Chapter III: Part 3

By the time Flora returned home Mrs. Dowson appeared to have forgotten the arrangement made the night before, and, being reminded by her daughter, questioned whether any good could come of attempts to peer into the future. Mr. Dowson was still more emphatic, but his objections, being recognized by both ladies as trouser-pocket ones, carried no weight. It ended in Flora going off with half a crown in her glove and an urgent request from her father to make it as difficult as possible for the sibyl by giving a false name and address.

No name was asked for, however, as Miss Dowson was shown into the untidy little back room on the first floor, in which the sorceress ate, slept, and received visitors. She rose from an old rocking-chair as the visitor entered, and, regarding her with a pair of beady black eyes, bade her sit down.

“Are you the fortune-teller?” inquired the girl.

“Men call me so,” was the reply.

“Yes, but are you?” persisted Miss Dowson, who inherited her father's fondness for half crowns.

“Yes,” said the other, in a more natural voice.

She took the girl's left hand, and pouring a little dark liquid into the palm gazed at it intently. “Left for the past; right for the future,” she said, in a deep voice.

She muttered some strange words and bent her head lower over the girl's hand.

'She Muttered Some Strange Words and Bent Her Head Lower Over the Girl's Hand.'

“I see a fair-haired infant,” she said, slowly; “I see a little girl of four racked with the whooping-cough; I see her later, eight she appears to be. She is in bed with measles.”

Miss Dowson stared at her open-mouthed.

“She goes away to the seaside to get strong,” continued the sorceress; “she is paddling; she falls into the water and spoils her frock; her mother——”

“Never mind about that,” interrupted the staring Miss Dowson, hastily. “I was only eight at the time and mother always was ready with her hands.”

“People on the beach smile,” resumed the other. “They--”

“It don't take much to make some people laugh,” said Miss Dowson, with bitterness.

“At fourteen she and a boy next door but seven both have the mumps.”

“And why not?” demanded Miss Dowson with great warmth. “Why not?”

“I'm only reading what I see in your hand,” said the other. “At fifteen I see her knocked down by a boat-swing; a boy from opposite brings her home.”

“Passing at the time,” murmured Miss Dowson.

“His head is done up with sticking-plaster. I see her apprenticed to a dressmaker. I see her——”

The voice went on monotonously, and Flora, gasping with astonishment, listened to a long recital of the remaining interesting points in her career.

“That brings us to the present,” said the soothsayer, dropping her hand. “Now for the future.”

She took the girl's other hand and poured some of the liquid into it. Miss Dowson shrank back.

“If it's anything dreadful,” she said, quickly, “I don't want to hear it. It—it ain't natural.”

“I can warn you of dangers to keep clear of,” said the other, detaining her hand. “I can let you peep into the future and see what to do and what to avoid. Ah!”

She bent over the girl's hand again and uttered little ejaculations of surprise and perplexity.

“I see you moving in gay scenes surrounded by happy faces,” she said, slowly. “You are much sought after. Handsome presents and fine clothes are showered upon you. You will cross the sea. I see a dark young man and a fair young man. They will both influence your life. The fair young man works in his father's shop. He will have great riches.”

“What about the other?” inquired Miss Dowson, after a somewhat lengthy pause.

The fortune-teller shook her head. “He is his own worst enemy,” she said, “and he will drag down those he loves with him. You are going to marry one of them, but I can't see clear—I can't see which.”

“Look again,” said the trembling Flora.

“I can't see,” was the reply, “therefore it isn't meant for me to see. It's for you to choose. I can see them now as plain as I can see you. You are all three standing where two roads meet. The fair young man is beckoning to you and pointing to a big house and a motor-car and a yacht.”

“And the other?” said the surprised Miss Dowson.

“He's in knickerbockers,” said the other, doubtfully. “What does that mean? Ah, I see! They've got the broad arrow on them, and he is pointing to a jail. It's all gone—I can see no more.”

She dropped the girl's hand and, drawing her hand across her eyes, sank back into her chair. Miss Dowson, with trembling fingers, dropped the half crown into her lap, and, with her head in a whirl, made her way downstairs.

After such marvels the streets seemed oddly commonplace as she walked swiftly home. She decided as she went to keep her knowledge to herself, but inclination on the one hand and Mrs. Dowson on the other got the better of her resolution. With the exception of a few things in her past, already known and therefore not worth dwelling upon, the whole of the interview was disclosed.

“It fair takes your breath away,” declared the astounded Mr. Dowson.

“The fair young man is meant for Ben Lippet,” said his wife, “and the dark one is Charlie Foss. It must be. It's no use shutting your eyes to things.”

“It's as plain as a pikestaff,” agreed her husband. “And she told Charlie five years for bigamy, and when she's telling Flora's Fortune she sees 'im in convict's clothes. How she does it I can't think.”

“It's a gift,” said Mrs. Dowson, briefly, “and I do hope that Flora is going to act sensible. Anyhow, she can let Ben Lippet come and see her, without going upstairs with the tooth-ache.”

“He can come if he likes,” said Flora; “though why Charlie couldn't have 'ad the motor-car and 'im the five years, I don't know.”

Mr. Lippet came in the next evening, and the evening after. In fact, so easy is it to fall into habits of an agreeable nature that nearly every evening saw him the happy guest of Mr. Dowson. A spirit of resignation, fostered by a present or two and a visit to the theatre, descended upon Miss Dowson. Fate and her mother combined were in a fair way to overcome her inclinations, when Mr. Foss, who had been out of town on a job, came in to hear the result of her visit to the fortune-teller, and found Mr. Lippet installed in the seat that used to be his.

At first Mrs. Dowson turned a deaf ear to his request for information, and it was only when his jocularity on the subject passed the bounds of endurance that she consented to gratify his curiosity.

