Sailor's Knots (Entire Collection)
- -
- 100%
- +
“It fair takes your breath away,” declared the astounded Mr. Dowson.
“The fair young man is meant for Ben Lippet,” said his wife, “and the dark one is Charlie Foss. It must be. It’s no use shutting your eyes to things.”
“It’s as plain as a pikestaff,” agreed her husband. “And she told Charlie five years for bigamy, and when she’s telling Flora’s Fortune she sees ‘im in convict’s clothes. How she does it I can’t think.”
“It’s a gift,” said Mrs. Dowson, briefly, “and I do hope that Flora is going to act sensible. Anyhow, she can let Ben Lippet come and see her, without going upstairs with the tooth-ache.”
“He can come if he likes,” said Flora; “though why Charlie couldn’t have ‘ad the motor-car and ‘im the five years, I don’t know.”
Mr. Lippet came in the next evening, and the evening after. In fact, so easy is it to fall into habits of an agreeable nature that nearly every evening saw him the happy guest of Mr. Dowson. A spirit of resignation, fostered by a present or two and a visit to the theatre, descended upon Miss Dowson. Fate and her mother combined were in a fair way to overcome her inclinations, when Mr. Foss, who had been out of town on a job, came in to hear the result of her visit to the fortune-teller, and found Mr. Lippet installed in the seat that used to be his.
At first Mrs. Dowson turned a deaf ear to his request for information, and it was only when his jocularity on the subject passed the bounds of endurance that she consented to gratify his curiosity.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” she said, when she had finished, “but you asked for it, and now you’ve got it.”
“It’s very amusing,” said Mr. Foss. “I wonder who the dark young man in the fancy knickers is?”
“Ah, I daresay you’ll know some day,” said Mrs. Dowson.
“Was the fair young man a good-looking chap?” inquired the inquisitive Mr. Foss.
Mrs. Dowson hesitated. “Yes,” she said, defiantly.
“Wonder who it can be?” muttered Mr. Foss, in perplexity.
“You’ll know that too some day, no doubt,” was the reply.
“I’m glad it’s to be a good-looking chap,” he said; “not that I think Flora believes in such rubbish as fortune-telling. She’s too sensible.”
“I do,” said Flora. “How should she know all the things I did when I was a little girl? Tell me that.”
“I believe in it, too,” said Mrs. Dowson. “P’r’aps you’ll tell me I’m not sensible!”
Mr. Foss quailed at the challenge and relapsed into moody silence. The talk turned on an aunt of Mr. Lippet’s, rumored to possess money, and an uncle who was “rolling” in it. He began to feel in the way, and only his native obstinacy prevented him from going.
It was a relief to him when the front door opened and the heavy step of Mr. Dowson was heard in the tiny passage. If anything it seemed heavier than usual, and Mr. Dowson’s manner when he entered the room and greeted his guests was singularly lacking in its usual cheerfulness. He drew a chair to the fire, and putting his feet on the fender gazed moodily between the bars.
“I’ve been wondering as I came along,” he said at last, with an obvious attempt to speak carelessly, “whether this ‘ere fortune-telling as we’ve been hearing so much about lately always comes out true.”
“It depends on the fortune-teller,” said his wife.
“I mean,” said Mr. Dowson, slowly, “I mean that gypsy woman that Charlie and Flora went to.”
“Of course it does,” snapped his wife. “I’d trust what she says afore anything.”
“I know five or six that she has told,” said Mr. Lippet, plucking up courage; “and they all believe ‘er. They couldn’t help themselves; they said so.”
“Still, she might make a mistake sometimes,” said Mr. Dowson, faintly. “Might get mixed up, so to speak.”
“Never!” said Mrs. Dowson, firmly.
“Never!” echoed Flora and Mr. Lippet.
Mr. Dowson heaved a big sigh, and his eye wandered round the room. It lighted on Mr. Foss.
“She’s an old humbug,” said that gentleman. “I’ve a good mind to put the police on to her.”
Mr. Dowson reached over and gripped his hand. Then he sighed again.
“Of course, it suits Charlie Foss to say so,” said Mrs. Dowson; “naturally he’d say so; he’s got reasons. I believe every word she says. If she told me I was coming in for a fortune I should believe her; and if she told me I was going to have misfortunes I should believe her.”
