Chapter IV: Part 4

“Look here,” said Mr. Ketchmaid, putting down the bottle and regarding him intently, “you’ve got me fair. Now, will you go for a pound?”

“Got you?” said Mr. Wiggett, severely; “I’m ashamed of you, Sol. Go to bed and sleep off the drink, and in the morning you can take Henry Wiggett’s ’and, but not before.”

He took a box of matches from the bar and, relighting the stump of his cigar, contemplated Mr. Ketchmaid for some time in silence, and then, with a serious shake of his head, stumped off to bed. Mr. Ketchmaid remained below, and for at least an hour sat thinking of ways and means out of the dilemma into which his ingenuity had led him.

He went to bed with the puzzle still unsolved, and the morning yielded no solution. Mr. Wiggett appeared to have forgotten the previous night’s proceedings altogether, and steadfastly declined to take umbrage at a manner which would have chilled a rhinoceros. He told several fresh anecdotes of himself and Sam Jones that evening; anecdotes which, at the immediate risk of choking, Mr. Ketchmaid was obliged to indorse.

A week passed, and Mr. Wiggett still graced with his presence the bar of the Ship. The landlord lost flesh, and began seriously to consider the advisability of making a clean breast of the whole affair. Mr. Wiggett watched him anxiously, and with a skill born of a life-long study of humanity, realised that his visit was drawing to an end. At last, one day, Mr. Ketchmaid put the matter bluntly.

“I shall tell the chaps to-night that it was a little joke on my part,” he announced, with grim decision; “then I shall take you by the collar and kick you into the road.”

Mr. Wiggett sighed and shook his head.

“It’ll be a terrible show-up for you,” he said, softly. “You’d better make it worth my while, and I’ll tell ’em this evening that I’m going to New Zealand to live with a niece of mine there, and that you’ve paid my passage for me. I don’t like telling any more lies, but, seeing it’s for you, I’ll do it for a couple of pounds.”

“Five shillings,” snarled Mr. Ketchmaid.

Mr. Wiggett smiled comfortably and shook his head. Mr. Ketchmaid raised his offer to ten shillings, to a pound, and finally, after a few remarks which prompted Mr. Wiggett to state that hard words broke no bones, flung into the bar and fetched the money.

The news of Mr. Wiggett’s departure went round the village at once, the landlord himself breaking the news to the next customer, and an overflow meeting assembled that evening to bid the emigrant farewell.

The landlord noted with pleasure that business was brisk. Several gentlemen stood drink to Mr. Wiggett, and in return he put his hand in his own pocket and ordered glasses round. Mr. Ketchmaid, in a state of some uneasiness, took the order, and then Mr. Wiggett, with the air of one conferring inestimable benefits, produced a lucky halfpenny, which had once belonged to Sam Jones, and insisted upon his keeping it.

“This is my last night, mates,” he said, mournfully, as he acknowledged the drinking of his health. “In many ports I’ve been, and many snug pubs I ’ave visited, but I never in all my days come across a nicer, kinder-’earted lot o’ men than wot you are.”

“Hear, hear,” said Mr. Clark.

Mr. Wiggett paused, and, taking a sip from his glass to hide his emotion, resumed.

“In my lonely pilgrimage through life, crippled and ’aving to beg my bread,” he said, tearfully, “I shall think o’ this ’appy bar and these friendly faces. When I am wrestlin’ with the pangs of ’unger and being moved on by the ’eartless police, I shall think of you as I last saw you.”

“But,” said Mr. Smith, voicing the general consternation, “you’re going to your niece in New Zealand?”

Mr. Wiggett shook his head and smiled a sad, sweet smile.

“I ’ave no niece,” he said, simply; “I’m alone in the world.”

At these touching words his audience put their glasses down and stared in amaze at Mr. Ketchmaid, while that gentleman in his turn gazed at Mr. Wiggett as though he had suddenly developed horns and a tail.

“Ketchmaid told me hisself as he’d paid your passage to New Zealand,” said the shoemaker; “he said as ’e’d pressed you to stay, but that you said as blood was thicker even than friendship.”

“All lies,” said Mr. Wiggett, sadly. “I’ll stay with pleasure if he’ll give the word. I’ll stay even now if ’e wishes it.”

He paused a moment as though to give his bewildered victim time to accept this offer, and then addressed the scandalised Mr. Clark again.

“He don’t like my being ’ere,” he said, in a low voice. “He grudges the little bit I eat, I s’pose. He told me I’d got to go, and that for the look o’ things ’e was going to pretend I was going to New Zealand. I was too broke-’earted at the time to care wot he said—I ’ave no wish to sponge on no man—but, seeing your ’onest faces round me, I couldn’t go with a lie on my lips—Sol Ketchmaid, old shipmate—good-bye.”

He turned to the speechless landlord, made as though to shake hands with him, thought better of it, and then, with a wave of his hand full of chastened dignity, withdrew. His stump rang with pathetic insistence upon the brick-paved passage, paused at the door, and then, tapping on the hard road, died slowly away in the distance. Inside the Ship the shoemaker gave an ominous order for lemonade.

A MARKED MAN

“Tattooing is a gift,” said the night-watchman, firmly. “It ’as to be a gift, as you can well see. A man ’as to know wot ’e is going to tattoo an’ ’ow to do it; there’s no rubbing out or altering. It’s a gift, an’ it can’t be learnt. I knew a man once as used to tattoo a cabin-boy all over every v’y’ge trying to learn. ’E was a slow, painstaking sort o’ man, and the langwidge those boys used to use while ’e was at work would ’ardly be believed, but ’e ’ad to give up trying arter about fifteen years and take to crochet-work instead.

“Some men won’t be tattooed at all, being proud o’ their skins or sich-like, and for a good many years Ginger Dick, a man I’ve spoke to you of before, was one o’ that sort. Like many red-’aired men ’e ’ad a very white skin, which ’e was very proud of, but at last, owing to a unfortnit idea o’ making ’is fortin, ’e let hisself be done.

