Chapter VI: Part 6

His wife sent them off next morning, and a little later was able to tell him that his surmise as to his friends’ mistake was correct. All Gravelton was thrilled by the news that the spiritual part of Mr. John Blows was walking the earth, and much exercised as to his reasons for so doing.

“Seemed such a monkey trick for ’im to do,” complained Mr. Carter, to the listening circle at the Peal o’ Bells. “‘I’m a-looking at you, Joe,’ he ses, and he waggled his ’ead as if it was made of india-rubber.”

“He’d got something on ’is mind what he wanted to tell you,” said a listener, severely; “you ought to ’ave stopped, Joe, and asked ’im what it was.”

“I think I see myself,” said the shivering Mr. Carter. “I think I see myself.”

“Then he wouldn’t ’ave troubled you any more,” said the other.

Mr. Carter turned pale and eyed him fixedly. “P’r’aps it was only a death-warning,” said another man.

“What d’ye mean, ‘_only_ a death-warning’?” demanded the unfortunate Mr. Carter; “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I ’ad an uncle o’ mine see a ghost once,” said a third man, anxious to relieve the tension.

“And what ’appened?” inquired the first speaker.

“I’ll tell you after Joe’s gone,” said the other, with rare consideration.

Mr. Carter called for some more beer and told the barmaid to put a little gin in it. In a pitiable state of “nerves” he sat at the extreme end of a bench, and felt that he was an object of unwholesome interest to his acquaintances. The finishing touch was put to his discomfiture when a well-meaning friend in a vague and disjointed way advised him to give up drink, swearing, and any other bad habits which he might have contracted.

The committee of the Ancient Order of Camels took the news calmly, and classed it with pink rats and other abnormalities. In reply to Mrs. Blows’s request for the capital sum, they expressed astonishment that she could be willing to tear herself away from the hero’s grave, and spoke of the pain which such an act on her part would cause him in the event of his being conscious of it. In order to show that they were reasonable men, they allowed her an extra shilling that week.

The hero threw the dole on the bedroom floor, and in a speech bristling with personalities, consigned the committee to perdition. The confinement was beginning to tell upon him, and two nights afterward, just before midnight, he slipped out for a breath of fresh air.

It was a clear night, and all Gravelton with one exception, appeared to have gone to bed. The exception was Police-constable Collins, and he, after tracking the skulking figure of Mr. Blows and finally bringing it to bay in a doorway, kept his for a fortnight. As a sensible man, Mr. Blows took no credit to himself for the circumstance, but a natural feeling of satisfaction at the discomfiture of a member of a force for which he had long entertained a strong objection could not be denied.

Gravelton debated this new appearance with bated breath, and even the purblind committee of the Camels had to alter their views. They no longer denied the supernatural nature of the manifestations, but, with a strange misunderstanding of Mr. Blows’s desires, attributed his restlessness to dissatisfaction with the projected tombstone, and, having plenty of funds, amended their order for a plain stone at ten guineas to one in pink marble at twenty-five.

“That there committee,” said Mr. Blows to his wife, in a trembling voice, as he heard of the alteration—“that there committee seem to think that they can play about with my money as they like. You go and tell ’em you won’t ’ave it. And say you’ve given up the idea of going to Australia and you want the money to open a shop with. We’ll take a little pub somewhere.”

Mrs. Blows went, and returned in tears, and for two entire days her husband, a prey to gloom, sat trying to evolve fresh and original ideas for the possession of the money. On the evening of the second day he became low-spirited, and going down to the kitchen took a glass from the dresser and sat down by the beer-cask.

Almost insensibly he began to take a brighter view of things. It was Saturday night and his wife was out. He shook his head indulgently as he thought of her, and began to realise how foolish he had been to entrust such a delicate mission to a woman. The Ancient Order of Camels wanted a man to talk to them—a man who knew the world and could assail them with unanswerable arguments. Having applied every known test to make sure that the cask was empty, he took his cap from a nail and sallied out into the street.

Old Mrs. Martin, a neighbour, saw him first, and announced the fact with a scream that brought a dozen people round her. Bereft of speech, she mouthed dumbly at Mr. Blows.

“I ain’t touch—touched her,” said that gentleman, earnestly. “I ain’t—been near ’er.”

The crowd regarded him wild-eyed. Fresh members came running up, and pushing for a front place fell back hastily on the main body and watched breathlessly. Mr. Blows, disquieted by their silence, renewed his protestations.

“I was coming ’long——”

He broke off suddenly and, turning round, gazed with some heat at a gentleman who was endeavouring to ascertain whether an umbrella would pass through him. The investigator backed hastily into the crowd again, and a faint murmur of surprise arose as the indignant Mr. Blows rubbed the place.

“He’s alive, I tell you,” said a voice. “What cheer, Jack!”

“Ullo, Bill,” said Mr. Blows, genially.

Bill came forward cautiously, and, first shaking hands, satisfied himself by various little taps and prods that his friend was really alive.

“It’s all right,” he shouted; “come and feel.”

At least fifty hands accepted the invitation, and, ignoring the threats and entreaties of Mr. Blows, who was a highly ticklish subject, wandered briskly over his anatomy. He broke free at last and, supported by Bill and a friend, set off for the Peal o’ Bells.

By the time he arrived there his following had swollen to immense proportions. Windows were thrown up, and people standing on their doorsteps shouted inquiries. Congratulations met him on all sides, and the joy of Mr. Joseph Carter was so great that Mr. Blows was quite affected.

In high feather at the attention he was receiving, Mr. Blows pushed his way through the idlers at the door and ascended the short flight of stairs which led to the room where the members of the Ancient Order of Camels were holding their lodge. The crowd swarmed up after him.

The door was locked, but in response to his knocking it opened a couple of inches, and a gruff voice demanded his business. Then, before he could give it, the doorkeeper reeled back into the room, and Mr. Blows with a large following pushed his way in.

