Chapter III (2)

“My name’s Mullet,” said the other, sternly. “What do you want?”

“Oh, Mullet?” said the other, in surprise. “I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake, then. I thought you were my old shipmate, Captain Rogers. It’s a foolish mistake of mine, as I’ve no doubt Rogers was hanged years ago. You never had a brother named Rogers, did you?”

“I say again, what do you want?” demanded the other, advancing upon him.

“Since you’re so good,” said the other. “I want new clothes, food, and lodging of the best, and my pockets filled with money.”

“You had better go and look for all those things, then,” said Mullet. “You won’t find them here.”

“Ay!” said the other, rising. “Well, well—There was a hundred guineas on the head of my old shipmate Rogers some fifteen years ago. I’ll see whether it has been earned yet.”

“If I gave you a hundred guineas,” said the innkeeper, repressing his passion by a mighty effort, “you would not be satisfied.”

“Reads like a book,” said the stranger, in tones of pretended delight. “What a man it is!”

He fell back as he spoke, and thrusting his hand into his pocket, drew forth a long pistol as the innkeeper, a man of huge frame, edged toward him.

“Keep your distance,” he said, in a sharp, quick voice.

The innkeeper, in no wise disturbed at the pistol, turned away calmly, and ringing the bell, ordered some spirits. Then taking a chair, he motioned to the other to do the same, and they sat in silence until the staring waiter had left the room again. The stranger raised his glass.

“My old friend Captain Rogers,” he said, solemnly, “and may he never get his deserts!”

“From what jail have you come?” inquired Mullet, sternly.

“’Pon my soul,” said the other, “I have been in so many—looking for Captain Rogers—that I almost forget the last, but I have just tramped from London, two hundred and eighty odd miles, for the pleasure of seeing your damned ugly figure-head again; and now I’ve found it, I’m going to stay. Give me some money.”

The innkeeper, without a word, drew a little gold and silver from his pocket, and placing it on the table, pushed it toward him.

“Enough to go on with,” said the other, pocketing it; “in future it is halves. D’ye hear me? _Halves!_ And I’ll stay here and see I get it.”

He sat back in his chair, and meeting the other’s hatred with a gaze as steady as his own, replaced his pistol.

“A nice snug harbor after our many voyages,” he continued. “Shipmates we were, shipmates we’ll be; while Nick Gunn is alive you shall never want for company. Lord! Do you remember the Dutch brig, and the fat frightened mate?”

“I have forgotten it,” said the other, still eyeing him steadfastly. “I have forgotten many things. For fifteen years I have lived a decent, honest life. Pray God for your own sinful soul, that the devil in me does not wake again.”

“Fifteen years is a long nap,” said Gunn, carelessly; “what a godsend it’ll be for you to have me by you to remind you of old times! Why, you’re looking smug, man; the honest innkeeper to the life! Gad! who’s the girl?”

He rose and made a clumsy bow as a girl of eighteen, after a moment’s hesitation at the door, crossed over to the innkeeper.

“I’m busy, my dear,” said the latter, somewhat sternly.

“Our business,” said Gunn, with another bow, “is finished. Is this your daughter, Rog— Mullet?”

“My stepdaughter,” was the reply.

Gunn placed a hand, which lacked two fingers, on his breast, and bowed again.

“One of your father’s oldest friends,” he said smoothly; “and fallen on evil days; I’m sure your gentle heart will be pleased to hear that your good father has requested me—for a time—to make his house my home.”

“Any friend of my father’s is welcome to me, sir,” said the girl, coldly. She looked from the innkeeper to his odd-looking guest, and conscious of something strained in the air, gave him a little bow and quitted the room.

“You insist upon staying, then?” said Mullet, after a pause.

“More than ever,” replied Gunn, with a leer toward the door. “Why, you don’t think I’m _afraid_, Captain? You should know me better than that.”

“Life is sweet,” said the other.

“Ay,” assented Gunn, “so sweet that you will share things with me to keep it.”

“No,” said the other, with great calm. “I am man enough to have a better reason.”

“No psalm singing,” said Gunn, coarsely. “And look cheerful, you old buccaneer. Look as a man should look who has just met an old friend never to lose him again.”

He eyed his man expectantly and put his hand to his pocket again, but the innkeeper’s face was troubled, and he gazed stolidly at the fire.

“See what fifteen years’ honest, decent life does for us,” grinned the intruder.

The other made no reply, but rising slowly, walked to the door without a word.

“Landlord,” cried Gunn, bringing his maimed hand sharply down on the table.

The innkeeper turned and regarded him.

“Send me in some supper,” said Gunn; “the best you have, and plenty of it, and have a room prepared. The best.”

The door closed silently, and was opened a little later by the dubious George coming in to set a bountiful repast. Gunn, after cursing him for his slowness and awkwardness, drew his chair to the table and made the meal of one seldom able to satisfy his hunger. He finished at last, and after sitting for some time smoking, with his legs sprawled on the fender, rang for a candle and demanded to be shown to his room.

His proceedings when he entered it were but a poor compliment to his host. Not until he had poked and pried into every corner did he close the door. Then, not content with locking it, he tilted a chair beneath the handle, and placing his pistol beneath his pillow, fell fast asleep.

Despite his fatigue he was early astir next morning. Breakfast was laid for him in the coffee-room, and his brow darkened. He walked into the hall, and after trying various doors entered a small sitting-room, where his host and daughter sat at breakfast, and with an easy assurance drew a chair to the table. The innkeeper helped him without a word, but the girl’s hand shook under his gaze as she passed him some coffee.

“As soft a bed as ever I slept in,” he remarked.

“I hope that you slept well,” said the girl, civilly.

