration: "She asked 'im whether 'e'd got a fancy for any partikler +spot to be buried in."] + +Sam had another shilling's-worth the next day, and 'is medicine was +changed for the worse. If anything he seemed a trifle better, but the +landlady's mother, wot came up to nurse 'im agin, said it was a bad +sign, and that people often brightened up just afore the end. She asked +'im whether 'e'd got a fancy for any partikler spot to be buried in, +and, talking about wot a lot o' people 'ad been buried alive, said she'd +ask the doctor to cut Sam's 'ead off to prevent mistakes. She got quite +annoyed with Sam for saying, supposing there _was_ a mistake and he +came round in the middle of it, how'd he feel? and said there was no +satisfying some people, do wot you would. + +At the end o' six days Sam was still alive and losing a shilling a day, +to say nothing of buying 'is own beef-tea and such-like. Ginger said it +was fair highway robbery, and tried to persuade Sam to go to a +'orsepittle, where he'd 'ave lovely nurses to wait on 'im hand and foot, +and wouldn't keep 'is best friends awake of a night making 'orrible +noises. + +Sam didn't take kindly to the idea at fust, but as the doctor forbid 'im +to get up, although he felt much better, and his money was wasting away, +he gave way at last, and at seven o'clock one evening he sent Ginger off +to fetch a cab to take 'im to the London Horsepittle. Sam said something +about putting 'is clothes on, but Peter Russet said the horsepittle +would be more likely to take him in if he went in the blanket and +counterpane, and at last Sam gave way. Ginger and Peter helped 'im +downstairs, and the cabman laid hold o' one end o' the blanket as they +got to the street-door, under the idea that he was helping, and very +near gave Sam another chill. + +"Keep your hair on," he ses, as Sam started on 'im. "It'll be three-and- +six for the fare, and I'll take the money now." + +"You'll 'ave it when you get there," ses Ginger. + +"I'll 'ave it now," ses the cabman. "I 'ad a fare die on the way once +afore." + +Ginger--who was minding Sam's money for 'im because there wasn't a +pocket in the counterpane--paid 'im, and the cab started. It jolted and +rattled over the stones, but Sam said the air was doing 'im good. He +kept 'is pluck up until they got close to the horsepittle, and then 'e +got nervous. And 'e got more nervous when the cabman got down off 'is +box and put his 'ed in at the winder and spoke to 'im. + +"'Ave you got any partikler fancy for the London Horsepittle?" he ses. + +"No," ses Sam. "Why?" + +"Well, I s'pose it don't matter, if wot your mate ses is true--that +you're dying," ses the cabman. + +"Wot d'ye mean?" says Sam. + +"Nothing," ses the cabman; "only, fust and last, I s'pose I've driven +five 'undred people to that 'orsepittle, and only one ever came out +agin--and he was smuggled out in a bread-basket." + +Sam's flesh began to creep all over. + +"It's a pity they don't 'ave the same rules as Charing Cross +Horsepittle," ses the cabman. "The doctors 'ave five pounds apiece for +every patient that gets well there, and the consequence is they ain't +'ad the blinds down for over five months." + +"Drive me there," ses Sam. + +"It's a long way," ses the cabman, shaking his 'ed, "and it 'ud cost you +another 'arf dollar. S'pose you give the London a try?" + +"You drive to Charing Cross," ses Sam, telling Ginger to give 'im the +'arf-dollar. "And look sharp; these things ain't as warm as they might +be." + +The cabman turned his 'orse round and set off agin, singing. The cab +stopped once or twice for a little while, and then it stopped for quite +a long time, and the cabman climbed down off 'is box and came to the +winder agin. + +"I'm sorry, mate," he ses, "but did you see me speak to that party just +now?" + +"The one you flicked with your whip?" ses Ginger. + +"No; he was speaking to me," ses the cabman. "The last one, I mean." + +"Wot about it?" ses Peter. + +"He's the under-porter at the horsepittle," ses the cabman, spitting; +"and he tells me that every bed is bung full, and two patients apiece in +some of 'em." + +"I don't mind sleeping two in a bed," ses Sam, who was very tired and +cold. + +"No," ses the cabman, looking at 'im; "but wot about the other one?" + +"Well, what's to be done?" ses Peter. + +"You might go to Guy's," ses the cabman; "that's as good as Charing +Cross." + +"I b'lieve