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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78235 ***
+
+
+
+
+_BY W. W. JACOBS_
+
+
+  SEA WHISPERS
+  DEEP WATERS
+  THE CASTAWAYS
+  NIGHT WATCHES
+  SHIP’S COMPANY
+  SAILORS’ KNOTS
+  SALTHAVEN
+  SHORT CRUISES
+  CAPTAINS ALL
+  DIALSTONE LANE
+  ODD CRAFT
+  AT SUNWICH PORT
+
+_CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS_
+
+
+
+
+SEA WHISPERS
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: “‘I’m going to give Peter something else to laugh
+about,’ ses Ginger”]
+
+
+
+
+SEA WHISPERS
+
+BY
+W. W. JACOBS
+
+
+_ILLUSTRATED BY BERT THOMAS_
+
+
+CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
+NEW YORK  : : : : : :  1927
+
+
+
+
+COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY
+CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
+
+Printed in the United States of America
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+TO
+THE MEMORY OF MY FRIEND
+JAMES B. PINKER
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+CHAPTER                                                     PAGE
+
+I. THE BRAVO                                                   1
+
+II. TAKING PAINS                                              31
+
+III. HIS BROTHER’S KEEPER                                     57
+
+IV. TRUST MONEY                                               84
+
+V. KITCHEN COMPANY                                           113
+
+VI. THE MODEL                                                140
+
+VII. ARTFUL CARDS                                            158
+
+VIII. HANDSOME HARRY                                         186
+
+IX. THE BLINDNESS OF CAPT. FERGUSON                          213
+
+X. WAPPING-ON-THAMES                                         232
+
+XI. THE INTERRUPTION                                         242
+
+XII. BED CASES                                               272
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+
+“‘I’m going to give Peter something else to laugh
+about,’ ses Ginger”                               _Frontispiece_
+
+                                                     FACING PAGE
+
+“‘I want to come inside,’ he ses, shoving ’is face
+close up to mine. ‘I believe you’ve got my
+gal there’”                                                   11
+
+“‘Stand up,’ says Alf, pullin’ ’im by the collar--stand
+up and take wot’s comin’ to you’”                 _Page_      27
+
+The marvellous case of Old Mr. Jackson                        35
+
+“Ho, Ho,” said the other. “All right--don’t
+worry--mum’s the word”                                        61
+
+“And then Mr. Jackson took ’im a bit to one side
+and whispered to ’im”                             _Page_      97
+
+“‘You’ve killed ’im,’ ses Peter, staring. ‘Good
+job,’ ses Ginger, thinking of ’is pore leg.
+‘Come on, let’s get Sam’s money back.’”                      104
+
+The Captain stayed to see Fair Play                          137
+
+“Beautiful,” said the artist joyfully--“beautiful”           143
+
+“Where’s old Sam?” he ses. “Wot ’ave you
+done with him?”                                              175
+
+“Sam came into the room looking very bright
+and pleased with ’imself”                         _Page_     181
+
+“If he’s only half as good looking as what you
+say he is we might fall in love with him”                    192
+
+“No you mustn’t,” said his wife, pushing his great
+form back into the chair                                     215
+
+While master-mariners sat drinking in the bow-windows
+afore-said                                                   233
+
+The last time he looked at Hannah was the first
+time for months he had looked at her without
+loathing and hatred                                          270
+
+“Outside,” ses the Landlord--“d’ye ’ear me?--_OUTSIDE_”      275
+
+
+
+
+The Bravo
+
+
+
+
+The Bravo
+
+
+There was a chill air off the river, and the water looked cold and
+dark. Side-lights were already appearing, and the siren of a large
+steamer coming up indulged in grievous lamentations. A slight shiver
+altered for a moment the contour of the night-watchman’s jersey. He
+patted it tenderly.
+
+“There’s worse things than loneliness, though,” he said after a long
+silence, “and a man as does his dooty can always find something to do.”
+
+He got up from the bollard and, with a faint grunt, stooped and picked
+up his broom. A voice from the next wharf told him to take care not to
+overdo it.
+
+“That’s the new man next door,” said the night-watchman. “He’s feeling
+lonely and ’e wants me to answer him back--and I shan’t.
+
+“I used to feel like it myself at fust; not that I ever gave any lip
+to my olders and betters; but I used to feel I wanted somebody to talk
+to. One time I let a painter chap come and paint ’ere. He used to
+paint ships and things, and that lasted till one day he asked to be
+allowed to paint my portrait. It took ’im three evenings. He showed it
+to me when it was finished as if ’e was proud of it; and then ’e went
+straight off ’ome, packing up his things as ’e went and talking about
+sending for the police.
+
+“Arter that I ’ad a dog for company. Bull-terrier he was, and somebody
+must ha’ paid a lot o’ money for ’im. I had ’im a couple o’ months, and
+then the landlord of the ‘Albion’ offered me a couple o’ quid for ’im,
+and while I was trying to raise him to two pun’ ten some low, dirty,
+sneaking thief got ’im for nothing. There’s people about ’ere as would
+steal your whiskers off your face if they wanted ’em. And if you went
+to the police about it the fust thing they would ask is where you got
+them from.
+
+“I ’ad another dog arter that, but ’e wasn’t wot you might call a
+success. He bit three people in a fortnight, and then ’e bit me. The
+last I see of him, he was trying to swim across the river with a brick.
+
+“A watchman is best all alone by ’imself. He can’t cheat ’imself at
+cards, and any drink he pays for isn’t money wasted. I ’ad a little
+lesson once about keeping myself to myself and it done me good. Though
+I didn’t see it at the time.
+
+“It was just such an evening as this might be. I ’ad been hard at work
+tidying up, and was just thinking of getting my ladder and lighting up,
+when the wicket was pushed open sudden and a young feller ’opped in
+follered by a gal. They shut it arter them very gentle and then stood
+there talking in w’ispers and looking round at me.
+
+“‘’Ullo!’ I ses. ‘Wot’s all this about?’
+
+“‘_Hsh!_’ ses the gal. ‘_Hsh!_’
+
+“‘Wot d’you want?’ I ses, very loud, a-purpose. ‘Who asked you to come
+on my wharf and _hsh_ me about?’
+
+“Pretty little thing she was, about eighteen, with nice large blue eyes
+and brown ’air.
+
+“‘We’re escaping,’ she ses, coming up and catching ’old of my arm.
+
+“‘Wot ’ave you been doing?’ I ses, trying to speak severe.
+
+“‘Nothing,’ she ses, shaking her ’ead.
+
+“‘Wot’s _he_ been doing, then?’ I ses.
+
+“‘Nothing that I’m ashamed of,’ ses the young feller. ‘I’m only walking
+out with my young lady, that’s all.’
+
+“‘Well, you can’t walk out with ’er on my wharf,’ I ses, rather sharp.
+‘Is ’er father arter ’er or wot?’
+
+“He stood there looking at me like a silly fool. A rather smallish
+chap, dressed up to the nines, with a necktie like a rainbow in a fit.
+If he’d been a gal I should ’ave called ’im rather good-looking, but ’e
+was too pretty-pretty for a man. Twice he opened ’is mouth to speak,
+and only gave a silly smile instead.
+
+“‘It ain’t ’er father,’ he ses at last, with a funny little laugh.
+
+“‘It’s the young man I used to walk out with afore I was old enough to
+know my own mind,’ ses the gal, turning to me. ‘I never reely liked
+’im. He’s always getting into fights; and now he says if ’e sees
+Charlie with me he’ll knock ’is ’ead off and make ’im swaller it. I saw
+’im behind us just now, and if your gate ’adn’t been open I don’t know
+wot would ’ave happened.’
+
+“‘But you ain’t afraid of ’im?’ I ses to the young man.
+
+“‘I ain’t afraid of any man,’ he ses, very upright. ‘But I don’t want
+my ’ead knocked off. ’Ow would you like it yourself?’
+
+“‘’Ow big is he?’ I ses.
+
+“‘About my size,’ ses Charlie, considering.
+
+“‘Well, you needn’t be afraid of a little shrimp like that,’ I ses.
+‘Neither of you can’t hurt each other enough to signify. You get off
+my wharf and, if he starts on you, knock ’im down. Give ’im one in the
+bread-basket with your left, and when ’e bends over drive your right to
+’is jaw.’
+
+“‘And s’pose ’e don’t bend over?’ ses Charlie.
+
+“‘He wouldn’t,’ ses the gal. ‘Not if I know ’im. If Charlie did manage
+to hit ’im in the--where you said, he’d ’arf kill ’im.’
+
+“Charlie nodded and turned pale. He could turn pale all right, but
+even the things I said to ’im couldn’t make ’im blush. She turned red
+instead, and I caught one look from ’er blue eyes--when she didn’t
+think I was looking--that fair startled me.
+
+“‘Well, I’ve give you good advice,’ I ses, ‘and if you don’t take it
+you must leave it. If I was walking out with a gal like that I’d fight
+a rigdiment of soldiers for ’er; one down and t’other come up.’
+
+“She gave me a nice look then and I began to feel a bit sorry for ’er.
+Gals can’t ’elp their feelings, when all is said and done.
+
+“‘I’ll just step outside and see if there is anybody ’anging about,’ I
+ses; ‘if not, off you go.’
+
+“I walked to the gate, but couldn’t see anybody. Then I strolled round
+the corner, careless-like, with my ’ands in my pockets, and the fust
+thing I see was a young feller walking up and down and looking all ways
+at once, as the saying is. Nasty face he’d got; sharp eyes and a nose
+that wasn’t, and big ugly teeth.
+
+“‘Lost anything?’ I ses as I passed.
+
+“‘Go an’ boil your face,’ he ses.
+
+“I didn’t answer ’im; I gave ’im a smile instead. Just the sort of
+smile kind old ladies turn round and give to little children when they
+pass ’em. Then I walked back slow to the wharf, and I ’ad just got one
+leg inside the gate when a stone came along and caught me on the other.
+
+“Nasty smack it was, too, and if I could ha’ got hold of ’im I’d ha’
+tore ’im limb from limb. I went round the corner to look for ’im, but
+o’ course he ’ad disappeared, and when I got back to the wharf Charlie
+and the gal ’ad disappeared too.
+
+“I got my ladder and lit the lamps. It was dark by the time I ’ad
+finished and ’ad a pipe in the office. I went out on the wharf again,
+and arter a time I began to fancy things. I thought I ’eard little
+rustlings and whisperings. Twice I stopped and listened and then
+everything was as silent as the grave. Then I ’eard a little sneeze.
+
+“They was sitting on a box--a little box--be’ind a pile of empties in
+the angle of the warehouse there, holding each other’s ’and. I spoke
+to ’em sharp at fust, but the gal was so sorry when she ’eard about my
+leg that I ’adn’t the ’art to say much. Quite upset she was, with ’er
+little hanky up to ’er mouth and making funny little sobbing noises.
+
+“‘That’s a nice quiet little corner,’ ses Charlie, as I walked down to
+the gate with ’em. ‘It might ha’ been made for us.’
+
+“‘Only it wasn’t,’ I ses.
+
+“He leaned up against me, and at fust I thought ’e was trying to hold
+_my_ ’and. Then I felt something ’ard put into it. I s’pose I was a
+fool, but I remembered my own young days, and I stood there trying to
+think wot I could do for ’em.
+
+“‘The corner won’t run away,’ I ses, ‘and so long as there’s no craft
+alongside, or at any rate none of the hands about, I don’t know why you
+shouldn’t go there for a breath of fresh air sometimes.’
+
+“They both thanked me at once, and I could see wot a load it was off
+Charlie’s mind to think as ’ow ’e could go on courting in comfort
+and safety. The gal went off by ’erself, in case the other chap, Alf
+Stevens, should be ’anging about, and arter I ’ad allowed Charlie to
+stand me a pint in the ‘Bull’s Head,’ he went off too.
+
+“I didn’t see anything of ’em for the next two days, but on the third
+evening there was a little tapping noise on the gate, and when I
+opened the wicket the gal put ’er little ’ead in and smiled at me.
+
+“‘Can I come in?’ she ses.
+
+“‘Yes,’ I ses; ‘there’s nothing up to-night. You can ’ave the wharf all
+to your two selves. Where is he?’
+
+“‘He’s coming a roundabout way,’ she ses. ‘It’s safer.’
+
+“I didn’t say nothing; arter all it was _’er_ young man, but I coughed.
+I couldn’t ’elp it. And when she patted me on the back it made me cough
+again. Nice little ’and she’d got, but ’arder than wot I expected.
+Especially the second time.
+
+“I stood talking to ’er a little while arter she ’ad got into ’er
+corner. Besides the other things, I ’ad moved three or four empty
+barrels in front so as to make ’em quite private, and she couldn’t
+thank me enough for it. She said it was evident I knew my way about,
+and she wondered ’ow many ’arts I ’ad broke afore I settled down. I
+told ’er of one or two, and just as she was shaking her ’ead at me and
+asking me whether all men was like that, or only sailormen, the wharf
+bell rang.
+
+“‘Oh, make ’aste,’ she ses; ‘it sounds as if ’e was in a ’urry.’
+
+“I trotted off and unlocked the gate and Charlie a’most fell into my
+arms. Pale as a ghost ’e was and shaking all over. Then I put my ’ead
+outside and saw Alf Stevens.
+
+“He pulled up short as ’e see me, and we stood looking at each other;
+me inside and ’im outside. Then ’e steps forward, as bold as brass, to
+come on to the wharf.
+
+“‘Wot do you want?’ I ses, blocking the way.
+
+“‘I want to come inside,’ he ses, shoving ’is face close up to mine. ‘I
+believe you’ve got my gal there.’
+
+[Illustration: “‘I WANT TO COME INSIDE,’ HE SES, SHOVING ’IS FACE CLOSE
+UP TO MINE. ‘I BELIEVE YOU’VE GOT MY GAL THERE.’”]
+
+“‘You run off ’ome and play,’ I ses. ‘I’ve ’ad enough o’ little boys
+coming on to my wharf and stealing lumps o’ coke. Go off an’ ’ave a
+little game of ’opscotch all by yourself.’
+
+“I slammed the wicket just in time, and, judging by the noise ’is
+fist made on it, I didn’t lose anything I wanted much. He must ’ave
+pretty near broke ’is knuckles, and the langwidge ’e used about it was
+shocking. When I called out and asked ’im whether he ’ad ever been to
+Sunday School, it got worse.
+
+“‘You’ve done it now,’ ses Charlie, trembling.
+
+“‘Cheer up!’ I ses. ‘You’ve got the gal and you can’t expect to ’ave
+everything. Even if he does set about you ’e can’t kill you, and if ’e
+does he’ll be ’ung for it. I’ll see as ’ow he don’t escape.’
+
+“I might ’ave saved my breath; and the gal was a’most as upset as ’e
+was. Alf Stevens was still outside talking to ’imself, and when I
+called out to ask whether he’d like a cough-lozenge they both caught
+’old of me and asked me not to make ’im worse.
+
+“‘Think of poor Charlie,’ ses the gal.
+
+“They was both of ’em in such a state I didn’t like to leave ’em, so
+I found a little box for myself and sat down to keep ’em company. I
+told ’em some of the things wot ’ad happened to me while I was at sea;
+’ow I’d nearly been shipwrecked three times, and ’ow on one ship we
+was short-’anded cos ’arf the hands was below in their bunks through
+fighting me. Then I made ’em feel the place on my ’ead where I’d been
+hit with the leg of a chair, but nothing seemed to cheer ’em up, and
+arter wasting about an hour of my time I got up and left ’em.
+
+“I done a bit o’ tidying up fust and then I went into the office and
+’ad a look at the newspaper. By the time I’d done that it was getting
+late, and I was just getting up to see ’ow Charlie and Maud was getting
+on when I see them looking at me through the winder.
+
+“‘It’s time we was going,’ ses Charlie.
+
+“‘I’ll come and open the gate for yer,’ I ses, feeling in my pocket.
+
+“‘And wot about Alf?’ ses Charlie.
+
+“‘Well, wot about ’im?’ I ses.
+
+“‘Has ’e gorn?’ he ses.
+
+“‘Must ha’ done,’ I ses. ‘You’ll get Alf on the brain if you ain’t
+careful. Besides, if ’e ain’t, he couldn’t ’urt you much to-night.
+Think wot a smash he ’it that gate with ’is fist.’
+
+“‘I don’t like to think of it,’ he ses, with a shiver; ’it might ’ave
+been me.’
+
+“‘Well, I’ll go and see if the coast is clear,’ I ses at last.
+
+“I crept on tiptoe to the gate and unlocked it without a sound. Then
+I began opening it very gentle, and I ’ad just got it open about six
+inches when Mister Alf rushed at it with ’is shoulder.
+
+“He got ’arf-way in and then ’e stuck. I stood agin it like a rock, and
+then I began to shut it, very slow. Nine stone don’t stand much chance
+agin fifteen, and swearing didn’t ’elp ’im. He was ’arf in and ’arf
+out, and, after squeedging ’im for a little while I talked to ’im about
+manners, I put my ’and on his chin and flung ’im into the road.
+
+“‘Now make a bolt for it,’ I ses to Charlie. ‘Quick! while you’re safe.’
+
+“‘_Safe!_’ ses Charlie. ‘’Ark at ’im!’
+
+“Alf was at it agin, and the thing wot ’e said ’e would do to me when
+’e got ’old of me showed wot a nasty mind he’d got. I locked the gate
+up, and then I stood for a minute wondering wot was to be done.
+
+“‘We can’t stay ’ere all night,’ ses Charlie, as we walked down the
+wharf.
+
+“‘No, I’ll see to that,’ I ses.
+
+“‘If we don’t go soon she’ll get it from ’er father, and if we do go
+I shall get it from Alf Stevens,’ he ses. ‘If you’d on’y pulled ’im
+inside while you ’ad the chance and ’eld ’im we could ha’ got away all
+right. You lost your presence o’ mind.’
+
+“‘I’ll lose something else in a minute,’ I ses, as soon as I could
+speak. ‘If you ’ad the pluck of a mouse you’d go out and fight ’im now.’
+
+“‘Oh, don’t Charlie,’ ses the gal.
+
+“‘I won’t,’ he ses, ‘for your sake.’
+
+“They walked up and down arter that with their arms round each other’s
+waists. It was all ’is arm was fit for. I walked up and down too, and
+while I was wondering ’ow to get rid of ’em I suddenly remembered that
+one o’ the lightermen ’ad left ’is skiff tied up in the dock. I peeped
+over to make sure he ’adn’t taken it away, and then I went to Charlie.
+
+“He paid up the five bob I asked ’im for neglecting my dooty, without
+a murmur. I got into the boat fust, and the gal follered as if she’d
+been used to ladders all ’er life. Then I ’ad to go up again ’cos
+Charlie wanted somebody to ’old ’is ankles while ’e came down.
+
+“‘Wot are you going to do about meeting ’er now?’ I ses, as I started
+pulling.
+
+“‘I don’t know,’ he ses, ’arf crying.
+
+“‘I’ve got an idea,’ I ses, arter thinking a bit, ‘but it ’ud cost you
+money if it comes off.’
+
+“‘I don’t mind that,’ ses Charlie, sitting up as if the Bank of England
+belonged to ’im. ‘Wot is the idea?’
+
+“‘Suppose Alf Stevens came round ’ere next Friday,’ I ses, very gentle,
+‘and thought it was you, and it wasn’t.’
+
+“Charlie didn’t answer at fust; then ’e asked me to say it all over
+agin.
+
+“‘Suppose it was a young feller I know dressed up like you and sitting
+be’ind the empties in the dark, pretending to make love to Maud,’ I
+ses, ‘and Alf comes along and sets about ’im?’
+
+“‘Who is ’e?’ ses Charlie staring.
+
+“‘He’s a young feller wot’s very much fancied by them as knows,’ I ses.
+‘I see ’im boxing at ’Oxton one night, and ’e was in a class all by
+’imself. Wonderful, it was.’
+
+“‘Do you think ’e could beat Alf?’ ses the gal, clasping her ’ands.
+
+“‘Beat ’im?’ I ses. ‘I tell you this chap is a _boxer_. One of the best
+at ’is weight I’ve ever seen. Alf Stevens would ’ave about as much
+chance with ’im as a baby would with its nurse.’
+
+“‘Sounds all right,’ ses Charlie, considering. ‘It’s time somebody
+learnt ’im not to interfere where ’e ain’t wanted.’
+
+“‘You be round on Friday night at seven,’ I ses. ‘I think I can get ’im
+all right. P’r’aps you’d better come by boat, in case of accidents.
+Bring ten bob in your pocket for Sid Groom--that’s ’is name--and five
+for me for my trouble, and you’ll find it’s the best bargain you ever
+made in your life.’
+
+“I put ’em ashore at the stairs, and then rowed myself back to the
+wharf. It was as quiet and peaceful as the grave; and though I crept up
+to the gate and listened, I couldn’t ’ear nothing of Alf Stevens.
+
+“I went again in about an hour’s time and looked out. At fust I thought
+he ’ad gorn, then I see something like a ’ead peeping round the corner.
+
+“‘Why don’t you go ’ome?’ I ses. ‘Charlie ses he’ll ’arf kill you if
+you ain’t gorn in five minutes.’
+
+“I thought that ’ud wake ’im up--and it did. ’Ow he could think o’ such
+things was a puzzle to me. And ’e did’nt ’ave to stop to think, neither.
+
+“I believe ’e must ha’ stayed there pretty near all night. I know ’e
+was there at two in the morning, ’cos of ’arf a brick as took a bit out
+o’ the gate instead of me, by mistake, but ’e wasn’t there when the
+’ands come on at six o’clock.
+
+“I didn’t see ’im on my way ’ome, though I was quite ready for ’im, and
+stopped at every corner. I ’ad something to eat and a few hours in bed,
+and then I went out to try and find Sid Groom.
+
+“He was out, as usual, and if I went into one pub I went into seven or
+eight. A man with proper feelings can’t go into a pub without ’aving
+something for the good of the ’ouse, and by the time I found Sid there
+wasn’t much of Charlie’s five bob left. ’Arf an hour arterwards there
+wasn’t any; and some of it wasted on ginger-beer.
+
+“Sid didn’t like the idea of it at fust, ’cos ’e didn’t like hitting a
+man wot wasn’t a pro, but arter I ’ad talked to ’im about the ten bob
+and Maud’s blue eyes ’e gave way. He was in training at the time for a
+fight with a Bermondsey boy, and ’e said ’e might just as well punch
+Alf Stevens for ’arf a quid as a punching-ball for nothing.
+
+“‘Mind,’ I ses, ‘we want ’im to think it’s Charlie, and if you keep
+your back to the light and slip into ’im ’ard and quick, I don’t see
+why ’e should know the difference.’
+
+“‘Wot’s Charlie like?’ he ses.
+
+“I told ’im.
+
+“‘’Ow about slipping into ’im instead of the other bloke?’ he ses,
+spitting on the floor.
+
+“‘I don’t think he’d pay you ten bob for that,’ I ses, shaking my ’ead
+at ’im. ‘You’ll enjoy it all right once you start. And don’t forget to
+put on a bowler-’at and a collar. And don’t speak.’
+
+“He said something under ’is breath wot sounded like a little bit of
+Alf Stevens, but I didn’t take no notice, and afore I left ’im ’e
+promised faithful to come round and give Alf the surprise of ’is life.
+
+“I didn’t see Charlie that evening, but a dirty little boy came round
+with a letter from ’im and I sent word back telling ’im Friday would be
+all right. The only thing that worried me was that Alf Stevens mightn’t
+be there, but as I see ’im prowling about soon after the boy ’ad gorn,
+I ’adn’t got much fear.
+
+“Sid was the fust to turn up on Friday night. In fact, I sent ’im on
+in front of me. Good-looking young feller ’e was, and in a bowler-’at
+and a clean collar ’e looked nicer than I ’ad ever seen ’im. I stood
+talking to ’im till the foreman ’ad gorn, and then we sat down on the
+jetty and waited for the others.
+
+“They came along by boat just afore seven, and Charlie come up that
+ladder as if it was a mile ’igh, and asking me to give ’im a ’and
+when ’e got to the top. I interduced them in a ’urry--to stop Sid’s
+mouth--and then I went to the gate and looked out just to make sure Alf
+Stevens was there.
+
+“He was. I lit the lamps soon arterwards, all but the one near where
+they was going to be, and then I sat down alongside Maud, and was just
+going to show Sid ’ow to sit with his ’ead on ’er shoulder when she got
+up.
+
+“‘I know ’ow to do it,’ ses Sid, pushing me away. ‘Just put them
+barrels a bit closer.’
+
+“‘Wot for?’ I ses.
+
+“‘’Cos I can do it better when there’s nobody looking,’ ’e ses.
+
+“‘Wot’s the good o’ doing it at all till Alf comes?’ ses Charlie
+fidgeting.
+
+“Sid didn’t answer ’im. He ’elped move one or two of the barrels
+’imself, and then we ’eard ’im tell Maud to come and sit down.
+
+“We stood there waiting for two or three minutes, and then Charlie,
+arter fidgeting about agin for a bit, put his ’ead over and asked them
+’ow they was getting on.
+
+“‘You mind your own bisness,’ ses Sid.
+
+“Charlie come back to me trembling all over. ‘You go and speak to ’im,’
+he ses at last.
+
+“I waited a little while, and then I ses, in a off-’and way: ‘Sid, I’m
+going to let Alf Stevens in now. Be ready.’
+
+“‘You let ’im in when I tell you, and not afore,’ ses Sid, very
+sharp. ‘We ain’t ’arf done practising yet. I’m learning to be as much
+like Charlie to ’er as possible, so as Alf Stevens won’t know the
+difference. And it takes time.’
+
+“I thought Charlie would ha’ fainted, and the things ’e said to me
+about my cleverness you wouldn’t believe. If he ’ad only been as good
+with ’is fist as ’is tongue he’d ’ave been all right. It might a’most
+ha’ been my missis talking to me.
+
+“I ’eard Big Ben strike eight, and then I ’eard a little whistle from
+Sid.
+
+“‘I think I know my piece now,’ he ses, when I went over. ‘Tell Charlie
+to ’ide ’imself, and then open the gate.’
+
+“I put Charlie round the far corner and told ’im not to move and not
+even to put ’is ’ead round until they was busy, and then I walked up to
+the gate. I made a little noise opening the wicket, and then I stepped
+outside a yard or two and looked the wrong way, and a’most afore you
+could say ‘knife’ Alf Stevens bolted in and ran on to the wharf.
+
+“‘’Ere!’ I ses, follering ’im up, ‘wot are you arter? Who told you to
+come on my wharf?’
+
+“He took no more notice of me than if I was a pet lamb. He stood
+looking all round ’im with his ’ead bent down, and then there came the
+sound of two or three of the loudest kisses I ever ’eard in my life.
+Alf Stevens made a noise like a hyena wot wasn’t laughing, and the
+next moment two of the barrels was rolled out o’ the way and ’e stood
+looking at the two of ’em cuddling each other on the box.
+
+“‘Got--yer--at--last!’ he ses, grinding ’is teeth.
+
+“He bent over to push Sid away, but ’e ’ad got his ’ead buried in the
+gal’s shoulder and was ’olding on to ’er as if ’e was frightened out of
+’is life.
+
+“‘Stand up!’ ses Alf, pullin’ ’im by the collar--‘Stand up and take
+wot’s comin’ to you.’
+
+[Illustration: “‘STAND UP,’ SES ALF, PULLIN’ ’IM BY THE COLLAR--‘STAND
+UP AND TAKE WOT’S COMIN’ TO YOU.’”]
+
+“Sid got up, stooping, with his ’at over ’is eyes, and the next moment
+Alf was sitting on the ground wondering wot ’ad ’appened to ’im.
+Then ’is memory come back to ’im and ’e got up and rushed at Sid like
+a madman, but ’e might as well ’ave tried to ’it the moon. Sid was
+dancing all round ’im, punching ’im all over the place, and every now
+and then knocking ’im down for a change.
+
+“I must say Alf was game. He fought as long as ’e could stand, and
+’e could ’ardly walk as I ’elped ’im off the wharf. He couldn’t see
+properly neither, ’cos he thought I was somebody quite different and
+asked me wot I ’ad done with my tail.
+
+“The others came along as I stood there watching Alf ’obble away. Maud
+was ’anging on to Sid’s arm and looking up into ’is face, and Charlie
+was follering up be’ind making noises like a lost kitten.
+
+“‘Didn’t want to pay me the ten bob,’ ses Sid to me. ‘He soon altered
+’is mind, though.’
+
+“‘He--he’s got my young lady,’ ses Charlie, ’arf crying, ‘and ten bob
+too.’
+
+“‘Never mind,’ I ses, patting ’im on the shoulder; ‘a gal like that
+ain’t worth troubling about.’
+
+“‘Wot’s that?’ ses Sid, shoving ’is face into mine. ‘Wot did you say?’
+
+“‘I mean, ’e oughtn’t to trouble about any gal,’ I ses, very firm. ‘He
+ought to get a little pet dog instead. A little dog as nobody else
+wants.’
+
+“Sid stood looking at me for a moment; then he put ’is arm round Maud’s
+waist and they went off. Charlie and me stood watching them till they
+was out of sight, and then ’e told me wot ’e thought about Sid.
+
+“I felt a bit sorry for ’im, but arter all bisness is bisness, and as
+’e turned to go off I laid my ’and on ’is sleeve and gave a little
+laugh.
+
+“‘Yes?’ he ses.
+
+“‘Ain’t you forgot something?’ I ses.
+
+“‘Not as I knows of,’ ’e ses, staring.
+
+“‘Wot about my five bob?’ I ses.
+
+“I think ’is trouble must ’ave turned ’is brain. He gave a squeal that
+set my teeth on edge, and afore I could take my ’ands out o’ my pockets
+he ’ad given me four or five bangs in the face as ’ard as ’e could hit.
+Then ’e turned round quick and run for all ’e was worth.”
+
+
+
+
+Taking Pains
+
+
+Mr. Silvanus Key, changing his position in bed for the third time in
+five minutes, lay on his back and groaned lamentably.
+
+“I, shall never be well,” he murmured faintly. “Forty-three,
+good-looking, with the best moustache in the town, and done for.”
+
+“Has the pain come on again?” inquired his wife softly.
+
+“Not what you could call pain,” said Mr. Key. “There’s a red
+hot corkscrew going through my left shoulder and a very capable
+monkey-wrench trying to screw my knee-joints out. The only time I get
+any rest is when it leaves off to spit on its hands. _O-ow! Ouch! O-o!_”
+
+Mrs. Key rose and, standing by the side of the bed, gazed at him
+compassionately.
+
+“The doctor doesn’t seem to be doing you much good,” she murmured.
+
+“That’ll do,” said the sufferer sharply. “He is doing his best.”
+
+“So it seems,” said his wife dryly. “How you can imagine that stuff
+out of a bottle can cure you, I can’t think. It’s the soul that wants
+treating, not the body. You want to be bathed in a stream of healing
+thought that would kill all those ideas of pain and----”
+
+“_Ideas!_” shouted Mr. Key. “You wait till you get rheumatism, and
+neuritis, and gout, and sciatica, all mixed up together, and trying to
+see which can be the worst. If that blessed Circle of Healers, as you
+call it, was here I’d punch its head.”
+
+“Some of them are women,” said his wife.
+
+Mr. Key remarked that he supposed women possessed heads, some of them
+at any rate, and, licking his lips, speculated on the good to be
+achieved by knocking all the heads of the Circle together.
+
+“Shake their brains up and make ’em think,” he added.
+
+His wife sighed, and bestowed upon him a look of tender and elevating
+love.
