Chapter 11

Mrs. Jobling, appalled at such ideas, glanced at her husband to see how he received them. “The man’s a thief,” she said, with great energy, “and he won’t enjoy his gains.”

“I dare say—I dare say he’ll enjoy it right enough,” said Mr. Jobling, “if he ain’t caught, that is.”

“I believe he is the sort of man I should like,” declared Miss Robinson, obstinately.

“I dare say,” said Mrs. Jobling; “and I’ve no doubt he’d like you. Birds of a—”

“That’ll do,” said her husband, peremptorily; “that’s enough about it. The guv’nors can afford to lose it; that’s one comfort.”

He leaned over as the girl asked for more sugar and dropped a spoonful in her cup, expressing surprise that she should like her tea so sweet. Miss Robinson, denying the sweetness, proffered her cup in proof, and Mrs. Jobling sat watching with blazing eyes the antics of her husband as he sipped at it.

“Sweets to the sweet,” he said, gallantly, as he handed it back.

Miss Robinson pouted, and, raising the cup to her lips, gazed ardently at him over the rim. Mr. Jobling, who certainly felt not more than twenty-two that evening, stole her cake and received in return a rap from a teaspoon. Mr. Jobling retaliated, and Mrs. Jobling, unable to eat, sat looking on in helpless fury at little arts of fascination which she had discarded—at Mr. Jobling’s earnest request—soon after their marriage.

By dint of considerable self-control, aided by an occasional glance from her husband, she managed to preserve her calm until he returned from seeing the visitor to her tram. Then her pent-up feelings found vent. Quietly scornful at first, she soon waxed hysterical over his age and figure. Tears followed as she bade him remember what a good wife she had been to him, loudly claiming that any other woman would have poisoned him long ago. Speedily finding that tears were of no avail, and that Mr. Jobling seemed to regard them rather as a tribute to his worth than otherwise, she gave way to fury, and, in a fine, but unpunctuated passage, told him her exact opinion of Miss Robinson.

“It’s no good carrying on like that,” said Mr. Jobling, magisterially, “and, what’s more, I won’t have it.”

“Walking into my house and making eyes at my ’usband,” stormed his wife.

“So long as I don’t make eyes at her there’s no harm done,” retorted Mr. Jobling. “I can’t help her taking a fancy to me, poor thing.”

“I’d poor thing her,” said his wife.

“She’s to be pitied,” said Mr. Jobling, sternly. “I know how she feels. She can’t help herself, but she’ll get over it in time. I don’t suppose she thinks for a moment we have noticed her—her—her liking for me, and I’m not going to have her feelings hurt.”

“What about my feelings?” demanded his wife.

“_You_ have got me,” Mr. Jobling reminded her.

The nine points of the law was Mrs. Jobling’s only consolation for the next few days. Neighboring matrons, exchanging sympathy for information, wished, strangely enough, that Mr. Jobling was their husband. Failing that they offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least a hundred plans for bringing him to his senses.

Mr. Jobling, who was a proud man, met their hostile glances as he passed to and from his work with scorn, until a day came when the hostility vanished and gave place to smiles. Never so many people in the street, he thought, as he returned from work; certainly never so many smiles. People came hurriedly from their back premises to smile at him, and, as he reached his door, Mr. Joe Brown opposite had all the appearance of a human sunbeam. Tired of smiling faces, he yearned for that of his wife. She came out of the kitchen and met him with a look of sly content. The perplexed Mr. Jobling eyed her morosely.

“What are you laughing at me for?” he demanded.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” said his wife.

She went back into the kitchen and sang blithely as she bustled over the preparations for tea. Her voice was feeble, but there was a triumphant effectiveness about the high notes which perplexed the listener sorely. He seated himself in the new easy-chair—procured to satisfy the supposed aesthetic tastes of Miss Robinson—and stared at the window.

“You seem very happy all of a sudden,” he growled, as his wife came in with the tray.

“Well, why shouldn’t I be?” inquired Mrs. Jobling. “I’ve got everything to make me so.”

Mr. Jobling looked at her in undisguised amazement.

“New easy-chair, new vases, and a new hearthrug,” explained his wife, looking round the room. “Did you order that little table you said you would?”

“Yes,” growled Mr. Jobling.

“Pay for it?” inquired his wife, with a trace of anxiety.

“Yes,” said Mr. Jobling again.

Mrs. Jobling’s face relaxed. “I shouldn’t like to lose it at the last moment,” she said. “You ’ave been good to me lately, Bill; buying all these nice things. There’s not many women have got such a thoughtful husband as what I have.”

“Have you gone dotty? or what?” inquired her bewildered husband.

