Chapter V: Part 5

“Light-’eaded,” confided Mr. Wragg to the landing, and significantly tapping his forehead.

“This ain’t my bedroom,” he said, turning to the invalid. “It’s the King’s. His Majesty gave up ’is bed at once, direckly he ’eard you was ’urt.”

“And he’s going to sleep on three chairs in the front parlor—if he can,” said a low voice from the landing.

The humor faded from Mr. Wragg’s face and was succeeded by an expression of great sourness. “Where is the pore feller’s supper?” he inquired. “I don’t suppose he can eat anything, but he might try.”

He went to the door and a low-voiced colloquy ensued. The rival merits of cold chicken versus steak-pie as an invalid diet were discussed at some length. Finally the voice of Miss Miller insisted on chicken, and a glass of port-wine.

“I’ll tell ’im it’s chicken and port-wine then,” said Mr. Wragg, reappearing with a bedroom jug and a tumbler, which he placed on a small table by the bedside.

“Don’t let him eat too much, mind,” said the voice from the landing, anxiously.

Mr. Wragg said that he would be careful, and addressing Mr. Gale implored him not to overeat himself. The young man stared at him offensively, and, pretty certain now of the true state of affairs, thought only of escape.

“I feel better,” he said, slowly. “I think I will go home.”

“Yes, yes,” said the other, soothingly.

“If you will fetch my clothes,” continued Mr. Gale, “I will go now.”

“_Clothes_!” said Mr. Wragg, in an astonished voice. “Why, you didn’t ’ave any.”

Mr. Gale sat up suddenly in bed and shook his fist at him. “Look here—” he began, in a choking voice.

“The fairies brought you as you was,” continued Mr. Wragg, grinning furiously; “and of all the perfect picturs—”

A series of gasping sobs sounded from the landing, the stairs creaked, and a door slammed violently below. In spite of this precaution the sounds of a maiden in dire distress were distinctly audible.

“You give me my clothes,” shouted the now furious Mr. Gale, springing out of bed.

Mr. Wragg drew back. “I’ll go and fetch ’em,” he said, hastily.

He ran lightly downstairs, and the young man, sitting on the edge of the bed, waited. Ten minutes passed, and he heard Mr. Wragg returning, followed by his niece. He slipped back into bed again.

“It’s a pore brain again,” he heard, in the unctuous tones which Mr. Wragg appeared to keep for this emergency. “It’s clothes he wants now; by and by I suppose it’ll be something else. Well, the doctor said we’d got to humor him.”

“Poor fellow!” sighed Miss Miller, with a break in her voice.

“See ’ow his face’ll light up when he sees them,” said her uncle.

He pushed the door open, and after surveying the patient with a benevolent smile triumphantly held up a collar and tie for his inspection and threw them on the bed. Then he disappeared hastily and, closing the door, turned the key in the lock.

“If you want any more chicken or anything,” he cried through the door, “ring the bell.”

The horrified prisoner heard them pass downstairs again, and, after a glass of water, sat down by the window and tried to think. He got up and tried the door, but it opened inwards, and after a severe onslaught the handle came off in his hand. Tired out at last he went to bed again, and slept fitfully until morning.

Mr. Wragg visited him again after breakfast, but with great foresight only put his head in at the door, while Miss Miller remained outside in case of need. In these circumstances Mr. Gale met his anxious inquiries with a sullen silence, and the other, tired at last of baiting him, turned to go.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, with a grin. “I’m just going out to tell folks ’ow you’re getting on. There’s a lot of ’em anxious.”

He was as good as his word, and Mr. Gale, peeping from the window, raged helplessly as little knots of neighbors stood smiling up at the house. Unable to endure it any longer he returned to bed, resolving to wait until night came, and then drop from the window and run home in a blanket.

The smell of dinner was almost painful, but he made no sign. Mr. Wragg in high good humor smoked a pipe after his meal, and then went out again. The house was silent except for the occasional movements of the girl below. Then there was a sudden tap at his door.

“Well?” said Mr. Gale.

The door opened and, hardly able to believe his eyes, he saw his clothes thrown into the room. Hunger was forgotten, and he almost smiled as he hastily dressed himself.

The smile vanished as he thought of the people in the streets, and in a thoughtful fashion he made his way slowly downstairs. The bright face of Miss Miller appeared at the parlor door.

“Better?” she smiled.

Mr. Gale reddened and, drawing himself up stiffly, made no reply.

“That’s polite,” said the girl, indignantly. “After giving you your clothes, too. What do you think my uncle will say to me? He was going to keep you here till Friday.”

Mr. Gale muttered an apology. “I’ve made a fool of myself,” he added.

Miss Miller nodded cheerfully. “Are you hungry?” she inquired.

The other drew himself up again.

“Because there is some nice cold beef left,” said the girl, glancing into the room.

Mr. Gale started and, hardly able to believe in his good fortune, followed her inside. In a very short time the cold beef was a thing of the past, and the young man, toying with his beer-glass, sat listening to a lecture on his behavior couched in the severest terms his hostess could devise.

“You’ll be the laughing-stock of the place,” she concluded.

“I shall go away,” he said, gloomily.

“I shouldn’t do that,” said the girl, with a judicial air; “live it down.”

“I shall go away,” repeated Mr. Gale, decidedly. “I shall ship for a deep-sea voyage.”

Miss Miller sighed. “It’s too bad,” she said, slowly; “perhaps you wouldn’t look so foolish if—”

“If what?” inquired the other, after a long pause.

“If,” said Miss Miller, looking down, “if—if—”

Mr. Gale started and trembled violently, as a wild idea, born of her blushes, occurred to him.

“If,” he said, in quivering tones, “if—if—”

“Go on,” said the girl, softly. “Why, I got as far as that: and you are a man.”

Mr. Gale’s voice became almost inaudible. “If we got married, do you mean?” he said, at last.

