Odd Craft, Complete

“I surprised myself,” admitted Mr. Catesby. “In the usual way I am very quiet and well-behaved, not to say shy.”

Miss Truefitt looked at him scornfully. “I think that you had better stop your nonsense and go,” she remarked.

“Don’t you want me to be punished?” inquired the other, in a soft voice.

“I think that you had better go while you can,” said the girl, and at that moment there was a heavy knock at the front-door. Mr. Catesby, despite his assurance, changed colour; the girl eyed him in perplexity. Then she opened the small folding-doors at the back of the room.

“You’re only—stupid,” she whispered. “Quick! Go in there. I’ll say you’ve gone. Keep quiet, and I’ll let you out by-and-by.”

She pushed him in and closed the doors. From his hiding-place he heard an animated conversation at the street-door and minute particulars as to the time which had elapsed since his departure and the direction he had taken.

“I never heard such impudence,” said Mrs. Truefitt, going into the front-room and sinking into a chair after the constable had taken his departure. “I don’t believe he was mad.”

“Only a little weak in the head, I think,” said Prudence, in a clear voice. “He was very frightened after you had gone; I don’t think he will trouble us again.”

“He’d better not,” said Mrs. Truefitt, sharply. “I never heard of such a thing—never.”

She continued to grumble, while Prudence, in a low voice, endeavoured to soothe her. Her efforts were evidently successful, as the prisoner was, after a time, surprised to hear the older woman laugh—at first gently, and then with so much enjoyment that her daughter was at some pains to restrain her. He sat in patience until evening deepened into night, and a line of light beneath the folding-doors announced the lighting of the lamp in the front-room. By a pleasant clatter of crockery he became aware that they were at supper, and he pricked up his ears as Prudence made another reference to him.

“If he comes to-morrow night while you are out I sha’n’t open the door,” she said. “You’ll be back by nine, I suppose.”

Mrs. Truefitt assented.

“And you won’t be leaving before seven,” continued Prudence. “I shall be all right.”

Mr. Catesby’s face glowed and his eyes grew tender; Prudence was as clever as she was beautiful. The delicacy with which she had intimated the fact of the unconscious Mrs. Truefitt’s absence on the following evening was beyond all praise. The only depressing thought was that such resourcefulness savoured of practice.

He sat in the darkness for so long that even the proximity of Prudence was not sufficient amends for the monotony of it, and it was not until past ten o’clock that the folding-doors were opened and he stood blinking at the girl in the glare of the lamp.

“Quick!” she whispered.

Mr. Catesby stepped into the lighted room.

“The front-door is open,” whispered Prudence. “Make haste. I’ll close it.”

She followed him to the door; he made an ineffectual attempt to seize her hand, and the next moment was pushed gently outside and the door closed behind him. He stood a moment gazing at the house, and then hastened back to his ship.

“Seven to-morrow,” he murmured; “seven to-morrow. After all, there’s nothing pays in this world like cheek—nothing.”

He slept soundly that night, though the things that the second-engineer said to him about wasting a hard-working man’s evening would have lain heavy on the conscience of a more scrupulous man. The only thing that troubled him was the manifest intention of his friend not to let him slip through his fingers on the following evening. At last, in sheer despair at his inability to shake him off, he had to tell him that he had an appointment with a lady.

“Well, I’ll come, too,” said the other, glowering at him. “It’s very like she’ll have a friend with her; they generally do.”

“I’ll run round and tell her,” said Catesby. “I’d have arranged it before, only I thought you didn’t care about that sort of thing.”

“Female society is softening,” said the second-engineer. “I’ll go and put on a clean collar.”

Catesby watched him into his cabin and then, though it still wanted an hour to seven, hastily quitted the ship and secreted himself in the private bar of the Beehive.

He waited there until a quarter past seven, and then, adjusting his tie for about the tenth time that evening in the glass behind the bar, sallied out in the direction of No. 5.

He knocked lightly, and waited. There was no response, and he knocked again. When the fourth knock brought no response, his heart sank within him and he indulged in vain speculations as to the reasons for this unexpected hitch in the programme. He knocked again, and then the door opened suddenly and Prudence, with a little cry of surprise and dismay, backed into the passage.

“You!” she said, regarding him with large eyes. Mr. Catesby bowed tenderly, and passing in closed the door behind him.

“I wanted to thank you for your kindness last night,” he said, humbly.

“Very well,” said Prudence; “good-bye.”

Mr. Catesby smiled. “It’ll take me a long time to thank you as I ought to thank you,” he murmured. “And then I want to apologise; that’ll take time, too.”