“It come about in this way: Him and old Sam Small and Peter Russet ’ad been paid off from their ship and was ’aving a very ’appy, pleasant time ashore. They was careful men in a way, and they ’ad taken a room down East India Road way, and paid up the rent for a month. It came cheaper than a lodging-’ouse, besides being a bit more private and respectable, a thing old Sam was always very pertickler about.

“They ’ad been ashore about three weeks when one day old Sam and Peter went off alone becos Ginger said ’e wasn’t going with ’em. He said a lot more things, too; ’ow ’e was going to see wot it felt like to be in bed without ’aving a fat old man groaning ’is ’eart out and another one knocking on the mantelpiece all night with twopence and wanting to know why he wasn’t being served.

“Ginger Dick fell into a quiet sleep arter they’d gone; then ’e woke up and ’ad a sip from the water-jug—he’d ’a had more, only somebody ’ad dropped the soap in it—and then dozed off agin. It was late in the afternoon when ’e woke, and then ’e see Sam and Peter Russet standing by the side o’ the bed looking at ’im.

“‘Where’ve you been?’ ses Ginger, stretching hisself and yawning.

“‘Bisness,’ ses Sam, sitting down an’ looking very important. ‘While you’ve been laying on your back all day me an’ Peter Russet ’as been doing a little ’ead-work.’

“‘Oh!’ ses Ginger. ‘Wot with?’

“Sam coughed and Peter began to whistle, an’ Ginger he laid still and smiled up at the ceiling, and began to feel good-tempered agin.

“‘Well, wot’s the business?’ he ses, at last.

“Sam looked at Peter, but Peter shook ’is ’ead at him.

“It’s just a little bit o’ bisness we ’appened to drop on,’ ses Sam, at last, ‘me an’ Peter, and I think that, with luck and management, we’re in a fair way to make our fortunes. Peter, ’ere, ain’t given to looking on the cheerful side o’ things, but ’e thinks so, too.’

“‘I do,’ ses Peter, ‘but it won’t be managed right if you go blabbing it to everybody.’

“‘We must ’ave another man in it, Peter,’ ses Sam; ‘and, wot’s more, ’e must ’ave ginger-coloured ’air. That being so, it’s only right and proper that our dear old pal Ginger should ’ave the fust offer.’

“It wasn’t often that Sam was so affeckshunate, and Ginger couldn’t make it out at all. Ever since ’e’d known ’im the old man ’ad been full o’ plans o’ making money without earning it. Stupid plans they was, too, but the stupider they was the more old Sam liked ’em.

“‘Well, wot is it?’ asks Ginger, agin.

“Old Sam walked over to the door and shut it; then ’e sat down on the bed and spoke low so that Ginger could hardly ’ear ’im.

“‘A little public-’ouse,’ he ses, ‘to say nothing of ’ouse property, and a red-’aired old landlady wot’s a widder. As nice a old lady as any one could wish for, for a mother.’

“‘For a mother!’ ses Ginger, staring.

“‘And a lovely barmaid with blue eyes and yellow ’air, wot ’ud be the red-’edded man’s cousin,’ ses Peter Russet.

“‘Look ’ere,’ ses Ginger, ‘are you going to tell me in plain English wot it’s all about, or are you not?’

“‘We’ve been in a little pub down Bow way, me an’ Peter,’ ses Sam, ‘and we’ll tell you more about it if you promise to join us an’ go shares. It’s kep’ by a widder woman whose on’y son—_red-’aired son_—went to sea twenty-three years ago, at the age o’ fourteen, an’ was never ’eard of arterwards. Seeing we was sailor-men, she told us all about it, an’ ’ow she still ’opes for him to walk into ’er arms afore she dies.’

“‘She dreamt a fortnit ago that ’e turned up safe and sound, with red whiskers,’ ses Peter.

“Ginger Dick sat up and looked at ’em without a word; then ’e got up out o’ bed, an’ pushing old Sam out of the way began to dress, and at last ’e turned round and asked Sam whether he was drunk or only mad.

“‘All right,’ ses Sam; ‘if you won’t take it on we’ll find somebody as will, that’s all; there’s no call to get huffy about it. You ain’t the on’y red-’edded man in the world.’

“Ginger didn’t answer ’im; he went on dressing, but every now and then ’e’d look at Sam and give a little larf wot made Sam’s blood boil.

“‘You’ve got nothin’ to larf at, Ginger,’ he ses, at last; ‘the landlady’s boy ’ud be about the same age as wot you are now; ’e ’ad a scar over the left eyebrow same as wot you’ve got, though I don’t suppose _he_ got it by fighting a chap three times ’is size. ’E ’ad bright blue eyes, a small, well-shaped nose, and a nice mouth.’

“‘Same as you, Ginger,’ ses Peter, looking out of the winder.

“Ginger coughed and looked thoughtful.

“‘It sounds all right, mates,’ ’e ses at last, ‘but I don’t see ’ow we’re to go to work. I don’t want to get locked up for deceiving.’

“‘You can’t get locked up,’ ses Sam; ‘if you let ’er discover you and claim you, ’ow can you get locked up for it? We shall go in an’ see her agin, and larn all there is to larn, especially about the tattoo marks, and then—’

“‘_Tattoo marks!_’ ses Ginger.

“‘That’s the strong p’int,’ ses Sam. ‘’Er boy ’ad a sailor dancing a ’ornpipe on ’is left wrist, an’ a couple o’ dolphins on his right. On ’is chest ’e ’ad a full-rigged ship, and on ’is back between ’is shoulder-blades was the letters of ’is name—C.R.S.: Charles Robert Smith.’

“‘Well, you silly old fool,’ ses Ginger, starting up in a temper, ‘that spiles it all. I ain’t got a mark on me.’

“Old Sam smiles at ’im and pats him on the shoulder. ‘That’s where you show your want of intelleck, Ginger,’ he ses, kindly. ‘Why don’t you think afore you speak? Wot’s easier than to ’ave ’em put on?’

