Night Watches
- -
- 100%
- +
“Why don’t you get to sleep, Ginger?” ses Sam, who was just dropping off. “‘Ave a game with ‘im in the morning.”
Ginger gave the dog a punch in the chest, and, arter saying a few o’ the things he’d like to do to Sam Small, he cuddled down in ‘is bed and they all went off to sleep. All but the dog, that is. He seemed uneasy in ‘is mind, and if ‘e woke ‘em up once by standing on his ‘ind-legs and putting his fore-paws on their chest to see if they was still alive, he did arf-a-dozen times.
He dropped off to sleep at last, scratching ‘imself, but about three o’clock in the morning Ginger woke up with a ‘orrible start and sat up in bed shivering. Sam and Peter woke up, too, and, raising themselves in bed, looked at the dog, wot was sitting on its tail, with its ‘ead back, moaning fit to break its ‘art.
“Wot’s the matter?” ses old Sam, in a shaky voice. “Stop it! Stop it, d’ye hear!”
“P’r’aps it’s dying,” ses Ginger, as the dog let off a ‘owl like a steamer coming up the river. “Stop it, you brute!”
“He’ll wake the ‘ouse up in a minute,” ses Peter. “Take ‘im downstairs and kick ‘im into the street, Sam.”
“Take ‘im yourself,” ses Sam. “Hsh! Somebody’s coming upstairs. Poor old doggie. Come along, then. Come along.”
The dog left off his ‘owling, and went over and licked ‘im just as the landlady and one or two more came to the door and called out to know wot they meant by it.
“It’s all right, missis,” ses Sam. “It’s on’y pore Ginger. You keep quiet,” he ses in a whisper, turning to Ginger.
“Wot’s he making that row about?” ses the landlady. “He made my blood run cold.”
“He’s got a touch o’ toothache,” ses Sam. “Never mind, Ginger,” ‘e ses in a hurry, as the dog let off another ‘owl; “try and bear it.”
“He’s a coward, that’s wot ‘e is,” ses the landlady, very fierce. “Why, a child o’ five wouldn’t make such a fuss.”
“Sounds more like a dog than a ‘uman being,” ses another voice. “You come outside, Ginger, and I’ll give you something to cry for.”
They waited a minute or two, and then, everything being quiet, they went back to bed, while old Sam talked to Ginger about wot ‘e called ‘is “presence o’ mind,” and Ginger talked to ‘im about wot he’d do to ‘im if ‘e wasn’t a fat old man with one foot in the grave.
They was all in a better temper when they woke up in the morning, and while Sam was washing they talked about wot they was to do with the dog.
“We can’t lead ‘im about all day,” ses Ginger; “and if we let ‘im off the string he’ll go off ‘ome.”
“He don’t know where his ‘ome is,” ses Sam, very severe; “but he might run away, and then the pore thing might be starved or else ill-treated. I ‘ave ‘eard o’ boys tying tin cans to their tails.”
“I’ve done it myself,” ses Ginger, nodding. “Consequently it’s our dooty to look arter ‘im,” ses Sam.
“I’ll go down to the front door,” ses Peter, “and when I whistle, bring him down.”
Ginger stuck his ‘ead out o’ the window, and by and by, when Peter whistled, him and Sam took the dog downstairs and out into the street.
“So far so good,” ses Sam; “now, wot about brekfuss?”
They ‘ad their brekfuss in their usual coffeeshop, and the dog took bits from all of them. Unfortunately, ‘e wasn’t used to haddick bones, and arter two of the customers ‘ad gorn out and two more ‘ad complained to the landlord, they ‘ad to leave their brekfusses and take ‘im outside for a breath o’ fresh air.
“Now, wot are we going to do?” ses Ginger. “I’m beginning to be sick of the sight of ‘im. ‘Ave we got to lead ‘im about all day on a bit o’ string?”
“Let’s take ‘im round the corner and lose ‘im,” ses Peter Russet.
