Chapter IV: Part 4

“I’m very well satisfied with this,” said Mr. Barrett. “It’s all I want.”

“It’s well enough,” conceded Mrs. Prentice, amiably. “And how have you been all these years?”

Mr. Barrett, with some haste, replied that his health and spirits had been excellent.

“You look well,” said Mrs. Prentice. “Neither of you seem to have changed much,” she added, looking from him to her daughter. “And I think you did quite well not to write. I think it was much the best.”

Mr. Barrett sought for a question: a natural, artless question, that would neutralize the hideous suggestion conveyed by this remark, but it eluded him. He sat and gazed in growing fear at Mrs. Prentice.

“I—I couldn’t write,” he said at last, in desperation; “my wife——”

“Your what?” exclaimed Mrs. Prentice, loudly.

“Wife,” said Mr. Barrett, suddenly calm now that he had taken the plunge. “She wouldn’t have liked it.”

Mrs. Prentice tried to control her voice. “I never heard you were married!” she gasped. “Why isn’t she here?”

“We couldn’t agree,” said the veracious Mr. Barrett. “She was very difficult; so I left the children with her and——”

“Chil——” said Mrs. Prentice, and paused, unable to complete the word.

“Five,” said Mr. Barrett, in tones of resignation. “It was rather a wrench, parting with them, especially the baby. He got his first tooth the day I left.”

The information fell on deaf ears. Mrs. Prentice, for once in her life thoroughly at a loss, sat trying to collect her scattered faculties. She had come out prepared for a hard job, but not an impossible one. All things considered, she took her defeat with admirable composure.

“I have no doubt it is much the best thing for the children to remain with their mother,” she said, rising.

“Much the best,” agreed Mr. Barrett.

“Whatever she is like,” continued the old lady. “Are you ready, Louisa?”

Mr. Barrett followed them to the door, and then, returning to the room, watched, with glad eyes, their progress up the street.

“Wonder whether she’ll keep it to herself?” he muttered.

His doubts were set at rest next day. All Ramsbury knew by then of his matrimonial complications, and seemed anxious to talk about them; complications which tended to increase until Mr. Barrett wrote out a list of his children’s names and ages and learnt it off by heart.

Relieved of the attentions of the Prentice family, he walked the streets a free man; and it was counted to him for righteousness that he never said a hard word about his wife. She had her faults, he said, but they were many thousand miles away, and he preferred to forget them. And he added, with some truth, that he owed her a good deal.

For a few months he had no reason to alter his opinion. Thanks to his presence of mind, the Prentice family had no terrors for him. Heart-whole and fancy free, he led the easy life of a man of leisure, a condition of things suddenly upset by the arrival of Miss Grace Lindsay to take up a post at the elementary school. Mr. Barrett succumbed almost at once, and, after a few encounters in the street and meetings at mutual friends’, went to unbosom himself to Mr. Jernshaw.

“What has she got to do with you?” demanded that gentleman.

“I—I’m rather struck with her,” said Mr. Barrett.

“Struck with her?” repeated his friend, sharply. “I’m surprised at you. You’ve no business to think of such things.”

“Why not?” demanded Mr. Barrett, in tones that were sharper still.

“Why not?” repeated the other. “Have you forgotten your wife and children?”

Mr. Barrett, who, to do him justice, had forgotten, fell back in his chair and sat gazing at him, open-mouthed.

“You’re in a false position—in a way,” said Mr. Jernshaw, sternly.

“False is no name for it,” said Mr. Barrett, huskily. “What am I to do?”

“Do?” repeated the other, staring at him. “Nothing! Unless, perhaps, you send for your wife and children. I suppose, in any case, you would have to have the little ones if anything happened to her?”

Mr. Barrett grinned ruefully.

“Think it over,” said Mr. Jernshaw.

“I will,” said the other, heartily.

He walked home deep in thought. He was a kindly man, and he spent some time thinking out the easiest death for Mrs. Barrett. He decided at last upon heart-disease, and a fortnight later all Ramsbury knew of the letter from Australia conveying the mournful intelligence. It was generally agreed that the mourning and the general behaviour of the widower left nothing to be desired.

“She’s at peace at last,” he said, solemnly, to Jernshaw.

“I believe you killed her,” said his friend. Mr. Barrett started violently.

“I mean your leaving broke her heart,” explained the other.

Mr. Barrett breathed easily again.

“It’s your duty to look after the children,” said Jernshaw, firmly. “And I’m not the only one that thinks so.”

“They are with their grandfather and grandmother,” said Mr. Barrett.

Mr. Jernshaw sniffed.

“And four uncles and five aunts,” added Mr. Barrett, triumphantly.

“Think how they would brighten up your house,” said Mr. Jernshaw.

His friend shook his head. “It wouldn’t be fair to their grandmother,” he said, decidedly. “Besides, Australia wants population.”

He found to his annoyance that Mr. Jernshaw’s statement that he was not alone in his views was correct. Public opinion seemed to expect the arrival of the children, and one citizen even went so far as to recommend a girl he knew, as nurse.

Ramsbury understood at last that his decision was final, and, observing his attentions to the new schoolmistress, flattered itself that it had discovered the reason. It is possible that Miss Lindsay shared their views, but if so she made no sign, and on the many occasions on which she met Mr. Barrett on her way to and from school greeted him with frank cordiality. Even when he referred to his loneliness, which he did frequently, she made no comment.

He went into half-mourning at the end of two months, and a month later bore no outward signs of his loss. Added to that his step was springy and his manner youthful. Miss Lindsay was twenty-eight, and he persuaded himself that, sexes considered, there was no disparity worth mentioning.

He was only restrained from proposing by a question of etiquette. Even a shilling book on the science failed to state the interval that should elapse between the death of one wife and the negotiations for another. It preferred instead to give minute instructions with regard to the eating of asparagus. In this dilemma he consulted Jernshaw.

“Don’t know, I’m sure,” said that gentleman; “besides, it doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” repeated Mr. Barrett. “Why not?”

“Because I think Tillett is paying her attentions,” was the reply. “He’s ten years younger than you are, and a bachelor. A girl would naturally prefer him to a middle-aged widower with five children.”

“In Australia,” the other reminded him.

“Man for man, bachelor for bachelor,” said Mr. Jernshaw, regarding him, “she might prefer you; as things are—”

“I shall ask her,” said Mr. Barrett, doggedly. “I was going to wait a bit longer, but if there’s any chance of her wrecking her prospects for life by marrying that tailor’s dummy it’s my duty to risk it—for her sake. I’ve seen him talking to her twice myself, but I never thought he’d dream of such a thing.”

Apprehension and indignation kept him awake half the night, but when he arose next morning it was with the firm resolve to put his fortune to the test that day. At four o’clock he changed his neck-tie for the third time, and at ten past sallied out in the direction of the school. He met Miss Lindsay just coming out, and, after a well-deserved compliment to the weather, turned and walked with her.

“I was hoping to meet you,” he said, slowly.

“Yes?” said the girl.

“I—I have been feeling rather lonely to-day,” he continued.

“You often do,” said Miss Lindsay, guardedly.

“It gets worse and worse,” said Mr. Barrett, sadly.

“I think I know what is the matter with you,” said the girl, in a soft voice; “you have got nothing to do all day, and you live alone, except for your housekeeper.”

Mr. Barrett assented with some eagerness, and stole a hopeful glance at her.

“You—you miss something,” continued Miss. Lindsay, in a faltering voice.

“I do,” said Mr. Barrett, with ardour.

“You miss”—the girl made an effort—“you miss the footsteps and voices of your little children.”

Mr. Barrett stopped suddenly in the street, and then, with a jerk, went blindly on.

“I’ve never spoken of it before because it’s your business, not mine,” continued the girl. “I wouldn’t have spoken now, but when you referred to your loneliness I thought perhaps you didn’t realize the cause of it.”

Mr. Barrett walked on in silent misery.

“Poor little motherless things!” said Miss Lindsay, softly. “Motherless and—fatherless.”

“Better for them,” said Mr. Barrett, finding his voice at last.

“It almost looks like it,” said Miss Lindsay, with a sigh.

Mr. Barrett tried to think clearly, but the circumstances were hardly favourable. “Suppose,” he said, speaking very slowly, “suppose I wanted to get married?”

Miss Lindsay started. “What, again?” she said, with an air of surprise.

“How could I ask a girl to come and take over five children?”

“No woman that was worth having would let little children be sacrificed for her sake,” said Miss Lindsay, decidedly.

“Do you think anybody would marry me with five children?” demanded Mr. Barrett.

“She might,” said the girl, edging away from him a little. “It depends on the woman.”

“Would—you, for instance?” said Mr. Barrett, desperately.

Miss Lindsay shrank still farther away. “I don’t know; it would depend upon circumstances,” she murmured.

“I will write and send for them,” said Mr. Barrett, significantly.

Miss Lindsay made no reply. They had arrived at her gate by this time, and, with a hurried handshake, she disappeared indoors.

Mr. Barrett, somewhat troubled in mind, went home to tea.

He resolved, after a little natural hesitation, to drown the children, and reproached himself bitterly for not having disposed of them at the same time as their mother. Now he would have to go through another period of mourning and the consequent delay in pressing his suit. Moreover, he would have to allow a decent interval between his conversation with Miss Lindsay and their untimely end.

The news of the catastrophe arrived two or three days before the return of the girl from her summer holidays. She learnt it in the first half-hour from her landlady, and sat in a dazed condition listening to a description of the grief-stricken father and the sympathy extended to him by his fellow-citizens. It appeared that nothing had passed his lips for two days.

“Shocking!” said Miss Lindsay, briefly. “Shocking!”

An instinctive feeling that the right and proper thing to do was to nurse his grief in solitude kept Mr. Barrett out of her way for nearly a week. When she did meet him she received a limp handshake and a greeting in a voice from which all hope seemed to have departed.

“I am very sorry,” she said, with a sort of measured gentleness.

Mr. Barrett, in his hushed voice, thanked her.

“I am all alone now,” he said, pathetically. “There is nobody now to care whether I live or die.”

Miss Lindsay did not contradict him.

“How did it happen?” she inquired, after they had gone some distance in silence.

“They were out in a sailing-boat,” said Mr. Barrett; “the boat capsized in a puff of wind, and they were all drowned.”

“Who was in charge of them?” inquired the girl, after a decent interval.

“Boatman,” replied the other.

“How did you hear?”

“I had a letter from one of my sisters-in-law, Charlotte,” said Mr. Barrett. “A most affecting letter. Poor Charlotte was like a second mother to them. She’ll never be the same woman again. Never!”

“I should like to see the letter,” said Miss Lindsay, musingly.

Mr. Barrett suppressed a start. “I should like to show it to you,” he said, “but I’m afraid I have destroyed it. It made me shudder every time I looked at it.”

“It’s a pity,” said the girl, dryly. “I should have liked to see it. I’ve got my own idea about the matter. Are you sure she was very fond of them?”

“She lived only for them,” said Mr. Barrett, in a rapt voice.

“Exactly. I don’t believe they are drowned at all,” said Miss Lindsay, suddenly. “I believe you have had all this terrible anguish for nothing. It’s too cruel.”

Mr. Barrett stared at her in anxious amazement.

“I see it all now,” continued the girl. “Their Aunt Charlotte was devoted to them. She always had the fear that some day you would return and claim them, and to prevent that she invented the story of their death.”

“Charlotte is the most truthful woman that ever breathed,” said the distressed Mr. Barrett.

Miss Lindsay shook her head. “You are like all other honourable, truthful people,” she said, looking at him gravely. “You can’t imagine anybody else telling a falsehood. I don’t believe you could tell one if you tried.”

Mr. Barrett gazed about him with the despairing look of a drowning mariner.

“I’m certain I’m right,” continued the girl. “I can see Charlotte exulting in her wickedness. Why!”

“What’s the matter?” inquired Mr. Barrett, greatly worried.

“I’ve just thought of it,” said Miss Lindsay. “She’s told you that your children are drowned, and she has probably told them you are dead. A woman like that would stick at nothing to gain her ends.”

“You don’t know Charlotte,” said Mr. Barrett, feebly.

“I think I do,” was the reply. “However, we’ll make sure. I suppose you’ve got friends in Melbourne?”

“A few,” said Mr. Barrett, guardedly.

“Come down to the post-office and cable to one of them.”

Mr. Barrett hesitated. “I’ll write,” he said, slowly. “It’s an awkward thing to cable; and there’s no hurry. I’ll write to Jack Adams, I think.”

“It’s no good writing,” said Miss Lindsay, firmly. “You ought to know that.”

“Why not?” demanded the other.

“Because, you foolish man,” said the girl, calmly, “before your letter got there, there would be one from Melbourne saying that he had been choked by a fish-bone, or died of measles, or something of that sort.”

Mr. Barrett, hardly able to believe his ears, stopped short and looked at her. The girl’s eyes were moist with mirth and her lips trembling. He put out his hand and took her wrist in a strong grip.

“That’s all right,” he said, with a great gasp of relief. “Phew! At one time I thought I had lost you.”

“By heart-disease, or drowning?” inquired Miss Lindsay, softly.

THE WINTER OFFENSIVE

N.B.—Having regard to the eccentricities of the Law of Libel it must be distinctly understood that the following does not refer to the distinguished officer, Lieut. Troup Horne, of the Inns of Court. Anybody trying to cause mischief between a civilian of eight stone and a soldier of seventeen by a statement to the contrary will hear from my solicitors.

Aug. 29, 1916.—We returned from the sea to find our house still our own, and the military still in undisputed possession of the remains of the grass in the fields of Berkhamsted Place. As in previous years, it was impossible to go in search of wild-flowers without stumbling over sleeping members of the Inns of Court; but war is war, and we grumble as little as possible.

Sept. 28.—Unpleasant rumours to the effect that several members of the Inns of Court had attributed cases of curvature of the spine to sleeping on ground that had been insufficiently rolled. Also that they had been heard to smack their lips and speak darkly of featherbeds. Respected neighbour of gloomy disposition said that if Pharaoh were still alive he could suggest an eleventh plague to him beside which frogs and flies were an afternoon’s diversion.

Oct. 3.—Householders of Berkhamsted busy mending bedsteads broken by last year’s billets, and buying patent taps for their beer-barrels.

Oct. 15.—Informed that a representative of the Army wished to see me. Instead of my old friend Q.M.S. Beddem, who generally returns to life at this time of year, found that it was an officer of magnificent presence and two pips. A fine figure of a man, with a great resemblance to the late lamented Bismarck, minus the moustache and the three hairs on the top of the head. Asked him to be seated. He selected a chair that was all arms and legs and no hips to speak of and crushed himself into it. After which he unfastened his belt and “swelled wisibly afore my werry eyes.” Said that his name was True Born and asked if it made any difference to me whether I had one officer or half-a-dozen men billeted on me. Said that he was the officer, and that as the rank-and-file were not allowed to pollute the same atmosphere, thought I should score. After a mental review of all I could remember of the Weights and Measures Table, accepted him. He bade a lingering farewell to the chair, and departed.

Oct. 16.—Saw Q.M.S. Beddem on the other side of the road and gave him an absolutely new thrill by crossing to meet him. Asked diffidently—as diffidently as he could, that is—how many men my house would hold. Replied eight—or ten at a pinch. He gave me a surprised and beaming smile and whipped out a huge note-book. Informed him with as much regret as I could put into a voice not always under perfect control, that I had already got an officer. Q.M.S., favouring me with a look very appropriate to the Devil’s Own, turned on his heel and set off in pursuit of a lady-billetee, pulling up short on the threshold of the baby-linen shop in which she took refuge. Left him on guard with a Casabianca-like look on his face.

Nov. 1.—Lieut. True Born took up his quarters with us. Gave him my dressing-room for bedchamber. Was awakened several times in the night by what I took to be Zeppelins, flying low.

Nov. 2.—Lieut. True Born offered to bet me five pounds to twenty that the war would be over by 1922.

Nov. 3.—Offered to teach me auction-bridge.

Nov. 4.—Asked me whether I could play “shove ha’penny.”

Nov. 10.—Lieut. True Born gave one of the regimental horses a riding-lesson. Came home grumpy and went to bed early.

Nov. 13.—Another riding-lesson. Overheard him asking one of the maids whether there was such a thing as a water-bed in the house.

Nov. 17.—Complained bitterly of horse-copers. Said that his poor mount was discovered to be suffering from saddle-soreness, broken wind, splints, weak hocks, and two bones of the neck out of place.

Dec. 9.—7 p.m.—One of last year’s billets, Private Merited, on leave from a gunnery course, called to see me and to find out whether his old bed had improved since last year. Left his motor-bike in the garage, and the smell in front of the dining-room window.

8 to 12 p.m.—Sat with Private Merited, listening to Lieut. True Born on the mistakes of Wellington.

12.5 a.m.—Rose to go to bed. Was about to turn out gas in hall when I discovered the lieutenant standing with his face to the wall playing pat-a-cake with it. Gave him three-parts of a tumbler of brandy. Said he felt better and went upstairs. Arrived in his bedroom, he looked about him carefully, and then, with a superb sweep of his left arm, swept the best Chippendale looking-glass in the family off the dressing table and dived face downwards to the floor, missing death and the corner of the chest of drawers by an inch.

12:15 a.m.—Rolled him on to his back and got his feet on the bed. They fell off again as soon as they were cleaner than the quilt. The lieutenant, startled by the crash, opened his eyes and climbed into bed unaided.

12.20 a.m.—Sent Private Merited for the M.O., Captain Geranium.

12.25 a.m.—Mixed a dose of brandy and castor-oil in a tumbler. Am told it slips down like an oyster that way—bad oyster, I should think. Lieut. True Born jibbed. Reminded him that England expects that every man will take his castor-oil. Reply unprintable. Apologized a moment later. Said that his mind was wandering and that he thought he was a colonel. Reassured him.

12.40 a.m.—Private Merited returned with the M.O. Latter nicely dressed in musical-comedy pyjamas of ravishing hue, and great-coat, with rose-tinted feet thrust into red morocco slippers. Held consultation and explained my treatment. M.O. much impressed, anxious to know whether I was a doctor. Told him “No,” but that I knew all the ropes. First give patient castor-oil, then diet him and call every day to make sure that he doesn’t like his food. After that, if he shows signs of getting well too soon, give him a tonic. . . . M.O. stuffy.

Dec. 10.—M.O. diagnosed attack as due to something which True Born believes to be tobacco, with which he disinfects the house, the mess-sheds, and the streets of Berkhamsted.

Dec. 11.—True Born, shorn of thirteen pipes a day out of sixteen, disparages the whole race of M.O.’s.

Dec. 14.—He obtains leave to attend wedding of a great-aunt and ransacks London for a specialist who advocates strong tobacco.

Dec. 15.—He classes specialists with M.O.’s. Is surprised (and apparently disappointed) that, so far, the breaking of the looking-glass has brought me no ill-luck. Feel somewhat uneasy myself until glass is repaired by local cabinet-maker.

Jan. 10, 1917.—Lieut. True Born starts to break in another horse.

Feb. 1.—Horse broken.

March 3.—Running short of tobacco, go to my billet’s room and try a pipe of his. Take all the remedies except the castor-oil.

April 4, 8.30 a.m.—Awakened by an infernal crash and discover that my poor looking-glass is in pieces again on the floor. True Born explains that its position, between the open door and the open window, was too much for it. Don’t believe a word of it. Shall believe to my dying day that it burst in a frantic but hopeless attempt to tell Lieut. True Born the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

April 6.—The lieutenant watching for some sign of misfortune to me. Says that I can’t break a mirror twice without ill-luck following it. Me!

April 9.—Lieut. True Born comes up to me with a face full of conflicting emotions. “Your ill-luck has come at last,” he says with gloomy satisfaction. “We go under canvas on the 23rd. You are losing me!”

THE SUBSTITUTE

The night watchman had just returned to the office fire after leaving it to attend a ring at the wharf bell. He sat for some time puffing fiercely at his pipe and breathing heavily.

“Boys!” he said, at last. “That’s the third time this week, and yet if I was to catch one and skin ’im alive I suppose I should get into trouble over it. Even ’is own father and mother would make a fuss, most like. Some people have boys, and other people ’ave the trouble of ’em. Our street’s full of ’em, and the way they carry on would make a monkey-’ouse ashamed of itself. The man next door to me’s got seven of ’em, and when I spoke to ’im friendly about it over a pint one night, he put the blame on ’is wife.

“The worst boy I ever knew used to be office-boy in this ’ere office, and I can’t understand now why I wasn’t ’ung for him. Undersized little chap he was, with a face the colour o’ bad pie-crust, and two little black eyes like shoe-buttons. To see ’im with his little white cuffs, and a stand-up collar, and a little black bow, and a little bowler-’at, was enough to make a cat laugh. I told ’im so one day, and arter that we knew where we was. Both of us.

“By rights he ought to ’ave left the office at six—just my time for coming on. As it was, he used to stay late, purtending to work ’ard so as to get a rise. Arter all the clerks ’ad gorn ’ome he used to sit perched up on a stool yards too ’igh for him, with one eye on the ledger and the other looking through the winder at me. I remember once going off for ’arf a pint, and when I come back I found ’im with a policeman, two carmen, and all the hands off of the Maid Marian, standing on the edge of the jetty, waiting for me to come up. He said that, not finding me on the wharf, ’e made sure that I must ’ave tumbled overboard, as he felt certain that I wouldn’t neglect my dooty while there was breath in my body; but ’e was sorry to find ’e was mistook. He stood there talking like a little clergyman, until one of the carmen knocked his ’at over ’is eyes, and then he forgot ’imself for a bit.

“Arter that I used to wait until he ’ad gorn afore I ’ad my arf-pint. I didn’t want my good name taken away, and I had to be careful, and many’s the good arf-pint I ’ad to refuse because that little imitation monkey was sitting in the office drawing faces on ’is blotting-paper. But sometimes it don’t matter ’ow careful you are, you make a mistake.

“There was a little steamer, called the Eastern Monarch, used to come up here in them days, once a week. Fat little tub she was, with a crew o’ fattish old men, and a skipper that I didn’t like. He’d been in the coasting trade all ’is life, while I’ve knocked about all over the world, but to hear ’im talk you’d think he knew more about things than I did.

“‘Eddication, Bill,’ he ses one evening, ‘that’s the thing! You can’t argufy without it; you only talk foolish, like you are doing now.’

“‘There’s eddication and there’s common sense,’ I ses. ‘Some people ’as one and some people ’as the other. Give me common sense.’

“‘That’s wot you want,’ he ses, nodding.

“‘And, o’ course,’ I ses, looking at ’im, ‘there’s some people ’asn’t got either one or the other.’

“The office-boy came out of the office afore he could think of an answer, and the pair of ’em stood there talking to show off their cleverness, till their tongues ached. I took up my broom and went on sweeping, and they was so busy talking long words they didn’t know the meaning of to each other that they was arf choked with dust afore they noticed it. When they did notice it they left off using long words, and the skipper tried to hurt my feelings with a few short ones ’e knew.

“‘It’s no good wasting your breath on ’im,’ ses the boy. ‘You might as well talk to a beer-barrel.’

“He went off, dusting ’imself down with his little pocket-’ankercher, and arter the skipper ’ad told me wot he’d like to do, only he was too sorry for me to do it, ’e went back to the ship to put on a clean collar, and went off for the evening.

“He always used to go off by hisself of a evening, and I used to wonder ’ow he passed the time. Then one night I found out.

“I had just come out of the Bear’s Head, and stopped to look round afore going back to the wharf, when I see a couple o’ people standing on the swing-bridge saying ‘Good-bye’ to each other. One of ’em was a man and the other wasn’t.

“‘Evening, cap’n,’ I ses, as he came towards me, and gave a little start. ‘I didn’t know you ’ad brought your missis up with you this trip.’

“‘Evening, Bill,’ he ses, very peaceful. ‘Wot a lovely evening!’

“‘Bee-utiful!’ I ses.

“‘So fresh,’ ses the skipper, sniffing in some of the air.

“‘Makes you feel quite young agin,’ I ses.

“He didn’t say nothing to that, except to look at me out of the corner of ’is eye; and stepping on to the wharf had another look at the sky to admire it, and then went aboard his ship. If he ’ad only stood me a pint, and trusted me, things might ha’ turned out different.

“Quite by chance I happened to be in the Bear’s Head a week arterwards, and, quite by chance, as I came out I saw the skipper saying ‘Good-bye’ on the bridge agin. He seemed to be put out about something, and when I said ‘Wot a lovely evening it would be if only it wasn’t raining ’ard!’ he said something about knocking my ’ead off.

“‘And you keep your nose out o’ my bisness,’ he ses, very fierce.

“‘Your bisness!’ I ses. ‘Wot bisness?’

“‘There’s some people as might like to know that you leave the wharf to look arter itself while you’re sitting in a pub swilling gallons and gallons o’ beer,’ he ses, in a nasty sort o’ way. ‘Live and let live, that’s my motter.”

“‘I don’t know wot you’re talking about,’ I ses, ‘but it don’t matter anyways. I’ve got a clear conscience; that’s the main thing. I’m as open as the day, and there’s nothing about me that I’d mind anybody knowing. Wot a pity it is everybody can’t say the same!’

“I didn’t see ’im saying ‘Good-bye’ the next week or the week arter that either, but the third week, arter just calling in at the Bear’s Head, I strolled on casual-like and got as far as the bottom of Tower Hill afore I remembered myself. Turning the corner, I a’most fell over the skipper, wot was right in the fair way, shaking ’ands with his lady-friend under the lamp-post. Both of ’em started, and I couldn’t make up my mind which gave me the most unpleasant look.

“‘Peep-bo!’ I ses, cheerful-like.

“He stood making a gobbling noise at me, like a turkey.

“‘Give me quite a start, you did,’ I ses. ‘I didn’t dream of you being there.’

“‘Get off!’ he ses, spluttering. ‘Get off, afore I tear you limb from limb! ’Ow dare you follow me about and come spying round corners at me? Wot d’ye mean by it?’

“I stood there with my arms folded acrost my chest, as calm as a cucumber. The other party stood there watching us, and wot ’e could ’ave seen in her, I can’t think. She was dressed more like a man than a woman, and it would have taken the good looks of twenty like her to ’ave made one barmaid. I stood looking at ’er like a man in a dream.

“‘Well, will you know me agin?’ she ses, in a nasty cracked sort of voice.

“‘I could pick you out of a million,’ I ses—‘if I wanted to.’

“‘Clear out!’ ses the skipper. ‘Clear out! And thank your stars there’s a lady present.’

“‘Don’t take no notice of ’im, Captain Pratt,’ ses the lady. ‘He’s beneath you. You only encourage people like that by taking notice of ’em. Good-bye.’

“She held out her ’and, and while the skipper was shaking it I began to walk back to the wharf. I ’adn’t gorn far afore I heard ’im coming up behind me, and next moment ’e was walking alongside and saying things to try and make me lose my temper.

“‘Ah, it’s a pity your pore missis can’t ’ear you!’ I ses. ‘I expect she thinks you are stowed away in your bunk dreaming of ’er, instead of saying things about a face as don’t belong to you.’

“‘You mind your bisness,’ he ses, shouting. ‘And not so much about my missis! D’ye hear? Wot’s it got to do with you? Who asked you to shove your oar in?’

“‘You’re quite mistook,’ I ses, very calm. ‘I’d no idea that there was anything on as shouldn’t be. I was never more surprised in my life. If anybody ’ad told me, I shouldn’t ’ave believed ’em. I couldn’t. Knowing you, and knowing ’ow respectable you ’ave always purtended to be, and also and likewise that you ain’t no chicken——’

“I thought ’e was going to ’ave a fit. He ’opped about, waving his arms and stuttering and going on in such a silly way that I didn’t like to be seen with ’im. Twice he knocked my ’at off, and arter telling him wot would ’appen if ’e did it agin, I walked off and left him.

“Even then ’e wasn’t satisfied, and arter coming on to the wharf and following me up and down like a little dog, he got in front of me and told me some more things he ’ad thought of.

“‘If I catch you spying on me agin,’ he ses, ‘you’ll wish you’d never been born!’

“‘You get aboard and ’ave a quiet sleep,’ I ses. ‘You’re wandering in your mind.’

“‘The lady you saw me with,’ he ses, looking at me very fierce, ‘is a friend o’ mine that I meet sometimes for the sake of her talk.’

“‘Talk!’ I ses, staring at ’im. ‘Talk! Wot, can’t one woman talk enough for you? Is your missis dumb? or wot?’

“‘You don’t understand,’ he ses, cocking up ’is nose at me. ‘She’s a interleckshal woman; full of eddication and information. When my missis talks, she talks about the price o’ things and says she must ’ave more money. Or else she talks about things I’ve done, or sometimes things I ’aven’t done. It’s all one to her. There’s no pleasure in that sort o’ talk. It don’t help a man.’

“‘I never ’eard of any talk as did,’ I ses.

“‘I don’t suppose you did,’ he ses, sneering-like. ‘Now, to-night, fust of all, we talked about the House of Lords and whether it ought to be allowed; and arter that she gave me quite a little lecture on insecks.’

“‘It don’t seem proper to me,’ I ses. ‘I ’ave spoke to my wife about ’em once or twice, but I should no more think of talking about such things to a single lady——’

“He began to jump about agin as if I’d bit ’im, and he ’ad so much to say about my ’ed and blocks of wood that I pretty near lost my temper. I should ha’ lost it with some men, but ’e was a very stiff-built chap and as hard as nails.

“‘Beer’s your trouble,’ he ses, at last. ‘Fust of all you put it down, and then it climbs up and soaks wot little brains you’ve got. Wot you want is a kind friend to prevent you from getting it.’

“I don’t know wot it was, but I ’ad a sort of sinking feeling inside as ’e spoke, and next evening, when I saw ’im walk to the end of the jetty with the office-boy and stand there talking to ’im with his ’and on his shoulder, it came on worse than ever. And I put two and two together when the guv’nor came up to me next day, and, arter talking about ‘dooty’ and ’ow easy it was to get night-watchmen, mentioned in ’a off-’and sort of way that, if I left the wharf at all between six and six, I could stay away altogether.

“I didn’t answer ’im a word. I might ha’ told ’im that there was plenty of people arter me ready to give me double the money, but I knew he could never get anybody to do their dooty by the wharf like I ’ad done, so I kept quiet. It’s the way I treat my missis nowadays, and it pays; in the old days I used to waste my breath answering ’er back.

“I wouldn’t ha’ minded so much if it ’adn’t ha’ been for that boy. He used to pass me, as ’e went off of a evening, with a little sly smile on ’is ugly little face, and sometimes when I was standing at the gate he’d give a sniff or two and say that he could smell beer, and he supposed it came from the Bear’s Head.

“It was about three weeks arter the guv’nor ’ad forgot ’imself, and I was standing by the gate one evening, when I saw a woman coming along carrying a big bag in her ’and. I ’adn’t seen ’er afore, and when she stopped in front of me and smiled I was on my guard at once. I don’t smile at other people, and I don’t expect them to smile at me.

“‘At last!’ she ses, setting down ’er bag and giving me another smile. ‘I thought I was never going to get ’ere.”

“I coughed and backed inside a little bit on to my own ground. I didn’t want to ’ave that little beast of a office-boy spreading tales about me.

“‘I’ve come up to ’ave a little fling,’ she ses, smiling away harder than ever. ‘My husband don’t know I’m ’ere. He thinks I’m at ’ome.’

“I think I went back pretty near three yards.

“‘I come up by train,’ she ses, nodding.

“‘Yes,’ I ses, very severe, ‘and wot about going back by it?’

“‘Oh, I shall go back by ship,’ she ses. ‘Wot time do you expect the Eastern Monarch up?’

“‘Well,’ I ses, ’ardly knowing wot to make of ’er, ‘she ought to be up this tide; but there’s no reckoning on wot an old washtub with a engine like a sewing-machine inside ’er will do.’

“‘Oh, indeed!’ she ses, leaving off smiling very sudden. ‘Oh, indeed! My husband might ’ave something to say about that.’

“‘Your ’usband?’ I ses.

“‘Captain Pratt,’ she ses, drawing ’erself up. ‘I’m Mrs. Pratt. He left yesterday morning, and I’ve come up ’ere by train to give ’im a little surprise.’

“You might ha’ knocked me down with a feather, and I stood there staring at her with my mouth open, trying to think.

“‘Take care,’ I ses at last. ‘Take care as you don’t give ’im too much of a surprise!’

“‘Wot do you mean?’ she ses, firing up.

“‘Nothing,’ I ses. ‘Nothing, only I’ve known ’usbands in my time as didn’t like being surprised—that’s all. If you take my advice, you’ll go straight back home agin.’

“‘I’ll tell ’im wot you say,’ she ses, ’as soon as ’is ship comes in.’

“That’s a woman all over; the moment they get into a temper they want to hurt somebody; and I made up my mind at once that, if anybody was going to be ’urt, it wasn’t me. And, besides, I thought it might be for the skipper’s good—in the long run.

“I broke it to her as gentle as I could. I didn’t tell ’er much, I just gave her a few ’ints. Just enough to make her ask for more.

“‘And mind,’ I ses, ‘I don’t want to be brought into it. If you should ’appen to take a fancy into your ’ed to wait behind a pile of empties till the ship comes in, and then slip out and foller your ’usband and give ’im the little surprise you spoke of, it’s nothing to do with me.’

“‘I understand,’ she ses, biting her lip. ‘There’s no need for ’im to know that I’ve been on the wharf at all.’

“I gave ’er a smile—I thought she deserved it—but she didn’t smile back. She was rather a nice-looking woman in the ordinary way, but I could easy see ’ow temper spoils a woman’s looks. She stood there giving little shivers and looking as if she wanted to bite somebody.

“‘I’ll go and hide now,’ she ses.

“‘Not yet,’ I ses. ‘You’ll ’ave to wait till that little blackbeetle in the office ’as gorn.’

‘Blackbeetle?’ she ses, staring.

“‘Office-boy,’ I ses. ‘He’d better not see you at all. S’pose you go off for a bit and come back when I whistle?’

“Afore she could answer the boy came out of the office, ready to go ’ome. He gave a little bit of a start when ’e saw me talking to a lady, and then ’e nips down sudden, about a couple o’ yards away, and begins to do ’is bootlace up. It took ’im some time, because he ’ad to undo it fust, but ’e finished it at last, and arter a quick look at Mrs. Pratt, and one at me that I could ha’ smacked his ’ed for, ’e went off whistling and showing ’is little cuffs.

“I stepped out into the road and watched ’im out o’ sight. Then I told Mrs. Pratt to pick up ’er bag and foller me.

“As it ’appened there was a big pile of empties in the corner of the ware’ouse wall, just opposite the Eastern Monarch’s berth. It might ha’ been made for the job, and, arter I ’ad tucked her away behind and given ’er a box to sit on, I picked up my broom and began to make up for lost time.

“She sat there as quiet as a cat watching a mouse’ole, and I was going on with my work, stopping every now and then to look and see whether the Monarch was in sight, when I ’appened to turn round and see the office-boy standing on the edge of the wharf with his back to the empties, looking down at the water. I nearly dropped my broom.

“‘’Ullo!’ I ses, going up to ’im. ‘I thought you ’ad gorn ’ome.’

“‘I was going,’ he ses, with a nasty oily little smile, ‘and then it struck me all of a sudden ’ow lonely it was for you all alone ’ere, and I come back to keep you company.’

“He winked at something acrost the river as ’e spoke, and I stood there thinking my ’ardest wot was the best thing to be done. I couldn’t get Mrs. Pratt away while ’e was there; besides which I felt quite sartain she wouldn’t go. The only ’ope I ’ad was that he’d get tired of spying on me and go away before he found out she was ’iding on the wharf.

“I walked off in a unconcerned way—not too far—and, with one eye on ’im and the other on where Mrs. Pratt was ’iding, went on with my work. There’s nothing like ’ard work when a man is worried, and I was a’most forgetting my troubles, when I looked up and saw the Monarch coming up the river.

“She turned to come into ’er berth, with the skipper shouting away on the bridge and making as much fuss as if ’e was berthing a liner. I helped to make ’er fast, and the skipper, arter ’e had ’ad a good look round to see wot ’e could find fault with, went below to clean ’imself.

“He was up agin in about ten minutes, with a clean collar and a clean face, and a blue neck-tie that looked as though it ’ad got yeller measles. Good temper ’e was in, too, and arter pulling the office-boy’s ear, gentle, as ’e was passing, he stopped for a moment to ’ave a word with ’im.

“‘Bit late, ain’t you?’ he ses.

“‘I’ve been keeping a eye on the watchman,’ ses the boy. ‘He works better when ’e knows there’s somebody watching ’im.’

“‘Look ’ere!’ I ses. ‘You take yourself off; I’ve had about enough of you. You take your little face ’ome and ask your mother to wipe its nose. Strickly speaking, you’ve no right to be on the wharf at all at this time.’

“‘I’ve as much right as other people,’ he ses, giving me a wicked look. ‘I’ve got more right than some people, p’r’aps.’

“He stooped down deliberate and, picking up a bit o’ coke from the ’eap by the crane, pitched it over at the empties.

“‘Stop that!’ I ses, shouting at ’im.

“‘What for?’ ’e ses, shying another piece. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

“’Cos I won’t ’ave it,’ I ses. ‘D’ye hear? Stop it!’

“I rushed at ’im as he sent another piece over, and for the next two or three minutes ’e was dodging me and chucking coke at the empties, with the fool of a skipper standing by laughing, and two or three of the crew leaning over the side and cheering ’im on.

“‘All right,’ he ses, at last, dusting ’is hands together. ‘I’ve finished. There’s no need to make such a fuss over a bit of coke.’

“‘You’ve wasted pretty near arf a ’undered-weight,’ I ses. ‘I’ve a good mind to report you.’

“‘Don’t do that, watchman!’ he ses, in a pitiful voice. ‘Don’t do that! ’Ere, I tell you wot I’ll do. I’ll pick it all up agin.’

“Afore I could move ’and or foot he ’ad shifted a couple o’ cases out of ’is way and was in among the empties. I stood there dazed-like while two bits o’ coke came flying back past my ’ed; then I ’eard a loud whistle, and ’e came out agin with ’is eyes rolling and ’is mouth wide open.

“‘Wot’s the matter?’ ses the skipper, staring at ’im.

“‘I—I—I’m sorry, watchman,’ ses that beast of a boy, purtending ’e was ’ardly able to speak. ‘I’d no idea——’

“‘All right,’ I ses, very quick.

“‘Wot’s the matter?’ ses the skipper agin; and as ’e spoke it came over me like a flash wot a false persition I was in, and wot a nasty-tempered man ’e could be when ’e liked.

“‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d got a lady-friend there?’ ses the boy, shaking his ’ed at me. ‘Why, I might ’ave hit ’er with a bit o’ coke, and never forgiven myself!’

“‘Lady-friend!’ ses the skipper, with a start. ‘Oh, Bill, I am surprised!’

“My throat was so dry I couldn’t ’ardly speak. ‘It’s my missis,’ I ses, at last.

“‘Your missis?’ ses the skipper. ‘Woes she ’iding behind there for?’

“‘She—she’s shy,’ I ses. ‘Always was, all ’er life. She can’t bear other people. She likes to be alone with me.’

“‘Oh, watchman!’ ses the boy. ‘I wonder where you expect to go to?’

“‘Missis my grandmother!’ ses the skipper, with a wink. ‘I’m going to ’ave a peep.’

“‘Stand back!’ I ses, pushing ’im off. ‘I don’t spy on you, and I don’t want you to come spying on me. You get off! D’ye hear me? Get off!’

“We had a bit of a struggle, till my foot slipped, and while I was waving my arms and trying to get my balance back ’e made a dash for the empties. Next moment he was roaring like a mad bull that ’ad sat down in a sorsepan of boiling water, and rushing back agin to kill me.

