Chapter II: Part 2

Ten hours! His mind refused to act. There was so much to be done, so much to be thought of. God! If only he could have the last ten minutes over again and live it differently. If Martle only had not happened to say that it was a sudden visit and that nobody knew of it.

He went into the back room and, going to the sideboard, gulped down half a tumbler of raw whisky. It seemed to him inconceivable that the room should look the same. This pleasant room, with etchings on the walls, and his book, face downwards, just as he had left it to answer Martle’s knock. He could hear the knock now, and----

The empty tumbler smashed in his hand, and he caught his breath in a sob. Somebody else was knocking. He stood for a moment quivering, and then, wiping some of the blood from his hand, kicked the pieces of glass aside and stood irresolute. The knocking came again, so loud and insistent that for one horrible moment he fancied it might arouse the thing in the next room. Then he walked to the door and opened it. A short sturdy man, greeting him noisily, stepped into the hall.

“Thought you were dead,” he said breezily. “Hallo!”

“Cut myself with a broken glass,” said Keller, in a constrained voice.

“Look here, that wants binding up,” said his friend. “Got a clean handkerchief?”

He moved towards the door, and was about to turn the handle when Keller flung himself upon him and dragged him back. “Not there,” he said thickly. “Not there.”

“What the devil’s the matter?” inquired the visitor staring.

Keller’s mouth worked. “Somebody in there. Come here.”

He pushed him into the back room and in a dazed fashion motioned him to a chair.

“Thanks, rather not,” said the other stiffly. “I just came in to smoke a pipe. I didn’t know you had visitors. Anyway, I shouldn’t eat them. Good night.”

Keller stood staring at him. His friend stared back, then suddenly his eyes twinkled and he smiled roguishly.

“What have you got in there?” he demanded, jerking his thumb towards the study.

Keller shrank back. “Nothing,” he stammered. “Nothing--no----”

“Ho, ho!” said the other. “All right. Don’t worry. Mum’s the word. You quiet ones are always the worst. Be good.”

He gave him a playful dig in the ribs and went out chuckling. Keller, hardly breathing, watched him to the gate and, closing the door softly, bolted it and returned to the back room.

He steadied his nerves with some more whisky, and strove to steel himself to the task before him. He had got to conquer his horror and remorse, to overcome his dread of the thing in the next room, and put it where no man should ever see it. He, Anthony Keller, a quiet, ordinary citizen, had got to do this thing.

The little clock in the next room struck ten. Nine hours left. With a soft tread he went out at the back door and, unlocking the bicycle-shed, peered in. Plenty of room.

He left the door open and, returning to the house, went to the door of the study. Twice he turned the handle--and softly closed the door again. Suppose when he looked in at Martle, Martle should turn and look at him? He turned the handle suddenly and threw the door open.

Martle was quiet enough. Quiet and peaceful, and, perhaps, a little pitiful. Keller’s fear passed, but envy took its place. Martle had got the best of it after all. No horror-haunted life for him; no unavailing despair and fear of the unknown. Keller, looking down at the white face and battered head, thought of the years before himself. Or would it be weeks? With a gasp he came back to the need for action, and taking Martle by the shoulders drew him, with heels dragging and scraping, to the shed.

He locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Then he drew a bucket of water from the scullery-tap and found some towels. His injured hand was still bleeding, but he regarded it with a sort of cunning satisfaction. It would account for much.

It was a long job, but it was finished at last. He sat down and thought, and then searched round and round the room for the overlooked thing which might be his undoing.

It was nearly midnight, and necessary, unless he wanted to attract the attention of any passing constable, to extinguish or lower the companionable lights. He turned them out swiftly, and, with trembling haste, passed upstairs to his room.

The thought of bed was impossible. He lowered the gas and, dropping into a chair, sat down to wait for day. Erect in the chair, his hands gripping the arms, he sat tense and listening. The quiet house was full of faint sounds, odd creakings, and stealthy rustlings. Suppose the suddenly released spirit of Martle was wandering around the house!

He rose and paced up and down the room, pausing every now and then to listen. He could have sworn that there was something fumbling blindly at the other side of the door, and once, turning sharply, thought that he saw the handle move. Sometimes sitting and sometimes walking, the hours passed until in the distance a cock smelt the dawn, and a little later the occasional note of a bird announced the approach of day.

II

In the bright light of day his courage returned, and, dismissing all else from his mind, he thought only of how to escape the consequences of his crime. Inch by inch he examined the room and the hall. Then he went into the garden, and, going round the shed, satisfied himself that no crack or hole existed that might reveal his secret. He walked the length of the garden and looked about him. The nearest house was a hundred yards away, and the bottom of the garden screened by trees. Near the angle of the fence he would dig a shallow trench and over it pile up a rockery of bricks and stones and earth. Once started he could take his time about it, and every day would make him more and more secure. There was an air of solidity and permanency about a rockery that nothing else could give.

He was back in the house when the charwoman arrived, and in a few words told her of his accident of the night before. “I cleaned up the--the mess as well as I could,” he concluded.

Mrs. Howe nodded. “I’ll have a go at it while you’re having your breakfast,” she remarked. “Good job for you, sir, that you ain’t one o’ them as faints at the sight of blood.”

She brought coffee and bacon into the little back dining-room, and Keller, as he sat drinking his coffee and trying to eat, heard her at work in the study. He pushed away his plate at last, and filling a pipe from which all flavour had departed sat smoking and thinking.

He was interrupted by Mrs. Howe. She stood in the doorway with a question which numbed his brain, and for a time arrested speech.

“Eh?” he said at last.

