Produced by David Widger.

                              *ODD CRAFT*

                                  _By_

                              W. W. JACOBS

                        Illustrated by Will Owen

                                  1911

CONTENTS

    ILLUSTRATIONS
    THE MONEY-BOX
    THE CASTAWAY
    BLUNDELL'S IMPROVEMENT
    BILL'S LAPSE
    LAWYER QUINCE
    BREAKING A SPELL
    ESTABLISHING RELATIONS
    THE CHANGING NUMBERS
    THE PERSECUTION OF BOB PRETTY
    DIXON'S RETURN
    A SPIRIT OF AVARICE
    THE THIRD STRING
    ODD CHARGES
    ADMIRAL PETERS

ILLUSTRATIONS

    “SAILORMEN ARE NOT GOOD 'ANDS AT SAVING MONEY AS A RULE.”

    “'I AIN'T HIT A MAN FOR FIVE YEARS,' 'E SES, STILL DANCING UP
            AND DOWN.”

    “'WOT'S THIS FOR?' SES GINGER.”

    “THEY PUT OLD ISAAC'S CLOTHES UP FOR FIFTEEN SHILLINGS.”

    “OLD ISAAC KEPT 'EM THERE FOR THREE DAYS.”

    “MRS. JOHN BOXER STOOD AT THE DOOR OF THE SHOP WITH HER HANDS
            CLASPED ON HER APRON.”

    “'WELL, LOOK 'ERE,' SAID MR. BOXER, 'I'VE TOLD YOU MY STORY AND
            I'VE GOT WITNESSES TO PROVE IT.'”

    “THERE IS SOMETHING FORMING OVER YOU.”

    “AH! WHAT IS THIS? A PIECE OF WRECKAGE WITH A MONKEY CLINGING TO
            IT?”

    “'HAVE YOU LEFT ANYTHING INSIDE THAT YOU WANT?' SHE INQUIRED.”

    “'YOU VILLAIN!' CRIED MRS. GIMPSON, VIOLENTLY. 'I ALWAYS
            DISTRUSTED YOU.'”

    “'FATHER WAS SO PLEASED TO SEE YOU BOTH COME IN,' SHE SAID,
            SOFTLY.”

    “SHE ASKED ME WHETHER YOU USED A WARMING-PAN.”

    “'BAH! YOU ARE BACKING OUT OF IT,' SAID THE IRRITATED MR.
            TURNBULL.”

    “WITH A WILD SHRIEK, HE SHOT SUDDENLY OVER THE EDGE AND
            DISAPPEARED.”

    “YOU TAKE MY ADVICE AND GET 'OME AND GET TO BED.”

    “WHEN ANY OF THE THREE QUARRELLED HE USED TO ACT THE PART OF
            PEACEMAKER.”

    “BILL JUMPED INTO A CAB AND PULLED PETER RUSSET IN ARTER 'IM.”

    “PATTED BILL ON THE BACK, VERY GENTLE.”

    “PICKED OUT THE SOFTEST STAIR 'E COULD FIND.”

    “OLD SAM SAID 'OW SURPRISED HE WAS AT THEM FOR LETTING BILL DO
            IT.”

    “LAWYER QUINCE.”

    “'COME DOWN TO HAVE A LOOK AT THE PRISONER?' INQUIRED THE
            FARMER.”

    “'NONE O' YER IMPUDENCE,' SAID THE FARMER.”

    “I THOUGHT ALL ALONG LAWYER QUINCE WOULD HAVE THE LAUGH OF YOU.”

    “'HOW DID YOU GET IN THAT SHED?' DEMANDED HER PARENT.”

    “HE GOT 'IMSELF VERY MUCH LIKED, ESPECIALLY BY THE OLD LADIES.”

    “MRS. PRINCE WAS SITTING AT 'ER FRONT DOOR NURSING 'ER THREE
            CATS.”

    “HE TOOK IT ROUND, AND EVERYBODY 'AD A LOOK AT IT.”

    “SHE SAT LISTENING QUITE QUIET AT FUST.”

    “THE DOCTOR FELT 'IS PULSE AND LOOKED AT 'IS TONGUE.”

    “MR. RICHARD CATESBY, SECOND OFFICER OF THE SS. WIZARD, EMERGED
            FROM THE DOCK-GATES IN HIGH GOOD-HUMOUR.”

    “MR. CATESBY MADE A FEW INQUIRIES.”

    “'I'M JUST GOING AS FAR AS THE CORNER,' SAID MRS. TRUEFITT.”

    “I'LL GO AND PUT ON A CLEAN COLLAR.”

    “I'LL LOOK AFTER THAT, MA'AM.”

    “MR. SAMUEL GUNNILL CAME STEALTHILY DOWN THE WINDING STAIRCASE.”

    “THE CONSTABLE WATCHED HIM WITH THE AIR OF A PROPRIETOR.”

    “HE SAW THE DOOR JUST OPENING TO ADMIT THE FORTUNATE HERBERT.”

    “MR. SIMS WATCHED HER TENDERLY AS SHE DREW THE BEER.”

    “FROM THE KITCHEN CAME SOUNDS OF HAMMERING.”

    “'DON'T CALL ON ME AS A WITNESS, THAT'S ALL,' CONTINUED MR.
            DRILL.”

    “'POACHING,' SAID THE OLD MAN, 'AIN'T WOT IT USED TO BE IN THESE
            'ERE PARTS.'”

    “'I SHALL 'AVE 'EM AFORE LONG,' SES MR. CUTTS.”

    “THREE MEN BURST OUT O' THE PLANTATION.”

    “BOB PRETTY POINTED WITH 'IS FINGER EXACTLY WHERE 'E THOUGHT IT
            WAS.”

    “'YOU OUGHT TO BE MORE CAREFUL,' SES BOB.”

    “TALKING ABOUT EDDICATION, SAID THE NIGHT-WATCHMAN.”

    “'GO AND SLEEP SOMEWHERE ELSE, THEN,' SES DIXON.”

    “YOU'D BETTER GO UPSTAIRS AND PUT ON SOME DECENT CLOTHES.”

    “CHARLIE HAD 'AD AS MUCH AS 'E WANTED AND WAS LYING ON THE
            SEA-CHEST.”

    “THE WAY SHE ANSWERED HER 'USBAND WAS A PLEASURE TO EVERY
            MARRIED MAN IN THE BAR.”

    “MR. JOHN BLOWS STOOD LISTENING TO THE FOREMAN WITH AN AIR OF
            LOFTY DISDAIN.”

    “'JOE!' SHOUTED MR. BLOWS. 'J-O-O-OE!'”

    “'THEY DRAGGED THE RIVER,' RESUMED HIS WIFE, 'AND FOUND THE
            CAP.'”

    “IN A PITIABLE STATE OF 'NERVES' HE SAT AT THE EXTREME END OF A
            BENCH.”

    “MR. BLOWS, CONSCIOUS OF THE STRENGTH OF HIS POSITION, WALKED UP
            TO THEM.”

    “DON'T TALK TO ME ABOUT LOVE, BECAUSE I'VE SUFFERED ENOUGH
            THROUGH IT.”

    “MISS TUCKER.”

    “'LET GO O' THAT YOUNG LADY'S ARM,' HE SES.”

    “BILL LUMM, 'AVING PEELED, STOOD LOOKING ON WHILE GINGER TOOK
            'IS THINGS OFF.”

    “THE WAY HE CARRIED ON WHEN THE LANDLADY FRIED THE STEAK SHOWED
            'OW UPSET HE WAS.”

    “SEATED AT HIS EASE IN THE WARM TAP-ROOM OF THE CAULIFLOWER.”

    “PUTTING HIS 'AND TO BILL'S MUG, HE TOOK OUT A LIVE FROG.”

    “HE WAS RUNNING ALONG TO BOB PRETTY'S AS FAST AS 'IS LEGS WOULD
            TAKE 'IM.”

    “AFORE ANYBODY COULD MOVE, HE BROUGHT IT DOWN BANG ON THE FACE
            O' THE WATCH.”

    “THE SCREAM 'E GAVE AS GEORGE KETTLE POINTED THE PISTOL AT 'IM
            WAS AWFUL.”

    “SAT AT THE DOOR OF HIS LODGINGS GAZING IN PLACID CONTENT AT THE
            SEA.”

    “MR. STILES WAS AFFECTING A STATELINESS OF MANNER WHICH WAS NOT
            WITHOUT DISTINCTION.”

    “MR. STILES CALLED THE WIDOW A 'SAUCY LITTLE BAGGAGE.'”

    “'GOOD RIDDANCE,' SAID MR. BURTON, SAVAGELY.”

THE MONEY-BOX

Sailormen are not good 'ands at saving money as a rule, said the
night-watchman, as he wistfully toyed with a bad shilling on his
watch-chain, though to 'ear 'em talk of saving when they're at sea and
there isn't a pub within a thousand miles of 'em, you might think
different.

It ain't for the want of trying either with some of 'em, and I've known
men do all sorts o' things as soon as they was paid off, with a view to
saving. I knew one man as used to keep all but a shilling or two in a
belt next to 'is skin so that he couldn't get at it easy, but it was all
no good. He was always running short in the most inconvenient places.
I've seen 'im wriggle for five minutes right off, with a tramcar
conductor standing over 'im and the other people in the tram reading
their papers with one eye and watching him with the other.

Ginger Dick and Peter Russet—two men I've spoke of to you afore—tried to
save their money once. They'd got so sick and tired of spending it all
in p'r'aps a week or ten days arter coming ashore, and 'aving to go to
sea agin sooner than they 'ad intended, that they determined some way or
other to 'ave things different.

They was homeward bound on a steamer from Melbourne when they made their
minds up; and Isaac Lunn, the oldest fireman aboard—a very steady old
teetotaler—gave them a lot of good advice about it. They all wanted to
rejoin the ship when she sailed agin, and 'e offered to take a room
ashore with them and mind their money, giving 'em what 'e called a
moderate amount each day.

They would ha' laughed at any other man, but they knew that old Isaac
was as honest as could be and that their money would be safe with 'im,
and at last, after a lot of palaver, they wrote out a paper saying as
they were willing for 'im to 'ave their money and give it to 'em bit by
bit, till they went to sea agin.

Anybody but Ginger Dick and Peter Russet or a fool would ha' known
better than to do such a thing, but old Isaac 'ad got such a oily tongue
and seemed so fair-minded about wot 'e called moderate drinking that
they never thought wot they was letting themselves in for, and when they
took their pay—close on sixteen pounds each—they put the odd change in
their pockets and 'anded the rest over to him.

The first day they was as pleased as Punch. Old Isaac got a nice,
respectable bedroom for them all, and arter they'd 'ad a few drinks they
humoured 'im by 'aving a nice 'ot cup o' tea, and then goin' off with
'im to see a magic-lantern performance.

It was called “The Drunkard's Downfall,” and it begun with a young man
going into a nice-looking pub and being served by a nice-looking barmaid
with a glass of ale. Then it got on to 'arf pints and pints in the next
picture, and arter Ginger 'ad seen the lost young man put away six pints
in about 'arf a minute, 'e got such a raging thirst on 'im that 'e
couldn't sit still, and 'e whispered to Peter Russet to go out with 'im.

“You'll lose the best of it if you go now,” ses old Isaac, in a whisper;
“in the next picture there's little frogs and devils sitting on the edge
of the pot as 'e goes to drink.”

“Ginger Dick got up and nodded to Peter.”

“Arter that 'e kills 'is mother with a razor,” ses old Isaac, pleading
with 'im and 'olding on to 'is coat.

Ginger Dick sat down agin, and when the murder was over 'e said it made
'im feel faint, and 'im and Peter Russet went out for a breath of fresh
air. They 'ad three at the first place, and then they moved on to
another and forgot all about Isaac and the dissolving views until ten
o'clock, when Ginger, who 'ad been very liberal to some friends 'e'd
made in a pub, found 'e'd spent 'is last penny.

“This comes o' listening to a parcel o' teetotalers,” 'e ses, very
cross, when 'e found that Peter 'ad spent all 'is money too. “Here we
are just beginning the evening and not a farthing in our pockets.”

They went off 'ome in a very bad temper. Old Isaac was asleep in 'is
bed, and when they woke 'im up and said that they was going to take
charge of their money themselves 'e kept dropping off to sleep agin and
snoring that 'ard they could scarcely hear themselves speak. Then Peter
tipped Ginger a wink and pointed to Isaac's trousers, which were 'anging
over the foot of the bed.

Ginger Dick smiled and took 'em up softly, and Peter Russet smiled too;
but 'e wasn't best pleased to see old Isaac a-smiling in 'is sleep, as
though 'e was 'aving amusing dreams. All Ginger found was a ha'-penny, a
bunch o' keys, and a cough lozenge. In the coat and waistcoat 'e found a
few tracks folded up, a broken pen-knife, a ball of string, and some
other rubbish. Then 'e set down on the foot o' their bed and made eyes
over at Peter.

“Wake 'im up agin,” ses Peter, in a temper.

Ginger Dick got up and, leaning over the bed, took old Isaac by the
shoulders and shook 'im as if 'e'd been a bottle o' medicine.

“Time to get up, lads?” ses old Isaac, putting one leg out o' bed.

“No, it ain't,” ses Ginger, very rough; “we ain't been to bed yet. We
want our money back.”

Isaac drew 'is leg back into bed agin. “Goo' night,” he ses, and fell
fast asleep.

“He's shamming, that's wot 'e is,” ses Peter Russet. “Let's look for it.
It must be in the room somewhere.”

They turned the room upside down pretty near, and then Ginger Dick
struck a match and looked up the chimney, but all 'e found was that it
'adn't been swept for about twenty years, and wot with temper and soot
'e looked so frightful that Peter was arf afraid of 'im.

“I've 'ad enough of this,” ses Ginger, running up to the bed and 'olding
his sooty fist under old Isaac's nose. “Now, then, where's that money?
If you don't give us our money, our 'ard-earned money, inside o' two
minutes, I'll break every bone in your body.”

“This is wot comes o' trying to do you a favour, Ginger,” ses the old
man, reproachfully.

“Don't talk to me,” ses Ginger, “cos I won't have it. Come on; where is
it?”

Old Isaac looked at 'im, and then he gave a sigh and got up and put on
'is boots and 'is trousers.

“I thought I should 'ave a little trouble with you,” he ses, slowly,
“but I was prepared for that.”

“You'll 'ave more if you don't hurry up,” ses Ginger, glaring at 'im.

“We don't want to 'urt you, Isaac,” ses Peter Russet, “we on'y want our
money.”

“I know that,” ses Isaac; “you keep still, Peter, and see fair-play, and
I'll knock you silly arterwards.”

He pushed some o' the things into a corner and then 'e spat on 'is
'ands, and began to prance up and down, and duck 'is 'ead about and hit
the air in a way that surprised 'em.

“I ain't hit a man for five years,” 'e ses, still dancing up and down—
“fighting's sinful except in a good cause—but afore I got a new 'art,
Ginger, I'd lick three men like you afore breakfast, just to git up a
appetite.”

“Look, 'ere,” ses Ginger; “you're an old man and I don't want to 'urt
you; tell us where our money is, our 'ard-earned money, and I won't lay
a finger on you.”

“I'm taking care of it for you,” ses the old man.

Ginger Dick gave a howl and rushed at him, and the next moment Isaac's
fist shot out and give 'im a drive that sent 'im spinning across the
room until 'e fell in a heap in the fireplace. It was like a kick from a
'orse, and Peter looked very serious as 'e picked 'im up and dusted 'im
down.

“You should keep your eye on 'is fist,” he ses, sharply.

