THE ISSUE 
 
 EDWARD NOBLE 
 
 

 
 72 
 
 x^
 
 THE ISSUE
 
 T h e Issue 
 
 A Story of the 
 River Thames 
 
 By 
 
 EDWARD NOBLE 
 
 Author of "The Edge of Circumstance" 
 
 " The ited ye tow another reaft; 
 The wealth ye find another keeps; 
 Tht robes }e weave another wean; 
 fhe arms ye forge another tears." SHELLEY. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 Doubleday, Page & Company 
 1907
 
 Copyright, 1906 and 1907, by 
 
 Doubleday, Page & Company 
 
 Published, February, 1907 
 
 All rights reserved, 
 
 including that of translation into foreign languages, 
 including the Scandinavian
 
 PUBLISHER'S NOTE 
 
 This story originally appeared in England under the title 
 Fislterman's Gat. 
 
 203627*4
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART i. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 VI. 
 
 VII. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 VI. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 VI. 
 
 VII. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 IX. 
 
 X. 
 
 and a 
 
 The Legend of the Gat ... 3 
 Susie Watches a Procession . . 20 
 Saunderson Seeks Advice . . -27 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe Deals the Cards . 36 
 And Plays her Hand . . .48 
 Susie Revokes . . . . 56 
 The Inquisitor 63 
 
 en and <HWt 9a0ttr 
 
 The Master . . . . .69 
 
 The Sea-wall . ., . '. . . 80 
 Clack . . . . . .90 
 
 Micky Doolan Explains ... 94 
 Mother Keyne . . . . .100 
 
 The Woman Pays . . . .109 
 
 <&|)e laitJec of Eife 
 
 Inquisitorial . . . . .123 
 Sutcliffe's Return .... 126 
 
 The Search 134 
 
 Saunderson Plays a Trump . . 141 
 Sutcliffe Seeks a Reply . . .148 
 The Difficulty of Belief . . .159 
 A Curtain Lecture . . . .170 
 Zulu Supplies a Parallel . . 174 
 
 The Methods of the Scorcher . .185 
 In Limine , , , 194
 
 PART iv. 
 
 ot tfie 
 
 PART v. 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 VI. 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 V. 
 
 PART vi. 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 VI. 
 
 VII. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Saunderson Moves 
 Conditional . 
 Tom's Defence . 
 The Sea-wall 
 The Sluckit-sasser 
 Tooth and Nail 
 
 feaunumfon 
 
 The Prophecy of Old Moore 
 
 Tony Produces his Link 
 
 The Strike 
 
 Finem Respice 
 
 Snuffles .... 
 
 "10UU C&auntUt" 
 
 A Woman Passes 
 
 The Freedom of a Slave 
 
 Mrs. Surridge Gives Advice 
 
 Saunderson 's Luck Changes 
 
 Mrs. Surridge Moves 
 
 BillMarley . . . 
 
 A Challenge . 
 
 The Issue . 
 
 The Two who Sowed . 
 
 209 
 218 
 228 
 238 
 246 
 
 253 
 
 267 
 
 275 
 284 
 
 33 
 3H 
 
 323 
 333 
 338 
 346 
 
 352 
 363 
 378 
 384 
 39 J 
 
 Epilogue . 
 
 406
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Jim Saunderson, a skipper of coasting vessels and a labour 
 leader. An agitator of meagre education but 
 with the gift of speech. Leader of the Riverton 
 Strike and a man of passionate characteristics, 
 handicapped throughout by his dread of the 
 supernatural " the Curse of the Gat " as he 
 terms it. 
 
 Susie Sutcliffe, a mistress in a Church school, and refined 
 and gentle beyond her station. She is the belle 
 of the village, and is loved by the two men, 
 Saunderson and Elliott. 
 
 Jack Elliott, skipper of the tug, Stormy Petrel, who, in the 
 work of salving a derelict becomes involved also 
 in the Curse of the Gat. A fact of which he 
 does not know, and if he knew, one at which he 
 would laugh. A quick tempered and rather im- 
 petuous character. One of the more modern 
 Thames skippers. 
 
 Micky Doolan, a yarn-spinning Irishman, mate of the Tanta- 
 lus, and later, skipper of the Stormy Petrel. 
 
 Wakeley Dunscombe, the men's master. A hard man who 
 grinds his hands in the mill of competition with- 
 out remorse. 
 
 The Scorcher, his successor and a chip of the old block.
 
 Tony Crow, the village blacksmith. Strong, honest, and not 
 swift of comprehension. 
 
 George Sutcliffe, an old type " Thames skipper," a man 
 going slowly down hill; oppressed by his wife's 
 oratory, staggered by her biblical quotations 
 and conscious only of his love for "the Lass," 
 Susie, the child of a former marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Surridge, Susie's aunt, wife of Tom Surridge, a small 
 farmer living on the Thames borderland. The 
 pair act as father and mother to the girl after 
 she leaves Abbeyville. 
 
 Sailors, bargees, shipwrights, " Cementies." 
 
 SCENE 
 
 Abbeyville, Riverton, Swinfleet towns and villages on 
 the Thames between Long Reach and the Nore. The 
 Estuary, London Docks, and the old river.
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 Far out admidst the labyrinth of shoals which throng the 
 river's mouth lies Fisherman's Gat. 
 
 A narrow strip of seething foam marks the place at low 
 water; but when the tide is high, and the sea smooth, small 
 vessels can pass the bar in perfect safety. 
 
 It is the fisherman's gateway through the Long Sands, and 
 saves many a mile to those who use it. Some en no account 
 would make a passage there; others laugh and blithely sail 
 on. But the superstition which was woven about the place 
 deep in the shadow of by-gone years, dies slowly, and those 
 who believe will go far to avoid the misery of the curse. 
 
 For here, in the path of the Gat, on soft, sheen ey nights 
 when the moon is only thinly veiled; or when the Gat has 
 bared its teeth before the spume and smother of a southeast 
 gale, sounds drive down the wind and a shadow of a man is 
 seen, sometimes rowing, sometimes standing, sometimes 
 struggling with a boat and the curse of the Gat falls on all 
 who see him at his task.
 
 PART I. 
 
 TWO MEN AND A MAID
 
 part I 
 cuio e^en ana a 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 
 
 NO WIND, high water, sundown and a schooner 
 crawling slowly up the Black Deeps. 
 
 The river eyed her sleepily. It made pictures of her 
 rigging, her sails, her attenuated masts; it sketched very 
 correctly a dangling jib sheet with a too large block, hanging 
 from the bows; then threw out little rills, soft, oily, indefinite, 
 and the picture was blurred. It took now the appearance of 
 a drawing carelessly blotted. The lines became straggled, the 
 sails blotched and ragged, the ropes efforts of a tribe of spiders 
 with inky legs; again, in a moment, it stood perfect. The 
 rills had vanished. The river slept. 
 
 Across the sky a lightship began a succession of pale flashes, 
 then relapsed into apathy. Farther afield the Kentish Knock* 
 swept the horizon with a methodical swing that drew attention 
 to the isolation of its post: over in the south the Edinburgh* 
 blinked like a busy star on a frosty night, holding a race with 
 the Deeps,* and beating it shamefully. 
 
 From somewhere on the schooner's decks came a voice: 
 "Dead cawlm an* the wind south." It added after a pause, 
 
 *Lightships in the estuary.
 
 4 THE ISSUE 
 
 as though questioning this pronouncement; "stick out your 
 lights then maybe we'll see where it is." 
 
 Some one yawned. 
 
 In the silence it seemed that the river took up the sound and 
 pushed it into the picture. The water swirled in oily stretches 
 and fell with a rush past the cutwater: it looked up the rudder 
 trunk, gurgling and full of strange anxiety; it lapped in the 
 grass and slime of the bends and grew quiet, lazily quiet in its 
 march to the flat, gray sea. 
 
 A man came to the rail and hung out the sidelights two 
 small dabs of colour. The schooner now looked like a toy, 
 standing on a sheet of glass and illuminated, for children to 
 play with. High up amidst the shadows aloft the sails flapped 
 the rigging. The sound held the echo of cheers, the clapping 
 of hands, laughter. 
 
 The river smiled at the notion of additional colour. It 
 took the dabs on its brush and put them into the picture. 
 Like the wax of two guttered candles, crooked and inclined to 
 blob, they ran down to the margin red, green. 
 
 Far up the Deeps, where the shadows were grayer and less 
 luminous, where sea and sky melted into one, a piercing eye 
 appeared, scintillating and throwing out rays. It was as 
 though a hole had been punched in the grayness and a light 
 stood behind. Beneath it again were two small dabs of colour 
 green, red. A shadow lay behind all three which the water 
 mimicked faithfully. 
 
 A tall, squarely built man moved from the wheel and stared 
 into the depths. He had the air of one supremely alert as he 
 stood there marking the lights and watching the shadow grow- 
 ing so rapidly abeam. The sails clanged in the darkness. 
 Chains rattled. The mainsail fell to leeward with a slap that 
 lifted the boom from its somnolence and the picture quivered
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 5 
 
 with its fall. The gleaming eyes approached swiftly in the 
 form of an equilateral triangle, the apex of which was white. 
 From the shadow came a dull rumbling as of a distant 
 train. 
 
 The man moved back to the wheel and rattled it down. 
 "Just my thunderin' luck," he growled; ''wind nowhere, 
 kites* all up and down the mast like a yard of pumpwater." 
 Then, after a considerable pause: "Stand by to down kellickf 
 an' some of you come aft an' trip the luff of this flamin' 
 whanger."^ 
 
 The crew shuffled to obey orders and the man resumed his 
 watch. The eyes fascinated him. They appeared disdain- 
 fully conscious of the power which drove them. They seemed 
 to hint at the ease with which that small schooner could be 
 wiped from the riverscape and blotted from remembrance. 
 Again he shouted gruffly : " Blow your horn there, some one ! " 
 and remained at attention. 
 
 A faint purr, husky and supremely inefficient, fell upon the 
 silence. The shadow swerved slightly, rumbled into promi- 
 nence, swept across the bow, and passed into the haze. A 
 swell, trailing like a sinuous snake, followed in its wake. It 
 crossed the schooner's track and she rolled to the music of 
 slammed doors. Her head strayed idly round the compass, 
 she appeared profoundly disturbed by the sudden awakening; 
 she brought her eyes over to examine the vanishing steamer 
 and the man growled: "Manopolies . . . wage-cutters 
 ., . . sweaters! Lumme! if I had my way wiv you, you 
 might say your prayers." His glance fell on the crew watching 
 with stolid unconcern and he shouted further instructions: 
 "Let go! Drop your stays'ls on the cap. Clew up an' give her 
 forty-five when she bites." 
 
 *Sails. f Anchor. {The mainsail.
 
 6 THE ISSUE 
 
 He spoke as though he proposed giving a meal to a famished 
 dog: but the men knew that no feast was in preparation. They 
 crossed the deck and started a long-drawn minor shout; the 
 sails clanked, fell with a rush, and the jingling note of a loosed 
 cable filled the night with jets of sound. He who had set 
 these wheels in motion turned on his heel and went below. 
 He was the Bluebell's skipper Saunderson. 
 
 In select circles, at home in Abbeyville, this man was spoken 
 of with some awe as Capting Saunderson; but among his 
 confreres of the river he was more generally known as"Win'- 
 bag." Two years ago Abbeyville had never heard of him; 
 then came a rumour which stated definitely that a "shadda" 
 hung over him. But whether the shadow was fluctuating or 
 permanent, visionary or substantial, none of his friends were 
 decided. They appreciated the fact that the newcomer was 
 a strong man, a prosperous skipper who spoke the language 
 of the Thames and had saved "a tidy bit of money"; for those 
 were points in his favour which any self-respecting community 
 may be expected to accept on sight. Saunderson moved com- 
 fortably in the knowledge. 
 
 Night had fallen when he returned to the deck a quiet 
 night, dark, hazy, profoundly somnolent. The schooner's 
 lamp, hanging on the foremost swifter, shed a halo of blurred 
 light across planks which were wet and black with dew. All 
 around her, eyes blinked, winked, revolved racing one against 
 the other and shouting of the dangers they surveyed. Far in 
 the northeast a flicker ran down the heavens; it appeared 
 like a crooked wire, fused in another world. 
 
 Saunderson halted on the edge of the companion-way, look- 
 ing into the darkness. A minute circular glow of red fire, 
 standing beside him, showed the outline of a man's face, the 
 tip of his nose and the marking of his brows. The skipper
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 7 
 
 approached, grumbling. "In another hour," he said, "it'll 
 be thick as peas-pudden and twice as nasty a day late, too!" 
 
 The circular patch moved in the darkness, and a voice said 
 with a trill: "Arrah! give ut a rest. In another hour the 
 moon will be up an' scoffin' ut." 
 
 "Pish!" said the skipper. 
 
 The voice replied very confidently: "I know ut. You 
 wait." And again the patch glowed. 
 
 "D'you lease this strip of sea, mate?" Saunderson ques- 
 tioned with a tinge of sarcasm. "For if so, I'd thank you for 
 a draught of air. Enough to shove the old Bluebell out of 
 the traffic for a start." 
 
 Micky Doolan, the mate, sucked placidly. "There'll be 
 enough wind prisintly," he announced, "sthill, if I had been 
 masther, we would have been anchored at the head of the 
 Deeps an' not here." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because av things there's no accountin' for." 
 
 "So?" said Saunderson, in a smaller voice, "an' what's 
 that when you've done wiv it?" 
 
 "The curse av the Gat." 
 
 "Ah!" and again in more resolute tones: "I never heard 
 of it." 
 
 The mate withdrew his pipe and waved it solemnly. 
 "Wance," he said, "I laid here before an' now, if you ask 
 me, I'd give me soul-case to be out av ut." He resumed 
 smoking with the air of a man who knows of what he speaks, 
 and lay back on the skylight. 
 
 Saunderson threw a quick glance over his shoulder and 
 strolling to the rail stood counting the leaping signals. Out 
 of nothingness they sprang, into nothingness they retired; 
 like men who fight and struggle for eminence, so they whirled
 
 8 THE ISSUE 
 
 from space, threw their lights, faded and died. He watched 
 them without intention and found himself rivetted. They 
 mocked at his bearing and discovered something abject in his 
 questionings "The lives of men the lives? Chks! they 
 came from nothing, into nothingness they sank." There was 
 no doubt none. He swore it. 
 
 Facing the darkness and in the hush of that lonely anchorage, 
 with the tremor of a new thought, monstrous and ineradicable, 
 he found those jerked flashes annoying. He turned to recross 
 the deck and a sudden flicker sizzled down the heavens. He 
 waited for the thunder, and a faint growl broke out as he re- 
 sumed his seat by the mate. " They're playin' bowls up there !" 
 he cried. "You're right about the wind." 
 
 "If it would come widout any more parleyin', glory be! 
 Amin!" the voice trilled. 
 
 Saunderson struck a match and applied it to his pipe, ques- 
 tioning with a ghost of merriment, "Why, what's adrift wiv the 
 place ? " 
 
 "Don't I tell ye? Sorr, there's iv'rythin' against ut 
 iv'rythin'! How do I know? Glory be! didn't I lie here 
 in the Flyin* Cloud an' see? Tom Mace wass skipper; Dick, 
 Bunny, Walt Thompson, an' Geordie wass the crew. Whhat's 
 come av them all? Whhat's come av the Flyin' Cloud? 
 Where's a livin* soul out av all hands bar me?" 
 
 For some minutes silence ensued. The mate puffed lazily 
 at his pipe, nursing his knee with clasped hands. 
 
 "You've always got some da wg 'eared yarn on the stocks," 
 the skipper grumbled at length; "what if they are all gone 
 under? They aren't the first, are they?" 
 
 "No; but here there was a cause. I'm tellin' you, moind." 
 
 Again there was a small interval. Micky Doolan somewhat 
 ostentatiously refilled his pipe; Saunderson seemed content
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 9 
 
 to ponder on the notion which had leaped into being at his 
 words. Then the Irishman's voice came out of the stillness 
 saying sturdily: "Whhat comes av the spirut av a man whin 
 the breath's gone out av him ?" 
 
 "It don't run to spirits in general, Micky we mostly take 
 it out in beer," the skipper returned with a dull laugh. 
 
 The mate took no heed. 
 
 "D'ye think," he resumed, "that if a man kills his wife or 
 thurns her into the streets, her ghost don't walk an' fret him?" 
 
 Saunderson twisted uneasily and glanced over his shoulder 
 as a vivid flash lighted the northern heavens, "If I thought 
 that," he growled out, "I'd cut me throat an' a done wivit." 
 
 "Whhat for would ye do that? Played out alridy?" 
 
 A dangerous gleam whipped into Saunderson's eyes as the 
 distant thunder rolled an accompaniment to his speech. 
 "You're right, Micky," came the answer, moodily reverting 
 to the former thesis, "but if I were in the case you speak of 
 I'd see my bread buttered thick for the time that's left. Gawd! 
 a man would be a fool to go before his time or while there's 
 honey in the pot." 
 
 "Honey in the pot?" the mate questioned puffing at a pipe 
 which glowed. 
 
 "The world's a honey pot, my son, wiv all the sweets that's 
 the women lyin' in the middle. The men are the flies, an' 
 they come buzzin' around lookin' after the sweets. But it's 
 only the strong that get a look in. The weakly ones die and 
 the strong stumble over their bodies to get at the sweets, an' 
 the sweets like them best." 
 
 "They say you've had your share av the shwates alridy," 
 Micky flashed in merriment. 
 
 "Who in flames says that?" 
 
 "Asy, Skip how do I know who says ut first, annyway?"
 
 io THE ISSUE 
 
 "If I had him here I'd twist the damned tongue out av 
 him." 
 
 The mate withdrew his pipe and watched the skipper agape. 
 Saunderson noting the look pulled himself together with a 
 swift turn. "Let it slide," he growled, "an' if you do tumble 
 across anyone wiv too much slack at the back of his tongue, 
 let him know what I said and," he halted shuffling mentally 
 for a new subject, "an* get on wiv your Flyin' Cloud yarn. 
 I knew Tom Mace years agone." 
 
 There was a lengthy pause during which Micky Doolan 
 sucked somewhat morosely at his pipe and Saunderson, sitting 
 back on the scuttle, let his thoughts fall again on the fancies 
 the mate's words had trailed before him. Haunted! Chks! 
 Well and if it came? He continued brooding over this until 
 Doolan recalled him to the present. 
 
 "Ut wass just such a noight as this," he said, "un* we're 
 not a mile off where the Flyiri 1 Cloud came undher the curse 
 a mile? Whisht! less be half . 
 
 "Two years ago, ut wass, come Chrissmus, an' I'm sthandin' 
 at the wheel steerin' for the Nore wid scarce enough wind to 
 kape the rags aslape. The auld man comes up from below an' 
 looks about. 'Micky,' he says, 'dhown kellick an' set a watch. 
 We're makin' no headway; we moight as well be to roost.' 
 So I dhowned kellick, gave her enough chain an' thurned in. 
 Two o'clock come along an' I woke from me slape wid the 
 feelin' av one disgraced. I jumped up quick an' ran out to 
 see the watch. 
 
 "The decks are white wid a thin rime av frost, the moon's 
 up, glintin' yellow an' sheeny through the riggin'; the san's 
 are sthill as a dead man's heart. But the bhoy, who's on 
 watch, makes no answer to me call. 
 
 "'Micky, me son,' sez I to mesilf, 'whhat's wrong wid the
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE GAT n 
 
 noight? Ye're nearer the san's than whin ye wint below. 
 Mother av God! the schooner's adrift.' 
 
 "I slipped forid in the twinklin' av an oye an' came to the 
 chain to give her more. But the chain's gone from the wind- 
 lass an' we're grindin' on the edge av the san's before I could 
 belave me soight." 
 
 Saunderson glanced up, holding out his hand. "Any boat 
 hangin' aft when you come to, Micky ? " 
 
 "There wass; but now ut's gone." 
 
 "Then the boy's been play in' hanky-panky, an* has done a 
 bolt." 
 
 "Maybe that's so, maybe ut's not. I'm not sayin'. I'm 
 just tellin' you the square truth, an' I say that in the mornin', 
 whin we come up the Deeps, the boat's lyin' on the tail av the 
 san's an' Geordie's lyin' besoide her dead as a five-finger."* 
 
 Saunderson made no sign. He continued watching the 
 flickering gleams springing now more generously far in the 
 northeast. At length he spoke, banteringly, with the ghost 
 of stilled laughter lurking in his voice. "An' you think that 
 happened because you're lyin' behind the Long Sands?" he 
 questioned. 
 
 "Ut happened put ut how you will because the Flyin? 
 Cloud's come under the curse." 
 
 Saunderson made a gesture of dissent, but no words fell, 
 and the mate resumed as though he had received encourage- 
 ment. "How do I know?" he cried. "Why shouldn't I 
 whin I see whhat followed? Can a man see his mates all 
 go from before his eyes an' not belave? Whisht! Listen 
 while I tell yez: 
 
 "The Flyiri* Cloud came in an' hauled 'longsoide the der- 
 ruck to discharge. On the second day, Walt Tompson'3 
 
 *Starfish.
 
 12 THE ISSUE 
 
 sittin' on the rail doin' a bit av tallyin' while I get me break- 
 fast. He marks dhown maybe a dozen sthrokes, thin the gin- 
 chain broke an' he's lyin' undher an irron bucket loaded wid 
 half a ton av diammints,* an' whin he's dug out we see that 
 Walt Tompson had followed in the way of Geordie. 
 
 "Two voyages later, we're goin' acrass the Wash, bound 
 for the Humber. Ut's a cowld noight an' half a gale av 
 wind's a singin' hi me ears whin I relave the auld man at 
 twelve o'clock. 'Micky,' he sez, 'we've just clewed up the 
 tops'l an' Bunny's up makin' ut fast. Keep her good an' full 
 till he's dhown.' 
 
 "An' I kept her good an' full an' round as a woman's breast 
 till I heard a noise forid loike the dumpin' av a sack av spuds. 
 'Holy sailor!' sez I, 'whhat are ye shlingin' dhown on top av 
 us? Go asy, ye slummer you'll be hurtin' somewan.' But 
 there wass no answer, only a stidy flap, flap, flap av the rags 
 blatterin' aloft. So I ran forid to take a look an' Bunny's 
 lyin' spread out loike a shlaughter-house sheep, dead as 
 muttin'." 
 
 Again Saunderson rose from his seat and for a while stood 
 watching the distant clouds. He faced them resolutely, grip- 
 ping at the rail, and laughed. A peal of thunder rolled over 
 the horizon far off, very mournful, like the roar of a distant 
 cannonade. The laugh died as he returned to the skylight. 
 Micky Doolan sat thoughtfully sucking his pipe. 
 
 "That voyage began bad, but ut ended worse," he announced 
 gravely. "We loaded dhown wid harrdsf an' came out in the 
 teeth av a gale av wind. The skipper's goin' to make a smart 
 run. Ut's the auld woman's birthday and Tom Mace manes 
 to spend ut to home. He does spend ut to home, sure as guns. 
 
 "Sat'day mornin' put us dhown aff the Long-s'nd Light- 
 
 *Coal. j-Yorkshire hards, a quality of coal.
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 13 
 
 ship, an' as we thurned scootin' up the Deeps, the wind hauled 
 more west till prisintly we're jammed in the teeth av ut, goin' 
 full an' by.* At noon there's half a gale an' we've lost mains'l, 
 jib an' stays'l. For the rest we've retched no further than the 
 Oaze. Tom Mace comes an' sthands besoide me at the wheel. 
 
 "'Micky,' he sez, 'we're doin' nothin' undher these on- 
 mintionable rags. Let us have her an' git ready the mud- 
 hook.' So I let go an' wint forid. Half an hour later we are 
 lyin' to anchor. Two hours more an' we've parted ouir cable 
 an' ut's blowin' a shmokin' gale straight dhown the river 
 funnel. Be three o'clock the Flyin' Cloud's lyin' in the shpume 
 that's roarin' across Gillman,f an' Tom Mace an' the rest av 
 us are lashed in the riggin' waitin' for the end av thin's. 
 
 "But it wasn't to be there; oh, no. For out av the smother 
 comes the Sthorm Cock, creepin' seaward an' lookin' fer 
 throuble. They spot us, pick us aff an' run us up to the 
 Haven.ijl But the Flyin' Cloud, ye'll moind, wass a mere 
 scatherin' av planks an' spars an' ribs av timber, lyin' fast on 
 the edge av Gillman. All the rest is shakin's." 
 
 The mate puffed at his pipe and leaned back comfortably 
 reminiscent. A swell sent down by a passing steamer tumbled 
 the sea crashing on the sands and set the Bluebell rolling. 
 Far in the darkness the sails whanged; a loose capstan bar 
 clattered noisily in the scuppers. Saunderson leaped from 
 his seat and stood a moment pointing, like a hound on scent, 
 then, relighting his pipe, he leaned truculently against the 
 skylight: " Lumme, " he asserted, "I'd almost forgot we're here." 
 
 Micky Doolan cast up his eyes with sparrow-like vivacity 
 and replied : " Ut wass just that same forgettin'," he announced, 
 "that brought Tom Mace undher the curse. 'Ut's three miles 
 from the Haven to Benfleet over a lonely road, an' the skipper 
 
 *i. e., steering by the wind. -j-A sand bank. ^Thames Haven.
 
 i 4 THE ISSUE 
 
 wass not in the mood for trampin'. 'Ut':; easier,' he sez, 'to 
 go by river.' So he, wid Dick, goes up an 5 borrows a boat an' 
 makes all ready to hook a stheamer that's comin' up Reach. 
 'Don't do ut, Tom,' sez I, 'ut's death.' 'Go to blazes, Micky,' 
 sez he; 'I'm to keep me promise wid the auld woman.' An* 
 wid that they shove aff an' row out av the Haven. 
 
