LIGHT FREIGHTS

by W. W. JACOBS

1901

“For a time he kept behind.”

Contents

ILLUSTRATIONS

AN ODD FREAK

Speaking o’ money,” said the night-watchman thoughtfully, as he selected an empty soapbox on the wharf for a seat, “the whole world would be different if we all ’ad more of it. It would be a brighter and a ’appier place for everybody.”

He broke off to open a small brass tobacco-box and place a little quid of tobacco tenderly into a pouch in his left cheek, critically observing at the same time the efforts of a somewhat large steamer to get alongside the next wharf without blocking up more than three parts of the river. He watched it as though the entire operation depended upon his attention, and, the steamer fast, he turned his eyes back again and resumed his theme.

“Of course it’s the being short that sharpens people,” he admitted thoughtfully; “the sharpest man I ever knew never ’ad a ha’penny in ’is pocket, and the ways ’e had o’ getting other chaps to pay for ’is beer would ha’ made ’is fortin at the law if ’e’d only ’ad the eddication. Playful little chap ’e was. I’ve seen men wot didn’t know ’im stand ’im a pot o’ beer and then foller ’im up the road to see ’im knock down a policeman as ’e’d promised. They’d foller ’im to the fust policeman ’e met, an’ then ’e’d point them out and say they were goin’ to half kill ’im, an’ the policeman ’ud just stroll up an’ ask ’em wot they were ’anging about for, but I never ’eard of a chap telling ’im. They used to go away struck all of a ’eap. He died in the accident ward of the London Horse-pittle, poor chap.”

He shook his head thoughtfully, and ignoring the statement of a watchman at the next wharf that it was a fine evening, shifted his quid and laughed rumblingly.

“The funniest way o’ raising the wind I ever ’eard of,” he said in explanation, “was one that ’appened about fifteen years ago. I’d just taken my discharge as A.B. from the North Star, trading between here and the Australian ports, and the men wot the thing ’appened to was shipmates o’ mine, although on’y firemen.

“I knows it’s a true story, becos I was in it a little bit myself, and the other part I ’ad from all of ’em, and besides, they didn’t see anything funny in it at all, or anything out of the way. It seemed to them quite a easy way o’ making money, and I dessay if it ’ad come off all right I should have thought so too.

“In about a week arter we was paid off at the Albert Docks these chaps was all cleaned out, and they was all in despair, with a thirst wot wasn’t half quenched and a spree wot was on’y in a manner o’ speaking just begun, and at the end of that time they came round to a room wot I ’ad, to see wot could be done. There was four of ’em in all: old Sam Small, Ginger Dick, Peter Russet, and a orphan nevy of Sam’s whose father and mother was dead. The mother ’ad been ’alf nigger an’ ’alf Malay when she was living, and Sam was always pertickler careful to point out that his nevy took arter ’er. It was enough to make the pore woman turn in ’er grave to say so, but Sam used to say that ’e owed it to ’is brother to explain.

“‘Wot’s to be done?’ ses Peter Russet, arter they’d all said wot miserable chaps they was, an’ ‘ow badly sailor-men was paid. ‘We’re all going to sign on in the Land’s End, but she doesn’t sail for a fortnight; wot’s to be done in the meantime for to live?’

“‘There’s your watch, Peter,’ ses old Sam, dreamy-like, ‘and there’s Ginger’s ring. It’s a good job you kep’ that ring, Ginger. We’re all in the same boat, mates, an’ I on’y wish as I’d got something for the general good. It’s ’aving an orphan nevy wot’s kep’ me pore.’

“‘Stow it,’ ses the nevy, short-like.

“‘Everything’s agin us,’ ses old Sam. There’s them four green parrots I brought from Brazil, all dead.’

“‘So are my two monkeys,’ ses Peter Russet, shaking ’is ’ead; ‘they used to sleep with me, too.’

“They all shook their ’eads then, and Russet took Sam up very sharp for saying that p’r’aps if he ’adn’t slep’ with the monkeys they wouldn’t ha’ died. He said if Sam knew more about monkeys than wot ’e did, why didn’t ’e put ’is money in them instead o’ green parrots wot pulled their feathers out and died of cold.

“‘Talking about monkeys,’ ses Ginger Dick, interrupting old Sam suddenly, ‘wot about young Beauty here?’

“‘Well, wot about him?’ ses the nevy, in a nasty sort o’ way.

“‘W’y, ’e’s worth forty monkeys an’ millions o’ green parrots,’ ses Ginger, starting up; ‘an’ here ’e is a-wasting of ’is opportunities, going about dressed like a Christian. Open your mouth, Beauty, and stick your tongue out and roll your eyes a bit.’

“‘W’y not leave well alone, Ginger?’ ses Russet; and I thought so too. Young Beauty was quite enough for me without that.

“‘Ter ’blige me,’ ses Ginger, anxiously, ‘just make yourself as ugly as wot you can, Beauty.’

“‘Leave ’im alone,’ ses old Sam, as his nevy snarled at ’em. ‘You ain’t everybody’s money yourself, Ginger.’

“‘I tell you, mates,’ ses Ginger, speaking very slow and solemn, ‘there’s a fortin in ’im. I was lookin’ at ’im just now, trying to think who ’e reminded me of. At fust I thought it was that big stuffed monkey we saw at Melbourne, then I suddenly remembered it was a wild man of Borneo I see when I was a kid up in Sunderland. When I say ’e was a ’andsome, good-’arted looking gentleman alongside o’ you, Beauty, do you begin to get my meaning?’

“‘Wot’s the idea, Ginger?’ ses Sam, getting up to lend me and Russet a ’and with ’is nevy.

“‘My idea is this,’ ses Ginger; ‘take ’is cloes off ’im and dress ’im up in that there winder-blind, or something o’ the kind; tie ’im up with a bit o’ line, and take ’im round to Ted Reddish in the ’Ighway and sell ’im for a ’undered quid as a wild man of Borneo.’

“‘Wot?’ screams Beauty, in an awful voice. ‘Let go, Peter; let go, d’ye hear?’

