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“For the next three or four weeks Bob Pretty seemed to keep very quiet, and we all began to think as 'ow he 'ad made a mistake for once. Everybody else was trying their 'ardest for the watch, and all Bob done was to make a laugh of 'em and to say he believed it was on'y made of brass arter all. Then one arternoon, just a few days afore Mr. Bunnett's time was up at the farm, Bob took 'is dog out for a walk, and arter watching the farm for some time met the old gen'leman by accident up at Coe's plantation.
“'Good arternoon, sir,' he ses, smiling at 'im. 'Wot wunnerful fine weather we're a-having for the time o' year. I've just brought Joseph out for a bit of a walk. He ain't been wot I might call hisself for the last day or two, and I thought a little fresh air might do 'im good.'
“Mr. Bunnett just looked at him, and then 'e passed 'im by without a word.
“'I wanted to ask your advice about 'im,' ses Bob, turning round and follering of 'im. 'He's a delikit animal, and sometimes I wonder whether I 'aven't been a-pampering of 'im too much.'
“'Go away,' ses Mr. Bunnett; 'I've'eard all about you. Go away at once.'
“'Heard all about me?' ses Bob Pretty, looking puzzled. 'Well, you can't 'ave heard no 'arm, that's one comfort.'
“'I've been told your true character,' ses the old gen'leman, very firm. 'And I'm ashamed that I should have let myself be deceived by you. I hope you'll try and do better while there is still time.'
“'If anybody 'as got anything to say agin my character,' says Bob, 'I wish as they'd say it to my face. I'm a pore, hard-working man, and my character's all I've got.'
“'You're poorer than you thought you was then,' says Mr. Bunnett. 'I wish you good arternoon.'
“'Good arternoon, sir,' ses Bob, very humble. 'I'm afraid some on 'em 'ave been telling lies about me, and I didn't think I'd got a enemy in the world. Come on, Joseph. Come on, old pal. We ain't wanted here.'
“He shook 'is 'ead with sorrow, and made a little sucking noise between 'is teeth, and afore you could wink, his dog 'ad laid hold of the old gen'leman's leg and kep' quiet waiting orders.
“'Help!' screams Mr. Bunnett. 'Call, 'im off! Call 'im off!'
“Bob said arterwards that 'e was foolish enough to lose 'is presence o' mind for a moment, and instead o' doing anything he stood there gaping with 'is mouth open.
“'Call 'im off!' screams Mr. Bunnett, trying to push the dog away. 'Why don't you call him off?'
“'Don't move,' ses Bob Pretty in a frightened voice. 'Don't move, wotever you do.'
“'Call him off! Take 'im away!' ses Mr. Bunnett.
“'Why, Joseph! Joseph! Wotever are you a-thinking of?' ses Bob, shaking 'is 'ead at the dog. 'I'm surprised at you! Don't you know Mr. Bunnett wot is so fond of animals?'
“'If you don't call 'im off, ses Mr. Bunnett, trembling all over, 'I'll have you locked up.'
“'I am a-calling 'im off,' ses Bob, looking very puzzled. 'Didn't you 'ear me? It's you making that noise that excites 'im, I think. P'r'aps if you keep quiet he'll leave go. Come off, Joseph, old boy, there's a good doggie. That ain't a bone.'
“'It's no good talking to 'im like that,' ses Mr. Bunnett, keeping quiet but trembling worse than ever. 'Make him let go.'
“'I don't want to 'urt his feelings,' ses Bob; 'they've got their feelings the same as wot we 'ave. Besides, p'r'aps it ain't 'is fault— p'r'aps he's gone mad.'
“'HELP!' ses the old gen'leman, in a voice that might ha' been heard a mile away. 'HELP!'
“'Why don't you keep quiet?' ses Bob. 'You're on'y frightening the pore animal and making things worse. Joseph, leave go and I'll see whether there's a biskit in my pocket. Why don't you leave go?'
“'Pull him off. Hit 'im,' ses Mr. Bunnett, shouting.
“'Wot?' ses Bob Pretty, with a start. 'Hit a poor, dumb animal wot don't know no better! Why, you'd never forgive me, sir, and I should lose the gold watch besides.'
“'No, you won't,' ses Mr. Bunnett, speaking very fast. 'You'll 'ave as much chance of it as ever you had. Hit 'im! Quick!'
