Chapter I: Part 1

_BY W. W. JACOBS_

SEA WHISPERS
DEEP WATERS
THE CASTAWAYS
NIGHT WATCHES
SHIP’S COMPANY
SAILORS’ KNOTS
SALTHAVEN
SHORT CRUISES
CAPTAINS ALL
DIALSTONE LANE
ODD CRAFT
AT SUNWICH PORT

_CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS_

SEA WHISPERS

SEA WHISPERS

BY W. W. JACOBS

_ILLUSTRATED BY BERT THOMAS_

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS NEW YORK : : : : : : 1927

COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

Printed in the United States of America

TO THE MEMORY OF MY FRIEND JAMES B. PINKER

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE BRAVO 1

II. TAKING PAINS 31

III. HIS BROTHER’S KEEPER 57

IV. TRUST MONEY 84

V. KITCHEN COMPANY 113

VI. THE MODEL 140

VII. ARTFUL CARDS 158

VIII. HANDSOME HARRY 186

IX. THE BLINDNESS OF CAPT. FERGUSON 213

X. WAPPING-ON-THAMES 232

XI. THE INTERRUPTION 242

XII. BED CASES 272

ILLUSTRATIONS

“‘I’m going to give Peter something else to laugh about,’ ses Ginger” _Frontispiece_

FACING PAGE

“‘I want to come inside,’ he ses, shoving ’is face close up to mine. ‘I believe you’ve got my gal there’” 11

“‘Stand up,’ says Alf, pullin’ ’im by the collar--stand up and take wot’s comin’ to you’” _Page_ 27

The marvellous case of Old Mr. Jackson 35

“Ho, Ho,” said the other. “All right--don’t worry--mum’s the word” 61

“And then Mr. Jackson took ’im a bit to one side and whispered to ’im” _Page_ 97

“‘You’ve killed ’im,’ ses Peter, staring. ‘Good job,’ ses Ginger, thinking of ’is pore leg. ‘Come on, let’s get Sam’s money back.’” 104

The Captain stayed to see Fair Play 137

“Beautiful,” said the artist joyfully--“beautiful” 143

“Where’s old Sam?” he ses. “Wot ’ave you done with him?” 175

“Sam came into the room looking very bright and pleased with ’imself” _Page_ 181

“If he’s only half as good looking as what you say he is we might fall in love with him” 192

“No you mustn’t,” said his wife, pushing his great form back into the chair 215

While master-mariners sat drinking in the bow-windows afore-said 233

The last time he looked at Hannah was the first time for months he had looked at her without loathing and hatred 270

“Outside,” ses the Landlord--“d’ye ’ear me?--_OUTSIDE_” 275

The Bravo

The Bravo

There was a chill air off the river, and the water looked cold and dark. Side-lights were already appearing, and the siren of a large steamer coming up indulged in grievous lamentations. A slight shiver altered for a moment the contour of the night-watchman’s jersey. He patted it tenderly.

“There’s worse things than loneliness, though,” he said after a long silence, “and a man as does his dooty can always find something to do.”

He got up from the bollard and, with a faint grunt, stooped and picked up his broom. A voice from the next wharf told him to take care not to overdo it.

“That’s the new man next door,” said the night-watchman. “He’s feeling lonely and ’e wants me to answer him back--and I shan’t.

“I used to feel like it myself at fust; not that I ever gave any lip to my olders and betters; but I used to feel I wanted somebody to talk to. One time I let a painter chap come and paint ’ere. He used to paint ships and things, and that lasted till one day he asked to be allowed to paint my portrait. It took ’im three evenings. He showed it to me when it was finished as if ’e was proud of it; and then ’e went straight off ’ome, packing up his things as ’e went and talking about sending for the police.

“Arter that I ’ad a dog for company. Bull-terrier he was, and somebody must ha’ paid a lot o’ money for ’im. I had ’im a couple o’ months, and then the landlord of the ‘Albion’ offered me a couple o’ quid for ’im, and while I was trying to raise him to two pun’ ten some low, dirty, sneaking thief got ’im for nothing. There’s people about ’ere as would steal your whiskers off your face if they wanted ’em. And if you went to the police about it the fust thing they would ask is where you got them from.

“I ’ad another dog arter that, but ’e wasn’t wot you might call a success. He bit three people in a fortnight, and then ’e bit me. The last I see of him, he was trying to swim across the river with a brick.

“A watchman is best all alone by ’imself. He can’t cheat ’imself at cards, and any drink he pays for isn’t money wasted. I ’ad a little lesson once about keeping myself to myself and it done me good. Though I didn’t see it at the time.

“It was just such an evening as this might be. I ’ad been hard at work tidying up, and was just thinking of getting my ladder and lighting up, when the wicket was pushed open sudden and a young feller ’opped in follered by a gal. They shut it arter them very gentle and then stood there talking in w’ispers and looking round at me.

“‘’Ullo!’ I ses. ‘Wot’s all this about?’

“‘_Hsh!_’ ses the gal. ‘_Hsh!_’

“‘Wot d’you want?’ I ses, very loud, a-purpose. ‘Who asked you to come on my wharf and _hsh_ me about?’

“Pretty little thing she was, about eighteen, with nice large blue eyes and brown ’air.

“‘We’re escaping,’ she ses, coming up and catching ’old of my arm.

“‘Wot ’ave you been doing?’ I ses, trying to speak severe.

“‘Nothing,’ she ses, shaking her ’ead.

“‘Wot’s _he_ been doing, then?’ I ses.

“‘Nothing that I’m ashamed of,’ ses the young feller. ‘I’m only walking out with my young lady, that’s all.’

“‘Well, you can’t walk out with ’er on my wharf,’ I ses, rather sharp. ‘Is ’er father arter ’er or wot?’

“He stood there looking at me like a silly fool. A rather smallish chap, dressed up to the nines, with a necktie like a rainbow in a fit. If he’d been a gal I should ’ave called ’im rather good-looking, but ’e was too pretty-pretty for a man. Twice he opened ’is mouth to speak, and only gave a silly smile instead.

