THE OBSERVATIONS OF HENRY

BYJEROME K. JEROME

AUTHOR OF"THREE MEN IN A BOAT, " "DIARY OF A PILGRIMAGE, " "THREE MEN ON THEBUMMEL, " ETC. 

BRISTOLJ. W. ARROWSMITH, QUAY STREETLONDONSIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT AND COMPANY LIMITED1901

THE GHOST OF THE MARCHIONESS OF APPLEFORD. 

This is the story, among others, of Henry the waiter--or, as he nowprefers to call himself, Henri--told to me in the long dining-room of theRiffel Alp Hotel, where I once stayed for a melancholy week "betweenseasons, " sharing the echoing emptiness of the place with two maidenladies, who talked all day to one another in frightened whispers. Henry'sconstruction I have discarded for its amateurishness; his method beinggenerally to commence a story at the end, and then, working backwards tothe beginning, wind up with the middle. But in all other respects I haveendeavoured to retain his method, which was individual; and this, Ithink, is the story as he would have told it to me himself, had he toldit in this order:

My first place--well to be honest, it was a coffee shop in the Mile EndRoad--I'm not ashamed of it. We all have our beginnings. Young"Kipper, " as we called him--he had no name of his own, not that he knewof anyhow, and that seemed to fit him down to the ground--had fixed hispitch just outside, between our door and the music hall at the corner;and sometimes, when I might happen to have a bit on, I'd get a paper fromhim, and pay him for it, when the governor was not about, with a mug ofcoffee, and odds and ends that the other customers had left on theirplates--an arrangement that suited both of us. He was just about assharp as they make boys, even in the Mile End Road, which is saying agood deal; and now and then, spying around among the right sort, andkeeping his ears open, he would put me up to a good thing, and I wouldtip him a bob or a tanner as the case might be. He was the sort thatgets on--you know. 

One day in he walks, for all the world as if the show belonged to him, with a young imp of a girl on his arm, and down they sits at one of thetables. 

"Garsong, " he calls out, "what's the menoo to-day?"

"The menoo to-day, " I says, "is that you get outside 'fore I clip youover the ear, and that you take that back and put it where you found it;"meaning o' course, the kid. 

She was a pretty little thing, even then, in spite of the dirt, withthose eyes like saucers, and red hair. It used to be called "carrots" inthose days. Now all the swells have taken it up--or as near as they canget to it--and it's auburn. 

"'Enery, " he replied to me, without so much as turning a hair, "I'mafraid you're forgetting your position. When I'm on the kerb shouting'Speshul!' and you comes to me with yer 'a'penny in yer 'and, you'remaster an' I'm man. When I comes into your shop to order refreshments, and to pay for 'em, I'm boss. Savey? You can bring me a rasher and twoeggs, and see that they're this season's. The lidy will have afull-sized haddick and a cocoa. "

Well, there was justice in what he said. He always did have sense, and Itook his order. You don't often see anybody put it away like that girldid. I took it she hadn't had a square meal for many a long day. Shepolished off a ninepenny haddick, skin and all, and after that she hadtwo penny rashers, with six slices of bread and butter--"doorsteps, " aswe used to call them--and two half pints of cocoa, which is a meal initself the way we used to make it. "Kipper" must have had a bit of luckthat day. He couldn't have urged her on more had it been a free feed. 

"'Ave an egg, " he suggested, the moment the rashers had disappeared. "Oneof these eggs will just about finish yer. "

"I don't really think as I can, " says she, after considering like. 

"Well, you know your own strength, " he answers. "Perhaps you're bestwithout it. Speshully if yer not used to 'igh living. "

I was glad to see them finish, 'cause I was beginning to get a bitnervous about the coin, but he paid up right enough, and giv me aha'penny for myself. 

That was the first time I ever waited upon those two, but it wasn't to bethe last by many a long chalk, as you'll see. He often used to bring herin after that. Who she was and what she was he didn't know, and shedidn't know, so there was a pair of them. She'd run away from an oldwoman down Limehouse way, who used to beat her. That was all she couldtell him. He got her a lodging with an old woman, who had an attic inthe same house where he slept--when it would run to that--taught her toyell "Speshul!" and found a corner for her. There ain't room for boysand girls in the Mile-End Road. They're either kids down there orthey're grown-ups. "Kipper" and "Carrots"--as we named her--looked uponthemselves as sweethearts, though he couldn't have been more thanfifteen, and she barely twelve; and that he was regular gone on heranyone could see with half an eye. Not that he was soft about it--thatwasn't his style. He kept her in order, and she had just to mind, whichI guess was a good thing for her, and when she wanted it he'd use hishand on her, and make no bones about it. That's the way among thatclass. They up and give the old woman a friendly clump, just as you orme would swear at the missus, or fling a boot-jack at her. They don'tmean anything more. 

I left the coffee shop later on for a place in the city, and saw nothingmore of them for five years. When I did it was at a restaurant in OxfordStreet--one of those amatoor shows run by a lot of women, who knownothing about the business, and spend the whole day gossiping andflirting--"love-shops, " I call 'em. There was a yellow-haired ladymanageress who never heard you when you spoke to her, 'cause she wasalways trying to hear what some seedy old fool would be whispering to heracross the counter. Then there were waitresses, and their notion ofwaiting was to spend an hour talking to a twopenny cup of coffee, and tolook haughty and insulted whenever anybody as really wanted somethingventured to ask for it. A frizzle-haired cashier used to make love allday out of her pigeon-hole with the two box-office boys from the OxfordMusic Hall, who took it turn and turn about. Sometimes she'd leave offto take a customer's money, and sometimes she wouldn't. I've been tosome rummy places in my time; and a waiter ain't the blind owl as he'ssupposed to be. But never in my life have I seen so much love-making, not all at once, as used to go on in that place. It was a dismal, gloomysort of hole, and spoony couples seemed to scent it out by instinct, andwould spend hours there over a pot of tea and assorted pastry. "Idyllic, "some folks would have thought it: I used to get the fair dismals watchingit. There was one girl--a weird-looking creature, with red eyes and longthin hands, that gave you the creeps to look at. She'd come in regularwith her young man, a pale-faced nervous sort of chap, at three o'clockevery afternoon. Theirs was the funniest love-making I ever saw. She'dpinch him under the table, and run pins into him, and he'd sit with hiseyes glued on her as if she'd been a steaming dish of steak and onionsand he a starving beggar the other side of the window. A strange storythat was--as I came to learn it later on. I'll tell you that, one day. 

I'd been engaged for the "heavy work, " but as the heaviest order I everheard given there was for a cold ham and chicken, which I had to slip outfor to the nearest cook-shop, I must have been chiefly useful from anornamental point of view. 

I'd been there about a fortnight, and was feeling pretty sick of it, whenin walked young "Kipper. " I didn't know him at first, he'd changed so. He was swinging a silver-mounted crutch stick, which was the kind thatwas fashionable just then, and was dressed in a showy check suit and awhite hat. But the thing that struck me most was his gloves. I supposeI hadn't improved quite so much myself, for he knew me in a moment, andheld out his hand. 

"What, 'Enery!" he says, "you've moved on, then!"

"Yes, " I says, shaking hands with him, "and I could move on again fromthis shop without feeling sad. But you've got on a bit?" I says. 

"So-so, " he says, "I'm a journalist. "

"Oh, " I says, "what sort?" for I'd seen a good many of that lot duringsix months I'd spent at a house in Fleet Street, and their get-up hadn'tsumptuousness about it, so to speak. "Kipper's" rig-out must have tottedup to a tidy little sum. He had a diamond pin in his tie that must havecost somebody fifty quid, if not him. 

"Well, " he answers, "I don't wind out the confidential advice to oldBeaky, and that sort of thing. I do the tips, yer know. 'Cap'n Kit, 'that's my name. "

"What, the Captain Kit?" I says. O' course I'd heard of him. 

"Be'old!" he says. 

"Oh, it's easy enough, " he goes on. "Some of 'em's bound to come outright, and when one does, you take it from me, our paper mentions thefact. And when it is a wrong 'un--well, a man can't always be shoutingabout himself, can 'e?"

He ordered a cup of coffee. He said he was waiting for someone, and wegot to chatting about old times. 

"How's Carrots?" I asked. 

"Miss Caroline Trevelyan, " he answered, "is doing well. "

"Oh, " I says, "you've found out her fam'ly name, then?"

"We've found out one or two things about that lidy, " he replies. "D'yerremember 'er dancing?"

"I have seen her flinging her petticoats about outside the shop, when thecopper wasn't by, if that's what you mean, " I says. 

"That's what I mean, " he answers. "That's all the rage now, 'skirt-dancing' they calls it. She's a-coming out at the Oxfordto-morrow. It's 'er I'm waiting for. She's a-coming on, I tell you sheis, " he says. 

"Shouldn't wonder, " says I; "that was her disposition. "

"And there's another thing we've found out about 'er, " he says. He leantover the table, and whispered it, as if he was afraid that anybody elsemight hear: "she's got a voice. "

"Yes, " I says, "some women have. "

"Ah, " he says, "but 'er voice is the sort of voice yer want to listento. "

"Oh, " I says, "that's its speciality, is it?"

"That's it, sonny, " he replies. 

She came in a little later. I'd a' known her anywhere for her eyes, andher red hair, in spite of her being that clean you might have eaten yourdinner out of her hand. And as for her clothes! Well, I've mixed a gooddeal with the toffs in my time, and I've seen duchesses dressed moreshowily and maybe more expensively, but her clothes seemed to be just aframework to show her up. She was a beauty, you can take it from me; andit's not to be wondered that the La-De-Das were round her when they didsee her, like flies round an open jam tart. 

Before three months were up she was the rage of London--leastways of themusic-hall part of it--with her portrait in all the shop windows, andinterviews with her in half the newspapers. It seems she was thedaughter of an officer who had died in India when she was a baby, and theniece of a bishop somewhere in Australia. He was dead too. There didn'tseem to be any of her ancestry as wasn't dead, but they had all beenswells. She had been educated privately, she had, by a relative; and hadearly displayed an aptitude for dancing, though her friends at first hadmuch opposed her going upon the stage. There was a lot more of it--youknow the sort of thing. Of course, she was a connection of one of ourbest known judges--they all are--and she merely acted in order to supporta grandmother, or an invalid sister, I forget which. A wonderful talentfor swallowing, these newspaper chaps has, some of 'em!

"Kipper" never touched a penny of her money, but if he had been her agentat twenty-five per cent. He couldn't have worked harder, and he just keptup the hum about her, till if you didn't want to hear anything more aboutCaroline Trevelyan, your only chance would have been to lie in bed, andnever look at a newspaper. It was Caroline Trevelyan at Home, CarolineTrevelyan at Brighton, Caroline Trevelyan and the Shah of Persia, Caroline Trevelyan and the Old Apple-woman. When it wasn't CarolineTrevelyan herself it would be Caroline Trevelyan's dog as would be doingsomething out of the common, getting himself lost or summoned ordrowned--it didn't matter much what. 

I moved from Oxford Street to the new "Horseshoe" that year--it had justbeen rebuilt--and there I saw a good deal of them, for they came in tolunch there or supper pretty regular. Young "Kipper"--or the "Captain"as everybody called him--gave out that he was her half-brother. 

"I'ad to be some sort of a relation, you see, " he explained to me. "I'da' been 'er brother out and out; that would have been simpler, only thefamily likeness wasn't strong enough. Our styles o' beauty ain'tsimilar. " They certainly wasn't. 

"Why don't you marry her?" I says, "and have done with it?"

He looked thoughtful at that. "I did think of it, " he says, "and I know, jolly well, that if I 'ad suggested it 'fore she'd found herself, she'dhave agreed, but it don't seem quite fair now. "

"How d'ye mean fair?" I says. 

"Well, not fair to 'er, " he says. "I've got on all right, in a smallway; but she--well, she can just 'ave 'er pick of the nobs. There's oneon 'em as I've made inquiries about. 'E'll be a dook, if a kid pegs outas is expected to, and anyhow 'e'll be a markis, and 'e means thestraight thing--no errer. It ain't fair for me to stand in 'er way. "

"Well, " I says, "you know your own business, but it seems to me shewouldn't have much way to stand in if it hadn't been for you. "

"Oh, that's all right, " he says. "I'm fond enough of the gell, but Ishan't clamour for a tombstone with wiolets, even if she ain't ever Mrs. Capt'n Kit. Business is business; and I ain't going to queer 'er pitchfor 'er. "

I've often wondered what she'd a' said, if he'd up and put the case toher plain, for she was a good sort; but, naturally enough, her head was abit swelled, and she'd read so much rot about herself in the papers thatshe'd got at last to half believe some of it. The thought of herconnection with the well-known judge seemed to hamper her at times, andshe wasn't quite so chummy with "Kipper" as used to be the case in theMile-End Road days, and he wasn't the sort as is slow to see a thing. 

One day when he was having lunch by himself, and I was waiting on him, hesays, raising his glass to his lips, "Well, 'Enery, here's luck to yer! Iwon't be seeing you agen for some time. "

"Oh, " I says. "What's up now?"