The president and his officers, who were sitting in state behind a long table at the end of the room, started to their feet with mingled cries of indignation and dismay at the intrusion. Mr. Blows, conscious of the strength of his position, walked up to them.

“_Mr. Blows!_” gasped the president.

“Ah, you didn’t expec’ see me,” said Mr. Blows, with a scornful laugh. “They’re trying do me, do me out o’ my lill bit o’ money, Bill.”

“But you ain’t got no money,” said his bewildered friend.

Mr. Blows turned and eyed him haughtily; then he confronted the staring president again.

“I’ve come for—my money,” he said, impressively—“one ’under-eighty pounds.”

“But look ’ere,” said the scandalised Bill, tugging at his sleeve; “you ain’t dead, Jack.”

“You don’t understan’,” said Mr. Blows, impatiently. “They know wharri mean; one ’undereighty pounds. They want to buy me a tombstone, an’ I don’t want it. I want the money. Here, stop it! _D’ye hear?_” The words were wrung from him by the action of the president, who, after eyeing him doubtfully during his remarks, suddenly prodded him with the butt-end of one of the property spears which leaned against his chair. The solidity of Mr. Blows was unmistakable, and with a sudden resumption of dignity the official seated himself and called for silence.

“I’m sorry to say there’s been a bit of a mistake made,” he said, slowly, “but I’m glad to say that Mr. Blows has come back to support his wife and family with the sweat of his own brow. Only a pound or two of the money so kindly subscribed has been spent, and the remainder will be handed back to the subscribers.”

“Here,” said the incensed Mr. Blows, “listen me.”

“Take him away,” said the president, with great dignity. “Clear the room. Strangers outside.”

Two of the members approached Mr. Blows and, placing their hands on his shoulders, requested him to withdraw. He went at last, the centre of a dozen panting men, and becoming wedged on the narrow staircase, spoke fluently on such widely differing subjects as the rights of man and the shape of the president’s nose.

He finished his remarks in the street, but, becoming aware at last of a strange lack of sympathy on the part of his audience, he shook off the arm of the faithful Mr. Carter and stalked moodily home.

THE THIRD STRING

Love? said the night-watchman, as he watched in an abstracted fashion the efforts of a skipper to reach a brother skipper on a passing barge with a boathook. Don’t talk to me about love, because I’ve suffered enough through it. There ought to be teetotalers for love the same as wot there is for drink, and they ought to wear a piece o’ ribbon to show it, the same as the teetotalers do; but not an attractive piece o’ ribbon, mind you. I’ve seen as much mischief caused by love as by drink, and the funny thing is, one often leads to the other. Love, arter it is over, often leads to drink, and drink often leads to love and to a man committing himself for life afore it is over.

Sailormen give way to it most; they see so little o’ wimmen that they naturally ’ave a high opinion of ’em. Wait till they become night-watchmen and, having to be at ’ome all day, see the other side of ’em. If people on’y started life as night-watchmen there wouldn’t be one ’arf the falling in love that there is now.

I remember one chap, as nice a fellow as you could wish to meet, too. He always carried his sweet-heart’s photograph about with ’im, and it was the on’y thing that cheered ’im up during the fourteen years he was cast away on a deserted island. He was picked up at last and taken ’ome, and there she was still single and waiting for ’im; and arter spending fourteen years on a deserted island he got another ten in quod for shooting ’er because she ’ad altered so much in ’er looks.

Then there was Ginger Dick, a red-’aired man I’ve spoken about before. He went and fell in love one time when he was lodging in Wapping ’ere with old Sam Small and Peter Russet, and a nice mess ’e made of it.

They was just back from a v’y’ge, and they ’adn’t been ashore a week afore both of ’em noticed a change for the worse in Ginger. He turned quiet and peaceful and lost ’is taste for beer. He used to play with ’is food instead of eating it, and in place of going out of an evening with Sam and Peter took to going off by ’imself.

“It’s love,” ses Peter Russet, shaking his ’ead, “and he’ll be worse afore he’s better.”

“Who’s the gal?” ses old Sam.

Peter didn’t know, but when they came ’ome that night ’e asked. Ginger, who was sitting up in bed with a far-off look in ’is eyes, cuddling ’is knees, went on staring but didn’t answer.

“Who is it making a fool of you this time, Ginger?” ses old Sam.

“You mind your bisness and I’ll mind mine,” ses Ginger, suddenly waking up and looking very fierce.

“No offence, mate,” ses Sam, winking at Peter. “I on’y asked in case I might be able to do you a good turn.”

“Well, you can do that by not letting her know you’re a pal o’ mine,” ses Ginger, very nasty.

Old Sam didn’t understand at fust, and when Peter explained to ’im he wanted to hit ’im for trying to twist Ginger’s words about.

“She don’t like fat old men,” ses Ginger.

“Ho!” ses old Sam, who couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Ho! don’t she? Ho! Ho! indeed!”

He undressed ’imself and got into the bed he shared with Peter, and kept ’im awake for hours by telling ’im in a loud voice about all the gals he’d made love to in his life, and partikler about one gal that always fainted dead away whenever she saw either a red-’aired man or a monkey.

Peter Russet found out all about it next day, and told Sam that it was a barmaid with black ’air and eyes at the Jolly Pilots, and that she wouldn’t ’ave anything to say to Ginger.

He spoke to Ginger about it agin when they were going to bed that night, and to ’is surprise found that he was quite civil. When ’e said that he would do anything he could for ’im, Ginger was quite affected.

“I can’t eat or drink,” he ses, in a miserable voice; “I lay awake all last night thinking of her. She’s so diff’rent to other gals; she’s got—If I start on you, Sam Small, you’ll know it. You go and make that choking noise to them as likes it.”