“I didn't want to tell you,” she said, when she had finished, “but you asked for it, and now you've got it.”

“It's very amusing,” said Mr. Foss. “I wonder who the dark young man in the fancy knickers is?”

“Ah, I daresay you'll know some day,” said Mrs. Dowson.

“Was the fair young man a good-looking chap?” inquired the inquisitive Mr. Foss.

Mrs. Dowson hesitated. “Yes,” she said, defiantly.

“Wonder who it can be?” muttered Mr. Foss, in perplexity.

“You'll know that too some day, no doubt,” was the reply.

“I'm glad it's to be a good-looking chap,” he said; “not that I think Flora believes in such rubbish as fortune-telling. She's too sensible.”

“I do,” said Flora. “How should she know all the things I did when I was a little girl? Tell me that.”

“I believe in it, too,” said Mrs. Dowson. “P'r'aps you'll tell me I'm not sensible!”

Mr. Foss quailed at the challenge and relapsed into moody silence. The talk turned on an aunt of Mr. Lippet's, rumored to possess money, and an uncle who was “rolling” in it. He began to feel in the way, and only his native obstinacy prevented him from going.

It was a relief to him when the front door opened and the heavy step of Mr. Dowson was heard in the tiny passage. If anything it seemed heavier than usual, and Mr. Dowson's manner when he entered the room and greeted his guests was singularly lacking in its usual cheerfulness. He drew a chair to the fire, and putting his feet on the fender gazed moodily between the bars.

“I've been wondering as I came along,” he said at last, with an obvious attempt to speak carelessly, “whether this 'ere fortune-telling as we've been hearing so much about lately always comes out true.”

“It depends on the fortune-teller,” said his wife.

“I mean,” said Mr. Dowson, slowly, “I mean that gypsy woman that Charlie and Flora went to.”

“Of course it does,” snapped his wife. “I'd trust what she says afore anything.”

“I know five or six that she has told,” said Mr. Lippet, plucking up courage; “and they all believe 'er. They couldn't help themselves; they said so.”

“Still, she might make a mistake sometimes,” said Mr. Dowson, faintly. “Might get mixed up, so to speak.”

“Never!” said Mrs. Dowson, firmly.

“Never!” echoed Flora and Mr. Lippet.

Mr. Dowson heaved a big sigh, and his eye wandered round the room. It lighted on Mr. Foss.

“She's an old humbug,” said that gentleman. “I've a good mind to put the police on to her.”

Mr. Dowson reached over and gripped his hand. Then he sighed again.

“Of course, it suits Charlie Foss to say so,” said Mrs. Dowson; “naturally he'd say so; he's got reasons. I believe every word she says. If she told me I was coming in for a fortune I should believe her; and if she told me I was going to have misfortunes I should believe her.”

“Don't say that,” shouted Mr. Dowson, with startling energy. “Don't say that. That's what she did say!”

“What?” cried his wife, sharply. “What are you talking about?”

“I won eighteenpence off of Bob Stevens,” said her husband, staring at the table. “Eighteenpence is 'er price for telling the future only, and, being curious and feeling I'd like to know what's going to 'appen to me, I went in and had eighteenpennorth.”

“Well, you're upset,” said Mrs. Dowson, with a quick glance at him. “You get upstairs to bed.”

“I'd sooner stay 'ere,” said her husband, resuming his seat; “it seems more cheerful and lifelike. I wish I 'adn't gorn, that's what I wish.”

“What did she tell you?” inquired Mr. Foss.

Mr. Dowson thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and spoke desperately. “She says I'm to live to ninety, and I'm to travel to foreign parts——”

“You get to bed,” said his wife. “Come along.”

Mr. Dowson shook his head doggedly. “I'm to be rich,” he continued, slowly—“rich and loved. After my pore dear wife's death I'm to marry again; a young woman with money and stormy brown eyes.”

Mrs. Dowson sprang from her chair and stood over him quivering with passion. “How dare you?” she gasped. “You—you've been drinking.”

“I've 'ad two arf-pints,” said her husband, solemnly. “I shouldn't 'ave 'ad the second only I felt so miserable. I know I sha'n't be 'appy with a young woman.”

Mrs. Dowson, past speech, sank back in her chair and stared at him.

“I shouldn't worry about it if I was you, Mrs. Dowson,” said Mr. Foss, kindly. “Look what she said about me. That ought to show you she ain't to be relied on.”

“Eyes like lamps,” said Mr. Dowson, musingly, “and I'm forty-nine next month. Well, they do say every eye 'as its own idea of beauty.”

A strange sound, half laugh and half cry, broke from the lips of the over-wrought Mrs. Dowson. She controlled herself by an effort.

“If she said it,” she said, doggedly, with a fierce glance at Mr. Foss, “it'll come true. If, after my death, my 'usband is going to marry a young woman with—with——”

“Stormy brown eyes,” interjected Mr. Foss, softly.

“It's his fate and it can't be avoided,” concluded Mrs. Dowson.

“But it's so soon,” said the unfortunate husband. “You're to die in three weeks and I'm to be married three months after.”

Mrs. Dowson moistened her lips and tried, but in vain, to avoid the glittering eye of Mr. Foss. “Three!” she said, mechanically, “three! three weeks!”

“Don't be frightened,” said Mr. Foss, in a winning voice. “I don't believe it; and, besides, we shall soon see! And if you don't die in three weeks, perhaps I sha'n't get five years for bigamy, and perhaps Flora won't marry a fair man with millions of money and motor-cars.”

“No; perhaps she is wrong after all, mother,” said Mr. Dowson, hopefully.

