“You want a wash and some breakfast,” she said, softly, “especially a wash. There's water and a towel, and while you're making yourself tidy I'll be getting breakfast.”
The skipper hobbled to the wash-stand, and, dipping his head in a basin of cool water, began to feel himself again. By the time he had done his hair in the sergeant's glass and twisted his moustache into shape he felt better still, and he went downstairs almost blithely.
“I'm very sorry it was your father,” he said, as he took a seat at the table. “Very.”
“That's why you laughed, I suppose?” said the girl, tossing her head.
“Well, I've had the worst of it,” said the other. “I'd sooner be upset a hundred times than spend a night in that cupboard. However, all's well that ends well.”
“Ah!” said Miss Pilbeam, dolefully, “but is it the end?”
Captain Bligh put down his knife and fork and eyed her uneasily.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Never mind; don't spoil your breakfast,” said the girl. “I'll tell you afterwards. It's horrid to think, after all my trouble, of your doing two months as well as a night in the cupboard.”
“Beastly,” said the unfortunate, eying her in great concern. “But what's the matter?”
“One can't think of everything,” said Miss Pilbeam, “but, of course, we ought to have thought of the mate getting uneasy when you didn't turn up last night, and going to the police-station with a description of you.”
The skipper started and smote the table with his fist.
“Father's gone down to watch the ship now,” said Miss Pilbeam. “Of course, it's the exact description of the man that assaulted him. Providential he called it.”
“That's the worst of having a fool for a mate,” said the skipper, bitterly. “What business was it of his, I should like to know? What's it got to do with him whether I turn up or not? What does he want to interfere for?”
“It's no good blaming him,” said Miss Pilbeam, thinking deeply, with her chin on her finger. “The thing is, what is to be done? Once father gets his hand on you——”
She shuddered; so did the skipper.
“I might get off with a fine; I didn't hurt him,” he remarked.
Miss Pilbeam shook her head. “They're very strict in Woodhatch,” she said.
“I was a fool to touch him at all,” said the repentant skipper. “High spirits, that's what it was. High spirits, and being spoken to as if I was a child.”
“The thing is, how are you to escape?” said the girl. “It's no good going out of doors with the police and half the people in Woodhatch all on the look-out for you.”
“If I could only get aboard I should be all right,” muttered the skipper. “I could keep down the fo'-c's'le while the mate took the ship out.”
Miss Pilbeam sat in deep thought. “It's the getting aboard that's the trouble,” she said, slowly. “You'd have to disguise yourself. It would have to be a good disguise, too, to pass my father, I can tell you.”
Captain Bligh gave a gloomy assent.
“The only thing for you to do, so far as I can see,” said the girl, slowly, “is to make yourself up like a coalie. There are one or two colliers in the harbor, and if you took off your coat—I could send it on afterwards—rubbed yourself all over with coal-dust, and shaved off your moustache, I believe you would escape.”
“Shave!” ejaculated the skipper, in choking accents. “Rub—! Coal-dust!”
“It's your only chance,” said Miss Pilbeam.
Captain Bligh leaned back frowning, and from sheer force of habit passed the ends of his moustache slowly through his fingers. “I think the coal-dust would be enough,” he said at last.
The girl shook her head. “Father particularly noticed your moustache,” she said.
“Everybody does,” said the skipper, with mournful pride. “I won't part with it.”
“Not for my sake?” inquired Miss Pilbeam, eying him mournfully. “Not after all I've done for you?”
“No,” said the other, stoutly.
Miss Pilbeam put her handkerchief to her eyes and, with a suspicious little sniff, hurried from the room. Captain Bligh, much affected, waited for a few seconds and then went in pursuit of her. Fifteen minutes later, shorn of his moustache, he stood in the coal-hole, sulkily smearing himself with coal.
“That's better,” said the girl; “you look horrible.”
She took up a handful of coal-dust and, ordering him to stoop, shampooed him with hearty good-will.
“No good half doing it,” she declared. “Now go and look at yourself in the glass in the kitchen.”
The skipper went, and came back in a state of wild-eyed misery. Even Miss Pilbeam's statement that his own mother would not know him failed to lift the cloud from his brow. He stood disconsolate as the girl opened the front door.
“Good-by,” she said, gently. “Write and tell me when you are safe.”
