Chapter IV: Part 4

Despite her reluctance to have a scene—a thing which was strongly opposed to the traditions of Bashford’s Lane—Mrs. Truefitt had got as far as the doorstep in search of assistance, when a sudden terrible thought occurred to her: Fred was dead, and the visitor had hit upon this extraordinary fashion of breaking the news gently.

“Come into the parlour,” she said, faintly.

Mr. Catesby, suppressing his surprise, followed her into the room. Prudence, her fine figure erect and her large eyes meeting his steadily, took up a position by the side of her mother.

“You have brought bad news?” inquired the latter.

“No, mother,” said Mr. Catesby, simply, “only myself, that’s all.”

Mrs. Truefitt made a gesture of impatience, and her daughter, watching him closely, tried to remember something she had once read about detecting insanity by the expression of the eyes. Those of Mr. Catesby were blue, and the only expression in them at the present moment was one of tender and respectful admiration.

“When did you see Fred last?” inquired Mrs. Truefitt, making another effort.

“Mother,” said Mr. Catesby, with great pathos, “don’t you know me?”

“He has brought bad news of Fred,” said Mrs. Truefitt, turning to her daughter; “I am sure he has.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Catesby, with a bewildered glance from one to the other. “I am Fred. Am I much changed? You look the same as you always did, and it seems only yesterday since I kissed Prudence good-bye at the docks. You were crying, Prudence.”

Miss Truefitt made no reply; she gazed at him unflinchingly and then bent toward her mother.

“He is mad,” she whispered; “we must try and get him out quietly. Don’t contradict him.”

“Keep close to me,” said Mrs. Truefitt, who had a great horror of the insane. “If he turns violent open the window and scream. I thought he had brought bad news of Fred. How did he know about him?”

Her daughter shook her head and gazed curiously at their afflicted visitor. She put his age down at twenty-five, and she could not help thinking it a pity that so good-looking a young man should have lost his wits.

“Bade Prudence good-bye at the docks,” continued Mr. Catesby, dreamily. “You drew me behind a pile of luggage, Prudence, and put your head on my shoulder. I have thought of it ever since.”

Miss Truefitt did not deny it, but she bit her lips, and shot a sharp glance at him. She began to think that her pity was uncalled-for.

“I’m just going as far as the corner.”

“Tell me all that’s happened since I’ve been away,” said Mr. Catesby.

Mrs. Truefitt turned to her daughter and whispered. It might have been merely the effect of a guilty conscience, but the visitor thought that he caught the word “policeman.”

“I’m just going as far as the corner,” said Mrs. Truefitt, rising, and crossing hastily to the door.

The young man nodded affectionately and sat in doubtful consideration as the front door closed behind her. “Where is mother going?” he asked, in a voice which betrayed a little pardonable anxiety.

“Not far, I hope,” said Prudence.

“I really think,” said Mr. Catesby, rising—“I really think that I had better go after her. At her age——”

He walked into the small passage and put his hand on the latch. Prudence, now quite certain of his sanity, felt sorely reluctant to let such impudence go unpunished.

“Are you going?” she inquired.

“I think I’d better,” said Mr. Catesby, gravely. “Dear mother—”

“You’re afraid,” said the girl, calmly.

Mr. Catesby coloured and his buoyancy failed him. He felt a little bit cheap.

“You are brave enough with two women,” continued the girl, disdainfully; “but you had better go if you’re afraid.”

Mr. Catesby regarded the temptress uneasily. “Would you like me to stay?” he asked.

“I?” said Miss Truefitt, tossing her head. “No, I don’t want you. Besides, you’re frightened.”

Mr. Catesby turned, and with a firm step made his way back to the room; Prudence, with a half-smile, took a chair near the door and regarded her prisoner with unholy triumph.

“I shouldn’t like to be in your shoes,” she said, agreeably; “mother has gone for a policeman.”

“Bless her,” said Mr. Catesby, fervently. “What had we better say to him when he comes?”

“You’ll be locked up,” said Prudence; “and it will serve you right for your bad behaviour.”

Mr. Catesby sighed. “It’s the heart,” he said, gravely. “I’m not to blame, really. I saw you standing in the window, and I could see at once that you were beautiful, and good, and kind.”

“I never heard of such impudence,” continued Miss Truefitt.

“I surprised myself,” admitted Mr. Catesby. “In the usual way I am very quiet and well-behaved, not to say shy.”

Miss Truefitt looked at him scornfully. “I think that you had better stop your nonsense and go,” she remarked.

“Don’t you want me to be punished?” inquired the other, in a soft voice.

“I think that you had better go while you can,” said the girl, and at that moment there was a heavy knock at the front-door. Mr. Catesby, despite his assurance, changed colour; the girl eyed him in perplexity. Then she opened the small folding-doors at the back of the room.

“You’re only—stupid,” she whispered. “Quick! Go in there. I’ll say you’ve gone. Keep quiet, and I’ll let you out by-and-by.”

She pushed him in and closed the doors. From his hiding-place he heard an animated conversation at the street-door and minute particulars as to the time which had elapsed since his departure and the direction he had taken.

“I never heard such impudence,” said Mrs. Truefitt, going into the front-room and sinking into a chair after the constable had taken his departure. “I don’t believe he was mad.”

“Only a little weak in the head, I think,” said Prudence, in a clear voice. “He was very frightened after you had gone; I don’t think he will trouble us again.”

“He’d better not,” said Mrs. Truefitt, sharply. “I never heard of such a thing—never.”

She continued to grumble, while Prudence, in a low voice, endeavoured to soothe her. Her efforts were evidently successful, as the prisoner was, after a time, surprised to hear the older woman laugh—at first gently, and then with so much enjoyment that her daughter was at some pains to restrain her. He sat in patience until evening deepened into night, and a line of light beneath the folding-doors announced the lighting of the lamp in the front-room. By a pleasant clatter of crockery he became aware that they were at supper, and he pricked up his ears as Prudence made another reference to him.