"I am, " he says, "or rather my time is. I'm off to Africa. "

"Oh, " I says, "and what about--"

"That's all right, " he interrupts. "I've fixed up that--a treat. Truth, that's why I'm going. "

I thought at first he meant she was going with him. 

"No, " he says, "she's going to be the Duchess of Ridingshire with thekind consent o' the kid I spoke about. If not, she'll be the Marchionessof Appleford. 'E's doing the square thing. There's going to be a quietmarriage to-morrow at the Registry Office, and then I'm off. "

"What need for you to go?" I says. 

"No need, " he says; "it's a fancy o' mine. You see, me gone, there'snothing to 'amper 'er--nothing to interfere with 'er settling down as aquiet, respectable toff. With a 'alf-brother, who's always got to bespry with some fake about 'is lineage and 'is ancestral estates, and whodrops 'is 'h's, ' complications are sooner or later bound to a-rise. Meout of it--everything's simple. Savey?"

Well, that's just how it happened. Of course, there was a big row whenthe family heard of it, and a smart lawyer was put up to try and undo thething. No expense was spared, you bet; but it was all no go. Nothingcould be found out against her. She just sat tight and said nothing. Sothe thing had to stand. They went and lived quietly in the country andabroad for a year or two, and then folks forgot a bit, and they came backto London. I often used to see her name in print, and then the papersalways said as how she was charming and graceful and beautiful, so Isuppose the family had made up its mind to get used to her. 

One evening in she comes to the Savoy. My wife put me up to getting thatjob, and a good job it is, mind you, when you know your way about. I'dnever have had the cheek to try for it, if it hadn't been for the missis. She's a clever one--she is. I did a good day's work when I married her. 

"You shave off that moustache of yours--it ain't an ornament, " she saysto me, "and chance it. Don't get attempting the lingo. Keep to thebroken English, and put in a shrug or two. You can manage that allright. "

I followed her tip. Of course the manager saw through me, but I got in a"Oui, monsieur" now and again, and they, being short handed at the time, could not afford to be strict, I suppose. Anyhow I got took on, andthere I stopped for the whole season, and that was the making of me. 

Well, as I was saying, in she comes to the supper rooms, and toffy enoughshe looked in her diamonds and furs, and as for haughtiness there wasn'ta born Marchioness she couldn't have given points to. She comes straightup to my table and sits down. Her husband was with her, but he didn'tseem to have much to say, except to repeat her orders. Of course Ilooked as if I'd never set eyes on her before in all my life, though allthe time she was a-pecking at the mayonnaise and a-sipping at theGiessler, I was thinking of the coffee-shop and of the ninepenny haddickand the pint of cocoa. 

"Go and fetch my cloak, " she says to him after a while. "I am cold. "

And up he gets and goes out. 

She never moved her head, and spoke as though she was merely giving mesome order, and I stands behind her chair, respectful like, and answersaccording to the same tip, "Ever hear from 'Kipper'?" she says to me. 

"I have had one or two letters from him, your ladyship, " I answers. 

"Oh, stow that, " she says. "I am sick of 'your ladyship. ' Talk English;I don't hear much of it. How's he getting on?"

"Seems to be doing himself well, " I says. "He's started an hotel, and isregular raking it in, he tells me. "

"Wish I was behind the bar with him!" says she. 

"Why, don't it work then?" I asks. 

"It's just like a funeral with the corpse left out, " says she. "Servesme jolly well right for being a fool!"

The Marquis, he comes back with her cloak at that moment, and I says:"Certainement, madame, " and gets clear. 

I often used to see her there, and when a chance occurred she would talkto me. It seemed to be a relief to her to use her own tongue, but itmade me nervous at times for fear someone would hear her. 

Then one day I got a letter from "Kipper" to say he was over for aholiday and was stopping at Morley's, and asking me to look him up. 

He had not changed much except to get a bit fatter and more prosperous-looking. Of course, we talked about her ladyship, and I told him whatshe said. 

"Rum things, women, " he says; "never know their own minds. "

"Oh, they know them all right when they get there, " I says. "How couldshe tell what being a Marchioness was like till she'd tried it?"

"Pity, " he says, musing like. "I reckoned it the very thing she'd tumbleto. I only come over to get a sight of 'er, and to satisfy myself as shewas getting along all right. Seems I'd better a' stopped away. "

"You ain't ever thought of marrying yourself?" I asks. 

"Yes, I have, " he says. "It's slow for a man over thirty with no wifeand kids to bustle him, you take it from me, and I ain't the talent forthe Don Juan fake. "

"You're like me, " I says, "a day's work, and then a pipe by your ownfireside with your slippers on. That's my swarry. You'll find someoneas will suit you before long. "

"No I shan't, " says he. "I've come across a few as might, if it 'adn'tbeen for 'er. It's like the toffs as come out our way. They've beenbrought up on 'ris de veau a la financier, ' and sich like, and it justspoils 'em for the bacon and greens. "

I give her the office the next time I see her, and they met accidentallike in Kensington Gardens early one morning. What they said to oneanother I don't know, for he sailed that same evening, and, it being theend of the season, I didn't see her ladyship again for a long while. 

When I did it was at the Hotel Bristol in Paris, and she was in widow'sweeds, the Marquis having died eight months before. He never droppedinto that dukedom, the kid turning out healthier than was expected, andhanging on; so she was still only a Marchioness, and her fortune, thoughtidy, was nothing very big--not as that class reckons. By luck I wastold off to wait on her, she having asked for someone as could speakEnglish. She seemed glad to see me and to talk to me. 

"Well, " I says, "I suppose you'll be bossing that bar in Capetown nowbefore long?"

"Talk sense, " she answers. "How can the Marchioness of Appleford marry ahotel keeper?"

"Why not, " I says, "if she fancies him? What's the good of being aMarchioness if you can't do what you like?"

"That's just it, " she snaps out; "you can't. It would not be doing thestraight thing by the family. No, " she says, "I've spent their money, and I'm spending it now. They don't love me, but they shan't say as Ihave disgraced them. They've got their feelings same as I've got mine. "

"Why not chuck the money?" I says. "They'll be glad enough to get itback, " they being a poor lot, as I heard her say. 

"How can I?" she says. "It's a life interest. As long as I live I'vegot to have it, and as long as I live I've got to remain the Marchionessof Appleford. "

She finishes her soup, and pushes the plate away from her. "As long as Ilive, " she says, talking to herself. 

"By Jove!" she says, starting up "why not?"

"Why not what?" I says. 

"Nothing, " she answers. "Get me an African telegraph form, and be quickabout it!"

I fetched it for her, and she wrote it and gave it to the porter then andthere; and, that done, she sat down and finished her dinner. 

She was a bit short with me after that; so I judged it best to keep myown place. 

In the morning she got an answer that seemed to excite her, and thatafternoon she left; and the next I heard of her was a paragraph in thenewspaper, headed--"Death of the Marchioness of Appleford. Sadaccident. " It seemed she had gone for a row on one of the Italian lakeswith no one but a boatman. A squall had come on, and the boat hadcapsized. The boatman had swum ashore, but he had been unable to savehis passenger, and her body had never been recovered. The paper remindedits readers that she had formerly been the celebrated tragic actress, Caroline Trevelyan, daughter of the well-known Indian judge of that name. 

It gave me the blues for a day or two--that bit of news. I had known herfrom a baby as you might say, and had taken an interest in her. You cancall it silly, but hotels and restaurants seemed to me less interestingnow there was no chance of ever seeing her come into one again. 

I went from Paris to one of the smaller hotels in Venice. The missisthought I'd do well to pick up a bit of Italian, and perhaps she fanciedVenice for herself. That's one of the advantages of our profession. Youcan go about. It was a second-rate sort of place, and one evening, justbefore lighting-up time, I had the salle-a-manger all to myself, and hadjust taken up a paper when I hears the door open, and I turns round. 

I saw "her" coming down the room. There was no mistaking her. Shewasn't that sort. 

I sat with my eyes coming out of my head till she was close to me, andthen I says:

"Carrots!" I says, in a whisper like. That was the name that come to me. 

"'Carrots' it is, " she says, and down she sits just opposite to me, andthen she laughs. 

I could not speak, I could not move, I was that took aback, and the morefrightened I looked the more she laughed till "Kipper" comes into theroom. There was nothing ghostly about him. I never see a man look moreas if he had backed the winner. 

"Why, it's 'Enery, " he says; and he gives me a slap on the back, asknocks the life into me again. 

"I heard you was dead, " I says, still staring at her. "I read it in thepaper--'death of the Marchioness of Appleford. '"

"That's all right, " she says. "The Marchioness of Appleford is as deadas a door-nail, and a good job too. Mrs. Captain Kit's my name, nee'Carrots. '"

"You said as 'ow I'd find someone to suit me 'fore long, " says "Kipper"to me, "and, by Jove! you were right; I 'ave. I was waiting till I foundsomething equal to her ladyship, and I'd 'ave 'ad to wait a long time, I'm thinking, if I 'adn't come across this one 'ere"; and he tucks her upunder his arm just as I remember his doing that day he first brought herinto the coffee-shop, and Lord, what a long time ago that was!

* * * * *

That is the story, among others, told me by Henry, the waiter. I have, at his request, substituted artificial names for real ones. For Henrytells me that at Capetown Captain Kit's First-class Family and CommercialHotel still runs, and that the landlady is still a beautiful woman withfine eyes and red hair, who might almost be taken for a duchess--untilshe opens her mouth, when her accent is found to be still slightlyreminiscent of the Mile-End Road. 

THE USES AND ABUSES OF JOSEPH. 

"It is just the same with what you may call the human joints, " observedHenry. He was in one of his philosophic moods that evening. "It alldepends upon the cooking. I never see a youngster hanging up in therefrigerator, as one may put it, but I says to myself: 'Now I wonder whatthe cook is going to make of you! Will you be minced and devilled andfricasseed till you are all sauce and no meat? Will you be hammeredtender and grilled over a slow fire till you are a blessing to mankind?Or will you be spoilt in the boiling, and come out a stringy rag, animmediate curse, and a permanent injury to those who have got to swallowyou?'

"There was a youngster I knew in my old coffee-shop days, " continuedHenry, "that in the end came to be eaten by cannibals. At least, so thenewspapers said. Speaking for myself, I never believed the report: hewasn't that sort. If anybody was eaten, it was more likely the cannibal. But that is neither here nor there. What I am thinking of is whathappened before he and the cannibals ever got nigh to one another. Hewas fourteen when I first set eyes on him--Mile End fourteen, that is;which is the same, I take it, as City eighteen and West Endfive-and-twenty--and he was smart for his age into the bargain: a trifletoo smart as a matter of fact. He always came into the shop at the sametime--half-past two; he always sat in the seat next the window; and threedays out of six, he would order the same dinner: a fourpenny beef-steakpudding--we called it beef-steak, and, for all practical purposes, it wasbeef-steak--a penny plate of potatoes, and a penny slice of roly-polypudding--'chest expander' was the name our customers gave it--to follow. That showed sense, I always thought, that dinner alone; a more satisfyingmenu, at the price, I defy any human being to work out. He always had abook with him, and he generally read during his meal; which is not a badplan if you don't want to think too much about what you are eating. Therewas a seedy chap, I remember, used to dine at a cheap restaurant where Ionce served, just off the Euston Road. He would stick a book up in frontof him--Eppy something or other--and read the whole time. Ourfour-course shilling table d'hote with Eppy, he would say, was a banquetfit for a prince; without Eppy he was of opinion that a policemanwouldn't touch it. But he was one of those men that report things forthe newspapers, and was given to exaggeration. 

"A coffee-shop becomes a bit of a desert towards three o'clock; and, after a while, young Tidelman, for that was his name, got to putting downhis book and chatting to me. His father was dead; which, judging fromwhat he told me about the old man, must have been a bit of luck foreverybody; and his mother, it turned out, had come from my own village inSuffolk; and that constituted a sort of bond between us, seeing I hadknown all her people pretty intimately. He was earning good money at adairy, where his work was scouring milk-cans; and his Christianname--which was the only thing Christian about him, and that, somehow oranother, didn't seem to fit him--was Joseph. 

"One afternoon he came into the shop looking as if he had lost a shillingand found sixpence, as the saying is; and instead of drinking water asusual, sent the girl out for a pint of ale. The moment it came he drankoff half of it at a gulp, and then sat staring out of the window. 

"'What's up?' I says. 'Got the shove?'

"'Yes, ' he answers; 'but, as it happens, it's a shove up. I've beentaken off the yard and put on the walk, with a rise of two bob a week. 'Then he took another pull at the beer and looked more savage than ever. 

"'Well, ' I says, 'that ain't the sort of thing to be humpy about. '

"'Yes it is, ' he snaps back; 'it means that if I don't take precious goodcare I'll drift into being a blooming milkman, spending my life yelling"Milk ahoi!" and spooning smutty-faced servant-gals across arearailings. '

"'Oh!' I says, 'and what may you prefer to spoon--duchesses?'

"'Yes, ' he answers sulky-like; 'duchesses are right enough--some of 'em. '

"'So are servant-gals, ' I says, 'some of 'em. Your hat's feeling a bitsmall for you this morning, ain't it?'