“‘’Old your noise, Beauty, while your elders is speaking,’ ses ’is uncle, and I could see ’e was struck with the idea.

“‘You jest try dressing me up in a winder-blind,’ ses his nevy, half-crying with rage.

“Listen to reason, Beauty,’ ses Ginger; ‘you’ll ’ave your share of the tin; it’ll only be for a day or two, and then when we’ve cleared out you can make your escape, and there’ll be twenty-five pounds for each of us.’

“‘’Ow do you make that out, Ginger?’ ses Sam, in a cold voice.

“‘Fours into a ’undered,’ ses Ginger.

“‘Ho,’ ses Sam. ‘Ho, indeed. I wasn’t aweer that ’e was your nevy, Ginger.’

“‘Share and share alike.’ ses Russet. ‘It’s a very good plan o’ yours, Ginger.’

“Ginger holds ’is ’ead up and looks at ’im ’ard.

“‘I thought o’ the plan,’ ’e ses, speaking very slow and deliberate. ‘Sam’s ’is uncle, and ’e’s the wild man. Threes into a ’undered go—’

“‘You needn’t bother your fat ’ead adding up sums, Ginger,’ ses Russet, very polite. ‘I’m going to ’ave my share; else I’ll split to Ted Reddish.’

“None of ’em said a word about me: two of ’em was sitting on my bed; Ginger was using a ’ankerchief o’ mine wot ’e found in the fireplace, and Peter Russet ’ad ’ad a drink out o’ the jug on my washstand, and yet they never even mentioned me. That’s firemen all over, and that’s ‘ow it is they get themselves so disliked.

“It took ’em best part of an ’our to talk round young Beauty, an’ the langwidge they see fit to use made me thankful to think that the parrots didn’t live to larn it.

“You never saw anything like Beauty when they ’ad finished with ’im. If ’e was bad in ’is cloes, ’e was a perfeck horror without ’em. Ginger Dick faked ’im up beautiful, but there was no pleasing ’im. Fust he found fault with the winder-blind, which ’e said didn’t fit; then ’e grumbled about going bare-foot, then ’e wanted somethink to ’ide ’is legs, which was natural considering the shape of ’em. Ginger Dick nearly lost ’is temper with ’im, and it was all old Sam could do to stop himself from casting ’im off forever. He was finished at last, and arter Peter Russet ’ad slipped downstairs and found a bit o’ broken clothes-prop in the yard, and ’e’d been shown ‘ow to lean on it and make a noise, Ginger said as ‘ow if Ted Reddish got ’im for a ’undered pounds ’e’d get ’im a bargain.

“‘We must ’ave a cab,’ ses old Sam.

“‘Cab?’ ses Ginger. ‘What for?’

“‘We should ’ave half Wapping following us,’ ses Sam. ‘Go out and put your ring up, Ginger, and fetch a cab.’

“Ginger started grumbling, but he went, and presently came back with the cab and the money, and they all went downstairs leading the wild man by a bit o’ line. They only met one party coming up, and ’e seemed to remember somethink ’e’d forgotten wot ought to be fetched at once.

“Ginger went out fust and opened the cab-door, and then stood there waiting becos at the last moment the wild man said the winder-blind was slipping down. They got ’im out at last, but before ’e could get in the cab was going up the road at ten miles an hour, with Ginger ’anging on to the door calling to it to stop.

“It came back at about a mile an’ a ’alf an hour, an’ the remarks of the cabman was eggstrordinary. Even when he got back ’e wouldn’t start till ’e’d got double fare paid in advance; but they got in at last and drove off.

“There was a fine scene at Ted Reddish’s door. Ginger said that if there was a bit of a struggle it would be a good advertisement for Ted Reddish, and they might p’r’aps get more than a ’undered, and all the three of ’em could do, they couldn’t get the wild man out o’ that cab, and the cabman was hopping about ’arf crazy. Every now and then they’d get the wild man ’arf out, and then he’d get in agin and snarl. ’E didn’t seem to know when to leave off, and Ginger and the others got almost as sick of it as the cabman. It must ha’ taken two years’ wear out o’ that cab, but they got ’im out at last, and Reddish’s door being open to see what the row was about, they went straight in.

“‘Wot’s all this?’ ses Reddish, who was a tall, thin man, with a dark moustache.

“It’s a wild man o’ Borneo,’ ses Ginger, panting; ‘we caught ’im in a forest in Brazil, an’ we’ve come ’ere to give you the fust offer.’

“Ted Reddish was so surprised ’e couldn’t speak at fust. The wild man seemed to take ’is breath away, and ’e looked in a ’elpless kind o’ way at ’is wife, who’d just come down. She was a nice-lookin’ woman, fat, with a lot o’ yaller hair, and she smiled at ’em as though she’d known ’em all their lives.

“‘Come into the parlour,’ she ses, kindly, just as Ted was beginning to get ’is breath.

“They followed ’em in, and the wild man was just going to make hisself comfortable in a easy-chair, when Ginger give ’im a look, an’ ’e curled up on the ’earthrug instead.

“‘’E ain’t a very fine specimen,’ ses Ted Reddish, at last.

“‘It’s the red side-whiskers I don’t like,’ ses his wife. ‘Besides, who ever ’eard of a wild man in a collar an’ necktie?’

“‘You’ve got hold o’ the wrong one,’ ses Ted Reddish, afore Ginger Dick could speak up for hisself.

“‘Oh, I beg your pardin,’ ses Mrs. Reddish to Ginger, very polite. ‘I thought it was funny a wild man should be wearing a collar. It’s my mistake. That’s the wild man, I s’pose, on the ’earthrug?’

“That’s ’im, mum,’ ses old Sam, very short.

“‘He don’t look wild enough,’ ses Reddish.

“‘No; ’e’s much too tame,’ ses ’is wife, shaking her yaller curls.

