020.jpg (91K)
“'So we brought it along,' ses Ginger. 'I 'ope you're enjoying of your brekfuss, Sam.'
“Sam took the 'ankercher and thanked 'em very perlite, and arter standing there for a minute or two as if they wanted to say something they couldn't remember, they sheered off. When Sam left the place 'arf-an-hour afterwards they was still hanging about, and as Sam passed Ginger asked 'im if he was going for a walk.
“'Walk?' ses Sam. 'Cert'nly not. I'm going to bed; I didn't 'ave a good night's rest like you and your lodger.'
“He went back 'ome, and arter taking off 'is coat and boots got into bed and slept like a top till one o'clock, when he woke up to find Ginger shaking 'im by the shoulders.
“'Wot's the matter?' he ses. 'Wot are you up to?'
“'It's dinner-time,' ses Ginger. 'I thought p'r'aps you'd like to know, in case you missed it.'
“'You leave me alone,' ses Sam, cuddling into the clothes agin. 'I don't want no dinner. You go and look arter your own dinners.'
“He stayed in bed for another 'arf-hour, listening to Peter and Ginger telling each other in loud whispers 'ow hungry they was, and then he got up and put 'is things on and went to the door.
“'I'm going to get a bit o' dinner,' he ses. 'And mind, I've got my pocket 'ankercher.'
“He went out and 'ad a steak and onions and a pint o' beer, but, although he kept looking up sudden from 'is plate, he didn't see Peter or Ginger. It spoilt 'is dinner a bit, but arter he got outside 'e saw them standing at the corner, and, pretending not to see them, he went off for a walk down the Mile End Road.
“He walked as far as Bow with them follering'im, and then he jumped on a bus and rode back as far as Whitechapel. There was no sign of 'em when he got off, and, feeling a bit lonesome, he stood about looking in shop-windows until 'e see them coming along as hard as they could come.
“'Why, halloa!' he ses. 'Where did you spring from?'
“'We—we—we've been—for a bit of a walk,' ses Ginger Dick, puffing and blowing like a grampus.
“'To-keep down the 'unger,' ses Peter Russet.
“Old Sam looked at 'em very stern for a moment, then he beckoned 'em to foller 'im, and, stopping at a little public-'ouse, he went in and ordered a pint o' bitter.
“'And give them two pore fellers a crust o' bread and cheese and 'arf-a-pint of four ale each,' he ses to the barmaid.
“Ginger and Peter looked at each other, but they was so hungry they didn't say a word; they just stood waiting.
“'Put that inside you my pore fellers,' ses Sam, with a oily smile. 'I can't bear to see people suffering for want o' food,' he ses to the barmaid, as he chucked down a sovereign on the counter.
“The barmaid, a very nice gal with black 'air and her fingers covered all over with rings, said that it did 'im credit, and they stood there talking about tramps and beggars and such-like till Peter and Ginger nearly choked. He stood there watching 'em and smoking a threepenny cigar, and when they 'ad finished he told the barmaid to give 'em a sausage-roll each, and went off.
“Peter and Ginger snatched up their sausage-rolls and follered 'im, and at last Ginger swallowed his pride and walked up to 'im and asked 'im to lend them some money.
“'You'll get it back agin,' he ses. 'You know that well enough.'
“'Cert'nly not,' ses Sam; 'and I'm surprised at you asking. Why, a child could rob you. It's 'ard enough as it is for a pore man like me to 'ave to keep a couple o' hulking sailormen, but I'm not going to give you money to chuck away on lodgers. No more sleeping on the floor for me! Now I don't want none o' your langwidge, and I don't want you follering me like a couple o' cats arter a meat-barrer. I shall be 'aving a cup o' tea at Brown's coffee-shop by and by, and if you're there at five sharp I'll see wot I can do for you. Wot did you call me?'
“Ginger told 'im three times, and then Peter Russet dragged 'im away. They turned up outside Brown's at a quarter to five, and at ten past six Sam Small strolled up smoking a cigar, and, arter telling them that he 'ad forgot all about 'em, took 'em inside and paid for their teas. He told Mr. Brown 'e was paying for 'em, and 'e told the gal wot served 'em 'e was paying for 'em, and it was all pore Ginger could do to stop 'imself from throwing his plate in 'is face.
“Sam went off by 'imself, and arter walking about all the evening without a ha'penny in their pockets, Ginger Dick and Peter went off 'ome to bed and went to sleep till twelve o'clock, when Sam came in and woke 'em up to tell 'em about a music-'all he 'ad been to, and 'ow many pints he had 'ad. He sat up in bed till past one o'clock talking about 'imself, and twice Peter Russet woke Ginger up to listen and got punched for 'is trouble.
“They both said they'd get a ship next morning, and then old Sam turned round and wouldn't 'ear of it. The airs he gave 'imself was awful. He said he'd tell 'em when they was to get a ship, and if they went and did things without asking 'im he'd let 'em starve.
“He kept 'em with 'im all that day for fear of losing 'em and having to give 'em their money when 'e met 'em agin instead of spending it on 'em and getting praised for it. They 'ad their dinner with 'im at Brown's, and nothing they could do pleased him. He spoke to Peter Russet out loud about making a noise while he was eating, and directly arterwards he told Ginger to use his pocket 'ankercher. Pore Ginger sat there looking at 'im and swelling and swelling until he nearly bust, and Sam told 'im if he couldn't keep 'is temper when people was trying to do 'im a kindness he'd better go and get somebody else to keep him.
