Chapter 13

“You’d better get ’old of Bob afore ’e finds it out, Dicky,” ses Bill Chambers.

Dicky Weed didn’t answer ’im; he was already running along to Bob Pretty’s as fast as ’is legs would take ’im, with most of us follering behind to see wot ’appened.

The door was fastened when we got to it, but Dicky Weed banged away at it as ’ard as he could bang, and at last the bedroom winder went up and Mrs. Pretty stuck her ’ead out.

“_H’sh!_” she ses, in a whisper. “Go away.”

“I want to see Bob,” ses Dicky Weed.

“You can’t see ’im,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “I’m getting ’im to bed. He’s been shot, pore dear. Can’t you ’ear ’im groaning?”

We ’adn’t up to then, but a’most direckly arter she ’ad spoke you could ha’ heard Bob’s groans a mile away. Dreadful, they was.

“There, there, pore dear,” ses Mrs. Pretty.

“Shall I come in and ’elp you get ’im to bed?” ses Dicky Weed, ’arf crying.

“No, thank you, Mr. Weed,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “It’s very kind of you to offer, but ’e wouldn’t like any hands but mine to touch ’im. I’ll send in and let you know ’ow he is fust thing in the morning.”

“Try and get ’old of the coat, Dicky,” ses Bill Chambers, in a whisper. “Offer to mend it for ’im. It’s sure to want it.”

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t be no ’elp to you,” ses Dicky Weed, “but I noticed a rent in Bob’s coat and, as ’e’s likely to be laid up a bit, it ud be a good opportunity for me to mend it for ’im. I won’t charge ’im nothing. If you drop it down I’ll do it now.”

“Thankee,” ses Mrs. Pretty; “if you just wait a moment I’ll clear the pockets out and drop it down to you.”

She turned back into the bedroom, and Dicky Weed ground ’is teeth together and told Bill Chambers that the next time he took ’is advice he’d remember it. He stood there trembling all over with temper, and when Mrs. Pretty came to the winder agin and dropped the coat on his ’ead and said that Bob felt his kindness very much, and he ’oped Dicky ud make a good job of it, because it was ’is favrite coat, he couldn’t speak. He stood there shaking all over till Mrs. Pretty ’ad shut the winder down agin, and then ’e turned to the conjurer, as ’ad come up with the rest of us, and asked ’im wot he was going to do about it now.

“I tell you he’s got the watch,” ses the conjurer, pointing up at the winder. “It went into ’is pocket. I saw it go. He was no more shot than you were. If ’e was, why doesn’t he send for the doctor?”

“I can’t ’elp that,” ses Dicky Weed. “I want my watch or else twenty pounds.”

“We’ll talk it over in a day or two,” ses the conjurer. “I’m giving my celebrated entertainment at Wickham Fair on Monday, but I’ll come back ’ere to the Cauliflower the Saturday before and give another entertainment, and then we’ll see wot’s to be done. I can’t run away, because in any case I can’t afford to miss the fair.”

Dicky Weed gave way at last and went off ’ome to bed and told ’is wife about it, and listening to ’er advice he got up at six o’clock in the morning and went round to see ’ow Bob Pretty was.

Mrs. Pretty was up when ’e got there, and arter calling up the stairs to Bob told Dicky Weed to go upstairs. Bob Pretty was sitting up in bed with ’is face covered in bandages, and he seemed quite pleased to see ’im.

“It ain’t everybody that ud get up at six o’clock to see ’ow I’m getting on,” he ses. “You’ve got a feeling ’art, Dicky.”

Dicky Weed coughed and looked round, wondering whether the watch was in the room, and, if so, where it was hidden.

“Now I’m ’ere I may as well tidy up the room for you a bit,” he ses, getting up. “I don’t like sitting idle.”

“Thankee, mate,” ses Bob; and ’e lay still and watched Dicky Weed out of the corner of the eye that wasn’t covered with the bandages.