+
+“You are so wilful,” she murmured. “If you would only see Mr. Punshon;
+no foolish and nasty drugs; no clumsy interference with that wonderful
+combination of soul and body that we know as man. You are simply out of
+tune with the infinite. _I_ am never ill.”
+
+“You wouldn’t talk like that if you were,” said Mr. Key. “You’d know
+better.”
+
+He lay back with closed eyes and pondered gloomily. It was his first
+real illness and, to an active man fond of rather more than his share
+of the good things of this life, extremely distasteful. He opened his
+eyes at a rather sharper twinge than usual and, in a few ill-chosen
+words, expressed his opinion that members of the medical profession
+were as useless as the Healers.
+
+“And we work for love,” said his wife, improving the occasion.
+
+Mr. Key closed his eyes again, and a faint and unseemly grin passed
+furtively.
+
+“Miss Olsen is a healer, isn’t she?” he inquired. “The pretty one.
+Perhaps I might----”
+
+“She is a neophyte,” said his wife coldly, “the same as myself.”
+
+“Nothing doing,” murmured the graceless Mr. Key. “Still, if she wants a
+little practice----”
+
+Mrs. Key implored him not to make a jest of solemn things, and spoke
+with some eloquence of the marvellous cures effected by Mr. Punshon.
+Her husband pointed out, when she had finished, that she had omitted
+the marvellous case of old Mr. Jackson, who, after being bedridden for
+over three years, was able, owing to the healer’s ministrations, to
+spend the evenings of his life at the Shakespeare Arms.
+
+[Illustration: THE MARVELLOUS CASE OF OLD MR. JACKSON, WHO, AFTER BEING
+BEDRIDDEN FOR OVER THREE YEARS, WAS ABLE TO SPEND THE EVENINGS OF HIS
+LIFE AT THE SHAKESPEARE ARMS]
+
+“It is easy to mock at things,” said Mrs. Key, bitterly. “Mr. Punshon
+would cure him of that, but the artful old man won’t let him go near
+him.”
+
+She went out of the room, and the invalid, after turning in the bed
+with great care, lay gazing wistfully out of the window. There was
+a cheerful hum from the street below, and he thought with great
+bitterness of the happy people there who knew nothing of Uric Acid and
+its liking for hot joints. A visit from the doctor next day depressed
+him still more.
+
+“Another week or two?” he gasped.
+
+“You’re going on beau-ti-fully,” said the other, with an admiring but
+thoughtless pat on Mr. Key’s left knee. “Sorry.”
+
+“Don’t mind me,” said the sufferer coldly. “Am I to go on taking that
+beastly physic of yours?”
+
+The doctor nodded. “For some time,” he said grinning. “Shut your eyes
+when you are taking it and tell yourself it is a vintage port. Smack
+your lips over it.”
+
+Mr. Key closed his eyes and groaned.
+
+“And don’t be too sorry for yourself,” pursued the other. “You are not
+nearly so bad as some of my poor patients. Not nearly.”
+
+Mr. Key, with a faint smile, said that he could quite believe it.
+He also expressed his firm belief that their troubles would soon be
+over--one way or another.
+
+“The last bottle,” said his medical attendant, breathing hard, “was not
+strong enough. You are suffering from depression.”
+
+“You never see me at my best,” said the other; “the moment you come
+into the room----”
+
+“Good-bye,” said the doctor briskly.
+
+He went downstairs and, meeting in the hall Mrs. Key, who had just
+come in, announced in a loud voice that the patient was much better. A
+louder voice from the sick-room denied all knowledge of the fact.
+
+For two days the patient had no reason to alter his opinion, but on the
+third he confided to Mrs. Key, with a happy smile, that he certainly
+felt much easier.
+
+“Since when?” inquired his wife, with a mysterious expression on her
+face.
+
+Mr. Key pondered. “Yesterday afternoon I got the turn, I think. It’s
+nothing to laugh at.”
+
+“I was not laughing, I was smiling,” said his wife. “With happiness,”
+she added hastily. “But I’m not surprised. Mr. Punshon had a
+half-holiday yesterday afternoon.”
+
+Mr. Key gazed at her blankly.
+
+“And instead of going out and enjoying himself stayed at home and gave
+you ‘absent treatment.’”
+
+“Infernal impudence!” gasped the astonished invalid.
+“I’ll--I’ll--Punshon----Oh, Lord! How many people have you told!”
+
+“He could do you much more good if he came into contact with you,” said
+his wife timidly.
+
+“Fancy,” murmured the other brokenly, “that ginger-bearded
+fraud--treating _me_! Poor Johnson pulls me round and Punshon steps
+in and takes the credit. I shall be the laughing-stock of the town.
+Everybody knows what I’ve said about him.”
+
+“You’ve said things--to me--about Dr. Johnson too,” said his wife.
+
+Mr. Key lay back and regarded her for some time, deep in thought.
+“All right,” he said at last, in a ferocious voice, “have it your own
+way. I’ll give him a run for his money. Punshon has put his hand to
+the plough and he’d better finish the job. But mind, I shall take the
+medicine.”
+
+His wife turned upon him a face that literally shone with happiness.
+“It won’t make much difference,” she said. “Mr. Punshon’s force is much
+too strong for drugs to interfere with it.”
+
+She brought the healer round the following afternoon, and Mr. Key,
+gazing at the flabby, bearded face, with its pouched eyes and foolish
+mouth, waited breathlessly for developments.
+
+“I hope it is not going to be painful,” he remarked.
+
+“We soothe,” said Mr. Punshon, in a deep voice marred by adenoids.
+
+He took a chair by the bed, and taking the patient’s hands in his
+own, leaned forward and fixed upon him the healing glare of a pair of
+pale and protuberant blue eyes. Mr. Key, closing his, bit his lips to
+suppress a smile.
+
+For twenty minutes the silence was unbroken except for the odd noises
+in Mr. Punshon’s air-passages. He released the patient’s hands and,
+folding his arms, spoke with authority.
+
+“You feel better!”
+
+“I do,” said Mr. Key in reverent tones. “Waves of--something or
+other--seemed to go right through me.”
+
+Mr. Punshon smiled and, taking out a handkerchief, wiped his brow.
+
+“You mustn’t expect to be well all at once,” he said, raising a warning
+hand. “Evil is not destroyed in five minutes. I will come in and give
+you further treatment to-morrow evening.”
+
+Mr. Key thanked him, and for some time after his departure lay smiling
+seraphically at the ceiling. Under the combined treatment of Mr.
+Punshon and Dr. Johnson he improved steadily, the wrath of the latter,
+when he heard of his collaborator, doing the invalid, according to his
+own account, more good than medicine.
+
+“I’ve done with you,” said the doctor, fuming. “It’s all over the town
+that Punshon has cured you when I failed. What do you mean by it?”
+
+“I’m not cured yet,” said the invalid grimly. “Dear Brother Punshon has
+got to do a lot more for me before he has finished. I have an idea that
+I am going to be one of his most difficult cases.”
+
+“All this stuff about Christian Science----” began the doctor.
+
+“It’s nothing to do with Christian Science,” retorted the other. “It’s
+a little special brand of Punshon’s own. He is far too conceited to
+adopt anybody else’s ideas. He is charged with electricity--a living
+magnet, that’s the idea, and, in a lesser degree, he thinks he is able
+to magnetise his followers.”
+
+The doctor stood regarding him with a perplexed grin.
+
+“What is the game?” he inquired bluntly.
+
+“Game?” repeated Mr. Key loftily. “There is no ‘game.’ You don’t
+understand. Magnetic healing is serious, most serious. So are the
+healers. If they could see a joke they wouldn’t be healers. Punshon
+couldn’t see a joke if I put it in front of his nose and burnt coloured
+lights round it.”
+
+“You might try,” suggested the other.
+
+“Get thee behind me, Satan,” said Mr. Key severely. “Besides, I’m going
+to. Meantime, you had better leave Punshon a free hand. I don’t want
+you to get the credit of his cure. You don’t want it either. If you go,
+and I have a relapse----”
+
+The doctor nodded. “Nobody could expect me to halve a patient with
+Punshon,” he murmured.
+
+“Exactly,” said the other, “but you needn’t put it in quite such a
+surgical way. It’s not nice. By the way----”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“What about one weak whisky-and-soda a day?” inquired Mr. Key in
+persuasive accents.
+
+The doctor stood for a time considering. “Better ask Punshon,” he said
+at last, and faded slowly from the room.
+
+A good man would have been moved by the tender gratitude displayed by
+Mrs. Key when she learnt that her husband had abandoned drugs entirely,
+in favour of spiritual treatment. The only effect on Mr. Key was to
+confirm him in his iniquities. His spirits rose and the hue of health
+returned to his cheeks. And he praised Mr. Punshon and his strange and
+beneficent power until that gentleman nearly fell a victim to the sin
+of pride.
+
+“Walk across the room,” he commanded.
+
+Mr. Key obeyed.
+
+“Your limbs are straight and supple,” chanted the healer; “your body is
+strong; your soul is in command; you are healed.”
+
+“Thanks to you,” breathed the admiring Mrs. Key.
+
+“To-morrow you can go for a walk,” continued Mr. Punshon to his
+patient. “My work is finished.”
+
+Both husband and wife were certain as to his exact words. In fact, the
+excellent Mrs. Key repeated them to two or three friends the same day.
+And yet, just before midnight, she sat up in the small bed she occupied
+in the sick-room almost persuaded that she had heard a moan. Within the
+next minute five full-grown moans, muffled by the bedclothes, issued
+from the other bed.
+
+“Aren’t you well?” she inquired.
+
+“Well?” repeated Mr. Key, bringing his head up and suppressing moan
+number six. “Yes, of course I am. Didn’t Mr. Punshon say I was?”
+
+In confirmation, he groaned three times and wound up with a faint
+shriek.
+
+“What are you making that noise for then?” inquired his wife, not
+unnaturally.
+
+Mr. Key made no reply. It was evident by his lamentations that
+he wanted his breath for other purposes. His wife slipped on a
+dressing-gown and, lighting a candle, crossed over to him.
+
+“What _is_ the matter?” she said in alarm.
+
+“Don’t mind me,” said the invalid, with a groan that made the ornaments
+on the mantelpiece rattle. “Go to sleep.”
+
+His wife suppressed an obvious retort and stood regarding him anxiously.
+
+“_O-o-o-o!_” said Mr. Key. “_A-a-a-h!_” He wiped his brow with the
+sleeve of his pyjamas and, uttering a faint sigh, was taken suddenly
+with a series of noises in the throat highly reminiscent of Mr. Punshon.
+
+“I wish I could stop that,” he said fretfully. “I suppose it’s
+Punshon’s influence. Perhaps I’m too receptive. _O-oh!_ my leg!”
+
+Mrs. Key eyed him wistfully. “Which one?” she inquired.
+
+“What the--what does that matter?” exclaimed the sufferer. “Now it’s my
+shoulder. The _left_ one,” he added, bitterly. “Has Jane gone to bed?”
+
+“Long ago,” replied his wife, staring.
+
+“I can’t bear it,” gasped the sufferer, wildly. “You’ll have to tell
+her to get up and run for the doctor.”
+
+Mrs. Key clasped her hands. “Oh, Silvanus!” she cried reproachfully.
+
+“I can’t help it,” muttered her husband. “I’d rather have Punshon, of
+course, but I don’t like to disturb him. He could stop it. As soon as
+he got his blessed paw--hands--on me, it would go.”
+
+“I’ll ask him to come round in the morning,” said Mrs. Key.
+
+“I can’t wait,” moaned the sufferer. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to ask
+Jane to get up and go for the doctor. It isn’t far.”
+
+His wife hesitated. “If you are no better in ten minutes,” she said at
+last, “I’ll go and ask Mr. Punshon to come.”
+
+Mr. Key protested, and for fully five minutes lay silent. At the end of
+that time he gave a very fine representation of a soul in torment.
+
+“Better take Jane with you,” he said in a weak voice, as his wife began
+to dress.
+
+“I can’t leave you in the house alone,” she murmured. “I’ll wake her up
+and let her know I am going out. I shan’t be long.”
+
+She hurried upstairs, and a minute or two later he heard the front door
+close.
+
+“Poor thing,” he murmured. “Poor thing. It’s an infernal shame; but
+it’s all for her own good.”
+
+He sat up in bed yawning, every now and then releasing a groan for the
+benefit of the listener upstairs. The time passed slowly, and a feeling
+of drowsiness almost overcame him. He hoped fervently that Punshon was
+as fond of sleep as he was.
+
+He awoke with a start and sat up in bed, listening. A continuous
+knocking and ringing at the front door seemed to indicate that Mrs.
+Key had forgotten to take the key with her. It also proved that Jane
+could sleep as soundly at one in the morning as at seven-thirty.
+
+With an idea that every little helped he added a few whines to the
+noise below, but in vain. The jangling of the bell was hideous, the
+knocking incessant. Then he heard, in addition, the boots of a heavy
+and possibly irritated man kicking the paint off his front door and
+voices of advice and instruction from his neighbour’s bedroom window.
+He had just come to the conclusion that the maid had passed away in her
+sleep when he heard her door open and an apologetic whirlwind pass down
+the stairs.
+
+Mr. Punshon entered the room in silence and, ignoring the faint smile
+with which the sufferer endeavoured to greet him, took a chair by the
+bedside and got to work with the air of a man who was going to crowd
+half an hour’s work into a few minutes. Mr. Key sighed twice, and then
+his face resolved itself into an expression of ineffable peace.
+
+“Magician!” he murmured.
+
+Mr. Punshon grunted and bestowed a smile of conscious power upon the
+admiring Mrs. Key.
+
+“It’s wonderful,” continued the sufferer. “Wonderful! I wonder what
+caused the relapse?”
+
+Mr. Punshon started. “You must have been thinking wrong,” he said
+tartly.
+
+“I can’t remember doing so,” said Mr. Key in a diffident voice. “I have
+only been congratulating myself upon having the good sense to take your
+treatment. It has been a great joy to me. Great. I knew I was going to
+get better when I put myself into your hands. Else I shouldn’t have
+done so.”
+
+The unconscious Mr. Punshon smiled again. “Faith helps,” he admitted.
+“How do you feel now?”
+
+Mr. Key looked into the red-rimmed, sleepy eyes peering into his, and
+hesitated.
+
+“Almost free from pain,” he said, at length. “There’s just a tiny bit
+troubling me in the left knee-cap.”
+
+The healer diverted his gaze to a knob in the bedclothes, and
+concentrated upon it until the veins stood out on his forehead. An
+unusual amount of gurgling and choking testified to his absorption.
+
+“Did I say ‘left’?” inquired Mr. Key, as the other wiped his brow. “How
+stupid of me; I meant ‘right.’”
+
+He brought another knob into prominence and, patting it for Mr.
+Punshon’s guidance, waited with calm confidence while the other
+swallowed a gurgle that threatened to choke him.
+
+“I’m afraid Mr. Punshon is tired,” said Mrs. Key.
+
+“He never tires of good works,” said her husband, reproachfully.
+
+Mr. Punshon smiled wanly and, suppressing a yawn, continued his
+ministrations.
+
+“I feel so selfish lying here snug and warm in bed and keeping you out
+of yours,” said Mr. Key. “But perhaps you don’t care much for sleep.”
+
+“Eight hours,” said Mr. Punshon somewhat shortly. “Always. Any pain in
+the knee now?”
+
+Mr. Key shook his head. “It’s gone,” he said in a hushed voice.
+
+Mr. Punshon leaned back with a sigh, a noisy sigh, of relief.
+
+“Into my left shoulder,” continued the invalid querulously.
+
+Mr. Punshon got up with great suddenness and stood glowering at him.
+Mrs. Key, with her hands clasped, eyed them in silent dismay.
+
+“Please don’t trouble any more,” said Mr. Key gently. “I’m afraid it is
+a difficult case. Too difficult, perhaps. I ought not to have bothered
+you. I suppose Johnson would have pulled me round, in time.”
+
+He closed his eyes wearily and lay back listening in great content
+to an excited whispering between his wife and the healer. Then he
+heard the chair creak and felt a pair of clammy hands take his. For
+some time the stertorous breathing of Mr. Punshon was the only sound
+in the room. Then even that ceased and Mr. Key, opening his eyes to
+ascertain the reason, discovered to his indignation that the healer had
+gone. Daylight was coming in at the window, and it was only too clear
+that his victim had taken advantage of the sleep into which Mr. Key
+had fallen, to escape. A clock downstairs struck five. He groaned in
+spirit, but soon coming to the conclusion that that was no good, gave
+utterance to several fleshly ones. The other bed creaked.
+
+“Do you want anything?” inquired Mrs. Key sleepily.
+
+“Where’s Punshon?” demanded her husband in an aggrieved voice.
+
+“Why, he left hours ago,” said Mrs. Key, sitting up. “He put you into a
+refreshing slumber and went.”
+
+“Fetch him back,” said the invalid, briefly.
+
+Mrs. Key’s cry of consternation left him unmoved. Mr. Punshon had taken
+the case out of the doctor’s hands by giving absent treatment in the
+first place, and, after that, had taken full charge. In a stern voice,
+broken by pain and marred by snufflings, Mr. Key ordered him to be
+fetched forthwith.
+
+“I can’t,” said his wife desperately.
+
+“Well, will you please go and ask him whether he has any objection to
+my consulting Dr. Johnson?”
+
+Mrs. Key went--but only after a long argument--to return an hour later
+with a ferocious and demoralised-looking Mr. Punshon, who, advancing
+reluctantly to the foot of the bed, stood there gobbling.
+
+“Good of you!” murmured the invalid.
+
+Mr. Punshon took not the slightest notice.
+
+“I do hope this pain will soon go,” continued Mr. Key. “I don’t want to
+fetch you out of your bed every night. I know you don’t mind, still----”
+
+Mr. Punshon stared at him and endeavoured--but in vain--to concentrate
+his mind upon healing.
+
+“I suppose I can’t have that walk you spoke of, to-day,” said Mr. Key.
+“It’s very disappointing. I was looking forward to it. I wanted to go
+round and tell people what mental healing had done for me. Some of them
+are so incredulous.”
+
+“You must have patience,” said the healer. “Fifty years of wrong
+living----”
+
+“Forty-three,” murmured the invalid. “And I feel younger since you have
+been treating me. It almost seems as though your healthy, virile spirit
+has become part of myself. I feel different. A better man. I think
+differently. I--I breathe differently. How is Mrs. Punshon?”
+
+“She is quite well, thank you,” said the healer with some surprise.
+
+Mr. Key half closed his eyes and a seraphic smile played around his
+lips. “I dream of her,” he said softly.
+
+“_Dream!_ Dream of her? Dream of _my wife_?” stuttered the outraged
+husband in tones that nearly drowned the exclamation of the startled
+Mrs. Key.
+
+Mr. Key nodded. “Ever since you started treating me,” he replied. “It’s
+very curious. I suppose your powerful mind has overcome mine and your
+thoughts have become my thoughts. Have any of your other patients----?”
+
+“No, sir,” interrupted the other with violence.
+
+Mr. Key sighed. “It’s very curious,” he repeated. “I dreamt of her
+three times last night. And there’s another funny thing; since this
+treatment started I have had an almost irresistible craving for whisky.
+Do you----”
+
+“I’m a life-long teetotaller,” said the glaring Mr. Punshon.
+
+He stood breathing noisily for a few seconds and then, with a violent
+gesture, turned and walked towards the door.
+
+“Aren’t you going to give me treatment?” inquired Mr. Key in a
+surprised voice.
+
+Mr. Punshon made no reply, but the slamming of the front door spoke
+volumes. Mr. Key turned and eyed his wife.
+
+“He has given the case up,” he said, shaking his head. “After breakfast
+you must send Jane round for the doctor. I can’t go on like this.”
+
+He saw the doctor a few hours later, and after a lengthy
+explanation--with Mrs. Key holding a watching brief for the absent
+Mr. Punshon--requested him to treat him for the old complaint plus
+incipient adenoids, a nasty trick of biting his finger-nails, a
+lamentable craving for whisky, and a few other matters.
+
+“I am sorry you spoke so freely,” said Mrs. Key after the doctor had
+gone. “He might talk.”
+
+“That’s all right,” said her husband darkly. “He never repeats anything
+his patients would mind.”
+
+
+
+
+His Brother’s Keeper
+
+
+I
+
+Anthony Keller, white and dazed, came stumbling out into the small hall
+and closed the door of his study noiselessly behind him. Only half an
+hour ago he had entered the room with Henry Martle, and now Martle
+would never leave it again until he was carried out of it.
+
+He took out his watch and put it back again without looking at it. He
+sank into a chair and, trying to still his quivering legs, strove to
+think. The clock behind the closed door struck nine. He had ten hours;
+ten hours before the woman who attended to his small house came to
+start the next day’s work.
+
+Ten hours! His mind refused to act. There was so much to be done, so
+much to be thought of. God! If only he could have the last ten minutes
+over again and live it differently. If Martle only had not happened to
+say that it was a sudden visit and that nobody knew of it.
+
+He went into the back room and, going to the sideboard, gulped down
+half a tumbler of raw whisky. It seemed to him inconceivable that the
+room should look the same. This pleasant room, with etchings on the
+walls, and his book, face downwards, just as he had left it to answer
+Martle’s knock. He could hear the knock now, and----
+
+The empty tumbler smashed in his hand, and he caught his breath in a
+sob. Somebody else was knocking. He stood for a moment quivering, and
+then, wiping some of the blood from his hand, kicked the pieces of
+glass aside and stood irresolute. The knocking came again, so loud and
+insistent that for one horrible moment he fancied it might arouse the
+thing in the next room. Then he walked to the door and opened it. A
+short sturdy man, greeting him noisily, stepped into the hall.
+
+“Thought you were dead,” he said breezily. “Hallo!”
+
+“Cut myself with a broken glass,” said Keller, in a constrained voice.
+
+“Look here, that wants binding up,” said his friend. “Got a clean
+handkerchief?”
+
+He moved towards the door, and was about to turn the handle when Keller
+flung himself upon him and dragged him back. “Not there,” he said
+thickly. “Not there.”
+
+“What the devil’s the matter?” inquired the visitor staring.
+
+Keller’s mouth worked. “Somebody in there. Come here.”
+
+He pushed him into the back room and in a dazed fashion motioned him to
+a chair.
+
+“Thanks, rather not,” said the other stiffly. “I just came in to smoke
+a pipe. I didn’t know you had visitors. Anyway, I shouldn’t eat them.
+Good night.”
+
+Keller stood staring at him. His friend stared back, then suddenly his
+eyes twinkled and he smiled roguishly.
+
+“What have you got in there?” he demanded, jerking his thumb towards
+the study.
+
+Keller shrank back. “Nothing,” he stammered. “Nothing--no----”
+
+“Ho, ho!” said the other. “All right. Don’t worry. Mum’s the word. You
+quiet ones are always the worst. Be good.”
+
+[Illustration: “HO, HO,” SAID THE OTHER. “ALL RIGHT--DON’T WORRY--MUM’S
+THE WORD.”]
+
+He gave him a playful dig in the ribs and went out chuckling. Keller,
+hardly breathing, watched him to the gate and, closing the door softly,
+bolted it and returned to the back room.
+
+He steadied his nerves with some more whisky, and strove to steel
+himself to the task before him. He had got to conquer his horror and
+remorse, to overcome his dread of the thing in the next room, and
+put it where no man should ever see it. He, Anthony Keller, a quiet,
+ordinary citizen, had got to do this thing.
+
+The little clock in the next room struck ten. Nine hours left.
+With a soft tread he went out at the back door and, unlocking the
+bicycle-shed, peered in. Plenty of room.
+
+He left the door open and, returning to the house, went to the door
+of the study. Twice he turned the handle--and softly closed the door
+again. Suppose when he looked in at Martle, Martle should turn and look
+at him? He turned the handle suddenly and threw the door open.
+
+Martle was quiet enough. Quiet and peaceful, and, perhaps, a little
+pitiful. Keller’s fear passed, but envy took its place. Martle had got
+the best of it after all. No horror-haunted life for him; no unavailing
+despair and fear of the unknown. Keller, looking down at the white face
+and battered head, thought of the years before himself. Or would it
+be weeks? With a gasp he came back to the need for action, and taking
+Martle by the shoulders drew him, with heels dragging and scraping, to
+the shed.
+
+He locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Then he drew a bucket
+of water from the scullery-tap and found some towels. His injured
+hand was still bleeding, but he regarded it with a sort of cunning
+satisfaction. It would account for much.
+
+It was a long job, but it was finished at last. He sat down and
+thought, and then searched round and round the room for the overlooked
+thing which might be his undoing.
+
+It was nearly midnight, and necessary, unless he wanted to attract
+the attention of any passing constable, to extinguish or lower the
+companionable lights. He turned them out swiftly, and, with trembling
+haste, passed upstairs to his room.
+
+The thought of bed was impossible. He lowered the gas and, dropping
+into a chair, sat down to wait for day. Erect in the chair, his hands
+gripping the arms, he sat tense and listening. The quiet house was full
+of faint sounds, odd creakings, and stealthy rustlings. Suppose the
+suddenly released spirit of Martle was wandering around the house!
+
+He rose and paced up and down the room, pausing every now and then to
+listen. He could have sworn that there was something fumbling blindly
+at the other side of the door, and once, turning sharply, thought that
+he saw the handle move. Sometimes sitting and sometimes walking, the
+hours passed until in the distance a cock smelt the dawn, and a little
+later the occasional note of a bird announced the approach of day.
+
+
+II
+
+In the bright light of day his courage returned, and, dismissing all
+else from his mind, he thought only of how to escape the consequences
+of his crime. Inch by inch he examined the room and the hall. Then he
+went into the garden, and, going round the shed, satisfied himself
+that no crack or hole existed that might reveal his secret. He walked
+the length of the garden and looked about him. The nearest house was
+a hundred yards away, and the bottom of the garden screened by trees.
+Near the angle of the fence he would dig a shallow trench and over it
+pile up a rockery of bricks and stones and earth. Once started he could
+take his time about it, and every day would make him more and more
+secure. There was an air of solidity and permanency about a rockery
+that nothing else could give.
+
+He was back in the house when the charwoman arrived, and in a few words
+told her of his accident of the night before. “I cleaned up the--the
+mess as well as I could,” he concluded.
+
+Mrs. Howe nodded. “I’ll have a go at it while you’re having your
+breakfast,” she remarked. “Good job for you, sir, that you ain’t one o’
+them as faints at the sight of blood.”
+
+She brought coffee and bacon into the little back dining-room, and
+Keller, as he sat drinking his coffee and trying to eat, heard her at
+work in the study. He pushed away his plate at last, and filling a pipe
+from which all flavour had departed sat smoking and thinking.
+
+He was interrupted by Mrs. Howe. She stood in the doorway with a
+question which numbed his brain, and for a time arrested speech.
+
+“Eh?” he said at last.
+
+“Key of the bicycle-shed,” repeated the woman, staring at him. “You had
+a couple o’ my dusters to clean your bicycle with.”
+
+Keller felt in his pockets, thinking, thinking. “H’mm!” he said at
+last, “I’m afraid I’ve mislaid it. I’ll look for it presently.”
+
+Mrs. Howe nodded. “You do look bad,” she said, with an air of concern.
+“P’r’aps you hurt yourself more than what you think.”
+
+Keller forced a smile and shook his head, sinking back in his chair as
+she vanished, and trying to control his quivering limbs.
+
+For a long time he sat inert, listening dully to the movements of Mrs.
+Howe as she bustled to and fro. He heard her washing the step at the
+back door, and, after that, a rasping, grating noise to which at first
+he paid but little heed. Then there was a faint, musical chinking as of
+keys knocking together. _Keys!_
+
+He sprang from his chair like a madman, and dashed to the door. Mrs.
+Howe, with a bunch of odd keys tied on a string, had inserted one in
+the lock of the bicycle-shed, and was striving to turn it.
+
+“Stop!” cried Keller, in a dreadful voice. “STOP!”
+
+He snatched the keys from her, and, flinging them from him, stood
+mouthing dumbly at her. The fear in her eyes recalled him to his senses.
+
+“Spoil the lock,” he muttered, “spoil the lock. Sorry. I didn’t mean to
+shout. No sleep all night. Neuralgia; ’fraid my nerves are wrong.”
+
+The woman’s face relaxed and her eyes softened. “I saw you weren’t
+yourself as soon as I saw you this morning,” she exclaimed.
+
+She went back into the house, but he thought she eyed him curiously as
+she passed. She resumed her work, but in a subdued fashion, and, two or
+three times that morning meeting his eyes, nervously turned away her
+own. He realised at last that he was behaving in an unusual fashion
+altogether. In and out of the house, and, in the garden, never far
+from the shed.
+
+By lunch-time he had regained control of himself. He opened a bottle
+of beer, and, congratulating Mrs. Howe upon the grilling of the chops,
+went on to speak of her husband and the search for work which had been
+his only occupation since his marriage ten years before. Some of the
+fear went out of the woman’s eyes--but not all, and it was with obvious
+relief that she left the room.
+
+For some time after lunch Keller stayed in the dining-room, and that
+in itself was unusual. Two or three times he got up and resolved, for
+the sake of appearances, to take a short walk, but the shed held him.
+He dare not leave it unguarded. With a great effort he summoned up
+sufficient resolution to take him to the bottom of the garden and start
+his gruesome task.
+
+He dug roughly, avoiding the shape which might have aroused comment
+from any chance visitor. The ground was soft and, in spite of his
+injured hand, he made good progress, breaking off at frequent intervals
+to listen, or to move aside and obtain an unobstructed view of the shed.
+
+With a short break for tea he went on with his task until he was called
+in to his simple meal at seven. The manual labour had done him good
+and his appearance was almost normal. To Mrs. Howe he made a casual
+reference to his afternoon’s work and questioned where to obtain the
+best rock-plants.
+
+With her departure after she had cleared away, fear descended upon him
+again. The house became uncanny and the shed a place of unspeakable
+horror. Suppose his nerve failed and he found himself unable to open
+it! For an hour he paced up and down in the long twilight, waiting for
+the dark.
+
+It came at last, and fighting down his fears and nausea, he drew the
+garden-barrow up to the shed, and took the key from his pocket. He
+walked to the front gate, and looked up and down the silent road. Then
+he came back and, inserting the key in the lock, opened the door, and,
+in the light of an electric torch, stood looking down at what he had
+placed there the night before.
+
+With his ears alert for the slightest sound, he took the inhabitant of
+the shed by the shoulders, and, dragging it outside, strove to lift
+it into the barrow. He succeeded at last, and, with the rigid body
+balanced precariously and the dead face looking up into his, seized the
+handles and slowly and silently took Martle to the place prepared for
+him.
+
+He did not leave him for a long time. Not until the earth was piled
+high above him in a circular mound and a score or two of bricks formed
+the first beginnings of a rockery. Then he walked slowly up the garden,
+and, after attending to the shed, locked it up and went indoors.
+
+The disposal of the body gave a certain measure of relief. He would
+live, with time for repentance, and, perhaps, for forgetting. He washed
+in the scullery, and then, fearing the shadows upstairs, drew the
+heavy curtains in the dining-room to shut in the light and settled
+himself in an easy chair. He drank until his senses were deadened; his
+nerves quietened, his aching limbs relaxed, and he fell into a heavy
+sleep.
+
+
+III
+
+He awoke at six, and, staggering to his feet, drew back the curtains
+and turned out the gas. Then he went upstairs, and after disarranging
+his bed went to the bathroom. The cold water and a shave, together with
+a change of linen, did him good. He opened doors and windows, and let
+the clean sweet air blow through the house. The house which he must
+continue to inhabit because he dare not leave it. Other people might
+not share his taste for rockeries.