“He took 'em to a music-'all that night, but he spoilt it all for 'em by taking 'em into the little public-'ouse in Whitechapel Road fust and standing 'em a drink. He told the barmaid 'e was keeping 'em till they could find a job, and arter she 'ad told him he was too soft-'arted and would only be took advantage of, she brought another barmaid up to look at 'em and ask 'em wot they could do, and why they didn't do it.
“Sam served 'em like that for over a week, and he 'ad so much praise from Mr. Brown and other people that it nearly turned his 'ead. For once in his life he 'ad it pretty near all 'is own way. Twice Ginger Dick slipped off and tried to get a ship and came back sulky and hungry, and once Peter Russet sprained his thumb trying to get a job at the docks.
“They gave it up then and kept to Sam like a couple o' shadders, only giving 'im back-answers when they felt as if something 'ud give way inside if they didn't. For the fust time in their lives they began to count the days till their boat was ready for sea. Then something happened.
“They was all coming 'ome late one night along the Minories, when Ginger Dick gave a shout and, suddenly bolting up a little street arter a man that 'ad turned up there, fust of all sent 'im flying with a heavy punch of 'is fist, and then knelt on 'im.
“'Now then Ginger,' ses Sam bustling up with Peter Russet, 'wot's all this? Wot yer doing?'
“'It's the thief,' ses Ginger. 'It's our lodger. You keep still!' he ses shaking the man. 'D'ye hear?'
“Peter gave a shout of joy, and stood by to help.
“'Nonsense!' ses old Sam, turning pale. 'You've been drinking, Ginger. This comes of standing you 'arf-pints.'
“'It's him right enough,' ses Ginger. 'I'd know 'is ugly face anywhere.'
“'You come off 'ome at once,' ses Sam, very sharp, but his voice trembling. 'At once. D'ye hear me?'
“'Fetch a policeman, Peter,' ses Ginger.
“'Let the pore feller go, I tell you,' ses Sam, stamping his foot. ''Ow would you like to be locked up? 'Ow would you like to be torn away from your wife and little ones? 'Ow would you—'
“'Fetch a policeman, Peter,' ses Ginger agin. 'D'ye hear?'
“'Don't do that, guv'nor,' ses the lodger. 'You got your money back. Wot's the good o' putting me away?'
“'Got our wot back?' ses Ginger, shaking 'im agin. 'Don't you try and be funny with me, else I'll tear you into little pieces.'
“'But he took it back,' ses the man, trying to sit up and pointing at Sam. 'He follered me downstairs and took it all away from me. Your ticker as well.'
“'Wot?' ses Ginger and Peter both together.
“Strue as I'm 'ere,' ses the lodger. 'You turn 'is pockets out and see. Look out! He's going off!'
“Ginger turned his 'ead just in time to see old Sam nipping round the corner. He pulled the lodger up like a flash, and, telling Peter to take hold of the other side of him, they set off arter Sam.
“'Little-joke-o' mine-Ginger,' ses Sam, when they caught 'im. 'I was going to tell you about it to-night. It ain't often I get the chance of a joke agin you Ginger; you're too sharp for a old man like me.'
“Ginger Dick didn't say anything. He kept 'old o' Sam's arm with one hand and the lodger's neck with the other, and marched 'em off to his lodgings.
“He shut the door when 'e got in, and arter Peter 'ad lit the candle they took hold o' Sam and went through 'im, and arter trying to find pockets where he 'adn't got any, they took off 'is belt and found Ginger's watch, seventeen pounds five shillings, and a few coppers.
“'We 'ad over nine quid each, me and Peter,' ses Ginger. 'Where's the rest?'
“'It's all I've got left,' ses Sam; 'every ha'penny.'
“He 'ad to undress and even take 'is boots off afore they'd believe 'im, and then Ginger took 'is watch and he ses to Peter, 'Lemme see; 'arf of seventeen pounds is eight pounds ten; 'arf of five shillings is 'arf-a-crown; and 'arf of fourpence is twopence.'
“'What about me Ginger old pal?' ses Sam, in a kind voice. 'We must divide it into threes.'
“'Threes?' ses Ginger, staring at'im. 'Whaffor?'
“''Cos part of it's mine,' ses Sam, struggling 'ard to be perlite. 'I've paid for everything for the last ten days, ain't I?'
“'Yes,' ses Ginger. 'You 'ave, and I thank you for it.'
“'So do I,' ses Peter Russet. 'Hearty I do.'
“'It was your kind-'artedness,' ses Ginger, grinning like mad. 'You gave it to us, and we wouldn't dream of giving it to you back.'
“'Nothin' o' the kind,' ses Sam, choking.
“'Oh, yes you did,' ses Ginger, 'and you didn't forget to tell people neither. You told everybody. Now it's our turn.'
“He opened the door and kicked the lodger out. Leastways, he would 'ave kicked 'im, but the chap was too quick for 'im. And then 'e came back, and, putting his arm round Peter's waist, danced a waltz round the room with 'im, while pore old Sam got on to his bed to be out of the way. They danced for nearly 'arf-an-hour, and then they undressed and sat on Peter's bed and talked. They talked in whispers at fust, but at last Sam 'eard Peter say:—
“'Threepence for 'is brekfuss; sevenpence for 'is dinner; threepence for 'is tea; penny for beer and a penny for bacca. 'Ow much is that, Ginger?'
“'One bob,' ses Ginger.