“Married!” exclaimed Miss Miller, starting back a full two inches. “Good gracious! the man is mad after all.”

The bitter and loudly expressed opinion of Mr. Wragg when he returned an hour later was that they were both mad.

THE DREAMER

THE DREAMER

Dreams and warnings are things I don’t believe in, said the night watchman. The only dream I ever ’ad that come anything like true was once when I dreamt I came in for a fortune, and next morning I found half a crown in the street, which I sold to a man for fourpence. And once, two days arter my missis ’ad dreamt she ’ad spilt a cup of tea down the front of ’er Sunday dress, she spoilt a pot o’ paint of mine by sitting in it.

The only other dream I know of that come true happened to the cook of a bark I was aboard of once, called the _Southern Belle_. He was a silly, pasty-faced sort o’ chap, always giving hisself airs about eddication to sailormen who didn’t believe in it, and one night, when we was homeward-bound from Sydney, he suddenly sat up in ’is bunk and laughed so loud that he woke us all up.

“Wot’s wrong, cookie?” ses one o’ the chaps.

“I was dreaming,” ses the cook, “such a funny dream. I dreamt old Bill Foster fell out o’ the foretop and broke ’is leg.”

“Well, wot is there to laugh at in that?” ses old Bill, very sharp.

“It was funny in my dream,” ses the cook. “You looked so comic with your leg doubled up under you, you can’t think. It would ha’ made a cat laugh.”

Bill Foster said he’d make ’im laugh the other side of his face if he wasn’t careful, and then we went off to sleep agin and forgot all about it.

If you’ll believe me, on’y three days arterwards pore Bill did fall out o’ the foretop and break his leg. He was surprised, but I never see a man so surprised as the cook was. His eyes was nearly starting out of ’is head, but by the time the other chaps ’ad picked Bill up and asked ’im whether he was hurt, cook ’ad pulled ’imself together agin and was giving himself such airs it was perfectly sickening.

“My dreams always come true,” he ses. “It’s a kind o’ second sight with me. It’s a gift, and, being tender-’arted, it worries me terrible sometimes.”

He was going on like that, taking credit for a pure accident, when the second officer came up and told ’em to carry Bill below. He was in agony, of course, but he kept ’is presence of mind, and as they passed the cook he gave ’im such a clip on the side of the ’ead as nearly broke it.

“That’s for dreaming about me,” he ses.

The skipper and the fust officer and most of the hands set ’is leg between them, and arter the skipper ’ad made him wot he called comfortable, but wot Bill called something that I won’t soil my ears by repeating, the officers went off and the cook came and sat down by the side o’ Bill and talked about his gift.

“I don’t talk about it as a rule,” he ses, “’cos it frightens people.”

“It’s a wonderful gift, cookie,” ses Charlie Epps.

All of ’em thought the same, not knowing wot a fust-class liar the cook was, and he sat there and lied to ’em till he couldn’t ’ardly speak, he was so ’oarse.

“My grandmother was a gypsy,” he ses, “and it’s in the family. Things that are going to ’appen to people I know come to me in dreams, same as pore Bill’s did. It’s curious to me sometimes when I look round at you chaps, seeing you going about ’appy and comfortable, and knowing all the time ’orrible things that is going to ’appen to you. Sometimes it gives me the fair shivers.”

“Horrible things to us, slushy?” ses Charlie, staring.

“Yes,” ses the cook, nodding. “I never was on a ship afore with such a lot of unfortunit men aboard. Never. There’s two pore fellers wot’ll be dead corpses inside o’ six months, sitting ’ere laughing and talking as if they was going to live to ninety. Thank your stars you don’t ’ave such dreams.”

“Who—who are the two, cookie?” ses Charlie, arter a bit.

“Never mind, Charlie,” ses the cook, in a sad voice; “it would do no good if I was to tell you. Nothing can alter it.”

“Give us a hint,” ses Charlie.

“Well, I’ll tell you this much,” ses the cook, arter sitting with his ’ead in his ’ands, thinking; “one of ’em is nearly the ugliest man in the fo’c’s’le and the other ain’t.”

O’ course, that didn’t ’elp ’em much, but it caused a lot of argufying, and the ugliest man aboard, instead o’ being grateful, behaved more like a wild beast than a Christian when it was pointed out to him that he was safe.

Arter that dream about Bill, there was no keeping the cook in his place. He ’ad dreams pretty near every night, and talked little bits of ’em in his sleep. Little bits that you couldn’t make head nor tail of, and when we asked ’im next morning he’d always shake his ’ead and say, “Never mind.” Sometimes he’d mention a chap’s name in ’is sleep and make ’im nervous for days.

It was an unlucky v’y’ge that, for some of ’em. About a week arter pore Bill’s accident Ted Jones started playing catch-ball with another chap and a empty beer-bottle, and about the fifth chuck Ted caught it with his face. We thought ’e was killed at fust—he made such a noise; but they got ’im down below, and, arter they ’ad picked out as much broken glass as Ted would let ’em, the second officer did ’im up in sticking-plaster and told ’im to keep quiet for an hour or two.

Ted was very proud of ’is looks, and the way he went on was alarming. Fust of all he found fault with the chap ’e was playing with, and then he turned on the cook.

“It’s a pity you didn’t see that in a dream,” he ses, tryin’ to sneer, on’y the sticking-plaster was too strong for ’im.

“But I did see it,” ses the cook, drawin’ ’imself up.

“_Wot_?” ses Ted, starting.

“I dreamt it night afore last, just exactly as it ’appened,” ses the cook, in a offhand way.

“Why didn’t you tell me, then?” ses Ted choking.

“It ’ud ha’ been no good,” ses the cook, smiling and shaking his ’ead. “Wot I see must ’appen. I on’y see the future, and that must be.”