Captain Bligh promised, and walked slowly up the road. So far from people attempting to arrest him, they vied with each other in giving him elbow-room. He reached the harbor unmolested, and, lurking at a convenient corner, made a careful survey. A couple of craft were working out their coal, a small steamer was just casting loose, and a fishing-boat gliding slowly over the still water to its berth. His own schooner, which lay near the colliers, had apparently knocked off work pending his arrival. For Sergeant Pilbeam he looked in vain.
He waited a minute or two, and then, with a furtive glance right and left, strolled in a careless fashion until he was abreast of one of the colliers. Nobody took any notice of him, and, with his hands in his pockets, he gazed meditatively into the water and edged along towards his own craft. His foot trembled as he placed it on the plank that formed the gangway, but, resisting the temptation to look behind, he gained the deck and walked forward.
“Halloa! What do you want?” inquired a sea-man, coming out of the galley.
“All right, Bill,” said the skipper, in a low voice. “Don't take any notice of me.”
“Eh?” said the seaman, starting. “Good lor'! What ha' you——”
“Shut up!” said the skipper, fiercely; and, walking to the forecastle, placed his hand on the scuttle and descended with studied slowness. As he reached the floor the perturbed face of Bill blocked the opening.
“Had an accident, cap'n?” he inquired, respectfully.
“No,” snapped the skipper. “Come down here—quick! Don't stand up there attracting attention. Do you want the whole town round you? Come down!”
“I'm all right where I am,” said Bill, backing hastily as the skipper, putting a foot on the ladder, thrust a black and furious face close to his.
“Clear out, then,” hissed the skipper. “Go and send the mate to me. Don't hurry. And if anybody noticed me come aboard and should ask you who I am, say I'm a pal of yours.”
The seaman, marvelling greatly, withdrew, and the skipper, throwing himself on a locker, wiped a bit of grit out of his eye and sat down to wait for the mate. He was so long in coming that he waxed impatient, and ascending a step of the ladder again peeped on to the deck. The first object that met his gaze was the figure of the mate leaning against the side of the ship with a wary eye on the scuttle.
“Come here,” said the skipper.
“Anything wrong?” inquired the mate, retreating a couple of paces in disorder.
“Come—here!” repeated the skipper.
The mate advanced slowly, and in response to an imperative command from the skipper slowly descended and stood regarding him nervously.
“Yes; you may look,” said the skipper, with sudden ferocity. “This is all your doing. Where are you going?”
He caught the mate by the coat as he was making for the ladder, and hauled him back again.
“You'll go when I've finished with you,” he said, grimly. “Now, what do you mean by it? Eh? What do you mean by it?”
“That's all right,” said the mate, in a soothing voice. “Don't get excited.”
“Look at me!” said the skipper. “All through your interfering. How dare you go making inquiries about me?”
“Me?” said the mate, backing as far as possible. “Inquiries?”
“What's it got to do with you if I stay out all night?” pursued the skipper.
“Nothing,” said the other, feebly.
“What did you go to the police about me for, then?” demanded the skipper.
“Me?” said the mate, in the shrill accents of astonishment. “Me? I didn't go to no police about you. Why should I?”
“Do you mean to say you didn't report my absence last night to the police?” said the skipper, sternly.
“Cert'nly not,” said the mate, plucking up courage. “Why should I? If you like to take a night off it's nothing to do with me. I 'ope I know my duty better. I don't know what you're talking about.”
“And the police haven't been watching the ship and inquiring for me?” asked the skipper.
The mate shook his bewildered head. “Why should they?” he inquired.
The skipper made no reply. He sat goggle-eyed, staring straight before him, trying in vain to realize the hardness of the heart that had been responsible for such a scurvy trick.
“Besides, it ain't the fust time you've been out all night,” remarked the mate, aggressively.
The skipper favored him with a glance the dignity of which was somewhat impaired by his complexion, and in a slow and stately fashion ascended to the deck. Then he caught his breath sharply and paled beneath the coaldust as he saw Sergeant Pilbeam standing on the quay, opposite the ship. By his side stood Miss Pilbeam, and both, with a far-away look in their eyes, were smiling vaguely but contentedly at the horizon. The sergeant appeared to be the first to see the skipper.
“Ahoy, Darkie!” he cried.
Captain Bligh, who was creeping slowly aft, halted, and, clenching his fists, regarded him ferociously.
“Give this to the skipper, will you, my lad?” said the sergeant, holding up the jacket Bligh had left behind. “Good-looking young man with a very fine moustache he is.”
