Chapter II: Part 2

“You had better come in and have some breakfast before you go,” she said, brusquely; “there's no more sleep for me now.”

Mr. Travers obeyed with alacrity, and after a satisfying wash in the scullery came into the big kitchen with his face shining and took a seat at the table. The cloth was neatly laid, and Mrs. Waters, fresh and cool, with a smile upon her pleasant face, sat behind the tray. She looked at her guest curiously, Mr. Travers's spirits being somewhat higher than the state of his wardrobe appeared to justify.

“Why don't you get some settled work?” she inquired, with gentle severity, as he imparted snatches of his history between bites.

“Easier said than done,” said Mr. Travers, serenely. “But don't you run away with the idea that I'm a beggar, because I'm not. I pay my way, such as it is. And, by-the-bye, I s'pose I haven't earned that two pounds Benn gave me?”

His face lengthened, and he felt uneasily in his pocket.

“I'll give them to him when I'm tired of the joke,” said the widow, holding out her hand and watching him closely.

Mr. Travers passed the coins over to her. “Soft hand you've got,” he said, musingly. “I don't wonder Benn was desperate. I dare say I should have done the same in his place.”

Mrs. Waters bit her lip and looked out at the window; Mr. Travers resumed his breakfast.

“There's only one job that I'm really fit for, now that I'm too old for the Army,” he said, confidentially, as, breakfast finished, he stood at the door ready to depart.

“Playing at burglars?” hazarded Mrs. Waters.

“Landlord of a little country public-house,” said Mr. Travers, simply.

Mrs. Waters fell back and regarded him with open-eyed amazement.

“Good morning,” she said, as soon as she could trust her voice.

“Good-bye,” said Mr. Travers, reluctantly. “I should like to hear how old Benn takes this joke, though.”

Mrs. Waters retreated into the house and stood regarding him. “If you're passing this way again and like to look in—I'll tell you,” she said, after a long pause. “Good-bye.”

“I'll look in in a week's time,” said Mr. Travers.

He took the proffered hand and shook it warmly. “It would be the best joke of all,” he said, turning away.

“What would?”

The soldier confronted her again.

“For old Benn to come round here one evening and find me landlord. Think it over.”

Mrs. Waters met his gaze soberly. “I'll think it over when you have gone,” she said, softly. “Now go.”

THE NEST EGG

Artfulness,” said the night-watch-man, smoking placidly, “is a gift; but it don't pay always. I've met some artful ones in my time—plenty of 'em; but I can't truthfully say as 'ow any of them was the better for meeting me.”

He rose slowly from the packing-case on which he had been sitting and, stamping down the point of a rusty nail with his heel, resumed his seat, remarking that he had endured it for some time under the impression that it was only a splinter.

“I've surprised more than one in my time,” he continued, slowly. “When I met one of these 'ere artful ones I used fust of all to pretend to be more stupid than wot I really am.”

He stopped and stared fixedly.

“More stupid than I looked,” he said. He stopped again.

“More stupid than wot they thought I looked,” he said, speaking with marked deliberation. And I'd let 'em go on and on until I thought I had 'ad about enough, and then turn round on 'em. Nobody ever got the better o' me except my wife, and that was only before we was married. Two nights arterwards she found a fish-hook in my trouser-pocket, and arter that I could ha' left untold gold there—if I'd ha' had it. It spoilt wot some people call the honey-moon, but it paid in the long run.

One o' the worst things a man can do is to take up artfulness all of a sudden. I never knew it to answer yet, and I can tell you of a case that'll prove my words true.

It's some years ago now, and the chap it 'appened to was a young man, a shipmate o' mine, named Charlie Tagg. Very steady young chap he was, too steady for most of 'em. That's 'ow it was me and 'im got to be such pals.

He'd been saving up for years to get married, and all the advice we could give 'im didn't 'ave any effect. He saved up nearly every penny of 'is money and gave it to his gal to keep for 'im, and the time I'm speaking of she'd got seventy-two pounds of 'is and seventeen-and-six of 'er own to set up house-keeping with.

Then a thing happened that I've known to 'appen to sailormen afore. At Sydney 'e got silly on another gal, and started walking out with her, and afore he knew wot he was about he'd promised to marry 'er too.

Sydney and London being a long way from each other was in 'is favour, but the thing that troubled 'im was 'ow to get that seventy-two pounds out of Emma Cook, 'is London gal, so as he could marry the other with it. It worried 'im all the way home, and by the time we got into the London river 'is head was all in a maze with it. Emma Cook 'ad got it all saved up in the bank, to take a little shop with when they got spliced, and 'ow to get it he could not think.

He went straight off to Poplar, where she lived, as soon as the ship was berthed. He walked all the way so as to 'ave more time for thinking, but wot with bumping into two old gentlemen with bad tempers, and being nearly run over by a cabman with a white 'orse and red whiskers, he got to the house without 'aving thought of anything.

They was just finishing their tea as 'e got there, and they all seemed so pleased to see 'im that it made it worse than ever for 'im. Mrs. Cook, who 'ad pretty near finished, gave 'im her own cup to drink out of, and said that she 'ad dreamt of 'im the night afore last, and old Cook said that he 'ad got so good-looking 'e shouldn't 'ave known him.

“I should 'ave passed 'im in the street,” he ses. “I never see such an alteration.”

“They'll be a nice-looking couple,” ses his wife, looking at a young chap, named George Smith, that 'ad been sitting next to Emma.

Charlie Tagg filled 'is mouth with bread and butter, and wondered 'ow he was to begin. He squeezed Emma's 'and just for the sake of keeping up appearances, and all the time 'e was thinking of the other gal waiting for 'im thousands o' miles away.

