Chapter II: Part 2

“All that he said was quite true,” said her husband, defiantly. “The only thing is, he didn’t tell the arf of it. Altogether, I married three dusky maidens.”

Everybody but Mr. Thompson shuddered with horror.

“Then I married a white girl in Australia,” pursued Mr. Boxer, musingly. “I wonder old Silver didn’t see that in the bowl; not arf a fortune-teller, I call ’im.”

“What they _see_ in ’im!” whispered the astounded Mr. Thompson to his wife.

“And did you marry the beautiful girl in the photograph?” demanded Mrs. Boxer, in trembling accents.

“I did,” said her husband.

“Hussy,” cried Mrs. Boxer.

“I married her,” said Mr. Boxer, considering—“I married her at Camberwell, in eighteen ninety-three.”

“Eighteen _ninety-three!_” said his wife, in a startled voice. “But you couldn’t. Why, you didn’t marry me till eighteen ninety-_four_.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” inquired the monster, calmly.

Mrs. Boxer, pale as ashes, rose from her seat and stood gazing at him with horror-struck eyes, trying in vain to speak.

“You villain!” cried Mrs. Gimpson, violently. “I always distrusted you.”

“I know you did,” said Mr. Boxer, calmly. “You’ve been committing bigamy,” cried Mrs. Gimpson.

“Over and over agin,” assented Mr. Boxer, cheerfully. “It’s got to be a ’obby with me.”

“Was the first wife alive when you married my daughter?” demanded Mrs. Gimpson.

“Alive?” said Mr. Boxer. “O’ course she was. She’s alive now—bless her.”

He leaned back in his chair and regarded with intense satisfaction the horrified faces of the group in front.

“You—you’ll go to jail for this,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, breathlessly. “What is your first wife’s address?”

“I decline to answer that question,” said her son-in-law.

“What is your first wife’s address?” repeated Mrs. Gimpson.

“Ask the fortune-teller,” said Mr. Boxer, with an aggravating smile. “And then get ’im up in the box as a witness, little bowl and all. He can tell you more than I can.”

“I demand to know her name and address,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, putting a bony arm around the waist of the trembling Mrs. Boxer.

“I decline to give it,” said Mr. Boxer, with great relish. “It ain’t likely I’m going to give myself away like that; besides, it’s agin the law for a man to criminate himself. You go on and start your bigamy case, and call old red-eyes as a witness.”

Mrs. Gimpson gazed at him in speechless wrath and then stooping down conversed in excited whispers with Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Boxer crossed over to her husband.

“Oh, John,” she wailed, “say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true.”

Mr. Boxer hesitated. “What’s the good o’ me saying anything?” he said, doggedly.

“It isn’t true,” persisted his wife. “Say it isn’t true.”

“What I told you when I first came in this evening was quite true,” said her husband, slowly. “And what I’ve just told you is as true as what that lying old fortune-teller told you. You can please yourself what you believe.”

“I believe you, John,” said his wife, humbly.

Mr. Boxer’s countenance cleared and he drew her on to his knee.

“That’s right,” he said, cheerfully. “So long as you believe in me I don’t care what other people think. And before I’m much older I’ll find out how that old rascal got to know the names of the ships I was aboard. Seems to me somebody’s been talking.”

BLUNDELL’S IMPROVEMENT

Venia Turnbull in a quiet, unobtrusive fashion was enjoying herself. The cool living-room at Turnbull’s farm was a delightful contrast to the hot sunshine without, and the drowsy humming of bees floating in at the open window was charged with hints of slumber to the middle-aged. From her seat by the window she watched with amused interest the efforts of her father—kept from his Sunday afternoon nap by the assiduous attentions of her two admirers—to maintain his politeness.

“Father was so pleased to see you both come in,” she said, softly; “it’s very dull for him here of an afternoon with only me.”

“I can’t imagine anybody being dull with only you,” said Sergeant Dick Daly, turning a bold brown eye upon her.

Mr. John Blundell scowled; this was the third time the sergeant had said the thing that he would have liked to say if he had thought of it.

“I don’t mind being dull,” remarked Mr. Turnbull, casually.

Neither gentleman made any comment.

“I like it,” pursued Mr. Turnbull, longingly; “always did, from a child.”

The two young men looked at each other; then they looked at Venia; the sergeant assumed an expression of careless ease, while John Blundell sat his chair like a human limpet. Mr. Turnbull almost groaned as he remembered his tenacity.

“The garden’s looking very nice,” he said, with a pathetic glance round.

“Beautiful,” assented the sergeant. “I saw it yesterday.”

“Some o’ the roses on that big bush have opened a bit more since then,” said the farmer.

Sergeant Daly expressed his gratification, and said that he was not surprised. It was only ten days since he had arrived in the village on a visit to a relative, but in that short space of time he had, to the great discomfort of Mr. Blundell, made himself wonderfully at home at Mr. Turnbull’s. To Venia he related strange adventures by sea and land, and on subjects of which he was sure the farmer knew nothing he was a perfect mine of information. He began to talk in low tones to Venia, and the heart of Mr. Blundell sank within him as he noted her interest. Their voices fell to a gentle murmur, and the sergeant’s sleek, well-brushed head bent closer to that of his listener. Relieved from his attentions, Mr. Turnbull fell asleep without more ado.

Blundell sat neglected, the unwilling witness of a flirtation he was powerless to prevent. Considering her limited opportunities, Miss Turnbull displayed a proficiency which astonished him. Even the sergeant was amazed, and suspected her of long practice.

“I wonder whether it is very hot outside?” she said, at last, rising and looking out of the window.

“Only pleasantly warm,” said the sergeant. “It would be nice down by the water.”

“I’m afraid of disturbing father by our talk,” said the considerate daughter. “You might tell him we’ve gone for a little stroll when he wakes,” she added, turning to Blundell.

