Sailor's Knots (Entire Collection)
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“Ashamed of yourself?” repeated Mr. Evans, rising and confronting him.
Mr. Carter hung his head and gazed nervously in the direction of the girl. “I can’t keep up this deception,” he said, in a low but distinct voice. “I am Bert Simmons. At least, that is the name I told you four years ago.”
“I knew I hadn’t made a mistake,” roared Mr. Evans to his son. “I knew him well enough. Shut the door, Jim. Don’t let him go.”
“I don’t want to go,” said Mr. Carter, with a glance in the direction of Nancy. “I have come back to make amends.”
“Fancy Nancy not knowing him!” said Jim, gazing at the astonished Miss Evans.
“She was afraid of getting me into trouble,” said Mr. Carter, “and I just gave her a wink not to recognize me; but she knew me well enough, bless her.”
“How dare you!” said the girl, starting up. “Why, I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“All right, Nan,” said the brazen Mr. Carter; “but it’s no good keeping it up now. I’ve come back to act fair and square.”
Miss Evans struggled for breath.
“There he is, my girl,” said her father, patting her on the back. “He’s not much to look at, and he treated you very shabby, but if you want him I suppose you must have him.”
“Want him?” repeated the incensed Miss Evans. “Want him? I tell you it’s not Bert. How dare he come here and call me Nan?”
“You used not to mind it,” said Mr. Carter, plaintively.
“I tell you,” said Miss Evans, turning to her father and brother, “it’s not Bert. Do you think I don’t know?”
“Well, he ought to know who he is,” said her father, reasonably.
“Of course I ought,” said Mr. Carter, smiling at her. “Besides, what reason should I have for saying I am Bert if I am not?”
“That’s a fair question,” said Jim, as the girl bit her lip. “Why should he?”
“Ask him,” said the girl, tartly.
“Look here, my girl,” said Mr. Evans, in ominous accents. “For four years you’ve been grieving over Bert, and me and Jim have been hunting high and low for him. We’ve got him at last, and now you’ve got to have him.”
“If he don’t run away again,” said Jim. “I wouldn’t trust him farther than I could see him.”
Mr. Evans sat and glowered at his prospective son-in-law as the difficulties of the situation developed themselves. Even Mr. Carter’s reminders that he had come back and surrendered of his own free will failed to move him, and he was hesitating between tying him up and locking him in the attic and hiring a man to watch him, when Mr. Carter himself suggested a way out of the difficulty.
“I’ll lodge with you,” he said, “and I’ll give you all my money and things to take care of. I can’t run away without money.”
He turned out his pockets on the table. Seven pounds eighteen shillings and fourpence with his re-turn ticket made one heap; his watch and chain, penknife, and a few other accessories another. A suggestion of Jim’s that he should add his boots was vetoed by the elder man as unnecessary.
“There you are,” said Mr. Evans, sweeping the things into his own pockets; “and the day you are married I hand them back to you.”
His temper improved as the evening wore on. By the time supper was finished and his pipe alight he became almost jocular, and the coldness of Miss Evans was the only drawback to an otherwise enjoyable evening.
“Just showing off a little temper,” said her father, after she had withdrawn; “and wants to show she ain’t going to forgive you too easy. Not but what you behaved badly; however, let bygones be bygones, that’s my idea.”
The behavior of Miss Evans was so much better next day that it really seemed as though her father’s diagnosis was correct. At dinner, when the men came home from work, she piled Mr. Carter’s plate up so generously that her father and brother had ample time at their disposal to watch him eat. And when he put his hand over his glass she poured half a pint of good beer, that other men would have been thankful for, up his sleeve.
She was out all the afternoon, but at tea time she sat next to Mr. Carter, and joined brightly in the conversation concerning her marriage. She addressed him as Bert, and when he furtively pressed her hand beneath the table-cloth she made no attempt to withdraw it.
“I can’t think how it was you didn’t know him at first,” said her father. “You’re usually wide-awake enough.”
