He had passed through the door with extreme celerity and was already
cantering passionately in pursuit of Mr. Horace Dobb. Speedily catching
up with his quarry, Mr. Tridge seized him and charged him with the
blackest of treachery towards an unsuspecting friend. Mr. Dobb, but
slightly stirred by the accusation, obliquely admitted its truth by
regretting that Mr. Tridge should so soon have learnt the truth about Mr.
Burch.
“But—but what did you want to play me a trick like that _for_?” roared
Mr. Tridge.
“Why, because you’d never else ’ave dared to do what you did,” calmly
replied Mr. Dobb. “You said yourself you’d ’ave nothing whatever to do
with prize-fighters. That’s why I ’ad to take all the trouble to make up
all that yarn I told you about Jevvings being a wild young chap of this
town. Otherwise I’d never have brought you up to the scratch.”
“Well, you don’t suppose I’m going any further with it, do you?” demanded
Mr. Tridge. “_No_ fear!”
“Oh, but you can’t back out now, Joe!” argued Mr. Dobb. “It ’ud look so
silly and cowardly if you backed out now.”
“I don’t care ’ow it _looks_ if I back out! I know ’ow it will _feel_ if
I _don’t_ back out, anyway! I can’t think what possessed you to play
such a silly trick on me! Getting me to agree to stand up to a
professional boxer under false pretences! Why, I’ve half a mind—”
Mr. Dobb, beseeching Mr. Tridge to maintain calm, now promised to impart
the exact truth of the matter, prefacing his statement with a catalogue
of grisly things which he said he hoped would happen to him if he
diverged from complete veracity by as much as a hair-breadth.
He admitted that Mr. Burch, otherwise Mr. Jevvings, was a pugilist of
some prominence with a deserved fame for neat and businesslike finishes
to his bouts. It was, it transpired, the aim and ideal of Mr. Burch to
put a similarly neat and businesslike finish to his forthcoming encounter
with Mr. William Traske, of Birmingham. And, indeed, there was not the
slightest doubt of Mr. Burch’s ability to do so. Unfortunately, there
were others who held the same confidence as to the result, and this
materially affected the betting on the issue of the match. In short, so
overwhelmingly was Mr. Burch the favourite that it had become a matter of
extreme difficulty to find anyone willing to bet against him, no matter
how tempting the odds.
In these circumstances, it was thought expedient that something should
transpire to lessen the popularity of Mr. Burch in betting circles. The
landlord of the “Rose and Crown,” a party vested with considerable
financial interests in Mr. Burch, had talked the matter over with other
supporters, and together they had agreed on a plan. Further, the
landlord of the “Rose and Crown,” being a close friend of Mr. Dobb’s and
conversant with his abilities for organization, had called him in counsel
and enlisted his services in the matter.
Briefly the scheme was this. Mr. Burch was to become involved in a
quarrel with a local nobody, and to agree to settle the difference with
boxing-gloves. Mr. Burch was to perform but indifferently at this match,
failing to make the most of opportunities, and not getting in the
knock-out blow till the twentieth round. There were spies in the Burch
camp, and this strange remissness of his would indubitably be reported
leading to a resurgence of confidence among the supporters of Mr. Traske,
and so creating a profitable reaction on the betting market.
“But they’ll twig it’s a put-up job,” contended Mr. Tridge.
“No, they won’t, not them! You see, the affair’s supposed to be kept
very quiet. Of course, it’s really a matter of hadvertisement, to
hadvertise that Burch ’as gone dead off form; but seeing that it’s a
personal matter ’e’s fighting about, they’ll never dream ’e ain’t in
earnest.”
Here, then, concluded Mr. Dobb, was the real office that Mr. Tridge was
required to fill, and the only difference in it to that which he had
aforetime imagined it to be was that he was expected to stand up to a
professional boxer of proved ability, instead of a mere amateur of
indifferent skill.
“The fighting part’s just the same,” pointed out Mr. Dobb. “You’ve only
got to let ’im play about with you for a bit, and the twenty quid is
yours.”
