Chapter II: Part 2

She picked up the paper again, and regarded him furtively. Then she bent over it, and slowly scanned the pages, until a sudden horrified gasp drove the roses from Mr. Pinner’s cheek and prepared him for the worst,

“Wot is it?” he stammered.

Mrs. Pinner folded the paper back and, motioning him to silence, read as follows:—

“A violent assault was committed last night on a policeman down at Wapping, who was knocked down by a seafaring man until he got concussion of the brain. The injured constable states that he can identify the man what attacked him, and has given a full description of him at the police-station, where search is now being made for ’im. The public-houses are being watched.”

“Ho, are they?” commented Mr. Pinner, much annoyed. “Ho, indeed.”

“That’s all,” said his wife, putting down the paper.

“All!” echoed the indignant fireman. “’Ow much more do you want? I’m in a nice ’ole, I don’t think. Seems to me I might as well be in quod as ’ere.”

“You don’t know when you’re well off,” retorted his wife.

Mr. Pinner sighed, and moved aimlessly about the room; then he resumed his chair, and, shaking his head slowly, lit his pipe.

“You’ll be quite safe indoors,” said his wife, whose plan was now perfected. “The only thing is, people’ll wonder what you’re staying indoors all day for.”

Mr. Pinner took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at her blankly.

“Seems to me you want a reason for staying indoors,” she pursued.

“Well, I’ve got one, ain’t I?” said the injured man.

“Yes, but you can’t tell them that,” said his wife. “You want a reason everybody can understand and keep ’em from talking.”

“Yes, all very fine for you to talk,” said Mr. Pinner; “if you could think of a reason it ’ud be more sensible.”

Mrs. Pinner, who had got several ready, assumed an air of deep thoughtfulness, and softly scratched her cheek with her needle.

“Whitewash the kitchen ceiling,” she said, suddenly.

“’Ow long would that take?” demanded her lord, who was not fond of whitewashing.

“Then you could put a bit of paper in this room,” continued Mrs. Pinner, “and put them shelves in the corner what you said you’d do. That would take some time.”

“It would,” agreed Mr. Pinner, eyeing her disagreeably.

“And I was thinking,” said his wife, “if I got a sugar-box from the grocer’s and two pairs o’ wheels you could make the baby a nice little perambulator.”

“Seems to me——” began the astonished Mr. Pinner.

“While you’re doing those things I’ll try and think of some more,” interrupted his wife.

Mr. Pinner stared at her for some time in silence; finally he said “Thank’ee,” in a voice slightly tinged with emotion, and fell into a sullen reverie.

“It’s the safest plan,” urged his wife, seriously; “there’s so many things want doing that it’s the most natural thing in the world for you to stay indoors doing them. Nobody’ll think it strange.”

She stitched on briskly and watched her husband from the corner of her eye. He smoked on for some time, and rising at last with a sigh, sent her out for the materials, and spent the day whitewashing.

He was so fatigued with the unwonted exertion that he was almost content to stay in that evening and smoke; but the following morning was so bright and inviting that his confinement appeared more galling than ever. Hoping for some miracle that should rescue him from these sordid tasks, he sent out for another paper.

“It don’t say much about it,” said his wife.

The baby was crying, the breakfast things were not washed, and there were several other hindrances to journalistic work.

“Read it,” said the fireman, sternly.

“The injured constable,” read Mrs. Pinner, glibly, “is still going on satisfactory, and the public-houses are still being watched.”

“They do seem fond o’ them public-houses,” remarked Mr. Pinner, impatiently. “I’m glad the chap’s getting on all right, but I ’ope ’e won’t be about afore I get to sea again.”

“I shouldn’t think he would,” said his wife. “I’d better go out and get the wall-paper, ’adn’t I? What colour would you like?”

Mr. Pinner said that all wall-papers were alike to him, and indulged in dreary speculations as to where the money was to come from. Mrs. Pinner, who knew that they were saving fast owing to his enforced seclusion, smiled at his misgivings.

He papered the room that day, after a few choice observations on the price of wall-paper, and expressed his opinion that in a properly governed country the birth of red-whiskered policemen would be rendered an impossibility. To the compliments on his workmanship bestowed by the gratified Mrs. Pinner he turned a deaf ear.

There was nothing in the paper next morning, Mrs. Pinner’s invention being somewhat fatigued, but she promptly quelled her husband’s joy by suggesting that the police authorities were lying low in the hope of lulling him into a sense of false security. She drew such an amusing picture of the police searching streets and public-houses, while Mr. Pinner was blithely making a perambulator indoors, that she was fain to wipe the tears of merriment from her eyes, while Mr. Pinner sat regarding her in indignant astonishment.

It was no source of gratification to Mr. Pinner to find that the other ladies in the house were holding him up as a pattern to their husbands, and trying to incite those reluctant gentlemen to follow in his footsteps. Mrs. Smith, of the first floor, praised him in terms which made him blush with shame, and Mrs. Hawk, of the second, was so complimentary that Mr. Hawk, who had not long been married, came downstairs and gave him a pressing invitation to step out into the back yard.

By the time the perambulator was finished his patience was at an end, and he determined at all hazards to regain his liberty. Never had the street as surveyed from the small window appeared so inviting. He filled his pipe and communicated to the affrighted Mrs. Pinner his intention of going for a stroll.

“Wait till I’ve seen the paper,” she protested.

“Wot’s the good of seeing the paper?” replied Mr. Pinner. “We know as ’e’s in bed, and it seems to me while ’e’s in bed is my time to be out. I shall keep a look-out. Besides, I’ve just ’ad an idea; I’m going to shave my moustache off. I ought to ha’ thought of it before.”

