Chapter IV: Part 4

“They went ’ome fust to see whether Sam ’ad turned up, and then, arter waking Bob, who ’ad gorn to sleep in Peter’s bed, they set off to find ’im. It was a tall, dirty house, just off the ’Ighway, and Ginger began to think that if they got Sam out in one piece they’d be lucky. The front-door was open and a lot o’ dirty-looking kids was playing on the steps.

“‘It’s like a bee-hive,’ ses Peter. ‘He’ll take some finding.’

“‘I’ll find ’im,’ ses Bob, spitting on ’is hands. ‘Come along.’

He led them up the steps and opened the fust door ’e come to as bold as brass, and popped his ’ead in.

“‘Where’s old Sam?’ he ses, to a woman wot left off washing ’er baby to stare at ’im. ‘Wot ’ave you done with ’im?’

“‘_Wot?_’ ses the woman.

“‘We want Mr. Sam Small,’ ses Ginger, putting ’is head over Bob’s shoulders.

“‘Wot ’ave you done with ’im?’ ses Bob agin.

“‘Me?’ ses the woman. ‘Wot are you talking about? ’Ow dare you come shoving your ugly mug into a lady’s room and try and take away ’er character? Wot d’ye mean by it?’

“She put the baby down on the floor very careful and took up the basin o’ water. It was a small basin, but the water showed that the baby ’adn’t been washed afore it wanted it, and Bob Mills was out o’ that room afore you could say ‘knife.’

“‘He ain’t there,’ he ses, as the door banged be’ind ’im. ‘It’s a funny thing a woman can never answer a civil question without losing ’er temper. If I ’adn’t kept my eye on ’er I should have ’ad that water over me.’

“‘They don’t use their reason,’ ses Ginger, shaking his ’ead, and stopping at the next door to let ’im go in fust.

“There was nobody in that room except a little gal of ten putting ’er little brothers to bed, and the way she carried on when Bob looked in would ha’ done credit to a woman of seventy. He came out gasping for breath.

“‘I’ll find ’im though,’ he ses to Ginger. ‘I’ll find ’im, if I ’ave to take all the boards up. Now wot about trying upstairs?’

“There was two families in the fust room they went in, and they was both worse than each other. People came out of their rooms to listen, and the way they carried on when Ginger and ’is pals paid _them_ a visit won’t bear repeating. By the time they ’ad got to the second floor the whole ’ouse was roused and standing behind and offering to fight ’em.

“Bob and ’is pal went into the fust room on that floor alone, ’cos Ginger and Peter ’ad to stay outside on the landing to keep the crowd back. ’Ard work it was, too; one young woman trying to bore holes in Peter with a broom-’andle, while a dirty hand with a wedding-ring on it kept coming out of the crowd and pinching pore Ginger black and blue.

“In the middle of it there was a hullabaloo in that room that made ’em all leave off to listen. Deafening it was. People shouting and struggling and things toppling about all over the place. Then Bob and ’is mate came out carrying something that looked like a mad lion wrapped up in a blanket.

“‘He was in bed, asleep,’ ses Bob, panting, as a couple o’ naked legs shot out and kicked anything they could find. ‘Pull your end o’ the blanket down, Joe.’

“‘Wot’s he done?’ ses a woman, gaping at them.

“‘Wot ’ave you done, you mean,’ ses Bob, struggling. ‘He’s been kidnapped.’

“‘And robbed,’ ses Ginger, shouting with pain, as ’e got another pinch.

“‘It’s all right, Sam, old man,’ ses Peter, pulling back the blanket to give ’im a little air. ‘Now--Lor’ lumme _this ain’t Sam_!’

“They all started, and Bob was so surprised that he let go of ’is end. It was the ’ead end and the langwidge the old man it belonged to used was awful. Then ’e got up very slow, and, arter feeling his ’ead and using some more langwidge about a bump ’e found there, knocked Bob down.

“In two twos they was all at it; the men fighting and the women screaming. Men Ginger hadn’t seen afore seemed to turn up from nowhere to punch ’im. The four of ’em kept together as well as they could, and even when Ginger got to the bottom of the stairs ’e found the other three on top of ’im. They got outside at last, helped be’ind by the people in the ’ouse, and didn’t stop for breath till they was two streets away. Bob Mills found ’is fust, and pretty near got run in for it.

“‘I ought to take you by rights,’ ses the policeman. ‘Wot ’ave you been doing to your face? Treading on it?’

“Bob was going to answer ’im, but Ginger got ’is ’and over ’is mouth just in time.

“‘It’s all right, sir, he ses, very perlite, ‘he’s on’y a little bit excited. Come on, Bob.’

“They managed to get ’im round the corner, and then ’e shook ’em off and said he never wanted to see ’em agin. He went off with ’is mate, and Peter and Ginger, arter being refused at three pubs because of their looks, sent a young feller in for a bottle o’ whisky to take ’ome with them.

“They ’ad a drop or two when they got indoors, and then they got a bit o’ rag and some cold water and began to see wot they could do for their faces.

“‘And this is all through Sam,’ ses Ginger, starting to grind ’is teeth and then finding they was too loose to grind.

“‘It’s a mystery,’ ses Peter, who was sitting on Sam’s bed ’olding a wet rag to his eye. ‘I believe you was right, Ginger. Something seems to tell me we shall never see ’im agin.’

“Ginger said he didn’t want to. His mouth was so sore ’e couldn’t smoke, and arter another drop or two o’ whisky, ’e said ’e was going to bed.

“He undressed ’imself very slow, grunting and groaning all the time, and was just getting into bed when Peter ’eld up ’is ’and.

“‘Somebody’s coming upstairs,’ he ses.

“‘Let ’em come,’ ses Ginger, very grumpy.

“‘It--it can’t be Sam!’ ses Peter.