“But you stood there watching me chucking the bottle about,” ses Ted, getting out of ’is bunk. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“You don’t understand,” ses the cook. “If you’d ’ad more eddication—”

He didn’t ’ave time to say any more afore Ted was on him, and cookie, being no fighter, ’ad to cook with one eye for the next two or three days. He kept quiet about ’is dreams for some time arter that, but it was no good, because George Hall, wot was a firm believer, gave ’im a licking for not warning ’im of a sprained ankle he got skylarking, and Bob Law took it out of ’im for not telling ’im that he was going to lose ’is suit of shore-going togs at cards.

The only chap that seemed to show any good feeling for the cook was a young feller named Joseph Meek, a steady young chap wot was goin’ to be married to old Bill Foster’s niece as soon as we got ’ome. Nobody else knew it, but he told the cook all about it on the quiet. He said she was too good for ’im, but, do all he could, he couldn’t get her to see it.

“My feelings ’ave changed,” he ses.

“P’r’aps they’ll change agin,” ses the cook, trying to comfort ’im.

Joseph shook his ’ead. “No, I’ve made up my mind,” he ses, very slow. “I’m young yet, and, besides, I can’t afford it; but ’ow to get out of it I don’t know. Couldn’t you ’ave a dream agin it for me?”

“Wot d’ye mean?” ses the cook, firing up. “Do you think I make my dreams up?”

“No, no; cert’inly not,” ses Joseph, patting ’im on the shoulder; “but couldn’t you do it just for once? ’Ave a dream that me and Emily are killed a few days arter the wedding. Don’t say in wot way, ’cos she might think we could avoid it; just dream we are killed. Bill’s always been a superstitious man, and since you dreamt about his leg he’d believe anything; and he’s that fond of Emily I believe he’d ’ave the wedding put off, at any rate—if I put him up to it.”

It took ’im three days and a silver watch-chain to persuade the cook, but he did at last; and one arternoon, when old Bill, who was getting on fust-class, was resting ’is leg in ’is bunk, the cook went below and turned in for a quiet sleep.

For ten minutes he was as peaceful as a lamb, and old Bill, who ’ad been laying in ’is bunk with an eye open watching ’im, was just dropping off ’imself, when the cook began to talk in ’is sleep, and the very fust words made Bill sit up as though something ’ad bit ’im.

“There they go,” ses the cook, “Emily Foster and Joseph Meek—and there’s old Bill, good old Bill, going to give the bride away. How ’appy they all look, especially Joseph!”

Old Bill put his ’and to his ear and leaned out of his bunk.

“There they go,” ses the cook agin; “but wot is that ’orrible black thing with claws that’s ’anging over Bill?”

Pore Bill nearly fell out of ’is bunk, but he saved ’imself at the last moment and lay there as pale as death, listening.

“It must be meant for Bill,” ses the cook. “Well, pore Bill; he won’t know of it, that’s one thing. Let’s ’ope it’ll be sudden.”

He lay quiet for some time and then he began again.

“No,” he ses, “it isn’t Bill; it’s Joseph and Emily, stark and stiff, and they’ve on’y been married a week. ’Ow awful they look! Pore things. Oh! oh! o-oh!”

He woke up with a shiver and began to groan and then ’e sat up in his bunk and saw old Bill leaning out and staring at ’im.

“You’ve been dreaming, cook,” ses Bill, in a trembling voice.

“’Ave I?” ses the cook. “How do you know?”

“About me and my niece,” ses Bill; “you was talking in your sleep.”

“You oughtn’t to ’ave listened,” ses the cook, getting out of ’is bunk and going over to ’im. “I ’ope you didn’t ’ear all I dreamt. ’Ow much did you hear?”

Bill told ’im, and the cook sat there, shaking his ’ead. “Thank goodness, you didn’t ’ear the worst of it,” he ses.

“_Worst_!” ses Bill. “Wot, was there any more of it?”

“Lot’s more,” ses the cook. “But promise me you won’t tell Joseph, Bill. Let ’im be happy while he can; it would on’y make ’im miserable, and it wouldn’t do any good.”

“I don’t know so much about that,” ses Bill, thinking about the arguments some of them had ’ad with Ted about the bottle. “Was it arter they was married, cookie, that it ’appened? Are you sure?”

“Certain sure. It was a week arter,” ses the cook.

“Very well, then,” ses Bill, slapping ’is bad leg by mistake; “if they didn’t marry, it couldn’t ’appen, could it?”

“Don’t talk foolish,” ses the cook; “they must marry. I saw it in my dream.”

“Well, we’ll see,” ses Bill. “I’m going to ’ave a quiet talk with Joseph about it, and see wot he ses. I ain’t a-going to ’ave my pore gal murdered just to please you and make your dreams come true.”

He ’ad a quiet talk with Joseph, but Joseph wouldn’t ’ear of it at fust. He said it was all the cook’s nonsense, though ’e owned up that it was funny that the cook should know about the wedding and Emily’s name, and at last he said that they would put it afore Emily and let her decide.

That was about the last dream the cook had that v’y’ge, although he told old Bill one day that he had ’ad the same dream about Joseph and Emily agin, so that he was quite certain they ’ad got to be married and killed. He wouldn’t tell Bill ’ow they was to be killed, because ’e said it would make ’im an old man afore his time; but, of course, he ’ad to say that _if_ they wasn’t married the other part couldn’t come true. He said that as he ’ad never told ’is dreams before—except in the case of Bill’s leg—he couldn’t say for certain that they couldn’t be prevented by taking care, but p’r’aps, they could; and Bill pointed out to ’im wot a useful man he would be if he could dream and warn people in time.

By the time we got into the London river old Bill’s leg was getting on fust-rate, and he got along splendid on a pair of crutches the carpenter ’ad made for him. Him and Joseph and the cook had ’ad a good many talks about the dream, and the old man ’ad invited the cook to come along ’ome with ’em, to be referred to when he told the tale.