 "Ut's a Scotchman that's comin' tearin' up sthrame. There's 
 enough say to tow anny boat undher; but Tom Mace an' 
 Dick have said they'll do ut. So they row out fast to meet her. 
 Prisintly Dick takes both oars an' we see Tom standin' to 
 clear his line. 
 
 "Mother av God! annywan could have seen how 'twould 
 be as well thry to hitch the Chatham express as well 
 just. Ut's dusk, ye'll moind, an' the Scotchman's comin' 
 along wid the squirm av a torpedo boat dancin' up her sthem. 
 In a minute she's up wid them foamin' to the eyes. Tom 
 Mace is sthandin' hi the bows ready wid his hook. Dick is 
 thurnin' the boat toward her. That's all we see before the 
 stheamer passes. 
 
 "'He can't do ut,' sez a chap be me soide, 'ut's foolishness.' 
 
 "'But he has done ut,' sez I, for at that minute the boat 
 swims aft an' we can see Tom payin' out the line quick as 
 light an' thin an' thin! Arroo! whhat's happened? The 
 end, Captin the end. 
 
 " Av a sudden the boat jerks ahead wid a curl av foam about 
 her. Dick shoots over the stern, an' Tom Mace loies dhown 
 loike a sick snake in the bows. He's twistin' that's plain. 
 A wave av spray washes acrass them. They go out an' back, 
 loike a fish at the end av a line, an' in that rush Tom Mace 
 follows in the path av the rest, an' Dick has gone to keep him 
 company." 
 
 The mate fell back on the skylight and Saunderson rose.
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 15 
 
 He walked slowly up and down the deck, a dead pipe between 
 his lips. He had no thought of relighting it. He lounged over 
 the rail and leaning on his elbow stole a glance at his compan- 
 ion. He spoke after a while with a disdainful expression: 
 " Stow it, Micky, you an' your curse. Lumme! turn over the 
 page an' give us the sequel now we're in the humour." 
 
 The mate eyed him with a quizzical glance. " That, maybe, 
 is on the road to meet ye, Captin," he returned, "but loike 
 Tom Mace, ye won't know ut till ut's here." 
 
 "Chks!" said Saunderson with an oath. "Give it a rest 
 an' come below for a taste of rum. Lumme! you want bal- 
 last, mate that's what you want." 
 
 The skipper was in rollicking spirits. Apparently, too, he 
 was quite unconcerned, when, towards one o'clock, a vivid 
 blaze flashed through the dim cabin. Both men leaped to 
 their feet. Each had taken more than a taste of rum in the 
 heat of discussion, and their heads were none the clearer for 
 the indulgence. 
 
 They tumbled up the campanion to the accompaniment of 
 an ear-splitting crash as the thunder rolled to the zenith. The 
 schooner trembled like a train suddenly checked by the vacuum 
 brake; her cable jingled in the hawse-pipe. Darkness 
 shrouded her. She lay like a wounded gull, with drooping 
 head and shivering wings, watching the approach of her enemy 
 disconsolately from the lap of the swell. The sails bellied and 
 clanged alternately. From somewhere the lightning played 
 without pause, darting about, twisting, snapping, leaping. 
 The sea caught the gleams. It mirrored them incessantly, 
 added to them, spread them out to examine. It was as though 
 the black surface, so still and profoundly impassive, were a 
 giant forge whereon some Titan worked with his bellows. 
 
 Calm, dark and very sombre it appeared as they attuned
 
 i6 THE ISSUE 
 
 their eyes to see; then a sudden and angry spirit of rain rushed 
 upon them and Saunderson faced about. 
 
 "Call the chaps out, Micky. Look slippy, my son," he 
 cried. "Aft wiv 'em! Get these flamin' kites handed."* 
 
 He moved across the deck, masterful, vigilant, staring into 
 the void and snapping orders. 
 
 The squall broke. It sprang upon them with a deluge, 
 stinging their faces, lashing their hands as with flicks of a 
 driver's whip. It caught the half-set canvas and the sails 
 roared out in a whanging chorus. Someone shouted, "Let 
 all stand!" and the men drew back under the bulwarks. But 
 Saunderson discovered their retreat and came forward. He 
 took one by the ear and led him to the ropes. "Pull!" he 
 admonished, "snug 'em up!" 
 
 The man accepted his fate without speech. 
 
 For half an hour the meagre crew fought and swore in the 
 turmoil. They were sodden. They worked without heart. 
 They knew that their efforts were futile, absurd, that they 
 accomplished nothing still, under Saunderson's eye, they 
 pulled, waiting for the squall to fail. It died as it rose, sud- 
 denly, and the Bluebell was newly lighted. Little spirit fires 
 crept out to mock the fading wind. They perched eerily on 
 masts and yard-arms. They slithered in balls of flame up 
 and down the stays and woodwork mimicking the lightning-, 
 mimicking the flash and revolution of those lights out there in 
 the mirk but the men took no heed. They continued pull- 
 ing with the dogged persistency of a will not theirs until Saun- 
 derson moved to stay them. He approached the mate with 
 bent head, staring at the flickering lights, shouting, half in 
 anger: "Get aft, ye blithering Irishman, an' take the wheel. 
 Avast hauling! We're adrift. Make sail." 
 
 *Stow the sails.
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 17 
 
 As Doolan hastened to obey, his voice rose with new orders: 
 "Loose the brails. Stays'l halliards there, one of you! Stop- 
 pers off the mains'l, boy. Move around! Look slippy!" 
 
 The crew bustled with alacrity under his eye; but in the 
 confusion of tangled ropes, rain and unutterable darkness, 
 only small progress had been made before the mate's voice 
 was heard. He came forward at a run, crying out: "No use 
 no use! She's aground!" 
 
 Saunderson gripped him by the arm. "She's where, ye 
 little cockchafer ? " he growled. 
 
 "On the san's. No man will move her this side av tide 
 toime let go me arm." 
 
 He spoke in the confident tones of one who has prophesied 
 correctly and now awaits further events in peace. He watched 
 the skipper as he moved aft; saw him try the wheel ; remarked 
 on the fact that the rudder was jammed hard on the sands; 
 watched as he came back to the mainmast and halted, ostensibly 
 to give an order to the crew. But Saunderson only fumbled 
 with the buttons of his coat, staring into space. 
 
 The squall hummed faintly, far on the horizon. 
 
 Three hours later the skipper sat alone on deck noting the 
 lights which leaped and blinked on a silvered river. The 
 moon was up. High water past. The Gat shimmered at his 
 elbow. A curious sheen hung over all, misty, white, indefinite. 
 The Bluebell no longer trembled on the edge of the sands, she 
 lay where they had wharped her, comfortably afloat and 
 swinging slowly to the ebb; tide-bound, wind-bound motion- 
 less amidst the wide expanse. 
 
 Saunderson watched her. He marked the river running in 
 streaks, oily, sluggish, without a curl of foam; he saw the 
 lights blinking, leaping from grave to gay and heard again 
 those suggestions he found so appalling but could not shake
 
 i8 THE ISSUE 
 
 off. He admitted that they were absurd; but the notion had 
 fastened upon him, his brain had grappled with it and he 
 desired above all things the knowledge of men who knew ; who 
 could judge, who, unlike the mate, could reason this matter to 
 a finality. He told himself there was something in it and 
 immediately shook his head, doggedly shouting that it was 
 rot. He sat back, tried to smoke, thought of sleep, thought 
 of the face of a fair girl at home, in Abbeyville, but could not 
 give her the attention she deserved. He banged the rail with 
 his clenched fist. 
 
 The crew slept. Micky Doolan slept. But Saunderson 
 did not sleep he watched. 
 
 And as he sat there brooding, a steamer crawled out of the 
 mists and, passing like a phantom, vanished in the sheen of 
 the moon. The thud of her propeller droned in his ears. He 
 looked round, but the vessel was gone. He strove to pierce 
 the illusive light, seeking her shape, and found himself listen- 
 ing to a cry, a cry so faint as to be almost soundless. 
 
 He sprang to the side, intent, alert, and again it rang out 
 a commonplace hail; a thing the river is used to. Some one 
 called for assistance. Saunderson, standing gripping hands 
 with fear, scarcely hesitated. He told himself that some one 
 was drowning and started aft at speed. 
 
 "A man overboard! Chaps to the boat!" he cried. 
 "Lively's the word!" 
 
 The crew slept on till Micky Doolan roused them; then 
 they, too, crept on deck. But Saunderson had made no 
 pause. Undeterred by their absence he clambered into the 
 boat and sculled away in the track of that mist-hidden steamer. 
 The men waited. 
 
 They were still on deck and the mate smoking at the head 
 of the companion when the skipper returned. He climbed
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 19 
 
 the rail, made fast the boat and faced the Gat in silence. The 
 mate crossed to meet him. 
 
 "Did ye get a soight av him?" he questioned. Saunderson 
 sprang round. He stood chewing the cud of stumbling sen- 
 tences; but he made no answer. 
 
 "Thin he's dhrowned?" said the mate. 
 
 "Drowned? Gawd knows." 
 
 "But ye saw him, Captin?" 
 
 "I saw Gawd! what's that?" 
 
 He twisted on his heel. Nothing appeared only the Gat 
 was there; the Gat and the sheen and a group of staring 
 men. He hastened into the cabin. 
 
 An hour later the mate followed. Saunderson was sitting 
 at the table sunk in thought. At his side was a pannikin of 
 rum from which he drank at intervals. He took no notice of 
 Doolan's entrance, but he watched him, saw him light his pipe, 
 pull his cap down and turn in. 
 
 Towards daylight Saunderson's deep voice sounded and 
 the mate awoke. The skipper was leaning forward with a 
 curious gleam in his sloe-black eyes. He caught the mate's 
 glance and his face twisted into a leer. 
 
 "Ya-as, Micky," he cried, "maybe you're right; but I never 
 got a-nigh him. Who says I didn't try? Lies all lies an' 
 gibberish. Who P could when there's You're right! The 
 honey-pots will be my mark for a while " 
 
 He had fallen into the river idiom the river which swirled 
 muddily out there, yellow in the light of the rising sun.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SUSIE WATCHES A PROCESSION 
 
 A BBEYVILLE lay adrowse at the edge of the Thames. 
 LX. It stared at the river through a shimmering heat 
 wave, marking the growing flood, the passing ships, the 
 tugs, the barges, liners and tramps; it saw that they all 
 moved onward, stole round the deep-set bay, passed the train- 
 ing ships, the buoys, the long-armed jetties and disappeared 
 in a golden blur at the head of the reach it knew that London 
 awaited them, that London would presently absorb them. 
 
 AbbeyviUe loungers especially noted the coming of high 
 tide. For hours a group of men had waited, patiently con- 
 suming tobacco at the verge of the deep water pier. Their 
 eyes were generally turned seaward. They said to each other, 
 that unless the Conservancy hurried its fingers the schooner 
 would not fetch the blocks. They bemoaned the fact that 
 they had prepared them a tide too soon, sweating uselessly 
 in a broiling sun; then leaning on spars and anchors, against 
 spare buoys, timber ends and the tangled debris of a ship-yard, 
 watched the smoke floating in long gray streams from tall gray 
 chimneys across the water; watched the slim finger of land 
 at the eastern boundary of the bay, watched the tug lying idle 
 close at hand with the steam melting softly into the clear, hot 
 air. They seemed to find the occupation soothing. 
 
 Behind them AbbeyviUe basked in a noon-day sun., The 
 people were hot and languid. Flies buzzed persistently in a 
 halo about the head of an old horse trying to sleep on three
 
 SUSIE WATCHES A PROCESSION 21 
 
 legs outside the High Street stores; and crawled like nervously 
 excitable currants inside the grocer's window, sampling the 
 sugar. The street was thirsty, full of dust; the men lounging 
 near the smithy were thirsty also. The Abbeyville Urban Board 
 had essayed to slake the streets; the Southern Trader had 
 done something towards slaking the men. They spoke to- 
 gether in many intonations, relating, in a strange dialect, 
 dreary stories of questionable taste, until one standing on the 
 verge of the wharf cried out: 
 
 "That's 'er." 
 
 Another removed his pipe, stared into the scintillating river- 
 scape and said, "If it ain't lumme!" 
 
 His companions seemed to consider that this settled the 
 matter. They moved forward in a group and stood watching 
 until a noise grew out of the stillness, and they saw that the 
 tug had cast off and had commenced to slap the river with her 
 paddles. She crept over the still water and made for the 
 beacon on Deadman's Point a long and lean finger of land 
 jutting out from the shore at the end of the bay. A proces- 
 sion stole slowly up river here. It consisted of a tug boat with 
 twin black funnels towing two lopsided lighters and between 
 them the angled masts of a schooner. At the main was a 
 green flag carrying the symbol "Wreck" in white letters. 
 
 Some one said, "It's Win'bag that's a moral," and a 
 thinner voice falsettoed, "Win'bag 'ooze 'ee?" 
 
 An old graybeard spat thoughtfully over the wharf side and 
 remarked with huge disdain, "'Er skipper"; then added as if 
 in justification of his tone, "W'ere's yer 'ead?" 
 
 The falsetto said, "On me shoulders, a course." But the 
 graybeard took exception to the description. He replied very 
 assertively, "Garn! it's a cabbage. Go 'ome an' get it biled 
 fer dinner." He turned to face the procession, muttering:
 
 22 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Them uz don't know Win'bag, don't know a man uz they 
 should know. Them uz 'as lived a year in Abbeywill an' don't 
 know Win'bag, might uz well a bin dead." Again he resumed 
 his pipe and contemplative attitude. No one resented his 
 remarks. 
 
 The twin-funnelled tug snorted laboriously round the point, 
 breathing deep blobs of smoky breath: she lashed the water 
 into a mill race and it fell white, crammed with bubbles, in the 
 way of the lopsided trio, and the trio trod them underfoot. 
 The tug which had moved from the buoy approached and 
 stood on beside the wreck flag. But she did not assist, she 
 watched; for no outsider must interfere with a Conservancy 
 procession when the green flag is hoisted, lest there be war in 
 that part of Trinity Square which loves leisurely methods. 
 
 The men on the deep water pier observed this manoeuvre 
 and commented on the Petrd's sagacity. "It's one for Elliott; 
 there's no two ways abaht that," said the spokesman. 
 
 "Win'bag won't like Elliott bein' sent to pluck 'im in," 
 another averred; "'tain't likely." 
 
 "An* the gel watchin' the pair of 'em from the bottom of 'er 
 garding. It's not wot you might call a bean-feast fer Win'bag." 
 
 "It means 'is walkin' ticket that's wot it means/' added 
 a lean shipwright with a long and silky moustache. "It's 
 rough on Win'bag bloomin* rough." 
 
 The graybeard sage withdrew his pipe and looked about 
 him. "Fat lot Win'bag cares for the flourishin* sack," he 
 announced. "Win'bag's got money, 'ee 'as ull be leader 
 o' the Rivermen's Union yet, 'ee will. A good chap. 'Ard 
 uz nails. Strong. Knows a thing or two. 'Ear 'ini talk 
 it licks." 
 
 As no one ventured to contradict this statement he pro- 
 ceeded to drive it home. " 'Ear 'im afore you judge 'im. I
 
 SUSIE WATCHES A PROCESSION 23 
 
 say uz 'ee'll lead. Mark that." He subsided into the ab- 
 stract gaze of a man asleep with his eyes open. 
 
 The blacksmith approached and stood with his mate be- 
 side the group. He cried out, "Socks! " Then after a moment 
 given to contemplation: "Jock, lad, blow oop t'fire. Ah'm 
 lookin' at ma fortune ah'm goin' t' be busy." No one noticed 
 him. All were intent on the procession. The sun drew 
 figure-pictures in the dust, long, clear-cut lines in blue, which 
 the wharf was not wide enough to finish. 
 
 Farther down stream, nearer the ambling causeway sloping 
 to cool its heels in the river, a girl stood also on watch. She 
 wore a pink gown, a straw hat with a trailing black feather, 
 and the air of one quietly absorbed. The sun revelled about 
 her, lighting the curves, darkening the shadows, touching 
 discriminately the golden hair. It threw its arms about her 
 and she leaned over the garden fence undismayed, intent on 
 the Stormy Petrel, that paddle-wheel tug which ambled so 
 circumspectly beside the procession. The girl was Susie 
 Sutcliffe and she might have stood for a statue of Hebe. 
 
 Behind her, at the end of the small garden, was her home, 
 a house built of weather-boards and red brick, nearly hidden in 
 the grip of a giant wistaria. All her life she had lived there. 
 As a child she had played about the rose trees and syringa, had 
 tended the unordered array of geraniums, pansies, fuchsias. 
 She loved the garden and was happy in it. That she might 
 have been happier all men were prepared to admit. But she 
 was the daughter of "poor" George Sutcliffe, a coasting skip- 
 per who was ruled by the wife he had taken when Susie's mother 
 died; and the home contained echoes of a voice and a bicker- 
 ing tongue difficult to associate with the air of refinement 
 noticeable in the girl; difficult to consider possible in sur- 
 roundings so calm and full of peace.
 
 24 THE ISSUE 
 
 At the edge of the garden the river gurgled and at high water 
 it lapped greedily at the fence which bordered it. Across 
 the way was a lighthouse, a small iron construction standing on 
 thin, straddled legs sunk in the mud. It blinked all night 
 straight into Susie's room. Below the causeway were the 
 training ships, the yachts and the wide, sweeping reach ending 
 in the finger of land at Deadman's Point. Before her was the 
 wide and mysterious Thames, crammed with ships, crammed 
 with steamers, full of life, vast, indefinite, hazy, dim. 
 
 It was the river which held her. As a child she had learned 
 to love its voice and to know its moods. It had no terrors for 
 her. Her father lived upon it came home in the old, old 
 Tantalus carrying her presents from the unpierced distance 
 beyond the point. Jack Elliott lived upon it he who now 
 moved with his tug beside the procession drawing each moment 
 nearer; who commanded the Stormy Petrel; who was her 
 lover. 
 
 Together, as children, these two had played upon its banks; 
 together, when they were little more, they had paddled about 
 the still back waters and come triumphant through childish 
 perils; and together, in the more troublesome present, they 
 had learned to love; learned, too, that Mrs. Sutcliffe favoured 
 other ties. Now they stood in happy ignorance of incidents 
 neither could foresee. 
 
 The pictures were beautiful, the memories transcendent 
 always until that strenuous voice, so cold and sharp, intervened; 
 then they were tinged with gray like the river under wintry 
 skies whose distance is always mist. Saunderson caused the 
 grayness Saunderson and the voice. 
 
 Susie leaned over the fence staring at the procession now 
 approaching the head of the bight. Slowly, like an overturned 
 beetle with wriggling legs, it crept behind the twin-funnelled
 
 SUSIE WATCHES A PROCESSION 25 
 
 tug, came near, and sent three spirts of steam into the blue. 
 The men lounging on the deep water pier accepted this hint 
 and some of them started down the narrow strip of fore- 
 shore. They passed beneath the garden, growling as they 
 went: 
 
 "Might a knowed it. 'Ee's not goin' to risk 'is bloomin' 
 tug atwixt the buoys. That's wot that means. An' we've bin 
 sweatin' to ready the ways. Lumme! it's thick." 
 
 Some one else said, "I'd give suthin' to see Dunscombe's 
 face w'en 'ee knows." And the old graybeard, passing stolidly 
 behind, squelching through the mud in boots that reached his 
 thighs, took up his parable. 
 
 "Never you mind the Guv'nor's face. Win'bag knows 'ow 
 to deal \vi' 'im: mark my words." 
 
 They squelched onward, straggled past the pier-master's 
 hutch, climbed the causeway and became specks at the edge 
 of the park; specks standing on the sea-wall, waving arms, 
 catching ropes, and behaving like excitable marionettes. The 
 tug with the twin funnels snorted viciously onward; swerved, 
 hauled in a hawser, and left the beetle to its own devices. 
 
 A tiny speck moved over the water heading shoreward. Susie 
 knew that it was a boat carrying a line to the marionettes. 
 Presently they began to walk heavily across the green and the 
 beetle became dismembered. Two low, flat lighters floated 
 now on even keels; the centre, the part which most resembled 
 the legs of the beetle, trailed shoreward following the rope. 
 Lamely and in visible disorder it assumed the shape and 
 semblance of a schooner which the Stormy Petrel, daring 
 at length to intervene, came upon and pushed until she 
 heeled at the edge of the bank. Then the marionettes drew 
 near, tied her securely to posts and the tug flapped noisily up 
 river.
 
 2 6 THE ISSUE 
 
 As it passed the garden a man came to the starboard paddle 
 box and waved his cap. Susie took out her handkerchief and 
 held it aloft. The two continued flourishing until distance 
 swallowed the signals. 
 
 The river yawned sleepily between.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 SAUNDERSON SEEKS ADVICE 
 
 A WOMAN clad in black, tall and straight and acid, with 
 narrow brow and deep-lined face, stood in the road- 
 way viewing the people returning from chapel. Abbey- 
 ville High Street meandered crookedly behind and before 
 her. The setting sun tinged its length with golden 
 hues; but she saw no beauty in its irregularity, no tones 
 on the gabled .roofs, the old red tiles and weather-beaten 
 walls. She considered the stucco villas on the hill, fenced in 
 behind grim iron railings and with sentinel pillars guarding 
 each portal, as more adapted to her "spear"; and loathed the 
 sight of her husband's domain as inappropriate to her dignity. 
 
 She was one of those persons who, in educated circles, are 
 marked more by their antipathies than by their judgment; 
 who develop a rabid and outspoken hatred of all things sane, 
 and come generally to be labelled with the prefix anti. But 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe's education had been gleaned in the days of 
 darkness and finished by the acerbities of barter in the small 
 and dingy shop her father kept across the way. By her mar- 
 riage with "Capting" Sutcliffe she had lifted herself into a 
 "professional spear," but she retained her acidity, her dialect, 
 and a tongue before which mankind quailed. 
 
 It was said in Abbeyville that Mrs. Sutcliffe "couldn't look 
 pleased if she wanted, nater havin' provided contrairywise." 
 It was also said that Mrs. Sutcliffe was a"cawf-drop" the cap- 
 tain could not assimilate, and the village opined that the old 
 
 27
 
 28 THE ISSUE 
 
 man was "blessed wiv the patience of Jove, or he'd a trundled 
 her back to 'er marras." But as that process involved the 
 breaking of a tie deemed indissoluble, and the discussion of 
 woes in a court of law, Mrs. Sutcliffe retained her position. 
 
 She stood now in the village street eyeing the passers and 
 waiting for Saunderson. She searched the people as they 
 came out of the sun-glare and her eyes snapped. Some saw 
 her, others failed altogether to respond to her grim nod and 
 passed on ringing the changes of unkind criticism. In 
 truth, for all her assumption of the Christian virtues, Mrs. 
 Sutcliffe was an unpopular woman in Abbeyville. Her phrase- 
 ology was a synthesis of the chapel she loved and the river she 
 hated. Her temper had become honestly venomous with ad- 
 vancing years. Religion had long ago sapped what gentleness 
 had been hers and the practices of a dreary creed had 
 brought her to look upon all beauty as anathema, all gaiety as 
 of the devil, all charity as a guise wherein to cloak man's 
 indigence. 
 
 She gazed out upon the world through the narrow compass 
 of her chapel windows and passed a crooked judgment on all 
 whose faces betokened happiness. Religious exercises had 
 superseded the vigilance of her earlier household economy, and 
 Sutcliffe had come within sight of a paltry ruin, a ruin all the 
 more pitiful to see, because of the man's strenuous efforts to 
 eke out ways and means and keep Susie ignorant of what was 
 impending. 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe turned towards her home. It seemed that 
 Saunderson did not intend to keep his appointment, but as 
 she neared her gate the man appeared at the end of the street. 
 He came from the park where the schooner lay like a toy, 
 stranded at the edge of the green. Mrs. Sutcliffe moved to 
 meet him and they gripped hands.
 
 SAUNDERSON SEEKS ADVICE 29 
 
 "What cheer, mother?" the skipper asked in his deep voice, 
 "and how goes Mr. Slowboy after the address? Tired, I'll 
 warrant." 
 
 "The Lawd giveth an' the Lawd taketh away," said the 
 woman with but little hesitation, for she was newly equipped 
 by a two-hour exercise. "I doubt Mr. Slowboy has found 
 strength from 'is wrastle wi' Satan. But 'ow's yourself? I 
 hear of troublous times; of the sinkin' of ships an' the drownin' 
 of the ri-chus. Is it true, my friend, or has an enemy spread 
 lies?" 
 
 Saunderson cast a look towards the toy at the foot of the 
 park. "Aye," he said, "I've been caught. The Bluebell's 
 down the cellar at least, that's where she was; now she's 
 yonder." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe reached out and laid an encouraging hand 
 on the big man's sleeve. "Thy ways are not My ways, saith 
 the Lawd Gawd of 'Ostes. Let not your heart be cast down 
 it were Gawd's will." 
 
 Saunderson viewed this pronouncement with some impatience. 
 "I don't know about that," he said. "The Bluebell was good 
 enough for me. I doubt if Gawd had much to do wiv it it's 
 more the fault of a a drunken collier." 
 
 "Not a sparrow falleth to the ground but wot My Father 
 which is in 'Eaven seeth it," Mrs. Sutcliffe averred in positive 
 tones. "A drunken collier is a missal of the Most Tgh, sent 
 to punish us for sins we've committed; not," she cumbrously 
 apologised, "not that you 'ave committed them, but one of 
 your crew may. For the Lawd, if so be He had intended you 
 to avoid 'Is wrath, would a turned the collier inta the bank 
 even as 'Ee turned Balaam's ass in the road over against 
 Baalpeor." 
 