“The chaps all looked at each other then, and the wild man began to think it was time he did somethink; and the nearest thing ’andy being Ginger’s leg, ’e put ’is teeth into it. Anybody might ha’ thought Ginger was the wild man then, the way ’e went on, and Mrs. Reddish said that even if he so far forgot hisself as to use sich langwidge afore ’er, ’e oughtn’t to before a poor ’eathen animal.

“‘How much do you want for ’im?’ ses Ted Reddish, arter Ginger ’ad got ’is leg away, and taken it to the winder to look at it.

“‘One ’undered pounds,’ ses old Sam.

“Ted Reddish looked at ’is wife, and they both larfed as though they’d never leave orf.

“‘Why, the market price o’ the best wild men is only thirty shillings,’ ses Reddish, wiping ’is eyes. ‘I’ll give you a pound for ’im.’

“Old Sam looked at Russet, and Russet looked at Ginger, and then they all larfed.

“‘Well, there’s no getting over you, I can see that,’ ses Reddish, at last. ‘Is he strong?’

“‘Strong? Strong ain’t the word for it,’ ses Sam.

“‘Bring ’im to the back and let ’im ’ave a wrestle with one o’ the brown bears, Ted,’ ses ’is wife.

“‘’E’d kill it,’ ses old Sam, hastily.

“‘Never mind,’ ses Reddish, getting up; ‘brown bears is cheap enough.’

“They all got up then, none of ’em knowing wot to do, except the wild man, that is, and he got ’is arms tight round the leg o’ the table.

“‘Well,’ ses Ginger, ‘we’ll be pleased for ’im to wrestle with the bear, but we must ’ave the ’un-dered quid fust, in case ’e injures ’isself a little.’

“Ted Reddish looked ’ard at ’im, and then he looked at ’is wife agin.

“I’ll just go outside and talk it over with the missus,’ he ses, at last, and they both got up and went out.

“‘It’s all right,’ ses old Sam, winking at Ginger.

“‘Fair cop,’ ses Ginger, who was still rubbing his leg. ‘I told you it would be, but there’s no need for Beauty to overdo it. He nearly ’ad a bit out o’ my leg.’

“‘A’right,’ ses the wild man, shifting along the ’earthrug to where Peter was sitting; ‘but it don’t do for me to be too tame. You ’eard wot she said.’

“‘How are you feeling, old man?’ ses Peter, in a kind voice, as ’e tucked ’is legs away under ’is chair.

“‘Gurr,’ ses the wild man, going on all fours to the back of the chair, ‘gur—wug—wug——’

“‘Don’t play the fool, Beauty,’ ses Peter, with a uneasy smile, as he twisted ’is ’ead round. ‘Call ’im off, Sam.’

“‘Gurr,’ ses the wild man, sniffing at ’is legs; ‘gurr.’

“‘Easy on, Beauty, it’s no good biting ’im till they come back,’ ses old Sam.

“‘I won’t be bit at all,’ ses Russet, very sharp, ‘mind that, Sam. It’s my belief Beauty’s gone mad.’

“‘Hush,’ ses Ginger, and they ’eard Ted Reddish and ’is wife coming back. They came in, sat down agin, and after Ted ’ad ’ad another good look at the wild man and prodded ’im all over an’ looked at ’is teeth, he spoke up and said they’d decided to give a ’undered pun for ’im at the end o’ three days if ’e suited.

“‘I s’pose,’ ses Sam, looking at the others, ‘that we could ’ave a bit of it now to go on with?’

“‘It’s agin our way of doing business,’ ses Ted Reddish. ‘If it ’ud been a lion or a tiger we could, but wild men we never do.’

“‘The thing is,’ ses Mrs. Reddish, as the wild man started on Russet’s leg and was pulled off by Sam and Ginger, ‘where to put ’im.’

“‘Why not put ’im in with the black leopard?’ ses her ’usband.

“‘There’s plenty o’ room in his cage,’ says ’is wife thoughtfully, ‘and it ’ud be company for ’im too.’

“‘I don’t think the wild man ’ud like that,’ ses Ginger.

“‘I’m sartain sure ’e wouldn’t,’ says old Sam, shaking ’is ’ead.

“‘Well, we must put ’im in a cage by hisself, I s’pose,’ ses Reddish, ‘but we can’t be put to much expense. I’m sure the money we spent in cat’s meat for the last wild man we ’ad was awful.’

“‘Don’t you spend too much money on cat’s meat for ’im,’ ses Sam, ‘’e’d very likely leave it. Bringing ’im ’ome, we used to give ’im the same as we ’ad ourselves, and he got on all right.’

“‘It’s a wonder you didn’t kill ’im,’ ses Reddish, severely. ‘He’ll be fed very different ’ere, I can tell you. You won’t know ’im at the end o’ three days.’

“‘Don’t change ’im too sudden,’ ses Ginger, keeping ’is ’ead turned away from the wild man, wot wos trying to catch ’is eye. ‘Cook ’is food at fust, ’cos ’e’s been used to it.’

“‘I know wot to give ’im,’ ses Reddish, offhandedly. ‘I ain’t been in the line twenty-seven years for nothink. Bring ’im out to the back, an’ I’ll put ’im in ’is new ’ome.’

“They all got up and, taking no notice of the wild man’s whispers, follered Ted Reddish and ’is wife out to the back, where all the wild beasts in the world seemed to ’ave collected to roar out to each other what a beastly place it was.

“‘I’m going to put ’im in “’Appy Cottage” for a time,’ says Reddish; ‘lend a hand ’ere, William,’ he says, beckoning to one of ’is men.

“‘Is that “’Appy Cottage”?’ ses old Sam, sniffing, as they got up to a nasty, empty cage with a chain and staple in the wall.

“Ted Reddish said it was.

“‘Wot makes you call it that?’ ses Sam.

“Reddish didn’t seem to ’ear ’im, and it took all Ginger’s coaxing to get Beauty to go in.

“‘It’s on’y for a day or two,’ he whispers.

“‘But ‘ow am I to escape when you’ve got the brass?’ ses the wild man.

“‘We’ll look arter that,’ ses Ginger, who ’adn’t got the least idea.

