Chapter VI: Part 6

The conversation that evening after Master Jones was asleep turned upon bigamy, but Mr. Brown snored through it all, though Mr. Legge’s remark that the revelations of that afternoon had thrown a light upon many little things in his behaviour which had hitherto baffled him came perilously near to awaking him.

At six in the morning they got under way, the boy going nearly frantic with delight as sail after sail was set, and the ketch, with a stiff breeze, rapidly left London behind her. Mr. Brown studiously ignored him, but the other men pampered him to his heart’s content, and even the cabin was good enough to manifest a little concern in his welfare, the skipper calling Mr. Brown up no fewer than five times that day to complain about his son’s behaviour.

“I can’t have somersaults on this ’ere ship, Sam,” he remarked, shaking his head; “it ain’t the place for ’em.”

“I wonder at you teaching ’im such things,” said the mate, in grave disapprobation.

“Me?” said the hapless Sam, trembling with passion.

“He must ’ave seen you do it,” said the mate, letting his eye rove casually over Sam’s ample proportions. “You must ha’ been leading a double life altogether, Sam.”

“That’s nothing to do with us,” interrupted the skipper, impatiently. “I don’t mind Sam turning cart-wheels all day if it amuses him, but they mustn’t do it here, that’s all. It’s no good standing there sulking, Sam; I can’t have it.”

He turned away, and Mr. Brown, unable to decide whether he was mad or drunk, or both, walked back, and, squeezing himself up in the bows, looked miserably over the sea. Behind him the men disported themselves with Master Jones, and once, looking over his shoulder, he actually saw the skipper giving him a lesson in steering.

By the following afternoon he was in such a state of collapse that, when they put in at the small port of Withersea to discharge a portion of their cargo, he obtained permission to stay below in his bunk. Work proceeded without him, and at nine o’clock in the evening they sailed again, and it was not until they were a couple of miles on their way to Dimport that Mr. Legge rushed aft with the announcement that he was missing.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said the skipper, as he came up from below in response to a hail from the mate.

“It’s a fact, sir,” said Mr. Legge, shaking his head.

“What’s to be done with the boy?” demanded the mate, blankly.

“Sam’s a unsteady, unreliable, tricky old man,” exclaimed the skipper, hotly; “the idea of going and leaving a boy on our hands like that. I’m surprised at him. I’m disappointed in Sam—deserting!”

“I expect ’e’s larfing like anything, sir,” remarked Mr. Legge.

“Get forrard,” said the skipper, sharply; “get forrard at once, d’ye hear?”

“But what’s to be done with the boy?—that’s what I want to know,” said the mate.

“What d’ye think’s to be done with him?” bawled the skipper. “We can’t chuck him overboard, can we?”

“I mean when we get to Dimport?” growled the mate.

“Well, the men’ll talk,” said the skipper, calming down a little, “and perhaps Sam’s wife’ll come and take him. If not, I suppose he’ll have to go to the workhouse. Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with me. I wash my hands of it altogether.”

He went below again, leaving the mate at the wheel. A murmur of voices came from the forecastle, where the crew were discussing the behaviour of their late colleague. The bereaved Master Jones, whose face was streaky with the tears of disappointment, looked on from his bunk.

“What are you going to do, Billy?” inquired the cook.

“I dunno,” said the boy, miserably.

He sat up in his bunk in a brown study, ever and anon turning his sharp little eyes from one to another of the men. Then, with a final sniff to the memory of his departed parent, he composed himself to sleep.

With the buoyancy of childhood he had forgotten his trouble by the morning, and ran idly about the ship as before, until in the afternoon they came in sight of Dimport. Mr. Legge, who had a considerable respect for the brain hidden in that small head, pointed it out to him, and with some curiosity waited for his remarks.

“I can see it,” said Master Jones, briefly.

“That’s where Sam lives,” said his friend, pointedly.

“Yes,” said the boy, nodding, “all of you live there, don’t you?”

It was an innocent enough remark in all conscience, but there was that in Master Jones’s eye which caused Mr. Legge to move away hastily and glance at him in some disquietude from the other side of the deck. The boy, unconscious of the interest excited by his movements, walked restlessly up and down.

“Boy’s worried,” said the skipper, aside, to the mate; “cheer up, sonny.”

Billy looked up and smiled, and the cloud which had sat on his brow when he thought of the coldblooded desertion of Mr. Brown gave way to an expression of serene content.

“Well, what’s he going to do?” inquired the mate, in a low voice.

“That needn’t worry us,” said the skipper. “Let things take their course; that’s my motto.”

He took the wheel from Harry; the little town came closer; the houses separated and disclosed roads, and the boy discovered to his disappointment that the church stood on ground of its own, and not on the roof of a large red house as he had supposed. He ran forward as they got closer, and, perching up in the bows until they were fast to the quay, looked round searchingly for any signs of Sam.

The skipper locked up the cabin, and then calling on one of the shore hands to keep an eye on the forecastle, left it open for the convenience of the small passenger. Harry, Charlie, and the cook stepped ashore. The skipper and mate followed, and the latter, looking back from some distance, called his attention to the desolate little figure sitting on the hatch.

“I s’pose he’ll be all right,” said the skipper, uneasily; “there’s food and a bed down the fo’c’s’le. You might just look round to-night and see he’s safe. I expect we’ll have to take him back to London with us.”

They turned up a small road in the direction of home and walked on in silence, until the mate, glancing behind at an acquaintance who had just passed, uttered a sharp exclamation. The skipper turned, and a small figure which had just shot round the corner stopped in mid-career and eyed them warily. The men exchanged uneasy glances.

“Father,” cried a small voice.

“He—he’s adopted you now,” said the skipper, huskily.

“Or you,” said the mate. “I never took much notice of him.”

He looked round again. Master Jones was following briskly, about ten yards in the rear, and twenty yards behind him came the crew, who, having seen him quit the ship, had followed with the evident intention of being in at the death.