“I shall take my opportunity,” he ses, “and break it to ’er gentle like. When I speak to you, you chip in, and not afore. D’ye understand?”

We went into the East India Docks that v’y’ge, and got there early on a lovely summer’s evening. Everybody was ’arf crazy at the idea o’ going ashore agin, and working as cheerful and as willing as if they liked it. There was a few people standing on the pier-head as we went in, and among ’em several very nice-looking young wimmen.

“My eye, Joseph,” ses the cook, who ’ad been staring hard at one of ’em, “there’s a fine gal—lively, too. Look ’ere!”

He kissed ’is dirty paw—which is more than I should ’ave liked to ’ave done it if it ’ad been mine—and waved it, and the gal turned round and shook her ’ead at ’im.

“Here, that’ll do,” ses Joseph, very cross. “That’s my gal; that’s my Emily.”

“Eh?” says the cook. “Well, ’ow was I to know? Besides, you’re a-giving of her up.”

Joseph didn’t answer ’im. He was staring at Emily, and the more he stared the better-looking she seemed to grow. She really was an uncommon nice-looking gal, and more than the cook was struck with her.

“Who’s that chap standing alongside of her?” ses the cook.

“It’s one o’ Bill’s sister’s lodgers,” ses Joseph, who was looking very bad-tempered. “I should like to know wot right he ’as to come ’ere to welcome me ’ome. I don’t want ’im.”

“P’r’aps he’s fond of ’er,” ses the cook. “I could be, very easy.”

“I’ll chuck ’im in the dock if he ain’t careful,” ses Joseph, turning red in the face.

He waved his ’and to Emily, who didn’t ’appen to be looking at the moment, but the lodger waved back in a careless sort of way and then spoke to Emily, and they both waved to old Bill who was standing on his crutches further aft.

By the time the ship was berthed and everything snug it was quite dark, and old Bill didn’t know whether to take the cook ’ome with ’im and break the news that night, or wait a bit. He made up his mind at last to get it over and done with, and arter waiting till the cook ’ad cleaned ’imself they got a cab and drove off.

Bert Simmons, the lodger, ’ad to ride on the box, and Bill took up so much room with ’is bad leg that Emily found it more comfortable to sit on Joseph’s knee; and by the time they got to the ’ouse he began to see wot a silly mistake he was making.

“Keep that dream o’ yours to yourself till I make up my mind,” he ses to the cook, while Bill and the cabman were calling each other names.

“Bill’s going to speak fust,” whispers the cook.

The lodger and Emily ’ad gone inside, and Joseph stood there, fidgeting, while the cabman asked Bill, as a friend, why he ’adn’t paid twopence more for his face, and Bill was wasting his time trying to think of something to say to ’urt the cabman’s feelings. Then he took Bill by the arm as the cab drove off and told ’im not to say nothing about the dream, because he was going to risk it.

“Stuff and nonsense,” ses Bill. “I’m going to tell Emily. It’s my dooty. Wot’s the good o’ being married if you’re going to be killed?”

He stumped in on his crutches afore Joseph could say any more, and, arter letting his sister kiss ’im, went into the front room and sat down. There was cold beef and pickles on the table and two jugs o’ beer, and arter just telling his sister ’ow he fell and broke ’is leg, they all sat down to supper.

Bert Simmons sat on one side of Emily and Joseph the other, and the cook couldn’t ’elp feeling sorry for ’er, seeing as he did that sometimes she was ’aving both hands squeezed at once under the table and could ’ardly get a bite in edgeways.

Old Bill lit his pipe arter supper, and then, taking another glass o’ beer, he told ’em about the cook dreaming of his accident three days afore it happened. They couldn’t ’ardly believe it at fust, but when he went on to tell ’em the other things the cook ’ad dreamt, and that everything ’ad ’appened just as he dreamt it, they all edged away from the cook and sat staring at him with their mouths open.

“And that ain’t the worst of it,” ses Bill.

“That’s enough for one night, Bill,” ses Joseph, who was staring at Bert Simmons as though he could eat him. “Besides, I believe it was on’y chance. When cook told you ’is dream it made you nervous, and that’s why you fell.”

“Nervous be blowed!” ses Bill; and then he told ’em about the dream he ’ad heard while he was laying in ’is bunk.

Bill’s sister gave a scream when he ’ad finished, and Emily, wot was sitting next to Joseph, got up with a shiver and went and sat next to Bert Simmons and squeezed his coat-sleeve.

“It’s all nonsense!” ses Joseph, starting up. “And if it wasn’t, true love would run the risk. I ain’t afraid!”

“It’s too much to ask a gal,” ses Bert Simmons, shaking his ’ead.

“I couldn’t dream of it,” ses Emily. “Wot’s the use of being married for a week? Look at uncle’s leg—that’s enough for me!”

They all talked at once then, and Joseph tried all he could to persuade Emily to prove to the cook that ’is dreams didn’t always come true; but it was no good. Emily said she wouldn’t marry ’im if he ’ad a million a year, and her aunt and uncle backed her up in it—to say nothing of Bert Simmons.

“I’ll go up and get your presents, Joseph,” she ses; and she ran upstairs afore anybody could stop her.

Joseph sat there as if he was dazed, while everybody gave ’im good advice, and said ’ow thankful he ought to be that the cook ’ad saved him by ’is dreaming. And by and by Emily came downstairs agin with the presents he ’ad given ’er and put them on the table in front of ’im.

“There’s everything there but that little silver brooch you gave me, Joseph,” she ses, “and I lost that the other evening when I was out with—with—for a walk.”

Joseph tried to speak, but couldn’t.

“It was six-and-six, ’cos I was with you when you bought it,” ses Emily; “and as I’ve lost it, it’s on’y fair I should pay for it.”