“It’s a bit o’ egg-shell I got in my throat at breakfast this morning, Ginger,” ses Sam. “I wonder whether she lays awake all night thinking of you?”

“I dare say she does,” ses Peter Russet, giving ’im a little push.

“Keep your ’art up, Ginger,” ses Sam; “I’ve known gals to ’ave the most ext’ordinary likings afore now.”

“Don’t take no notice of ’im,” ses Peter, holding Ginger back. “’Ow are you getting on with her?”

Ginger groaned and sat down on ’is bed and looked at the floor, and Sam went and sat on his till it shook so that Ginger offered to step over and break ’is neck for ’im.

“I can’t ’elp the bed shaking,” ses Sam; “it ain’t my fault. I didn’t make it. If being in love is going to make you so disagreeable to your best friends, Ginger, you’d better go and live by yourself.”

“I ’eard something about her to-day, Ginger,” ses Peter Russet. “I met a chap I used to know at Bull’s Wharf, and he told me that she used to keep company with a chap named Bill Lumm, a bit of a prize-fighter, and since she gave ’im up she won’t look at anybody else.”

“Was she very fond of ’im, then?” asks Ginger.

“I don’t know,” ses Peter; “but this chap told me that she won’t walk out with anybody agin, unless it’s another prize-fighter. Her pride won’t let her, I s’pose.”

“Well, that’s all right, Ginger,” ses Sam; “all you’ve got to do is to go and be a prize-fighter.”

“If I ’ave any more o’ your nonsense—” ses Ginger, starting up.

“That’s right,” ses Sam; “jump down anybody’s throat when they’re trying to do you a kindness. That’s you all over, Ginger, that is. Wot’s to prevent you telling ’er that you’re a prize-fighter from Australia or somewhere? She won’t know no better.”

He got up off the bed and put his ’ands up as Ginger walked across the room to ’im, but Ginger on’y wanted to shake ’ands, and arter he ’ad done that ’e patted ’im on the back and smiled at ’im.

“I’ll try it,” he ses. “I’d tell any lies for ’er sake. Ah! you don’t know wot love is, Sam.”

“I used to,” ses Sam, and then he sat down agin and began to tell ’em all the love-affairs he could remember, until at last Peter Russet got tired and said it was ’ard to believe, looking at ’im now, wot a perfick terror he’d been with gals, and said that the face he’d got now was a judgment on ’im. Sam shut up arter that, and got into trouble with Peter in the middle o’ the night by waking ’im up to tell ’im something that he ’ad just thought of about _his_ face.

The more Ginger thought o’ Sam’s idea the more he liked it, and the very next evening ’e took Peter Russet into the private bar o’ the Jolly Pilots. He ordered port wine, which he thought seemed more ’igh-class than beer, and then Peter Russet started talking to Miss Tucker and told her that Ginger was a prize-fighter from Sydney, where he’d beat everybody that stood up to ’im.

The gal seemed to change toward Ginger all in a flash, and ’er beautiful black eyes looked at ’im so admiring that he felt quite faint. She started talking to ’im about his fights at once, and when at last ’e plucked up courage to ask ’er to go for a walk with ’im on Sunday arternoon she seemed quite delighted.

“It’ll be a nice change for me,” she ses, smiling. “I used to walk out with a prize-fighter once before, and since I gave ’im up I began to think I was never going to ’ave a young man agin. You can’t think ’ow dull it’s been.”

“Must ha’ been,” ses Ginger.

“I s’pose you’ve got a taste for prize-fighters, miss,” ses Peter Russet.

“No,” ses Miss Tucker; “I don’t think that it’s that exactly, but, you see, I couldn’t ’ave anybody else. Not for their own sakes.”

“Why not?” ses Ginger, looking puzzled.

“Why not?” ses Miss Tucker. “Why, because o’ Bill. He’s such a ’orrid jealous disposition. After I gave ’im up I walked out with a young fellow named Smith; fine, big, strapping chap ’e was, too, and I never saw such a change in any man as there was in ’im after Bill ’ad done with ’im. I couldn’t believe it was ’im. I told Bill he ought to be ashamed of ’imself.”

“Wot did ’e say?” asks Ginger.

“Don’t ask me wot ’e said,” ses Miss Tucker, tossing her ’ead. “Not liking to be beat, I ’ad one more try with a young fellow named Charlie Webb.”

“Wot ’appened to ’im?” ses Peter Russet, arter waiting a bit for ’er to finish.

“I can’t bear to talk of it,” ses Miss Tucker, holding up Ginger’s glass and giving the counter a wipe down. “_He_ met Bill, and I saw ’im six weeks afterward just as ’e was being sent away from the ’ospital to a seaside home. Bill disappeared after that.”

“Has he gone far away?” ses Ginger, trying to speak in a off-’and way.

“Oh, he’s back now,” ses Miss Tucker. “You’ll see ’im fast enough, and, wotever you do, don’t let ’im know you’re a prize-fighter.”

“Why not?” ses pore Ginger.

“Because o’ the surprise it’ll be to ’im,” ses Miss Tucker. “Let ’im rush on to ’is doom. He’ll get a lesson ’e don’t expect, the bully. Don’t be afraid of ’urting ’im. Think o’ pore Smith and Charlie Webb.”

“I am thinkin’ of ’em,” ses Ginger, slow-like. “Is—is Bill—very quick—with his ’ands?”

“_Rather_,” ses Miss Tucker; “but o’ course he ain’t up to your mark; he’s on’y known in these parts.”

She went off to serve a customer, and Ginger Dick tried to catch Peter’s eye, but couldn’t, and when Miss Tucker came back he said ’e must be going.

“Sunday afternoon at a quarter past three sharp, outside ’ere,” she ses. “Never mind about putting on your best clothes, because Bill is sure to be hanging about. I’ll take care o’ that.”

