Odd Craft, Complete by W.W. Jacobs (page 3)

turned to the valiant Sims and made herself so agreeable to that daring blade that Mr. Drill, a prey to violent jealousy, bade the company a curt good-night and withdrew.

He stayed away for nearly a week, and then one evening as he approached the house, carrying a carpet-bag, he saw the door just opening to admit the fortunate Herbert. He quickened his pace and arrived just in time to follow him in. Mr. Sims, who bore under his arm a brown-paper parcel, seemed somewhat embarrassed at seeing him, and after a brief greeting walked into the room, and with a triumphant glance at Mr. Gunnill and Selina placed his burden on the table.

[Illustration: “He saw the door just opening to admit the fortunate Herbert.”]

“You–you ain’t got it?” said Mr. Gunnill, leaning forward.

“How foolish of you to run such a risk!” said Selina.

“I brought it for Miss Gunnill,” said the young man, simply. He unfastened the parcel, and to the astonishment of all present revealed a policeman’s helmet and a short boxwood truncheon.

“You–you’re a wonder,” said the gloating Mr. Gunnill. “Look at it, Ted!”

Mr. Drill was looking at it; it may be doubted whether the head of Mr. Cooper itself could have caused him more astonishment. Then his eyes sought those of Mr. Sims, but that gentleman was gazing tenderly at the gratified but shocked Selina.

“How ever did you do it?” inquired Mr. Gunnill.

“Came behind him and threw him down,” said Mr. Sims, nonchalantly. “He was that scared I believe I could have taken his boots as well if I’d wanted them.”

Mr. Gunnill patted him on the back. “I fancy I can see him running bare-headed through the town calling for help,” he said, smiling.

Mr. Sims shook his head. “Like as not it’ll be kept quiet for the credit of the force,” he said, slowly, “unless, of course, they discover who did it.”

A slight shade fell on the good-humoured countenance of Mr. Gunnill, but it was chased away almost immediately by Sims reminding him of the chaff of Cooper’s brother-constables.

“And you might take the others away,” said Mr. Gunnill, brightening; “you might keep on doing it.”

Mr. Sims said doubtfully that he might, but pointed out that Cooper would probably be on his guard for the future.

“Yes, you’ve done your share,” said Miss Gunnill, with a half-glance at Mr. Drill, who was still gazing in a bewildered fashion at the trophies. “You can come into the kitchen and help me draw some beer if you like.”

Mr. Sims followed her joyfully, and reaching down a jug for her watched her tenderly as she drew the beer. All women love valour, but Miss Gunnill, gazing sadly at the slight figure of Mr. Sims, could not help wishing that Mr. Drill possessed a little of his spirit.

[Illustration: “Mr. Sims watched her tenderly as she drew the beer.”]

She had just finished her task when a tremendous bumping noise was heard in the living-room, and the plates on the dresser were nearly shaken off their shelves.

“What’s that?” she cried.

They ran to the room and stood aghast in the doorway at the spectacle of Mr. Gunnill, with his clenched fists held tightly by his side, bounding into the air with all the grace of a trained acrobat, while Mr. Drill encouraged him from an easy-chair. Mr. Gunnill smiled broadly as he met their astonished gaze, and with a final bound kicked something along the floor and subsided into his seat panting.

Mr. Sims, suddenly enlightened, uttered a cry of dismay and, darting under the table, picked up what had once been a policeman’s helmet. Then he snatched a partially consumed truncheon from the fire, and stood white and trembling before the astonished Mr. Gunnill.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the latter. “You–you’ve spoilt ’em,” gasped Mr. Sims. “What of it?” said Mr. Gunnill, staring.

“I was–going to take ’em away,” stammered Mr. Sims.

“Well, they’ll be easier to carry now,” said Mr. Drill, simply.

Mr. Sims glanced at him sharply, and then, to the extreme astonishment of Mr. Gunnill, snatched up the relics and, wrapping them up in the paper, dashed out of the house. Mr. Gunnill turned a look of blank inquiry upon Mr. Drill.

“It wasn’t Cooper’s number on the helmet,” said that gentleman.

“Eh?” shouted Mr. Gunnill.

“How do you know?” inquired Selina.

“I just happened to notice,” replied Mr. Drill. He reached down as though to take up the carpet-bag which he had placed by the side of his chair, and then, apparently thinking better of it, leaned back in his seat and eyed Mr. Gunnill.

“Do you mean to tell me,” said the latter, “that he’s been and upset the wrong man?”

Mr. Drill shook his head. “That’s the puzzle,” he said, softly.

He smiled over at Miss Gunnill, but that young lady, who found him somewhat mysterious, looked away and frowned. Her father sat and exhausted conjecture, his final conclusion being that Mr. Sims had attacked the first policeman that had come in his way and was now suffering the agonies of remorse.

He raised his head sharply at the sound of hurried footsteps outside. There was a smart rap at the street door, then the handle was turned, and the next moment, to the dismay of all present, the red and angry face of one of Mr. Cooper’s brother-constables was thrust into the room.

Mr. Gunnill gazed at it in helpless fascination. The body of the constable garbed in plain clothes followed the face and, standing before him in a menacing fashion, held out a broken helmet and staff.

“Have you seen these afore?” he inquired, in a terrible voice.

“No,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an attempt at surprise. “What are they?”

“I’ll tell you what they are,” said Police-constable Jenkins, ferociously; “they’re my helmet and truncheon. You’ve been spoiling His Majesty’s property, and you’ll be locked up.”

“Yours?” said the astonished Mr. Gunnill.

“I lent ’em to young Sims, just for a joke,” said the constable. “I felt all along I was doing a silly thing.”

“It’s no joke,” said Mr. Gunnill, severely. “I’ll tell young Herbert what I think of him trying to deceive me like that.”

“Never mind about deceiving,” interrupted the constable. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What are you?” inquired Mr. Gunnill, hardily. “It seems to me it’s between you and him; you’ll very likely be dismissed from the force, and all through trying to deceive. I wash my hands of it.”

“You’d no business to lend it,” said Drill, interrupting the constable’s indignant retort; “especially for Sims to pretend that he had stolen it from Cooper. It’s a roundabout sort of thing, but you can’t tell of Mr. Gunnill without getting into trouble yourself.”

“I shall have to put up with that,” said the constable, desperately; “it’s got to be explained. It’s my day-helmet, too, and the night one’s as shabby as can be. Twenty years in the force and never a mark against my name till now.”

“If you’d only keep quiet a bit instead of talking so much,” said Mr. Drill, who had been doing some hard thinking, “I might be able to help you, p’r’aps.”

“How?” inquired the constable.

“Help him if you can, Ted,” said Mr. Gunnill, eagerly; “we ought all to help others when we get a chance.”

Mr. Drill sat bolt upright and looked very wise.

He took the smashed helmet from the table and examined it carefully. It was broken in at least half-a-dozen places, and he laboured in vain to push it into shape. He might as well have tried to make a silk hat out of a concertina. The only thing that had escaped injury was the metal plate with the number.

“Why don’t you mend it?” he inquired, at last.

“Mend it?” shouted the incensed Mr. Jenkins. “Why don’t you?”

“I think I could,” said Mr. Drill, slowly; “give me half an hour in the kitchen and I’ll try.”

“Have as long as you like,” said Mr. Gunnill.

“And I shall want some glue, and Miss Gunnill, and some tin-tacks,” said Drill.

“What do you want me for?” inquired Selina.

“To hold the things for me,” replied Mr. Drill.

Miss Gunnill tossed her head, but after a little demur consented; and Drill, ignoring the impatience of the constable, picked up his bag and led the way into the kitchen. Messrs. Gunnill and Jenkins, left behind in the living-room, sought for some neutral topic of discourse, but in vain; conversation would revolve round hard labour and lost pensions. From the kitchen came sounds of hammering, then a loud “Ooh!” from Miss Gunnill, followed by a burst of laughter and a clapping of hands. Mr. Jenkins shifted in his seat and exchanged glances with Mr. Gunnill.

[Illustration: “From the kitchen came sounds of hammering.”]

“He’s a clever fellow,” said that gentleman, hopefully. “You should hear him imitate a canary; life-like it is.”

Mr. Jenkins was about to make a hasty and obvious rejoinder, when the kitchen door opened and Selina emerged, followed by Drill. The snarl which the constable had prepared died away in a murmur of astonishment as he took the helmet. It looked as good as ever.

He turned it over and over in amaze, and looked in vain for any signs of the disastrous cracks. It was stiff and upright. He looked at the number: it was his own. His eyes round with astonishment he tried it on, and then his face relaxed.

“It don’t fit as well as it did,” he said.

“Well, upon my word, some people are never satisfied,” said the indignant Drill. “There isn’t another man in England could have done it better.”

“I’m not grumbling,” said the constable, hastily; “it’s a wonderful piece o’ work. Wonderful! I can’t even see where it was broke. How on earth did you do it?”

Drill shook his head. “It’s a secret process,” he said, slowly. “I might want to go into the hat trade some day, and I’m not going to give things away.”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Jenkins. “Still–well, it’s a marvel, that’s what it is; a fair marvel. If you take my advice you’ll go in the hat trade to-morrow, my lad.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Gunnill, whose face as he spoke was a map of astonishment. “Not a bit. I’ve seen him do more surprising things than that. Have a go at the staff now, Teddy.”

“I’ll see about it,” said Mr. Drill, modestly. “I can’t do impossibilities. You leave it here, Mr. Jenkins, and we’ll talk about it later on.”

Mr. Jenkins, still marvelling over his helmet, assented, and, after another reference to the possibilities in the hat trade to a man with a born gift for repairs, wrapped his property in a piece of newspaper and departed, whistling.

“Ted,” said Mr. Gunnill, impressively, as he sank into his chair with a sigh of relief. “How you done it I don’t know. It’s a surprise even to me.”

“He is very clever,” said Selina, with a kind smile

Mr. Drill turned pale, and then, somewhat emboldened by praise from such a quarter, dropped into a chair by her side and began to talk in low tones. The grateful Mr. Gunnill, more relieved than he cared to confess, thoughtfully closed his eyes.

“I didn’t think all along that you’d let Herbert outdo you,” said Selina.

“I want to outdo him,” said Mr. Drill, in a voice of much meaning.

Miss Gunnill cast down her eyes and Mr. Drill had just plucked up sufficient courage to take her hand when footsteps stopped at the house, the handle of the door was turned, and, for the second time that evening, the inflamed visage of Mr. Jenkins confronted the company.

“Don’t tell me it’s a failure,” said Mr. Gunnill, starting from his chair. “You must have been handling it roughly. It was as good as new when you took it away.”

Mr. Jenkins waved him away and fixed his eyes upon Drill.

“You think you’re mighty clever, I dare say,” he said, grimly; “but I can put two and two together. I’ve just heard of it.”