“You give me ‘old o’ that string,” ses Sam. “If you don’t want shares, that’s all right. If I’m going to look arter ‘im I’ll ‘ave it all.”
That made Ginger and Peter look at each other. Direckly Sam began to talk about money they began to think they might be losing something.
“And wot about ‘aving ‘im in our bedroom and keeping us awake all night?” ses Peter.
“And putting it on to me with the toothache,” ses Ginger. “No; you can look arter ‘im, Sam, while me and Peter goes off and enjoys ourselves; and if you get anything we go shares, mind.”
“All right,” ses Sam, turning away with the dog.
“And suppose Sam gets a reward or sells it, and then tells us that it ran away and ‘e lost it?” ses Peter.
“O’ course; I never thought o’ that,” ses Ginger. “You’ve got your ‘ead on straight, Peter.”
“I see ‘im smile, that’s why,” ses Peter Russet.
“You’re a liar,” ses Sam.
“We’ll stick together,” ses Ginger. “Leastways, one of us’ll keep with you, Sam.”
They settled it that way at last, and while Ginger went for a walk down round about where they ‘ad found the dog, Sam Small and Peter waited for him in a little public-’ouse down Limehouse way. Their idea was that there would be bills up, and when Ginger came back and said there wasn’t, they ‘ad a lot to say about people wot wasn’t fit to ‘ave dogs because they didn’t love ‘em.
They ‘ad a miserable day. When the dog got sick o’ sitting in a pub ‘e made such a noise they ‘ad to take ‘im out; and when ‘e got tired o’ walking about he sat down on the pavement and they ‘ad to drag ‘im along to the nearest pub agin. At five o’clock in the arternoon Ginger Dick was talking about two-penn’orth o’ rat-poison.
“Wot are we to do with ‘im till twelve o’clock to-night?” ses Peter.
“And s’pose we can’t smuggle ‘im into the ‘ouse agin?” ses Ginger. “Or suppose he makes that noise agin in the night?”
They ‘ad a pint each to ‘elp them to think wot was to be done. And, arter a lot o’ talking and quarrelling, they did wot a lot of other people ‘ave done when they got into trouble: they came to me.
I ‘ad on’y been on dooty about arf an hour when the three of ‘em turned up at the wharf with the dog, and, arter saying ‘ow well I looked and that I seemed to get younger every time they saw me, they asked me to take charge of the dog for ‘em.
“It’ll be company for you,” ses old Sam. “It must be very lonely ‘ere of a night. I’ve often thought of it.”
“And of a day-time you could take it ‘ome and tie it up in your back-yard,” ses Ginger.
I wouldn’t ‘ave anything to do with it at fust, but at last I gave way. They offered me fourpence a day for its keep, and, as I didn’t want to run any risk, I made ‘em give me a couple o’ bob to go on with.
They went off as though they’d left a load o’ care be’ind ‘em, and arter tying the dog up to a crane I went on with my work. They ‘adn’t told me wot the game was, but, from one or two things they’d let drop, I’d got a pretty good idea.
The dog ‘owled a bit at fust, but he quieted down arter a bit. He was a nice-looking animal, but one dog is much the same as another to me, and if I ‘ad one ten years I don’t suppose I could pick it out from two or three others.
I took it off ‘ome with me when I left at six o’clock next morning, and tied it up in my yard. My missis ‘ad words about it, o’ course—that’s wot people get married for—but when she found it woke me up three times she quieted down and said wot a nice coat it ‘ad got.
The three of ‘em came round next evening to see it, and they was so afraid of its being lost that when they stood me a pint at the Bull’s Head we ‘ad to take it with us. Ginger was going to buy a sausage-roll for it, but, arter Sam ‘ad pointed out that they was paying me fourpence a day for its keep, he didn’t. And Sam ‘ad the cheek to tell me that it liked a nice bit o’ fried steak as well as anything.
A lot o’ people admired that dog. I remember, on the fourth night I think it was, the barge Dauntless came alongside, and arter she was made fast the skipper came ashore and took a little notice of it.