“If he comes to-morrow night while you are out I sha’n’t open the door,” she said. “You’ll be back by nine, I suppose.”

Mrs. Truefitt assented.

“And you won’t be leaving before seven,” continued Prudence. “I shall be all right.”

Mr. Catesby’s face glowed and his eyes grew tender; Prudence was as clever as she was beautiful. The delicacy with which she had intimated the fact of the unconscious Mrs. Truefitt’s absence on the following evening was beyond all praise. The only depressing thought was that such resourcefulness savoured of practice.

He sat in the darkness for so long that even the proximity of Prudence was not sufficient amends for the monotony of it, and it was not until past ten o’clock that the folding-doors were opened and he stood blinking at the girl in the glare of the lamp.

“Quick!” she whispered.

Mr. Catesby stepped into the lighted room.

“The front-door is open,” whispered Prudence. “Make haste. I’ll close it.”

She followed him to the door; he made an ineffectual attempt to seize her hand, and the next moment was pushed gently outside and the door closed behind him. He stood a moment gazing at the house, and then hastened back to his ship.

“Seven to-morrow,” he murmured; “seven to-morrow. After all, there’s nothing pays in this world like cheek—nothing.”

He slept soundly that night, though the things that the second-engineer said to him about wasting a hard-working man’s evening would have lain heavy on the conscience of a more scrupulous man. The only thing that troubled him was the manifest intention of his friend not to let him slip through his fingers on the following evening. At last, in sheer despair at his inability to shake him off, he had to tell him that he had an appointment with a lady.

“Well, I’ll come, too,” said the other, glowering at him. “It’s very like she’ll have a friend with her; they generally do.”

“I’ll run round and tell her,” said Catesby. “I’d have arranged it before, only I thought you didn’t care about that sort of thing.”

“Female society is softening,” said the second-engineer. “I’ll go and put on a clean collar.”

Catesby watched him into his cabin and then, though it still wanted an hour to seven, hastily quitted the ship and secreted himself in the private bar of the Beehive.

He waited there until a quarter past seven, and then, adjusting his tie for about the tenth time that evening in the glass behind the bar, sallied out in the direction of No. 5.

He knocked lightly, and waited. There was no response, and he knocked again. When the fourth knock brought no response, his heart sank within him and he indulged in vain speculations as to the reasons for this unexpected hitch in the programme. He knocked again, and then the door opened suddenly and Prudence, with a little cry of surprise and dismay, backed into the passage.

“You!” she said, regarding him with large eyes. Mr. Catesby bowed tenderly, and passing in closed the door behind him.

“I wanted to thank you for your kindness last night,” he said, humbly.

“Very well,” said Prudence; “good-bye.”

Mr. Catesby smiled. “It’ll take me a long time to thank you as I ought to thank you,” he murmured. “And then I want to apologise; that’ll take time, too.”

“You had better go,” said Prudence, severely; “kindness is thrown away upon you. I ought to have let you be punished.”

“You are too good and kind,” said the other, drifting by easy stages into the parlour.

Miss Truefitt made no reply, but following him into the room seated herself in an easy-chair and sat coldly watchful.

“How do you know what I am?” she inquired.

“Your face tells me,” said the infatuated Richard. “I hope you will forgive me for my rudeness last night. It was all done on the spur of the moment.”

“I am glad you are sorry,” said the girl, softening.

“All the same, if I hadn’t done it,” pursued Mr. Catesby, “I shouldn’t be sitting here talking to you now.”

Miss Truefitt raised her eyes to his, and then lowered them modestly to the ground. “That is true,” she said, quietly.

“And I would sooner be sitting here than anywhere,” pursued Catesby. “That is,” he added, rising, and taking a chair by her side, “except here.”

Miss Truefitt appeared to tremble, and made as though to rise. Then she sat still and took a gentle peep at Mr. Catesby from the corner of her eye.

“I hope that you are not sorry that I am here?” said that gentleman.

Miss Truefitt hesitated. “No,” she said, at last.

“Are you—are you glad?” asked the modest Richard.

Miss Truefitt averted her eyes altogether. “Yes,” she said, faintly.

A strange feeling of solemnity came over the triumphant Richard. He took the hand nearest to him and pressed it gently.

“I—I can hardly believe in my good luck,” he murmured.

“Good luck?” said Prudence, innocently.

“Isn’t it good luck to hear you say that you are glad I’m here?” said Catesby.

“You’re the best judge of that,” said the girl, withdrawing her hand. “It doesn’t seem to me much to be pleased about.”

Mr. Catesby eyed her in perplexity, and was about to address another tender remark to her when she was overcome by a slight fit of coughing. At the same moment he started at the sound of a shuffling footstep in the passage. Somebody tapped at the door.

“Yes?” said Prudence.

“Can’t find the knife-powder, miss,” said a harsh voice. The door was pushed open and disclosed a tall, bony woman of about forty. Her red arms were bare to the elbow, and she betrayed several evidences of a long and arduous day’s charing.

“It’s in the cupboard,” said Prudence. “Why, what’s the matter, Mrs. Porter?”

Mrs. Porter made no reply. Her mouth was wide open and she was gazing with starting eyeballs at Mr. Catesby.

“_Joe!_” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “_Joe!_”

Mr. Catesby gazed at her in chilling silence. Miss Truefitt, with an air of great surprise, glanced from one to the other.

“_Joe!_” said Mrs. Porter again. “Ain’t you goin’ to speak to me?”

Mr. Catesby continued to gaze at her in speechless astonishment. She skipped clumsily round the table and stood before him with her hands clasped.

“Where ’ave you been all this long time?” she demanded, in a higher key.

“You—you’ve made a mistake,” said the bewildered Richard.

“Mistake?” wailed Mrs. Porter. “Mistake! Oh, where’s your ’art?”