Mr. Blundell, who had risen with the idea of acting the humble but, in his opinion, highly necessary part of chaperon, sat down again and watched blankly from the window until they were out of sight. He was half inclined to think that the exigencies of the case warranted him in arousing the farmer at once.

It was an hour later when the farmer awoke, to find himself alone with Mr. Blundell, a state of affairs for which he strove with some pertinacity to make that aggrieved gentleman responsible.

“Why didn’t you go with them?” he demanded. “Because I wasn’t asked,” replied the other.

Mr. Turnbull sat up in his chair and eyed him disdainfully. “For a great, big chap like you are, John Blundell,” he exclaimed, “it’s surprising what a little pluck you’ve got.”

“I don’t want to go where I’m not wanted,” retorted Mr. Blundell.

“That’s where you make a mistake,” said the other, regarding him severely; “girls like a masterful man, and, instead of getting your own way, you sit down quietly and do as you’re told, like a tame—tame—”

“Tame what?” inquired Mr. Blundell, resentfully.

“I don’t know,” said the other, frankly; “the tamest thing you can think of. There’s Daly laughing in his sleeve at you, and talking to Venia about Waterloo and the Crimea as though he’d been there. I thought it was pretty near settled between you.”

“So did I,” said Mr. Blundell.

“You’re a big man, John,” said the other, “but you’re slow. You’re all muscle and no head.”

“I think of things afterward,” said Blundell, humbly; “generally after I get to bed.”

Mr. Turnbull sniffed, and took a turn up and down the room; then he closed the door and came toward his friend again.

“I dare say you’re surprised at me being so anxious to get rid of Venia,” he said, slowly, “but the fact is I’m thinking of marrying again myself.”

“_You!_” said the startled Mr. Blundell.

“Yes, me,” said the other, somewhat sharply. “But she won’t marry so long as Venia is at home. It’s a secret, because if Venia got to hear of it she’d keep single to prevent it. She’s just that sort of girl.”

Mr. Blundell coughed, but did not deny it. “Who is it?” he inquired.

“Miss Sippet,” was the reply. “She couldn’t hold her own for half an hour against Venia.”

Mr. Blundell, a great stickler for accuracy, reduced the time to five minutes.

“And now,” said the aggrieved Mr. Turnbull, “now, so far as I can see, she’s struck with Daly. If she has him it’ll be years and years before they can marry. She seems crazy about heroes. She was talking to me the other night about them. Not to put too fine a point on it, she was talking about you.”

Mr. Blundell blushed with pleased surprise.

“Said you were _not_ a hero,” explained Mr. Turnbull. “Of course, I stuck up for you. I said you’d got too much sense to go putting your life into danger. I said you were a very careful man, and I told her how particular you was about damp sheets. Your housekeeper told me.”

“It’s all nonsense,” said Blundell, with a fiery face. “I’ll send that old fool packing if she can’t keep her tongue quiet.”

“It’s very sensible of you, John,” said Mr. Turnbull, “and a sensible girl would appreciate it. Instead of that, she only sniffed when I told her how careful you always were to wear flannel next to your skin. She said she liked dare-devils.”

“I suppose she thinks Daly is a dare-devil,” said the offended Mr. Blundell. “And I wish people wouldn’t talk about me and my skin. Why can’t they mind their own business?”

Mr. Turnbull eyed him indignantly, and then, sitting in a very upright position, slowly filled his pipe, and declining a proffered match rose and took one from the mantel-piece.

“I was doing the best I could for you,” he said, staring hard at the ingrate. “I was trying to make Venia see what a careful husband you would make. Miss Sippet herself is most particular about such things—and Venia seemed to think something of it, because she asked me whether you used a warming-pan.”

Mr. Blundell got up from his chair and, without going through the formality of bidding his host good-by, quitted the room and closed the door violently behind him. He was red with rage, and he brooded darkly as he made his way home on the folly of carrying on the traditions of a devoted mother without thinking for himself.

For the next two or three days, to Venia’s secret concern, he failed to put in an appearance at the farm—a fact which made flirtation with the sergeant a somewhat uninteresting business. Her sole recompense was the dismay of her father, and for his benefit she dwelt upon the advantages of the Army in a manner that would have made the fortune of a recruiting-sergeant.

“She’s just crazy after the soldiers,” he said to Mr. Blundell, whom he was trying to spur on to a desperate effort. “I’ve been watching her close, and I can see what it is now; she’s romantic. You’re too slow and ordinary for her. She wants somebody more dazzling. She told Daly only yesterday afternoon that she loved heroes. Told it to him to his face. I sat there and heard her. It’s a pity you ain’t a hero, John.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Blundell; “then, if I was, I expect she’d like something else.”

The other shook his head. “If you could only do something daring,” he murmured; “half-kill somebody, or save somebody’s life, and let her see you do it. Couldn’t you dive off the quay and save somebody’s life from drowning?”

“Yes, I could,” said Blundell, “if somebody would only tumble in.”

“You might pretend that you thought you saw somebody drowning,” suggested Mr. Turnbull.

“And be laughed at,” said Mr. Blundell, who knew his Venia by heart.

“You always seem to be able to think of objections,” complained Mr. Turnbull; “I’ve noticed that in you before.”

“I’d go in fast enough if there was anybody there,” said Blundell. “I’m not much of a swimmer, but—”

“All the better,” interrupted the other; “that would make it all the more daring.”

“And I don’t much care if I’m drowned,” pursued the younger man, gloomily.

Mr. Turnbull thrust his hands in his pockets and took a turn or two up and down the room. His brows were knitted and his lips pursed. In the presence of this mental stress Mr. Blundell preserved a respectful silence.

“We’ll all four go for a walk on the quay on Sunday afternoon,” said Mr. Turnbull, at last.

“On the chance?” inquired his staring friend.

“On the chance,” assented the other; “it’s just possible Daly might fall in.”

“He might if we walked up and down five million times,” said Blundell, unpleasantly.

“He might if we walked up and down three or four times,” said Mr. Turnbull, “especially if you happened to stumble.”