“Peter counted up to 'imself. 'I make it more than that, old pal,' he ses, when he 'ad finished.
“'Do you?' ses Ginger, getting up. 'Well, he won't; not if he counts it twenty times over he won't. Good-night, Peter. 'Appy dreams.'”
“Never say 'die,' Bert,” said Mr. Culpepper, kindly; “I like you, and so do most other people who know what's good for 'em; and if Florrie don't like you she can keep single till she does.”
Mr. Albert Sharp thanked him.
“Come in more oftener,” said Mr. Culpepper. “If she don't know a steady young man when she sees him, it's her mistake.”
“Nobody could be steadier than what I am,” sighed Mr. Sharp.
Mr. Culpepper nodded. “The worst of it is, girls don't like steady young men,” he said, rumpling his thin grey hair; “that's the silly part of it.”
“But you was always steady, and Mrs. Culpepper married you,” said the young man.
Mr. Culpepper nodded again. “She thought I was, and that came to the same thing,” he said, composedly. “And it ain't for me to say, but she had an idea that I was very good-looking in them days. I had chestnutty hair. She burnt a piece of it only the other day she'd kept for thirty years.”
“Burnt it? What for?” inquired Mr. Sharp.
“Words,” said the other, lowering his voice. “When I want one thing nowadays she generally wants another; and the things she wants ain't the things I want.”
Mr. Sharp shook his head and sighed again.
“You ain't talkative enough for Florrie, you know,” said Mr. Culpepper, regarding him.
“I can talk all right as a rule,” retorted Mr. Sharp. “You ought to hear me at the debating society; but you can't talk to a girl who doesn't talk back.”
“You're far too humble,” continued the other. “You should cheek her a bit now and then. Let 'er see you've got some spirit. Chaff 'er.”
“That's no good,” said the young man, restlessly. “I've tried it. Only the other day I called her 'a saucy little kipper,' and the way she went on, anybody would have thought I'd insulted her. Can't see a joke, I s'pose. Where is she now?”
“Upstairs,” was the reply.
“That's because I'm here,” said Mr. Sharp. “If it had been Jack Butler she'd have been down fast enough.”
“It couldn't be him,” said Mr. Culpepper, “because I won't have 'im in the house. I've told him so; I've told her so, and I've told 'er aunt so. And if she marries without my leave afore she's thirty she loses the seven hundred pounds 'er father left her. You've got plenty of time—ten years.”
Mr. Sharp, sitting with his hands between his knees, gazed despondently at the floor. “There's a lot o' girls would jump at me,” he remarked. “I've only got to hold up my little finger and they'd jump.”
“That's because they've got sense,” said Mr. Culpepper. “They've got the sense to prefer steadiness and humdrumness to good looks and dash. A young fellow like you earning thirty-two-and-six a week can do without good looks, and if I've told Florrie so once I have told her fifty times.”
“Looks are a matter of taste,” said Mr. Sharp, morosely. “Some of them girls I was speaking about just now—”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Culpepper, hastily. “Now, look here; you go on a different tack. Take a glass of ale like a man or a couple o' glasses; smoke a cigarette or a pipe. Be like other young men. Cut a dash, and don't be a namby-pamby. After you're married you can be as miserable as you like.”
Mr. Sharp, after a somewhat lengthy interval, thanked him.
“It's my birthday next Wednesday,” continued Mr. Culpepper, regarding him benevolently; “come round about seven, and I'll ask you to stay to supper. That'll give you a chance. Anybody's allowed to step a bit over the mark on birthdays, and you might take a glass or two and make a speech, and be so happy and bright that they'd 'ardly know you. If you want an excuse for calling, you could bring me a box of cigars for my birthday.”
“Or come in to wish you 'Many Happy Returns of the Day,'” said the thrifty Mr. Sharp.
“And don't forget to get above yourself,” said Mr. Culpepper, regarding him sternly; “in a gentlemanly way, of course. Have as many glasses as you like—there's no stint about me.”
“If it ever comes off,” said Mr. Sharp, rising—“if I get her through you, you shan't have reason to repent it. I'll look after that.”
Mr. Culpepper, whose feelings were a trifle ruffled, said that he would “look after it too.” He had a faint idea that, even from his own point of view, he might have made a better selection for his niece's hand.
Mr. Sharp smoked his first cigarette the following morning, and, encouraged by the entire absence of any after-effects, purchased a pipe, which was taken up by a policeman the same evening for obstructing the public footpath in company with a metal tobacco-box three parts full.
In the matter of ale he found less difficulty. Certainly the taste was unpleasant, but, treated as medicine and gulped down quickly, it was endurable. After a day or two he even began to be critical, and on Monday evening went so far as to complain of its flatness to the wide-eyed landlord of the “Royal George.”
“Too much cellar-work,” he said, as he finished his glass and made for the door.
“Too much! 'Ere, come 'ere,” said the landlord, thickly. “I want to speak to you.”
The expert shook his head, and, passing out into, the street, changed colour as he saw Miss Garland approaching. In a blundering fashion he clutched at his hat and stammered out a “Good evening.”
Miss Garland returned the greeting and, instead of passing on, stopped and, with a friendly smile, held out her hand. Mr. Sharp shook it convulsively.
“You are just the man I want to see,” she exclaimed. “Aunt and I have been talking about you all the afternoon.”
Mr. Sharp said “Really!”
“But I don't want uncle to see us,” pursued Miss Garland, in the low tones of confidence. “Which way shall we go?”