It was a silly thing to say, seeing that that was just wot 'ad 'appened,
and Ginger told 'im wot 'e'd do for 'im when 'e'd finished with Isaac.
He went at the old man agin, but 'e never 'ad a chance, and in about
three minutes 'e was very glad to let Peter 'elp 'im into bed.

“It's your turn to fight him now, Peter,” he ses. “Just move this piller
so as I can see.”

“Come on, lad,” ses the old man.

Peter shook 'is 'ead. “I have no wish to 'urt you, Isaac,” he ses,
kindly; “excitement like fighting is dangerous for an old man. Give us
our money and we'll say no more about it.”

“No, my lads,” ses Isaac. “I've undertook to take charge o' this money
and I'm going to do it; and I 'ope that when we all sign on aboard the
Planet there'll be a matter o' twelve pounds each left. Now, I don't
want to be 'arsh with you, but I'm going back to bed, and if I 'ave to
get up and dress agin you'll wish yourselves dead.”

He went back to bed agin, and Peter, taking no notice of Ginger Dick,
who kept calling 'im a coward, got into bed alongside of Ginger and fell
fast asleep.

They all 'ad breakfast in a coffee-shop next morning, and arter it was
over Ginger, who 'adn't spoke a word till then, said that 'e and Peter
Russet wanted a little money to go on with. He said they preferred to
get their meals alone, as Isaac's face took their appetite away.

“Very good,” ses the old man. “I don't want to force my company on
nobody,” and after thinking 'ard for a minute or two he put 'is 'and in
'is trouser-pocket and gave them eighteen-pence each.

“That's your day's allowance,” ses Isaac, “and it's plenty. There's
ninepence for your dinner, fourpence for your tea, and twopence for a
crust o' bread and cheese for supper. And if you must go and drown
yourselves in beer, that leaves threepence each to go and do it with.”

Ginger tried to speak to 'im, but 'is feelings was too much for 'im, and
'e couldn't. Then Peter Russet swallered something 'e was going to say
and asked old Isaac very perlite to make it a quid for 'im because he
was going down to Colchester to see 'is mother, and 'e didn't want to go
empty-'anded.

“You're a good son, Peter,” ses old Isaac, “and I wish there was more
like you. I'll come down with you, if you like; I've got nothing to do.”

Peter said it was very kind of 'im, but 'e'd sooner go alone, owing to
his mother being very shy afore strangers.

“Well, I'll come down to the station and take a ticket for you,” ses
Isaac.

Then Peter lost 'is temper altogether, and banged 'is fist on the table
and smashed 'arf the crockery. He asked Isaac whether 'e thought 'im and
Ginger Dick was a couple o' children, and 'e said if 'e didn't give 'em
all their money right away 'e'd give 'im in charge to the first
policeman they met.

“I'm afraid you didn't intend for to go and see your mother, Peter,” ses
the old man.

“Look 'ere,” ses Peter, “are you going to give us that money?”

“Not if you went down on your bended knees,” ses the old man.

“Very good,” says Peter, getting up and walking outside; “then come
along o' me to find a police-man.”

“I'm agreeable,” ses Isaac, “but I've got the paper you signed.”

Peter said 'e didn't care twopence if 'e'd got fifty papers, and they
walked along looking for a police-man, which was a very unusual thing
for them to do.

“I 'ope for your sakes it won't be the same police-man that you and
Ginger Dick set on in Gun Alley the night afore you shipped on the
Planet,” ses Isaac, pursing up 'is lips.

“'Tain't likely to be,” ses Peter, beginning to wish 'e 'adn't been so
free with 'is tongue.

“Still, if I tell 'im, I dessay he'll soon find 'im,” ses Isaac;
“there's one coming along now, Peter; shall I stop 'im?”

Peter Russet looked at 'im and then he looked at Ginger, and they walked
by grinding their teeth. They stuck to Isaac all day, trying to get
their money out of 'im, and the names they called 'im was a surprise
even to themselves. And at night they turned the room topsy-turvy agin
looking for their money and 'ad more unpleasantness when they wanted
Isaac to get up and let 'em search the bed.

They 'ad breakfast together agin next morning and Ginger tried another
tack. He spoke quite nice to Isaac, and 'ad three large cups o' tea to
show 'im 'ow 'e was beginning to like it, and when the old man gave 'em
their eighteen-pences 'e smiled and said 'e'd like a few shillings extra
that day.

“It'll be all right, Isaac,” he ses. “I wouldn't 'ave a drink if you
asked me to. Don't seem to care for it now. I was saying so to you on'y
last night, wasn't I, Peter?”

“You was,” ses Peter; “so was I.”

“Then I've done you good, Ginger,” ses Isaac, clapping 'im on the back.

“You 'ave,” ses Ginger, speaking between his teeth, “and I thank you for
it. I don't want drink; but I thought o' going to a music-'all this
evening.”

“Going to wot?” ses old Isaac, drawing 'imself up and looking very
shocked.

“A music-'all,” ses Ginger, trying to keep 'is temper.

“A music-'all,” ses Isaac; “why, it's worse than a pub, Ginger. I should
be a very poor friend o' yours if I let you go there—I couldn't think of
it.”

“Wot's it got to do with you, you gray-whiskered serpent?” screams
Ginger, arf mad with rage. “Why don't you leave us alone? Why don't you
mind your own business? It's our money.”

Isaac tried to talk to 'im, but 'e wouldn't listen, and he made such a
fuss that at last the coffee-shop keeper told 'im to go outside. Peter
follered 'im out, and being very upset they went and spent their day's
allowance in the first hour, and then they walked about the streets
quarrelling as to the death they'd like old Isaac to 'ave when 'is time
came.

They went back to their lodgings at dinner-time; but there was no sign
of the old man, and, being 'ungry and thirsty, they took all their spare
clothes to a pawnbroker and got enough money to go on with. Just to show
their independence they went to two music-'ails, and with a sort of idea
that they was doing Isaac a bad turn they spent every farthing afore
they got 'ome, and sat up in bed telling 'im about the spree they'd 'ad.

At five o'clock in the morning Peter woke up and saw, to 'is surprise,
that Ginger Dick was dressed and carefully folding up old Isaac's
clothes. At first 'e thought that Ginger 'ad gone mad, taking care of
the old man's things like that, but afore 'e could speak Ginger noticed
that 'e was awake, and stepped over to 'im and whispered to 'im to dress
without making a noise. Peter did as 'e was told, and, more puzzled than
ever, saw Ginger make up all the old man's clothes in a bundle and creep
out of the room on tiptoe.

“Going to 'ide 'is clothes?” 'e ses.

“Yes,” ses Ginger, leading the way downstairs; “in a pawnshop. We'll
make the old man pay for to-day's amusements.”

Then Peter see the joke and 'e begun to laugh so 'ard that Ginger 'ad to
threaten to knock 'is head off to quiet 'im. Ginger laughed 'imself when
they got outside, and at last, arter walking about till the shops
opened, they got into a pawnbroker's and put old Isaac's clothes up for
fifteen shillings.

First thing they did was to 'ave a good breakfast, and after that they
came out smiling all over and began to spend a 'appy day. Ginger was in
tip-top spirits and so was Peter, and the idea that old Isaac was in bed
while they was drinking 'is clothes pleased them more than anything.
Twice that evening policemen spoke to Ginger for dancing on the
pavement, and by the time the money was spent it took Peter all 'is time
to get 'im 'ome.

Old Isaac was in bed when they got there, and the temper 'e was in was
shocking; but Ginger sat on 'is bed and smiled at 'im as if 'e was
saying compliments to 'im.

“Where's my clothes?” ses the old man, shaking 'is fist at the two of
'em.

Ginger smiled at 'im; then 'e shut 'is eyes and dropped off to sleep.

“Where's my clothes?” ses Isaac, turning to Peter. “Closhe?” ses Peter,
staring at 'im.

“Where are they?” ses Isaac.

It was a long time afore Peter could understand wot 'e meant, but as
soon as 'e did 'e started to look for 'em. Drink takes people in
different ways, and the way it always took Peter was to make 'im one o'
the most obliging men that ever lived. He spent arf the night crawling
about on all fours looking for the clothes, and four or five times old
Isaac woke up from dreams of earthquakes to find Peter 'ad got jammed
under 'is bed, and was wondering what 'ad 'appened to 'im.

None of 'em was in the best o' tempers when they woke up next morning,
and Ginger 'ad 'ardly got 'is eyes open before Isaac was asking 'im
about 'is clothes agin.

“Don't bother me about your clothes,” ses Ginger; “talk about something
else for a change.”

“Where are they?” ses Isaac, sitting on the edge of 'is bed.

Ginger yawned and felt in 'is waistcoat pocket—for neither of 'em 'ad
undressed—and then 'e took the pawn-ticket out and threw it on the
floor. Isaac picked it up, and then 'e began to dance about the room as
if 'e'd gone mad.

“Do you mean to tell me you've pawned my clothes?” he shouts.

“Me and Peter did,” ses Ginger, sitting up in bed and getting ready for
a row.

Isaac dropped on the bed agin all of a 'cap. “And wot am I to do?” he
ses.

“If you be'ave yourself,” ses Ginger, “and give us our money, me and
Peter'll go and get 'em out agin. When we've 'ad breakfast, that is.
There's no hurry.”

“But I 'aven't got the money,” ses Isaac; “it was all sewn up in the
lining of the coat. I've on'y got about five shillings. You've made a
nice mess of it, Ginger, you 'ave.”

“You're a silly fool, Ginger, that's wot you are,” ses Peter.

“Sewn up in the lining of the coat?” ses Ginger, staring.

“The bank-notes was,” ses Isaac, “and three pounds in gold 'idden in the
cap. Did you pawn that too?”

Ginger got up in 'is excitement and walked up and down the room. “We
must go and get 'em out at once,” he ses.

“And where's the money to do it with?” ses Peter.

Ginger 'adn't thought of that, and it struck 'im all of a heap. None of
'em seemed to be able to think of a way of getting the other ten
shillings wot was wanted, and Ginger was so upset that 'e took no notice
of the things Peter kept saying to 'im.

“Let's go and ask to see 'em, and say we left a railway-ticket in the
pocket,” ses Peter.

Isaac shook 'is 'ead. “There's on'y one way to do it,” he ses. “We shall
'ave to pawn your clothes, Ginger, to get mine out with.”

“That's the on'y way, Ginger,” ses Peter, brightening up. “Now, wot's
the good o' carrying on like that? It's no worse for you to be without
your clothes for a little while than it was for pore old Isaac.”

It took 'em quite arf an hour afore they could get Ginger to see it.
First of all 'e wanted Peter's clothes to be took instead of 'is, and
when Peter pointed out that they was too shabby to fetch ten shillings
'e 'ad a lot o' nasty things to say about wearing such old rags, and at
last, in a terrible temper, 'e took 'is clothes off and pitched 'em in a
'eap on the floor.

“If you ain't back in arf an hour, Peter,” 'e ses, scowling at 'im,
“you'll 'ear from me, I can tell you.”

“Don't you worry about that,” ses Isaac, with a smile. “I'm going to
take 'em.”

“You?” ses Ginger; “but you can't. You ain't got no clothes.”

“I'm going to wear Peter's,” ses Isaac, with a smile.

Peter asked 'im to listen to reason, but it was all no good. He'd got
the pawn-ticket, and at last Peter, forgetting all he'd said to Ginger
Dick about using bad langwidge, took 'is clothes off, one by one, and
dashed 'em on the floor, and told Isaac some of the things 'e thought of
'im.

The old man didn't take any notice of 'im. He dressed 'imself up very
slow and careful in Peter's clothes, and then 'e drove 'em nearly crazy
by wasting time making 'is bed.

“Be as quick as you can, Isaac,” ses Ginger, at last; “think of us two
a-sitting 'ere waiting for you.”

“I sha'n't forget it,” ses Isaac, and 'e came back to the door after
'e'd gone arf-way down the stairs to ask 'em not to go out on the drink
while 'e was away.

It was nine o'clock when he went, and at ha'-past nine Ginger began to
get impatient and wondered wot 'ad 'appened to 'im, and when ten o'clock
came and no Isaac they was both leaning out of the winder with blankets
over their shoulders looking up the road. By eleven o'clock Peter was in
very low spirits and Ginger was so mad 'e was afraid to speak to 'im.

They spent the rest o' that day 'anging out of the winder, but it was
not till ha'-past four in the after-noon that Isaac, still wearing
Peter's clothes and carrying a couple of large green plants under 'is
arm, turned into the road, and from the way 'e was smiling they thought
it must be all right.

“Wot 'ave you been such a long time for?” ses Ginger, in a low, fierce
voice, as Isaac stopped underneath the winder and nodded up to 'em.

“I met a old friend,” ses Isaac.

“Met a old friend?” ses Ginger, in a passion. “Wot d'ye mean, wasting
time like that while we was sitting up 'ere waiting and starving?”

“I 'adn't seen 'im for years,” ses Isaac, “and time slipped away afore I
noticed it.”

“I dessay,” ses Ginger, in a bitter voice. “Well, is the money all
right?”

“I don't know,” ses Isaac; “I ain't got the clothes.”

“Wot?” ses Ginger, nearly falling out of the winder. “Well, wot 'ave you
done with mine, then? Where are they? Come upstairs.”

“I won't come upstairs, Ginger,” ses Isaac, “because I'm not quite sure
whether I've done right. But I'm not used to going into pawnshops, and I
walked about trying to make up my mind to go in and couldn't.”

“Well, wot did you do then?” ses Ginger, 'ardly able to contain hisself.

“While I was trying to make up my mind,” ses old Isaac, “I see a man
with a barrer of lovely plants. 'E wasn't asking money for 'em, only old
clothes.”

“Old clothes?” ses Ginger, in a voice as if 'e was being suffocated.

“I thought they'd be a bit o' green for you to look at,” ses the old
man, 'olding the plants up; “there's no knowing 'ow long you'll be up
there. The big one is yours, Ginger, and the other is for Peter.”

“'Ave you gone mad, Isaac?” ses Peter, in a trembling voice, arter
Ginger 'ad tried to speak and couldn't.

Isaac shook 'is 'ead and smiled up at 'em, and then, arter telling Peter
to put Ginger's blanket a little more round 'is shoulders, for fear 'e
should catch cold, 'e said 'e'd ask the landlady to send 'em up some
bread and butter and a cup o' tea.

They 'eard 'im talking to the landlady at the door, and then 'e went off
in a hurry without looking behind 'im, and the landlady walked up and
down on the other side of the road with 'er apron stuffed in 'er mouth,
pretending to be looking at 'er chimney-pots.

Isaac didn't turn up at all that night, and by next morning those two
unfortunate men see 'ow they'd been done. It was quite plain to them
that Isaac 'ad been deceiving them, and Peter was pretty certain that 'e
took the money out of the bed while 'e was fussing about making it. Old
Isaac kept 'em there for three days, sending 'em in their clothes bit by
bit and two shillings a day to live on; but they didn't set eyes on 'im
agin until they all signed on aboard the Planet, and they didn't set
eyes on their money until they was two miles below Gravesend.

THE CASTAWAY

Mrs. John Boxer stood at the door of the shop with her hands clasped on
her apron. The short day had drawn to a close, and the lamps in the
narrow little thorough-fares of Shinglesea were already lit. For a time
she stood listening to the regular beat of the sea on the beach some
half-mile distant, and then with a slight shiver stepped back into the
shop and closed the door.

