Chapter IV: Part 4

“'Little-joke-o' mine-Ginger,' ses Sam, when they caught 'im. 'I was going to tell you about it to-night. It ain't often I get the chance of a joke agin you Ginger; you're too sharp for a old man like me.'

“Ginger Dick didn't say anything. He kept 'old o' Sam's arm with one hand and the lodger's neck with the other, and marched 'em off to his lodgings.

“He shut the door when 'e got in, and arter Peter 'ad lit the candle they took hold o' Sam and went through 'im, and arter trying to find pockets where he 'adn't got any, they took off 'is belt and found Ginger's watch, seventeen pounds five shillings, and a few coppers.

“'We 'ad over nine quid each, me and Peter,' ses Ginger. 'Where's the rest?'

“'It's all I've got left,' ses Sam; 'every ha'penny.'

“He 'ad to undress and even take 'is boots off afore they'd believe 'im, and then Ginger took 'is watch and he ses to Peter, 'Lemme see; 'arf of seventeen pounds is eight pounds ten; 'arf of five shillings is 'arf-a-crown; and 'arf of fourpence is twopence.'

“'What about me Ginger old pal?' ses Sam, in a kind voice. 'We must divide it into threes.'

“'Threes?' ses Ginger, staring at'im. 'Whaffor?'

“''Cos part of it's mine,' ses Sam, struggling 'ard to be perlite. 'I've paid for everything for the last ten days, ain't I?'

“'Yes,' ses Ginger. 'You 'ave, and I thank you for it.'

“'So do I,' ses Peter Russet. 'Hearty I do.'

“'It was your kind-'artedness,' ses Ginger, grinning like mad. 'You gave it to us, and we wouldn't dream of giving it to you back.'

“'Nothin' o' the kind,' ses Sam, choking.

“'Oh, yes you did,' ses Ginger, 'and you didn't forget to tell people neither. You told everybody. Now it's our turn.'

“He opened the door and kicked the lodger out. Leastways, he would 'ave kicked 'im, but the chap was too quick for 'im. And then 'e came back, and, putting his arm round Peter's waist, danced a waltz round the room with 'im, while pore old Sam got on to his bed to be out of the way. They danced for nearly 'arf-an-hour, and then they undressed and sat on Peter's bed and talked. They talked in whispers at fust, but at last Sam 'eard Peter say:--

“'Threepence for 'is brekfuss; sevenpence for 'is dinner; threepence for 'is tea; penny for beer and a penny for bacca. 'Ow much is that, Ginger?'

“'One bob,' ses Ginger.

“Peter counted up to 'imself. 'I make it more than that, old pal,' he ses, when he 'ad finished.

“'Do you?' ses Ginger, getting up. 'Well, he won't; not if he counts it twenty times over he won't. Good-night, Peter. 'Appy dreams.'”

DUAL CONTROL

“Never say 'die,' Bert,” said Mr. Culpepper, kindly; “I like you, and so do most other people who know what's good for 'em; and if Florrie don't like you she can keep single till she does.”

Mr. Albert Sharp thanked him.

“Come in more oftener,” said Mr. Culpepper. “If she don't know a steady young man when she sees him, it's her mistake.”

“Nobody could be steadier than what I am,” sighed Mr. Sharp.

Mr. Culpepper nodded. “The worst of it is, girls don't like steady young men,” he said, rumpling his thin grey hair; “that's the silly part of it.”

“But you was always steady, and Mrs. Culpepper married you,” said the young man.

Mr. Culpepper nodded again. “She thought I was, and that came to the same thing,” he said, composedly. “And it ain't for me to say, but she had an idea that I was very good-looking in them days. I had chestnutty hair. She burnt a piece of it only the other day she'd kept for thirty years.”

“Burnt it? What for?” inquired Mr. Sharp.

“Words,” said the other, lowering his voice. “When I want one thing nowadays she generally wants another; and the things she wants ain't the things I want.”

Mr. Sharp shook his head and sighed again.

“You ain't talkative enough for Florrie, you know,” said Mr. Culpepper, regarding him.

“I can talk all right as a rule,” retorted Mr. Sharp. “You ought to hear me at the debating society; but you can't talk to a girl who doesn't talk back.”

“You're far too humble,” continued the other. “You should cheek her a bit now and then. Let 'er see you've got some spirit. Chaff 'er.”

“That's no good,” said the young man, restlessly. “I've tried it. Only the other day I called her 'a saucy little kipper,' and the way she went on, anybody would have thought I'd insulted her. Can't see a joke, I s'pose. Where is she now?”

“Upstairs,” was the reply.

“That's because I'm here,” said Mr. Sharp. “If it had been Jack Butler she'd have been down fast enough.”

“It couldn't be him,” said Mr. Culpepper, “because I won't have 'im in the house. I've told him so; I've told her so, and I've told 'er aunt so. And if she marries without my leave afore she's thirty she loses the seven hundred pounds 'er father left her. You've got plenty of time--ten years.”

Mr. Sharp, sitting with his hands between his knees, gazed despondently at the floor. “There's a lot o' girls would jump at me,” he remarked. “I've only got to hold up my little finger and they'd jump.”

“That's because they've got sense,” said Mr. Culpepper. “They've got the sense to prefer steadiness and humdrumness to good looks and dash. A young fellow like you earning thirty-two-and-six a week can do without good looks, and if I've told Florrie so once I have told her fifty times.”

“Looks are a matter of taste,” said Mr. Sharp, morosely. “Some of them girls I was speaking about just now--”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Culpepper, hastily. “Now, look here; you go on a different tack. Take a glass of ale like a man or a couple o' glasses; smoke a cigarette or a pipe. Be like other young men. Cut a dash, and don't be a namby-pamby. After you're married you can be as miserable as you like.”

Mr. Sharp, after a somewhat lengthy interval, thanked him.