“You've come 'ome just in the nick o' time,” ses old Cook; “if you'd done it o' purpose you couldn't 'ave arranged it better.”

“Somebody's birthday?” ses Charlie, trying to smile.

Old Cook shook his 'ead. “Though mine is next Wednesday,” he ses, “and thank you for thinking of it. No; you're just in time for the biggest bargain in the chandlery line that anybody ever 'ad a chance of. If you 'adn't ha' come back we should have 'ad to ha' done it without you.”

“Eighty pounds,” ses Mrs. Cook, smiling at Charlie. “With the money Emma's got saved and your wages this trip you'll 'ave plenty. You must come round arter tea and 'ave a look at it.”

“Little place not arf a mile from 'ere,” ses old Cook. “Properly worked up, the way Emma'll do it, it'll be a little fortune. I wish I'd had a chance like it in my young time.”

He sat shaking his 'ead to think wot he'd lost, and Charlie Tagg sat staring at 'im and wondering wot he was to do.

“My idea is for Charlie to go for a few more v'y'ges arter they're married while Emma works up the business,” ses Mrs. Cook; “she'll be all right with young Bill and Sarah Ann to 'elp her and keep 'er company while he's away.”

“We'll see as she ain't lonely,” ses George Smith, turning to Charlie.

Charlie Tagg gave a bit of a cough and said it wanted considering. He said it was no good doing things in a 'urry and then repenting of 'em all the rest of your life. And 'e said he'd been given to understand that chandlery wasn't wot it 'ad been, and some of the cleverest people 'e knew thought that it would be worse before it was better. By the time he'd finished they was all looking at 'im as though they couldn't believe their ears.

“You just step round and 'ave a look at the place,” ses old Cook; “if that don't make you alter your tune, call me a sinner.”

Charlie Tagg felt as though 'e could ha' called 'im a lot o' worse things than that, but he took up 'is hat and Mrs. Cook and Emma got their bonnets on and they went round.

“I don't think much of it for eighty pounds,” ses Charlie, beginning his artfulness as they came near a big shop, with plate-glass and a double front.

“Eh?” ses old Cook, staring at 'im. “Why, that ain't the place. Why, you wouldn't get that for eight 'undred.”

“Well, I don't think much of it,” ses Charlie; “if it's worse than that I can't look at it—I can't, indeed.”

“You ain't been drinking, Charlie?” ses old Cook, in a puzzled voice.

“Certainly not,” ses Charlie.

He was pleased to see 'ow anxious they all looked, and when they did come to the shop 'e set up a laugh that old Cook said chilled the marrer in 'is bones. He stood looking in a 'elpless sort o' way at his wife and Emma, and then at last he ses, “There it is; and a fair bargain at the price.”

“I s'pose _you_ ain't been drinking?” ses Charlie.

“Wot's the matter with it?” ses Mrs. Cook flaring up.

“Come inside and look at it,” ses Emma, taking 'old of his arm.

“Not me,” ses Charlie, hanging back. “Why, I wouldn't take it at a gift.”

He stood there on the kerbstone, and all they could do 'e wouldn't budge. He said it was a bad road and a little shop, and 'ad got a look about it he didn't like. They walked back 'ome like a funeral procession, and Emma 'ad to keep saying “_H'sh!_” in w'ispers to 'er mother all the way.

“I don't know wot Charlie does want, I'm sure,” ses Mrs. Cook, taking off 'er bonnet as soon as she got indoors and pitching it on the chair he was just going to set down on.

“It's so awk'ard,” ses old Cook, rubbing his 'ead. “Fact is, Charlie, we pretty near gave 'em to understand as we'd buy it.”

“It's as good as settled,” ses Mrs. Cook, trembling all over with temper.

“They won't settle till they get the money,” ses Charlie. “You may make your mind easy about that.”

“Emma's drawn it all out of the bank ready,” ses old Cook, eager like.

Charlie felt 'ot and cold all over. “I'd better take care of it,” he ses, in a trembling voice. “You might be robbed.”

“So might you be,” ses Mrs. Cook. “Don't you worry; it's in a safe place.”

“Sailormen are always being robbed,” ses George Smith, who 'ad been helping young Bill with 'is sums while they 'ad gone to look at the shop. “There's more sailormen robbed than all the rest put together.”

“They won't rob Charlie,” ses Mrs. Cook, pressing 'er lips together. “I'll take care o' that.”

Charlie tried to laugh, but 'e made such a queer noise that young Bill made a large blot on 'is exercise-book, and old Cook, wot was lighting his pipe, burnt 'is fingers through not looking wot 'e was doing.

“You see,” ses Charlie, “if I was robbed, which ain't at all likely, it 'ud only be me losing my own money; but if you was robbed of it you'd never forgive yourselves.”

“I dessay I should get over it,” ses Mrs. Cook, sniffing. “I'd 'ave a try, at all events.”

Charlie started to laugh agin, and old Cook, who had struck another match, blew it out and waited till he'd finished.

“The whole truth is,” ses Charlie, looking round, “I've got something better to do with the money. I've got a chance offered me that'll make me able to double it afore you know where you are.”

“Not afore I know where I am,” ses Mrs. Cook, with a laugh that was worse than Charlie's.

“The chance of a lifetime,” ses Charlie, trying to keep 'is temper. “I can't tell you wot it is, because I've promised to keep it secret for a time. You'll be surprised when I do tell you.”

“If I wait till then till I'm surprised,” ses Mrs. Cook, “I shall 'ave to wait a long time. My advice to you is to take that shop and ha' done with it.”

Charlie sat there arguing all the evening, but it was no good, and the idea o' them people sitting there and refusing to let 'im have his own money pretty near sent 'im crazy. It was all 'e could do to kiss Emma good-night, and 'e couldn't have 'elped slamming the front door if he'd been paid for it. The only comfort he 'ad got left was the Sydney gal's photygraph, and he took that out and looked at it under nearly every lamp-post he passed.

