Deep Waters, the Entire Collection

Capt’in Mellun is his name, and ‘e was always a foolish, soft-’eaded sort o’ man, and how he ‘as kept ‘is job I can’t think. He used to trade between this wharf and Bristol on a little schooner called the Firefly, and seeing wot a silly, foolish kind o’ man he was, I took a little bit o’ notice of ‘im. Many and many a time when ‘e was going to do something he’d ha’ been sorry for arterwards I ‘ave taken ‘im round to the Bear’s Head and stood ‘im pint arter pint until he began to see reason and own up that I was in the right.

His crew was a’most as bad as wot he was, and all in one month one o’ the ‘ands gave a man ten shillings for a di’mond ring he saw ‘im pick up, wot turned out to be worth fourpence, and another one gave five bob for a meerschaum pipe made o’ chalk. When I pointed out to ‘em wot fools they was they didn’t like it, and a week arterwards, when the skipper gave a man in a pub ‘is watch and chain and two pounds to hold, to show ‘is confidence in ‘im, and I told ‘im exactly wot I thought of him, ‘e didn’t like it.

“You’re too sharp, Bill,” he says, sneering like. “My opinion is that the pore man was run over. He told me ‘e should only be away five minutes. And he ‘ad got an honest face: nice open blue eyes, and a smile that done you good to look at.”

“You’ve been swindled,” I ses, “and you know it. If I’d been done like that I should never hold up my ‘ead agin. Why, a child o’ five would know better. You and your crew all seem to be tarred with the same brush. You ain’t fit to be trusted out alone.”

I believe ‘e told his ‘ands wot I said; anyway, two bits o’ coke missed me by ‘arf an inch next evening, and for some weeks not one of ‘em spoke a word to me. When they see me coming they just used to stand up straight and twist their nose.

It didn’t ‘urt me, o’ course. I took no notice of ‘em. Even when one of ‘em fell over the broom I was sweeping with I took no notice of ‘im. I just went on with my work as if ‘e wasn’t there.

I suppose they ‘ad been in the sulks about a month, and I was sitting ‘ere one evening getting my breath arter a couple o’ hours’ ‘ard work, when one of ‘em, George Tebb by name, came off the ship and nodded to me as he passed.

“Evening, Bill,” he ses.

“Evening,” I ses, rather stiff.

“I wanted a word with you, Bill,” he ses, in a low voice. “In fact, I might go so far as to say I want to ask you to do me a favour.”

I looked at him so ‘ard that he coughed and looked away.

“We might talk about it over a ‘arf-pint,” he ses.

“No, thank you,” I ses. “I ‘ad a ‘arf-pint the day before yesterday, and I’m not thirsty.”

He stood there fidgeting about for a bit, and then he puts his ‘and on my shoulder.

“Well, come to the end of the jetty,” he ses. “I’ve got something private to say.”

I got up slow-like and followed ‘im. I wasn’t a bit curious. Not a bit. But if a man asks for my ‘elp I always give it.

“It’s like this,” he ses, looking round careful, “only I don’t want the other chaps to hear because I don’t want to be laughed at. Last week an old uncle o’ mine died and left me thirty pounds. It’s just a week ago, and I’ve already got through five of ‘em, and besides that the number of chaps that want to borrow ten bob for a couple o’ days would surprise you.”

“I ain’t so easy surprised,” I ses, shaking my ‘ead.

“It ain’t safe with me,” he ses; “and the favour I want you to do is to take care of it for me. I know it’ll go if I keep it. I’ve got it locked up in this box. And if you keep the box I’ll keep the key, and when I want a bit I’ll come and see you about it.”

He pulled a little box out of ‘is pocket and rattled it in my ear.

“There’s five-and-twenty golden goblins in there,” he ses. “If you take charge of ‘em they’ll be all right. If you don’t, I’m pretty certain I sha’n’t ‘ave one of ‘em in a week or two’s time.”