“You had better go,” said Prudence, severely; “kindness is thrown away upon you. I ought to have let you be punished.”

“You are too good and kind,” said the other, drifting by easy stages into the parlour.

Miss Truefitt made no reply, but following him into the room seated herself in an easy-chair and sat coldly watchful.

“How do you know what I am?” she inquired.

“Your face tells me,” said the infatuated Richard. “I hope you will forgive me for my rudeness last night. It was all done on the spur of the moment.”

“I am glad you are sorry,” said the girl, softening.

“All the same, if I hadn’t done it,” pursued Mr. Catesby, “I shouldn’t be sitting here talking to you now.”

Miss Truefitt raised her eyes to his, and then lowered them modestly to the ground. “That is true,” she said, quietly.

“And I would sooner be sitting here than any-where,” pursued Catesby. “That is,” he added, rising, and taking a chair by her side, “except here.”

Miss Truefitt appeared to tremble, and made as though to rise. Then she sat still and took a gentle peep at Mr. Catesby from the corner of her eye.

“I hope that you are not sorry that I am here?” said that gentleman.

Miss Truefitt hesitated. “No,” she said, at last.

“Are you—are you glad?” asked the modest Richard.

Miss Truefitt averted her eyes altogether. “Yes,” she said, faintly.

A strange feeling of solemnity came over the triumphant Richard. He took the hand nearest to him and pressed it gently.

“I—I can hardly believe in my good luck,” he murmured.

“Good luck?” said Prudence, innocently.

“Isn’t it good luck to hear you say that you are glad I’m here?” said Catesby.

“You’re the best judge of that,” said the girl, withdrawing her hand. “It doesn’t seem to me much to be pleased about.”

Mr. Catesby eyed her in perplexity, and was about to address another tender remark to her when she was overcome by a slight fit of coughing. At the same moment he started at the sound of a shuffling footstep in the passage. Somebody tapped at the door.

“Yes?” said Prudence.

“Can’t find the knife-powder, miss,” said a harsh voice. The door was pushed open and disclosed a tall, bony woman of about forty. Her red arms were bare to the elbow, and she betrayed several evidences of a long and arduous day’s charing.

“It’s in the cupboard,” said Prudence. “Why, what’s the matter, Mrs. Porter?”

Mrs. Porter made no reply. Her mouth was wide open and she was gazing with starting eyeballs at Mr. Catesby.

“Joe!” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “Joe!”

Mr. Catesby gazed at her in chilling silence. Miss Truefitt, with an air of great surprise, glanced from one to the other.

“Joe!” said Mrs. Porter again. “Ain’t you goin’ to speak to me?”

Mr. Catesby continued to gaze at her in speechless astonishment. She skipped clumsily round the table and stood before him with her hands clasped.

“Where ‘ave you been all this long time?” she demanded, in a higher key.

“You—you’ve made a mistake,” said the bewildered Richard.

“Mistake?” wailed Mrs. Porter. “Mistake! Oh, where’s your ‘art?”

Before he could get out of her way she flung her arms round the horrified young man’s neck and em-braced him copiously. Over her bony left shoulder the frantic Richard met the ecstatic gaze of Miss Truefitt, and, in a flash, he realised the trap into which he had fallen.

“Mrs. Porter!” said Prudence.

“It’s my ‘usband, miss,” said the Amazon, reluctantly releasing the flushed and dishevelled Richard; “‘e left me and my five eighteen months ago. For eighteen months I ‘aven’t ‘ad a sight of ‘is blessed face.”

She lifted the hem of her apron to her face and broke into discordant weeping.

“Don’t cry,” said Prudence, softly; “I’m sure he isn’t worth it.”

Mr. Catesby looked at her wanly. He was beyond further astonishment, and when Mrs. Truefitt entered the room with a laudable attempt to twist her features into an expression of surprise, he scarcely noticed her.

“It’s my Joe,” said Mrs. Porter, simply.

“Good gracious!” said Mrs. Truefitt. “Well, you’ve got him now; take care he doesn’t run away from you again.”

“I’ll look after that, ma’am,” said Mrs. Porter, with a glare at the startled Richard.

“She’s very forgiving,” said Prudence. “She kissed him just now.”

“Did she, though,” said the admiring Mrs. Truefitt. “I wish I’d been here.”

“I can do it agin, ma’am,” said the obliging Mrs. Porter.

“If you come near me again—” said the breathless Richard, stepping back a pace.

