Captains All and Others
- -
- 100%
- +
“I believe he’s done it ‘imself,” says Mr. Sutton, stamping his foot.
“I don’t see ‘ow he could, sir,” ses the keeper, touching his cap and looking at Walter as was still lying with ‘is face on ‘is arms.
They carried Walter ‘ome that way on a hurdle, and Dr. Green spent all the rest o’ that day picking shots out o’ them three men and telling ‘em to keep still. He ‘ad to do Sam Jones by candle-light, with Mrs. Jones ‘olding the candle with one hand and crying with the other. Twice the doctor told her to keep it steady, and poor Sam ‘ad only just passed the remark, “How ‘ot it was for October,” when they discovered that the bed was on fire. The doctor said that Sam was no trouble. He got off of the bed by ‘imself, and, when it was all over and the fire put out, the doctor found him sitting on the stairs with the leg of a broken chair in ‘is hand calling for ‘is wife.
Of course, there was a terrible to-do about it in Claybury, and up at the Hall, too. All of the gentlemen said as ‘ow they hadn’t done it, and Mr. Sutton was arf crazy with rage. He said that they ‘ad made ‘im the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood, and that they oughtn’t to shoot with anything but pop-guns. They got to such high words over it that two of the gentlemen went off ‘ome that very night.
There was a lot of talk up at the Cauliflower, too, and more than one pointed out ‘ow lucky Bob Pretty was in getting four men out of the six in his club. As I said afore, Bob was away at the time, but he came back the next night and we ‘ad the biggest row here you could wish for to see.
Henery Walker began it. “I s’pose you’ve ‘eard the dreadful news, Bob Pretty?” he ses, looking at ‘im.
“I ‘ave,” ses Bob; “and my ‘art bled for ‘em. I told you wot those gentlemen was like, didn’t I? But none of you would believe me. Now you can see as I was right.”
“It’s very strange,” ses Henery Walker, looking round; “it’s very strange that all of us wot’s been shot belonged to Bob Pretty’s precious club.”
“It’s my luck, Henery,” ses Bob, “always was lucky from a child.”
“And I s’pose you think you’re going to ‘ave arf of the money they get?” ses Henery Walker.
“Don’t talk about money while them pore chaps is suffering,” ses Bob. “I’m surprised at you, Henery.”
“You won’t ‘ave a farthing of it,” ses Henery Walker; “and wot’s more, Bob Pretty, I’m going to ‘ave my five pounds back.”
“Don’t you believe it, Henery,” ses Bob, smiling at ‘im.
“I’m going to ‘ave my five pounds back,” ses Henery, “and you know why. I know wot your club was for now, and we was all a pack o’ silly fools not to see it afore.”
“Speak for yourself, Henery,” ses John Biggs, who thought Henery was looking at ‘im.
“I’ve been putting two and two together,” ses Henery, looking round, “and it’s as plain as the nose on your face. Bob Pretty hid up in the wood and shot us all himself!”
For a moment you might ‘ave heard a pin drop, and then there was such a noise nobody could hear theirselves speak. Everybody was shouting his ‘ardest, and the on’y quiet one there was Bob Pretty ‘imself.
“Poor Henery; he’s gorn mad,” he ses, shaking his ‘ead.
“You’re a murderer,” ses Ralph Thomson, shaking ‘is fist at him.
“Henery Walker’s gorn mad,” ses Bob agin. “Why, I ain’t been near the place. There’s a dozen men’ll swear that I was at Wickham each time these misfortunate accidents ‘appened.”
“Men like you, they’d swear anything for a pot o’ beer,” ses Henery. “But I’m not going to waste time talking to you, Bob Pretty. I’m going straight off to tell Mr. Sutton.”
“I shouldn’t do that if I was you, Henery,” ses Bob.
“I dessay,” ses Henery Walker; “but then you see I am.”