+
+To the watchful eye of Mrs. Howe he appeared to be almost himself
+again. The key of the shed had turned up, and he smiled as he
+presented her with her “precious dusters.” Then he rode off on his
+bicycle to order slabs of stone and plants from the nearest nurseryman.
+
+He worked more and more leisurely as the days passed, and the rockery
+grew larger and more solid. Every added stone and plant seemed to
+increase his security. He ate well, and, to his surprise, slept well;
+but every morning misery opened his eyes for him.
+
+The garden was no longer a place of quiet recreation; the house, which
+was part of the legacy that had so delighted him only a year before,
+was a prison in which he must serve a life-long sentence. He could
+neither let it nor sell it; other people might alter the garden--and
+dig. Since the fatal evening he had not looked at a newspaper for fear
+of reading of Martle’s disappearance, and in all that time had not
+spoken to a friend.
+
+Martle was very quiet. There were no shadows in the house, no furtive
+noises, no dim shape pattering about the garden by night. Memory was
+the only thing that assailed him; but it sufficed.
+
+Then the dream came. A dream confused and grotesque, as most dreams
+are. He dreamt that he was standing by the rockery, in the twilight,
+when he thought he saw one of the stones move. Other stones followed
+suit. A big slab near the top came slithering down, and it was apparent
+that the whole pile of earth and stone was being shaken by some
+internal force. Something was trying to get out. Then he remembered
+that he was buried there, and had no business to be standing outside.
+He must get back. Martle had put him there, and for some reason which
+he was quite unable to remember he was afraid of Martle. He procured
+his tools and set to work. It was a long and tedious job and made more
+difficult by the fact that he was not allowed to make a noise. He dug
+and dug, but the grave had disappeared. Then suddenly something took
+hold of him and held him down; down. He could neither move nor cry out.
+
+He awoke with a scream and for a minute or two lay trembling and
+shaking. Thank God, it was only a dream. The room was full of sunlight,
+and he could hear Mrs. Howe moving about downstairs. Life was good and
+might yet hold something in store for him.
+
+He lay still for ten minutes, and was about to rise when he heard Mrs.
+Howe running upstairs. Even before her sudden and heavy rapping on the
+door he scented disaster.
+
+“Mr. Keller! Mr. Keller!”
+
+“Well?” he said heavily.
+
+“Your rockery!” gasped the charwoman. “Your beautiful rockery! All
+gone!”
+
+“_Gone?_” shouted Keller, springing out of bed and snatching his
+dressing-gown from the door.
+
+“Pulled all to pieces,” said Mrs. Howe, as he opened the door. “You
+never see such a mess. All over the place, as if a madman had done it.”
+
+In a mechanical fashion he thrust his feet into slippers and went
+downstairs. He hurried down the garden, and, waving the woman back,
+stood looking at the ruin. Stones and earth were indeed all over the
+place, but the spot that mattered was untouched. He stood gazing and
+trembling. Who could have done it? Why was it done?
+
+He thought of his dream and the truth burst upon him. No need for
+his aching back and limbs to remind him. No need to remember the
+sleep-walking feats of his youth. He knew the culprit now.
+
+“Shall I go for the police?” inquired the voice of Mrs. Howe.
+
+Keller turned a stony face upon her. “No,” he said slowly. “I--I’ll
+speak to them about it myself.”
+
+He took up the spade and began the task of reconstruction. He worked
+for an hour, and then went in to dress and breakfast. For the rest of
+the day he worked slowly and steadily, so that by evening most of the
+damage had been repaired. Then he went indoors to face the long night.
+
+Sleep, man’s best friend, had become his unrelenting enemy. He made
+himself coffee on the gas-stove and fought his drowsiness cup by cup.
+He read and smoked and walked about the room. Bits of his dream, that
+he had forgotten, came back to him and stayed with him. And ever at the
+back of his mind was the certainty that he was doomed.
+
+There was only one hope left to him. He would go away for a time.
+Far enough away to render a visit home in his sleep impossible. And
+perhaps the change of scene would strengthen him and help his frayed
+nerves. Afterwards it might be possible to let the house for a time
+on condition that the garden was not interfered with. It was one risk
+against another.
+
+He went down the garden as soon as it was light and completed his
+work. Then he went indoors to breakfast and to announce his plans for
+sudden departure to Mrs. Howe, his white and twitching face amply
+corroborating his tale of neuralgia and want of sleep.
+
+“Things’ll be all right,” said the woman. “I’ll ask the police to keep
+an eye on the house of a night. I did speak to one last night about
+them brutes as destroyed the rockery. If they try it again they may get
+a surprise.”
+
+Keller quivered but made no sign. He went upstairs and packed his bag,
+and two hours later was in the train on his way to Exeter, where he
+proposed to stay the night. After that, Cornwall, perhaps.
+
+He secured a room at an hotel and went for a stroll to pass the time
+before dinner. How happy the people in the streets seemed to be, even
+the poorest! All free and all sure of their freedom. They could eat
+and sleep and enjoy the countless trivial things that make up life. Of
+battle and murder and sudden death they had no thought.
+
+The light and bustle of the dining-room gave him a little comfort.
+After his lonely nights it was good to know that there were people all
+around him, that the house would be full of them whilst he slept. He
+felt that he was beginning a fresh existence. In future he would live
+amongst a crowd.
+
+It was late when he went upstairs, but he lay awake for a few minutes.
+A faint sound or two reached him from downstairs, and the movements of
+somebody in the next room gave him a comfortable feeling of security.
+With a sigh of content he fell asleep.
+
+He was awakened by a knocking; a knocking which sounded just above
+the head of his bed and died away almost before he had brushed the
+sleep from his eyes. He looked around fearfully, and then, lighting
+his candle, lay listening. The noise was not repeated. He had been
+dreaming, but he could not remember the substance of his dream. It had
+been unpleasant, but vague. More than unpleasant, terrifying. Somebody
+had been shouting at him. _Shouting!_
+
+He fell back with a groan. The faint hopes of the night before died
+within him. _He_ had been shouting and the strange noise came from
+the occupant of the next room. What had he said? and what had his
+neighbour heard?
+
+He slept no more. From somewhere below he heard a clock toll the hours,
+and, tossing in his bed, wondered how many more remained to him.
+
+Day came at last and he descended to breakfast. The hour was early
+and only two other tables were occupied, from one of which, between
+mouthfuls, a bluff-looking, elderly man eyed him curiously. He caught
+Keller’s eye at last and spoke.
+
+“Better?” he inquired.
+
+Keller tried to force his quivering lips to a smile.
+
+“Stood it as long as I could,” said the other; “then I knocked. I
+thought perhaps you were delirious. Same words over and over again;
+sounded like ‘Mockery’ and ‘Mortal,’ ‘Mockery’ and ‘Mortal.’ You must
+have used them a hundred times.”
+
+Keller finished his coffee, and, lighting a cigarette, went and sat in
+the lounge. He had made his bid for freedom and failed. He looked up
+the times of the trains to town and rang for his bill.
+
+
+IV
+
+He was back in the silent house, upon which, in the fading light of
+the summer evening, a great stillness seemed to have descended. The
+atmosphere of horror had gone and left only a sense of abiding peace.
+All fear had left him, and pain and remorse had gone with it. Serene
+and tranquil he went into the fatal room, and, opening the window, sat
+by it, watching the succession of shadowy tableaux that had been his
+life. Some of it good and some of it bad, but most of it neither good
+nor bad. A very ordinary life until fate had linked it for all time
+with that of Martle’s. He was a living man bound to a corpse with bonds
+that could never be severed.
+
+It grew dark and he lit the gas and took a volume of poems from the
+shelves. Never before had he read with such insight and appreciation.
+In some odd fashion all his senses seemed to have been sharpened and
+refined.
+
+He read for an hour, and then, replacing the book, went slowly
+upstairs. For a long time he lay in bed thinking and trying to analyse
+the calm and indifference which had overtaken him and, with the problem
+still unsolved, fell asleep.
+
+For a time he dreamt, but of pleasant, happy things. He seemed to be
+filled with a greater content than he had ever known before, a content
+which did not leave him even when these dreams faded and he found
+himself back in the old one.
+
+This time, however, it was different. He was still digging, but not in
+a state of frenzy and horror. He dug because something told him it was
+his duty to dig, and only by digging could he make reparation. And it
+was a matter of no surprise to him that Martle stood close by looking
+on. Not that Martle he had known, nor a bloody and decaying Martle, but
+one of grave and noble aspect. And there was a look of understanding
+on his face that nearly made Keller weep.
+
+He went on digging with a sense of companionship such as he had never
+known before. Then suddenly, without warning, the sun blazed out of the
+darkness and struck him full in the face. The light was unbearable, and
+with a wild cry he dropped his spade and clapped his hands over his
+eyes. The light went, and a voice spoke to him out of the darkness.
+
+He opened his eyes on a dim figure standing a yard or two away.
+
+“Hope I didn’t frighten you, sir,” said the voice. “I called to you
+once or twice and then I guessed you were doing this in your sleep.”
+
+“In my sleep,” repeated Keller. “Yes.”
+
+“And a pretty mess you’ve made of it,” said the constable, with a
+genial chuckle. “Lord! to think of you working at it every day and then
+pulling it down every night. Shouted at you I did, but you wouldn’t
+wake.”
+
+He turned on the flashlight that had dazzled Keller, and surveyed the
+ruins. Keller stood by, motionless--and waiting.
+
+“Looks like an earthquake,” muttered the constable. He paused, and kept
+the light directed upon one spot. Then he stooped down and scratched
+away the earth with his fingers, and tugged. He stood up suddenly and
+turned the light on Keller, while with the other he fumbled in his
+pocket. He spoke in a voice cold and official.
+
+“Are you coming quietly?” he asked.
+
+Keller stepped towards him with both hands outstretched.
+
+“I am coming quietly,” he said, in a low voice. “Thank God!”
+
+
+
+
+Trust Money
+
+
+The night-watchman set his lips and shook his head.
+
+“You can’t learn people,” he said firmly; “it ain’t to be done. They
+all know better than wot you do, and the more iggernerant they are the
+more they are satisfied with themselves. I once wasted a whole morning
+telling my missus ’ow to make a steak-pudding, and arter it was done we
+’ad to give it to the people next door. She’s never forgot it, and to
+hear ’er talk--if you didn’t know ’er--you’d think it was my fault. The
+way she twists things round would surprise anybody as wasn’t married.”
+
+He gazed meditatively at a passing tug with its string of barges, and
+shook his head again before continuing:
+
+“Even experience don’t learn people. One chap I know used to save
+’is money in a little tin money-box. He ’ad ’arf a ounce o’ baccy a
+week and no beer. The box was so full o’ sixpences he was thinking of
+getting another, when his wife’s brother lost ’is job and didn’t get
+another till the box was empty.
+
+“You’d ha’ thought that would ’ave learned ’im a lesson, but it
+didn’t, and he’d pretty near got another box full when ’is wife ’ad
+the artfulness to break her leg and ’ad to go to the seaside for a
+fortnight to get well. He’s saving up agin now for wot ’e calls a rainy
+day. He’ll get it all right, and somebody else’ll get the money.
+
+“Sailormen never learn anything. If they did they wouldn’t be
+sailormen. They’re like children that never grow up. It don’t matter
+where they go ashore with their money, they always go back aboard agin
+without it.
+
+“I remember one time when old Sam Small was ashore with Peter Russet
+and Ginger Dick ’aving wot they called a rest; their idea of a rest
+being spending ’arf the day in bed and the other ’arf leaning up agin
+the bar of a public-’ouse telling fairy-tales to the barmaid. They was
+like three twins for the fust few days, and then Sam wouldn’t ’ave
+nothing more to do with ’em owing to them telling the barmaid at the
+‘Turk’s Head’--a very nice gal with yeller ’air and black eyes--that he
+’ad got a wife and thirteen children at Melbourne.
+
+“He walked ’ome in front of ’em as if they wasn’t there, and when ’e
+shut the front door he seemed to ’ave the same idea. Ginger noticed
+it most--being just behind ’im. They ’ad words about it when they got
+upstairs, and Sam told ’em plain that he never wanted to see their
+faces agin; not even if they washed ’em.
+
+“He purtended to be asleep while they was dressing next morning. His
+eyes was screwed up tight, and it didn’t seem as if anything could open
+’em, till Ginger said ’e thought he ’ad passed away in ’is sleep and
+asked Peter to get a pin and make sure. Sam woke up then, and, arter he
+’ad finished speaking, Ginger and Peter said they never wanted to see
+_his_ face agin.
+
+“They went off by theirselves, and arter a time Sam got up and went off
+by ’imself. He didn’t see anything of Peter or Ginger at all that day,
+but from wot the barmaid ’ad to say about ’is grandchildren ’e found
+they ’ad spent a lot o’ time drinking beer and telling more lies at the
+‘Turk’s Head.’
+
+“He sat up in bed and spoke to ’em about it when they came in that
+night, but they wouldn’t listen to ’im. They said that ’is troubles
+didn’t concern them and they’d be thankful if he’d take ’em somewhere
+else.
+
+“‘We’ve done with you,’ ses Ginger.
+
+“‘For ever,’ ses Peter. ‘And my advice to you, Sam, is to leave off
+afore you bursts a blood-vessel. Anybody might think the ’ouse was on
+fire.’
+
+“Sam didn’t speak to them at all arter that and they didn’t speak to
+’im, but they ’ad a great deal to say about ’im to each other when ’e
+was in the room. It was wot Ginger called a nasty subjeck, but they
+never seemed to get tired of it.
+
+“Sam ’ad made up ’is mind to leave ’em and go off on his own, and then
+’e came ’ome one night so full of excitement ’e forgot all about it.
+He came into the room like a schoolboy and gave ’em such a nice smile
+they thought he ’ad lost ’is reason. Then he done a little dance all by
+’imself in the middle of the room and sat down on ’is bed and laughed.
+
+“‘I’ve come into a forchin,’ he ses to Peter as the two of ’em stood
+staring at ’im. ‘Leastways, I shall to-morrer night.’
+
+“Ginger coughed. But not a disagreeable cough, mind you.
+
+“‘Come into a forchin?’ he ses. ‘’Ow?’
+
+“Old Sam didn’t seem to hear ’im. He sat on his bed all rosy with
+smiles and looking straight at the chest o’ drawers as though ’e saw a
+pile of gold on top of it.
+
+“‘And I owe it all to you and Peter, Ginger,’ he ses, bending down to
+undo ’is boots. ‘If you ’adn’t been misbe’aved, and carrying on like
+a couple of bald-faced monkeys purtending to be men, I shouldn’t ’ave
+gone off on my own, and if I ’adn’t ha’ gone off on my own I shouldn’t
+’ave met ’em.’
+
+“‘Met who?’ ses Ginger, who was too excited to take any notice of wot
+he ’ad said about monkeys.
+
+“‘Two o’ the best,’ ses Sam; ‘two gentlemen whose on’y objeck in life
+is to do good to their fellow-creechers. They told me so theirselves.’
+
+“‘Did you stand ’em drinks?’ ses Peter, catching Ginger’s eye.
+
+“‘You’ve got a low mind, Peter,’ ses Sam, shaking his ’ead; ‘you ought
+to be more careful who you go about with. I’ve ’ad six drinks to-night,
+or maybe more, and I didn’t pay for one of ’em. They wouldn’t let me.’
+
+“‘You don’t always try very ’ard,’ ses Peter, who was beginning to lose
+his temper.
+
+“‘Wot ’ave they got to do with your forchin?’ ses Ginger.
+
+“‘It’s coming through them,’ ses Sam, ‘and if you and Peter was
+diff’rent, if you was on’y ’arf men instead of--of being wot you are,
+I would get forchins for you too. There’s plenty more where mine’s
+coming from.’
+
+“‘Where’s that?’ ses Ginger, trying to speak off-hand.
+
+“Sam turned deaf agin, and was just going to get into bed when Ginger
+stopped ’im gentle-like and turning down the bed-clo’es took out a
+’air-brush, an old horse-shoe, a lump o’ soap, and a few other things
+wot ’im and Peter ’ad put there.
+
+“‘The ’orse-shoe was for luck, Sam,’ he ses, with a smile. ‘P’r’aps
+it’s through that you got your forchin.’
+
+“Sam looked at ’im as if he was looking at a dust-bin with a bad smell,
+and then without a word he got into bed and, putting his ’ead on the
+piller, shut ’is eyes and went straight off to sleep. Ginger woke up
+the next morning dreaming that the ’ouse was on fire. The room was full
+o’ smoke, but the moment ’e got ’is eyes open he saw that it was made
+by Sam, who was sitting up in bed smoking an enormous cigar with a
+red-and-gold band stuck on it. He purtended not to see that Ginger was
+looking at ’im, and the airs and graces he see fit to give ’imself with
+that cigar nearly made Ginger choke. Peter Russet woke up then, and
+arter he ’ad sniffed and sniffed as if ’e couldn’t believe his nose, ’e
+asked Sam in a nasty voice where he ’ad pinched it from.
+
+“‘It was give to me by one o’ the gentlemen I was speaking of,’ ses
+Sam, knocking the ash off down ’is neck by mistake. ‘He’s got a gold
+case full of ’em.’
+
+“‘Gold case?’ ses Ginger.
+
+“‘With diamonds on it,’ ses Sam. ‘He said ’e would ’ave liked to give
+it to me, on’y it was a birthday present from ’is little boy wot died
+of whooping-cough.’
+
+“Ginger scratched his ’ead, and ’e kept on scratching it till Sam said
+as ’ow it was vulgar, and asked ’im to go out of the room to do it.
+
+“‘But who are they?’ ses Peter Russet, arter Ginger ’ad quieted down a
+bit.
+
+“‘Two gentlemen,’ ses Sam; ‘two gentlemen wot knows another gentleman
+when they sees ’im.’
+
+“He laid down on ’is back and blew smoke up to the ceiling, until
+Ginger and Peter sat down on Ginger’s bed and tried to swaller their
+pride and ask him to tell ’em all about it. Ginger tried fust, but he
+’adn’t swallered enough, and when Sam sat up in bed and told ’im part
+of wot he thought of ’im, Peter took his side and said that if Ginger
+’ad on’y been born without a mouth it ’ud be much better for ’imself
+and everybody else. He gave Ginger a poke in the ribs with ’is elbow
+to keep ’im quiet, and said that if anybody deserved to ’ave a forchin
+given ’im it was Sam Small.
+
+“‘One o’ the best,’ he ses, giving Ginger another poke with ’is elbow.
+
+“‘We all ’ave our faults, Peter,’ ses Sam, with a kind smile, ‘else we
+should all be angels.’
+
+“‘There ain’t no fat angels,’ ses Ginger, pushing Peter’s elbow away.
+‘They wouldn’t look nice. All the angels I’ve seen in pikchers ’ave got
+beautiful figgers.’
+
+“Peter gave it up then, and arter telling Ginger in a whisper wot a
+fool ’e was, he picked up ’is trousers off of the floor and began to
+dress. Neither of ’em took any more notice o’ Sam, and arter laying
+still for a time watching ’em wash and telling Ginger that the soap
+wouldn’t bite ’im he began talking to ’em of ’is own free will.
+
+“He told ’em of a nice, comfortable little pub in a turning off
+the Mile End Road wot he ’ad found on the evening before. A
+little pub--clean as a new pin, and as quiet and respectable as a
+front-parlour. Everybody calling the landlady ‘Ma,’ and the landlady
+calling most of ’em by their Christian names and asking arter their
+families. There was two poll parrots in cages, with not a bad word
+between ’em--except once when a man played the cornet outside--and a
+canary that almost sang its little ’art out.
+
+“‘Wot about the two gentlemen that took a fancy to you?’ ses Ginger.
+
+“Sam looked at ’im for a moment as if he was surprised at ’im speaking
+to ’im.
+
+“‘There was on’y one at fust,’ he ses at last, very slow, ‘a thin
+gentleman with a little black moustache, a beautiful white collar, and
+a silk necktie with a gold pin in it. He was drinking port wine when I
+went in, and arter looking me up and down, just for a moment, ’e asked
+me to ’ave one with ’im.’
+
+“‘Wot for?’ ses Ginger.
+
+“‘He told me arterwards,’ ses Sam. ‘He said as ’ow I was the living
+image of a cousin of ’is wot ’ad lost his life at sea--saving others.
+He said at fust he thought I was ’is ghost. There was on’y me and ’im
+in that bar, and the tears came into his eyes when ’e spoke of ’im.’
+
+“‘But wot about the forchin, Sam?’ ses Ginger, arter waiting a bit.
+‘Wot’s the ugly cousin got to do with it?’
+
+“Sam sat up in bed and looked at ’im. Then ’e snapped his lips tight as
+if ’e was never going to open ’em agin and laid back on the piller.
+
+“‘Go on, Sam, old man,’ ses Peter Russet; ‘if Ginger had ’arf your
+looks ’e wouldn’t be so bad-tempered. He’s got a jealous dispersition.
+You was just telling up about ’ow the tears came into ’is eyes.’
+
+“‘We ’ad a long talk,’ ses Sam, arter looking very ’ard at Ginger, ’and
+arter standing me another glass o’ port wine ’e began to tell me all
+about ’is troubles. He ’ad got hard up through ’elping a friend, and ’e
+didn’t know where to turn for money. He went into that little pub with
+fourpence ha’penny in ’is pocket and went out with five ’undred pounds.’
+
+“‘’Ow?’ ses Peter and Ginger, both speaking at the same time.
+
+“‘While ’e was ’aving a fit of the miserables in there and wondering
+wot ’e was going to do,’ ses Sam, in a solemn voice, ‘the door opened
+and a gentleman came in. A gentleman wot goes about looking for
+feller-creechers to do good to. That was ’ow the gentleman as was
+standing me port wine got ’is five ’undred pounds.’
+
+“‘Did you see it?’ ses Ginger, in a nasty voice.
+
+“‘I see more than that, Ginger,’ ses Sam, speaking very low; ‘I see
+enough money last night to make the three of us gentlemen for life. And
+Mr. Cooper--that’s the gentleman wot ’as it--goes about giving it away.
+He gave the other gentleman, Mr. Jackson by name, five ’undred pounds
+for trusting ’im. He got talking to ’im and told ’im that a friend of
+’is had left ’im a forchin, and as he was a rich man and didn’t want it
+’e was giving it away. But on’y to people that deserved it, mind yer.
+And ’e said that the people ’e could trust was them as trusted others.’
+
+“‘I can’t make ’ead or tail of it,’ ses Ginger.
+
+“‘He took a good ’ard look at Mr. Jackson,’ ses Sam, ’and then ’e put
+a thousand pounds into his ’and and told ’im to go for a walk with it
+while ’e waited for ’im in the pub. When Mr. Jackson came back he
+asked ’im whether _he_ could trust _’im_, and Mr. Jackson, not ’aving
+any money, trusted ’im with ’is gold watch and chain, two rings, and a
+tie-pin. When ’e came back he patted ’im on the back and gave ’im five
+’undred pounds. Mr. Jackson said ’e cried like a child.’
+
+“‘’Cos he ’adn’t gone off with the thousand pounds, d’ye mean?’ ses
+Ginger staring.
+
+“‘While he was telling me this,’ ses Sam to Peter Russet, ‘who should
+come in but Mr. Cooper ’imself--a short, fat gentleman with blue eyes
+like a innercent child’s and one o’ the kindest faces I ever see. It
+done me good to look at ’im. He was a bit stand-offish at fust, but
+arter a time we was all ’aving drinks together like brothers. And then
+Mr. Jackson took ’im a bit to one side and whispered to ’im, and I
+could see plain that ’e was talking about me.’
+
+[Illustration: “AND THEN MR. JACKSON TOOK ’IM A BIT TO ONE SIDE AND
+WHISPERED TO ’IM, AND I COULD SEE PLAIN THAT ’E WAS TALKING ABOUT ME.”]
+
+“‘Cut it short,’ ses Ginger, fidgeting.
+
+“‘I ain’t talking to you,’ ses Sam. ‘Ten minutes arterwards _I_ was
+going for a walk with a thousand pounds in my pocket in banknotes,
+_and_ the gold cigar-case. I couldn’t trust ’im when I came back as
+I ’ad on’y got four bob in my pocket, but to-night I’m going to meet
+’im agin and trust ’im with all I’ve got. And Mr. Jackson told me ’e
+wouldn’t be surprised if I got a thousand pounds. He said Mr. Cooper
+told ’im that he ’ad took a partikler fancy to me.’
+
+“I can’t make ’ead or tail of it,’ ses Ginger, ‘but mark my words, Sam,
+there’s a catch in it somewhere. Nobody ’ud take a fancy to you unless
+they was going to get something out of it.’
+
+“Sam didn’t take no notice of ’im. He got up and dressed ’imself, and
+when they asked ’im wot he was going to do till evening, he told ’em
+that was ’is business. Peter Russet and Ginger spent the day together,
+both of ’em wondering, if Sam did get a forchin, whether they couldn’t
+get one the same way. At last, arter they had ’ad a few pints apiece,
+they made up their minds to hang about till Sam came ’ome and then
+follow ’im, unbeknownst, to the pub.
+
+“They didn’t wait for ’im in their room ’cos they thought ’e might
+tumble to it, and he was so late turning up that they began to think ’e
+wasn’t coming ’ome fust arter all. Then about ha’-past six they see ’im
+come round the corner and go straight into the ’ouse.
+
+“It seemed ages afore he came out agin, and when ’e did they see that
+he ’ad got ’is best clo’es on and a new cap. They let ’im get a good
+start, and then follered in a drizzling rain which made the Minories
+and Whitechapel full of umbrellas that kept getting in between them and
+Sam, especially one that nearly put Ginger’s eye out. It wasn’t till
+he ’ad turned into a quiet street off the Mile End Road that they felt
+sure of ’im.
+
+“They follered, very careful, and then at last they saw ’im stop at
+the door of a quiet little pub at the corner of a dark little street.
+There wasn’t a soul about, and, arter stopping a moment to pull ’is cap
+straight, Sam pushed opened the door and stepped inside. Ginger and
+Peter, arter pinching each other’s arms in their excitement, stood in a
+doorway a little way off and waited.
+
+“‘I s’pose he’s drinking glasses and glasses o’ port wine while we’re
+out ’ere in the wet,’ ses Ginger, arter about ten minutes.
+
+“‘Why don’t they make ’aste?’ ses Peter Russet. ‘I believe there’s a
+catch in it somewhere.’
+
+“‘_H’sh!_’ ses Ginger, all of a sudden.
+
+“They drew back into the doorway and just poked their ’eads out as they
+saw the pub door open and a man come out. He stood a moment waving his
+’and to Sam, who they could see standing near the bar, and then walked
+off slow down the road.
+
+“‘Come on,’ ses Ginger. ‘Let’s see where he goes.’
+
+“They followed as quiet as they could, and then all at once they found
+themselves going quicker and quicker to keep up with ’im. Twice ’e went
+round corners, and when they got round they found ’e was ever so far
+in front.
+
+“‘He’s been running,’ ses Ginger. ‘Come on! He’s going off with Sam’s
+money!’
+
+“He started running as ’ard as he could, with Peter just be’ind, and
+the man in front, wot ’ad begun to run ’imself, left off--and began to
+walk agin.
+
+“‘Wot d’ye want?’ he ses, as Ginger caught ’old of ’im, and afore
+Ginger could answer ’im he gave ’im a fearful bang in the face and a
+kick in the leg that pretty near broke it.
+
+“Ginger gave two grunts, one for the smack in the face and the other
+for the kick, and then ’e sailed in at ’im like a madman, and knocked
+’im all over the place. His last punch got ’im fair on the chin, and ’e
+went down in the gutter like a lamb that ’as been pole-axed, and hit
+’is ’ead on the kerb.
+
+“‘You’ve killed ’im,’ ses Peter, staring.
+
+“‘Good job, too,’ ses Ginger, thinking of ’is pore leg. ‘Come on, let’s
+get Sam’s money back.’
+
+[Illustration: “‘YOU’VE KILLED ’IM,’ SES PETER, STARING. ‘GOOD JOB,
+TOO,’ SES GINGER, THINKING OF ’IS PORE LEG. ‘COME ON, LET’S GET SAM’S
+MONEY BACK.’”]
+
+“Peter looked be’ind ’im, and then, seeing there was nobody about,
+’elped Ginger to empty the chap’s pockets. In less than a minute they
+’ad picked ’im as clean as a bone and was hurrying off, Peter ’olding a
+watch and chain in his ’and and Ginger stuffing things into ’is pockets
+and saying that it wasn’t robbing to rob a thief. Especially a thief
+wot kicked.
+
+“They lost their way for a bit, but Ginger didn’t mind. He said the
+more they got lost the ’arder it would be for anybody to find ’em, but
+they got ’ome at last and, arter shutting the bedroom door careful,
+emptied out their pockets on to the bed and stood staring at each other.
+
+“‘_We’ve_ got the forchin, Peter,’ ses Ginger. ‘Count it agin to make
+sure.’
+
+“‘Twenty-seven pounds fourteen shillings and threepence,’ ses Peter,
+‘two watches and chains--that one is Sam’s----’
+
+“‘One clasp knife,’ ses Ginger, ‘a bit o’ lead-pencil, a gold
+cigar-case made o’ something else, and a bundle of imitation banknotes.
+That’s wot ’e trusted Sam with, I expect, Peter.’
+
+“‘I wonder ’ow much of the twenty-seven pounds is Sam’s?’ ses Peter
+Russet.
+
+“‘I forgot that,’ ses Ginger. ‘He ought to pay something for that kick
+on the leg I got, though.’
+
+“Peter Russet, wot ’ad seen the leg, nodded. ‘I wouldn’t ’ave ’ad that
+kick for ten pounds,’ he ses, in a kind voice. ‘If you ’ave to lose
+your leg, Ginger, I wouldn’t have ’ad it for fifty.’
+
+“Ginger ’ad another look at his leg, and then, to prevent losing it,
+’e bathed it with a little cold water and put a bit o’ butter on it.
+Arter which they went out as far as the Town of Ramsgate public-’ouse
+to drink each other’s ’ealths.
+
+“It took ’em a long time, both of ’em being very pleased with each
+other, but at last, after the landlord ’ad been holding the door open
+for ’em till ’is jaws ached, they went back ’ome. They both of ’em
+thought it was earlier than wot it was, so they was quite surprised
+when they found Sam ’ad got ’ome before them and gone to bed.
+
+“‘Did--did you get the forchin, Sam?’ ses Ginger, going over to the
+wash-stand and sousing ’is face with cold water.
+
+“Sam gave a smile that made ’im look as if he was ’aving a fit.
+
+“‘No, Ginger,’ he ses, very soft. ‘I remembered your advice, old pal.’
+
+“‘Advice?’ ses Ginger, staring.
+
+“‘You said as ’ow there might be a catch in it,’ ses Sam, ’and knowing
+wot a clever ’ead-piece you’ve got, Ginger, I thought it over and made
+up my mind not to trust ’im.’
+
+“Peter Russet made a noise that an elephant with the hiccups might ha’
+been proud of, and then Ginger went over and led ’im across to the
+wash-stand.
+
+“‘You ’old your noise,’ he ses, pushing Peter’s face into the water.
+‘You didn’t lose your money arter all, then?’ he ses, turning to Sam.
+
+“‘No,’ ses Sam. ‘At least, not that way, but arter I left the pub to
+come ’ome and see you and Peter, I--I ’ad a misforchin.’
+
+“‘Misforchin?’ ses Ginger, staring at ’im.
+
+“‘I--I ’ad my p-pocket picked,’ ses Sam, stuttering.
