Chapter III: Part 3

“I’m sorry that we can’t ask you to stay with us, Gussie, ’specially as you’re so ill,” he said, at last; “but p’r’aps you’ll be better after picking a bit.”

Mr. Price, who was about to take a slice of bread and butter, refrained, and, closing his eyes, uttered a faint moan. “I sha’n’t last the night,” he muttered.

“That’s just it,” said Mr. Spriggs, eagerly. “You see, Ethel is going to be married in a fortnight, and if you died here that would put it off.”

“I might last longer if I was took care of,” said the other, opening his eyes.

“And, besides, Ethel don’t know where you’ve been,” continued Mr. Spriggs. “We told ’er that you had gone to Australia. She’s going to marry a very partikler young chap—a grocer—and if he found it out it might be awk’ard.”

Mr. Price closed his eyes again, but the lids quivered.

“It took ’im some time to get over me being a bricklayer,” pursued Mr. Spriggs. “What he’d say to you—”

“Tell ’im I’ve come back from Australia, if you like,” said Mr. Price, faintly. “I don’t mind.”

Mr. Spriggs cleared his throat again. “But, you see, we told Ethel as you was doing well out there,” he said, with an embarrassed laugh, “and girl-like, and Alfred talking a good deal about his relations, she—she’s made the most of it.”

“It don’t matter,” said the complaisant Mr. Price; “you say what you like. I sha’n’t interfere with you.”

“But, you see, you don’t look as though you’ve been making money,” said his sister, impatiently. “Look at your clothes.”

Mr. Price held up his hand. “That’s easy got over,” he remarked; “while I’m having a bit of tea George can go out and buy me some new ones. You get what you think I should look richest in, George—a black tail-coat would be best, I should think, but I leave it to you. A bit of a fancy waistcoat, p’r’aps, lightish trousers, and a pair o’ nice boots, easy sevens.”

He sat upright in his chair and, ignoring the look of consternation that passed between husband and wife, poured himself out a cup of tea and took a slice of cake.

“Have you got any money?” said Mr. Spriggs, after a long pause.

“I left it behind me—in Australia,” said Mr. Price, with ill-timed facetiousness.

“Getting better, ain’t you?” said his brother-in-law, sharply. “How’s that broken ’art getting on?”

“It’ll go all right under a fancy waistcoat,” was the reply; “and while you’re about it, George, you’d better get me a scarf-pin, and, if you _could_ run to a gold watch and chain—”

He was interrupted by a frenzied outburst from Mr. Spriggs; a somewhat incoherent summary of Mr. Price’s past, coupled with unlawful and heathenish hopes for his future.

“You’re wasting time,” said Mr. Price, calmly, as he paused for breath. “Don’t get ’em if you don’t want to. I’m trying to help you, that’s all. I don’t mind anybody knowing where I’ve been. I was innercent. If you will give way to sinful pride you must pay for it.”

Mr. Spriggs, by a great effort, regained his self-control. “Will you go away if I give you a quid?” he asked, quietly.

“No,” said Mr. Price, with a placid smile. “I’ve got a better idea of the value of money than that. Besides, I want to see my dear niece, and see whether that young man’s good enough for her.”

“Two quid?” suggested his brother-in-law.

Mr. Price shook his head. “I couldn’t do it,” he said, calmly. “In justice to myself I couldn’t do it. You’ll be feeling lonely when you lose Ethel, and I’ll stay and keep you company.”

The bricklayer nearly broke out again; but, obeying a glance from his wife, closed his lips and followed her obediently upstairs. Mr. Price, filling his pipe from a paper of tobacco on the mantelpiece, winked at himself encouragingly in the glass, and smiled gently as he heard the chinking of coins upstairs.

“Be careful about the size,” he said, as Mr. Spriggs came down and took his hat from a nail; “about a couple of inches shorter than yourself and not near so much round the waist.”

Mr. Spriggs regarded him sternly for a few seconds, and then, closing the door with a bang, went off down the street. Left alone, Mr. Price strolled about the room investigating, and then, drawing an easy-chair up to the fire, put his feet on the fender and relapsed into thought.

Two hours later he sat in the same place, a changed and resplendent being. His thin legs were hidden in light check trousers, and the companion waistcoat to Joseph’s Coat graced the upper part of his body. A large chrysanthemum in the button-hole of his frock-coat completed the picture of an Australian millionaire, as understood by Mr. Spriggs.

“A nice watch and chain, and a little money in my pockets, and I shall be all right,” murmured Mr. Price.

“You won’t get any more out o’ me,” said Mr. Spriggs, fiercely. “I’ve spent every farthing I’ve got.”

“Except what’s in the bank,” said his brother-in-law. “It’ll take you a day or two to get at it, I know. S’pose we say Saturday for the watch and chain?”

Mr. Spriggs looked helplessly at his wife, but she avoided his gaze. He turned and gazed in a fascinated fashion at Mr. Price, and received a cheerful nod in return.

“I’ll come with you and help choose it,” said the latter. “It’ll save you trouble if it don’t save your pocket.”

He thrust his hands in his trouser-pockets and, spreading his legs wide apart, tilted his head back and blew smoke to the ceiling. He was in the same easy position when Ethel arrived home accompanied by Mr. Potter.

“It’s—it’s your Uncle Gussie,” said Mrs. Spriggs, as the girl stood eying the visitor.

“From Australia,” said her husband, thickly.

Mr. Price smiled, and his niece, noticing that he removed his pipe and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, crossed over and kissed his eyebrow. Mr. Potter was then introduced and received a gracious reception, Mr. Price commenting on the extraordinary likeness he bore to a young friend of his who had just come in for forty thousand a year.

“That’s nearly as much as you’re worth, uncle, isn’t it?” inquired Miss Spriggs, daringly.

Mr. Price shook his head at her and pondered. “Rather more,” he said, at last, “rather more.”