He went round the next night and 'ad another try to get 'is money, but it was no use; and all the good he done was to make Mrs. Cook in such a temper that she 'ad to go to bed before he 'ad arf finished. It was no good talking to old Cook and Emma, because they daren't do anything without 'er, and it was no good calling things up the stairs to her because she didn't answer. Three nights running Mrs. Cook went off to bed afore eight o'clock, for fear she should say something to 'im as she'd be sorry for arterwards; and for three nights Charlie made 'imself so disagreeable that Emma told 'im plain the sooner 'e went back to sea agin the better she should like it. The only one who seemed to enjoy it was George Smith, and 'e used to bring bits out o' newspapers and read to 'em, showing 'ow silly people was done out of their money.

On the fourth night Charlie dropped it and made 'imself so amiable that Mrs. Cook stayed up and made 'im a Welsh rare-bit for 'is supper, and made 'im drink two glasses o' beer instead o' one, while old Cook sat and drank three glasses o' water just out of temper, and to show that 'e didn't mind. When she started on the chandler's shop agin Charlie said he'd think it over, and when 'e went away Mrs. Cook called 'im her sailor-boy and wished 'im pleasant dreams.

But Charlie Tagg 'ad got better things to do than to dream, and 'e sat up in bed arf the night thinking out a new plan he'd thought of to get that money. When 'e did fall asleep at last 'e dreamt of taking a little farm in Australia and riding about on 'orseback with the Sydney gal watching his men at work.

In the morning he went and hunted up a shipmate of 'is, a young feller named Jack Bates. Jack was one o' these 'ere chaps, nobody's enemy but their own, as the saying is; a good-'arted, free-'anded chap as you could wish to see. Everybody liked 'im, and the ship's cat loved 'im. He'd ha' sold the shirt off 'is back to oblige a pal, and three times in one week he got 'is face scratched for trying to prevent 'usbands knocking their wives about.

Charlie Tagg went to 'im because he was the only man 'e could trust, and for over arf an hour he was telling Jack Bates all 'is troubles, and at last, as a great favour, he let 'im see the Sydney gal's photygraph, and told him that all that pore gal's future 'appiness depended upon 'im.

“I'll step round to-night and rob 'em of that seventy-two pounds,” ses Jack; “it's your money, and you've a right to it.”

Charlie shook his 'ead. “That wouldn't do,” he ses; “besides, I don't know where they keep it. No; I've got a better plan than that. Come round to the _Crooked Billet_, so as we can talk it over in peace and quiet.”

He stood Jack three or four arf-pints afore 'e told 'im his plan, and Jack was so pleased with it that he wanted to start at once, but Charlie persuaded 'im to wait.

“And don't you spare me, mind, out o' friendship,” ses Charlie, “because the blacker you paint me the better I shall like it.”

“You trust me, mate,” ses Jack Bates; “if I don't get that seventy-two pounds for you, you may call me a Dutchman. Why, it's fair robbery, I call it, sticking to your money like that.”

They spent the rest o' the day together, and when evening came Charlie went off to the Cooks'. Emma 'ad arf expected they was going to a theayter that night, but Charlie said he wasn't feeling the thing, and he sat there so quiet and miserable they didn't know wot to make of 'im.

“'Ave you got any trouble on your mind, Charlie,” ses Mrs. Cook, “or is it the toothache?”

“It ain't the toothache,” ses Charlie.

He sat there pulling a long face and staring at the floor, but all Mrs. Cook and Emma could do 'e wouldn't tell them wot was the matter with 'im. He said 'e didn't want to worry other people with 'is troubles; let everybody bear their own, that was 'is motto. Even when George Smith offered to go to the theayter with Emma instead of 'im he didn't fire up, and, if it 'adn't ha' been for Mrs. Cook, George wouldn't ha' been sorry that 'e spoke.

“Theayters ain't for me,” ses Charlie, with a groan. “I'm more likely to go to gaol, so far as I can see, than a theayter.”

Mrs. Cook and Emma both screamed and Sarah Ann did 'er first highstericks, and very well, too, considering that she 'ad only just turned fifteen.

“Gaol!” ses old Cook, as soon as they 'ad quieted Sarah Ann with a bowl o' cold water that young Bill 'ad the presence o' mind to go and fetch. “Gaol! What for?”

“You wouldn't believe if I was to tell you.” ses Charlie, getting up to go, “and besides, I don't want any of you to think as 'ow I am worse than wot I am.”

He shook his 'ead at them sorrowful-like, and afore they could stop 'im he 'ad gone. Old Cook shouted arter 'im, but it was no use, and the others was running into the scullery to fill the bowl agin for Emma.

Mrs. Cook went round to 'is lodgings next morning, but found that 'e was out. They began to fancy all sorts o' things then, but Charlie turned up agin that evening more miserable than ever.

“I went round to see you this morning,” ses Mrs. Cook, “but you wasn't at 'ome.”

“I never am, 'ardly,” ses Charlie. “I can't be—it ain't safe.”

“Why not?” ses Mrs. Cook, fidgeting.

“If I was to tell you, you'd lose your good opinion of me,” ses Charlie.

“It wouldn't be much to lose,” ses Mrs. Cook, firing up.

Charlie didn't answer 'er. When he did speak he spoke to the old man, and he was so down-'arted that 'e gave 'im the chills a'most, He 'ardly took any notice of Emma, and, when Mrs. Cook spoke about the shop agin, said that chandlers' shops was for happy people, not for 'im.