“‘It ain’t ’er father,’ he ses at last, with a funny little laugh.

“‘It’s the young man I used to walk out with afore I was old enough to know my own mind,’ ses the gal, turning to me. ‘I never reely liked ’im. He’s always getting into fights; and now he says if ’e sees Charlie with me he’ll knock ’is ’ead off and make ’im swaller it. I saw ’im behind us just now, and if your gate ’adn’t been open I don’t know wot would ’ave happened.’

“‘But you ain’t afraid of ’im?’ I ses to the young man.

“‘I ain’t afraid of any man,’ he ses, very upright. ‘But I don’t want my ’ead knocked off. ’Ow would you like it yourself?’

“‘’Ow big is he?’ I ses.

“‘About my size,’ ses Charlie, considering.

“‘Well, you needn’t be afraid of a little shrimp like that,’ I ses. ‘Neither of you can’t hurt each other enough to signify. You get off my wharf and, if he starts on you, knock ’im down. Give ’im one in the bread-basket with your left, and when ’e bends over drive your right to ’is jaw.’

“‘And s’pose ’e don’t bend over?’ ses Charlie.

“‘He wouldn’t,’ ses the gal. ‘Not if I know ’im. If Charlie did manage to hit ’im in the--where you said, he’d ’arf kill ’im.’

“Charlie nodded and turned pale. He could turn pale all right, but even the things I said to ’im couldn’t make ’im blush. She turned red instead, and I caught one look from ’er blue eyes--when she didn’t think I was looking--that fair startled me.

“‘Well, I’ve give you good advice,’ I ses, ‘and if you don’t take it you must leave it. If I was walking out with a gal like that I’d fight a rigdiment of soldiers for ’er; one down and t’other come up.’

“She gave me a nice look then and I began to feel a bit sorry for ’er. Gals can’t ’elp their feelings, when all is said and done.

“‘I’ll just step outside and see if there is anybody ’anging about,’ I ses; ‘if not, off you go.’

“I walked to the gate, but couldn’t see anybody. Then I strolled round the corner, careless-like, with my ’ands in my pockets, and the fust thing I see was a young feller walking up and down and looking all ways at once, as the saying is. Nasty face he’d got; sharp eyes and a nose that wasn’t, and big ugly teeth.

“‘Lost anything?’ I ses as I passed.

“‘Go an’ boil your face,’ he ses.

“I didn’t answer ’im; I gave ’im a smile instead. Just the sort of smile kind old ladies turn round and give to little children when they pass ’em. Then I walked back slow to the wharf, and I ’ad just got one leg inside the gate when a stone came along and caught me on the other.

“Nasty smack it was, too, and if I could ha’ got hold of ’im I’d ha’ tore ’im limb from limb. I went round the corner to look for ’im, but o’ course he ’ad disappeared, and when I got back to the wharf Charlie and the gal ’ad disappeared too.

“I got my ladder and lit the lamps. It was dark by the time I ’ad finished and ’ad a pipe in the office. I went out on the wharf again, and arter a time I began to fancy things. I thought I ’eard little rustlings and whisperings. Twice I stopped and listened and then everything was as silent as the grave. Then I ’eard a little sneeze.

“They was sitting on a box--a little box--be’ind a pile of empties in the angle of the warehouse there, holding each other’s ’and. I spoke to ’em sharp at fust, but the gal was so sorry when she ’eard about my leg that I ’adn’t the ’art to say much. Quite upset she was, with ’er little hanky up to ’er mouth and making funny little sobbing noises.

“‘That’s a nice quiet little corner,’ ses Charlie, as I walked down to the gate with ’em. ‘It might ha’ been made for us.’

“‘Only it wasn’t,’ I ses.

“He leaned up against me, and at fust I thought ’e was trying to hold _my_ ’and. Then I felt something ’ard put into it. I s’pose I was a fool, but I remembered my own young days, and I stood there trying to think wot I could do for ’em.

“‘The corner won’t run away,’ I ses, ‘and so long as there’s no craft alongside, or at any rate none of the hands about, I don’t know why you shouldn’t go there for a breath of fresh air sometimes.’

“They both thanked me at once, and I could see wot a load it was off Charlie’s mind to think as ’ow ’e could go on courting in comfort and safety. The gal went off by ’erself, in case the other chap, Alf Stevens, should be ’anging about, and arter I ’ad allowed Charlie to stand me a pint in the ‘Bull’s Head,’ he went off too.

“I didn’t see anything of ’em for the next two days, but on the third evening there was a little tapping noise on the gate, and when I opened the wicket the gal put ’er little ’ead in and smiled at me.

“‘Can I come in?’ she ses.

“‘Yes,’ I ses; ‘there’s nothing up to-night. You can ’ave the wharf all to your two selves. Where is he?’

“‘He’s coming a roundabout way,’ she ses. ‘It’s safer.’

“I didn’t say nothing; arter all it was _’er_ young man, but I coughed. I couldn’t ’elp it. And when she patted me on the back it made me cough again. Nice little ’and she’d got, but ’arder than wot I expected. Especially the second time.

“I stood talking to ’er a little while arter she ’ad got into ’er corner. Besides the other things, I ’ad moved three or four empty barrels in front so as to make ’em quite private, and she couldn’t thank me enough for it. She said it was evident I knew my way about, and she wondered ’ow many ’arts I ’ad broke afore I settled down. I told ’er of one or two, and just as she was shaking her ’ead at me and asking me whether all men was like that, or only sailormen, the wharf bell rang.

“‘Oh, make ’aste,’ she ses; ‘it sounds as if ’e was in a ’urry.’

“I trotted off and unlocked the gate and Charlie a’most fell into my arms. Pale as a ghost ’e was and shaking all over. Then I put my ’ead outside and saw Alf Stevens.