“‘_Wot?_’ screams Ginger. ‘Tattoo _me_! Spile my skin with a lot o’ beastly blue marks! Not me, not if I know it. I’d like to see anybody try it, that’s all.’

“He was that mad ’e wouldn’t listen to reason, and, as old Sam said, ’e couldn’t have made more fuss if they’d offered to skin ’im alive, an’ Peter Russet tried to prove that a man’s skin was made to be tattooed on, or else there wouldn’t be tattooers; same as a man ’ad been given two legs so as ’e could wear trousers. But reason was chucked away on Ginger, an’ ’e wouldn’t listen to ’em.

“They started on ’im agin next day, but all Sam and Peter could say didn’t move ’im, although Sam spoke so feeling about the joy of a pore widder woman getting ’er son back agin arter all these years that ’e nearly cried.

“They went down agin to the pub that evening, and Ginger, who said ’e was curious to see, wanted to go too. Sam, who still ’ad ’opes of ’im, wouldn’t ’ear of it, but at last it was arranged that ’e wasn’t to go inside, but should take a peep through the door. They got on a tram at Aldgate, and Ginger didn’t like it becos Sam and Peter talked it over between theirselves in whispers and pointed out likely red’-aired men in the road.

“And ’e didn’t like it when they got to the Blue Lion, and Sam and Peter went in and left ’im outside, peeping through the door. The landlady shook ’ands with them quite friendly, and the barmaid, a fine-looking girl, seemed to take a lot o’ notice of Peter. Ginger waited about outside for nearly a couple of hours, and at last they came out, talking and larfing, with Peter wearing a white rose wot the barmaid ’ad given ’im.

“Ginger Dick ’ad a good bit to say about keeping ’im waiting all that time, but Sam said that they’d been getting valuable information, an’ the more ’e could see of it the easier the job appeared to be, an’ then him an’ Peter wished for to bid Ginger good-bye, while they went and ’unted up a red-’aired friend o’ Peter’s named Charlie Bates.

“They all went in somewhere and ’ad a few drinks first, though, and arter a time Ginger began to see things in a different light to wot ’e ’ad before, an’ to be arf ashamed of ’is selfishness, and ’e called Sam’s pot a loving-cup, an’ kep’ on drinking out of it to show there was no ill-feeling, although Sam kep’ telling him there wasn’t. Then Sam spoke up about tattooing agin, and Ginger said that every man in the country ought to be tattooed to prevent the smallpox. He got so excited about it that old Sam ’ad to promise ’im that he should be tattooed that very night, before he could pacify ’im.

“They all went off ’ome with their arms round each other’s necks, but arter a time Ginger found that Sam’s neck wasn’t there, an’ ’e stopped and spoke serious to Peter about it. Peter said ’e couldn’t account for it, an’ ’e had such a job to get Ginger ’ome that ’e thought they would never ha’ got there. He got ’im to bed at last an’ then ’e sat down and fell asleep waiting for Sam.

“Ginger was the last one to wake up in the morning, an’ before ’e woke he kept making a moaning noise. His ’ead felt as though it was going to bust, ’is tongue felt like a brick, and ’is chest was so sore ’e could ’ardly breathe. Then at last ’e opened ’is eyes and looked up and saw Sam an’ Peter and a little man with a black moustache.

“‘Cheer up, Ginger,’ ses Sam, in a kind voice, ‘it’s going on beautiful.’

“‘My ’ead’s splittin’,’ ses Ginger, with a groan, ‘an’ I’ve got pins an’ needles all over my chest.’

“‘Needles,’ ses the man with the black moustache. ‘I never use pins; they’d pison the flesh.’

“Ginger sat up in bed and stared at ’im; then ’e bent ’is ’ead down and squinted at ’is chest, and next moment ’e was out of bed and all three of ’em was holding ’im down on the floor to prevent ’im breaking the tattooer’s neck which ’e’d set ’is ’eart upon doing, and explaining to ’im that the tattooer was at the top of ’is profession, and that it was only by a stroke of luck ’e had got ’im. And Sam reminded ’im of wot ’e ’ad said the night before, and said he’d live to thank ’im for it.

“‘’Ow much is there done?’ ses Ginger, at last, in a desprit voice.

“Sam told ’im, and Ginger lay still and called the tattooer all the names he could think of; which took ’im some time.

“‘It’s no good going on like that, Ginger,’ ses Sam. ‘Your chest is quite spiled at present, but if you on’y let ’im finish it’ll be a perfeck picter.’

“I take pride in it,’ ses the tattooer; ‘working on your skin, mate, is like painting on a bit o’ silk.’

“Ginger gave in at last, and told the man to go on with the job and finish it, and ’e even went so far as to do a little bit o’ tattooing ’imself on Sam when he wasn’t looking. ’E only made one mark, becos the needle broke off, and Sam made such a fuss that Ginger said any one would ha’ thought ’e’d hurt ’im.

“It took three days to do Ginger altogether, and he was that sore ’e could ’ardly move or breathe and all the time ’e was laying on ’is bed of pain Sam and Peter Russet was round at the Blue Lion enjoying theirselves and picking up information. The second day was the worst, owing to the tattooer being the worse for licker. Drink affects different people in different ways, and Ginger said the way it affected that chap was to make ’im think ’e was sewing buttons on instead o’ tattooing.

“’Owever ’e was done at last; his chest and ’is arms and ’is shoulders, and he nearly broke down when Sam borrowed a bit o’ looking-glass and let ’im see hisself. Then the tattooer rubbed in some stuff to make ’is skin soft agin, and some more stuff to make the marks look a bit old.

“Sam wanted to draw up an agreement, but Ginger Dick and Peter Russet wouldn’t ’ear of it. They both said that that sort o’ thing wouldn’t look well in writing, not if anybody else happened to see it, that is; besides which Ginger said it was impossible for ’im to say ’ow much money he would ’ave the handling of. Once the tattooing was done ’e began to take a’most kindly to the plan, an’ being an orfin, so far as ’e knew, he almost began to persuade hisself that the red-’aired landlady _was_ ’is mother.