“Where did you get ‘im?” he ses.
I told ‘im ‘ow it was, and he stood there for some time patting the dog on the ‘ead and whistling under ‘is breath.
“It’s much the same size as my dog,” he ses; “that’s a black retriever, too.”
I ses “Oh!”
“I’m afraid I shall ‘ave to get rid of it,” he ses. “It’s on the barge now. My missis won’t ‘ave it in the ‘ouse any more cos it bit the baby. And o’ course it was no good p’inting out to ‘er that it was its first bite. Even the law allows one bite, but it’s no good talking about the law to wimmen.”
“Except when it’s on their side,” I ses.
He patted the dog’s ‘ead agin and whistled, and a big black dog came up out of the cabin and sprang ashore. It went up and put its nose to Sam’s dog, and they both growled like thunderstorms.
“Might be brothers,” ses the skipper, “on’y your dog’s got a better ‘eead and a better coat. It’s a good dog.”
“They’re all alike to me,” I ses. “I couldn’t tell ‘em apart, not if you paid me.”
The skipper stood there a moment, and then he ses: “I wish you’d let me see ‘ow my dog looks in your dog’s collar,” he ses.
“Whaffor?” I ses.
“On’y fancy,” he ses. “Oh, Bill!”
“Yes,” I ses.
“It ain’t Christmas,” he ses, taking my arm and walking up and down a bit, “but it will be soon, and then I mightn’t see you. You’ve done me one or two good turns, and I should like to make you a Christmas-box of three ‘arf-dollars.”
I let ‘im give ‘em to me, and then, just to please ‘im, I let ‘im try the collar on ‘is dog, while I swept up a bit.
“It looked beautiful on ‘im,” he ses, when I’d finished; “but I’ve put it back agin. Come on, Bruno. Good-night, Bill.”
He got ‘is dog on the barge agin arter a bit o’ trouble, and arter making sure ‘that my dog ‘ad got its own collar on I went on with my work.
The dog didn’t seem to be quite ‘imself next day, and he was so fierce in the yard that my missis was afraid to go near ‘im. I was going to ask the skipper about it, as ‘e seemed to know more about dogs than I did, but when I got to the wharf the barge had sailed.
It was just getting dark when there came a ring at the gate-bell, and afore I could answer it arf-a-dozen more, as fast as the bell could go. And when I opened the wicket Sam Small and Ginger and Peter Russet all tried to get in at once.
“Where’s the dog?” ses Sam.
“Tied up,” I ses. “Wot’s the matter? ‘Ave you all gorn mad?”
They didn’t answer me. They ran on to the jetty, and afore I could turn round a’most they ‘ad got the dog loose and was dragging it towards me, smiling all over their faces.
“Reward,” ses Ginger, as I caught ‘old of ‘im by the coat. “Five pounds —landlord of a pub—at Bow—come on, Sam!”
“Why don’t you keep your mouth shut, Ginger?” ses Sam.
“Five pounds!” I ses. “Five pounds! Hurrah!”
“Wot are you hurraying about?” ses Sam, very short.
“Why,” I ses, “I s’pose–Here, arf a moment!”
“Can’t stop,” ses Sam, going arter the others.
I watched ‘em up the road, and then I locked the gate and walked up and down the wharf thinking wot a funny thing money is, and ‘ow it alters people’s natures. And arter all, I thought that three arf-dollars earned honest was better than a reward for hiding another man’s dog.
I finished tidying up, and at nine o’clock I went into the office for a quiet smoke. I couldn’t ‘elp wondering ‘ow them three ‘ad got on, and just as I was thinking about it there came the worst ringing at the gate-bell I ‘ave ever ‘eard in my life, and the noise of heavy boots kicking the gate. It was so violent I ‘ardly liked to go at fust, thinking it might be bad news, but I opened it at last, and in bust Sam Small, with Ginger and Peter.