"'Hat's all right, ' says he; 'it's the world as I'm complainingof--beastly place; there's nothing to do in it. '

"'Oh!' I says; 'some of us find there's a bit too much. ' I'd been upsince five that morning myself; and his own work, which was scouring milk-cans for twelve hours a day, didn't strike me as suggesting a life ofleisured ease. 

"'I don't mean that, ' he says. 'I mean things worth doing. '

"'Well, what do you want to do, ' I says, 'that this world ain't bigenough for?'

"'It ain't the size of it, ' he says; 'it's the dulness of it. Thingsused to be different in the old days. '

"'How do you know?' I says. 

"'You can read about it, ' he answers. 

"'Oh, ' I says, 'and what do they know about it--these gents that sit downand write about it for their living! You show me a book cracking up theold times, writ by a chap as lived in 'em, and I'll believe you. Tillthen I'll stick to my opinion that the old days were much the same asthese days, and maybe a trifle worse. '

"'From a Sunday School point of view, perhaps yes, ' says he; 'but there'sno gainsaying--'

"'No what?' I says. 

"'No gainsaying, ' repeats he; 'it's a common word in literatoor. '

"'Maybe, ' says I, 'but this happens to be "The Blue Posts Coffee House, "established in the year 1863. We will use modern English here, if youdon't mind. ' One had to take him down like that at times. He was thesort of boy as would talk poetry to you if you weren't firm with him. 

"'Well then, there's no denying the fact, ' says he, 'if you prefer itthat way, that in the old days there was more opportunity for adventure. '

"'What about Australia?' says I. 

"'Australia!' retorts he; 'what would I do there? Be a shepherd, likeyou see in the picture, wear ribbons, and play the flute?'

"'There's not much of that sort of shepherding over there, ' says I, 'unless I've been deceived; but if Australia ain't sufficientlyuncivilised for you, what about Africa?'

"'What's the good of Africa?' replies he; 'you don't read advertisementsin the "Clerkenwell News": "Young men wanted as explorers. " I'd driftinto a barber's shop at Cape Town more likely than anything else. '

"'What about the gold diggings?' I suggests. I like to see a youngsterwith the spirit of adventure in him. It shows grit as a rule. 

"'Played out, ' says he. 'You are employed by a company, wages tendollars a week, and a pension for your old age. Everything's playedout, ' he continues. 'Men ain't wanted nowadays. There's only room forclerks, and intelligent artisans, and shopboys. '

"'Go for a soldier, ' says I; 'there's excitement for you. '

"'That would have been all right, ' says he, 'in the days when there wasreal fighting. '

"'There's a good bit of it going about nowadays, ' I says. 'We aregenerally at it, on and off, between shouting about the blessings ofpeace. '

"'Not the sort of fighting I mean, ' replies he; 'I want to do somethingmyself, not be one of a row. '

"'Well, ' I says, 'I give you up. You've dropped into the wrong world itseems to me. We don't seem able to cater for you here. '

"'I've come a bit too late, ' he answers; 'that's the mistake I've made. Two hundred years ago there were lots of things a fellow might havedone. '

"'Yes, I know what's in your mind, ' I says: 'pirates. '

"'Yes, pirates would be all right, ' says he; 'they got plenty of sea-airand exercise, and didn't need to join a blooming funeral club. '

"'You've got ideas above your station, ' I says. 'You work hard, and oneday you'll have a milk-shop of your own, and be walking out with a prettyhousemaid on your arm, feeling as if you were the Prince of Waleshimself. '

"'Stow it!' he says; 'it makes me shiver for fear it might come true. I'mnot cut out for a respectable cove, and I won't be one neither, if I canhelp it!'

"'What do you mean to be, then?' I says; 'we've all got to be something, until we're stiff 'uns. '

"'Well, ' he says, quite cool-like, 'I think I shall be a burglar. '

"I dropped into the seat opposite and stared at him. If any other ladhad said it I should have known it was only foolishness, but he was justthe sort to mean it. 

"'It's the only calling I can think of, ' says he, 'that has got anyelement of excitement left in it. '

"'You call seven years at Portland "excitement, " do you?' says I, thinking of the argument most likely to tell upon him. 

"'What's the difference, ' answers he, 'between Portland and the ordinarylabouring man's life, except that at Portland you never need fear beingout of work?' He was a rare one to argue. 'Besides, ' says he, 'it'sonly the fools as gets copped. Look at that diamond robbery in BondStreet, two years ago. Fifty thousand pounds' worth of jewels stolen, and never a clue to this day! Look at the Dublin Bank robbery, ' says he, his eyes all alight, and his face flushed like a girl's. 'Three thousandpounds in golden sovereigns walked away with in broad daylight, and neverso much as the flick of a coat-tail seen. Those are the sort of men I'mthinking of, not the bricklayer out of work, who smashes a window andgets ten years for breaking open a cheesemonger's till with nine andfourpence ha'penny in it. '

"'Yes, ' says I, 'and are you forgetting the chap who was nabbed atBirmingham only last week? He wasn't exactly an amatoor. How long dothink he'll get?'

"'A man like that deserves what he gets, ' answers he; 'couldn't hit apolice-man at six yards. '

"'You bloodthirsty young scoundrel, ' I says; 'do you mean you wouldn'tstick at murder?'

"'It's all in the game, ' says he, not in the least put out. 'I take myrisks, he takes his. It's no more murder than soldiering is. '

"'It's taking a human creature's life, ' I says. 

"'Well, ' he says, 'what of it? There's plenty more where he comes from. '

"I tried reasoning with him from time to time, but he wasn't a sort ofboy to be moved from a purpose. His mother was the only argument thathad any weight with him. I believe so long as she had lived he wouldhave kept straight; that was the only soft spot in him. Butunfortunately she died a couple of years later, and then I lost sight ofJoe altogether. I made enquiries, but no one could tell me anything. Hehad just disappeared, that's all. 

"One afternoon, four years later, I was sitting in the coffee-room of aCity restaurant where I was working, reading the account of a cleverrobbery committed the day before. The thief, described as a well-dressedyoung man of gentlemanly appearance, wearing a short black beard andmoustache, had walked into a branch of the London and Westminster Bankduring the dinner-hour, when only the manager and one clerk were there. He had gone straight through to the manager's room at the back of thebank, taken the key from the inside of the door, and before the man couldget round his desk had locked him in. The clerk, with a knife to histhroat, had then been persuaded to empty all the loose cash in the bank, amounting in gold and notes to nearly five hundred pounds, into a bagwhich the thief had thoughtfully brought with him. After which, both ofthem--for the thief seems to have been of a sociable disposition--gotinto a cab which was waiting outside, and drove away. They drovestraight to the City: the clerk, with a knife pricking the back of hisneck all the time, finding it, no doubt, a tiresome ride. In the middleof Threadneedle Street, the gentlemanly young man suddenly stopped thecab and got out, leaving the clerk to pay the cabman. 

"Somehow or other, the story brought back Joseph to my mind. I seemed tosee him as that well-dressed gentlemanly young man; and, raising my eyesfrom the paper, there he stood before me. He had scarcely changed at allsince I last saw him, except that he had grown better looking, and seemedmore cheerful. He nodded to me as though we had parted the day before, and ordered a chop and a small hock. I spread a fresh serviette for him, and asked him if he cared to see the paper. 

"'Anything interesting in it, Henry?' says he. 

"'Rather a daring robbery committed on the Westminster Bank yesterday, ' Ianswers. 

"'Oh, ah! I did see something about that, ' says he. 

"'The thief was described as a well-dressed young man of gentlemanlyappearance, wearing a black beard and moustache, ' says I. 

"He laughs pleasantly. 

"'That will make it awkward for nice young men with black beards andmoustaches, ' says he. 

"'Yes, ' I says. 'Fortunately for you and me, we're clean shaved. '

"I felt as certain he was the man as though I'd seen him do it. 

"He gives me a sharp glance, but I was busy with the cruets, and he hadto make what he chose out of it. 

"'Yes, ' he replies, 'as you say, it was a daring robbery. But the manseems to have got away all right. '

"I could see he was dying to talk to somebody about it. 

"'He's all right to-day, ' says I; 'but the police ain't the fools they'rereckoned. I've noticed they generally get there in the end. '

"'There's some very intelligent men among them, ' says he: 'no question ofit. I shouldn't be surprised if they had a clue!'

"'No, ' I says, 'no more should I; though no doubt he's telling himselfthere never was such a clever thief. '

"'Well, we shall see, ' says he. 

"'That's about it, ' says I. 

"We talked a bit about old acquaintances and other things, and then, having finished, he handed me a sovereign and rose to go. 

"'Wait a minute, ' I says, 'your bill comes to three-and-eight. Sayfourpence for the waiter; that leaves sixteen shillings change, whichI'll ask you to put in your pocket. '

"'As you will, ' he says, laughing, though I could see he didn't like it. 

"'And one other thing, ' says I. 'We've been sort of pals, and it's notmy business to talk unless I'm spoken to. But I'm a married man, ' Isays, 'and I don't consider you the sort worth getting into trouble for. If I never see you, I know nothing about you. Understand?'

"He took my tip, and I didn't see him again at that restaurant. I keptmy eye on the paper, but the Westminster Bank thief was never discovered, and success, no doubt, gave him confidence. Anyhow, I read of two orthree burglaries that winter which I unhesitatingly put down to Mr. Joseph--I suppose there's style in housebreaking, as in other things--andearly the next spring an exciting bit of business occurred, which I knewto be his work by the description of the man. 

"He had broken into a big country house during the servants' supper-hour, and had stuffed his pockets with jewels. One of the guests, a youngofficer, coming upstairs, interrupted him just as he had finished. Josephthreatened the man with his revolver; but this time it was not a nervousyoung clerk he had to deal with. The man sprang at him, and a desperatestruggle followed, with the result that in the end the officer was leftwith a bullet in his leg, while Joseph jumped clean through the window, and fell thirty feet. Cut and bleeding, if not broken, he would neverhave got away but that, fortunately for him, a tradesman's cart happenedto be standing at the servants' entrance. Joe was in it, and off like aflash of greased lightning. How he managed to escape, with all thecountry in an uproar, I can't tell you; but he did it. The horse andcart, when found sixteen miles off, were neither worth much. 

"That, it seems, sobered him down for a bit, and nobody heard any more ofhim till nine months later, when he walked into the Monico, where I wasthen working, and held out his hand to me as bold as brass. 

"'It's all right, ' says he, 'it's the hand of an honest man. '

"'It's come into your possession very recently then, ' says I. 

"He was dressed in a black frock-coat and wore whiskers. If I hadn'tknown him, I should have put him down for a parson out of work. 

"He laughs. 'I'll tell you all about it, ' he says. 

"'Not here, ' I answers, 'because I'm too busy; but if you like to meet methis evening, and you're talking straight--'

"'Straight as a bullet, ' says he. 'Come and have a bit of dinner with meat the Craven; it's quiet there, and we can talk. I've been looking foryou for the last week. '

"Well, I met him; and he told me. It was the old story: a gal was at thebottom of it. He had broken into a small house at Hampstead. He was onthe floor, packing up the silver, when the door opens, and he sees a galstanding there. She held a candle in one hand and a revolver in theother. 

"'Put your hands up above your head, ' says she. 

"'I looked at the revolver, ' said Joe, telling me; 'it was about eighteeninches off my nose; and then I looked at the gal. There's lots of 'emwill threaten to blow your brains out for you, but you've only got tolook at 'em to know they won't. 

"'They are thinking of the coroner's inquest, and wondering how the judgewill sum up. She met my eyes, and I held up my hands. If I hadn't Iwouldn't have been here. 

"'Now you go in front, ' says she to Joe, and he went. She laid hercandle down in the hall and unbolted the front door. 

"'What are you going to do?' says Joe, 'call the police? Because if so, my dear, I'll take my chance of that revolver being loaded and of yourpulling the trigger in time. It will be a more dignified ending. '

"'No, ' says she, 'I had a brother that got seven years for forgery. Idon't want to think of another face like his when he came out. I'm goingto see you outside my master's house, and that's all I care about. '

"She went down the garden-path with him, and opened the gate. 

"'You turn round, ' says she, 'before you reach the bottom of the lane andI give the alarm. ' And Joe went straight, and didn't look behind him. 

"Well, it was a rum beginning to a courtship, but the end was rummer. Thegirl was willing to marry him if he would turn honest. Joe wanted toturn honest, but didn't know how. 

"'It's no use fixing me down, my dear, to any quiet, respectablecalling, ' says Joe to the gal, 'because, even if the police would let mealone, I wouldn't be able to stop there. I'd break out, sooner or later, try as I might. '

"The girl went to her master, who seems to have been an odd sort of acove, and told him the whole story. The old gent said he'd see Joe, andJoe called on him. 

"'What's your religion?' says the old gent to Joe. 

"'I'm not particular, sir; I'll leave it to you, ' says Joe. 

"'Good!' says the old gent. 'You're no fanatic. What are yourprinciples?'

"At first Joe didn't think he'd got any, but, the old gent leading, hefound to his surprise as he had. 

"'I believe, ' says Joe, 'in doing a job thoroughly. '

"'What your hand finds to do, you believe in doing with all your might, eh?' says the old gent. 