+
+“Peter Russet made another noise afore Ginger could stop ’im, and then
+they both stood up staring at Sam.
+
+“‘A lady asked me the time,’ ses Sam, shutting his eyes so as ’e
+couldn’t see ’em, ‘and while I was telling ’er one of ’er pals come up
+and choked me, and two others helped themselves out o’ my pockets.’
+
+“Ginger looked at Peter--just in time. Then he looked at Sam again.
+
+“‘’Ow much was it?’ he ses.
+
+“‘Eleven pounds and my watch and chain,’ ses Sam; ‘if it wasn’t for
+seven shillings they didn’t find, in another pocket, I should be
+starving. ’Ow long do you think a man could live on seven shillings?’
+
+“‘Me or you?’ ses Ginger, considering.
+
+“‘Me,’ ses pore Sam.
+
+“‘Week or ten days--with care,’ ses Ginger.
+
+“Sam thanked ’im, but not very loud, and arter saying ’e didn’t care
+wot become of ’im and he didn’t suppose ’is pals did neither, he
+punched ’is piller as if it was somebody ’e didn’t like and laid down
+and shut ’is eyes.
+
+“He was up fust next morning counting ’is seven shillings over and over
+agin, and Peter and Ginger purtending not to notice it. They didn’t see
+’im agin till night time ’cos, when Peter spoke to Ginger about giving
+’im his eleven pounds back, Ginger said ’e ought to be made to suffer a
+little for ’is foolishness fust, to be a lesson to ’im.
+
+“‘We’re saving it up for ’im,’ he ses. ‘While we’ve got it he can’t be
+spending it.’
+
+“‘Or trusting people with it,’ ses Peter.
+
+“Both of ’em felt quite kind to Sam, thinking ’ow good they was going
+to be to ’im, but Sam ’ardly spoke a word to ’em and was up and out
+next morning a’most afore they ’ad got their eyes open. Twice they came
+back to their room that day to see whether he ’ad turned up, and when
+night-time came and ’e was still missing, Peter Russet said as ’ow he
+was getting uneasy about ’im.”
+
+“‘Wot’s ’e doing?’ he ses. ‘He ain’t got any money to go to pubs with,
+and there’s nowhere else for ’im to go.’
+
+“They sat on their beds smoking and drinking some whisky they ’ad
+brought in with ’em, and Ginger was just helping ’imself to ’is third
+glass when ’e put the bottle down and sat listening.
+
+“‘Somebody coming upstairs,’ he ses.
+
+“‘He’s a long time about it,’ ses Peter. ‘He ’as been sitting in a pub.’
+
+“Somebody was coming up the stairs so slow it seemed as if ’e would
+never get to the top, and the banisters was creaking as if they would
+break. Then they ’eard a shuffling on the landing, and as the door
+opened they both jumped up and called out at the same time:
+
+“‘Lor’ lumme!’ ses Ginger. ‘’Ave you been run over, Sam?’
+
+“Sam looked at ’im for a moment and then ’e gave a stagger and tumbled
+on to ’is bed.
+
+“‘Mr. Cooper!’ he ses, in a faint voice.
+
+“‘Wot about ’im?’ ses Ginger.
+
+“‘He done it,’ ses Sam, ‘’im and ’is pals. I went round to the pub to
+see if I could find ’im, thinking ’e might ’ave been took ill the other
+night, and this is wot I got. He said I’d robbed _’im_. _Me!_ He goes
+off with my money and then ’arf kills me. Wot for? That’s wot I want to
+know.’
+
+“‘It’s a mystery,’ ses Ginger, shaking his ’ead.
+
+“‘I thought you said you didn’t give ’im the money,’ ses Peter.
+
+“Sam didn’t answer ’im, and arter drinking a glass o’ whisky Ginger
+gave ’im he ’eld his ’ead in his ’ands and said ’e thought ’e was
+dying. When they offered to undress ’im he said ’e didn’t think it was
+worth while, but they got ’is clo’es off arter a bit and put ’im into
+bed.
+
+“‘Wot did ’e do it _for_?’ he ses, arter he had ’ad two more whiskies.
+‘D’ye think ’e’s mad? His ’ead was all bandaged up.’
+
+“Ginger shook his ’ead. ‘It’s a mystery,’ he ses again.
+
+“He went acrost the room and came back with something tied up in a
+handkerchief and put it on Sam’s bed. Sam looked at it a moment and
+then ’e picked it up and out tumbled eleven pounds, a watch and chain,
+and a imitation gold cigar-case.
+
+“‘He’s fainted,’ ses Peter Russet.”
+
+
+
+
+Kitchen Company
+
+
+Practice makes perfect, and when Mrs. Brampton, from her seat by the
+window, announced the approach of the Captain, Mr. Leonard Scott kissed
+Miss Brampton in the small hall and made his usual dignified exit to
+the kitchen. To leave by the side-entrance was the best way of avoiding
+trouble with a man who was always looking out for it. Mr. Scott
+bestowed a nod upon the smiling young mistress of the kitchen, and with
+his hand upon the back-door waited to hear the Captain at the front.
+
+“One o’ these days,” began Clara, who loved to dwell upon the gruesome,
+“he’ll come----”
+
+She broke off and listened. “He’s coming,” she said, in a thrilling
+whisper. “He’s coming the back way.”
+
+Mr. Scott started, hesitated, and was lost.
+
+“Fly!” exclaimed Clara, pointing by accident to the ceiling.
+
+The young man scowled at her, and before he had time to alter his
+expression found himself gazing at the burly form and inflamed visage
+of Captain Brampton.
+
+“Well?” barked the latter. “What are you doing in my kitchen? Eh? What
+have you got to say for yourself?”
+
+Mr. Scott coughed and tried to collect his thoughts. In the front room
+Mrs. Brampton and her daughter eyed each other in silent consternation.
+Then, in response to a peremptory bellow, Mrs. Brampton rose and made a
+trembling passage to the kitchen.
+
+“What does this mean?” demanded the Captain in grating accents.
+
+His wife stood looking helplessly from one to the other, and, instead
+of answering the question, passed it on.
+
+“What does this mean, Clara?” she demanded.
+
+“Eh?” said that astonished maiden. “What does what mean?”
+
+“This,” said the Captain sternly, with a jerk of his head towards Mr.
+Scott. “Did you invite him here?”
+
+Clara started--but in a lesser degree than Mr. Scott--and looked down
+modestly at a hole in the hearth-rug. Mrs. Brampton and her daughter
+gazed at her in hushed expectation.
+
+“I didn’t, not to say, invite him,” replied Clara, “but I can’t help
+him coming here.”
+
+“_H’m!_ Perhaps you didn’t try,” said the Captain with unexpected
+mildness. “How long have you known him?”
+
+“Some time, sir,” said Clara vaguely.
+
+“Does he want to marry you?”
+
+Clara looked at her mistress for guidance, but the latter was engaged
+at the moment in an eye-to-eye duel with the fermenting Mr. Scott. Over
+the Captain’s face stole an expression of great and unusual benevolence.
+
+“Well, well,” he said slowly. “We’ve all been young once. He’s not much
+to look at, but he looks clean and respectable. When do you think of
+getting married?”
+
+“That’s for him to say, sir,” said the modest Clara.
+
+“Well, there’s no hurry,” said the Captain, “no hurry. He can come
+round once a week for you on your evening out, but no other time, mind.”
+
+“Thank you, sir,” said Clara, who was beginning to enjoy herself. “It’s
+my evening out to-night, sir. He was going to take me to the pictures.”
+
+A stifled exclamation came from the direction where Mr. Scott was
+standing, which the Captain chose to interpret as an expression of
+gratitude. With instructions to Clara to regale her admirer with bread
+and cheese and one glass of beer, he shepherded his wife and daughter
+from the kitchen. Humming a light air, Clara began to set the table.
+
+“What the devil did you want to say I was going to take you to the
+pictures for?” demanded the ungrateful Mr. Scott.
+
+“’Cos I wanted to go,” said his hostess calmly.
+
+Mr. Scott regarded her coldly. “I will walk with you as far as the
+corner of this road,” he said with an air of finality.
+
+“We’ll go to the best seats and I’ll have a box of chocolates,” said
+Clara. “Do you like chocolates?”
+
+“No,” said the other sternly.
+
+“Praise be!” said the girl piously. “My other young man----”
+
+Mr. Scott coughed violently.
+
+“All right,” said the girl, “don’t get excited. He’s away on a job for
+a week or two, else I wouldn’t dare to be seen with you. When the cat’s
+away the mice will play,” she added.
+
+The young man eyed her in amazement. This was a new Clara. His lips
+quivered and his eyes watered. He took up his glass of beer and nodded.
+
+“Right-o!” he agreed.
+
+He smoked a cigarette while the girl went upstairs to dress, and a
+little later, watched by three pairs of eyes from the front window,
+sailed up the street with her arm-in-arm.
+
+“She’s too good for him,” said the Captain, with decision.
+
+“Much,” assented his daughter, with a smile.
+
+“Tailor’s dummy!” soliloquised the Captain.
+
+“Cheap tailor, too,” murmured the acquiescent Miss Brampton. “Did you
+notice how baggy his trousers are at the knees?”
+
+The Captain shot a glance at her. Twenty years’ experience of a wife
+whose only anxiety was to please him was not the best preparation for
+handling a daughter who, to say the least of it, had other ambitions.
+He began to fear that she had inherited more of his strength of
+character--a quality for which some of his friends found another
+name--than was convenient.
+
+“He’s a softy,” he growled. “He ought to have a year or two at sea.
+That might make a man of him.”
+
+He got up and went into the garden, leaving mother and daughter to
+discuss the possibilities of a situation which had found them somewhat
+unprepared.
+
+“It might have been worse,” said Mrs. Brampton. “If your father had
+caught him in here----”
+
+“He couldn’t eat him,” said her daughter rebelliously.
+
+“There are worse things than being eaten,” said Mrs. Brampton, with
+some feeling.
+
+Miss Brampton nodded. “Taking Clara to the pictures, for instance,” she
+remarked. “Poor Leonard!”
+
+Her mother sniffed. “I dare say he will get over it,” she said dryly.
+“Unless Clara’s young man gets to hear of it. From what she has told me
+he is a very hot-tempered young man--and very strong.”
+
+“Pity father didn’t find _him_ in the kitchen,” said the dutiful
+daughter.
+
+She sat down, and in sympathetic mood tried to share the misery of the
+absent one at the cinema. A vision of Clara’s hat, perilously near Mr.
+Scott’s shoulder, mercifully eluded her, but, the window being open to
+the summer air, she was unable to help hearing the cheerful babble of
+laughter that heralded their return. It seemed to strike a wrong note;
+and the couple of noisy kisses which Clara saw fit to bestow upon the
+back of her hand for the Captain’s benefit were registered on the wrong
+target.
+
+Mrs. Brampton obtained the explanation from Clara next day, and
+accepted it without prejudice. Her daughter declined to accept it at
+all.
+
+“You quite understand that he must not come to see you again?” she said
+stiffly.
+
+“But he’s got to,” said the staring handmaiden. “The Captain says so.
+And if he plays fast-and-loose with me I’m to have him up for breach of
+promise. Lively for me, ain’t it? When I think of Bill and his temper
+I get goose-flesh all over.”
+
+The ladies eyed each other in silent consternation.
+
+“Your father _knows_,” said the elder at last. “He has done this on
+purpose.”
+
+“Set a trap for him,” said Clara, nodding. “Looks like it. And I’m the
+little bit o’ cheese, I suppose?”
+
+Mrs. Brampton stared at her.
+
+“Father forgets that I am nineteen,” said her daughter. “Why shouldn’t
+I----?”
+
+“I was only fifteen when _I_ started,” murmured Clara, “and not big for
+my age neither.”
+
+“That will do,” said Mrs. Brampton.
+
+“Yes’m,” said the girl. “Still----”
+
+“Still what?” demanded her mistress.
+
+“I’ve been dragged into it,” said Clara mutinously. “Nobody asked me
+or troubled about my feelings. I do the best I can, and that’s all the
+thanks I get for it. Suppose I had told the Captain it was Miss Edith
+he was after? Where would you have been then?”
+
+“We won’t discuss it,” said Mrs. Brampton with an air of feeble dignity.
+
+She made as stately an exit as the size of the kitchen would allow,
+and, carefully closing the door of the sitting-room, made a few remarks
+on Clara’s character, and more on her lack of it.
+
+“It’s no good blaming Clara,” said her daughter. “It’s father’s doing.
+He wants to make Leonard look like a fool first and scare him away
+afterwards. He’ll tell all his friends about it.”
+
+“Mr. Hopkins, for one,” said Mrs. Brampton, nodding sagely. “I
+wonder----”
+
+“I don’t,” said the girl, reddening.
+
+“Your father seems to have taken a great fancy to him,” continued Mrs.
+Brampton. “Now, does he come here to see your father, or----”
+
+“Or,” said her daughter bitterly. “It’s just like father. I suppose
+he will want to choose my tooth-powder for me next. But he won’t get
+any satisfaction out of me--_or_ Leonard. I’ll see to that. As for Mr.
+Hopkins--_brrh!_”
+
+She beamed, however, on that innocent man when her father brought him
+in next day to see the garden, and when the wily Captain went indoors
+for his pipe made no attempt to follow him. It was a pipe that was
+notorious for the discovery of new and unusual hiding-places, and on
+this occasion made no attempt to belie its reputation.
+
+Meantime, the delighted Mr. Hopkins, under the skilful management of
+Miss Brampton, walked with his head in the clouds and his feet on
+various choice border plants.
+
+“Hadn’t you better walk on the path?” inquired the girl, who had been
+monopolising three-quarters of it. “It’s more comfortable.”
+
+Mr. Hopkins started. “Good heavens!” he said in an alarmed voice, as he
+bent down to render first aid to a stock with a broken neck. “Did I do
+that?”
+
+Miss Brampton nodded. “Those, too, I think,” she replied, with a wave
+of her hand. “Don’t you care for flowers?”
+
+Mr. Hopkins, who was fearfully endeavouring to conceal the traces of
+his crime, made no reply. When the Captain came out they were both
+speechless, but he was, if anything, the redder of the two.
+
+“These paths are very narrow, father,” remarked the humane Edith.
+
+The Captain made a noise.
+
+“Afraid--crowding--Miss Edith,” panted the offender.
+
+The Captain made another noise. In the present company all the useful
+words he knew were useless.
+
+“Did you find your pipe, father?” inquired the persevering Miss
+Brampton.
+
+The Captain was understood to say “Yes.” At the same time he favoured
+her with a glance which would have made her mother tremble. On Miss
+Brampton it had a bracing effect.
+
+“Father’s always mislaying his pipe,” she said, with a bright laugh. “I
+shouldn’t trouble any more about those, if I were you, Mr. Hopkins. You
+can’t do them any good, and you are standing on an antirrhinum.”
+
+Mr. Hopkins removed his foot hastily, and placing it carefully in the
+centre of the path offered up another apology. It was received with
+what the Captain fondly believed to be a smile.
+
+“Accidents will happen,” he said hoarsely.
+
+“In the best-regulated families,” said Miss Brampton, with a satisfied
+smile.
+
+She paid a touching tribute to the excellence of the victims after the
+visitor had gone, and sought for some time for an explanation of the
+tragedy.
+
+“He must have been ‘wool-gathering,’” she declared at length.
+
+“What do you mean by that?” demanded her father.
+
+“Absent-minded,” said Edith. “He seemed like a man walking on air,
+instead of some of the best stocks in the neighbourhood. Even Clara’s
+young man would have more sense than that.”
+
+“Clara’s young man won’t go into my garden,” said the Captain. “The
+kitchen is the place for him.”
+
+He stalked out into the garden, and, digging up hopeless cases with a
+trowel, sought to revive the less badly injured with a water-can.
+
+It might have been a sign of a forgiving nature, but was more likely
+due to an obstinate one, that he invited Mr. Hopkins back to the scene
+of his footwork a day or two later. Missing plants had been replaced by
+a consignment from the florists, and rolled paths and raked flower-beds
+testified to the Captain’s industry. Everything was “shipshape and
+Bristol fashion” as the greatly relieved visitor walked with Miss
+Brampton in the garden in the cool of the evening. The Captain, after
+satisfying himself that Mr. Hopkins was walking almost as carefully as
+a performer on the tight-rope, had disappeared indoors.
+
+The path was narrow, but even when Miss Brampton sent electric thrills
+through his being by leaning against him, Mr. Hopkins kept to it. The
+air was soft and the scent of the flowers delightful. Never before had
+his conversation been so appreciated. The low-voiced laughter of his
+companion was a tribute to his wit as rare as it was welcome.
+
+“You ought to write plays,” she said thoughtfully, as she planted her
+foot firmly on a geranium.
+
+“You want influence to get them accepted,” said Mr. Hopkins.
+
+“I should try, if I were you, though,” said the girl, nearly missing
+another geranium.
+
+Mr. Hopkins purred. Miss Brampton, with downcast eyes, trod down six
+flowers in succession.
+
+“Dialogue would be your strong point,” mused the girl, continuing her
+ravages. “Crisp and sparkling.”
+
+She took the other side as they turned at the end of the path, and in a
+hushed voice called his attention to some beautiful cloud effects. Mr.
+Hopkins, with his head at an acute angle, murmured his admiration.
+
+“An evening to remember,” he said, very softly.
+
+He brought his gaze slowly to earth and started convulsively.
+
+“Giddy?” inquired the girl, with much solicitude.
+
+Mr. Hopkins shook his head and, speech failing him, pointed with a
+trembling finger to the prostrate victims of misdirected industry. Miss
+Brampton stared in her turn.
+
+“Oh, Mr. Hopkins!” she said, in accusing tones.
+
+“I--I haven’t been near them,” stammered the unfortunate.
+
+“They must have done it themselves, then,” said the girl calmly.
+“Perhaps they were not strong enough to stand the breeze.”
+
+Mr. Hopkins breathed heavily. “I--I really think----” he began.
+
+“Yes?” said Miss Brampton.
+
+“I don’t know what to think,” concluded the other feebly.
+
+His companion gazed wistfully at the wreckage.
+
+“Poor father!” she said softly. “He is so fond of his garden. He seems
+to know every flower, but, of course, he hasn’t had these long enough
+to know them.”
+
+Mr. Hopkins groaned and cast a fearful glance at the house.
+
+“It’s his one hobby,” continued the girl. “I have heard him use worse
+language about cats than anything else, I think. And the doctor says
+excitement is so bad for him.”
+
+“I can’t understand it,” ventured Mr. Hopkins, with an appealing glance.
+
+“I wonder whether father will?” said the girl. “He is coming out, I
+think.”
+
+Mr. Hopkins looked around panic-stricken. Then he pulled out his watch.
+
+“Good gracious!” he murmured. “I must be going, I think. No idea so
+late. Appointment.”
+
+He moved hastily in the direction of the side-gate, and hardly
+realising the geniality of Miss Brampton’s hand-clasp, disappeared. The
+girl stood watching until he had turned the corner and then went into
+the house.
+
+“Where’s Hopkins!” inquired the Captain.
+
+“He has just gone.”
+
+“Gone!” repeated her father. “Why, I asked him to stay to supper. Did
+you send him off? Eh?”
+
+His daughter shook her head. “He went off in a hurry,” she murmured. “I
+think he had an idea that perhaps he had offended you.”
+
+“Rubbish!” grunted the Captain, eyeing her suspiciously. “What should
+he offend me about?”
+
+“Knowing how fond you are of your flowers----” began Miss Brampton.
+
+The Captain uttered a smothered cry and, springing from his chair,
+dashed into the garden. Cries that were anything but smothered, and
+words that ought to have been, brought his wife to her daughter’s
+side. Together they watched the head of the house as, with fists raised
+to heaven, he danced a strange and frenzied dance down the path.
+
+“He’s wonderfully supple for his age,” said the admiring daughter.
+
+Mrs. Brampton shivered. “I don’t suppose that poor young man will dare
+to show his face here again,” she said slowly.
+
+“If he does, there will be an accident to the rose trees,” said her
+daughter, compressing her lips. “I’ve had all I can stand of Mr.
+Hopkins.”
+
+“And then there’s Mr. Scott,” said her mother plaintively. “Clara says
+that she thinks her young man has heard something, and if he should
+happen to meet them one evening----”
+
+“It might be bad for the young man,” said the girl calmly. “Leonard
+would have a better nose if he didn’t box so much. Look at father!”
+
+Mrs. Brampton looked.
+
+“He--he seems to be examining the foot-marks,” she gasped.
+
+“Time I changed your sensible low-heeled shoes for something more
+dressy,” said her daughter, disappearing.
+
+She was back before the Captain re-entered the house, and sitting
+cross-legged, displayed a pair of sharp-toed, high-heeled shoes of
+blameless aspect, which met his ardent gaze with a polished stare. He
+turned his back at last and stood gazing blankly out at his cherished
+garden.
+
+It never occurred to him to accept defeat, and his daughter was
+therefore more annoyed than surprised to see Mr. Hopkins--a nervous,
+chastened Mr. Hopkins--back again after a few days. On this occasion,
+however, the Captain lingered in the garden, and from a deck-chair
+beneath the window watched his faltering steps.
+
+Conscious of this scrutiny, the visitor babbled incoherences to Miss
+Brampton, until in self-defence she retreated to the house on the plea
+of a thorn in her foot.
+
+The sound of Mr. Scott’s voice in the kitchen did not add to her
+comfort. A glance from her window showed her that her father had taken
+her place with the visitor and was pointing out to him the merits of
+the rockery. She stole downstairs and, opening the kitchen-door, peeped
+in.
+
+“I thought you were going to the cinema,” she said, addressing Mr.
+Scott coldly.
+
+“Can’t,” was the reply. “Clara’s Bill is outside, and she’s afraid to
+come.”
+
+“He’s waiting for him,” said Clara breathlessly. “There’ll be murder
+done--and I shall be the cause of it.”
+
+“Cheer up,” said Mr. Scott. “He’ll only have a week or two in a nice
+comfortable hospital. You’ll be able to see him on Sunday afternoons
+and take him grapes.”
+
+“I know who’ll want the grapes,” said Clara miserably. “You don’t know
+his strength. I don’t believe he knows it himself.”
+
+“Where is he?” demanded Miss Brampton.
+
+“Outside the side-gate, miss,” replied Clara. “Like a cat waiting for a
+mouse.”
+
+“A mouse!” ejaculated the startled Mr. Scott. “Now look here, Clara----”
+
+“I’ll go and send him away,” said Miss Brampton with decision.
+
+She slipped into the garden and, her father’s back still being towards
+her, opened the side-gate and looked out. A bullet-headed young man,
+standing just outside, drew up sharply at her appearance and stood
+scowling at her.
+
+“Do you want to see Clara?” she inquired.
+
+“I’m waiting,” said Mr. Bill Jones, “waiting for a toff.”
+
+Miss Brampton stood regarding him with a puzzled air. Then she had an
+inspiration that almost took her breath away.
+
+“Do you mean the gentleman who is in the garden talking to father?” she
+inquired.
+
+Mr. Jones’s eyes glistened. He licked his lips and stood breathing hard
+and short. Miss Brampton, with an encouraging smile, pushed the door
+open.
+
+Mr. Jones needed no further invitation. With head erect and eyes ablaze
+he entered the garden and, catching sight of the unconscious Mr.
+Hopkins, strode rapidly towards him.
+
+“Here! What do you want?” demanded the astonished Captain.
+
+Mr. Jones ignored him, and continuing his progress, thrust his face
+into that of Mr. Hopkins.
+
+“Take my gal away, will yer?” he shouted. “Take ’er to the pictures,
+will yer? Take that!”
+
+Mr. Hopkins took it and went down with a cry of anguish. Through a mist
+of pain he heard the voice of his assailant.
+
+“Get up! Get up, else I’ll jump on yer.”
+
+Mr. Hopkins got up, and the appearance of Mr. Jones was so terrible
+that he turned and fled, with the other in hot pursuit.
+
+“Stop!” yelled the choking Captain. “Mind the flowers! Mind the fl----”
+
+Mr. Hopkins paid no heed; neither, to do him justice, did Mr. Jones.
+Firmly convinced that his life was in danger, the former performed
+miracles of agility, while his opponent pounded doggedly behind. A bad
+third, owing to his keeping to the path, the Captain followed raving in
+the rear.
+
+Broken plants lay in the wake of Mr. Hopkins; churned-up earth marked
+the progress of Mr. Jones as he endeavoured to head him off. And at
+this juncture Mr. Scott appeared from the kitchen, shedding his coat.
+
+“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.
+
+Mr. Jones pulled up suddenly and favoured him with a menacing glare.
+
+“Look at those flowers,” cried Mr. Scott severely. “You chump-headed,
+mutton-headed son of a gun!”
+
+Mr. Jones stood irresolute. He looked longingly at Mr. Hopkins taking
+cover behind the Captain; then with a loud roar he threw himself upon
+this new arrival.
+
+Mr. Scott side-stepped neatly and smote him heavily on the chin. Mr.
+Jones, turning in amazement, took three more and, being by this time
+acclimatised, settled down to a steady mill.
+
+“You’d better go,” said the Captain harshly, to Mr. Hopkins. “This
+isn’t a sight for you.”
+
+Mr. Hopkins went, somewhat reluctantly. He was a man of peace, but the
+sight of Mr. Jones’s damages seemed in some way to afford him an odd
+feeling of satisfaction. The Captain stayed to see fair play--also
+the only fight with fists he had seen since he left the sea. It was
+with almost a sigh that he went at length to help Mr. Scott assist his
+adversary to his feet. The dazed Mr. Jones, with Clara’s arm about his
+waist, was led indoors and his head placed under the scullery tap. The
+cooling sounds of running water and the heated comments of Mr. Jones
+alone broke the silence.
+
+[Illustration: THE CAPTAIN STAYED TO SEE FAIR PLAY.]
+
+“Well, that’s over,” said Mr. Scott, tenderly dabbing his face with his
+handkerchief, as Miss Brampton came out. “I’m afraid Clara has jilted
+me, sir.”
+
+The Captain grunted and eyed him curiously.
+
+“I was going to take her to the cinema, now I suppose I shall have to
+go alone. Unless----”
+
+“Well?” barked the Captain, waiting.
+
+“Unless Miss Brampton comes with me.”
+
+The Captain stood up and faced him, choking.
+
+“Cinema!” he roared. “Cinema! If you want to do something to pass the
+evening, you can help her help me help make the garden tidy.”
+
+
+
+
+The Model
+
+
+I
+
+It was getting too dark to work, and the artist, a cigarette between
+his lips, was sitting restfully at the open window, lazily scanning
+through his half-closed lids the languid life of the old Italian city
+below. As the objects in his studio retired farther and farther into
+the shadows, he arose, and taking his hat from a peg, passed slowly
+down the long staircase into the street. The air, which had been almost
+stifling during the day was now freshening, and he passed from street
+to street with the aimless enjoyment of the man to whom the mere
+exercise of his cramped limbs is a luxury.
+
+Standing idly at a lighted corner preparatory to turning back, his gaze
+fell upon a middle-aged woman of poor appearance who was passing. He
+started violently, and in an undecided fashion stood gazing after her
+retreating figure until it disappeared down a small by-street. Then, on
+a sudden impulse, he threw away his cigarette and started in pursuit.
+
+At first he gained but little on her, and once or twice nearly lost
+her in the rapidly increasing darkness, but in the end his youth and
+strength told, and the woman, who had been conscious for some time that
+her steps were dogged, slackened her pace and walked with her hand
+pressed to her side, breathing distressfully. In the centre of the old
+stone bridge which leads from the narrow streets of the town to the
+open country beyond, he overtook her.
+
+“Pardon, signora,” he said softly.
+
+The woman halted, her hand on the low stone parapet, and confronted him.
+
+“You walk fast,” he continued, smiling.
+
+She murmured an indistinct something, and made as though to go.
+
+“No, I have followed you some distance,” said the artist, “I can’t
+afford to lose you. Will you let me see your face? I have a reason for
+the request.”
+
+With a startled gesture, and not without looking right and left as
+though for assistance, should it be needed, she threw her head back,
+her pale features showing clearly in the light of an adjoining lamp.
+
+“Beautiful!” said the artist joyfully, “beautiful!”
+
+[Illustration: “BEAUTIFUL,” SAID THE ARTIST JOYFULLY, “BEAUTIFUL!”]
+
+“Signor,” said the woman with dignity, conscious of forty years and
+sundry wrinkles, “you mock me.”
+
+“By no means,” he said anxiously; “you have the face I have sought for
+years. You will sit for me, will you not?”
+
+“The signor is an artist then,” said the woman, breathing more freely.
+
+He nodded, and for the first time perceived that he had frightened her.
+“I was too abrupt,” he said regretfully. “I saw your face and forgot
+all else.”
+
+The woman smiled faintly, a slight glow tinged her face and her eyes
+brightened. “I shall be pleased to sit, if I am any use.”
+
+“Can you come to-morrow?” asked the enthusiast.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“At eleven then, to this address. You will not fail me.”
+
+Smiling at his earnestness, she gave the desired assurance, and with a
+soft good-night left him, and passed swiftly over the bridge into the
+darkness beyond.
+
+For a moment the artist glanced after her as though desirous of
+obtaining further pledges of fidelity, and then abandoning the idea,
+seated himself on the parapet, and, lighting another cigarette, fell
+into a smoker’s reverie. The river went by with a soft swish against
+the piles of the old bridge, the air was cool and the ghostly outlines
+of the old buildings on either bank, indistinct in the darkness,
+appeared to be nodding in sleep. All these drowsy influences combined
+were beginning to have a soporific effect upon the smoker, the
+buildings nodded more violently than ever, the river murmured more
+sweetly.
+
+“He who sleeps on the parapet awakes in the stream,” said a voice at
+his elbow in feigned solemnity.
+
+“Ah! Rossa,” said the artist, slipping to his feet, and smiling as he
+recognised the speaker, “I was just wishing for company home. I have
+news for you; at last I have been successful in my search, and my
+picture can be finished.”
+
+“It is time,” remarked the other as he walked by his side; “and where
+is she who has succeeded in satisfying your exacting fancy?”
+
+“I parted from her on the bridge,” replied his friend. “Such a face,
+such an expression, the perfect type of bereaved maternity.”
+
+“Charming!” said Rossa drily. “It must have been a pleasant task, the
+acquiring of that self-same expression.”
+
+The artist, somewhat nettled at his tone, made no reply, and they
+traversed the narrow ill-lighted streets almost in silence until they
+reached his dwelling. Then with a hearty handshake Rossa took his
+leave, and the other climbed the steep stairs which led to his bed to
+lie awake half the night, thinking of his great work and the face of
+his model.
+
+
+II
+
+The woman was tired and hot when she reached his studio, for the sun
+was nearly at its height, and its heat, imprisoned in the narrow
+street, was stifling to those wayfarers who could not move at leisure
+and take advantage of such shade as offered. She greeted the artist
+timidly, and gazed, not without curiosity, at the littered floor and
+the sketches upon the walls.
+
+“That is what I want you for,” said the artist, indicating with a nod a
+large unfinished canvas which stood upon an easel in the full light of
+the window.
+
+His visitor crossed over, and stood looking at the roughly outlined
+figure of a woman upon her knees, bending over the calm, awful face of
+the dead Christ. She stood for some time in silence, and then as she
+understood what her part was to be, turned to the artist to receive his
+instructions.
+
+And never had man a more devoted model.