Mr. Potter caught his breath sharply; Mr. Spriggs, who was stooping to get a light for his pipe, nearly fell into the fire. There was an impressive silence.

“Money isn’t everything,” said Mr. Price, looking round and shaking his head. “It’s not much good, except to give away.”

His eye roved round the room and came to rest finally upon Mr. Potter. The young man noticed with a thrill that it beamed with benevolence.

“Fancy coming over without saying a word to anybody, and taking us all by surprise like this!” said Ethel.

“I felt I must see you all once more before I died,” said her uncle, simply. “Just a flying visit I meant it to be, but your father and mother won’t hear of my going back just yet.”

“Of course not,” said Ethel, who was helping the silent Mrs. Spriggs to lay supper.

“When I talked of going your father ’eld me down in my chair,” continued the veracious Mr. Price.

“Quite right, too,” said the girl. “Now draw your chair up and have some supper, and tell us all about Australia.”

Mr. Price drew his chair up, but, as to talking about Australia, he said ungratefully that he was sick of the name of the place, and preferred instead to discuss the past and future of Mr. Potter. He learned, among other things, that that gentleman was of a careful and thrifty disposition, and that his savings, augmented by a lucky legacy, amounted to a hundred and ten pounds.

“Alfred is going to stay with Palmer and Mays for another year, and then we shall take a business of our own,” said Ethel.

“Quite right,” said Mr. Price. “I like to see young people make their own way,” he added meaningly. “It’s good for ’em.”

It was plain to all that he had taken a great fancy to Mr. Potter. He discussed the grocery trade with the air of a rich man seeking a good investment, and threw out dark hints about returning to England after a final visit to Australia and settling down in the bosom of his family. He accepted a cigar from Mr. Potter after supper, and, when the young man left—at an unusually late hour—walked home with him.

It was the first of several pleasant evenings, and Mr. Price, who had bought a book dealing with Australia from a second-hand bookstall, no longer denied them an account of his adventures there. A gold watch and chain, which had made a serious hole in his brother-in-law’s Savings Bank account, lent an air of substance to his waistcoat, and a pin of excellent paste sparkled in his neck-tie. Under the influence of good food and home comforts he improved every day, and the unfortunate Mr. Spriggs was at his wits’ end to resist further encroachments. From the second day of their acquaintance he called Mr. Potter “Alf,” and the young people listened with great attention to his discourse on “Money: How to Make It and How to Keep It.”

His own dealings with Mr. Spriggs afforded an example which he did not quote. Beginning with shillings, he led up to half-crowns, and, encouraged by success, one afternoon boldly demanded a half-sovereign to buy a wedding-present with. Mrs. Spriggs drew her over-wrought husband into the kitchen and argued with him in whispers.

“Give him what he wants till they’re married,” she entreated; “after that Alfred can’t help himself, and it’ll be as much to his interest to keep quiet as anybody else.”

Mr. Spriggs, who had been a careful man all his life, found the half-sovereign and a few new names, which he bestowed upon Mr. Price at the same time. The latter listened unmoved. In fact, a bright eye and a pleasant smile seemed to indicate that he regarded them rather in the nature of compliments than otherwise.

“I telegraphed over to Australia this morning,” he said, as they all sat at supper that evening.

“About my money?” said Mr. Potter, eagerly.

Mr. Price frowned at him swiftly. “No; telling my head clerk to send over a wedding-present for you,” he said, his face softening under the eye of Mr. Spriggs. “I’ve got just the thing for you there. I can’t see anything good enough over here.”

The young couple were warm in their thanks.

“What did you mean, about your money?” inquired Mr. Spriggs, turning to his future son-in-law.

“Nothing,” said the young man, evasively.

“It’s a secret,” said Mr. Price.

“What about?” persisted Mr. Spriggs, raising his voice.

“It’s a little private business between me and Uncle Gussie,” said Mr. Potter, somewhat stiffly.

“You—you haven’t been lending him money?” stammered the bricklayer.

“Don’t be silly, father,” said Miss Spriggs, sharply. “What good would Alfred’s little bit o’ money be to Uncle Gussie? If you must know, Alfred is drawing it out for uncle to invest it for him.”

The eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Spriggs and Mr. Price engaged in a triangular duel. The latter spoke first.

“I’m putting it into my business for him,” he said, with a threatening glance, “in Australia.”

“And he didn’t want his generosity known,” added Mr. Potter.

The bewildered Mr. Spriggs looked helplessly round the table. His wife’s foot pressed his, and like a mechanical toy his lips snapped together.

“I didn’t know you had got your money handy,” said Mrs. Spriggs, in trembling tones.

“I made special application, and I’m to have it on Friday,” said Mr. Potter, with a smile. “You don’t get a chance like that every day.”

He filled Uncle Gussie’s glass for him, and that gentleman at once raised it and proposed the health of the young couple. “If anything was to ’appen to break it off now,” he said, with a swift glance at his sister, “they’d be miserable for life, I can see that.”

“Miserable for ever,” assented Mr. Potter, in a sepulchral voice, as he squeezed the hand of Miss Spriggs under the table.

“It’s the only thing worth ’aving—love,” continued Mr. Price, watching his brother-in-law out of the corner of his eye. “Money is nothing.”

Mr. Spriggs emptied his glass and, knitting his brows, drew patterns on the cloth with the back of his knife. His wife’s foot was still pressing on his, and he waited for instructions.

For once, however, Mrs. Spriggs had none to give. Even when Mr. Potter had gone and Ethel had retired upstairs she was still voiceless. She sat for some time looking at the fire and stealing an occasional glance at Uncle Gussie as he smoked a cigar; then she arose and bent over her husband.

“Do what you think best,” she said, in a weary voice. “Good-night.”

“What about that money of young Alfred’s?” demanded Mr. Spriggs, as the door closed behind her.

