THE THIRD GHOST
_(James Orlebar Cloyster’s narrative continued)_
There only remained now my serious verse, of which I turned out an
enormous quantity. It won a ready acceptance in many quarters, notably
the _St. Stephen’s Gazette_. Already I was beginning to oust from their
positions on that excellent journal the old crusted poetesses who had
supplied it from its foundation with verse. The prices they paid on the
_St. Stephen’s_ were in excellent taste. In the musical world, too, I
was making way rapidly. Lyrics of the tea-and-muffin type streamed from
my pen. “Sleep whilst I Sing, Love,” had brought me in an astonishing
amount of money, in spite of the music-pirates. It was on the
barrel-organs. Adults hummed it. Infants crooned it in their cots.
Comic men at music-halls opened their turns by remarking soothingly to
the conductor of the orchestra, “I’m going to sing now, so you go to
sleep, love.” In a word, while the boom lasted, it was a little
gold-mine to me.
Thomas Blake was as obviously the man for me here as Sidney Price had
been in the case of my Society dialogues. The public would find
something infinitely piquant in the thought that its most sentimental
ditties were given to it by the horny-handed steerer of a canal barge.
He would be greeted as the modern Burns. People would ask him how he
thought of his poems, and he would say, “Oo-er!” and they would hail
him as delightfully original. In the case of Thomas Blake I saw my
earnings going up with a bound. His personality would be a noble
advertisement.
He was aboard the _Ashlade_ or _Lechton_ on the Cut, so I was informed
by Kit. Which information was not luminous to me. Further inquiries,
however, led me to the bridge at Brentford, whence starts that almost
unknown system of inland navigation which extends to Manchester and
Birmingham.
Here I accosted at a venture a ruminative bargee. “Tom Blake?” he
repeated, reflectively. “Oh! ’e’s been off this three hours on a trip
to Braunston. He’ll tie up tonight at the Shovel.”
“Where’s the Shovel?”
“Past Cowley, the Shovel is.” This was spoken in a tired drawl which
was evidently meant to preclude further chit-chat. To clinch things, he
slouched away, waving me in an abstracted manner to the towpath.
I took the hint. It was now three o’clock in the afternoon. Judging by
the pace of the barges I had seen, I should catch Blake easily before
nightfall. I set out briskly. An hour’s walking brought me to Hanwell,
and I was glad to see a regular chain of locks which must have
considerably delayed the _Ashlade_ and _Lechton_.
The afternoon wore on. I went steadily forward, making inquiries as to
Thomas’s whereabouts from the boats which met me, and always hearing
that he was still ahead.
Footsore and hungry, I overtook him at Cowley. The two boats were in
the lock. Thomas and a lady, presumably his wife, were ashore. On the
_Ashlade_’s raised cabin cover was a baby. Two patriarchal-looking boys
were respectively at the _Ashlade_’s and _Lechton_’s tillers. The lady
was attending to the horse.
The water in the lock rose gradually to a higher level.
“Hold them tillers straight!” yelled Thomas. At which point I saluted
him. He was a little blank at first, but when I reminded him of our
last meeting his face lit up at once. “Why, you’re the mister wot——”
“Nuppie!” came in a shrill scream from the lady with the horse.
“Nuppie!”
“Yes, Ada!” answered the boy on the _Ashlade_.
“Liz ain’t tied to the can. D’you want ’er to be drownded? Didn’t I
tell you to be sure and tie her up tight?”
“So I did, Ada. She’s untied herself again. Yes, she ’as. ’Asn’t she,
Albert?”
This appeal for corroboration was directed to the other small boy on
the _Lechton_. It failed signally.
“No, you did not tie Liz to the chimney. You know you never, Nuppie.”
“Wait till we get out of this lock!” said Nuppie, earnestly.
The water pouring in from the northern sluice was forcing the tillers
violently against the southern sluice gates.
“If them boys,” said Tom Blake in an overwrought voice, “lets them
tillers go round, it’s all up with my pair o’ boats. Lemme do it,
you——” The rest of the sentence was mercifully lost in the thump with
which Thomas’s feet bounded on the _Ashlade_’s cabin-top. He made Liz
fast to the circular foot of iron chimney projecting from the boards;
then, jumping back to the land, he said, more in sorrow than in anger:
“Lazy little brats! an’ they’ve ’_ad_ their tea, too.”
Clear of the locks, I walked with Thomas and his ancient horse, trying
to explain what I wanted done. But it was not until we had tied up for
the night, had had beer at the Shovel, and (Nuppie and Albert being
safely asleep in the second cabin) had met at supper that my
instructions had been fully grasped. Thomas himself was inclined to be
diffident, and had it not been for Ada would, I think, have let my
offer slide. She was enthusiastic. It was she who told me of the
cottage they had at Fenny Stratford, which they used as headquarters
whilst waiting for a cargo.
“That can be used as a permanent address,” I said. “All you have to do
is to write your name at the end of each typewritten sheet, enclose it
in the stamped envelope which I will send you, and send it by post.
When the cheques come, sign them on the back and forward them to me.
For every ten pounds you forward me, I’ll give you one for yourself. In
any difficulty, simply write to me—here’s my own address—and I’ll see
you through it.”
“We can’t go to prison for it, can we, mister?” asked Ada suddenly,
after a pause.
“No,” I said; “there’s nothing dishonest in what I propose.”
“Oh, she didn’t so much mean that,” said Thomas, thoughtfully.
They gave me a shakedown for the night in the cargo.
Just before turning in, I said casually, “If anyone except me cashed
the cheques by mistake, he’d go to prison quick.”
“Yes, mister,” came back Thomas’s voice, again a shade thoughtfully
modulated.