“They ’ad a little call over in their room to see ’ow Ginger was to do it, and to discover the weak p’ints. Sam worked up a squeaky voice, and pretended to be the landlady, and Peter pretended to be the good-looking barmaid.

“They went all through it over and over agin, the only unpleasantness being caused by Peter Russet letting off a screech every time Ginger alluded to ’is chest wot set ’is teeth on edge, and old Sam as the landlady offering Ginger pots o’ beer which made ’is mouth water.

“‘We shall go round to-morrow for the last time,’ ses Sam, ‘as we told ’er we’re sailing the day arter. Of course me an’ Peter, ’aving made your fortin, drop out altogether, but I dessay we shall look in agin in about six months’ time, and then perhaps the landlady will interduce us to you.’

“‘Meantime,’ ses Peter Russet, ‘you mustn’t forget that you’ve got to send us Post Office money-orders every week.’

“Ginger said ’e wouldn’t forget, and they shook ’ands all round and ’ad a drink together, and the next arternoon Sam and Peter went to the Blue Lion for a last visit.

“It was quite early when they came back. Ginger was surprised to see ’em, and he said so, but ’e was more surprised when ’e heard their reasons.

“It come over us all at once as we’d bin doing wrong,’ Sam ses, setting down with a sigh.

“‘Come over us like a chill, it did,’ ses Peter.

“‘Doing wrong?’ ses Ginger Dick, staring. ‘Wot are you talking about?’

“‘Something the landlady said showed us as we was doin’ wrong,’ ses old Sam, very solemn; ‘it come over us in a flash.’

“‘Like lightning,’ ses Peter.

“‘All of a sudden we see wot a cruel, ’ard thing it was to go and try and deceive a poor widder woman,’ ses Sam, in a ’usky voice; ‘we both see it at once.’

“Ginger Dick looks at ’em ’ard, ’e did, and then, ’e ses, jeering like:

“‘I ’spose you don’t want any Post Office money-orders sent you, then?’ he ses.

“‘No,’ says Sam and Peter, both together.

“‘You may have ’em all,’ ses Sam; ‘but if you’ll be ruled by us, Ginger, you’ll give it up, same as wot we ’ave—you’ll sleep the sweeter for it.’

“‘Give it up!’ shouts Ginger, dancing up an’ down the room, ‘arter being tattooed all over? Why, you must be crazy, Sam—wot’s the matter with you?’

“‘It ain’t fair play agin a woman,’ says old Sam, ‘three strong men agin one poor old woman; that’s wot we feel, Ginger.’

“‘Well, _I_ don’t feel like it,’ ses Ginger; ‘you please yourself, and I’ll please myself.’

“’E went off in a huff, an’ next morning ’e was so disagreeable that Sam an’ Peter went and signed on board a steamer called the _Penguin_, which was to sail the day arter. They parted bad friends all round, and Ginger Dick gave Peter a nasty black eye, and Sam said that when Ginger came to see things in a proper way agin he’d be sorry for wot ’e’d said. And ’e said that ’im and Peter never wanted to look on ’is face agin.

“Ginger Dick was a bit lonesome arter they’d gone, but ’e thought it better to let a few days go by afore ’e went and adopted the red-’aired landlady. He waited a week, and at last, unable to wait any longer, ’e went out and ’ad a shave and smartened hisself up, and went off to the Blue Lion.

“It was about three o’clock when ’e got there, and the little public-’ouse was empty except for two old men in the jug-and-bottle entrance. Ginger stopped outside a minute or two to try and stop ’is trembling, and then ’e walks into the private bar and raps on the counter.

“‘Glass o’ bitter, ma’am, please,’ he ses to the old lady as she came out o’ the little parlour at the back o’ the bar.

“The old lady drew the beer, and then stood with one ’and holding the beer-pull and the other on the counter, looking at Ginger Dick in ’is new blue jersey and cloth cap.

“‘Lovely weather, ma’am,’ ses Ginger, putting his left arm on the counter and showing the sailor-boy dancing the hornpipe.

“‘Very nice,’ ses the landlady, catching sight of ’is wrist an’ staring at it. ‘I suppose you sailors like fine weather?’

“‘Yes, ma’am,’ ses Ginger, putting his elbows on the counter so that the tattoo marks on both wrists was showing. ‘Fine weather an’ a fair wind suits us.’

“‘It’s a ’ard life, the sea,’ ses the old lady.

“She kept wiping down the counter in front of ’im over an’ over agin, an’ ’e could see ’er staring at ’is wrists as though she could ’ardly believe her eyes. Then she went back into the parlour, and Ginger ’eard her whispering, and by and by she came out agin with the blue-eyed barmaid.

“‘Have you been at sea long?’ ses the old lady.

“‘Over twenty-three years, ma’am,’ ses Ginger, avoiding the barmaid’s eye wot was fixed on ’is wrists, ‘and I’ve been shipwrecked four times; the fust time when I was a little nipper o’ fourteen.’

“‘Pore thing,’ ses the landlady, shaking ’er ’ead. ‘I can feel for you; my boy went to sea at that age, and I’ve never seen ’im since.’

“‘I’m sorry to ’ear it, ma’am,’ ses Ginger, very respectful-like. ‘I suppose I’ve lost my mother, so I can feel for you.’

“‘Suppose you’ve lost your mother!’ ses the barmaid; ‘don’t you know whether you have?’

“‘No,’ ses Ginger Dick, very sad. ‘When I was wrecked the fust time I was in a open boat for three weeks, and, wot with the exposure and ’ardly any food, I got brain-fever and lost my memory.’

“‘Pore thing,’ ses the landlady agin.

“‘I might as well be a orfin,’ ses Ginger, looking down; ‘sometimes I seem to see a kind, ’andsome face bending over me, and fancy it’s my mother’s, but I can’t remember ’er name, or my name, or anythink about ’er.’