“Silly of me,” said Nancy; “but I am silly sometimes.”
Mr. Carter pressed her hand again, and gazing tenderly into her eyes received a glance in return which set him thinking. It was too cold and calculating for real affection; in fact, after another glance, he began to doubt if it indicated affection at all.
“It’s like old times, Bert,” said Miss Evans, with an odd smile. “Do you remember what you said that afternoon when I put the hot spoon on your neck?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
“What was it?” inquired the girl.
“I won’t repeat it,” said Mr. Carter, firmly.
He was reminded of other episodes during the meal, but, by the exercise of tact and the plea of a bad memory, did fairly well. He felt that he had done very well indeed when, having cleared the tea-things away, Nancy came and sat beside him with her hand in his. Her brother grunted, but Mr. Evans, in whom a vein of sentiment still lingered, watched them with much satisfaction.
Mr. Carter had got possession of both hands and was murmuring fulsome flatteries when the sound of somebody pausing at the open door caused them to be hastily withdrawn.
“Evening, Mr. Evans,” said a young man, putting his head in. “Why, halloa! Bert! Well, of all the–”
“Halloa!” said Mr. Carter, with attempted enthusiasm, as he rose from his chair.
“I thought you was lost,” said the other, stepping in and gripping his hand. “I never thought I was going to set eyes on you again. Well, this is a surprise. You ain’t forgot Joe Wilson, have you?”
“Course I haven’t, Joe,” said Mr. Carter. “I’d have known you anywhere.”
He shook hands effusively, and Mr. Wilson, after a little pretended hesitation, accepted a chair and began to talk about old times.
“I lay you ain’t forgot one thing, Bert,” he said at last.
“What’s that?” inquired the other.
“That arf-quid I lent you,” said Mr. Wilson.
Mr. Carter, after the first shock of surprise, pretended to think, Mr. Wilson supplying him with details as to time and place, which he was in no position to dispute. He turned to Mr. Evans, who was still acting as his banker, and, after a little hesitation, requested him to pay the money. Conversation seemed to fail somewhat after that, and Mr. Wilson, during an awkward pause, went off whistling.
“Same old Joe,” said Mr. Carter, lightly, after he had gone. “He hasn’t altered a bit.”
Miss Evans glanced at him, but said nothing. She was looking instead towards a gentleman of middle age who was peeping round the door indulging in a waggish game of peep-bo with the unconscious Mr. Carter. Finding that he had at last attracted his attention, the gentleman came inside and, breathing somewhat heavily after his exertions, stood before him with outstretched hand.
“How goes it?” said Mr. Carter, forcing a smile and shaking hands.
“He’s grown better-looking than ever,” said the gentleman, subsiding into a chair.
“So have you,” said Mr. Carter. “I should hardly have known you.”
“Well, I’ m glad to see you again,” said the other in a more subdued fashion. “We’re all glad to see you back, and I ‘ope that when the wedding cake is sent out there’ll be a bit for old Ben Prout.”
“You’ll be the first, Ben,” said Mr. Carter, quickly.
Mr. Prout got up and shook hands with him again. “It only shows what mistakes a man can make,” he said, resuming his seat. “It only shows how easy it is to misjudge one’s fellow-creeturs. When you went away sudden four years ago, I says to myself, ‘Ben Prout,’ I says, ‘make up your mind to it, that two quid has gorn.’”
The smile vanished from Mr. Carter’s face, and a sudden chill descended upon the company.
“Two quid?” he said, stiffly. “What two quid?”
“The two quid I lent you,” said Mr. Prout, in a pained voice.
“When?” said Mr. Carter, struggling.
“When you and I met him that evening on the pier,” said Miss Evans, in a matter-of-fact voice.
