Chapter IV: Part 4

Bob stood treat up at the _Cauliflower_ that night, and said 'ow bad he'd been treated. The tears stood in 'is eyes a'most, and at last 'e said that if 'e thought there was going to be any more fuss of that kind he'd wind up the club.

“It's the best thing you can do,” ses Sam Jones; “I'm not going to belong to it any longer, so I give you notice. If so be as I get shot I want the money for myself.”

“Me, too,” ses Peter Gubbins; “it 'ud fair break my 'art to give Bob Pretty five pounds. I'd sooner give it to my wife.”

All the other chaps said the same thing, but Bob pointed out to them that they 'ad taken their sixpences on'y the night afore, and they must stay in for the week. He said that was the law. Some of 'em talked about giving 'im 'is sixpences back, but Bob said if they did they must pay up all the sixpences they had 'ad for three weeks. The end of it was they said they'd stay in for that week and not a moment longer.

The next day Sam Jones and Peter Gubbins altered their minds. Sam found a couple o' shillings that his wife 'ad hidden in her Sunday bonnet, and Peter Gubbins opened 'is boy's money-box to see 'ow much there was in it. They came up to the _Cauliflower_ to pay Bob their eighteen-pences, but he wasn't there, and when they went to his 'ouse Mrs. Pretty said as 'ow he'd gone off to Wickham and wouldn't be back till Saturday. So they 'ad to spend the money on beer instead.

That was on Tuesday, and things went on all right till Friday, when Mr. Sutton 'ad another shoot. The birds was getting scarce and the gentlemen that anxious to shoot them there was no 'olding them. Once or twice the keepers spoke to 'em about carefulness, and said wot large families they'd got, but it wasn't much good. They went on blazing away, and just at the corner of the wood Sam Jones and Peter Gubbins was both hit; Sam in the leg and Peter in the arm.

The noise that was made was awful—everybody shouting that they 'adn't done it, and all speaking at once, and Mr. Sutton was dancing about a'most beside 'imself with rage. Pore Sam and Peter was 'elped along by the others; Sam being carried and Peter led, and both of 'em with the idea of getting all they could out of it, making such 'orrible noises that Mr. Sutton couldn't hear 'imself calling his friends names.

“There seems to be wounded men calling out all over the place,” he ses, in a temper.

“I think there _is_ another one over there, sir,” ses one o' the keepers, pointing.

Sam Jones and Peter Gubbins both left off to listen, and then they all heard it distinctly. A dreadful noise it was, and when Mr. Sutton and one or two more follered it up they found poor Walter Bell lying on 'is face in a bramble.

“Wot's the matter?” ses Mr. Sutton, shouting at 'im.

“I've been shot from behind,” ses Walter. “I'd got something in my boot, and I was just stooping down to fasten it up agin when I got it.

“But there oughtn't to be anybody 'ere,” ses Mr. Sutton to one of the keepers.

“They get all over the place, sir,” ses the keeper, scratching his 'ead. “I fancied I 'eard a gun go off here a minute or two arter the others was shot.”

“I believe he's done it 'imself,” says Mr. Sutton, stamping his foot.

“I don't see 'ow he could, sir,” ses the keeper, touching his cap and looking at Walter as was still lying with 'is face on 'is arms.

They carried Walter 'ome that way on a hurdle, and Dr. Green spent all the rest o' that day picking shots out o' them three men and telling 'em to keep still. He 'ad to do Sam Jones by candle-light, with Mrs. Jones 'olding the candle with one hand and crying with the other. Twice the doctor told her to keep it steady, and poor Sam 'ad only just passed the remark, “How 'ot it was for October,” when they discovered that the bed was on fire. The doctor said that Sam was no trouble. He got off of the bed by 'imself, and, when it was all over and the fire put out, the doctor found him sitting on the stairs with the leg of a broken chair in 'is hand calling for 'is wife.

Of course, there was a terrible to-do about it in Claybury, and up at the Hall, too. All of the gentlemen said as 'ow they hadn't done it, and Mr. Sutton was arf crazy with rage. He said that they 'ad made 'im the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood, and that they oughtn't to shoot with anything but pop-guns. They got to such high words over it that two of the gentlemen went off 'ome that very night.

There was a lot of talk up at the _Cauliflower_, too, and more than one pointed out 'ow lucky Bob Pretty was in getting four men out of the six in his club. As I said afore, Bob was away at the time, but he came back the next night and we 'ad the biggest row here you could wish for to see.

Henery Walker began it. “I s'pose you've 'eard the dreadful news, Bob Pretty?” he ses, looking at 'im.

“I 'ave,” ses Bob; “and my 'art bled for 'em. I told you wot those gentlemen was like, didn't I? But none of you would believe me. Now you can see as I was right.”

“It's very strange,” ses Henery Walker, looking round; “it's very strange that all of us wot's been shot belonged to Bob Pretty's precious club.”

“It's my luck, Henery,” ses Bob, “always was lucky from a child.”

“And I s'pose you think you're going to 'ave arf of the money they get?” ses Henery Walker.

“Don't talk about money while them pore chaps is suffering,” ses Bob. “I'm surprised at you, Henery.”

“You won't 'ave a farthing of it,” ses Henery Walker; “and wot's more, Bob Pretty, I'm going to 'ave my five pounds back.”

“Don't you believe it, Henery,” ses Bob, smiling at 'im.

“I'm going to 'ave my five pounds back,” ses Henery, “_and you know why_. I know wot your club was for now, and we was all a pack o' silly fools not to see it afore.”

“Speak for yourself, Henery,” ses John Biggs, who thought Henery was looking at 'im.

“I've been putting two and two together,” ses Henery, looking round, “and it's as plain as the nose on your face. Bob Pretty hid up in the wood and shot us all himself!”