“Father,” cried the boy again, “wait for me.”

One or two passers-by stared in astonishment, and the mate began to be uneasy as to the company he was keeping.

“Let’s separate,” he growled, “and see who he’s calling after.”

The skipper caught him by the arm. “Shout out to him to go back,” he cried.

“It’s you he’s after, I tell you,” said the mate. “Who do you want, Billy?”

“I want my father,” cried the youth, and, to prevent any mistake, indicated the raging skipper with his finger.

“_Who_ do you want?” bellowed the latter, in a frightful voice.

“Want you, father,” chirrupped Master Jones.

Wrath and dismay struggled for supremacy in the skipper’s face, and he paused to decide whether it would be better to wipe Master Jones off the face of the earth or to pursue his way in all the strength of conscious innocence. He chose the latter course, and, a shade more erect than usual, walked on until he came in sight of his house and his wife, who was standing at the door.

“You come along o’ me, Jem, and explain,” he whispered to the mate. Then he turned about and hailed the crew. The crew, flattered at being offered front seats in the affair, came forward eagerly.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Mrs. Hunt, eyeing the crowd in amazement as it grouped itself in anticipation.

“Nothing,” said her husband, off-handedly.

“Who’s that boy?” cried the innocent woman.

“It’s a poor little mad boy,” began the skipper; “he came aboard—”

“I’m not mad, father,” interrupted Master Jones.

“A poor little mad boy,” continued the skipper, hastily, “who came aboard in London and said poor old Sam Brown was his father.”

“No—you, father,” cried the boy, shrilly.

“He calls everybody his father,” said the skipper, with a smile of anguish; “that’s the form his madness takes. He called Jem here his father.”

“No, he didn’t,” said the mate, bluntly.

“And then he thought Charlie was his father.”

“No, sir,” said Mr. Legge, with respectful firmness.

“Well, he said Sam Brown was,” said the skipper.

“Yes, that’s right, sir,” said the crew.

“Where is Sam?” inquired Mrs. Hunt, looking round expectantly.

“He deserted the ship at Withersea,” said her husband.

“I see,” said Mrs. Hunt, with a bitter smile, “and these men have all come up prepared to swear that the boy said Sam was his father. Haven’t you?”

“Yes, mum,” chorused the crew, delighted at being understood so easily.

Mrs. Hunt looked across the road to the fields stretching beyond. Then she suddenly brought her gaze back, and, looking full at her husband, uttered just two words—

“Oh, Joe!”

“Ask the mate,” cried the frantic skipper.

“Yes, I know what the mate’ll say,” said Mrs. Hunt. “I’ve no need to ask him.”

“Charlie and Harry were with Sam when the boy came up to them,” protested the skipper.

“I’ve no doubt,” said his wife. “Oh, Joe! Joe! Joe!”

There was an uncomfortable silence, during which the crew, standing for the most part on one leg in sympathy with their chief’s embarrassment, nudged each other to say something to clear the character of a man whom all esteemed.

“You ungrateful little devil,” burst out Mr. Legge, at length; “arter the kind way the skipper treated you, too.”

“Did he treat him kindly?” inquired the captain’s wife, in conversational tones.

“Like a fa—like a uncle, mum,” said the thoughtless Mr. Legge. “Gave ’im a passage on the ship and fairly spoilt ’im. We was all surprised at the fuss ’e made of ’im; wasn’t we, Harry?”

He turned to his friend, but on Mr. Green’s face there was an expression of such utter scorn and contempt that his own fell. He glanced at the skipper, and was almost frightened at his appearance.

The situation was ended by Mrs. Hunt entering the house and closing the door with an ominous bang. The men slunk off, headed by Mr. Legge; and the mate, after a few murmured words of encouragement to the skipper, also departed. Captain Hunt looked first at the small cause of his trouble, who had drawn off to some distance, and then at the house. Then, with a determined gesture, he turned the handle of the door and walked in. His wife, who was sitting in an armchair, with her eyes on the floor, remained motionless.

“Look here, Polly—,” he began.

“Don’t talk to me,” was the reply. “I wonder you can look me in the face.”

The skipper ground his teeth, and strove to maintain an air of judicial calm.

“If you’ll only be reasonable—,” he remarked, severely.

“I thought there was something secret going on,” said Mrs. Hunt. “I’ve often looked at you when you’ve been sitting in that chair, with a worried look on your face, and wondered what it was. But I never thought it was so bad as this. I’ll do you the credit to say that I never thought of such a thing as this.... What did you say?... What?”

“I said ‘damn!’” said the skipper, explosively.

“Yes, I’ve no doubt,” said his wife, fiercely. “You think you’re going to carry it off with a high hand and bluster; but you won’t bluster me, my man. I’m not one of your meek and mild women who’ll put up with anything. I’m not one of your—”

“I tell you,” said the skipper, “that the boy calls everybody his father. I dare say he’s claimed another by this time.”

Even as he spoke the handle turned, and the door opening a few inches disclosed the anxious face of Master Jones. Mrs. Hunt, catching the skipper’s eye, pointed to it in an ecstasy of silent wrath. There was a breathless pause, broken at last by the boy.

“Mother!” he said, softly.

Mrs. Hunt stiffened in her chair and her arms fell by her side as she gazed in speechless amazement. Master Jones, opening the door a little wider, gently insinuated his small figure into the room. The skipper gave one glance at his wife and then, turning hastily away, put his hand over his mouth, and, with protruding eyes, gazed out of the window.

“Mother, can I come in?” said the boy.

“Oh, Polly!” sighed the skipper. Mrs. Hunt strove to regain the utterance of which astonishment had deprived her.

“I ... what ... Joe ... don’t be a fool!”

“Yes, I’ve no doubt,” said the skipper, theatrically. “Oh, Polly! Polly! Polly!”