“The wild man ’ad a little show for the last time, jist to impress Ted Reddish, an’ it was pretty to see the way William ’andled ’im. The look on the wild man’s face showed as ‘ow it was a revelashun to ’im. Then ’is three mates took a last look at ’im and went off.

“For the fust day Sam felt uneasy about ’im, and used to tell us tales about ’is dead brother which made us think Beauty was lucky to take arter ’is mother; but it wore off, and the next night, in the Admiral Cochrane, ’e put ’is ’ead on Ginger’s shoulder, and wep’ for ’appiness as ’e spoke of ’is nevy’s home at ‘’Appy Cottage.’

“On the third day Sam was for going round in the morning for the money, but Ginger said it wasn’t advisable to show any ’aste; so they left it to the evening, and Peter Russet wrote Sam a letter signed ‘Barnum,’ offering ’im two ’undered for the wild man, in case Ted Reddish should want to beat ’em down. They all ’ad a drink before they went in, and was smiling with good temper to sich an extent that they ’ad to wait a minute to get their faces straight afore going in.

“‘Come in,’ ses Reddish, and they follered ’im into the parler, where Mrs. Reddish was sitting in a armchair shaking ’er’ ead and looking at the carpet very sorrowful.

“‘I was afraid you’d come,’ she ses, in a low voice.

“‘So was I,’ ses Reddish.

“‘What for?’ ses old Sam. It didn’t look much like money, and ’e felt cross.

“‘We’ve ’ad a loss,’ ses Mrs. Reddish. She touched ’erself, and then they see she was all in black, and that Ted Reddish was wearing a black tie and a bit o’ crape round ’is arm.

“‘Sorry to ’ear it, mum,’ ses old Sam.

“‘It was very sudden, too,’ ses Mrs. Reddish, wiping ’er eyes.

“‘That’s better than laying long,’ ses Peter Russet, comforting like.

“Ginger Dick gives a cough. ‘Twenty-five pounds was wot ’e’d come for; not to ’ear this sort o’ talk.’

“‘We’ve been in the wild-beast line seven-an’-twenty years,’ ses Mrs. Reddish, ‘and it’s the fust time anythink of this sort ’as ’appened.’

“‘’Ealthy family, I s’pose,’ ses Sam, staring.

“Tell ’im, Ted,’ ses Mrs. Reddish, in a ’usky whisper.

“‘No, you,’ ses Ted.

“‘It’s your place,’ ses Mrs. Reddish.

“‘A woman can break it better,’ ses ’er ’usband.

“‘Tell us wot?’ ses Ginger, very snappish.

“Ted Reddish cleared ’is throat.

“‘It wasn’t our fault,’ he ses, slowly, while Mrs. Reddish began to cry agin; ‘gin’rally speak-in’, animals is afraid o’ wild men, and night before last, as the wild man wot you left on approval didn’t seem to like “’Appy Cottage,” we took ’im out an’ put ’im in with the tiger.’

“‘Put him in with the WOT?’ ses the unfort’nit man’s uncle, jumping off ’is chair.

“‘The tiger,’ ses Reddish. ‘We ’eard something in the night, but we thought they was only ’aving a little bit of a tiff, like. In the morning I went down with a bit o’ cold meat for the wild man, and I thought at first he’d escaped; but looking a little bit closer—’

“‘Don’t, Ted,’ ses ’is wife. ‘I can’t bear it.’

“‘Do you mean to tell me that the tiger ’as eat ’im?’ screams old Sam.

“‘Most of ’im,’ ses Ted Reddish; ‘but ’e couldn’t ha’ been much of a wild man to let a tiger get the better of ’im. I must say I was surprised.’

“‘We both was,’ ses Mrs. Reddish, wiping ’er eyes.

“You might ha’ ’eard a pin drop; old Sam’s eyes was large and staring, Peter Russet was sucking ’is teeth, an’ Ginger was wondering wot the law would say to it—if it ’eard of it.

“‘It’s an unfortunit thing for all parties,’ ses Ted Reddish at last, getting up and standing on the ’earthrug.

“‘’Orrible,’ ses Sam, ’uskily. ‘You ought to ha’ known better than to put ’im in with a tiger. Wot could you expect? W’y, it was a mad thing to do.’

“‘Crool thing,’ ses Peter Russet.

“‘You don’t know the bisness properly,’ ses Ginger, ‘that’s about wot it is. ‘You should ha’ known better than that.’

“‘Well, it’s no good making a fuss about it,’ ses Reddish. It was only a wild man arter all, and he’d ha’ died anyway, cos ’e wouldn’t eat the raw meat we gave ’im, and ’is pan o’ water was scarcely touched. He’d ha’ starved himself anyhow. I’m sorry, as I said before, but I must be off; I’ve got an appointment down at the docks.’

“He moved towards the door; Ginger Dick gave Russet a nudge and whispered something and Russet passed it on to Sam.

“What about the ’undered quid?’ ses pore Beauty’s uncle, catching ’old o’ Reddish as ’e passed ’im.

“‘Eh?’ ses Reddish, surprised—‘Oh, that’s off.’

“‘Ho!’ says Sam. ‘Ho! is it? We want a ’undered quid off of you; an’ wot’s more, we mean to ’ave it.’

“‘But the tiger’s ate ’im,’ says Mrs. Reddish, explaining.

“‘I know that,’ ses Sam, sharply. ‘But ’e was our wild man, and we want to be paid for ’im. You should ha’ been more careful. We’ll give you five minutes; and if the money ain’t paid by that time we’ll go straight off to the police-station.’

“‘Well, go,’ ses Ted Reddish.

“Sam got up, very stern, and looked at Ginger.

“‘You’ll be ruined if we do,’ ses Ginger.

“‘All right,’ ses Ted Reddish, comfortably.

“I’m not sure they can’t ’ang you,’ ses Russet.

“‘I ain’t sure either,’ says Reddish; ‘and I’d like to know ‘ow the law stands, in case it ’appens agin.’

“‘Come on, Sam,’ ses Ginger; ‘come straight to the police-station.’