By the time they sat down to supper they was nearly all as miserable as Charlie 'imself. From words he let drop they all seemed to 'ave the idea that the police was arter 'im, and Mrs. Cook was just asking 'im for wot she called the third and last time, but wot was more likely the hundred and third, wot he'd done, when there was a knock at the front door, so loud and so sudden that old Cook and young Bill both cut their mouths at the same time.

“Anybody 'ere o' the name of Emma Cook?” ses a man's voice, when young Bill opened the door.

“She's inside,” ses the boy, and the next moment Jack Bates followed 'im into the room, and then fell back with a start as 'e saw Charlie Tagg.

“Ho, 'ere you are, are you?” he ses, looking at 'im very black.

“Wot's the matter?” ses Mrs. Cook, very sharp.

“I didn't expect to 'ave the pleasure o' seeing you 'ere, my lad,” ses Jack, still staring at Charlie, and twisting 'is face up into awful scowls. “Which is Emma Cook?”

“Miss Cook is my name,” ses Emma, very sharp. “Wot d'ye want?”

“Very good,” ses Jack Bates, looking at Charlie agin; “then p'r'aps you'll do me the kindness of telling that lie o' yours agin afore this young lady.”

“It's the truth,” ses Charlie, looking down at 'is plate.

“If somebody don't tell me wot all this is about in two minutes, I shall do something desprit,” ses Mrs. Cook, getting up.

“This 'ere—er—man,” ses Jack Bates, pointing at Charlie, “owes me seventy-five pounds and won't pay. When I ask 'im for it he ses a party he's keeping company with, by the name of Emma Cook, 'as got it, and he can't get it.”

“So she has,” ses Charlie, without looking up.

“Wot does 'e owe you the money for?” ses Mrs. Cook.

“'Cos I lent it to 'im,” ses Jack.

“Lent it? What for?” ses Mrs. Cook.

“'Cos I was a fool, I s'pose,” ses Jack Bates; “a good-natured fool. Anyway, I'm sick and tired of asking for it, and if I don't get it to-night I'm going to see the police about it.”

He sat down on a chair with 'is hat cocked over one eye, and they all sat staring at 'im as though they didn't know wot to say next.

“So this is wot you meant when you said you'd got the chance of a lifetime, is it?” ses Mrs. Cook to Charlie. “This is wot you wanted it for, is it? Wot did you borrow all that money for?”

“Spend,” ses Charlie, in a sulky voice.

“Spend!” ses Mrs. Cook, with a scream; “wot in?”

“Drink and cards mostly,” ses Jack Bates, remembering wot Charlie 'ad told 'im about blackening 'is character.

You might ha' heard a pin drop a'most, and Charlie sat there without saying a word.

“Charlie's been led away,” ses Mrs. Cook, looking 'ard at Jack Bates. “I s'pose you lent 'im the money to win it back from 'im at cards, didn't you?”

“And gave 'im too much licker fust,” ses old Cook. “I've 'eard of your kind. If Charlie takes my advice 'e won't pay you a farthing. I should let you do your worst if I was 'im; that's wot I should do. You've got a low face; a nasty, ugly, low face.”

“One o' the worst I ever see,” ses Mrs. Cook. “It looks as though it might ha' been cut out o' the _Police News_.”

“'Owever could you ha' trusted a man with a face like that, Charlie?” ses old Cook. “Come away from 'im, Bill; I don't like such a chap in the room.”

Jack Bates began to feel very awk'ard. They was all glaring at 'im as though they could eat 'im, and he wasn't used to such treatment. And, as a matter o' fact, he'd got a very good-'arted face.

“You go out o' that door,” ses old Cook, pointing to it. “Go and do your worst. You won't get any money 'ere.”

“Stop a minute,” ses Emma, and afore they could stop 'er she ran upstairs. Mrs. Cook went arter 'er and 'igh words was heard up in the bedroom, but by-and-by Emma came down holding her head very 'igh and looking at Jack Bates as though he was dirt.

“How am I to know Charlie owes you this money?” she ses.

Jack Bates turned very red, and arter fumbling in 'is pockets took out about a dozen dirty bits o' paper, which Charlie 'ad given 'im for I O U's. Emma read 'em all, and then she threw a little parcel on the table.

“There's your money,” she ses; “take it and go.”

Mrs. Cook and 'er father began to call out, but it was no good.

“There's seventy-two pounds there,” ses Emma, who was very pale; “and 'ere's a ring you can have to 'elp make up the rest.” And she drew Charlie's ring off and throwed it on the table. “I've done with 'im for good,” she ses, with a look at 'er mother.

Jack Bates took up the money and the ring and stood there looking at 'er and trying to think wot to say. He'd always been uncommon partial to the sex, and it did seem 'ard to stand there and take all that on account of Charlie Tagg.

“I only wanted my own,” he ses, at last, shuffling about the floor.

“Well, you've got it,” ses Mrs. Cook, “and now you can go.”

“You're pi'soning the air of my front parlour,” ses old Cook, opening the winder a little at the top.

“P'r'aps I ain't so bad as you think I am,” ses Jack Bates, still looking at Emma, and with that 'e walked over to Charlie and dumped down the money on the table in front of 'im. “Take it,” he ses, “and don't borrow any more. I make you a free gift of it. P'r'aps my 'art ain't as black as my face,” he ses, turning to Mrs. Cook.

They was all so surprised at fust that they couldn't speak, but old Cook smiled at 'im and put the winder up agin. And Charlie Tagg sat there arf mad with temper, looking as though 'e could eat Jack Bates without any salt, as the saying is.

“I—I can't take it,” he ses at last, with a stammer.

“Can't take it? Why not?” ses old Cook, staring. “This gentleman 'as given it to you.” “A free gift,” ses Mrs. Cook, smiling at Jack very sweet.