Before he could get out of her way she flung her arms round the horrified young man’s neck and embraced him copiously. Over her bony left shoulder the frantic Richard met the ecstatic gaze of Miss Truefitt, and, in a flash, he realised the trap into which he had fallen.

“_Mrs. Porter!_” said Prudence.

“It’s my ’usband, miss,” said the Amazon, reluctantly releasing the flushed and dishevelled Richard; “’e left me and my five eighteen months ago. For eighteen months I ’aven’t ’ad a sight of ’is blessed face.”

She lifted the hem of her apron to her face and broke into discordant weeping.

“Don’t cry,” said Prudence, softly; “I’m sure he isn’t worth it.”

Mr. Catesby looked at her wanly. He was beyond further astonishment, and when Mrs. Truefitt entered the room with a laudable attempt to twist her features into an expression of surprise, he scarcely noticed her.

“It’s my Joe,” said Mrs. Porter, simply.

“Good gracious!” said Mrs. Truefitt. “Well, you’ve got him now; take care he doesn’t run away from you again.”

“I’ll look after that, ma’am,” said Mrs. Porter, with a glare at the startled Richard.

“She’s very forgiving,” said Prudence. “She kissed him just now.”

“Did she, though,” said the admiring Mrs. Truefitt. “I wish I’d been here.”

“I can do it agin, ma’am,” said the obliging Mrs. Porter.

“If you come near me again—” said the breathless Richard, stepping back a pace.

“I shouldn’t force his love,” said Mrs. Truefitt; “it’ll come back in time, I dare say.”

“I’m sure he’s affectionate,” said Prudence.

Mr. Catesby eyed his tormentors in silence; the faces of Prudence and her mother betokened much innocent enjoyment, but the austerity of Mrs. Porter’s visage was unrelaxed.

“Better let bygones be bygones,” said Mrs. Truefitt; “he’ll be sorry by-and-by for all the trouble he has caused.”

“He’ll be ashamed of himself—if you give him time,” added Prudence.

Mr. Catesby had heard enough; he took up his hat and crossed to the door.

“Take care he doesn’t run away from you again,” repeated Mrs. Truefitt.

“I’ll see to that, ma’am,” said Mrs. Porter, taking him by the arm. “Come along, Joe.”

Mr. Catesby attempted to shake her off, but in vain, and he ground his teeth as he realised the absurdity of his position. A man he could have dealt with, but Mrs. Porter was invulnerable. Sooner than walk down the road with her he preferred the sallies of the parlour. He walked back to his old position by the fireplace, and stood gazing moodily at the floor.

Mrs. Truefitt tired of the sport at last. She wanted her supper, and with a significant glance at her daughter she beckoned the redoubtable and reluctant Mrs. Porter from the room. Catesby heard the kitchen-door close behind them, but he made no move. Prudence stood gazing at him in silence.

“If you want to go,” she said, at last, “now is your chance.”

Catesby followed her into the passage without a word, and waited quietly while she opened the door. Still silent, he put on his hat and passed out into the darkening street. He turned after a short distance for a last look at the house and, with a sudden sense of elation, saw that she was standing on the step. He hesitated, and then walked slowly back.

“Yes?” said Prudence.

“I should like to tell your mother that I am sorry,” he said, in a low voice.

“It is getting late,” said the girl, softly; “but, if you really wish to tell her—Mrs. Porter will not be here to-morrow night.”

She stepped back into the house and the door closed behind her.

THE CHANGING NUMBERS

The tall clock in the corner of the small living-room had just struck eight as Mr. Samuel Gunnill came stealthily down the winding staircase and, opening the door at the foot, stepped with an appearance of great care and humility into the room. He noticed with some anxiety that his daughter Selina was apparently engrossed in her task of attending to the plants in the window, and that no preparations whatever had been made for breakfast.

Miss Gunnill’s horticultural duties seemed interminable. She snipped off dead leaves with painstaking precision, and administered water with the jealous care of a druggist compounding a prescription; then, with her back still toward him, she gave vent to a sigh far too intense in its nature to have reference to such trivialities as plants. She repeated it twice, and at the second time Mr. Gunnill, almost without his knowledge, uttered a deprecatory cough.

His daughter turned with alarming swiftness and, holding herself very upright, favoured him with a glance in which indignation and surprise were very fairly mingled.

“That white one—that one at the end,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an appearance of concentrated interest, “that’s my fav’rite.”

Miss Gunnill put her hands together, and a look of infinite long-suffering came upon her face, but she made no reply.

“Always has been,” continued Mr. Gunnill, feverishly, “from a—from a cutting.”

“Bailed out,” said Miss Gunnill, in a deep and thrilling voice; “bailed out at one o’clock in the morning, brought home singing loud enough for half-a-dozen, and then talking about flowers!”

Mr. Gunnill coughed again.

“I was dreaming,” pursued Miss Gunnill, plaintively, “sleeping peacefully, when I was awoke by a horrible noise.”

“That couldn’t ha’ been me,” protested her father. “I was only a bit cheerful. It was Benjamin Ely’s birthday yesterday, and after we left the Lion they started singing, and I just hummed to keep ’em company. I wasn’t singing, mind you, only humming—when up comes that interfering Cooper and takes me off.”

Miss Gunnill shivered, and with her pretty cheek in her hand sat by the window the very picture of despondency. “Why didn’t he take the others?” she inquired.

“Ah!” said Mr. Gunnill, with great emphasis, “that’s what a lot more of us would like to know. P’r’aps if you’d been more polite to Mrs. Cooper, instead o’ putting it about that she looked young enough to be his mother, it wouldn’t have happened.”

His daughter shook her head impatiently and, on Mr. Gunnill making an allusion to breakfast, expressed surprise that he had got the heart to eat anything. Mr. Gunnill pressing the point, however, she arose and began to set the table, the undue care with which she smoothed out the creases of the table-cloth, and the mathematical exactness with which she placed the various articles, all being so many extra smarts in his wound. When she finally placed on the table enough food for a dozen people he began to show signs of a little spirit.

