SAILORS' KNOTS
By W.W. Jacobs
1909
title (50K)
CONTENTS
DESERTED
HOMEWARD BOUND
SELF-HELP
SENTENCE DEFERRED
“MATRIMONIAL OPENINGS”
ODD MAN OUT
“THE TOLL-HOUSE”
PETER'S PENCE
THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY
PRIZE MONEY
DOUBLE DEALING
KEEPING UP APPEARANCES
ILLUSTRATIONS
He Seemed to Take a Fancy To Rupert from the Fust.
An Elderly Old Party Wot Would Keep Jabbing 'im in The Ribs With Her
Umbrella.
“Back!” Ses Rupert in a Whisper, Pointing.
She Stood Blocking up the Doorway With Her 'ands on Her 'ips.
Taking One of the Vases from The Mantelpiece, he Dashed It To Pieces on
the Fender.
“I Called About the Bill in The Window.”
“'I—i Thought I Smelled Something Cooking,' he Said.”
“'K-k-k-kch! K-kch!' he Said, Explosively.”
“''E Comes Along and Hits You over Your Tenderest Corn With a Oar.'”
“Mr. Cubbins Winked at 'im and Tapped 'is Nose.”
“Let Drive With All his Might in 'is Face. “
“'Wot on Earth's the Matter, Ginger?'”
“An Elderly Man With a Wooden Leg, Who Joined The Indignant Officer in
the Pursuit.”
“He Was Administering First Aid to a Right Leg.”
“She Took up a Handful of Coal-dust And, Ordering Him To Stoop,
Shampooed Him With Hearty Good-will.”
“Give This to the Skipper, Will You, My Lad?” Said The Sergeant.
“Miss Dowson, Subsiding in Her Chair, Went on With Her Book.”
“I Just Came in to Tell You a Joke.”
“He Edged his Chair a Little Nearer to Flora.”
“Mr. Foss Bade Them Good-night Suddenly.”
“She Muttered Some Strange Words and Bent Her Head Lower Over the Girl's
Hand.”
“Friendship, he Said, Decidedly, is a Deloosion and A Snare.”
“When They Turned up They Found Emma and 'er Friend Waiting for Them.”
“He Put his Arm Round Mrs. Jennings's Waist and Made 'er Dance to a
Piano-organ.”
“He Was Running Down the Road Without 'is Hat As Hard As He Could Run.”
“I'm a Poor Man, But I Wouldn't Spend the Night in That House for a
Hundred Pounds.”
“They Saw the Gates of The House Before Them.”
“Barnes, Stood Peering at the Sleepers in Silence And Dropping Tallow
over the Floor.”
“Into a Vast Bare Kitchen With Damp Walls and A Broken Floor.”
“All Three Stood Gazing at the Dead Man Below.”
“Put a Bishop in My Clothes, and You'd Ask 'im to 'ave A 'arf-pint As
Soon As You Would Me.”
“Mr. Goodman Came in a Four-wheel Cab With A Big Bag and A Fat
Umbrella.”
“'It Aint So 'orrid As I 'ad Fancied.' Ses Sam.”
“He Reached Acrost the Table and Shook 'ands With Peter.”
“After Some Years Spent in Long Voyages”
“Then and There Mr. Letts's Mind Was Made Up.
“A Disagreeable-looking Man Was Eying Them in Some Astonishment from the
Doorway.”
“What's Mine is Mother's.”
“The Sign of the Cauliflower Was Stiff With Snow.”
“He's Won It!” he Ses, in a Choky Voice. “it's Number 1.”
“The Door Opened and Henery Walker Came Staggering In.”
“'Where's Henery Walker?' he Ses, in a Loud Voice.”
“Stood on the Spacious Common, Inhaling The Salt Smell Of The Sea
Below.”
“An Elderly Boatman, Who, After Looking at Him Hard, Took His Pipe from
his Mouth and Bade Him 'good-evening.'”
“She Piled Mr. Carter's Plate up So Generously That Her Father and
Brother Had Ample Time at Their Disposal to Watch Him Eat.”
“A Gentleman of Middle Age Was Peeping Round the Door.”
“Superstitiousness is Right and Proper, to a Certain Extent.”
“Silas Was Very Perlite at Fust.”
“She Saw Silas Winch Standing at the Foot of The Bed.”
“With Tears in his Eyes 'e Emptied a Little Barrel O' Beer Down the
Sink.”
“Other wimmen 'as to be satisfied looking at new 'ats.”
DESERTED
“Sailormen ain't wot you might call dandyfied as a rule,” said the
night-watchman, who had just had a passage of arms with a lighterman and
been advised to let somebody else wash him and make a good job of it;
“they've got too much sense. They leave dressing up and making eyesores
of theirselves to men wot 'ave never smelt salt water; men wot drift up
and down the river in lighters and get in everybody's way.”
He glanced fiercely at the retreating figure of the lighterman, and,
turning a deaf ear to a request for a lock of his hair to patch a
favorite doormat with, resumed with much vigor his task of sweeping up
the litter.
The most dressy sailorman I ever knew, he continued, as he stood the
broom up in a corner and seated himself on a keg, was a young feller
named Rupert Brown. His mother gave 'im the name of Rupert while his
father was away at sea, and when he came 'ome it was too late to alter
it. All that a man could do he did do, and Mrs. Brown 'ad a black eye
till 'e went to sea agin. She was a very obstinate woman, though—like
most of 'em—and a little over a year arterwards got pore old Brown three
months' hard by naming 'er next boy Roderick Alfonso.
Young Rupert was on a barge when I knew 'im fust, but he got tired
of always 'aving dirty hands arter a time, and went and enlisted as a
soldier. I lost sight of 'im for a while, and then one evening he turned
up on furlough and come to see me.
O' course, by this time 'e was tired of soldiering, but wot upset 'im
more than anything was always 'aving to be dressed the same and not
being able to wear a collar and neck-tie. He said that if it wasn't for
the sake of good old England, and the chance o' getting six months, he'd
desert. I tried to give 'im good advice, and, if I'd only known 'ow I
was to be dragged into it, I'd ha' given 'im a lot more.
