Chapter V: Part 5

The tall policeman eyes the traffic critically and a Pickford’s van severely. Pickford’s horses are pawing the pavement, while their tail-board is giving great offence to a pair of horses behind.

“Pickford!” yells the tall policeman with great suddenness.

Half a dozen voices take up the cry of “Pickford,” and Pickford’s representative not being forthcoming (he is at the present moment making Language, with a capital L, do for argument with the foreman), a small boy appears from the depths of the van to see what he can do.

“Put your van back a bit!” says the tall policeman austerely.

The urchin grasps the horses’ heads, brings them forward a bit, thrusts them back, slipping and stumbling with their heads in the air, and having made at least a foot more space, pauses triumphantly and asks, “How’s that?”

The only reply of the tall policeman, who is a man of few words, is to bawl for “Pickford” again. The cabman, in the most familiar manner, also calls for “Pickford” and a string of vehicles behind him also call on the name of “Pickford” with profane fervour. “Pickford” turns up at last in a heated condition, having signally failed with the foreman, and grasping his horses’ heads, backs them violently. The commotion that ensues is tremendous, the docile and intelligent animals behind, realising that it is a case of _sauve qui peut_, going where they can.

There is now room for the procession to pass, and the cabman, having brooded over his wrongs until he is word-perfect, tells the carman his opinion of him as he goes by. It is a long opinion, quite a character-study in fact and, despite the haste of his fares, he walks his horse so that the offender shall not miss a word of it.

“Bullen’s Wharf?” he inquires politely of a bystander, turning a deaf ear to his adversary’s reply.

“Straight ahead,” says the man addressed, “but you can’t get by!”

“Ho! carn’t I?” says the cabman, with the air of a man who has just done greater things than that. “An’ w’y not?”

“Cos the bridge is swung,” says the other cheerfully.

The cabman swings himself off his box, and opening the door of his vehicle, breaks the news to his fares. The three ladies lean forward anxiously, and with one accord blame him for it, one lady remarking darkly that four-wheelers are all alike, and drawing offensive comparisons between the present vehicle and a hansom.

“I carn’t ’elp the bridge being swung,” says the cabman. “It ain’t no pleasure for me standing here listening to you. ’Ow long’ll it be, mate?”

“I think they’re almost through now,” says the other. “There’s just a few empty lighters going into the docks--unless the _Evening Star_ is coming out,” he adds thoughtfully.

Fortunately for all concerned the gallant ship mentioned does not come out. The bridge swings together again, and the cabman, gathering up his reins, rattles briskly over the stones to his destination.

If the traffic in the streets is thick, that on the river is almost as bad. Huge steamers come slowly and cautiously up, moaning plaintively with their steam-sirens whenever they see anything about to run into them. At times there appears to be no offing at all, and even penny steamers--the most expert craft on the river--give a low whistle and wonder what is going to happen next. It is usual at such moments for an old and leaky boat, laden with small boys, who prefer this mode of whiling away the dinner-hour to eating, to stop in mid-stream to recover an oar. Extraordinary feats of navigation are performed by the crew before this is accomplished, but they get it at last, and ignoring the remarks hurled at them from the various craft, settle down to work again and ram a steam collier.

Work on the wharves is in full swing, and the cranes are busy lowering goods into the gaping holds beneath. Sometimes the freight drops from the slings on to the labourers, and once a crane we knew--ordinarily a well-behaved, reliable worker--took too much aboard and plunged fifteen feet into the river below. It took the driver with it, and when his friends got him up, as a preliminary to burying him, they found, to their astonishment, that he was alive. He was never a man to make much fuss; and after he had sat on the jetty and been patted on the back, he looked round at the place the crane had left, and said that perhaps, as there didn’t seem to be anything for him to do, he might have a half-holiday for once. He added, as an extra reason, that he felt a little bit shaken.

It is not until Sunday arrives that Wapping becomes quiet, and then the change is almost oppressive in its thoroughness. The streets are practically deserted in the morning, except for a few men who have got up early by force of habit rather than the promptings of virtue, and a chance cat slinking furtively along in the shadow of the warehouses, ready to dart beneath a gateway at the first sign of a dog.

The Interruption

I

The last of the funeral guests had gone and Spencer Goddard, in decent black, sat alone in his small, well-furnished study. There was a queer sense of freedom in the house since the coffin had left it; the coffin which was now hidden in its solitary grave beneath the yellow earth. The air, which for the last three days had seemed stale and contaminated, now smelt fresh and clean. He went to the open window and, looking into the fading light of the autumn day, took a deep breath.

He closed the window, and, stooping down, put a match to the fire, and, dropping into his easy chair, sat listening to the cheery crackle of the wood. At the age of thirty-eight he had turned over a fresh page. Life, free and unencumbered, was before him. His dead wife’s money was at last his, to spend as he pleased instead of being doled out in reluctant driblets.

He turned at a step at the door and his face assumed the appearance of gravity and sadness it had worn for the last four days. The cook, with the same air of decorous grief, entered the room quietly and, crossing to the mantelpiece placed upon it a photograph.

“I thought you’d like to have it, sir,” she said, in a low voice, “to remind you.”

Goddard thanked her, and, rising, took it in his hand and stood regarding it. He noticed with satisfaction that his hand was absolutely steady.

“It is a very good likeness--till she was taken ill,” continued the woman. “I never saw anybody change so sudden.”

“The nature of her disease, Hannah,” said her master.

The woman nodded, and, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, stood regarding him.

“Is there anything you want?” he inquired, after a time.

She shook her head. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” she said, in a low voice. “Every now and then I have a queer feeling that she’s still here----”

“It’s your nerves,” said her master sharply.