“He pulled up short as ’e see me, and we stood looking at each other; me inside and ’im outside. Then ’e steps forward, as bold as brass, to come on to the wharf.

“‘Wot do you want?’ I ses, blocking the way.

“‘I want to come inside,’ he ses, shoving ’is face close up to mine. ‘I believe you’ve got my gal there.’

“‘You run off ’ome and play,’ I ses. ‘I’ve ’ad enough o’ little boys coming on to my wharf and stealing lumps o’ coke. Go off an’ ’ave a little game of ’opscotch all by yourself.’

“I slammed the wicket just in time, and, judging by the noise ’is fist made on it, I didn’t lose anything I wanted much. He must ’ave pretty near broke ’is knuckles, and the langwidge ’e used about it was shocking. When I called out and asked ’im whether he ’ad ever been to Sunday School, it got worse.

“‘You’ve done it now,’ ses Charlie, trembling.

“‘Cheer up!’ I ses. ‘You’ve got the gal and you can’t expect to ’ave everything. Even if he does set about you ’e can’t kill you, and if ’e does he’ll be ’ung for it. I’ll see as ’ow he don’t escape.’

“I might ’ave saved my breath; and the gal was a’most as upset as ’e was. Alf Stevens was still outside talking to ’imself, and when I called out to ask whether he’d like a cough-lozenge they both caught ’old of me and asked me not to make ’im worse.

“‘Think of poor Charlie,’ ses the gal.

“They was both of ’em in such a state I didn’t like to leave ’em, so I found a little box for myself and sat down to keep ’em company. I told ’em some of the things wot ’ad happened to me while I was at sea; ’ow I’d nearly been shipwrecked three times, and ’ow on one ship we was short-’anded cos ’arf the hands was below in their bunks through fighting me. Then I made ’em feel the place on my ’ead where I’d been hit with the leg of a chair, but nothing seemed to cheer ’em up, and arter wasting about an hour of my time I got up and left ’em.

“I done a bit o’ tidying up fust and then I went into the office and ’ad a look at the newspaper. By the time I’d done that it was getting late, and I was just getting up to see ’ow Charlie and Maud was getting on when I see them looking at me through the winder.

“‘It’s time we was going,’ ses Charlie.

“‘I’ll come and open the gate for yer,’ I ses, feeling in my pocket.

“‘And wot about Alf?’ ses Charlie.

“‘Well, wot about ’im?’ I ses.

“‘Has ’e gorn?’ he ses.

“‘Must ha’ done,’ I ses. ‘You’ll get Alf on the brain if you ain’t careful. Besides, if ’e ain’t, he couldn’t ’urt you much to-night. Think wot a smash he ’it that gate with ’is fist.’

“‘I don’t like to think of it,’ he ses, with a shiver; ’it might ’ave been me.’

“‘Well, I’ll go and see if the coast is clear,’ I ses at last.

“I crept on tiptoe to the gate and unlocked it without a sound. Then I began opening it very gentle, and I ’ad just got it open about six inches when Mister Alf rushed at it with ’is shoulder.

“He got ’arf-way in and then ’e stuck. I stood agin it like a rock, and then I began to shut it, very slow. Nine stone don’t stand much chance agin fifteen, and swearing didn’t ’elp ’im. He was ’arf in and ’arf out, and, after squeedging ’im for a little while I talked to ’im about manners, I put my ’and on his chin and flung ’im into the road.

“‘Now make a bolt for it,’ I ses to Charlie. ‘Quick! while you’re safe.’

“‘_Safe!_’ ses Charlie. ‘’Ark at ’im!’

“Alf was at it agin, and the thing wot ’e said ’e would do to me when ’e got ’old of me showed wot a nasty mind he’d got. I locked the gate up, and then I stood for a minute wondering wot was to be done.

“‘We can’t stay ’ere all night,’ ses Charlie, as we walked down the wharf.

“‘No, I’ll see to that,’ I ses.

“‘If we don’t go soon she’ll get it from ’er father, and if we do go I shall get it from Alf Stevens,’ he ses. ‘If you’d on’y pulled ’im inside while you ’ad the chance and ’eld ’im we could ha’ got away all right. You lost your presence o’ mind.’

“‘I’ll lose something else in a minute,’ I ses, as soon as I could speak. ‘If you ’ad the pluck of a mouse you’d go out and fight ’im now.’

“‘Oh, don’t Charlie,’ ses the gal.

“‘I won’t,’ he ses, ‘for your sake.’

“They walked up and down arter that with their arms round each other’s waists. It was all ’is arm was fit for. I walked up and down too, and while I was wondering ’ow to get rid of ’em I suddenly remembered that one o’ the lightermen ’ad left ’is skiff tied up in the dock. I peeped over to make sure he ’adn’t taken it away, and then I went to Charlie.

“He paid up the five bob I asked ’im for neglecting my dooty, without a murmur. I got into the boat fust, and the gal follered as if she’d been used to ladders all ’er life. Then I ’ad to go up again ’cos Charlie wanted somebody to ’old ’is ankles while ’e came down.

“‘Wot are you going to do about meeting ’er now?’ I ses, as I started pulling.

“‘I don’t know,’ he ses, ’arf crying.

“‘I’ve got an idea,’ I ses, arter thinking a bit, ‘but it ’ud cost you money if it comes off.’

“‘I don’t mind that,’ ses Charlie, sitting up as if the Bank of England belonged to ’im. ‘Wot is the idea?’

“‘Suppose Alf Stevens came round ’ere next Friday,’ I ses, very gentle, ‘and thought it was you, and it wasn’t.’

“Charlie didn’t answer at fust; then ’e asked me to say it all over agin.

“‘Suppose it was a young feller I know dressed up like you and sitting be’ind the empties in the dark, pretending to make love to Maud,’ I ses, ‘and Alf comes along and sets about ’im?’

“‘Who is ’e?’ ses Charlie staring.

“‘He’s a young feller wot’s very much fancied by them as knows,’ I ses. ‘I see ’im boxing at ’Oxton one night, and ’e was in a class all by ’imself. Wonderful, it was.’