“I’m going to put it in my business,” said Uncle Gussie, blandly; “my business in Australia.”

“Ho! You’ve got to talk to me about that first,” said the other.

His brother-in-law leaned back and smoked with placid enjoyment. “You do what you like,” he said, easily. “Of course, if you tell Alfred, I sha’n’t get the money, and Ethel won’t get ’im. Besides that, he’ll find out what lies you’ve been telling.”

“I wonder you can look me in the face,” said the raging bricklayer.

“And I should give him to understand that you were going shares in the hundred and ten pounds and then thought better of it,” said the unmoved Mr. Price. “He’s the sort o’ young chap as’ll believe anything. Bless ’im!”

Mr. Spriggs bounced up from his chair and stood over him with his fists clinched. Mr. Price glared defiance.

“If you’re so partikler you can make it up to him,” he said, slowly. “You’ve been a saving man, I know, and Emma ’ad a bit left her that I ought to have ’ad. When you’ve done play-acting I’ll go to bed. So long!”

He got up, yawning, and walked to the door, and Mr. Spriggs, after a momentary idea of breaking him in pieces and throwing him out into the street, blew out the lamp and went upstairs to discuss the matter with his wife until morning.

Mr. Spriggs left for his work next day with the question still undecided, but a pretty strong conviction that Mr. Price would have to have his way. The wedding was only five days off, and the house was in a bustle of preparation. A certain gloom which he could not shake off he attributed to a raging toothache, turning a deaf ear to the various remedies suggested by Uncle Gussie, and the name of an excellent dentist who had broken a tooth of Mr. Potter’s three times before extracting it.

Uncle Gussie he treated with bare civility in public, and to blood-curdling threats in private. Mr. Price, ascribing the latter to the toothache, also varied his treatment to his company; prescribing whisky held in the mouth, and other agreeable remedies when there were listeners, and recommending him to fill his mouth with cold water and sit on the fire till it boiled, when they were alone.

He was at his worst on Thursday morning; on Thursday afternoon he came home a bright and contented man. He hung his cap on the nail with a flourish, kissed his wife, and, in full view of the disapproving Mr. Price, executed a few clumsy steps on the hearthrug.

“Come in for a fortune?” inquired the latter, eying him sourly.

“No; I’ve saved one,” replied Mr. Spriggs, gayly. “I wonder I didn’t think of it myself.”

“Think of what?” inquired Mr. Price.

“You’ll soon know,” said Mr. Spriggs, “and you’ve only got yourself to thank for it.”

Uncle Gussie sniffed suspiciously; Mrs. Spriggs pressed for particulars.

“I’ve got out of the difficulty,” said her husband, drawing his chair to the tea-table. “Nobody’ll suffer but Gussie.”

“Ho!” said that gentleman, sharply.

“I took the day off,” said Mr. Spriggs, smiling contentedly at his wife, “and went to see a friend of mine, Bill White the policeman, and told him about Gussie.”

Mr. Price stiffened in his chair.

“Acting—under—his—advice,” said Mr. Spriggs, sipping his tea, “I wrote to Scotland Yard and told ’em that Augustus Price, ticket-of-leave man, was trying to obtain a hundred and ten pounds by false pretences.”

Mr. Price, white and breathless, rose and confronted him.

“The beauty o’ that is, as Bill says,” continued Mr. Spriggs, with much enjoyment, “that Gussie’ll ’ave to set out on his travels again. He’ll have to go into hiding, because if they catch him he’ll ’ave to finish his time. And Bill says if he writes letters to any of us it’ll only make it easier to find him. You’d better take the first train to Australia, Gussie.”

“What—what time did you post—the letter?” inquired Uncle Gussie, jerkily.

“’Bout two o’clock,” said Mr. Spriggs, glaring at the clock. “I reckon you’ve just got time.”

Mr. Price stepped swiftly to the small sideboard, and, taking up his hat, clapped it on. He paused a moment at the door to glance up and down the street, and then the door closed softly behind him. Mrs. Spriggs looked at her husband.

“Called away to Australia by special telegram,” said the latter, winking. “Bill White is a trump; that’s what he is.”

“Oh, George!” said his wife. “Did you really write that letter?”

Mr. Spriggs winked again.

THE TEST

THE TEST

Pebblesea was dull, and Mr. Frederick Dix, mate of the ketch _Starfish_, after a long and unsuccessful quest for amusement, returned to the harbor with an idea of forgetting his disappointment in sleep. The few shops in the High Street were closed, and the only entertainment offered at the taverns was contained in glass and pewter. The attitude of the landlord of the “Pilots’ Hope,” where Mr. Dix had sought to enliven the proceedings by a song and dance, still rankled in his memory.

The skipper and the hands were still ashore and the ketch looked so lonely that the mate, thinking better of his idea of retiring, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and sauntered round the harbor. It was nearly dark, and the only other man visible stood at the edge of the quay gazing at the water. He stood for so long that the mate’s easily aroused curiosity awoke, and, after twice passing, he edged up to him and ventured a remark on the fineness of the night.

“The night’s all right,” said the young man, gloomily.

“You’re rather near the edge,” said the mate, after a pause.

“I like being near the edge,” was the reply.

Mr. Dix whistled softly and, glancing up at the tall, white-faced young man before him, pushed his cap back and scratched his head.

“Ain’t got anything on your mind, have you?” he inquired.

The young man groaned and turned away, and the mate, scenting a little excitement, took him gently by the coat-sleeve and led him from the brink. Sympathy begets confidence, and, within the next ten minutes, he had learned that Arthur Heard, rejected by Emma Smith, was contemplating the awful crime of self-destruction.

“Why, I’ve known ’er for seven years,” said Mr. Heard; “seven years, and this is the end of it.”

The mate shook his head.

“I told ’er I was coming straight away to drownd myself,” pursued Mr. Heard. “My last words to ’er was, ‘When you see my bloated corpse you’ll be sorry.’”