“Ain’t you going to have any?” he demanded, as Miss Gunnill resumed her seat by the window.

“_Me?_” said the girl, with a shudder. “Breakfast? The disgrace is breakfast enough for me. I couldn’t eat a morsel; it would choke me.”

Mr. Gunnill eyed her over the rim of his teacup. “I come down an hour ago,” he said, casually, as he helped himself to some bacon.

Miss Gunnill started despite herself. “Oh!” she said, listlessly.

“And I see you making a very good breakfast all by yourself in the kitchen,” continued her father, in a voice not free from the taint of triumph.

The discomfited Selina rose and stood regarding him; Mr. Gunnill, after a vain attempt to meet her gaze, busied himself with his meal.

“The idea of watching every mouthful I eat!” said Miss Gunnill, tragically; “the idea of complaining because I have some breakfast! I’d never have believed it of you, never! It’s shameful! Fancy grudging your own daughter the food she eats!”

Mr. Gunnill eyed her in dismay. In his confusion he had overestimated the capacity of his mouth, and he now strove in vain to reply to this shameful perversion of his meaning. His daughter stood watching him with grief in one eye and calculation in the other, and, just as he had put himself into a position to exercise his rights of free speech, gave a pathetic sniff and walked out of the room.

She stayed indoors all day, but the necessity of establishing his innocence took Mr. Gunnill out a great deal. His neighbours, in the hope of further excitement, warmly pressed him to go to prison rather than pay a fine, and instanced the example of an officer in the Salvation Army, who, in very different circumstances, had elected to take that course. Mr. Gunnill assured them that only his known antipathy to the army, and the fear of being regarded as one of its followers, prevented him from doing so. He paid instead a fine of ten shillings, and after listening to a sermon, in which his silver hairs served as the text, was permitted to depart. His feeling against Police-constable Cooper increased with the passing of the days. The constable watched him with the air of a proprietor, and Mrs. Cooper’s remark that “her husband had had his eye upon him for a long time, and that he had better be careful for the future,” was faithfully retailed to him within half an hour of its utterance. Convivial friends counted his cups for him; teetotal friends more than hinted that Cooper was in the employ of his good angel.

Miss Gunnill’s two principal admirers had an arduous task to perform. They had to attribute Mr. Gunnill’s disaster to the vindictiveness of Cooper, and at the same time to agree with his daughter that it served him right. Between father and daughter they had a difficult time, Mr. Gunnill’s sensitiveness having been much heightened by his troubles.

“Cooper ought not to have taken you,” said Herbert Sims for the fiftieth time.

“He must ha’ seen you like it dozens o’ times before,” said Ted Drill, who, in his determination not to be outdone by Mr. Sims, was not displaying his usual judgment. “Why didn’t he take you then? That’s what you ought to have asked the magistrate.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an air of cold dignity.

“Why,” said Mr. Drill, “what I mean is—look at that night, for instance, when——”

He broke off suddenly, even his enthusiasm not being proof against the extraordinary contortions of visage in which Mr. Gunnill was indulging.

“When?” prompted Selina and Mr. Sims together. Mr. Gunnill, after first daring him with his eye, followed suit.

“That night at the Crown,” said Mr. Drill, awkwardly. “You know; when you thought that Joe Baggs was the landlord. You tell ’em; you tell it best. I’ve roared over it.”

“I don’t know what you’re driving at,” said the harassed Mr. Gunnill, bitterly.

“_H’m!_” said Mr. Drill, with a weak laugh. “I’ve been mixing you up with somebody else.”

Mr. Gunnill, obviously relieved, said that he ought to be more careful, and pointed out, with some feeling, that a lot of mischief was caused that way.

“Cooper wants a lesson, that’s what he wants,” said Mr. Sims, valiantly. “He’ll get his head broke one of these days.”

Mr. Gunnill acquiesced. “I remember when I was on the _Peewit_,” he said, musingly, “one time when we were lying at Cardiff, there was a policeman there run one of our chaps in, and two nights afterward another of our chaps pushed the policeman down in the mud and ran off with his staff and his helmet.”

Miss Gunnill’s eyes glistened. “What happened?” she inquired.

“He had to leave the force,” replied her father; “he couldn’t stand the disgrace of it. The chap that pushed him over was quite a little chap, too. About the size of Herbert here.”

Mr. Sims started.

“Very much like him in face, too,” pursued Mr. Gunnill; “daring chap he was.”

Miss Gunnill sighed. “I wish he lived in Little-stow,” she said, slowly. “I’d give anything to take that horrid Mrs. Cooper down a bit. Cooper would be the laughing-stock of the town.”

Messrs. Sims and Drill looked unhappy. It was hard to have to affect an attitude of indifference in the face of Miss Gunnill’s lawless yearnings; to stand before her as respectable and law-abiding cravens. Her eyes, large and sorrowful; dwelt on them both.

“If I—I only get a chance at Cooper!” murmured Mr. Sims, vaguely.

To his surprise, Mr. Gunnill started up from his chair and, gripping his hand, shook it fervently. He looked round, and Selina was regarding him with a glance so tender that he lost his head completely. Before he had recovered he had pledged himself to lay the helmet and truncheon of the redoubtable Mr. Cooper at the feet of Miss Gunnill; exact date not specified.

“Of course, I shall have to wait my opportunity,” he said, at last.

“You wait as long as you like, my boy,” said the thoughtless Mr. Gunnill.

Mr. Sims thanked him.

“Wait till Cooper’s an old man,” urged Mr. Drill.

Miss Gunnill, secretly disappointed at the lack of boldness and devotion on the part of the latter gentleman, eyed his stalwart frame indignantly and accused him of trying to make Mr. Sims as timid as himself. She turned to the valiant Sims and made herself so agreeable to that daring blade that Mr. Drill, a prey to violent jealousy, bade the company a curt good-night and withdrew.