“----and wanting to tell me something.”

By a great effort Goddard refrained from looking at her.

“Nerves,” he said again. “Perhaps you ought to have a little holiday. It has been a great strain upon you.”

“You, too, sir,” said the woman respectfully. “Waiting on her hand and foot as you have done, I can’t think how you stood it. If you’d only had a nurse----”

“I preferred to do it myself, Hannah,” said her master. “If I had had a nurse it would have alarmed her.”

The woman assented. “And they are always peeking and prying into what doesn’t concern them,” she added. “Always think they know more than the doctors do.”

Goddard turned a slow look upon her. The tall, angular figure was standing in an attitude of respectful attention; the cold slaty-brown eyes were cast down, the sullen face expressionless.

“She couldn’t have had a better doctor,” he said, looking at the fire again. “No man could have done more for her.”

“And nobody could have done more for her than you did, sir,” was the reply. “There’s few husbands that would have done what you did.”

Goddard stiffened in his chair. “That will do, Hannah,” he said curtly.

“Or done it so well,” said the woman, with measured slowness.

With a strange, sinking sensation, her master paused to regain his control. Then he turned and eyed her steadily. “Thank you,” he said, slowly; “you mean well, but at present I cannot discuss it.”

For some time after the door had closed behind her he sat in deep thought. The feeling of well-being of a few minutes before had vanished, leaving in its place an apprehension which he refused to consider, but which would not be allayed. He thought over his actions of the last few weeks, carefully, and could remember no flaw. His wife’s illness, the doctor’s diagnosis, his own solicitous care, were all in keeping with the ordinary. He tried to remember the woman’s exact words--her manner. Something had shown him Fear. What?

He could have laughed at his fears next morning. The dining-room was full of sunshine and the fragrance of coffee and bacon was in the air. Better still, a worried and commonplace Hannah. Worried over two eggs with false birth-certificates, over the vendor of which she became almost lyrical.

“The bacon is excellent,” said her smiling master, “so is the coffee; but your coffee always is.”

Hannah smiled in return, and, taking fresh eggs from a rosy-cheeked maid, put them before him.

A pipe, followed by a brisk walk, cheered him still further. He came home glowing with exercise and again possessed with that sense of freedom and freshness. He went into the garden--now his own--and planned alterations.

After lunch he went over the house. The windows of his wife’s bedroom were open and the room neat and airy. His glance wandered from the made-up bed to the brightly-polished furniture. Then he went to the dressing-table and opened the drawers, searching each in turn. With the exception of a few odds and ends they were empty. He went out on to the landing and called for Hannah.

“Do you know whether your mistress locked up any of her things?” he inquired.

“What things?” said the woman.

“Well, her jewellery mostly.”

“Oh!” Hannah smiled. “She gave it all to me,” she said, quietly.

Goddard checked an exclamation. His heart was beating nervously, but he spoke sternly.

“When?”

“Just before she died--of gastro-enteritis,” said the woman.

There was a long silence. He turned and with great care mechanically closed the drawers of the dressing-table. The tilted glass showed him the pallor of his face, and he spoke without turning round.

“That is all right, then,” he said, huskily. “I only wanted to know what had become of it. I thought, perhaps, Milly----”

Hannah shook her head. “Milly’s all right,” she said, with a strange smile. “She’s as honest as we are. Is there anything more you want, sir?”

She closed the door behind her with the quietness of the well-trained servant; Goddard, steadying himself with his hand on the rail of the bed, stood looking into the future.

II

The days passed monotonously, as they pass with a man in prison. Gone was the sense of freedom and the idea of a wider life. Instead of a cell, a house with ten rooms--but Hannah, the jailer guarding each one. Respectful and attentive, the model servant, he saw in every word a threat against his liberty--his life. In the sullen face and cold eyes he saw her knowledge of power; in her solicitude for his comfort and approval, a sardonic jest. It was the master playing at being the servant. The years of unwilling servitude were over, but she felt her way carefully with infinite zest in the game. Warped and bitter, with a cleverness which had never before had scope, she had entered into her kingdom. She took it little by little, savouring every morsel.

“I hope I’ve done right, sir,” she said one morning. “I have given Milly notice.”

Goddard looked up from his paper. “Isn’t she satisfactory?” he inquired.

“Not to my thinking, sir,” said the woman. “And she says she is coming to see you about it. I told her that would be no good.”

“I had better see her and hear what she has to say,” said her master.

“Of course, if you wish to,” said Hannah; “only, after giving her notice, if she doesn’t go I shall. I should be sorry to go--I’ve been very comfortable here--but it’s either her or me.”

“I should be sorry to lose you,” said Goddard in a hopeless voice.

“Thank you, sir,” said Hannah. “I’m sure I’ve tried to do my best. I’ve been with you some time now--and I know all your little ways. I expect I understand you better than anybody else would. I do all I can to make you comfortable.”

“Very well, I will leave it to you,” said Goddard in a voice which strove to be brisk and commanding. “You have my permission to dismiss her.”

“There’s another thing I wanted to see you about,” said Hannah; “my wages. I was going to ask for a rise, seeing that I’m really housekeeper here now.”

“Certainly,” said her master, considering, “that only seems fair. Let me see--what are you getting?”

“Thirty-six.”

Goddard reflected for a moment and then turned with a benevolent smile. “Very well,” he said, cordially, “I’ll make it forty-two. That’s ten shillings a month more.”

“I was thinking of a hundred,” said Hannah dryly.

