Chapter II: Part 2

Kindness never gets any thanks. I remember a man whose pal broke 'is leg while they was working together unloading a barge; and he went off to break the news to 'is pal's wife. A kind-'earted man 'e was as ever you see, and, knowing 'ow she would take on when she 'eard the news, he told her fust of all that 'er husband was killed. She took on like a mad thing, and at last, when she couldn't do anything more and 'ad quieted down a bit, he told 'er that it was on'y a case of a broken leg, thinking that 'er joy would be so great that she wouldn't think anything of that. He 'ad to tell her three times afore she understood 'im, and then, instead of being thankful to 'im for 'is thoughtfulness, she chased him 'arf over Wapping with a chopper, screaming with temper.

I remember Ginger Dick and Peter Russet trying to do old Sam Small a kindness one time when they was 'aving a rest ashore arter a v'y'ge. They 'ad took a room together as usual, and for the fust two or three days they was like brothers. That couldn't last, o' course, and Sam was so annoyed one evening at Ginger's suspiciousness by biting a 'arf-dollar Sam owed 'im and finding it was a bad 'un, that 'e went off to spend the evening all alone by himself.

He felt a bit dull at fust, but arter he had 'ad two or three 'arf-pints 'e began to take a brighter view of things. He found a very nice, cosey little public-'ouse he hadn't been in before, and, arter getting two and threepence and a pint for the 'arf-dollar with Ginger's tooth-marks on, he began to think that the world wasn't 'arf as bad a place as people tried to make out.

There was on'y one other man in the little bar Sam was in—a tall, dark chap, with black side-whiskers and spectacles, wot kept peeping round the partition and looking very 'ard at everybody that came in.

“I'm just keeping my eye on 'em, cap'n,” he ses to Sam, in a low voice.

“Ho!” ses Sam.

“They don't know me in this disguise,” ses the dark man, “but I see as 'ow you spotted me at once. Anybody 'ud have a 'ard time of it to deceive you; and then they wouldn't gain nothing by it.”

“Nobody ever 'as yet,” ses Sam, smiling at 'im.

“And nobody ever will,” ses the dark man, shaking his 'ead; “if they was all as fly as you, I might as well put the shutters up. How did you twig I was a detective officer, cap'n?”

Sam, wot was taking a drink, got some beer up 'is nose with surprise.

“That's my secret,” he ses, arter the tec 'ad patted 'im on the back and brought 'im round.

“You're a marvel, that's wot you are,” ses the tec, shaking his 'ead. “Have one with me.”

Sam said he didn't mind if 'e did, and arter drinking each other's healths very perlite 'e ordered a couple o' twopenny smokes, and by way of showing off paid for 'em with 'arf a quid.

“That's right, ain't it?” ses the barmaid, as he stood staring very 'ard at the change. “I ain't sure about that 'arf-crown, now I come to look at it; but it's the one you gave me.”

Pore Sam, with a tec standing alongside of 'im, said it was quite right, and put it into 'is pocket in a hurry and began to talk to the tec as fast as he could about a murder he 'ad been reading about in the paper that morning. They went and sat down by a comfortable little fire that was burning in the bar, and the tec told 'im about a lot o' murder cases he 'ad been on himself.

“I'm down 'ere now on special work,” he ses, “looking arter sailormen.”

“Wot ha' they been doing?” ses Sam.

“When I say looking arter, I mean protecting 'em,” ses the tec. “Over and over agin some pore feller, arter working 'ard for months at sea, comes 'ome with a few pounds in 'is pocket and gets robbed of the lot. There's a couple o' chaps down 'ere I'm told off to look arter special, but it's no good unless I can catch 'em red-'anded.”

“Red-'anded?” ses Sam.

“With their hands in the chap's pockets, I mean,” ses the tec.

Sam gave a shiver. “Somebody had their 'ands in my pockets once,” he ses. “Four pun ten and some coppers they got.”

“Wot was they like?” ses the tee, starting.

Sam shook his 'ead. “They seemed to me to be all hands, that's all I know about 'em,” he ses. “Arter they 'ad finished they leaned me up agin the dock wall an' went off.”

“It sounds like 'em,” ses the tec, thoughtfully. “It was Long Pete and Fair Alf, for a quid; that's the two I'm arter.”

He put his finger in 'is weskit-pocket. “That's who I am,” he ses, 'anding Sam a card; “Detective-Sergeant Cubbins. If you ever get into any trouble at any time, you come to me.”

Sam said 'e would, and arter they had 'ad another drink together the tec shifted 'is seat alongside of 'im and talked in his ear.

“If I can nab them two chaps I shall get promotion,” he ses; “and it's a fi'-pun note to anybody that helps me. I wish I could persuade you to.”

“'Ow's it to be done?” ses Sam, looking at 'im.

“I want a respectable-looking seafaring man,” ses the tec, speaking very slow; “that's you. He goes up Tower Hill to-morrow night at nine o'clock, walking very slow and very unsteady on 'is pins, and giving my two beauties the idea that 'e is three sheets in the wind. They come up and rob 'im, and I catch them red-'anded. I get promotion, and you get a fiver.”

“But 'ow do you know they'll be there?” ses Sam, staring at 'im.

Mr. Cubbins winked at 'im and tapped 'is nose.

'Mr. Cubbins Winked at 'im and Tapped 'is Nose.'

“We 'ave to know a good deal in our line o' business,” he ses.

“Still,” ses Sam, “I don't see——”

“Narks,” says the tec; “coppers' narks. You've 'eard of them, cap'n? Now, look 'ere. Have you got any money?”

“I got a matter o' twelve quid or so,” ses Sam, in a off-hand way.

