RED HERRINGS.
Dealers in marine stores generally select quiet by-ways, back-waters
of traffic, for the scene of their trade. In the open high roads of
business the current is too quick for them. They buy and sell
substantial and weighty articles; their transactions are few and far
between. Those who come to sell may be in haste; those who come to
buy, never. No one ever yet rushed into a marine-store dealer's, and
hammered with his money on a second-hand copper, in lieu of a counter,
and shouted out that he could not wait a moment for a second-hand iron
tripod. It is extremely doubtful if a marine-store dealer ever sells
anything. Occasionally buying of ungainly, heavy, amorphous,
valueless-looking bundles goes on, but a sale hardly ever. Who, for
instance, could want an object visible in the business establishment
of John Timmons, Tunbridge Street, London Road? The most
important-looking article was a donkey-engine without a funnel, or any
of its taps, and with a large rusty hole bulged in its knobby boiler.
Then there lay a little distance from the engine the broken beam of a
large pair of scales and the huge iron scoop of another pair. After
this, looking along the left-hand side out of the gloom towards the
door, lay three cannon-shot, for guns of different calibres; then the
funnel of a locomotive, flat, and making a very respectable pretence
of having been the barrel from which the cannon-shot had dribbled,
instead of flown, because of the barrel's senile decay. After the
funnel came a broken anvil, around the blockless and deposed body
of which gathered--no doubt for the sake of old lang syne--two
sledge-hammer heads, without handles, and the nozzle of a prodigious
forge-bellows. Next appeared a heap of chunks of leaden pipe. Next, a
patch of mutilated cylindrical half-hundred weights, like iron
mushrooms growing up out of the ferruginous floor. The axle-tree and
boxes of a cart stood against the wall, like the gingham umbrella of
an antediluvian giant, and keeping them company the pillars and trough
of a shower-bath, plainly the stand into which the umbrella ought to
have been placed, if the dead Titan had had any notion of tidiness.
Then appeared the cistern of the shower-bath, like the Roundhead iron
cap of the cyclopean owner of the umbrella. Then spread what one might
fancy to be the mouth of a mine of coffee mills, followed by a huge
chaotic pile of rusty and broken guns and swords, and blunderbusses
and pistols. Beyond this chaotic patch, a ton of nuts and screws and
bolts; and, later, a bank of washers, a wire screen, five dejected
chimney-jacks, the stock of an anchor, broken from the flukes, several
hundred fathoms of short chains of assorted lengths, half a bundle of
nailrod iron, three glassless ship's lamps, a pile of brazen
miscellanies, a pile of iron miscellanies, a pile of copper
miscellanies, and then the doorless opening into Tunbridge Street, and
standing on the iron-grooved threshold, into which the shutters fitted
at night, Mr. John Timmons in person, the owner of this flourishing
establishment.
Mr. John Timmons was a tall and very thin man, of fifty years, or
thereabouts. His face was dust-colour, with high, well-padded cheek
bones, blue eyes and insignificant cocked nose. His hair was dark
brown, touched here and there with grey, curly, short, thin. He wore a
low-crowned brown felt hat and a suit of dark chocolate tweed, the
trousers being half a span too short over his large shoes, and the
waistcoat half a span too wide, half a span too long, and buttoned up
to the deep-sunken hollow of his scraggy throat. His neck was
extremely long and thin and wrinkled, and covered with sparse greyish
hair. His ears were enormous, and stood out from his ill-shapen head
like fins. They were iron-grey, the colour of the under surface of a
bat's wing. The forehead was low, retreating, and creased with
close parallel lines. The eyes were keen, furtive, suspicious. A
hand's-breath below the sharp, large apple of his throat, and hanging
loose upon the waistcoat, was the knot of a washed-out blue cotton
neckerchief. He wore long mutton-chop whiskers. The rest of the face
was covered with a short, grizzled stubble. When he was not using his
hands, he carried them thrust down to the utmost in his trousers'
pockets, showing a wide strip of red sinewy arm between the sleeve of
his coat and the pocket of the trousers. No shirt was visible, and the
neckerchief touched the long, lank neck, there being no collar or
trace of linen. Excepting the blue patch of neckerchief on his chest,
and his blue eyes, no positive colour appeared anywhere about the man.