you're telling a pack o' lies," ses Ginger. + +"Come out o' my cab," ses the cabman, very fierce. "Come on, all of you. +Out you get." + +Ginger and Peter was for getting out, but Sam wouldn't 'ear of it. It +was bad enough being wrapped up in a blanket in a cab, without being +turned out in 'is bare feet on the pavement, and at last Ginger +apologized to the cabman by saying 'e supposed if he was a liar he +couldn't 'elp it. The cabman collected three shillings more to go to +Guy's 'orsepittle, and, arter a few words with Ginger, climbed up on 'is +box and drove off agin. + +They were all rather tired of the cab by this time, and, going over +Waterloo Bridge, Ginger began to feel uncommon thirsty, and, leaning out +of the winder, he told the cabman to pull up for a drink. He was so long +about it that Ginger began to think he was bearing malice, but just as +he was going to tell 'im agin, the cab pulled up in a quiet little +street opposite a small pub. Ginger Dick and Peter went in and 'ad +something and brought one out for Sam. They 'ad another arter that, and +Ginger, getting 'is good temper back agin, asked the cabman to 'ave one. + +"Look lively about it, Ginger," ses Sam, very sharp. "You forget 'ow ill +I am." + +Ginger said they wouldn't be two seconds, and, the cabman calling a boy +to mind his 'orse, they went inside. It was a quiet little place, but +very cosey, and Sam, peeping out of the winder, could see all three of +'em leaning against the bar and making themselves comfortable. Twice he +made the boy go in to hurry them up, and all the notice they took was to +go on at the boy for leaving the horse. + +Pore old Sam sat there hugging 'imself in the bed-clo'es, and getting +wilder and wilder. He couldn't get out of the cab, and 'e couldn't call +to them for fear of people coming up and staring at 'im. Ginger, smiling +all over with 'appiness, had got a big cigar on and was pretending to +pinch the barmaid's flowers, and Peter and the cabman was talking to +some other chaps there. The only change Sam 'ad was when the boy walked +the 'orse up and down the road. + +He sat there for an hour and then 'e sent the boy in agin. This time the +cabman lost 'is temper, and, arter chasing the boy up the road, gave a +young feller twopence to take 'is place and promised 'im another +twopence when he came out. Sam tried to get a word with 'im as 'e +passed, but he wouldn't listen, and it was pretty near 'arf an hour +later afore they all came out, talking and laughing. + +"Now for the 'orsepittle," ses Ginger, opening the door. "Come on, +Peter; don't keep pore old Sam waiting all night." + +"'Arf a tic," ses the cabman, "'arf a tic; there's five shillings for +waiting, fust." + +"_Wot_?" ses Ginger, staring at 'im. "Arter giving you all them +drinks?" + +"Five shillings," ses the cabman; "two hours' waiting at half a crown an +hour. That's the proper charge." + +Ginger thought 'e was joking at fust, and when he found 'e wasn't he +called 'im all the names he could think of, while Peter Russet stood by +smiling and trying to think where 'e was and wot it was all about. + +"Pay 'im the five bob, Ginger, and 'ave done with it," ses pore Sam, at +last. "I shall never get to the horsepittle at this rate." + +"Cert'inly not," ses Ginger, "not if we stay 'ere all night." + +"Pay 'im the five bob," ses Sam, raising 'is voice; "it's my money." + +"You keep quiet," ses Ginger, "and speak when your spoke to. Get inside, +Peter." + +Peter, wot was standing by blinking and smiling, misunderstood 'im, and +went back inside the pub. Ginger went arter 'im to fetch 'im back, and +hearing a noise turned round and saw the cabman pulling Sam out o' the +cab. He was just in time to shove 'im back agin, and for the next two or +three minutes 'im and the cabman was 'ard at it. Sam was too busy +holding 'is clothes on to do much, and twice the cabman got 'im 'arf +out, and twice Ginger got him back agin and bumped 'im back in 'is seat +and shut the door. Then they both stopped and took breath. + +"We'll see which gets tired fust," ses Ginger. "Hold the door inside, +Sam." + +The cabman looked at 'im, and then 'e climbed up on to 'is seat and, +just as Ginger ran back for Peter Russet, drove off at full speed. + +Pore Sam leaned back in 'is seat panting and trying to wrap 'imself up +better in the counterpane, which 'ad got torn in the struggle. They went +through street arter