As it 'appened he deserted the very next arternoon. He was in the Three
Widders at Aldgate, in the saloon bar—which is a place where you get
a penn'orth of ale in a glass and pay twopence for it—and, arter being
told by the barmaid that she had got one monkey at 'ome, he got into
conversation with another man wot was in there.
He was a big man with a black moustache and a red face, and 'is fingers
all smothered in di'mond rings. He 'ad got on a gold watch-chain as
thick as a rope, and a scarf-pin the size of a large walnut, and he had
'ad a few words with the barmaid on 'is own account. He seemed to take
a fancy to Rupert from the fust, and in a few minutes he 'ad given 'im a
big cigar out of a sealskin case and ordered 'im a glass of sherry wine.
He Seemed to Take a Fancy To Rupert from the Fust.
“Have you ever thought o' going on the stage?” he ses, arter Rupert 'ad
told 'im of his dislike for the Army.
“No,” ses Rupert, staring.
“You s'prise me,” ses the big man; “you're wasting of your life by not
doing so.”
“But I can't act,” ses Rupert.
“Stuff and nonsense!” ses the big man. “Don't tell me. You've got an
actor's face. I'm a manager myself, and I know. I don't mind telling you
that I refused twenty-three men and forty-eight ladies only yesterday.”
“I wonder you don't drop down dead,” ses the barmaid, lifting up 'is
glass to wipe down the counter.
The manager looked at her, and, arter she 'ad gone to talk to a
gentleman in the next bar wot was knocking double knocks on the counter
with a pint pot, he whispered to Rupert that she 'ad been one of them.
“She can't act a bit,” he ses. “Now, look 'ere; I'm a business man and
my time is valuable. I don't know nothing, and I don't want to know
nothing; but, if a nice young feller, like yourself, for example, was
tired of the Army and wanted to escape, I've got one part left in my
company that 'ud suit 'im down to the ground.”
“Wot about being reckernized?” ses Rupert.
The manager winked at 'im. “It's the part of a Zulu chief,” he ses, in a
whisper.
Rupert started. “But I should 'ave to black my face,” he ses.
“A little,” ses the manager; “but you'd soon get on to better parts—and
see wot a fine disguise it is.”
He stood 'im two more glasses o' sherry wine, and, arter he' ad drunk
'em, Rupert gave way. The manager patted 'im on the back, and said that
if he wasn't earning fifty pounds a week in a year's time he'd eat his
'ead; and the barmaid, wot 'ad come back agin, said it was the best
thing he could do with it, and she wondered he 'adn't thought of it
afore.
They went out separate, as the manager said it would be better for them
not to be seen together, and Rupert, keeping about a dozen yards behind,
follered 'im down the Mile End Road. By and by the manager stopped
outside a shop-window wot 'ad been boarded up and stuck all over with
savages dancing and killing white people and hunting elephants, and,
arter turning round and giving Rupert a nod, opened the door with a key
and went inside.
“That's all right,” he ses, as Rupert follered 'im in. “This is my wife,
Mrs. Alfredi,” he ses, introducing 'im to a fat, red-'aired lady wot was
sitting inside sewing. “She has performed before all the crowned 'eads
of Europe. That di'mond brooch she's wearing was a present from the
Emperor of Germany, but, being a married man, he asked 'er to keep it
quiet.”
Rupert shook 'ands with Mrs. Alfredi, and then her 'usband led 'im to
a room at the back, where a little lame man was cleaning up things, and
told 'im to take his clothes off.
“If they was mine,” he ses, squinting at the fire-place, “I should know
wot to do with 'em.”
Rupert laughed and slapped 'im on the back, and, arter cutting his
uniform into pieces, stuffed it into the fireplace and pulled the
dampers out. He burnt up 'is boots and socks and everything else, and
they all three laughed as though it was the best joke in the world. Then
Mr. Alfredi took his coat off and, dipping a piece of rag into a basin
of stuff wot George 'ad fetched, did Rupert a lovely brown all over.
“That's the fust coat,” he ses. “Now take a stool in front of the fire
and let it soak in.”
He gave 'im another coat arf an hour arterwards, while George curled his
'air, and when 'e was dressed in bracelets round 'is ankles and wrists,
and a leopard-skin over his shoulder, he was as fine a Zulu as you could
wish for to see. His lips was naturally thick and his nose flat, and
even his eyes 'appened to be about the right color.
“He's a fair perfect treat,” ses Mr. Alfredi. “Fetch Kumbo in, George.”
The little man went out, and came back agin shoving in a fat, stumpy
Zulu woman wot began to grin and chatter like a poll-parrot the moment
she saw Rupert.
“It's all right,” ses Mr. Alfredi; “she's took a fancy to you.”
“Is—is she an actress?” ses Rupert.
“One o' the best,” ses the manager. “She'll teach you to dance and shy
assegais. Pore thing! she buried her 'usband the day afore we come here,
but you'll be surprised to see 'ow skittish she can be when she has got
over it a bit.”
They sat there while Rupert practised—till he started shying the
assegais, that is—and then they went out and left 'im with Kumbo.
Considering that she 'ad only just buried her 'usband, Rupert found her
quite skittish enough, and he couldn't 'elp wondering wot she'd be like
when she'd got over her grief a bit more.
The manager and George said he 'ad got on wonderfully, and arter talking
it over with Mrs. Alfredi they decided to open that evening, and pore
Rupert found out that the shop was the theatre, and all the acting he'd
got to do was to dance war-dances and sing in Zulu to people wot had
paid a penny a 'ead. He was a bit nervous at fust, for fear anybody
should find out that 'e wasn't a real Zulu, because the manager said
they'd tear 'im to pieces if they did, and eat 'im arterwards, but arter
a time 'is nervousness wore off and he jumped about like a monkey.
They gave performances every arf hour from ha'-past six to ten, and
Rupert felt ready to drop. His feet was sore with dancing and his throat
ached with singing Zulu, but wot upset 'im more than anything was
an elderly old party wot would keep jabbing 'im in the ribs with her
umbrella to see whether he could laugh.