“Like a child,” said Gunn, gravely; “an easy conscience. Eh, Mullet?”

The innkeeper nodded and went on eating. The other, after another remark or two, followed his example, glancing occasionally with warm approval at the beauty of the girl who sat at the head of the table.

“A sweet girl,” he remarked, as she withdrew at the end of the meal; “and no mother, I presume?”

“No mother,” repeated the other.

Gunn sighed and shook his head.

“A sad case, truly,” he murmured. “No mother and such a guardian. Poor soul, if she but knew! Well, we must find her a husband.”

He looked down as he spoke, and catching sight of his rusty clothes and broken shoes, clapped his hand to his pocket; and with a glance at his host, sallied out to renew his wardrobe. The innkeeper, with an inscrutable face, watched him down the quay, then with bent head he returned to the house and fell to work on his accounts.

In this work Gunn, returning an hour later, clad from head to foot in new apparel, offered to assist him. Mullett hesitated, but made no demur; neither did he join in the ecstasies which his new partner displayed at the sight of the profits. Gunn put some more gold into his new pockets, and throwing himself back in a chair, called loudly to George to bring him some drink.

In less than a month the intruder was the virtual master of the “Golden Key.” Resistance on the part of the legitimate owner became more and more feeble, the slightest objection on his part drawing from the truculent Gunn dark allusions to his past and threats against his future, which for the sake of his daughter he could not ignore. His health began to fail, and Joan watched with perplexed terror the growth of a situation which was in a fair way of becoming unbearable.

The arrogance of Gunn knew no bounds. The maids learned to tremble at his polite grin, or his worse freedom, and the men shrank appalled from his profane wrath. George, after ten years’ service, was brutally dismissed, and refusing to accept dismissal from his hands, appealed to his master. The innkeeper confirmed it, and with lack-lustre eyes fenced feebly when his daughter, regardless of Gunn’s presence, indignantly appealed to him.

“The man was rude to my friend, my dear,” he said dispiritedly

“If he was rude, it was because Mr. Gunn deserved it,” said Joan, hotly.

Gunn laughed uproariously.

“Gad, my dear, I like you!” he cried, slapping his leg. “You’re a girl of spirit. Now I will make you a fair offer. If you ask for George to stay, stay he shall, as a favour to your sweet self.”

The girl trembled.

“Who is master here?” she demanded, turning a full eye on her father.

Mullet laughed uneasily.

“This is business,” he said, trying to speak lightly, “and women can’t understand it. Gunn is—is valuable to me, and George must go.”

“Unless you plead for him, sweet one?” said Gunn.

The girl looked at her father again, but he turned his head away and tapped on the floor with his foot. Then in perplexity, akin to tears, she walked from the room, carefully drawing her dress aside as Gunn held the door for her.

“A fine girl,” said Gunn, his thin lips working; “a fine spirit. ’Twill be pleasant to break it; but she does not know who is master here.”

“She is young yet,” said the other, hurriedly.

“I will soon age her if she looks like that at me again,” said Gunn. “By —, I’ll turn out the whole crew into the street, and her with them, an’ I wish it. I’ll lie in my bed warm o’ nights and think of her huddled on a doorstep.”

His voice rose and his fists clenched, but he kept his distance and watched the other warily. The innkeeper’s face was contorted and his brow grew wet. For one moment something peeped out of his eyes; the next he sat down in his chair again and nervously fingered his chin.

“I have but to speak,” said Gunn, regarding him with much satisfaction, “and you will hang, and your money go to the Crown. What will become of her then, think you?”

The other laughed nervously.

“’Twould be stopping the golden eggs,” he ventured.

“Don’t think too much of that,” said Gunn, in a hard voice. “I was never one to be baulked, as you know.”

“Come, come. Let us be friends,” said Mullet; “the girl is young, and has had her way.”

He looked almost pleadingly at the other, and his voice trembled. Gunn drew himself up, and regarding him with a satisfied sneer, quitted the room without a word.

Affairs at the “Golden Key” grew steadily worse and worse. Gunn dominated the place, and his vile personality hung over it like a shadow. Appeals to the innkeeper were in vain; his health was breaking fast, and he moodily declined to interfere. Gunn appointed servants of his own choosing-brazen maids and foul-mouthed men. The old patrons ceased to frequent the “Golden Key,” and its bedrooms stood empty. The maids scarcely deigned to take an order from Joan, and the men spoke to her familiarly. In the midst of all this the innkeeper, who had complained once or twice of vertigo, was seized with a fit.

Joan, flying to him for protection against the brutal advances of Gunn, found him lying in a heap behind the door of his small office, and in her fear called loudly for assistance. A little knot of servants collected, and stood regarding him stupidly. One made a brutal jest. Gunn, pressing through the throng, turned the senseless body over with his foot, and cursing vilely, ordered them to carry it upstairs.

Until the surgeon came, Joan, kneeling by the bed, held on to the senseless hand as her only protection against the evil faces of Gunn and his protégés. Gunn himself was taken aback, the innkeeper’s death at that time by no means suiting his aims.

The surgeon was a man of few words and fewer attainments, but under his ministrations the innkeeper, after a long interval, rallied. The half-closed eyes opened, and he looked in a dazed fashion at his surroundings. Gunn drove the servants away and questioned the man of medicine. The answers were vague and interspersed with Latin. Freedom from noise and troubles of all kinds was insisted upon and Joan was installed as nurse, with a promise of speedy assistance.

The assistance arrived late in the day in the shape of an elderly woman, whose Spartan treatment of her patients had helped many along the silent road. She commenced her reign by punching the sick man’s pillows, and having shaken him into consciousness by this means, gave him a dose of physic, after first tasting it herself from the bottle.