“Was,” said his daughter, in a mournful voice.
“And a rather dark complexion,” continued the sergeant, grinning madly. “I was going to take him—for stealing my coal—but I thought better of it. Thought of a better way. At least, my daughter did. So long, Darkie.”
He kissed the top of a fat middle finger, and, turning away, walked off with Miss Pilbeam. The skipper stood watching them with his head swimming until, arrived at the corner, they stopped and the sergeant came slowly back.
“I was nearly forgetting,” he said, slowly. “Tell your skipper that if so be as he wants to apologize—for stealing my coal—I shall be at home at tea at five o'clock.”
He jerked his thumb in the direction of Miss Pilbeam and winked with slow deliberation. “She'll be there, too,” he added. “Savvy?”
“MATRIMONIAL OPENINGS”
Mr. Dowson sat by the kitchen fire smoking and turning a docile and well-trained ear to the heated words which fell from his wife's lips.
“She'll go and do the same as her sister Jenny done,” said Mrs. Dowson, with a side glance at her daughter Flora; “marry a man and then 'ave to work and slave herself to skin and bone to keep him.”
“I see Jenny yesterday,” said her husband, nodding. “Getting quite fat, she is.”
“That's right,” said Mrs. Dowson, violently, “that's right! The moment I say something you go and try and upset it.”
“Un'ealthy fat, p'r'aps,” said Mr. Dowson, hurriedly; “don't get enough exercise, I s'pose.”
“Anybody who didn't know you, Joe Dowson,” said his wife, fiercely, “would think you was doing it a purpose.”
“Doing wot?” inquired Mr. Dowson, removing his pipe and regarding her open-mouthed. “I only said——”
“I know what you said,” retorted his wife. “Here I do my best from morning to night to make everybody 'appy and comfortable; and what happens?”
“Nothing,” said the sympathetic Mr. Dowson, shaking his head. “Nothing.”
“Anyway, Jenny ain't married a fool,” said Mrs. Dowson, hotly; “she's got that consolation.”
“That's right, mother,” said the innocent Mr. Dowson, “look on the bright side o' things a bit. If Jenny 'ad married a better chap I don't suppose we should see half as much of her as wot we do.”
“I'm talking of Flora,” said his wife, restraining herself by an effort. “One unfortunate marriage in the family is enough; and here, instead o' walking out with young Ben Lippet, who'll be 'is own master when his father dies, she's gadding about with that good-for-nothing Charlie Foss.”
Mr. Dowson shook his head. “He's so good-looking, is Charlie,” he said, slowly; “that's the worst of it. Wot with 'is dark eyes and his curly 'air——”
“Go on!” said his wife, passionately, “go on!”
Mr. Dowson, dimly conscious that something was wrong, stopped and puffed hard at his pipe. Through the cover of the smoke he bestowed a sympathetic wink upon his daughter.
“You needn't go on too fast,” said the latter, turning to her mother. “I haven't made up my mind yet. Charlie's looks are all right, but he ain't over and above steady, and Ben is steady, but he ain't much to look at.”
“What does your 'art say?” inquired the sentimental Mr. Dowson.
Neither lady took the slightest notice.
“Charlie Foss is too larky,” said Mrs. Dowson, solemnly; “it's easy come and easy go with 'im. He's just such another as your father's cousin Bill—and look what 'appened to him!”
Miss Dowson shrugged her shoulders and subsiding in her chair, went on with her book, until a loud knock at the door and a cheerful, but peculiarly shrill, whistle sounded outside.
“There is my lord,” exclaimed Mrs. Dowson, waspishly; “anybody might think the 'ouse belonged to him. And now he's dancing on my clean doorstep.”
“Might be only knocking the mud off afore coming in,” said Mr. Dowson, as he rose to open the door. “I've noticed he's very careful.”
“I just came in to tell you a joke,” said Mr. Foss, as he followed his host into the kitchen and gazed tenderly at Miss Dowson—“best joke I ever had in my life; I've 'ad my fortune told—guess what it was! I've been laughing to myself ever since.”
“Who told it?” inquired Mrs. Dowson, after a somewhat awkward silence.
“Old gypsy woman in Peter Street,” replied Mr. Foss. “I gave 'er a wrong name and address, just in case she might ha' heard about me, and she did make a mess of it; upon my word she did.”
“Wot did she say?” inquired Mr. Dowson.