The little shop with its wide-mouthed bottles of sweets was one of her
earliest memories. Until her marriage she had known no other home, and
when her husband was lost with the North Star some three years before,
she gave up her home in Poplar and returned to assist her mother in the
little shop.

In a restless mood she took up a piece of needle-work, and a minute or
two later put it down again. A glance through the glass of the door
leading into the small parlour revealed Mrs. Gimpson, with a red shawl
round her shoulders, asleep in her easy-chair.

Mrs. Boxer turned at the clang of the shop bell, and then, with a wild
cry, stood gazing at the figure of a man standing in the door-way. He
was short and bearded, with oddly shaped shoulders, and a left leg which
was not a match; but the next moment Mrs. Boxer was in his arms sobbing
and laughing together.

Mrs. Gimpson, whose nerves were still quivering owing to the suddenness
with which she had been awakened, came into the shop; Mr. Boxer freed an
arm, and placing it round her waist kissed her with some affection on
the chin.

“He's come back!” cried Mrs. Boxer, hysterically.

“Thank goodness,” said Mrs. Gimpson, after a moment's deliberation.

“He's alive!” cried Mrs. Boxer. “He's alive!”

She half-dragged and half-led him into the small parlour, and thrusting
him into the easy-chair lately vacated by Mrs. Gimpson seated herself
upon his knee, regardless in her excitement that the rightful owner was
with elaborate care selecting the most uncomfortable chair in the room.

“Fancy his coming back!” said Mrs. Boxer, wiping her eyes. “How did you
escape, John? Where have you been? Tell us all about it.”

Mr. Boxer sighed. “It 'ud be a long story if I had the gift of telling
of it,” he said, slowly, “but I'll cut it short for the present. When
the North Star went down in the South Pacific most o' the hands got away
in the boats, but I was too late. I got this crack on the head with
something falling on it from aloft. Look here.”

He bent his head, and Mrs. Boxer, separating the stubble with her
fingers, uttered an exclamation of pity and alarm at the extent of the
scar; Mrs. Gimpson, craning forward, uttered a sound which might mean
anything—even pity.

“When I come to my senses,” continued Mr. Boxer, “the ship was sinking,
and I just got to my feet when she went down and took me with her. How I
escaped I don't know. I seemed to be choking and fighting for my breath
for years, and then I found myself floating on the sea and clinging to a
grating. I clung to it all night, and next day I was picked up by a
native who was paddling about in a canoe, and taken ashore to an island,
where I lived for over two years. It was right out o' the way o' craft,
but at last I was picked up by a trading schooner named the Pearl,
belonging to Sydney, and taken there. At Sydney I shipped aboard the
Marston Towers, a steamer, and landed at the Albert Docks this morning.”

“Poor John,” said his wife, holding on to his arm. “How you must have
suffered!”

“I did,” said Mr. Boxer. “Mother got a cold?” he inquired, eying that
lady.

“No, I ain't,” said Mrs. Gimpson, answering for herself. “Why didn't you
write when you got to Sydney?”

“Didn't know where to write to,” replied Mr. Boxer, staring. “I didn't
know where Mary had gone to.”

“You might ha' wrote here,” said Mrs. Gimpson.

“Didn't think of it at the time,” said Mr. Boxer. “One thing is, I was
very busy at Sydney, looking for a ship. However, I'm 'ere now.”

“I always felt you'd turn up some day,” said Mrs. Gimpson. “I felt
certain of it in my own mind. Mary made sure you was dead, but I said
'no, I knew better.'”

There was something in Mrs. Gimpson's manner of saying this that
impressed her listeners unfavourably. The impression was deepened when,
after a short, dry laugh a propos of nothing, she sniffed again—three
times.

“Well, you turned out to be right,” said Mr. Boxer, shortly.

“I gin'rally am,” was the reply; “there's very few people can take me
in.”

She sniffed again.

“Were the natives kind to you?” inquired Mrs. Boxer, hastily, as she
turned to her husband.

“Very kind,” said the latter. “Ah! you ought to have seen that island.
Beautiful yellow sands and palm-trees; cocoa-nuts to be 'ad for the
picking, and nothing to do all day but lay about in the sun and swim in
the sea.”

“Any public-'ouses there?” inquired Mrs. Gimpson.

“Cert'nly not,” said her son-in-law. “This was an island—one o' the
little islands in the South Pacific Ocean.”

“What did you say the name o' the schooner was?” inquired Mrs. Gimpson.

“Pearl,” replied Mr. Boxer, with the air of a resentful witness under
cross-examination.

“And what was the name o' the captin?” said Mrs. Gimpson.

“Thomas—Henery—Walter—Smith,” said Mr. Boxer, with somewhat unpleasant
emphasis.

“An' the mate's name?”

“John Brown,” was the reply.

“Common names,” commented Mrs. Gimpson, “very common. But I knew you'd
come back all right—I never 'ad no alarm. 'He's safe and happy, my
dear,' I says. 'He'll come back all in his own good time.'”

“What d'you mean by that?” demanded the sensitive Mr. Boxer. “I come
back as soon as I could.”

“You know you were anxious, mother,” interposed her daughter. “Why, you
insisted upon our going to see old Mr. Silver about it.”

“Ah! but I wasn't uneasy or anxious afterwards,” said Mrs. Gimpson,
compressing her lips.

“Who's old Mr. Silver, and what should he know about it?” inquired Mr.
Boxer.

“He's a fortune-teller,” replied his wife. “Reads the stars,” said his
mother-in-law.

Mr. Boxer laughed—a good ringing laugh. “What did he tell you?” he
inquired. “Nothing,” said his wife, hastily. “Ah!” said Mr. Boxer,
waggishly, “that was wise of 'im. Most of us could tell fortunes that
way.”

“That's wrong,” said Mrs. Gimpson to her daughter, sharply. “Right's
right any day, and truth's truth. He said that he knew all about John
and what he'd been doing, but he wouldn't tell us for fear of 'urting
our feelings and making mischief.”

“Here, look 'ere,” said Mr. Boxer, starting up; “I've 'ad about enough
o' this. Why don't you speak out what you mean? I'll mischief 'im, the
old humbug. Old rascal.”

“Never mind, John,” said his wife, laying her hand upon his arm. “Here
you are safe and sound, and as for old Mr. Silver, there's a lot o'
people don't believe in him.”

“Ah! they don't want to,” said Mrs. Gimpson, obstinately. “But don't
forget that he foretold my cough last winter.”

“Well, look 'ere,” said Mr. Boxer, twisting his short, blunt nose into
as near an imitation of a sneer as he could manage, “I've told you my
story and I've got witnesses to prove it. You can write to the master of
the Marston Towers if you like, and other people besides. Very well,
then; let's go and see your precious old fortune-teller. You needn't say
who I am; say I'm a friend, and tell 'im never to mind about making
mischief, but to say right out where I am and what I've been doing all
this time. I have my 'opes it'll cure you of your superstitiousness.”

“We'll go round after we've shut up, mother,” said Mrs. Boxer. “We'll
have a bit o' supper first and then start early.”

Mrs. Gimpson hesitated. It is never pleasant to submit one's
superstitions to the tests of the unbelieving, but after the attitude
she had taken up she was extremely loath to allow her son-in-law a
triumph.

“Never mind, we'll say no more about it,” she said, primly, “but I 'ave
my own ideas.”

“I dessay,” said Mr. Boxer; “but you're afraid for us to go to your old
fortune-teller. It would be too much of a show-up for 'im.”

“It's no good your trying to aggravate me, John Boxer, because you can't
do it,” said Mrs. Gimpson, in a voice trembling with passion.

“O' course, if people like being deceived they must be,” said Mr. Boxer;
“we've all got to live, and if we'd all got our common sense
fortune-tellers couldn't. Does he tell fortunes by tea-leaves or by the
colour of your eyes?”

“Laugh away, John Boxer,” said Mrs. Gimpson, icily; “but I shouldn't
have been alive now if it hadn't ha' been for Mr. Silver's warnings.”

“Mother stayed in bed for the first ten days in July,” explained Mrs.
Boxer, “to avoid being bit by a mad dog.”

“Tchee—tchee—tchee,” said the hapless Mr. Boxer, putting his hand over
his mouth and making noble efforts to restrain himself; “tchee—tch

“I s'pose you'd ha' laughed more if I 'ad been bit?” said the glaring
Mrs. Gimpson.

“Well, who did the dog bite after all?” inquired Mr. Boxer, recovering.

“You don't understand,” replied Mrs. Gimpson, pityingly; “me being safe
up in bed and the door locked, there was no mad dog. There was no use
for it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Boxer, “me and Mary's going round to see that old
deceiver after supper, whether you come or not. Mary shall tell 'im I'm
a friend, and ask him to tell her everything about 'er husband. Nobody
knows me here, and Mary and me'll be affectionate like, and give 'im to
understand we want to marry. Then he won't mind making mischief.”

“You'd better leave well alone,” said Mrs. Gimpson.

Mr. Boxer shook his head. “I was always one for a bit o' fun,” he said,
slowly. “I want to see his face when he finds out who I am.”

Mrs. Gimpson made no reply; she was looking round for the market-basket,
and having found it she left the reunited couple to keep house while she
went out to obtain a supper which should, in her daughter's eyes, be
worthy of the occasion.

She went to the High Street first and made her purchases, and was on the
way back again when, in response to a sudden impulse, as she passed the
end of Crowner's Alley, she turned into that small by-way and knocked at
the astrologer's door.

A slow, dragging footstep was heard approaching in reply to the summons,
and the astrologer, recognising his visitor as one of his most faithful
and credulous clients, invited her to step inside. Mrs. Gimpson
complied, and, taking a chair, gazed at the venerable white beard and
small, red-rimmed eyes of her host in some perplexity as to how to
begin.

“My daughter's coming round to see you presently,” she said, at last.

The astrologer nodded.

“She—she wants to ask you about 'er husband,” faltered' Mrs. Gimpson;
“she's going to bring a friend with her—a man who doesn't believe in
your knowledge. He—he knows all about my daughter's husband, and he
wants to see what you say you know about him.”

The old man put on a pair of huge horn spectacles and eyed her
carefully.

“You've got something on your mind,” he said, at last; “you'd better
tell me everything.”

Mrs. Gimpson shook her head.

“There's some danger hanging over you,” continued Mr. Silver, in a low,
thrilling voice; “some danger in connection with your son-in-law.
There,” he waved a lean, shrivelled hand backward and for-ward as though
dispelling a fog, and peered into distance—“there is something forming
over you. You—or somebody—are hiding something from me.”

Mrs. Gimpson, aghast at such omniscience, sank backward in her chair.

“Speak,” said the old man, gently; “there is no reason why you should be
sacrificed for others.”

Mrs. Gimpson was of the same opinion, and in some haste she reeled off
the events of the evening. She had a good memory, and no detail was
lost.

“Strange, strange,” said the venerable Mr. Silver, when he had finished.
“He is an ingenious man.”

“Isn't it true?” inquired his listener. “He says he can prove it. And he
is going to find out what you meant by saying you were afraid of making
mischief.”

“He can prove some of it,” said the old man, his eyes snapping
spitefully. “I can guarantee that.”

“But it wouldn't have made mischief if you had told us that,” ventured
Mrs. Gimpson. “A man can't help being cast away.”

“True,” said the astrologer, slowly; “true. But let them come and
question me; and whatever you do, for your own sake don't let a soul
know that you have been here. If you do, the danger to yourself will be
so terrible that even I may be unable to help you.”

Mrs. Gimpson shivered, and more than ever impressed by his marvellous
powers made her way slowly home, where she found the unconscious Mr.
Boxer relating his adventures again with much gusto to a married couple
from next door.

“It's a wonder he's alive,” said Mr. Jem Thompson, looking up as the old
woman entered the room; “it sounds like a story-book. Show us that cut
on your head again, mate.”

The obliging Mr. Boxer complied.

“We're going on with 'em after they've 'ad sup-per,” continued Mr.
Thompson, as he and his wife rose to depart. “It'll be a fair treat to
me to see old Silver bowled out.”

Mrs. Gimpson sniffed and eyed his retreating figure disparagingly; Mrs.
Boxer, prompted by her husband, began to set the table for supper.

It was a lengthy meal, owing principally to Mr. Boxer, but it was over
at last, and after that gentleman had assisted in shutting up the shop
they joined the Thompsons, who were waiting outside, and set off for
Crowner's Alley. The way was enlivened by Mr. Boxer, who had thrills of
horror every ten yards at the idea of the supernatural things he was
about to witness, and by Mr. Thompson, who, not to be outdone, persisted
in standing stock-still at frequent intervals until he had received the
assurances of his giggling better-half that he would not be made to
vanish in a cloud of smoke.

By the time they reached Mr. Silver's abode the party had regained its
decorum, and, except for a tremendous shudder on the part of Mr. Boxer
as his gaze fell on a couple of skulls which decorated the magician's
table, their behaviour left nothing to be desired. Mrs. Gimpson, in a
few awkward words, announced the occasion of their visit. Mr. Boxer she
introduced as a friend of the family from London.

“I will do what I can,” said the old man, slowly, as his visitors seated
themselves, “but I can only tell you what I see. If I do not see all, or
see clearly, it cannot be helped.”

Mr. Boxer winked at Mr. Thompson, and received an understanding pinch in
return; Mrs. Thompson in a hot whisper told them to behave themselves.

The mystic preparations were soon complete. A little cloud of smoke,
through which the fierce red eyes of the astrologer peered keenly at Mr.
Boxer, rose from the table. Then he poured various liquids into a small
china bowl and, holding up his hand to command silence, gazed
steadfastly into it. “I see pictures,” he announced, in a deep voice.
“The docks of a great city; London. I see an ill-shaped man with a bent
left leg standing on the deck of a ship.”

Mr. Thompson, his eyes wide open with surprise, jerked Mr. Boxer in the
ribs, but Mr. Boxer, whose figure was a sore point with him, made no
response.

“The ship leaves the docks,” continued Mr. Silver, still peering into
the bowl. “As she passes through the entrance her stern comes into view
with the name painted on it. The—the—the——”

“Look agin, old chap,” growled Mr. Boxer, in an undertone.

“The North Star,” said the astrologer. “The ill-shaped man is still
standing on the fore-part of the ship; I do not know his name or who he
is. He takes the portrait of a beautiful young woman from his pocket and
gazes at it earnestly.”

Mrs. Boxer, who had no illusions on the subject of her personal
appearance, sat up as though she had been stung; Mr. Thompson, who was
about to nudge Mr. Boxer in the ribs again, thought better of it and
assumed an air of uncompromising virtue.

“The picture disappears,” said Mr. Silver. “Ah! I see; I see. A ship in
a gale at sea. It is the North Star; it is sinking. The ill-shaped man
sheds tears and loses his head. I cannot discover the name of this man.”

Mr. Boxer, who had been several times on the point of interrupting,
cleared his throat and endeavoured to look unconcerned.

“The ship sinks,” continued the astrologer, in thrilling tones. “Ah!
what is this? a piece of wreck-age with a monkey clinging to it? No,
no-o. The ill-shaped man again. Dear me!”

His listeners sat spellbound. Only the laboured and intense breathing of
Mr. Boxer broke the silence.

“He is alone on the boundless sea,” pursued the seer; “night falls. Day
breaks, and a canoe propelled by a slender and pretty but dusky maiden
approaches the castaway. She assists him into the canoe and his head
sinks on her lap, as with vigorous strokes of her paddle she propels the
canoe toward a small island fringed with palm trees.”

“Here, look 'ere—” began the overwrought Mr. Boxer.

“H'sh, h'sh!” ejaculated the keenly interested Mr. Thompson. “W'y don't
you keep quiet?”