After the first rally the innkeeper began to fail slowly. It was seldom that he understood what was said to him, and pitiful to the beholder to see in his intervals of consciousness his timid anxiety to earn the good-will of the all-powerful Gunn. His strength declined until assistance was needed to turn him in the bed, and his great sinewy hands were forever trembling and fidgeting on the coverlet.

Joan, pale with grief and fear, tended him assiduously. Her stepfather’s strength had been a proverb in the town, and many a hasty citizen had felt the strength of his arm. The increasing lawlessness of the house filled her with dismay, and the coarse attentions of Gunn became more persistent than ever. She took her meals in the sick-room, and divided her time between that and her own.

Gunn himself was in a dilemma. With Mullet dead, his power was at an end and his visions of wealth dissipated. He resolved to feather his nest immediately, and interviewed the surgeon. The surgeon was ominously reticent, the nurse cheerfully ghoulish.

“Four days I give him,” she said, calmly; “four blessed days, not but what he might slip away at any moment.”

Gunn let one day of the four pass, and then, choosing a time when Joan was from the room, entered it for a little quiet conversation. The innkeeper’s eyes were open, and, what was more to the purpose, intelligent.

“You’re cheating the hangman, after all,” snarled Gunn. “I’m off to swear an information.”

The other, by a great effort, turned his heavy head and fixed his wistful eyes on him.

“Mercy!” he whispered. “For her sake—give me—a little time!”

“To slip your cable, I suppose,” quoth Gunn. “Where’s your money? Where’s your hoard, you miser?”

Mullet closed his eyes. He opened them again slowly and strove to think, while Gunn watched him narrowly. When he spoke, his utterance was thick and labored.

“Come to-night,” he muttered, slowly. “Give me—time—I will make your —your fortune. But the nurse-watches.”

“I’ll see to her,” said Gunn, with a grin. “But tell me now, lest you die first.”

“You will—let Joan—have a share?” panted the innkeeper.

“Yes, yes,” said Gunn, hastily.

The innkeeper strove to raise himself in the bed, and then fell back again exhausted as Joan’s step was heard on the stairs. Gunn gave a savage glance of warning at him, and barring the progress of the girl at the door, attempted to salute her. Joan came in pale and trembling, and falling on her knees by the bedside, took her father’s hand in hers and wept over it. The innkeeper gave a faint groan and a shiver ran through his body.

It was nearly an hour after midnight that Nick Gunn, kicking off his shoes, went stealthily out onto the landing. A little light came from the partly open door of the sick-room, but all else was in blackness. He moved along and peered in.

The nurse was siting in a high-backed oak chair by the fire. She had slipped down in the seat, and her untidy head hung on her bosom. A glass stood on the small oak table by her side, and a solitary candle on the high mantel-piece diffused a sickly light. Gunn entered the room, and finding that the sick man was dozing, shook him roughly.

The innkeeper opened his eyes and gazed at him blankly.

“Wake, you fool,” said Gunn, shaking him again.

The other roused and muttered something incoherently. Then he stirred slightly.

“The nurse,” he whispered.

“She’s safe enow,” said Gunn. “I’ve seen to that.”

He crossed the room lightly, and standing before the unconscious woman, inspected her closely and raised her in the chair. Her head fell limply over the arm.

“Dead?” inquired Mullet, in a fearful whisper.

“Drugged,” said Gunn, shortly. “Now speak up, and be lively.”

The innkeeper’s eyes again travelled in the direction of the nurse.

“The men,” he whispered; “the servants.”

“Dead drunk and asleep,” said Gunn, biting the words. “The last day would hardly rouse them. Now will you speak, damn you!”

“I must—take care—of Joan,” said the father.

Gunn shook his clenched hand at him.

“My money—is—is—” said the other. “Promise me on—your oath—Joan.”

“Ay, ay,” growled Gunn; “how many more times? I’ll marry her, and she shall have what I choose to give her. Speak up, you fool! It’s not for you to make terms. Where is it?”

He bent over, but Mullet, exhausted with his efforts, had closed his eyes again, and half turned his head.

“Where is it, damn you?” said Gunn, from between his teeth.

Mullet opened his eyes again, glanced fearfully round the room, and whispered. Gunn, with a stifled oath, bent his ear almost to his mouth, and the next moment his neck was in the grip of the strongest man in Riverstone, and an arm like a bar of iron over his back pinned him down across the bed.

“You _dog!_” hissed a fierce voice in his ear. “I’ve got you—Captain Rogers at your service, and now you may tell his name to all you can. Shout it, you spawn of hell. Shout it!”

He rose in bed, and with a sudden movement flung the other over on his back. Gunn’s eyes were starting from his head, and he writhed convulsively.

“I thought you were a sharper man, Gunn,” said Rogers, still in the same hot whisper, as he relaxed his grip a little; “you are too simple, you hound! When you first threatened me I resolved to kill you. Then you threatened my daughter. I wish that you had nine lives, that I might take them all. Keep still!”

He gave a half-glance over his shoulder at the silent figure of the nurse, and put his weight on the twisting figure on the bed.

“You drugged the hag, good Gunn,” he continued. “To-morrow morning, Gunn, they will find you in your room dead, and if one of the scum you brought into my house be charged with the murder, so much the better. When I am well they will go. I am already feeling a little bit stronger, Gunn, as you see, and in a month I hope to be about again.”

He averted his face, and for a time gazed sternly and watchfully at the door. Then he rose slowly to his feet, and taking the dead man in his arms, bore him slowly and carefully to his room, and laid him a huddled heap on the floor. Swiftly and noiselessly he put the dead man’s shoes on and turned his pockets inside out, kicked a rug out of place, and put a guinea on the floor. Then he stole cautiously down stairs and set a small door at the back open. A dog barked frantically, and he hurried back to his room. The nurse still slumbered by the fire.