For a moment you might 'ave heard a pin drop, and then there was such a noise nobody could hear theirselves speak. Everybody was shouting his 'ardest, and the on'y quiet one there was Bob Pretty 'imself.

“Poor Henery; he's gorn mad,” he ses, shaking his 'ead.

“You're a murderer,” ses Ralph Thomson, shaking 'is fist at him.

“Henery Walker's gorn mad,” ses Bob agin. “Why, I ain't been near the place. There's a dozen men'll swear that I was at Wickham each time these misfortunate accidents 'appened.”

“Men like you, they'd swear anything for a pot o' beer,” ses Henery. “But I'm not going to waste time talking to you, Bob Pretty. I'm going straight off to tell Mr. Sutton.”

“I shouldn't do that if I was you, Henery,” ses Bob.

“I dessay,” ses Henery Walker; “but then you see I am.”

“I thought you'd gorn mad, Henery,” ses Bob, taking a drink o' beer that somebody 'ad left on the table by mistake, “and now I'm sure of it. Why, if you tell Mr. Sutton that it wasn't his friends that shot them pore fellers he won't pay them anything. 'Tain't likely 'e would, is it?”

Henery Walker, wot 'ad been standing up looking fierce at 'im, sat down agin, struck all of a heap.

“And he might want your ten pounds back, Henery,” said Bob in a soft voice. “And seeing as 'ow you was kind enough to give five to me, and spent most of the other, it 'ud come 'ard on you, wouldn't it? Always think afore you speak, Henery. I always do.”

Henery Walker got up and tried to speak, but 'e couldn't, and he didn't get 'is breath back till Bob said it was plain to see that he 'adn't got a word to say for 'imself. Then he shook 'is fist at Bob and called 'im a low, thieving, poaching murderer.

“You're not yourself, Henery,” ses Bob. “When you come round you'll be sorry for trying to take away the character of a pore labourin' man with a ailing wife and a large family. But if you take my advice you won't say anything more about your wicked ideas; if you do, these pore fellers won't get a farthing. And you'd better keep quiet about the club mates for their sakes. Other people might get the same crazy ideas in their silly 'eads as Henery. Keepers especially.”

That was on'y common sense; but, as John Biggs said, it did seem 'ard to think as 'ow Bob Pretty should be allowed to get off scot-free, and with Henery Walker's five pounds too. “There's one thing,” he ses to Bob; “you won't 'ave any of these other pore chaps' money; and, if they're men, they ought to make it up to Henery Walker for the money he 'as saved 'em by finding you out.”

“They've got to pay me fust,” ses Bob. “I'm a pore man, but I'll stick up for my rights. As for me shooting 'em, they'd ha' been 'urt a good deal more if I'd done it—especially Mr. Henery Walker. Why, they're hardly 'urt at all.”

“Don't answer 'im, Henery,” ses John Biggs. “You save your breath to go and tell Sam Jones and the others about it. It'll cheer 'em up.”

“And tell 'em about my arf, in case they get too cheerful and go overdoing it,” ses Bob Pretty, stopping at the door. “Good-night all.”

Nobody answered 'im; and arter waiting a little bit Henery Walker set off to see Sam Jones and the others. John Biggs was quite right about its making 'em cheerful, but they see as plain as Bob 'imself that it 'ad got to be kept quiet. “Till we've spent the money, at any rate,” ses Walter Bell; “then p'r'aps Mr. Sutton might get Bob locked up for it.”

Mr. Sutton went down to see 'em all a day or two afterwards. The shooting-party was broken up and gone 'ome, but they left some money behind 'em. Ten pounds each they was to 'ave, same as the others, but Mr. Sutton said that he 'ad heard 'ow the other money was wasted at the _Cauliflower_, and 'e was going to give it out to 'em ten shillings a week until the money was gorn. He 'ad to say it over and over agin afore they understood 'im, and Walter Bell 'ad to stuff the bedclo'es in 'is mouth to keep civil.

Peter Gubbins, with 'is arm tied up in a sling, was the fust one to turn up at the _Cauliflower_, and he was that down-'arted about it we couldn't do nothing with 'im. He 'ad expected to be able to pull out ten golden sovereigns, and the disapp'intment was too much for 'im.

“I wonder 'ow they heard about it,” ses Dicky Weed.

“I can tell you,” ses Bob Pretty, wot 'ad been sitting up in a corner by himself, nodding and smiling at Peter, wot wouldn't look at 'im. “A friend o' mine at Wickham wrote to him about it. He was so disgusted at the way Bill Chambers and Henery Walker come up 'ere wasting their 'ard-earned money, that he sent 'im a letter, signed 'A Friend of the Working Man,' telling 'im about it and advising 'im what to do.”

“A friend o' yours?” ses John Biggs, staring at 'im. “What for?”

“I don't know,” ses Bob; “he's a wunnerful good scholard, and he likes writin' letters. He's going to write another to-morrer, unless I go over and stop 'im.”

“Another?” ses Peter, who 'ad been tellin' everybody that 'e wouldn't speak to 'im agin as long as he lived. “Wot about?”

“About the idea that I shot you all,” ses Bob. “I want my character cleared. O' course, they can't prove anything against me—I've got my witnesses. But, taking one thing with another, I see now that it does look suspicious, and I don't suppose any of you'll get any more of your money. Mr. Sutton is so sick o' being laughed at, he'll jump at anything.”

“You dursn't do it, Bob,” ses Peter, all of a tremble.

“It ain't me, Peter, old pal,” ses Bob, “it's my friend. But I don't mind stopping 'im for the sake of old times if I get my arf. He'd listen to me, I feel sure.”

