o-
 
 BY STEPHEN REYNOLDS. 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. each. 
 
 A POOR MAN'S HOUSE. 
 
 Cheap Edition, is. net. 
 
 THE HOLY MOUNTAIN. 
 
 A Novel. 
 
 ALONGSHORE. 
 
 (Illustrated. ) 
 
 BY STEPHEN REYNOLDS 
 
 AND 
 
 BOB &> TOM WOOLLEY. 
 
 SEEMS SO! 
 
 A WORKING-CLASS VIEW OF POLITICS. 
 Extra Crown 8vo. 53. net.
 
 HOW 'TWAS
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO 
 DALLAS SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. 
 
 TORONTO
 
 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 SHORT STORIES 
 AND SMALL TRAVELS 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN REYNOLDS 
 
 ' That's hoiv 'ttSj I tell thee. an 1 thee casn't make it no 'tis-er ! ' 
 . DEVON SAVING. 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED 
 
 ST. MARTIN'S STREET. LONDON 
 
 1912
 
 COPYRIGHT
 
 TO 
 
 JOSEPH AND JESSIE CONRAD
 
 NOTE 
 
 THE Author acknowledges with thanks the 
 hospitality of the following periodicals, some of 
 which, however, are now extinct : Albany Review, 
 Blackwood's Magazine, Daily News, English 
 Review, Fortnightly Review, New Age, Open 
 Window, Pall Mall Gazette, Pall Mall Magazine, 
 Speaker, Throne and Country, T.P.'s Magazine , 
 T.P.'s Christmas Weekly, Tribune, Weekly Critical 
 Review, Weeks Survey, Westminster Gazette. 
 
 vn
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 L PEOPLE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BENJIE AND THE BOGEY MAN ..... 3 
 
 JASPAR BRAUND'S BOAT . . . . . .25 
 
 To SAVE LIFE . . . . . . . - . 40 
 
 ANOTHER PRODIGAL ....... 50 
 
 THE MISSIONER ....... 56 
 
 His MAJESTY'S MEDAL ...... 77 
 
 AN UNOFFICIAL DIVORCE . . . . . ' . . 88 
 
 THE ENGINEER'S Kiss . . . . . .107 
 
 THE BEACHCOMBER . . . . . . .112 
 
 THE LOG OF THE BRISTOL BEAUTY . . . .122 
 
 ROBBERY ROBBED . . . . . . . 138 
 
 MRS. TRIPP'S FLUTTER . . . 144 
 
 TURNED OUT ... .... 163 
 
 SILLY SALTIE . . . . . . . .168 
 
 A LOVE'S HUNGER . . . . . . .184 
 
 DEAR PAPA'S LOVE-STORY . . ' , . . .192 
 
 A MARRIAGE OF LEARNING . . . . 205 
 
 ix
 
 x HOW 'TWAS 
 
 II. KIDS AND CATS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MAY-BABIES ........ 229 
 
 TWINSES . . . . . . . . .235 
 
 MOTHERS ALL ........ 245 
 
 THE POWER OF LIFE AND DEATH . . . .250 
 
 A CAT'S TRAGEDY . . . . . . . 260 
 
 A KITTEN : THAT'S ALL 266 
 
 THE CITIZENRY OF CATS ...... 270 
 
 III. SMALL TRAVELS 
 
 AN OLD WOMAN . . . . . . .281 
 
 SELF-EXILED ........ 286 
 
 A DOG'S LIFE . . . . . . . . 298 
 
 A STEAM-BURST AFLOAT . . . . . .310 
 
 PUFFIN HOME . . . . . . . 316 
 
 A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY ...... 340
 
 I 
 
 PEOPLE
 
 BENJIE AND THE BOGEY MAN 
 
 I 
 
 THE change of weather foretold by Benjamin 
 Prowse came, just as he had predicted, during the 
 night with the turn of tide. First a little billow 
 rolled in from the sou'south-east ; then the wind 
 dropped out to that quarter. The sea began to 
 make. A misty cloud hid the setting moon, 
 filled the sky, and cloaked the tops of the cliffs in 
 vapour. 
 
 At peep of day Benjie's nephew crept round 
 the foot of West Cliff towards Western Bay. So 
 long as his feet scrunched companionably on the 
 narrow strip of shingle between the cliff and 
 Broken Rocks he continued talking to himself. 
 " 'Tis full o'it," he complained, glancing at the 
 cloud and mist. "Benjie won't never stay down 
 along there just when he'd better to for once. 
 Who'd ha' thought thic fellow'd ha' turned up 
 here this time o' day ? Never see'd the like 
 o'it ! " 
 
 Arrived at the bay, Bill Prowse sat down and 
 waited silently, peering along to the westward, 
 
 3
 
 4 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 and at intervals looking above his head to make 
 sure that the soft red cliff was not falling out upon 
 him. 
 
 It was one of those very grey dawns, when 
 there seems to be plenty of light long before any 
 distant object can be made out distinctly. The 
 white calm of the evening before, when Benjie had 
 put to sea, was replaced by several broken lines of 
 surf flowing in across the flat sand, fading west- 
 ward into the loom of Steep Head, and filling the 
 whole bay with a re-echoed plaintive rattle. Gulls, 
 looking nearly twice their size, stalked about in 
 the shallow water after sand-eels. 
 
 By and by a boat became visible suddenly, just 
 outside the broken water. Prawn-nets were piled 
 up high on the stern. One man was sheaving 
 standing up with bent back and rowing forwards 
 whilst the other man pulled in the ordinary 
 manner, seated face astern. 
 
 "That's ol' Benjie, right enough," observed 
 Bill Prowse. 
 
 He got up, walked to the water's edge, and, 
 putting his hands funnel -wise to his mouth, 
 shouted as if he did not want to be overheard. 
 " Bogey man ! Bogey man to beach ! 'Spector ! 
 Bide here a bit." 
 
 The rowing ceased. A word like " What ? " 
 came from the boat. 
 
 " Bogey man ! Fishery 'Spector ! " 
 
 The next words from the boat sounded like, 
 " Be the capstan fixed ? " 
 
 " Bogey man ! " answered Bill. 
 
 voices failed to carry across the noise of
 
 i BENJIE AND THE BOGEY MAN 5 
 
 the surf, and the boat could approach no nearer. 
 Benjie had to turn it quickly in order to meet 
 a broken wave bows on. He began rowing again 
 with short, irritable strokes, and finally steered 
 the boat outwards to clear Broken Rocks. 
 
 Bill Prowse's shouting died away helplessly : 
 " Bogey man ! Bogey-ey-ey. . . ." 
 
 And still the boat held on its course for 
 Salterport beach. 
 
 Bill followed hurriedly alongshore. " This 
 here's what comes," he grumbled, "of Benjie 
 blowing his hooter to the likes o' Vivian Maddicke. 
 ' Don't care,' he says, * for no inspector what ever 
 lived.' But 'tis best never to say nort to gentry 
 always was an' always will be." 
 
 II 
 
 Two or three fishermen, and one other man 
 slightly apart, stood waiting at the foot of the 
 beach. Benjie ran the boat ashore, high on the 
 crest of a wave ; then jumped into the wash and 
 lifted out half-a-dozen prawn-nets with their lines 
 and cork buoys. " That'll lighten her," he said. 
 " Now haul ! " 
 
 His round sailor's cap was perched on one side 
 of his head ; his torn jumper was askew ; sea- 
 water ran in streams from his patched greenish- 
 blue trousers, which also were askew ; and his 
 wrinkled face, within its fringe of grey beard, was 
 noticeably haggard after the night's toil. With 
 his arms spread wide over the hoops of the nets 
 and his head bent down by their weight, he almost
 
 6 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 bumped into the stranger. Whereupon he pulled 
 up short. Screwing himself still farther sideways, 
 he quizzed the man ; mocked him silently with 
 deeply crowsfooted blue eyes, at once both child- 
 like and shrewd. 
 
 "Who be you then?" he inquired, placing 
 his prawn-nets very deliberately on the shingle. 
 " Who be you ? "Tisn't often the likes o' you 
 starch-collar sort o' people comes down for to 
 help lend a hand." 
 
 The fishermen drew nearer. 
 
 " N'eet any o' our own sort nuther," flashed 
 Benjie, "so early as this in the day." 
 
 The stranger, a man in a peak -cap and a 
 dark blue overcoat of indifferent fit, cleared his 
 throat. 
 
 " 'Tis the bogey man, Benjie the 'Spector ! " 
 put in Bill Prowse breathlessly. 
 
 "I knows that," said Benjie with scorn. "I 
 know'd 'en all right. How long is it since you've 
 a-favoured us wi' a visit, sir ? Eh ? " 
 
 " Let me see your crabs and lobsters," de- 
 manded the bogey man. 
 
 " Hold hard, Mister 'Spector. Us been shrimp- 
 ing prawning you calls it prawning wi' the 
 boat-nets an' the prawns I catches I never shows 
 to nobody. I an't got no lobster pots. They 
 was washed ashore an' broken up last October 
 gales, an' I can't afford to replace 'em." 
 
 " But you catch lobsters in your prawn- 
 nets. . . ." 
 
 " For sure us do." 
 
 " Well, I want to see them."
 
 i BENJ1E AND THE BOGEY MAN 7 
 
 "There they be then." 
 
 Benjie pointed towards the boat and made as if 
 to lift up his nets. 
 
 " Show them to me," said the Inspector, taking 
 a measure from his pocket. 
 
 " You be the 'Specter, ben' 'ee ?" 
 
 " No nonsense, now," replied the Inspector 
 irritably. " It's my duty to inspect the catches in 
 this fishery district." 
 
 " Very well, then ; inspect away. If 'tis your 
 duty, you can't help o'it. You'm paid for the 
 same. But 'tisn't my duty for to help 'ee. I 
 bain't paid for thic. There's the boat." 
 
 Benjie scratched his whiskers : " And lookse 
 here, Mister 'Spector. These here's me prawns 
 what I've a-laboured for this night. Be so kind 
 as to look." 
 
 He took a small canvas bag from the bow or 
 the boat, walked into the sea, and shook out its 
 contents. The few prawns that stuck in it by 
 their spines he picked out and threw into the 
 water after the rest. " There ! " he said amiably. 
 " Nort but prawns there. You see'd that. But 
 you didn't see how many Benjamin have a-catched, 
 an' you never won't ; n'eet they there starch- 
 collar jokers nuther gen'lemen they calls them- 
 selves what goes downshore disturbing o'it an' 
 catching a man's living for sport, so they says. 
 Sport ! Poaching, /calls it. 'Twas some o' they set 
 'ee on to me 'cause I won't tell 'em what I catches, 
 nor where I shoots my nets. Iss, 'twas ! I knows. 
 There's the boat. You can b y well 'spect the 
 rest o' what I've a-catched. I be going in house
 
 8 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 for me dinner an' a couple o' hours' sleep. An't 
 had a bite since yesterday noon nor any sleep this 
 three nights. I on'y hope your duty won't never 
 bring 'ee to keeping a roof over your head wi' 
 shrimping an' measuring the crabs and lobsters 
 what you catches wi' an inch-rule in the dark." 
 
 Leaving the boat and the nets where they were, 
 Benjie shouldered some drift-wood and strode up 
 the beach. 
 
 " I shouted to 'ee t'other side o' rocks," Bill 
 Prowse protested. 
 
 Benjie stopped and turned, his bearing and 
 appearance that of an ancient prophet. " Hell 
 about your shouting ! Let 'en 'spect, / say. I'll 
 get in out o'it." 
 
 He did. 
 
 The other fishermen stood with their hands in 
 their pockets on top of the sea-wall, while the 
 bogey man routed about in the boat. Under- 
 sized lobsters had been thrown for'ard, among 
 some old cordage and bottles of tea ; crabs were 
 scuttling all over and under the bottom -boards 
 and stern-sheets. Most of them were wildsters, 
 but the bogey man did find half-a-dozen or so of 
 tamesters. Doubtful specimens he measured 
 carefully. When he had finished, he put the 
 undersized shellfish into one of Benjie's sacks. 
 
 " An' the sack alone's wuth half a pint," Bill 
 Prowse remarked in the bogey man's hearing. 
 " Ol' Benjie's so honest an' harmless a man as 
 ever put to sea, for all he has his say out when 
 he's a-minded. He've a- worked too hard all his 
 life for to deserve a turn-out like this here, I
 
 BENJIE AND THE BOGEY MAN 9 
 
 reckon. I tried to warn 'en, but Benjie won't 
 never hear. . . ." 
 
 " What be talking 'bout. You can swim, can't 
 'ee ? Could ha' done that could ha' swimmed 
 out to 'en." 
 
 " Tou didn't try to warn 'en 't all, did 'ee ? 
 An' then you blames me. . . ." 
 
 " What's the fine ? Ten pound ? " 
 
 "Benjie '11 never pay thic out o' his profits. 
 He'll hae to sell up his fishing-boat an' nets 
 aye, an' then go short after that. P'raps they 
 won't make 'en pay, fust time an' all. If the likes 
 o' they, what makes such laws, know'd what the 
 likes o' us has to contend with. . . . But there ! 
 they don't know, nor never won't, n'eet care. 
 Benjie '11 tell 'em off, you see. . . ." 
 
 " G'out ! Let's haul up the boat for 'en. 
 What's the use o' Benjie blowing his hooter ? " 
 
 III 
 
 Benjie was all but late for court. He had 
 gone west downshore to pick up some driftwood 
 for firing, and an unexpected easterly breeze gave 
 him a pull home against wind and chop such as 
 few men would have attempted. No time was 
 left him to change his clothes. 
 
 Vivian Maddicke was on the bench. He 
 always is. He takes his duties as a gentleman 
 and a magistrate almost as seriously as he takes 
 himself. That is to say, he does try, at con- 
 siderable personal inconvenience, to administer 
 justice to hold the balance between an efficient
 
 io HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 and respectful police force and an unruly lower 
 class. He spends, indeed, not a little of his 
 abundant leisure in pointing out to the poor the 
 advantages of hard work, and in impressing upon 
 them his own view of right and wrong. Hence 
 it is, possibly, that his subscriptions and charities 
 and justice hardly bring him a fair return in 
 popularity. 
 
 When Benjie entered the court in his ragged 
 discoloured longshore rig, a faint expression of 
 disgust passed over Vivian Maddicke's pale but 
 otherwise healthy face. He ordered two windows 
 to be opened. " Let us have some fresh air," he 
 said. " Never mind the draught." 
 
 Benjie, though he appeared to be examining 
 the nail-heads in the floor, was all the time look- 
 ing up at the bench from beneath his shaggy 
 eyebrows. He understood the slur very well. 
 Still fingering nervously his old round cap, he 
 turned a pair of candid eyes full on Vivian 
 Maddicke, and Vivian Maddicke, who had been 
 gazing benevolently round the court-room, turned 
 his face to the papers on his desk. 
 
 The case proceeded. There was no legal 
 defence : Benjie had not purchased legal advice. 
 " When I tells 'em how us be situated. . . . " he 
 had said. But he was too much on his guard to 
 give any useful evidence, even on his own behalf. 
 The undersized crabs and lobsters were produced 
 it is wonderful how they fall off in appearance 
 when they have died otherwise than in boiling water. 
 Vivian Maddicke took the opportunity of remark- 
 ing, " I thought we should require some fresh air."
 
 BENJIE AND THE BOGEY MAN n 
 
 The Clerk to the Sea Fisheries Committee a 
 spruce young lawyer in a hurry did not wish to 
 press the case too hard. They would be satisfied 
 with a fine sufficient to show that the regulations 
 of the Sea Fisheries Committee must not be 
 trifled with. The costs of inspection and of 
 prosecution were heavy. He would respectfully 
 suggest to his worship. . . . 
 
 But his worship was not to be hustled among 
 his own people, as he regarded them, by an out- 
 side lawyer. He sat back in his chair, crossed 
 his legs in the magisterial manner, and dug his 
 quill into his desk. When the lawyer had quite 
 finished, he began. 
 
 In fining Benjie one pound, including costs, he 
 remarked that it was not a large sum (murmurs 
 of disapproval from fishermen at the back of the 
 court), and that fishery inspectors were not to be 
 trifled with or defied. Furthermore, he impressed 
 upon Benjie in the most kindly manner possible 
 that little lobsters grow into big ones. 
 
 " Iss, sir," said Benjie, " but the little ones be 
 better eating if people only know'd it, same as 
 mackerel." 
 
 With a passing reference to the depletion of 
 the North Sea fisheries, the magistrate stated it as 
 a fact, that if the fish were not in the sea they 
 could not be caught out of it. 
 
 " For sure, sir 1 " Benjie assented. Under 
 cover of being ready and willing to learn, he was 
 edging in his remarks skilfully ; for it was by no 
 means the first time he had tackled the gentry 
 who think they can teach fishermen their trade.
 
 12 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 With every show of respect, moreover, he was 
 capturing the laugh in court. 
 
 Fishery Committees, Vivian Maddicke con- 
 tinued patiently, were created to protect the 
 fisheries. Their regulations were framed in the 
 interests of the fishermen themselves, so that there 
 might be more fish caught. 
 
 " Don't you believe that, sir," burst forth 
 Benjie with intense conviction. " Do you think 
 the likes o' they makes rules and regylations so 
 that the likes o' us can catch more fish ? 'Tisn't 
 likely ! They bain't afeard o' us not catching 
 fish. What they'm afeard o'is that they won't hae 
 no fish to eat, or won't hae 'em so cheap. Us ! 
 I've a-know'd the time when I could go down 
 along an' catch a pound's-wuth o' lobsters in half- 
 a-dozen rounds wi' the boat-nets ; but I can't 
 do it now. An' why for ? Not 'cause us have 
 a-catched 'em. That's just what us an't done. 
 An' nuther you, sir, n'eet they there Fishery 
 Boards, nor eet me, that have know'd this coast 
 for sixty years, can tell where they'm gone to. 
 Don't you believe they makes their regylations for 
 the good o' us. I can tell 'ee better. How have 'em 
 bettered fishing ? That's what I wants to know." 
 
 The magistrate's clerk had risen during Benjie's 
 passionate harangue. Vivian Maddicke motioned 
 him down. Benjie, by force of his sincerity and 
 in virtue of his long hard experience, held the 
 court. 
 
 " I did not, you understand, frame the regula- 
 tions," Maddicke explained. " My duty is to see 
 they are enforced."
 
 i BENJIE AND THE BOGEY MAN 13 
 
 " Iss ! Duty ! That's what thic Inspector 
 said down to beach. . . ." 
 
 "One pound," Vivian Maddicke repeated 
 with dignity. " And you can have a fortnight to 
 pay in." 
 
 Rising from the bench, he added, " If you care 
 to talk to me out of court about the conditions 
 of your work, I shall be pleased to hear ; and 
 perhaps, if there is any special hardship, I can do 
 something in the matter." 
 
 " Hardship ! Hardship, do 'er say ? " Ad- 
 dressing every one around, gesticulating, trembling 
 with speech, Benjie was hustled from the court- 
 room by those whose duty it is to do such jobs. 
 
 He did not go home as he was told to do ; he 
 waited outside the magistrate's entrance (other 
 fishermen waited too at a discreet distance), and 
 when Vivian Maddicke appeared, picking bits of 
 fluff from the front of his coat, Benjie stood 
 resolutely before him. 
 
 " You said as you'd like to know, sir ; an' you 
 ought to know how we'm situated ; an' I be going 
 to tell 'ee. You ought to know the nature o' it, 
 sir ; you ought to know what us got to contend 
 with, afore you fines a man more'n he can pay 
 wi'out selling up some o' the gear what he's got 
 to earn his living with." 
 
 " But you've a fortnight to pay in." 
 
 " An' I thank you, sir, for that. An' I tell 'ee 
 what. ... I know'd your father ; a proper 
 gen'leman he was ; he used to go fishing 'long 
 wi* me afore you was born. You come down 
 'long wi' me one night an' see what 'tis like for
 
 i 4 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 yourself. Then you'll know. Duty ain't never 
 
 no excuse for not knowing. You can row, can't 
 
 > i " 
 ee ! 
 
 " I used to go in for rowing ; and if you'll 
 send up and let me know when you're going, I 
 will come." 
 
 " That's spoken proper, sir, like your ol' man 
 hisself. 'Tisn't everybody I'd take 'long with 
 me ; but you come, just for one night. That'll 
 teach 'ee more 'n any amount o' chackle. I'll 
 send up for 'ee right 'nuff. Why ! I mind 
 when . . ." 
 
 Maddicke said " Good morning " with the air 
 of a man who has an appointment to keep. 
 
 " Good morning, an' thank you, sir," returned 
 Benjie. 
 
 To the other fishermen, who joined him for 
 the walk back to the beach, all he would say was : 
 " You bide a bit an' see. The likes o' they sort 
 thinks they bain't ignorant, an' us be." 
 
 IV 
 
 Benjie had luck. One afternoon the next 
 week he hauled his boat down the beach, piled his 
 prawn-nets beside it, then waited, instead of telling 
 his fisherman mate to get ready. 
 
 " What be biding for ? " asked Bill Prowse. 
 " You bain't going to take he t'night, be 'ee ? " 
 
 " Iss, I be. Why for not ? Nice calm night, 
 ain't it. 'Er can't very well be sea-sick." 
 
 Bill Prowse jerked his head to seaward. 
 
 The sun had begun to sink behind the dark
 
 i BENJIE AND THE BOGEY MAN 15 
 
 mass of Steep Head. The water, a dead calm, 
 was nevertheless not white calm, as it should have 
 been, for to the south'ard and overhead the piled- 
 up sky was black and heavy. It overshadowed 
 the sea ; seemed to be pressing down upon the 
 water. And there was a feeling of unrest in the 
 still air. 
 
 " Looks thundery, don' it ? " Bill observed. 
 " 'Twas just such another day as this us had thic 
 waterspout. Don't like the looks o'it. You'll 
 get he catched in a storm o' rain, an' wind too, 
 p'raps." 
 
 "What if I do? 'Twon't hurt 'en. An't 
 never hurted me. Send your Polly up to tell 'en 
 I be shoving off in an hour an' should be glad o' 
 his company if he's minded to come. Tell 'en 
 'twill be perty cold come midnight." 
 
 Vivian Maddicke, clothed as if for a shooting 
 expedition in the Arctic regions, was down to the 
 minute. " You might have given me a longer 
 warning," he remarked with make-believe jollity. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Benjie, " so might, if you was 
 going for a drive on land, like you'm used to. 
 But when you'm depending on the sea you never 
 knows from hour to hour what you'm going to 
 be about." 
 
 Very polite as host, but as skipper of his own 
 craft not to be played with, he put the bow-oar 
 into Maddicke's hand. With the fleet of sixteen 
 nets and their buoys piled up on the stern seats, 
 they rowed away westward over Broken Rocks, 
 along the shore, into the wet golden haze of 
 sunset. Whether or no Maddicke found his sea
 
 1 6 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 oar and the beamy boat heavier than he had 
 expected, they did not arrive underneath Steep 
 Head till its outlines were blurred in the twilight, 
 till its redness was become black, and it seemed 
 nothing but a vast overhanging shadow tenanted 
 by mewing but hardly visible seagulls. 
 
 "Now," commanded Benjie, "you row wi' 
 both paddles, please, while I baits the nets, an' 
 then us'll shoot 'em across Conger Pool just the 
 other side o' the Head. Keep her like that. 
 You'll get wet if you splashes. You don't need 
 for to strain yourself." 
 
 From one of his catty sacks Benjie took out a 
 mass of putrid fishmonger's offal fish heads and 
 plaice from which the meat had been filleted 
 which he cut up and fitted into the cross-strings 
 of the nets. The smell made Maddicke shudder ; 
 he turned his head this way and that, but there 
 was no escaping the stink the various sorts of 
 stink. It took the strength out of him as the 
 smell of dead things will do. 
 
 "An' now," directed Benjie with a quiet 
 chuckle of satisfaction, "you paddle along slow 
 across Conger Pool, while I shoots the nets." 
 
 Taking up the hoops from a tangle of corks 
 and lines, trying the baits again to make sure, he 
 cast the nets into the water about three boats' 
 lengths apart, and threw the buoys and lines after 
 them. Maddicke was glad to see them go. He 
 heard Benjie talking all the time, but his brain did 
 not gather very well the sense of what the old 
 man was saying. He sweated at the oars, and 
 yet he was cold. Steep Head loomed above them.
 
 i BENJIE AND THE BOGEY MAN 17 
 
 The sound of the swell, breaking, rattling, swish- 
 ing among the rocks, had in it a sullen wildness 
 not noticeable during full daylight. 
 
 "An* now," said Benjie, when he had shot the 
 sixteenth net and had taken its bearings, " you can 
 hae a bit o' supper. Us got a night's work afore 
 us. No ? Won't 'ee hae nort ? Well, I never 
 don't nuther when I be shrimping, 'cept a mouth- 
 ful o' cold tay. The bread and butter I brings I 
 gen'rally gives to the birds or else carries it home 
 to breakfast. There ! Did 'ee hear thic cliff 
 rooze out to the west'ard ? 'Twill all be into 
 the sea one day, Steep Head an' all. Aye ! 'tis 
 an ironbound shop, this here, but the sea has it 
 sooner or later, specially after rain." 
 
 "There hasn't been much rain lately ?" 
 
 "No. But there's been frostises, an' that's 
 every bit so bad. Now us'll haul up an* see 
 what's there. Perty night for shrimping, this, 
 if it don't come on dirty. Can 'ee see the end 
 buoy ? You can't ? There 'tis ! Now row t'ards 
 it easy now ! " 
 
 Benjie's directions came fast and peremptory 
 while, with the help of the tiller, he grabbed the 
 lines and hauled the nets up through the water, 
 at first gently, then as swiftly as possible. " Pull 
 your outside oar pull inside inside, not outside 
 back outside back both. You'm on the line 
 steady steady there ! Pull outside both 
 easy. Easy, easy now ! I can't haul 'em up 
 straight while you be pulling. Wants some 
 learning, don't it, this here job ? Now row easy 
 up to the next buoy while I shoots this out again.
 
 1 8 HOW'TWAS 
 
 Can't 'ee see it ? / can. There 'tis, thic little 
 black mark in the water just outside the shadow 
 o' the cliff." 
 
 Feeling around the inside of the net, shaking 
 it, holding it up dripping to what light there was, 
 Benjie caught the lobsters and threw them for'ard 
 in the boat, chased the wild crabs with his hands 
 and threw them aft, and placed the prawns care- 
 fully in a basket beside him. Then he shot the 
 net, and the volley of directions began all over 
 again all over again for each net. Maddicke 
 was confused by them. He was still more con- 
 fused, and irritated also, by his own mistakes. 
 He breathed hard with vexation. At the end of 
 the fourth round, the sixty-fourth haul, he was 
 plainly flagging. He was " proper mazed." 
 
 "You be jumping the water wi* your oars. 
 You'll catch one o' they there t'other sort o' crabs 
 an' crack your skull if you bain't careful," Benjie 
 warned him with perceptible satisfaction. " Better 
 to take a rest, an' while I counts the prawns, you 
 measure the lobsters like they says us ought to. 
 Here's a foot-rule I got. The lobsters be under 
 your feet an' for'ard. If you can't see, better to 
 strike a match. We'm out o' everybody's sight 
 hereabout." 
 
 Maddicke felt for a lobster in the dark, and 
 after several gingerly attempts and several 
 amiable warnings from Benjie to mind its claws 
 he succeeded in holding it. He found also the 
 nine -inch mark on the rule ; but while he was 
 trying to spread the lobster out flat on a thwart 
 and to feel where the tip of its beak was, according
 
 i BENJIE AND THE BOGEY MAN 19 
 
 to regulations, the thing nipped him suddenly 
 and savagely. 
 
 " Ough ! " he cried like a child. " Ough 
 ah-h-h ! " 
 
 " What's the matter there ? Can't 'ee do it ? " 
 he heard from the shadow of Benjie, aft. 
 
 " It's bitten me it's biting me now ! " 
 
 " Squeeze his eyes, then he'll leave go. Lord ! 
 They bites me every night, but I don't take no 
 heed o'it." 
 
 Maddicke tore at the lobster. His other hand 
 was nipped in the fleshy part of the thumb. He 
 broke off one claw, and still the other held fast. 
 He stood up and dashed his hand about. He 
 trod on lobsters and crabs. The boat seemed 
 alive with them. The squashy cracking of their 
 shells, partly heard and partly felt. . . . He 
 breathed hard with excitement and with something 
 not far short of horror. 
 
 "Aye ! " remarked Benjie coolly, breaking the 
 nipper from his hand, " a boat in the dark ain't 
 no fit place for measuring lobsters. You've a- 
 spoiled thic. He won't fetch sixpence now. 
 Fine cock-lobster too, what didn't never need 
 no measuring." 
 
 Maddicke, having done the wrong thing, tried 
 to put it right. He fumbled in his pocket and 
 held out a shilling to Benjie. 
 
 "What's that for?" 
 
 "Well, I've spoilt a lobster that didn't need 
 measuring at all, you say. . . ." 
 
 "You just put thic whatever 'tis back into 
 your pocket, please. The likes o' us an't got the
 
 20 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 money for to pay for what us spoils. 'Twasn't 
 your fault. You didn't know. But there ! You 
 wasn't brought up to it like us be. A bit upset, 
 be 'ee ? I could feel 'ee shaking. You hae a rest 
 while I goes ashore an' looks in one or two lobster- 
 holes I knows for. You stay in the boat. "Tis 
 nearly low tide an' her won't hurt for an hour or 
 so where I'll leave 'ee : 'tis a little natural harbour 
 like. If you got time, you can measure the rest 
 o'em an' chuck the undersized ones overboard, 
 when you'm feeling better. My senses, ain't 
 it dark ! " 
 
 Maddicke saw Benjie jump out of the boat 
 with a skim-net in his hand, glimpsed him hop- 
 ping from the nearest rock to the next one, then 
 saw nothing except the black darkness ; but he 
 heard an uncanny chuckle which might equally 
 have come from a man or from a half-awakened 
 sea-bird. Unstrung already by the cold, by 
 hunger, by the unusual toil, by the blind savagery 
 of the lobster, by Benjie's relentless volleys of 
 directions, and above all by his own failures to 
 carry them out, he heard with an oppressive sense 
 of something terrible impending that mutterings 
 of thunder to the southward were being answered 
 by rumblings overland. Everything else was for 
 the moment hushed. A flash of lightning revealed 
 Steep Head, its pinnacles and the patches of bush 
 and bracken upon its upper slopes, and showed 
 up brightly the tumbled rocks around the boat 
 and the blackness of the hollows between them. 
 Rain splashed down. Maddicke shrank into his 
 coat.
 
 i BENJIE AND THE BOGEY MAN 21 
 
 Presently, with a flash that made the blood 
 prick in his veins, and crashes that hit like blows, 
 the storm broke right overhead. Flash followed 
 flash ; crash followed crash, and echoed against 
 the clifF. There was no rest from blinding light 
 and overwhelming noise. The solid earth was in 
 an uproar. Steep Head, it seemed, was toppling 
 over, was tumbling down upon him. 
 
 He tried to reassure himself, then suddenly 
 gave way. In obedience to a blind impulse of 
 flight, he scrambled out of the boat into water 
 that was knee-deep. He gained the rocks, slipped 
 on some seaweed, bruising himself, and fell head- 
 long into a pool. Jumping up quickly, he felt 
 around him. Rocks were everywhere wherever 
 he felt, wherever he tried to go. By the light of 
 the flashes they looked like squat live things, 
 extending on every side, endlessly. The boat 
 was what he wanted again most of all ; that at 
 least seemed to be partly human, to be company 
 for him. But the boat he had lost. He did not 
 even know in which direction it lay. Another 
 flash lit it up only a couple of paces from where 
 he was standing. He lunged out and clutched it, 
 as if it would have slipped away from him. It 
 was a refuge, though the rain ran down his back 
 as he sat on the wet stern-seat. " Benjamin ! 
 Benjamin Prowse ! " he called. " Benjie ! Come 
 back ! " 
 
 Had he looked the right way during a flash he 
 would have seen Benjie's face, screwed up with 
 laughter and mockery, peering at him round a 
 rock close by.
 
 22 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 There was no escaping the cruel brightness of 
 the storm ; no escaping the continuous tumult of 
 thunder. Flashes there were that sounded like 
 the crackling of dry twigs ; others like the flicking 
 of whips. The thunder, reverberating in the 
 darkness, was a relief from the lightning. Some- 
 times Maddicke caught sight of the grotesque 
 shapes of the shellfish : crabs standing up on 
 their hinder legs, bubbling at the mouth, and 
 looking at him with their stalk-like eyes ; lobsters 
 black, shining, and fantastic brandishing their 
 claws. He crouched down on his seat, away from 
 the madness of the sky. He tried to lift up his 
 feet, away from the malice of the wild crabs. 
 The noise they made, scuttling around the boat, 
 teased the silences between the peals of thunder. 
 He covered up his face and ears. He ceased 
 struggling to escape. A shapeless fear, a formless 
 misery that was almost a relief, took possession of 
 him. He was done. 
 
 At last Benjie stepped carelessly into the boat, 
 as if he were boarding a railway train. Maddicke 
 grabbed his wet trousers. " Let's get home ! " 
 he gasped. " I can't stand this." 
 
 "Why, what's the matter?" asked Benjie 
 coolly. " You be flittering like a sail that's up in 
 the wind's eye. Wem going home right 'nufF. 
 There'll be wind along after this. My senses, 
 what a storm ! Did 'ee hear it ? But I've a-see'd 
 worse, aye ! an' down hereunder too." 
 
 Maddicke stayed still ; did nothing to help 
 put the boat to rights. He was helpless. Benjie 
 took hold of him, laid him gently in the bow of *
 
 BENJIE AND THE BOGEY MAN 23 
 
 the boat, covered him up, head and all, with 
 sacking, took both oars, and rowed home- 
 wards. 
 
 Underneath the sacking that smelt of cats, 
 Maddicke dozed off, with the regular rocking 
 sound of the oars in his ears. When that stopped 
 he awoke and looked out dully. The storm had 
 drifted away to the eastward. It was bright star- 
 light above. The boat was j ust outside Salterport. 
 To see the sheltering town, with its gaslights so 
 close at hand, was like waking from a nightmare 
 to find the morning sun shining into the room. 
 Maddicke, safe at home, was another man. His 
 confidence returned, and at the same time he felt 
 ashamed so ashamed that he did not think of 
 helping to haul up the boat. 
 
 While Benjie was saying, "An' now you know 
 what the likes o' us got to contend with," he 
 poked stiff, damp fingers into one of his pockets. 
 " If you will send up to-morrow," he said with 
 returning dignity, " I will give you the sovereign 
 to pay your fine. . . ." 
 
 Benjie flared up. " If you thinks I be 'bliged 
 to call on the likes o' you for the pound to pay 
 me fine wi', you'm much mistaken. I be only 
 too glad you knows the nature o'it. Now you 
 can tell 'em what you thinks. Tell 'em all o'it, 
 not only what's suiting to 'ee. / don't want no 
 pound for teaching o'ee. Be your gold for to pay 
 me for me silence on what I've a-see'd this night 
 when I peeped at 'ee there in the boat to Conger 
 Pool ? Didn' know I was looking, did 'ee ? 
 A perty sight for any one as calls hisself a man !
 
 1 4 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 Pity they fishery people, what you does your 
 duty to, couldn' ha' see'd it ! " 
 
 Maddicke, with a miserable gesture, turned 
 towards the sea-wall lights to go up the beach ; 
 and, on catching sight of his woebegone face, 
 Benjie added in a kindlier tone : " Lookse here, 
 sir, you an't got no call proper for to be ashamed 
 o' fearing the storm. There's many a man born 
 an' bred to fishing what's mortal afeard o' a 
 thunderstorm to sea, an' 'tis worse down under 
 they cliffs ; an' nobody what an't been there 
 wouldn't think what 'twas like ; for 'tis a great 
 an' terrible thing, look you, an' man be nort in 
 the midst o'it. Lord's sakes, an't I felt like it 
 when I been down there by meself ! Will 'ee hae 
 a lobster or two to carry home ? You'm very 
 welcome. Well, then, good night to you, sir, an' 
 thank you. Only don't you deceive yourself that 
 I be going to send up to 'ee for money to pay for 
 what you didn't know. That ain't Benjamin. 
 Good night ! " 
 
 Benjie went so far as to pat Maddicke on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 The sovereign was sent down right enough 
 next morning, together with a note which nobody 
 has ever seen ; and Benjie did accept it. As to 
 the bogey man Benjie congratulates his own self 
 that the bogey man has seldom been seen on the 
 beach since.
 
 JASPAR BRAUND'S BOAT 
 
 I 
 
 JASPAR BRAUND did not row in last year's regatta. 
 He is not likely to row this year. Probably he 
 will never row in any race again. " And a good 
 job, too ! " he says, with the flaming up of a long- 
 standing bitterness. And then he sometimes 
 adds, more in triumph than with an old man's 
 resignation : " I an't got no need for to row any 
 more. I've a- won my race for good." 
 
 All the year round, now, the Bubble lies high 
 and dry on the beach just below his house. For 
 lobster-potting and prawning, and for working his 
 pollack-nets, he uses a little punt he has had 
 built ; but he still keeps the Bubble in such good 
 order that she would look like a new boat if 
 certain parts of her stem and stern did not look 
 even newer. Every second year he scrapes her 
 outside and in, and every spring he gives her a 
 couple of coats of best yacht varnish. For that 
 purpose he wears his reading spectacles, which 
 cause him to peer rather closely into his job, and 
 nearly always, when he is working the varnish 
 well underneath the boat's ribs, his longish white 
 
 25
 
 26 HOW 'TWAS r 
 
 beard brushes against it. " Summer's coming," is 
 the word that travels across the beach. " Summer's 
 coming, sure 'nuff. Ol' Jaspar's varnishing his 
 beard ! " 
 
 At those who stand around, watching and 
 chaffing him, Jaspar flashes back sharp, but not very 
 disagreeable answers. He has mellowed lately. 
 Not so very long ago he was an awkward man to 
 fall foul of, especially after he had had a pint or 
 two. Strangest of all, when he catches anybody 
 measuring the Bubble, instead of flying into a 
 rage, he merely defies them to build another like 
 her. It used to be one of the adventures of the 
 place to measure the Bubble, in order to find out, 
 if possible, why she was so speedy. Hard words, 
 and even blows, were the result if Jasper happened 
 to come along. On one occasion he spent a night 
 in the lock-up for knocking down a member of the 
 Corinthian Sailing Club, then picking him up again 
 like a baby, and throwing him into the sea. Jaspar 
 at the time was almost twice the other man's age. 
 
 All that is over now. The Bubble is pointed 
 out to people as she lies on the beach, shapely 
 enough in midship outline, but curiously stumpy 
 about the stern and bows. " That's Jaspar Braund's 
 boat ; that there's the Bubble. Bought her to 
 Plymouth, he did, an' rowed her up therefrom 
 in a day, which is fifty-six or seven miles, and he 
 was turned fifty hisself. No doubt he worked 
 the tides trust ol' Jaspar for that but 'tis a 
 terrible long distance for to dig out with one pair 
 of arms. And after that her won him every pair- 
 oar race for ten years following, till nobody didn't
 
 JASPAR BRAUND'S BOAT 27 
 
 care for to turn out against him. Wer 'twas the 
 boat won the races, or w'er 'twas Jaspar, nobody 
 can't say. Anyhow, they won 'em together, an' thic 
 boat was like a wife to ol' Jaspar a wife wi' a 
 hellish jealous husband. Bubble he called her, 
 and a bubble her is on the water. I don't suppose 
 there's other boat like her up an' down the coast 
 not all along South Devon. And they can't 
 copy her none of 'em can't not exactly, though 
 they've a-tried hard enough. Ah ! a perty little 
 boat her was, afore he spoilt her for to win his 
 last race. . . . What ? An't 'ee heard tell about 
 thic turn-out ? Why, 'twas like this here. . . ." 
 But, as a matter of fact, the yarn that is told 
 across beach is not complete. In the affairs of 
 old Devon coast towns there are many wheels 
 within wheels, and men are so given to secrecy, 
 that they keep hidden, simply for the sake of 
 doing so, what every one might hear without 
 harm. In consequence, of course, everything 
 becomes known in the end, for everything is 
 worth knowing ; but the wheels within wheels 
 unroll themselves rather slowly ; in Jaspar's case 
 the more slowly, first because the common story 
 seemed to furnish a full explanation of the affair, 
 and, secondly, because a fuller explanation could 
 only come from him. What everybody knows, 
 he himself overhead by accident, just in time. 
 
 II 
 
 One evening, about a week before the regatta, 
 Jaspar strolled into the public bar of the Beach
 
 28 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 Hotel, and called for a pint of beer. He had 
 been moping about for some days, had spent a 
 great deal of his time on the sea-wall, looking out 
 to sea, and had hardly been troubling whether he 
 did anything or not. The landlady, who hears 
 everybody's business discussed, mostly by some 
 one else, tried to cheer him up. 
 
 " Well, Jaspar," she said, " you'll be winning 
 your prize again next week, I suppose ? " 
 
 Jaspar took a drink, put down his pint cup 
 exactly into its own ring of overflow on the table, 
 and said nothing. 
 
 " There's a regatta committee meeting upstairs 
 now," the landlady went on, jerking her head 
 backwards in that direction. "They're late out 
 with the prize-list, aren't they, Jaspar ? I suppose 
 'twill be the same as usual." 
 
 Jaspar shifted in his seat. " I don't trouble 
 me head about it," he growled. " I've finished 
 wi' it. And 'bout time. Not but what I bain't 
 so fit as ever I was Braunds be, till they packs 
 up. I reckon the Bubble and me could show a 
 stern to the likes o' they any day. But I an't got 
 no heart for it, Missis, an' that's the truth. An't 
 got no heart for nort ! " 
 
 " Jaspar, for shame ! " laughed the landlady 
 with a more than professional cheeriness, and 
 possibly a spice of mischief. " You'm like a 
 young man crossed in love, you are. You ought 
 to know better at your age. Here they are, 
 coming down from the meeting. I can hear the 
 chairs moving back. I must get some more 
 glasses washed up."
 
 JASPAR BRAUND'S BOAT 29 
 
 The old man jammed himself into the corner 
 of his seat till he did really look old old in body, 
 as well as grey. " Crossed in love ! " he mumbled 
 to himself, after the fashion of those who are 
 much alone at sea. *' At my age. . . . P'raps I 
 be, Missis. An' p'raps I bain't." 
 
 Most of the committee passed straight through 
 the private bar, on the other side, and out into 
 the street. Three remained, to judge by the 
 drinks they called for namely, a special Scotch 
 and soda, a glass of Burton, and a pint of cider. 
 One voice spoke in the tones of those whom 
 fishermen call "they there haw-haw articles." 
 The second spoke a bastard local English. The 
 third voice kept on falling into the broad dialect 
 of the beach. Now that the meeting was over, 
 they were very full of what ought to be done in 
 order to improve the regatta. 
 
 Although the partition between the private and 
 public bars at the Beach Hotel rises right up to 
 the ceiling, and divides the counter as well, it 
 does not extend into the space behind the counter. 
 Jaspar, sitting in his corner, could hear every 
 word that was said on the other side, and soon 
 the landlady was walking up and down nervously, 
 unable to warn either Jaspar or the committee- 
 men without everybody hearing it. And, knowing 
 Jaspar, she feared a row in her house. 
 
 For very soon the subject of the pair-oar race 
 was brought up. 
 
 " D'you think that'll take all right ? " asked 
 the second voice, " putting the limit for the pair-oar 
 boats at fourteen feet ? Twelve to fourteen, isn't it ? "
 
 3 o HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 " What I always say is this," answered the first 
 voice. " If you want to make a race popular and 
 get a good entry, you must arrange it so that the 
 majority can enter. Years ago there used to be 
 more fifteen-foot boats on the beach ; but now, 
 since they have gone in for thirteen- or fourteen- 
 foot punts, there are hardly any but sailing boats 
 over that length. And by putting the limit at 
 fourteen feet you make the conditions equal for 
 the greatest number. At least, that is my 
 opinion." 
 
 " Certainly," remarked the third voice, " there 
 isn't so many fifteen-foot rowing boats as there 
 was back along. We've a-found out ouf mistake. 
 They'm no good for a beach like ours ; 'cause if 
 you got to haul a fifteen-foot rowing boat up an' 
 down the beach, why you may just so well hae a 
 sailing boat, an' done wi' it. 'Tis nigh the same 
 weight ashore, an' the sail '11 do the work afloat, 
 'less 'tis a flat calm. 'Sides, a beamy little thirteen- 
 foot punt '11 carry so much, an' earn 'ee just so 
 much money, as a narrow fifteen-foot gig." 
 
 " Of course. And you're the fisherman member 
 of the committee ; you ought to know. But they 
 are all so confoundedly conservative here, except 
 when they are wanted to vote straight. Drink 
 up, William. Have something else. You'll have 
 another, won't you, Mr. Kerswell ? " 
 
 "No . . . ." 
 
 " No, you have one 'long wi' me, sir." 
 
 " No, no, thanks. I'm late for dinner already. 
 Let me leave one with you." 
 
 Jaspar heard the louder rap of empty glasses
 
 i JASPAR BRAUND'S BOAT 31 
 
 upon the counter ; then heard the haw-haw article 
 say " Good-night," and go out. Mr. Kerswell 
 was the first to speak. 
 
 " I should have thought," he said, " that if a 
 man wanted to handicap himself in a race by 
 rowing a bigger boat, there wasn't no objection. 
 Won't a fourteen -foot limit put Jaspar Braund 
 out of the running with his racer ? " 
 
 " Course 'twill, an' serve 'en right, too. Mean 
 ol' scrawler ! But that wasn't his real reasons 
 what he gave him that's just gone out. He 
 don't care about no entry, 'cept to stop ol' Jaspar 
 entering. Ah ! he've never forgiven ol' Jaspar, 
 nor never won't, for chucking of him into the 
 water when he was trying to measure the Bubble 
 after dark for to get another built like her. And 
 he wouldn't never have got the Bubble's equal 
 copy, after that ; so Jaspar might just so well 
 have bided quiet. Boats is like people, I tell 
 'ee ; it takes all sorts to make a world, and no 
 two o'em's alike. But that's what was in his 
 mind, right 'nuff, when he proposed fourteen foot 
 to get to win'ard of ol' Jaspar." 
 
 " But I thought it was you mentioned it first 
 at the meeting, Mr. Barton. . . ." 
 
 " Certainly I did for to get it over. I know'd 
 'twas going to be brought up. 'Tis a bit hard on 
 Jaspar, but there 'tis ; he've a-had his day or 
 ought to have, and I don't care who hears me 
 say it." 
 
 Jaspar heard him plainly. The landlady had 
 been making signs and grimaces to him, but he 
 motioned to her to keep quiet, and as he seemed
 
 32 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 to be taking the conversation very well, she did 
 so. Mr. Kerswell went on : 
 
 " What's that they're saying about old Braund 
 and Tom Sandover's maid ? " 
 
 "G'out!" said William Barton. " Silly ol' 
 fool ! Ought to know better at his time of life ; 
 so did the maid ; walking out wi' her grandfather 
 up along dark lanes. Her's plenty old 'nuff for 
 to know what's what. Pretty nigh thirty, her is. 
 But Tommy Sandover hisself has put his foot 
 down on that. My sister, what lives to the back 
 of the gentleman's house, where her's in service, 
 and used to see 'em, her's see'd ol' Jaspar hanging 
 round, but her says her an't see'd 'em together 
 this week or so. The maid don't come out. 
 'Tisn't no use for to talk ; Jasper's getting on ; 
 he's sixty if he's a day ; and if he don't know it, 
 he'll have to be teached. He've a-brought it on 
 hisself. But he's going to be teached now, you 
 see. He won't win thic race not in another 
 boat ; and certain sure he won't get thic maid. ..." 
 
 There was a noise of heavy boots on the other 
 side. " You're a liar ! " shouted Jaspar Braund 
 in a voice very thick and hasty. " You're a liar, 
 Bill Barton ! You always was. Who backed out 
 of the lifeboat thic time, saying 'twas doctor's 
 orders ? " 
 
 The boots clattered again. Instinctively Bill 
 Barton shaped himself to fight, and Mr. Kerswell 
 drank up hastily. But Jaspar did not come 
 round to the private bar. He went away. 
 
 Next morning, by breakfast time, the Bubble 
 was gone from her berth on the beach. It was
 
 , JASPAR BRAUND'S BOAT 33 
 
 reported that Jaspar had taken her through his 
 house and up behind, into his linhay ; further- 
 more, that he had had a shindy with Bill Barton, 
 and that Bill Barton had threatened to put his 
 boot through the Bubble. " OF Jaspar," they 
 said, "would so soon have a boot through his- 
 self!" It was also said that Jaspar, enraged by 
 the fourteen-foot limit, had broken up the Bubble 
 for firewood, and this second rumour was traced 
 back to a chance remark of Jaspar's own. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Regatta day broke very calm and fine. Cats- 
 paws, driven out to sea by a light land wind, were 
 just enough to keep the water in a ripple and give 
 it life. So quiet was the breaking of little waves 
 against the shingle that the sound of them seemed 
 dreamlike and far-distant. When the sun lifted 
 itself over the eastern cliff, driving away a lurry 
 of mist to the southward, it lighted the ripples 
 with colour ; pearl-grey and milky pink, and 
 flashes of red and orange, all twinkling into one 
 another, till the sea, for a few moments at break 
 of day, was one vast jewel. Then the sun caught 
 the cliffs to the westward, so suddenly lighting 
 them up that they seemed to advance against the 
 sea. And in the midst of it all, looking black and 
 very small in size, lay one little boat at moorings. 
 
 Later on, several arguments took place along 
 the sea-wall about that boat. Men who can tell 
 every craft on the beach a mile off disagreed. 
 Those who saw her broadside- on declared that
 
 34 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 'twas not the Bubble, for its stem and stern were 
 singularly upright, whereas the Bubble s had raked 
 outwards, fore and aft, and her over-all measure- 
 ment, as every one knew, was much greater than 
 the length of her keel. Those, on the contrary, 
 who saw the little boat swing round, endways-on, 
 were equally certain that it was Jaspar's Bubble. 
 By and by, a fleet of racing dinghies, coming up 
 from the westward astern of a steam tug, and 
 fishing- boats arriving from other ports, drew 
 men's attention away from the moored boat. 
 
 The dinghies, with their silken sails, made 
 sport of the light airs. The fishing boats, with 
 their great dipping lugsails, formed a splendid 
 spectacle on the water, but they could hardly get 
 along, and had to be called off after their first 
 round. Last of all, and late, was the pair-oar 
 race. 
 
 " Didn't I tell thee so ? " was said on all sides 
 when Jaspar, stripped to his short-sleeved, low- 
 necked sailor's flannel, rowed out to the moored 
 boat, boarded her, and pulled himself, with long, 
 easy strokes, to the starting-buoy. " What on 
 earth's the use of he turning out ? " said some. 
 
 " Jaspar'll beat 'em all, you see," said others ; 
 and such, when it came to the point, was local 
 pride in the old man and his boat and his oarsman- 
 ship, that they cheered him off, shouting his name, 
 and caring little whether his boat was qualified or 
 not. The race was the thing to be won, not the 
 prize. 
 
 Three buoys marked out the triangular course 
 of a mile or so. At the first buoy Jaspar was
 
 i JASPAR BRAUND'S BOAT 35 
 
 leading. At the second buoy he had increased 
 his lead far beyond what was necessary. Then, 
 doubling down and putting his back into it, he 
 rowed right away from the rest. " Ol' fool ! " 
 said the wiseacres, " doing more than he's any 
 need to." But the biggest cheer of the day 
 welcomed him home. 
 
 A motor boat sped out and hailed him. He 
 changed his course, and landed opposite the 
 committee's tent. 
 
 " You'm over length ? " some one shouted just 
 as his boat touched the beach. 
 
 " Be I ? " he answered, crawling out. " Here, 
 give us a hand to haul her up a bit, will 'ee, 
 please ? " 
 
 Jaspar himself did not touch the boat. The 
 veins in his neck were working, and by the twitch 
 of his grizzled face he seemed to be in pain. 
 
 " Is that the Bubble you've got there ? " de- 
 manded the regatta secretary. 
 
 " For sure 'tis or 'twas," replied Jaspar. 
 " You can measure her if you'm minded." 
 
 " She's over length. We know that already. 
 You're disqualified." 
 
 " Measure ! Measure ! " said Jaspar. He 
 spoke with a threatening quietness. 
 
 They did measure her. She was under length 
 by an inch. 
 
 " Why, what have you done to her ? " they 
 asked eagerly. " 'Tis the Bubble right enough. 
 You've cut her down. You've spoilt your boat, 
 Jaspar." 
 
 " I knows it," said Jaspar. " I've a-spoilt me
 
 36 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 boat. I've a-cut down the Bubble the Bubble as 
 used to be. You thought you was going to get 
 to win'ard o' us, an', blast you, I've a-won ! " 
 
 His voice rose. In a wailing shout, as if he 
 might break into tears, he flung his curses at 
 everybody near, raising his hands and shaking his 
 fists. He made as if to put his own boot through 
 the Bubble, and then stooped down and smoothed 
 her varnish. 
 
 And suddenly, again, he stopped. He had 
 caught sight of a face among the crowd that was 
 gathered round. Almost running up the beach 
 he gripped a young woman by the arm. 
 
 " Come on ! " he said. " I've a-won, and you 
 knows what you told me." 
 
 " Oh, I didn't say it, Jaspar ! " 
 
 " Come on ! " he repeated, " an' let's get away 
 from the hellers. Come on, 'long wi' me, to sea, 
 out o'it ! " 
 
 Half enticing, half compelling, he put her 
 aboard the Bubble, and shoved off; and, with 
 lame, short strokes of his oars, he rowed away to 
 the westward. 
 
 The spectators gathered together in twos and 
 threes. " That's Tommy Sandover's maid he's 
 took away. Where's Tommy ? If Tommy know'd 
 this. . . . 'Fore all thic crowd o' people. ..." 
 
 But the Bubble was beyond hail. She kept on 
 her course, westward under the cliffs ; and though 
 she was watched by many far-sighted eyes, first 
 the shadow of the cliffs and then darkness spread 
 over the sea and hid her.
 
 i JASPAR BRAUND'S BOAT 37 
 
 IV 
 
 That was the Bubble s last trip. Ever since 
 then she has lain on the beach. Barely a month 
 after the regatta, Jaspar took Tommy Sandover's 
 maid home to his house ; and it was quite recently, 
 when I happened to ask him why he never used 
 the Bubble, that the rest of the story came out. 
 
 " I never uses her," he said, " 'cause I can't 
 bring myself to it. I an't got no pride in her, 
 not to go to sea in, now her's cut down. It 
 didn't change her water-line, nor yet her speed in 
 smooth water, but it did spoil the shape o' her, 
 and there 'tis. Her's the Bubble, sure 'nuff, and 
 yet her isn't ; and / remembers what the Bubble 
 was. I an't got no heart for to use her." 
 
 "Why ever did you spoil her," I asked, 
 " simply to win a race ? " 
 
 " 'Twasn't that," he replied quickly. " And 
 'twasn't on account of Bill Barton. Him 'twas 
 that started the fourteen-foot limit, because several 
 of 'em agreed across beach to share and share 
 alike with the prizes, whether they won or not, 
 and I wouldn't fall in with it. 'Course I wouldn't ! 
 The prize was mine by rights, and always had 
 been. So they put he up to tricking me out 
 o'it. 
 
 " Do 'ee think I'd ha' spoilt the Bubble for 
 that ? Not me ! You see, 'twas like this really : 
 
 "After my first wife died, I did get lone- 
 lier an' lonelier, till I thought I was going fair 
 mazed wi' it ; and I took to talking to my ol' 
 woman that is (only her isn't old) for the sake of
 
 38 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 passing the time ; an' 'fore I know'd where I was, 
 I was a-courting of her. An' her was kind-like 
 to me, although her people tried to stop it all they 
 know'd how. Made me feel young again, it did. 
 
 " Then her people persuaded of her that I was 
 too old for to marry gone past it me that felt 
 so young an' strong as ever I was ! And her 
 wouldn't come out to me, till one night I catched 
 her going to post wi' her missis's letters, and then 
 her told me. Crying her was, too. 
 
 " So I says to her : f Annie,' I says, l have any 
 of they there young men winned the pair-oar race 
 this nine years.' 
 
 " And her was bound for to answer, c No.' 
 
 " 'Well,' I says, 'will 'ee believe I'm fit for to 
 marry 'ee if I wins thic race this year again ? ' 
 
 "And her didn't answer, which I took for 
 * Yes ' ; though, mind you, I was got so mazed 
 wi' it all that I didn't believe I could win it. That 
 is, I wasn't feeling sure, and I was in two minds 
 whether or not to drop all o'it. 
 
 " 'Twas that same evening I heard what they 
 was saying in to the Beach Hotel. You must 
 know what I felt like when I heard 'em, same as 
 you knows how it turned out. 
 
 " If it hadn't ha' been for all o'it, if it hadn't 
 ha' been for my wife that is, I'd never ha' cut 
 down the Bubble never, so long as I lived. My 
 God, I'd never have hurt thic little boat ! A 
 perty little boat her was to me. 
 
 " But they said I was grow'd too old for to 
 marry. They said Jaspar was done for. And 
 they persuaded her.
 
 i JASPAR BRAUND'S BOAT 39 
 
 " How's that ? " he went on, going over to the 
 Bubble and lifting a small child out of her, where 
 children in the old time were never allowed to 
 play. " How's that ? Do 'ee think her's like 
 me ? Her's mine Daddy's Nannie, hain't 'ee, 
 smutty-face twenty year younger than the young- 
 est of my first family what's scattered all about 
 the world, and maybe dead ; and I tell thee 
 Braunds bain't never done for till they'm dead ! 
 And I reckon I've a-proved it, too." 
 
 " You'll win that race again yet," I said, half 
 in joke, because the old man was so terribly 
 serious. 
 
 He took my hand and placed it inside his coat 
 against his shoulder. 
 
 " Do 'ee feel thic hollow ? 'Twill never go 
 away, the doctor says, not at my age. I busted a 
 cord there thic day a sinew, they calls it, broke 
 and 'twill never join up. I can paddle about, you 
 know, but I shan't never race no more. I've 
 a-won my race for good. 
 
 "The missis'll tell 'ee 'tis true. Her's so 
 proud as can be o'it 'cause 'twas done on account 
 of her, no doubt. A sight prouder, her is, I do 
 believe, o' me an' me Jacob's hollow than her is 
 o' thic there kid. But / bain't, 'cause Nannie's 
 my prize, what I've a-winned." 
 
 Jaspar smiled to himself, as men do when 
 they've won their race.
 
 TO SAVE LIFE 
 
 " HE'S in the town, I tell 'ee." 
 
 " G'out ! What be talking 'bout ? " 
 " Why the lifeboat 'spector, for sure ; an' he's 
 in the town, I tell thee. Dickey Whimple see'd 
 'en up to station last night." 
 
 " Maybe 'er is in the town," said another, an 
 older fisherman, " but it don't follow 'er '11 send 
 the lifeboat out a day like this yer. "Tisn't fit. 
 My senses ! bain't it cold. I told 'ee us'd hae it 
 when us did." 
 
 The little knot of men fishermen unable to 
 go to sea, old fishermen and shivering beach- 
 combers attracted as usual to the lifeboat-house 
 by rumours that the inspector was around, talked 
 and argued in a lee corner behind the west wall of 
 the squat red-painted building whose tall doors 
 face the Channel. Continually the group broke 
 up and formed again, because first one man, then 
 another, peeped out to the south'ard or stamped 
 across the road to warm his feet. For two days 
 and nights a south-easterly gale, with savage 
 snow-squalls in it, had been blowing upon the 
 coast. More and more the measured thump of 
 a great ground-swell had, except at low tide, 
 
 40
 
 i TO SAVE LIFE 41 
 
 drowned the noise of breaking water, the rattle 
 of shingle, and the hollow booming of the wind ; 
 for when a ground-swell grows heavy enough to 
 shake the beach, then the ear awaits each wave 
 and listens for little else. During brief bursts of 
 sunshine the sea outside looked almost calm, so 
 uniformly churned-up was its discoloured surface. 
 When squalls darkened water and sky, blobs of 
 foam blew overhead across the road, mixed with 
 snowflakes, and almost as white. Both swirled 
 even into the corner where the fishermen and beach- 
 combers stopped talking only to light their pipes. 
 
 " Tisn't as if we fellers don't want the money, 
 'cause us do," declared a lifeboatman. 
 
 " Aye ! an' the helpers wants their couple o' 
 shillings, too." 
 
 " If 'tis wuth a couple o' shillings," said the 
 lifeboatman, " for you chaps as stays ashore an' 
 only hauls on ropes, 'tis wuth ten pound for to 
 go out there this day. Not that I can't do wi' 
 the six shillings they gives 'ee. I an't earned 
 a pound this month." 
 
 " 'Tisn't fit ! " the old fisherman repeated. 
 " Better to go short than to go out there, practis- 
 ing, the likes o' this weather. Practising, they 
 calls it ! Practising short cuts to t'other place. 
 'Tisn't a case o' saving life ; that's another thing. 
 Would 'em like to go out theirselves, what sends 
 'ee an' calls 'ee brave fellows, an' puts 'ee in the 
 
 paper. Not they ! Here 'er is though, sure 
 
 ' o* i 
 nuff ! 
 
 The inspector, the coxswain, the local secretary, 
 and the chairman of the lifeboat committee were
 
 42 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 even then making their way along the sea-wall 
 against the wind. They opened the doors of the 
 lifeboat-house. Already the men were beginning 
 to run up. 
 
 "Well, coxswain ?" the inspector asked. 
 
 " 'Tis like this, sir," said the coxswain, in his 
 slow way ; " if us can get off through the surf, 
 we'm there for better or for worse ; but 'tis a 
 middling gert lop so big as I've a-see'd this 
 twenty year an' I can't say about getting ashore 
 safely or wi'out damaging the boat. . . ." 
 
 " You'd go out to a wreck, wouldn't you ? " 
 the chairman interrupted brusquely. 
 
 " Why, yes ; o' course, sir." 
 
 " Well, then, inspector, there is no reason why 
 they shouldn't go out now." 
 
 " And there ain't no reason why they should ! " 
 growled a man among the crowd. 
 
 The rocket was fired. The town, hitherto so 
 small-looking and quiet beside the furious sea, 
 sprang to life. Men hurried to the lifeboat- 
 house from all directions. In spite of the storm 
 and the driving, blinding spray, the townsfolk and 
 some visitors gathered on the sea-wall, where they 
 could get a good view ; children flocked out of 
 lanes and the women stood at the tops of them, 
 holding their skirts down with one hand and 
 sheltering their eyes with the other. The cox- 
 swain distributed helpers' tickets to the men he 
 required, and the lifeboat, standing high and 
 proudly on her carriage, was hauled as far as the 
 middle of the road. There she stopped, helpless 
 on land by herself.
 
 i TO SAVE LIFE 43 
 
 " Come, lads ! " the coxswain shouted to his 
 men. 
 
 But the lifeboatmen, instead of lending a hand 
 with the ropes, collected together on one side, 
 shouting to each other with much gesticulation in 
 order to be heard above the storm. Between the 
 prolonged thuds of the ground-swell certain angry 
 phrases detached themselves from the hubbub. 
 
 'Tisn't fit ! " 
 
 " Oh, I be willing enough. . . ." 
 
 ** There's reason in all things." 
 
 "The likes o' they. ..." 
 
 " Ought to be ' All together, boys ! '" 
 
 Finally, one man stood forward and refused to 
 go. Perhaps because he is well known to be a 
 rough-weather fisherman Old Hell-About-It, he 
 is called three others followed his example. 
 
 "Turn them out of the boat and call for 
 volunteers," said the chairman. 
 
 Not a fisherman was willing to replace them. 
 A visitor and two townsmen did volunteer, but 
 the coxswain, after looking them up and down, 
 
 said shortly : " I bain't going to put to sea 'long 
 
 ' ^i_ " 
 wi they. 
 
 " Call a committee meeting at once ! " snapped 
 the chairman, losing his temper. " Are the fisher- 
 men here afraid of the sea ? " 
 
 "Liar!" and "Go theeself!" and "Thee's 
 take care not to go ! " reached his ear as he left 
 the lifeboat-house with the inspector and the 
 secretary to attend the meeting. 
 
 Another snow-squall blew up and the spectators 
 scuttled away into shelter, until the lifeboat was
 
 44 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 left alone in the road, still high on her carriage, 
 still spirited in outline and proud in her white, 
 red and blue paint, facing the sea, ready to take 
 her buffeting, but buffeted now only by wind and 
 snowflakes and blown spume ; and the men who 
 should have been in her, stood on the lee side of 
 her, cursing. 
 
 Though the committee meeting was private, 
 what passed at it soon leaked out. The lifeboat, 
 the chairman said, had done no work for a long 
 time. Because, explained the secretary, there had 
 been fewer wrecks, owing to the decrease in 
 sailing-ships. " She is called," retorted the chair- 
 man, " the fishermen's plaything ! " On that 
 account, the committee agreed, subscriptions were 
 falling off. That was the point ; but the inspector's 
 question, whether the lifeboat ought not to be 
 removed, was heartily negatived, for a lifeboat is 
 held to be a profitable attraction to a seaside town. 
 The chairman spoke of mutiny, and wanted to 
 throw out of the boat the whole of the old crew, 
 until the secretary advised him that a new crew 
 might be difficult to obtain. In view of the falling 
 subscriptions, however, the lifeboat had, if possible, 
 to go to sea. It was resolved to use one more 
 effort to bring the men to their senses ; a com- 
 promising soul offered to make their pay up to 
 half a sovereign each ; and the meeting broke up. 
 
 Down by the lifeboat, beachcombers and loafers, 
 afraid for their shillings, taunted the lifeboatmen 
 with being afraid of the sea, and threw out such 
 other slurs as they dared. Visitors, coming out 
 of shelter after the snow-squall, asked questions
 
 i TO SAVE LIFE 45 
 
 and remarked that they thought lifeboats could 
 put to sea in any weather. Useless to explain to 
 them the difficulties of getting off from, and 
 landing on, a lee shore. The crew did not want 
 to explain. They put their heads together, 
 cowering like a herd of bulls yapped at by terriers, 
 and kept to themselves. 
 