She put down ’arf a sovereign with the presents, and Joseph sat staring at it as if he ’ad never seen one afore.

“And you needn’t mind about the change, Joseph,” ses Emily; “that’ll ’elp to make up for your disappointment.”

Old Bill tried to turn things off with a bit of a laugh. “Why, you’re made o’ money, Emily,” he ses.

“Ah! I haven’t told you yet,” ses Emily, smiling at him; “that’s a little surprise I was keeping for you. Aunt Emma—pore Aunt Emma, I should say—died while you was away and left me all ’er furniture and two hundred pounds.”

Joseph made a choking noise in his throat and then ’e got up, leaving the presents and the ’arf-sovereign on the table, and stood by the door, staring at them.

“Good-night all,” he ses. Then he went to the front door and opened it, and arter standing there a moment came back as though he ’ad forgotten something.

“Are you coming along now?” he ses to the cook.

“Not just yet,” ses the cook, very quick.

“I’ll wait outside for you, then,” ses Joseph, grinding his teeth. “Don’t be long.”

ANGELS’ VISITS

ANGELS’ VISITS

Mr. William Jobling leaned against his door-post, smoking. The evening air, pleasant in its coolness after the heat of the day, caressed his shirt-sleeved arms. Children played noisily in the long, dreary street, and an organ sounded faintly in the distance. To Mr. Jobling, who had just consumed three herrings and a pint and a half of strong tea, the scene was delightful. He blew a little cloud of smoke in the air, and with half-closed eyes corrected his first impression as to the tune being played round the corner.

“Bill!” cried the voice of Mrs. Jobling, who was washing-up in the tiny scullery.

“’Ullo!” responded Mr. Jobling, gruffly.

“You’ve been putting your wet teaspoon in the sugar-basin, and—well, I declare, if you haven’t done it again.”

“Done what?” inquired her husband, hunching his shoulders.

“Putting your herringy knife in the butter. Well, you can eat it now; I won’t. A lot of good me slaving from morning to night and buying good food when you go and spoil it like that.”

Mr. Jobling removed the pipe from his mouth. “Not so much of it,” he commanded. “I like butter with a little flavor to it. As for your slaving all day, you ought to come to the works for a week; you’d know what slavery was then.”

Mrs. Jobling permitted herself a thin, derisive cackle, drowned hurriedly in a clatter of tea-cups as her husband turned and looked angrily up the little passage.

“Nag! nag! nag!” said Mr. Jobling.

He paused expectantly.

“Nag! nag! nag! from morning till night,” he resumed. “It begins in the morning and it goes on till bedtime.”

“It’s a pity—” began Mrs. Jobling.

“Hold your tongue,” said her husband, sternly; “I don’t want any of your back answers. It goes on all day long up to bedtime, and last night I laid awake for two hours listening to you nagging in your sleep.”

He paused again.

“Nagging in your sleep,” he repeated.

There was no reply.

“Two hours!” he said, invitingly; “two whole hours, without a stop.”

“I ’ope it done you good,” retorted his wife. “I noticed you did wipe one foot when you come in to-night.”

Mr. Jobling denied the charge hotly, and, by way of emphasizing his denial, raised his foot and sent the mat flying along the passage. Honor satisfied, he returned to the door-post and, looking idly out on the street again, exchanged a few desultory remarks with Mr. Joe Brown, who, with his hands in his pockets, was balancing himself with great skill on the edge of the curb opposite.

His gaze wandered from Mr. Brown to a young and rather stylishly-dressed woman who was approaching—a tall, good-looking girl with a slight limp, whose hat encountered unspoken feminine criticism at every step. Their eyes met as she came up, and recognition flashed suddenly into both faces.

“Fancy seeing you here!” said the girl. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”

She held out her hand, and Mr. Jobling, with a fierce glance at Mr. Brown, who was not behaving, shook it respectfully.

“I’m so glad to see you again,” said the girl; “I know I didn’t thank you half enough the other night, but I was too upset.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Jobling, in a voice the humility of which was in strong contrast to the expression with which he was regarding the antics of Mr. Brown, as that gentleman wafted kisses to the four winds of heaven.

There was a pause, broken by a short, dry cough from the parlor window. The girl, who was almost touching the sill, started nervously.

“It’s only my missis,” said Mr. Jobling.

The girl turned and gazed in at the window. Mr. Jobling, with the stem of his pipe, performed a brief ceremony of introduction.

“Good-evening,” said Mrs. Jobling, in a thin voice. “I don’t know who you are, but I s’pose my ’usband does.”

“I met him the other night,” said the girl, with a bright smile; “I slipped on a piece of peel or something and fell, and he was passing and helped me up.”

Mrs. Jobling coughed again. “First I’ve heard of it,” she remarked.

“I forgot to tell you,” said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. “I hope you wasn’t hurt much, miss?”

“I twisted my ankle a bit, that’s all,” said the girl; “it’s painful when I walk.”

“Painful now?” inquired Mr. Jobling, in concern.

The girl nodded. “A little; not very.”

Mr. Jobling hesitated; the contortions of Mr. Brown’s face as he strove to make a wink carry across the road would have given pause to a bolder man; and twice his wife’s husky little cough had sounded from the window.

“I s’pose you wouldn’t like to step inside and rest for five minutes?” he said, slowly.

“Oh, thank you,” said the girl, gratefully; “I should like to. It—it really is very painful. I ought not to have walked so far.”

She limped in behind Mr. Jobling, and after bowing to Mrs. Jobling sank into the easy-chair with a sigh of relief and looked keenly round the room. Mr. Jobling disappeared, and his wife flushed darkly as he came back with his coat on and his hair wet from combing. An awkward silence ensued.

“How strong your husband is!” said the girl, clasping her hands impulsively.

“Is he?” said Mrs. Jobling.