At fust I said I wouldn’t ‘ave anything to do with it, but he begged so ‘ard that I began to alter my mind.

“You’re as honest as daylight, Bill,” he ses, very earnest. “I don’t know another man in the world I could trust with twenty-five quid— especially myself. Now, put it in your pocket and look arter it for me. One of the quids in it is for you, for your trouble.”

He slipped the box in my coat-pocket, and then he said ‘is mind was so relieved that ‘e felt like ‘arf a pint. I was for going to the Bear’s Head, the place I generally go to, because it is next door to the wharf, so to speak, but George wanted me to try the beer at another place he knew of.

“The wharf’s all right,” he ses. “There’s one or two ‘ands on the ship, and they won’t let anybody run away with it.”

From wot he said I thought the pub was quite close, but instead o’ that I should think we walked pretty nearly a mile afore we got there. Nice snug place it was, and the beer was all right, although, as I told George Tebb, it didn’t seem to me any better than the stuff at the Bear’s Head.

He stood me two ‘arf-pints and was just going to order another, when ‘e found ‘e ‘adn’t got any money left, and he wouldn’t hear of me paying for it, because ‘e said it was his treat.

“We’ll ‘ave a quid out o’ the box,” he ses. “I must ‘ave one to go on with, anyway.” I shook my ‘ead at ‘im.

“Only one,” he ses, “and that’ll last me a fortnight. Besides, I want to give you the quid I promised you.”

I gave way at last, and he put his ‘and in ‘is trouser-pocket for the key, and then found it wasn’t there.

“I must ha’ left it in my chest,” he ses. “I’ll ‘op back and get it.” And afore I could prevent ‘im he ‘ad waved his ‘and at me and gorn.

My fust idea was to go arter ‘im, but I knew I couldn’t catch ‘im, and if I tried to meet ‘im coming back I should most likely miss ‘im through the side streets. So I sat there with my pipe and waited.

I suppose I ‘ad been sitting down waiting for him for about ten minutes, when a couple o’ sailormen came into the bar and began to make themselves a nuisance. Big fat chaps they was, and both of ‘em more than ‘arf sprung. And arter calling for a pint apiece they began to take a little notice of me.

“Where d’you come from?” ses one of ‘em. “‘Ome,” I ses, very quiet.

“It’s a good place—‘ome,” ses the chap, shaking his ‘ead. “Can you sing ‘’Ome, Sweet ‘Ome’? You seem to ‘ave got wot I might call a ‘singing face.’”

“Never mind about my face,” I ses, very sharp. “You mind wot you’re doing with that beer. You’ll ‘ave it over in a minute.”

The words was ‘ardly out of my mouth afore ‘e gave a lurch and spilt his pint all over me. From ‘ead to foot I was dripping with beer, and I was in such a temper I wonder I didn’t murder ‘im; but afore I could move they both pulled out their pocket-’ankerchers and started to rub me down.

“That’ll do,” I ses at last, arter they ‘ad walked round me ‘arf-a-dozen times and patted me all over to see if I was dry. “You get off while you’re safe.”

“It was my mistake, mate,” ses the chap who ‘ad spilt the beer.

“You get outside,” I ses. “Go on, both of you, afore I put you out.”

They gave one look at me, standing there with my fists clenched, and then they went out like lambs, and I ‘eard ‘em trot round the corner as though they was afraid I was following. I felt a little bit damp and chilly, but beer is like sea-water—you don’t catch cold through it—and I sat down agin to wait for George Tebb.

He came in smiling and out ‘o breath in about ten minutes’ time, with the key in ‘is ‘and, and as soon as I told ‘im wot had ‘appened to me with the beer he turned to the landlord and ordered me six o’ rum ‘ot at once.

“Drink that up,” he ses, ‘anding it to me; “but fust of all give me the box, so as I can pay for it.”

I put my ‘and in my pocket. Then I put it in the other one, and arter that I stood staring at George Tebb and shaking all over.

“Wot’s the matter? Wot are you looking like that for?” he ses.