He put his hand over his mouth again and laughed silently, until his wife, coming behind him, took him by the shoulders and shook him violently.

“This,” said the skipper, choking; “this is what ... you’ve been worried about ... This is the secret what’s——”

He broke off suddenly as his wife thrust him by main force into a chair, and standing over him with a fiery face dared him to say another word. Then she turned to the boy.

“What do you mean by calling me ‘mother’?” she demanded. “I’m not your mother.”

“Yes, you are,” said Master Jones.

Mrs. Hunt eyed him in bewilderment, and then, roused to a sense of her position by a renewed gurgling from the skipper’s chair, set to work to try and thump that misguided man into a more serious frame of mind. Failing in this, she sat down, and, after a futile struggle, began to laugh herself, and that so heartily that Master Jones, smiling sympathetically, closed the door and came boldly into the room.

The statement, generally believed, that Captain Hunt and his wife adopted him, is incorrect, the skipper accounting for his continued presence in the house by the simple explanation that he had adopted them. An explanation which Mr. Samuel Brown, for one, finds quite easy of acceptance.

A WILL AND A WAY

The old man sat over the tap-room fire at the “Cauliflower,” his gnarled, swollen hands fondled the warm bowl of his long pipe, and an ancient eye watched with almost youthful impatience the slow warming of a mug of beer on the hob.

He had just given unasked-for statistics to the visitor at the inn who was sitting the other side of the hearth. His head was stored with the births, marriages, and deaths of Claybury, and with a view of being entertaining he had already followed, from the cradle to the altar and the altar to the grave, the careers of some of the most uninteresting people that ever breathed.

“No, there ain’t been a great sight o’ single men hereabouts,” he said, in answer to a question. “Claybury ’as always been a marrying sort o’ place—not because the women are more good-looking than others, but because they are sharper.”

He reached forward, and, taking up his beer, drank with relish. The generous liquor warmed his blood, and his eye brightened.

“I’ve buried two wives, but I ’ave to be careful myself, old as I am,” he said, thoughtfully. “There’s more than one woman about ’ere as would like to change ’er name for mine. Claybury’s got the name for being a marrying place, and they don’t like to see even a widow-man.

“Now and agin we’ve ’ad a young feller as said as ’e wouldn’t get married. There was Jem Burn, for one, and it ain’t a month ago since four of ’is grandchildren carried him to the churchyard; and there was Walter Bree: ’e used to prove as ’ow any man that got married wasn’t in ’is right mind, and ’e got three years in prison for wot they call bigamy.

“But there used to be one man in these parts as the Claybury women couldn’t marry, try as they might. He was a ugly little man with red ’air and a foxy face. They used to call ’im Foxy Green, and ’e kept ’appy and single for years and years.

“He wasn’t a man as disliked being in the company o’ women though, and that’s wot used to aggeravate ’em. He’d take ’em out for walks, or give ’em a lift in ’is cart, but none of ’em could get ’old of ’im, not even the widders. He used to say ’e loved ’em all too much to tie hisself up to any one of ’em, and ’e would sit up ’ere of a night at the “Cauliflower” and send men with large families a’most crazy by calkerlating ’ow many pints o’ beer their children wore out every year in the shape o’ boots.

“Sometimes ’is uncle, old Ebenezer Green, used to sit up ’ere with ’im. He was a strong, ’earty old man, and ’e’d sit and laugh at Foxy till ’is chair shook under ’im. He was a lively sporting sort o’ man, and when Foxy talked like that ’e seemed to be keeping some joke to hisself which nearly choked ’im.

“‘You’ll marry when I’m gone, Foxy,’ he’d say.

“‘Not me,’ ses Foxy.

“Then the old man ’ud laugh agin and talk mysterious about fox-hunts and say ’e wondered who’d get Foxy’s brush. He said ’e’d only got to shut ’is eyes and ’e could see the pack in full cry through Claybury village, and Foxy going ’is ’ardest with ’is tongue ’anging out.

“Foxy couldn’t say anything to ’im, because it was understood that when the old man died ’e was to ’ave ’is farm and ’is money; so ’e used to sit there and smile as if ’e liked it.

“When Foxy was about forty-three ’is uncle died. The old man’s mind seemed to wander at the last, and ’e said what a good man ’e’d always been, and wot a comfort it was to ’im now that ’e was goin’. And ’e mentioned a lot o’ little sums o’ money owed ’im in the village which nobody could remember.

“‘I’ve made my will, Foxy,’ he ses, ‘and schoolmaster’s takin’ care of it; I’ve left it all to you.’

“‘All right,’ ses Foxy. ‘Thankee.’

“‘He’s goin’ to read it arter the funeral,’ ses ’is uncle, ‘which is the proper way to do it. I’d give anything to be there, Foxy, and see your face.’

“Those were ’is last words, but ’e laughed once or twice, and for a long time arter ’e’d gone Foxy Green sat there and wondered at ’is last words and wot there was to laugh about.

“The old man was buried a few days after, and Foxy stood by the grave ’olding a ’andkerchief to ’is eyes, and behaving as though ’e ’ad lost money instead of coming in for it. Then they went back to the farm, and the first thing the schoolmaster did was to send all the women off before reading the will.

“‘Wot’s that for? ’ ses Foxy, staring.

“‘You’ll see,’ ses the schoolmaster; ‘them was my instructions. It’s for your sake, Mr. Green; to give you a chance—at least, that’s wot your uncle said.’

“He sat down and took out the will and put on ’is spectacles. Then ’e spread it out on the table and took a glass o’ gin and water and began to read.

“It was all straightforward enough. The farm and stock, and two cottages, and money in the bank, was all left to Josiah Green, commonly called Foxy Green, on condition——

“There was such a noise o’ clapping, and patting Foxy on the back, that the schoolmaster ’ad to leave off and wait for quiet.