“The very thing,” says the tec. “Well, to-morrow night you put that in your pocket, and be walking up Tower Hill just as the clock strikes nine. I promise you you'll be robbed afore two minutes past, and by two and a 'arf past I shall 'ave my hands on both of 'em. Have all the money in one pocket, so as they can get it neat and quick, in case they get interrupted. Better still, 'ave it in a purse; that makes it easier to bring it 'ome to 'em.”

“Wouldn't it be enough if they stole the purse?” ses Sam. “I should feel safer that way, too.”

Mr. Cubbins shook his 'ead, very slow and solemn. “That wouldn't do at all,” he ses. “The more money they steal, the longer they'll get; you know that, cap'n, without me telling you. If you could put fifty quid in it would be so much the better. And, what-ever you do, don't make a noise. I don't want a lot o' clumsy policemen interfering in my business.”

“Still, s'pose you didn't catch 'em,” ses Sam, “where should I be?”

“You needn't be afraid o' that,” ses the tec, with a laugh. “Here, I'll tell you wot I'll do, and that'll show you the trust I put in you.”

He drew a big di'mond ring off of 'is finger and handed it to Sam.

“Put that on your finger,” he ses, “and keep it there till I give you your money back and the fi'-pun note reward. It's worth seventy quid if it's worth a farthing, and was given to me by a lady of title for getting back 'er jewellery for 'er. Put it on, and wotever you do, don't lose it!”

He sat and watched while Sam forced it on 'is finger.

“You don't need to flash it about too much,” he ses, looking at 'im rather anxious. “There's men I know as 'ud cut your finger off to get that.”

Sam shoved his 'and in his pocket, but he kept taking it out every now and then and 'olding his finger up to the light to look at the di'mond. Mr. Cubbins got up to go at last, saying that he 'ad got a call to make at the police-station, and they went out together.

“Nine o'clock sharp,” he ses, as they shook hands, “on Tower Hill.”

“I'll be there,” ses Sam.

“And, wotever you do, no noise, no calling out,” ses the tec, “and don't mention a word of this to a living soul.”

Sam shook 'ands with 'im agin, and then, hiding his 'and in his pocket, went off 'ome, and, finding Ginger and Peter Russet wasn't back, went off to bed.

He 'eard 'em coming upstairs in the dark in about an hour's time, and, putting the 'and with the ring on it on the counterpane, shut 'is eyes and pretended to be fast asleep. Ginger lit the candle, and they was both beginning to undress when Peter made a noise and pointed to Sam's 'and.

“Wot's up?” ses Ginger, taking the candle and going over to Sam's bed. “Who've you been robbing, you fat pirate?”

Sam kept 'is eyes shut and 'eard 'em whispering; then he felt 'em take 'is hand up and look at it. “Where did you get it, Sam?” ses Peter.

“He's asleep,” ses Ginger, “sound asleep. I b'lieve if I was to put 'is finger in the candle he wouldn't wake up.”

“You try it,” ses Sam, sitting up in bed very sharp and snatching his 'and away. “Wot d'ye mean coming 'ome at all hours and waking me up?” “Where did you get that ring?” ses Ginger. “Friend o' mine,” ses Sam, very short.

“Who was it?” ses Peter.

“It's a secret,” ses Sam.

“You wouldn't 'ave a secret from your old pal Ginger, Sam, would you?” ses Ginger.

“Old wot?” ses Sam. “Wot did you call me this arternoon?”

“I called you a lot o' things I'm sorry for,” ses Ginger, who was bursting with curiosity, “and I beg your pardin, Sam.”

“Shake 'ands on it,” ses Peter, who was nearly as curious as Ginger.

They shook hands, but Sam said he couldn't tell 'em about the ring; and several times Ginger was on the point of calling 'im the names he 'ad called 'im in the arternoon, on'y Peter trod on 'is foot and stopped him. They wouldn't let 'im go to sleep for talking, and at last, when 'e was pretty near tired out, he told 'em all about it.

“Going—to 'ave your—pocket picked?” ses Ginger, staring at 'im, when 'e had finished.

“I shall be watched over,” ses Sam.

“He's gorn stark, staring mad,” ses Ginger. “Wot a good job it is he's got me and you to look arter 'im, Peter.”

“Wot d'ye mean?” ses Sam.

“Mean?” ses Ginger. “Why, it's a put-up job to rob you, o' course. I should ha' thought even your fat 'ead could ha' seen that':”

“When I want your advice I'll ask you for it,” ses Sam, losing 'is temper. “Wot about the di'mond ring—eh?”

“You stick to it,” ses Ginger, “and keep out o' Mr. Cubbins's way. That's my advice to you. 'Sides, p'r'aps it ain't a real one.”

Sam told 'im agin he didn't want none of 'is advice, and, as Ginger wouldn't leave off talking, he pretended to go to sleep. Ginger woke 'im up three times to tell 'im wot a fool 'e was, but 'e got so fierce that he gave it up at last and told 'im to go 'is own way.

Sam wouldn't speak to either of 'em next morning, and arter breakfast he went off on 'is own. He came back while Peter and Ginger was out, and they wasted best part o' the day trying to find 'im.

“We'll be on Tower Hill just afore nine and keep 'im out o' mischief, any way,” ses Peter.

Ginger nodded. “And be called names for our pains,” he ses. “I've a good mind to let 'im be robbed.”

“It 'ud serve 'im right,” ses Peter, “on'y then he'd want to borrer off of us. Look here! Why not—why not rob 'im ourselves?”

“Wot?” ses Ginger, starting.

“Walk up behind 'im and rob 'im,” ses Peter. “He'll think it's them two chaps he spoke about, and when 'e comes 'ome complaining to us we'll tell 'im it serves 'im right. Arter we've 'ad a game with 'im for a day or two we'll give 'im 'is money back.”

“But he'd reckernize us,” ses Ginger.

“We must disguise ourselves,” ses Peter, in a whisper. “There's a barber's shop in Cable Street, where I've seen beards in the winder. You hook 'em on over your ears. Get one o' them each, pull our caps over our eyes and turn our collars up, and there you are.”