He stayed away for nearly a week, and then one evening as he approached the house, carrying a carpet-bag, he saw the door just opening to admit the fortunate Herbert. He quickened his pace and arrived just in time to follow him in. Mr. Sims, who bore under his arm a brown-paper parcel, seemed somewhat embarrassed at seeing him, and after a brief greeting walked into the room, and with a triumphant glance at Mr. Gunnill and Selina placed his burden on the table.

“You—you ain’t got it?” said Mr. Gunnill, leaning forward.

“How foolish of you to run such a risk!” said Selina.

“I brought it for Miss Gunnill,” said the young man, simply. He unfastened the parcel, and to the astonishment of all present revealed a policeman’s helmet and a short boxwood truncheon.

“You—you’re a wonder,” said the gloating Mr. Gunnill. “Look at it, Ted!”

Mr. Drill _was_ looking at it; it may be doubted whether the head of Mr. Cooper itself could have caused him more astonishment. Then his eyes sought those of Mr. Sims, but that gentleman was gazing tenderly at the gratified but shocked Selina.

“How ever did you do it?” inquired Mr. Gunnill.

“Came behind him and threw him down,” said Mr. Sims, nonchalantly. “He was that scared I believe I could have taken his boots as well if I’d wanted them.”

Mr. Gunnill patted him on the back. “I fancy I can see him running bare-headed through the town calling for help,” he said, smiling.

Mr. Sims shook his head. “Like as not it’ll be kept quiet for the credit of the force,” he said, slowly, “unless, of course, they discover who did it.”

A slight shade fell on the good-humoured countenance of Mr. Gunnill, but it was chased away almost immediately by Sims reminding him of the chaff of Cooper’s brother-constables.

“And you might take the others away,” said Mr. Gunnill, brightening; “you might keep on doing it.”

Mr. Sims said doubtfully that he might, but pointed out that Cooper would probably be on his guard for the future.

“Yes, you’ve done your share,” said Miss Gunnill, with a half-glance at Mr. Drill, who was still gazing in a bewildered fashion at the trophies. “You can come into the kitchen and help me draw some beer if you like.”

Mr. Sims followed her joyfully, and reaching down a jug for her watched her tenderly as she drew the beer. All women love valour, but Miss Gunnill, gazing sadly at the slight figure of Mr. Sims, could not help wishing that Mr. Drill possessed a little of his spirit.

She had just finished her task when a tremendous bumping noise was heard in the living-room, and the plates on the dresser were nearly shaken off their shelves.

“What’s that?” she cried.

They ran to the room and stood aghast in the doorway at the spectacle of Mr. Gunnill, with his clenched fists held tightly by his side, bounding into the air with all the grace of a trained acrobat, while Mr. Drill encouraged him from an easy-chair. Mr. Gunnill smiled broadly as he met their astonished gaze, and with a final bound kicked something along the floor and subsided into his seat panting.

Mr. Sims, suddenly enlightened, uttered a cry of dismay and, darting under the table, picked up what had once been a policeman’s helmet. Then he snatched a partially consumed truncheon from the fire, and stood white and trembling before the astonished Mr. Gunnill.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the latter.

“You—you’ve spoilt ’em,” gasped Mr. Sims.

“What of it?” said Mr. Gunnill, staring.

“I was—going to take ’em away,” stammered Mr. Sims.

“Well, they’ll be easier to carry now,” said Mr. Drill, simply.

Mr. Sims glanced at him sharply, and then, to the extreme astonishment of Mr. Gunnill, snatched up the relics and, wrapping them up in the paper, dashed out of the house. Mr. Gunnill turned a look of blank inquiry upon Mr. Drill.

“It wasn’t Cooper’s number on the helmet,” said that gentleman.

“_Eh?_” shouted Mr. Gunnill.

“How do you know?” inquired Selina.

“I just happened to notice,” replied Mr. Drill. He reached down as though to take up the carpet-bag which he had placed by the side of his chair, and then, apparently thinking better of it, leaned back in his seat and eyed Mr. Gunnill.

“Do you mean to tell me,” said the latter, “that he’s been and upset the wrong man?”

Mr. Drill shook his head. “That’s the puzzle,” he said, softly.

He smiled over at Miss Gunnill, but that young lady, who found him somewhat mysterious, looked away and frowned. Her father sat and exhausted conjecture, his final conclusion being that Mr. Sims had attacked the first policeman that had come in his way and was now suffering the agonies of remorse.

He raised his head sharply at the sound of hurried footsteps outside. There was a smart rap at the street door, then the handle was turned, and the next moment, to the dismay of all present, the red and angry face of one of Mr. Cooper’s brother-constables was thrust into the room.

Mr. Gunnill gazed at it in helpless fascination. The body of the constable garbed in plain clothes followed the face and, standing before him in a menacing fashion, held out a broken helmet and staff.

“Have you seen these afore?” he inquired, in a terrible voice.

“No,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an attempt at surprise. “What are they?”

“I’ll tell you what they are,” said Police-constable Jenkins, ferociously; “they’re my helmet and truncheon. You’ve been spoiling His Majesty’s property, and you’ll be locked up.”

“_Yours?_” said the astonished Mr. Gunnill.

“I lent ’em to young Sims, just for a joke,” said the constable. “I felt all along I was doing a silly thing.”

“It’s no joke,” said Mr. Gunnill, severely. “I’ll tell young Herbert what I think of him trying to deceive me like that.”

“Never mind about deceiving,” interrupted the constable. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What are you?” inquired Mr. Gunnill, hardily. “It seems to me it’s between you and him; you’ll very likely be dismissed from the force, and all through trying to deceive. I wash my hands of it.”