“The picture fades,” continued the old man. “I see another: a native
wedding. It is the dusky maiden and the man she rescued. Ah! the wedding
is interrupted; a young man, a native, breaks into the group. He has a
long knife in his hand. He springs upon the ill-shaped man and wounds
him in the head.”

Involuntarily Mr. Boxer's hand went up to his honourable scar, and the
heads of the others swung round to gaze at it. Mrs. Boxer's face was
terrible in its expression, but Mrs. Gimpson's bore the look of sad and
patient triumph of one who knew men and could not be surprised at
anything they do.

“The scene vanishes,” resumed the monotonous voice, “and another one
forms. The same man stands on the deck of a small ship. The name on the
stern is the Peer—no, Paris—no, no, no, Pearl. It fades from the shore
where the dusky maiden stands with hands stretched out imploringly. The
ill-shaped man smiles and takes the portrait of the young and beautiful
girl from his pocket.”

“Look 'ere,” said the infuriated Mr. Boxer, “I think we've 'ad about
enough of this rubbish. I have—more than enough.”

“I don't wonder at it,” said his wife, trembling furiously. “You can go
if you like. I'm going to stay and hear all that there is to hear.”

“You sit quiet,” urged the intensely interested Mr. Thompson. “He ain't
said it's you. There's more than one misshaped man in the world, I
s'pose?”

“I see an ocean liner,” said the seer, who had appeared to be in a
trance state during this colloquy. “She is sailing for England from
Australia. I see the name distinctly: the Marston Towers. The same man
is on board of her. The ship arrives at London. The scene closes;
another one forms. The ill-shaped man is sitting with a woman with a
beautiful face —not the same as the photograph.”

“What they can see in him I can't think,” muttered Mr. Thompson, in an
envious whisper. “He's a perfick terror, and to look at him——”

“They sit hand in hand,” continued the astrologer, raising his voice.
“She smiles up at him and gently strokes his head; he——”

A loud smack rang through the room and startled the entire company; Mrs.
Boxer, unable to contain herself any longer, had, so far from profiting
by the example, gone to the other extreme and slapped her husband's head
with hearty good-will. Mr. Boxer sprang raging to his feet, and in the
confusion which ensued the fortune-teller, to the great regret of Mr.
Thompson, upset the contents of the magic bowl.

“I can see no more,” he said, sinking hastily into his chair behind the
table as Mr. Boxer advanced upon him.

Mrs. Gimpson pushed her son-in-law aside, and laying a modest fee upon
the table took her daughter's arm and led her out. The Thompsons
followed, and Mr. Boxer, after an irresolute glance in the direction of
the ingenuous Mr. Silver, made his way after them and fell into the
rear. The people in front walked on for some time in silence, and then
the voice of the greatly impressed Mrs. Thompson was heard, to the
effect that if there were only more fortune-tellers in the world there
would be a lot more better men.

Mr. Boxer trotted up to his wife's side. “Look here, Mary,” he began.

“Don't you speak to me,” said his wife, drawing closer to her mother,
“because I won't answer you.”

Mr. Boxer laughed, bitterly. “This is a nice home-coming,” he remarked.

He fell to the rear again and walked along raging, his temper by no
means being improved by observing that Mrs. Thompson, doubtless with a
firm belief in the saying that “Evil communications corrupt good
manners,” kept a tight hold of her husband's arm. His position as an
outcast was clearly defined, and he ground his teeth with rage as he
observed the virtuous uprightness of Mrs. Gimpson's back. By the time
they reached home he was in a spirit of mad recklessness far in advance
of the character given him by the astrologer.

His wife gazed at him with a look of such strong interrogation as he was
about to follow her into the house that he paused with his foot on the
step and eyed her dumbly.

“Have you left anything inside that you want?” she inquired.

Mr. Boxer shook his head. “I only wanted to come in and make a clean
breast of it,” he said, in a curious voice; “then I'll go.”

Mrs. Gimpson stood aside to let him pass, and Mr. Thompson, not to be
denied, followed close behind with his faintly protesting wife. They sat
down in a row against the wall, and Mr. Boxer, sitting opposite in a
hang-dog fashion, eyed them with scornful wrath.

“Well?” said Mrs. Boxer, at last.

“All that he said was quite true,” said her husband, defiantly. “The
only thing is, he didn't tell the arf of it. Altogether, I married three
dusky maidens.”

Everybody but Mr. Thompson shuddered with horror.

“Then I married a white girl in Australia,” pursued Mr. Boxer, musingly.
“I wonder old Silver didn't see that in the bowl; not arf a
fortune-teller, I call 'im.”

“What they see in 'im!” whispered the astounded Mr. Thompson to his
wife.

“And did you marry the beautiful girl in the photograph?” demanded Mrs.
Boxer, in trembling accents.

“I did,” said her husband.

“Hussy,” cried Mrs. Boxer.

“I married her,” said Mr. Boxer, considering—“I married her at
Camberwell, in eighteen ninety-three.”

“Eighteen ninety-three!” said his wife, in a startled voice. “But you
couldn't. Why, you didn't marry me till eighteen ninety-four.”

“What's that got to do with it?” inquired the monster, calmly.

Mrs. Boxer, pale as ashes, rose from her seat and stood gazing at him
with horror-struck eyes, trying in vain to speak.

“You villain!” cried Mrs. Gimpson, violently. “I always distrusted you.”

“I know you did,” said Mr. Boxer, calmly. “You've been committing
bigamy,” cried Mrs. Gimpson.

“Over and over agin,” assented Mr. Boxer, cheerfully. “It's got to be a
'obby with me.”

“Was the first wife alive when you married my daughter?” demanded Mrs.
Gimpson.

“Alive?” said Mr. Boxer. “O' course she was. She's alive now—bless her.”

He leaned back in his chair and regarded with intense satisfaction the
horrified faces of the group in front.

“You—you'll go to jail for this,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, breathlessly.
“What is your first wife's address?”

“I decline to answer that question,” said her son-in-law.

“What is your first wife's address?” repeated Mrs. Gimpson.

“Ask the fortune-teller,” said Mr. Boxer, with an aggravating smile.
“And then get 'im up in the box as a witness, little bowl and all. He
can tell you more than I can.”

“I demand to know her name and address,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, putting a
bony arm around the waist of the trembling Mrs. Boxer.

“I decline to give it,” said Mr. Boxer, with great relish. “It ain't
likely I'm going to give myself away like that; besides, it's agin the
law for a man to criminate himself. You go on and start your bigamy
case, and call old red-eyes as a witness.”

Mrs. Gimpson gazed at him in speechless wrath and then stooping down
conversed in excited whispers with Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Boxer crossed
over to her husband.

“Oh, John,” she wailed, “say it isn't true, say it isn't true.”

Mr. Boxer hesitated. “What's the good o' me saying anything?” he said,
doggedly.

“It isn't true,” persisted his wife. “Say it isn't true.”

“What I told you when I first came in this evening was quite true,” said
her husband, slowly. “And what I've just told you is as true as what
that lying old fortune-teller told you. You can please yourself what you
believe.”

“I believe you, John,” said his wife, humbly.

Mr. Boxer's countenance cleared and he drew her on to his knee.

“That's right,” he said, cheerfully. “So long as you believe in me I
don't care what other people think. And before I'm much older I'll find
out how that old rascal got to know the names of the ships I was aboard.
Seems to me somebody's been talking.”

BLUNDELL'S IMPROVEMENT

Venia Turnbull in a quiet, unobtrusive fashion was enjoying herself. The
cool living-room at Turnbull's farm was a delightful contrast to the hot
sunshine without, and the drowsy humming of bees floating in at the open
window was charged with hints of slumber to the middle-aged. From her
seat by the window she watched with amused interest the efforts of her
father—kept from his Sunday afternoon nap by the assiduous attentions of
her two admirers—to maintain his politeness.

“Father was so pleased to see you both come in,” she said, softly; “it's
very dull for him here of an afternoon with only me.”

“I can't imagine anybody being dull with only you,” said Sergeant Dick
Daly, turning a bold brown eye upon her.

Mr. John Blundell scowled; this was the third time the sergeant had said
the thing that he would have liked to say if he had thought of it.

“I don't mind being dull,” remarked Mr. Turnbull, casually.

Neither gentleman made any comment.

“I like it,” pursued Mr. Turnbull, longingly; “always did, from a
child.”

The two young men looked at each other; then they looked at Venia; the
sergeant assumed an expression of careless ease, while John Blundell sat
his chair like a human limpet. Mr. Turnbull almost groaned as he
remembered his tenacity.

“The garden's looking very nice,” he said, with a pathetic glance round.

“Beautiful,” assented the sergeant. “I saw it yesterday.”

“Some o' the roses on that big bush have opened a bit more since then,”
said the farmer.

Sergeant Daly expressed his gratification, and said that he was not
surprised. It was only ten days since he had arrived in the village on a
visit to a relative, but in that short space of time he had, to the
great discomfort of Mr. Blundell, made himself wonderfully at home at
Mr. Turnbull's. To Venia he related strange adventures by sea and land,
and on subjects of which he was sure the farmer knew nothing he was a
perfect mine of information. He began to talk in low tones to Venia, and
the heart of Mr. Blundell sank within him as he noted her interest.
Their voices fell to a gentle murmur, and the sergeant's sleek,
well-brushed head bent closer to that of his listener. Relieved from his
attentions, Mr. Turnbull fell asleep without more ado.

Blundell sat neglected, the unwilling witness of a flirtation he was
powerless to prevent. Considering her limited opportunities, Miss
Turnbull displayed a proficiency which astonished him. Even the sergeant
was amazed, and suspected her of long practice.

“I wonder whether it is very hot outside?” she said, at last, rising and
looking out of the window.

“Only pleasantly warm,” said the sergeant. “It would be nice down by the
water.”

“I'm afraid of disturbing father by our talk,” said the considerate
daughter. “You might tell him we've gone for a little stroll when he
wakes,” she added, turning to Blundell.

Mr. Blundell, who had risen with the idea of acting the humble but, in
his opinion, highly necessary part of chaperon, sat down again and
watched blankly from the window until they were out of sight. He was
half inclined to think that the exigencies of the case warranted him in
arousing the farmer at once.

It was an hour later when the farmer awoke, to find himself alone with
Mr. Blundell, a state of affairs for which he strove with some
pertinacity to make that aggrieved gentleman responsible.

“Why didn't you go with them?” he demanded. “Because I wasn't asked,”
replied the other.

Mr. Turnbull sat up in his chair and eyed him disdainfully. “For a
great, big chap like you are, John Blundell,” he exclaimed, “it's
surprising what a little pluck you've got.”

“I don't want to go where I'm not wanted,” retorted Mr. Blundell.

“That's where you make a mistake,” said the other, regarding him
severely; “girls like a masterful man, and, instead of getting your own
way, you sit down quietly and do as you're told, like a tame—tame—”

“Tame what?” inquired Mr. Blundell, resentfully.

“I don't know,” said the other, frankly; “the tamest thing you can think
of. There's Daly laughing in his sleeve at you, and talking to Venia
about Waterloo and the Crimea as though he'd been there. I thought it
was pretty near settled between you.”

“So did I,” said Mr. Blundell.

“You're a big man, John,” said the other, “but you're slow. You're all
muscle and no head.”

“I think of things afterward,” said Blundell, humbly; “generally after I
get to bed.”

Mr. Turnbull sniffed, and took a turn up and down the room; then he
closed the door and came toward his friend again.

“I dare say you're surprised at me being so anxious to get rid of
Venia,” he said, slowly, “but the fact is I'm thinking of marrying again
myself.”

“You!” said the startled Mr. Blundell.

“Yes, me,” said the other, somewhat sharply. “But she won't marry so
long as Venia is at home. It's a secret, because if Venia got to hear of
it she'd keep single to prevent it. She's just that sort of girl.”

Mr. Blundell coughed, but did not deny it. “Who is it?” he inquired.

“Miss Sippet,” was the reply. “She couldn't hold her own for half an
hour against Venia.”

Mr. Blundell, a great stickler for accuracy, reduced the time to five
minutes.

“And now,” said the aggrieved Mr. Turnbull, “now, so far as I can see,
she's struck with Daly. If she has him it'll be years and years before
they can marry. She seems crazy about heroes. She was talking to me the
other night about them. Not to put too fine a point on it, she was
talking about you.”

Mr. Blundell blushed with pleased surprise.

“Said you were not a hero,” explained Mr. Turnbull. “Of course, I stuck
up for you. I said you'd got too much sense to go putting your life into
danger. I said you were a very careful man, and I told her how
particular you was about damp sheets. Your housekeeper told me.”

“It's all nonsense,” said Blundell, with a fiery face. “I'll send that
old fool packing if she can't keep her tongue quiet.”

“It's very sensible of you, John,” said Mr. Turnbull, “and a sensible
girl would appreciate it. Instead of that, she only sniffed when I told
her how careful you always were to wear flannel next to your skin. She
said she liked dare-devils.”

“I suppose she thinks Daly is a dare-devil,” said the offended Mr.
Blundell. “And I wish people wouldn't talk about me and my skin. Why
can't they mind their own business?”

Mr. Turnbull eyed him indignantly, and then, sitting in a very upright
position, slowly filled his pipe, and declining a proffered match rose
and took one from the mantel-piece.

“I was doing the best I could for you,” he said, staring hard at the
ingrate. “I was trying to make Venia see what a careful husband you
would make. Miss Sippet herself is most particular about such things—
and Venia seemed to think something of it, because she asked me whether
you used a warming-pan.”

Mr. Blundell got up from his chair and, without going through the
formality of bidding his host good-by, quitted the room and closed the
door violently behind him. He was red with rage, and he brooded darkly
as he made his way home on the folly of carrying on the traditions of a
devoted mother without thinking for himself.

For the next two or three days, to Venia's secret concern, he failed to
put in an appearance at the farm—a fact which made flirtation with the
sergeant a somewhat uninteresting business. Her sole recompense was the
dismay of her father, and for his benefit she dwelt upon the advantages
of the Army in a manner that would have made the fortune of a
recruiting-sergeant.

“She's just crazy after the soldiers,” he said to Mr. Blundell, whom he
was trying to spur on to a desperate effort. “I've been watching her
close, and I can see what it is now; she's romantic. You're too slow and
ordinary for her. She wants somebody more dazzling. She told Daly only
yesterday afternoon that she loved heroes. Told it to him to his face. I
sat there and heard her. It's a pity you ain't a hero, John.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Blundell; “then, if I was, I expect she'd like something
else.”

The other shook his head. “If you could only do something daring,” he
murmured; “half-kill some-body, or save somebody's life, and let her see
you do it. Couldn't you dive off the quay and save some-body's life from
drowning?”

“Yes, I could,” said Blundell, “if somebody would only tumble in.”

“You might pretend that you thought you saw somebody drowning,”
suggested Mr. Turnbull.

“And be laughed at,” said Mr. Blundell, who knew his Venia by heart.

“You always seem to be able to think of objections,” complained Mr.
Turnbull; “I've noticed that in you before.”

“I'd go in fast enough if there was anybody there,” said Blundell. “I'm
not much of a swimmer, but—”

“All the better,” interrupted the other; “that would make it all the
more daring.”

“And I don't much care if I'm drowned,” pursued the younger man,
gloomily.

Mr. Turnbull thrust his hands in his pockets and took a turn or two up
and down the room. His brows were knitted and his lips pursed. In the
presence of this mental stress Mr. Blundell preserved a respectful
silence.

“We'll all four go for a walk on the quay on Sunday afternoon,” said Mr.
Turnbull, at last.