“'It 'ud break my 'art,' ses Bob. 'He'd never forgive me; but if you'll take the responserbility, and then go straight 'ome and give me the gold watch now for kindness to animals, I will.'
“He shook his 'ead with sorrow and made that sucking noise agin.'
“'All right, you shall 'ave it,' ses Mr. Bunnett, shouting. 'You shall 'ave it.'
“'For kindness to animals?' ses Bob. 'Honour bright?'
“'Yes,' ses Mr. Bunnett.
“Bob Pretty lifted 'is foot and caught Joseph one behind that surprised 'im. Then he 'elped Mr. Bunnett look at 'is leg, and arter pointing out that the skin wasn't hardly broken, and saying that Joseph 'ad got the best mouth of any dog in Claybury, 'e walked 'ome with the old gen'leman and got the watch. He said Mr. Bunnett made a little speech when 'e gave it to 'im wot he couldn't remember, and wot he wouldn't repeat if 'e could.
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“He came up to this 'ere Cauliflower public-'ouse the same night for the money 'e had won, and Bill Chambers made another speech, but, as Smith the landlord put' in outside for it, it didn't do Bob Pretty the good it ought to ha' done.”
R. Robert Clarkson sat by his fire, smoking thoughtfully. His lifelong neighbour and successful rival in love had passed away a few days before, and Mr. Clarkson, fresh from the obsequies, sat musing on the fragility of man and the inconvenience that sometimes attended his departure.
His meditations were disturbed by a low knocking on the front door, which opened on to the street. In response to his invitation it opened slowly, and a small middle-aged man of doleful aspect entered softly and closed it behind him.
“Evening, Bob,” he said, in stricken accents. “I thought I'd just step round to see how you was bearing up. Fancy pore old Phipps! Why, I'd a'most as soon it had been me. A'most.”
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Mr. Clarkson nodded.
“Here to-day and gone to-morrow,” continued Mr. Smithson, taking a seat. “Well, well! So you'll have her at last-pore thing.”
“That was his wish,” said Mr. Clarkson, in a dull voice.
“And very generous of him too,” said Mr. Smithson. “Everybody is saying so. Certainly he couldn't take her away with him. How long is it since you was both of you courting her?”
“Thirty years come June,” replied the other.
“Shows what waiting does, and patience,” commented Mr. Smithson. “If you'd been like some chaps and gone abroad, where would you have been now? Where would have been the reward of your faithful heart?”
Mr. Clarkson, whose pipe had gone out, took a coal from the fire and lit it again.
“I can't understand him dying at his age,” he said, darkly. “He ought to have lived to ninety if he'd been taken care of.”
“Well, he's gone, pore chap,” said his friend. “What a blessing it must ha' been to him in his last moments to think that he had made provision for his wife.”
“Provision!” exclaimed Mr. Clarkson. “Why he's left her nothing but the furniture and fifty pounds insurance money—nothing in the world.”
Mr. Smithson fidgeted. “I mean you,” he said, staring.
“Oh!” said the other. “Oh, yes—yes, of course.”
“And he doesn't want you to eat your heart out in waiting,” said Mr. Smithson. “'Never mind about me,' he said to her; 'you go and make Bob happy.' Wonderful pretty girl she used to be, didn't she?” Mr. Clarkson assented.
“And I've no doubt she looks the same to you as ever she did,” pursued the sentimental Mr. Smithson. “That's the extraordinary part of it.”
Mr. Clarkson turned and eyed him; removed the pipe from his mouth, and, after hesitating a moment, replaced it with a jerk.
“She says she'd rather be faithful to his memory,” continued the persevering Mr. Smithson, “but his wishes are her law. She said so to my missis only yesterday.”
“Still, she ought to be considered,” said Mr. Clarkson, shaking his head. “I think that somebody ought to put it to her. She has got her feelings, poor thing, and, if she would rather not marry again, she oughtn't to be compelled to.”
“Just what my missis did say to her,” said the other; “but she didn't pay much attention. She said it was Henry's wish and she didn't care what happened to her now he's gone. Besides, if you come to think of it, what else is she to do? Don't you worry, Bob; you won't lose her again.”