“_Play about_?” echoed Mr. Tridge.
“That’s all, Joe,” said Mr. Dobb, reassuringly. “And you get twenty quid
for it. It’s a big sum, but I know we can rely on you to keep your mouth
shut. And ’ere’s the ‘Jolly Sailors’—let’s turn in and talk it over
quietly.”
This they proceeded to do, though, as time progressed, they talked less
and less quietly. Mr. Dobb, after drawing over and over again an
agreeable mental picture wherein Mr. Tridge, for a few paltry taps on the
nose, was rewarded with a hair-dressing business of his very own, at
length won the admission from his friend that it seemed worth it, after
all.
“’Course it is,” affirmed Mr. Dobb. “You can take a bit of punishment,
can’t you?”
“I can _take_ it all right,” acquiesced Mr. Tridge. “The worst of it is
that I always takes it faster than I gives it.”
“Besides, Joe, ’e won’t ’it you very ’ard,” wheedled Mr. Dobb. “You see
’e’s got to give the idea that ’e’s out of form. And it won’t be till
the twentieth round that ’e knocks you out, so you’ll ’ave plenty of time
to get used to the idea.”
“And I might go down of my own haccord in the nineteenth,” said Mr.
Tridge, brightly. “Then ’e won’t ’ave a chance to put me properly to
sleep.”
So that, when at length the law of the land compelled the “Jolly Sailors”
to be churlish with its hospitality, Mr. Tridge had promised that no
effort should be lacking on his part to crown the match with success, and
he and his old shipmate parted on the best of terms.
Next morning, however, Mr. Tridge’s courage had suffered a relapse.
Calling on Mr. Dobb at an early hour, he proclaimed his intention to
abjure the match. In vain did Mr. Dobb fawn upon him with honeyed words;
in vain did Mr. Dobb conjure up for him a splendid vision of a barber’s
shop with “J. Tridge” in big letters over the door. Mr. Tridge was
obdurate to mere verbal blandishments. It was only when Mr. Dobb, in
desperation, offered to come with him and enter into pourparlers for
early occupation of the little shop Mr. Tridge knew to be standing empty,
that that unwilling gladiator again agreed to hold to the terms of his
contract.
And even then he managed things with so adroit a reluctance that, before
the day was over, Mr. Dobb, to clinch matters more effectually, was
jockeyed into standing surety for the rent of the little shop, so that
Mr. Tridge could enter into tenancy straightway.
For the next twenty-four hours Mr. Tridge was occupied with pails and
brooms, getting his establishment into order, to the exclusion of all
thoughts about the impending combat. That night, however, he was too
tired to sleep, and next morning he again sought out Mr. Dobb to place
his resignation in his hands. But Mr. Dobb treated the crisis
diplomatically by advancing him the wherewithal to purchase sundry
implements of the hair-dressing profession. And, after that, Mr. Tridge
could not but vow that he would cause no further concern of mind, and
this promise he loyally kept.
None the less a marked moodiness of manner overcame him as the day of the
encounter drew near, and often his deportment was that of a man doomed to
early disintegration. To cheer him, Mr. Dobb contrived for him a secret
meeting with Mr. Burch, who revealed himself as quite an amiable young
gentleman, and promised Mr. Tridge that he should receive no real hurt
until the final blow of the contest.
“And that,” interpolated Mr. Dobb, encouragingly, “you won’t be in your
senses to feel, Joe, for more than a millionth part of a second, so you
needn’t worry about that.”
And so we come to the day of the meeting, with Mr. Tridge, now visibly a
prey to the direst forebodings, and with but a pathetic interest in his
hairdressing shop, ready for immediate opening. For hours Mr. Tridge had
gazed round the tiny place, sighing profoundly, as one who has achieved
an aim too late in life, or else he had fondled the shining new
implements reverently, as if already they were relics.
Mr. Dobb did his best to dissipate these mournful fears, reporting to Mr.