At fust Peter said he wouldn't get a farthing out of 'im if his friend wrote letters till Doomsday; but by-and-by he thought better of it, and asked Bob to stay there while he went down to see Sam and Walter about it. When 'e came back he'd got the fust week's money for Bob Pretty; but he said he left Walter Bell carrying on like a madman, and, as for Sam Jones, he was that upset 'e didn't believe he'd last out the night.

THE TEMPTATION OF SAMUEL BURGE

Mr. Higgs, jeweller, sat in the small parlour behind his shop, gazing hungrily at a supper-table which had been laid some time before. It was a quarter to ten by the small town clock on the mantelpiece, and the jeweller rubbing his hands over the fire tried in vain to remember what etiquette had to say about starting a meal before the arrival of an expected guest.

“He must be coming by the last train after all, sir,” said the housekeeper entering the room and glancing at the clock. “I suppose these London gentlemen keep such late hours they don't understand us country folk wanting to get to bed in decent time. You must be wanting your supper, sir.”

Mr. Higgs sighed. “I shall be glad of my supper,” he said slowly, “but I dare say our friend is hungrier still. Travelling is hungry work.”

“Perhaps he is thinking over his words for the seventh day,” said the housekeeper solemnly. “Forgetting hunger and thirst and all our poor earthly feelings in the blessedness of his work.”

“Perhaps so,” assented the other, whose own earthly feelings were particularly strong just at that moment.

“Brother Simpson used to forget all about meal-times when he stayed here,” said the housekeeper, clasping her hands. “He used to sit by the window with his eyes half-closed and shake his head at the smell from the kitchen and call it flesh-pots of Egypt. He said that if it wasn't for keeping up his strength for the work, luscious bread and fair water was all he wanted. I expect Brother Burge will be a similar sort of man.”

“Brother Clark wrote and told me that he only lives for the work,” said the jeweller, with another glance at the clock. “The chapel at Clerkenwell is crowded to hear him. It's a blessed favour and privilege to have such a selected instrument staying in the house. I'm curious to see him; from what Brother Clark said I rather fancy that he was a little bit wild in his younger days.”

“Hallelujah!” exclaimed the housekeeper with fervour. “I mean to think as he's seen the error of his ways,” she added sharply, as her master looked up.

“There he is,” said the latter, as the bell rang.

The housekeeper went to the side-door, and drawing back the bolt admitted the gentleman whose preaching had done so much for the small but select sect known as the Seventh Day Primitive Apostles. She came back into the room followed by a tall stout man, whose upper lip and short stubby beard streaked with grey seemed a poor match for the beady eyes which lurked behind a pair of clumsy spectacles.

“Brother Samuel Burge?” inquired the jeweller, rising.

The visitor nodded, and regarding him with a smile charged with fraternal love, took his hand in a huge grip and shook it fervently.

“I am glad to see you, Brother Higgs,” he said, regarding him fondly. “Oh, 'ow my eyes have yearned to be set upon you! Oh, 'ow my ears 'ave longed to hearken unto the words of your voice!”

He breathed thickly, and taking a seat sat with his hands upon his knees, looking at a fine piece of cold beef which the housekeeper had just placed upon the table.

“Is Brother Clark well?” inquired the jeweller, placing a chair for him at the table and taking up his carving-knife.

“Dear Brother Clark is in excellent 'ealth, I thank you,” said the other, taking the proffered chair. “Oh! what a man he is; what a instrument for good. Always stretching out them blessed hands of 'is to make one of the fallen a Seventh Day Primitive.”

“And success attends his efforts?” said the jeweller.

“Success, Brother!” repeated Mr. Burge, eating rapidly and gesticulating with his knife. “Success ain't no name for it. Why, since this day last week he has saved three pick-pockets, two Salvationists, one bigamist and a Roman Catholic.”

Brother Higgs murmured his admiration. “You are also a power for good,” he said wistfully. “Brother Clark tells me in his letter that your exhortations have been abundantly blessed.”

Mr. Burge shook his head. “A lot of it falls by the wayside,” he said modestly, “but some of it is an eye-opener to them as don't entirely shut their ears. Only the day before yesterday I 'ad two jemmies and a dark lantern sent me with a letter saying as 'ow the owner had no further use for 'em.”

The jeweller's eyes glistened with admiration not quite untinged with envy. “Have you expounded the Word for long?” he inquired.

“Six months,” replied the other. “It come to me quite natural—I was on the penitent bench on the Saturday, and the Wednesday afterwards I preached as good a sermon as ever I've preached in my life. Brother Clark said it took 'is breath away.”

“And he's a judge too,” said the admiring jeweller.

“Now,” continued Brother Burge, helping himself plentifully to pickled walnuts. “Now there ain't standing room in our Bethel when I'm expounding. People come to hear me from all parts—old and young—rich and poor—and the Apostles that don't come early 'ave to stand outside and catch the crumbs I throw 'em through the winders.”

“It is enough,” sighed Brother Higgs, whose own audience was frequently content to be on the wrong side of the window, “it is enough to make a man vain.”

“I struggle against it, Brother,” said Mr. Burge, passing his cup up for some more tea. “I fight against it hard, but once the Evil One was almost too much for me; and in spite of myself, and knowing besides that it was a plot of 'is, I nearly felt uplifted.”

Brother Higgs, passing him some more beef, pressed for details.

“He sent me two policemen,” replied the other, scowling darkly at the meanness of the trick. “One I might 'ave stood, but two come to being pretty near too much for me. They sat under me while I gave 'em the Word 'ot and strong, and the feeling I had standing up there and telling policemen what they ought to do I shall never forget.”

“But why should policemen make you proud?” asked his puzzled listener.