“Heard of two and two?” said Drill, looking puzzled.

“I don’t want any of your nonsense,” said Mr. Jenkins. “I’m not on duty now, but I warn you not to say anything that may be used against you.”

“I never do,” said Mr. Drill, piously.

“Somebody threw a handful o’ flour in poor Cooper’s face a couple of hours ago,” said Mr. Jenkins, watching him closely, “and while he was getting it out of his eyes they upset him and made off with his helmet and truncheon. I just met Brown and he says Cooper’s been going on like a madman.”

“By Jove! it’s a good job I mended your helmet for you,” said Mr. Drill, “or else they might have suspected you.”

Mr. Jenkins stared at him. “I know who did do it,” he said, significantly.

“Herbert Sims?” guessed Mr. Drill, in a stage whisper.

“You’ll be one o’ the first to know,” said Mr. Jenkins, darkly; “he’ll be arrested to-morrow. Fancy the impudence of it! It’s shocking.”

Mr. Drill whistled. “Nell, don’t let that little affair o’ yours with Sims be known,” he said, quietly. “Have that kept quiet–if you can.”

Mr. Jenkins started as though he had been stung. In the joy of a case he had overlooked one or two things. He turned and regarded the young man wistfully.

“Don’t call on me as a witness, that’s all,” continued Mr. Drill. “I never was a mischief-maker, and I shouldn’t like to have to tell how you lent your helmet to Sims so that he could pretend he had knocked Cooper down and taken it from him.”

[Illustration: “Don’t call on me as a witness, that’s all,” continued Mr. Drill.]

“Wouldn’t look at all well,” said Mr. Gunnill, nodding his head sagely.

Mr. Jenkins breathed hard and looked from one to the other. It was plain that it was no good reminding them that he had not had a case for five years.

“When I say that I know who did it,” he said, slowly, “I mean that I have my suspicions.”

“Don’t call on me as a witness, that’s all,’ continued Mr. Drill.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Drill, “that’s a very different thing.”

“Nothing like the same,” said Mr. Gunnill, pouring the constable a glass of ale.

Mr. Jenkins drank it and smacked his lips feebly.

“Sims needn’t know anything about that helmet being repaired,” he said at last.

“Certainly not,” said everybody.

Mr. Jenkins sighed and turned to Drill.

“It’s no good spoiling the ship for a ha’porth o’ tar,” he said, with a faint suspicion of a wink. “No,” said Drill, looking puzzled.

“Anything that’s worth doing at all is worth doing well,” continued the constable, “and while I’m drinking another glass with Mr. Gunnill here, suppose you go into the kitchen with that useful bag o’ yours and finish repairing my truncheon?”

THE PERSECUTION OF BOB PRETTY

The old man sat on his accustomed bench outside the Cauliflower. A generous measure of beer stood in a blue and white jug by his elbow, and little wisps of smoke curled slowly upward from the bowl of his churchwarden pipe. The knapsacks of two young men lay where they were flung on the table, and the owners, taking a noon-tide rest, turned a polite, if bored, ear to the reminiscences of grateful old age.

Poaching, said the old man, who had tried topics ranging from early turnips to horseshoeing–poaching ain’t wot it used to be in these ‘ere parts. Nothing is like it used to be, poaching nor anything else; but that there man you might ha’ noticed as went out about ten minutes ago and called me “Old Truthfulness” as ‘e passed is the worst one I know. Bob Pretty ‘is name is, and of all the sly, artful, deceiving men that ever lived in Claybury ‘e is the worst–never did a honest day’s work in ‘is life and never wanted the price of a glass of ale.

[Illustration: “Poaching,” said the old man, “ain’t wot it used to be in these ‘ere parts.”]

Bob Pretty’s worst time was just after old Squire Brown died. The old squire couldn’t afford to preserve much, but by-and-by a gentleman with plenty o’ money, from London, named Rockett, took ‘is place and things began to look up. Pheasants was ‘is favourites, and ‘e spent no end o’ money rearing of ’em, but anything that could be shot at suited ‘im, too.

He started by sneering at the little game that Squire Brown ‘ad left, but all ‘e could do didn’t seem to make much difference; things disappeared in a most eggstrordinary way, and the keepers went pretty near crazy, while the things the squire said about Claybury and Claybury men was disgraceful.

Everybody knew as it was Bob Pretty and one or two of ‘is mates from other places, but they couldn’t prove it. They couldn’t catch ‘im nohow, and at last the squire ‘ad two keepers set off to watch ‘im by night and by day.

Bob Pretty wouldn’t believe it; he said ‘e couldn’t. And even when it was pointed out to ‘im that Keeper Lewis was follering of ‘im he said that it just ‘appened he was going the same way, that was all. And sometimes ‘e’d get up in the middle of the night and go for a fifteen- mile walk ‘cos ‘e’d got the toothache, and Mr. Lewis, who ‘adn’t got it, had to tag along arter ‘im till he was fit to drop. O’ course, it was one keeper the less to look arter the game, and by-and-by the squire see that and took ‘im off.

All the same they kept a pretty close watch on Bob, and at last one arternoon they sprang out on ‘im as he was walking past Gray’s farm, and asked him wot it was he ‘ad in his pockets.

“That’s my bisness, Mr. Lewis,” ses Bob Pretty.

Mr. Smith, the other keeper, passed ‘is hands over Bob’s coat and felt something soft and bulgy.

“You take your ‘ands off of me,” ses Bob; “you don’t know ‘ow partikler I am.”

He jerked ‘imself away, but they caught ‘old of ‘im agin, and Mr. Lewis put ‘is hand in his inside pocket and pulled out two brace o’ partridges.

“You’ll come along of us,” he ses, catching ‘im by the arm.

“We’ve been looking for you a long time,” ses Keeper Smith, “and it’s a pleasure for us to ‘ave your company.”

Bob Pretty said ‘e wouldn’t go, but they forced ‘im along and took ‘im all the way to Cudford, four miles off, so that Policeman White could lock ‘im up for the night. Mr. White was a’most as pleased as the keepers, and ‘e warned Bob solemn not to speak becos all ‘e said would be used agin ‘im.

“Never mind about that,” ses Bob Pretty. “I’ve got a clear conscience, and talking can’t ‘urt me. I’m very glad to see you, Mr. White; if these two clever, experienced keepers hadn’t brought me I should ‘ave looked you up myself. They’ve been and stole my partridges.”

Them as was standing round laughed, and even Policeman White couldn’t ‘elp giving a little smile.

“There’s nothing to laugh at,” ses Bob, ‘olding his ‘ead up. “It’s a fine thing when a working man–a ‘ardworking man–can’t take home a little game for ‘is family without being stopped and robbed.”

“I s’pose they flew into your pocket?” ses Police-man White.

“No, they didn’t,” ses Bob. “I’m not going to tell any lies about it; I put ’em there. The partridges in my inside coat-pocket and the bill in my waistcoat-pocket.”

“The bill?” ses Keeper Lewis, staring at ‘im.

“Yes, the bill,” ses Bob Pretty, staring back at ‘im; “the bill from Mr. Keen, the poulterer, at Wick-ham.”

He fetched it out of ‘is pocket and showed it to Mr. White, and the keepers was like madmen a’most ‘cos it was plain to see that Bob Pretty ‘ad been and bought them partridges just for to play a game on ’em.

“I was curious to know wot they tasted like,” he ses to the policeman. “Worst of it is, I don’t s’pose my pore wife’ll know ‘ow to cook ’em.”

“You get off ‘ome,” ses Policeman White, staring at ‘im.

“But ain’t I goin’ to be locked up?” ses Bob. “‘Ave I been brought all this way just to ‘ave a little chat with a policeman I don’t like.”

“You go ‘ome,” ses Policeman White, handing the partridges back to ‘im.

“All right,” ses Bob, “and I may ‘ave to call you to witness that these ‘ere two men laid hold o’ me and tried to steal my partridges. I shall go up and see my loryer about it.”

He walked off ‘ome with his ‘ead up as high as ‘e could hold it, and the airs ‘e used to give ‘imself arter this was terrible for to behold. He got ‘is eldest boy to write a long letter to the squire about it, saying that ‘e’d overlook it this time, but ‘e couldn’t promise for the future. Wot with Bob Pretty on one side and Squire Rockett on the other, them two keepers’ lives was ‘ardly worth living.

Then the squire got a head-keeper named Cutts, a man as was said to know more about the ways of poachers than they did themselves. He was said to ‘ave cleared out all the poachers for miles round the place ‘e came from, and pheasants could walk into people’s cottages and not be touched.

He was a sharp-looking man, tall and thin, with screwed-up eyes and a little red beard. The second day ‘e came ‘e was up here at this ‘ere Cauliflower, having a pint o’ beer and looking round at the chaps as he talked to the landlord. The odd thing was that men who’d never taken a hare or a pheasant in their lives could ‘ardly meet ‘is eye, while Bob Pretty stared at ‘im as if ‘e was a wax-works.

“I ‘ear you ‘ad a little poaching in these parts afore I came,” ses Mr. Cutts to the landlord.

“I think I ‘ave ‘eard something o’ the kind,” ses the landlord, staring over his ‘ead with a far-away look in ‘is eyes.

“You won’t hear of much more,” ses the keeper. “I’ve invented a new way of catching the dirty rascals; afore I came ‘ere I caught all the poachers on three estates. I clear ’em out just like a ferret clears out rats.”

“Sort o’ man-trap?” ses the landlord.

“Ah, that’s tellings,” ses Mr. Cutts.

“Well, I ‘ope you’ll catch ’em here,” ses Bob Pretty; “there’s far too many of ’em about for my liking. Far too many.”

“I shall ‘ave ’em afore long,” ses Mr. Cutts, nodding his ‘ead.

[Illustration: “I shall ‘ave ’em afore long,’ ses Mr. Cutts.”]

“Your good ‘ealth,” ses Bob Pretty, holding up ‘is mug. “We’ve been wanting a man like you for a long time.”

“I don’t want any of your impidence, my man,” ses the keeper. “I’ve ‘eard about you, and nothing good either. You be careful.”

“I am careful,” ses Bob, winking at the others. “I ‘ope you’ll catch all them low poaching chaps; they give the place a bad name, and I’m a’most afraid to go out arter dark for fear of meeting ’em.”

Peter Gubbins and Sam Jones began to laugh, but Bob Pretty got angry with ’em and said he didn’t see there was anything to laugh at. He said that poaching was a disgrace to their native place, and instead o’ laughing they ought to be thankful to Mr. Cutts for coming to do away with it all.

“Any help I can give you shall be given cheerful,” he ses to the keeper.

“When I want your help I’ll ask you for it,” ses Mr. Cutts.