Mr. Clarkson, staring at the fire, mused darkly. For thirty years he had played the congenial part of the disappointed admirer but faithful friend. He had intended to play it for at least fifty or sixty. He wished that he had had the strength of mind to refuse the bequest when the late Mr. Phipps first mentioned it, or taken a firmer line over the congratulations of his friends. As it was, Little Molton quite understood that after thirty years' waiting the faithful heart was to be rewarded at last. Public opinion seemed to be that the late Mr. Phipps had behaved with extraordinary generosity.
“It's rather late in life for me to begin,” said Mr. Clarkson at last.
“Better late than never,” said the cheerful Mr. Smithson.
“And something seems to tell me that I ain't long for this world,” continued Mr. Clarkson, eyeing him with some disfavour.
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Mr. Smithson. “You'll lose all them ideas as soon as you're married. You'll have somebody to look after you and help you spend your money.”
Mr. Clarkson emitted a dismal groan, and clapping his hand over his mouth strove to make it pass muster as a yawn. It was evident that the malicious Mr. Smithson was deriving considerable pleasure from his discomfiture—the pleasure natural to the father of seven over the troubles of a comfortable bachelor. Mr. Clarkson, anxious to share his troubles with somebody, came to a sudden and malicious determination to share them with Mr. Smithson.
“I don't want anybody to help me spend my money,” he said, slowly. “First and last I've saved a tidy bit. I've got this house, those three cottages in Turner's Lane, and pretty near six hundred pounds in the bank.”
Mr. Smithson's eyes glistened.
“I had thought—it had occurred to me,” said Mr. Clarkson, trying to keep as near the truth as possible, “to leave my property to a friend o' mine —a hard-working man with a large family. However, it's no use talking about that now. It's too late.”
“Who—who was it?” inquired his friend, trying to keep his voice steady.
Mr. Clarkson shook his head. “It's no good talking about that now, George,” he said, eyeing him with sly enjoyment. “I shall have to leave everything to my wife now. After all, perhaps it does more harm than good to leave money to people.”
“Rubbish!” said Mr. Smithson, sharply. “Who was it?”
“You, George,” said Mr. Clarkson, softly.
“Me?” said the other, with a gasp. “Me?” He jumped up from his chair, and, seizing the other's hand, shook it fervently.
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“I oughtn't to have told you, George,” said Mr. Clarkson, with great satisfaction. “It'll only make you miserable. It's just one o' the might ha' beens.”
Mr. Smithson, with his back to the fire and his hands twisted behind him, stood with his eyes fixed in thought.
“It's rather cool of Phipps,” he said, after a long silence; “rather cool, I think, to go out of the world and just leave his wife to you to look after. Some men wouldn't stand it. You're too easy-going, Bob, that's what's the matter with you.”
Mr. Clarkson sighed.
“And get took advantage of,” added his friend.
“It's all very well to talk,” said Mr. Clarkson, “but what can I do? I ought to have spoke up at the time. It's too late now.”
“If I was you,” said his friend very earnestly, “and didn't want to marry her, I should tell her so. Say what you like it ain't fair to her you know. It ain't fair to the pore woman. She'd never forgive you if she found it out.”
“Everybody's taking it for granted,” said the other.
“Let everybody look after their own business,” said Mr. Smithson, tartly. “Now, look here, Bob; suppose I get you out of this business, how am I to be sure you'll leave your property to me?—not that I want it. Suppose you altered your will?”
“If you get me out of it, every penny I leave will go to you,” said Mr. Clarkson, fervently. “I haven't got any relations, and it don't matter in the slightest to me who has it after I'm gone.”
“As true as you stand there?” demanded the other, eyeing him fixedly.
“As true as I stand here,” said Mr. Clarkson, smiting his chest, and shook hands again.
Long after his visitor had gone he sat gazing in a brooding fashion at the fire. As a single man his wants were few, and he could live on his savings; as the husband of Mrs. Phipps he would be compelled to resume the work he thought he had dropped for good three years before. Moreover, Mrs. Phipps possessed a strength of character that had many times caused him to congratulate himself upon her choice of a husband.
Slowly but surely his fetters were made secure. Two days later the widow departed to spend six weeks with a sister; but any joy that he might have felt over the circumstance was marred by the fact that he had to carry her bags down to the railway station and see her off. The key of her house was left with him, with strict injunctions to go in and water her geraniums every day, while two canaries and a bullfinch had to be removed to his own house in order that they might have constant attention and company.
“She's doing it on purpose,” said Mr. Smithson, fiercely; “she's binding you hand and foot.”