For five minutes they all talked at once, with their nasty fists ‘eld under my nose. I couldn’t make lead or tail of it at fust, and then I found as ‘ow they ‘ad got the dog back with them, and that the landlord ‘ad said ‘e wasn’t the one.
“But ‘e said as he thought the collar was his,” ses Sam. “‘Ow do you account for that?”
“P’r’aps he made a mistake,” I ses; “or p’r’aps he thought you’d turn the dog adrift and he’d get it back for nothing. You know wot landlords are. Try ‘im agin.”
“You take ‘im back to-morrow night,” I ses. “It’s a nice walk to Bow. And then come back and beg my pardon. I want to ‘ave a word with this policeman here. Goodnight.”
THE WEAKER VESSEL
Mr. Gribble sat in his small front parlour in a state of angry amazement. It was half-past six and there was no Mrs. Gribble; worse still, there was no tea. It was a state of things that had only happened once before. That was three weeks after marriage, and on that occasion Mr. Gribble had put his foot down with a bang that had echoed down the corridors of thirty years.
The fire in the little kitchen was out, and the untidy remains of Mrs. Gribble’s midday meal still disgraced the table. More and more dazed, the indignant husband could only come to the conclusion that she had gone out and been run over. Other things might possibly account for her behaviour; that was the only one that would excuse it.
His meditations were interrupted by the sound of a key in the front door, and a second later a small, anxious figure entered the room and, leaning against the table, strove to get its breath. The process was not helped by the alarming distension of Mr. Gribble’s figure.
“I—I got home—quick as I could—Henry,” said Mrs. Gribble, panting.
“Where is my tea?” demanded her husband. “What do you mean by it? The fire’s out and the kitchen is just as you left it.”
“I—I’ve been to a lawyer’s, Henry,” said Mrs. Gribble, “and I had to wait.”
“Lawyer’s?” repeated her husband.
“I got a letter this afternoon telling me to call. Poor Uncle George, that went to America, is gone.”
“That is no excuse for neglecting me,” said Mr. Gribble. “Of course people die when they are old. Is that the one that got on and made money?”
His wife, apparently struggling to repress a little excitement, nodded. “He—he’s left me two hundred pounds a year for life, Henry,” she said, dabbing at her pale blue eyes with a handkerchief. “They’re going to pay it monthly; sixteen pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence a month. That’s how he left it.”
“Two hund—” began Mr. Gribble, forgetting himself. “Two hun–Go and get my tea! If you think you’re going to give yourself airs because your uncle’s left you money, you won’t do it in my house.”
He took a chair by the window, and, while his wife busied herself in the kitchen, sat gazing in blank delight at the little street. Two hundred a year! It was all he could do to resume his wonted expression as his wife re-entered the room and began to lay the table. His manner, however, when she let a cup and saucer slip from her trembling fingers to smash on the floor left nothing to be desired.
“It’s nice to have money come to us in our old age,” said Mrs. Gribble, timidly, as they sat at tea. “It takes a load off my mind.”
“Old age!” said her husband, disagreeably. “What d’ye mean by old age? I’m fifty-two, and feel as young as ever I did.”
“You look as young as ever you did,” said the docile Mrs. Gribble. “I can’t see no change in you. At least, not to speak of.”
“Not so much talk,” said her husband. “When I want your opinion of my looks I’ll ask you for it. When do you start getting this money?”
“Tuesday week; first of May,” replied his wife. “The lawyers are going to send it by registered letter.”
Mr. Gribble grunted.
“I shall be sorry to leave the house for some things,” said his wife, looking round. “We’ve been here a good many years now, Henry.”
“Leave the house!” repeated Mr. Gribble, putting down his tea-cup and staring at her.
“Leave the house! What are you talking about?”
“But we can’t stay here, Henry,” faltered Mrs. Gribble. “Not with all that money. They are building some beautiful houses in Charlton Grove now—bathroom, tiled hearths, and beautiful stained glass in the front door; and all for twenty-eight pounds a year.”
“Wonderful!” said the other, with a mocking glint in his eye.