“I can't take it,” ses Charlie, winking at Jack to take the money up and give it to 'im quiet, as arranged. “I 'ave my pride.”

“So 'ave I,” ses Jack. “Are you going to take it?”

Charlie gave another look. “No,” he ses, “I cant take a favour. I borrowed the money and I'll pay it back.

“Very good,” ses Jack, taking it up. “It's my money, ain't it?”

“Yes,” ses Charlie, taking no notice of Mrs. Cook and 'er husband, wot was both talking to 'im at once, and trying to persuade 'im to alter his mind.

“Then I give it to Miss Emma Cook,” ses Jack Bates, putting it into her hands. “Good-night everybody and good luck.”

He slammed the front door behind 'im and they 'eard 'im go off down the road as if 'e was going for fire-engines. Charlie sat there for a moment struck all of a heap, and then 'e jumped up and dashed arter 'im. He just saw 'im disappearing round a corner, and he didn't see 'im agin for a couple o' year arterwards, by which time the Sydney gal had 'ad three or four young men arter 'im, and Emma, who 'ad changed her name to Smith, was doing one o' the best businesses in the chandlery line in Poplar.

THE CONSTABLE'S MOVE

Mr. Bob Grummit sat in the kitchen with his corduroy-clad legs stretched on the fender. His wife's half-eaten dinner was getting cold on the table; Mr. Grummit, who was badly in need of cheering up, emptied her half-empty glass of beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“Come away, I tell you,” he called. “D'ye hear? Come away. You'll be locked up if you don't.”

He gave a little laugh at the sarcasm, and sticking his short pipe in his mouth lurched slowly to the front-room door and scowled at his wife as she lurked at the back of the window watching intently the furniture which was being carried in next door.

“Come away or else you'll be locked up,” repeated Mr. Grummit. “You mustn't look at policemen's furniture; it's agin the law.”

Mrs. Grummit made no reply, but, throwing appearances to the winds, stepped to the window until her nose touched, as a walnut sideboard with bevelled glass back was tenderly borne inside under the personal supervision of Police-Constable Evans.

“They'll be 'aving a pianner next,” said the indignant Mr. Grummit, peering from the depths of the room.

“They've got one,” responded his wife; “there's the end if it stickin' up in the van.”

Mr. Grummit advanced and regarded the end fixedly. “Did you throw all them tin cans and things into their yard wot I told you to?” he demanded.

“He picked up three of 'em while I was upstairs,” replied his wife. “I 'eard 'im tell her that they'd come in handy for paint and things.”

“That's 'ow coppers get on and buy pianners,” said the incensed Mr. Grummit, “sneaking other people's property. I didn't tell you to throw good 'uns over, did I? Wot d'ye mean by it?”

Mrs. Grummit made no reply, but watched with bated breath the triumphal entrance of the piano. The carman set it tenderly on the narrow footpath, while P. C. Evans, stooping low, examined it at all points, and Mrs. Evans, raising the lid, struck a few careless chords.

“Showing off,” explained Mrs. Grummit, with a half turn; “and she's got fingers like carrots.”

“It's a disgrace to Mulberry Gardens to 'ave a copper come and live in it,” said the indignant Grummit; “and to come and live next to _me_!— that's what I can't get over. To come and live next door to a man wot has been fined twice, and both times wrong. Why, for two pins I'd go in and smash 'is pianner first and 'im after it. He won't live 'ere long, you take my word for it.”

“Why not?” inquired his wife.

“Why?” repeated Mr. Grummit. “Why? Why, becos I'll make the place too 'ot to hold him. Ain't there enough houses in Tunwich without 'im a-coming and living next door to me?”

For a whole week the brain concealed in Mr. Grummit's bullet-shaped head worked in vain, and his temper got correspondingly bad. The day after the Evans' arrival he had found his yard littered with tins which he recognized as old acquaintances, and since that time they had travelled backwards and forwards with monotonous regularity. They sometimes made as many as three journeys a day, and on one occasion the heavens opened to drop a battered tin bucket on the back of Mr. Grummit as he was tying his bootlace. Five minutes later he spoke of the outrage to Mr. Evans, who had come out to admire the sunset.

“I heard something fall,” said the constable, eyeing the pail curiously.

“You threw it,” said Mr. Grummit, breathing furiously.

“Me? Nonsense,” said the other, easily. “I was having tea in the parlour with my wife and my mother-in-law, and my brother Joe and his young lady.”

“Any more of 'em?” demanded the hapless Mr. Grummit, aghast at this list of witnesses for an alibi.

“It ain't a bad pail, if you look at it properly,” said the constable. “I should keep it if I was you; unless the owner offers a reward for it. It'll hold enough water for your wants.”

Mr. Grummit flung indoors and, after wasting some time concocting impossible measures of retaliation with his sympathetic partner, went off to discuss affairs with his intimates at the _Bricklayers' Arms_. The company, although unanimously agreeing that Mr. Evans ought to be boiled, were miserably deficient in ideas as to the means by which such a desirable end was to be attained.

“Make 'im a laughing-stock, that's the best thing,” said an elderly labourer. “The police don't like being laughed at.”

“'Ow?” demanded Mr. Grummit, with some asperity.

“There's plenty o' ways,” said the old man. “I should find 'em out fast enough if I 'ad a bucket dropped on my back, I know.”

Mr. Grummit made a retort the feebleness of which was somewhat balanced by its ferocity, and subsided into glum silence. His back still ached, but, despite that aid to intellectual effort, the only ways he could imagine of making the constable look foolish contained an almost certain risk of hard labour for himself.

He pondered the question for a week, and meanwhile the tins—to the secret disappointment of Mr. Evans—remained untouched in his yard. For the whole of the time he went about looking, as Mrs. Grummit expressed it, as though his dinner had disagreed with him.