“It's my birthday next Wednesday,” continued Mr. Culpepper, regarding him benevolently; “come round about seven, and I'll ask you to stay to supper. That'll give you a chance. Anybody's allowed to step a bit over the mark on birthdays, and you might take a glass or two and make a speech, and be so happy and bright that they'd 'ardly know you. If you want an excuse for calling, you could bring me a box of cigars for my birthday.”

“Or come in to wish you 'Many Happy Returns of the Day,'” said the thrifty Mr. Sharp.

“And don't forget to get above yourself,” said Mr. Culpepper, regarding him sternly; “in a gentlemanly way, of course. Have as many glasses as you like--there's no stint about me.”

“If it ever comes off,” said Mr. Sharp, rising--“if I get her through you, you shan't have reason to repent it. I'll look after that.”

Mr. Culpepper, whose feelings were a trifle ruffled, said that he would “look after it too.” He had a faint idea that, even from his own point of view, he might have made a better selection for his niece's hand.

Mr. Sharp smoked his first cigarette the following morning, and, encouraged by the entire absence of any after-effects, purchased a pipe, which was taken up by a policeman the same evening for obstructing the public footpath in company with a metal tobacco-box three parts full.

In the matter of ale he found less difficulty. Certainly the taste was unpleasant, but, treated as medicine and gulped down quickly, it was endurable. After a day or two he even began to be critical, and on Monday evening went so far as to complain of its flatness to the wide-eyed landlord of the “Royal George.”

“Too much cellar-work,” he said, as he finished his glass and made for the door.

“Too much! 'Ere, come 'ere,” said the landlord, thickly. “I want to speak to you.”

The expert shook his head, and, passing out into, the street, changed colour as he saw Miss Garland approaching. In a blundering fashion he clutched at his hat and stammered out a “Good evening.”

Miss Garland returned the greeting and, instead of passing on, stopped and, with a friendly smile, held out her hand. Mr. Sharp shook it convulsively.

“You are just the man I want to see,” she exclaimed. “Aunt and I have been talking about you all the afternoon.”

Mr. Sharp said “Really!”

“But I don't want uncle to see us,” pursued Miss Garland, in the low tones of confidence. “Which way shall we go?”

Mr. Sharp's brain reeled. All ways were alike to him in such company. He walked beside her like a man in a dream.

“We want to give him a lesson,” said the girl, presently. “A lesson that he will remember.”

“Him?” said the young man.

“Uncle,” explained the girl. “It's a shocking thing, a wicked thing, to try and upset a steady young man like you. Aunt is quite put out about it, and I feel the same as she does.”

“But,” gasped the astonished Mr. Sharp, “how did you?”

“Aunt heard him,” said Miss Garland. “She was just going into the room when she caught a word or two, and she stayed outside and listened. You don't know what a lot she thinks of you.”

Mr. Sharp's eyes opened wider than ever. “I thought she didn't like me,” he said, slowly.

“Good gracious!” said Miss Garland. “Whatever could have put such an idea as that into your head? Of course, aunt isn't always going to let uncle see that she agrees with him. Still, as if anybody could help--” she murmured to herself.

“Eh?” said the young man, in a trembling voice.

“Nothing.”

Miss Garland walked along with averted face; Mr. Sharp, his pulses bounding, trod on air beside her.

“I thought,” he said, at last “I thought that Jack Butler was a favourite of hers?”

“Jack Butler!” said the girl, in tones of scornful surprise. “The idea! How blind men are; you're all alike, I think. You can't see two inches in front of you. She's as pleased as possible that you are coming on Wednesday; and so am--”

Mr. Sharp caught his breath. “Yes?” he murmured.

“Let's go down here,” said Miss Garland quickly; “down by the river. And I'll tell you what we want you to do.”

She placed her hand lightly on his arm, and Mr. Sharp, with a tremulous smile, obeyed. The smile faded gradually as he listened, and an expression of anxious astonishment took its place. He shook his head as she proceeded, and twice ventured a faint suggestion that she was only speaking in jest. Convinced at last, against his will, he walked on in silent consternation.

“But,” he said at last, as Miss Garland paused for breath, “your uncle would never forgive me. He'd never let me come near the house again.”

“Aunt will see to that,” said the girl, confidently. “But, of course, if you don't wish to please me--”

She turned away, and Mr. Sharp, plucking up spirit, ventured to take her hand and squeeze it. A faint, a very faint, squeeze in return decided him.

“It will come all right afterwards,” said Miss Garland, “especially with the hold it will give aunt over him.”

“I hope so,” said the young man. “If not, I shall be far--farther off than ever.”

Miss Garland blushed and, turning her head, gazed steadily at the river.

“Trust me,” she said at last. “Me and auntie.”

Mr. Sharp said that so long as he pleased her nothing else mattered, and, in the seventh heaven of delight, paced slowly along the towpath by her side.

“And you mustn't mind what auntie and I say to you,” said the girl, continuing her instructions. “We must keep up appearances, you know; and if we seem to be angry, you must remember we are only pretending.”

Mr. Sharp, with a tender smile, said that he understood perfectly.

“And now I had better go,” said Florrie, returning the smile. “Uncle might see us together, or somebody else might see us and tell him. Good-bye.”

She shook hands and went off, stopping three times to turn and wave her hand. In a state of bewildered delight Mr. Sharp continued his stroll, rehearsing, as he went, the somewhat complicated and voluminous instructions she had given him.

By Wednesday evening he was part-perfect, and, in a state of mind divided between nervousness and exaltation, set out for Mr. Culpepper's. He found that gentleman, dressed in his best, sitting in an easy-chair with his hands folded over a fancy waistcoat of startling design, and, placing a small box of small cigars on his knees, wished him the usual “Happy Returns.” The entrance of the ladies, who seemed as though they had just come off the ice, interrupted Mr. Culpepper's thanks.

“Getting spoiled, that's what I am,” he remarked, playfully. “See this waistcoat? My old Aunt Elizabeth sent it this morning.”

He leaned back in his chair and glanced down in warm approval. “The missis gave me a pipe, and Florrie gave me half a pound of tobacco. And I bought a bottle of port wine myself, for all of us.”

