The Cruise of the "Scandal", and other stories

The Strange Adventure of Mr. Bates

I

Through the uncurtained window the yellow light of the bar parlour streamed out into the darkness of the November night. Standing in the road, his hand fingering the two odd coppers in his trousers pocket, Mr. William Bates gazed irresolutely at the inviting gleam. He was weighing the relative merits of a fire and a glass of beer at the present moment against those of a crude but satisfying breakfast of bread and cheese on the following morning. A clink of glasses, followed by a sudden burst of laughter, seemed to decide the matter, for, casting forethought aside, he advanced up the cobbled pathway and pushed open the door of the little country inn.

He found himself in a small, low-ceilinged room, lit by a hanging lamp. A wood fire was smouldering away on the open hearth, and round its fragrant glow two or three men were seated in various attitudes of convivial comfort. They all looked up as he entered.

Mr. Bates, being an unobtrusive person by nature, seated himself quietly on an oak settle against the wall. An enormously stout man, who had discarded his coat and was smoking a much-coloured churchwarden, rose slowly from his chair.

"Even," he remarked in a genial rumble. "Nasty night, ain't it?"

Mr. Bates nodded and shivered.

"Come a bit closer to the fire, mate," went on the landlord, for such was evidently the stout gentleman's calling. "You look fair perished."

Two of the men moved back their chairs, and Mr. Bates, accepting the invitation, shifted into a vacant seat at the corner of the hearth.

"Glass of beer, please," he said, as the landlord, with an interrogative glance, threw up a small wooden partition that communicated with the bar.

The refreshment having arrived, and Mr. Bates having parted with three of his four last half-pennies, the general conversation interrupted by his entrance was resumed.

"Seems to be something funny about it," observed the landlord, looking across at the thin man with gaiters who was sitting on the edge of the table.

"Blooming funny!" emphasized the local postman.

"Well, that were his message, any'ow. 'E says: 'Tell 'Orniman that I'll be along with my box by 'alf-past nine, and that I'll be wanting to sleep the night,' 'E's 'ad a proper row with the old man and chucked 'is job—that's what 'e's done."

"Got the sack, more like," observed the postman, spitting ironically into the fire.

"That's as it may be; anyway, I've gived the message."

"What's the Professor going to do?" inquired the landlord.

"Ah," said the man with gaiters. "Advertise for summon else, I suppose. 'E won't 'ave no women about the place, that's certain."

"Job worth 'aving," put in a red-whiskered man who had not previously spoken—"at least, judgin' by the amount o' drink Andrew got through."

"No one can say as Andrew weren't free with 'is money," observed the gaitered man.

"If it were 'is money," put in the postman unkindly.

There was a sound of steps outside, and the sudden thud of a heavy weight on the ground.

"Here 'i is," said the landlord.

The door swung open, and Mr. Bates, looking up, saw a man enter. He was a pale-faced, sandy-haired individual, with a sharp nose, watery eyes, and a general air of somewhat dissipated insolence.

"Good 'evenin', gentlemen all," he remarked. "Hallo, Potter! Give me message to Horniman?"

"That's all right, Mr. Andrew," answered the landlord. "There's a room upstairs if you want one. I'll send George along to get your box in."

"Wot's the meanin' of all this 'ere bust up?" inquired the red-whiskered man, as the new-comer settled himself down with a large glass of Hollands in front of him.

Mr. Andrew laughed with a fine assumption of independence. "Jest got sick of the old swine, and told 'im so," he replied. "Nearly 'ad a fit when I gave 'im notice."

"Must 'a' bin a blow to 'im," said the postman. "Did you get your last week's wages?"

Mr. Andrew looked across coldly. "He offered me a cheque," he said, "but I told 'im to keep it and get 'is 'air cut."

"And then you woke up, I s'pose," added the postman.

"What'll the Professor do without you, Mr. Andrew?" inquired the landlord, anxious to relieve the somewhat strained situation.