No part of the man himself or of his clothes was clean.
Mr. Timmons was taking the air on his own threshold late in the
afternoon of that last Thursday in June. It was now some hours since
the dwarf had called and had held that conversation with him in the
cellar. Not a human being had entered the marine store since. Mr.
Timmons was gazing out of his watchet blue eyes in a stony and
abstracted way at the dead brick wall opposite. He had been standing
in this position for a good while, now shifting the weight of his body
to one foot, now to the other. Occasionally he cleared his throat,
which, being a supererogation, showed that he was in deep thought, for
no man, in his waking moments, could think of clearing so long a
throat without ample reason. The sound he made was so deep and
sepulchral it seemed as though he had left his voice behind him in the
cellar, and it was becoming impatient there.
Although it had not yet struck six o'clock, he was thinking of closing
his establishment. At this time of the day very few people passed
through Tunbridge Street; often a quarter of an hour went by bringing
no visitor. But after six the street became busier, for with the end
of the working day came more carts and vans and barrows to rest for
the night with their shafts thrust up in the air, after their
particular manner of sleeping. This parking of the peaceful artillery
of the streets Mr. Timmons looked on with dislike, for it brought many
people about the place and no grist to his mill. He shared with poets
and aristocrats the desire for repose and privacy.
As he was about to retire for the long shutters that by night defended
and veiled his treasure from predatory hands or prying eyes, his
enormous left ear became aware that feet were approaching from the end
of the street touching London Road. He turned his pale blue eyes in
the direction of the sound and saw coming along close to the wall the
figure of a low sized stout woman, wearing a black bonnet far off her
forehead. She was apparently about his own age, but except in the
matter of age there was no likeness in the appearance of the two. She
was dressed in shabby black stuff which had long ago forgotten to what
kind of material it belonged. Her appearance was what merciful
newspaper reporters describe as "decent," that is, she was not old or
in tatters, or young and attractive and gaudy in apparel; her clothes
were black and whole, and she was sober. She looked like an humble
monthly nurse or an ideal charwoman. She carried a fish-basket in her
hand. Out of this basket projected the tails of half-a-dozen red
herrings. She had, apparently, once been good-looking, and was now
well-favoured. She had that smooth, cheesy, oily, colourless rounded
face peculiar to well-fed women of the humbler class indigenous in
London.
Mr. Timmons' forehead wrinkled upwards as he recognised the visitor to
Tunbridge Street. He smiled, displaying an imperfect line of long
discoloured teeth.
"Good afternoon," said John Timmons in a deep vibrating voice that
sounded as though it had effected its escape from the cellar through a
drum.
"Afternoon," said the woman entering the store without pausing. Then
nodding her head back in the direction whence she had come she asked:
"Anyone?"
"No," answered Timmons, after a long and careful scrutiny of the
eastern half of Tunbridge Street. "Not a soul."
"I thought I'd never get here. It's mortal hot. Are you sure there is
no one after me?" said the woman, sitting down on a broken fire-grate,
in the rear of the pile of shutters standing up against the wall on
the left. She began rubbing her perspiring glistening face with a
handkerchief of a dun colour rolled up in a damp ball. Still she held
her fish-bag in her hand.
"Certain. Which shows what bad taste the men have. Now, only for Tom I
know you'd have one follower you could never shake off," said Timmons,
with a gallant laugh that sounded alarmingly deeper than his speaking
voice. Timmons was at his ease and leisure, and he made it a point to
be always polite to ladies.
"Tom's at home," said the woman, thrusting the handkerchief into her
pocket and smiling briefly and mechanically in acknowledgment of the
man's compliment to her charms. "I've brought you some fish for your
tea."