Mr. Burge looked puzzled in his turn. “Why, hasn't Brother Clark told you about me?” he inquired.

Mr. Higgs shook his head. “He sort of—suggested that—that you had been a little bit wild before you came to us,” he murmured apologetically.

“A—little—bit—wild?” repeated Brother Burge, in horrified accents. “+Me+? a little bit _wild_?”

“No doubt he exaggerated a little,” said the jeweller hurriedly. “Being such a good man himself, no doubt things would seem wild to him that wouldn't to us—to me, I mean.”

“A little bit wild,” said his visitor again. “Sam Burge, the Converted Burglar, a little bit _wild_. Well, well!”

“Converted _what_?” shouted the jeweller, half-rising from his chair.

“Burglar,” said the other shortly. “Why, I should think I know more about the inside o' gaols than anybody in England; I've pretty near killed three policemen, besides breaking a gent's leg and throwing a footman out of window, and then Brother Clark goes and says I've been a little bit wild. I wonder what he would 'ave?”

“But you—you've quite reformed now?” said the jeweller, resuming his seat and making a great effort to hide his consternation.

“I 'ope so,” said Mr. Burge, with alarming humility; “but it's an uncertain world, and far be it from me to boast. That's why I've come here.”

Mr. Higgs, only half-comprehending, sat back gasping.

“If I can stand this,” pursued Brother Burge, gesticulating wildly in the direction of the shop, “if I can stand being here with all these 'ere pretty little things to be 'ad for the trouble of picking of 'em up, I can stand anything. Tempt me, I says to Brother Clark. Put me in the way o' temptation, I says. Let me see whether the Evil One or me is the strongest; let me 'ave a good old up and down with the Powers o' Darkness, and see who wins.”

Mr. Higgs, gripping the edge of the table with both hands, gazed at this new Michael in speechless consternation.

“I think I see his face now,” said Brother Burge, with tender enthusiasm. “All in a glow it was, and he patted me on the shoulder and says, 'I'll send you on a week's mission to Duncombe,' he says, and 'you shall stop with Brother Higgs who 'as a shop full o' cunning wrought vanities in silver and gold.'”

“But suppose,” said the jeweller, finding his voice by a great effort, “suppose victory is not given unto you.”

“It won't make any difference,” replied his visitor. “Brother Clark promised that it shouldn't. 'If you fall, Brother,' he says, 'we'll help you up again. When you are tired of sin come back to us—there's always a welcome.'”

“But—” began the dismayed jeweller.

“We can only do our best,” said Brother Burge, “the rest we must leave. I 'ave girded my loins for the fray, and taken much spiritual sustenance on the way down from this little hymn-book.”

Mr. Higgs paid no heed. He sat marvelling over the fatuousness of Brother Clark and trying to think of ways and means out of the dilemma into which that gentleman's perverted enthusiasm had placed him. He wondered whether it would be possible to induce Brother Burge to sleep elsewhere by offering to bear his hotel expenses, and at last, after some hesitation, broached the subject.

“What!” exclaimed the other, pushing his plate from him and regarding him with great severity. “Go and sleep at a hotel? After Brother Clark has been and took all this trouble? Why, I wouldn't think of doing such a thing.”

“Brother Clark has no right to expose you to such a trial,” said Mr. Higgs with great warmth.

“I wonder what he'd say if he 'eard you,” remarked Mr. Burge sternly. “After his going and making all these arrangements, for you to try and go and upset 'em. To ask _me_ to shun the fight like a coward; to ask me to go and hide in the rear-ranks in a hotel with everything locked up, or a coffee pallis with nothing to steal.”

“I should sleep far more comfortably if I knew that you were not undergoing this tremendous strain,” said the unhappy Mr. Higgs, “and besides that, if you did give way, it would be a serious business for me—that's what I want you to look at. I am afraid that if—if unhappily you did fall, I couldn't prevent you.”

“I'm sure you couldn't,” said the other cordially. “That's the beauty of it; that's when the Evil One's whispers get louder and louder. Why, I could choke you between my finger and thumb. If unfortunately my fallen nature should be too strong for me, don't interfere whatever you do. I mightn't be myself.”

Mr. Higgs rose and faced him gasping.

“Not even—call for—the police—I suppose,” he jerked out.

“That would be interfering,” said Brother Burge coldly.

The jeweller tried to think. It was past eleven. The housekeeper had gone to spend the night with an ailing sister, and a furtive glance at Brother Burge's small shifty eyes and fat unwholesome face was sufficient to deter him from leaving him alone with his property, while he went to ask the police to give an eye to his house for the night. Besides, it was more than probable that Mr. Burge would decline to allow such a proceeding. With a growing sense of his peril he resolved to try flattery.

“It was a great thing for the Brethren to secure a man like you,” he said.

“I never thought they'd ha' done it,” said Mr. Burge frankly. “I've 'ad all sorts trying to convert me; crying over me and praying over me. I remember the first dear good man that called me a lorst lamb. He didn't say anything else for a month.”

“So upset,” hazarded the jeweller.

“I broke his jor, pore feller,” said Brother Burge, a sad but withal indulgent smile lighting up his face at the vagaries of his former career. “What time do you go to bed, Brother?”

“Any time,” said the other reluctantly. “I suppose you are tired with your journey?”

Mr. Burge assented, and rising from his chair yawned loudly and stretched himself. In the small room with his huge arms raised he looked colossal.

“I suppose,” said the jeweller, still seeking to re-assure himself, “I suppose dear Brother Clark felt pretty certain of you, else he wouldn't have sent you here?”