+
+True to time, cheerful and willing, she appeared day by day, and it
+required but little discernment on the part of the artist to see that
+her heart was in the work. Quiet and undemonstrative in manner, it
+was yet easy to see her devout joy at the fact that her face should
+have been chosen to represent that of the Virgin. Slowly but surely
+the work grew in strength and clearness, bit by bit the shadowy figure
+of the woman took life, and a weary earth-worn face now bent over the
+crucified Saviour.
+
+It was while sitting at the window one morning, waiting for the
+appearance of his model, that the artist was surprised by a visit from
+his friend Rossa.
+
+“Are you amiable to visitors this morning?” inquired the latter.
+
+“It depends upon their criticisms,” replied the artist smiling.
+
+“I feel at peace with all mankind at present,” said Rossa.
+
+“In that case you are welcome,” said the other, “but you are the only
+man I allow to see it in its unfinished state.”
+
+“Always hungry for my suggestions,” murmured Rossa complacently, as he
+advanced to the easel.
+
+“Well?” asked the artist impatiently, after allowing plenty of time for
+his friend’s praises.
+
+“It is the best you have done, as good as you will ever do,” said Rossa
+with gratifying energy. “Ah! when will you cease wasting your strength
+on these old-world superstitions, and use your brush on nobler themes?”
+
+“There is none nobler,” said the other gravely.
+
+Rossa shrugged his shoulders and smiled scornfully. “Bah! you spend
+your strength in painting advertisements for the priests, and what
+do the smug-faced black-gowns do for you in return? Give you their
+blessing, or recommend you to wealthy patrons? Are there no noble
+deeds of to-day to bring the blood to a man’s cheek and the water to
+his eyes, that you must go back to that hackneyed theme of eighteen
+centuries ago?”
+
+“You are speaking too freely,” said the artist sternly.
+
+“Freely!” repeated Rossa. “You paint pictures to foster and encourage
+ideas which are against all reason, and one may not even speak of it.
+And the materials, bah! Do you ask for certificates of character from
+the women you paint as Madonnas, or do you take the first that suits?”
+
+“To tell the truth, I have never thought of it,” said the other, “but
+in this case the woman’s face is her best certificate.”
+
+“It certainly supported her for many years,” said Rossa drily.
+
+“What, do you know her? She told me she had never sat before,” said the
+artist in surprise.
+
+“Years ago I knew her well,” said his friend, “but not as a model.
+It was in Naples. She had a large circle of acquaintances, and was
+commonly known as ‘The Doll.’ Even to an atheist there seems to be an
+incongruity somewhere in painting her in this character.”
+
+“Is this a jest?” asked the artist, struggling between amazement and
+anger.
+
+“Ask her,” said Rossa quietly. “Poor devil; I’m sorry I spoke though.
+She certainly has got a sad face, and I suppose it doesn’t matter to
+you how she got it.”
+
+The artist shook his head.
+
+“Come,” said the repentant Rossa, “don’t spoil your picture and rake up
+this poor thing’s past for nothing; perhaps I am mistaken.”
+
+His friend smiled faintly, and bidding his visitor “good-bye” sat
+himself down in the window-seat in a brown study. A devout man, his
+heart was troubled. Art and religion strove within him for the mastery.
+He sat in perplexity until a light tap at the door announced the
+arrival of the model.
+
+“It is hot, signor,” said she, smiling--“scarce a breath of air in the
+streets, but it is cool here.”
+
+True to the minute, interested in his work, she had toiled through the
+heat. He looked at her coarse, work-stained hands and gentle face, and
+faltered.
+
+“I told you that the picture is intended for a gift to the cathedral,
+did I not?” he inquired after a pause.
+
+“Surely, signor.” She smiled again. Already she saw her face and that
+other looking down from the cathedral wall on to the hushed crowd
+beneath.
+
+“I chose your face,” continued the artist, “because it seemed to me to
+contain all that I required for my subject; but there is one little
+matter of which I should have spoken before. The face that I have
+chosen for the Holy Mother, which is to remind the people of her divine
+goodness and great sorrow, must be that of a good woman. I dare not
+portray any other.”
+
+There was no smile on the woman’s lips now, and in her face, pale one
+moment and flushed with shame the next, he saw that she guessed the
+extent of his knowledge.
+
+“I did not think it mattered,” she said at length in a low voice. “I
+never thought of it. There--there were two Marys, signor, and He loved
+both.”
+
+She looked at him humbly, with blurred eyes, but he had averted his
+face. He raised it at length at the sound of a door closing, and found
+that he was alone.
+
+For a long time he sat motionless. At last, with the air of a man who
+has an unpleasant task before him, he arose and looked long and close
+at the nearly finished picture. Then he took it from the easel, and
+placing it on the floor with its face to the wall, he too went out.
+
+
+III
+
+Since the woman left the studio a year had passed. The neglected
+canvas still stood on the floor, its place on the easel being filled
+by a picture of “The Draught of Fishes.” The artist, disappointed
+in his favourite work, had done little that was worthy since, though
+he was as determined as ever not to complete it. Of the woman he had
+seen nothing, and he had abandoned as hopeless the task of finding a
+substitute.
+
+He was sitting listlessly before his easel, brush in hand, when he was
+interrupted by a gentle tap at the door. It opened, and a priest--an
+old man with white hair and brown, rugged face--entered and stood on
+the threshold.
+
+“The Signor Paoli?” he inquired.
+
+The artist rose and bowed.
+
+“I’m afraid I intrude,” said the old man. “You are busy, I see. I
+desired to see your pictures. Perhaps another time----”
+
+“I am not busy,” said the artist, throwing down his brush. “There are
+but few here. I wish there were more.”
+
+He closed the door, and stood by the old man’s side as he inspected the
+studies on the walls and such few completed works as were left in the
+studio. He paused at length before the easel, and after inspecting the
+canvas there, turned and pointed with his stick at the one which leaned
+against the wall.
+
+“May I see it?” he asked.
+
+“It is not finished,” said the artist. He hesitated a moment, and then
+removing the canvas from the easel, crossed the room, and returning
+with the other, silently placed it before his visitor.
+
+An exclamation of delight burst from the old priest’s lips as he leaned
+on his stick and gazed on it.
+
+“A noble work,” he murmured at length, without removing his eyes. “A
+noble work. When will you finish it?”
+
+“It is not to be finished,” said the artist. “I discovered by accident
+that the woman who sat to me had led an infamous life; that the lines
+which I thought were caused by bereavement owed their birth to sin;
+that the woman who I thought mourned her dead children mourned instead
+her dead innocence.”
+
+“She will sin no more,” said the priest gently. “Nay, I hope and
+believe she will mourn no more. She died last night.”
+
+“Last night,” said the startled artist. “You know of the affair,
+then--she told you?”
+
+“I have known her for years,” said the old man; “known her and loved
+her. She came to this city, and left her wickedness like a soiled
+garment behind her. Her father cursed her, and her mother bewailed the
+hour she was born; brothers and sisters forgot that she had ever been.
+Years ago, weary of sin, she came here, and maintained herself by hard
+and ill-paid toil.”
+
+“Her hands said so,” muttered the artist.
+
+“For a long time,” continued the priest without noticing the
+interruption, “she lived alone, without the love or sympathy of a
+single soul; and lived a good life. But one day she saw in the streets
+a blind, weary old man, hustled by boys. Him she took home and nursed
+and fed. He told her that he had lost wife and children, wealth and
+sight, and had no man left to call him friend; and yet, for fear that
+he should not accept her bounty, she never told him that he had one
+child left. So that he might be fed she worked late into the night and
+rose with the dawn, always haunted by the fear--for her early life had
+left in her the seeds of death--that he might outlive her and become
+destitute.”
+
+He paused and looked at the artist.
+
+“So it went on, and only I knew the story. Last night she lay dying,
+and the old man on his knees by her bedside kissed her hand and said
+that she was to him as a beloved daughter, and prayed to God for sight
+that he might behold her ere she died.”
+
+“It must have been a painful moment when she made herself known,” said
+the artist.
+
+“It might have been,” answered the priest; “who knows? But she died
+with her poor lips sealed, though I think it was almost more than she
+could bear. I have seen many sad sights, may God in His mercy keep me
+from such another.”
+
+“Why not have told him, then?” inquired the artist after a long pause.
+
+“There was a reason,” said the old man; “she had scraped together a
+small sum for her father’s use when she should no longer be able to
+work for him. It was possible, at least she thought so, that he might
+refuse it if he knew the donor.”
+
+The air in the room was close, and the artist opened the window. He
+came back to the canvas and sat for some time slowly regarding it. More
+slowly still he filled his brush with colour and leaned forward. Then
+checking himself suddenly, he looked up at the priest.
+
+The priest smiled.
+
+
+
+
+Artful Cards
+
+
+“Gambling I don’t ’old with,” said the night-watchman, pursing his
+lips. “There’s gamblers and gamblers. There’s people like myself as
+does it now and then out of good-nature to oblige, and there’s people
+like that squint-eyed, ginger-whiskered mate on the _Queen Mary_. If
+he ’ad spent as much time learning good manners as he ’as learning the
+three-card trick, it would ha’ been better for both of us. Especially
+me.
+
+“He ain’t the only one. I remember teaching draughts to a man I met one
+evening. He was a born fool to look at, and ’e looked just the same
+when ’e bid me ‘Good night’ with seven-and-six o’ mine in ’is pocket.
+I ’eard arterwards that he could do anything with draughts except make
+’em speak.
+
+“Most sailormen like a bit of a flutter. One chap I knew used to spend
+all his time ashore backing ’orses. When ’e lost, ’e lost, and when
+he won the bookie used to get lost. And the only time he did get his
+winnings he got fourteen days for the way ’e spent ’em.
+
+“I remember one time when old Sam Small got a perfeck craze for playing
+cards. His idea was to make some money for ’is old age, and, instead of
+going out and enjoying ’imself with Ginger Dick and Peter Russet, he
+sat all day in the bedroom being taught by a young professional sharper
+’e met in the Three Widders. He even learnt ’ow to do the three-card
+trick--arter a fashion--and came round to show me one evening. We
+played for ha’pennies at fust, and I lost seven right off. Then we
+played for bobs, and it seemed as if I couldn’t lose. I never see
+anybody so puzzled as Sam was, and then ’e turned round and said he’d
+been doing it all wrong, and asked for ’is money back. I ’ad to be firm
+with ’im--for his own sake.
+
+“A man never knows ’is best friends. If he’d kept on playing cards
+with me it would ha’ been better for both of us; instead o’ that, he
+preferred to let strangers win ’is money. He used to take ’em to his
+bedroom, and one night Ginger couldn’t get to bed because three or four
+of ’em had ’ad it for a card-table and spilt a can of beer in it.
+
+“He could have ’ad two beds next night, ’cos to their surprise Sam
+didn’t come ’ome. He was still missing when they went out to brekfuss
+next morning, and by the time arternoon came Ginger began to feel
+uneasy about ’im.
+
+“‘Mark my words,’ he ses to Peter Russet, ‘he’s been and gorn and got
+into some trouble.’
+
+“‘Any fool could see that,’ ses Peter. ‘’Ow much money ’ad he got on
+’im? Besides the eight quid you are minding for ’im?’
+
+“Ginger shook his ’ead. ‘It’s my belief he’s been made away with,’ he
+ses, jingling the money in his trowsis-pocket. ‘It all comes of ’im
+thinking he can play cards.’
+
+“‘P’r’aps I’d better mind ’arf of the money, in case you get robbed,’
+ses Peter.
+
+“Ginger didn’t hear ’im. He was too busy thinking about pore Sam.
+By the time twelve o’clock came, and no Sam, they felt certain that
+something had ’appened to ’im, and Ginger kept Peter awake ’arf the
+night talking to ’im about the ’appy times the three of them had ’ad
+together.
+
+“‘I suppose we must go out and try and eat something,’ he ses next
+morning, shaking his ’ead.
+
+“‘I s’pose so,’ ses Peter, very sorrowful; ‘but it’s wasting good
+money.’
+
+“They went downstairs very slow, and opened the door just as Sam’s
+friend wot taught ’im ’ow to play cards knocked on it. Sharp-faced
+young chap ’e was, with ’is eyes ’arf-closed and a fag stuck in the
+corner of ’is mouth.
+
+“‘’Ullo, Ginger,’ he ses, nodding.
+
+“‘Wot do you want?’ ses Ginger, sniffing at ’im.
+
+“‘I’ve got a letter for you,’ he ses.
+
+“Ginger held out ’is ’and for it and, arter speaking sharp to Peter
+Russet about good manners, stood reading it as though he couldn’t
+believe ’is eyesight.
+
+“‘It’s from Sam,’ he ses, at last. ‘He’s lost all ’is money at cards,
+as I knew ’e would; and ’e wants me to send ’im five quid.’
+
+“‘Wot ’e owes,’ ses the young chap.
+
+“‘He can go on owing it, then,’ ses Ginger, very firm. ‘If ’e wants ’is
+five quid let ’im come and fetch it.’
+
+“‘He can’t,’ ses the young chap.
+
+“‘Can’t? Why not?’ ses Ginger, turning on ’im.
+
+“‘He’s lost other things besides money,’ ses the chap. ‘He played the
+last two hands in ’is shirt and cap, and ’e can’t come ’ome in _them_.
+’Ow would you like it yourself? Besides, think of the cold!’
+
+“‘Shirt and cap?’ ses Ginger, staring at ’im.
+
+“‘He made ’imself a skirt out of tater-sack this morning,’ ses the
+young chap. ‘It’s a tight fit--still, it’s better than nothing.’
+
+“‘All right,’ ses Ginger, arter a few words on the quiet with Peter
+Russet, ‘we’ll come with you and see wot can be done. Where is he?’
+
+“‘Find out,’ ses the chap. ‘Why don’t you give me the money same as
+your pal tells you to? Wot are you wasting time like this for? It’s ’is
+money. He ’asn’t ’ad nothing to eat since yesterday arternoon. D’you
+want ’im to starve?’
+
+“Ginger led Peter away again.
+
+“‘We’ll lay low and foller ’im ’ome,’ he ses, in a whisper.
+
+“‘Wot about brekfuss?’ ses Peter. ‘I want mine something cruel.’
+
+“‘Plenty o’ time,’ ses Ginger. ‘Think o’ pore Sam; nothing to eat since
+yesterday arternoon.’
+
+“He turned back to the young man, wot was doing a double-shuffle on the
+pavement and looking up at the chimbley-pots.
+
+“‘Why don’t you tell us where ’e is?’ he ses, in a sharp voice.
+
+“‘Fancy,’ ses the chap, lighting another fag.
+
+“‘You won’t get no five pounds out o’ me,’ ses Ginger, ‘Come along,
+Peter; we’ll go back indoors and wait for Sam to come ’ome. You go and
+tell ’im wot I said,’ he ses, turning to the chap.
+
+“‘Right-o,’ ses the young feller, turning away. ‘So long!’
+
+“They stood peeping out of the doorway till he ’ad turned the corner,
+and then they set off arter ’im. It was easy work in a way, ’cos he
+never looked behind ’im; but ’e seemed to be fonder o’ walking than
+wot they was, and besides, as Peter said, no doubt he had ’ad a good
+brekfuss afore ’e started.
+
+“‘P’r’aps he ain’t going ’ome,’ ses Ginger, looking puzzled. ‘This is
+the third time he ’as been in the Minories.’
+
+“They followed ’im into Tower Street--it was on’y the second time they
+’ad been there--and then to their thankfulness he turned into a pub.
+They went in too--into another bar--and Ginger ’ad just ordered two
+pints in a whisper, and paid for ’em, when the chap finished his beer
+and walked out. Pore Ginger didn’t even ’ave time to taste ’is, and
+the one mouthful Peter ’ad time to take went the wrong way. It was a
+big mouthful, and for a couple o’ minutes he thought it was ’is last.
+Then he got ’is breath back, and, arter asking the landlord whether he
+thought ’e was beating carpets, went out to look for Ginger. He caught
+’im up arter a time, and they went on walking till they felt ready to
+drop.
+
+“‘I believe ’e knows we are follering ’im,’ ses Peter.
+
+“They went on for another ’arf hour, and then to Peter’s joy they
+saw the chap, arter standing a long time looking at the things in a
+cook-shop winder, go inside.
+
+“‘He’s going to ’ave his dinner,’ he ses, ‘and while he’s ’aving it
+we’ll go and ’ave some bread and cheese and beer.’
+
+“‘And suppose he slips out while we’re away?’ ses Ginger.
+
+“‘Well, we’ll go one at a time,’ ses Peter.
+
+“‘No, we won’t,’ ses Ginger. ‘I ain’t going to lose ’im arter all this
+trouble, and when we _do_ find out where ’e lives I might want your
+help.’
+
+“They stood outside waiting for over a hour, and then the young feller
+came out wiping his mouth on the back of his ’and. He stood for a
+moment looking up and down the street till ’is eyes fell on Ginger, wot
+was trying to get behind Peter, and Peter wot was trying to get behind
+Ginger.
+
+“‘’Ullo,’ he ses, coming up. ‘Fancy dropping acrost you agin like this!
+’Ave you been ’aving a little walk to stretch your legs?’
+
+“‘Yes; and we ain’t finished yet,’ ses Ginger very fierce.
+
+“‘I’ll come with you, if you like,’ ses the chap. ‘I ain’t proud.’
+
+“‘When we want your company we’ll ask you for it,’ ses Peter.
+
+“‘Don’t get cross,’ ses the young feller, pretending to shiver. ‘’Cos
+if you do I might get frightened and _run_. Last time I was frightened
+by a ugly face I run three miles without stopping.’
+
+“He lit a fag and stood there with ’is eyes ’arf closed, blowing smoke
+through ’is nose. Peter and Ginger stood there, waiting while ’e smoked
+two of ’em, and then waited outside a tobacco-shop while ’e went in to
+buy another packet. He got larky arter coming out, and when ’e tried to
+strike a match on Ginger’s trowsis people ’ad to step off the pavement
+’cos Ginger was using it all.
+
+“He moved off with Peter as he saw a policeman coming along, and then
+to their surprise they found that the young feller was following
+_them_. It upset their ideas altogether, and all of a sudden Ginger
+stopped and turned on ’im.
+
+“‘Why don’t you go ’ome?’ he ses.
+
+“‘Wot’s the good without the money?’ ses the chap. ‘Wot’s the good of
+going back and telling a starving old man in a tater-sack that his
+pals won’t ’elp ’im?’
+
+“‘Why can’t we take it to ’im?’ ses Peter.
+
+“‘He wouldn’t like it,’ ses the chap. ‘He said so. Besides, when you
+got there you might try and get ’im out without paying.’
+
+“‘Well, we’ll give you the money now, and then come with you,’ ses
+Ginger.
+
+“‘Why couldn’t you say so afore?’ ses the other. ‘’Ere we’ve been
+wasting the whole morning for nothing.’
+
+“They all went into a pub and arter Ginger and Peter ’ad ’ad a pint or
+two, and a crust o’ bread and cheese, Ginger handed over the money and
+they all went out together, with the young man in the middle. Ginger’s
+opinion of ’im went up as they walked along, and, when he led ’em into
+another pub a little further on, and asked ’em wot they would ’ave, he
+got to feel quite a liking for ’im.
+
+“They ’ad a pint each, and, while Peter was resting ’arf-way through
+his, the young man thought ’e saw a spider drop into it. Ginger ’elped
+Peter to look for it, but they couldn’t find it, and arter that they
+wasted a lot of time looking for the young man, but they couldn’t find
+’im neither.
+
+“‘If you’d kept your eye on ’im instead o’ fishing round in my beer
+with your dirty finger, it ’ud ha’ been better,’ ses Peter.
+
+“They walked ’ome, quarrelling all the way, and then they sat indoors
+all the evening waiting for Sam to turn up so as they could tell ’im
+wot they thought of ’im.
+
+“They sat there till eleven o’clock, and then they went to bed
+wondering wot had ’appened to ’im; and when they got up next morning
+Ginger said he ’ad a feeling that they should never see ’im again.
+
+“‘He’s gorn where we’ve all got to go,’ he ses, shaking his ’ead.
+
+“‘Unless we join the Salvation Army,’ ses Peter. ‘There’s plenty o’
+time afore we get to his age.’
+
+“‘He’s been made away with, that’s my opinion,’ ses Ginger. ‘We shall
+never see ’im agin, any more than we shall see that monkey-faced chap
+that gave us the slip yesterday.’
+
+“They went downstairs to go out and get some brekfuss, and the very
+fust thing they saw was the young feller, leaning up agin the wall,
+smoking a fag.
+
+“‘’Ullo!’ he ses. ‘Did you find the spider?’
+
+“Ginger couldn’t answer ’im for a minute. He stood there staring at him
+as if he was a ghost.
+
+“‘Wot did you run off for?’ he ses, at last, growling at ’im.
+
+“‘Me?’ ses the other. ‘I didn’t run off. But I thought that if pore old
+Sam ’ad to wait till you found that spider he’d never get ’is money.’
+
+“‘Is he alive?’ ses Peter.
+
+“‘_Alive?_’ ses the young feller. ‘I on’y ’ope I shall be ’arf as
+lively at ’is age as wot he is. I’ve got another letter for you.’
+
+“He fished it out of ’is pocket and handed it to Ginger, and then stood
+sucking his teeth and looking at the winder opposite while Ginger read
+it.
+
+“It was a longer letter than the other. One thing was Sam called
+’imself a silly fool two or three times over ’cos he ’ad gambled away
+the five pounds. He wanted Ginger to send ’im the other three, and said
+as ’ow he had ’ad awful bad luck, and never wanted to see a card agin
+as long as ’e lived. He told Ginger to give the other three pounds to
+’is friend Sid, wot took the five pounds, and said if they followed ’im
+again he would never forgive ’im.
+
+“‘Fair old cough-drop, ain’t he?’ ses the young feller.
+
+“‘He’s fell into bad ’ands,’ ses Ginger, glaring at ’im.
+
+“‘That’s right,’ ses Sid, ‘and we’ve got to get ’im out. You find the
+ready, and I’ll do the rest.’
+
+“Ginger read the letter agin, arter Peter ’ad done with it, and then
+’e told the chap to wait while he went indoors for the money. Wot ’e
+really went indoors for was to tell the land-lady’s gal, a smart
+little kid of eleven, as ’ad two bilious attacks a week reg’lar to stay
+at ’ome and ’elp ’er mother, to foller Mr. Sid ’ome.
+
+“‘Here’s the three quid,’ ’e ses, coming out. ‘Take it and go.’
+
+“‘And let’s ’ope he won’t lose that,’ ses Sid. ‘Are you coming to see
+me as far as the--I mean, as far as you can?’
+
+“‘I am not,’ ses Ginger.
+
+“‘Ah, well, I don’t blame you,’ ses Sid. ‘It’s a waste of your time and
+mine too, ain’t it? The last chap that tried to foller me ’ome seemed
+to think I lived in the canal. I never see a chap make ’imself so wet.’
+
+“He gave Peter a playful little tap in the stummick, and, arter asking
+Ginger for a lock of ’is ’air to frighten the gals with, went off
+whistling. And he had ’ardly turned the corner afore the little gal was
+arter ’im.
+
+“By the time Peter and Ginger was back from their brekfuss she was ’ome
+agin, ’aving follered the young man to his ’ouse, and seen ’im go
+inside. He didn’t seem to ’ave any idea that ’e was being follered; and
+Ginger was so pleased with ’imself and ’is cleverness that Peter ’ad to
+remind ’im of all sorts of things he didn’t want to be reminded of.
+
+“They waited in for some time to see if Sam came ’ome, but there was no
+sign of ’im, and Ginger began to wonder whether he ’ad lost the three
+quid as well as the five.
+
+“‘We’ll give ’im till eight o’clock,’ he ses. ‘And if he ain’t ’ome by
+then we’ll go round and fetch ’im.’
+
+“‘It’s my belief they won’t let ’im go,’ ses Peter.
+
+“‘Or p’r’aps he’s lost ’is trowsis agin,’ ses Ginger. ‘We’ll take his
+other pair with us in case. And we’ll get one or two to come with us to
+see fair play.’
+
+“They picked up a couple o’ firemen they knew, that arternoon.
+Stiff-built chaps they was, and always ready for a bit of trouble,
+’aving both ’ad Irish mothers. They ’ad a few drinks to steady
+themselves, and then one of ’em, Bob Mills by name, got so upset
+because Ginger said he thought it ’ud be better not to burn the ’ouse
+down, that it took three men and the landlord to get ’im outside.
+
+“They went ’ome fust to see whether Sam ’ad turned up, and then, arter
+waking Bob, who ’ad gorn to sleep in Peter’s bed, they set off to find
+’im. It was a tall, dirty house, just off the ’Ighway, and Ginger began
+to think that if they got Sam out in one piece they’d be lucky. The
+front-door was open and a lot o’ dirty-looking kids was playing on the
+steps.
+
+“‘It’s like a bee-hive,’ ses Peter. ‘He’ll take some finding.’
+
+“‘I’ll find ’im,’ ses Bob, spitting on ’is hands. ‘Come along.’
+
+He led them up the steps and opened the fust door ’e come to as bold as
+brass, and popped his ’ead in.
+
+“‘Where’s old Sam?’ he ses, to a woman wot left off washing ’er baby to
+stare at ’im. ‘Wot ’ave you done with ’im?’
+
+[Illustration: “‘WHERE’S OLD SAM?’ HE SES, TO A WOMAN WOT LEFT OFF
+WASHING ’ER BABY TO STARE AT ’IM. ‘WOT ’AVE YOU DONE WITH ’IM?’”]
+
+“‘_Wot?_’ ses the woman.
+
+“‘We want Mr. Sam Small,’ ses Ginger, putting ’is head over Bob’s
+shoulders.
+
+“‘Wot ’ave you done with ’im?’ ses Bob agin.
+
+“‘Me?’ ses the woman. ‘Wot are you talking about? ’Ow dare you come
+shoving your ugly mug into a lady’s room and try and take away ’er
+character? Wot d’ye mean by it?’
+
+“She put the baby down on the floor very careful and took up the basin
+o’ water. It was a small basin, but the water showed that the baby
+’adn’t been washed afore it wanted it, and Bob Mills was out o’ that
+room afore you could say ‘knife.’
+
+“‘He ain’t there,’ he ses, as the door banged be’ind ’im. ‘It’s a funny
+thing a woman can never answer a civil question without losing ’er
+temper. If I ’adn’t kept my eye on ’er I should have ’ad that water
+over me.’
+
+“‘They don’t use their reason,’ ses Ginger, shaking his ’ead, and
+stopping at the next door to let ’im go in fust.
+
+“There was nobody in that room except a little gal of ten putting ’er
+little brothers to bed, and the way she carried on when Bob looked in
+would ha’ done credit to a woman of seventy. He came out gasping for
+breath.
+
+“‘I’ll find ’im though,’ he ses to Ginger. ‘I’ll find ’im, if I ’ave to
+take all the boards up. Now wot about trying upstairs?’
+
+“There was two families in the fust room they went in, and they was
+both worse than each other. People came out of their rooms to listen,
+and the way they carried on when Ginger and ’is pals paid _them_ a
+visit won’t bear repeating. By the time they ’ad got to the second
+floor the whole ’ouse was roused and standing behind and offering to
+fight ’em.
+
+“Bob and ’is pal went into the fust room on that floor alone, ’cos
+Ginger and Peter ’ad to stay outside on the landing to keep the crowd
+back. ’Ard work it was, too; one young woman trying to bore holes in
+Peter with a broom-’andle, while a dirty hand with a wedding-ring on it
+kept coming out of the crowd and pinching pore Ginger black and blue.
+
+“In the middle of it there was a hullabaloo in that room that made
+’em all leave off to listen. Deafening it was. People shouting and
+struggling and things toppling about all over the place. Then Bob
+and ’is mate came out carrying something that looked like a mad lion
+wrapped up in a blanket.
+
+“‘He was in bed, asleep,’ ses Bob, panting, as a couple o’ naked legs
+shot out and kicked anything they could find. ‘Pull your end o’ the
+blanket down, Joe.’
+
+“‘Wot’s he done?’ ses a woman, gaping at them.
+
+“‘Wot ’ave you done, you mean,’ ses Bob, struggling. ‘He’s been
+kidnapped.’
+
+“‘And robbed,’ ses Ginger, shouting with pain, as ’e got another pinch.
+
+“‘It’s all right, Sam, old man,’ ses Peter, pulling back the blanket to
+give ’im a little air. ‘Now--Lor’ lumme _this ain’t Sam_!’
+
+“They all started, and Bob was so surprised that he let go of ’is end.
+It was the ’ead end and the langwidge the old man it belonged to used
+was awful. Then ’e got up very slow, and, arter feeling his ’ead and
+using some more langwidge about a bump ’e found there, knocked Bob down.
+
+“In two twos they was all at it; the men fighting and the women
+screaming. Men Ginger hadn’t seen afore seemed to turn up from nowhere
+to punch ’im. The four of ’em kept together as well as they could,
+and even when Ginger got to the bottom of the stairs ’e found the
+other three on top of ’im. They got outside at last, helped be’ind by
+the people in the ’ouse, and didn’t stop for breath till they was two
+streets away. Bob Mills found ’is fust, and pretty near got run in for
+it.
+
+“‘I ought to take you by rights,’ ses the policeman. ‘Wot ’ave you been
+doing to your face? Treading on it?’
+
+“Bob was going to answer ’im, but Ginger got ’is ’and over ’is mouth
+just in time.
+
+“‘It’s all right, sir, he ses, very perlite, ‘he’s on’y a little bit
+excited. Come on, Bob.’
+
+“They managed to get ’im round the corner, and then ’e shook ’em off
+and said he never wanted to see ’em agin. He went off with ’is mate,
+and Peter and Ginger, arter being refused at three pubs because of
+their looks, sent a young feller in for a bottle o’ whisky to take ’ome
+with them.
+
+“They ’ad a drop or two when they got indoors, and then they got a bit
+o’ rag and some cold water and began to see wot they could do for
+their faces.
+
+“‘And this is all through Sam,’ ses Ginger, starting to grind ’is teeth
+and then finding they was too loose to grind.
+
+“‘It’s a mystery,’ ses Peter, who was sitting on Sam’s bed ’olding a
+wet rag to his eye. ‘I believe you was right, Ginger. Something seems
+to tell me we shall never see ’im agin.’
+
+“Ginger said he didn’t want to. His mouth was so sore ’e couldn’t
+smoke, and arter another drop or two o’ whisky, ’e said ’e was going to
+bed.
+
+“He undressed ’imself very slow, grunting and groaning all the time,
+and was just getting into bed when Peter ’eld up ’is ’and.
+
+“‘Somebody’s coming upstairs,’ he ses.
+
+“‘Let ’em come,’ ses Ginger, very grumpy.
+
+“‘It--it can’t be Sam!’ ses Peter.
+
+“‘Sounds like ’im,’ ses Ginger, staring. It is ’im,’ he ses, as they
+both ’eard a noise that Sam used to make when ’e thought ’e was singing.
+
+“They stood staring at the door as it opened and Sam came into the
+room, looking very bright and pleased with ’imself.
+
+[Illustration: “SAM CAME INTO THE ROOM LOOKING VERY BRIGHT AND PLEASED
+WITH ’IMSELF.”]
+
+“‘’Ullo, mates!’ he ses. ‘Why--wot the--Wot ’ave you been doing to
+yourselves?’
+
+“He shook his ’ead, and screwed up ’is lips at ’em.
+
+“‘It’s a funny thing I can’t go away for a day or two without you
+getting into trouble,’ he ses. ‘’Tain’t respectable.’
+
+“‘Ho!’ ses Ginger, finding ’is voice. ‘Ho, indeed. This is all the
+thanks we get for trying to ’elp you, is it? I s’pose you think it’s
+more respectable to lose your trowsis at cards and play in your shirt.’