Mr. Foss laughed. “Said I was a wrong 'un,” he said, cheerfully, “and would bring my mother's gray hairs to the grave with sorrow. I'm to 'ave bad companions and take to drink; I'm to steal money to gamble with, and after all that I'm to 'ave five years for bigamy. I told her I was disappointed I wasn't to be hung, and she said it would be a disappointment to a lot of other people too. Laugh! I thought I should 'ave killed myself.”
“I don't see nothing to laugh at,” said Mrs. Dowson, coldly.
“I shouldn't tell anybody else, Charlie,” said her husband. “Keep it a secret, my boy.”
“But you—you don't believe it?” stammered the crestfallen Mr. Foss.
Mrs. Dowson cast a stealthy glance at her daughter. “Its wonderful 'ow some o' those fortune-tellers can see into the future,” she said, shaking her head.
“Ah!” said her husband, with a confirmatory nod. “Wonderful is no name for it. I 'ad my fortune told once when I was a boy, and she told me I should marry the prettiest, and the nicest, and the sweetest-tempered gal in Poplar.”
Mr. Foss, with a triumphant smile, barely waited for him to finish. “There you—” he began, and stopped suddenly.
“What was you about to remark?” inquired Mrs. Dowson, icily.
“I was going to say,” replied Mr. Foss—“I was going to say—I 'ad just got it on the tip o' my tongue to say, 'There you—you—you 'ad all the luck, Mr. Dowson.'”
He edged his chair a little nearer to Flora; but there was a chilliness in the atmosphere against which his high spirits strove in vain. Mr. Dowson remembered other predictions which had come true, notably the case of one man who, learning that he was to come in for a legacy, gave up a two-pound-a-week job, and did actually come in for twenty pounds and a bird-cage seven years afterwards.
“It's all nonsense,” protested Mr. Foss; “she only said all that because I made fun of her. You don't believe it, do you, Flora?”
“I don't see anything to laugh at,” returned Miss Dowson. “Fancy five years for bigamy! Fancy the disgrace of it!”
“But you're talking as if I was going to do it,” objected Mr. Foss. “I wish you'd go and 'ave your fortune told. Go and see what she says about you. P'r'aps you won't believe so much in fortune-telling afterwards.”
Mrs. Dowson looked up quickly, and then, lowering her eyes, took her hand out of the stocking she had been darning and, placing it beside its companion, rolled the pair into a ball.
“You go round to-morrow night, Flora,” she said, deliberately. “It sha'n't be said a daughter of mine was afraid to hear the truth about herself; father'll find the money.”
“And she can say what she likes about you, but I sha'n't believe it,” said Mr. Foss, reproachfully.
“I don't suppose it'll be anything to be ashamed of,” said Miss Dowson, sharply.
Mr. Foss bade them good-night suddenly, and, finding himself accompanied to the door by Mr. Dowson, gave way to gloom. He stood for so long with one foot on the step and the other on the mat that Mr. Dowson, who disliked draughts, got impatient.
“You'll catch cold, Charlie,” he said at last.
“That's what I'm trying to do,” said Mr. Foss; “my death o' cold. Then I sha'n't get five years for bigamy,” he added bitterly.
“Cheer up,” said Mr. Dowson; “five years ain't much out of a lifetime; and you can't expect to 'ave your fun without—”
He watched the retreating figure of Mr. Foss as it stamped its way down the street, and closing the door returned to the kitchen to discuss palmistry and other sciences until bedtime.
Mrs. Dowson saw husband and daughter off to work in the morning, and after washing up the breakfast things drew her chair up to the kitchen fire and became absorbed in memories of the past. All the leading incidents in Flora's career passed in review before her. Measles, whooping-cough, school-prizes, and other things peculiar to the age of innocence were all there. In her enthusiasm she nearly gave her a sprained ankle which had belonged to her sister. Still shaking her head over her mistake, she drew Flora's latest portrait carefully from its place in the album, and putting on her hat and jacket went round to make a call in Peter Street.
By the time Flora returned home Mrs. Dowson appeared to have forgotten the arrangement made the night before, and, being reminded by her daughter, questioned whether any good could come of attempts to peer into the future. Mr. Dowson was still more emphatic, but his objections, being recognized by both ladies as trouser-pocket ones, carried no weight. It ended in Flora going off with half a crown in her glove and an urgent request from her father to make it as difficult as possible for the sibyl by giving a false name and address.