“Key of the bicycle-shed,” repeated the woman, staring at him. “You had a couple o’ my dusters to clean your bicycle with.”

Keller felt in his pockets, thinking, thinking. “H’mm!” he said at last, “I’m afraid I’ve mislaid it. I’ll look for it presently.”

Mrs. Howe nodded. “You do look bad,” she said, with an air of concern. “P’r’aps you hurt yourself more than what you think.”

Keller forced a smile and shook his head, sinking back in his chair as she vanished, and trying to control his quivering limbs.

For a long time he sat inert, listening dully to the movements of Mrs. Howe as she bustled to and fro. He heard her washing the step at the back door, and, after that, a rasping, grating noise to which at first he paid but little heed. Then there was a faint, musical chinking as of keys knocking together. _Keys!_

He sprang from his chair like a madman, and dashed to the door. Mrs. Howe, with a bunch of odd keys tied on a string, had inserted one in the lock of the bicycle-shed, and was striving to turn it.

“Stop!” cried Keller, in a dreadful voice. “STOP!”

He snatched the keys from her, and, flinging them from him, stood mouthing dumbly at her. The fear in her eyes recalled him to his senses.

“Spoil the lock,” he muttered, “spoil the lock. Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. No sleep all night. Neuralgia; ’fraid my nerves are wrong.”

The woman’s face relaxed and her eyes softened. “I saw you weren’t yourself as soon as I saw you this morning,” she exclaimed.

She went back into the house, but he thought she eyed him curiously as she passed. She resumed her work, but in a subdued fashion, and, two or three times that morning meeting his eyes, nervously turned away her own. He realised at last that he was behaving in an unusual fashion altogether. In and out of the house, and, in the garden, never far from the shed.

By lunch-time he had regained control of himself. He opened a bottle of beer, and, congratulating Mrs. Howe upon the grilling of the chops, went on to speak of her husband and the search for work which had been his only occupation since his marriage ten years before. Some of the fear went out of the woman’s eyes--but not all, and it was with obvious relief that she left the room.

For some time after lunch Keller stayed in the dining-room, and that in itself was unusual. Two or three times he got up and resolved, for the sake of appearances, to take a short walk, but the shed held him. He dare not leave it unguarded. With a great effort he summoned up sufficient resolution to take him to the bottom of the garden and start his gruesome task.

He dug roughly, avoiding the shape which might have aroused comment from any chance visitor. The ground was soft and, in spite of his injured hand, he made good progress, breaking off at frequent intervals to listen, or to move aside and obtain an unobstructed view of the shed.

With a short break for tea he went on with his task until he was called in to his simple meal at seven. The manual labour had done him good and his appearance was almost normal. To Mrs. Howe he made a casual reference to his afternoon’s work and questioned where to obtain the best rock-plants.

With her departure after she had cleared away, fear descended upon him again. The house became uncanny and the shed a place of unspeakable horror. Suppose his nerve failed and he found himself unable to open it! For an hour he paced up and down in the long twilight, waiting for the dark.

It came at last, and fighting down his fears and nausea, he drew the garden-barrow up to the shed, and took the key from his pocket. He walked to the front gate, and looked up and down the silent road. Then he came back and, inserting the key in the lock, opened the door, and, in the light of an electric torch, stood looking down at what he had placed there the night before.

With his ears alert for the slightest sound, he took the inhabitant of the shed by the shoulders, and, dragging it outside, strove to lift it into the barrow. He succeeded at last, and, with the rigid body balanced precariously and the dead face looking up into his, seized the handles and slowly and silently took Martle to the place prepared for him.

He did not leave him for a long time. Not until the earth was piled high above him in a circular mound and a score or two of bricks formed the first beginnings of a rockery. Then he walked slowly up the garden, and, after attending to the shed, locked it up and went indoors.

The disposal of the body gave a certain measure of relief. He would live, with time for repentance, and, perhaps, for forgetting. He washed in the scullery, and then, fearing the shadows upstairs, drew the heavy curtains in the dining-room to shut in the light and settled himself in an easy chair. He drank until his senses were deadened; his nerves quietened, his aching limbs relaxed, and he fell into a heavy sleep.

III

He awoke at six, and, staggering to his feet, drew back the curtains and turned out the gas. Then he went upstairs, and after disarranging his bed went to the bathroom. The cold water and a shave, together with a change of linen, did him good. He opened doors and windows, and let the clean sweet air blow through the house. The house which he must continue to inhabit because he dare not leave it. Other people might not share his taste for rockeries.

To the watchful eye of Mrs. Howe he appeared to be almost himself again. The key of the shed had turned up, and he smiled as he presented her with her “precious dusters.” Then he rode off on his bicycle to order slabs of stone and plants from the nearest nurseryman.

He worked more and more leisurely as the days passed, and the rockery grew larger and more solid. Every added stone and plant seemed to increase his security. He ate well, and, to his surprise, slept well; but every morning misery opened his eyes for him.

The garden was no longer a place of quiet recreation; the house, which was part of the legacy that had so delighted him only a year before, was a prison in which he must serve a life-long sentence. He could neither let it nor sell it; other people might alter the garden--and dig. Since the fatal evening he had not looked at a newspaper for fear of reading of Martle’s disappearance, and in all that time had not spoken to a friend.

Martle was very quiet. There were no shadows in the house, no furtive noises, no dim shape pattering about the garden by night. Memory was the only thing that assailed him; but it sufficed.