“I've been talking to old Bill Smith,” he said, suddenly, as he came in one night.

Mrs. Grummit looked up, and noticed with wifely pleasure that he was looking almost cheerful.

“He's given me a tip,” said Mr. Grummit, with a faint smile; “a copper mustn't come into a free-born Englishman's 'ouse unless he's invited.”

“Wot of it?” inquired his wife. “You wasn't think of asking him in, was you?”

Mr. Grummit regarded her almost playfully. “If a copper comes in without being told to,” he continued, “he gets into trouble for it. Now d'ye see?”

“But he won't come,” said the puzzled Mrs. Grummit.

Mr. Grummit winked. “Yes 'e will if you scream loud enough,” he retorted. “Where's the copper-stick?”

“Have you gone mad?” demanded his wife, “or do you think I 'ave?”

“You go up into the bedroom,” said Mr. Grummit, emphasizing his remarks with his forefinger. “I come up and beat the bed black and blue with the copper-stick; you scream for mercy and call out 'Help!' 'Murder!' and things like that. Don't call out 'Police!' cos Bill ain't sure about that part. Evans comes bursting in to save your life—I'll leave the door on the latch—and there you are. He's sure to get into trouble for it. Bill said so. He's made a study o' that sort o' thing.”

Mrs. Grummit pondered this simple plan so long that her husband began to lose patience. At last, against her better sense, she rose and fetched the weapon in question.

“And you be careful what you're hitting,” she said, as they went upstairs to bed. “We'd better have 'igh words first, I s'pose?”

“You pitch into me with your tongue,” said Mr. Grummit, amiably.

Mrs. Grummit, first listening to make sure that the constable and his wife were in the bedroom the other side of the flimsy wall, complied, and in a voice that rose gradually to a piercing falsetto told Mr. Grummit things that had been rankling in her mind for some months. She raked up misdemeanours that he had long since forgotten, and, not content with that, had a fling at the entire Grummit family, beginning with her mother-in-law and ending with Mr. Grummit's youngest sister. The hand that held the copper-stick itched.

“Any more to say?” demanded Mr. Grummit advancing upon her.

Mrs. Grummit emitted a genuine shriek, and Mr. Grummit, suddenly remembering himself, stopped short and attacked the bed with extraordinary fury. The room resounded with the blows, and the efforts of Mrs. Grummit were a revelation even to her husband.

“I can hear 'im moving,” whispered Mr. Grummit, pausing to take breath.

“_Mur—der!_” wailed his wife. “_Help! Help!_”

Mr. Grummit, changing the stick into his left hand, renewed the attack; Mrs. Grummit, whose voice was becoming exhausted, sought a temporary relief in moans.

“Is—he—deaf?” panted the wife-beater, “or wot?”

He knocked over a chair, and Mrs. Grummit contrived another frenzied scream. A loud knocking sounded on the wall.

“_Hel—lp!_” moaned Mrs. Grummit.

“Halloa, there!” came the voice of the constable. “Why don't you keep that baby quiet? We can't get a wink of sleep.”

Mr. Grummit dropped the stick on the bed and turned a dazed face to his wife.

“He—he's afraid—to come in,” he gasped. “Keep it up, old gal.”

He took up the stick again and Mrs. Grummit did her best, but the heart had gone out of the thing, and he was about to give up the task as hopeless when the door below was heard to open with a bang.

“Here he is,” cried the jubilant Grummit. “Now!”

His wife responded, and at the same moment the bedroom door was flung open, and her brother, who had been hastily fetched by the neighbours on the other side, burst into the room and with one hearty blow sent Mr. Grummit sprawling.

“Hit my sister, will you?” he roared, as the astounded Mr. Grummit rose. “Take that!”

Mr. Grummit took it, and several other favours, while his wife, tugging at her brother, endeavoured to explain. It was not, however, until Mr. Grummit claimed the usual sanctuary of the defeated by refusing to rise that she could make herself heard.

“Joke?” repeated her brother, incredulously. “Joke?”

Mrs. Grummit in a husky voice explained.

Her brother passed from incredulity to amazement and from amazement to mirth. He sat down gurgling, and the indignant face of the injured Grummit only added to his distress.

“Best joke I ever heard in my life,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Don't look at me like that, Bob; I can't bear it.”

“Get off 'ome,” responded Mr. Grummit, glowering at him.

“There's a crowd outside, and half the doors in the place open,” said the other. “Well, it's a good job there's no harm done. So long.”

He passed, beaming, down the stairs, and Mr. Grummit, drawing near the window, heard him explaining in a broken voice to the neighbours outside. Strong men patted him on the back and urged him gruffly to say what he had to say and laugh afterwards. Mr. Grummit turned from the window, and in a slow and stately fashion prepared to retire for the night. Even the sudden and startling disappearance of Mrs. Grummit as she got into bed failed to move him.

“The bed's broke, Bob,” she said faintly.

“Beds won't last for ever,” he said, shortly; “sleep on the floor.”

Mrs. Grummit clambered out, and after some trouble secured the bedclothes and made up a bed in a corner of the room. In a short time she was fast asleep; but her husband, broad awake, spent the night in devising further impracticable schemes for the discomfiture of the foe next door.

He saw Mr. Evans next morning as he passed on his way to work. The constable was at the door smoking in his shirt-sleeves, and Mr. Grummit felt instinctively that he was waiting there to see him pass.

“I heard you last night,” said the constable, playfully. “My word! Good gracious!”

“Wot's the matter with you?” demanded Mr. Grummit, stopping short.