“It must ha’ been them two,” I ses, choking. “While they was purtending to dry me and patting me all over they must ‘ave taken it out of my pocket.”

“Wot are you talking about?” ses George, staring at me.

“The box ‘as gorn,” I ses, putting down the ‘ot rum and feeling in my trouser-pocket. “The box ‘as gorn, and them two must ‘ave taken it.”

“Gorn!” ses George. “Gorn! My box with twenty-five pounds in, wot I trusted you with, gorn? Wot are you talking about? It can’t be—it’s too crool!”

He made such a noise that the landlord wot was waiting for ‘is money, asked ‘im wot he meant by it, and, arter he ‘ad explained, I’m blest if the landlord didn’t advise him to search me. I stood still and let George go through my pockets, and then I told ‘im I ‘ad done with ‘im and I never wanted to see ‘im agin as long as I lived.

“I dare say,” ses George, “I dare say. But you’ll come along with me to the wharf and see the skipper. I’m not going to lose five-and-twenty quid through your carelessness.”

I marched along in front of ‘im with my ‘ead in the air, and when he spoke to me I didn’t answer him. He went aboard the ship when we got to the wharf, and a minute or two arterwards ‘e came to the side and said the skipper wanted to see me.

The airs the skipper gave ‘imself was sickening. He sat down there in ‘is miserable little rat-’ole of a cabin and acted as if ‘e was a judge and I was a prisoner. Most of the ‘ands ‘ad squeezed in there too, and the things they advised George to do to me was remarkable.

“Silence!” ses the skipper. “Now, watchman, tell me exactly ‘ow this thing ‘appened.”

“I’ve told you once,” I ses.

“I know,” ses the skipper, “but I want you to tell me again to see if you contradict yourself. I can’t understand ‘ow such a clever man as you could be done so easy.”

I thought I should ha’ bust, but I kept my face wonderful. I just asked ‘im wot the men was like that got off with ‘is watch and chain and two pounds, in case they might be the same.

“That’s different,” he ses.

“Oh!” ses I. “‘Ow?”

“I lost my own property,” he ses, “but you lost George’s, and ‘ow a man like you, that’s so much sharper and cleverer than other people, could be had so easy, I can’t think. Why, a child of five would ha’ known better.”

“A baby in arms would ha’ known better,” ses the man wot ‘ad bought the di’mond ring. “‘Ow could you ‘ave been so silly, Bill? At your time o’ life, too!”

“That’s neither ‘ere nor there,” ses the skip-per. “The watchman has lost twenty-five quid belonging to one o’ my men. The question is, wot is he going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” I ses. “I didn’t ask ‘im to let me mind the box. He done it of ‘is own free will. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Oh, hasn’t it?” ses the skipper, drawing ‘imself up. “I don’t want to be too ‘ard on you, but at the same time I can’t let my man suffer. I’ll make it as easy as I can, and I order you to pay ‘im five shillings a week till the twenty-five pounds is cleared off.”

I laughed; I couldn’t ‘elp it. I just stood there and laughed at ‘im.

“If you don’t,” ses the skipper, “then I shall lay the facts of the case afore the guv’nor. Whether he’ll object to you being in a pub a mile away, taking care of a box of gold while you was supposed to be taking care of the wharf, is his bisness. My bisness is to see that my man ‘as ‘is rights.”

“‘Ear, ‘ear !” ses the crew.

“You please yourself, watchman,” ses the skipper. “You’re such a clever man that no doubt you could get a better job to-morrow. There must be ‘eaps of people wanting a man like you. It’s for you to decide. That’s all I’ve got to say—five bob a week till pore George ‘as got ‘is money back, or else I put the case afore the guv’nor. Wot did you say?”

I said it agin, and, as ‘e didn’t seem to understand, I said it once more.

“Please yourself,” ‘e ses, when I ‘ad finished. “You’re an old man, and five bob a week can’t be much loss to you. You’ve got nothing to spend it on, at your time o’ life. And you’ve got a very soft job ‘ere. Wot?”