“I thought you’d gorn mad, Henery,” ses Bob, taking a drink o’ beer that somebody ‘ad left on the table by mistake, “and now I’m sure of it. Why, if you tell Mr. Sutton that it wasn’t his friends that shot them pore fellers he won’t pay them anything. ‘Tain’t likely ‘e would, is it?”
Henery Walker, wot ‘ad been standing up looking fierce at ‘im, sat down agin, struck all of a heap.
“And he might want your ten pounds back, Henery,” said Bob in a soft voice. “And seeing as ‘ow you was kind enough to give five to me, and spent most of the other, it ‘ud come ‘ard on you, wouldn’t it? Always think afore you speak, Henery. I always do.”
Henery Walker got up and tried to speak, but ‘e couldn’t, and he didn’t get ‘is breath back till Bob said it was plain to see that he ‘adn’t got a word to say for ‘imself. Then he shook ‘is fist at Bob and called ‘im a low, thieving, poaching murderer.
“You’re not yourself, Henery,” ses Bob. “When you come round you’ll be sorry for trying to take away the character of a pore labourin’ man with a ailing wife and a large family. But if you take my advice you won’t say anything more about your wicked ideas; if you do, these pore fellers won’t get a farthing. And you’d better keep quiet about the club mates for their sakes. Other people might get the same crazy ideas in their silly ‘eads as Henery. Keepers especially.”
That was on’y common sense; but, as John Biggs said, it did seem ‘ard to think as ‘ow Bob Pretty should be allowed to get off scot-free, and with Henery Walker’s five pounds too. “There’s one thing,” he ses to Bob; “you won’t ‘ave any of these other pore chaps money; and, if they’re men, they ought to make it up to Henery Walker for the money he ‘as saved ‘em by finding you out.”
“They’ve got to pay me fust,” ses Bob. “I’m a pore man, but I’ll stick up for my rights. As for me shooting ‘em, they’d ha’ been ‘urt a good deal more if I’d done it—especially Mr. Henery Walker. Why, they’re hardly ‘urt at all.”
“Don’t answer ‘im, Henery,” ses John Biggs. “You save your breath to go and tell Sam Jones and the others about it. It’ll cheer ‘em up.”
“And tell ‘em about my arf, in case they get too cheerful and go overdoing it,” ses Bob Pretty, stopping at the door. “Good-night all.”
Nobody answered ‘im; and arter waiting a little bit Henery Walker set off to see Sam Jones and the others. John Biggs was quite right about its making ‘em cheerful, but they see as plain as Bob ‘imself that it ‘ad got to be kept quiet. “Till we’ve spent the money, at any rate,” ses Walter Bell; “then p’r’aps Mr. Sutton might get Bob locked up for it.”
Mr. Sutton went down to see ‘em all a day or two afterwards. The shooting-party was broken up and gone ‘ome, but they left some money behind ‘em. Ten pounds each they was to ‘ave, same as the others, but Mr. Sutton said that he ‘ad heard ‘ow the other money was wasted at the Cauliflower, and ‘e was going to give it out to ‘em ten shillings a week until the money was gorn. He ‘ad to say it over and over agin afore they understood ‘im, and Walter Bell ‘ad to stuff the bedclo’es in ‘is mouth to keep civil.
Peter Gubbins, with ‘is arm tied up in a sling, was the fust one to turn up at the Cauliflower, and he was that down-’arted about it we couldn’t do nothing with ‘im. He ‘ad expected to be able to pull out ten golden sovereigns, and the disapp’intment was too much for ‘im.
“I wonder ‘ow they heard about it,” ses Dicky Weed.
“I can tell you,” ses Bob Pretty, wot ‘ad been sitting up in a corner by himself, nodding and smiling at Peter, wot wouldn’t look at ‘im. “A friend o’ mine at Wickham wrote to him about it. He was so disgusted at the way Bill Chambers and Henery Walker come up ‘ere wasting their ‘ard-earned money, that he sent ‘im a letter, signed ‘A Friend of the Working Man,’ telling ‘im about it and advising ‘im what to do.”
