The attainment of Felicity is said to be the aim of all mankind. In
order to this end, men in all ages have voluntarily submitted themselves
to prolonged infelicity. They have toiled in daily pain and sorrow
throughout a long life to attain at last, if possible, to the coveted
condition. Some have pursued it in eager intensity, dancing and singing
as they went. Others have rushed after it in mad determination, cursing
and grumbling as they ran. Many have sought it in rapt contemplation of
the Sublime and Beautiful. Thousands have grubbed and grovelled for it
in the gratification or the drowning of the senses, while not a few have
sought and found it in simple, loving submission to their Maker's will,
as made known by Conscience and Revelation.
Of all the varied methods, John Gunter, the fisherman, preferred the
grub-and-grovelling method, and the favourite scene of his grovelling
was a low grog-shop in one of the lower parts of Yarmouth.
It must be said, at this point, that Gunter was not considered by his
mates as a regular out-and-out fisherman. He had never served his
apprenticeship, but, being a powerful and sufficiently active seaman,
was tolerated among them.
It is said that adversity makes strange bed-fellows. It is not less
true that strong drink makes strange companions. Gunter's shipmates
having had more than enough of him on the sea were only too glad to get
clear of him when on land. He therefore found himself obliged to look
out for new companionships, for it is certain that man yearns after
sympathy of some sort, and is not, under ordinary circumstances, content
to be alone.
The new friends he sought were not difficult to find. In one of the
darkest corners of the public-house referred to he found them--an
accidental, group--consisting of an ex-clerk, an ex-parson, and a
burglar, not "ex" as yet! They had met for the first time, yet, though
widely separated as regards their training in life, they had found the
sympathetic level of drink in that dingy corner. Of course, it need
hardly be said that the first two had swung far out of their proper
orbits before coming into harmonious contact with the last. Of course,
also, no one of the three desired that his antecedents should be known.
There was not much chance, indeed, that the former occupations of the
clerk or the parson would be guessed at, for every scrap of
respectability had long ago been washed out of them by drink, and their
greasy coats, battered hats, dirty and ragged linen, were, if possible,
lower in the scale of disreputability than the rough garments of the
burglar.
The subject of their conversation was suitable to all ages and
countries, to all kinds and conditions of men, for it was politics! A
fine, healthy, flexible subject, so utterly incomprehensible to fuddled
brains that it could be distended, contracted, inflated, elongated, and
twisted to suit any circumstances or states of mind. And such grand
scope too, for difference, or agreement of opinion.
Oh! it was pitiful to see the idiotic expressions of these fallen men as
they sat bound together by a mutual thirst which each abhorred, yet
loved, and which none could shake off. And there was something
outrageously absurd too--yes, it is of no use attempting to shirk the
fact--something intolerably funny in some of the gestures and tones,
with which they discussed the affairs of the nation.
"Hail fellow well met," was the generous tendency of Gunter's soul when
ashore. Accosting the three in gruff off-hand tones with some such
sentiment, he sat down beside them.
"Same to you, pal," said the burglar, with a sinister glance at the
new-comer from under his heavy brows.
"How do? ol' salt!" exclaimed the clerk, who was by far the most tipsy
of the three. "Come 'ere. We'll make you r'free--umpire--to shettle
zish d'shpute. Queshn is, whether it's the dooty of the poor to help
the rish--no, zhat's not it. W-w'ether it's dooty of rish to help the
poor--what's it--by sharin' all they have with 'em or--"
"That's not the question at all," cried Gunter, gruffly--"the question
is, what'll you have to drink!"
"Bravo!" exclaimed the parson, "that _is_ the question!"
"You're a trump!" said the burglar.
"Well," exclaimed the clerk, with a tremendous assumption of
winking-dignity, "ishn't zhat zactly what I was goin' to shay, if you'd
on'y listen. `What'll you 'ave to drink!' jus' so. Now, if you want to
argue it out properly, you'll--"
He was checked and almost floored by a tremendous though facetious slap
on the back from Gunter, who said that they wouldn't argue it out; that
they would drink it out first and argue it out afterwards.