“On the chance?” inquired his staring friend.

“On the chance,” assented the other; “it's just possible Daly might fall
in.”

“He might if we walked up and down five million times,” said Blundell,
unpleasantly.

“He might if we walked up and down three or four times,” said Mr.
Turnbull, “especially if you happened to stumble.”

“I never stumble,” said the matter-of-fact Mr. Blundell. “I don't know
anybody more sure-footed than I am.”

“Or thick-headed,” added the exasperated Mr. Turnbull.

Mr. Blundell regarded him patiently; he had a strong suspicion that his
friend had been drinking.

“Stumbling,” said Mr. Turnbull, conquering his annoyance with an effort
“stumbling is a thing that might happen to anybody. You trip your foot
against a stone and lurch up against Daly; he tumbles overboard, and you
off with your jacket and dive in off the quay after him. He can't swim a
stroke.”

Mr. Blundell caught his breath and gazed at him in speechless amaze.

“There's sure to be several people on the quay if it's a fine
afternoon,” continued his instructor. “You'll have half Dunchurch round
you, praising you and patting you on the back—all in front of Venia,
mind you. It'll be put in all the papers and you'll get a medal.”

“And suppose we are both drowned?” said Mr. Blundell, soberly.

“Drowned? Fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Turnbull. “However, please yourself.
If you're afraid——”

“I'll do it,” said Blundell, decidedly.

“And mind,” said the other, “don't do it as if it's as easy as kissing
your fingers; be half-drowned yourself, or at least pretend to be. And
when you're on the quay take your time about coming round. Be longer
than Daly is; you don't want him to get all the pity.”

“All right,” said the other.

“After a time you can open your eyes,” went on his instructor; “then, if
I were you, I should say, 'Good-bye, Venia,' and close 'em again. Work
it up affecting, and send messages to your aunts.”

“It sounds all right,” said Blundell.

“It is all right,” said Mr. Turnbull. “That's just the bare idea I've
given you. It's for you to improve upon it. You've got two days to think
about it.”

Mr. Blundell thanked him, and for the next two days thought of little
else. Being a careful man he made his will, and it was in a
comparatively cheerful frame of mind that he made his way on Sunday
afternoon to Mr. Turnbull's.

The sergeant was already there conversing in low tones with Venia by the
window, while Mr. Turnbull, sitting opposite in an oaken armchair,
regarded him with an expression which would have shocked Iago.

“We were just thinking of having a blow down by the water,” he said, as
Blundell entered.

“What! a hot day like this?” said Venia.

“I was just thinking how beautifully cool it is in here,” said the
sergeant, who was hoping for a repetition of the previous Sunday's
performance.

“It's cooler outside,” said Mr. Turnbull, with a wilful ignoring of
facts; “much cooler when you get used to it.”

He led the way with Blundell, and Venia and the sergeant, keeping as
much as possible in the shade of the dust-powdered hedges, followed. The
sun was blazing in the sky, and scarce half-a-dozen people were to be
seen on the little curved quay which constituted the usual Sunday
afternoon promenade. The water, a dozen feet below, lapped cool and
green against the stone sides.

At the extreme end of the quay, underneath the lantern, they all
stopped, ostensibly to admire a full-rigged ship sailing slowly by in
the distance, but really to effect the change of partners necessary to
the after-noon's business. The change gave Mr. Turnbull some trouble ere
it was effected, but he was successful at last, and, walking behind the
two young men, waited somewhat nervously for developments.

Twice they paraded the length of the quay and nothing happened. The ship
was still visible, and, the sergeant halting to gaze at it, the company
lost their formation, and he led the complaisant Venia off from beneath
her father's very nose.

“You're a pretty manager, you are, John Blundell,” said the incensed Mr.
Turnbull.

“I know what I'm about,” said Blundell, slowly.

“Well, why don't you do it?” demanded the other. “I suppose you are
going to wait until there are more people about, and then perhaps some
of them will see you push him over.”

“It isn't that,” said Blundell, slowly, “but you told me to improve on
your plan, you know, and I've been thinking out improvements.”

“Well?” said the other.

“It doesn't seem much good saving Daly,” said Blundell; “that's what
I've been thinking. He would be in as much danger as I should, and he'd
get as much sympathy; perhaps more.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you are backing out of it?” demanded Mr.
Turnbull.

“No,” said Blundell, slowly, “but it would be much better if I saved
somebody else. I don't want Daly to be pitied.”

“Bah! you are backing out of it,” said the irritated Mr. Turnbull.
“You're afraid of a little cold water.”

“No, I'm not,” said Blundell; “but it would be better in every way to
save somebody else. She'll see Daly standing there doing nothing, while
I am struggling for my life. I've thought it all out very carefully. I
know I'm not quick, but I'm sure, and when I make up my mind to do a
thing, I do it. You ought to know that.”

“That's all very well,” said the other; “but who else is there to push
in?”

“That's all right,” said Blundell, vaguely. “Don't you worry about that;
I shall find somebody.”

Mr. Turnbull turned and cast a speculative eye along the quay. As a
rule, he had great confidence in Blundell's determination, but on this
occasion he had his doubts.

“Well, it's a riddle to me,” he said, slowly. “I give it up. It seems—
Halloa! Good heavens, be careful. You nearly had me in then.”

“Did I?” said Blundell, thickly. “I'm very sorry.”

Mr. Turnbull, angry at such carelessness, accepted the apology in a
grudging spirit and trudged along in silence. Then he started nervously
as a monstrous and unworthy suspicion occurred to him. It was an
incredible thing to suppose, but at the same time he felt that there was
nothing like being on the safe side, and in tones not quite free from
significance he intimated his desire of changing places with his awkward
friend.

“It's all right,” said Blundell, soothingly.

“I know it is,” said Mr. Turnbull, regarding him fixedly; “but I prefer
this side. You very near had me over just now.”

“I staggered,” said Mr. Blundell.

“Another inch and I should have been overboard,” said Mr. Turnbull, with
a shudder. “That would have been a nice how d'ye do.”

Mr. Blundell coughed and looked seaward. “Accidents will happen,” he
murmured.

They reached the end of the quay again and stood talking, and when they
turned once more the sergeant was surprised and gratified at the ease
with which he bore off Venia. Mr. Turnbull and Blundell followed some
little way behind, and the former gentleman's suspicions were somewhat
lulled by finding that his friend made no attempt to take the inside
place. He looked about him with interest for a likely victim, but in
vain.

“What are you looking at?” he demanded, impatiently, as Blundell
suddenly came to a stop and gazed curiously into the harbour.

“Jelly-fish,” said the other, briefly. “I never saw such a monster. It
must be a yard across.”

Mr. Turnbull stopped, but could see nothing, and even when Blundell
pointed it out with his finger he had no better success. He stepped
forward a pace, and his suspicions returned with renewed vigour as a
hand was laid caressingly on his shoulder. The next moment, with a wild
shriek, he shot suddenly over the edge and disappeared. Venia and the
sergeant, turning hastily, were just in time to see the fountain which
ensued on his immersion.

“Oh, save him!” cried Venia.

The sergeant ran to the edge and gazed in helpless dismay as Mr.
Turnbull came to the surface and disappeared again. At the same moment
Blundell, who had thrown off his coat, dived into the harbour and,
rising rapidly to the surface, caught the fast-choking Mr. Turnbull by
the collar.

“Keep still,” he cried, sharply, as the farmer tried to clutch him;
“keep still or I'll let you go.”

“Help!” choked the farmer, gazing up at the little knot of people which
had collected on the quay.

A stout fisherman who had not run for thirty years came along the edge
of the quay at a shambling trot, with a coil of rope over his arm. John
Blundell saw him and, mindful of the farmer's warning about kissing of
fingers, etc., raised his disengaged arm and took that frenzied
gentleman below the surface again. By the time they came up he was very
glad for his own sake to catch the line skilfully thrown by the old
fisherman and be drawn gently to the side.

“I'll tow you to the steps,” said the fisherman; “don't let go o' the
line.”

Mr. Turnbull saw to that; he wound the rope round his wrist and began to
regain his presence of mind as they were drawn steadily toward the
steps. Willing hands drew them out of the water and helped them up on to
the quay, where Mr. Turnbull, sitting in his own puddle, coughed up salt
water and glared ferociously at the inanimate form of Mr. Blundell.
Sergeant Daly and another man were rendering what they piously believed
to be first aid to the apparently drowned, while the stout fisherman,
with both hands to his mouth, was yelling in heart-rending accents for a
barrel.

“He—he—push—pushed me in,” gasped the choking Mr. Turnbull.

Nobody paid any attention to him; even Venia, seeing that he was safe,
was on her knees by the side of the unconscious Blundell.

“He—he's shamming,” bawled the neglected Mr. Turnbull.

“Shame!” said somebody, without even looking round.

“He pushed me in,” repeated Mr. Turnbull. “He pushed me in.”

“Oh, father,” said Venia, with a scandalised glance at him, “how can
you?”

“Shame!” said the bystanders, briefly, as they, watched anxiously for
signs of returning life on the part of Mr. Blundell. He lay still with
his eyes closed, but his hearing was still acute, and the sounds of a
rapidly approaching barrel trundled by a breathless Samaritan did him
more good than anything.

“Good-bye, Venia,” he said, in a faint voice; “good-bye.”

Miss Turnbull sobbed and took his hand.

“He's shamming,” roared Mr. Turnbull, incensed beyond measure at the
faithful manner in which Blundell was carrying out his instructions. “He
pushed me in.”

There was an angry murmur from the bystanders. “Be reasonable, Mr.
Turnbull,” said the sergeant, somewhat sharply.

“He nearly lost 'is life over you,” said the stout fisherman. “As plucky
a thing as ever I see. If I 'adn't ha' been 'andy with that there line
you'd both ha' been drownded.”

“Give—my love—to everybody,” said Blundell, faintly. “Good-bye, Venia.
Good-bye, Mr. Turnbull.”

“Where's that barrel?” demanded the stout fisher-man, crisply. “Going to
be all night with it? Now, two of you——”

Mr. Blundell, with a great effort, and assisted by Venia and the
sergeant, sat up. He felt that he had made a good impression, and had no
desire to spoil it by riding the barrel. With one exception, everybody
was regarding him with moist-eyed admiration. The exception's eyes were,
perhaps, the moistest of them all, but admiration had no place in them.

“You're all being made fools of,” he said, getting up and stamping. “I
tell you he pushed me over-board for the purpose.”

“Oh, father! how can you?” demanded Venia, angrily. “He saved your
life.”

“He pushed me in,” repeated the farmer. “Told me to look at a jelly-fish
and pushed me in.”

“What for?” inquired Sergeant Daly.

“Because—” said Mr. Turnbull. He looked at the unconscious sergeant, and
the words on his lips died away in an inarticulate growl.

“What for?” pursued the sergeant, in triumph. “Be reasonable, Mr.
Turnbull. Where's the reason in pushing you overboard and then nearly
losing his life saving you? That would be a fool's trick. It was as fine
a thing as ever I saw.”

“What you 'ad, Mr. Turnbull,” said the stout fisherman, tapping him on
the arm, “was a little touch o' the sun.”

“What felt to you like a push,” said another man, “and over you went.”

“As easy as easy,” said a third.

“You're red in the face now,” said the stout fisherman, regarding him
critically, “and your eyes are starting. You take my advice and get 'ome
and get to bed, and the first thing you'll do when you get your senses
back will be to go round and thank Mr. Blundell for all 'e's done for
you.”

Mr. Turnbull looked at them, and the circle of intelligent faces grew
misty before his angry eyes. One man, ignoring his sodden condition,
recommended a wet handkerchief tied round his brow.

“I don't want any thanks, Mr. Turnbull,” said Blundell, feebly, as he
was assisted to his feet. “I'd do as much for you again.”

The stout fisherman patted him admiringly on the back, and Mr. Turnbull
felt like a prophet beholding a realised vision as the spectators
clustered round Mr. Blundell and followed their friends' example.
Tenderly but firmly they led the hero in triumph up the quay toward
home, shouting out eulogistic descriptions of his valour to curious
neighbours as they passed. Mr. Turnbull, churlishly keeping his distance
in the rear of the procession, received in grim silence the
congratulations of his friends.

The extraordinary hallucination caused by the sun-stroke lasted with him
for over a week, but at the end of that time his mind cleared and he saw
things in the same light as reasonable folk. Venia was the first to
congratulate him upon his recovery; but his extraordinary behaviour in
proposing to Miss Sippet the very day on which she herself became Mrs.
Blundell convinced her that his recovery was only partial.

BILL'S LAPSE

Strength and good-nature—said the night-watchman, musingly, as he felt
his biceps—strength and good-nature always go together. Sometimes you
find a strong man who is not good-natured, but then, as everybody he
comes in contack with is, it comes to the same thing.

The strongest and kindest-'earted man I ever come across was a man o'
the name of Bill Burton, a ship-mate of Ginger Dick's. For that matter
'e was a shipmate o' Peter Russet's and old Sam Small's too. Not over
and above tall; just about my height, his arms was like another man's
legs for size, and 'is chest and his back and shoulders might ha' been
made for a giant. And with all that he'd got a soft blue eye like a
gal's (blue's my favourite colour for gals' eyes), and a nice, soft,
curly brown beard. He was an A.B., too, and that showed 'ow good-natured
he was, to pick up with firemen.

He got so fond of 'em that when they was all paid off from the Ocean
King he asked to be allowed to join them in taking a room ashore. It
pleased every-body, four coming cheaper than three, and Bill being that
good-tempered that 'e'd put up with anything, and when any of the three
quarrelled he used to act the part of peacemaker.

The only thing about 'im that they didn't like was that 'e was a
teetotaler. He'd go into public-'ouses with 'em, but he wouldn't drink;
leastways, that is to say, he wouldn't drink beer, and Ginger used to
say that it made 'im feel uncomfortable to see Bill put away a bottle o'
lemonade every time they 'ad a drink. One night arter 'e had 'ad
seventeen bottles he could 'ardly got home, and Peter Russet, who knew a
lot about pills and such-like, pointed out to 'im 'ow bad it was for his
constitushon. He proved that the lemonade would eat away the coats o'
Bill's stomach, and that if 'e kept on 'e might drop down dead at any
moment.

That frightened Bill a bit, and the next night, instead of 'aving
lemonade, 'e had five bottles o' stone ginger-beer, six of different
kinds of teetotal beer, three of soda-water, and two cups of coffee. I'm
not counting the drink he 'ad at the chemist's shop arterward, because
he took that as medicine, but he was so queer in 'is inside next morning
that 'e began to be afraid he'd 'ave to give up drink altogether.

He went without the next night, but 'e was such a generous man that 'e
would pay every fourth time, and there was no pleasure to the other
chaps to see 'im pay and 'ave nothing out of it. It spoilt their
evening, and owing to 'aving only about 'arf wot they was accustomed to
they all got up very disagreeable next morning.

“Why not take just a little beer, Bill?” asks Ginger.

Bill 'ung his 'ead and looked a bit silly. “I'd rather not, mate,” he
ses, at last. “I've been teetotal for eleven months now.”

“Think of your 'ealth, Bill,” ses Peter Russet; “your 'ealth is more
important than the pledge. Wot made you take it?”

Bill coughed. “I 'ad reasons,” he ses, slowly. “A mate o' mine wished me
to.”

“He ought to ha' known better,” ses Sam. “He 'ad 'is reasons,” ses Bill.

“Well, all I can say is, Bill,” ses Ginger, “all I can say is, it's very
disobligin' of you.”