"'That's it, sir, ' says Joe. 'That's what I've always tried to do. '

"'Anything else?' asks the old gent. 

"'Yes; stick to your pals, ' said Joe. 

"'Through thick and thin, ' suggests the old gent. 

"'To the blooming end, ' agrees Joe. 

"'That's right, ' says the old gent. 'Faithful unto death. And youreally want to turn over a new leaf--to put your wits and your energy andyour courage to good use instead of bad?'

"'That's the idea, ' says Joe. 

"The old gent murmurs something to himself about a stone which thebuilders wouldn't have at any price; and then he turns and puts itstraight:

"'If you undertake the work, ' says he, 'you'll go through with it withoutfaltering--you'll devote your life to it?'

"'If I undertake the job, I'll do that, ' says Joe. 'What may it be?'

"'To go to Africa, ' says the old gent, 'as a missionary. '

"Joe sits down and stares at the old gent, and the old gent looks himback. 

"'It's a dangerous station, ' says the old gent. 'Two of our people havelost their lives there. It wants a man there--a man who will dosomething besides preach, who will save these poor people we havegathered together there from being scattered and lost, who will be theirchampion, their protector, their friend. '

"In the end, Joe took on the job, and went out with his wife. A bettermissionary that Society never had and never wanted. I read one of hisearly reports home; and if the others were anything like it his life musthave been exciting enough, even for him. His station was a small islandof civilisation, as one may say, in the middle of a sea of savages. Before he had been there a month the place had been attacked twice. Onthe first occasion Joe's 'flock' had crowded into the Mission House, andcommenced to pray, that having been the plan of defence adopted by hispredecessor. Joe cut the prayer short, and preached to them from thetext, 'Heaven helps them as helps themselves'; after which he proceededto deal out axes and old rifles. In his report he mentioned that he hadtaken a hand himself, merely as an example to the flock; I bet he hadnever enjoyed an evening more in all his life. The second fight began, as usual, round the Mission, but seems to have ended two miles off. Inless than six months he had rebuilt the school-house, organised a policeforce, converted all that was left of one tribe, and started a tinchurch. He added (but I don't think they read that part of his reportaloud) that law and order was going to be respected, and life andproperty secure in his district so long as he had a bullet left. 

"Later on the Society sent him still further inland, to open up a freshstation; and there it was that, according to the newspapers, thecannibals got hold of him and ate him. As I said, personally I don'tbelieve it. One of these days he'll turn up, sound and whole; he is thatsort. "

THE SURPRISE OF MR. MILBERRY. 

"It's not the sort of thing to tell 'em, " remarked Henry, as, with hisnapkin over his arm, he leant against one of the pillars of the verandah, and sipped the glass of Burgundy I had poured out for him; "and theywouldn't believe it if you did tell 'em, not one of 'em. But it's thetruth, for all that. Without the clothes they couldn't do it. "

"Who wouldn't believe what?" I asked. He had a curious habit, had Henry, of commenting aloud upon his own unspoken thoughts, thereby bestowingupon his conversation much of the quality of the double acrostic. We hadbeen discussing the question whether sardines served their purpose betteras a hors d'oeuvre or as a savoury; and I found myself wondering for themoment why sardines, above all other fish, should be of an unbelievingnature; while endeavouring to picture to myself the costume best adaptedto display the somewhat difficult figure of a sardine. Henry put downhis glass, and came to my rescue with the necessary explanation. 

"Why, women--that they can tell one baby from another, without itsclothes. I've got a sister, a monthly nurse, and she will tell you for afact, if you care to ask her, that up to three months of age there isn'treally any difference between 'em. You can tell a girl from a boy and aChristian child from a black heathen, perhaps; but to fancy you can putyour finger on an unclothed infant and say: 'That's a Smith, or that's aJones, ' as the case may be--why, it's sheer nonsense. Take the thingsoff 'em, and shake them up in a blanket, and I'll bet you what you likethat which is which you'd never be able to tell again so long as youlived. "

I agreed with Henry, so far as my own personal powers of discriminationmight be concerned, but I suggested that to Mrs. Jones or Mrs. Smiththere would surely occur some means of identification. 

"So they'd tell you themselves, no doubt, " replied Henry; "and of course, I am not thinking of cases where the child might have a mole or a squint, as might come in useful. But take 'em in general, kids are as much alikeas sardines of the same age would be. Anyhow, I knew a case where a foolof a young nurse mixed up two children at an hotel, and to this dayneither of those women is sure that she's got her own. "

"Do you mean, " I said, "there was no possible means of distinguishing?"

"There wasn't a flea-bite to go by, " answered Henry. "They had the samebumps, the same pimples, the same scratches; they were the same age towithin three days; they weighed the same to an ounce; and they measuredthe same to an inch. One father was tall and fair, and the other wasshort and dark. The tall, fair man had a dark, short wife; and theshort, dark man had married a tall, fair woman. For a week they changedthose kids to and fro a dozen times a day, and cried and quarrelled overthem. Each woman felt sure she was the mother of the one that wascrowing at the moment, and when it yelled she was positive it was nochild of hers. They thought they would trust to the instinct of thechildren. Neither child, so long as it wasn't hungry, appeared to care acurse for anybody; and when it was hungry it always wanted the motherthat the other kid had got. They decided, in the end, to leave it totime. It's three years ago now, and possibly enough some likeness to theparents will develop that will settle the question. All I say is, up tothree months old you can't tell 'em, I don't care who says you can. "

He paused, and appeared to be absorbed in contemplation of the distantMatterhorn, then clad in its rosy robe of evening. There was a vein ofpoetry in Henry, not uncommon among cooks and waiters. The perpetualatmosphere of hot food I am inclined to think favourable to the growth ofthe softer emotions. One of the most sentimental men I ever knew kept aham-and-beef shop just off the Farringdon Road. In the early morning hecould be shrewd and business-like, but when hovering with a knife andfork above the mingled steam of bubbling sausages and hissingpeas-pudding, any whimpering tramp with any impossible tale of woe couldimpose upon him easily. 

"But the rummiest go I ever recollect in connection with a baby, "continued Henry after a while, his gaze still fixed upon the distant snow-crowned peaks, "happened to me at Warwick in the Jubilee year. I'llnever forget that. "

"Is it a proper story, " I asked, "a story fit for me to hear?"

On consideration, Henry saw no harm in it, and told it to me accordingly. 

* * * * *

He came by the 'bus that meets the 4. 52. He'd a handbag and a sort ofhamper: it looked to me like a linen-basket. He wouldn't let the Bootstouch the hamper, but carried it up into his bedroom himself. He carriedit in front of him by the handles, and grazed his knuckles at everysecond step. He slipped going round the bend of the stairs, and knockedhis head a rattling good thump against the balustrade; but he never letgo that hamper--only swore and plunged on. I could see he was nervousand excited, but one gets used to nervous and excited people in hotels. Whether a man's running away from a thing, or running after a thing, hestops at a hotel on his way; and so long as he looks as if he could payhis bill one doesn't trouble much about him. But this man interested me:he was so uncommonly young and innocent-looking. Besides, it was a dullhole of a place after the sort of jobs I'd been used to; and when you'vebeen doing nothing for three months but waiting on commercial gents asare having an exceptionally bad season, and spoony couples with guide-books, you get a bit depressed, and welcome any incident, however slight, that promises to be out of the common. 

I followed him up into his room, and asked him if I could do anything forhim. He flopped the hamper on the bed with a sigh of relief, took offhis hat, wiped his head with his handkerchief, and then turned to answerme. 

"Are you a married man?" says he. 

It was an odd question to put to a waiter, but coming from a gent therewas nothing to be alarmed about. 

"Well, not exactly, " I says--I was only engaged at that time, and thatnot to my wife, if you understand what I mean--"but I know a good dealabout it, " I says, "and if it's a matter of advice--"

"It isn't that, " he answers, interrupting me; "but I don't want you tolaugh at me. I thought if you were a married man you would be able tounderstand the thing better. Have you got an intelligent woman in thehouse?"

"We've got women, " I says. "As to their intelligence, that's a matter ofopinion; they're the average sort of women. Shall I call thechambermaid?"

"Ah, do, " he says. "Wait a minute, " he says; "we'll open it first. "

He began to fumble with the cord, then he suddenly lets go and begins tochuckle to himself. 

"No, " he says, "you open it. Open it carefully; it will surprise you. "

I don't take much stock in surprises myself. My experience is thatthey're mostly unpleasant. 

"What's in it?" I says. 

"You'll see if you open it, " he says: "it won't hurt you. " And off hegoes again, chuckling to himself. 

"Well, " I says to myself, "I hope you're a harmless specimen. " Then anidea struck me, and I stopped with the knot in my fingers. 

"It ain't a corpse, " I says, "is it?"

He turned as white as the sheet on the bed, and clutched the mantlepiece. "Good God! don't suggest such a thing, " he says; "I never thought ofthat. Open it quickly. "

"I'd rather you came and opened it yourself, sir, " I says. I wasbeginning not to half like the business. 

"I can't, " he says, "after that suggestion of yours--you've put me all ina tremble. Open it quick, man; tell me it's all right. "

Well, my own curiosity helped me. I cut the cord, threw open the lid, and looked in. He kept his eyes turned away, as if he were frightened tolook for himself. 

"Is it all right?" he says. "Is it alive?"

"It's about as alive, " I says, "as anybody'll ever want it to be, Ishould say. "

"Is it breathing all right?" he says. 

"If you can't hear it breathing, " I says, "I'm afraid you're deaf. "

You might have heard its breathing outside in the street. He listened, and even he was satisfied. 

"Thank Heaven!" he says, and down he plumped in the easy-chair by thefireplace. "You know, I never thought of that, " he goes on. "He's beenshut up in that basket for over an hour, and if by any chance he'dmanaged to get his head entangled in the clothes--I'll never do such afool's trick again!"

"You're fond of it?" I says. 

He looked round at me. "Fond of it, " he repeats. "Why, I'm his father. "And then he begins to laugh again. 

"Oh!" I says. "Then I presume I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Coster King?"

"Coster King?" he answers in surprise. "My name's Milberry. "

I says: "The father of this child, according to the label inside thecover, is Coster King out of Starlight, his mother being Jenny Deans outof Darby the Devil. "

He looks at me in a nervous fashion, and puts the chair between us. Itwas evidently his turn to think as how I was mad. Satisfying himself, Isuppose, that at all events I wasn't dangerous, he crept closer till hecould get a look inside the basket. I never heard a man give such anunearthly yell in all my life. He stood on one side of the bed and I onthe other. The dog, awakened by the noise, sat up and grinned, first atone of us and then at the other. I took it to be a bull-pup of aboutnine months old, and a fine specimen for its age. 

"My child!" he shrieks, with his eyes starting out of his head, "Thatthing isn't my child. What's happened? Am I going mad?"

"You're on that way, " I says, and so he was. "Calm yourself, " I says;"what did you expect to see?"

"My child, " he shrieks again; "my only child--my baby!"

"Do you mean a real child?" I says, "a human child?" Some folks havesuch a silly way of talking about their dogs--you never can tell. 

"Of course I do, " he says; "the prettiest child you ever saw in all yourlife, just thirteen weeks old on Sunday. He cut his first toothyesterday. "

The sight of the dog's face seemed to madden him. He flung himself uponthe basket, and would, I believe, have strangled the poor beast if Ihadn't interposed between them. 

"'Tain't the dog's fault, " I says; "I daresay he's as sick about thewhole business as you are. He's lost, too. Somebody's been having alark with you. They've took your baby out and put this in--that is, ifthere ever was a baby there. "

"What do you mean?" he says. 

"Well, sir, " I says, "if you'll excuse me, gentlemen in their sobersenses don't take their babies about in dog-baskets. Where do you comefrom?"

"From Banbury, " he says; "I'm well known in Banbury. "

"I can quite believe it, " I says; "you're the sort of young man thatwould be known anywhere. "

"I'm Mr. Milberry, " he says, "the grocer, in the High Street. "

"Then what are you doing here with this dog?" I says. 

"Don't irritate me, " he answers. "I tell you I don't know myself. Mywife's stopping here at Warwick, nursing her mother, and in every lettershe's written home for the last fortnight she's said, 'Oh, how I do longto see Eric! If only I could see Eric for a moment!'"

"A very motherly sentiment, " I says, "which does her credit. "

"So this afternoon, " continues he, "it being early-closing day, I thoughtI'd bring the child here, so that she might see it, and see that it wasall right. She can't leave her mother for more than about an hour, and Ican't go up to the house, because the old lady doesn't like me, and Iexcite her. I wish to wait here, and Milly--that's my wife--was to cometo me when she could get away. I meant this to be a surprise to her. "

"And I guess, " I says, "it will be the biggest one you have ever givenher. "

"Don't try to be funny about it, " he says; "I'm not altogether myself, and I may do you an injury. "

He was right. It wasn't a subject for joking, though it had its humorousside. 

"But why, " I says, "put it in a dog-basket?"