Mr. Clarkson assented gloomily. “I'm trusting to you, George,” he remarked.
“How'd it be to forget to water the geraniums and let the birds die because they missed her so much?” suggested Mr. Smithson, after prolonged thought.
Mr. Clarkson shivered.
“It would be a hint,” said his friend.
Mr. Clarkson took some letters from the mantelpiece and held them up. “She writes about them every day,” he said, briefly, “and I have to answer them.”
“She—she don't refer to your getting married, I suppose?” said his friend, anxiously.
Mr. Clarkson said “No. But her sister does,” he added. “I've had two letters from her.”
Mr. Smithson got up and paced restlessly up and down the room. “That's women all over,” he said, bitterly. “They never ask for things straight out; but they always get 'em in roundabout ways. She can't do it herself, so she gets her sister to do it.”
Mr. Clarkson groaned. “And her sister is hinting that she can't leave the house where she spent so many happy years,” he said, “and says what a pleasant surprise it would be for Mrs. Phipps if she was to come home and find it done up.”
“That means you've got to live there when you're married,” said his friend, solemnly.
Mr. Clarkson glanced round his comfortable room and groaned again. “She asked me to get an estimate from Digson,” he said, dully. “She knows as well as I do her sister hasn't got any money. I wrote to say that it had better be left till she comes home, as I might not know what was wanted.”
Mr. Smithson nodded approval.
“And Mrs. Phipps wrote herself and thanked me for being so considerate,” continued his friend, grimly, “and says that when she comes back we must go over the house together and see what wants doing.”
Mr. Smithson got up and walked round the room again.
“You never promised to marry her?” he said, stopping suddenly.
“No,” said the other. “It's all been arranged for me. I never said a word. I couldn't tell Phipps I wouldn't have her with them all standing round, and him thinking he was doing me the greatest favour in the world.”
“Well, she can't name the day unless you ask her,” said the other. “All you've got to do is to keep quiet and not commit yourself. Be as cool as you can, and, just before she comes home, you go off to London on business and stay there as long as possible.”
Mr. Clarkson carried out his instructions to the letter, and Mrs. Phipps, returning home at the end of her visit, learned that he had left for London three days before, leaving the geraniums and birds to the care of Mr. Smithson. From the hands of that unjust steward she received two empty bird-cages, together with a detailed account of the manner in which the occupants had effected their escape, and a bullfinch that seemed to be suffering from torpid liver. The condition of the geraniums was ascribed to worms in the pots, frost, and premature decay.
“They go like it sometimes,” said Mr. Smithson, “and when they do nothing will save 'em.”
Mrs. Phipps thanked him. “It's very kind of you to take so much trouble,” she said, quietly; “some people would have lost the cages too while they were about it.”
“I did my best,” said Mr. Smithson, in a surly voice.
“I know you did,” said Mrs. Phipps, thoughtfully, “and I am sure I am much obliged to you. If there is anything of yours I can look after at any time I shall be only too pleased. When did you say Mr. Clarkson was coming back?”
“He don't know,” said Mr. Smithson, promptly. “He might be away a month; and then, again, he might be away six. It all depends. You know what business is.”
“It's very thoughtful of him,” said Mrs. Phipps. “Very.”
“Thoughtful!” repeated Mr. Smithson.
“He has gone away for a time out of consideration for me,” said the widow. “As things are, it is a little bit awkward for us to meet much at present.”
“I don't think he's gone away for that at all,” said the other, bluntly.
Mrs. Phipps shook her head. “Ah, you don't know him as well as I do,” she said, fondly. “He has gone away on my account, I feel sure.”
Mr. Smithson screwed his lips together and remained silent.
“When he feels that it is right and proper for him to come back,” pursued Mrs. Phipps, turning her eyes upwards, “he will come. He has left his comfortable home just for my sake, and I shall not forget it.”
Mr. Smithson coughed-a short, dry cough, meant to convey incredulity.
“I shall not do anything to this house till he comes back,” said Mrs. Phipps. “I expect he would like to have a voice in it. He always used to admire it and say how comfortable it was. Well, well, we never know what is before us.”
Mr. Smithson repeated the substance of the interview to Mr. Clarkson by letter, and in the lengthy correspondence that followed kept him posted as to the movements of Mrs. Phipps. By dint of warnings and entreaties he kept the bridegroom-elect in London for three months. By that time Little Molton was beginning to talk.