Then the dream came. A dream confused and grotesque, as most dreams are. He dreamt that he was standing by the rockery, in the twilight, when he thought he saw one of the stones move. Other stones followed suit. A big slab near the top came slithering down, and it was apparent that the whole pile of earth and stone was being shaken by some internal force. Something was trying to get out. Then he remembered that he was buried there, and had no business to be standing outside. He must get back. Martle had put him there, and for some reason which he was quite unable to remember he was afraid of Martle. He procured his tools and set to work. It was a long and tedious job and made more difficult by the fact that he was not allowed to make a noise. He dug and dug, but the grave had disappeared. Then suddenly something took hold of him and held him down; down. He could neither move nor cry out.

He awoke with a scream and for a minute or two lay trembling and shaking. Thank God, it was only a dream. The room was full of sunlight, and he could hear Mrs. Howe moving about downstairs. Life was good and might yet hold something in store for him.

He lay still for ten minutes, and was about to rise when he heard Mrs. Howe running upstairs. Even before her sudden and heavy rapping on the door he scented disaster.

“Mr. Keller! Mr. Keller!”

“Well?” he said heavily.

“Your rockery!” gasped the charwoman. “Your beautiful rockery! All gone!”

“_Gone?_” shouted Keller, springing out of bed and snatching his dressing-gown from the door.

“Pulled all to pieces,” said Mrs. Howe, as he opened the door. “You never see such a mess. All over the place, as if a madman had done it.”

In a mechanical fashion he thrust his feet into slippers and went downstairs. He hurried down the garden, and, waving the woman back, stood looking at the ruin. Stones and earth were indeed all over the place, but the spot that mattered was untouched. He stood gazing and trembling. Who could have done it? Why was it done?

He thought of his dream and the truth burst upon him. No need for his aching back and limbs to remind him. No need to remember the sleep-walking feats of his youth. He knew the culprit now.

“Shall I go for the police?” inquired the voice of Mrs. Howe.

Keller turned a stony face upon her. “No,” he said slowly. “I--I’ll speak to them about it myself.”

He took up the spade and began the task of reconstruction. He worked for an hour, and then went in to dress and breakfast. For the rest of the day he worked slowly and steadily, so that by evening most of the damage had been repaired. Then he went indoors to face the long night.

Sleep, man’s best friend, had become his unrelenting enemy. He made himself coffee on the gas-stove and fought his drowsiness cup by cup. He read and smoked and walked about the room. Bits of his dream, that he had forgotten, came back to him and stayed with him. And ever at the back of his mind was the certainty that he was doomed.

There was only one hope left to him. He would go away for a time. Far enough away to render a visit home in his sleep impossible. And perhaps the change of scene would strengthen him and help his frayed nerves. Afterwards it might be possible to let the house for a time on condition that the garden was not interfered with. It was one risk against another.

He went down the garden as soon as it was light and completed his work. Then he went indoors to breakfast and to announce his plans for sudden departure to Mrs. Howe, his white and twitching face amply corroborating his tale of neuralgia and want of sleep.

“Things’ll be all right,” said the woman. “I’ll ask the police to keep an eye on the house of a night. I did speak to one last night about them brutes as destroyed the rockery. If they try it again they may get a surprise.”

Keller quivered but made no sign. He went upstairs and packed his bag, and two hours later was in the train on his way to Exeter, where he proposed to stay the night. After that, Cornwall, perhaps.

He secured a room at an hotel and went for a stroll to pass the time before dinner. How happy the people in the streets seemed to be, even the poorest! All free and all sure of their freedom. They could eat and sleep and enjoy the countless trivial things that make up life. Of battle and murder and sudden death they had no thought.

The light and bustle of the dining-room gave him a little comfort. After his lonely nights it was good to know that there were people all around him, that the house would be full of them whilst he slept. He felt that he was beginning a fresh existence. In future he would live amongst a crowd.

It was late when he went upstairs, but he lay awake for a few minutes. A faint sound or two reached him from downstairs, and the movements of somebody in the next room gave him a comfortable feeling of security. With a sigh of content he fell asleep.

He was awakened by a knocking; a knocking which sounded just above the head of his bed and died away almost before he had brushed the sleep from his eyes. He looked around fearfully, and then, lighting his candle, lay listening. The noise was not repeated. He had been dreaming, but he could not remember the substance of his dream. It had been unpleasant, but vague. More than unpleasant, terrifying. Somebody had been shouting at him. _Shouting!_

He fell back with a groan. The faint hopes of the night before died within him. _He_ had been shouting and the strange noise came from the occupant of the next room. What had he said? and what had his neighbour heard?

He slept no more. From somewhere below he heard a clock toll the hours, and, tossing in his bed, wondered how many more remained to him.

Day came at last and he descended to breakfast. The hour was early and only two other tables were occupied, from one of which, between mouthfuls, a bluff-looking, elderly man eyed him curiously. He caught Keller’s eye at last and spoke.

“Better?” he inquired.

Keller tried to force his quivering lips to a smile.

“Stood it as long as I could,” said the other; “then I knocked. I thought perhaps you were delirious. Same words over and over again; sounded like ‘Mockery’ and ‘Mortal,’ ‘Mockery’ and ‘Mortal.’ You must have used them a hundred times.”

Keller finished his coffee, and, lighting a cigarette, went and sat in the lounge. He had made his bid for freedom and failed. He looked up the times of the trains to town and rang for his bill.

IV

He was back in the silent house, upon which, in the fading light of the summer evening, a great stillness seemed to have descended. The atmosphere of horror had gone and left only a sense of abiding peace. All fear had left him, and pain and remorse had gone with it. Serene and tranquil he went into the fatal room, and, opening the window, sat by it, watching the succession of shadowy tableaux that had been his life. Some of it good and some of it bad, but most of it neither good nor bad. A very ordinary life until fate had linked it for all time with that of Martle’s. He was a living man bound to a corpse with bonds that could never be severed.

