“So ’e is,” ses Joe. “When I say I’ve seen ’im I mean that I ’ave seen
his ghost!”
He began to shiver agin, all over.
“Wot was it like?” I ses, very calm.
“Like Sam,” he ses, rather short.
“When was it?” I ses.
“Last night at a quarter to twelve,” he ses. “It was standing at my
front door waiting for me.”
“And ’ave you been shivering like that ever since?” I ses.
“Worse than that,” ses Joe, looking at me very ’ard. “It’s wearing off
now. The ghost gave me a message for you.”
I put my ’and in my trowsis-pocket and looked at ’im. Then I walked
very slow, towards the gate.
“It gave me a message for you,” ses Joe, walking beside me. “‘We was
always pals, Joe,’” it ses, “‘you and me, and I want you to pay up
fifteen bob for me wot I borrowed off of Bill the watchman. I can’t
rest until it’s paid,’ it ses. So here’s the fifteen bob, watchman.”
He put his ’and in ’is pocket and takes out fifteen bob and ’olds it
out to me.
“No, no,” I ses. “I can’t take your money, Joe Peel. It wouldn’t be
right. Pore Sam is welcome to the fifteen bob—I don’t want it.”
“You must take it,” ses Joe. “The ghost said if you didn’t it would
come to me agin and agin till you did, and I can’t stand any more of
it.”
“I can’t ’elp your troubles,” I ses.
“You must,” ses Joe. “‘Give Bill the fifteen bob,’ it ses, ‘and he’ll
give you a gold watch and chain wot I gave ’im to mind till it was
paid.’”
I see his little game then. “Gold watch and chain,” I ses, laughing.
“You must ha’ misunderstood it, Joe.”
“I understood it right enough,” ses Joe, getting a bit closer to me as
I stepped outside the gate. “Here’s your fifteen bob; are you going to
give me that watch and chain?”
“Sartainly not,” I ses. “I don’t know wot you mean by a watch and
chain. If I ’ad it and I gave it to anybody, I should give it to Sam’s
widder, not to you.”
“It’s nothing to do with ’er,” ses Joe, very quick. “Sam was most
pertikler about that.”
“I expect you dreamt it all,” I ses. “Where would pore Sam get a gold
watch and chain from? And why should ’e go to you about it? Why didn’t
’e come to me? If ’e thinks I ’ave got it let ’im come to me.”
“All right, I’ll go to the police-station,” ses Joe.
“I’ll come with you,” I ses. “But ’ere’s a policeman coming along.
Let’s go to ’im.”
I moved towards ’im, but Joe hung back, and, arter using one or two
words that would ha’ made any ghost ashamed to know ’im, he sheered
off. I ’ad a word or two with the policeman about the weather, and then
I went inside and locked the gate.
My idea was that Sam ’ad told Joe about the watch and chain afore he
fell overboard. Joe was a nasty customer, and I could see that I should
’ave to be a bit careful. Some men might ha’ told the police about
it—but I never cared much for them. They’re like kids in a way, always
asking questions—most of which you can’t answer.
It was a little bit creepy all alone on the wharf that night. I don’t
deny it. Twice I thought I ’eard something coming up on tip-toe behind
me. The second time I was so nervous that I began to sing to keep my
spirits up, and I went on singing till three of the hands of the Susan
Emily, wot was lying alongside, came up from the fo’c’sle and offered
to fight me. I was thankful when daylight came.
Five nights arterwards I ’ad the shock of my life. It was the fust
night for some time that there was no craft up. A dark night, and a
nasty moaning sort of a wind. I ’ad just lighted the lamp at the corner
of the warehouse, wot ’ad blown out, and was sitting down to rest afore
putting the ladder away, when I ’appened to look along the jetty and
saw a head coming up over the edge of it. In the light of the lamp I
saw the dead white face of Sam Bullet’s ghost making faces at me.
[Illustration: In the light of the lamp I saw the dead white face of
Sam Bullet’s ghost making faces at me.]
I just caught my breath, sharp like, and then turned and ran for the
gate like a race-horse. I ’ad left the key in the padlock, in case of
anything happening, and I just gave it one turn, flung the wicket open
and slammed it in the ghost’s face, and tumbled out into the road.
I ran slap into the arms of a young policeman wot was passing. Nasty,
short-tempered chap he was, but I don’t think I was more glad to see
anybody in my life. I hugged ’im till ’e nearly lost ’is breath, and
then he sat me down on the kerb-stone and asked me wot I meant by it.
Wot with the excitement and the running I couldn’t speak at fust, and
when I did he said I was trying to deceive ’im.
“There ain’t no such thing as ghosts,” he ses; “you’ve been drinking.”
“It came up out o’ the river and run arter me like the wind,” I ses.
“Why didn’t it catch you, then?” he ses, looking me up and down and all
round about. “Talk sense.”
He went up to the gate and peeped in, and, arter watching a moment,
stepped inside and walked down the wharf, with me follering. It was my
dooty; besides, I didn’t like being left all alone by myself.