“He got up, and moved towards the door. Ted Reddish didn’t move a muscle, but Mrs. Reddish flopped on her knees and caught old Sam round the legs, and ’eld him so’s ’e couldn’t move.

“‘Spare ’im,’ she ses, crying.

“‘Lea’ go o’ my legs, mum,’ ses Sam.

“‘Come on, Sam,’ ses Ginger; ‘come to the police.’

“Old Sam made a desperit effort, and Mrs. Reddish called ’im a crool monster, and let go and ’id ’er face on ’er husband’s shoulder as they all moved out of the parlour, larfing like a mad thing with hysterics.

“They moved off slowly, not knowing wot to do, as, of course, they knew they daren’t go to the police about it. Ginger Dick’s temper was awful; but Peter Russet said they mustn’t give up all ’ope—he’d write to Ted Reddish and tell ’im as a friend wot a danger ’e was in. Old Sam didn’t say anything, the loss of his nevy and twenty-five pounds at the same time being almost more than ’is ’art could bear, and in a slow, melancholy fashion they walked back to old Sam’s lodgings.

“‘Well, what the blazes is up now?’ ses Ginger Dick, as they turned the corner.

“There was three or four ’undered people standing in front of the ’ouse, and women’s ’eads out of all the winders screaming their ’ardest for the police, and as they got closer they ’eard a incessant knocking. It took ’em nearly five minutes to force their way through the crowd, and then they nearly went crazy as they saw the wild man with ’alf the winder-blind missing, but otherwise well and ’arty, standing on the step and giving rat-a-tat-tats at the door for all ’e was worth.

“They never got to know the rights of it, Beauty getting so excited every time they asked ’im ‘ow he got on that they ’ad to give it up. But they began to ’ave a sort of idea at last that Ted Reddish ’ad been ’aving a game with ’em, and that Mrs. Reddish was worse than wot ’e was.”

A QUESTION OF HABIT

“Wimmin aboard ship I don’t ’old with,” said the night-watchman, severely. “They’ll arsk you all sorts o’ silly questions, an’ complain to the skipper if you don’t treat ’em civil in answering ’em. If you do treat ’em civil, what’s the result? Is it a bit o’ bacca, or a shilling, or anything like that? Not a bit of it; just a ‘thank you,’ an’ said in a way as though they’ve been giving you a perfect treat by talking to you.

“They’re a contrary sects too. Ask a girl civil-like to stand off a line you want to coil up, and she’ll get off an’ look at you as though you ought to have waited until she ’ad offered to shift. Pull on it without asking her to step off fust, an’ the ship won’t ’old her ’ardly. A man I knew once—he’s dead now, poor chap, and left three widders mourning their unrepairable loss—said that with all ’is experience wimmin was as much a riddle to ’im as when he fust married.

“O’ course, sometimes you get a gal down the fo’c’s’le pretending to be a man, shipping as ordinary seaman or boy, and nobody not a penny the wiser. It’s happened before, an’ I’ve no doubt it will again.

“We ’ad a queer case once on a barque I was on as steward, called the Tower of London, bound from the Albert Docks to Melbourne with a general cargo. We shipped a new boy just after we started as was entered in the ship’s books as ’Enery Mallow, an’ the fust thing we noticed about ’Enery was as ’e had a great dislike to work and was terrible sea-sick. Every time there was a job as wanted to be done, that lad ’ud go and be took bad quite independent of the weather.

“Then Bill Dowsett adopted ’im, and said he’d make a sailor of ’im. I believe if ’Enery could ’ave chose ’is father, he’d sooner ’ad any man than Bill, and I would sooner have been a orphan than a son to any of ’em. Bill relied on his langwidge mostly, but when that failed he’d just fetch ’im a cuff. Nothing more than was good for a boy wot ’ad got ’is living to earn, but ’Enery used to cry until we was all ashamed of ’im.

“Bill got almost to be afraid of ’itting ’im at last, and used to try wot being sarcastic would do. Then we found as ’Enery was ten times as sarcastic as Bill—’e’d talk all round ’im so to speak, an’ even take the words out of Bill’s mouth to use agin ’im. Then Bill would turn to ’is great natural gifts, and the end of it was when we was about a fortnight out that the boy ran up on deck and went aft to the skipper and complained of Bill’s langwidge.

“‘Langwidge,’ ses the old man, glaring at ’im as if ’e’d eat ’im—‘what sort o’ langwidge?’

“‘Bad langwidge, sir,’ ses ’Enery.

“‘Repeat it,’ ses the skipper.

“’Enery gives a little shiver. ‘I couldn’t do it, sir,’ he ses, very solemn; ‘it’s like—like you was talking to the bo’sen yesterday.’

“’Go to your duties,’ roars the skipper; ‘go to your duties at once, and don’t let me ’ear any more of it. Why, you ought to be at a young ladies’ school.’

“‘I know I ought, sir,’ ’Enery ses, with a w’imper, ‘but I never thought it’d be like this.’

“The old man stares at him, and then he rubs his eyes and stares agin. ’Enery wiped his eyes and stood looking down at the deck.

“‘’Eavens above,’ ses the old man, in a dazed voice, ‘don’t tell me you’re a gal!’

“‘I won’t if you don’t want me to,’ ses ’Enery, wiping his eyes agin.

“‘What’s your name?’ ses the old man, at last.

“‘Mary Mallow, sir,’ ses ’Enery, very soft.

“‘What made you do it?’ ses the skipper, at last.

“‘My father wanted me to marry a man I didn’t want to,’ ses Miss Mallow. ‘He used to admire my hair very much, so I cut it off. Then I got frightened at what I’d done, and as I looked like a boy I thought I’d go to sea.’

“‘Well, it’s a nice responsibility for me,’ ses the skipper, and he called the mate, who ’ad just come on deck, and asked his advice. The mate was a very straitlaced man—for a mate—and at fust he was so shocked ’e couldn’t speak.

“‘She’ll have to come aft,’ he ses, at last.