I don’t suppose that room ’ad ever been tidied up so thoroughly since the Prettys ’ad lived there, but Dicky Weed couldn’t see anything o’ the watch, and wot made ’im more angry than anything else was Mrs. Pretty setting down in a chair with ’er ’ands folded in her lap and pointing out places that he ’adn’t done.

“You leave ’im alone,” ses Bob. “_He knows wot ’e’s arter_. Wot did you do with those little bits o’ watch you found when you was bandaging me up, missis?”

“Don’t ask me,” ses Mrs. Pretty. “I was in such a state I don’t know wot I was doing ’ardly.”

“Well, they must be about somewhere,” ses Bob. “You ’ave a look for ’em, Dicky, and if you find ’em, keep ’em. They belong to you.”

Dicky Weed tried to be civil and thank ’im, and then he went off ’ome and talked it over with ’is wife agin. People couldn’t make up their minds whether Bob Pretty ’ad found the watch in ’is pocket and was shamming, or whether ’e was really shot, but they was all quite certain that, whichever way it was, Dicky Weed would never see ’is watch agin.

On the Saturday evening this ’ere Cauliflower public-’ouse was crowded, everybody being anxious to see the watch trick done over agin. We had ’eard that it ’ad been done all right at Cudford and Monksham; but Bob Pretty said as ’ow he’d believe it when ’e saw it, and not afore.

He was one o’ the fust to turn up that night, because ’e said ’e wanted to know wot the conjurer was going to pay him for all ’is pain and suffering and having things said about ’is character. He came in leaning on a stick, with ’is face still bandaged, and sat right up close to the conjurer’s table, and watched him as ’ard as he could as ’e went through ’is tricks.

“And now,” ses the conjurer, at last, “I come to my celebrated watch trick. Some of you as wos ’ere last Tuesday when I did it will remember that the man I fired the pistol at pretended that ’e’d been shot and run off ’ome with it in ’is pocket.”

“You’re a liar!” ses Bob Pretty, standing up. “Very good,” ses the conjurer; “you take that bandage off and show us all where you’re hurt.”

“I shall do nothing o’ the kind,” ses Bob. I don’t take my orders from you.”

“Take the bandage off,” ses the conjurer, “and if there’s any shot marks I’ll give you a couple o’ sovereigns.”

“I’m afraid of the air getting to it,” ses Bob Pretty.

“You don’t want to be afraid o’ that, Bob,” ses John Biggs, the blacksmith, coming up behind and putting ’is great arms round ’im. “Take off that rag, somebody; I’ve got hold of ’im.”

Bob Pretty started to struggle at fust, but then, seeing it was no good, kept quite quiet while they took off the bandages.

“_There!_ look at ’im,” ses the conjurer, pointing. “Not a mark on ’is face, not one.”

“_Wot!_” ses Bob Pretty. “Do you mean to say there’s no marks?”

“I do,” ses the conjurer.

“Thank goodness,” ses Bob Pretty, clasping his ’ands. “Thank goodness! I was afraid I was disfigured for life. Lend me a bit o’ looking-glass, somebody. I can ’ardly believe it.”

“You stole Dicky Weed’s watch,” ses John Biggs. “I ’ad my suspicions of you all along. You’re a thief, Bob Pretty. That’s wot you are.”

“Prove it,” ses Bob Pretty. “You ’eard wot the conjurer said the other night, that the last time he tried ’e failed, and ’ad to give eighteenpence to the man wot the watch ’ad belonged to.”

“That was by way of a joke like,” ses the conjurer to John Biggs. “I can always do it. I’m going to do it now. Will somebody ’ave the kindness to lend me a watch?”

He looked all round the room, but nobody offered—except other men’s watches, wot wouldn’t lend ’em.

“Come, come,” he ses; “ain’t none of you got any trust in me? It’ll be as safe as if it was in your pocket. I want to prove to you that this man is a thief.”

He asked ’em agin, and at last John Biggs took out ’is silver watch and offered it to ’im on the understanding that ’e was on no account to fire it into Bob Pretty’s pocket.