“Don’t say that,” shouted Mr. Dowson, with startling energy. “Don’t say that. That’s what she did say!”
“What?” cried his wife, sharply. “What are you talking about?”
“I won eighteenpence off of Bob Stevens,” said her husband, staring at the table. “Eighteenpence is ‘er price for telling the future only, and, being curious and feeling I’d like to know what’s going to ‘appen to me, I went in and had eighteenpennorth.”
“Well, you’re upset,” said Mrs. Dowson, with a quick glance at him. “You get upstairs to bed.”
“I’d sooner stay ‘ere,” said her husband, resuming his seat; “it seems more cheerful and lifelike. I wish I ‘adn’t gorn, that’s what I wish.”
“What did she tell you?” inquired Mr. Foss.
Mr. Dowson thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and spoke desperately. “She says I’m to live to ninety, and I’m to travel to foreign parts–”
“You get to bed,” said his wife. “Come along.”
Mr. Dowson shook his head doggedly. “I’m to be rich,” he continued, slowly—“rich and loved. After my pore dear wife’s death I’m to marry again; a young woman with money and stormy brown eyes.”
Mrs. Dowson sprang from her chair and stood over him quivering with passion. “How dare you?” she gasped. “You—you’ve been drinking.”
“I’ve ‘ad two arf-pints,” said her husband, solemnly. “I shouldn’t ‘ave ‘ad the second only I felt so miserable. I know I sha’n’t be ‘appy with a young woman.”
Mrs. Dowson, past speech, sank back in her chair and stared at him.
“I shouldn’t worry about it if I was you, Mrs. Dowson,” said Mr. Foss, kindly. “Look what she said about me. That ought to show you she ain’t to be relied on.”
“Eyes like lamps,” said Mr. Dowson, musingly, “and I’m forty-nine next month. Well, they do say every eye ‘as its own idea of beauty.”
A strange sound, half laugh and half cry, broke from the lips of the over-wrought Mrs. Dowson. She controlled herself by an effort.
“If she said it,” she said, doggedly, with a fierce glance at Mr. Foss, “it’ll come true. If, after my death, my ‘usband is going to marry a young woman with—with–”
“Stormy brown eyes,” interjected Mr. Foss, softly.
“It’s his fate and it can’t be avoided,” concluded Mrs. Dowson.
“But it’s so soon,” said the unfortunate husband. “You’re to die in three weeks and I’m to be married three months after.”
Mrs. Dowson moistened her lips and tried, but in vain, to avoid the glittering eye of Mr. Foss. “Three!” she said, mechanically, “three! three weeks!”
“Don’t be frightened,” said Mr. Foss, in a winning voice. “I don’t believe it; and, besides, we shall soon see! And if you don’t die in three weeks, perhaps I sha’n’t get five years for bigamy, and perhaps Flora won’t marry a fair man with millions of money and motor-cars.”
“No; perhaps she is wrong after all, mother,” said Mr. Dowson, hopefully.
Mrs. Dowson gave him a singularly unkind look for one about to leave him so soon, and, afraid to trust herself to speech, left the room and went up-stairs. As the door closed behind her, Mr. Foss took the chair which Mr. Lippet had thoughtlessly vacated, and offered such consolations to Flora as he considered suitable to the occasion.
ODD MAN OUT
The night watchman pursed up his lips and shook his head. Friendship, he said, decidedly, is a deloosion and a snare. I’ve ‘ad more friendships in my life than most people—owing to being took a fancy to for some reason or other—and they nearly all came to a sudden ending.
I remember one man who used to think I couldn’t do wrong; everything I did was right to ‘im; and now if I pass ‘im in the street he makes a face as if he’d got a hair in ‘is mouth. All because I told ‘im the truth one day when he was thinking of getting married. Being a bit uneasy-like in his mind, he asked me ‘ow, supposing I was a gal, his looks would strike me.