“You’d no business to lend it,” said Drill, interrupting the constable’s indignant retort; “especially for Sims to pretend that he had stolen it from Cooper. It’s a roundabout sort of thing, but you can’t tell of Mr. Gunnill without getting into trouble yourself.”

“I shall have to put up with that,” said the constable, desperately; “it’s got to be explained. It’s my day-helmet, too, and the night one’s as shabby as can be. Twenty years in the force and never a mark against my name till now.”

“If you’d only keep quiet a bit instead of talking so much,” said Mr. Drill, who had been doing some hard thinking, “I might be able to help you, p’r’aps.”

“How?” inquired the constable.

“Help him if you can, Ted,” said Mr. Gunnill, eagerly; “we ought all to help others when we get a chance.”

Mr. Drill sat bolt upright and looked very wise.

He took the smashed helmet from the table and examined it carefully. It was broken in at least half-a-dozen places, and he laboured in vain to push it into shape. He might as well have tried to make a silk hat out of a concertina. The only thing that had escaped injury was the metal plate with the number.

“Why don’t you mend it?” he inquired, at last.

“_Mend_ it?” shouted the incensed Mr. Jenkins. “Why don’t you?”

“I think I could,” said Mr. Drill, slowly; “give me half an hour in the kitchen and I’ll try.”

“Have as long as you like,” said Mr. Gunnill.

“And I shall want some glue, and Miss Gunnill, and some tin-tacks,” said Drill.

“What do you want me for?” inquired Selina.

“To hold the things for me,” replied Mr. Drill.

Miss Gunnill tossed her head, but after a little demur consented; and Drill, ignoring the impatience of the constable, picked up his bag and led the way into the kitchen. Messrs. Gunnill and Jenkins, left behind in the living-room, sought for some neutral topic of discourse, but in vain; conversation would revolve round hard labour and lost pensions. From the kitchen came sounds of hammering, then a loud “_Ooh!_” from Miss Gunnill, followed by a burst of laughter and a clapping of hands. Mr. Jenkins shifted in his seat and exchanged glances with Mr. Gunnill.

“He’s a clever fellow,” said that gentleman, hopefully. “You should hear him imitate a canary; life-like it is.”

Mr. Jenkins was about to make a hasty and obvious rejoinder, when the kitchen door opened and Selina emerged, followed by Drill. The snarl which the constable had prepared died away in a murmur of astonishment as he took the helmet. It looked as good as ever.

He turned it over and over in amaze, and looked in vain for any signs of the disastrous cracks. It was stiff and upright. He looked at the number: it was his own. His eyes round with astonishment he tried it on, and then his face relaxed.

“It don’t fit as well as it did,” he said.

“Well, upon my word, some people are never satisfied,” said the indignant Drill. “There isn’t another man in England could have done it better.”

“I’m not grumbling,” said the constable, hastily; “it’s a wonderful piece o’ work. Wonderful! I can’t even see where it was broke. How on earth did you do it?”

Drill shook his head. “It’s a secret process,” he said, slowly. “I might want to go into the hat trade some day, and I’m not going to give things away.”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Jenkins. “Still—well, it’s a marvel, that’s what it is; a fair marvel. If you take my advice you’ll go in the hat trade to-morrow, my lad.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Gunnill, whose face as he spoke was a map of astonishment. “Not a bit. I’ve seen him do more surprising things than that. Have a go at the staff now, Teddy.”

“I’ll see about it,” said Mr. Drill, modestly. “I can’t do impossibilities. You leave it here, Mr. Jenkins, and we’ll talk about it later on.”

Mr. Jenkins, still marvelling over his helmet, assented, and, after another reference to the possibilities in the hat trade to a man with a born gift for repairs, wrapped his property in a piece of newspaper and departed, whistling.

“Ted,” said Mr. Gunnill, impressively, as he sank into his chair with a sigh of relief. “How you done it I don’t know. It’s a surprise even to me.”

“He is very clever,” said Selina, with a kind smile.

Mr. Drill turned pale, and then, somewhat emboldened by praise from such a quarter, dropped into a chair by her side and began to talk in low tones. The grateful Mr. Gunnill, more relieved than he cared to confess, thoughtfully closed his eyes.

“I didn’t think all along that you’d let Herbert outdo you,” said Selina.

“I want to outdo _him_,” said Mr. Drill, in a voice of much meaning.

Miss Gunnill cast down her eyes and Mr. Drill had just plucked up sufficient courage to take her hand when footsteps stopped at the house, the handle of the door was turned, and, for the second time that evening, the inflamed visage of Mr. Jenkins confronted the company.

“Don’t tell me it’s a failure,” said Mr. Gunnill, starting from his chair. “You must have been handling it roughly. It was as good as new when you took it away.”

Mr. Jenkins waved him away and fixed his eyes upon Drill.

“You think you’re mighty clever, I dare say,” he said, grimly; “but I can put two and two together. I’ve just heard of it.”

“Heard of two and two?” said Drill, looking puzzled.

“I don’t want any of your nonsense,” said Mr. Jenkins. “I’m not on duty now, but I warn you not to say anything that may be used against you.”

“I never do,” said Mr. Drill, piously.

“Somebody threw a handful o’ flour in poor Cooper’s face a couple of hours ago,” said Mr. Jenkins, watching him closely, “and while he was getting it out of his eyes they upset him and made off with his helmet and truncheon. I just met Brown and he says Cooper’s been going on like a madman.”

“By Jove! it’s a good job I mended your helmet for you,” said Mr. Drill, “or else they might have suspected you.”

Mr. Jenkins stared at him. “I know who did do it,” he said, significantly.

“Herbert Sims?” guessed Mr. Drill, in a stage whisper.

“You’ll be one o’ the first to know,” said Mr. Jenkins, darkly; “he’ll be arrested to-morrow. Fancy the impudence of it! It’s shocking.”

Mr. Drill whistled. “Nell, don’t let that little affair o’ yours with Sims be known,” he said, quietly. “Have that kept quiet—_if you can_.”