Mr. Sharp's brain reeled. All ways were alike to him in such company. He walked beside her like a man in a dream.
“We want to give him a lesson,” said the girl, presently. “A lesson that he will remember.”
“Him?” said the young man.
“Uncle,” explained the girl. “It's a shocking thing, a wicked thing, to try and upset a steady young man like you. Aunt is quite put out about it, and I feel the same as she does.”
“But,” gasped the astonished Mr. Sharp, “how did you?”
“Aunt heard him,” said Miss Garland. “She was just going into the room when she caught a word or two, and she stayed outside and listened. You don't know what a lot she thinks of you.”
Mr. Sharp's eyes opened wider than ever. “I thought she didn't like me,” he said, slowly.
“Good gracious!” said Miss Garland. “Whatever could have put such an idea as that into your head? Of course, aunt isn't always going to let uncle see that she agrees with him. Still, as if anybody could help—” she murmured to herself.
“Eh?” said the young man, in a trembling voice.
“Nothing.”
Miss Garland walked along with averted face; Mr. Sharp, his pulses bounding, trod on air beside her.
“I thought,” he said, at last “I thought that Jack Butler was a favourite of hers?”
“Jack Butler!” said the girl, in tones of scornful surprise. “The idea! How blind men are; you're all alike, I think. You can't see two inches in front of you. She's as pleased as possible that you are coming on Wednesday; and so am—”
Mr. Sharp caught his breath. “Yes?” he murmured.
“Let's go down here,” said Miss Garland quickly; “down by the river. And I'll tell you what we want you to do.”
She placed her hand lightly on his arm, and Mr. Sharp, with a tremulous smile, obeyed. The smile faded gradually as he listened, and an expression of anxious astonishment took its place. He shook his head as she proceeded, and twice ventured a faint suggestion that she was only speaking in jest. Convinced at last, against his will, he walked on in silent consternation.
“But,” he said at last, as Miss Garland paused for breath, “your uncle would never forgive me. He'd never let me come near the house again.”
“Aunt will see to that,” said the girl, confidently. “But, of course, if you don't wish to please me—”
She turned away, and Mr. Sharp, plucking up spirit, ventured to take her hand and squeeze it. A faint, a very faint, squeeze in return decided him.
021.jpg (100K)
“It will come all right afterwards,” said Miss Garland, “especially with the hold it will give aunt over him.”
“I hope so,” said the young man. “If not, I shall be far—farther off than ever.”
Miss Garland blushed and, turning her head, gazed steadily at the river.
“Trust me,” she said at last. “Me and auntie.”
Mr. Sharp said that so long as he pleased her nothing else mattered, and, in the seventh heaven of delight, paced slowly along the towpath by her side.
“And you mustn't mind what auntie and I say to you,” said the girl, continuing her instructions. “We must keep up appearances, you know; and if we seem to be angry, you must remember we are only pretending.”
Mr. Sharp, with a tender smile, said that he understood perfectly.
“And now I had better go,” said Florrie, returning the smile. “Uncle might see us together, or somebody else might see us and tell him. Good-bye.”
She shook hands and went off, stopping three times to turn and wave her hand. In a state of bewildered delight Mr. Sharp continued his stroll, rehearsing, as he went, the somewhat complicated and voluminous instructions she had given him.
By Wednesday evening he was part-perfect, and, in a state of mind divided between nervousness and exaltation, set out for Mr. Culpepper's. He found that gentleman, dressed in his best, sitting in an easy-chair with his hands folded over a fancy waistcoat of startling design, and, placing a small box of small cigars on his knees, wished him the usual “Happy Returns.” The entrance of the ladies, who seemed as though they had just come off the ice, interrupted Mr. Culpepper's thanks.
“Getting spoiled, that's what I am,” he remarked, playfully. “See this waistcoat? My old Aunt Elizabeth sent it this morning.”
He leaned back in his chair and glanced down in warm approval. “The missis gave me a pipe, and Florrie gave me half a pound of tobacco. And I bought a bottle of port wine myself, for all of us.”
He pointed to a bottle that stood on the supper-table, and, the ladies retiring to the kitchen to bring in the supper, rose and placed chairs. A piece of roast beef was placed before him, and, motioning Mr. Sharp to a seat opposite Florrie, he began to carve.
“Just a nice comfortable party,” he said, genially, as he finished. “Help yourself to the ale, Bert.”
Mr. Sharp, ignoring the surprise on the faces of the ladies, complied, and passed the bottle to Mr. Culpepper. They drank to each other, and again a flicker of surprise appeared on the faces of Mrs. Culpepper and her niece. Mr. Culpepper, noticing it, shook his head waggishly at Mr. Sharp.
“He drinks it as if he likes it,” he remarked.
“I do,” asserted Mr. Sharp, and, raising his glass, emptied it, and resumed the attack on his plate. Mr. Culpepper unscrewed the top of another bottle, and the reckless Mr. Sharp, after helping himself, made a short and feeling speech, in which he wished Mr. Culpepper long life and happiness. “If you ain't happy with Mrs. Culpepper,” he concluded, gallantly, “you ought to be.”
Mr. Culpepper nodded and went on eating in silence until, the keen edge of his appetite having been taken off, he put down his knife and fork and waxed sentimental.
“Been married over thirty years,” he said, slowly, with a glance at his wife, “and never regretted it.”
“Who hasn't?” inquired Mr. Sharp.
“Why, me,” returned the surprised Mr. Culpepper.