“‘O’ course she will,’ ses the skipper, and he called me up and told me to clear a spare cabin out for her—we carried a passenger or two sometimes—and to fetch her chest up.

I s’pose you’ve got some clothes in it?’ he ses, anxious-like.

“‘Only these sort o’ things,’ ses Miss Mallow, bashfully.

“‘And send Dowsett to me,’ ses the skipper, turning to me agin.

“We ’ad to shove pore Bill up on deck a’most, and the way the skipper went on at ’im, you’d thought ’e was the greatest rascal unhung. He begged the young lady’s pardon over and over agin, and when ’e come back to us ’e was that upset that ’e didn’t know what ’e was saying, and begged an ordinary seaman’s pardon for treading on ’is toe.

“Then the skipper took Miss Mallow below to her new quarters, and to ’is great surprise caught the third officer, who was fond of female society, doing a step-dance in the saloon all on ’is own.

“That evening the skipper and the mate formed themselves into a committee to decide what was to be done. Everything the mate suggested the skipper wouldn’t have, and when the skipper thought of anythink, the mate said it was impossible. After the committee ’ad been sitting for three hours it began to abuse each other; leastaways, the skipper abused the mate, and the mate kep’ on saying if it wasn’t for discipline he knew somebody as would tell the skipper a thing or two it would do ’im good to hear.

“‘She must have a dress, I tell you, or a frock at any rate,’ ses the skipper, very mad.

“‘What’s the difference between a dress and a frock?’ ses the mate.

“‘There is a difference,’ ses the skipper.

“‘Well, what is it?’ ses the mate.

“‘It wouldn’t be any good if I was to explain to you,’ ses the skipper; ‘some people’s heads are too thick.’

“‘I know they are,’ ses the mate.

“The committee broke up after that, but it got amiable agin over breakfast next morning, and made quite a fuss over Miss Mallow. It was wonderful what a difference a night aft had made in that gal. She’d washed herself beautiful, and had just frizzed ’er ’air, which was rather long, over ’er forehead, and the committee kept pursing its lips up and looking at each other as Mr. Fisher talked to ’er and kep’ on piling ’er plate up.

“She went up on deck after breakfast and stood leaning against the side talking to Mr. Fisher. Pretty laugh she’d got, too, though I never noticed it when she was in the fo’c’s’le. Perhaps she hadn’t got much to laugh about then; and while she was up there enjoying ’erself watching us chaps work, the committee was down below laying its ’eads together agin.

“When I went down to the cabin agin it was like a dressmaker’s shop. There was silk handkerchiefs and all sorts o’ things on the table, an’ the skipper was hovering about with a big pair of scissors in his hands, wondering how to begin.

“‘I shan’t attempt anything very grand,’ he ses, at last; ‘just something to slip over them boy’s clothes she’s wearing.’

“The mate didn’t say anything. He was busy drawing frocks on a little piece of paper, and looking at ’em with his ’ead on one side to see whether they looked better that way.

“‘By Jove! I’ve got it,’ ses the old man, suddenly. ‘Where’s that dressing-gown your wife gave you?’

“The mate looked up. ‘I don’t know,’ he ses, slowly. ‘I’ve mislaid it.’

“‘Well, it can’t be far,’ ses the skipper. ‘It’s just the thing to make a frock of.’

“‘I don’t think so,’ ses the mate. ‘It wouldn’t hang properly. Do you know what I was thinking of?’

“‘Well,’ ses the skipper.

“‘Three o’ them new flannel shirts o’ yours,’ ses the mate. ‘They’re very dark, an’ they’d hang beautiful.’

“‘Let’s try the dressing-gown fust,’ ses the skipper, hearty-like. ‘That’s easier. I’ll help you look for it.’

“‘I can’t think what I’ve done with it,’ ses the mate.

“‘Well, let’s try your cabin,’ ses the old man.

“They went to the mate’s cabin and, to his great surprise, there it was hanging just behind the door. It was a beautiful dressing-gown—soft, warm cloth trimmed with braid—and the skipper took up his scissors agin, and fairly gloated over it. Then he slowly cut off the top part with the two arms ’anging to it, and passed it over to the mate.

“‘I shan’t want that, Mr. Jackson,’ he ses, slowly. ‘I dare say you’ll find it come in useful.’

“‘While you’re doing that, s’pose I get on with them three shirts,’ ses Mr. Jackson.

“‘What three shirts?’ ses the skipper, who was busy cutting buttons off.

“‘Why, yours,’ ses Mr. Jackson. ‘Let’s see who can make the best frock.’

“‘No, Mr. Jackson,’ ses the old man. ‘I’m sure you couldn’t make anything o’ them shirts. You’re not at all gifted that way. Besides, I want ’em.’

“‘Well, I wanted my dressing-gown, if you come to that,’ ses the mate, in a sulky voice.

“‘Well, what on earth did you give it to me for?’ ses the skipper. ‘I do wish you’d know your own mind, Mr. Jackson.’

“The mate didn’t say any more. He sat and watched the old man, as he threaded his needle and stitched the dressing-gown together down the front. It really didn’t look half bad when he’d finished it, and it was easy to see how pleased Miss Mallow was. She really looked quite fine in it, and with the blue guernsey she was wearing and a band made o’ silk handkerchiefs round her waist, I saw at once it was a case with the third officer.

“‘Now you look a bit more like the gal your father used to know,’ ses the skipper. ‘My finger’s a bit sore just at present, but by and by I’ll make you a bonnet.’

“‘I’d like to see it,’ ses the mate.

“‘It’s quite easy,’ ses the skipper. ‘I’ve seen my wife do ’em. She calls ’em tokes. You make the hull out o’ cardboard and spread your canvas on that.’

“That dress made a wonderful difference in the gal. Wonderful! She seemed to change all at once and become the lady altogether. She just ’ad that cabin at her beck and call; and as for me, she seemed to think I was there a puppose to wait on ’er.