The significance of the demand appalled him. “Rather a big jump,” he said at last. “I really don’t know that I----”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Hannah. “I thought I was worth it--to you--that’s all. You know best. Some people might think I was worth _two_ hundred. That’s a bigger jump, but after all a big jump is better than----”

She broke off and tittered. Goddard eyed her.

“----than a big drop,” she concluded.

Her master’s face set. The lips almost disappeared and something came into the pale eyes that was revolting. Still eyeing her, he rose and approached her. She stood her ground and met him eye to eye.

“You are jocular,” he said at last.

“Short life and a merry one,” said the woman.

“Mine or yours?”

“Both, perhaps,” was the reply.

“If--if I give you a hundred,” said Goddard, moistening his lips, “that ought to make your life merrier, at any rate.”

Hannah nodded. “Merry and long, perhaps,” she said slowly. “I’m careful, you know--very careful.”

“I am sure you are,” said Goddard, his face relaxing.

“Careful what I eat and drink, I mean,” said the woman, eyeing him steadily.

“That is wise,” he said slowly. “I am myself--that is why I am paying a good cook a large salary. But don’t overdo things, Hannah; don’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

“I am not likely to do that,” she said coldly. “Live and let live; that is my motto. Some people have different ones. But I’m careful; nobody won’t catch me napping. I’ve left a letter with my sister, in case.”

Goddard turned slowly and in a casual fashion put the flowers straight in a bowl on the table, and, wandering to the window, looked out. His face was white again and his hands trembled.

“To be opened after my death,” continued Hannah. “I don’t believe in doctors--not after what I’ve seen of them--I don’t think they know enough; so if I die I shall be examined. I’ve given good reasons.”

“And suppose,” said Goddard, coming from the window, “suppose she is curious, and opens it before you die?”

“We must chance that,” said Hannah, shrugging her shoulders; “but I don’t think she will. I sealed it up with sealing-wax, with a mark on it.”

“She might open it and say nothing about it,” persisted her master.

An unwholesome grin spread slowly over Hannah’s features. “I should know it soon enough,” she declared boisterously, “and so would other people. Lord there would be an upset! Chidham would have something to talk about for once. We should be in the papers--both of us.”

Goddard forced a smile. “Dear me!” he said gently. “Your pen seems to be a dangerous weapon, Hannah, but I hope that the need to open it will not happen for another fifty years. You look well and strong.”

The woman nodded. “I don’t take up my troubles before they come,” she said, with a satisfied air; “but there’s no harm in trying to prevent them coming. Prevention is better than cure.”

“Exactly,” said her master; “and, by the way, there’s no need for this little financial arrangement to be known by anybody else. I might become unpopular with my neighbours for setting a bad example. Of course, I am giving you this sum because I really think you are worth it.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Hannah. “I’m not sure I ain’t worth more, but this’ll do to go on with. I shall get a girl for less than we are paying Milly, and that’ll be another little bit extra for me.”

“Certainly,” said Goddard, and smiled again.

“Come to think of it,” said Hannah pausing at the door, “I ain’t sure I shall get anybody else; then there’ll be more than ever for me. If I do the work I might as well have the money.”

Her master nodded, and, left to himself, sat down to think out a position which was as intolerable as it was dangerous. At a great risk he had escaped from the dominion of one woman only to fall, bound and helpless, into the hands of another. However vague and unconvincing the suspicions of Hannah might be, they would be sufficient. Evidence could be unearthed. Cold with fear one moment, and hot with fury the next, he sought in vain for some avenue of escape. It was his brain against that of a cunning, illiterate fool; a fool whose malicious stupidity only added to his danger. And she drank. With largely increased wages she would drink more and his very life might depend upon a hiccuped boast. It was clear that she was enjoying her supremacy; later on her vanity would urge her to display it before others. He might have to obey the crack of her whip before witnesses, and that would cut off all possibility of escape.

He sat with his head in his hands. There must be a way out and he must find it. Soon. He must find it before gossip began; before the changed position of master and servant lent colour to her story when that story became known. Shaking with fury, he thought of her lean, ugly throat and the joy of choking her life out with his fingers. He started suddenly, and took a quick breath. No, not fingers--a rope.

III

Bright and cheerful outside and with his friends, in the house he was quiet and submissive. Milly had gone, and, if the service was poorer and the rooms neglected, he gave no sign. If a bell remained unanswered he made no complaint, and to studied insolence turned the other cheek of politeness. When at this tribute to her power the woman smiled, he smiled in return. A smile which, for all its disarming softness, left her vaguely uneasy.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said once, with a menacing air.

“I hope not,” said Goddard in a slightly surprised voice.

“Some people might be, but I’m not,” she declared. “If anything happened to me----”

“Nothing could happen to such a careful woman as you are,” he said, smiling again. “You ought to live to ninety--with luck.”

It was clear to him that the situation was getting on his nerves. Unremembered but terrible dreams haunted his sleep. Dreams in which some great, inevitable disaster was always pressing upon him, although he could never discover what it was. Each morning he awoke unrefreshed to face another day of torment. He could not meet the woman’s eyes for fear of revealing the threat that was in his own.

Delay was dangerous and foolish. He had thought out every move in that contest of wits which was to remove the shadow of the rope from his own neck and place it about that of the woman. There was a little risk, but the stake was a big one. He had but to set the ball rolling and others would keep it on its course. It was time to act.

He came in a little jaded from his afternoon walk, and left his tea untouched. He ate but little dinner, and, sitting hunched up over the fire, told the woman that he had taken a slight chill. Her concern, he felt grimly, might have been greater if she had known the cause.