He went upstairs, leaving his wife wringing her hands below. So far from the red policeman being in bed, she was only too well aware that he was on duty in the district, with every faculty strained to the utmost to avenge the outrage of which he had been the victim. It became necessary to save her husband at all costs, and while he was busy upstairs with the razor she slipped out and bought a paper.

He had just come down by the time she returned, and turned to confront her with a conscious grin; but at the sight of her face the smile vanished from his own, and he stood waiting nervously for ill news.

“Oh, dear,” moaned his wife.

“What’s the matter?” said Mr. Pinner, anxiously.

Mrs. Pinner supported herself by the table and shook her head despondently.

“’Ave they found me out?” demanded Mr. Pinner.

“Worse than that,” said his wife.

“Worse than that!” said her husband, whose imagination was not of a soaring description. “How can it be?”

“He’s dead,” said Mrs. Pinner, solemnly.

“_Dead!_” repeated her husband, starting violently.

Mrs. Pinner, with a little sniff, took up the paper and read slowly, interrupted only by the broken ejaculations of her husband.

“The unfortunate policeman who was assaulted the other day down at Wapping passed away peacefully yesterday evening. Lady Verax is prostrate with grief and refuses to leave the death-chamber. Several members of the Royal family have telegraphed their——”

“_Wot?_” interrupted the astounded listener.

“I was reading the wrong bit,” said Mrs. Pinner, who was too engrossed in her reading of the death of a well-known nobleman to remember to make all the corrections necessary to render them suitable for a policeman. Here it is:—

“The unfortunate policeman who was assaulted the other day down at Wapping passed away peacefully yesterday evening in the arms of his wife and family. The ruffian is believed to be at sea.”

“I wish ’e was,” said Mr. Pinner, mournfully. “I wish ’e was anywhere but ’ere. The idea o’ making a delikit man like that a policeman. Why, I ’ardly touched ’im.”

“Promise me you won’t go out,” said his wife, tearfully.

“_Out?_” said Mr. Pinner, energetically; “_out?_ D’ ye think I’m mad, or wot? I’m going to stay ’ere till the ship sails, then I’m going down in a cab. Wot d’ye think I want to go out for?”

He sat in a frightened condition in the darkest corner of the room, and spoke only to his wife in terms of great bitterness concerning the extraordinary brittleness of members of the police force. “I’ll never touch one on ’em agin as long as I live,” he protested. “If you brought one to me asleep on a chair I wouldn’t touch ’im.”

“It’s the drink as made you do it,” said his wife.

“I’ll never touch a drop agin,” affirmed Mr. Pinner, shivering.

His pipe had lost its flavour, and he sat pondering in silence until the absolute necessity of finding more reasons for his continued presence in the house occurred to him. Mrs. Pinner agreed with the idea, and together they drew up a list of improvements which would occupy every minute of his spare time.

He worked so feverishly that he became a by-word in the mouths of the other lodgers, and the only moments of security and happiness he knew were when he was working in the bedroom with the door locked. Mr. Smith attributed it to disease, and for one panic-stricken hour discussed with Mr. Hawk the possibility of its being infectious.

Slowly the days passed until at length there were only two left, and he was in such a nervous and overwrought state that Mrs. Pinner was almost as anxious as he was for the day of departure. To comfort him she read a paragraph from the paper to the effect that the police had given up the search in despair. Mr. Pinner shook his head at this, and said it was a trap to get him out. He also, with a view of defeating the ends of justice, set to work upon a hood for the perambulator.

He was employed on this when his wife went out to do a little shopping. The house when she returned was quiet, and there were no signs of anything unusual having occurred; but when she entered the room she started back with a cry at the sight which met her eyes. Mr. Pinner was in a crouching attitude on the sofa, his face buried in the cushion, while one leg waved spasmodically in the air.

“Charlie,” she cried; “Charlie."

There was a hollow groan from the cushion in reply.

“What’s the matter?” she cried, in alarm. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve seen it,” said Mr. Pinner, in trembling tones. “I’ve seen a ghost. I was just peeping out of the winder behind the blind when it went by.”

“Nonsense,” said his wife.

“_His_ ghost,” said Mr. Pinner, regaining a more natural attitude and shivering violently, “red whiskers, white gloves and all. It’s doing a beat up and down this street. I shall go mad. It’s been by twice.”

“’Magination,” said his wife, aghast at this state of affairs.

“I’m afraid of its coming for me,” said Mr. Pinner, staring wildly. “Every minnit I expect to see it come to the door and beckon me to foller it to the station. Every minnit I expect to see it with its white face stuck up agin the winder-pane staring in at me.”

“You mustn’t ’ave such fancies,” said his wife.

“I see it as plain as I see you,” persisted the trembling fireman. “It was prancing up and down in just the same stuck-up way as it did when it was alive.”

“I’ll draw the blind down,” said his wife.

She crossed over to the window, and was about to lower the blind when she suddenly drew back with an involuntary exclamation.

“Can you see it?” cried her husband.

“No,” said Mrs. Pinner, recovering herself. “Shut your eyes.”

The fireman sprang to his feet. “Keep back,” said his wife, “don’t look.”

“I must,” said her husband.

His wife threw herself upon him, but he pushed her out of the way and rushed to the window. Then his jaw dropped and he murmured incoherently, for the ghost of the red policeman was plainly visible. Its lofty carriage of the head and pendulum-like swing of the arms were gone, and it was struggling in a most fleshly manner to lead a recalcitrant costermonger to the station.

In the intervals of the wrestling bout it blew loudly upon a whistle.

“Wonderful,” said Mrs. Pinner, nervously. “Lifelike, I call it.”

The fireman watched the crowd pass up the road, and then he turned and regarded her.

“Would you like to hear what I call it?” he thundered.

“Not before the baby, Charlie,” quavered Mrs. Pinner, drawing back.