“They're beginning to see how the land lays,” said Mr. Smithson, on the evening of his friend's return, “and if you keep quiet and do as I tell you she'll begin to see it too. As I said before, she can't name the day till you ask her.”
Mr. Clarkson agreed, and the following morning, when he called upon Mrs. Phipps at her request, his manner was so distant that she attributed it to ill-health following business worries and the atmosphere of London. In the front parlour Mr. Digson, a small builder and contractor, was busy whitewashing.
“I thought we might as well get on with that,” said Mrs. Phipps; “there is only one way of doing whitewashing, and the room has got to be done. To-morrow Mr. Digson will bring up some papers, and, if you'll come round, you can help me choose.”
Mr. Clarkson hesitated. “Why not choose 'em yourself?” he said at last.
“Just what I told her,” said Mr. Digson, stroking his black beard. “What'll please you will be sure to please him, I says; and if it don't it ought to.”
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Mr. Clarkson started. “Perhaps you could help her choose,” he said, sharply.
Mr. Digson came down from his perch. “Just what I said,” he replied. “If Mrs. Phipps will let me advise her, I'll make this house so she won't know it before I've done with it.”
“Mr. Digson has been very kind,” said Mrs. Phipps, reproachfully.
“Not at all, ma'am,” said the builder, softly. “Anything I can do to make you happy or comfortable will be a pleasure to me.”
Mr. Clarkson started again, and an odd idea sent his blood dancing. Digson was a widower; Mrs. Phipps was a widow. Could anything be more suitable or desirable?
“Better let him choose,” he said. “After all, he ought to be a good judge.”
Mrs. Phipps, after a faint protest, gave way, and Mr. Digson, smiling broadly, mounted his perch again.
Mr. Clarkson's first idea was to consult Mr. Smithson; then he resolved to wait upon events. The idea was fantastic to begin with, but, if things did take such a satisfactory turn, he could not help reflecting that it would not be due to any efforts on the part of Mr. Smithson, and he would no longer be under any testamentary obligations to that enterprising gentleman.
By the end of a week he was jubilant. A child could have told Mr. Digson's intentions—and Mrs. Phipps was anything but a child. Mr. Clarkson admitted cheerfully that Mr. Digson was a younger and better-looking man than himself—a more suitable match in every way. And, so far as he could judge, Mrs. Phipps seemed to think so. At any rate, she had ceased to make the faintest allusion to any tie between them. He left her one day painting a door, while the attentive Digson guided the brush, and walked homewards smiling.
“Morning!” said a voice behind him.
“Morning, Bignell,” said Mr. Clarkson.
“When—when is it to be?” inquired his friend, walking beside him.
Mr. Clarkson frowned. “When is what to be?” he demanded, disagreeably.
Mr. Bignell lowered his voice. “You'll lose her if you ain't careful,” he said. “Mark my words. Can't you see Digson's little game?”
Mr. Clarkson shrugged his shoulders.
“He's after her money,” said the other, with a cautious glance around.
“Money?” said the other, with an astonished laugh. “Why, she hasn't got any.”
“Oh, all right,” said Mr. Bignell. “You know best of course. I was just giving you the tip, but if you know better—why, there's nothing more to be said. She'll be riding in her carriage and pair in six months, anyhow; the richest woman in Little Molton.”
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Mr. Clarkson stopped short and eyed him in perplexity.
“Digson got a bit sprung one night and told me,” said Mr. Bignell. “She don't know it herself yet—uncle on her mother's side in America. She might know at any moment.”
“But—but how did Digson know?” inquired the astonished Mr. Clarkson.
“He wouldn't tell me,” was the reply. “But it's good enough for him. What do you think he's after? Her? And mind, don't let on to a soul that I told you.”
He walked on, leaving Mr. Clarkson standing in a dazed condition in the centre of the foot-path. Recovering himself by an effort, he walked slowly away, and, after prowling about for some time in an aimless fashion, made his way back to Mrs. Phipps's house.
He emerged an hour later an engaged man, with the date of the wedding fixed. With jaunty steps he walked round and put up the banns, and then, with the air of a man who has completed a successful stroke of business, walked homewards.