Ginger made a lot of objections, not because he didn't think it was a good idea, but because he didn't like Peter thinking of it instead of 'im; but he gave way at last, and, arter he 'ad got the beard, he stood for a long time in front o' the glass thinking wot a difference it would ha' made to his looks if he had 'ad black 'air instead o' red.

Waiting for the evening made the day seem very long to 'em; but it came at last, and, with the beards in their pockets, they slipped out and went for a walk round. They 'ad 'arf a pint each at a public-'ouse at the top of the Minories, just to steady themselves, and then they came out and hooked on their beards; and wot with them, and pulling their caps down and turning their coat-collars up, there wasn't much of their faces to be seen by anybody.

It was just five minutes to nine when they got to Tower Hill, and they walked down the middle of the road, keeping a bright lookout for old Sam. A little way down they saw a couple o' chaps leaning up agin a closed gate in the dock wall lighting their pipes, and Peter and Ginger both nudged each other with their elbows at the same time. They 'ad just got to the bottom of the Hill when Sam turned the corner.

Peter wouldn't believe at fust that the old man wasn't really the worse for liquor, 'e was so lifelike. Many a drunken man would ha' been proud to ha' done it 'arf so well, and it made 'im pleased to think that Sam was a pal of 'is. Him and Ginger turned and crept up behind the old man on tiptoe, and then all of a sudden he tilted Sam's cap over 'is eyes and flung his arms round 'im, while Ginger felt in 'is coat-pockets and took out a leather purse chock full o' money.

It was all done and over in a moment, and then, to Ginger's great surprise, Sam suddenly lifted 'is foot and gave 'im a fearful kick on the shin of 'is leg, and at the same time let drive with all his might in 'is face. Ginger went down as if he 'ad been shot, and as Peter went to 'elp him up he got a bang over the 'ead that put 'im alongside o' Ginger, arter which Sam turned and trotted off down the Hill like a dancing-bear.

'Let Drive With All his Might in 'is Face. '

For 'arf a minute Ginger didn't know where 'e was, and afore he found out the two men they'd seen in the gateway came up, and one of 'em put his knee in Ginger's back and 'eld him, while the other caught hold of his 'and and dragged the purse out of it. Arter which they both made off up the Hill as 'ard as they could go, while Peter Russet in a faint voice called “Police!” arter them.

He got up presently and helped Ginger up, and they both stood there pitying themselves, and 'elping each other to think of names to call Sam.

“Well, the money's gorn, and it's 'is own silly fault,” ses Ginger. “But wotever 'appens, he mustn't know that we had a 'and in it, mind that.”

“He can starve for all I care,” ses Peter, feeling his 'ead. “I won't lend 'im a ha'penny—not a single, blessed ha'penny.”

“Who'd ha' thought 'e could ha' hit like that?” says Ginger. “That's wot gets over me. I never 'ad such a bang in my life—never. I'm going to 'ave a little drop o' brandy—my 'ead is fair swimming.”

Peter 'ad one, too; but though they went into the private bar, it wasn't private enough for them; and when the landlady asked Ginger who'd been kissing 'im, he put 'is glass down with a bang and walked straight off 'ome.

Sam 'adn't turned up by the time they got there, and pore Ginger took advantage of it to put a little warm candle-grease on 'is bad leg. Then he bathed 'is face very careful and 'elped Peter bathe his 'ead. They 'ad just finished when they heard Sam coming upstairs, and Ginger sat down on 'is bed and began to whistle, while Peter took up a bit o' newspaper and stood by the candle reading it.

“Lor' lumme, Ginger!” ses Sam, staring at 'im. “What ha' you been a-doing to your face?”

“Me?” ses Ginger, careless-like. “Oh, we 'ad a bit of a scrap down Limehouse way with some Scotchies. Peter got a crack over the 'ead at the same time.”

“Ah, I've 'ad a bit of a scrap, too,” ses Sam, smiling all over, “but I didn't get marked.”

“Oh!” ses Peter, without looking up from 'is paper. “Was it a little boy, then?” ses Ginger.

“No, it wasn't a little boy neither, Ginger,” ses Sam; “it was a couple o' men twice the size of you and Peter here, and I licked 'em both. It was the two men I spoke to you about last night.”

“Oh!” ses Peter agin, yawning.

“I did a bit o' thinking this morning,” ses Sam, nodding at 'em, “and I don't mind owning up that it was owing to wot you said. You was right, Ginger, arter all.”

“Fust thing I did arter breakfast,” ses Sam, “I took that di'mond ring to a pawnshop and found out it wasn't a di'mond ring. Then I did a bit more thinking, and I went round to a shop I know and bought a couple o' knuckle-dusters.”

“Couple o' wot?” ses Ginger, in a choking voice.

“Knuckle-dusters,” ses Sam, “and I turned up to-night at Tower Hill with one on each 'and just as the clock was striking nine. I see 'em the moment I turned the corner—two enormous big chaps, a yard acrost the shoulders, coming down the middle of the road—You've got a cold, Ginger!”

“No, I ain't,” ses Ginger.

“I pretended to be drunk, same as the tec told me,” ses Sam, “and then I felt 'em turn round and creep up behind me. One of 'em come up behind and put 'is knee in my back and caught me by the throat, and the other gave me a punch in the chest, and while I was gasping for breath took my purse away. Then I started on 'em.”

“Lor'!” ses Ginger, very nasty.

“I fought like a lion,” ses Sam. “Twice they 'ad me down, and twice I got up agin and hammered 'em. They both of 'em 'ad knives, but my blood was up, and I didn't take no more notice of 'em than if they was made of paper. I knocked 'em both out o' their hands, and if I hit 'em in the face once I did a dozen times. I surprised myself.”