“Brother Clark said 'What is a jeweller's shop compared with a 'uman soul, a priceless 'uman soul?'” replied Mr. Burge. “What is a few gew-gaws to decorate them that perish, and make them vain, when you come to consider the opportunity of such a trial, and the good it'll do and the draw it'll be—if I do win—and testify to the congregation to that effect? Why, there's sermons for a lifetime in it.”

“So there is,” said the jeweller, trying to look cheerful. “You've got a good face, Brother Burge, and you'll do a lot of good by your preaching. There is honesty written in every feature.”

Mr. Burge turned and surveyed himself in the small pier-glass. “Yes,” he said, somewhat discontentedly, “I don't look enough like a burglar to suit some of 'em.”

“Some people are hard to please,” said the other warmly.

Mr. Burge started and eyed him thoughtfully, and then as Mr. Higgs after some hesitation walked into the shop to turn the gas out, stood in the doorway watching him. A smothered sigh as he glanced round the shop bore witness to the state of his feelings.

The jeweller hesitated again in the parlour, and then handing Brother Burge his candle turned out the gas, and led the way slowly upstairs to the room which had been prepared for the honoured visitor. He shook hands at the door and bade him an effusive good-night, his voice trembling despite himself as he expressed a hope that Mr. Burge would sleep well. He added casually that he himself was a very light sleeper.

To-night sleep of any kind was impossible. He had given up the front room to his guest, and his own window looked out on an overgrown garden. He sat trying to read, with his ears alert for the slightest sound. Brother Burge seemed to be a long time undressing. For half an hour after he had retired he could hear him moving restlessly about his room.

Twelve o'clock struck from the tower of the parish church, and was followed almost directly by the tall clock standing in the hall downstairs. Scarcely had the sounds died away than a low moaning from the next room caused the affrighted jeweller to start from his chair and place his ear against the wall. Two or three hollow groans came through the plaster, followed by ejaculations which showed clearly that Brother Burge was at that moment engaged in a terrified combat with the Powers of Darkness to decide whether he should, or should not, rifle his host's shop. His hands clenched and his ear pressed close to the wall, the jeweller listened to a monologue which increased in interest with every word.

“I tell you I won't,” said the voice in the next room with a groan, “I _won't_. Get thee behind me—Get thee—No, and don't shove me over to the door; if you can't get behind me without doing that, stay where you are. Yes, I know it's a fortune as well as what you do; but it ain't _mine_.”

The listener caught his breath painfully.

“Diamond rings,” continued Brother Burge in a suffocating voice. “Stop it, I tell you. No, I won't just go and look at 'em.”

A series of groans which the jeweller noticed to his horror got weaker and weaker testified to the greatness of the temptation. He heard Brother Burge rise, and then a succession of panting snarls seemed to indicate a fierce bodily encounter.

“I don't—want to look at 'em,” said Brother Burge in an exhausted voice. “What's—the good of—_looking_ at 'em? It's like you, you know diamonds are my weakness. What does it matter if he is asleep? What's my knife got to do with you?”

Brother Higgs reeled back and a mist passed before his eyes. He came to himself at the sound of a door opening, and impelled with a vague idea of defending his property, snatched up his candle and looked out on to the landing.

The light fell on Brother Burge, fully dressed and holding his boots in his hand. For a moment they gazed at each other in silence; then the jeweller found his voice.

“I thought you were ill, Brother,” he faltered.

An ugly scowl lit up the other's features. “Don't you tell me any of your lies,” he said fiercely. “You're watching me; that's what you're doing. Spying on me.”

“I thought that you were being tempted,” confessed the trembling Mr. Higgs.

An expression of satisfaction which he strove to suppress appeared on Mr. Burge's face.

“So I was,” he said sternly. “So I was; but that's my business. I don't want your assistance; I can fight my own battles. You go to bed—I'm going to tell the congregation I won the fight single-'anded.”

“So you have, Brother,” said the other eagerly; “but it's doing me good to see it. It's a lesson to me; a lesson to all of us the way you wrestled.”

“I thought you was asleep,” growled Brother Burge, turning back to his room and speaking over his shoulder. “You get back to bed; the fight ain't half over yet. Get back to bed and keep quiet.”

The door closed behind him, and Mr. Higgs, still trembling, regained his room and looked in agony at the clock. It was only half-past twelve and the sun did not rise until six. He sat and shivered until a second instalment of groans in the next room brought him in desperation to his feet.

Brother Burge was in the toils again, and the jeweller despite his fears could not help realizing what a sensation the story of his temptation would create. Brother Burge was now going round and round his room like an animal in a cage, and sounds as of a soul wrought almost beyond endurance smote upon the listener's quivering ear. Then there was a long silence more alarming even than the noise of the conflict. Had Brother Burge won, and was he now sleeping the sleep of the righteous, or——Mr. Higgs shivered and put his other ear to the wall. Then he heard his guest move stealthily across the floor; the boards creaked and the handle of the door turned.

Mr. Higgs started, and with a sudden flash of courage born of anger and desperation seized a small brass poker from the fire-place, and taking the candle in his other hand went out on to the landing again. Brother Burge was closing his door softly, and his face when he turned it upon the jeweller was terrible in its wrath. His small eyes snapped with fury, and his huge hands opened and shut convulsively.

“What, agin!” he said in a low growl. “After all I told you!”

Mr. Higgs backed slowly as he advanced.

“No noise,” said Mr. Burge in a dreadful whisper. “One scream and I'll——_What were you going to do with that poker?_”

He took a stealthy step forward.

“I—I,” began the jeweller. His voice failed him. “Burglars,” he mouthed, “downstairs.”

“_What?_” said the other, pausing.

Mr. Higgs threw truth to the winds. “I heard them in the shop,” he said, recovering, “that's why I took up the poker. Can't you hear them?”

Mr. Burge listened for the fraction of a second. “Nonsense,” he said huskily.