An Elderly Old Party Wot Would Keep Jabbing 'im in The Ribs With Her
Umbrella.
They 'ad supper arter they 'ad closed, and then Mr. Alfredi and 'is wife
went off, and Rupert and George made up beds for themselves in the shop,
while Kumbo 'ad a little place to herself at the back.
He did better than ever next night, and they all said he was improving
fast; and Mr. Alfredi told 'im in a whisper that he thought he was
better at it than Kumbo. “Not that I should mind 'er knowing much,” he
ses, “seeing that she's took such a fancy to you.”
“Ah, I was going to speak to you about that,” ses Rupert. “Forwardness
is no name for it; if she don't keep 'erself to 'erself, I shall chuck
the whole thing up.”
The manager coughed behind his 'and. “And go back to the Army?” he ses.
“Well, I should be sorry to lose you, but I won't stand in your way.”
Mrs. Alfredi, wot was standing by, stuffed her pocket-'ankercher in 'er
mouth, and Rupert began to feel a bit uneasy in his mind.
“If I did,” he ses, “you'd get into trouble for 'elping me to desert.”
“Desert!” ses Mr. Alfredi. “I don't know anything about your deserting.”
“Ho!” ses Rupert. “And wot about my uniform?”
“Uniform?” ses Mr. Alfredi. “Wot uniform? I ain't seen no uniform. Where
is it?”
Rupert didn't answer 'im, but arter they 'ad gone 'ome he told George
that he 'ad 'ad enough of acting and he should go.
“Where to?” ses George.
“I'll find somewhere,” ses Rupert. “I sha'n't starve.”
“You might ketch your death o' cold, though,” ses George.
Rupert said he didn't mind, and then he shut 'is eyes and pretended to
be asleep. His idea was to wait till George was asleep and then pinch
'is clothes; consequently 'is feelings when 'e opened one eye and saw
George getting into bed with 'is clothes on won't bear thinking about.
He laid awake for hours, and three times that night George, who was a
very heavy sleeper, woke up and found Rupert busy tucking him in.
By the end of the week Rupert was getting desperate. He hated being
black for one thing, and the more he washed the better color he looked.
He didn't mind the black for out o' doors, in case the Army was looking
for 'im, but 'aving no clothes he couldn't get out o' doors; and when he
said he wouldn't perform unless he got some, Mr. Alfredi dropped 'ints
about having 'im took up for a deserter.
“I've 'ad my suspicions of it for some days,” he ses, with a wink,
“though you did come to me in a nice serge suit and tell me you was an
actor. Now, you be a good boy for another week and I'll advance you a
couple o' pounds to get some clothes with.”
Rupert asked him to let 'im have it then, but 'e wouldn't, and for
another week he 'ad to pretend 'e was a Zulu of an evening, and try and
persuade Kumbo that he was an English gentleman of a daytime.
He got the money at the end of the week and 'ad to sign a paper to give
a month's notice any time he wanted to leave, but he didn't mind that at
all, being determined the fust time he got outside the place to run away
and ship as a nigger cook if 'e couldn't get the black off.
He made a list o' things out for George to get for 'im, but there seemed
to be such a lot for two pounds that Mr. Alfredi shook his 'ead over it;
and arter calling 'imself a soft-'arted fool, and saying he'd finish up
in the workhouse, he made it three pounds and told George to look sharp.
“He's a very good marketer,” he ses, arter George 'ad gone; “he don't
mind wot trouble he takes. He'll very likely haggle for hours to get
sixpence knocked off the trousers or twopence off the shirt.”
It was twelve o'clock in the morning when George went, and at ha'-past
four Rupert turned nasty, and said 'e was afraid he was trying to get
them for nothing. At five o'clock he said George was a fool, and at
ha'-past he said 'e was something I won't repeat.
It was just eleven o'clock, and they 'ad shut up for the night, when the
front door opened, and George stood there smiling at 'em and shaking his
'ead.
“Sush a lark,” he ses, catching 'old of Mr. Alfredi's arm to steady
'imself. “I gave 'im shlip.”
“Wot d'ye mean?” ses the manager, shaking him off. “Gave who the slip?
Where's them clothes?”
“Boy's got 'em,” ses George, smiling agin and catching hold of Kumbo's
arm. “Sush a lark; he's been car-carrying 'em all day—all day. Now I've
given 'im the—the shlip, 'stead o'—'stead o' giving 'im fourpence. Take
care o' the pensh, an' pouns—”
He let go o' Kumbo's arm, turned round twice, and then sat down 'eavy
and fell fast asleep. The manager rushed to the door and looked out, but
there was no signs of the boy, and he came back shaking his 'ead, and
said that George 'ad been drinking agin.
“Well, wot about my clothes?” ses Rupert, hardly able to speak.
“P'r'aps he didn't buy 'em arter all,” ses the manager. “Let's try 'is
pockets.”
He tried fust, and found some strawberries that George 'ad spoilt by
sitting on. Then he told Rupert to have a try, and Rupert found some
bits of string, a few buttons, two penny stamps, and twopence ha'penny
in coppers.
“Never mind,” ses Mr. Alfredi; “I'll go round to the police-station in
the morning; p'r'aps the boy 'as taken them there. I'm disapp'inted in
George. I shall tell 'im so, too.”
He bid Rupert good-night and went off with Mrs. Alfredi; and Rupert,
wishful to make the best o' things, decided that he would undress George
and go off in 'is clothes. He waited till Kumbo 'ad gone off to bed, and
then he started to take George's coat off. He got the two top buttons
undone all right, and then George turned over in 'is sleep. It surprised
Rupert, but wot surprised 'im more when he rolled George over was to
find them two buttons done up agin. Arter it had 'appened three times he
see 'ow it was, and he come to the belief that George was no more drunk
than wot he was, and that it was all a put-up thing between 'im and Mr.
Alfredi.
