MR. VYNER spent the remainder of the morning in a state of dreamy
exaltation. He leaned back in his chair devising plans for a future in
which care and sorrow bore no part, and neglected the pile of work on
his table in favour of writing the name “Joan Vyner” on pieces of paper,
which he afterward burnt in the grate. At intervals he jumped up and
went to the window, in the faint hope that Joan might be passing, and
once, in the highest of high spirits, vaulted over his table. Removing
ink from his carpet afterward by means of blotting-paper was only an
agreeable diversion.
By mid-day his mood had changed to one of extreme tenderness and
humility, and he began to entertain unusual misgivings as to his
worthiness. He went home to lunch depressed by a sense of his
shortcomings; but, on his return, his soaring spirits got the better of
him again. Filled with a vast charity, his bosom overflowing with love
for all mankind, he looked about to see whom he could benefit; and
Bassett entering the room at that moment was sacrificed without delay.
Robert Vyner was ashamed to think that he should have left the lad’s
valuable services unrewarded for so long.
“It’s a fine afternoon, Bassett,” he said, leaning back and regarding
him with a benevolent smile.
“Beautiful, sir,” said the youth.
“Too fine to sit in a stuffy office,” continued the other. “Put on your
hat and go out and enjoy yourself.”
“Sir?” said the amazed Bassett.
“Take a half holiday,” said Vyner, still smiling.
“Thank you, sir,” said Bassett, “but I don’t care for holidays; and,
besides, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Do it to-morrow,” said Vyner. “Go on—out you go!”
“It can’t be done to-morrow, sir,” said the youth, almost tearfully.
“I’ve got all the letters to copy, and a pile of other work. And besides
I shouldn’t know what to do with myself if I went.”
Mr. Vyner eyed him in astonishment. “I’m sorry to find a tendency to
disobedience in you, Bassett,” he said, at last. “I’ve noticed it
before. And as to saying that you wouldn’t know what to do with
yourself, it’s a mere idle excuse.”
“What time have I got to go, sir?” asked Bassett, resignedly.
“Time?” exclaimed the other. “Now, at once. Avaunt!”
The boy stood for a moment gazing at him in mute appeal, and then,
moving with laggard steps to the door, closed it gently behind him. A
sudden outbreak of four or five voices, all speaking at once, that
filtered through the wall, satisfied Mr. Vyner that his orders were
being obeyed.
Horrified at the grave charge of disobedience, Bassett distributed his
work and left with what the junior clerk—whom he had constituted
residuary legatee—considered unnecessary and indecent haste. The latter
gentleman, indeed, to the youth’s discomfiture, accompanied him as far
as the entrance, and spoke eloquently upon the subject all the way
downstairs. His peroration consisted almost entirely of a repetition of
the words “lazy fat-head.”
With this hostile voice still ringing in his ears Bassett strolled
aimlessly about the streets of his native town. He spent some time at a
stall in front of a second-hand bookshop, and was just deep in an
enthralling romance, entitled “Story of a Lump of Coal,” when a huge
hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he turned to meet the admiring gaze
of Mr. Walters.
“More book-larning,” said the boatswain, in tones of deep respect. “It’s
a wonder to me that that head of yours don’t bust.”
“Heads don’t burst,” said Bassett. “The brain enlarges with use the same
as muscles with exercise. They can’t burst.”
“I only wish I had arf your larning,” said Mr. Walters; “just arf, and I
should be a very different man to wot I am now. Well, so long.”
“Where are you going?” inquired the youth, replacing the book.
“Seven Trees,” replied the other, displaying a small parcel. “I’ve got
to take this over there for the skipper. How far do you make it?”
“Four miles,” said Bassett. “I’ll come with you, if you like.”
“Wot about the office?” inquired the boatswain, in surprise.
Bassett, explained, and a troubled expression appeared on the seaman’s
face as he listened. He was thinking of the last conversation he had had
with the youth, and the hearty way in which he had agreed with him as to
the pernicious action of malt and other agreeable liquors on the human
frame. He remembered that he had committed himself to the statement that
wild horses could not make him drink before six in the evening, and then
not more than one half-pint.
“It’s a long walk for a ’ot day,” he said, slowly. “It might be too much
for you.”
“Oh, no; I’m a good walker,” said Bassett.
“Might be too much for that head of yours,” said Mr. Walters,
considerately.
“I often walk farther than that,” was the reply.
Mr. Walters drew the back of his hand across a mouth which was already
dry, and resigned himself to his fate. He had lied quite voluntarily,
and pride told him that he must abide by the consequences. And eight
miles of dusty road lay between him and relief. He strode along stoutly,
and tried to turn an attentive ear to a dissertation on field-mice. At
the end of the first mile he saw the sign of the Fox and Hounds peeping
through the trees, and almost unconsciously slackened his pace as he
remembered that it was the last inn on the road to Seven Trees.
“It’s very ’ot,” he murmured, mopping his brow with his sleeve, “and I’m
as dry as a bone.”