He pointed to a bottle that stood on the supper-table, and, the ladies retiring to the kitchen to bring in the supper, rose and placed chairs. A piece of roast beef was placed before him, and, motioning Mr. Sharp to a seat opposite Florrie, he began to carve.

“Just a nice comfortable party,” he said, genially, as he finished. “Help yourself to the ale, Bert.”

Mr. Sharp, ignoring the surprise on the faces of the ladies, complied, and passed the bottle to Mr. Culpepper. They drank to each other, and again a flicker of surprise appeared on the faces of Mrs. Culpepper and her niece. Mr. Culpepper, noticing it, shook his head waggishly at Mr. Sharp.

“He drinks it as if he likes it,” he remarked.

“I do,” asserted Mr. Sharp, and, raising his glass, emptied it, and resumed the attack on his plate. Mr. Culpepper unscrewed the top of another bottle, and the reckless Mr. Sharp, after helping himself, made a short and feeling speech, in which he wished Mr. Culpepper long life and happiness. “If you ain't happy with Mrs. Culpepper,” he concluded, gallantly, “you ought to be.”

Mr. Culpepper nodded and went on eating in silence until, the keen edge of his appetite having been taken off, he put down his knife and fork and waxed sentimental.

“Been married over thirty years,” he said, slowly, with a glance at his wife, “and never regretted it.”

“Who hasn't?” inquired Mr. Sharp.

“Why, me,” returned the surprised Mr. Culpepper.

Mr. Sharp, who had just raised his glass, put it down again and smiled. It was a faint smile, but it seemed to affect his host unfavourably.

“What are you smiling at?” he demanded.

“Thoughts,” said Mr. Sharp, exchanging a covert glance with Florrie. “Something you told me the other day.”

Mr. Culpepper looked bewildered. “I'll give you a penny for them thoughts,” he said, with an air of jocosity.

Mr. Sharp shook his head. “Money couldn't buy 'em,” he said, with owlish solemnity, “espec--especially after the good supper you're giving me.”

“Bert,” said Mr. Culpepper, uneasily, as his wife sat somewhat erect “Bert, it's my birthday, and I don't grudge nothing to nobody; but go easy with the beer. You ain't used to it, you know.”

“What's the matter with the beer?” inquired Mr. Sharp. “It tastes all right--what there is of it.”

“It ain't the beer; it's you,” explained Mr. Culpepper.

Mr. Sharp stared at him. “Have I said anything I oughtn't to?” he inquired.

Mr. Culpepper shook his head, and, taking up a fork and spoon, began to serve a plum-pudding that Miss Garland had just placed on the table.

“What was it you said I was to be sure and not tell Mrs. Culpepper?” inquired Mr. Sharp, dreamily. “I haven't said that, have I?”

“No!” snapped the harassed Mr. Culpepper, laying down the fork and spoon and regarding him ferociously. “I mean, there wasn't anything. I mean, I didn't say so. You're raving.”

“If I did say it, I'm sorry,” persisted Mr. Sharp. “I can't say fairer than that, can I?”

“You're all right,” said Mr. Culpepper, trying, but in vain, to exchange a waggish glance with his wife.

“I didn't say it?” inquired Mr. Sharp.

“No,” said Mr. Culpepper, still smiling in a wooden fashion.

“I mean the other thing?” said Mr. Sharp, in a thrilling whisper.

“Look here,” exclaimed the overwrought Mr. Culpepper; “why not eat your pudding, and leave off talking nonsense? Nobody's listening to you.”

“Speak for yourself,” said his wife, tartly. “I like to hear Mr. Sharp talk. What was it he told you not to tell me?”

Mr. Sharp eyed her mistily. “I--I can't tell you,” he said, slowly.

“Why not?” asked Mrs. Culpepper, coaxingly.

“Because it--it would make your hair stand on end,” said the industrious Mr. Sharp.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Culpepper, sharply.

“He said it would,” said Mr. Sharp, indicating his host with his spoon, “and he ought--to know-- Who's that kicking me under the table?”

Mr. Culpepper, shivering with wrath and dread, struggled for speech. “You'd better get home, Bert,” he said at last. “You're not yourself. There's nobody kicking you under the table. You don't know what you are saying. You've been dreaming things. I never said anything of the kind.”

“Memory's gone,” said Mr. Sharp, shaking his head at him. “Clean gone. Don't you remember--”

“NO!” roared Mr. Culpepper.

Mr. Sharp sat blinking at him, but his misgivings vanished before the glances of admiring devotion which Miss Garland was sending in his direction. He construed them rightly not only as a reward, but as an incentive to further efforts. In the midst of an impressive silence Mrs. Culpepper collected the plates and, producing a dish of fruit from the sideboard, placed it upon the table.

“Help yourself, Mr. Sharp,” she said, pushing the bottle of port towards him.

Mr. Sharp complied, having first, after several refusals, put a little into the ladies' glasses, and a lot on the tablecloth near Mr. Culpepper. Then, after a satisfying sip or two, he rose with a bland smile and announced his intention of making a speech.

“But you've made one,” said his host, in tones of fierce expostulation.

“That--that was las' night,” said Mr. Sharp. “This is to-night--your birthday.”

“Well, we don't want any more,” said Mr. Culpepper.

Mr. Sharp hesitated. “It's only his fun,” he said, looking round and raising his glass. “He's afraid I'm going to praise him up--praise him up. Here's to my old friend, Mr. Culpepper: one of the best. We all have our--faults, and he has his--has his. Where was I?”

“Sit down,” growled Mr. Culpepper.

“Talking about my husband's faults,” said his wife.

“So I was,” said Mr. Sharp, putting his hand to his brow. “Don't be alarm',” he continued, turning to his host; “nothing to be alarm' about. I'm not going to talk about 'em. Not so silly as that, I hope. I don't want spoil your life.”

“Sit down,” repeated Mr. Culpepper.

“You're very anxious he should sit down,” said his wife, sharply.