“I never stumble,” said the matter-of-fact Mr. Blundell. “I don’t know anybody more sure-footed than I am.”

“Or thick-headed,” added the exasperated Mr. Turnbull.

Mr. Blundell regarded him patiently; he had a strong suspicion that his friend had been drinking.

“Stumbling,” said Mr. Turnbull, conquering his annoyance with an effort “stumbling is a thing that might happen to anybody. You trip your foot against a stone and lurch up against Daly; he tumbles overboard, and you off with your jacket and dive in off the quay after him. He can’t swim a stroke.”

Mr. Blundell caught his breath and gazed at him in speechless amaze.

“There’s sure to be several people on the quay if it’s a fine afternoon,” continued his instructor. “You’ll have half Dunchurch round you, praising you and patting you on the back—all in front of Venia, mind you. It’ll be put in all the papers and you’ll get a medal.”

“And suppose we are both drowned?” said Mr. Blundell, soberly.

“Drowned? Fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Turnbull. “However, please yourself. If you’re afraid——”

“I’ll do it,” said Blundell, decidedly.

“And mind,” said the other, “don’t do it as if it’s as easy as kissing your fingers; be half-drowned yourself, or at least pretend to be. And when you’re on the quay take your time about coming round. Be longer than Daly is; you don’t want him to get all the pity.”

“All right,” said the other.

“After a time you can open your eyes,” went on his instructor; “then, if I were you, I should say, ‘Good-bye, Venia,’ and close ’em again. Work it up affecting, and send messages to your aunts.”

“It sounds all right,” said Blundell.

“It _is_ all right,” said Mr. Turnbull. “That’s just the bare idea I’ve given you. It’s for you to improve upon it. You’ve got two days to think about it.”

Mr. Blundell thanked him, and for the next two days thought of little else. Being a careful man he made his will, and it was in a comparatively cheerful frame of mind that he made his way on Sunday afternoon to Mr. Turnbull’s.

The sergeant was already there conversing in low tones with Venia by the window, while Mr. Turnbull, sitting opposite in an oaken armchair, regarded him with an expression which would have shocked Iago.

“We were just thinking of having a blow down by the water,” he said, as Blundell entered.

“What! a hot day like this?” said Venia.

“I was just thinking how beautifully cool it is in here,” said the sergeant, who was hoping for a repetition of the previous Sunday’s performance.

“It’s cooler outside,” said Mr. Turnbull, with a wilful ignoring of facts; “much cooler when you get used to it.”

He led the way with Blundell, and Venia and the sergeant, keeping as much as possible in the shade of the dust-powdered hedges, followed. The sun was blazing in the sky, and scarce half-a-dozen people were to be seen on the little curved quay which constituted the usual Sunday afternoon promenade. The water, a dozen feet below, lapped cool and green against the stone sides.

At the extreme end of the quay, underneath the lantern, they all stopped, ostensibly to admire a full-rigged ship sailing slowly by in the distance, but really to effect the change of partners necessary to the afternoon’s business. The change gave Mr. Turnbull some trouble ere it was effected, but he was successful at last, and, walking behind the two young men, waited somewhat nervously for developments.

Twice they paraded the length of the quay and nothing happened. The ship was still visible, and, the sergeant halting to gaze at it, the company lost their formation, and he led the complaisant Venia off from beneath her father’s very nose.

“You’re a pretty manager, you are, John Blundell,” said the incensed Mr. Turnbull.

“I know what I’m about,” said Blundell, slowly.

“Well, why don’t you do it?” demanded the other. “I suppose you are going to wait until there are more people about, and then perhaps some of them will see you push him over.”

“It isn’t that,” said Blundell, slowly, “but you told me to improve on your plan, you know, and I’ve been thinking out improvements.”

“Well?” said the other.

“It doesn’t seem much good saving Daly,” said Blundell; “that’s what I’ve been thinking. He would be in as much danger as I should, and he’d get as much sympathy; perhaps more.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you are backing out of it?” demanded Mr. Turnbull.

“No,” said Blundell, slowly, “but it would be much better if I saved somebody else. I don’t want Daly to be pitied.”

“Bah! you are backing out of it,” said the irritated Mr. Turnbull. “You’re afraid of a little cold water.”

“No, I’m not,” said Blundell; “but it would be better in every way to save somebody else. She’ll see Daly standing there doing nothing, while I am struggling for my life. I’ve thought it all out very carefully. I know I’m not quick, but I’m sure, and when I make up my mind to do a thing, I do it. You ought to know that.”

“That’s all very well,” said the other; “but who else is there to push in?”

“That’s all right,” said Blundell, vaguely. “Don’t you worry about that; I shall find somebody.”

Mr. Turnbull turned and cast a speculative eye along the quay. As a rule, he had great confidence in Blundell’s determination, but on this occasion he had his doubts.

“Well, it’s a riddle to me,” he said, slowly. “I give it up. It seems— _Halloa!_ Good heavens, be careful. You nearly had _me_ in then.”

“Did I?” said Blundell, thickly. “I’m very sorry.”

Mr. Turnbull, angry at such carelessness, accepted the apology in a grudging spirit and trudged along in silence. Then he started nervously as a monstrous and unworthy suspicion occurred to him. It was an incredible thing to suppose, but at the same time he felt that there was nothing like being on the safe side, and in tones not quite free from significance he intimated his desire of changing places with his awkward friend.

“It’s all right,” said Blundell, soothingly.

“I know it is,” said Mr. Turnbull, regarding him fixedly; “but I prefer this side. You very near had me over just now.”

“I staggered,” said Mr. Blundell.

“Another inch and I should have been overboard,” said Mr. Turnbull, with a shudder. “That would have been a nice how d’ye do.”

Mr. Blundell coughed and looked seaward. “Accidents will happen,” he murmured.