She awoke in the morning shivering with the cold, and being jealous of her reputation, rekindled the fire, and measuring out the dose which the invalid should have taken, threw it away. On these unconscious preparations for an alibi Captain Rogers gazed through half-closed lids, and then turning his grim face to the wall, waited for the inevitable alarm.

A TIGER’S SKIN

The travelling sign-painter who was repainting the sign of the “Cauliflower” was enjoying a well-earned respite from his labours. On the old table under the shade of the elms mammoth sandwiches and a large slice of cheese waited in an untied handkerchief until such time as his thirst should be satisfied. At the other side of the table the oldest man in Claybury, drawing gently at a long clay pipe, turned a dim and regretful eye up at the old signboard.

“I’ve drunk my beer under it for pretty near seventy years,” he said, with a sigh. “It’s a pity it couldn’t ha’ lasted my time.”

The painter, slowly pushing a wedge of sandwich into his mouth, regarded him indulgently.

“It’s all through two young gentlemen as was passing through ’ere a month or two ago,” continued the old man; “they told Smith, the landlord, they’d been looking all over the place for the ‘Cauliflower,’ and when Smith showed ’em the sign they said they thought it was the ‘George the Fourth,’ and a very good likeness, too.”

The painter laughed and took another look at the old sign; then, with the nervousness of the true artist, he took a look at his own. One or two shadows—

He flung his legs over the bench and took up his brushes. In ten minutes the most fervent loyalist would have looked in vain for any resemblance, and with a sigh at the pitfalls which beset the artist he returned to his interrupted meal and hailed the house for more beer.

“There’s nobody could mistake your sign for anything but a cauliflower,” said the old man; “it looks good enough to eat.”

The painter smiled and pushed his mug across the table. He was a tender-hearted man, and once—when painting the sign of the “Sir Wilfrid Lawson”—knew himself what it was to lack beer. He began to discourse on art, and spoke somewhat disparagingly of the cauliflower as a subject. With a shake of his head he spoke of the possibilities of a spotted cow or a blue lion.

“Talking of lions,” said the ancient, musingly, “I s’pose as you never ’eard tell of the Claybury tiger? It was afore your time in these parts, I expect.”

The painter admitted his ignorance, and, finding that the allusion had no reference to an inn, pulled out his pipe and prepared to listen.

“It’s a while ago now,” said the old man, slowly, “and the circus the tiger belonged to was going through Claybury to get to Wickham, when, just as they was passing Gill’s farm, a steam-ingine they ’ad to draw some o’ the vans broke down, and they ’ad to stop while the blacksmith mended it. That being so, they put up a big tent and ’ad the circus ’ere.

“I was one o’ them as went, and I must say it was worth the money, though Henry Walker was disappointed at the man who put ’is ’ead in the lion’s mouth. He said that the man frightened the lion first, before ’e did it.

“It was a great night for Claybury, and for about a week nothing else was talked of. All the children was playing at being lions and tigers and such-like, and young Roberts pretty near broke ’is back trying to see if he could ride horseback standing up.

“It was about two weeks after the circus ’ad gone when a strange thing ’appened: the big tiger broke loose. Bill Chambers brought the news first, ’aving read it in the newspaper while ’e was ’aving his tea. He brought out the paper and showed us, and soon after we ’eard all sorts o’ tales of its doings.

“At first we thought the tiger was a long way off, and we was rather amused at it. Frederick Scott laughed ’imself silly a’most up ’ere one night thinking ’ow surprised a man would be if ’e come ’ome one night and found the tiger sitting in his armchair eating the baby. It didn’t seem much of a laughing matter to me, and I said so; none of us liked it, and even Sam Jones, as ’ad got twins for the second time, said ‘Shame!’ But Frederick Scott was a man as would laugh at anything.

“When we ’eard that the tiger ’ad been seen within three miles of Claybury things began to look serious, and Peter Gubbins said that something ought to be done, but before we could think of anything to do something ’appened.

“We was sitting up ’ere one evening ’aving a mug o’ beer and a pipe—same as I might be now if I’d got any baccy left—and talking about it, when we ’eard a shout and saw a ragged-looking tramp running toward us as ’ard as he could run. Every now and then he’d look over ’is shoulder and give a shout, and then run ’arder than afore.

“‘It’s the _tiger!_’ ses Bill Chambers, and afore you could wink a’most he was inside the house, ’aving first upset Smith and a pot o’ beer in the doorway.

“Before he could get up, Smith ’ad to wait till we was all in. His langwidge was awful for a man as ’ad a license to lose, and everybody shouting ‘Tiger!’ as they trod on ’im didn’t ease ’is mind. He was inside a’most as soon as the last man, though, and in a flash he ’ad the door bolted just as the tramp flung ’imself agin it, all out of breath and sobbing ’is hardest to be let in.

“‘Open the door,’ he ses, banging on it.

“‘Go away,’ ses Smith.

“‘It’s the tiger,’ screams the tramp; ‘open the door.’

“‘You go away,’ ses Smith, ‘you’re attracting it to my place; run up the road and draw it off.’”

“Just at that moment John Biggs, the blacksmith, come in from the taproom, and as soon as he ’eard wot was the matter ’e took down Smith’s gun from behind the bar and said he was going out to look after the wimmen and children.

“‘Open the door,’ he ses.

“He was trying to get out and the tramp outside was trying to get in, but Smith held on to that door like a Briton. Then John Biggs lost ’is temper, and he ups with the gun—Smith’s own gun, mind you—and fetches ’im a bang over the ’ead with it. Smith fell down at once, and afore we could ’elp ourselves the door was open, the tramp was inside, and John Biggs was running up the road, shouting ’is hardest.