It grew dark and he lit the gas and took a volume of poems from the shelves. Never before had he read with such insight and appreciation. In some odd fashion all his senses seemed to have been sharpened and refined.

He read for an hour, and then, replacing the book, went slowly upstairs. For a long time he lay in bed thinking and trying to analyse the calm and indifference which had overtaken him and, with the problem still unsolved, fell asleep.

For a time he dreamt, but of pleasant, happy things. He seemed to be filled with a greater content than he had ever known before, a content which did not leave him even when these dreams faded and he found himself back in the old one.

This time, however, it was different. He was still digging, but not in a state of frenzy and horror. He dug because something told him it was his duty to dig, and only by digging could he make reparation. And it was a matter of no surprise to him that Martle stood close by looking on. Not that Martle he had known, nor a bloody and decaying Martle, but one of grave and noble aspect. And there was a look of understanding on his face that nearly made Keller weep.

He went on digging with a sense of companionship such as he had never known before. Then suddenly, without warning, the sun blazed out of the darkness and struck him full in the face. The light was unbearable, and with a wild cry he dropped his spade and clapped his hands over his eyes. The light went, and a voice spoke to him out of the darkness.

He opened his eyes on a dim figure standing a yard or two away.

“Hope I didn’t frighten you, sir,” said the voice. “I called to you once or twice and then I guessed you were doing this in your sleep.”

“In my sleep,” repeated Keller. “Yes.”

“And a pretty mess you’ve made of it,” said the constable, with a genial chuckle. “Lord! to think of you working at it every day and then pulling it down every night. Shouted at you I did, but you wouldn’t wake.”

He turned on the flashlight that had dazzled Keller, and surveyed the ruins. Keller stood by, motionless--and waiting.

“Looks like an earthquake,” muttered the constable. He paused, and kept the light directed upon one spot. Then he stooped down and scratched away the earth with his fingers, and tugged. He stood up suddenly and turned the light on Keller, while with the other he fumbled in his pocket. He spoke in a voice cold and official.

“Are you coming quietly?” he asked.

Keller stepped towards him with both hands outstretched.

“I am coming quietly,” he said, in a low voice. “Thank God!”

Trust Money

The night-watchman set his lips and shook his head.

“You can’t learn people,” he said firmly; “it ain’t to be done. They all know better than wot you do, and the more iggernerant they are the more they are satisfied with themselves. I once wasted a whole morning telling my missus ’ow to make a steak-pudding, and arter it was done we ’ad to give it to the people next door. She’s never forgot it, and to hear ’er talk--if you didn’t know ’er--you’d think it was my fault. The way she twists things round would surprise anybody as wasn’t married.”

He gazed meditatively at a passing tug with its string of barges, and shook his head again before continuing:

“Even experience don’t learn people. One chap I know used to save ’is money in a little tin money-box. He ’ad ’arf a ounce o’ baccy a week and no beer. The box was so full o’ sixpences he was thinking of getting another, when his wife’s brother lost ’is job and didn’t get another till the box was empty.

“You’d ha’ thought that would ’ave learned ’im a lesson, but it didn’t, and he’d pretty near got another box full when ’is wife ’ad the artfulness to break her leg and ’ad to go to the seaside for a fortnight to get well. He’s saving up agin now for wot ’e calls a rainy day. He’ll get it all right, and somebody else’ll get the money.

“Sailormen never learn anything. If they did they wouldn’t be sailormen. They’re like children that never grow up. It don’t matter where they go ashore with their money, they always go back aboard agin without it.

“I remember one time when old Sam Small was ashore with Peter Russet and Ginger Dick ’aving wot they called a rest; their idea of a rest being spending ’arf the day in bed and the other ’arf leaning up agin the bar of a public-’ouse telling fairy-tales to the barmaid. They was like three twins for the fust few days, and then Sam wouldn’t ’ave nothing more to do with ’em owing to them telling the barmaid at the ‘Turk’s Head’--a very nice gal with yeller ’air and black eyes--that he ’ad got a wife and thirteen children at Melbourne.

“He walked ’ome in front of ’em as if they wasn’t there, and when ’e shut the front door he seemed to ’ave the same idea. Ginger noticed it most--being just behind ’im. They ’ad words about it when they got upstairs, and Sam told ’em plain that he never wanted to see their faces agin; not even if they washed ’em.

“He purtended to be asleep while they was dressing next morning. His eyes was screwed up tight, and it didn’t seem as if anything could open ’em, till Ginger said ’e thought he ’ad passed away in ’is sleep and asked Peter to get a pin and make sure. Sam woke up then, and, arter he ’ad finished speaking, Ginger and Peter said they never wanted to see _his_ face agin.

“They went off by theirselves, and arter a time Sam got up and went off by ’imself. He didn’t see anything of Peter or Ginger at all that day, but from wot the barmaid ’ad to say about ’is grandchildren ’e found they ’ad spent a lot o’ time drinking beer and telling more lies at the ‘Turk’s Head.’

“He sat up in bed and spoke to ’em about it when they came in that night, but they wouldn’t listen to ’im. They said that ’is troubles didn’t concern them and they’d be thankful if he’d take ’em somewhere else.

“‘We’ve done with you,’ ses Ginger.

“‘For ever,’ ses Peter. ‘And my advice to you, Sam, is to leave off afore you bursts a blood-vessel. Anybody might think the ’ouse was on fire.’

“Sam didn’t speak to them at all arter that and they didn’t speak to ’im, but they ’ad a great deal to say about ’im to each other when ’e was in the room. It was wot Ginger called a nasty subjeck, but they never seemed to get tired of it.