They reached the end of the quay again and stood talking, and when they turned once more the sergeant was surprised and gratified at the ease with which he bore off Venia. Mr. Turnbull and Blundell followed some little way behind, and the former gentleman’s suspicions were somewhat lulled by finding that his friend made no attempt to take the inside place. He looked about him with interest for a likely victim, but in vain.

“What are you looking at?” he demanded, impatiently, as Blundell suddenly came to a stop and gazed curiously into the harbour.

“Jelly-fish,” said the other, briefly. “I never saw such a monster. It must be a yard across.”

Mr. Turnbull stopped, but could see nothing, and even when Blundell pointed it out with his finger he had no better success. He stepped forward a pace, and his suspicions returned with renewed vigour as a hand was laid caressingly on his shoulder. The next moment, with a wild shriek, he shot suddenly over the edge and disappeared. Venia and the sergeant, turning hastily, were just in time to see the fountain which ensued on his immersion.

“Oh, save him!” cried Venia.

The sergeant ran to the edge and gazed in helpless dismay as Mr. Turnbull came to the surface and disappeared again. At the same moment Blundell, who had thrown off his coat, dived into the harbour and, rising rapidly to the surface, caught the fast-choking Mr. Turnbull by the collar.

“Keep still,” he cried, sharply, as the farmer tried to clutch him; “keep still or I’ll let you go.”

“Help!” choked the farmer, gazing up at the little knot of people which had collected on the quay.

A stout fisherman who had not run for thirty years came along the edge of the quay at a shambling trot, with a coil of rope over his arm. John Blundell saw him and, mindful of the farmer’s warning about kissing of fingers, etc., raised his disengaged arm and took that frenzied gentleman below the surface again. By the time they came up he was very glad for his own sake to catch the line skilfully thrown by the old fisherman and be drawn gently to the side.

“I’ll tow you to the steps,” said the fisherman; “don’t let go o’ the line.”

Mr. Turnbull saw to that; he wound the rope round his wrist and began to regain his presence of mind as they were drawn steadily toward the steps. Willing hands drew them out of the water and helped them up on to the quay, where Mr. Turnbull, sitting in his own puddle, coughed up salt water and glared ferociously at the inanimate form of Mr. Blundell. Sergeant Daly and another man were rendering what they piously believed to be first aid to the apparently drowned, while the stout fisherman, with both hands to his mouth, was yelling in heart-rending accents for a barrel.

“He—he—push—pushed me in,” gasped the choking Mr. Turnbull.

Nobody paid any attention to him; even Venia, seeing that he was safe, was on her knees by the side of the unconscious Blundell.

“He—he’s shamming,” bawled the neglected Mr. Turnbull.

“Shame!” said somebody, without even looking round.

“He pushed me in,” repeated Mr. Turnbull. “He pushed me in.”

“Oh, father,” said Venia, with a scandalised glance at him, “how can you?”

“Shame!” said the bystanders, briefly, as they, watched anxiously for signs of returning life on the part of Mr. Blundell. He lay still with his eyes closed, but his hearing was still acute, and the sounds of a rapidly approaching barrel trundled by a breathless Samaritan did him more good than anything.

“Good-bye, Venia,” he said, in a faint voice; “good-bye.”

Miss Turnbull sobbed and took his hand.

“He’s shamming,” roared Mr. Turnbull, incensed beyond measure at the faithful manner in which Blundell was carrying out his instructions. “He pushed me in.”

There was an angry murmur from the bystanders. “Be reasonable, Mr. Turnbull,” said the sergeant, somewhat sharply.

“He nearly lost ’is life over you,” said the stout fisherman. “As plucky a thing as ever I see. If I ’adn’t ha’ been ’andy with that there line you’d both ha’ been drownded.”

“Give—my love—to everybody,” said Blundell, faintly. “Good-bye, Venia. Good-bye, Mr. Turnbull.”

“Where’s that barrel?” demanded the stout fisherman, crisply. “Going to be all night with it? Now, two of you——”

Mr. Blundell, with a great effort, and assisted by Venia and the sergeant, sat up. He felt that he had made a good impression, and had no desire to spoil it by riding the barrel. With one exception, everybody was regarding him with moist-eyed admiration. The exception’s eyes were, perhaps, the moistest of them all, but admiration had no place in them.

“You’re all being made fools of,” he said, getting up and stamping. “I tell you he pushed me overboard for the purpose.”

“Oh, father! how can you?” demanded Venia, angrily. “He saved your life.”

“He pushed me in,” repeated the farmer. “Told me to look at a jelly-fish and pushed me in.”

“What for?” inquired Sergeant Daly.

“Because—” said Mr. Turnbull. He looked at the unconscious sergeant, and the words on his lips died away in an inarticulate growl.

“What for?” pursued the sergeant, in triumph. “Be reasonable, Mr. Turnbull. Where’s the reason in pushing you overboard and then nearly losing his life saving you? That would be a fool’s trick. It was as fine a thing as ever I saw.”

“What you ’ad, Mr. Turnbull,” said the stout fisherman, tapping him on the arm, “was a little touch o’ the sun.”

“What felt to you like a push,” said another man, “and over you went.”

“As easy as easy,” said a third.

“You’re red in the face now,” said the stout fisherman, regarding him critically, “and your eyes are starting. You take my advice and get ’ome and get to bed, and the first thing you’ll do when you get your senses back will be to go round and thank Mr. Blundell for all ’e’s done for you.”

Mr. Turnbull looked at them, and the circle of intelligent faces grew misty before his angry eyes. One man, ignoring his sodden condition, recommended a wet handkerchief tied round his brow.

“I don’t want any thanks, Mr. Turnbull,” said Blundell, feebly, as he was assisted to his feet. “I’d do as much for you again.”

The stout fisherman patted him admiringly on the back, and Mr. Turnbull felt like a prophet beholding a realised vision as the spectators clustered round Mr. Blundell and followed their friends’ example. Tenderly but firmly they led the hero in triumph up the quay toward home, shouting out eulogistic descriptions of his valour to curious neighbours as they passed. Mr. Turnbull, churlishly keeping his distance in the rear of the procession, received in grim silence the congratulations of his friends.