“He lifted me up as though I had been a feather,” responded the girl. “He just put his arm round my waist and had me on my feet before I knew where I was.”

“Round your waist?” repeated Mrs. Jobling.

“Where else should I put it?” broke in her husband, with sudden violence.

His wife made no reply, but sat gazing in a hostile fashion at the bold, dark eyes and stylish hat of the visitor.

“I should like to be strong,” said the latter, smiling agreeably over at Mr. Jobling.

“When I was younger,” said that gratified man, “I can assure you I didn’t know my own strength, as the saying is. I used to hurt people just in play like, without knowing it. I used to have a hug like a bear.”

“Fancy being hugged like that!” said the girl. “How awful!” she added, hastily, as she caught the eye of the speechless Mrs. Jobling.

“Like a bear,” repeated Mr. Jobling, highly pleased at the impression he had made. “I’m pretty strong now; there ain’t many as I’m afraid of.”

He bent his arm and thoughtfully felt his biceps, and Mrs. Jobling almost persuaded herself that she must be dreaming, as she saw the girl lean forward and pinch Mr. Jobling’s arm. Mr. Jobling was surprised too, but he had the presence of mind to bend the other.

“Enormous!” said the girl, “and as hard as iron. What a prize-fighter you’d have made!”

“He don’t want to do no prize-fighting,” said Mrs. Jobling, recovering her speech; “he’s a respectable married man.”

Mr. Jobling shook his head over lost opportunities. “I’m too old,” he remarked.

“He’s forty-seven,” said his wife.

“Best age for a man, in my opinion,” said the girl; “just entering his prime. And a man is as old as he feels, you know.”

Mr. Jobling nodded acquiescence and observed that he always felt about twenty-two; a state of affairs which he ascribed to regular habits, and a great partiality for the company of young people.

“I was just twenty-two when I married,” he mused, “and my missis was just six months—”

“You leave my age alone,” interrupted his wife, trembling with passion. “I’m not so fond of telling my age to strangers.”

“You told mine,” retorted Mr. Jobling, “and nobody asked you to do that. Very free you was in coming out with mine.”

“I ain’t the only one that’s free,” breathed the quivering Mrs. Jobling. “I ’ope your ankle is better?” she added, turning to the visitor.

“Much better, thank you,” was the reply.

“Got far to go?” queried Mrs. Jobling.

The girl nodded. “But I shall take a tram at the end of the street,” she said, rising.

Mr. Jobling rose too, and all that he had ever heard or read about etiquette came crowding into his mind. A weekly journal patronized by his wife had three columns regularly, but he taxed his memory in vain for any instructions concerning brown-eyed strangers with sprained ankles. He felt that the path of duty led to the tram-lines. In a somewhat blundering fashion he proffered his services; the girl accepted them as a matter of course.

Mrs. Jobling, with lips tightly compressed, watched them from the door. The girl, limping slightly, walked along with the utmost composure, but the bearing of her escort betokened a mind fully conscious of the scrutiny of the street.

He returned in about half an hour, and having this time to run the gauntlet of the street alone, entered with a mien which caused his wife’s complaints to remain unspoken. The cough of Mr. Brown, a particularly contagious one, still rang in his ears, and he sat for some time in fierce silence.

“I see her on the tram,” he said, at last “Her name’s Robinson—Miss Robinson.”

“In-deed!” said his wife.

“Seems a nice sort o’ girl,” said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. “She’s took quite a fancy to you.”

“I’m sure I’m much obliged to her,” retorted his wife.

“So I—so I asked her to give you a look in now and then,” continued Mr. Jobling, filling his pipe with great care, “and she said she would. It’ll cheer you up a bit.”

Mrs. Jobling bit her lip and, although she had never felt more fluent in her life, said nothing. Her husband lit his pipe, and after a rapid glance in her direction took up an old newspaper and began to read.

He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a geranium in full bloom. Surprise impeded her utterance, but she thanked him at last with some warmth, and after a little deliberation decided to put it in the bedroom.

Mr. Jobling looked like a man who has suddenly discovered a flaw in his calculations. “I was thinking of the front parlor winder,” he said, at last.

“It’ll get more sun upstairs,” said his wife.

She took the pot in her arms, and disappeared. Her surprise when she came down again and found Mr. Jobling rearranging the furniture, and even adding a choice ornament or two from the kitchen, was too elaborate to escape his notice.

“Been going to do it for some time,” he remarked.

Mrs. Jobling left the room and strove with herself in the scullery. She came back pale of face and with a gleam in her eye which her husband was too busy to notice.

“It’ll never look much till we get a new hearthrug,” she said, shaking her head. “They’ve got one at Jackson’s that would be just the thing; and they’ve got a couple of tall pink vases that would brighten up the fireplace wonderful. They’re going for next to nothing, too.”

Mr. Jobling’s reply took the form of uncouth and disagreeable growlings. After that phase had passed he sat for some time with his hand placed protectingly in his trouser-pocket. Finally, in a fierce voice, he inquired the cost.

Ten minutes later, in a state fairly evenly divided between pleasure and fury, Mrs. Jobling departed with the money. Wild yearnings for courage that would enable her to spend the money differently, and confront the dismayed Mr. Jobling in a new hat and jacket, possessed her on the way; but they were only yearnings, twenty-five years’ experience of her husband’s temper being a sufficient safeguard.

Miss Robinson came in the day after as they were sitting down to tea. Mr. Jobling, who was in his shirt-sleeves, just had time to disappear as the girl passed the window. His wife let her in, and after five remarks about the weather sat listening in grim pleasure to the efforts of Mr. Jobling to find his coat. He found it at last, under a chair cushion, and, somewhat red of face, entered the room and greeted the visitor.

Conversation was at first rather awkward. The girl’s eyes wandered round the room and paused in astonishment on the pink vases; the beauty of the rug also called for notice.