Mr. Sharp, who had just raised his glass, put it down again and smiled. It was a faint smile, but it seemed to affect his host unfavourably.
“What are you smiling at?” he demanded.
“Thoughts,” said Mr. Sharp, exchanging a covert glance with Florrie. “Something you told me the other day.”
Mr. Culpepper looked bewildered. “I'll give you a penny for them thoughts,” he said, with an air of jocosity.
Mr. Sharp shook his head. “Money couldn't buy 'em,” he said, with owlish solemnity, “espec—especially after the good supper you're giving me.”
“Bert,” said Mr. Culpepper, uneasily, as his wife sat somewhat erect “Bert, it's my birthday, and I don't grudge nothing to nobody; but go easy with the beer. You ain't used to it, you know.”
“What's the matter with the beer?” inquired Mr. Sharp. “It tastes all right—what there is of it.”
“It ain't the beer; it's you,” explained Mr. Culpepper.
Mr. Sharp stared at him. “Have I said anything I oughtn't to?” he inquired.
Mr. Culpepper shook his head, and, taking up a fork and spoon, began to serve a plum-pudding that Miss Garland had just placed on the table.
“What was it you said I was to be sure and not tell Mrs. Culpepper?” inquired Mr. Sharp, dreamily. “I haven't said that, have I?”
“No!” snapped the harassed Mr. Culpepper, laying down the fork and spoon and regarding him ferociously. “I mean, there wasn't anything. I mean, I didn't say so. You're raving.”
“If I did say it, I'm sorry,” persisted Mr. Sharp. “I can't say fairer than that, can I?”
“You're all right,” said Mr. Culpepper, trying, but in vain, to exchange a waggish glance with his wife.
“I didn't say it?” inquired Mr. Sharp.
“No,” said Mr. Culpepper, still smiling in a wooden fashion.
“I mean the other thing?” said Mr. Sharp, in a thrilling whisper.
“Look here,” exclaimed the overwrought Mr. Culpepper; “why not eat your pudding, and leave off talking nonsense? Nobody's listening to you.”
“Speak for yourself,” said his wife, tartly. “I like to hear Mr. Sharp talk. What was it he told you not to tell me?”
Mr. Sharp eyed her mistily. “I—I can't tell you,” he said, slowly.
“Why not?” asked Mrs. Culpepper, coaxingly.
“Because it—it would make your hair stand on end,” said the industrious Mr. Sharp.
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Culpepper, sharply.
“He said it would,” said Mr. Sharp, indicating his host with his spoon, “and he ought—to know— Who's that kicking me under the table?”
Mr. Culpepper, shivering with wrath and dread, struggled for speech. “You'd better get home, Bert,” he said at last. “You're not yourself. There's nobody kicking you under the table. You don't know what you are saying. You've been dreaming things. I never said anything of the kind.”
“Memory's gone,” said Mr. Sharp, shaking his head at him. “Clean gone. Don't you remember—”
“NO!” roared Mr. Culpepper.
Mr. Sharp sat blinking at him, but his misgivings vanished before the glances of admiring devotion which Miss Garland was sending in his direction. He construed them rightly not only as a reward, but as an incentive to further efforts. In the midst of an impressive silence Mrs. Culpepper collected the plates and, producing a dish of fruit from the sideboard, placed it upon the table.
“Help yourself, Mr. Sharp,” she said, pushing the bottle of port towards him.
Mr. Sharp complied, having first, after several refusals, put a little into the ladies' glasses, and a lot on the tablecloth near Mr. Culpepper. Then, after a satisfying sip or two, he rose with a bland smile and announced his intention of making a speech.
“But you've made one,” said his host, in tones of fierce expostulation.
“That—that was las' night,” said Mr. Sharp. “This is to-night—your birthday.”
“Well, we don't want any more,” said Mr. Culpepper.
Mr. Sharp hesitated. “It's only his fun,” he said, looking round and raising his glass. “He's afraid I'm going to praise him up—praise him up. Here's to my old friend, Mr. Culpepper: one of the best. We all have our—faults, and he has his—has his. Where was I?”
“Sit down,” growled Mr. Culpepper.
“Talking about my husband's faults,” said his wife.
“So I was,” said Mr. Sharp, putting his hand to his brow. “Don't be alarm',” he continued, turning to his host; “nothing to be alarm' about. I'm not going to talk about 'em. Not so silly as that, I hope. I don't want spoil your life.”
“Sit down,” repeated Mr. Culpepper.
“You're very anxious he should sit down,” said his wife, sharply.
“No, I'm not,” said Mr. Culpepper; “only he's talking nonsense.”
Mr. Sharp, still on his legs, took another sip of port and, avoiding the eye of Mr. Culpepper, which was showing signs of incipient inflammation, looked for encouragement to Miss Garland.
“He's a man we all look up to and respect,” he continued. “If he does go off to London every now and then on business, that's his lookout. My idea is he always ought to take Mrs. Culpepper with him.
“He'd have pleasure of her company and, same time, he'd be money in pocket by it. And why shouldn't she go to music-halls sometimes? Why shouldn't she—”
“You get off home,” said the purple Mr. Culpepper, rising and hammering the table with his fist. “Get off home; and if you so much as show your face inside this 'ouse again there'll be trouble. Go on. Out you go!”
“Home?” repeated Mr. Sharp, sitting down suddenly. “Won't go home till morning.”
“Oh, we'll soon see about that,” said Mr. Culpepper, taking him by the shoulders. “Come on, now.”
