"These 'ere fancies is wot tikes me," said Mr. Watlin, helping himself to
his third lemon turnover. "Sub-stantial food is all right. I shouldn't care
to do without meat and the like, but it's the fancies that seems to tickle
all the w'y down. Sub-stantial foods is like hugs, but fancies might come
under the 'ead of kisses--you don't know when you get enough on 'em, hey
Tony? You lika da kiss?"
Tony turned up his palms.
"Oh, no, no, dey are not for a poor fella lak me!"
"Watlin," said Harry, "did you say you were a Kent man?"
"Ay, from Kent, the garden of England."
"Are you related to Carrot Bill Watlin, then?"
"Carrot Bill!" shouted Mr. Watlin, "Carrot Bill! Am I related to 'im? W'y
'e's my uncle, 'e is! And do you know 'im then?"
"I've seen him hundreds of times," said Harry.
"There never was such a feller as Carrot Bill," said Mr. Watlin, turning to
us, "there ain't nobody in Kent can bunch carrots like 'im. W'y, truck-men
from all over the county brings their carrots to Bill to be bunched, afore
they tikes 'em to Covent Garden Market! 'E trims 'em down just so, an' fits
'em together till you'd think they'd growed in bunches. An' they look that
'andsome that they bring a penny more a bunch. An' to fancy you know
'im--well I never! Wot nime was it you said?"
"Harry."
"Ow, I meant your surnime."
"Smith," said Harry, shortly.
"Smith," meditated Mr. Watlin, "I know several Smiths in Kent. You're
likely one on 'em. Well, I must shake 'ands with you for the sake of Carrot
Bill." He reached across the table and grasped Harry's hand in a hearty
shake. Thereupon we drank a health to Carrot Bill in bottled beer; and this
was followed by a toast to Mrs. Handsomebody, which somehow subdued us a
little.
"'Er brother is dead you s'y," reflected Mr. Watlin, "and 'ow hold a man
might 'e be?"
"Blessed if I know," replied Mary Ellen, "but he was years an' years
younger than her. She brought him up, and from what I can find out, he
turned out pretty bad."
"Tck, tck." Mr. Watlin was moved. "It was very sad for the lidy, but 'e's
dead now, poor chap! We must speak no ill of the dead."
"It's a vewy bad fing to be dead," interposed The Seraph, sententiously,
"you can't eat, you can't dwink, an' you just fly 'wound an' 'wound,
lookin' for somefing to light on!"
"Right-o, young gentleman!" said Mr. Watlin, "and put as couldn't be
better. And the moral is, mike the most of our time wot's left!"
"Well, fer my part," sighed Mary Ellen, "I've et so hearty, I feel like as
though I'd a horse settin' on my stomick! Sure I don't know how to move."
"A little pinch of bi-carbonate of soder will hease that, my dear," said
her lover.
"Please, _did_ you bring your fiddle, Mr. Watlin?" pleaded Angel, "won't
you play now?"
"Ah, I lof da fiddle!" said Tony, caressing Anita's little head.
Mr. Watlin, thus importuned, disappeared for a space into the back hall,
whence he finally emerged in his shirt sleeves, carrying the violin under
his arm. We drew our chairs together at one end of the room, and watched
him as he tuned the instrument, frowning sternly the while.
"Lydies and gentleman," said he, "I 'ope you'll pardon me appearing before
you in my waistcoat. I must not be 'ampered you see, wen I manipulate the
bow. I must 'ave freedom. It's a grand thing freedom! Ah!"
"He's gone as far as he can go on the fiddle," explained Mary Ellen to the
company. "Someday he'll give up the butchering business and take to music
thorough."
Mr. Watlin now, with the violin tucked under his chin, began to play in a
very spirited manner. Our pulses beat time to lively polka and schottische
while Mr. Watlin tapped on the carpet with his large foot as he played.
Mary Ellen was wild for a dance, she said.
"Get up and 'ave a gow, then," encouraged Mr. Watlin, "you and 'Arry
there!" But she, for some reason, would not, and Harry was not urgent.
"I can play da fiddle a little," said Tony, as our artist paused for a
rest.
Mr. Watlin clapped him good-humouredly on the shoulder. "Go to it then, my
boy, give us your little tune! I'm out of form tonight, anyw'y." He pushed
the violin patronizingly into Tony's brown hands.
The Italian took it, oh, so lovingly, and, with an apologetic glance at Mr.
Watlin, he tuned the strings to a different pitch. Anita climbed to the
back of his neck.
Then came music, flooding, trickling, laughing, from the bow of Tony! Italy
you could see; and little, half-naked children, playing in the sleepy
street! You could hear the tinkle of donkey bells, and the cooing of
pigeons; you could see Tony's home as he was seeing it, and hear his
sisters singing. It was Spring in Tuscany.
The theme grew sad. It sang of loneliness. A lost child was wandering
through the forest, who could not find his mother. It was very dark beneath
the fir trees, and the wind made the boy shiver. His cry of--Mother!
Mother! echoed in my heart and would not be hushed. I hid my face in the
hollow of my arm and sobbed bitterly.
The music ceased. Harry had me in his arms.
"What's wrong, old fellow, was it something in Tony's music that hurt?"