“Sam ’ad made up ’is mind to leave ’em and go off on his own, and then ’e came ’ome one night so full of excitement ’e forgot all about it. He came into the room like a schoolboy and gave ’em such a nice smile they thought he ’ad lost ’is reason. Then he done a little dance all by ’imself in the middle of the room and sat down on ’is bed and laughed.

“‘I’ve come into a forchin,’ he ses to Peter as the two of ’em stood staring at ’im. ‘Leastways, I shall to-morrer night.’

“Ginger coughed. But not a disagreeable cough, mind you.

“‘Come into a forchin?’ he ses. ‘’Ow?’

“Old Sam didn’t seem to hear ’im. He sat on his bed all rosy with smiles and looking straight at the chest o’ drawers as though ’e saw a pile of gold on top of it.

“‘And I owe it all to you and Peter, Ginger,’ he ses, bending down to undo ’is boots. ‘If you ’adn’t been misbe’aved, and carrying on like a couple of bald-faced monkeys purtending to be men, I shouldn’t ’ave gone off on my own, and if I ’adn’t ha’ gone off on my own I shouldn’t ’ave met ’em.’

“‘Met who?’ ses Ginger, who was too excited to take any notice of wot he ’ad said about monkeys.

“‘Two o’ the best,’ ses Sam; ‘two gentlemen whose on’y objeck in life is to do good to their fellow-creechers. They told me so theirselves.’

“‘Did you stand ’em drinks?’ ses Peter, catching Ginger’s eye.

“‘You’ve got a low mind, Peter,’ ses Sam, shaking his ’ead; ‘you ought to be more careful who you go about with. I’ve ’ad six drinks to-night, or maybe more, and I didn’t pay for one of ’em. They wouldn’t let me.’

“‘You don’t always try very ’ard,’ ses Peter, who was beginning to lose his temper.

“‘Wot ’ave they got to do with your forchin?’ ses Ginger.

“‘It’s coming through them,’ ses Sam, ‘and if you and Peter was diff’rent, if you was on’y ’arf men instead of--of being wot you are, I would get forchins for you too. There’s plenty more where mine’s coming from.’

“‘Where’s that?’ ses Ginger, trying to speak off-hand.

“Sam turned deaf agin, and was just going to get into bed when Ginger stopped ’im gentle-like and turning down the bed-clo’es took out a ’air-brush, an old horse-shoe, a lump o’ soap, and a few other things wot ’im and Peter ’ad put there.

“‘The ’orse-shoe was for luck, Sam,’ he ses, with a smile. ‘P’r’aps it’s through that you got your forchin.’

“Sam looked at ’im as if he was looking at a dust-bin with a bad smell, and then without a word he got into bed and, putting his ’ead on the piller, shut ’is eyes and went straight off to sleep. Ginger woke up the next morning dreaming that the ’ouse was on fire. The room was full o’ smoke, but the moment ’e got ’is eyes open he saw that it was made by Sam, who was sitting up in bed smoking an enormous cigar with a red-and-gold band stuck on it. He purtended not to see that Ginger was looking at ’im, and the airs and graces he see fit to give ’imself with that cigar nearly made Ginger choke. Peter Russet woke up then, and arter he ’ad sniffed and sniffed as if ’e couldn’t believe his nose, ’e asked Sam in a nasty voice where he ’ad pinched it from.

“‘It was give to me by one o’ the gentlemen I was speaking of,’ ses Sam, knocking the ash off down ’is neck by mistake. ‘He’s got a gold case full of ’em.’

“‘Gold case?’ ses Ginger.

“‘With diamonds on it,’ ses Sam. ‘He said ’e would ’ave liked to give it to me, on’y it was a birthday present from ’is little boy wot died of whooping-cough.’

“Ginger scratched his ’ead, and ’e kept on scratching it till Sam said as ’ow it was vulgar, and asked ’im to go out of the room to do it.

“‘But who are they?’ ses Peter Russet, arter Ginger ’ad quieted down a bit.

“‘Two gentlemen,’ ses Sam; ‘two gentlemen wot knows another gentleman when they sees ’im.’

“He laid down on ’is back and blew smoke up to the ceiling, until Ginger and Peter sat down on Ginger’s bed and tried to swaller their pride and ask him to tell ’em all about it. Ginger tried fust, but he ’adn’t swallered enough, and when Sam sat up in bed and told ’im part of wot he thought of ’im, Peter took his side and said that if Ginger ’ad on’y been born without a mouth it ’ud be much better for ’imself and everybody else. He gave Ginger a poke in the ribs with ’is elbow to keep ’im quiet, and said that if anybody deserved to ’ave a forchin given ’im it was Sam Small.

“‘One o’ the best,’ he ses, giving Ginger another poke with ’is elbow.

“‘We all ’ave our faults, Peter,’ ses Sam, with a kind smile, ‘else we should all be angels.’

“‘There ain’t no fat angels,’ ses Ginger, pushing Peter’s elbow away. ‘They wouldn’t look nice. All the angels I’ve seen in pikchers ’ave got beautiful figgers.’

“Peter gave it up then, and arter telling Ginger in a whisper wot a fool ’e was, he picked up ’is trousers off of the floor and began to dress. Neither of ’em took any more notice o’ Sam, and arter laying still for a time watching ’em wash and telling Ginger that the soap wouldn’t bite ’im he began talking to ’em of ’is own free will.