The constable stared at him. “She has been knocking you about,” he gasped. “Why, it must ha' been _you_ screaming, then! I thought it sounded loud. Why don't you go and get a summons and have her locked up? I should be pleased to take her.”

Mr. Grummit faced him, quivering with passion. “Wot would it cost if I set about you?” he demanded, huskily.

“Two months,” said Mr. Evans, smiling serenely; “p'r'aps three.”

Mr. Grummit hesitated and his fists clenched nervously. The constable, lounging against his door-post, surveyed him with a dispassionate smile. “That would be besides what you'd get from me,” he said, softly.

“Come out in the road,” said Mr. Grummit, with sudden violence.

“It's agin the rules,” said Mr. Evans; “sorry I can't. Why not go and ask your wife's brother to oblige you?”

He went in laughing and closed the door, and Mr. Grummit, after a frenzied outburst, proceeded on his way, returning the smiles of such acquaintances as he passed with an icy stare or a strongly-worded offer to make them laugh the other side of their face. The rest of the day he spent in working so hard that he had no time to reply to the anxious inquiries of his fellow-workmen.

He came home at night glum and silent, the hardship of not being able to give Mr. Evans his deserts without incurring hard labour having weighed on his spirits all day. To avoid the annoyance of the piano next door, which was slowly and reluctantly yielding up “The Last Rose of Summer” note by note, he went out at the back, and the first thing he saw was Mr. Evans mending his path with tins and other bric-a-brac.

“Nothing like it,” said the constable, looking up. “Your missus gave 'em to us this morning. A little gravel on top, and there you are.”

He turned whistling to his work again, and the other, after endeavouring in vain to frame a suitable reply, took a seat on an inverted wash-tub and lit his pipe. His one hope was that Constable Evans was going to try and cultivate a garden.

The hope was realized a few days later, and Mr. Grummit at the back window sat gloating over a dozen fine geraniums, some lobelias and calceolarias, which decorated the constable's plot of ground. He could not sleep for thinking of them.

He rose early the next morning, and, after remarking to Mrs. Grummit that Mr. Evans's flowers looked as though they wanted rain, went off to his work. The cloud which had been on his spirits for some time had lifted, and he whistled as he walked. The sight of flowers in front windows added to his good humour.

He was still in good spirits when he left off work that afternoon, but some slight hesitation about returning home sent him to the _Bricklayers' Arms_ instead. He stayed there until closing time, and then, being still disinclined for home, paid a visit to Bill Smith, who lived the other side of Tunwich. By the time he started for home it was nearly midnight.

The outskirts of the town were deserted and the houses in darkness. The clock of Tunwich church struck twelve, and the last stroke was just dying away as he turned a corner and ran almost into the arms of the man he had been trying to avoid.

“Halloa!” said Constable Evans, sharply. “Here, I want a word with you.”

Mr. Grummit quailed. “With me, sir?” he said, with involuntary respect.

“What have you been doing to my flowers?” demanded the other, hotly.

“Flowers?” repeated Mr. Grummit, as though the word were new to him. “Flowers? What flowers?”

“You know well enough,” retorted the constable. “You got over my fence last night and smashed all my flowers down.”

“You be careful wot you're saying,” urged Mr. Grummit. “Why, I love flowers. You don't mean to tell me that all them beautiful flowers wot you put in so careful 'as been spoiled?”

“You know all about it,” said the constable, choking. “I shall take out a summons against you for it.”

“Ho!” said Mr. Grummit. “And wot time do you say it was when I done it?”

“Never you mind the time,” said the other.

“Cos it's important,” said Mr. Grummit. “My wife's brother—the one you're so fond of—slept in my 'ouse last night. He was ill arf the night, pore chap; but, come to think of it, it'll make 'im a good witness for my innocence.”

“If I wasn't a policeman,” said Mr. Evans, speaking with great deliberation, “I'd take hold o' you, Bob Grummit, and I'd give you the biggest hiding you've ever had in your life.”

“If you wasn't a policeman,” said Mr. Grummit, yearningly, “I'd arf murder you.”

The two men eyed each other wistfully, loth to part.

“If I gave you what you deserve I should get into trouble,” said the constable.

“If I gave you a quarter of wot you ought to 'ave I should go to quod,” sighed Mr. Grummit.

“I wouldn't put you there,” said the constable, earnestly; “I swear I wouldn't.”

“Everything's beautiful and quiet,” said Mr. Grummit, trembling with eagerness, “and I wouldn't say a word to a soul. I'll take my solemn davit I wouldn't.”

“When I think o' my garden—” began the constable. With a sudden movement he knocked off Mr. Grummit's cap, and then, seizing him by the coat, began to hustle him along the road. In the twinkling of an eye they had closed.

Tunwich church chimed the half-hour as they finished, and Mr. Grummit, forgetting his own injuries, stood smiling at the wreck before him. The constable's helmet had been smashed and trodden on; his uniform was torn and covered with blood and dirt, and his good looks marred for a fortnight at least. He stooped with a groan, and, recovering his helmet, tried mechanically to punch it into shape. He stuck the battered relic on his head, and Mr. Grummit fell back—awed, despite himself.

“It was a fair fight,” he stammered.

The constable waved him away. “Get out o' my sight before I change my mind,” he said, fiercely; “and mind, if you say a word about this it'll be the worse for you.”

“Do you think I've gone mad?” said the other. He took another look at his victim and, turning away, danced fantastically along the road home. The constable, making his way to a gas-lamp, began to inspect damages.

They were worse even than he had thought, and, leaning against the lamp-post, he sought in vain for an explanation that, in the absence of a prisoner, would satisfy the inspector. A button which was hanging by a thread fell tinkling on to the footpath, and he had just picked it up and placed it in his pocket when a faint distant outcry broke upon his ear.