The fireman regarded her silently, and his demeanour was so alarming that she grabbed Charles Augustus Pinner suddenly from his cradle and held him in front of her.

“You’ve kep’ me here,” said Mr. Pinner, in a voice which trembled with self-pity, “for near three weeks. For three weeks I’ve wasted my time, my little spare time, and my money in making perambulators, and whitewashing and papering, and all sorts of things. I’ve been the larfing-stock o’ this house, and I’ve been worked like a convict. Wot ’ave you got to say for yourself?”

“Wot do you mean?” inquired Mrs. Pinner, recovering herself. “I ain’t to blame for what’s in the paper, am I? How was I to know that the policeman as died wasn’t your policeman?”

Mr. Pinner eyed her closely, but she met his gaze with eyes honest and clear as those of a child. Then, realising that he was wasting precious time, he picked up his cap, and as C 49 turned the corner with his prize, set off in the opposite direction to spend in the usual manner the brief remnant of the leave which remained to him.

A GARDEN PLOT

The able-bodied men of the village were at work, the children were at school singing the multiplication-table lullaby, while the wives and mothers at home nursed the baby with one hand and did the housework with the other. At the end of the village an old man past work sat at a rough deal table under the creaking signboard of the Cauliflower, gratefully drinking from a mug of ale supplied by a chance traveller who sat opposite him.

The shade of the elms was pleasant and the ale good. The traveller filled his pipe and, glancing at the dusty hedges and the white road baking in the sun, called for the mugs to be refilled, and pushed his pouch towards his companion. After which he paid a compliment to the appearance of the village.

“It ain’t what it was when I was a boy,” quavered the old man, filling his pipe with trembling fingers. “I mind when the grindstone was stuck just outside the winder o’ the forge instead o’ being one side as it now is; and as for the shop winder—it’s twice the size it was when I was a young ’un.”

He lit his pipe with the scientific accuracy of a smoker of sixty years’ standing, and shook his head solemnly as he regarded his altered birthplace. Then his colour heightened and his dim eye flashed.

“It’s the people about ’ere ’as changed more than the place ’as,” he said, with sudden fierceness; “there’s a set o’ men about here nowadays as are no good to anybody; reg’lar raskels. And if you’ve the mind to listen I can tell you of one or two as couldn’t be beat in London itself.

“There’s Tom Adams for one. He went and started wot ’e called a Benevolent Club. Threepence a week each we paid agin sickness or accident, and Tom was secretary. Three weeks arter the club was started he caught a chill and was laid up for a month. He got back to work a week, and then ’e sprained something in ’is leg; and arter that was well ’is inside went wrong. We didn’t think much of it at first, not understanding figures; but at the end o’ six months the club hadn’t got a farthing, and they was in Tom’s debt one pound seventeen-and-six.

“He isn’t the only one o’ that sort in the place, either. There was Herbert Richardson. He went to town, and came back with the idea of a Goose Club for Christmas. We paid twopence a week into that for pretty near ten months, and then Herbert went back to town agin, and all we ’ear of ’im, through his sister, is that he’s still there and doing well, and don’t know when he’ll be back.

“But the artfullest and worst man in this place—and that’s saying a good deal, mind you—is Bob Pretty. Deep is no word for ’im. There’s no way of being up to ’im. It’s through ’im that we lost our Flower Show; and, if you’d like to ’ear the rights o’ that, I don’t suppose there’s anybody in this place as knows as much about it as I do—barring Bob hisself that is, but ’e wouldn’t tell it to you as plain as I can.

“We’d only ’ad the Flower Show one year, and little anybody thought that the next one was to be the last. The first year you might smell the place a mile off in the summer, and on the day of the show people came from a long way round, and brought money to spend at the Cauliflower and other places.

“It was started just after we got our new parson, and Mrs. Pawlett, the parson’s wife, ’is name being Pawlett, thought as she’d encourage men to love their ’omes and be better ’usbands by giving a prize every year for the best cottage garden. Three pounds was the prize, and a metal tea-pot with writing on it.

“As I said, we only ’ad it two years. The fust year the garden as got it was a picter, and Bill Chambers, ’im as won the prize, used to say as ’e was out o’ pocket by it, taking ’is time and the money ’e spent on flowers. Not as we believed that, you understand, ’specially as Bill did ’is very best to get it the next year, too. ’E didn’t get it, and though p’r’aps most of us was glad ’e didn’t, we was all very surprised at the way it turned out in the end.

“The Flower Show was to be ’eld on the 5th o’ July, just as a’most everything about here was at its best. On the 15th of June Bill Chambers’s garden seemed to be leading, but Peter Smith and Joe Gubbins and Sam Jones and Henery Walker was almost as good, and it was understood that more than one of ’em had got a surprise which they’d produce at the last moment, too late for the others to copy. We used to sit up here of an evening at this Cauliflower public-house and put money on it. I put mine on Henery Walker, and the time I spent in ’is garden ’elping ’im is a sin and a shame to think of.

“Of course some of ’em used to make fun of it, and Bob Pretty was the worst of ’em all. He was always a lazy, good-for-nothing man, and ’is garden was a disgrace. He’d chuck down any rubbish in it: old bones, old tins, bits of an old bucket, anything to make it untidy. He used to larf at ’em awful about their gardens and about being took up by the parson’s wife. Nobody ever see ’im do any work, real ’ard work, but the smell from ’is place at dinner-time was always nice, and I believe that he knew more about game than the parson hisself did.

“It was the day arter this one I’m speaking about, the 16th o’ June, that the trouble all began, and it came about in a very eggstrordinary way. George English, a quiet man getting into years, who used when ’e was younger to foller the sea, and whose only misfortin was that ’e was a brother-in-law o’ Bob Pretty’s, his sister marrying Bob while ’e was at sea and knowing nothing about it, ’ad a letter come from a mate of his who ’ad gone to Australia to live. He’d ’ad letters from Australia before, as we all knew from Miss Wicks at the post-office, but this one upset him altogether. He didn’t seem like to know what to do about it.