 "Well, men," said the inspector, returning to 
 the lifeboat-house, " are you going to do your 
 duty ? " 
 
 "They are all looking at you," added the 
 chairman, with a glance at the row of people in 
 great-coats, mackintoshes, and gloves along the 
 sea-wall. 
 
 " Hell about it ! " burst out the man whose 
 nickname that was. " Let 'em look. That's the 
 use o'em looking on. I'll go an' it's me last 
 time ! " He made a move towards the ropes ; 
 the rest followed. 
 
 " Haul away, boys ! " the coxswain shouted. 
 
 " We will make your money up to ten shillings," 
 said the compromising soul. 
 
 Old Hell - About - It turned round on him. 
 " You keep your b y money an' take it with 
 you when you dies. Do 'ee value our lives at 
 four shillings more than six ? Us don't, n'eet 
 our wives an' chil'ern. A life for a life, us 
 reckons, an' you says a life for ten bob. Come 
 on, chaps ! Haul away, an' let's get to sea, out 
 o'it." 
 
 Steadily, very steadily, the lifeboat on her 
 carriage was lowered down the beach, until she 
 was poised over the topwash of the surf like a
 
 46 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 huge sea-bird springing for flight. Hot words 
 ran up and down the strings of men on the tackle. 
 The hawser, which runs from a mast beside the 
 lifeboat-house out to sea, was slacked, so that the 
 crew could catch hold in order to haul their boat 
 out bows-on against the waves. Cork-jacketed, 
 they climbed in over the gunwale. The bowman 
 took his place up for'ard ; the coxswain braced 
 himself to the yoke-lines of his rudder. 
 
 Unwilling work, the launch was badly judged. 
 The boat touched ground, and while the crew 
 were hauling her off- shore on the hawser, a 
 still greater wave rose up outside, curled over 
 cavernously, and broke aboard. Still they hauled 
 off; but when the lifeboat shook herself free, it 
 was seen that the bowman had disappeared. And 
 on the oars being put out one short, it was 
 rapidly noised along the sea-wall that another 
 man must have been injured. The spectators, 
 being thrilled uncomfortably, now said that the 
 boat ought never to have been launched. 
 
 She kept on her course, at one time lifted high, 
 a small thing among the crested seas ; at another 
 time hidden behind a wave. Her stumpy masts 
 went up ; then her bits of sails. The crowd's 
 indrawing of breath, every time she disappeared, 
 was like a groan. Fishermen pointed excitedly at 
 her, keeping their arms held out, each time they 
 saw her sheet let fly. 
 
 Nevertheless, she beat to windward, sailed 
 home free, and made a lucky landing among 
 waves that, had she sheered, would have stove her 
 in against the beach.
 
 i TO SAVE LIFE 47 
 
 When two bodies were lowered from her and 
 carried up the beach, the old fisherman who had 
 been talking in the lee of the lifeboat-house lifted 
 his voice above the shouting and the din : 
 
 " Poor fellows ! " he cried, in a wild, moaning 
 voice. " All for nort ! Two lives lost an' not a 
 life out there to save ! " 
 
 They were not dead, however. The bowman 
 was badly bashed and the other man had some 
 limbs broken. They were taken away to the 
 hospital ; and on going to hang up their cork 
 jackets, the remainder of the lifeboatmen, with 
 the exception of the coxswain, who was near his 
 pension age, resigned in a body. 
 
 " 'Tain't wuth it ! " they said. 
 
 The lifeboat was without a crew. 
 
 As if to mock human squabbles, the south- 
 easterly gale blew itself out that evening. The 
 sea calmed down. Boats and gear were got out 
 on the beach ready for the herrings. Then the 
 wind veered, and soon it blew a living gale from 
 the sou' west. 
 
 Just before dawn, people in their beds heard 
 the whirring hiss of an ascending rocket. Was 
 it, they wondered before it broke, for the lifeboat 
 or a fire ? 
 
 It was for the lifeboat. 
 
 Daylight, grey and stormy, revealed, some 
 miles to windward, a coasting schooner in distress, 
 drifting inevitably, with the wind in that quarter, 
 upon the lee shore. A cross-sea was running, 
 steeper and more broken than that of the recent 
 south-easter. " Better to let her run ashore under
 
 48 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 the cliffs," was the advice of several, "and take 
 them off with the rocket apparatus." 
 
 But the lifeboat's men, who belonged to her no 
 longer, would have none of it. " Aye ! " they 
 said, " an' let 'em get knocked abroad under they 
 cliffs an' be drowned to a man. Come on ! Launch 
 the lifeboat, an' if us fails to take 'em off then 
 you can but try the rocket apparatus afterwards. 
 Come on, coxswain ! Haul her out. Thee ca'st 
 hae a volunteer crew this time, skipper, o' men as 
 hain't afeard o' the sea." 
 
 After that, chaff and work went together. 
 
 Leaving their boats and gear for old men, 
 women, and children to drag away from the rising 
 tide, the lifeboatmen put to sea. Cheers sent 
 them off, and, after several hours, much more 
 than cheers welcomed them back. Their long 
 heavy fight to get to the schooner and to take off 
 her crew was fully reported in . the newspapers 
 of the day. They saw themselves described 
 as heroes, and though they were not displeased, 
 the remarks they made were bitter. 
 
 The same men are still in the lifeboat, except 
 the coxswain (retired) and the broken-limbed man 
 who died of hospital pneumonia, and had a lifeboat 
 funeral to console his wife and children and to 
 add to the attractions of the town. The crew 
 spoke their mind plainly for once when the in- 
 spector returned after the wreck and the committee 
 had them before it to pay them. While the chair- 
 man was opening the proceedings with a speech 
 about the possibility of overlooking offences due 
 to ignorance, Old Hell-About-It interrupted, ad-
 
 i TO SAVE LIFE 49 
 
 dressing himself to the inspector alone : " You'm 
 a seaman, sir they there ignorant coons hain't 
 an' you ought to know how us be situated. What's 
 the good o' thiccy chairman blowing his hooter ? 
 The likes o' they don't know what us got to con- 
 tend with, an' if you tells 'em they won't believe 
 'ee. / be willing to join the lifeboat again if you 
 askis me. We'm always ready to save life an' us 
 don't want nort for thic ; us never knows when 
 we'm going to be wrecked ourselves in our own 
 little craft ; but us bain't going to risk our lives, 
 what's got wives an' chil'ern depending on us, for 
 to make a spectacle for they to look at, not for six 
 shillings. . . ." 
 
 " Aye ! aye ! " 
 
 " N'eet for ten ! "
 
 ANOTHER PRODIGAL 
 
 " Kiss me, then." 
 
 The Man, evidently a labourer tramping to 
 find work, spoke so to a rough-coated black and 
 tan dog of the lurcher type, that was walking 
 beside him. As they went on down the rough, 
 long hill to Salterport, the dog appeared more 
 graceful, more intelligent, altogether less animal, 
 than his master. Yet the Man also had the pic- 
 turesque quality of a living being in harmony 
 with its surroundings. The mud on his trousers 
 seemed hardly out of place. His corduroy gar- 
 ments, split here and there, had become earthy in 
 colour ; his discoloured scarf was riding up his 
 throat ; his shirt for want of buttons gaped open 
 over a hairy chest ; and, as visible property, he 
 carried an old greenish-black jacket slung over his 
 shoulder, and some smaller things tied up in a red 
 handkerchief spangled with what once upon a 
 time were white stars. He reminded one of those 
 sculptured figures which scarcely emerge from 
 the rough-hewn marble ; only in his case the 
 marble was like the soil of the fields round about. 
 
 Except to pick blackberries from the high 
 tangled hedge, his clumsy tramp was uninter- 
 
 50
 
 i ANOTHER PRODIGAL 51 
 
 ruptcd. When he stopped the dog would go on 
 a few yards and stop too. In the way the dog 
 looked round and waited there was something 
 very forbearing, strangely significant. 
 
 At a turn in the road they were able to see 
 below them the narrow green valley, made hazy 
 by the creeping smoke from Salterport village, the 
 cornfields and pastures of the heather-capped hills, 
 and the rippled waters of the English Channel. 
 Little white houses were dotted among the trees 
 near the sea. The sun shone on a window as if a 
 star was resting on earth. A dog's barking and 
 a slight murmur uprose. 
 
 The Man walked on, merely turning his face 
 towards the village. He ceased, however, his 
 frequent calls to the dog. What he thought, if 
 he did think, there is no telling. Neither sadness, 
 nor joy, nor any other emotion was reflected on 
 his face. The hills were more expressive. But 
 as he lumbered down the last part of the hill, his 
 pace was so much faster that his hob-nails rattled 
 on the flints. 
 
 About two hours afterwards, a small group of 
 fishermen stood where the Shore Road merges 
 into the beach. 
 
 " Here's a Weary Willie, an' no mistake," 
 said one. 
 
 The Man, his dog beside him, was lurching out 
 of a public bar the other side of the road. He 
 made, in as straight a line as possible, for the little 
 group. One or two moved off, but not out of 
 hearing.
 
 52 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 He stumbled up to a tall, bearded fisherman 
 and poked him in the chest. 
 
 "Yer. D'jouknowl?" 
 
 " Can't say as I do." 
 
 He went on to a second, whom he likewise 
 poked familiarly in the chest. 
 
 "Yer. D'jouknow I?" 
 
 "No. /don*." 
 
 The second fisherman had flinched and moved 
 back distrustfully. Therefore the Man returned 
 to the first. 
 
 Among the fishermen his loose, torn, dirty 
 yellow corduroys by the side of their muscular 
 forms clad in tight jerseys and navy-blue he 
 looked a poor figure. But some change had come 
 over his face. Perhaps the drink, which has its 
 use not only in baring the inner man to the 
 world and in showing sepulchres unwhited, but, 
 sometimes, in resuscitating for an hour the finer 
 thoughts of a man, so long and so far trampled 
 beneath as to be usually forgotten perhaps the 
 drink had done that same treacherous service for 
 him. His skin was no less thick, his beard no 
 less scrubby ; but now his eyes, deeply crows- 
 footed, shone fervently, as if they had never been 
 dull and lifeless, mere instruments for seeing the 
 way, as if they had been used to look afar, not 
 merely beneath his feet. Like a man who had 
 never sold but little less than the whole of himself 
 for bread, he glanced around, free-eyed. Drunk 
 repossessed by a hope, maybe of his boyhood, 
 he looked more of a man than when he was 
 sober.
 
 ANOTHER PRODIGAL 53 
 
 Again he poked the tall fisherman in the chest, 
 and asked with a tone of cajolery in his voice : 
 " Yer, you knows I now, don' 'ee ? " 
 
 No." 
 
 " You 'member Mrs. Fricker ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What used to sell winkles on the beach an' 
 mend nets ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well. She never cheated nobody, did she ! " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Well. She was my mother." 
 
 "Oh." 
 
 " Yer. D'jou know I now ? " 
 
 "Yes, I knows 'ee." 
 
 Well, will 'ee sell I yer fish ? " 
 
 "H'm. . . ." 
 
 " Look yer. You 'member my mother ? " 
 
 " I've a-told 'ee." 
 
 " She was straight, wasn' 'er ? She never did 
 nobody, did 'er ? " 
 
 "No, herdidn'." 
 
 " I be her son. Will 'ee sell I yer fish, what 
 you catches ? " 
 
 " Us knows who to sell 'em to now when we 
 got any." 
 
 " You won't ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Yer " each time he said yer he accompanied 
 it with a dig in the fisherman's chest "yer! 
 You 'member my mother, Mrs. Fricker, as was?" 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " An' you won't sell I yer fish ? "
 
 54 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 " No. Us won't." 
 
 He turned unsteadily to the dog, put his jacket 
 on the ground and said : " Lay down ! " At once 
 the dog laid his head and forepaws on the jacket. 
 His master and he watched one another. 
 
 " Is that right, what he says ? " a bystander 
 inquired of the fishermen. 
 
 " Oh, yes. That be right enough. I recog- 
 nised 'en so soon as he said who he was." 
 
 " The dog seems obedient. Is it his own, do 
 you think ? I saw him go to a butcher's in the 
 village and buy it a pound of beefsteak good 
 meat. He cut it up with his jack-knife and threw 
 it to the dog." 
 
 " Did 'ee ? Beefsteak, aye ! " 
 
 Once more the tall fisherman was poked in the 
 chest. 
 
 " Yer. You knows I now, don' 'ee ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know." 
 
 " An' you knowed my mother ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Well. Will 'ee sell I yer fish ? " 
 
 " No ! " shouted the fisherman. 
 
 " Yer won't sell I yer fish ? " 
 
 " No," said the fisherman quite gently. 
 
 The man waited a moment, hesitating. Then 
 he called the dog from his jacket : " Yer. Come 
 yer, then ! " 
 
 The dog drew near him. He dropped his 
 bundle, which some one picked up and handed
 
 i ANOTHER PRODIGAL 55 
 
 him, together with the jacket, as if it were time 
 for him to take the hint, and move on. 
 
 " Kiss me, then," he said to the dog, which 
 thereupon jumped up and licked his face. 
 
 " Yer," he asked again, " you knows I ? " 
 
 " Us knows 'ee." 
 
 " Well, will 'ee buy my dog ? " 
 
 " But us don' want 'en." 
 
 " 'Er ain't no good, an't got no blood in 'en, 
 no pedeegree ; but 'ee's so good a dog as ever 
 you see'd. Will 'ee buy 'en ? Now ! " 
 
 No." 
 
 He stopped speaking and looked up the road 
 which runs out of Salterport. He could hardly 
 stand without stepping forward and backward and 
 sideways. For the last time he poked the fisher- 
 man in the chest. 
 
 " Yer. You did know I, didn' 'ee ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I knowed 'ee." 
 
 He shouldered his bundle. " Yer, come on ! ' 
 he called to the dog. 
 
 He stumbled up the hill to the westward. The 
 dog ran alongside licking his hand. In a few 
 moments they were both gone out of sight. 
 
 " What could us do wi' a dog ? " asked a 
 fisherman. 
 
 Nobody replied, and they all remained silent, 
 looking out to sea. 
 
 It seemed that they felt a little guilty of some- 
 thing or other.
 
 THE MISSIONER 
 
 IT was far too hot to do much. Salterport beach 
 looked sleepier, more peaceful, and more contented 
 than usual. On that account, Jabez Jones, a 
 strange lay-missioner, was the more noticeable 
 as he zigzagged across the Front distributing 
 yellow handbills. 
 
 For some days the weather-wise had been 
 saying that such a summer was bound to break 
 up with a heavy gale. The trees, a little shrivelled 
 and over-coloured by too much sunshine, dropped 
 now and again a leaf, and rustled as if they were 
 gathering an invisible garment round them. 
 Everything the sea even seemed to be pausing 
 and holding its breath. Men stood among their 
 boats as if fixed there. Now they talked in spurts, 
 and now they watched the sails which were planted, 
 as if for ever, on the leaden horizon. The beach- 
 ing and shoving off of boats looked curiously 
 mechanical in the shimmering light ; it was like 
 a beautifully devised illusion of some far-distant 
 place where great silences swallow up the noise 
 and fuss of mankind. Life seemed all under- 
 current, with scarcely a swirl in it. 
 
 56
 
 , THE MISSIONER 57 
 
 There appeared to be no good reason why the 
 Salterport fishermen, or even consumptive visitors, 
 should occupy themselves any more than usual 
 with the state of their souls. Yet this fussy little 
 man, from some unrestful city, almost compelled 
 them to receive his yellow sheets of paper. Young 
 men read them, and laughed loudly at their own 
 jokes. Girls took them gladly : they were some- 
 thing fresh. Some visitors graciously acquiesced 
 in Mr. Jones's desire that they should take one. 
 Fishermen, lounging about ashore, after a night's 
 mackerel drifting, gave, as politely requested, 
 their opinion of the weather, were presented with 
 handbills, and swore genially over them. Small 
 children, even, had one for their illiterate little 
 selves, and one to take home to father and mother. 
 Most people smiled at Jabez Jones : he was the 
 sort of man one does smile at. Respectability 
 clothed him hotly. In his all -black clothing, 
 which seemed to be stifling the pink and sandy 
 him, he looked as if he had come from a cooler, 
 murkier climate, or like a bird that wanted to 
 moult and couldn't. Stares received him, but he 
 livened up the beach. 
 
 Just before dinner-time he stopped a red- 
 cheeked fair-haired little girl, who was walking 
 down the sunny side of Fore Street with a con- 
 fidence born of finding it ever the same, and 
 offered her two handbills. 
 
 " Now, my little dear, will you have one of 
 these for yourself, and take one home to father 
 and mother ? What is your name, my dear ? " 
 
 "Git 'ome an' die, or I'll 'at thee head off! "
 
 58 HOW 'TWAS t 
 
 answered the small child, who resented her way 
 being stopped. 
 
 " Do you like sweeties ? " asked Jabez. 
 
 She looked very stolidly at him. Then she 
 inquired abruptly, with the disconcerting insight 
 of childhood : " Who be you, man ? What do 
 
 . 3 
 
 ee want r 
 
 " Keep this for yourself, my dear, and take the 
 other one home to father and mother. Will you ? 
 And here's a sweet for you. There's a good 
 little girl ! " 
 
 She neither said that she would nor that she 
 wouldn't. She trotted home to dinner, and Jabez 
 Jones did the same. 
 
 II 
 
 " Wants me dinner, Mam ! " cried Polly 
 Forder, running into a house where, for want of 
 dwellings handy to the beach, three generations 
 of Forders still lived under one roof. Dinner 
 was just dished up. Silas Forder, Polly's grand- 
 father, was spread out at one end of the table, 
 and his best catch, as he called her, now crippled 
 with rheumatism, was propped up in a high- 
 backed chair at the other end. At the sides sat 
 two of Silas's seven sons (the five others were 
 away at sea) and the wife of the elder. Polly's 
 chair was near her mother's. The food was 
 roughly spread, but plentiful. 
 
 Conversation would have been freer without 
 Silas. He was holding forth on motor -boats, 
 speaking as he always did when innovations were
 
 , THE MISSIONER 59 
 
 in question. " I don't believe in 'em at all. They 
 costis more. Do 'em catch more fish after the 
 rate ? 'Tis because 'tis less trouble. They'm 
 afeard of trouble nowadays, that's what 'tis. 
 Why, I've a-took fifteen hours rowing in from 
 the offing, whiting catching ! What's the good 
 of they there motors, I say, if you bain't no better 
 off in the end, come sharing-up time ? " 
 
 Silas held to his youth in more senses than 
 one. Though his stubby grey beard and his 
 thick white hair made him appear venerable, he 
 still had the upstanding figure of his young days. 
 But for his greyness, his staider gait and his 
 weather - wrinkled brown face, he might have 
 passed for a sturdy man at his bodily best. His 
 opinions, which were those of his youth chiefly 
 negative and concerned with what he didn't believe 
 in must have hardened with his bones and 
 muscles. In his obstinacy there was a touch 
 of grandeur, as well as of childishness. 
 
 And as the father must have been, so now was 
 the elder of the two sons a man in every respect 
 fixed and settled in life. 
 
 Jim Forder, the younger son, was the dubious 
 member of the family. Dark, tall, stooping and 
 raw-boned, he nevertheless gave the impression 
 that he had yet to grow in some way. He looked 
 anywhere, at sea or on land, a little awkward and 
 out of place, and by some means or other he 
 managed to spoil the general effect of nearly 
 everything he did. It was as if some relentless 
 devil alternately whipped him up and reined him 
 in. As a boy, his dreams and restlessness had
 
 60 HOW 'TWAS r 
 
 been a nuisance ; he had been mad to go to sea 
 and had not gone ; he had refused to fight a man 
 one day and had provoked a fight with him the 
 next week ; he had sought heaven and feared hell 
 in two or three religious sects ; and, worst of all, 
 he had fallen headlong in love with several girls, 
 yet still was unmarried. It was all remembered 
 against him. And because, when it was necessary 
 to face danger, he had a habit of gaping for a 
 moment, he was regarded scarcely as a coward 
 he had proved himself not that but as a bit 
 soft-like, a mazed-headed article. He constantly 
 annoyed his father because he stuck so firmly to 
 his own opinions, which, as any one could find 
 out by baiting him, swayed and tore like seaweed 
 in a storm. 
 
 At the same time, he was liked by all, and all 
 enjoyed fooling him. They even went so far as 
 to feel it easy and natural to admit his goodness 
 of nature. " Jim's often kinder' n / should be," 
 his father would say. "But 'er's that curious 
 sometimes. . . . There ! I never could make 'en 
 out. Wants a steady-going sort o' maid, wi' a 
 bit of devil in her, for to take 'en in hand that's 
 what our Jim wants. But 'er don't stick to the 
 maidens no more than 'er sticks to ort else." 
 
 On Polly's arrival with the handbills, both Jim 
 and the old man looked up. " What's got there, 
 Polly ? " demanded Silas. 
 
 " Let's look," said Jim, half rising in his place. 
 
 " Bring 'em here, Polly," commanded the old 
 man. 
 
 Polly obeyed. Jim sat down, and then, on
 
 i THE MISSIONER 61 
 
 seeing that there were two handbills, he got up 
 again and took one. Silas read his aloud, holding 
 it at arm's length, and as he went on his anger 
 seemed to be rising, much as Polly's had done 
 with Jabez Jones. 
 
 " Thursday, July the eighteenth that's to-day, 
 isn't it ? At seven p.m., Mister Jabez Jones of 
 Bristol will conduct a meeting who's Mr. Jabez 
 Jones of Bristol ? Bristol be big enough for forty 
 Jabez Joneses will conduct a meeting on Salterport 
 Beach. Us don't want 'en on the beach, bringing 
 all they mischevious chil'ern 'bout by the boats. 
 There won't be a thole-pin nor a footing-stick left ! 
 The Word what's 'er mean by the Word, now ?" 
 
 " His word, I 'spect," remarked Dick, the elder 
 of the two sons. 
 
 " The gospel," put in Jim. " That's what they 
 call the gospel the Word." 
 
 " Why don' 'en call it that straight out, then ? " 
 growled the old man. " 'Tisn't proper. Swearing 
 is words, isn't it ? " 
 
 Jim flushed and turned to his dinner. His 
 father continued reading. 
 
 " The Word will be preached. Music. Hymns. 
 A hearty welcome to all. 
 
 " Umph ! That's it. People as wants summut 
 always says you'm welcome. / shan't be, that I 
 do know. Us don't want none o' they folk to 
 Salterport. Why don' 'em go to church if they 
 wants to go anywhere ? Mr. Jabez Jones ain't 
 wanted hereabout. You see if he don't have to 
 go away again like they there peer-rots [pierrots] 
 last summer ! "
 
 62 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 "Why for?" asked Jim. 
 
 " Because us don't want 'en here. That's why 
 for. The religious peer-rots is worse'n t'other 
 ones, by far. You mind how James Amber's 
 sister went mad ? Her wasn't moon- struck. 
 'Twere worse'n that religious madness the sort 
 as never gets no better. I've a-see'd plenty o'it 
 in my time, too, from some of they reg'lar places 
 wi' their hell preachments. This here Mr. Jabez 
 Jones us got plenty to do wi'out the likes o' he." 
 
 " He'll do for Jim," said the elder brother 
 with a teasing laugh. 
 
 " Hold thee row ! " said Jim uneasily. Such 
 stray hints led often to fierce baitings. 
 
 " Hark at 'en ! " Dick continued. " Hell go, 
 but he's like as if he's got a girl and don't want 
 to walk arm-in-arm 'cept outside the village. Eh, 
 
 J* 3 " 
 
 im? 
 
 Silas's patience was at an end. "I'd a sight 
 sooner see 'en running after a girl. 'Tis only 
 natural then for to cuddle in a corner. But this 
 here preacher. ... Look here, Jim ; see thee 
 doesn't get mixing up wi' it. Thee mayst go off 
 wi' the Cowfield Chapel folk, but I won't have 
 any one of mine fooling round wi' beach-preachers 
 and such-like ; so 1 tell thee plain. I won't have 
 it in my house, and if you do, you'll shift herefrom, 
 an' pretty quick ! Thee's got plenty to do wi'out 
 that, wi' the fish not coming into the bay like 
 they used to do, an' the boat rended in twenty 
 places an' rotten-old. Go'n dry the nets. They'll 
 want barking soon. Only, mind what I says, 
 now.
 
 i THE MISSIONER 63 
 
 Silas when roused was best left to himself. 
 This Jabez Jones he did not trust. He could 
 not get rid of him, and, on account of his own son, 
 he could not ignore him. After Jim had gone 
 out to turn the nets, which were already spread on 
 the beach, it was almost mournfully that Silas said 
 to his daughter-in-law : " I'll be bound he'll go, 
 he's that contrary ! " 
 
 III 
 
 At seven o'clock, punctually, that evening, 
 Jabez Jones was ready on the beach. About 
 seven o'clock, also, the fishermen began to shove 
 their big boats down to the sea, to hoist their 
 white and brown sails, and to set out for the 
 night's mackerel-drifting. Therefore, although 
 many people were on the Front, they all gazed 
 steadfastly to sea. No one joined in the missioner's 
 weak opening hymn. No one was interested 
 enough to jeer. Small children stood by, looking 
 up into his face. Bigger children stopped a solitary 
 young woman's first whisper of song by bawling 
 out : " Bide quiet, will 'ee, an' let the gen'leman 
 sing." Jabez announced another meeting for the 
 next night at the same time. All, he said, would 
 be welcome. 
 
 The following morning brought wind and rain. 
 Jabez, however, was none the less active. He 
 distributed more handbills, posted them up in 
 conspicuous places, and obtained promises of help 
 from a man who had been in the Salvation Army, 
 and one or two others. His failure, moreover,
 
 64 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 had raised a laugh, so that many thought it would 
 be a fine thing to go and see him fail again. 
 Though the stiff breeze had veered, there was a 
 heavy swell on, and the sky looked too wild for 
 mackerel-drifting. A small crowd awaited Jabez 
 Jones. Jim Forder was not far off, and Silas 
 himself was within sight, glancing back. 
 
 Jabez tripped down the beach, opened out his 
 portable harmonium, and began to press hymn- 
 papers into spectators' hands. "The hymn* we 
 jhall .ring, the hymnj we jhall .ring," he murmured 
 to each one with a hiss on the s. Then he stood 
 upright and surveyed his congregation. 
 
 The evening was very beautiful so beautiful 
 that the earth seemed unearthly. Sea and sky 
 were beginning to grow pearly. Largish waves, 
 coming in slantwise, broke on the shore and 
 continued breaking far along to the eastward. 
 Each thud and rattle, travelling ceaselessly, died 
 away in the distance with a sound like the lament 
 of many spirits, fled from earth and murmuring 
 an eternal complaint over the restless sea. At 
 one moment the atmosphere was charged with 
 their muffled torment, at the next moment imbued 
 with peace. 
 
 In the midst of this scene, Jabez fingered his 
 wheezy harmonium, and with a worn voice began 
 to sing by himself : 
 
 "Art thou weary, art thou languid, 
 Art thou sore distressed ? . . ." 
 
 Slowly he laboured through the seven verses. 
 His new-found recruits joined in. They sang
 
 i THE MISSIONER 65 
 
 more or less together, more or less in tune. 
 Music. . . . There was no music. But it did 
 not so strike those who were standing on the 
 beach ; for hymns, very badly sung, have a 
 plaintive effect that is mostly lacking in good 
 sacred music. One by one the listeners seemed 
 to be overcome by a feeling that they were weary 
 and languid, that they did yearn for rest ; and 
 before the singing was ended, the Salvation Army 
 man, some women and girls, and two or three 
 young men, including Jim Forder, were all uttering, 
 and in some degree satisfying, their hazy desire 
 for rest singing in a wail which baffled faintly 
 against the noise of the surf, but overcame murder- 
 ously the lament of the spirits over the sea. 
 
 Jabez proceeded to offer up a very long prayer. 
 The Salvation Army man spoke on the text 
 " Whoso convinceth me of sin," inviting any of 
 those present, whose consciences convinced them 
 of sin, to step forward and testify. Another 
 hymn followed, and another. 
 
 The hymning appealed particularly to Jim, 
 who, being spiritually a tenderfoot, and ill at ease 
 in any path, old or new, had sought fresh roads 
 all the days of his life. He shared the feelings of 
 those around, but what for them was walking idly, 
 for him was running the race. As always, when 
 he was thinking or feeling intensely, he gaped ; 
 and, unconsciously also, he gradually edged forward 
 into the centre part of the circle. He was, so to 
 speak, an idealist without ideals. He stood self- 
 convicted, not of sins, but of sin. An extra- 
 ordinary longing akin to that which causes 
 
 F
 
 66 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 primitive peoples to worship collectively and to 
 share their mental troubles was compelling him 
 to take all men into his confidence. With hesi- 
 tation, he stepped still farther forward to testify. 
 " Dear bretheren . . ."he began. " Dear bretheren 
 ..." The new strangeness of the familiar faces, 
 packed together on the beach, diverted his atten- 
 tion for a moment. He lost grip of what he had 
 wanted to say. The very desire to testify was 
 slipping away from him. 
 
 After more hesitation, he raised his head, 
 lowered it, and continued lamely : "When I 
 came here to-night and heard the message. ..." 
 
 Some one laughed and he stopped again. He 
 wanted to rebuke the laugher, yet felt that some 
 sort of acknowledgment was due to Jabez Jones. 
 
 A choice was not needed. A strong hand 
 clutched his arm, and he heard in his father's 
 angriest voice : u What be you fooling here for ? 
 I thought I told thee I wouldn't hae it. Damn 
 it all ! come 'long wi' me, an' us'll settle this. I 
 bain't so old but I can master you, my lad, an' 
 that you knows. Come 'long, now ! " 
 
 Jim allowed himself to be led from the meeting, 
 whilst Jabez, who was not without experience of 
 such awkward moments, called for the hymn, 
 " Onward ! Christian soldiers." 
 
 Lustily they sang now. 
 
 Partly because the old man felt he had gone 
 too far, and partly because he was growing dumb 
 with anger at having been led into making a show 
 of himself, he said nothing to Jim all the way 
 home. But he continued to grasp his arm as if it
 
 i THE MISSIONER 67 
 
 had been a heavy oar in a head wind, and the 
 sound of the hymn, borne bodily on the breeze, 
 gave Jim the impression that the whole meeting 
 was turned to watch them, and was singing at 
 him. " And we'll settle this," was still repeating 
 itself in his mind, when, on nearing their door, 
 Silas said abruptly and as if the matter had been 
 already sufficiently discussed : " Now then, you'm 
 not going to do that again, or I'll see 'ee some- 
 where else." 
 
 Jim's answer was to step off in the direction of 
 the meeting. 
 
 " Jim ! " shouted the old man. " Where's 
 going to ? " 
 
 " Where I come'd from." 
 
 " I won't have 'ee back 'long with me ! " 
 
 Jim stood still, and Silas, who by no means 
 wanted a permanent quarrel with one of his boat's 
 crew, changed his tactics. "What do 'ee want 
 to go off there for ? " he asked. " I told 'ee I 
 won't hae it, an' I won't ! " 
 
 The reply startled him. " What do you want, 
 interfering wi' a man's religion ? " 
 
 " 1 don't want to interfere wi' no man's religion. 
 But going off to a place like that beats me fair, it 
 do. Never used to be like it. There ain't no 
 good in it." 
 
 " There is good in it," Jim burst out, " else I 
 shouldn't go, should I ? If 'tisn't nothing to 
 you for to feel Someone's a-watching over you 
 when you'm out to sea, 'tis summut to me. 'Tis 
 ter'ble 'nuff to be drownded wi'out black sins on 
 your soul."
 
 68 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 Religious dispute was beyond Silas. Still de- 
 termined to have it out with his son, he once 
 more changed his attack. 
 
 " Why doesn' learn to swim then ? " 
 
 It was astute of the old man. Jim had never 
 learnt to swim ; he was one of those who sink 
 like a stone. As an answer to his father's question 
 he began resolutely to walk towards the Shore 
 Road. 
 
 " You take heed," shouted Silas. " I won't 
 have 'ee here and at thic there beach preaching. 
 So I tell 'ee straight, once an' for all ! " 
 
 IV 
 
 Jim did not go back to the meeting ; he shrank 
 from the laughter and questions, the jokes and 
 slurs, he would have had to face. Instead, he 
 walked westwards along the Front, till he came to 
 the spot where Silas's drifter was hauled up 
 beneath the sea-wall. There, out of habit, he 
 stopped. " I won't stand it ! I'll clear out ! I'll 
 get away off to the sea ! " he exclaimed to himself. 
 He thought with revengeful satisfaction how 
 difficult the old man would find it to get another 
 good hand a proper fishing chap for his drifter. 
 And at the same time, without thinking, he 
 jumped down to the beach, and began gathering 
 up the foot of the spread nets, preparatory to 
 heaping them upon hand-barrows for the night. 
 Nevertheless, he fully meant to clear out, although 
 he hardly knew in what way. 
 
 Three girls came walking along the Front and
 
 i THE MISSIONER 69 
 
 stopped on the wall above him. One of them 
 Annie Stowe by name had been a sweetheart of 
 Jim's. 
 
 In a flash, his question solved itself. Annie 
 Stowe would do. He had always liked her. He 
 would clear out. He would marry Annie Stowe 
 and live in a house of his own, even if it were a 
 mile on land. " Evening, Annie ! " he called up 
 brightly. 
 
 " Good-evening, Jim," she replied, tuning her 
 voice to something between offended dignity and 
 a giggle. " Where have 'ee been keeping your- 
 self ? Us an't see'd nort of 'ee this long time." 
 
 The two other girls sheered off. 
 
 "Will 'ee come up 'long for a walk over 
 Kalecliff, Annie ? " 
 
 " My senses, Mr. Forder, how suddent, like, 
 you be ! " 
 
 " Bide a minute, then, till I've gathered up 
 this here net. Tide's coming in. . . ." 
 
 Annie Stowe was less silly than she sounded. 
 Jim Forder, the only unmarried young fisherman, 
 was well known to have a nice little bit put 
 by enough to buy a boat and nets of his 
 own. 
 
 At the top of the Kalecliff they sat down in 
 the long grass that grows on the edge, where the 
 scents of land and water mingle. High up over 
 the darkening sea the sound of the surf was weak- 
 ened to a heaving silence ; the noise of the beach 
 was but a far-away murmur, purified in the sweet 
 clear air. Jim and Annie Stowe took up their 
 courting just where they had left it off, a year or
 
 70 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 more before. In the darkness they sat with their 
 arms around each other, not speaking very much. 
 On parting, at the house where she worked, Jim 
 asked her to tell him her next night out, and she 
 told him definitely. It was as good as a promise 
 to walk out with him. And his own mind was 
 made up. His father would never give way. 
 Neither would he. For the moment, at all 
 events, he was well pleased with himself. 
 
 Next morning at breakfast his brother quizzed 
 him until he was driven to ask : "What be laugh- 
 ing at, then ? " 
 
 " Our new beach-preacher, I 'spect." 
 
 " I shan't stand it any longer, I tell 'ee ! I'm 
 going to get married and clear out of here." 
 
 " Who's that to ? Which o'em is it, I 
 means ? " 
 
 " Anyhow, we'm going to keep company me 
 and Annie Stowe." 
 
 " What's that ? " asked Silas, who had been in- 
 dulging in an old man's table-reverie. 
 
 " He's going to marry Annie Stowe and cast 
 off," laughed Dick. 
 
 But nothing could have been more likely to 
 make Silas drop the quarrel of the previous 
 evening. " That's better," he said. " Nice 
 handy sort of girl, she ! Her'll keep 'ee away 
 from they there meetings. Her'll want all of her 
 man, I'll warrant. Women is used to their 
 fellows being in public-houses, but they bain't 
 used to 'em being off to meetings." 
 
 " I shall go to what meetings 1 like." 
 
 " Will 'ee ! Us'll see. In married life you've
 
 , THE MISSIONER 71 
 
 a-got to do what's best to be done, an' that you'll 
 find." 
 
 The old man was very cock-sure. Jim himself 
 felt doubtful. It was a point to clear up before- 
 hand. 
 
 In the evening, the three Forders stood lean- 
 ing over the side of their drifter. After another 
 breezy morning the wind had veered, but not 
 much, and the sea was still running as high as is 
 good for an open boat, however large and sea- 
 worthy. " Pity us an't got a harbour, so's us 
 could use bigger boats," Jim was saying. 
 
 " If we'm going, 'tis time for to get ready," 
 said Dick. " What about it, Jim ? " 
 
 " Don't look very fit, do it ? " 
 
 "There's mackerel out there," said Silas, "and 
 'tis just the night for to make a haul. I thought 
 I see'd 'em playing up in the bay this a'ternoon, 
 but couldn't be sure wi' this here lop on." 
 
 " That don't say we'm going to get 'em. 
 Most often us don't when they plays up. 
 Besides," added Jim, " 'tis Sunday to-morrow, 
 and there won't be no trains if us do." 
 
 " Dost want to go to a meeting, then ? " said 
 Dick. "Easy git a cart to Exeter if we has a 
 haul. What's say ? Be 'ee going ? " 
 
 Jim still hesitated. He had been examining a 
 bad rend in the bilge. All three knew that the 
 boat was half rotten ; Jim had noticed that the 
 rend was opening farther and spreading.
 
 72 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 " I'll go meself, if thee doesn't ! " exclaimed 
 the old man. 
 
 " Who's to prevent a fellow going, if he's 
 minded ? / didn't say I wouldn't go." 
 
 " Come on ! " urged Dick. " Haul her down 
 a bit and fill up the ballast-bags. Us can but 
 come home again if 'tisn't fit." 
 
 They pushed the boat down over the pebbles, 
 and in a short time shoved off. 
 
 Exactly how the accident happened is even 
 now a matter for argument in a place where the 
 accidents of fifty years ago are still recollected and 
 argued over. According to the best account, they 
 shot their nets about a couple of miles out and 
 west, and rode to them for the best part of an 
 hour. Then, as the wind was backing and 
 freshening, they hauled in for only a few dozen 
 mackerel, and up-sailed for home. It was already 
 nearly dark ; they had been so late in starting. 
 About a quarter of a mile from shore, with the 
 wind still backing and the sea making, they gybed 
 over the big dipping lugsail. The backstay 
 parted, the heavy mast broke out and came down, 
 the knees of the forethwart gave way, and the 
 boat opened out like an old box. Jim, his 
 brother and the nets were all capsized together 
 into the water. The net rose again near Jim like 
 an evil sea monster, curling about in the waves. 
 He became entangled in it ; managed to grasp 
 one of its cork buoys ; and at last had time to 
 realise what had happened. To his brother, who 
 was swimming towards him, he shouted hoarsely :
 
 i THE MISSIONER 73 
 
 " Go'n get in for a boat. Nobody won't see us 
 here. I've got holt of a buoy. Tide's right. 
 Go on ! " And Dick, a strong swimmer, made 
 for land. 
 
 Jim was alone, between the swishing water and 
 the darkness. He waited so anxiously, peered so 
 keenly for the boat, when waves lifted him up, 
 that his eyes felt as if they were projecting out 
 of his head, on stalks. They smarted with the 
 salt water till he could keep them neither properly 
 open nor shut. But for being mixed up with the 
 net-buoys he would have sunk. 
 
 When the boat arrived, with Dick in it, they 
 found him so blue from the cold, and so exhausted, 
 that they had to lift him aboard and afterwards 
 carry him home. He was beyond answering 
 questions. Silas, more upset than he cared to 
 show, took him upstairs in his arms, gave him 
 brandy, tended him while he was sick, and put 
 him to bed. 
 
 For two or three hours Jim remained in a state 
 between waking and sleeping. He mumbled to 
 himself and called out loud from time to time. 
 It seemed as if he was mixing up in his mind the 
 accident and his quarrel with his father. Silas 
 refused to go to bed. " 'Tis summut to think 
 about," he said to his daughter-in-law, " that I 
 might ha' losted both they there boys and all 
 the rest o'em to sea. Take care thy Polly 
 don't go down so near the water, like her 
 do." 
 
 Towards morning, however, Jim slept, and did 
 not awaken till Silas came into his room long after
 
 74 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 daylight. " How do 'ee feel now ? " inquired the 
 
 old man. 
 
 "Better. . . . All right. . . ." 
 
 " Better'n thee didst, I'll warrant." 
 
 "What's the time? Time to get up, is 
 
 it?" 
 
 " You bide there a bit, and I'll bring 'ee up a 
 
 cup o' tay. What's think about when thee wast 
 
 hanging on to thic there buoy? " 
 
 " Don' know," said Jim. " Wondered how 
 
 long the boat 'd be, I s'pose. Couldn't help 
 
 thinking they was a hell of a long time." 
 
 " Ah ! best thing, I tell 'ee, for to do is to 
 
 learn to swim like Dick came in like a steamer, 
 
 they said, what saw him land a sight better'n 
 
 they there meetings. . . . Bide still, now, an' I'll 
 
 bring 'ee up the tay." 
 
 Annie Stowe was downstairs. " Milkman told 
 me he was drownded," she began. " Postman 
 said he wasn't. Is he all right, Mr. Forder ? I 
 couldn't but look round and see. People tells 
 up such tales, don' 'em ? " 
 
 "Jim's all right," replied Silas, "only he's 
 staying up to bed a bit. Here ! " he went on, 
 as if a thought had suddenly struck him, " I said 
 as I'd take 'em up a cup o' tay. Do you run up 
 wi' it. I bain't so fond o' stairs. . . ." 
 
 Oh, Mr. Forder ! " 
 
 <c Git along with 'ee ! You bain't bashful, be 
 'ee ? You can't see sick people unless you sees 
 'em in bed. 'Tisn't as if he was all right. . . . 
 Here thee a't ; here's his tay."
 
 , THE MISSIONER 75 
 
 First of all, Annie Stowe gave Jim his tea in a 
 quite good sick-room manner. Then, with the 
 empty cup in her hand, she stood beside the bed, 
 scarcely knowing what to do or say. 
 
 " Be 'ee glad you'm back ? " she asked. 
 "What do it seem like to be back again after 
 you'm nearly drownded like you was ? " 
 
 " 'Tis like . . ." said Jim as if he were collect- 
 ing his thoughts. He put out his hand and 
 pressed her down into the chair at the head of 
 the bed. " 'Tis like as if you was woke up, as 
 if you was got proper to heaven, for to be back 
 out o'it an' to find 'tis all the same home here 
 all o'it just the same ! You'm in the same mind, 
 bain't 'ee, Annie ? " 
 
 " Same mind as what ? " 
 
 Jim pulled her head down to him. He didn't 
 seem very weak. . . . 
 
 Meanwhile, downstairs, Jabez Jones had 
 knocked at the cottage door to inquire. " Is 
 the poor fellow getting on all right? " he asked 
 Silas. " You don't mind me coming to ask ? 
 Can I see him ? " 
 
 " Hush ! " replied Silas impressively. 
 " 'Twouldn't do for to wake 'en out o' his sleep 
 afore he wakes natural-like." 
 
 " No, certainly not," agreed the missioner. 
 
 " So I'll wish you good-morning," concluded 
 Silas ; and on getting back to the kitchen he 
 remarked almost gaily to his daughter-in-law : 
 " There's lies an' lies, I reckon ; an' I 'How 
 there's things as a maiden '11 cure quicker an'
 
 76 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 better'n any parson. I knows it. I've a-proved 
 it." 
 
 And apparently he was not far wrong. In 
 the evening Jabez Jones held a fairly successful 
 meeting on the beach, but Jim walked over the 
 Kalecliff with Annie Stowe.
 
 HIS MAJESTY'S MEDAL 
 
 I 
 
 THE medals were first heard of during a very 
 slack time. With an easterly breeze and a blue 
 sky the sea was at its liveliest and brightest. Swift 
 white-topped waves flashed in the sunlight, as if 
 the waters were flinging themselves up for warmth, 
 and in so venturing were turned to shining snow 
 that melted as quickly. But the racing surf would 
 have swamped or capsized any boat that tried to 
 shove off against it. Nothing at all was doing 
 across beach. Fishermen left their boats and 
 gathered into groups, chatting, joking, recalling 
 old times. Beachcombers hung about near them, 
 on the off-chance of being asked to drink a fore- 
 noon at the " Capstan Bar." When Mr. Elliot 
 Customs Officer, Registrar, and what not, of the 
 neighbouring harbour-port of Bitcombe came 
 along the sea-wall on his periodical visit of inspec- 
 tion, it took him half an hour to stroll half-way 
 across, so many men were willing to have a yarn 
 with him. 
 
 " Yes," he agreed, " I can see this sort of 
 weather's no good for you men, without a harbour, 
 
 77
 
 78 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 Fine sailing breeze outside. . . . Why don't you 
 get them to build you a little harbour ? " 
 
 " Harbour aye ! Nobody ain't going to do 
 nort for the likes o' us. They leaves we to rub 
 along best way us can. Good job we'm used 
 to it." 
 
 " It's worth trying for," said the Customs 
 Officer. And then he added very casually, " Is 
 William John Wintle anywhere about ? " 
 
 " Bill Wintle ? Why, there he is, down by his 
 boat. Bill ! Bill ! Casn' hear ? Billy Wintle ! 
 You'm wanted." 
 
 " All right. Never mind. . . ." 
 
 The Customs Officer picked his way down to Bill. 
 
 " Not much doing, Mr. Wintle ? " he began. 
 
 Nort 't all." 
 
 " You can't get out after them ? . . ." 
 
 " I'd get out a'ter 'em if they was there, an' 
 take me chance w'er I got capsized or not. But 
 the mackerel bain't come into the bay. They 
 don't, nowadays, not like I've a-see'd 'em." 
 
 " Let me see," remarked the Customs Officer 
 in a disinterested tone, but eyeing his man. " You 
 are William John Wintle, aren't you ! Weren't 
 you in the Royal Naval Reserve for twenty-six 
 years ? " 
 
 "Twenty-seven years I was in it, all but a 
 month. You ought to know that, Mr. Elliot, 
 seeing I came down to your office less'n a year 
 ago an' took my discharge an' my fifty-pound 
 gratuity 'stead o' four bob a week after I was 
 sixty, which I mightn't never live to see. I joined 
 early, being a big youngster, bigger' n I be now,
 
 i HIS MAJESTY'S MEDAL 79 
 
 after the rate ; put my age on to join, I did ; 
 though I an't never told 'ee thic before. I was 
 in it 'fore I was married, an' I was married an' 
 had Harry 'fore I was twenty. Aye ! twenty-six 
 years an' 'leven months, I done ; sixteen years a 
 first-class trained man ; an' I come'd down to 
 Bitcombe to do my drills twenty-four years wi'out 
 missing once, till Bitcombe battery was shut down. 
 An' now, time my fifty pounds is gone, which 
 won't be long, I shan't hae nothing to show for 
 it all all the best years o' me life." 
 
 " Don't you be too certain," said the Customs 
 Officer. 
 
 " I bain't never certain 'bout nort 'cept what 
 I knows." 
 
 "His Majesty the King," said Mr. Elliot 
 grandiloquently, " is giving long-service medals 
 to men of the Royal Naval Reserve who have 
 completed fifteen years' training with good con- 
 duct reports throughout." 
 
 " Oh ! When did that come out ? I an't 
 heard nort. Long-service medals. . . . Well, I 
 reckon they ought to give 'em to us same as to 
 the Navy, what's thrown out slurs at us often 
 'nuff, for all we could beat 'em at shooting. We 
 was ready to die for our country, an' they bain't 
 ready for to do no more. Be 'em ? " 
 
 "I thought, Mr. Wintle," said Mr. Elliot 
 (they were treating each other with great respect), 
 " I thought you were entitled, and Henry Way- 
 cott and James Short ; so I've brought up three 
 forms of application with me. Where can you 
 sign yours ? "
 
 80 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 " Come in house, sir ; come in house." 
 
 Bill led the way as if he were hurrying out to 
 sea. " Where's the ink, Missis ? Us got some, 
 an't us ? Look sharp ! I got to 'pply for a 
 medal." 
 
 Dinner was waiting on the kitchen table : Bill 
 Wintle's sort are always either early or late for 
 meals. It was shoved aside. Very carefully, 
 with watery ink and one side of the pen-nib, he 
 signed his name in the shaky letters of a man 
 excited and unused to writing. His children 
 swarmed round. " What is it, dad ? Tell us. 
 What is it ? Dad ! dad ! " 
 
 " Git out the light ! The King's going to 
 give me a medal. . . . What's think o' thee ol' 
 dad ! " 
 
 " A metal ! A metal ! I'll wear 'en for 'ee, 
 Sundays. Gie us a penny, dad." 
 
 The paper was folded. The Customs Officer 
 was directed to several other Royal Naval Re- 
 servists. Bill Wintle got up from his dinner to 
 show his boys a drill now obsolete in the Navy. 
 
 For the next few days you could spot the 
 Naval Reservists. In blue guernseys, in patches, 
 in corduroys, and in starch-collar suits, they for- 
 gathered as in the old battery days, and talked 
 talked their way, as often as not, into the "Capstan 
 Bar." Bill Wintle had day-dreams over his meals. 
 " I was thinking about thic medal," he would 
 wake up and say. " His Majesty the King's 
 
 medal. ... I wonder w'er hes got ort to do 
 
 . > 
 wi it. 
 
 His Majesty. ... It seemed as if the King
 
 i HIS MAJESTY'S MEDAL 81 
 
 was brought nearer ; as if we were living, so to 
 speak, in the purlieus of the Court ; or, better, as 
 if we had our harbour, and the Royal Yacht in it. 
 
 II 
 
 For a couple of months nothing more was 
 heard. The medals hung in men's thoughts like 
 doubtful light at sea. Mr. Elliot on his next 
 visit said that the applications had been duly sent 
 in ; that a man's having taken his discharge some 
 years ago made no difference, provided and so 
 forth. Age-yellowed parchment papers and dis- 
 charges of the old Preventive Men, who existed 
 before the Coastguards, were brought to light. 
 They were no good. "An' t'other's bain't no 
 good nuther, seems so. Why an't us heard 
 nort ? " 
 
 It was in vain to point out that Government 
 offices work slowly, and that it takes time to strike 
 medals with the men's names upon them. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Bill Wintle, after a tiring night 
 at sea. " Ah ! they kicked up a buzz about they 
 there medals for some purpose o' their own to 
 find 'ee out, where you lives to, p'raps, or what 
 your conduct was ; an' now they bain't going to 
 trouble no more about it. That's how they serves 
 'ee, I tell 'ee ; always was, an' always 'twill be." 
 
 But a day came when the Customs Officer was 
 able to say that a batch of medals had arrived 
 for Bitcombe men, but none, as yet, for ours. 
 "They're to be presented by the Commander 
 himself in full uniform, with as much ceremony 
 
 G
 
 82 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 as possible those are the Admiralty's instruc- 
 tions." 
 
 "Then the King ain't going to pin 'em on, 
 that's certain sure. . . ." 
 
 We read an account of it in the newspaper. 
 Medals were presented, too, at Fowey,at Falmouth, 
 at Bideford, at Appledore, at Plymouth. " It may 
 be," said some of us, without much believing it, 
 " that they are going in alphabetical order. Apple- 
 dore, Bideford, Fowey, Falmouth all at the be- 
 ginning of the alphabet." 
 
 " Then how about Plymouth ? They got 'em 
 there." 
 
 Old Tommy Yabsey, who has had three sons 
 in the Navy, and is quickly jealous on its behalf, 
 wanted to know why, for God's sake, the Royal 
 Naval Reservists should have medals, unless they 
 did something. " You were paid, wasn't 'ee ? " 
 he asked. " And you drew your retainers, didn't 
 'ee?" 
 
 "Well, us did our drills, didn' us? " 
 
 "You never fought. You was never aboard 
 a battleship ! " 
 
 " We was trained men, most o'us, ready to be 
 called up if us was wanted ; an' that's more'n you 
 ever was. Us could ha' fought 'long wi' the best 
 o'em." 
 
 " Now, just you tell I this," said Tommy, 
 bobbing his head. " If you'm so much use as 
 you says you be, why for did 'em do away with 
 Bitcombe battery ? Didn' want 'ee ! No use for 
 'ee ! "
 
 i HIS MAJESTY'S MEDAL 83 
 
 His age protected him. " Us don' know for 
 sure yet," was the mild answer, " w'er us be going 
 to get any medals or no. P'raps us hain't, an' 
 I'm sure I don't much care." 
 
 Anticipation, in fact, was growing stale. When 
 the Customs Officer announced that the medals 
 had really come, and that Bill Wintle, Harry 
 Waycott, and Tipsey Short were to go down to 
 Bitcombe by an early train, and walk straight to 
 the Customs Office, Bill asked in confirmation of 
 his misgivings : " I s'pose there ain't nort attached 
 to 'em no gratuity like ? " 
 
 And when the Customs Officer was gone along, 
 he burst forth : " Then what the hell's the good 
 o'em ! They bain't money. An' thee casn't pawn 
 'em. Better to have give'd us a watch. Thee 
 cou'st ha' told the time wi' thic out to sea. But 
 these here medals. ... I reckon 'tis a thing got 
 up for pleasing them as is fools enough to be 
 pleased wi' 'em. The likes o'us does the fighting, 
 an' they gives us toys. Why couldn' 'em send 
 the medals up to us, 'stead o' wanting us to go to 
 Bitcombe for 'em ? 'Tis half a day's work lost : 
 I s'pose they sort don't take no heed o' thic. 
 I don' know w'er I shall trouble to go down for 
 mine or not." 
 
 On the morning itself he started for the station, 
 fresh-shaven, though it was not his day, and in his 
 best clothes, but with a jersey, the fisherman's 
 uniform, underneath ; and his last words were : 
 " I reckon they might ha' paid a chap's expenses. 
 'Tis money spent, what you've had to dig out for 
 hard 'nuff. Thee casn't go down to Bitcombe
 
 84 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 wi'out meeting an old friend or two, an' thee 
 casn't see 'em wi'out asking o'em to hae a drink ; 
 an' five shillings don't go far when you gets in wi' 
 a lot o' chaps on an occasion like. I shall be back 
 by the mid-day train. I bain't going to stay down 
 there an' make a fuddle o'it. 'Tain't wuth it ! " 
 
 But his step was springy, and in his bearing 
 there was as much of the drilled man as the labour 
 of fishing had left to him. 
 
 Ill 
 
 "Where's Bill? Is 'er home eet ? What 
 train's 'er coming by ? " 
 
 " The mid-day train, he said, for certain." 
 
 " Ah ! you won't see nort o' he till t'night, 
 if thee dost then. He's out for to make a day 
 o'it, Bill is ! " 
 
 Towards the end of the afternoon, however, 
 a small blue figure wandered to the Front, aim- 
 lessly, as if the light of the sea was rather dazzling. 
 It was Bill right enough ; but shrunken and bent, 
 so that his coat flapped on him. His eyes were 
 bright and a little staring. His face, poked out 
 from his shoulders, was become in an hour or two 
 pinched, wizened. In the morning a drilled man 
 had started. In the afternoon there came back 
 a man past it. It was as if the silver medal hang- 
 ing on his jersey had marked off suddenly the 
 end of youth and the beginning of age. " Done 
 for now ! " it seemed to say, with a grim waggle. 
 
 " I been home a couple of hours I didn't 
 come straight down from station," he was explain-
 
 i HIS MAJESTY'S MEDAL 85 
 
 ing. " Got in up-street 'long wi' ol' Tommy 
 Yabsey an' one or two more o'em. Their blasted 
 chawl ! Wanted to know why us was entitled to 
 medals. . . . As if us hadn't done nort for 'em ! 
 I'd ha' slatted 'en, I'd ha' slatted 'en through the 
 window if 'twasn't for him being old ! That's 
 how they ol' men gets at 'ee, I tell 'ee, an' takes 
 the youth out o'ee, 'cause they'm jealous o'it ; 
 an' thee casn't do nort. . . ." 
 
 " Never mind, Bill ; you've done your service, 
 and they haven't. ..." 
 
 " They don't know nort about it, what 'tis 
 like ; they an't done nort theirselves, an' they 
 throws out their slurs at them as have. I got 
 summut to wear on me chest now for to show 
 I been through it." 
 
 " Did the Commander pin them on ? " 
 
 "Commander no! 'Twas a hole-an '-corner 
 turn-out. Us only went to a room in the Customs 
 Office, an' a chap what wasn't no better than the 
 likes o' ourselves pinned 'em on an' chattered 's if 
 we was kids. Miz-mazed affair, 1 call it. Why 
 couldn' 'em ha' bringed they medals up here an' 
 give'd 'em away where anybody could see ? Let 
 Tommy Yabsey an' they sort know what we was 
 entitled to. See us hae it, too, proper like. 
 
 " Come over an' hae a drink," he continued. 
 " Come on ! Won' 'ee ? What's say ? Had 
 'nuff? /an't had 'nuff. 'Twasn't wuth a fuddle, 
 this day's turn-out. Well, if thee wousn't hae it. 
 ... I an't got but a penny left. I was going to 
 chalk a drink up for 'ee, what I an't never done in 
 me life before.
 
 86 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 A child came out and took his hand. " Dad, 
 dad ! Mother says tea's ready." 
 
 " Tay ! Who wants tay ? All right. I'm 
 coming. P'raps a cup o' tay'll do me good." 
 
 He fingered the medal on his chest. " I an't 
 been in to show her eet." 
 
 In house, a wise old woman who was present 
 said : " Ah ! ah ! ah ! Can see where they been 
 to ! Don't thee say nort. Let 'en sleep. That's 
 best. I reckon they'm very good boys for to 
 come home so early. Blow'd if / would ! Be 'ee 
 turned teetotal, William John ? " 
 
 " 'Twarn't wuth it," said Bill, already nodding 
 over his tea. 
 
 During the evening a knot of men waited out- 
 side, opposite Bill's house, like a troop of cats at 
 a mouse-hole. Some may have thought drinks 
 round were due ; others, being teetotalers, can 
 have wanted only to satisfy their curiosity. But 
 they had to wait, and to go away unsatisfied. 
 Bill was asleep, curled up in the arm-chair, just as 
 his children curl up in it when they are tired and 
 ready for bed. On his face was a young peaceful- 
 ness like theirs ; on his chest the medal of long 
 service done. 
 
 And there he slept, breathing slowly, so that 
 the medal flashed in a ray of sunlight as it rose 
 and fell, till he had to be awakened because it was 
 time to go mackerel-drifting. Full of complaints, 
 dazed and stiff, he was rowed off to the drifter at 
 her anchorage. Having clambered aboard, he 
 felt in all his pockets. "Where's his Majesty's 
 medal ! " he said, with half a laugh. " Must ha'
 
 i HIS MAJESTY'S MEDAL 87 
 
 leP it in house, I s'pose. I meant to bring he 
 out an' look at 'en from time to time." 
 
 Sail was set the big white dipping lug. Bird- 
 like on the darkening water, the drifter beat out 
 to sea against a short southerly chop. Night 
 closed down. Nets must have been quickly shot, 
 for soon the drifters' riding lights began to twinkle 
 through the thick darkness over the water. 
 
 The great day was over ; Bill Wintle was safe 
 at sea. Out there, I knew, lying in the open boat 
 and full of pain, he was trying hard to sleep. 
 And I knew, too, the cruel strain it would be, 
 hauling in a fleet of nets against the southerly 
 chop haul, haul, haul, three-quarters of a mile of 
 head-rope and net, letting slip a fathom and drag- 
 ging it in again, picking out the meshed-up fish, 
 for three or four hours, cold and sweating at once. 
 That, and the twenty-seven years' service done, 
 and the sleeping face in the chair, and the under- 
 lying, the childlike, the almost absurd innocence 
 of it all those were the things that mattered, 
 that could not be gainsaid.
 
 AN UNOFFICIAL DIVORCE 
 
 " THE parson hisself has been at my poor missis 
 to-day. Somebody's been chattering to him, seems 
 so." 
 
 Tom Gillard spoke sorrowfully and turned his 
 face away to seaward. With his huge mottled 
 hands gripping the oars as if they had grown there, 
 but hardly a movement of his long lean body, the 
 rowing muscles of which tightened and slackened 
 visibly beneath his jersey, he continued paddling 
 along ; for had the boat stopped way the pollack 
 lines that we were trailing would have sunk to the 
 bottom, and our rubber worm-baits would have 
 hooked themselves into the oar-weed on the dark 
 rocks below. In the growing dusk, the red cliffs, 
 about half a mile to the inside of us, changed shade 
 by shade to black. Smoothed in outline by the 
 twilight, all their jaggedness gone, they appeared to 
 be gradually sinking into the sea. We could hear 
 the lazy surf swishing among the boulders along- 
 shore ; and from time to time gulls flew off their 
 nests, screeching wildly, and towered into the 
 setting sunlight above, then glided in narrowing 
 circles back to their cliff ledges. The spaciousness 
 of the wild dim sea swallowed up every noise.
 
 i AN UNOFFICIAL DIVORCE 89 
 
 Sound did but intensify the silence ; and in that 
 silence Tom's serious voice the measured re- 
 pressed voice of a man who has an interior pain, 
 whether physical or mental, and is afraid to dis- 
 turb it by breathing deeply seemed to spread out 
 from him and to be filling all the vast empty air 
 with indefinable trouble. 
 
 I had asked him, " How is your wife ? " and 
 he had replied unawares : " My wife or my 
 missis, which d'you mean ? " 
 
 The Mrs. Gillard, I said, whom I had so often 
 seen sewing in the doorway of his cottage. She 
 could neither walk much nor stand for long, that I 
 knew ; and her patient contented face, with its 
 expression of timidity when she looked up to pass 
 the time of day, had always struck me. 
 
 "Why, sir," Tom explained with an intimate 
 bitter laugh. " That ain't my wife. I wish her 
 was. That's my missis." 
 
 " What on earth d'you mean ? " 
 
 "Well. ..." 
 
 At that point he had made the remark about 
 the clergyman. After rowing awhile with his head 
 turned away, he fixed his eyes on me as a child 
 might curiously deep-set eyes he has, sleepy yet 
 sleepless and said : 
 
 " Well, you : you'm sure to hear something 
 sooner or later. 'Tis a mazed turn-out, and if I 
 don't tell you how it came to be what 'tis, you'll 
 be thinking there's a lot of harm in me, which 
 there isn't. They always says, * There ain't no 
 harm in Tom Gillard.' I've heard 'em myself; 
 though, mind you, I've done harm in my time when
 
 90 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 I've been roused to it, and I've been roused to it 
 sure enough. You knows me ; you've been to sea 
 with me all times and weathers. . . . 
 
 " 'Twas like this : when my brother, Harry, and 
 me lived 'long with Father in the little cottage 
 where Harry lives now, opposite mine, we was 
 after two maidens, both of 'em then so nice girls as 
 could be, and one of 'em a clipper to look at. That 
 was Mary, my girl, and she was nice with it too, 
 not like some o' they smart girls. The other one, 
 Emily Harry's maid she was't so much to look 
 at ; her had bad teeth, so that her whistled some- 
 times in speaking ; but she was a masterpiece 
 at cooking, and gentry would come begging of 
 her to go up to their houses and cook for 'em 
 when they had something special on. Both the 
 maidens had a habit of coming down to Father's 
 house evening times, and Emily, her'd cook up 
 something for supper, saying she didn't see why 
 we shouldn't have supper parties so well as likes 
 o' gentry. Not that Father'd ever eat her dishes. 
 He'd prefer what he'd been used to, and I should 
 the same now ; but, you see, we was courting 
 then and everything was what we thought 'twas. 
 Those days, Father used to have a couple of big, 
 old-fashioned armchairs, more like settles they was, 
 one on each side of the fireplace. There we'd sit, 
 Mary in the chair 'long with me, and Emily on 
 Harry's lap, and we'd sing songs and be so jolly 
 as you like. Harry, he used to make jokes and 
 play round, specially when he'd had a pint or so 
 of cider or a drop of summut short (only he didn't 
 drink that in front of Father), and he'd say things
 
 i AN UNOFFICIAL DIVORCE 91 
 
 about when he should be married to Emily, what 
 he'd do, till we'd split our sides laughing, and 
 Father'd chuckle and cough, and let his pipe drop 
 out of his mouth and smash on the stones, and 
 then wish we was all o' us married out the way. 
 Half-past nine, Father'd say 'twas time for every- 
 body, what wasn't to sea, to be abed. (Harry and 
 me was working lobster-pots at the time and 
 didn't go to sea by night.) We'd turn outdoors. 
 Harry and Emily, they'd go into one dark lew 
 corner of the lane, and me and Mary into t'other ; 
 and there we'd stand, very close together, till 'twas 
 time for the maidens to be getting home aye ! 
 and more than time very often. Kiss-kiss Lane 
 they calls it to this day, and 'twas only our goings- 
 on, I reckon, what give'd it that name. " 
 
 Tom's face softened and brightened at the 
 recollection. He rowed faster too fast for pol- 
 lack. 
 
 " You an't got a maid yet, have 'ee ? " he went 
 on. " You'll know what I'm talking 'bout some 
 day, unless you acts like gentry and don't closen 
 to 'em afore you marries. Come to it, though, 
 my brother Harry didn't marry Emily and Mary 
 didn't marry me. She married Harry. " 
 
 " She didn't throw you up for Harry, did she ? " 
 I asked, comparing the two brothers : Harry who 
 still bears himself like a drilled man, somewhat 
 gone to pieces, whereas Tom has always been fit ; 
 and, though his powerful shoulders make him, like 
 most fishermen, appear to stoop, he has the sea's 
 strength, an entirely natural vigour, plain all over 
 him.
 
 92 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 " She didn't throw me up," he said, " and yet 
 in a manner of speaking she did. A lady what 
 come'd down from London, thinking she'd look 
 nice in a drawing-room, I s'pose, handing cups 
 round, took her away there. She'd have looked 
 better 'long with me. I was a smart young chap 
 then ; didn't wear none of these patches and 
 polished my boots every morning, whether I'd 
 been to sea or not. I tried to persuade Mary 
 from it, but 'twas high wages offered her and a 
 nice enough lady, and Mary didn't want to get 
 married till she had something saved up for to 
 make her home all shipshape like. We quarrelled 
 over it, I don't deny. * Mary,' I tells her, * if 
 you goes up there you'm so good as losted to 
 me.' 
 