“No, I'm not,” said Mr. Culpepper; “only he's talking nonsense.”

Mr. Sharp, still on his legs, took another sip of port and, avoiding the eye of Mr. Culpepper, which was showing signs of incipient inflammation, looked for encouragement to Miss Garland.

“He's a man we all look up to and respect,” he continued. “If he does go off to London every now and then on business, that's his lookout. My idea is he always ought to take Mrs. Culpepper with him.

“He'd have pleasure of her company and, same time, he'd be money in pocket by it. And why shouldn't she go to music-halls sometimes? Why shouldn't she--”

“You get off home,” said the purple Mr. Culpepper, rising and hammering the table with his fist. “Get off home; and if you so much as show your face inside this 'ouse again there'll be trouble. Go on. Out you go!”

“Home?” repeated Mr. Sharp, sitting down suddenly. “Won't go home till morning.”

“Oh, we'll soon see about that,” said Mr. Culpepper, taking him by the shoulders. “Come on, now.”

Mr. Sharp subsided lumpishly into his chair, and Mr. Culpepper, despite his utmost efforts, failed to move him. The two ladies exchanged a glance, and then, with their heads in the air, sailed out of the room, the younger pausing at the door to bestow a mirthful glance upon Mr. Sharp ere she disappeared.

“Come--out,” said Mr. Culpepper, panting.

“You trying to tickle me?” inquired Mr. Sharp.

“You get off home,” said the other. “You've been doing nothing but make mischief ever since you came in. What put such things into your silly head I don't know. I shall never hear the end of 'em as long as I live.”

“Silly head?” repeated Mr. Sharp, with an alarming change of manner. “Say it again.”

Mr. Culpepper repeated it with gusto.

“Very good,” said Mr. Sharp. He seized him suddenly and, pushing him backwards into his easychair, stood over him with such hideous contortions of visage that Mr. Culpepper was horrified. “Now you sit there and keep quite still,” he said, with smouldering ferocity. “Where did you put carving-knife? Eh? Where's carving-knife?”

“No, no, Bert,” said Mr. Culpepper, clutching at his sleeve. “I--I was only joking. You--you ain't quite yourself, Bert.”

“What?” demanded the other, rolling his eyes, and clenching his fists.

“I--I mean you've improved,” said Mr. Culpepper, hurriedly. “Wonderful, you have.”

Mr. Sharp's countenance cleared a little. “Let's make a night of it,” he said. “Don't move, whatever you do.”

He closed the door and, putting the wine and a couple of glasses on the mantelpiece, took a chair by Mr. Culpepper and prepared to spend the evening. His instructions were too specific to be disregarded, and three times he placed his arm about the waist of the frenzied Mr. Culpepper and took him for a lumbering dance up and down the room. In the intervals between dances he regaled him with interminable extracts from speeches made at the debating society and recitations learned at school. Suggestions relating to bed, thrown out by Mr. Culpepper from time to time, were repelled with scorn. And twice, in deference to Mr. Sharp's desires, he had to join in the chorus of a song.

Ten o'clock passed, and the hands of the clock crawled round to eleven. The hour struck, and, as though in answer, the door opened and the agreeable face of Florrie Garland appeared. Behind her, to the intense surprise of both gentlemen, loomed the stalwart figure of Mr. Jack Butler.

“I thought he might be useful, uncle,” said Miss Garland, coming into the room. “Auntie wouldn't let me come down before.”

Mr. Sharp rose in a dazed fashion and saw Mr. Culpepper grasp Mr. Butler by the hand. More dazed still, he felt the large and clumsy hand of Mr. Butler take him by the collar and propel him with some violence along the small passage, while another hand, which he dimly recognized as belonging to Mr. Culpepper, was inserted in the small of his back. Then the front door opened and he was thrust out into the night. The door closed, and a low feminine laugh sounded from a window above.

SKILLED ASSISTANCE

The night-watchman, who had left his seat on the jetty to answer the gate-bell, came back with disgust written on a countenance only too well designed to express it.

“If she's been up 'ere once in the last week to, know whether the _Silvia_ is up she's been four or five times,” he growled. “He's forty-seven if he's a day; 'is left leg is shorter than 'is right, and he talks with a stutter. When she's with 'im you'd think as butter wouldn't melt in 'er mouth; but the way she talked to me just now you'd think I was paid a-purpose to wait on her. I asked 'er at last wot she thought I was here for, and she said she didn't know, and nobody else neither. And afore she went off she told the potman from the 'Albion,' wot was listening, that I was known all over Wapping as the Sleeping Beauty.

“She ain't the fust I've 'ad words with, not by a lot. They're all the same; they all start in a nice, kind, soapy sort o' way, and, as soon as they don't get wot they want, fly into a temper and ask me who, I think I am. I told one woman once not to be silly, and I shall never forget it as long as I live-never. For all I know, she's wearing a bit o' my 'air in a locket to this day, and very likely boasting that I gave it to her.

“Talking of her reminds me of another woman. There was a Cap'n Pinner, used to trade between 'ere and Hull on a schooner named the Snipe. Nice little craft she was, and 'e was a very nice feller. Many and many's the pint we've 'ad together, turn and turn-about, and the on'y time we ever 'ad a cross word was when somebody hid his clay pipe in my beer and 'e was foolish enough to think I'd done it.

“He 'ad a nice little cottage, 'e told me about, near Hull, and 'is wife's father, a man of pretty near seventy, lived with 'em. Well-off the old man was, and, as she was his only daughter, they looked to 'ave all his money when he'd gorn. Their only fear was that 'e might marry agin, and, judging from wot 'e used to tell me about the old man, I thought it more than likely.

“'If it wasn't for my missis he'd ha' been married over and over agin,' he ses one day. 'He's like a child playing with gunpowder.'

“''Ow would it be to let 'im burn hisself a bit?' I ses.

“'If you was to see some o' the gunpowder he wants to play with, you wouldn't talk like that,' ses the cap'n. 'You'd know better. The on'y thing is to keep 'em apart, and my pore missis is wore to a shadder a-doing of it.'