Twice we walked up and down and all over the wharf. He flashed his
lantern into all the dark corners, into empty barrels and boxes, and
then he turned and flashed it right into my face and shook his ’ead at
me.
“You’ve been having a bit of a lark with me,” he ses, “and for two pins
I’d take you. Mind, if you say a word about this to anybody, I will.”
He stalked off with his ’ead in the air, and left me all alone in
charge of a wharf with a ghost on it. I stayed outside in the street,
of course, but every now and then I fancied I heard something moving
about the other side of the gate, and once it was so distinct that I
run along to the Bear’s Head and knocked ’em up and asked them for a
little brandy, for illness.
I didn’t get it, of course; I didn’t expect to; but I ’ad a little
conversation with the landlord from ’is bedroom-winder that did me more
good than the brandy would ha’ done. Once or twice I thought he would
’ave fallen out, and many a man has ’ad his licence taken away for less
than a quarter of wot ’e said to me that night. Arter he thought he ’ad
finished and was going back to bed agin, I pointed out to ’im that he
’adn’t kissed me “good night,” and if it ’adn’t ha’ been for ’is missis
and two grown-up daughters and the potman I believe he’d ha’ talked to
me till daylight.
’Ow I got through the rest of the night I don’t know. It seemed to be
twenty nights instead of one, but the day came at last, and when the
hands came on at six o’clock they found the gate open and me on dooty
same as usual.
I slept like a tired child when I got ’ome, and arter a steak and
onions for dinner I sat down and lit my pipe and tried to think wot was
to be done. One thing I was quite certain about: I wasn’t going to
spend another night on that wharf alone.
I went out arter a bit, as far as the Clarendon Arms, for a breath of
fresh air, and I ’ad just finished a pint and was wondering whether I
ought to ’ave another, when Ted Dennis came in, and my mind was made
up. He ’ad been in the Army all ’is life, and, so far, he ’ad never
seen anything that ’ad frightened ’im. I’ve seen him myself take on men
twice ’is size just for the love of the thing, and, arter knocking them
silly, stand ’em a pint out of ’is own pocket. When I asked ’im whether
he was afraid of ghosts he laughed so ’ard that the landlord came from
the other end of the bar to see wot was the matter.
I stood Ted a pint, and arter he ’ad finished it I told ’im just how
things was. I didn’t say anything about the watch and chain, because
there was no need to, and when we came outside agin I ’ad engaged an
assistant-watchman for ninepence a night.
“All you’ve got to do,” I ses, “is to keep me company. You needn’t turn
up till eight o’clock of a night, and you can leave ’arf an hour afore
me in the morning.”
“Right-o!” ses Ted. “And if I see the ghost I’ll make it wish it ’ad
never been born.”
It was a load off my mind, and I went ’ome and ate a tea that made my
missis talk about the work-’ouse, and orstritches in ’uman shape wot
would eat a woman out of ’ouse and ’ome if she would let ’em.
I got to the wharf just as it was striking six, and at a quarter to
seven the wicket was pushed open gentle and the ugly ’ead of Mr. Joe
Peel was shoved inside.
“Hullo!” I ses. “Wot do you want?”
“I want to save your life,” he ses, in a solemn voice. “You was within
a inch of death last night, watchman.”
“Oh!” I ses, careless-like. “’Ow do you know?”
“The ghost o’ Sam Bullet told me,” ses Joe. “Arter it ’ad chased you up
the wharf screaming for ’elp, it came round and told me all about it.”
“It seems fond of you,” I ses. “I wonder why?”
“It was in a terrible temper,” ses Joe, “and its face was awful to look
at. ‘Tell the watchman,’ it ses, ‘that if he don’t give you the watch
and chain I shall appear to ’im agin and kill ’im.’”
“All right,” I ses, looking behind me to where three of the ’ands of
the Daisy was sitting on the fo’c’sle smoking. “I’ve got plenty of
company to-night.”
“Company won’t save you,” ses Joe. “For the last time, are you going to
give me that watch and chain, or not? Here’s your fifteen bob.”
“No,” I ses; “even if I ’ad got it I shouldn’t give it to you; and it’s
no use giving’ it to the ghost, because, being made of air, he ’asn’t
got anywhere to put it.”
“Very good,” ses Joe, giving me a black look. “I’ve done all I can to
save you, but if you won’t listen to sense, you won’t. You’ll see Sam
Bullet agin, and you’ll not on’y lose the watch and chain but your life
as well.”
“All right,” I ses, “and thank you kindly, but I’ve got an assistant,
as it ’appens—a man wot wants to see a ghost.”
“An’ assistant?” ses Joe, staring.
“An old soldier,” I ses. “A man wot likes trouble and danger. His idea
is to shoot the ghost and see wot ’appens.”
“Shoot!” ses Joe. “Shoot a pore ’armless ghost. Does he want to be
’ung? Ain’t it enough for a pore man to be drownded, but wot you must
try and shoot ’im arterwards? Why, you ought to be ashamed o’ yourself.