He was no better next day, and after lunch called in to consult his doctor. He left with a clean bill of health except for a slight digestive derangement, the remedy for which he took away with him in a bottle. For two days he swallowed one tablespoonful three times a day in water, without result, then he took to his bed.

“A day or two in bed won’t hurt you,” said the doctor. “Show me that tongue of yours again.”

“But what is the matter with me, Roberts?” inquired the patient.

The doctor pondered. “Nothing to trouble about--nerves a bit wrong--digestion a little bit impaired. You’ll be all right in a day or two.”

Goddard nodded. So far, so good; Roberts had not outlived his usefulness. He smiled grimly after the doctor had left at the surprise he was preparing for him. A little rough on Roberts and his professional reputation, perhaps, but these things could not be avoided.

He lay back and visualized the programme. A day or two longer, getting gradually worse, then a little sickness. After that a nervous, somewhat shamefaced patient hinting at things. His food had a queer taste--he felt worse after taking it; he knew it was ridiculous, still--there was some of his beef-tea he had put aside, perhaps the doctor would like to examine it? and the medicine? Secretions, too; perhaps he would like to see those?

Propped on his elbow, he stared fixedly at the wall. There would be a trace--a faint trace--of arsenic in the secretions. There would be more than a trace in the other things. An attempt to poison him would be clearly indicated, and--his wife’s symptoms had resembled his own--let Hannah get out of the web he was spinning if she could. As for the letter she had threatened him with, let her produce it; it could only recoil upon herself. Fifty letters could not save her from the doom he was preparing for her. It was her life or his, and he would show no mercy. For three days he doctored himself with sedulous care, watching himself anxiously the while. His nerve was going and he knew it. Before him was the strain of the discovery, the arrest, and the trial. The gruesome business of his wife’s death. A long business. He would wait no longer, and he would open the proceedings with dramatic suddenness.

It was between nine and ten o’clock at night when he rang his bell, and it was not until he had rung four times that he heard the heavy steps of Hannah mounting the stairs.

“What d’you want?” she demanded, standing in the doorway.

“I’m very ill,” he said, gasping. “Run for the doctor. Quick!”

The woman stared at him in genuine amazement. “What, at this time o’ night?” she exclaimed. “Not likely.”

“I’m dying!” said Goddard in a broken voice.

“Not you,” she said, roughly. “You’ll be better in the morning.”

“I’m dying,” he repeated. “Go--for--the--doctor.”

The woman hesitated. The rain beat in heavy squalls against the window, and the doctor’s house was a mile distant on the lonely road. She glanced at the figure on the bed.

“I should catch my death o’ cold,” she grumbled.

She stood sullenly regarding him. He certainly looked very ill, and his death would by no means benefit her. She listened, scowling, to the wind and the rain.

“All right,” she said at last, and went noisily from the room.

His face set in a mirthless smile, he heard her bustling about below. The front-door slammed violently and he was alone.

He waited for a few moments and then, getting out of bed, put on his dressing-gown and set about his preparations. With a steady hand he added a little white powder to the remains of his beef-tea and to the contents of his bottle of medicine. He stood listening a moment at some faint sound from below, and, having satisfied himself, lit a candle and made his way to Hannah’s room. For a space he stood irresolute, looking about him. Then he opened one of the drawers and, placing the broken packet of powder under a pile of clothing at the back, made his way back to bed.

He was disturbed to find that he was trembling with excitement and nervousness. He longed for tobacco, but that was impossible. To reassure himself he began to rehearse his conversation with the doctor, and again he thought over every possible complication. The scene with the woman would be terrible; he would have to be too ill to take any part in it. The less he said the better. Others would do all that was necessary.

He lay for a long time listening to the sound of the wind and the rain. Inside, the house seemed unusually quiet, and with an odd sensation he suddenly realised that it was the first time he had been alone in it since his wife’s death. He remembered that she would have to be disturbed. The thought was unwelcome. He did not want her to be disturbed. Let the dead sleep.

He sat up in bed and drew his watch from beneath the pillow. Hannah ought to have been back before; in any case she could not be long now. At any moment he might hear her key in the lock. He lay down again and reminded himself that things were shaping well. He had shaped them, and some of the satisfaction of the artist was his.

The silence was oppressive. The house seemed to be listening, waiting. He looked at his watch again and wondered, with a curse, what had happened to the woman. It was clear that the doctor must be out, but that was no reason for her delay. It was close on midnight, and the atmosphere of the house seemed in some strange fashion to be brooding and hostile.

In a lull in the wind he thought he heard footsteps outside, and his face cleared as he sat up listening for the sound of the key in the door below. In another moment the woman would be in the house and the fears engendered by a disordered fancy would have flown. The sound of the steps had ceased, but he could hear no sound of entrance. Until all hope had gone, he sat listening. He was certain he had heard footsteps. Whose?

Trembling and haggard he sat waiting, assailed by a crowd of murmuring fears. One whispered that he had failed and would have to pay the penalty of failing; that he had gambled with Death and lost.

By a strong effort he fought down these fancies and, closing his eyes, tried to compose himself to rest. It was evident now that the doctor was out and that Hannah was waiting to return with him in his car. He was frightening himself for nothing. At any moment he might hear the sound of their arrival.

He heard something else, and, sitting up, suddenly, tried to think what it was and what had caused it. It was a very faint sound--stealthy. Holding his breath, he waited for it to be repeated. He heard it again, the mere ghost of a sound--a whisper of a sound, but significant as most whispers are.

He wiped his brow with his sleeve and told himself firmly that it was nerves, and nothing but nerves; but, against his will, he still listened. He fancied now that the sound came from his wife’s room, the other side of the landing. It increased in loudness and became more insistent, but with his eyes fixed on the door of his room he still kept himself in hand, and tried to listen instead to the wind and the rain.