"Have to look after 'imself for a day or two, I 'ope, and I've left some work for 'im, I'll warrant you. There's all yesterday's things unwashed, 'is rotten old boots dirty, the stores mixed up, and every window and door in the place unfastened. I only 'ope," he added viciously, "as some tramp'll come along and clean out the whole place before 'e finds out! I'd 'alf a mind to chalk up a notice on the gate opposite, sayin' that the kitchen windows at The Firs was unlatched, and that there was plenty of grub and drink for any one who chose to walk in and 'elp themselves."

In the laughter that followed this spirited harangue, Mr. Bates turned to his next-door neighbour, a quiet man who had not spoken yet, and inquired in a subdued voice:

"The Firs? Ain't that the house I passed coming along—a little white place standing back on the left?"

"That's it, mate," answered the other. "Professor Stenson's. Andrew 'ere was 'is servant."

"Seems to me," observed the gentleman with gaiters, addressing the hero of the evening, "as you've got your own back out of him."

Mr. Andrew grinned complacently. "I don't believe in bein' put on," he admitted. "One man's as good as another, I say, and I like to be treated with proper respect."

"And not kicked out of the 'ouse, like a thief, at a minute's notice," added the postman.

There was a moment of unpleasant silence.

"If you're trying to insinooate—" began Mr. Andrew hotly.

"I ain't trying to insinooate nothing," said the postman. "It's my opinion as the Professor's a gentleman—a proper gentleman 'e is, and 'e always treated you a sight too well. If I'd been in 's shoes, you'd 'ave been out of it long ago. That's my opinion, Mister Andrew, and if you don't like it, you can shove it in your pipe and dam well smoke it."

So saying, the postman emptied his pot of beer, and, buttoning his uniform, rose defiantly to his feet. Before the heated atmosphere had a chance to burst, however, the landlord again intervened, this time with the full majesty of law behind him.

"One minute past ten!" he cried, snapping a huge watch which he had extracted from the depths of his waistcoat. "I'll be losin' my licence, standin' 'ere listenin' to your jokin'. Come along, George—get up the shutters."

George, an aged, lop-sided gentleman, shuffled out from the bar, and the whole company, with the exception of the indignant and heavily breathing Mr. Andrew, rose reluctantly to their feet. There was a general feeling of disappointment that such a promising situation should have come to so tame a conclusion.

Mr. Bates passed through the door with the rest into the darkness outside.

Though it was not actually raining, only a shameless optimist could have described it as a fine night. A raw November mist brooded unpleasantly over everything, offering a dismal contrast to the warmth and brightness of the little bar-parlour. Under the circumstances, nobody stayed to gossip on the doorstep, even the thrilling topic of Mr. Andrew's resignation being mutually abandoned. There was a general turning up of coat-collars, the flare of a match, a "Good-night, Tom!"—"Comin' my way, Potter?" and all the late revellers clumped away to their respective homes—all of them, that is to say, except Mr. Bates. He, unfortunately, had no home to go to.

He stood still, listening to the retreating footsteps. Then, with a faint sigh, he thrust his hands into his pockets and began to walk slowly back along the road in the direction from which he had arrived at the inn.

He had covered nearly a quarter of a mile in this fashion when a few yards ahead the dull yellow blue of an oil lamp suddenly appeared through the mist. Mr. Bates stopped and began to peer anxiously through the gloom on his left.

"Ought to be jest about here," he muttered, "if I ain't made a mistake." The shadowy outline of a white gate rewarded his efforts. He climbed carefully over it, and feeling his way by means of a wall that ran at right angles to the road, arrived at a low stone building, which, as far as could be seen in the darkness, bore the appearance of a discarded cowshed.

Through an aperture that in more spacious days had probably been the site of a doorway, Mr. Bates passed in to his hotel. It was black inside, with that peculiar quality of blackness which seems to affect the breathing power, and there was a faint odour of immemorial cows. Mr. Bates struck a match, and by its spluttering light glanced nervously about him. Against the opposite wall he detected a rough manger, which seemed to be free of some of the less pleasing features of the floor. A year ago Mr. Bates might have sniffed at its possibilities as a bedstead, but recent experience had rendered him less critical. Igniting a second match, he made a further inspection, which resulted in the discovery of a couple of indescribably filthy sacks. One of these he rolled up into a pillow and placed in the manger, and then, scrambling in himself and lying down, he drew the other luxuriously over his tired limbs. Some twenty minutes later the sound of deep, steady breathing showed that he was temporarily oblivious of the discomforts of the ill-arranged planet.