"Herrings," he said, bending to examine the protruding tails. "Fresh
herrings, or red?" he asked in a hushed significant voice. He did not
follow the woman into the store, but still stood at the threshold, so
that he could see up and down the street.
"Red," she whispered hoarsely, "and as fine as ever you saw. I thought
you might like them for your tea."
By this time a man with a cart turned into the street, and, it just
then striking six, the door of a factory poured out a living turbid
stream of bedraggled, frowsy girls, some of whom went up and some down
the street, noisily talking and laughing.
"Yes, There is nothing I am so fond of for my tea as red herrings," he
said, with his face half turned to the store, half to the street. "And
I shall like them particularly to-night."
"Eh! Particularly to-night? Are you alone? Are you going to have
company at tea, Mr. Timmons?" asked the woman in a tone and manner of
newly-awakened interest. She now held her fish basket with both hands
in front of her fat body and resting on her shallow lap.
Timmons was standing half-a-dozen yards from her on the threshold. She
could hear his voice quite plainly, notwithstanding the noise in the
street and the fact that he spoke in a muffled tone. While he answered
he kept his mouth partly open, and, because of so doing, spoke with
some indistinctness. It was apparent he did not want people within
sight or hearing to know he was speaking. "No; I am not expecting
anyone to tea, and there is no one here. I am going to have my tea all
by myself. I am very busy just now. I have had a visitor to-day--a few
hours ago----"
"Well," whispered the woman eagerly.
"And _I have the kettle on the boil_, and I am going to put those red
herrings in it for my tea." He was looking with vacant blue eyes down
the street as he spoke. He did not lay stress upon the words, "I have
the kettle on the boil." He uttered them in a lower tone and more
slowly than any others. The emphasis thus given them was very great.
It seemed to startle the woman. She rose partly as if to go to him.
She was fluttered and agreeably fluttered.
"Stay where you are," he said. He seemed to know she had attempted to
rise without turning his eyes upon her. She was half hidden in the
gloom of the store. No casual observer passing by would have noticed
her. She was simply a black shapeless mass on the old fire-grate
against a dingy dark wall in a half light. She might easily be taken
for some of Timmons's stock.
"And," she said, "he'll do it!"
"He will. He's been to Birmingham and has arranged all. They'll take
every bit they can get and pay a good price--twice as much as could be
got otherwise--from anyone else."
"Fine! Tine! You know, Mr. Timmons, how hard it is to find a bit
now, and to get so little for it as we have been handling is very
bad--heartbreaking. It takes all the spirit out of Tom."
"Where did you buy the six herrings?"
"Well," said the woman, with a smile, "I didn't exactly buy them
herrings, though they are as good ones as ever you saw. You see, my
little boys went to the meeting about the votes, or the Niggers, or
the Gospel, or something or other, and they found the herrings growing
on the trees there, ha-ha-ha."
"I know. It was a meeting for trying to get some notion of
Christianity into the heads of the African Blacks. I read about it in
the newspaper this morning. The missionaries and ourselves are much
beholden to the Blacks."
"It was something now I remember about the Blacks. Anyway, they're six
beauties. And can you let me have a little money, Mr. Timmons, for I
must hurry back to Tom with the good news."
"How is Tom? Is he on the drink?"
"No, he isn't."
"That's a bad sign. What's the matter?"
"I don't know, if it isn't going to them Christian meetings about the
Blacks. It's my belief that he'll turn Christian in the end, and you
know, Mr. Timmons, that won't pay _him_."
"Not at Tom's time of life. You must begin that kind of thing young.
There are lots of converted--well sinners, but they don't often make
bishops of even the best of them."
"Well, am I to go? What are you going to give me, Mr. Timmons? When
Tom isn't in a reasonable state of drink there's no standing him. Make
it as much as you can. Say a fiver for luck on the new-found-out."
"I'll give you an order on the Bank of England for a million if you
like, but I can't give you more than ten thousand pounds in
sovereigns, or even half sovereigns, just at this moment, even for the
good of the unfortunate heathen Blacks. But here, anyway, take this
just to keep you going. I haven't landed any fish myself yet."