“I shouldn’t force his love,” said Mrs. Truefitt; “it’ll come back in time, I dare say.”

“I’m sure he’s affectionate,” said Prudence.

Mr. Catesby eyed his tormentors in silence; the faces of Prudence and her mother betokened much innocent enjoyment, but the austerity of Mrs. Porter’s visage was unrelaxed.

“Better let bygones be bygones,” said Mrs. Truefitt; “he’ll be sorry by-and-by for all the trouble he has caused.”

“He’ll be ashamed of himself—if you give him time,” added Prudence.

Mr. Catesby had heard enough; he took up his hat and crossed to the door.

“Take care he doesn’t run away from you again,” repeated Mrs. Truefitt.

“I’ll see to that, ma’am,” said Mrs. Porter, taking him by the arm. “Come along, Joe.”

Mr. Catesby attempted to shake her off, but in vain, and he ground his teeth as he realised the absurdity of his position. A man he could have dealt with, but Mrs. Porter was invulnerable. Sooner than walk down the road with her he preferred the sallies of the parlour. He walked back to his old position by the fireplace, and stood gazing moodily at the floor.

Mrs. Truefitt tired of the sport at last. She wanted her supper, and with a significant glance at her daughter she beckoned the redoubtable and reluctant Mrs. Porter from the room. Catesby heard the kitchen-door close behind them, but he made no move. Prudence stood gazing at him in silence.

“If you want to go,” she said, at last, “now is your chance.”

Catesby followed her into the passage without a word, and waited quietly while she opened the door. Still silent, he put on his hat and passed out into the darkening street. He turned after a short distance for a last look at the house and, with a sudden sense of elation, saw that she was standing on the step. He hesitated, and then walked slowly back.

“Yes?” said Prudence.

“I should like to tell your mother that I am sorry,” he said, in a low voice.

“It is getting late,” said the girl, softly; “but, if you really wish to tell her—Mrs. Porter will not be here to-morrow night.”

She stepped back into the house and the door closed behind her.

THE CHANGING NUMBERS

The tall clock in the corner of the small living-room had just struck eight as Mr. Samuel Gunnill came stealthily down the winding staircase and, opening the door at the foot, stepped with an appearance of great care and humility into the room. He noticed with some anxiety that his daughter Selina was apparently engrossed in her task of attending to the plants in the window, and that no preparations whatever had been made for breakfast.

Miss Gunnill’s horticultural duties seemed interminable. She snipped off dead leaves with painstaking precision, and administered water with the jealous care of a druggist compounding a prescription; then, with her back still toward him, she gave vent to a sigh far too intense in its nature to have reference to such trivialities as plants. She repeated it twice, and at the second time Mr. Gunnill, almost without his knowledge, uttered a deprecatory cough.

His daughter turned with alarming swiftness and, holding herself very upright, favoured him with a glance in which indignation and surprise were very fairly mingled.

“That white one—that one at the end,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an appearance of concentrated interest, “that’s my fav’rite.”

Miss Gunnill put her hands together, and a look of infinite long-suffering came upon her face, but she made no reply.

“Always has been,” continued Mr. Gunnill, feverishly, “from a—from a cutting.”

“Bailed out,” said Miss Gunnill, in a deep and thrilling voice; “bailed out at one o’clock in the morning, brought home singing loud enough for half-a-dozen, and then talking about flowers!”

Mr. Gunnill coughed again.

“I was dreaming,” pursued Miss Gunnill, plaintively, “sleeping peacefully, when I was awoke by a horrible noise.”

“That couldn’t ha’ been me,” protested her father. “I was only a bit cheerful. It was Benjamin Ely’s birthday yesterday, and after we left the Lion they started singing, and I just hummed to keep ‘em company. I wasn’t singing, mind you, only humming—when up comes that interfering Cooper and takes me off.”

Miss Gunnill shivered, and with her pretty cheek in her hand sat by the window the very picture of despondency. “Why didn’t he take the others?” she inquired.

“Ah!” said Mr. Gunnill, with great emphasis, “that’s what a lot more of us would like to know. P’r’aps if you’d been more polite to Mrs. Cooper, instead o’ putting it about that she looked young enough to be his mother, it wouldn’t have happened.”

His daughter shook her head impatiently and, on Mr. Gunnill making an allusion to breakfast, expressed surprise that he had got the heart to eat any-thing. Mr. Gunnill pressing the point, however, she arose and began to set the table, the undue care with which she smoothed out the creases of the table-cloth, and the mathematical exactness with which she placed the various articles, all being so many extra smarts in his wound. When she finally placed on the table enough food for a dozen people he began to show signs of a little spirit.