II

One—two—three—four—five.

The last stroke of the village church clock died slowly away, and only the dreary, persistent patter of the rain upon the dead leaves disturbed the uncanny stillness of a sleeping world.

Mr. Bates stood irresolutely in the wet darkness, his hand upon the gate which led into the domains of Professor Stenson. At last, very cautiously, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

Before him lay the drive, lined by laurels and overhung by several gaunt, leafless elms. It was even blacker than the roadway. Step by step he felt his way along, till all of a sudden the shrubbery came to an end, and he found himself at the edge of a small gravelled space facing the front door.

At the side of the house he could just discern a path, which appeared to run round to the back. Crouching down and moving his feet as noiselessly as possible, he advanced along it, keeping one hand against the ivy-clad wall to guide his steps.

After about twelve yards of this uncomfortable progress, he came round the corner into a small square yard. There was a back door with two windows on either side of it, while above these again were, apparently three rooms. All were in complete darkness.

With his heart in his mouth, Mr. Bates crept up to the first window and peered through. He could see nothing. It was like staring into a sheet of black paper. For a second he hesitated, and then, placing his hand against the sash of the bottom pane, gave it a gentle tentative push. It yielded instantly to his pressure, sliding up a matter of two or three inches with a wheezy rattle that made him start back in a fresh access of alarm. Surely someone must have heard it! He half turned to run, and then paused irresolutely, his ears strained for the first sound of any movement within the house.

Nothing happened, however, and, after waiting several minutes, Mr. Bates regained his courage. Very gingerly he again raised the sash, and with extreme caution inserted his head through the empty window-frame. It was the kitchen; of that there could be no doubt, an unpleasing odour of boiled cabbage and damp clothes and dirty plates attesting to the professional deficiencies of the owner's late servant.

Raising himself upon his hands, Mr. Bates lifted his leg and scrambled in noiselessly over the sill. Then he felt in his pocket for a match. By the aid of a dry portion of his trousers he struck it without any superfluous noise, and, shading it with his hand, gazed nervously about him.

It was evident that Mr. Andrew's vaunt had not been an entirely idle one. The room was in a state of shocking disorder. Heaped up anyhow on the table were the dirty appliances of at least three meals. A mountainous pile of ashes beneath the grate bore eloquent testimony to daily tasks neglected, and at least three pairs of uncleaned boots scattered about the floor did nothing to remove the impression. Mr. Bates looked round with a disapproving and disgusted eye. A tidy man by nature and training, his fingers itched to set about this confusion.

The flame of the match reaching his thumb, however, reminded him sharply that he was there upon other and more pressing business. Dropping the charred stump with a mild and whispered oath, he ignited a second, and by its light perceived, on the further side of the apartment, an open door leading into a larder. On a shelf against the wall he could just detect the outline of a cold chicken, apparently still intact.

Mr. Bates did not wait for an invitation. In a moment he had crossed the floor and entered this attractive storehouse. Seizing the chicken, he held up the match and gazed round for further contributions. Half a loaf of bread was the first object to meet his eye, and this, together with a small piece of German sausage, which he found on a plate behind it, satisfied his requirements. Thrusting his booty under his arm, and throwing down his second match, which by this time had burnt itself away, he stepped out into the darkness of the kitchen. As he did so, a slight sound made him pause. An instant later there was a sharp click, and then a blinding flare of electric light suddenly flooded the room.

Mr. Bates staggered back against the wall, his plunder and his jaw dropping at the same moment. An elderly gentleman in a Jaeger dressing-gown with a revolver in his hand, was leaning comfortably against the kitchen door. He was clean-shaven, with longish white hair. A pleasant, if somewhat ironical, smile lurked about his face.