For a time he heard nothing but that. Then there came a scraping, scurrying noise from his wife’s room, and a sudden, terrific crash.

With a loud scream his nerve broke, and springing from the bed he sped downstairs and, flinging open the front-door, dashed into the night. The door, caught by the wind, slammed behind him.

With his hand holding the garden gate open, ready for further flight, he stood sobbing for breath. His bare feet were bruised and the rain was very cold, but he took no heed. Then he ran a little way along the road and stood for some time, hoping and listening.

He came back slowly. The wind was bitter and he was soaked to the skin. The garden was black and forbidding, and unspeakable horror might be lurking in the bushes. He went up the road again, trembling with cold. Then, in desperation, he passed through the terrors of the garden to the house, only to find the door closed. The porch gave a little protection from the icy rain, but none from the wind, and, shaking in every limb, he leaned in abject misery against the door. He pulled himself together after a time and stumbled round to the back-door. Locked! And all the lower windows were shuttered. He made his way back to the porch, and, crouching there in hopeless misery, waited for the woman to return.

IV

He had a dim memory when he awoke of somebody questioning him, and then of being half-pushed, half-carried upstairs to bed. There was something wrong with his head and his chest and he was trembling violently, and very cold. Somebody was speaking.

“You must have taken leave of your senses,” said the voice of Hannah. “I thought you were dead.”

He forced his eyes to open. “Doctor,” he muttered, “doctor.”

“Out on a bad case,” said Hannah. “I waited till I was tired of waiting, and then came along. Good thing for you I did. He’ll be round first thing this morning. He ought to be here now.”

She bustled about, tidying up the room, his leaden eyes following her as she collected the beef-tea and other things on a tray and carried them out.

“Nice thing I did yesterday,” she remarked, as she came back. “Left the missus’s bed-room window open. When I opened the door this morning I found that beautiful Chippendale glass of hers had blown off the table and smashed to pieces. Did you hear it?”

Goddard made no reply. In a confused fashion he was trying to think. Accident or not, the fall of the glass had served its purpose. Were there such things as accidents? Or was Life a puzzle--a puzzle into which every piece was made to fit? Fear and the wind ... no: conscience and the wind ... had saved the woman. He must get the powder back from her drawer ... before she discovered it and denounced him. The medicine ... he must remember not to take it....

He was very ill, seriously ill. He must have taken a chill owing to that panic flight into the garden. Why didn’t the doctor come? He had come ... at last ... he was doing something to his chest ... it was cold.

Again ... the doctor ... there was something he wanted to tell him.... Hannah and a powder ... what was it?

Later on he remembered, together with other things that he had hoped to forget. He lay watching an endless procession of memories, broken at times by a glance at the doctor, the nurse, and Hannah, who were all standing near the bed regarding him. They had been there a long time, and they were all very quiet. The last time he looked at Hannah was the first time for months that he had looked at her without loathing and hatred. Then he knew that he was dying.

Bed Cases

The night-watchman was ill at ease, and, all ordinary positions failing to give relief, adopted several entirely out of keeping with his age and figure. A voice from the next wharf which wanted to know whether he was going on to the stage, and, if so, whether he was going to wear tights, brought him at once to a more becoming position. His voice was broken with pain, but the masterly fashion in which he dealt with his tormentor’s ancestors and the future behaviour of his descendants left nothing to be desired. Uncouth noises, lacking in variety, were the only retort.

“It took me sudden yesterday morning, just arter brekfuss,” said the night-watchman. “The woman--if you can call ’er a woman--next door but one ’ad given my missis best part of a tin of salmon. I wondered at the time why she gave it away--now I know. I ate it all, except one mouthful wot my missis threw in the fireplace, and in less than a couple of hours arterwards I thought my last hour ’ad come.”

He clasped his hands at the waist-line and rocked to and fro. Faint moans and indignant grunts attested to his suffering.

“I’ve been taking things for it ever since and nothing seems to do it any good,” he resumed, in an interval. “Fust of all I tried a couple o’ pints to see wot that ’ud do; and the barman told me to go and die outside. He said wot I ought to ’ave ’ad was rum, so I ’ad a quartern. Arter that ’e _put_ me outside--me being too ill to stop ’im--and an old gentleman wot was passing took me into a chemist’s shop and stood treat. I don’t know wot it was the chemist gave me, but a’most direckly arterwards there was a little crowd round the door peeping in, and behaving theirselves as if I was a Punch and Judy show. Some of ’em follered me ’ome, and it was all my missis could do to stop ’em coming inside and helping ’er to put me to bed.”

He rose and, stifling a moan, took a few paces up and down the jetty.

“Seems to be passing off a bit for the time,” he said, resuming his seat. “It sort o’ comes and goes, but it comes longer than it goes. It’s funny ’ow soft and kind-’earted illness makes you. Three times yesterday arternoon I called my missis upstairs to tell ’er that I couldn’t pass away without letting ’er know I’d forgiven her everything. She on’y came the fust time, but that wasn’t my fault. I called ’er loud enough.

“It seems to me to be the same complaint that Ginger Dick had a year or two ago--on’y worse--and he made a great deal more fuss about it, being a free-spoken man and not minding much wot he said about things he didn’t like.

“It came on in a public-’ouse in the Commercial Road, and it was so sudden, and Ginger made such a funny noise, that Sam and Peter Russet thought at fust he ’ad swallered ’is pipe.

“‘Wot’s the matter?’ ses the landlord, leaning over the bar.