“‘Do you think ’e could beat Alf?’ ses the gal, clasping her ’ands.

“‘Beat ’im?’ I ses. ‘I tell you this chap is a _boxer_. One of the best at ’is weight I’ve ever seen. Alf Stevens would ’ave about as much chance with ’im as a baby would with its nurse.’

“‘Sounds all right,’ ses Charlie, considering. ‘It’s time somebody learnt ’im not to interfere where ’e ain’t wanted.’

“‘You be round on Friday night at seven,’ I ses. ‘I think I can get ’im all right. P’r’aps you’d better come by boat, in case of accidents. Bring ten bob in your pocket for Sid Groom--that’s ’is name--and five for me for my trouble, and you’ll find it’s the best bargain you ever made in your life.’

“I put ’em ashore at the stairs, and then rowed myself back to the wharf. It was as quiet and peaceful as the grave; and though I crept up to the gate and listened, I couldn’t ’ear nothing of Alf Stevens.

“I went again in about an hour’s time and looked out. At fust I thought he ’ad gorn, then I see something like a ’ead peeping round the corner.

“‘Why don’t you go ’ome?’ I ses. ‘Charlie ses he’ll ’arf kill you if you ain’t gorn in five minutes.’

“I thought that ’ud wake ’im up--and it did. ’Ow he could think o’ such things was a puzzle to me. And ’e did’nt ’ave to stop to think, neither.

“I believe ’e must ha’ stayed there pretty near all night. I know ’e was there at two in the morning, ’cos of ’arf a brick as took a bit out o’ the gate instead of me, by mistake, but ’e wasn’t there when the ’ands come on at six o’clock.

“I didn’t see ’im on my way ’ome, though I was quite ready for ’im, and stopped at every corner. I ’ad something to eat and a few hours in bed, and then I went out to try and find Sid Groom.

“He was out, as usual, and if I went into one pub I went into seven or eight. A man with proper feelings can’t go into a pub without ’aving something for the good of the ’ouse, and by the time I found Sid there wasn’t much of Charlie’s five bob left. ’Arf an hour arterwards there wasn’t any; and some of it wasted on ginger-beer.

“Sid didn’t like the idea of it at fust, ’cos ’e didn’t like hitting a man wot wasn’t a pro, but arter I ’ad talked to ’im about the ten bob and Maud’s blue eyes ’e gave way. He was in training at the time for a fight with a Bermondsey boy, and ’e said ’e might just as well punch Alf Stevens for ’arf a quid as a punching-ball for nothing.

“‘Mind,’ I ses, ‘we want ’im to think it’s Charlie, and if you keep your back to the light and slip into ’im ’ard and quick, I don’t see why ’e should know the difference.’

“‘Wot’s Charlie like?’ he ses.

“I told ’im.

“‘’Ow about slipping into ’im instead of the other bloke?’ he ses, spitting on the floor.

“‘I don’t think he’d pay you ten bob for that,’ I ses, shaking my ’ead at ’im. ‘You’ll enjoy it all right once you start. And don’t forget to put on a bowler-’at and a collar. And don’t speak.’

“He said something under ’is breath wot sounded like a little bit of Alf Stevens, but I didn’t take no notice, and afore I left ’im ’e promised faithful to come round and give Alf the surprise of ’is life.

“I didn’t see Charlie that evening, but a dirty little boy came round with a letter from ’im and I sent word back telling ’im Friday would be all right. The only thing that worried me was that Alf Stevens mightn’t be there, but as I see ’im prowling about soon after the boy ’ad gorn, I ’adn’t got much fear.

“Sid was the fust to turn up on Friday night. In fact, I sent ’im on in front of me. Good-looking young feller ’e was, and in a bowler-’at and a clean collar ’e looked nicer than I ’ad ever seen ’im. I stood talking to ’im till the foreman ’ad gorn, and then we sat down on the jetty and waited for the others.

“They came along by boat just afore seven, and Charlie come up that ladder as if it was a mile ’igh, and asking me to give ’im a ’and when ’e got to the top. I interduced them in a ’urry--to stop Sid’s mouth--and then I went to the gate and looked out just to make sure Alf Stevens was there.

“He was. I lit the lamps soon arterwards, all but the one near where they was going to be, and then I sat down alongside Maud, and was just going to show Sid ’ow to sit with his ’ead on ’er shoulder when she got up.

“‘I know ’ow to do it,’ ses Sid, pushing me away. ‘Just put them barrels a bit closer.’

“‘Wot for?’ I ses.

“‘’Cos I can do it better when there’s nobody looking,’ ’e ses.

“‘Wot’s the good o’ doing it at all till Alf comes?’ ses Charlie fidgeting.

“Sid didn’t answer ’im. He ’elped move one or two of the barrels ’imself, and then we ’eard ’im tell Maud to come and sit down.

“We stood there waiting for two or three minutes, and then Charlie, arter fidgeting about agin for a bit, put his ’ead over and asked them ’ow they was getting on.

“‘You mind your own bisness,’ ses Sid.

“Charlie come back to me trembling all over. ‘You go and speak to ’im,’ he ses at last.

“I waited a little while, and then I ses, in a off-’and way: ‘Sid, I’m going to let Alf Stevens in now. Be ready.’

“‘You let ’im in when I tell you, and not afore,’ ses Sid, very sharp. ‘We ain’t ’arf done practising yet. I’m learning to be as much like Charlie to ’er as possible, so as Alf Stevens won’t know the difference. And it takes time.’

“I thought Charlie would ha’ fainted, and the things ’e said to me about my cleverness you wouldn’t believe. If he ’ad only been as good with ’is fist as ’is tongue he’d ’ave been all right. It might a’most ha’ been my missis talking to me.

“I ’eard Big Ben strike eight, and then I ’eard a little whistle from Sid.

“‘I think I know my piece now,’ he ses, when I went over. ‘Tell Charlie to ’ide ’imself, and then open the gate.’