“And iron palings to the front garden, painted chocolate-colour picked out with blue,” continued his wife, eyeing him wistfully.
Mr. Gribble struck the table a blow with his fist. “This house is good enough for me,” he roared; “and what’s good enough for me is good enough for you. You want to waste money on show; that’s what you want. Stained glass and bow-windows! You want a bow-window to loll about in, do you? Shouldn’t wonder if you don’t want a servant-gal to do the work.”
Mrs. Gribble flushed guiltily, and caught her breath.
“We’re going to live as we’ve always lived,” pursued Mr. Gribble. “Money ain’t going to spoil me. I ain’t going to put on no side just because I’ve come in for a little bit. If you had your way we should end up in the workhouse.”
He filled his pipe and smoked thoughtfully, while Mrs. Gribble cleared away the tea-things and washed up. Pictures, good to look upon, formed in the smoke-pictures of a hale, hearty man walking along the primrose path arm-in-arm with two hundred a year; of the mahogany and plush of the saloon bar at the Grafton Arms; of Sunday jaunts, and the Oval on summer afternoons.
He ate his breakfast slowly on the first of the month, and, the meal finished, took a seat in the window with his pipe and waited for the postman. Mrs. Gribble’s timid reminders concerning the flight of time and consequent fines for lateness at work fell on deaf ears. He jumped up suddenly and met the postman at the door.
“Has it come?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, extending her hand.
By way of reply her husband tore open the envelope and, handing her the covering letter, counted the notes and coin and placed them slowly in his pockets. Then, as Mrs. Gribble looked at him, he looked at the clock, and, snatching up his hat, set off down the road.
He was late home that evening, and his manner forbade conversation. Mrs. Gribble, with the bereaved air of one who has sustained an irremediable loss, sighed fitfully, and once applied her handkerchief to her eyes.
“That’s no good,” said her husband at last; “that won’t bring him back.”
“Bring who back?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, in genuine surprise.
“Why, your Uncle George,” said Mr. Gribble. “That’s what you’re turning on the water-cart for, ain’t it?”
“I wasn’t thinking of him,” said Mrs. Gribble, trying to speak bravely. “I was thinking of–”
“Well, you ought to be,” interrupted her husband. “He wasn’t my uncle, poor chap, but I’ve been thinking of him, off and on, all day. That bloater-paste you are eating now came from his kindness. I brought it home as a treat.”
“I was thinking of my clothes,” said Mrs. Gribble, clenching her hands together under the table. “When I found I had come in for that money, the first thing I thought was that I should be able to have a decent dress. My old ones are quite worn out, and as for my hat and jacket—”
“Go on,” said her husband, fiercely. “Go on. That’s just what I said: trust you with money, and we should be poorer than ever.”
“I’m ashamed to be seen out,” said Mrs. Gribble.
“A woman’s place is the home,” said Mr. Gribble; “and so long as I’m satisfied with your appearance nobody else matters. So long as I am pleased, that’s everything. What do you want to go dressing yourself up for? Nothing looks worse than an over-dressed woman.”
“What are we going to do with all that money, then?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, in trembling tones.
“That’ll do,” said Mr. Gribble, decidedly. “That’ll do. One o’ these days you’ll go too far. You start throwing that money in my teeth and see what happens. I’ve done my best for you all these years, and there’s no reason to suppose I sha’n’t go on doing so. What did you say? What!”
Mrs. Gribble turned to him a face rendered ghastly by terror. “I—I said—it was my money,” she stammered.
Mr. Gribble rose, and stood for a full minute regarding her. Then, kicking a chair out of his way, he took his hat from its peg in the passage and, with a bang of the street-door that sent a current of fresh, sweet air circulating through the house, strode off to the Grafton Arms.
It was past eleven when he returned, but even the spectacle of his wife laboriously darning her old dress failed to reduce his good-humour in the slightest degree. In a frivolous mood he even took a feather from the dismembered hat on the table and stuck it in his hair. He took the stump of a strong cigar from his lips and, exhaling a final cloud of smoke, tossed it into the fireplace.