“‘Sounds like ’im,’ ses Ginger, staring. It is ’im,’ he ses, as they both ’eard a noise that Sam used to make when ’e thought ’e was singing.

“They stood staring at the door as it opened and Sam came into the room, looking very bright and pleased with ’imself.

“‘’Ullo, mates!’ he ses. ‘Why--wot the--Wot ’ave you been doing to yourselves?’

“He shook his ’ead, and screwed up ’is lips at ’em.

“‘It’s a funny thing I can’t go away for a day or two without you getting into trouble,’ he ses. ‘’Tain’t respectable.’

“‘Ho!’ ses Ginger, finding ’is voice. ‘Ho, indeed. This is all the thanks we get for trying to ’elp you, is it? I s’pose you think it’s more respectable to lose your trowsis at cards and play in your shirt.’

“‘And a tater-sack,’ ses Peter.

“‘Trowsis!’ ses Sam, staring at ’em, ‘tater-sack! ’Ave you been drinking? or wot?’

“Ginger looked at Peter and then ’e looked very ’ard at Sam.

“‘Where--’ave--you--been?’ he ses, very slow and distinct.

“‘Been staying with a chap at Stratford,’ ses Sam, ’elping ’imself to a drink. ‘My friend Sid told me as he’d ’eard the police was arter me for gambling, so I’ve been staying with a pal of ’is for a few days to let it blow over.’

“‘And--and didn’t you write to us?’ ses Ginger, as soon as he could speak.

“‘Why, wot should I want to write to you for?’ ses Sam, putting down ’is glass.

“‘Money,’ ses Ginger, looking ’im straight in the eye.

“Sam shook his ’ead, ‘I ’ad enough on me,’ he ses, ‘but it was just as well I left that eight quid with you, Ginger. It might ’ave gorn if I ’adn’t. Wot was it you was saying about trowsis and tater-sacks, Peter?’

“‘It’s a joke of your friend, Sid’s,’ ses Ginger. ‘Ask him to tell it to you; you seem to tell _’im_ everything.’

* * * * *

“Him and Peter woke up at five o’clock next morning to go and look for fresh lodgings. Sam didn’t wake up till eight, and then, arter reading a couple o’ letters ’e found tucked under ’is chin, he went off without any brekfuss to look for Ginger and Peter, and Sid, and eight quid.”

Handsome Harry

“He’s a bit of all right,” said Mr. Joe Gossett, interrupting his description of the new foreman, with a large wedge of bread and cheese.

His sister sniffed. “Fancy a man being called ‘Handsome Harry’! _Pff!_”

“He can’t ’elp what people call him,” said Mr. Gossett, “and if you was to see him you’d understand it. Five foot eleven, dark-blue eyes, good teeth, and the finest short beard I ever saw in my life. All brown and gold it is. How he’s escaped, I don’t know.”

“Escaped!” repeated his sister, in a shrewish voice.

Mr. Gossett nodded.

“Poor dear!” said Miss Gossett, quivering.

“After him like flies round a treacle-pot,” continued her brother. “I’ve been with ’im and I ought to know.”

“P’r’aps _you_ was the attraction,” said his mother, archly.

Mr. Gossett sniffed, but not so loudly as his sister.

“I don’t hold with handsome men,” said Mrs. Gossett, shaking her head. “Nobody could say that I married your pore father for his good looks. His----”

“Where did I get mine from, then?” interrupted Miss Gossett.

“My side of the family,” replied her mother, modestly. “You was a Smithson and Joe was a Gossett.”

“If the Smithsons hadn’t got more good looks than what Mabel has----” began the indignant Mr. Gossett.

“What a pair we should make,” said Miss Gossett, with a simper, “me and Handsome Harry! Bring him in one evening and let’s have a look at him, Joe. What’s his other name? If it isn’t nice I shan’t have him.”

“His name’s Cook,” said her brother, “and as for you catching him, why, he’d laugh at the idea.”

“Bring him in and let’s have a look at him,” repeated his sister, “then perhaps I’ll ask Florrie Adams in one evening. I’ll tell her you’ll be out.”

“Oh, don’t tease him,” said Mrs. Gossett.

“Tease him?” said the irritated Mr. Gossett, pushing his chair away and rising. “Don’t make me laugh. It’s a pity Mabel ain’t got more sense, that’s all.”

“Pity you ain’t a Smithson,” said Miss Gossett, as he went outside for his hat. “You might have a chance then.”

He closed the street door with a bang that sent a revivifying draught of fresh air through the small house, and, somewhat ruffled in spirit, set off at a smart pace down the road. The subject of Miss Adams was a sore one, the slavish admiration of some months having yielded, so far, nothing but amusement in return. A brotherly desire to give Miss Gossett some idea of the pangs of unrequited affection sent his thoughts again to the fascinations of Handsome Harry.

He turned the matter over in his mind for a day or two, and resolved at last to introduce his friend casually. If Miss Gossett were taken at a disadvantage, so much the better; he was not going to give her the chance of “window-dressing.”

His trouble was wasted. The night he introduced Mr. Cook his sister had just returned from the local cinema accompanied by Miss Adams, and the first impression the visitor received was of fine clothes and languorous perfumes. In the best manner of the highest circles both girls seemed to sit aloof, with little interests of their own. Little intimate jests and giggles testified to their complete absorption.

“Good show?” inquired Mr. Gossett, in an interval.

“Pretty fair,” said his sister, languidly. “Leonard Firebrace was on.”

“He’s a darling,” said Miss Adams, clasping her hands enthusiastically.

Messrs. Gossett and Cook said “_H’m!_” to each other.

“Supposed to be the handsomest man on the films,” said Miss Gossett.

Mr. Cook stroked his short, well-trimmed beard and gave a finer point to the ends of his moustache. “What’s he like?” he inquired, in an indulgent voice.