"It isn't a dog-basket, " he answers irritably; "it's a picnic hamper. Atthe last moment I found I hadn't got the face to carry the child in myarms: I thought of what the street-boys would call out after me. He's arare one to sleep, and I thought if I made him comfortable in that hecouldn't hurt, just for so short a journey. I took it in the carriagewith me, and carried it on my knees; I haven't let it out of my hands ablessed moment. It's witchcraft, that's what it is. I shall believe inthe devil after this. "

"Don't be ridiculous, " I says, "there's some explanation; it only wantsfinding. You are sure this is the identical hamper you packed the childin?"

He was calmer now. He leant over and examined it carefully. "It lookslike it, " he says; "but I can't swear to it. "

"You tell me, " I says, "you never let it go out of your hands. Nowthink. "

"No, " he says, "it's been on my knees all the time. "

"But that's nonsense, " I says; "unless you packed the dog yourself inmistake for your baby. Now think it over quietly. I'm not your wife, I'm only trying to help you. I shan't say anything even if you did takeyour eyes off the thing for a minute. "

He thought again, and a light broke over his face. "By Jove!" he says, "you're right. I did put it down for a moment on the platform at Banburywhile I bought a 'Tit-Bits. '"

"There you are, " I says; "now you're talking sense. And wait a minute;isn't to-morrow the first day of the Birmingham Dog Show?"

"I believe you're right, " he says. 

"Now we're getting warm, " I says. "By a coincidence this dog was beingtaken to Birmingham, packed in a hamper exactly similar to the one youput your baby in. You've got this man's bull-pup, he's got your baby;and I wouldn't like to say off-hand at this moment which of you's feelingthe madder. As likely as not, he thinks you've done it on purpose. "

He leant his head against the bed-post and groaned. "Milly may be hereat any moment, " says he, "and I'll have to tell her the baby's been sentby mistake to a Dog Show! I daresn't do it, " he says, "I daresn't doit. "

"Go on to Birmingham, " I says, "and try and find it. You can catch thequarter to six and be back here before eight. "

"Come with me, " he says; "you're a good man, come with me. I ain't fitto go by myself. "

He was right; he'd have got run over outside the door, the state he wasin then. 

"Well, " I says, "if the guv'nor don't object--"

"Oh! he won't, he can't, " cries the young fellow, wringing his hands. "Tell him it's a matter of a life's happiness. Tell him--"

"I'll tell him it's a matter of half sovereign extra on to the bill, " Isays. "That'll more likely do the trick. "

And so it did, with the result that in another twenty minutes me andyoung Milberry and the bull-pup in its hamper were in a third-classcarriage on our way to Birmingham. Then the difficulties of the chasebegan to occur to me. Suppose by luck I was right; suppose the pup wasbooked for the Birmingham Dog Show; and suppose by a bit more luck a gentwith a hamper answering description had been noticed getting out of the5. 13 train; then where were we? We might have to interview every cabmanin the town. As likely as not, by the time we did find the kid, itwouldn't be worth the trouble of unpacking. Still, it wasn't my cue toblab my thoughts. The father, poor fellow, was feeling, I take it, justabout as bad as he wanted to feel. My business was to put hope into him;so when he asked me for about the twentieth time if I thought as he wouldever see his child alive again, I snapped him up shortish. 

"Don't you fret yourself about that, " I says. "You'll see a good deal ofthat child before you've done with it. Babies ain't the sort of thingsas gets lost easily. It's only on the stage that folks ever have anyparticular use for other people's children. I've known some badcharacters in my time, but I'd have trusted the worst of 'em with a wagon-load of other people's kids. Don't you flatter yourself you're going tolose it! Whoever's got it, you take it from me, his idea is to do thehonest thing, and never rest till he's succeeded in returning it to therightful owner. "

Well, my talking like that cheered him, and when we reached Birmingham hewas easier. We tackled the station-master, and he tackled all theporters who could have been about the platform when the 5. 13 came in. Allof 'em agreed that no gent got out of that train carrying a hamper. Thestation-master was a family man himself, and when we explained the caseto him he sympathised and telegraphed to Banbury. The booking-clerk atBanbury remembered only three gents booking by that particular train. Onehad been Mr. Jessop, the corn-chandler; the second was a stranger, whohad booked to Wolverhampton; and the third had been young Milberryhimself. The business began to look hopeless, when one of Smith'snewsboys, who was hanging around, struck in:

"I see an old lady, " says he, "hovering about outside the station, and a-hailing cabs, and she had a hamper with her as was as like that one thereas two peas. "

I thought young Milberry would have fallen upon the boy's neck and kissedhim. With the boy to help us, we started among the cabmen. Old ladieswith dog-baskets ain't so difficult to trace. She had gone to a smallsecond-rate hotel in the Aston Road. I heard all particulars from thechambermaid, and the old girl seems to have had as bad a time in her wayas my gent had in his. They couldn't get the hamper into the cab, it hadto go on the top. The old lady was very worried, as it was raining atthe time, and she made the cabman cover it with his apron. Getting itoff the cab they dropped the whole thing in the road; that woke the childup, and it began to cry. 

"Good Lord, Ma'am! what is it?" asks the chambermaid, "a baby?"

"Yes, my dear, it's my baby, " answers the old lady, who seems to havebeen a cheerful sort of old soul--leastways, she was cheerful up to then. "Poor dear, I hope they haven't hurt him. "

The old lady had ordered a room with a fire in it. The Boots took thehamper up, and laid it on the hearthrug. The old lady said she and thechambermaid would see to it, and turned him out. By this time, accordingto the girl's account, it was roaring like a steam-siren. 

"Pretty dear!" says the old lady, fumbling with the cord, "don't cry;mother's opening it as fast as she can. " Then she turns to thechambermaid--"If you open my bag, " says she, "you will find a bottle ofmilk and some dog-biscuits. "

"Dog-biscuits!" says the chambermaid. 

"Yes, " says the old lady, laughing, "my baby loves dog-biscuits. "

The girl opened the bag, and there, sure enough, was a bottle of milk andhalf a dozen Spratt's biscuits. She had her back to the old lady, whenshe heard a sort of a groan and a thud as made her turn round. The oldlady was lying stretched dead on the hearthrug--so the chambermaidthought. The kid was sitting up in the hamper yelling the roof off. Inher excitement, not knowing what she was doing, she handed it a biscuit, which it snatched at greedily and began sucking. 

Then she set to work to slap the old lady back to life again. In about aminute the poor old soul opened her eyes and looked round. The baby wasquiet now, gnawing the dog-biscuit. The old lady looked at the child, then turned and hid her face against the chambermaid's bosom. 

"What is it?" she says, speaking in an awed voice. "The thing in thehamper?"

"It's a baby, Ma'am, " says the maid. 

"You're sure it ain't a dog?" says the old lady. "Look again. "

The girl began to feel nervous, and to wish that she wasn't alone withthe old lady. 

"I ain't likely to mistake a dog for a baby, Ma'am, " says the girl. "It'sa child--a human infant. "

The old lady began to cry softly. "It's a judgment on me, " she says. "Iused to talk to that dog as if it had been a Christian, and now thisthing has happened as a punishment. "

"What's happened?" says the chambermaid, who was naturally enough growingmore and more curious. 

"I don't know, " says the old lady, sitting up on the floor. "If thisisn't a dream, and if I ain't mad, I started from my home at Farthinghoe, two hours ago, with a one-year-old bulldog packed in that hamper. Yousaw me open it; you see what's inside it now. "

"But bulldogs, " says the chambermaid, "ain't changed into babies bymagic. "

"I don't know how it's done, " says the old lady, "and I don't see that itmatters. I know I started with a bulldog, and somehow or other it's gotturned into that. "

"Somebody's put it there, " says the chambermaid; "somebody as wanted toget rid of a child. They've took your dog out and put that in itsplace. "

"They must have been precious smart, " says the old lady; "the hamperhasn't been out of my sight for more than five minutes, when I went intothe refreshment-room at Banbury for a cup of tea. "

"That's when they did it, " says the chambermaid, "and a clever trick itwas. "

The old lady suddenly grasped her position, and jumped up from the floor. "And a nice thing for me, " she says. "An unmarried woman in a scandal-mongering village! This is awful!"

"It's a fine-looking child, " says the chambermaid. 

"Would you like it?" says the old lady. 

The chambermaid said she wouldn't. The old lady sat down and tried tothink, and the more she thought the worse she felt. The chambermaid waspositive that if we hadn't come when we did the poor creature would havegone mad. When the Boots appeared at the door to say there was a gentand a bulldog downstairs enquiring after a baby, she flung her arms roundthe man's neck and hugged him. 

We just caught the train to Warwick, and by luck got back to the hotelten minutes before the mother turned up. Young Milberry carried thechild in his arms all the way. He said I could have the hamper formyself, and gave me half-a-sovereign extra on the understanding that Ikept my mouth shut, which I did. 

I don't think he ever told the child's mother what hadhappened--leastways, if he wasn't a fool right through, he didn't. 

THE PROBATION OF JAMES WRENCH. 

"There are two sorts of men as gets hen-pecked, " remarked Henry--I forgothow the subject had originated, but we had been discussing the merits ofHenry VIII. , considered as a father and a husband, --"the sort as likes itand the sort as don't, and I wouldn't be too cocksure that the sort asdoes isn't on the whole in the majority. 

"You see, " continued Henry argumentatively, "it gives, as it were, a kindof interest to life which nowadays, with everything going smoothly, andno chance of a row anywhere except in your own house, is apt to become abit monotonous. There was a chap I got to know pretty well one winterwhen I was working in Dresden at the Europaischer Hof: a quiet, meeklittle man he was, a journeyman butcher by trade; and his wife was adressmaker, a Schneiderin, as they call them over there, and ran a fairlybig business in the Praguer Strasse. I've always been told that Germanhusbands are the worst going, treating their wives like slaves, or, atthe best, as mere upper servants. But my experience is that human naturedon't alter so much according to distance from London as we fancy itdoes, and that husbands have their troubles same as wives all the worldover. Anyhow, I've come across a German husband or two as didn't carryabout with him any sign of the slave driver such as you might notice, atall events not in his own house; and I know for a fact that MeisterAnton, which was the name of the chap I'm telling you about, couldn'thave been much worse off, not even if he'd been an Englishman born andbred. There were no children to occupy her mind, so she just devotedherself to him and the work-girls, and made things hum, as they say inAmerica, for all of them. As for the girls, they got away at six in theevening, and not many of them stopped more than the first month. But theold man, not being able to give notice, had to put up with an average ofeighteen hours a day of it. And even when, as was sometimes the case, hemanaged to get away for an hour or two in the evening for a quiet talkwith a few of us over a glass of beer, he could never be quite happy, thinking of what was accumulating for him at home. Of course everybodyas knew him knew of his troubles--for a scolding wife ain't the sort ofthing as can be hid under a bushel, --and was sorry for him, he being asamiable and good-tempered a fellow as ever lived, and most of us spentour time with him advising him for his good. Some of the more ardentwould give him recipes for managing her, but they, being generallyspeaking bachelors, their suggestions lacked practicability, as you mightsay. One man bored his life out persuading him to try a bucket of coldwater. He was one of those cold-water enthusiasts, this fellow; took ithimself for everything, and always went to a hydropathic establishmentfor his holidays. Rumour had it that Meister Anton really did try thisexperiment on one unfortunate occasion--worried into it, I suppose, bythe other chap's persistency. Anyhow, we didn't see him again for aweek, he being confined to his bed with a chill on the liver. And thenext suggestion made to him he rejected quite huffily, explaining that hehad no intention of putting any fresh ideas into his wife's head. 

"She wasn't a bad woman, mind you--merely given to fits of temper. Attimes she could be quite pleasant: but when she wasn't life with her musthave been exciting. He had stood it for about seven years; and then oneday, without a word of warning to anyone, he went away and left her. Asshe was quite able to keep herself, this seemed to be the bestarrangement possible, and everybody wondered why he had never thought ofit before, I did not see him again for nine months, until I ran againsthim by pure chance on the Koln platform, where I was waiting for a trainto Paris. He told me they had made up all their differences bycorrespondence, and that he was then on his way back to her. He seemedquite cheerful and expectant. 

"'Do you think she's really reformed?' I says. 'Do you think nine monthsis long enough to have taught her a lesson?' I didn't want to damp him, but personally I have never known but one case of a woman being cured ofnagging, and that being brought about by a fall from a third-storywindow, resulting in what the doctors called permanent paralysis of thevocal organs, can hardly be taken as a precedent. 

"'No, ' he answers, 'nor nine years. But it's been long enough to teachme a lesson. '

"'You know me, ' he goes on. 'I ain't a quarrelsome sort of chap. Ifnobody says a word to me, I never says a word to anybody; and it's beenlike that ever since I left her, day in and day out, all just the same. Up in the morning, do your bit of work, drink your glass of beer, and tobed in the evening; nothing to excite you, nothing to rouse you. Why, it's a mere animal existence. '

"He was a rum sort of chap, always thought things out from his own pointof view as it were. "

"Yes, a curious case, " I remarked to Henry; "not the sort of story to putabout, however. It might give women the idea that nagging is attractive, and encourage them to try it upon husbands who do not care for that kindof excitement. "

"Not much fear of that, " replied Henry. "The nagging woman is born, asthey say, not made; and she'll nag like the roses bloom, not because shewants to, but because she can't help it. And a woman to whom it don'tcome natural will never be any real good at it, try as she may. And asfor the men, why we'll just go on selecting wives according to the oldrule, so that you never know what you've got till it's too late for youto do anything but make the best or the worst of it, according as yourfancy takes you. 