street, and 'e was just thinking of a nice warm bed +and a kind nurse listening to all 'is troubles when 'e found they was +going over London Bridge. + +"You've passed it," he ses, putting his 'ead out of the winder. + +The cabman took no notice, and afore Sam could think wot to make of it +they was in the Whitechapel Road, and arter that, although Sam kept +putting his 'ead out of the winder and asking 'im questions, they kept +going through a lot o' little back streets until 'e began to think the +cabman 'ad lost 'is way. They stopped at last in a dark little road, in +front of a brick wall, and then the cabman got down and opened a door +and led his 'orse and cab into a yard. + +"Do you call this Guy's Horsepittle?" ses Sam. + +"Hullo!" ses the cabman. "Why, I thought I put you out o' my cab once." + +"I'll give you five minutes to drive me to the 'orsepittle," ses Sam. +"Arter that I shall go for the police." + +"All right," ses the cabman, taking his 'orse out and leading it into a +stable. "Mind you don't catch cold." + +He lighted a lantern and began to look arter the 'orse, and pore Sam sat +there getting colder and colder and wondering wot 'e was going to do. + +"I shall give you in charge for kidnapping me," he calls out very loud. + +"Kidnapping?" ses the cabman. "Who do you think wants to kidnap you? The +gate's open, and you can go as soon as you like." + +Sam climbed out of the cab, and holding up the counterpane walked across +the yard in 'is bare feet to the stable. "Well, will you drive me 'ome?" +he ses. + +"Cert'inly not," ses the cabman; "I'm going 'ome myself now. It's time +you went, 'cos I'm going to lock up." + +"'Ow can I go like this?" ses Sam, bursting with passion. "Ain't you got +any sense?" + +"Well, wot are you going to do?" ses the cabman, picking 'is teeth with +a bit o' straw. + +"Wot would you do if you was me?" ses Sam, calming down a bit and trying +to speak civil. + +[Illustration: "'All right,' ses the cabman, taking his 'orse out and +leading it into a stable. 'Mind you don't catch cold.'"] + +"Well, if I was you," said the cabman, speaking very slow, "I should be +more perlite to begin with; you accused me just now--me, a 'ard-working +man--o' kidnapping you." + +"It was only my fun," ses Sam, very quick. + +"I ain't kidnapping you, am I?" ses the cabman. + +"Cert'inly not," ses Sam. + +"Well, then," ses the cabman, "if I was you I should pay 'arf a crown +for a night's lodging in this nice warm stable, and in the morning I +should ask the man it belongs to--that's me--to go up to my lodging with +a letter, asking for a suit o' clothes and eleven-and-six." + +"Eleven-and-six?" ses Sam, staring. + +"Five bob for two hours' wait," ses the cabman, "four shillings for the +drive here, and 'arf a crown for the stable. That's fair, ain't it?" + +Sam said it was--as soon as he was able to speak--and then the cabman +gave 'im a truss of straw to lay on and a rug to cover 'im up with. + +And then, calling 'imself a fool for being so tender-'earted, he left +Sam the lantern, and locked the stable-door and went off. + +It seemed like a 'orrid dream to Sam, and the only thing that comforted +'im was the fact that he felt much better. His illness seemed to 'ave +gone, and arter hunting round the stable to see whether 'e could find +anything to eat, 'e pulled the rug over him and went to sleep. + +He was woke up at six o'clock in the morning by the cabman opening the +door. There was a lovely smell o' hot tea from a tin he 'ad in one 'and, +and a lovelier smell still from a plate o' bread and butter and bloaters +in the other. Sam sniffed so 'ard that at last the cabman noticed it, +and asked 'im whether he 'ad got a cold. When Sam explained he seemed to +think a minute or two, and then 'e said that it was 'is breakfast, but +Sam could 'ave it if 'e liked to make up the money to a pound. + +"Take it or leave it," he ses, as Sam began to grumble. + +Poor Sam was so 'ungry he took it, and it done him good. By the time he +'ad eaten it he felt as right as ninepence, and 'e took such a dislike +to the cabman 'e could hardly be civil to 'im. And when the cabman spoke +about the letter to Ginger Dick he spoke up and tried to bate 'im down +to seven-and-six. + +"You write that letter for a pound," ses the cabman, looking at 'im very +fierce, "or else you can walk 'ome in your counterpane, with 'arf the +boys in London follering