“Not likely,” ses the conjurer. “Now, everybody take a good look at this watch, so as to make sure there’s no deceiving.”

He ’anded it round, and arter everybody ’ad taken a look at it ’e took it up to the table and laid it down.

“Let me ’ave a look at it,” ses Bob Pretty, going up to the table. “I’m not going to ’ave my good name took away for nothing if I can ’elp it.”

He took it up and looked at it, and arter ’olding it to ’is ear put it down agin.

“Is that the flat-iron it’s going to be smashed with?” he ses.

“It is,” ses the conjurer, looking at ’im nasty like; “p’r’aps you’d like to examine it.”

Bob Pretty took it and looked at it. “Yes, mates,” he ses, “it’s a ordinary flat-iron. You couldn’t ’ave anything better for smashing a watch with.”

He ’eld it up in the air and, afore anybody could move, brought it down bang on the face o’ the watch. The conjurer sprang at ’im and caught at ’is arm, but it was too late, and in a terrible state o’ mind ’e turned round to John Biggs.

“He’s smashed your watch,” he ses; “he’s smashed your watch.”

“Well,” ses John Biggs, “it ’ad got to be smashed, ’adn’t it?”

“Yes, but not by ’im,” ses the conjurer, dancing about. “I wash my ’ands of it now.”

“Look ’ere,” ses John Biggs; “don’t you talk to me about washing your ’ands of it. You finish your trick and give me my watch back agin same as it was afore.”

“Not now he’s been interfering with it,” ses the conjurer. “He’d better do the trick now as he’s so clever.”

“I’d sooner ’ave you do it,” ses John Biggs. “Wot did you let ’im interfere for?”

“’Ow was I to know wot ’e was going to do?” ses the conjurer. “You must settle it between you now. I’ll ’ave nothing more to do with it.”

“All right, John Biggs,” ses Bob Pretty; “if ’e won’t do it, I will. If it can be done, I don’t s’pose it matters who does it. I don’t think anybody could smash up a watch better than that.”

John Biggs looked at it, and then ’e asked the conjurer once more to do the trick, but ’e wouldn’t.

“It can’t be done now,” he ses; “and I warn you that if that pistol is fired I won’t be responsible for what’ll ’appen.”

“George Kettle shall load the pistol and fire it if ’e won’t,” ses Bob Pretty. “’Aving been in the Militia, there couldn’t be a better man for the job.”

George Kettle walked up to the table as red as fire at being praised like that afore people and started loading the pistol. He seemed to be more awkward about it than the conjurer ’ad been the last time, and he ’ad to roll the watch-cases up with the flat-iron afore ’e could get ’em in. But ’e loaded it at last and stood waiting.

“Don’t shoot at me, George Kettle,” ses Bob. “I’ve been called a thief once, and I don’t want to be agin.”

“Put that pistol down, you fool, afore you do mischief,” ses the conjurer.

“Who shall I shoot at?” ses George Kettle, raising the pistol.

“Better fire at the conjurer, I think,” ses Bob Pretty; “and if things ’appen as he says they will ’appen, the watch ought to be found in ’is coat-pocket.”

“Where is he?” ses George, looking round.

Bill Chambers laid ’old of ’im just as he was going through the door to fetch the landlord, and the scream ’e gave as he came back and George Kettle pointed the pistol at ’im was awful.

“It’s no worse for you than it was for me,” ses Bob.

“Put it down,” screams the conjurer; “put it down. You’ll kill ’arf the men in the room if it goes off.”

“Be careful where you aim, George,” ses Sam Jones. “P’r’aps he’d better ’ave a chair all by hisself in the middle of the room.”

It was all very well for Sam Jones to talk, but the conjurer wouldn’t sit on a chair by ’imself. He wouldn’t sit on it at all. He seemed to be all legs and arms, and the way ’e struggled it took four or five men to ’old ’im.