“‘On condition,’ he ses, in a loud voice, ‘that he marries the first Claybury woman, single or widow, that asks ’im to marry her in the presence of three witnesses. If he refuses, the property is to go to ’er instead.’

“Foxy turned round like mad then, and asked Henery Walker wot ’e was patting ’im on the back for. Then, in a choking voice, he asked to ’ave it read agin.

“‘Well, there’s one thing about it, Mr. Green,’ ses Henery Walker; ‘with all your property you’ll be able to ’ave the pick o’ the prettiest gals in Claybury.’

“‘’Ow’s that?’ ses Joe Chambers, very sharp; ‘he’s got to take the first woman that asks ’im, don’t matter wot ’er age is.’

“He got up suddenly, and, without even saying good-bye to Foxy, rushed out of the ’ouse and off over the fields as ’ard as ’e could go.

“‘Wot’s the matter with ’im? ’ ses Foxy.

“Nobody could give any answer, and they sat there staring at each other, till all of a sudden Henery Walker jumps up and goes off if anything ’arder than wot Joe Chambers had done.

“‘Anything wrong with the drink?’ ses Foxy, puzzled like.

“They shook their ’eads agin, and then Peter Gubbins, who’d been staring ’ard with ’is mouth open, got up and gave the table a bang with ’is fist.

“‘Joe Chambers ’as gone arter ’is sister,’ he ses, ‘and Henery Walker arter ’is wife’s sister, as ’e’s been keeping for this last six months. That’s wot they’ve gone for.’

“Everybody saw it then, and in two minutes Foxy and the schoolmaster was left alone looking at each other and the empty table.

“‘Well, I’m in for a nice thing,’ ses Foxy. ‘Fancy being proposed to by Henery Walker’s sister-in-law! Ugh!’

“‘It’ll be the oldest ones that’ll be the most determined,’ said the schoolmaster, shaking is ’ead. ‘Wot are you going to do?’

“‘I don’t know,’ ses Foxy, ‘it’s so sudden. But they’ve got to ’ave three witnesses, that’s one comfort. I’d like to tell Joe Chambers wot I think of ’im and ’is precious sister.’

“It was very curious the way the women took it. One an’ all of ’em pretended as it was an insult to the sex, and they said if Foxy Green waited till ’e was asked to marry he’d wait long enough. Little chits o’ gals o’ fourteen and fifteen was walking about tossing their ’eads up and as good as saying they might ’ave Green’s farm for the asking, but they wouldn’t ask. Old women of seventy and over said that if Foxy wanted to marry them he’d ’ave to ask, and ask a good many times too.

“Of course, this was all very well in its way, but at the same time three Claybury gals that was away in service was took ill and ’ad to come ’ome, and several other women that was away took their holidays before their relations knew anything about it. Almost every ’ouse in Claybury ’ad got some female relation staying in it, and they was always explaining to everybody why it was they ’ad come ’ome. None of ’em so much as mentioned Foxy Green.

“Women are artful creatures and think a lot of appearances. There wasn’t one of ’em as would ha’ minded wot other folks said if they’d caught Foxy, but they’d ha’ gone half crazy with shame if they’d tried and not managed it. And they couldn’t do things on the quiet because of the three witnesses. That was the ’ardship of it.

“It was the only thing talked about in Claybury, and Foxy Green soon showed as he was very wide-awake. First thing ’e did was to send the gal that used to do the dairy-work and the ’ouse-work off. Then ’e bought a couple o’ large, fierce dogs and chained ’em up, one near the front door and one near the back. They was very good dogs, and they bit Foxy hisself two or three times so as to let ’im see that they knew wot they was there for.

“He took George Smith, a young feller that used to work on the farm, into the ’ouse, and for the fust week or two ’e rather enjoyed the excitement. But when ’e found that ’e couldn’t go into the village, or even walk about ’is own farm in safety, he turned into a reg’lar woman-hater.

“The artful tricks those women ’ad wouldn’t be believed. One day when Foxy was eating ’is dinner William Hall drove up to the gate in a cart, and when George came out to know wot ’e wanted, ’e said that he ’ad just bought some pigs at Rensham and would Foxy like to make fust offer for ’em.

“George went in, and when ’e came out agin he said William Hall was to go inside. He ’eld the dog while William went by, and as soon as Foxy ’eard wot ’e wanted ’e asked ’im to wait till ’e’d finished ’is dinner, and then he’d go out and ’ave a look at ’em.

“‘I was wantin’ some pigs bad,’ he ses, ‘and the worst of it is I can’t get out to buy any as things are.’

“‘That’s wot I thought,’ ses William Hall; ‘that’s why I brought ’em to you.’

“‘You deserve to get on, William,’ ses Foxy. ‘George,’ he ses, turning to ’im.

“‘Yes,’ ses George.

“‘Do you know much about pigs?’

“‘I know a pig when I see one,’ ses George.

“‘That’s all I want,’ ses Foxy; ‘go and ’ave a look at ’em.’

“William Hall gave a start as George walked out, and a minute afterwards both of ’em ’eard an awful noise, and George came back rubbing ’is ’ead and saying that when ’e lifted up the cloth one o’ the pigs was William Hall’s sister and the others was ’er nephews. William said it was a joke, but Foxy said he didn’t like jokes, and if William thought that ’e or George was going to walk with ’im past the dog ’e was mistook.

“Two days arter that, Foxy, ’appening to look out of ’is bedroom window, saw one o’ the Claybury boys racing ’is cows all up and down the meadow. He came down quietly and took up a stick, and then ’e set out to race that boy up and down. He’d always been a good runner, and the boy was ’alf-blown like. ’E gave a yell as ’e saw Foxy coming arter ’im, and left the cow ’e was chasin’ and ran straight for the ’edge, with Foxy close behind ’im.