“Like a Greek god,” replied Miss Gossett, quoting from a story in her favourite periodical.

“Straight nose, well-shaped mouth, and wonderful eyes,” explained Miss Adams.

“You only see men like that at the Pictures, and in dreams,” said her friend, with a sigh. “Think of his teeth!”

Miss Adams thought of them, and sighed in her turn. Mr. Gossett and Mr. Cook stirred restlessly. The latter even ventured on a cough; a cough more than tinged with criticism. Under the calm, straight gaze of Miss Gossett it repeated itself--with a different note, and subsided.

“I must say,” remarked that lady, turning to her friend, “that I like to see good looks in a fellow. Joe!”

“Hallo!” replied her brother.

“Who is that good-looking man you were talking about the other day? One of your foremen, or something?”

Mr. Gossett gasped, and sent a wireless message with his eyebrows.

“Man you call Pretty Bertie,” continued his sister, ignoring it. “No, that isn’t it.”

“Have you gone dotty?” inquired the embarrassed Mr. Gossett, in a gruff voice.

“Or was it Lovely Charlie?” said his sister, musing. “No, I remember--Handsome Harry. That’s the name. Why don’t you bring him in one day and let’s have a look at him?”

“Do,” urged Miss Adams.

“If he’s only half as good-looking as what you say he is we might fall in love with him,” said Miss Gossett.

Her brother eyed her helplessly, while Mr. Cook, with an air of pained surprise, sat awaiting the inevitable explanation.

“That’s him,” said Mr. Gossett at last, with a jerk of the head. “Where are your eyes?”

“Him? Who?” inquired his sister.

“Handsome Harry,” replied her brother. “I told you his name was Cook.”

Miss Gossett threw back her head and laughed till the tears came. “Don’t be so silly,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“How can you?” said Miss Adams.

“It’s only one of Joe’s larks,” said Miss Gossett, turning to the goggle-eyed Mr. Cook. “You mustn’t take any notice of him. The idea of him pretending you are Handsome Harry.”

“As if we shouldn’t have noticed it,” murmured Miss Adams.

Mr. Cook turned his troubled gaze upon his friend in a mute appeal for help, but Mr. Gossett’s face was as bewildered as his own.

“It’s a name that some of them have given him,” said Mr. Gossett at last, in a surly voice.

“How rude of them!” said his sister, severely. “I shouldn’t take any notice of them if I were you, Mr. Cook. But I must say I should like to see the real one.”

Mr. Cook gave it up. It struck him that the explanation might lie in defective eyesight, and he recalled the story of a man who took to spectacles, and ran away from his wife a week afterwards.

A feeling of regret that so pretty a girl might have to take to glasses imparted a tenderness to his glance that was by no means wasted. Miss Gossett, lowering her eyes at first under the onslaught, ventured after a time to raise them and meet it. The gentle timidity of her glance did much to restore Mr. Cook’s self-esteem. In the language of the eyes long practice had made him almost perfect, and his gaze became so ardent and so confident that Miss Gossett was moved to speech.

“What’s the matter?” she demanded.

“Matter?” repeated Mr. Cook, in surprise.

“You seemed to be staring in a funny sort of way,” said the girl. “You don’t have fits, do you?”

“No,” said Mr. Cook shortly.

“Funny look he had,” said Miss Gossett, turning to the others. “I didn’t like it at all. I suppose you haven’t got anything in your eye, Mr. Cook? I’m a dab at taking things out.”

Mr. Cook hesitated, and was lost. “I did get something in coming along,” he murmured, “but I thought it was out.”

He smiled with content as the ministering angel leaned over him and prised up the lid with her finger. Then he winced and drew back his head.

“Keep still,” said the girl; “I’m not hurting you.”

“Not much,” corrected the victim. “_Ow!_”

“It’s funny men can’t bear a little bit of pain,” observed Miss Gossett, continuing her explorations. “There! I nearly had it then.”

“Perhaps it’ll work itself out,” suggested Mr. Cook, wincing again.

“I’ll have it out if you’ll only keep still,” said Miss Gossett. “Anybody would think I was hurting you.”

Mr. Cook drew his head back with a sudden exclamation of pain. “What have you got?” he inquired, hoarsely; “a scrubbing brush?”

“Don’t be silly,” said the girl, as the sufferer clapped a handkerchief to his streaming eyes.

“It’s out,” he said, in a voice which endeavoured in vain to express surprise and gratitude. “It’s out.”

“I knew I could do it,” said Miss Gossett. “I could have done it sooner if you hadn’t flinched so much.”

“My eyes are very tender,” said Mr. Cook.

“That’s what I thought a few minutes ago,” said the girl, “but perhaps you’ll grow out of it. Let’s hope so.”

“It’s never too late to mend,” observed Miss Adams oracularly.

Mr. Cook arose in dignified silence and, with a final dab at his eyes, restored his handkerchief to his pocket and announced that he must be going. At Miss Adams’s suggestion, Mr. Gossett, rising with some unwillingness, offered to accompany him.

“Me and Mabel want to have a little chat,” said Miss Adams, in explanation.

“All by ourselves,” added Miss Gossett.

Agreeable to this strange lack of taste on the part of the ladies the gentlemen withdrew, Mr. Cook, to whom this sort of treatment was absolutely new, walking out of the house like a man in a dream. Memories of countless conquests stirred in his brain but yielded no satisfaction.

“Very off-handish, ain’t she?” he said at last.

“She learns it from Mabel,” said his friend. “They’re as thick as two thieves.”

“I mean your sister,” said Mr. Cook.

“Oh!” replied Mr. Gossett. “Her!”

“She’s very nice-looking,” said Mr. Cook, after a long pause.

“She seems to make people think so,” said the fond brother. “How she does it, I don’t know. I’m as good a judge as most men, but I can’t see it.”