“While he was wondering Bill Chambers passed. He always did pass George’s ’ouse about that time in the evening, it being on ’is way ’ome, and he saw George standing at ’is gate with a letter in ’is ’and looking very puzzled.

“‘Evenin’, George,’ ses Bill.

“‘Evenin’,’ ses George.

“‘Not bad news, I ’ope?’ ses Bill, noticing ’is manner, and thinking it was strange.

“‘No,’ ses George. ‘I’ve just ’ad a very eggstrordinary letter from Australia,’ he ses, ‘that’s all.’

“Bill Chambers was always a very inquisitive sort o’ man, and he stayed and talked to George until George, arter fust making him swear oaths that ’e wouldn’t tell a soul, took ’im inside and showed ’im the letter.

“It was more like a story-book than a letter. George’s mate, John Biggs by name, wrote to say that an uncle of his who had just died, on ’is deathbed told him that thirty years ago he ’ad been in this very village, staying at this ’ere very Cauliflower, whose beer we’re drinking now. In the night, when everybody was asleep, he got up and went quiet-like and buried a bag of five hundred and seventeen sovereigns and one half-sovereign in one of the cottage gardens till ’e could come for it agin. He didn’t say ’ow he come by the money, and, when Bill spoke about that, George English said that, knowing the man, he was afraid ’e ’adn’t come by it honest, but anyway his friend John Biggs wanted it, and, wot was more, ’ad asked ’im in the letter to get it for ’im.

“‘And wot I’m to do about it, Bill,’ he ses, I don’t know. All the directions he gives is, that ’e thinks it was the tenth cottage on the right-’and side of the road, coming down from the Cauliflower. He thinks it’s the tenth, but ’e’s not quite sure. Do you think I’d better make it known and offer a reward of ten shillings, say, to any one who finds it?’

“‘No,’ ses Bill, shaking ’is ’ead. ‘I should hold on a bit if I was you, and think it over. I shouldn’t tell another single soul, if I was you.’

“‘I be’lieve you’re right,’ ses George. ‘John Biggs would never forgive me if I lost that money for ’im. You’ll remember about keeping it secret, Bill?’

“Bill swore he wouldn’t tell a soul, and ’e went off ’ome and ’ad his supper, and then ’e walked up the road to the Cauliflower and back, and then up and back again, thinking over what George ’ad been telling ’im, and noticing, what ’e’d never taken the trouble to notice before, that ’is very house was the tenth one from the Cauliflower.

“Mrs. Chambers woke up at two o’clock next morning and told Bill to get up further, and then found ’e wasn’t there. She was rather surprised at first, but she didn’t think much of it, and thought, what happened to be true, that ’e was busy in the garden, it being a light night. She turned over and went to sleep again, and at five when she woke up she could distinctly ’ear Bill working ’is ’ardest. Then she went to the winder and nearly dropped as she saw Bill in his shirt and trousers digging away like mad. A quarter of the garden was all dug up, and she shoved open the winder and screamed out to know what ’e was doing.

“Bill stood up straight and wiped ’is face with his shirt-sleeve and started digging again, and then his wife just put something on and rushed downstairs as fast as she could go.

“‘What on earth are you a-doing of, Bill?’ she screams.

“‘Go indoors,’ ses Bill, still digging.

“‘Have you gone mad?’ she ses, half-crying.

“Bill just stopped to throw a lump of mould at her, and then went on digging till Henery Walker, who also thought ’e ’ad gone mad, and didn’t want to stop ’im too soon, put ’is ’ead over the ’edge and asked ’im the same thing.

“‘Ask no questions and you’ll ’ear no lies, and keep your ugly face your own side of the ’edge,’ ses Bill. ‘Take it indoors and frighten the children with,’ he ses. ‘I don’t want it staring at me.’

“Henery walked off offended, and Bill went on with his digging. He wouldn’t go to work, and ’e ’ad his breakfast in the garden, and his wife spent all the morning in the front answering the neighbours’ questions and begging of ’em to go in and say something to Bill. One of ’em did go, and came back a’most directly and stood there for hours telling diff’rent people wot Bill ’ad said to _’er_, and asking whether ’e couldn’t be locked up for it.

“By tea-time Bill was dead-beat, and that stiff he could ’ardly raise ’is bread and butter to his mouth. Several o’ the chaps looked in in the evening, but all they could get out of ’im was, that it was a new way o’ cultivating ’is garden ’e ’ad just ’eard of, and that those who lived the longest would see the most. By night-time ’e’d nearly finished the job, and ’is garden was just ruined.

“Afore people ’ad done talking about Bill, I’m blest if Peter Smith didn’t go and cultivate ’is garden in exactly the same way. The parson and ’is wife was away on their ’oliday, and nobody could say a word. The curate who ’ad come over to take ’is place for a time, and who took the names of people for the Flower Show, did point out to ’im that he was spoiling ’is chances, but Peter was so rude to ’im that he didn’t stay long enough to say much.

“When Joe Gubbins started digging up ’is garden people began to think they were all bewitched, and I went round to see Henery Walker to tell ’im wot a fine chance ’e’d got, and to remind ’im that I’d put another ninepence on ’im the night before. All ’e said was, ‘More fool you,’ and went on digging a ’ole in his garden big enough to put a ’ouse in.

“In a fortnight’s time there wasn’t a garden worth looking at in the place, and it was quite clear there’d be no Flower Show that year, and of all the silly, bad-tempered men in the place them as ’ad dug up their pretty gardens was the wust.