It was an orkard question, and I told him that he ‘ad got a good ‘art and that no man could ‘ave a better pal. I said he ‘ad got a good temper and was free with ‘is money. O’ course, that didn’t satisfy ‘im, and at last he told me to take a good look at ‘im and tell him wot I thought of ‘is looks. There was no getting out of it, and at last I ‘ad to tell him plain that everybody ‘ad diff’rent ideas about looks; that looks wasn’t everything; and that ‘andsome is as ‘andsome does. Even then ‘e wasn’t satisfied, and at last I told ‘im, speaking as a pal to a pal, that if I was a gal and he came along trying to court me, I should go to the police about it.
I remember two young fellers that was shipmates with me some years ago, and they was such out-and-out pals that everybody called ‘em the Siamese twins. They always shipped together and shared lodgings together when they was ashore, and Ted Denver would no more ‘ave thought of going out without Charlie Brice than Charlie Brice would ‘ave thought of going out without ‘im. They shared their baccy and their money and everything else, and it’s my opinion that if they ‘ad only ‘ad one pair o’ boots between ‘em they’d ‘ave hopped along in one each.
They ‘ad been like it for years, and they kept it up when they left the sea and got berths ashore. Anybody knowing them would ha’ thought that nothing but death could part ‘em; but it happened otherwise.
There was a gal in it, of course. A gal that Ted Denver got into conversation with on top of a bus, owing to her steadying ‘erself by putting her hand on ‘is shoulder as she passed ‘im. Bright, lively sort o’ gal she seemed, and, afore Ted knew where he was, they was talking away as though they ‘ad known each other for years.
Charlie didn’t seem to care much for it at fust, but he didn’t raise no objection; and when the gal got up to go he stopped the bus for ‘er by poking the driver in the back, and they all got off together. Ted went fust to break her fall, in case the bus started off too sudden, and Charlie ‘elped her down behind by catching hold of a lace collar she was wearing. When she turned to speak to ‘im about it, she knocked the conductor’s hat off with ‘er umbrella, and there was so much unpleasantness that by the time they ‘ad got to the pavement she told Charlie that she never wanted to see his silly fat face agin.
“It ain’t fat,” ses Ted, speaking up for ‘im; “it’s the shape of it.”
“And it ain’t silly,” ses Charlie, speaking very quick; “mind that!”
“It’s a bit o’ real lace,” ses the gal, twisting her ‘ead round to look at the collar; “it cost me one and two-three only last night.”
“One an’ wot?” ses Charlie, who, not being a married man, didn’t understand ‘er.
“One shilling,” ses the gal, “two pennies, and three farthings. D’ye understand that?”
“Yes,” ses Charlie.
“He’s cleverer than he looks,” ses the gal, turning to Ted. “I s’pose you’re right, and it is the shape after all.”
Ted walked along one side of ‘er and Charlie the other, till they came to the corner of the road where she lived, and then Ted and ‘er stood there talking till Charlie got sick and tired of it, and kept tugging at Ted’s coat for ‘im to come away.
“I’m coming,” ses Ted, at last. “I s’pose you won’t be this way to-morrow night?” he ses, turning to the gal.
“I might if I thought there was no chance of seeing you,” she ses, tossing her ‘ead.
“You needn’t be alarmed,” ses Charlie, shoving in his oar; “we’re going to a music-’all to-morrow night.”
“Oh, go to your blessed music-’all,” ses the gal to Ted; “I don’t want you.”
She turned round and a’most ran up the road, with Ted follering ‘er and begging of ‘er not to be so hasty, and afore they parted she told ‘im that ‘er name was. Emma White, and promised to meet ‘im there the next night at seven.
O’ course Mr. Charlie Brice turned up alongside o’ Ted the next night, and at fust Emma said she was going straight off ‘ome agin. She did go part o’ the way, and then, when she found that Ted wouldn’t send his mate off, she came back and, woman-like, said as ‘ow she wasn’t going to go ‘ome just to please Charlie Brice. She wouldn’t speak a word to ‘im, and when they all went to the music-’all together she sat with her face turned away from ‘im and her elbow sticking in ‘is chest. Doing that and watching the performance at the same time gave ‘er a stiff neck, and she got in such a temper over it she wouldn’t hardly speak to Ted, and when Charlie—meaning well—told ‘er to rub it with a bit o’ mutton-fat she nearly went off her ‘ead.