“He told ’em of a nice, comfortable little pub in a turning off the Mile End Road wot he ’ad found on the evening before. A little pub--clean as a new pin, and as quiet and respectable as a front-parlour. Everybody calling the landlady ‘Ma,’ and the landlady calling most of ’em by their Christian names and asking arter their families. There was two poll parrots in cages, with not a bad word between ’em--except once when a man played the cornet outside--and a canary that almost sang its little ’art out.

“‘Wot about the two gentlemen that took a fancy to you?’ ses Ginger.

“Sam looked at ’im for a moment as if he was surprised at ’im speaking to ’im.

“‘There was on’y one at fust,’ he ses at last, very slow, ‘a thin gentleman with a little black moustache, a beautiful white collar, and a silk necktie with a gold pin in it. He was drinking port wine when I went in, and arter looking me up and down, just for a moment, ’e asked me to ’ave one with ’im.’

“‘Wot for?’ ses Ginger.

“‘He told me arterwards,’ ses Sam. ‘He said as ’ow I was the living image of a cousin of ’is wot ’ad lost his life at sea--saving others. He said at fust he thought I was ’is ghost. There was on’y me and ’im in that bar, and the tears came into his eyes when ’e spoke of ’im.’

“‘But wot about the forchin, Sam?’ ses Ginger, arter waiting a bit. ‘Wot’s the ugly cousin got to do with it?’

“Sam sat up in bed and looked at ’im. Then ’e snapped his lips tight as if ’e was never going to open ’em agin and laid back on the piller.

“‘Go on, Sam, old man,’ ses Peter Russet; ‘if Ginger had ’arf your looks ’e wouldn’t be so bad-tempered. He’s got a jealous dispersition. You was just telling up about ’ow the tears came into ’is eyes.’

“‘We ’ad a long talk,’ ses Sam, arter looking very ’ard at Ginger, ’and arter standing me another glass o’ port wine ’e began to tell me all about ’is troubles. He ’ad got hard up through ’elping a friend, and ’e didn’t know where to turn for money. He went into that little pub with fourpence ha’penny in ’is pocket and went out with five ’undred pounds.’

“‘’Ow?’ ses Peter and Ginger, both speaking at the same time.

“‘While ’e was ’aving a fit of the miserables in there and wondering wot ’e was going to do,’ ses Sam, in a solemn voice, ‘the door opened and a gentleman came in. A gentleman wot goes about looking for feller-creechers to do good to. That was ’ow the gentleman as was standing me port wine got ’is five ’undred pounds.’

“‘Did you see it?’ ses Ginger, in a nasty voice.

“‘I see more than that, Ginger,’ ses Sam, speaking very low; ‘I see enough money last night to make the three of us gentlemen for life. And Mr. Cooper--that’s the gentleman wot ’as it--goes about giving it away. He gave the other gentleman, Mr. Jackson by name, five ’undred pounds for trusting ’im. He got talking to ’im and told ’im that a friend of ’is had left ’im a forchin, and as he was a rich man and didn’t want it ’e was giving it away. But on’y to people that deserved it, mind yer. And ’e said that the people ’e could trust was them as trusted others.’

“‘I can’t make ’ead or tail of it,’ ses Ginger.

“‘He took a good ’ard look at Mr. Jackson,’ ses Sam, ’and then ’e put a thousand pounds into his ’and and told ’im to go for a walk with it while ’e waited for ’im in the pub. When Mr. Jackson came back he asked ’im whether _he_ could trust _’im_, and Mr. Jackson, not ’aving any money, trusted ’im with ’is gold watch and chain, two rings, and a tie-pin. When ’e came back he patted ’im on the back and gave ’im five ’undred pounds. Mr. Jackson said ’e cried like a child.’

“‘’Cos he ’adn’t gone off with the thousand pounds, d’ye mean?’ ses Ginger staring.

“‘While he was telling me this,’ ses Sam to Peter Russet, ‘who should come in but Mr. Cooper ’imself--a short, fat gentleman with blue eyes like a innercent child’s and one o’ the kindest faces I ever see. It done me good to look at ’im. He was a bit stand-offish at fust, but arter a time we was all ’aving drinks together like brothers. And then Mr. Jackson took ’im a bit to one side and whispered to ’im, and I could see plain that ’e was talking about me.’

“‘Cut it short,’ ses Ginger, fidgeting.

“‘I ain’t talking to you,’ ses Sam. ‘Ten minutes arterwards _I_ was going for a walk with a thousand pounds in my pocket in banknotes, _and_ the gold cigar-case. I couldn’t trust ’im when I came back as I ’ad on’y got four bob in my pocket, but to-night I’m going to meet ’im agin and trust ’im with all I’ve got. And Mr. Jackson told me ’e wouldn’t be surprised if I got a thousand pounds. He said Mr. Cooper told ’im that he ’ad took a partikler fancy to me.’

“I can’t make ’ead or tail of it,’ ses Ginger, ‘but mark my words, Sam, there’s a catch in it somewhere. Nobody ’ud take a fancy to you unless they was going to get something out of it.’

“Sam didn’t take no notice of ’im. He got up and dressed ’imself, and when they asked ’im wot he was going to do till evening, he told ’em that was ’is business. Peter Russet and Ginger spent the day together, both of ’em wondering, if Sam did get a forchin, whether they couldn’t get one the same way. At last, arter they had ’ad a few pints apiece, they made up their minds to hang about till Sam came ’ome and then follow ’im, unbeknownst, to the pub.

“They didn’t wait for ’im in their room ’cos they thought ’e might tumble to it, and he was so late turning up that they began to think ’e wasn’t coming ’ome fust arter all. Then about ha’-past six they see ’im come round the corner and go straight into the ’ouse.