Mrs. Dowson gave him a singularly unkind look for one about to leave him so soon, and, afraid to trust herself to speech, left the room and went up-stairs. As the door closed behind her, Mr. Foss took the chair which Mr. Lippet had thoughtlessly vacated, and offered such consolations to Flora as he considered suitable to the occasion.

ODD MAN OUT

The night watchman pursed up his lips and shook his head. Friendship, he said, decidedly, is a deloosion and a snare. I've 'ad more friendships in my life than most people—owing to being took a fancy to for some reason or other—and they nearly all came to a sudden ending.

'Friendship, he Said, Decidedly, is a Deloosion and A Snare.'

I remember one man who used to think I couldn't do wrong; everything I did was right to 'im; and now if I pass 'im in the street he makes a face as if he'd got a hair in 'is mouth. All because I told 'im the truth one day when he was thinking of getting married. Being a bit uneasy-like in his mind, he asked me 'ow, supposing I was a gal, his looks would strike me.

It was an orkard question, and I told him that he 'ad got a good 'art and that no man could 'ave a better pal. I said he 'ad got a good temper and was free with 'is money. O' course, that didn't satisfy 'im, and at last he told me to take a good look at 'im and tell him wot I thought of 'is looks. There was no getting out of it, and at last I 'ad to tell him plain that everybody 'ad diff'rent ideas about looks; that looks wasn't everything; and that 'andsome is as 'andsome does. Even then 'e wasn't satisfied, and at last I told 'im, speaking as a pal to a pal, that if I was a gal and he came along trying to court me, I should go to the police about it.

I remember two young fellers that was shipmates with me some years ago, and they was such out-and-out pals that everybody called 'em the Siamese twins. They always shipped together and shared lodgings together when they was ashore, and Ted Denver would no more 'ave thought of going out without Charlie Brice than Charlie Brice would 'ave thought of going out without 'im. They shared their baccy and their money and everything else, and it's my opinion that if they 'ad only 'ad one pair o' boots between 'em they'd 'ave hopped along in one each.

They 'ad been like it for years, and they kept it up when they left the sea and got berths ashore. Anybody knowing them would ha' thought that nothing but death could part 'em; but it happened otherwise.

There was a gal in it, of course. A gal that Ted Denver got into conversation with on top of a bus, owing to her steadying 'erself by putting her hand on 'is shoulder as she passed 'im. Bright, lively sort o' gal she seemed, and, afore Ted knew where he was, they was talking away as though they 'ad known each other for years.

Charlie didn't seem to care much for it at fust, but he didn't raise no objection; and when the gal got up to go he stopped the bus for 'er by poking the driver in the back, and they all got off together. Ted went fust to break her fall, in case the bus started off too sudden, and Charlie 'elped her down behind by catching hold of a lace collar she was wearing. When she turned to speak to 'im about it, she knocked the conductor's hat off with 'er umbrella, and there was so much unpleasantness that by the time they 'ad got to the pavement she told Charlie that she never wanted to see his silly fat face agin.

“It ain't fat,” ses Ted, speaking up for 'im; “it's the shape of it.”

“And it ain't silly,” ses Charlie, speaking very quick; “mind that!”

“It's a bit o' real lace,” ses the gal, twisting her 'ead round to look at the collar; “it cost me one and two-three only last night.”

“One an' wot?” ses Charlie, who, not being a married man, didn't understand 'er.

“One shilling,” ses the gal, “two pennies, and three farthings. D'ye understand that?”

“Yes,” ses Charlie.

“He's cleverer than he looks,” ses the gal, turning to Ted. “I s'pose you're right, and it is the shape after all.”

Ted walked along one side of 'er and Charlie the other, till they came to the corner of the road where she lived, and then Ted and 'er stood there talking till Charlie got sick and tired of it, and kept tugging at Ted's coat for 'im to come away.

“I'm coming,” ses Ted, at last. “I s'pose you won't be this way to-morrow night?” he ses, turning to the gal.

“I might if I thought there was no chance of seeing you,” she ses, tossing her 'ead.

“You needn't be alarmed,” ses Charlie, shoving in his oar; “we're going to a music-'all to-morrow night.”

“Oh, go to your blessed music-'all,” ses the gal to Ted; “I don't want you.”

She turned round and a'most ran up the road, with Ted follering 'er and begging of 'er not to be so hasty, and afore they parted she told 'im that 'er name was Emma White, and promised to meet 'im there the next night at seven.

O' course Mr. Charlie Brice turned up alongside o' Ted the next night, and at fust Emma said she was going straight off 'ome agin. She did go part o' the way, and then, when she found that Ted wouldn't send his mate off, she came back and, woman-like, said as 'ow she wasn't going to go 'ome just to please Charlie Brice. She wouldn't speak a word to 'im, and when they all went to the music-'all together she sat with her face turned away from 'im and her elbow sticking in 'is chest. Doing that and watching the performance at the same time gave 'er a stiff neck, and she got in such a temper over it she wouldn't hardly speak to Ted, and when Charlie—meaning well—told 'er to rub it with a bit o' mutton-fat she nearly went off her 'ead.

“Who asked you to come with us?” she ses, as soon as she could speak. “'Ow dare you force yourself where you ain't wanted?”

“Ted wants me,” ses Charlie.

“We've been together for years,” ses Ted. “You'll like Charlie when you get used to 'im—everybody does.”

“Not me!” ses Emma, with a shiver. “It gives me the fair creeps to look at him. You'll 'ave to choose between us. If he comes, I sha'n't. Which is it to be?”

Neither of 'em answered 'er, but the next night they both turned up as usual, and Emma White stood there looking at 'em and nearly crying with temper.

“'Ow would you like it if I brought another young lady with me?” she ses to Ted.

“It wouldn't make no difference to me,” ses Ted. “Any friend o' yours is welcome.”