“It was just a few days before the day fixed for the Flower Show, and I was walking up the road when I see Joe and Henery Walker and one or two more leaning over Bob Pretty’s fence and talking to ’im. I stopped, too, to see what they were looking at, and found they was watching Bob’s two boys a-weeding of ’is garden. It was a disgraceful, untidy sort of place, as I said before, with a few marigolds and nasturtiums, and sich-like put in anywhere, and Bob was walking up and down smoking of ’is pipe and watching ’is wife hoe atween the plants and cut off dead marigold blooms.

“‘That’s a pretty garden you’ve got there, Bob,’ ses Joe, grinning.

“I’ve seen wuss,’ ses Bob.

“‘Going in for the Flower Show, Bob?’ ses Henery, with a wink at us.

“‘O’ course I am,’ ses Bob, ’olding ’is ’ead up; ‘my marigolds ought to pull me through,’ he ses.

“Henery wouldn’t believe it at first, but when he saw Bob show ’is missus ’ow to pat the path down with the back o’ the spade and hold the nails for ’er while she nailed a climbing nasturtium to the fence, he went off and fetched Bill Chambers and one or two others, and they all leaned over the fence breathing their ’ardest and a-saying of all the nasty things to Bob they could think of.

“‘It’s the best-kep’ garden in the place,’ ses Bob. ‘I ain’t afraid o’ your new way o’ cultivating flowers, Bill Chambers. Old-fashioned ways suit me best; I learnt ’ow to grow flowers from my father.’

“‘You ain’t ’ad the cheek to give your name in, Bob?’ ses Sam Jones, staring.

“Bob didn’t answer ’im. ‘Pick those bits o’ grass out o’ the path, old gal,’ he ses to ’is wife; ‘they look untidy, and untidiness I can’t abear.’

“He walked up and down smoking ’is pipe and pretending not to notice Henery Walker, wot ’ad moved farther along the fence, and was staring at some drabble-tailed-looking geraniums as if ’e’d seen ’em afore but wasn’t quite sure where.

“‘Admiring my geraniums, Henery?’ ses Bob at last.

“‘Where’d you get ’em?’ ses Henery, ’ardly able to speak.

“‘My florist’s,’ ses Bob, in a off-hand manner.

“‘Your _wot_? asks Henery.

“‘My florist,’ ses Bob.

“‘And who might ’e be when ’e’s at home?’ asked Henery.

“‘’Tain’t so likely I’m going to tell you that,’ ses Bob. ‘Be reasonable, Henery, and ask yourself whether it’s likely I should tell you ’is name. Why, I’ve never seen sich fine geraniums afore. I’ve been nursing ’em inside all the summer, and just planted ’em out.’

“‘About two days arter I threw mine over my back fence,’ ses Henery Walker, speaking very slowly.

“‘Ho,’ ses Bob, surprised. ‘I didn’t know you ’ad any geraniums, Henery. I thought you was digging for gravel this year.’

“Henery didn’t answer ’im. Not because ’e didn’t want to, mind you, but because he couldn’t.

“‘That one,’ ses Bob, pointing at a broken geranium with the stem of ’is pipe, ’is a “Dook o’ Wellington,” and that white one there is wot I’m going to call “Pretty’s Pride.” That fine marigold over there, wot looks like a sunflower, is called “Golden Dreams.”’

“‘Come along, Henery,’ ses Bill Chambers, bursting, ‘come and get something to take the taste out of your mouth.’

“‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a flower for your button-’ole,’ ses Bob, perlitely, ‘but it’s getting so near the Flower Show now I can’t afford it. If you chaps only knew wot pleasure was to be ’ad sitting among your innercent flowers, you wouldn’t want to go to the public-house so often.’

“He shook ’is ’ead at ’em, and telling his wife to give the ‘Dook o’ Wellington’ a mug of water, sat down in the chair agin and wiped the sweat off ’is brow.

“Bill Chambers did a bit o’ thinking as they walked up the road, and by and by ’e turns to Joe Gubbins and ’e ses:

“‘Seen anything o’ George English lately, Joe?’

“‘_Yes_,’ ses Joe.

“‘Seems to me we all ’ave,’ ses Sam Jones.

“None of ’em liked to say wot was in their minds, ’aving all seen George English and swore pretty strong not to tell his secret, and none of ’em liking to own up that they’d been digging up their gardens to get money as ’e’d told ’em about. But presently Bill Chambers ses:

“‘Without telling no secrets or breaking no promises, Joe, supposing a certain ’ouse was mentioned in a certain letter from forrin parts, wot ’ouse was it?’

“‘Supposing it was so,’ ses Joe, careful too; ‘the second ’ouse counting from the Cauliflower.’

“‘The ninth ’ouse, you mean,’ ses Henery Walker, sharply.

“‘Second ’ouse in Mill Lane, you mean,’ ses Sam Jones, wot lived there.

“Then they all see ’ow they’d been done, and that they wasn’t, in a manner o’ speaking, referring to the same letter. They came up and sat ’ere where we’re sitting now, all dazed-like. It wasn’t only the chance o’ losing the prize that upset ’em, but they’d wasted their time and ruined their gardens and got called mad by the other folks. Henery Walker’s state o’ mind was dreadful for to see, and he kep’ thinking of ’orrible things to say to George English, and then being afraid they wasn’t strong enough.

“While they was talking who should come along but George English hisself! He came right up to the table, and they all sat back on the bench and stared at ’im fierce, and Henery Walker crinkled ’is nose at him.

“‘Evening,’ he ses, but none of ’em answered im; they all looked at Henery to see wot ’e was going to say.

“‘Wot’s up?’ ses George, in surprise.

“‘_Gardens_,’ ses Henery.

“‘So I’ve ’eard,’ ses George.