“We ’ad the door closed afore you could wink a’most, and then, while the tramp lay in a corner ’aving brandy, Mrs. Smith got a bowl of water and a sponge and knelt down bathing ’er husband’s ’ead with it.

“‘Did you see the tiger?’ ses Bill Chambers.

“‘See it?’ ses the tramp, with a shiver. ‘Oh, Lord!’

“He made signs for more brandy, and Henery Walker, wot was acting as landlord, without being asked, gave it to ’im.

“‘It chased me for over a mile,’ ses the tramp; ‘my ’eart’s breaking.’

“He gave a groan and fainted right off. A terrible faint it was, too, and for some time we thought ’ed never come round agin. First they poured brandy down ’is throat, then gin, and then beer, and still ’e didn’t come round, but lay quiet with ’is eyes closed and a horrible smile on ’is face.

“He come round at last, and with nothing stronger than water, which Mrs. Smith kept pouring into ’is mouth. First thing we noticed was that the smile went, then ’is eyes opened, and suddenly ’e sat up with a shiver and gave such a dreadful scream that we thought at first the tiger was on top of us.

“Then ’e told us ’ow he was sitting washing ’is shirt in a ditch, when he ’eard a snuffling noise and saw the ’ead of a big tiger sticking through the hedge the other side. He left ’is shirt and ran, and ’e said that, fortunately, the tiger stopped to tear the shirt to pieces, else ’is last hour would ’ave arrived.

“When ’e ’ad finished Smith went upstairs and looked out of the bedroom winders, but ’e couldn’t see any signs of the tiger, and ’e said no doubt it ’ad gone down to the village to see wot it could pick up, or p’raps it ’ad eaten John Biggs.

“However that might be, nobody cared to go outside to see, and after it got dark we liked going ’ome less than ever.

“Up to ten o’clock we did very well, and then Smith began to talk about ’is license. He said it was all rubbish being afraid to go ’ome, and that, at any rate, the tiger couldn’t eat more than one of us, and while ’e was doing that there was the chance for the others to get ’ome safe. Two or three of ’em took a dislike to Smith that night and told ’im so.

“The end of it was we all slept in the tap-room that night. It seemed strange at first, but anything was better than going ’ome in the dark, and we all slept till about four next morning, when we woke up and found the tramp ’ad gone and left the front door standing wide open.

“We took a careful look-out, and by-and-by first one started off and then another to see whether their wives and children ’ad been eaten or not. Not a soul ’ad been touched, but the wimmen and children was that scared there was no doing anything with ’em. None o’ the children would go to school, and they sat at ’ome all day with the front winder blocked up with a mattress to keep the tiger out.

“Nobody liked going to work, but it ’ad to be done and as Farmer Gill said that tigers went to sleep all day and only came out toward evening we was a bit comforted. Not a soul went up to the ‘Cauliflower’ that evening for fear of coming ’ome in the dark, but as nothing ’appened that night we began to ’ope as the tiger ’ad travelled further on.

“Bob Pretty laughed at the whole thing and said ’e didn’t believe there was a tiger; but nobody minded wot ’e said, Bob Pretty being, as I’ve often told people, the black sheep o’ Claybury, wot with poaching and, wot was worse, ’is artfulness.

“But the very next morning something ’appened that made Bob Pretty look silly and wish ’e ’adn’t talked quite so fast; for at five o’clock Frederick Scott, going down to feed ’is hins, found as the tiger ’ad been there afore ’im and ’ad eaten no less than seven of ’em. The side of the hin-’ouse was all broke in, there was a few feathers lying on the ground, and two little chicks smashed and dead beside ’em.

“The way Frederick Scott went on about it you’d ’ardly believe. He said that Govinment ’ud ’ave to make it up to ’im, and instead o’ going to work ’e put the two little chicks and the feathers into a pudding basin and walked to Cudford, four miles off, where they ’ad a policeman.

“He saw the policeman, William White by name, standing at the back door of the ‘Fox and Hounds’ public house, throwing a ’andful o’ corn to the landlord’s fowls, and the first thing Mr. White ses was, ‘it’s off my beat,’ he ses.

“‘But you might do it in your spare time, Mr. White,’ ses Frederick Scott. It’s very likely that the tiger’ll come back to my hin ’ouse for the rest of ’em, and he’d be very surprised if ’e popped ’is ’ead in and see you there waiting for ’im.’

“He’d ’ave reason to be,’ ses Policeman White, staring at ’im.

“‘Think of the praise you’d get,’ said Frederick Scott, coaxing like.

“‘Look ’ere,’ ses Policeman White, ‘if you don’t take yourself and that pudding basin off pretty quick, you’ll come along o’ me, d’ye see? You’ve been drinking and you’re in a excited state.’

“He gave Frederick Scott a push and follered ’im along the road, and every time Frederick stopped to ask ’im wot ’e was doing of ’e gave ’im another push to show ’im.

“Frederick Scott told us all about it that evening, and some of the bravest of us went up to the ‘Cauliflower’ to talk over wot was to be done, though we took care to get ’ome while it was quite light. That night Peter Gubbins’s two pigs went. They were two o’ the likeliest pigs I ever seed, and all Peter Gubbins could do was to sit up in bed shivering and listening to their squeals as the tiger dragged ’em off. Pretty near all Claybury was round that sty next morning looking at the broken fence. Some of them looked for the tiger’s footmarks, but it was dry weather and they couldn’t see any. Nobody knew whose turn it would be next, and the most sensible man there, Sam Jones, went straight off ’ome and killed his pig afore ’e went to work.