“Thankee,” ses Bob Pretty. “I on’y ‘ope I sha’n’t get my face knocked about like yours ‘as been, that’s all; ‘cos my wife’s so partikler.”

“Wot d’ye mean?” ses Mr. Cutts, turning on him. “My face ain’t been knocked about.”

“Oh, I beg your pardin,” ses Bob; “I didn’t know it was natural.”

Mr. Cutts went black in the face a’most and stared at Bob Pretty as if ‘e was going to eat ‘im, and Bob stared back, looking fust at the keeper’s nose and then at ‘is eyes and mouth, and then at ‘is nose agin.

“You’ll know me agin, I s’pose?” ses Mr. Cutts, at last.

“Yes,” ses Bob, smiling; “I should know you a mile off–on the darkest night.”

“We shall see,” ses Mr. Cutts, taking up ‘is beer and turning ‘is back on him. “Those of us as live the longest’ll see the most.”

“I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to see ‘im,” ses Bob to Bill Chambers. “I feel more satisfied with myself now.”

Bill Chambers coughed, and Mr. Cutts, arter finishing ‘is beer, took another look at Bob Pretty, and went off boiling a’most.

The trouble he took to catch Bob Pretty arter that you wouldn’t believe, and all the time the game seemed to be simply melting away, and Squire Rockett was finding fault with ‘im all day long. He was worn to a shadder a’most with watching, and Bob Pretty seemed to be more prosperous than ever.

Sometimes Mr. Cutts watched in the plantations, and sometimes ‘e hid ‘imself near Bob’s house, and at last one night, when ‘e was crouching behind the fence of Frederick Scott’s front garden, ‘e saw Bob Pretty come out of ‘is house and, arter a careful look round, walk up the road. He held ‘is breath as Bob passed ‘im, and was just getting up to foller ‘im when Bob stopped and walked slowly back agin, sniffing.

“Wot a delicious smell o’ roses!” he ses, out loud.

He stood in the middle o’ the road nearly opposite where the keeper was hiding, and sniffed so that you could ha’ ‘eard him the other end o’ the village.

“It can’t be roses,” he ses, in a puzzled voice, “be-cos there ain’t no roses hereabouts, and, besides, it’s late for ’em. It must be Mr. Cutts, the clever new keeper.”

He put his ‘ead over the fence and bid ‘im good evening, and said wot a fine night for a stroll it was, and asked ‘im whether ‘e was waiting for Frederick Scott’s aunt. Mr. Cutts didn’t answer ‘im a word; ‘e was pretty near bursting with passion. He got up and shook ‘is fist in Bob Pretty’s face, and then ‘e went off stamping down the road as if ‘e was going mad.

And for a time Bob Pretty seemed to ‘ave all the luck on ‘is side. Keeper Lewis got rheumatic fever, which ‘e put down to sitting about night arter night in damp places watching for Bob, and, while ‘e was in the thick of it, with the doctor going every day, Mr. Cutts fell in getting over a fence and broke ‘is leg. Then all the work fell on Keeper Smith, and to ‘ear ‘im talk you’d think that rheumatic fever and broken legs was better than anything else in the world. He asked the squire for ‘elp, but the squire wouldn’t give it to ‘im, and he kept telling ‘im wot a feather in ‘is cap it would be if ‘e did wot the other two couldn’t do, and caught Bob Pretty. It was all very well, but, as Smith said, wot ‘e wanted was feathers in ‘is piller, instead of ‘aving to snatch a bit o’ sleep in ‘is chair or sitting down with his ‘ead agin a tree. When I tell you that ‘e fell asleep in this public-‘ouse one night while the landlord was drawing a pint o’ beer he ‘ad ordered, you’ll know wot ‘e suffered.

O’ course, all this suited Bob Pretty as well as could be, and ‘e was that good-tempered ‘e’d got a nice word for everybody, and when Bill Chambers told ‘im ‘e was foolhardy ‘e only laughed and said ‘e knew wot ‘e was about.

But the very next night ‘e had reason to remember Bill Chambers’s words. He was walking along Farmer Hall’s field–the one next to the squire’s plantation–and, so far from being nervous, ‘e was actually a-whistling. He’d got a sack over ‘is shoulder, loaded as full as it could be, and ‘e ‘ad just stopped to light ‘is pipe when three men burst out o’ the plantation and ran toward ‘im as ‘ard as they could run.

[Illustration: “Three men burst out o’ the plantation.”]

Bob Pretty just gave one look and then ‘e dropped ‘is pipe and set off like a hare. It was no good dropping the sack, because Smith, the keeper, ‘ad recognised ‘im and called ‘im by name, so ‘e just put ‘is teeth together and did the best he could, and there’s no doubt that if it ‘adn’t ha’ been for the sack ‘e could ‘ave got clear away.

As it was, ‘e ran for pretty near a mile, and they could ‘ear ‘im breathing like a pair o’ bellows; but at last ‘e saw that the game was up. He just man-aged to struggle as far as Farmer Pinnock’s pond, and then, waving the sack round his ‘ead, ‘e flung it into the middle of it, and fell down gasping for breath.

“Got–you–this time–Bob Pretty,” ses one o’ the men, as they came up.

“Wot–Mr. Cutts?” ses Bob, with a start. “That’s me, my man,” ses the keeper.

“Why–I thought–you was. Is that Mr. Lewis? It can’t be.”

“That’s me,” ses Keeper Lewis. “We both got well sudden-like, Bob Pretty, when we ‘eard you was out. You ain’t so sharp as you thought you was.”

Bob Pretty sat still, getting ‘is breath back and doing a bit o’ thinking at the same time.

“You give me a start,” he ses, at last. “I thought you was both in bed, and, knowing ‘ow hard worked Mr. Smith ‘as been, I just came round to ‘elp ‘im keep watch like. I promised to ‘elp you, Mr. Cutts, if you remember.”

“Wot was that you threw in the pond just now?” ses Mr. Cutts.

“A sack,” ses Bob Pretty; “a sack I found in Farmer Hall’s field. It felt to me as though it might ‘ave birds in it, so I picked it up, and I was just on my way to your ‘ouse with it, Mr. Cutts, when you started arter me.”

“Ah!” ses the keeper, “and wot did you run for?”

Bob Pretty tried to laugh. “Becos I thought it was the poachers arter me,” he ses. “It seems ridikilous, don’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” ses Lewis.

“I thought you’d know me a mile off,” ses Mr. Cutts. “I should ha’ thought the smell o’ roses would ha’ told you I was near.”

Bob Pretty scratched ‘is ‘ead and looked at ‘im out of the corner of ‘is eye, but he ‘adn’t got any answer. Then ‘e sat biting his finger-nails and thinking while the keepers stood argyfying as to who should take ‘is clothes off and go into the pond arter the pheasants. It was a very cold night and the pond was pretty deep in places, and none of ’em seemed anxious.

“Make ‘im go in for it,” ses Lewis, looking at Bob; “‘e chucked it in.”

“On’y Becos I thought you was poachers,” ses Bob. “I’m sorry to ‘ave caused so much trouble.”

“Well, you go in and get it out,” ses Lewis, who pretty well guessed who’d ‘ave to do it if Bob didn’t. “It’ll look better for you, too.”

“I’ve got my defence all right,” ses Bob Pretty. “I ain’t set a foot on the squire’s preserves, and I found this sack a ‘undred yards away from it.”

“Don’t waste more time,” ses Mr. Cutts to Lewis.

“Off with your clothes and in with you. Anybody’d think you was afraid of a little cold water.”

“Whereabouts did ‘e pitch it in?” ses Lewis.

Bob Pretty pointed with ‘is finger exactly where ‘e thought it was, but they wouldn’t listen to ‘im, and then Lewis, arter twice saying wot a bad cold he’d got, took ‘is coat off very slow and careful.

[Illustration: “Bob Pretty pointed with ‘is finger exactly where ‘e thought it was.”]

“I wouldn’t mind going in to oblige you,” ses Bob Pretty, “but the pond is so full o’ them cold, slimy efts; I don’t fancy them crawling up agin me, and, besides that, there’s such a lot o’ deep holes in it. And wotever you do don’t put your ‘ead under; you know ‘ow foul that water is.”

Keeper Lewis pretended not to listen to ‘im. He took off ‘is clothes very slowly and then ‘e put one foot in and stood shivering, although Smith, who felt the water with his ‘and, said it was quite warm. Then Lewis put the other foot in and began to walk about careful, ‘arf-way up to ‘is knees.

“I can’t find it,” he ses, with ‘is teeth chattering.

“You ‘aven’t looked,” ses Mr. Cutts; “walk about more; you can’t expect to find it all at once. Try the middle.”

Lewis tried the middle, and ‘e stood there up to ‘is neck, feeling about with his foot and saying things out loud about Bob Pretty, and other things under ‘is breath about Mr. Cutts.

“Well, I’m going off ‘ome,” ses Bob Pretty, getting up. “I’m too tender-‘arted to stop and see a man drownded.”

“You stay ‘ere,” ses Mr. Cutts, catching ‘old of him.

“Wot for?” ses Bob; “you’ve got no right to keep me ‘ere.”

“Catch ‘old of ‘im, Joe,” ses Mr. Cutts, quick-like.

Smith caught ‘old of his other arm, and Lewis left off trying to find the sack to watch the struggle. Bob Pretty fought ‘ard, and once or twice ‘e nearly tumbled Mr. Cutts into the pond, but at last ‘e gave in and lay down panting and talking about ‘is loryer. Smith ‘eld him down on the ground while Mr. Cutts kept pointing out places with ‘is finger for Lewis to walk to. The last place ‘e pointed to wanted a much taller man, but it wasn’t found out till too late, and the fuss Keeper Lewis made when ‘e could speak agin was terrible.

“You’d better come out,” ses Mr. Cutts; “you ain’t doing no good. We know where they are and we’ll watch the pond till daylight–that is, unless Smith ‘ud like to ‘ave a try.”

“It’s pretty near daylight now, I think,” ses Smith.

Lewis came out and ran up and down to dry ‘imself, and finished off on ‘is pocket-‘andkerchief, and then with ‘is teeth chattering ‘e began to dress ‘imself. He got ‘is shirt on, and then ‘e stood turning over ‘is clothes as if ‘e was looking for something.

“Never mind about your stud now,” ses Mr. Cutts; “hurry up and dress.”

“Stud?” ses Lewis, very snappish. “I’m looking for my trowsis.”

“Your trowsis?” ses Smith, ‘elping ‘im look.

“I put all my clothes together,” ses Lewis, a’most shouting. “Where are they? I’m ‘arf perished with cold. Where are they?”

“He ‘ad ’em on this evening,” ses Bob Pretty, “‘cos I remember noticing ’em.”

“They must be somewhere about,” ses Mr. Cutts; “why don’t you use your eyes?”