“He shook ’is ’ead and looked at them sorrowful and severe at the same time.

“‘So I ’eard, and I couldn’t believe my ears till I went and looked for myself,’ he ses, ‘and wot I want to say is this: you know wot I’m referring to. If any man ’as found wot don’t belong to him ’e knows who to give it to. It ain’t wot I should ’ave expected of men wot’s lived in the same place as _me_ for years. Talk about honesty,’ ’e ses, shaking ’is ’ead agin, ‘I should like to see a little of it.’

“Peter Smith opened his mouth to speak, and ’ardly knowing wot ’e was doing took a pull at ’is beer at the same time, and if Sam Jones ’adn’t been by to thump ’im on the back I b’lieve he’d ha’ died there and then.

“‘Mark my words,’ ses George English, speaking very slow and solemn, ‘there’ll be no blessing on it. Whoever’s made ’is fortune by getting up and digging ’is garden over won’t get no real benefit from it. He may wear a black coat and new trousers on Sunday, but ’e won’t be ’appy. I’ll go and get my little taste o’ beer somewhere else,’ ’e ses. ‘I can’t breathe here.’

“He walked off before any one could say a word; Bill Chambers dropped ’is pipe and smashed it, Henery Walker sat staring after ’im with ’is mouth wide open, and Sam Jones, who was always one to take advantage, drank ’is own beer under the firm belief that it was Joe’s.

“‘I shall take care that Mrs. Pawlett ’ears o’ this,’ ses Henery, at last.

“‘And be asked wot you dug your garden up for,’ ses Joe, ‘and ’ave to explain that you broke your promise to George. Why, she’d talk at us for years and years.’

“‘And parson ’ud preach a sermon about it,’ ses Sam; ‘where’s your sense, Henery?’

“‘We should be the larfing-stock for miles round,’ ses Bill Chambers. ‘If anybody wants to know, I dug my garden up to enrich the soil for next year, and also to give some other chap a chance of the prize.’

“Peter Smith ’as always been a unfortunit man; he’s got the name for it. He was just ’aving another drink as Bill said that, and this time we all thought ’e’d gorn. He did hisself.

“Mrs. Pawlett and the parson came ’ome next day, an’ ’er voice got that squeaky with surprise it was painful to listen to her. All the chaps stuck to the tale that they’d dug their garden up to give the others a chance, and Henery Walker, ’e went further and said it was owing to a sermon on unselfishness wot the curate ’ad preached three weeks afore. He ’ad a nice little red-covered ’ymn-book the next day with ‘From a friend’ wrote in it.

“All things considered, Mrs. Pawlett was for doing away with the Flower Show that year and giving two prizes next year instead, but one or two other chaps, encouraged by Bob’s example, ’ad given in their names too, and they said it wouldn’t be fair to their wives. All the gardens but one was worse than Bob’s, they not having started till later than wot ’e did, and not being able to get their geraniums from ’is florist. The only better garden was Ralph Thomson’s, who lived next door to ’im, but two nights afore the Flower Show ’is pig got walking in its sleep. Ralph said it was a mystery to ’im ’ow the pig could ha’ got out; it must ha’ put its foot through a hole too small for it, and turned the button of its door, and then climbed over a four-foot fence. He told Bob ’e wished the pig could speak, but Bob said that that was sinful and unchristian of ’im, and that most likely if it could, it would only call ’im a lot o’ bad names, and ask ’im why he didn’t feed it properly.

“There was quite a crowd on Flower Show day following the judges. First of all, to Bill Chambers’s astonishment and surprise, they went to ’is place and stood on the ’eaps in ’is garden judging ’em, while Bill peeped at ’em through the kitchen winder ’arf-crazy. They went to every garden in the place, until one of the young ladies got tired of it, and asked Mrs. Pawlett whether they was there to judge cottage gardens or earthquakes.

“Everybody ’eld their breaths that evening in the school room when Mrs. Pawlett got up on the platform and took a slip of paper from one of the judges. She stood a moment waiting for silence, and then ’eld up her ’and to stop what she thought was clapping at the back, but which was two or three wimmen who ’ad ’ad to take their crying babies out trying to quiet ’em in the porch. Then Mrs. Pawlett put ’er glasses on her nose and just read out, short and sweet, that the prize of three sovereigns and a metal teapot for the best-kept cottage garden ’ad been won by Mr. Robert Pretty.

“One or two people patted Bob on the back as ’e walked up the middle to take the prize; then one or two more did, and Bill Chambers’s pat was the ’eartiest of ’em all. Bob stopped and spoke to ’im about it.

“You would ’ardly think that Bob ’ud have the cheek to stand up there and make a speech, but ’e did. He said it gave ’im great pleasure to take the teapot and the money, and the more pleasure because ’e felt that ’e had earned ’em. He said that if ’e told ’em all ’e’d done to make sure o’ the prize they’d be surprised. He said that ’e’d been like Ralph Thomson’s pig, up early and late.

“He stood up there talking as though ’e was never going to leave off, and said that ’e hoped as ’is example would be of benefit to ’is neighbours. Some of ’em seemed to think that digging was everything, but ’e could say with pride that ’e ’adn’t put a spade to ’is garden for three years until a week ago, and then not much.

“He finished ’is remarks by saying that ’e was going to give a tea-party up at the Cauliflower to christen the teapot, where ’e’d be pleased to welcome all friends. Quite a crowd got up and followed ’im out then, instead o’ waiting for the dissolving views, and came back ’arf an hour arterwards, saying that until they’d got as far as the Cauliflower they’d no idea as Bob was so pertickler who ’e mixed with.