The extraordinary hallucination caused by the sun-stroke lasted with him for over a week, but at the end of that time his mind cleared and he saw things in the same light as reasonable folk. Venia was the first to congratulate him upon his recovery; but his extraordinary behaviour in proposing to Miss Sippet the very day on which she herself became Mrs. Blundell convinced her that his recovery was only partial.

BILL’S LAPSE

Strength and good-nature—said the night-watchman, musingly, as he felt his biceps—strength and good-nature always go together. Sometimes you find a strong man who is not good-natured, but then, as everybody he comes in contack with is, it comes to the same thing.

The strongest and kindest-’earted man I ever come across was a man o’ the name of Bill Burton, a ship-mate of Ginger Dick’s. For that matter ’e was a shipmate o’ Peter Russet’s and old Sam Small’s too. Not over and above tall; just about my height, his arms was like another man’s legs for size, and ’is chest and his back and shoulders might ha’ been made for a giant. And with all that he’d got a soft blue eye like a gal’s (blue’s my favourite colour for gals’ eyes), and a nice, soft, curly brown beard. He was an A.B., too, and that showed ’ow good-natured he was, to pick up with firemen.

He got so fond of ’em that when they was all paid off from the _Ocean King_ he asked to be allowed to join them in taking a room ashore. It pleased everybody, four coming cheaper than three, and Bill being that good-tempered that ’e’d put up with anything, and when any of the three quarrelled he used to act the part of peacemaker.

The only thing about ’im that they didn’t like was that ’e was a teetotaler. He’d go into public-’ouses with ’em, but he wouldn’t drink; leastways, that is to say, he wouldn’t drink beer, and Ginger used to say that it made ’im feel uncomfortable to see Bill put away a bottle o’ lemonade every time they ’ad a drink. One night arter ’e had ’ad seventeen bottles he could ’ardly got home, and Peter Russet, who knew a lot about pills and such-like, pointed out to ’im ’ow bad it was for his constitushon. He proved that the lemonade would eat away the coats o’ Bill’s stomach, and that if ’e kept on ’e might drop down dead at any moment.

That frightened Bill a bit, and the next night, instead of ’aving lemonade, ’e had five bottles o’ stone ginger-beer, six of different kinds of teetotal beer, three of soda-water, and two cups of coffee. I’m not counting the drink he ’ad at the chemist’s shop arterward, because he took that as medicine, but he was so queer in ’is inside next morning that ’e began to be afraid he’d ’ave to give up drink altogether.

He went without the next night, but ’e was such a generous man that ’e would pay every fourth time, and there was no pleasure to the other chaps to see ’im pay and ’ave nothing out of it. It spoilt their evening, and owing to ’aving only about ’arf wot they was accustomed to they all got up very disagreeable next morning.

“Why not take just a _little_ beer, Bill?” asks Ginger.

Bill ’ung his ’ead and looked a bit silly. “I’d rather not, mate,” he ses, at last. “I’ve been teetotal for eleven months now.”

“Think of your ’ealth, Bill,” ses Peter Russet; “your ’ealth is more important than the pledge. Wot made you take it?”

Bill coughed. “I ’ad reasons,” he ses, slowly. “A mate o’ mine wished me to.”

“He ought to ha’ known better,” ses Sam. “He ’ad ’is reasons,” ses Bill.

“Well, all I can say is, Bill,” ses Ginger, “all I can say is, it’s very disobligin’ of you.”

“Disobligin’?” ses Bill, with a start; “don’t say that, mate.”

“I must say it,” ses Ginger, speaking very firm.

“You needn’t take a lot, Bill,” ses Sam; “nobody wants you to do that. Just drink in moderation, same as wot we do.”

“It gets into my ’ead,” ses Bill, at last.

“Well, and wot of it?” ses Ginger; “it gets into everybody’s ’ead occasionally. Why, one night old Sam ’ere went up behind a policeman and tickled ’im under the arms; didn’t you, Sam?”

“I did nothing o’ the kind,” ses Sam, firing up.

“Well, you was fined ten bob for it next morning, that’s all I know,” ses Ginger.

“I was fined ten bob for punching ’im,” ses old Sam, very wild. “I never tickled a policeman in my life. I never thought o’ such a thing. I’d no more tickle a policeman than I’d fly. Anybody that ses I did is a liar. Why should I? Where does the sense come in? Wot should I want to do it for?”

“All _right_, Sam,” ses Ginger, sticking ’is fingers in ’is ears, “you didn’t, then.”

“No, I didn’t,” ses Sam, “and don’t you forget it. This ain’t the fust time you’ve told that lie about me. I can take a joke with any man; but anybody that goes and ses I tickled—”

“All right,” ses Ginger and Peter Russet together. “You’ll ’ave tickled policeman on the brain if you ain’t careful, Sam,” ses Peter.

Old Sam sat down growling, and Ginger Dick turned to Bill agin. “It gets into everybody’s ’ead at times,” he ses, “and where’s the ’arm? It’s wot it was meant for.”

Bill shook his ’ead, but when Ginger called ’im disobligin’ agin he gave way and he broke the pledge that very evening with a pint o’ six ’arf.

Ginger was surprised to see the way ’e took his liquor. Arter three or four pints he’d expected to see ’im turn a bit silly, or sing, or do something o’ the kind, but Bill kept on as if ’e was drinking water.

“Think of the ’armless pleasure you’ve been losing all these months, Bill,” ses Ginger, smiling at him.

Bill said it wouldn’t bear thinking of, and, the next place they came to he said some rather ’ard things of the man who’d persuaded ’im to take the pledge. He ’ad two or three more there, and then they began to see that it was beginning to have an effect on ’im. The first one that noticed it was Ginger Dick. Bill ’ad just lit ’is pipe, and as he threw the match down he ses: “I don’t like these ’ere safety matches,” he ses.