Little Molton is a small town and news travels fast, but it did not travel faster than Mr. Smithson as soon as he had heard it. He burst into Mr. Clarkson's room like the proverbial hurricane, and, gasping for breath, leaned against the table and pointed at him an incriminating finger.
“You you've been running,” said Mr. Clarkson, uneasily.
“What—what—what do you—mean by it?” gasped Mr. Smithson. “After all my trouble. After our—bargain.”
“I altered my mind,” said Mr. Clarkson, with dignity.
“Pah!” said the other.
“Just in time,” said Mr. Clarkson, speaking rapidly. “Another day and I believe I should ha' been too late. It took me pretty near an hour to talk her over. Said I'd been neglecting her, and all that sort of thing; said that she was beginning to think I didn't want her. As hard a job as ever I had in my life.”
“But you didn't want her,” said the amazed Mr. Smithson. “You told me so.”
“You misunderstood me,” said Mr. Clarkson, coughing. “You jump at conclusions.”
Mr. Smithson sat staring at him. “I heard,” he said at last, with an effort... “I heard that Digson was paying her attentions.”
Mr. Clarkson spoke without thought. “Ha, he was only after her money,” he said, severely. “Good heavens! What's the matter?”
Mr. Smithson, who had sprung to his feet, made no reply, but stood for some time incapable of speech.
“What—is—the—matter?” repeated Mr. Clarkson. “Ain't you well?”
Mr. Smithson swayed a little, and sank slowly back into his chair again.
“Room's too hot,” said his astonished host.
Mr. Smithson, staring straight before him, nodded.
“As I was saying,” resumed Mr. Clarkson, in the low tones of confidence, “Digson was after her money. Of course her money don't make any difference to me, although, perhaps, I may be able to do something for friends like you. It's from an uncle in America on her mother's—”
Mr. Smithson made a strange moaning noise, and, snatching his hat from the table, clapped it on his head and made for the door. Mr. Clarkson flung his arms around him and dragged him back by main force.
“What are you carrying on like that for?” he demanded. “What do you mean by it?”
“Fancy!” returned Mr. Smithson, with intense bitterness. “I thought Digson was the biggest fool in the place, and I find I've made a mistake. So have you. Good-night.”
He opened the door and dashed out. Mr. Clarkson, with a strange sinking at his heart, watched him up the road.
The night-watchman shook his head. “I never met any of these phil— philantherpists, as you call 'em,” he said, decidedly. “If I 'ad they wouldn't 'ave got away from me in a hurry, I can tell you. I don't say I don't believe in 'em; I only say I never met any of 'em. If people do you a kindness it's generally because they want to get something out of you; same as a man once—a perfick stranger—wot stood me eight 'arf-pints becos I reminded 'im of his dead brother, and then borrered five bob off of me.
“O' course, there must be some kind-'arted people in the world—all men who get married must 'ave a soft spot somewhere, if it's only in the 'ead—but they don't often give things away. Kind-'artedness is often only another name for artfulness, same as Sam Small's kindness to Ginger Dick and Peter Russet.
“It started with a row. They was just back from a v'y'ge and 'ad taken a nice room together in Wapping, and for the fust day or two, wot with 'aving plenty o' money to spend and nothing to do, they was like three brothers. Then, in a little, old-fashioned public-'ouse down Poplar way, one night they fell out over a little joke Ginger played on Sam.
“It was the fust drink that evening, and Sam 'ad just ordered a pot o' beer and three glasses, when Ginger winked at the landlord and offered to bet Sam a level 'arf-dollar that 'e wouldn't drink off that pot o' beer without taking breath. The landlord held the money, and old Sam, with a 'appy smile on 'is face, 'ad just taken up the mug, when he noticed the odd way in which they was all watching him. Twice he took the mug up and put it down agin without starting and asked 'em wot the little game was, but they on'y laughed. He took it up the third time and started, and he 'ad just got about 'arf-way through when Ginger turns to the landlord and ses—
“'Did you catch it in the mouse-trap,' he ses, 'or did it die of poison?'
“Pore Sam started as though he 'ad been shot, and, arter getting rid of the beer in 'is mouth, stood there 'olding the mug away from 'im and making such 'orrible faces that they was a'most frightened.
“'Wot's the matter with him? I've never seen 'im carry on like that over a drop of beer before,' ses Ginger, staring.
“'He usually likes it,' ses Peter Russet.