“‘You remind me o’ my boy very much,’ ses the landlady, shaking ’er ’ead; ‘you’ve got the same coloured ’air, and, wot’s extraordinary, you’ve got the same tattoo marks on your wrists. Sailor-boy dancing on one and a couple of dolphins on the other. And ’e ’ad a little scar on ’is eyebrow, much the same as yours.’

“‘Good ’evins,’ ses Ginger Dick, starting back and looking as though ’e was trying to remember something.

“‘I s’pose they’re common among seafaring men?’ ses the landlady, going off to attend to a customer.

“Ginger Dick would ha’ liked to ha’ seen ’er a bit more excited, but ’e ordered another glass o’ bitter from the barmaid, and tried to think ’ow he was to bring out about the ship on his chest and the letters on ’is back. The landlady served a couple o’ men, and by and by she came back and began talking agin.

“‘I like sailors,’ she ses; ‘one thing is, my boy was a sailor; and another thing is, they’ve got such feelin’ ’earts. There was two of ’em in ’ere the other day, who’d been in ’ere once or twice, and one of ’em was that kind ’earted I thought he would ha’ ’ad a fit at something I told him.’

“‘Ho,’ ses Ginger, pricking up his ears, ‘wot for?’

“‘I was just talking to ’im about my boy, same as I might be to you,’ ses the old lady, ‘and I was just telling ’im about the poor child losing ’is finger——’

“‘Losing ’is _wot_?’ ses Ginger, turning pale and staggering back.

“‘Finger,’ ses the landlady. ’E was only ten years old at the time, and I’d sent ’im out to—Wot’s the matter? Ain’t you well?’

“Ginger didn’t answer ’er a word, he couldn’t. ’E went on going backwards until ’e got to the door, and then ’e suddenly fell through it into the street, and tried to think.

“Then ’e remembered Sam and Peter, and when ’e thought of them safe and sound aboard the _Penguin_ he nearly broke down altogether, as ’e thought how lonesome he was.

“All ’e wanted was ’is arms round both their necks same as they was the night afore they ’ad ’im tattooed.”

TO HAVE AND TO HOLD

The old man sat outside the Cauliflower Inn, looking crossly up the road. He was fond of conversation, but the pedestrian who had stopped to drink a mug of ale beneath the shade of the doors was not happy in his choice of subjects. He would only talk of the pernicious effects of beer on the constitutions of the aged, and he listened with ill-concealed impatience to various points which the baffled ancient opposite urged in its favour.

Conversation languished; the traveller rapped on the table and had his mug refilled. He nodded courteously to his companion and drank.

“Seems to me,” said the latter, sharply, “you like it for all your talk.”

The other shook his head gently, and, leaning back, bestowed a covert wink upon the signboard. He then explained that it was the dream of his life to give up beer.

“You’re another Job Brown,” said the old man, irritably, “that’s wot you are; another Job Brown. I’ve seen your kind afore.”

He shifted farther along the seat, and, taking up his long clay pipe from the table, struck a match and smoked the few whiffs which remained. Then he heard the traveller order a pint of ale with gin in it and a paper of tobacco. His dull eyes glistened, but he made a feeble attempt to express surprise when these luxuries were placed before him.

“Wot I said just now about you being like Job Brown was only in joke like,” he said, anxiously, as he tasted the brew. “If Job ’ad been like you he’d ha’ been a better man.”

The philanthropist bowed. He also manifested a little curiosity concerning one to whom he had, for however short a time, suggested a resemblance.

“He was one o’ the ’ardest drinkers in these parts,” began the old man, slowly, filling his pipe.

The traveller thanked him.

“Wot I meant was”—said the old man, hastily—“that all the time ’e was drinking ’e was talking agin beer same as you was just now, and he used to try all sorts o’ ways and plans of becoming a teetotaler. He used to sit up ’ere of a night drinking ’is ’ardest and talking all the time of ways and means by which ’e could give it up. He used to talk about hisself as if ’e was somebody else ’e was trying to do good to.

The chaps about ’ere got sick of ’is talk. They was poor men mostly, same as they are now, and they could only drink a little ale now and then; an’ while they was doing of it they ’ad to sit and listen to Job Brown, who made lots o’ money dealing, drinking pint arter pint o’ gin and beer and calling it pison, an’ saying they was killing theirselves.

“Sometimes ’e used to get pitiful over it, and sit shaking ’is ’ead at ’em for drowning theirselves in beer, as he called it, when they ought to be giving the money to their wives and families. He sat down and cried one night over Bill Chambers’s wife’s toes being out of ’er boots. Bill sat struck all of a ’eap, and it might ’ave passed off, only Henery White spoke up for ’im, and said that he scarcely ever ’ad a pint but wot somebody else paid for it. There was unpleasantness all round then, and in the row somebody knocked one o’ Henery’s teeth out.

“And that wasn’t the only unpleasantness, and at last some of the chaps put their ’eads together and agreed among theirselves to try and help Job Brown to give up the drink. They kep’ it secret from Job, but the next time ’e came in and ordered a pint Joe Gubbins—’aving won the toss—drank it by mistake, and went straight off ’ome as ’ard as ’e could, smacking ’is lips.

“He ’ad the best of it, the other chaps ’aving to ’old Job down in ’is chair, and trying their ’ardest to explain that Joe Gubbins was only doing him a kindness. He seemed to understand at last, and arter a long time ’e said as ’e could see Joe meant to do ’im a kindness, but ’e’d better not do any more.

“He kept a very tight ’old o’ the next pint, and as ’e set down at the table he looked round nasty like and asked ’em whether there was any more as would like to do ’im a kindness, and Henery White said there was, and he went straight off ’ome arter fust dropping a handful o’ sawdust into Job’s mug.

“I’m an old man, an’ I’ve seen a good many rows in my time, but I’ve never seen anything like the one that ’appened then. It was no good talking to Job, not a bit, he being that unreasonable that even when ’is own words was repeated to ’im he wouldn’t listen. He behaved like a madman, an’ the langwidge ’e used was that fearful and that wicked that Smith the landlord said ’e wouldn’t ’ave it in ’is house.