“I expect she’ll cry and carry on like anything,” said the mate, politely.

The other turned and regarded him. “Why, you don’t think I’m going to, do you?” he inquired, sharply. “Why, I wouldn’t drownd myself for fifty blooming gells.”

“But what did you tell her you were going to for, then?” demanded the puzzled mate.

“’Cos I thought it would upset ’er and make ’er give way,” said the other, bitterly; “and all it done was to make ’er laugh as though she’d ’ave a fit.”

“It would serve her jolly well right if you did drown yourself,” said Mr. Dix, judiciously. “It ’ud spoil her life for her.”

“Ah, and it wouldn’t spoil mine, I s’pose?” rejoined Mr. Heard, with ferocious sarcasm.

“How she will laugh when she sees you to-morrow,” mused the mate. “Is she the sort of girl that would spread it about?”

Mr. Heard said that she was, and, forgetting for a moment his great love, referred to her partiality for gossip in the most scathing terms he could muster. The mate, averse to such a tame ending to a promising adventure, eyed him thoughtfully.

“Why not just go in and out again,” he said, seductively, “and run to her house all dripping wet?”

“That would be clever, wouldn’t it?” said the ungracious Mr. Heard. “Starting to commit suicide, and then thinking better of it. Why, I should be a bigger laughing-stock than ever.”

“But suppose I saved you against your will?” breathed the tempter; “how would that be?”

“It would be all right if I cared to run the risk,” said the other, “but I don’t. I should look well struggling in the water while you was diving in the wrong places for me, shouldn’t I?”

“I wasn’t thinking of such a thing,” said Mr. Dix, hastily; “twenty strokes is about my mark—with my clothes off. My idea was to pull you out.”

Mr. Heard glanced at the black water a dozen feet below. “How?” he inquired, shortly.

“Not here,” said the mate. “Come to the end of the quay where the ground slopes to the water. It’s shallow there, and you can tell her that you jumped in off here. She won’t know the difference.”

With an enthusiasm which Mr. Heard made no attempt to share, he led the way to the place indicated, and dilating upon its manifold advantages, urged him to go in at once and get it over.

“You couldn’t have a better night for it,” he said, briskly. “Why, it makes me feel like a dip myself to look at it.”

Mr. Heard gave a surly grunt, and after testing the temperature of the water with his hand, slowly and reluctantly immersed one foot. Then, with sudden resolution, he waded in and, ducking his head, stood up gasping.

“Give yourself a good soaking while you’re about it,” said the delighted mate.

Mr. Heard ducked again, and once more emerging stumbled towards the bank.

“Pull me out,” he cried, sharply.

Mr. Dix, smiling indulgently, extended his hands, which Mr. Heard seized with the proverbial grasp of a drowning man.

“All right, take it easy, don’t get excited,” said the smiling mate, “four foot of water won’t hurt anyone. If—Here! Let go o’ me, d’ye hear? Let go! If you don’t let go I’ll punch your head.”

“You couldn’t save me against my will without coming in,” said Mr. Heard. “Now we can tell ’er you dived in off the quay and got me just as I was sinking for the last time. You’ll be a hero.”

The mate’s remarks about heroes were mercifully cut short. He was three stone lighter than Mr. Heard, and standing on shelving ground. The latter’s victory was so sudden that he over-balanced, and only a commotion at the surface of the water showed where they had disappeared. Mr. Heard was first up and out, but almost immediately the figure of the mate, who had gone under with his mouth open, emerged from the water and crawled ashore.

“You—wait—till I—get my breath back,” he gasped.

“There’s no ill-feeling, I ’ope?” said Mr. Heard, anxiously. “I’ll tell everybody of your bravery. Don’t spoil everything for the sake of a little temper.”

Mr. Dix stood up and clinched his fists, but at the spectacle of the dripping, forlorn figure before him his wrath vanished and he broke into a hearty laugh.

“Come on, mate,” he said, clapping him on the back, “now let’s go and find Emma. If she don’t fall in love with you now she never will. My eye! you are a picture!”

He began to walk towards the town, and Mr. Heard, with his legs wide apart and his arms held stiffly from his body, waddled along beside him. Two little streamlets followed.

They walked along the quay in silence, and had nearly reached the end of it, when the figure of a man turned the corner of the houses and advanced at a shambling trot towards them.

“Old Smith!” said Mr. Heard, in a hasty whisper. “Now, be careful. Hold me tight.”

The new-comer thankfully dropped into a walk as he saw them, and came to a standstill with a cry of astonishment as the light of a neighboring lamp revealed their miserable condition.

“Wot, Arthur!” he exclaimed.

“Halloa,” said Mr. Heard, drearily.

“The idea o’ your being so sinful,” said Mr. Smith, severely. “Emma told me wot you said, but I never thought as you’d got the pluck to go and do it. I’m surprised at you.”

“I ain’t done it,” said Mr. Heard, in a sullen voice; “nobody can drownd themselves in comfort with a lot of interfering people about.”

Mr. Smith turned and gazed at the mate, and a broad beam of admiration shone in his face as he grasped that gentleman’s hand.

“Come into the ’ouse both of you and get some dry clothes,” he said, warmly.

He thrust his strong, thick-set figure between them, and with a hand on each coat-collar propelled them in the direction of home. The mate muttered something about going back to his ship, but Mr. Smith refused to listen, and stopping at the door of a neat cottage, turned the handle and thrust his dripping charges over the threshold of a comfortable sitting-room.

A pleasant-faced woman of middle age and a pretty girl of twenty rose at their entrance, and a faint scream fell pleasantly upon the ears of Mr. Heard.

“Here he is,” bawled Mr. Smith; “just saved at the last moment.”

“What, two of them?” exclaimed Miss Smith, with a faint note of gratification in her voice. Her gaze fell on the mate, and she smiled approvingly.