In pursuance of this plan he called the landlord, and, ordering spirits
and water, treated the assembled company all round--including a few
bloated and wretched women, some of whom carried children in their arms.
Whatever of the ludicrous might have struck an observer of the scene,
while listening to the above conversation, it would have been all put to
flight by the sight of these poor women, and perchance by the thought
that they had been brought up to that life; had never known better, and
would never have a chance of knowing better, unless some exceptional
rays of heavenly light, should penetrate the dark region in which they
lived. Praise be to God! such rays do visit such haunts at times, and
brands are often plucked from the fire, but with these we have nothing
to do at present. Our object just now is to trace the course of John
Gunter.
You may be sure that one who spent his money so freely, and at the same
time drank heavily, was not likely to escape the special attention of
his new friend, the burglar. That worthy, besides being an expert in
the heavier branches of his art, was not unacquainted with its lighter
work. He watched the fisherman narrowly, observed in which pocket he
kept his money, waited until he was sufficiently drunk for his purpose,
and then picked his pockets at an engrossing moment, when the clerk was
unfolding a perfect scheme of national reform to the parson, who, with
eyes shut, and supposed to be listening intently, was in reality fast
asleep.
His object accomplished, the burglar said he would go out, and have a
look at the weather, which he did, and having quietly hidden his spoils
he returned to report the weather "all right," and to make quite sure
that he had left nothing whatever in any of Gunter's pockets. Having
satisfied himself on this point he was about to retire to take a final
look at the weather when Gunter said--"Hold on, mate; 'ave another
glass."
He felt in his pocket for the wherewith to pay for the drink, and missed
his money. He was by no means as drunk as he appeared to be, and at
once suspected his comrade.
"You've stole my blunt!" he shouted, without a moment's hesitation.
"You're a liar," returned the burglar, promptly. Gunter was fierce by
nature. He made no rejoinder, but struck a blow at the other which
would have felled him had it taken effect. The burglar, however, was a
pugilist. He evaded the blow, and returned it with such force that the
fisherman staggered, but recovered himself, and grappled with his
adversary.
In a moment all was uproar and confusion; benches were upset, spittoons
kicked about, and pipes smashed, as the two powerful men swayed about,
and tried fiercely to strangle each other. The women rushed screaming
from the place; the landlord and his assistants interfered, but it was
not until the police were called in that the combatants were separated.
Then there occurred a violent scene of explanation, allegation,
recrimination, and retort, during which the guardians of the peace
attempted to throw oil on the troubled waters, for it is always their
aim, we believe, to quiet down drunken uproars when possible rather than
to take up the rioters.
As the burglar, with an injured, innocent look, denied the charge made
against him, and turned all his pockets inside out in proof of his
veracity, Gunter was fain to content himself with the supposition that
he had lost his money in some incomprehensible manner.
In a very sulky mood he flung out of the public-house and sauntered
away. He knew not where to go, for he had no friends in Yarmouth--at
least none who would have welcomed him--and he had not wherewith to pay
for a bed, even in the poorest lodging.
As he walked along, conscience began to smite him, but he was in no mood
to listen to conscience. He silenced it, and at the same time called
himself, with an oath, a big fool. There is no question that he was
right, yet he would have denied the fact and fought any one else who
should have ventured so to address him.
The evening was beginning to grow dark as he turned down one of the
narrow and lonely rows.
Now, it so happened that this was one of the rows through which Ruth
Dotropy had to pass on her way home.
Ruth was not naturally timid, but when she suddenly beheld a
half-drunken man coming towards her, and observed that no one else was
near, something like a flutter of anxiety agitated her breast. At the
same moment something like a sledge-hammer blow smote the concave side
of John Gunter's bosom.
"She's got more than she needs," he growled between his teeth, "an' I've
got nothin'!"
As his conscience had been silenced this was a sufficient argument for
John.
"I'll thank you for a shillin', Miss," he said, confronting the now
frightened girl after a hasty glance round.