“Arter that you’d ha’ thought that Job Brown would ’ave left off ’is talk about being a teetotaler, but he didn’t. He said they was quite right in trying to do ’im a kindness, but he didn’t like the way they did it. He said there was a right way and a wrong way of doing everything, and they’d chose the wrong.

“It was all very well for ’im to talk, but the chaps said ’e might drink hisself to death for all they cared. And instead of seeing ’im safe ’ome as they used to when ’e was worse than usual he ’ad to look arter hisself and get ’ome as best he could.

“It was through that at last ’e came to offer five pounds reward to anybody as could ’elp ’im to become a teetotaler. He went off ’ome one night as usual, and arter stopping a few seconds in the parlour to pull hisself together, crept quietly upstairs for fear of waking ’is wife. He saw by the crack under the door that she’d left a candle burning, so he pulled hisself together agin and then turned the ’andle and went in and began to try an’ take off ’is coat.

“He ’appened to give a ’alf-look towards the bed as ’e did so, and then ’e started back and rubbed ’is eyes and told ’imself he’d be better in a minute. Then ’e looked agin, for ’is wife was nowhere to be seen, and in the bed all fast and sound asleep and snoring their ’ardest was little Dick Weed the tailor and Mrs. Weed and the baby.

“Job Brown rubbed ’is eyes again, and then ’e drew hisself up to ’is full height, and putting one ’and on the chest o’ drawers to steady hisself stood there staring at ’em and getting madder and madder every second. Then ’e gave a nasty cough, and Dick and Mrs. Weed an’ the baby all woke up and stared at ’im as though they could ’ardly believe their eyesight.

“‘Wot do you want?’ ses Dick Weed, starting up.

“‘Get up,’ ses Job, ’ardly able to speak. I’m surprised at you. Get up out o’ my bed direckly.’

“‘Your bed?’ screams little Dick; ‘you’re the worse for licker, Job Brown. Can’t you see you’ve come into the wrong house?’

“‘Eh?’ ses Job, staring. ‘Wrong ’ouse? Well, where’s mine, then?’

“‘Next door but one, same as it always was,’ ses Dick. ‘Will you go?’

“‘A’ right,’ ses Job, staring. ‘Well, goo’-night, Dick. Goo’-night, Mrs. Weed. Goo’-night, baby.’

“‘Good-night,’ ses Mrs. Weed from under the bedclothes.

“‘Goo’-night, baby,’ ses Job, again.

“‘It can’t talk yet,’ ses Dick. ‘Will you _go_?’

“‘Can’t talk—why not?’ ses Job.

“Dick didn’t answer ’im.

“‘Well, goo’-night, Dick,’ he ses agin.

“‘Good-night,’ ses Dick from between ’is teeth.

“‘Goo’-night, Mrs. Weed,’ ses Job.

“Mrs. Weed forced herself to say ‘good-night’ agin.

“‘Goo’-night, baby,’ ses Job.

“‘Look ’ere,’ ses Dick, raving, ‘are you goin’ to stay ’ere all night, Job Brown?’

“Job didn’t answer ’im, but began to go downstairs, saying ‘goo’-night’ as ’e went, and he’d got pretty near to the bottom when he suddenly wondered wot ’e was going downstairs for instead of up, and larfing gently at ’is foolishness for making sich a mistake ’e went upstairs agin. His surprise when ’e see Dick Weed and Mrs. Weed and the baby all in ’is bed pretty near took ’is breath away.

“‘Wot are you doing in my bed?’ he ses.

“‘It’s our bed,’ ses Dick, trembling all over with rage. ‘I’ve told you afore you’ve come into the wrong ’ouse.’

“‘Wrong ’ouse,’ ses Job, staring round the room. ‘I b’leeve you’re right. Goo’-night, Dick; goo’-night, Mrs. Weed; goo’-night, baby.’

“Dick jumped out of bed then and tried to push ’im out of the room, but ’e was a very small man, and Job just stood there and wondered wot he was doing. Mrs. Weed and the baby both started screaming one against the other, and at last Dick pushed the window open and called out for help.

“They ’ad the neighbours in then, and the trouble they ’ad to get Job downstairs wouldn’t be believed. Mrs. Pottle went for ’is wife at last, and then Job went ’ome with ’er like a lamb, asking ’er where she’d been all the evening, and saying ’e’d been looking for ’er everywhere.

“There was such a to-do about it in the village next morning that Job Brown was fairly scared. All the wimmen was out at their doors talking about it, and saying wot a shame it was and ’ow silly Mrs. Weed was to put up with it. Then old Mrs. Gumm, ’er grandmother, who was eighty-eight years old, stood outside Job’s ’ouse nearly all day, shaking ’er stick at ’im and daring of ’im to come out. Wot with Mrs. Gumm and the little crowd watching ’er all day and giving ’er good advice, which she wouldn’t take, Job was afraid to show ’is nose outside the door.

“He wasn’t like hisself that night up at the Cauliflower. ’E sat up in the corner and wouldn’t take any notice of anybody, and it was easy to see as he was thoroughly ashamed of hisself.

“‘Cheer up, Job,’ says Bill Chambers, at last; ‘you ain’t the fust man as has made a fool of hisself.’

“‘Mind your own business,’ ses Job Brown, ‘and I’ll mind mine.’

“‘Why don’t you leave ’im alone, Bill?’ ses Henery White; ‘you can see the man is worried because the baby can’t talk.’

“‘Oh,’ ses Bill, ‘I thought ’e was worried because ’is wife could.’

“All the chaps, except Job, that is, laughed at that; but Job ’e got up and punched the table, and asked whether there was anybody as would like to go outside with him for five minutes. Then ’e sat down agin, and said ’ard things agin the drink, which ’ad made ’im the larfing-stock of all the fools in Claybury.