“A friend o’ yours?” ses John Biggs, staring at ‘im. “What for?”
“I don’t know,” ses Bob; “he’s a wunnerful good scholard, and he likes writin’ letters. He’s going to write another to-morrer, unless I go over and stop ‘im.”
“Another?” ses Peter, who ‘ad been tellin’ everybody that ‘e wouldn’t speak to ‘im agin as long as he lived. “Wot about?”
“About the idea that I shot you all,” ses Bob. “I want my character cleared. O’ course, they can’t prove anything against me—I’ve got my witnesses. But, taking one thing with another, I see now that it does look suspicious, and I don’t suppose any of you’ll get any more of your money. Mr. Sutton is so sick o’ being laughed at, he’ll jump at anything.”
“You dursn’t do it, Bob,” ses Peter, all of a tremble.
“It ain’t me, Peter, old pal,” ses Bob, “it’s my friend. But I don’t mind stopping ‘im for the sake of old times if I get my arf. He’d listen to me, I feel sure.”
At fust Peter said he wouldn’t get a farthing out of ‘im if his friend wrote letters till Dooms-day; but by-and-by he thought better of it, and asked Bob to stay there while he went down to see Sam and Walter about it. When ‘e came back he’d got the fust week’s money for Bob Pretty; but he said he left Walter Bell carrying on like a madman, and, as for Sam Jones, he was that upset ‘e didn’t believe he’d last out the night.
THE TEMPTATION OF SAMUEL BURGE
Mr. Higgs, jeweller, sat in the small parlour behind his shop, gazing hungrily at a supper-table which had been laid some time before. It was a quarter to ten by the small town clock on the mantelpiece, and the jeweller rubbing his hands over the fire tried in vain to remember what etiquette had to say about starting a meal before the arrival of an expected guest.
“He must be coming by the last train after all, sir,” said the housekeeper entering the room and glancing at the clock. “I suppose these London gentlemen keep such late hours they don’t understand us country folk wanting to get to bed in decent time. You must be wanting your supper, sir.”
Mr. Higgs sighed. “I shall be glad of my supper,” he said slowly, “but I dare say our friend is hungrier still. Travelling is hungry work.”
“Perhaps he is thinking over his words for the seventh day,” said the housekeeper solemnly. “Forgetting hunger and thirst and all our poor earthly feelings in the blessedness of his work.”
“Perhaps so,” assented the other, whose own earthly feelings were particularly strong just at that moment.
“Brother Simpson used to forget all about meal-times when he stayed here,” said the housekeeper, clasping her hands. “He used to sit by the window with his eyes half-closed and shake his head at the smell from the kitchen and call it flesh-pots of Egypt. He said that if it wasn’t for keeping up his strength for the work, luscious bread and fair water was all he wanted. I expect Brother Burge will be a similar sort of man.”
“Brother Clark wrote and told me that he only lives for the work,” said the jeweller, with another glance at the clock. “The chapel at Clerkenwell is crowded to hear him. It’s a blessed favour and privilege to have such a selected instrument staying in the house. I’m curious to see him; from what Brother Clark said I rather fancy that he was a little bit wild in his younger days.”
“Hallelujah!” exclaimed the housekeeper with fervour. “I mean to think as he’s seen the error of his ways,” she added sharply, as her master looked up.
“There he is,” said the latter, as the bell rang.
The housekeeper went to the side-door, and drawing back the bolt admitted the gentleman whose preaching had done so much for the small but select sect known as the Seventh Day Primitive Apostles. She came back into the room followed by a tall stout man, whose upper lip and short stubby beard streaked with grey seemed a poor match for the beady eyes which lurked behind a pair of clumsy spectacles.
“Brother Samuel Burge?” inquired the jeweller, rising.
The visitor nodded, and regarding him with a smile charged with fraternal love, took his hand in a huge grip and shook it fervently.