He walked up and down, peering about, and as for Lewis he was ‘opping round ‘arf crazy.

“I wonder,” ses Bob Pretty, in a thoughtful voice, to Smith–“I wonder whether you or Mr. Cutts kicked ’em in the pond while you was struggling with me. Come to think of it, I seem to remember ‘earing a splash.”

“He’s done it, Mr. Cutts,” ses Smith; “never mind, it’ll go all the ‘arder with ‘im.”

“But I do mind,” ses Lewis, shouting. “I’ll be even with you for this, Bob Pretty. I’ll make you feel it. You wait till I’ve done with you. You’ll get a month extra for this, you see if you don’t.”

“Don’t you mind about me,” ses Bob; “you run off ‘ome and cover up them legs of yours. I found that sack, so my conscience is clear.”

Lewis put on ‘is coat and waistcoat and set off, and Mr. Cutts and Smith, arter feeling about for a dry place, set theirselves down and began to smoke.

“Look ‘ere,” ses Bob Pretty, “I’m not going to sit ‘ere all night to please you; I’m going off ‘ome. If you want me you’ll know where to find me.”

“You stay where you are,” ses Mr. Cutts. “We ain’t going to let you out of our sight.”

“Very well, then, you take me ‘ome,” ses Bob. “I’m not going to catch my death o’ cold sitting ‘ere. I’m not used to being out of a night like you are. I was brought up respectable.”

“I dare say,” ses Mr. Cutts. “Take you ‘ome, and then ‘ave one o’ your mates come and get the sack while we’re away.”

Then Bob Pretty lost ‘is temper, and the things ‘e said about Mr. Cutts wasn’t fit for Smith to ‘ear. He threw ‘imself down at last full length on the ground and sulked till the day broke.

Keeper Lewis was there a’most as soon as it was light, with some long hay-rakes he’d borrowed, and I should think that pretty near ‘arf the folks in Clay-bury ‘ad turned up to see the fun. Mrs. Pretty was crying and wringing ‘er ‘ands; but most folks seemed to be rather pleased that Bob ‘ad been caught at last.

In next to no time ‘arf-a-dozen rakes was at work, and the things they brought out o’ that pond you wouldn’t believe. The edge of it was all littered with rusty tin pails and saucepans and such-like, and by-and-by Lewis found the things he’d ‘ad to go ‘ome without a few hours afore, but they didn’t seem to find that sack, and Bob Pretty, wot was talking to ‘is wife, began to look ‘opeful.

But just then the squire came riding up with two friends as was staying with ‘im, and he offered a reward of five shillings to the man wot found it. Three or four of ’em waded in up to their middle then and raked their ‘ardest, and at last Henery Walker give a cheer and brought it to the side, all heavy with water.

“That’s the sack I found, sir,” ses Bob, starting up. “It wasn’t on your land at all, but on the field next to it. I’m an honest, ‘ardworking man, and I’ve never been in trouble afore. Ask anybody ‘ere and they’ll tell you the same.”

Squire Rockett took no notice of ‘im. “Is that the sack?” he asks, turning to Mr. Cutts.

“That’s the one, sir,” ses Mr. Cutts. “I’d swear to it anywhere.”

“You’d swear a man’s life away,” ses Bob. “‘Ow can you swear to it when it was dark?”

Mr. Cutts didn’t answer ‘im. He went down on ‘is knees and cut the string that tied up the mouth o’ the sack, and then ‘e started back as if ‘e’d been shot, and ‘is eyes a’most started out of ‘is ‘ead.

“Wot’s the matter?” ses the squire.

Mr. Cutts couldn’t speak; he could only stutter and point at the sack with ‘is finger, and Henery Walker, as was getting curious, lifted up the other end of it and out rolled a score of as fine cabbages as you could wish to see.

I never see people so astonished afore in all my born days, and as for Bob Pretty, ‘e stood staring at them cabbages as if ‘e couldn’t believe ‘is eyesight.

“And that’s wot I’ve been kept ‘ere all night for,” he ses, at last, shaking his ‘ead. “That’s wot comes o’ trying to do a kindness to keepers, and ‘elping of ’em in their difficult work. P’r’aps that ain’t the sack arter all, Mr. Cutts. I could ha’ sworn they was pheasants in the one I found, but I may be mistook, never ‘aving ‘ad one in my ‘ands afore. Or p’r’aps somebody was trying to ‘ave a game with you, Mr. Cutts, and deceived me instead.”

The keepers on’y stared at ‘im.

“You ought to be more careful,” ses Bob. “Very likely while you was taking all that trouble over me, and Keeper Lewis was catching ‘is death o’ cold, the poachers was up at the plantation taking all they wanted. And, besides, it ain’t right for Squire Rockett to ‘ave to pay Henery Walker five shillings for finding a lot of old cabbages. I shouldn’t like it myself.”

[Illustration: “You ought to be more careful,” ses Bob.]

He looked out of the corner of ‘is eye at the squire, as was pretending not to notice Henery Walker touching ‘is cap to him, and then ‘e turns to ‘is wife and he ses:

“Come along, old gal,” ‘e ses. “I want my breakfast bad, and arter that I shall ‘ave to lose a honest day’s work in bed.”

DIXON’S RETURN

Talking about eddication, said the night-watchman, thoughtfully, the finest eddication you can give a lad is to send ‘im to sea. School is all right up to a certain p’int, but arter that comes the sea. I’ve been there myself and I know wot I’m talking about. All that I am I owe to ‘aving been to sea.

[Illustration: “Talking about eddication, said the night-watchman.”]

There’s a saying that boys will be boys. That’s all right till they go to sea, and then they ‘ave to be men, and good men too. They get knocked about a bit, o’ course, but that’s all part o’ the eddication, and when they get bigger they pass the eddication they’ve received on to other boys smaller than wot they are. Arter I’d been at sea a year I spent all my fust time ashore going round and looking for boys wot ‘ad knocked me about afore I sailed, and there was only one out o’ the whole lot that I wished I ‘adn’t found.

Most people, o’ course, go to sea as boys or else not at all, but I mind one chap as was pretty near thirty years old when ‘e started. It’s a good many years ago now, and he was landlord of a public-‘ouse as used to stand in Wapping, called the Blue Lion.

His mother, wot had ‘ad the pub afore ‘im, ‘ad brought ‘im up very quiet and genteel, and when she died ‘e went and married a fine, handsome young woman who ‘ad got her eye on the pub without thinking much about ‘im. I got to know about it through knowing the servant that lived there. A nice, quiet gal she was, and there wasn’t much went on that she didn’t hear. I’ve known ‘er to cry for hours with the ear-ache, pore gal.

Not caring much for ‘er ‘usband, and being spoiled by ‘im into the bargain, Mrs. Dixon soon began to lead ‘im a terrible life. She was always throwing his meekness and mildness up into ‘is face, and arter they ‘ad been married two or three years he was no more like the landlord o’ that public-‘ouse than I’m like a lord. Not so much. She used to get into such terrible tempers there was no doing anything with ‘er, and for the sake o’ peace and quietness he gave way to ‘er till ‘e got into the habit of it and couldn’t break ‘imself of it.

They ‘adn’t been married long afore she ‘ad her cousin, Charlie Burge, come in as barman, and a month or two arter that ‘is brother Bob, who ‘ad been spending a lot o’ time looking for work instead o’ doing it, came too. They was so comfortable there that their father–a ‘ouse-painter by trade–came round to see whether he couldn’t paint the Blue Lion up a bit and make ’em look smart, so that they’d get more trade. He was one o’ these ‘ere fust-class ‘ousepainters that can go to sleep on a ladder holding a brush in one hand and a pot o’ paint in the other, and by the time he ‘ad finished painting the ‘ouse it was ready to be done all over agin.

I dare say that George Dixon–that was ‘is name–wouldn’t ha’ minded so much if ‘is wife ‘ad only been civil, but instead o’ that she used to make fun of ‘im and order ‘im about, and by-and-by the others began to try the same thing. As I said afore, Dixon was a very quiet man, and if there was ever anybody to be put outside Charlie or Bob used to do it. They tried to put me outside once, the two of ’em, but they on’y did it at last by telling me that somebody ‘ad gone off and left a pot o’ beer standing on the pavement. They was both of ’em fairly strong young chaps with a lot of bounce in ’em, and she used to say to her ‘usband wot fine young fellers they was, and wot a pity it was he wasn’t like ’em.

Talk like this used to upset George Dixon awful. Having been brought up careful by ‘is mother, and keeping a very quiet, respectable ‘ouse–I used it myself–he cert’nly was soft, and I remember ‘im telling me once that he didn’t believe in fighting, and that instead of hitting people you ought to try and persuade them. He was uncommon fond of ‘is wife, but at last one day, arter she ‘ad made a laughing-stock of ‘im in the bar, he up and spoke sharp to her.

“Wot?” ses Mrs. Dixon, ‘ardly able to believe her ears.

“Remember who you’re speaking to; that’s wot I said,” ses Dixon.

“‘Ow dare you talk to me like that?” screams ‘is wife, turning red with rage. “Wot d’ye mean by it?”

“Because you seem to forget who is master ‘ere,” ses Dixon, in a trembling voice.

“Master?” she ses, firing up. “I’ll soon show you who’s master. Go out o’ my bar; I won’t ‘ave you in it. D’ye ‘ear? Go out of it.”

Dixon turned away and began to serve a customer. “D’ye hear wot I say?” ses Mrs. Dixon, stamping ‘er foot. “Go out o’ my bar. Here, Charlie!”

“Hullo!” ses ‘er cousin, who ‘ad been standing looking on and grinning.

“Take the master and put ‘im into the parlour,” ses Mrs. Dixon, “and don’t let ‘im come out till he’s begged my pardon.”

“Go on,” ses Charlie, brushing up ‘is shirt-sleeves; “in you go. You ‘ear wot she said.”

He caught ‘old of George Dixon, who ‘ad just turned to the back o’ the bar to give a customer change out of ‘arf a crown, and ran ‘im kicking and struggling into the parlour. George gave ‘im a silly little punch in the chest, and got such a bang on the ‘ead back that at fust he thought it was knocked off.

When ‘e came to ‘is senses agin the door leading to the bar was shut, and ‘is wife’s uncle, who ‘ad been asleep in the easy-chair, was finding fault with ‘im for waking ‘im up.

“Why can’t you be quiet and peaceable?” he ses, shaking his ‘ead at him. “I’ve been ‘ard at work all the morning thinking wot colour to paint the back-door, and this is the second time I’ve been woke up since dinner. You’re old enough to know better.”

“Go and sleep somewhere else, then,” ses Dixon. “I don’t want you ‘ere at all, or your boys neither. Go and give somebody else a treat; I’ve ‘ad enough of the whole pack of you.”