"Flagrante delicto, Mr. Burglar," he remarked, "or, to use a language with which you are possibly better acquainted, caught in the act, eh?"

Mr. Bates licked his lips, which felt very dry. "Yes, sir," he whispered.

"You will oblige me by keeping your hands above your head. Thank you. Now permit me to introduce myself. My name is Professor Stenson."

"Yes, sir," repeated Mr. Bates hoarsely.

"And yours, my friend?"

"William Bates, sir."

"And if you won't think me inquisitive, Mr. Bates, may I ask what you are doing in my house at this time in the morning?"

Mr. Bates wriggled, his eyes glued on the muzzle of the revolver.

"The fact is, sir," he jerked out, "I was hungry, sir."

"Ah," said the Professor, "and I suppose you mistook The Firs for an hotel. That is the worst of modern architecture—it has no distinctive note."

With this statement Mr. Bates apparently agreed. At all events, he offered no comment on it. When he spoke again, which he did after a brief pause, his topic was of an altogether different nature.

"If you please, sir," he stammered nervously, "would you mind not pointing that thing at me, sir? It might go off."

"I have no particular wish to point it at you," replied the Professor. "The posture is both fatiguing and ridiculous. If you will take your coat off and place it on the floor, so that I can see that you are not armed, I shall be delighted to assume a less martial attitude. Be good enough to keep your hands from your pockets while you are doing it, or I shall shoot you without hesitation."

With shaking fingers Mr. Bates proceeded to disrobe, being very careful to hold his tattered garment by the extreme edge. Having shed it, he stood in his shirt-sleeves, looking about as dishevelled and miserable a housebreaker as ever cracked a crib.

His captor gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then lowered his weapon. Mr. Bates breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"And now we are at our ease," said the Professor, "I should be interested to hear a little more about you. If you won't think me insulting, your methods, from the technical point of view, appear to be deplorably amateurish. Why didn't you lock the kitchen door?"

There was something in the Professor's tone which made Mr. Bates feel a shade less like a trapped rat. He even drew himself up with a pathetic effort at courage.

"I assure you, sir," he said earnestly, "I am no burglar."

The Professor looked at him quizzically.

"I am inclined to agree with you, Mr. Bates," he said.

"It was very wrong of me to come in here, sir, I admit, but I was hungry, sir—desperately hungry—and I knew I should find some food inside. I assure you, sir, I had no intention of taking away anything else."

"And may I inquire why you were so certain about the contents of my kitchen? Indeed, how did you even know it was the kitchen?"

"If you please, sir, it was hearing what Mr. Andrew said at the inn last night."

A sudden look of illumination flashed across the Professor's face.

"Oh," he said, "so that is how the land lies, is it? I am indebted to the gentle Andrew for the pleasure of your acquaintance, eh? Well, come, come, don't be reticent, my friend; let us have the whole story."

Bit by bit, with his eye still on the revolver, Mr. Bates proceeded to relate the incidents of the previous night, from the time of his entry into the inn. The Professor listened to him without interrupting, the same curious, half-ironical, half-good-natured smile playing all the time about his mouth. Once, when he heard of the postman's final remark, he laughed out loud.

"So Mercury is evidently a gentleman of penetration," he observed. "What did you think of Andrew yourself, Mr. Bates?"

"I didn't like him at all, sir. He seemed to me a shifty, incompetent fellow, and insolent, sir—very insolent."

"I dare say you are right," said the Professor. "He was only insolent to me once, but that may have been for lack of a second opportunity. Shifty he certainly was, and as for incompetence—well, look at the state of this kitchen, Mr. Bates."

Mr. Bates looked. "Yes, sir," he said warmly, "it's disgraceful. It was the first thing I noticed as I came in. When I was—" He stopped abruptly.

"Well, well, well, when you were what? Let us have it, my friend."

"I was going to say, sir, that, when I was in service, I should have died of shame if any one had seen my kitchen in such a state."

The Professor raised his eyebrows. "When you were in service, eh? So you have risen in the world, Mr. Bates! And how long is it since you have exchanged the livery for the crape and jack-boots?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"When was your last professional engagement?"