“Who asked you to come with us?” she ses, as soon as she could speak. “‘Ow dare you force yourself where you ain’t wanted?”
“Ted wants me,” ses Charlie.
“We’ve been together for years,” ses Ted. “You’ll like Charlie when you get used to ‘im—everybody does.”
“Not me!” ses Emma, with a shiver. “It gives me the fair creeps to look at him. You’ll ‘ave to choose between us. If he comes, I sha’n’t. Which is it to be?”
Neither of ‘em answered ‘er, but the next night they both turned up as usual, and Emma White stood there looking at ‘em and nearly crying with temper.
“‘Ow would you like it if I brought another young lady with me?” she ses to Ted.
“It wouldn’t make no difference to me,” ses Ted. “Any friend o’ yours is welcome.”
Emma stood looking at ‘em, and then she patted ‘er eyes with a pocket-’ankercher and began to look more cheerful.
“You ain’t the only one that has got a dear friend,” she says, looking. at ‘im and wiping ‘er lips with the ‘ankercher. “I’ve got one, and if Charlie Brice don’t promise to stay at ‘ome to-morrow night I’ll bring her with me.”
“Bring ‘er, and welcome,” ses Ted.
“I sha’n’t stay at ‘ome for fifty dear friends,” ses Charlie.
“Have it your own way,” ses Emma. “If you come, Sophy Jennings comes, that’s all.”
She was as good as ‘er word, too, and next night when they turned up they found Emma and ‘er friend waiting for them. Charlie thought it was the friend’s mother at fust, but he found out arterwards that she was a widder-woman. She had ‘ad two husbands, and both of ‘em ‘ad passed away with a smile on their face. She seemed to take a fancy to Charlie the moment she set eyes on ‘im, and two or three times, they’d ‘ave lost Ted and Emma if it hadn’t been for ‘im.
They did lose ‘em the next night, and Charlie Brice ‘ad Mrs. Jennings all alone to himself for over a couple of hours walking up and down the Commercial Road talking about the weather; Charles saying ‘ow wet and cold it, was, and thinking p’r’aps they ‘ad better go off ‘ome afore she got a chill.
He complained to Ted about it when ‘e got ‘ome, and Ted promised as it shouldn’t ‘appen agin. He said that ‘im and Emma ‘ad been so busy talking about getting married that he ‘ad forgotten to keep an eye on him.
“Married!” ses Charlie, very upset. “Married! And wot’s to become o’ me?”
“Come and lodge with us,” ses Ted.
They shook hands on it, but Ted said they ‘ad both better keep it to themselves a bit and wait until Emma ‘ad got more used to Charlie afore they told her. Ted let ‘er get used to ‘im for three days more afore he broke the news to ‘er, and the way she went on was alarming. She went on for over ten minutes without taking breath, and she was just going to start again when Mrs. Jennings stopped her.
“He’s all right,” she ses. “You leave ‘im alone.”
“I’m not touching ‘im,” ses Emma, very scornful.
“You leave ‘im alone,” ses Mrs. Jennings, taking hold of Charlie’s arm. “I don’t say things about your young man.”
Charlie Brice started as if he ‘ad been shot, and twice he opened ‘is mouth to speak and show Mrs. Jennings ‘er mistake; but, wot with trying to find ‘is voice in the fust place, and then finding words to use it with in the second, he didn’t say anything. He just walked along gasping, with ‘is mouth open like a fish.
“Don’t take no notice of ‘er, Charlie,” ses Mrs. Jennings.
“I—I don’t mind wot she ses,” ses pore Charlie; “but you’re making a great–”
“She’s quick-tempered, is Emma,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “But, there, so am I. Wot you might call a generous temper, but quick.”
Charlie went cold all over.
“Treat me well and I treat other people well,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “I can’t say fairer than that, can I?”
Charlie said “Nobody could,” and then ‘e walked along with her hanging on to ‘is arm, arf wondering whether it would be wrong to shove ‘er under a bus that was passing, and arf wondering whether ‘e could do it if it wasn’t.
“As for Emma saying she won’t ‘ave you for a lodger,” ses Mrs. Jennings, “let ‘er wait till she’s asked. She’ll wait a long time if I ‘ave my say.”