“Yes, they’re pretty good,” said Mr. Jobling, much gratified by her approval.

“Beautiful,” murmured the girl. “What a thing it is to have money!” she said, wistfully.

“I could do with some,” said Mr. Jobling, with jocularity. He helped himself to bread and butter and began to discuss money and how to spend it. His ideas favored retirement and a nice little place in the country.

“I wonder you don’t do it,” said the girl, softly.

Mr. Jobling laughed. “Gingell and Watson don’t pay on those lines,” he said. “We do the work and they take the money.”

“It’s always the way,” said the girl, indignantly; “they have all the luxuries, and the men who make the money for them all the hardships. I seem to know the name Gingell and Watson. I wonder where I’ve seen it?”

“In the paper, p’r’aps,” said Mr. Jobling.

“Advertising?” asked the girl.

Mr. Jobling shook his head. “Robbery,” he replied, seriously. “It was in last week’s paper. Somebody got to the safe and got away with nine hundred pounds in gold and bank-notes.”

“I remember now,” said the girl, nodding. “Did they catch them?”

“No, and not likely to,” was the reply.

Miss Robinson opened her big eyes and looked round with an air of pretty defiance. “I am glad of it,” she said.

“Glad?” said Mrs. Jobling, involuntarily breaking a self-imposed vow of silence. “Glad?”

The girl nodded. “I like pluck,” she said, with a glance in the direction of Mr. Jobling; “and, besides, whoever took it had as much right to it as Gingell and Watson; they didn’t earn it.”

Mrs. Jobling, appalled at such ideas, glanced at her husband to see how he received them. “The man’s a thief,” she said, with great energy, “and he won’t enjoy his gains.”

“I dare say—I dare say he’ll enjoy it right enough,” said Mr. Jobling, “if he ain’t caught, that is.”

“I believe he is the sort of man I should like,” declared Miss Robinson, obstinately.

“I dare say,” said Mrs. Jobling; “and I’ve no doubt he’d like you. Birds of a—”

“That’ll do,” said her husband, peremptorily; “that’s enough about it. The guv’nors can afford to lose it; that’s one comfort.”

He leaned over as the girl asked for more sugar and dropped a spoonful in her cup, expressing surprise that she should like her tea so sweet. Miss Robinson, denying the sweetness, proffered her cup in proof, and Mrs. Jobling sat watching with blazing eyes the antics of her husband as he sipped at it.

“Sweets to the sweet,” he said, gallantly, as he handed it back.

Miss Robinson pouted, and, raising the cup to her lips, gazed ardently at him over the rim. Mr. Jobling, who certainly felt not more than twenty-two that evening, stole her cake and received in return a rap from a teaspoon. Mr. Jobling retaliated, and Mrs. Jobling, unable to eat, sat looking on in helpless fury at little arts of fascination which she had discarded—at Mr. Jobling’s earnest request—soon after their marriage.

By dint of considerable self-control, aided by an occasional glance from her husband, she managed to preserve her calm until he returned from seeing the visitor to her tram. Then her pent-up feelings found vent. Quietly scornful at first, she soon waxed hysterical over his age and figure. Tears followed as she bade him remember what a good wife she had been to him, loudly claiming that any other woman would have poisoned him long ago. Speedily finding that tears were of no avail, and that Mr. Jobling seemed to regard them rather as a tribute to his worth than otherwise, she gave way to fury, and, in a fine, but unpunctuated passage, told him her exact opinion of Miss Robinson.

“It’s no good carrying on like that,” said Mr. Jobling, magisterially, “and, what’s more, I won’t have it.”

“Walking into my house and making eyes at my ’usband,” stormed his wife.

“So long as I don’t make eyes at her there’s no harm done,” retorted Mr. Jobling. “I can’t help her taking a fancy to me, poor thing.”

“I’d poor thing her,” said his wife.

“She’s to be pitied,” said Mr. Jobling, sternly. “I know how she feels. She can’t help herself, but she’ll get over it in time. I don’t suppose she thinks for a moment we have noticed her—her—her liking for me, and I’m not going to have her feelings hurt.”

“What about my feelings?” demanded his wife.

“_You_ have got me,” Mr. Jobling reminded her.

The nine points of the law was Mrs. Jobling’s only consolation for the next few days. Neighboring matrons, exchanging sympathy for information, wished, strangely enough, that Mr. Jobling was their husband. Failing that they offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least a hundred plans for bringing him to his senses.

Mr. Jobling, who was a proud man, met their hostile glances as he passed to and from his work with scorn, until a day came when the hostility vanished and gave place to smiles. Never so many people in the street, he thought, as he returned from work; certainly never so many smiles. People came hurriedly from their back premises to smile at him, and, as he reached his door, Mr. Joe Brown opposite had all the appearance of a human sunbeam. Tired of smiling faces, he yearned for that of his wife. She came out of the kitchen and met him with a look of sly content. The perplexed Mr. Jobling eyed her morosely.

“What are you laughing at me for?” he demanded.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” said his wife.

She went back into the kitchen and sang blithely as she bustled over the preparations for tea. Her voice was feeble, but there was a triumphant effectiveness about the high notes which perplexed the listener sorely. He seated himself in the new easy-chair—procured to satisfy the supposed aesthetic tastes of Miss Robinson—and stared at the window.

“You seem very happy all of a sudden,” he growled, as his wife came in with the tray.

“Well, why shouldn’t I be?” inquired Mrs. Jobling. “I’ve got everything to make me so.”

Mr. Jobling looked at her in undisguised amazement.

“New easy-chair, new vases, and a new hearthrug,” explained his wife, looking round the room. “Did you order that little table you said you would?”

“Yes,” growled Mr. Jobling.

“Pay for it?” inquired his wife, with a trace of anxiety.

“Yes,” said Mr. Jobling again.