“Nobody knew what to do; Farmer Hall said as it was a soldier’s job, and ’e drove over to Wickham to tell the police so, but nothing came of it, and that night at ten minutes to twelve Bill Chambers’s pig went. It was one o’ the biggest pigs ever raised in Claybury, but the tiger got it off as easy as possible. Bill ’ad the bravery to look out of the winder when ’e ’eard the pig squeal, but there was such a awful snarling noise that ’e daresn’t move ’and or foot.

“Dicky Weed’s idea was for people with pigs and such-like to keep ’em in the house of a night, but Peter Gubbins and Bill Chambers both pointed out that the tiger could break a back door with one blow of ’is paw, and that if ’e got inside he might take something else instead o’ pig. And they said that it was no worse for other people to lose pigs than wot it was for them.

“The odd thing about it was that all this time nobody ’ad ever seen the tiger except the tramp and people sent their children back to school agin and felt safe going about in the daytime till little Charlie Gubbins came running ’ome crying and saying that ’e’d seen it. Next morning a lot more children see it and was afraid to go to school, and people began to wonder wot ’ud happen when all the pigs and poultry was eaten.

“Then Henery Walker see it. We was sitting inside ’ere with scythes, and pitchforks, and such-like things handy, when we see ’im come in without ’is hat. His eyes were staring and ’is hair was all rumpled. He called for a pot o’ ale and drank it nearly off, and then ’e sat gasping and ’olding the mug between ’is legs and shaking ’is ’ead at the floor till everybody ’ad left off talking to look at ’im.

“‘Wot’s the matter, Henery?’ ses one of ’em.

“‘Don’t ask me,’ ses Henery Walker, with a shiver.

“‘You don’t mean to say as ’ow you’ve seen the tiger?” ses Bill Chambers.

“Henery Walker didn’t answer ’im. He got up and walked back’ards and for’ards, still with that frightened look in ’is eyes, and once or twice ’e give such a terrible start that ’e frightened us ’arf out of our wits. Then Bill Chambers took and forced ’im into a chair and give ’im two o’ gin and patted ’im on the back, and at last Henery Walker got ’is senses back agin and told us ’ow the tiger ’ad chased ’im all round and round the trees in Plashett’s Wood until ’e managed to climb up a tree and escape it. He said the tiger ’ad kept ’im there for over an hour, and then suddenly turned round and bolted off up the road to Wickham.

“It was a merciful escape, and everybody said so except Sam Jones, and ’e asked so many questions that at last Henery Walker asked ’im outright if ’e disbelieved ’is word.

“‘It’s all right, Sam,’ ses Bob Pretty, as ’ad come in just after Henery Walker. ‘I see ’im with the tiger after ’im.’

“‘Wot?’ ses Henery, staring at him.

“‘I see it all, Henery,’ ses Bob Pretty, ‘and I see your pluck. It was all you could do to make up your mind to run from it. I believe if you’d ’ad a fork in your ‘and you’d ’ave made a fight for it.”

“Everybody said ‘Bravo!’; but Henery Walker didn’t seem to like it at all. He sat still, looking at Bob Pretty, and at last ’e ses, ‘Where was you?’ ’e s,es.

“‘Up another tree, Henery, where you couldn’t see me,’ ses Bob Pretty, smiling at ’im.

“Henery Walker, wot was drinking some beer, choked a bit, and then ’e put the mug down and went straight off ’ome without saying a word to anybody. I knew ’e didn’t like Bob Pretty, but I couldn’t see why ’e should be cross about ’is speaking up for ’im as ’e had done, but Bob said as it was ’is modesty, and ’e thought more of ’im for it.

“After that things got worse than ever; the wimmen and children stayed indoors and kept the doors shut, and the men never knew when they went out to work whether they’d come ’ome agin. They used to kiss their children afore they went out of a morning, and their wives too, some of ’em; even men who’d been married for years did. And several more of ’em see the tiger while they was at work, and came running ’ome to tell about it.

“The tiger ’ad been making free with Claybury pigs and such-like for pretty near a week, and nothing ’ad been done to try and catch it, and wot made Claybury men madder than anything else was folks at Wickham saying it was all a mistake, and the tiger ’adn’t escaped at all. Even parson, who’d been away for a holiday, said so, and Henery Walker told ’is wife that if she ever set foot inside the church agin ’ed ask ’is old mother to come and live with ’em.

“It was all very well for parson to talk, but the very night he come back Henery Walker’s pig went, and at the same time George Kettle lost five or six ducks.

“He was a quiet man, was George, but when ’is temper was up ’e didn’t care for anything. Afore he came to Claybury ’e ’ad been in the Militia, and that evening at the ‘Cauliflower’ ’e turned up with a gun over ’is shoulder and made a speech, and asked who was game to go with ’im and hunt the tiger. Bill Chambers, who was still grieving after ’is pig, said ’e would, then another man offered, until at last there was seventeen of ’em. Some of ’em ’ad scythes and some pitchforks, and one or two of ’em guns, and it was one o’ the finest sights I ever seed when George Kettle stood ’em in rows of four and marched ’em off.

“They went straight up the road, then across Farmer Gill’s fields to get to Plashett’s wood, where they thought the tiger ’ud most likely be, and the nearer they got to the wood the slower they walked. The sun ’ad just gone down and the wood looked very quiet and dark, but John Biggs, the blacksmith, and George Kettle walked in first and the others follered, keeping so close together that Sam Jones ’ad a few words over his shoulder with Bill Chambers about the way ’e was carrying ’is pitchfork.

“Every now and then somebody ’ud say, ‘_Wot’s that!_’ and they’d all stop and crowd together and think the time ’ad come, but it ’adn’t, and then they’d go on agin, trembling, until they’d walked all round the wood without seeing anything but one or two rabbits. John Biggs and George Kettle wanted for to stay there till it was dark, but the others wouldn’t ’ear of it for fear of frightening their wives, and just as it was getting dark they all come tramp, tramp, back to the ‘Cauliflower’ agin.