No name was asked for, however, as Miss Dowson was shown into the untidy little back room on the first floor, in which the sorceress ate, slept, and received visitors. She rose from an old rocking-chair as the visitor entered, and, regarding her with a pair of beady black eyes, bade her sit down.
“Are you the fortune-teller?” inquired the girl.
“Men call me so,” was the reply.
“Yes, but are you?” persisted Miss Dowson, who inherited her father's fondness for half crowns.
“Yes,” said the other, in a more natural voice.
She took the girl's left hand, and pouring a little dark liquid into the palm gazed at it intently. “Left for the past; right for the future,” she said, in a deep voice.
She muttered some strange words and bent her head lower over the girl's hand.
“I see a fair-haired infant,” she said, slowly; “I see a little girl of four racked with the whooping-cough; I see her later, eight she appears to be. She is in bed with measles.”
Miss Dowson stared at her open-mouthed.
“She goes away to the seaside to get strong,” continued the sorceress; “she is paddling; she falls into the water and spoils her frock; her mother——”
“Never mind about that,” interrupted the staring Miss Dowson, hastily. “I was only eight at the time and mother always was ready with her hands.”
“People on the beach smile,” resumed the other. “They—”
“It don't take much to make some people laugh,” said Miss Dowson, with bitterness.
“At fourteen she and a boy next door but seven both have the mumps.”
“And why not?” demanded Miss Dowson with great warmth. “Why not?”
“I'm only reading what I see in your hand,” said the other. “At fifteen I see her knocked down by a boat-swing; a boy from opposite brings her home.”
“Passing at the time,” murmured Miss Dowson.
“His head is done up with sticking-plaster. I see her apprenticed to a dressmaker. I see her——”
The voice went on monotonously, and Flora, gasping with astonishment, listened to a long recital of the remaining interesting points in her career.
“That brings us to the present,” said the soothsayer, dropping her hand. “Now for the future.”
She took the girl's other hand and poured some of the liquid into it. Miss Dowson shrank back.
“If it's anything dreadful,” she said, quickly, “I don't want to hear it. It—it ain't natural.”
“I can warn you of dangers to keep clear of,” said the other, detaining her hand. “I can let you peep into the future and see what to do and what to avoid. Ah!”
She bent over the girl's hand again and uttered little ejaculations of surprise and perplexity.
“I see you moving in gay scenes surrounded by happy faces,” she said, slowly. “You are much sought after. Handsome presents and fine clothes are showered upon you. You will cross the sea. I see a dark young man and a fair young man. They will both influence your life. The fair young man works in his father's shop. He will have great riches.”
“What about the other?” inquired Miss Dowson, after a somewhat lengthy pause.
The fortune-teller shook her head. “He is his own worst enemy,” she said, “and he will drag down those he loves with him. You are going to marry one of them, but I can't see clear—I can't see which.”
“Look again,” said the trembling Flora.
“I can't see,” was the reply, “therefore it isn't meant for me to see. It's for you to choose. I can see them now as plain as I can see you. You are all three standing where two roads meet. The fair young man is beckoning to you and pointing to a big house and a motor-car and a yacht.”
“And the other?” said the surprised Miss Dowson.
“He's in knickerbockers,” said the other, doubtfully. “What does that mean? Ah, I see! They've got the broad arrow on them, and he is pointing to a jail. It's all gone—I can see no more.”
She dropped the girl's hand and, drawing her hand across her eyes, sank back into her chair. Miss Dowson, with trembling fingers, dropped the half crown into her lap, and, with her head in a whirl, made her way downstairs.
After such marvels the streets seemed oddly commonplace as she walked swiftly home. She decided as she went to keep her knowledge to herself, but inclination on the one hand and Mrs. Dowson on the other got the better of her resolution. With the exception of a few things in her past, already known and therefore not worth dwelling upon, the whole of the interview was disclosed.
“It fair takes your breath away,” declared the astounded Mr. Dowson.
“The fair young man is meant for Ben Lippet,” said his wife, “and the dark one is Charlie Foss. It must be. It's no use shutting your eyes to things.”
“It's as plain as a pikestaff,” agreed her husband. “And she told Charlie five years for bigamy, and when she's telling Flora's Fortune she sees 'im in convict's clothes. How she does it I can't think.”
“It's a gift,” said Mrs. Dowson, briefly, “and I do hope that Flora is going to act sensible. Anyhow, she can let Ben Lippet come and see her, without going upstairs with the tooth-ache.”