+
+“‘And a tater-sack,’ ses Peter.
+
+“‘Trowsis!’ ses Sam, staring at ’em, ‘tater-sack! ’Ave you been
+drinking? or wot?’
+
+“Ginger looked at Peter and then ’e looked very ’ard at Sam.
+
+“‘Where--’ave--you--been?’ he ses, very slow and distinct.
+
+“‘Been staying with a chap at Stratford,’ ses Sam, ’elping ’imself to
+a drink. ‘My friend Sid told me as he’d ’eard the police was arter me
+for gambling, so I’ve been staying with a pal of ’is for a few days to
+let it blow over.’
+
+“‘And--and didn’t you write to us?’ ses Ginger, as soon as he could
+speak.
+
+“‘Why, wot should I want to write to you for?’ ses Sam, putting down
+’is glass.
+
+“‘Money,’ ses Ginger, looking ’im straight in the eye.
+
+“Sam shook his ’ead, ‘I ’ad enough on me,’ he ses, ‘but it was just as
+well I left that eight quid with you, Ginger. It might ’ave gorn if I
+’adn’t. Wot was it you was saying about trowsis and tater-sacks, Peter?’
+
+“‘It’s a joke of your friend, Sid’s,’ ses Ginger. ‘Ask him to tell it
+to you; you seem to tell _’im_ everything.’
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+“Him and Peter woke up at five o’clock next morning to go and look for
+fresh lodgings. Sam didn’t wake up till eight, and then, arter reading
+a couple o’ letters ’e found tucked under ’is chin, he went off without
+any brekfuss to look for Ginger and Peter, and Sid, and eight quid.”
+
+
+
+
+Handsome Harry
+
+
+“He’s a bit of all right,” said Mr. Joe Gossett, interrupting his
+description of the new foreman, with a large wedge of bread and cheese.
+
+His sister sniffed. “Fancy a man being called ‘Handsome Harry’! _Pff!_”
+
+“He can’t ’elp what people call him,” said Mr. Gossett, “and if you was
+to see him you’d understand it. Five foot eleven, dark-blue eyes, good
+teeth, and the finest short beard I ever saw in my life. All brown and
+gold it is. How he’s escaped, I don’t know.”
+
+“Escaped!” repeated his sister, in a shrewish voice.
+
+Mr. Gossett nodded.
+
+“Poor dear!” said Miss Gossett, quivering.
+
+“After him like flies round a treacle-pot,” continued her brother.
+“I’ve been with ’im and I ought to know.”
+
+“P’r’aps _you_ was the attraction,” said his mother, archly.
+
+Mr. Gossett sniffed, but not so loudly as his sister.
+
+“I don’t hold with handsome men,” said Mrs. Gossett, shaking her head.
+“Nobody could say that I married your pore father for his good looks.
+His----”
+
+“Where did I get mine from, then?” interrupted Miss Gossett.
+
+“My side of the family,” replied her mother, modestly. “You was a
+Smithson and Joe was a Gossett.”
+
+“If the Smithsons hadn’t got more good looks than what Mabel has----”
+began the indignant Mr. Gossett.
+
+“What a pair we should make,” said Miss Gossett, with a simper, “me and
+Handsome Harry! Bring him in one evening and let’s have a look at him,
+Joe. What’s his other name? If it isn’t nice I shan’t have him.”
+
+“His name’s Cook,” said her brother, “and as for you catching him,
+why, he’d laugh at the idea.”
+
+“Bring him in and let’s have a look at him,” repeated his sister, “then
+perhaps I’ll ask Florrie Adams in one evening. I’ll tell her you’ll be
+out.”
+
+“Oh, don’t tease him,” said Mrs. Gossett.
+
+“Tease him?” said the irritated Mr. Gossett, pushing his chair away and
+rising. “Don’t make me laugh. It’s a pity Mabel ain’t got more sense,
+that’s all.”
+
+“Pity you ain’t a Smithson,” said Miss Gossett, as he went outside for
+his hat. “You might have a chance then.”
+
+He closed the street door with a bang that sent a revivifying draught
+of fresh air through the small house, and, somewhat ruffled in spirit,
+set off at a smart pace down the road. The subject of Miss Adams was
+a sore one, the slavish admiration of some months having yielded,
+so far, nothing but amusement in return. A brotherly desire to give
+Miss Gossett some idea of the pangs of unrequited affection sent his
+thoughts again to the fascinations of Handsome Harry.
+
+He turned the matter over in his mind for a day or two, and resolved at
+last to introduce his friend casually. If Miss Gossett were taken at
+a disadvantage, so much the better; he was not going to give her the
+chance of “window-dressing.”
+
+His trouble was wasted. The night he introduced Mr. Cook his sister
+had just returned from the local cinema accompanied by Miss Adams,
+and the first impression the visitor received was of fine clothes and
+languorous perfumes. In the best manner of the highest circles both
+girls seemed to sit aloof, with little interests of their own. Little
+intimate jests and giggles testified to their complete absorption.
+
+“Good show?” inquired Mr. Gossett, in an interval.
+
+“Pretty fair,” said his sister, languidly. “Leonard Firebrace was on.”
+
+“He’s a darling,” said Miss Adams, clasping her hands enthusiastically.
+
+Messrs. Gossett and Cook said “_H’m!_” to each other.
+
+“Supposed to be the handsomest man on the films,” said Miss Gossett.
+
+Mr. Cook stroked his short, well-trimmed beard and gave a finer point
+to the ends of his moustache. “What’s he like?” he inquired, in an
+indulgent voice.
+
+“Like a Greek god,” replied Miss Gossett, quoting from a story in her
+favourite periodical.
+
+“Straight nose, well-shaped mouth, and wonderful eyes,” explained Miss
+Adams.
+
+“You only see men like that at the Pictures, and in dreams,” said her
+friend, with a sigh. “Think of his teeth!”
+
+Miss Adams thought of them, and sighed in her turn. Mr. Gossett and Mr.
+Cook stirred restlessly. The latter even ventured on a cough; a cough
+more than tinged with criticism. Under the calm, straight gaze of Miss
+Gossett it repeated itself--with a different note, and subsided.
+
+“I must say,” remarked that lady, turning to her friend, “that I like
+to see good looks in a fellow. Joe!”
+
+“Hallo!” replied her brother.
+
+“Who is that good-looking man you were talking about the other day? One
+of your foremen, or something?”
+
+Mr. Gossett gasped, and sent a wireless message with his eyebrows.
+
+“Man you call Pretty Bertie,” continued his sister, ignoring it. “No,
+that isn’t it.”
+
+“Have you gone dotty?” inquired the embarrassed Mr. Gossett, in a gruff
+voice.
+
+“Or was it Lovely Charlie?” said his sister, musing. “No, I
+remember--Handsome Harry. That’s the name. Why don’t you bring him in
+one day and let’s have a look at him?”
+
+“Do,” urged Miss Adams.
+
+“If he’s only half as good-looking as what you say he is we might fall
+in love with him,” said Miss Gossett.
+
+[Illustration: “IF HE’S ONLY HALF AS GOOD LOOKING AS WHAT YOU SAY HE IS
+WE MIGHT FALL IN LOVE WITH HIM.”]
+
+Her brother eyed her helplessly, while Mr. Cook, with an air of pained
+surprise, sat awaiting the inevitable explanation.
+
+“That’s him,” said Mr. Gossett at last, with a jerk of the head. “Where
+are your eyes?”
+
+“Him? Who?” inquired his sister.
+
+“Handsome Harry,” replied her brother. “I told you his name was Cook.”
+
+Miss Gossett threw back her head and laughed till the tears came.
+“Don’t be so silly,” she said, wiping her eyes.
+
+“How can you?” said Miss Adams.
+
+“It’s only one of Joe’s larks,” said Miss Gossett, turning to the
+goggle-eyed Mr. Cook. “You mustn’t take any notice of him. The idea of
+him pretending you are Handsome Harry.”
+
+“As if we shouldn’t have noticed it,” murmured Miss Adams.
+
+Mr. Cook turned his troubled gaze upon his friend in a mute appeal for
+help, but Mr. Gossett’s face was as bewildered as his own.
+
+“It’s a name that some of them have given him,” said Mr. Gossett at
+last, in a surly voice.
+
+“How rude of them!” said his sister, severely. “I shouldn’t take any
+notice of them if I were you, Mr. Cook. But I must say I should like to
+see the real one.”
+
+Mr. Cook gave it up. It struck him that the explanation might lie in
+defective eyesight, and he recalled the story of a man who took to
+spectacles, and ran away from his wife a week afterwards.
+
+A feeling of regret that so pretty a girl might have to take to glasses
+imparted a tenderness to his glance that was by no means wasted. Miss
+Gossett, lowering her eyes at first under the onslaught, ventured after
+a time to raise them and meet it. The gentle timidity of her glance
+did much to restore Mr. Cook’s self-esteem. In the language of the
+eyes long practice had made him almost perfect, and his gaze became so
+ardent and so confident that Miss Gossett was moved to speech.
+
+“What’s the matter?” she demanded.
+
+“Matter?” repeated Mr. Cook, in surprise.
+
+“You seemed to be staring in a funny sort of way,” said the girl. “You
+don’t have fits, do you?”
+
+“No,” said Mr. Cook shortly.
+
+“Funny look he had,” said Miss Gossett, turning to the others. “I
+didn’t like it at all. I suppose you haven’t got anything in your eye,
+Mr. Cook? I’m a dab at taking things out.”
+
+Mr. Cook hesitated, and was lost. “I did get something in coming
+along,” he murmured, “but I thought it was out.”
+
+He smiled with content as the ministering angel leaned over him and
+prised up the lid with her finger. Then he winced and drew back his
+head.
+
+“Keep still,” said the girl; “I’m not hurting you.”
+
+“Not much,” corrected the victim. “_Ow!_”
+
+“It’s funny men can’t bear a little bit of pain,” observed Miss
+Gossett, continuing her explorations. “There! I nearly had it then.”
+
+“Perhaps it’ll work itself out,” suggested Mr. Cook, wincing again.
+
+“I’ll have it out if you’ll only keep still,” said Miss Gossett.
+“Anybody would think I was hurting you.”
+
+Mr. Cook drew his head back with a sudden exclamation of pain. “What
+have you got?” he inquired, hoarsely; “a scrubbing brush?”
+
+“Don’t be silly,” said the girl, as the sufferer clapped a handkerchief
+to his streaming eyes.
+
+“It’s out,” he said, in a voice which endeavoured in vain to express
+surprise and gratitude. “It’s out.”
+
+“I knew I could do it,” said Miss Gossett. “I could have done it sooner
+if you hadn’t flinched so much.”
+
+“My eyes are very tender,” said Mr. Cook.
+
+“That’s what I thought a few minutes ago,” said the girl, “but perhaps
+you’ll grow out of it. Let’s hope so.”
+
+“It’s never too late to mend,” observed Miss Adams oracularly.
+
+Mr. Cook arose in dignified silence and, with a final dab at his eyes,
+restored his handkerchief to his pocket and announced that he must
+be going. At Miss Adams’s suggestion, Mr. Gossett, rising with some
+unwillingness, offered to accompany him.
+
+“Me and Mabel want to have a little chat,” said Miss Adams, in
+explanation.
+
+“All by ourselves,” added Miss Gossett.
+
+Agreeable to this strange lack of taste on the part of the ladies
+the gentlemen withdrew, Mr. Cook, to whom this sort of treatment
+was absolutely new, walking out of the house like a man in a dream.
+Memories of countless conquests stirred in his brain but yielded no
+satisfaction.
+
+“Very off-handish, ain’t she?” he said at last.
+
+“She learns it from Mabel,” said his friend. “They’re as thick as two
+thieves.”
+
+“I mean your sister,” said Mr. Cook.
+
+“Oh!” replied Mr. Gossett. “Her!”
+
+“She’s very nice-looking,” said Mr. Cook, after a long pause.
+
+“She seems to make people think so,” said the fond brother. “How she
+does it, I don’t know. I’m as good a judge as most men, but I can’t see
+it.”
+
+“Well, you can take it from me,” said the other, impressively, “that
+she is about the best-looking girl I have ever seen. She’s your
+step-sister, isn’t she?”
+
+“Step-sister?” repeated Mr. Gossett, with surprising vehemence. “No, of
+course she ain’t. What ever put that into your head?”
+
+“I don’t know,” said Mr. Cook hurriedly. “I spoke without thinking. Of
+course there’s a great likeness; anybody could see that.”
+
+The indignant Mr. Gossett received the assurance with a grunt, and
+listened in amazed silence while his friend explained to him in
+enraptured terms the manifold perfections of his sister.
+
+“But you hadn’t seen her till an hour ago!” he protested.
+
+“I shall have to make up for lost time,” said Mr. Cook, earnestly.
+“What about to-morrow night?”
+
+Mr. Gossett said there was nothing about it, and declined in the most
+unmistakable terms to have anything to do with the affair.
+
+“She’d only make fun of you,” he said, severely. “You ought to have
+seen her face when she was messing about with your eye.”
+
+Mr. Cook said he _had_ seen it, and smacked his lips.
+
+“And she’ll do worse than that if you don’t let ’er alone,” continued
+Mr. Gossett. “Why, there was one silly fellow that used to come after
+her, and she led ’im such a dance that he went away and joined the
+Army.”
+
+“Very good place for him,” said Mr. Cook approvingly. “Besides, we must
+have soldiers.”
+
+“When I took you round I thought you would have learnt ’er a lesson,”
+said his friend; “instead of that you’re worse than any of ’em. It
+makes _me_ look such a fool. I expect she’s talking about you now and
+laughing fit to kill herself.”
+
+“She’s got a pretty laugh,” said the other, with a tender smile. “I
+could listen to it all day.”
+
+He heard it a night or two later, when, failing his utmost efforts
+to obtain an invitation from Mr. Gossett, he called without one,
+apparently for the purpose of telling Miss Gossett that it was a fine
+evening, but that a little rain would do good. After which effort he
+sat and watched Miss Gossett gurgling foolishly into her handkerchief.
+
+“Don’t take no notice of her,” said Mrs. Gossett, somewhat disturbed.
+
+“I like it,” replied Mr. Cook, simply.
+
+“Sounds silly to me,” said Mrs. Gossett, shaking her head at her
+daughter.
+
+“That’s why I like it,” said Mr. Cook, floundering. “I like silly
+people.”
+
+Miss Gossett’s laughter ended abruptly.
+
+“Did you come to see Joe?” she inquired, with some austerity.
+
+Mr. Cook shook his head.
+
+“What did you come for, then?”
+
+The visitor looked imploringly at Mrs. Gossett, but seeing no help
+there turned to the daughter. “I came to tell you my eye is all right
+now,” he said, slowly. “I thought you’d like to know.”
+
+Miss Gossett gazed at him, deep in thought “Will you be able to see
+your way home with it?” she said at last, in a soft voice.
+
+The visitor became thoughtful in his turn. “Perhaps--perhaps it would
+be safer if somebody--somebody came with me,” he murmured.
+
+Miss Gossett nodded. “Ye-es,” she said, softly. “Yes, I think it would.
+Can you give me a couple of minutes?”
+
+Mr. Cook, flushing with joy, said that he could, and, hardly able to
+believe in his good fortune, bestowed a half-wink upon Mrs. Gossett as
+her daughter left the room.
+
+“Gone up to put her hat on?” he inquired, in a low voice.
+
+“P’r’aps,” said the surprised Mrs. Gossett, “and p’r’aps not,” she
+added. “If I don’t expect her to do a thing, she does it, and if I
+expect her to do a thing she don’t do it. That’s Mabel.”
+
+Mr. Cook shook his head gently in sympathy. Then he prepared to rise as
+Miss Gossett entered the room followed by a small and extremely dirty
+youth in patched knickerbockers.
+
+“This is Tommy Burrows, from next door,” she said.
+
+Mr. Cook nodded--and waited.
+
+“By good luck, he happened to be in,” continued the girl. “This is the
+poor gentleman, Tommy, and if you lead him safe home he will give you
+a shilling. You had better hold his sleeve. And mind how you cross the
+roads.”
+
+She stood smiling benevolently as Master Burrows, in pursuance of his
+instructions, took the dazed and speechless Mr. Cook by the sleeve and
+piloted him carefully from the room. At the street-door he paused and
+strove to collect his scattered faculties.
+
+“Good-bye,” said Miss Gossett, brightly.
+
+The unfortunate gasped at her, and then, obedient to a tug at his
+sleeve, moved slowly off. The laugh that he had so much admired was
+heard again, but some of its savour seemed to have departed. It was
+clear that he had lost the first two rounds, and, with a faint hope
+that Tommy’s mother might have something to say to Miss Gossett on the
+subject, he took that hapless youth ten miles for the shilling. By the
+next morning he had recovered his spirits and the vitriolic scorn of
+Joe Gossett passed him harmlessly by. It appeared that Miss Gossett had
+persisted in regarding her brother as privy to the visit and chose to
+include him as a victim of her cleverness.
+
+“That’s all right,” said Mr. Cook equably. “You shall have the laugh of
+her by and by.”
+
+“When?” demanded the unbeliever.
+
+“When I marry her,” was the reply.
+
+Mr. Gossett turned and regarded his friend in amazement. “Have you gone
+silly or what?” he inquired huskily.
+
+“There’s nothing to go silly about,” responded Mr. Cook. “I’ve thought
+all along I should be caught some time. She’s got me hard and fast,
+and the funny thing is, I don’t mind. I like it.”
+
+“But she won’t have you,” objected the staring Mr. Gossett. “She
+wouldn’t look at you.”
+
+“You tell her I’m going to marry her,” said Mr. Cook. “Tell her I’m
+going to marry her, and the sooner she makes up her mind to it the
+better.”
+
+Mr. Gossett took the message. The one he brought back next day lost
+nothing in transit.
+
+“So there you are,” he said, grinning. “She says she wouldn’t have you
+if you were the only man in the world.”
+
+“She couldn’t,” said the philosophical Mr. Cook; “there’d be too many
+after me.” He called next evening and, Miss Gossett being out, left a
+little bunch of flowers he had hidden beneath his coat. Mr. Gossett
+brought back the withered remains next day. A large and expensive box
+of chocolates left two days later was returned empty, but any comfort
+Mr. Cook might have derived from the fact vanished when he heard that
+it had accompanied Mr. Gossett and Miss Adams to the cinema.
+
+“She ate the chocs with one hand while I held the other,” explained Mr.
+Gossett. “Try Mabel with another box to-night, old man.”
+
+Mr. Cook, intent upon what he now considered would be a long campaign,
+made no reply. Despite his utmost efforts he was unable to obtain
+speech with Miss Gossett, and a letter, sent through the post, was
+returned marked, “Opened by mistake.” Assailed by doubts, only his
+looking-glass convinced him that he held a winning hand. He called
+again, and spent three hours of mutual boredom with Mrs. Gossett, while
+Miss Gossett sat upstairs in her bedroom, blaspheming.
+
+“It’s the only way to treat ’em,” he said to Mr. Gossett, when that
+gentleman remonstrated. “Show ’em you ain’t afraid of ’em and they come
+to heel.”
+
+“And what about my poor mother?” demanded his friend hotly. “She
+’ad you all last evening, talking about the weather, and Mabel all
+breakfast time talking about hairdressers’ blocks and tailors’ dummies.
+Don’t you come again.”
+
+“Not till next time,” said the other calmly.
+
+As a matter of good-feeling and policy combined he decided to let a few
+days lapse before calling again. A slight swelling and soreness in the
+neck attributed to a tooth which had been troubling him for some time
+led to a still further delay. The distortion of face was especially
+trying to a man of his appearance, and, after enduring for two days the
+glances of his fellow-workers and the ribaldries of Mr. Gossett, he
+stayed away from pork.
+
+He sat at home next day with his head wrapped in a shawl. Dainties,
+as conceived by his landlady for an invalid, remained untouched. And
+he was in the depths of misery when the door opened and Mr. Gossett
+stepped blithely in.
+
+“Jee-rusalem!” said that gentleman.
+
+Mr. Cook tried to smile, and Mr. Gossett retreated a couple of paces,
+and placed his hand on the door-knob.
+
+“Why don’t you ’ave the tooth out?” he demanded.
+
+“When--swelling--goes--down,” croaked the invalid.
+
+Mr. Gossett looked at him and hesitated. “Mabel wants you to come to
+supper,” he said at last. “She sent me to ask you.”
+
+There was a long pause.
+
+“You--told--her--’bout this,” said Mr. Cook, “and she wants--to
+make--fun of me.”
+
+Mr. Gossett coughed.
+
+“All right,” said the other, “I’ll come. I don’t mind if she does
+laugh.”
+
+Fortunately, as Mr. Gossett observed, it was getting dark, and Mr.
+Cook’s features attracted no attention. A little natural reluctance to
+enter the sitting-room gave way before a hearty push from his companion.
+
+“It is good of you to come,” said Miss Gossett, her lips trembling.
+
+“You--asked me,” said Mr. Cook, speaking slowly and painfully from one
+side of his mouth. “And I came--because--you thought--I wouldn’t.”
+
+“Don’t take no notice of her,” said Mrs. Gossett “For shame, Mabel,”
+she added.
+
+“I ca-can’t help it,” said her daughter, wiping her eyes. “He--looks so
+plump and well-fed.”
+
+“He looks ill,” said Mrs. Gossett severely. “Have you seen a doctor?”
+
+Mr. Cook said he didn’t believe in doctors, and, turning a deaf ear
+to the misbehaviour of Miss Gossett, took the seat next to her at the
+supper-table and sat gloomily eyeing food he was unable to eat. By an
+effort he managed to sip a little beer, and, at Miss Gossett’s earnest
+entreaty, ate a small quantity of rice pudding from a salt-spoon. The
+fact that she fed him with the first two mouthfuls atoned for much.
+
+“Pity Florrie couldn’t come to supper,” said Miss Gossett, turning to
+her brother.
+
+“She’ll be here soon, I expect,” he answered. “She ’ad an appointment,
+but she said she’d be sure to come if she could. There she is, I think.”
+
+Rapid steps paused at the door, followed by a knock which Mr. Gossett
+hastened to answer. Voices sounded in the narrow passage.
+
+“Come in, Florrie,” cried Miss Gossett. “Handsome Harry is here.”
+
+Miss Adams came in, with a broad smile revealing white teeth. Then her
+eyes dilated, and uttering a piercing shriek she fell back into the
+passage.
+
+“Don’t be silly,” cried the highly-gratified Miss Gossett; “he’s quite
+harmless.”
+
+There was a smothered exclamation from Miss Adams, followed by the
+sound of the opening of the street-door.
+
+“It’s too bad,” said Mrs. Gossett. “Mabel, I won’t have it.”
+
+The voice of Miss Adams was heard outside.
+
+“He ought to be shut up,” she exclaimed in piercing tones, “or boiled,”
+she added. “If I catch ’em, I’ll never speak to you again.”
+
+“Catch what?” demanded the harassed Mr. Gossett.
+
+The reply set the party in the parlour tingling.
+
+“_Mumps_,” she said viciously. “As if you didn’t know.”
+
+The grating of Miss Gossett’s chair as she pushed it back broke the
+silence.
+
+“Mumps!” she wailed; “mumps! and I’ve been sitting next to him.”
+
+“And feeding him,” added Mr. Cook gloomily. “Well! well! Fancy--its
+being mumps--all the time. And at--my age too. I thought----”
+
+He finished speaking to an empty room. The ladies were upstairs
+and, judging by the noise, somewhat perturbed. The voice of Mr.
+Gossett--from the landing--bade him begone. He returned to work nearly
+three weeks later.
+
+Mr. Gossett was not there, and the voice of envy declared that five
+other gentlemen were also staying at home in sinful luxury with the
+mumps.
+
+He went round to call the same evening, and asked for news of Joe.
+
+“They’ve both got it,” said Mrs. Gossett, in a tired voice. “Poor
+Mabel! you ought to see her.”
+
+“I will,” said Mr. Cook, stepping inside. “Can you send her down?”
+
+Mrs. Gossett smiled faintly. “She wouldn’t let anybody see her for a
+thousand pounds,” she declared. “I don’t think her face will ever get
+right again. It’s like a piller.”
+
+Mr. Cook, walking to the foot of the stairs, raised his voice and
+called loudly upon the name of Miss Gossett. A door opened softly and a
+strange, cracked voice told him to go away.
+
+“I want to see you,” he answered.
+
+“Go away,” repeated the girl.
+
+“I came to see you when I had ’em,” said Mr. Cook. “Now I dare you to
+come down and see me. If you haven’t got the pluck, say so.”
+
+“Go away--you brute!” said the voice.
+
+“Don’t be a coward,” urged Mr. Cook. “Surely you ain’t going to be
+outdone by me. I’ll wait in the parlour for you. Be a sportsman.”
+
+He waited five minutes. A halting step sounded from the stairs, and
+a little later the door opened and a disfigured and indignant Miss
+Gossett entered the room and stood glowering at him.
+
+“Poor old thing,” he said tenderly.
+
+“You gave me this,” she said fiercely.
+
+Mr. Cook shook his head. “You took it,” he corrected gently. He placed
+his arm suddenly around her waist, and, choosing her forehead as the
+point of least resistance, kissed it ardently.
+
+“It’ll soon go away,” he said cheerfully. “In about ten days’ time we
+shall be the best-looking couple in the neighbourhood.”
+
+
+
+
+The Blindness of Captain Ferguson
+
+
+I
+
+From outside the house looked desolate enough. It stood alone where the
+grass of the marshes met the sand of the shore. On one side a view of
+marsh and cattle, dykes and gates, on the other the waters of the North
+Sea.
+
+Inside, in the cosy sitting-room, the Captain sat and fumed. The fire
+was burning low and he had mislaid his pipe, while his wife, to whom he
+usually looked to adjust these matters, was upstairs with the sick girl
+from London, who had come home in search of rest and health.
+
+“The women are all alike,” grumbled the Captain, as he rose and felt
+cautiously along the mantelshelf for the missing pipe, “gossiping as
+usual.”
+
+His fumbling hands struck against a china shepherdess and wrecked her
+on the fender, for blindness had come upon him late in life and his
+huge gnarled fists lacked the touch usually associated with those who
+have lost their sight. With a rueful grumble he sank back into his
+chair again as his wife entered the room.
+
+“Jenny, I’ve smashed something,” said the offender humbly. “I was
+looking for my pipe.”
+
+“Here’s your pipe, Jem,” she replied, as she thrust it into his hands.
+“I must leave you a little while longer. Edith is not quite so well.”
+
+“I’ll come up and talk to her,” said the Captain, with the air of one
+who possessed a sovereign remedy.
+
+“No, you mustn’t,” said his wife, pushing his great form back into the
+chair, “she’s not well enough to talk much. I’ll be back soon.”
+
+[Illustration: “NO, YOU MUSTN’T,” SAID HIS WIFE, PUSHING HIS GREAT FORM
+BACK INTO THE CHAIR.]
+
+The Captain, impelled by that small but resolute arm, stayed where he
+had fallen, and lighting his pipe fell to smoking with much enjoyment,
+listening to the beating of the surf and the wind, which was blowing
+almost a gale. The combination was so soothing that he fell asleep at
+length with the pipe between his teeth.
+
+He awoke with a start and a vague confused idea that somebody had
+called him. Certainly a cry of some sort still rang in his ears, and
+placing his pipe on the table, he rose and stood with one hand on the
+back of his chair listening. At first only the wind and the surf, then
+mixed with it the faint wailing of a child. The Captain felt his way to
+the door and called excitedly to his wife.
+
+“Jenny! Jenny!”
+
+“All right, go back,” called his wife quickly, from the top of the
+stairs. “I’m coming down now.”
+
+“I heard a cry outside,” said the Captain. “The cry of a child.”
+
+“Nonsense, you’ve been dreaming.”
+
+“I tell you I heard it,” repeated the Captain, as he threw open the
+house door. “Listen!”
+
+“There!” said the Captain, holding up a warning finger. “I heard it
+again.”
+
+“So did I,” said his wife. “It’s outside.”
+
+“Get a shawl and come after me, my lass,” said the Captain, taking down
+a coil of line made fast to the staple of the door, which he used for
+short wanderings. “Hallo, there! Hallo!”
+
+He walked slowly in the darkness, listening eagerly while his wife
+turned her white face upwards and in broken accents thanked Heaven for
+her husband’s blindness. Then she came downstairs, and with the agility
+of a girl ran by her husband.
+
+The Captain paying out his line, and treading softly, heard her stop
+and cry out suddenly, and then, with an indistinct cry to him, speed
+back to the house.
+
+“I’ve got it,” she cried. “I’ve got it.”
+
+He turned and followed rapidly. Inside he closed the door and stood in
+the hall listening to the crying of a child, which now sounded through
+the house, and the hurried footsteps of his wife as she moved about in
+the room above.
+
+“It’s a baby, Jim,” said his wife, coming half-way down the stairs and
+closely watching her husband’s face as it showed in the light from the
+sitting-room. “Just a little child, wrapped in an old shawl and left to
+die. Only a few days old, by the look of it.”
+
+“Ay, ay,” said the Captain, very slowly. “Go upstairs, my dear. Go
+upstairs.”
+
+He turned and, closing the door after him, groped his way back to his
+chair, leaving his wife, after a moment’s irresolution, to do his
+bidding. The fire was out and the room chill before she came down
+again, and the tears sprang to her tired eyes as she saw the strong,
+helpless man patiently awaiting her return.
+
+“How’s Edith?” he asked, without turning his head.
+
+“She’s not very well, I think,” said his wife, in a low, frightened
+voice, “but she has just fallen asleep. I don’t think I’d disturb her
+to-night, Jim, if I were you.”
+
+“I won’t,” said the Captain quietly. “I’ll get to bed, too, I think.
+Good-night.”
+
+He went slowly up the stairs and into his room, his wife following him
+noiselessly, and not until the door had closed behind him did she relax
+her watchfulness; then, in a dazed condition, she made her way to her
+daughter and fell half-fainting across her bed.
+
+In the morning, in the cool salt air and the sunshine, her flagging
+spirits revived and she greeted her husband in almost her usual cheery
+fashion as he came in from his tethered walk along the shore to
+breakfast.
+
+“Edith not coming down?” he inquired, as he took his seat at the table.
+
+“Not to breakfast,” she replied, watching him.
+
+“Best not, if she doesn’t feel strong,” said the Captain briskly. “I’ve
+been thinking about that child.”
+
+“Ah,” said his wife, and the cup she was passing him rattled in the
+saucer.
+
+“If nobody claims it,” continued the Captain, “take it up to London
+and let old Sparling’s widow have it. She’ll take it if we pay her. I
+suppose we can’t send it to the workhouse?”
+
+“We can’t keep it?” suggested his wife timidly.
+
+“No,” said the Captain, with a mirthless laugh, “we’re too old to be
+plagued with children.”
+
+His wife said no more, but later in the morning informed him that she
+had written to London to make arrangements, and that Edith would not be
+up that day, but would come down the next.
+
+More than a week, however, elapsed before she put in an appearance,
+and then very pale and trembling she came down and took her accustomed
+seat. To her father’s great relief she came alone, yet she was but
+indifferent company, her thoughts being with her mother and the child
+who had just started on their journey to London.
+
+After this the time passed slowly and uneventfully to the dwellers in
+the cottage. Edith, quiet and patient, felt her life bounded by the
+sea and marsh, and never looked beyond. Only her mother fretted as she
+thought of her beautiful daughter and her wasted life. For his part the
+Captain seemed not to think at all, except that once when his daughter
+threw out a feeble suggestion of seeking employment, he drew her to his
+knee, and encircled her with an arm of iron.