"I have been out of a place, sir, since I left Mr. Houghton, eighteen months ago."

"And what were you doing for Mr. Houghton?"

"Everything, sir. He was a bachelor gentleman, and didn't care to have women servants about the house, so I looked after him entirely."

"Dear me! How extremely fortunate!" exclaimed the Professor. "Your visit is what the vicar would call almost providential, Mr. Bates. Before I discharge my duty as a citizen, by handing you over to the local policeman, you will be able to straighten out all this distressing confusion for me. If you do it efficiently, it will doubtless be taken into consideration by the magistrate."

"Yes, sir," murmured Mr. Bates dejectedly.

"Well, suppose we start upon the boots, then. It will be pleasant to have a pair of boots properly cleaned again. You will find the brushes and some blacking in that cupboard."

Mr. Bates opened the door and took out the articles in question. He then collected the three pairs of boots which were scattered about the floor, and silently set to work. The Professor, sitting on a corner of the kitchen table, with the revolver dangling in his hand, watched him with amused interest.

When the last boot was finished and laid aside, he got up.

"Your work reflects great credit on you, Mr. Bates," he remarked approvingly. "I shall be proud to wear them. Do you think you are equally skilful at washing up plates and dishes?"

"I think so, sir," said Mr. Bates meekly.

"Well, we may as well make certain, eh? Suppose you collect some of these and bring them into the scullery."

He pushed open a third door, and turned on a switch.

"There is a gas-stove in here, so we can have plenty of hot water in a few minutes."

Scraping the various remnants from the plates and dishes, Mr. Bates heaped the latter up into two piles and carried them into the scullery. The Professor meanwhile had filled a large washing-up pan with water and placed it on the stove.

"While we are waiting for it to boil," he said, "you might tell me a little more about your past history. In view of your accomplishments, how did Mr. Houghton ever bring himself to part with you?"

"Please, sir, he died."

"A pity," said the Professor. "But surely you should have found little difficulty in obtaining another place?"

Mr. Bates hung his head.

The Professor looked at him. "Ah," he said, after a short pause. "I thought there must be some reason. Come, Mr. Bates, what's the trouble? Never be afraid to speak the truth."

"I was out of a place for about three months, sir, and—and my wife got very ill, sir, and I had spent all my savings. The doctor said that the only chance of saving her was to send her out of London. I went to call on a gentleman about a place, and while I was waiting, sir, I—I—I saw a couple of sovereigns on the mantelpiece, and I took them, sir."

"That was very wrong of you, Mr. Bates," said the Professor.

"Yes, sir."

"What happened?"

"The money was missed, and I was arrested, sir. The magistrate was very good to me. He might have sent me to prison, but he only bound me over. I am very grateful to him, sir. Still, that finished me as far as work was concerned, sir."

"And your wife?"

Mr. Bates suddenly began to cry. "My wife is dead, sir."

"Dear me," said the Professor, turning his head away, "dear me!"

There was a short pause, during which Mr. Bates began mechanically to wash up. The Professor sat in silence while plate after plate was cleaned and put aside. When both piles were finished, he looked up at the small clock which was ticking away on the mantelpiece. The time was about five-and-twenty minutes to seven.

"It is a little early for breakfast," he remarked, "but I think that, as you are here, Mr. Bates, I will take advantage of the fact by getting you to cook me some eggs and bacon. There ought to be plenty, unless Andrew has excelled himself."

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Bates.

The Professor went out into the larder, returning almost immediately with the required provisions.

"If you will cook these," he said, "I will go on with laying the table."

"Oh, don't you trouble, sir—I can do it, sir," protested Mr. Bates.

"Please do what you are asked, Mr. Bates. And you might make some tea at the same time; the canister is on the shelf above you."

"Yes, sir."

"And bring it all into the kitchen as soon as it is ready."

"Yes, sir."