 " c Tim,' her says, * if I can't bring nothing to 
 thee, I wouldn't find thee.' 
 
 " Her's told me since that 'twas her pride in 
 me made her say it, but I didn't take it that way 
 then. I wouldn't wish her * Good-bye,' and they 
 told me afterwards that her cried bitter when her 
 didn't see me first starting off, and couldn't find 
 me up to station neither. 
 
 " About that time Harry took and joined the 
 Navy, saying there wasn't no prospect for a man 
 hereabout ; and them two quarrelled worse'n us 
 did. * I bain't going to share my man with no 
 Queen,' her said. 'The Queen can hae 'en and 
 keep 'en.' Her made a proper scene, seeing of 
 'en off, called him all the names in creation, and 
 had to be brought back in a cab. And when 
 Harry came home on leave in his uniform that's
 
 AN UNOFFICIAL DIVORCE 93 
 
 what makes it up wi' most maidens her told 
 him he could go back to his Queen or go to hell, 
 didn't matter which to her ; and he did go to 
 both, poor fellow ! 
 
 " So Emily and me was left at home together. 
 I don't say her set her cap at me, though they did 
 tell of it and to my face. Father was getting very 
 shaky he'd a-worked hard in his time, the Ol' 
 Man had. Emily used to come down to our 
 house and cook 'en up tasty slops and suchlike. 
 He had to eat they 'cause he couldn't stomach no 
 other. Then we'd sit together watching him off 
 to sleep on account of his wandering in his mind 
 and thinking the boat was runned ashore or nets 
 was losted or 'twas time to take a reef in the sail. 
 He'd seen some turn-outs to sea, the Ol' Man 
 had. Then, when we was sitting there by the 
 light of the lamp outside Father's window. . . . 
 Lord ! what is it to slip your arm round a 
 maiden's waist ? 'Tis only natural when you'm 
 up for it. We was young things, in the pride of 
 our blood. And Father, he was fond of her too, 
 and said he'd like one of his sons to be married 
 afore he packed up. We fixed it together, me 
 forgetting Mary and her forgetting Harry for 
 which we all had to do our punishment afterwards, 
 I reckon. Young people an't got long memories, 
 and all the same they have ; only it sinks down 
 under so that they forgets for a time, and then, 
 one day, summut or other turns up and it all 
 comes back to 'em, splashing on the top like a 
 school of mackerel. 
 
 " Proper fine wedding 'twas, and when we was
 
 94 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 come home and unlocked the door of the cottage 
 I'd took, opposite Father's, and lighted up, I 
 thought to myself there never wasn't nothing like 
 getting married ; for all Father's brother, what 
 had come down in his boat to the wedding from 
 up along, had been saying as we were putting to 
 sea wi' too much sail up, and talked about new 
 boats leaking. Always did croak, Uncle Henry 
 Gillard. 
 
 " Mind you, I don't say 'twas altogether 
 Emily's fault. Soon after we was married, I 
 losted all my lobster-pots in the same gale what 
 washed down Outer Gull Rock, and I had to go 
 mate to another man mackerel and herring drift- 
 ing. Emily, then, was that lonely and anxious 
 when I was to sea by night. . . . And Father, 
 he wasn't satisfied with me being in another 
 house, and he got somebody to write and tell 
 Harry that if he'd come home again Father'd buy 
 'en out of the Service, which isn't often a good 
 thing for a chap once he's there. Us didn't know 
 the Ol' Man had the money ; but he had, seems 
 so, put away upstairs. Mostly you'll find the 
 Navy is either the making or the ruin of a young 
 man ; and 'twas the ruin of Harry. If he'd 
 stayed at home and married Emily hisself ... I 
 could have waited for Mary. He was one of 
 them jolly happy-go-lucky sort o' fellows what 
 goes on the spree, and breaks their leave if they'm 
 minded to, and answers back their officers for the 
 sake of talking, not meaning any harm. Conse- 
 quence was though there wasn't a smarter man 
 in his ship, I've heard say he was always in
 
 i AN UNOFFICIAL DIVORCE 95 
 
 trouble if he wasn't right in chokey, and he got 
 disrated, and that took the heart out o'en for 
 getting on in the Service. He was glad 'nuff to 
 come out. 
 
 " Soon afterwards Mary come home from 
 London so pale as if her'd been wished [be- 
 witched], and they two reg'lar flew to each other, 
 Harry telling everybody : f Exchange ain't no 
 robbery. Blast thic b y Tom ! ' For he 
 wasn't pleased, and he didn't want her, not in 
 his heart. The night they was married, Mary 
 took 'en home drunk to Father's house where 
 they was to live ; which wasn't nothing strange, 
 for if you can't have a bust when you'm married, 
 when can 'ee ? But with them 'twas a foresight 
 of what was to come. 
 
 " All the while, things had been going wrong 
 'long with us over the way, and as I've a-told 'ee, 
 'twasn't altogether Emily's fault. Two herring 
 seasons and the mackerel between 'em was all a 
 total failure, and we was on our hoppers. That 
 took the heart out of Emily : her'd always worked 
 among plenty in gentry's houses. I carried her 
 in all the money I could pick up, which wasn't 
 much, and with the weariness of it her let things 
 go all to pieces. Her'd scarcely do her washing, 
 and her didn't trouble to cook ; sent out for 
 something when her could. c Why, Emily,' I'd 
 say, what's become of the money I've a-brought 
 thee in ? ' 
 
 " ^Gone towards the rent,' her'd say, and I 
 didn't know no other then. 
 
 " * But,' I says, thinking to give her some
 
 96 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 encouragement, c I thought you was cook enough 
 to do ort wi' nort.' 
 
 " * Cook ! ' her slats back at me. * Cook ! Do 
 'ee think I married you for to be a cook ? I 
 married you for to get away out o'it.' 
 
 " I didn't say no more. But I found where 
 what I did bring in was going to. Her was 
 drinking of it. Her used to go round to the 
 pub a dozen times of an evening, when I was 
 out to sea, after three- pen'orth of heartsease, 
 her'd call it. And her didn't have no child 
 neither. . . . 
 
 " Aye ! I tell thee you there 'tis a terrible 
 thing to get home from sea in the night or the 
 chill of the morning, when you an't catched nort, 
 wet through, perished with cold, and tired out 
 with hauling in the nets ; and to find your house 
 all up and down ; no fire, and nothing to eat, let 
 alone ready, and no dry clothes to put on ; nothing 
 at all to a man's comfort ; and your wife snoring, 
 red in the face or else so pale as death, flinged 
 on the bed if her's got so far. Tires a man out. 
 Tires him out, it do, body and soul. I wasn't 
 fit for to go to sea, and they know'd it, too, all 
 across beach. I'd go to sleep standing. I couldn't 
 see to mend the nets, which was my job. The 
 meshes o'em mazed me. 
 
 " For all that, I didn't hit her, nor knock her 
 about, not then. Pity I hadn't, p'raps. I turned 
 religious for a time, thinking to bring her into 
 better ways ; but when I mentioned anything 
 religious to her, her'd curse me till her was out 
 of breath, and her'd say : l Where is thic God o'
 
 i AN UNOFFICIAL DIVORCE 97 
 
 thine ? Where is He ? You've a-found 'En, hast? 
 Bain't He God enough for to find me wi'out help 
 from the likes o' you ? Has He put fish into thy 
 fleet o' nets ? Five dozen, seven dozen, half a 
 hundred ! Thee hasn't catched a thousand to 
 once all this year. You don't go where they be 
 to is my belief; 'fraid of having to row in if the 
 wind drops. Lazy ! Thy God ! He've a-laid 
 a curse on 'ee an' you'm a-creeping up to 'En. 
 Why dostn't bring 'En along instead o' chattering 
 'bout 'En ? He won't come. Thee't under a 
 curse, thee a't ! ' 
 
 " Her wouldn't have spoken like that if her 
 hadn't been half seas over. 
 
 " 'Twas no good, not religion ; I was like 
 under a curse ; and I tries buying in the bread 
 and things myself, without giving her the money 
 to spend. One night when we was driven in early 
 from sea by dirty weather, afore us could shoot 
 out nets, I buys two loaves, not having had a 
 mouthful to eat since breakfast, and takes 'em in 
 house and lays 'em on the table. There wasn't 
 no lamp, only a candle-end. Her hadn't got the 
 oil I gave her money for. 
 
 "At sight of they loaves her flared up. 
 * Do 'ee think you'm going to trick me by 
 laying out your money yourself,' her screamed. 
 1 Take your loaves. Take 'em ! Eat 'em out- 
 side ! ' 
 
 "And with the same, her takes 'em up and 
 chucks 'em at the window. 
 
 " Thinking to save the window, I catches hold 
 of her. 
 
 H
 
 98 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 " c Murder, murder, murder ! ' her screeches. 
 1 Murder ! Murder ! ' like a poll-parrot. 
 
 " * Shut up ! * I says. * Shut thee maw ! ' And 
 when I feels her struggling under me. . . ." 
 
 Tom had taken in his oars, regardless of the 
 pollack lines. "When I feels her struggling 
 under my hands," he went on, gripping at the 
 air, " summut rose up in me and I could have 
 killed her there where us scrawled. I swore. 
 I cursed. I hit. I bit my tongue, I did ; and 
 then, suddently, something came into me fear 
 o' myself, 'twas like and I flings her to t'other 
 end of the kitchen ; when who should walk in 
 but Father, that hadn't been off his bed for 
 months. All of a shake, he was, and not dressed 
 neither. 
 
 " * You so well as they ! ' he said. * 'Tis bad 
 enough over our way. They think I don't know 
 it, but I do. And you'm worse. You you 
 you you you. . . .' he bubbles, like, and then 
 goes off into a mumble, twistis up, and falls. 
 'Twas a stroke ! I took 'en back and put 'en to 
 bed, and he never rose therefrom till he was 
 carried out on his last cruise. 
 
 " Emily, her was like a beat dog, that night, 
 showing the whites of her eyes. Her'd always 
 looked up to Father, her had, through it all. I 
 told her her'd so good as killed the Ol' Man, 
 thinking 'twould prove a warning to her. And 
 it did frighten her frightened her further into it. 
 Her didn't care for nothing no longer. Her said 
 her didn't. 
 
 " After the Ol' Man was put down under,
 
 i AN UNOFFICIAL DIVORCE 99 
 
 things got worse over opposite. Harry'd got 
 work up on land twenty-two shillings a week, 
 which is enough for a man like he wi' no chil'ern, 
 and Mary, too, knowing how to lay it out to 
 advantage. But he'd took to going out all 
 evenings, and by'm-bye they told him at the 
 pubs they didn't want him there, because direc'ly 
 he'd got a drop in him didn't take much he'd 
 start fighting, and he'd come home like it. Bit 
 of a sunstroke 'twas, while he was in the Navy, is 
 my belief. 
 
 " Our two cottages was 'xactly opposite, like 
 they be now, and Mary, as her've told me since, 
 used to leave the blind up when her was there 
 alone so that I could see in and be company, like, 
 for her. But when Harry did come home like it, 
 her'd know what was coming, and her'd try to get 
 to the window for to draw the blind down, him 
 trying to prevent her. I've a-heard 'en hit her 
 after 'twas down softy thumps you knows the 
 sound. ' Let 'em all see what sort of wife you 
 be to a man,' he'd say. 'Let Tom there see. 
 Staring wi' your gert saucer-eyes an' saying nort, 
 blast you ! ' And then, as I say, he'd hit. What 
 could I do ? They was man and wife ; and Mary, 
 her never complained nor cried out. I was never 
 free from wondering what was going on behind 
 thic dirty yellow blind ; I'd hear what wasn't to 
 be heard, like a man do when his ears be on the 
 stretch. 
 
 " One night her did cry out a little sort of 
 scream, squeezed out o' her, like. All the life o' 
 me seemed to stop. Froze me towards Emily
 
 ioo HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 more'n towards Harry turned me right against 
 her 'cause I knowed 'twas her started things 
 going wrong. I'd be took all of a shiver if her 
 even touched me, accidental like. Distance gives 
 enchantment, they do say, but when I was away 
 from her even to sea, where you thinks kindly 
 of them you've left behind, if ever you do when 
 I was away from her I hated her more than when 
 I was by. And that's the turning-point, I reckon, 
 between love and hate, come you'm like that. 
 Not that I didn't pity her, too, when I see'd what 
 her was sinked to. 
 
 " Her began selling the furniture till going 
 into my house was like going to sea in a boat 
 what's rotted on the beach and all its gear been 
 stolen. If her didn't get money that way, her 
 lyed abed, and didn't trouble even to get food for 
 herself, let 'lone me. There her'd stay until the 
 evening, and if I tried to get her out of it ... 
 Lord ! you should have see'd. 'Twasn't what 
 her said : 'twas how her looked, lying there, 
 poking her head out o' the sheets. 
 
 " At last, being mazed with it all, I did the 
 wicked thing I did do. Just afore Christmas, us 
 had a good catch of herrings which fetched a good 
 price. Out of that money, I bought a dozen 
 bottles of brandy, and I took 'em in house to her, 
 saying : ' Here's a Christmas present for 'ee, 
 Emily. I thought I'd get 'ee something as 
 maybe you'd enjoy.' 
 
 " P'raps 'twas my tone of voice ; p'raps 'twas 
 casting out that slur about enjoying of it. I 
 didn't ought to have said it, not if I wanted to
 
 i AN UNOFFICIAL DIVORCE 101 
 
 carry the job through proper ; I ought to have 
 said they was for my medicine, or I was to keep 
 'em for somebody. Then her'd have tackled 'em 
 right enough. As 'twas : 
 
 " * What is it ? ' her asked. 
 
 " * 'Tis brandy,' says I, * for a Christmas present 
 for 'ee.' 
 
 " ' What be you giving me a present for ? ' 
 
 " ' To please 'ee, 'cause 'tis Christmas.' 
 
 " ' You lie ! You lie ! ' her said quite quiet, 
 and as might be out of breath. * You've a-tried 
 to murder me, and now you think to make me 
 kill myself, or else to have me put away. That's 
 it. D'you think I can't see your move ? ' 
 
 " And then her began to carry on and screech. 
 Her took up the bottles in her hand and one by 
 one her bashed 'em on the floor. The tenth or 
 'leventh, I can't be sure which, hit the candle 
 over, what was standing in a patch of grease on 
 the corner of the table. And time I lighted a 
 match, there her was there her was, scrawling on 
 the floor, wi' her feet sticking out of her skirts, 
 licking of it up. The smell o'it fetched her. I 
 didn't try to stop her. I was like paralysed. 
 That night I carried her up to her bed. I was 
 gentle with her, awful gentle. . . . 
 
 " Howsbe-ever, it all come'd to a head sud- 
 dently and very soon. After he was turned out 
 of the pubs policeman gave 'en the tip not to 
 force his way in Harry used to have his whack 
 sitting at home. He wouldn't go to the jug and 
 bottle counter hisself ; his pride wouldn't let 'en 
 to. Mary wouldn't go neither, and do what he
 
 102 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 would he couldn't force her. So he used to get 
 Emily to fetch it for him, and then they'd sit 
 together drinking of it Mary looking on and 
 them casting out slurs at her. 
 
 "One night I was watching across from my 
 house, like I used to, and I see'd Emily go in 
 house with a quart in one of Father's old jugs, 
 what was worth some money, a gen'leman said 
 once. Then I see'd Mary try to take it from her. 
 'Twas upset and broke, Father's jug. A scuffle 
 there was. I heard Mary cry out hurted and 
 I couldn't see her standing up no more. 
 
 " With that, I rushes across, burstis open the 
 door ; and there was Mary laying across the floor 
 in a faint, them jeering at her. Right in front of 
 'em seeing me, they'd stumbled together into 
 one of Father's big armchairs right in front of 
 'em, I kneeled down in a terror and took Mary up 
 into my arms. And I kissed her again, after all 
 those years. 
 
 "But I misdoubt they saw that. 'Twasn't 
 their first quart, and they was dazed. 'Twas 
 some time I must have been reviving her, and time 
 I had, they was failed asleep, gone stupid like. 
 
 " * Come with me into my house, Mary,' I 
 says. * 'Tisn't fit for 'ee here if they wakes up. 
 Come 'long with me,' not intending to do more 
 than look after her for the time. 
 
 "With the same, I takes her into my house 
 and 'cause 'twasn't fit for to take nobody into, 1 
 half carries her up into my room, what I used to 
 look after myself and lock up when I went out. 
 'Twas the only fitty room in the house. I laid
 
 i AN UNOFFICIAL DIVORCE 103 
 
 her on my bed her ankle was hurted, though 
 disease didn't set in till afterwards and her burst 
 out sobbing more than ever her'd cried with 
 Harry. Her sobbed and sobbed, and I did try to 
 comfort her. 
 
 " And it all come'd on me clear while I was 
 sitting there a-stroking her hand, like so, and her 
 was sobbing herself out. 'Twasn't the drink ; 
 that only followed ; and, mind you, I've see'd far 
 worse misery than ours, only not so showy, wi'out 
 any drink at all. The misery ain't in what shows. 
 The fault was further back than that. 'Twas me 
 and Harry having our wrong maidens. That's 
 where the fault was. Aye ! 1 see'd it plain. . . . 
 
 " * Mary,' I says, without reckoning on con- 
 sequences, nor how us would manage, nor what 
 should happen. * Mary,' I says, * will 'ee stay 
 'long with me ? ' 
 
 " ' Tim ! ' her cries. * Timmy, boy ! ' And 
 her clinged to me ; clinged to me, her did ; 
 buried her face in me jersey. . . . 
 
 " Oh, I tell you, 'twas so natural like, her 
 coming to me so natural as that a breeze should 
 come and ruffle the water. We'd a-courted, you 
 see, and kept company years before. 'Twas only 
 like going back, like coming ashore from sea. 
 'Twas only joining the two ends of a parted 
 hawser. 
 
 " I wasn't ashamed of Mary coming with me, 
 no more than you might be for falling asleep or 
 waking up. Don't 'ee think that. Why for 
 should I be ? But next morning I'd got to face 
 Emily and my brother Harry, and I didn't know
 
 io 4 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 what to do, whether to lie to 'em or not. Only 
 walking across the lane, I thought of a hundred 
 things as might happen, and just what I didn't 
 dare think of did happen. For there they was, 
 still asleep in Father's armchair with their arms 
 around each other and their faces bent down touch- 
 ing. Emily stirred first. 
 
 " * He's come for to murder me,' her screams. 
 * He've a-tried to do it, and now he will. Harry ! 
 Harry ! Keep me from 'en ! ' her cries. 
 
 " Be 'ee coming out o' this ? ' I asks, more 
 for the sake of saying something than ort else. 
 
 " l Harry, Harry ! ' her goes on crying, shrink- 
 ing back. Her was genuine afraid, if ever I've 
 see'd her. 
 
 " s What about Mary ? ' I asks. 
 
 " Thee's took her away and thee ca'st keep 
 her, Tom,' my brother Harry says. { I don't want 
 her staring at me no more wi' her eyes. I won't 
 hae her. This here's my girl. Always was. 
 Thee hasn't made much o' her, thee hasn't. . . .' 
 
 "Which was true enough. 
 
 "Appears they'd come to some agreement 
 together in the night. We didn't ; not Harry 
 and me ; us simply followed on. When I got 
 back in house, Mary was getting me a bit of 
 breakfast as if her'd always been there, only 
 'twouldn't have been like 'twas if her had. So us 
 went on as we was ; and that's how 'tis my missis 
 isn't my wife. Her's my brother Harry's wife. 
 And his missis is my wife that was." 
 
 "What are they doing?" I inquired. "Do 
 they get on all right ? "
 
 AN UNOFFICIAL DIVORCE 105 
 
 " They rubs along," Tom replied. " They'm 
 better than they was. You'll generally find, when 
 drunkards comes together, either they urges each 
 other on, or else they holds each other back, 
 knowing the ways of it. They wouldn't change. 
 They said so the night my Mary went across 
 when they all thought Emily was dying with her 
 first. That's when they made it up. 
 
 " Aye ! 'tis a nice little home I got now, and 
 when I gets in from sea there's dry sticks by the 
 fire, and tea in the pot, and cups put ready on the 
 table ; and Mary, her always wakes up for to ask 
 me what we've a-catched. Oftentimes out to sea 
 I says, l Let's haul the nets aboard and get in out 
 o'it,' when before I should have asked my mate, 
 if he'd a-proposed it, whether we was fishing or 
 on a pleasure trip. Hours I've a-kept 'en out 
 there 'cause I wouldn't go home ; and now 'tis all 
 the t'other way about. 
 
 " Lord bless 'ee ! we'm so happy together as 
 the day is long, 'cepting when anybody troubles 
 my missis with chatter, which they don't often 
 now, for they sees that the proof o' the pudding's 
 in the eating. 
 
 " Thic clergyman, to-day, he come'd down and 
 spinned up a yarn, saying he wouldn't have us 
 to Communion, which didn't trouble my missis, 
 'cause her don't concern herself with it, and her 
 told 'en so. Then he said as we was living in sin, 
 and how us should be lost everlastingly if us 
 didn't repent and separate. Repent. . . . Aye ! 
 when the time comes. We'm none o' us per- 
 fect, and most o' us be drove. But separate. . . .
 
 io6 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 Us won't do it, and I'll tell 'en so if I sees 'en. 
 That would be sin to take and go back as we was. 
 
 " Better to reel up they pollack lines. Baits be 
 losted, I 'spect." 
 
 It was dark, but for the greenish after-glow in 
 the northern sky. Tom took up the oars ; laid 
 them down again ; leaned forward and put his 
 hand on my arm. " It has turned out for the 
 best in this world," he said impressively. " That 
 I'm sure. But how about the next? There's 
 Mary. . . . Thic parson. . . . 'Tis all right in 
 this world, us knows, but what about the next? " 
 
 " Nobody can tell," I said. " But," I added, 
 " it seems to me simply an unofficial divorce." 
 
 " That's it ! You've said it ! " shouted Tom, 
 urging the boat forward with his most powerful 
 stroke, swinging to it, and talking in spurts. 
 " 'Tis said, isn't it," he went on, " that chil'ern is 
 God's blessing. Blessed is the man that hath his 
 quiver full. Well, Harry and me have both had 
 chil'ern by our missises, and nuther one o' us 
 had any by our wives. I dearly loves little 
 chil'ern. . . ." 
 
 Noises from the town floated out to us over 
 the calm sea. There was smoke in the air of 
 wind coming off land- smoke from people's fires. 
 "Can 'ee smell it?" asked Tom just before we 
 beached. " Her's waiting in there wi' a bit of 
 supper ready. Will 'ee come? Come and tell 
 her what you've a-told me, about its being an 
 unofficial divorce. 'Twill comfort her."
 
 THE ENGINEER'S KISS 
 
 " You wouldn't think," said the chief engineer, 
 " that I've had three proposals of marriage on one 
 voyage ! " 
 
 It was getting on for midnight. The powerful 
 engine-room lamp swung lazily above our heads. 
 Just as I was snuffing the fag-end of a Corsican 
 cigarette on a convenient part of the American 
 drill, his bare chest touched my elbow, his scrubby 
 moustache tickled my cheek, and he shouted that 
 surprising bit of history twice into my ear. 
 Shouted, I say, for the engines were pounding 
 away not two yards from us at Full Speed Ahead, 
 high-pressure steam was blowing from a badly 
 packed gland, and our quiet little talk was in 
 reality a quiet little shout. Promotion, pay, 
 work ashore, hasty marriage without a honeymoon 
 wedged in between two voyages youngsters, 
 letters from home. . . . We had been exchanging 
 confidences about these matters at the very top of 
 our voices. There was a softness in his eyes, 
 as of a man whose work is a cage to keep him 
 from what he thinks about. So speaking, we had 
 come to an end, face to face with things hardly to 
 be discussed even over midnight cigarettes. Then 
 
 107
 
 io8 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 it was that he approached and shouted into my 
 left ear : " Wouldn't think, to see me like this, 
 that I've had three proposals of marriage on one 
 voyage? Yes ! " 
 
 But I could think so. He was fond of his 
 engines, worked with a will at them, and nothing 
 suited his clean straight figure so well as oily 
 trousers and an open shirt. Never did his quick, 
 thin face look better than when it shone with sweat. 
 
 Therefore 1 shouted back a questioning 
 "Oh?" 
 
 " On an Atlantic liner ; not one of these 
 round-bellied tubs o' tramps," he continued in 
 loud jerks. " Was third engineer there. Carried 
 nine engineers and four greasers." 
 
 "Any of 'em eligible, the fair proposers ? " 
 
 " Don't know. Weren't all fair. Fell in love 
 with our uniforms, I s'pose. Wore uniforms off 
 watch. Not like here. Smart there, I can tell 
 you." 
 
 " You should have inquired their fortunes." 
 
 " 'F all the officers on those boats that get 
 proposals married, they'd have harems, by Jove ! 
 When my little girl had me 'twas a case of love 
 on both sides," he added in a quaint and serious 
 shout. 
 
 " You might have married a rich old one ; 
 smoked cigarettes and drunk phizz or golden 
 pekoe ever after." 
 
 The temperature of the engine-room that night 
 was 113 F. But even the idea of continual 
 refreshment did not shake him into regret. " No 
 thanks," he said. " Not me ! "
 
 i THE ENGINEER'S KISS 109 
 
 He pulled at his crumpled cigarette. 
 
 " Out ? Want a light ? " I asked. " Here's 
 matches." 
 
 "Wait till I've greased her." He proceeded 
 to oil the revolving cross-heads of his engine. 
 "Thanks.". 
 
 " Ah ! " he began shouting again, " but I did 
 fall in love that voyage. Lovely piece. Strapping 
 Irish girl. Young. Blue eyes. Nice rosy cheeks 
 on her. Hair ! Walked like a cloud in the 
 wind. Didn't wear those stay-things, I 'spect. 
 Held her head sideways, so, when she laughed. 
 
 White teeth. Talked the brogue. Pretty. Can't 
 
 j i. 
 do it. 
 
 " And you didn't marry her, either ? " 
 
 " Going out to marry a fellow in Canada. 
 Big lout of an Irishman, curse him ! But I had 
 a kiss ! " 
 
 "Oh?" 
 
 " Thought I never should get it. Everybody 
 trying all they were worth. The only one. 
 Me ! " He patted his chest. " Like this. Was 
 ready to go on watch at eight bells not in 
 uniform. Saw Mary sitting aft, her head bowed 
 down low. Think she was crying. So down 
 I sit by her : 
 
 Oh, kiss those tears away ! 
 
 " 'S that right ? Eh ? < Not turned in, Mary ? 
 Crying, Mary ? ' says I. 
 
 " * Sure, and I'm after longin' for Oireland 
 again,' says she. 
 
 " So I took her hand, like this. Didn't say
 
 no HOW 'TWAS 
 
 anything till she'd got quiet. Then t Give me 
 a kiss, Mary,' I said. 
 
 " Took her hand away as quick as anything. 
 * Give me a kiss, Mary,' I says again. 
 
 " She started to go. Made her sit down again. 
 
 "'Just one, Mary.' 
 
 " c And fwat would my Pat be saying when 
 I get there ! ' 
 
 " < How'd he know ? ' 
 
 " c S'pose he wouldn't marry me, and I would 
 be all alone there ? ' 
 
 " Began crying again. Quite soft. Nestled 
 up to me. Felt her warm shoulder through my 
 shirt-sleeve. Hope, thinks I to myself. ' Mary,' 
 says I, 4 I'm going down below to the hot engine- 
 room all night. Just one before I go.' 
 
 " Turned her head away. * Not 'fore I go 
 down there, Mary, below water ? S'pose the sea 
 came rushing down there. I'd be drowned for 
 certain while you were being saved up here.' 
 
 " She wouldn't give me a kiss. Not a bit of 
 it ! Thought to myself, * All's fair in love and 
 war,' thought I. Spoke very seriously, like a 
 sermon : * Mary, if it wasn't for us engineers 
 down there, ship might go to the bottom of the 
 sea and no one be any the wiser. Got all the 
 power of the ship in our hands seven thousand 
 horse-power ! Break the engines, and she'd be 
 left floating in the middle of the Atlantic till 
 some one came up and took her in tow. And 
 nobody might come. We're off the regular course. 
 Icebergs ! If I turned one valve. . . . You know 
 what power of steam we've got there.'
 
 i THE ENGINEER'S KISS in 
 
 " Felt her shiver. Dark night. Sea very 
 calm and black and quiet. 
 
 " * Mary,' says I, ' if you don't give me just 
 one kiss, I'll blow up the ship in the middle of 
 the night.' 
 
 "<No. . . .' 
 
 * I will ! ' 
 
 " * Dear Misther Engineer. . . .' 
 
 " (Heard the order to strike eight bells.) 
 
 " * I tell you I will.' 
 
 " I'll call the captain.' 
 
 " * He won't believe you. Knew me when 
 you were a child.' 
 
 " * Oh, you're mad, mad ! ' 
 
 " < For a kiss, Mary. By God, I'll do it I'll 
 blow it up ! ' 
 
 " She flung her arms round my neck and gave 
 me such a kiss. * Thank God, I've saved the 
 ship ! ' she cried. * Oh, Holy Mither, fwat will 
 my Patrick be saying ? ' 
 
 "And then she got up and ran down below 
 like a rabbit. What d'you think of that ? " 
 
 " H'm. . . . Have a last cigarette ? " 
 
 " Grazie. Lovely girl ! " 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 " Nos dawch" he answered in his Welsh. 
 
 When I got on deck I looked down on him 
 through the engine-room skylight. He was oiling 
 his engines glanced up and smiled very sweetly ; 
 and I'll swear he was thinking of his wife and 
 those kids in Wales. For I know what thought 
 it is which brings that particular smile to his 
 face.
 
 THE BEACHCOMBER 
 
 I 
 
 NOT one of the summer visitors was more faithful 
 to Seacombe than the wrecked man of whom the 
 fishermen said with kindly contempt, " He's a 
 beachcomber, that's what Joe is." His other 
 name was Jenner, whether by birth or by adoption 
 scarcely matters. 
 
 We never knew for certain where he spent the 
 winter. It was charitable to believe that every 
 autumn he signed on for a voyage in some sailing 
 ship " Can't a-bear them stinkin' steamers," he 
 would say and that every spring he suffered 
 dreadful wreck. Shrewd people favoured the 
 idea that he went on the tramp, or retired to 
 the shelter of some inhospitable workhouse, where 
 the guardians of the poor allowed him to break 
 stones, or to lend a hand with the oakum both 
 of which occupations must have reminded him of 
 Seacombe beach. At all events, when sunshine 
 made the shore a sun-bath, and the sea a glitter- 
 ing, lazily swaying stretch of harmlessness, Jenner 
 so haunted the beach that we could not help 
 wanting to know something about him. And 
 we went on wanting. 
 
 112
 
 THE BEACHCOMBER 113 
 
 Nearly every one found him interesting. He 
 could narrate by the hour his real and fictitious 
 adventures, speaking as if he were half ashamed 
 that he, of all men, should be chosen out for such 
 wonderful happenings ; and, moreover, he could 
 fill in the details with a very fair consistency. 
 Though he seldom complained of any definite 
 misfortune or tribulation, except, of course, his 
 shipwrecks though he seemed to bear no ill-will 
 against the sea for wrecking him regularly once 
 a year, in the spring he often bemoaned the 
 general course of his shifty life, and spiced his 
 monologues with the mild and resigned cynicism 
 of a man who finds despair not entirely un- 
 comfortable to live with. 
 
 " I can't 'elp it, you know," he would repeat. 
 " Some people do 'ave somethin' or other always 
 against 'em. . . . Do what they will, it's always 
 the same. I'm like that. I can't rise nohow ; or 
 if I does, down I comes again pretty quick. I can 
 rise, but somethin' pulls me down again often as 
 not into the sea. It's like that with some people 
 somethin's against 'em they can't 'elp it, you 
 be sure." 
 
 The temptation was to smile unbelievingly at 
 the biographical basis of his philosophy. But we 
 learned to take care. He was one of those piteous, 
 helpless people who always succeed in making one 
 sorry for differing from them, whether they are in 
 the right or the wrong, lying or telling gospel- 
 truth. Conscience never reproaches us with such 
 clammy persistence as when we have disbelieved 
 to his face an unfortunate creature who, after all, 
 
 i
 
 n 4 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 may have been telling us the truth. We had to 
 listen to him. 
 
 Usually, just at the dawn of some fine May 
 morning, the mackerel fishers coming in would 
 see his slouching figure waiting for them on the 
 beach. He could be recognised afar off". His 
 cranky bent knees and the way his coat stuck out 
 behind, as he stood shivering, with his hands in 
 his trouser- pockets, made him appear from a 
 distance, and from the side, like a tall man seated 
 on nothing at all. 
 
 " Want a hand ? " he would say as the craft 
 was beached, or as a boat shoved off to meet it. 
 
 " 'Ullo ! You back again ! Were's been to 
 this time, then ? " 
 
 "Tramped from Portsmouth." (Or some 
 other southern port.) " I've 'ad as bad a winter 
 as I've 'ad. I've been. . . ." 
 
 " Yer ! let where thee's been wait. Lend 'em 
 a hand up there wi' the capstan." 
 
 Then Jenner would walk round and round 
 with the pole, laboriously turning the old wooden 
 capstan that slowly, and with creaks innumerable, 
 hauled the drifter up the steep beach. This done, 
 he would hang about for his tip or for another 
 opportunity of lending a hand. Willingness was 
 his virtue. As a fisherman explained, "Joe's 
 always ready to lend a hand or do a job and that. 
 But he can't do no heavy work. . . . 'Er an't got 
 the strength of a mouse. Once I got 'en a job 
 up Honiton way, diggin' a pond for a gen'leman. 
 He went off there all right. The second mornin' 
 Master Joe didn't turn up. Stayed in bed tired,
 
 THE BEACHCOMBER 115 
 
 I s'pose. Anyhow, 'er come back yer, an' yer 'er 
 is always ready to help." Joe was the incarnation 
 of your very humble and obedient servant. 
 
 His earnings were the most variable thing 
 about him. Some days he might pick up two 
 or three shillings ; some days not enough for a 
 bed. He could cadge skilfully when he had a 
 mind to do so. Every fisherman received at one 
 time or another a hint that his, the fisherman's, 
 generosity must naturally, seeing he was one of 
 the old sort, be greater than the generosity of 
 every other man along the beach. Joe's expres- 
 sion, too, was excellent for begging. It seemed 
 to have no gradations between that of a brazen 
 rogue and that of a wretched, God-forsaken, un- 
 comfortably pathetic creature. He was like an 
 independent man who, finding independence a 
 game not worth the candle, preferred to be miser- 
 ably dependent. 
 
 He evidently sailed very close to the three 
 primary facts of life : he had been born though, 
 indeed, it was difficult to imagine Joe as a baby ; 
 he found himself a living man ; and sooner or 
 later sooner, unless he got something to eat he 
 would have to die. 
 
 Meanwhile. . . . But that was it. He had 
 mastered the art of living in the Meanwhile. 
 
 II 
 
 Last year Joe appeared to have aged consider- 
 ably. A point about him in former years was, 
 that he never seemed to get any older ; only to
 
 n6 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 become more decrepit. Now, at last, age and 
 decrepitude had joined forces to make him look 
 more miserable than ever. His eyes were almost 
 of one colour all over bleary blue shot with red 
 and his face had that thick, coppery tint that 
 one associates less with sunburn than with beer- 
 drinking and peripheral neuritis. He had let 
 grow a stub of brownish-grey beard which, when 
 he walked along the water's edge at low tide, 
 searching for coins, made him look like a big 
 evil bird with its head bent down to pick up 
 garbage. Moreover, he had a cough nasty to 
 hear, and in no way surprising, for his visible 
 dress salted blue cotton trousers, a jersey which 
 hung loosely upon him, coat, scarf, old boots and 
 cap seemed, from the way he shivered, to be all 
 the clothing he had. 
 
 In answer to the usual query : " Were's been 
 to this time, Joe ? " he had a long tale to 
 tell. 
 
 " I've been wrecked again off the Scillys 
 that's where I been. The boat foundered and I 
 went in with the stewardess under my arm great 
 big woman, 'bout as big as myself, and that's a big 
 woman to swim with. Well, I did swim with her 
 for, I'd think, a couple of hours, thinkin' every 
 minute as I'd have to let 'er go and sink myself. 
 The water were that cold and 'twere that rough. 
 ... I don't know 'ow I did do it. Then we got 
 throwed up, flop ! against a rock in the night 
 and dark as pitch. 'Owsomever, I managed to 
 clamber up that rock and drag 'er up with me. 
 'Twere God's own rock, that were."
 
 i THE BEACHCOMBER 117 
 
 The idea of God's own rock seemed to amuse 
 him. He grinned. 
 
 "An 'orrible night it was, and I didn't know 
 w'er the tide 'd come up and sweep us off, or w'er 
 'twas going down. In the mornin' I never 
 'card tell o' such a thing we found we was quite 
 near land, and I took 'er under my arm, like this, 
 and swum in with 'er. She wouldn't leave me 
 and stay behind while I got a boat. Not 'er ! 
 She'd ha' chucked 'erself into the foamin' waters 
 a'ter me and not for me looks, you bet." 
 
 Then began his real tale of woe. 
 
 "We was back on land all right, but my 
 foot were poisoned bad climbin' up that there 
 rock, and I been in Penzance 'orspital with a 
 cruel bad foot three months and a week and two 
 days, I 'ave ! Can't 'ardly walk yet, no sense 
 like. Now I've come up all the way from 
 Penzance on my bad foot. That's where I been." 
 
 It was not observable that he walked worse on 
 one foot than on the other, and when the news 
 went round "Joe Jenner, he've been wrecked 
 again," it did not everywhere excite pity. All, 
 however, wished to make him repeat his tale for 
 their own private examination and pleasure in 
 hearing. If nothing else, it was part payment in 
 advance for sundry ha'pence which would be paid 
 out during the summer for Joe's benefit. 
 
 He never explained the presence of a 
 stewardess on one of his chosen sailing vessels, 
 nor, curiously enough, does any one seem to have 
 thought of asking him.
 
 n8 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 III 
 
 When the mackerel boats went out in the 
 evening, just before sunset, Joe never failed to be 
 on the beach. About the end of July, after he 
 had finished helping shove a boat down to the 
 water, and as the fishermen were discussing 
 whether or not a fresh sou'westerly breeze was 
 going to spring up in the night, Joe said very 
 disconsolately, yet as if his misfortunes made him 
 in some way superior, " You'll be snug enough 
 out there, lyin' asleep in the cutty. Me ! I an't 
 got enough for a bed." 
 
 Usually, when he said that, he did succeed in 
 finding the pence for a bed. No one, therefore, 
 took much notice of him. 
 
 It both rained and blew in the night. Out in 
 the Channel the sea boiled, and the spray of white 
 horses could be heard in the darkness, racing the 
 waves and scudding from crest to trough. On 
 shore, the wind, with rain in it, blew in gusts, and 
 everything was hidden in the murk, except when, 
 in lulls, the fast-incoming waves could be seen 
 making a band of white surf along the beach. 
 Daylight was late. Joe was on the shore. His 
 clothes were darkened by rain, and his cough was 
 shaking him as a terrier might shake a rat. When 
 the boat he was awaiting grounded on the pebbles 
 and slewed round, they threw out a dog-fish. 
 
 " How'll thic there dun-cow suit 'ee, Joe ? " 
 
 Joe kicked it into the water, saying con- 
 temptuously, "That's what they gives you in 
 the village when you asks for fried fish."
 
 i THE BEACHCOMBER 119 
 
 He stood, an abject figure, looking sullenly at 
 the dog-fish which the sea was washing off from 
 the beach. 
 
 " Now then, Joe ! Give 'em a hand wi' the 
 capstan there. We'm going to have the boat 
 stove in, banging round like that. Hurry up ! " 
 
 He climbed slowly up the beach, took hold of 
 the pole, and was at once doubled up by another 
 fit of coughing. 
 
 " Get away with 'ee ! " said one of the other 
 men at the capstan. 
 
 "An't got the strength of a mouse," they 
 repeated among themselves. 
 
 As for Joe Jenner after stumbling a yard or 
 two, he fell forwards down the beach. Seeing he 
 did not move, one of the fishermen left the 
 capstan and went to look at him. 
 
 " Hi, yer ! Joe's took bad," he called out. 
 
 Blood, in fact, was running from his mouth, 
 staining his beard and the pebbles under his head. 
 
 They formed a little circle around him. In the 
 yellowish -grey twilight of a cloudy dawn, they 
 looked like ghosts receiving a dead man amongst 
 them. 
 
 " What shall us do ? " said one. " We can't 
 leave 'en here, that's certain." 
 
 " You three can wind the boat up, can't 'ee ? " 
 said another. " I'll carry 'en up home along, and 
 take 'en in house. He's only a bag o' bones." 
 
 "All right. You do. We'll be up d'rectly. 
 Take care not to shake 'en more than thee ca'st 
 help." 
 
 " Right-o ! "
 
 120 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 Joe was carried into a cottage and laid on a 
 bed. The fisherman (his wife refused to have 
 anything to do with beggars in her bedrooms) 
 waited for the others to advise him how to act ; 
 for country people have an almost superstitious 
 dread of internal bleeding. 
 
 When all the men had assembled round the 
 bed, Joe showed signs of reviving. 
 
 " What's to do now ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Best give 'en a drop o' 
 spirits, I should say, if thee's got any in house." 
 
 The spirits brought him back to confused 
 consciousness. No one, however, could suggest 
 what to do with him. 
 
 " 'Er an't got no people relations like ? " 
 asked one of them, putting forward a vain hope 
 for want of a practicable idea. 
 
 " Got a wife or anybody, Joe ? " 
 
 Joe looked suspiciously at them. Finally he 
 grunted, " Don' know. Maybe." It was easy 
 to see there was something he did not wish to 
 tell. 
 
 " Where be 'em then ? " 
 
 "They been a'ter he for to take 'en back to 
 his lovin' wife, to help support her like. That's 
 what 'tis. He won't tell thee nort you see." 
 
 " Better put 'en to bed and send for the 
 doctor." 
 
 So they took off his clothes. Instead of a 
 shirt he had newspapers wrapped around his 
 body, and the ink had come off on his skin. He 
 was a horrid sight as he lay on the bed. They 
 put out the lamp, and by the early morning light
 
 i THE BEACHCOMBER 121 
 
 that filtered in through the window, he looked 
 worse than ever not unlike the dead dog-fish he 
 had despised. 
 
 "Ain't he thin ?" said one. 
 
 " Poor devil ! " said another. 
 
 " Put 'en under the bedclothes," said a third. 
 " You can always wash 'em." 
 
 They began to move him, and in so doing 
 completely roused him. 
 
 "What 'ave I been doin' ? " asked Joe. "Spittin' 
 blood?" 
 
 " Spoutin' it, more like." 
 
 " I s'pose I'm dyin' ? " 
 
 " P'raps. P'raps thee't pull round again." 
 
 " Pullin' round ain't my way. . . . Haven't 
 'ad such a bad time, you know. . . ." 
 
 Those were his last words. The same move- 
 ment which thoroughly awoke him, the spirits 
 probably, and the talking, brought on another 
 sickening effusion of blood. He became un- 
 conscious and was dead before the doctor arrived. 
 
 He is gone from the sunny beach as if he 
 never had lived. But his last words are remem- 
 bered. " 'S thee know," the fishermen say, 
 "what thic there ol' beachcomber said afore he 
 died ? That 'er hadn't had such a bad time, after 
 the rate ! Do make a man think summut that 
 from the likes o' he."
 
 THE LOG OF THE BRISTOL BEAUTY 
 
 I 
 
 ON a regular voyage it would have meant trouble 
 for the engine-room. The old Aganippe, a steamer 
 that had carried Royal Mails and had broken 
 records in her time, was hove-to during fine 
 weather stopped for engineers' purposes on the 
 high seas off the north-west coast of Spain. No 
 harm was done this time beyond scaring the 
 passengers, for the Aganippe was only wandering. 
 She had been specially chartered by the Affiliated 
 South Lancashire Literary Societies. " Where 
 Lancashire leads, England follows," as they say 
 in Lancashire. The Affiliated Literary Societies 
 were bound for One Month's Co-operative Trip 
 to Historic Spots of the Mediterranean. 
 
 " Funny ! funny ! funny ! " was the second 
 mate's verdict on the passengers. " There's only 
 one fine piece among them, and she's always got 
 that blamed sky-pilot hanging on to her skirts." 
 
 The passengers consisted of several young 
 clergymen of various denominations, some older 
 men not clerical, a bevy of pale, tousled women- 
 students from the Lancashire universities and 
 
 122
 
 i LOG OF THE BRISTOL BEAUTY 123 
 
 technical schools, merchants' daughters putting 
 the final touches to their education, fathers, 
 patronesses, chaperons, self-improvement people, 
 and a considerable number of secretaries and organ- 
 ising persons. They were all interested in liter- 
 ature ; therefore, theoretically, in human nature ; 
 and hence they were sharply divided in opinion 
 as to whether or no the somewhat shameless 
 encouragement given by Miss Alice Kirby (the 
 one fine piece) to the second mate involved the 
 jilting of the Rev. Mr. Titwell ; provided, of 
 course, that there really was anything between 
 Miss Kirby and Mr. Titwell. 
 
 It was the finest of days when the ship was 
 stopped, but under the circumstances very trying 
 for bad sailors. The Aganippe was lying broad- 
 side to the sea a mile or two from Cape Finisterre. 
 Though there was no wind, she rolled gently and 
 decidedly on the long smooth swell that breaks 
 against the western coasts of Europe in all but 
 the most long-settled calm weather. A few gulls 
 from the cape flew round about the ship, screeching 
 mournfully. In the hot sunshine her decks reeked 
 of pitch. There was no cool, steadying breeze 
 for squeamish heads ; only the sickening roll. 
 
 Most of the passengers' were on the port side, 
 spying at the lighthouse on Finisterre, flinging 
 poetic quotations at the purple Spanish mountains, 
 or talking ship's gossip and weather. In the 
 starboard alley-way, however, almost under the 
 bridge, a troubled young man grasped a stanchion 
 with one trembling hand and looked most earnestly 
 over the ship's side. The Rev. Mr. Titwell, a
 
 i2 4 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 great favourite among the ladies so long as there 
 was not an officer of the Mercantile Marine 
 standing by to eclipse him, was one of those 
 modern Nonconformist ministers whose silky 
 clericals, clean-shaven manner, and ascetic coun- 
 tenances render them almost indistinguishable from 
 the High Church lads fresh from Oxford. He 
 appeared now to be meditating on the profundity 
 of the sea and the astonishing number of little 
 fishes therein. 
 
 The second mate leaned over the bridge. 
 "Well, Mr. Titwell?" 
 " Mr. Roberts." 
 " How's this for you ? " 
 
 " I thought you said that as we had it so rough 
 in the Bay of Biscay we should have it fine on the 
 Portuguese coast." 
 
 " What d'you call this, then ? A hurricane ? 
 You wait, Mr. Titwell, and see if we have a 
 northerly wind in the Gulf of Lyons. It does 
 blow there ! Have you seen Finisterre ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I have looked at it, thank you. Don't 
 you think the ship is rolling rather ? " 
 
 " Are you going to feed fishes, Mr. Titwell ? " 
 " Feed fishes ? Is that a nautical phrase ? " 
 " Be sea-sick. Are you feeling sick ? " 
 " I I don't know. I thought I had been." 
 The poor young man gazed still farther into 
 the profundity of the sea, grasped the stanchion 
 yet more firmly, and proceeded to feed the fishes. 
 Miss Kirby, peeping into the alley-way, began : 
 " Mr. Titwell, come and. . . ." Then she saw 
 what Mr. Titwell was about, smiled confidentially,
 
 i LOG OF THE BRISTOL EEA17FY 125 
 
 not to say intimately, at the second mate, and ran 
 away. Her aunt and chaperon, Mrs. Kirby, a 
 youthful old lady renowned as a singer of senti- 
 mental songs at Manchester slum concerts, came 
 searching for her niece and found only Mr. Titwell. 
 
 " Have you seen my niece, Mr. Titwell ? " 
 
 "No." ' 
 
 " I wanted her to accompany me through a new 
 song for this evening. Will you, Mr. Titwell ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid. . . ." 
 
 " Now, I know you can. You play quite well 
 enough for that." 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm being sea-sick." 
 
 Oh ! " 
 
 Mr. Titwell ruffled his lanky hair despairingly. 
 What his face was like only the little fishes saw. 
 
 The second mate heard his own name called 
 in a small voice. Thinking it was only Mr. 
 Titwell's anguish, and not being a steward, he 
 took no notice. 
 
 " Mr. Roberts ! " he heard again, in a stronger 
 voice. " Here's something in the water." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Here's something floating in the water." 
 
 "Ay, ay !" 
 
 " It's got some letters on it. It's got the letters 
 L-O-G on it." 
 
 By the time the second mate had swung down 
 the ladder from the bridge Mr. Titwell felt almost 
 well again. 
 
 " What does L-O-G stand for ? " he asked. 
 
 The flat piece of wood was drifting slowly 
 astern.
 
 126 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 " Why it's a ship's log in wooden covers. 
 Can't you see ? Sufficient reason for launching 
 a boat, that. Keep your eye on it. Don't you 
 let it out of sight ! " 
 
 " What is it, then ? " 
 
 " It's got a ship's log in it or ought to have." 
 
 The mate was called. A boat was hurriedly 
 launched. 
 
 " There it is ! " yelled Mr. Titwell, keeping 
 his finger directed towards the drifting object. 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir ! " responded the boat's crew. 
 
 The passengers forsook the purple mountains 
 and crowded to starboard. The captain appeared 
 at the door of the chart-room. 
 
 " What is it ? " inquired the passengers. " Oh, 
 I hope there's nothing more the matter." 
 
 " I've sighted a log," Mr. Titwell explained. 
 
 " A what ? " 
 
 The log was brought on board and delivered 
 to the captain. 
 
 " What is it, captain ? Oh ! do let us see." 
 
 " It appears to be a ship's log, madam." 
 
 The captain went back to his chart-room and 
 banged the door. 
 
 " How rude these sailors are ! " remarked 
 Mrs. Kirby. 
 
 II 
 
 Dinner that evening was an exasperating meal 
 for the captain of the Aganippe, who, though 
 kindly and jolly enough personally, was apt 
 officially to be formal and somewhat irritable.
 
 i LOG OF THE BRISTOL BEAUTT 127 
 
 "What was it they fished out of the water 
 this afternoon, captain ? Was it only a piece of 
 wood ? " 
 
 " A ship's scrap log, madam." 
 " Did Mr. Titwell see it first, captain ? " 
 " So I understand." 
 " What is a scrap log, captain ? " 
 " It is a rough log for the mates' use." 
 " What is it used for ? " 
 
 "To record the distance steamed by patent 
 log, the ship's course, wind, the weather. . . ." 
 " How did it get into the water ? " 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," said the captain, " let 
 me tell you all I know at once. We have this 
 afternoon, thanks to Mr. Titwell, picked up the 
 scrap log of the cargo steamer Bristol Beauty, of 
 Bristol. It is almost uninjured, written in pencil, 
 and enclosed in neat painted wooden covers from 
 which I gather that they had more leisure in 
 the Bristol Beauty than we have here. The ship 
 appears to have met with bad weather. The log 
 may have been washed overboard. We launched 
 a boat for it because ships' logs are important, 
 greatly used in Board of Trade inquiries. I have 
 also signalled to Lloyd's Station on Finisterre. 
 If there is any other information. . . ." 
 
 " Was the Bristol Beauty wrecked, captain ? " 
 " She met with gales all the way out." 
 " How dreadful ! Do you think she was 
 wrecked ? " 
 
 " How can I say, madam ? " 
 " Will you let us see the log, captain ? Will 
 you read it ? "
 
 128 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 " Yes. Do ! Please, captain ! " 
 
 He refused to continue the subject, and prob- 
 ably that would have been the end of it if Mr. 
 Titwell and Miss Kirby had not succeeded in 
 catching him alone immediately after dinner. 
 
 "Do, please, read the Bristol Beauty s log, 
 captain," Miss Kirby implored. 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 " But Mr. Titwell wants to hear it, and it was 
 his find, wasn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, it was my find, captain." 
 
 " D'you want to hear it so very much, Miss 
 Kirby ? " asked the captain. 
 
 " Oh, please ! " 
 
 "Well, we'll see what we can do." 
 
 " When ? When, captain ? " 
 
 "When dinner's cleared away, shall we 
 say?" 
 
 " Oh, thank you, captain ! " 
 
 Miss Kirby ran off with the news, which, if 
 anything, travelled still faster. Hardly was dinner 
 cleared when the passengers began to re-assemble 
 in the saloon. The questioning became a fusil- 
 lade, directed mainly at the little group which 
 included Mrs. and Miss Kirby, the second mate, 
 and the Rev. Mr. Titwell. A few superior people 
 affected to discuss other subjects, but they found 
 nobody to talk to, and, as usual, they didn't much 
 want to talk to one another. 
 
 " Did Mr. Titwell really see it first ? Miss 
 Kirby got the captain to promise. He wouldn't 
 do it for anybody else. Not quite nice of her, 
 d'you think ? " Such was the conversation when
 
 i LOG OF THE BRISTOL BEAUTY 129 
 
 Captain Cornish entered the saloon with the log- 
 book under his arm. 
 
 A hush ! 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," began the captain. 
 
 " The old man's no hand at talking," whispered 
 the second mate to Miss Kirby, " but he's great at 
 speechifying." 
 
 " the scrap-log which we picked up to-day 
 belongs, or belonged " 
 
 " Good again ! " remarked the second mate. 
 
 " to the Bristol Beauty, a ship of about a 
 thousand tons registered, so the mate tells me. 
 I don't think I need go into the details of stow- 
 ing the cargo." 
 
 " Please, captain." 
 
 " Well, she took in three hundred and fifty- 
 two tons eight hundredweight of bunkers." 
 
 " Coal for the engines," the second mate 
 explained to Miss Kirby. 
 
 "Then," continued the captain, "early on 
 Tuesday morning, the log goes on to say : 
 
 This day commenced with a whole SW. 
 gale and frequent lightning in E. quarter 
 heavy showers and hailstones at intervals. 
 Barometer low. 
 
 They made all prepared for sea. Dock and channel 
 pilot came aboard. They unmoored and got 
 clear of the dock gates, pilot in charge. They 
 proceeded down the Bristol Channel, discharged 
 pilot, and set the course to west -half- south. 
 Engines full speed ahead." 
 
 " Where were they going to, captain ? "
 
 1 30 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 "Bristol towards Lisbon, then on to Corsica 
 for bark extract." 
 
 " Where we are going ? " 
 
 " Exactly. The weather, a heavy SSW. gale 
 and showery. They streamed the patent log. 
 The rest I will give you in the words of the log- 
 book itself, only omitting nautical details of no 
 interest to you : 
 
 Tuesday, 4 p.m. Wind W. Heavy gale 
 and high head sea, steamer pitching and labouring 
 heavily, engines racing considerably. 
 
 8 p.m. Strong gale and clear. Passing 
 showers. 
 
 10.35 P- m ' Lundy at 3 m. 
 
 12 midnight. Similar weather. 
 
 Wednesday, 4 a.m. Wind NNW., fresh 
 breeze, and clear weather ; rough sea gradually 
 moderating. 
 
 5.40 a.m. Trevose Head at 8 miles. 
 
 8 a.m. Similar weather. 
 
 12 noon. Strong breeze, high head sea, 
 steamer labouring heavily." 
 
 " Poor things ! " sighed one of the lady pas- 
 sengers. 
 
 " 3 p.m. Wolf at 6 miles. Patent log 75^, 
 reset to o. 
 
 4 p.m. Hard gale from S., with terrific 
 rain squalls ; steamer labouring severely and 
 shipping immense quantities of water ; several 
 empty casks washed overboard."
 
 i LOG OF THE BRISTOL BEAUTY 131 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Roberts ! " exclaimed Miss Kirby. 
 " How lucky it was not the crew ! " 
 
 "It was the casks, Alice," said Mrs. Kirby. 
 " What a pity it is that England's brave sailors 
 drink so much ! " 
 
 " Too true, I'm afraid," added Mr. Titwell. 
 
 "The casks," the second mate explained, 
 " were deck cargo, going back empty for bark 
 extract for tanning first-class passengers, we call 
 'em not liquor for the crew. We don't drink 
 bark extract, anyhow." 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Roberts ! " said Mrs. Kirby with 
 dignity. 
 
 The captain read on : 
 
 " 8 p.m. Moderating wind ; hauled to west. 
 
 12 midnight. Wind NW. Strong gale 
 and high, confused sea ; steamer labouring, 
 straining heavily, shipping heavy water ; empty 
 barrels washing about decks, and engines racing 
 fearfully. 
 
 Thursday, 4 a.m. Wind W. Hard gale 
 with terrific squalls and high seas ; steamer 
 labouring." 
 
 The sound of " Ah-h ! " ran around the saloon 
 a sound between pleasure and pain, or com- 
 pounded of both. 
 
 " 8 a.m. Heavy SW. gale, and sea running 
 mountainous ; shipping heavy seas fore and 
 aft ; several empty barrels over the rail." 
 
 " How terrible ! "
 
 1 32 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 " 12 noon. Similar weather." 
 " Oh, poor things ! " 
 
 "4 p.m. No change to report. High, 
 dangerous, and confused sea running ; shipping 
 heavy seas fore and aft. Empty barrels con- 
 tinue going overboard. 
 
 8 p.m. Similar weather, with terrific rain 
 squalls, thunder, and lightning. Wind shifted 
 to west." 
 
 "What terrible similar weather they seem to 
 have had ! " exclaimed an elderly lady, who was 
 slightly deaf. 
 
 " It's like the fourth act of King Lear, on the 
 heath," remarked a woman student. 
 
 " Friday, 4 a.m. This day begins weather 
 as before. Vivid lightning all round horizon ; 
 high cross-seas running ; deck constantly full, 
 washing all movables about. 
 
 8 a.m. No change. 
 
 12 noon. Similar weather. 
 
 4 p.m. Ditto. 
 
 5 p.m. Wind shifting to N. 
 
 8 p.m. Terrific northerly gale ; high, 
 following sea. 
 
 12 midnight. Ship pooping seas." 
 
 " What is pooping seas, Mr. Roberts ? " Miss 
 Kirby asked. 
 
 "Big seas breaking in over the stern. Some 
 skippers run before stern seas till it's too late to 
 turn round, and then they can't."
 
 i LOG OF THE BRISTOL BEAUTY 133 
 
 Mr. Titwell wished for something in the log 
 that he, too, could explain. 
 
 "Saturday, 3.10 a.m. Huge sea broke 
 over the stern, washing away the flagstaff and 
 after-deck compass-stand and damaging the 
 after wheel. Several barrels overboard. 
 
 4 a.m. Similar ; no change ; still pooping 
 seas and decks flooded. Crew employed trying 
 to secure empty barrels, but to no avail ; still 
 washing same overboard. Fear cargo adrift in 
 No. 2 hold. 
 
 4.15 a.m. Tried to turn head to sea. 
 Shipped immense sea. Wheelhouse door 
 broken, lifeboat washed on to engine-room 
 skylight. 
 
 4.40 a.m. Again tried to turn head to 
 sea ; impossible. Pooping huge seas. Steam 
 steering gear jammed. Position of ship 
 dangerous. 
 
 That, ladies and gentlemen," said the captain, 
 " is the last entry in the scrap log of the . . ." 
 
 Exclamations of pity from all quarters of the 
 saloon drowned the captain's voice^ Mrs. Kirby 
 was fingering the piano very softly. A lady near 
 her caught the tune and hummed it. 
 
 'Twas the rather nasal, but beautiful, melody 
 of the hymn " For those in peril on the sea." 
 Mrs. Kirby played with more and more confidence. 
 She broke into song, con molto sentimento, and in 
 a moment all save the superior persons were 
 singing or humming plaintively
 
 134 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 " Eternal Father, strong to save, 
 Whose arm hath bound the restless wave, 
 Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep 
 Its own appointed limits keep : 
 
 O hear us when we cry to Thee 
 
 For those in peril on the sea." 
 
 The captain retired hastily to his room. 
 Sundry passengers wept and were unashamed. 
 Miss Kirby felt ill quite faint. The second 
 mate and Mr. Titwell competed to support her. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The names the captain called himself, and 
 those his officers called him, for reading the log 
 were not polite. A breeze sprang up while the 
 passengers were turning in. After the manner 
 of breezes in the south, it began as suddenly and 
 forcibly as it continued. A long whistle in the 
 rigging, an aerial push against the ship, and it 
 was upon them. It was only a moderate breeze, 
 and short-lived, but it caught a ship already 
 rolling, and the passengers' minds were full of 
 the Bristol Beauty and the perils of the sea. A 
 number of them wished to be brave and to stay 
 up all night. Miss Kirby and the Rev. Mr. 
 Titwell actually did sit together on a coil of rope 
 till nearly midnight. 
 
 Within two days, however, the Aganippe's 
 passengers were at dinner in Lisbon Harbour, 
 talking, not now of wrecks and storms and perils, 
 but of Lisbon and the lazy Portuguese. Just as 
 cheese was being handed round, the head steward
 
 i LOG OF THE BRISTOL BEAUTY 135 
 
 came behind Mr. Titwell and whispered : " You 
 remember that log you sighted, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " Mr. Roberts has met the captain of the 
 Bristol Beauty ashore and brought him on board." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 Almost before the innocent expletive was out 
 of the young clergyman's mouth, the second mate 
 burst into the saloon, half leading, half dragging 
 a round, ruddy, twinkle-eyed man, whose gait 
 was compounded of sea-legs and Portuguese 
 wines. 
 
 " Sir," said the second mate, " here's Captain 
 Jones, of the Bristol Beauty." 
 
 " Oh, here's the 'captain of the ship that was 
 wrecked. Here's the dear captain ! What he 
 must have been through ! He doesn't look it, 
 does he ? Poor man ! Not a gentleman, evi- 
 dently. Will he tell us, d'you think ? Speech ! 
 speech ! " 
 
 As he walked up the saloon one pale young 
 lady plucked his sleeve : " Thank God you're 
 safe, captain ! We prayed for you." 
 
 " Did ye, miss ? " 
 
 A place was laid for him to the right of 
 Captain Cornish. He was urged to speak to 
 explain how he was saved. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," said the captain of 
 the Aganippe^ " perhaps Captain Jones will make 
 a speech when he's had something to eat." 
 
 " Have I got to ? " asked Captain Jones. 
 
 " Yes, you must." 
 
 " Let's get it over, then."
 
 136 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 He was rapturously applauded. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," he began, imitating 
 his fellow captain in a way that made the superior 
 persons smile. u You round our scrap log. I 
 don't know why what that is, you want to 
 know. . . ." 
 
 " The terrible weather you had." 
 
 " We did have it roughish across the Bay." 
 
 "And the dreadful entries in your log. 
 Pooping ! " 
 
 " Not my log ; the mates' log. That's easy 
 explained. Don't know that I ought to, though. 
 Never mind. You see, 'tis like this. We're 
 between the devil and the deep sea the owners 
 and insurance people, and the sea. Owners 
 spend their money insuring, instead of making 
 their ships seaworthy. Insurance people never 
 want to pay up, of course. Suppose we get cargo 
 injured deck cargo no fault at all of ours 
 and can't prove it's the act of God storm, fire, 
 lightning, ancetera ; then insurance people won't 
 pay, and owners give us the sack for careless 
 navigation of their scrap-iron. Besides, Board 
 of Trade might hold an inquiry and give me a 
 year's holiday compulsory holiday take away 
 my ticket my certificate. So, if we meet with 
 bad weather, we take the log and write up damn 
 bad weather worse weather, that is. Self-pro- 
 tection, I say, with a deck cargo like ours. We 
 did have dirty weather. Seen worse. . . ." 
 
 " But pooping seas ? " 
 
 " Pooh ! Steamers nowadays is only floating 
 warehouses fully insured sterns like tubs ship
 
 i LOG OF THE BRISTOL BEAUTY 137 
 
 seas like rafts and roll like barrels. I've navigated 
 the little Bristol Beauty through worse weather 
 than we've had this voyage worse, aye, hurri- 
 canes ! If you've been making a fuss over our 
 log and singing hymns and suchlike, then, 'strue 
 as heaven's above, you've been done brown. 
 Beg pardon ; you was had. See ? 
 
 "Thank ye, sir. Soup, please." 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Tit well was perhaps the least 
 dissatisfied of all the passengers, for he observed 
 that the uproarious laughter of Mr. Roberts, the 
 second mate, brought severe frowns upon the fair 
 forehead of Miss Alice Kirby. She told him 
 afterwards, while they were hand in hand on deck, 
 watching the lights of Lisbon Harbour, that in 
 her opinion sailors had no hearts. 
 
 Mr. Titwell had.
 
 ROBBERY ROBBED 
 
 I 
 
 His grey cob was of the sort described at sales 
 as " useful." His dog-cart, smartly built, now 
 had painted on its scratched varnish, THOS. J. 
 SHINNER, CORN FACTOR AND COAL MERCHANT. 
 His clothes were more gentlemanly than his rather 
 well-fed person. Under the wide and cleanly sky 
 of the downland his neat driving did not remove 
 the impression of fussy smallness. Pretty obvi- 
 ously, he was one of those up-to-date, business- 
 like tradesmen who still, by fair means or foul, 
 make money among the stagnant industries of the 
 countryside. 
 
 On one side was the great green escarpment of 
 the chalk hills. Stretching far away below were 
 the fat dairy pastures. The larks' songs descend- 
 ing from above mingled with the grunts of the 
 cottager's rent his pig, that is ascending from 
 the earth. 
 
 Along the road which meandered about on 
 that ledge of poor land, were many scattered 
 cottages. Most of them possessed ramshackle 
 outbuildings or pig-sties ; on some of the latter 
 
 138
 
 ROBBERY ROBBED 139 
 
 swine- fever notices were posted. Thos. J. 
 Shinner called at nearly every cottage. The men- 
 folk, of course, were at work in the fields. He 
 knew that. He almost ran from his trap to the 
 doors. Small chance was left to anybody of 
 escaping his visits. 
 