“It was just about a month arter that that he brought the old man up to London with 'im. They 'ad some stuff to put out at Smith's Wharf, t'other side of the river, afore they came to us, and though they was on'y there four or five days, it was long enough for that old man to get into trouble.

“The skipper told me about it ten minutes arter they was made snug in the inner berth 'ere. He walked up and down like a man with a raging toothache, and arter follering 'im up and down the wharf till I was tired out, I discovered that 'is father-in-law 'ad got 'imself mixed up with a widder-woman ninety years old and weighing twenty stun. Arter he 'ad cooled down a bit, and I 'ad given 'im a few little pats on the shoulder, 'e made it forty-eight years old and fourteen stun.

“'He's getting ready to go and meet her now,' he ses, 'and wot my missis'll say to me, I don't know.'

“His father-in-law came up on deck as 'e spoke, and began to brush 'imself all over with a clothesbrush. Nice-looking little man 'e was, with blue eyes, and a little white beard, cut to a point, and dressed up in a serge suit with brass buttons, and a white yachting cap. His real name was Mr. Finch, but the skipper called 'im Uncle Dick, and he took such a fancy to me that in five minutes I was calling 'im Uncle Dick too.

“'Time I was moving,' he ses, by and by. 'I've got an app'intment.'

“'Oh! who with?' ses the skipper, pretending not to know.

“'Friend o' mine, in the army,' ses the old man, with a wink at me. 'So long.'

“He went off as spry as a boy, and as soon as he'd gorn the skipper started walking back'ards and for'ards agin, and raving.

“'Let's 'ope as he's on'y amusing 'imself,' I ses.

“'Wait till you see 'er,' ses the skipper; 'then you won't talk foolishness.'

“As it 'appened she came back with Uncle Dick that evening, to see 'im safe, and I see at once wot sort of a woman it was. She 'adn't been on the wharf five minutes afore you'd ha' thought it belonged to 'er, and when she went and sat on the schooner it seemed to be about 'arf its size. She called the skipper Tom, and sat there as cool as you please holding Uncle Dick's 'and, and patting it.

“I took the skipper round to the 'Bull's Head' arter she 'ad gorn, and I wouldn't let 'im say a word until he had 'ad two pints. He felt better then, and some o' the words 'e used surprised me.

“'Wot's to be done?' he ses at last. 'You see 'ow it is, Bill.'

“'Can't you get 'im away?' I ses. 'Who is she, and wot's 'er name?'

“'Her name,' ses the skipper, 'her name is Jane Maria Elizabeth Muffit, and she lives over at Rotherhithe.'

“'She's very likely married already,' I ses.

“'Her 'usband died ten years ago,' ses the skipper; 'passed away in 'is sleep. Overlaid, I should say.'

“He sat there smoking, and I sat there thinking. Twice 'e spoke to me, and I held my 'and up and said 'H'sh.' Then I turned to 'im all of a sudden and pinched his arm so hard he nearly dropped 'is beer.

“'Is Uncle Dick a nervous man?' I ses.

“'Nervous is no name for it,' he ses, staring.

“'Very good, then,' I ses. 'I'll send 'er husband to frighten 'im.'

“The skipper looked at me very strange. 'Yes,' he ses. 'Yes. Yes.'

“'Frighten 'im out of 'is boots, and make him give 'er up,' I ses. 'Or better still, get 'im to run away and go into hiding for a time. That 'ud be best, in case 'e found out.'

“'Found out wot?' ses the skipper.

“'Found out it wasn't 'er husband,' I ses.

“'Bill,' ses the skipper, very earnest, 'this is the fust beer I've 'ad to-day, and I wish I could say the same for you.'

“I didn't take 'im at fast, but when I did I gave a laugh that brought in two more customers to see wot was the matter. Then I took 'im by the arm--arter a little trouble--and, taking 'im back to the wharf, explained my meaning to 'im.

“'I know the very man,' I ses. 'He comes into a public-'ouse down my way sometimes. Artful 'Arry, he's called, and, for 'arf-a-quid, say, he'd frighten Uncle Dick 'arf to death. He's big and ugly, and picks up a living by selling meerschaum pipes he's found to small men wot don't want 'em. Wonderful gift o' the gab he's got.'

“We went acrost to the 'Albion' to talk it over. There's several bars there, and the landlady always keeps cotton-wool in 'er ears, not 'aving been brought up to the public line. The skipper told me all 'e knew about Mrs. Muffit, and we arranged that Artful 'Arry should come down at seven o'clock next night, if so be as I could find 'im in time.

“I got up early the next arternoon, and as it 'appened, he came into the 'Duke of Edinburgh' five minutes arter I got there. Nasty temper 'e was in, too. He'd just found a meerschaum pipe, as usual, and the very fust man 'e tried to sell it to said that it was the one 'e lost last Christmas, and gave 'im a punch in the jaw for it.

“'He's a thief, that's wot he is,' ses 'Arry; 'and I 'ate thiefs. 'Ow's a honest tradesman to make a living when there's people like that about?'

“I stood 'im 'arf a pint, and though it hurt 'im awful to drink it, he said 'ed 'ave another just to see if he could bear the pain. Arter he had 'ad three 'e began for to take a more cheerful view o' life, and told me about a chap that spent three weeks in the London 'Orsepittle for calling 'im a liar.

“'Treat me fair,' he ses, 'and I'll treat other people fair. I never broke my word without a good reason for it, and that's more than everybody can say. If I told you the praise I've 'ad from some people you wouldn't believe it.'

“I let 'im go on till he 'ad talked 'imself into a good temper, and then I told 'im of the little job I 'ad got for 'im. He listened quiet till I 'ad finished, and then he shook 'is 'ead.

“'It ain't in my line,' he ses.

“'There's 'arf a quid 'anging to it,' I ses.

“'Arry shook his 'ead agin. 'Tain't enough, mate,' he ses. 'If you was to make it a quid I won't say as I mightn't think of it.'