He went to bed then to think it over, and by the morning he 'ad made
up his mind to keep quiet and bide his time, as the saying is. He spoke
quite cheerful to Mr. Alfredi, and pretended to believe 'im when he said
that he 'ad been to the police-station about the clothes.
Two days arterwards he thought of something; he remembered me. He 'ad
found a dirty old envelope on the floor, and with a bit o' lead pencil
he wrote me a letter on the back of one o' the bills, telling me all his
troubles, and asking me to bring some clothes and rescue 'im. He stuck
on one of the stamps he 'ad found in George's pocket, and opening the
door just afore going to bed threw it out on the pavement.
The world is full of officious, interfering busy-bodies. I should no
more think of posting a letter that didn't belong to me, with an unused
stamp on it, than I should think o' flying; but some meddle-some son of
a ——a gun posted that letter and I got it.
I was never more surprised in my life. He asked me to be outside the
shop next night at ha'-past eleven with any old clothes I could pick up.
If I didn't, he said he should 'ang 'imself as the clock struck twelve,
and that his ghost would sit on the wharf and keep watch with me every
night for the rest o' my life. He said he expected it 'ud have a black
face, same as in life.
A wharf is a lonely place of a night; especially our wharf, which is
full of dark corners, and, being a silly, good-natured fool, I went.
I got a pal off of one of the boats to keep watch for me, and, arter
getting some old rags off of another sailorman as owed me arf a dollar,
I 'ad a drink and started off for the Mile End Road.
I found the place easy enough. The door was just on the jar, and as I
tapped on it with my finger-nails a wild-looking black man, arf naked,
opened it and said “H'sh!” and pulled me inside. There was a bit o'
candle on the floor, shaded by a box, and a man fast asleep and snoring
up in one corner. Rupert dressed like lightning, and he 'ad just put on
'is cap when the door at the back opened and a 'orrid fat black woman
came out and began to chatter.
Rupert told her to hush, and she 'ushed, and then he waved 'is hand to
'er to say “good-bye,” and afore you could say Jack Robinson she 'ad
grabbed up a bit o' dirty blanket, a bundle of assegais, and a spear,
and come out arter us.
“Back!” ses Rupert in a whisper, pointing.
'Back!' Ses Rupert in a Whisper, Pointing.
Kumbo shook her 'ead, and then he took hold of 'er and tried to shove
'er back, but she wouldn't go. I lent him a 'and, but all wimmen are the
same, black or white, and afore I knew where I was she 'ad clawed my cap
off and scratched me all down one side of the face.
“Walk fast,” ses Rupert.
I started to run, but it was all no good; Kumbo kept up with us easy,
and she was so pleased at being out in the open air that she began
to dance and play about like a kitten. Instead o' minding their own
business people turned and follered us, and quite a crowd collected.
“We shall 'ave the police in a minute,” ses Rupert. “Come in 'ere—
quick.”
He pointed to a pub up a side street, and went in with Kumbo holding on
to his arm. The barman was for sending us out at fust, but such a crowd
follered us in that he altered 'is mind. I ordered three pints, and,
while I was 'anding Rupert his, Kumbo finished 'ers and began on mine.
I tried to explain, but she held on to it like grim death, and in the
confusion Rupert slipped out.
He 'adn't been gone five seconds afore she missed 'im, and I never see
anybody so upset in all my life. She spilt the beer all down the place
where 'er bodice ought to ha' been, and then she dropped the pot and
went arter 'im like a hare. I follered in a different way, and when I
got round the corner I found she 'ad caught 'im and was holding 'im by
the arm.
O' course, the crowd was round us agin, and to get rid of 'em I did a
thing I'd seldom done afore—I called a cab, and we all bundled in and
drove off to the wharf, with the spear sticking out o' the window, and
most of the assegais sticking into me.
“This is getting serious,” ses Rupert.
“Yes,” I ses; “and wot 'ave I done to be dragged into it? You must ha'
been paying 'er some attention to make 'er carry on like this.”
I thought Rupert would ha' bust, and the things he said to the man wot
was spending money like water to rescue 'im was disgraceful.
We got to the wharf at last, and I was glad to see that my pal 'ad got
tired of night-watching and 'ad gone off, leaving the gate open. Kumbo
went in 'anging on to Rupert's arm, and I follered with the spear, which
I 'ad held in my 'and while I paid the cabman.
They went into the office, and Rupert and me talked it over while Kumbo
kept patting 'is cheek. He was afraid that the manager would track 'im
to the wharf, and I was afraid that the guv'nor would find out that I
'ad been neglecting my dooty, for the fust time in my life.
We talked all night pretty near, and then, at ha'-past five, arf an hour
afore the 'ands came on, I made up my mind to fetch a cab and drive 'em
to my 'ouse. I wanted Rupert to go somewhere else, but 'e said he 'ad
got nowhere else to go, and it was the only thing to get 'em off the
wharf. I opened the gates at ten minutes to six, and just as the fust
man come on and walked down the wharf we slipped in and drove away.
We was all tired and yawning. There's something about the motion of a
cab or an omnibus that always makes me feel sleepy, and arter a time I
closed my eyes and went off sound. I remember I was dreaming that I 'ad
found a bag o' money, when the cab pulled up with a jerk in front of my
'ouse and woke me up. Opposite me sat Kumbo fast asleep, and Rupert 'ad
disappeared!
I was dazed for a moment, and afore I could do anything Kumbo woke up
and missed Rupert. Wot made matters worse than anything was that my
missis was kneeling down in the passage doing 'er door-step, and 'er
face, as I got down out o' that cab with Kumbo 'anging on to my arm was
something too awful for words. It seemed to rise up slow-like from near
the door-step, and to go on rising till I thought it 'ud never stop. And
every inch it rose it got worse and worse to look at.
She Stood Blocking up the Doorway With Her 'ands on Her 'ips.
She stood blocking up the doorway with her 'ands on her 'ips, while I
explained, with Kumbo still 'anging on my arm and a crowd collecting
behind, and the more I explained, the more I could see she didn't
believe a word of it.