She reached over the bar and shook ’ands with ’im, and Ginger felt a thrill go up ’is arm which lasted ’im all the way ’ome.

He didn’t know whether to turn up on Sunday or not, and if it ’adn’t ha’ been for Sam and Peter Russet he’d ha’ most likely stayed at home. Not that ’e was a coward, being always ready for a scrap and gin’rally speaking doing well at it, but he made a few inquiries about Bill Lumm and ’e saw that ’e had about as much chance with ’im as a kitten would ’ave with a bulldog.

Sam and Peter was delighted, and they talked about it as if it was a pantermime, and old Sam said that _when_ he was a young man he’d ha’ fought six Bill Lumms afore he’d ha’ given a gal up. He brushed Ginger’s clothes for ’im with ’is own hands on Sunday afternoon, and, when Ginger started, ’im and Peter follered some distance behind to see fair play.

The on’y person outside the Jolly Pilots when Ginger got there was a man; a strong-built chap with a thick neck, very large ’ands, and a nose which ’ad seen its best days some time afore. He looked ’ard at Ginger as ’e came up, and then stuck his ’ands in ’is trouser pockets and spat on the pavement. Ginger walked a little way past and then back agin, and just as he was thinking that ’e might venture to go off, as Miss Tucker ’adn’t come, the door opened and out she came.

“I couldn’t find my ’at-pins,” she ses, taking Ginger’s arm and smiling up into ’is face.

Before Ginger could say anything the man he ’ad noticed took his ’ands out of ’is pockets and stepped up to ’im.

“Let go o’ that young lady’s arm,” he ses.

“Sha’n’t,” ses Ginger, holding it so tight that Miss Tucker nearly screamed.

“Let go ’er arm and put your ’ands up,” ses the chap agin.

“Not ’ere,” ses Ginger, who ’ad laid awake the night afore thinking wot to do if he met Bill Lumm. “If you wish to ’ave a spar with me, my lad, you must ’ave it where we can’t be interrupted. When I start on a man I like to make a good job of it.”

“Good job of it!” ses the other, starting. “Do you know who I am?”

“No, I don’t,” ses Ginger, “and, wot’s more, I don’t care.”

“My name,” ses the chap, speaking in a slow, careful voice, “is Bill Lumm.”

“Wot a ’orrid name!” ses Ginger.

“Otherwise known as the Wapping Basher,” ses Bill, shoving ’is face into Ginger’s and glaring at ’im.

“Ho!” ses Ginger, sniffing, “a amatoor.”

“_Amatoor?_” ses Bill, shouting.

“That’s wot we should call you over in Australia,” ses Ginger; “_my_ name is Dick Duster, likewise known as the Sydney Puncher. I’ve killed three men in the ring and ’ave never ’ad a defeat.”

“Well, put ’em up,” ses Bill, doubling up ’is fists and shaping at ’im.

“Not in the street, I tell you,” ses Ginger, still clinging tight to Miss Tucker’s arm. “I was fined five pounds the other day for punching a man in the street, and the magistrate said it would be ’ard labour for me next time. You find a nice, quiet spot for some arternoon, and I’ll knock your ’ead off with pleasure.”

“I’d sooner ’ave it knocked off now,” ses Bill; “I don’t like waiting for things.”

“Thursday arternoon,” ses Ginger, very firm; “there’s one or two gentlemen want to see a bit o’ my work afore backing me, and we can combine bisness with pleasure.”

He walked off with Miss Tucker, leaving Bill Lumm standing on the pavement scratching his ’ead and staring arter ’im as though ’e didn’t quite know wot to make of it. Bill stood there for pretty near five minutes, and then arter asking Sam and Peter, who ’ad been standing by listening, whether they wanted anything for themselves, walked off to ask ’is pals wot they knew about the Sydney Puncher.

Ginger Dick was so quiet and satisfied about the fight that old Sam and Peter couldn’t make ’im out at all. He wouldn’t even practise punching at a bolster that Peter rigged up for ’im, and when ’e got a message from Bill Lumm naming a quiet place on the Lea Marshes he agreed to it as comfortable as possible.

“Well, I must say, Ginger, that I like your pluck,” ses Peter Russet.

“I always ’ave said that for Ginger; ’e’s got pluck,” ses Sam.

Ginger coughed and tried to smile at ’em in a superior sort o’ way. “I thought you’d got more sense,” he ses, at last. “You don’t think I’m going, do you?”

“_Wot?_” ses old Sam, in a shocked voice.

“You’re never going to back out of it, Ginger?” ses Peter.

“I am,” ses Ginger. “If you think I’m going to be smashed up by a prize-fighter just to show my pluck you’re mistook.”

“You must go, Ginger,” ses old Sam, very severe. “It’s too late to back out of it now. Think of the gal. Think of ’er feelings.”

“For the sake of your good name,” ses Peter.

“I should never speak to you agin, Ginger,” ses old Sam, pursing up ’is lips.

“Nor me neither,” ses Peter Russet.

“To think of our Ginger being called a coward,” ses old Sam, with a shudder, “and afore a gal, too.”

“The loveliest gal in Wapping,” ses Peter.

“Look ’ere,” ses Ginger, “you can shut up, both of you. I’m not going, and that’s the long and short of it. I don’t mind an ordinary man, but I draw the line at prize-fighters.”

Old Sam sat down on the edge of ’is bed and looked the picture of despair. “You must go, Ginger,” he ses, “for my sake.”

“Your sake?” ses Ginger, staring.

“I’ve got money on it,” ses Sam, “so’s Peter. If you don’t turn up all bets’ll be off.”

“Good job for you, too,” ses Ginger. “If I did turn up you’d lose it, to a dead certainty.”

Old Sam coughed and looked at Peter, and Peter ’e coughed and looked at Sam.

“You don’t understand, Ginger,” said Sam, in a soft voice; “it ain’t often a chap gets the chance o’ making a bit o’ money these ’ard times.”