“Well, you can take it from me,” said the other, impressively, “that she is about the best-looking girl I have ever seen. She’s your step-sister, isn’t she?”

“Step-sister?” repeated Mr. Gossett, with surprising vehemence. “No, of course she ain’t. What ever put that into your head?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Cook hurriedly. “I spoke without thinking. Of course there’s a great likeness; anybody could see that.”

The indignant Mr. Gossett received the assurance with a grunt, and listened in amazed silence while his friend explained to him in enraptured terms the manifold perfections of his sister.

“But you hadn’t seen her till an hour ago!” he protested.

“I shall have to make up for lost time,” said Mr. Cook, earnestly. “What about to-morrow night?”

Mr. Gossett said there was nothing about it, and declined in the most unmistakable terms to have anything to do with the affair.

“She’d only make fun of you,” he said, severely. “You ought to have seen her face when she was messing about with your eye.”

Mr. Cook said he _had_ seen it, and smacked his lips.

“And she’ll do worse than that if you don’t let ’er alone,” continued Mr. Gossett. “Why, there was one silly fellow that used to come after her, and she led ’im such a dance that he went away and joined the Army.”

“Very good place for him,” said Mr. Cook approvingly. “Besides, we must have soldiers.”

“When I took you round I thought you would have learnt ’er a lesson,” said his friend; “instead of that you’re worse than any of ’em. It makes _me_ look such a fool. I expect she’s talking about you now and laughing fit to kill herself.”

“She’s got a pretty laugh,” said the other, with a tender smile. “I could listen to it all day.”

He heard it a night or two later, when, failing his utmost efforts to obtain an invitation from Mr. Gossett, he called without one, apparently for the purpose of telling Miss Gossett that it was a fine evening, but that a little rain would do good. After which effort he sat and watched Miss Gossett gurgling foolishly into her handkerchief.

“Don’t take no notice of her,” said Mrs. Gossett, somewhat disturbed.

“I like it,” replied Mr. Cook, simply.

“Sounds silly to me,” said Mrs. Gossett, shaking her head at her daughter.

“That’s why I like it,” said Mr. Cook, floundering. “I like silly people.”

Miss Gossett’s laughter ended abruptly.

“Did you come to see Joe?” she inquired, with some austerity.

Mr. Cook shook his head.

“What did you come for, then?”

The visitor looked imploringly at Mrs. Gossett, but seeing no help there turned to the daughter. “I came to tell you my eye is all right now,” he said, slowly. “I thought you’d like to know.”

Miss Gossett gazed at him, deep in thought “Will you be able to see your way home with it?” she said at last, in a soft voice.

The visitor became thoughtful in his turn. “Perhaps--perhaps it would be safer if somebody--somebody came with me,” he murmured.

Miss Gossett nodded. “Ye-es,” she said, softly. “Yes, I think it would. Can you give me a couple of minutes?”

Mr. Cook, flushing with joy, said that he could, and, hardly able to believe in his good fortune, bestowed a half-wink upon Mrs. Gossett as her daughter left the room.

“Gone up to put her hat on?” he inquired, in a low voice.

“P’r’aps,” said the surprised Mrs. Gossett, “and p’r’aps not,” she added. “If I don’t expect her to do a thing, she does it, and if I expect her to do a thing she don’t do it. That’s Mabel.”

Mr. Cook shook his head gently in sympathy. Then he prepared to rise as Miss Gossett entered the room followed by a small and extremely dirty youth in patched knickerbockers.

“This is Tommy Burrows, from next door,” she said.

Mr. Cook nodded--and waited.

“By good luck, he happened to be in,” continued the girl. “This is the poor gentleman, Tommy, and if you lead him safe home he will give you a shilling. You had better hold his sleeve. And mind how you cross the roads.”

She stood smiling benevolently as Master Burrows, in pursuance of his instructions, took the dazed and speechless Mr. Cook by the sleeve and piloted him carefully from the room. At the street-door he paused and strove to collect his scattered faculties.

“Good-bye,” said Miss Gossett, brightly.

The unfortunate gasped at her, and then, obedient to a tug at his sleeve, moved slowly off. The laugh that he had so much admired was heard again, but some of its savour seemed to have departed. It was clear that he had lost the first two rounds, and, with a faint hope that Tommy’s mother might have something to say to Miss Gossett on the subject, he took that hapless youth ten miles for the shilling. By the next morning he had recovered his spirits and the vitriolic scorn of Joe Gossett passed him harmlessly by. It appeared that Miss Gossett had persisted in regarding her brother as privy to the visit and chose to include him as a victim of her cleverness.

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Cook equably. “You shall have the laugh of her by and by.”

“When?” demanded the unbeliever.

“When I marry her,” was the reply.

Mr. Gossett turned and regarded his friend in amazement. “Have you gone silly or what?” he inquired huskily.

“There’s nothing to go silly about,” responded Mr. Cook. “I’ve thought all along I should be caught some time. She’s got me hard and fast, and the funny thing is, I don’t mind. I like it.”

“But she won’t have you,” objected the staring Mr. Gossett. “She wouldn’t look at you.”

“You tell her I’m going to marry her,” said Mr. Cook. “Tell her I’m going to marry her, and the sooner she makes up her mind to it the better.”

Mr. Gossett took the message. The one he brought back next day lost nothing in transit.

“So there you are,” he said, grinning. “She says she wouldn’t have you if you were the only man in the world.”

“She couldn’t,” said the philosophical Mr. Cook; “there’d be too many after me.” He called next evening and, Miss Gossett being out, left a little bunch of flowers he had hidden beneath his coat. Mr. Gossett brought back the withered remains next day. A large and expensive box of chocolates left two days later was returned empty, but any comfort Mr. Cook might have derived from the fact vanished when he heard that it had accompanied Mr. Gossett and Miss Adams to the cinema.