Tridge that his financial share in the affair was abundantly secure, and
that as soon after the conclusion of the contest as Mr. Tridge was able
to think clearly, the landlord of the “Rose and Crown” was empowered to
pay out to Mr. Tridge twenty pounds, less the amount already advanced by
Mr. Dobb. And also Horace had endeavoured to stimulate Mr. Tridge’s
interest in life by causing to be affixed to the wall of the place of
meeting a huge poster which announced the imminent opening of the
Magnolia Toilet Saloon (proprietor, J. Tridge), Bridge Street,
Shorehaven. At six o’clock that evening Mr. Tridge was disturbed in a
singularly vain effort to secure a little refreshing slumber, and was
called upon to receive Mr. Peter Lock. Mr. Lock, at the earnest request
of his old shipmate, had consented to act as Mr. Tridge’s second, and by
way of inculcating the proper bright spirit in his principal with a
little facetiousness, he now entered the apartment with slow, measured
tread, and with extraordinary gravity of mien.
“Joseph Tridge,” announced Mr. Lock, sepulchrally, “your hour is come!”
“Don’t go making a mock of sacred things!” irritably requested Mr.
Tridge. “It ain’t funny—not at this minute.”
“Joseph Tridge,” droned on Mr. Lock, undeterred, in the same hollow
tones, “have you made your will?”
“It so ’appens,” snapped Mr. Tridge, “I ’ave! This very hafternoon!
Thanks be I ain’t left nothing to grinning i-i-enas!”
Mr. Lock, perceiving that Mr. Tridge’s nerves were not yet keyed to
appreciation of personal badinage, now endeavoured to rally him by
narrating to him a number of droll anecdotes, all of which Mr. Tridge
received in stony silence. Mr. Lock was still indefatigably endeavouring
to cheer his principal when the stout and venerable Mr. Samuel Clark made
his appearance.
Mr. Clark essayed no levity of conversation. On the contrary, he crossed
in silence to Mr. Tridge and gravely clasped his hand. This done, he
patted Mr. Tridge on the shoulder with deep sympathy, shook his hand
again, and then sat down with a long, deep sigh.
“Cheerful, _you_ are!” growled Mr. Tridge. “What do you think you’ve
come to—a fooneral?”
“Oh, no; not yet—not yet, Joe!” Mr. Clark made haste to reply. “But I
must say I ’ad a most hextryordinary dream about you to-day. Most
hextryordinary! I dreamed you was killed in this ’ere fight. Funny
thing I should dream that, wasn’t it?”
“_Funny_?” fulminated Mr. Tridge.
“Anyway,” interposed Mr. Lock, “dreams always goes by contraries. It’ll
be the other chap what’ll—”
“In my dream,” said Mr. Clark, “the other chap was so overcome by ’orror
that ’e ’anged ’isself. So there you are—take your choice!”
For some moments Mr. Tridge sat apparently considering the selection.
Then suddenly he rose and looked sadly in the mirror, and next he went
slowly round the room, gazing at every article as though in tender
farewell. Finally, shaking his head, he passed out of the apartment,
and, followed by Mr. Clark and Mr. Lock, made his way to the “Rose and
Crown.”
Here he found Mr. Dobb, who professed keen relief at sight of him, and
forthwith conducted him to a dressing-room attached to the arena. Mr.
Lock now offered to his principal much sage advice with regard to the
coming contest; but Mr. Tridge was too occupied in his own mournful
meditations to give useful heed.
“What—not dressed yet?” asked Horace, in surprise, entering the cubicle
presently. “Why, you’ll be late! The ’all’s packed to overflowing, and
there’s three chaps fell through the skylight already!”
As one in a dream Mr. Tridge began to disrobe and, later, to habit
himself in the athletic garb Horace had procured for him.
“Now, come along!” ordered Horace, impatiently. “And for goodness’ sake,
Joe, stop your knees from rattling so loud, else the referee won’t be
able to ’ear ’isself speak! And do try to look ’appier!”
“I can’t!” confessed Mr. Tridge.