Emma stood looking at 'em, and then she patted 'er eyes with a pocket-'ankercher and began to look more cheerful.

“You ain't the only one that has got a dear friend,” she says, looking at 'im and wiping 'er lips with the 'ankercher. “I've got one, and if Charlie Brice don't promise to stay at 'ome to-morrow night I'll bring her with me.”

“Bring 'er, and welcome,” ses Ted.

“I sha'n't stay at 'ome for fifty dear friends,” ses Charlie.

“Have it your own way,” ses Emma. “If you come, Sophy Jennings comes, that's all.”

She was as good as 'er word, too, and next night when they turned up they found Emma and 'er friend waiting for them. Charlie thought it was the friend's mother at fust, but he found out arterwards that she was a widder-woman. She had 'ad two husbands, and both of 'em 'ad passed away with a smile on their face. She seemed to take a fancy to Charlie the moment she set eyes on 'im, and two or three times, they'd 'ave lost Ted and Emma if it hadn't been for 'im.

'When They Turned up They Found Emma and 'er Friend Waiting for Them.'

They did lose 'em the next night, and Charlie Brice 'ad Mrs. Jennings all alone to himself for over a couple of hours walking up and down the Commercial Road talking about the weather; Charles saying 'ow wet and cold it was, and thinking p'r'aps they 'ad better go off 'ome afore she got a chill.

He complained to Ted about it when 'e got 'ome, and Ted promised as it shouldn't 'appen agin. He said that 'im and Emma 'ad been so busy talking about getting married that he 'ad forgotten to keep an eye on him.

“Married!” ses Charlie, very upset. “Married! And wot's to become o' me?”

“Come and lodge with us,” ses Ted.

They shook hands on it, but Ted said they 'ad both better keep it to themselves a bit and wait until Emma 'ad got more used to Charlie afore they told her. Ted let 'er get used to 'im for three days more afore he broke the news to 'er, and the way she went on was alarming. She went on for over ten minutes without taking breath, and she was just going to start again when Mrs. Jennings stopped her.

“He's all right,” she ses. “You leave 'im alone.”

“I'm not touching 'im,” ses Emma, very scornful.

“You leave 'im alone,” ses Mrs. Jennings, taking hold of Charlie's arm. “I don't say things about your young man.”

Charlie Brice started as if he 'ad been shot, and twice he opened 'is mouth to speak and show Mrs. Jennings 'er mistake; but, wot with trying to find 'is voice in the fust place, and then finding words to use it with in the second, he didn't say anything. He just walked along gasping, with 'is mouth open like a fish.

“Don't take no notice of 'er, Charlie,” ses Mrs. Jennings.

“I—I don't mind wot she ses,” ses pore Charlie; “but you're making a great——”

“She's quick-tempered, is Emma,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “But, there, so am I. Wot you might call a generous temper, but quick.”

Charlie went cold all over.

“Treat me well and I treat other people well,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “I can't say fairer than that, can I?”

Charlie said “Nobody could,” and then 'e walked along with her hanging on to 'is arm, arf wondering whether it would be wrong to shove 'er under a bus that was passing, and arf wondering whether 'e could do it if it wasn't.

“As for Emma saying she won't 'ave you for a lodger,” ses Mrs. Jennings, “let 'er wait till she's asked. She'll wait a long time if I 'ave my say.”

Charlie didn't answer her. He walked along with 'is mouth shut, his idea being that the least said the soonest mended. Even Emma asked 'im at last whether he 'ad lost 'is tongue, and said it was curious 'ow different love took different people.

He talked fast enough going 'ome with Ted though, and pretty near lost 'is temper with 'im when Ted asked 'im why he didn't tell Mrs. Jennings straight that she 'ad made a mistake.

“She knows well enough,” he says, grinding 'is teeth; “she was just trying it on. That's 'ow it is widders get married agin. You'll 'ave to choose between going out with me or Emma, Ted. I can't face Mrs. Jennings again. I didn't think anybody could 'ave parted us like that.”

Ted said it was all nonsense, but it was no good, and the next night he went off alone and came back very cross, saying that Mrs. Jennings 'ad been with 'em all the time, and when 'e spoke to Emma about it she said it was just tit for tat, and reminded 'im 'ow she had 'ad to put up with Charlie. For four nights running 'e went out for walks, with Emma holding one of 'is arms and Mrs. Jennings the other.

“It's miserable for you all alone 'ere by yourself; Charlie,” he ses. “Why not come? She can't marry you against your will. Besides, I miss you.”

Charlie shook 'ands with 'im, but 'e said 'e wouldn't walk out with Mrs. Jennings for a fortune. And all that Ted could say made no difference. He stayed indoors of an evening reading the paper, or going for little walks by 'imself, until at last Ted came 'ome one evening, smiling all over his face, and told 'im they had both been making fools of themselves for nothing.

“Mrs. Jennings is going to be married,” he ses, clapping Charlie on the back.

“Wot?” ses Charlie.

Ted nodded. “Her and Emma 'ad words to-night,” he ses, laughing, “and it all come out. She's been keeping company for some time. He's away at present, and they're going to be married as soon as 'e comes back.”

“Well,” ses Charlie, “why did she——”

“To oblige Emma,” ses Ted, “to frighten you into staying at 'ome. I'd 'ad my suspicions for some time, from one or two things I picked up.”

“Ho!” ses Charlie. “Well, it'll be my turn to laugh to-morrow night. We'll see whether she can shake me off agin.”

Ted looked at 'im a bit worried. “It's a bit orkard,” he ses, speaking very slow. “You see, they made it up arterwards, and then they both made me promise not to tell you, and if you come, they'll know I 'ave.”

Charlie did a bit o' thinking. “Not if I pretend to make love to Mrs. Jennings?” he ses, at last, winking at 'im. “And it'll serve her right for being deceitful. We'll see 'ow she likes it. Wot sort o' chap is the young man—big?”