He turned and walked as rapidly as his condition would permit in the direction of the noise. It became louder and more imperative, and cries of “Police!” became distinctly audible. He quickened into a run, and turning a corner beheld a little knot of people standing at the gate of a large house. Other people only partially clad were hastening towards them. The constable arrived out of breath.

“Better late than never,” said the owner of the house, sarcastically.

Mr. Evans, breathing painfully, supported himself with his hand on the fence.

“They went that way, but I suppose you didn't see them,” continued the householder. “Halloa!” he added, as somebody opened the hall door and the constable's damaged condition became visible in the gas-light. “Are you hurt?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Evans, who was trying hard to think clearly. To gain time he blew a loud call on his whistle.

“The rascals!” continued the other. “I think I should know the big chap with a beard again, but the others were too quick for me.”

Mr. Evans blew his whistle again—thoughtfully. The opportunity seemed too good to lose.

“Did they get anything?” he inquired.

“Not a thing,” said the owner, triumphantly. “I was disturbed just in time.”

The constable gave a slight gulp. “I saw the three running by the side of the road,” he said, slowly. “Their behaviour seemed suspicious, so I collared the big one, but they set on me like wild cats. They had me down three times; the last time I laid my head open against the kerb, and when I came to my senses again they had gone.”

He took off his battered helmet with a flourish and, amid a murmur of sympathy, displayed a nasty cut on his head. A sergeant and a constable, both running, appeared round the corner and made towards them.

“Get back to the station and make your report,” said the former, as Constable Evans, in a somewhat defiant voice, repeated his story. “You've done your best; I can see that.”

Mr. Evans, enacting to perfection the part of a wounded hero, limped painfully off, praying devoutly as he went that the criminals might make good their escape. If not, he reflected that the word of a policeman was at least equal to that of three burglars.

He repeated his story at the station, and, after having his head dressed, was sent home and advised to keep himself quiet for a day or two. He was off duty for four days, and, the _Tunwich Gazette_ having devoted a column to the affair, headed “A Gallant Constable,” modestly secluded himself from the public gaze for the whole of that time.

To Mr. Grummit, who had read the article in question until he could have repeated it backwards, this modesty was particularly trying. The constable's yard was deserted and the front door ever closed. Once Mr. Grummit even went so far as to tap with his nails on the front parlour window, and the only response was the sudden lowering of the blind. It was not until a week afterwards that his eyes were gladdened by a sight of the constable sitting in his yard; and fearing that even then he might escape him, he ran out on tip-toe and put his face over the fence before the latter was aware of his presence.

“Wot about that 'ere burglary?” he demanded in truculent tones.

“Good evening, Grummit,” said the constable, with a patronizing air.

“Wot about that burglary?” repeated Mr. Grummit, with a scowl. “I don't believe you ever saw a burglar.”

Mr. Evans rose and stretched himself gracefully. “You'd better run indoors, my good man,” he said, slowly.

“Telling all them lies about burglars,” continued the indignant Mr. Grummit, producing his newspaper and waving it. “Why, _I_ gave you that black eye, _I_ smashed your 'elmet, _I_ cut your silly 'ead open, _I_——”

“You've been drinking,” said the other, severely.

“You mean to say I didn't?” demanded Mr. Grummit, ferociously.

Mr. Evans came closer and eyed him steadily. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, calmly.

Mr. Grummit, about to speak, stopped appalled at such hardihood.

“Of course, if you mean to say that you were one o' them burglars,” continued the constable, “why, say it and I'll take you with pleasure. Come to think of it, I did seem to remember one o' their voices.”

Mr. Grummit, with his eyes fixed on the other's, backed a couple of yards and breathed heavily.

“About your height, too, he was,” mused the constable. “I hope for your sake you haven't been saying to anybody else what you said to me just now.”

Mr. Grummit shook his head. “Not a word,” he faltered.

“That's all right, then,” said Mr. Evans. “I shouldn't like to be hard on a neighbour; not that we shall be neighbours much longer.”

Mr. Grummit, feeling that a reply was expected of him, gave utterance to a feeble “Oh!”

“No,” said Mr. Evans, looking round disparagingly. “It ain't good enough for us now; I was promoted to sergeant this morning. A sergeant can't live in a common place like this.”

Mr. Grummit, a prey to a sickening fear, drew near the fence again. “A—a sergeant?” he stammered.

Mr. Evans smiled and gazed carefully at a distant cloud. “For my bravery with them burglars the other night, Grummit,” he said, modestly. “I might have waited years if it hadn't been for them.”

He nodded to the frantic Grummit and turned away; Mr. Grummit, without any adieu at all, turned and crept back to the house.

BOB'S REDEMPTION

GRATITOODE!” said the night-watchman, with a hard laugh. “_Hmf!_ Don't talk to me about gratitoode; I've seen too much of it. If people wot I've helped in my time 'ad only done arf their dooty—arf, mind you—I should be riding in my carriage.”

Forgetful of the limitations of soap-boxes he attempted to illustrate his remark by lolling, and nearly went over backwards. Recovering himself by an effort he gazed sternly across the river and smoked fiercely. It was evident that he was brooding over an ill-used past.

'Arry Thomson was one of them, he said, at last. For over six months I wrote all 'is love-letters for him, 'e being an iggernerant sort of man and only being able to do the kisses at the end, which he always insisted on doing 'imself: being jealous. Only three weeks arter he was married 'e come up to where I was standing one day and set about me without saying a word. I was a single man at the time and I didn't understand it. My idea was that he 'ad gone mad, and, being pretty artful and always 'aving a horror of mad people, I let 'im chase me into a police-station. Leastways, I would ha' let 'im, but he didn't come, and I all but got fourteen days for being drunk and disorderly.