“So we’ve put all our money on Bill Lumm,” ses Peter. “It’s the safest and easiest way o’ making money I ever ’eard of. You see, we know you’re not a prize-fighter and the others don’t.”

Pore Ginger looked at ’em, and then ’e called ’em all the names he could lay ’is tongue to, but, with the idea o’ the money they was going make, they didn’t mind a bit. They let him ’ave ’is say, and that night they brought ’ome two other sailormen wot ’ad bet agin Ginger to share their room, and, though they ’ad bet agin ’im, they was so fond of ’im that it was evident that they wasn’t going to leave ’im till the fight was over.

Ginger gave up then, and at twelve o’clock next day they started off to find the place. Mr. Webson, the landlord of the Jolly Pilots, a short, fat man o’ fifty, wot ’ad spoke to Ginger once or twice, went with ’em, and all the way to the station he kept saying wot a jolly spot it was for that sort o’ thing. Perfickly private; nice soft green grass to be knocked down on, and larks up in the air singing away as if they’d never leave off.

They took the train to Homerton, and, being a slack time o’ the day, the porters was surprised to see wot a lot o’ people was travelling by it. So was Ginger. There was the landlords of ’arf the public-’ouses in Wapping, all smoking big cigars; two dock policemen in plain clothes, wot ’ad got the arternoon off—one with a raging toothache and the other with a baby wot wasn’t expected to last the day out. They was as full o’ fun as kittens, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots pointed out to Ginger wot reasonable ’uman beings policemen was at ’art. Besides them there was quite a lot o’ sailormen, even skippers and mates, nearly all of ’em smoking big cigars, too, and looking at Ginger out of the corner of one eye and at the Wapping Basher out of the corner of the other.

“Hit ’ard and hit straight,” ses the landlord to Ginger in a low voice, as they got out of the train and walked up the road. “’Ow are you feeling?”

“I’ve got a cold coming on,” ses pore Ginger, looking at the Basher, who was on in front, “and a splitting ’eadache, and a sharp pain all down my left leg. I don’t think——”

“Well, it’s a good job it’s no worse,” ses the landlord; “all you’ve got to do is to hit ’ard. If you win it’s a ’undered pounds in my pocket, and I’ll stand you a fiver of it. D’ye understand?”

They turned down some little streets, several of ’em going diff’rent ways, and arter crossing the River Lea got on to the marshes, and, as the landlord said, the place might ha’ been made for it.

A little chap from Mile End was the referee, and Bill Lumm, ’aving peeled, stood looking on while Ginger took ’is things off and slowly and carefully folded ’em up. Then they stepped toward each other, Bill taking longer steps than Ginger, and shook ’ands; immediately arter which Bill knocked Ginger head over ’eels.

“Time!” was called, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots, who was nursing Ginger on ’is knee, said that it was nothing at all, and that bleeding at the nose was a sign of ’ealth. But as it happened Ginger was that mad ’e didn’t want any encouragement, he on’y wanted to kill Bill Lumm.

He got two or three taps in the next round which made his ’ead ring, and then he got ’ome on the mark and follered it up by a left-’anded punch on Bill’s jaw that surprised ’em both—Bill because he didn’t think Ginger could hit so ’ard, and Ginger because ’e didn’t think that prize-fighters ’ad any feelings.

They clinched and fell that round, and the landlord patted Ginger on the back and said that if he ever ’ad a son he ’oped he’d grow up like ’im.

Ginger was surprised at the way ’e was getting on, and so was old Sam and Peter Russet, and when Ginger knocked Bill down in the sixth round Sam went as pale as death. Ginger was getting marked all over, but he stuck, to ’is man, and the two dock policemen, wot ’ad put their money on Bill Lumm, began to talk of their dooty, and say as ’ow the fight ought to be stopped.

At the tenth round Bill couldn’t see out of ’is eyes, and kept wasting ’is strength on the empty air, and once on the referee. Ginger watched ’is opportunity, and at last, with a terrific smash on the point o’ Bill’s jaw, knocked ’im down and then looked round for the landlord’s knee.

Bill made a game try to get up when “Time!” was called, but couldn’t; and the referee, who was ’olding a ’andkerchief to ’is nose, gave the fight to Ginger.

It was the proudest moment o’ Ginger Dick’s life. He sat there like a king, smiling ’orribly, and Sam’s voice as he paid ’is losings sounded to ’im like music, in spite o’ the words the old man see fit to use. It was so ’ard to get Peter Russet’s money that it a’most looked as though there was going to be another prize-fight, but ’e paid up at last and went off, arter fust telling Ginger part of wot he thought of ’im.

There was a lot o’ quarrelling, but the bets was all settled at last, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots, who was in ’igh feather with the money he’d won, gave Ginger the five pounds he’d promised and took him ’ome in a cab.

“You done well, my lad,” he ses. “No, don’t smile. It looks as though your ’ead’s coming off.”

“I ’ope you’ll tell Miss Tucker ’ow I fought,” ses Ginger.

“I will, my lad,” ses the landlord; “but you’d better not see ’er for some time, for both your sakes.”

“I was thinking of ’aving a day or two in bed,” ses Ginger.

“Best thing you can do,” ses the landlord; “and mind, don’t you ever fight Bill Lumm agin. Keep out of ’is way.”

“Why? I beat ’im once, an’ I can beat ’im agin,” ses Ginger, offended.

“_Beat ’im?_” ses the landlord. He took ’is cigar out of ’is mouth as though ’e was going to speak, and then put it back agin and looked out of the window.

“Yes, beat ’im,” ses Ginger’. “You was there and saw it.”