“You surprise me,” ses Ginger.

“All of a sudden,” ses Sam, “they see they 'ad got to do with a man wot didn't know wot fear was, and they turned round and ran off as hard as they could run. You ought to ha' been there, Ginger. You'd 'ave enjoyed it.”

Ginger Dick didn't answer 'im. Having to sit still and listen to all them lies without being able to say anything nearly choked 'im. He sat there gasping for breath.

“O' course, you got your purse back in the fight, Sam?” ses Peter.

“No, mate,” ses Sam. “I ain't going to tell you no lies—I did not.”

“And 'ow are you going to live, then, till you get a ship, Sam?” ses Ginger, in a nasty voice. “You won't get nothing out o' me, so you needn't think it.”

“Wot on earth's the matter, Ginger?”

“Nor me,” ses Peter. “Not a brass farthing.”

“There's no call to be nasty about it, mates,” ses Sam. “I 'ad the best fight I ever 'ad in my life, and I must put up with the loss. A man can't 'ave it all his own way.”

“'Ow much was it?” ses Peter.

“Ten brace-buttons, three French ha'pennies, and a bit o' tin,” ses Sam. “Wot on earth's the matter, Ginger?”

'Wot on Earth's the Matter, Ginger?''

Ginger didn't answer him.

SENTENCE DEFERRED

'An Elderly Man With a Wooden Leg, Who Joined The Indignant Officer in the Pursuit.'

Fortunately for Captain Bligh, there were but few people about, and the only person who saw him trip Police-Sergeant Pilbeam was an elderly man with a wooden leg, who joined the indignant officer in the pursuit. The captain had youth on his side, and, diving into the narrow alley-ways that constitute the older portion of Woodhatch, he moderated his pace and listened acutely. The sounds of pursuit died away in the distance, and he had already dropped into a walk when the hurried tap of the wooden leg sounded from one corner and a chorus of hurried voices from the other. It was clear that the number of hunters had increased.

He paused a second, irresolute. The next, he pushed open a door that stood ajar in an old flint wall and peeped in. He saw a small, brick-paved yard, in which trim myrtles and flowering plants stood about in freshly ochred pots, and, opening the door a little wider, he slipped in and closed it behind him.

“Well?” said a voice, sharply. “What do you want?”

Captain Bligh turned, and saw a girl standing in a hostile attitude in the doorway of the house. “H'sh!” he said, holding up his finger.

The girl's cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled.

“What are you doing in our yard?” she demanded.

The captain's face relaxed as the sound of voices died away. He gave his moustache a twist, and eyed her with frank admiration.

“Escaping,” he said, briefly. “They nearly had me, though.”

“You had no business to escape into our yard,” said the girl. “What have you been escaping from?”

“Fat policeman,” said the skipper, jauntily, twisting his moustache.

Miss Pilbeam, only daughter of Sergeant Pilbeam, caught her breath sharply.

“What have you been doing?” she inquired, as soon as she could control her voice.

“Nothing,” said the skipper, airily, “nothing. I was kicking a stone along the path and he told me to stop it.”

“Well?” said Miss Pilbeam, impatiently.

“We had words,” said the skipper. “I don't like policemen—fat policemen—and while we were talking he happened to lose his balance and go over into some mud that was swept up at the side of the road.”

“Lost his balance?” gasped the horrified Miss Pilbeam.

The skipper was flattered at her concern. “You would have laughed if you had seen him,” he said, smiling. “Don't look so frightened; he hasn't got me yet.”

“No,” said the girl, slowly. “Not yet.”

She gazed at him with such a world of longing in her eyes that the skipper, despite a somewhat large share of self-esteem, was almost startled.

“And he shan't have me,” he said, returning her gaze with interest.

Miss Pilbeam stood in silent thought. She was a strong, well-grown girl, but she realized fully that she was no match for the villain who stood before her, twisting his moustache and adjusting his neck-tie. And her father would not be off duty until nine.

“I suppose you would like to wait here until it is dark?” she said at last.

“I would sooner wait here than anywhere,” said the skipper, with respectful ardor.

“Perhaps you would like to come in and sit down?” said the girl.

Captain Bligh thanked her, and removing his cap followed her into a small parlor in the front of the house.

“Father is out,” she said, as she motioned him to an easy-chair, “but I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you when he comes in.”

“And I shall be pleased to see him,” said the innocent skipper.

Miss Pilbeam kept her doubts to herself and sat in a brown study, wondering how the capture was to be effected. She had a strong presentiment that the appearance of her father at the front door would be the signal for her visitor's departure at the back. For a time there was an awkward silence.

“Lucky thing for me I upset that policeman,” said the skipper, at last.

“Why?” inquired the girl.

“Else I shouldn't have come into your yard,” was the reply. “It's the first time we have ever put into Woodhatch, and I might have sailed away and never seen you. Where should we have been but for that fat policeman?”

Miss Pilbeam—as soon as she could get her breath—said, “Ah, where indeed!” and for the first time in her life began to feel the need of a chaperon.

“Funny to think of him hunting for me high and low while I am sitting here,” said the skipper.

Miss Pilbeam agreed with him, and began to laugh—to laugh so heartily that he was fain at last to draw his chair close to hers and pat her somewhat anxiously on the back. The treatment sobered her at once, and she drew apart and eyed him coldly.

“I was afraid you would lose your breath,” explained the skipper, awkwardly. “You are not angry, are you?”

He was so genuinely relieved when she said, “No,” that Miss Pilbeam, despite her father's wrongs, began to soften a little. The upsetter of policemen was certainly good-looking; and his manner towards her so nicely balanced between boldness and timidity that a slight feeling of sadness at his lack of moral character began to assail her.

“Suppose you are caught after all?” she said, presently. “You will go to prison.”

The skipper shrugged his shoulders. “I don't suppose I shall be,” he replied.