Mr. Sharp subsided lumpishly into his chair, and Mr. Culpepper, despite his utmost efforts, failed to move him. The two ladies exchanged a glance, and then, with their heads in the air, sailed out of the room, the younger pausing at the door to bestow a mirthful glance upon Mr. Sharp ere she disappeared.
“Come—out,” said Mr. Culpepper, panting.
“You trying to tickle me?” inquired Mr. Sharp.
“You get off home,” said the other. “You've been doing nothing but make mischief ever since you came in. What put such things into your silly head I don't know. I shall never hear the end of 'em as long as I live.”
“Silly head?” repeated Mr. Sharp, with an alarming change of manner. “Say it again.”
Mr. Culpepper repeated it with gusto.
“Very good,” said Mr. Sharp. He seized him suddenly and, pushing him backwards into his easychair, stood over him with such hideous contortions of visage that Mr. Culpepper was horrified. “Now you sit there and keep quite still,” he said, with smouldering ferocity. “Where did you put carving-knife? Eh? Where's carving-knife?”
“No, no, Bert,” said Mr. Culpepper, clutching at his sleeve. “I—I was only joking. You—you ain't quite yourself, Bert.”
“What?” demanded the other, rolling his eyes, and clenching his fists.
“I—I mean you've improved,” said Mr. Culpepper, hurriedly. “Wonderful, you have.”
Mr. Sharp's countenance cleared a little. “Let's make a night of it,” he said. “Don't move, whatever you do.”
He closed the door and, putting the wine and a couple of glasses on the mantelpiece, took a chair by Mr. Culpepper and prepared to spend the evening. His instructions were too specific to be disregarded, and three times he placed his arm about the waist of the frenzied Mr. Culpepper and took him for a lumbering dance up and down the room. In the intervals between dances he regaled him with interminable extracts from speeches made at the debating society and recitations learned at school. Suggestions relating to bed, thrown out by Mr. Culpepper from time to time, were repelled with scorn. And twice, in deference to Mr. Sharp's desires, he had to join in the chorus of a song.
Ten o'clock passed, and the hands of the clock crawled round to eleven. The hour struck, and, as though in answer, the door opened and the agreeable face of Florrie Garland appeared. Behind her, to the intense surprise of both gentlemen, loomed the stalwart figure of Mr. Jack Butler.
“I thought he might be useful, uncle,” said Miss Garland, coming into the room. “Auntie wouldn't let me come down before.”
Mr. Sharp rose in a dazed fashion and saw Mr. Culpepper grasp Mr. Butler by the hand. More dazed still, he felt the large and clumsy hand of Mr. Butler take him by the collar and propel him with some violence along the small passage, while another hand, which he dimly recognized as belonging to Mr. Culpepper, was inserted in the small of his back. Then the front door opened and he was thrust out into the night. The door closed, and a low feminine laugh sounded from a window above.
022.jpg (81K)
The night-watchman, who had left his seat on the jetty to answer the gate-bell, came back with disgust written on a countenance only too well designed to express it.
“If she's been up 'ere once in the last week to, know whether theSilviais up she's been four or five times,” he growled. “He's forty-seven if he's a day; 'is left leg is shorter than 'is right, and he talks with a stutter. When she's with 'im you'd think as butter wouldn't melt in 'er mouth; but the way she talked to me just now you'd think I was paid a-purpose to wait on her. I asked 'er at last wot she thought I was here for, and she said she didn't know, and nobody else neither. And afore she went off she told the potman from the 'Albion,' wot was listening, that I was known all over Wapping as the Sleeping Beauty.
“She ain't the fust I've 'ad words with, not by a lot. They're all the same; they all start in a nice, kind, soapy sort o' way, and, as soon as they don't get wot they want, fly into a temper and ask me who, I think I am. I told one woman once not to be silly, and I shall never forget it as long as I live-never. For all I know, she's wearing a bit o' my 'air in a locket to this day, and very likely boasting that I gave it to her.
“Talking of her reminds me of another woman. There was a Cap'n Pinner, used to trade between 'ere and Hull on a schooner named the Snipe. Nice little craft she was, and 'e was a very nice feller. Many and many's the pint we've 'ad together, turn and turn-about, and the on'y time we ever 'ad a cross word was when somebody hid his clay pipe in my beer and 'e was foolish enough to think I'd done it.
“He 'ad a nice little cottage, 'e told me about, near Hull, and 'is wife's father, a man of pretty near seventy, lived with 'em. Well-off the old man was, and, as she was his only daughter, they looked to 'ave all his money when he'd gorn. Their only fear was that 'e might marry agin, and, judging from wot 'e used to tell me about the old man, I thought it more than likely.
“'If it wasn't for my missis he'd ha' been married over and over agin,' he ses one day. 'He's like a child playing with gunpowder.'
“''Ow would it be to let 'im burn hisself a bit?' I ses.
“'If you was to see some o' the gunpowder he wants to play with, you wouldn't talk like that,' ses the cap'n. 'You'd know better. The on'y thing is to keep 'em apart, and my pore missis is wore to a shadder a-doing of it.'
“It was just about a month arter that that he brought the old man up to London with 'im. They 'ad some stuff to put out at Smith's Wharf, t'other side of the river, afore they came to us, and though they was on'y there four or five days, it was long enough for that old man to get into trouble.