“I am glad to see you, Brother Higgs,” he said, regarding him fondly. “Oh, ‘ow my eyes have yearned to be set upon you! Oh, ‘ow my ears ‘ave longed to hearken unto the words of your voice!”
He breathed thickly, and taking a seat sat with his hands upon his knees, looking at a fine piece of cold beef which the housekeeper had just placed upon the table.
“Is Brother Clark well?” inquired the jeweller, placing a chair for him at the table and taking up his carving-knife.
“Dear Brother Clark is in excellent ‘ealth, I thank you,” said the other, taking the proffered chair. “Oh! what a man he is; what a instrument for good. Always stretching out them blessed hands of ‘is to make one of the fallen a Seventh Day Primitive.”
“And success attends his efforts?” said the jeweller.
“Success, Brother!” repeated Mr. Burge, eating rapidly and gesticulating with his knife. “Success ain’t no name for it. Why, since this day last week he has saved three pick-pockets, two Salvationists, one bigamist and a Roman Catholic.”
Brother Higgs murmured his admiration. “You are also a power for good,” he said wistfully. “Brother Clark tells me in his letter that your exhortations have been abundantly blessed.”
Mr. Burge shook his head. “A lot of it falls by the wayside,” he said modestly, “but some of it is an eye-opener to them as don’t entirely shut their ears. Only the day before yesterday I ‘ad two jemmies and a dark lantern sent me with a letter saying as ‘ow the owner had no further use for ‘em.”
The jeweller’s eyes glistened with admiration not quite untinged with envy. “Have you expounded the Word for long?” he inquired.
“Six months,” replied the other. “It come to me quite natural—I was on the penitent bench on the Saturday, and the Wednesday afterwards I preached as good a sermon as ever I’ve preached in my life. Brother Clark said it took ‘is breath away.”
“And he’s a judge too,” said the admiring jeweller.
“Now,” continued Brother Burge, helping himself plentifully to pickled walnuts. “Now there ain’t standing room in our Bethel when I’m expounding. People come to hear me from all parts—old and young—rich and poor—and the Apostles that don’t come early ‘ave to stand outside and catch the crumbs I throw ‘em through the winders.”
“It is enough,” sighed Brother Higgs, whose own audience was frequently content to be on the wrong side of the window, “it is enough to make a man vain.”
“I struggle against it, Brother,” said Mr. Burge, passing his cup up for some more tea. “I fight against it hard, but once the Evil One was almost too much for me; and in spite of myself, and knowing besides that it was a plot of ‘is, I nearly felt uplifted.”
Brother Higgs, passing him some more beef, pressed for details.
“He sent me two policemen,” replied the other, scowling darkly at the meanness of the trick. “One I might ‘ave stood, but two come to being pretty near too much for me. They sat under me while I gave ‘em the Word ‘ot and strong, and the feeling I had standing up there and telling policemen what they ought to do I shall never forget.”
“But why should policemen make you proud?” asked his puzzled listener.
Mr. Burge looked puzzled in his turn. “Why, hasn’t Brother Clark told you about me?” he inquired.
Mr. Higgs shook his head. “He sort of—suggested that—that you had been a little bit wild before you came to us,” he murmured apologetically.
“A—little—bit—wild?” repeated Brother Burge, in horrified accents. “ME? a little bit wild?”
“No doubt he exaggerated a little,” said the jeweller hurriedly. “Being such a good man himself, no doubt things would seem wild to him that wouldn’t to us—to me, I mean.”
“A little bit wild,” said his visitor again. “Sam Burge, the Converted Burglar, a little bit wild. Well, well!”
“Converted what?” shouted the jeweller, half-rising from his chair.
“Burglar,” said the other shortly. “Why, I should think I know more about the inside o’ gaols than anybody in England; I’ve pretty near killed three policemen, besides breaking a gent’s leg and throwing a footman out of window, and then Brother Clark goes and says I’ve been a little bit wild. I wonder what he would ‘ave?”
“But you—you’ve quite reformed now?” said the jeweller, resuming his seat and making a great effort to hide his consternation.