“She ate the chocs with one hand while I held the other,” explained Mr. Gossett. “Try Mabel with another box to-night, old man.”

Mr. Cook, intent upon what he now considered would be a long campaign, made no reply. Despite his utmost efforts he was unable to obtain speech with Miss Gossett, and a letter, sent through the post, was returned marked, “Opened by mistake.” Assailed by doubts, only his looking-glass convinced him that he held a winning hand. He called again, and spent three hours of mutual boredom with Mrs. Gossett, while Miss Gossett sat upstairs in her bedroom, blaspheming.

“It’s the only way to treat ’em,” he said to Mr. Gossett, when that gentleman remonstrated. “Show ’em you ain’t afraid of ’em and they come to heel.”

“And what about my poor mother?” demanded his friend hotly. “She ’ad you all last evening, talking about the weather, and Mabel all breakfast time talking about hairdressers’ blocks and tailors’ dummies. Don’t you come again.”

“Not till next time,” said the other calmly.

As a matter of good-feeling and policy combined he decided to let a few days lapse before calling again. A slight swelling and soreness in the neck attributed to a tooth which had been troubling him for some time led to a still further delay. The distortion of face was especially trying to a man of his appearance, and, after enduring for two days the glances of his fellow-workers and the ribaldries of Mr. Gossett, he stayed away from pork.

He sat at home next day with his head wrapped in a shawl. Dainties, as conceived by his landlady for an invalid, remained untouched. And he was in the depths of misery when the door opened and Mr. Gossett stepped blithely in.

“Jee-rusalem!” said that gentleman.

Mr. Cook tried to smile, and Mr. Gossett retreated a couple of paces, and placed his hand on the door-knob.

“Why don’t you ’ave the tooth out?” he demanded.

“When--swelling--goes--down,” croaked the invalid.

Mr. Gossett looked at him and hesitated. “Mabel wants you to come to supper,” he said at last. “She sent me to ask you.”

There was a long pause.

“You--told--her--’bout this,” said Mr. Cook, “and she wants--to make--fun of me.”

Mr. Gossett coughed.

“All right,” said the other, “I’ll come. I don’t mind if she does laugh.”

Fortunately, as Mr. Gossett observed, it was getting dark, and Mr. Cook’s features attracted no attention. A little natural reluctance to enter the sitting-room gave way before a hearty push from his companion.

“It is good of you to come,” said Miss Gossett, her lips trembling.

“You--asked me,” said Mr. Cook, speaking slowly and painfully from one side of his mouth. “And I came--because--you thought--I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t take no notice of her,” said Mrs. Gossett “For shame, Mabel,” she added.

“I ca-can’t help it,” said her daughter, wiping her eyes. “He--looks so plump and well-fed.”

“He looks ill,” said Mrs. Gossett severely. “Have you seen a doctor?”

Mr. Cook said he didn’t believe in doctors, and, turning a deaf ear to the misbehaviour of Miss Gossett, took the seat next to her at the supper-table and sat gloomily eyeing food he was unable to eat. By an effort he managed to sip a little beer, and, at Miss Gossett’s earnest entreaty, ate a small quantity of rice pudding from a salt-spoon. The fact that she fed him with the first two mouthfuls atoned for much.

“Pity Florrie couldn’t come to supper,” said Miss Gossett, turning to her brother.

“She’ll be here soon, I expect,” he answered. “She ’ad an appointment, but she said she’d be sure to come if she could. There she is, I think.”

Rapid steps paused at the door, followed by a knock which Mr. Gossett hastened to answer. Voices sounded in the narrow passage.

“Come in, Florrie,” cried Miss Gossett. “Handsome Harry is here.”

Miss Adams came in, with a broad smile revealing white teeth. Then her eyes dilated, and uttering a piercing shriek she fell back into the passage.

“Don’t be silly,” cried the highly-gratified Miss Gossett; “he’s quite harmless.”

There was a smothered exclamation from Miss Adams, followed by the sound of the opening of the street-door.

“It’s too bad,” said Mrs. Gossett. “Mabel, I won’t have it.”

The voice of Miss Adams was heard outside.

“He ought to be shut up,” she exclaimed in piercing tones, “or boiled,” she added. “If I catch ’em, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Catch what?” demanded the harassed Mr. Gossett.

The reply set the party in the parlour tingling.

“_Mumps_,” she said viciously. “As if you didn’t know.”

The grating of Miss Gossett’s chair as she pushed it back broke the silence.

“Mumps!” she wailed; “mumps! and I’ve been sitting next to him.”

“And feeding him,” added Mr. Cook gloomily. “Well! well! Fancy--its being mumps--all the time. And at--my age too. I thought----”

He finished speaking to an empty room. The ladies were upstairs and, judging by the noise, somewhat perturbed. The voice of Mr. Gossett--from the landing--bade him begone. He returned to work nearly three weeks later.

Mr. Gossett was not there, and the voice of envy declared that five other gentlemen were also staying at home in sinful luxury with the mumps.

He went round to call the same evening, and asked for news of Joe.

“They’ve both got it,” said Mrs. Gossett, in a tired voice. “Poor Mabel! you ought to see her.”

“I will,” said Mr. Cook, stepping inside. “Can you send her down?”

Mrs. Gossett smiled faintly. “She wouldn’t let anybody see her for a thousand pounds,” she declared. “I don’t think her face will ever get right again. It’s like a piller.”

Mr. Cook, walking to the foot of the stairs, raised his voice and called loudly upon the name of Miss Gossett. A door opened softly and a strange, cracked voice told him to go away.

“I want to see you,” he answered.

“Go away,” repeated the girl.

“I came to see you when I had ’em,” said Mr. Cook. “Now I dare you to come down and see me. If you haven’t got the pluck, say so.”

“Go away--you brute!” said the voice.