The woman rose and he handed to her money. Then followed a long,
good-humoured dialogue in which she begged for more, and he firmly,
but playfully, refused her. Then she went away, and Mr. John Timmons
was left once more alone.
He had taken the fish basket from the woman when giving her the money,
and now carried it to the back of the store and descended with, it to
the cellar. He did not remain long below, but soon came trotting up
the ladder, humming a dull air in a deep growl. Then he set himself
briskly to work putting up the shutters, taking them out of the pile
in front of the old fire-grate on which the woman had sat, carrying
each one separately to the front and running it home through the slot.
When all were up, he opened the lower part of one, which hung on
hinges serving as a wicket, and stepped out into the street full from
end to end of the bright, warm evening sunlight.
He rubbed his forehead with the sleeve of his coat and took a
leisurely survey of the street. The noisy girls from the factory had
all disappeared, and the silence of evening was falling upon the
place. A few men busied themselves among the carts and vans and a dull
muffled sound told of the traffic in London Road. The hum of machinery
had ceased, and, contrasted with the noise of an hour ago, the place
was soundless.
John Timmons seemed satisfied with his inspection. He closed the
wicket and retired into the deep gloom of the store. The only light
now in this place entered through holes up high in two shutters. The
holes were no more than a foot square, and were protected by
perforated iron plates. They were intended for ventilating not
lighting the store.
Even in the thick dark air John Timmons was quite independent of
light. He could have found any article in his stock blindfold. He was
no sun-worshipper, nor did he pay divine honours to the moon. A good
thick blinding London fog was his notion of reasonable weather. One
could then do one's business, whatever it might be, without fear of
bright and curious eyes.
He had told his late visitor that he had the kettle on the fire. She
had brought him half-a dozen red herrings and left them with him in a
fish-basket. Now red herrings, differing in this respect from other
kinds of fish, are seldom or never cooked in a kettle, and although
the front of the door was closed and the only visible source of heat
the two ventilators high up in the shutters, the air of the store was
growing already warmer and drier, and although there was no smell of
cooking there was an unmistakable smell of fire.
The owner did not seem in any great hurry to cook and taste his
savoury victuals. He might have meant that the kettle was for tea
merely, and had nothing to do directly with the red herrings. He
fastened the wicket-door very carefully, and then slowly examined the
rear of the shutters one by one, and, holding his eye close to them
here and there, tried if he could spy out, in order to ascertain if
any one could spy in. Then he rested his shoulder against the middle
shutter, leant his head against the panel and, having thrust his hands
deeper than ever into his trousers' pockets, gave up his soul to
listening.
In the meantime the fish basket, with the tails of the six red
herrings sticking out, was lying on the top of the old fire-grate
which had served his visitor as a seat. It had been placed here by
Timmons when he took it from the woman.
A quarter of an hour the man remained thus without moving. Apparently
he was satisfied at last. He stood upright upon his feet, shook
himself, gazed confidently round the store and then walked to the old
fire-grate. He was going to get his tea at last.
He took up the basket, drew out the wooden skewer by which it was
closed, caught the herrings in a bundle and threw them behind him on
the gritty earthen floor.
He opened the bag wide and peered into it. Holding it in his left hand
upon his upraised thigh he thrust his right hand into it and fumbled
about, bending his head down to look the better.
He was on the point of drawing something out when he suddenly paused
and listened motionless.
There was the sound of approaching steps. Timmons stood as still as
death.
Three soft knocks sounded upon the wicket and then, after an interval
of a few seconds, two more knocks still softer.
"It's Stamer himself," cried Timmons, with an imprecation, in a
muffled voice. Then he added: "What does he want? More money? Anyway,
I suppose I must let him in."
He turned round, caught up the scattered red herrings, thrust them
into the bag, fixed it with the skewer, and then threw it carelessly
on the hob of the old grate. Then he went to the wicket, opened it
without speaking, and admitted his second visitor of that evening.