“I ‘ope so,” said Mr. Burge, with alarming humility; “but it’s an uncertain world, and far be it from me to boast. That’s why I’ve come here.”
Mr. Higgs, only half-comprehending, sat back gasping.
“If I can stand this,” pursued Brother Burge, gesticulating wildly in the direction of the shop, “if I can stand being here with all these ‘ere pretty little things to be ‘ad for the trouble of picking of ‘em up, I can stand anything. Tempt me, I says to Brother Clark. Put me in the way o’ temptation, I says. Let me see whether the Evil One or me is the strongest; let me ‘ave a good old up and down with the Powers o’ Darkness, and see who wins.”
Mr. Higgs, gripping the edge of the table with both hands, gazed at this new Michael in speechless consternation.
“I think I see his face now,” said Brother Burge, with tender enthusiasm. “All in a glow it was, and he patted me on the shoulder and says, ‘I’ll send you on a week’s mission to Duncombe,’ he says, and ‘you shall stop with Brother Higgs who ‘as a shop full o’ cunning wrought vanities in silver and gold.’”
“But suppose,” said the jeweller, finding his voice by a great effort, “suppose victory is not given unto you.”
“It won’t make any difference,” replied his visitor. “Brother Clark promised that it shouldn’t. ‘If you fall, Brother,’ he says, ‘we’ll help you up again. When you are tired of sin come back to us—there’s always a welcome.’”
“But—” began the dismayed jeweller.
“We can only do our best,” said Brother Burge, “the rest we must leave. I ‘ave girded my loins for the fray, and taken much spiritual sustenance on the way down from this little hymn-book.”
Mr. Higgs paid no heed. He sat marvelling over the fatuousness of Brother Clark and trying to think of ways and means out of the dilemma into which that gentleman’s perverted enthusiasm had placed him. He wondered whether it would be possible to induce Brother Burge to sleep elsewhere by offering to bear his hotel expenses, and at last, after some hesitation, broached the subject.
“What!” exclaimed the other, pushing his plate from him and regarding him with great severity. “Go and sleep at a hotel? After Brother Clark has been and took all this trouble? Why, I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing.”
“Brother Clark has no right to expose you to such a trial,” said Mr. Higgs with great warmth.
“I wonder what he’d say if he ‘eard you,” remarked Mr. Burge sternly. “After his going and making all these arrangements, for you to try and go and upset ‘em. To ask me to shun the fight like a coward; to ask me to go and hide in the rear-ranks in a hotel with everything locked up, or a Coffer Pallis with nothing to steal.”
“I should sleep far more comfortably if I knew that you were not undergoing this tremendous strain,” said the unhappy Mr. Higgs, “and besides that, if you did give way, it would be a serious business for me —that’s what I want you to look at. I am afraid that if—if unhappily you did fall, I couldn’t prevent you.”
“I’m sure you couldn’t,” said the other cordially. “That’s the beauty of it; that’s when the Evil One’s whispers get louder and louder. Why, I could choke you between my finger and thumb. If unfortunately my fallen nature should be too strong for me, don’t interfere whatever you do. I mightn’t be myself.”
Mr. Higgs rose and faced him gasping.
“Not even—call for—the police—I suppose,” he jerked out.
“That would be interfering,” said Brother Burge coldly.
The jeweller tried to think. It was past eleven. The housekeeper had gone to spend the night with an ailing sister, and a furtive glance at Brother Burge’s small shifty eyes and fat unwholesome face was sufficient to deter him from leaving him alone with his property, while he went to ask the police to give an eye to his house for the night. Besides, it was more than probable that Mr. Burge would decline to allow such a proceeding. With a growing sense of his peril he resolved to try flattery.
“It was a great thing for the Brethren to secure a man like you,” he said.
“I never thought they’d ha’ done it,” said Mr. Burge frankly. “I’ve ‘ad all sorts trying to convert me; crying over me and praying over me. I remember the first dear good man that called me a lorst lamb. He didn’t say anything else for a month.”