Mr. Jenkins started as though he had been stung. In the joy of a case he had overlooked one or two things. He turned and regarded the young man wistfully.

“Don’t call on me as a witness, that’s all,” continued Mr. Drill. “I never was a mischief-maker, and I shouldn’t like to have to tell how you lent your helmet to Sims so that he could pretend he had knocked Cooper down and taken it from him.”

“Wouldn’t look at all well,” said Mr. Gunnill, nodding his head sagely.

Mr. Jenkins breathed hard and looked from one to the other. It was plain that it was no good reminding them that he had not had a case for five years.

“When I say that I know who did it,” he said, slowly, “I mean that I have my suspicions.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Drill, “that’s a very different thing.”

“Nothing like the same,” said Mr. Gunnill, pouring the constable a glass of ale.

Mr. Jenkins drank it and smacked his lips feebly.

“Sims needn’t know anything about that helmet being repaired,” he said at last.

“Certainly not,” said everybody.

Mr. Jenkins sighed and turned to Drill.

“It’s no good spoiling the ship for a ha’porth o’ tar,” he said, with a faint suspicion of a wink.

“No,” said Drill, looking puzzled.

“Anything that’s worth doing at all is worth doing well,” continued the constable, “and while I’m drinking another glass with Mr. Gunnill here, suppose you go into the kitchen with that useful bag o’ yours and finish repairing my truncheon?”

THE PERSECUTION OF BOB PRETTY

The old man sat on his accustomed bench outside the Cauliflower. A generous measure of beer stood in a blue and white jug by his elbow, and little wisps of smoke curled slowly upward from the bowl of his churchwarden pipe. The knapsacks of two young men lay where they were flung on the table, and the owners, taking a noon-tide rest, turned a polite, if bored, ear to the reminiscences of grateful old age.

Poaching, said the old man, who had tried topics ranging from early turnips to horseshoeing—poaching ain’t wot it used to be in these ’ere parts. Nothing is like it used to be, poaching nor anything else; but that there man you might ha’ noticed as went out about ten minutes ago and called me “Old Truthfulness” as ’e passed is the worst one I know. Bob Pretty ’is name is, and of all the sly, artful, deceiving men that ever lived in Claybury ’e is the worst—never did a honest day’s work in ’is life and never wanted the price of a glass of ale.

Bob Pretty’s worst time was just after old Squire Brown died. The old squire couldn’t afford to preserve much, but by-and-by a gentleman with plenty o’ money, from London, named Rockett, took ’is place and things began to look up. Pheasants was ’is favourites, and ’e spent no end o’ money rearing of ’em, but anything that could be shot at suited ’im, too.

He started by sneering at the little game that Squire Brown ’ad left, but all ’e could do didn’t seem to make much difference; things disappeared in a most eggstrordinary way, and the keepers went pretty near crazy, while the things the squire said about Claybury and Claybury men was disgraceful.

Everybody knew as it was Bob Pretty and one or two of ’is mates from other places, but they couldn’t prove it. They couldn’t catch ’im nohow, and at last the squire ’ad two keepers set off to watch ’im by night and by day.

Bob Pretty wouldn’t believe it; he said ’e couldn’t. And even when it was pointed out to ’im that Keeper Lewis was follering of ’im he said that it just ’appened he was going the same way, that was all. And sometimes ’e’d get up in the middle of the night and go for a fifteen-mile walk ’cos ’e’d got the toothache, and Mr. Lewis, who ’adn’t got it, had to tag along arter ’im till he was fit to drop. O’ course, it was one keeper the less to look arter the game, and by-and-by the squire see that and took ’im off.

All the same they kept a pretty close watch on Bob, and at last one arternoon they sprang out on ’im as he was walking past Gray’s farm, and asked him wot it was he ’ad in his pockets.

“That’s my bisness, Mr. Lewis,” ses Bob Pretty.

Mr. Smith, the other keeper, passed ’is hands over Bob’s coat and felt something soft and bulgy.

“You take your ’ands off of me,” ses Bob; “you don’t know ’ow partikler I am.”

He jerked ’imself away, but they caught ’old of ’im agin, and Mr. Lewis put ’is hand in his inside pocket and pulled out two brace o’ partridges.

“You’ll come along of us,” he ses, catching ’im by the arm.

“We’ve been looking for you a long time,” ses Keeper Smith, “and it’s a pleasure for us to ’ave your company.”

Bob Pretty said ’e wouldn’t go, but they forced ’im along and took ’im all the way to Cudford, four miles off, so that Policeman White could lock ’im up for the night. Mr. White was a’most as pleased as the keepers, and ’e warned Bob solemn not to speak becos all ’e said would be used agin ’im.

“Never mind about that,” ses Bob Pretty. “I’ve got a clear conscience, and talking can’t ’urt me. I’m very glad to see you, Mr. White; if these two clever, experienced keepers hadn’t brought me I should ’ave looked you up myself. They’ve been and stole my partridges.”

Them as was standing round laughed, and even Policeman White couldn’t ’elp giving a little smile.

“There’s nothing to laugh at,” ses Bob, ’olding his ’ead up. “It’s a fine thing when a working man—a ’ardworking man—can’t take home a little game for ’is family without being stopped and robbed.”

“I s’pose they flew into your pocket?” ses Policeman White.

“No, they didn’t,” ses Bob. “I’m not going to tell any lies about it; I put ’em there. The partridges in my inside coat-pocket and the bill in my waistcoat-pocket.”

“The _bill?_” ses Keeper Lewis, staring at ’im.

“Yes, the bill,” ses Bob Pretty, staring back at ’im; “the bill from Mr. Keen, the poulterer, at Wickham.”

He fetched it out of ’is pocket and showed it to Mr. White, and the keepers was like madmen a’most ’cos it was plain to see that Bob Pretty ’ad been and bought them partridges just for to play a game on ’em.