“Disobligin'?” ses Bill, with a start; “don't say that, mate.”

“I must say it,” ses Ginger, speaking very firm.

“You needn't take a lot, Bill,” ses Sam; “nobody wants you to do that.
Just drink in moderation, same as wot we do.”

“It gets into my 'ead,” ses Bill, at last.

“Well, and wot of it?” ses Ginger; “it gets into everybody's 'ead
occasionally. Why, one night old Sam 'ere went up behind a policeman and
tickled 'im under the arms; didn't you, Sam?”

“I did nothing o' the kind,” ses Sam, firing up.

“Well, you was fined ten bob for it next morning, that's all I know,”
ses Ginger.

“I was fined ten bob for punching 'im,” ses old Sam, very wild. “I never
tickled a policeman in my life. I never thought o' such a thing. I'd no
more tickle a policeman than I'd fly. Anybody that ses I did is a liar.
Why should I? Where does the sense come in? Wot should I want to do it
for?”

“All right, Sam,” ses Ginger, sticking 'is fingers in 'is ears, “you
didn't, then.”

“No, I didn't,” ses Sam, “and don't you forget it. This ain't the fust
time you've told that lie about me. I can take a joke with any man; but
anybody that goes and ses I tickled—”

“All right,” ses Ginger and Peter Russet together. “You'll 'ave tickled
policeman on the brain if you ain't careful, Sam,” ses Peter.

Old Sam sat down growling, and Ginger Dick turned to Bill agin. “It gets
into everybody's 'ead at times,” he ses, “and where's the 'arm? It's wot
it was meant for.”

Bill shook his 'ead, but when Ginger called 'im disobligin' agin he gave
way and he broke the pledge that very evening with a pint o' six 'arf.

Ginger was surprised to see the way 'e took his liquor. Arter three or
four pints he'd expected to see 'im turn a bit silly, or sing, or do
something o' the kind, but Bill kept on as if 'e was drinking water.

“Think of the 'armless pleasure you've been losing all these months,
Bill,” ses Ginger, smiling at him.

Bill said it wouldn't bear thinking of, and, the next place they came to
he said some rather 'ard things of the man who'd persuaded 'im to take
the pledge. He 'ad two or three more there, and then they began to see
that it was beginning to have an effect on 'im. The first one that
noticed it was Ginger Dick. Bill 'ad just lit 'is pipe, and as he threw
the match down he ses: “I don't like these 'ere safety matches,” he ses.

“Don't you, Bill?” ses Ginger. “I do, rather.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” ses Bill, turning on 'im like lightning; “well,
take that for contradictin',” he ses, an' he gave Ginger a smack that
nearly knocked his 'ead off.

It was so sudden that old Sam and Peter put their beer down and stared
at each other as if they couldn't believe their eyes. Then they stooped
down and helped pore Ginger on to 'is legs agin and began to brush 'im
down.

“Never mind about 'im, mates,” ses Bill, looking at Ginger very wicked.
“P'r'aps he won't be so ready to give me 'is lip next time. Let's come
to another pub and enjoy ourselves.”

Sam and Peter followed 'im out like lambs, 'ardly daring to look over
their shoulder at Ginger, who was staggering arter them some distance
behind a 'olding a handerchief to 'is face.

“It's your turn to pay, Sam,” ses Bill, when they'd got inside the next
place. “Wot's it to be? Give it a name.”

“Three 'arf pints o' four ale, miss,” ses Sam, not because 'e was mean,
but because it wasn't 'is turn. “Three wot?” ses Bill, turning on 'im.

“Three pots o' six ale, miss,” ses Sam, in a hurry.

“That wasn't wot you said afore,” ses Bill. “Take that,” he ses, giving
pore old Sam a wipe in the mouth and knocking 'im over a stool; “take
that for your sauce.”

Peter Russet stood staring at Sam and wondering wot Bill ud be like when
he'd 'ad a little more. Sam picked hisself up arter a time and went
outside to talk to Ginger about it, and then Bill put 'is arm round
Peter's neck and began to cry a bit and say 'e was the only pal he'd got
left in the world. It was very awkward for Peter, and more awkward still
when the barman came up and told 'im to take Bill outside.

“Go on,” he ses, “out with 'im.”

“He's all right,” ses Peter, trembling; “we's the truest-'arted
gentleman in London. Ain't you, Bill?”

Bill said he was, and 'e asked the barman to go and hide 'is face
because it reminded 'im of a little dog 'e had 'ad once wot 'ad died.

“You get outside afore you're hurt,” ses the bar-man.

Bill punched at 'im over the bar, and not being able to reach 'im threw
Peter's pot o' beer at 'im. There was a fearful to-do then, and the
landlord jumped over the bar and stood in the doorway, whistling for the
police. Bill struck out right and left, and the men in the bar went down
like skittles, Peter among them. Then they got outside, and Bill, arter
giving the landlord a thump in the back wot nearly made him swallow the
whistle, jumped into a cab and pulled Peter Russet in arter 'im.

“I'll talk to you by-and-by,” he ses, as the cab drove off at a gallop;
“there ain't room in this cab. You wait, my lad, that's all. You just
wait till we get out, and I'll knock you silly.”

“Wot for, Bill?” ses Peter, staring.

“Don't you talk to me,” roars Bill. “If I choose to knock you about
that's my business, ain't it? Besides, you know very well.”

He wouldn't let Peter say another word, but coming to a quiet place near
the docks he stopped the cab and pulling 'im out gave 'im such a
dressing down that Peter thought 'is last hour 'ad arrived. He let 'im
go at last, and after first making him pay the cab-man took 'im along
till they came to a public-'ouse and made 'im pay for drinks.

They stayed there till nearly eleven o'clock, and then Bill set off home
'olding the unfortunit Peter by the scruff o' the neck, and wondering
out loud whether 'e ought to pay 'im a bit more or not. Afore 'e could
make up 'is mind, however, he turned sleepy, and, throwing 'imself down
on the bed which was meant for the two of 'em, fell into a peaceful
sleep.

Sam and Ginger Dick came in a little while arterward, both badly marked
where Bill 'ad hit them, and sat talking to Peter in whispers as to wot
was to be done. Ginger, who 'ad plenty of pluck, was for them all to set
on to 'im, but Sam wouldn't 'ear of it, and as for Peter he was so sore
he could 'ardly move.

They all turned in to the other bed at last, 'arf afraid to move for
fear of disturbing Bill, and when they woke up in the morning and see
'im sitting up in 'is bed they lay as still as mice.

“Why, Ginger, old chap,” ses Bill, with a 'earty smile, “wot are you all
three in one bed for?”

“We was a bit cold,” ses Ginger.

“Cold?” ses Bill. “Wot, this weather? We 'ad a bit of a spree last
night, old man, didn't we? My throat's as dry as a cinder.”

“It ain't my idea of a spree,” ses Ginger, sitting up and looking at
'im.

“Good 'eavens, Ginger!” ses Bill, starting back, “wotever 'ave you been
a-doing to your face? Have you been tumbling off of a 'bus?”

Ginger couldn't answer; and Sam Small and Peter sat up in bed alongside
of 'im, and Bill, getting as far back on 'is bed as he could, sat
staring at their pore faces as if 'e was having a 'orrible dream.

“And there's Sam,” he ses. “Where ever did you get that mouth, Sam?”

“Same place as Ginger got 'is eye and pore Peter got 'is face,” ses Sam,
grinding his teeth.

“You don't mean to tell me,” ses Bill, in a sad voice—“you don't mean to
tell me that I did it?”

“You know well enough,” ses Ginger.

Bill looked at 'em, and 'is face got as long as a yard measure.

“I'd 'oped I'd growed out of it, mates,” he ses, at last, “but drink
always takes me like that. I can't keep a pal.”

“You surprise me,” ses Ginger, sarcastic-like. “Don't talk like that,
Ginger,” ses Bill, 'arf crying.

“It ain't my fault; it's my weakness. Wot did I do it for?”

“I don't know,” ses Ginger, “but you won't get the chance of doing it
agin, I'll tell you that much.”

“I daresay I shall be better to-night, Ginger,” ses Bill, very humble;
“it don't always take me that way.

“Well, we don't want you with us any more,” ses old Sam, 'olding his
'ead very high.

“You'll 'ave to go and get your beer by yourself, Bill,” ses Peter
Russet, feeling 'is bruises with the tips of 'is fingers.

“But then I should be worse,” ses Bill. “I want cheerful company when
I'm like that. I should very likely come 'ome and 'arf kill you all in
your beds. You don't 'arf know what I'm like. Last night was nothing,
else I should 'ave remembered it.”

“Cheerful company?” ses old Sam. “'Ow do you think company's going to be
cheerful when you're carrying on like that, Bill? Why don't you go away
and leave us alone?”

“Because I've got a 'art,” ses Bill. “I can't chuck up pals in that
free-and-easy way. Once I take a liking to anybody I'd do anything for
'em, and I've never met three chaps I like better than wot I do you.
Three nicer, straight-forrad, free-'anded mates I've never met afore.”

“Why not take the pledge agin, Bill?” ses Peter Russet.

“No, mate,” ses Bill, with a kind smile; “it's just a weakness, and I
must try and grow out of it. I'll tie a bit o' string round my little
finger to-night as a re-minder.”

He got out of bed and began to wash 'is face, and Ginger Dick, who was
doing a bit o' thinking, gave a whisper to Sam and Peter Russet.

“All right, Bill, old man,” he ses, getting out of bed and beginning to
put his clothes on; “but first of all we'll try and find out 'ow the
landlord is.”

“Landlord?” ses Bill, puffing and blowing in the basin. “Wot landlord?”

“Why, the one you bashed,” ses Ginger, with a wink at the other two. “He
'adn't got 'is senses back when me and Sam came away.”

Bill gave a groan and sat on the bed while 'e dried himself, and Ginger
told 'im 'ow he 'ad bent a quart pot on the landlord's 'ead, and 'ow the
landlord 'ad been carried upstairs and the doctor sent for. He began to
tremble all over, and when Ginger said he'd go out and see 'ow the land
lay 'e could 'ardly thank 'im enough.

He stayed in the bedroom all day, with the blinds down, and wouldn't eat
anything, and when Ginger looked in about eight o'clock to find out
whether he 'ad gone, he found 'im sitting on the bed clean shaved, and
'is face cut about all over where the razor 'ad slipped.

Ginger was gone about two hours, and when 'e came back he looked so
solemn that old Sam asked 'im whether he 'ad seen a ghost. Ginger didn't
answer 'im; he set down on the side o' the bed and sat thinking.

“I s'pose—I s'pose it's nice and fresh in the streets this morning?” ses
Bill, at last, in a trembling voice.

Ginger started and looked at 'im. “I didn't notice, mate,” he ses. Then
'e got up and patted Bill on the back, very gentle, and sat down again.

“Anything wrong, Ginger?” asks Peter Russet, staring at 'im.

“It's that landlord,” ses Ginger; “there's straw down in the road
outside, and they say that he's dying. Pore old Bill don't know 'is own
strength. The best thing you can do, old pal, is to go as far away as
you can, at once.”

“I shouldn't wait a minnit if it was me,” ses old Sam.

Bill groaned and hid 'is face in his 'ands, and then Peter Russet went
and spoilt things by saying that the safest place for a murderer to 'ide
in was London. Bill gave a dreadful groan when 'e said murderer, but 'e
up and agreed with Peter, and all Sam and Ginger Dick could do wouldn't
make 'im alter his mind. He said that he would shave off 'is beard and
moustache, and when night came 'e would creep out and take a lodging
somewhere right the other end of London.

“It'll soon be dark,” ses Ginger, “and your own brother wouldn't know
you now, Bill. Where d'you think of going?”

Bill shook his 'ead. “Nobody must know that, mate,” he ses. “I must go
into hiding for as long as I can—as long as my money lasts; I've only
got six pounds left.”

“That'll last a long time if you're careful,” ses Ginger.

“I want a lot more,” ses Bill. “I want you to take this silver ring as a
keepsake, Ginger. If I 'ad another six pounds or so I should feel much
safer. 'Ow much 'ave you got, Ginger?”

“Not much,” ses Ginger, shaking his 'ead.

“Lend it to me, mate,” ses Bill, stretching out his 'and. “You can easy
get another ship. Ah, I wish I was you; I'd be as 'appy as 'appy if I
hadn't got a penny.”

“I'm very sorry, Bill,” ses Ginger, trying to smile, “but I've already
promised to lend it to a man wot we met this evening. A promise is a
promise, else I'd lend it to you with pleasure.”

“Would you let me be 'ung for the sake of a few pounds, Ginger?” ses
Bill, looking at 'im reproach-fully. “I'm a desprit man, Ginger, and I
must 'ave that money.”

Afore pore Ginger could move he suddenly clapped 'is hand over 'is mouth
and flung 'im on the bed. Ginger was like a child in 'is hands, although
he struggled like a madman, and in five minutes 'e was laying there with
a towel tied round his mouth and 'is arms and legs tied up with the cord
off of Sam's chest.

“I'm very sorry, Ginger,” ses Bill, as 'e took a little over eight
pounds out of Ginger's pocket. “I'll pay you back one o' these days, if
I can. If you'd got a rope round your neck same as I 'ave you'd do the
same as I've done.”

He lifted up the bedclothes and put Ginger inside and tucked 'im up.
Ginger's face was red with passion and 'is eyes starting out of his
'ead.

“Eight and six is fifteen,” ses Bill, and just then he 'eard somebody
coming up the stairs. Ginger 'eard it, too, and as Peter Russet came
into the room 'e tried all 'e could to attract 'is attention by rolling
'is 'ead from side to side.

“Why, 'as Ginger gone to bed?” ses Peter. “Wot's up, Ginger?”

“He's all right,” ses Bill; “just a bit of a 'eadache.”

Peter stood staring at the bed, and then 'e pulled the clothes off and
saw pore Ginger all tied up, and making awful eyes at 'im to undo him.

“I 'ad to do it, Peter,” ses Bill. “I wanted some more money to escape
with, and 'e wouldn't lend it to me. I 'aven't got as much as I want
now. You just came in in the nick of time. Another minute and you'd ha'
missed me. 'Ow much 'ave you got?”

“Ah, I wish I could lend you some, Bill,” ses Peter Russet, turning
pale, “but I've 'ad my pocket picked; that's wot I came back for, to get
some from Ginger.”

Bill didn't say a word.

“You see 'ow it is, Bill,” ses Peter, edging back toward the door;
“three men laid 'old of me and took every farthing I'd got.”

“Well, I can't rob you, then,” ses Bill, catching 'old of 'im.
“Whoever's money this is,” he ses, pulling a handful out o' Peter's
pocket, “it can't be yours. Now, if you make another sound I'll knock
your 'ead off afore I tie you up.”

“Don't tie me up, Bill,” ses Peter, struggling.

“I can't trust you,” ses Bill, dragging 'im over to the washstand and
taking up the other towel; “turn round.”

Peter was a much easier job than Ginger Dick, and arter Bill 'ad done
'im 'e put 'im in alongside o' Ginger and covered 'em up, arter first
tying both the gags round with some string to prevent 'em slipping.

“Mind, I've only borrowed it,” he ses, standing by the side o' the bed;
“but I must say, mates, I'm disappointed in both of you. If either of
you 'ad 'ad the misfortune wot I've 'ad, I'd have sold the clothes off
my back to 'elp you. And I wouldn't 'ave waited to be asked neither.”

He stood there for a minute very sorrowful, and then 'e patted both
their 'eads and went downstairs. Ginger and Peter lay listening for a
bit, and then they turned their pore bound-up faces to each other and
tried to talk with their eyes.