“He lost the fight a-purpose,” ses the landlord, whispering. “Miss Tucker found out that you wasn’t a prize-fighter—leastways, I did for ’er—and she told Bill that, if ’e loved ’er so much that he’d ’ave ’is sinful pride took down by letting you beat ’im, she’d think diff’rent of ’im. Why, ’e could ’ave settled you in a minute if he’d liked. He was on’y playing with you.”

Ginger stared at ’im as if ’e couldn’t believe ’is eyes. “Playing?” he ses, feeling ’is face very gently with the tips of his fingers.

“Yes,” ses the landlord; “and if he ever hits you agin you’ll know I’m speaking the truth.”

Ginger sat back all of a heap and tried to think. “Is Miss Tucker going to keep company with ’im agin, then?” he ses, in a faint voice.

“No,” ses the landlord; “you can make your mind easy on that point.”

“Well, then, if I walk out with ’er I shall ’ave to fight Bill all over agin,” ses Ginger.

The landlord turned to ’im and patted ’im on the shoulder. “Don’t you take up your troubles afore they come, my lad,” he ses, kindly; “and mind and keep wot I’ve told you dark, for all our sakes.”

He put ’im down at the door of ’is lodgings and, arter shaking ’ands with ’im, gave the landlady a shilling and told ’er to get some beefsteak and put on ’is face, and went home. Ginger went straight off to bed, and the way he carried on when the landlady fried the steak afore bringing it up showed ’ow upset he was.

It was over a week afore he felt ’e could risk letting Miss Tucker see ’im, and then at seven o’clock one evening he felt ’e couldn’t wait any longer, and arter spending an hour cleaning ’imself he started out for the Jolly Pilots.

He felt so ’appy at the idea o’ seeing her agin that ’e forgot all about Bill Lumm, and it gave ’im quite a shock when ’e saw ’im standing outside the Pilots. Bill took his ’ands out of ’is pockets when he saw ’im and came toward ’im.

“It’s no good to-night, mate,” he ses; and to Ginger’s great surprise shook ’ands with ’im.

“No good?” ses Ginger, staring.

“No,” ses Bill; “he’s in the little back-parlour, like a whelk in ’is shell; but we’ll ’ave ’im sooner or later.”

“Him? Who?” ses Ginger, more puzzled than ever.

“Who?” ses Bill; “why, Webson, the landlord. You don’t mean to tell me you ain’t heard about it?”

“Heard wot?” ses Ginger. “I haven’t ’eard anything. I’ve been indoors with a bad cold all the week.”

“Webson and Julia Tucker was married at eleven o’clock yesterday morning,” ses Bill Lumm, in a hoarse voice. “When I think of the way I’ve been done, and wot I’ve suffered, I feel ’arf crazy. He won a ’undered pounds through me, and then got the gal I let myself be disgraced for. I ’ad an idea some time ago that he’d got ’is eye on her.”

Ginger Dick didn’t answer ’im a word. He staggered back and braced ’imself up agin the wall for a bit, and arter staring at Bill Lumm in a wild way for pretty near three minutes he crawled back to ’is lodgings and went straight to bed agin.

ODD CHARGES

Seated at his ease in the warm tap-room of the Cauliflower, the stranger had been eating and drinking for some time, apparently unconscious of the presence of the withered ancient who, huddled up in that corner of the settle which was nearer to the fire, fidgeted restlessly with an empty mug and blew with pathetic insistence through a churchwarden pipe which had long been cold. The stranger finished his meal with a sigh of content and then, rising from his chair, crossed over to the settle and, placing his mug on the time-worn table before him, began to fill his pipe.

The old man took a spill from the table and, holding it with trembling fingers to the blaze, gave him a light. The other thanked him, and then, leaning back in his corner of the settle, watched the smoke of his pipe through half-closed eyes, and assented drowsily to the old man’s remarks upon the weather.

“Bad time o’ the year for going about,” said the latter, “though I s’pose if you can eat and drink as much as you want it don’t matter. I s’pose you mightn’t be a conjurer from London, sir?”

The traveller shook his head.

“I was ’oping you might be,” said the old man. The other manifested no curiosity.

“If you ’ad been,” said the old man, with a sigh, “I should ha’ asked you to ha’ done something useful. Gin’rally speaking, conjurers do things that are no use to anyone; wot I should like to see a conjurer do would be to make this ’ere empty mug full o’ beer and this empty pipe full o’ shag tobacco. That’s wot I should ha’ made bold to ask you to do if you’d been one.”

The traveller sighed, and, taking his short briar pipe from his mouth by the bowl, rapped three times upon the table with it. In a very short time a mug of ale and a paper cylinder of shag appeared on the table before the old man.

“Wot put me in mind o’ your being a conjurer,” said the latter, filling his pipe after a satisfying draught from the mug, “is that you’re uncommon like one that come to Claybury some time back and give a performance in this very room where we’re now a-sitting. So far as looks go, you might be his brother.”

The traveller said that he never had a brother.

We didn’t know ’e was a conjurer at fust, said the old man. He ’ad come down for Wickham Fair and, being a day or two before ’and, ’e was going to different villages round about to give performances. He came into the bar ’ere and ordered a mug o’ beer, and while ’e was a-drinking of it stood talking about the weather. Then ’e asked Bill Chambers to excuse ’im for taking the liberty, and, putting his ’and to Bill’s mug, took out a live frog. Bill was a very partikler man about wot ’e drunk, and I thought he’d ha’ had a fit. He went on at Smith, the landlord, something shocking, and at last, for the sake o’ peace and quietness, Smith gave ’im another pint to make up for it.

“It must ha’ been asleep in the mug,” he ses.

Bill said that ’e thought ’e knew who must ha’ been asleep, and was just going to take a drink, when the conjurer asked ’im to excuse ’im agin. Bill put down the mug in a ’urry, and the conjurer put his ’and to the mug and took out a dead mouse. It would ha’ been a ’ard thing to say which was the most upset, Bill Chambers or Smith, the landlord, and Bill, who was in a terrible state, asked why it was everything seemed to get into _his_ mug.