“I was curious to know wot they tasted like,” he ses to the policeman. “Worst of it is, I don’t s’pose my pore wife’ll know ’ow to cook ’em.”

“You get off ’ome,” ses Policeman White, staring at ’im.

“But ain’t I goin’ to be locked up?” ses Bob. “’Ave I been brought all this way just to ’ave a little chat with a policeman I don’t like.”

“You go ’ome,” ses Policeman White, handing the partridges back to ’im.

“All right,” ses Bob, “and I may ’ave to call you to witness that these ’ere two men laid hold o’ me and tried to steal my partridges. I shall go up and see my loryer about it.”

He walked off ’ome with his ’ead up as high as ’e could hold it, and the airs ’e used to give ’imself arter this was terrible for to behold. He got ’is eldest boy to write a long letter to the squire about it, saying that ’e’d overlook it this time, but ’e couldn’t promise for the future. Wot with Bob Pretty on one side and Squire Rockett on the other, them two keepers’ lives was ’ardly worth living.

Then the squire got a head-keeper named Cutts, a man as was said to know more about the ways of poachers than they did themselves. He was said to ’ave cleared out all the poachers for miles round the place ’e came from, and pheasants could walk into people’s cottages and not be touched.

He was a sharp-looking man, tall and thin, with screwed-up eyes and a little red beard. The second day ’e came ’e was up here at this ’ere Cauliflower, having a pint o’ beer and looking round at the chaps as he talked to the landlord. The odd thing was that men who’d never taken a hare or a pheasant in their lives could ’ardly meet ’is eye, while Bob Pretty stared at ’im as if ’e was a wax-works.

“I ’ear you ’ad a little poaching in these parts afore I came,” ses Mr. Cutts to the landlord.

“I think I ’ave ’eard something o’ the kind,” ses the landlord, staring over his ’ead with a far-away look in ’is eyes.

“You won’t hear of much more,” ses the keeper. “I’ve invented a new way of catching the dirty rascals; afore I came ’ere I caught all the poachers on three estates. I clear ’em out just like a ferret clears out rats.”

“Sort o’ man-trap?” ses the landlord.

“Ah, that’s tellings,” ses Mr. Cutts.

“Well, I ’ope you’ll catch ’em here,” ses Bob Pretty; “there’s far too many of ’em about for my liking. Far too many.”

“I shall ’ave ’em afore long,” ses Mr. Cutts, nodding his ’ead.

“Your good ’ealth,” ses Bob Pretty, holding up ’is mug. “We’ve been wanting a man like you for a long time.”

“I don’t want any of your impidence, my man,” ses the keeper. “I’ve ’eard about you, and nothing good either. You be careful.”

“I am careful,” ses Bob, winking at the others. “I ’ope you’ll catch all them low poaching chaps; they give the place a bad name, and I’m a’most afraid to go out arter dark for fear of meeting ’em.”

Peter Gubbins and Sam Jones began to laugh, but Bob Pretty got angry with ’em and said he didn’t see there was anything to laugh at. He said that poaching was a disgrace to their native place, and instead o’ laughing they ought to be thankful to Mr. Cutts for coming to do away with it all.

“Any help I can give you shall be given cheerful,” he ses to the keeper.

“When I want your help I’ll ask you for it,” ses Mr. Cutts.

“Thankee,” ses Bob Pretty. “I on’y ’ope I sha’n’t get my face knocked about like yours ’as been, that’s all; ’cos my wife’s so partikler.”

“Wot d’ye mean?” ses Mr. Cutts, turning on him. “My face ain’t been knocked about.”

“Oh, I beg your pardin,” ses Bob; “I didn’t know it was natural.”

Mr. Cutts went black in the face a’most and stared at Bob Pretty as if ’e was going to eat ’im, and Bob stared back, looking fust at the keeper’s nose and then at ’is eyes and mouth, and then at ’is nose agin.

“You’ll know me agin, I s’pose?” ses Mr. Cutts, at last.

“Yes,” ses Bob, smiling; “I should know you a mile off—on the darkest night.”

“We shall see,” ses Mr. Cutts, taking up ’is beer and turning ’is back on him. “Those of us as live the longest’ll see the most.”

“I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to see ’im,” ses Bob to Bill Chambers. “I feel more satisfied with _myself_ now.”

Bill Chambers coughed, and Mr. Cutts, arter finishing ’is beer, took another look at Bob Pretty, and went off boiling a’most.

The trouble he took to catch Bob Pretty arter that you wouldn’t believe, and all the time the game seemed to be simply melting away, and Squire Rockett was finding fault with ’im all day long. He was worn to a shadder a’most with watching, and Bob Pretty seemed to be more prosperous than ever.

Sometimes Mr. Cutts watched in the plantations, and sometimes ’e hid ’imself near Bob’s house, and at last one night, when ’e was crouching behind the fence of Frederick Scott’s front garden, ’e saw Bob Pretty come out of ’is house and, arter a careful look round, walk up the road. He held ’is breath as Bob passed ’im, and was just getting up to foller ’im when Bob stopped and walked slowly back agin, sniffing.

“Wot a delicious smell o’ roses!” he ses, out loud.

He stood in the middle o’ the road nearly opposite where the keeper was hiding, and sniffed so that you could ha’ ’eard him the other end o’ the village.

“It can’t be roses,” he ses, in a puzzled voice, “becos there ain’t no roses hereabouts, and, besides, it’s late for ’em. It must be Mr. Cutts, the clever new keeper.”

He put his ’ead over the fence and bid ’im good evening, and said wot a fine night for a stroll it was, and asked ’im whether ’e was waiting for Frederick Scott’s aunt. Mr. Cutts didn’t answer ’im a word; ’e was pretty near bursting with passion. He got up and shook ’is fist in Bob Pretty’s face, and then ’e went off stamping down the road as if ’e was going mad.