diff options
Diffstat (limited to '78235-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 78235-0.txt | 5993 |
1 files changed, 5993 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/78235-0.txt b/78235-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..abc7a3c --- /dev/null +++ b/78235-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5993 @@ +*** 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 *** |