"There was a fellow, " continued Henry, "as used to work with me a goodmany years ago now at a small hotel in the City. He was a waiter, likemyself--not a bad sort of chap, though a bit of a toff in his off-hours. He'd been engaged for some two or three years to one of the chambermaids. A pretty, gentle-looking little thing she was, with big childish eyes, and a voice like the pouring out of water. They are strange things, women; one can never tell what they are made of from the taste of them. And while I was there, it having been a good season for both of them, they thought they'd risk it and get married. They did the sensiblething, he coming back to his work after the week's holiday, and she tohers; the only difference being that they took a couple of rooms of theirown in Middleton Row, from where in summer-time you can catch the glimpseof a green tree or two, and slept out. 

"The first few months they were as happy as a couple in a play, shethinking almost as much of him as he thought of himself, which must havebeen a comfort to both of them, and he as proud of her as if he made herhimself. And then some fifteenth cousin or so of his, a man he had neverheard of before, died in New Zealand and left him a fortune. 

"That was the beginning of his troubles, and hers too. I don't say itwas enough to buy a peerage, but to a man accustomed to dream of half-crown tips it seemed an enormous fortune. Anyhow, it was sufficient toturn his head and give him ideas above his station. His first move, ofcourse, was to chuck his berth and set fire to his dress suit, which, being tolerably greasy, burned well. Had he stopped there nobody couldhave blamed him. I've often thought myself that I would willingly giveten years of my life, provided anybody wanted them, which I don't see howthey should, to put my own behind the fire. But he didn't. He took ahouse in a mews, with the front door in a street off Grosvenor Square, furnished it like a second-class German restaurant, dressed himself likea bookmaker, and fancied that with the help of a few shady City chaps anda broken-down swell or two he had gathered round him, he was fairly onthe road to Park Lane and the House of Lords. 

"And the only thing that struck him as being at all in his way was hiswife. In her cap and apron, or her Sunday print she had always looked asdainty and fetching a little piece of goods as a man could wish to beseen out with. Dressed according to the advice of his new-found friends, of course she looked like nothing else so much as a barn-yard chicken inturkey-cock's feathers. He was shocked to find that her size in gloveswas seven-and-a-quarter, and in boots something over four, and that sortof thing naturally irritates a woman more even than finding fault withher immortal soul. I guess for about a year he made her life pretty wella burden for her, trying to bring her up to the standard of the Saturday-to-Monday-at-Brighton set with which he had surrounded himself, or which, to speak more correctly, had got round him. She'd a precious sight moregumption than he had ever possessed, and if he had listened to herinstead of insisting upon her listening to him it would have been betterfor him. But there are some men who think that if you have a taste forchampagne and the ballet that proves you are intended by nature for anob, and he was one of them; and any common-sense suggestion of hers onlyconvinced him of her natural unfitness for an exalted station. 

"He grumbled at her accent, which, seeing that his own was acquired inLime-house and finished off in the Minories, was just the sort of thing afool would do. And he insisted on her reading all the society novels asthey came out--you know the sort I mean, --where everybody snaps everybodyelse's head off, and all the proverbs are upside down; people leave themabout the hotels when they've done with them, and one gets into the habitof dipping into them when one's nothing better to do. His hope was thatshe might, with pains, get to talk like these books. That was his ideal. 

"She did her best, but of course the more she got away from herself themore absurd she became; and the rubbish and worse that he had about himwould ridicule her more or less openly. And he, instead of kicking themout into the mews--which could have been done easily without GrosvenorSquare knowing anything about it, and thereby having its high-classfeelings hurt--he would blame her when they had all gone, just as if itwas her fault that she was the daughter of a respectable bootmaker in theMile End Road instead of something more likely than not turned out of thethird row of the ballet because it couldn't dance, and didn't want tolearn. 

"He played a bit in the City, and won at first, and that swelled his headworse than ever. It also brought him a good deal of sympathy from anItalian Countess, the sort you find at Homburg, and that generallyspeaking is a widow. Her chief sorrow was for society--that in him waslosing an ornament. She explained to him how an accomplished andexperienced woman could help a man to gain admittance into the tiptopcircles, which, according to her, were just thirsting for him. As awaiter, he had his share of brains, and it's a business that requiresmore insight than perhaps you'd fancy, if you don't want to waste yourtime on a rabbit-skin coat and a paste ring, and give the burnt sole tothe real gent. But in the hands of this swell mob he was, of course, just the young man from the country; and the end of it was that he playedthe game down pretty low. 

"She--not the Countess, I shouldn't like you to have that idea, but hiswife--came to be pretty friendly with my missus later on, and that's howI got to know the details. He comes to her one day looking prettysheepish-like, as one can well believe, and maybe he'd been drinking abit to give himself courage. 

"'We ain't been getting along too well together of late, have we, Susan?'says he. 

"'We ain't seen much of one another, ' she answers; 'but I agree with you, we don't seem to enjoy it much when we do. '

"'It ain't your fault, ' says he. 

"'I'm glad you think that, ' she answers; 'it shows me you ain't quite asfoolish as I was beginning to think you. '

"'Of course, I didn't know when I married you, ' he goes on, 'as I wasgoing to come into this money. '

"'No, nor I either, ' says she, 'or you bet it wouldn't have happened. '

"'It seems to have been a bit of a mistake, ' says he, 'as things haveturned out. '

"'It would have been a mistake, and more than a bit of a one in anycase, ' answers she. 

"'I'm glad you agree with me, ' says he; 'there'll be no need to quarrel. '

"'I've always tried to agree with you, ' says she. 'We've neverquarrelled yet, and that ought to be sufficient proof to you that wenever shall. '

"'It's a mistake that can be rectified, ' says he, 'if you are sensible, and that without any harm to anyone. '

"'Oh!' says she, 'it must be a new sort of mistake, that kind. '

"'We're not fitted for one another, ' says he. 

"'Out with it, ' says she. 'Don't you be afraid of my feelings; they arewell under control, as I think I can fairly say by this time. '

"'With a man in your own station of life, ' says he, 'you'd be happier. '

"'There's many a man I might have been happier with, ' replies she. 'Thatain't the thing to be discussed, seeing as I've got you. '

"'You might get rid of me, ' says he. 

"'You mean you might get rid of me, ' she answers. 

"'It comes to the same thing, ' he says. 

"'No, it don't, ' she replies, 'nor anything like it. I shouldn't havegot rid of you for my pleasure, and I'm not going to do it for yours. Youcan live like a decent man, and I'll go on putting up with you; or youcan live like a fool, and I shan't stand in your way. But you can't doboth, and I'm not going to help you try. '

"Well, he argued with her, and he tried the coaxing dodge, and he triedthe bullying dodge, but it didn't work, neither of it. 

"'I've done my duty by you, ' says she, 'so far as I've been able, andthat I'll go on doing or not, just as you please; but I don't do more. '

"'We can't go on living like this, ' says he, 'and it isn't fair to ask meto. You're hammering my prospects. '

"'I don't want to do that, ' says she. 'You take your proper position insociety, whatever that may be, and I'll take mine. I'll be glad enoughto get back to it, you may rest assured. '

"'What do you mean?' says he. 

"'It's simple enough, ' she answers. 'I was earning my living before Imarried you, and I can earn it again. You go your way, I go mine. '

"It didn't satisfy him; but there was nothing else to be done, and therewas no moving her now in any other direction whatever, even had he wantedto. He offered her anything in the way of money--he wasn't a meanchap, --but she wouldn't touch a penny. She had kept her old clothes--I'mnot sure that some idea of needing them hadn't always been in herhead, --applied for a place under her former manager, who was then bossinga hotel in Kensington, and got it. And there was an end of high life sofar as she was concerned. 

"As for him, he went the usual way. It always seems to me as if men andwomen were just like water; sooner or later they get back to the levelfrom which they started--that is, of course, generally speaking. Hereand there a drop clings where it climbs; but, taking them on the whole, pumping-up is a slow business. Lord! I have seen them, many of them, jolly clever they've thought themselves, with their diamond rings and bigcigars. 'Wait a bit, ' I've always said to myself, 'there'll come a daywhen you'll walk in and be glad enough of your chop and potatoes againwith your half-pint of bitter. ' And nine cases out of ten I've beenright. James Wrench followed the course of the majority, only a littlemore so: tried to do others a precious sight sharper than himself, andgot done; tried a dozen times to scramble up again, each time coming downheavier than before, till there wasn't another spring left in him, andhis only ambition victuals. Then, of course, he thought of his wife--it'sa wonderful domesticator, ill luck--and wondered what she was doing. 

"Fortunately for him, she'd been doing well. Her father died and lefther a bit, just a couple of hundred or so, and with this and her ownsavings she started with a small inn in a growing town, and had sold outagain three years later at four times what she had paid for it. She haddone even better than that for herself. She had developed a talent forcooking--that was a settled income in itself, --and at this time wasrunning a small hotel in Brighton, and making it pay to a tune that wouldhave made the shareholders of some of its bigger rivals a bit enviouscould they have known. 

"He came to me, having found out, I don't know how--necessity smartensthe wits, I suppose, --that my missis still kept up a sort of friendshipwith her, and begged me to try and arrange a meeting between them, whichI did, though I told him frankly that from what I knew his welcomewouldn't be much more enthusiastic than what he'd any right to expect. But he was always of a sanguine disposition; and borrowing his fare andan old greatcoat of mine, he started off, evidently thinking that all histroubles were over. 

"But they weren't exactly. The Married Women's Property Act had alteredthings a bit, and Master James found himself greeted without anysuggestion of tenderness by a business-like woman of thirty-six orthereabouts, and told to wait in the room behind the bar till she couldfind time to talk to him. 

"She kept him waiting there for three-quarters of an hour, justsufficient time to take the side out of him; and then she walks in andcloses the door behind her. 

"'I'd say you hadn't changed hardly a day, Susan, ' says he, 'if it wasn'tthat you'd grown handsomer than ever. '

"I guess he'd been turning that over in his mind during thethree-quarters of an hour. It was his fancy that he knew a bit aboutwomen. 

"'My name's Mrs. Wrench, ' says she; 'and if you take your hat off andstand up while I'm talking to you it will be more what I'm accustomedto. '

"Well, that staggered him a bit; but there didn't seem anything else tobe done, so he just made as if he thought it funny, though I doubt if atthe time he saw the full humour of it. 

"'And now, what do you want?" says she, seating herself in front of herdesk, and leaving him standing, first on one leg and then on the other, twiddling his hat in his hands. 

"'I've been a bad husband to you, Susan, ' begins he. 

"'I could have told you that, ' she answers. 'What I asked you was whatyou wanted. '

"'I want for us to let bygones be bygones, ' says he. 

"'That's quite my own idea, ' says she, 'and if you don't allude to thepast, I shan't. '

"'You're an angel, Susan, ' says he. 

"'I've told you once, ' answers she, 'that my name's Mrs. Wrench. I'mSusan to my friends, not to every broken-down tramp looking for a job. '

"'Ain't I your husband?' says he, trying a bit of dignity. 

"She got up and took a glance through the glass-door to see that nobodywas there to overhear her. 

"'For the first and last time, ' says she, 'let you and me understand oneanother. I've been eleven years without a husband, and I've got used toit. I don't feel now as I want one of any kind, and if I did it wouldn'tbe your sort. Eleven years ago I wasn't good enough for you, and nowyou're not good enough for me. '

"'I want to reform, ' says he. 

"'I want to see you do it, ' says she. 

"'Give me a chance, ' says he. 

"'I'm going to, ' says she; 'but it's going to be my experiment this time, not yours. Eleven years ago I didn't give you satisfaction, so youturned me out of doors. '

"'You went, Susan, ' says he; 'you know it was your own idea. '

"'Don't you remind me too much of the circumstances, ' replies she, turning on him with a look in her eyes that was probably new to him, 'Iwent because there wasn't room for two of us; you know that. The otherkind suited you better. Now I'm going to see whether you suit me, ' andshe sits herself again in her landlady's chair. 

"'In what way?' says he. 

"'In the way of earning your living, ' says she, 'and starting on the roadto becoming a decent member of society. '

"He stood for a while cogitating. 

"'Don't you think, ' says he at last, 'as I could manage this hotel foryou?'

"'Thanks, ' says she; 'I'm doing that myself. '

"'What about looking to the financial side of things, ' says he, 'andkeeping the accounts? It's hardly your work. '

"'Nor yours either, ' answers she drily, 'judging by the way you've beenkeeping your own. '

"'You wouldn't like me to be head-waiter, I suppose?' says he. 'It wouldbe a bit of a come-down. '

"'You're thinking of the hotel, I suppose, ' says she. 'Perhaps you areright. My customers are mostly an old-fashioned class; it's probableenough they might not like you. You had better suggest something else. '

"'I could hardly be an under-waiter, ' says he. 