“I 'ad told the skipper that it might cost 'im a quid, so I knew 'ow far I could go; and at last, arter 'Arry 'ad got as far as the door three times, I gave way.

“'And I'll 'ave it now,' he ses, 'to prevent mistakes.'

“'No, 'Arry,' I ses, very firm. 'Besides, it ain't my money, you see.'

“'You mean to say you don't trust me,' 'e ses, firing up.

“'I'd trust you with untold gold,' I ses, 'but not with a real quid; you're too fond of a joke, 'Arry.'

“We 'ad another long argyment about it, and I had to tell 'im plain at last that when I wanted to smell 'is fist, I'd say so.

“'You turn up at the wharf at five minutes to seven,' I ses, 'and I'll give you ten bob of it; arter you've done your business I'll give you the other. Come along quiet, and you'll see me waiting at the gate for you.'

“He gave way arter a time, and, fust going 'ome for a cup o' tea, I went on to the wharf to tell the skipper 'ow things stood.

“'It couldn't 'ave 'appened better,' he ses. 'Uncle Dick is sure to be aboard at that time, 'cos 'e's going acrost the water at eight o'clock to pay 'er a visit. And all the hands'll be away. I've made sure of that.'

“He gave me the money for Artful 'Arry in two 'arf-suverins, and then we went over to the 'Albion' for a quiet glass and a pipe, and to wait for seven o'clock.

“I left 'im there at ten minutes to, and at five minutes to, punctual to the minute, I see 'Arry coming along swinging a thick stick with a knob on the end of it.

“'Where's the 'arf thick-un?' he ses, looking round to see that the coast was clear.

“I gave it to 'im, and arter biting it in three places and saying it was a bit short in weight he dropped it in 'is weskit-pocket and said 'e was ready.

“I left 'im there for a minute while I went and 'ad a look round. The deck of the Snipe was empty, but I could 'ear Uncle Dick down in the cabin singing; and, arter listening for a few seconds to make sure that it was singing, I went back and beckoned to 'Arry.

“'He's down in the cabin,' I ses, pointing. 'Don't overdo it, 'Arry, and at the same time don't underdo it, as you might say.'

“'I know just wot you want,' ses 'Arry, 'and if you'd got the 'art of a man in you, you'd make it two quids.'

“He climbed on board and stood listening for a moment at the companion, and then 'e went down, while I went off outside the gate, so as to be out of earshot in case Uncle Dick called for me. I knew that I should 'ear all about wot went on arterwards--and I did.

“Artful 'Arry went down the companion-ladder very quiet, and then stood at the foot of it looking at Uncle Dick. He looked 'im up and down and all over, and then 'e gave a fierce, loud cough.

“'Good-evening,' he ses.

“'Good-evening,' ses Uncle Dick, staring at 'im. 'Did you want to see anybody?'

“'I did,' ses 'Arry. 'I do. And when I see 'im I'm going to put my arms round 'im and twist 'is neck; then I'm going to break every bone in 'is body, and arter that I'm going to shy 'im overboard to pison the fishes with.'

“'Dear me!' ses Uncle Dick, shifting away as far as 'e could.

“'I ain't 'ad a wink o' sleep for two nights,' ses 'Arry--'not ever since I 'eard of it. When I think of all I've done for that woman-working for 'er, and such-like-my blood boils. When I think of her passing 'erself off as a widder--my widder--and going out with another man, I don't know wot to do with myself.'

“Uncle Dick started and turned pale. Fust 'e seemed as if 'e was going to speak, and then 'e thought better of it. He sat staring at 'Arry as if 'e couldn't believe his eyes.

“'Wot would you do with a man like that?' ses 'Arry. 'I ask you, as man to man, wot would you do to 'im?'

“'P'r'aps-p'r'aps 'e didn't know,' ses Uncle Dick, stammering.

“'Didn't know!' ses 'Arry. 'Don't care, you mean. We've got a nice little 'ome, and, just because I've 'ad to leave it and lay low for a bit for knifing a man, she takes advantage of it. And it ain't the fust time, neither. Wot's the matter?'

“'Touch-touch of ague; I get it sometimes,' ses Uncle Dick.

“'I want to see this man Finch,' ses 'Arry, shaking 'is knobby stick. 'Muffit, my name is, and I want to tell 'im so.'

“Uncle Dick nearly shook 'imself on to the floor.

“'I--I'll go and see if 'e's in the fo'c'sle,' he ses at last.

“'He ain't there, 'cos I've looked,' ses 'Arry, 'arf shutting 'is eyes and looking at 'im hard. 'Wot might your name be?'

“'My name's Finch,' ses Uncle Dick, putting out his 'ands to keep him off; 'but I thought she was a widder. She told me her 'usband died ten years ago; she's deceived me as well as you. I wouldn't ha' dreamt of taking any notice of 'er if I'd known. Truth, I wouldn't. I should'nt ha' dreamt of such a thing.'

“Artful 'Arry played with 'is stick a little, and stood looking at 'im with a horrible look on 'is face.

“''Ow am I to know you're speaking the truth?' he ses, very slow. 'Eh? 'Ow can you prove it?'

“'If it was the last word I was to speak I'd say the same,' ses Uncle Dick. 'I tell you, I am as innercent as a new-born babe.'

“'If that's true,' ses 'Arry, 'she's deceived both of us. Now, if I let you go will you go straight off and bring her 'ere to me?'

“'I will,' ses Uncle Dick, jumping up.

“''Arf a mo,' ses 'Arry, holding up 'is stick very quick. 'One thing is, if you don't come back, I'll 'ave you another day. I can't make up my mind wot to do. I can't think--I ain't tasted food for two days. If I 'ad any money in my pocket I'd 'ave a bite while you're gone.'

“'Why not get something?' ses Uncle Dick, putting his 'and in his pocket, in a great 'urry to please him, and pulling out some silver.