Where’s your ’art?”
“It won’t be shot if it don’t come on my wharf,” I ses. “Though I don’t
mind if it does when I’ve got somebody with me. I ain’t afraid of
anything living, and I don’t mind ghosts when there’s two of us.
Besides which, the noise of the pistol ’ll wake up ’arf the river.”
“You take care you don’t get woke up,” ses Joe, ’ardly able to speak
for temper.
He went off stamping, and grinding ’is teeth, and at eight o’clock to
the minute, Ted Dennis turned up with ’is pistol and helped me take
care of the wharf. Happy as a skylark ’e was, and to see him ’iding
behind a barrel with his pistol ready, waiting for the ghost, a’most
made me forget the expense of it all.
It never came near us that night, and Ted was a bit disappointed next
morning as he took ’is ninepence and went off. Next night was the same,
and the next, and then Ted gave up hiding on the wharf for it, and sat
and snoozed in the office instead.
A week went by, and then another, and still there was no sign of Sam
Bullet’s ghost, or Joe Peel, and every morning I ’ad to try and work up
a smile as I shelled out ninepence for Ted. It nearly ruined me, and,
worse than that, I couldn’t explain why I was short to the missis. Fust
of all she asked me wot I was spending it on, then she asked me who I
was spending it on. It nearly broke up my ’ome—she did smash one
kitchen-chair and a vase off the parlour mantelpiece—but I wouldn’t
tell ’er, and then, led away by some men on strike at Smith’s wharf,
Ted went on strike for a bob a night.
That was arter he ’ad been with me for three weeks, and when Saturday
came, of course I was more short than ever, and people came and stood
at their doors all the way down our street to listen to the missis
taking my character away.
I stood it as long as I could, and then, when ’er back was turned for
’arf a moment, I slipped out. While she’d been talking I’d been
thinking, and it came to me clear as daylight that there was no need
for me to sacrifice myself any longer looking arter a dead man’s watch
and chain.
I didn’t know exactly where Joe Peel lived, but I knew the part, and
arter peeping into seven public-’ouses I see the man I wanted sitting
by ’imself in a little bar. I walked in quiet-like, and sat down
opposite ’im.
“Morning,” I ses.
Joe Peel grunted.
“’Ave one with me?” I ses.
He grunted agin, but not quite so fierce, and I fetched the two pints
from the counter and took a seat alongside of ’im.
“I’ve been looking for you,” I ses.
“Oh!” he ses, looking me up and down and all over. “Well, you’ve found
me now.”
“I want to talk to you about the ghost of pore Sam Bullet,” I ses.
Joe Peel put ’is mug down sudden and looked at me fierce. “Look ’ere!
Don’t you come and try to be funny with me,” he ses. “’Cos I won’t ’ave
it.”
“I don’t want to be funny,” I ses. “Wot I want to know is, are you in
the same mind about that watch and chain as you was the other day?”
He didn’t seem to be able to speak at fust, but arter a time ’e gives a
gasp. “Woes the game?” he ses.
“Wot I want to know is, if I give you that watch and chain for fifteen
bob, will that keep the ghost from ’anging round my wharf agin?” I ses.
“Why, o’ course,” he ses, staring; “but you ain’t been seeing it agin,
’ave you?”
“I’ve not, and I don’t want to,” I ses. “If it wants you to ’ave the
watch and chain, give me the fifteen bob, and it’s yours.”
He looked at me for a moment as if he couldn’t believe ’is eyesight,
and then ’e puts his ’and into ’is trowsis-pocket and pulls out one
shilling and fourpence, ’arf a clay-pipe, and a bit o’ lead-pencil.
“That’s all I’ve got with me,” he ses. “I’ll owe you the rest. You
ought to ha’ took the fifteen bob when I ’ad it.”
There was no ’elp for it, and arter making ’im swear to give me the
rest o’ the money when ’e got it, and that I shouldn’t see the ghost
agin, I ’anded the things over to ’im and came away. He came to the
door to see me off, and if ever a man looked puzzled, ’e did. Pleased
at the same time.
It was a load off of my mind. My conscience told me I’d done right,
and arter sending a little boy with a note to Ted Dennis to tell ’im
not to come any more, I felt ’appier than I ’ad done for a long time.
When I got to the wharf that evening it seemed like a diff’rent place,
and I was whistling and smiling over my work quite in my old way, when
the young policeman passed.
“Hullo!” he ses. “’Ave you seen the ghost agin?”
“I ’ave not,” I ses, drawing myself up. “’Ave you?”
“No,” he ses. “We missed it.”
“Missed it?” I ses, staring at ’im.
“Yes,” he ses, nodding. “The day arter you came out screaming, and
cuddling me like a frightened baby, it shipped as A.B. on the barque
Ocean King, for Valparaiso. We missed it by a few hours. Next time you
see a ghost, knock it down fust and go and cuddle the police
arterwards.”