 Saunderson watched her out of narrowed eyes. He knew
 
 30 THE ISSUE 
 
 nothing of the quotation; had never heard of Balaam's ass; 
 but at the back of his mind he perceived that Mrs. Sutcliffe's 
 judgment was also the judgment of Micky Doolan, the mean- 
 dering spinner of yarns which fell true. He glanced up with a 
 question which might, perchance, test the matter. "Then," 
 he said, "you hold that ships don't sink wivout Gawd's orders ? " 
 
 "Never, Capting." 
 
 "Nor men drown?" 
 
 "Never, Capting." 
 
 "An* you believe that Gawd takes charge of every move 
 pushes men an' women about like you or me pushes drafts on 
 a checker board?" 
 
 "There is nothin' hid from My sight, saith the Lawd. Never 
 was, never will be world without hend amen." 
 
 "An' what happens to a man when he dies? Is he dead all 
 ends up soul, spirit the whole caboodle ?" 
 
 "The spirit never dies; it lives an' moves an' 'as a beinV 
 
 "Ah, so I've heard." 
 
 "As the Spirit of Gawd moved on the face of the waters 
 after the flood, so the spirits of the dead move about and keep 
 watch." 
 
 Saunderson considered the matter a moment in silence. He 
 gazed through an alleyway at the foot of which the river ran 
 babbling in the dying light. It carried, according to this creed, 
 on its bosom, ships that would reach harbour, ships that would 
 not; crews predestined to go to Heaven, crews predestined to 
 go to Hell all at the will of God; without explanation, with- 
 out preparation. Saunderson squared his shoulders and 
 faced about speaking with renewed vigour. 
 
 "What's done's done," he decided. "If there's a cause 
 there's a cause an' whimperin' won't alter it. But, it seems 
 to me, that if this is the way of it, Gawd might have arranged
 
 SAUNDERSON SEEKS ADVICE 31 
 
 to let me know what I've done that's wrong an' given me a 
 chance just a chance." He paused a moment still staring 
 at the moving river, then broke out afresh: "We aren't saints 
 none of us. I've had my innings put in better than forty 
 years; but I can't see where I've worked for this this 
 Chks!" again he hung a moment in thought, then resumed on 
 an entirely new issue. "You see," he said, "the trouble is the 
 Bluebell's not finished. She's been picked up, towed home, 
 an' will have to go on the ways. Now if I had lost her clean 
 the boot would have been on the other leg. The Guv'nor 
 wouldn't have kicked up nasty, for the schooner's done her 
 time. It might have been worth twenty pound to me; but 
 now," Saunderson snapped his fingers, "now it's worth about 
 that." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe sighed. "It's a wicked, thankless world, 
 Capting, an' the ways of the rich is percurious." 
 
 "It's a world cram jam full of manopolies," he returned 
 with some heat. "Steamers is manopolies. They fair get my 
 hair out of curl. They think the river is built for them an' 
 no one else has a right to be afloat. Lumme! there's a day 
 coming when I'll show them a thing or two steamship owners, 
 factory owners chks! sweaters of the poor I [call them, wiv 
 their wage cuttin' an' their machinery an' what not. Wait a 
 bit. You'll see." 
 
 He walked truculently beside her until they reached the gate 
 and Mrs. Sutcliffe halted with her finger on the latch. "You'll 
 do great things," she replied. "My heart goes out in synthapy 
 to you; but you'll step in. The gell's there." 
 
 "Not much use how is she?" He hesitated. 
 
 "As well as can be expected of any gell as wastes 'er time 
 readin' books an' holds aloof from the Lawd's 'ouse." 
 
 As Saunderson made no rejoinder she added after a pause:
 
 32 THE ISSUE 
 
 "It's time some good man took 'er in hand, Capting that's 
 wot I think." 
 
 "She's a good scholar," he returned, "what I'm not. What 
 I'd give my earnings to be, now, every stiver." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe watched him with flickering eyes. She had 
 no mind to allow this matter to drag; but that Susie should be 
 praised was too much for her equanimity. She cried out: 
 "An* aren't you 'er match in a thousand ways? In book 
 learnin' Susie may know more does, I doubt; but wot good 
 'as it done 'er? Where's she the better for the vicar's 'elp? 
 He took her in 'and 'she's clever,' 'ee says to himself; 'I'll 
 putt 'er through the mill, an' we can get 'er cheap for the 
 schools,' 'ee thinks. So 'ee putt 'er through an' she's assistant 
 mistress now got 'er place a fortnight ago. 'Ee'd better a 
 left 'er to assist 'er mother. 'Ee's proselyted 'er out of the 
 chapel an' made 'er a candle for the church. Presently, when 
 she's done 'er turn, out she'll go, an' I ast you, wot's to come of 
 'er then. She'll be old. Capting, why don't you take 'er in 
 'and to once?" 
 
 Saunderson's dark face grew flushed, but he stammered 
 like one ashamed: "She won't look at me won't look at me. 
 It's Elliott she wants." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe sniffed her contempt. She turned on him 
 with an expressive gesture. "A man," she announced grimly, 
 " can always make a way. You want her. You aren't easily 
 put aside. Elliott's nobody. Say so." 
 
 He smote his hands together crying out almost fiercely; "I 
 love her. I'd give my soul to win her. I'd give my chances 
 of bein' head of the Union a thing I'm near. I'd give all I 
 have all; but she loves Elliott sees no one else. I'm not 
 in the same street with him what can a man do ?" 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe advanced a step and laid her hand on his arm.
 
 SAUNDERSON SEEKS ADVICE 33 
 
 "She doesn't care more for him than you," she averred; "it's 
 a toss up which she takes. A maid always plays her fish 
 why shouldn't she? Besides Elliott's a fool an' doesn't mean 
 marryin', if you ask me. You 'old the key, too. I put it in 
 your 'and long since. If you're so keen set why don't you 
 use it." 
 
 Saunderson breathed hard. The suggestion opened a new 
 heaven to him. He had no idea that he had so staunch an 
 ally; but the woman's words left no misapprehension in his 
 mind. He replied eagerly, "I will use it. If you'll help me, 
 I will use it." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe gripped him by the hand. "I'll help you," 
 she whispered. ''I'll make her throw up Elliott ah' if she 
 won't I'll make her so as she'll be glad to take any man's 'and 
 that's offered it's fer you to do the rest." 
 
 Saunderson smiled. "It's a pity there aren't more of your 
 sort, mother," he said. "It would ease things mightily in 
 this weary world." 
 
 She turned to him with a dolorous inflection. "You've 
 'ad your troubles, Capting, I doubt. But Gawd's mercy is on 
 them as fear 'Im, an' the gell will make you forget wot's gone 
 before." 
 
 This latter she put in as an afterthought; then with a sigh 
 of infinite regret for the wickedness of mankind, she entered 
 the garden. 
 
 Saunderson latched the gate. 
 
 Viewed superficially there was no great divergence in the 
 appearance of these two men. Both were tall and strong, 
 both were bronzed, both spoke the language of the Thames 
 but here analogy ends, for of them Elliott was impulsive,
 
 34 THE ISSUE 
 
 generous, and hot-tempered, while Saunderson was vindictive, 
 brooding, savage. Elliott young and plastic, Saunderson a 
 man of opinions, a man well advanced in the forties. 
 
 A glance into the strong face of this Regenerator of the 
 Masses would have revealed to the physiognomist a singularly 
 flaccid mouth and powerful jaw. Criticism would have pointed 
 with disdainful finger to the fact that the straight brow was 
 counteracted by sensuous lips and a head overweighted at the 
 base of the skull. Suggestions would have crept in: possi- 
 bilities by a turn of the pen would have become actualities, 
 and Saunderson would have found himself written down 
 "dangerous." 
 
 It was the face and head of a strong and brainy man of 
 meagre education; of one who watched the social problems 
 through the narrow glass of ignorance; who recognised the 
 misery of the crowded alleys, the luxury of the mansions; who 
 saw the unequal distribution of wealth and knew, by personal 
 contact, of the grinding and sweating by which men grow rich. 
 But, on the other hand, he knew nothing of the methods by 
 which these problems may be attacked; knew only that it was 
 what he called " Gawd's truth," and set himself to arrange 
 "the anomalies" in his own crude fashion. 
 
 His eloquence had gained him the name of Windbag along 
 the river side, which was in itself a tribute to the intelligence 
 of his friends. Indeed the man had earned it. For a worker 
 was never dismissed, wages never fell, nor was there ever a 
 strike or paltry labour trouble of any kind, but he championed 
 "the cause" and preached the doctrine of communism with 
 the fervent heat of one of nature's orators. 
 
 With less education he would have grovelled contentedly in 
 the ruck of his tribe; with more he would have made a powerful 
 thinker, preacher, or leader for, with education and sys-
 
 SAUNDERSON SEEKS ADVICE 35 
 
 tematic drill, that lack of self-control, which was his bane, 
 would have disappeared and left him to a life of commonplace 
 aims. 
 
 It was Saunderson's fate continually to run his head against 
 a brick wall. He knew that the wall was there and had some 
 notion of its quality; but he had not sufficient wisdom to attack 
 it with diplomacy. What learning he had simply tended to 
 exasperate him with the conditions in which he moved. He 
 had lived hard and struggled to save. He desired to learn, but 
 passion stood in his path. His ambition was to lead a winning 
 fight against the masters, and nothing had come to soften him 
 till Susie crossed his path. And at this time, when he was 
 halting, perhaps for the first time, on the verge of better things; 
 when the contagion of the girl's more refined nature bade him 
 live higher if he would compete for her affections; then, in that 
 hour, came the disastrous passage from the Gat. 
 
 Most men would have thrown the whole incident to the 
 winds; but in Saunderson's mind the memory grew like a 
 festering wound until it permeated his whole being. His 
 slipshod knowledge, his haunting dread of things unseen, the 
 rapidity with which this thing had come upon him, hot on 
 the heels of the story, all conspired to place it in the forefront. 
 
 The Bluebell had come under the curse. She was "down 
 the cellar. " Micky Doolan had foreseen this thing. These 
 were the facts which appeared.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 
 
 MRS. SUTCLIFFE stood at the door of her house. 
 She expected Susie and waited for her, hot with 
 the memory of her talk with that protege" of hers, 
 Saunderson. Susie should have been at home. It was an 
 opportunity. Mrs. Sutcliffe said so with thin lips as she 
 searched the roadway. 
 
 For days scarcely a sentence had passed between these two. 
 The long series of bickerings had culminated in a sort of 
 armed truce; neither would give way an inch. It was a posi- 
 tion which had grown out of small and inconsiderable begin- 
 nings. The difference in their ages, the bitterness engendered 
 by the fact that Susie was her husband's child, not hers, the 
 affection the old man lavished on his daughter all tended 
 to sharpen the hostility which had existed from the earliest 
 days of their companionship. Susie was educated, Mrs. 
 Sutcliffe was not; Susie was guarded by the church on the hill, 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe was a follower of "Passon Slowboy" and wor- 
 shipped at a Bethel; Susie had no household duties to per- 
 form, Mrs. Sutcliffe told herself she had enough and to spare. 
 She said too, when presently she perceived a trim form moving 
 down the street, that the "gell's" defiant and rather super- 
 cilious manner was insufferable. 
 
 She found no grace in the easy pose of that tall young 
 figure, no beauty in the gentle curves and dainty habili- 
 ments the latter she averred belonged indubitably to the 
 
 36
 
 MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 37 
 
 devil; the rest, as far as she could see, was well on the road 
 thither. 
 
 Susie entered the garden, latched the gate, and passed into 
 the kitchen. Mrs. Sutcliffe followed, speaking acridly. 
 
 "Wen I was a gell," she announced, "I dusn't flounce past 
 me mother as though she's dirt. I'd a got as comfortable a 
 spankin' as 'ere or there a one an' small blame to 'em for 
 lickin' me. I were trained to treat me mother with respect 
 'adn't any father or passon to take me part. That's 'ow I 
 were brought up." 
 
 Susie watched the narrow anger-laden eyes with com- 
 plete indifference and continued to unpin her hat without re- 
 mark. 
 
 "Nothin' excuses insalence to gray 'airs," Mrs. Sutcliffe 
 continued aggressively. "Nothin' is more contrairy to the 
 teachin' of Gawd's 'Oly Book ast the Reverend Mister 
 Hoakley if so be you doubt my words. I'm speakin' to you, 
 Miss," she added pointedly. 
 
 Susie looked over her. For the moment she appeared to be 
 engaged in studying the ceiling, but she said, "That, surely, 
 requires no explanation: well?" 
 
 "It's eddication that's done it," Mrs. Sutcliffe resumed with 
 mournful resignation; "if father 'ad done 'is dooty by me, it 
 isn't the wickerage that 'ud 'av 'ad the benefit of yer hours of 
 idleness, nor the schools, but me that's workin' me fingers to 
 the blessed bone to keep you in vittals. You're too good fer 
 the likes of us; it's time you were married." 
 
 " Judging from what one sees," Susie returned with a laugh, 
 "marriage is not always an Eldorado." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe paused, sniffing at the simile. Suspicion 
 stood large in her eyes. "Whom the Lawd joineth together 
 let no man thrust assender," she answered, vaguely conscious
 
 38 THE ISSUE 
 
 that the girl was sneering at her, and taking shelter, as was her 
 wont, in biblical quotation. 
 
 " Thanks," said Susie cheerfully. "I'm in no hurry. Some 
 day perhaps." 
 
 "Give me a man," Mrs. Sutcliffe broke in pointedly, "as 
 'as steadied down an' is able to make a home for a gell wivout 
 any long-winded walkin's-out for with years cometh discre- 
 tion, saith the Lawd Gawd of 'Ostes." 
 
 "With years also come ague, rheumatism, and many other 
 things," said Susie. "Indeed I prefer youth to age. You did, 
 I expect, when you were a girl." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe's face showed that she understood to 
 a nicety this remark. Her voice when next she spoke 
 rang sharply didactic; but she avoided the point at issue. 
 "A gell should seek guidance of the Lawd an' of her 
 mother," she cried, "an* I say, as I've said before, give 
 me a man that's sowed 'is boats an' will settle down com- 
 ferable. That's the man fer my money an' you won't set 
 eyes on a steadier, more Gawd-fearin' Christian man than 
 Capting Saundisson." 
 
 "Saunderson!" Susie returned with a slight accent on the 
 name, "you misjudge him, surely; besides, I could not marry 
 him." 
 
 "W'y not, Miss Pert ain't 'ee good enough fer you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes he is too good." 
 
 "I should like to a seen the man I thought too good fer me 
 at your age," came the answer with a sniff of derision. 
 
 The girl turned round with sudden earnestness. "You 
 don't want me to marry a man I hate, do you? I hate Jim 
 Saunderson and I love Jack. When he is ready I will go away 
 and not trouble you with my presence; but to your friend, I 
 will give nothing only hate."
 
 MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 39 
 
 "You can give him what you like," the other sneered, "w'en 
 you've married him." 
 
 Susie took no notice. She attempted to pass, but Mrs. 
 Sutcliffe barred the way. "An' as fer that Jack Elliott," 
 she asserted leaning forward, hands on hips, "it's my belief 
 'ee don't mean marryin'." 
 
 "That isn't true and you know it." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe came nearer. "I know more than that about 
 'im," she cried out, then paused watching the girl through 
 narrow eyes. Again, with a burst of candour; "Susie, lissen 
 to me. There's no room fer you an' me in this 'ouse. You 
 are yer father's gell, not mine; but I'm 'is wife an' I mean to 
 stay. Very well; there's two chaps danglin' after you. One's 
 a fool wiv more than one maid at 'is 'eels, with no money, an' 
 p'raps a year or more of waitin' before 'im. The other's a 
 man, money in 'and, all ready to take you over. You choose 
 the man, me gell, an' I'm your friend fer life; choose the other 
 an' we part. That's straight an' so you understand." 
 
 Susie made no reply. The suggestion seemed to strike her 
 as ludicrous. "Enemy for life!" she cried. "What else have 
 you always been? I love Jack. I am his. I will never 
 marry another." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe's eyes took a derisive gleam. She threw back 
 her head and again her arms were akimbo. "Bless my soul!" 
 she broke out, "Lissen to it then. La, lissen to it! Lawd!" 
 she continued brutally and with a sudden change of manner, 
 "you'd best be chary wot you give to any man, me gell, ontil 
 you've got the ring on yer finger." 
 
 Susie made no response. She stood staring into the vin- 
 dictive eyes, marking the narrow brow, the thin, set lips, and 
 wondering when she would be in a position to refute these 
 statements, all so unjust to her lover. But Mrs. Sutcliffe was
 
 40 THE ISSUE 
 
 concerned more with her own than with Susie's thoughts and 
 speculations. And again came the stinging voice, grimly 
 breaking the silence. 
 
 "Aye," it said, "fer gells as give theirselves away wi'out the 
 'elp of the passon, is app to get left wi' nothin' else to give away 
 'cept, maybe, the baby." 
 
 Susie flushed hotly and caught up her hat. She left the 
 house without further speech, her ears tingling, her eyes aflame. 
 She would never argue again. She hated herself for having 
 done so now. She felt the uselessness of explanation with 
 one whose sole weapon was a venomous tongue, backed by 
 abuse of the only man on earth, her lover. 
 
 She came to the park. Here at least there would be peace. 
 Here, in the solemn evening, she could watch the flashing wave- 
 lets and speculate on the interminable fleet passing up the 
 short reach. Here, too, she could picture Jack's surroundings 
 and wait for his coming. If her father had been at home she 
 would have gone to him and sobbed out her trouble on his 
 kindly breast. But her father was away. Jack was away. 
 There remained no one with whom she could consult. 
 
 The park at Abbeyville is a beautiful spot without the vestige 
 of resemblance to any park extant. It is a natural wilderness, 
 lying at the river side, consisting of a stretch of meadow, some 
 beaten tracks, a cluster or so of gigantic beech, and here and 
 there a rambling patch of gorse. 
 
 On the one hand clustered the village, red-tiled and pictur- 
 esque; on the other, chalk cuttings clothed in valerian and par- 
 tially hidden by the trees and shrubs. In the background 
 sheltered by the high white cliffs and nestling amidst a forest 
 of elms, stood the manor, a fine old country house slowly dying 
 before the advancing factories. In front the river. 
 
 For an hour Susie sat on the bank watching the moving
 
 MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 41 
 
 shipping. It was nearly seven o'clock and a golden autumn sun 
 setting behind the blue haze at the top of the reach. Out 
 there, indistinct with the blur of coming night, lay the forest of 
 masts and hulls without which Abbeyville never seemed com- 
 plete. At wide intervals the hum of a distant horn mingled 
 with the brisk cries of the boys playing on the training ships. 
 
 Susie leaned against an upturned boat watching the glowing 
 scene. Among those sights and sounds she had lived her life. 
 Here under Jack's guidance she had learned the difference 
 between a schooner and a brig, between a fog horn bellowing 
 mournfully on a hazy night and a steamer waking the echoes 
 for a pilot. Here she had laughed and played and learned to 
 love; and here, especially at the quiet hour of sunset, she 
 often roamed when Jack was away, dreaming dreams and 
 seeing visions of an impossible future for the life of sordid 
 Methodist cant which struck her so keenly at home, taught 
 her also to reach after that perfect and ideal love which the 
 Virginias of these pushful days usually find illusive. 
 
 A boat crossed her line of vision coming from the group of 
 shipping, lying off the jetty. Susie did not notice it, yet she 
 was intent on the picture spread before her. Half an hour 
 passed. The sun went down and the sky blazed with fiery 
 splashes. The glare sank into the girl's heart. She had for- 
 gotten her anger, she had forgotten her surroundings, her soul 
 went out across the waters with the cry of a wounded bird: 
 
 "Jack! Oh, Jack, come and take me to you!" 
 
 She rose from her seat and turned to go home, and there, 
 almost at her feet stood her lover. In a moment, with a cry 
 of absolute joy, she was in his arms, her face surrendered to 
 his kisses. 
 
 "Oh, my darling!" she whispered breathless. 
 
 "My little girl!"
 
 42 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Jack, Jack, you must not go away you must not." 
 
 He held her from him, seeking her eyes, while she as strongly 
 strove to hide them. 
 
 "I won't, Susie; not till you come with me." 
 
 She turned to face him now, her lips quivering, her eyes 
 bright with tears. "Jack!" she faltered and fell into silence. 
 
 "Susie!" he mocked, laughing. But she crept into his arms 
 and clung there shivering, while he, ignorant of her trouble, 
 explained in his firm young voice: 
 
 "It's true, Susie! I've come back to settle it. We can be 
 married whenever you say the word. How does it happen 
 so suddenly? Because I'm in luck. Tumbled across a god- 
 send last trip and Dunscombe's as pleased as Punch." 
 
 She raised her head and looked at him, forgetful of her tear- 
 stained face, forgetful of her trouble, swiftly thrilling with the 
 hope his words had given her. 
 
 "You've been crying, lass," he remarked, examining her 
 eyes. 
 
 "I didn't see you coming, Jack," she evaded. 
 
 "But your weren't crying about that?" 
 
 "No, Jack." 
 
 "Then what was it?" 
 
 She turned to him with a gust of passion. " Dear, it is every- 
 thing everything. I'm promised to you. Mother knows it, 
 but she insists I am to marry Saunderson Saunderson, her 
 'Chrischun Gawd-fearer' whom she loves." 
 
 "Chut!" he frowned, "we've heard that before. Not quite 
 so plain, perhaps, but it's been there and I've seen it. Well, 
 what does she think I am? Does she suppose I'm going to 
 stand by and watch him take you? Does she suppose I've 
 played the waiting game for fun? Can't she understand I 
 wanted to find you something better than a room at the top of
 
 MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 43 
 
 Panter's Court, maybe? The Lord look sideways on her for 
 a canting hypocrite. I have no patience with her, and she'll 
 know it." 
 
 "Jack, Jack!" she urged rushing in to stay the storm, "don't 
 heed her. I would not have told you but but " 
 
 "Yes, I know. She just bullies the life out of you, like she 
 has the old man. Well, we'll stop it. We need not wait now. 
 It shall end." 
 
 He spoke with the strength born of his sudden accession to 
 wealth which might perhaps run to one hundred pounds, per- 
 haps sink to fifty, a paltry sum on which to risk the expenses 
 of matrimony in some circles, but in his, a fortune. Susie 
 glanced in his face as she noted the change. 
 
 "Yes, dear," she replied, "it must end." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "When, when oh, Jack, when you will." 
 
 Then fell a silence; a silence as deep as that which had 
 lasted while the sun sank in the haze; a silence filled with 
 passionate caresses as they stood with strained arms, breast to 
 breast, lip to lip on the high sea wall. 
 
 The crimson glare had faded from the higher horizon. 
 Low amidst the blur and smoke of London, a bloody streak 
 paled. Night was marching across the winding reaches and 
 in place of the sun-tinged wavelets, lay a wide expanse of cold, 
 gray water. 
 
 The two stood there, quietly reading each other's faces. 
 The one, pale under the tan ; the other crimson and with flash- 
 ing eyes, eyes that entreated, begged for peace and happiness. 
 Arms linked, they climbed slowly from the sea wall to find it. 
 They skirted the grass and came to the back of the park where 
 a hillock rose, a knoll crowned with trees and fringed with 
 walls of blackthorn. This was the Spinney. At the summit
 
 44 THE ISSUE 
 
 the ground sank into a minature dell and the bushes ran riot 
 amidst a tangled network of roots and grass and bracken. It 
 was a place consecrated in their memory by many an hour of 
 happiness. Here Jack had fashioned a bower for his sweet- 
 heart; here, not long ago, he had built a rustic seat for the girl 
 who was to be his wife when fortune smiled; and here, in the 
 stillness of that river-girt wild, the two came once more to 
 whisper and to dream. 
 
 In glimpses, through the trees, they could see the sheeny 
 water and catch hints of the moving shipping; but the 
 man heeded nothing of this. The business of his life lay 
 face to face with nature. He had watched it in so many 
 guises through rain and snow, hail and sleet, with the pon- 
 derous accompaniment of heavy boots, oilskins, and wet necks, 
 and had, in the course of time, been disillusioned. Besides, 
 the matter in hand was love, and when a man discusses mat- 
 rimony, the maiden's eyes act as loadstones and all outside 
 influences are forgotten. Which is as it should be, even in a 
 world so prosaic that pounds sterling stand for a man's worth, 
 and the amount of a girl's dowry as a signal to the multitude of 
 her chances. 
 
 So they found seats among the trees and the girl's head 
 rested on the man's shoulder. Love throbbed in the heart of 
 each love and forgetfulness; the present, present; the future, 
 nowhere. Sometimes they talked, softly, as lovers talk ; some- 
 times they remained in silence, and perhaps the silence was 
 the more eloquent of the twain. 
 
 It is possible to say so much without speech in the fields; 
 it is possible to beg, to plead and gain acquiescence with the 
 eyes alone when a cleft in the rocks is our resting-place and 
 the sea moans at our feet. And in these dim reaches, far down 
 by the estuary, the voice of the sea is never entirely absent.
 
 MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 45 
 
 The river has broadened. The tides come up. They sing 
 the same song on the foreshore, the ripples break in the same 
 fine curve, whispering, tempting, wooing and the river folk 
 know the moods. 
 
 To-night it wooed. A soft south wind stirred the branches 
 overhead, but the bracken was still. The rooks slept without 
 fear high up there where the stars peeped. The denizens of 
 bush and cranny, grass and burrow moved about the affairs 
 of life silent as the stars, cautiously as a field mouse standing 
 sniffing on the threshold of home. And the man and the girl 
 rested together without speech. 
 
 Heaven is a great silence; love is akin to it. We may, per- 
 haps, never quite understand heaven, but love we may always 
 understand. Not the love, you comprehend, of madame who 
 has bartered her beauty for a consideration hi diamonds; but 
 the love of a girl and a man of the people unstained by life in 
 a city. Nature speaks here in spite of the cynics. It speaks 
 in spite of laws and conventions; in spite of trouble, pain or 
 suffering. The girl looks up and takes the man's kisses; the 
 man looks down and vows eternal constancy, eternal watch- 
 fulness man, of whom on earth there is nothing more unstable 
 or more careless of the future. 
 