“Uncle George dead,” he said, at last, shaking his head. “Hadn’t pleasure acquaintance, but good man. Good man.”
He shook his head again and gazed mistily at his wife.
“He was a teetotaller,” she remarked, casually.
“He was tee-toiler,” repeated Mr. Gribble, regarding her equably. “Good man. Uncle George dead-tee-toller.”
Mrs. Gribble gathered up her work and began to put it away.
“Bed-time,” said Mr. Gribble, and led the way upstairs, singing.
His good-humour had evaporated by the morning, and, having made a light breakfast of five cups of tea, he went off, with lagging steps, to work. It was a beautiful spring morning, and the idea of a man with two hundred a year and a headache going off to a warehouse instead of a day’s outing seemed to border upon the absurd. What use was money without freedom? His toil was sweetened that day by the knowledge that he could drop it any time he liked and walk out, a free man, into the sunlight.
By the end of a week his mind was made up. Each day that passed made his hurried uprising and scrambled breakfast more and more irksome; and on Monday morning, with hands in trouser-pockets and legs stretched out, he leaned back in his chair and received his wife’s alarming intimations as to the flight of time with a superior and sphinx-like smile.
“It’s too fine to go to work to-day,” he said, lazily. “Come to that, any day is too fine to waste at work.”
Mrs. Gribble sat gasping at him.
“So on Saturday I gave ‘em a week’s notice,” continued her husband, “and after Potts and Co. had listened while I told ‘em what I thought of ‘em, they said they’d do without the week’s notice.”
“You’ve never given up your job?” said Mrs. Gribble.
“I spoke to old Potts as one gentleman of independent means to another,” said Mr. Gribble, smiling. “Thirty-five bob a week after twenty years’ service! And he had the cheek to tell me I wasn’t worth that. When I told him what he was worth he talked about sending for the police. What are you looking like that for? I’ve worked hard for you for thirty years, and I’ve had enough of it. Now it’s your turn.”
“You’d find it hard to get another place at your age,” said his wife; “especially if they wouldn’t give you a good character.”
“Place!” said the other, staring. “Place! I tell you I’ve done with work. For a man o’ my means to go on working for thirty-five bob a week is ridiculous.”
“But suppose anything happened to me,” said his wife, in a troubled voice.
“That’s not very likely,” said Mr. Gribble.
“You’re tough enough. And if it did your money would come to me.”
Mrs. Gribble shook her head.
“WHAT?” roared her husband, jumping up.
“I’ve only got it for life, Henry, as I told you,” said Mrs. Gribble, in alarm. “I thought you knew it would stop when I died.”
“And what’s to become of me if anything happens to you, then?” demanded the dismayed Mr. Gribble. “What am I to do?”
Mrs. Gribble put her handkerchief to her eyes.
“And don’t start weakening your constitution by crying,” shouted the incensed husband.
“What are you mumbling?”
“I sa—sa—said, let’s hope—you’ll go first,” sobbed his wife. “Then it will be all right.”
Mr. Gribble opened his mouth, and then, realizing the inadequacy of the English language for moments of stress, closed it again. He broke his silence at last in favour of Uncle George.
“Mind you,” he said, concluding a peroration which his wife listened to with her fingers in her ears—“mind you, I reckon I’ve been absolutely done by you and your precious Uncle George. I’ve given up a good situation, and now, any time you fancy to go off the hooks, I’m to be turned into the street.”
“I’ll try and live, for your sake, Henry,” said his wife.
“Think of my worry every time you are ill,” pursued the indignant Mr. Gribble.
Mrs. Gribble sighed, and her husband, after a few further remarks concerning Uncle George, his past and his future, announced his intention of going to the lawyers and seeing whether anything could be done. He came back in a state of voiceless gloom, and spent the rest of a beautiful day indoors, smoking a pipe which had lost much of its flavour, and regarding with a critical and anxious eye the small, weedy figure of his wife as she went about her work.