“I’m thirsty, too,” said Bassett; “but you know the cure for it, don’t
you?”
“O’ course I do,” said the boatswain, and nearly smacked his lips.
“Soldiers do it on the march,” said Bassett.
“I’ve seen ’em,” said Mr. Walters, grinning.
“A leaden bullet is the best thing,” said Bassett, stooping and picking
up a pebble, which he polished on his trousers, “but this will do as
well. Suck that and you won’t be troubled with thirst.”
The boatswain took it mechanically, and, after giving it another wipe on
his own trousers, placed it with great care in his mouth. Bassett found
another pebble and they marched on sucking.
“My thirst has quite disappeared,” he said, presently. “How’s yours?”
“Worse and worse,” said Mr. Walters, gruffly.
“It’ll be all right in a minute,” said Bassett. “Perhaps I had the best
pebble. If it isn’t, perhaps we could get a glass of water at a cottage;
athough it isn’t good to drink when you are heated.”
Mr. Walters made no reply, but marched on, marvelling at his lack of
moral courage. Bassett, quite refreshed, took out his pebble, and after
a grateful tribute to its properties placed it in his waistcoat pocket
for future emergencies.
By the time they had reached Seven Trees and delivered the parcel Mr.
Walters was desperate. The flattering comments that Bassett had made
upon his common-sense and virtue were forgotten. Pleading fatigue he sat
down by the roadside and, with his eyes glued to the open door of the
Pedlar’s Rest, began to hatch schemes of deliverance.
A faint smell of beer and sawdust, perceptible even at that distance,
set his nostrils aquiver. Then he saw an old labourer walk from the bar
to a table, bearing a mug of foaming ale. Human nature could endure no
more, and he was just about to throw away a hard-earned character for
truth and sobriety when better thoughts intervened. With his eyes fixed
on the small figure by his side, he furtively removed the pebble from
his mouth, and then with a wild cry threw out his arms and clutched at
his throat.
“What’s the matter?” cried Bassett, as the boatswain sprang to his feet.
“The stone,” cried Mr. Walters, in a strangulated voice; “it’s stuck in
my throat.”
Bassett thumped him on the back like one possessed. “Cough it up!” he
cried. “Put your finger down! Cough!”
The boatswain waved his arms and gurgled. “I’m choking!” he moaned, and
dashed blindly into the inn, followed by the alarmed boy.
“Pot—six ale!” he gasped, banging on the little counter.
The landlord eyed him in speechless amazement.
“Six ale!” repeated the boatswain. “Pot! Quick! G-r-r.”
“You be off,” said the landlord, putting down a glass he was wiping, and
eying him wrathfully. “How dare you come into my place like that? What
do you mean by it?”
“He has swallowed a pebble!” said Bassett, hastily.
“If he’d swallowed a brick I shouldn’t be surprised,” said the landlord,
“seeing the state he’s in. I don’t want drunken sailors in my place;
and, what’s more, I won’t have ’em.”
“Drunk?” said the unfortunate boatswain, raising his voice. “Me? Why, I
ain’t—”
“Out you go!” said the landlord, in a peremptory voice, “and be quick
about it; I don’t want people to say you got it here.”
“Got it?” wailed Mr. Walters. “_Got it_? I tell you I ain’t had it. I
swallowed a stone.”
“If you don’t go out,” said the landlord, as Mr. Walters, in token of
good faith, stood making weird noises in his throat and rolling his
eyes, “I’ll have you put out. How dare you make them noises in my bar!
Will—you—go?”
Mr. Walters looked at him, looked at the polished nickel taps, and the
neat row of mugs on the shelves. Then, without a word, he turned and
walked out.
“Has it gone down?” inquired Bassett presently, as they walked along.
“Wot?” said the boatswain, thoughtlessly.
“The pebble.”
“I s’pose so,” said the other, sourly.
“I should think it would be all right, then,” said the boy; “foreign
bodies, even of considerable size, are often swallowed with impunity.
How is your thirst now?”
The boatswain stopped dead in the middle of the road and stood eying him
suspiciously, but the mild eyes behind the glasses only betrayed
friendly solicitude. He grunted and walked on.
By the time the Fox and Hounds came in sight again he had resolved
not to lose a reputation which had entailed so much suffering. He
clapped the boy on the back, and after referring to a clasp-knive which
he remembered to have left on the grass opposite the Pedlar’s Rest,
announced his intention of going back for it. He did go back as far as
a bend in the road, and, after watching Bassett out of sight, hastened
with expectant steps into the inn.
He rested there for an hour, and, much refreshed, walked slowly into
Salthaven. It was past seven o’clock, and somewhat at a loss how to
spend the evening he was bending his steps toward the Lobster Pot, a
small inn by the quay, when in turning a corner he came into violent
collision with a fashionably attired lady.
“I beg pardon, ma’am,” he stammered. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t see where
I was—Why! Halloa, yaller wig!”
Miss Jelks drew back and, rubbing, her arm, eyed him haughtily.