“Smith stood ’em ’arf a pint apiece, and they was all outside ’ere fancying theirselves a bit for wot they’d done when we see old man Parsley coming along on two sticks as fast as ’e could come.

“‘Are you brave lads a-looking for the tiger?’ he asks.

“‘Yes,’ ses John Biggs.

“‘Then ’urry up, for the sake of mercy,’ ses old Mr. Parsley, putting ’is ’and on the table and going off into a fit of coughing; ‘it’s just gone into Bob Pretty’s cottage. I was passing and saw it.’

“George Kettle snatches up ’is gun and shouts out to ’is men to come along. Some of ’em was for ’anging back at first, some because they didn’t like the tiger and some because they didn’t like Bob Pretty, but John Biggs drove ’em in front of ’im like a flock o’ sheep and then they gave a cheer and ran after George Kettle, full pelt up the road.

“A few wimmen and children was at their doors as they passed, but they took fright and went indoors screaming. There was a lamp in Bob Pretty’s front room, but the door was closed and the ’ouse was silent as the grave.

“George Kettle and the men with the guns went first, then came the pitchforks, and last of all the scythes. Just as George Kettle put ’is ’and on the door he ’eard something moving inside, and the next moment the door opened and there stood Bob Pretty.

“‘What the dickens!’ ’e ses, starting back as ’e see the guns and pitchforks pointing at ’im.

“‘’Ave you killed it, Bob?’ ses George Kettle.

“‘Killed _wot?_’ ses Bob Pretty. ‘Be careful o’ them guns. Take your fingers off the triggers.’

“‘The tiger’s in your ’ouse, Bob,’ ses George Kettle, in a whisper. ‘’Ave you on’y just come in?’

“‘Look ’ere,’ ses Bob Pretty. ‘I don’t want any o’ your games. You go and play ’em somewhere else.’

“‘It ain’t a game,’ ses John Biggs; ‘the tiger’s in your ’ouse and we’re going to kill it. Now, then, lads.’

“They all went in in a ’eap, pushing Bob Pretty in front of ’em, till the room was full. Only one man with a scythe got in, and they wouldn’t ’ave let ’im in if they’d known. It a’most made ’em forget the tiger for the time.

“George Kettle opened the door wot led into the kitchen, and then ’e sprang back with such a shout that the man with the scythe tried to escape, taking Henery Walker along with ’im. George Kettle tried to speak, but couldn’t. All ’e could do was to point with ’is finger at Bob Pretty’s kitchen—_and Bob Pretty’s kitchen was for all the world like a pork-butcher’s shop_. There was joints o’ pork ’anging from the ceiling, two brine tubs as full as they could be, and quite a string of fowls and ducks all ready for market.

“‘Wot d’ye mean by coming into my ’ouse?’ ses Bob Pretty, blustering. ‘If you don’t clear out pretty quick, I’ll make you.’

“Nobody answered ’im; they was all examining ’ands o’ pork and fowls and such-like.

“‘There’s the tiger,’ ses Henery Walker, pointing at Bob Pretty; ‘that’s wot old man Parsley meant.’

“‘Somebody go and fetch Policeman White,’ ses a voice.

“‘I wish they would,’ ses Bob Pretty. ‘I’ll ’ave the law on you all for breaking into my ’ouse like this, see if I don’t.’

“‘Where’d you get all this pork from?’ ses the blacksmith.

“‘And them ducks and hins?’ ses George Kettle.

“‘That’s my bisness,’ ses Bob Pretty, staring ’em full in the face. ‘I just ’ad a excellent oppertunity offered me of going into the pork and poultry line and I took it. Now, all them as doesn’t want to buy any pork or fowls go out o’ my house.’

“‘You’re a thief, Bob Pretty!’ says Henery Walker. ‘You stole it all.’

“‘Take care wot you’re saying, Henery,’ ses Bob Pretty, ‘else I’ll make you prove your words.’

“‘You stole my pig,’ ses Herbert Smith.

“‘Oh, ’ave I?’ ses Bob, reaching down a ’and o’ pork. ‘Is that your pig?’ he ses.

“‘It’s just about the size o’ my pore pig,’ ses Herbert Smith.

“‘Very usual size, I call it,’ ses Bob Pretty; ‘and them ducks and hins very usual-looking hins and ducks, I call ’em, except that they don’t grow ’em so fat in these parts. It’s a fine thing when a man’s doing a honest bisness to ’ave these charges brought agin ’im. Dis’eartening, I call it. I don’t mind telling you that the tiger got in at my back winder the other night and took arf a pound o’ sausage, but you don’t ’ear me complaining and going about calling other people thieves.’

“‘Tiger be hanged,’ ses Henery Walker, who was almost certain that a loin o’ pork on the table was off ’is pig; ‘you’re the only tiger in these parts.’

“Why, Henery,’ ses Bob Pretty, ‘wot are you a-thinkin’ of? Where’s your memory? Why, it’s on’y two or three days ago you see it and ’ad to get up a tree out of its way.’

“He smiled and shook ’is ’ead at ’im, but Henery Walker on’y kept opening and shutting ’is mouth, and at last ’e went outside without saying a word.

“‘And Sam Jones see it, too,’ ses Bob Pretty; ‘didn’t you, Sam?’

“Sam didn’t answer ’im.

“‘And Charlie Hall and Jack Minns and a lot more,’ ses Bob; ‘besides, I see it myself. I can believe my own eyes, I s’pose?’

“‘We’ll have the law on you,’ ses Sam Jones.