“That was the last Flower Show we ever ’ad in Claybury, Mrs. Pawlett and the judges meeting the tea-party coming ’ome, and ’aving to get over a gate into a field to let it pass. What with that and Mrs. Pawlett tumbling over something further up the road, which turned out to be the teapot, smelling strong of beer, the Flower Show was given up, and the parson preached three Sundays running on the sin of beer-drinking to children who’d never ’ad any and wimmen who couldn’t get it.”

PRIVATE CLOTHES

At half-past nine the crew of the _Merman_ were buried in slumber, at nine thirty-two three of the members were awake with heads protruding out of their bunks, trying to peer through the gloom, while the fourth dreamt that a tea-tray was falling down a never-ending staircase. On the floor of the forecastle something was cursing prettily and rubbing itself.

“Did you ’ear anything, Ted?” inquired a voice in an interval of silence.

“Who is it?” demanded Ted, ignoring the question. “Wot d’yer want?”

“I’ll let you know who I am,” said a thick and angry voice. “I’ve broke my blarsted back.”

“Light the lamp, Bill,” said Ted.

Bill struck a tandsticker match, and carefully nursing the tiny sulphurous flame with his hand, saw dimly some high-coloured object on the floor.

He got out of his bunk and lit the lamp, and an angry and very drunken member of Her Majesty’s foot forces became visible.

“Wot are you doin’ ’ere?” inquired Ted, sharply, “this ain’t the guard-room.”

“Who knocked me over?” demanded the soldier sternly; “take your co—coat off lik’ a man.”

He rose to his feet and swayed unsteadily to and fro.

“If you keep your li’l’ ’eads still,” he said gravely, to Bill, “I’ll punch ’em.”

By a stroke of good fortune he selected the real head, and gave it a blow which sent it crashing against the woodwork. For a moment the seaman stood gathering his scattered senses, then with an oath he sprang forward, and in the lightest of fighting trim waited until his adversary, who was by this time on the floor again, should have regained his feet.

“He’s drunk, Bill,” said another voice, “don’t ’urt ’im. He’s a chap wot said ’e was coming aboard to see me—I met ’im in the Green Man this evening. You was coming to see me, mate, wasn’t you?”

The soldier looked up stupidly, and gripping hold of the injured Bill by the shirt, staggered to his feet again, and advancing towards the last speaker let fly suddenly in his face.

“Sort man I am,” he said, autobiographically. “Feel my arm.”

The indignant Bill took him by both, and throwing himself upon him suddenly fell with him to the floor. The intruder’s head met the boards with a loud crash, and then there was silence.

“You ain’t killed ’im, Bill?” said an old seaman, stooping over him anxiously.

“Course not,” was the reply; “give us some water.”

He threw some in the soldier’s face, and then poured some down his neck, but with no result. Then he stood upright, and exchanged glances of consternation with his friends.

“I don’t like the way he’s breathing,” he said, in a trembling voice.

“You always was pertickler, Bill,” said the cook, who had thankfully got to the bottom of his staircase. “If I was you—”

He was not allowed to proceed any further; footsteps and a voice were heard above, and as old Thomas hastily extinguished the lamp, the mate’s head was thrust down the scuttle, and the mate’s voice sounded a profane _reveille_.

“Wot are we goin’ to do with it?” inquired Ted, as the mate walked away.

“_’Im_, Ted,” said Bill, nervously. “He’s alive all right.”

“If we put ’im ashore an’ ’e’s dead,” said old Thomas, “there’ll be trouble for somebody. Better let ’im be, and if ’e’s dead, why we don’t none of us know nothing about it.”

The men ran up on deck, and Bill, being the last to leave, put a boot under the soldier’s head before he left. Ten minutes later they were under way, and standing about the deck, discussed the situation in thrilling whispers as opportunity offered.

At breakfast, by which time they were in a dirty tumbling sea, with the _Nore_ lightship, a brown, forlorn-looking object on their beam, the soldier, who had been breathing stertorously, raised his heavy head from the boot, and with glassy eyes and tightly compressed lips gazed wonderingly about him.

“Wot cheer, mate?” said the delighted Bill. “’Ow goes it?”

“Where am I?” inquired Private Harry Bliss, in a weak voice.

“Brig _Merman_,” said Bill; “bound for Bystermouth.”

“Well, I’m damned,” said Private Bliss; “it’s a blooming miracle. Open the winder, it’s a bit stuffy down here. Who—who brought me here?”

“You come to see me last night,” said Bob, “an’ fell down, I s’pose; then you punched Bill ’ere in the eye and me in the jor.”

Mr. Bliss, still feeling very sick and faint, turned to Bill, and after critically glancing at the eye turned on him for inspection, transferred his regards to the other man’s jaw.

“I’m a devil when I’m boozed,” he said, in a satisfied voice. “Well, I must get ashore; I shall get cells for this, I expect.”

He staggered to the ladder, and with unsteady haste gained the deck and made for the side. The heaving waters made him giddy to look at, and he gazed for preference at a thin line of coast stretching away in the distance.

The startled mate, who was steering, gave him a hail, but he made no reply. A little fishing-boat was jumping about in a way to make a sea-sick man crazy, and he closed his eyes with a groan.

Then the skipper, aroused by the mate’s hail, came up from below, and walking up to him put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“What are you doing aboard this ship?” he demanded, austerely.

“Go away,” said Private Bliss, faintly; “take your paw off my tunic; you’ll spoil it.”

He clung miserably to the side, leaving the incensed skipper to demand explanations from the crew. The crew knew nothing about him, and said that he must have stowed himself away in an empty bunk; the skipper pointed out coarsely that there were no empty bunks, whereupon Bill said that he had not occupied his the previous evening, but had fallen asleep sitting on the locker, and had injured his eye against the corner of a bunk in consequence. In proof whereof he produced the eye.

“Look here, old man,” said Private Bliss, who suddenly felt better. He turned and patted the skipper on the back. “You just turn to the left a bit and put me ashore, will you?”