I didn’t answer ‘im. I just turned round, and, arter giving a man wot stood in my way a punch in the chest, I got up on deck and on to the wharf, and said my little say all alone to myself, behind the crane.

I paid the fust five bob to George Tebb the next time the ship was up, and arter biting ‘em over and over agin and then ringing ‘em on the deck ‘e took the other chaps round to the Bear’s Head.

“P’r’aps it’s just as well it’s ‘appened,” he ses. “Five bob a week for nearly two years ain’t to be sneezed at. It’s slow, but it’s sure.”

I thought ‘e was joking at fust, but arter working it out in the office with a bit o’ pencil and paper I thought I should ha’ gorn crazy. And when I complained about the time to George ‘e said I could make it shorter if I liked by paying ten bob a week, but ‘e thought the steady five bob a week was best for both of us.

I got to ‘ate the sight of ‘im. Every week regular as clockwork he used to come round to me with his ‘and out, and then go and treat ‘is mates to beer with my money. If the ship came up in the day-time, at six o’clock in the evening he’d be at the wharf gate waiting for me; and if it came up at night she was no sooner made fast than ‘e was over the side patting my trouser-pocket and saying wot a good job it was for both of us that I was in steady employment.

Week arter week and month arter month I went on paying. I a’most forgot the taste o’ beer, and if I could manage to get a screw o’ baccy a week I thought myself lucky. And at last, just as I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer, the end came.

I ‘ad just given George ‘is week’s money—and ‘ow I got it together that week I don’t know—when one o’ the chaps came up and said the skipper wanted to see me on board at once.

“Tell ‘im if he wants to see me I’m to be found on the wharf,” I ses, very sharp.

“He wants to see you about George’s money,” ses the chap. “I should go if I was you. My opinion is he wants to do you a good turn.”

I ‘ung fire for a bit, and then, arter sweeping up for a little while deliberate-like, I put down my broom and stepped aboard to see the skipper, wot was sitting on the cabin skylight purtending to read a newspaper.

He put it down when ‘e see me, and George and the others, wot ‘ad been standing in a little bunch for’ard, came aft and stood looking on.

“I wanted to see you about this money, watchman,” ses the skipper, putting on ‘is beastly frills agin. “O’ course, we all feel that to a pore man like you it’s a bit of a strain, and, as George ses, arter all you have been more foolish than wicked.”

“Much more,” ses George.

“I find that you ‘ave now paid five bob a week for nineteen weeks,” ses the skipper, “and George ‘as been kind enough and generous enough to let you off the rest. There’s no need for you to look bashful, George; it’s a credit to you.”

I could ‘ardly believe my ears. George stood there grinning like a stuck fool, and two o’ the chaps was on their best behaviour with their ‘ands over their mouths and their eyes sticking out.

“That’s all, watchman,” ses the skipper; “and I ‘ope it’ll be a lesson to you not to neglect your dooty by going into public-’ouses and taking charge of other people’s money when you ain’t fit for it.”

“I sha’n’t try to do anybody else a kindness agin, if that’s wot you mean,” I ses, looking at ‘im.

“No, you’d better not,” he ses. “This partickler bit o’ kindness ‘as cost you four pounds fifteen, and that’s a curious thing when you come to think of it. Very curious.”

“Wot d’ye mean?” I ses.

“Why,” he ses, grinning like a madman, “it’s just wot we lost between us. I lost a watch and chain worth two pounds, and another couple o’ pounds besides; Joe lost ten shillings over ‘is di’mond ring; and Charlie lost five bob over a pipe. ‘That’s four pounds fifteen—just the same as you.”

Them silly fools stood there choking and sobbing and patting each other on the back as though they’d never leave off, and all of a sudden I ‘ad a ‘orrible suspicion that I ‘ad been done.

“Did you see the sovereigns in the box?” I ses, turning to the skipper.

“No,” he ses, shaking his ‘ead.