“I heard them talking,” said the other recklessly. “Let's go down and call the police.”

“Call 'em from the winder,” said Brother Burge, backing with some haste, “they might 'ave pistols or something, and they're ugly customers when they're disturbed.”

He stood with strained face listening.

“Here they come,” whispered the jeweller with a sudden movement of alarm.

Brother Burge turned, and bolting into his room clapped the door to and locked it. The jeweller stood dumbfounded on the landing; then he heard the window go up and the voice of Brother Burge, much strengthened by the religious exercises of the past six months, bellowing lustily for the police.

For a few seconds Mr. Higgs stood listening and wondering what explanation he should give. Still thinking, he ran downstairs, and, throwing open the pantry window, unlocked the door leading into the shop and scattered a few of his cherished possessions about the floor. By the time he had done this, people were already beating upon the street-door and exchanging hurried remarks with Mr. Burge at the window above. The jeweller shot back the bolts, and half-a-dozen neighbours, headed by the butcher opposite, clad in his nightgown and armed with a cleaver, burst into the passage. A constable came running up just as the pallid face of Brother Burge peered over the balusters. The constable went upstairs three at a time, and twisting his hand in the ex-burglar's neck-cloth bore him backwards.

“I've got one,” he shouted. “Come up and hold him while I look round.”

The butcher was beside him in a moment; Brother Burge struggling wildly, called loudly upon the name of Brother Higgs.

“That's all right, constable,” said the latter, “that's a friend of mine.”

“Friend o' yours, sir?” said the disappointed officer, still holding him.

The jeweller nodded. “Mr. Samuel Burge the Converted Burglar,” he said mechanically.

“Conver——” gasped the astonished constable. “Converted burglar? Here!”

“He is a preacher now,” added Mr. Higgs.

“Preacher?” retorted the constable. “Why it's as plain as a pikestaff. Confederates: his part was to go down and let 'em in.”

Mr. Burge raised a piteous outcry. “I hope you may be forgiven for them words,” he cried piously.

“What time did you go up to bed?” pursued the constable.

“About half-past eleven,” replied Mr. Higgs.

The other grunted with satisfaction. “And he's fully dressed, with his boots off,” he remarked. “Did you hear him go out of his room at all?”

“He did go out,” said the jeweller truthfully, “but——”

“I thought so,” said the constable, turning to his prisoner with affectionate solicitude. “Now you come along o' me. Come quietly, because it'll be the best for you in the end.”

“You won't get your skull split open then,” added the butcher, toying with his cleaver.

The jeweller hesitated. He had no desire to be left alone with Mr. Burge again; and a sense of humour, which many years' association with the Primitive Apostles had not quite eradicated, strove for hearing.

“Think of the sermon it'll make,” he said encouragingly to the frantic Mr. Burge, “think of the congregation!”

Brother Burge replied in language which he had not used in public since he had joined the Apostles. The butcher and another man stood guard over him while the constable searched the premises and made all secure again. Then with a final appeal to Mr. Higgs who was keeping in the background, he was piloted to the police-station by the energetic constable and five zealous assistants.

A diffidence, natural in the circumstances, prevented him from narrating the story of his temptation to the magistrates next morning, and Mr. Higgs was equally reticent. He was put back while the police communicated with London, and in the meantime Brother Clark and a band of Apostles flocked down to his support.

On his second appearance before the magistrates he was confronted with his past; and his past to the great astonishment of the Brethren being free from all blemish with the solitary exception of fourteen days for stealing milk-cans, he was discharged with a caution. The disillusioned Primitive Apostles also gave him his freedom.

THE MADNESS OF MR. LISTER

Old Jem Lister, of the _Susannah_, was possessed of two devils—the love of strong drink and avarice—and the only thing the twain had in common was to get a drink without paying for it. When Mr. Lister paid for a drink, the demon of avarice masquerading as conscience preached a teetotal lecture, and when he showed signs of profiting by it, the demon of drink would send him hanging round public-house doors cadging for drinks in a way which his shipmates regarded as a slur upon the entire ship's company. Many a healthy thirst reared on salt beef and tickled with strong tobacco had been spoiled by the sight of Mr. Lister standing by the entrance, with a propitiatory smile, waiting to be invited in to share it, and on one occasion they had even seen him (him, Jem Lister, A.B.) holding a horse's head, with ulterior motives.

It was pointed out to Mr. Lister at last that his conduct was reflecting discredit upon men who were fully able to look after themselves in that direction, without having any additional burden thrust upon them. Bill Henshaw was the spokesman, and on the score of violence (miscalled firmness) his remarks left little to be desired. On the score of profanity, Bill might recall with pride that in the opinion of his fellows he had left nothing unsaid.

“You ought to ha' been a member o' Parliament, Bill,” said Harry Lea, when he had finished.

“It wants money,” said Henshaw, shaking his head.

Mr. Lister laughed, a senile laugh, but not lacking in venom.

“That's what we've got to say,” said Henshaw, turning upon him suddenly. “If there's anything I hate in this world, it's a drinking miser. You know our opinion, and the best thing you can do is to turn over a new leaf now.”

“Take us all in to the _Goat and Compasses_,” urged Lea; “bring out some o' those sovrins you've been hoarding.”

Mr. Lister gazed at him with frigid scorn, and finding that the conversation still seemed to centre round his unworthy person, went up on deck and sat glowering over the insults which had been heaped upon him. His futile wrath when Bill dogged his footsteps ashore next day and revealed his character to a bibulous individual whom he had almost persuaded to be a Christian—from his point of view—bordered upon the maudlin, and he wandered back to the ship, wild-eyed and dry of throat.