“So upset,” hazarded the jeweller.
“I broke his jor, pore feller,” said Brother Burge, a sad but withal indulgent smile lighting up his face at the vagaries of his former career. “What time do you go to bed, Brother?”
“Any time,” said the other reluctantly. “I suppose you are tired with your journey?”
Mr. Burge assented, and rising from his chair yawned loudly and stretched himself. In the small room with his huge arms raised he looked colossal.
“I suppose,” said the jeweller, still seeking to re-assure himself, “I suppose dear Brother Clark felt pretty certain of you, else he wouldn’t have sent you here?”
“Brother Clark said ‘What is a jeweller’s shop compared with a ‘uman soul, a priceless ‘uman soul?’” replied Mr. Burge. “What is a few gew-gaws to decorate them that perish, and make them vain, when you come to consider the opportunity of such a trial, and the good it’ll do and the draw it’ll be—if I do win—and testify to the congregation to that effect? Why, there’s sermons for a lifetime in it.”
“So there is,” said the jeweller, trying to look cheerful. “You’ve got a good face, Brother Burge, and you’ll do a lot of good by your preaching. There is honesty written in every feature.”
Mr. Burge turned and surveyed himself in the small pier-glass. “Yes,” he said, somewhat discontentedly, “I don’t look enough like a burglar to suit some of ‘em.”
“Some people are hard to please,” said the other warmly.
Mr. Burge started and eyed him thoughtfully, and then as Mr. Higgs after some hesitation walked into the shop to turn the gas out, stood in the doorway watching him. A smothered sigh as he glanced round the shop bore witness to the state of his feelings.
The jeweller hesitated again in the parlour, and then handing Brother Burge his candle turned out the gas, and led the way slowly upstairs to the room which had been prepared for the honoured visitor. He shook hands at the door and bade him an effusive good-night, his voice trembling despite himself as he expressed a hope that Mr. Burge would sleep well. He added casually that he himself was a very light sleeper.
To-night sleep of any kind was impossible. He had given up the front room to his guest, and his own window looked out on an over-grown garden. He sat trying to read, with his ears alert for the slightest sound. Brother Burge seemed to be a long time undressing. For half an hour after he had retired he could hear him moving restlessly about his room.
Twelve o’clock struck from the tower of the parish church, and was followed almost directly by the tall clock standing in the hall down-stairs. Scarcely had the sounds died away than a low moaning from the next room caused the affrighted jeweller to start from his chair and place his ear against the wall. Two or three hollow groans came through the plaster, followed by ejaculations which showed clearly that Brother Burge was at that moment engaged in a terrified combat with the Powers of Darkness to decide whether he should, or should not, rifle his host’s shop. His hands clenched and his ear pressed close to the wall, the jeweller listened to a monologue which increased in interest with every word.
“I tell you I won’t,” said the voice in the next room with a groan, “I won’t. Get thee behind me—Get thee—No, and don’t shove me over to the door; if you can’t get behind me without doing that, stay where you are. Yes, I know it’s a fortune as well as what you do; but it ain’t mine.”
The listener caught his breath painfully.
“Diamond rings,” continued Brother Burge in a suffocating voice. “Stop it, I tell you. No, I won’t just go and look at ‘em.”
A series of groans which the jeweller noticed to his horror got weaker and weaker testified to the greatness of the temptation. He heard Brother Burge rise, and then a succession of panting snarls seemed to indicate a fierce bodily encounter.
“I don’t—want to look at ‘em,” said Brother Burge in an exhausted voice. “What’s—the good of—looking at ‘em? It’s like you, you know diamonds are my weakness. What does it matter if he is asleep? What’s my knife got to do with you?”
Brother Higgs reeled back and a mist passed before his eyes. He came to himself at the sound of a door opening, and impelled with a vague idea of defending his property, snatched up his candle and looked out on to the landing.