Then Ginger began to wriggle and try and twist the cords off, but 'e
might as well 'ave tried to wriggle out of 'is skin. The worst of it was
they couldn't make known their intentions to each other, and when Peter
Russet leaned over 'im and tried to work 'is gag off by rubbing it up
agin 'is nose, Ginger pretty near went crazy with temper. He banged
Peter with his 'ead, and Peter banged back, and they kept it up till
they'd both got splitting 'eadaches, and at last they gave up in despair
and lay in the darkness waiting for Sam.

And all this time Sam was sitting in the Red Lion, waiting for them. He
sat there quite patient till twelve o'clock and then walked slowly 'ome,
wondering wot 'ad happened and whether Bill had gone.

Ginger was the fust to 'ear 'is foot on the stairs, and as he came into
the room, in the darkness, him an' Peter Russet started shaking their
bed in a way that scared old Sam nearly to death. He thought it was Bill
carrying on agin, and 'e was out o' that door and 'arf-way downstairs
afore he stopped to take breath. He stood there trembling for about ten
minutes, and then, as nothing 'appened, he walked slowly upstairs agin
on tiptoe, and as soon as they heard the door creak Peter and Ginger
made that bed do everything but speak.

“Is that you, Bill?” ses old Sam, in a shaky voice, and standing ready
to dash downstairs agin.

There was no answer except for the bed, and Sam didn't know whether Bill
was dying or whether 'e 'ad got delirium trimmings. All 'e did know was
that 'e wasn't going to sleep in that room. He shut the door gently and
went downstairs agin, feeling in 'is pocket for a match, and, not
finding one, 'e picked out the softest stair 'e could find and, leaning
his 'ead agin the banisters, went to sleep.

It was about six o'clock when 'e woke up, and broad daylight. He was
stiff and sore all over, and feeling braver in the light 'e stepped
softly upstairs and opened the door. Peter and Ginger was waiting for
'im, and as he peeped in 'e saw two things sitting up in bed with their
'air standing up all over like mops and their faces tied up with
bandages. He was that startled 'e nearly screamed, and then 'e stepped
into the room and stared at 'em as if he couldn't believe 'is eyes.

“Is that you, Ginger?” he ses. “Wot d'ye mean by making sights of
yourselves like that? 'Ave you took leave of your senses?”

Ginger and Peter shook their 'eads and rolled their eyes, and then Sam
see wot was the matter with 'em. Fust thing 'e did was to pull out 'is
knife and cut Ginger's gag off, and the fust thing Ginger did was to
call 'im every name 'e could lay his tongue to.

“You wait a moment,” he screams, 'arf crying with rage. “You wait till I
get my 'ands loose and I'll pull you to pieces. The idea o' leaving us
like this all night, you old crocodile. I 'eard you come in. I'll pay
you.”

Sam didn't answer 'im. He cut off Peter Russet's gag, and Peter Russet
called 'im 'arf a score o' names without taking breath.

“And when Ginger's finished I'll 'ave a go at you,” he ses. “Cut off
these lines.”

“At once, d'ye hear?” ses Ginger. “Oh, you wait till I get my 'ands on
you.”

Sam didn't answer 'em; he shut up 'is knife with a click and then 'e sat
at the foot o' the bed on Ginger's feet and looked at 'em. It wasn't the
fust time they'd been rude to 'im, but as a rule he'd 'ad to put up with
it. He sat and listened while Ginger swore 'imself faint.

“That'll do,” he ses, at last; “another word and I shall put the
bedclothes over your 'ead. Afore I do anything more I want to know wot
it's all about.”

Peter told 'im, arter fust calling 'im some more names, because Ginger
was past it, and when 'e'd finished old Sam said 'ow surprised he was at
them for letting Bill do it, and told 'em how they ought to 'ave
prevented it. He sat there talking as though 'e enjoyed the sound of 'is
own voice, and he told Peter and Ginger all their faults and said wot
sorrow it caused their friends. Twice he 'ad to throw the bedclothes
over their 'eads because o' the noise they was making.

“Are you going—to undo—us?” ses Ginger, at last.

“No, Ginger,” ses old Sam; “in justice to myself I couldn't do it. Arter
wot you've said—and arter wot I've said—my life wouldn't be safe.
Besides which, you'd want to go shares in my money.”

He took up 'is chest and marched downstairs with it, and about 'arf an
hour arterward the landlady's 'usband came up and set 'em free. As soon
as they'd got the use of their legs back they started out to look for
Sam, but they didn't find 'im for nearly a year, and as for Bill, they
never set eyes on 'im again.

LAWYER QUINCE

Lawyer Quince, so called by his neighbours in Little Haven from his
readiness at all times to place at their disposal the legal lore he had
acquired from a few old books while following his useful occupation of
making boots, sat in a kind of wooden hutch at the side of his cottage
plying his trade. The London coach had gone by in a cloud of dust some
three hours before, and since then the wide village street had slumbered
almost undisturbed in the sunshine.

Hearing footsteps and the sound of voices raised in dispute caused him
to look up from his work. Mr. Rose, of Holly Farm, Hogg, the miller, and
one or two neighbours of lesser degree appeared to be in earnest debate
over some point of unusual difficulty.

Lawyer Quince took a pinch of snuff and bent to his work again. Mr. Rose
was one of the very few who openly questioned his legal knowledge, and
his gibes concerning it were only too frequent. Moreover, he had a taste
for practical joking, which to a grave man was sometimes offensive.

“Well, here he be,” said Mr. Hogg to the farmer, as the group halted in
front of the hutch. “Now ask Lawyer Quince and see whether I ain't told
you true. I'm willing to abide by what he says.”

Mr. Quince put down his hammer and, brushing a little snuff from his
coat, leaned back in his chair and eyed them with grave confidence.

“It's like this,” said the farmer. “Young Pascoe has been hanging round
after my girl Celia, though I told her she wasn't to have nothing to do
with him. Half an hour ago I was going to put my pony in its stable when
I see a young man sitting there waiting.”

“Well?” said Mr. Quince, after a pause.

“He's there yet,” said the farmer. “I locked him in, and Hogg here says
that I've got the right to keep him locked up there as long as I like. I
say it's agin the law, but Hogg he says no. I say his folks would come
and try to break open my stable, but Hogg says if they do I can have the
law of 'em for damaging my property.”

“So you can,” interposed Mr. Hogg, firmly. “You see whether Lawyer
Quince don't say I'm right.”

Mr. Quince frowned, and in order to think more deeply closed his eyes.
Taking advantage of this three of his auditors, with remarkable
unanimity, each closed one.

“It's your stable,” said Mr. Quince, opening his eyes and speaking with
great deliberation, “and you have a right to lock it up when you like.”

“There you are,” said Mr. Hogg; “what did I tell you?”

“If anybody's there that's got no business there, that's his look-out,”
continued Mr. Quince. “You didn't induce him to go in?”

“Certainly not,” replied the farmer.

“I told him he can keep him there as long as he likes,” said the
jubilant Mr. Hogg, “and pass him in bread and water through the winder;
it's got bars to it.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Quince, nodding, “he can do that. As for his folks
knocking the place about, if you like to tie up one or two of them
nasty, savage dogs of yours to the stable, well, it's your stable, and
you can fasten your dogs to it if you like. And you've generally got a
man about the yard.”

Mr. Hogg smacked his thigh in ecstasy.

“But—” began the farmer.

“That's the law,” said the autocratic Mr. Quince, sharply. “O' course,
if you think you know more about it than I do, I've nothing more to
say.”

“I don't want to do nothing I could get into trouble for,” murmured Mr.
Rose.

“You can't get into trouble by doing as I tell you,” said the shoemaker,
impatiently. “However, to be quite on the safe side, if I was in your
place I should lose the key.”

“Lose the key?” said the farmer, blankly.

“Lose the key,” repeated the shoemaker, his eyes watering with intense
appreciation of his own resourcefulness. “You can find it any time you
want to, you know. Keep him there till he promises to give up your
daughter, and tell him that as soon as he does you'll have a hunt for
the key.”

Mr. Rose regarded him with what the shoemaker easily understood to be
speechless admiration.

“I—I'm glad I came to you,” said the farmer, at last.

“You're welcome,” said the shoemaker, loftily. “I'm always ready to give
advice to them as require it.”

“And good advice it is,” said the smiling Mr. Hogg. “Why don't you
behave yourself, Joe Garnham?” he demanded, turning fiercely on a
listener.

Mr. Garnham, whose eyes were watering with emotion, attempted to
explain, but, becoming hysterical, thrust a huge red handkerchief to his
mouth and was led away by a friend. Mr. Quince regarded his departure
with mild disdain.

“Little things please little minds,” he remarked.

“So they do,” said Mr. Hogg. “I never thought—What's the matter with
you, George Askew?”

Mr. Askew, turning his back on him, threw up his hands with a helpless
gesture and followed in the wake of Mr. Garnham. Mr. Hogg appeared to be
about to apologise, and then suddenly altering his mind made a hasty and
unceremonious exit, accompanied by the farmer.

Mr. Quince raised his eyebrows and then, after a long and meditative
pinch of snuff, resumed his work. The sun went down and the light faded
slowly; distant voices sounded close on the still evening air, snatches
of hoarse laughter jarred upon his ears. It was clear that the story of
the imprisoned swain was giving pleasure to Little Haven.

He rose at last from his chair and, stretching his long, gaunt frame,
removed his leather apron, and after a wash at the pump went into the
house. Supper was laid, and he gazed with approval on the home-made
sausage rolls, the piece of cold pork, and the cheese which awaited his
onslaught.

“We won't wait for Ned,” said Mrs. Quince, as she brought in a jug of
ale and placed it by her husband's elbow.

Mr. Quince nodded and filled his glass.

“You've been giving more advice, I hear,” said Mrs. Quince.

Her husband, who was very busy, nodded again.

“It wouldn't make no difference to young Pascoe's chance, anyway,” said
Mrs. Quince, thoughtfully.

Mr. Quince continued his labours. “Why?” he inquired, at last.

His wife smiled and tossed her head.

“Young Pascoe's no chance against our Ned,” she said, swelling with
maternal pride.

“Eh?” said the shoemaker, laying down his knife and fork. “Our Ned?”

“They are as fond of each other as they can be,” said Mrs. Quince,
“though I don't suppose Farmer Rose'll care for it; not but what our
Ned's as good as he is.”

“Is Ned up there now?” demanded the shoemaker, turning pale, as the
mirthful face of Mr. Garnham suddenly occurred to him.

“Sure to be,” tittered his wife. “And to think o' poor young Pascoe shut
up in that stable while he's courting Celia!”

Mr. Quince took up his knife and fork again, but his appetite had gone.
Whoever might be paying attention to Miss Rose at that moment he felt
quite certain that it was not Mr. Ned Quince, and he trembled with anger
as he saw the absurd situation into which the humorous Mr. Rose had led
him. For years Little Haven had accepted his decisions as final and
boasted of his sharpness to neighbouring hamlets, and many a cottager
had brought his boots to be mended a whole week before their time for
the sake of an interview.

He moved his chair from the table and smoked a pipe. Then he rose, and
putting a couple of formidable law-books under his arm, walked slowly
down the road in the direction of Holly Farm.

The road was very quiet and the White Swan, usually full at this hour,
was almost deserted, but if any doubts as to the identity of the
prisoner lingered in his mind they were speedily dissipated by the
behaviour of the few customers who crowded to the door to see him pass.

A hum of voices fell on his ear as he approached the farm; half the male
and a goodly proportion of the female population of Little Haven were
leaning against the fence or standing in little knots in the road, while
a few of higher social status stood in the farm-yard itself.

“Come down to have a look at the prisoner?” inquired the farmer, who was
standing surrounded by a little group of admirers.

“I came down to see you about that advice I gave you this afternoon,”
said Mr. Quince.

“Ah!” said the other.

“I was busy when you came,” continued Mr. Quince, in a voice of easy
unconcern, “and I gave you advice from memory. Looking up the subject
after you'd gone I found that I was wrong.”

“You don't say so?” said the farmer, uneasily. “If I've done wrong I'm
only doing what you told me I could do.”

“Mistakes will happen with the best of us,” said the shoemaker, loudly,
for the benefit of one or two murmurers. “I've known a man to marry a
woman for her money before now and find out afterward that she hadn't
got any.”

One unit of the group detached itself and wandered listlessly toward the
gate.

“Well, I hope I ain't done nothing wrong,” said Mr. Rose, anxiously.
“You gave me the advice; there's men here as can prove it. I don't want
to do nothing agin the law. What had I better do?”

“Well, if I was you,” said Mr. Quince, concealing his satisfaction with
difficulty, “I should let him out at once and beg his pardon, and say
you hope he'll do nothing about it. I'll put in a word for you if you
like with old Pascoe.”

Mr. Rose coughed and eyed him queerly.

“You're a Briton,” he said, warmly. “I'll go and let him out at once.”

He strode off to the stable, despite the protests of Mr. Hogg, and,
standing by the door, appeared to be deep in thought; then he came back
slowly, feeling in his pockets as he walked.

“William,” he said, turning toward Mr. Hogg, “I s'pose you didn't happen
to notice where I put that key?”

“That I didn't,” said Mr. Hogg, his face clearing suddenly.

“I had it in my hand not half an hour ago,” said the agitated Mr. Rose,
thrusting one hand into his trouser-pocket and groping. “It can't be
far.”

Mr. Quince attempted to speak, and, failing, blew his nose violently.

“My memory ain't what it used to be,” said the farmer. “Howsomever, I
dare say it'll turn up in a day or two.”

“You—you'd better force the door,” suggested Mr. Quince, struggling to
preserve an air of judicial calm.

“No, no,” said Mr. Rose; “I ain't going to damage my property like that.
I can lock my stable-door and unlock it when I like; if people get in
there as have no business there, it's their look-out.”

“That's law,” said Mr. Hogg; “I'll eat my hat if it ain't.”

“Do you mean to tell me you've really lost the key?” demanded Mr.
Quince, eyeing the farmer sternly.

“Seems like it,” said Mr. Rose. “However, he won't come to no hurt. I'll
put in some bread and water for him, same as you advised me to.”

Mr. Quince mastered his wrath by an effort, and with no sign of
discomposure moved away without making any reference to the identity of
the unfortunate in the stable.

“Good-night,” said the farmer, “and thank you for coming and giving me
the fresh advice. It ain't everybody that 'ud ha' taken the trouble. If
I hadn't lost that key——”

The shoemaker scowled, and with the two fat books under his arm passed
the listening neighbours with the air of a thoughtful man out for an
evening stroll. Once inside his house, however, his manner changed, the
attitude of Mrs. Quince demanding, at any rate, a show of concern.

“It's no good talking,” he said at last. “Ned shouldn't have gone there,
and as for going to law about it, I sha'n't do any such thing; I should
never hear the end of it. I shall just go on as usual, as if nothing had
happened, and when Rose is tired of keeping him there he must let him
out. I'll bide my time.”

Mrs. Quince subsided into vague mutterings as to what she would do if
she were a man, coupled with sundry aspersions upon the character,
looks, and family connections of Farmer Rose, which somewhat consoled
her for being what she was.

“He has always made jokes about your advice,” she said at length, “and
now everybody'll think he's right. I sha'n't be able to look anybody in
the face. I should have seen through it at once if it had been me. I'm
going down to give him a bit o' my mind.”

“You stay where you are,” said Mr. Quince, sharply, “and, mind, you are
not to talk about it to anybody. Farmer Rose 'ud like nothing better
than to see us upset about it. I ain't done with him yet. You wait.”