“‘He’s swallered ’is pipe,’ ses Sam.

“‘You’re--a--liar,’ ses Ginger, groaning.

“‘Wot is it, then?’ ses the landlord.

“Ginger shook his ’ead. ‘I don’t know,’ he ses in a weak voice. ‘I think it’s the beer.’

“‘Outside,’ ses the landlord. ‘D’ye ’ear me? _Outside._’

“Ginger went out with Sam propping ’im up on one side and Peter the other and the landlord shoving ’im behind. His groans was ’art-rending and the way he talked against beer made Sam and Peter blush for shame. They stood on the pavement for a little while and then they helped ’im on to a tram-car, and two minutes arterwards the conductor and five passengers helped ’im off agin.

“‘Wot’s to be done now?’ ses Sam.

“‘Shove ’im in a puddle and leave ’im,’ ses Peter, very savage.

“‘I can’t ’elp it--I feel as if I’d swallered fireworks,’ ses Ginger.

“‘Little touch o’ stummick-ache,’ ses Sam.

“‘And they keeps going off,’ ses Ginger. ‘Oh! Oh, my!’

“‘’Ave you got any pain?’ ses Peter. ‘That’ll do! That’ll do! Why can’t you give a civil answer to a civil question?’

“He walked on, leaving Ginger ’anging on to Sam and talking at the top of his voice. O’ course a crowd got round and told Sam wot to do, until Ginger left off being ill for a little while to attend to a chap as ’ad told Sam to stand ’im on his ’ead. If it ’adn’t ha’ been for a cab wot ’ad stopped to see wot the row was about Ginger would most likely ’ave been given some medicine.

“They walked along for some time with their ’eads down as though they expected to see a doctor sitting on the pavement waiting for them, and then Sam turned to Peter and asked ’im where they was going.

“‘There’s one in the Whitechapel Road,’ ses Peter.

“‘There must be one nearer than that,’ ses Sam. ‘Let’s go in somewhere and ask.’

“They ’appened to be passing the Turk’s Head as ’e spoke, and, not wanting everybody to know their business, they went into the private bar instead of the usual, and ’ad a couple o’ glasses o’ bitter.

“There was on’y one other chap there, a tall young man in a black tail-coat, a bowler ’at, and a collar and necktie. He ’ad a large nose and a pair of very sharp light eyes, and he sat there as if the place belonged to ’im, stroking ’is little sandy moustache and tapping ’is boots with a cane. Sam and Peter could see at once that he never went anywhere except in private bars, and for the fust minute or two they was talking a’most in whispers. They must ha’ talked a bit louder arter a bit, ’cos all of a sudden, the gentleman emptied ’is glass and spoke to ’em.

“‘What’s that you want?’ he ses. ‘A doctor?’

“‘Yes,’ ses Sam, and the gentleman sat there with a smile on ’is face while Peter and Sam described Ginger’s illness and repeated some of ’is remarks about it.

“‘Funny you should tell me,’ ses the gentleman. ‘Very funny.’

“Sam looked at ’im, and waited.

“‘Cos I’m a doctor myself,’ ses the gentleman. ‘Dr. Brown.’

“‘Wot a bit o’ luck!’ ses Peter. ‘We thought we’d got to walk no end of a way.’

“The doctor shook his ’ead.

“‘I’m afraid I’m no good to you,’ he ses.

“‘Why not?’ ses Sam, staring.

“‘Too expensive,’ ses the doctor. ‘You see, I’m a West-end man, and we’re not allowed to see a patient under a pound a visit.’

“He shook his ’ead and sat smiling at them sad-like and listening to Sam, wot was sitting perched up on a stool making a noise like bronchitis, with surprise.

“‘I on’y come this way for a stroll,’ he ses, ‘’cos I like to see ships and sailormen.’

“‘A--pound--a--visit?’ ses Peter. ‘D’ye ’ear that, Sam?’

“Sam looked at ’im, and arter a time he managed to nod.

“‘P’r’aps it does seem a lot,’ ses the doctor, ‘but it comes cheaper in the end to have a good man.’

“‘Not if the chap dies,’ ses Peter.

“‘My patients don’t die,’ ses the doctor. ‘It’s only cheap doctors wot loses their patients.’

“He took up ’is glass and then, finding as there was nothing in it, put it down agin. Sam gave a little cough, and arter waiting a moment asked whether ’e would do ’im the pleasure of having a drink with ’im.

“‘Well, I’ve ’ad enough really,’ ses the doctor. ‘Still, I don’t mind ’aving a glass of port with you.’

“Peter said he’d ’ave a port, too, afore Sam could stop ’im, and him and the doctor sat and drank Sam’s ’ealth, and Peter said ’ow well he was looking and wot a fine rosy colour he’d got. Then Sam told the doctor all about Ginger’s illness agin, and, in a off-hand sort o’ way, asked ’im wot Ginger could take for it.

“‘I couldn’t say without seeing ’im,’ ses the doctor; ‘it ain’t allowed.’

“‘’Ow much would it be to see ’im?’ ses Sam.

“‘He ain’t much to look at,’ ses Peter, looking at him ’opeful-like.

“The doctor laughed, and then shook his ’ead at ’imself. ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he says, ‘but if you’ll keep it a dead secret and not let anybody know that I said--I mean, that I’m a doctor--I don’t mind seein’ ’im for ’arf a dollar a visit.’

“‘Ginger couldn’t say anything agin that,’ ses Peter.

“‘Couldn’t he?’ ses Sam. ‘’Owever, he’ll ’ave to put up with it. It’s your turn, Peter; mine’s a port.’