She never 'as believed it. I sent for Mr. Alfredi to come and take Kumbo
away, and when I spoke to 'im about Rupert he said I was dreaming, and
asked me whether I wasn't ashamed o' myself for carrying off a pore
black gal wot 'ad got no father or mother to look arter her. He said
that afore my missis, and my character 'as been under a cloud ever
since, waiting for Rupert to turn up and clear it away.
HOMEWARD BOUND
Mr. Hatchard's conversation for nearly a week had been confined to
fault-finding and grunts, a system of treatment designed to wean Mrs.
Hatchard from her besetting sin of extravagance. On other occasions the
treatment had, for short periods, proved successful, but it was quite
evident that his wife's constitution was becoming inured to this physic
and required a change of treatment. The evidence stared at him from
the mantelpiece in the shape of a pair of huge pink vases, which had
certainly not been there when he left in the morning. He looked at them
and breathed heavily.
“Pretty, ain't they?” said his wife, nodding at them.
“Who gave 'em to you?” inquired Mr. Hatchard, sternly.
His wife shook her head. “You don't get vases like that given to you,”
she said, slowly. “Leastways, I don't.”
“Do you mean to say you bought 'em?” demanded her husband.
Mrs. Hatchard nodded.
“After all I said to you about wasting my money?” persisted Mr.
Hatchard, in amazed accents.
Mrs. Hatchard nodded, more brightly than before.
“There has got to be an end to this!” said her husband, desperately. “I
won't have it! D'ye hear? I won't—have—it!”
“I bought 'em with my own money,” said his wife, tossing her head.
“Your money?” said Mr. Hatchard. “To hear you talk anybody 'ud think
you'd got three hundred a year, instead o' thirty. Your money ought to
be spent in useful things, same as what mine is. Why should I spend
my money keeping you, while you waste yours on pink vases and having
friends in to tea?”
Mrs. Hatchard's still comely face took on a deeper tinge.
“Keeping me?” she said, sharply. “You'd better stop before you say
anything you might be sorry for, Alfred.”
“I should have to talk a long time before I said that,” retorted the
other.
“I'm not so sure,” said his wife. “I'm beginning to be tired of it.”
“I've reasoned with you,” continued Mr. Hatchard, “I've argued with
you, and I've pointed out the error of your ways to you, and it's all no
good.”
“Oh, be quiet, and don't talk nonsense,” said his wife.
“Talking,” continued Mr. Hatchard, “as I said before, is no good. Deeds,
not words, is what is wanted.”
He rose suddenly from his chair and, taking one of the vases from the
mantelpiece, dashed it to pieces on the fender. Example is contagious,
and two seconds later he was in his chair again, softly feeling a
rapidly growing bump on his head, and gazing goggle-eyed at his wife.
Taking One of the Vases from The Mantelpiece, he Dashed It To Pieces on
the Fender.
“And I'd do it again,” said that lady, breathlessly, “if there was
another vase.”
Mr. Hatchard opened his mouth, but speech failed him. He got up and left
the room without a word, and, making his way to the scullery, turned
on the tap and held his head beneath it. A sharp intake of the breath
announced that a tributary stream was looking for the bump down the neck
of his shirt.
He was away a long time—so long that the half-penitent Mrs. Hatchard was
beginning to think of giving first aid to the wounded. Then she heard
him coming slowly back along the passage. He entered the room, drying
his wet hair on a hand-kerchief.
“I—I hope I didn't hurt you—much?” said his wife.
Mr. Hatchard drew himself up and regarded her with lofty indignation.
“You might have killed me,” he said at last, in thrilling tones. “Then
what would you have done?”
“Swept up the pieces, and said you came home injured and died in my
arms,” said Mrs. Hatchard, glibly. “I don't want to be unfeeling, but
you'd try the temper of a saint. I'm sure I wonder I haven't done it
before. Why I married a stingy man I don't know.”
“Why I married at all I don't know,” said her husband, in a deep voice.
“We were both fools,” said Mrs. Hatchard, in a resigned voice; “that's
what it was. However, it can't be helped now.”
“Some men would go and leave you,” said Mr. Hatchard.
“Well, go,” said his wife, bridling. “I don't want you.”
“Don't talk nonsense,” said the other.
“It ain't nonsense,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “If you want to go, go. I don't
want to keep you.”
“I only wish I could,” said her husband, wistfully.
“There's the door,” said Mrs. Hatchard, pointing. “What's to prevent
you?”
“And have you going to the magistrate?” observed Mr. Hatchard.
“Not me,” was the reply.
“Or coming up, full of complaints, to the ware-house?”
“Not me,” said his wife again.
“It makes my mouth water to think of it,” said Mr. Hatchard. “Four years
ago I hadn't a care in the world.”
“Me neither,” said Mrs. Hatchard; “but then I never thought I should
marry you. I remember the first time I saw you I had to stuff my
handkerchief in my mouth.”
“What for?” inquired Mr. Hatchard.
“Keep from laughing,” was the reply.
“You took care not to let me see you laugh,” said Mr. Hatchard, grimly.
“You were polite enough in them days. I only wish I could have my time
over again; that's all.”
“You can go, as I said before,” said his wife.
“I'd go this minute,” said Mr. Hatchard, “but I know what it 'ud be:
in three or four days you'd be coming and begging me to take you back
again.”
“You try me,” said Mrs. Hatchard, with a hard laugh. “I can keep myself.
You leave me the furniture—most of it is mine—and I sha'n't worry you
again.”
“Mind!” said Mr. Hatchard, raising his hand with great solemnity. “If I
go, I never come back again.”
“I'll take care of that,” said his wife, equably. “You are far more
likely to ask to come back than I am.”
Mr. Hatchard stood for some time in deep thought, and then, spurred on
by a short, contemptuous laugh from his wife, went to the small passage
and, putting on his overcoat and hat, stood in the parlor doorway
regarding her.
“I've a good mind to take you at your word,” he said, at last.
“Good-night,” said his wife, briskly. “If you send me your address, I'll
send your things on to you. There's no need for you to call about them.”