 Mrs. Slade received him respectfully. " No, 
 sir, we don't want no barley meal, thank you 
 kindly. They've a-killed our old sow, all 'cause 
 they says as one o' the little 'uns had the fever, 
 though 'twas only an inflammation, that I'm 
 sure." 
 
 " Any coal, Mrs. Slade ? " 
 
 " No, sir, thank you kindly." 
 
 " How much have you got ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, we ain't got hardly a hundred- 
 weight, but we be trying to put by a little towards 
 a hen and a sitting of eggs in place of our sow, so 
 we ain't going to have no more coals just yet." 
 
 " I'll send you out three hundredweight 
 cheap pay weekly. Your husband's earning 
 seventeen shillings a week, isn't he ? You can 
 afford a shilling a week. Good day." 
 
 Mrs. Slade sat down helplessly and plucked at 
 her apron, whilst Mr. Shinner rested his pocket- 
 book on the garden gate and made a note. 
 
 Mrs. Churney at the next cottage worked with 
 her husband in the fields. Their door was closed 
 and locked. Mr. Shinner, therefore, went round 
 to the back premises, inspected the sty, the meal 
 bag, and the coal house, and again made a note. 
 
 He jumped out of his trap fifty yards from the 
 cottage of Squire Rodden's shepherd, and, creeping
 
 1 40 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 along under the hedge, he arrived at the door 
 very suddenly. Though he thought he heard a 
 movement, the place was empty except for two 
 sick lambs before the fire. " Mrs. Drake ! " he 
 called. " Mrs. Drake ! " he shouted upstairs. 
 " If your husband doesn't pay by next week I 
 shall sue him. D'you hear ? County court ! " 
 
 Once more he made a note. (Mrs. Drake 
 watched him do it from behind the curtain of an 
 upper window.) He took up the reins to drive 
 home ; and then, thinking better of it, he turned 
 towards Squire Rodden's towards the big red 
 farmhouse that stands alone in a field beneath 
 Acster Beacon. 
 
 II 
 
 The Squire, an old tenant farmer whose force- 
 fulness had earned him that title, was suffering 
 from a touch of the gout, and sat with his foot up 
 in a room whence he could look out on some of 
 his arable land, on most of his pasture, and at his 
 stables. Before Mr. Shinner was shown in he had 
 been tugging his white moustache over the turf 
 columns of a newspaper. 
 
 " How am I ? Bad ! " he wheezed, in answer 
 to polite inquiries. " Gout, always, and now 
 bronchitis too. Shan't last out the winter. An 
 oppression here." He slapped his broad chest 
 vigorously. " Get out the whisky, my dear." 
 
 " No, thank you," said Mr. Shinner. 
 
 " Yes, you will," snapped the Squire. " My 
 doctor says a glass or two. . . . One minute."
 
 i ROBBERY ROBBED 141 
 
 He rose quickly, threw up one of the windows, 
 and roared out : " Take that mare into her stable, 
 fool ! Can't you see she's sweating ? " 
 
 Mr. Shinner glanced at him keenly and 
 accepted the whisky. Then he unfolded his 
 business, which was, in brief, that Squire Rodden 
 should stop out of the shepherd's wages what the 
 shepherd owed to Mr. Shinner. 
 
 " What's that ? Reuben Drake in your debt ? 
 Several pounds ? Oh ! He's got two strapping 
 daughters at home that ought to be out in service, 
 but he's a good shepherd. Repeat what you 
 said." 
 
 Mr. Shinner amplified his offer to the extent 
 that if the Squire would pay then and there the 
 shepherd's debt, he should be allowed a good dis- 
 count, and so himself would gain a profit out of 
 the shepherd. 
 
 The Squire rose again, very quickly. " You 
 trick my labourers," he shouted, " into buying 
 your bad goods at top prices when I know, and 
 they know, and you know, they can't afford it, and 
 then you dun 'em. You cheat my men, but you 
 damn well shan't cheat me. Get out of my 
 house, you dirty little cad ! " Whereupon he 
 took Mr. Shinner and kicked him out of the front 
 door. Had the gouty foot not kicked so well, 
 the violently slammed door would have smashed 
 Mr. Shinner's skull. 
 
 On arriving back at his office, Mr. Shinner 
 directed his clerk somewhat thus : " Slade of 
 Acster, three hundred of smalls. Pay weekly a 
 shilling, and see they do. Charge on arrears.
 
 1 42 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 Churney, two hundred of kitchen, and a half a 
 sack of meal, seconds. Call for money. Drake, 
 Rodden's shepherd see what a typewritten letter 
 will do, and if we don't hear, take out a summons 
 next week." 
 
 Then Mr. Shinner signed his cheques, two of 
 which were for religious subscriptions. 
 
 Ill 
 
 A night - flitting under the dark massive 
 hills. ... By the light of two or three stable 
 lanterns the shepherd's more portable and less 
 worthless household goods were being carried 
 out to a wagon of the old-fashioned build that 
 Squire Rodden swore by. And the voice which 
 said : " If you don't hurry up, Drake, you'll 
 miss the early train, and be nabbed," was that of 
 the Squire's fourth son. Money chinked. The 
 wagon with its piled-up freight of goods and 
 children, but without any light, lumbered into 
 darkness, and under the hills all was quiet again. 
 
 Next morning the Squire betted his son twenty 
 to one that Mr. Shinner would be out at Acster 
 within two days ; and Mr. Shinner, owing to his 
 relations with the railway station, did hear of the 
 flitting, and did hasten out to Acster. 
 
 Squire Rodden, who was on the watch, flung 
 up his window. " What the devil d'you want 
 
 3 " 
 
 now r 
 
 "Where's Drake?" 
 
 " Drake's gone. And it's no use you running 
 after him, because he's saved enough to make him-
 
 i ROBBERY ROBBED 143 
 
 self bankrupt under the Small Debtors Act. I 
 made up the amount myself, by allowing him 
 Michaelmas money that was't due yet. Put that 
 in your pipe and smoke it, you little scoundrel ! 
 And get off my land, or I'll call my boys to chuck 
 you into the pond. Come here again, and see ! " 
 
 The window banged down. Stalwart sons 
 began to gather round. Mr. Shinner removed 
 himself from the Squire's land. 
 
 He directed his clerk to write off the debt, for, 
 being a good business man, he realised the useless- 
 ness of pursuing a debtor who would simply make 
 himself bankrupt, and would pay, probably, next 
 to nothing in the pound. 
 
 And then being, as I say, a good business 
 man he left his office early, in order to preside 
 at a tea-fight.
 
 MRS. TRIPP'S FLUTTER 
 
 ) with the voice of these subdued soundings, the 
 Angelet sprang forth, fluttering its rudiments of 
 pinions but forthwith flagged, and was recovered 
 into the arms of those full-winged angels. And a 
 wonder it was to see how, as years went round 
 in heaven a year in dreams is as a day con- 
 tinually its white shoulders put forth buds of 
 wings, but wanting the perfect angelic nutriment, 
 anon was shorn of its aspiring, and fell fluttering 
 still caught by angel hands, for ever to put forth 
 shoots, and to fall fluttering, because its birth was 
 not of the unmixed vigour of heaven. (Charles 
 Lamb's THE CHILD ANGEL.) 
 
 I 
 
 Miss JANE BENSON, when she became Mrs. 
 Thomas Tripp, married below her station. The 
 unforgettable home of her maiden days was a 
 back-street shop in the window of which was dis- 
 played an assortment of goods, ranging from 
 bacon and cheese to ha'penny sweetmeats, with 
 pots, pans, and a selection of underclothing thrown 
 in between. Children flattened their noses against 
 
 144
 
 , MRS. TRIPP'S FLUTTER 145 
 
 the glass. Little Jane Benson called them street- 
 children. 
 
 Young Tom Tripp had reminded her of village 
 blacksmiths, and spreading chestnut trees. He 
 was foreman to a Manchester chimney-sweep, and 
 possessed a nice taste in presents. He assured 
 her that soot was healthy, and did not stick like 
 some sorts of dirt he knew ; and soon after he 
 had set up on his own in business, they were duly 
 married. 
 
 Had Miss Benson remained single, she might, 
 with her natural gifts, have risen to a position far 
 above her pa and ma's. As it was, she spent the 
 greater part of her mental and vocal talents in 
 trying to rise only to her maiden altitude in life, 
 and in trying to carry up with her Mr. Tripp and 
 all the little Tripps. Well that there were angels 
 ever ready to receive the oft-descending Jane 
 Tripp not real angels, but something far better, 
 the pickled memories of her birthplace and her 
 parents. She never made a long stay in her 
 heavens on earth. But, like the Child Angel of 
 Elia's dream, she had some glorious flutters. 
 
 Her first six attempts at flight had to do with 
 Tripp's concerns. Unfortunately, he was such 
 a contented lump of a man. He wanted home 
 comforts, rather than more chimneys than he 
 could himself sweep. Still less did he want more 
 fashionable chimneys. " They don't pay cash, 
 them sort," he held. 
 
 Prince Albert Grove, from which he resolutely 
 refused to move, was a wretched place, dismal and 
 incomplete, only half a street and nothing at all of 
 
 L
 
 146 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 a grove. It consisted of thirteen five-and-three- 
 penny houses, each of which possessed in front of 
 it a garden where the cottager might grow pansies, 
 cabbages, roses, and other green things on twelve 
 square yards of dirt and a path. At the time of 
 Mrs. Tripp's seventh flutter the gardens were 
 thirteen railed-in mud-pie grounds, and the front 
 windows looked out on the blank back-yard wall 
 of a row of six-shilling houses. Three decorations 
 this naked wall had on it three police notices to 
 the effect that whosoever should cast vegetables, 
 fish offal, or garbage of any description into the 
 roadway would be liable to a fine not exceeding 
 forty shillings, or, in default, to six weeks' im- 
 prisonment. As Mrs. Tripp remarked : " Eng- 
 land ain't a land of the free when things like that 
 is stuck about. This ain't no place for a respect- 
 able woman, I say. And I'd move to-morrow, 
 I would, if Tripp was willing." 
 
 In places like Prince Albert Grove there are 
 two social functions a day, the morning step- 
 washing and the evening gate-standing. House- 
 visiting is not the thing, except in the case of 
 interesting illnesses or beautiful bereavements. 
 Conversation, therefore, is semi-public. 
 
 Mrs. Tripp's voice was well and often heard 
 in the Grove. She had some reputation as a 
 talker who could be both vivid and convincing, 
 without the use of words unbefitting a grocer- 
 draper-ironmonger's daughter. The strength of 
 her voice, not of her language, did it : for had she 
 not called a section of her nine children home to 
 bed every night for a dozen years or more ?
 
 , MRS. TRIPP'S FLUTTER 147 
 
 At the age of thirty-seven, she was tall, bony, 
 prominent as to the nose and yellow in the face, 
 and her voice was as aforesaid. If you do not 
 appreciate the burden of a family of nine children, 
 think of seventeen times three hundred and sixty- 
 five (or six) nights with a baby, or babies, crying 
 in each. 
 
 II 
 
 One morning, Mrs. Tripp and her next-door 
 neighbour, Mrs. Maslen, raised themselves up 
 from their half-washed doorsteps. They had 
 plenty to say, and while their bare arms dried in 
 the sunshine, they said it. For the moment, 
 Mrs. Maslen was leading lady of the Grove. 
 Two evenings beforehand, she and Mr. Maslen, 
 having gone out together as in love's young days, 
 had indulged in the middle of the Grove in a 
 violent and unsober quarrel, which led to a bleed- 
 ing of Mrs. Maslen's nose and a black eye for her 
 husband. She had been treated shameful accord- 
 ing to some, and had got just what she wanted in 
 the opinion of others. 
 
 Mrs. Lowman, a plaintive mother of five, had 
 been publicly buttoning up her bodice on her 
 doorstep. Being more than interested in the ups 
 and downs of matrimony, she turned within to 
 put on a hat and shawl, and so protected against 
 cold, she took a dozen steps to Mrs. Maslen's 
 railings. Miss Tripp also joined the group. 
 Miss Tripp did not relish being told she was just 
 like her ma ; and usually she was as frowsy and
 
 148 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 blowsy in the morning as in the evening she was 
 elegant and beauteous by reason of three rings, 
 two bracelets, and a princess fringe. This morn- 
 ing her hair-curlers shone like a diamond tiara, 
 and Mrs. Tripp thought her daughter far too 
 ladylike for Prince Albert Grove, although at 
 other times she could reproach her for being too 
 ladylike by half. 
 
 " Beautiful morning, is it not, Mrs. Maslen ? 
 Almost too nice for sand-bricking doorsteps ? " 
 
 Some of Miss Tripp's remarks had been 
 known to leave stout Mrs. Maslen, as the saying 
 goes, with a flea in her ear. She therefore replied 
 warily : " Yes, feels like real summer, don't it ? 
 Aye, let them enjoy it as can like you, Lily 
 Tripp. I ain't got no stomach for nothing now- 
 adays." 
 
 " No more haven't I," added Mrs. Lowman. 
 
 "We all have our worries," said Mrs Tripp. 
 
 " I do ! " Mrs. Maslen declared. 
 
 " Me too, I'm sure," Mrs. Lowman whined. 
 
 " How'd you like to live in my house with 
 eleven in family, counting me, and only two bed- 
 rooms ? And all the cooking and the washing 
 and the scrubbing and I can't keep 'em as clean 
 as I wants to." 
 
 " You want a bathroom, Mrs. Tripp ; that's 
 what you want. Then you might be able to keep 
 'em clean which they aren't now. 'Twouldn't 
 be a bad thing for Mr. Tripp neither." 
 
 " Let people talk about their own husbands, 
 Mrs. Maslen." 
 
 " Talk to 'em's more your line, ain't it ? "
 
 MRS. TRIPP'S FLUTTER 149 
 
 " Ma does do it in her own house," said Miss 
 Tripp. 
 
 " Aye ! ' Mrs. Maslen went on. " This place 
 ain't good enough for you, Mrs. Tripp. You'd 
 better go across the road, or else up to Larch 
 Avenue. New eight-shilling houses, them 
 pawn a bit of your Lily's finery with bathrooms, 
 Mrs. Tripp." ' 
 
 " Larch Avenue off Snow Street ? " Mrs. Tripp 
 inquired. 
 
 " And three bedrooms. . . ." 
 
 " I've been up there." 
 
 " And a bow window. . . ." 
 
 " It's a nice sort of neighbourhood." 
 
 " And a back door. ..." 
 
 " Tradesmen's entrance ! " remarked Miss 
 Tripp. 
 
 " And them as lives there has afternoon tea 
 in one another's houses, in turn, week by week. 
 They don't wait there till their husbands comes 
 home." 
 
 " You seem pretty anxious to get rid of me," 
 said Mrs. Tripp. " And I have got a good mind 
 to move out of this. . . ." 
 
 The vision, in fact, of a house in Larch 
 Avenue was fast taking hold of her imagination. 
 She was tired of the rough and tumble necessary 
 to keep up her social standing in Prince Albert 
 Grove ; and besides, as she told the assembled 
 housewives : " I've got a lot of furniture what pa 
 and ma left me. It's too good to sell ; which I 
 shouldn't like to. I could well-nigh furnish an 
 eight-room house like ours was I could do it
 
 150 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 easy. And 'tisn't right for people what want 
 Tripp to have to come to a place like this. And 
 the children do get that dirty here. . . . Oh, 
 Willie, Willie ! Just as I was saying ! What 
 have you been doing ? You little torment ! 
 Come here this minute. Your clean clothes and 
 your new shoes ! " 
 
 Willie had proved that the six-shilling houses, 
 where he had been playing, had also their mud- 
 pie grounds. He was carried, crying, into the 
 house and commanded to sit still near the coal- 
 box. Before Miss Tripp followed her mother 
 and William James, she observed maliciously : 
 " Your step will look nice, Mrs. Maslen when 
 it's done." And Mrs. Maslen knelt down to it, 
 retorting : "Do your own step, you proud hussy !" 
 Mrs. Lowman, who couldn't abear Mrs. Maslen, 
 in the absence of Mrs. Tripp to keep the peace, 
 retired to suckle her latest-born. 
 
 The Grove was empty. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ' But Mrs. Tripp's brain was full. New pinions 
 for another attempt at flight were sprouting with 
 such rapidity as to be able, that same evening, 
 to make no small rush, whirl and flapping around 
 the inattentive ears of Mr. Tripp. 
 
 Small matters, the formal whipping of William 
 James, for example, were always referred to Mr. 
 Tripp. In questions of ordinary importance and 
 everyday occurrence Mrs. Tripp's lead was un- 
 disputed, except by Miss Tripp. But on really
 
 i MRS. TRIPFS FLUTTER 151 
 
 critical occasions, Mrs. Tripp was obliged to bow 
 before her husband's blunt decisions. Neverthe- 
 less, Mrs. Tripp's flutters, coming as they did 
 in neither the second nor the third class of events, 
 but between, seldom took place without consider- 
 able stress and strain in the bonds of household 
 peace. Tripp was so slow in understanding what 
 was best for himself, his wife, and his nine 
 children. 
 
 On the first day of the seventh flutter, Tripp 
 returned about William James's bedtime. Mrs. 
 Tripp, who had prepared him an extraordinarily 
 good supper, went to the door to call William 
 James home to bed. 
 
 Willie ! Willie ! Will-yum ! Will-y-am 
 James ! " 
 
 When his mother's voice was already cracking, 
 and her threats had become almost inhuman, let 
 alone unmaternal, William James carefully raised 
 himself out of a hole at the end of the Grove. If 
 possible his state was worse than in the morning. 
 
 " Oh, Willie, Willie ! You dirty little wretch ! 
 I'll teach you ! I'll teach you, I will ! " 
 
 Mrs. Tripp raised him upside-down in her 
 arms, and punctuated her remarks with the hand. 
 Willie squealed. His mother slapped. Tripp's 
 first inquiry was an epitome of his life and his 
 surroundings. 
 
 " What's the matter now ? " he asked. 
 
 And Mrs. Tripp's reply was addressed to 
 Tripp, to Willie, and to the whole of this hard 
 world. 
 
 " Did you ever see. . . . You naughty boy !
 
 152 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 Will you stay still ! One thing after another. . . . 
 I'm always putting him on clean clothes, and 
 he gets as dirty as a nasty little gutter-boy. 
 People wouldn't think he was a respectable person's 
 child. You'll be the death of me ; and you'll be 
 sorry for it when I'm dead and gone, you will ! " 
 
 Tripp had been going on with his supper. 
 " When I'm dead and gone," was usually, in his 
 wife's speeches, followed by a slight pause. He 
 took advantage of it to say for quietness' sake : 
 " You won't do it again, will you, Willie lad ? " 
 
 " Won't he just ! You'd better take him in 
 hand ; / can't do nothing with him." 
 
 " Aye ! but boys must play about, Jane. 
 Mustn't they, Willie ? " 
 
 " They needn't play in the worst muck they 
 can find. I never had to have clean things two 
 or three times a day when I was a girl. Willie 
 takes after you ; that's what it is. Look at him ! 
 / can't keep him clean. ..." 
 
 " Then you'll have to let 'en go dirty." 
 
 " Let 'en go dirty ! " repeated Mrs. Tripp with 
 scorn. " We all know what people's children gets 
 like when they lets 'em go dirty. Look at Mrs. 
 Lowman's ! I'm surprised at you, Tripp, I am, 
 when I've been working and washing and cleaning 
 for your children all those years, and got nothing 
 but worry for it. I'll not be able to do it much 
 longer. I've got a pain in the pit of my stomach 
 now. How can you expect me to keep 'em clean 
 and nice in this dirty place ? Why can't you 
 move into a better street ? That's what you 
 ought to have done years ago."
 
 MRS. TRIPP'S FLUTTER 153 
 
 "What do we want to move into a better 
 street for ? " 
 
 " * What do we want to move into a better 
 street for ' ! Haven't I just been telling you ? 
 It's pigs as lives in pig-sties ! Besides you'd get 
 more chimneys to do." 
 
 " And not have time to do 'em ! We can't 
 afford a better house. How much is it ? " 
 
 " Only eight shillings. . . ." 
 
 " Eight shillings five and three two and nine 
 more. It won't run to it. Now will it, Jane ? " 
 
 " If 'twon't, then we'd all better go to the 
 workhouse straight off, I say. We shouldn't 
 need to in Larch Avenue. And I've got plenty 
 enough things to furnish a bigger house thanks 
 to pa and ma. There's bathrooms in Larch 
 Avenue. That wouldn't be a bad thing for you, 
 Tripp." 
 
 " No more it wouldn't. But don't you go 
 setting your heart on what you can't get, there's 
 an old girl." 
 
 " Old girl indeed ! I shan't stay here all my 
 life, and don't you forget it, Tripp." 
 
 Mr. Tripp, still wishing to smoke his pipe in 
 peace, tried to dodge the trouble. " I'll tell you 
 what," he said. " You find the extra rent, and 
 then we'll all move off there. No, I shan't have 
 a lodger. I ain't partic'lar keen, but you do 
 seem a bit anxious like. You get the extra 
 money, and I'll go." 
 
 " Very well, I'll take in washing, and hold my 
 head over other people's dirty clothes week in 
 and week out."
 
 154 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 " No, no, my girl. You've got more'n you 
 can do now. We shall be able to run to it when 
 we get some of the children off our hands. 
 For now, I tell 'ee, 'twon't run to it an' that's 
 enough." 
 
 IV 
 
 Tripp's decision, however, was not enough. 
 He had left open the cage door, through which 
 his wife might flutter. 
 
 But how find the money ? 
 
 Mrs. Tripp thought earnestly of many different 
 things, from dressmaking or selling sweets to 
 Lily's winning competitions or getting married 
 to a gentleman of means. She thought till her 
 mind became misty, full of the unknown, unfound 
 something needed. The new house depended 
 on her power to juggle with shillings and pence. 
 
 Suddenly the mist cleared off. Like an angel 
 from heaven there appeared to Mrs. Tripp the 
 figure of her not very well-beloved brother, Alfred 
 Benson, a butcher's salesman. She saw him under 
 the oil flares, clad in a meaty white overall. She 
 saw him going home to a street not unlike Prince 
 Albert Grove. And she knew that if anything is 
 worse than living in such a place, it is lodging in 
 it. Lastly, she pictured him taking his evening 
 meal in the new house of Tripp, and for that 
 and other great comforts, paying at least twelve 
 shillings a week towards the household expenses 
 towards the additional rent. " I felt," she 
 confided to Mrs. Lowman, " I don't know how
 
 MRS. TRIPP'S FLUTTER 155 
 
 I felt. Tripp can't have no objection to Alfred, 
 seeing he's my own brother. We shall only have 
 two bedrooms still, 'cause Alfred '11 have to have 
 one to himself; but the rooms is bigger, and 
 there's a scullery and a wash-house and a yard. 
 Tripp won't have to keep his soot-bags in the 
 kitchen. And there's a bathroom. Tripp'll like 
 that." 
 
 And Mrs. Tripp felt flattered when Mrs. 
 Lowman echoed : " Of course he will. I only 
 wish I had your chances, Mrs. Tripp. But where 
 I am, there I stays, I do." 
 
 Tripp's consent was certainly a little grudging. 
 He thought Alfred Benson a bit hard to get on 
 with, not so sober as he might be, and unmarried 
 at an age when any respectable man should have 
 got his young woman and be settled down. 
 
 But moving from and into weekly houses is 
 not a matter of months and quarters. Before 
 three weeks were out, Mrs., Tripp carted all her 
 goods, chattels and children, and her pa and ma's 
 furniture, to No. 67, Larch Avenue. Alfred 
 Benson had been a little unwilling, to be sure ; 
 but when Mrs. Tripp had promised him a room 
 to himself, the second latchkey, and meals at his 
 own time, he told his old landlady to go to the 
 devil, and followed his sister. 
 
 Larch Avenue may be described as the most 
 superior of those quarters in which the morning 
 step-washing and the evening gate-standing are 
 important social functions. Had the rent been 
 twenty pounds sixteen shillings a year instead of 
 eight shillings a week, it would have made all the
 
 156 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 difference. The two long rows of houses, for 
 ever staring at one another, were built of bright 
 red brick, and in spite of their newness the street 
 already suggested premature decay and falling 
 rentals. Larch Avenue would never mellow with 
 antiquity. Its window-curtains were the one sign 
 of its superiority. 
 
 At an evening gate-standing shortly after Mrs. 
 Tripp had joyfully moved house, all the heat of 
 the day was lying stagnant in the street. Patches 
 of sun-fused tar ran down to the gutters in treacly 
 streamlets. Miss Tripp pointed out to her 
 mother a little girl on the opposite side : " Look 
 at that little girl, ma. She's making tar snow- 
 balls. She's covered with it, worse' n our Willie." 
 Groups of women, their hair just rid of curlers, 
 stood at the gates, wallowing in their own and 
 each other's petty misfortunes. Certain phrases 
 made themselves heard through the hum and 
 cackle : " I said. . . . She said. . . . He told 
 me. ... I never heard of such a thing. . . . 
 It's a shame, that it is ! " And meanwhile, 
 through open doors and windows, the cries of 
 babies could be heard : " Mum-ma ! Mum-ma ! 
 Mum-mum-mum ! " 
 
 Mrs. Tripp had been living such a short time 
 among the elect of Larch Avenue, that the 
 strange joyfulness she felt on realising that she 
 was moved into a better street, made her slightly 
 shy. It is true that the furniture was not yet 
 put straight ; that old newspapers took the place 
 of window- curtains : and that Tripp's sole 
 advertisement took the form of a sprawling
 
 i MRS. TRIPP'S FLUTTER 157 
 
 MR. TRIPP, chalked on the lintel of the front 
 door. But the chimney-sweep's signboard was 
 at the painter's, where, following Miss Tripp's 
 patriotic and enlightened advice, the threefold 
 announcement 
 
 THOMAS TRIPP. 
 
 CHIMNEYS SWEPT 
 
 MODERATE. 
 
 was to be coloured red, white and blue, on a 
 royal purple background. 
 
 For the first few days, indeed, Mrs. Tripp was 
 supremely happy. Not only did she feel the 
 glow of having risen in the world ; her brother 
 appeared to be content, Tripp to have settled 
 down, and William James to love dirt a shade 
 less. She talked much with a childless Mrs. 
 Arter, who was often quite pleased to take charge 
 of William James, and to amuse herself by 
 putting him clean. By Mrs. Arter she was in- 
 troduced to the afternoon teas, and she found 
 the conversation there to be of entrancing per- 
 sonal interest. Mrs. Lowman was invited to tea, 
 and left saying : " Aye ! Mrs. Tripp, but you're 
 one of the lucky ones." Whereat, Mrs. Tripp, 
 failing to distinguish between luck and reward, 
 was much pleased. Her pa and ma's furniture 
 fitted so well into the new house, and reminded 
 her so much of her childhood, that she soon felt 
 doubly at home. And in the evening time Miss 
 Tripp played tunes with one finger on her grand- 
 mother's harmonium. Mrs. Tripp was so pleased 
 and proud that she spent more time in thinking
 
 158 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 how to do things in correct and seemly fashion 
 than she did in the doing of them. 
 
 The flutter was slow ; the fall quick. 
 
 On the second Monday morning in the new 
 house, Tripp returned from sweeping chimneys 
 at breakfast time. Alfred Benson was at table 
 in a clean white overall which Mrs. Tripp had 
 herself starched. They all sat down most 
 pleasantly. But alas ! while they were eating, 
 William James found out the soot-bags in the 
 back yard. Thence he went to the breakfast 
 table to beg a little of his elders' food. His 
 mother got up to slap him. He fled to the pro- 
 tection of his Uncle Alfred. Some of the abund- 
 ance of his soot came off on his uncle's overall, 
 and Alfred Benson's language was worse than 
 Mrs. Maslen's at her worst. Mrs. Tripp turned 
 from her son to her brother. " Pa would have 
 beaten such language out of you," she said. 
 
 " Well ! look what a mess the little beast has 
 made me in. I'll wallop him ! " 
 
 "Can't have your language here," said Mr. 
 Tripp. "We ain't used to it, not with the 
 children about." 
 
 " You won't, won't you ? D'you think he's 
 going to plaster me with his nasty soot whenever 
 it comes into his dirty little head ? Hanged if 
 I'll stay in your sooty house ! " 
 
 " Then you'd better go," said Mr. Tripp. 
 
 " Alfred ! " exclaimed Mrs. Tripp. " Alfred !
 
 MRS. TRIPP'S FLUTTER 159 
 
 I can easily give your overall another wash. But 
 you shan't teach my Willie your language, and 
 don't you dare to hit him ! " 
 
 "No, I'm blowed if I will ! I'll shunt to-day. 
 I never been in such a squallin', sooty house, 
 and I ain't goin' to stay. Look how the brat's 
 squallin' now like a stuck pig. Think I'm 
 goin' to stand that ? Blowed if I will ! " 
 
 Alfred Benson left the house. " Good rid- 
 dance ! " said Mr. Tripp, and then he, too, went 
 out. 
 
 Mrs. Tripp knew she could no longer depend 
 on her brother for the additional rent. She 
 decided that she must take in washing ; looked 
 forward with fear to the time when she would 
 have to get Tripp's consent, yet leave unroused 
 his persistent, if silent, desire to be back in 
 Prince Albert Grove. "Anyhow," she thought, 
 "we shall have a third bedroom." But Miss 
 Tripp's promise to help with the washing was 
 obtained only on condition that she should have 
 the third bedroom all to herself. 
 
 " 'Tisn't as if we were in the Grove," said 
 Miss Tripp, and her mother gave in. 
 
 Later on, that same morning, the landlord 
 came in person to collect his rents. Mrs. Tripp, 
 when she fetched her eight shillings, thought 
 with shrinking of the clothes that must be washed 
 to earn eight shillings. 
 
 " Good morning, Mrs. Tripp. Fine morning," 
 said the landlord, who was either excessively civil 
 or extremely blunt, partly because it was his 
 nature and partly because it was advisable. "Thank
 
 160 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 you," he continued, filling in the receipt. " Mrs. 
 Tripp one week in advance eight shillings. 
 Much obliged. Do you like the house, Mrs. 
 Tripp ? Getting on all right ? " 
 
 Some of the neighbours had not failed to 
 discuss the new-comers, and also to mention the 
 ordinary state of William James. In Larch 
 Avenue the parents liked to keep their children 
 rather more spick and span than they troubled to 
 keep themselves. Hence William James was 
 very noticeable, and it had been hinted to the 
 landlord that the street was already beginning to 
 "go down." 
 
 Mrs. Tripp answered with pleasure, " Nicely, 
 thank you, sir. We shall soon be quite settled, 
 when we've got this fixed up over the window." 
 She brought forth the red, white, blue and royal 
 purple signboard to show him. " Isn't it pretty, 
 sir?" 
 
 " But, my good woman, you can't put that up 
 here you really can't. This is a residential 
 property, and signboards of any description are 
 strictly prohibited." 
 
 " But, sir. . . ." 
 
 " I repeat, I can't allow it. This is not a 
 business street. It is residential. Don't you see, 
 Mrs. Tripp, if I allowed that, there's no knowing 
 where it would end ? " 
 
 " I don't see. . . . Tripp won't stay here if he 
 can't have his sign out, fresh painted and all. 
 What's the good ? " 
 
 " Well, he can't have that, Mrs. Tripp." 
 
 " Then Tripp won't stay."
 
 i MRS. TRIPP'S FLUTTER 161 
 
 " Do you wish to give notice ? " 
 
 " What's the good of staying, if Tripp can't 
 have his sign ? " 
 
 " You wish to give notice ? " 
 
 " Tripp will have his sign." 
 
 " Come, come, my good woman ! You do 
 give notice ? " 
 
 I ... Yes!" 
 
 " Good morning, Mrs. Tripp." 
 
 But Mrs. Tripp had gone swiftly indoors 
 muttering : " It's a shame, a shame, a cryin' 
 shame ! " She dropped into her pa's armchair, 
 and wept. Willie wept with her. On hearing 
 him she regained her self-control, and, in some 
 mysterious way, she calmed herself by rocking 
 him and repeating : " Poor Willie ! poor Willie ! 
 my poor Willie ! " 
 
 She washed him ; then put on her hat and 
 shawl, and went to see Mrs. Lowman, who, she 
 knew, would at that time be washing her door- 
 step. The old house was still empty. 
 
 Mrs. Lowman was taken aback. " Well, 
 Mrs. Tripp ! Well ! I didn't think to see you 
 now. Do you still like Larch Avenue ? It's 
 weary work settling in a new house, though I've 
 never had the chance of doing it. Are the curtain- 
 rods all right now, my dear ? " 
 
 " No, love ! We've got to go ! We'll be 
 coming back ! " 
 
 And to avoid breaking down before such a 
 weakling gossip, the broken-winged woman left 
 abruptly. 
 
 Throughout the day, Mrs. Lowman, ignorant 
 
 M
 
 1 62 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 of all reason for the fall, and supposing it to be 
 due to Tripp's cruelty, continued to murmur : 
 " Poor woman ! We all have our trials. Poor 
 woman ! " She thought she'd just tell Mrs. 
 Maslen. "Jolly glad the proud thing's got to 
 come back," said that lady. "And I'll let her 
 know it too ! " 
 
 One rainy evening, being the following Satur- 
 day, Mr., Mrs. and Miss Tripp, and some of 
 the children, journeyed many times to and fro, 
 removing pa and ma's furniture, and everything 
 else back to Prince Albert Grove. 
 
 When it was all finished, Mrs. Tripp felt 
 ready to drop. She wondered what her pa and 
 ma would have said, and wept awhile. And she 
 wept again when Tripp tried, in his offhand way, 
 to comfort her. 
 
 Yet, this the seventh, was by no means Mrs. 
 Tripp's final flutter, nor her last fall. Like the 
 Child Angel, continually she put forth fresh buds 
 of wings, but anon was shorn of her aspiring, and 
 fell fluttering into the hands of those full-winged 
 angels the memories of her genteeler maiden 
 days.
 
 TURNED OUT 
 
 ONE evening in early autumn the sun was low 
 down between Morgan's Mount and Oliver 
 Cromwell's Camp sinking, as it were, behind the 
 edge of the Downs. All the west was overspread 
 with flaming clouds, which changed their colours 
 with the sun's decline and their floating faery- 
 like forms with the light winds of the upper air. 
 Tongues of heavy grey broke from the clouds 
 that made a canopy above the sun ; the west 
 was gloomy in its fierce intensity. Underneath, 
 the trees on the distant horizon burnt with a lurid 
 red it might have been the mouth of hell. Some 
 of the splendid light overflowed into the east and 
 tipped its feathery cirrus clouds with gold ; whilst 
 the hills shone with radiance, or seemed grey and 
 grassless under deep shadow. There was no sound 
 save the melancholy cry of the peewits, and the 
 rush of wind through the grass like the sound of 
 the sea on a far shore. 
 
 A woman and a dog were alone on the hills. 
 Silhouetted against the sky, they looked black and 
 meanly small. The woman was evidently of the 
 country. She was soon to become a mother. 
 
 163
 
 1 64 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 Sorrow, felt rather than thought of, stared from 
 her tearful eyes, and her face suffused with a 
 uniform flush of redness. She was wrought 
 upon by her destitution and the fear of her 
 coming pain, and she had no relief by thinking 
 on the after-joy of mothers, for she knew that 
 she could but add a living burden to her heavy 
 life. 
 
 As they walked over the down the dog put up 
 a hare, and was called in by the woman. Then, 
 while he looked up at her with eyes seemingly 
 full of a sympathy which asks no questions, gives 
 no advice, she vaguely felt that he would under- 
 stand, and told him about her sorrow. 
 
 " Poor Bruno ! your master's gone back to 
 London and only left me you and this. What 
 shall we do now his father's turned us out ? 
 
 " He's gone back to London, where he was 
 married before, and nobody but me not even 
 his father has got to know. What shall we do ? 
 Oh, Bruno, not but a week or so left ! 
 
 " I was happy for a month, Bruno so happy ! 
 And now we've nowhere at all to go to. But I'm 
 glad I was happy. 
 
 " Bruno, I loved your master ! He doesn't 
 love his church wife a bit I'm sure he doesn't. 
 He'll be unhappy now, like me. Oh, if he hadn't 
 been and got married ! We'd have gone to 
 London with him. 
 
 " You might have got lost or been poisoned 
 there, Bruno. 
 
 " What can we do ? In a week's time it will 
 all be over. We may be in the workhouse. The
 
 i TURNED OUT 165 
 
 old man said we could get off there, and if they 
 find us they'll want to send us to it. I won't go 
 and they'd take you away. 
 
 " His father used to be kind to me before he 
 said he wouldn't have no brazen-faced hussies for 
 servants. I wasn't a servant not a real one. I 
 was a help. He swore, by God, he wouldn't have 
 me in his house again. If he's sold the pigs well 
 and isn't drunk, perhaps he'll do something when 
 he sees me out here. 
 
 " 'Twas his son, anyhow. . . . 
 
 "The later he is from market the more he's 
 likely to be drunk. 
 
 " It's getting late now. It's cold up here. 
 Poor Bruno ! Lie down then." 
 
 She shivered, and sat down on a heap of chalk ; 
 the dog lay on her skirt. All around the Downs 
 looked grey ; for the sun was now below the 
 horizon, and the glory of the sunset was shrunk 
 to a nightcap cloud. 
 
 The wind, unwarmed by the sun, still rushed 
 through the grass. The peewits had gone, and 
 only the hoarse corncrakes croaked loudly in the 
 fields over the brow of the hill. The woman felt 
 the cold air cut her like a knife as she waited by 
 the side of the road. 
 
 Presently, in the dusk, a heavy dog-cart came 
 along the white chalk road. Two men were in it. 
 The elder, the old farmer, held the reins ; but he 
 was rather guided by the horse than guided it. 
 His red face and bloodshot eyes contrasted, even 
 in twilight, with his stubby white beard. He was 
 market-day drunk.
 
 1 66 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 When the cart approached the chalk-heap the 
 dog barked and roused the old man, who, seeing 
 the woman, gave his companion a heavy nudge. 
 He drew himself up and pointed to her, and his 
 laughter went round the hills in a hoarse loud 
 cadence. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 'Twas she as fooled my 
 
 Ji > 
 oe! 
 
 But he drove on, and then whistled for the dog. 
 
 " Bruno, yer ! Bruno ! " 
 
 Bruno ran a short way after the cart, turned, 
 looked back at the woman. Fearful lest he should 
 return to the farm, afraid to face the night alone, 
 she cried out shrilly, and he went to her. 
 
 " Damn you ! " roared the farmer. 
 
 He whipped up his horse. 
 
 Then the woman lost all hope. She stumbled 
 to the edge of a small pine wood. There she 
 sank to the ground in a black heap, at which the 
 dog sniffed and whined. 
 
 It grew still cooler ; and, as the moon rose in a 
 clear sky, an autumn frost spread over the Downs. 
 No one of the few passers-by saw the stricken 
 woman. In the cold deceitful moonlight the little 
 group looked just like a tuft of stunted furze- 
 bush. 
 
 In time the wind bore with it a woman's 
 groans for a few minutes a human being's first 
 cry on earth ; and again it rushed alone through 
 the grass, and made a deeper sound amongst the 
 pines. The woman lay unconscious on the ground, 
 while the dog slept by her or prowled along the 
 edge of the wood.
 
 i TURNED OUT 167 
 
 Next morning the sun rose with a clear and 
 hopeful splendour, giving a fresh brilliance to 
 every blade of frosted grass. But through his 
 absence only the dog had lived. A shepherd 
 found the woman and her child sodden with 
 the white frost-fog, dead, and stiff; and they 
 were taken to the workhouse mortuary.
 
 SILLY SALTIE 
 
 I 
 
 " HULLO, Silly Saltie ! You be here then. What's 
 got for the c'lection bag, eh ? " 
 
 Most of the labouring people threw a kindly 
 jeer at him as they walked stiffly into Lincombe 
 Church for the Easter morning service. Silly 
 Saltie chuckled back at them ; but to the few 
 farmers and their wives (more wives than farmers) 
 he touched his cap and called out in a high- 
 pitched monotone : " Gude morning, sah ! Morn- 
 ing, m'am ! Fine morning, sah ! " 
 
 " Not late this morning, Silly Saltie ? " 
 " Aw no, sah ! Never late if I can help it, sah." 
 Silly Saltie's words tumbled out of his mouth 
 as if, once formed in his throat, he had no further 
 control over them. In boyhood he had been 
 known as Lizzie Salter's Wallie. Because he was 
 too stupid for labour, and for a carter's job was 
 too cunningly cruel to horses, his mother sent 
 him to sea under a cousin of hers, a coasting 
 skipper out of Plymouth. He soon returned, 
 hugging a small French-made box which he hid 
 away without showing its contents to anybody. 
 
 168
 
 i SILLY SALTIE 169 
 
 Dubbed the Silly Salt, he became known, jocularly 
 at first, and afterwards by everybody, as Silly Saltie. 
 He did not appear to resent his nickname. It 
 was a good joke in Lincombe. So was Silly Saltie 
 himself. 
 
 One day a Lincombe man met the coasting 
 skipper on Plymouth Barbican. " Silly Saltie 
 Lizzie Salter's boy to Lincombe ? " growled the 
 skipper. " Sending me a damn'd idiot like that ! 
 And I could tell 'ee more if 'twasn't that his 
 mother's related to me and you come from the 
 same place." The end of it all was that Silly 
 Saltie's mother supported her son by cleaning the 
 church and scrubbing at the vicarage, whilst Silly 
 Saltie earned ha'pence at odd jobs and blew the 
 organ. It was even said that he was well off. 
 Twice in three years he had changed half a 
 sovereign. " 'Tis won'erful," some said, " how 
 they sort gets hold o' money an' puts it away 
 them what's something lacking in the head." 
 Silly Saltie's reputed wealth earned him a sort of 
 respect. But everybody laughed at him. And 
 he had the laugh of them all, simply because his 
 laughter was an irresponsible cackle, impossible to 
 stop till it had wearied itself out. 
 
 In the churchyard this Easter morning the news 
 quickly spread that Captain and Mrs. Kelland, 
 Lincombe's Lord and Lady of the Manor, had 
 their son home " Master Herbert " to Lincombe 
 people, Lieutenant Kelland, R.N., to the world at 
 large. Presently they came, all three of them, 
 out of the only big house besides the vicarage. 
 The organist beckoned to Silly Saltie from the
 
 170 HOW TWAS i 
 
 vestry door ; his mother ran out with a feather 
 dusting-brush in her hand and clutched him by 
 the arm. " Whatever's thee at, Wallie ? They 
 won't hae no music to welcome 'em in if thee 
 doesn't stir thyself. Oh my dear soul ! if I an't 
 got me brush in me hand, Sunday an' all." 
 
 The little work-worn woman hastened within 
 again. Silly Saltie followed, talking to himself. 
 " Aw ! he'll be playing loud to-day. Blow, blow ! 
 * When I plays loud you blow hard, but if I plays 
 soft don't you bust 'en ! ' That's it." 
 
 Happily for the village sense of the fitness of 
 things, the Kellands lingered in the churchyard to 
 gaze down the combe. Fields, just beginning to 
 grow green in the spring sunshine dotted with 
 leafless stunted trees, with patches of dead bracken 
 and bright yellow furze slanted in a great open 
 curve down to Lincombe Brook. At Linnicombe 
 Ope, the cliffs, throwing themselves back, revealed 
 a U-shaped piece of sea, blue and sparkling close 
 to shore and on the horizon of a dull bluish 
 mistiness that was hardly distinguishable from 
 sky. 
 
 While the Kellands were walking to their pew 
 the organist played very martial music, for theirs 
 was a naval family and " Master Herbert " had 
 been seeing some active service. Silly Sal tie's 
 rackety blowing was distinctly audible through 
 the music. People smiled. 
 
 Outside, all was sunshine and shimmer and 
 peace. Lincombe lay at the top of the combe 
 as if asleep in the earth's arms. 
 
 The service proceeded, a thing, seemingly,
 
 SILLY SALTIE 171 
 
 half of this world and half of another, so little did 
 the voices of the congregation fill the church, 
 so hollowly did the singing echo about the walls 
 and in the oaken roof. Soon after the vicar had 
 begun his sermon, a face looked out from behind 
 the organ and remained peering into the church 
 a face most delicate in the curve of the nose 
 and of the thin lips, though discoloured by sun 
 and rain, and encircled by a straggling picture- 
 frame beard the face of an ascetic, of a saint. 
 But the eyes, on the contrary, were those of a 
 bird which is wondering whether it dare hop 
 down from a roof and carry away some tit-bit. 
 
 It was Silly Saltie peeping. Again people 
 smiled. At the back of the church they nudged 
 one another. 
 
 In compliment to the Kellands, the vicar spoke 
 in his sermon of bloodshed and death on the field 
 of battle. " Think, too," he said, " of the stokers 
 in our battleships, drowned unawares in the midst 
 of their duties, sunk with their ship in the din 
 of battle, dead without a moment to repent 
 themselves. . . ." 
 
 " Aw, what a pity, sah ! " 
 
 Aw what a pit ty sah ! was how 
 
 Sillie Saltie bleated it out. A hand dragged him 
 back behind the organ. There were more smiles. 
 Laughter was heard from the Sunday School 
 pews. 
 
 " Why two, my dear ? " Captain Kelland 
 whispered to his wife when, during the last 
 prayer, she took two five-pound notes from her 
 purse.
 
 172 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 " Herbert's home," she replied, touching his 
 hand with a dainty, pathetic gesture. 
 
 It had been her custom, ever since her son 
 went to sea, to place five pounds in the poor-box 
 at Easter. 'Twas her intercession of the saints. 
 Waiting till the congregation was out of church, 
 till in fact the organist had ceased playing, she 
 doubled up the notes and pushed them into the 
 box. 
 
 Silly Saltie was peeping again, more saint-like 
 and bird-like than before. Mrs. Kelland caught 
 sight of him. " Give Walter Salter something," 
 she said to her husband. " He's been to sea, too. 
 You give it to him. I don't like going near 
 him." 
 
 Captain Kelland held out both hands in front 
 of Sillie Saltie, a half-crown in one and half-a- 
 sovereign in the other ; " Which will you have, 
 Salter ? " he asked. 
 
 " Aw, sah ! Don't like to be greedy, sah. 
 I'll hae the little 'un, please sah. Thank ye, 
 sah." 
 
 So Silly Saltie took the half-sovereign, leaving 
 the half-crown in Captain Kelland' s other hand. 
 Father and son laughed freely, but while Mrs. 
 Kelland was walking home she heard Silly Saltie 
 cackling and gloating over " the little *un," and 
 she shivered. 
 
 II 
 
 At the Easter vestry meeting the poor-box was 
 opened and its contents counted.
 
 i SILLY SALTIE 173 
 
 Captain Kelland said nothing at the time. In 
 true West Country fashion when there is busi- 
 ness to be done he dropped across the vicar as if 
 by chance. 
 
 " Didn't you make the poor-box four pounds 
 seventeen and threepence-farthing ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes. Why?" 
 
 "Well, my wife. . . ." 
 
 " I was wondering to myself what had become 
 of her usual five-pound donation. I knew, you 
 know, whose 'twas. How is she to-day ? If the 
 box had been five pounds odd I should have 
 concluded that the five pounds was hers and 
 the odd everybody else's." 
 
 " But she did. She put in two five-pound 
 notes this time, because Herbert is home." 
 
 " She couldn't have. . . ." 
 
 " I saw her do it saw the notes." 
 
 " I must find out. Thanks." 
 
 That was all. The two men were so used to 
 settling between them the affairs of the universe 
 in their own parish that of course the vicar would 
 find out. 
 
 In consequence of his rather unguarded in- 
 quiries as to who had been in the church, and 
 at what time, it rapidly became known throughout 
 Lincombe, even to the outlying farms, that the 
 poor-box had been opened and from three pounds 
 to three hundred stolen out of it. The villagers 
 appropriated suspicion to themselves. It might 
 have been the tramp who had a pinch of tea at 
 Mrs. Finzel's, boiling water at Miss Prowse's, and 
 bread at Mrs. Salter's, but the village felt itself
 
 174 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 none the less suspected because it heartily blamed 
 those ladies for encouraging tramps. 
 
 At last, after several street-corner meetings 
 among the men, Jacob Nosworthy, carpenter and 
 leader of the choir, carefully arranged that he 
 should be dropped across by the vicar. 
 
 " Have 'ee found out anything, sir ? " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " 'Bout the poor-box." 
 
 " No, I can't get a clue." 
 
 " Sure 'nuff you can't, sir." 
 
 " What d'you mean, Jacob ? Do you know 
 anything ? " 
 
 " No, I don't, sir ; leastways, I'd rather not 
 say. . . ." 
 
 The vicar waited in silence. 
 
 " Didn't ought to have thic Silly Saltie about 
 the church so much, sir." 
 
 " Nonsense, Jacob ! Why ? He's harmless 
 enough. His mother cleans the church." 
 
 " I knows her do, sir." 
 
 " Besides, nothing more has been taken from 
 the box." 
 
 " Do 'ee know that, sir, for sure ? " 
 
 " Look here, Jacob ; what are you driving at ? 
 Do you think it's Silly Saltie ? Have you got 
 any proofs ? " 
 
 " No, / an't got no proofs. But I've a-seed 
 they mazed articles a sight artfuller with money 
 than you nor me nuther, sir. An' I tell 'ee, sir, 
 what 'tis : if you don't keep Silly Saltie out o' the 
 church, me and the others what sings in the choir, 
 we'm agreed not to sing any more, 'cause, you
 
 i SILLY SALTIE 175 
 
 see, sir, we goes into the church too, an' 'tis a 
 shadder, like, over the lot o* us." 
 
 Then the vicar exercised the tact which under- 
 lay his shortness of manner. He could not bar 
 Silly Saltie from entering the church, partly 
 because he scrupled to do so, chiefly because no 
 other man could be got to blow the organ on 
 week-days, and every one knew how much the 
 organist needed all the practice he could get. 
 The vicar suggested, therefore, to Nosworthy that 
 they should let matters stay as they were until 
 they could find out whether or no the poor-box 
 was still being rifled. 
 
 Nosworthy was very willing to undertake the 
 work of finding out. He knew that the vicar 
 and Captain Kelland had the only two keys in the 
 village that fitted the padlock, and he also re- 
 membered that instead of dovetailing in the 
 bottom of the box, as well as the sides, he had 
 merely made it fast with four thin brass screws. 
 
 Very warily he filled up the gullets of the 
 screws with beeswax, pressed it well home, and 
 polished away the smudges. " Nobody can't 
 unscrew they without disturbin' thic there wax," 
 he said to himself. 
 
 Within a few weeks he was able to prove to 
 the vicar that the box had been opened from 
 the bottom, and, as he had anticipated, the vicar's 
 interest in the main point caused him to overlook 
 the slack workmanship of the box. 
 
 " Don't you take ort out, sir," Jacob recom- 
 mended. "You jest count the money from time 
 to time, like,"
 
 176 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 The vicar did. First he found that the sum 
 in the poor-box diminished, and then he noticed 
 that the number of coins remained nearly the 
 same. Coins of less value were substituted for 
 coins of higher value, shillings for half-crowns, 
 sixpences for florins, and so on. He noticed with 
 surprise how seldom threepenny-bits were to be 
 found in the box. 
 
 Finally, he marked all the coins, and shortly 
 afterwards, a marked half-crown was changed at 
 the village post-office shop by Silly Saltie. 
 
 The vicar set out on the warpath. It was 
 perhaps as well that he met Jacob Nosworthy 
 on the way. " No, don't you tackle 'en now, sir. 
 Just you wait an' see where he stows it away. 
 They mazed articles, they hides things away like 
 dogs hides bones. You won't never get back 
 what he've a-took if you fronts 'en wi' it now. 
 You wait. You been watching the poor-box ; 
 now you watch Silly Saltie, sir." 
 
 Late one evening, Nosworthy came to the 
 vicar. " I've a-see'd 'en 'long wi' a screw-driver," 
 he whispered. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Haifa gale of damp southerly wind was blowing 
 gustily up the combe from the sea. It rustled in 
 the trees, then rushed, then tore at them, and 
 underneath its many sounds a savage ground-bass 
 could be heard the pounding roar of surf on the 
 shingle at Linnicombe Mouth. One of those 
 nights, it was, when the clouds which hide the face
 
 i SILLY SALTIE 177 
 
 of the moon are not so thick but they allow 
 its light to soak through ; when the light itself, 
 though faint, yet has a certain glare in it. The 
 vicar and Nosworthy could see where they were 
 going ; they did not stumble, but they did lift their 
 feet higher than was necessary, like drunkards 
 indeed, except that the lurch came after the step 
 instead of before it. They could not, for the 
 drizzle, see the top of the church tower. But the 
 jackdaws saw them and chattered. Nature was 
 wakeful. Nosworthy wished himself snug in bed. 
 He even remarked to the vicar, " P'raps 'er won't 
 come, sir." 
 
 Entering the church by the south door, they 
 crept (there was no real need to creep) up to the 
 chancel, and seated themselves side by side where 
 they could peep through the wooden tracery of 
 the screen. Strange how many little noises there 
 were ! The high unstained leaded south windows 
 appeared to be bulging inwards, but that was doubt- 
 less an illusion of the dim variable moonlight. 
 
 Presently, nearer eleven than ten o'clock, 
 the vestry lock snicked and the door creaked. 
 Nosworthy edged closer to the vicar. A man, 
 a shadow, a blackness in the air, was moving 
 slowly along the wall towards the poor-box. 
 Something rattled. A match was struck, care- 
 fully shaded between two root-like hands. A 
 candle in an old stable lantern was lighted ; a 
 broken bowler hat placed over it. But there was 
 light enough to glint on a steel tool ; to shine 
 through a scrappy fringe of whiskers ; to outline 
 Silly .Saltie's delicately shaped features. "Very 
 
 N
 
 178 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 still, like a ghostis's count'nance," Nosworthy says 
 it was. 
 
 The bowler hat was tilted so that the lantern 
 shone on the wall and on the bottom of the box. 
 It also shone full on Silly Saltie's face. The 
 vicar declared more than once afterwards that he 
 never in all his life saw eyes so rapacious and 
 cunning, so meanly devilish. He confesses to hav- 
 ing been afraid, not of Silly Saltie, but of some- 
 thing unknown that Silly Saltie's face suggested 
 to him. And Nosworthy, too, never talks about 
 that night without saying : " You should ha' see'd 
 how thic Silly Saltie looked. I tell thee what 
 'twas like you knows when you be so quiet as 
 death an' the rats comes out to hunt for crumbs 
 an' keeps their eyes on 'ee, seems so, all the time 
 well, 'twas like rats' eyes, hisen ! ' 
 
 " Tssh ! tssh ! tssh ! " went Silly Saltie with 
 each turn of the screw-driver. He drew, one after 
 another, the thin brass screws and lowered the 
 bottom of the box gently in a piece of cloth. He 
 peeped silently into the cloth, then carried it to- 
 gether with its contents into the vestry, because, 
 no doubt, he understood that its single small 
 window was turned away from the road and 
 could not in any case show much light. Though 
 the wind still blustered outside, the church inside 
 became entirely soundless except for the clink of 
 coins and an occasional cooing noise, like the 
 satisfaction of a fed baby falling asleep. 
 
 The vicar and Nosworthy took a long step into 
 the aisle, tip-toed along the red carpet, out at the 
 south door, and crouched down behind a tomb-
 
 i SILLY SALTIE 179 
 
 stone near the vestry ; then waited what seemed a 
 very long time. The clouds had thinned to a 
 driving rack. When Silly Saltie came out, for all 
 the world as if he had been helping his mother at 
 cleaning the church, but with his French-made box 
 under his arm, they saw him hide away his lantern 
 within a broken square tomb. They followed him 
 out at the lychgate, down the lower lane, across 
 the brook by footbridge, along a field-road, skirt- 
 ing the farmhouse, and so, always slantwise and 
 upwards, to the edge of the cliff. Whereupon 
 Silly Saltie disappeared. Gulls flew screaming 
 from the ledges below. " He's gone ! " the vicar 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " He an't failed," said Nosworthy. " He be 
 gone down along to the Man o' God. You 
 follow me." 
 
 Nosworthy led the vicar down a couple of 
 hundred feet to the cliff gardens which were made 
 long ago on a wide shelf three-quarter ways up 
 the otherwise sheer cliff. Thence they climbed 
 up again till they stood just below a pinnacle of 
 harder sandstone which the weather had separated 
 from the cliff, leaving only a narrow neck of cliff- 
 rubble to connect the two. It was the Man 
 o' God rock the weather-worn, twisted and 
 grotesque image of a gigantic human being. 
 
 Silly Saltie like a misshapen animal was 
 crawling along the neck of weed-grown rubble. 
 Dislodged stones scuttled down and hit the beach 
 far below. Arrived at the Man o' God, where 
 the neck broadened again, he rose upright and 
 rested his box on a projecting slab of stone that
 
 i8o HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 was formerly called, when the place was more 
 accessible, the Man o' God's Dinner Table. 
 Then, in the strengthening moonlight for the 
 rack was blowing off the sky the vicar and 
 Nosworthy witnessed a ceremony at which they 
 hardly knew whether to laugh or shudder. Before 
 his box, at the feet of the Man o' God, Silly Saltie 
 bowed, genuflected, knelt and prayed, his arms 
 outstretched in supplication, his head lowered 
 reverently between them. The vicar recognized. 
 . . . His every action at Choral Celebration was 
 being faithfully reproduced. The soughing wind, 
 the mewing of 'gulls, the roar of invisible surf 
 hundreds of feet below, made a weird music for 
 Silly Saltie's ceremonial. He stood up, he lifted 
 the box on high in worship ; and on his raised 
 face and in his eyes, too, so far as they could be 
 seen, there was once more the ecstasy of a saint. 
 It was his Gloria in Excelsis ! 
 
 Silly Saltie took something bright from his 
 box. Involuntarily the vicar called out. 
 
 Silly Saltie listened, banged the box-lid, and 
 ran. 
 
 " Come on ! " cried Nosworthy. He pushed 
 and pulled the vicar to the neck of land, and, 
 having run back a moment to pick up something, 
 edged him along to the top of the cliff. " Here's 
 three threepenny-bits anyhow," he said, "on the 
 Man o' God's Dinner Table. Lookse ! There 
 he goes ! " 
 
 A figure was running, or rather tumbling, 
 down the steep coastguard path to Linnicombe 
 Ope. Nosworthy and the vicar chased it, gaining
 
 i SILLY SALTIE 181 
 
 when the figure fell and had to grope round 
 for its box. They followed into the deep-cut 
 bed of Lincombe Brook and some way up the 
 tunnel which is formed by the thick bushes over- 
 head. There they gave up the chase : the path 
 was too stony and wet and dark. But on coming 
 to the churchyard, they caught sight of Silly Saltie 
 clambering over the far wall, and, on looking into 
 the broken tomb, they found his box. It was 
 of beautiful workmanship, and inlaid with silver- 
 wire. The vicar took it home. 
 
 He was tired beyond measure, yet could not 
 sleep. He seemed to have been present at some 
 wicked rite of the dark ages that he could not get 
 out of his mind's eye. 
 
 Besides, what was he to do with Silly Saltie ? 
 
 IV 
 
 The vicar of Lincombe was not one of those 
 parsons who send for a policeman as soon as a call 
 is made upon their Christianity. Instead, he sent 
 next morning for the thief himself, who appeared 
 most humbly and respectfully, exactly as at other 
 times. 
 
 " This looks bad, Salter," said the vicar sternly, 
 pointing to the French-made box. " How long 
 have you been stealing from the poor-box in the 
 church ? " 
 
 " Aw, sah ! Sorry, sah ! Fust time an' all, 
 sah ! " blabbed Silly Saltie. 
 
 " Where is the key, Salter ? " 
 
 " Aw, sah ! How be I to know, sah ? "
 
 1 82 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 " Give me the key, or I shall have the box 
 broken open." 
 
 "Pity, sari. Pretty, sah. I didn't break the 
 church box. I an't got the key, sah." 
 
 The vicar sent for Nosworthy ; then turned 
 again to the cringing Silly Saltie : " I shall not have 
 you enter the church at all d'you understand ? " 
 
 " Aw, sah ! An' I blows the organ, sah." 
 
 " I don't think you quite know the wickedness 
 of your crime. I will pray for you, Salter." 
 
 " I'm sure I thank you, sah. Parsons' prayers 
 be good, sah." 
 
 " D'you understand ? This would send you 
 to prison. . . ." 
 
 " Aw, sah ! What a pity, sah ! Should you 
 like to go to prison, sah ? " 
 
 Thinking it was perhaps necessary to speak to 
 fools very strongly and loudly, the vicar shouted 
 with decision : 
 
 "You'll go to hell!" 
 
 Silly Saltie jumped. " Aw, sah ! Hot, ain't 
 it, sah ? Shall you like it, sah ? " 
 
 " But I haven't committed sacrilege. . . ." 
 
 " An't you, sah ? " 
 
 Silly Saltie's gibbering suavity nonplussed the 
 vicar. Nosworthy came in, and while he was 
 prising open the box, Silly Saltie looked on miser- 
 ably, as a helpless child looks on while a favourite 
 animal is being slaughtered. 
 
 Mrs. Kelland's two five-pound notes, together 
 with thirteen pounds odd, mostly in silver, were 
 found inside. Very strangely, for money given 
 in charity, there were no threepenny-bits.
 
 i SILLY SALTIE 183 
 
 " Did you get all this money from the poor- 
 box ? " the vicar asked. 
 
 " How be I to know, sah ? " 
 
 Well, I shall keep it : d'you hear ! " 
 
 " Aw, sah ! What a pity, sah ! Poor man an' 
 all, sah. Siller an' gold. 'Twouldn't ha' mattered 
 if 'twas pennies, sah." 
 
 " You can keep your box." 
 
 " Aw, I thank you, sah." 
 
 " Now go, and don't you ever let me see you 
 near the church again. Go now. D'you hear? " 
 
 Silly Saltie took his box into his arms. He 
 fingered it tenderly, raised its broken lid. " Aw ! 
 Wicked, sah ! " he said. " Pretty box ! Poor 
 man an' all, sah ! " 
 
 Weeping quietly, bent almost double, like a 
 suffering saint, he tottered from the vicar's study, 
 out of the house, and down the lane to his 
 mother's cottage. 
 
 The vicar had no sense whatever of triumph. 
 
 Nosworthy went again to the Man o' God and 
 found, hidden away in an old church collection 
 bag at the back of the Man o' God's Dinner 
 Table, a large number of threepenny-bits. In the 
 vicar's opinion it was an idiot miser's hoard, but 
 Nosworthy always declares, not without reverence, 
 that it was Silly Saltie's offerings whether to God 
 Almighty or to the Man o' God rock, who 
 knows ?
 
 A LOVE'S HUNGER 
 
 " The voice of my beloved ! " Solomon's Song. 
 
 ONE evening in the earlier half of last century, 
 Matilda Hennyker, at that time frail-looking, thin- 
 faced, and very young, was clambering through a 
 hedge in order to cross the turnpike road which 
 ran by her estate. Suddenly she heard a sharp 
 knock, a scuffle, and many oaths fluently rapped 
 out by a deep angry voice. Fearing some 
 mishap, she hurried round a bend in the road, to 
 the place whence the sound had come. And 
 there she saw a chaise and a barouche with their 
 wheels fast locked together. A gentleman held 
 one horse's head and a loutish stableman held the 
 other's. Meanwhile, since neither could move 
 from his horse's head, the gentleman was rating 
 the stableman with a torrent of forcible language 
 which startled Matilda quite as much as the 
 accident itself. Seeing her, he raised his hat 
 and bowed, hoping she had not heard what he 
 had been saying, and put an end to his apologies 
 by pointing out that the stableman was drunk. 
 Without exactly meaning to tell a lie, Matilda 
 managed to convey to him that she had not heard 
 
 184
 
 i A LOVE'S HUNGER 185 
 
 what, as a matter of fact, she had heard very 
 plainly. She held his horse's head while he 
 guided the unlocking of the wheels, and, after 
 short but evidently sincere thanks, he wished her 
 a very good evening. 
 
 This encounter remained the uppermost sub- 
 ject of Matilda's thoughts. She was living almost 
 alone, in a part of the West Country where there 
 is little to talk about and less to be seen ; and she 
 could not help welcoming contact with a man who 
 was neither a hind nor a sporting squire. Without 
 any close friends to sympathise with her longings, 
 she had become like a climbing plant that has no 
 support for its tendrils ; and this gentleman had 
 impressed and attracted her as no other man had 
 done. She decided that she liked his eyes and 
 smile, which were dependent one on the other. 
 She liked also his words, which, however inadequate 
 by themselves, were to the point. His face, as 
 strong as his body, and expressive, helped out his 
 meaning ; he looked at her with meaning that 
 was it. She very soon felt as if she had been 
 acquainted with him before, as indeed she had in 
 mind, in her castles in the air, though she had 
 never seen him in the flesh. 
 
 " Do you know who that was ? " she asked the 
 maid who had been attending her while she was 
 out walking. 
 
 " He's the new doctor, ma'am, that's come to 
 take old Mr. Tillet's place." 
 
 " The doctor. . . ." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; and they do say he've worked 
 a wonderful cure with Mrs. Burbage's jaundice."
 
 1 86 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 Matilda was interested in doctors and their 
 profession. She would have liked to know this 
 one, the first real doctor who had ever come to 
 live in that part of the country. 
 
 Not many weeks after the accident the wished- 
 for opportunity occurred. She was ailing, and 
 sent for him to bleed her. The operation was 
 done with delicacy ; but when she would have 
 kept him by her for a little conversation not 
 directly bearing on her ailment, he quickly and 
 somewhat awkwardly took his leave. 
 
 She was very greatly impressed. Unlike most 
 men of few words, he had not spoken at all 
 brusquely. His voice had been quite gentle ; it 
 was his silences that were violent. She judged 
 from his face that he had much to say if he 
 would only say it. She felt a strange kinship 
 with him ; as if much would result from the 
 breaking down of his reserve ; as if she must 
 struggle to break it down. Besides this, she was 
 frankly attracted by the outer man. If only he 
 would speak. . . . 
 