 A storm lies brooding on the horizon it is unworthy of 
 consideration, "a cloud no bigger than a man's hand." The 
 archives are dark with portent. The police courts speak elo- 
 quently of this or that futility. Mrs. Stogers has black eyes 
 at the hand of her husband eyes which once he praised for 
 their beauty. Nell, formerly the belle of the village, is now 
 mother of ten dirty-faced children and is glad of "goes of gin" 
 to pass the time; but who sees these things? or who, at all 
 events, heeds them? 
 
 Not a man sitting among the trees with a girl's head resting
 
 46 THE ISSUE 
 
 on his shoulder. Not a girl held in his embrace, a slim, young 
 girl who trusts him and finds him worthy to be king. 
 
 There were little rifts of talk between these two; bursts of 
 exultation from Jack whose prowess in that matter of salvage 
 would not go unrewarded; a note or two of plans, desires all 
 interspersed with kisses. Speed was the necessity from Jack's 
 point of view. He aimed to put a stop to ''these worries," 
 by "going to Riverton to-morrow to stand before the registrar," 
 but Susie held back here. She wished to be married properly, 
 from church. Marriage in a registry office was not marriage 
 at all, and besides, she desired Mr. Oakley to tie the bond and 
 her father was necessary to render the ceremony complete. 
 It would take three weeks at least, she decided. 
 
 Jack argued quite sanely, in the face of existing events, that 
 it was absurd to wait and that Susie courted trouble by doing 
 so. "Why not cut the church and have done with it?" he 
 questioned relevantly. "There's no knowing what mischief 
 that mother of yours will be up to, and there's Saunderson, 
 too come, Susie," he urged, "look at things straight and 
 never mind the church." 
 
 But the girl only shook her head and clung more closely to 
 her lover. "Dear," she whispered, "let me have my way in 
 this. I have set my heart on it and I don't care a straw 
 for mother now, or for Saunderson." She lifted her lips to 
 his as she spoke and the starlight showed them soft and 
 carmine. 
 
 What could a man do in such a case? What would most 
 men do? He might kiss the lips and say nothing, or, if he 
 were wise and old and had experience, possibly he might argue, 
 if only to prolong a situation so beautifully stirring; but Jack 
 was unversed in the wiles of experience. He felt the girl 
 clinging to him, heard that she begged, saw her eyes soft and
 
 MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 47 
 
 pleading and answered after his kind, "God love you, lass; I'd 
 do more than that to see you happy." 
 
 An hour passed; they still sat amidst the trees, arms twined 
 and at rest. A woman crept from the path out there in the 
 dusk and stood watching they made no sign of having seen 
 her. Twigs snapped beneath her feet as she moved away 
 they did not hear. 
 
 The river at rest. Nature at rest. Night with its veil 
 drawn screening youth from the world of men; night with a 
 soft south wind to fan faces foolishly heated; then a bell on 
 the training ship giving out four strokes and Susie on her feet. 
 "Four bells, Jack what's that?" 
 And the man still reclining. "Ten o 'clock, lass why ? " 
 " Oh, my dear, my dear, I ought to be at home." 
 "Soon," came the deeper voice as Jack stood now and drew 
 her to him, "soon you'll have no home but mine. God love 
 you! Yes, I know. It's my fault. Come."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 AND PLAYS HER HAND 
 
 "i 
 
 A KISS for watchfulness, a kiss for guardianship, a kiss 
 for remembrance these were the seals set by Elliott 
 on the girl's sweet face as he left her at the park gates. 
 She was late what did it matter? She had Jack's love. 
 There would be a scene well, let it come. She could face it 
 smiling and in silence at the thought of the kisses. Jack loved 
 another? What nonsense. Had it not all been explained. 
 Was he not even now on his way to the vicar to arrange for 
 their wedding? 
 
 The lightness of Susie's step as she skipped up the street 
 was proof of her serenity at this moment; but before she had 
 traversed half the distance, there came a pause so sudden that 
 it appeared she intended to return. Still she did not return. 
 She halted, shrinking into the shadow of the wall. 
 
 There are some figures which it is quite impossible to mistake. 
 In twilight, in dusk or dwarfed by distance, they stand out 
 for the men they are. Saunderson was one of this type. Tall, 
 strong, with a decided walk and alert pose, the man was rec- 
 ognisable at once and he issued now from George Sutcliffe's 
 cottage to stand a moment gazing down the street. Whether 
 he saw her Susie never knew, but she decided at once that, 
 if he came towards the park, she must meet him. She was 
 not afraid and would not run away. She would meet him. 
 As it happened, however, the big man did not come towards 
 her but moved in the opposite direction perhaps, as the girl 
 
 4 8
 
 49 
 
 smilingly acknowledged, to the bar of the Southern Trader. 
 Susie was aware of the attraction lying dormant within those 
 walls, and at the moment the feeling uppermost in her mind 
 was one of thankfulness. 
 
 The man's figure being presently hidden by a turn of the 
 street, Susie resumed her way. She came to her home won- 
 dering what new plotting had brought Saunderson there at 
 such an hour, and discovered with a little throb of anxiety 
 that the windows were already shuttered for the night and 
 the house in darkness. 
 
 The signs were ominous. Coupled with Saunderson's 
 recent presence they suggested trouble; but Susie came to the 
 steps and after some small indecision, knocked boldly for 
 admittance. Some minutes passed in silence, then came the 
 sound of shuffling feet, a bolt was drawn, and Mrs. Sutcliffe 
 appeared in the doorway. 
 
 At the far end of the passage Susie discovered a lighted lamp 
 standing on the kitchen table. Beside it a Bible, Mrs. Sut- 
 cliffe's Bible, open and placed ostentatiously in view. The 
 girl knew by experience what this boded. She stepped within 
 and attempted to pass. Mrs. Sutcliffe blocked the way, her 
 face giving indications of the question which presently escaped 
 her thin, harsh lips: 
 
 "Wheer hev you bin?" 
 
 "Out for a walk." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe stood quite still. She lifted her eyes to the 
 dim ceiling and said: "Haigh! 'Ow long, O Lawd, 'ow 
 long!" 
 
 "You make home so pleasant for me," Susie explained, 
 "that I am glad to be away." 
 
 She attempted to pass into the kitchen, but again Mrs. Sut- 
 cliffe barred the way.
 
 5 o THE ISSUE 
 
 "Stand back!" she cried, "an' tell me wheer you've bin, 
 Miss Pert." Then, as Susie refused to reply, the voice fell 
 once more into the dismal and canting tones so familiar in 
 that household, "or," she said, "there's no need fer lies 
 fer went not my soul wiv thee?" 
 
 There was an ugly gleam in the woman's eyes, a suggestion 
 of triumph, and Susie instantly decided that her mother had 
 seen her, perhaps watched her in the Spinney. The suspi- 
 cion became a certainty on examination, for Mrs. Sutcliffe's 
 eyes gave her away. The meanness of the action set the girl's 
 pulses tingling. 
 
 "Your soul!" she hazarded, "I don't believe you have one. 
 It's much more likely you've been spying." 
 
 The retort went home, and Mrs. Sutcliffe acknowledged it 
 in a phrase. " A guilty consence," she said, " needs no ekuser." 
 
 "Which is the reason you can't look me in the face, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 "Don't you give me any of your lip, me gell. If I was 
 'appening to pass the Spinney an' 'card voices as turned me 
 aside, it isn't fer you to say I were spyin'. Wot were you doin' 
 in the Spinney?" 
 
 "I was talking to Jack." 
 
 This time an opening appeared and Mrs. Sutcliffe speedily 
 availed herself of the opportunity. "Decent gells don't lie 
 in young men's arms," she gave out with a dreary sneer. 
 
 "I am engaged to Jack. He is my promised husband he 
 has a right to " 
 
 "Any one seein' you would a said 'ee were your 'usband," 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe interrupted with biting emphasis, "only that 
 p'raps 'ee were a trifle too fond." 
 
 Susie turned to hide her face. A wave of anger and morti- 
 fication swept over her. "Oh, Jack, Jack.'" she cried. Then
 
 AND PLAYS HER HAND 51 
 
 with a swift acknowledgment of her hurts: "Let me pass, 
 woman. I wish to go to my room." 
 
 "Your room?" came the reply, satirically twisted. "Lawd! 
 wheer's that ? " and again with an accent which admitted of no 
 guesswork. "Your room? You hev no room. There's no 
 room 'ere for the likes of you." 
 
 The words were very distinct, the inference abominable, 
 yet Susie scarcely comprehended, even now, the length to 
 which this woman was prepared to go. She stood as one too 
 much astonished for speech, and the other expatiated on the 
 fact, hammering it home. 
 
 "You don't seem to understand," said Mrs. Sutcliffe, her 
 arms thrust out in explanation. "I say you 'av no room. I 
 say my house shall not be contiminated by your goin's on any 
 longer. I say that unless you like to marry Saunderson I'll " 
 
 "Oh, you dare not you dare not!" Susie cried out. "You 
 know it isn't true. Let mt pass!" 
 
 "I know wot I saw, me gell," came grimly from the thin lips. 
 
 "It is not true," Susie wailed. "I say it is not true." 
 
 "The face of the Lawd is against all them as do evil. I 
 will 'av no pawt in thy wickedness, saith the Lawd." 
 
 "If you believe that you will let me pass. I swear I have 
 done no wickedness. Jack is " 
 
 "Keep 'is name out of it." 
 
 " We are to be married it is impossible." 
 
 "Married are you well, now you look at wot I say, fer 
 it's the lawst word see?" She ticked off the points on her 
 fingers; speaking acidly: "You'll give me your promise not 
 to see that man again. You'll give me your promise to throw 
 'im over. You'll give me your promise to marry Jim Saunder- 
 son, an'," she added with grim accentuation, "if you don't, 
 out you go."
 
 $2 THE ISSUE 
 
 Susie was pale now, pale with strangely drawn eyes. Her 
 brain took in what was expected of her in so far that she under- 
 stood what was said; but beyond that it refused to register. 
 It seemed impossible to believe that the woman meant precisely 
 what she said. It seemed impossible that any one would carry 
 out threats so irrational and in the face of such flimsy evidence. 
 To turn a young girl from her home at any hour and for any 
 reason is monstrous, but at night it is criminal. Susie refused 
 to believe in this nightmare. She had come home prepared 
 for trouble, but scarcely for this; she had come home perhaps 
 a little defiant, but she had not dreamed of this. She had 
 spoken hastily. It was a mistake. She turned to her step- 
 mother to acknowledge it. "I am sorry I have angered 
 you and kept you up," she said. "I did not mean to. 
 I forgot the time. Jack has had some luck and we had to 
 discuss " 
 
 "I'm waitin' fer that promise I spoke of," the cold voice 
 interrupted. "Give it, or " 
 
 "I can't give it. Could you give it if you were in my 
 place?" 
 
 "That's not the point." 
 
 "I know it, I know it, and I know too that it is impossible 
 to persuade you that I have done no wrong. But," Susie went 
 on determined to give no further loophole, "but for dad's 
 sake, don't let this go any farther. Let it drop. It would 
 kill him to hear such talk and it isn't true. I swear it. Look! 
 I will go on my knees to you. I will beg you to let me stay if 
 you wish. Oh, for God's sake listen I will do anything 
 anything but marry Saunderson. I can't marry him. Mother ! 
 I will do anything except that. Only let me stay. Don't turn 
 me into the streets!" 
 
 Susie fell on her knees at the word but Mrs. Sutcliffe shook
 
 AND PLAYS HER HAND 53 
 
 her off. "Don't call me mother!" she cried harshly, "or go 
 on yer knees to me. Kneel to yer Maker. Gawd knows I 
 wouldn't be yer mother for all the gold in the Indies. Keep 
 yer 'ands off!" 
 
 Susie rose like one suddenly lashed on the face. She was 
 stung now beyond endurance. She would beg no longer. 
 She would fight, there was no other way left. A new scorn 
 rang in her voice when next she spoke. 
 
 "If you had been my mother," she said swiftly, "I should 
 have died when I was a baby. Children can't live on texts. 
 Let me pass." 
 
 "Stand back!" Mrs. Sutcliffe enjoined, her voice ringing 
 angrily in the narrow passage. "I won't be insulted in my 
 own 'ouse." 
 
 "Your house! My father's house you mean. Oh, if he 
 were at home if he were at home!" 
 
 "Father ! " Mrs. Sutcliffe shrieked. "Aye, if I'd 'ad my way 
 wi' you, me gell, it isn't the Spinney you'd a bin in, but the 
 Lawd's 'Ouse, if I'd 'ad to chain you to me wrist to drag you 
 there." 
 
 She shook her fist menacingly in Susie's face, but the girl 
 was accustomed to vagaries of this kind and did not flinch. 
 She faced her enemy with pale cheeks and gave back blow for 
 blow. 
 
 "A lot of good your chapel has done you!" she countered 
 swiftly. "Where is your charity or love or forgiveness? 
 Where are any of the things you hear of from squawking 
 ministers at your chapel?" 
 
 "Hold your tongue, miss." 
 
 "I will do nothing of the kind. You are so fond of your 
 godliness. You snivel and whine all day of it. You are for 
 ever quoting texts about love and forgiveness, but because I
 
 54 THE ISSUE 
 
 am late you threaten to turn me into the streets. You think 
 you are just. You pride yourself on your judgment, but I 
 tell you your chapel creeping has made you a hypocrite 
 nothing less." 
 
 "Chapel creeping?" 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe was strangely quiet now. Her lips were 
 drawn in a thin, bloodless line. "Have you done, miss?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "I have not. You aren't used to hearing the truth, so for 
 once you shall have it. 
 
 "You go about with a sniff of contempt for your less for- 
 tunate sisters. You ferret out lies about them and repeat 
 them in your chapel doors. If a girl goes wrong it is you and 
 your friends who have driven her to it. When she walks into 
 the river you hold your noses high and say, 'Thank Gawd I'm 
 not as she is.' Oh, you are very consistent in your godliness 
 but it is the men who fetch her out the men who don't go to 
 chapel. 
 
 "No, there can be nothing between us now, only enmity. 
 You have hated me always, because I am father's child. Now 
 I hate you and if I am to go into the streets you will have to 
 put me there. Stand back I will pass." 
 
 She paused breathless and strove to force her way in. But 
 the woman was strong and energetic. Her eyes narrowed. 
 She had forgotten her quotations, forgotten her husband, for- 
 gotten the cause of the controversy. She stood to "fight for 
 the sanctity of her home," and for her own mastery therein. 
 "Back yerself!" she shouted and in a moment Susie was 
 caught and thrown against the wall with a stinging slap 
 in the face. The girl reeled, fighting blindly. Her foot 
 slipped. Then Mrs. Sutcliffe took her by the shoulders and 
 hrust her out.
 
 AND PLAYS HER HAND 55 
 
 "Go!" she shouted in ungovernable anger. "Never you 
 dawken these doors again. Go! Go to yer lover." 
 
 The door slammed. There was a noise of vicious bolting 
 and barring, then silence fell once more on the old-world 
 village street.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 SUSIE REVOKES 
 
 LIFE is like a game of whist. To all of us when we come 
 into the world cards are dealt and Nature stands aside 
 to see us play them. Sometimes we play them well, 
 sometimes we play them ill. Susie had scarcely made the best 
 use of her hand and now she stood in the street at a time which 
 roysterers from the Southern Trader and other hells consider 
 their own. 
 
 The stars looked down upon her in the stillness awaiting 
 the card she would play. 
 
 Never before had the village seemed so inquisitive; never 
 before had the old home appeared so full of insidious laughter. 
 The windows across the way were peopled with prying eyes, 
 the lamps winked behind masks imperturbably grave of mien; 
 the little alley down there by the garden sheltered countless 
 peeping Toms. 
 
 Susie looked up at the forlorn house she had known hitherto 
 as a certain refuge and saw that the passage was dark. The 
 sounds of housewifely care filtered through the walls. Mrs. 
 Sutcliffe was locking up, closing her Bible, and turning out 
 the lights. Susie remembered that presently the stern creation 
 who had stood so long in her mother's stead, would ascend 
 the stairs, disrobe, and kneel kneel to beseech God's care for 
 the ensuing hours, God's direction for future works, God's 
 approbation for past deeds ; and the knowledge gave additional 
 point to the anguish she endured. The irony of it! The 
 
 56
 
 SUSIE REVOKES 57 
 
 mockery! It stung the girl to action and she threw herself 
 upon the door, beating piteously with her hands. But no soft 
 voice nor forgiving word came in answer to her supplication. 
 She moved to the window and strove to loosen the catch. She 
 stooped and found a stone with which to batter it, and again 
 stood still. For down the street came a guest of the Southern 
 Trader, ribald and stumbling under the weight of the liquor 
 he had consumed. He sang noisily with a tongue that hyphened 
 his words: 
 
 "We won-go-'ome till marnen 
 We-won-go'ome till mar-ner-ing 
 We-won-go-'ome, hie, till mar-ner-ing ! 
 Before the br-eake-a-daysh." 
 
 Susie hastened to the porch, searching the narrow yard for 
 sanctuary. She was still now and very pale. She decided that 
 she must not be seen by this songster. With swift intuition 
 she acknowledged that if he met her there would be further 
 trouble. She had no desire for further trouble, especially of 
 the sort that promised. Yet how was she to escape ? 
 
 The man approached in stumbling solemnity. The pave- 
 ment was too narrow to give him foot room. The road be- 
 came part of the scheme developed to wreck him. He strutted 
 there in the dim light, as destiny ordering events, and again 
 broke into song, a ribald, hateful thing born of the cups from 
 which he had been driven by a publican tardily acknowledging 
 that even he had duties. It was "The Chaffinch" who faced 
 Susie at this hour, a man with whom no woman in that village 
 wantonly attempted a passage of arms. 
 
 To-morrow, if he espied the girl, all Abbeyville would be 
 listening with bated breath to the history of his amazing con- 
 quest. To-morrow, if this thing chanced, she would be ana- 
 thema outcast; one over whom the village would wag its 
 head suggesting the unutterable.
 
 S 8 THE ISSUE 
 
 Susie decided that she could not risk this new peril, and with 
 the decision came action. She opened the gate and in a moment 
 was flying like a shadow towards the park. The man saw her 
 and commanded her to wait. Endearing adjectives took the 
 place of that ribald song, he clamoured for her company and 
 the noise he made gave a new incentive to flight. Susie turned 
 up the lane leading from the river, where an hour ago she had 
 parted with Jack. She held a hand now in which there were 
 no trumps, in which there were no kings, no aces, no queens 
 only the rank and file brandishing red and black pips. And 
 the stars looked down upon her awaiting the card she would 
 play. 
 
 Slave Alley is the name of the avenue through which Susie 
 passed on this night, and in the years of Britain's travail the 
 Romans drove their captives down its length to the galleys 
 lying out there where the Bluebell hugged the mooring posts, 
 waiting to go on the ways. Above them towered the hill which 
 gave them shelter, Galley Hill, the place where perchance 
 Susie might obtain succour and towards which at the moment 
 she moved. 
 
 Midway to the top of the slope she paused for breath. Not 
 a sound marred the exquisite night. The solitary lamp at the 
 end of the road burned without flickering. The leaves drew 
 patterns in the white at her feet. It was lonely, still. All the 
 quiet country folk were in bed and only such stray revellers as 
 the man down there were abroad. 
 
 A noise assailed the girl's ears. She leaned forward and 
 discovered the form of her pursuer dark among the shadows. 
 
 Again she searched for a hiding place, a place wherein she 
 could pause and gain time for thought; but the walls ran 
 straight and high, harbourless on either hand. Susie waited 
 no longer. She hastened to the high road which crossed at
 
 SUSIE REVOKES 59 
 
 right angles the way she had come. Five or six miles in either 
 direction would see her in the streets of a town and, as a 
 matter of detail, it would be perhaps one o'clock. On the 
 left, two miles from where she paused, the vicarage lights 
 flickered advising her the family were not yet in bed, but to 
 reach it she must run the gauntlet of Galley Hill. Before 
 her, winding across the fields, was the villager's track to 
 Northdean, a little hamlet nestling on the edge of Shorncombe 
 woods. 
 
 Jack lived at Northdean. In less than ten minutes she could 
 be at his side and safety would take the place of danger, rest of 
 unrest, love of hatefulness. She sank down on the grass at 
 the roadside struggling to think coherently. 
 
 The tall trees threw their shadows across her, whispering 
 in the breeze which claimed the hilltop. At the foot of the 
 Alley she could see the river dotted with lights and quivering 
 reflections, here a red gleam, there a green, here a cluster all 
 white, there a space unlighted. 
 
 It was Jack's river, her river the river she had watched 
 and loved from childhood. Childhood? Ah, that was gone. 
 Gone with the loss of her home. Gone with the stigma which 
 would now so inevitably fall upon her. In the eyes of that 
 narrow village world she would be degraded, a hussy steeped 
 in sin. To-morrow her stepmother's tongue would have 
 magnified her foolishness beyond palliation; to-morrow the 
 idiot village would roll its head at her, tongue in cheek; to- 
 morrow, if she did not act now, she would find herself cut off 
 from hope. There was but one solution to it all. She must 
 go to Jack. She had no home. She must ask Jack to give her 
 one. They must be married at once. She must give up that 
 notion she had desired and face the registry office otherwise 
 she would be outcast; a person at which dreary Christians
 
 6o THE ISSUE 
 
 sneer; an object for the pity of missions and societies which 
 reclaim. 
 
 She must go to Jack. If she did not go to Jack, she told 
 herself that all these things must come to her. She was driven 
 driven by some power over which she had no control. Oh! 
 if her father had been at home, or she had been with him 
 useless, worse than useless, for then this had not happened. 
 The futility of the "might have beens" struck her and she 
 writhed. Her thoughts became a burden. The solitude un- 
 bearable. 
 
 She rose at once and keeping in the shadow of the hedgerow 
 fled swiftly on till the cottages stood in view. A flush of shame 
 crimsoned her brow here, but the night was kind, it was nearly 
 twelve o'clock and all the houses dark. 
 
 Jack's window alone showed a faint light. Susie hastened 
 towards it. She unlatched the gate and crossed the strip of 
 garden. Every nerve hi her body thrilled now. Her face 
 burned. Her eyes took a strange, soft look. She peeped in 
 unheard. 
 
 Jack reclined in an easy chair at the back of the room asleep. 
 The paper he had been reading lay on the floor, his pipe had 
 gone out. He rested there in quiet content, at peace with all 
 the world and ignorant of the anguish she endured. 
 
 She whispered his name. He slept unmindful. The win- 
 dow was open, the sill low in another moment Susie had 
 entered the room and fallen on her knees at his feet! 
 
 "Jack! Jack! Oh, my dear, my dear!" 
 
 She buried her face on his breast, fondling him like a re- 
 pentant child. And springing suddenly from dreamland he 
 caught her to him whispering: 
 
 "Susie is that Susie?" 
 
 "Who else could it be, dear?"
 
 SUSIE REVOKES 61 
 
 Then the incongruity of the situation and her quaint reply 
 struck her and she leaned in his arms sobbing pitifully. 
 
 The girl's nerves were all unstrung. She verged at that 
 instant on the hysteria of all excitable natures. The room 
 was stifling, it seemed that she stood in danger of suffocation. 
 She sprang to her feet as Jack moved away to find water, and 
 fled suddenly into the garden. 
 
 Elliott managed to overtake her as she essayed a passage 
 through a gap in the hedge across the way. He took her in 
 his arms and moved firmly towards the house. But she 
 struggled for freedom. 
 
 "Not there, not in there," she begged between laughter and 
 tears. "Stay out. It is cooler and I I must tell you." 
 
 He waited in silence what came, his strong grip and quiet 
 manner soothing her. She became calm under his influence. 
 
 "What is it, Susie?" he questioned at length. "Tell me 
 what has gone wrong." 
 
 She looked up smiling, "Nothing, Jack." 
 
 "Nothing, Susie?" 
 
 "I I have no home, dear that's all." 
 
 "No home?" he questioned uncomprehending. 
 
 "No home, Jack." 
 
 "You mean they have turned you out?" he adventured, 
 feeling his way through a maze of guesses. 
 
 "Mother has." 
 
 "Good God! What for?" 
 
 The girl broke into a passion of tears. "Because she hates 
 me," she wailed, "and because I was late. But principally 
 because I refused to give you up and marry Saunderson." 
 
 "Surely you can't mean it," he objected. Then raging up 
 and down before her: "My God! come with me, lass, and I'll 
 see you safe if I stave the walls in. Threw you out, did she?
 
 62 THE ISSUE 
 
 Your mother who makes such a song of her religion. Come, 
 I'll take you home. There's nothing else for it." 
 
 But Susie drew back, shaking her head. " I can't live there," 
 she returned. "I am a coward perhaps, but I can't face her 
 again." 
 
 "Then what is to be done?" 
 
 Susie reached up and put her arms about his neck 
 
 "I must stay with you, Jack and " 
 
 "Here?" he questioned, mindful of the prying eyes which 
 would wake with daylight. 
 
 "Anywhere, anywhere and to-morrow you must take me 
 to aunt's at Swinfleet." 
 
 He held her close, watching the leaping colour. One hand 
 discovered a way to smooth the soft cheek resting so near his 
 own. Their eyes met, a restful look in hers, a look which 
 shook him in spite of the anger still smouldering. "No," he 
 answered, "it can't be here, Susie; but I know a place not far 
 off where I can take you, where I can leave you if you wish it 
 but " 
 
 "Is that necessary?" she interposed still watching him. 
 