Charlie didn’t answer her. He walked along with ‘is mouth shut, his idea being that the least said the soonest mended. Even Emma asked ‘im at last whether he ‘ad lost ‘is tongue, and said it was curious ‘ow different love took different people.
He talked fast enough going ‘ome with Ted though, and pretty near lost ‘is temper with ‘im when Ted asked ‘im why he didn’t tell Mrs. Jennings straight that she ‘ad made a mistake.
“She knows well enough,” he says, grinding ‘is teeth; “she was just trying it on. That’s ‘ow it is widders get married agin. You’ll ‘ave to choose between going out with me or Emma, Ted. I can’t face Mrs. Jennings again. I didn’t think anybody could ‘ave parted us like that.”
Ted said it was all nonsense, but it was no good, and the next night he went off alone and came back very cross, saying that Mrs. Jennings ‘ad been with ‘em all the time, and when ‘e spoke to Emma about it she said it was just tit for tat, and reminded ‘im ‘ow she had ‘ad to put up with Charlie. For four nights running ‘e went out for walks, with Emma holding one of ‘is arms and Mrs. Jennings the other.
“It’s miserable for you all alone ‘ere by yourself; Charlie,” he ses. “Why not come? She can’t marry you against your will. Besides, I miss you.”
Charlie shook ‘ands with ‘im, but ‘e said ‘e wouldn’t walk out with Mrs. Jennings for a fortune. And all that Ted could say made no difference. He stayed indoors of an evening reading the paper, or going for little walks by ‘imseif, until at last Ted came ‘ome one evening, smiling all over his face, and told ‘im they had both been making fools of themselves for nothing.
“Mrs. Jennings is going to be married,” he ses, clapping Charlie on the back.
“Wot?” ses Charlie.
Ted nodded. “Her and Emma ‘ad words to-night,” he ses, laughing, “and it all come out. She’s been keeping company for some time. He’s away at present, and they’re going to be married as soon as ‘e comes back.”
“Well,” ses Charlie, “why did she–”
“To oblige Emma,” ses Ted, “to frighten you into staying at ‘ome. I’d ‘ad my suspicions for some time, from one or two things I picked up.”
“Ho!” ses Charlie. “Well, it’ll be my turn to laugh to-morrow night. We’ll see whether she can shake me off agin.”
Ted looked at ‘im a bit worried. “It’s a bit orkard,” he ses, speaking very slow. “You see, they made it up arterwards, and then they both made me promise not to tell you, and if you come, they’ll know I ‘ave.”
Charlie did a bit o’ thinking. “Not if I pretend to make love to Mrs. Jennings?” he ses, at last, winking at ‘im. “And it’ll serve her right for being deceitful. We’ll see ‘ow she likes it. Wot sort o’ chap is the young man—big?”
“Can’t be,” ses Ted; “cos Emma called ‘im a little shrimp.”
“I’ll come,” ses Charlie; “and it’ll be your own fault if they find out you told me about it.”
They fell asleep talking of it, and the next evening Charlie put on a new neck-tie he ‘ad bought, and arter letting Ted have arf an hour’s start went out and met ‘em accidental. The fust Mrs. Jennings knew of ‘is being there was by finding an arm put round ‘er waist.
“Good-evening, Sophy,” he ses.
“‘Ow—‘ow dare you?” ses Mrs. Jennings, giving a scream and pushing him away.
Charlie looked surprised.
“Why, ain’t you pleased to see me?” he ses. “I’ve ‘ad the raging toothache for over a week; I’ve got it now a bit, but I couldn’t stay away from you any longer.”
“You behave yourself,” ses Mrs. Jennings.
“Ted didn’t say anything about your toothache,” ses Emma.
“I wouldn’t let ‘im, for fear of alarming Sophy,” ses Charlie.
Mrs. Jennings gave a sort of laugh and a sniff mixed.
“Ain’t you pleased to see me agin?” ses Charlie.
“I don’t want to see you,” ses Mrs. Jennings. “Wot d’ye think I want to see you for?”