Mrs. Jobling’s face relaxed. “I shouldn’t like to lose it at the last moment,” she said. “You ’ave been good to me lately, Bill; buying all these nice things. There’s not many women have got such a thoughtful husband as what I have.”

“Have you gone dotty? or what?” inquired her bewildered husband.

“It’s no wonder people like you,” pursued Mrs. Jobling, ignoring the question, and smiling again as she placed three chairs at the table. “I’ll wait a minute or two before I soak the tea; I expect Miss Robinson won’t be long, and she likes it fresh.”

Mr. Jobling, to conceal his amazement and to obtain a little fresh air walked out of the room and opened the front door.

“Cheer oh!” said the watchful Mr. Brown, with a benignant smile.

Mr. Jobling scowled at him.

“It’s all right,” said Mr. Brown. “You go in and set down; I’m watching for her.”

He nodded reassuringly, and, not having curiosity enough to accept the other’s offer and step across the road and see what he would get, shaded his eyes with his hand and looked with exaggerated anxiety up the road. Mr. Jobling, heavy of brow, returned to the parlor and looked hard at his wife.

“She’s late,” said Mrs. Jobling, glancing at the clock. “I do hope she’s all right, but I should feel anxious about her if she was my gal. It’s a dangerous life.”

“Dangerous life!” said Mr. Jobling, roughly. “What’s a dangerous life?”

“Why, hers,” replied his wife, with a nervous smile. “Joe Brown told me. He followed her ’ome last night, and this morning he found out all about her.”

The mention of Mr. Brown’s name caused Mr. Jobling at first to assume an air of indifference; but curiosity overpowered him.

“What lies has he been telling?” he demanded.

“I don’t think it’s a lie, Bill,” said his wife, mildly. “Putting two and two—”

“What did he say?” cried Mr. Jobling, raising his voice.

“He said, ‘She—she’s a lady detective,’” stammered Mrs. Jobling, putting her handkerchief to her unruly mouth.

“A tec!” repeated her husband. “A lady tec?”

Mrs. Jobling nodded. “Yes, Bill. She—she—she—”

“Well?” said Mr. Jobling, in exasperation.

“She’s being employed by Gingell and Watson,” said his wife.

Mr. Jobling sprang to his feet, and with scarlet face and clinched fists strove to assimilate the information and all its meaning.

“What—what did she come here for? Do you mean to tell me she thinks _I_ took the money?” he said, huskily, after a long pause.

Mrs. Jobling bent before the storm. “I think she took a fancy to you, Bill,” she said, timidly.

Mr. Jobling appeared to swallow something; then he took a step nearer to her. “You let me see you laugh again, that’s all,” he said, fiercely. “As for that Jezzybill—”

“There she is,” said his wife, as a knock sounded at the door. “Don’t say anything to hurt her feelings, Bill. You said she was to be pitied. And it must be a hard life to ’ave to go round and flatter old married men. I shouldn’t like it.”

Mr. Jobling, past speech, stood and glared at her. Then, with an inarticulate cry, he rushed to the front door and flung it open. Miss Robinson, fresh and bright, stood smiling outside. Within easy distance a little group of neighbors were making conversation, while opposite Mr. Brown awaited events.

“What d’you want?” demanded Mr. Jobling, harshly.

Miss Robinson, who had put out her hand, drew it back and gave him a swift glance. His red face and knitted brows told their own story.

“Oh!” she said, with a winning smile, “will you please tell Mrs. Jobling that I can’t come to tea with her this evening?”

“Isn’t there anything else you’d like to say?” inquired Mr. Jobling, disdainfully, as she turned away.

The girl paused and appeared to reflect. “You can say that I am sorry to miss an amusing evening,” she said, regarding him steadily. “Good-by.”

Mr. Jobling slammed the door.

A CIRCULAR TOUR

A CIRCULAR TOUR

Illness? said the night watchman, slowly. Yes, sailormen get ill sometimes, but not ’aving the time for it that other people have, and there being no doctors at sea, they soon pick up agin. Ashore, if a man’s ill he goes to a horse-pittle and ’as a nice nurse to wait on ’im; at sea the mate comes down and tells ’im that there is nothing the matter with ’im, and asks ’im if he ain’t ashamed of ’imself. The only mate I ever knew that showed any feeling was one who ’ad been a doctor and ’ad gone to sea to better ’imself. He didn’t believe in medicine; his idea was to cut things out, and he was so kind and tender, and so fond of ’is little box of knives and saws, that you wouldn’t ha’ thought anybody could ’ave had the ’art to say “no” to him. But they did. I remember ’im getting up at four o’clock one morning to cut a man’s leg off, and at ha’-past three the chap was sitting up aloft with four pairs o’ trousers on and a belaying-pin in his ’and.

One chap I knew, Joe Summers by name, got so sick o’ work one v’y’ge that he went mad. Not dangerous mad, mind you. Just silly. One thing he did was to pretend that the skipper was ’is little boy, and foller ’im up unbeknown and pat his ’ead. At last, to pacify him, the old man pretended that he was ’is little boy, and a precious handful of a boy he was too, I can tell you. Fust of all he showed ’is father ’ow they wrestled at school, and arter that he showed ’im ’ow he ’arf killed another boy in fifteen rounds. Leastways he was going to, but arter seven rounds Joe’s madness left ’im all of a sudden and he was as right as ever he was.

Sailormen are more frequent ill ashore than at sea; they’ve got more time for it, I s’pose. Old Sam Small, a man you may remember by name as a pal o’ mine, got ill once, and, like most ’ealthy men who get a little something the matter with ’em, he made sure ’e was dying. He was sharing a bedroom with Ginger Dick and Peter Russet at the time, and early one morning he woke up groaning with a chill or something which he couldn’t account for, but which Ginger thought might ha’ been partly caused through ’im sleeping in the fireplace.