“P’r’aps you’re fond o’ dumb animals, sir,” ses the conjurer. “Do you ’appen to notice your coat-pocket is all of a wriggle?”

He put his ’and to Bill’s pocket and took out a little green snake; then he put his ’and to Bill’s trouser-pocket and took out a frog, while pore Bill’s eyes looked as if they was coming out o’ their sockets.

“Keep still,” ses the conjurer; “there’s a lot more to come yet.”

Bill Chambers gave a ’owl that was dreadful to listen to, and then ’e pushed the conjurer away and started undressing ’imself as fast as he could move ’is fingers. I believe he’d ha’ taken off ’is shirt if it ’ad ’ad pockets in it, and then ’e stuck ’is feet close together and ’e kept jumping into the air, and coming down on to ’is own clothes in his hobnailed boots.

“He _ain’t_ fond o’ dumb animals, then,” ses the conjurer. Then he put his ’and on his ’art and bowed.

“Gentlemen all,” he ses. “’Aving given you this specimen of wot I can do, I beg to give notice that with the landlord’s kind permission I shall give my celebrated conjuring entertainment in the tap-room this evening at seven o’clock; ad—mission, three-pence each.”

They didn’t understand ’im at fust, but at last they see wot ’e meant, and arter explaining to Bill, who was still giving little jumps, they led ’im up into a corner and coaxed ’im into dressing ’imself agin. He wanted to fight the conjurer, but ’e was that tired ’e could scarcely stand, and by-and-by Smith, who ’ad said ’e wouldn’t ’ave anything to do with it, gave way and said he’d risk it.

The tap-room was crowded that night, but we all ’ad to pay threepence each—coining money, I call it. Some o’ the things wot he done was very clever, but a’most from the fust start-off there was unpleasantness. When he asked somebody to lend ’im a pocket-’andkercher to turn into a white rabbit, Henery Walker rushed up and lent ’im ’is, but instead of a white rabbit it turned into a black one with two white spots on it, and arter Henery Walker ’ad sat for some time puzzling over it ’e got up and went off ’ome without saying good-night to a soul.

Then the conjurer borrowed Sam Jones’s hat, and arter looking into it for some time ’e was that surprised and astonished that Sam Jones lost ’is temper and asked ’im whether he ’adn’t seen a hat afore.

“Not like this,” ses the conjurer. And ’e pulled out a woman’s dress and jacket and a pair o’ boots. Then ’e took out a pound or two o’ taters and some crusts o’ bread and other things, and at last ’e gave it back to Sam Jones and shook ’is head at ’im, and told ’im if he wasn’t very careful he’d spoil the shape of it.

Then ’e asked somebody to lend ’im a watch, and, arter he ’ad promised to take the greatest care of it, Dicky Weed, the tailor, lent ’im a gold watch wot ’ad been left ’im by ’is great-aunt when she died. Dicky Weed thought a great deal o’ that watch, and when the conjurer took a flat-iron and began to smash it up into little bits it took three men to hold ’im down in ’is seat.

“This is the most difficult trick o’ the lot,” ses the conjurer, picking off a wheel wot ’ad stuck to the flat-iron. “Sometimes I can do it and sometimes I can’t. Last time I tried it it was a failure, and it cost me eighteenpence and a pint o’ beer afore the gentleman the watch ’ad belonged to was satisfied. I gave ’im the bits, too.”

“If you don’t give me my watch back safe and sound,” ses Dicky Weed, in a trembling voice, “it’ll cost you twenty pounds.”

“’Ow much?” ses the conjurer, with a start. “Well, I wish you’d told me that afore you lent it to me. Eighteenpence is my price.”

He stirred the broken bits up with ’is finger and shook his ’ead.

“I’ve never tried one o’ these old-fashioned watches afore,” he ses. “’Owever, if I fail, gentlemen, it’ll be the fust and only trick I’ve failed in to-night. You can’t expect everything to turn out right, but if I do fail this time, gentlemen, I’ll try it agin if anybody else’ll lend me another watch.”

Dicky Weed tried to speak but couldn’t, and ’e sat there, with ’is face pale, staring at the pieces of ’is watch on the conjurer’s table. Then the conjurer took a big pistol with a trumpet-shaped barrel out of ’is box, and arter putting in a charge o’ powder picked up the pieces o’ watch and rammed them in arter it. We could hear the broken bits grating agin the ramrod, and arter he ’ad loaded it ’e walked round and handed it to us to look at.

“It’s all right,” he ses to Dicky Weed; “it’s going to be a success; I could tell in the loading.”

He walked back to the other end of the room and held up the pistol.

“I shall now fire this pistol,” ’e ses, “and in so doing mend the watch. The explosion of the powder makes the bits o’ glass join together agin; in flying through the air the wheels go round and round collecting all the other parts, and the watch as good as new and ticking away its ’ardest will be found in the coat-pocket o’ the gentleman I shoot at.”

He pointed the pistol fust at one and then at another, as if ’e couldn’t make up ’is mind, and none of ’em seemed to ’ave much liking for it. Peter Gubbins told ’im not to shoot at ’im because he ’ad a ’ole in his pocket, and Bill Chambers, when it pointed at ’im, up and told ’im to let somebody else ’ave a turn. The only one that didn’t flinch was Bob Pretty, the biggest poacher and the greatest rascal in Claybury. He’d been making fun o’ the tricks all along, saying out loud that he’d seen ’em all afore—and done better.

“Go on,” he ses; “I ain’t afraid of you; you can’t shoot straight.”

The conjurer pointed the pistol at ’im. Then ’e pulled the trigger and the pistol went off bang, and the same moment o’ time Bob Pretty jumped up with a ’orrible scream, and holding his ’ands over ’is eyes danced about as though he’d gone mad.