“I must say she ’ad a good time of it. We was having splendid weather, and there wasn’t much work for anybody; consequently, when she wasn’t receiving good advice from the skipper and the mate, she was receiving attention from both the second and third officers. Mr. Scott, the second, didn’t seem to take much notice of her for a day or two, and the first I saw of his being in love was ’is being very rude to Mr. Fisher and giving up bad langwidge, so sudden it’s a wonder it didn’t do ’im a injury.

“I think the gal rather enjoyed their attentions at first, but arter a time she got fairly tired of it. She never ’ad no rest, pore thing. If she was up on deck looking over the side the third officer would come up and talk romantic to ’er about the sea and the lonely lives of sailor-men, and I acturally ’eard Mr. Scott repeating poetry to her. The skipper ’eard it too, and being suspicious o’ poetry, and not having heard clearly, called him up to ’im and made ’im say it all over agin to ’im. ’E didn’t seem quite to know wot to make of it, so ’e calls up the mate for ’im to hear it. The mate said it was rubbish, and the skipper told Mr. Scott that if ever he was taken that way agin ’e’d ’ear more of it.

“There was no doubt about them two young fellers being genuine. She ’appened to say one day that she could never, never care for a man who drank and smoked, and I’m blest if both of ’em didn’t give ’er their pipes to chuck overboard, and the agony those two chaps used to suffer when they saw other people smoking was pitiful to witness.

“It got to such a pitch at last that the mate, who, as I said afore, was a very particular man, called another committee meeting. It was a very solemn affair, and ’e made a long speech in which he said he was the father of a family, and that the second and third officers was far too attentive to Miss Mallow, and ’e asked the skipper to stop it.

“‘How?’ ses the skipper.

“‘Stop the draught-playing and the cardplaying and the poetry,’ ses the mate; ‘the gal’s getting too much attention; she’ll have ’er ’ead turned. Put your foot down, sir, and stop it.’

“The skipper was so struck by what he said, that he not only did that, but he went and forbid them two young men to speak to the gal except at meal times, or when the conversation was general. None of ’em liked it, though the gal pretended to, and for the matter of a week things was very quiet in the cabin, not to say sulky.

“Things got back to their old style agin in a very curious way. I’d just set the tea in the cabin one afternoon, and ’ad stopped at the foot of the companion-ladder to let the skipper and Mr. Fisher come down, when we suddenly ’eard a loud box on the ear. We all rushed into the cabin at once, and there was the mate looking fairly thunderstruck, with his hand to his face, and Miss Mallow glaring at ’im.

“‘Mr. Jackson,’ ses the skipper, in a awful voice, ‘what’s this?’

“‘Ask her,’ shouts the mate. ‘I think she’s gone mad or something.’

“‘What does this mean, Miss Mallow?’ ses the skipper.

“‘Ask him,’ ses Miss Mallow, breathing very ’ard.

“‘Mr. Jackson,’ ses the skipper, very severe, ‘what have you been doing?’

“‘Nothing,’ roars the mate.

“‘Was that a box on the ear I ’eard?’ ses the skipper.

“‘It was,’ ses the mate, grinding his teeth.

“‘Your ear?’ ses the skipper.

“‘Yes. She’s mad, I tell you,’ ses the mate. ‘I was sitting here quite quiet and peaceable, when she came alongside me and slapped my face.’

“‘Why did you box his ear?’ ses the skipper to the girl again.

“‘Because he deserved it,’ ses Miss Mallow.

“The skipper shook his ’ead and looked at the mate so sorrowful that he began to stamp up and down the cabin and bang the table with his fist.

“‘If I hadn’t heard it myself, I couldn’t have believed it,’ ses the skipper; ‘and you the father of a family, too. Nice example for the young men, I must say.’

“‘Please don’t say anything more about it,’ ses Miss Mallow; ‘I’m sure he’s very sorry.’

“‘Very good,’ ses the skipper; ‘but you understand, Mr. Jackson, that if I overlook your conduct, you’re not to speak to this young lady agin. Also, you must consider yourself as removed from the committee.’

“‘Curse the committee,’ screamed the mate. ‘Curse——’

“He looked all round, with his eyes starting out of ’is ’ead, and then suddenly shut his mouth with a snap and went up on deck. He never allooded to the affair again, and in fact for the rest of the voyage ’e hardly spoke to a soul. The young people got their cards and draughts agin, but he took no notice, and ’e never spoke to the skipper unless he spoke to ’im fust.

“We got to Melbourne at last, and the fust thing the skipper did was to give our young lady some money to go ashore and buy clothes with. He did it in a very delikit way by giving her the pay as boy, and I don’t think I ever see anybody look so pleased and surprised as she did. The skipper went ashore with her, as she looked rather a odd figure to be going about alone, and comes back about a hour later without ’er.

“‘I thought perhaps she’d have come aboard,’ he ses to Mr. Fisher. ‘I managed to miss her somehow while I was waiting outside a shop.’

“They fidgeted about a bit, and then went ashore to look for ’er, turning up again at eight o’clock quite worried. Nine o’clock came, and there was no signs of ’er. Mr. Fisher and Mr. Scott was in a dreadful state, and the skipper sent almost every man aboard ashore to search for ’er. They ’unted for ’er high and low, up and down and round about, and turned up at midnight so done up that they could ’ardly stand without holding on to somethink, and so upset that they couldn’t speak. None of the officers got any sleep that night except Mr. Jackson, and the fust thing in the morning they was ashore agin looking for her.

“She’d disappeared as completely as if she’d gone overboard, and more than one of the chaps looked over the side half expecting to see ’er come floating by. By twelve o’clock most of us was convinced that she’d been made away with, and Mr. Fisher made some remarks about the police of Melbourne as would ha’ done them good to hear.

“I was just going to see about dinner when we got the first news of her. Three of the most miserable and solemn-looking captains I’ve ever seen came alongside and asked for a few words with our skipper. They all stood in a row looking as if they was going to cry.

“‘Good morning, Captain Hart,’ ses one of ’em, as our old man came up with the mate.

“‘Good morning,’ ses he.

“‘Do you know this?’ ses one of ’em, suddenly, holding out Miss Mallow’s dressing-gown on a walking-stick.