“'Not with a dead mouse in it,' ses Sam, trembling with passion.
“'Mouse?' ses Ginger, innercent-like. 'Mouse? Why, I didn't say it was in your beer, Sam. Wotever put that into your 'ead?'
“'And made you lose your bet,' ses Peter.
“Then old Sam see 'ow he'd been done, and the way he carried on when the landlord gave Ginger the 'arf-dollar, and said it was won fair and honest, was a disgrace. He 'opped about that bar 'arf crazy, until at last the landlord and 'is brother, and a couple o' soldiers, and a helpless cripple wot wos selling matches, put 'im outside and told 'im to stop there.
“He stopped there till Ginger and Peter came out, and then, drawing 'imself up in a proud way, he told 'em their characters and wot he thought about 'em. And he said 'e never wanted to see wot they called their faces agin as long as he lived.
“'I've done with you,' he ses, 'both of you, for ever.'
“'All right,' ses Ginger moving off. 'Ta-ta for the present. Let's 'ope he'll come 'ome in a better temper, Peter.'
“'Ome?' ses Sam, with a nasty laugh, “'ome? D'ye think I'm coming back to breathe the same air as you, Ginger? D'ye think I want to be suffocated?'
“He held his 'ead up very 'igh, and, arter looking at them as if they was dirt, he turned round and walked off with his nose in the air to spend the evening by 'imself.
“His temper kept him up for a time, but arter a while he 'ad to own up to 'imself that it was very dull, and the later it got the more he thought of 'is nice warm bed. The more 'e thought of it the nicer and warmer it seemed, and, arter a struggle between his pride and a few 'arf-pints, he got 'is good temper back agin and went off 'ome smiling.
“The room was dark when 'e got there, and, arter standing listening a moment to Ginger and Peter snoring, he took off 'is coat and sat down on 'is bed to take 'is boots off. He only sat down for a flash, and then he bent down and hit his 'ead an awful smack against another 'ead wot 'ad just started up to see wot it was sitting on its legs.
“He thought it was Peter or Ginger in the wrong bed at fust, but afore he could make it out Ginger 'ad got out of 'is own bed and lit the candle. Then 'e saw it was a stranger in 'is bed, and without saying a word he laid 'old of him by the 'air and began dragging him out.
“'Here, stop that!' ses Ginger catching hold of 'im. 'Lend a hand 'ere, Peter.'
“Peter lent a hand and screwed it into the back o' Sam's neck till he made 'im leave go, and then the stranger, a nasty-looking little chap with a yellow face and a little dark moustache, told Sam wot he'd like to do to him.
“'Who are you?' ses Sam, 'and wot are you a-doing of in my bed?'
“'It's our lodger,' ses Ginger.
“'Your wot?' ses Sam, 'ardly able to believe his ears.
“'Our lodger,' ses Peter Russet. 'We've let 'im the bed you said you didn't want for sixpence a night. Now you take yourself off.'
“Old Sam couldn't speak for a minute; there was no words that he knew bad enough, but at last he licks 'is lips and he ses, 'I've paid for that bed up to Saturday, and I'm going to have it.'
“He rushed at the lodger, but Peter and Ginger got hold of 'im agin and put 'im down on the floor and sat on 'im till he promised to be'ave himself. They let 'im get up at last, and then, arter calling themselves names for their kind-'artedness, they said if he was very good he might sleep on the floor.
“Sam looked at 'em for a moment, and then, without a word, he took off 'is boots and put on 'is coat and went up in a corner to be out of the draught, but, wot with the cold and 'is temper, and the hardness of the floor, it was a long time afore 'e could get to sleep. He dropped off at last, and it seemed to 'im that he 'ad only just closed 'is eyes when it was daylight. He opened one eye and was just going to open the other when he saw something as made 'im screw 'em both up sharp and peep through 'is eyelashes. The lodger was standing at the foot o' Ginger's bed, going through 'is pockets, and then, arter waiting a moment and 'aving a look round, he went through Peter Russet's. Sam lay still mouse while the lodger tip-toed out o' the room with 'is boots in his 'and, and then, springing up, follered him downstairs.
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“He caught 'im up just as he 'ad undone the front door, and, catching hold of 'im by the back o' the neck, shook 'im till 'e was tired. Then he let go of 'im and, holding his fist under 'is nose, told 'im to hand over the money, and look sharp about it.