“I put Charlie round the far corner and told ’im not to move and not even to put ’is ’ead round until they was busy, and then I walked up to the gate. I made a little noise opening the wicket, and then I stepped outside a yard or two and looked the wrong way, and a’most afore you could say ‘knife’ Alf Stevens bolted in and ran on to the wharf.

“‘’Ere!’ I ses, follering ’im up, ‘wot are you arter? Who told you to come on my wharf?’

“He took no more notice of me than if I was a pet lamb. He stood looking all round ’im with his ’ead bent down, and then there came the sound of two or three of the loudest kisses I ever ’eard in my life. Alf Stevens made a noise like a hyena wot wasn’t laughing, and the next moment two of the barrels was rolled out o’ the way and ’e stood looking at the two of ’em cuddling each other on the box.

“‘Got--yer--at--last!’ he ses, grinding ’is teeth.

“He bent over to push Sid away, but ’e ’ad got his ’ead buried in the gal’s shoulder and was ’olding on to ’er as if ’e was frightened out of ’is life.

“‘Stand up!’ ses Alf, pullin’ ’im by the collar--‘Stand up and take wot’s comin’ to you.’

“Sid got up, stooping, with his ’at over ’is eyes, and the next moment Alf was sitting on the ground wondering wot ’ad ’appened to ’im. Then ’is memory come back to ’im and ’e got up and rushed at Sid like a madman, but ’e might as well ’ave tried to ’it the moon. Sid was dancing all round ’im, punching ’im all over the place, and every now and then knocking ’im down for a change.

“I must say Alf was game. He fought as long as ’e could stand, and ’e could ’ardly walk as I ’elped ’im off the wharf. He couldn’t see properly neither, ’cos he thought I was somebody quite different and asked me wot I ’ad done with my tail.

“The others came along as I stood there watching Alf ’obble away. Maud was ’anging on to Sid’s arm and looking up into ’is face, and Charlie was follering up be’ind making noises like a lost kitten.

“‘Didn’t want to pay me the ten bob,’ ses Sid to me. ‘He soon altered ’is mind, though.’

“‘He--he’s got my young lady,’ ses Charlie, ’arf crying, ‘and ten bob too.’

“‘Never mind,’ I ses, patting ’im on the shoulder; ‘a gal like that ain’t worth troubling about.’

“‘Wot’s that?’ ses Sid, shoving ’is face into mine. ‘Wot did you say?’

“‘I mean, ’e oughtn’t to trouble about any gal,’ I ses, very firm. ‘He ought to get a little pet dog instead. A little dog as nobody else wants.’

“Sid stood looking at me for a moment; then he put ’is arm round Maud’s waist and they went off. Charlie and me stood watching them till they was out of sight, and then ’e told me wot ’e thought about Sid.

“I felt a bit sorry for ’im, but arter all bisness is bisness, and as ’e turned to go off I laid my ’and on ’is sleeve and gave a little laugh.

“‘Yes?’ he ses.

“‘Ain’t you forgot something?’ I ses.

“‘Not as I knows of,’ ’e ses, staring.

“‘Wot about my five bob?’ I ses.

“I think ’is trouble must ’ave turned ’is brain. He gave a squeal that set my teeth on edge, and afore I could take my ’ands out o’ my pockets he ’ad given me four or five bangs in the face as ’ard as ’e could hit. Then ’e turned round quick and run for all ’e was worth.”

Taking Pains

Mr. Silvanus Key, changing his position in bed for the third time in five minutes, lay on his back and groaned lamentably.

“I, shall never be well,” he murmured faintly. “Forty-three, good-looking, with the best moustache in the town, and done for.”

“Has the pain come on again?” inquired his wife softly.

“Not what you could call pain,” said Mr. Key. “There’s a red hot corkscrew going through my left shoulder and a very capable monkey-wrench trying to screw my knee-joints out. The only time I get any rest is when it leaves off to spit on its hands. _O-ow! Ouch! O-o!_”

Mrs. Key rose and, standing by the side of the bed, gazed at him compassionately.

“The doctor doesn’t seem to be doing you much good,” she murmured.

“That’ll do,” said the sufferer sharply. “He is doing his best.”

“So it seems,” said his wife dryly. “How you can imagine that stuff out of a bottle can cure you, I can’t think. It’s the soul that wants treating, not the body. You want to be bathed in a stream of healing thought that would kill all those ideas of pain and----”

“_Ideas!_” shouted Mr. Key. “You wait till you get rheumatism, and neuritis, and gout, and sciatica, all mixed up together, and trying to see which can be the worst. If that blessed Circle of Healers, as you call it, was here I’d punch its head.”

“Some of them are women,” said his wife.

Mr. Key remarked that he supposed women possessed heads, some of them at any rate, and, licking his lips, speculated on the good to be achieved by knocking all the heads of the Circle together.

“Shake their brains up and make ’em think,” he added.

His wife sighed, and bestowed upon him a look of tender and elevating love.

“You are so wilful,” she murmured. “If you would only see Mr. Punshon; no foolish and nasty drugs; no clumsy interference with that wonderful combination of soul and body that we know as man. You are simply out of tune with the infinite. _I_ am never ill.”

“You wouldn’t talk like that if you were,” said Mr. Key. “You’d know better.”

He lay back with closed eyes and pondered gloomily. It was his first real illness and, to an active man fond of rather more than his share of the good things of this life, extremely distasteful. He opened his eyes at a rather sharper twinge than usual and, in a few ill-chosen words, expressed his opinion that members of the medical profession were as useless as the Healers.

“And we work for love,” said his wife, improving the occasion.

Mr. Key closed his eyes again, and a faint and unseemly grin passed furtively.

“Miss Olsen is a healer, isn’t she?” he inquired. “The pretty one. Perhaps I might----”

“She is a neophyte,” said his wife coldly, “the same as myself.”