“Change your mind pretty quick, don’t you?” ses Charlie. “It’s blow ‘ot and blow cold with you seemingly. Why, I’ve been counting the minutes till I should see you agin.”
Mrs. Jennings told ‘im not to make a fool of ‘imself, and Charlie saw ‘er look at Emma in a puzzled sort of way, as if she didn’t know wot to make of it. She kept drawing away from ‘im and he kept drawing close to ‘er; other people on the pavement dodging and trying to get out of their way, and asking them which side they was going and to stick to it.
“Why don’t you behave yourself?” ses Emma, at last.
“We’re all right,” ses Charlie; “you look arter your own young man. We can look arter ourselves.”
“Speak for yourself,” ses Mrs. Jennings, very sharp.
Charlie laughed, and the more Mrs. Jennings showed ‘er dislike for ‘is nonsense the more he gave way to it. Even Ted thought it was going too far, and tried to interfere when he put his arm round Mrs. Jennings’s waist and made ‘er dance to a piano-organ; but there was no stopping ‘im, and at last Mrs. Jennings said she had ‘ad enough of it, and told Emma she was going off ‘ome.
“Don’t take no notice of ‘im,” ses Emma.
“I must,” ses Mrs. Jennings, who was arf crying with rage.
“Well, if you go ‘ome, I shall go,” ses Emma. “I don’t want ‘is company. I believe he’s doing it on purpose.
“Behave yourself, Charlie,” ses Ted.
“All right, old man,” ses Charlie. “You look arter your young woman and I’ll look arter mine.”
“Your wot?” ses Mrs. Jennings, very loud.
“My young woman,” ses Charlie.
“Look ‘ere,” ses Emma. “You may as well know first as last—Sophy ‘as got a young man.”
“O’ course she ‘as,” ses Charlie. “Twenty-seven on the second of next January, he is; same as me.”
“She’s going to be married,” ses Emma, very solemn.
“Yes, to me,” ses Charlie, pretending to be surprised. “Didn’t you know that?”
He looked so pleased with ‘imself at his cleverness that Emma arf put up her ‘and, and then she thought better of it and turned away.
“He’s just doing it to get rid of you,” she ses to Mrs. Jennings, “and if you give way you’re a bigger silly than I took you for. Let ‘im go on and ‘ave his own way, and tell your intended about ‘im when you see ‘im. Arter all, you started it.”
“I was only ‘aving a bit o’ fun,” ses Mrs. Jennings.
“Well, so is he,” ses Emma.
“Not me!” ses Charlie, turning his eyes up. “I’m in dead earnest; and so is she. It’s only shyness on ‘er part; it’ll soon wear off.”
He took ‘old of Mrs. Jennings’s arm agin and began to tell ‘er ‘ow lonely ‘is life was afore she came acrost his path like an angel that had lost its way. And he went on like that till she told Emma that she’d either ‘ave to go off ‘ome or scream. Ted interfered agin then, and, arter listening to wot he ‘ad got to say, Charlie said as ‘ow he’d try and keep his love under control a bit more.
“She won’t stand much more of it,” he ses to Ted, arter they ‘ad got ‘ome that night. “I shouldn’t be surprised if she don’t turn up to-morrow.”
Ted shook his ‘ead. “She’ll turn up to oblige Emma,” he ses; “but there’s no need for you to overdo it, Charlie. If her young man ‘appened to get to ‘ear of it it might cause trouble.”
“I ain’t afraid of ‘im,” ses Charlie, “not if your description of ‘im is right.”
“Emma knows ‘im,” ses Ted, “and I know she don’t think much of ‘im. She says he ain’t as big as I am.”
Charlie smiled to himself and laid awake for a little while thinking of pet names to surprise Mrs. Jennings with. He called ‘er a fresh one every night for a week, and every night he took ‘er a little bunch o’ flowers with ‘is love. When she flung ‘em on the pavement he pretended to think she ‘ad dropped ‘em; but, do wot he would, ‘e couldn’t frighten ‘er into staying away, and ‘is share of music-’alls and bus rides and things like that was more than ‘e cared to think of. All the time Ted was as happy as a sand-boy, and one evening when Emma asked ‘im to go ‘ome to supper ‘e was so pleased ‘e could ‘ardly speak.