“‘I suppose I’d better ’ave the same,’ says the doctor. ‘I don’t believe in mixing. Tell ’im to give us the special this time. It’s better.’

“Peter told ’im, and the landlord ’ad to tell ’im three times ’ow much it was afore he understood. He seemed ’arf dazed, and the noise Sam made smacking ’is lips over his wine nearly drove ’im crazy. The doctor got up as soon as he ’ad finished ’is glass, and they all went out into the street; Sam and Peter wondering what Ginger would say when ’e saw the doctor and what ’e would do when he ’eard the price. They went upstairs very quiet, as the doctor said he didn’t want anybody to see ’im, and the fust thing they saw when they got into the room was Ginger laying face downwards on the bed with ’is arms and legs spread out, groaning.

“‘Wot ’ave you been all this time for?’ he ses, as soon as he ’eard them. ‘You’ve been gone long enough to find fifty doctors.’

“‘This is a good ’un, Ginger,’ ses Sam, very solemn. ‘One o’ the best.’

“‘Charges as much as twenty ordinary doctors,’ ses Peter.

“‘_Wot!_’ ses Ginger, turning over with surprise and temper.

“The doctor smiled and, arter fust putting the chair by the side of the bed and sitting down on it, put it back very careful and sat down on the bed instead.

“‘Let’s have a look at your tongue,’ he ses.

“Ginger put it out, and then put it in agin to tell Sam that when ’e wanted to ’ear his remarks about it he’d let ’im know.

“‘I’ve seen a worse tongue than that,’ ses the doctor. ‘Once.’

“‘Did ’e die?’ ses Ginger.

“‘Never mind,’ ses the doctor.

“‘But I do mind,’ ses Ginger, very sharp.

“‘No,’ ses the doctor; ‘I was called in at the last moment and, after sitting up with ’im all night, pulled ’im through.’

“‘I told you wot he was, Ginger,’ ses Peter Russet in a whisper that you could have ’eard downstairs.

“The doctor took ’old of Ginger’s wrist; and then Sam got into trouble agin for taking upon himself to tell ’im that Ginger ’ad got a natural dark skin. The doctor took out ’is watch and they all ’eld their breath while he counted Ginger’s pulse.

“‘H’m!’ he ses, putting the watch back. ‘It’s a fortunate thing you met me when you did. Now let’s have a look at your chest.’

“Ginger unbuttoned ’is shirt, and the doctor, arter a good look at the ship wot was tattoed there, laid his ’ead on it amidships and listened.

“‘Say ninety-nine,’ he ses, ’and go on saying it.’

“‘Ninety-nine,’ ses Ginger, ‘ninety-nine, ninety-nine, ninety--if I get up to you, Sam, you’ll know it.’

“‘You’d laugh yourself if you could on’y see yourself, Ginger,’ ses Sam.

“‘H’sh!’ ses the doctor; ‘he ’asn’t got much to laugh about, poor chap.’

“He moved his ’ead a bit and told Ginger to keep quiet. Then he sat up and, buttoning Ginger’s shirt acrost ’is chest very careful, made a sign to Sam and Peter to keep quiet, and sat thinking.

“‘His ’art has moved,’ he ses at last; ‘it’s about two inches out of place.’

“‘Good-bye, mates,’ ses pore Ginger.

“‘There’s no need to say “good-bye,”’ ses the doctor, very sharp. ‘If you’ll keep quite quiet and do as I tell you, you’ll be all right agin, in time.’

“He sat thinking agin for a bit, and then ’e sent Peter downstairs for a jug of ’ot water and a tumbler, and while it was being fetched he told Sam ’e was to be head-nurse and told ’im all he was to do.

“‘You don’t want to pay two or three pounds a week for a nurse, I suppose?’ he ses, when Sam began to speak up for ’imself and tell ’im ’ow much he enjoyed ’is sleep.

“‘I shan’t be much trouble to ’im,’ ses Ginger. ‘I can ’elp myself.’

“‘You mustn’t move,’ ses the doctor. ‘You’ve got to lay quite still. Even if a fly settled on your nose you mustn’t brush it off. You don’t know ’ow bad you are. I want you to keep per-feck-ly still. Till to-morrow, at any rate.’

“He took the ’ot water from Peter and, after putting a little cold to it, put ’is arm round Ginger’s neck and ’eld the tumbler to ’is lips. He ’ad four tumblers, one arter the other, except for wot went down ’is chest, and then ’e laid his ’ead back on the piller without a word.

“‘That’ll do ’im good,’ ses the doctor, taking the ’arf-dollar wot Sam got out of Ginger’s pocket. ‘I’ll look round agin in the morning.’

“‘And wot about medicine?’ ses Sam.

“‘I’ll bring some with me,’ ses the doctor. ‘Good-bye.’

“Sam and Peter went to bed early. One thing there was nothing to do, and another thing was Ginger wouldn’t let ’em do it. Every time they moved ’e spoke about it and said wot it did to ’is ’art, and once, when Sam sneezed, ’e called ’im a murderer.

“It was about two o’clock in the morning when Sam woke up from a dream of a beautiful gal with yaller ’air and blue eyes wot kept calling ’im by ’is Christian name. He woke up with a smile on ’is lips and was just shutting ’is eyes to go on dreaming if ’e could, when he ’eard it again.

“‘Sam! Sam! Sam! Sam!’

“‘Hullo!’ he ses, sitting up in bed very cross.

“‘I thought you was dead,’ ses Ginger. ‘I’ve been calling you for ten minutes or more. It’s made my ’eart worse.’

“‘Wot d’ye want?’ ses Sam.