Hardly realizing the seriousness of the step, Mr. Hatchard closed the
front door behind him with a bang, and then discovered that it was
raining. Too proud to return for his umbrella, he turned up his
coat-collar and, thrusting his hands in his pockets, walked slowly down
the desolate little street. By the time he had walked a dozen yards
he began to think that he might as well have waited until the morning;
before he had walked fifty he was certain of it.
He passed the night at a coffee-house, and rose so early in the morning
that the proprietor took it as a personal affront, and advised him to
get his breakfast elsewhere. It was the longest day in Mr. Hatchard's
experience, and, securing modest lodgings that evening, he overslept
himself and was late at the warehouse next morning for the first time in
ten years.
His personal effects arrived next day, but no letter came from his wife,
and one which he wrote concerning a pair of missing garments received no
reply. He wrote again, referring to them in laudatory terms, and got a
brief reply to the effect that they had been exchanged in part payment
on a pair of valuable pink vases, the pieces of which he could have by
paying the carriage.
In six weeks Mr. Hatchard changed his lodgings twice. A lack of those
home comforts which he had taken as a matter of course during his
married life was a source of much tribulation, and it was clear that
his weekly bills were compiled by a clever writer of fiction. It was his
first experience of lodgings, and the difficulty of saying unpleasant
things to a woman other than his wife was not the least of his troubles.
He changed his lodgings for a third time, and, much surprised at his
wife's continued silence, sought out a cousin of hers named Joe Pett,
and poured his troubles into that gentleman's reluctant ear.
“If she was to ask me to take her back,” he concluded, “I'm not sure,
mind you, that I wouldn't do so.”
“It does you credit,” said Mr. Pett. “Well, ta-ta; I must be off.”
“And I expect she'd be very much obliged to anybody that told her so,”
said Mr. Hatchard, clutching at the other's sleeve.
Mr. Pett, gazing into space, said that he thought it highly probable.
“It wants to be done cleverly, though,” said Mr. Hatchard, “else she
might get the idea that I wanted to go back.”
“I s'pose you know she's moved?” said Mr. Pett, with the air of a man
anxious to change the conversation.
“Eh?” said the other.
“Number thirty-seven, John Street,” said Mr. Pett. “Told my wife she's
going to take in lodgers. Calling herself Mrs. Harris, after her maiden
name.”
He went off before Mr. Hatchard could recover, and the latter at once
verified the information in part by walking round to his old house. Bits
of straw and paper littered the front garden, the blinds were down,
and a bill was pasted on the front parlor window. Aghast at such
determination, he walked back to his lodgings in gloomy thought.
On Saturday afternoon he walked round to John Street, and from the
corner of his eye, as he passed, stole a glance at No. 37. He recognized
the curtains at once, and, seeing that there was nobody in the
room, leaned over the palings and peered at a card that stood on the
window-sash:
FURNISHED APARTMENTS FOR SINGLE YOUNG MAN BOARD IF DESIRED.
He walked away whistling, and after going a little way turned and
passed it again. He passed in all four times, and then, with an odd grin
lurking at the corners of his mouth, strode up to the front door and
knocked loudly. He heard somebody moving about inside, and, more with
the idea of keeping his courage up than anything else, gave another
heavy knock at the door. It was thrown open hastily, and the astonished
face of his wife appeared before him.
“What do you want?” she inquired, sharply.
Mr. Hatchard raised his hat. “Good-afternoon, ma'am,” he said, politely.
“What do you want?” repeated his wife.
“I called,” said Mr. Hatchard, clearing his throat—“I called about the
bill in the window.”
'i Called About the Bill in The Window.'
Mrs. Hatchard clutched at the door-post.
“Well?” she gasped.
“I'd like to see the rooms,” said the other.
“But you ain't a single young man,” said his wife, recovering.
“I'm as good as single,” said Mr. Hatchard. “I should say, better.”
“You ain't young,” objected Mrs. Hatchard. “I'm three years younger than
what you are,” said Mr. Hatchard, dispassionately.
His wife's lips tightened and her hand closed on the door; Mr. Hatchard
put his foot in.
“If you don't want lodgers, why do you put a bill up?” he inquired.
“I don't take the first that comes,” said his wife.
“I'll pay a week in advance,” said Mr. Hatchard, putting his hand in his
pocket. “Of course, if you're afraid of having me here—afraid o' giving
way to tenderness, I mean——”
“Afraid?” choked Mrs. Hatchard. “Tenderness! I—I——”
“Just a matter o' business,” continued her husband; “that's my way of
looking at it—that's a man's way. I s'pose women are different. They
can't——”
“Come in,” said Mrs. Hatchard, breathing hard. Mr. Hatchard obeyed, and
clapping a hand over his mouth ascended the stairs behind her. At the
top she threw open the door of a tiny bedroom, and stood aside for him
to enter. Mr. Hatchard sniffed critically.
“Smells rather stuffy,” he said, at last.
“You needn't have it,” said his wife, abruptly. “There's plenty of other
fish in the sea.”
“Yes; and I expect they'd stay there if they saw this room,” said the
other.
“Don't think I want you to have it; because I don't,” said Mrs.
Hatchard, making a preliminary movement to showing him downstairs.
“They might suit me,” said Mr. Hatchard, musingly, as he peeped in at
the sitting-room door. “I shouldn't be at home much. I'm a man that's
fond of spending his evenings out.”
Mrs. Hatchard, checking a retort, eyed him grimly.
“I've seen worse,” he said, slowly; “but then I've seen a good many. How
much are you asking?”
“Seven shillings a week,” replied his wife. “With breakfast, tea, and
supper, a pound a week.”
Mr. Hatchard nearly whistled, but checked himself just in time.
“I'll give it a trial,” he said, with an air of unbearable patronage.
Mrs. Hatchard hesitated.
“If you come here, you quite understand it's on a business footing,” she
said.
“O' course,” said the other, with affected surprise. “What do you think
I want it on?”
“You come here as a stranger, and I look after you as a stranger,”
continued his wife.
“Certainly,” said the other. “I shall be made more comfortable that way,
I'm sure. But, of course, if you're afraid, as I said before, of giving
way to tender——”
“Tender fiddlesticks!” interrupted his wife, flushing and eying him
angrily.