“It seemed ages afore he came out agin, and when ’e did they see that he ’ad got ’is best clo’es on and a new cap. They let ’im get a good start, and then follered in a drizzling rain which made the Minories and Whitechapel full of umbrellas that kept getting in between them and Sam, especially one that nearly put Ginger’s eye out. It wasn’t till he ’ad turned into a quiet street off the Mile End Road that they felt sure of ’im.

“They follered, very careful, and then at last they saw ’im stop at the door of a quiet little pub at the corner of a dark little street. There wasn’t a soul about, and, arter stopping a moment to pull ’is cap straight, Sam pushed opened the door and stepped inside. Ginger and Peter, arter pinching each other’s arms in their excitement, stood in a doorway a little way off and waited.

“‘I s’pose he’s drinking glasses and glasses o’ port wine while we’re out ’ere in the wet,’ ses Ginger, arter about ten minutes.

“‘Why don’t they make ’aste?’ ses Peter Russet. ‘I believe there’s a catch in it somewhere.’

“‘_H’sh!_’ ses Ginger, all of a sudden.

“They drew back into the doorway and just poked their ’eads out as they saw the pub door open and a man come out. He stood a moment waving his ’and to Sam, who they could see standing near the bar, and then walked off slow down the road.

“‘Come on,’ ses Ginger. ‘Let’s see where he goes.’

“They followed as quiet as they could, and then all at once they found themselves going quicker and quicker to keep up with ’im. Twice ’e went round corners, and when they got round they found ’e was ever so far in front.

“‘He’s been running,’ ses Ginger. ‘Come on! He’s going off with Sam’s money!’

“He started running as ’ard as he could, with Peter just be’ind, and the man in front, wot ’ad begun to run ’imself, left off--and began to walk agin.

“‘Wot d’ye want?’ he ses, as Ginger caught ’old of ’im, and afore Ginger could answer ’im he gave ’im a fearful bang in the face and a kick in the leg that pretty near broke it.

“Ginger gave two grunts, one for the smack in the face and the other for the kick, and then ’e sailed in at ’im like a madman, and knocked ’im all over the place. His last punch got ’im fair on the chin, and ’e went down in the gutter like a lamb that ’as been pole-axed, and hit ’is ’ead on the kerb.

“‘You’ve killed ’im,’ ses Peter, staring.

“‘Good job, too,’ ses Ginger, thinking of ’is pore leg. ‘Come on, let’s get Sam’s money back.’

“Peter looked be’ind ’im, and then, seeing there was nobody about, ’elped Ginger to empty the chap’s pockets. In less than a minute they ’ad picked ’im as clean as a bone and was hurrying off, Peter ’olding a watch and chain in his ’and and Ginger stuffing things into ’is pockets and saying that it wasn’t robbing to rob a thief. Especially a thief wot kicked.

“They lost their way for a bit, but Ginger didn’t mind. He said the more they got lost the ’arder it would be for anybody to find ’em, but they got ’ome at last and, arter shutting the bedroom door careful, emptied out their pockets on to the bed and stood staring at each other.

“‘_We’ve_ got the forchin, Peter,’ ses Ginger. ‘Count it agin to make sure.’

“‘Twenty-seven pounds fourteen shillings and threepence,’ ses Peter, ‘two watches and chains--that one is Sam’s----’

“‘One clasp knife,’ ses Ginger, ‘a bit o’ lead-pencil, a gold cigar-case made o’ something else, and a bundle of imitation banknotes. That’s wot ’e trusted Sam with, I expect, Peter.’

“‘I wonder ’ow much of the twenty-seven pounds is Sam’s?’ ses Peter Russet.

“‘I forgot that,’ ses Ginger. ‘He ought to pay something for that kick on the leg I got, though.’

“Peter Russet, wot ’ad seen the leg, nodded. ‘I wouldn’t ’ave ’ad that kick for ten pounds,’ he ses, in a kind voice. ‘If you ’ave to lose your leg, Ginger, I wouldn’t have ’ad it for fifty.’

“Ginger ’ad another look at his leg, and then, to prevent losing it, ’e bathed it with a little cold water and put a bit o’ butter on it. Arter which they went out as far as the Town of Ramsgate public-’ouse to drink each other’s ’ealths.

“It took ’em a long time, both of ’em being very pleased with each other, but at last, after the landlord ’ad been holding the door open for ’em till ’is jaws ached, they went back ’ome. They both of ’em thought it was earlier than wot it was, so they was quite surprised when they found Sam ’ad got ’ome before them and gone to bed.

“‘Did--did you get the forchin, Sam?’ ses Ginger, going over to the wash-stand and sousing ’is face with cold water.

“Sam gave a smile that made ’im look as if he was ’aving a fit.

“‘No, Ginger,’ he ses, very soft. ‘I remembered your advice, old pal.’

“‘Advice?’ ses Ginger, staring.

“‘You said as ’ow there might be a catch in it,’ ses Sam, ’and knowing wot a clever ’ead-piece you’ve got, Ginger, I thought it over and made up my mind not to trust ’im.’

“Peter Russet made a noise that an elephant with the hiccups might ha’ been proud of, and then Ginger went over and led ’im across to the wash-stand.

“‘You ’old your noise,’ he ses, pushing Peter’s face into the water. ‘You didn’t lose your money arter all, then?’ he ses, turning to Sam.

“‘No,’ ses Sam. ‘At least, not that way, but arter I left the pub to come ’ome and see you and Peter, I--I ’ad a misforchin.’

“‘Misforchin?’ ses Ginger, staring at ’im.

“‘I--I ’ad my p-pocket picked,’ ses Sam, stuttering.