+
+The child was never alluded to, though many and various were the
+plans mother and daughter considered for its future. The child itself
+solved the problem; it died, and its mother, weeping bitterly over the
+ill-written scrawl which conveyed the news to her, prayed for death too.
+
+If anything, she became quieter than before, despite the efforts of
+her father to arouse her. Sometimes it was a long walk with the blind
+man along the shore, at another they would put to sea in the Captain’s
+small skiff and stay for hours on the lonely waste of waters.
+
+Then suddenly things changed. One day, after a longer walk than usual,
+they were astonished as they neared the house by the unwonted sounds
+of a man’s voice. It was a full, hearty voice, and it was evident from
+the animated conversation within that the stranger was feeling very
+much at home.
+
+“Jem,” said his wife, as he entered, “you remember George Merrick, but
+he’s grown from a boy to a man since we saw him.”
+
+“And from apprentice to master,” said the stranger, as he rose and
+gripped the other’s hand. “All your teaching, Cap’n, all your teaching.”
+
+“You’ve got a ship, my lad?” inquired the Captain, as he returned the
+shake.
+
+“A brand new one,” replied the other. “But I’ve got to wait a couple
+of months for her and I thought I’d spend the holiday looking up my
+friends. I got your address from your old owners, and here I am.”
+
+“And here you’ll stay till your ship’s ready,” said the Captain
+cordially. “That is if you can put up with an old blind man and his
+household. Lord, it’s good to hear the voice of a friend in this
+desolate place.”
+
+“Sure I shan’t be a nuisance?” asked Merrick. “You know of old how
+noisy I am.”
+
+“Not a bit of it, you’ll liven us all up,” replied the other. “It’ll be
+a boon to me to have somebody to talk over old times with.”
+
+“Well, when you are tired of me tell me to go,” laughed Merrick, and so
+the matter was settled.
+
+
+II
+
+With the introduction of a visitor from the outside world dullness fled
+from the cottage, and in a very short time George Merrick was on the
+happiest terms with all of them; the Captain remarking with surprise
+conversational powers on the part of his wife he had long since thought
+defunct.
+
+All this the Captain heard, but he was a sense short. He could not
+see the honest admiration with which Merrick eyed the daughter while
+he talked to the mother, nor the subtle joy of the latter in the
+knowledge of it.
+
+A sharper man might have remarked the deference in the visitor’s tones
+when he addressed the daughter, but he did not, nor when Merrick and
+his daughter were from the room did it occur to him that they might be
+together.
+
+It was three weeks after Merrick’s arrival before his eyes were opened.
+The visitor had gone on an errand to the neighbouring town, and his
+host was sitting at the open window, smoking and listening to the
+clicking of his wife’s needles as she knitted a mammoth sock.
+
+“Jem,” said his wife, suddenly suspending her work, “I think George
+Merrick wants a little talk with you this afternoon.”
+
+“He may have it,” said the Captain affably.
+
+“You--you don’t seem to understand,” said his wife, her voice shaking a
+little; “you men are all alike, I think. He wants Edith.”
+
+“_What?_” shouted the Captain.
+
+“He spoke to me this morning,” continued his wife, “and, of course, I
+referred him to you.”
+
+“Has he spoken to her?” inquired the Captain.
+
+“He spoke to her last night,” was the reply, “and she accepted him. I
+saw all along that they were taken with each other.”
+
+“And you never stopped it,” said the Captain. “You let it go on.”
+
+“Of course,” said his wife, in surprised tones. “Why not?”
+
+“Your memory is failing,” said her husband. “Think--go back three
+years; go back to the night the child came.”
+
+“Jem,” said his wife, in a frightened whisper. “What do you mean?”
+
+“Have you told him what you told me, or have you told him the truth?”
+pursued the other sternly.
+
+His wife, breathing rapidly, made no reply.
+
+“I have never referred to it before,” said the Captain, more gently. “I
+never would have referred to it but for this. To save my poor girl’s
+pride--and my own--I pretended to believe the lie you told me, for I
+am a blind man, my dear, and harmless. When a man loses his sight he
+should die, for he is a moving, _dangerous_ man no longer. He is a
+derelict, and can only hurt that which runs against him.”
+
+“It is all past and over,” murmured his wife brokenly.
+
+“So I had thought,” replied the husband. “I never thought to have told
+my daughter’s shame to another man.”
+
+“You will not,” cried his wife wildly. “I will never forgive you if you
+do. Hasn’t my darling suffered enough? We did wrong in sending such a
+child to that great, wicked city. And she loves him. If you tell him
+that, it will kill her.”
+
+“I am a proud man,” said the Captain sternly, as he rose, “and no man
+shall enter my family under false pretences. I will tell him. If he
+likes to overlook it, well and good. Nobody will be happier than I
+shall.”
+
+“Overlook it!” repeated his wife. “To save your pride, you were content
+to keep your eyes shut--why do you wish to open his? Do you think he
+will thank you for the information?”
+
+“Where is he?” asked the Captain.
+
+“He is out with Edith,” said his wife, crossing over and falling on her
+knees beside him. “Jem, don’t tell him; for pity’s sake let things be.
+Edith refused him at first, she has pride, too. She would not listen
+to him. But I told him before her that she loved him and after that
+he would not be denied. She is a good girl--you know she is a good
+girl--and if you ruin her life like this, you will break my heart.”
+
+Before the Captain could reply or disengage his hands from hers,
+voices were heard in the hall, and Merrick entered the room and looked
+significantly at his hostess.
+
+“Captain,” he said in a strong voice, “I suppose Mrs. Ferguson has told
+you that I have asked your daughter to be my wife. I----”
+
+“Sit down,” said the Captain quietly. “Jenny, Merrick and I will settle
+this.”
+
+His wife rose helplessly to her feet. “Not now, Jem,” she cried
+piteously, “not now; think first.”
+
+The Captain shook his head, and his wife, avoiding the gaze of the
+astonished Merrick, left the room and went upstairs to her daughter.
+Ten minutes later, through blinding tears, she saw Merrick quit the
+house and walk like a drunken man along the sands.
+
+“He has gone,” she whispered, “gone without a word.”
+
+Edith rose, pale and dry eyed and crossed over to the window; then
+flushing darkly she bent over her mother and kissed her.
+
+“I should not love him if he had stayed,” she said.
+
+For the rest of that day she kept her room, only going downstairs
+when she heard her mother’s bedroom door close. Her father sat by the
+window, his unsmoked pipe by the sill and his hands clasped before him.
+
+“Good night, father,” she said, quietly, as she crossed over to him and
+placed her arms about his neck. “And thank you, for--everything.”
+
+“We’ll--we’ll be the same as before, my girl,” said the Captain, as he
+drew her soft cheek on to his shoulder. “It was best for you, best for
+him.”
+
+“You have been wonderfully good to me,” said the girl, in a low voice.
+“I thank you and love you for it.”
+
+She disengaged herself from his arms and rose, pausing at the door to
+bid him good night again, and passed upstairs.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+An hour later, when the house was still and dark, she crept down again.
+It was a warm summer’s night, but she shivered slightly and caught her
+breath when the door rattled, under the touch of her shaky fingers, as
+she opened it. Then she closed it behind her, and with a slight sob at
+the pity of it all, walked towards the sea. For a minute she paused
+irresolute, and a man who had walked down for a last look at the
+house which contained her, stepped from its shadow and stood miserably
+watching. Then, as he heard the grating of the boat’s keel on the
+beach, he sprang forward eagerly, crying her name.
+
+He was just too late; the boat floated and the girl, with a stroke of
+the oars, sent it from the shore. Without further parley he threw off
+his coat and shoes, and wading in, struck out in pursuit.
+
+“Go back,” cried the girl from between her teeth. “Go back.”
+
+There was no reply, but a slight splashing in the wake of the boat
+spoke for itself. She bent to the oars, the noise getting fainter and
+fainter as she widened the distance between them.
+
+With her face white and set, she kept on her way until, despite
+herself, her heart failed her, and she stopped rowing to listen. At
+first there was a dead silence, then she fancied she could still hear
+him striving to reach her.
+
+“Go back!” she cried piteously, “go back!”
+
+“I can’t,” he shouted, calmly, “it’s too far.”
+
+The girl sat motionless, peering through the gloom. Across the water
+came the sound of quick, distressed breathing, and weak, rapid strokes.
+With a great cry, she turned the boat’s head round and pulled in the
+direction of the swimmer.
+
+“Where are you?” she cried, wildly; “call out.”
+
+At the faintness of the response she increased her efforts until she
+came alongside something which struggled manfully in the dark water,
+and strove to keep its white face above it. Just in time she leaned
+over, and, grasping it by the shoulder, drew it to the stern of the
+boat and held it fiercely and strongly to her breast.
+
+“If you want to die, dear,” gasped the man, as he lay a little later in
+the bottom of the boat, holding her hands, “pull out the plug and we’ll
+go down together, but living or dead, you shall not go from me again.”
+
+
+
+
+Wapping-on-Thames
+
+
+As a residential neighbourhood Wapping is perhaps undesirable, though a
+considerable population contrives to exist in the narrow streets hemmed
+in between the dock walls and the warehouses bordering the river. For
+the river itself is completely hidden except where the swing-bridges,
+which give entrance to the docks, afford a passing glimpse.
+
+From a picturesque point of view Wapping was no doubt much better
+in the days when docks and swing-bridges were unknown; when the
+bow-windows of its ancient taverns projected quaintly over the river
+and the watermen’s stairs inspired the muse of the song-writer. Then
+the raucous bellowings of hurrying steamers were unheard, and sailing
+craft thoughtfully waited for tides, while master-mariners sat
+drinking in the bow-windows aforesaid.
+
+[Illustration: WHILE MASTER-MARINERS SAT DRINKING IN THE BOW-WINDOWS
+AFORESAID]
+
+The old church and the charity school, with the overgrown graveyard
+opposite, with its rank grass and dingy trees, are the remains of
+those days. The green of the churchyard is a relief to the bricks and
+mortar, for trees are scarce in Wapping, though there are a few others
+in front of the old-fashioned houses on the breezy pier-head hard
+by--trees which, having been coaxed to grow in that uncongenial spot,
+conscientiously endeavour to indicate the seasons, and make very few
+mistakes considering.
+
+High Street, Wapping, the principal thoroughfare, realising, possibly,
+that High Streets are apt to adhere too slavishly to one pattern,
+appears to have determined to be original. It sternly eschews the
+drapers and hatters, the bootmakers and tailors of other High Streets,
+and confines its retail trade almost entirely to coffee-shops and
+taverns. The coffee-shops are as conservative as the street, and one
+window is much like another--herrings, rejoicing in their strength,
+competing for favour with bacon of guaranteed mildness and eggs of
+blameless exterior.
+
+Early in the morning the night-watchmen are awakened by vans, and late
+at night their sleep is broken by them. For Wapping revels in vans
+of all shapes and all sizes, but preferably large, and has put down
+granite roads for their especial delectation. The vans are from all
+quarters of London, and their drivers from all parts of the country,
+but the latter are the willing victims of one dominant idea. It is the
+ambition of every carman--the thing for which he plots and plans, and
+swears and lies--to be attended to out of his turn. The more out of his
+turn the better, and a boy of innocent aspect and no principles, who
+will ably second his perjuries, is as the apple of his eye. This, and
+sitting in dangerous attitudes on the tail-board of the van, or doing a
+double-shuffle on the extreme edge of the kerb, is the van-boy’s part
+in life. In his spare moments he watches his chief back horses, for,
+as a backer of horses in a blameless sense, the river-side carman has
+probably no equal in the world. At one time, in addition to the road,
+he had about two feet of pavement to manœuvre on as well, but now he
+has been warned off by iron posts of the most upright and rigid bearing.
+
+Down Tower Hill, thinking no evil, comes a mildewed four-wheeler
+driven by an elderly cabman, who pulls up so sharply at the bottom of
+the hill that the horse slides a yard or two and then tries to sit down.
+
+“Drive on, cabman!” says a shrill voice inside, as the owner of it
+knuckles at the glass. “What are you stopping for? It’s farther on!”
+
+“All right, lady,” says the cabman. He knows that the sex requires
+humouring, and “clucks” the horse on exactly seventeen inches.
+
+“Any chance o’ gettin’ by, sir?” he inquires with deep respect of a
+tall policeman.
+
+The tall policeman eyes the traffic critically and a Pickford’s van
+severely. Pickford’s horses are pawing the pavement, while their
+tail-board is giving great offence to a pair of horses behind.
+
+“Pickford!” yells the tall policeman with great suddenness.
+
+Half a dozen voices take up the cry of “Pickford,” and Pickford’s
+representative not being forthcoming (he is at the present moment
+making Language, with a capital L, do for argument with the foreman),
+a small boy appears from the depths of the van to see what he can do.
+
+“Put your van back a bit!” says the tall policeman austerely.
+
+The urchin grasps the horses’ heads, brings them forward a bit, thrusts
+them back, slipping and stumbling with their heads in the air, and
+having made at least a foot more space, pauses triumphantly and asks,
+“How’s that?”
+
+The only reply of the tall policeman, who is a man of few words, is to
+bawl for “Pickford” again. The cabman, in the most familiar manner,
+also calls for “Pickford” and a string of vehicles behind him also call
+on the name of “Pickford” with profane fervour. “Pickford” turns up at
+last in a heated condition, having signally failed with the foreman,
+and grasping his horses’ heads, backs them violently. The commotion
+that ensues is tremendous, the docile and intelligent animals behind,
+realising that it is a case of _sauve qui peut_, going where they can.
+
+There is now room for the procession to pass, and the cabman, having
+brooded over his wrongs until he is word-perfect, tells the carman
+his opinion of him as he goes by. It is a long opinion, quite a
+character-study in fact and, despite the haste of his fares, he walks
+his horse so that the offender shall not miss a word of it.
+
+“Bullen’s Wharf?” he inquires politely of a bystander, turning a deaf
+ear to his adversary’s reply.
+
+“Straight ahead,” says the man addressed, “but you can’t get by!”
+
+“Ho! carn’t I?” says the cabman, with the air of a man who has just
+done greater things than that. “An’ w’y not?”
+
+“Cos the bridge is swung,” says the other cheerfully.
+
+The cabman swings himself off his box, and opening the door of his
+vehicle, breaks the news to his fares. The three ladies lean forward
+anxiously, and with one accord blame him for it, one lady remarking
+darkly that four-wheelers are all alike, and drawing offensive
+comparisons between the present vehicle and a hansom.
+
+“I carn’t ’elp the bridge being swung,” says the cabman. “It ain’t no
+pleasure for me standing here listening to you. ’Ow long’ll it be,
+mate?”
+
+“I think they’re almost through now,” says the other. “There’s just a
+few empty lighters going into the docks--unless the _Evening Star_ is
+coming out,” he adds thoughtfully.
+
+Fortunately for all concerned the gallant ship mentioned does not come
+out. The bridge swings together again, and the cabman, gathering up his
+reins, rattles briskly over the stones to his destination.
+
+If the traffic in the streets is thick, that on the river is almost as
+bad. Huge steamers come slowly and cautiously up, moaning plaintively
+with their steam-sirens whenever they see anything about to run into
+them. At times there appears to be no offing at all, and even penny
+steamers--the most expert craft on the river--give a low whistle and
+wonder what is going to happen next. It is usual at such moments for
+an old and leaky boat, laden with small boys, who prefer this mode
+of whiling away the dinner-hour to eating, to stop in mid-stream to
+recover an oar. Extraordinary feats of navigation are performed by the
+crew before this is accomplished, but they get it at last, and ignoring
+the remarks hurled at them from the various craft, settle down to work
+again and ram a steam collier.
+
+Work on the wharves is in full swing, and the cranes are busy lowering
+goods into the gaping holds beneath. Sometimes the freight drops from
+the slings on to the labourers, and once a crane we knew--ordinarily a
+well-behaved, reliable worker--took too much aboard and plunged fifteen
+feet into the river below. It took the driver with it, and when his
+friends got him up, as a preliminary to burying him, they found, to
+their astonishment, that he was alive. He was never a man to make much
+fuss; and after he had sat on the jetty and been patted on the back, he
+looked round at the place the crane had left, and said that perhaps,
+as there didn’t seem to be anything for him to do, he might have a
+half-holiday for once. He added, as an extra reason, that he felt a
+little bit shaken.
+
+It is not until Sunday arrives that Wapping becomes quiet, and then
+the change is almost oppressive in its thoroughness. The streets are
+practically deserted in the morning, except for a few men who have got
+up early by force of habit rather than the promptings of virtue, and a
+chance cat slinking furtively along in the shadow of the warehouses,
+ready to dart beneath a gateway at the first sign of a dog.
+
+
+
+
+The Interruption
+
+
+I
+
+The last of the funeral guests had gone and Spencer Goddard, in decent
+black, sat alone in his small, well-furnished study. There was a
+queer sense of freedom in the house since the coffin had left it; the
+coffin which was now hidden in its solitary grave beneath the yellow
+earth. The air, which for the last three days had seemed stale and
+contaminated, now smelt fresh and clean. He went to the open window
+and, looking into the fading light of the autumn day, took a deep
+breath.
+
+He closed the window, and, stooping down, put a match to the fire, and,
+dropping into his easy chair, sat listening to the cheery crackle of
+the wood. At the age of thirty-eight he had turned over a fresh page.
+Life, free and unencumbered, was before him. His dead wife’s money
+was at last his, to spend as he pleased instead of being doled out in
+reluctant driblets.
+
+He turned at a step at the door and his face assumed the appearance of
+gravity and sadness it had worn for the last four days. The cook, with
+the same air of decorous grief, entered the room quietly and, crossing
+to the mantelpiece placed upon it a photograph.
+
+“I thought you’d like to have it, sir,” she said, in a low voice, “to
+remind you.”
+
+Goddard thanked her, and, rising, took it in his hand and stood
+regarding it. He noticed with satisfaction that his hand was absolutely
+steady.
+
+“It is a very good likeness--till she was taken ill,” continued the
+woman. “I never saw anybody change so sudden.”
+
+“The nature of her disease, Hannah,” said her master.
+
+The woman nodded, and, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief,
+stood regarding him.
+
+“Is there anything you want?” he inquired, after a time.
+
+She shook her head. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” she said, in a low
+voice. “Every now and then I have a queer feeling that she’s still
+here----”
+
+“It’s your nerves,” said her master sharply.
+
+“----and wanting to tell me something.”
+
+By a great effort Goddard refrained from looking at her.
+
+“Nerves,” he said again. “Perhaps you ought to have a little holiday.
+It has been a great strain upon you.”
+
+“You, too, sir,” said the woman respectfully. “Waiting on her hand and
+foot as you have done, I can’t think how you stood it. If you’d only
+had a nurse----”
+
+“I preferred to do it myself, Hannah,” said her master. “If I had had a
+nurse it would have alarmed her.”
+
+The woman assented. “And they are always peeking and prying into what
+doesn’t concern them,” she added. “Always think they know more than the
+doctors do.”
+
+Goddard turned a slow look upon her. The tall, angular figure was
+standing in an attitude of respectful attention; the cold slaty-brown
+eyes were cast down, the sullen face expressionless.
+
+“She couldn’t have had a better doctor,” he said, looking at the fire
+again. “No man could have done more for her.”
+
+“And nobody could have done more for her than you did, sir,” was the
+reply. “There’s few husbands that would have done what you did.”
+
+Goddard stiffened in his chair. “That will do, Hannah,” he said curtly.
+
+“Or done it so well,” said the woman, with measured slowness.
+
+With a strange, sinking sensation, her master paused to regain his
+control. Then he turned and eyed her steadily. “Thank you,” he said,
+slowly; “you mean well, but at present I cannot discuss it.”
+
+For some time after the door had closed behind her he sat in deep
+thought. The feeling of well-being of a few minutes before had
+vanished, leaving in its place an apprehension which he refused to
+consider, but which would not be allayed. He thought over his actions
+of the last few weeks, carefully, and could remember no flaw. His
+wife’s illness, the doctor’s diagnosis, his own solicitous care, were
+all in keeping with the ordinary. He tried to remember the woman’s
+exact words--her manner. Something had shown him Fear. What?
+
+He could have laughed at his fears next morning. The dining-room was
+full of sunshine and the fragrance of coffee and bacon was in the air.
+Better still, a worried and commonplace Hannah. Worried over two eggs
+with false birth-certificates, over the vendor of which she became
+almost lyrical.
+
+“The bacon is excellent,” said her smiling master, “so is the coffee;
+but your coffee always is.”
+
+Hannah smiled in return, and, taking fresh eggs from a rosy-cheeked
+maid, put them before him.
+
+A pipe, followed by a brisk walk, cheered him still further. He came
+home glowing with exercise and again possessed with that sense of
+freedom and freshness. He went into the garden--now his own--and
+planned alterations.
+
+After lunch he went over the house. The windows of his wife’s bedroom
+were open and the room neat and airy. His glance wandered from the
+made-up bed to the brightly-polished furniture. Then he went to the
+dressing-table and opened the drawers, searching each in turn. With the
+exception of a few odds and ends they were empty. He went out on to the
+landing and called for Hannah.
+
+“Do you know whether your mistress locked up any of her things?” he
+inquired.
+
+“What things?” said the woman.
+
+“Well, her jewellery mostly.”
+
+“Oh!” Hannah smiled. “She gave it all to me,” she said, quietly.
+
+Goddard checked an exclamation. His heart was beating nervously, but he
+spoke sternly.
+
+“When?”
+
+“Just before she died--of gastro-enteritis,” said the woman.
+
+There was a long silence. He turned and with great care mechanically
+closed the drawers of the dressing-table. The tilted glass showed him
+the pallor of his face, and he spoke without turning round.
+
+“That is all right, then,” he said, huskily. “I only wanted to know
+what had become of it. I thought, perhaps, Milly----”
+
+Hannah shook her head. “Milly’s all right,” she said, with a strange
+smile. “She’s as honest as we are. Is there anything more you want,
+sir?”
+
+She closed the door behind her with the quietness of the well-trained
+servant; Goddard, steadying himself with his hand on the rail of the
+bed, stood looking into the future.
+
+
+II
+
+The days passed monotonously, as they pass with a man in prison. Gone
+was the sense of freedom and the idea of a wider life. Instead of a
+cell, a house with ten rooms--but Hannah, the jailer guarding each
+one. Respectful and attentive, the model servant, he saw in every word
+a threat against his liberty--his life. In the sullen face and cold
+eyes he saw her knowledge of power; in her solicitude for his comfort
+and approval, a sardonic jest. It was the master playing at being the
+servant. The years of unwilling servitude were over, but she felt her
+way carefully with infinite zest in the game. Warped and bitter, with a
+cleverness which had never before had scope, she had entered into her
+kingdom. She took it little by little, savouring every morsel.
+
+“I hope I’ve done right, sir,” she said one morning. “I have given
+Milly notice.”
+
+Goddard looked up from his paper. “Isn’t she satisfactory?” he inquired.
+
+“Not to my thinking, sir,” said the woman. “And she says she is coming
+to see you about it. I told her that would be no good.”
+
+“I had better see her and hear what she has to say,” said her master.
+
+“Of course, if you wish to,” said Hannah; “only, after giving her
+notice, if she doesn’t go I shall. I should be sorry to go--I’ve been
+very comfortable here--but it’s either her or me.”
+
+“I should be sorry to lose you,” said Goddard in a hopeless voice.
+
+“Thank you, sir,” said Hannah. “I’m sure I’ve tried to do my best. I’ve
+been with you some time now--and I know all your little ways. I expect
+I understand you better than anybody else would. I do all I can to make
+you comfortable.”
+
+“Very well, I will leave it to you,” said Goddard in a voice which
+strove to be brisk and commanding. “You have my permission to dismiss
+her.”
+
+“There’s another thing I wanted to see you about,” said Hannah;
+“my wages. I was going to ask for a rise, seeing that I’m really
+housekeeper here now.”
+
+“Certainly,” said her master, considering, “that only seems fair. Let
+me see--what are you getting?”
+
+“Thirty-six.”
+
+Goddard reflected for a moment and then turned with a benevolent smile.
+“Very well,” he said, cordially, “I’ll make it forty-two. That’s ten
+shillings a month more.”
+
+“I was thinking of a hundred,” said Hannah dryly.
+
+The significance of the demand appalled him. “Rather a big jump,” he
+said at last. “I really don’t know that I----”
+
+“It doesn’t matter,” said Hannah. “I thought I was worth it--to
+you--that’s all. You know best. Some people might think I was worth
+_two_ hundred. That’s a bigger jump, but after all a big jump is better
+than----”
+
+She broke off and tittered. Goddard eyed her.
+
+“----than a big drop,” she concluded.
+
+Her master’s face set. The lips almost disappeared and something came
+into the pale eyes that was revolting. Still eyeing her, he rose and
+approached her. She stood her ground and met him eye to eye.
+
+“You are jocular,” he said at last.
+
+“Short life and a merry one,” said the woman.
+
+“Mine or yours?”
+
+“Both, perhaps,” was the reply.
+
+“If--if I give you a hundred,” said Goddard, moistening his lips, “that
+ought to make your life merrier, at any rate.”
+
+Hannah nodded. “Merry and long, perhaps,” she said slowly. “I’m
+careful, you know--very careful.”
+
+“I am sure you are,” said Goddard, his face relaxing.
+
+“Careful what I eat and drink, I mean,” said the woman, eyeing him
+steadily.
+
+“That is wise,” he said slowly. “I am myself--that is why I am paying a
+good cook a large salary. But don’t overdo things, Hannah; don’t kill
+the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
+
+“I am not likely to do that,” she said coldly. “Live and let live; that
+is my motto. Some people have different ones. But I’m careful; nobody
+won’t catch me napping. I’ve left a letter with my sister, in case.”
+
+Goddard turned slowly and in a casual fashion put the flowers straight
+in a bowl on the table, and, wandering to the window, looked out. His
+face was white again and his hands trembled.
+
+“To be opened after my death,” continued Hannah. “I don’t believe in
+doctors--not after what I’ve seen of them--I don’t think they know
+enough; so if I die I shall be examined. I’ve given good reasons.”
+
+“And suppose,” said Goddard, coming from the window, “suppose she is
+curious, and opens it before you die?”
+
+“We must chance that,” said Hannah, shrugging her shoulders; “but I
+don’t think she will. I sealed it up with sealing-wax, with a mark on
+it.”
+
+“She might open it and say nothing about it,” persisted her master.
+
+An unwholesome grin spread slowly over Hannah’s features. “I should
+know it soon enough,” she declared boisterously, “and so would other
+people. Lord there would be an upset! Chidham would have something to
+talk about for once. We should be in the papers--both of us.”
+
+Goddard forced a smile. “Dear me!” he said gently. “Your pen seems to
+be a dangerous weapon, Hannah, but I hope that the need to open it will
+not happen for another fifty years. You look well and strong.”
+
+The woman nodded. “I don’t take up my troubles before they come,” she
+said, with a satisfied air; “but there’s no harm in trying to prevent
+them coming. Prevention is better than cure.”
+
+“Exactly,” said her master; “and, by the way, there’s no need for this
+little financial arrangement to be known by anybody else. I might
+become unpopular with my neighbours for setting a bad example. Of
+course, I am giving you this sum because I really think you are worth
+it.”
+
+“I’m sure you do,” said Hannah. “I’m not sure I ain’t worth more, but
+this’ll do to go on with. I shall get a girl for less than we are
+paying Milly, and that’ll be another little bit extra for me.”
+
+“Certainly,” said Goddard, and smiled again.
+
+“Come to think of it,” said Hannah pausing at the door, “I ain’t sure I
+shall get anybody else; then there’ll be more than ever for me. If I
+do the work I might as well have the money.”
+
+Her master nodded, and, left to himself, sat down to think out a
+position which was as intolerable as it was dangerous. At a great risk
+he had escaped from the dominion of one woman only to fall, bound and
+helpless, into the hands of another. However vague and unconvincing the
+suspicions of Hannah might be, they would be sufficient. Evidence could
+be unearthed. Cold with fear one moment, and hot with fury the next,
+he sought in vain for some avenue of escape. It was his brain against
+that of a cunning, illiterate fool; a fool whose malicious stupidity
+only added to his danger. And she drank. With largely increased wages
+she would drink more and his very life might depend upon a hiccuped
+boast. It was clear that she was enjoying her supremacy; later on her
+vanity would urge her to display it before others. He might have to
+obey the crack of her whip before witnesses, and that would cut off all
+possibility of escape.
+
+He sat with his head in his hands. There must be a way out and he must
+find it. Soon. He must find it before gossip began; before the changed
+position of master and servant lent colour to her story when that
+story became known. Shaking with fury, he thought of her lean, ugly
+throat and the joy of choking her life out with his fingers. He started
+suddenly, and took a quick breath. No, not fingers--a rope.
+
+
+III
+
+Bright and cheerful outside and with his friends, in the house he was
+quiet and submissive. Milly had gone, and, if the service was poorer
+and the rooms neglected, he gave no sign. If a bell remained unanswered
+he made no complaint, and to studied insolence turned the other cheek
+of politeness. When at this tribute to her power the woman smiled, he
+smiled in return. A smile which, for all its disarming softness, left
+her vaguely uneasy.
+
+“I’m not afraid of you,” she said once, with a menacing air.
+
+“I hope not,” said Goddard in a slightly surprised voice.
+
+“Some people might be, but I’m not,” she declared. “If anything
+happened to me----”
+
+“Nothing could happen to such a careful woman as you are,” he said,
+smiling again. “You ought to live to ninety--with luck.”
+
+It was clear to him that the situation was getting on his nerves.
+Unremembered but terrible dreams haunted his sleep. Dreams in which
+some great, inevitable disaster was always pressing upon him, although
+he could never discover what it was. Each morning he awoke unrefreshed
+to face another day of torment. He could not meet the woman’s eyes for
+fear of revealing the threat that was in his own.
+
+Delay was dangerous and foolish. He had thought out every move in that
+contest of wits which was to remove the shadow of the rope from his own
+neck and place it about that of the woman. There was a little risk, but
+the stake was a big one. He had but to set the ball rolling and others
+would keep it on its course. It was time to act.
+
+He came in a little jaded from his afternoon walk, and left his tea
+untouched. He ate but little dinner, and, sitting hunched up over the
+fire, told the woman that he had taken a slight chill. Her concern, he
+felt grimly, might have been greater if she had known the cause.
+
+He was no better next day, and after lunch called in to consult his
+doctor. He left with a clean bill of health except for a slight
+digestive derangement, the remedy for which he took away with him in a
+bottle. For two days he swallowed one tablespoonful three times a day
+in water, without result, then he took to his bed.
+
+“A day or two in bed won’t hurt you,” said the doctor. “Show me that
+tongue of yours again.”
+
+“But what is the matter with me, Roberts?” inquired the patient.
+
+The doctor pondered. “Nothing to trouble about--nerves a bit
+wrong--digestion a little bit impaired. You’ll be all right in a day
+or two.”
+
+Goddard nodded. So far, so good; Roberts had not outlived his
+usefulness. He smiled grimly after the doctor had left at the
+surprise he was preparing for him. A little rough on Roberts and his
+professional reputation, perhaps, but these things could not be avoided.
+
+He lay back and visualized the programme. A day or two longer, getting
+gradually worse, then a little sickness. After that a nervous, somewhat
+shamefaced patient hinting at things. His food had a queer taste--he
+felt worse after taking it; he knew it was ridiculous, still--there was
+some of his beef-tea he had put aside, perhaps the doctor would like to
+examine it? and the medicine? Secretions, too; perhaps he would like to
+see those?