“I'll come in and bring my things at nine o'clock to-night,” said Mr.
Hatchard. “I'd like the windows open and the rooms aired a bit. And what
about the sheets?”
“What about them?” inquired his wife.
“Don't put me in damp sheets, that's all,” said Mr. Hatchard. “One place
I was at——”
He broke off suddenly.
“Well!” said his wife, quickly.
“Was very particular about them,” said Mr. Hatchard, recovering. “Well,
good-afternoon to you, ma'am.”
“I want three weeks in advance,” said his wife.
“Three—” exclaimed the other. “Three weeks in advance? Why——”
“Those are my terms,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “Take 'em or leave 'em.
P'r'aps it would be better if you left 'em.”
Mr. Hatchard looked thoughtful, and then with obvious reluctance took
his purse from one pocket and some silver from another, and made up the
required sum.
“And what if I'm not comfortable here?” he inquired, as his wife hastily
pocketed the money. “It'll be your own fault,” was the reply.
Mr. Hatchard looked dubious, and, in a thoughtful fashion, walked
downstairs and let himself out. He began to think that the joke was of
a more complicated nature than he had expected, and it was not without
forebodings that he came back at nine o'clock that night accompanied by
a boy with his baggage.
His gloom disappeared the moment the door opened. The air inside was
warm and comfortable, and pervaded by an appetizing smell of cooked
meats. Upstairs a small bright fire and a neatly laid supper-table
awaited his arrival.
He sank into an easy-chair and rubbed his hands. Then his gaze fell on a
small bell on the table, and opening the door he rang for supper.
“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Hatchard, entering the room. “Supper, please,”
said the new lodger, with dignity.
Mrs. Hatchard looked bewildered. “Well, there it is,” she said,
indicating the table. “You don't want me to feed you, do you?”
The lodger eyed the small, dry piece of cheese, the bread and butter,
and his face fell. “I—I thought I smelled something cooking,” he said at
last.
'i—i Thought I Smelled Something Cooking,' he Said.'
“Oh, that was my supper,” said Mrs. Hatchard, with a smile.
“I—I'm very hungry,” said Mr. Hatchard, trying to keep his temper.
“It's the cold weather, I expect,” said Mrs. Hatchard, thoughtfully;
“it does affect some people that way, I know. Please ring if you want
anything.”
She left the room, humming blithely, and Mr. Hatchard, after sitting for
some time in silent consternation, got up and ate his frugal meal. The
fact that the water-jug held three pints and was filled to the brim gave
him no satisfaction.
He was still hungry when he arose next morning, and, with curiosity
tempered by uneasiness, waited for his breakfast. Mrs. Hatchard came in
at last, and after polite inquiries as to how he had slept proceeded to
lay breakfast. A fresh loaf and a large teapot appeared, and the smell
of frizzling bacon ascended from below. Then Mrs. Hatchard came in
again, and, smiling benevolently, placed an egg before him and withdrew.
Two minutes later he rang the bell.
“You can clear away,” he said, as Mrs. Hatchard entered the room.
“What, no breakfast?” she said, holding up her hands. “Well, I've heard
of you single young men, but I never thought——”
“The tea's cold and as black as ink,” growled the indignant lodger, “and
the egg isn't eatable.”
“I'm afraid you're a bit of a fault-finder,” said Mrs. Hatchard, shaking
her head at him. “I'm sure I try my best to please. I don't mind what I
do, but if you're not satisfied you'd better go.”
“Look here, Emily—” began her husband.
“Don't you 'Emily' me!” said Mrs. Hatchard, quickly. “The idea! A
lodger, too! You know the arrangement. You'd better go, I think, if you
can't behave yourself.”
“I won't go till my three weeks are up,” said Mr. Hatchard, doggedly,
“so you may as well behave yourself.”
“I can't pamper you for a pound a week,” said Mrs. Hatchard, walking to
the door. “If you want pampering, you had better go.”
A week passed, and the additional expense caused by getting most of
his meals out began to affect Mr. Hatchard's health. His wife, on the
contrary, was in excellent spirits, and, coming in one day, explained
the absence of the easy-chair by stating that it was wanted for a new
lodger.
“He's taken my other two rooms,” she said, smiling—“the little back
parlor and the front bedroom—I'm full up now.”
“Wouldn't he like my table, too?” inquired Mr. Hatchard, with bitter
sarcasm.
His wife said that she would inquire, and brought back word next day
that Mr. Sadler, the new lodger, would like it. It disappeared during
Mr. Hatchard's enforced absence at business, and a small bamboo table,
weak in the joints, did duty in its stead.
The new lodger, a man of middle age with a ready tongue, was a success
from the first, and it was only too evident that Mrs. Hatchard was
trying her best to please him. Mr. Hatchard, supping on bread and
cheese, more than once left that wholesome meal to lean over the
balusters and smell the hot meats going into Mr. Sadler.
“You're spoiling him,” he said to Mrs. Hatchard, after the new lodger
had been there a week. “Mark my words—he'll get above himself.”
“That's my look-out,” said his wife briefly.
“Don't come to me if youget into trouble, that's all,” said the other.
Mrs. Hatchard laughed derisively. “You don't like him, that's what it
is,” she remarked. “He asked me yesterday whether he had offended you in
any way.”
“Oh! He did, did he?” snarled Mr. Hatchard. “Let him keep himself to
himself, and mind his own business.”
“He said he thinks you have got a bad temper,” continued his wife. “He
thinks, perhaps, it's indigestion, caused by eating cheese for supper
always.”
Mr. Hatchard affected not to hear, and, lighting his pipe, listened fer
some time to the hum of conversation between his wife and Mr. Sadler
below. With an expression of resignation on his face that was almost
saintly he knocked out his pipe at last and went to bed.
Half an hour passed, and he was still awake. His wife's voice had
ceased, but the gruff tones of Mr. Sadler were still audible. Then he
sat up in bed and listened, as a faint cry of alarm and the sound of
somebody rushing upstairs fell on his ears. The next moment the door
of his room burst open, and a wild figure, stumbling in the darkness,
rushed over to the bed and clasped him in its arms.