“'Ye—ye—yes, sir,' ses the lodger, who was 'arf choked.
“Sam held out his 'and, and the lodger, arter saying it was only a little bit o' fun on 'is part, and telling 'im wot a fancy he 'ad taken to 'im from the fust, put Ginger's watch and chain into his 'ands and eighteen pounds four shillings and sevenpence. Sam put it into his pocket, and, arter going through the lodger's pockets to make sure he 'adn't forgot anything, opened the door and flung 'im into the street. He stopped on the landing to put the money in a belt he was wearing under 'is clothes, and then 'e went back on tip-toe to 'is corner and went to sleep with one eye open and the 'appiest smile that had been on his face for years.
“He shut both eyes when he 'eard Ginger wake up, and he slept like a child through the 'orrible noise that Peter and Ginger see fit to make when they started to put their clothes on. He got tired of it afore they did, and, arter opening 'is eyes slowly and yawning, he asked Ginger wot he meant by it.
“'You'll wake your lodger up if you ain't careful, making that noise,' he ses. 'Wot's the matter?'
“'Sam,' ses Ginger, in a very different voice to wot he 'ad used the night before, 'Sam, old pal, he's taken all our money and bolted.'
“'Wot?' ses Sam, sitting up on the floor and blinking, 'Nonsense!'
“'Robbed me and Peter,' ses Ginger, in a trembling voice; 'taken every penny we've got, and my watch and chain.'
“'You're dreaming,' ses Sam.
“'I wish I was,' ses Ginger.
“'But surely, Ginger,' ses Sam, standing up, 'surely you didn't take a lodger without a character?'
“'He seemed such a nice chap,' ses Peter. 'We was only saying wot a much nicer chap he was than—than——'
“'Go on, Peter,' ses Sam, very perlite.
“'Than he might ha' been,' ses Ginger, very quick.
“'Well, I've 'ad a wonderful escape,' ses Sam. 'If it hadn't ha' been for sleeping in my clothes I suppose he'd ha' 'ad my money as well.'
“He felt in 'is pockets anxious-like, then he smiled, and stood there letting 'is money fall through 'is fingers into his pocket over and over agin.
“'Pore chap,' he ses; 'pore chap; p'r'aps he'd got a starving wife and family. Who knows? It ain't for us to judge 'im, Ginger.'
“He stood a little while longer chinking 'is money, and when he took off his coat to wash Ginger Dick poured the water out for im and Peter Russet picked up the soap, which 'ad fallen on the floor. Then they started pitying themselves, looking very 'ard at the back of old Sam while they did it.
“'I s'pose we've got to starve, Peter,' ses Ginger, in, a sad voice.
“'Looks like it,' ses Peter, dressing hisself very slowly.
“'There's nobody'll mourn for me, that's one comfort,' ses Ginger.
“'Or me,' ses Peter.
“'P'r'aps Sam'll miss us a bit,' ses Ginger, grinding 'is teeth as old Sam went on washing as if he was deaf. 'He'ss the only real pal we ever 'ad.'
“'Wot are you talking about?' ses Sam, turning round with the soap in his eyes, and feeling for the towel. 'Wot d'ye want to starve for? Why don't you get a ship?'
“'I thought we was all going to sign on in the Cheaspeake agin, Sam,' ses Ginger, very mild.
“'She won't be ready for sea for pretty near three weeks,' ses Sam. 'You know that.'
“'P'r'aps Sam would lend us a trifle to go on with, Ginger,' ses Peter Russet. 'Just enough to keep body and soul together, so as we can hold out and 'ave the pleasure of sailing with 'im agin.'
“'P'r'aps he wouldn't,' ses Sam, afore Ginger could open his mouth. 'I've just got about enough to last myself; I 'aven't got any to lend. Sailormen wot turns on their best friends and makes them sleep on the cold 'ard floor while their new pal is in his bed don't get money lent to 'em. My neck is so stiff it creaks every time I move it, and I've got the rheumatics in my legs something cruel.'
“He began to 'um a song, and putting on 'is cap went out to get some brekfuss. He went to a little eating-'ouse near by, where they was in the 'abit of going, and 'ad just started on a plate of eggs and bacon when Ginger Dick and Peter came into the place with a pocket-'ankercher of 'is wot they 'ad found in the fender.
“'We thought you might want it, Sam,' ses Peter.