Mr. Carter started, and gazed at her uneasily. The smile on her lip and the triumphant gleam in her eye were a revelation to him. He turned to Mr. Evans and in as calm a voice as he could assume, requested him to discharge the debt. Mr. Prout, his fingers twitching, stood waiting “Well, it’s your money,” said Mr. Evans, grudgingly extracting a purse from his trouser-pocket; “and I suppose you ought to pay your debts; still–”
He put down two pounds on the table and broke off in sudden amazement as Mr. Prout, snatching up the money, bolted headlong from the room. His surprise was shared by his son, but the other two made no sign. Mr. Carter was now prepared for the worst, and his voice was quite calm as he gave instructions for the payment of the other three gentlemen who presented claims during the evening endorsed by Miss Evans. As the last departed Mr. Evans, whose temper had been gradually getting beyond his control, crossed over and handed him his watch and chain, a few coppers, and the return half of his railway ticket.
“I think we can do without you, after all,” he said, breathing thickly. “I’ve no doubt you owe money all over England. You’re a cadger, that’s what you are.”
He pointed to the door, and Mr. Carter, after twice opening his lips to speak and failing, blundered towards it. Miss Evans watched him curiously.
“Cheats never prosper,” she said, with gentle severity.
“Good-by,” said Mr. Carter, pausing at the door.
“It’s your own fault,” continued Miss Evans, who was suffering from a slight touch of conscience. “If you hadn’t come here pretending to be Bert Simmons and calling me ‘Nan’ as if you had known me all my life, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Mr. Carter. “I wish I was Bert Simmons, that’s all. Good-by.”
“Wish you was!” said Mr. Evans, who had been listening in open-mouthed astonishment. “Look here! Man to man—are you Bert Simmons or are you not?”
“No,” said Mr. Carter.
“Of course not,” said Nancy.
“And you didn’t owe that money?”
“Nobody owed it,” said Nancy. “It was done just to punish him.”
Mr. Evans, with a strange cry, blundered towards the door. “I’ll have that money out of ‘em,” he roared, “if I have to hold ‘em up and shake it out of their trouser-pockets. You stay here.”
He hurried up the road, and Jim, with the set face of a man going into action against heavy odds, followed him.
“Your father told me to stay,” said Mr. Carter, coming farther into the room.
Nancy looked up at him through her eyelashes. “You need not unless you want to,” she said, very softly.
KEEPING UP APPEARANCES
“Everybody is superstitious,” said the night-watchman, as he gave utterance to a series of chirruping endearments to a black cat with one eye that had just been using a leg of his trousers as a serviette; “if that cat ‘ad stole some men’s suppers they’d have acted foolish, and suffered for it all the rest of their lives.”
He scratched the cat behind the ear, and despite himself his face darkened. “Slung it over the side, they would,” he said, longingly, “and chucked bits o’ coke at it till it sank. As I said afore, everybody is superstitious, and those that ain’t ought to be night-watchmen for a time—that ‘ud cure ‘em. I knew one man that killed a black cat, and arter that for the rest of his life he could never get three sheets in the wind without seeing its ghost. Spoilt his life for ‘im, it did.”
He scratched the cat’s other ear. “I only left it a moment, while I went round to the Bull’s Head,” he said, slowly filling his pipe, “and I thought I’d put it out o’ reach. Some men–”
His fingers twined round the animal’s neck; then, with a sigh, he rose and took a turn or two on the jetty.
Superstitiousness is right and proper, to a certain extent, he said, resuming his seat; but, o’ course, like everything else, some people carry it too far—they’d believe anything. Weak-minded they are, and if you’re in no hurry I can tell you a tale of a pal o’ mine, Bill Burtenshaw by name, that’ll prove my words.
His mother was superstitious afore ‘im, and always knew when ‘er friends died by hearing three loud taps on the wall. The on’y mistake she ever made was one night when, arter losing no less than seven friends, she found out it was the man next door hanging pictures at three o’clock in the morning. She found it out by ‘im hitting ‘is thumb-nail.