“The skipper told me about it ten minutes arter they was made snug in the inner berth 'ere. He walked up and down like a man with a raging toothache, and arter follering 'im up and down the wharf till I was tired out, I discovered that 'is father-in-law 'ad got 'imself mixed up with a widder-woman ninety years old and weighing twenty stun. Arter he 'ad cooled down a bit, and I 'ad given 'im a few little pats on the shoulder, 'e made it forty-eight years old and fourteen stun.
“'He's getting ready to go and meet her now,' he ses, 'and wot my missis'll say to me, I don't know.'
“His father-in-law came up on deck as 'e spoke, and began to brush 'imself all over with a clothesbrush. Nice-looking little man 'e was, with blue eyes, and a little white beard, cut to a point, and dressed up in a serge suit with brass buttons, and a white yachting cap. His real name was Mr. Finch, but the skipper called 'im Uncle Dick, and he took such a fancy to me that in five minutes I was calling 'im Uncle Dick too.
“'Time I was moving,' he ses, by and by. 'I've got an app'intment.'
“'Oh! who with?' ses the skipper, pretending not to know.
“'Friend o' mine, in the army,' ses the old man, with a wink at me. 'So long.'
“He went off as spry as a boy, and as soon as he'd gorn the skipper started walking back'ards and for'ards agin, and raving.
“'Let's 'ope as he's on'y amusing 'imself,' I ses.
“'Wait till you see 'er,' ses the skipper; 'then you won't talk foolishness.'
“As it 'appened she came back with Uncle Dick that evening, to see 'im safe, and I see at once wot sort of a woman it was. She 'adn't been on the wharf five minutes afore you'd ha' thought it belonged to 'er, and when she went and sat on the schooner it seemed to be about 'arf its size. She called the skipper Tom, and sat there as cool as you please holding Uncle Dick's 'and, and patting it.
“I took the skipper round to the 'Bull's Head' arter she 'ad gorn, and I wouldn't let 'im say a word until he had 'ad two pints. He felt better then, and some o' the words 'e used surprised me.
“'Wot's to be done?' he ses at last. 'You see 'ow it is, Bill.'
“'Can't you get 'im away?' I ses. 'Who is she, and wot's 'er name?'
“'Her name,' ses the skipper, 'her name is Jane Maria Elizabeth Muffit, and she lives over at Rotherhithe.'
“'She's very likely married already,' I ses.
“'Her 'usband died ten years ago,' ses the skipper; 'passed away in 'is sleep. Overlaid, I should say.'
“He sat there smoking, and I sat there thinking. Twice 'e spoke to me, and I held my 'and up and said 'H'sh.' Then I turned to 'im all of a sudden and pinched his arm so hard he nearly dropped 'is beer.
“'Is Uncle Dick a nervous man?' I ses.
“'Nervous is no name for it,' he ses, staring.
“'Very good, then,' I ses. 'I'll send 'er husband to frighten 'im.'
“The skipper looked at me very strange. 'Yes,' he ses. 'Yes. Yes.'
“'Frighten 'im out of 'is boots, and make him give 'er up,' I ses. 'Or better still, get 'im to run away and go into hiding for a time. That 'ud be best, in case 'e found out.'
“'Found out wot?' ses the skipper.
“'Found out it wasn't 'er husband,' I ses.
“'Bill,' ses the skipper, very earnest, 'this is the fust beer I've 'ad to-day, and I wish I could say the same for you.'
“I didn't take 'im at fast, but when I did I gave a laugh that brought in two more customers to see wot was the matter. Then I took 'im by the arm—arter a little trouble—and, taking 'im back to the wharf, explained my meaning to 'im.
“'I know the very man,' I ses. 'He comes into a public-'ouse down my way sometimes. Artful 'Arry, he's called, and, for 'arf-a-quid, say, he'd frighten Uncle Dick 'arf to death. He's big and ugly, and picks up a living by selling meerschaum pipes he's found to small men wot don't want 'em. Wonderful gift o' the gab he's got.'
“We went acrost to the 'Albion' to talk it over. There's several bars there, and the landlady always keeps cotton-wool in 'er ears, not 'aving been brought up to the public line. The skipper told me all 'e knew about Mrs. Muffit, and we arranged that Artful 'Arry should come down at seven o'clock next night, if so be as I could find 'im in time.
“I got up early the next arternoon, and as it 'appened, he came into the 'Duke of Edinburgh' five minutes arter I got there. Nasty temper 'e was in, too. He'd just found a meerschaum pipe, as usual, and the very fust man 'e tried to sell it to said that it was the one 'e lost last Christmas, and gave 'im a punch in the jaw for it.
“'He's a thief, that's wot he is,' ses 'Arry; 'and I 'ate thiefs. 'Ow's a honest tradesman to make a living when there's people like that about?'
“I stood 'im 'arf a pint, and though it hurt 'im awful to drink it, he said 'ed 'ave another just to see if he could bear the pain. Arter he had 'ad three 'e began for to take a more cheerful view o' life, and told me about a chap that spent three weeks in the London 'Orsepittle for calling 'im a liar.
“'Treat me fair,' he ses, 'and I'll treat other people fair. I never broke my word without a good reason for it, and that's more than everybody can say. If I told you the praise I've 'ad from some people you wouldn't believe it.'
“I let 'im go on till he 'ad talked 'imself into a good temper, and then I told 'im of the little job I 'ad got for 'im. He listened quiet till I 'ad finished, and then he shook 'is 'ead.
“'It ain't in my line,' he ses.