 He caught her to him in a fierce tumult of delight. "No, 
 it's not necessary. You are mine and I will guard you. You 
 are mine mine. God love you, sweet, I'll never let you go." 
 
 And the stars looked down upon them as they moved away. 
 They seemed to smile at the cards which had been played.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE INQUISITOR 
 
 AGAIN it was night and again these two passed out into 
 coolness to find that sanctuary of which Susie had 
 spoken. Swinfleet lay some miles distant and the farm 
 was farther still, but they were going thither strong in the 
 knowledge that Mrs. Surridge would give them welcome. 
 
 It had been necessary to delay till darkness had set in for 
 reasons mainly concerned with Elliott's calling. He had been 
 out all day thrashing the river, towing barges and berthing a 
 ship. Also he had been to the registrar to discover how soon 
 it was possible to "get tied up," and that official had informed 
 him of the necessary notice. To-morrow was Sunday and on 
 Monday and the two following days he would be down river. 
 
 Susie smiled when these delays were presented for her in- 
 spection. She had no opinion of marriages solemnised in an 
 office and gave the matter scant attention. 
 
 "The banns are up, Jack," she decided off hand. "We 
 shall be asked to-morrow. A day or two will make no dif- 
 ference. I am content aren't you?" 
 
 "Content!" He took her in his arms and the smile he dis- 
 covered seemed to suggest that she found the answer complete. 
 
 Some little distance outside Northdean the country is an 
 undulating plain, tilled, divided, and without roads. It is a 
 vast garden in fact, planted with strawberries, currants, goose- 
 berries, and hops. Beyond lies Shorncombe wood, a wide 
 expanse covered with trees, bushes, gorse, and bracken. A 
 
 63
 
 64 THE ISSUE 
 
 few paths cross it, and amidst the trees, where the farm carts 
 have furrowed a passage, these are easily followed, but where 
 the foliage is denser the track degenerates into a mere beaten 
 footway, difficult to find even in daylight. At night the risk 
 is great, of course, for a stranger, but Elliott knew the land- 
 marks, knew them for part of that great playground of his in 
 which he had learned to love. 
 
 The village clock was striking ten when they passed the pond 
 near the entrance and came into the woods. Outside a cool 
 breeze had swept across the fields, but within the sheltering 
 trees no wind stirred and the air was warm and humid. 
 
 Still the lovers moved on, sometimes in quiet, sometimes 
 whispering of the life which was so soon to begin, which, hi 
 point of fact, had begun; but always their arms were inter- 
 twined and their heads bent to search for the pitfalls with which 
 the way abounded. They reached at length a gentle slope 
 which led them to a small clearing near the centre of the wood; 
 a space peopled only by the oaks, where many tracks meet, 
 diverge and wind off amidst the farther undergrowth. 
 
 Is was lighter here. The trees stood well apart and the 
 stars looked down upon them. And as the two paused there 
 the sound of approaching footsteps fell on their ears; and on 
 looking up they perceived a figure moving quickly to intercept 
 them. 
 
 A woman, tall, slight, and dressed wholly in black, came from 
 the shadows holding up one hand. Her face showed white 
 against the trees; her hair, too, seemed white; but as she drew 
 near they saw that it was like straw in colour. She halted close 
 beside them with an expression of thankfulness which was 
 almost painful in its intensity. 
 
 "Thank God!" she cried. "Thank God for this. I feared 
 I was doomed to wander all night. It is dark and cold
 
 THE INQUISITOR 65 
 
 here, and I am very weary. Can you direct me to Abbey- 
 ville?" 
 
 Jack regarded her advent with some asperity. He resented, 
 not unnaturally, the intrusion of a second care. "To Abbey- 
 ville?" he questioned. "It isn't easy. It's four miles from 
 here and the path runs anyhow." 
 
 "But you can point it out surely you can do that." 
 
 "Do you know the woods?" 
 
 "I see them to-night for the first time." 
 
 "Then it's impossible," said Jack. 
 
 "Don't say that. For God's sake don't say that." 
 
 "What else can I say? There's no road, only a track, a 
 dozen tracks. Why you might wander all night without getting 
 to Abbeyville." 
 
 "And I have been walking now since dusk. At six o'clock 
 I reached the little village over there, Swinfleet they call it, 
 and had a cup of tea. Then I started to cross the woods, but 
 a dreadful man sprang out of the trees and in avoiding him I 
 lost my way. He was naked. Oh! it was horrible." 
 
 "Some poor devil escaped from the asylum," Elliott sug- 
 gested. "Well, this beats all. Here are we " 
 
 Susie crept to his side, interrupting him with a pathetic 
 gesture; "We must help her, dear. We can't leave her here 
 alone." 
 
 "Short of going back a couple of miles there's no way of 
 doing it, lass." 
 
 "Then we must go back. I am not a bit tired." 
 
 "If you could and there really is no other way, it would be 
 a kindness," the woman acknowledged. 
 
 "To you, yes; but to " 
 
 "Nonsense, Jack. I can manage it easily." 
 
 The woman came close beside them and taking Susie's hand
 
 66 THE ISSUE 
 
 said: "I don't know who your are, nor do I ask. But you 
 have a sweet face and I thank you from my heart. And I 
 pray that when you have reached my age you may still be 
 beautiful enough to hold your husband's love. What am I 
 talking of! You are my Good Samaritans. I must not delay. 
 Come." 
 
 She spoke with so much ease and appeared so weary, down- 
 cast, and full of trouble, that Jack relented and consented to 
 the proposal. They turned at once to retrace their steps and 
 in a few minutes had again entered the solitude from which 
 they had only just emerged. But they walked in silence until 
 Susie, finding it irksome, ventured a question. 
 
 "Do you know Abbeyville?" she asked. 
 
 "I have never seen it." 
 
 "A strange time to choose for a first visit, " Elliott laughed. 
 
 "Fate makes no choice of time." 
 
 "Fate?" 
 
 "Love, if you like it better." 
 
 The tone sufficed. The trio moved again in silence. 
 
 Down the path, over the hill, through a dense mass of foliage 
 where they were compelled to stoop and hold back the boughs 
 to force a passage; round bends and turns until at length they 
 stood on the verge of the wood and the remaining distance 
 could be indicated. Here Elliott paused to give the necessary 
 instructions and the woman held out her hand. 
 
 "I spoke brusquely just now," she said. "I hope you will 
 overlook it. I have my reasons. A woman turns to her 
 sex for aid. How seldom her sex aids her you will learn with 
 years. But you have been good to me and I wish I could see 
 you again. Still, that is impossible; no, I ask no questions, nor 
 do I give any confidences. Good bye and you, dear,God 
 bless you for your sympathy."
 
 THE INQUISITOR 67 
 
 / 
 
 She marched off without waiting for any reply, her tall, slim 
 form swaying against the starlight. It appeared, at that mo- 
 ment, that she neither cared for nor heeded the fact of the 
 additional tramp she had caused. Unquestionably she had 
 been brusque. 
 
 "Who can she be, Jack?" Susie questioned as they moved 
 forward. 
 
 "God knows. Perhaps another lunatic the woods often 
 hold them." 
 
 "She didn't speak like one." 
 
 "No, but she's queer for all that and she has given us a 
 tidy jaunt for nothing." 
 
 "Still, I am glad we helped her," Susie decided. 
 
 "It adds another four miles to your walk, lass four and six 
 is ten. It's too much." 
 
 "For you, dear?" 
 
 "No," he laughed; "for you." 
 
 "Then don't think of it, for you and I are one." 
 
 Again they entered the woods, passed the clearing and came 
 to the outskirts; but before they reached it, long before they 
 drew near it, Susie began to lag. The way was so difficult, the 
 path rugged, dark, and full of pitfalls. When at length they 
 emerged upon the road the moon was high, the night calm, 
 and Susie too weary for words. 
 
 They came to a little dell sheltered from the breeze and Susie 
 paused to look upon it. "It is like our own dear Spinney," 
 she whispered, "and oh! I am so tired." 
 
 "Then rest a while, Sweet. God knows it can make no 
 difference now." He half carried her across the road and 
 brought her to the bank. 
 
 "And even if it did, Jack, I think I must," she begged. 
 
 He stooped to clear a space, then spread his coat upon the
 
 68 THE ISSUE 
 
 leaves, and she nestled down to rest. "I am so tired," she 
 smiled, "I think I could sleep for ever." 
 
 From far over the hills there came the shriek of an early 
 train, the birds awoke, looked out, and saw the day was come. 
 They preened their wings, fluttering busily in the soft warm 
 air. The land was silent. The lights in the distant village 
 grew dim, paled, and died. Smoke rose straight from a score 
 of chimneys. Swinfleet was awake, and out there, beyond, 
 Mrs. Surridge bustled about the farm questioning at intervals 
 what had happened that Susie was not with her.
 
 Part H 
 CDc open anD Cfceft 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE MASTER 
 
 RIVERTON is one of London's outposts. By no 
 stretch of imagination could one call it beautiful or 
 picturesque in itself, and yet it has a beauty such as 
 may be found in few environments. To discover it one 
 must accept the river as part of it; to see it at its best one 
 must choose the hour. 
 
 At sunrise or at sunset, when the Thames rolls swiftly past 
 the jutting piers and anchored shipping, when the red sails of 
 tacking barges are turning mauve or purple; when the giant 
 liners lying out there in mid-stream, carry a tinge of flame 
 about their rails and blue on their sides; when the hulks and 
 buoys and loading colliers are all bathed alike in that heaven- 
 flung radiance, and the houses climbing tier above tier ashore 
 seem to be palaces fashioned in the kingdom of the skies then 
 Riverton is beautiful; beautiful in that expressively sorrowful 
 way which is one of England's greatest charms. 
 
 But if you take the streets and examine them, if you count 
 the number of gin palaces flaunting brass and rank humanity 
 to the skies; if you look at the shops which are dowdy, the 
 slums which are abominable, or the government which is be- 
 
 69
 
 70 THE ISSUE 
 
 yond criticism, then you find a town of the old style made 
 modern without improvement; a town completely and over- 
 whelmingly crushed by its gigantic neighbour and you marvel 
 at the opportunities which it seems are lost for all time. 
 
 Still, Riverton has docks, piers, forts, sea-walls and a garri- 
 son. The troops sometimes visit the churches, bugles are 
 to be heard and the red or khaki uniform is in evidence always 
 on the footways. It may be accepted, therefore, that Riverton 
 is a place of some importance in this fair land of ours. 
 
 Now Wakeley Dunscombe, the owner of the Bluebell, lived 
 in Riverton and grew fat on the provender procurable on the 
 broad bosom of father Thames. He was one of the men who 
 would have grown fat in any business community. He had a 
 natural facility for making money grow. His friends spoke of 
 him with enthusiasm. They said that he was "an indefatig- 
 able business man," by which term, if one analyses it, they 
 probably wished it to be understood that he was a money- 
 spinner. To get money is, of course, legitimate either in 
 Riverton or elsewhere the thing which matters is the means 
 employed, and Dunscombe's means were very mean. 
 
 Prosperity shone in every wrinkle in this man's face. It 
 shouted from his diamond bedizened fingers and grew pos- 
 itively offensive with the ponderous chain and seals dangling 
 ostentatiously across his waistcoat. But the bank people 
 attended his wants without question and the clergy called. 
 
 Among his men Dunscombe had the name of being the 
 hardest master on all the river side. No scheme was too low, 
 too mean or too sordid for him to finger, provided he saw his 
 way to clear a profit. His skippers were selected with but few 
 exceptions from the riff -raff of Thames watermen, and he 
 ground them in the mill of competition without remorse. He 
 looked upon his "hands" as puppets out of which to fashion
 
 THE MASTER 71 
 
 f 
 
 wealth as speedily and economically as possible. He ruled 
 them with a rod of iron, turned them adrift on the smallest 
 provocation, and had earned the promised vengeance of not a 
 few a state of affairs in which he rather gloried. 
 
 He was an assertive, entirely self-made man of slight educa- 
 tion and boundless energy. A man of small stature, with quick 
 eyes and a colouring which betokened the admixture of Welsh 
 blood on the part of some not distant ancestor. But of this 
 latter Dunscombe was unaware. Indeed he would have denied 
 the imputation with scorn, for he prided himself particularly 
 on the lack of a genealogical tree, as though the fact that he 
 had descended from someone and had inherited traits as well 
 as induced them, reflected in some obscure fashion on his in- 
 dividual success and made it less his own. 
 
 His house was characteristic of the man. He designed it, 
 contracted for it, and built it. No sufficiently enterprising 
 builder could be found to undertake the work on Duns- 
 combe's terms. It was large, showy, and quite original. On 
 the ground floor it blossomed solemnly as a Queen Anne; 
 higher, it sprouted Gothic excrescences and embrasures; still 
 higher, red brick battlements flourished and the necessity for 
 something in the middle was met by a lighthouse. From the 
 windows of this structure Dunscombe commanded a view of 
 the neighbouring chimney-pots, together with that angle of the 
 river dominated by his wharf. From this eminence, too, he 
 surveyed the swarming hive of men, and pondered on the means 
 of extracting further profits. 
 
 Everything about the house proclaimed the man. Every- 
 thing spoke of the theodolite and rule. The windows wore sym- 
 metrical bibs and tuckers, tied individually round the waist 
 with crisp pink ribbons, as though they were children expecting 
 company. The doors flashed shiny glances at their duller
 
 72 THE ISSUE 
 
 neighbours across the way; and the resplendent brass- work 
 winked like a yacht's fittings. 
 
 But it was the garden that Dunscombe especially loved to 
 trim and square and rule out of all decency. Here the angles, 
 triangles, and octagons were positively indecorous. Nothing 
 could well be bolder than the iron border around the beds, ex- 
 cept, perhaps, the filagree fence that hemmed the lawn. Noth- 
 ing could well be more shameless than the box-tree stork that 
 sat in a garden nest looking for chicks which never came; except, 
 perhaps, the puffy rotundities of that cherub, dancing wantonly 
 beside plaster lions grinning ferocity on either side the steps. 
 
 The diamond-shaped beds were filled with foliage plants 
 arranged in a diamond-shaped pattern. The trees were shaved 
 as though their master were a barber and exhibited them as his 
 sign. In the centre of an iron-bound fountain, a shivering 
 Venus stood waiting for the water which never flowed. The 
 plants were all of one height and one circumference. Individ- 
 ual excrescences were promptly nipped in the bud; it appeared 
 as though the trees and shrubs had, by long training, become 
 imbued with a sense of their own insignificance, and had agreed 
 to suffer effacement before the preponderating egoism of the 
 Master. 
 
 Adjoining the house and overlooking the garden where Venus 
 shivered eternally, was a small study which Dunscombe used 
 often as an office; for, even his home was not sacred from the 
 business of money-getting. Here he frequently saw those 
 "Captains" of his, whose arrival he had witnessed from the 
 lighthouse, after the office was closed. And it was here that 
 Dunscombe sat one evening, toasting his toes over a glowing 
 fire, and pondering jovially on the triumph of "individual talent " 
 when set in opposition to the narrower possibilities of more 
 honourable firms.
 
 THE MASTER 73 
 
 A letter had just reached him from the owners of the steamer 
 which had collided with the Bluebell. It was a comforting 
 letter, containing the offer of a compromise, forwarded through 
 his solicitor. An offer worth accepting, for Dunscombe knew 
 that fifty pounds judiciously spent, would make the Bluebell 
 every whit as seaworthy as she had been before which, per- 
 haps, is not very high praise. 
 
 The compromise was for three times that amount, and no 
 law worries. Dunscombe's mouth watered as he sat there 
 thinking his thoughts in silence, and a smile of infinite com- 
 placency lingered on his face. Once more, to use his own 
 phrase, had he crept to windward and won. Once more the 
 Bluebell would shine and be the pride and envy of all the fleet 
 at no expense to himself. True, a man had been drowned in 
 the collision, and a broken-hearted woman with four hungry 
 brats had wept loudly in the hall; but that had been the skip- 
 per's fault, not his: an accident in the game, which the hands 
 must learn to take with their pay. On the whole, the affair 
 might have been worse; and if Saunderson had been less of a 
 fool, he might have stayed on but . . . The man's jaws 
 snapped like a gin, and he had mentally decided to write to his 
 solicitors bidding them accept, when a maid entered to an- 
 nounce one of the men. 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 "Captain Saunderson, sir." 
 
 "Saunderson, eh? Show him in." 
 
 Now Saunderson had been much in Dunscombe's thoughts for 
 some time past. In addition to the matter of reckless navigation 
 it had come to the master's ears that this zealous servitor of his 
 was promulgating a strike among the hands; that he was the 
 leading spirit in the strike now in progress at a certain cement 
 factory, close at hand, which had caused him considerable loss.
 
 74 THE ISSUE 
 
 To touch Dunscombe thus was identical with flicking a horse 
 on a raw. It made him kick out with curious indiscretion, an 
 effect probably of the lack of educative self-control. 
 
 The man moved heavily into the room and stood twisting his 
 cap in his hands. There was a cut across his forehead, and the 
 back of his head was bound with strips of plaster. He was not 
 pretty to look at, and Dunscombe eyed him sharply. 
 
 "Well, Saunderson, what's come to you?" he cried. "Been 
 fighting?" 
 
 "No, sir. It's in yon huffle I got it. There's a bad sea on, 
 an' her gear's all to Jiminy; it's likely a block swingin' loose 
 cut me a snick. " 
 
 "Oh." 
 
 There was a peculiar inflection in Dunscombe's voice. He 
 knew from long experience with what diffidence a Thames 
 skipper speaks the truth, and took this opportunity of showing 
 it. Saunderson squirmed where he stood. "Sir," he cried 
 hotly; "them as say otherwise, lies. I'm standin' on the tug's 
 deck; we are close under her bows an' the derelict's jumpin* 
 crewl. What hit me I don't know; but it's somethin' flyin' 
 loose." 
 
 "I thought there was a difficulty about getting very near?" 
 said Dunscombe quietly. 
 
 Saunderson stared; the pulse in his forehead throbbed omi- 
 nously. "It's a lie, Guv'nor!" he shouted. 
 
 " Silence, man; don't rave at me. " 
 
 "It ain't easy to keep quiet when lies are slung at you," said 
 Saunderson more soberly; "and, if every one had his doo," he 
 continued with the intention of dispelling the bad impression 
 he had made, "there's no two ways about it, the Stormy Petrel 
 would get a change of masters. " 
 
 " How do you mean ?"
 
 THE MASTER 75 
 
 "It might pay you to shift skippers, Guv'nor that's my 
 meaning. " 
 
 "Speak out, man; don't hint at things. If you have any- 
 thing against Elliott, let me hear it. " 
 
 Saunderson snapped his fingers with an affectation of indif- 
 ference. "For that matter," he said, "I've nothing against 
 Jack Elliott he's as good a man as here or there another. 
 But, he's got no principle that's what I look at. A man that 
 has no principle ain't any sort of man. What would you say 
 to a chap that did a 'little bit on his own,' when he's bound 
 to give account for all he earns? It ain't fair doos, sir. It's 
 possible to do a good bit on your own, if you do it judicious. " 
 
 "I suppose it is," said Dunscombe quietly; "most masters 
 have to put up with robbery in one form or another. " 
 
 "Aye, sir; maybe that's true. But when there's honest 
 hands why keep dishonest ? It's no sort of encouragement for 
 the honest sort now, is it ? Tell me, sir, when did the towing 
 of the Tantalus, Captain George Sutcliffe, come into your 
 accounts? If you can tell me that I've done. Say I know 
 nothing about it, an' you won't be far out. " 
 
 Dunscombe looked up at the sound of this man's accusation, 
 but he had no intention of bandying unnecessary words. 
 
 "How long ago ? " he questioned. 
 
 "Ten days last Friday." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Offthejenkin." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "I'm coming through the Swatch wiv the Deerstalker and 
 see it. " 
 
 Dunscombe turned quietly to his desk. "I remember," he 
 said, "I have an account of it." 
 
 Saunderson's air of certitude deserted him; he was completely
 
 76 THE ISSUE 
 
 thrown off his guard. "Then Jack Elliott's a liar, " he articu- 
 lated. "Why he told the old man there would be no 
 charge. Said he'd take five shillin's to settle the job. I heard 
 him." 
 
 "I know nothing of that." 
 
 The two men remained in silence for some minutes, Saunder- 
 son uncomfortably twirling his cap, Dunscombe leaning back 
 in his chair and eyeing him with a shrewd stare. 
 
 "Well," he remarked at length, "is that all you have against 
 Elliott?" 
 
 "Most masters would think it enough. " 
 
 "That is nothing to me." 
 
 The man was nonplussed. He did not like Dunscombe's 
 quiet manner. It would have been more comfortable to hear 
 him swear. There was something behind all this that he 
 could not fathom, for Dunscombe, as a rule, was not chary 
 about receiving information. Besides, Saunderson was con- 
 scious that in his hatred of Elliott, he had allowed his tongue to 
 run away with him; the incident had grown in the telling. 
 
 "If that is all you have to say we may as well come back to 
 business. " Dunscombe's voice fell sharply on the man's ears 
 as he leaned forward, searching for a paper. "For instance," 
 he continued suavely, "what about this collision of yours. 
 'Caspian v. Blttebell,' " he quoted from a document he held. 
 
 "What about it, sir?" 
 
 "I am not satisfied with your statements on the subject. 
 How is it that you were not on deck yourself ? " 
 
 " Sir, I've just gone below for a wash. A man can't always 
 be on deck. " 
 
 "You brought up at Thames Haven: what were you doing at 
 the Golden Crown all the flood before you came up ? " 
 
 "I went ashore to get some tommy. We're clean out of grub
 
 THE MASTER 77 
 
 an' when I come back the boat's got a hole knocked in her. 
 What can I do ? I must mend her so as she'll swim. " 
 
 "Is that a true bill, Saunderson?" 
 
 The man had been drinking and again showed signs of it. 
 "Lumme!" he blurted in desperation, "if it ain't the truth it's 
 a lie. How'll that do?" 
 
 "It is a lie." 
 
 "All right; say it's a lie. What then, Mr. Dunscombe?" 
 
 "You were drunk, my lad." 
 
 "I was no more drunk," he shouted in blustering consterna- 
 tion at being confronted with the truth, "than you are, Guv'- 
 nor." 
 
 "Silence, man." 
 
 "Lumme! I won't be silent. Who told you that? Where 
 did you get it from? Why," he continued with one of those 
 accessions of rage to which he was given, "from Elliott. That's 
 where you got it." 
 
 "I have not seen Elliott," Dunscombe returned with hard- 
 ened accent. 
 
 "Lie!" cried the other. "You want to shield Jack Elliott. 
 You listen to him; you won't listen to me. By Gawd! I'll be 
 even wiv the pair of you yet. S'elp me, if I'm not even wiv you, 
 may I drop down dead rotten " 
 
 He plucked fiercely at his neckerchief and would have con- 
 tinued, but speech was denied him. In an access of ungovern- 
 able rage he only stuttered inaudibly. 
 
 Dunscombe rose to his feet and stood confronting him. 
 "Silence!" he shouted. "How dare you. Get out of my 
 house. I will have nothing further to do with you." 
 
 They stood some minutes glaring angrily at each other; then 
 the stern, unbending attitude of the master, and the inborn 
 habit of obedience, slovenly and ill-learned as it was, came
 
 78 THE ISSUE 
 
 to Dunscombe's aid. The man turned slowly to open the 
 door. 
 
 "I'm discharged?" he questioned in a smaller voice. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Right. Then I'll have to look for another bloke, an' there's 
 an end." 
 
 He walked from the room, but almost immediately returned. 
 "May I look to you, sir, for a character?" he questioned. 
 
 "What sort of character can I give you?" Dunscombe 
 sneered; "I hereby certify that James Saunderson has been 
 captain of the schooner Bluebell for eighteen months, and lost 
 her in a fit of drunkenness something of that sort, eh?" 
 
 Saunderson stood twirling his cap in sullen apathy, and his 
 master resumed: 
 
 "That I know that James Saunderson is a leading member 
 of the Union, and upholds the rights of the workers against the 
 masters. I might add that, too, eh, Captain ? " 
 
 "An' haven't the men some rights?" cried Saunderson, his 
 anger leaping anew. "Are we to sit still an' rot, while you 
 trundle around in the carriage our work has got you?" 
 
 "You, individually, may starve and be damned. With the 
 others I have nothing to do." 
 
 Saunderson drew breath quickly. He stood there, gazing 
 round the room and moving his neck as though he found his 
 collar stifled him. "And that's all you'll do for me?" he 
 questioned. 
 
 "I have nothing further to say. Leave my house." 
 
 "Right." 
 
 He advanced to the door, opened it, and turned about. 
 "Right, Guv'nor," he reiterated, speaking with slow emphasis, 
 "but there's two parties in every raffle it's all likely you'll 
 find there's two in this."
 
 THE MASTER 79 
 
 
 
 He moved from the room and found his way into the street. 
 He felt the need of air. It seemed to him, at that moment, 
 that already the curse was beginning to work. He thrust out 
 one hand questioning if this were so, but the darkness had no 
 answer for him. It rilled in the streets as it had rilled out there 
 where the trouble had arisen. Smoke twisted in the streets, 
 fog had twisted on the river. That was the difference. 
 
 But to Dunscombe sitting before his comfortable fire the 
 case presented no such illusion. He was in no way flustered by 
 the scene from which he had emerged triumphant. He was 
 accustomed to the silly ebullitions of wrath presented gratis by 
 those "hands" he was compelled to discharge. He appre- 
 ciated them at their full value. "A horse swerves when he is 
 hit," he decided, "and the British workman swears. The 
 difference is not worth consideration." 
 
 Still, seeing the man was now discharged and that he was 
 obviously ripe for mischief, it became imperative that Duns- 
 combe should at once accept the offered compromise; and to 
 do this it was necessary to obtain a document from the wharf 
 office and to see the foreman. When that was done he could 
 give final instructions to his solicitor. 
 