“Why don’t you keep still?” ses John Biggs. “George Kettle’ll shoot it in your pocket all right. He’s the best shot in Claybury.”

“Help! Murder!” says the conjurer, struggling. “He’ll kill me. Nobody can do the trick but me.”

“But you say you won’t do it,” ses John Biggs.

“Not now,” ses the conjurer; “I can’t.”

“Well, I’m not going to ’ave my watch lost through want of trying,” ses John Biggs. “Tie ’im to the chair, mates.”

“All right, then,” ses the conjurer, very pale. “Don’t tie me; I’ll sit still all right if you like, but you’d better bring the chair outside in case of accidents. Bring it in the front.”

George Kettle said it was all nonsense, but the conjurer said the trick was always better done in the open air, and at last they gave way and took ’im and the chair outside.

“Now,” ses the conjurer, as ’e sat down, “all of you go and stand near the man woe’s going to shoot. When I say ‘Three,’ fire. Why! there’s the watch on the ground there!”

He pointed with ’is finger, and as they all looked down he jumped up out o’ that chair and set off on the road to Wickham as ’ard as ’e could run. It was so sudden that nobody knew wot ’ad ’appened for a moment, and then George Kettle, wot ’ad been looking with the rest, turned round and pulled the trigger.

There was a bang that pretty nigh deafened us, and the back o’ the chair was blown nearly out. By the time we’d got our senses agin the conjurer was a’most out o’ sight, and Bob Pretty was explaining to John Biggs wot a good job it was ’is watch ’adn’t been a gold one.

“That’s wot comes o’ trusting a foreigner afore a man wot you’ve known all your life,” he ses, shaking his ’ead. “I ’ope the next man wot tries to take my good name away won’t get off so easy. I felt all along the trick couldn’t be done; it stands to reason it couldn’t. I done my best, too.”

ADMIRAL PETERS

Mr. George Burton, naval pensioner, sat at the door of his lodgings gazing in placid content at the sea. It was early summer, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers; Mr. Burton’s pipe was cold and empty, and his pouch upstairs. He shook his head gently as he realised this, and, yielding to the drowsy quiet of his surroundings, laid aside the useless pipe and fell into a doze.

He was awakened half an hour later by the sound of footsteps. A tall, strongly built man was approaching from the direction of the town, and Mr. Burton, as he gazed at him sleepily, began to wonder where he had seen him before. Even when the stranger stopped and stood smiling down at him his memory proved unequal to the occasion, and he sat staring at the handsome, shaven face, with its little fringe of grey whisker, waiting for enlightenment.

“George, my buck,” said the stranger, giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder, “how goes it?”

“D—— _Bless_ my eyes, I mean,” said Mr. Burton, correcting himself, “if it ain’t Joe Stiles. I didn’t know you without your beard.”

“That’s me,” said the other. “It’s quite by accident I heard where you were living, George; I offered to go and sling my hammock with old Dingle for a week or two, and he told me. Nice quiet little place, Seacombe. Ah, you were lucky to get your pension, George.”

“I deserved it,” said Mr. Burton, sharply, as he fancied he detected something ambiguous in his friend’s remark.

“Of course you did,” said Mr. Stiles; “so did I, but I didn’t get it. Well, it’s a poor heart that never rejoices. What about that drink you were speaking of, George?”

“I hardly ever touch anything now,” replied his friend.

“I was thinking about myself,” said Mr. Stiles. “I can’t bear the stuff, but the doctor says I must have it. You know what doctors are, George!”

Mr. Burton did not deign to reply, but led the way indoors.

“Very comfortable quarters, George,” remarked Mr. Stiles, gazing round the room approvingly; “ship-shape and tidy. I’m glad I met old Dingle. Why, I might never ha’ seen you again; and us such pals, too.”

His host grunted, and from the back of a small cupboard, produced a bottle of whisky and a glass, and set them on the table. After a momentary hesitation he found another glass.

“Our noble selves,” said Mr. Stiles, with a tinge of reproach in his tones, “and may we never forget old friendships.”

