Sea whispers
Date: 2026-03-18T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories; English

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sea whispers

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Title: Sea whispers

Author: W. W. Jacobs

Illustrator: Bert Thomas

Release date: March 18, 2026 [eBook #78235]

Language: English

Original publication: New York City: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1926

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78235

Credits: Aaron Adrignola, chenzw, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEA WHISPERS ***

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

“‘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

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.’

“‘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.’

“‘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.

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.”

“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.’

“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.’

“‘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.

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!”

“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?’

“‘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.

“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.

“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.”

“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.

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?

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.’

“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

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Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been left unchanged.

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Table of Contents

- SEA WHISPERS
- CONTENTS
- ILLUSTRATIONS
- The Bravo
- Taking Pains

- His Brother’s Keeper

- I
- II
- III
- IV

- Trust Money

- Kitchen Company

- The Model

- I
- II
- III

- Artful Cards

- Handsome Harry

- The Blindness of Captain Ferguson

- I

- II

- Wapping-on-Thames

- The Interruption

- I
- II
- III
- IV

- Bed Cases

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE