Chapter V: Part 5

She dropped her apron, replaced the cigarette, and, with her hands on her plump knees, eyes him steadily.

“But—but this ain’t a factory,” objected the dismayed man; “and, besides —I won’t ’ave it!”

Mrs. Porter laughed—a fat, comfortable laugh, but with a touch of hardness in it.

“All right, mate,” she said, comfortably. “What are you out on strike for?”

“Shorter hours and more money,” said Mr. Porter, glaring at her.

His wife nodded. “So am I,” she said. “I wonder who gets it first?”

She smiled agreeably at the bewildered Mr. Porter, and, extracting a paper packet of cigarettes from her pocket, lit a fresh one at the stub of the first.

“That’s the worst of a woman,” said her husband, avoiding her eye and addressing a sanitary dustbin of severe aspect; “they do things without thinking first. That’s why men are superior; before they do a thing they look at it all round, and upside down, and—and—make sure it can be done. Now, you get up in a temper this morning, and the first thing you do—not even waiting to get my breakfast ready first—is to go on strike. If you’d thought for two minutes you’d see as ’ow it’s impossible for you to go on strike for more than a couple of hours or so.”

“Why?” inquired Mrs. Porter.

“Kids,” replied her husband, triumphantly. “They’ll be coming ’ome from school soon, won’t they? And they’ll be wanting their dinner, won’t they?”

“That’s all right,” murmured the other, vaguely.

“After which, when night comes,” pursued Mr. Porter, “they’ll ’ave to be put to bed. In the morning they’ll ’ave to be got up and washed and dressed and given their breakfast and sent off to school. Then there’s shopping wot must be done, and beds wot must be made.”

“I’ll make ours,” said his wife, decidedly. “For my own sake.”

“And wot about the others?” inquired Mr. Porter.

“The others’ll be made by the same party as washes the children, and cooks their dinner for ’em, and puts ’em to bed, and cleans the ’ouse,” was the reply.

“I’m not going to have your mother ’ere,” exclaimed Mr. Porter, with sudden heat. “Mind that!”

“I don’t want her,” said Mrs. Porter. “It’s a job for a strong, healthy man, not a pore old thing with swelled legs and short in the breath.”

“Strong—’ealthy—man!” repeated her husband, in a dazed voice. “Strong—’eal—— Wot are you talking about?”

Mrs. Porter beamed on him. “You,” she said, sweetly.

There was a long silence, broken at last by a firework display of expletives. Mrs. Porter, still smiling, sat unmoved.

“You may smile!” raved the indignant Mr. Porter. “You may sit there smiling and smoking like a—like a man, but if you think that I’m going to get the meals ready, and soil my ’ands with making beds and washing-up, you’re mistook. There’s some ’usbands I know as would set about you!”

Mrs. Porter rose. “Well, I can’t sit here gossiping with you all day,” she said, entering the house.

“Wot are you going to do?” demanded her husband, following her.

“Going to see Aunt Jane and ’ave a bit o’ dinner with her,” was the reply. “And after that I think I shall go to the ‘pictures.’ If you ’ave bloaters for dinner be very careful with little Jemmy and the bones.”

“I forbid you to leave this ’ouse!” said Mr. Porter, in a thrilling voice. “If you do you won’t find nothing done when you come home, and all the kids dirty and starving.”

“Cheerio!” said Mrs. Porter.

Arrayed in her Sunday best she left the house half an hour later. A glance over her shoulder revealed her husband huddled up in a chair in the dirty kitchen, gazing straight before him at the empty grate.

He made a hearty breakfast at a neighbouring coffee-shop, and, returning home, lit the fire and sat before it, smoking. The return of the four children from school, soon after midday, found him still wrestling with the difficulties of the situation. His announcement that their mother was out and that there would be no dinner was received at first in stupefied silence. Then Jemmy, opening his mouth to its widest extent, acted as conductor to an all-too-willing chorus.

The noise was unbearable, and Mr. Porter said so. Pleased with the tribute, the choir re-doubled its efforts, and Mr. Porter, vociferating orders for silence, saw only too clearly the base advantage his wife had taken of his affection for his children. He took some money from his pocket and sent the leading treble out marketing, after which, with the assistance of a soprano aged eight, he washed up the breakfast things and placed one of them in the dustbin.

The entire family stood at his elbow as he cooked the dinner, and watched, with bated breath, his frantic efforts to recover a sausage which had fallen out of the frying-pan into the fire. A fourfold sigh of relief heralded its return to the pan.

“Mother always—” began the eldest boy.

Mr. Porter took his scorched fingers out of his mouth and smacked the critic’s head.

The dinner was not a success. Portions of half-cooked sausages returned to the pan, and coming back in the guise of cinders failed to find their rightful owners.

“Last time we had sausages,” said the eight-year-old Muriel, “they melted in your mouth.” Mr. Porter glowered at her.

“Instead of in the fire,” said the eldest boy, with a mournful snigger.

“If I get up to you, my lad,” said the harassed Mr. Porter, “you’ll know it! Pity you don’t keep your sharpness for your lessons! Wot country is Africa in?”

“Why, Africa’s a continent!” said the startled youth.

“Jes so,” said his father; “but wot I’m asking you is: wot country is it in?”

“Asia,” said the reckless one, with a side-glance at Muriel.

“And why couldn’t you say so before?” demanded Mr. Porter, sternly. “Now, you go to the sink and give yourself a thorough good wash. And mind you come straight home from school. There’s work to be done.”

He did some of it himself after the children had gone, and finished up the afternoon with a little shopping, in the course of which he twice changed his grocer and was threatened with an action for slander by his fishmonger. He returned home with his clothes bulging, although a couple of eggs in the left-hand coat-pocket had done their best to accommodate themselves to his figure.

He went to bed at eleven o’clock, and at a quarter past, clad all too lightly for the job, sped rapidly downstairs to admit his wife.

“Some ’usbands would ’ave let you sleep on the doorstep all night,” he said, crisply.

“I know they would,” returned his wife, cheerfully. “That’s why I married you. I remember the first time I let you come ’ome with me, mother ses: ‘There ain’t much of ’im, Susan,’ she ses; ‘still, arf a loaf is better than—’”

The bedroom-door slammed behind the indignant Mr. Porter, and the three lumps and a depression which had once been a bed received his quivering frame again. With the sheet obstinately drawn over his head he turned a deaf ear to his wife’s panegyrics on striking and her heartfelt tribute to the end of a perfect day. Even when standing on the cold floor while she remade the bed he maintained an attitude of unbending dignity, only relaxing when she smote him light-heartedly with the bolster. In a few ill-chosen words he expressed his opinion of her mother and her deplorable methods of bringing up her daughters.

He rose early next morning, and, after getting his own breakfast, put on his cap and went out, closing the street-door with a bang that awoke the entire family and caused the somnolent Mrs. Porter to open one eye for the purpose of winking with it. Slowly, as became a man of leisure, he strolled down to the works, and, moving from knot to knot of his colleagues, discussed the prospects of victory. Later on, with a little natural diffidence, he drew Mr. Bert Robinson apart and asked his advice upon a situation which was growing more and more difficult.

“I’ve got my hands pretty full as it is, you know,” said Mr. Robinson, hastily.

“I know you ’ave, Bert,” murmured the other. “But, you see, she told me last night she’s going to try and get some of the other chaps’ wives to join ’er, so I thought I ought to tell you.”

Mr. Robinson started. “Have you tried giving her a hiding?” he inquired.

Mr. Porter shook his head. “I daren’t trust myself,” he replied. “I might go too far, once I started.”

“What about appealing to her better nature?” inquired the other.

“She ain’t got one,” said the unfortunate.

“Well, I’m sorry for you,” said Mr. Robinson, “but I’m busy. I’ve got to see a Labour-leader this afternoon, and two reporters, and this evening there’s the meeting. Try kindness first, and if that don’t do, lock her up in her bedroom and keep her on bread and water.”

He moved off to confer with his supporters, and Mr. Porter, after wandering aimlessly about for an hour or two, returned home at mid-day with a faint hope that his wife might have seen the error of her ways and provided dinner for him. He found the house empty and the beds unmade. The remains of breakfast stood on the kitchen-table, and a puddle of cold tea decorated the floor. The arrival of the children from school, hungry and eager, completed his discomfiture.

For several days he wrestled grimly with the situation, while Mrs. Porter, who had planned out her week into four days of charing, two of amusement, and Sunday in bed, looked on with smiling approval. She even offered to give him a little instruction—verbal—in scrubbing the kitchen-floor.

Mr. Porter, who was on his knees at the time, rose slowly to his full height, and, with a superb gesture, emptied the bucket, which also contained a scrubbing-brush and lump of soap, into the back-yard. Then he set off down the street in quest of a staff.

He found it in the person of Maudie Stevens, aged fourteen, who lived a few doors lower down. Fresh from school the week before, she cheerfully undertook to do the housework and cooking, and to act as nursemaid in her spare time. Her father, on his part, cheerfully undertook to take care of her wages for her, the first week’s, payable in advance, being banked the same evening at the Lord Nelson.

It was another mouth to feed, but the strike-pay was coming in very well, and Mr. Porter, relieved from his unmanly tasks, walked the streets a free man. Beds were made without his interference, meals were ready (roughly) at the appointed hour, and for the first time since the strike he experienced satisfaction in finding fault with the cook. The children’s content was not so great, Maudie possessing a faith in the virtues of soap and water that they made no attempt to share. They were greatly relieved when their mother returned home after spending a couple of days with Aunt Jane.

“What’s all this?” she demanded, as she entered the kitchen, followed by a lady-friend.

“What’s all what?” inquired Mr. Porter, who was sitting at dinner with the family.

“That,” said his wife, pointing at the cook-general.

Mr. Porter put down his knife and fork. “Got ’er in to help,” he replied, uneasily.

“Do you hear that?” demanded his wife, turning to her friend, Mrs. Gorman. “Oh, these masters!”

“Ah!” said her friend, vaguely.

“A strike-breaker!” said Mrs. Porter, rolling her eyes.

“Shame!” said Mrs. Gorman, beginning to understand.

“Coming after my job, and taking the bread out of my mouth,” continued Mrs. Porter, fluently. “Underselling me too, I’ll be bound. That’s what comes of not having pickets.”

“Unskilled labour,” said Mrs. Gorman, tightening her lips and shaking her head.

“A scab!” cried Mrs. Porter, wildly. “A scab!”

“Put her out,” counselled her friend.

“Put her out!” repeated Mrs. Porter, in a terrible voice. “Put her out! I’ll tear her limb from limb! I’ll put her in the copper and boil her!”

Her voice was so loud and her appearance so alarming that the unfortunate Maudie, emitting three piercing shrieks, rose hastily from the table and looked around for a way of escape. The road to the front-door was barred, and with a final yelp that set her employer’s teeth on edge she dashed into the yard and went home via the back-fences. Housewives busy in their kitchens looked up in amazement at the spectacle of a pair of thin black legs descending one fence, scudding across the yard to the accompaniment of a terrified moaning, and scrambling madly over the other. At her own back-door Maudie collapsed on the step, and, to the intense discomfort and annoyance of her father, had her first fit of hysterics.

“And the next scab that comes into my house won’t get off so easy,” said Mrs. Porter to her husband. “D’you understand?”

“If you ’ad some husbands—” began Mr. Porter, trembling with rage.

“Yes, I know,” said his wife, nodding. “Don’t cry, Jemmy,” she added, taking the youngest on her knee. “Mother’s only having a little game. She and dad are both on strike for more pay and less work.”

Mr. Porter got up, and without going through the formality of saying good-bye to the hard-featured Mrs. Gorman, put on his cap and went out. Over a couple of half-pints taken as a sedative, he realized the growing seriousness of his position.

In a dull resigned fashion he took up his household duties again, made harder now than before by the scandalous gossip of the aggrieved Mr. Stevens. The anonymous present of a much-worn apron put the finishing touch to his discomfiture; and the well-meant offer of a fair neighbour to teach him how to shake a mat without choking himself met with a reception that took her breath away.

It was a surprise to him one afternoon to find that his wife had so far unbent as to tidy up the parlour. Ornaments had been dusted and polished and the carpet swept. She had even altered the position of the furniture. The table had been pushed against the wall, and the easy-chair, with its back to the window, stood stiffly confronting six or seven assorted chairs, two of which at least had been promoted from a lower sphere.

“It’s for the meeting,” said Muriel, peeping in.

“Meeting?” repeated her father, in a dazed voice.

“Strike-meeting,” was the reply. “Mrs. Gorman and some other ladies are coming at four o’clock. Didn’t mother tell you?”

Mr. Porter, staring helplessly at the row of chairs, shook his head.

“Mrs. Evans is coming,” continued Muriel, in a hushed voice—“the lady what punched Mr. Brown because he kept Bobbie Evans in one day. He ain’t been kept in since. I wish you——”

She stopped suddenly, and, held by her father’s gaze, backed slowly out of the room. Mr. Porter, left with the chairs, stood regarding them thoughtfully. Their emptiness made an appeal that no right-minded man could ignore. He put his hand over his mouth and his eyes watered.

He spent the next half-hour in issuing invitations, and at half-past three every chair was filled by fellow-strikers. Three cans of beer, clay pipes, and a paper of shag stood on the table. Mr. Benjamin Todd, an obese, fresh-coloured gentleman of middle age, took the easy-chair. Glasses and teacups were filled.

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Todd, lighting his pipe, “afore we get on to the business of this meeting I want to remind you that there is another meeting, of ladies, at four o’clock; so we’ve got to hurry up. O’ course, if it should happen that we ain’t finished——”

“Go on, Bennie!” said a delighted admirer.

“I see a female ’ead peeping in at the winder already,” said a voice.

“Let ’em peep,” said Mr. Todd, benignly. “Then p’r’aps they’ll be able to see how to run a meeting.”

“There’s two more ’eads,” said the other. “Oh, Lord, I know I sha’n’t be able to keep a straight face!”

“H’sh!” commanded Mr. Todd, sternly, as the street-door was heard to open. “Be’ave yourself. As I was saying, the thing we’ve got to consider about this strike——”

The door opened, and six ladies, headed by Mrs. Porter, entered the room in single file and ranged themselves silently along the wall.

“Strike,” proceeded Mr. Todd, who found himself gazing uneasily into the eyes of Mrs. Gorman——“strike—er—strike——”

“He said that before,” said a stout lady, in a loud whisper; “I’m sure he did.”

“Is,” continued Mr. Todd, “that we have got to keep this—this—er—”

“Strike,” prompted the same voice.

Mr. Todd paused, and, wiping his mouth with a red pocket-handkerchief, sat staring straight before him.

“I move,” said Mrs. Evans, her sharp features twitching with excitement, “that Mrs. Gorman takes the chair.”

“’Ow can I take it when he’s sitting in it?” demanded that lady.

“She’s a lady that knows what she wants and how to get it,” pursued Mrs. Evans, unheeding. “She understands men—”

“I’ve buried two ’usbands,” murmured Mrs. Gorman, nodding.

“And how to manage them,” continued Mrs. Evans. “I move that Mrs. Gorman takes the chair. Those in favour—”

Mr. Todd, leaning back in his chair and gripping the arms, gazed defiantly at a row of palms.

“Carried unanimously!” snapped Mrs. Evans.

Mrs. Gorman, tall and bony, advanced and stood over Mr. Todd. Strong men held their breath.

“It’s my chair,” she said, gruffly. “I’ve been moved into it.”

“Possession,” said Mr. Todd, in as firm a voice as he could manage, “is nine points of the law. I’m here and—”

Mrs. Gorman turned, and, without the slightest warning, sat down suddenly and heavily in his lap. A hum of admiration greeted the achievement.

“Get up!” shouted the horrified Mr. Todd. “Get up!”

Mrs. Gorman settled herself more firmly.

“Let me get up,” said Mr. Todd, panting.

Mrs. Gorman rose, but remained in a hovering position, between which and the chair Mr. Todd, flushed and dishevelled, extricated himself in all haste. A shrill titter of laughter and a clapping of hands greeted his appearance. He turned furiously on the pallid Mr. Porter.

“What d’you mean by it?” he demanded. “Are you the master, or ain’t you? A man what can’t keep order in his own house ain’t fit to be called a man. If my wife was carrying on like this——”

“I wish I was your wife,” said Mrs. Gorman, moistening her lips.

Mr. Todd turned slowly and surveyed her.

“I don’t,” he said, simply, and, being by this time near the door, faded gently from the room.

“Order!” cried Mrs. Gorman, thumping the arm of her chair with a large, hard-working fist. “Take your seats, ladies.”

A strange thrill passed through the bodies of her companions and communicated itself to the men in the chairs. There was a moment’s tense pause, and then the end man, muttering something about “going to see what had happened to poor old Ben Todd,” rose slowly and went out. His companions, with heads erect and a look of cold disdain upon their faces, followed him.

It was Mr. Porter’s last meeting, but his wife had several more. They lasted, in fact, until the day, a fortnight later, when he came in with flushed face and sparkling eyes to announce that the strike was over and the men victorious.

“Six bob a week more!” he said, with enthusiasm. “You see, I was right to strike, after all.”

Mrs. Porter eyed him. “I am out for four bob a week more,” she said, calmly.

Her husband swallowed. “You—you don’t understand ’ow these things are done,” he said, at last. “It takes time. We ought to ne—negotiate.”

“All right,” said Mrs. Porter, readily. “Seven shillings a week, then.”

“Let’s say four and have done with it,” exclaimed the other, hastily.

And Mrs. Porter said it.

DIRTY WORK

It was nearly high-water, and the night-watchman, who had stepped aboard a lighter lying alongside the wharf to smoke a pipe, sat with half-closed eyes enjoying the summer evening. The bustle of the day was over, the wharves were deserted, and hardly a craft moved on the river. Perfumed clouds of shag, hovering for a time over the lighter, floated lazily towards the Surrey shore.

“There’s one thing about my job,” said the night-watchman, slowly, “it’s done all alone by yourself. There’s no foreman a-hollering at you and offering you a penny for your thoughts, and no mates to run into you from behind with a loaded truck and then ask you why you didn’t look where you’re going to. From six o’clock in the evening to six o’clock next morning I’m my own master.”

He rammed down the tobacco with an experienced forefinger and puffed contentedly.

People like you ’ud find it lonely (he continued, after a pause); I did at fust. I used to let people come and sit ’ere with me of an evening talking, but I got tired of it arter a time, and when one chap fell overboard while ’e was showing me ’ow he put his wife’s mother in ’er place, I gave it up altogether. There was three foot o’ mud in the dock at the time, and arter I ’ad got ’im out, he fainted in my arms.

Arter that I kept myself to myself. Say wot you like, a man’s best friend is ’imself. There’s nobody else’ll do as much for ’im, or let ’im off easier when he makes a mistake. If I felt a bit lonely I used to open the wicket in the gate and sit there watching the road, and p’r’aps pass a word or two with the policeman. Then something ’appened one night that made me take quite a dislike to it for a time.

I was sitting there with my feet outside, smoking a quiet pipe, when I ’eard a bit of a noise in the distance. Then I ’eard people running and shouts of “Stop, thief!” A man came along round the corner full pelt, and, just as I got up, dashed through the wicket and ran on to the wharf. I was arter ’im like a shot and got up to ’im just in time to see him throw something into the dock. And at the same moment I ’eard the other people run past the gate.

“Wot’s up?” I ses, collaring ’im.

“Nothing,” he ses, breathing ’ard and struggling. “Let me go.”

He was a little wisp of a man, and I shook ’im like a dog shakes a rat. I remembered my own pocket being picked, and I nearly shook the breath out of ’im.

“And now I’m going to give you in charge,” I ses, pushing ’im along towards the gate.

“Wot for?” he ses, purtending to be surprised.

“Stealing,” I ses.

“You’ve made a mistake,” he ses; “you can search me if you like.”

“More use to search the dock,” I ses. “I see you throw it in. Now you keep quiet, else you’ll get ’urt. If you get five years I shall be all the more pleased.”

I don’t know ’ow he did it, but ’e did. He seemed to sink away between my legs, and afore I knew wot was ’appening, I was standing upside down with all the blood rushing to my ’ead. As I rolled over he bolted through the wicket, and was off like a flash of lightning.

A couple o’ minutes arterwards the people wot I ’ad ’eard run past came back agin. There was a big fat policeman with ’em—a man I’d seen afore on the beat—and, when they ’ad gorn on, he stopped to ’ave a word with me.

“’Ot work,” he ses, taking off his ’elmet and wiping his bald ’ead with a large red handkerchief. “I’ve lost all my puff.”

“Been running?” I ses, very perlite.

“Arter a pickpocket,” he ses. “He snatched a lady’s purse just as she was stepping aboard the French boat with her ’usband. ‘Twelve pounds in it in gold, two peppermint lozenges, and a postage stamp.’”

He shook his ’ead, and put his ’elmet on agin.

“Holding it in her little ’and as usual,” he ses. “Asking for trouble, I call it. I believe if a woman ’ad one hand off and only a finger and thumb left on the other, she’d carry ’er purse in it.”

He knew a’most as much about wimmen as I do. When ’is fust wife died, she said ’er only wish was that she could take ’im with her, and she made ’im promise her faithful that ’e’d never marry agin. His second wife, arter a long illness, passed away while he was playing hymns on the concertina to her, and ’er mother, arter looking at ’er very hard, went to the doctor and said she wanted an inquest.

He went on talking for a long time, but I was busy doing a bit of ’ead-work and didn’t pay much attention to ’im. I was thinking o’ twelve pounds, two lozenges, and a postage stamp laying in the mud at the bottom of my dock, and arter a time ’e said ’e see as ’ow I was waiting to get back to my night’s rest, and went off—stamping.

I locked the wicket when he ’ad gorn away, and then I went to the edge of the dock and stood looking down at the spot where the purse ’ad been chucked in. The tide was on the ebb, but there was still a foot or two of water atop of the mud. I walked up and down, thinking.

I thought for a long time, and then I made up my mind. If I got the purse and took it to the police-station, the police would share the money out between ’em, and tell me they ’ad given it back to the lady. If I found it and put a notice in the newspaper—which would cost money—very likely a dozen or two ladies would come and see me and say it was theirs. Then if I gave it to the best-looking one and the one it belonged to turned up, there’d be trouble. My idea was to keep it—for a time—and then if the lady who lost it came to me and asked me for it I would give it to ’er.

Once I had made up my mind to do wot was right I felt quite ’appy, and arter a look up and down, I stepped round to the Bear’s Head and ’ad a couple o’ goes o’ rum to keep the cold out. There was nobody in there but the landlord, and ’e started at once talking about the thief, and ’ow he ’ad run arter him in ’is shirt-sleeves.

“My opinion is,” he ses, “that ’e bolted on one of the wharves and ’id ’imself. He disappeared like magic. Was that little gate o’ yours open?”

“I was on the wharf,” I ses, very cold.

“You might ha’ been on the wharf and yet not ’ave seen anybody come on,” he ses, nodding.

“Wot d’ye mean?” I ses, very sharp.

“Nothing,” he ses. “Nothing.”

“Are you trying to take my character away?” I ses, fixing ’im with my eye.

“Lo’ bless me, no!” he ses, staring at me. “It’s no good to me.”

He sat down in ’is chair behind the bar and went straight off to sleep with his eyes screwed up as tight as they would go. Then ’e opened his mouth and snored till the glasses shook. I suppose I’ve been one of the best customers he ever ’ad, and that’s the way he treated me. For two pins I’d ha’ knocked ’is ugly ’ead off, but arter waking him up very sudden by dropping my glass on the floor I went off back to the wharf.

I locked up agin, and ’ad another look at the dock. The water ’ad nearly gone and the mud was showing in patches. My mind went back to a sailorman wot had dropped ’is watch over-board two years before, and found it by walking about in the dock in ’is bare feet. He found it more easy because the glass broke when he trod on it.

The evening was a trifle chilly for June, but I’ve been used to roughing it all my life, especially when I was afloat, and I went into the office and began to take my clothes off. I took off everything but my pants, and I made sure o’ them by making braces for ’em out of a bit of string. Then I turned the gas low, and, arter slipping on my boots, went outside.

It was so cold that at fust I thought I’d give up the idea. The longer I stood on the edge looking at the mud the colder it looked, but at last I turned round and went slowly down the ladder. I waited a moment at the bottom, and was just going to step off when I remembered that I ’ad got my boots on, and I ’ad to go up agin and take ’em off.

I went down very slow the next time, and anybody who ’as been down an iron ladder with thin, cold rungs, in their bare feet, will know why, and I had just dipped my left foot in, when the wharf-bell rang.

I ’oped at fust that it was a runaway-ring, but it kept on, and the longer it kept on, the worse it got. I went up that ladder agin and called out that I was coming, and then I went into the office and just slipped on my coat and trousers and went to the gate.

“Wot d’you want?” I ses, opening the wicket three or four inches and looking out at a man wot was standing there.

“Are you old Bill?” he ses.

“I’m the watchman,” I ses, sharp-like. “Wot d’you want?”

“Don’t bite me!” he ses, purtending to draw back. “I ain’t done no ’arm. I’ve come round about that glass you smashed at the Bear’s Head.”

“Glass!” I ses, ’ardly able to speak.

“Yes, glass,” he ses—“thing wot yer drink out of. The landlord says it’ll cost you a tanner, and ’e wants it now in case you pass away in your sleep. He couldn’t come ’imself ’cos he’s got nobody to mind the bar, so ’e sent me. Why! Halloa! Where’s your boots? Ain’t you afraid o’ ketching cold?”

“You clear off,” I ses, shouting at him. “D’ye ’ear me? Clear off while you’re safe, and you tell the landlord that next time ’e insults me I’ll smash every glass in ’is place and then sit ’im on top of ’em! Tell ’im if ’e wants a tanner out o’ me, to come round ’imself, and see wot he gets.”

It was a silly thing to say, and I saw it arterwards, but I was in such a temper I ’ardly knew wot I was saying. I slammed the wicket in ’is face and turned the key and then I took off my clothes and went down that ladder agin.

It seemed colder than ever, and the mud when I got fairly into it was worse than I thought it could ha’ been. It stuck to me like glue, and every step I took seemed colder than the one before. ’Owever, when I make up my mind to do a thing, I do it. I fixed my eyes on the place where I thought the purse was, and every time I felt anything under my foot I reached down and picked it up—and then chucked it away as far as I could so as not to pick it up agin. Dirty job it was, too, and in five minutes I was mud up to the neck, a’most. And I ’ad just got to wot I thought was the right place, and feeling about very careful, when the bell rang agin.

I thought I should ha’ gorn out o’ my mind. It was just a little tinkle at first, then another tinkle, but, as I stood there all in the dark and cold trying to make up my mind to take no notice of it, it began to ring like mad. I ’ad to go—I’ve known men climb over the gate afore now—and I didn’t want to be caught in that dock.

The mud seemed stickier than ever, but I got out at last, and, arter scraping some of it off with a bit o’ stick, I put on my coat and trousers and boots just as I was and went to the gate, with the bell going its ’ardest all the time.

When I opened the gate and see the landlord of the Bear’s Head standing there I turned quite dizzy, and there was a noise in my ears like the roaring of the sea. I should think I stood there for a couple o’ minutes without being able to say a word. I could think of ’em.

“Don’t be frightened, Bill,” ses the landlord. “I’m not going to eat you.”

“He looks as if he’s walking in ’is sleep,” ses the fat policeman, wot was standing near by. “Don’t startle ’im.”

“He always looks like that,” ses the landlord.

I stood looking at ’im. I could speak then, but I couldn’t think of any words good enough; not with a policeman standing by with a note-book in ’is pocket.

“Wot was you ringing my bell for?” I ses, at last.

“Why didn’t you answer it before?” ses the landlord. “D’you think I’ve got nothing better to do than to stand ringing your bell for three-quarters of an hour? Some people would report you.”

“I know my dooty,” I ses; “there’s no craft up to-night, and no reason for anybody to come to my bell. If I was to open the gate every time a parcel of overgrown boys rang my bell I should ’ave enough to do.”

“Well, I’ll overlook it this time, seeing as you’re an old man and couldn’t get another sleeping-in job,” he ses, looking at the policeman for him to see ’ow clever ’e was. “Wot about that tanner? That’s wot I’ve come for.”

“You be off,” I ses, starting to shut the wicket. “You won’t get no tanner out of me.”

“All right,” he ses, “I shall stand here and go on ringing the bell till you pay up, that’s all.”

He gave it another tug, and the policeman instead of locking ’im up for it stood there laughing.

I gave ’im the tanner. It was no use standing there arguing over a tanner, with a purse of twelve quid waiting for me in the dock, but I told ’im wot people thought of ’im.

“Arf a second, watchman,” ses the policeman, as I started to shut the wicket agin. “You didn’t see anything of that pickpocket, did you?”

“I did not,” I ses.

“’Cos this gentleman thought he might ’ave come in here,” ses the policeman.

“’Ow could he ’ave come in here without me knowing it?” I ses, firing up.

“Easy,” ses the landlord, “and stole your boots into the bargain!”

“He might ’ave come when your back was turned,” ses the policeman, “and if so, he might be ’iding there now. I wonder whether you’d mind me having a look round?”

“I tell you he ain’t ’ere,” I ses, very short, “but, to ease your mind, I’ll ’ave a look round myself arter you’ve gorn.”

The policeman shook his ’ead. “Well, o’ course, I can’t come in without your permission,” he ses, with a little cough, “but I ’ave an idea, that if it was your guv’nor ’ere instead of you he’d ha’ been on’y too pleased to do anything ’e could to help the law. I’ll beg his pardon tomorrow for asking you, in case he might object.”

That settled it. That’s the police all over, and that’s ’ow they get their way and do as they like. I could see ’im in my mind’s eye talking to the guv’nor, and letting out little things about broken glasses and such-like by accident. I drew back to let ’im pass, and I was so upset that when that little rat of a landlord follered ’im I didn’t say a word.

I stood and watched them poking and prying about the wharf as if it belonged to ’em, with the light from the policeman’s lantern flashing about all over the place. I was shivering with cold and temper. The mud was drying on me.

“If you’ve finished ’unting for the pickpocket I’ll let you out and get on with my work,” I ses, drawing myself up.

“Good night,” ses the policeman, moving off. “Good night, dear,” ses the landlord. “Mind you tuck yourself up warm.”

I lost my temper for the moment and afore I knew wot I was doing I ’ad got hold of him and was shoving ’im towards the gate as ’ard as I could shove. He pretty near got my coat off in the struggle, and next moment the policeman ’ad turned his lantern on me and they was both staring at me as if they couldn’t believe their eyesight.

“He—he’s turning black!” ses the landlord.

“He’s turned black!” ses the policeman.

They both stood there looking at me with their mouths open, and then afore I knew wot he was up to, the policeman came close up to me and scratched my chest with his finger-nail.

“It’s mud!” he ses.

“You keep your nails to yourself,” I ses. “It’s nothing to do with you.” and I couldn’t ’elp noticing the smell of it. Nobody could. And wot was worse than all was, that the tide ’ad turned and was creeping over the mud in the dock.

They got tired of it at last and came back to where I was and stood there shaking their ’eads at me.

“If he was on the wharf ’e must ’ave made his escape while you was in the Bear’s Head,” ses the policeman.

“He was in my place a long time,” ses the landlord.

“Well, it’s no use crying over spilt milk,” ses the policeman. “Funny smell about ’ere, ain’t there?” he ses, sniffing, and turning to the landlord. “Wot is it?”

“I dunno,” ses the landlord. “I noticed it while we was talking to ’im at the gate. It seems to foller ’im about.”

“I’ve smelt things I like better,” ses the policeman, sniffing agin. “It’s just like the foreshore when somebody ’as been stirring the mud up a bit.”

“Unless it’s a case of ’tempted suicide,” he ses, looking at me very ’ard.

“Ah!” ses the landlord.

“There’s no mud on ’is clothes,” ses the policeman, looking me over with his lantern agin.

“He must ’ave gone in naked, but I should like to see ’is legs to make— All right! All right! Keep your ’air on.”

“You look arter your own legs, then,” I ses, very sharp, “and mind your own business.”

“It is my business,” he ses, turning to the landlord. “Was ’e strange in his manner at all when ’e was in your place to-night?”

“He smashed one o’ my best glasses,” ses the landlord.

“So he did,” ses the policeman. “So he did. I’d forgot that. Do you know ’im well?”

“Not more than I can ’elp,” ses the landlord. “He’s been in my place a good bit, but I never knew of any reason why ’e should try and do away with ’imself. If he’s been disappointed in love, he ain’t told me anything about it.”

I suppose that couple o’ fools ’ud ’ave stood there talking about me all night if I’d ha’ let ’em, but I had about enough of it.

“Look ’ere,” I ses, “you’re very clever, both of you, but you needn’t worry your ’eads about me. I’ve just been having a mud-bath, that’s all.”

“A mud-bath!” ses both of ’em, squeaking like a couple o’ silly parrots.

“For rheumatics,” I ses. “I ’ad it something cruel to-night, and I thought that p’r’aps the mud ’ud do it good. I read about it in the papers. There’s places where you pay pounds and pounds for ’em, but, being a pore man, I ’ad to ’ave mine on the cheap.”

The policeman stood there looking at me for a moment, and then ’e began to laugh till he couldn’t stop ’imself.

“Love-a-duck!” he ses, at last, wiping his eyes. “I wish I’d seen it.”

“Must ha’ looked like a fat mermaid,” ses the landlord, wagging his silly ’ead at me. “I can just see old Bill sitting in the mud a-combing his ’air and singing.”

They ’ad some more talk o’ that sort, just to show each other ’ow funny they was, but they went off at last, and I fastened up the gate and went into the office to clean myself up as well as I could. One comfort was they ’adn’t got the least idea of wot I was arter, and I ’ad a fancy that the one as laughed last would be the one as got that twelve quid.

I was so tired that I slept nearly all day arter I ’ad got ’ome, and I ’ad no sooner got back to the wharf in the evening than I see that the landlord ’ad been busy. If there was one silly fool that asked me the best way of making mud-pies, I should think there was fifty. Little things please little minds, and the silly way some of ’em went on made me feel sorry for my sects.

By eight o’clock, ’owever, they ’ad all sheered off, and I got a broom and began to sweep up to ’elp pass the time away until low-water. On’y one craft ’ad come up that day—a ketch called the Peewit—and as she was berthed at the end of the jetty she wasn’t in my way at all.

Her skipper came on to the wharf just afore ten. Fat, silly old man ’e was, named Fogg. Always talking about ’is ’ealth and taking medicine to do it good. He came up to me slow like, and, when ’e stopped and asked me about the rheumatics, the broom shook in my ’and.

“Look here,” I ses, “if you want to be funny, go and be funny with them as likes it. I’m fair sick of it, so I give you warning.”

“Funny?” he ses, staring at me with eyes like a cow. “Wot d’ye mean? There’s nothing funny about rheumatics; I ought to know; I’m a martyr to it. Did you find as ’ow the mud did you any good?”

I looked at ’im hard, but ’e stood there looking at me with his fat baby-face, and I knew he didn’t mean any harm; so I answered ’im perlite and wished ’im good night.

“I’ve ’ad pretty near everything a man can have,” he ses, casting anchor on a empty box, “but I think the rheumatics was about the worst of ’em all. I even tried bees for it once.”

“Bees!” I ses. “Bees!”

“Bee-stings,” he ses. “A man told me that if I could on’y persuade a few bees to sting me, that ’ud cure me. I don’t know what ’e meant by persuading! they didn’t want no persuading. I took off my coat and shirt and went and rocked one of my neighbour’s bee-hives next door, and I thought my last hour ’ad come.”

He sat on that box and shivered at the memory of it.

“Now I take Dr. Pepper’s pellets instead,” he ses. “I’ve got a box in my state-room, and if you’d like to try ’em you’re welcome.”

He sat there talking about the complaints he had ’ad and wot he ’ad done for them till I thought I should never have got rid of ’im. He got up at last, though, and, arter telling me to always wear flannel next to my skin, climbed aboard and went below.

I knew the hands was aboard, and arter watching ’is cabin-skylight until the light was out, I went and undressed. Then I crept back on to the jetty, and arter listening by the Peewit to make sure that they was all asleep, I went back and climbed down the ladder.

It was colder than ever. The cold seemed to get into my bones, but I made up my mind to ’ave that twelve quid if I died for it. I trod round and round the place where I ’ad seen that purse chucked in until I was tired, and the rubbish I picked up by mistake you wouldn’t believe.

I suppose I ’ad been in there arf an hour, and I was standing up with my teeth clenched to keep them from chattering, when I ’appened to look round and see something like a white ball coming down the ladder. My ’art seemed to stand still for a moment, and then it began to beat as though it would burst. The white thing came down lower and lower, and then all of a sudden it stood in the mud and said, “Ow!”

“Who is it?” I ses. “Who are you?” “Halloa, Bill!” it ses. “Ain’t it perishing cold?”

It was the voice o’ Cap’n Fogg, and if ever I wanted to kill a fellow-creetur, I wanted to then.

“’Ave you been in long, Bill?” he ses. “About ten minutes,” I ses, grinding my teeth.

“Is it doing you good?” he ses.

I didn’t answer ’im.

“I was just going off to sleep,” he ses, “when I felt a sort of hot pain in my left knee. O’ course, I knew what it meant at once, and instead o’ taking some of the pellets I thought I’d try your remedy instead. It’s a bit nippy, but I don’t mind that if it does me good.”

He laughed a silly sort o’ laugh, and then I’m blest if ’e didn’t sit down in that mud and waller in it. Then he’d get up and come for’ard two or three steps and sit down agin.

“Ain’t you sitting down, Bill?” he ses, arter a time.

“No,” I ses, “I’m not.”

“I don’t think you can expect to get the full benefit unless you do,” he ses, coming up close to me and sitting down agin. “It’s a bit of a shock at fust, but Halloa!”

“Wot’s up?” I ses.

“Sitting on something hard,” he ses. “I wish people ’ud be more careful.”

He took a list to port and felt under the star-board side. Then he brought his ’and up and tried to wipe the mud off and see wot he ’ad got.

“Wot is it?” I ses, with a nasty sinking sort o’ feeling inside me.

“I don’t know,” he ses, going on wiping. “It’s soft outside and ’ard inside. It——”

“Let’s ’ave a look at it,” I ses, holding out my ’and.

“It’s nothing,” he ses, in a queer voice, getting up and steering for the ladder. “Bit of oyster-shell, I think.”

He was up that ladder hand over fist, with me close behind ’im, and as soon as he ’ad got on to the wharf started to run to ’is ship.

“Good night, Bill,” he ses, over ’is shoulder.

“Arf a moment.” I ses, follering ’im.

“I must get aboard,” he ses; “I believe I’ve got a chill,” and afore I could stop ’im he ’ad jumped on and run down to ’is cabin.

I stood on the jetty for a minute or two, trembling all over with cold and temper. Then I saw he ’ad got a light in ’is cabin, and I crept aboard and peeped down the skylight. And I just ’ad time to see some sovereigns on the table, when he looked up and blew out the light.