“Don’t you, Bill?” ses Ginger. “I do, rather.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” ses Bill, turning on ’im like lightning; “well, take that for contradictin’,” he ses, an’ he gave Ginger a smack that nearly knocked his ’ead off.

It was so sudden that old Sam and Peter put their beer down and stared at each other as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. Then they stooped down and helped pore Ginger on to ’is legs agin and began to brush ’im down.

“Never mind about ’im, mates,” ses Bill, looking at Ginger very wicked. “P’r’aps he won’t be so ready to give me ’is lip next time. Let’s come to another pub and enjoy ourselves.”

Sam and Peter followed ’im out like lambs, ’ardly daring to look over their shoulder at Ginger, who was staggering arter them some distance behind a ’olding a handerchief to ’is face.

“It’s your turn to pay, Sam,” ses Bill, when they’d got inside the next place. “Wot’s it to be? Give it a name.”

“Three ’arf pints o’ four ale, miss,” ses Sam, not because ’e was mean, but because it wasn’t ’is turn. “Three wot?” ses Bill, turning on ’im.

“Three pots o’ six ale, miss,” ses Sam, in a hurry.

“That wasn’t wot you said afore,” ses Bill. “Take that,” he ses, giving pore old Sam a wipe in the mouth and knocking ’im over a stool; “take that for your sauce.”

Peter Russet stood staring at Sam and wondering wot Bill ud be like when he’d ’ad a little more. Sam picked hisself up arter a time and went outside to talk to Ginger about it, and then Bill put ’is arm round Peter’s neck and began to cry a bit and say ’e was the only pal he’d got left in the world. It was very awkward for Peter, and more awkward still when the barman came up and told ’im to take Bill outside.

“Go on,” he ses, “out with ’im.”

“He’s all right,” ses Peter, trembling; “we’s the truest-’arted gentleman in London. Ain’t you, Bill?”

Bill said he was, and ’e asked the barman to go and hide ’is face because it reminded ’im of a little dog ’e had ’ad once wot ’ad died.

“You get outside afore you’re hurt,” ses the barman.

Bill punched at ’im over the bar, and not being able to reach ’im threw Peter’s pot o’ beer at ’im. There was a fearful to-do then, and the landlord jumped over the bar and stood in the doorway, whistling for the police. Bill struck out right and left, and the men in the bar went down like skittles, Peter among them. Then they got outside, and Bill, arter giving the landlord a thump in the back wot nearly made him swallow the whistle, jumped into a cab and pulled Peter Russet in arter ’im.

“I’ll talk to you by-and-by,” he ses, as the cab drove off at a gallop; “there ain’t room in this cab. You wait, my lad, that’s all. You just wait till we get out, and I’ll knock you silly.”

“Wot for, Bill?” ses Peter, staring.

“Don’t you talk to me,” roars Bill. “If I choose to knock you about that’s my business, ain’t it? Besides, you know very well.”

He wouldn’t let Peter say another word, but coming to a quiet place near the docks he stopped the cab and pulling ’im out gave ’im such a dressing down that Peter thought ’is last hour ’ad arrived. He let ’im go at last, and after first making him pay the cab-man took ’im along till they came to a public-’ouse and made ’im pay for drinks.

They stayed there till nearly eleven o’clock, and then Bill set off home ’olding the unfortunit Peter by the scruff o’ the neck, and wondering out loud whether ’e ought to pay ’im a bit more or not. Afore ’e could make up ’is mind, however, he turned sleepy, and, throwing ’imself down on the bed which was meant for the two of ’em, fell into a peaceful sleep.

Sam and Ginger Dick came in a little while arterward, both badly marked where Bill ’ad hit them, and sat talking to Peter in whispers as to wot was to be done. Ginger, who ’ad plenty of pluck, was for them all to set on to ’im, but Sam wouldn’t ’ear of it, and as for Peter he was so sore he could ’ardly move.

They all turned in to the other bed at last, ’arf afraid to move for fear of disturbing Bill, and when they woke up in the morning and see ’im sitting up in ’is bed they lay as still as mice.

“Why, Ginger, old chap,” ses Bill, with a ’earty smile, “wot are you all three in one bed for?”

“We was a bit cold,” ses Ginger.

“Cold?” ses Bill. “Wot, this weather? We ’ad a bit of a spree last night, old man, didn’t we? My throat’s as dry as a cinder.”

“It ain’t my idea of a spree,” ses Ginger, sitting up and looking at ’im.

“Good ’eavens, Ginger!” ses Bill, starting back, “wotever ’ave you been a-doing to your face? Have you been tumbling off of a ’bus?”

Ginger couldn’t answer; and Sam Small and Peter sat up in bed alongside of ’im, and Bill, getting as far back on ’is bed as he could, sat staring at their pore faces as if ’e was having a ’orrible dream.

“And there’s Sam,” he ses. “Where ever did you get that mouth, Sam?”

“Same place as Ginger got ’is eye and pore Peter got ’is face,” ses Sam, grinding his teeth.

“You don’t mean to tell me,” ses Bill, in a sad voice—“you don’t mean to tell me that I did it?”

“You know well enough,” ses Ginger.

Bill looked at ’em, and ’is face got as long as a yard measure.

“I’d ’oped I’d growed out of it, mates,” he ses, at last, “but drink always takes me like that. I can’t keep a pal.”

“You surprise me,” ses Ginger, sarcastic-like. “Don’t talk like that, Ginger,” ses Bill, ’arf crying.

“It ain’t my fault; it’s my weakness. Wot did I do it for?”

“I don’t know,” ses Ginger, “but you won’t get the chance of doing it agin, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I daresay I shall be better to-night, Ginger,” ses Bill, very humble; “it don’t always take me that way.

“Well, we don’t want you with us any more,” ses old Sam, ’olding his ’ead very high.