 An hour later, therefore, Dunscombe rose from his desk and, 
 wrapping warmly in the hall, called to his servants that he 
 would be some time absent. With these words he closed the 
 door and went out.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 THE SEA-WALL 
 
 A FOGGY night, the streets greasy, the air thick and 
 torpid; humanity owning homes hastening thither; 
 humanity lacking anything in the similitude of that 
 Elysium seeking their kennels, the gin palaces and the 
 arches. In the arches carts are sometimes found, tail 
 boards which shall form a roof, straw wherein mankind may 
 lie and brood or breed as seems him best. It is one of the 
 laws from which Authority tells us there is no escape. But 
 in Riverton as elsewhere Authority is frequently found in 
 the hands of men of Dunscombe-like proclivities and, well 
 perhaps it is immaterial what happens in the gutter. 
 
 A dull and foggy night lay over the town, and the town 
 sweltered in it, sending heavenward a glare of yellow light as 
 from the door of an open furnace. Clangs rose up in the still- 
 ness, the jar of wheels, and down there at the foot of the High 
 Street the wail of steamers passing up Reach. Mankind too 
 shuffled hither and thither in the gloom Saunderson among 
 them; Dunscombe, walking briskly riverward, and some mal- 
 contents, offshoots of the strike dragging its slow length over a 
 neighbouring townlet, and with them several of Dunscombe's 
 discharged hands. 
 
 A somewhat sottish company, on the whole, seeking on a 
 sodden night some means of passing the hours, perhaps of 
 losing them. 
 
 One leaning against the brass railing- of the Scorpion moved 
 
 80
 
 THE SEA-WALL 81 
 
 * 
 
 forward as Dunscombe came past but the master did not see 
 him. He was busy with his plans, immersed in the cares of 
 that business which had lifted him so high among the towns- 
 people. The Scorpion's lamps were of the attractive order, 
 bright and staring, as though mankind, like the moth, was to be 
 cajoled into burning its wings. The light shone on this loung- 
 ing man. His wings had been singed by its power. It shad- 
 owed the movements he made, brought out the fact that he was 
 clothed in rags and that one arm dangled miserably as from a 
 sling. But it was not slung. There were days when this had 
 been the case days of long ago, before the man had become the 
 sottish lout revealed by that appalling glare. 
 
 Dunscombe passed on. Walking briskly he came to the 
 meadow-land at the end of the road and entered the paths 
 leading to the river. The singed man followed him, swearing. 
 Dunscombe paused to stare at the water; the man who fol- 
 lowed halted also. 
 
 The fog out there was cleaner than the fog in the town. It 
 was whiter, but, for the shipping, more insidious. It was 
 sufficiently thick to blanket the lights along shore, sufficiently 
 clear to make the risk of continuing under steam not wholly 
 impossible, and Dunscombe had pangs as he thought of his 
 scattered fleet. He posed in the Riverton directory as a ship- 
 owner; but this sounding phrase meant simply that he owned 
 a couple of coasting schooners, a brig, a tug or two, and half a 
 score of barges. But as there is a head and a tail to all creep- 
 ing things, so there is a head and a tail to the ship-owning 
 fraternity. Dunscombe walked with the tail and the rattle 
 he made suggested a kinship to the snake of that species. 
 
 He came to the sea-wall and faced the growing mist. He 
 knew by the decreasing volume of sound that it was not yet 
 thick enough to suspend navigation, for when this happens the
 
 82 THE ISSUE 
 
 great river runs silently under its wintry cloak and the eddies 
 swirling on the foreshore are the only tokens of its presence. 
 
 It was cold by the riverside. Those who have walked as 
 Dunscombe walked know precisely the degree of discomfort 
 produced by a river fog. Had he been a man of less persis- 
 tence, of less energy, be would have returned. But this was 
 not Dunscombe's way. There was money at the back of this 
 walk. He had set himself the task of earning a good round 
 sum from that long-suffering body of city men known as the 
 underwriters, and he intended to lose no time in the process. 
 To be an underwriter is synonymous in some people's eyes 
 with being a Croesus. A Croesus is an individual who suffers 
 from fatty degeneration of the moneybags and a knife is nec- 
 essary to effect a cure so with the underwriters. Dunscombe 
 held the knife. 
 
 The river bank was slimy. To walk without gathering a 
 sabot of clay was impossible at the end of ten paces you shed 
 a sabot and began again. Authority considered it an excellent 
 means of keeping the Tommies in barracks, for no nursemaids 
 with any pretensions would be seen dead on that clay. The 
 man who followed Dunscombe considered it from a different 
 standpoint. 
 
 On the one hand, then, there rolled a fog-bank slowly strang- 
 ling navigation. On the other a white and steaming mist com- 
 bined to hide the marshland. Dunscombe plodded on the clay 
 perched high above the ditch which lay on his right. It was 
 high tide and only a narrow margin of grass land intervened 
 between the sea-wall and the river. He moved, therefore, with 
 caution, as befits a man who intends to handle currency. He 
 had often come here afoot in the dead of night. He had no 
 fear, nor any very distinct impression that he was hated. He 
 knew that he was not loved as the river men express it
 
 THE SEA-WALL 83 
 
 but that formed no obstacle. Were there not police. The 
 man had no imagination. His brain was occupied with the 
 processes by which it is possible to make shipping pay in these 
 days of competition, and nothing else was worthy of thought. 
 As he came near the stile perched midway to the Garter Pier 
 hotel an unusual sound struck his ear. 
 
 Dunscombe halted at once, his faculties alert to discover 
 some new piece of idiocy on the part of his hands, for this was 
 the anchoring ground of that fleet he ruled so parsimoniously. 
 He told himself that a boat had been left to drive ashore and 
 knock herself to pieces perchance one of his boats. Devil 
 take the careless loons! What thought have they for a master's 
 property? In Dunscombe's eyes the only thing for which 
 they care or look, is their "Saturday night" all else is bagatelle. 
 
 Using his stick to guide him the man stepped down to make 
 discoveries. He crossed the grass, avoiding the pools and bridged 
 a rivulet which had its birth diurnally with the incident of high 
 tide. Pish! He would be wet before he had done with this 
 business wet, and he desired to keep dry. No it was not a 
 boat; it was what the devil was it? 
 
 Nothing worse than nothing. A round and flabby horror; 
 the carcass of a dead sheep or goat, distended, hairless, bobbing 
 in the shallows yet he could have sworn he heard a boat. 
 Faugh! the thing stank. It was poison rank. Why did 
 these evidences of decay always drive ashore when there was 
 the whole river to hide them ? Dunscombe could not have said. 
 The law governing the grounding of floating matter did not 
 appeal to him except in the case of shipping, and then it only 
 took the form of a question as to the punishment to be meeted 
 to the author of the mishap. He commenced to climb the bank 
 anew, then paused as again the sound crept out of the stillness. 
 
 He was right. He plumed himself on this fact. It wa
 
 84 THE ISSUE 
 
 boat, a boat coming shoreward. He resumed his attitude of 
 watchfulness and presently a cry rang out to, satisfy him: "Ahoy 
 there ! Garter Pier ahoy ! " 
 
 A bell struck near at hand was the response. Although 
 nothing was visible Dunscombe knew from this that a boat was 
 anchored only a few lengths distant. Again the cry assailed 
 him: "Ahoy! Ahoy!" and the answer rolled in the fog. 
 
 "What ho, mate hello!" 
 
 "Where away for Garter Pier ? Up or down ? " 
 
 "Down a tidy lump. Who's there?" 
 
 "Elliott." 
 
 "Jack Elliott?" 
 
 "Aye! This fog has put me out of my reckoning. " 
 
 Dunscombe remained attentive. It was one of his modes 
 of gleaning information, and frequently pregnant of results. 
 The talk went on as the boat moved in. "Just up, I s'pose?" 
 
 "Aye; brought to off the wharf I reckoned, and want to catch 
 the 8.15." 
 
 "You'll have to step it then. Land on the wall, mate; there's 
 a tongue just inshore of me. " 
 
 " Right. So long, skipper. " 
 
 "So long, old son. " 
 
 Dunscombe had gained but small information, but he had a 
 word to say to Elliott and stepped back to give himself the 
 pleasure of saying it with sufficient point. A minute later the 
 boat's nose took the ground and as Elliott sprang ashore his 
 master moved to confront him. 
 
 "This is not the sort of weather to leave your ship in, my 
 lad, " he threw out with a snarl. 
 
 The skipper paused midway to the bank and stared. " Who 
 would have thought of seeing you, sir!" he remarked inconse- 
 quently.
 
 THE SEA-WALL 8$ 
 
 ''Evidently you would not. What are you doing?" 
 
 " Going home, sir. " 
 
 "Call back your boat." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "To take you on board again." 
 
 "But I don't want to go aboard. I'm bound home." 
 
 "I suppose," said Dunscombe in his most provocative style, 
 "I suppose you understand that you are refusing to obey my 
 orders. " 
 
 "Sir, I obey your orders. I obey them often when I'd like 
 to do the other thing; but the tug's at anchor, lights hoisted, 
 fires banked, the mate's in charge, and I am going home. The 
 fog won't rise this side of noon to-morrow. Why should I stay ? 
 Excuse me, it's wet standing here. " 
 
 With that he picked his way across the grass and climbed the 
 sea-wall. Dunscombe followed. 
 
 " Now, sir, if you'll tell me what good it will do you me being 
 on the tug," Elliott resumed, "why, although I'd promised Sue 
 that is I've made arrangements to be at home to-night, I'll 
 listen to you. " 
 
 This rather unwise speech angered Dunscombe and he turned 
 round to give emphasis to the fact. "I am not going to argue, 
 Elliott. I am not in the habit of arguing with my hands. I 
 order you to go on board. " 
 
 "Sir. I'm not a dog, though God knows I've served you 
 faithfully. Suppose I refuse what then ?" 
 
 "You can take a week's notice. " 
 
 Elliott hesitated. "That's it, Mr. Dunscombe; now we 
 understand each other, " he said at length. 
 
 "Hail your boat!" cried the master. 
 
 "No, sir. I'm not such a fool as to make those chaps turn 
 back and lose their bearings in this thundering fog. If I do go
 
 86 THE ISSUE 
 
 off it will be in a waterman's skiff. Why, what has gone wrong, 
 sir? Don't I give you satisfaction?" 
 
 The skipper's voice took a new note. He was thinking of 
 Susie and wondering how she would bear his home-coming if, 
 on the eve of her marriage, he brought the news of his discharge. 
 To quarrel with a man of Dunscombe's type was equivalent to 
 a period of idleness, perhaps of starvation; for no skipper so 
 discharged found it easy to regain command at all events on 
 the Thames. 
 
 Dunscombe watched him through half-closed eyes. "I 
 believe," he returned with a snap, "that you might do better." 
 
 A suggestion flashed through Elliott's brain. "What is it, 
 sir," he questioned, "hasn't the derelict job turned out trumps ?" 
 
 "That is a big affair, my lad. We can leave it to look after 
 itself. It is the little things, Elliott, the little things which give 
 opportunity for peculation." 
 
 Dunscombe spoke meaningly, with an inflection that would 
 have made a dead man squirm and Elliott acknowledged the fact 
 in words that leaped hot to reply. 
 
 "Look here," he cried, "fair play's a jewel. Speak out 
 straight man to man. What have you got up against me ?" 
 
 "Did you tow the Tantalus when she was on her last charter 
 quite lately?" 
 
 Elliott swore but quickly regained control. "I did give her 
 a pluck," he acknowledged. 
 
 "Off the Jenkin?" 
 
 "That's it, sir." 
 
 "Where does it come in in the charges' sheet?" 
 
 "It doesn't come in." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because there wasn't any towing done. Any little tosher* 
 could have done it." 
 
 Small tug-boat.
 
 THE SEA-WALL 87 
 
 "Oh how's that?" 
 
 ' ' Well, it's like this. I'm lying on the tide waiting for a chance 
 of a tow when Sutcliffe came sagging by. There wasn't enough 
 wind to flutter the duff bag* at his masthead. Sutcliffe was 
 driving on to the sands and I nosed him off to an anchorage. 
 There wasn't any question of towing; there wasn't " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know all about it, " Dunscombe broke in sharply. 
 "It's the old story of damned, bare-faced robbery. You put 
 your hand behind your back and take five shillings and arrange 
 to say nothing about it. " 
 
 Elliott faced him instantly, his face ablaze. "That's a lie!" 
 he cried, "and the man that says it is a liar. " 
 
 "Pish, man; don't bully me." 
 
 "It's a lie by God, it's a lie." 
 
 " I know it for fact. Stand off, man, don't hustle me!" 
 
 "Hustle you you damned worm! Stand off yourself. 
 Take back those words or by the Lord and all His angels I'll 
 choke them out of you see?" 
 
 Elliott caught him by the throat and stood over him, shaking 
 him savagely. Dunscombe was like a rat in the grip of a terrier, 
 but he squirmed for freedom. "Let go!" he cried. "Heigh 
 there help '.help!" 
 
 Elliott shook on. "You came down here to give me the sack ; 
 but you aren't the man to do it straight. You tell me I stole 
 your money. You tell me I'm a liar when I'm speaking God's 
 truth. You come sneaking and prowling about in places 
 where you have no business and now you've got something. " 
 
 Dunscombe writhed in desperation. He had not looked 
 for this. His habit of bully-ragging had got the better of his 
 natural caution. A man may call another a liar, perhaps more 
 than once, in the security of his office and from the arms of a 
 
 *Wind vane.
 
 88 THE ISSUE 
 
 swivel chair upholstered in plush ; but out in the open, facing 
 the river, within sound of the steamer horns scarcely. Yet 
 he fought gamely for freedom, shouting his plaint to the night: 
 "Let go! Let go! Hi, there! Help! Help!" 
 
 Elliott flung him off. "Right. Let go it is. Stand up fair 
 and no nonsense. No man shall say I stole his money. Why, 
 I would sooner have paid the crown myself than let poor Sut- 
 cliff e pay it. Stand out ! " 
 
 The master gathered his forces and stood at bay: "It's 
 a lie," he hissed, "and you know it. Mind, the matter won't 
 end here. The courts shall decide it you understand ? " 
 
 His words suddenly died. A strange, choking cry broke 
 from Elliott's lips. He leaped forward swinging his arm and 
 Dunscombe fell on the clay he had marked with his feet fell 
 and remained there like a sack flung from the tail of a cart. 
 
 And then Elliott acted the fool. 
 
 When a man strikes down his master, the person who finds 
 him that most necessary "Saturday night," he may fairly be 
 accused of rashness; but when he leaves that master to the 
 tenderness of a fog-bound night he acts the fool and perhaps 
 something beside. 
 
 Necessarily Elliott did not admit this. Dunscombe had 
 called him a liar and he had knocked him down that being 
 done the man's passion lapsed; the tension was over and he 
 kneeled beside him to see how he fared. He breathed. There 
 was a flickering of the drawn in nostrils, there was a bad cut 
 over the eyes and the man bled; but he was only stunned and 
 would recover. Too soon in all probability he would recover; 
 then there would be trouble. Elliott would be delayed and 
 unable perhaps to see Susie. Was there not even a chance of 
 arrest ? Had not Dunscombe threatened it in that paltry matter 
 of the five shillings ?
 
 THE SEA-WALL 89 
 
 And if there was arrest he would not see Susie Susie who 
 waited his coming and was to go to church with him to-morrow 
 to hear the banns read. Arrest that was the danger. 
 
 The thing flashed before him in many guises. He had been 
 branded a liar and a thief. For no fault he was to be discharged 
 precisely as those others had been discharged. Dunscombe 
 was no man. He deserved consideration from no one. Elliot 
 breathed quickly at the memory of his wrongs and he rose from 
 his knees and hastened up the sea-wall towards Riverton. 
 
 In his own vernacular, "all the fat was in the fire" and he 
 must abide the result. 
 
 But the move was hazardous. Even more hazardous than 
 that of Susie's upon which the stars had looked down and 
 smiled. 
 
 And in the background was that singed figure from the door 
 of the Scorpion a man who carried one arm as though it were 
 slung and on whose feet were clogs of the North country pattern 
 clogs heavy with clay.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 CLACK 
 
 THE fog had vanished, leaving the world to count the 
 cost during some brief hours of sunshine. A dull, 
 steamy day, lacking wind, with the sun sucking at the 
 quivering marshland. Hours of this, then followed declining 
 light, growing mist, the ghost of twilight and in natural sequence 
 the earth lay banked once more in fog. 
 
 But early in the day, before noon in point of fact, Riverton 
 was thrilled to its heart by a report. A rumour had arrived, 
 carried no one knew whence or how, to the effect that a man 
 had been found by the river embankment, under the sea-wall 
 a man, beaten, bruised, dead, and lying in the ditch outside 
 the town. 
 
 A gloomy conclave approached the spot hazarding opinions 
 and spouting vile tobacco: 
 
 "Terr'ble! terr'ble! Who can it be?" 
 
 A question this not easily answered, for the man's face was 
 foully mauled and battered. It had lain, too, in that stagnant 
 ditch some hours. Cries went up from lips biting hard on 
 short black pipes: "Eigh! Shockin', shockin'. 'Go's done it? 
 Wot for ? An' 'oo's the bloke ? " 
 
 All pertinent questions given off by men peering at the thing 
 lying there for men and boys to stare upon, given off in the dull, 
 immovable fashion of persons accustomed to tragedy. 
 
 "'Oo's done it?" was speedily dismissed as an abstract prob- 
 lem requiring time for solution. "Wot for?" gained the 
 
 90
 
 CLACK 91 
 
 S t 
 
 answer: "Not robbery, that's a moral," for were not watch and 
 purse quite safe? "'Go's the bloke?" was perhaps a trifle 
 baffling on seeing the face. But the watch and some stray 
 letters explained at once. A loafer with a dismal voice spelled 
 out the name: Wakeley Dunscombe, Esquire. 
 
 Wakeley Dunscombe, owner of the Bluebell, and a score of 
 river craft, he it was who lay there, blind at last to all possible 
 methods of money-getting. 
 
 The dismal voice went on: "Dunscombe! Well, of all the 
 
 bloomin' jaunts I've " and broke off to expectorate 
 
 viciously in the ditch. 
 
 Another voice took up the plaint: "A 'ard case 'ee wos, 
 terr'ble 'ard yus, it licks!" 
 
 "Hard perhaps," a softer voice suggested; "but look at 
 the site he gave to the Wesleyans." 
 
 The dismal personage removed his pipe to give force to his 
 opinion: "A chap uz ground 'is 'ands like 'ell." 
 
 "And a man who headed many subscription lists come, 
 you must own to it." 
 
 "Own to it? Ya-as, but wot did 'ee do fer the widdas an' 
 kiddies of them he's drowned? Any subscription for them? 
 Garn! It's Dunscombe. I'm not tikin' any." 
 
 Opinions for and against waxed in power and volume. The 
 air by the ditch resounded with defence and defiance, with 
 cursings and prayers for silence, the latter brought out by the 
 knowledge that at all hazards the man no longer existed to 
 press on his fellows. Then came a shutter and with its advent 
 there presently marched a solemn cortege to the Garter Pier 
 hotel. 
 
 Wakeley Dunscombe was dead. How the news made way 
 in the steaming air, gathering the crowd who lounge, together 
 with the crowd who have no leisure for lounging. How the
 
 9 2 THE ISSUE 
 
 busy tongues wagged, clacking of this or that possibility! How 
 necks were craned in eager converse! 
 
 "Dead, where?" 
 
 "In the shed outside." 
 
 "True?" 
 
 "Aye, true enough. Bashed. Beaten to death. Indis- 
 tinguishable." 
 
 "Eigh! shockin', shockin'!" 
 
 A crowded house that dead house, during all the remaining 
 hours. A silent, solemn house inside; a busy, noisy space 
 within the tap-room doors where bronzed men shuffled the 
 news across sawdust floors. 
 
 ''H'astseen'im?" 
 
 "Yaas." 
 
 "Looks crewl, don't 'ee?" 
 
 "Yaas." 
 
 "Leaves a taste in a man's mouth, don't it?" 
 
 "Yaas." 
 
 Three of rum are necessary to dissipate the taste and the 
 Garter's comfortable bar is close at hand. 
 
 A more cultured voice took up the thread, speaking earnestly : 
 
 "Terrible business this?" 
 
 "Indeed you are right." 
 
 "Wonder what could have been the motive?" 
 
 "Oh, some of his discharged hands, probably." 
 
 "Bad, bad! Want to be diplomatic now-a-days as well as 
 discriminating. I never take on heavy chaps myself bad 
 policy. Kick too hard if it comes to that. Bah! Ugly busi- 
 ness have a drink?" 
 
 Across the counter the clack went on apace. 
 
 "What's yours?" 
 
 "Somethin' short. Looks ugly, don' 'ee?"
 
 CLACK 93 
 
 "Yaas; wot d'you say to threes of brandy?" 
 
 "Couldn't better it. Two threes of brandy, Miss, straight. 
 Well, here's to us an' him." 
 
 "Gawd! didyer see 'isfice?" 
 
 "Naa! don' seem to 'ave none left. Seems like uz if 'ee'd 
 bin' 'it wi' a bloomin' engine, don' 'ee?" 
 
 "S'elp me, I'm sick. Two pints of four 'arf, Miss." 
 
 "Lumme! wot's the use o' that? Give us two goes o' rum." 
 
 "Lawd! the poor head of him." 
 
 "Two pints of 'alf an' 'alf." 
 
 " Couldn't get a-nigh him. " 
 
 "Two brandies and a soda, split, Miss." 
 
 "I tell yer there ain't no eyes lef to see. Is there, Bill? I 
 ast you as a chap as knows wot's wot." 
 
 "Threes of brandy short." 
 
 "Pint o' four 'alf." 
 
 Indescribable, baffling reproduction in its grim, crude colour- 
 ing; but human interest, humanly expressed after the fashion 
 of the viewers.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 MICKY DOOLAN EXPLAINS 
 
 IT WAS Micky Doolan, now mate of the t'antalus, who 
 brought to Abbeyville the news of Dunscombe's murder. 
 
 To say that versatile Irishman was elated, is to convey but 
 little of the overwhelming importance with which he explained 
 the details to those eager knots of village listeners. Micky 
 Doolan, it appeared, had been the first to see the horror of the 
 ditch. He was the man who had summoned police assistance 
 and volunteered, afterwards, to be one of those who carried the 
 terrible burden to the dead house. 
 
 These were matters which contributed to render Micky the 
 person next in importance to the unknown murderer; and 
 materially helped to assuage his thirst at no expense to him- 
 self that day. 
 
 By nightfall, indeed, he had repeated his story so often, and 
 so many "dhrinks had been slung at him," that there is a pos- 
 sibility of truth in the rumour which grew about his name in 
 this connection. 
 
 It was said that Tony Crow found him the following morn- 
 ing sleeping peacefully on the smithy floor, his head pillowed 
 on a bundle of tongs and his arms about the anvil. But Abbey- 
 ville loved gossip only one degree less than it loved a mystery; 
 and like all villages could play with the best at exaggeration. 
 
 It was in the smithy yard where Doolan first broke ground, 
 and the time was eleven o'clock on the day following the mur- 
 der. A time propitious for yarns and a hearing, being, in point 
 
 94
 
 MICKY DOOLAN EXPLAINS 95 
 
 of fact, the hour when the British workman takes his lunch. 
 Micky was standing near the open smithy door, a knot of men 
 about him, and Tony Crow, open mouthed and beaded with 
 sweat, amidst tne group who faced him. 
 
 "Whhat was ut?" said Micky Doolan with a swing of im- 
 portance. "Ut's murdher, me sons that's whhat ut was. 
 Who wass ut?" he went on with appalling pride. "Misther 
 Dunscombe, dead as porrk an' appil sauce, an' twice as nasthy." 
 
 "Socks!" cried Tony Crow in hollow tones. 
 
 "Garn! Drawr it mild, Micky. What are you givin' us? 
 Top it off somebody!" cried the audience with unusual fervour. 
 
 "Where wass ut?" said the Irishman again, no whit stag- 
 gered at this reception of news honestly circumstantial. 
 "Listhen, an' I'll tell yez." 
 
 "I'm comin' up the say-wall from beyand the forrt. Bad 
 luck to ye, Jock Stoggers wid yer interruptions. But ye've 
 hit ut; I wass dhown at the Pier an' ut wass Miss Mary I 
 wass afther. Now will ye let me get on, ye slummer? 
 
 "I'm comin' up the say- wall, pickin' me way along the grass 
 because av the mud. The fog's in me eyes an' dhown me 
 throat, an' I'm gropin' along loike a crab on the beach, whin I 
 hear the scuttle av rats in the ditch. 'Divil run away wid ye,' sez 
 I, 'ye skulkin' black bastes. Whhat are ye doin' scarin' the 
 sowl-case out av a man ? ' Thin wan av the brutes came dhown 
 acrass me thracks an' I slung me cap at ut, an' had to climb the 
 mud to fetch ut. 
 
 "Whhat did I see? A pool av blood. Strakes av blood on 
 the stones, the thurmoil av bloody grass an' a man's hat bat- 
 tered out av shape. That's whhat I saw, me sons. 'Glory be, 
 Micky, ye slummer,' sez I, 'is ut dhrinkin' ye've been an' ye're 
 seein' things or whhat is ut?' 
 
 "I rubbed me eyes, lookin' ut fair an' square in the face an'
 
 96 THE ISSUE 
 
 wint to make investigations. 'What is ut ? what is ut ?' That's 
 the queschun I'm askin' meself all the toime I'm climbin' 
 dhown the thracks. It's not sheep-stealin' or slaughter-house 
 bizness; there's not enuff blood for that; an' the man's hat don't 
 belong to any sheep-stealin' sogers. Whhat thin is ut ? 
 