“He can come if he likes,” said Flora; “though why Charlie couldn't have 'ad the motor-car and 'im the five years, I don't know.”
Mr. Lippet came in the next evening, and the evening after. In fact, so easy is it to fall into habits of an agreeable nature that nearly every evening saw him the happy guest of Mr. Dowson. A spirit of resignation, fostered by a present or two and a visit to the theatre, descended upon Miss Dowson. Fate and her mother combined were in a fair way to overcome her inclinations, when Mr. Foss, who had been out of town on a job, came in to hear the result of her visit to the fortune-teller, and found Mr. Lippet installed in the seat that used to be his.
At first Mrs. Dowson turned a deaf ear to his request for information, and it was only when his jocularity on the subject passed the bounds of endurance that she consented to gratify his curiosity.
“I didn't want to tell you,” she said, when she had finished, “but you asked for it, and now you've got it.”
“It's very amusing,” said Mr. Foss. “I wonder who the dark young man in the fancy knickers is?”
“Ah, I daresay you'll know some day,” said Mrs. Dowson.
“Was the fair young man a good-looking chap?” inquired the inquisitive Mr. Foss.
Mrs. Dowson hesitated. “Yes,” she said, defiantly.
“Wonder who it can be?” muttered Mr. Foss, in perplexity.
“You'll know that too some day, no doubt,” was the reply.
“I'm glad it's to be a good-looking chap,” he said; “not that I think Flora believes in such rubbish as fortune-telling. She's too sensible.”
“I do,” said Flora. “How should she know all the things I did when I was a little girl? Tell me that.”
“I believe in it, too,” said Mrs. Dowson. “P'r'aps you'll tell me I'm not sensible!”
Mr. Foss quailed at the challenge and relapsed into moody silence. The talk turned on an aunt of Mr. Lippet's, rumored to possess money, and an uncle who was “rolling” in it. He began to feel in the way, and only his native obstinacy prevented him from going.
It was a relief to him when the front door opened and the heavy step of Mr. Dowson was heard in the tiny passage. If anything it seemed heavier than usual, and Mr. Dowson's manner when he entered the room and greeted his guests was singularly lacking in its usual cheerfulness. He drew a chair to the fire, and putting his feet on the fender gazed moodily between the bars.
“I've been wondering as I came along,” he said at last, with an obvious attempt to speak carelessly, “whether this 'ere fortune-telling as we've been hearing so much about lately always comes out true.”
“It depends on the fortune-teller,” said his wife.
“I mean,” said Mr. Dowson, slowly, “I mean that gypsy woman that Charlie and Flora went to.”
“Of course it does,” snapped his wife. “I'd trust what she says afore anything.”
“I know five or six that she has told,” said Mr. Lippet, plucking up courage; “and they all believe 'er. They couldn't help themselves; they said so.”
“Still, she might make a mistake sometimes,” said Mr. Dowson, faintly. “Might get mixed up, so to speak.”
“Never!” said Mrs. Dowson, firmly.
“Never!” echoed Flora and Mr. Lippet.
Mr. Dowson heaved a big sigh, and his eye wandered round the room. It lighted on Mr. Foss.
“She's an old humbug,” said that gentleman. “I've a good mind to put the police on to her.”
Mr. Dowson reached over and gripped his hand. Then he sighed again.
“Of course, it suits Charlie Foss to say so,” said Mrs. Dowson; “naturally he'd say so; he's got reasons. I believe every word she says. If she told me I was coming in for a fortune I should believe her; and if she told me I was going to have misfortunes I should believe her.”
“Don't say that,” shouted Mr. Dowson, with startling energy. “Don't say that. That's what she did say!”
“What?” cried his wife, sharply. “What are you talking about?”
“I won eighteenpence off of Bob Stevens,” said her husband, staring at the table. “Eighteenpence is 'er price for telling the future only, and, being curious and feeling I'd like to know what's going to 'appen to me, I went in and had eighteenpennorth.”
“Well, you're upset,” said Mrs. Dowson, with a quick glance at him. “You get upstairs to bed.”
“I'd sooner stay 'ere,” said her husband, resuming his seat; “it seems more cheerful and lifelike. I wish I 'adn't gorn, that's what I wish.”
“What did she tell you?” inquired Mr. Foss.
Mr. Dowson thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and spoke desperately. “She says I'm to live to ninety, and I'm to travel to foreign parts——”
“You get to bed,” said his wife. “Come along.”