“Can't be,” ses Ted; “cos Emma called 'im a little shrimp.”

“I'll come,” ses Charlie; “and it'll be your own fault if they find out you told me about it.”

They fell asleep talking of it, and the next evening Charlie put on a new neck-tie he 'ad bought, and arter letting Ted have arf an hour's start went out and met 'em accidental. The fust Mrs. Jennings knew of 'is being there was by finding an arm put round 'er waist.

“Good-evening, Sophy,” he ses.

“'Ow—'ow dare you?” ses Mrs. Jennings, giving a scream and pushing him away.

Charlie looked surprised.

“Why, ain't you pleased to see me?” he ses. “I've 'ad the raging toothache for over a week; I've got it now a bit, but I couldn't stay away from you any longer.”

“You behave yourself,” ses Mrs. Jennings.

“Ted didn't say anything about your toothache,” ses Emma.

“I wouldn't let 'im, for fear of alarming Sophy,” ses Charlie.

Mrs. Jennings gave a sort of laugh and a sniff mixed.

“Ain't you pleased to see me agin?” ses Charlie.

“I don't want to see you,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “Wot d'ye think I want to see you for?”

“Change your mind pretty quick, don't you?” ses Charlie. “It's blow 'ot and blow cold with you seemingly. Why, I've been counting the minutes till I should see you agin.”

Mrs. Jennings told 'im not to make a fool of 'imself, and Charlie saw 'er look at Emma in a puzzled sort of way, as if she didn't know wot to make of it. She kept drawing away from 'im and he kept drawing close to 'er; other people on the pavement dodging and trying to get out of their way, and asking them which side they was going and to stick to it.

“Why don't you behave yourself?” ses Emma, at last.

“We're all right,” ses Charlie; “you look arter your own young man. We can look arter ourselves.”

“Speak for yourself,” ses Mrs. Jennings, very sharp.

Charlie laughed, and the more Mrs. Jennings showed 'er dislike for 'is nonsense the more he gave way to it. Even Ted thought it was going too far, and tried to interfere when he put his arm round Mrs. Jennings's waist and made 'er dance to a piano-organ; but there was no stopping 'im, and at last Mrs. Jennings said she had 'ad enough of it, and told Emma she was going off 'ome.

'He Put his Arm Round Mrs. Jennings's Waist and Made 'er Dance to a Piano-organ.'

“Don't take no notice of 'im,” ses Emma.

“I must,” ses Mrs. Jennings, who was arf crying with rage.

“Well, if you go 'ome, I shall go,” ses Emma. “I don't want 'is company. I believe he's doing it on purpose.

“Behave yourself, Charlie,” ses Ted.

“All right, old man,” ses Charlie. “You look arter your young woman and I'll look arter mine.”

“Your wot?” ses Mrs. Jennings, very loud.

“My young woman,” ses Charlie.

“Look 'ere,” ses Emma. “You may as well know first as last—Sophy 'as got a young man.”

“O' course she 'as,” ses Charlie. “Twenty-seven on the second of next January, he is; same as me.”

“She's going to be married,” ses Emma, very solemn.

“Yes, to me,” ses Charlie, pretending to be surprised. “Didn't you know that?”

He looked so pleased with 'imself at his cleverness that Emma arf put up her 'and, and then she thought better of it and turned away.

“He's just doing it to get rid of you,” she ses to Mrs. Jennings, “and if you give way you're a bigger silly than I took you for. Let 'im go on and 'ave his own way, and tell your intended about 'im when you see 'im. Arter all, you started it.”

“I was only 'aving a bit o' fun,” ses Mrs. Jennings.

“Well, so is he,” ses Emma.

“Not me!” ses Charlie, turning his eyes up. “I'm in dead earnest; and so is she. It's only shyness on 'er part; it'll soon wear off.”

He took 'old of Mrs. Jennings's arm agin and began to tell 'er 'ow lonely 'is life was afore she came acrost his path like an angel that had lost its way. And he went on like that till she told Emma that she'd either 'ave to go off 'ome or scream. Ted interfered agin then, and, arter listening to wot he 'ad got to say, Charlie said as 'ow he'd try and keep his love under control a bit more.

“She won't stand much more of it,” he ses to Ted, arter they 'ad got 'ome that night. “I shouldn't be surprised if she don't turn up to-morrow.”

Ted shook his 'ead. “She'll turn up to oblige Emma,” he ses; “but there's no need for you to overdo it, Charlie. If her young man 'appened to get to 'ear of it it might cause trouble.”

“I ain't afraid of 'im,” ses Charlie, “not if your description of 'im is right.”

“Emma knows 'im,” ses Ted, “and I know she don't think much of 'im. She says he ain't as big as I am.”

Charlie smiled to himself and laid awake for a little while thinking of pet names to surprise Mrs. Jennings with. He called 'er a fresh one every night for a week, and every night he took 'er a little bunch o' flowers with 'is love. When she flung 'em on the pavement he pretended to think she 'ad dropped 'em; but, do wot he would, 'e couldn't frighten 'er into staying away, and 'is share of music-'alls and bus rides and things like that was more than 'e cared to think of. All the time Ted was as happy as a sand-boy, and one evening when Emma asked 'im to go 'ome to supper 'e was so pleased 'e could 'ardly speak.

“Father thought he'd like to see you,” ses Emma. “I shall be proud to shake 'im by the 'and,” ses Ted, going red with joy.

“And you're to come, too, Sophy,” ses Emma, turning to Mrs. Jennings.

Charlie coughed, feeling a bit orkard-like, and Emma stood there as if waiting for 'im to go.

“Well, so long,” ses Charlie at last. “Take care o' my little prize packet.”