“I’ll put you ashore at Bystermouth,” said the skipper, with a grin. “You’re a deserter, that’s what you are, and I’ll take care you’re took care of.”

“You put me ashore!” roared Private Bliss, with a very fine imitation of the sergeant-major’s parade voice.

“Get out and walk,” said the skipper contemptuously, over his shoulder, as he walked off.

“Here,” said Mr. Bliss, unbuckling his belt, “hold my tunic one of you. I’ll learn ’im.”

Before the paralysed crew could prevent him he had flung his coat into Bill’s arms and followed the master of the _Merman_ aft. As a light-weight he was rather fancied at the gymnasium, and in the all too brief exhibition which followed he displayed fine form and a knowledge of anatomy which even the skipper’s tailor was powerless to frustrate.

The frenzy of the skipper as Ted assisted him to his feet and he saw his antagonist struggling in the arms of the crew was terrible to behold. Strong men shivered at his words, but Mr. Bliss, addressing him as “Whiskers,” told him to call his crew off and to come on, and shaping as well as two pairs of brawny arms round his middle would permit, endeavoured in vain to reach him.

“This,” said the skipper, bitterly, as he turned to the mate, “is what you an’ me have to pay to keep up. I wouldn’t let you go now, my lad, not for a fi’ pun’ note. Deserter, that’s what you are!”

He turned and went below, and Private Bliss, after an insulting address to the mate, was hauled forward, struggling fiercely, and seated on the deck to recover. The excitement passed, he lost his colour again, and struggling into his tunic, went and brooded over the side.

By dinner-time his faintness had passed, and he sniffed with relish at the smell from the galley. The cook emerged bearing dinner to the cabin, then he returned and took a fine smoking piece of boiled beef flanked with carrots down to the forecastle. Private Bliss eyed him wistfully and his mouth watered.

For a time pride struggled with hunger, then pride won a partial victory and he descended carelessly to the forecastle.

“Can any o’ you chaps lend me a pipe o’ baccy?” he asked, cheerfully.

Bill rummaged in his pocket and found a little tobacco in a twist of paper.

“Bad thing to smoke on a empty stomach,” he said, with his mouth full.

“’Tain’t my fault it’s empty,” said Private Bliss, pathetically.

“’Tain’t mine,” said Bill.

“I’ve ’eard,” said the cook, who was a tenderhearted man, “as ’ow it’s a good thing to go for a day or so without food sometimes.”

“Who said so?” inquired Private Bliss, hotly.

“Diff’rent people,” replied the cook.

“You can tell ’em from me they’re blamed fools,” said Mr. Bliss.

There was an uncomfortable silence; Mr. Bliss lit his pipe, but it did not seem to draw well.

“Did you like that pot o’ six-half I stood you last night?” he inquired somewhat pointedly of Bob.

Bob hesitated and looked at his plate.

“No, it was a bit flat,” he said at length.

“Well, I won’t stop you chaps at your grub,” said Private Bliss, bitterly, as he turned to depart.

“You’re not stopping us,” said Ted, cheerfully. “I’d offer you a bit, only—”

“Only what?” demanded the other.

“Skipper’s orders,” said Ted. “He ses we’re not to. He ses if we do it’s helping a deserter, and we’ll all get six months.”

“But you’re helping me by having me on board,” said Private Bliss; “besides, I don’t want to desert.”

“We couldn’t ’elp you coming aboard,” said Bill, “that’s wot the old man said, but ’e ses we can ’elp giving of him vittles, he ses.”

“Well, have I got to starve?” demanded the horror-stricken Mr. Bliss.

“Look ’ere,” said Bill, frankly, “go and speak to the old man. It’s no good talking to us. Go and have it out with him.”

Private Bliss thanked him and went on deck. Old Thomas was at the wheel, and a pleasant clatter of knives and forks came up through the open skylight of the cabin. Ignoring the old man, who waved him away, he raised the open skylight still higher, and thrust his head in.

“Go away,” bawled the skipper, pausing with his knife in his fist as he caught sight of him.

“I want to know where I’m to have my dinner,” bawled back the thoroughly roused Mr. Bliss.

“Your _dinner_!” said the skipper, with an air of surprise; “why, I didn’t know you ’ad any.”

Private Bliss took his head away, and holding it very erect, took in his belt a little and walked slowly up and down the deck. Then he went to the water-cask and took a long drink, and an hour later a generous message was received from the skipper that he might have as many biscuits as he liked.

On this plain fare Private Bliss lived the whole of that day and the next, snatching a few hours’ troubled sleep on the locker at nights. His peace of mind was by no means increased by the information of Ted that Bystermouth was a garrison town, and feeling that in spite of any explanation he would be treated as a deserter, he resolved to desert in good earnest at the first opportunity that offered.

By the third day nobody took any notice of him, and his presence on board was almost forgotten, until Bob, going down to the forecastle, created a stir by asking somewhat excitedly what had become of him.

“He’s on deck, I s’pose,” said the cook, who was having a pipe.

“He’s not,” said Bob, solemnly.

“He’s not gone overboard, I s’pose?” said Bill, starting up.

Touched by this morbid suggestion they went up on deck and looked round; Private Bliss was nowhere to be seen, and Ted, who was steering, had heard no splash. He seemed to have disappeared by magic, and the cook, after a hurried search, ventured aft, and, descending to the cabin, mentioned his fears to the skipper.

“Nonsense!” said that gentleman, sharply, “I’ll lay I’ll find him.”

He came on deck and looked round, followed at a respectful distance by the crew, but there was no sign of Mr. Bliss.

Then an idea, a horrid idea, occurred to the cook. The colour left his cheeks and he gazed helplessly at the skipper.

“What is it?” bawled the latter.