“Foxy was within two yards of ’im when ’e suddenly caught sight of a blue bonnet waiting behind the ’edge, and ’e turned round and went back to the ’ouse as fast as ’e could go and locked ’imself in. And ’e ’ad to sit there, half-busting, all the morning, and watch that boy chase ’is best cows up and down the meadow without daring to go out and stop ’im.

“He sent George down to tell the boy’s father that night, and the father sent back word that if Foxy ’ad got anything to say agin ’is boy why didn’t ’e come down like a man and say it hisself?

“Arter about three weeks o’ this sort o’ thing Foxy Green began to see that ’e would ’ave to get married whether he liked it or not, and ’e told George so. George’s idea was for ’im to get the oldest woman in Claybury to ask ’im in marriage, because then he’d soon be single agin. It was a good idea, on’y Foxy didn’t seem to fancy it.

“‘Who do you think is the prettiest gal in Claybury, George?’ he ses.

“‘Flora Pottle,’ ses George, at once.

“‘That’s exactly my idea,’ ses Foxy; ‘if I’ve got to marry, I’ll marry ’er. However, I’ll sleep on it a night and see ’ow I feel in the morning.’

I’ll marry Flora Pottle,’ he ses, when ’e got up. ‘You can go round this arternoon, George, and break the good news to ’er.’

“George tidied hisself up arter dinner and went. Flora Pottle was a very fine-looking gal, and she was very much surprised when George walked in, but she was more surprised when ’e told ’er that if she was to go over and ask Foxy to be ’er ’usband he wouldn’t say ‘No.’

“Mrs. Pottle jumped out of ’er skin for joy a’most. She’d ’ad a ’ard time of it with Flora and five young children since ’er ’usband died, and she could ’ardly believe ’er ears when Flora said she wouldn’t.

“‘’E’s old enough to be my father,’ she ses.

“‘Old men make the best ’usbands,’ ses George, coaxing ’er; ‘and, besides, think o’ the farm.’

“‘That’s wot you’ve got to think of,’ ses her mother. ‘Don’t think o’ Foxy Green at all; think o’ the farm.’

“Flora stood and leaned herself up agin a chest o’ drawers and twisted ’er hands, and at last she sent back word to say that she wanted time to think it over.

“Foxy Green was very much astonished when George took back that answer. He’d thought that any gal would ha’ jumped at ’im without the farm, and arter going upstairs and looking at hisself in the glass ’e was more astonished than ever.

“When George Smith went up to the Pottles agin the next day Flora made a face at ’im, and ’e felt as orkard as if ’e’d been courting ’er hisself a’most. At first she wouldn’t ’ave anything to say to ’im at all, but went on sweeping out the room, and nearly choking ’im. Then George Smith, wot was a likely young feller, put ’is arm round ’er waist, and, taking the broom away from ’er, made ’er sit down beside ’im while ’e gave ’er Foxy’s message.

“He did Foxy’s courting for ’im for an hour, although it on’y seemed about five minutes to both of ’em. Then Mrs. Pottle came in, and arter a lot of talk Flora was got to say that George Smith might come agin for five minutes next day.

“Foxy went on dreadful when ’e ’eard that Flora ’adn’t given an answer, but George Smith, who liked the job much better than farming or making beds, told ’im she was coming round, and that it was on’y natural a young gal should like to be courted a bit afore givin’ in.

“‘Yes,’ ses Foxy, biting ’is lip, ‘but ’ow’s it to be done?’

“‘You leave it to me,’ ses George Smith, ‘and it’ll be all right. I sit there and talk about the farm as well as wot you could.’

“‘And about me too, I s’pose?’ ses Foxy, catching ’im up.

“‘Yes,’ ses George; ‘I tell ’er all sorts o’ lies about you.’

“Foxy looked at ’im a moment, and then ’e went off grumbling. He was like a good many more men, and because Flora Pottle didn’t seem to want ’im ’e on’y fancied ’er the more. Next day ’e sent George Smith up with an old brooch as a present, and when George came back ’e said ’e thought that if it ’ad been a new one it would ’ave done wot was wanted.

“You can’t keep secrets in Claybury, and it soon got round wot Foxy Green was arter. That made the other women more determined than ever, and at last Foxy sent up word that if Flora wouldn’t ask ’im to let ’im know, as ’e was tired o’ being a prisoner, and old Mrs. Ball ’ad nearly ’ad ’im the day afore.

“It took George Smith two hours’ ’ard courtin’ afore he could get Flora Pottle to say ‘Yes,’ but at last she did, and then Mrs. Pottle came in, and she shook ’ands with George, and gave ’im a glass o’ beer. Mrs. Pottle wanted to take ’er up to Green’s farm there and then, but Flora said no. She said they’d go up at eight o’clock in the evenin’, and the sacrifice should be made then.

“Foxy didn’t like the word ‘sacrifice’ at all, but if ’e’d got to be married ’e’d sooner marry Flora than anybody, and ’e ’ad to put up with it.

“‘There’ll be you for one witness,’ he ses to George, ‘and Mrs. Pottle is two; wot about the third?’

“‘I should ’ave ’alf a dozen, so as to make sure,’ ses George.

“Foxy thought it was a good idea, and without letting ’em know wot it was for, ’e asked Henery Walker and Joe Chambers, and three or four more ’e ’ad a grudge against for trying to marry ’im to their relations, to come up and see that ’e’d been able to pick and choose.

“They came at ha’-past seven, and at eight o’clock there was a knock at the door, and George, arter carefully looking round, let in Mrs. Pottle and Flora. She was a fine-looking gal, and as she stood there looking at all them astonished men, ’er face all blushes and ’er eyes large and shining, Foxy thought getting married wasn’t such a bad thing arter all. He gave ’er a chair to sit on, and then ’e coughed and waited.

“‘It’s a fine night,’ he ses, at last.