“‘I’ve got a nasty itching feeling between my shoulders,’ ses Ginger.

“‘D’you mean to say--d’you mean to say you woke me up just to tell me that?’ ses Sam, ’ardly able to speak for temper.

“‘I woke you up to come and rub it,’ ses Ginger. ‘And look sharp about it. You know I mustn’t move.’

“‘Hurry up, Sam!’ ses Peter Russet. ‘Wot are you waiting for? I want to get to sleep agin.’

“Sam got out o’ bed at last and stood rubbing Ginger’s back with ’is fist while Ginger kept telling ’im ’ow not to do it, and reminding ’im wot a delikit skin he ’ad got.

“He woke ’im up twice arter that. Once to give ’im a drink of water, and once to ask him ’ow old he thought the doctor was. Wot with being woke up and being afraid of being woke up, Sam ’ardly got a wink of sleep.

“Him and Peter Russet ’ad their brekfuss at a coffee-shop next mornin’, and they had ’ardly got back afore the doctor come in. He seemed pleased to ’ear that the pain was better, but ’e told Ginger that he’d ’ave to keep as still as he could for another day or two, and, arter putting ’is face on ’is chest agin, said that the ’art ’ad stopped moving.

“‘I mean moving out of place,’ he ses, as Ginger sat up making a ’orrible noise and threw ’is arms round his neck. ‘To-morrow I ’ope it will begin to move back.’

“He fished a bottle o’ medicine out of ’is pocket which he said would be another bob, and, arter telling Sam to ’ave a lump o’ sugar ready and pop it in quick, gave Ginger ’is fust dose. Sam popped it in all right, but unfortunately the medicine was so nasty that Ginger was quicker than wot ’e was. Anybody might ha’ thought he ’ad been killed the way ’e carried on.

“‘I’ll look in agin this evening,’ ses the doctor as he put a ’arf-dollar and a bob o’ Ginger’s in his pocket. ‘Don’t let ’im move more than can be helped and---- Hullo!’

“‘Wot’s the matter?’ ses Sam, taking ’is finger out of ’is mouth and staring at ’im.

“The doctor didn’t answer ’im. He lifted up ’is eyelids instead and looked at his eyes, and then he told Ginger to open ’is mouth, and looked at ’is teeth. Then he looked at Sam agin and felt all round ’is throat.

“‘Wot is it?’ ses Sam, going pale.

“‘It might be blood-poisoning,’ ses the doctor, ‘but I can’t tell yet. His teeth are in a very bad state.’

“‘’Ow shall I know if it is?’ ses Sam.

“‘You’ll know fast enough,’ ses the doctor, shaking his ’ead. ‘P’r’aps you’d better ’ave a quiet time at ’ome to-day and keep your friend company, and I’ll ’ave a look at you when I come in this evening. Keep your spirits up and be as cheerful as you can--for ’is sake.’

“He left ’em all staring at each other; and then Sam sat down on ’is bed and told Peter Russet wot ought to be done to Ginger before England would be fit for decent people to live in. Peter said it was a wonder ’ow he could think of it all, and Ginger said it was because he ’ad got a nasty mind, and he told ’im wot he’d do to ’im when ’e got well agin.

“They spent most of the day quarrelling, and on’y left off to find fault with Peter when ’e came in from enjoying ’imself to see ’ow they was getting on. Sam was the worst, cos Ginger was afraid of ’is ’eart if he got too excited, but arter the doctor saw ’im in the evening ’e was as quiet as Ginger was.

“He said the poison ’ad got from Sam’s finger down into ’is liver and an abscess was forming there. He showed Sam where ’is liver was--a thing he ’adn’t known afore--and found out where the abscess was with ’is thumb-nail. He found it twice, and was just going to find it agin when Sam pulled ’is shirt down.

“‘There’s no danger,’ he ses, ‘if you do just wot I tell you. If you keep quiet like your friend does, I’ll ’ave you up agin in a week. If you move about or ’ave any violent shock you’ll die afore you know where you are.’

“He sat talking with ’em for a little while, and, arter saying that Ginger’s ’art was not going back as fast as he could wish, ’e took ’is money and went off. Peter sat looking at ’em till Sam asked ’im whether he thought they was waxworks, and then, arter punching up their pillers and tickling Ginger’s toes, playful-like, ’e picked up ’is cap and went out. He spent most of ’is time out, and, when ’e did come in, all he could talk about was the drinks he’d been ’aving and ’ow glad ’e was that _his_ ’art and liver was as sound as a bell.

“‘I wonder you ain’t sick of bed,’ he ses, arter Ginger had ’ad four days of it.

“‘Sick of it!’ ses Ginger, choking. ‘Sick of it! Why, you ugly, mutton-faced son of a----’

“‘Mind your ’art, Ginger,’ ses Sam.

“‘I don’t believe in doctoring and laying in bed,’ ses Peter, picking ’is teeth with a pin. ‘I believe that if you and Sam was to get up and ’ave a little dance in your shirts it ’ud do you all the good in the world. _I’d_ ’um to you.’

“Mind your ’art, Ginger,’ ses Sam, very quick.

“Ginger minded it, but they was both so disagreeable that Peter got up and went out agin and didn’t come back until the pubs was closed. He woke ’em both up getting to bed, but when they tried to wake _’im_ up arterwards they might as well ’ave tried to wake the dead. All they did was to wake each other up and then ’ave words about it.

“They wouldn’t speak to Peter when ’e got up next morning, and, arter giving ’em both wot ’e called a bit of ’is mind, but wot other people would ’ave called nasty langwidge, ’e flung Ginger’s trowsis into Sam’s face and went off for the day.