“Ain’t you going to have any?” he demanded, as Miss Gunnill resumed her seat by the window.

“Me?” said the girl, with a shudder. “Breakfast? The disgrace is breakfast enough for me. I couldn’t eat a morsel; it would choke me.”

Mr. Gunnill eyed her over the rim of his teacup. “I come down an hour ago,” he said, casually, as he helped himself to some bacon.

Miss Gunnill started despite herself. “Oh!” she said, listlessly.

“And I see you making a very good breakfast all by yourself in the kitchen,” continued her father, in a voice not free from the taint of triumph.

The discomfited Selina rose and stood regarding him; Mr. Gunnill, after a vain attempt to meet her gaze, busied himself with his meal.

“The idea of watching every mouthful I eat!” said Miss Gunnill, tragically; “the idea of complaining because I have some breakfast! I’d never have believed it of you, never! It’s shameful! Fancy grudging your own daughter the food she eats!”

Mr. Gunnill eyed her in dismay. In his confusion he had overestimated the capacity of his mouth, and he now strove in vain to reply to this shameful perversion of his meaning. His daughter stood watching him with grief in one eye and calculation in the other, and, just as he had put himself into a position to exercise his rights of free speech, gave a pathetic sniff and walked out of the room.

She stayed indoors all day, but the necessity of establishing his innocence took Mr. Gunnill out a great deal. His neighbours, in the hope of further excitement, warmly pressed him to go to prison rather than pay a fine, and instanced the example of an officer in the Salvation Army, who, in very different circumstances, had elected to take that course. Mr. Gunnill assured them that only his known antipathy to the army, and the fear of being regarded as one of its followers, prevented him from doing so. He paid instead a fine of ten shillings, and after listening to a sermon, in which his silver hairs served as the text, was permitted to depart. His feeling against Police-constable Cooper increased with the passing of the days. The constable watched him with the air of a proprietor, and Mrs. Cooper’s remark that “her husband had had his eye upon him for a long time, and that he had better be careful for the future,” was faithfully retailed to him within half an hour of its utterance. Convivial friends counted his cups for him; teetotal friends more than hinted that Cooper was in the employ of his good angel.

Miss Gunnill’s two principal admirers had an arduous task to perform. They had to attribute Mr. Gunnill’s disaster to the vindictiveness of Cooper, and at the same time to agree with his daughter that it served him right. Between father and daughter they had a difficult time, Mr. Gunnill’s sensitiveness having been much heightened by his troubles.

“Cooper ought not to have taken you,” said Herbert Sims for the fiftieth time.

“He must ha’ seen you like it dozens o’ times before,” said Ted Drill, who, in his determination not to be outdone by Mr. Sims, was not displaying his usual judgment. “Why didn’t he take you then? That’s what you ought to have asked the magistrate.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an air of cold dignity.

“Why,” said Mr. Drill, “what I mean is—look at that night, for instance, when–”

He broke off suddenly, even his enthusiasm not being proof against the extraordinary contortions of visage in which Mr. Gunnill was indulging.

“When?” prompted Selina and Mr. Sims together. Mr. Gunnill, after first daring him with his eye, followed suit.

“That night at the Crown,” said Mr. Drill, awkwardly. “You know; when you thought that Joe Baggs was the landlord. You tell ‘em; you tell it best. I’ve roared over it.”

“I don’t know what you’re driving at,” said the harassed Mr. Gunnill, bitterly.

“H’m!” said Mr. Drill, with a weak laugh. “I’ve been mixing you up with somebody else.”

Mr. Gunnill, obviously relieved, said that he ought to be more careful, and pointed out, with some feeling, that a lot of mischief was caused that way.

“Cooper wants a lesson, that’s what he wants,” said Mr. Sims, valiantly. “He’ll get his head broke one of these days.”

Mr. Gunnill acquiesced. “I remember when I was on the Peewit,” he said, musingly, “one time when we were lying at Cardiff, there was a policeman there run one of our chaps in, and two nights afterward another of our chaps pushed the policeman down in the mud and ran off with his staff and his helmet.”

Miss Gunnill’s eyes glistened. “What happened?” she inquired.

“He had to leave the force,” replied her father; “he couldn’t stand the disgrace of it. The chap that pushed him over was quite a little chap, too. About the size of Herbert here.”

Mr. Sims started.

“Very much like him in face, too,” pursued Mr. Gunnill; “daring chap he was.”