The fragrant smell of the hissing eggs and bacon was the most exquisite torture to Mr. Bates. An agonised longing to seize some of the food and stuff it into his mouth almost dazed him with its intensity. Nevertheless, he firmly proceeded with his task, turning out a succulent steaming dish, just cooked to precisely the right point. Then he made the tea, and taking down a plate which he had put to warm, placed the whole lot upon a tray, and carried it into the kitchen. The Professor was sitting at the table, which was laid for two.

"Excellent," he said, taking off the cover and looking at the contents. "But how is this—you have only brought one hot plate?"

"I thought that was all you would require, sir."

"But there is yourself, Mr. Bates. I laid a place for you under the impression that you were hungry."

"Oh, sir," said Mr. Bates, with a little gasp, "if I may have something outside, sir! I—I should hardly like to sit down with you, sir."

The Professor raised his eyebrows again. "Really, Mr. Bates, a little more self-respect, if you please. You must remember that you are a burglar now, not a valet."

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Bates seated himself in the second chair, and the Professor, whose appetite seemed suddenly to have vanished, helped him to about seven-eighths of the eggs and bacon. Mr. Bates fell upon them with as much ferocity as his professional refinement would permit.

The Professor handed him a cup of tea, and after watching him for a minute, got up and walked to where a telephone was fastened to the wall. He took off the receiver.

"Are you there?" he said. "Please put me on to the London Exchange. Yes, thank you. Don't you bother, Mr. Bates, go on with your breakfast. Is that the Exchange? I want 400 City. Yes. Help yourself to some more tea when you want it, Mr. Bates. Are you there? Is that Scotland Yard? Professor Stenson. Would you ask Inspector Green to come to the telephone? All right. You will find some marmalade in the white pot, Mr. Bates. Is that you, Green? Yes. I want you to do something for me. It's just to look up the record of a man named William Bates, who was bound over at—where was it, Mr. Bates?—ah—Marylebone, on—what date?—May 7th. I should like to have any information you possess."

He turned and contemplated Mr. Bates, who was staring at him with his mouth open.

"Wonderful invention, the telephone, isn't it, Mr. Bates?" he remarked. "It keeps us so in touch with the actual facts of existence. But don't let my private business interfere with your breakfast. You must be hungry after your somewhat uncomfortable night."

Mr. Bates said nothing. He seemed content to stare and eat.

Another minute or two elapsed. "Yes, I'm here," said the Professor suddenly, turning again to the instrument. "Thanks." A pause. "What—what's that?" Another and longer pause. "Oh, thanks very much. Yes, that's all. I shall probably see you Wednesday. I hope to look in about that Stevenson case. Yes. Good-bye."

He hung up the receiver.

"Well, Mr. Bates," said he, approaching the table, "it appears that you have spoken the truth."

Mr. Bates gulped down his last mouthful.

"Yes, sir," he said.

The Professor eyed him for a moment severely.

"It is, of course, my duty," he said, "to hand you over to the law."

"Yes, sir."

"But, being opposed to carrying duty to too logical an extreme, I am prepared to make you an alternative offer. If you would care to take the place of the professionally defunct Mr. Andrew, I am willing to give you a trial. Your work would be to devote the same care and skill to my comfort that you doubtless bestowed upon the late Mr. Houghton. Your wages will be fifty pounds a year, and I shall give you a fortnight's holiday."

For a naturally reserved and properly trained servant, Mr. Bates's response was unpardonable. Rising to his feet, he staggered round the table, and falling on his knees in front of the Professor, began feebly groping for the latter's hand. He was sobbing so loudly that it was difficult to hear what he said. It sounded like:

"Thank you—oh, thank you, sir! God bless you, sir!"

For the third time the Professor raised his eyebrows.

"Really, Bates," he said, "a little more self-control, if you please. You must remember that you are a valet now, not a burglar."

A Bit of Old Chelsea

We were strolling through the restful streets of Chelsea when we came suddenly upon a picturesque little tavern close to the Thames. It was half covered with ivy, and from the wooden balcony above, long trailing geraniums hung down and mingled with the dark green leaves. There was a weather-beaten signboard with a picture of a cunning-looking man in a cocked hat. It was called the "Lord Nelson."