“‘Ow do you know they was there, then?” ses I.

“Because you took charge of ‘em,” said the skipper; “and I know wot a clever, sharp chap you are. It stands to reason that you wouldn’t be responsible for a box like that unless you saw inside of it. Why, a child o’ five wouldn’t!”

I stood there looking at ‘im, but he couldn’t meet my eye. None of ‘em could; and arter waiting there for a minute or two to give ‘em a chance, I turned my back on ‘em and went off to my dooty.

MADE TO MEASURE

Mr. Mott brought his niece home from the station with considerable pride. Although he had received a photograph to assist identification, he had been very dubious about accosting the pretty, well-dressed girl who had stepped from the train and gazed around with dove-like eyes in search of him. Now he was comfortably conscious of the admiring gaze of his younger fellow-townsmen.

“You’ll find it a bit dull after London, I expect,” he remarked, as he inserted his key in the door of a small house in a quiet street.

“I’m tired of London,” said Miss Garland. “I think this is a beautiful little old town—so peaceful.”

Mr. Mott looked gratified.

“I hope you’ll stay a long time,” he said, as he led the way into the small front room. “I’m a lonely old man.”

His niece sank into an easy chair, and looked about her.

“Thank you,” she said, slowly. “I hope I shall. I feel better already. There is so much to upset one in London.”

“Noise?” queried Mr. Mott.

“And other things,” said Miss Garland, with a slight shudder.

Mr. Mott sighed in sympathy with the unknown, and, judging by his niece’s expression, the unknowable. He rearranged the teacups, and, going to the kitchen, returned in a few minutes with a pot of tea.

“Mrs. Pett leaves at three,” he said, in explanation, “to look after her children, but she comes back again at eight to look after my supper. And how is your mother?”

Miss Garland told him.

“Last letter I had from her,” said Mr. Mott, stealing a glance at the girl’s ring-finger, “I understood you were engaged.”

His niece drew herself up.

“Certainly not,” she said, with considerable vigour. “I have seen too much of married life. I prefer my freedom. Besides, I don’t like men.”

Mr. Mott said modestly that he didn’t wonder at it, and, finding the subject uncongenial, turned the conversation on to worthier subjects. Miss Garland’s taste, it seemed, lay in the direction of hospital nursing, or some other occupation beneficial to mankind at large. Simple and demure, she filled the simpler Mr. Mott with a strong sense of the shortcomings of his unworthy sex.

Within two days, under the darkling glance of Mrs. Pett, she had altered the arrangements of the house. Flowers appeared on the meal-table, knives and forks were properly cleaned, and plates no longer appeared ornamented with the mustard of a previous meal. Fresh air circulated through the house, and, passing from Mrs. Pett’s left knee to the lumbar region of Mr. Mott, went on its beneficent way rejoicing.

On the fifth day of her visit, Mr. Mott sat alone in the front parlour. The window was closed, the door was closed, and Mr. Mott, sitting in an easy chair with his feet up, was aroused from a sound nap by the door opening to admit a young man, who, deserted by Mrs. Pett, stood bowing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Is Miss Garland in?” he stammered.

Mr. Mott rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyelids.

“She has gone for a walk,” he said, slowly.

The young man stood fingering his hat.

“My name is Hurst,” he said, with slight emphasis. “Mr. Alfred Hurst.”

Mr. Mott, still somewhat confused, murmured that he was glad to hear it.

“I have come from London to see Florrie,” continued the intruder. “I suppose she won’t be long?”

Mr. Mott thought not, and after a moment’s hesitation invited Mr. Hurst to take a chair.

“I suppose she told you we are engaged?” said the latter.

“Engaged!” said the startled Mr. Mott. “Why, she told me she didn’t like men.”

“Playfulness,” replied Mr. Hurst, with an odd look. “Ah, here she is!”

The handle of the front door turned, and a moment later the door of the room was opened and the charming head of Miss Garland appeared in the opening.