“Nothing doing,” murmured the graceless Mr. Key. “Still, if she wants a little practice----”

Mrs. Key implored him not to make a jest of solemn things, and spoke with some eloquence of the marvellous cures effected by Mr. Punshon. Her husband pointed out, when she had finished, that she had omitted the marvellous case of old Mr. Jackson, who, after being bedridden for over three years, was able, owing to the healer’s ministrations, to spend the evenings of his life at the Shakespeare Arms.

“It is easy to mock at things,” said Mrs. Key, bitterly. “Mr. Punshon would cure him of that, but the artful old man won’t let him go near him.”

She went out of the room, and the invalid, after turning in the bed with great care, lay gazing wistfully out of the window. There was a cheerful hum from the street below, and he thought with great bitterness of the happy people there who knew nothing of Uric Acid and its liking for hot joints. A visit from the doctor next day depressed him still more.

“Another week or two?” he gasped.

“You’re going on beau-ti-fully,” said the other, with an admiring but thoughtless pat on Mr. Key’s left knee. “Sorry.”

“Don’t mind me,” said the sufferer coldly. “Am I to go on taking that beastly physic of yours?”

The doctor nodded. “For some time,” he said grinning. “Shut your eyes when you are taking it and tell yourself it is a vintage port. Smack your lips over it.”

Mr. Key closed his eyes and groaned.

“And don’t be too sorry for yourself,” pursued the other. “You are not nearly so bad as some of my poor patients. Not nearly.”

Mr. Key, with a faint smile, said that he could quite believe it. He also expressed his firm belief that their troubles would soon be over--one way or another.

“The last bottle,” said his medical attendant, breathing hard, “was not strong enough. You are suffering from depression.”

“You never see me at my best,” said the other; “the moment you come into the room----”

“Good-bye,” said the doctor briskly.

He went downstairs and, meeting in the hall Mrs. Key, who had just come in, announced in a loud voice that the patient was much better. A louder voice from the sick-room denied all knowledge of the fact.

For two days the patient had no reason to alter his opinion, but on the third he confided to Mrs. Key, with a happy smile, that he certainly felt much easier.

“Since when?” inquired his wife, with a mysterious expression on her face.

Mr. Key pondered. “Yesterday afternoon I got the turn, I think. It’s nothing to laugh at.”

“I was not laughing, I was smiling,” said his wife. “With happiness,” she added hastily. “But I’m not surprised. Mr. Punshon had a half-holiday yesterday afternoon.”

Mr. Key gazed at her blankly.

“And instead of going out and enjoying himself stayed at home and gave you ‘absent treatment.’”

“Infernal impudence!” gasped the astonished invalid. “I’ll--I’ll--Punshon----Oh, Lord! How many people have you told!”

“He could do you much more good if he came into contact with you,” said his wife timidly.

“Fancy,” murmured the other brokenly, “that ginger-bearded fraud--treating _me_! Poor Johnson pulls me round and Punshon steps in and takes the credit. I shall be the laughing-stock of the town. Everybody knows what I’ve said about him.”

“You’ve said things--to me--about Dr. Johnson too,” said his wife.

Mr. Key lay back and regarded her for some time, deep in thought. “All right,” he said at last, in a ferocious voice, “have it your own way. I’ll give him a run for his money. Punshon has put his hand to the plough and he’d better finish the job. But mind, I shall take the medicine.”

His wife turned upon him a face that literally shone with happiness. “It won’t make much difference,” she said. “Mr. Punshon’s force is much too strong for drugs to interfere with it.”

She brought the healer round the following afternoon, and Mr. Key, gazing at the flabby, bearded face, with its pouched eyes and foolish mouth, waited breathlessly for developments.

“I hope it is not going to be painful,” he remarked.

“We soothe,” said Mr. Punshon, in a deep voice marred by adenoids.

He took a chair by the bed, and taking the patient’s hands in his own, leaned forward and fixed upon him the healing glare of a pair of pale and protuberant blue eyes. Mr. Key, closing his, bit his lips to suppress a smile.

For twenty minutes the silence was unbroken except for the odd noises in Mr. Punshon’s air-passages. He released the patient’s hands and, folding his arms, spoke with authority.

“You feel better!”

“I do,” said Mr. Key in reverent tones. “Waves of--something or other--seemed to go right through me.”

Mr. Punshon smiled and, taking out a handkerchief, wiped his brow.

“You mustn’t expect to be well all at once,” he said, raising a warning hand. “Evil is not destroyed in five minutes. I will come in and give you further treatment to-morrow evening.”

Mr. Key thanked him, and for some time after his departure lay smiling seraphically at the ceiling. Under the combined treatment of Mr. Punshon and Dr. Johnson he improved steadily, the wrath of the latter, when he heard of his collaborator, doing the invalid, according to his own account, more good than medicine.

“I’ve done with you,” said the doctor, fuming. “It’s all over the town that Punshon has cured you when I failed. What do you mean by it?”

“I’m not cured yet,” said the invalid grimly. “Dear Brother Punshon has got to do a lot more for me before he has finished. I have an idea that I am going to be one of his most difficult cases.”

“All this stuff about Christian Science----” began the doctor.

“It’s nothing to do with Christian Science,” retorted the other. “It’s a little special brand of Punshon’s own. He is far too conceited to adopt anybody else’s ideas. He is charged with electricity--a living magnet, that’s the idea, and, in a lesser degree, he thinks he is able to magnetise his followers.”

The doctor stood regarding him with a perplexed grin.

“What is the game?” he inquired bluntly.

“Game?” repeated Mr. Key loftily. “There is no ‘game.’ You don’t understand. Magnetic healing is serious, most serious. So are the healers. If they could see a joke they wouldn’t be healers. Punshon couldn’t see a joke if I put it in front of his nose and burnt coloured lights round it.”

“You might try,” suggested the other.

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” said Mr. Key severely. “Besides, I’m going to. Meantime, you had better leave Punshon a free hand. I don’t want you to get the credit of his cure. You don’t want it either. If you go, and I have a relapse----”

The doctor nodded. “Nobody could expect me to halve a patient with Punshon,” he murmured.