Mrs. Quince, having no option, waited, but nothing happened. The
following day found Ned Quince still a prisoner, and, considering the
circumstances, remarkably cheerful. He declined point-blank to renounce
his preposterous attentions, and said that, living on the premises, he
felt half like a son-in-law already. He also complimented the farmer
upon the quality of his bread.

The next morning found him still unsubdued, and, under interrogation
from the farmer, he admitted that he liked it, and said that the feeling
of being at home was growing upon him.

“If you're satisfied, I am,” said Mr. Rose, grimly. “I'll keep you here
till you promise; mind that.”

“It's a nobleman's life,” said Ned, peeping through the window, “and I'm
beginning to like you as much as my real father.”

“I don't want none o' yer impudence,” said the farmer, reddening.

“You'll like me better when you've had me here a little longer,” said
Ned; “I shall grow on you. Why not be reasonable and make up your mind
to it? Celia and I have.”

“I'm going to send Celia away on Saturday,” said Mr. Rose; “make
yourself happy and comfortable in here till then. If you'd like another
crust o' bread or an extra half pint o' water you've only got to mention
it. When she's gone I'll have a hunt for that key, so as you can go back
to your father and help him to understand his law-books better.”

He strode off with the air of a conqueror, and having occasion to go to
the village looked in at the shoe-maker's window as he passed and smiled
broadly. For years Little Haven had regarded Mr. Quince with awe, as
being far too dangerous a man for the lay mind to tamper with, and at
one stroke the farmer had revealed the hollowness of his pretensions.
Only that morning the wife of a labourer had called and asked him to
hurry the mending of a pair of boots. She was a voluble woman, and
having overcome her preliminary nervousness more than hinted that if he
gave less time to the law and more to his trade it would be better for
himself and everybody else.

Miss Rose accepted her lot in a spirit of dutiful resignation, and on
Saturday morning after her father's admonition not to forget that the
coach left the White Swan at two sharp, set off to pay a few farewell
visits. By half-past twelve she had finished, and Lawyer Quince becoming
conscious of a shadow on his work looked up to see her standing before
the window. He replied to a bewitching smile with a short nod and became
intent upon his work again.

For a short time Celia lingered, then to his astonishment she opened the
gate and walked past the side of the house into the garden. With growing
astonishment he observed her enter his tool-shed and close the door
behind her.

For ten minutes he worked on and then, curiosity getting the better of
him, he walked slowly to the tool-shed and, opening the door a little
way, peeped in. It was a small shed, crowded with agricultural
implements. The floor was occupied by an upturned wheelbarrow, and
sitting on the barrow, with her soft cheek leaning against the wall, sat
Miss Rose fast asleep. Mr. Quince coughed several times, each cough
being louder than the last, and then, treading softly, was about to
return to the workshop when the girl stirred and muttered in her sleep.
At first she was unintelligible, then he distinctly caught the words
“idiot” and “blockhead.”

“She's dreaming of somebody,” said Mr. Quince to himself with
conviction.

“Wonder who it is?”

“Can't see—a thing—under—his—nose,” murmured the fair sleeper.

“Celia!” said Mr. Quince, sharply. “Celia!”

He took a hoe from the wall and prodded her gently with the handle. A
singularly vicious expression marred the soft features, but that was
all.

“Ce-lia!” said the shoemaker, who feared sun-stroke.

“Fancy if he—had—a moment's common sense,” murmured Celia, drowsily,
“and locked—the door.”

Lawyer Quince dropped the hoe with a clatter and stood regarding her
open-mouthed. He was a careful man with his property, and the stout door
boasted a good lock. He sped to the house on tip-toe, and taking the key
from its nail on the kitchen dresser returned to the shed, and after
another puzzled glance at the sleeping girl locked her in.

For half an hour he sat in silent enjoyment of the situation—enjoyment
which would have been increased if he could have seen Mr. Rose standing
at the gate of Holly Farm, casting anxious glances up and down the road.
Celia's luggage had gone down to the White Swan, and an excellent cold
luncheon was awaiting her attention in the living-room.

Half-past one came and no Celia, and five minutes later two farm
labourers and a boy lumbered off in different directions in search of
the missing girl, with instructions that she was to go straight to the
White Swan to meet the coach. The farmer himself walked down to the inn,
turning over in his mind a heated lecture composed for the occasion, but
the coach came and, after a cheerful bustle and the consumption of
sundry mugs of beer, sped on its way again.

He returned home in silent consternation, seeking in vain for a
satisfactory explanation of the mystery. For a robust young woman to
disappear in broad day-light and leave no trace behind her was
extraordinary. Then a sudden sinking sensation in the region of the
waistcoat and an idea occurred simultaneously.

He walked down to the village again, the idea growing steadily all the
way. Lawyer Quince was hard at work, as usual, as he passed. He went by
the window three times and gazed wistfully at the cottage. Coming to the
conclusion at last that two heads were better than one in such a
business, he walked on to the mill and sought Mr. Hogg.

“That's what it is,” said the miller, as he breathed his suspicions. “I
thought all along Lawyer Quince would have the laugh of you. He's
wonderful deep. Now, let's go to work cautious like. Try and look as if
nothing had happened.”

Mr. Rose tried.

“Try agin,” said the miller, with some severity. “Get the red out o'
your face and let your eyes go back and don't look as though you're
going to bite somebody.”

Mr. Rose swallowed an angry retort, and with an attempt at careless ease
sauntered up the road with the miller to the shoemaker's. Lawyer Quince
was still busy, and looked up inquiringly as they passed before him.

“I s'pose,” said the diplomatic Mr. Hogg, who was well acquainted with
his neighbour's tidy and methodical habits—“I s'pose you couldn't lend
me your barrow for half an hour? The wheel's off mine.”

Mr. Quince hesitated, and then favoured him with a glance intended to
remind him of his scurvy behaviour three days before.

“You can have it,” he said at last, rising.

Mr. Hogg pinched his friend in his excitement, and both watched Mr.
Quince with bated breath as he took long, slow strides toward the
tool-shed. He tried the door and then went into the house, and even
before his reappearance both gentlemen knew only too well what was about
to happen. Red was all too poor a word to apply to Mr. Rose's
countenance as the shoemaker came toward them, feeling in his waist-coat
pocket with hooked fingers and thumb, while Mr. Hogg's expressive
features were twisted into an appearance of rosy appreciation.

“Did you want the barrow very particular?” inquired the shoemaker, in a
regretful voice.

“Very particular,” said Mr. Hogg.

Mr. Quince went through the performance of feeling in all his pockets,
and then stood meditatively rubbing his chin.

“The door's locked,” he said, slowly, “and what I've done with that
there key——”

“You open that door,” vociferated Mr. Rose, “else I'll break it in.
You've got my daughter in that shed and I'm going to have her out.”

“Your daughter?” said Mr. Quince, with an air of faint surprise. “What
should she be doing in my shed?”

“You let her out,” stormed Mr. Rose, trying to push past him.

“Don't trespass on my premises,” said Lawyer Quince, interposing his
long, gaunt frame. “If you want that door opened you'll have to wait
till my boy Ned comes home. I expect he knows where to find the key.”

Mr. Rose's hands fell limply by his side and his tongue, turning
prudish, refused its office. He turned and stared at Mr. Hogg in silent
consternation.

“Never known him to be beaten yet,” said that admiring weather-cock.

“Ned's been away three days,” said the shoemaker, “but I expect him home
soon.”

Mr. Rose made a strange noise in his throat and then, accepting his
defeat, set off at a rapid pace in the direction of home. In a
marvellously short space of time, considering his age and figure, he was
seen returning with Ned Quince, flushed and dishevelled, walking by his
side.

“Here he is,” said the farmer. “Now where's that key?”

Lawyer Quince took his son by the arm and led him into the house, from
whence they almost immediately emerged with Ned waving the key.

“I thought it wasn't far,” said the sapient Mr. Hogg.

Ned put the key in the lock and flinging the door open revealed Celia
Rose, blinking and confused in the sudden sunshine. She drew back as she
saw her father and began to cry with considerable fervour.

“How did you get in that shed, miss?” demanded her parent, stamping.

“I—I went there,” she sobbed. “I didn't want to go away.”

“Well, you'd better stay there,” shouted the over-wrought Mr. Rose.
“I've done with you. A girl that 'ud turn against her own father I—I—”

He drove his right fist into his left palm and stamped out into the
road. Lawyer Quince and Mr. Hogg, after a moment's hesitation, followed.

“The laugh's agin you, farmer,” said the latter gentleman, taking his
arm.

Mr. Rose shook him off.

“Better make the best of it,” continued the peace-maker.

“She's a girl to be proud of,” said Lawyer Quince, keeping pace with the
farmer on the other side. “She's got a head that's worth yours and mine
put together, with Hogg's thrown in as a little makeweight.”

“And here's the White Swan,” said Mr. Hogg, who had a hazy idea of a
compliment, “and all of us as dry as a bone. Why not all go in and have
a glass to shut folks' mouths?”

“And cry quits,” said the shoemaker.

“And let bygones be bygones,” said Mr. Hogg, taking the farmer's arm
again.

Mr. Rose stopped and shook his head obstinately, and then, under the
skilful pilotage of Mr. Hogg, was steered in the direction of the
hospitable doors of the White Swan. He made a last bid for liberty on
the step and then disappeared inside. Lawyer Quince brought up the rear.

BREAKING A SPELL

Witchcraft?” said the old man, thoughtfully, as he scratched his scanty
whiskers. No, I ain't heard o' none in these parts for a long time.
There used to be a little of it about when I was a boy, and there was
some talk of it arter I'd growed up, but Claybury folk never took much
count of it. The last bit of it I remember was about forty years ago,
and that wasn't so much witchcraft as foolishness.

There was a man in this place then—Joe Barlcomb by name—who was a firm
believer in it, and 'e used to do all sorts of things to save hisself
from it. He was a new-comer in Claybury, and there was such a lot of it
about in the parts he came from that the people thought o' nothing else
hardly.

He was a man as got 'imself very much liked at fust, especially by the
old ladies, owing to his being so perlite to them, that they used to
'old 'im up for an example to the other men, and say wot nice, pretty
ways he 'ad. Joe Barlcomb was everything at fust, but when they got to
'ear that his perliteness was because 'e thought 'arf of 'em was
witches, and didn't know which 'arf, they altered their minds.

In a month or two he was the laughing-stock of the place; but wot was
worse to 'im than that was that he'd made enemies of all the old ladies.
Some of 'em was free-spoken women, and 'e couldn't sleep for thinking of
the 'arm they might do 'im.

He was terrible uneasy about it at fust, but, as nothing 'appened and he
seemed to go on very prosperous-like, 'e began to forget 'is fears, when
all of a sudden 'e went 'ome one day and found 'is wife in bed with a
broken leg.

She was standing on a broken chair to reach something down from the
dresser when it 'appened, and it was pointed out to Joe Barlcomb that it
was a thing anybody might ha' done without being bewitched; but he said
'e knew better, and that they'd kept that broken chair for standing on
for years and years to save the others, and nothing 'ad ever 'appened
afore.

In less than a week arter that three of his young 'uns was down with the
measles, and, 'is wife being laid up, he sent for 'er mother to come and
nurse 'em. It's as true as I sit 'ere, but that pore old lady 'adn't
been in the house two hours afore she went to bed with the yellow
jaundice.

Joe Barlcomb went out of 'is mind a'most. He'd never liked 'is wife's
mother, and he wouldn't 'ave had 'er in the house on'y 'e wanted her to
nurse 'is wife and children, and when she came and laid up and wanted
waiting on 'e couldn't dislike her enough.

He was quite certain all along that somebody was putting a spell on 'im,
and when 'e went out a morning or two arterward and found 'is best pig
lying dead in a corner of the sty he gave up and, going into the 'ouse,
told 'em all that they'd 'ave to die 'cause he couldn't do anything more
for 'em. His wife's mother and 'is wife and the children all started
crying together, and Joe Barlcomb, when 'e thought of 'is pig, he sat
down and cried too.

He sat up late that night thinking it over, and, arter looking at it all
ways, he made up 'is mind to go and see Mrs. Prince, an old lady that
lived all alone by 'erself in a cottage near Smith's farm. He'd set 'er
down for wot he called a white witch, which is the best kind and on'y do
useful things, such as charming warts away or telling gals about their
future 'usbands; and the next arternoon, arter telling 'is wife's mother
that fresh air and travelling was the best cure for the yellow jaundice,
he set off to see 'er.

Mrs. Prince was sitting at 'er front door nursing 'er three cats when 'e
got there. She was an ugly, little old woman with piercing black eyes
and a hook nose, and she 'ad a quiet, artful sort of a way with 'er that
made 'er very much disliked. One thing was she was always making fun of
people, and for another she seemed to be able to tell their thoughts,
and that don't get anybody liked much, especially when they don't keep
it to theirselves. She'd been a lady's maid all 'er young days, and it
was very 'ard to be taken for a witch just because she was old.

“Fine day, ma'am,” ses Joe Barlcomb.

“Very fine,” ses Mrs. Prince.

“Being as I was passing, I just thought I'd look in,” ses Joe Barlcomb,
eyeing the cats.

“Take a chair,” ses Mrs. Prince, getting up and dusting one down with
'er apron.

Joe sat down. “I'm in a bit o' trouble, ma'am,” he ses, “and I thought
p'r'aps as you could help me out of it. My pore pig's been bewitched,
and it's dead.”

“Bewitched?” ses Mrs. Prince, who'd 'eard of 'is ideas. “Rubbish. Don't
talk to me.”

“It ain't rubbish, ma'am,” ses Joe Barlcomb; “three o' my children is
down with the measles, my wife's broke 'er leg, 'er mother is laid up in
my little place with the yellow jaundice, and the pig's dead.”

“Wot, another one?” ses Mrs. Prince.

“No; the same one,” ses Joe.

“Well, 'ow am I to help you?” ses Mrs. Prince. “Do you want me to come
and nurse 'em?”

“No, no,” ses Joe, starting and turning pale; “unless you'd like to come
and nurse my wife's mother,” he ses, arter thinking a bit. “I was hoping
that you'd know who'd been overlooking me and that you'd make 'em take
the spell off.”

Mrs. Prince got up from 'er chair and looked round for the broom she'd
been sweeping with, but, not finding it, she set down agin and stared in
a curious sort o' way at Joe Barlcomb.

“Oh, I see,” she ses, nodding. “Fancy you guessing I was a witch.”

“You can't deceive me,” ses Joe; “I've 'ad too much experience; I knew
it the fust time I saw you by the mole on your nose.”

Mrs. Prince got up and went into her back-place, trying her 'ardest to
remember wot she'd done with that broom. She couldn't find it anywhere,
and at last she came back and sat staring at Joe for so long that 'e was
'arf frightened out of his life. And by-and-by she gave a 'orrible smile
and sat rubbing the side of 'er nose with 'er finger.

“If I help you,” she ses at last, “will you promise to keep it a dead
secret and do exactly as I tell you? If you don't, dead pigs'll be
nothing to the misfortunes that you will 'ave.”

“I will,” ses Joe Barlcomb, very pale.

“The spell,” ses Mrs. Prince, holding up her 'ands and shutting 'er
eyes, “was put upon you by a man. It is one out of six men as is jealous
of you because you're so clever, but which one it is I can't tell
without your assistance. Have you got any money?”

“A little,” ses Joe, anxious-like— “a very little. Wot with the yellow
jaundice and other things, I——”

“Fust thing to do,” ses Mrs. Prince, still with her eyes shut, “you go