“No; this one jumped in and saved ’im,” said her father.

“Oh, Arthur!” said Miss Smith. “How could you be so wicked! I never dreamt you’d go and do such a thing—never! I didn’t think you’d got it in you.”

Mr. Heard grinned sheepishly. “I told you I would,” he muttered.

“Don’t stand talking here,” said Mrs. Smith, gazing at the puddle which was growing in the centre of the carpet; “they’ll catch cold. Take ’em upstairs and give ’em some dry clothes. And I’ll bring some hot whisky and water up to ’em.”

“Rum is best,” said Mr. Smith, herding his charges and driving them up the small staircase. “Send young Joe for some. Send up three glasses.” They disappeared upstairs, and Joe appearing at that moment from the kitchen, was hastily sent off to the “Blue Jay” for the rum. A couple of curious neighbors helped him to carry it back, and, standing modestly just inside the door, ventured on a few skilled directions as to its preparation. After which, with an eye on Miss Smith, they stood and conversed, mostly in head-shakes.

Stimulated by the rum and the energetic Mr. Smith, the men were not long in changing. Preceded by their host, they came down to the sitting-room again; Mr. Heard with as desperate and unrepentant an air as he could assume, and Mr. Dix trying to conceal his uneasiness by taking great interest in a suit of clothes three sizes too large for him.

“They was both as near drownded as could be,” said Mr. Smith, looking round; “he ses Arthur fought like a madman to prevent ’imself from being saved.”

“It was nothing, really,” said the mate, in an almost inaudible voice, as he met Miss Smith’s admiring gaze.

“Listen to ’im,” said the delighted Mr. Smith; “all brave men are like that. That’s wot’s made us Englishmen wot we are.”

“I don’t suppose he knew who it was he was saving,” said a voice from the door.

“I didn’t want to be saved,” said Mr. Heard, defiantly.

“Well, you can easy do it again, Arthur,” said the same voice; “the dock won’t run away.”

Mr. Heard started and eyed the speaker with same malevolence.

“Tell us all about it,” said Miss Smith, gazing at the mate, with her hands clasped. “Did you see him jump in?”

Mr. Dix shook his head and looked at Mr. Heard for guidance. “N—not exactly,” he stammered; “I was just taking a stroll round the harbor before turning in, when all of a sudden I heard a cry for help—”

“No you didn’t,” broke in Mr. Heard, fiercely.

“Well, it sounded like it,” said the mate, somewhat taken aback.

“I don’t care what it sounded like,” said the other. “I didn’t say it. It was the last thing I should ’ave called out. I didn’t want to be saved.”

“P’r’aps he cried ‘Emma,’” said the voice from the door.

“Might ha’ been that,” admitted the mate. “Well, when I heard it I ran to the edge and looked down at the water, and at first I couldn’t see anything. Then I saw what I took to be a dog, but, knowing that dogs can’t cry ‘help!’—”

“Emma,” corrected Mr. Heard.

“Emma,” said the mate, “I just put my hands up and dived in. When I came to the surface I struck out for him and tried to seize him from behind, but before I could do so he put his arms round my neck like—like—”

“Like as if it was Emma’s,” suggested the voice by the door.

Miss Smith rose with majestic dignity and confronted the speaker. “And who asked you in here, George Harris?” she inquired, coldly.

“I see the door open,” stammered Mr. Harris—“I see the door open and I thought—”

“If you look again you’ll see the handle,” said Miss Smith.

Mr. Harris looked, and, opening the door with extreme care, melted slowly from a gaze too terrible for human endurance.

“We went down like a stone,” continued the mate, as Miss Smith resumed her seat and smiled at him. “When we came up he tried to get away again. I think we went down again a few more times, but I ain’t sure. Then we crawled out; leastways I did, and pulled him after me.”

“He might have drowned you,” said Miss Smith, with a severe glance at her unfortunate admirer. “And it’s my belief that he tumbled in after all, and when you thought he was struggling to get away he was struggling to be saved. That’s more like him.”

“Well, they’re all right now,” said Mr. Smith, as Mr. Heard broke in with some vehemence. “And this chap’s going to ’ave the Royal Society’s medal for it, or I’ll know the reason why.”

“No, no,” said the mate, hurriedly; “I wouldn’t take it, I couldn’t think of it.”

“Take it or leave it,” said Mr. Smith; “but I’m going to the police to try and get it for you. I know the inspector a bit.”

“I can’t take it,” said the horrified mate; “it—it—besides, don’t you see, if this isn’t kept quiet Mr. Heard will be locked up for trying to commit suicide.”

“So he would be,” said the other man from his post by the door; “he’s quite right.”

“And I’d sooner lose fifty medals,” said Mr. Dix. “What’s the good of me saving him for that?”

A murmur of admiration at the mate’s extraordinary nobility of character jarred harshly on the ears of Mr. Heard. Most persistent of all was the voice of Miss Smith, and hardly able to endure things quietly, he sat and watched the tender glances which passed between her and Mr. Dix. Miss Smith, conscious at last of his regards, turned and looked at him.

“You could say you tumbled in, Arthur, and then he would get the medal,” she said, softly.

“_Say!_” shouted the overwrought Mr. Heard. “Say I tum—”

Words failed him. He stood swaying and regarding the company for a moment, and then, flinging open the door, closed it behind him with a bang that made the house tremble.

The mate followed half an hour later, escorted to the ship by the entire Smith family. Fortified by the presence of Miss Smith, he pointed out the exact scene of the rescue without a tremor, and, when her father narrated the affair to the skipper, whom they found sitting on deck smoking a last pipe, listened undismayed to that astonished mariner’s comments.