 "I'm starin' through the fog at the marks av boots dhragged 
 dhown the bank. They've torn away the grass, long strakes 
 av ut, an' dhown beyant, lyin' half in, half out the ditch, is a 
 soakin' whelterin' mass. 
 
 "Whhat wass ut ? Whhat could ut be ? " 
 
 "A sticket sheep, ma son," said Tony with a short laugh. 
 
 "Murdher! That's whhat ut wass," said Micky Doolan, 
 and then he paused. 
 
 "How do you know?" cried a voice. 
 
 "Which av you," said Micky Doolan in reply, a wud knock 
 his head to blazes, an' thin dhrown ut in a ditch av stinkin' 
 wather? Answer me that who spoke." 
 
 "Tain't likely," cried several voices together. "Don't 
 mind his jaw. What did you do ? " 
 
 "Whhat did I do ? I sthooped over an' pulled his head from 
 the wather for, sez I, 'who's to know he's dead?' I hadn't 
 seen his face then, bhoys. Glory be! I wish I hadn't. I 
 wish ut heartily. But I lifted him be the shoulders an' 
 looked. Mother av God! what a sight ut wass. Ugh, the 
 ugliness av ut all laid opin fer inspechsun an' the slugs set fast 
 alridy." 
 
 Tony Crow moved nearer, raising his hands. "Go easy, 
 ye mad Irishman," he cried. "D'ye want me ta bash ma 
 fingers when ah coom t'wark. Socks! ye've gien me a taste 
 it'll coss sothin 't' squench." 
 
 "I knew ut," said Micky, triumphantly; "I knew ut. 
 There's not a man I've told ut to, but whhat he's had a thaste."
 
 MICKY DOOLAN EXPLAINS 97 
 
 " Did ye know who it was, Mike ? What did you do ? Tell 
 us that, " cried the rest of the audience. 
 
 "I tuk leg bail for ut," he replied; "I never thravelled loike 
 ut in me toime. I ran fer the stachun, told me yarn an' fin- 
 ished up wid a requesht fer a dhrink. " 
 
 "You shouldn't have run," said a voice from behind. 
 
 "Whhat for shouldn't I? Whhat for shouldn't I, Win'bag 
 Saundisson ? " 
 
 "Because it's not always safe to run," said the Bluebell's 
 skipper quietly. "I knew a chap once that nearly got lagged 
 for running. " 
 
 " Ye did ? An' whhat has that to do wid me ? " 
 
 "Nothing nothing whatever as far as I know. I'm speak- 
 ing on general principles simply. " 
 
 "An' on gen'ral principles I shud say you're wrong, Win'- 
 bag, " said the Irishman. "If you ask me whhat I think about 
 ut, I shud say the innocent'll run, if he's got mixed up in ut ; an' 
 the guilty will stand firm so long as there's no suspicshun laid 
 at his door." 
 
 "Socks!" cried Tony Crow, "let us aa* run. We don' 
 want t'harken t'none o' Win'bag's argiments. He's a chice 
 speerit, there's na doot; but just noo ma speerit tak's 
 t'form o' two's o' rum. An' Micky Doolan looks as 
 though he were of the same moind. Out wi' ye ah'm shut- 
 tin' t'door." 
 
 In the Southern Trader, the landlord had heard nothing of 
 the rumour. So Micky Doolan's story was retold with em- 
 bellishments for the benefit of the new audience. 
 
 In the afternoon another rumour flew clacking from tongue 
 to tongue. Where it originated no one thought of asking until 
 it came to Tony Crow. It had grown from a simple sentence 
 heard by some gossip earlier in the day, and by dusk, the whole
 
 98 THE ISSUE 
 
 village knew and discussed the damning words with bated 
 breath. 
 
 It came from Riverton the woman said. The police were 
 on the track. Ehlshockin', shockin'. From right amongst us 
 what could have put it into the lad's head ? What lad ? 
 
 "Jack Elliott." 
 
 "Socks! wha telled ye thot lee?" 
 
 The blacksmith halted beside the forge staring at the men 
 who spoke. 
 
 "Why, everybody says so, Tony." 
 
 "Wha'seevrebody?" 
 
 "All the village, man. The police are after him, anyway." 
 
 "T'Lord sen' he may get ava them. Eigh man! what art 
 thou gem' us?" Tony dropped the sledge and stood before 
 the glowing fire, obviously incapable of further effort. "Ah'll 
 jus' shut oop t'shop," he said, relapsing into his broader 
 dialect as his excitement grew. "Ah'm no fit fer more the 
 day. Jock Elliott! Socks! Ah'm no dootin' ye; but ah can- 
 nit believe it of tlad." 
 
 " But he's gone from home, Tony." 
 
 The blacksmith made no reply and the other continued: 
 
 "They've looked for him far an' wide; his old woman haven't 
 set eyes on him since Saturday night. " 
 
 Tony sat down on a spar which lay outside the smithy; the 
 others clustered about him, for in that community Tony's opin- 
 ion was considered absolute. 
 
 " They say that Elliott was sacked the night before the mur- 
 der, " said the voice. 
 
 "Sackit, fer what?" 
 
 "Not playin' it square wi' the Guv'nor. Did a bit on his 
 own, they say. There's a barney on the sea-wall; there's them 
 as heard it."
 
 MICKY DOOLAN EXPLAINS 99 
 
 "Eigh, the puir laddie. " 
 
 "The Guv'nor had to go down river way at night for some 
 papers, so they say, an' Elliott meets him an' it's all up. " 
 
 "Wha says aa' this?" 
 
 "Everybody, Tony. Lawd! It's Elliott they're lookin' for 
 an' no other, Riverton way." 
 
 "Eevrebody! Then ah don' tak' oop wi' it. Ye're like 
 t'a ruck o' cluckin' hens, wi' yer eevrebody. " 
 
 The group fell back and the blacksmith resumed: 
 
 "They say Dunscombe's kickit abaht t'head. Ah'm no 
 dootin' it; but ah know summat abaht keekin'. Ah lairned it 
 oop noarth, an' ah'm gaein' ta see yon dead un. When ah coom 
 back, ah'll tell ye." 
 
 Micky Doolan who had circuitously approached the group 
 during the latter sentences, now stood clutching feebly at an 
 anchor. The light from the smithy fire fell full upon him. 
 
 "Jack Ell Elliosh? 'Mpossible. Know hie know Jack 
 Ell Ell Elliosh bettethanthat. Arroo! Sh'd think I did, 
 hie Futwidja Kelliosh once. Know ut. Arroo! n'eyes- 
 to-luk-out-of hie when-he'd finish " 
 
 Micky Doolan was already suffering visibly from the effects 
 of the taste he could not drown. Someone took him by the 
 arm and led him away; but when Tony Crow returned from 
 Riverton late that night, he was lying almost speechless on a 
 seat in the parlour of the Southern Trader. 
 
 "Ah see him," said the blacksmith solemnly. "Ah see him 
 an' ah say Jock Elliott's no the chap thot's wanted. Jock don' 
 wear clogs. Clogs is what yon chap got it from nowt but 
 clogs cud do it. " 
 
 " Thruebill ! " cried Micky Doolan waking up at this. " Glory 
 be. Na Jakelliosh hie. 'Mpossible."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 MOTHER KEYNE 
 
 ghost of the chary dawn still lingered in the east 
 A when Elliott left Swinfleet and struck out down the 
 lanes for Riverton. A sickly dawn it was in all verity, 
 throwing a gleam of light, sad, blurred, watery; then again 
 the land was wrapped in misty trappings, the gray-green trees 
 vanished at the lower branches; the hop kilns, the farms, and 
 isolated ricks all stood in shadow, unseen beside the sodden way. 
 
 But the man's thoughts were far from his surroundings. 
 Half an hour ago he had left Susie at the gate of her aunt's 
 cottage and turned to see her still waving him God-speed. 
 The recollection thrilled him in spite of fog and chill east wind, 
 thrilled him in spite of the difficulties with which he was 
 hedged, for had he not kissed her, and had not their last word 
 been of marriage love's panacea for all entanglement. 
 
 Last night on reaching the cottage he had come in burdened 
 with the resolve to tell Susie of his ill luck that viperous thing 
 which, it appeared, still hovered to baffle him. But he had 
 found so cosy a home, and so real a welcome that he could not 
 mar the picture by proclaiming his idiocy and unfitness. That 
 is what it had come to. His walk to the cottage had decided 
 this. He had played the fool, he had lost control when he 
 should have gripped it, and now, as far as he could discover, 
 Susie would have to pay. 
 
 We all pay in some form for the pleasure of giving rein. In 
 blood, in tears, in hard earned cash we pay and then stand
 
 MOTHER KEYNE 101 
 
 back to brood upon the might-have-beens. It is a law from 
 which few escape. But Elliott decided, in face of that loving 
 welcome, to know the worst before he spoke. 
 
 The worst he pictured to be dismissal, the usual difficulty 
 of obtaining fresh employment and a dwindling of that god- 
 send with which he had intended to marry and settle. These 
 were the makeweights he faced in imagination. There was 
 also that threat of Dunscombe's to remember. He would be 
 summoned for assault and battery perhaps also, as an ad- 
 ditional smudge, for drunkenness. 
 
 If these came he must meet them. But he had no intention 
 of walking boldly into a trap. He would get down to the river, 
 see his friends, and learn something definite as to his position 
 in this new character he had earned. By the bridle-path the 
 distance to Riverton was little over four miles. He decided 
 to walk it, and to that end moved through by lanes and across 
 fields sodden with moisture till he came to the summit of the 
 hill where lies a junction of four cross roads. 
 
 A raw and biting air swept up the slope to meet him. It 
 came from the river carrying with it a hint of the jarring 
 traffic, the fog horns, the bells, the roar of factories eternally 
 grinding out cement, the ring of iron beaten and shaped at the 
 forges. Riverton lay there curtained in fog. The Stormy 
 Petrel lay there, perhaps sounding her bell. The knowledge 
 induced Elliott to hasten. It was possible that orders had 
 arrived and they awaited his coming. It was possible too that 
 Dunscombe waited at the office to twit him with the fact that 
 it was tide time. 
 
 He came to the level crossing and saw that the gates were 
 closed against him. Over there stood the old woman, cus- 
 todian of the crossing cabin and guardian of the railway. She 
 held a green flag in her hand and waved him back.
 
 102 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Bide where you be!" she commanded, and Elliott moved 
 over to join her. 
 
 "Morning," he remarked, " cold blow, Missis. The winter's 
 coming in early." 
 
 "Raw, Jack lad, raw. Gets in a person's bones like summat 
 sticky. It'll make a carpse of I before I be done wi' it." She 
 watched him sidelong from under bent brows, a shrewd, swift 
 look from eyes apparently rheumed. "A carpse," she added 
 coldly, "as stiff as thick dead un over to the Garter. Lard! 
 I wish I were back to Darset I do." 
 
 She stood there large, placid, and red of face, staring up the 
 track and holding out her gray-green signal, to the train which 
 drew near. Elliott watched her without concern. She was 
 known as a certain prophet in all matters pretaining to rheum- 
 atism and the weather. They went hand in hand in this 
 forsaken county. They were interwoven, in a sense, and 
 nothing short of living in "Darset" would alter the fact. Tea 
 was the panacea which enabled her to endure good, strong, 
 stewed tea set on the hob and allowed to simmer. 
 
 Elliott broke into the pause as the train roar grew in volume. 
 "You will have to make them give you your pension," he 
 shouted; "they can afford it; but who's at the Garter now? 
 Jo Mackie or Ted Summers been picked up ? " 
 
 Again the woman glanced up at him and again said in her 
 blunt fashion, "Naa, an' won't never be, I'll go bail for why? 
 'Cause they'm fish meat by this. Blame thick train! 'Ow 
 she do crawl to be zure. Carpse! O! 'ee. Why Dunscombe a 
 carse 'oo else? 'Aven't 'ee heard?" 
 
 No Elliott had not heard, and even now he was uncertain 
 whether he heard aright. He faced this old soul whose delight 
 it was to prattle to all comers of the beauties of "Darset," and 
 questioned in a new voice: "Dunscombe? Sure?"
 
 MOTHER KEYNE 103 
 
 "Zure? Aye, zure enough. Can't keep they geats shut fer 
 folks as want to see en. They'm a'most as bothersome as the 
 rheumatics. Zure? O, aye; zure enough. Dunscombe 
 the shipowner man uz has the whaarf out there. Oh, aye 
 'n now I come to think on't, 'ee were your master too an' all 
 warn't 'ee, Jack?" 
 
 She waved her flag to indicate the riverside, and the train 
 drew slowly up, rumbling in the fog. Elliott appeared sud- 
 denly fascinated by the approach of that iron mass. His face 
 had taken a tinge of yellow which blended with the day. He 
 leaned forward with questions framed, with eyes which entrtated 
 yet said no word. The old woman saw and resumed her 
 prattle. 
 
 "Down to Darset," she asserted, "there's nary a fog like to 
 this. Fogs there are white, like steam. You'm good fer a 
 hun'ard not that I be hankerin' arter sech long days. 
 Zeventy'll about do I. My old man, 'ee were zeventy-vive 'an 
 a blame zight better to a gone at zeventy. Got wizened up 
 wi' thick owld pain o' hissen an' might a bin dead years. 
 Eigh? 'Oo killed Dunscombe? La 'oo d'ye suspeck? 
 One of 'is chaps they zay up to Garter one of 'is chaps " 
 She eyed him sidelong with sparrow-like fidelity despite her 
 bulk of form. 
 
 A detonator exploded as the train drew past. "One," said 
 the gatekeeper. A second followed at an interval which did 
 not please her. "Two," she commented; "right number; 
 but the Lard only knows why 'ee were so long making up 'is 
 mind to go off blame if I do." 
 
 The train lumbered into the fog lying dense over Riverton 
 and the woman laboriously opened the gates. 
 
 Elliott moved a few paces to resume his journey, then paused, 
 twisted swiftly on his heel as though about to start on a race
 
 104 THE ISSUE 
 
 and drew up. He fumbled in his pocket for a pipe, placed it 
 between his teeth and struck a match. He sucked a moment 
 in silence, but no smoke came. He looked into the bowl and 
 discovered that the pipe was empty. 
 
 Again he fumbled, hand deep in pocket, produced a twist of 
 tobacco, filled and lighted. The hand holding the match 
 might have been stricken with a palsy, the teeth which held 
 the stem seemed intent on dropping it. He shivered as though 
 the disease had suddenly widened its grip and for a moment 
 there appeared a new look in eyes usually steady a tense, 
 beaten, scared look which the majority of people facing him 
 would have recognised at once. So he decided drawing to 
 cover. But the old woman, whose faculties were no longer 
 alert, whose eyes were rheumed, who delighted in vague recol- 
 lections of "Darset" well, she at all events would 
 
 From within the cottage came the sharp ting-ting of the 
 telegraph asking for attention. The movement made by the 
 old woman as she crossed to reply broke the thread. She gave 
 a signal and came into the rustic porch which framed her door. 
 Over the archway and trellis were the dying tendrils of a 
 clematis. They rustled in the chill breeze high up about 
 the woman's head and she drew her shawl a shade more 
 closely. 
 
 Elliott saw these things as he stood there halting beside the 
 track. He noted the curve of the rails dwindling away into 
 the distance, examined the levels and found them higher on 
 this side than on that. He marked the fact that the gulls swept 
 down upon a little space where there was a pool in the marsh- 
 land and emerged with something in their beaks; but the 
 things failed to interest him. Across the panorama of moving 
 and still life there stood the picture of a man lying bruised and 
 bleeding high on the sea-wall a picture which grew in force
 
 MOTHER KEYNE 105 
 
 and detail as though under the hand of an artist busy with his 
 brushes. 
 
 Dunscombe was the centre of that picture and Dunscombe 
 was dead lying at the Garter struck down by one of his chaps. 
 
 If that were so then he Pish! he sucked at his pipe, but 
 
 it had gone out. He pressed down the tobacco and withdrew 
 his finger swearing the damned thing like the rest of us 
 can't go straight always contrary always 
 
 He looked up, a swift, troubled look, and discovered the 
 old woman at his elbow. 
 
 "Jack, lad," she said, "You'm waitin'. Forgot somethin' 
 seemin'ly. There's the telegraft in my cabin an' it's nigh on 
 tide time. You'm wantin' to " 
 
 Elliott drew himself together with a jerky fling of one hand. 
 "Aye," he said, "but what it is I've forgotten I can't think 
 it's clean gone. Funny, isn't it?" he laughed. 
 
 " Baccy ? " said the old woman eyeing him. 
 
 Elliott slapped his pocket. "No," he decided, "it's not 
 baccy." 
 
 "Pipe?" 
 
 "No see," he produced it, holding it up. 
 
 "Arders?" 
 
 "No; I've had none as yet." 
 
 "An' Dunscombe won't be givin' none this mornen'?" 
 
 "Have you seen him?" Elliott flung out. "Are you sure 
 he's dead? How d'you know?" 
 
 "'Av I seen en? No, Jack, I 'avn't seen en an' don' want. 
 But there's a many as 'as. Down to Garter they say as they 
 can't keep folk away no more than flies off'n meat. Human 
 natur'. Aye sure. But I an't seen en." 
 
 Elliott still stood regarding this enigma as a man regards a 
 landscape, far off, on which certain figures are in motion. He
 
 io6 THE ISSUE 
 
 appeared to be engaged in a mental argument, a calculation 
 of chances from which the gate-keeper pulled him with a jerk. 
 
 "If you'm bent on goin' to see en," she advised, '"go when 
 it's dark or better still don't you go at all. 'Tain't werf it. 
 Every one is goin' an' comin' past 'ere. Traps, carts, barras 
 even the police harse-police, Jack. Can't keep my geats 
 shut for 'em. I 'ear 'ee's a zight. Cruel 'ard he was on 'is 
 hands. A chap like that wouldn't live long down to Darset 
 blame if 'ee would. A nasty, lecherous, w'eezy Ah ! so you'm 
 goin' balck arter all good. There won't be no work to-day 'n ' 
 I 'aven't sot eyes on you, Jack, lad mind that. " 
 
 Elliott moved down the road in a species of dream. The 
 woman's words rang in his brain ; but he was uncertain of their 
 meaning. Did she intend to warn him and if so, why? He 
 had struck this man. He had seen him lying there stunned. 
 Stunned but breathing. He was very certain of this fact. But 
 suppose by chance the fellow had not regained consciousness 
 suppose he had been struck on some vital part and had died 
 then 
 
 Elliott pushed the question aside. He decided it was 
 absurd, impossible, and yet, as his ears had heard, down there 
 at the Garter lay evidence, indisputable evidence. 
 
 He moved more rapidly down the road and came to a crossing. 
 On the left were the marshes, on the right roads all converging 
 on Riverton. It seemed at this moment that it was necessary 
 to think, to gain time and thresh this matter out then as he 
 halted there a woman moved out of the mists coming from the 
 river. She paused on seeing him and drawing near said: 
 
 "My friend of the other night, if I don't mistake you?" 
 
 Elliott met her gaze with that new-born desire for solitude 
 lurking in his eyes. He decided that this woman dressed in 
 black and wearing round her neck a fur boa, also of black,
 
 MOTHER KEYNE 107 
 
 was the woman of the woods and an inquisitor. She stood 
 before him with her quizzical smile, her black garments accent- 
 uating the extreme strawiness of her hair, obviously uncertain 
 of his identity. Yet he could not bring himself to deny recol- 
 lection despite the fact that he considered it necessary. After 
 a moment he replied in the affirmative: "Yes; that's me. " 
 
 The woman marked his confusion but took no heed. "When 
 I met you the other night, " she smiled, "I had no idea you were 
 a sailor. But now I see that you are and I wonder whether 
 you could help me find someone he is a sailor also; a river 
 captain, I believe James Saunderson. " 
 
 "Jim Saunderson?" 
 
 "Ah! I see you know him. Tell me tell me!" She stepped 
 nearer, holding out her hands, but Elliott had no desire for 
 this or any conversation. The reply had slipped before he 
 was aware how much it implicated him. It remained therefore 
 to fence with this woman, to bluff her, learn whether she had 
 been near the Garter and give nothing in return. He drew 
 himself together with an effort. 
 
 "In a way," he replied. "Yes, I have heard of him." 
 
 "Where, here or in Abbeyville?" 
 
 "He was here, but I believe he has gone north." 
 
 "North?" 
 
 "Aye the Tyne, Shields or some place up there." Then, 
 seeing the woman searching his face, "and well, as I've an- 
 swered your questions, perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me 
 whether you've been to the Garter?" 
 
 The woman drew back, her eyes flashing. "Every one is 
 talking of that. What do I know about it? Pardon you 
 were kind to me that night. Yes; it is some ship-owner, a hard 
 rnan, Dunscombe: do you know him?" 
 
 "Is he dead?"
 
 io8 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Elliott fumbled with the buttons of his coat. He glanced 
 up at his companion. "Who that is, how did it come about ? " 
 
 The woman put up her veil and again smiled. "I am not 
 sure. They tell me he was knocked down and is cut horribly. " 
 
 "Any word of who did it?" 
 
 " One of his hands, I believe. Why, did you know him too ? " 
 
 Despite the curious numbness which surrounded him he knew 
 that this woman was watching him with greedy eyes, taking in 
 details of his appearance, perhaps marking him down for the 
 future description. He held his head erect therefore and 
 replied again with an evasion. 
 
 "I have heard of him. And I believe he was a hard master, 
 as you say. Thanks yes, and as to Saunderson, I don't 
 know how long he will remain north. I scarcely knew much 
 of him and we aren't cousins. He wasn't much here very 
 few of us are. So I will be getting along. " 
 
 He turned on his heel and crossed the road. 
 
 Out there in the yellowness lay the marshes and silence. 
 The marshes where no people wandered asking questions, 
 where nothing moved but the shadows, and the silence was the 
 silence of those who are asleep.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 THE WOMAN PAYS 
 
 TO FIND pleasure in the marshes lying east of the level 
 crossing one needs few cares. A dog, a gun, and 
 brisk weather is a seductive mixture for ground game, 
 snipe and widgeon are to be found by the man who loves 
 rough shooting and who has the necessary permit; but Elliott 
 was not of these; nor was the weather exactly heartening. In 
 point of fact it was abominable. The ground had arrived at 
 that stage when the absorption of more moisture was impossible. 
 When, if you moved from certain beaten tracks you stood a very 
 fair chance of never moving again without assistance. 
 
 But these were considerations of no weight with Elliott. 
 He knew the marshes and, on the other hand, had gleaned 
 some knowledge of the risks he ran elsewhere. He preferred 
 the marshes. 
 
 In the near distance a quaint old hutch reared its rugged 
 outline against the smoke-like mist. Beside it lay a ditch of 
 stagnant water edged by reeds. Beyond there rolled the 
 marshes of the Hundred of Hoo, interspersed with ditches and 
 embankments, astride of which were the gates which began 
 and ended there. Elliott moved onward shrouded by the mist, 
 at liberty to smoke or walk or think untroubled by the ghost 
 of capture. He came to the hutch and entered. 
 
 From an artistic point of view the thing left nothing to be 
 desired; but art and comfort frequently roll wide as the hills. 
 This picturesque hutch was simply the inverted hull of an 
 
 109
 
 no THE ISSUE 
 
 ancient ketch or bawlie-boy* set on two tiers of bricks, a fire 
 place at one end, a door at the other. In summer it was used 
 occasionally by the shepherds, sometimes formed a snuggery 
 for the marsh bailiffs, sometimes a rendezvous for tramps. 
 No one inhabited it permanently. Some enterprising fisher- 
 man had built it long ago and, when he died, the owner of the 
 marshes called it his. 
 
 Here at all events Elliott was secure for hours for 
 in the fog then regnant he knew no marsh bailiff nor 
 shepherd would be abroad. Here he would have time 
 to formulate some plan, time to arrange how he might 
 warn Susie of what had happened. He sat down amidst a 
 litter of straw, head sunk, eyes searching the doorway for 
 possible intruders. 
 
 A long while he remained thus, a strained look on a face 
 betokening youth and immunity from care; a look becoming 
 nervously expectant under its new burden. Dunscombe was 
 dead. He acknowledged that this fact stood. It was useless 
 to deny it. And if Dunscombe was dead, then it was possible 
 he had killed him. It was the natural sequence, the corollary 
 of his action yet, for a moment, it appeared impossible. 
 Again, on consideration, he found it possible a difference in 
 terms that struck him as being out of all proportion to the 
 weight of hazard involved. 
 
 Once more he leaned forward, searching his memory for the 
 order of events as they occurred that night. Dunscombe met 
 him, jeering and ordering him as though he were a dog. Dun- 
 scombe, when he had retaliated in some small measure, 
 broached this question of "doing a bit on his own" as they 
 phrase it, and he had denied it blusteringly, angrily. Then 
 Dunscombe had called him a liar and a thief and he had struck 
 
 * Shrimper.
 
 THE WOMAN PAYS in 
 
 him down. "As I would strike him again now, by God! if 
 he called me a liar and a thief. " 
 
 Elliott rose from his seat and gave emphasis to his opinion: 
 "As I would strike any man who called me a liar and a thief 
 
 as . Sst! The man is dead dead and I . What's 
 
 that?" 
 
 He moved to the small window and set it wide. The fog 
 streamed in. He discovered a group of plover whirling about 
 the hutch seeking a new pitch. Nothing else. All fog and 
 steam and mist. The world a-sweat with the burden it bore 
 nothing else. Again he returned to his seat and again after 
 a lapse of time crept to the window. Nothing only the gulls, 
 the plover and silence; a silence that penetrated as the fog pene- 
 trated and was as productive of shadows. 
 
 He returned to his seat, taking himself to task. What a 
 coward he had become. How easily he trembled. He swore 
 softly this was not so that he had cause, cause sufficient to 
 break the heart of a statue. 
 