"'Perhaps not, ' says she; 'your manners strike me as a bit too familiarfor that. '

"Then he thought he'd try sarcasm. 

"'Perhaps you'd fancy my being the boots, ' says he. 

"'That's more reasonable, ' says she. 'You couldn't do much harm there, and I could keep an eye on you. '

"'You really mean that?' says he, starting to put on his dignity. 

"But she cut him short by ringing the bell. 

"'If you think you can do better for yourself, ' she says, 'there's an endof it. By a curious coincidence the place is just now vacant. I'll keepit open for you till to-morrow night; you can turn it over in your mind. 'And one of the page boys coming in she just says 'Good-morning, ' and theinterview was at an end. 

"Well, he turned it over, and he took the job. He thought she'd relentafter the first week or two, but she didn't. He just kept that place forover fifteen months, and learnt the business. In the house he was Jamesthe boots, and she Mrs. Wrench the landlady, and she saw to it that hedidn't forget it. He had his wages and he made his tips, and the foodwas plentiful; but I take it he worked harder during that time than he'dever worked before in his life, and found that a landlady is just twiceas difficult to please as the strictest landlord it can be a man'smisfortune to get under, and that Mrs. Wrench was no exception to therule. 

"At the end of the fifteen months she sends for him into the office. Hedidn't want telling by this time; he just stood with his hat in his handand waited respectful like. 

"'James, ' says she, after she had finished what she was doing, 'I find Ishall want another waiter for the coffee-room this season. Would youcare to try the place?'

"'Thank you, Mrs. Wrench, ' he answers; 'it's more what I've been used to, and I think I'll be able to give satisfaction. '

"'There's no wages attached, as I suppose you know, ' continues she; 'butthe second floor goes with it, and if you know your business you ought tomake from twenty-five to thirty shillings a week. '

"Thank you, Mrs. Wrench; that'll suit me very well, ' replies he; and itwas settled. 

"He did better as a waiter; he'd got it in his blood, as you might say;and so after a time he worked up to be head-waiter. Now and then, ofcourse, it came about that he found himself waiting on the very folksthat he'd been chums with in his classy days, and that must have been abit rough on him. But he'd taken in a good deal of sense since then; andwhen one of the old sort, all rings and shirt-front, dining there oneSunday evening, started chaffing him, Jimmy just shut him up with aquiet: 'Yes, I guess we were both a bit out of our place in those days. The difference between us now is that I have got back to mine, ' whichcost him his tip, but must nave been a satisfaction to him. 

"Altogether he worked in that hotel for some three and a half years, andthen Mrs. Wrench sends for him again into the office. 

"'Sit down, James, ' says she. 

"'Thank you, Mrs. Wrench, ' says James, and sat. 

"'I'm thinking of giving up this hotel, James, ' says she, 'and takinganother near Dover, a quiet place with just such a clientele as I shalllike. Do you care to come with me?'

"'Thank you, ' says he, 'but I'm thinking, Mrs. Wrench, of making a changemyself. '

"'Oh, ' says she, 'I'm sorry to hear that, James. I thought we'd beengetting on very well together. '

"'I've tried to do my best, Mrs. Wrench, ' says he, 'and I hope as I'vegiven satisfaction. '

"'I've nothing to complain of, James, ' says she. 

"'I thank you for saying it, ' says he, 'and I thank you for theopportunity you gave me when I wanted it. It's been the making of me. '

"She didn't answer for about a minute. Then says she: 'You've beenmeeting some of your old friends, James, I'm afraid, and they've beenpersuading you to go back into the City. '

"'No, Mrs. Wrench, ' says he; 'no more City for me, and no moreneighbourhood of Grosvenor Square, unless it be in the way of business;and that couldn't be, of course, for a good long while to come. '

"'What do you mean by business?' asks she. 

"'The hotel business, ' replies he. 'I believe I know the bearings bynow. I've saved a bit, thanks to you, Mrs. Wrench, and a bit's come infrom the wreck that I never hoped for. '

"'Enough to start you?' asks she. 

"'Not quite enough for that, ' answers he. 'My idea is a smallpartnership. '

"'How much is it altogether?' says she, 'if it's not an impertinentquestion. '

"'Not at all, ' answers he. 'It tots up to 900 pounds about. '

"She turns back to her desk and goes on with her writing. 

"'Dover wouldn't suit you, I suppose?' says she without looking round. 

"'Dover's all right, ' says he, 'if the business is a good one. '

"'It can be worked up into one of the best things going, ' says she, 'andI'm getting it dirt cheap. You can have a third share for a thousandpounds, that's just what it's costing, and owe me the other hundred. "

"'And what position do I take?' says he. 

"'If you come in on those terms, ' says she, 'then, of course, it's apartnership. '

"He rose and came over to her. 'Life isn't all business, Susan, ' sayshe. 

"'I've found it so mostly, ' says she. 

"'Fourteen years ago, ' says he, 'I made the mistake; now you're makingit. '

"'What mistake am I making?' says she. 

"'That man's the only thing as can't learn a lesson, ' says he. 

"'Oh, ' says she, 'and what's the lesson that you've learnt?'

"'That I never get on without you, Susan, ' says he. 

"'Well, ' says she, 'you suggested a partnership, and I agreed to it. Whatmore do you want?'

"'I want to know the name of the firm, ' says he. 

"'Mr. And Mrs. Wrench, ' says she, turning round to him and holding outher hand. 'How will that suit you?'

"'That'll do me all right, ' answers he. 'And I'll try and givesatisfaction, ' adds he. 

"'I believe you, ' says she. 

"And in that way they made a fresh start, as it were. "

THE WOOING OF TOM SLEIGHT'S WIFE. 

"It's competition, " replied Henry, "that makes the world go round. Younever want a thing particularly until you see another fellow trying toget it; then it strikes you all of a sudden that you've a better right toit than he has. Take barmaids: what's the attraction about 'em? Inlooks they're no better than the average girl in the street; while as fortheir temper, well that's a bit above the average--leastways, so far asmy experience goes. Yet the thinnest of 'em has her dozen, makingsheep's-eyes at her across the counter. I've known girls that on thelevel couldn't have got a policeman to look at 'em. Put 'em behind a rowof tumblers and a shilling's-worth of stale pastry, and nothing outside aLincoln and Bennett is good enough for 'em. It's the competition that'sthe making of 'em. 

"Now, I'll tell you a story, " continued Henry, "that bears upon thesubject. It's a pretty story, if you look at it from one point of view;though my wife maintains--and she's a bit of a judge, mind you--that it'snot yet finished, she arguing that there's a difference between marryingand being married. You can have a fancy for the one, without caring muchabout the other. What I tell her is that a boy isn't a man, and a manisn't a boy. Besides, it's five years ago now, and nothing has happenedsince: though of course one can never say. "

"I would like to hear the story, " I ventured to suggest; "I'll be able tojudge better afterwards. "

"It's not a long one, " replied Henry, "though as a matter of fact itbegan seventeen years ago in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He was a wildyoung fellow, and always had been. "

"Who was?" I interrupted. 

"Tom Sleight, " answered Henry, "the chap I'm telling you about. Hebelonged to a good family, his father being a Magistrate forMonmouthshire; but there had been no doing anything with young Tom fromthe very first. At fifteen he ran away from school at Clifton, and witheverything belonging to him tied up in a pocket-handkerchief made his wayto Bristol Docks. There he shipped as boy on board an American schooner, the Cap'n not pressing for any particulars, being short-handed, and theboy himself not volunteering much. Whether his folks made much of aneffort to get him back, or whether they didn't, I can't tell you. Maybe, they thought a little roughing it would knock some sense into him. Anyhow, the fact remains that for the next seven or eight years, untilthe sudden death of his father made him a country gentleman, a more orless jolly sailor-man he continued to be. And it was during thatperiod--to be exact, three years after he ran away and four years beforehe returned--that, as I have said, at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, hemarried, after ten days' courtship, Mary Godselle, only daughter of JeanGodselle, saloon keeper of that town. "

"That makes him just eighteen, " I remarked; "somewhat young for abridegroom. "

"But a good deal older than the bride, " was Henry's comment, "she beingat the time a few months over fourteen. "

"Was it legal?" I enquired. 

"Quite legal, " answered Henry. "In New Hampshire, it would seem, theyencourage early marriages. 'Can't begin a good thing too soon, ' is, Isuppose, their motto. "

"How did the marriage turn out?" was my next question. The married lifeof a lady and gentleman, the united ages of whom amounted to thirty-two, promised interesting developments. 

"Practically speaking, " replied Henry, "it wasn't a marriage at all. Ithad been a secret affair from the beginning, as perhaps you can imagine. The old man had other ideas for his daughter, and wasn't the sort offather to be played with. They separated at the church door, intendingto meet again in the evening. Two hours later Master Tom Sleight gotknocked on the head in a street brawl. If a row was to be had anywherewithin walking distance he was the sort of fellow to be in it. When hecame to his senses he found himself lying in his bunk, and the 'SusanPride'--if that was the name of the ship; I think it was--ten miles outto sea. The Captain declined to put the vessel about to please either aloving seaman or a loving seaman's wife; and to come to the point, thenext time Mr. Tom Sleight saw Mrs. Tom Sleight was seven years later atthe American bar of the Grand Central in Paris; and then he didn't knowher. "

"But what had she been doing all the time?" I queried. "Do you mean totell me that she, a married woman, had been content to let her husbanddisappear without making any attempt to trace him?"

"I was making it short, " retorted Henry, in an injured tone, "for yourbenefit; if you want to have the whole of it, of course you can. Hewasn't a scamp; he was just a scatterbrain--that was the worst you couldsay against him. He tried to communicate with her, but never got ananswer. Then he wrote to the father, and told him frankly the wholestory. The letter came back six months later, marked--'Gone away; leftno address. ' You see, what had happened was this: the old man diedsuddenly a month or two after the marriage, without ever having heard aword about it. The girl hadn't a relative or friend in the town, all herfolks being French Canadians. She'd got her pride, and she'd got a senseof humour not common in a woman. I was with her at the Grand Central forover a year, and came to know her pretty well. She didn't choose toadvertise the fact that her husband had run away from her, as shethought, an hour after he had married her. She knew he was a gentlemanwith rich relatives somewhere in England; and as the months went bywithout bringing word or sign of him, she concluded he'd thought thematter over and was ashamed of her. You must remember she was merely achild at the time, and hardly understood her position. Maybe later onshe would have seen the necessity of doing something. But Chance, as itwere, saved her the trouble; for she had not been serving in the Cafemore than a month when, early one afternoon, in walked her Lord andMaster. 'Mam'sell Marie, ' as of course we called her over there, was atthat moment busy talking to two customers, while smiling at a third; andour hero, he gave a start the moment he set eyes on her. "

"You told me that when he saw her there he didn't know her, " I remindedHenry. 

"Quite right, sir, " replied Henry, "so I did; but he knew a pretty girlwhen he saw one anywhere at any time--he was that sort, and a prettier, saucier looking young personage than Marie, in spite of her misfortunes, as I suppose you'd call 'em, you wouldn't have found had you searchedParis from the Place de la Bastille to the Arc de Triomphe. "

"Did she, " I asked, "know him, or was the forgetfulness mutual?"

"She recognised him, " returned Henry, "before he entered the Cafe, owingto catching sight of his face through the glass door while he was tryingto find the handle. Women on some points have better memories than men. Added to which, when you come to think of it, the game was a bitone-sided. Except that his moustache, maybe, was a little more imposing, and that he wore the clothes of a gentleman in place of those of an able-bodied seaman before the mast, he was to all intents and purposes thesame as when they parted six years ago outside the church door; while shehad changed from a child in a short muslin frock and a 'flapper, ' as Ibelieve they call it, tied up in blue ribbon, to a self-possessed youngwoman in a frock that might have come out of a Bond Street show window, and a Japanese coiffure, that being then the fashion. 

"She finished with her French customers, not hurrying herself in theleast--that wasn't her way; and then strolling over to her husband, askedhim in French what she could have the pleasure of doing for him. Hiseducation on board the 'Susan Pride' and others had, I take it, gone backrather than forward. He couldn't understand her, so she translated itfor him into broken English, with an accent. He asked her how she knewhe was English. She told him it was because Englishmen had such prettymoustaches, and came back with his order, which was rum punch. She kepthim waiting about a quarter of an hour before she returned with it. Hefilled up the time looking into the glass behind him when he thoughtnobody was observing him. 

"One American drink, as they used to concoct it in that bar, wasgenerally enough for most of our customers, but he, before he left, contrived to put away three; also contriving, during the same short spaceof time, to inform 'Mam'sel Marie' that Paris, since he had looked intoher eyes, had become the only town worth living in, so far as he wasconcerned, throughout the whole universe. He had his failings, hadMaster Tom Sleight, but shyness wasn't one of them. She gave him a smilewhen he left that would have brought a less impressionable young man thanhe back again to that Cafe; but for the rest of the day I noticed'Mam'sel Marie' frowned to herself a good deal, and was quite unusuallycynical in her view of things in general. 