“It’s no wonder people like you,” pursued Mrs. Jobling, ignoring the question, and smiling again as she placed three chairs at the table. “I’ll wait a minute or two before I soak the tea; I expect Miss Robinson won’t be long, and she likes it fresh.”

Mr. Jobling, to conceal his amazement and to obtain a little fresh air walked out of the room and opened the front door.

“Cheer oh!” said the watchful Mr. Brown, with a benignant smile.

Mr. Jobling scowled at him.

“It’s all right,” said Mr. Brown. “You go in and set down; I’m watching for her.”

He nodded reassuringly, and, not having curiosity enough to accept the other’s offer and step across the road and see what he would get, shaded his eyes with his hand and looked with exaggerated anxiety up the road. Mr. Jobling, heavy of brow, returned to the parlor and looked hard at his wife.

“She’s late,” said Mrs. Jobling, glancing at the clock. “I do hope she’s all right, but I should feel anxious about her if she was my gal. It’s a dangerous life.”

“Dangerous life!” said Mr. Jobling, roughly. “What’s a dangerous life?”

“Why, hers,” replied his wife, with a nervous smile. “Joe Brown told me. He followed her ’ome last night, and this morning he found out all about her.”

The mention of Mr. Brown’s name caused Mr. Jobling at first to assume an air of indifference; but curiosity overpowered him.

“What lies has he been telling?” he demanded.

“I don’t think it’s a lie, Bill,” said his wife, mildly. “Putting two and two—”

“What did he say?” cried Mr. Jobling, raising his voice.

“He said, ‘She—she’s a lady detective,’” stammered Mrs. Jobling, putting her handkerchief to her unruly mouth.

“A tec!” repeated her husband. “A lady tec?”

Mrs. Jobling nodded. “Yes, Bill. She—she—she—”

“Well?” said Mr. Jobling, in exasperation.

“She’s being employed by Gingell and Watson,” said his wife.

Mr. Jobling sprang to his feet, and with scarlet face and clinched fists strove to assimilate the information and all its meaning.

“What—what did she come here for? Do you mean to tell me she thinks _I_ took the money?” he said, huskily, after a long pause.

Mrs. Jobling bent before the storm. “I think she took a fancy to you, Bill,” she said, timidly.

Mr. Jobling appeared to swallow something; then he took a step nearer to her. “You let me see you laugh again, that’s all,” he said, fiercely. “As for that Jezzybill—”

“There she is,” said his wife, as a knock sounded at the door. “Don’t say anything to hurt her feelings, Bill. You said she was to be pitied. And it must be a hard life to ’ave to go round and flatter old married men. I shouldn’t like it.”

Mr. Jobling, past speech, stood and glared at her. Then, with an inarticulate cry, he rushed to the front door and flung it open. Miss Robinson, fresh and bright, stood smiling outside. Within easy distance a little group of neighbors were making conversation, while opposite Mr. Brown awaited events.

“What d’you want?” demanded Mr. Jobling, harshly.

Miss Robinson, who had put out her hand, drew it back and gave him a swift glance. His red face and knitted brows told their own story.

“Oh!” she said, with a winning smile, “will you please tell Mrs. Jobling that I can’t come to tea with her this evening?”

“Isn’t there anything else you’d like to say?” inquired Mr. Jobling, disdainfully, as she turned away.

The girl paused and appeared to reflect. “You can say that I am sorry to miss an amusing evening,” she said, regarding him steadily. “Good-by.”

Mr. Jobling slammed the door.

A CIRCULAR TOUR

A CIRCULAR TOUR

Illness? said the night watchman, slowly. Yes, sailormen get ill sometimes, but not ’aving the time for it that other people have, and there being no doctors at sea, they soon pick up agin. Ashore, if a man’s ill he goes to a horse-pittle and ’as a nice nurse to wait on ’im; at sea the mate comes down and tells ’im that there is nothing the matter with ’im, and asks ’im if he ain’t ashamed of ’imself. The only mate I ever knew that showed any feeling was one who ’ad been a doctor and ’ad gone to sea to better ’imself. He didn’t believe in medicine; his idea was to cut things out, and he was so kind and tender, and so fond of ’is little box of knives and saws, that you wouldn’t ha’ thought anybody could ’ave had the ’art to say “no” to him. But they did. I remember ’im getting up at four o’clock one morning to cut a man’s leg off, and at ha’-past three the chap was sitting up aloft with four pairs o’ trousers on and a belaying-pin in his ’and.