[Illustration: “‘Go and sleep somewhere else, then,’ ses Dixon.”]

He sat down and put ‘is feet in the fender, and old Burge, as soon as he ‘ad got ‘is senses back, went into the bar and complained to ‘is niece, and she came into the parlour like a thunderstorm.

“You’ll beg my uncle’s pardon as well as mine afore you come out o’ that room,” she said to her ‘usband; “mind that.”

George Dixon didn’t say a word; the shame of it was a’most more than ‘e could stand. Then ‘e got up to go out o’ the parlour and Charlie pushed ‘im back agin. Three times he tried, and then ‘e stood up and looked at ‘is wife.

“I’ve been a good ‘usband to you,” he ses; “but there’s no satisfying you. You ought to ha’ married somebody that would ha’ knocked you about, and then you’d ha’ been happy. I’m too fond of a quiet life to suit you.”

“Are you going to beg my pardon and my uncle’s pardon?” ses ‘is wife, stamping ‘er foot.

“No,” ses Dixon; “I am not. I’m surprised at you asking it.”

“Well, you don’t come out o’ this room till you do,” ses ‘is wife.

“That won’t hurt me,” ses Dixon. “I couldn’t look anybody in the face arter being pushed out o’ my own bar.”

They kept ‘im there all the rest o’ the day, and, as ‘e was still obstinate when bedtime came, Mrs. Dixon, who wasn’t to be beat, brought down some bedclothes and ‘ad a bed made up for ‘im on the sofa. Some men would ha’ ‘ad the police in for less than that, but George Dixon ‘ad got a great deal o’ pride and ‘e couldn’t bear the shame of it. Instead o’ that ‘e acted like a fourteen-year-old boy and ran away to sea.

They found ‘im gone when they came down in the morning, and the side-door on the latch. He ‘ad left a letter for ‘is wife on the table, telling ‘er wot he ‘ad done. Short and sweet it was, and wound up with telling ‘er to be careful that her uncle and cousins didn’t eat ‘er out of house and ‘ome.

She got another letter two days arterward, saying that he ‘ad shipped as ordinary seaman on an American barque called the _Seabird,_ bound for California, and that ‘e expected to be away a year, or thereabouts.

“It’ll do ‘im good,” ses old Burge, when Mrs. Dixon read the letter to ’em. “It’s a ‘ard life is the sea, and he’ll appreciate his ‘ome when ‘e comes back to it agin. He don’t know when ‘e’s well off. It’s as comfortable a ‘ome as a man could wish to ‘ave.” It was surprising wot a little difference George Dixon’s being away made to the Blue Lion. Nobody seemed to miss ‘im much, and things went on just the same as afore he went. Mrs. Dixon was all right with most people, and ‘er relations ‘ad a very good time of it; old Burge began to put on flesh at such a rate that the sight of a ladder made ‘im ill a’most, and Charlie and Bob went about as if the place belonged to ’em.

They ‘eard nothing for eight months, and then a letter came for Mrs. Dixon from her ‘usband in which he said that ‘e had left the _Seabird_ after ‘aving had a time which made ‘im shiver to think of. He said that the men was the roughest of the rough and the officers was worse, and that he ‘ad hardly ‘ad a day without a blow from one or the other since he’d been aboard. He’d been knocked down with a hand-spike by the second mate, and had ‘ad a week in his bunk with a kick given ‘im by the boatswain. He said ‘e was now on the _Rochester Castle,_ bound for Sydney, and he ‘oped for better times.

That was all they ‘eard for some months, and then they got another letter saying that the men on the _Rochester Castle_ was, if anything, worse than those on the Seabird, and that he’d begun to think that running away to sea was diff’rent to wot he’d expected, and that he supposed ‘e’d done it too late in life. He sent ‘is love to ‘is wife and asked ‘er as a favour to send Uncle Burge and ‘is boys away, as ‘e didn’t want to find them there when ‘e came home, because they was the cause of all his sufferings.

“He don’t know ‘is best friends,” ses old Burge. “‘E’s got a nasty sperrit I don’t like to see.”

“I’ll ‘ave a word with ‘im when ‘e does come home,” ses Bob. “I s’pose he thinks ‘imself safe writing letters thousands o’ miles away.”

The last letter they ‘ad came from Auckland, and said that he ‘ad shipped on the _Monarch,_ bound for the Albert Docks, and he ‘oped soon to be at ‘ome and managing the Blue Lion, same as in the old happy days afore he was fool enough to go to sea.

That was the very last letter, and some time arterward the _Monarch_ was in the missing list, and by-and-by it became known that she ‘ad gone down with all hands not long arter leaving New Zealand. The only difference it made at the Blue Lion was that Mrs. Dixon ‘ad two of ‘er dresses dyed black, and the others wore black neckties for a fortnight and spoke of Dixon as pore George, and said it was a funny world, but they supposed everything was for the best.

It must ha’ been pretty near four years since George Dixon ‘ad run off to sea when Charlie, who was sitting in the bar one arternoon reading the paper, things being dull, saw a man’s head peep through the door for a minute and then disappear. A’most direckly arterward it looked in at another door and then disappeared agin. When it looked in at the third door Charlie ‘ad put down ‘is paper and was ready for it.

“Who are you looking for?” he ses, rather sharp. “Wot d’ye want? Are you ‘aving a game of peepbo, or wot?”

The man coughed and smiled, and then ‘e pushed the door open gently and came in, and stood there fingering ‘is beard as though ‘e didn’t know wot to say.

“I’ve come back, Charlie,” he ses at last.

“Wot, George!” ses Charlie, starting. “Why, I didn’t know you in that beard. We all thought you was dead, years ago.”

“I was pretty nearly, Charlie,” ses Dixon, shaking his ‘ead. “Ah! I’ve ‘ad a terrible time since I left ‘once.”

“‘You don’t seem to ha’ made your fortune,” ses Charlie, looking down at ‘is clothes. “I’d ha’ been ashamed to come ‘ome like that if it ‘ad been me.”

“I’m wore out,” ses Dixon, leaning agin the bar. “I’ve got no pride left; it’s all been knocked out of me. How’s Julia?”

“She’s all right,” ses Charlie. “Here, Ju–“

“H’sh!” ses Dixon, reaching over the bar and laying his ‘and on his arm. “Don’t let ‘er know too sudden; break it to ‘er gently.”

“Fiddlesticks!” ses Charlie, throwing his ‘and off and calling, “Here, Julia! He’s come back.”

Mrs. Dixon came running downstairs and into the bar. “Good gracious!” she ses, staring at her ‘us-band. “Whoever’d ha’ thought o’ seeing you agin? Where ‘ave you sprung from?”

“Ain’t you glad to see me, Julia?” ses George Dixon.

“Yes, I s’pose so; if you’ve come back to behave yourself,” ses Mrs. Dixon. “What ‘ave you got to say for yourself for running away and then writing them letters, telling me to get rid of my relations?”

“That’s a long time ago, Julia,” ses Dixon, raising the flap in the counter and going into the bar. “I’ve gone through a great deal o’ suffering since then. I’ve been knocked about till I ‘adn’t got any feeling left in me; I’ve been shipwrecked, and I’ve ‘ad to fight for my life with savages.”

“Nobody asked you to run away,” ses his wife, edging away as he went to put his arm round ‘er waist. “You’d better go upstairs and put on some decent clothes.”

[Illustration: “You’d better go upstairs and put on some decent clothes.”]

Dixon looked at ‘er for a moment and then he ‘ung his ‘ead.

“I’ve been thinking o’ you and of seeing you agin every day since I went away, Julia,” he ses. “You’d be the same to me if you was dressed in rags.”

He went upstairs without another word, and old Burge, who was coming down, came down five of ’em at once owing to Dixon speaking to ‘im afore he knew who ‘e was. The old man was still grumbling when Dixon came down agin, and said he believed he’d done it a-purpose.

“You run away from a good ‘ome,” he ses, “and the best wife in Wapping, and you come back and frighten people ‘arf out o’ their lives. I never see such a feller in all my born days.”

“I was so glad to get ‘ome agin I didn’t think,” ses Dixon. “I hope you’re not ‘urt.”

He started telling them all about his ‘ardships while they were at tea, but none of ’em seemed to care much about hearing ’em. Bob said that the sea was all right for men, and that other people were sure not to like it.

“And you brought it all on yourself,” ses Charlie. “You’ve only got yourself to thank for it. I ‘ad thought o’ picking a bone with you over those letters you wrote.”

“Let’s ‘ope ‘e’s come back more sensible than wot ‘e was when ‘e went away,” ses old Burge, with ‘is mouth full o’ toast.

By the time he’d been back a couple o’ days George Dixon could see that ‘is going away ‘adn’t done any good at all. Nobody seemed to take any notice of ‘im or wot he said, and at last, arter a word or two with Charlie about the rough way he spoke to some o’ the customers, Charlie came in to Mrs. Dixon and said that he was at ‘is old tricks of interfering, and he would not ‘ave it.

“Well, he’d better keep out o’ the bar altogether,” ses Mrs. Dixon. “There’s no need for ‘im to go there; we managed all right while ‘e was away.”

“Do you mean I’m not to go into my own bar?” ses Dixon, stammering.

“Yes, I do,” ses Mrs. Dixon. “You kept out of it for four years to please yourself, and now you can keep out of it to please me.”

“I’ve put you out o’ the bar before,” ses Charlie, “and if you come messing about with me any more I’ll do it agin. So now you know.”

He walked back into the bar whistling, and George Dixon, arter sitting still for a long time thinking, got up and went into the bar, and he’d ‘ardly got his foot inside afore Charlie caught ‘old of ‘im by the shoulder and shoved ‘im back into the parlour agin.

“I told you wot it would be,” ses Mrs. Dixon, looking up from ‘er sewing. “You’ve only got your interfering ways to thank for it.”

“This is a fine state of affairs in my own ‘ouse,” ses Dixon, ‘ardly able to speak. “You’ve got no proper feeling for your husband, Julia, else you wouldn’t allow it. Why, I was happier at sea than wot I am ‘ere.”

“Well, you’d better go back to it if you’re so fond of it,” ses ‘is wife.

“I think I ‘ad,” ses Dixon. “If I can’t be master in my own ‘ouse I’m better at sea, hard as it is. You must choose between us, Julia–me or your relations. I won’t sleep under the same roof as them for another night. Am I to go?”

“Please yourself,” ses ‘is wife. “I don’t mind your staying ‘ere so long as you behave yourself, but the others won’t go; you can make your mind easy on that.”

“I’ll go and look for another ship, then,” ses Dixon, taking up ‘is cap. “I’m not wanted here. P’r’aps you wouldn’t mind ‘aving some clothes packed into a chest for me so as I can go away decent.”