News of the mate’s heroic conduct became general the next day, and work on the ketch was somewhat impeded in consequence. It became a point of honor with Mr. Heard’s fellow-townsmen to allude to the affair as an accident, but the romantic nature of the transaction was well understood, and full credit given to Mr. Dix for his self-denial in the matter of the medal. Small boys followed him in the street, and half Pebblesea knew when he paid a visit to the Smith’s, and discussed his chances. Two nights afterwards, when he and Miss Smith went for a walk in the loneliest spot they could find, conversation turned almost entirely upon the over-crowded condition of the British Isles.

The _Starfish_ was away for three weeks, but the little town no longer looked dull to the mate as she entered the harbor one evening and glided slowly towards her old berth. Emma Smith was waiting to see the ship come in, and his taste for all other amusements had temporarily disappeared.

For two or three days the course of true love ran perfectly smooth; then, like a dark shadow, the figure of Arthur Heard was thrown across its path. It haunted the quay, hung about the house, and cropped up unexpectedly in the most distant solitudes. It came up behind the mate one evening just as he left the ship and walked beside him in silence.

“Halloa,” said the mate, at last.

“Halloa,” said Mr. Heard. “Going to see Emma?”

“I’m going to see Miss Smith,” said the mate.

Mr. Heard laughed; a forced, mirthless laugh.

“And we don’t want you following us about,” said Mr. Dix, sharply. “If it’ll ease your mind, and do you any good to know, you never had a chance. She told me so.”

“I sha’n’t follow you,” said Mr. Heard; “it’s your last evening, so you’d better make the most of it.”

He turned on his heel, and the mate, pondering on his last words, went thoughtfully on to the house.

Amid the distraction of pleasant society and a long walk, the matter passed from his mind, and he only remembered it at nine o’clock that evening as a knock sounded on the door and the sallow face of Mr. Heard was thrust into the room.

“Good-evening all,” said the intruder.

“Evening, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, affably.

Mr. Heard with a melancholy countenance entered the room and closed the door gently behind him. Then he coughed slightly and shook his head.

“Anything the matter, Arthur?” inquired Mr. Smith, somewhat disturbed by these manifestations.

“I’ve got something on my mind,” said Mr. Heard, with a diabolical glance at the mate—“something wot’s been worrying me for a long time. I’ve been deceiving you.”

“That was always your failing, Arthur—deceitfulness,” said Mrs. Smith. “I remember—”

“We’ve both been deceiving you,” interrupted Mr. Heard, loudly. “I didn’t jump into the harbor the other night, and I didn’t tumble in, and Mr. Fred Dix didn’t jump in after me; we just went to the end of the harbor and walked in and wetted ourselves.”

There was a moment’s intense silence and all eyes turned on the mate. The latter met them boldly.

“It’s a habit o’ mine to walk into the water and spoil my clothes for the sake of people I’ve never met before,” he said, with a laugh.

“For shame, Arthur!” said Mr. Smith, with a huge sigh of relief.

“’Ow can you?” said Mrs. Smith.

“Arthur’s been asleep since then,” said the mate, still smiling. “All the same, the next time he jumps in he can get out by himself.”

Mr. Heard, raising his voice, entered into a minute description of the affair, but in vain. Mr. Smith, rising to his feet, denounced his ingratitude in language which was seldom allowed to pass unchallenged in the presence of his wife, while that lady contributed examples of deceitfulness in the past of Mr. Heard, which he strove in vain to refute. Meanwhile, her daughter patted the mate’s hand.

“It’s a bit too thin, Arthur,” said the latter, with a mocking smile; “try something better next time.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Heard, in quieter tones; “I dare you to come along to the harbor and jump in, just as you are, where you said you jumped in after me. They’ll soon see who’s telling the truth.”

“He’ll do that,” said Mr. Smith, with conviction.

For a fraction of a second Mr. Dix hesitated, then, with a steady glance at Miss Smith, he sprang to his feet and accepted the challenge. Mrs. Smith besought him not to be foolish, and, with a vague idea of dissuading him, told him a slanderous anecdote concerning Mr. Heard’s aunt. Her daughter gazed at the mate with proud confidence, and, taking his arm, bade her mother to get some dry clothes ready and led the way to the harbor.

The night was fine but dark, and a chill breeze blew up from the sea. Twice the hapless mate thought of backing out, but a glance at Miss Smith’s profile and the tender pressure of her arm deterred him. The tide was running out and he had a faint hope that he might keep afloat long enough to be washed ashore alive. He talked rapidly, and his laugh rang across the water. Arrived at the spot they stopped, and Miss Smith looking down into the darkness was unable to repress a shiver.

“Be careful, Fred,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm.

The mate looked at her oddly. “All right,” he said, gayly, “I’ll be out almost before I’m in. You run back to the house and help your mother get the dry clothes ready for me.”

His tones were so confident, and his laugh so buoyant, that Mr. Heard, who had been fully expecting him to withdraw from the affair, began to feel that he had under-rated his swimming powers. “Just jumping in and swimming out again is not quite the same as saving a drownding man,” he said, with a sneer.

In a flash the mate saw a chance of escape.

“Why, there’s no satisfying you,” he said, slowly. “If I do go in I can see that you won’t own up that you’ve been lying.”

“He’ll ’ave to,” said Mr. Smith, who, having made up his mind for a little excitement, was in no mind to lose it.

“I don’t believe he would,” said the mate. “Look here!” he said, suddenly, as he laid an affectionate arm on the old man’s shoulder. “I know what we’ll do.”

“Well?” said Mr. Smith.

“I’ll save _you_,” said the mate, with a smile of great relief.

“Save _me_?” said the puzzled Mr. Smith, as his daughter uttered a faint cry. “How?”

“Just as I saved him,” said the other, nodding. “You jump in, and after you’ve sunk twice—same as he did—I’ll dive in and save you. At any rate I’ll do my best; I promise you I won’t come ashore without you.”