“Exactly,” said the other, “but you needn’t put it in quite such a surgical way. It’s not nice. By the way----”

“Well?”

“What about one weak whisky-and-soda a day?” inquired Mr. Key in persuasive accents.

The doctor stood for a time considering. “Better ask Punshon,” he said at last, and faded slowly from the room.

A good man would have been moved by the tender gratitude displayed by Mrs. Key when she learnt that her husband had abandoned drugs entirely, in favour of spiritual treatment. The only effect on Mr. Key was to confirm him in his iniquities. His spirits rose and the hue of health returned to his cheeks. And he praised Mr. Punshon and his strange and beneficent power until that gentleman nearly fell a victim to the sin of pride.

“Walk across the room,” he commanded.

Mr. Key obeyed.

“Your limbs are straight and supple,” chanted the healer; “your body is strong; your soul is in command; you are healed.”

“Thanks to you,” breathed the admiring Mrs. Key.

“To-morrow you can go for a walk,” continued Mr. Punshon to his patient. “My work is finished.”

Both husband and wife were certain as to his exact words. In fact, the excellent Mrs. Key repeated them to two or three friends the same day. And yet, just before midnight, she sat up in the small bed she occupied in the sick-room almost persuaded that she had heard a moan. Within the next minute five full-grown moans, muffled by the bedclothes, issued from the other bed.

“Aren’t you well?” she inquired.

“Well?” repeated Mr. Key, bringing his head up and suppressing moan number six. “Yes, of course I am. Didn’t Mr. Punshon say I was?”

In confirmation, he groaned three times and wound up with a faint shriek.

“What are you making that noise for then?” inquired his wife, not unnaturally.

Mr. Key made no reply. It was evident by his lamentations that he wanted his breath for other purposes. His wife slipped on a dressing-gown and, lighting a candle, crossed over to him.

“What _is_ the matter?” she said in alarm.

“Don’t mind me,” said the invalid, with a groan that made the ornaments on the mantelpiece rattle. “Go to sleep.”

His wife suppressed an obvious retort and stood regarding him anxiously.

“_O-o-o-o!_” said Mr. Key. “_A-a-a-h!_” He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his pyjamas and, uttering a faint sigh, was taken suddenly with a series of noises in the throat highly reminiscent of Mr. Punshon.

“I wish I could stop that,” he said fretfully. “I suppose it’s Punshon’s influence. Perhaps I’m too receptive. _O-oh!_ my leg!”

Mrs. Key eyed him wistfully. “Which one?” she inquired.

“What the--what does that matter?” exclaimed the sufferer. “Now it’s my shoulder. The _left_ one,” he added, bitterly. “Has Jane gone to bed?”

“Long ago,” replied his wife, staring.

“I can’t bear it,” gasped the sufferer, wildly. “You’ll have to tell her to get up and run for the doctor.”

Mrs. Key clasped her hands. “Oh, Silvanus!” she cried reproachfully.

“I can’t help it,” muttered her husband. “I’d rather have Punshon, of course, but I don’t like to disturb him. He could stop it. As soon as he got his blessed paw--hands--on me, it would go.”

“I’ll ask him to come round in the morning,” said Mrs. Key.

“I can’t wait,” moaned the sufferer. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to ask Jane to get up and go for the doctor. It isn’t far.”

His wife hesitated. “If you are no better in ten minutes,” she said at last, “I’ll go and ask Mr. Punshon to come.”

Mr. Key protested, and for fully five minutes lay silent. At the end of that time he gave a very fine representation of a soul in torment.

“Better take Jane with you,” he said in a weak voice, as his wife began to dress.

“I can’t leave you in the house alone,” she murmured. “I’ll wake her up and let her know I am going out. I shan’t be long.”

She hurried upstairs, and a minute or two later he heard the front door close.

“Poor thing,” he murmured. “Poor thing. It’s an infernal shame; but it’s all for her own good.”

He sat up in bed yawning, every now and then releasing a groan for the benefit of the listener upstairs. The time passed slowly, and a feeling of drowsiness almost overcame him. He hoped fervently that Punshon was as fond of sleep as he was.

He awoke with a start and sat up in bed, listening. A continuous knocking and ringing at the front door seemed to indicate that Mrs. Key had forgotten to take the key with her. It also proved that Jane could sleep as soundly at one in the morning as at seven-thirty.

With an idea that every little helped he added a few whines to the noise below, but in vain. The jangling of the bell was hideous, the knocking incessant. Then he heard, in addition, the boots of a heavy and possibly irritated man kicking the paint off his front door and voices of advice and instruction from his neighbour’s bedroom window. He had just come to the conclusion that the maid had passed away in her sleep when he heard her door open and an apologetic whirlwind pass down the stairs.

Mr. Punshon entered the room in silence and, ignoring the faint smile with which the sufferer endeavoured to greet him, took a chair by the bedside and got to work with the air of a man who was going to crowd half an hour’s work into a few minutes. Mr. Key sighed twice, and then his face resolved itself into an expression of ineffable peace.

“Magician!” he murmured.

Mr. Punshon grunted and bestowed a smile of conscious power upon the admiring Mrs. Key.

“It’s wonderful,” continued the sufferer. “Wonderful! I wonder what caused the relapse?”

Mr. Punshon started. “You must have been thinking wrong,” he said tartly.

“I can’t remember doing so,” said Mr. Key in a diffident voice. “I have only been congratulating myself upon having the good sense to take your treatment. It has been a great joy to me. Great. I knew I was going to get better when I put myself into your hands. Else I shouldn’t have done so.”

The unconscious Mr. Punshon smiled again. “Faith helps,” he admitted. “How do you feel now?”

Mr. Key looked into the red-rimmed, sleepy eyes peering into his, and hesitated.

“Almost free from pain,” he said, at length. “There’s just a tiny bit troubling me in the left knee-cap.”