“‘As _you_ like,’ ses Bob Pretty; ‘but I tell you plain, I’ve got all the bills for this properly made out, upstairs. And there’s pretty near a dozen of you as’ll ’ave to go in the box and swear as you saw the tiger. Now, can I sell any of you a bit o’ pork afore you go? It’s delicious eating, and as soon as you taste it you’ll know it wasn’t grown in Claybury. Or a pair o’ ducks wot ’ave come from two ’undered miles off, and yet look as fresh as if they was on’y killed last night.’

“George Kettle, whose ducks ’ad gone the night afore, went into the front room and walked up and down fighting for ’is breath, but it was all no good; nobody ever got the better o’ Bob Pretty. None of ’em could swear to their property, and even when it became known a month later that Bob Pretty and the tramp knew each other, nothing was done. But nobody ever ’eard any more of the tiger from that day to this.”

A MIXED PROPOSAL

Major Brill, late of the Fenshire Volunteers, stood in front of the small piece of glass in the hatstand, and with a firm and experienced hand gave his new silk hat a slight tilt over the right eye. Then he took his cane and a new pair of gloves, and with a military but squeaky tread, passed out into the road. It was a glorious day in early autumn, and the soft English landscape was looking its best, but despite the fact that there was nothing more alarming in sight than a few cows on the hillside a mile away, the Major paused at his gate, and his face took on an appearance of the greatest courage and resolution before proceeding. The road was dusty and quiet, except for the children playing at cottage doors, and so hot that the Major, heedless of the fact that he could not replace the hat at exactly the same angle, stood in the shade of a tree while he removed it and mopped his heated brow.

He proceeded on his way more leisurely, overtaking, despite his lack of speed, another man who was walking still more slowly in the shade of the hedge.

“Fine day, Halibut,” he said, briskly; “fine day.”

“Beautiful,” said the other, making no attempt to keep pace with him.

“Country wants rain, though,” cried the Major over his shoulder.

Halibut assented, and walking slowly on, wondered vaguely what gaudy color it was that had attracted his eye. It dawned on him at length that it must be the Major’s tie, and he suddenly quickened his pace, by no means reassured as the man of war also quickened his.

“Halloa, Brill!” he cried. “Half a moment.”

The Major stopped and waited for his friend; Halibut eyed the tie uneasily—it was fearfully and wonderfully made—but said nothing.

“Well?” said the Major, somewhat sharply.

“Oh—I was going to ask you, Brill—Confound it! I’ve forgotten what I was going to say now. I daresay I shall soon think of it. You’re not in a hurry?”

“Well, I am, rather,” said Brill. “Fact is— Is my hat on straight, Halibut?”

The other assuring him that it was, the Major paused in his career, and gripping the brim with both hands, deliberately tilted it over the right eye again.

“You were saying—” said Halibut, regarding this manoeuvre with secret disapproval.

“Yes,” murmured the Major, “I was saying. Well, I don’t mind telling an old friend like you, Halibut, though it is a profound secret. Makes me rather particular about my dress just now. Women notice these things. I’m—sha’nt get much sympathy from a confirmed old bachelor like you—but I’m on my way to put a very momentous question.”

“The devil you are!” said the other, blankly.

“Sir!” said the astonished Major.

“Not Mrs. Riddel?” said Halibut.

“Certainly, sir,” said the Major, stiffly. “Why not?”

“Only that I am going on the same errand,” said the confirmed bachelor, with desperate calmness.

The Major looked at him, and for the first time noticed an unusual neatness and dressiness in his friend’s attire. His collar was higher than usual; his tie, of the whitest and finest silk, bore a pin he never remembered to have seen before; and for the first time since he had known him, the Major, with a strange sinking at the heart, saw that he wore spats.

“This is extraordinary,” he said, briefly. “Well, good-day, Halibut. Can’t stop.”

“Good-day,” said the other.

The Major quickened his pace and shot ahead, and keeping in the shade of the hedge, ground his teeth as the civilian on the other side of the road slowly, but surely, gained on him.

It became exciting. The Major was handicapped by his upright bearing and short military stride; the other, a simple child of the city, bent forward, swinging his arms and taking immense strides. At a by-lane they picked up three small boys, who, trotting in their rear, made it evident by their remarks that they considered themselves the privileged spectators of a foot-race. The Major could stand it no longer, and with a cut of his cane at the foremost boy, softly called a halt.

“Well,” said Halibut, stopping.

The man’s manner was suspicious, not to say offensive, and the other had much ado to speak him fair.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, trying to smile. “We can’t walk in and propose in a duet. One of us must go to-day and the other to-morrow.”

“Certainly,” said Halibut; “that’ll be the best plan.”

“So childish,” said the Major, with a careless laugh, “two fellows walking in hot and tired and proposing to her.”

“Absurd,” replied Halibut, and both men eyed each other carefully.

“So, if I’m unsuccessful, old chap,” said the Major, in a voice which he strove to render natural and easy, “I will come straight back to your place and let you know, so as not to keep you in suspense.”

“You’re very good,” said Halibut, with some emotion; “but I think I’ll take to-day, because I have every reason to believe that I have got one of my bilious attacks coming on to-morrow.”

“Pooh! fancy, my dear fellow,” said the Major, heartily; “I never saw you look better in my life.”

“That’s one of the chief signs,” replied Halibut, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I must go to-day.”

“I really cannot waive my right on account of your bilious attack,” said the Major haughtily.

“Your _right?_” said Halibut, with spirit.

“My right!” repeated the other. “I should have been there before you if you had not stopped me in the first place.”

“But I started first,” said Halibut.

“Prove it,” exclaimed the Major, warmly.

The other shrugged his shoulders.