He looked round at ‘is wife, as though ‘e expected she’d ask ‘im not to go, but she took no notice, and he opened the door softly and went out, while old Burge, who ‘ad come into the room and ‘eard what he was saying, trotted off upstairs to pack ‘is chest for ‘im.

In two hours ‘e was back agin and more cheerful than he ‘ad been since he ‘ad come ‘ome. Bob was in the bar and the others were just sitting down to tea, and a big chest, nicely corded, stood on the floor in the corner of the room.

“That’s right,” he ses, looking at it; “that’s just wot I wanted.”

“It’s as full as it can be,” ses old Burge. “I done it for you myself. ‘Ave you got a ship?”

“I ‘ave,” ses Dixon. “A jolly good ship. No more hardships for me this time. I’ve got a berth as captain.”

“Wot?” ses ‘is wife. “Captain? You!”

“Yes,” ses Dixon, smiling at her. “You can sail with me if you like.”

“Thankee,” ses Mrs. Dixon, “I’m quite comfortable where I am.”

“Do you mean to say you’ve got a master’s berth?” ses Charlie, staring at ‘im.

“I do,” ses Dixon; “master and owner.”

Charlie coughed. “Wot’s the name of the ship?” he asks, winking at the others.

“The BLUE LION,” ses Dixon, in a voice that made ’em all start. “I’m shipping a new crew and I pay off the old one to-night. You first, my lad.”

“Pay off,” ses Charlie, leaning back in ‘is chair and staring at ‘im in a puzzled way. “Blue Lion?”

“Yes,” ses Dixon, in the same loud voice. “When I came ‘ome the other day I thought p’r’aps I’d let bygones be bygones, and I laid low for a bit to see whether any of you deserved it. I went to sea to get hardened–and I got hard. I’ve fought men that would eat you at a meal. I’ve ‘ad more blows in a week than you’ve ‘ad in a lifetime, you fat-faced land-lubber.”

He walked to the door leading to the bar, where Bob was doing ‘is best to serve customers and listen at the same time, and arter locking it put the key in ‘is pocket. Then ‘e put his ‘and in ‘is pocket and slapped some money down on the table in front o’ Charlie.

“There’s a month’s pay instead o’ notice,” he ses. “Now git.”

“George!” screams ‘is wife. “‘Ow dare you? ‘Ave you gone crazy?”

“I’m surprised at you,” ses old Burge, who’d been looking on with ‘is mouth wide open, and pinching ‘imself to see whether ‘e wasn’t dreaming.

“I don’t go for your orders,” ses Charlie, getting up. “Wot d’ye mean by locking that door?”

“Wot!” roars Dixon. “Hang it! I mustn’t lock a door without asking my barman now. Pack up and be off, you swab, afore I start on you.”

Charlie gave a growl and rushed at ‘im, and the next moment ‘e was down on the floor with the ‘ardest bang in the face that he’d ever ‘ad in ‘is life. Mrs. Dixon screamed and ran into the kitchen, follered by old Burge, who went in to tell ‘er not to be frightened. Charlie got up and went for Dixon agin; but he ‘ad come back as ‘ard as nails and ‘ad a rushing style o’ fighting that took Charlie’s breath away. By the time Bob ‘ad left the bar to take care of itself, and run round and got in the back way, Charlie had ‘ad as much as ‘e wanted and was lying on the sea-chest in the corner trying to get ‘is breath.

[Illustration: “Charlie had ‘ad as much as ‘e wanted and was lying on the sea-chest.”]

“Yes? Wot d’ye want?” ses Dixon, with a growl, as Bob came in at the door.

He was such a ‘orrible figure, with the blood on ‘is face and ‘is beard sticking out all ways, that Bob, instead of doing wot he ‘ad come round for, stood in the doorway staring at ‘im without a word.

“I’m paying off,” ses Dixon. “‘Ave you got any-thing to say agin it?”

“No,” ses Bob, drawing back.

“You and Charlie’ll go now,” ses Dixon, taking out some money. “The old man can stay on for a month to give ‘im time to look round. Don’t look at me that way, else I’ll knock your ‘ead off.”

He started counting out Bob’s money just as old Burge and Mrs. Dixon, hearing all quiet, came in out of the kitchen.

“Don’t you be alarmed on my account, my dear,” he ses, turning to ‘is wife; “it’s child’s play to wot I’ve been used to. I’ll just see these two mistaken young fellers off the premises, and then we’ll ‘ave a cup o’ tea while the old man minds the bar.”

Mrs. Dixon tried to speak, but ‘er temper was too much for ‘er. She looked from her ‘usband to Charlie and Bob and then back at ‘im agin and caught ‘er breath.

“That’s right,” ses Dixon, nodding his ‘ead at her. “I’m master and owner of the Blue Lion and you’re first mate. When I’m speaking you keep quiet; that’s dissipline.”

I was in that bar about three months arterward, and I never saw such a change in any woman as there was in Mrs. Dixon. Of all the nice-mannered, soft-spoken landladies I’ve ever seen, she was the best, and on’y to ‘ear the way she answered her ‘usband when he spoke to ‘er was a pleasure to every married man in the bar.

[Illustration: “The way she answered her ‘usband was a pleasure to every married man in the bar.”]

A SPIRIT OF AVARICE

Mr. John Blows stood listening to the foreman with an air of lofty disdain. He was a free-born Englishman, and yet he had been summarily paid off at eleven o’clock in the morning and told that his valuable services would no longer be required. More than that, the foreman had passed certain strictures upon his features which, however true they might be, were quite irrelevant to the fact that Mr. Blows had been discovered slumbering in a shed when he should have been laying bricks.

[Illustration: “Mr. John Blows stood listening to the foreman with an air of lofty disdain.”]

“Take your ugly face off these ‘ere works,” said the foreman; “take it ‘ome and bury it in the back-yard. Anybody’ll be glad to lend you a spade.”

Mr. Blows, in a somewhat fluent reply, reflected severely on the foreman’s immediate ancestors, and the strange lack of good-feeling and public spirit they had exhibited by allowing him to grow up.

“Take it ‘ome and bury it,” said the foreman again. “Not under any plants you’ve got a liking for.”

“I suppose,” said Mr. Blows, still referring to his foe’s parents, and now endeavouring to make excuses for them–“I s’pose they was so pleased, and so surprised when they found that you was a ‘uman being, that they didn’t mind anything else.”

He walked off with his head in the air, and the other men, who had partially suspended work to listen, resumed their labours. A modest pint at the Rising Sun revived his drooping spirits, and he walked home thinking of several things which he might have said to the foreman if he had only thought of them in time.

He paused at the open door of his house and, looking in, sniffed at the smell of mottled soap and dirty water which pervaded it. The stairs were wet, and a pail stood in the narrow passage. From the kitchen came the sounds of crying children and a scolding mother. Master Joseph Henry Blows, aged three, was “holding his breath,” and the family were all aghast at the length of his performance. He re-covered it as his father entered the room, and drowned, without distressing himself, the impotent efforts of the others. Mrs. Blows turned upon her husband a look of hot inquiry.

“I’ve got the chuck,” he said, surlily.

“What, again?” said the unfortunate woman. “Yes, again,” repeated her husband.

Mrs. Blows turned away, and dropping into a chair threw her apron over her head and burst into discordant weeping. Two little Blows, who had ceased their outcries, resumed them again from sheer sympathy.

“Stop it,” yelled the indignant Mr. Blows; “stop it at once; d’ye hear?”

“I wish I’d never seen you,” sobbed his wife from behind her apron. “Of all the lazy, idle, drunken, good-for-nothing—-“

“Go on,” said Mr. Blows, grimly.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” declared Mrs. Blows. “Look at your father, my dears,” she continued, taking the apron away from her face; “take a good look at him, and mind you don’t grow up like it.”

Mr. Blows met the combined gaze of his innocent offspring with a dark scowl, and then fell to moodily walking up and down the passage until he fell over the pail. At that his mood changed, and, turning fiercely, he kicked that useful article up and down the passage until he was tired.

“I’ve ‘ad enough of it,” he muttered. He stopped at the kitchen-door and, putting his hand in his pocket, threw a handful of change on to the floor and swung out of the house.

Another pint of beer confirmed him in his resolution. He would go far away and make a fresh start in the world. The morning was bright and the air fresh, and a pleasant sense of freedom and adventure possessed his soul as he walked. At a swinging pace he soon left Gravelton behind him, and, coming to the river, sat down to smoke a final pipe before turning his back forever on a town which had treated him so badly.

The river murmured agreeably and the rushes stirred softly in the breeze; Mr. Blows, who could fall asleep on an upturned pail, succumbed to the influence at once; the pipe dropped from his mouth and he snored peacefully.

He was awakened by a choking scream, and, starting up hastily, looked about for the cause. Then in the water he saw the little white face of Billy Clements, and wading in up to his middle he reached out and, catching the child by the hair, drew him to the bank and set him on his feet. Still screaming with terror, Billy threw up some of the water he had swallowed, and without turning his head made off in the direction of home, calling piteously upon his mother.

Mr. Blows, shivering on the bank, watched him out of sight, and, missing his cap, was just in time to see that friend of several seasons slowly sinking in the middle of the river. He squeezed the water from his trousers and, crossing the bridge, set off across the meadows.

His self-imposed term of bachelorhood lasted just three months, at the end of which time he made up his mind to enact the part of the generous husband and forgive his wife everything. He would not go into details, but issue one big, magnanimous pardon.

Full of these lofty ideas he set off in the direction of home again. It was a three-days’ tramp, and the evening of the third day saw him but a bare two miles from home. He clambered up the bank at the side of the road and, sprawling at his ease, smoked quietly in the moonlight.

A waggon piled up with straw came jolting and creaking toward him. The driver sat dozing on the shafts, and Mr. Blows smiled pleasantly as he recognised the first face of a friend he had seen for three months. He thrust his pipe in his pocket and, rising to his feet, clambered on to the back of the waggon, and lying face downward on the straw peered down at the unconscious driver below.

“I’ll give old Joe a surprise,” he said to himself. “He’ll be the first to welcome me back.”

“Joe,” he said, softly. “‘Ow goes it, old pal?”

Mr. Joe Carter, still dozing, opened his eyes at the sound of his name and looked round; then, coming to the conclusion that he had been dreaming, closed them again.

“I’m a-looking at you, Joe,” said Mr. Blows, waggishly. “I can see you.”

Mr. Carter looked up sharply and, catching sight of the grinning features of Mr. Blows protruding over the edge of the straw, threw up his arms with a piercing shriek and fell off the shafts on to the road. The astounded Mr. Blows, raising himself on his hands, saw him pick himself up and, giving vent to a series of fearsome yelps, run clumsily back along the road.

“Joe!” shouted Mr. Blows. “J-o-o-oE!”