“'Arry said 'e would, and then he stood on one side to let 'im pass, and even put the knobby stick under 'im to help 'im up the companion-ladder.

“Uncle Dick passed me two minutes arterwards without a word, and set off down the road as fast as 'is little legs 'ud carry 'im. I watched 'im out o' sight, and then I went on board the schooner to see how 'Arry 'ad got on.

“Arry,' I ses, when he 'ad finished, 'you're a masterpiece!'

“'I know I am,' he ses. 'Wot about that other 'arf-quid?'

“'Here it is,' I ses, giving it to 'im. 'Fair masterpiece, that's wot you are. They may well call you Artful. Shake 'ands.'

“I patted 'im on the shoulder arter we 'ad shook 'ands, and we stood there smiling at each other and paying each other compliments.

“'Fancy 'em sitting 'ere and waiting for you to come back from that bite,' I ses.

“'I ought to 'ave 'ad more off of him,' ses 'Arry. ''Owever, it can't be helped. I think I'll 'ave a lay down for a bit; I'm tired.'

“'Better be off,' I ses, shaking my 'ead. 'Time passes, and they might come back afore you think.'

“'Well, wot of it?' ses 'Arry.

“'Wot of it?' I ses. 'Why, it'ud spoil everything. It 'ud be blue ruin.'

“'Are you sure?' ses 'Arry'.

“'Sartin,' I ses.

“'Well, make it five quid, and I'll go, then,' he ses, sitting down agin.

“I couldn't believe my ears at fust, but when I could I drew myself up and told 'im wot I thought of 'im; and he sat there and laughed at me.

“'Why, you called me a masterpiece just now,' he ses. 'I shouldn't be much of a masterpiece if I let a chance like this slip. Why, I shouldn't be able to look myself in the face. Where's the skipper?'

“'Sitting in the “Albion”,' I ses, 'arf choking.

“'Go and tell 'im it's five quid,' ses 'Arry. 'I don't mean five more, on'y four. Some people would ha' made it five, but I like to deal square and honest.'

“I run over for the skipper in a state of mind that don't bear thinking of, and he came back with me, 'arf crazy. When we got to the cabin we found the door was locked, and, arter the skipper 'ad told Artful wot he'd do to 'im if he didn't open it, he 'ad to go on deck and talk to 'im through the skylight.

“'If you ain't off of my ship in two twos,' he ses, 'I'll fetch a policeman.'

“'You go and fetch four pounds,' ses 'Arry; 'that's wot I'm waiting for, not a policeman. Didn't the watchman tell you?'

“'The bargain was for one pound,' ses the skipper, 'ardly able to speak.

“'Well, you tell that to the policeman,' ses Artful 'Arry.

“It was no use, he'd got us every way; and at last the skipper turns out 'is pockets, and he ses, 'Look 'ere,' he ses, 'I've got seventeen and tenpence ha' penny. Will you go if I give you that?'

“''Ow much has the watchman got?' ses 'Arry. 'His lodger lost 'is purse the other day.'

“I'd got two and ninepence, as it 'appened, and then there was more trouble because the skipper wouldn't give 'im the money till he 'ad gone, and 'e wouldn't go till he 'ad got it. The skipper gave way at last, and as soon as he 'ad got it 'Arry ses, 'Now 'op off and borrer the rest, and look slippy about it.'

“I put one hand over the skipper's mouth fust, and then, finding that was no good, I put the other. It was no good wasting bad langwidge on 'Arry.

“I pacified the skipper at last, and arter 'Arry 'ad swore true 'e'd go when 'e'd got the money, the skipper rushed round to try and raise it. It's a difficult job at the best o' times, and I sat there on the skylight shivering and wondering whether the skipper or Mrs. Muffit would turn up fust.

“Hours seemed to pass away, and then I see the wicket in the gate open, and the skipper come through. He jumped on deck without a word, and then, going over to the skylight, 'anded down the money to 'Arry.

“'Right-o,' ses 'Arry. 'It on'y shows you wot you can do by trying.'

“He unlocked the door and came up on deck, looking at us very careful, and playing with 'is stick.

“'You've got your money,' ses the skipper; 'now go as quick as you can.'

“'Arry smiled and nodded at him. Then he stepped on to the wharf and was just moving to the gate, with us follering, when the wicket opened and in came Mrs. Muffit and Uncle Dick.

“'There he is,' ses Uncle Dick. 'That's the man!'

“Mrs. Muffit walked up to 'im, and my 'art a'most stopped beating. Her face was the colour of beetroot with temper, and you could 'ave heard her breath fifty yards away.

“'Ho!' she says, planting 'erself in front of Artful 'Arry, 'so you're the man that ses you're my 'usband, are you?'

“'That's all right,' ses 'Arry, 'it's all a mistake.'

“'MISTAKE?' ses Mrs. Muffit.

“'Mistake o' Bill's,' ses 'Arry, pointing to me. 'I told 'im I thought 'e was wrong, but 'e would 'ave it. I've got a bad memory, so I left it to 'im.'

“'Ho!' ses Mrs. Muffit, taking a deep breath. 'Ho! I thought as much. Wot 'ave you got to say for yourself--eh?'

“She turned on me like a wild cat, with her 'ands in front of her. I've been scratched once in my life, and I wasn't going to be agin, so, fixing my eyes on 'er, I just stepped back a bit, ready for 'er. So long as I kept my eye fixed on 'ers she couldn't do anything. I knew that. Unfortunately I stepped back just a inch too far, and next moment I went over back'ards in twelve foot of water.

“Arter all, p'r'aps it was the best thing that could have 'appened to me; it stopped her talking. It ain't the fust time I've 'ad a wet jacket; but as for the skipper, and pore Uncle Dick--wot married her--they've been in hot water ever since.”

FOR BETTER OR WORSE

Mr. George Wotton, gently pushing the swing doors of the public bar of the “King's Head” an inch apart, applied an eye to the aperture, in the hope of discovering a moneyed friend. His gaze fell on the only man in the bar a greybeard of sixty whose weather-beaten face and rough clothing spoke of the sea. With a faint sigh he widened the opening and passed through.