One chap I knew, Joe Summers by name, got so sick o’ work one v’y’ge that he went mad. Not dangerous mad, mind you. Just silly. One thing he did was to pretend that the skipper was ’is little boy, and foller ’im up unbeknown and pat his ’ead. At last, to pacify him, the old man pretended that he was ’is little boy, and a precious handful of a boy he was too, I can tell you. Fust of all he showed ’is father ’ow they wrestled at school, and arter that he showed ’im ’ow he ’arf killed another boy in fifteen rounds. Leastways he was going to, but arter seven rounds Joe’s madness left ’im all of a sudden and he was as right as ever he was.

Sailormen are more frequent ill ashore than at sea; they’ve got more time for it, I s’pose. Old Sam Small, a man you may remember by name as a pal o’ mine, got ill once, and, like most ’ealthy men who get a little something the matter with ’em, he made sure ’e was dying. He was sharing a bedroom with Ginger Dick and Peter Russet at the time, and early one morning he woke up groaning with a chill or something which he couldn’t account for, but which Ginger thought might ha’ been partly caused through ’im sleeping in the fireplace.

“Is that you, Sam?” ses Ginger, waking up with the noise and rubbing his eyes. “Wot’s the matter?”

“I’m dying,” ses Sam, with another awful groan. “Good-by, Ginger.”

“Goo’-by,” ses Ginger, turning over and falling fast asleep agin.

Old Sam picked ’imself up arter two or three tries, and then he staggered over to Peter Russet’s bed and sat on the foot of it, groaning, until Peter woke up very cross and tried to push ’im off with his feet.

“I’m dying, Peter,” ses Sam, and ’e rolled over and buried his face in the bed-clo’es and kicked. Peter Russet, who was a bit scared, sat up in bed and called for Ginger, and arter he ’ad called pretty near a dozen times Ginger ’arf woke up and asked ’im wot was the matter.

“Poor old Sam’s dying,” ses Peter.

“I know,” ses Ginger, laying down and cuddling into the piller agin. “He told me just now. I’ve bid ’im good-by.”

Peter Russet asked ’im where his ’art was, but Ginger was asleep agin. Then Peter sat up in bed and tried to comfort Sam, and listened while ’e told ’im wot it felt like to die. How ’e was ’ot and cold all over, burning and shivering, with pains in his inside that he couldn’t describe if ’e tried.

“It’ll soon be over, Sam,” ses Peter, kindly, “and all your troubles will be at an end. While me and Ginger are knocking about at sea trying to earn a crust o’ bread to keep ourselves alive, you’ll be quiet and at peace.”

Sam groaned. “I don’t like being too quiet,” he ses. “I was always one for a bit o’ fun—innercent fun.”

Peter coughed.

“You and Ginger ’av been good pals,” ses Sam; “it’s hard to go and leave you.”

“We’ve all got to go some time or other, Sam,” ses Peter, soothing-like. “It’s a wonder to me, with your habits, that you’ve lasted as long as you ’ave.”

“My _habits_?” ses Sam, sitting up all of a sudden. “Why, you monkey-faced son of a sea-cook, for two pins I’d chuck you out of the winder.”

“Don’t talk like that on your death-bed,” ses Peter, very shocked.

Sam was going to answer ’im sharp agin, but just then ’e got a pain which made ’im roll about on the bed and groan to such an extent that Ginger woke up agin and got out o’ bed.

“Pore old Sam!” he ses, walking across the room and looking at ’im. “’Ave you got any pain anywhere?”

“_Pain_?” ses Sam. “Pain? I’m a mask o’ pains all over.”

Ginger and Peter looked at ’im and shook their ’eds, and then they went a little way off and talked about ’im in whispers.

“He looks ’arf dead now,” ses Peter, coming back and staring at ’im. “Let’s take ’is clothes off, Ginger; it’s more decent to die with ’em off.”

“I think I’ll ’ave a doctor,” ses Sam, in a faint voice.

“You’re past doctors, Sam,” ses Ginger, in a kind voice.

“Better ’ave your last moments in peace,” ses Peter, “and keep your money in your trouser-pockets.”

“You go and fetch a doctor, you murderers,” ses Sam, groaning, as Peter started to undress ’im. “Go on, else I’ll haunt you with my ghost.”

Ginger tried to talk to ’im about the sin o’ wasting money, but it was all no good, and arter telling Peter wot to do in case Sam died afore he come back, he went off. He was gone about ’arf an hour, and then he come back with a sandy-’aired young man with red eyelids and a black bag.

“Am I dying, sir?” ses Sam, arter the doctor ’ad listened to his lungs and his ’art and prodded ’im all over.

“We’re all dying,” ses the doctor, “only some of us’ll go sooner than others.”

“Will he last the day, sir?” ses Ginger.