+
+Propped on his elbow, he stared fixedly at the wall. There would be a
+trace--a faint trace--of arsenic in the secretions. There would be more
+than a trace in the other things. An attempt to poison him would be
+clearly indicated, and--his wife’s symptoms had resembled his own--let
+Hannah get out of the web he was spinning if she could. As for the
+letter she had threatened him with, let her produce it; it could only
+recoil upon herself. Fifty letters could not save her from the doom he
+was preparing for her. It was her life or his, and he would show no
+mercy. For three days he doctored himself with sedulous care, watching
+himself anxiously the while. His nerve was going and he knew it. Before
+him was the strain of the discovery, the arrest, and the trial. The
+gruesome business of his wife’s death. A long business. He would wait
+no longer, and he would open the proceedings with dramatic suddenness.
+
+It was between nine and ten o’clock at night when he rang his bell, and
+it was not until he had rung four times that he heard the heavy steps
+of Hannah mounting the stairs.
+
+“What d’you want?” she demanded, standing in the doorway.
+
+“I’m very ill,” he said, gasping. “Run for the doctor. Quick!”
+
+The woman stared at him in genuine amazement. “What, at this time o’
+night?” she exclaimed. “Not likely.”
+
+“I’m dying!” said Goddard in a broken voice.
+
+“Not you,” she said, roughly. “You’ll be better in the morning.”
+
+“I’m dying,” he repeated. “Go--for--the--doctor.”
+
+The woman hesitated. The rain beat in heavy squalls against the window,
+and the doctor’s house was a mile distant on the lonely road. She
+glanced at the figure on the bed.
+
+“I should catch my death o’ cold,” she grumbled.
+
+She stood sullenly regarding him. He certainly looked very ill, and his
+death would by no means benefit her. She listened, scowling, to the
+wind and the rain.
+
+“All right,” she said at last, and went noisily from the room.
+
+His face set in a mirthless smile, he heard her bustling about below.
+The front-door slammed violently and he was alone.
+
+He waited for a few moments and then, getting out of bed, put on his
+dressing-gown and set about his preparations. With a steady hand he
+added a little white powder to the remains of his beef-tea and to the
+contents of his bottle of medicine. He stood listening a moment at some
+faint sound from below, and, having satisfied himself, lit a candle and
+made his way to Hannah’s room. For a space he stood irresolute, looking
+about him. Then he opened one of the drawers and, placing the broken
+packet of powder under a pile of clothing at the back, made his way
+back to bed.
+
+He was disturbed to find that he was trembling with excitement and
+nervousness. He longed for tobacco, but that was impossible. To
+reassure himself he began to rehearse his conversation with the doctor,
+and again he thought over every possible complication. The scene with
+the woman would be terrible; he would have to be too ill to take any
+part in it. The less he said the better. Others would do all that was
+necessary.
+
+He lay for a long time listening to the sound of the wind and the rain.
+Inside, the house seemed unusually quiet, and with an odd sensation
+he suddenly realised that it was the first time he had been alone
+in it since his wife’s death. He remembered that she would have to
+be disturbed. The thought was unwelcome. He did not want her to be
+disturbed. Let the dead sleep.
+
+He sat up in bed and drew his watch from beneath the pillow. Hannah
+ought to have been back before; in any case she could not be long now.
+At any moment he might hear her key in the lock. He lay down again and
+reminded himself that things were shaping well. He had shaped them, and
+some of the satisfaction of the artist was his.
+
+The silence was oppressive. The house seemed to be listening, waiting.
+He looked at his watch again and wondered, with a curse, what had
+happened to the woman. It was clear that the doctor must be out, but
+that was no reason for her delay. It was close on midnight, and the
+atmosphere of the house seemed in some strange fashion to be brooding
+and hostile.
+
+In a lull in the wind he thought he heard footsteps outside, and his
+face cleared as he sat up listening for the sound of the key in the
+door below. In another moment the woman would be in the house and the
+fears engendered by a disordered fancy would have flown. The sound of
+the steps had ceased, but he could hear no sound of entrance. Until all
+hope had gone, he sat listening. He was certain he had heard footsteps.
+Whose?
+
+Trembling and haggard he sat waiting, assailed by a crowd of murmuring
+fears. One whispered that he had failed and would have to pay the
+penalty of failing; that he had gambled with Death and lost.
+
+By a strong effort he fought down these fancies and, closing his eyes,
+tried to compose himself to rest. It was evident now that the doctor
+was out and that Hannah was waiting to return with him in his car. He
+was frightening himself for nothing. At any moment he might hear the
+sound of their arrival.
+
+He heard something else, and, sitting up, suddenly, tried to think what
+it was and what had caused it. It was a very faint sound--stealthy.
+Holding his breath, he waited for it to be repeated. He heard it again,
+the mere ghost of a sound--a whisper of a sound, but significant as
+most whispers are.
+
+He wiped his brow with his sleeve and told himself firmly that it
+was nerves, and nothing but nerves; but, against his will, he still
+listened. He fancied now that the sound came from his wife’s room, the
+other side of the landing. It increased in loudness and became more
+insistent, but with his eyes fixed on the door of his room he still
+kept himself in hand, and tried to listen instead to the wind and the
+rain.
+
+For a time he heard nothing but that. Then there came a scraping,
+scurrying noise from his wife’s room, and a sudden, terrific crash.
+
+With a loud scream his nerve broke, and springing from the bed he sped
+downstairs and, flinging open the front-door, dashed into the night.
+The door, caught by the wind, slammed behind him.
+
+With his hand holding the garden gate open, ready for further flight,
+he stood sobbing for breath. His bare feet were bruised and the rain
+was very cold, but he took no heed. Then he ran a little way along the
+road and stood for some time, hoping and listening.
+
+He came back slowly. The wind was bitter and he was soaked to the skin.
+The garden was black and forbidding, and unspeakable horror might be
+lurking in the bushes. He went up the road again, trembling with cold.
+Then, in desperation, he passed through the terrors of the garden
+to the house, only to find the door closed. The porch gave a little
+protection from the icy rain, but none from the wind, and, shaking in
+every limb, he leaned in abject misery against the door. He pulled
+himself together after a time and stumbled round to the back-door.
+Locked! And all the lower windows were shuttered. He made his way back
+to the porch, and, crouching there in hopeless misery, waited for the
+woman to return.
+
+
+IV
+
+He had a dim memory when he awoke of somebody questioning him, and then
+of being half-pushed, half-carried upstairs to bed. There was something
+wrong with his head and his chest and he was trembling violently, and
+very cold. Somebody was speaking.
+
+“You must have taken leave of your senses,” said the voice of Hannah.
+“I thought you were dead.”
+
+He forced his eyes to open. “Doctor,” he muttered, “doctor.”
+
+“Out on a bad case,” said Hannah. “I waited till I was tired of
+waiting, and then came along. Good thing for you I did. He’ll be round
+first thing this morning. He ought to be here now.”
+
+She bustled about, tidying up the room, his leaden eyes following her
+as she collected the beef-tea and other things on a tray and carried
+them out.
+
+“Nice thing I did yesterday,” she remarked, as she came back. “Left the
+missus’s bed-room window open. When I opened the door this morning I
+found that beautiful Chippendale glass of hers had blown off the table
+and smashed to pieces. Did you hear it?”
+
+Goddard made no reply. In a confused fashion he was trying to think.
+Accident or not, the fall of the glass had served its purpose. Were
+there such things as accidents? Or was Life a puzzle--a puzzle into
+which every piece was made to fit? Fear and the wind ... no: conscience
+and the wind ... had saved the woman. He must get the powder back from
+her drawer ... before she discovered it and denounced him. The medicine
+... he must remember not to take it....
+
+He was very ill, seriously ill. He must have taken a chill owing to
+that panic flight into the garden. Why didn’t the doctor come? He had
+come ... at last ... he was doing something to his chest ... it was
+cold.
+
+Again ... the doctor ... there was something he wanted to tell him....
+Hannah and a powder ... what was it?
+
+[Illustration: THE LAST TIME HE LOOKED AT HANNAH WAS THE FIRST TIME FOR
+MONTHS HE HAD LOOKED AT HER WITHOUT LOATHING AND HATRED.]
+
+Later on he remembered, together with other things that he had hoped to
+forget. He lay watching an endless procession of memories, broken at
+times by a glance at the doctor, the nurse, and Hannah, who were all
+standing near the bed regarding him. They had been there a long time,
+and they were all very quiet. The last time he looked at Hannah was the
+first time for months that he had looked at her without loathing and
+hatred. Then he knew that he was dying.
+
+
+
+
+Bed Cases
+
+
+The night-watchman was ill at ease, and, all ordinary positions failing
+to give relief, adopted several entirely out of keeping with his age
+and figure. A voice from the next wharf which wanted to know whether
+he was going on to the stage, and, if so, whether he was going to wear
+tights, brought him at once to a more becoming position. His voice was
+broken with pain, but the masterly fashion in which he dealt with his
+tormentor’s ancestors and the future behaviour of his descendants left
+nothing to be desired. Uncouth noises, lacking in variety, were the
+only retort.
+
+“It took me sudden yesterday morning, just arter brekfuss,” said the
+night-watchman. “The woman--if you can call ’er a woman--next door
+but one ’ad given my missis best part of a tin of salmon. I wondered
+at the time why she gave it away--now I know. I ate it all, except
+one mouthful wot my missis threw in the fireplace, and in less than a
+couple of hours arterwards I thought my last hour ’ad come.”
+
+He clasped his hands at the waist-line and rocked to and fro. Faint
+moans and indignant grunts attested to his suffering.
+
+“I’ve been taking things for it ever since and nothing seems to do it
+any good,” he resumed, in an interval. “Fust of all I tried a couple
+o’ pints to see wot that ’ud do; and the barman told me to go and die
+outside. He said wot I ought to ’ave ’ad was rum, so I ’ad a quartern.
+Arter that ’e _put_ me outside--me being too ill to stop ’im--and an
+old gentleman wot was passing took me into a chemist’s shop and stood
+treat. I don’t know wot it was the chemist gave me, but a’most direckly
+arterwards there was a little crowd round the door peeping in, and
+behaving theirselves as if I was a Punch and Judy show. Some of ’em
+follered me ’ome, and it was all my missis could do to stop ’em coming
+inside and helping ’er to put me to bed.”
+
+He rose and, stifling a moan, took a few paces up and down the jetty.
+
+“Seems to be passing off a bit for the time,” he said, resuming
+his seat. “It sort o’ comes and goes, but it comes longer than it
+goes. It’s funny ’ow soft and kind-’earted illness makes you. Three
+times yesterday arternoon I called my missis upstairs to tell ’er
+that I couldn’t pass away without letting ’er know I’d forgiven her
+everything. She on’y came the fust time, but that wasn’t my fault. I
+called ’er loud enough.
+
+“It seems to me to be the same complaint that Ginger Dick had a year
+or two ago--on’y worse--and he made a great deal more fuss about it,
+being a free-spoken man and not minding much wot he said about things
+he didn’t like.
+
+“It came on in a public-’ouse in the Commercial Road, and it was so
+sudden, and Ginger made such a funny noise, that Sam and Peter Russet
+thought at fust he ’ad swallered ’is pipe.
+
+“‘Wot’s the matter?’ ses the landlord, leaning over the bar.
+
+“‘He’s swallered ’is pipe,’ ses Sam.
+
+“‘You’re--a--liar,’ ses Ginger, groaning.
+
+“‘Wot is it, then?’ ses the landlord.
+
+“Ginger shook his ’ead. ‘I don’t know,’ he ses in a weak voice. ‘I
+think it’s the beer.’
+
+“‘Outside,’ ses the landlord. ‘D’ye ’ear me? _Outside._’
+
+[Illustration: “OUTSIDE,” SES THE LANDLORD--“D’YE ’EAR ME?--OUTSIDE.”]
+
+“Ginger went out with Sam propping ’im up on one side and Peter the
+other and the landlord shoving ’im behind. His groans was ’art-rending
+and the way he talked against beer made Sam and Peter blush for shame.
+They stood on the pavement for a little while and then they helped ’im
+on to a tram-car, and two minutes arterwards the conductor and five
+passengers helped ’im off agin.
+
+“‘Wot’s to be done now?’ ses Sam.
+
+“‘Shove ’im in a puddle and leave ’im,’ ses Peter, very savage.
+
+“‘I can’t ’elp it--I feel as if I’d swallered fireworks,’ ses Ginger.
+
+“‘Little touch o’ stummick-ache,’ ses Sam.
+
+“‘And they keeps going off,’ ses Ginger. ‘Oh! Oh, my!’
+
+“‘’Ave you got any pain?’ ses Peter. ‘That’ll do! That’ll do! Why
+can’t you give a civil answer to a civil question?’
+
+“He walked on, leaving Ginger ’anging on to Sam and talking at the top
+of his voice. O’ course a crowd got round and told Sam wot to do, until
+Ginger left off being ill for a little while to attend to a chap as ’ad
+told Sam to stand ’im on his ’ead. If it ’adn’t ha’ been for a cab wot
+’ad stopped to see wot the row was about Ginger would most likely ’ave
+been given some medicine.
+
+“They walked along for some time with their ’eads down as though they
+expected to see a doctor sitting on the pavement waiting for them, and
+then Sam turned to Peter and asked ’im where they was going.
+
+“‘There’s one in the Whitechapel Road,’ ses Peter.
+
+“‘There must be one nearer than that,’ ses Sam. ‘Let’s go in somewhere
+and ask.’
+
+“They ’appened to be passing the Turk’s Head as ’e spoke, and, not
+wanting everybody to know their business, they went into the private
+bar instead of the usual, and ’ad a couple o’ glasses o’ bitter.
+
+“There was on’y one other chap there, a tall young man in a black
+tail-coat, a bowler ’at, and a collar and necktie. He ’ad a large nose
+and a pair of very sharp light eyes, and he sat there as if the place
+belonged to ’im, stroking ’is little sandy moustache and tapping ’is
+boots with a cane. Sam and Peter could see at once that he never went
+anywhere except in private bars, and for the fust minute or two they
+was talking a’most in whispers. They must ha’ talked a bit louder arter
+a bit, ’cos all of a sudden, the gentleman emptied ’is glass and spoke
+to ’em.
+
+“‘What’s that you want?’ he ses. ‘A doctor?’
+
+“‘Yes,’ ses Sam, and the gentleman sat there with a smile on ’is face
+while Peter and Sam described Ginger’s illness and repeated some of ’is
+remarks about it.
+
+“‘Funny you should tell me,’ ses the gentleman. ‘Very funny.’
+
+“Sam looked at ’im, and waited.
+
+“‘Cos I’m a doctor myself,’ ses the gentleman. ‘Dr. Brown.’
+
+“‘Wot a bit o’ luck!’ ses Peter. ‘We thought we’d got to walk no end of
+a way.’
+
+“The doctor shook his ’ead.
+
+“‘I’m afraid I’m no good to you,’ he ses.
+
+“‘Why not?’ ses Sam, staring.
+
+“‘Too expensive,’ ses the doctor. ‘You see, I’m a West-end man, and
+we’re not allowed to see a patient under a pound a visit.’
+
+“He shook his ’ead and sat smiling at them sad-like and listening
+to Sam, wot was sitting perched up on a stool making a noise like
+bronchitis, with surprise.
+
+“‘I on’y come this way for a stroll,’ he ses, ‘’cos I like to see ships
+and sailormen.’
+
+“‘A--pound--a--visit?’ ses Peter. ‘D’ye ’ear that, Sam?’
+
+“Sam looked at ’im, and arter a time he managed to nod.
+
+“‘P’r’aps it does seem a lot,’ ses the doctor, ‘but it comes cheaper
+in the end to have a good man.’
+
+“‘Not if the chap dies,’ ses Peter.
+
+“‘My patients don’t die,’ ses the doctor. ‘It’s only cheap doctors wot
+loses their patients.’
+
+“He took up ’is glass and then, finding as there was nothing in it, put
+it down agin. Sam gave a little cough, and arter waiting a moment asked
+whether ’e would do ’im the pleasure of having a drink with ’im.
+
+“‘Well, I’ve ’ad enough really,’ ses the doctor. ‘Still, I don’t mind
+’aving a glass of port with you.’
+
+“Peter said he’d ’ave a port, too, afore Sam could stop ’im, and him
+and the doctor sat and drank Sam’s ’ealth, and Peter said ’ow well he
+was looking and wot a fine rosy colour he’d got. Then Sam told the
+doctor all about Ginger’s illness agin, and, in a off-hand sort o’ way,
+asked ’im wot Ginger could take for it.
+
+“‘I couldn’t say without seeing ’im,’ ses the doctor; ‘it ain’t
+allowed.’
+
+“‘’Ow much would it be to see ’im?’ ses Sam.
+
+“‘He ain’t much to look at,’ ses Peter, looking at him ’opeful-like.
+
+“The doctor laughed, and then shook his ’ead at ’imself. ‘Well, I
+don’t know,’ he says, ‘but if you’ll keep it a dead secret and not
+let anybody know that I said--I mean, that I’m a doctor--I don’t mind
+seein’ ’im for ’arf a dollar a visit.’
+
+“‘Ginger couldn’t say anything agin that,’ ses Peter.
+
+“‘Couldn’t he?’ ses Sam. ‘’Owever, he’ll ’ave to put up with it. It’s
+your turn, Peter; mine’s a port.’
+
+“‘I suppose I’d better ’ave the same,’ says the doctor. ‘I don’t
+believe in mixing. Tell ’im to give us the special this time. It’s
+better.’
+
+“Peter told ’im, and the landlord ’ad to tell ’im three times ’ow much
+it was afore he understood. He seemed ’arf dazed, and the noise Sam
+made smacking ’is lips over his wine nearly drove ’im crazy. The doctor
+got up as soon as he ’ad finished ’is glass, and they all went out
+into the street; Sam and Peter wondering what Ginger would say when ’e
+saw the doctor and what ’e would do when he ’eard the price. They went
+upstairs very quiet, as the doctor said he didn’t want anybody to see
+’im, and the fust thing they saw when they got into the room was Ginger
+laying face downwards on the bed with ’is arms and legs spread out,
+groaning.
+
+“‘Wot ’ave you been all this time for?’ he ses, as soon as he ’eard
+them. ‘You’ve been gone long enough to find fifty doctors.’
+
+“‘This is a good ’un, Ginger,’ ses Sam, very solemn. ‘One o’ the best.’
+
+“‘Charges as much as twenty ordinary doctors,’ ses Peter.
+
+“‘_Wot!_’ ses Ginger, turning over with surprise and temper.
+
+“The doctor smiled and, arter fust putting the chair by the side of the
+bed and sitting down on it, put it back very careful and sat down on
+the bed instead.
+
+“‘Let’s have a look at your tongue,’ he ses.
+
+“Ginger put it out, and then put it in agin to tell Sam that when ’e
+wanted to ’ear his remarks about it he’d let ’im know.
+
+“‘I’ve seen a worse tongue than that,’ ses the doctor. ‘Once.’
+
+“‘Did ’e die?’ ses Ginger.
+
+“‘Never mind,’ ses the doctor.
+
+“‘But I do mind,’ ses Ginger, very sharp.
+
+“‘No,’ ses the doctor; ‘I was called in at the last moment and, after
+sitting up with ’im all night, pulled ’im through.’
+
+“‘I told you wot he was, Ginger,’ ses Peter Russet in a whisper that
+you could have ’eard downstairs.
+
+“The doctor took ’old of Ginger’s wrist; and then Sam got into trouble
+agin for taking upon himself to tell ’im that Ginger ’ad got a natural
+dark skin. The doctor took out ’is watch and they all ’eld their breath
+while he counted Ginger’s pulse.
+
+“‘H’m!’ he ses, putting the watch back. ‘It’s a fortunate thing you met
+me when you did. Now let’s have a look at your chest.’
+
+“Ginger unbuttoned ’is shirt, and the doctor, arter a good look at the
+ship wot was tattoed there, laid his ’ead on it amidships and listened.
+
+“‘Say ninety-nine,’ he ses, ’and go on saying it.’
+
+“‘Ninety-nine,’ ses Ginger, ‘ninety-nine, ninety-nine, ninety--if I get
+up to you, Sam, you’ll know it.’
+
+“‘You’d laugh yourself if you could on’y see yourself, Ginger,’ ses Sam.
+
+“‘H’sh!’ ses the doctor; ‘he ’asn’t got much to laugh about, poor chap.’
+
+“He moved his ’ead a bit and told Ginger to keep quiet. Then he sat up
+and, buttoning Ginger’s shirt acrost ’is chest very careful, made a
+sign to Sam and Peter to keep quiet, and sat thinking.
+
+“‘His ’art has moved,’ he ses at last; ‘it’s about two inches out of
+place.’
+
+“‘Good-bye, mates,’ ses pore Ginger.
+
+“‘There’s no need to say “good-bye,”’ ses the doctor, very sharp. ‘If
+you’ll keep quite quiet and do as I tell you, you’ll be all right agin,
+in time.’
+
+“He sat thinking agin for a bit, and then ’e sent Peter downstairs for
+a jug of ’ot water and a tumbler, and while it was being fetched he
+told Sam ’e was to be head-nurse and told ’im all he was to do.
+
+“‘You don’t want to pay two or three pounds a week for a nurse, I
+suppose?’ he ses, when Sam began to speak up for ’imself and tell ’im
+’ow much he enjoyed ’is sleep.
+
+“‘I shan’t be much trouble to ’im,’ ses Ginger. ‘I can ’elp myself.’
+
+“‘You mustn’t move,’ ses the doctor. ‘You’ve got to lay quite still.
+Even if a fly settled on your nose you mustn’t brush it off. You don’t
+know ’ow bad you are. I want you to keep per-feck-ly still. Till
+to-morrow, at any rate.’
+
+“He took the ’ot water from Peter and, after putting a little cold to
+it, put ’is arm round Ginger’s neck and ’eld the tumbler to ’is lips.
+He ’ad four tumblers, one arter the other, except for wot went down ’is
+chest, and then ’e laid his ’ead back on the piller without a word.
+
+“‘That’ll do ’im good,’ ses the doctor, taking the ’arf-dollar wot Sam
+got out of Ginger’s pocket. ‘I’ll look round agin in the morning.’
+
+“‘And wot about medicine?’ ses Sam.
+
+“‘I’ll bring some with me,’ ses the doctor. ‘Good-bye.’
+
+“Sam and Peter went to bed early. One thing there was nothing to do,
+and another thing was Ginger wouldn’t let ’em do it. Every time they
+moved ’e spoke about it and said wot it did to ’is ’art, and once, when
+Sam sneezed, ’e called ’im a murderer.
+
+“It was about two o’clock in the morning when Sam woke up from a dream
+of a beautiful gal with yaller ’air and blue eyes wot kept calling ’im
+by ’is Christian name. He woke up with a smile on ’is lips and was
+just shutting ’is eyes to go on dreaming if ’e could, when he ’eard it
+again.
+
+“‘Sam! Sam! Sam! Sam!’
+
+“‘Hullo!’ he ses, sitting up in bed very cross.
+
+“‘I thought you was dead,’ ses Ginger. ‘I’ve been calling you for ten
+minutes or more. It’s made my ’eart worse.’
+
+“‘Wot d’ye want?’ ses Sam.
+
+“‘I’ve got a nasty itching feeling between my shoulders,’ ses Ginger.
+
+“‘D’you mean to say--d’you mean to say you woke me up just to tell me
+that?’ ses Sam, ’ardly able to speak for temper.
+
+“‘I woke you up to come and rub it,’ ses Ginger. ‘And look sharp about
+it. You know I mustn’t move.’
+
+“‘Hurry up, Sam!’ ses Peter Russet. ‘Wot are you waiting for? I want to
+get to sleep agin.’
+
+“Sam got out o’ bed at last and stood rubbing Ginger’s back with ’is
+fist while Ginger kept telling ’im ’ow not to do it, and reminding ’im
+wot a delikit skin he ’ad got.
+
+“He woke ’im up twice arter that. Once to give ’im a drink of water,
+and once to ask him ’ow old he thought the doctor was. Wot with being
+woke up and being afraid of being woke up, Sam ’ardly got a wink of
+sleep.
+
+“Him and Peter Russet ’ad their brekfuss at a coffee-shop next mornin’,
+and they had ’ardly got back afore the doctor come in. He seemed
+pleased to ’ear that the pain was better, but ’e told Ginger that he’d
+’ave to keep as still as he could for another day or two, and, arter
+putting ’is face on ’is chest agin, said that the ’art ’ad stopped
+moving.
+
+“‘I mean moving out of place,’ he ses, as Ginger sat up making a
+’orrible noise and threw ’is arms round his neck. ‘To-morrow I ’ope it
+will begin to move back.’
+
+“He fished a bottle o’ medicine out of ’is pocket which he said would
+be another bob, and, arter telling Sam to ’ave a lump o’ sugar ready
+and pop it in quick, gave Ginger ’is fust dose. Sam popped it in all
+right, but unfortunately the medicine was so nasty that Ginger was
+quicker than wot ’e was. Anybody might ha’ thought he ’ad been killed
+the way ’e carried on.
+
+“‘I’ll look in agin this evening,’ ses the doctor as he put a
+’arf-dollar and a bob o’ Ginger’s in his pocket. ‘Don’t let ’im move
+more than can be helped and---- Hullo!’
+
+“‘Wot’s the matter?’ ses Sam, taking ’is finger out of ’is mouth and
+staring at ’im.
+
+“The doctor didn’t answer ’im. He lifted up ’is eyelids instead and
+looked at his eyes, and then he told Ginger to open ’is mouth, and
+looked at ’is teeth. Then he looked at Sam agin and felt all round ’is
+throat.
+
+“‘Wot is it?’ ses Sam, going pale.
+
+“‘It might be blood-poisoning,’ ses the doctor, ‘but I can’t tell yet.
+His teeth are in a very bad state.’
+
+“‘’Ow shall I know if it is?’ ses Sam.
+
+“‘You’ll know fast enough,’ ses the doctor, shaking his ’ead. ‘P’r’aps
+you’d better ’ave a quiet time at ’ome to-day and keep your friend
+company, and I’ll ’ave a look at you when I come in this evening. Keep
+your spirits up and be as cheerful as you can--for ’is sake.’
+
+“He left ’em all staring at each other; and then Sam sat down on ’is
+bed and told Peter Russet wot ought to be done to Ginger before England
+would be fit for decent people to live in. Peter said it was a wonder
+’ow he could think of it all, and Ginger said it was because he ’ad got
+a nasty mind, and he told ’im wot he’d do to ’im when ’e got well agin.
+
+“They spent most of the day quarrelling, and on’y left off to find
+fault with Peter when ’e came in from enjoying ’imself to see ’ow they
+was getting on. Sam was the worst, cos Ginger was afraid of ’is ’eart
+if he got too excited, but arter the doctor saw ’im in the evening ’e
+was as quiet as Ginger was.
+
+“He said the poison ’ad got from Sam’s finger down into ’is liver and
+an abscess was forming there. He showed Sam where ’is liver was--a
+thing he ’adn’t known afore--and found out where the abscess was with
+’is thumb-nail. He found it twice, and was just going to find it agin
+when Sam pulled ’is shirt down.
+
+“‘There’s no danger,’ he ses, ‘if you do just wot I tell you. If you
+keep quiet like your friend does, I’ll ’ave you up agin in a week. If
+you move about or ’ave any violent shock you’ll die afore you know
+where you are.’
+
+“He sat talking with ’em for a little while, and, arter saying that
+Ginger’s ’art was not going back as fast as he could wish, ’e took ’is
+money and went off. Peter sat looking at ’em till Sam asked ’im whether
+he thought they was waxworks, and then, arter punching up their pillers
+and tickling Ginger’s toes, playful-like, ’e picked up ’is cap and went
+out. He spent most of ’is time out, and, when ’e did come in, all he
+could talk about was the drinks he’d been ’aving and ’ow glad ’e was
+that _his_ ’art and liver was as sound as a bell.
+
+“‘I wonder you ain’t sick of bed,’ he ses, arter Ginger had ’ad four
+days of it.
+
+“‘Sick of it!’ ses Ginger, choking. ‘Sick of it! Why, you ugly,
+mutton-faced son of a----’
+
+“‘Mind your ’art, Ginger,’ ses Sam.
+
+“‘I don’t believe in doctoring and laying in bed,’ ses Peter, picking
+’is teeth with a pin. ‘I believe that if you and Sam was to get up and
+’ave a little dance in your shirts it ’ud do you all the good in the
+world. _I’d_ ’um to you.’
+
+“Mind your ’art, Ginger,’ ses Sam, very quick.
+
+“Ginger minded it, but they was both so disagreeable that Peter got up
+and went out agin and didn’t come back until the pubs was closed. He
+woke ’em both up getting to bed, but when they tried to wake _’im_ up
+arterwards they might as well ’ave tried to wake the dead. All they did
+was to wake each other up and then ’ave words about it.
+
+“They wouldn’t speak to Peter when ’e got up next morning, and, arter
+giving ’em both wot ’e called a bit of ’is mind, but wot other people
+would ’ave called nasty langwidge, ’e flung Ginger’s trowsis into
+Sam’s face and went off for the day.
+
+“He didn’t come back until six-o’clock, but when ’e did come back ’e
+was a reg’lar sunbeam, smiling all over ’is face. He ’ad a look at
+Ginger and smiled, and then ’e went and smiled at Sam, with his ’and
+over ’is mouth.
+
+“‘He’s drunk,’ ses Sam, trying to sneer.
+
+“‘Mad _and_ drunk,’ ses Ginger.
+
+“Peter didn’t say anything. He went and sat down on ’is bed and covered
+up ’is face with his ’andkerchief and the bed shook as if there was an
+earthquake sitting on it.
+
+“‘’Ow--’ow--’ow’s the ’art, Ginger?’ he ses at last.
+
+“Ginger didn’t answer ’im.
+
+“‘And Sa--Sa--Sam’s pore old liver!’ ses Peter, going off agin.
+
+“He wiped ’is eyes at last, and then ’e got up and walked up and down
+the room fighting for ’is breath and saying ’ow it hurt ’im. And when
+he saw them two pore invalids laying in bed and looking at each other
+’elpless, ’e sat down and laughed till ’e cried.
+
+“‘It’s the d-d-doctor,’ he ses at last. ‘The--the landlord told me.’
+
+“‘Told you wot?’ ses Ginger, grinding ’is teeth.
+
+“‘He--he ain’t a doctor,’ ses Peter, wiping ’is eyes; ‘he’s a
+bookmaker’s clerk, and you won’t see ’im agin ’cos the police are arter
+’im.’
+
+“You might have ’eard a pin drop, as the saying is, if it ’adn’t been
+for the choking noise in Sam’s throat.
+
+“‘You ought to ’ave ’eard the landlord laugh when I told ’im about you
+and Sam,’ ses Peter. ‘It would ha’ done you good. ’Ow much money ’as he
+’ad off of you, Ginger?’
+
+“Ginger didn’t answer ’im. He got out of bed very slow, and put on ’is
+boots and ’is trowsis. Then ’e got up and locked the door.
+
+“‘Wot are you doing that for?’ ses Sam, wot was sitting on the edge of
+’is bed putting on ’is socks.
+
+“‘I’m going to give Peter something else to laugh about,’ ses Ginger.”
+
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
+
+
+Typos and mismatched puncutation (particularly quotation marks
+and apostrophes) corrected.
+
+Some illustrations have been moved from their original positions to
+enhance readability. The page numbers in the list of illustrations
+remain unchanged from the original.
+
+Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been left unchanged.
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78235 ***