“‘Beautiful,’ ses Mrs. Pottle.

“Flora didn’t say anything. She sat there shuffling ’er feet on the carpet, and Foxy Green kept on looking at ’er and waiting for ’er to speak, and ’oping that she wouldn’t grow up like ’er mother.

“‘Go on, Flora,’ ses Mrs. Pottle, nudging ’er.

“‘Go on, Flora,’ ses Henery Walker, mimicking ’er. ‘I s’pose you’ve come to ask Foxy a question by the look of it?’

“‘Yes,’ ses Flora, looking up. ‘Are you quite well, Mr. Green?’

“‘Yes, yes,’ ses Foxy; ‘but you didn’t come up ’ere to ask me that.’

“‘It’s all I could do to get ’er ’ere at all, Mr. Green,’ says Mrs. Pottle; ‘she’s that shy you can’t think. She’d rather ha’ ’ad you ask ’er yourself.’

“‘That can’t be done,’ ses Foxy, shaking ’is ’ead. ‘Leastways, I’m not going to risk it.’

“‘Now, Flora,’ ses ’er mother, nudging ’er agin.

“‘Come on, Flora Pottle,’ ses Bob Hunt; we’re all a-waitin’.’

“‘Shut your eyes and open your mouth, as if Foxy was a powder,’ ses Henery Walker.

“‘I can’t,’ ses Flora, turning to her mother. ‘I can’t and I won’t.’

“‘Flora Pottle,’ ses ’er mother, firing up.

“‘I won’t,’ ses Flora, firing up too; ‘you’ve been bothering me all day long for ever so long, and I won’t. I ’ate the sight of ’im. He’s the ugliest man in Claybury.’

“Mrs. Pottle began to cry and say that she’d disgraced ’er; but Foxy Green looked at ’er and ’e ses, ‘Very well, Flora Pottle, then we’ll say no more about it. Good evening.’

“‘Good evening,’ ses Mrs. Pottle, getting up and giving Flora a shake. ‘Come along, you tantalising mawther, do. You’ll die an old maid, that’s what you’ll do.’

“‘That’s all you know,’ ses Flora, smiling over at George Smith; ‘but if you’re so fond o’ Mr. Green why don’t you ask ’im yourself? He can’t say “No.”’

“For half a minute the room was as quiet as a grave, and the on’y thing that moved was Foxy Green’s eyes as he looked fust at the door at the other end of the room and then at the window.

“‘Lor’ bless my soul!’ ses Mrs. Pottle, in a surprised voice. ‘I never thought of it.’

“She sat down agin and smiled at Foxy as if she could eat ’im.

“‘I can’t think why I didn’t think of it,’ she ses, looking round. ‘I was going out like a lamb. Mr. Green——’

“‘One moment,’ ses Foxy, ’olding up ’is ’and. ‘I should be a terrible, bad, cruel, unkind husband to anybody I didn’t like. Don’t say words you’ll be sorry for arterwards, Mrs. Pottle.’

“‘I’m not going to,’ ses Mrs. Pottle; ‘the words I’m going to say will be good for both of us; I’m far more suitable for you than a young gal—Mr. Green, will you marry me?’

“Foxy Green looked at ’er for a moment, and then ’e looked round at all them grinning men wot he’d brought there by mistake to see ’im made a fool of. Then in a low, ’usky voice he ses, ‘I will.’”

JERRY BUNDLER

It wanted a few nights to Christmas, a festival for which the small market town of Torchester was making extensive preparations. The narrow streets which had been thronged with people were now almost deserted; the cheap-jack from London, with the remnant of breath left him after his evening’s exertions, was making feeble attempts to blow out his naphtha lamp, and the last shops open were rapidly closing for the night.

In the comfortable coffee-room of the old Boar’s Head, half a dozen guests, principally commercial travellers, sat talking by the light of the fire. The talk had drifted from trade to politics, from politics to religion, and so by easy stages to the supernatural. Three ghost stories, never known to fail before, had fallen flat; there was too much noise outside, too much light within. The fourth story was told by an old hand with more success; the streets were quiet, and he had turned the gas out. In the flickering light of the fire, as it shone on the glasses and danced with shadows on the walls, the story proved so enthralling that George, the waiter, whose presence had been forgotten, created a very disagreeable sensation by suddenly starting up from a dark corner and gliding silently from the room. “That’s what I call a good story,” said one of the men, sipping his hot whisky. “Of course it’s an old idea that spirits like to get into the company of human beings. A man told me once that he travelled down the Great Western with a ghost and hadn’t the slightest suspicion of it until the inspector came for tickets. My friend said the way that ghost tried to keep up appearances by feeling for it in all its pockets and looking on the floor was quite touching. Ultimately it gave it up and with a faint groan vanished through the ventilator.”

“That’ll do, Hirst,” said another man.

“It’s not a subject for jesting,” said a little old gentleman who had been an attentive listener. “I’ve never seen an apparition myself, but I know people who have, and I consider that they form a very interesting link between us and the afterlife. There’s a ghost story connected with this house, you know.”

“Never heard of it,” said another speaker, “and I’ve been here some years now.”

“It dates back a long time now,” said the old gentleman. “You’ve heard about Jerry Bundler, George?”

“Well, I’ve just ’eard odds and ends, sir,” said the old waiter, “but I never put much count to ’em. There was one chap ’ere what said ’e saw it, and the gov’ner sacked ’im prompt.”

“My father was a native of this town,” said the old gentleman, “and knew the story well. He was a truthful man and a steady churchgoer, but I’ve heard him declare that once in his life he saw the appearance of Jerry Bundler in this house.”.

“And who was this Bundler?” inquired a voice.