For the first few years arter he grew up Bill went to sea, and that on’y made ‘im more superstitious than ever. Him and a pal named Silas Winch went several v’y’ges together, and their talk used to be that creepy that some o’ the chaps was a’most afraid to be left on deck alone of a night. Silas was a long-faced, miserable sort o’ chap, always looking on the black side o’ things, and shaking his ‘ead over it. He thought nothing o’ seeing ghosts, and pore old Ben Huggins slept on the floor for a week by reason of a ghost with its throat cut that Silas saw in his bunk. He gave Silas arf a dollar and a neck-tie to change bunks with ‘im.
When Bill Burtenshaw left the sea and got married he lost sight of Silas altogether, and the on’y thing he ‘ad to remind him of ‘im was a piece o’ paper which they ‘ad both signed with their blood, promising that the fust one that died would appear to the other. Bill agreed to it one evenin’ when he didn’t know wot he was doing, and for years arterwards ‘e used to get the cold creeps down ‘is back when he thought of Silas dying fust. And the idea of dying fust ‘imself gave ‘im cold creeps all over.
Bill was a very good husband when he was sober, but ‘is money was two pounds a week, and when a man has all that and on’y a wife to keep out of it, it’s natural for ‘im to drink. Mrs. Burtenshaw tried all sorts o’ ways and means of curing ‘im, but it was no use. Bill used to think o’ ways, too, knowing the ‘arm the drink was doing ‘im, and his fav’rite plan was for ‘is missis to empty a bucket o’ cold water over ‘im every time he came ‘ome the worse for licker. She did it once, but as she ‘ad to spend the rest o’ the night in the back yard it wasn’t tried again.
Bill got worse as he got older, and even made away with the furniture to get drink with. And then he used to tell ‘is missis that he was drove to the pub because his ‘ome was so uncomfortable.
Just at that time things was at their worst Silas Winch, who ‘appened to be ashore and ‘ad got Bill’s address from a pal, called to see ‘im. It was a Saturday arternoon when he called, and, o’ course, Bill was out, but ‘is missis showed him in, and, arter fetching another chair from the kitchen, asked ‘im to sit down.
Silas was very perlite at fust, but arter looking round the room and seeing ‘ow bare it was, he gave a little cough, and he ses, “I thought Bill was doing well?” he ses.
“So he is,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw.
Silas Winch coughed again.
“I suppose he likes room to stretch ‘imself about in?” he ses, looking round.
Mrs. Burtenshaw wiped ‘er eyes and then, knowing ‘ow Silas had been an old friend o’ Bill’s, she drew ‘er chair a bit closer and told him ‘ow it was. “A better ‘usband, when he’s sober, you couldn’t wish to see,” she ses, wiping her eyes agin. “He’d give me anything—if he ‘ad it.”
Silas’s face got longer than ever. “As a matter o’ fact,” he ses, “I’m a bit down on my luck, and I called round with the ‘ope that Bill could lend me a bit, just till I can pull round.”
Mrs. Burtenshaw shook her ‘ead.
“Well, I s’pose I can stay and see ‘im?” ses Silas. “Me and ‘im used to be great pals at one time, and many’s the good turn I’ve done him. Wot time’ll he be ‘ome?”
“Any time after twelve,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw; “but you’d better not be here then. You see, ‘im being in that condition, he might think you was your own ghost come according to promise and be frightened out of ‘is life. He’s often talked about it.”
Silas Winch scratched his head and looked at ‘er thoughtful-like.
“Why shouldn’t he mistake me for a ghost?” he ses at last; “the shock might do ‘im good. And, if you come to that, why shouldn’t I pretend to be my own ghost and warn ‘im off the drink?”
Mrs. Burtenshaw got so excited at the idea she couldn’t ‘ardly speak, but at last, arter saying over and over agin she wouldn’t do such a thing for worlds, she and Silas arranged that he should come in at about three o’clock in the morning and give Bill a solemn warning. She gave ‘im her key, and Silas said he’d come in with his ‘air and cap all wet and pretend he’d been drowned.
“It’s very kind of you to take all this trouble for nothing,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw as Silas got up to go.