"That's a quaint old place," said George carelessly.

"Very," I replied; "so picturesque."

"I wonder what it's like inside. Shall we have a look?"

"Certainly," I said.

I always try to fall in with my friend's wishes, even when I don't approve of them. I may be wrong, but that is my idea of friendship.

George is a journalist with a strange craving for the interiors of taverns. He says they are such excellent places in which to study character. From the outsider's point of view studying character seems to be the chief part of journalism, and I should think few men worked harder at it than George does.

We pushed open a door marked "Saloon," and found ourselves in a narrow compartment just large enough to contain four people without inconvenience. One of the seats was already occupied by an amiable-looking wreck, who was fast asleep with his head on the counter. The public bar exactly opposite contained five or six navvies in various stages of intoxication, and the barman, a smart-looking man of about thirty-five, was attending to their wants.

"Seems a bit tired," remarked George, looking critically at our companion.

"Been studying too much character," I suggested.

George was just beginning a sarcastic reply when the barman came across to take our orders. We decided on two glasses of what I once heard a temperance lecturer describe as "hell-filling alcohol," and while the barman was getting them ready George entered into conversation with him.

"Who's our friend?" he inquired, indicating the recumbent reveller in the corner.

"Dunno 'is name," said the barman, snipping the wire off the Perrier. "Calls 'im Billy Borndrunk round 'ere, and 'e seems satisfied."

"Got a pretty tough lot opposite, haven't you?" I asked.

The barman's face assumed an expression of intense disgust.

"Trash," he remarked. "They're mendin' the Embankment, and come along 'ere after work. They fair mop it, I can tell yer, and then they gits narsty. I'll 'ave to learn 'em something afore I'm done with 'em."

He was only five-foot-six, but he spoke with confidence, and I felt that it was no vain boasting.

"You know something about it, eh?"

He closed an eye and smiled scornfully. "Quite enough for any o' them to go on with."

Then he left us, for the gentlemen opposite were becoming clamorous for more liquor.

During the next few minutes we sat there in silence. George was evidently making a mental sketch of Billy Borndrunk, and with the sympathy of the true artist I refrained from interrupting him. I amused myself by idly scanning the various bottles which were piled up on shelves at the bade, together with a few packets of cheap cigarettes and some weary-looking ferns. This is a favourite pastime of mine when George insists on taking me into taverns. I like to speculate dreamily upon the various flavours. If one is not really fond of drink one can do this without feeling ashamed. It becomes a purely intellectual pursuit.

Suddenly I was aware of a disturbance in the opposite bar. A dialogue was in progress between my friend the barman and a gigantic navvy, proportionately inebriated.

"Pot o' 'arf-an'-'arf, an' not ser much jaw," demanded the latter.

"Yer won't get no more 'ere," replied the barman coldly. "Yer drunk as it is. Go 'ome to bed."

"Oo-oose drunk?" inquired the navvy indignantly.

"You are," said the barman, "beastly."

Then civilization slipped off the navvy like a discarded cloak.

"I'm drunk, am I!" he roared. "Tike that!" His fist shot out, and, landing somewhere in the neighbourhood of the barman's right eye, drove that gentleman across the bar with such velocity that he struck the counter close to us with considerable force.

"That's for yer cheek," observed the navvy in the voice of one whose honour has been satisfied.

The remaining customers, with the honourable exception of Billy Borndrunk, rose hastily to their feet, and a chorus of criticism filled the tavern. "Serve 'im right!" "Shut yer 'ead!" "Don't be a fool, Bill!" "Hit him back!" This last from George.

I remembered the barman's boast, and was silent in pleasant expectation.

To my intense disappointment, however, the blow seemed to have cowed him. He pulled himself together and slowly retraced his steps, holding his hand up to his face.

"You 'adn't no call to 'it me like that," he began reproachfully. "What's your order?"

"Pot o' 'arf-an'-'arf; and when I comes in 'ere again, per'aps ye'll be a bit more perlite—see?"

The navvy leaned across the counter and grinned derisively.