 Until she could invite him openly to little 
 parties at the house, her health was apt to be 
 more troublesome than God made it. She de- 
 termined to gain his friendship. Nor was she 
 frightened when she found she was gaining a 
 lover. His reserve persisted ; it became, in fact, 
 another basis for admiration. All in a flutter she 
 talked to him ; monosyllabically and facially he 
 showed her that he understood. The course of 
 their love ran smoothly enough, but silently. 
 She began to look forward to the time when he
 
 i A LOVE'S HUNGER 187 
 
 would speak in asking her hand. She imagined 
 a terrible and beautiful explosion of pent-up 
 passion. 
 
 In hope of meeting him she often walked 
 abroad unattended by her maid. Especially would 
 she make a point of going for a short walk while 
 the sky above the western hills was lighted up by 
 the after-glow of sunset. At such hours the 
 black-green pines on the hills stood out against 
 the greenish yellow of the sky with a poignant 
 contrast of colours not otherwise to be seen in 
 nature. The voices of men, the twittering of 
 birds at roost, the noises of cattle, even the 
 rustling of the trees, sounded so clearly in the 
 still twilight that they became spiritualised and 
 unearthly. It was, to Matilda, as if the general 
 restfulness seized on her lower self, and left her 
 imagination to wander through an immensity 
 peopled with the shadows of beautiful things. 
 Her love and her yearning would almost over- 
 come her. Courage and hope would become 
 powerful within her. She would be caught up 
 into that exaltation which is of the spirit of 
 nature. 
 
 On such an evening the doctor met her and 
 asked her in marriage. The glory she had been 
 watching shone in her eyes, and, because the 
 exaltation was still upon her, she could not at 
 once bring herself to keep up the burden of a 
 one-sided conversation. " It is beautiful," she 
 said, with her face towards the west and lighted 
 by it. Then they were both silent. 
 
 The light went on fading until it was in the
 
 1 88 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 sky rather a pledge of the morrow's sun than 
 reminiscent of the day. Nevertheless, instead of 
 going their ways, they remained together. He 
 wished to say something, and by her sympathy 
 with his thoughts she knew it. At last, in the 
 sorriest fashion, he spoke. 
 
 " Miss Hennyker, will you permit me to 
 address you ? Will you give me. . . . He 
 ceased, and looked at her. It was unlike him 
 forced ; and came to her like a sorrow. But 
 when he blurted out : " Matilda, will you marry 
 me ? Eh ? " she felt like one star approaching 
 another in the night, and thought forsook her. 
 
 Most pitiable he was and said no more. Their 
 kiss took her further than her dreams. She hung 
 on the sound of his voice, to hear him tell her 
 how he loved, and he made her know it without 
 telling her. 
 
 But she lived in expectation of his speaking. 
 In her mind she made for him strange passionate 
 words of love, which were surely to come to her 
 ears. She bowed down before him as if she were 
 worshipping the god Apollo, stringing his lyre ; 
 her lover's presence seemed to draw out of her 
 something which surrounded them like the scent 
 of a flowering tree ; and her imagination went 
 forward towards their marriage, when, at last, he 
 would surely tell her all she wished, and all she 
 knew from his face and from the tone of his few 
 words. 
 
 Their marriage was a gladness, the going 
 from a great joy unto a greater ; but it was a 
 silent gladness. Though she doubted nothing of
 
 i A LOVE'S HUNGER 189 
 
 his love, the ritual of love, with all its songs, 
 was dear to her. Nay, it was necessary. She 
 hungered for his assurance, but she had no more 
 than was in his embrace and in the tenderness of 
 his face. She spoke, and she knew that he heard 
 and remembered. The course of his thoughts she 
 could follow only by her sympathy. She sus- 
 pected that his reserve was a part of himself that 
 he could not speak what he wanted ; but her great 
 desire never ceased to await a miracle. Always 
 she waited on events, saying within herself: 
 " Now surely he will speak." And he showed 
 his love in all ways except by the words she 
 longed to hear. His smile of greeting was like 
 the smile with which the sun at dawn greets the 
 earth ; but, after a while, her smile became wan, 
 like the smile with which the earth greets the 
 sun. 
 
 The years went by as a note of music that is 
 honey-sweet and swells with pain and dies away. 
 
 They had one child, and much of her great 
 hope fastened on it. But, before it learned to 
 return its mother's prattle, it died. " Nothing is 
 like the death of a child," thought the mother ; 
 while the father wept quietly, as much for his 
 wife as for the child. Matilda clung to her 
 husband for sympathy and strength. All that he 
 could give her by look and tender caress, that he 
 gave. 
 
 They went home together after the child's 
 funeral, and sat in a room that was full of sorrow 
 and the scent of roses. Matilda wept, not less 
 because she had no words of consolation from her
 
 1 90 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 husband than because of her child ; for now, as 
 the greatness of her grief deadened her by its 
 intensity, so she turned to her husband. And, as 
 she waited, he gazed at her ; and then he burst 
 out neither into sorrow nor into consolation, but 
 into furious anger against God. Matilda was 
 frightened by his anger, and tried to calm him, 
 and to that end whispered many empty things 
 that assuage by their emptiness. 
 
 When he was calmed he became silent. 
 
 Not many years ago, one of those lingering, 
 sleepless illnesses that make ready the old for 
 death, killed Matilda. She was still waiting, and 
 in the silence many sayings about death and its 
 inevitableness took life and struck her. But she 
 struggled to wait yet a little while longer, so that 
 she might hear of her husband's love and of the 
 well-remembered love of their youth, about which, 
 she thought, " He will surely tell me before I die." 
 In her pain she called so for her husband that, 
 towards the end, he sat by day, and slept or 
 watched by night, in a chair by her bed. From 
 time to time she called him nearer, and when he 
 was asleep in the chair by her bed, she asked 
 momently : " How long do you think he will 
 sleep ? When will he wake up ? " And then, 
 sure of what was to come, she would desire him 
 to sleep on. 
 
 Finally, death made an end of her hope. 
 Perhaps she knew before death that he had 
 utterance only when he was angry : perhaps she 
 died unknowing. She had never angered him ; 
 she had loved him too clingingly for that. She
 
 i A LOVE'S HUNGER 191 
 
 would have felt the first oncoming of his anger, 
 and would have known how to turn it. 
 
 It is but a short time since her husband also 
 died. He called on his wife as a man might call 
 on God for succour ; but she was beyond 
 hearing.
 
 DEAR PAPA'S LOVE STORY 
 
 ASKED how the home folks were, Nell Pritchett 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 " Why, my father haven't you heard ? My 
 dear papa. . . . I'll read you my sister Caroline's 
 letters." 
 
 Hereunder are the letters as she read them : 
 
 Letter I. 
 
 To Miss Helen Pritchett, 
 
 2 Sunnyside Studios, Chelsea, S.W. 
 
 THE ORCHARDS, November 11. 
 
 DEAREST HELEN Margaret says she is too 
 tired to do anything, so I snatch a few moments to 
 write to you before dear papa comes in and wants 
 me to read the Parliamentary News to him. He 
 is out in the West Orchard planting young apple- 
 trees, of a very new superior sort, by lantern light. 
 You would say that papa and the men looked like 
 Pixies among the stems and branches. He said 
 he would not come to a " cackling " working 
 party, and he would have the new trees in to-day. 
 John and Jim will grumble so and want supper 
 and overtime. The roots have to be horizontal 
 
 192
 
 i DEAR PAPA'S LOVE STORY 193 
 
 to the ground, or something, I think, and well 
 mulched, so it is long work. Papa becomes more 
 and more devoted to his trees. He says they 
 are good company. We had a working party 
 here this afternoon and cut out and sewed quite 
 a lot of things for the Church Bazaar, and the 
 Rev. Septimus Brinkworth read to us from a 
 beautiful book about a very good sincere clergy- 
 man who put down smoking among women and 
 did such a great deal of good in the world. We 
 were glad to see him (Mr. Brinkworth) make an 
 excellent tea and eat seven of Margaret's Fairy 
 Cakes ; we do not think his landlady gives him 
 good enough food for a young man who works 
 so hard, or he fasts too much, he is getting so 
 thin. We like him very much, though he is 
 Higher than we have been used to. But the 
 Rev. Septimus Brinkworth seems to feel instinct- 
 ively the spiritual needs of the parish, and it is 
 a treat to hear him read at the new week-day 
 services he has started, though the congregations 
 are so small. The day before yesterday dear 
 papa went to the new Mayor's dinner, came back 
 very late in the evening singing in a cab, and 
 yesterday he had a bad bilious attack, we think, 
 which makes him extraordinarily irritable. He 
 must be careful what he eats at his age, and not 
 tempt the night air. He is fifty- nine this 
 winter. Margaret's heart is better, though she 
 is always far from strong, poor thing. She sends 
 her love and wants to know when you will come 
 home for a visit. I am well except for a little 
 rheumatism. Fancy Mr. Jones being made
 
 i 9 4 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 Mayor. I remember when his father had a 
 shop in Back Street, and his wife was once in 
 service, you know. What are we coming to ? 
 Ever your affectionate sister, 
 
 CAROLINE KIRBY PRITCHETT. 
 
 Letter II. 
 
 THE ORCHARDS, November 30. 
 
 DEAREST HELEN I should have written yester- 
 day, but we went to a concert at the schools in 
 aid of the Church Surplice Fund. It was very 
 'successful. The Rev. Septimus Brinkworth sings 
 charmingly, and they made over four pounds, 4. 
 But still Margaret and I think that people ought 
 to support the Church without entertainments. 
 I grieve to say that dear papa seems very 
 unsettled since Mayor's Day. He has been 
 staying out till after eleven at night, and Ellen's 
 young man told her that he has been to the Lion 
 Hotel bar, talking about apples with a Mr. 
 Robertson. His brother heard him. There is 
 no need, my dear, for dear papa to go to those 
 places, frequented by tradespeople, when he has 
 a comfortable home. Mr. Robertson could come 
 here if he is fit for ladies' society. Two days ago 
 I said we would sit up no more till half-past 
 eleven, so I locked and bolted the door, and we 
 went to bed. But Margaret heard his footstep in 
 the road and went down to the door. Next day 
 I kept her in bed till dinner-time with a cold, 
 caught by getting out of her warm bed to go 
 to that horrid door. I told dear papa, and he
 
 i DEAR PAPA'S LOVE STORY 195 
 
 ordered me to have another latch-key made for 
 him, but I could not go to bed unless the door 
 was properly locked and bolted. . . . 
 
 I am sending you last week's Arboricultural 
 Weekly with a photograph of dear papa in it. 
 They say that Pritchett's Pippin is the apple of the 
 year. Ever your affectionate sister, 
 
 CAROLINE KIRBY PRITCHETT. 
 
 Letter III. 
 
 THE ORCHARDS, December 24. 
 
 MY DEAREST HELEN Doubtless you have 
 received Margaret's and my little present. Dear 
 papa wants to know if you have enough garden 
 for apple-trees. If so he would send you two 
 or three young trees of Pritchett's Pippin, the 
 apple of the year. But perhaps the London 
 smoke would kill them. He has been receiving 
 large square envelopes with letters inside them. 
 Margaret says they are forwarded letters about 
 prize apples, probably though we do not see 
 why they could not be re-addressed on the same 
 envelopes or sent direct. He is very impatient 
 for his letters in the morning, and told Ellen to 
 take them up to his bedroom ; but, of course, we 
 could not have that. It makes breakfast so late 
 to have one's letters in bed. There is nothing to 
 hurry downstairs for. I caught a glimpse of the 
 handwriting on one of the inner envelopes, and 
 it was like the pointed Italian hand old Miss 
 Vegg used to teach us before we went to the 
 Academy, but not so good as Miss Vegg's. . . .
 
 196 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 That every blessing and prosperity may be yours 
 is the wish of your affectionate sisters, 
 MARGARET AND CAROLINE KIRBY PRITCHETT. 
 
 Letter IV. 
 
 THE ORCHARDS, January i. 
 
 MY DEAREST HELEN . . . Dear papa has been 
 to Bristol about the advance orders for this year's 
 Pritchett's Pippin. He had a letter this morning 
 marked " Private," and I am sure it was the same 
 writing that came in the big square envelopes and 
 in a woman's old-fashioned pointed hand. The 
 postmark was Clifton. He did not open it at 
 breakfast, but took it into the South Orchard to 
 read, in spite of the bitter north-east wind which 
 has been blowing for some days. He seemed 
 unusually pleased. We cannot think what it is. 
 ... A Prosperous New Year from us all. 
 Ever your affectionate sister, 
 
 CAROLINE KIRBY PRITCHETT. 
 
 Letter V. 
 
 THE ORCHARDS, February 15. 
 
 DEAREST HELEN We think you certainly 
 ought to know. We have begun our spring 
 cleaning early as usual, especially as Margaret is 
 rather well for the season. I think people leave 
 it far too late nowadays. We never have. 
 When Ellen was tidying the top drawer of dear 
 papa's dressing-table she found a horrid paper 
 called the Matrimonial News, and brought it to
 
 i DEAR PAPA'S LOVE STORY 197 
 
 me. I was just glancing at it before telling Ellen 
 to put it in the fire, when a mark caught my eye, 
 and I read oh, Helen, dear ! Can it be papa ? 
 
 An Elderly Gentleman owning a small 
 Estate and a small but sufficient Income would 
 like to correspond with a Widow, having small 
 means preferred (middle-aged, Protestant), with 
 a view to sharing his life and interests. 
 Enthusiastic arboriculturist. Two unmarried 
 daughters only encumbrance. Write in strict 
 confidence to J.P., Box 4091, 102 Derby 
 Street, W. 
 
 I do hope Ellen did not read it. If it got 
 about I should not be able to walk up the aisle 
 for shame. And I cannot ask her if she saw 
 it, for fear she didn't. It looks so like dear 
 papa. " Two unmarried daughters only encum- 
 brance." Margaret and me encumbrances, and 
 we have kept house for him and contributed out 
 of our little to the household expenses ever since 
 poor dear mamma died. But the widow's small 
 means would make up for ours. J.P. does look 
 like James Pritchett, but, as Margaret says, it 
 might also mean Justice of the Peace. I wanted 
 to tax him with it, but Margaret says we had 
 better wait. " Everything comes to him who 
 waits." And it may not be him. She persuaded 
 me to put the dreadful paper back in dear 
 papa's drawer, which I did, and tidied the drawer, 
 and then she went up (I looked afterwards) and 
 made the drawer untidy again on purpose. 
 I thought of asking the Rev. Septimus Brink-
 
 198 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 worth's counsel, but Margaret says that though 
 we ought to open our hearts to the Church, we 
 ought not therefore to open the heart of our 
 family. Our best love. What shall we do, 
 dearest Helen, if it is dear papa ? It can't be. 
 Ever your loving sister, 
 
 CAROLINE KIRBY PRITCHETT. 
 
 Letter VI. 
 
 THE ORCHARDS, March 17. 
 
 MY DEAREST NELLIE The worst that we feared 
 has come true ! Dear papa, who never visits, has 
 been away for a week. I told him that he ought 
 not to have carried his bag up from the station at 
 his age, and he said I was getting particular and 
 old-maidish, and that he felt a young man again. 
 We sat down to supper. Papa ate ravenously. 
 I was obliged to warn him against one of his 
 bilious attacks, when he becomes so irritable ; and 
 between two mouthfuls he said, " I'm going to 
 bring home a new wife to look after us all." Our 
 worst expectations fulfilled ! There was a scene, 
 almost. Margaret stood up and I stood up, 
 but dear papa only went on eating. I thought 
 Margaret was going to faint and supported her 
 out of the room. It is so bad for her heart. 
 And then I went back and demanded of papa, 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I'm going to be married to Mrs. Salter. 
 You had better write and tell her you're pleased. 
 Her address is 5 Lake Road, Clifton a very nice 
 capable woman."
 
 i DEAR PAPA'S LOVE STORY 199 
 
 I remember every word. " What ! " I said. 
 " Write to her ! Me ! Have you forgotten the 
 memory of our own poor dear mother ? " 
 
 " Now don't carry on, Carrie," he said with 
 one of his horrible puns at such a time too ! 
 " Give me another slice of undercut and pass 
 down the walnuts, my dear." 
 
 I slammed out of the room and found poor 
 Margaret prostrate. She tried to laugh and say, 
 " There's no fool like an old fool." 
 
 "We can't stay here," she said. "We must 
 leave home like Helen after all these years." 
 
 Oh, it is ungrateful ! Encumbrances ! It is 
 wicked after all these years to bring a strange 
 woman into a respectable united family. Papa 
 seems to rejoice in his wickedness. I have not 
 spoken to him since. We shall not stay. Ever 
 your loving sister, CARRIE. 
 
 P.S. Do you know any one who knows a Mrs. 
 Salter, of 5 Lake Road, Clifton, Bristol ? I have 
 written to Fanny Jameson, who has been living in 
 Clifton since her marriage. 
 
 Letter VII. 
 
 THE ORCHARDS, March 25. 
 
 DEAREST NELLIE How shall I bring myself to 
 tell you ? Fanny Jameson, who has three little 
 children now, has written that the woman was 
 housekeeper at Budleigh Grange, quite near here, 
 and retired ten years ago to Clifton with enough 
 money to buy an annuity. Gentlemen's house- 
 keepers get plenty of perquisites and tips and
 
 200 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 other things. A housekeeper, my dear ! I shall 
 never hold up my head again. I said to dear 
 papa, " Do you know that Mrs. Salter has been 
 a housekeeper at Budleigh Grange ? " 
 
 " She told me all about it," he said. " That's 
 what made her so capable." 
 
 " Margaret and I will not be able to stay here 
 with her, and it will kill Margaret, with her heart, 
 to leave home," I said. 
 
 " Fiddlesticks, my dear," said papa. " You 
 and Margaret will be very fond of her. I'm 
 going to be married next week, and I know how 
 fond Margaret is of this place and that 'twas your 
 mother bought it, so I've been up to the lawyer's 
 and settled it on you and her. It's yours, except 
 that I have the life-interest. What do you think 
 of that ? She put the idea into my head." 
 
 All I wanted to say went away from me. I 
 know it would kill Margaret to separate for ever 
 from the Orchards. But we cannot live here with 
 that housekeeper woman. We are quite decided 
 to leave home, like you. We still think you were 
 wrong to go, though you have had pictures in 
 the Royal Academy and the Christmas numbers, 
 because you might not have been so successful. 
 Now we shall all be exiles. In sorrow, ever your 
 loving CARRIE. 
 
 Letter VIII. 
 
 THE ORCHARDS, April I. 
 
 DEAREST NELLIE Papa has gone away to be 
 married to that woman. Oh, the shame of it !
 
 , DEAR PAPA'S LOVE STORY 201 
 
 He told me and Margaret before he went to have 
 the house nice for "the future Mrs. Pritchett," 
 and more flowers about because she is fond of 
 them. As if the house was not always nice. And 
 flowers drop and make such a mess. I did not 
 tell him we shall not be here when he returns, but 
 we are quite decided. We shall pack up and he 
 will find us gone. The fewer words the better, 
 Margaret says. The house is ours, it is true, or 
 will be (the deed is signed and in the bank for 
 safety), but a house is not always a home, and 
 our home is broken up for ever. We shall have 
 only enough to live on if Margaret does not get 
 worse, but we shall receive help and comfort in 
 our affliction. I could cry, Nellie. Ever your 
 
 CARRIE. 
 
 Letter IX. 
 
 THE BURRIANA BOARDING ESTABLISHMENT, 
 WESTON-SUPER'-MARE, April 15. 
 
 DEAREST HELEN We are here, and what do 
 you think ? We saw the Woman in the train. 
 Margaret was so unwell, and we were so loth to 
 leave the old place, where we have spent so many 
 happy, profitable years, that we only had our 
 packing done in time to leave the station by a 
 train which goes out about the same time as 
 the one by which papa returned comes in. Their 
 carriage stopped at the other platform almost 
 opposite ours, and we saw Her. She is a big 
 fat woman with a vulgar red face, and such a 
 bonnet overloaded with flowers and ribbons like
 
 202 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 a straw- wagon. They travelled first, just like a 
 silly young honeymoon couple, Margaret says. 
 She (Margaret) is not at all well. I do not think 
 she would have come away in the end, but I was 
 quite determined. She cast such longing eyes at 
 the Orchards as we drove off. This boarding 
 establishment is most respectable. . . . Ellen will 
 forward letters. Ever your loving sister, 
 
 CAROLINE KIRBY PRITCHETT. 
 
 Letter X. 
 
 THE BURRIANA BOARDING ESTABLISHMENT, 
 WESTON-SUPER-MARE, April 21. 
 
 OH, MY DEAR NELLIE It was wicked of papa 
 to turn us out of our home. Margaret is very 
 ill, I fear the doctor here says her heart is in 
 a delicate state. I hear her stifling dry sobs at 
 night, and she has no distractions here. I think 
 she will hardly survive this transplantation. And 
 I have heard from Ellen, who says (I copy her 
 letter), " The master carried on dreadful, Miss 
 (and you know what that is like), when he came 
 home and found you and Miss Margaret was 
 clean gone. He said as you should never have 
 the trees, if the house was yours, and he has dug 
 up and cut down all the apples which is bad, and 
 the orchards look that bear (bare), and he would 
 not take no holding back when the new missis 
 tried to stop him." It is a sin and shame, his 
 behaviour ! I have written to tell him he is 
 killing Margaret. Your CARRIE.
 
 i DEAR PAPA'S LOVE STORY 203 
 
 Letter XL 
 
 THE ORCHARDS, April 24. 
 
 DEAREST HELEN We are home. I told you 
 I wrote to dear papa. Two days afterwards the 
 same homely figure that we saw in the railway 
 train (and the same bonnet) burst into the saloon 
 of the Burriana Boarding Establishment, where 
 Margaret was lying on the sofa, and ran up to 
 her and kissed her, and said, " Now, my dear, do 
 'ee come home 'long with me, and be comfy in 
 your own house." It was so like poor dear 
 mother's old-fashioned way of speaking that my 
 heart melted, and I could have loved her on the 
 spot. It was the echo of our dear mother ! 
 Margaret wept real tears, which I think relieved 
 her. We all cried together. And though I could 
 not tell you how it happened, Mrs. Pritchett 
 brought us home with her, and dear papa only 
 called us " silly children." She is so kind and 
 good to Margaret. Ever your affectionate sister, 
 CAROLINE KIRBY PRITCHETT. 
 
 P.S. He has not mentioned the trees. They 
 are all lying dead in the orchards. 
 
 Letter XII. 
 
 THE ORCHARDS, May 3. 
 
 DEAREST HELEN . . . Dear papa says poultry 
 pay better than arboriculture. Polly (she has asked 
 us to call her " Polly " as there is so little differ- 
 ence in our ages) used to have 400 chickens to
 
 204 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 look after. . . . Margaret seems better than she 
 has been for a long while. She is trying a special 
 diet that did the late Lord Budleigh so much 
 good when his heart was bad. . . . No one has 
 found out that Polly was at Budleigh Grange as 
 housekeeper. She is going to help dear papa with 
 the fowls and garden, which she is clever at, leaving 
 me the housekeeping that I am used to. ... It's 
 an ill wind that blows nobody any good, Margaret 
 says. Our love. When shall we be seeing you ? 
 Ever your loving sister, 
 
 CAROLINE KIRBY PRITCHETT. 
 
 P.S. Thank God.
 
 A MARRIAGE OF LEARNING 
 
 THE SPINNING OF THE WEB 
 
 THERE are in these latter days independent strenu- 
 ous women who, devoting themselves to knowledge, 
 instead of men, succeed in embracing the skeletons 
 of all arts, philosophies, and sciences. Bertha 
 QEnone Smith, B.A., was one of them. Her 
 learned independence revealed itself not so much 
 in her reposeful, boldly-cut features, and her 
 somewhat untidy hair, as in the peculiarly assertive 
 swing of her skirt as she walked. She was full of 
 reason ; passionate, and a woman withal ; a packet 
 of reasons in a whirlwind. 
 
 One notable evening she was seated with her 
 aunt before the drawing-room fire. Although a 
 book and a notebook were on her lap, she did not 
 read. The saints forbid that we should accuse so 
 rational a person of building castles in the air ! 
 Yet that is what she was doing. (Excuse her. 
 She was recently engaged.) 
 
 Presently she returned to workaday life. 
 205
 
 2o6 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 " I think," she said, " I will go up into the 
 study." 
 
 " But, my dear, it's much too cold." 
 
 " I have had the fire lighted." 
 
 "And didn't you say Mr. Thornbury was 
 coming ? I can't let you two sit up there." 
 
 " There's not the least reason why. . . ." 
 
 " But I'd much rather you didn't, dear." 
 
 Bertha might have given way, but for a plan she 
 had in mind : a moonstruck plan, she knew it 
 would seem to others. So she stopped her aunt 
 with a phrase in quality like lemon-juice. " My 
 dear aunt, you know perfectly well that I should 
 not wish to do so without a reason." 
 
 " Very well," returned Miss Smith. " I hope 
 the fire has burnt up." 
 
 " I superintended the laying, and, given favour- 
 able initial conditions, a fire must burn." 
 
 Poor, kindly aunt ! It is no light task to 
 bring up a child that insists on bringing up itself. 
 Yet, by a dexterous, half-unconscious use of her 
 helplessness, Miss Smith managed to exercise 
 some sort of authority over her niece, except when 
 the latter transformed herself into a porcupine, 
 armed with a thousand quills, each of them ready 
 to prick a different and conclusive reason into every 
 dissentient. 
 
 II 
 
 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 
 
 Bertha waited by her fire, and finding that a 
 certain amount of excitement was threatening to
 
 i A MARRIAGE OF LEARNING 207 
 
 invade her most ordered thoughts, she reached 
 down a very original hash of various sciences and 
 ancient philosophies, a bulky volume On Soul and 
 Spirit referred to the Brain, and the Brain considered 
 Mechanically. 
 
 Ralph arrived. Bertha rose to greet him, and 
 the philosophical tome fell into the render. 
 
 " So you have come, Ralph." 
 
 " Yes, here I am my darling ! " 
 
 She felt that her welcome was outdone, un- 
 worthy of the occasion, empty as a scarecrow, fit 
 only to frighten Venus's doves. This for a 
 moment while she received one of his most pos- 
 sessive kisses. Then she recovered rapidly, caught 
 sight of the tome, lying lopsidedly in the fender, 
 and tenderly picked it out. 
 
 And yet she was really in love after her own 
 fashion. Ralph Thornbury, B.Sc., Ph.D., was 
 as suitable a mate as she might have found in 
 fifty years. He was one of those easy-going 
 men in whom the pursuit of science develops a 
 most obstinate tenacity which, notwithstanding, 
 remains well under control unless it is especially 
 roused. What matter that he looked like a man 
 who had to thank his clothes for holding him 
 together ? He, with his large head, clean-shaven 
 raw-boned face and thin mouth, had quickly 
 become the incarnation of Bertha's ideal of the 
 preponderance of mind over matter. A little shy- 
 ness, an awkwardness or two, did but confirm the 
 impression. She felt sure that there was in him 
 more than eye could see. He had to work for his 
 living. She had money. That also pleased her.
 
 208 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 It was not long before the love -formalities, 
 which even a couple such as this must use, were 
 done away with to make room for Bertha's match- 
 less plan ; in token whereof she removed herself 
 to the opposite arm-chair. 
 
 " You were speaking about the day. ..." she 
 began. 
 
 " We needn't wait," said Ralph. 
 
 " I see no reason for delay," assented Bertha. 
 
 " Not a bit ! " exclaimed Ralph, drawing near 
 for a kiss. 
 
 She withdrew into the farthest depths of her 
 easy-chair. " I thought we were going to talk 
 sense," she said bitterly. 
 
 The deluded young man asked : "Weren't we ? " 
 
 " I've been thinking a great deal about 
 marriage." 
 
 " So have I, dear." 
 
 "And I don't think even now that it is an 
 unmixed advantage. What I want to say is this : 
 Schopenhauer says that when a man marries he 
 halves his rights and doubles his duties." 
 
 " But it doesn't follow that that old bachelor 
 knew everything." 
 
 " No," she said. " Precisely. A woman is 
 likely to do the same, and for each child to halve 
 the remainder of her rights and double the sum of 
 her duties. But what I really want to say we 
 see it all around us after marriage men and 
 women cease to gain in individuality. And 
 worse still a woman becomes a baby-washing, 
 small-talking phonographic machine. With a man, 
 things go in at one ear and out at the other :
 
 i A MARRIAGE OF LEARNING 209 
 
 with a woman, they go in at two ears and rush 
 out at the mouth. And I can't help thinking 
 that this is due to. . . ." Ralph was preparing for 
 another kiss. " No ! That this is due to a too 
 close proximity of husband and wife. A person's 
 individuality is the sum of his (or her) abnormali- 
 ties, is it not ? Well, then, they neutralise each 
 other's abnormalities." 
 
 " You mean," said Ralph, uncertain whether 
 to laugh or not, " that husbands and wives are 
 like acids and alkalis. Put 'em together, and you 
 get a neutral salt." 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 " Which is which ? and how about the right 
 proportions ? and how about those substances that 
 are both acid and alkaline in their reaction ? " 
 
 " Now you are trifling, Ralph." 
 
 " I didn't mean it," he said. 
 
 " I know you didn't," she replied, appeased. 
 " What I have all along been wanting to say is 
 this. In order to prevent our spoiling each 
 other's work, and yet, at the same time, to allow 
 us to have the benefits of mutual encouragement, 
 I propose that we take two houses. ..." 
 
 " What ever for ? " 
 
 " Listen, and I'll tell you," said Bertha, taking 
 some sheets of manuscript from the philosophical 
 tome. " I have been writing an opening for our 
 next debate, on The Rational Utopia^ which enters 
 into the whole matter. The section on marriage 
 will run something like this : 
 
 Marriage has not hitherto been considered 
 
 p
 
 210 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 sufficiently as a means for the benefit of the 
 whole commonwealth, actual and potential. It 
 has had a retrograde effect on civilisation and 
 knowledge. In the Rational Utopia the hus- 
 band and wife are not permitted to interfere 
 with each other's work. They live together 
 for one month, and live apart, and pursue their 
 work independently the next month ; and so 
 on, alternately, month by month. Moreover, 
 in the periods of separation, the offspring live 
 first with the wife, then with the husband, and 
 so on again alternately. Thus does youth 
 become early habituated to an atmosphere of 
 strenuous work as well as to the amenities of 
 united family life. Thus does the Rational 
 Utopia preserve all the advantages, and few of the 
 disadvantages, of the institution of marriage." 
 
 " Preposterous ! " exclaimed Ralph. All 
 through the harangue his lips had been making 
 spasmodic jumps at the formation of words that 
 never came. " Preposterous ! " he repeated, with 
 more emphasis than before. 
 
 But Bertha, being determined to try her ex- 
 periment, and feeling no doubt that a fly in the 
 web is worth two in the air, struck her last and 
 none too fair stroke. " I intend to get two 
 houses, and if you want me to look after the 
 larger central house, then you will have to go off 
 every other month and live in the smaller." 
 
 Of course she could spend her own money as 
 she liked. Ralph Thornbury was obliged to give 
 way, or to lose her.
 
 i A MARRIAGE OF LEARNING 211 
 
 " And what am I to do in the little house ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Do as you do now : live en garfon and 
 work." 
 
 " I don't half like it your plan. It's not 
 natural." 
 
 " What is not natural ? Man, to be natural, 
 must adapt himself to advanced civilisation." 
 
 " I don't half like it," Ralph repeated. 
 
 " We can never tell with absolute certainty the 
 result of an experiment," added Bertha. " I may 
 be wrong, but. . . ." 
 
 The porcupine again ! 
 
 Ralph sat silent and unwilling before the re- 
 doubtable animal. Had a servant not interrupted, 
 to say that coffee was served in the drawing-room, 
 he might have taken steps once and for all to 
 conquer, or else to retire from the field. From 
 a habit of reviewing scientific arguments on all 
 sides, he was given to repetition. He said for 
 the third time, " I don't half like it." 
 
 The fourth side of the matter was yet to be 
 viewed ; and of that he might say, with fine 
 masculine emphasis : " I won't have it ! " 
 
 Though easy-going, he was always capable of 
 that. 
 
 Ill 
 
 THE FLY FAST BOUND 
 
 Miss Smith, the elder, always had a very 
 present fear of what Bertha was going to do next.
 
 212 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 She was, this evening, anxious to know what was 
 meant by her niece's secrecy, and also it was on 
 her mind to give Ralph at least some notion of 
 the difficulties of his undertaking. Bertha was 
 triumphant ; yet not wholly. Ralph was like 
 a cat on hot bricks, with a pressing desire to 
 cool his toes by climbing up Miss Smith's 
 sympathy. 
 
 " Has Bertha told you what she is going to 
 do ? " he hazarded. 
 
 " Oh, I know nothing," Miss Smith replied. 
 " Have you settled everything ? " 
 
 " Yes, aunt," said Bertha. 
 
 " And when is it to be ? I shall miss her, you 
 know, Mr. Thornbury." 
 
 " Oh, we haven't settled minor details like 
 that," exclaimed Bertha. 
 
 " Then what have you settled, my dear ? " 
 
 Ralph interposed. " She says she is going to 
 take two houses, and that we are to live separately 
 during every other month." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 Bertha took up the tale. " We shall go abroad 
 for the honeymoon shall we not, Ralph ? and, 
 having found a little house and a big house. . . . 
 What is the matter, Ralph ? " 
 
 Little house, big house, pigsty, barn, was running 
 through his mind ; but he answered : " Nothing. 
 Go on." 
 
 " Well then, aunt when we get back, we shall 
 settle down for a month together in the big house. 
 Then Ralph will go off for a month's uninter- 
 rupted work alone in the little house ; then a
 
 i A MARRIAGE OF LEARNING 213 
 
 month together, then a month apart, and so on, 
 alternately, month by month." 
 
 " But, my dear, it's absurd. And your 
 husband ? " 
 
 " He's agreed." 
 
 " Every one will laugh." 
 
 " Then never mind if they do," said Bertha. 
 " They laughed at Darwin : let them laugh at me." 
 
 " And and if you have any children ? " 
 
 "That would easily be settled. But with 
 regard to the date ? I'll go and get an almanac." 
 
 While she was gone, Miss Smith gave Ralph 
 the results of her experience. " You'd better 
 allow her to have her own way, perhaps. You 
 can see about it afterwards, you know. The 
 kindest way of ruling people like Bertha is to let 
 them have their own way till they're tired of it." 
 
 Bertha returned. " How will the loth of 
 May suit you, Ralph ? " 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " The ceremony, of course." 
 
 " So far as I know, 'twill do very well." 
 
 " Then I'll look for the houses to-morrow." 
 
 Ralph felt like a mouse caught by the tail ; 
 and it is not every mouse that has the courage to 
 gnaw off its own tail. He went to his lodgings 
 filled with meditation. 
 
 Very soon Bertha herself was reduced by the 
 curiosities of domestic architecture to a state of 
 great irritation. She had the choice of several big 
 houses ; but a little house, to suit her, she could 
 not find anywhere in the district. Finally, she paid 
 one of her own tenants to turn out, discovered
 
 2i 4 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 that the hygienic condition of her property was 
 deplorable, rated her agent, and had a great many 
 workmen in for a great many days. When the 
 place was finished, she took her aunt to see it. 
 Miss Smith was quite pleased. 
 
 Very shortly afterwards, the Experiment was 
 set going before a large and inquisitive congrega- 
 tion, by the marriage of Ralph Thornbury, B.Sc., 
 Ph.D., and Bertha CEnone Smith, B.A. The 
 bride was dressed in a plain dark-blue tailor-made 
 travelling costume, with a dainty appliqu collar. 
 Her hat does not call for notice. 
 
 IV 
 
 SEGREGATION 
 
 Among the mountains of Switzerland it was 
 easy enough not to call to mind the two houses 
 that were waiting for them. Ralph imagined that 
 Bertha had given up the plan ; while Bertha, on 
 her part, thought the arrangement so settled and 
 confirmed that there was no need further to 
 discuss the matter. In consequence, she was at 
 her quietest and best, and her husband enjoyed 
 much peace. It seemed, indeed, as if the adage 
 of The wilder the filly, the better the mare was about 
 to receive fulfilment. 
 
 After their return to England they abode to- 
 gether a calendar month in the big house. Ralph 
 continued carefully to avoid mentioning the Experi- 
 ment. He even decided that an empty house 
 might well be the price paid for ignoring it. But
 
 i A MARRIAGE OF LEARNING 215 
 
 one evening he found his wife's work-table in the 
 study as tidy as if she had never used it. 
 
 " What have you been doing to-day, dear?" he 
 asked, with the care of a newly-married man. 
 
 " It was time to begin putting the other house 
 straight for you," replied his wife. 
 
 Still only an experimental husband ! There 
 was no escape. The preparations went on apace. 
 By giving way now, while still determined that 
 the plan should eventually be put to death, he 
 caught a remnant of the peace of his honey- 
 moon peace under an umbrella with a rain-cloud 
 overhead. 
 
 All their last evening together Bertha was as 
 sad as her namesake, QEnone about to cry heart- 
 rendingly to her gods for a month : 
 
 " And I was left alone within the bower ; 
 And from that day to this I am alone, 
 And I shall be alone until 
 
 the end of this conjugal month ! " 
 
 As for Ralph, he wandered about the hearthrug. 
 
 A cab (which Bertha had ordered in unsenti- 
 mental daylight) drew up at the gate. The 
 Experiment was in its first fizzle. But sentiment 
 would not utterly be quashed. They went hand 
 in hand to the hall. 
 
 " I don't think I like it just at the time," said 
 Bertha. 
 
 " Nor do I," Ralph returned hopefully. 
 
 " We will be brave and carry it out, won't we ? 
 It's for our good, and for the good of the human 
 race."
 
 216 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 " So it may be." 
 
 " Good-night, Ralph." 
 
 " I've forgotten my hat. One moment. 
 Good-night, Bertha." 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 They kissed and parted. 
 
 May the goddess of Truth be with us ! Bertha 
 went through a swift syllogism : " My husband's 
 on the garden path the letter-box looks out on 
 the garden path therefore my husband can be 
 seen through the letter-box." 
 
 She looked through the letter-box. 
 
 How the cab-door banged ! 
 
 Loneliness descended on her like a frost-fog. 
 She went back into the study and dropped into 
 her husband's arm-chair. So strong was her dis- 
 inclination to read, that she wrote to three friends 
 of her schooldays, and tried, unsuccessfully, to 
 alter the trimming on a hat. 
 
 In the month of disunion both of them learnt 
 many things. Bertha was the more disconsolate ; 
 but she held her head up, and her nose high, and 
 went her solitary way ; and she showed her feelings 
 no otherwise than by snubbing all who inquired 
 after the Experiment. Miss Smith's house was 
 the neutral ground where Ralph was allowed to 
 meet his wife. The first time he saw her there, 
 he inquired : "You're not going to keep up this 
 absurdity any longer, are you, Bertha ? " 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by absurdity. 
 If you mean our plan of life, of course we are 
 going to keep it up." 
 
 " But, Bertha, can't you see I want you to live
 
 . A MARRIAGE OF LEARNING 217 
 
 with me ? I'm asking you because I want you." 
 He took her into his arms. 
 
 For the moment she yielded ; then she shook 
 him off and stood angrily behind a chair. " I 
 shall call aunt ! " 
 
 " I didn't know you believed in chaperons," 
 he retorted, leaving her to herself. 
 
 But as the months went by he found it easier 
 to take up the thread of his single or of his 
 married life, and he recognised that each state had 
 undeniable advantages. He never thought to 
 live all his days like a moth round a tallow 
 candle ; yet it did seem as if this sorely self-tried 
 couple had settled down to a life of unsettlement. 
 
 THE OPPORTUNE ILLNESS OF THE BABY 
 
 The year after their marriage, when the trees 
 were budding, Bertha developed a new phase. 
 The same day, it so happened, was the last of the 
 conjugal month, the one on which Ralph was due 
 to move into the little house. Late in the evening 
 he was told that he might go upstairs and see 
 his little son. Curious word to Ralph, son 
 a mysterious affair. Mystery points to the tiptoe 
 method of walking, and in that undignified way 
 he crept into the room, bent over the bed and 
 reverentially kissed his wife. 
 
 " Wouldn't you like to look at him ? " she said, 
 turning her head towards the cradle. 
 
 Ralph looked. He saw a red and wrinkled
 
 218 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 face, distinguishable only by its puckers from 
 an equally red scalp. It squeaked it made him 
 feel shy. " Isn't he lovely ? " said his wife. 
 " He's like you." 
 
 " Yes," replied Ralph, " I suppose it is." 
 
 " Now you must go home, dear." 
 
 " I'm not going there to-night," he said 
 stoutly. 
 
 " No, Ralph. You must go now. You're 
 taking an unfair advantage. ..." 
 
 The nurse intervened : " You must go now, 
 please, at once. You may say good-night and go." 
 
 He set out for the little house. " Turned out 
 neck and crop," he thought bitterly. " I will put 
 an end to it. Oh ! curse it ! " 
 
 Henceforward the big house seemed home to 
 him, but he could not return to it until Bertha 
 was almost recovered. He thought her a good 
 mother up to the day when she began to speak of 
 weaning the child. 
 
 "They don't wean babies eight weeks old, 
 do they ? " he asked. 
 
 " No, not usually. But his life is conjectural, 
 ours are certainties. He must not be let interfere 
 with our work." She kissed the baby, and said 
 to it : " Oh, you must go and visit your father 
 for a month. Your father will keep you all to 
 himself." 
 
 Ralph noticed that she clung to the child 
 convulsively, almost too strongly, in his opinion, 
 for its little body. He saw a chance of escape 
 from the Experiment. " Very well," he said ; 
 " he shall come with me to the little house."
 
 i A MARRIAGE OF LEARNING 219 
 
 So, at the end of that conjugal month, he went 
 off with a nursemaid, a baby, a perambulator, 
 a bottle and other impedimenta. He pictured 
 his wife in the big house twice as lonely this 
 time and was very near saying, " Serve her 
 right ! " On their arrival, later than the baby's 
 bedtime, they discovered that the cradle was left 
 behind. It was a happy chance. Ralph would 
 see if a man could take the place of a mulish 
 mother ; he himself would put the baby to bed. 
 
 He took it to his own room, lighted the fire 
 and got the bath ready. After tearing one or 
 two upper garments, he turned the child round 
 and round until he had taken out all the safety- 
 pins he could feel ; whereby the process of un- 
 dressing was much facilitated. Then he bathed it 
 as tenderly as if it had been old china, wondering 
 the while how womenfolk can pull babies this way 
 and that, turn them up and turn them down, and 
 hold them up by their feet. His little son cried, 
 of course. Men have a curious notion that when 
 babies cry they have something to cry for. Ralph 
 decided that it was a matter of nutriment. He 
 made a bottle of food according to the directions 
 on the tin, with as much care as he would have 
 used in a chemical experiment. This did quiet 
 the baby, but no sooner was it finished than the 
 cries began again. It might be good to imitate 
 the women further. . . . He waved his hand 
 above his son's infinitesimal nose, then suddenly 
 gave it a timid dig in the ribs. The end was 
 vocal. He patted it on the chest ; it squalled 
 the more. He grasped its night-dress, and, by
 
 220 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 alternately pulling and relaxing, he made it rock 
 nicely on its rotund little back. What followed 
 was horrible to hear and see ear-piercing shrieks, 
 furious clawings of the air, extreme redness of the 
 face. 
 
 But they sing to babies. . . . Ralph could not 
 sing. But he was desperate. He made a dash 
 for it. There was only the child to hear. 
 
 He sang. . . . 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " It was the nursemaid with the 
 cradle. 
 
 " See to him," said Ralph, retreating, " and 
 tell me when he's asleep." 
 
 He went down to his study thoroughly 
 exhausted, and meditated on the infrequency 
 of infanticide. The nurse came in on her way 
 to supper, and told him that the baby was nicely 
 asleep, little cherub ! He crept up to see. 
 There was the child, sleeping peacefully. Only 
 his fists, clenched on the coverlet, showed the 
 force that was in him. Ralph, as he stood over 
 the cradle, thought not so much of the child as 
 of his wife. 
 
 A beam of light fell on the baby's face. It 
 stirred. A hand unclasped itself with frightful 
 clawing motion. A turn, a whimper. . . . 
 
 Ralph fled. 
 
 Very frequently in the night he heard cries. 
 Next morning the baby was still more fretful. 
 It made noises like the squeaking of a beaten 
 dog, like fowls, like parrots, like pigs, like cats. 
 The nursemaid would have sent for its mother. 
 "The missis was in the garden, right under the
 
 i A MARRIAGE OF LEARNING 221 
 
 nursery window, last night, sir. I thought as 
 'twas a ghost. It gave me such a fright. Shall 
 I fetch her, sir ? " 
 
 " No. Go and fetch Dr. Blakey-Jones." 
 
 His counter-plan was working ! 
 
 The doctor affirmed that babies don't cry like 
 that when they are really ill, deprecated early 
 weaning, recommended a boat-shaped bottle, and 
 said he would call again. Ralph determined to 
 go on. 
 
 But if the baby died. . . . Oh, no ; it would 
 not die. 
 
 Most of the day, therefore, he sat and smoked 
 in his study. Most of the day he bore with the 
 cries of his firstborn. If there was an interval, 
 he awaited the next outburst with an ear painfully 
 alert, and heard cries when there were none. 
 He thought the frail little body could not 
 possibly hold out much longer. He even fell 
 to calculating whether or not the cries came in 
 series, like waves, each seventh, tenth, or thirteenth 
 paroxysm the loudest. His brain became doughy. 
 
 In the evening, the servant being out with her 
 young man, he once more took charge of the 
 baby, in order that the nursemaid might fetch 
 Miss Smith. 
 
 VI 
 
 BERTHA BECOMES TRAGICAL AND WINS DEFEAT 
 
 Excitement lent fleetness to the nursemaid's 
 feet, breath to her lungs. She hardly noticed 
 that a soft summer rain was falling on her hat.
 
 222 HOW 'TWAS i 
 
 After peeping into the kitchen to say, "Baby's 
 dreadful ill ! " she rushed into the drawing-room, 
 and, without noticing Bertha, she blurted out : 
 " Please 'm, master sent me will you come 'cause 
 baby's ill and we can't quiet 'im." 
 
 " Get your breath, Annie, and tell me quietly," 
 said Miss Smith. 
 
 " Please 'm, we don't know 'xac'ly." 
 
 Meanwhile Bertha had gone quickly from the 
 room. Snatching a hat from the stand, she set 
 off down the road more rapidly than the servant 
 had come. She was, as it were, gyrating on the 
 slopes of a whirlpool up which floated the words, 
 "Baby! baby!" 
 
 Ralph, from the nursery window, saw her 
 approach. Upheld by the dictum of the doctor, 
 that babies do not cry lustily when they are 
 dangerously ill, he ran downstairs and saw that 
 the doors and windows were bolted. 
 
 It was almost twilight when Bertha ran up to 
 the door. The rain had stopped ; the air was 
 full of the scents of night-flowering plants. A 
 cockchafer buzzed into her face. She turned the 
 handle of the door ; turned it again the other 
 way round. Her knees bumped against it. She 
 rang the bell once, twice, thrice : it was useless. 
 Only the baby's cries echoed in the hollow house. 
 She wondered whether Ralph had left the baby 
 alone : she knew he would not do that. Then 
 it suddenly struck her that she was locked 
 out. She went and tried the back door. 
 Yes ; she was locked out. She stood on the 
 flower-bed beneath the nursery window and
 
 i A MARRIAGE OF LEARNING 223 
 
 called loudly : " Ralph ! Ralph ! Let me in. 
 Ralph ! " 
 
 Ralph, however, was too thoroughly roused 
 for anything less than a complete victory. Bertha 
 called out a second time. She trampled the 
 flower-beds. Then she saw the lamplighter 
 looking over the gate, and his light glowing like 
 a couch-flame through the branches of a hawthorn ; 
 and she called out no more. Instead, she made 
 one of her swift syllogisms, the result of which 
 was that she went to a corner whence she could 
 see the front door and yet be hidden in a leafy 
 triangle formed by the ivy-covered wall and a 
 couple of laurel bushes. The rain-water dropped 
 on her hair and soaked through until her head 
 was chilled ; but she waited on. Miss Smith was 
 certain to be coming, and the door would be 
 opened for her. 
 
 Presently the nursery window became lighted 
 up. It threw across the lawn a ghostly beam of 
 light in which the moths danced a moment and 
 were gone. Bertha heard the baby crying and 
 her husband singing. Such singing ! It was 
 idiotic. She laughed outright. Becoming savage 
 again, with her own laughter still in her ears, she 
 tore out of the ground a tobacco-plant, the sickly 
 perfume of which was blown into her face, and 
 crushed its white blossoms in her fingers. The 
 dancing moths mocked her. Insect noises shared 
 possession of the air with Ralph's uncouth singing. 
 She was all of a tremble from excitement and the 
 damp. 
 
 She saw her aunt coming, saw Ralph look out
 
 224 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 of the window, and heard the key being turned. 
 She burst out of the shrubs, rushed up to the 
 nursery, nearly overturning Miss Smith on her 
 way, and flung herself on the baby, who, failing 
 to recognise a loving mother, screamed with terror. 
 
 "You'll kill the child!" exclaimed Ralph, 
 following her into the room. " Come away." 
 
 He took her by the wrists ; forced her into a 
 chair. She broke down, and wept with heavy sobs 
 and loud indrawings of breath. Ralph continued 
 to hold her hands, and murmured : " Sh ! sh ! " 
 as if she had been the baby. 
 
 " Take the child downstairs, will you ? " he 
 said to Miss Smith ; and to his wife : " Sh ! 
 Bertha ! You'll only upset the child more. 
 Bertha ! Sh ! Pull yourself together, Bertha ! " 
 
 " I want to see my baby. Do let me. I know 
 it's not my month. Let me see my baby." 
 
 " You shall see him, only you mustn't be like 
 that." 
 
 " I was afraid he was going to die ! " 
 
 " No, dear. Not much the matter. Stomach : 
 that's all." 
 
 " Let me see my baby, Ralph." 
 
 She wept afresh, but in a short time the sobs 
 became fewer, then ceased ; only the catching for 
 breath remained. 
 
 Ralph kissed her softly. "Let me help you 
 off with your blouse," he said. "You are all 
 wet, and so cold. There ! I will go and get 
 one of my coats and bring up baby. We'll stay 
 here to-night, and all go home to-morrow, won't 
 we?"
 
 i A MARRIAGE OF LEARNING 225 
 
 " Oh, Ralph ! I. . . ." 
 
 " Sh, dear ! " 
 
 Wearing a man's coat that smelt of stale 
 tobacco, she took their baby into her arms. 
 The Experiment was at an end.
 
 II 
 
 KIDS AND CATS
 
 MAY-BABIES 
 
 "CHIL'ERN, I reckon," Mrs. Bunter has said 
 more than once, " didn't ought to be too forward 
 in getting on. What's all right in a man isn't 
 fitty in a kid." 
 
 Her own Johnny is a case in point. And 
 maybe she knows it, for in speaking of the child 
 to her husband she always calls him " Thy 
 Johnny." 
 
 Whilst the children ten or a dozen of them 
 were on their way to Lincombe Woods to find 
 branches for their May-Babies, Johnny pushed to 
 the front, and, looking back, said : " My May- 
 Baby's going to be better than any of yours." 
 
 " 'Twon't ! " snapped his sister Liz. 
 
 I tell 'ee 'twill." 
 
 Why for ? " 
 
 " You see then. I'll gie 'ee a penny out o' 
 what I gets if mine isn't the best o' the lot o'em." 
 
 " How'll you know if 'tis ? " 
 
 " 'Cause I'll get more pennies give'd me. You 
 see. An' you gie me a penny if I don't." 
 
 " Git 'ome ! If thee's get more pennies 'n us 
 do, what do 'ee want mine for ? Always a'ter 
 pennies, you be." 
 
 229
 
 230 HOW 'TWAS ii 
 
 In the woods they ran hither and thither, 
 tearing down branches as carelessly as nature 
 had grown them up. When one child found 
 that nut was easy to break off, and smooth, they 
 all chose nut, except Johnny, who separated from 
 the others and returned dragging a piece of oak 
 just coming into leaf. " C'ooh, 'tis a rough ol' 
 thing you got ! " said Liz. 
 
 For answer, Johnny made a grimace, and 
 showed her three neat bunches of flowers Red 
 Robins, Milk Maids, and Blue Bells. The other 
 children had simply grabbed up some of the 
 primroses that were like sunshine on the slopes 
 of the shady wood. 
 
 " Lend me your khaki doll for my May-Baby," 
 Johnny asked his sister on the way home. 
 
 " What's think ! I want it for mine." 
 
 " Mother won't let 'ee hae it." 
 
 " N'eet you nuther then." 
 
 " Shan't let her see it till we'm all finished. 
 I'll gie 'ee my pocket-knife what I found wi' two 
 blades. One o'em isn't broke. 'Tis sharp's can 
 be." 
 
 "You always gets everything you wants, 
 Johnny Bunter. When will 'ee let me hae 
 'en?" 
 
 "T'morrow after us been round wi' our 
 May-Babies." 
 
 The branches were stacked in the scullery 
 and the flowers put in water. Johnny hid his 
 behind a pile of unironed linen in the front 
 room. Next morning, long before their mother 
 was down, the children were routing for ribbons
 
 ii MAY-BABIES 231 
 
 in the kitchen drawers and in the cupboards under- 
 neath the dresser. Unable to borrow from his 
 sisters any of their hair-ribbons, Johnny snatched 
 up something from the arm-chair, stuffed it under 
 his coat, and with his oak branch retired to the 
 linhay at the top of the garden, where, if any of 
 the children tried to see what he was doing, he 
 flustered at them as a broody hen will do when 
 you try to take an egg from under her. 
 
 " Be you coming, Johnny ? " they called up to 
 him later. 
 
 " Where's mother ? " 
 
 " Gone upstairs to fetch Baby down." 
 
 Johnny came out of the linhay. He had tied 
 to his oak branch little bows of red, white, and 
 blue rag, and little bunches of Red Robins, Milk 
 Maids, and Blue Bells. In the centre, where the 
 twigs branched off, was Liz's khaki doll, veiled 
 with a toy Union Jack. 
 
 "You'll get it!" cried Liz. "That's Baby's 
 skirt you've tore'd up for your May-Baby." 
 
 " G'out ! " said Johnny. " "Tis only an ol' 
 thing. 'Tain't wuth so much as the pennies I'll 
 get. You see." 
 
 They started out. Perhaps it was only the 
 expectation of collecting pence in a time-honoured 
 fashion, but more likely it was a tradition, handed 
 down among children, of the old pagan May Day 
 ceremonial that led them to prance up the street 
 rather than walk. Very lightsome, even starlike, 
 were the nut branches, with their leaves, prim- 
 roses, white ribbons, bits of golden tinsel, and 
 little bells. Inside the dancing bowers were the
 
 232 HOW 'TWAS u 
 
 veiled May-Babies ; through the twigs children's 
 eager faces peered. Johnny's splotches of red, 
 white, and blue, and the sickly green of his young 
 oak leaves, looked dowdy among the rest, yet 
 without dispute, without the others knowing how, 
 he edged his way to the middle and front, so that, 
 grouped around Johnny, they all chattered and 
 laughed their way through the old town. 
 
 " Will 'ee gie us a penny to see the May- 
 Babies ? " they asked every one they met. 
 
 In the Upper Fore Street a lady stepped off the 
 pavement and stopped them. " What have you 
 got there ?" she asked Liz. 
 
 " 'Tis our May-Babies, please. People gives 
 us a penny for looking at 'em." 
 
 Johnny spoke up. " Mine's an Empire May- 
 Baby," he said. 
 
 " What d'you mean ? " 
 
 He unveiled Liz's khaki doll, which had tiny 
 flags sewn to its dress. " 'Tis Empire Day this 
 month, an' we got a paper to learn how many 
 people there is in London an' Calcutter an' Liver- 
 pool, an' how many miles the British Empire is, 
 an' who the King is that we'm subject to ; an' 
 teacher says us ought to hae flags, an' red, white, 
 an' blue, 'cause we'm the biggest empire that ever 
 was see'd ; an' they'm going to gie us prizes for 
 who says it best. I knows how many people there 
 is in the British Empire what us got to learn." 
 
 " So you have got an Empire May- Baby ? 
 Was that your own idea ? " 
 
 "Yes 'm. Please, I dressed mine by meself." 
 
 " What an intelligent little boy," exclaimed the
 
 n MAY- BABIES 233 
 
 lady, " and patriotic ! I didn't know May Day 
 was still kept up. You all look very pretty. 
 Here's something for your May-Babies." 
 
 She put half-a-crown into Johnny's hand. 
 With that the children all turned homewards. 
 
 They met Johnny's Uncle John, his mother's 
 brother, after whom he was named. " Gimme a 
 penny, Uncle John." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 The other children clustered round. 
 
 " 'Cause I've got an Empire red, white, an' 
 blue May-Baby," Johnny replied. 
 
 " Why an't the others got red, white, an' blue 
 May-Babies then ? " 
 
 " 'Cause they didn't think o'it an 1 I didn't let 
 'em see." 
 
 " Get 'long wi' thee," said John angrily, to 
 Johnny's great astonishment, " or I'll gie thee a 
 good clout. Thee't just like thy blooming father. 
 Always starting some new idea, an' then every- 
 body has to follow suit, or else 'tis said they'm 
 behind the times ; an' then he starts something 
 else new, not contented wi' that, an' with the 
 same, everybody has to follow suit again, an' no- 
 body ain't a bit the better for it when 'tis all done. 
 They sort makes more misery 'n enough, an' 
 you'm one o'em. I shan't gie thee nort for thy 
 May -Baby. Get 'long home to thy father ! 
 Here's tuppence for the rest o'ee to buy some 
 sweets wi', an' don't you let he see they." 
 
 " I don't care," Johnny said. " I've got the 
 
 lady's half-a-crown. I shall buy a whole pound 
 
 > i " 
 
 o sweets !
 
 234 HOW 'TWAS n 
 
 " No, you an't. 'Tis between all o' us." 
 " No, 'tisn't. Her give'd it to me." 
 "Her didn't." 
 
 " Her did ; an' I got it too." 
 Mrs. Bunter put an end to the squabble. 
 "Just you give thic half-crown to me," she 
 
 ordered, "an' I'll put it by for a pair o' boots 
 c > 
 for ee. 
 
 " Oh, oh ! Shan't ! " cried Johnny. 
 
 " You won't go for the Foresters' excursion if 
 you don't. You won't hae any boots to go in." 
 
 " Aye ! " assented Johnny, quietening down 
 at once. " Then I be going, bain't I ? If I buys 
 sweets wi' it, you'll only take 'em away an' share 
 'em out to all o'em." 
 
 Johnny will make his way all right.
 
 TWINSES 
 
 I 
 
 ETCHILCOT, Wilts, has been described as : " Down 
 a hill and round the corner." Down the hill are 
 the boxy, creeper-covered houses of the village 
 gentlefolk. Round the corner are Etchilcot Brook 
 and the labourers' cottages, some on the road and 
 some behind, all facing different ways. Down 
 the hill Etchilcot is very clean, bright, and hot. 
 Round the corner it is unclean, huddled, and 
 damp. Nellie Giles lives round the corner. 
 
 One summer's day the air was shimmering 
 with heat. A very old woman, wearing a woollen 
 bonnet and shawl, and bowed with rheumatics, 
 shuffled round the corner. Her stick tap-tapped 
 on the empty silent road. The hill, with sunshine 
 blazing on its whiteness, was much too hot for 
 such an old woman. Grandmother Giles (Nellie 
 Giles's husband's mother) stopped a moment or 
 two, breathing hard, mumbling, dribbling a little, 
 and leaning on her stick. Then she hailed a 
 woman who was hanging out clothes to dry. 
 
 " I jest been up Piggy Lane to break it to our 
 Mary as our Nellie got twins boys as won't be 
 
 235
 
 236 HOW 'TWAS n 
 
 no use till they be out to work. '7/j so bad. 
 She hadn't hardly got enough for one, an' now 
 she'll want two lots o' clothes, an' all." 
 
 " Law, Mrs. Giles ! " said the other woman, 
 cheerfully. " You must try and bear up. P'raps 
 'twill please the Almighty to smile down and take 
 one on 'em." 
 
 II 
 
 Grandmother Giles was nearly weeping. Never- 
 theless, she toiled on up the hill until she came 
 level with the discreet house of that pious retired 
 tradesman whose bounty keeps the church, the 
 Sunday schools, the institute, the churchyard, the 
 club, the mission, and the magazine all going. 
 There she rested again. 
 
 A man leant over the wall above her head. 
 " 'Ullo, Mrs. Giles, 'ow be 'ee ? 'Ot ? " 
 
 Mrs. Giles gathered together all her forces 
 before replying : " S' thee know poor Nellie Giles 
 got twins boys ? " 
 
 " Well," said the man, " 'er wanted a bwoy, 
 didn' 'er?" 
 
 " Yes, 'er did that ; but 'er didn' want two." 
 
 " Well, 'er must put up wi'em now 'er's got 
 'em." 
 
 Mrs. Giles meditated aloud : " An' 'er's got 
 five girls. . . ." 
 
 Suddenly she lifted up her stick and pointed 
 up the road with it, at an old man who came out 
 of one gate with a wheelbarrow and went in at 
 another.
 
 n TWINSES 237 
 
 "An* that there man," she said with pride and 
 astonishment, " an' that there man, as went along 
 there, were her father ! " 
 
 III 
 
 The eldest of Nellie Giles's five girls ran into 
 the cottage, stumbled over one of several half- 
 starved cats, and said : " Blast the cat ! " In the 
 same tone of voice she shouted at the foot of the 
 stairs : " Ou-er moth-ther ! The freckly Miss 
 Dawkins be comin' 'long the road wi' the maga- 
 zines." 
 
 An answering voice from upstairs shouted : 
 " Voilut. Yer. I wants 'ee." 
 
 But Miss Violet Giles was already back, trying 
 to dam up Etchilcot Brook, and the voice upstairs 
 continued : " Voilut, y' little varmint ! I'll warm 
 'ee when I d' get up ! " 
 
 When, however, the freckly Miss Dawkins 
 asked Violet how her mother did, the child 
 curtsied and replied very civilly : " Yes 'm. She's 
 doin' nicely, thank ye kindly, mum. And they's 
 boy twinses." 
 
 Violet, civil child and sister of twinses, received 
 one penny. 
 
 IV 
 
 Miss Dawkins, known to the poor people by 
 her many small benevolences, and above all by her 
 freckles, is a lady with a very rapid manner of 
 speech and a very inconsequent flow of ideas.
 
 238 HOW 'TWAS n 
 
 She groped her way up the cottage stairs, nearly 
 dropping her bundle of Church Magazines. She 
 also knocked her head. 
 
 " Law, Miss ; who's ha' thought to see you ! 
 P'raps you'll find yourself a chair. 'Tis twinses, 
 and I be in a confusion like." 
 
 Miss Dawkins was pleased to sit in the centre 
 of the room, her skirts well tucked round her, for 
 Nellie Giles's bedroom was reputed, rightly or 
 wrongly, among district visitors, to contain in- 
 habitants other than human. In one corner of the 
 stuffy little place were a mattress and a heap of 
 bedclothes Mr. Giles's temporary resting-place. 
 In another corner was the bed (now occupied by 
 the twinses) of the Misses Violet, Evelyn, and 
 Lilian Giles. There was indeed confusion. It 
 was Nellie Giles, on the big bed, her bright dark 
 eyes, black hair and red cheeks her jolly round 
 face who seemed, so to speak, to hold the room 
 together. 
 
 "You'd like to look at 'em, Miss. Fine 
 babies they be, both as big as one." 
 
 The freckly Miss Dawkins took a peep. 
 
 " My sister always says I like cats and dogs 
 best, Mrs. Giles." 
 
 Oh, Miss ! " 
 
 " And how are you managing, Mrs. Giles ? 
 I've brought you your magazine, you see killed 
 two birds with one stone." 
 
 " I don' know how I shall manage, Miss. I 
 be givin' Mrs. Ash a shillin' this week to come in 
 marnin's and get the children off to school, and to 
 come in evenin's and get Giles his supper, and to
 
 ii TWINSES 239 
 
 do a bit o' cleanin' in the day. I don' like bein' 
 up here at all, at all. I don' trust nobody but 
 myself to do me own house ; 'tain't the same ; but 
 there, Miss, what can a body do when they has 
 twinses ? " 
 
 " I'm glad to see, Mrs. Giles, you've got them 
 in a separate bed. There have been so many 
 dreadful cases of overlaying in the newspapers 
 lately mothers waking up in the morning and 
 finding their children dead underneath them." 
 
 O 
 
 " Good gracious, Miss ! Perty dears. But 
 that ain't 'xactly why for I done it, an' I never 
 see'd nobody else as has. You see, Miss, when 
 I d' put 'em both on one side o' me, I can't 
 manage 'em both, layin' down like, and they d' 
 make each other cry ; and if I has 'em one on 
 each side o' me, then when I d' try and turn one 
 way (my poor back bein' tired) I d' squeeze one 
 on 'em an' makes he squall, and when I d' turn 
 t'other side I d' lay on t'other on 'em, an' makes 
 he squall, too ; and my poor head can't stand 
 both on 'em at once ; so I says to our Voilut, she 
 got to turn out o' her bed. . . . You won't tell 
 the orficer we be overcrowded, will you, Miss ? 
 I'm sure I don' know where we should go if they 
 was to turn us out, and we be nine in fam'ly 
 now." 
 
 "Yes, just so. I've brought you your 
 magazine, Mrs. Giles." 
 
 "Thank 'ee kindly, Miss. I d' always look 
 for'ard to that, don' I, Miss ? If so be you'll 
 look in under the little chancy man on the 
 mantelshelf, as Giles says is like the vicar, savin'
 
 2 4 o HOW 'TWAS ii 
 
 your presence, you'll find the penny there waitin' 
 c > 
 tor ee. 
 