“Aren't you sorry?” persisted Miss Pilbeam, in a vibrant voice.

“Certainly not,” said the skipper. “Why, I shouldn't have seen you if I hadn't done it.”

Miss Pilbeam looked at the clock and pondered. It wanted but five minutes to nine. Five minutes in which to make up a mind that was in a state of strong unrest.

“I suppose it is time for me to go,” said the skipper, watching her. Miss Pilbeam rose. “No, don't go,” she said, hastily. “Do be quiet. I want to think.”

Captain Bligh waited in respectful silence, heedless of the fateful seconds ticking from the mantelpiece. At the sound of a slow, measured footfall on the cobblestone path outside Miss Pilbeam caught his arm and drew him towards the door.

“Go!” she breathed. “No, stop!”

She stood trying in vain to make up her mind. “Upstairs,” she said. “Quick!” and, leading the way, entered her father's bedroom, and, after a moment's thought, opened the door of a cupboard in the corner.

“Get in there,” she whispered.

“But—” objected the astonished Bligh.

The front door was heard to open.

“Police!” said Miss Pilbeam, in a thrilling whisper. The skipper stepped into the cupboard without further parley, and the girl, turning the key, slipped it into her pocket and sped downstairs.

Sergeant Pilbeam was in the easy-chair, with his belt unfastened, when she entered the parlor, and, with a hungry reference to supper, sat watching her as she lit the lamp and drew down the blind. With a lifelong knowledge of the requirements of the Force, she drew a jug of beer and placed it by his side while she set the table.

“Ah! I wanted that,” said the sergeant. “I've been running.”

Miss Pilbeam raised her eyebrows.

“After some sailor-looking chap that capsized me when I wasn't prepared for it,” said her father, putting down his glass. “It was a neat bit o' work, and I shall tell him so when I catch him. Look here!”

He stood up and exhibited the damage.

“I've rubbed off what I could,” he said, resuming his seat, “and I s'pose the rest'll brush off when it's dry. To-morrow morning I shall go down to the harbor and try and spot my lord.”

He drew his chair to the table and helped himself, and, filling his mouth with cold meat and pickles, enlarged on his plans for the capture of his assailant; plans to which the undecided Miss Pilbeam turned a somewhat abstracted ear.

By the time her father had finished his supper she was trying, but in vain, to devise means for the prisoner's escape. The sergeant had opened the door of the room for the sake of fresh air, and it was impossible for anybody to come downstairs without being seen. The story of a sickly geranium in the back-yard left him unmoved.

“I wouldn't get up for all the geraniums in the world,” he declared. “I'm just going to have one more pipe and then I'm off to bed. Running don't agree with me.”

He went, despite his daughter's utmost efforts to prevent him, and she sat in silent consternation, listening to his heavy tread overhead. She heard the bed creak in noisy protest as he climbed in, and ten minutes later the lusty snoring of a healthy man of full habit resounded through the house.

She went to bed herself at last, and, after lying awake for nearly a couple of hours, closed her eyes in order to think better. She awoke with the sun pouring in at the window and the sounds of vigorous brushing in the yard beneath.

“I've nearly got it off,” said the sergeant, looking up. “It's destroying evidence in a sense, I suppose; but I can't go about with my uniform plastered with mud. I've had enough chaff about it as it is.”

Miss Pilbeam stole to the door of the next room and peeped stealthily in. Not a sound came from the cupboard, and a horrible idea that the prisoner might have been suffocated set her trembling with apprehension.

“H'sh!” she whispered.

An eager but stifled “H'st!” came from the cup-board, and Miss Pilbeam, her fears allayed, stepped softly into the room.

“He's downstairs brushing the mud off,” she said, in a low voice.

“Who is?” said the skipper.

“The fat policeman,” said the girl, in a hard voice, as she remembered her father's wrongs.

“What's he doing it here for?” demanded the astonished skipper.

“Because he lives here.”

“Lodger?” queried the skipper, more astonished than before.

“Father,” said Miss Pilbeam.

A horrified groan from the cupboard fell like music on her ears. Then the smile forsook her lips, and she stood quivering with indignation as the groan gave way to suppressed but unmistakable laughter.

“H'sh!” she said sharply, and with head erect sailed out of the room and went downstairs to give Mr. Pilbeam his breakfast.

To the skipper in the confined space and darkness of the cupboard the breakfast seemed unending. The sergeant evidently believed in sitting over his meals, and his deep, rumbling voice, punctuated by good-natured laughter, was plainly audible. To pass the time the skipper fell to counting, and, tired of that, recited some verses that he had acquired at school. After that, and with far more heartiness, he declaimed a few things that he had learned since; and still the clatter and rumble sounded from below.

It was a relief to him when he heard the sergeant push his chair back and move heavily about the room. A minute later he heard him ascending the stairs, and then he held his breath with horror as the foot-steps entered the room and a heavy hand was laid on the cupboard door.

“Elsie!” bawled the sergeant. “Where's the key of my cupboard? I want my other boots.”

“They're down here,” cried the voice of Miss Pilbeam, and the skipper, hardly able to believe in his good fortune, heard the sergeant go downstairs again.

At the expiration of another week—by his own reckoning—he heard the light, hurried footsteps of Miss Pilbeam come up the stairs and pause at the door.

“H'st!” he said, recklessly.

“I'm coming,” said the girl. “Don't be impatient.”

A key turned in the lock, the door was flung open, and the skipper, dazed and blinking with the sudden light, stumbled into the room.

“Father's gone,” said Miss Pilbeam.

The skipper made no answer. He was administering first aid to a right leg which had temporarily forgotten how to perform its duties, varied with slaps and pinches at a left which had gone to sleep. At intervals he turned a red-rimmed and reproachful eye on Miss Pilbeam.