The healer diverted his gaze to a knob in the bedclothes, and concentrated upon it until the veins stood out on his forehead. An unusual amount of gurgling and choking testified to his absorption.

“Did I say ‘left’?” inquired Mr. Key, as the other wiped his brow. “How stupid of me; I meant ‘right.’”

He brought another knob into prominence and, patting it for Mr. Punshon’s guidance, waited with calm confidence while the other swallowed a gurgle that threatened to choke him.

“I’m afraid Mr. Punshon is tired,” said Mrs. Key.

“He never tires of good works,” said her husband, reproachfully.

Mr. Punshon smiled wanly and, suppressing a yawn, continued his ministrations.

“I feel so selfish lying here snug and warm in bed and keeping you out of yours,” said Mr. Key. “But perhaps you don’t care much for sleep.”

“Eight hours,” said Mr. Punshon somewhat shortly. “Always. Any pain in the knee now?”

Mr. Key shook his head. “It’s gone,” he said in a hushed voice.

Mr. Punshon leaned back with a sigh, a noisy sigh, of relief.

“Into my left shoulder,” continued the invalid querulously.

Mr. Punshon got up with great suddenness and stood glowering at him. Mrs. Key, with her hands clasped, eyed them in silent dismay.

“Please don’t trouble any more,” said Mr. Key gently. “I’m afraid it is a difficult case. Too difficult, perhaps. I ought not to have bothered you. I suppose Johnson would have pulled me round, in time.”

He closed his eyes wearily and lay back listening in great content to an excited whispering between his wife and the healer. Then he heard the chair creak and felt a pair of clammy hands take his. For some time the stertorous breathing of Mr. Punshon was the only sound in the room. Then even that ceased and Mr. Key, opening his eyes to ascertain the reason, discovered to his indignation that the healer had gone. Daylight was coming in at the window, and it was only too clear that his victim had taken advantage of the sleep into which Mr. Key had fallen, to escape. A clock downstairs struck five. He groaned in spirit, but soon coming to the conclusion that that was no good, gave utterance to several fleshly ones. The other bed creaked.

“Do you want anything?” inquired Mrs. Key sleepily.

“Where’s Punshon?” demanded her husband in an aggrieved voice.

“Why, he left hours ago,” said Mrs. Key, sitting up. “He put you into a refreshing slumber and went.”

“Fetch him back,” said the invalid, briefly.

Mrs. Key’s cry of consternation left him unmoved. Mr. Punshon had taken the case out of the doctor’s hands by giving absent treatment in the first place, and, after that, had taken full charge. In a stern voice, broken by pain and marred by snufflings, Mr. Key ordered him to be fetched forthwith.

“I can’t,” said his wife desperately.

“Well, will you please go and ask him whether he has any objection to my consulting Dr. Johnson?”

Mrs. Key went--but only after a long argument--to return an hour later with a ferocious and demoralised-looking Mr. Punshon, who, advancing reluctantly to the foot of the bed, stood there gobbling.

“Good of you!” murmured the invalid.

Mr. Punshon took not the slightest notice.

“I do hope this pain will soon go,” continued Mr. Key. “I don’t want to fetch you out of your bed every night. I know you don’t mind, still----”

Mr. Punshon stared at him and endeavoured--but in vain--to concentrate his mind upon healing.

“I suppose I can’t have that walk you spoke of, to-day,” said Mr. Key. “It’s very disappointing. I was looking forward to it. I wanted to go round and tell people what mental healing had done for me. Some of them are so incredulous.”

“You must have patience,” said the healer. “Fifty years of wrong living----”

“Forty-three,” murmured the invalid. “And I feel younger since you have been treating me. It almost seems as though your healthy, virile spirit has become part of myself. I feel different. A better man. I think differently. I--I breathe differently. How is Mrs. Punshon?”

“She is quite well, thank you,” said the healer with some surprise.

Mr. Key half closed his eyes and a seraphic smile played around his lips. “I dream of her,” he said softly.

“_Dream!_ Dream of her? Dream of _my wife_?” stuttered the outraged husband in tones that nearly drowned the exclamation of the startled Mrs. Key.

Mr. Key nodded. “Ever since you started treating me,” he replied. “It’s very curious. I suppose your powerful mind has overcome mine and your thoughts have become my thoughts. Have any of your other patients----?”

“No, sir,” interrupted the other with violence.

Mr. Key sighed. “It’s very curious,” he repeated. “I dreamt of her three times last night. And there’s another funny thing; since this treatment started I have had an almost irresistible craving for whisky. Do you----”

“I’m a life-long teetotaller,” said the glaring Mr. Punshon.

He stood breathing noisily for a few seconds and then, with a violent gesture, turned and walked towards the door.

“Aren’t you going to give me treatment?” inquired Mr. Key in a surprised voice.

Mr. Punshon made no reply, but the slamming of the front door spoke volumes. Mr. Key turned and eyed his wife.

“He has given the case up,” he said, shaking his head. “After breakfast you must send Jane round for the doctor. I can’t go on like this.”

He saw the doctor a few hours later, and after a lengthy explanation--with Mrs. Key holding a watching brief for the absent Mr. Punshon--requested him to treat him for the old complaint plus incipient adenoids, a nasty trick of biting his finger-nails, a lamentable craving for whisky, and a few other matters.

“I am sorry you spoke so freely,” said Mrs. Key after the doctor had gone. “He might talk.”

“That’s all right,” said her husband darkly. “He never repeats anything his patients would mind.”

His Brother’s Keeper

I

Anthony Keller, white and dazed, came stumbling out into the small hall and closed the door of his study noiselessly behind him. Only half an hour ago he had entered the room with Henry Martle, and now Martle would never leave it again until he was carried out of it.

He took out his watch and put it back again without looking at it. He sank into a chair and, trying to still his quivering legs, strove to think. The clock behind the closed door struck nine. He had ten hours; ten hours before the woman who attended to his small house came to start the next day’s work.