Mr. Smith hastily flung off the encircling arm and retired a few paces inland. “’Ave you—ever been—in a lunatic asylum at any time?” he inquired, as soon as he could speak.

“No,” said the mate, gravely.

“Neither ’ave I,” said Mr. Smith; “and, what’s more, I’m not going.”

He took a deep breath and stood simmering. Miss Smith came forward and, with a smothered giggle, took the mate’s arm and squeezed it.

“It’ll have to be Arthur again, then,” said the latter, in a resigned voice.

“_Me_?” cried Mr. Heard, with a start.

“Yes, you!” said the mate, in a decided voice. “After what you said just now I’m not going in without saving somebody. It would be no good. Come on, in you go.”

“He couldn’t speak fairer than that, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, dispassionately, as he came forward again.

“But I tell you he can’t swim,” protested Mr. Heard, “not properly. He didn’t swim last time; I told you so.”

“Never mind; we know what you said,” retorted the mate. “All you’ve got to do is to jump in and I’ll follow and save you—same as I did the other night.”

“Go on, Arthur,” said Mr. Smith, encouragingly. “It ain’t cold.”

“I tell you he can’t swim,” repeated Mr. Heard, passionately. “I should be drownded before your eyes.”

“Rubbish,” said Mr. Smith. “Why, I believe you’re afraid.”

“I should be drownded, I tell you,” said Mr. Heard. “He wouldn’t come in after me.”

“Yes, he would,” said Mr. Smith, passing a muscular arm round the mate’s waist; “’cos the moment you’re overboard I’ll drop ’im in. Are you ready?”

He stood embracing the mate and waiting, but Mr. Heard, with an infuriated exclamation, walked away. A parting glance showed him that the old man had released the mate, and that the latter was now embracing Miss Smith.

IN THE FAMILY

IN THE FAMILY

The oldest inhabitant of Claybury sat beneath the sign of the “Cauliflower” and gazed with affectionate, but dim, old eyes in the direction of the village street.

“No; Claybury men ain’t never been much of ones for emigrating,” he said, turning to the youthful traveller who was resting in the shade with a mug of ale and a cigarette. “They know they’d ’ave to go a long way afore they’d find a place as ’ud come up to this.”

He finished the tablespoonful of beer in his mug and sat for so long with his head back and the inverted vessel on his face that the traveller, who at first thought it was the beginning of a conjuring trick, colored furiously, and asked permission to refill it.

Now and then a Claybury man has gone to foreign parts, said the old man, drinking from the replenished mug, and placing it where the traveller could mark progress without undue strain; but they’ve, generally speaking, come back and wished as they’d never gone.

The on’y man as I ever heard of that made his fortune by emigrating was Henery Walker’s great-uncle, Josiah Walker by name, and he wasn’t a Claybury man at all. He made his fortune out o’ sheep in Australey, and he was so rich and well-to-do that he could never find time to answer the letters that Henery Walker used to send him when he was hard up.

Henery Walker used to hear of ’im through a relation of his up in London, and tell us all about ’im and his money up at this here “Cauliflower” public-house. And he used to sit and drink his beer and wonder who would ’ave the old man’s money arter he was dead.

When the relation in London died Henery Walker left off hearing about his uncle, and he got so worried over thinking that the old man might die and leave his money to strangers that he got quite thin. He talked of emigrating to Australey ’imself, and then, acting on the advice of Bill Chambers—who said it was a cheaper thing to do—he wrote to his uncle instead, and, arter reminding ’im that ’e was an old man living in a strange country, ’e asked ’im to come to Claybury and make his ’ome with ’is loving grand-nephew.

It was a good letter, because more than one gave ’im a hand with it, and there was little bits o’ Scripture in it to make it more solemn-like. It was wrote on pink paper with pie-crust edges and put in a green envelope, and Bill Chambers said a man must ’ave a ’art of stone if that didn’t touch it.

Four months arterwards Henery Walker got an answer to ’is letter from ’is great-uncle. It was a nice letter, and, arter thanking Henery Walker for all his kindness, ’is uncle said that he was getting an old man, and p’r’aps he should come and lay ’is bones in England arter all, and if he did ’e should certainly come and see his grand-nephew, Henery Walker.

Most of us thought Henery Walker’s fortune was as good as made, but Bob Pretty, a nasty, low poaching chap that has done wot he could to give Claybury a bad name, turned up his nose at it.

“I’ll believe he’s coming ’ome when I see him,” he ses. “It’s my belief he went to Australey to get out o’ your way, Henery.”

“As it ’appened he went there afore I was born,” ses Henery Walker, firing up.

“He knew your father,” ses Bob Pretty, “and he didn’t want to take no risks.”

They ’ad words then, and arter that every time Bob Pretty met ’im he asked arter his great-uncle’s ’ealth, and used to pretend to think ’e was living with ’im.

“You ought to get the old gentleman out a bit more, Henery,” he would say; “it can’t be good for ’im to be shut up in the ’ouse so much—especially your ’ouse.”

Henery Walker used to get that riled he didn’t know wot to do with ’imself, and as time went on, and he began to be afraid that ’is uncle never would come back to England, he used to get quite nasty if anybody on’y so much as used the word “uncle” in ’is company.

It was over six months since he ’ad had the letter from ’is uncle, and ’e was up here at the “Cauliflower” with some more of us one night, when Dicky Weed, the tailor, turns to Bob Pretty and he ses, “Who’s the old gentleman that’s staying with you, Bob?”

Bob Pretty puts down ’is beer very careful and turns round on ’im.

“Old gentleman?” he ses, very slow. “Wot are you talking about?”

“I mean the little old gentleman with white whiskers and a squeaky voice,” ses Dicky Weed.

“You’ve been dreaming,” ses Bob, taking up ’is beer ag’in.

“I see ’im too, Bob,” ses Bill Chambers.