“Don’t be a coward,” urged Mr. Cook. “Surely you ain’t going to be outdone by me. I’ll wait in the parlour for you. Be a sportsman.”

He waited five minutes. A halting step sounded from the stairs, and a little later the door opened and a disfigured and indignant Miss Gossett entered the room and stood glowering at him.

“Poor old thing,” he said tenderly.

“You gave me this,” she said fiercely.

Mr. Cook shook his head. “You took it,” he corrected gently. He placed his arm suddenly around her waist, and, choosing her forehead as the point of least resistance, kissed it ardently.

“It’ll soon go away,” he said cheerfully. “In about ten days’ time we shall be the best-looking couple in the neighbourhood.”

The Blindness of Captain Ferguson

I

From outside the house looked desolate enough. It stood alone where the grass of the marshes met the sand of the shore. On one side a view of marsh and cattle, dykes and gates, on the other the waters of the North Sea.

Inside, in the cosy sitting-room, the Captain sat and fumed. The fire was burning low and he had mislaid his pipe, while his wife, to whom he usually looked to adjust these matters, was upstairs with the sick girl from London, who had come home in search of rest and health.

“The women are all alike,” grumbled the Captain, as he rose and felt cautiously along the mantelshelf for the missing pipe, “gossiping as usual.”

His fumbling hands struck against a china shepherdess and wrecked her on the fender, for blindness had come upon him late in life and his huge gnarled fists lacked the touch usually associated with those who have lost their sight. With a rueful grumble he sank back into his chair again as his wife entered the room.

“Jenny, I’ve smashed something,” said the offender humbly. “I was looking for my pipe.”

“Here’s your pipe, Jem,” she replied, as she thrust it into his hands. “I must leave you a little while longer. Edith is not quite so well.”

“I’ll come up and talk to her,” said the Captain, with the air of one who possessed a sovereign remedy.

“No, you mustn’t,” said his wife, pushing his great form back into the chair, “she’s not well enough to talk much. I’ll be back soon.”

The Captain, impelled by that small but resolute arm, stayed where he had fallen, and lighting his pipe fell to smoking with much enjoyment, listening to the beating of the surf and the wind, which was blowing almost a gale. The combination was so soothing that he fell asleep at length with the pipe between his teeth.

He awoke with a start and a vague confused idea that somebody had called him. Certainly a cry of some sort still rang in his ears, and placing his pipe on the table, he rose and stood with one hand on the back of his chair listening. At first only the wind and the surf, then mixed with it the faint wailing of a child. The Captain felt his way to the door and called excitedly to his wife.

“Jenny! Jenny!”

“All right, go back,” called his wife quickly, from the top of the stairs. “I’m coming down now.”

“I heard a cry outside,” said the Captain. “The cry of a child.”

“Nonsense, you’ve been dreaming.”

“I tell you I heard it,” repeated the Captain, as he threw open the house door. “Listen!”

“There!” said the Captain, holding up a warning finger. “I heard it again.”

“So did I,” said his wife. “It’s outside.”

“Get a shawl and come after me, my lass,” said the Captain, taking down a coil of line made fast to the staple of the door, which he used for short wanderings. “Hallo, there! Hallo!”

He walked slowly in the darkness, listening eagerly while his wife turned her white face upwards and in broken accents thanked Heaven for her husband’s blindness. Then she came downstairs, and with the agility of a girl ran by her husband.

The Captain paying out his line, and treading softly, heard her stop and cry out suddenly, and then, with an indistinct cry to him, speed back to the house.

“I’ve got it,” she cried. “I’ve got it.”

He turned and followed rapidly. Inside he closed the door and stood in the hall listening to the crying of a child, which now sounded through the house, and the hurried footsteps of his wife as she moved about in the room above.

“It’s a baby, Jim,” said his wife, coming half-way down the stairs and closely watching her husband’s face as it showed in the light from the sitting-room. “Just a little child, wrapped in an old shawl and left to die. Only a few days old, by the look of it.”

“Ay, ay,” said the Captain, very slowly. “Go upstairs, my dear. Go upstairs.”

He turned and, closing the door after him, groped his way back to his chair, leaving his wife, after a moment’s irresolution, to do his bidding. The fire was out and the room chill before she came down again, and the tears sprang to her tired eyes as she saw the strong, helpless man patiently awaiting her return.

“How’s Edith?” he asked, without turning his head.

“She’s not very well, I think,” said his wife, in a low, frightened voice, “but she has just fallen asleep. I don’t think I’d disturb her to-night, Jim, if I were you.”

“I won’t,” said the Captain quietly. “I’ll get to bed, too, I think. Good-night.”

He went slowly up the stairs and into his room, his wife following him noiselessly, and not until the door had closed behind him did she relax her watchfulness; then, in a dazed condition, she made her way to her daughter and fell half-fainting across her bed.

In the morning, in the cool salt air and the sunshine, her flagging spirits revived and she greeted her husband in almost her usual cheery fashion as he came in from his tethered walk along the shore to breakfast.

“Edith not coming down?” he inquired, as he took his seat at the table.

“Not to breakfast,” she replied, watching him.

“Best not, if she doesn’t feel strong,” said the Captain briskly. “I’ve been thinking about that child.”

“Ah,” said his wife, and the cup she was passing him rattled in the saucer.

“If nobody claims it,” continued the Captain, “take it up to London and let old Sparling’s widow have it. She’ll take it if we pay her. I suppose we can’t send it to the workhouse?”

“We can’t keep it?” suggested his wife timidly.

“No,” said the Captain, with a mirthless laugh, “we’re too old to be plagued with children.”

His wife said no more, but later in the morning informed him that she had written to London to make arrangements, and that Edith would not be up that day, but would come down the next.

More than a week, however, elapsed before she put in an appearance, and then very pale and trembling she came down and took her accustomed seat. To her father’s great relief she came alone, yet she was but indifferent company, her thoughts being with her mother and the child who had just started on their journey to London.