“Back again,” she said, brightly. “I’ve just been–”

She caught sight of Mr. Hurst, and the words died away on her lips. The door slammed, and the two gentlemen, exchanging glances, heard a hurried rush upstairs and the slamming of another door. Also a key was heard to turn sharply in a lock.

“She doesn’t want to see you,” said Mr. Mott, staring.

The young man turned pale.

“Perhaps she has gone upstairs to take her things off,” he muttered, resuming his seat. “Don’t—don’t hurry her!”

“I wasn’t going to,” said Mr. Mott.

He twisted his beard uneasily, and at the end of ten minutes looked from the clock to Mr. Hurst and coughed.

“If you wouldn’t mind letting her know I’m waiting,” said the young man, brokenly.

Mr. Mott rose, and went slowly upstairs. More slowly still, after an interval of a few minutes, he came back again.

“She doesn’t want to see you,” he said, slowly.

Mr. Hurst gasped.

“I—I must see her,” he faltered.

“She won’t see you,” repeated Mr. Mott. “And she told me to say she was surprised at you following her down here.”

Mr. Hurst uttered a faint moan, and with bent head passed into the little passage and out into the street, leaving Mr. Mott to return to the sitting-room and listen to such explanations as Miss Garland deemed advisable. Great goodness of heart in the face of persistent and unwelcome attentions appeared to be responsible for the late engagement.

“Well, it’s over now,” said her uncle, kindly, “and no doubt he’ll soon find somebody else. There are plenty of girls would jump at him, I expect.”

Miss Garland shook her head.

“He said he couldn’t live without me,” she remarked, soberly.

Mr. Mott laughed.

“In less than three months I expect he’ll be congratulating himself,” he said, cheerfully. “Why, I was nearly cau—married, four times. It’s a silly age.”

His niece said “Indeed!” and, informing him in somewhat hostile tones that she was suffering from a severe headache, retired to her room.

Mr. Mott spent the evening by himself, and retiring to bed at ten-thirty was awakened by a persistent knocking at the front door at half-past one. Half awakened, he lit a candle, and, stumbling downstairs, drew back the bolt of the door, and stood gaping angrily at the pathetic features of Mr. Hurst.

“Sorry to disturb you,” said the young man, “but would you mind giving this letter to Miss Garland?”

“Sorry to disturb me!” stuttered Mr. Mott. “What do you mean by it? Eh? What do you mean by it?”

“It is important,” said Mr. Hurst. “I can’t rest. I’ve eaten nothing all day.”

“Glad to hear it,” snapped the irritated Mr. Mott.

“If you will give her that letter, I shall feel easier,” said Mr. Hurst.

“I’ll give it to her in the morning,” said the other, snatching it from him. “Now get off.”

Mr. Hurst still murmuring apologies, went, and Mr. Mott, also murmuring, returned to bed. The night was chilly, and it was some time before he could get to sleep again. He succeeded at last, only to be awakened an hour later by a knocking more violent than before. In a state of mind bordering upon frenzy, he dived into his trousers again and went blundering downstairs in the dark.

“Sorry to—” began Mr. Hurst.

Mr. Mott made uncouth noises at him.

“I have altered my mind,” said the young man. “Would you mind letting me have that letter back again? It was too final.”

“You—get—off!” said the other, trembling with cold and passion.

“I must have that letter,” said Mr. Hurst, doggedly. “All my future happiness may depend upon it.”

Mr. Mott, afraid to trust himself with speech, dashed upstairs, and after a search for the matches found the letter, and, returning to the front door, shut it on the visitor’s thanks. His niece’s door opened as he passed it, and a gentle voice asked for enlightenment.

“How silly of him!” she said, softly. “I hope he won’t catch cold. What did you say?”

“I was coughing,” said Mr. Mott, hastily.

“You’ll get cold if you’re not careful,” said his thoughtful niece. “That’s the worst of men, they never seem to have any thought. Did he seem angry, or mournful, or what? I suppose you couldn’t see his face?”