“You can come, too, if you like,” ses Emma. “Father said I was to bring you. Don't 'ave none of your nonsense there, that's all.”

Charlie thanked 'er, and they was all walking along, him and Mrs. Jennings behind, when Emma looked over 'er shoulder.

“Sophy's young man is coming,” she ses.

“Ho!” ses Charlie. He walked along doing a bit o' thinking, and by and by 'e gives a little laugh, and he ses, “I—I don't think p'r'aps I'll come arter all.”

“Afraid?” ses Emma, with a nasty laugh.

“No,” ses Charlie.

“Well, it looks like it,” ses Emma.

“He's brave enough where wimmen are concerned,” ses Mrs. Jennings.

“I was thinking of you,” ses Charlie.

“You needn't trouble about me,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “I can look after myself, thank you.”

Charlie looked round, but there was no help for it. He got as far away from Mrs. Jennings as possible, and when they got to Emma's house he went in last.

Emma's father and mother was there and two or three of 'er brothers and sisters, but the fust thing that Charlie noticed was a great lump of a man standing by the mantelpiece staring at 'im.

“Come in, and make yourselves at 'ome,” ses Mr. White. “I'm glad to see you both. Emma 'as told me all about you.”

Charlie's 'art went down into 'is boots, but every-body was so busy drawing their chairs up to the table that they didn't notice 'ow pale he 'ad gone. He sat between Mr. White and Mrs. Jennings, and by and by, when everybody was talking, he turned to 'im in a whisper, and asked 'im who the big chap was.

“Mrs. Jennings's brother,” ses Mr. White; “brewer's drayman he is.”

Charlie said, “Oh!” and went on eating, a bit relieved in 'is mind.

“Your friend and my gal 'll make a nice couple,” ses Mr. White, looking at Ted and Emma, sitting 'and in 'and.

“She couldn't 'ave a better husband,” ses Charlie, whispering again; “but where is Mrs. Jennings's young man? I 'eard he was to be here.”

Mr. White put down 'is knife and fork. “Eh?” he ses, staring at 'im.

“Mrs. Jennings's intended?” ses Charlie.

“Who are you getting at?” ses Mr. White, winking at 'im.

“But she 'as got one, ain't she?” ses Charlie. “That'll do,” ses Mr. White, with another wink. “Try it on somebody else.”

“Wot are you two talking about?” ses Emma, who 'ad been watching 'em.

“He's trying to pull my leg,” ses 'er father, smiling all over his face. “Been asking me where Mrs. Jennings's young man is. P'r'aps you oughtn't to 'ave told us yet, Emma.”

“It's all right,” ses Emma. “He's got a very jealous disposition, poor fellow; and me and Sophy have been telling 'im about a young man just to tease 'im. We've been describing him to 'imself all along, and he thought it was somebody else.”

She caught Charlie's eye, and all in a flash he saw 'ow he 'ad been done. Some of 'em began to laugh, and Mrs. Jennings put her 'and on his and gave it a squeeze. He sat there struck all of a heap, wondering wot he was going to do, and just at that moment there was a knock at the street door.

“I'll open it,” he ses.

He jumped up before anybody could stop 'im and went to the door. Two seconds arter Ted Denver followed 'im, and that is last he ever saw of Charlie Brice, he was running down the road without 'is hat as hard as he could run.

'He Was Running Down the Road Without 'is Hat As Hard As He Could Run.'

“THE TOLL-HOUSE”

“It's all nonsense,” said Jack Barnes. “Of course people have died in the house; people die in every house. As for the noises—wind in the chimney and rats in the wainscot are very convincing to a nervous man. Give me another cup of tea, Meagle.”

“Lester and White are first,” said Meagle, who was presiding at the tea-table of the Three Feathers Inn. “You've had two.”

Lester and White finished their cups with irritating slowness, pausing between sips to sniff the aroma, and to discover the sex and dates of arrival of the “strangers” which floated in some numbers in the beverage. Mr. Meagle served them to the brim, and then, turning to the grimly expectant Mr. Barnes, blandly requested him to ring for hot water.

“We'll try and keep your nerves in their present healthy condition,” he remarked. “For my part I have a sort of half-and-half belief in the super-natural.”

“All sensible people have,” said Lester. “An aunt of mine saw a ghost once.”

White nodded.

“I had an uncle that saw one,” he said.

“It always is somebody else that sees them,” said Barnes.

“Well, there is a house,” said Meagle, “a large house at an absurdly low rent, and nobody will take it. It has taken toll of at least one life of every family that has lived there—however short the time—and since it has stood empty caretaker after caretaker has died there. The last caretaker died fifteen years ago.”

“Exactly,” said Barnes. “Long enough ago for legends to accumulate.”

“I'll bet you a sovereign you won't spend the night there alone, for all your talk,” said White, suddenly.

“And I,” said Lester.

“No,” said Barnes slowly. “I don't believe in ghosts nor in any supernatural things whatever; all the same I admit that I should not care to pass a night there alone.”

“But why not?” inquired White.

“Wind in the chimney,” said Meagle with a grin.

“Rats in the wainscot,” chimed in Lester.

“As you like,” said Barnes coloring.

“Suppose we all go,” said Meagle. “Start after supper, and get there about eleven. We have been walking for ten days now without an adventure—except Barnes's discovery that ditchwater smells longest. It will be a novelty, at any rate, and, if we break the spell by all surviving, the grateful owner ought to come down handsome.”

“Let's see what the landlord has to say about it first,” said Lester. “There is no fun in passing a night in an ordinary empty house. Let us make sure that it is haunted.”