“Don’t mention it,” ses Silas. “It ain’t the fust time, and I don’t suppose it’ll be the last, that I’ve put myself out to help my feller-creeturs. We all ought to do wot we can for each other.”
“Mind, if he finds it out,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw, all of a tremble, “I don’t know nothing about it. P’r’aps to make it more life-like I’d better pretend not to see you.”
“P’r’aps it would be better,” ses Silas, stopping at the street door. “All I ask is that you’ll ‘ide the poker and anything else that might be laying about handy. And you ‘ad better oil the lock so as the key won’t make a noise.”
Mrs. Burtenshaw shut the door arter ‘im, and then she went in and ‘ad a quiet sit-down all by ‘erself to think it over. The only thing that comforted ‘et was that Bill would be in licker, and also that ‘e would believe anything in the ghost line.
It was past twelve when a couple o’ pals brought him ‘ome, and, arter offering to fight all six of ‘em, one after the other, Bill hit the wall for getting in ‘is way, and tumbled upstairs to bed. In less than ten minutes ‘e was fast asleep, and pore Mrs. Burtenshaw, arter trying her best to keep awake, fell asleep too.
She was woke up suddenly by a noise that froze the marrer in ‘er bones— the most ‘art-rending groan she ‘ad ever heard in ‘er life; and, raising her ‘ead, she saw Silas Winch standing at the foot of the bed. He ‘ad done his face and hands over with wot is called loominous paint, his cap was pushed at the back of his ‘ead, and wet wisps of ‘air was hanging over his eyes. For a moment Mrs. Burtenshaw’s ‘art stood still and then Silas let off another groan that put her on edge all over. It was a groan that seemed to come from nothing a’most until it spread into a roar that made the room tremble and rattled the jug in the wash-stand basin. It shook everything in the room but Bill, and he went on sleeping like an infant. Silas did two more groans, and then ‘e leaned over the foot o’ the bed, and stared at Bill, as though ‘e couldn’t believe his eyesight.
“Try a squeaky one,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw.
Silas tried five squeaky ones, and then he ‘ad a fit o’ coughing that would ha’ woke the dead, as they say, but it didn’t wake Bill.
“Now some more deep ones,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw, in a w’isper.
Silas licked his lips—forgetting the paint—and tried the deep ones agin.
“Now mix ‘em a bit,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw.
Silas stared at her. “Look ‘ere,” he ses, very short, “do you think I’m a fog-horn, or wot?”
He stood there sulky for a moment, and then ‘e invented a noise that nothing living could miss hearing; even Bill couldn’t. He moved in ‘is sleep, and arter Silas ‘ad done it twice more he turned and spoke to ‘is missis about it. “D’ye hear?” he ses; “stop it. Stop it at once.”
Mrs. Burtenshaw pretended to be asleep, and Bill was just going to turn over agin when Silas let off another groan. It was on’y a little one this time, but Bill sat up as though he ‘ad been shot, and he no sooner caught sight of Silas standing there than ‘e gave a dreadful ‘owl and, rolling over, wropped ‘imself up in all the bed-clothes ‘e could lay his ‘ands on. Then Mrs. Burtenshaw gave a ‘owl and tried to get some of ‘em back; but Bill, thinking it was the ghost, only held on tighter than ever.
“Bill!” ses Silas Winch, in an awful voice.
Bill gave a kick, and tried to bore a hole through the bed.
“Bill,” ses Silas agin, “why don’t you answer me? I’ve come all the way from the bottom of the Pacific Ocean to see you, and this is all I get for it. Haven’t you got anything to say to me?”
“Good-by,” ses Bill, in a voice all smothered with the bed-clothes.
Silas Winch groaned agin, and Bill, as the shock ‘ad made a’most sober, trembled all over.
“The moment I died,” ses Silas, “I thought of my promise towards you. ‘Bill’s expecting me,’ I ses, and, instead of staying in comfort at the bottom of the sea, I kicked off the body of the cabin-boy wot was clinging round my leg, and ‘ere I am.”