After this the time passed slowly and uneventfully to the dwellers in the cottage. Edith, quiet and patient, felt her life bounded by the sea and marsh, and never looked beyond. Only her mother fretted as she thought of her beautiful daughter and her wasted life. For his part the Captain seemed not to think at all, except that once when his daughter threw out a feeble suggestion of seeking employment, he drew her to his knee, and encircled her with an arm of iron.

The child was never alluded to, though many and various were the plans mother and daughter considered for its future. The child itself solved the problem; it died, and its mother, weeping bitterly over the ill-written scrawl which conveyed the news to her, prayed for death too.

If anything, she became quieter than before, despite the efforts of her father to arouse her. Sometimes it was a long walk with the blind man along the shore, at another they would put to sea in the Captain’s small skiff and stay for hours on the lonely waste of waters.

Then suddenly things changed. One day, after a longer walk than usual, they were astonished as they neared the house by the unwonted sounds of a man’s voice. It was a full, hearty voice, and it was evident from the animated conversation within that the stranger was feeling very much at home.

“Jem,” said his wife, as he entered, “you remember George Merrick, but he’s grown from a boy to a man since we saw him.”

“And from apprentice to master,” said the stranger, as he rose and gripped the other’s hand. “All your teaching, Cap’n, all your teaching.”

“You’ve got a ship, my lad?” inquired the Captain, as he returned the shake.

“A brand new one,” replied the other. “But I’ve got to wait a couple of months for her and I thought I’d spend the holiday looking up my friends. I got your address from your old owners, and here I am.”

“And here you’ll stay till your ship’s ready,” said the Captain cordially. “That is if you can put up with an old blind man and his household. Lord, it’s good to hear the voice of a friend in this desolate place.”

“Sure I shan’t be a nuisance?” asked Merrick. “You know of old how noisy I am.”

“Not a bit of it, you’ll liven us all up,” replied the other. “It’ll be a boon to me to have somebody to talk over old times with.”

“Well, when you are tired of me tell me to go,” laughed Merrick, and so the matter was settled.

II

With the introduction of a visitor from the outside world dullness fled from the cottage, and in a very short time George Merrick was on the happiest terms with all of them; the Captain remarking with surprise conversational powers on the part of his wife he had long since thought defunct.

All this the Captain heard, but he was a sense short. He could not see the honest admiration with which Merrick eyed the daughter while he talked to the mother, nor the subtle joy of the latter in the knowledge of it.

A sharper man might have remarked the deference in the visitor’s tones when he addressed the daughter, but he did not, nor when Merrick and his daughter were from the room did it occur to him that they might be together.

It was three weeks after Merrick’s arrival before his eyes were opened. The visitor had gone on an errand to the neighbouring town, and his host was sitting at the open window, smoking and listening to the clicking of his wife’s needles as she knitted a mammoth sock.

“Jem,” said his wife, suddenly suspending her work, “I think George Merrick wants a little talk with you this afternoon.”

“He may have it,” said the Captain affably.

“You--you don’t seem to understand,” said his wife, her voice shaking a little; “you men are all alike, I think. He wants Edith.”

“_What?_” shouted the Captain.

“He spoke to me this morning,” continued his wife, “and, of course, I referred him to you.”

“Has he spoken to her?” inquired the Captain.

“He spoke to her last night,” was the reply, “and she accepted him. I saw all along that they were taken with each other.”

“And you never stopped it,” said the Captain. “You let it go on.”

“Of course,” said his wife, in surprised tones. “Why not?”

“Your memory is failing,” said her husband. “Think--go back three years; go back to the night the child came.”

“Jem,” said his wife, in a frightened whisper. “What do you mean?”

“Have you told him what you told me, or have you told him the truth?” pursued the other sternly.

His wife, breathing rapidly, made no reply.

“I have never referred to it before,” said the Captain, more gently. “I never would have referred to it but for this. To save my poor girl’s pride--and my own--I pretended to believe the lie you told me, for I am a blind man, my dear, and harmless. When a man loses his sight he should die, for he is a moving, _dangerous_ man no longer. He is a derelict, and can only hurt that which runs against him.”

“It is all past and over,” murmured his wife brokenly.

“So I had thought,” replied the husband. “I never thought to have told my daughter’s shame to another man.”

“You will not,” cried his wife wildly. “I will never forgive you if you do. Hasn’t my darling suffered enough? We did wrong in sending such a child to that great, wicked city. And she loves him. If you tell him that, it will kill her.”

“I am a proud man,” said the Captain sternly, as he rose, “and no man shall enter my family under false pretences. I will tell him. If he likes to overlook it, well and good. Nobody will be happier than I shall.”

“Overlook it!” repeated his wife. “To save your pride, you were content to keep your eyes shut--why do you wish to open his? Do you think he will thank you for the information?”

“Where is he?” asked the Captain.

“He is out with Edith,” said his wife, crossing over and falling on her knees beside him. “Jem, don’t tell him; for pity’s sake let things be. Edith refused him at first, she has pride, too. She would not listen to him. But I told him before her that she loved him and after that he would not be denied. She is a good girl--you know she is a good girl--and if you ruin her life like this, you will break my heart.”

Before the Captain could reply or disengage his hands from hers, voices were heard in the hall, and Merrick entered the room and looked significantly at his hostess.

“Captain,” he said in a strong voice, “I suppose Mrs. Ferguson has told you that I have asked your daughter to be my wife. I----”

“Sit down,” said the Captain quietly. “Jenny, Merrick and I will settle this.”

His wife rose helplessly to her feet. “Not now, Jem,” she cried piteously, “not now; think first.”