“I believe that if it ’adn’t ha’ been for a couple o’ lightermen wot ’ad just come on to the jetty from their skiff, and two of his own ’ands, he’d ha’ done it. Crazy with passion ’e was, and it was all the four of ’em could do to hold ’im. Every now and then he’d get a yard nearer to me, and then they’d pull ’im back a couple o’ yards and beg of ’im to listen to reason and ’ear wot I ’ad to say. And as soon as I started and began to tell ’em about ’is lady-friend he broke out worse than ever. People acrost the river must ha’ wondered wot was ’appening. There was two lightermen, two sailormen, me and the skipper, and Mrs. Pratt all talking at once, and nobody listening but the office-boy. And in the middle of it all the wicket was pushed open and the ’ed of the lady wot all the trouble was about peeped in, and drew back agin.

“‘There you are!’ I ses, shouting my ’ardest. ‘There she is. That’s the lady I was telling you about. Now, then: put ’em face to face and clear my character. Don’t let ’er escape.’

“One o’ the lightermen let go o’ the skipper and went arter ’er, and, just as I was giving the other three a helping ’and, ’e came back with ’er. Mrs. Pratt caught ’er breath, and as for the skipper, ’e didn’t know where to look, as the saying is. I just saw the lady give ’im one quick look, and then afore I could dream of wot was coming, she rushes up to me and flings ’er long, bony arms round my neck.

“‘Why, William!’ she ses, ‘wot’s the matter? Why didn’t you meet me? Didn’t you get my letter? Or ’ave you ceased to care for me?”

“‘Let go!’ I ses, struggling. ‘Let go! D’ye ’ear? Wot d’ye mean by it? You’ve got ’old of the wrong one.’

“‘Oh, William!’ she ses, arf strangling me. ‘’Ow can you talk to me like that? Where’s your ’art?’

“I never knew a woman so strong. I don’t suppose she’d ever ’ad the chance of getting ’er arms round a man’s neck afore, and she hung on to me as if she’d never let go. And all the time I was trying to explain things to them over ’er shoulder I could see they didn’t believe a word I was saying. One o’ the lightermen said I was a ‘wonder,’ and the other said I was a ‘fair cough-drop.’ Me!

“She got tired of it at last, but by that time I was so done up I couldn’t say a word. I just dropped on to a box and sat there getting my breath back while the skipper forgave ’is wife for ’er unjust suspicions of ’im—but told ’er not to do it agin—and the office-boy was saying I’d surprised even ’im. The last I saw of the lady-friend, the two lightermen was helping ’er to walk to the gate, and the two sailormen was follering ’er up behind, carrying ’er pocket-’ankercher and upberella.”

STRIKING HARD

You’ve what?” demanded Mrs. Porter, placing the hot iron carefully on its stand and turning a heated face on the head of the family.

“Struck,” repeated Mr. Porter; “and the only wonder to me is we’ve stood it so long as we have. If I was to tell you all we’ve ’ad to put up with I don’t suppose you’d believe me.”

“Very likely,” was the reply. “You can keep your fairy-tales for them that like ’em. They’re no good to me.”

“We stood it till flesh and blood could stand it no longer,” declared her husband, “and at last we came out, shoulder to shoulder, singing. The people cheered us, and one of our leaders made ’em a speech.”

“I should have liked to ’ave heard the singing,” remarked his wife. “If they all sang like you, it must ha’ been as good as a pantermime! Do you remember the last time you went on strike?”

“This is different,” said Mr. Porter, with dignity.

“All our things went, bit by bit,” pursued his wife, “all the money we had put by for a rainy day, and we ’ad to begin all over again. What are we going to live on? O’ course, you might earn something by singing in the street; people who like funny faces might give you something! Why not go upstairs and put your ’ead under the bed-clothes and practise a bit?”

Mr. Porter coughed. “It’ll be all right,” he said, confidently. “Our committee knows what it’s about; Bert Robinson is one of the best speakers I’ve ever ’eard. If we don’t all get five bob a week more I’ll eat my ’ead.”

“It’s the best thing you could do with it,” snapped his wife. She took up her iron again, and turning an obstinate back to his remarks resumed her work.

Mr. Porter lay long next morning, and, dressing with comfortable slowness, noticed with pleasure that the sun was shining. Visions of a good breakfast and a digestive pipe, followed by a walk in the fresh air, passed before his eyes as he laced his boots. Whistling cheerfully he went briskly downstairs.

It was an October morning, but despite the invigorating chill in the air the kitchen-grate was cold and dull. Herring-bones and a disorderly collection of dirty cups and platters graced the table. Perplexed and angry, he looked around for his wife, and then, opening the back-door, stood gaping with astonishment. The wife of his bosom, who should have had a bright fire and a good breakfast waiting for him, was sitting on a box in the sunshine, elbows on knees and puffing laboriously at a cigarette.

“Susan!” he exclaimed.

Mrs. Porter turned, and, puffing out her lips, blew an immense volume of smoke. “Halloa!” she said, carelessly.

“Wot—wot does this mean?” demanded her husband.

Mrs. Porter smiled with conscious pride. “I made it come out of my nose just now,” she replied. “At least, some of it did, and I swallowed the rest. Will it hurt me?”

“Where’s my breakfast?” inquired the other, hotly. “Why ain’t the kitchen-fire alight? Wot do you think you’re doing of?”

“I’m not doing anything,” said his wife, with an aggrieved air. “I’m on strike.”

Mr. Porter reeled against the door-post. “Wot!” he stammered. “On strike? Nonsense! You can’t be.”

“O, yes, I can,” retorted Mrs. Porter, closing one eye and ministering to it hastily with the corner of her apron. “Not ’aving no Bert Robinson to do it for me, I made a little speech all to myself, and here I am.”