“‘Good ’eavens,’ ses the skipper, ‘I hope nothing’s happened to that pore gal.’

“The three captains shook their heads all together.

“‘She is no more,’ ses another of ’em.

“‘How did it happen?’ ses the skipper, in a low voice.

“‘She took this off,’ ses the fust captain, shaking his head and pointing to the dressing-gown.

“‘And took a chill?’ ses the skipper, staring very ’ard.

“The three captains shook their ’eads agin, and I noticed that they seemed to watch each other and do it all together.

“‘I don’t understand,’ ses the skipper.

“‘I was afraid you wouldn’t,’ ses the first captain; ‘she took this off.’

“‘So you said before,’ ses the skipper, rather short.

“And became a boy agin,’ ses the other; the wickedest and most artful young rascal that ever signed on with me.’

“He looked round at the others, and they all broke out into a perfect roar of laughter, and jumped up and down and slapped each other on the back, as if they was all mad. Then they asked which was the one wot had ’is ears boxed, and which was Mr. Fisher and which was Mr. Scott, and told our skipper what a nice fatherly man he was. Quite a crowd got round, an’ wouldn’t go away for all we could do to ’em in the shape o’ buckets o’ water and lumps o’ coal. We was the laughing-stock o’ the place, and the way they carried on when the steamer passed us two days later with the fust captain on the bridge, pretending not to see that imp of a boy standing in the bows blowing us kisses and dropping curtsies, nearly put the skipper out of ’is mind.”

HARD LABOUR

Police-constable C 49 paced slowly up Wapping High Street in the cool of the evening. The warehouses were closed, and the street almost denuded of traffic. He addressed a short and stern warning to a couple of youths struggling on the narrow pavement, and pointed out—with the toe of his boot—the undesirability of the curbstone as a seat to a small maiden of five. With his white gloves in his hand he swung slowly along, monarch of all he surveyed.

His complacency and the air with which he stroked his red moustache and side-whiskers were insufferable. Mr. Charles Pinner, ship’s fireman, whose bosom friend C 49 had pinched—to use Mr. Pinner’s own expressive phrase—a week before for causing a crowd to collect, eyed the exhibition with sneering wrath. The injustice of locking up Mr. Johnson, because a crowd of people whom he didn’t know from Adam persisted in obstructing the pathway, had reduced Mr. Pinner to the verge of madness. For a time he kept behind C 49, and contented himself with insulting but inaudible remarks bearing upon the colour of his whiskers.

The constable turned up a little alley-way between two small pieces of waste ground, concerning the desirability and value of which as building sites a notice-board was lurid with adjectives. Mr. Pinner was still behind; he was a man who believed in taking what life could offer him at the moment, and something whispered to him that if he lived a hundred years he would never have such another chance of bonneting that red-whiskered policeman. There were two or three small houses at the end of the alley, but the only other living person in it was a boy of ten. He looked to be the sort of boy who might be trusted to smile approval on Mr. Pinner’s contemplated performance.

C 49’s first thought was that a chimney had fallen, and his one idea was to catch it in the act. He made a desperate grab even before pushing his helmet up, and caught Mr. Pinner by the arm.

“Leggo,” said that gentleman, struggling.

“Ho,” said C 49, crimson with wrath, as he pushed his helmet up. “Now you come along o’ me, my lad.”

Mr. Pinner, regretting the natural impulse which had led to his undoing, wrenched himself free and staggered against the fence which surrounded the waste ground. Then he ducked sideways, and as C 49 renewed his invitation coupled with a warning concerning the futility of resistance, struck him full and square on the temple.

The constable went down as though he had been shot. His helmet rolled off as he fell, and his head struck the pavement. Mr. Pinner, his taste for bonneting policemen all gone, passed the admiring small boy at the double, and then, turning the corner rapidly, slackened his pace to something less conspicuous.

He reached his home, a small house in a narrow turning off Cable Street, safely, and, throwing himself into a chair, breathed heavily, while his wife, whose curiosity at seeing him home at that early hour would not be denied, plied him with questions.

“Spend a ’alf-hour with me?” she repeated, in a dazed voice. “Ain’t you well, Charlie?”

“Well?” said the fireman, frowning, “o’ course I’m well. But it struck me you ought to see a little of me sometimes when I’m ashore.”

“That’s generally what I do see,” said Mrs. Pinner; “it’s been a long time striking you, Charlie.”

“Better late than never,” murmured her husband, absently, as he listened in shuddering suspense to every footfall outside.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve turned over a new leaf,” said Mrs. Pinner. “It ain’t afore it was time, I’m sure. I’ll go up and fetch the baby down.”

“What for?” demanded her husband, shortly.

“So as it can see a little of you too,” said his wife. “Up to the present it calls every man it sees ‘farver.’ It ain’t its fault, pore little dear.”

Mr. Pinner, still intent on footsteps, grumbled something beneath his breath, and the baby being awakened out of its first sleep and brought downstairs, they contemplated each other for some time with offensive curiosity.

Until next morning Mr. Pinner’s odd reasons for his presence sufficed, but when he sat still after breakfast and showed clearly his intention to remain, his wife insisted upon others less insulting to her intelligence. Mr. Pinner, prefacing his remarks with an allusion to a life-long abhorrence of red whiskers, made a clean breast of it.

“It served him right,” said his wife, judicially, ‘but it’ll be six months for you if they nab you, Charlie. You’ll ’ave to make up your mind to a quiet spell indoors with me and baby till the ship sails.”

Mr. Pinner looked at his son and heir disparagingly, and emitted a groan.

“He ’ad no witnesses,” he remarked, “except a boy, that is, and ’e didn’t look the sort to be fond o’ policemen.”

“You can’t tell by looks,” replied his wife, in whose brain a little plan to turn this escapade to good account was slowly maturing. “You mustn’t get nabbed for my sake.”

“I won’t get nabbed for my own sake,” rejoined Mr. Pinner, explicitly. “I wonder whether it’s got into the papers?”