"I'd been tenant over there"--with a nod towards the ruin--"nine year
an' goin' on for the tenth, when, on a Monday mornin', about this
time o' year, I gets out o' bed at five o'clock an' down to the quay
to have a look at my boat; for 'twas the fag-end of the Equinox, and
ther'd been a 'nation gale blowin' all Sunday and all Sunday night,
an' I thought she might have broke loose from her moorin's.
"The street was dark as your hat and the wind comin' up it like gas
in a pipe, with a brave deal o' rain. But down 'pon the quay day was
breakin'--a sort of blind man's holiday, but enough to see the boat
by; and there she held all right. You know there's two posts 'pon
the town-quay, and another slap opposite the door o' the 'Fifteen
Balls'? Well, just as I turned back home-long, I see a man leanin'
against thicky post like as if he was thinkin', wi' his back to me
and his front to the 'Fifteen Balls' (that was shut, o' course, at
that hour). I must ha' passed within a yard of en, an' couldn'
figure it up how I'd a-missed seein' en. Hows'ever, 'Good-mornin'!'
I calls out, in my well-known hearty manner. But he didn' speak nor
turn. 'Mornin'!' I says again. 'Can 'ee tell me what time 'tis? for
my watch is stopped'--which was a lie; but you must lie now and then,
to be properly sociable.
"Well, he didn' answer; so I went on to say that the 'Fifteen Balls'
wudn' be open for another dree hour; and then I walked slap up to en,
and says what the Wicked Man said to the black pig. 'You'm a queer
Christian,' I says, 'not to speak. What's your name at all?
And let's see your ugly face.'
"With that he turned his face; an' by the man! I wished mysel'
further. 'Twas a great white face, all parboiled, like a woman's
hands on washin' day. An' there was bits o' sticks an' chips o'
sea-weed stuck in his whiskers, and a crust o' salt i' the chinks of
his mouth; an' his eyes, too, glarin' abroad from great rims o' salt.
"Off I sheered, not azackly runnin', but walkin' pretty much like a
Torpointer; an' sure 'nough the fellow stood up straight and began to
follow close behind me. I heard the water go squish-squash in his
shoon, every step he took. By this, I was fairly leakin' wi' sweat.
After a bit, hows'ever, at the corner o' Higman's store, he dropped
off; an' lookin' back after twenty yards more, I saw him standin'
there in the dismal grey light like a dog that can't make up his mind
whether to follow or no. For 'twas near day now, an' his face plain
at that distance. Fearin' he'd come on again, I pulled hot foot the
few steps between me an' home. But when I came to the door, I went
cold as a flounder.
"The fellow had got there afore me. There he was, standin' 'pon my
door-step--wi' the same gashly stare on his face, and his lips a
lead-colour in the light.
"The sweat boiled out o' me now. I quavered like a leaf, and my hat
rose 'pon my head. 'For the Lord's sake, stand o' one side,' I
prayed en; 'do'ee now, that's a dear!' But he wudn' budge; no, not
though I said several holy words out of the Mornin' Service.
"'Drabbet it!' says I, 'let's try the back door. Why didn' I think
'pon that afore?' And around I runs.
"There 'pon the back door-step was a woman!--an' pretty well as
gashly as the man. She was just a 'natomy of a woman, wi' the lines
of her ribs showin' under the gown, an' a hot red spot 'pon either
cheek-bone, where the skin was stretched tight as a drum. She looked
not to ha' fed for a year; an', if you please, she'd a needle and
strip o' calico in her hands, sewin' away all the while her eyes were
glarin' down into mine.
"But there was a trick I minded in the way she worked her mouth, an'
says I, 'Missus Polwarne, your husband's a-waitin' for 'ee, round by
the front door.'
"'Aw, is he indeed?' she answers, holdin' her needle for a moment--
an' her voice was all hollow, like as if she pumped it up from a
fathom or two. 'Then, if he knows what's due to his wife, I'll
trouble en to come round,' she says; 'for this here's the door _I_
mean to go in by.'"
But at this point Simon asserts very plausibly that he swooned off;
so it is not known how they settled it.
[This story is true, as anyone who cares may assure himself by
referring to Robert Hunt's "Drolls of the West of England," p. 357.]