The doctor looked at Sam agin, and Sam held ’is breath while ’e waited for him to answer. “Yes,” ses the doctor at last, “if he does just wot I tell him and takes the medicine I send ’im.”

He wasn’t in the room ’arf an hour altogether, and he charged pore Sam a shilling; but wot ’urt Sam even more than that was to hear ’im go off downstairs whistling as cheerful as if there wasn’t a dying man within a ’undred miles.

Peter and Ginger Dick took turns to be with Sam that morning, but in the arternoon the landlady’s mother, an old lady who was almost as fat as Sam ’imself, came up to look arter ’im a bit. She sat on a chair by the side of ’is bed and tried to amuse ’im by telling ’im of all the death-beds she’d been at, and partikler of one man, the living image of Sam, who passed away in his sleep. It was past ten o’clock when Peter and Ginger came ’ome, but they found pore Sam still awake and sitting up in bed holding ’is eyes open with his fingers.

Sam had another shilling’s-worth the next day, and ’is medicine was changed for the worse. If anything he seemed a trifle better, but the landlady’s mother, wot came up to nurse ’im agin, said it was a bad sign, and that people often brightened up just afore the end. She asked ’im whether ’e’d got a fancy for any partikler spot to be buried in, and, talking about wot a lot o’ people ’ad been buried alive, said she’d ask the doctor to cut Sam’s ’ead off to prevent mistakes. She got quite annoyed with Sam for saying, supposing there _was_ a mistake and he came round in the middle of it, how’d he feel? and said there was no satisfying some people, do wot you would.

At the end o’ six days Sam was still alive and losing a shilling a day, to say nothing of buying ’is own beef-tea and such-like. Ginger said it was fair highway robbery, and tried to persuade Sam to go to a ’orsepittle, where he’d ’ave lovely nurses to wait on ’im hand and foot, and wouldn’t keep ’is best friends awake of a night making ’orrible noises.

Sam didn’t take kindly to the idea at fust, but as the doctor forbid ’im to get up, although he felt much better, and his money was wasting away, he gave way at last, and at seven o’clock one evening he sent Ginger off to fetch a cab to take ’im to the London Horsepittle. Sam said something about putting ’is clothes on, but Peter Russet said the horsepittle would be more likely to take him in if he went in the blanket and counterpane, and at last Sam gave way. Ginger and Peter helped ’im downstairs, and the cabman laid hold o’ one end o’ the blanket as they got to the street-door, under the idea that he was helping, and very near gave Sam another chill.

“Keep your hair on,” he ses, as Sam started on ’im. “It’ll be three-and-six for the fare, and I’ll take the money now.”

“You’ll ’ave it when you get there,” ses Ginger.

“I’ll ’ave it now,” ses the cabman. “I ’ad a fare die on the way once afore.”

Ginger—who was minding Sam’s money for ’im because there wasn’t a pocket in the counterpane—paid ’im, and the cab started. It jolted and rattled over the stones, but Sam said the air was doing ’im good. He kept ’is pluck up until they got close to the horsepittle, and then ’e got nervous. And ’e got more nervous when the cabman got down off ’is box and put his ’ed in at the winder and spoke to ’im.

“’Ave you got any partikler fancy for the London Horsepittle?” he ses.

“No,” ses Sam. “Why?”

“Well, I s’pose it don’t matter, if wot your mate ses is true—that you’re dying,” ses the cabman.

“Wot d’ye mean?” says Sam.

“Nothing,” ses the cabman; “only, fust and last, I s’pose I’ve driven five ’undred people to that ’orsepittle, and only one ever came out agin—and he was smuggled out in a bread-basket.”

Sam’s flesh began to creep all over.

“It’s a pity they don’t ’ave the same rules as Charing Cross Horsepittle,” ses the cabman. “The doctors ’ave five pounds apiece for every patient that gets well there, and the consequence is they ain’t ’ad the blinds down for over five months.”

“Drive me there,” ses Sam.

“It’s a long way,” ses the cabman, shaking his ’ed, “and it ’ud cost you another ’arf dollar. S’pose you give the London a try?”

“You drive to Charing Cross,” ses Sam, telling Ginger to give ’im the ’arf-dollar. “And look sharp; these things ain’t as warm as they might be.”

The cabman turned his ’orse round and set off agin, singing. The cab stopped once or twice for a little while, and then it stopped for quite a long time, and the cabman climbed down off ’is box and came to the winder agin.

“I’m sorry, mate,” he ses, “but did you see me speak to that party just now?”

“The one you flicked with your whip?” ses Ginger.

“No; he was speaking to me,” ses the cabman. “The last one, I mean.”