“‘I’m going to give it up, Smith,’ he ses.

“‘Yes, I know you are,’ ses Smith.

“‘If I could on’y lose the taste of it for a time I could give it up,’ ses Job, wiping ’is mouth, ‘and to prove I’m in earnest I’ll give five pounds to anybody as’ll prevent me tasting intoxicating licker for a month.’

“‘You may as well save your breath to bid people “good-night” with, Job,’ ses Bill Chambers; ‘you wouldn’t pay up if anybody did keep you off it.’

“Job swore honour bright he would, but nobody believed ’im, and at last he called for pen and ink and wrote it all down on a sheet o’ paper and signed it, and then he got two other chaps to sign it as witnesses.

“Bill Chambers wasn’t satisfied then. He pointed out that earning the five pounds, and then getting it out o’ Job Brown arterwards, was two such entirely different things that there was no likeness between ’em at all. Then Job Brown got so mad ’e didn’t know wot ’e was doing, and ’e ’anded over five pounds to Smith the landlord and wrote on the paper that he was to give it to anybody who should earn it, without consulting ’im at all. Even Bill couldn’t think of anything to say agin that, but he made a point of biting all the sovereigns.

“There was quite a excitement for a few days. Henery White ’e got a ’eadache with thinking, and Joe Gubbins, ’e got a ’eadache for drinking Job Brown’s beer agin. There was all sorts o’ wild ways mentioned to earn that five pounds, but they didn’t come to anything.

“Arter a week had gone by Job Brown began to get restless like, and once or twice ’e said in Smith’s hearing ’ow useful five pounds would be. Smith didn’t take any notice, and at last Job told ’im there didn’t seem any likelihood of the five pounds being earned, and he wanted it to buy pigs with. The way ’e went on when Smith said ’e ’adn’t got the power to give it back, and ’e’d got to keep it in trust for anybody as might earn it, was disgraceful.

“He used to ask Smith for it every night, and Smith used to give ’im the same answer, until at last Job Brown said he’d go an’ see a lawyer about it. That frightened Smith a bit, and I b’lieve he’d ha’ ’anded it over, but two days arterwards Job was going upstairs so careful that he fell down to the bottom and broke ’is leg.

“It was broken in two places, and the doctor said it would be a long job, owing to ’is drinking habits, and ’e gave Mrs. Brown strict orders that Job wasn’t to ’ave a drop of anything, even if ’e asked for it.

“There was a lot o’ talk about it up at the Cauliflower ’ere, and Henery White, arter a bad ’eadache, thought of a plan by which ’e and Bill Chambers could ’ave that five pounds atween ’em. The idea was that Bill Chambers was to go with Henery to see Job, and take ’im a bottle of beer, and jist as Job was going to drink it Henery should knock it out of ’is ’ands, at the same time telling Bill Chambers ’e ought to be ashamed o’ hisself.

“It was a good idea, and, as Henery White said, if Mrs. Brown was in the room so much the better, as she’d be a witness. He made Bill swear to keep it secret for fear of other chaps doing it arterwards, and then they bought a bottle o’ beer and set off up the road to Job’s. The annoying part of it was, arter all their trouble and Henery White’s ’eadache, Mrs. Brown wouldn’t let ’em in. They begged and prayed of ’er to let ’em go up and just ’ave a peep at ’im, but she wouldn’t. She said she’d go upstairs and peep for ’em, and she came down agin and said that ’e was a little bit flushed, but sleeping like a lamb.

“They went round the corner and drank the ale up, and Bill Chambers said it was a good job Henery thought ’e was clever, because nobody else did. As for ’is ’eadaches, he put ’em down to over-eating.

“Several other chaps called to see Job, but none of them was allowed to go up, and for seven weeks that unfortunate man never touched a drop of anything. The doctor tried to persuade ’im now that ’e ’ad got the start to keep it, and ’e likewise pointed out that as ’e had been without liquor for over a month, he could go and get that five pounds back out o’ Smith.

“Job promised that ’e would give it up; but the fust day ’e felt able to crawl on ’is crutches he made up ’is mind to go up to the Cauliflower and see whether gin and beer tasted as good as it used to. The only thing was ’is wife might stop ’im.

“‘You’re done up with nursing me, old gal,’ he ses to ’is wife.

“‘I am a bit tired,’ ses she.

“‘I could see it by your eyes,’ ses Job. ‘What you want is a change, Polly. Why not go and see your sister at Wickham?”

“‘I don’t like leaving you alone,’ ses Mrs. Brown, ‘else I’d like to go. I want to do a little shopping.’

“‘You go, my dear,’ ses Job. ‘I shall be quite ’appy sitting at the gate in the sun with a glass o’ milk an’ a pipe.’

“He persuaded ’er at last, and, in a fit o’ generosity, gave ’er three shillings to go shopping with, and as soon as she was out o’ sight he went off with a crutch and a stick, smiling all over ’is face. He met Dick Weed in the road and they shook ’ands quite friendly, and Job asked ’im to ’ave a drink. Then Henery White and some more chaps came along, and by the time they got to the Cauliflower they was as merry a party as you’d wish to see.

“Every man ’ad a pint o’ beer, which Job paid for, not forgetting Smith ’isself, and Job closed ’is eyes with pleasure as ’e took his. Then they began to talk about ’is accident, and Job showed ’em ’is leg and described wot it felt like to be a teetotaler for seven weeks.

“‘And I’ll trouble you for that five pounds, Smith,’ ’e ses, smiling. ‘I’ve been without anything stronger than milk for seven weeks. I never thought when I wrote that paper I was going to earn my own money.’

“‘None of us did, Job,’ ses Smith. ‘D’ye think that leg’ll be all right agin? As good as the other, I mean?’

“‘Doctor ses so,’ ses Job.

“‘It’s wonderful wot they can do nowadays,’ ses Smith, shaking ’is ’ead.

“‘’Strordinary,’ ses Job; ‘where’s that five pounds, Smith?’