He never grinned again—at least, not under similar circumstances. With amazing swiftness the barman whipped out a large pewter pot from under the counter and struck him a swinging blow across the face, sending him to the floor with a thud that shook the building.

"That's for your cheek," he remarked.

Then he coolly picked up the cloth and began to polish the tankard. "That's the worst o' them dirty faces," he observed. "Spoils the silver."

An awe-struck silence fell upon us all, while the navvy rose up slowly with the brand of can upon his cheek. I do not know how to spell the words, or I would tell you what he said. When he had done the barman eyed him critically.

"I ain't got much time to spare for pleasure," he replied, "but if yer likes to step round to the yard be'ind, we'll give that there mark a bit o' company."

The navvy's eyes glistened, and the whole tavern, with the exception of Billy Borndrunk, rose joyously to the suggestion.

The barman walked to the side door and called his wife.

"Annie," he said, "just look after the bar while I show these gen'lemen our backyard."

We all trooped out, leaving Billy Borndrunk in sole possession. It seemed a shame that he should miss the fight, but it would have taken some hours to wake him up, and by that time everything would have been over.

Outside we were joined by two or three stray inhabitants of Chelsea, who had been busily engaged in their usual strenuous work of leaning over the railings and spitting in the Thames. Scenting a welcome diversion, they lounged up and listened with philosophic calm to the navvy's lurid descriptions of how he was about to operate upon his opponent.

Then there was a sound of bolts being withdrawn, and the barman opened the gate that led into the yard. It was quite small, paved with cobbles, and surrounded by high brick walls: scarcely the place that I should have selected for a fight unless I felt very certain that I was going to win. The barman closed the gate, and we all ranged ourselves round the walls, while he and the navvy removed their superfluous clothing and took up their positions in opposite corners. George, who is a bit of a sportsman, volunteered to act as timekeeper.

There was a moment of almost breathless silence and then he gave the word:

"Time!"

The barman took three quick steps forward, and planted himself firmly in the centre of the ring. In another second the navvy was upon him—head down and hitting like a flail. There was a gorgeous whirl of arms, a couple of sharp smacking blows, and the navvy suddenly sat down with his hand to his eye, while the little man danced away apparently uninjured.

Two or three of the fallen warrior's companions advanced and set him upon his feet. "Go fur 'is wind, Bill," suggested one. "Stand orf an' fight 'im clever," added another. "Close wiv 'im," said a third.

The navvy drew the back of his hand across his face and shoved them roughly aside. "I'll kill 'im afore I done with 'im," he muttered.

His friends retreated to the wall, and the two men faced each other again. This time it was the barman's turn to attack. Without a moment's hesitation he waltzed in, and, ducking a terrific swing, landed a straight left on his opponent's nose that brought a roar of mingled anguish and fury from its owner's lips. Whether it was the pain, or whether the blood of some forgotten French ancestor was stirring in his veins, I cannot say, but the navvy now threw aside all pretensions to following the rules of the ring, and, rushing forward kicked at his enemy with all the force of which he was capable. My heart seemed to jump into my mouth for I felt certain that the barman's hour had come. The navvy's boot looked as if it were capable of opening the door for any soul in England.

With a brilliant effort, however, the barman leaped on one side, and, using his right hand for the first time in the fight, smote the navvy a deadly blow across his disfigured countenance that stretched him upon the yard and abruptly terminated the struggle.

George counted him out with all the dignity of a professional timekeeper, but he made no effort to rise, for the barman stood over him, waiting to rebuke him for his attempted treachery. Then he began to roll about as though in great pain.

"Brandy!" he moaned feebly. "Gimme some brandy!"

The barman walked across the yard and picked up a huge bucket of clean water. He had evidently guessed the navvy's weak point, for the latter rose quickly, if somewhat unsteadily, to his feet, with the expression of a man who has narrowly escaped some strange and horrible danger. He staggered slowly to the gate, and then, turning round, addressed his late opponent in a voice of dignified rebuke.

"Thash 'ow you lose cushtom. I shan't come 'ere no more."