He rang the bell, and, sending for the landlord, appealed to him in the name of our common humanity not to let them waste a night watching in a house in which spectres and hobgoblins had no part. The reply was more than reassuring, and the landlord, after describing with considerable art the exact appearance of a head which had been seen hanging out of a window in the moonlight, wound up with a polite but urgent request that they would settle his bill before they went.

“It's all very well for you young gentlemen to have your fun,” he said indulgently; “but supposing as how you are all found dead in the morning, what about me? It ain't called the Toll-House for nothing, you know.”

“Who died there last?” inquired Barnes, with an air of polite derision.

“A tramp,” was the reply. “He went there for the sake of half a crown, and they found him next morning hanging from the balusters, dead.”

“Suicide,” said Barnes. “Unsound mind.”

The landlord nodded. “That's what the jury brought it in,” he said slowly; “but his mind was sound enough when he went in there. I'd known him, off and on, for years. I'm a poor man, but I wouldn't spend the night in that house for a hundred pounds.”

'I'm a Poor Man, But I Wouldn't Spend the Night in That House for a Hundred Pounds.'

He repeated this remark as they started on their expedition a few hours later. They left as the inn was closing for the night; bolts shot noisily behind them, and, as the regular customers trudged slowly homewards, they set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the house. Most of the cottages were already in darkness, and lights in others went out as they passed.

“It seems rather hard that we have got to lose a night's rest in order to convince Barnes of the existence of ghosts,” said White.

“It's in a good cause,” said Meagle. “A most worthy object; and something seems to tell me that we shall succeed. You didn't forget the candles, Lester?”

“I have brought two,” was the reply; “all the old man could spare.”

There was but little moon, and the night was cloudy. The road between high hedges was dark, and in one place, where it ran through a wood, so black that they twice stumbled in the uneven ground at the side of it.

“Fancy leaving our comfortable beds for this!” said White again. “Let me see; this desirable residential sepulchre lies to the right, doesn't it?”

“Farther on,” said Meagle.

They walked on for some time in silence, broken only by White's tribute to the softness, the cleanliness, and the comfort of the bed which was receding farther and farther into the distance. Under Meagle's guidance they turned off at last to the right, and, after a walk of a quarter of a mile, saw the gates of the house before them.

'They Saw the Gates of The House Before Them.'

The lodge was almost hidden by overgrown shrubs and the drive was choked with rank growths. Meagle leading, they pushed through it until the dark pile of the house loomed above them.

“There is a window at the back where we can get in, so the landlord says,” said Lester, as they stood before the hall door.

“Window?” said Meagle. “Nonsense. Let's do the thing properly. Where's the knocker?”

He felt for it in the darkness and gave a thundering rat-tat-tat at the door.

“Don't play the fool,” said Barnes crossly.

“Ghostly servants are all asleep,” said Meagle gravely, “but I'll wake them up before I've done with them. It's scandalous keeping us out here in the dark.”

He plied the knocker again, and the noise volleyed in the emptiness beyond. Then with a sudden exclamation he put out his hands and stumbled forward.

“Why, it was open all the time,” he said, with an odd catch in his voice. “Come on.”

“I don't believe it was open,” said Lester, hanging back. “Somebody is playing us a trick.”

“Nonsense,” said Meagle sharply. “Give me a candle. Thanks. Who's got a match?”

Barnes produced a box and struck one, and Meagle, shielding the candle with his hand, led the way forward to the foot of the stairs. “Shut the door, somebody,” he said, “there's too much draught.”

“It is shut,” said White, glancing behind him.

Meagle fingered his chin. “Who shut it?” he inquired, looking from one to the other. “Who came in last?”

“I did,” said Lester, “but I don't remember shutting it—perhaps I did, though.”

Meagle, about to speak, thought better of it, and, still carefully guarding the flame, began to explore the house, with the others close behind. Shadows danced on the walls and lurked in the corners as they proceeded. At the end of the passage they found a second staircase, and ascending it slowly gained the first floor.

“Careful!” said Meagle, as they gained the landing.

He held the candle forward and showed where the balusters had broken away. Then he peered curiously into the void beneath.

“This is where the tramp hanged himself, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully.

“You've got an unwholesome mind,” said White, as they walked on. “This place is quite creepy enough without your remembering that. Now let's find a comfortable room and have a little nip of whiskey apiece and a pipe. How will this do?”

He opened a door at the end of the passage and revealed a small square room. Meagle led the way with the candle, and, first melting a drop or two of tallow, stuck it on the mantelpiece. The others seated themselves on the floor and watched pleasantly as White drew from his pocket a small bottle of whiskey and a tin cup.

“H'm! I've forgotten the water,” he exclaimed.

“I'll soon get some,” said Meagle.

He tugged violently at the bell-handle, and the rusty jangling of a bell sounded from a distant kitchen. He rang again.

“Don't play the fool,” said Barnes roughly.

Meagle laughed. “I only wanted to convince you,” he said kindly. “There ought to be, at any rate, one ghost in the servants' hall.”

Barnes held up his hand for silence.

“Yes?” said Meagle with a grin at the other two. “Is anybody coming?”

“Suppose we drop this game and go back,” said Barnes suddenly. “I don't believe in spirits, but nerves are outside anybody's command. You may laugh as you like, but it really seemed to me that I heard a door open below and steps on the stairs.”

His voice was drowned in a roar of laughter.

“He is coming round,” said Meagle with a smirk. “By the time I have done with him he will be a confirmed believer. Well, who will go and get some water? Will you, Barnes?”

“No,” was the reply.

“If there is any it might not be safe to drink after all these years,” said Lester. “We must do without it.”

Meagle nodded, and taking a seat on the floor held out his hand for the cup. Pipes were lit and the clean, wholesome smell of tobacco filled the room. White produced a pack of cards; talk and laughter rang through the room and died away reluctantly in distant corridors.