Mr. Dowson shook his head doggedly. “I'm to be rich,” he continued, slowly—“rich and loved. After my pore dear wife's death I'm to marry again; a young woman with money and stormy brown eyes.”
Mrs. Dowson sprang from her chair and stood over him quivering with passion. “How dare you?” she gasped. “You—you've been drinking.”
“I've 'ad two arf-pints,” said her husband, solemnly. “I shouldn't 'ave 'ad the second only I felt so miserable. I know I sha'n't be 'appy with a young woman.”
Mrs. Dowson, past speech, sank back in her chair and stared at him.
“I shouldn't worry about it if I was you, Mrs. Dowson,” said Mr. Foss, kindly. “Look what she said about me. That ought to show you she ain't to be relied on.”
“Eyes like lamps,” said Mr. Dowson, musingly, “and I'm forty-nine next month. Well, they do say every eye 'as its own idea of beauty.”
A strange sound, half laugh and half cry, broke from the lips of the over-wrought Mrs. Dowson. She controlled herself by an effort.
“If she said it,” she said, doggedly, with a fierce glance at Mr. Foss, “it'll come true. If, after my death, my 'usband is going to marry a young woman with—with——”
“Stormy brown eyes,” interjected Mr. Foss, softly.
“It's his fate and it can't be avoided,” concluded Mrs. Dowson.
“But it's so soon,” said the unfortunate husband. “You're to die in three weeks and I'm to be married three months after.”
Mrs. Dowson moistened her lips and tried, but in vain, to avoid the glittering eye of Mr. Foss. “Three!” she said, mechanically, “three! three weeks!”
“Don't be frightened,” said Mr. Foss, in a winning voice. “I don't believe it; and, besides, we shall soon see! And if you don't die in three weeks, perhaps I sha'n't get five years for bigamy, and perhaps Flora won't marry a fair man with millions of money and motor-cars.”
“No; perhaps she is wrong after all, mother,” said Mr. Dowson, hopefully.
Mrs. Dowson gave him a singularly unkind look for one about to leave him so soon, and, afraid to trust herself to speech, left the room and went up-stairs. As the door closed behind her, Mr. Foss took the chair which Mr. Lippet had thoughtlessly vacated, and offered such consolations to Flora as he considered suitable to the occasion.
ODD MAN OUT
The night watchman pursed up his lips and shook his head. Friendship, he said, decidedly, is a deloosion and a snare. I've 'ad more friendships in my life than most people—owing to being took a fancy to for some reason or other—and they nearly all came to a sudden ending.
I remember one man who used to think I couldn't do wrong; everything I did was right to 'im; and now if I pass 'im in the street he makes a face as if he'd got a hair in 'is mouth. All because I told 'im the truth one day when he was thinking of getting married. Being a bit uneasy-like in his mind, he asked me 'ow, supposing I was a gal, his looks would strike me.
It was an orkard question, and I told him that he 'ad got a good 'art and that no man could 'ave a better pal. I said he 'ad got a good temper and was free with 'is money. O' course, that didn't satisfy 'im, and at last he told me to take a good look at 'im and tell him wot I thought of 'is looks. There was no getting out of it, and at last I 'ad to tell him plain that everybody 'ad diff'rent ideas about looks; that looks wasn't everything; and that 'andsome is as 'andsome does. Even then 'e wasn't satisfied, and at last I told 'im, speaking as a pal to a pal, that if I was a gal and he came along trying to court me, I should go to the police about it.
I remember two young fellers that was shipmates with me some years ago, and they was such out-and-out pals that everybody called 'em the Siamese twins. They always shipped together and shared lodgings together when they was ashore, and Ted Denver would no more 'ave thought of going out without Charlie Brice than Charlie Brice would 'ave thought of going out without 'im. They shared their baccy and their money and everything else, and it's my opinion that if they 'ad only 'ad one pair o' boots between 'em they'd 'ave hopped along in one each.
They 'ad been like it for years, and they kept it up when they left the sea and got berths ashore. Anybody knowing them would ha' thought that nothing but death could part 'em; but it happened otherwise.
There was a gal in it, of course. A gal that Ted Denver got into conversation with on top of a bus, owing to her steadying 'erself by putting her hand on 'is shoulder as she passed 'im. Bright, lively sort o' gal she seemed, and, afore Ted knew where he was, they was talking away as though they 'ad known each other for years.