“Wot about it?” ses Peter.

“He’s the under-porter at the horsepittle,” ses the cabman, spitting; “and he tells me that every bed is bung full, and two patients apiece in some of ’em.”

“I don’t mind sleeping two in a bed,” ses Sam, who was very tired and cold.

“No,” ses the cabman, looking at ’im; “but wot about the other one?”

“Well, what’s to be done?” ses Peter.

“You might go to Guy’s,” ses the cabman; “that’s as good as Charing Cross.”

“I b’lieve you’re telling a pack o’ lies,” ses Ginger.

“Come out o’ my cab,” ses the cabman, very fierce. “Come on, all of you. Out you get.”

Ginger and Peter was for getting out, but Sam wouldn’t ’ear of it. It was bad enough being wrapped up in a blanket in a cab, without being turned out in ’is bare feet on the pavement, and at last Ginger apologized to the cabman by saying ’e supposed if he was a liar he couldn’t ’elp it. The cabman collected three shillings more to go to Guy’s ’orsepittle, and, arter a few words with Ginger, climbed up on ’is box and drove off agin.

They were all rather tired of the cab by this time, and, going over Waterloo Bridge, Ginger began to feel uncommon thirsty, and, leaning out of the winder, he told the cabman to pull up for a drink. He was so long about it that Ginger began to think he was bearing malice, but just as he was going to tell ’im agin, the cab pulled up in a quiet little street opposite a small pub. Ginger Dick and Peter went in and ’ad something and brought one out for Sam. They ’ad another arter that, and Ginger, getting ’is good temper back agin, asked the cabman to ’ave one.

“Look lively about it, Ginger,” ses Sam, very sharp. “You forget ’ow ill I am.”

Ginger said they wouldn’t be two seconds, and, the cabman calling a boy to mind his ’orse, they went inside. It was a quiet little place, but very cosey, and Sam, peeping out of the winder, could see all three of ’em leaning against the bar and making themselves comfortable. Twice he made the boy go in to hurry them up, and all the notice they took was to go on at the boy for leaving the horse.

Pore old Sam sat there hugging ’imself in the bed-clo’es, and getting wilder and wilder. He couldn’t get out of the cab, and ’e couldn’t call to them for fear of people coming up and staring at ’im. Ginger, smiling all over with ’appiness, had got a big cigar on and was pretending to pinch the barmaid’s flowers, and Peter and the cabman was talking to some other chaps there. The only change Sam ’ad was when the boy walked the ’orse up and down the road.

He sat there for an hour and then ’e sent the boy in agin. This time the cabman lost ’is temper, and, arter chasing the boy up the road, gave a young feller twopence to take ’is place and promised ’im another twopence when he came out. Sam tried to get a word with ’im as ’e passed, but he wouldn’t listen, and it was pretty near ’arf an hour later afore they all came out, talking and laughing.

“Now for the ’orsepittle,” ses Ginger, opening the door. “Come on, Peter; don’t keep pore old Sam waiting all night.”

“’Arf a tic,” ses the cabman, “’arf a tic; there’s five shillings for waiting, fust.”

“_Wot_?” ses Ginger, staring at ’im. “Arter giving you all them drinks?”

“Five shillings,” ses the cabman; “two hours’ waiting at half a crown an hour. That’s the proper charge.”

Ginger thought ’e was joking at fust, and when he found ’e wasn’t he called ’im all the names he could think of, while Peter Russet stood by smiling and trying to think where ’e was and wot it was all about.

“Pay ’im the five bob, Ginger, and ’ave done with it,” ses pore Sam, at last. “I shall never get to the horsepittle at this rate.”

“Cert’inly not,” ses Ginger, “not if we stay ’ere all night.”

“Pay ’im the five bob,” ses Sam, raising ’is voice; “it’s my money.”

“You keep quiet,” ses Ginger, “and speak when your spoke to. Get inside, Peter.”

Peter, wot was standing by blinking and smiling, misunderstood ’im, and went back inside the pub. Ginger went arter ’im to fetch ’im back, and hearing a noise turned round and saw the cabman pulling Sam out o’ the cab. He was just in time to shove ’im back agin, and for the next two or three minutes ’im and the cabman was ’ard at it. Sam was too busy holding ’is clothes on to do much, and twice the cabman got ’im ’arf out, and twice Ginger got him back agin and bumped ’im back in ’is seat and shut the door. Then they both stopped and took breath.

“We’ll see which gets tired fust,” ses Ginger. “Hold the door inside, Sam.”

The cabman looked at ’im, and then ’e climbed up on to ’is seat and, just as Ginger ran back for Peter Russet, drove off at full speed.