Miss Gunnill sighed. “I wish he lived in Little-stow,” she said, slowly. “I’d give anything to take that horrid Mrs. Cooper down a bit. Cooper would be the laughing-stock of the town.”

Messrs. Sims and Drill looked unhappy. It was hard to have to affect an attitude of indifference in the face of Miss Gunnill’s lawless yearnings; to stand before her as respectable and law-abiding cravens. Her eyes, large and sorrowful; dwelt on them both.

“If I—I only get a chance at Cooper!” murmured Mr. Sims, vaguely.

To his surprise, Mr. Gunnill started up from his chair and, gripping his hand, shook it fervently. He looked round, and Selina was regarding him with a glance so tender that he lost his head completely. Before he had recovered he had pledged himself to lay the helmet and truncheon of the redoubtable Mr. Cooper at the feet of Miss Gunnill; exact date not specified.

“Of course, I shall have to wait my opportunity,” he said, at last.

“You wait as long as you like, my boy,” said the thoughtless Mr. Gunnill.

Mr. Sims thanked him.

“Wait till Cooper’s an old man,” urged Mr. Drill.

Miss Gunnill, secretly disappointed at the lack of boldness and devotion on the part of the latter gentleman, eyed his stalwart frame indignantly and accused him of trying to make Mr. Sims as timid as himself. She turned to the valiant Sims and made herself so agreeable to that daring blade that Mr. Drill, a prey to violent jealousy, bade the company a curt good-night and withdrew.

He stayed away for nearly a week, and then one evening as he approached the house, carrying a carpet-bag, he saw the door just opening to admit the fortunate Herbert. He quickened his pace and arrived just in time to follow him in. Mr. Sims, who bore under his arm a brown-paper parcel, seemed somewhat embarrassed at seeing him, and after a brief greeting walked into the room, and with a triumphant glance at Mr. Gunnill and Selina placed his burden on the table.

“You—you ain’t got it?” said Mr. Gunnill, leaning forward.

“How foolish of you to run such a risk!” said Selina.

“I brought it for Miss Gunnill,” said the young man, simply. He unfastened the parcel, and to the astonishment of all present revealed a policeman’s helmet and a short boxwood truncheon.

“You—you’re a wonder,” said the gloating Mr. Gunnill. “Look at it, Ted!”

Mr. Drill was looking at it; it may be doubted whether the head of Mr. Cooper itself could have caused him more astonishment. Then his eyes sought those of Mr. Sims, but that gentleman was gazing tenderly at the gratified but shocked Selina.

“How ever did you do it?” inquired Mr. Gunnill.

“Came behind him and threw him down,” said Mr. Sims, nonchalantly. “He was that scared I believe I could have taken his boots as well if I’d wanted them.”

Mr. Gunnill patted him on the back. “I fancy I can see him running bare-headed through the town calling for help,” he said, smiling.

Mr. Sims shook his head. “Like as not it’ll be kept quiet for the credit of the force,” he said, slowly, “unless, of course, they discover who did it.”

A slight shade fell on the good-humoured countenance of Mr. Gunnill, but it was chased away almost immediately by Sims reminding him of the chaff of Cooper’s brother-constables.

“And you might take the others away,” said Mr. Gunnill, brightening; “you might keep on doing it.”

Mr. Sims said doubtfully that he might, but pointed out that Cooper would probably be on his guard for the future.

“Yes, you’ve done your share,” said Miss Gunnill, with a half-glance at Mr. Drill, who was still gazing in a bewildered fashion at the trophies. “You can come into the kitchen and help me draw some beer if you like.”

Mr. Sims followed her joyfully, and reaching down a jug for her watched her tenderly as she drew the beer. All women love valour, but Miss Gunnill, gazing sadly at the slight figure of Mr. Sims, could not help wishing that Mr. Drill possessed a little of his spirit.

She had just finished her task when a tremendous bumping noise was heard in the living-room, and the plates on the dresser were nearly shaken off their shelves.

“What’s that?” she cried.

They ran to the room and stood aghast in the doorway at the spectacle of Mr. Gunnill, with his clenched fists held tightly by his side, bounding into the air with all the grace of a trained acrobat, while Mr. Drill encouraged him from an easy-chair. Mr. Gunnill smiled broadly as he met their astonished gaze, and with a final bound kicked something along the floor and subsided into his seat panting.

Mr. Sims, suddenly enlightened, uttered a cry of dismay and, darting under the table, picked up what had once been a policeman’s helmet. Then he snatched a partially consumed truncheon from the fire, and stood white and trembling before the astonished Mr. Gunnill.