And now events marched through a haze to meet Mr. Tridge. He was aware
of being pushed on to a platform by Mr. Lock’s shoulder, of being
introduced to a crowded audience, of being fitted with enormous gloves.
He heard plaudits greet his name, and would automatically have smiled his
acknowledgments had he had the least control over his features. He saw
the graceful, well-knit, frame of his adversary vividly super-imposed, as
it were, on a cloud made up of seconds and attendants.
“Time!” declared an authoritative voice. Mr. Clark breathed on Mr.
Tridge a final cheery but unteetotal wish for his good luck; Mr. Lock
gave him a shove; and he found himself facing his opponent. He caught a
glimpse of the Magnolia Shaving Saloon advertisement, and he
subconsciously wondered whether a ceremonial black shutter had been
included among the stock and fixtures.
Mr. Jevvings bore down on him, glove outstretched, for the etiquette of
handshaking. As hand met hand, Mr. Jevvings winked surreptitiously at
Mr. Tridge in token of remembrance of the terms of the secret treaty. A
sudden alertness illumined Mr. Tridge’s mind.
And as Mr. Jevvings carelessly stepped back from the handshake, Mr.
Tridge’s left arm shot out, unexpectedly and violently and accurately.
With a terrific impact it landed squarely on the jaw of the unprepared
Mr. Jevvings.
Mr. Jevvings momentarily had the illusion of sailing skyward. Then he
landed on the floor with a resounding thud.
Mr. Tridge, palpitating almost tearfully ’twixt fear and hope, hovered
near him; but he lay there inert, and they counted him out. And so
Shorehaven’s most sensational boxing-bout came to an abrupt end at its
very start.
Again high emotion wrapped a mist around Mr. Tridge, but now it was
tinged with a roseate hue, for, lo! the fight was over and he was still
alive, and, more wonderful still, uninjured. This alone he could
apprehend with the forefront of his mind, but remoter regions of his
brain took heed that there was cheering and drinking and speeches; there
was abject worship from the stout Mr. Clark, warm commendation from Mr.
Peter Lock. And, most gratifying of all, there was public presentation
of the residue of the twenty pounds, correct to a penny, and also there
was a collection which a dazed but approving audience supported to the
extent of eleven pounds four and six.
Within an hour Mr. Tridge was being lionized in the bar-parlour. Men
strove for the honour of buying drinks for him, feeling well repaid if he
recognized their existence in return. Quite plutocratic people vied with
each other for the privilege of speaking deferentially to him, and
importantly bade each other hush when he condescended to voice his
opinions on any subject. For Mr. Tridge had won a battle in record time
against the wildest expectation, and was now a hero and had raised
himself into the ranks of the Temporary Immortals.
Mr. Dobb alone appeared out of sympathy with the popular mood for
acclamation. For some while he sat silently watching Mr. Tridge among
his courtiers. At last, unable to repress his emotions any longer, he
rose and led Mr. Tridge into the obscurity of the passage outside.
“What the dooce did you do it for?” irascibly demanded Horace.
“It was a hinspiration,” said Mr. Tridge, modestly. “Just as the start
was called, I looked up and I see that hadvertisement of my saloon.
Somehow it come into my ’ead all in a flash what you said about the match
being all a matter of hadvertisement, and a idea come to me that almost
blinded me. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t get the hadvertisement for me
and my saloon. I could see ’ow everybody ’ud troop up to be shaved by a
chap what ’ad knocked out Toff Burch of Swindon. I could see ’ow useful
my reppytation would be to keep customers in order when they complained
if I cut ’em. And then I done it. Almost before I could think ’ow I was
to do it, I done it. I knew I shouldn’t get a better chance, I knew ’e
wouldn’t be troubling at all and that ’e wasn’t hexpecting me to do
anything, and I done it. And it come off.”
“’E’ll ’alf kill you for it later on,” prophesied Mr. Dobb, with
malevolent satisfaction.
“Oh, no, ’e won’t! I’ve ’ad a chat with ’im since ’e come round. ’E was
pretty sore about it, ’e owned, but ’e don’t so much mind now. For why?