Charlie didn't seem to care much for it at fust, but he didn't raise no objection; and when the gal got up to go he stopped the bus for 'er by poking the driver in the back, and they all got off together. Ted went fust to break her fall, in case the bus started off too sudden, and Charlie 'elped her down behind by catching hold of a lace collar she was wearing. When she turned to speak to 'im about it, she knocked the conductor's hat off with 'er umbrella, and there was so much unpleasantness that by the time they 'ad got to the pavement she told Charlie that she never wanted to see his silly fat face agin.
“It ain't fat,” ses Ted, speaking up for 'im; “it's the shape of it.”
“And it ain't silly,” ses Charlie, speaking very quick; “mind that!”
“It's a bit o' real lace,” ses the gal, twisting her 'ead round to look at the collar; “it cost me one and two-three only last night.”
“One an' wot?” ses Charlie, who, not being a married man, didn't understand 'er.
“One shilling,” ses the gal, “two pennies, and three farthings. D'ye understand that?”
“Yes,” ses Charlie.
“He's cleverer than he looks,” ses the gal, turning to Ted. “I s'pose you're right, and it is the shape after all.”
Ted walked along one side of 'er and Charlie the other, till they came to the corner of the road where she lived, and then Ted and 'er stood there talking till Charlie got sick and tired of it, and kept tugging at Ted's coat for 'im to come away.
“I'm coming,” ses Ted, at last. “I s'pose you won't be this way to-morrow night?” he ses, turning to the gal.
“I might if I thought there was no chance of seeing you,” she ses, tossing her 'ead.
“You needn't be alarmed,” ses Charlie, shoving in his oar; “we're going to a music-'all to-morrow night.”
“Oh, go to your blessed music-'all,” ses the gal to Ted; “I don't want you.”
She turned round and a'most ran up the road, with Ted follering 'er and begging of 'er not to be so hasty, and afore they parted she told 'im that 'er name was Emma White, and promised to meet 'im there the next night at seven.
O' course Mr. Charlie Brice turned up alongside o' Ted the next night, and at fust Emma said she was going straight off 'ome agin. She did go part o' the way, and then, when she found that Ted wouldn't send his mate off, she came back and, woman-like, said as 'ow she wasn't going to go 'ome just to please Charlie Brice. She wouldn't speak a word to 'im, and when they all went to the music-'all together she sat with her face turned away from 'im and her elbow sticking in 'is chest. Doing that and watching the performance at the same time gave 'er a stiff neck, and she got in such a temper over it she wouldn't hardly speak to Ted, and when Charlie—meaning well—told 'er to rub it with a bit o' mutton-fat she nearly went off her 'ead.
“Who asked you to come with us?” she ses, as soon as she could speak. “'Ow dare you force yourself where you ain't wanted?”
“Ted wants me,” ses Charlie.
“We've been together for years,” ses Ted. “You'll like Charlie when you get used to 'im—everybody does.”
“Not me!” ses Emma, with a shiver. “It gives me the fair creeps to look at him. You'll 'ave to choose between us. If he comes, I sha'n't. Which is it to be?”
Neither of 'em answered 'er, but the next night they both turned up as usual, and Emma White stood there looking at 'em and nearly crying with temper.
“'Ow would you like it if I brought another young lady with me?” she ses to Ted.
“It wouldn't make no difference to me,” ses Ted. “Any friend o' yours is welcome.”
Emma stood looking at 'em, and then she patted 'er eyes with a pocket-'ankercher and began to look more cheerful.
“You ain't the only one that has got a dear friend,” she says, looking at 'im and wiping 'er lips with the 'ankercher. “I've got one, and if Charlie Brice don't promise to stay at 'ome to-morrow night I'll bring her with me.”
“Bring 'er, and welcome,” ses Ted.
“I sha'n't stay at 'ome for fifty dear friends,” ses Charlie.
“Have it your own way,” ses Emma. “If you come, Sophy Jennings comes, that's all.”
She was as good as 'er word, too, and next night when they turned up they found Emma and 'er friend waiting for them. Charlie thought it was the friend's mother at fust, but he found out arterwards that she was a widder-woman. She had 'ad two husbands, and both of 'em 'ad passed away with a smile on their face. She seemed to take a fancy to Charlie the moment she set eyes on 'im, and two or three times, they'd 'ave lost Ted and Emma if it hadn't been for 'im.