The Captain shook his head, and his wife, avoiding the gaze of the astonished Merrick, left the room and went upstairs to her daughter. Ten minutes later, through blinding tears, she saw Merrick quit the house and walk like a drunken man along the sands.

“He has gone,” she whispered, “gone without a word.”

Edith rose, pale and dry eyed and crossed over to the window; then flushing darkly she bent over her mother and kissed her.

“I should not love him if he had stayed,” she said.

For the rest of that day she kept her room, only going downstairs when she heard her mother’s bedroom door close. Her father sat by the window, his unsmoked pipe by the sill and his hands clasped before him.

“Good night, father,” she said, quietly, as she crossed over to him and placed her arms about his neck. “And thank you, for--everything.”

“We’ll--we’ll be the same as before, my girl,” said the Captain, as he drew her soft cheek on to his shoulder. “It was best for you, best for him.”

“You have been wonderfully good to me,” said the girl, in a low voice. “I thank you and love you for it.”

She disengaged herself from his arms and rose, pausing at the door to bid him good night again, and passed upstairs.

* * * * *

An hour later, when the house was still and dark, she crept down again. It was a warm summer’s night, but she shivered slightly and caught her breath when the door rattled, under the touch of her shaky fingers, as she opened it. Then she closed it behind her, and with a slight sob at the pity of it all, walked towards the sea. For a minute she paused irresolute, and a man who had walked down for a last look at the house which contained her, stepped from its shadow and stood miserably watching. Then, as he heard the grating of the boat’s keel on the beach, he sprang forward eagerly, crying her name.

He was just too late; the boat floated and the girl, with a stroke of the oars, sent it from the shore. Without further parley he threw off his coat and shoes, and wading in, struck out in pursuit.

“Go back,” cried the girl from between her teeth. “Go back.”

There was no reply, but a slight splashing in the wake of the boat spoke for itself. She bent to the oars, the noise getting fainter and fainter as she widened the distance between them.

With her face white and set, she kept on her way until, despite herself, her heart failed her, and she stopped rowing to listen. At first there was a dead silence, then she fancied she could still hear him striving to reach her.

“Go back!” she cried piteously, “go back!”

“I can’t,” he shouted, calmly, “it’s too far.”

The girl sat motionless, peering through the gloom. Across the water came the sound of quick, distressed breathing, and weak, rapid strokes. With a great cry, she turned the boat’s head round and pulled in the direction of the swimmer.

“Where are you?” she cried, wildly; “call out.”

At the faintness of the response she increased her efforts until she came alongside something which struggled manfully in the dark water, and strove to keep its white face above it. Just in time she leaned over, and, grasping it by the shoulder, drew it to the stern of the boat and held it fiercely and strongly to her breast.

“If you want to die, dear,” gasped the man, as he lay a little later in the bottom of the boat, holding her hands, “pull out the plug and we’ll go down together, but living or dead, you shall not go from me again.”

Wapping-on-Thames

As a residential neighbourhood Wapping is perhaps undesirable, though a considerable population contrives to exist in the narrow streets hemmed in between the dock walls and the warehouses bordering the river. For the river itself is completely hidden except where the swing-bridges, which give entrance to the docks, afford a passing glimpse.

From a picturesque point of view Wapping was no doubt much better in the days when docks and swing-bridges were unknown; when the bow-windows of its ancient taverns projected quaintly over the river and the watermen’s stairs inspired the muse of the song-writer. Then the raucous bellowings of hurrying steamers were unheard, and sailing craft thoughtfully waited for tides, while master-mariners sat drinking in the bow-windows aforesaid.

The old church and the charity school, with the overgrown graveyard opposite, with its rank grass and dingy trees, are the remains of those days. The green of the churchyard is a relief to the bricks and mortar, for trees are scarce in Wapping, though there are a few others in front of the old-fashioned houses on the breezy pier-head hard by--trees which, having been coaxed to grow in that uncongenial spot, conscientiously endeavour to indicate the seasons, and make very few mistakes considering.

High Street, Wapping, the principal thoroughfare, realising, possibly, that High Streets are apt to adhere too slavishly to one pattern, appears to have determined to be original. It sternly eschews the drapers and hatters, the bootmakers and tailors of other High Streets, and confines its retail trade almost entirely to coffee-shops and taverns. The coffee-shops are as conservative as the street, and one window is much like another--herrings, rejoicing in their strength, competing for favour with bacon of guaranteed mildness and eggs of blameless exterior.

Early in the morning the night-watchmen are awakened by vans, and late at night their sleep is broken by them. For Wapping revels in vans of all shapes and all sizes, but preferably large, and has put down granite roads for their especial delectation. The vans are from all quarters of London, and their drivers from all parts of the country, but the latter are the willing victims of one dominant idea. It is the ambition of every carman--the thing for which he plots and plans, and swears and lies--to be attended to out of his turn. The more out of his turn the better, and a boy of innocent aspect and no principles, who will ably second his perjuries, is as the apple of his eye. This, and sitting in dangerous attitudes on the tail-board of the van, or doing a double-shuffle on the extreme edge of the kerb, is the van-boy’s part in life. In his spare moments he watches his chief back horses, for, as a backer of horses in a blameless sense, the river-side carman has probably no equal in the world. At one time, in addition to the road, he had about two feet of pavement to manœuvre on as well, but now he has been warned off by iron posts of the most upright and rigid bearing.

Down Tower Hill, thinking no evil, comes a mildewed four-wheeler driven by an elderly cabman, who pulls up so sharply at the bottom of the hill that the horse slides a yard or two and then tries to sit down.

“Drive on, cabman!” says a shrill voice inside, as the owner of it knuckles at the glass. “What are you stopping for? It’s farther on!”

“All right, lady,” says the cabman. He knows that the sex requires humouring, and “clucks” the horse on exactly seventeen inches.

“Any chance o’ gettin’ by, sir?” he inquires with deep respect of a tall policeman.