Mr. Burton drank the toast. “I hardly know what it’s like now, Joe,” he said, slowly. “You wouldn’t believe how soon you can lose the taste for it.”

Mr. Stiles said he would take his word for it. “You’ve got some nice little public-houses about here, too,” he remarked. “There’s one I passed called the Cock and Flowerpot; nice cosy little place it would be to spend the evening in.”

“I never go there,” said Mr. Burton, hastily. “I—a friend o’ mine here doesn’t approve o’ public-’ouses.”

“What’s the matter with him?” inquired his friend, anxiously.

“It’s—it’s a ’er,” said Mr. Burton, in some confusion.

Mr. Stiles threw himself back in his chair and eyed him with amazement. Then, recovering his presence of mind, he reached out his hand for the bottle.

“We’ll drink her health,” he said, in a deep voice. “What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Dutton,” was the reply.

Mr. Stiles, with one hand on his heart, toasted her feelingly; then, filling up again, he drank to the “happy couple.”

“She’s very strict about drink,” said Mr. Burton, eyeing these proceedings with some severity.

“Any—dibs?” inquired Mr. Stiles, slapping a pocket which failed to ring in response.

“She’s comfortable,” replied the other, awkwardly. “Got a little stationer’s shop in the town; steady, old-fashioned business. She’s chapel, and very strict.”

“Just what you want,” remarked Mr. Stiles, placing his glass on the table. “What d’ye say to a stroll?”

Mr. Burton assented, and, having replaced the black bottle in the cupboard, led the way along the cliffs toward the town some half-mile distant, Mr. Stiles beguiling the way by narrating his adventures since they had last met. A certain swagger and richness of deportment were explained by his statement that he had been on the stage.

“Only walking on,” he said, with a shake of his head. “The only speaking part I ever had was a cough. You ought to ha’ heard that cough, George!”

Mr. Burton politely voiced his regrets and watched him anxiously. Mr. Stiles, shaking his head over a somewhat unsuccessful career, was making a bee-line for the Cock and Flowerpot.

“Just for a small soda,” he explained, and, once inside, changed his mind and had whisky instead. Mr. Burton, sacrificing principle to friendship, had one with him. The bar more than fulfilled Mr. Stiles’s ideas as to its cosiness, and within the space of ten minutes he was on excellent terms with the regular clients. Into the little, old-world bar, with its loud-ticking clock, its Windsor-chairs, and its cracked jug full of roses, he brought a breath of the bustle of the great city and tales of the great cities beyond the seas. Refreshment was forced upon him, and Mr. Burton, pleased at his friend’s success, shared mildly in his reception. It was nine o’clock before they departed, and then they only left to please the landlord.

“Nice lot o’ chaps,” said Mr. Stiles, as he stumbled out into the sweet, cool air. “Catch hold—o’ my—arm, George. Brace me—up a bit.”

Mr. Burton complied, and his friend, reassured as to his footing, burst into song. In a stentorian voice he sang the latest song from comic opera, and then with an adjuration to Mr. Burton to see what he was about, and not to let him trip, he began, in a lumbering fashion, to dance.

Mr. Burton, still propping him up, trod a measure with fewer steps, and cast uneasy glances up the lonely road. On their left the sea broke quietly on the beach below; on their right were one or two scattered cottages, at the doors of which an occasional figure appeared to gaze in mute astonishment at the proceedings.

“Dance, George,” said Mr. Stiles, who found his friend rather an encumbrance.

“_Hs’h! Stop!_” cried the frantic Mr. Burton, as he caught sight of a woman’s figure bidding farewell in a lighted doorway.

Mr. Stiles replied with a stentorian roar, and Mr. Burton, clinging despairingly to his jigging friend lest a worse thing should happen, cast an imploring glance at Mrs. Dutton as they danced by. The evening was still light enough for him to see her face, and he piloted the corybantic Mr. Stiles the rest of the way home in a mood which accorded but ill with his steps.