“'There's 'arf a quid 'anging to it,' I ses.
“'Arry shook his 'ead agin. 'Tain't enough, mate,' he ses. 'If you was to make it a quid I won't say as I mightn't think of it.'
“I 'ad told the skipper that it might cost 'im a quid, so I knew 'ow far I could go; and at last, arter 'Arry 'ad got as far as the door three times, I gave way.
“'And I'll 'ave it now,' he ses, 'to prevent mistakes.'
“'No, 'Arry,' I ses, very firm. 'Besides, it ain't my money, you see.'
“'You mean to say you don't trust me,' 'e ses, firing up.
“'I'd trust you with untold gold,' I ses, 'but not with a real quid; you're too fond of a joke, 'Arry.'
“We 'ad another long argyment about it, and I had to tell 'im plain at last that when I wanted to smell 'is fist, I'd say so.
“'You turn up at the wharf at five minutes to seven,' I ses, 'and I'll give you ten bob of it; arter you've done your business I'll give you the other. Come along quiet, and you'll see me waiting at the gate for you.'
“He gave way arter a time, and, fust going 'ome for a cup o' tea, I went on to the wharf to tell the skipper 'ow things stood.
“'It couldn't 'ave 'appened better,' he ses. 'Uncle Dick is sure to be aboard at that time, 'cos 'e's going acrost the water at eight o'clock to pay 'er a visit. And all the hands'll be away. I've made sure of that.'
“He gave me the money for Artful 'Arry in two 'arf-suverins, and then we went over to the 'Albion' for a quiet glass and a pipe, and to wait for seven o'clock.
“I left 'im there at ten minutes to, and at five minutes to, punctual to the minute, I see 'Arry coming along swinging a thick stick with a knob on the end of it.
“'Where's the 'arf thick-un?' he ses, looking round to see that the coast was clear.
“I gave it to 'im, and arter biting it in three places and saying it was a bit short in weight he dropped it in 'is weskit-pocket and said 'e was ready.
“I left 'im there for a minute while I went and 'ad a look round. The deck of the Snipe was empty, but I could 'ear Uncle Dick down in the cabin singing; and, arter listening for a few seconds to make sure that it was singing, I went back and beckoned to 'Arry.
“'He's down in the cabin,' I ses, pointing. 'Don't overdo it, 'Arry, and at the same time don't underdo it, as you might say.'
“'I know just wot you want,' ses 'Arry, 'and if you'd got the 'art of a man in you, you'd make it two quids.'
“He climbed on board and stood listening for a moment at the companion, and then 'e went down, while I went off outside the gate, so as to be out of earshot in case Uncle Dick called for me. I knew that I should 'ear all about wot went on arterwards—and I did.
“Artful 'Arry went down the companion-ladder very quiet, and then stood at the foot of it looking at Uncle Dick. He looked 'im up and down and all over, and then 'e gave a fierce, loud cough.
“'Good-evening,' he ses.
“'Good-evening,' ses Uncle Dick, staring at 'im. 'Did you want to see anybody?'
“'I did,' ses 'Arry. 'I do. And when I see 'im I'm going to put my arms round 'im and twist 'is neck; then I'm going to break every bone in 'is body, and arter that I'm going to shy 'im overboard to pison the fishes with.'
“'Dear me!' ses Uncle Dick, shifting away as far as 'e could.
“'I ain't 'ad a wink o' sleep for two nights,' ses 'Arry—'not ever since I 'eard of it. When I think of all I've done for that woman-working for 'er, and such-like-my blood boils. When I think of her passing 'erself off as a widder—my widder—and going out with another man, I don't know wot to do with myself.'
“Uncle Dick started and turned pale. Fust 'e seemed as if 'e was going to speak, and then 'e thought better of it. He sat staring at 'Arry as if 'e couldn't believe his eyes.
“'Wot would you do with a man like that?' ses 'Arry. 'I ask you, as man to man, wot would you do to 'im?'
“'P'r'aps-p'r'aps 'e didn't know,' ses Uncle Dick, stammering.
“'Didn't know!' ses 'Arry. 'Don't care, you mean. We've got a nice little 'ome, and, just because I've 'ad to leave it and lay low for a bit for knifing a man, she takes advantage of it. And it ain't the fust time, neither. Wot's the matter?'
“'Touch-touch of ague; I get it sometimes,' ses Uncle Dick.
“'I want to see this man Finch,' ses 'Arry, shaking 'is knobby stick. 'Muffit, my name is, and I want to tell 'im so.'
“Uncle Dick nearly shook 'imself on to the floor.
“'I—I'll go and see if 'e's in the fo'c'sle,' he ses at last.
“'He ain't there, 'cos I've looked,' ses 'Arry, 'arf shutting 'is eyes and looking at 'im hard. 'Wot might your name be?'
“'My name's Finch,' ses Uncle Dick, putting out his 'ands to keep him off; 'but I thought she was a widder. She told me her 'usband died ten years ago; she's deceived me as well as you. I wouldn't ha' dreamt of taking any notice of 'er if I'd known. Truth, I wouldn't. I should'nt ha' dreamt of such a thing.'
“Artful 'Arry played with 'is stick a little, and stood looking at 'im with a horrible look on 'is face.
“''Ow am I to know you're speaking the truth?' he ses, very slow. 'Eh? 'Ow can you prove it?'
“'If it was the last word I was to speak I'd say the same,' ses Uncle Dick. 'I tell you, I am as innercent as a new-born babe.'