'He Was Administering First Aid to a Right Leg.'

“You want a wash and some breakfast,” she said, softly, “especially a wash. There's water and a towel, and while you're making yourself tidy I'll be getting breakfast.”

The skipper hobbled to the wash-stand, and, dipping his head in a basin of cool water, began to feel himself again. By the time he had done his hair in the sergeant's glass and twisted his moustache into shape he felt better still, and he went downstairs almost blithely.

“I'm very sorry it was your father,” he said, as he took a seat at the table. “Very.”

“That's why you laughed, I suppose?” said the girl, tossing her head.

“Well, I've had the worst of it,” said the other. “I'd sooner be upset a hundred times than spend a night in that cupboard. However, all's well that ends well.”

“Ah!” said Miss Pilbeam, dolefully, “but is it the end?”

Captain Bligh put down his knife and fork and eyed her uneasily.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“Never mind; don't spoil your breakfast,” said the girl. “I'll tell you afterwards. It's horrid to think, after all my trouble, of your doing two months as well as a night in the cupboard.”

“Beastly,” said the unfortunate, eying her in great concern. “But what's the matter?”

“One can't think of everything,” said Miss Pilbeam, “but, of course, we ought to have thought of the mate getting uneasy when you didn't turn up last night, and going to the police-station with a description of you.”

The skipper started and smote the table with his fist.

“Father's gone down to watch the ship now,” said Miss Pilbeam. “Of course, it's the exact description of the man that assaulted him. Providential he called it.”

“That's the worst of having a fool for a mate,” said the skipper, bitterly. “What business was it of his, I should like to know? What's it got to do with him whether I turn up or not? What does he want to interfere for?”

“It's no good blaming him,” said Miss Pilbeam, thinking deeply, with her chin on her finger. “The thing is, what is to be done? Once father gets his hand on you——”

She shuddered; so did the skipper.

“I might get off with a fine; I didn't hurt him,” he remarked.

Miss Pilbeam shook her head. “They're very strict in Woodhatch,” she said.

“I was a fool to touch him at all,” said the repentant skipper. “High spirits, that's what it was. High spirits, and being spoken to as if I was a child.”

“The thing is, how are you to escape?” said the girl. “It's no good going out of doors with the police and half the people in Woodhatch all on the look-out for you.”

“If I could only get aboard I should be all right,” muttered the skipper. “I could keep down the fo'-c's'le while the mate took the ship out.”

Miss Pilbeam sat in deep thought. “It's the getting aboard that's the trouble,” she said, slowly. “You'd have to disguise yourself. It would have to be a good disguise, too, to pass my father, I can tell you.”

Captain Bligh gave a gloomy assent.

“The only thing for you to do, so far as I can see,” said the girl, slowly, “is to make yourself up like a coalie. There are one or two colliers in the harbor, and if you took off your coat—I could send it on afterwards—rubbed yourself all over with coal-dust, and shaved off your moustache, I believe you would escape.”

“Shave!” ejaculated the skipper, in choking accents. “Rub—! Coal-dust!”

“It's your only chance,” said Miss Pilbeam.

Captain Bligh leaned back frowning, and from sheer force of habit passed the ends of his moustache slowly through his fingers. “I think the coal-dust would be enough,” he said at last.

The girl shook her head. “Father particularly noticed your moustache,” she said.

“Everybody does,” said the skipper, with mournful pride. “I won't part with it.”

“Not for my sake?” inquired Miss Pilbeam, eying him mournfully. “Not after all I've done for you?”

“No,” said the other, stoutly.

Miss Pilbeam put her handkerchief to her eyes and, with a suspicious little sniff, hurried from the room. Captain Bligh, much affected, waited for a few seconds and then went in pursuit of her. Fifteen minutes later, shorn of his moustache, he stood in the coal-hole, sulkily smearing himself with coal.

“That's better,” said the girl; “you look horrible.”

She took up a handful of coal-dust and, ordering him to stoop, shampooed him with hearty good-will.

'She Took up a Handful of Coal-dust And, Ordering Him To Stoop, Shampooed Him With Hearty Good-will.'

“No good half doing it,” she declared. “Now go and look at yourself in the glass in the kitchen.”

The skipper went, and came back in a state of wild-eyed misery. Even Miss Pilbeam's statement that his own mother would not know him failed to lift the cloud from his brow. He stood disconsolate as the girl opened the front door.

“Good-by,” she said, gently. “Write and tell me when you are safe.”

Captain Bligh promised, and walked slowly up the road. So far from people attempting to arrest him, they vied with each other in giving him elbow-room. He reached the harbor unmolested, and, lurking at a convenient corner, made a careful survey. A couple of craft were working out their coal, a small steamer was just casting loose, and a fishing-boat gliding slowly over the still water to its berth. His own schooner, which lay near the colliers, had apparently knocked off work pending his arrival. For Sergeant Pilbeam he looked in vain.

He waited a minute or two, and then, with a furtive glance right and left, strolled in a careless fashion until he was abreast of one of the colliers. Nobody took any notice of him, and, with his hands in his pockets, he gazed meditatively into the water and edged along towards his own craft. His foot trembled as he placed it on the plank that formed the gangway, but, resisting the temptation to look behind, he gained the deck and walked forward.

“Halloa! What do you want?” inquired a sea-man, coming out of the galley.

“All right, Bill,” said the skipper, in a low voice. “Don't take any notice of me.”

“Eh?” said the seaman, starting. “Good lor'! What ha' you——”

“Shut up!” said the skipper, fiercely; and, walking to the forecastle, placed his hand on the scuttle and descended with studied slowness. As he reached the floor the perturbed face of Bill blocked the opening.

“Had an accident, cap'n?” he inquired, respectfully.

“No,” snapped the skipper. “Come down here—quick! Don't stand up there attracting attention. Do you want the whole town round you? Come down!”