“‘You don’t want to put any sudden weight or anything like that on it for a time, Job,’ ses Smith; ‘don’t get struggling or fighting, whatever you do, Job.’

“‘’Tain’t so likely,’ ses Job; ‘d’ye think I’m a fool? Where’s that five pounds, Smith?’

“‘Ah, yes,’ ses Smith, looking as though ’e’d just remembered something. ‘I wanted to tell you about that, to see if I’ve done right. I’m glad you’ve come in.’

“‘Eh?’ ses Job Brown, staring at ’im.

“‘Has your wife gone shopping to-day?’ ses Smith, looking at ’im very solemn.

“Job Brown put ’is mug down on the table and turned as pale as ashes. Then ’e got up and limped over to the bar.

“‘Wot d’yer mean’ he ses, choking.

“‘She said she thought o’ doing so,’ ses Smith, wiping a glass; ‘she came in yesterday and asked for that five pounds she’d won. The doctor came in with ’er and said she’d kept you from licker for seven weeks, let alone a month; so, according to the paper, I ’ad to give it to ’er. I ’ope I done right, Job?’

“Job didn’t answer ’im a word, good or bad. He just turned ’is back on him, and, picking up ’is crutch and ’is stick, hobbled off ’ome. Henery White tried to make ’im stop and ’ave another pint, but he wouldn’t. He said he didn’t want ’is wife to find ’im out when she returned.”

BREVET RANK

The crew of the _Elizabeth Hopkins_ sat on deck in the gloaming, gazing idly at the dusky shapes of the barges as they dropped silently down on the tide, or violently discussing the identity of various steamers as they came swiftly past. Even with these amusements the time hung heavily, and they thought longingly of certain cosy bars by the riverside to which they were wont to betake themselves in their spare time.

To-night, in deference to the wishes of the skipper, wishes which approximated closely to those of Royalty in their effects, they remained on board. A new acquaintance of his, a brother captain, who dabbled in mesmerism, was coming to give them a taste of his quality, and the skipper, sitting on the side of the schooner in the faint light which streamed from the galley, was condescendingly explaining to them the marvels of hypnotism.

“I never ’eard the likes of it,” said one, with a deep breath, as the skipper concluded a marvellous example.

“There’s a lot you ain’t ’eard of, Bill,” said another, whose temper was suffering from lack of beer. “But ’ave you seen all this, sir?”

“Everything,” said the skipper, impressively. “He wanted to mesmerise me, an’ I said, ‘All right,’ I ses, ‘do it an’ welcome—if you can, but I expect my head’s a bit too strong for you.’”

“And it was, sir, I’ll bet,” said the man who had been so candid with Bill.

“He tried everything,” said the skipper, “then he give it up; but he’s coming aboard to-night, so any of you that likes can come down the cabin and be mesmerised free.”

“Why can’t he do it on deck?” said the mate, rising from the hatches and stretching his gigantic form.

“’Cos he must have artificial light, George,” said the skipper. “He lets me a little bit into the secret, you know, an’ he told me he likes to have the men a bit dazed-like first.”

Voices sounded from the wharf, and the night-watchman appeared piloting Captain Zingall to the schooner. The crew noticed that he came aboard quite like any other man, descending the ladder with even more care than usual. He was a small man, of much dignity, with light grey eyes which had been so strained by the exercise of his favourite hobby that they appeared to be starting from his head. He chatted agreeably about freights for some time, and then, at his brother skipper’s urgent entreaty, consented to go below and give them a taste of his awful powers.

At first he was not very successful. The men stared at the discs he put into their hands until their eyes ached, but for some time without effect. Bill was the first to yield, and to the astonishment of his friends passed into a soft magnetic slumber, from which he emerged to perform the usual idiotic tricks peculiar to mesmerised subjects.

“It’s wonderful what power you ’ave over em,” said Captain Bradd, respectfully.

Captain Zingall smiled affably. “At the present moment,” he said, “that man is my unthinkin’ slave, an’ whatever I wish him to do he does. Would any of you like him to do anything?”

“Well, sir,” said one of the men, “’e owes me ’arf a crown, an’ I think it would be a ’ighly interestin’ experiment if you could get ’im to pay me. If anything ’ud make me believe in mesmerism, that would.”

“An’ he owes me eighteenpence, sir,” said another seaman, eagerly.

“One at a time,” said the first speaker, sharply.

“An’ ’e’s owed me five shillin’s since I don’t know when,” said the cook, with dishonest truthfulness.

Captain Zingall turned to his subject. “You owe that man half a crown,” he said, pointing, “that one eighteenpence, and that one five shillings. Pay them.”

In the most matter-of-fact way in the world Bill groped in his pockets, and, producing some greasy coins, paid the sums mentioned, to the intense delight of everybody.

“Well, I’m blest,” said the mate, staring. “I thought mesmerism was all rubbish. Now bring him to again.”

“But don’t tell ’im wot ’e’s been doin’,” said the cook.

Zingall with a few passes brought his subject round, and with a subdued air he took his place with the others.

“What’d it feel like, Bill?” asked Joe. “Can you remember what you did?”

Bill shook his head.

“Don’t try to,” said the cook, feelingly.

“I should like to put you under the influence,” said Zingall, eyeing the mate.

“You couldn’t,” said that gentleman, promptly.

“Let me try,” said Zingall, persuasively.

“Do,” said the skipper, “to oblige me, George.”

“Well, I don’t mind much,” said the mate, hesitating; “but no making _me_ give those chaps money, you know.”

“No, no,” said Zingall.

“Wot does ’e mean? Give the chaps money?” said Bill, turning with a startled air to the cook.

“I dunno,” said the cook airily. “Just watch ’im, Bill,” he added, anxiously.

But Bill had something better to do, and feeling in his pockets hurriedly strove to balance his cash account. It was impossible to do anything else while he was doing it, and the situation became so strained and his language so weird that the skipper was compelled in the interest of law and morality to order him from the cabin.

“Look at me,” said Zingall to the mate after quiet had been restored.