“You’ll ’ave to go and get your beer by yourself, Bill,” ses Peter Russet, feeling ’is bruises with the tips of ’is fingers.

“But then I should be worse,” ses Bill. “I want cheerful company when I’m like that. I should very likely come ’ome and ’arf kill you all in your beds. You don’t ’arf know what I’m like. Last night was nothing, else I should ’ave remembered it.”

“Cheerful company?” ses old Sam. “’Ow do you think company’s going to be cheerful when you’re carrying on like that, Bill? Why don’t you go away and leave us alone?”

“Because I’ve got a ’art,” ses Bill. “I can’t chuck up pals in that free-and-easy way. Once I take a liking to anybody I’d do anything for ’em, and I’ve never met three chaps I like better than wot I do you. Three nicer, straight-forrad, free-’anded mates I’ve never met afore.”

“Why not take the pledge agin, Bill?” ses Peter Russet.

“No, mate,” ses Bill, with a kind smile; “it’s just a weakness, and I must try and grow out of it. I’ll tie a bit o’ string round my little finger to-night as a reminder.”

He got out of bed and began to wash ’is face, and Ginger Dick, who was doing a bit o’ thinking, gave a whisper to Sam and Peter Russet.

“All right, Bill, old man,” he ses, getting out of bed and beginning to put his clothes on; “but first of all we’ll try and find out ’ow the landlord is.”

“Landlord?” ses Bill, puffing and blowing in the basin. “Wot landlord?”

“Why, the one you bashed,” ses Ginger, with a wink at the other two. “He ’adn’t got ’is senses back when me and Sam came away.”

Bill gave a groan and sat on the bed while ’e dried himself, and Ginger told ’im ’ow he ’ad bent a quart pot on the landlord’s ’ead, and ’ow the landlord ’ad been carried upstairs and the doctor sent for. He began to tremble all over, and when Ginger said he’d go out and see ’ow the land lay ’e could ’ardly thank ’im enough.

He stayed in the bedroom all day, with the blinds down, and wouldn’t eat anything, and when Ginger looked in about eight o’clock to find out whether he ’ad gone, he found ’im sitting on the bed clean shaved, and ’is face cut about all over where the razor ’ad slipped.

Ginger was gone about two hours, and when ’e came back he looked so solemn that old Sam asked ’im whether he ’ad seen a ghost. Ginger didn’t answer ’im; he set down on the side o’ the bed and sat thinking.

“I s’pose—I s’pose it’s nice and fresh in the streets this morning?” ses Bill, at last, in a trembling voice.

Ginger started and looked at ’im. “I didn’t notice, mate,” he ses. Then ’e got up and patted Bill on the back, very gentle, and sat down again.

“Anything wrong, Ginger?” asks Peter Russet, staring at ’im.

“It’s that landlord,” ses Ginger; “there’s straw down in the road outside, and they say that he’s dying. Pore old Bill don’t know ’is own strength. The best thing you can do, old pal, is to go as far away as you can, at once.”

“I shouldn’t wait a minnit if it was me,” ses old Sam.

Bill groaned and hid ’is face in his ’ands, and then Peter Russet went and spoilt things by saying that the safest place for a murderer to ’ide in was London. Bill gave a dreadful groan when ’e said murderer, but ’e up and agreed with Peter, and all Sam and Ginger Dick could do wouldn’t make ’im alter his mind. He said that he would shave off ’is beard and moustache, and when night came ’e would creep out and take a lodging somewhere right the other end of London.

“It’ll soon be dark,” ses Ginger, “and your own brother wouldn’t know you now, Bill. Where d’you think of going?”

Bill shook his ’ead. “Nobody must know that, mate,” he ses. “I must go into hiding for as long as I can—as long as my money lasts; I’ve only got six pounds left.”

“That’ll last a long time if you’re careful,” ses Ginger.

“I want a lot more,” ses Bill. “I want you to take this silver ring as a keepsake, Ginger. If I ’ad another six pounds or so I should feel much safer. ’Ow much ’ave you got, Ginger?”

“Not much,” ses Ginger, shaking his ’ead.

“Lend it to me, mate,” ses Bill, stretching out his ’and. “You can easy get another ship. Ah, I wish I was you; I’d be as ’appy as ’appy if I hadn’t got a penny.”

“I’m very sorry, Bill,” ses Ginger, trying to smile, “but I’ve already promised to lend it to a man wot we met this evening. A promise is a promise, else I’d lend it to you with pleasure.”

“Would you let me be ’ung for the sake of a few pounds, Ginger?” ses Bill, looking at ’im reproachfully. “I’m a desprit man, Ginger, and I must ’ave that money.”

Afore pore Ginger could move he suddenly clapped ’is hand over ’is mouth and flung ’im on the bed. Ginger was like a child in ’is hands, although he struggled like a madman, and in five minutes ’e was laying there with a towel tied round his mouth and ’is arms and legs tied up with the cord off of Sam’s chest.

“I’m very sorry, Ginger,” ses Bill, as ’e took a little over eight pounds out of Ginger’s pocket. “I’ll pay you back one o’ these days, if I can. If you’d got a rope round your neck same as I ’ave you’d do the same as I’ve done.”

He lifted up the bedclothes and put Ginger inside and tucked ’im up. Ginger’s face was red with passion and ’is eyes starting out of his ’ead.

“Eight and six is fifteen,” ses Bill, and just then he ’eard somebody coming up the stairs. Ginger ’eard it, too, and as Peter Russet came into the room ’e tried all ’e could to attract ’is attention by rolling ’is ’ead from side to side.

“Why, ’as Ginger gone to bed?” ses Peter. “Wot’s up, Ginger?”

“He’s all right,” ses Bill; “just a bit of a ’eadache.”

Peter stood staring at the bed, and then ’e pulled the clothes off and saw pore Ginger all tied up, and making awful eyes at ’im to undo him.