 Mrs. Giles lay quiet a moment before saying 
 confidentially : " What d' worrit me, Miss, that 
 I ain't got the money for Mrs. Teddington's 
 blanket club an' the rent as well ; an' if I borrows 
 a bed o' old Mrs. Giles for Voilut, an' lets the 
 twinses have Voilut's bed, then I shan't have 
 blankets for it wi'out the club blankets. You 
 don't think, Miss, you could get Mrs. Teddington 
 to break the rules a bit, seein' 'tis twinses ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid she can't. You see, each pair of 
 blankets cost seventeen shillings. You give 
 twelve shillings and Mrs. Teddington the other 
 five, as it is. If she made an exception for you, 
 everybody would expect the same, and there's no 
 knowing where it would end. It costs her a lot 
 of money now." 
 
 " Yes, Miss ; I s'pose it costises a power o' 
 money ; an' as I can't have rent an' blankets too, 
 I must keep the rent, so near rent day, an' all." 
 
 "I'm afraid that is so, Mrs. Giles. But I'll 
 send along a little soup and a rice pudding with 
 an egg in it. Good afternoon, Mrs. Giles. We 
 all ought to be thrifty. Has the vicar called yet ? 
 Good afternoon." 
 
 No sooner had Miss Dawkins gone than Nellie 
 Giles said something to this effect : " Dang her 
 oF soup an' her rice puddin's wi' eggs in 'em ! 
 She might ha' stumped up for they blankets, 
 seein' as 'tis twinses."
 
 TWINSES 241 
 
 V 
 
 Hardly four days after the birth of the twinses, 
 Nellie Giles was getting up in haste. Violet 
 assisted her angry mother. 
 
 " Did you say, Voilut, as you saw Mrs. Ash a- 
 takin' they there best pair o' sheets out o' the 
 house?" ' 
 
 " Yes, mother, I saw her, I did, mother, takin' 
 of 'em when she'd finished up here ; and I said as 
 I'd tell my mother, and she put 'em back in the 
 drawers and said she were only lookin' at 'em 
 'cause they was beautiful stitched ; and she did 
 look at I, fit to frighten any one. . . ." 
 
 " I'll tell her what I thinks on her, stealin' 
 people's best sheets when they's laid by wi' 
 twinses. I've a-heard of her doin's afore this day, 
 an' I'll tell everybody, I will. Gettin' me up 
 when I didn't ought to. Mrs. Ash ! Good 
 Lor' ! Who's she, I'd like to know ? A common 
 thief, that's what she is ! " 
 
 Followed by Violet, Nellie Giles walked rapidly 
 off to Mrs. Ash's gate. 
 
 " Mrs. Ash, a word wi' you ! Mrs. Ash ! " 
 
 " Law, Mrs. Giles ! How glad I be to see 'ee 
 'bout so soon ! " 
 
 " You bad, wicked woman ! I spurns you ! 
 Didn't you. . . ." 
 
 It must suffice to say that the conversation 
 which followed was both long-winded and strong. 
 Mrs. Ash's honesty and the state of Mrs. Giles's 
 house, children and emaciated cats were all called 
 
 R
 
 242 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 in question ; and the virtues and vices of all their 
 known relatives were discussed. When it was 
 over, neither side being victorious, Mrs. Giles 
 retired, saying to Violet : " Jest thee go 'n look 
 to they blessed twinses, Voilut. I feel as there's 
 nothing '11 do I so much good as a pint o' old 
 beer. Sheets and blankets ! I'll have sheets and 
 blankets to make her beastly face turn blue, an' 
 I'll pay into Mrs. Teddington's blanket club, an' 
 I'll tell Mrs. Teddington why, an' I'll let the rent 
 take care on itself, I will." 
 
 All these things Nellie Giles did. 
 
 VI 
 
 She did not go to bed again not as a mother 
 of twinses. She bustled about, put her house in 
 comparative order, and worried about the rent she 
 had paid into the blanket club. 
 
 Quarter day came and passed. " "Tisn't like 
 she'll forget us altogether," said Nellie Giles, 
 talking to herself of Mrs. Whitton, the landlady. 
 She did not dare tell her husband about the 
 difficulty, because he had said distinctly, both at 
 home and at the " Waggon and Horses," that 
 one may have blankets, but one must have rent. 
 
 Next day, however, she was, as she said, fair 
 flabbergasted to see Mrs. Ash running up her 
 garden path. 
 
 " Mrs. Giles. . . ." 
 
 " Mrs. Ash ! " 
 
 " Here's Mrs. Whitton a-comin' round herself 
 for the rents."
 
 TWINSES 243 
 
 " Whatever shall I do. She'll be comin' here 
 and I ain't got it by five shillin's." 
 
 Nellie Giles decided with the quickness of a 
 born tactician. 
 
 " Yer, Voilut ; you show Mrs. Whitton up 
 and tell her I be in bed wi' twinses." 
 
 Then Nellie Giles ran upstairs and hopped 
 into the unmade bed. Mrs. Whitton, arriving 
 a moment or two later, found her there, with the 
 clothes tucked up to her chin and the twinses, 
 apparently, one on either side of her. 
 
 " Law, mum ! I didn't think to see you yet, 
 an' I be that sorry, mum, I ain't got the rent by 
 five shillin's, an' I don't know how to get it, seein' 
 as 'tis twinses. Wouldn't you like to see 'em, 
 mum ? " 
 
 Without turning back the bedclothes at all, 
 Nellie Giles poked the twinses out from under- 
 neath, up to the pillow, where they lay and cried. 
 
 " 'Tis hard for poor folks, mum, when you d' 
 expect one, which is bad, and two comes. If 
 'twasn't for Miss Isabeller Dawkins sendin' me 
 soup and rice puddin's wi' eggs in 'em, I don't 
 know what I should ha' done." 
 
 " Well, well, Mrs. Giles " (the squalling of the 
 twinses was unbearable), " I'll take what you have, 
 and you can pay the other five shillings next time 
 next time, mind." 
 
 " 'Tis on the mantelshelf wai tin'. . . ." 
 
 " Thank you. Good morning. I hope they'll 
 do well." 
 
 " Good marnin', mum. Thank 'ee, mum. 
 God bless you ! "
 
 244 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 A minute or less, and Nellie Giles was down- 
 stairs. 
 
 " Wer's 'er gone, Voilut ? " 
 
 " She's got up in her trap, mother, and drove 
 off." 
 
 " Now if I don't think I do desarve a glass o' 
 good ale ! " 
 
 Mrs. Giles and Mrs. Ash forthwith went off 
 together to the " Waggon and Horses." " A friend 
 in need is a friend indeed," said Nellie Giles. 
 Peace was made. 
 
 VII 
 
 Next quarter day the rent was paid in full ; 
 for after Mr. and Mrs. Giles had received sundry 
 benefits on account of the twinses, the Almighty 
 did smile down, and He took both on 'em, one 
 with whooping cough and bad nursing, and the 
 other with bad nursing and convulsions.
 
 MOTHERS ALL 
 
 " How is 'er now then ? " Granny Noakes asked 
 her daughter. Cheerfully she dumped down her 
 basket upon the kitchen table, and from beneath 
 her arm a pair of newly-soled boots fell noisily to 
 the ground. 
 
 Young Mrs. Ferris, who was suckling her 
 child on a low chair beside the fireplace, bowed 
 her head and poked out her only spare finger for 
 quietness. " He's going to get better," she 
 whispered confidently ; and as she spoke a she-cat 
 which had been prowling round the kitchen, 
 searching under chairs and pawing at the cupboard 
 doors underneath the dresser, gave a pitiful long- 
 drawn mew and jumped into the coal-hole on the 
 other side of the fireplace. There it could be 
 heard scratching and whimpering. 
 
 " 'Tis the first time these three days," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Ferris, "as he've a-slept proper an' 
 took anything into him to speak of. He's going 
 to pick up now." 
 
 " 1 never thought no different." 
 
 " I did ; an' I don't believe he would have if. 
 . . . Do 'ee shut thic coal-hole door. I can't 
 a-bear to hear Tab miawling like that." 
 
 245
 
 246 HOW 'TWAS ii 
 
 Mrs. Ferris looked up at her mother with 
 half-dry tears on her cheeks. Though she smiled, 
 apparently with satisfaction, yet at the same time 
 she shuddered and hugged her baby to her 
 breast as if she had just rescued him from danger 
 from falling into the fire or from being run 
 over. A black smudge, in which the tear-drops 
 had made a kind of lattice-work, extended from 
 her left eye to the corner of her mouth. In 
 her attitude there was not only the patience of 
 a nursing mother, but suspense as well. 
 
 Granny Noakes, when she had shut up the big 
 dark coal-hole, stared keenly into her daughter's 
 face. "Why, what, for the Lord's sake, 's the 
 matter with 'ee ? " she demanded. " You'm all of 
 a flitter. Let I go an' get 'ee a drop o' stout." 
 
 " No, don't 'ee. I don't feel like eating or 
 drinking ort not just now. Bit later, p'raps." 
 
 " What's the matter with 'ee ? " 
 
 " Go'n look out in the scullery sink," replied 
 Mrs. Ferris, mysteriously. 
 
 " Casn' tell a body what's the matter wi'out 
 all this yer miss-messing about ? There's nort 
 't all there 'cept a drownded kitten. Where did 
 'ee get thic ? " 
 
 " That's it ! " said Mrs. Ferris, again con- 
 fidently. "Thee's know Tab had kittens last 
 month. Her always keeps 'em in the coal-hole, 
 among the litter back behind, what I been meaning 
 to clear out. Jack, he scrawled about in there 
 an* took an' drowned all o'em, as he thought, 
 'fore their eyes was open. I wondered why Tab 
 didn't make so much fuss as her has afore now,
 
 ii MOTHERS ALL 247 
 
 an' yet, for all that, I couldn't make out why her 
 sticked to the coal-hole so much. 
 
 " Well, 'twas just after then that Baby began 
 to ail, an' I couldn't make thic out nuther. 
 'Twas as if he hadn't no spirit left in him to eat 
 or ort, an' he got so thin an' soft too wi' it, in his 
 little legs an' arms, I didn't hardly like washing 
 o'en. Us thought 'twas teething, an' us had the 
 doctor to 'en, an' he said 'twas weakness, which 
 didn't get us no for'arder. 
 
 " By'm-bye, who should come in from the 
 country but ol' Mrs. Ferris, Jack's mother. It 
 just so happened when her was sitting there, 
 where you be so pleased an' proud her was wi' 
 Baby 'cause Jack's her eldest Baby, 'er went 
 into the coal-hole, like he do, an' lugged out a 
 kitten by the tail, Tab following. Up jumps ol' 
 Mrs. Ferris. l Law, my dear ! ' her says, c if you 
 rears that kitten 'long wi' your baby, 'twill draw 
 the nature out o'en, 'twill suck his life away, so 
 sure as eggs be eggs. 'Tis so good as murder- 
 ing o'en to keep thic kitten. If I was Jack I 
 wouldn't let 'ee to.' 
 
 " ' G'out ! ' I says. * 'Tis ignorance that, I 
 
 reckon. No doubt if the kitten has a disease 
 
 
 " c Thic kitten,' her says, so solemn an' quaver- 
 ing, like, as if 'twas Ashes to ashes, dust to dust^ 
 1 thic kitten '11 bring your baby to his grave ! ' 
 An' with the same her went out o' the house 
 offended, 'cause I said 'twas ignorance. Just like 
 Jack her is. 
 
 " When Baby didn't get no better I thought
 
 248 HOW 'TWAS a 
 
 on ol' Mrs. Ferris's words. They stuck in my 
 mind like, an' at last I asked Jack to drown thic 
 kitten, not telling him for why. Howsbe-ever, 
 he wouldn't, 'cause its eyes was open an' 'tis 
 unlucky killing a kitten if it looks at you while 
 'tis dying ; which besides, Jack don't like killing 
 things. An' I couldn't bring myself to kill it 
 nuther, knowing how Tab'd miawl about after it, 
 an' me being fond of ol' Tab after bringing her 
 from home an' all. Baby, he was fair mazed over 
 thic kitten. 'Twas the only thing as'd keep him 
 quiet. * Cat ! cat ! ' he'd go, knocking at the 
 coal-hole door if 'twas shut ; an' so soon as 'twas 
 opened, out did jump the kitchen, hoppety-hop 
 like a feather wi' blue eyes, an' Baby'd play wi' 
 it by the hour, an' pull it about an' hug it, an' 
 never once did it scratch 'en. 
 
 " All the same time, he was getting worse an' 
 worse, till come last night he kept me awake 
 every single minute, an' I could have sworn in 
 the dark the lamp give'd out as 'twas a kitten 
 miawling 'longside me. This morning, as he was 
 a-lying on my lap, crying all the time so loud as 
 he had strength to do, he wriggled down. * Cat ! 
 cat ! ' he called, making for the coal-hole ; an', 
 poor little mite, he fall'd flat along the floor, 'cause 
 he hadn't the strength left for to walk. t Cat ! 
 cat ! ' It reg'lar hit into me. c 'Tis his death cry, 
 that ! ' thinks I, an' the thought o'it drove me 
 fair mad. I gropes in the coal-hole ; I finds the 
 kitten ; I fills a bucket wi' water ; an' cursing it, I 
 did, I holds the kitten under wi' my hand. I 
 felt 'en struggle an' I grips 'en hard 'nufF for to
 
 ii MOTHERS ALL 249 
 
 kill 'en wi'out any water aye ! squeezes the life 
 out o'en till he gives a little shake, an', suddently, 
 wi' a quiver like, goes all limp. Bubbles come'd 
 up. An' there was poor ol' Tab alongside me, 
 looking up wi' her eyes an' miawling fit to break 
 your heart ! I turned that weak an' leery. . . . 
 I washed my hands wi' soap, an' Baby, so soon as 
 I came in house, he held out his arms, an' took 
 to the breast, an' here he's been sleeping ever 
 since. I do believe 'twas given him to know." 
 
 " Precious little bundle ! " murmured Granny 
 Noakes. 
 
 " The thought was in my mind," the young 
 mother added, " ' S'pose this one dies, an' 1 don't 
 never have no more. . . .' ' 
 
 " G'out ! Thee't hae 'em right 'nuff. More'n 
 thee's want, I'll warrant. Same time, it don't do 
 to take no risks, what you knows is risks." 
 
 Whereupon Jack Ferris himself returned 
 home ; which put an end to the tale, if not to the 
 mothers' conviction.
 
 THE POWER OF LIFE AND DEATH 
 
 I 
 
 THE Pinney children were clamouring for their 
 breakfast. " Come on, Mam ! Come on ! I 
 wants my breakfast. I be hungry. Hurry up ! " 
 
 " If you'd come in proper time an' got your- 
 selves ready for school, you'd have had your 
 breakfast 'fore now," said Mrs. Pinney, holding 
 out the frying-pan at arm's length and turning 
 over some small frizzling mackerel with a bent 
 fork. She was all of a caddie with cooking, kids, 
 and the week's washing, and being late down was 
 slightly angry with herself. She flung her fork 
 on the littered dresser that covers all one wall of 
 the kitchen, and fairly rattled the frying-pan over 
 the fire. " Now, then, Johnnie," she shouted, 
 "get yourself washed." 
 
 Have ! " 
 
 " What's say ? Call those hands washed ? Take 
 off your coat an' slouze yourself proper, this 
 minute. Comb out thic hair o' yours, Susan. 
 'Tis like a fuzz-bush. You won't hae a clean 
 apron. You should keep thic one clean. Yes, 
 you will, Artie, go to school in your old boots. 
 
 250
 
 POWER OF LIFE AND DEATH 251 
 
 Dost think I got the money to let 'ee wear 
 new boots to school for to play football in ? 
 I'll burn thic ball, if thee a'tn't careful ! Rosie, 
 Rosie ! God bless the maid, her's got her hands 
 into everything ! Put down ! Put down ! 
 You'm old enough for to look after Rosie, bain't 
 you, Ruth, 'stead o' squat there in a chair, reading ? 
 Casn't hear. Stir theeself. Lay down the knives 
 an' plates. Rosie ! Rosie ! What 'tis for to 
 hae a parcel o' kids ! " 
 
 Rosie, a fair-haired little baby-girl, dressed all 
 clean for the day, took not the least notice of her 
 mother. She had found the pan in which the fish 
 had been cleaned (Mrs. Pinney has no scullery), 
 and was trying to feed the mackerels' heads with 
 their own entrails, saying : " Poor fish ! Fish 
 baddy, Mam ! " She was just old enough to trot 
 steadily on feet that went like paddle-wheels, and 
 when the pan was snatched away she made a dash 
 for the front door, where she ran headlong into 
 her father. 
 
 " Whatever buzz is it here ? " asked John 
 Pinney. " Is it breakfast, Mam ? " 
 
 " Breakfast, aye ! That's all you minds, feed- 
 ing your face. Now then, you chil'ern, sit down 
 to table. Nuther one o' 'ee shan't hae a bite 
 till you'm quiet. Get up on your chair, Rosie, 
 an' see what Mam's got for 'ee." 
 
 John Pinney sat up to the table like and among 
 his children, and with them waited. He gazed 
 round on them ; they were wriggling and chatter- 
 ing, well-grown and full of life ; seen in the mass 
 they made their parents look rather small. " To
 
 2 52 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 think," he remarked, " of all that's got to be 
 wrenched out o' my ol' arms, slaving an' digging 
 out, for to feed this here little lot ! What's hae 
 'em for, Mam ? " 
 
 " What's hae 'em for ! You ought to know 
 that better 'n anybody else," snapped his wife. 
 " Thee dostn't hae to look after 'em, and do 
 for 'em, else thee wousn't hae 'em, p'raps. An' 
 thee dostn't lift a finger for to help a feller wi' 
 'em, squat there, tapping wi' thy knife for summut 
 to eat." 
 
 " You does it so nice, me ol' stocking, an' 
 so quiet," said John Pinney, "an' I earns the 
 money for 'ee to do it with. 'Tis won'erful," 
 he rambled on, "what you gives life to in a 
 lifetime, when you wouldn't, sometimes, if you 
 didn't ; an' I don't reckon you finishes giving life 
 to 'em when they'm born and weaned. . . ." 
 
 "What's mean?" 
 
 " Well, I'm wearing out providing for 'em, 
 bain't I ? An' I don't know w'er 'tis the last 
 o'em yet. Dost thee, Mam ? Not that I be 
 sorry. Nobody don' know what life is till they 
 has a family o' chil'ern. ..." 
 
 His discourse a frequent one with him, for 
 he finds his children rather overwhelming was 
 brought to a sudden end by Rosie. When the 
 butter had been removed from reach of her fingers, 
 she caught sight of the basin of castor sugar which 
 Mrs. Pinney buys instead of lumps, so that the 
 children cannot so easily carry it away in their 
 pockets. With a side-glance at her mother, and 
 a mischievous twinkle all over her face, she
 
 n POWER OF LIFE AND DEATH 253 
 
 grabbed a handful of sugar and rubbed it over her 
 brother Arthur's mouth. Then she chirped out 
 in mockery of Susan, " Mam, thic Artie's at 
 the sugar 'gain ! " 
 
 Mrs. Pinney tried to be angry, but cuddled 
 and kissed instead. " Thee't hae a pretty handful 
 later on," said her husband. 
 
 " So't thee ! " she retorted. " Shouldn't hae 
 'em ! " 
 
 Rosie, being proud of herself, took up a spoon 
 and flung it across the kitchen. It hit with a 
 clatter the right-hand cupboard door, underneath 
 the dresser, where Mrs. Pinney stuffs away the 
 old clothes and patching material. The children, 
 Rosie included, shrieked with laughter, and so, in 
 a moment, did their parents. 
 
 II 
 
 Suddenly the laughter died out, on a shrill 
 note, unfinished. 
 
 All eyes, except her father's, had followed 
 Rosie's spoon. The cupboard door against which 
 it had hit was seen to edge itself open in little 
 jerks, as if it were alive. The children's eyes 
 grew rounder. Rosie pointed, with both hands 
 held out. " What's up ? " asked John Pinney, 
 alarmed. 
 
 No one replied ; they all stared at the cupboard 
 door. 
 
 With a final jerk, it opened itself wide, and 
 out of the dark stuffy hole stepped Tib, the cat. 
 
 On the height of her legs, carrying her tail
 
 254 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 straight upwards like a mast, she walked slowly 
 into the centre of the kitchen. One long leg she 
 stretched out behind her, and then the other. 
 It was a stately progress. In her every movement 
 was cat's pride, and on her striped face a bland 
 cat's smile. 
 
 " If I don't believe," exclaimed Mrs. Pinney, 
 " that thic Tib's been an' had her kittens in the 
 cupboard after all ! " 
 
 Before she had finished speaking there was 
 a scramble of children to the dresser. " Let's 
 see!" "Let I see!" " Git out ! " " Git 'ome ! " 
 "Well y then. . . ." Clothes and old boots and 
 rags were all dragged out upon the floor. Three 
 small tabby kittens, hardly yet dry, were brought 
 to light. Rosie grabbed two of them so that they 
 squeaked. Ruth shook Rosie to make her put 
 them down. Rosie, in her turn, began to cry. 
 Mrs. Pinney drove all the children back to their 
 places at table. 
 
 Rosie was lifted upon her chair. She still 
 hugged one of the kittens in her arms, and was 
 trying to open its eyes, saying, " Poor pussy's 
 got baddy eye, Mam ! " 
 
 Meanwhile a round cat's head lifted itself 
 cautiously over the edge of the table, a paw was 
 stealthily outstretched, and Rosie's little fish, which 
 had been specially boned for her, was clawed off 
 her plate to underneath the table. 
 
 Rosie flung down her kitten and cried in 
 earnest till another fish was given her. 
 
 "A job for thee, John," said Mrs. Pinney, 
 " to drown they there kittens."
 
 POWER OF LIFE AND DEATH 255 
 
 " Artn't going to let ol' Tib keep nuther one ?" 
 
 " Yes, Mam do ! Mam ! " pleaded the 
 children. 
 
 " No ! Shan't ! They brings fleas." 
 
 " Well," said her husband, " / bain't going to 
 drown 'em. That ain't my job." 
 
 "Yes, 'tis!" 
 
 " / bain't responsible for Tib's kittens, if I be 
 for thy kids, like you says." 
 
 " Yes, you be. If you'd called Tib in night- 
 times. . . ." 
 
 " Git 'long with thee ! Your mistress might 
 just so well have tried to call you in early when 
 we was courting an' used to stand in thic shadow 
 round by double-doors. . . . / bain't going to 
 undertake the job of killing o'em. My job's 
 bringing things to life. . . . Rosie'll drown 'em 
 for thee," he added by way of a joke. " Her's 
 nearly done for one o'em now, looks so." 
 
 Rosie was on the floor, nursing her kitten with 
 a love too hearty for it. Tib sat beside her, as if 
 she were taking care of both. " Poor pussy ! " 
 the child was saying tenderly. " Poor pussy 
 baddy ! Git 'ome, Tib ! " 
 
 After the children were gone off" to school, 
 Mrs. Pinney asked Ruth, who had been kept 
 home to take care of Rosie on washing-day : 
 " Where's thic Rosie ? Where's her to ? Casn't 
 thee look after her one minute ? " 
 
 " Her's gone into Mrs. Trist's wi' the kitten." 
 
 " Better to let her stay there, if Mrs. Trist'll 
 hae her ; then us'll hae some quiet here. Now 
 then, wash up they breakfast things."
 
 256 HOW 'TWAS a 
 
 John Pinney got up to go out. " See thee's 
 drown they there kittens afore their eyes is open," 
 he called back to his wife. 
 
 " Do thee git 'long," she replied, " if thee 
 wousn't do it theeself ! Dost think I likes drown- 
 ing poor ol' Tib's kittens ? " 
 
 III 
 
 When the children came home from school 
 they could not find two of the kittens ; Tib, they 
 were told, had probably eaten them out of their 
 way, and they were threatened with awful things 
 if they pulled abroad the cupboard again. And 
 when, a little later, they were called in to dinner, 
 Rosie also could not be found. " Her came in 
 here a bit ago while I was emptying the water off 
 the taties," said Ruth in self-defence, " an' went 
 to the cupboard where Tib's got her kittens. I 
 see'd her." 
 
 "Why dostn't go'n look for her, then," said 
 Mrs. Pinney, who was busy piling plates with 
 food. " How's thee know what horses an' motors 
 there is roundabout outside." 
 
 "Well, her isn't outside, /can't see her." 
 
 " Her might be killed. . . ." 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Trist came in at the door, 
 leading an unwilling Rosie by the hand. " What- 
 ever . . ." shouted Mrs. Pinney. " O my dear 
 life ! Whatever's thic maid been doing ? Why, 
 her little skirt and sleeves is dripping wet, an' her 
 hands is scratched. . . . Bide there, you little rat,
 
 ii POWER OF LIFE AND DEATH 257 
 
 till I've a-quietened these here wi' summut to fill 
 their mouths up." 
 
 Mrs. Pinney went on giving dinner to her 
 husband and children. Mrs. Trist, instead of 
 going out again till the meal was finished, sat 
 down on a chair by the door, and waited plainly 
 with a tit-bit of news on the tip of her tongue. 
 
 Then the child's wet dress was taken off. For 
 a wonder, she did not cry. Without help she 
 clambered upon her chair, and there she stood, 
 demanding her dinner too ; like a quaint china 
 figure in her little red stays with shoulder-straps, 
 but lively, even for her, and unusually self- 
 assured. 
 
 When a suitable silence occurred, Mrs. Trist 
 began to speak. " Dost thee know," she said 
 solemnly, " what thic child's been doing ? " 
 
 Mrs. Pinney looked round. 
 
 "I wouldn't," continued Mrs. Trist, "I 
 wouldn't never have thought it of her. . . ." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Her's been an' drownded two of your kittens ! 
 Her come'd out wi' one o'em, an' as it happened 
 my tin tub was under the terrace tap, half full of 
 water. * Poor pussy baddy ! ' her says ; and with 
 the same her throws 'en into the water. An' her 
 holds 'en down wi' the bucket what was standing 
 'longside. I see'd her do it. Then her goes 
 off in here an' fetches t'other kitten, an' chucks 
 he in after the first one, but her couldn't lift the 
 bucket this time, 'cause her'd got some water in 
 'en, so her holds the poor little kitten down under 
 wi' her hand. And then what's think ? her
 
 258 HOW 'TWAS u 
 
 comes along to my house, saying : * Rosie drown 
 your pussy, Missie Twist ! ' An' her was going 
 to carry my ol' cat off an' drown her too, only 
 mine was too strong for her an' scratched her 
 till her put 'en down. * You little wretch ! Get 
 'long in home ! ' I says. c You've a-drownded 
 two.' Both the poor little things was dead and 
 limp. . . ." 
 
 Rosie, while Mrs. Trist spoke, was rocking 
 herself backwards and forwards, was dancing, in 
 fact, on her chair with an innocent glee and 
 childish animation. She continued the tale 
 proudly : " Rosie drownded pussy under water- 
 tap." 
 
 "But you've killed the poor little pussies," 
 said her mother. 
 
 " Poor pussy baddy. Pussy killed dead." 
 " Yes, pussy's dead. You won't be able to 
 hae 'en any more nuther one o'em." 
 " Rosie get more pussies." 
 " There isn't no more." 
 
 " Rosie have a ha'penny an' buy another 
 pussy." 
 
 " But you can't buy pussies with ha'pennies. 
 Pussies has got to be born. . . ." 
 
 Rosie's face screwed itself up into misery. 
 She plunged towards her mother's arms. " Mam ! 
 mam ! " she wailed. 
 
 " Git 'long ! " said her mother, pushing her 
 away. "You'm a cruel little girl, you are, to 
 drown the poor pussies." 
 
 Rosie was so surprised that she forgot to go 
 on crying. She thought for a minute with a
 
 ii POWER OF LIFE AND DEATH 259 
 
 puzzled reproachful expression. Then, once more, 
 her face lighted up. She banged on the plate 
 with her spoon, spattering gravy over all the other 
 children. 
 
 "Tib," she cried triumphantly, "Tib'll lay 
 another one ! "
 
 A CAT'S TRAGEDY 
 
 I 
 
 NELLIE'S family, with their dogs and her three- 
 legged cat, had recently removed from their 
 West Country farm to a villa just outside a Wilt- 
 shire town. Watching the railway trains became 
 Nellie's substitute for playing about with the farm 
 live-stock. 
 
 One afternoon, the express rushed whistling 
 down the incline behind the house. Almost 
 immediately a child's piercing scream was heard 
 from the bottom of the garden ; then " Mother ! 
 mother ! " and again the wild scream. 
 
 The child's mother ran out. 
 
 Nellie was standing on the branches of a 
 currant bush. She was looking wide-eyed over 
 the green-grown fence at the railway lines. 
 
 "Nellie!" called her mother. "You know 
 you have to go back to school to-morrow in that 
 dress. Get down." 
 
 Another scream angrier this time. 
 
 " What is it, my dear ? Nellie my child ! " 
 
 "Tibby! Tibby! Where's Tibby ? Mother, 
 is that Tibby ? Look ! she's only got three paws 
 and the train's been and runned over her." 
 
 260
 
 A CAT'S TRAGEDY 261 
 
 The child's mother looked over the fence. 
 " Come indoors, dear," she said, " and we'll ask 
 father to go down and see." 
 
 Whilst Nellie walked round and round the tea- 
 table repeating ; " How long is he going to be ! 
 Mother, is it Tibby, is it ? " her father went down 
 to the railway line, picked up two pieces of a 
 three-pawed tabby cat, and fitted them together in 
 a boot-box so that the join hardly showed. 
 
 " It's Tibby right enough," he said on his re- 
 turn. " She must have been on the other side of 
 the line, catching mice, and when the train came 
 and frightened her she must have jumped across 
 just too late." 
 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 " In the scullery." 
 
 " What did you leave my Tibby in the scullery 
 for ? " 
 
 Nellie went out and gazed for some time at the 
 cat crumpled up in the boot-box. A leg without 
 a paw stuck out. Saying nothing, she turned 
 away, and there was in her eyes an unmis- 
 takable look of defiance. Death affected her that 
 way. 
 
 She was coaxed to the tea-table. " Come, 
 dear," said her mother, " you must eat something 
 because you've got to travel to-morrow." 
 
 " I don't want anything thank you. ..." 
 And then she broke down. " Oh ! how can I go 
 back to school and Tibby dead ? What did we 
 ever leave home for, to come and live in this 
 beastly place ? 'Tisn't safe for cats ! O Tibby, 
 Tibby ! You've been with me seven years, and
 
 262 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 I've always loved you 'cept when you got caught 
 in the rabbit gin and your paw rotted off, and 
 I've never hit you, only once, when you eat your 
 kittens. Tibby ! " 
 
 The child's voice rose to a scream. 
 
 "Listen, my dear," said her mother, partly 
 in pity and partly hoping to ease the child's sorrow 
 by whitewashing her cat's memory. "Tibby 
 didn't really eat her kittens." 
 
 " Where did they go to then ? " 
 
 "They had to be killed." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " Because there were too many cats about the 
 farm." 
 
 " You said she eat them." 
 
 "Yes, dear. . . ." 
 
 " You liars ! " said the child sternly. " I 
 always blamed Tibby for that, and now she's dead 
 I can't tell her I'm sorry." 
 
 Till bedtime the child was not seen ; she 
 refused supper, and when, about midnight, her 
 parents peeped into her room, she was wide awake 
 and her pillow was very wet. " Nellie," her 
 father asked, " when you go back to school to- 
 morrow would you like to take Tibby home and 
 bury her in the garden ? You haven't left your 
 old school, so you can do that." 
 
 "Yes," replied the child shortly, turning her 
 face to the wall. 
 
 But before long she fell asleep.
 
 ii A CAT'S TRAGEDY 263 
 
 II 
 
 Next morning, a very quiet, pale-faced and 
 large-eyed child waited apart from her father on 
 the station platform. She carried in both hands a 
 small box upon which was tied a bunch of arum 
 lilies. Still quietly and with composed steps, she 
 entered the train ; and while they sped from end 
 to end of the West Country, she kept the box on 
 her lap and would not put it down either to eat or 
 to rest. " I won't have Tibby shaken," she said. 
 
 At the hotel, through which the news soon 
 spread that she was going out to her old home to 
 bury her cat before she went to school, two chamber- 
 maids and a kindly barmaid accompanied her 
 in procession up the stairs when, still with an 
 aloof dignity, she carried the box to her bedroom 
 and placed it on the luggage stool. She shut the 
 door on them, and that night she slept alone 
 with the dead cat in her room. 
 
 With ceremony again, on the following morn- 
 ing, she carried the box downstairs, looking very 
 frail in her white dress smudged with green, 
 very unapproachable in her sorrow. A pair of 
 horses took her with her father swiftly up hills and 
 down combes until they came out on a wide 
 brown moor, wooded only with clumps of dwarf 
 wind-gnarled trees. They turned down a lane 
 towards a farm-house that stood within a girdle of 
 sheltering black pines. 
 
 The hind was set to dig a grave. When it 
 was ready, the child carried out her cat and told 
 everybody to go away. She opened a prayer-book
 
 264 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 at the Burial Service, and, starting at the begin- 
 ning, she read straight on, using both of the 
 alternative psalms because she had never been at a 
 funeral and did not know that one psalm would 
 do. The sea-wind blew her short skirts about. 
 Driven rain wetted her hair. Though her voice 
 was husky and small by the time she reached St. 
 Paul's Epistle to the Corinthians, she read on 
 nearly to the end of it, stumbling carefully over 
 the long words, until she came to the passage : 
 " We shall not all sleepy but we shall all be changed, 
 in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last 
 trump (for the trumpet shall sound), and the dead 
 shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. 
 For this corruption must put on incorruption, and this 
 mortal must put on immortality. . . ." 
 
 There she failed. She went back, lost her 
 place, and broke into weeping. 
 
 " Oh, Tibby, Tibby ! " she wailed. " One last 
 look ! " 
 
 She tore off the flowers, the string and the 
 paper, and looked. 
 
 Tibby had come in two again. The inside of 
 the box was horrible. It steadied the child. To 
 the hind, who had run up on hearing her cry, she 
 said breathlessly : " Cover her up quick ! " and 
 she was led into the house crying pitifully. 
 
 During the drive back to the town and school 
 she nestled up to her father. " Will you write," 
 she asked, " and tell him to put stones on Tibby's 
 grave so that the pigs shan't root her up and eat 
 her like they did the roupy fowls we buried ? " 
 
 And again she asked : " Do you think Tibby
 
 A CAT'S TRAGEDY 265 
 
 will be raised again, joined together, when the last 
 trumpet sounds ? " 
 
 " I don't know," answered her father. 
 
 " I do ! " said the child. 
 
 About a week afterwards a letter in large 
 handwriting arrived from the school : " One of 
 the day girls has given me a kitten and Miss 
 Adela says I can keep it. Has Todworthy put 
 the stones on Tibby's grave ? The kitten is just 
 like Tibby only she has got a pretty white shirt- 
 front and all her paws. I think she will be as 
 nice as Tibby almost. ..."
 
 A KITTEN: THAT'S ALL 
 
 ONE evening Mimi-Meaow retired to her cupboard 
 and gave birth to three kittens that were not 
 wanted by anybody, except, it may have been, by 
 Mimi-Meaow. 
 
 Next evening we went to look at them. 
 
 (Roses were blooming in the garden, and the 
 air was fragrant with the scent of them.) 
 
 Mimi-Meaow gazed up at us with pleasure in 
 her eyes, for she was suckling her kittens : with 
 trust in her eyes, for she had perfect trust in us 
 who always had been kind to her ; and with pride 
 in her eyes : you shall see a mother-cat's pride if 
 you care to watch. 
 
 Two kittens were hidden in her fur, and her 
 fore leg lay protectingly across the third. She 
 looked at us with still soft yellow eyes, and 
 purred. 
 
 " We must not keep them all." 
 
 " How many ? " I asked. 
 
 "And she must have one for her health's 
 sake." 
 
 " Then we must kill two." 
 
 " No. Let her have two. They play so 
 prettily together." 
 
 266
 
 A KITTEN : THAT'S ALL 267 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 " We will have the two prettiest. Let us look 
 at them." 
 
 I detached the kittens from Mimi-Meaow and 
 placed them on the table. Mimi-Meaow stood 
 up in her basket, and looked at us, and looked at 
 her kittens, and looked at us again and purred. 
 
 Tabby kittens they were. Two of them were 
 sturdy, but the other was not. Its legs were 
 barer of fur, its neck was thinner, its blind eyes 
 bulged farther from its head. Its cry was weaker 
 and more plaintive. It rolled helplessly upon its 
 side and back. 
 
 " That is the one." 
 
 "Yes," I said. 
 
 The weakling was chosen. 
 
 " Put it back for a last feed, poor little thing ! " 
 
 I put it back with the others. It crept under 
 Mimi-Meaow, who was purring still, for her 
 pleasure, pride, and trust were great. 
 
 " Bring Mimi-Meaow to me, before you kill 
 the kitten," I was told. u She may follow you." 
 
 Therefore I took her from her kittens and 
 left her in safe keeping. 
 
 I found a bucket in the scullery, and I found a 
 piece of string, and I picked up a hollow stone. 
 
 I filled the bucket with water, and I took 
 the weakling kitten (how soft it was !), and I tied 
 one end of the string around the kitten's waist 
 (being thin, it had a waist), and I made fast the 
 other end to the stone. 
 
 While I did it the kitten clung to the stone 
 with its weakly legs and soft claws.
 
 268 HOW 'TWAS n 
 
 It cried with a tiny voice ; but Mimi-Meaow 
 was purring on somebody's lap, under somebody 
 else's caresses. 
 
 Very gently I dropped the kitten into the 
 bucket. The scullery was dank and dark, the 
 water darker. As I looked to make sure that all 
 was well, I saw the kitten sprawl down into the 
 blackness of the water, as if into a dark eternity. 
 
 And then I went quickly to where Mimi- 
 Meaow was in keeping. 
 
 " Have you just drowned the kitten, a moment 
 ago?" 
 
 " Yes," I said. 
 
 "Well, Mimi-Meaow stopped purring and 
 gave such a start, as if she was terrified." 
 
 I knew then that I had done more than drown 
 a blind, dumb, separate, soulless kitten. 
 
 Sadly 1 went back and took it out. How wet 
 and limp it was ! I tried not to touch it, and I 
 cut the string, and I dropped it into a little paper 
 bag. 
 
 With a broken spade I dug a grave for it 
 behind a dying laurel bush ; and covered it in, 
 and stamped upon it. 
 
 And I went away, thinking to walk about the 
 garden and to smell the roses and lavender and to 
 look down the valley that lies between the garden 
 and the plain. 
 
 But I saw the kitten, flickering on the blue 
 haze with which the trees in the valley were 
 wrapped about ; the kitten ever sprawling into 
 blackness ; and I could not by any means or 
 any thought put the shadow of it from me. The
 
 ii A KITTEN : THAT'S ALL 269 
 
 kitten going suddenly to death, the dark water ; 
 where I looked, there they were impalpable like 
 the blue haze so that I wondered when the sight 
 of it would go from me. 
 
 I took three sprays of cluster-roses and wove 
 them into a wreath. I laid them on the kitten's 
 grave, and in the centre I placed a red rose and a 
 white, and I left them on the ground. 
 
 I don't know why I desired to lay flowers there, 
 nor why roses ; three clusters of roses, a red rose 
 and a white. I don't know why the shadow of 
 the kitten faded, nor why I was able to forget. 
 
 But I do know why I felt ashamed that Mimi- 
 Meaow still trusted me.
 
 THE CITIZENRY OF CATS 
 
 AN invalid, whose chair is the meeting-place for 
 one lively black spaniel and two sedate long- 
 legged cats, was explaining why she appeared to 
 be fonder of the dog than of the cats. " I love 
 dogs differently from cats," she said ; " and I think 
 that cats require a less selfish sort of love than 
 dogs. They take as much and give less. Cats 
 are objects of love : with dogs one exchanges 
 affection. It is no good being selfish with cats, 
 and expecting goods to the value of your coin 
 from them. You can make a dog devoted to 
 you, and he'll jump round you and wag his tail 
 and be pleased to see you all day long. (Down, 
 Toby !) But cats make so little return for years 
 of petting. They are never hail-fellow-well-met. 
 They allow you to be kind to them. Perhaps 
 they are devoted to you really, and don't show it 
 one can't tell. I know I make more of Toby. 
 He makes more of me. But I love 'em all equally, 
 different ways : don't I, Puss ? " 
 
 She raised the head of the cat that was on her 
 lap, and kissed it. Whereupon the cat purred 
 with self-satisfaction, so it seemed while Toby 
 gambolled at his mistress's feet and hurt her. 
 
 270
 
 ii THE CITIZENRY OF CATS 271 
 
 The love of cats seems mostly inborn, but a 
 love for dogs can always be acquired. Dogs are 
 such jolly fellows, but cats : 
 
 Us prennent en songeant les nobles attitudes 
 Des grands sphinx allonges au fond des solitudes, 
 Qui semblent s'endormir dans un reve sans fin ; 
 Leurs reins feconds sont pleins d'dtincelles magiques 
 Et des parcelles d'or, ainsi qu'un sable fin, 
 fitoilent vaguement leurs prunelles mystiques. 
 
 Those who like grace, skilful stealth, still waters 
 that may, or may not, be deep, a lazy voice con- 
 taining the possibility of unholy noises, and quiet 
 staidness coupled with ferocity ; those who find 
 pleasure in exchanging their affection for a promise 
 to repay, and are satisfied to let the debt run on, 
 are born lovers of cats. 
 
 Several of the milestones of my life are shaped 
 curiously like cats. 
 
 Short and accurate catapults to pull back to the 
 eye ; long, strong and swift catapults to pull back 
 behind the ear ; catapult-guns, air-guns and rook 
 rifles did I have as a boy. I worked the hedges 
 of many a country lane, brought down tom-tits 
 with shouts of joy and hen robins with mixed 
 feelings. I peppered dogs (an air-gun is ex- 
 cellent for dogs, I used to think, because the 
 light pellets failed to penetrate their hides and 
 caused them to yap pleasantly, like animated bull's- 
 eyes). I smashed windows and paid for some of 
 them ; I did much evil with many unlicensed 
 arms, and am not very sorry. Yet I never potted 
 at cats never, that is, till they kept me awake 
 at night.
 
 272 HOW 'TWAS H 
 
 Neither, till then, do I remember the time 
 when 1 had not a cat of my own, or had not 
 borrowed some one else's. And that, perhaps, 
 was the reason of my queer, unboyish forbearance. 
 
 First of the cats was a tortoiseshell, a reputed 
 torn. One day he walked into the room where 
 illness had kept me for a month, and stood hesitat- 
 ing between the foot of the bed and a table 
 from which the smell of whiting bones, no doubt, 
 was wafted to him. Being bored, and therefore 
 scientifically inclined, I set his back on fire to see 
 how it would burn, and when I had put it out, he 
 retired, unhurt, from me and my memory too. 
 
 Whether the large white cat really did, or did 
 not, say " Yes," when it was sitting by me on 
 the sunny steps, it is now too late to determine. 
 Birds talk. I am inclined to say he did. 
 
 Picture a small cat-lover's disappointment when 
 his family, accompanied by all its furniture but 
 none of its cats, removed into a rambling old 
 house with long passages, dark nooks and corners, 
 an acreage of roofs, and whole suites of attics. 
 Picture again his revived enthusiasm on learning 
 that there were three cats native to the place 
 a sandy Manx cat, a tabby and above all things 
 wonderful ! a wild cat. He espied the wild cat 
 in the garden, watched her kill a bird and eat it 
 up with one scrunch and a gulp. He laid in wait 
 for that timid-fierce cat and (O day of triumph ! 
 Something like a birthday or Christmas !) he found 
 her in an out-house, reclining on a heap of 
 turnips, caught her, and carried her off to the 
 nursery. On promising that she should neither
 
 THE CITIZENRY OF CATS 273 
 
 get into the larder, nor prowl about the attics and 
 passages, nor caterwaul in the garden, on promis- 
 ing, recklessly, that she should be a bad cat never 
 any more, he was allowed to keep her ; and she 
 settled down sullenly in a dark corner beside the 
 wardrobe. He petted her, fed her, stroked her 
 under the chin and roughed her chaps. She stayed 
 on his knee at last and purred, and then she dis- 
 appeared. Some one across the road had poisoned 
 her, they said. But before a month was out " some 
 one across the road " had also poisoned both the 
 Manx cat and the tabby. Thus it was that a 
 small boy first learned to suspect his elders of 
 lying, and realised after a few days' pondering 
 that he had done what nobody else had been able 
 to do had caught the wild cat for killing. 
 
 Ma, Pa, and Baby appeared before the nursery 
 fire. The deeds of Pa and Baby have left no 
 record, but Ma taught me much about life and 
 death. Early in the morning she was sleeping on 
 my pillow. She meaowed. I half woke and said, 
 " Don't cry, Ma," and turned over to sleep again. 
 And when I finally woke up, there was Ma, still 
 on the pillow, but surrounded by a litter of seven 
 kittens. 
 
 They said she ate them. . . . 
 
 It wasn't true. 
 
 One of the men and myself began to keep 
 pigeons homers and fantails. A homer was lost. 
 It had flown away, we thought, until I found a 
 fantail half-sitting, half-lying on a flower-bed with 
 its feathers dishevelled, a wing broken, and an eye 
 out. Tenderly I picked it up. " 'Twas Ma,"
 
 274 HOW 'TWAS n 
 
 said the man. " I've seen her a-following them." 
 The pigeon was in my arms. " I wish Ma was 
 dead ! " cried I ; and in less than an hour Ma 
 was dead. Her beautiful tiger-tabby form was 
 laid out on the same flower-bed. I called the 
 man a Beastly Pig and ran away to a lonely room ; 
 but I knew then and thenceforward that dead 
 meant dead^ and wept. 
 
 Some time went by before a successor to Pa, 
 Ma, and Baby was found. Then, one winter's 
 evening, after 1 had been kept in at school, and 
 was sitting over the fire, revolting against the fact 
 that there are many other causes of being kept in, 
 besides deserving it, a little kitten was brought to 
 me with permission to have and to hold it my 
 very own. Black glossy Peter with the white 
 shirt-front and round white shoes you had a 
 thousand tricksy ways ! How you used to 
 scamper up and down the green -baize doors ! 
 And you settled down into as dignified and 
 comfortable a cat as ever was, yet not without 
 occasional resurrections of your sprightliness. 
 You lost the tip of your tail, adding to your 
 beauty, because you would sit underneath the 
 nursery fire. (Your own sister was squashed by 
 the butcher-boy's foot upon the parson's back- 
 stairs.) You were exclusive Peter, owning no 
 intimates but Nurse Polly and me. You used to 
 come every morning to the door of the night- 
 nursery to be let in, and bade us " Good morning " 
 with a regulation " Pr-r-r-r-rh ! " And when we 
 grew older and the night-nursery was broken up, 
 you slept on my feet at night. A little later you
 
 ii THE CITIZENRY OF CATS 275 
 
 used to greet me for the holidays, holding off a 
 moment, sniffing, recognising, rubbing yourself 
 against my ankles, purring with delight. O 
 Peter ! why do a cat's nine lives tot up to some- 
 thing less than one score years ? 
 
 Fourteen years or thereabout after you came 
 and calmed my childish misery, and at a time when 
 I was overclouded by an approaching examination, 
 ill and unable to work properly, the news of your 
 death was brought to me : " Peter died in fits the 
 day before yesterday. Your old nurse, POLLY." 
 I went out into the murky Manchester streets 
 and wandered about, wet -eyed, and drank two 
 twopenny whiskies to your memory and to keep 
 my spirits up two vile mixtures of alcohol, water 
 and fusel oil. 
 
 Am I poking fun at you, Peter ? Nay, Peter ; 
 I am making fun of us. 
 
 Nomads in lodgings cannot, as a rule, have 
 pets. Peter was the last cat of my own I ever 
 had. Of all the cats I have since been acquainted 
 with, there are four that I shall not more than 
 half forget Kitty, Tibbie, Mike, and the living, 
 beautiful Minnie. 
 
 Kitty's mistress was a fellow-lodger, a large 
 gaunt old lady, dragged to failure after a life of 
 work, who had seen her friends die off, and now 
 was ending her days on a meagre pension dealt 
 her grudgingly by some benevolent society. 
 Kitty was her final link with earth. Did Kitty 
 stay out for a time, she would rise from her big 
 chair and throw up the window that looked out 
 on a row of poplars and a sad suburban sky.
 
 2 76 HOW 'TWAS n 
 
 There was the echo of a life's tragedy to be heard 
 in the sound of her broken, railing old voice 
 when she called, " Kitty, Kitty, where are you ? 
 Kitty ! Come to me. O Kitty, Kitty ! " Pathetic 
 and comic it was when, on knocking at her door 
 one evening, I heard in tones of extreme anxiety, 
 " No, no ! You can't come in. You can't ! 
 Kitty's having kittens ! " 
 
 Tibbie, on the other hand, was a little maid's 
 cat, well-beloved and willing to stand any amount 
 of inconsiderate usage. Once, after five days' 
 absence, Tibbie returned with a foreleg broken 
 and cruelly lacerated by a rabbit-gin. The little 
 maid's wailing "Oh, my poor Tibbie! My 
 dear, dear Tibbie ! Oh, the devils ! " was liker 
 mad than anything else. But presently the leg 
 festered, and was noisome, so that Tibbie was 
 shunned by her own mistress, who, nevertheless, 
 would not consent to any sort of operation or 
 treatment. Then half the leg dropped off, and 
 the other half was discovered healed ; and there- 
 after Tibbie was received into grace, and followed 
 her mistress everywhere, hoppety-hop, on three 
 legs only. 
 
 Mike was a landlady's cat ; a lank, dirty white, 
 morose creature, which had the uncanniest face I 
 ever saw on a cat, and swollen lips. He used to 
 take his first meal betimes, lick his matted fur, 
 swallowing no inconsiderable quantity, and was 
 just ready to be sick while I was breakfasting. 
 He was not a nice cat. He had something 
 lacking. His qualities were unbalanced. Cats 
 can be very objectionable. I own it.
 
 ii THE CITIZENRY OF CATS 277 
 
 Not so Minnie, however. First declared a 
 torn, and called Mimi-Meaow, or Mimi, her 
 name slid into Minnie when beyond doubt she 
 proved herself a lady. (It is Min when she stays 
 out o' nights.) She is a mongrel to use an 
 ugly word unworthy of her and has the tabby 
 fluffiness of her Persian father, together with the 
 amiability of her English mother. Her short- 
 haired body is the setting, so to speak, for her 
 broad, soft ruff, made of a flossier kind of fur, 
 her rounded head and her daintily cobby paws. 
 When she sits on my shoulder at dinner and, 
 stretching forth a paw, competes with my mouth 
 for tit-bits, it is graciously done. A grande dame 
 is Minnie, with perfect gestures and the daintiest 
 ways. She has driven dogs clean out of the 
 house. What welcome is sincerer than the patter 
 of her feet along the passages, to meet me ! 
 What trait more charming than her refusal to 
 walk downstairs when my shoulder is there to 
 ride on. She is a wife for Peter born too late ! 
 
 The end of it all is not a shadow-show of cats, 
 playing in the box of memory. Their life endures 
 for a short time, yet it is longer than the life of 
 many human friendships. And Whom the gods love 
 die young is not so inapplicable to animals as at first 
 sight it would seem. To know a cat or two, and 
 love them, is to gain acquaintances in whatsoever 
 countries there are cats. Few of them but will 
 come to me when I hold out a hand and call. Let 
 me touch a cat and soon it will be purring. They 
 have an instinct for friends. I am a freeman 
 among the citizenry of cats.
 
 278 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 It has been said cat-lovers know otherwise 
 that only dogs, of all the races on earth, have 
 broken down the barriers between man and beast, 
 and have entered into companionship and friend- 
 ship with mankind. There is, indeed, a similarity 
 between the friendships of men and the friendship 
 of man and dogs, for the greater number of 
 human friendships imply subjection on one side 
 or the other, and, more than all other animals, 
 dogs are in subjection to the will of man. They 
 owe their forms to breeders, and their keep to 
 their usefulness, slavishness, or capability of 
 winning prizes. They are trained to hunt, and 
 are thrashed if they go a-hunting for themselves. 
 But a cat, if she catches mice, does it incidentally 
 for the same reason that she catches birds and 
 kills canaries. Whatever we may think, the 
 catching of mice is not done for us. It is a sport 
 she follows, the benefits of which we may appro- 
 priate, so long as we do not eat her mice. She is 
 bound by no duties, and will not be beaten into 
 thinking that she is. Her independence is greatly 
 to be honoured. Cats are never slaves. I say to 
 my dog, " Go fetch ! Come here ! Up, then ! 
 Down ! Good dog ! Bad dog ! Get to your 
 basket, will you ! " He is my good and faithful 
 servant. 
 
 But my cat's my equal in another line of life.
 
 Ill 
 
 SMALL TRAVELS
 
 AN OLD WOMAN 
 
 OUR Old Woman Madame Veuve X. kept a 
 little restaurant on the outskirts of the Latin 
 Quarter. We never knew her name ; she was 
 one of those distinguishable persons who need no 
 formal name. Down between the high houses, 
 whether the narrow street was misty or clear, her 
 light glimmered before men in a dim and dirty 
 round gas-lantern, on which was painted, Dejeuners 
 et Diners h if., if. 25, if. 50. "Twas a one-franc 
 restaurant. For a dinner consisting of four 
 courses and wine we thought the red wine was 
 less bad than the white the equivalent of nine- 
 pence three-farthings is not a great deal to pay. 
 Sometimes we used to remark : " I wonder how 
 the Old Woman does it. There's the bread, two 
 sous say a sou and a half. The serviette a sou, 
 not a centime less. Then there are the three 
 main courses and the dessert or cheese and 
 there's only twenty sous to the franc ! " It was 
 impossible to see how the Old Woman could 
 make any profit. And since she and her daughter 
 did all the waiting, there were no pourboires ; no 
 payments for extra civility ; no means of hurrying 
 the service with a fatter tip. Economy was, at 
 
 281
 
 282 HOW 'TWAS in 
 
 first sight, the only recommendation of the Old 
 Woman's restaurant. 
 
 But there were other causes of attachment. 
 The spells of initiation are strong in Paris ; it is 
 a city of conscious habits. This was my first 
 Parisian restaurant. I felt at home, chez mot, 
 under its dingy lights, at its marble-topped tables, 
 with their coarse and soiled cotton cloths ; within 
 earshot of the culinary frizzling that went on 
 ceaselessly behind the matchboard partition ; in 
 the composite grey smell of the place, and under 
 the watchful eye of the Old Woman. We called 
 her our Old Woman less because she belonged to 
 us than because for several months we belonged to 
 her. She welcomed us, rain or fine, late or per- 
 haps early, with a slightly grim smile. She asked 
 after Monsieur's cough " But it would have 
 been worse in the fogs of England, nest-ce pas ? " 
 and prescribed for it herb-tea. On my part, I 
 told my friend, who often would have liked to 
 dine in the Boulevard St. Michel or on the other 
 side of the river, that the Old Woman's food, 
 though neither good nor plentiful nor varied, was, 
 I felt sure, unsophisticated. That was it. No 
 gratuitous messes ! No room for any sort of 
 gratuitousness ! There was a chance it was not 
 lightly to be gainsaid that the Old Woman's 
 cooking was unsophisticated. 
 
 All the while I knew at the back of my mind 
 that it was the Old Woman herself who attracted 
 me, not her food, still less her wines. I liked to 
 watch her tall stout figure promenading backwards 
 and forwards between the kitchen, the tables, and
 
 HI AN OLD WOMAN 283 
 
 the little zinc bar near the window. That must 
 have been her recreation and her rest. Her 
 hands reposed on the ample front of her. Talk- 
 ing or silent, her face, so brutally hard at times, so 
 pleasant and motherly at other times the face of 
 a woman who has made her way and cannot, alive, 
 go back on it seemed to beam quietly with a 
 confidence that I must, willy-nilly, enjoy what 
 she had provided. Who could profane such 
 confidence by rejecting a plate of over-stewed 
 shreds and bones ? Who could change white 
 wine for red because the white was become just 
 too sour ? It was enough to picture the Old 
 Woman at the markets, buying in her supplies 
 very early in the morning, or to wonder, with 
 something of her own anxiety, how much money 
 she had succeeded in putting by towards her red- 
 headed, pug - nosed, harsh - voiced daughter's 
 dowry. 
 
 I afterwards learnt, though not from her, that 
 she was by birth a German, or an Alsatian as the 
 Germans in Paris used to call themselves. When 
 I knew her she was very Parisian. She was as 
 much a Parisian as the girl who told me proudly, 
 with the gesture of a bird that has just preened its 
 feathers : " I am a Parisian, I am. I have never 
 been outside the fortifications, never -jamais de la 
 vie ! " The Old Woman had forgotten Germany. 
 Ask for sauer-kraut and she would not understand 
 choucroute. But possibly her birth accounted for 
 her negligent dress. Always she wore the same 
 floppity slippers, the same grey stuff skirt and 
 dull black bodice, unfastened at the throat.
 
 284 HOW 'TWAS in 
 
 Sunday made no difference. Why should it ? 
 She worked every Sunday just the same. All 
 day long she looked like a working housekeeper 
 in the morning. Her essential dignity would 
 have shone through sacking. The fashion-papers 
 interested her not nearly so much as the obscene 
 booklets which hawkers sold about her restaurant. 
 
 She was ready to take a friendly interest in any 
 ignorant Englishman's pronunciation of French. 
 Herself, she spoke with such composure that even 
 Frenchmen could not always understand her 
 close-lipped mumblings. As a teacher she was 
 stern. Unhappy the day when I asked her for 
 un cuiller \ Never afterwards did I ask her for a 
 spoon but she waggled it before my nose, 
 enunciating " Une cut Here ! une cut Here ! " until I 
 arrived at the pronunciation, and resolved never 
 to forget that in gender, at all events, a spoon is 
 female. 
 
 In the Old Woman's restaurant her regular 
 clients could find a welcome and a dinner so late 
 as ten in the evening. At such an hour she 
 would stand mumbling over one's head, lifting 
 first one tired foot and then the other and the 
 service was very rapid. Or she would turn down 
 the gas till an odour-laden twilight was in the air ; 
 the cook would cease scouring her pans ; a huge 
 copper pot would be placed on a table near the 
 kitchen, and then the Old Woman and her 
 daughter and the cook would sit around, dive for 
 savoury bits, chatter, and make merry. 
 
 At four next morning to market. How the 
 Old Woman must have haggled there ! No
 
 in AN OLD WOMAN 285 
 
 doubt it was in the market, by beating down 
 prices, that she earned her profits. She never 
 could have earned them out of us. 
 
 For many, many years she had conducted 
 (conducted is the word) her restaurant in the Latin 
 Quarter. Six days in the week her customers 
 hardly varied. Lovers dining out, perhaps, or a 
 conscript and his friends, would drop in birds of 
 passage, reminders of elsewhere, and of other and 
 better restaurants. A new cook must have been 
 the Old Woman's greatest change. At this 
 moment she must be talking to the consumptive 
 man with the chestnut beard, if he is still alive. 
 She cant be dead herself. I cannot imagine her 
 death-scene. Let her live for ever ! 
 
 Owing to an illness which made me fastidious, 
 I stayed away for a fortnight, and fed somewhat 
 better at a franc and a half. Consequently I was 
 never able to go there afterwards. The illness 
 broke the habit : I dared not break the absence. 
 I knew how the Old Woman would look.
 
 SELF-EXILED 
 
 THE Grand Boulevards were full of people. Not 
 that all the world was there. . . . Most of the 
 well-dressed and over-dressed women, the badly, 
 indifferently, and grotesquely dressed men ; most 
 of the human beings, who walked almost stolidly 
 at the slow pace of expectation waiting on chance, 
 were very different from those who, living in the 
 sunshine and sleeping in the quietness of the 
 countryside, gain some of the flower-like calm 
 of the fields. The greater part of the men and 
 women on the Boulevards belonged to the world 
 that pants. Beneath and between the houses of 
 Paris they reminded one of rats, now still, sniffing 
 the air, now darting about in search of prey in a 
 ditch lit by glow-worms. Eyes, the windows of 
 strange, haunted houses, were feverishly active. 
 Furtive glances revealed love or vice, or, it may 
 be, a mixture of the two. Whoever wished could 
 see that the boundary between them is a sinuous 
 writhing line, as deeply hidden and indeterminate as 
 the boundary between altruism and individualism, 
 or between the earth above and hell beneath, when 
 earth may be a hell, or hell a refuge. Death showed 
 himself; but it was life which made him visible. 
 
 286
 
 in 
 
 SELF-EXILED 287 
 
 The great cauldron of humanity seethed and 
 hissed : its lid was of human faces. 
 
 I turned into a side street, where, but for 
 people hastening to the Boulevards and others 
 walking from them, all was tranquil. Thence 
 I found my way to a certain little wine- shop, 
 partly cafe, partly restaurant, mostly cabaret. 
 
 It was a quiet place. The patronne, with an 
 old grey cape about her shoulders, looking always 
 cold, sat at her desk beside the polished zinc bar. 
 What there was to be seen through the window 
 she did not fail to notice. She lived half 
 possibly the more important half of her life 
 in the street outside. The -patron fat, his bullet- 
 head closely cropped stumped about his shop 
 chewing the end of one of his best cigars. The 
 garfon sat at one of the marble-topped tables 
 reading the Petit Journal. At another table a man, 
 whose face was like freshly-washed chamois leather, 
 lazily played dominoes with a woman who may 
 have been his wife. The quiet of the place was 
 disturbed by his voice, which was as harsh as the 
 whirring of a steam-saw. The woman's beauty 
 was a souvenir like the albums of faded photo- 
 graphs of sun-bathed sea-side places. The voice, 
 the faded beauty, and the mirrors which lined the 
 walls, were all that recalled the noise, lamps, and 
 disorder of the Grand Boulevards, not many yards 
 away. 
 
 I ordered a glass of coffee, and then I noticed 
 a middle-aged man who was seated in a mirror- 
 encircled enclosure an inner cafe the other side 
 of a partition which extended almost across the
 
 288 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 shop. I saw at once that he was one of those 
 solitary, uncared-for, naturally neat men, who 
 carefully brush their more or less aged clothes, 
 yet never depart so far from their daily routine 
 as to clean out grease spots. Spotted clothes, 
 hair turning grey, a face with a few heavy lines, 
 especially about the eyes and mouth, sunken 
 tired eyes. . . . He lolled behind his table with 
 an almost vacant expression, neither regarding 
 anything in particular nor demanding notice. 
 
 Red matches were strewn on the floor around 
 him. It was that which drew my attention. The 
 man himself was not extraordinary ; but in France 
 sixty red Swedish matches cost a penny. As I 
 was looking he threw under the table an empty 
 match-box. Was he drunk ? Apparently not. 
 Then why. . . . 
 
 Whilst the garfon was pouring out my coffee 
 the man told him to go to a tobacconist and buy 
 another box of Swedish matches. 
 
 " Tout de suite, monsieur" said the garfon, who 
 was attending to me. 
 
 I nodded my head towards the scattered and 
 charred matches, and asked, " Pourquoi fa ? " 
 
 The garfon smiled tolerantly. " Demandez-lui, 
 monsieur. II vous dira, peut-etre ; il est Anglais 
 un original" 
 
 An Englishman and an eccentric. ... I was 
 interested now in the man himself. I did wish 
 to ask him why he wasted comparatively ex- 
 pensive matches. But how ? I remembered that 
 I had in my pocket an almost new box, and made 
 use of the opportunity. Before the garfon had
 
 in SELF-EXILED 289 
 
 returned I went into the enclosure and said, 
 " Excuse me ; can I let you have any matches ? " 
 
 The Englishman looked up keenly. He had 
 a habit very common amongst thinkers and those 
 who expect always ; I was in the direct line of 
 his sight, yet both his eyes did not appear to be 
 focused on me for more than a moment. He 
 seemed to be scrutinising me, and, at the same 
 time, to be looking at, or for, something inde- 
 finitely far behind me. He used his eyes like a 
 man who is examining an object through a micro- 
 scope : one eye looked at the object at me and 
 the other eye looked anywhere or nowhere. 
 
 " No, thank you," he replied at last. " You 
 are very kind, but I can wait a minute. . . ." 
 He spoke almost as mechanically as a gramophone. 
 " And here comes the garfon" 
 
 " Are you English or American ? " he added. 
 
 English." 
 
 " Ah ! Will you have your coffee over here ? " 
 
 He gave the order ; eagerly, I thought, and 
 my glass was brought to his table. 
 
 Then he turned to me. " Now, don't think 
 me too inquisitive. . . . What part of England 
 do you come from ? You speak like a Southerner." 
 
 "Wiltshire." 
 
 " That's not far. Do you know Bath ? You 
 don't know Bath ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't. I have been there : that's 
 all I can say." 
 
 " Then you won't know any Bath people ? 
 You don't, do you ? " 
 
 " No, I can't say I do." 
 
 u
 
 290 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 Straightway I seemed to drop out of his 
 interest. He took four of the matches which lay 
 on the table in front of him. Two of them he 
 inserted a little way down the sides of the box 
 between the sides for striking and the corre- 
 sponding, longer, sides of the inner box. Between 
 the other ends of these parallel matches, which 
 projected equal distances, he lodged a third, which 
 was kept tightly in position by the spring of the 
 first two and of the sides of the box. With the 
 fourth match he set light to the centre of the 
 third, which burnt quietly for a few seconds and 
 then, giving way under the pressure of the two 
 parallel matches, described a curve in the air, 
 and fell burning to the floor. It is a common 
 trick, naturally more so in England than in France, 
 but he did it with all seriousness, placing his 
 matches with the greatest care, and following 
 exultantly the course of the burning match as it 
 sprang forth all alight and dropped. When it 
 was done he disturbed his arrangement, took 
 two fresh matches from the box and performed 
 the whole trick over again. His hands shook 
 slightly, whether from debility or excitement I 
 could not tell ; he was by no means old. 
 
 Every time he gave the same care to his pre- 
 parations, exulted while the match burned, with 
 a curious, somewhat unpleasant expression on his 
 face, and leaned back contentedly when it had 
 flickered out on the floor. 
 
 " You must waste a lot of matches like that," 
 I said. 
 
 "A good many, perhaps. It's worth it. Look.
 