His manner at breakfast next morning was so offensive that Mr. Stiles, who had risen fresh as a daisy and been out to inhale the air on the cliffs, was somewhat offended.

“You go down and see her,” he said, anxiously. “Don’t lose a moment; and explain to her that it was the sea-air acting on an old sunstroke.”

“She ain’t a fool,” said Mr. Burton, gloomily.

He finished his breakfast in silence, and, leaving the repentant Mr. Stiles sitting in the doorway with a pipe, went down to the widow’s to make the best explanation he could think of on the way. Mrs. Dutton’s fresh-coloured face changed as he entered the shop, and her still good eyes regarded him with scornful interrogation.

“I—saw you last night,” began Mr. Burton, timidly.

“I saw you, too,” said Mrs. Dutton. “I couldn’t believe my eyesight at first.”

“It was an old shipmate of mine,” said Mr. Burton. “He hadn’t seen me for years, and I suppose the sight of me upset ’im.”

“I dare say,” replied the widow; “that and the Cock and Flowerpot, too. I heard about it.”

“He would go,” said the unfortunate.

“_You_ needn’t have gone,” was the reply.

“I ’ad to,” said Mr. Burton, with a gulp; “he—he’s an old officer o’ mine, and it wouldn’t ha’ been discipline for me to refuse.”

“Officer?” repeated Mrs. Dutton.

“My old admiral,” said Mr. Burton, with a gulp that nearly choked him. “You’ve heard me speak of Admiral Peters?”

“_Admiral?_” gasped the astonished widow. “What, a-carrying on like that?”

“He’s a reg’lar old sea-dog,” said Mr. Burton. “He’s staying with me, but of course ’e don’t want it known who he is. I couldn’t refuse to ’ave a drink with ’im. I was under orders, so to speak.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Mrs. Dutton, softening. “Fancy him staying with you!”

“He just run down for the night, but I expect he’ll be going ’ome in an hour or two,” said Mr. Burton, who saw an excellent reason now for hastening his guest’s departure.

Mrs. Dutton’s face fell. “Dear me,” she murmured, “I should have liked to have seen him; you have told me so much about him. If he doesn’t go quite so soon, and you would like to bring him here when you come to-night, I’m sure I should be very pleased.”

“I’ll mention it to ’im,” said Mr. Burton, marvelling at the change in her manner.

“Didn’t you say once that he was uncle to Lord Buckfast?” inquired Mrs. Dutton, casually.

“Yes,” said Mr. Burton, with unnecessary doggedness; “I did.”

“The idea of an admiral staying with you!” said Mrs. Dutton.

“Reg’lar old sea-dog,” said Mr. Burton again; “and, besides, he don’t want it known. It’s a secret between us three, Mrs. Dutton.”

“To be sure,” said the widow. “You can tell the admiral that I shall not mention it to a soul,” she added, mincingly.

Mr. Burton thanked her and withdrew, lest Mr. Stiles should follow him up before apprised of his sudden promotion. He found that gentleman, however, still sitting at the front door, smoking serenely.

“I’ll stay with you for a week or two,” said Mr. Stiles, briskly, as soon as the other had told his story. “It’ll do you a world o’ good to be seen on friendly terms with an admiral, and I’ll put in a good word for you.”

Mr. Burton shook his head. “No, she might find out,” he said, slowly. “I think that the best thing is for you to go home after dinner, Joe, and just give ’er a look in on the way, p’r’aps. You could say a lot o’ things about me in ’arf an hour.”

“No, George,” said Mr. Stiles, beaming on him kindly; “when I put my hand to the plough I don’t draw back. It’s a good speaking part, too, an admiral’s. I wonder whether I might use old Peters’s language.”

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Burton, in alarm.

“You don’t know how particular she is.”

Mr. Stiles sighed, and said that he would do the best he could without it. He spent most of the day on the beach smoking, and when evening came shaved himself with extreme care and brushed his serge suit with great perseverance in preparation for his visit.