“It was very—t-t-thoughtful—of you—Silas,” ses Bill; “but you always— w-w-was—thoughtful. Good-by—”
Afore Silas could answer, Mrs. Burtenshaw, who felt more comfortable, ‘aving got a bit o’ the clothes back, thought it was time to put ‘er spoke in.
“Lor’ bless me, Bill,” she ses. “Wotever are you a-talking to yourself like this for? ‘Ave you been dreaming?”
“Dreaming!” ses pore Bill, catching hold of her ‘and and gripping it till she nearly screamed. “I wish I was. Can’t you see it?”
“See it?” ses his wife. “See wot?”
“The ghost,” ses Bill, in a ‘orrible whisper; “the ghost of my dear, kind old pal, Silas Winch. The best and noblest pal a man ever ‘ad. The kindest-’arted–”
“Rubbish,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw. “You’ve been dreaming. And as for the kindest-’arted pal, why I’ve often heard you say—”
“H’sh!” ses Bill. “I didn’t. I’ll swear I didn’t. I never thought of such a thing.”
“You turn over and go to sleep,” ses his wife, “hiding your ‘ead under the clothes like a child that’s afraid o’ the dark! There’s nothing there, I tell you. Wot next will you see, I wonder? Last time it was a pink rat.”
“This is fifty million times worse than pink rats,” ses Bill. “I on’y wish it was a pink rat.”
“I tell you there is nothing there,” ses his wife. “Look!”
Bill put his ‘ead up and looked, and then ‘e gave a dreadful scream and dived under the bed-clothes agin.
“Oh, well, ‘ave it your own way, then,” ses his wife. “If it pleases you to think there is a ghost there, and to go on talking to it, do so, and welcome.”
She turned over and pretended to go to sleep agin, and arter a minute or two Silas spoke agin in the same hollow voice.
“Bill!” he ses.
“Yes,” ses Bill, with a groan of his own.
“She can’t see me,” ses Silas, “and she can’t ‘ear me; but I’m ‘ere all right. Look!”
“I ‘ave looked,” ses Bill, with his ‘ead still under the clothes.
“We was always pals, Bill, you and me,” ses Silas; “many a v’y’ge ‘ave we had together, mate, and now I’m a-laying at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, and you are snug and ‘appy in your own warm bed. I ‘ad to come to see you, according to promise, and over and above that, since I was drowned my eyes ‘ave been opened. Bill, you’re drinking yourself to death!”
“I—I—didn’t know it,” ses Bill, shaking all over. “I’ll knock it—off a bit, and—thank you—for—w-w-warning me. G-G-Good-by.”
“You’ll knock it off altogether,” ses Silas Winch, in a awful voice. “You’re not to touch another drop of beer, wine, or spirits as long as you live. D’ye hear me?”
“Not—not as medicine?” ses Bill, holding the clothes up a bit so as to be more distinct.
“Not as anything,” ses Silas; “not even over Christmas pudding. Raise your right arm above your ‘ead and swear by the ghost of pore Silas Winch, as is laying at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, that you won’t touch another drop.”
Bill Burtenshaw put ‘is arm up and swore it.
Then ‘e took ‘is arm in agin and lay there wondering wot was going to ‘appen next.
“If you ever break your oath by on’y so much as a teaspoonful,” ses Silas, “you’ll see me agin, and the second time you see me you’ll die as if struck by lightning. No man can see me twice and live.”
Bill broke out in a cold perspiration all over. “You’ll be careful, won’t you, Silas?” he ses. “You’ll remember you ‘ave seen me once, I mean?”
“And there’s another thing afore I go,” ses Silas. “I’ve left a widder, and if she don’t get ‘elp from some one she’ll starve.”
“Pore thing,” ses Bill. “Pore thing.”
“If you ‘ad died afore me,” ses Silas, “I should ‘ave looked arter your good wife—wot I’ve now put in a sound sleep—as long as I lived.”