“I'm all right where I am,” said Bill, backing hastily as the skipper, putting a foot on the ladder, thrust a black and furious face close to his.

“Clear out, then,” hissed the skipper. “Go and send the mate to me. Don't hurry. And if anybody noticed me come aboard and should ask you who I am, say I'm a pal of yours.”

The seaman, marvelling greatly, withdrew, and the skipper, throwing himself on a locker, wiped a bit of grit out of his eye and sat down to wait for the mate. He was so long in coming that he waxed impatient, and ascending a step of the ladder again peeped on to the deck. The first object that met his gaze was the figure of the mate leaning against the side of the ship with a wary eye on the scuttle.

“Come here,” said the skipper.

“Anything wrong?” inquired the mate, retreating a couple of paces in disorder.

“Come—here!” repeated the skipper.

The mate advanced slowly, and in response to an imperative command from the skipper slowly descended and stood regarding him nervously.

“Yes; you may look,” said the skipper, with sudden ferocity. “This is all your doing. Where are you going?”

He caught the mate by the coat as he was making for the ladder, and hauled him back again.

“You'll go when I've finished with you,” he said, grimly. “Now, what do you mean by it? Eh? What do you mean by it?”

“That's all right,” said the mate, in a soothing voice. “Don't get excited.”

“Look at me!” said the skipper. “All through your interfering. How dare you go making inquiries about me?”

“Me?” said the mate, backing as far as possible. “Inquiries?”

“What's it got to do with you if I stay out all night?” pursued the skipper.

“Nothing,” said the other, feebly.

“What did you go to the police about me for, then?” demanded the skipper.

“Me?” said the mate, in the shrill accents of astonishment. “Me? I didn't go to no police about you. Why should I?”

“Do you mean to say you didn't report my absence last night to the police?” said the skipper, sternly.

“Cert'nly not,” said the mate, plucking up courage. “Why should I? If you like to take a night off it's nothing to do with me. I 'ope I know my duty better. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“And the police haven't been watching the ship and inquiring for me?” asked the skipper.

The mate shook his bewildered head. “Why should they?” he inquired.

The skipper made no reply. He sat goggle-eyed, staring straight before him, trying in vain to realize the hardness of the heart that had been responsible for such a scurvy trick.

“Besides, it ain't the fust time you've been out all night,” remarked the mate, aggressively.

The skipper favored him with a glance the dignity of which was somewhat impaired by his complexion, and in a slow and stately fashion ascended to the deck. Then he caught his breath sharply and paled beneath the coaldust as he saw Sergeant Pilbeam standing on the quay, opposite the ship. By his side stood Miss Pilbeam, and both, with a far-away look in their eyes, were smiling vaguely but contentedly at the horizon. The sergeant appeared to be the first to see the skipper.

“Ahoy, Darkie!” he cried.

Captain Bligh, who was creeping slowly aft, halted, and, clenching his fists, regarded him ferociously.

“Give this to the skipper, will you, my lad?” said the sergeant, holding up the jacket Bligh had left behind. “Good-looking young man with a very fine moustache he is.”

'Give This to the Skipper, Will You, My Lad?' Said The Sergeant.

“Was,” said his daughter, in a mournful voice.

“And a rather dark complexion,” continued the sergeant, grinning madly. “I was going to take him—for stealing my coal—but I thought better of it. Thought of a better way. At least, my daughter did. So long, Darkie.”

He kissed the top of a fat middle finger, and, turning away, walked off with Miss Pilbeam. The skipper stood watching them with his head swimming until, arrived at the corner, they stopped and the sergeant came slowly back.

“I was nearly forgetting,” he said, slowly. “Tell your skipper that if so be as he wants to apologize—for stealing my coal—I shall be at home at tea at five o'clock.”

He jerked his thumb in the direction of Miss Pilbeam and winked with slow deliberation. “She'll be there, too,” he added. “Savvy?”

“MATRIMONIAL OPENINGS”

Mr. Dowson sat by the kitchen fire smoking and turning a docile and well-trained ear to the heated words which fell from his wife's lips.

“She'll go and do the same as her sister Jenny done,” said Mrs. Dowson, with a side glance at her daughter Flora; “marry a man and then 'ave to work and slave herself to skin and bone to keep him.”

“I see Jenny yesterday,” said her husband, nodding. “Getting quite fat, she is.”

“That's right,” said Mrs. Dowson, violently, “that's right! The moment I say something you go and try and upset it.”

“Un'ealthy fat, p'r'aps,” said Mr. Dowson, hurriedly; “don't get enough exercise, I s'pose.”

“Anybody who didn't know you, Joe Dowson,” said his wife, fiercely, “would think you was doing it a purpose.”

“Doing wot?” inquired Mr. Dowson, removing his pipe and regarding her open-mouthed. “I only said——”

“I know what you said,” retorted his wife. “Here I do my best from morning to night to make everybody 'appy and comfortable; and what happens?”

“Nothing,” said the sympathetic Mr. Dowson, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

“Anyway, Jenny ain't married a fool,” said Mrs. Dowson, hotly; “she's got that consolation.”

“That's right, mother,” said the innocent Mr. Dowson, “look on the bright side o' things a bit. If Jenny 'ad married a better chap I don't suppose we should see half as much of her as wot we do.”

“I'm talking of Flora,” said his wife, restraining herself by an effort. “One unfortunate marriage in the family is enough; and here, instead o' walking out with young Ben Lippet, who'll be 'is own master when his father dies, she's gadding about with that good-for-nothing Charlie Foss.”

Mr. Dowson shook his head. “He's so good-looking, is Charlie,” he said, slowly; “that's the worst of it. Wot with 'is dark eyes and his curly 'air——”

“Go on!” said his wife, passionately, “go on!”