"Oh! yes, yes--willingly," gasped poor Ruth, fumbling in her pocket for
her purse. The purse, however, chanced to have been left at home. "Oh,
_how_ provoking! I have not my purse with me, but if these few pence
will--"
"Never mind the pence, Miss," said Gunter,--accepting the pence;
however, as he spoke--"that nice little watch will do jist as well."
He snatched the watch which hung at Ruth's waist-belt, snapped the
slender guard that held it, and made off.
When sufficiently out of danger of pursuit, he paused under a lamp to
examine his prize. To his intense disgust he found that the little
watch, instead of being a gold one, as he had expected, was only a
silver one, of comparatively little value.
"Well, your first haul in this line ain't worth much," he grumbled.
"Hows'ever, I've got coppers enough for a night's lodgin' an' grub."
Saying which he pocketed the watch, and went on his way.
Meanwhile Ruth, having given vent to a sob of relief when the man left
her, ran towards home as fast as she could, never pausing till she
reached the Miss Seawards' door, which chanced to be a little nearer
than her own. Against this she plunged with wonderful violence for one
so gentle and tender, and then hammered it with her knuckles in a way
that would have done credit to a lightweight prize-fighter.
The door was opened hastily by Liffie Lee, who, being a much lighter
weight than her assailant, went down before her rush.
"Lawk! Miss Ruth," she exclaimed, on recovering her feet, "w'at's
a-'appened?"
But she asked the question of the empty air, for Ruth was already half
sobbing, half laughing on the sofa, with a highly agitated sister on
either side trying to calm her.
"Oh! what a little donkey I am," she exclaimed, flinging off her bonnet
and attempting to laugh.
"What _has_ happened?" gasped Jessie.
"_Do_ tell us, dear," cried Kate.
"I--I've been robbed, by a--dreadful man--so awfully gruff, a sailor I
think, and--oh!" Ruth became suddenly much calmer. "It did not occur
to me till this moment--it is _the_ watch--papa's little silver watch
that Captain Bream brought him as a sort of curiosity from abroad long
ago. Oh! I _am_ so sorry! It was such a favourite with dear papa, and
he told me to take such care of it when he gave it to me, for there was
a romantic little history connected with it."
"What was it, dear?" asked Jessie, glad to find that the sudden
diversion of her thoughts to the lost watch had done more to calm Ruth
than all their demonstrative comfort.
Ruth at once proceeded to relate the story of the watch, but we will not
inflict it on the reader, as it has no particular bearing on our tale.
It had something to do, however, with detaining Ruth far later than she
had intended to remain, so that she jumped up hastily at last, saying
she must really go home.
"Are you sure the robber was a sailor?" asked Kate; "sailors are such
dear nice men that I can hardly believe it."
"I'm almost quite sure," returned Ruth; "at all events he was dressed
like one--and, oh! he _was_ so gruff!"
From this point Ruth diverged into further and more minute details of
the robbery, over which the three gloated with a species of fascination
which is more frequently associated with ghost stories than true tales.
Indeed we may say that _four_ gloated over it, for Liffie Lee, unable to
restrain her curiosity, put her head in at the door--at first with the
more or less honest intention of asking if "hany think was wanted," and
afterwards let her head remain from sheer inability to withdraw it.
At one point in the thrilling narrative she became intensely excited,
and when Ruth tried in sepulchral tones to imitate John Gunter's gruff
voice, she exclaimed, "Oh! lawks!" in such a gasp that the three ladies
leaped up with three shrieks like three conscience-smitten kittens
caught in a guilty act! Liffie was rebuked, but from pity, or perhaps
sympathy, was allowed to remain to hear the end.
When that point was reached, it was found to be so late that the streets
were almost deserted, and the particular part in which their lodging
stood was dreadfully silent.
"How am I ever to get home?" asked Ruth.
"It is not more than twenty doors off," said Kate, "and Liffie will go
with you."
"Lawks, ma'am," said Liffie, "what could the likes o' me do if we was
attacked? An' then--I should 'ave to return _alone_!"
"That is true," said the tender-hearted Jessie; "what _is_ to be done?
Our landlady goes to bed early. It would never do to rouse her--and
then, she may perhaps be as great a coward as we are. Oh! if there was
only a _man_ in the house. Even a boy would do."