 Ill 
 
 SELF-EXILED 291 
 
 " You put them like that and light. There. 
 See how quietly it burns. See what a snap it 
 makes as it springs gracefully away, burning. 
 Besides there is always an off-chance of setting 
 the place on fire. . . . You've heard of people 
 snapping their fingers at some one. Done it ? 
 I used to do it, metaphorically and really, until 
 1 saw some one playing this trick with matches 
 even afterwards, in fact, until I saw the possibilities 
 which lie in a box of matches. But see. . . ." 
 
 He did it yet again. 
 
 " There ! That beats snapping your fingers. 
 It is a perfect, burning expression of contempt. 
 Perfect ! Do you understand symbols ? The 
 snap, as the match gives way, symbolises contempt ; 
 the flame, hate. It is complete. Absolutely ! " 
 
 I wondered if he was mad, saying : " But 
 I don't understand. . . ." 
 
 "You don't understand contempt, I expect. 
 No use for it eh ? I have. I'll tell you. You 
 may be glad some day. 
 
 "When I first came over here nearly fifteen 
 years ago I left behind me in England my home, 
 my family and my fiancee my * financy,' as my 
 little sister used to call her. The usual sort of 
 things a man does leave behind him, you know ; 
 father, he died soon after, mother, to kiss the 
 place and make it well eh ? a sister and a 
 brother or two, various friends and the girl. A 
 young man generally leaves 'em behind. Good 
 job too ! Very right and proper thing to do. 
 God knows what'd happen if he didn't. 
 
 "I didn't talk like this, then. People don't
 
 292 HOW 'TWAS ,n 
 
 talk the same all their life through. We've got 
 to provide amusement for angels and those gone 
 before and all superior beings like that, whether 
 we like it or not. Absurd to suppose they don't 
 snigger at us ! How can they help it ? 
 
 " However, you'll say I'm bitter. Because I'm 
 done for ? So I may be. Some things blast, 
 kill, damn ; other things only deform, little by 
 little, slowly and quite surely make the feet of 
 our soul into Golden Lilies, so to speak when 
 they don't go further. 
 
 "Anyhow, I came over here, eager, rejoicing. 
 In England there was home : in Paris there were 
 a good many substitutes admirable substitutes, 
 for a time. But to a country-bred person a city is 
 a vampire ; nothing more or less. After the first 
 freshness had worn off I always felt glad very ! 
 that I had a home in England ; exactly as a 
 Christian, I suppose, likes to feel that there is 
 a God, more merciful than just, behind everything. 
 I used to write home long letters, diluted appro- 
 priately : people will worry over what they can't 
 help. Doubtless my letters were very interesting, 
 but it goes without saying that they tended to 
 become less so. However that may be, they 
 didn't write so much from home, sending love 
 and kisses, and asking for news of me. In fact, 
 they wrote very little. You know the sort of 
 people whose daily affairs are the important and 
 inexorable things of life, and whose loves and 
 affections are well so-so, incidental ; people who 
 won't budge to please or to increase unnecessarily 
 the comfort of any one, because they've got a
 
 Ill 
 
 SELF-EXILED 293 
 
 pudding to make, or it's a fine day to dig potatoes, 
 or they want to do this, or that, or the other little 
 thing. Glorious majority ! see how the exceptions 
 stand out ! 
 
 " One by one my friends and relations left 
 off writing to me. My c financy ' wasn't the last. 
 I raged over her, heard she was much taken 
 up with some one else they told me that very 
 natural of her, I suppose. We had sworn all 
 sorts of eternal things. It was impossible for me 
 to leave Paris, and finally, thinking I had always 
 a home, at any rate, I managed to recover pretty 
 successfully. Then my sister and brothers began 
 putting notes into other people's letters. It 
 was very nice to get a sort of family round- 
 letter, or it would have been if they hadn't 
 soon stopped writing altogether. They all owed 
 me a letter do now ; but I will not write 
 to people who won't answer. I stuck to my 
 principle. 
 
 "Last of all my mother left a letter un- 
 answered. She was always an expert at pro- 
 crastination ; but one doesn't expect a mother to 
 exercise it on her children. I broke my rule and 
 wrote a second time. At last she replied. She 
 was afraid she had failed in her duty as a mother 
 her own words, duty as a mother! she would 
 try not to do so in the future. Who wants duty- 
 letters ? I don't. I wrote and told her so. 
 Whether she found she could write to me 
 nothing else but duty letters, or whether she 
 meant, at first, to punish me, and then forgot all 
 about me, I don't know. Unanswered letters
 
 294 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 become increasingly difficult to answer, until there 
 comes a time when one can't. 
 
 " Of course, something may have happened 
 to her, only I felt that I couldn't write and ask. 
 I was very lonely, and always expecting a letter. 
 My concierge must have known my face ; I used 
 to peer through her window every time I went 
 out and in. There was never a letter, and it 
 always made the five flights of stairs seem dread- 
 fully high. The heart and feet aren't so very far 
 apart. 
 
 "When home is gone, one seems to be 
 floating in chaos. I made no friends in Paris. 
 . . . No place like Paris for making no friends 
 good God, there isn't ! Even the dogs are 
 exclusive, stand-offish. In those days I used to 
 ache for news from home, and every barren post 
 added another little to a weight which pressed on 
 my brain. As I said, there are some things which 
 deform and kill, very, very slowly soul and 
 brain first. 
 
 "Well. . . . After I had been here about 
 seven years I got a good chance of going to Eng- 
 land. I can't tell you how excited 1 was enough 
 to make it seem like a dream or a nightmare. 
 The evening train crawled to Dieppe, and after 
 living so long cramped up in Paris, I went on 
 board sniffing the night sea-air. 
 
 " For some reason or other my spirits fell 
 steadily all the way across. It may have been the 
 cold desolation of the sea by night. (I stayed on 
 deck.) When I stepped on the quay at New- 
 haven, in the morning, long before dawn, it was
 
 in 
 
 SELF- EXILED 295 
 
 raining, and the dismal shanty of a station, badly 
 lighted, with the almost sepulchral porters, made 
 me feel. ... I don't know how. I went to the 
 refreshment room. Bad coffee and tough heavy 
 bread took away all the rest of my courage. The 
 rain beat against the windows. How sodden and 
 cheerless England can be ! c All hope abandon 
 ye who enter here,' the place seemed to say. 
 
 " I could not go on ; couldn't ! My people 
 might have been dead and gone. 
 
 " The end of it was, I waited about the quay 
 and took the day boat back to Dieppe ; and going 
 into Dieppe station was like going home. 
 
 " When I was back in Paris even the 
 boulevards seemed homelike and you know 
 what the boulevards are like. Then a curious 
 change came over me a change which I can't 
 explain. . . . 
 
 " We are absurdly like pigeons ever seen a 
 pigeon's courtship ? and you know how automatic 
 our homing instinct is. We have nothing to do 
 with it ; there it is : the instinct controls us ; it 
 seems to be an outsider dwelling in us, not to be 
 dislodged without tearing away some of our vitals. 
 * Distance lends enchantment,' they say. I think 
 this applies, above all, to home. How keenly I 
 used to feel it ! But, quite without any help 
 from me, unbidden by me, quite automatically, 
 as it were, my feelings underwent a change ; they 
 performed a right-about-face. 
 
 " I began to hate home and all in it. The 
 longer I was away the more my hate and con- 
 tempt increased. I snapped my fingers at the
 
 Ill 
 
 296 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 whole lot of them. Sometimes to think of it 
 made me even breathless. Now I have had my 
 contempt for such a long time, and it grows so 
 nicely, that it has gained refinement of expression. 
 
 " This is perfect. ..." 
 
 Again he did his match trick. I watched him. 
 Just before the burning match sprang out he 
 looked no longer semi-inert ; he looked devilish ; 
 but, at the same time, the pitiful hungry longing 
 of which he had spoken showed itself in his face. 
 Whether, or no, the longing had really disappeared, 
 as he said, and the expression of it was but a 
 habit which the wrinkles of his skin and flesh had 
 acquired in earlier days, I do not know. 
 
 It was nearly twelve o'clock when he had 
 finished his tale. He turned to me : " Now, you 
 see, I do the same things every day. No silly 
 expectations ! Here is my comfort. ..." He 
 indicated the wretched cabaret. " There is my 
 joy in life. . . ." He pointed to the match-box. 
 
 " It must be very dull," I said. 
 
 " Horribly ; and yet it isn't. I have some 
 variety. . . . The moments when my hate and 
 contempt bubble over vary from day to day both 
 in time and number. They really vary most 
 extraordinarily. I might classify the things that 
 set them going. That's my interest. One dis- 
 covers all sorts of curious associations. I'm almost 
 afraid of a postman ; I can't bear to hear a gate 
 clang, as ours at home used to do when the post- 
 man came up the path ; and I absolutely fear the 
 seventeenth of September, the anniversary of my 
 last letter. I'm lonely enough, but that keeps me
 
 in 
 
 SELF-EXILED 297 
 
 from being exactly dull. Otherwise, I'm mostly 
 dead." 
 
 There was nothing more to say. I knew that 
 I was in the presence of slow tragedy, a cancer 
 of the spirit, most deadly and terrible, quite slow. 
 
 For a time he said nothing ; then he looked 
 up at the clock and spoke. " If you don't mind 
 my saying so, you'd better go now. This is an 
 all-night restaurant. I don't sleep much in the 
 night. Can't. Of late years I have always begun 
 to get drunk at midnight. . . . You remember 
 what Dr. Johnson said about man being happy 
 only when he's drunk ? There's a good deal 
 of truth in it. ... Good night. . . . Going 
 back to England ? " 
 
 " Yes ; next month, I hope." 
 
 " Ah ! if you go near Bath. . . . No ! never 
 mind. I am apt to forget at times. Leave me, 
 please. Good night." 
 
 As I went out of the door of the cabaret I 
 took a last look at him. He was sitting heaped 
 up on his seat, and his expression was a foresight 
 of what one might expect on the face of a dying 
 man who believes that he has failed in everything 
 on earth and that the hereafter will fail him. 
 
 Then I heard him call out to the garfon : 
 " Une absinthe, s'il vous plait. Vite ! Je suis 
 fatigud"
 
 A DOG'S LIFE 
 
 TOLD TO IT 
 
 MARGOT before you divide your affection between 
 your master and those fine little pups that will be, 
 I want to give you a sketch of your life, of our 
 life together. For you understand your friends 
 in proportion as they are fond of you and you are 
 fond of them. 
 
 (Gently, please ! Down ! You are as tall as 
 myself when you stand upright, and nearly as 
 heavy, and of all dogs you Great Danes are the 
 most cat-like in your movements ; but I do not 
 want your height and weight and activity used 
 against me. So down, then ! Down !) 
 
 Your life has been an almost unbroken web. 
 Could the strands of human existence be so 
 accurately traced. . . . Ben Jonson's words 
 apply to you : 
 
 In small proportions we just beauties see, 
 And in short measures life may perfect be. 
 
 You have a well-grown shrub of life where your 
 master and his fellow-men have trees with torn-off 
 branches. 
 
 298
 
 Ill 
 
 A DOG'S LIFE 299 
 
 You date (for me) from a couple of years 
 before you came here ; a year and five months 
 before you were even born. There was a dog 
 show in Devonshire with a brindle Great Dane, 
 like you, in it not a prize-winner, only a V.H.C. 
 Being very lonely, I watched with envious eyes 
 how it jumped upon its keeper, placed its fore- 
 paws on his shoulder, fondled him, licked his 
 face, and whimpered with delight. And I thought 
 to myself, " Some day I will have a dog like 
 that." 
 
 Heaven knows what happened between then 
 and the day you were exchanged for gold ! I 
 dare not call the whole of it to mind. For one 
 thing, I loved an invalid pointer called Bloom. 
 Months I was occupied in nursing her back to 
 health, coaxing her to eat ; and then they carted 
 her away in a big box. I've seen her since in 
 that huge glass barn at Sydenham deafened with 
 yapping and hemmed in by people who talked of 
 show condition and patent nostrums, sales and 
 values and judges' mistakes, points and prizes and 
 champions. I called her in the old way, " Bloom, 
 beauty ! " But she had forgotten. She did not 
 know me. I was become to her only a desirable 
 acquaintance, some one she would have taken to. 
 Ashamed to let the kennelman see tears in my 
 eyes, I turned away. She might have recollected 
 if I had stayed long enough. More than you I 
 loved her, Margot ; she was my only stay in 
 great trouble ; but we were not together long. 
 
 You grew in your master's mind before you 
 started growing. A day came when he bought
 
 300 HOW 'TWAS . m 
 
 the Exchange and Mart ; studied points, breeders, 
 strains and pedigrees ; and took the train for 
 London. He wanted a Great Dane, like the 
 one at the show dog or bitch brindle pre- 
 ferably well-bred but not necessarily a prize- 
 winner not unusually tall, but upstanding and 
 limber strong enough to tramp the country 
 affectionate and kindly with children. You are 
 all that. Two guineas was to have been the price 
 of you. 
 
 At several markets and menageries they told 
 me they had no Great Dane in stock, but could 
 get one to order. But how could one order a 
 dog, like a book or a suit of clothes ? There 
 might be implied obligations to purchase a brute. 
 So I tramped on through parts of London I had 
 never seen, and never shall see again, probably. 
 At last I came across a real Great Dane your 
 father, Margot in a stuffy little back shop some- 
 where just north of Whitechapel. 
 
 Had they Great Danes for sale ? 
 
 They produced two small steely-blue puddings 
 of pups. 
 
 " No ? " they asked when I refused the pups. 
 " Too young ? You want one old enough to 
 walk twenty miles a day ? " 
 
 They took me through a dismal North London 
 square, where empty tins and pickle pots grew 
 instead of grass on the central plot, through a 
 dingy house where a woman held a baby to her 
 bare breast with one hand and washed dirty 
 clothes with the other ; and we entered a high 
 iron cage inside of which eight huge dogs, barking
 
 Ill 
 
 A DOG'S LIFE 301 
 
 and growling, made one feel like Daniel in the 
 lions' den. 
 
 " No ? " they asked again. " You think these 
 are too old ? Too expensive, you say ? D'you 
 really mean to train a Dane puppy yourself? " 
 
 They opened a ramshackle little wooden kennel. 
 A three-quarter-grown pup rushed out, sniffed at 
 me, sprang on me, and had my best clothes dirtied 
 all over in an instant. It was you, Margot, your 
 own self ! They tried to drag out your shy litter 
 sister, but there was no need. You were mine 
 mine from that moment. I didn't choose you ; 
 you chose me. 
 
 But you were too expensive. 
 
 Next day I was back again in your kennel, and 
 could have sworn you recognised me, so thickly 
 did you plaster my clothes with filth. " But it's 
 too much money," said I. 
 
 " You can't have a pedigree Dane for less," 
 returned the breeder. " Her father, Lord Copen- 
 hagen, won two hundred prizes." 
 
 " That's very nice, of course. . . ." 
 
 " She's got the best blood in England in her." 
 
 " And about food ?" 
 
 " Look, she's not delicate ! " You were thrown 
 a green-mouldy crust, Margot, which you gobbled 
 up at once. 
 
 " I see she's not. But what's that lump on 
 her haunch ? " 
 
 " Oh, there ? That's only a kennel bruise. A 
 little warm water bathing. . . ." 
 
 " I'll give pounds instead of guineas." 
 
 " Can't do it. Her food has cost me that."
 
 302 HOW 'TWAS in 
 
 (Green-mouldy crusts, Margot!) "Look at her 
 pedigree sire, Lord Copenhagen dam, Tricksey 
 Jane ! " 
 
 " Very well, have it guineas, then." 
 It's my opinion you saw into my mind, Margot, 
 and were begging me to take you away. I would 
 have risen to ten guineas. 
 
 You were delivered with a collar at Paddington 
 Station. Do you remember that we took a 
 second-class ticket because porters and such-like 
 are kindlier to second-class passengers ; how the 
 inspector said you might travel in the carriage if 
 those already there had no objection ; how I 
 poked my head in at the window, asking, " Do 
 you object to a puppy here ? " how they said, 
 " We love dogs ! " and how, when the door was 
 opened, you, Margot, three-quarters of a yard 
 high, young and frolicsome, jumped in upon 
 them ? They did love dogs. You made them 
 dirty, and nevertheless they praised you. Your 
 master was like a woman with a naughty, pretty 
 child. They asked your name. 
 
 " I have no name ; 
 
 I am but seven months old." 
 
 What shall I call thee ? 
 
 There was once, Margot, an artist's model, a 
 petite delicate pale Alsacienne, who used to fre- 
 quent a certain cafe in the Latin Quarter. She 
 knew how to dress her own particular type of 
 beauty, so that we called her the Pre-Raphaelite 
 Girl, and other pretty names. She used to make 
 your master treat her to glasses of light French
 
 Ill 
 
 A DOG'S LIFE 303 
 
 beer " Un bock pour mot, mon cher I " and 
 cigarettes. She wanted to go on the stage, the 
 real stage. She did sometimes perform in cafe's 
 chantants. One evening she sang a whole part 
 from Carmen into my left ear. " Belle, mon cher, 
 nest-ce pas ? " she said. 
 
 " Tu es belle ? " 
 
 " Non ! Ma voix, cochon ! " 
 
 I had heard it very well, although the piano 
 and fiddles were playing Wagner, billiard balls 
 were clicking, white-aproned waiters were shouting, 
 and a couple of hundred voices were going twenty 
 to the dozen. It was the last I saw of her, her 
 costume a Van nouveau. Perhaps she was not 
 highly respectable. I don't know. I never did. 
 She is a fleur du mal, crystallised in my memory, 
 and still a little fragrant. Her name was Margot. 
 And so is yours. 
 
 Neither of you was made to run in traces. 
 When you arrived, Margot, the first thing you 
 did, after knocking down a child or two, was to 
 bite your new leather lead into five moist chawed- 
 up pieces. 
 
 Lucky that our landlady was at the seaside 
 when you came home ! You tore up one mat, 
 demolished a slipper, bit my new sea-going rug 
 into holes (that was put down to keep you off the 
 cold stones between the kitchen and the scullery 
 doors), and you took a flying leap upon the 
 breakfast table. Strange to say, you only smashed 
 a plate, a jug, the jam-jar and the lid of the best 
 tea-pot. Your master feared he wouldn't be able 
 to keep you ; but he did, although you sent him
 
 Ill 
 
 304 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 to bed every night trembling with fatigue, and 
 then had him out of it again to stop your 
 howling. 
 
 'Tis to be hoped you do not remember the so- 
 called kennel bruise, which grew into a cyst ; and 
 the operation on it. At the first attempt you 
 slipped off the tape twitch, put on to keep your 
 jaws close ; you heaved up the four of us who 
 were holding you down ; you bit wildly at your 
 master for the first and last time, when he had 
 you by the scruff" of your neck whilst the veter- 
 inary surgeon's men stood around, prepared to 
 scatter in case you ran amuck. You returned to 
 the surgery in an iron muzzle two sizes too small 
 for you, and the cyst. . . . Never mind. The 
 lance went in with a jerk. Yet afterwards, with- 
 out twitch or muzzle, you used to lie on the 
 ground, stretched out and groaning, while I 
 probed your wound with tincture on the stump of 
 a feather. Other diseases you have had eczema, 
 canker, parasites outside and in, and a touch of 
 bronchitis but we have cured them all. I think 
 you like a pill ; castor oil is certainly to your taste. 
 You would hardly win a championship or a big prize. 
 You are not quite tall enough (though children 
 often take you for a lion broken loose) ; you have 
 too much loose skin about your neck, which makes 
 you look like a lady in a fluffy dressing-gown ; 
 and your head is too snipey ; but you are fatter, 
 glossier, in better muscular condition, more pleasing 
 to the eye, than half the flabby, splay-footed, 
 kennel-kept prize-winners at shows. And your 
 face is partly human. A poet says :
 
 Ill 
 
 A DOG'S LIFE 305 
 
 There is no laughter in the natural world 
 Of beast or fish or bird, though no sad doubt 
 
 Of their futurity to them unfurled 
 
 Has dared to check the mirth-compelling shout. 
 
 .... Who had dared foretell 
 
 That only man, by some sad mockery, 
 
 Should learn to laugh who learns that he must die. 
 
 But I've seen you laugh, Margot. I recollect 
 your face when that whippet ran squeaking away 
 from your ponderous civilities ; when the silly 
 young woman screamed, " I can't abear dogs ! " 
 when, on those lovely mornings, the sun lit up 
 Salisbury Plain and we rushed out of the house 
 together. I know just where the wrinkles come 
 when you laugh. A fig for the poet's philosophis- 
 ing ! Smile again. 
 
 We went a walking tour through the good 
 West Country. It was then that we learnt the 
 jog-trot of our life together. Everywhere they 
 said, " Shouldn't like to meet he in the dead o' 
 night, Mister." In stableyards they stood round 
 watching while I washed your feet and groomed 
 you with a borrowed dandy-brush. "Jest like 
 a bloomin' hoss," they said. You opened the 
 conversation at the inns where your master had 
 his bread and cheese and beer, and you your pint 
 of milk. Because you looked ferocious, they fed 
 and patted you the more when they found you 
 gentle. A man at Falkland wanted to thread 
 worsted through the flaps of your ears, which 
 was, he declared, an infallible cure for canker. 
 I wonder what you would have been doing the 
 while. At Wells they put you on a bed of damp 
 peat-moss in a mouldy tower, and in revenge you 
 
 x
 
 3 o6 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 kept half the little town awake by howling all 
 night like two wild beast shows encamped to- 
 gether. They were glad to be rid of us there ! 
 And next day you were so tired for want of sleep 
 that you ran into every open cottage door and sat 
 down among the frightened inhabitants, as if you 
 had expected an Oriental hospitality. Without a 
 cry you were hauled up by your tail as you were 
 slipping down into the crypt of Glastonbury Abbey 
 without a yap, O game and well-bred Margot ! 
 At Knowle you were dog-tired, and because the 
 landlady said with many sniffs that she couldn't 
 have dogs in her house, we mounted a load of 
 empty soda-water bottles, so proceeding into 
 Bridgewater, to a hotel recommended by the carter 
 because the proprietors kept dogs dogs being 
 at that time an enormously fat pug that supped 
 nightly on chocolate creams. While I was having 
 a bath you escaped from the hotel skittle-alley into 
 Bridgewater town, to find me. Half-clothed, a 
 delight to the small boys of the place, helter- 
 skelter, I was after you. " Have you seen a large 
 brindle boarhound this way ? " I asked people. 
 After they had put me on the tracks of an old 
 red setter, a yellow Airedale terrier and a black 
 retriever, we found one another in the market- 
 place, and for joy you almost knocked me down. 
 
 The flies on the Quantocks, where you made 
 your ears bleed with shaking them ; inhospitable 
 Crowcombe, where the rooks cawed so solemnly 
 in the twilight, and you begged a cottager to take 
 us in ; our weary tramp on to Stogumber ; the 
 kind butcher at Minehead who boiled a whole
 
 Ill 
 
 A DOG'S LIFE 307 
 
 sheep's head for you ; peaceful moonlit Brendon 
 in Exmoor, and the small boy who loved you at 
 sight ; the thrashing you had for eating garbage 
 in the Lyn valley ; that thundery afternoon on 
 the North Devon moors when the air was full 
 of flying ants and we were both dead-beat ; the 
 two wasps that stung you in the coffee-room at 
 Clovelly so that you dashed wildly over the 
 crockery and cold joints ; the spry, profane little 
 maid near Hartland who called your master a 
 " beastly devil " because he gave you the strap 
 for stealing a pound of fresh butter ; the games 
 you had with the little maid, head -over -heels, 
 somersault, roly-poly, batter pat, jump, flop ! 
 Do you remember, Margot ? You have loved 
 little children ever since. How many of them 
 have you kissed off" their feet ? Not every mother 
 says (like the one in Sheep Street) when you 
 peep into her perambulator, or tip over her child : 
 " Lard, look 'ee, Missis, if 'er an't a-been an' 
 kissed 'en ! " 
 
 We made a pilgrimage to Morwenstow, to 
 Parson Hawker's church. In pious memory of 
 the good old poet who used to take his cats 
 to church, I took you with me, too ; and you 
 showed your piety by jumping the altar rails. 
 
 Keeping you is not all meaty bones. Some- 
 times it is mere dry dog biscuit. Accidentally you 
 knocked your master down and sprained his arm ; 
 which led to one illness after another, ending up 
 with a week's bad temper and the worst thrashing 
 you ever had. A House that Margot built, that 
 fell about her faithful hide ! Would that one
 
 308 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 never had to beat you. Yet I think you prefer 
 hot anger to cold justice. Uncalculating love, 
 a fit of muddy fury boiling up from the atavistic 
 depths of one, a struggle, curses, and quick re- 
 pentance. . . . You understand such people ; 
 you have a fellow-feeling with them, and love 
 them better than those cool, prudent, proper, 
 respectable citizens, swaddled in civilisation, who 
 seldom act without good reason and never repent 
 nor abase themselves. You dogs keep one in 
 touch with one's own primeval nature. You are 
 the companions of joy and sorrow, not of a stag- 
 nant temperateness in all things. But I do wish 
 you would not cry out under the strap. It stirs 
 too much the brute in one. You, when you love 
 us, may not comprehend our language fully, but 
 you feel our feelings, communicated in some 
 wordless way, like music among ourselves, or 
 telepathically. Let those who wish write books 
 on comparative psychology ; whether animals 
 reason or not ; whether their actions are the 
 result of instinct, of inherited compound reflex 
 action, or of intelligence. There are bonds 
 between us beyond reasoning. No man learns 
 much of men except he love them. So if they 
 love you, they will learn, and 
 
 The rest may reason and welcome ; 'tis we dog-lovers 
 know. 
 
 When you become old ; when you chaw your 
 last bone, prod my cheek for the last time with 
 your cool nose, and wag the final wag of that heavy 
 bruising tail. . . . Don't let us think about it.
 
 in A DOG'S LIFE 309 
 
 Such ideas may be gross sentimentality, but the 
 event will be very, very real. 
 
 I saw a dead man's finer part 
 Shining within each faithful heart 
 Of those bereft. Then said I : " This must be 
 His immortality." 
 
 Yes, and a dog's too. You don't know Byron's 
 Vision of Judgment, where King George slips into 
 heaven whilst Satan and the Archangel are wrang- 
 ling for possession of his soul. But I fancy that 
 when the recording Angel presents his piebald 
 account of me, he will say : that I loved dogs 
 and cats and all animals, and they loved me ; 
 and I shouldn't wonder if I don't get in ; and 
 at the Celestial Gate to welcome me, there will 
 be you, Margot, and Bloom and Peter, and with 
 you, in waiting, Teager, alias Gyp, and Charlie 
 and Doctor and Nell and Ginger and Jumbo 
 and Jack and Jill and Nip, and perhaps Toby ; 
 and Tabby and Whity and Tibbie and Jim and 
 Ma and Pa and Baby, and that other Baby who 
 was nineteen when I was, but never twenty ; and 
 Jacob and Wild Cat and Tinker and Minnie and 
 Manxie and Fluff and Bully and Fuzz, and ferrets 
 and rabbits and birds a Noah's Ark of them 
 all at the Celestial Gate to welcome me, because 
 in varying degrees I loved them and they loved 
 me. You, Margot, you shall pilot me in. For 
 I am to you your Almighty and your slave. . . . 
 
 It's only a fantastical vision, I know ; yet the 
 seer wrote : " Everything possible to be believed is 
 an image of truth." 
 
 P.S. Margot ate the pups.
 
 A STEAM-BURST AFLOAT 
 
 SHE is a small steel-built ship, with a high-sounding 
 name, and a tonnage well under two thousand. 
 Year in and year out, fair weather or foul, she 
 hastens on her voyages, carrying Welsh coal to 
 the Mediterranean ports, and lading with general 
 cargoes for England ; working overtime in harbour, 
 and on Sundays, too ; hustled by owners, hustled 
 by agents ; always at sea, or on the point of 
 sailing. Eight and a half knots or less, according 
 to weather and the coal, is her speed. She is 
 never clean all over, because she hurries so much, 
 and is so often smothered in sticky Welsh coal- 
 dust that her mixed crew Spaniards, Greeks, 
 and Welshmen cannot cleanse her for'ard before 
 she is dirty aft, nor paint her aft, before her iron 
 deck is once more rusty for'ard. Her officers get 
 dirty with her. They wear no uniforms. 
 
 A collier, some might call her ; a tramp, 
 others ; yet there are men aboard her acquainted 
 with ships and shipping scandals, who say that in 
 some respects at any rate her sea-going qualities 
 are better than those of many well-known steamers ; 
 that her engines depreciate less, and run sweeter, 
 than the engines of such cargo vessels usually do. 
 
 310
 
 in A STEAM-BURST AFLOAT 311 
 
 Deep down below decks, near the centre of 
 gravity of the ship, are the engines that drive her. 
 They also are not large. They weigh about forty- 
 five tons. 
 
 Look down into the engine-room when the 
 ship is under way -down two flights of iron 
 steps, through two floors of iron grating. You 
 can see the engineer on watch pacing up and 
 down before his engines. He watches them 
 tenderly and keenly, as wild animals at the Zoo 
 watch succulent children. Now and then he feels 
 the coolness of the bearings. He jerks up his 
 head and listens to some chance noise, heard 
 through the rattle and thump of the machinery. 
 Every half-hour he pours oil into the swiftly 
 oscillating oil-boxes with a movement of upraised 
 arm, wrist, and shoulder that is singularly true 
 and graceful. Damp, hot air and the smell of oil 
 rise through the skylights. Machinery clanks 
 below. Those black, metallic, slippery places 
 familiar in nightmares. . . . The engine-room is 
 like them. 
 
 Do you see that steam-joint there, above and 
 behind the reversing wheel, to the right of the 
 small high-pressure cylinder ? 
 
 We were in Leghorn Harbour, on the point of 
 sailing, of course, and except for the racket aboard 
 ship the place was very calm. The light of an 
 opal sunset was dying away on the red walls of 
 a tattered old house by the southern quay. The 
 short Italian twilight was rapidly gathering in. 
 Gangs were working overtime at all four hatches. 
 It was impossible to go anywhere on the ship
 
 312 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 beyond reach of their sing-song volubility and the 
 rattle of the four steam winches. We could hear 
 them plainly in the otherwise quiet, expectant 
 engine-room. 
 
 The chief engineer was on watch a slight, 
 muscular man, whose everything superfluous, 
 including half his hair, had been sweated off" him. 
 In clean trousers and shirt, arms and chest bare, 
 he was puffing cigarettes and marching up and 
 down in front of his engines, exactly as he does 
 when they are working, but even more sharply 
 and with still keener eyes upon them. In the hot 
 corner stood the donkey-engine man, gnawing his 
 sweat -rag that same strong, dark, impassive 
 Greek, worthy of ancient days, who separated 
 and held separate with a finger and thumb on the 
 throat of each two seamen who had been fighting 
 with knives. For some unaccountable reason 
 there was that night a feeling of anxiety, not 
 to say nervousness, in the engine-room. Each 
 knew it, and smiled at the others because they 
 knew it too. The best of marine engines will 
 play tricks at starting, especially after minor 
 repairs. 
 
 " Yes," remarked the Chief, reaching down the 
 coffee-pot lamp to light another cigarette, "you 
 wouldn't think there was steam the other side 
 of that bulkhead at 180 Ibs. pressure to the 
 square inch." 
 
 One after another the winches on deck were 
 becoming silent. The gangs were going over the 
 ship's side, as dirty and as voluble as ever. 
 Through the skylights we could hear the Old
 
 in A STEAM- BURST AFLOAT 313 
 
 Man's voice, " Finished, stevedore ? Now then 
 passa in terra omne quick ! " 
 
 " Steam," remarked the Chief again, " is a fine 
 thing when you've got it under your thumb. . . .*' 
 
 The telegraph from the bridge rang out while 
 the finger circled the dial from Full speed ahead 
 to Full speed astern, and came to a stop at Stand 
 by. Donkey-man answered. The Chief placed 
 himself near the reversing wheel and valves. He 
 gave the wheel a turn, started the small reversing 
 engine. Slowly, very slowly, the links above 
 tumbled ahead and astern, and the eccentrics 
 shifted. Six masses of forged steel, the cranks, 
 rocked in their pits, half a turn towards us, half a 
 turn away. Fifteen tons of metal swayed back- 
 wards and forwards, up and down. . . . 
 
 Do you know how a cat sways just before she 
 springs ? It was like that ; like some monstrous 
 beast of prey whose limbs and claws were pistons, 
 crossheads, rods, and cranks. 
 
 " All clear for'ard ? All clear aft ? Cast off." 
 
 Half-speed ahead rang the telegraph. 
 
 Cocks are turned, valves opened. Steam rushes 
 from boiler to cylinders with a hollow gurgling 
 hiss. The cranks make half a turn, a whole turn. 
 She is under way. 
 
 There is a sudden loud report, followed by 
 a long, savage, deafening hiss. Almost instantly 
 the engine-room is filled with a stinking fog of 
 hot oily steam, driving upwards through the 
 gratings, but thickening, nevertheless. 
 
 It was the high-pressure steam-joint. 
 
 Lighted on the one side by a hundred candle-
 
 3 H HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 power burner and on the other by the smoky 
 coffee-pot lamp, the Chief and Donkey stayed 
 by the reversing wheel. Their faces were still 
 turned towards the cocks and valves, but their 
 eyes had shifted to the steam-joint overhead. 
 Muscles taut and swollen magnified, as it were, 
 by the brilliant light and the deep, hard-cut 
 shadows they were like a group by some painter 
 of heroes, like tormented forms peering in at 
 the Gate of Hell. 
 
 It was only for a moment. One's first thought 
 was to race up the iron steps to the open air ; 
 one's second, to face it out, as the engineers had 
 to face it out ; one's third, to realise that the 
 steam would be more scalding above than below. 
 
 At last so it seems, though the time is short 
 enough the valves are shut. The engine-room 
 takes the telegraph in hand. Stop goes up to 
 the bridge. Half-speed ahead rings down. Stop 
 goes up once more. 
 
 " They must wait," says the Chief mournfully. 
 " Call my second, Donkey, and tell the Old Man 
 we can't go." 
 
 The engine-room was in command of the 
 ship. 
 
 For half-an-hour three men, seated or crouched 
 on a grating, lighted by the coffee-pot lamp, 
 hammered, wrenched, screwed, damaged them- 
 selves and swore. In less than an hour the little 
 steamer was hurrying off, over the silent moonlit 
 sea, to Genoa. 
 
 All night, steam hissed and blew. All night, 
 one or other of the three men watched the steam-
 
 ,., A STEAM-BURST AFLOAT 315 
 
 joint alone down in the engine-room, and sweated 
 in the damp hotness and became stupid with the 
 hissing ; for the little steamer must never stop in 
 her haste until the day when she is wrecked, 
 or scrapped, or dry-docked for scamped repairs.
 
 PUFFIN HOME 
 
 " Us have see'd it aforetime, an't us ? " 
 
 " Aye ! an' will again ! " 
 
 " If thee's live long enough. . . ." 
 
 " Just thee wait ! " 
 
 " 'Twon't make no difference in a hundred 
 years' time." 
 
 " When we'm all underground." 
 
 " Thee casn't live but once." 
 
 " 'Tis a long time you'm dead ! " 
 
 Where fishermen gather together and talk, the 
 aged philosophy of the beach reels itself off as 
 slick as antiphonal singing in church, or the 
 choruses of a Greek play. What generations 
 have lived by will stand repetition. 
 
 But modernity was sighted in the offing. 
 " 'Tisn't no good, I tell thee ! " the younger men 
 were saying. " Thee's got to keep up with the 
 times, nowadays, if thee's want to live." 
 
 " Times ! What's the times ? You'm in the 
 times, bain't 'ee ? When they there ol' men was 
 living, that was their times. An' now 'tis ours." 
 
 " Aye, but when you tries to act like they ol' 
 men what you chatters about, then you'm behind 
 your times." 
 
 " G'out ! Hold thee row ! " 
 316
 
 Ill 
 
 PUFFIN HOME 317 
 
 The older well-tried philosophy, forgetting 
 that in the end it was bound to win, spluttered 
 and choked and swore, and then sulked, like an 
 old fisherman who knows from long experience 
 how to do things " fitty," but won't lend a hand, 
 and hinders those who will. 
 
 Meanwhile, modernity approached close in- 
 shore in the guise, on this occasion, of a motor- 
 boat. It was not merely the question of a 
 motor-boat which was thrashed out ; not simply 
 the probabilities of a business experiment : two 
 systems, two ways of life, two moods, the back- 
 ward-looking and the forward-looking, came into 
 conflict with a clash of argument. 
 
 " Motor-boats ! They stinking things. . . ." 
 
 " Motor-boats is coming right enough. You 
 see. They'm buzzing an' snorting round all they 
 harbour places like blue-bottles round ol' Twister's 
 crab-bait. They'm coming." 
 
 "That an't got nort to do wi' us. They 
 won't come here, where us only got a lee shore, 
 an' the beach to haul everything up-over, an' no 
 shelter to run to nearer than Exmouth or Beer. 
 You won't never see 'em on a beach like ours. 
 You'd never be able to haul 'em out the water." 
 
 " You could haul up your sailing-boat wi' a 
 couple or three bags o' ballast in her, cousn't ! " 
 
 " Course I could, if I had to." 
 
 "Well, that's about the weight of a little 
 motor-engine. Where's the difference in hauling 
 up ? They said motor-cars was never coming 
 into Devonshire, didn' 'em, 'cause o' the hills ? 
 But they'm here wi' their rattle an' their smeech."
 
 318 HOW 'TWAS ,n 
 
 " I reckon they bain't right, they motors. 
 They blows 'ee up I've a-see'd it on the paper, 
 where they have. 'Tis like ol' Benjie says, God 
 gave oars an' sails for to get a boat along with. 
 He didn' hae nort to do wi' motors. They'm 
 an invention, like, what man's made." 
 
 " God didn't make thy oars an' sails, n'eet pay 
 for 'em nuther, did 'Er ! " 
 
 Sure He didn't ! " 
 
 " An' motor-boats is coming, I tell thee ; us '11 
 hae to hae 'em sooner or later, an' if us don't hae 
 'em pretty soon us'll be lef behind." 
 
 " Why can't us jog along, like us always have 
 a-done ? " 
 
 "Jog-along! .... Aye, jog along backwards. 
 That's what jogging along means. You got to 
 be up-to-date, I tell 'ee, if you wants to be upsides 
 wi' people an' earn your living nowadays." 
 
 " Give 'em rope ! You gie 'em rope ! Us 
 have a-see'd they up-to-date people 'fore now. 
 An' where be 'em ? Gone ! Dead ! In the 
 'sylum ! Brought low ! Us have a-picked up a 
 living for twenty years on this here beach wi' 
 fishing an' the little boats. . . ." 
 
 " An' thee wousn't like to see somebody what's 
 got capital take thy living from thee, an' not hae 
 nort to eat." 
 
 " Us could do summut else, couldn' us, or go 
 short like us have had to aforetime. I have, 
 if thee hasn't, an' will again very likely. S'pose 
 they motor- boats was to be all the go. . . . 
 What's a poor fellow to do that can't afford one ? 
 I don't want to take no advantage o' anybody
 
 Ill 
 
 PUFFIN HOME 319 
 
 else. Live an let live is my motto, only they 
 won't let 'ee do it." 
 
 " "Tisn't no need to take away anybody's 
 living, if us had a little motor-boat for to take 
 people to Beer, an' Lyme, an' Exmouth, an' 
 Torquay where rowing an' sailing boats don't 
 lay themselves out to go, an' for fishing, an' 
 p'raps to tow out a drifter or two when you'd hae 
 to row out against one o' they there short 
 southerly chops. Thee a'tn't so fond o' digging 
 away at the oars a't ? for all thee's say God 
 made 'em ! " 
 
 " But who's going to work a motor-boat ? 
 Us can't be out in a motor-boat an' out to sea in 
 the sailing boats too." 
 
 " Steve, here, 's said he'll work 'en, an't 'er ! " 
 
 " Be 'em going to make it any better for the 
 likes o' us, they motor-boats that's what I wants 
 to know ? " 
 
 " I don't say they will. But be 'em going 
 to make it any worse for the likes o' us if us 
 don't hae one that's the point ? Thee wousn't 
 never make thic fortune o' thine if thee doesn't 
 try." 
 
 "An' thee wousn't never make a fortune by 
 working hard. / an't never see'd it done. 'Tis 
 artfulness an' luck does it. . . ." 
 
 Through summer into autumn the argument 
 continued. Like a Hindoo prayer -wheel it 
 turned itself round and round on the sea-wall 
 and down by the boats, at sea in fair weather and 
 under the lee side of the drifter in foul, after 
 bedtime at night and at dawn over an early cup
 
 320 HOW 'TWAS in 
 
 o' tay, at meals and even in bed. There was 
 no end to the discussion : there had never, 
 definitely, been any beginning. The knowledge 
 and ignorance, the lives themselves, of three men 
 were flung into it to keep it alive. That's how 
 'tis with men of small capital : small undertakings 
 absorb them. The finish was hardly in sight 
 when I went up-country to London with a roving 
 commission to look at and find out about marine 
 motor-engines not to buy. For we had come 
 to no decision. We had merely worked ourselves 
 up so that a decision was bound, sooner or later, 
 to be forced upon us. 
 
 My qualifications were these : first, that I had 
 been pretty well trained in handling scientific 
 apparatus and boats on a lee shore ; second, that 
 in the early days of motor-cars I had spent some 
 hours grovelling underneath broken-down engines 
 in sweet sylvan spots ; third and best, that I had 
 to carry the job through. 
 
 Experts men of 400 horse-power and thirty 
 knots looked over my head. Each recom- 
 mended a different engine (all too expensive), and 
 a moderate number of revolutions a minute. 
 Finally, on the ofF-chance, mainly because I had 
 a few hours to spare, I took the slowest of slow 
 trains to Erith, and lost myself on the over-built 
 marsh thereabout. And in a black wooden shed 
 guarded by a hammering and a clanking and a 
 rattle of explosions from the exhausts of internal 
 combustion engines I found an old engineer 
 who came out blinking, and handled his bits of 
 engines as if he loved them. We tried his
 
 Ill 
 
 PUFFIN HOME 321 
 
 motor-boat upon the swirling muddy river. She 
 had life in her on the water. He advised us 
 frankly, if we could not afford- an engine power- 
 ful enough for our work, to wait until we could. 
 That was our own feeling. T knew where we 
 should buy our engine if we did. 
 
 The argument, Old Times versus New, re- 
 freshed itself. 
 
 In a month's time, however, two of us were 
 in the hill-bound harbour of Dartmouth, looking 
 with all our eyes at the motor-boats moored up 
 on the Kingswear side. Among a number of 
 squat sheds built beside a muddy creek we found 
 the boatbuilder, whom also we had lighted upon 
 more or less by chance. Treating us as if we 
 had been yacht-owners instead of small fishermen, 
 he ushered us into a cramped little room, which 
 was decorated with yachts' photographs, painted 
 wooden models, sheer and body plans, makers' 
 catalogues, and samples of cordage and fittings. 
 The boatbuilder, a small man of terrier -like 
 aspect a man subtly different from, altogether 
 jumpier than, the solid slow-moving builders of 
 sailing and rowing boats whom we had known, 
 placed chairs for us, sat down at his table, drew 
 a piece of paper towards him, sharpened his 
 pencil, and looked at us shrewdly : it was as if 
 we had gone to the doctor's to give birth to a 
 project. 
 
 " Well ? " inquired the boatbuilder. 
 
 " Well ! " we replied, filling up each other's 
 gaps. " We'm thinking of getting a little motor- 
 
 Y
 
 322 HOW 'TWAS HI 
 
 boat for our beach 'bout sixteen or seventeen 
 foot long, and double-ended, so's the waves shan't 
 flop aboard over a square starn when she's being 
 shoved oflf and beached. She'll have to be light, 
 if she's to heave about easy and haul up over the 
 sea-wall in rough weather ; and she'll have to be 
 strong enough to stand the knocking about our 
 boats get when we run ashore on a big sea. 
 Then she'll have to be flat-bottomed so's not to 
 list over on the beach, and shallow in draught so 
 as to float away quick in shoving ofF; and same 
 time she ought to have enough hold in the water 
 to be able to sail to win'ard a bit if she breaks 
 down at sea. If she isn't beamy enough to stand 
 a seaway she wouldn't be safe in our water ; and 
 if she hasn't got some speed in her we might so 
 well stick to our rowing and sailing boats. The 
 propeller will have to be well up, out of the way 
 of the shingle, else 'twould want six men to lift 
 her about, if we couldn't shove her at the greasy 
 ways ; but 'twouldn't do for it to rise out of the 
 water and race in the short choppy seas that we 
 get with a southerly breeze. That'd racket the 
 engine to pieces, wouldn't it ? Besides, we want 
 her for fishing and towing, though she'll have to 
 help earn her living at passenger work. ..." 
 
 All of which as any one acquainted with boats 
 will understand were contradictory demands. 
 
 The boatbuilder looked at us meditatively. 
 
 " Your sort of harbour motor-boats wouldn't 
 be any good to us," we added. " We want speed 
 and lightness, and strength and seaworthiness, and 
 protection all round for the propeller else we
 
 Ill 
 
 PUFFIN HOME 323 
 
 might just so well not have a motor-boat at all. 
 If you can build us a boat like that you've pretty 
 well solved the question of motor -boats for 
 beaches and lee shores." 
 
 The boatbuilder continued looking at us, like 
 a man on the edge of a muddy brook, wondering 
 whether he can jump it. At last : " Did you 
 have a pleasant journey down ? " he asked. 
 
 " No, we didn't ! " we replied. " We took 
 nearly five hours by the best train of the day 
 coming thirty miles or so as the crow flies. We 
 walked three miles over the cliffs to catch the 
 Exmouth train at Otterton, crossed the Exe by 
 the ferry, waited at Starcross for the Newton 
 Abbot express, changed and waited again, got into 
 the Kingswear through carriage, and crossed the 
 harbour by that steam houseboat thing that plies 
 between Kingswear and Dartmouth ; and when 
 we were within half an hour of our journey's end 
 we saw our own cliffs across the bay. That's how 
 'tis : when you'm aiming at speed, you've got to 
 go all the slower. If you can't build us a motor- 
 boat to get to Dartmouth quicker than that. ..." 
 
 " What you want," said the boatbuilder, " is a 
 butterfly boat." 
 
 We didn't know what a butterfly boat was ; we 
 are not sure now ; but we were probably right in 
 supposing it to be a boat which goes over the 
 waves instead of cutting through them. 
 
 " Did you say you've got an engine coming 
 down ? " the boatbuilder inquired. 
 
 " We've arranged to have one sent down from 
 Erith."
 
 324 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 " You've fixed it up ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ah!" he exclaimed. "What a pity! If 
 you'd only had an * Antelope ' engine ! I could 
 have got you an ' Antelope ' that would have 
 suited your purpose exactly. What did you say 
 was the horse-power of yours ? " 
 
 " Single cylinder, four to five horse-power." 
 
 " If you get it out of her. You would out 
 of an * Antelope.' An eight horse-power twin 
 cylinder * Antelope '. . ." 
 
 " Would be too heavy and much too expensive 
 for us ! " 
 
 We spent the greater part of two days working 
 out the details of the boat and of the installation, 
 and learning to hate " Antelopes " and all their 
 cylinders. It was settled that we were to have an 
 experimental beach motor-boat, built on our own 
 lines, without a contract speed, without even con- 
 tract behaviour. Thus a still greater responsibility 
 and anxiety was cast upon us, and with it we 
 returned home again, hoping against hope that an 
 " Antelope " was not, after all, the one engine we 
 wanted for the work. We were launched, so to 
 speak, in a squally wind, through which we had to 
 sail aboard a boat we didn't know. The seas of 
 the old argument rose up around us higher than 
 ever. Invoices and bills began coming in. Those 
 were the wettings we had. 
 
 A winter's gales blew at us, driving the boats 
 time after time to the top of the sea-wall. " 'Tis 
 a good job us an't got thic motor-boat up eet,"
 
 PUFFIN HOME 325 
 
 was the word while we were hauling and straining 
 at the cut-ropes, and boats were a-tilt on the edge 
 of the wall. 
 
 Then we went down to inspect our boat. 
 
 In one of the shadowy ramshackle sheds she 
 stood up high upon her stocks, enormously long 
 and empty to the eye. Bright copper nails glinted 
 on the soft brown of her smooth unvarnished elm 
 planks. Men hammered and chipped at her with 
 a sure aim. But and it hit itself into us with a 
 glance she was like a box, like a tub, like a 
 barrel cut off three parts of the way up. She was 
 wall-sided. She had no sheer. Owing to a differ- 
 ence in local boatbuilding terms, she had been 
 given in freeboard what we had meant to order in 
 total inside depth. 
 
 " That's why I wanted you to look at her 
 before we put the thwarts in," said the boat- 
 builder, rightly interpreting our faces. 
 
 " She'll have to be altered. She'll have to be 
 cut down." 
 
 u I shouldn't advise you to have her cut down ; 
 it's expensive, and you'll find a high freeboard all 
 the better for your open-sea work." 
 
 " I shan't go to sea in a wall-sided boat," I 
 snapped ; meaning really that I refused to try and 
 settle the great argument with a boat whose lines 
 offended my eye, even if I had to pay for the 
 building of a new one, or go without a motor-boat 
 at all. 
 
 " Perhaps," said the boatbuilder, " we might 
 push out the topstrake three or four inches. 
 That would give her more beam, and more sheer
 
 326 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 too, and take off the wall-sidedness make a lot 
 of difference. I'll do that then." 
 
 For consolation we were shown our engine 
 lying dismembered on the floor of a loft, and we 
 were bidden to admire an " Antelope " that was 
 lying alongside. Fortunately we were far too 
 ignorant of engines to appreciate what experts call 
 the refinements of detail in the " Antelope's " 
 construction her forced lubrication and magneto 
 ignition. The engine, at all events, had not joined 
 the conspiracy to post-date our satisfaction. More 
 and more we looked towards the critical moment 
 when our boat should be afloat. " For the Lord's 
 sake, hold thee row ! " occurred more frequently 
 in the great argument. 
 
 The launching had to be witnessed. Our boat, 
 all ready, painted white on the topstrakes and red 
 underneath, was trigged up on some timbers 
 in an outside shed. Now she looked handsome 
 enough with her bluff easy-riding bows, her broad 
 middle bearing, and the fine lines to her rounded 
 stern. Her wall-sidedness had disappeared. The 
 novel arrangement by which the keel was carried 
 round outside the propeller, to protect it, had an 
 air of lightness and strength. She was built 
 " fitty " that we saw in a glance if she floated 
 and ran " fitty." 
 
 We climbed inside, gave the engine her first 
 meal of petrol and lubricating oil, and coupled up 
 the ignition. " I hope this engine is going to 
 start up all right," said the boatbuilder switch- 
 ing on. " I haven't tried to run her before.
 
 PUFFIN HOME 327 
 
 I thought you had better be present when I 
 did." 
 
 He gave the fly-wheel a turn. Nothing hap- 
 pened. " * Antelopes ' always start up all right," 
 he remarked. Another turn. . . . Nothing ! 
 And another. . . . Nothing still ! One more 
 turn. . . . There was a banging and a rattle, as if 
 the engine were breathing in explosions. The 
 boat shook like a live thing. The bottom-boards, 
 which were not yet screwed down, rose up around 
 us like leaves in a storm, and jigged on end. I 
 switched off quickly. 
 
 And one of the men said in my ear : " I've 
 seen 'em fight these engines for a week before 
 they got 'em to go." 
 
 " Was that an c Antelope ' ? " I asked. 
 
 But he didn't seem to hear. 
 
 Half-a-dozen men were called ; rolling timbers 
 brought. We shoved and hauled the boat down 
 to the edge of the creek. Then, suddenly, we 
 heard a small sharp crack. We looked at each 
 other, at the engine. The elbow-joint between 
 the engine and the exhaust had come into two 
 pieces, as cast piping will do when it is jerked. 
 " I thought so ! " exclaimed the boatbuilder. 
 " I've never known an ' Antelope ' do that ! " 
 
 There was nothing for it but to telegraph for a 
 new elbow-joint, and to wait yet a little longer for, 
 as we almost thought, the non-realisation of our 
 hopes. 
 
 The incoming tide floated the boat off. She 
 looked well enough on the water, but we saw 
 with a feeling of disappointment and hopeless
 
 328 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 perplexity that her propeller was half out of it. 
 The boatbuilder himself was nonplussed for the 
 moment : it was his own work at fault, not a 
 strange engineer's. 
 
 " You'll have to weight her down by the 
 stern," he said. " You never can tell exactly how 
 a boat is going to float when you're building to a 
 new design. Her propeller will suck her down a 
 bit, and two or three people in her. ..." 
 
 " But what speed d'you think we shall get ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " I shouldn't like to say not with that engine. 
 If you'd had an c Antelope'. . . ." 
 
 " D'you think we shall get six miles an hour ? " 
 
 " You'll get five all right, I think. We'll run 
 her and see, when the new elbow-joint comes 
 down." 
 
 We did see. But first of all we saw that the 
 boatbuilder was smiling up his sleeve. " I've tried 
 her," he said, " up the river. She goes like a 
 witch ! You stay here and watch." 
 
 He went aboard ; started up the engine ; cast 
 off moorings ; and perched himself by the tiller on 
 the little after-deck. 
 
 The popping of the exhaust made one almost 
 continuous note ; the water churned up by the 
 propeller thumped under the stern of the boat. 
 Then, as she gathered way, the stern squatted 
 down in the water and the bow rose up, the engine 
 slowed down while the propeller took grip, and off 
 she sped across the river. The boatbuilder's 
 miscalculation was evidently to our advantage, 
 for in shoving off a beach the boat would float
 
 in PUFFIN HOME 329 
 
 away all the quicker on account of her shallow 
 draught astern, and at full speed her propeller was 
 sufficiently immersed. When he returned to the 
 creek we asked him : " What speed d'you reckon 
 you were going at ? " 
 
 " She'll go a mile an hour faster," he replied, 
 " when the engine has run a bit." 
 
 " That's better than you expected, then ? " 
 
 He rubbed his hands. " Goes like a witch," 
 he repeated, " for her engine and horse-power." 
 
 Then we were well pleased with the engine ; 
 and when we judged that everybody at home 
 would be drinking a glass of beer, we telephoned 
 through to the " Cable and Anchor " : " Goes 
 like a witch ! What ? Yes ! Goes like the 
 devil ! No end of a pace ! All right ? Aye ! " 
 
 It was our first morsel of triumph the first 
 real point scored in the great argument. 
 
 The next point was to get the boat home in 
 one successful run without a breakdown. That, 
 we knew, though we hardly dared say so, was the 
 critical run, the most smashing retort possible, 
 the most anxious part of the whole undertaking. 
 Upon that depended the reputation of our boat ; 
 the reputation, for some time, of motors in general 
 upon our beach, and in a sense our own reputa- 
 tions, whether we were " mazed articles " or men 
 of enterprise. It was a voyage of do or die. 
 And neither of us knew anything to speak of, 
 either about marine motors or about any other 
 kind of engine. 
 
 Tom had gone down to the ordering of the 
 boat. Bob, the other partner, had gone to the
 
 330 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 inspection and launch, because he is hard to please 
 and critical. It was Tom's turn to help bring the 
 boat home. 
 
 But the weather for a week or two was shuffling, 
 and the course from Dartmouth round Berry 
 Head, across Torbay, and past the sandbanks and 
 shoals outside Exmouth is such that any breeze 
 is bound to raise a head-sea somewhere. When 
 we did arrive in Dartmouth during the early 
 afternoon of the first reasonably fine day, they 
 said with some concern : " You're never going to 
 try and get to Sidmouth to-night ! It's thirty- 
 five or forty miles, isn't it ? " 
 
 " That don't matter, do it," retorted Tom, " so 
 long as it don't come on to blow ? Anyhow, 
 we'm going to make a start." 
 
 " You'll find it a long way in that little boat of 
 yours. . . ." 
 
 Which encouraged us the more ; for as lee- 
 shoremen, users of small open boats, we do not 
 think very highly of the harbour men, who, in 
 our view, having a soft job and fine big craft to 
 go to sea in, become soft themselves. And at the 
 same time we are a little envious of their ships 
 and their shelter their " something under their 
 feet," and their " somewhere to run to, in out the 
 way o'it." 
 
 We hastened to the boatbuilding creek with 
 our provisions two bottles of beer, a bottle of 
 cold tea, and a packet of bloater-paste sandwiches 
 together with a sackful of odd gear and an 
 incongruous can of petrol. The boat was 
 afloat. Just as we were getting ready to go
 
 Ill 
 
 PUFFIN HOME 331 
 
 aboard, a man ran up breathlessly to the boat- 
 builder. 
 
 " Will you send a launch up the river at once 
 to Mr. Sloper ? His motor's broken down in 
 Duncannon Reach and the tide's falling. He'll 
 be stuck there if he doesn't get off quick." 
 
 " Has Mr. Sloper got an ' Antelope ' ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 There was no reply. The most interesting 
 questions are seldom answered. 
 
 " I'll come aboard with you and start her up," 
 said the boatbuilder. 
 
 " If us can't start her going here, by ourselves," 
 remarked Tom, " what be us going to do if her 
 stops snorting half-way across Torbay, like thic 
 motor-boat up the river ? " 
 
 " But you're not going to try and make Sid- 
 mouth to-day ? " 
 
 " Iss, we be. Why for not ! Fine weather, 
 ain't it ? Might come on to blow t'morrow." 
 
 " D'you know the coast ? " 
 
 " Not this side of Torquay. But 'twon't be 
 dark 'fore us gets into waters us do know not if 
 her goes all right." 
 
 " Ah, well," concluded the boatbuilder, " you've 
 got a seaworthy little boat under you, though she 
 is only seventeen -foot- six. Pity you couldn't 
 have had one a little bigger, for your open-sea 
 work, with a twin-cylinder * Antelope ' ! " 
 
 He oiled up, turned on the petrol, and after 
 two or three attempts he set the engine going, 
 looking, while he handled it, like a yacht's skipper 
 reduced to the command of a tramp steamer.
 
 332 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 _* \j 
 
 Then he gave us some hints as to the course out 
 of harbour, and went ashore, saying, " I only 
 hope your engine will get you up there all 
 right." 
 
 Glad to have it in our own hands at last, 
 gladder still to feel our own boat under us, 
 gladdest of all to hear no more of " Antelopes," 
 we swung out into mid-river with the reversible 
 propeller three-quarter-way advanced. I touched 
 the lever to advance it fully. There was a visible 
 spark. I shook my finger as if a wasp were on 
 the end of it (with very hot legs) and hugged a 
 wrist that felt as if it had within it a collection of 
 tingling cramps. Tom's eyes questioned me 
 the whole use and feasibility of motor-boats was 
 included in that questioning but I was so savage 
 and disappointed that I could only say : 
 
 " Put back ! Put her back ! Us can't get up 
 to Sidmouth like this ! " 
 
 The boatbuilder ran down to the water's edge. 
 " What's the matter ? " he called out. 
 
 " Why, the electricity is leaking all over the 
 place ! " 
 
 " I've never known an c Antelope ' do that ! " 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 " Oh, damn your f Antelopes ' ! " was on the 
 tip of my tongue ; but I didn't say it, which 
 without doubt was very virtuous. 
 
 We rearranged the insulated wires and once 
 more got under way, with the propeller fully 
 advanced this time ; for we meant to get some- 
 where before we touched the engine again. 
 Leaving the Hindostan and the old Britannia
 
 Ill 
 
 PUFFIN HOME 333 
 
 astern of us, we passed the town pontoon at a 
 quarter past four, and steered for the deep 
 narrows between Dartmouth and Kingswear 
 Castles. At last we were well under way. The 
 valves of the engine were tapping regularly, the 
 explosions of the exhaust astern were already 
 dinning themselves into our heads. If we put in 
 anywhere, it was not to be at Dartmouth. Better 
 some little beach in a cove near Berry Head. 
 
 Beyond the two castles, standing opposite each 
 other among the trees on either bank, the open 
 sea begins, and at once the names of places seem 
 to change their character. Up-river they have 
 mostly a smiling sound Dittisham, Greenway, 
 Stoke Gabriel ; but outside, the wildness and 
 grimness of the sea runs like a ground -bass 
 through them. We passed between the Western 
 Blackstone and Inner Froward Point ; passed by 
 the Castle Ledge buoy and submerged Bear's 
 Rail ; and made for the narrow passage inside 
 the Mew Stone. 
 
 Looked at from the heights above, especially 
 in sunshine, the estuary of the Dart with its 
 thick green foliage, its ferns in every soily crevice 
 and its lichen-covered cliffs descending sheer to 
 the water has a brilliant loveliness. Down be- 
 low, in the deep shadow, among the swirling 
 currents, the high cliffs seemed to frown, and 
 the Mew Stone appeared hard, harsh, immense ; 
 so that it was as if we were strangers, passing 
 through some dim inferno, hardly knowing what 
 threatened us ; and tales of furious tide-rips there, 
 and of sudden waves swamping boats that were
 
 334 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 never again seen or heard of, troubled the back 
 of one's mind. All that was human and familiar 
 was Tom's voice ; " Her goes, don' 'er ? Her 
 do go ! " And by contrast, the engine also, weakly 
 tapping and popping and asking oil, was more 
 than a little human. 
 
 Keeping a sharp look-out for lobster-pot corks 
 and lines, which might have fouled our propeller, 
 we steered a mile or so off-shore, past Scabba- 
 combe Head and Crabrock Point. We call our 
 own coast ironbound, and so it is ; but the cliffs 
 down there partly, no doubt, on account of their 
 strangeness appeared far blacker, steeper, and 
 more forbidding. " Poor things ! " one could 
 imagine Benjie saying. " Poor things, what gets 
 drove ashore here ! 'Tis all up wi' 'em ! All 
 up!" 
 
 But fog, drifting in with a breath of south-east 
 wind, was already beginning to soften the jagged- 
 ness of the rocks, and even to hide the land. 
 
 " What time do 'ee make it ? " asked Tom, 
 after we had passed Sharkham Point. " Only an 
 hour we've been ? Then we must have travelled, 
 mustn't us ? This here looks like Torbay right 
 'miff." 
 
 It did look like Torbay in the vast and vague 
 fog. But it was only Mudstone Bay, a place 
 wonderfully like Torbay in miniature, even to 
 its outstanding rocks at the northern end. We 
 had not been doing nine or ten miles an hour, 
 as for a moment we hoped. Before long we 
 were rounding close under an unmistakable 
 Berry Head.
 
 HI PUFFIN HOME 335 
 
 In Torbay itself we could see nothing, except a 
 ghost-like Brixham. Fog filled all the inside of 
 the bay. 
 
 " 'Tisn't no good going in to Brixham," said 
 Tom, " and 'tisn't no use trying to crawl round 
 the bay in this here fog. There's a lot of shipping 
 hereabout. Best thing us can do is to make 
 straight for t'other side, out the way o'it, so soon 
 as us can. Got thy compass on 'ee ? Do 'ee 
 think her'll work wi' all this 'lectricity sculling 
 round about the boat ? I reckon if us steers 
 due north us'll pick up land somewhere. . . ." 
 
 " Unless the engine breaks down in the middle 
 of the bay ! What then ? " 
 
 " Her won't hae to break down ; an' that's all 
 about it ! " 
 
 I oiled her up with care, but otherwise forbore 
 to touch her ; and we steered along by compass. 
 Soon we had lost the Berry had lost everything. 
 The loneliness of mid-ocean, from the deck of a 
 ship, is not so great as the loneliness of a bay in a 
 small open boat, in fog. Paignton, we knew, lay 
 somewhere four miles abeam of us ; Torquay as 
 many miles to the nor' west. The light south- 
 easterly wind raised a scuffle on the water, proving 
 the steadiness of our boat ; but it did not blow 
 away the grey mist. A Brixham trawler steered 
 alongside to look at our impudent little craft. 
 We waved our arms and splashed on. There 
 was nothing else to be done. 
 
 Presently Tom stood up in the boat and pointed 
 over the bows. " Lookse ! We'm right. That's 
 the loom of Torbay Rock. That's it ! Now
 
 336 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 us'll soon be out of this here shipping that us 
 can't see." 
 
 In the fog, which was at no time so thick to 
 seaward as nearer land, there stood up a dark 
 detached shadow, that could only have been the 
 Oar Stone. Steering straight for it, we finished 
 up our bloater-paste sandwiches and second bottle 
 of beer. It no longer mattered to keep up our 
 stock of provisions. We were entering home 
 waters. Torquay was left behind without a 
 glimpse of its harbour and terraced hills. There 
 is something uncanny in passing near a great town 
 in feeling its presence close by with never a 
 sight or a sound of it. Babbacombe was more 
 visible ; and six miles or so farther on, Teign- 
 mouth lay like a white stripe, like a comber 
 suddenly solidified, along its narrow spit of sand. 
 Over the hills behind, the fog was gathering 
 together into purple clouds and turning into 
 rain. 
 
 Once or twice, between the Oar Stone and 
 Teignmouth, the exhaust had given a sharp pop, 
 instead of its regular explosion. Off Teignmouth 
 there were several such pops at shorter intervals. 
 
 " What's that ? " asked Tom. 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Can 'ee put it right if there's ort wrong ? " 
 
 " Hanged if I know ! " 
 
 Close to the Parson and Clerk Rock, between 
 Teignmouth and Dawlish, the motor gave a final 
 pop, turned two or three times, slowed down, 
 stopped. It was as if the little engine, having 
 run for three hours continuously, had become
 
 Ill 
 
 PUFFIN HOME 337 
 
 tired, and had fallen asleep. The sudden silence, 
 broken only by the lapping of the wavelets against 
 the boat's sides, was exquisitely restful just for 
 a moment. Then we 
 
 Look'd at each other with a wild surmise 
 Silent : 
 
 and, leaving the tiller, Tom swore. " What's to 
 do now ? " he asked. " Her's brought us twenty- 
 one miles, I reckon, an' we'm fourteen miles from 
 home ; an' that's far enough for to row, if her 
 refuses to snort. P'raps we'm out of petrol. . . ." 
 
 " P'raps the sparking plug's sooted up. . . ." 
 