Mr. Dowson, dimly conscious that something was wrong, stopped and puffed hard at his pipe. Through the cover of the smoke he bestowed a sympathetic wink upon his daughter.

“You needn't go on too fast,” said the latter, turning to her mother. “I haven't made up my mind yet. Charlie's looks are all right, but he ain't over and above steady, and Ben is steady, but he ain't much to look at.”

“What does your 'art say?” inquired the sentimental Mr. Dowson.

Neither lady took the slightest notice.

“Charlie Foss is too larky,” said Mrs. Dowson, solemnly; “it's easy come and easy go with 'im. He's just such another as your father's cousin Bill—and look what 'appened to him!”

Miss Dowson shrugged her shoulders and subsiding in her chair, went on with her book, until a loud knock at the door and a cheerful, but peculiarly shrill, whistle sounded outside.

'Miss Dowson, Subsiding in Her Chair, Went on With Her Book.'

“There is my lord,” exclaimed Mrs. Dowson, waspishly; “anybody might think the 'ouse belonged to him. And now he's dancing on my clean doorstep.”

“Might be only knocking the mud off afore coming in,” said Mr. Dowson, as he rose to open the door. “I've noticed he's very careful.”

“I just came in to tell you a joke,” said Mr. Foss, as he followed his host into the kitchen and gazed tenderly at Miss Dowson—“best joke I ever had in my life; I've 'ad my fortune told—guess what it was! I've been laughing to myself ever since.”

“Who told it?” inquired Mrs. Dowson, after a somewhat awkward silence.

“Old gypsy woman in Peter Street,” replied Mr. Foss. “I gave 'er a wrong name and address, just in case she might ha' heard about me, and she did make a mess of it; upon my word she did.”

“Wot did she say?” inquired Mr. Dowson.

Mr. Foss laughed. “Said I was a wrong 'un,” he said, cheerfully, “and would bring my mother's gray hairs to the grave with sorrow. I'm to 'ave bad companions and take to drink; I'm to steal money to gamble with, and after all that I'm to 'ave five years for bigamy. I told her I was disappointed I wasn't to be hung, and she said it would be a disappointment to a lot of other people too. Laugh! I thought I should 'ave killed myself.”

“I don't see nothing to laugh at,” said Mrs. Dowson, coldly.

“I shouldn't tell anybody else, Charlie,” said her husband. “Keep it a secret, my boy.”

“But you—you don't believe it?” stammered the crestfallen Mr. Foss.

Mrs. Dowson cast a stealthy glance at her daughter. “Its wonderful 'ow some o' those fortune-tellers can see into the future,” she said, shaking her head.

“Ah!” said her husband, with a confirmatory nod. “Wonderful is no name for it. I 'ad my fortune told once when I was a boy, and she told me I should marry the prettiest, and the nicest, and the sweetest-tempered gal in Poplar.”

Mr. Foss, with a triumphant smile, barely waited for him to finish. “There you—” he began, and stopped suddenly.

'I Just Came in to Tell You a Joke.'

“What was you about to remark?” inquired Mrs. Dowson, icily.

“I was going to say,” replied Mr. Foss—“I was going to say—I 'ad just got it on the tip o' my tongue to say, 'There you—you—you 'ad all the luck, Mr. Dowson.'”

He edged his chair a little nearer to Flora; but there was a chilliness in the atmosphere against which his high spirits strove in vain. Mr. Dowson remembered other predictions which had come true, notably the case of one man who, learning that he was to come in for a legacy, gave up a two-pound-a-week job, and did actually come in for twenty pounds and a bird-cage seven years afterwards.

'He Edged his Chair a Little Nearer to Flora.'

“It's all nonsense,” protested Mr. Foss; “she only said all that because I made fun of her. You don't believe it, do you, Flora?”

“I don't see anything to laugh at,” returned Miss Dowson. “Fancy five years for bigamy! Fancy the disgrace of it!”

“But you're talking as if I was going to do it,” objected Mr. Foss. “I wish you'd go and 'ave your fortune told. Go and see what she says about you. P'r'aps you won't believe so much in fortune-telling afterwards.”

Mrs. Dowson looked up quickly, and then, lowering her eyes, took her hand out of the stocking she had been darning and, placing it beside its companion, rolled the pair into a ball.

“You go round to-morrow night, Flora,” she said, deliberately. “It sha'n't be said a daughter of mine was afraid to hear the truth about herself; father'll find the money.”

“And she can say what she likes about you, but I sha'n't believe it,” said Mr. Foss, reproachfully.

“I don't suppose it'll be anything to be ashamed of,” said Miss Dowson, sharply.

Mr. Foss bade them good-night suddenly, and, finding himself accompanied to the door by Mr. Dowson, gave way to gloom. He stood for so long with one foot on the step and the other on the mat that Mr. Dowson, who disliked draughts, got impatient.

'Mr. Foss Bade Them Good-night Suddenly.'

“You'll catch cold, Charlie,” he said at last.

“That's what I'm trying to do,” said Mr. Foss; “my death o' cold. Then I sha'n't get five years for bigamy,” he added bitterly.

“Cheer up,” said Mr. Dowson; “five years ain't much out of a lifetime; and you can't expect to 'ave your fun without—”

He watched the retreating figure of Mr. Foss as it stamped its way down the street, and closing the door returned to the kitchen to discuss palmistry and other sciences until bedtime.

Mrs. Dowson saw husband and daughter off to work in the morning, and after washing up the breakfast things drew her chair up to the kitchen fire and became absorbed in memories of the past. All the leading incidents in Flora's career passed in review before her. Measles, whooping-cough, school-prizes, and other things peculiar to the age of innocence were all there. In her enthusiasm she nearly gave her a sprained ankle which had belonged to her sister. Still shaking her head over her mistake, she drew Flora's latest portrait carefully from its place in the album, and putting on her hat and jacket went round to make a call in Peter Street.