"Ah! I jist think 'e would," said Liffie. "If little Billy was 'ere, I
wouldn't ax for no man."
"I'll tell you what," said Kate with a bright look of decision, "we'll
all go together. Get on your bonnet, Jessie."
There was no resisting Kate when once she had made up her mind. She put
on her own bonnet, and her sister quickly returned ready, "with a
heart," as Byron says, "for any fate?"
"Now don't speak, any of you," whispered Kate. "If we are attacked, let
us give a united shriek. That will raise some one to our aid."
"I should think it would, ma'am. It would a'most raise the dead," said
Liffie, who also prepared herself for the ordeal.
Dark and deserted streets at late hours, with dangerous characters known
to be abroad, have terrors to some small extent, even for the averagely
brave; what must they have, then, for those tender ones of the weaker
sex whose spirits are gentle, perhaps timid, and whose nerves have been
highly strung by much converse on subjects relating to violence?
The first shock experienced by our quartette was caused by the door.
From some inscrutable impulse Liffie Lee had locked it after Ruth had
rushed in.
"Open it gently," whispered Jessie, for the party had now got to the
condition of feeling very much as if they were themselves burglars,
engaged in some unholy enterprise, and feared to arouse sleepers. But
they need not have feared, for their landlady was one of the "seven
sleepers" of Yarmouth.
Liffie exerted her little strength with caution, but the lock was stiff;
it would not move. She screwed up her mouth, and put-to more strength;
still it would not move. Screwing up her eyebrows as well as her mouth,
she tried again. It would not budge. She even screwed up her nose in a
stupendous effort, but all in vain. If there had been no need for
caution, the thing would have been easy, but Jessie kept whispering,
"Softly, Liffie, softly!" and Ruth echoed "Softly!" At last Liffie
screwed herself up entirely, body and soul, in one supreme effort; she
agonised with the key. It yielded, and the bolt flew back with a crack
like a pistol-shot.
"Oh!" burst in four different keys--not door-keys--from the party--under
their breath however.
"Open," whispered Jessie.
Liffie obeyed, and when the half-opened door revealed intense darkness
outside, a feeling of horror caused their very flesh to creep.
"How I _wish_ I hadn't stayed! I'll _never_ do it again!" whispered
poor Ruth in the tones of a child about to be punished.
"What's that!" exclaimed Jessie, with a start that caused Ruth almost to
shriek.
"Cats!" said Liffie Lee.
"Impossible!" said Kate.
But it was not impossible, for there, in a corner not far off, were
dimly seen two intensely black objects, with backs and tails arranged on
the moorish-arch principle, and a species of low thunder issuing from
them, suggestive of dynamite in the stomach.
Relieved to find it was nothing worse, the party emerged into the
street. The cats were too much enraged and engaged with each other to
observe them. They, like the ladies, were evidently cowards, for they
continued to threaten without attacking.
Liffie was left on guard with strict injunctions to stand inside, hold
tight to the door-handle, let in the returning sisters, and then slam
the door in the face of all the world beside.
A run was now made for the Dotropy residence. We could not call it a
rush, for the three ladies were too light and elegant in form to proceed
in such a manner. They tripped it--if we may say so--on light fantastic
toe, though with something of unseemly haste. Ruth being young and
active reached the door first, and, as before, went with a rebounding
bang against it. The anxious Mrs Dotropy had been for some time on the
watch. She opened the door.
"Ruth!"
"Mamma!"
"Your daughter!" exclaimed the Miss Seawards in needless explanation, as
they pushed her in, and then, turning round, fled homeward with so much
noise that the attention of a night watchman was naturally attracted.
The sisters heard his approaching foot-falls. They put on, in sporting
language, a spurt. Just as the door was reached the two cats, becoming
suddenly brave, filled the night-air with yells as of infants in agony.
An irrepressible shriek burst from the sisters as they tripped over each
other into the passage, and the faithful Liffie slammed the door in the
face of the discomfited policeman.
It was a crucial test of friendship, and the Miss Seawards came to the
conclusion that night, before retiring to rest, that nothing on earth
would ever induce them to do it again.