"Next afternoon he found his way to us again, and much the same sort ofthing went on, only a little more of it. A sailor-man, so I am told, makes love with his hour of departure always before his mind, and so getsinto the habit of not wasting time. He gave her short lessons inEnglish, for which she appeared to be grateful, and she at his requesttaught him the French for 'You are just charming! I love you!' withwhich, so he explained, it was his intention, on his return to England, to surprise his mother. He turned up again after dinner, and the nextday before lunch, when after that I looked up and missed him at his usualtable, the feeling would come to me that business was going down. Mariealways appeared delighted to see him, and pouted when he left; but whatpuzzled me at the time was, that though she fooled him to the top of hisbent, she flirted every bit as much, if not more, with her othercustomers--leastways with the nicer ones among them. There was one youngFrenchman in particular--a good-looking chap, a Monsieur Flammard, son ofthe painter. Up till then he'd been making love pretty steadily to MissMarie, as, indeed, had most of 'em, without ever getting much forrarder;for hitherto a chat about the weather, and a smile that might have meantshe was in love with you or might have meant she was laughing at you--noman could ever tell which, --was all the most persistent had got out ofher. Now, however, and evidently to his own surprise, young MonsieurFlammard found himself in clover. Provided his English rival happened tobe present and not too far removed, he could have as much flirtation ashe wanted, which, you may take it, worked out at a very tolerable amount. Master Tom could sit and scowl, and for the matter of that did; but asMarie would explain to him, always with the sweetest of smiles, herbusiness was to be nice to all her customers, and to this, of course, hehad nothing to reply: that he couldn't understand a word of what she andFlammard talked and laughed about didn't seem to make him any thehappier. 

"Well, this sort of thing went on for perhaps a fortnight, and then onemorning over our dejeune, when she and I had the Cafe entirely toourselves, I took the opportunity of talking to Mam'sel Marie like afather. 

"She heard me out without a murmur, which showed her sense; for likingthe girl sincerely, I didn't mince matters with her, but spoke plainlyfor her good. The result was, she told me her story much as I have toldit to you. 

"'It's a funny tale, ' says I when she'd finished, 'though maybe youyourself don't see the humour of it. '

"'Yes, I do, ' was her answer. 'But there's a serious side to it also, 'says she, 'and that interests me more. '

"'You're sure you're not making a mistake?' I suggested. 

"'He's been in my thoughts too much for me to forget him, ' she replied. 'Besides, he's told me his name and all about himself. '

"'Not quite all, ' says I. 

"'No, and that's why I feel hard toward him, ' answers she. 

"'Now you listen to me, ' says I. 'This is a very pretty comedy, and theway you've played it does you credit up till now. Don't you run it ontoo long, and turn it into a problem play. '

"'How d'ye mean?' says she. 

"'A man's a man, ' says I; 'anyhow he's one. He fell in love with you sixyears ago when you were only a child, and now you're a woman he's fallenin love with you again. If that don't convince you of his constancy, nothing will. You stop there. Don't you try to find out any more. '

"'I mean to find out one thing, answers she: 'whether he's a man--or acad. '

"'That's a severe remark, ' says I, 'to make about your own husband. '

"'What am I to think?' says she. 'He fooled me into loving him when, asyou say, I was only a child. Do you think I haven't suffered all theseyears? It's the girl that cries her eyes out for her lover; we learn totake 'em for what they're worth later on. '

"'But he's in love with you still, ' I says. I knew what was in her mind, but I wanted to lead her away from it if I could. 

"'That's a lie, ' says she, 'and you know it. ' She wasn't choosing herwords; she was feeling, if you understand. 'He's in love with a prettywaitress that he met for the first time a fortnight ago. '

"'That's because she reminds him of you, ' I replied, 'or because youremind him of her, whichever you prefer. It shows you're the sort ofwoman he'll always be falling in love with. '

"She laughed at that, but the next moment she was serious again. 'Aman's got to fall out of love before he falls into it again, ' shereplied. 'I want a man that'll stop there. Besides, ' she goes on, 'awoman isn't always young and pretty: we've got to remember that. We wantsomething else in a husband besides eyes. '

"'You seem to know a lot about it, ' says I. 

"'I've thought a lot about it, ' says she. 

"'What sort of husband do you want?' says I. 

"'I want a man of honour, ' says she. 

"That was sense. One don't often find a girl her age talking it, but herlife had made her older than she looked. All I could find to say wasthat he appeared to be an honest chap, and maybe was one. 

"'Maybe, ' says she; 'that's what I mean to find out. And if you'll do mea kindness, ' she adds, 'you won't mind calling me Marie Luthier for thefuture, instead of Godselle. It was my mother's name, and I've a fancyfor it. '

"Well, there I left her to work out the thing for herself, having come tothe conclusion she was capable of doing it; and so for another couple ofweeks I merely watched. There was no doubt about his being in love withher. He had entered that Cafe at the beginning of the month with as goodan opinion of himself as a man can conveniently carry without tumblingdown and falling over it. Before the month was out he would sit with hishead between his hands, evidently wondering why he had been born. I'veseen the game played before, and I've seen it played since. A waiter hasplenty of opportunities if he only makes use of them; for if it comes toa matter of figures, I suppose there's more love-making done in a monthunder the electric light of the restaurant than the moon sees in ayear--leastways, so far as concerns what we call the civilised world. I've seen men fooled, from boys without hair on their faces, to old menwithout much on their heads. I've seen it done in a way that was prettyto watch, and I've seen it done in a manner that has made me feel thatgiven a wig and a petticoat I could do it better myself. But never haveI seen it neater played than Marie played it on that young man of hers. One day she would greet him for all the world like a tired child that atlast has found its mother, and the next day respond to him in a stylecalculated to give you the idea of a small-sized empress in misfortunecompelled to tolerate the familiarities of an anarchist. One moment shewould throw him a pout that said as clearly as words: 'What a fool youare not to put your arms round me and kiss me'; and five minutes laterchill him with a laugh that as good as told him he must be blind not tosee that she was merely playing with him. What happened outside theCafe--for now and then she would let him meet her of a morning in theTuileries and walk down to the Cafe with her, and once or twice hadallowed him to see her part of the way home--I cannot tell you: I onlyknow that before strangers it was her instinct to be reserved. I take itthat on such occasions his experiences were interesting; but whether theyleft him elated or depressed I doubt if he could have told you himself. 

"But all the time Marie herself was just going from bad to worse. Shehad come to the Cafe a light-hearted, sweet-tempered girl; now, when shewasn't engaged in her play-acting--for that's all it was, I could seeplainly enough--she would go about her work silent and miserable-looking, or if she spoke at all it would be to say something bitter. Then onemorning after a holiday she had asked for, and which I had given herwithout any questions, she came to business more like her old self than Ihad seen her since the afternoon Master Tom Sleight had appeared upon thescene. All that day she went about smiling to herself; and youngFlammard, presuming a bit too far maybe upon past favours, found himselfsharply snubbed: it was a bit rough on him, the whole thing. 

"'It's come to a head, ' says I to myself; 'he has explained everything, and has managed to satisfy her. He's a cleverer chap than I took himfor. '

"He didn't turn up at the Cafe that day, however, at all, and she neversaid a word until closing time, when she asked me to walk part of the wayhome with her. 

"'Well, ' I says, so soon as we had reached a quieter street, 'is thecomedy over?'

"'No, ' says she, 'so far as I'm concerned it's commenced. To tell youthe truth, it's been a bit too serious up to now to please me. I'm onlyjust beginning to enjoy myself, ' and she laughed, quite her old light-hearted laugh. 

"'You seem to be a bit more cheerful, ' I says. 

"'I'm feeling it, ' says she; 'he's not as bad as I thought. We went toVersailles yesterday. '

"'Pretty place, Versailles, ' says I; 'paths a bit complicated if youdon't know your way among 'em. '

"'They do wind, ' says she. 

"'And there he told you that he loved you, and explained everything?'

"'You're quite right, ' says she, 'that's just what happened. And then hekissed me for the first and last time, and now he's on his way toAmerica. '

"'On his way to America?' says I, stopping still in the middle of thestreet. 

"'To find his wife, ' she says. 'He's pretty well ashamed of himself fornot having tried to do it before. I gave him one or two hints how to setabout it--he's not over smart--and I've got an idea he will discoverher. ' She dropped her joking manner, and gave my arm a little squeeze. She'd have flirted with her own grandfather--that's my opinion of her. 

"'He was really nice, ' she continues. 'I had to keep lecturing myself, or I'd have been sorry for him. He told me it was his love for me thathad shown him what a wretch he had been. He said he knew I didn't carefor him two straws--and there I didn't contradict him--and that herespected me all the more for it. I can't explain to you how he workedit out, but what he meant was that I was so good myself that no one but athoroughly good fellow could possibly have any chance with me, and thatany other sort of fellow ought to be ashamed of himself for daring evento be in love with me, and that he couldn't rest until he had proved tohimself that he was worthy to have loved me, and then he wasn't going tolove me any more. '

"'It's a bit complicated, ' says I. 'I suppose you understood it?'

"'It was perfectly plain, ' says she, somewhat shortly, 'and, as I toldhim, made me really like him for the first time. '

"'It didn't occur to him to ask you why you had been flirting like avolcano with a chap you didn't like, ' says I. 

"'He didn't refer to it as flirtation, ' says she. 'He regarded it askindness to a lonely man in a strange land. '

"'I think you'll be all right, ' says I. 'There's all the makings of agood husband in him--seems to be simple-minded enough, anyhow. '

"'He has a very lovable personality when you once know him, ' says she. 'All sailors are apt to be thoughtless. '

"'I should try and break him of it later on, ' says I. 

"'Besides, she was a bit of a fool herself, going away and leaving noaddress, ' adds she; and having reached her turning, we said good-night toone another. 

"About a month passed after that without anything happening. For thefirst week Marie was as merry as a kitten, but as the days went by, andno sign came, she grew restless and excited. Then one morning she cameinto the Cafe twice as important as she had gone out the night before, and I could see by her face that her little venture was panning outsuccessfully. She waited till we had the Cafe to ourselves, whichusually happened about mid-day, and then she took a letter out of herpocket and showed it me. It was a nice respectful letter containingsentiments that would have done honour to a churchwarden. Thanks toMarie's suggestions, for which he could never be sufficiently grateful, and which proved her to be as wise as she was good and beautiful, he hadtraced Mrs. Sleight, nee Mary Godselle, to Quebec. From Quebec, on thedeath of her uncle, she had left to take a situation as waitress in a NewYork hotel, and he was now on his way there to continue his search. Theresult he would, with Miss Marie's permission, write and inform her. Ifhe obtained happiness he would owe it all to her. She it was who hadshown him his duty; there was a good deal of it, but that's what itmeant. 

"A week later came another letter, dated from New York this time. Marycould not be discovered anywhere; her situation she had left just twoyears ago, but for what or for where nobody seemed to know. What was tobe done?

"Mam'sel Marie sat down and wrote him by return of post, and wrote himsomewhat sharply--in broken English. It seemed to her he must bestrangely lacking in intelligence. Mary, as he knew, spoke French aswell as she did English. Such girls--especially such waitresses--hemight know, were sought after on the Continent. Very possibly there wereagencies in New York whose business it was to offer good Continentalengagements to such young ladies. Even she herself had heard of onesuch--Brathwaite, in West Twenty-third Street, or maybe Twenty-fourth. She signed her new name, Marie Luthier, and added a P. S. To the effectthat a right-feeling husband who couldn't find his wife would havewritten in a tone less suggestive of resignation. 

"That helped him considerably, that suggestion of Marie's about the agentBrathwaite. A fortnight later came a third letter. Wonderful to relate, his wife was actually in Paris, of all places in the world! She hadtaken a situation in the Hotel du Louvre. Master Tom expected to be inParis almost as soon as his letter. 

"'I think I'll go round to the Louvre if you can spare me for quarter ofan hour, ' said Marie, 'and see the manager. '

"Two days after, at one o'clock precisely, Mr. Tom Sleight walked intothe Cafe. He didn't look cheerful and he didn't look sad. He had beento the 'Louvre'; Mary Godselle had left there about a year ago; but hehad obtained her address in Paris, and had received a letter from herthat very morning. He showed it to Marie. It was short, and not wellwritten. She would meet him in the Tuileries that evening at seven, bythe Diana and the Nymph; he would know her by her wearing the onyx broochhe had given her the day before their wedding. She mentioned it wasonyx, in case he had forgotten. He only stopped a few minutes, and bothhe and Marie spoke gravely and in low tones. He left a small case in herhands at parting; he said he hoped she would wear it in remembrance ofone in whose thoughts she would always remain enshrined. I can't tellyou what he meant; I only tell you what he said. He also gave me a veryhandsome walking-stick with a gold handle--what for, I don't know; I takeit he felt like that. 

"Marie asked to leave that evening at half-past six. I never saw herlooking prettier. She called me into the office before she went. Shewanted my advice. She had in one hand a beautiful opal brooch set indiamonds--it was what he had given her that morning--and in her otherhand the one of onyx. 

"'Shall I wear them both?' asked she, 'or only the one?' She was halflaughing, half crying, already. 

"I thought for a bit. 'I should wear the onyx to-night, ' I said, 'byitself. '"