you and trying to pull it off." + +Sam rose 'im to seventeen-and-six, but it was all no good, and at last +'e wrote a letter to Ginger Dick, telling 'im to give the cabman a suit +of clothes and a pound. + +"And look sharp about it," he ses. "I shall expect 'em in 'arf an hour." + +"You'll 'ave 'em, if you're lucky, when I come back to change 'orses at +four o'clock," ses the cabman. "D'ye think I've got nothing to do but +fuss about arter you?" + +"Why not drive me back in the cab?" ses Sam. + +"'Cos I wasn't born yesterday," ses the cabman. + +He winked at Sam, and then, whistling very cheerful, took his 'orse out +and put it in the cab. He was so good-tempered that 'e got quite +playful, and Sam 'ad to tell him that when 'e wanted to 'ave his legs +tickled with a straw he'd let 'im know. + +Some people can't take a 'int, and, as the cabman wouldn't be'ave +'imself, Sam walked into a shed that was handy and pulled the door to, +and he stayed there until he 'eard 'im go back to the stable for 'is +rug. It was only a yard or two from the shed to the cab, and, 'ardly +thinking wot he was doing, Sam nipped out and got into it and sat +huddled up on the floor. + +He sat there holding 'is breath and not daring to move until the cabman +'ad shut the gate and was driving off up the road, and then 'e got up on +the seat and lolled back out of sight. The shops were just opening, the +sun was shining, and Sam felt so well that 'e was thankful that 'e +hadn't got to the horsepittle arter all. + +The cab was going very slow, and two or three times the cabman 'arf +pulled up and waved his whip at people wot he thought wanted a cab, but +at last an old lady and gentleman, standing on the edge of the curb with +a big bag, held up their 'ands to 'im. The cab pulled in to the curb, +and the old gentleman 'ad just got hold of the door and was trying to +open it when he caught sight of Sam. + +"Why, you've got a fare," he ses. + +"No, sir," ses the cabman. + +"But I say you 'ave," ses the old gentleman. + +The cabman climbed down off 'is box and looked in at the winder, and for +over two minutes he couldn't speak a word. He just stood there looking +at Sam and getting purpler and purpler about the face. + +"Drive on, cabby," ses Sam, "Wot are you stopping for?" + +The cabman tried to tell 'im, but just then a policeman came walking up +to see wot was the matter, and 'e got on the box agin and drove off. +Cabmen love policemen just about as much as cats love dogs, and he drove +down two streets afore he stopped and got down agin to finish 'is +remarks. + +"Not so much talk, cabman," ses Sam, who was beginning to enjoy 'imself, +"else I shall call the police." + +"Are you coming out o' my cab?" ses the cabman, "or 'ave I got to put +you out?" + +"You put me out!" ses Sam, who 'ad tied 'is clothes up with string while +'e was in the stable, and 'ad got his arms free. + +The cabman looked at 'im 'elpless for a moment, and then he got up and +drove off agin. At fust Sam thought 'e was going to drive back to the +stable, and he clinched 'is teeth and made up 'is mind to 'ave a fight +for it. Then he saw that 'e was really being driven 'ome, and at last +the cab pulled up in the next street to 'is lodgings, and the cabman, +asking a man to give an eye to his 'orse, walked on with the letter. He +was back agin in a few minutes, and Sam could see by 'is face that +something had 'appened. + +"They ain't been 'ome all night," he ses, sulky-like. + +"Well, I shall 'ave to send the money on to you," ses Sam, in a off-hand +way. "Unless you like to call for it." + +[Illustration: "So long."] + +"I'll call for it, matey," ses the cabman, with a kind smile, as he took +'old of his 'orse and led it up to Sam's lodgings. "I know I can trust +you, but it'll save you trouble. But s'pose he's been on the drink and +lost the money?" + +Sam got out and made a dash for the door, which 'appened to be open. "It +won't make no difference," he ses. + +"No difference?" ses the cabman, staring. + +"Not to you, I mean," ses Sam, shutting the door very slow. "So long." + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Short Cruises, by W.W. Jacobs + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT CRUISES *** + +This file should be named 6465.txt or 6465.zip + +Produced by Tonya Allen, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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