Already they’re hoffering three to one against ’im for ’is match with
Traske of Birmingham. So ’e’s quite satisfied, after all. And I’ve took
care to see that I ain’t hexpected to meet ’im again, because I’ve been
telling every one I’d made a vow long ago to give up boxing for hever
from this night forth, and they all agrees with me that I couldn’t ’ave
made a better end-up.”
“Well, every one else may be satisfied, but _I_ ain’t,” said Mr. Dobb, a
little awkwardly. “I’ll tell you for why. Knowing ’ow things was
planned I’d been making a good lot of bets at long odds on this
match—fourteen pounds in all—against you, of course. And, seeing as
you’ve upset everything, I reckon it ’ud only be friendly and fair, out
of your collection and so forth, to make good a bit of my loss to me.”
“Come round to-morrow when I open,” invited Mr. Tridge, happily, “and you
shall be the first customer and I’ll shave you free. There!”
“Don’t try to get out of it like that, Joe. Fair’s fair! If you’d done
what you was hexpected to I’d ’ave made money. As it is, I’ve lost it.
And you’ve got your collection, and the rest of your twenty quid, and—”
“And I’ve got a motter, too, ’Orace,” said Mr. Tridge, softly, turning to
the door of the bar-parlour. “_It’s the same as yours_,” he ended, with
a grin, as he returned to adulation.
_EPISODE VI_
“ALL’S FAIR—”
The single, succinct phrase, “Doings!” linked to an address and an hour,
had been passed round among the former shipmates of that obsolete vessel
the “Jane Gladys,” and this slogan, acting much after the manner of a
Fiery Cross, had immediately rallied the old confederacy to a ready
eagerness to stand shoulder to shoulder again to take toll of the world
by the exercise of those devious methods at which they were so expert.
And now here, in the cosy back parlour of the little shop in Fore Street,
was assembled that quartet upon whom long companionship in the “Jane
Gladys” had conferred a sinister brotherhood in ignoble aims and
disreputable ambitions; and though each member had passed into a
divergent class of shore-abiding life, it was plain that they were all
still closely united by a common passion for petty intrigue.
Informal presidency over the meeting was exercised by Mr. Horace Dobb.
At Mr. Dobb’s right hand sat the trim and debonair Mr. Peter Lock. On
Mr. Dobb’s left was the corpulent and venerable Mr. Samuel Clark, who, by
virtue of his appointment of ferryman across the mouth of Shorehaven
Harbour, still preserved some remnant of his former nautical environment.
Opposite to Mr. Dobb was Mr. Joseph Tridge, who had fortuitously laid
aside his maritime jersey to wear a cotton overall in that hairdressing
shop which Fate and force had secured for him.
Despite the stimulating and still undisclosed purpose for which the
assemblage had been convened, the opening stages of the reunion were
largely made up of spaces of vaunting autobiography, contributed by each
of the members in a jostling, ill-disciplined way, sometimes separately,
but usually in a pressing, conflicting chorus.
Thus Mr. Clark recounted, with great glee, as an example of his acumen,
an anecdote concerning a foreign client who was unfamiliar both with the
British system of coinage and the current rate of payment for passage on
a ferry-boat. Mr. Tridge, in a similar boastful spirit, rehearsed some
of his most successful retorts to customers who complained of dull razors
or blunt scissors or intrusive lather-brushes. Mr. Dobb, for his part,
supplied glowing accounts of the profits to be derived from the
second-hand business by a man who was neither unperceptive nor too
scrupulously honest and Mr. Lock, not to be overshadowed, revealed many
hitherto unsuspected ways by which a billiard-marker might add
substantially to his income.
And so the time wore on very pleasantly, till at last Mr. Dobb, looking
pointedly at the clock, cleared his throat, and leaning his folded arms
on the table, patently assumed a waiting attitude. Instantly a hush
intervened, and something of an electric thrill coursed through this old
and tried combination of small adventurers, for the time for
consideration of serious business was come.