[Illustration: “‘Joe!’ shouted Mr. Blows. ‘J-o-o-OE!'”]

Mr. Carter put his hands to his ears and ran on blindly, while his friend, sitting on the top of the straw, regarded his proceedings with mixed feelings of surprise and indignation.

“It can’t be that tanner ‘e owes me,” he mused, “and yet I don’t know what else it can be. I never see a man so jumpy.”

He continued to speculate while the old horse, undisturbed by the driver’s absence, placidly continued its journey. A mile farther, however, he got down to take the short cut by the fields.

“If Joe can’t look after his ‘orse and cart,” he said, primly, as he watched it along the road, “it’s not my business.”

The footpath was not much used at that time of night, and he only met one man. They were in the shadow of the trees which fringed the new cemetery as they passed, and both peered. The stranger was satisfied first and, to Mr. Blows’s growing indignation, first gave a leap backward which would not have disgraced an acrobat, and then made off across the field with hideous outcries.

“If I get ‘old of some of you,” said the offended Mr. Blows, “I’ll give you something to holler for.”

He pursued his way grumbling, and insensibly slackened his pace as he drew near home. A remnant of conscience which had stuck to him without encouragement for thirty-five years persisted in suggesting that he had behaved badly. It also made a few ill-bred inquiries as to how his wife and children had subsisted for the last three months. He stood outside the house for a short space, and then, opening the door softly, walked in.

The kitchen-door stood open, and his wife in a black dress sat sewing by the light of a smoky lamp. She looked up as she heard his footsteps, and then, without a word, slid from the chair full length to the floor.

“Go on,” said Mr. Blows, bitterly; “keep it up. Don’t mind me.”

Mrs. Blows paid no heed; her face was white and her eyes were closed. Her husband, with a dawning perception of the state of affairs, drew a mug of water from the tap and flung it over her. She opened her eyes and gave a faint scream, and then, scrambling to her feet, tottered toward him and sobbed on his breast.

“There, there,” said Mr. Blows. “Don’t take on; I forgive you.”

“Oh, John,” said his wife, sobbing convulsively, “I thought you was dead. I thought you was dead. It’s only a fortnight ago since we buried you!”

“Buried me?” said the startled Mr. Blows. “Buried me?”

“I shall wake up and find I’m dreaming,” wailed Mrs. Blows; “I know I shall. I’m always dreaming that you’re not dead. Night before last I dreamt that you was alive, and I woke up sobbing as if my ‘art would break.”

“Sobbing?” said Mr. Blows, with a scowl. “For joy, John,” explained his wife.

Mr. Blows was about to ask for a further explanation of the mystery when he stopped, and regarded with much interest a fair-sized cask which stood in one corner.

“A cask o’ beer,” he said, staring, as he took a glass from the dresser and crossed over to it. “You don’t seem to ‘ave taken much ‘arm during my–my going after work.”

“We ‘ad it for the funeral, John,” said his wife; “leastways, we ‘ad two; this is the second.”

Mr. Blows, who had filled the glass, set it down on the table untasted; things seemed a trifle uncanny.

“Go on,” said Mrs. Blows; “you’ve got more right to it than anybody else. Fancy ‘aving you here drinking up the beer for your own funeral.”

“I don’t understand what you’re a-driving at,” retorted Mr. Blows, drinking somewhat gingerly from the glass. ‘Ow could there be a funeral without me?”

“It’s all a mistake,” said the overjoyed Mrs. Blows; “we must have buried somebody else. But such a funeral, John; you would ha’ been proud if you could ha’ seen it. All Gravelton followed, nearly. There was the boys’ drum and fife band, and the Ancient Order of Camels, what you used to belong to, turned out with their brass band and banners–all the people marching four abreast and sometimes five.”

Mr. Blows’s face softened; he had no idea that he had established himself so firmly in the affections of his fellow-townsmen.

“Four mourning carriages,” continued his wife, “and the–the hearse, all covered in flowers so that you couldn’t see it ‘ardly. One wreath cost two pounds.”

Mr. Blows endeavoured to conceal his gratification beneath a mask of surliness. “Waste o’ money,” he growled, and stooping to the cask drew himself an-other glass of beer.

“Some o’ the gentry sent their carriages to follow,” said Mrs. Blows, sitting down and clasping her hands in her lap.

“I know one or two that ‘ad a liking for me,” said Mr. Blows, almost blushing.

“And to think that it’s all a mistake,” continued his wife. “But I thought it was you; it was dressed like you, and your cap was found near it.”

“H’m,” said Mr. Blows; “a pretty mess you’ve been and made of it. Here’s people been giving two pounds for wreaths and turning up with brass bands and banners because they thought it was me, and it’s all been wasted.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” said his wife. “Little Billy Clements came running ‘ome the day you went away and said ‘e’d fallen in the water, and you’d gone in and pulled ‘im out. He said ‘e thought you was drownded, and when you didn’t come ‘ome I naturally thought so too. What else could I think?”

Mr. Blows coughed, and holding his glass up to the light regarded it with a preoccupied air.

“They dragged the river,” resumed his wife, “and found the cap, but they didn’t find the body till nine weeks afterward. There was a inquest at the Peal o’ Bells, and I identified you, and all that grand funeral was because they thought you’d lost your life saving little Billy. They said you was a hero.”

[Illustration: “‘They dragged the river,’ resumed his wife, ‘and found the cap.'”]

“You’ve made a nice mess of it,” repeated Mr. Blows.

“The rector preached the sermon,” continued his wife; “a beautiful sermon it was, too. I wish you’d been there to hear it; I should ‘ave enjoyed it ever so much better. He said that nobody was more surprised than what ‘e was at your doing such a thing, and that it only showed ‘ow little we knowed our fellow-creatures. He said that it proved there was good in all of us if we only gave it a chance to come out.”

Mr. Blows eyed her suspiciously, but she sat thinking and staring at the floor.

“I s’pose we shall have to give the money back now,” she said, at last.

“Money!” said the other; “what money?”

“Money that was collected for us,” replied his wife. “One ‘undered and eighty-three pounds seven shillings and fourpence.”

Mr. Blows took a long breath. “Ow much?” he said, faintly; “say it agin.”

His wife obeyed.

“Show it to me,” said the other, in trembling tones; “let’s ‘ave a look at it. Let’s ‘old some of it.”

“I can’t,” was the reply; “there’s a committee of the Camels took charge of it, and they pay my rent and allow me ten shillings a week. Now I s’pose it’ll have to be given back?”

“Don’t you talk nonsense,” said Mr. Blows, violently. “You go to them interfering Camels and say you want your money–all of it. Say you’re going to Australia. Say it was my last dying wish.”

Mrs. Blows puckered her brow.

“I’ll keep quiet upstairs till you’ve got it,” continued her husband, rapidly. “There was only two men saw me, and I can see now that they thought I was my own ghost. Send the kids off to your mother for a few days.”

His wife sent them off next morning, and a little later was able to tell him that his surmise as to his friends’ mistake was correct. All Gravelton was thrilled by the news that the spiritual part of Mr. John Blows was walking the earth, and much exercised as to his reasons for so doing.

“Seemed such a monkey trick for ‘im to do,” complained Mr. Carter, to the listening circle at the Peal o’ Bells. “‘I’m a-looking at you, Joe,’ he ses, and he waggled his ‘ead as if it was made of india-rubber.”

“He’d got something on ‘is mind what he wanted to tell you,” said a listener, severely; “you ought to ‘ave stopped, Joe, and asked ‘im what it was.”

“I think I see myself,” said the shivering Mr. Carter. “I think I see myself.”

“Then he wouldn’t ‘ave troubled you any more,” said the other.

Mr. Carter turned pale and eyed him fixedly. “P’r’aps it was only a death-warning,” said another man.

“What d’ye mean, ‘only a death-warning’?” demanded the unfortunate Mr. Carter; “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I ‘ad an uncle o’ mine see a ghost once,” said a third man, anxious to relieve the tension.

“And what ‘appened?” inquired the first speaker. “I’ll tell you after Joe’s gone,” said the other, with rare consideration.

Mr. Carter called for some more beer and told the barmaid to put a little gin in it. In a pitiable state of “nerves” he sat at the extreme end of a bench, and felt that he was an object of unwholesome interest to his acquaintances. The finishing touch was put to his discomfiture when a well-meaning friend in a vague and disjointed way advised him to give up drink, swearing, and any other bad habits which he might have contracted.

[Illustration: “In a pitiable state of ‘nerves’ he sat at the extreme end of a bench.”]

The committee of the Ancient Order of Camels took the news calmly, and classed it with pink rats and other abnormalities. In reply to Mrs. Blows’s request for the capital sum, they expressed astonishment that she could be willing to tear herself away from the hero’s grave, and spoke of the pain which such an act on her part would cause him in the event of his being conscious of it. In order to show that they were reasonable men, they allowed her an extra shilling that week.

The hero threw the dole on the bedroom floor, and in a speech bristling with personalities, consigned the committee to perdition. The confinement was beginning to tell upon him, and two nights afterward, just before midnight, he slipped out for a breath of fresh air.

It was a clear night, and all Gravelton with one exception, appeared to have gone to bed. The exception was Police-constable Collins, and he, after tracking the skulking figure of Mr. Blows and finally bringing it to bay in a doorway, kept his for a fort-night. As a sensible man, Mr. Blows took no credit to himself for the circumstance, but a natural feeling of satisfaction at the discomfiture of a member of a force for which he had long entertained a strong objection could not be denied.

Gravelton debated this new appearance with bated breath, and even the purblind committee of the Camels had to alter their views. They no longer denied the supernatural nature of the manifestations, but, with a strange misunderstanding of Mr. Blows’s desires, attributed his restlessness to dissatisfaction with the projected tombstone, and, having plenty of funds, amended their order for a plain stone at ten guineas to one in pink marble at twenty-five.

“That there committee,” said Mr. Blows to his wife, in a trembling voice, as he heard of the alteration–“that there committee seem to think that they can play about with my money as they like. You go and tell ’em you won’t ‘ave it. And say you’ve given up the idea of going to Australia and you want the money to open a shop with. We’ll take a little pub somewhere.”

Mrs. Blows went, and returned in tears, and for two entire days her husband, a prey to gloom, sat trying to evolve fresh and original ideas for the possession of the money. On the evening of the second day he became low-spirited, and going down to the kitchen took a glass from the dresser and sat down by the beer-cask.

Almost insensibly he began to take a brighter view of things. It was Saturday night and his wife was out. He shook his head indulgently as he thought of her, and began to realise how foolish he had been to entrust such a delicate mission to a woman. The Ancient Order of Camels wanted a man to talk to them–a man who knew the world and could assail them with unanswerable arguments. Having applied every known test to make sure that the cask was empty, he took his cap from a nail and sallied out into the street.