“A London thief, pickpocket, highwayman—anything he could turn his dishonest hand to,” replied the old gentleman; “and he was run to earth in this house one Christmas week some eighty years ago. He took his last supper in this very room, and after he had gone up to bed a couple of Bow Street runners, who had followed him from London but lost the scent a bit, went upstairs with the landlord and tried the door. It was stout oak, and fast, so one went into the yard, and by means of a short ladder got onto the window-sill, while the other stayed outside the door. Those below in the yard saw the man crouching on the sill, and then there was a sudden smash of glass, and with a cry he fell in a heap on the stones at their feet. Then in the moonlight they saw the white face of the pickpocket peeping over the sill, and while some stayed in the yard, others ran into the house and helped the other man to break the door in. It was difficult to obtain an entrance even then, for it was barred with heavy furniture, but they got in at last, and the first thing that met their eyes was the body of Jerry dangling from the top of the bed by his own handkerchief.”

“Which bedroom was it?” asked two or three voices together.

The narrator shook his head. “That I can’t tell you; but the story goes that Jerry still haunts this house, and my father used to declare positively that the last time he slept here the ghost of Jerry Bundler lowered itself from the top of his bed and tried to strangle him.”

“That’ll do,” said an uneasy voice. “I wish you’d thought to ask your father which bedroom it was.”

“What for?” inquired the old gentleman.

“Well, I should take care not to sleep in it, that’s all,” said the voice, shortly.

“There’s nothing to fear,” said the other. “I don’t believe for a moment that ghosts could really hurt one. In fact my father used to confess that it was only the unpleasantness of the thing that upset him, and that for all practical purposes Jerry’s fingers might have been made of cottonwool for all the harm they could do.”

“That’s all very fine,” said the last speaker again; “a ghost story is a ghost story, sir; but when a gentleman tells a tale of a ghost in the house in which one is going to sleep, I call it most ungentlemanly!”

“Pooh! nonsense!” said the old gentleman, rising; “ghosts can’t hurt you. For my own part, I should rather like to see one. Good night, gentlemen.”

“Good night,” said the others. “And I only hope Jerry’ll pay you a visit,” added the nervous man as the door closed.

“Bring some more whisky, George,” said a stout commercial; “I want keeping up when the talk turns this way.”

“Shall I light the gas, Mr. Malcolm?” said George.

“No; the fire’s very comfortable,” said the traveller. “Now, gentlemen, any of you know any more?”

“I think we’ve had enough,” said another man; “we shall be thinking we see spirits next, and we’re not all like the old gentleman who’s just gone.”

“Old humbug!” said Hirst. “I should like to put him to the test. Suppose I dress up as Jerry Bundler and go and give him a chance of displaying his courage?”

“Bravo!” said Malcolm, huskily, drowning one or two faint “Noes.” “Just for the joke, gentlemen.”

“No, no! Drop it, Hirst,” said another man.

“Only for the joke,” said Hirst, somewhat eagerly. “I’ve got some things upstairs in which I am going to play in the Rivals—knee-breeches, buckles, and all that sort of thing. It’s a rare chance. If you’ll wait a bit I’ll give you a full-dress rehearsal, entitled, ‘Jerry Bundler; or, The Nocturnal Strangler.’”

“You won’t frighten us,” said the commercial, with a husky laugh.

“I don’t know that,” said Hirst, sharply; “it’s a question of acting, that’s all. I’m pretty good, ain’t I, Somers?”

“Oh, you’re all right—for an amateur,” said his friend, with a laugh.

“I’ll bet you a level sov. you don’t frighten me,” said the stout traveller.

“Done!” said Hirst. “I’ll take the bet to frighten you first and the old gentleman afterwards. These gentlemen shall be the judges.”

“You won’t frighten us, sir,” said another man, “because we’re prepared for you; but you’d better leave the old man alone. It’s dangerous play.”

“Well, I’ll try you first,” said Hirst, springing up. “No gas, mind.”

He ran lightly upstairs to his room, leaving the others, most of whom had been drinking somewhat freely, to wrangle about his proceedings. It ended in two of them going to bed.

“He’s crazy on acting,” said Somers, lighting his pipe. “Thinks he’s the equal of anybody almost. It doesn’t matter with us, but I won’t let him go to the old man. And he won’t mind so long as he gets an opportunity of acting to us.”

“Well, I hope he’ll hurry up,” said Malcolm, yawning; “it’s after twelve now.”

Nearly half an hour passed. Malcolm drew his watch from his pocket and was busy winding it, when George, the waiter, who had been sent on an errand to the bar, burst suddenly into the room and rushed towards them.

“’E’s comin’, gentlemen,” he said breathlessly.

“Why, you’re frightened, George,” said the stout commercial, with a chuckle.

“It was the suddenness of it,” said George, sheepishly; “and besides, I didn’t look for seein’ ’im in the bar. There’s only a glimmer of light there, and ’e was sitting on the floor behind the bar. I nearly trod on ’im.”

“Oh, you’ll never make a man, George,” said Malcolm.

“Well, it took me unawares,” said the waiter. “Not that I’d have gone to the bar by myself if I’d known ’e was there, and I don’t believe you would either, sir.”

“Nonsense!” said Malcolm. “I’ll go and fetch him in.”

“You don’t know what it’s like, sir,” said George, catching him by the sleeve. “It ain’t fit to look at by yourself, it ain’t, indeed. It’s got the—_What’s that?_”

They all started at the sound of a smothered cry from the staircase and the sound of somebody running hurriedly along the passage. Before anybody could speak, the door flew open and a figure bursting into the room flung itself gasping and shivering upon them.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” demanded Malcolm. “Why, it’s Mr. Hirst.” He shook him roughly and then held some spirit to his lips. Hirst drank it greedily and with a sharp intake of his breath gripped him by the arm.

“Light the gas, George,” said Malcolm.

The waiter obeyed hastily. Hirst, a ludicrous but pitiable figure in knee-breeches and coat, a large wig all awry and his face a mess of grease paint, clung to him, trembling.