For the next two months it was safe to say that every drink he had he paid for. His eyes got brighter and his complexion clearer, nor was he as pleased as one of the other sex might have been when the self-satisfied Henshaw pointed out these improvements to his companions, and claimed entire responsibility for them. It is probable that Mr. Lister, under these circumstances, might in time have lived down his taste for strong drink, but that at just that time they shipped a new cook.

He was a big, cadaverous young fellow, who looked too closely after his own interests to be much of a favourite with the other men forward. On the score of thrift, it was soon discovered that he and Mr. Lister had much in common, and the latter, pleased to find a congenial spirit, was disposed to make the most of him, and spent, despite the heat, much of his spare time in the galley.

“You keep to it,” said the greybeard impressively; “money was made to be took care of; if you don't spend your money you've always got it. I've always been a saving man—what's the result?”

The cook, waiting some time in patience to be told, gently inquired what it was.

“'Ere am I,” said Mr. Lister, good-naturedly helping him to cut a cabbage, “at the age of sixty-two with a bank-book down below in my chest, with one hundered an' ninety pounds odd in it.”

“One 'undered and ninety pounds!” repeated the cook, with awe.

“To say nothing of other things,” continued Mr. Lister, with joyful appreciation of the effect he was producing. “Altogether I've got a little over four 'undered pounds.”

The cook gasped, and with gentle firmness took the cabbage from him as being unfit work for a man of such wealth.

“It's very nice,” he said, slowly. “It's very nice. You'll be able to live on it in your old age.”

Mr. Lister shook his head mournfully, and his eyes became humid.

“There's no old age for me,” he said, sadly; “but you needn't tell them,” and he jerked his thumb towards the forecastle.

“No, no,” said the cook.

“I've never been one to talk over my affairs,” said Mr. Lister, in a low voice. “I've never yet took fancy enough to anybody so to do. No, my lad, I'm saving up for somebody else.”

“What are you going to live on when you're past work then?” demanded the other.

Mr. Lister took him gently by the sleeve, and his voice sank with the solemnity of his subject: “I'm not going to have no old age,” he said, resignedly.

“Not going to live!” repeated the cook, gazing uneasily at a knife by his side. “How do you know?”

“I went to a orsepittle in London,” said Mr. Lister. “I've been to two or three altogether, while the money I've spent on doctors is more than I like to think of, and they're all surprised to think that I've lived so long. I'm so chock-full o' complaints, that they tell me I can't live more than two years, and I might go off at any moment.”

“Well, you've got money,” said the cook, “why don't you knock off work now and spend the evenin' of your life ashore? Why should you save up for your relatives?”

“I've got no relatives,” said Mr. Lister; “I'm all alone. I s'pose I shall leave my money to some nice young feller, and I hope it'll do 'im good.”

With the dazzling thoughts which flashed through the cook's brain the cabbage dropped violently into the saucepan, and a shower of cooling drops fell on both men.

“I s'pose you take medicine?” he said, at length.

“A little rum,” said Mr. Lister, faintly; “the doctors tell me that it is the only thing that keeps me up—o' course, the chaps down there “—he indicated the forecastle again with a jerk of his head—“accuse me o' taking too much.”

“What do ye take any notice of 'em for?” inquired the other, indignantly.

“I s'pose it is foolish,” admitted Mr. Lister; “but I don't like being misunderstood. I keep my troubles to myself as a rule, cook. I don't know what's made me talk to you like this. I 'eard the other day you was keeping company with a young woman.”

“Well, I won't say as I ain't,” replied the other, busying himself over the fire.

“An' the best thing, too, my lad,” said the old man, warmly. “It keeps you stiddy, keeps you out of public-'ouses; not as they ain't good in moderation—I 'ope you'll be 'appy.”

The cook thanked him, and noticed that Mr. Lister was fidgeting with a piece of paper.

“A little something I wrote the other day,” said the old man, catching his eye. “If I let you see it, will you promise not to tell a soul about it, and not to give me no thanks?”

The wondering cook promised, and, the old man being somewhat emphatic on the subject, backed his promise with a home made affidavit of singular power and profanity.

“Here it is, then,” said Mr. Lister.

The cook took the paper, and as he read the letters danced before him. He blinked his eyes and started again, slowly. In plain black and white and nondescript-coloured finger-marks, Mr. Lister, after a general statement as to his bodily and mental health, left the whole of his estate to the cook. The will was properly dated and witnessed, and the cook's voice shook with excitement and emotion as he offered to hand it back.

“I don't know what I've done for you to do this,” he said.

Mr. Lister waved it away again. “Keep it,” he said, simply; “while you've got it on you, you'll know it's safe.”

From this moment a friendship sprang up between the two men which puzzled the remainder of the crew not a little. The attitude of the cook was as that of a son to a father: the benignancy of Mr. Lister beautiful to behold. It was noticed, too, that he had abandoned the reprehensible practice of hanging round tavern doors in favour of going inside and drinking the cook's health.

For about six months the cook, although always in somewhat straitened circumstances, was well content with the tacit bargain, and then, bit by bit, the character of Mr. Lister was revealed to him. It was not a nice character, but subtle; and when he made the startling discovery that a will could be rendered invalid by the simple process of making another one the next day, he became as a man possessed. When he ascertained that Mr. Lister when at home had free quarters at the house of a married niece, he used to sit about alone, and try and think of ways and means of securing capital sunk in a concern which seemed to show no signs of being wound-up.

“I've got a touch of the 'art again, lad,” said the elderly invalid, as they sat alone in the forecastle one night at Seacole.

“You move about too much,” said the cook. “Why not turn in and rest?”

Mr. Lister, who had not expected this, fidgeted. “I think I'll go ashore a bit and try the air,” he said, suggestively. “I'll just go as far as the _Black Horse_ and back. You won't have me long now, my lad.”