When the new comer was inside the door and the bolt drawn once more,
Timmons said, in a slow angry tone, "Well, Stamer, what do you want?
Is a bargain a bargain? You were not to come here in daylight, and
only in the dark when something of great consequence brought you. I
gave your wife all I will give just now, if we are to go on working on
the co-operative principle. What do you want?"
The low sized, round shouldered man, dressed in fustian and wearing
two gold rings on the little finger of his left hand, said in a
whisper: "The ole 'oman gev me the coin, gov'nor. I don't want no more
till all's right. What I did come about is of consequence, is of the
greatest consequence, gov'nor." He glanced round with furtive eyes,
looking apprehensively in the dim light at everything large enough to
conceal a man.
"What is it? Out with it!" said Timmons impatiently.
"You're going to see this cove to-night?"
"Yes."
"At what o'clock?"
"That's my affair," said Timmons savagely.
"I know it is, Mr. Timmons, but still I'm a bit interested too, if I
understand right the co-operative principle."
"You! What are you interested in so long as you get the coin?"
"In you. I'm powerful interested in you."
"What do you mean?" asked Timmons, frowning.
"Tell me when you're going and I'll tell you."
"Midnight."
"Ah! It will be dark then!"
"What news you tell us. It generally is dark at midnight."
"Are you going to take much of the stuff with you--much of the red
stuff--of the red herrings?"
Timmons drew back a pace with a start and looked at Stamer
suspiciously. "Have you come to save me the trouble? Eh? Would you
like to take it yourself? Eh? Did you come here to rob me? I mean to
share fair. Do you want to throw up the great co-operative principle
and bag all?"
Stamer's eyes winked quickly, and he answered in a tone of sorrow and
reproach: "Don't talk like that, gov'nor. You know I'm a square un, I
am. I'd die for you. Did I ever peach on you when I was in trouble,
gov'nor? It hurts my feelings for you to talk like that! I say, don't
do it, gov'nor. You know I'm square. Tell me how much stuff are you
going to take with you to-night?"
The words and manner of the man indicated extreme sincerity, and
seemed to reassure Timmons. "About two pounds," he answered.
"Oh!" groaned Stamer, shaking his close-cropped head dismally.
"What is the matter with the man? Are you mad? You're not drunk. Your
wife tells me you're not on the drink."
"No. I'm reforming. Drink interferes dreadful with business. It spoils
a man's nerve too. Two pounds is an awful lot."
"What are you driving at, Stamer? You say you're a square man. Well,
as far as I have had to do with you I have found you a square man----"
"And honest?" said Stamer pathetically.
"With me. Yes."
"No man is honest in the way of business."
"Well, well! What is the matter?" said Timmons impatiently; "I've got
the kettle on and must run down. I haven't put in those herrings your
old woman brought yet."
"I know. I'm sorry, gov'nor, for bothering you. I'd give my life for
you. Look here, gov'nor, suppose _he_ is not an honest man, like me.
He isn't in our co-operative plan, you know. Suppose _he_ isn't
particular about how he gets hold of a bit of stuff?"
"And tried to rob me?"
"That's not what I'd mind." He put his hand to the back of his
waistband. "You know what I carry here. Suppose he carries one too?"
"You mean that he may murder me first and rob me after?"
Stamer nodded.
"Well, I'm very much obliged to you, Stamer, indeed I am; but I'm not
a bit afraid, not a bit. Why, he's not much over four feet, and he's a
hunchback as well."
"But hunchbacks can buy tools like this, and a man's inches don't
matter then," moving his hand under his coat.
"I'm not a bit afraid. Not a bit. If that's what you came about it's
all right, and now I _must_ go down. The fire is low by this time, and
I may as well run these out of likeness at once."
He opened the door for Stamer, who, with a doubtful shake of the head,
stepped over the raised threshold and went out. As Stamer sauntered
down Tunbridge Street he muttered to himself, "I'll keep my eye on
this affair anyway."
When the wicket-door was closed Timmons took up the fish-basket, flung
away the red herrings a second time, and descended to the cellar.