“Mornin', Ben,” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness.

“Have a drop with me,” said the other, heartily. “Got any money about you?”

Mr. Wotton shook his head and his face fell, clearing somewhat as the other handed him his mug. “Drink it all up, George,” he said.

His friend complied. A more tactful man might have taken longer over the job, but Mr. Benjamin Davis, who appeared to be labouring under some strong excitement, took no notice.

“I've had a shock, George,” he said, regarding the other steadily. “I've heard news of my old woman.”

“Didn't know you 'ad one,” said Mr. Wotton calmly. “Wot's she done?”

“She left me,” said Mr. Davis, solemnly--“she left me thirty-five years ago. I went off to sea one fine morning, and that was the last I ever see of er.

“Why, did she bolt?” inquired Mr. Wotton, with mild interest.

“No,” said his friend, “but I did. We'd been married three years--three long years--and I had 'ad enough of it. Awful temper she had. The last words I ever heard 'er say was: 'Take that!'”

Mr. Wotton took up the mug and, after satisfying himself as to the absence of contents, put it down again and yawned.

“I shouldn't worry about it if I was you,” he remarked. “She's hardly likely to find you now. And if she does she won't get much.”

Mr. Davis gave vent to a contemptuous laugh. “Get much!” he repeated. “It's her what's got it. I met a old shipmate of mine this morning what I 'adn't seen for ten years, and he told me he run acrost 'er only a month ago. After she left me--”

“But you said you left her!” exclaimed his listening friend.

“Same thing,” said Mr. Davis, impatiently. “After she left me to work myself to death at sea, running here and there at the orders of a pack o'lazy scuts aft, she went into service and stayed in one place for fifteen years. Then 'er missis died and left her all 'er money. For twenty years, while I've been working myself to skin and bone, she's been living in comfort and idleness.”

“'Ard lines,” said Mr. Wotton, shaking his head. “It don't bear thinking of.”

“Why didn't she advertise for me?” said Mr. Davis, raising his voice. “That's what I want to know. Advertisements is cheap enough; why didn't she advertise? I should 'ave come at once if she'd said anything about money.”

Mr. Wotton shook his head again. “P'r'aps she didn't want you,” he said, slowly.

“What's that got to do with it?” demanded the other. “It was 'er dooty. She'd got money, and I ought to have 'ad my 'arf of it. Nothing can make up for that wasted twenty years--nothing.”

“P'r'aps she'll take you back,” said Mr. Wotton.

“Take me back?” repeated Mr. Davis. “O' course she'll take me back. She'll have to. There's a law in the land, ain't there? What I'm thinking of is: Can I get back my share what I ought to have 'ad for the last twenty years?”

“Get 'er to take you back first,” counselled his friend. “Thirty-five years is along time, and p'r'aps she has lost 'er love for you. Was you good-looking in those days?”

“Yes,” snapped Mr. Davis; “I ain't altered much--. 'Sides, what about her?”

“That ain't the question,” said the other. “She's got a home and money. It don't matter about looks; and, wot's more, she ain't bound to keep you. If you take my advice, you won't dream of letting her know you run away from her. Say you was cast away at sea, and when you came back years afterwards you couldn't find her.”

Mr. Davis pondered for some time in sulky silence.

“P'r'aps it would be as well,” he said at last; “but I sha'n't stand no nonsense, mind.”

“If you like I'll come with you,” said Mr. Wotton. “I ain't got nothing to do. I could tell 'er I was cast away with you if you liked. Anything to help a pal.”

Mr. Davis took two inches of soiled clay pipe from his pocket and puffed thoughtfully.

“You can come,” he said at last. “If you'd only got a copper or two we could ride; it's down Clapham way.”

Mr. Wotton smiled feebly, and after going carefully through his pockets shook his head and followed his friend outside.

“I wonder whether she'll be pleased?” he remarked, as they walked slowly along. “She might be--women are funny creatures--so faithful. I knew one whose husband used to knock 'er about dreadful, and after he died she was so true to his memory she wouldn't marry again.”

Mr. Davis grunted, and, with a longing eye at the omnibuses passing over London Bridge, asked a policeman the distance to Clapham.

“Never mind,” said Mr. Wotton, as his friend uttered an exclamation. “You'll have money in your pocket soon.”

Mr. Davis's face brightened. “And a watch and chain too,” he said.

“And smoke your cigar of a Sunday,” said Mr. Wotton, “and have a easy-chair and a glass for a friend.”

Mr. Davis almost smiled, and then, suddenly remembering his wasted twenty years, shook his head grimly over the friendship that attached itself to easy-chairs and glasses of ale, and said that there was plenty of it about. More friendship than glasses of ale and easy-chairs, perhaps.

At Clapham, they inquired the way of a small boy, and, after following the road indicated, retraced their steps, cheered by a faint but bloodthirsty hope of meeting him again.

A friendly baker put them on the right track at last, both gentlemen eyeing the road with a mixture of concern and delight. It was a road of trim semi-detached villas, each with a well-kept front garden and neatly-curtained windows. At the gate of a house with the word “Blairgowrie” inscribed in huge gilt letters on the fanlight Mr. Davis paused for a moment uneasily, and then, walking up the path, followed by Mr. Wotton, knocked at the door.

He retired a step in disorder before the apparition of a maid in cap and apron. A sharp “Not to-day!” sounded in his ears and the door closed again. He faced his friend gasping.

“I should give her the sack first thing,” said Mr. Wotton.

Mr. Davis knocked again, and again. The maid reappeared, and after surveying them through the glass opened the door a little way and parleyed.

“I want to see your missis,” said Mr. Davis, fiercely.

“What for?” demanded the girl.

“You tell 'er,” said Mr. Davis, inserting his foot just in time, “you tell 'er that there's two gentlemen here what have brought 'er news of her husband, and look sharp about it.”

“They was cast away with 'im,” said Mr. Wotton.