Everybody started up at once and got round ’im, and asked ’im wot was the matter; but Bob didn’t answer ’em. He kept on making a dreadful noise, and at last ’e broke out of the room and, holding ’is ’andkercher to ’is face, ran off ’ome as ’ard as he could run.

“You’ve done it now, mate,” ses Bill Chambers to the conjurer. “I thought you wouldn’t be satisfied till you’d done some ’arm. You’ve been and blinded pore Bob Pretty.”

“Nonsense,” ses the conjurer. “He’s frightened, that’s all.”

“Frightened!” ses Peter Gubbins. “Why, you fired Dicky Weed’s watch straight into ’is face.”

“Rubbish,” ses the conjurer; “it dropped into ’is pocket, and he’ll find it there when ’e comes to ’is senses.”

“Do you mean to tell me that Bob Pretty ’as gone off with my watch in ’is pocket?” screams Dicky Weed.

“I do,” ses the other.

“You’d better get ’old of Bob afore ’e finds it out, Dicky,” ses Bill Chambers.

Dicky Weed didn’t answer ’im; he was already running along to Bob Pretty’s as fast as ’is legs would take ’im, with most of us follering behind to see wot ’appened.

The door was fastened when we got to it, but Dicky Weed banged away at it as ’ard as he could bang, and at last the bedroom winder went up and Mrs. Pretty stuck her ’ead out.

“_H’sh!_” she ses, in a whisper. “Go away.”

“I want to see Bob,” ses Dicky Weed.

“You can’t see ’im,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “I’m getting ’im to bed. He’s been shot, pore dear. Can’t you ’ear ’im groaning?”

We ’adn’t up to then, but a’most direckly arter she ’ad spoke you could ha’ heard Bob’s groans a mile away. Dreadful, they was.

“There, there, pore dear,” ses Mrs. Pretty.

“Shall I come in and ’elp you get ’im to bed?” ses Dicky Weed, ’arf crying.

“No, thank you, Mr. Weed,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “It’s very kind of you to offer, but ’e wouldn’t like any hands but mine to touch ’im. I’ll send in and let you know ’ow he is fust thing in the morning.”

“Try and get ’old of the coat, Dicky,” ses Bill Chambers, in a whisper. “Offer to mend it for ’im. It’s sure to want it.”

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t be no ’elp to you,” ses Dicky Weed, “but I noticed a rent in Bob’s coat and, as ’e’s likely to be laid up a bit, it ud be a good opportunity for me to mend it for ’im. I won’t charge ’im nothing. If you drop it down I’ll do it now.”

“Thankee,” ses Mrs. Pretty; “if you just wait a moment I’ll clear the pockets out and drop it down to you.”

She turned back into the bedroom, and Dicky Weed ground ’is teeth together and told Bill Chambers that the next time he took ’is advice he’d remember it. He stood there trembling all over with temper, and when Mrs. Pretty came to the winder agin and dropped the coat on his ’ead and said that Bob felt his kindness very much, and he ’oped Dicky ud make a good job of it, because it was ’is favrite coat, he couldn’t speak. He stood there shaking all over till Mrs. Pretty ’ad shut the winder down agin, and then ’e turned to the conjurer, as ’ad come up with the rest of us, and asked ’im wot he was going to do about it now.

“I tell you he’s got the watch,” ses the conjurer, pointing up at the winder. “It went into ’is pocket. I saw it go. He was no more shot than you were. If ’e was, why doesn’t he send for the doctor?”

“I can’t ’elp that,” ses Dicky Weed. “I want my watch or else twenty pounds.”

“We’ll talk it over in a day or two,” ses the conjurer. “I’m giving my celebrated entertainment at Wickham Fair on Monday, but I’ll come back ’ere to the Cauliflower the Saturday before and give another entertainment, and then we’ll see wot’s to be done. I can’t run away, because in any case I can’t afford to miss the fair.”

Dicky Weed gave way at last and went off ’ome to bed and told ’is wife about it, and listening to ’er advice he got up at six o’clock in the morning and went round to see ’ow Bob Pretty was.

Mrs. Pretty was up when ’e got there, and arter calling up the stairs to Bob told Dicky Weed to go upstairs. Bob Pretty was sitting up in bed with ’is face covered in bandages, and he seemed quite pleased to see ’im.

“It ain’t everybody that ud get up at six o’clock to see ’ow I’m getting on,” he ses. “You’ve got a feeling ’art, Dicky.”

Dicky Weed coughed and looked round, wondering whether the watch was in the room, and, if so, where it was hidden.

“Now I’m ’ere I may as well tidy up the room for you a bit,” he ses, getting up. “I don’t like sitting idle.”

“Thankee, mate,” ses Bob; and ’e lay still and watched Dicky Weed out of the corner of the eye that wasn’t covered with the bandages.

I don’t suppose that room ’ad ever been tidied up so thoroughly since the Prettys ’ad lived there, but Dicky Weed couldn’t see anything o’ the watch, and wot made ’im more angry than anything else was Mrs. Pretty setting down in a chair with ’er ’ands folded in her lap and pointing out places that he ’adn’t done.

“You leave ’im alone,” ses Bob. “_He knows wot ’e’s arter_. Wot did you do with those little bits o’ watch you found when you was bandaging me up, missis?”

“Don’t ask me,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “I was in such a state I don’t know wot I was doing ’ardly.”

“Well, they must be about somewhere,” ses Bob. “You ’ave a look for ’em, Dicky, and if you find ’em, keep ’em. They belong to you.”

Dicky Weed tried to be civil and thank ’im, and then he went off ’ome and talked it over with ’is wife agin. People couldn’t make up their minds whether Bob Pretty ’ad found the watch in ’is pocket and was shamming, or whether ’e was really shot, but they was all quite certain that, whichever way it was, Dicky Weed would never see ’is watch agin.