“Ho, you did, did you?” ses Bob Pretty, putting down ’is mug with a bang. “And wot d’ye mean by coming spying round my place, eh? Wot d’ye mean by it?”

“Spying?” ses Bill Chambers, gaping at ’im with ’is mouth open; “I wasn’t spying. Anyone ’ud think you ’ad done something you was ashamed of.”

“You mind your business and I’ll mind mine,” ses Bob, very fierce.

“I was passing the ’ouse,” ses Bill Chambers, looking round at us, “and I see an old man’s face at the bedroom winder, and while I was wondering who ’e was a hand come and drawed ’im away. I see ’im as plain as ever I see anything in my life, and the hand, too. Big and dirty it was.”

“And he’s got a cough,” ses Dicky Weed—“a churchyard cough—I ’eard it.”

“It ain’t much you don’t hear, Dicky,” ses Bob Pretty, turning on ’im; “the on’y thing you never did ’ear, and never will ’ear, is any good of yourself.”

He kicked over a chair wot was in ’is way and went off in such a temper as we’d never seen ’im in afore, and, wot was more surprising still, but I know it’s true, ’cos I drunk it up myself, he’d left over arf a pint o’ beer in ’is mug.

“He’s up to something,” ses Sam Jones, starting arter him; “mark my words.”

We couldn’t make head nor tail out of it, but for some days arterward you’d ha’ thought that Bob Pretty’s ’ouse was a peep-show. Everybody stared at the winders as they went by, and the children played in front of the ’ouse and stared in all day long. Then the old gentleman was seen one day as bold as brass sitting at the winder, and we heard that it was a pore old tramp Bob Pretty ’ad met on the road and given a home to, and he didn’t like ’is good-’artedness to be known for fear he should be made fun of.

Nobody believed that, o’ course, and things got more puzzling than ever. Once or twice the old gentleman went out for a walk, but Bob Pretty or ’is missis was always with ’im, and if anybody tried to speak to him they always said ’e was deaf and took ’im off as fast as they could. Then one night up at the “Cauliflower” here Dicky Weed came rushing in with a bit o’ news that took everybody’s breath away.

“I’ve just come from the post-office,” he ses, “and there’s a letter for Bob Pretty’s old gentleman! Wot d’ye think o’ that?”

“If you could tell us wot’s inside it you might ’ave something to brag about,” ses Henery Walker.

“I don’t want to see the inside,” ses Dicky Weed; “the name on the outside was good enough for me. I couldn’t hardly believe my own eyes, but there it was: ‘Mr. Josiah Walker,’ as plain as the nose on your face.”

O’ course, we see it all then, and wondered why we hadn’t thought of it afore; and we stood quiet listening to the things that Henery Walker said about a man that would go and steal another man’s great-uncle from ’im. Three times Smith, the landlord, said, “_Hush!_” and the fourth time he put Henery Walker outside and told ’im to stay there till he ’ad lost his voice.

Henery Walker stayed outside five minutes, and then ’e come back in ag’in to ask for advice. His idea seemed to be that, as the old gentleman was deaf, Bob Pretty was passing ’isself off as Henery Walker, and the disgrace was a’most more than ’e could bear. He began to get excited ag’in, and Smith ’ad just said “_Hush!_” once more when we ’eard somebody whistling outside, and in come Bob Pretty.

He ’ad hardly got ’is face in at the door afore Henery Walker started on ’im, and Bob Pretty stood there, struck all of a heap, and staring at ’im as though he couldn’t believe his ears.

“’Ave you gone mad, Henery?” he ses, at last.

“Give me back my great-uncle,” ses Henery Walker, at the top of ’is voice.

Bob Pretty shook his ’ead at him. “I haven’t got your great-uncle, Henery,” he ses, very gentle. “I know the name is the same, but wot of it? There’s more than one Josiah Walker in the world. This one is no relation to you at all; he’s a very respectable old gentleman.”

“I’ll go and ask ’im,” ses Henery Walker, getting up, “and I’ll tell ’im wot sort o’ man you are, Bob Pretty.”

“He’s gone to bed now, Henery,” ses Bob Pretty.

“I’ll come in the fust thing to-morrow morning, then,” ses Henery Walker.

“Not in my ’ouse, Henery,” ses Bob Pretty; “not arter the things you’ve been sayin’ about me. I’m a pore man, but I’ve got my pride. Besides, I tell you he ain’t your uncle. He’s a pore old man I’m giving a ’ome to, and I won’t ’ave ’im worried.”

“’Ow much does ’e pay you a week, Bob?” ses Bill Chambers.

Bob Pretty pretended not to hear ’im.

“Where did your wife get the money to buy that bonnet she ’ad on on Sunday?” ses Bill Chambers. “My wife ses it’s the fust new bonnet she has ’ad since she was married.”

“And where did the new winder curtains come from?” ses Peter Gubbins.

Bob Pretty drank up ’is beer and stood looking at them very thoughtful; then he opened the door and went out without saying a word.

“He’s got your great-uncle a prisoner in his ’ouse, Henery,” ses Bill Chambers; “it’s easy for to see that the pore old gentleman is getting past things, and I shouldn’t wonder if Bob Pretty don’t make ’im leave all ’is money to ’im.”

Henery Walker started raving ag’in, and for the next few days he tried his ’ardest to get a few words with ’is great-uncle, but Bob Pretty was too much for ’im. Everybody in Claybury said wot a shame it was, but it was all no good, and Henery Walker used to leave ’is work and stand outside Bob Pretty’s for hours at a time in the ’opes of getting a word with the old man.

He got ’is chance at last, in quite a unexpected way. We was up ’ere at the “Cauliflower” one evening, and, as it ’appened, we was talking about Henery Walker’s great-uncle, when the door opened, and who should walk in but the old gentleman ’imself. Everybody left off talking and stared at ’im, but he walked up to the bar and ordered a glass o’ gin and beer as comfortable as you please.