“Empty rooms always delude me into the belief that I possess a deep voice,” said Meagle. “To-morrow——”

He started up with a smothered exclamation as the light went out suddenly and something struck him on the head. The others sprang to their feet. Then Meagle laughed.

“It's the candle,” he exclaimed. “I didn't stick it enough.”

Barnes struck a match and relighting the candle stuck it on the mantelpiece, and sitting down took up his cards again.

“What was I going to say?” said Meagle. “Oh, I know; to-morrow I——”

“Listen!” said White, laying his hand on the other's sleeve. “Upon my word I really thought I heard a laugh.”

“Look here!” said Barnes. “What do you say to going back? I've had enough of this. I keep fancying that I hear things too; sounds of something moving about in the passage outside. I know it's only fancy, but it's uncomfortable.”

“You go if you want to,” said Meagle, “and we will play dummy. Or you might ask the tramp to take your hand for you, as you go downstairs.”

Barnes shivered and exclaimed angrily. He got up and, walking to the half-closed door, listened.

“Go outside,” said Meagle, winking at the other two. “I'll dare you to go down to the hall door and back by yourself.”

Barnes came back and, bending forward, lit his pipe at the candle.

“I am nervous but rational,” he said, blowing out a thin cloud of smoke. “My nerves tell me that there is something prowling up and down the long passage outside; my reason tells me that it is all nonsense. Where are my cards?”

He sat down again, and taking up his hand, looked through it carefully and led.

“Your play, White,” he said after a pause. White made no sign.

“Why, he is asleep,” said Meagle. “Wake up, old man. Wake up and play.”

Lester, who was sitting next to him, took the sleeping man by the arm and shook him, gently at first and then with some roughness; but White, with his back against the wall and his head bowed, made no sign. Meagle bawled in his ear and then turned a puzzled face to the others.

“He sleeps like the dead,” he said, grimacing. “Well, there are still three of us to keep each other company.”

“Yes,” said Lester, nodding. “Unless—Good Lord! suppose——”

He broke off and eyed them trembling.

“Suppose what?” inquired Meagle.

“Nothing,” stammered Lester. “Let's wake him. Try him again. White! White!”

“It's no good,” said Meagle seriously; “there's something wrong about that sleep.”

“That's what I meant,” said Lester; “and if he goes to sleep like that, why shouldn't——”

Meagle sprang to his feet. “Nonsense,” he said roughly. “He's tired out; that's all. Still, let's take him up and clear out. You take his legs and Barnes will lead the way with the candle. Yes? Who's that?”

He looked up quickly towards the door. “Thought I heard somebody tap,” he said with a shamefaced laugh. “Now, Lester, up with him. One, two— Lester! Lester!”

He sprang forward too late; Lester, with his face buried in his arms, had rolled over on the floor fast asleep, and his utmost efforts failed to awaken him.

“He—is—asleep,” he stammered. “Asleep!”

Barnes, who had taken the candle from the mantel-piece, stood peering at the sleepers in silence and dropping tallow over the floor.

'Barnes, Stood Peering at the Sleepers in Silence And Dropping Tallow over the Floor.'

“We must get out of this,” said Meagle. “Quick!” Barnes hesitated. “We can't leave them here—” he began.

“We must,” said Meagle in strident tones. “If you go to sleep I shall go—Quick! Come.”

He seized the other by the arm and strove to drag him to the door. Barnes shook him off, and putting the candle back on the mantelpiece, tried again to arouse the sleepers.

“It's no good,” he said at last, and, turning from them, watched Meagle. “Don't you go to sleep,” he said anxiously.

Meagle shook his head, and they stood for some time in uneasy silence. “May as well shut the door,” said Barnes at last.

He crossed over and closed it gently. Then at a scuffling noise behind him he turned and saw Meagle in a heap on the hearthstone.

With a sharp catch in his breath he stood motionless. Inside the room the candle, fluttering in the draught, showed dimly the grotesque attitudes of the sleepers. Beyond the door there seemed to his over-wrought imagination a strange and stealthy unrest. He tried to whistle, but his lips were parched, and in a mechanical fashion he stooped, and began to pick up the cards which littered the floor.

He stopped once or twice and stood with bent head listening. The unrest outside seemed to increase; a loud creaking sounded from the stairs.

“Who is there?” he cried loudly.

The creaking ceased. He crossed to the door and flinging it open, strode out into the corridor. As he walked his fears left him suddenly.

“Come on!” he cried with a low laugh. “All of you! All of you! Show your faces—your infernal ugly faces! Don't skulk!”

He laughed again and walked on; and the heap in the fireplace put out his head tortoise fashion and listened in horror to the retreating footsteps. Not until they had become inaudible in the distance did the listeners' features relax.

“Good Lord, Lester, we've driven him mad,” he said in a frightened whisper. “We must go after him.”

There was no reply. Meagle sprung to his feet. “Do you hear?” he cried. “Stop your fooling now; this is serious. White! Lester! Do you hear?”

He bent and surveyed them in angry bewilderment. “All right,” he said in a trembling voice. “You won't frighten me, you know.”

He turned away and walked with exaggerated carelessness in the direction of the door. He even went outside and peeped through the crack, but the sleepers did not stir. He glanced into the blackness behind, and then came hastily into the room again.

He stood for a few seconds regarding them. The stillness in the house was horrible; he could not even hear them breathe. With a sudden resolution he snatched the candle from the mantelpiece and held the flame to White's finger. Then as he reeled back stupefied the footsteps again became audible.

He stood with the candle in his shaking hand listening. He heard them ascending the farther staircase, but they stopped suddenly as he went to the door. He walked a little way along the passage, and they went scurrying down the stairs and then at a jog-trot along the corridor below. He went back to the main staircase, and they ceased again.