Old Mrs. Martin, a neighbour, saw him first, and announced the fact with a scream that brought a dozen people round her. Bereft of speech, she mouthed dumbly at Mr. Blows.

“I ain’t touch–touched her,” said that gentleman, earnestly. “I ain’t– been near ‘er.”

The crowd regarded him wild-eyed. Fresh members came running up, and pushing for a front place fell back hastily on the main body and watched breathlessly. Mr. Blows, disquieted by their silence, renewed his protestations.

“I was coming ‘long—-“

He broke off suddenly and, turning round, gazed with some heat at a gentleman who was endeavouring to ascertain whether an umbrella would pass through him. The investigator backed hastily into the crowd again, and a faint murmur of surprise arose as the indignant Mr. Blows rubbed the place.

“He’s alive, I tell you,” said a voice. “What cheer, Jack!”

“Ullo, Bill,” said Mr. Blows, genially.

Bill came forward cautiously, and, first shaking hands, satisfied himself by various little taps and prods that his friend was really alive.

“It’s all right,” he shouted; “come and feel.”

At least fifty hands accepted the invitation, and, ignoring the threats and entreaties of Mr. Blows, who was a highly ticklish subject, wandered briskly over his anatomy. He broke free at last and, supported by Bill and a friend, set off for the Peal o’ Bells.

By the time he arrived there his following had swollen to immense proportions. Windows were thrown up, and people standing on their doorsteps shouted inquiries. Congratulations met him on all sides, and the joy of Mr. Joseph Carter was so great that Mr. Blows was quite affected.

In high feather at the attention he was receiving, Mr. Blows pushed his way through the idlers at the door and ascended the short flight of stairs which led to the room where the members of the Ancient Order of Camels were holding their lodge. The crowd swarmed up after him.

The door was locked, but in response to his knocking it opened a couple of inches, and a gruff voice demanded his business. Then, before he could give it, the doorkeeper reeled back into the room, and Mr. Blows with a large following pushed his way in.

The president and his officers, who were sitting in state behind a long table at the end of the room, started to their feet with mingled cries of indignation and dismay at the intrusion. Mr. Blows, conscious of the strength of his position, walked up to them.

[Illustration: “Mr. Blows, conscious of the strength of his position, walked up to them.”]

“Mr. Blows!” gasped the president.

“Ah, you didn’t expec’ see me,” said Mr. Blows, with a scornful laugh “They’re trying do me, do me out o’ my lill bit o’ money, Bill.”

“But you ain’t got no money,” said his bewildered friend.

Mr. Blows turned and eyed him haughtily; then he confronted the staring president again.

“I’ve come for–my money,” he said, impressively– “one ‘under-eighty pounds.”

“But look ‘ere,” said the scandalised Bill, tugging at his sleeve; “you ain’t dead, Jack.”

“You don’t understan’,” said Mr. Blows, impatiently. “They know wharri mean; one ‘undereighty pounds. They want to buy me a tombstone, an’ I don’t want it. I want the money. Here, stop it! _Dye hear?_” The words were wrung from him by the action of the president, who, after eyeing him doubtfully during his remarks, suddenly prodded him with the butt-end of one of the property spears which leaned against his chair. The solidity of Mr. Blows was unmistakable, and with a sudden resumption of dignity the official seated himself and called for silence.

“I’m sorry to say there’s been a bit of a mistake made,” he said, slowly, “but I’m glad to say that Mr. Blows has come back to support his wife and family with the sweat of his own brow. Only a pound or two of the money so kindly subscribed has been spent, and the remainder will be handed back to the subscribers.”

“Here,” said the incensed Mr. Blows, “listen me.”

“Take him away,” said the president, with great dignity. “Clear the room. Strangers outside.”

Two of the members approached Mr. Blows and, placing their hands on his shoulders, requested him to withdraw. He went at last, the centre of a dozen panting men, and becoming wedged on the narrow staircase, spoke fluently on such widely differing subjects as the rights of man and the shape of the president’s nose.

He finished his remarks in the street, but, becoming aware at last of a strange lack of sympathy on the part of his audience, he shook off the arm of the faithful Mr. Carter and stalked moodily home.

THE THIRD STRING

Love? said the night-watchman, as he watched in an abstracted fashion the efforts of a skipper to reach a brother skipper on a passing barge with a boathook. Don’t talk to me about love, because I’ve suffered enough through it. There ought to be teetotalers for love the same as wot there is for drink, and they ought to wear a piece o’ ribbon to show it, the same as the teetotalers do; but not an attractive piece o’ ribbon, mind you. I’ve seen as much mischief caused by love as by drink, and the funny thing is, one often leads to the other. Love, arter it is over, often leads to drink, and drink often leads to love and to a man committing himself for life afore it is over.

[Illustration: “Don’t talk to me about love, because I’ve suffered enough through it.”]

Sailormen give way to it most; they see so little o’ wimmen that they naturally ‘ave a high opinion of ’em. Wait till they become night-watchmen and, having to be at ‘ome all day, see the other side of ’em. If people on’y started life as night-watchmen there wouldn’t be one ‘arf the falling in love that there is now.

I remember one chap, as nice a fellow as you could wish to meet, too. He always carried his sweet-heart’s photograph about with ‘im, and it was the on’y thing that cheered ‘im up during the fourteen years he was cast away on a deserted island. He was picked up at last and taken ‘ome, and there she was still single and waiting for ‘im; and arter spending fourteen years on a deserted island he got another ten in quod for shooting ‘er because she ‘ad altered so much in ‘er looks.

Then there was Ginger Dick, a red-‘aired man I’ve spoken about before. He went and fell in love one time when he was lodging in Wapping ‘ere with old Sam Small and Peter Russet, and a nice mess ‘e made of it.

They was just back from a v’y’ge, and they ‘adn’t been ashore a week afore both of ’em noticed a change for the worse in Ginger. He turned quiet and peaceful and lost ‘is taste for beer. He used to play with ‘is food instead of eating it, and in place of going out of an evening with Sam and Peter took to going off by ‘imself.

“It’s love,” ses Peter Russet, shaking his ‘ead, “and he’ll be worse afore he’s better.”

“Who’s the gal?” ses old Sam.

Peter didn’t know, but when they came ‘ome that night ‘e asked. Ginger, who was sitting up in bed with a far-off look in ‘is eyes, cuddling ‘is knees, went on staring but didn’t answer.

“Who is it making a fool of you this time, Ginger?” ses old Sam.

“You mind your bisness and I’ll mind mine,” ses Ginger, suddenly waking up and looking very fierce.

“No offence, mate,” ses Sam, winking at Peter. “I on’y asked in case I might be able to do you a good turn.”

“Well, you can do that by not letting her know you’re a pal o’ mine,” ses Ginger, very nasty.

Old Sam didn’t understand at fust, and when Peter explained to ‘im he wanted to hit ‘im for trying to twist Ginger’s words about.

“She don’t like fat old men,” ses Ginger.

“Ho!” ses old Sam, who couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Ho! don’t she? Ho! Ho! indeed!”

He undressed ‘imself and got into the bed he shared with Peter, and kept ‘im awake for hours by telling ‘im in a loud voice about all the gals he’d made love to in his life, and partikler about one gal that always fainted dead away whenever she saw either a red-‘aired man or a monkey.

Peter Russet found out all about it next day, and told Sam that it was a barmaid with black ‘air and eyes at the Jolly Pilots, and that she wouldn’t ‘ave anything to say to Ginger.

He spoke to Ginger about it agin when they were going to bed that night, and to ‘is surprise found that he was quite civil. When ‘e said that he would do anything he could for ‘im, Ginger was quite affected.

“I can’t eat or drink,” he ses, in a miserable voice; “I lay awake all last night thinking of her. She’s so diff’rent to other gals; she’s got–If I start on you, Sam Small, you’ll know it. You go and make that choking noise to them as likes it.”

“It’s a bit o’ egg-shell I got in my throat at break-fast this morning, Ginger,” ses Sam. “I wonder whether she lays awake all night thinking of you?”

“I dare say she does,” ses Peter Russet, giving ‘im a little push.

“Keep your ‘art up, Ginger,” ses Sam; “I’ve known gals to ‘ave the most ext’ordinary likings afore now.”

“Don’t take no notice of ‘im,” ses Peter, holding Ginger back. “‘Ow are you getting on with her?”

Ginger groaned and sat down on ‘is bed and looked at the floor, and Sam went and sat on his till it shook so that Ginger offered to step over and break ‘is neck for ‘im.

“I can’t ‘elp the bed shaking,” ses Sam; “it ain’t my fault. I didn’t make it. If being in love is going to make you so disagreeable to your best friends, Ginger, you’d better go and live by yourself.”

“I ‘eard something about her to-day, Ginger,” ses Peter Russet. “I met a chap I used to know at Bull’s Wharf, and he told me that she used to keep company with a chap named Bill Lumm, a bit of a prize-fighter, and since she gave ‘im up she won’t look at anybody else.”

“Was she very fond of ‘im, then?” asks Ginger.

“I don’t know,” ses Peter; “but this chap told me that she won’t walk out with anybody agin, unless it’s another prize-fighter. Her pride won’t let her, I s’pose.”

“Well, that’s all right, Ginger,” ses Sam; “all you’ve got to do is to go and be a prize-fighter.”

“If I ‘ave any more o’ your nonsense–” ses Ginger, starting up.

“That’s right,” ses Sam; “jump down anybody’s throat when they’re trying to do you a kindness. That’s you all over, Ginger, that is. Wot’s to prevent you telling ‘er that you’re a prize-fighter from Australia or somewhere? She won’t know no better.”

He got up off the bed and put his ‘ands up as Ginger walked across the room to ‘im, but Ginger on’y wanted to shake ‘ands, and arter he ‘ad done that ‘e patted ‘im on the back and smiled at ‘im.

“I’ll try it,” he ses. “I’d tell any lies for ‘er sake. Ah! you don’t know wot love is, Sam.”

“I used to,” ses Sam, and then he sat down agin and began to tell ’em all the love-affairs he could remember, until at last Peter Russet got tired and said it was ‘ard to believe, looking at ‘im now, wot a perfick terror he’d been with gals, and said that the face he’d got now was a judgment on ‘im. Sam shut up arter that, and got into trouble with Peter in the middle o’ the night by waking ‘im up to tell ‘im something that he ‘ad just thought of about his face.

The more Ginger thought o’ Sam’s idea the more he liked it, and the very next evening ‘e took Peter Russet into the private bar o’ the Jolly Pilots. He ordered port wine, which he thought seemed more ‘igh-class than beer, and then Peter Russet started talking to Miss Tucker and told her that Ginger was a prize-fighter from Sydney, where he’d beat everybody that stood up to ‘im.