“Help!” gasped his wife's voice. “Oh, Alfred! Alfred!”
“Ma'am!” said Mr. Hatchard in a prim voice, as he struggled in vain to
free himself.
“I'm so—so—fr-frightened!” sobbed Mrs. Hatchard.
“That's no reason for coming into a lodger's room and throwing your arms
round his neck,” said her husband, severely.
“Don't be stu-stu-stupid,” gasped Mrs. Hatchard. “He—he's sitting
downstairs in my room with a paper cap on his head and a fire-shovel in
his hand, and he—he says he's the—the Emperor of China.”
“He? Who?” inquired her husband.
“Mr. Sad-Sadler,” replied Mrs. Hatchard, almost strangling him. “He made
me kneel in front o' him and keep touching the floor with my head.”
The chair-bedstead shook in sympathy with Mr. Hatchard's husbandly
emotion.
“Well, it's nothing to do with me,” he said at last.
“He's mad,” said his wife, in a tense whisper; “stark staring mad. He
says I'm his favorite wife, and he made me stroke his forehead.”
The bed shook again.
“I don't see that I have any right to interfere,” said Mr. Hatchard,
after he had quieted the bedstead. “He's your lodger.”
“You're my husband,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “Ho!” said Mr. Hatchard.
“You've remembered that, have you?”
“Yes, Alfred,” said his wife.
“And are you sorry for all your bad behavior?” demanded Mr. Hatchard.
Mrs. Hatchard hesitated. Then a clatter of fire-irons downstairs moved
her to speech.
“Ye-yes,” she sobbed.
“And you want me to take you back?” queried the generous Mr. Hatchard.
“Ye-ye-yes,” said his wife.
Mr. Hatchard got out of bed and striking a match lit the candle, and,
taking his overcoat from a peg behind the door, put it on and marched
downstairs. Mrs. Hatchard, still trembling, followed behind.
“What's all this?” he demanded, throwing the door open with a flourish.
Mr. Sadler, still holding the fire-shovel sceptre-fashion and still with
the paper cap on his head, opened his mouth to reply. Then, as he saw
the unkempt figure of Mr. Hatchard with the scared face of Mrs. Hatchard
peeping over his shoulder, his face grew red, his eyes watered, and his
cheeks swelled.
“K-K-K-Kch! K-Kch!” he said, explosively. “Talk English, not Chinese,”
said Mr. Hatchard, sternly.
'K-k-k-kch! K-kch!' he Said, Explosively.'
Mr. Sadler threw down the fire-shovel, and to Mr. Hatchard's great
annoyance, clapped his open hand over his mouth and rocked with
merriment.
“Sh—sh—she—she—” he spluttered.
“That'll do,” said Mr. Hatchard, hastily, with a warning frown.
“Kow-towed to me,” gurgled Mr. Sadler. “You ought to have seen it, Alf.
I shall never get over it—never. It's—no—no good win-winking at me; I
can't help myself.”
He put his handkerchief to his eyes and leaned back exhausted. When he
removed it, he found himself alone and everything still but for a murmur
of voices overhead. Anon steps sounded on the stairs, and Mr. Hatchard,
grave of face, entered the room.
“Outside!” he said, briefly.
“What!” said the astounded Mr. Sadler. “Why, it's eleven o'clock.”
“I can't help it if it's twelve o'clock,” was the reply. “You shouldn't
play the fool and spoil things by laughing. Now, are you going, or have
I got to put you out?”
He crossed the room and, putting his hand on the shoulder of the
protesting Mr. Sadler, pushed him into the passage, and taking his coat
from the peg held it up for him. Mr. Sadler, abandoning himself to his
fate, got into it slowly and indulged in a few remarks on the subject of
ingratitude.
“I can't help it,” said his friend, in a low voice. “I've had to swear
I've never seen you before.”
“Does she believe you?” said the staring Mr. Sadler, shivering at the
open door.
“No,” said Mr. Hatchard, slowly, “but she pretends to.”
SELF-HELP
The night-watchman sat brooding darkly over life and its troubles. A
shooting corn on the little toe of his left foot, and a touch of liver,
due, he was convinced, to the unlawful cellar work of the landlord of
the Queen's Head, had induced in him a vein of profound depression. A
discarded boot stood by his side, and his gray-stockinged foot protruded
over the edge of the jetty until a passing waterman gave it a playful
rap with his oar. A subsequent inquiry as to the price of pigs' trotters
fell on ears rendered deaf by suffering.
“I might 'ave expected it,” said the watchman, at last. “I done that
man—if you can call him a man—a kindness once, and this is my reward for
it. Do a man a kindness, and years arterwards 'e comes along and hits
you over your tenderest corn with a oar.”
'E Comes Along and Hits You over Your Tenderest Corn With a Oar.''
He took up his boot, and, inserting his foot with loving care, stooped
down and fastened the laces.
Do a man a kindness, he continued, assuming a safer posture, and 'e
tries to borrow money off of you; do a woman a kindness and she thinks
you want to marry 'er; do an animal a kindness and it tries to bite
you—same as a horse bit a sailorman I knew once, when 'e sat on its head
to 'elp it get up. He sat too far for'ard, pore chap.
Kindness never gets any thanks. I remember a man whose pal broke 'is leg
while they was working together unloading a barge; and he went off to
break the news to 'is pal's wife. A kind-'earted man 'e was as ever you
see, and, knowing 'ow she would take on when she 'eard the news, he
told her fust of all that 'er husband was killed. She took on like a mad
thing, and at last, when she couldn't do anything more and 'ad quieted
down a bit, he told 'er that it was on'y a case of a broken leg,
thinking that 'er joy would be so great that she wouldn't think anything
of that. He 'ad to tell her three times afore she understood 'im, and
then, instead of being thankful to 'im for 'is thoughtfulness, she
chased him 'arf over Wapping with a chopper, screaming with temper.