“Fancy you in a ’at like that,” pursued the astonished boatswain. “No
wonder I thought you was a lady. Well, and ’ow are you?”
“My health is very well, I thank you,” returned Miss Jelks, stiffly.
“That’s right,” said the boatswain, heartily.
Conversation came suddenly to a standstill, and they stood eying each
other awkwardly.
“It’s a fine evening,” said Mr. Walters, at last.
“Beautiful,” said Rosa.
They eyed each other again, thoughtfully.
“You hurt my arm just now,” said Rosa, rubbing it coquettishly. “You’re
very strong, aren’t you?”
“Middling,” said the boatswain.
“Very strong, I should say,” said Rosa. “You’ve got such a broad chest
and shoulders.”
The boatswain inflated himself.
“And arms,” continued Miss Jelks, admiringly. “Arms like—like—”
“Blocks o’ wood,” suggested the modest Mr. Walters, squinting at them
complacently.
“Or iron,” said Rosa. “Well, good-by; it’s my evening out, and I mustn’t
waste it.”
“Where are you going?” inquired the boatswain.
Miss Jelks shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said, softly.
“You can come with me if you like,” said Mr. Walters, weighing his words
carefully. “A little way. I ain’t got nothing better to do.”
Miss Jelks’s eyes flashed, then with a demure smile she turned and
walked by his side. They walked slowly up the street, and Mr. Walters’s
brows grew black as a series of troublesome coughs broke out behind. A
glance over his shoulder showed him three tavern acquaintances roguishly
shaking their heads at him.
“Arf a second,” he said, stopping. “I’ll give ’em something to cough
about.”
Rosa clutched his arm. “Not now; not while you are with me,” she said,
primly.
“Just one smack,” urged the boatswain.
He looked round again and clenched his fists, as his friends, with their
arms fondly encircling each other’s waists, walked mincingly across the
road. He shook off the girl’s arm and stepped off the pavement as with
little squeals, fondly believed to be feminine, they sought sanctuary in
the Red Lion.
“They’re not worth taking notice of,” said Rosa.
She put a detaining hand through his arm again and gave it a little
gentle squeeze. A huge feather almost rested on his shoulder, and the
scent of eau-de-Cologne assailed his nostrils. He walked on in silent
amazement at finding himself in such a position.
“It’s nice to be out,” said Rosa, ignoring a feeble attempt on his part
to release his arm. “You’ve no idea how fresh the air smells after
you’ve been shut up all day.”
“You’ve got a comfortable berth, though, haven’t you?” said Mr. Walters.
“Fairish,” said Rosa. “There’s plenty of work; but I like
work—housework.”
The boatswain said “Oh!”
“Some girls can’t bear it,” said Rosa, “but then, as I often say, what
are they going to do when they get married?”
“Ah!” said the boatswain, with an alarmed grunt, and made another
attempt to release his arm.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Rosa, making a pretence of freeing him.
“I’m afraid I’m leaning on you; but I sprained my ankle yesterday, and I
thought—”
“All right,” said Mr. Walters, gruffly.
“Thank you,” said Rosa, and leaned on him heavily. “Housework is the
proper thing for girls,” she continued, with some severity. “Every girl
ought to know how to keep her husband’s house clean and cook nicely for
him. But there—all they think about is love. What did you say?”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Walters, hastily. “I didn’t say a word.”
“I don’t understand it myself,” said Rosa, taking an appraising glance
at him from under the brim of her hat; “I can’t think why people want to
get married when they’re comfortable.”
“Me neither,” said the boatswain.
“Being friends is all right,” said Rosa, meditatively, “but falling in
love and getting married always seemed absurd to me.”
“Me too,” said Mr. Walters, heartily.
With a mind suddenly at ease he gave himself over to calm enjoyment of
the situation. He sniffed approvingly at the eau-de-Cologne, and leaned
heavily toward the feather. Apparently without either of them knowing
it, his arm began to afford support to Miss Jelks’s waist. They walked
on for a long time in silence.
“Some men haven’t got your sense,” said Rosa, at last, with a sigh.
“There’s a young fellow that brings the milk—nice young fellow I thought
he was—and all because I’ve had a word with him now and again, he tried
to make love to me.”
“Oh, did he?” said Mr. Walters, grimly. “What’s his name?”
“It don’t matter,” said Rosa. “I don’t think he’ll try it again.”
“Still, I might as well learn ’im a lesson,” said the boatswain. “I like
a bit of a scrap.”
“If you are going to fight everybody that tries to take notice of me
you’ll have your work cut out,” said Miss Jelks, in tones of melancholy
resignation, “and I’m sure it’s not because I give them any
encouragement. And as for the number that ask me to walk out with
them—well, there!”
Mr. Walters showed his sympathy with such a state of affairs by a
pressure that nearly took her breath away. They sat for an hour and a
half on a bench by the river discussing the foolishness of young men.
“If any of them chaps trouble you again,” he said, as they shook hands
at the gate of Laurel Lodge, “you let me know. Do you have Sunday
evening out too?”