“I ’ad to do it, Peter,” ses Bill. “I wanted some more money to escape with, and ’e wouldn’t lend it to me. I ’aven’t got as much as I want now. You just came in in the nick of time. Another minute and you’d ha’ missed me. ’Ow much ’ave you got?”

“Ah, I wish I could lend you some, Bill,” ses Peter Russet, turning pale, “but I’ve ’ad my pocket picked; that’s wot I came back for, to get some from Ginger.”

Bill didn’t say a word.

“You see ’ow it is, Bill,” ses Peter, edging back toward the door; “three men laid ’old of me and took every farthing I’d got.”

“Well, I can’t rob you, then,” ses Bill, catching ’old of ’im. “Whoever’s money this is,” he ses, pulling a handful out o’ Peter’s pocket, “it can’t be yours. Now, if you make another sound I’ll knock your ’ead off afore I tie you up.”

“Don’t tie me up, Bill,” ses Peter, struggling.

“I can’t trust you,” ses Bill, dragging ’im over to the washstand and taking up the other towel; “turn round.”

Peter was a much easier job than Ginger Dick, and arter Bill ’ad done ’im ’e put ’im in alongside o’ Ginger and covered ’em up, arter first tying both the gags round with some string to prevent ’em slipping.

“Mind, I’ve only borrowed it,” he ses, standing by the side o’ the bed; “but I must say, mates, I’m disappointed in both of you. If either of you ’ad ’ad the misfortune wot I’ve ’ad, I’d have sold the clothes off my back to ’elp you. And I wouldn’t ’ave waited to be asked neither.”

He stood there for a minute very sorrowful, and then ’e patted both their ’eads and went downstairs. Ginger and Peter lay listening for a bit, and then they turned their pore bound-up faces to each other and tried to talk with their eyes.

Then Ginger began to wriggle and try and twist the cords off, but ’e might as well ’ave tried to wriggle out of ’is skin. The worst of it was they couldn’t make known their intentions to each other, and when Peter Russet leaned over ’im and tried to work ’is gag off by rubbing it up agin ’is nose, Ginger pretty near went crazy with temper. He banged Peter with his ’ead, and Peter banged back, and they kept it up till they’d both got splitting ’eadaches, and at last they gave up in despair and lay in the darkness waiting for Sam.

And all this time Sam was sitting in the Red Lion, waiting for them. He sat there quite patient till twelve o’clock and then walked slowly ’ome, wondering wot ’ad happened and whether Bill had gone.

Ginger was the fust to ’ear ’is foot on the stairs, and as he came into the room, in the darkness, him an’ Peter Russet started shaking their bed in a way that scared old Sam nearly to death. He thought it was Bill carrying on agin, and ’e was out o’ that door and ’arf-way downstairs afore he stopped to take breath. He stood there trembling for about ten minutes, and then, as nothing ’appened, he walked slowly upstairs agin on tiptoe, and as soon as they heard the door creak Peter and Ginger made that bed do everything but speak.

“Is that you, Bill?” ses old Sam, in a shaky voice, and standing ready to dash downstairs agin.

There was no answer except for the bed, and Sam didn’t know whether Bill was dying or whether ’e ’ad got delirium trimmings. All ’e did know was that ’e wasn’t going to sleep in that room. He shut the door gently and went downstairs agin, feeling in ’is pocket for a match, and, not finding one, ’e picked out the softest stair ’e could find and, leaning his ’ead agin the banisters, went to sleep.

It was about six o’clock when ’e woke up, and broad daylight. He was stiff and sore all over, and feeling braver in the light ’e stepped softly upstairs and opened the door. Peter and Ginger was waiting for ’im, and as he peeped in ’e saw two things sitting up in bed with their ’air standing up all over like mops and their faces tied up with bandages. He was that startled ’e nearly screamed, and then ’e stepped into the room and stared at ’em as if he couldn’t believe ’is eyes.

“Is that you, Ginger?” he ses. “Wot d’ye mean by making sights of yourselves like that? ’Ave you took leave of your senses?”

Ginger and Peter shook their ’eads and rolled their eyes, and then Sam see wot was the matter with ’em. Fust thing ’e did was to pull out ’is knife and cut Ginger’s gag off, and the fust thing Ginger did was to call ’im every name ’e could lay his tongue to.

“You wait a moment,” he screams, ’arf crying with rage. “You wait till I get my ’ands loose and I’ll pull you to pieces. The idea o’ leaving us like this all night, you old crocodile. I ’eard you come in. I’ll pay you.”

Sam didn’t answer ’im. He cut off Peter Russet’s gag, and Peter Russet called ’im ’arf a score o’ names without taking breath.

“And when Ginger’s finished I’ll ’ave a go at you,” he ses. “Cut off these lines.”

“At once, d’ye hear?” ses Ginger. “Oh, you wait till I get my ’ands on you.”

Sam didn’t answer ’em; he shut up ’is knife with a click and then ’e sat at the foot o’ the bed on Ginger’s feet and looked at ’em. It wasn’t the fust time they’d been rude to ’im, but as a rule he’d ’ad to put up with it. He sat and listened while Ginger swore ’imself faint.

“That’ll do,” he ses, at last; “another word and I shall put the bedclothes over your ’ead. Afore I do anything more I want to know wot it’s all about.”

Peter told ’im, arter fust calling ’im some more names, because Ginger was past it, and when ’e’d finished old Sam said ’ow surprised he was at them for letting Bill do it, and told ’em how they ought to ’ave prevented it. He sat there talking as though ’e enjoyed the sound of ’is own voice, and he told Peter and Ginger all their faults and said wot sorrow it caused their friends. Twice he ’ad to throw the bedclothes over their ’eads because o’ the noise they was making.

“_Are you going—to undo—us?_” ses Ginger, at last.

“No, Ginger,” ses old Sam; “in justice to myself I couldn’t do it. Arter wot you’ve said—and arter wot I’ve said—my life wouldn’t be safe. Besides which, you’d want to go shares in my money.”