“No, I know,” said the cook; “that's what's worrying me a bit.”

“Don't worry about me,” said the old man, pausing with his hand on the other's shoulder; “I'm not worth it. Don't look so glum, lad.”

“I've got something on my mind, Jem,” said the cook, staring straight in front of him.

“What is it?” inquired Mr. Lister.

“You know what you told me about those pains in your inside?” said the cook, without looking at him.

Jem groaned and felt his side.

“And what you said about its being a relief to die,” continued the other, “only you was afraid to commit suicide?”

“Well?” said Mr. Lister.

“It used to worry me,” continued the cook, earnestly. “I used to say to myself, 'Poor old Jem,' I ses, 'why should 'e suffer like this when he wants to die? It seemed 'ard.'”

“It is 'ard,” said Mr. Lister, “but what about it?”

The other made no reply, but looking at him for the first time, surveyed him with a troubled expression.

“What about it?” repeated Mr. Lister, with some emphasis.

“You did say you wanted to die, didn't you?” said the cook. “Now suppose——suppose——”

“Suppose what?” inquired the old man, sharply. “Why don't you say what you're agoing to say?”

“Suppose,” said the cook, “some one what liked you, Jem—what liked you, mind—'eard you say this over and over again, an' see you sufferin' and 'eard you groanin' and not able to do nothin' for you except lend you a few shillings here and there for medicine, or stand you a few glasses o' rum; suppose they knew a chap in a chemist's shop?”

“Suppose they did?” said the other, turning pale.

“A chap what knows all about p'isons,” continued the cook, “p'isons what a man can take without knowing it in 'is grub. Would it be wrong, do you think, if that friend I was speaking about put it in your food to put you out of your misery?”

“_Wrong_,” said Mr. Lister, with glassy eyes. “_Wrong_. Look 'ere, cook—”

“I don't mean anything to give him pain,” said the other, waving his hand; “you ain't felt no pain lately, 'ave you, Jem?”

“Do you mean to say!” shouted Mr. Lister.

“I don't mean to say anything,” said the cook. “Answer my question. You ain't felt no pain lately, 'ave you?”

“Have—you—been—putting—p'ison—in—my—wittles?” demanded Mr. Lister, in trembling accents.

“If I 'ad, Jem, supposin' that I 'ad,” said the cook, in accents of reproachful surprise, “do you mean to say that you'd mind?”

“MIND,” said Mr. Lister, with fervour. “I'd 'ave you 'ung!”

“But you said you wanted to die,” said the surprised cook.

Mr. Lister swore at him with startling vigour. “I'll 'ave you 'ung,” he repeated, wildly.

“Me,” said the cook, artlessly. “What for?”

“For giving me p'ison,” said Mr. Lister, frantically. “Do you think you can deceive me by your roundabouts? Do you think I can't see through you?”

The other with a sphinx-like smile sat unmoved. “Prove it,” he said, darkly. “But supposin' if anybody _'ad_ been givin' you p'ison, would you like to take something to prevent its acting?”

“I'd take gallons of it,” said Mr. Lister, feverishly.

The other sat pondering, while the old man watched him anxiously. “It's a pity you don't know your own mind, Jem,” he said, at length; “still, you know your own business best. But it's very expensive stuff.”

“How much?” inquired the other.

“Well, they won't sell more than two shillings-worth at a time,” said the cook, trying to speak carelessly, “but if you like to let me 'ave the money, I'll go ashore to the chemist's and get the first lot now.”

Mr. Lister's face was a study in emotions, which the other tried in vain to decipher.

Then he slowly extracted the amount from his trousers-pocket, and handed it over without a word.

“I'll go at once,” said the cook, with a little feeling, “and I'll never take a man at his word again, Jem.”

He ran blithely up on deck, and stepping ashore, spat on the coins for luck and dropped them in his pocket. Down below, Mr. Lister, with his chin in his hand, sat in a state of mind pretty evenly divided between rage and fear.

The cook, who was in no mood for company, missed the rest of the crew by two public-houses, and having purchased a baby's teething powder and removed the label, had a congratulatory drink or two before going on board again. A chatter of voices from the forecastle warned him that the crew had returned, but the tongues ceased abruptly as he descended, and three pairs of eyes surveyed him in grim silence.

“What's up?” he demanded.

“Wot 'ave you been doin' to poor old Jem?” demanded Henshaw, sternly.

“Nothin',” said the other, shortly.

“You ain't been p'isoning 'im?” demanded Henshaw.

“Certainly not,” said the cook, emphatically.

“He ses you told 'im you p'isoned 'im,” said Henshaw, solemnly, “and 'e give you two shillings to get something to cure 'im. It's too late now.”

“What?” stammered the bewildered cook. He looked round anxiously at the men.

They were all very grave, and the silence became oppressive. “Where is he?” he demanded.

Henshaw and the others exchanged glances. “He's gone mad,” said he, slowly.

“Mad?” repeated the horrified cook, and, seeing the aversion of the crew, in a broken voice he narrated the way in which he had been victimized.

“Well, you've done it now,” said Henshaw, when he had finished. “He's gone right orf 'is 'ed.”

“Where is he?” inquired the cook.

“Where you can't follow him,” said the other, slowly.

“Heaven?” hazarded the unfortunate cook.

“No; skipper's bunk,” said Lea.

“Oh, can't I foller 'im?” said the cook, starting up. “I'll soon 'ave 'im out o' that.”

“Better leave 'im alone,” said Henshaw. “He was that wild we couldn't do nothing with 'im, singing an' larfin' and crying all together—I certainly thought he was p'isoned.”

“I'll swear I ain't touched him,” said the cook.