“Well, ’ere we are,” said Mr. Dobb, gazing round on his fellows, “all
well and truly hestablished in the town of Shore’aven, like we’ve always
’oped and planned. Sitting round bragging about our cleverness is all
very well, but you know my motter, don’t you?”
“‘Strictly business!’” supplied Mr. Tridge. “And I only wish I ’ad ’alf
the friendly pints together it must ’ave saved you!”
“It’s a good motter,” said Mr. Dobb, equably. “It’s saved me a lot of
talk, anyway, when you chaps ’ave dropped round on the chance of
borrering a bob or two. ‘Strictly business!’—that’s got to be the motter
for all of us, from now on. We’ve only to work together, and we can make
ourselves ’ated for twenty miles round Shore’aven.”
“We used to be ’ated for a ’undred miles round the poor old ‘Jane
Gladys,’” recalled Mr. Tridge, regretfully.
“‘Strictly business!’—that’s got to be one of our motters,” continued Mr.
Dobb. “And the other must be ‘’Elp one another!’”
“Well, I like that!” exploded Mr. Clark. “And only the day before
yesterday you refused to let me ’ave a cracked old second-’and teapot on
credit!”
“And now ’ere we are, all hassembled for a trial trip, so to speak,” said
Mr. Dobb, blandly ignoring the interruption. “If we work it right,
there’s a couple of quid in it for each of you.”
“And what do _you_ take?” demanded Mr. Tridge.
“I take the risk,” answered Mr. Dobb, simply.
“Oh, well, what’s the hidea, anyway?” asked Mr. Lock. “The boss ’as only
given me one night off from the saloon, so I can’t stop here till
to-morrow while you and Joe gets arguing as to whether you’re a miser or
a philanthro-what-is-it! I suppose you’ve got some notion to put before
us? You generally have.”
“And I ’ave now.” Mr. Dobb assured him. “A good ’un, too! You know old
George Pincott?”
“The chap what’s lately started in the second-hand business in opposition
to you?” returned Mr. Lock. “Aye, I know him. He often drops in at our
place for a game of billiards.”
“I know ’e does,” admitted Mr. Dobb. “I’ve been taking that into
account.”
“I know ’im, too,” put in Mr. Tridge. “’E comes round to me every day
for a shave.”
“So I understand,” said Mr. Dobb, dryly.
“’E’s doing pretty well for a new-comer, too, ain’t ’e?” queried Mr.
Clark, not without suspicion of relish.
“Too jolly well!” declared Mr. Dobb.
“’E wouldn’t buy my carumgorum studs off of me, though,” mentioned Mr.
Clark, as though this were a circumstance that disproved Mr. Pincott’s
business inefficiency. “Three chances I give ’im, too, to say nothing of
leaving ’em at ’is shop for four days for ’im to make up ’is mind. ’E
was out when I left ’em.”
“Oh, ’e ain’t a fool, not by no means!” observed Mr. Dobb. “Well, and
now do you know Mr. Simon Lister?”
“I know hof ’im,” volunteered Mr. Clark. “’E’s that old chap what lives
in the big new ’ouse along the London road, what used to be something in
the hoil and colour line.”
“That’s the chap,” accepted Mr. Dobb. “’E come into a fortune,
unexpected, about a year ago. ’E’s one of my regular customers.”
“What! you don’t mean to say a rich old chap like that drops around with
old iron and odd crockery to sell to you?” cried Mr. Tridge, in surprise.
“Oh, no!” corrected Mr. Dobb, a trifle loftily. “’E belongs to the hart
section of my business. He buys off of me; ’e don’t sell. ’E buys china
and vallyble hornyments and so forth. A collector, ’e is, only the
better kind. What they calls a connosher. ’E only goes in for good
stuff.”
“And ’e buys it off of _you_?” asked Mr. Tridge, incredulous.
Momentarily Mr. Dobb’s eye drooped.
“’E don’t know so very much about hart,” he observed. “’E goes very
largely by what I tells ’im.”
“And what do _you_ know about hart?” asked Mr. Lock, gaping.