 Taking out the plug, I sparked it in the open 
 air to burn off the soot, replaced it, and gave the 
 fly-wheel a turn. She was off again with a terri- 
 fying racket till the propeller was advanced. 
 That was it the sparking plug. (I had been 
 using an excess of lubricating oil, because the 
 engine was new, and, as I found out afterwards, 
 had been giving it too much petrol and too little 
 air.) 
 
 We stood in for Dawlish to buy some more 
 petrol. We also bought more beer. If we did 
 have to row, we too should want some fuel. 
 Our new-grown trust in the engine was shaken. 
 
 It was dusk when we left Dawlish, and made 
 as good a course as possible for Straight Point, 
 the other side of Exmouth. Unable to see very 
 far ; unable, in the misty fading light, to judge 
 distances accurately, we doubted whether we 
 should clear the Pole Sand, and stood farther out 
 to sea. The tide was ebbing ; and there are 
 
 z
 
 338 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 banks outside Exmouth which only a seagull, 
 standing in the water instead of swimming, will 
 reveal. 
 
 " Us ought to be able to sight the fairway 
 buoy," remarked Tom anxiously, and almost at 
 once we did sight it. And then we heard its bell. 
 
 By day the estuary of the Exe is a wide waste 
 of flat sand and flat shoal water. That evening, 
 in the drizzling mist, yellowed by the sunset 
 filtering through it, the place was an endless 
 expanse of desolation., In the haphazard tolling 
 of the bell-buoy all human misery seemed to be 
 concentrated and contained ; all the agony of all 
 the wrecks that ever were, all the tragedy of all 
 the lives that ever were lost, all the loneliness 
 of all that sorrowed for them. 
 
 " For God's sake, let's get away from this ! " 
 1 burst out, forgetting that we should get away 
 just as fast as the engine carried us, and no faster. 
 
 " Aye ! " replied Tom, whose nerves usually 
 are like a rock that the sea dashes against. " Can't 
 say I likes this here. Thic blasted bell. . . . 
 Casn't make thy engine snort faster, an' git away 
 out o'it ? Gives a fellow the melancholies, like." 
 
 As if to mock us, there began a hollow booming 
 in the fore-part of the boat. It was the partially 
 empty petrol -tank, vibrating with the engine. 
 I jammed it with a spanner and a piece of cotton- 
 waste. 
 
 And then the engine gave a couple of gasps, 
 and stopped. 
 
 With the intolerable tolling of the bell-buoy 
 clanging in our ears, I cleaned the sparking plug
 
 in PUFFIN HOME 339 
 
 again, and again we got under way. The cliffs of 
 Straight Point, with its ledges and rock-bound 
 shore, were like a harbour to us. Over the dreary 
 sandbanks of the Exe the bell was still tolling ; is 
 tolling now ; but we had a sense of escape from 
 it, and already felt ourselves as good as home. 
 
 Once or twice more the engine stopped. It 
 was not its fault : I was driving it badly. Dark- 
 ness prevented me from tinkering about with it ; 
 but I found that by putting the propeller at 
 neutral and letting it race for a few seconds the 
 sparking plug would clear itself. 
 
 Off Sidmouth we burnt flares, using the news- 
 paper that had wrapped our bloater-paste sand- 
 wiches. Then we circled round, steered at full 
 speed for the beach, switched off the engine a boat's 
 length or so away, and ran ashore high upon the 
 shingle. Plenty of hands were there to haul us up. 
 
 It was ten o'clock. Reckoning three-quarters 
 of an hour for stoppages, the brave little engine 
 had brought us thirty-six miles in five working 
 hours. The boat was home home successfully. 
 
 Not that the great argument came to an end 
 therewith. The building and home-coming of 
 the motor-boat were only two steps in the great 
 argument, which still continues, and will. Cheated 
 of breakdowns, which didn't occur, and bound 
 to admit seaworthiness, the disciples of the Old 
 Times complained loudly of the noise from the 
 exhaust. Therefore, being otherwise well pleased, 
 we brazened it out, and called the boat the Puffin. 
 And then we stopped the noise.
 
 A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 
 
 THE Mediterranean or nowhere that was our 
 alternative. Most years we go to France for a 
 bit of a holiday between the mackerel and herring 
 seasons. But one early morning towards the end 
 of the summer before last, when we were rowing 
 for want of wind on a white-calm sea in a drizzling 
 damping rain, and the mackerel were not on the 
 feed, I happened to follow up a grumble of my 
 skipper's with the remark : " Let's make a dash 
 for the Mediterranean this year, Jim, where there's 
 sunshine and flowers in the autumn. What's say ? 
 Shall us hae a shot ? " 
 
 Jim whistled for a breeze before replying 
 cautiously : " I reckon 'tis a place a chap ought 
 to see, once in a lifetime, anyhow. But us bain't 
 going to have no holiday this year. What's the 
 good of going over to France wi' nort in your 
 pocket to spend ? A mump-headed turn-out that ! 
 When us gets ashore," he went on savagely, kick- 
 ing the hollow fish-box, " they'll offer us three bob 
 a hunderd for these here dozen or two of fish, 
 and not a penny more ; and any one of 'em is 
 worth a penny or tuppence for to eat ! That won't 
 pay no railway fares, not even so far as Boulogne 
 for to see thic perty li'l maid to the cafe, an' ol' 
 
 340
 
 ni A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 341 
 
 skipper What's-his-name, what us went herring 
 drifting 'long with in the Marie-Marthe. . . ." 
 
 Nevertheless the plan took root and grew. 
 Sunlight, warmth, bright colour, the journey across 
 a country from sea to sea, a sight or strange craft, 
 a desire, after so bad a summer, to get rar away 
 out o'it for a while. . . . 'Twas the Mediterranean 
 or nowhere ! 
 
 We looked out in railway guides the nearest, 
 quickest, cheapest point to make for. Once 
 started, we should spend as much as usual, whether 
 we could afford it or not. We knew that. But 
 the season had been a bad one, and we felt poor. 
 Otherwise we would never have travelled to 
 Marseilles by the slow third-class French trains. 
 And had we gone by the cheapest way of all, 
 from Newhaven to Dieppe, we should have been 
 aboard the Brighton when she collided with the 
 Preussen, the great German five-masted ship that 
 drove ashore under Dover cliffs during the next 
 day's gale. 
 
 We wanted, however, to pass through Boulogne 
 in order to see our French fishing friends and 
 " thic perty li'l maid " ; to hear what catches they 
 had made ; to taste again the good food of our 
 small inn ; and to have a drink or two at Le Bon 
 Pecheur, where men from sea stump through the 
 door in their long sea-boots and crowd round the 
 tables, arguing fish and laughing, till the room 
 is brown with their barked jumpers and all of 
 a buzz with their chackle. Jim, I think, would 
 rather meet an old acquaintance than travel the 
 world over without seeing a face he knows.
 
 342 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 *J i 
 
 There had been all night a calm and a thick fog 
 in the Channel. The first of that fortnight's gales 
 began only a quarter of an hour before the boat left 
 Folkestone. Already, by the time we got outside, 
 the smaller fishing boats were running for harbour. 
 Midway across Channel, though a sea had not yet 
 risen, the wind was lifting scud off" the tops of the 
 waves, and the sailing vessels in sight had shortened 
 sail. At Boulogne it was blowing a full gale from 
 the quarter most dreaded there, the sou' west. 
 
 We owed an honour done us to the gale. In 
 Le Bon Pecheur, after a great shaking of hands, 
 we ordered cafe-cognac for tea, and sat down. 
 Suddenly a tall fisherman jumped up on the other 
 side of the room, brandishing his rope-worn paw. 
 It was one of our Marie-Marthe shipmates. 
 " Ah ! 'tis the Englishmen ! " he shouted, as if 
 we had been the only Englishmen in the world. 
 " Come over here to our table. My wife, this is ; 
 and my brother-in-law, that. Have you had 
 good fishing ? We have not. Bad weather 
 fogs and great winds. You remember your trip 
 with us in the Marie-Marthe ? " 
 
 Then he turned to Jim. " And your children ? 
 Are they yet delivered over to the fishing ? " 
 
 Jim mistook his meaning. He waved his 
 hand gallantly towards Berthe, the maid of the 
 cafe. " I've a-come over once more," he said, 
 " for to see her perty li'l eyes." 
 
 " Qu'est qu'il a dit ? What's he say ? " asked 
 Berthe. 
 
 " He says that he's come back to see your 
 pretty eyes."
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 343 
 
 " Oh, to, la, la, la, la ! Et sa femme ? 
 
 " She told me to tell you that she's coming 
 over another year to black those pretty eyes ! " 
 
 " What have 'ee told her ? " 
 
 " Told her thy wife is coming over another 
 year for to hae a scrap with her." 
 
 Up hopped Jim, and chased her for a kiss. 
 
 When the laughter had died down, we in- 
 quired after the skipper of the Marie- Mar the. 
 
 " You have not seen him ? He was here only 
 half an hour ago. He is ashore to-night the 
 weather looks too bad. Will you come to his 
 house ? We will show you the way up there." 
 
 Knowing what a compliment it is to be invited 
 into a Frenchman's house, we made haste to 
 accept ; and in the wake of two or three fishermen 
 we clattered up the steep streets of the fishing 
 quarter. While we waited outside a dark hole 
 of a doorway, one of them went inside to make 
 sure that the skipper would receive us. 
 
 In a tiny oblong kitchen, much like a ship's 
 galley, except that its edges and corners were 
 bound in polished brass, instead of white metal, 
 the skipper was sitting at table with his family. 
 They had just cleared away a very early dinner. 
 His wife was there, and either his, or her, mother ; 
 his small son who goes to sea in the Marie-Marthe, 
 a grown-up son who is mate in another fishing 
 boat, and a paler slighter son in Government 
 employ. They had coffee before them, and 
 taking his ease in a blue flannel blouse, tied at 
 the neck with tasselled cords, the good skipper 
 (his ship is an exceptionally happy one) looked
 
 344 HOW 'TWAS in 
 
 solider than ever in every respect. White wine 
 was uncorked for us, and we drank all sorts of 
 healths. Then the mother ground fresh coffee ; 
 the wife brought out some dainty blue china 
 cups : and while we drank afresh, the womenfolk, 
 with a fine enthusiasm, helped the sons to tie 
 their bow-ties and otherwise decorate themselves 
 for a Sunday evening dance. 
 
 A long conversation in French, about Yar- 
 mouth, where the skipper had once been landed 
 ill, was too dull for Jim. We said " Good-bye," 
 and hurried back towards Le Bon Pecheur for an 
 absinthe to counteract so much coffee and give 
 us once again an appetite for dinner. 
 
 The gale was blowing harder than ever, in 
 fierce gusts but without much rain. We couldn't 
 but turn aside to see if anything was happening 
 out to sea, and against the wind squalls we forced 
 our way along the jetty. Down on the one side 
 of us, the water was heaving darkly in the harbour 
 channel. On the other side, and behind us, the 
 white-topped broken waves seemed to be rushing 
 bodily, in a howling confusion, upon the shallow 
 sandy shore that lies in front of the Casino and 
 the sea-side end of the town. A steamer hooted 
 outside. In a flash, all the electric lamps along 
 the two jetties on either side of the harbour 
 channel, lighted themselves up, first with a blink- 
 ing, then with a bright steady glare. "What's 
 that for ? " said Jim. " 'Tis pretty near so light 
 as day here. Blow'd if 'tisn't a fine thing, that 1 " 
 
 The Folkestone steamer was overdue by an 
 hour, and even while we were speaking, the high
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 345 
 
 brilliantly lighted ship rode stern first up the 
 harbour channel to her quay, as if she were being 
 slowly drawn along a roadway of dark, cold, 
 troubled water. She was moored up : the electric 
 lights flicked out ; and everything around, both 
 the harbour and the wild sea, became doubly dark. 
 Boulogne, having thrown out feelers to welcome 
 the ship, seemed to have contracted and shrunk 
 within herself, away from the fury of the storm. 
 
 " They don't light this here up for fishing 
 boats to go in and out, do 'em ? " Jim asked. 
 
 " Not likely ! Fishing boats wouldn't pay for 
 it," I explained. 
 
 " Oh ! " he said. " No doubt they lights it up 
 for they there passengers in fur coats, for to make 
 it safe for 'em. 'Tis the same thing here as 'tis 
 at home. The likes o'us can go to sea, fair 
 weather or foul, catching their dinners for 'em 
 while they'm snug. . . . Our lives don't matter. 
 We only does the work, and when we drowns 
 there's other fools for to take our places. Why, 
 us breeds 'em ourselves, don' us? You see 
 an* you will see if you lives long enough they 
 wouldn't light up this here, and keep it lighted 
 of a dirty night, not for to save a shipload of 
 fishermen from drowning." 
 
 It sounded like mere grumbling on his part, 
 but within ten days his words were terribly 
 fulfilled. 
 
 Alone in Le Bon Pfaheur we found the round- 
 bodied, rounder -faced, jolly old boat- owner, in 
 whose lugger we had refused to go herring
 
 346 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 drifting because we had wanted to see how they 
 fish in a modern steam drifter. After the greet- 
 ings were over he turned solemnly to Berthe, 
 while a tear of laughter trickled from his eye : 
 " It's serious. I said so. I said so last year. 
 Without doubt Monsieur is going to marry you, 
 Ma'm'selle Berthe ! " 
 
 " But Monsieur has a wife and children in 
 England beaucoup des enfants ! " she retorted. 
 
 With all possible speed, I translated. 
 
 " Aye ! Tell her I'd marry her t'morrow," 
 said Jim, " if I was only single. I likes thic 
 happy laugh o' hers, thee's know." 
 
 " What's that ? " asked the old boy in his 
 turn. 
 
 " He regrets he isn't single. He's got a wife 
 and enough children for half-a-dozen French 
 families." 
 
 The old boy cast up his hands. 
 
 " Mais (a ' fait rien ! " he exclaimed. " That 
 doesn't matter ! " Then, spreading himself over 
 the table, and laying his finger along his bunchy 
 nose, he said confidentially : " Listen to me. 
 Look at me, I say. I, me, I who speak to you 
 I have a wife in every port from Dunkirk to 
 Brest. My wife at Dunkirk, she had no children. 
 Calais is too near Boulogne. One does not make 
 attachments on one's doorstep. Here, in Boulogne, 
 I have a son, a fine fellow. If you will come to 
 this cafe to-morrow morning I will present him to 
 you. He is twenty-five, no more, and already is 
 skipper of a lugger. His boat catches more fish 
 and arrives in port quicker than any. 11 est bon
 
 HI A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 347 
 
 pecheur. He will be skipper of a steam drifter 
 when he is thirty, and an owner, like the owner 
 of the Marie-Mar the ^ before he is forty. He is 
 my only child at Boulogne, but at Dieppe I have 
 two sons. They are in an engineering works and 
 touch good wages. I am going there to see 
 them very soon. But my wife at Dieppe. . . . 
 Some women are inclined to be a little jealous, is 
 it not so, Monsieur Jim ? I go to Dieppe no 
 more for fishing. 1 am getting old homme 
 serieux, vous savez a staid man. But I go 
 sometimes to see my Dieppe family, in my 
 Boulogne son's boat, you understand, when he is 
 fishing on the Dieppe grounds and the wind is 
 fair for a quick return. Then at Le Havre I have 
 a daughter. Her mother is dead, but she has 
 good friends. Ah, her mother. . . . Quelle 
 femme charmante ! When she was alive she could 
 refuse me nothing. But alas ! she is dead, and I 
 weep for her. I would have gone to her. I 
 would have remained with her always. I would 
 have become a fisherman of Le Havre. But my 
 wife at Boulogne, you see, she brought me the 
 money with which to buy my boat. I could not 
 have taken my boat with me to Le Havre, and 
 without my boat I was nothing. As for my wife 
 at Brest. ... I have not seen her for twenty 
 years. Perhaps she also is dead. We had no 
 children so far as I know. But I have done my 
 duty to my country. . . ." 
 
 He leaned farther over to give Jim a dig in 
 the chest. " And you too, mon gars ! " 
 
 "What a pity," he went on, turning to me,
 
 348 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 in 
 
 "what a pity your sheep (i.e. ship, meaning 
 shipmate) he no shpeak fran^ais. Tell him. If 
 he will marry in Boulogne, there is Ma'm'selle 
 Berthe who awaits him with open arms." 
 
 Mademoiselle Berthe shied a dishclout at his 
 head. He rose up, holding out his glass to click 
 with ours. " Tell him," he repeated, bowing 
 towards her, " I drink to the ladies. Vwent les 
 femmcs ! 
 
 Jim caught his meaning. He, too, rose up. 
 " Hear, hear ! " he cried, bowing also to Made- 
 moiselle Berthe. " Here's to 'em ! There's nort 
 like 'em, an' I dearly loves 'em ! Don' I, my 
 dear ? " 
 
 Eyes were kindling. The patronne of the cafe 
 ceased smiling. It was time to go. 
 
 Our inn had changed hands. Although the 
 food was no less good and plentiful, the arrange- 
 ments and the company were rather different. A 
 large front room, opening on the street, with 
 tables, a stove, a small billiard board and a little 
 zinc bar in one corner, still formed the public cafe. 
 Behind that was a narrower room, unlighted by 
 any window, and separated from the cafe only by 
 a high wooden partition with a door. In spite of 
 the long tables laid down each side, it was little 
 more than a passage leading to the small square 
 room in which we had formerly had our meals ; 
 which room led in turn, through more clattering 
 doors, to Madame's kitchen. Altogether, a jug 
 of hot coffee on its way from the kitchen to the 
 cafe had to be carried through four doors, each 
 one of which opened with a rattle and closed with
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 349 
 
 a bang. The little dining-room was occupied by 
 a couple very much in love. At least, when I 
 burst in there to hang up our hats and coats, they 
 were kissing each other most tenderly over their 
 coffee-cups. Indefinably we were given to under- 
 stand that the privacy of the small dining-room 
 was to be respected. L 'amour , in France, is treated 
 with such easy-going kindness. 
 
 Madame la patronne stayed in her dark little 
 kitchen all day long. There her friends and her 
 market-women called upon her. The guests in 
 the hinder caf were attended to by a short, stout 
 Flemish widow of immense activity, full of laughter 
 and jokes. As for the patron, a man with bulging 
 bespectacled eyes and a neckcloth instead of a 
 collar he strutted about from room to room, 
 singing snatches of song in a powerful baritone 
 voice, and saying from time to time : " One 
 must laugh, laugh always, as much as possible. 
 Laugh, laugh ! " And then he would take another 
 nip at the little zinc bar, from one of the bottles 
 of spirits labelled de fantaisie, that is to say, 
 adulterated or imitation. But except at the very 
 height of his jokes it was noticeable that he made 
 the others look sad. " He's off his head ! " the 
 bright little widow would hiss, glancing at him 
 behind his back with a quick hatred and un- 
 disguised contempt. She was a close friend of 
 his wife's. " Monsieur," she said to me one day, 
 and there was a bitterness underlying her jest, 
 " Monsieur, I see you are homme se"rieux. . . . 
 Will you marry me and take me back to England 
 with you. I am very weary here."
 
 350 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 " But, Madame," I replied as bluntly, " I am a 
 young man not serious enough, perhaps." 
 
 " You have reason," she said. " I must stay 
 with madame. Perhaps she will have need. . . ." 
 
 A knife -handle tapped on the table im- 
 patiently. " Yes, yes, Monsieur. At once ! I 
 come. What is it that it is that you want ? " 
 With which she started again her bustle and her 
 jokes. 
 
 The patron was right. It was necessary to 
 laugh, to laugh always, as much as possible. In 
 his own person there was tragedy in the house, 
 and a dog-like faithfulness on watch over his wife. 
 
 There was, moreover, something curious in his 
 appearance. He reminded us of somebody, but 
 we could not make out of whom, until next 
 morning he asked us to write up and sign the 
 customary police papers. "The police," he said, 
 " will want it, and it is as well to satisfy them." 
 At the mention of the word " police " we knew at 
 once whom he resembled. He was Crippen the 
 murderer's double. We didn't like him the better 
 for it ; we couldn't ; and afterwards we had cause, 
 as well, to remember those police papers. They 
 were the first and last we were called upon to sign 
 during the whole of our holiday. Thenceforward 
 the police watched over us themselves. 
 
 On the evening of our arrival, we all sat down 
 together for dinner at one of the long tables. In 
 bad French and worse English we joked and 
 laughed and teased one another. By themselves, 
 in shadow, right at the end of the other long table, 
 sat an old man and an old woman, plainly from
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 351 
 
 the country, who took no part in our merriment. 
 They were dressed in black : they were the kind 
 of people who would dress in black. Hard- 
 working frugality showed itself even in their 
 manner of handling their food. The old man 
 a peasant farmer to the life was clean-shaven. 
 His face was simple and sorrowful, but not with- 
 out traces of a certain cunning about the eyes. 
 His wife's face, framed in a close-fitting velvet 
 bonnet, was also simple ; and at the same time 
 shrewd ; as if she were simple in herself and in 
 her aims, but shrewd and wide awake in her 
 dealings with other people. Sitting very close 
 together, they ate their dinner silently. Then, 
 with a scrap of paper and a pencil, they seemed to 
 be making an account. They had little need for 
 words. Probably they had done the same thing 
 so many many times that each understood what 
 the other was thinking. The wife jotted down 
 the items. The husband nodded. Taking the 
 papers, he appeared to be reckoning up the total, 
 and his wife agreed. They chatted a moment ; 
 put away the paper carefully ; sat for a while again 
 in silence ; got up together ; said " Good-night " 
 very quietly ; and together went to bed. They 
 had held one's eye, and they haunted one's mind, 
 as a statue does when, in its stillness and silence, 
 it succeeds in expressing a whole life lived. 
 
 Next day we hardly saw them. It was blowing 
 a whole gale from the westward. Weather-beaten 
 fishing boats from the more distant fishing grounds 
 were hurrying in for refuge. The women folk 
 awaited them at the end of the jetty. A swell
 
 352 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 running up the harbour, and the flooded River 
 Liane rushing downwards, jammed the craft 
 together in a violently swaying pack. Furious 
 disputes arose along the quayside, wherever a 
 small helpless wooden -built fishing boat was in 
 danger of being crushed between the high iron 
 sides of the larger craft, which also were helpless 
 to prevent their own slow steady ruthless squeez- 
 ing together. Men climbed about like monkeys ; 
 spat curses at each other ; shook their fists in one 
 another's faces ; and then, when the crack came 
 something or other parted or smashed they 
 suddenly became quiet, and with tears in their 
 eyes they clambered down to examine the damaged 
 little boat. 
 
 At dinner in the evening, the old couple were 
 present again, sitting close together at the end of 
 their long table. Very small they looked, and 
 broken. Their hands trembled when they hacked 
 small chunks from the long loaves of bread. 
 They went to bed early, at half-past eight, and it 
 was the old wife who ushered her husband out of 
 the door, as if he had been an invalid child. 
 
 By morning the gale had blown itself out. 
 The fishing fleet in all haste was putting to sea. 
 A small poor-looking fishing boat got blown upon 
 the flat rocks under the head of the jetty, and 
 with a few miserable bumps the breaking water 
 drove her firmly aground. Her two men worked 
 frantically to get her ofF, while the crews of the 
 outgoing steam-boats crowded to the sides and 
 laughed at them. No tug could get near, and 
 besides, it was only a wretched little fisherman-
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 353 
 
 owned craft ; such a craft as modern conditions 
 have doomed to disappear. One of her men fell 
 overboard, and when a line was thrown to her 
 he swam for it. A score of us hauled her off, 
 around the pier-head. They hoisted sail to go up 
 harbour again. " Blow'd if they bain't going 
 home ! " exclaimed Jim contemptuously. " I've 
 a-see'd men scores o' times go to sea like thic 
 chap there. 'Tisn't no good to a man, us 
 knows, for to lie all night in wet clothes, but 
 when the weather's fine an' the fish is there to be 
 catched. ..." 
 
 We had not noticed the old peasant farmer and 
 his wife on the pier. They were standing together 
 in the lee of the lighthouse, looking out to sea, 
 not with the intent gaze of seafaring folk, but 
 with empty eyes. Leaving her husband, the old 
 wife came across and spoke. It was bad weather 
 for fishermen, she said. I remarked that they 
 had been having poor catches, and hoped the 
 weather was not spoiling her visit to Boulogne. 
 " But isn't it too cold for you," I asked her, 
 " here on the end of the jetty ? We have our 
 oilskins, and yet we are chilled to the bone." 
 
 As if a tap had been turned on, she began 
 talking. It was most like the chirping of a bird. 
 She had only two or three large teeth, through 
 which her voice whistled, and her tongue seemed 
 swollen in her mouth so that she could not form 
 her words properly. In addition to which, her 
 dialect was very clipped. Several times I caught 
 the word ben instead of bien, and I tried in vain 
 to recall the Northern French dialect of some 
 
 2 A
 
 354 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 of Maupassant's stories. She seemed to be saying 
 that she had a son who was a fisherman ; that 
 it was a life full of danger ; that fishermen are 
 often lost at sea ; that she had wanted to come 
 and watch the fishing boats out and in. " Pauv' 
 pfaheurs ! Poor fishermen ! " she repeated several 
 times. " Moi^fsuis mere, mot aussi" 
 
 "I am a fisherman's mother," I thought she 
 meant ; therefore I made the best of the weather, 
 and wished him good luck. 
 
 With a curious little gesture of despair, almost 
 of impatience, as if to say, " It's no good ! You 
 are quite useless ! It's all over ! " she returned 
 to her husband, and with short shaky steps 
 they walked back the length of the jetty into 
 the town. 
 
 On our return to the inn, I asked the patronne : 
 " Who were the old couple who sat alone ? Have 
 they a son, a fisherman ? " 
 
 " Mais non I But no ! " she replied. " Oh, 
 it is sad ! Their son is dead. They could not 
 afford to take his body home, into the country, and 
 they came up to bury him yesterday, and now, 
 this morning, they are gone back again. He was 
 their only child, chauffeur in an automobile. He 
 met with a fatal accident just outside Boulogne. 
 // sest tut, leurjils" 
 
 He was killed, their son. ... In a flash 
 I understood what the old lady had been trying 
 to tell me. She had come down to see the fishing 
 boats and to be for a while among the fisher folk, 
 because death is always lurking about a fishing 
 port, and every week or so some man in his
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 355 
 
 strength is drowned, wrecked sometimes, but 
 oftener washed overboard. And she, too, she was 
 a mother who had lost her son. She had come 
 to us for sympathy, and we had not understood. 
 We had wished her son good luck. 
 
 Boulogne is homelike to us. Paris wants 
 plenty of money or plenty of time, and we had 
 not much of either. It was but a junction, so to 
 speak, between the Northern Railway and the 
 Paris-Lyons-Mediterranee. Our train called itself 
 a rapide. It was timed to do the journey to 
 Marseilles in fourteen or fifteen hours. 
 
 We found an empty carriage, hired pillows for 
 the night, spread ourselves about the seats, and 
 told the usual lies. But railway lies are useless 
 except where there are English people to believe 
 them. Gradually our third-class horse-box rilled 
 up. A plump and haughty German young woman 
 took the other end of Jim's longer seat. A young 
 man travelling to Tarascon sat down in the centre. 
 A very jaunty French girl bounced into the 
 carriage, and flung some small baggage with a hat- 
 box on the other end of my shorter seat. Her 
 dress was smart, but a little worn, as if it had 
 been turned. Her face, though heavy in the bone, 
 was fresh and lively. She spoke in a deep con- 
 tralto voice that was rich and at the same time 
 hard, even devil-may-care, in tone. After examin- 
 ing us all with a perfectly frank bold gaze, she 
 decided to make friends with the young man of 
 Tarascon. She smiled at him, winked towards the 
 German young woman, and remarked carelessly
 
 356 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 that there were always a lot of foreigners in the 
 Mediterranean trains. They both smiled. A 
 good-fellowship was established between them. 
 She offered him a cigarette from her case, and 
 lighted one herself. Both the match and the 
 cigarette she knew how to handle. She was all 
 there. 
 
 The German young woman, who hitherto had 
 made no objection either to cigars or cigarettes, 
 immediately began to sniff. She lowered the 
 window. " Smoke stifles me," she said. For 
 a time she held her head out of the window. 
 Then, very quickly, she drew back. Her face 
 was red and screwed up. A big smut had blown 
 into her eye. She rocked herself with pain. She 
 rubbed her eyelids with hands that were all of 
 a shake. She burst into broken exclamations. 
 She was nearly hysterical. 
 
 Thereupon, the French girl said very sweetly : 
 " Permettez-moi) Mademoiselle ! " 
 
 Like a trained nurse, she took command of 
 the German young woman, placed her in the best 
 light, and extracted the smut in several pieces, 
 which she duly exhibited to the unaffected eye. 
 Very neatly she did it. With the aid of the 
 smut she conquered. The German young 
 woman no longer shrank from her company 
 with righteous sniffs. She allowed herself to be 
 laid on the seat, and forthwith fell asleep. We 
 smiled all round. 
 
 Through the long black night the train jogged 
 on. Storms rattled against the windows. After 
 passing Lyons (where the German young woman
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 357 
 
 got out) we could hear from time to time the 
 sound of a great torrent, the Rhone in flood. 
 Faces in the carriage had long since lost their 
 freshness. Even in sleep they were curiously 
 lined. Dawn stole like a ghost into the Rhone 
 valley. It showed up gradually the rocks, the 
 dark olives, and the bare little almond trees. It 
 made us all look ghastly. The sensation of a 
 new day failed to make headway against the 
 sensation of a stale unfinished night. We had 
 still many hours to go. 
 
 At Avignon the young man changed for 
 Tarascon. No one else got in. " I thought," 
 said Jim, " that thic fellow belonged to Miss Ah- 
 wee, there ! " (Having caught the words Ah, out ! 
 in French conversation, Ah-wee became his general 
 nickname for French people.) " If I'd ha' know'd 
 they wasn't no connexion, blow'd if I wouldn't 
 ha' tried to entertain her better than he did." In 
 sign of which, he took her his pillow, put it under 
 her head, and tucked her skirts warmly around 
 her. She smiled gratefully. 
 
 When she awoke, she asked us to look out 
 her trains in our time-table. She was travelling 
 to a town in the interior of Algeria, but knew 
 neither the trains nor the steamers only the 
 route, and not all of that. " Do you know of a 
 hotel at Marseilles ? " she asked. 
 
 We were recommended to two hotels, I told 
 her. 
 
 " I shall have to find a room, a cheap room," 
 she said, " in order to wash and tidy myself 
 whether I go on by the next boat, or not." She
 
 358 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 held out a pair of very dirty hands. We were all 
 of us grimed with railway smoke and smuts. 
 
 " What be you two talking 'bout ? " demanded 
 Jim. 
 
 " Wants a hotel to wash in before her goes 
 on." 
 
 "Well, ask her to come 'long wi' us to the 
 place we'm going to. Her'll come right 'nuff. 
 You see ! " 
 
 " How can us take her to a strange hotel 
 unless we say her's the wife of one o'us ? " 
 
 "Tell 'em her's my ol' woman, then. Her 
 isn't half a bad little client." 
 
 " Thee casn't even talk French to her." 
 
 "Tell 'em her's thine, then." 
 
 " Then how 'bout thee ? S'pose her decides 
 to stay a few days 'long wi' us, 'stead of going 
 straight on to Africa ? " 
 
 " I only wish I could talk the lingo ; I'd ask 
 her to myself." 
 
 " Hast got the coin on thee for to entertain 
 her?" 
 
 "No. /an't." 
 
 " Me nuther. . . ." 
 
 There we were : admirable young lady, good 
 company, plucky, travelling alone, third-class, into 
 Algeria, without any precise information as to 
 trains and boats, and apparently in no great hurry 
 to get there ! What if she found us such nice 
 fellows trh aimables, trh tres gentils ! that she 
 decided to stay with us for a few days ? We 
 hadn't enough money for three. We had no 
 return tickets even.
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 359 
 
 If we ran short of money, we could of course 
 write home for more, and wait its arrival. (It was 
 fortunate we didn't : we should never have re- 
 ceived it.) But suppose, in addition, a telegram 
 came from home, that the herrings were in the 
 bay. Before we started we had heard rumours of 
 great bodies of herrings not far to the westward. 
 Jim would want to fly from Mademoiselle Ah-wee 
 to the herrings. And he would be obliged to 
 wait. Then how he would fret, cuss, worry, com- 
 plain, reckon up imaginary losses, and blame not 
 Mademoiselle Ah-wee, nor circumstances, nor luck, 
 still less himself but me, the unhappy proposer 
 of the holiday ! We should have painted the 
 Mediterranean a deeper blue with Devonian 
 cuss -words. No more holidays together ! It 
 was necessary to be firm. " What's told her ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Told her we shall probably put up at a hotel 
 in the town, but she'll find the Hotel Suisse better 
 for her, because it's on the tram-line to the 
 harbour." 
 
 "Thee hastn't ! " exclaimed Jim. "Well, I 
 reckon thee a't a mump-head ! " 
 
 A mump-head I felt, and had to feel more so. 
 At the Station, Mademoiselle Ah-wee attached 
 herself to us. There was nothing for it but to 
 take her bag and see her to the H6tel Suisse. An 
 ungallant firmness appeared to be more than ever 
 necessary. 
 
 Refusing the services of cabs, touts, and out- 
 porters, we made for the Hotel Suisse and lost 
 our way. Peeping at the plan, we went ahead
 
 360 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 again, and again we came to a standstill. We put 
 down Mademoiselle Ah-wee's bag, and under a 
 tree near an ice-cream stall we examined the plan 
 carefully. It landed us in a network of small 
 steep streets. Finally, a kindly loiterer showed us 
 the Hotel Suisse close at hand. With hardly a 
 " Good-bye ! " (to say au revoir seemed mockery) 
 Mademoiselle Ah -wee disappeared within its 
 narrow doorway. There was something almost 
 deathlike in her going. She had been a bright 
 travelling companion throughout the long weary 
 night, and we knew we should never see her any 
 more. We faced Marseilles afresh. 
 
 And promptly we lost ourselves again. A tout 
 picked us up, and we were glad for him to take us 
 to our hotel in the Place d'Aix. We rang the 
 bell. Part-way up the stairs there was an inner 
 door. Some one came down and peered through 
 the glass at the top of it. " A couple of sailors ! " 
 she shouted up contemptuously. 
 
 We rang again. The patronne herself came 
 down. " We haven't any rooms . . ." she was 
 beginning to say. 
 
 " But Monsieur is recommended," the tout 
 interrupted. 
 
 "By M. Fletcher, the painter, of Paris, who 
 was here last year," I hastened to add. 
 
 " You have come from Paris ? " 
 
 " Certainly. We have travelled all night, and 
 are much too tired to go fooling round Marseilles 
 for rooms." 
 
 " M. Fletcher. . . . Monsieur Flechaire. . . . 
 Yes, yes ! I remember," said the patronne with a
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 361 
 
 very quick change of tone. "This way, gentle- 
 men." 
 
 We cheerfully paid the whole franc that the 
 tout demanded, and followed the patronne to a 
 large cool stone-floored room. Window-shutters 
 darkened it. Dirty as we were, we could hardly 
 keep ourselves from lying down at once, for 
 the night still overshadowed us like a morning 
 fog not yet lifted. It was still, as it were, 
 yesterday. But after we had washed and had 
 changed into clean clothes, we opened one of 
 the shutters and looked out. A morning sun 
 was shining in the untidy square and upon 
 the tattered houses. The Arc de Triomphe, 
 in the centre, cast a very black shadow. An 
 incessant hum of tongues, like a buzz of busy 
 insects, seemed to be welling up through a pool 
 of lazy quietness. The sunshine was tinged with 
 colour. . . . 
 
 We were in the South. We felt we were. 
 Instead of lying down to sleep, we both said at 
 once : " Let's get along out and see w'er there's 
 any lunch to be had. Us can sleep this evening. 
 'Tis a fine day." 
 
 All in a moment, last night had become 
 morning, and yesterday had changed into to-day. 
 Though not from sleep, we were nevertheless 
 awakened. The southern sunlight did it. 
 
 London and Paris are busy in a large way. 
 Marseilles on a smaller scale is busier still more 
 multifariously alive. Not simply a few great 
 nations, but all the tribes of the Mediterranean
 
 362 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 seem to have gathered together there, each in 
 its own dress, with its own speech and habits. 
 Beneath the heavy awnings of the cafes sit officers 
 of the army and navy, soldiers of the African 
 regiments in their semi-oriental uniforms, Turks 
 wearing the fez, and Arabs in soiled white robes, 
 with their burnous wrapped around them. The 
 rapaciousness of the East has come that far west, 
 in order to pursue a ceaseless grasping traffic in 
 small goods for small money. The shops over- 
 flow upon the broad pavements. Touts swoop 
 down on the passers-by. Small boys, with dirty 
 little boxes slung over their shoulders by knotted 
 bits of string, run about everywhere and bother 
 one to have one's boots cleaned. Hawkers hold 
 nick-nacks under one's nose, or more furtively 
 press upon one their smuggled goods and 
 obscenities. Buying and selling, touting and 
 bargaining, spread the whole breadth of the leafy 
 streets. Business in Marseilles has no reticences. 
 The Old Harbour densely packed with sailing 
 vessels, yachts, hulks, ships refitting, lateen-sailed 
 fishing boats, motor craft, small steamers, pleasure 
 boats and ferries pushes its way lengthwise into 
 the heart of the city. Over the far end of the 
 harbour, a tall transporter bridge, gawky in 
 outline, but not ungraceful in the slender 
 strength of its steel wires and lattice-work, seems 
 to be a barrier, a narrow gateway between the 
 seething city and the wide sea. Notre Dame 
 de la Garde uprears itself high on a bare 
 rocky hill to the south of the Old Harbour. 
 Along the coast, away from the hubbub of
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 363 
 
 Marseilles, the purple and blue mountains stand 
 out tranquilly. 
 
 There seemed to be some sort of agreement 
 among the touts and hawkers. We refused their 
 wares ; we rejected their services ; we declined 
 to answer them in English. Therefore they tried 
 us with snippings from a dozen European 
 languages. A half-bred negro, dressed like a 
 welsher on a racecourse, who offered in good 
 English slang to guide us to any Venusberg in 
 Marseilles, became exceedingly angry on my 
 answering in French : " Non ! J'ai dit ' NonJ et 
 fen est assez ! " But although he cursed us up 
 the Cannebiere in still more fluent English, he 
 was the last of his tribe to pester us. Word 
 must have gone round that we were bad eggs, 
 no cop. They let us alone with a suddenness 
 that was almost alarming ; for it made us feel 
 that we were surrounded by a secret organisation 
 for fleecing the likes of us. 
 
 But the small boys with the boot-brush boxes 
 there was no escaping from them, either inside 
 the cafes or out. We called at the post office for 
 our letters, and I left Jim on the high flight of 
 steps that leads up to it. There were no letters 
 for us (which was strange), and when I got 
 outside again, Jim was still in the centre of the 
 steps, hemmed about by a troop of boot-boys, 
 and even girls, most of whom were on their 
 knees around him, hopping up and down like 
 grasshoppers, plucking at his trousers, dabbing 
 at his boots, imploring him to have a beautiful 
 polish, and generally making sport of him.
 
 364 
 
 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 " Git 'long ! " he was saying, while he lifted first 
 one foot, and then the other, away from their 
 busy brushes. " Confound the kids ! What do 
 'em want, so many of 'em ? What be 'em 
 saying ? Git out o'it, ye little hellers ! " 
 
 The faster he swore at them in Devon dialect 
 the more they laughed at him and cheeked him 
 in French. " Monsieur ! Oh, msieur ! Beau 
 cirage ! A lovely shine ! A magnificent shine ! 
 Look, M'sieur, how your boots are filthy ! Deux 
 sous un penny ! A cigarette, then ! " 
 
 And after I had driven them off, they still 
 followed us down the street, crying shrilly : 
 " Une cigarette ! Una cigarette ! Penny ^ msieur ! 
 Anglish ? Eh ? " 
 
 But they are good little kids, the Marseillais 
 boot-boys. A sou a boot is their charge. For 
 three sous and a cigarette they will work most 
 merrily and polish one's boots to perfection. 
 
 Let into the corners of most of the side-streets 
 are fish-stalls where woollen-bonneted old women 
 sell small fish of all shapes and colours ; such 
 grotesque small fish as no one would eat in 
 England, and even chunks of cuttle-fish and 
 squid. On some of the stalls there was a large 
 red-fleshed fish, sold in slices, and a few rather 
 weary-looking mackerel, but most of it was 
 hardly bigger than fry. Were sticklebacks 
 caught at Marseilles doubtless they, too, would 
 all meet their end in a frying-pan. 
 
 According to Baedeker, " the great speciality 
 of Marseilles is the bouillabaisse, of which the
 
 m A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 365 
 
 praises have been sung by Thackeray. This con- 
 sists of a kind of * chowder ' or thick soup, made 
 of fish boiled in oil and white wine and flavoured 
 with saffron, orange -juice, onions, garlic, bay, 
 parsley and cloves." It appeared comprehensive 
 enough, though after seeing on the fish-stalls so 
 much of what we call offal, we were rather inclined 
 to doubt Thackeray. However, just as we were 
 entering the Rue Thubaneau, the street of cheap 
 restaurants, a handbill was shoved into Jim's hand. 
 At the Restaurant de 1' Europe et des Deux 
 Ameriques, they provide (so we read) meals a 
 prix fixe ou a la carte, and bouillabaisse is served 
 every day at any hour. The Restaurant de 
 1'Europe et des Deux Ameriques consisted of one 
 long narrow room down each side of which was a 
 single row of crowded tables. From her desk at 
 the upper end, hedged in by piled-up dishes under 
 an electric light, the patronne surveyed the company 
 like a sleek goddess of gluttony. One waiter, 
 small to deformity, scuttled up and down between 
 the tables, balancing an astonishing number of 
 dishes upon his hands and against his chest. By 
 crying with immense energy : " At once, M'sieur ! 
 This minute ! Yes, yes, it's ordered ! " he made 
 the service seem fast, and kept the customers 
 quiet. Those who entered he welcomed with 
 a cheery " Bon jour, rnsieur 'dame ! " and those 
 who went, making room for more, he sped with 
 a still louder and cheerier " Merci ! Au revoir ! 
 Merci bien ! " He missed one half the orders, 
 but the coming and going of guests he never 
 missed.
 
 366 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 When we asked for dejeuner at 2 fr. 25, one 
 of the fixed prices, he shook his head violently. 
 " But look here," we said, showing him the yellow 
 handbill whereon the dejeuner a 2 fr. 25 was 
 advertised in detail i plate of soup or fish, 
 i plate of meat, 2 vegetables, the salad of the 
 day, cheese, pastry or fruit, wine, and bread at 
 discretion. . . . 
 
 " Oh, that ! " he replied loftily, putting the 
 handbill aside and handing us the priced bill of 
 fare. " You must not take any notice of that. 
 It is only for outside, not for inside. There are 
 no prix fixes inside ; there is only this card, and 
 it has the veritable prices on it. What do you 
 desire ? Bouillabaisse ? Bien, rnsieur ! 
 
 " Bouilla-baisseDEUX!" he shouted. 
 
 " Bouillabaisse, deux ! " the goddess of gluttony 
 echoed. 
 
 It seemed that bouillabaisse was a dish of some 
 ceremony. 
 
 When at last it came, the smell of it caused us 
 to smell at it. So far as we could tell, it was 
 made up of a morsel of salt cod boiled in water, 
 a sodden sippet of stale bread, half an onion, three 
 slices of cold potato and a flavour of garlic. The 
 whole was flooded with gravy which appeared to 
 have come from an ordinary meat stew with some 
 vinegar and fish-water added. Maybe we didn't 
 eat enough of it to find the other flavours. 
 " Bouillabaisse, deux ! Voilh, messieurs ! " the 
 waiter had sing-songed triumphantly when he 
 clapped the plates down in front of us. " Merci 
 bien, messieurs ! Vous commandez . , ," he sing-
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 367 
 
 songed just as triumphantly when we called him 
 to take the stuff away. 
 
 Probably it did for some one else. 
 
 At the head of Old Harbour, where the 
 Cannebiere opens out upon the quays, half-a- 
 dozen motor boats, as smartly kept as a yacht, are 
 moored up for hire. " I wonder," said Jim with 
 a professional interest, " how much an hour they 
 lets 'em out for here. Casn't ask one o'em ? " 
 
 We spoke to a boatman who smiled all over 
 his face, and who might have passed for an 
 English fisherman but for the tilt of his moustache 
 and a certain glint in the eye. Five francs an 
 hour, he told us, was the charge. Ours at home 
 is five shillings. 
 
 " Shall us go and be frights [freights, i.e. boat 
 hirers]," I asked Jim, " and see what 'tis like 
 outside ? " 
 
 " 'Tis a lot of money, isn't it ? " he answered, 
 in almost the same words as our own frights use 
 to us at home. 
 
 Unconsciously I rapped out our stock ex- 
 planation : " Yes ; but see where you can go to in 
 the time." 
 
 Meanwhile, the boatman eyed us just as on 
 our own beach we eye the frights who don't know 
 their own minds. 
 
 " Come on, if thee't coming," said Jim 
 hurriedly. "Else he there '11 be cussing like 
 we cusses 'em sometimes, when they keeps us 
 waiting an' out of another job. I don't mind 
 being a gen'leman for once,"
 
 368 HOW 'TWAS , 
 
 But we did mind. We found it decidedly dull 
 to be frights. We felt strange, having nothing to 
 do in a small boat we who ashore can do nothing 
 at all very nicely for hours together. We missed 
 responsibility, missed being in command : we did 
 not even know the right course. Very soon we 
 began examining the motor a sprawling but 
 stout engine of local make and our knowledge 
 of frighting caused the boatman to look at us 
 suspiciously, till we told him that we, too, had 
 a motor boat and used her for frighting in the 
 summer. At once the trade freemasonry, which 
 overlaps differences of nationality, altered his whole 
 bearing towards us, and he took us to see some 
 fishing. 
 
 Near the lie d'lf one of three rocky islands 
 which have the form and colouring of mountains 
 is a submerged reef, marked at each end by 
 a white tower, and lengthwise along the top of 
 the reef lay a fine great steel cargo steamer. So 
 close was she to the outer tower that her bow, 
 apparently, had knocked the top off it. Partly 
 raised out of the water and canted over to port, 
 she lay like some huge animal, protesting dumbly 
 by its attitude against cruel treatment. It was a 
 clear starlight night, the boatman said, when she 
 went on the reef ; how, he could not or would 
 not explain. A tram conductor told us the rest 
 of the yarn afterwards in a curiously matter-of- 
 fact, cynical tone. " She got out of harbour safely 
 enough," he said, " and steered for the open sea. 
 A beautiful night, beautiful weather. But, you 
 see, le capitano, he was drunk, ivre mort y and
 
 HI A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 369 
 
 most of the crew as well. And then, well then, 
 she ran aground. C'est tout ! " 
 
 That, indeed, was all, and enough. But the 
 great black hull lying there, so shapely and so 
 helpless it was as if she had been murdered. 
 
 A flotilla of fishing boats was paddling about 
 near the inner tower, and on the base of it a net 
 which the boatman called a gangu (gangui seems 
 to be the correct name) was being hauled in by 
 twenty or thirty fishermen. Jim was scandalised. 
 " No wonder," he said, " they there French fisher- 
 men don't average so much each as us do ! Look 
 what a lot o'em 'tis for to share it up amongst, 
 when they do catch ort. 'Tis only like one of 
 our seines, thic net, an' us can haul ours in wi' 
 eight men, or six aye, wi' four, if 'tis four of the 
 likes o' ourselves, an' we'm pushed to it ! A 
 pair of arms don't go for much hereabout, looks 
 so." 
 
 The gangu, in fact, is lighter than our ground- 
 seines which we shoot in a semicircle round a 
 shoal of fish, and then draw ashore by hauling on 
 both ends. Like a seine, it is corked along the 
 head-rope and leaded along the foot, but the wings 
 of it, instead of being made of ordinary mesh, 
 consist only of parallel threads, like fiddle-strings, 
 held together every six inches or so by cross 
 threads from top to bottom. Consequently the 
 wings of the gangu contain very little substance 
 of net, and as they are hauled out of the water 
 they go up together like a loosely-laid rope. The 
 bunt, or centre of the net the last to be hauled 
 in is made of small-scale mesh, and it contains a 
 
 2 B
 
 370 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 pocket, like the cod of a trawl, into which the fish 
 go back. 
 
 Had we been using the net our way, we 
 should have stood or knelt in one place, hauling 
 hand over hand, gripping, puffing, and swearing. 
 The Marseillais fishermen made easier work of it. 
 Each carried in his hand a short lanyard with a 
 small flat cork on the end of it. Advancing to 
 the front he would twirl the lanyard bolas-fashion 
 round the roped-up net, jam the cork behind the 
 standing part, and then, hanging on to the lanyard, 
 would walk back to the rear. There he would 
 unbend his lanyard and amble up to the front 
 again. So they all did, over and over, till the net 
 was in ; forming, on either side of the tower, a 
 circular procession of men, very graceful and 
 light-footed in their rough grass shoes, their 
 faded print shirts, and their bright-coloured scarfs 
 and sashes. 
 
 When the bunt came home they lifted it out 
 of the water with the greatest care. There was 
 scarcely a bushel of fish-fry in it, and nothing 
 larger. " Why, 'tisn't a drink apiece for 'em," 
 Jim was saying, when we saw a fish jump, and 
 suddenly the sea was all alive with them, boiling 
 and splashing on every side of us, so thick that 
 they turned the water from blue to green. 
 " Lookse, lookse ! " cried Jim, as he yells it out 
 on our own beach. " Lookse, there's fish ! 
 What sort is it at all ? An't none o'em got 
 another net for to shoot ? Lookse ! There they 
 be again ! An' they chaps there got to stand 
 looking at 'em ! Aye," he went on, sitting down
 
 Hi A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 371 
 
 in the boat, "can see that fishing here is the 
 same thing as 'tis at home. You shoots your net 
 for a maund-full, and then, 'fore you've got time 
 to boat it again, the fish plays up in thousands. 
 I wish I know'd w'er Dick an' they have a-catched 
 any herrings at home. 'Tis funny us an't had no 
 letter. . . ." 
 
 It was more than funny. We knew that 
 letters must have been sent, yet not a single one 
 was delivered to us either at the Poste Restante 
 or our hotel. And we badly wanted to know what 
 the herrings were doing, for if the herrings are 
 missed, when they do come, it is a winter's work 
 as good as lost. We read in the newspapers, 
 moreover, that the Boulogne herring drifters had 
 been caught in a great storm. Several boats were 
 lost and many men drowned. That decided us. 
 Because Boulogne is homely to us, we wanted to 
 be there, too, in its time of mourning. The lists 
 of the drowned told us nothing : we did not 
 know our friends' surnames. They had been so 
 jolly and so full of life. . . . 
 
 Perhaps, also, we should find letters in Paris. 
 What if our own boats had been caught out in 
 the same storm ? The floods in the valley of the 
 Seine were still rising. Paris might soon become 
 impassable. 
 
 Therefore, in the evening, we went up to 
 the station and took our third-class tickets, and 
 found a carriage empty enough to sleep in. 
 Daylight, next morning, revealed a desolation of 
 flood. On the left-hand side of the railway, the
 
 372 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 snug little towns and villages, perched safely on 
 the hillside around their churches, were just 
 waking up. On the other side, stretching away 
 to the far hills, was a lifeless expanse of muddy 
 water, above which, in some places, only the roofs 
 of the houses showed. In Paris itself, horses up 
 to their bellies in water were hurriedly taking 
 builders' materials away from the riverside quays. 
 No letters were waiting for us, and among the 
 packets from Paris not delivered to us at Marseilles 
 there had been, we found, a couple of letters and 
 a small parcel. Neither the French nor English 
 post had reached us. We wondered more than 
 ever. 
 
 At Etaples, the next stop before Boulogne, two 
 railway men with their baskets and coffee-cans got 
 into the carriage. At once they began talking 
 about the storm and wrecks. "The English 
 steamer," said one of them, " smashed into the 
 fishing boat and then steamed away for England, 
 leaving them to drown." 
 
 "But," we objected, "it's difficult to under- 
 stand that, because English ships have a reputation 
 for standing-by in case of accident and English 
 seamen are proud of it. How was it the steamer 
 didn't stand-by ? " 
 
 He did not answer the question, but went on 
 talking in a hasty broken voice. Saying, " I'll 
 explain it to you," he explained nothing. He was 
 too full of it too much possessed by the grief of 
 a town hard hit. Inquiries were useless. Reason- 
 ing was beside the point. " Oh, it was shameful ! "
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 373 
 
 he kept on saying, " twenty or more men drowned, 
 who were alive, and now are dead." One knows 
 it is the instinct of people in the first violence of 
 their grief to blame somebody, whether justly or 
 not, and we listened in silence, trusting that there 
 was an explanation and that English seamanship 
 had not disgraced itself on the shores of France. 
 
 Soon enough, in the quietened town, we 
 learnt the whole pitiful tale. Out of Boulogne 
 and its neighbouring villages, thirty-seven men 
 were lost. They mostly had wives and children. 
 
 The previous Thursday had been the first fine 
 day after a succession of gales. So fine it was, 
 and calm, that seven custom-house men went 
 whiting fishing, four in one small boat and 
 three in another. The four were all drowned, 
 and the other three, driven ashore at Wimereux, 
 only saved themselves by clinging to the rocks 
 half the night. 
 
 On such a fine day, when the weather appeared 
 to have settled, hopes were high among the fishing 
 folk that at last the herring season was going to 
 begin. For herrings mean food to eat and coal to 
 burn through the winter ; money to spend or 
 save, and employment about the quays. Life in 
 a fishing port quickens its pace when the herrings 
 come along. Most of the drifters put to sea, one 
 after another down the long narrow harbour channel 
 and out between the jetties. Most of them were 
 still at sea, away to the westward, when, about ten 
 in the evening, a sudden violent storm, with hail 
 and thunder in it, came up from the sou' west. 
 The sea made rapidly.
 
 374 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 Among the craft farthest from port was the 
 Suffren, one of the largest sailing drifters, carrying 
 twenty-one men and three boys. When the first 
 of the squall struck her she was about to shoot 
 her nets a second time : already she had seventeen 
 thousand mackerel and four hundred measures of 
 herrings aboard. So threatening was the weather, 
 so fast did a heavy sea make, that she harded up 
 for home, and about half-past three in the night 
 she was hauling her wind in order to round the 
 western jetty close to it, and thus enter the harbour 
 channel well to windward. Another minute and 
 she would have been inside. 
 
 At that moment the Malta, a small cargo 
 steamer, one of a line that stops for no weather, 
 was going out of harbour, bound in ballast for 
 Goole. It was pitch dark, the air thick with a mist 
 of spray. 
 
 The Malta held on her course. The Suffren 
 was bound to hold on hers. She could not steer 
 to the right, for in that case she would have run 
 upon the jetty. Nor could she steer to the left 
 without of a certainty running into the Malta. 
 Her starboard light was invisible to the steamer. 
 
 "Luff! Luff!" yelled the fishermen as one 
 man, but their cries were lost in the turmoil of 
 the storm. In order to meet the seas bow-on, in 
 that tricky harbour entrance, the Malta had to do 
 rather the reverse. She crashed into the port 
 quarter of the Suffren. 
 
 The Suffren 5 mainmast came down on her deck, 
 killing two fishermen and the donkey-engine man. 
 The water rushed into the hole, washing over-
 
 111 A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 375 
 
 board the ship's punt together with a fourth man 
 who happened to be in her. Without steerage- 
 way, though kept afloat by her empty barrels and 
 net buoys, the Suffren drove along before the wind 
 and sea and tide. But for her buoyancy, she 
 would have sunk there and then, and each fishing 
 boat, as it ran home for safety, would have added 
 itself to one awful pile of wreckage in the harbour 
 mouth. Grazing the end of the eastern jetty, she 
 lurched along to the sands opposite the Casino. 
 There she bumped and stuck at a distance out, 
 for the water on that side is shallow. Great 
 breaking waves foamed over the deck where the 
 remainder of the crew had taken what refuge they 
 could. Except when flashes of lightning lit up 
 the leaping white combers, the wreck was no more 
 than a shapeless blot on the thick darkness. 
 
 The Malta, unable to stand-by among the 
 shoals and cross-currents, unable to hang about 
 outside in such a sea, unable to do anything, 
 steamed ofFfor England. 
 
 Then, between two peals of thunder, the life- 
 boat gun was fired. Lifeboat's men, pilots, fisher- 
 men ashore, all ran down to the lifeboat-house on 
 the eastern jetty. Fifteen men were wanted to 
 man the boat. Thirty volunteered. The Provi- 
 dence was launched down her slip-way, under- 
 neath the deck of the jetty, into the harbour 
 channel, and the steam pilot-boat towed her out- 
 side. The crew rowed frantically to reach the 
 Suffren. Just as they were coming alongside, 
 a huge wave carried away the starboard oars. 
 Spare oars were put out, and then a still greater
 
 376 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 HI 
 
 wave wrenched out of their hands every oar in the 
 boat. She drifted helplessly, and being lighter 
 than the Suffren, she ran aground a little to the 
 east of her and farther in. All the crew got 
 ashore through the surf. 
 
 The Providence could not be refloated where 
 she was, and still the cries of those aboard the 
 Suffren were coming down the wind. Willing 
 hands rushed up town to the offices of the Societe 
 Humaine, and hauled out a second smaller lifeboat, 
 the Farmer. They dragged her on her carriage to 
 the slip-way on the lee side of the jetty, and there 
 they were stopped. In order to prevent the cart- 
 ing away of sand, the town authorities had planted 
 stout wooden posts across the road up from the 
 shore. Help could not be obtained ; for two 
 hours that night they called up the telephone ex- 
 change without reply. The lifeboat crew flung 
 themselves on the posts. Unable to loosen them 
 in the ground, they broke them off. A way was 
 made. The Farmer was launched. The same 
 crew to a man went off in her. 
 
 For three-quarters of an hour they fought to 
 get near the Suffren, while broken seas ran through 
 them from stem to stern. Meanwhile, the rocket 
 apparatus was tried, but against so much wind the 
 rockets failed to carry. 
 
 At last the second coxswain was able to make 
 a jump for the Suffren. The Farmer was brought 
 alongside. But although the coxswain warned 
 them, although their own skipper begged them 
 on his knees to keep their heads, the crew of the 
 Suffren had been so exhausted by cold, so over-
 
 in A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 377 
 
 strung by waiting, so mazed by the infernal black 
 confusion of wind and water, that they leapt pell- 
 mell into the lifeboat. Only the skipper, the 
 coxswain and one fisherman remained on board 
 the wreck. 
 
 The Farmer cast off to go home. Overweighted, 
 caught in an eddy, lurched high by a tremendous 
 wave, she turned turtle completely. One of her 
 crew, an apprentice pilot whose father and brother 
 had met their death in trying to save life, was 
 bashed head foremost against the wreck. Later 
 on, the sea washed up his corpse on the beach. 
 All the rest were thrown into the water, from 
 which they were dragged by those ashore, some 
 struggling blindly in the darkness, some un- 
 conscious, some dying, and several already dead. 
 
 The Farmer, which had righted herself, was 
 caught near the end of the eastern jetty. Another 
 crew put off in her, and succeeded in bringing 
 home the last three men from the wreck. 
 
 All night and far on into the next day the 
 doctors and their assistants worked at the Societe 
 Humaine, reviving the living, trying to drag back 
 the dying from death, and laying out the dead. 
 Fathers became conscious only to hear of the 
 death of their sons, sons to be told their fathers 
 were gone. Women refused to be told that their 
 men and boys were dead. 
 
 That night, eight fishing boats out of Boulogne 
 were lost, and most of their crews with them. 
 The storm continued. 
 
 On the evening of our arrival we could just
 
 378 HOW 'TWAS 
 
 in 
 
 glimpse the Suffren^ a dark patch in the surf, as 
 they had glimpsed her who tried to save her crew. 
 The harbour was crammed with craft of all kinds 
 in a broken-spirited disorder. Our cafe, Le Bon 
 Pecheur^ was empty and sad. Outside, it blew in 
 gusts and rained. 
 
 Next day the wind had veered, and at low tide 
 we went down on the shore. The Suffren had 
 been broken up by the sea broken so violently 
 that even the stout piece of oak which formed her 
 stem was split straight up the middle, as if by 
 a sledge-hammer and wedges. In one spot on 
 the sand lay her deck ; in another place one of 
 her sides, turned upside down, like a whaleback ; 
 farther on was her other side, still fast to the keel ; 
 and in yet another place her mast with some of its 
 tackle tangled around it. Nets, buoys, spars and 
 cordage were strewn far and wide, partially buried 
 up in the sand. A very thin horse, harnessed to 
 a long chain, was tearing the warp out of what 
 had been the Suffren s hold, and every time it 
 strained at the chain the mass of sand and coal 
 heaved horribly and cracked, as if dead bodies 
 were forcing their way up through. Hastily the 
 work was being done ; for the Suffren had been 
 sold to the ship-breakers, who were trying to save 
 what they could before she sank altogether into 
 the sand. 
 
 "'I wonder," said Jim, bending down to look 
 beneath the wreckage, " I wonder if there's other 
 o' they fishing chaps still in under there." 
 
 But we did not look very hard. We might 
 have seen a limb, a hand, or a head sticking out,
 
 A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 379 
 
 sodden and discoloured, or ragged by the sand- 
 crabs. It was sad enough to see the ship herself, 
 lying in little black jagged scrap-heaps upon the 
 wide flat sands, with the lines of her dismembered 
 hull not totally broken up beyond recognition. 
 
 A little farther still, they were trying to haul 
 the stranded lifeboat over the sand, in order to 
 launch her and take her into harbour ; and being 
 harbour men, unused to beaching boats, were 
 making very bad work of it. We, who are used 
 to beaches, could have told them how better to do 
 it. But we thought, perhaps, that they wanted to 
 spin the job out, and we did not wish to spoil it 
 for them. No doubt they needed the money 
 badly enough. So we held our tongues. 
 
 Inside the harbour the fleet was putting to 
 sea. Once more the quays were animated. Very 
 noticeable were some lumbering coffin - shaped 
 boats with bluff bows, high sterns, enormously 
 tall mainmasts, and notches cut in the stern-posts 
 for steps. They belonged to St. Valery-sur- 
 somme, where they have to be launched through 
 the surf on flat sands, and the crews climb up the 
 stern-post at the moment of floating off. On the 
 night of the great storm they had run to Boulogne 
 for shelter. Now they were going home, and 
 hoping to make a catch on the way. Their hulls 
 were clumsily patched, their gear was old, and 
 their crews were ragged and dirty. A quarrel was 
 in progress which made the bystanders roar with 
 laughter. One of the crew, a young man whose 
 red face belonged to what is called the criminal 
 type, had come from a cabaret crying-drunk, and
 
 380 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 the skipper, a stunted old man who resembled an 
 unshaven smoked monkey, was trying for safety's 
 sake to send him below. Persuasion had no 
 effect. Kindness he flung off. They bawled at 
 each other in an outlandish dialect. They ran 
 about the narrow deck, raising their fists to heaven. 
 They hit out and missed ! The younger man 
 all but fell overboard. With quick regret the 
 grubby old skipper threw his arms round the 
 younger man's neck and pressed on his face a 
 flabby kiss ; then held him at arm's length and 
 gazed at him proudly. 
 
 Perhaps it was the old man's son, or his grand- 
 son. In any case they had been at sea together, 
 and now were going again. Their great barked 
 lugsail was hoisted and a rope was thrown to a 
 steam drifter which had offered to tow them out 
 of harbour. But in shifting from the quayside 
 the steam drifter collided with the little boat from 
 St. Valery and smashed her gunwale. The skipper 
 wrung his hands : the young man raved more 
 furiously than ever. He pulled off his jumper 
 and jersey. Three of his mates, hanging on to 
 him at once, could scarcely prevent him from going 
 aboard the steamer to avenge the little boat. The 
 steamer's men cast off the tow-rope with gestures 
 of tolerant contempt, and the men of St. Valery, 
 followed by the jeers of the onlookers, had to 
 work their way slowly out of harbour with their 
 long oars. 
 
 Notwithstanding which, they did go to sea. 
 All the boats went to sea : drifters, trawlers, long- 
 liners and hand-liners. On the night of the wrecks
 
 ,n A THIRD-CLASS JOURNEY 381 
 
 every resource had failed, except human courage 
 and endurance. And now again, while the Sujfren 
 was sinking into the sands, the love of life, the 
 need of food to eat, was driving men out to that 
 same sea which had been so deadly. 
 
 Driving men to sea, one says, but perhaps 
 should rather be said that the sea with its chances 
 was drawing them ; for they were going out of 
 harbour as fast as the tugs could take them, 
 cheerily and full of hopes for a catch. Greater, it 
 seemed, than the heroism of the storm was the 
 common daily courage of all those fishermen in 
 merely earning their livelihood. As Jim re- 
 marked : " 'Tis a won'erful thing, after a night 
 like thic there, that anybody has the heart for to 
 do it." 
 
 Their energy infected us. We wanted more 
 than ever to know what was doing in our own 
 bay, and by the next mail boat we hurried back to 
 England. There were no herrings ; our herring- 
 harvest was not to come for a couple of months. 
 But we did find that several letters and post-cards 
 had been sent us from various places to the right 
 addresses in France. Such a series of losses in 
 the post, coupled with the fact that after the first 
 occasion in Boulogne we were never asked to fill 
 up police-papers at any hotel, and that more than 
 once we nearly ran into men extraordinarily like 
 French detectives, can only point to one con- 
 clusion, namely, that the French police wanted 
 to know our business and took charge of our 
 correspondence. Spectacles are almost unknown
 
 382 HOW 'TWAS m 
 
 among English seamen : it may be that mine led 
 the police to believe I was a German who spoke 
 English suspiciously well. At all events, we trust 
 they had an enjoyable time shadowing us ; and if 
 by any chance they should ever read this, then 
 they'll know what our business was a fishermen's 
 holiday. 
 
 THE END 
 
 Printed by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinhirgh
 
 By STEPHEN REYNOLDS 
 
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