“Peter Russet made another noise afore Ginger could stop ’im, and then they both stood up staring at Sam.

“‘A lady asked me the time,’ ses Sam, shutting his eyes so as ’e couldn’t see ’em, ‘and while I was telling ’er one of ’er pals come up and choked me, and two others helped themselves out o’ my pockets.’

“Ginger looked at Peter--just in time. Then he looked at Sam again.

“‘’Ow much was it?’ he ses.

“‘Eleven pounds and my watch and chain,’ ses Sam; ‘if it wasn’t for seven shillings they didn’t find, in another pocket, I should be starving. ’Ow long do you think a man could live on seven shillings?’

“‘Me or you?’ ses Ginger, considering.

“‘Me,’ ses pore Sam.

“‘Week or ten days--with care,’ ses Ginger.

“Sam thanked ’im, but not very loud, and arter saying ’e didn’t care wot become of ’im and he didn’t suppose ’is pals did neither, he punched ’is piller as if it was somebody ’e didn’t like and laid down and shut ’is eyes.

“He was up fust next morning counting ’is seven shillings over and over agin, and Peter and Ginger purtending not to notice it. They didn’t see ’im agin till night time ’cos, when Peter spoke to Ginger about giving ’im his eleven pounds back, Ginger said ’e ought to be made to suffer a little for ’is foolishness fust, to be a lesson to ’im.

“‘We’re saving it up for ’im,’ he ses. ‘While we’ve got it he can’t be spending it.’

“‘Or trusting people with it,’ ses Peter.

“Both of ’em felt quite kind to Sam, thinking ’ow good they was going to be to ’im, but Sam ’ardly spoke a word to ’em and was up and out next morning a’most afore they ’ad got their eyes open. Twice they came back to their room that day to see whether he ’ad turned up, and when night-time came and ’e was still missing, Peter Russet said as ’ow he was getting uneasy about ’im.”

“‘Wot’s ’e doing?’ he ses. ‘He ain’t got any money to go to pubs with, and there’s nowhere else for ’im to go.’

“They sat on their beds smoking and drinking some whisky they ’ad brought in with ’em, and Ginger was just helping ’imself to ’is third glass when ’e put the bottle down and sat listening.

“‘Somebody coming upstairs,’ he ses.

“‘He’s a long time about it,’ ses Peter. ‘He ’as been sitting in a pub.’

“Somebody was coming up the stairs so slow it seemed as if ’e would never get to the top, and the banisters was creaking as if they would break. Then they ’eard a shuffling on the landing, and as the door opened they both jumped up and called out at the same time:

“‘Lor’ lumme!’ ses Ginger. ‘’Ave you been run over, Sam?’

“Sam looked at ’im for a moment and then ’e gave a stagger and tumbled on to ’is bed.

“‘Mr. Cooper!’ he ses, in a faint voice.

“‘Wot about ’im?’ ses Ginger.

“‘He done it,’ ses Sam, ‘’im and ’is pals. I went round to the pub to see if I could find ’im, thinking ’e might ’ave been took ill the other night, and this is wot I got. He said I’d robbed _’im_. _Me!_ He goes off with my money and then ’arf kills me. Wot for? That’s wot I want to know.’

“‘It’s a mystery,’ ses Ginger, shaking his ’ead.

“‘I thought you said you didn’t give ’im the money,’ ses Peter.

“Sam didn’t answer ’im, and arter drinking a glass o’ whisky Ginger gave ’im he ’eld his ’ead in his ’ands and said ’e thought ’e was dying. When they offered to undress ’im he said ’e didn’t think it was worth while, but they got ’is clo’es off arter a bit and put ’im into bed.

“‘Wot did ’e do it _for_?’ he ses, arter he had ’ad two more whiskies. ‘D’ye think ’e’s mad? His ’ead was all bandaged up.’

“Ginger shook his ’ead. ‘It’s a mystery,’ he ses again.

“He went acrost the room and came back with something tied up in a handkerchief and put it on Sam’s bed. Sam looked at it a moment and then ’e picked it up and out tumbled eleven pounds, a watch and chain, and a imitation gold cigar-case.

“‘He’s fainted,’ ses Peter Russet.”

Kitchen Company

Practice makes perfect, and when Mrs. Brampton, from her seat by the window, announced the approach of the Captain, Mr. Leonard Scott kissed Miss Brampton in the small hall and made his usual dignified exit to the kitchen. To leave by the side-entrance was the best way of avoiding trouble with a man who was always looking out for it. Mr. Scott bestowed a nod upon the smiling young mistress of the kitchen, and with his hand upon the back-door waited to hear the Captain at the front.

“One o’ these days,” began Clara, who loved to dwell upon the gruesome, “he’ll come----”

She broke off and listened. “He’s coming,” she said, in a thrilling whisper. “He’s coming the back way.”

Mr. Scott started, hesitated, and was lost.

“Fly!” exclaimed Clara, pointing by accident to the ceiling.

The young man scowled at her, and before he had time to alter his expression found himself gazing at the burly form and inflamed visage of Captain Brampton.

“Well?” barked the latter. “What are you doing in my kitchen? Eh? What have you got to say for yourself?”

Mr. Scott coughed and tried to collect his thoughts. In the front room Mrs. Brampton and her daughter eyed each other in silent consternation. Then, in response to a peremptory bellow, Mrs. Brampton rose and made a trembling passage to the kitchen.

“What does this mean?” demanded the Captain in grating accents.

His wife stood looking helplessly from one to the other, and, instead of answering the question, passed it on.

“What does this mean, Clara?” she demanded.

“Eh?” said that astonished maiden. “What does what mean?”