“Now, what’s the matter?” asked Malcolm.

“I’ve seen it,” said Hirst, with a hysterical sob. “O Lord, I’ll never play the fool again, never!”

“Seen what?” said the others.

“Him—it—the ghost—anything!” said Hirst, wildly.

“Rot!” said Malcolm, uneasily.

“I was coming down the stairs,” said Hirst. “Just capering down—as I thought—it ought to do. I felt a tap—”

He broke off suddenly and peered nervously through the open door into the passage.

“I thought I saw it again,” he whispered.

“Look—at the foot of the stairs. Can you see anything?”

“No, there’s nothing there,” said Malcolm, whose own voice shook a little. “Go on. You felt a tap on your shoulder—”

“I turned round and saw it—a little wicked head and a white dead face. Pah!”

“That’s what I saw in the bar,” said George. “’Orrid it was—devilish!”

Hirst shuddered, and, still retaining his nervous grip of Malcolm’s sleeve, dropped into a chair.

“Well, it’s a most unaccountable thing,” said the dumbfounded Malcolm, turning round to the others. “It’s the last time I come to this house.”

“I leave to-morrow,” said George. “I wouldn’t go down to that bar again by myself, no, not for fifty pounds!”

“It’s talking about the thing that’s caused it, I expect,” said one of the men; “we’ve all been talking about this and having it in our minds. Practically we’ve been forming a spiritualistic circle without knowing it.”

“Hang the old gentleman!” said Malcolm, heartily. “Upon my soul, I’m half afraid to go to bed. It’s odd they should both think they saw something.”

“I saw it as plain as I see you, sir,” said George, solemnly. “P’raps if you keep your eyes turned up the passage you’ll see it for yourself.”

They followed the direction of his finger, but saw nothing, although one of them fancied that a head peeped round the corner of the wall.

“Who’ll come down to the bar?” said Malcolm, looking round.

“You can go, if you like,” said one of the others, with a faint laugh; “we’ll wait here for you.”

The stout traveller walked towards the door and took a few steps up the passage. Then he stopped. All was quite silent, and he walked slowly to the end and looked down fearfully towards the glass partition which shut off the bar. Three times he made as though to go to it; then he turned back, and, glancing over his shoulder, came hurriedly back to the room.

“Did you see it, sir?” whispered George.

“Don’t know,” said Malcolm, shortly. “I fancied I saw something, but it might have been fancy. I’m in the mood to see anything just now. How are you feeling now, sir?”

“Oh, I feel a bit better now,” said Hirst, somewhat brusquely, as all eyes were turned upon him. “I dare say you think I’m easily scared, but you didn’t see it.”

“Not at all,” said Malcolm, smiling faintly despite himself.

“I’m going to bed,” said Hirst, noticing the smile and resenting it. “Will you share my room with me, Somers?”

“I will with pleasure,” said his friend, “provided you don’t mind sleeping with the gas on full all night.”

He rose from his seat, and bidding the company a friendly good-night, left the room with his crestfallen friend. The others saw them to the foot of the stairs, and having heard their door close, returned to the coffee-room.

“Well, I suppose the bet’s off?” said the stout commercial, poking the fire and then standing with his legs apart on the hearthrug; “though, as far as I can see, I won it. I never saw a man so scared in all my life. Sort of poetic justice about it, isn’t there?”

“Never mind about poetry or justice,” said one of his listeners; “who’s going to sleep with me?”

“I will,” said Malcolm, affably.

“And I suppose we share a room together, Mr. Leek?” said the third man, turning to the fourth.

“No, thank you,” said the other, briskly; “I don’t believe in ghosts. If anything comes into my room I shall shoot it.”

“That won’t hurt a spirit, Leek,” said Malcolm, decisively.

“Well the noise’ll be like company to me,” said Leek, “and it’ll wake the house too. But if you’re nervous, sir,” he added, with a grin, to the man who had suggested sharing his room, “George’ll be only too pleased to sleep on the door-mat inside your room, I know.”

“That I will, sir,” said George, fervently; “and if you gentlemen would only come down with me to the bar to put the gas out, I could never be sufficiently grateful.”

They went out in a body, with the exception of Leek, peering carefully before them as they went. George turned the light out in the bar and they returned unmolested to the coffee-room, and, avoiding the sardonic smile of Leek, prepared to separate for the night.

“Give me the candle while you put the gas out, George,” said the traveller.

The waiter handed it to him and extinguished the gas, and at the same moment all distinctly heard a step in the passage outside. It stopped at the door, and as they watched with bated breath, the door creaked and slowly opened. Malcolm fell back open-mouthed, as a white, leering face, with sunken eyeballs and close-cropped bullet head, appeared at the opening.

For a few seconds the creature stood regarding them, blinking in a strange fashion at the candle. Then, with a sidling movement, it came a little way into the room and stood there as if bewildered.

Not a man spoke or moved, but all watched with a horrible fascination as the creature removed its dirty neckcloth and its head rolled on its shoulder. For a minute it paused, and then, holding the rag before it, moved towards Malcolm.

The candle went out suddenly with a flash and a bang. There was a smell of powder, and something writhing in the darkness on the floor. A faint, choking cough, and then silence. Malcolm was the first to speak. “Matches,” he said, in a strange voice. George struck one. Then he leapt at the gas and a burner flamed from the match. Malcolm touched the thing on the floor with his foot and found it soft. He looked at his companions. They mouthed inquiries at him, but he shook his head. He lit the candle, and, kneeling down, examined the silent thing on the floor. Then he rose swiftly, and dipping his handkerchief in the water-jug, bent down again and grimly wiped the white face. Then he sprang back with a cry of incredulous horror, pointing at it. Leek’s pistol fell to the floor and he shut out the sight with his hands, but the others, crowding forward, gazed spell-bound at the dead face of Hirst.