 Dunscombe was dead. If this thing were true then was 
 it not possible the blow he had struck had killed him. Mother 
 Keyne, the old gate-keeper, had hinted pretty plainly her view 
 of the affair. Or was it her view ? Was it not possible that she 
 had heard something and intended to warn him? Of course 
 
 it was possible yet No no the thing was impossible 
 
 he announced it plainly staring at the gap in the roof. Then, 
 if that were so, came in mocking comment, why was he in 
 hiding? Why did he cower there when he should be at the 
 river attending his work? 
 
 He played into these people's hands by remaining hidden. 
 It was suicide. He must get out and face it face it. That 
 was the only thing a man could do without shame. 
 
 "Face it!" He rose at the word and crossed towards the
 
 ii2 THE ISSUE 
 
 door. Then, driving him back, thwarting him, came the know- 
 ledge that Susie awaited his return that night at Swinfleet. 
 That if he faced this thing now, he might not be able to see her 
 or explain what had happened. Others would do that for him 
 people who desired to keep them apart. No; he could not 
 face it yet. He must see Susie first. He must marry her. 
 That, at all hazards, was a duty he dared not postpone. If the 
 worst came, and she desired it, he must marry her at once, and 
 then but why conjure with the thing. He admitted the 
 absurdity, but it stood there a very potent force to hold him 
 tied to the hutch during all remaining hours of daylight; if 
 he would see Susie again in freedom. 
 
 Nine hours on the marshes, not with dog and gun, but with 
 misery for companion; nine hours listening for footsteps which 
 never came, searching out the genesis of those sounds which 
 at intervals smote him; nine hours fasting, dragging at the 
 essential facts which dogged him a man need be strong to 
 stand so severe a strain and remain steadfast to the resolve he 
 had formed. 
 
 He had come into that solitude for thought and to avoid a 
 capture which at the moment appeared barely feasible, and 
 with thought had come this dread thing, this sequence of events 
 which bore down upon him, baffled him, and kept him prisoner 
 against his will. 
 
 He questioned of the four walls: What had he done to bring 
 this misery into the life of a girl he admittedly loved ? But no 
 answer came to cheer him, only the eternal cry of the gulls, and 
 the swirl of their wings as they passed the hutch. The hours 
 dragged on. Sometimes the man leaned forward dozing, 
 sometimes stood watching the marsh tracks converging on the 
 hutch, sometimes paced to and fro the narrow floor. It grew 
 late. Elliott came to the door and looked out. The silence
 
 THE WOMAN PAYS 113 
 
 was maintained. The land retained its curtain. The gulls 
 were fewer in number. 
 
 The sun had vanished from a sky it had not touched since 
 dawn when at length Elliott emerged from his shelter. He 
 walked down the sodden walls, feeling the path with a stake. 
 Movement freshened him. He was on his way to greet Susie 
 and to tell her his news. 
 
 He came to the lane where, that morning, he had met and 
 fenced with the inquisitor of the woods. It was silent now 
 silent as the marshes had been. Up there perhaps a mile dis- 
 tant was the old gate-keeper with her bundle of fog signals and 
 her flag; farther still, the river with its burden of shipping and 
 ebbing stream. Had it not been for Susie, at this moment he 
 would have passed straight and swii't to the river and there, 
 shrouded by the fog, would have made his way to some land 
 where a man had chances the land of which we always prate 
 when misfortune strikes us in our own. 
 
 Up the lanes, shadowed by the trees and sunk in fog; along 
 a desolate stretch of highroad, avoiding the glare of lamps set 
 now to hinder him, and so to the edge of the town. One 
 street he was compelled to face. In the morning he had trav- 
 ersed it humming a tune, now he traversed it seeing pursuers 
 at every corner. Already he had run the gauntlet of a dozen 
 imaginary captures when someone clutched him by the arm. 
 
 He swung free with a savage gesture. 
 
 "What do you want? Stand back!" he cried. 
 
 ''Whisht! how you jump to be sure. Sonny, take us home; 
 it's cruel cold on the streets to-night. You won't then stand 
 us so'thin'. O Gawd, it's cold." 
 
 "Out of my way, what the devil do you mean?" 
 
 "My word, if it ain't Jack Elliott!" 
 
 "Well?"
 
 ii 4 THE ISSUE 
 
 He halted quickly enough now, but with one arm raised to 
 strike. The girl laughed quietly. 
 
 "You don't mind me," she whispered, "not you. But 
 Dolly Crassley isn't the gell to ferget them as has done her a 
 turn. You mind the row at the door of the Scorpion, Jack? 
 I know you do. Well, it's my turn now. Hist ! you'' re -wanted 
 an' there's a peeler a top of the street." 
 
 "Wanted? Ah, I might have known it." He mopped at 
 his forehead, standing irresolute. The girl stared. 
 
 "Then w'y are you here?" she questioned. "'Tain't safe. 
 Walk beside me to the turnin'. I've got a room there." 
 
 "I am bound to see some one," he explained; "I must go 
 out " 
 
 "Someone wot spells miss before 'er name?" she questioned 
 swiftly. "Nay, don't start an' swear, sonny. I'm not so black 
 as I'm painted. It's nat'ral you should want to see her; but, 
 I'm tellin' you, don't you go townways. Keep in the dark, 
 an' if there's lamps about, wait till the fog smothers 'em. How 
 did it come about, sonny?" 
 
 "He called me a liar and a thief and I struck htm." 
 
 "Haigh! you're right. You shouldn't be so strong." 
 
 They reached the house unseen and the girl pushed him 
 within. "Stay there," she whispered, "while I look round. 
 No they might tear the tongue out of me mouth afore I'd say 
 a word to get you took. They don't love me I don't love them. 
 They hustle I give 'em the go-bye stay quiet." 
 
 She left him standing and passed into the street. From 
 somewhere upstairs came the noise of glasses and the pop of 
 a drawn cork. A woman laughed and in the ensuing silence it 
 seemed that all things happened capture, trial, judgment, 
 yet when the girl returned Elliott acknowledged he still was 
 safe.
 
 THE WOMAN PAYS 115 
 
 "All clear," she said in answer; "how far are you goin'?" 
 
 "Swinfleet." 
 
 "It's miles goin' to walk it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The girl examined him in the dim light. "I like your 
 pluck," she announced, then after a moment's hesitation: 
 "'Ere can you bike?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Got any machine?" 
 
 "Not here." 
 
 "Right; I'll find you one. Stay quiet." 
 
 She left him again and in five minutes returned wheeling 
 a cycle. "It's a gell's," she explained, "my chum's her wot's 
 laughin' upstairs. You can ride it, I doubt? She's as tall 
 as you. Good leave it in this shed when you come back. 
 So-long, sonny aye fer the sake of wot you done fer me 
 so-long." 
 
 She touched him on the shoulder and was gone. 
 
 Who was she ? No one worse than no one. Just a tows- 
 led young daughter of the gutter in her prime and with as 
 keen a hatred of wedlock since her man had left her, as to the 
 manner born. An impossible person? Perhaps yet re- 
 member the appaling conditions in which she moved. 
 
 Sixteen years of draggle-tailed existence, then marriage. A 
 marriage of the slums, carried out in slum fashion with lavish 
 supplies of beer. Six months later, brutal usage, desertion, 
 motherhood. At the end of twelve, childless and driven to the 
 streets for sustenance. Who was she ? This and many other 
 things quite impossible of narration. 
 
 Elliott passed on now in full knowledge of the peril in which 
 he stood. No longer came those questions which had tor- 
 tured him. Dunscombe was dead and he was wanted for the
 
 n6 THE ISSUE 
 
 murder. He moved in a dream. The way was peopled with 
 shadows flitting ghost-like to harass him, angling to take him 
 unawares. 
 
 Without a light, keeping steadily to the centre of the road he 
 passed cautiously through the fog. Once a passenger cross- 
 ing the track complained of his unmannerly approach; but 
 Elliott swerved wide and held on his way till Riverton and its 
 traffic were left behind. Then on more swiftly now down 
 that highroad which should cany him to Swinfleet ; on through 
 the grim, dark night, eyes concentrated on the track, ears alert 
 for passing carts, head bent, on through the stillness, the raw 
 air invigorating him, the soft swish of the tyres inspiring him, 
 the picture of Susie standing there before him as a guide on 
 till out of the murk there came the thud of a horse's hoofs and 
 a lantern shone in his eyes. 
 
 "What are you doing without lights, eh?" came the question 
 to annoy him. Then with a swift turn the horseman was 
 passed and Elliott riding for freedom. 
 
 ''Halt there, in the King's name!" sounded from the rear- 
 ward veil of fog. "Halt! I say." 
 
 The constable had turned and was riding to overtake him. 
 The hoof sounds came up to Elliott now with the rythmic 
 swing of a gallop. He would be ridden down at that pace. A 
 stone in the road, a ruck, and he would be at his enemy's mercy 
 he who was wanted, and for whom they searched. 
 
 In a moment he swerved, slowed and drew up beside the 
 hedge. The horseman passed on swearing. 
 
 Then again in the silence, swiftly pushing his machine, Elliott 
 doubled on his tracks, came round to a bye road and rode once 
 more for Swinfleet. So, onward, till the lane widened, the 
 trees fell away and the glare from the cottage loomed yellow 
 close at hand.
 
 THE WOMAN PAYS 117 
 
 A girl stood near the uncurtained window Susie waiting 
 for him and straining her eyes in the fog. The light from the 
 lamp shone on her red-gold hair. He sprang from his machine, 
 unlatched the gate and entered. Susie started at his approach 
 and screened her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, it's Jack it's Jack!" she cried. And in a moment, 
 despite his signal for caution, the door was thrown wide and 
 Susie lay in his arms. "My darling," she whispered. "How 
 late you are and how wet!" 
 
 "Hist, deary!" 
 
 "Why? There's no one here, only me. And I have been 
 waiting for you waiting. Do you understand? Aunty's 
 out listening to uncle, who is on the village council, you know, 
 and I am all alone. So horribly alone. Come in, dear heart, 
 come in." 
 
 He glanced over his shoulder, staring into the fog he had 
 escaped. "Turn down the light, Susie, and draw the curtains 
 else I can't." 
 
 She watched him with a quizzical glance, half of laughter, 
 half of coquetry. "Can't? Silly boy. Why, who do you 
 think will be spying on us in this quiet place? But you shall 
 have your way." She entered the room, drew the curtains, 
 extinguished the lamp and returned. "There, will that do? 
 
 Is it dark enough dark enough for you to see to Jack, 
 
 dear," she continued drawing back and looking in his face, 
 "do you know that you have forgotten to to " 
 
 Her lips framed for kisses quivered beneath his own. He 
 caught her to him, folding her in his arms with a passion that 
 was terrible to remember and his cry rang out: "Oh God! 
 my lass, my lass!" 
 
 She turned to him now and stood smoothing back his hair. 
 That something was wrong she knew intuitively. She kissed
 
 nS THE ISSUE 
 
 him on the lips. "What is it, dear?" she begged, "tell me 
 tell me." 
 
 He blurted the thing, his face buried in her hair. "There 
 is trouble in the wind, Susie, and I " 
 
 "Then we must meet it," she reminded him. 
 
 "We can't, Susie it's me me." 
 
 "In a few days we shall be one," she decided flushing. 
 
 "I daren't wait for that. If we are to be married if you 
 still want me when you know we must be married at once. 
 Somewhere God knows where." 
 
 She shook back her hair and smiled. The fire light fell on 
 a face as white as the blouse she wore, yet she smiled. "If 
 if what have I done, Jack, to make you doubt me? When 
 I know and if! Jack, what is it?" 
 
 "I'm wanted, lass. Wanted." 
 
 The words were said but she looked at him no wiser. 
 "Wanted, Jack?" 
 
 "Aye. Understand me this is no paltry business, nothing 
 to snivel over and done with. It's trouble big and definite 
 Susie Dunscombe's dead." 
 
 Silence ensued; cold, torturing, pregnant with sorrow. Jack 
 holding the girl close, holding her crushed, Susie looking up 
 and striving in the darkness to read his eyes. At length she 
 spoke: "Dunscombe dead? Well, what has that to do with 
 us?" 
 
 "I struck him, Susie I " 
 
 "Oh! but Jack, Jack! I'll not believe it. I will not believe 
 it you didn't try that is " 
 
 "No, no! As God is my witness I meant to hit him. I 
 meant to knock him down if I could. Why? Because he 
 called me a liar and a thief. Those were his words and I laid 
 him out."
 
 THE WOMAN PAYS 119 
 
 "My darling I knew it." She had come through darkness 
 into light. Her eyes gleamed. She clung to him caressing 
 his brow with one hand, but she clung trembling. 
 
 "It was all about a bit of pluck I gave your father," he ex- 
 plained; "it happened some time ago. How he knew of it 
 passes me by. But he did know and I must run if I am to 
 marry you understand?" 
 
 "Wait," she begged. "Tell me ... let me think." 
 
 He complied, speaking fast and with a nervous insistence 
 that was painful to hear: "As you will. This is what hap- 
 pened. It's a month ago more. I'm lying on the tide wait- 
 ing for a job when the Tantalus came driving past. She doesn't 
 steer as handy as she did and the old man looks like driving 
 ashore on the Nore. We weren't twenty yards away. It's 
 dead calm. And I dropped under the bow and plucked her 
 into deeper water. There was never any question of towing, 
 or payment and now the Guv'nor looks me in the face and 
 says I squared it took a crown from the old man and never 
 reported it. 
 
 "What did I say? Psh! I was mad I was mad. He 
 had given me jaw before he broke ground over this. I told 
 him it was a lie. Then he said he would prosecute me and 
 called me a liar and a thief. That's what passed, as God is 
 my Judge." 
 
 "I knew it, darling. You are not to blame." 
 
 "But I'm wanted, Susie and I must run." 
 
 "Why? Surely, surely it is better to face it." 
 
 "I daren't not if we are to be married. It may take 
 months if once I give up I might be locked up a year; it 
 would be a jury case assizes and all the rest." 
 
 "Jack! you must face it." 
 
 The girl was white to the tips of her ears. She clung to him
 
 120 THE ISSUE 
 
 now, her lips quivering, her arms twined about his neck. He 
 strove for release. The helplessness of his position assailed 
 him and he broke out passionately: 
 
 "Don't make it harder, lass. Better let me go. I've got 
 the luck of the devil the luck of the devil. Chuck me. Tell 
 me you never want to see me again, and I'll walk in and face 
 them. Face them and let them prove what they will " 
 
 "Jack! I love you I love you!" 
 
 "Men call me by an ugly name," he groaned; "there's none 
 worse." 
 
 "You are my husband," she whispered still holding him. 
 
 "Your husband's life isn't worth the snuff of a candle, Susie. 
 Look it square in the face. Suppose they found extenuating 
 circumstances how does that better me? It's manslaughter 
 then that any good to me or you? Better hang and have 
 done with it better " 
 
 "Don't don't. My darling!" she cried in a passion of 
 tears. 
 
 "God love you!" he faltered, the sight of her agony stifling 
 him. "Hold on. I'm wrong. I had no right to tell you that; 
 it might never come. But, Susie, it's what I've got to face and 
 if we are to be married first, I must run. There's no other way 
 of doing it. Is there?" 
 
 She clung to him, hiding her face on his shoulder. She 
 shook her head, but she sobbed more quietly. 
 
 "Susie," he went on, "we must be married must," he 
 reiterated, taking her by the arms and looking into her face. 
 "I must get across the water. Susie, I'm quitting Riverton 
 to-night by the only way left open. By river. I have no other 
 chance the patrols are out, the police are after me met me 
 coming here; but to-morrow I'll be across if I have to row 
 every mile of the way. I know Antwerp, Havre, Dieppe any
 
 THE WOMAN PAYS lax 
 
 of them will suit my book and then we can talk about facing 
 
 She put up her hand and checked him. "You will take me, 
 Jack?" she whispered. 
 
 "I can't, lass. Not to-night. It's impossible." 
 
 The girl restrained her tears. She pushed him from her 
 and stood there white and drooping. "Go, darling," she 
 begged. " Go. I must not keep you go, while I am strong." 
 
 "I will write from foreign, Susie. Letters to Riverton post 
 office you understand?" 
 
 She nodded gravely, her face in shadow. 
 
 "You shall follow me out, dear. I've got some money. 
 I'll write about it. Susie, I must go I must go." 
 
 They stood a moment locked in each other's arms, then Susie 
 drew back. "God bless you, Jack," she faltered. 
 
 "God love you, lass." 
 
 Night received him.
 
 COe Etoet of Life 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 INQUISITORIAL 
 
 THREE days fog, then a gale of wind. This was the 
 order of things, and the day of the gale was also the 
 day of the inquest. 
 
 The pier hotel was crowded, the air reeking with the odour 
 of strong tobacco and mixed drinks. Outside the wind howled 
 without ceasing, the river combed savagely on the flood, and, 
 at high water, sloshed over the sea-wall and fell in columns of 
 spray on the seats before the hotel. Upstairs, in a long and 
 low-ceiled room, sat the Coroner and his Court and before them 
 stood or lounged a group of eager listeners, water-side folk 
 with one exception Tony Crow. 
 
 A dreary business done on a dreary day in the old, stupid 
 fashion so dear to the hearts of Englishmen, was in full swing. 
 Micky Doolan was there, Win'bag Saunderson, the black- 
 smith, the mate who had rowed Elliott ashore in the fog, the 
 skipper of the barge which lay that night aground all were 
 there, and all had spoken after their diverse fashions. Elliott 
 alone was missing. Where was this man, Elliott? All the 
 evidence turned on Elliott who knew anything of his move- 
 ments? Apparently, no one. 
 
 123
 
 I2 4 THE ISSUE 
 
 His landlady, described in the generic term "old woman," 
 spoke in whispers as she related incidents bearing on nothing 
 in particular and with the accompaniment of gross circumlocu- 
 tion. Perhaps only one or two facts were noticeable in her 
 remarks: they bore on Elliott's good nature. He was a good 
 lad, there was no two ways about that. He never troubled no 
 one; he was always kind and regular; likewise his reckonin' was 
 paid on the nail. He left home a Sunday mornin', sayin' he 
 was bound away to a job on the river. Since that she had not 
 set eyes on him. 
 
 His mate spoke to the fact that there was no job on the river 
 on Sunday he minded it, because he was on board with his 
 wife that day, who, bein' new-married, wanted to see the boat. 
 He never set eyes on the skipper all day. Yaas, he rowed 
 him ashore on Saturday night. It was as thick as peas puddin' ; 
 he knew that for he was nigh on three hours findin' his road 
 back to the tug but he heard the row on the wall. Least- 
 ways, part of it he heard not all. Yaas, it was Dunscombe 
 the row was with. 
 
 The skipper of the barge testified in similar fashion but am- 
 plified his remarks by stating more particularly the details of 
 the row. Damning evidence, every word. 
 
 Micky Doolan spoke also to the finding, with a tongue which 
 tripped sadly after his recent debauch. He knew every sen- 
 tence by heart and told it with great reluctance. But they 
 dragged it from him bit by bit, and at length he was ordered, 
 with some asperity, to stand down. 
 
 The evidence stood solid, unutterably solid, damning for 
 Elliott. Only Tony Crow of all the bunch had ventured any 
 extended refutation of the exultant police testimony, and he 
 naturally was looked upon with suspicion. 
 
 " What did he knaw abaht it ? No so much but he had had
 
 INQUISITORIAL 125 
 
 eexperience o' keekin', an' wi' their gude leaves, yon was dun 
 wi' nowt but clogs. How did he knaw? He'didn't knaw; but 
 eexperience had taught Tony mony things. Were ah there? 
 Na ah were not there ah were at t' smeethy. " 
 
 Why then was he occupying the time of the court ? 
 
 "Because ah have ma doots." 
 
 "Doubts! Who ever heard of such twaddle. Doubts are 
 not evidence. Stand down. " 
 
 So the tall, simple-hearted blacksmith stood down, and 
 twisted his cap monotonously as he listened. The Coroner 
 now addressed the jury, and the jury having agreed without 
 any further inquiry into the mythical region of Tony's doubts, 
 the inquest was adjourned and the police once more breathed 
 freely. They recognised that their case was won, a desider- 
 atum as all men are ready to acknowledge, therefore it was 
 only in the nature of things that they should show an exultant 
 face. 
 
 All this was done on the day of the gale, succeeding the fog, 
 within sound of the wailing horns on the river, amidst the 
 blather and spume of an angry Thames, some half-mile distant 
 from the ditch with its stagnant water and ugly crimson stains. 
 And the business of the hotel was amazingly brisk. For in- 
 quests are productive of talk, of speculation, of an inquisitive 
 tribe of men; and these things, in turn, are productive of smoke 
 and the guzzling of some astonishingly bad liquor. 
 
 It fell so on this occasion: and on the day of the adjourned 
 inquiry, the memory of the people who sold was ransacked, in 
 vain for an equally propitious event. 
 
 On this day a verdict of wilful murder was returned against 
 Elliott, and Tony Crow went back to the smithy a wrathful 
 and discredited man. 
 
 But the hero of all this clack had vanished.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SUTCLIFFE'S RETURN 
 
 A FOG was growing as the Tantalus drove slowly to her 
 berth at the foot of the Reach which winds past 
 quiet Abbeyville. George Sutcliffe navigated her, gave 
 orders to her meagre crew, steered, and from time to time 
 stared out under the foot of the mainsail to discover in the blur 
 of smoke and fog lying over the village, that trim girl form 
 which never yet had failed to welcome him. 
 
 He was hungry always, on these homeward trips, for the first 
 glimpse of his daughter. He looked for her presence but 
 to-day Susie had not appeared at the foot of the little garden. 
 Therefore, for some reason, she had not expected him, and 
 had remained at home. His wife also would be at home. But 
 Sutcliffe did not think of his wife he thought only of Susie. 
 
 He was a tall man, slightly bent in form, wearing the curly, 
 and now iron-gray, ringlets of the old-time coasting skipper, 
 beneath his blue-peaked cap. He had the air of one who has 
 struggled and has been quite effectually beaten. His second 
 marriage had brought into his eyes the look one sees in the 
 face of all sufferers. He no longer had hope. He moved in 
 a circle of events each of which might end matters without 
 warning. Indeed, had it not been for Susie he would have 
 sunk beneath the fierce waters and moved to that long home 
 of his, unsorrowfully. 
 
 But the girl was a link with the past which no stretched 
 misery could sever. The thought of her pretty face and win- 
 
 126
 
 SUTCLIFFE'S RETURN 127 
 
 ning child-ways, buoyed him on his voyage and tied him to the 
 old home, as frequently a baby voice and innocent laughter 
 will tie man to the impossible. 
 
 Meanwhile the brig arrived at her anchorage. Sutcliffe 
 saw her moored, landed and went up the pier. He decided 
 mentally that Susie must, for some reason, be at the vicarage. 
 Then, as he walked the village street, giving "What cheer, 
 skipper," and "What ho, mate," to one and another of his 
 acquaintances, he noticed how the people standing gossiping at 
 their doors, turned to watch him as he passed. 
 
 There had been a time when this would have caused him to 
 pause, but not now. In these days he was accustomed to 
 trouble and now he failed to connect their behaviour with 
 himself in any way. Besides, since his second marriage, he 
 had learned that silence is discretion ; that to see, and not to see, 
 is sometimes wisdom. 
 
 He stepped across the little garden and stood in the doorway 
 of his home. It was dreary and silent. Out in the back, he 
 caught the sound of scrubbing, and the click of iron-ringed 
 pattens signals unmistakable, to Sutcliffe, that his wife was 
 on the war path. He shut the door quietly and, entering the 
 kitchen, sat down in the dismal light of a flickering oil lamp 
 to smoke his pipe. Susie must certainly be at the vicarage. 
 His pipe was a solace. 
 
 But he was not long left in peace. The odour of burning 
 tobacco found its way outside. Mrs. Sutcliffe offered many 
 resentful remarks to the neighbouring back yards, then, unable 
 to locate the nuisance, opened the kitchen door and looked in. 
 
 Sutcliffe smoked on without speaking. 
 
 "Lawd!" cried the woman with emphasis; "wot a skear 
 you give a person with your pipes an' smoke an' filth. When 
 did you come in?"
 
 128 THE ISSUE 
 
 "A while ago." 
 
 "How long's that?" 
 
 "Not so long." 
 
 "Not so long! Haigh! hear 'im. Lissen to 'im. Here he 
 is at 'ome sittin' still as a stuffed hog, an' all the world a 
 gapin' at him." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe bustled energetically about the room dusting 
 and reversing the order of the furniture. Her husband smoked 
 in silence. 
 
 " 'Deed," she went on, with a pause of infinite scorn as she 
 viewed her partner's bald head, " 'Deed, but there's no fule 
 like an old fule. Lawd! if I were a man I wouldn't sit down 
 an' twiddle me thumbs. I'd ack that's wot I'd do. " 
 
 Several sniffs followed this assertion. They were the only 
 sounds in the kitchen for some minutes. Outside the wind 
 moaned without ceasing and the river broke sorrowfully on the 
 foreshore. But Sutcliffe's eyes were shut. 
 
 "Gells is like calves," his wife continued argumentatively. 
 "You must ring 'em if you want to lead 'em. That's wot I say, 
 an' it's wot I'd do with every lass risin' seventeen, if I 'ad my 
 way. Why would I?" she asked in a querulous treble, al- 
 though her husband had made no remark. "Because Satan 
 goeth about like a roarin' lion, Capting Sutcliffe, seekin' whom 
 he may devour. It's [writ in the Book, an' Mr. Slowboy 
 brought it before us last Sunday most forcible. Sometimes 
 Satan taketh untoe himself the form of a young man with a 
 black mastache, an' great is the fall thereof. " 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe's reminiscences of Bible lore, taken from the 
 lips of this spectacled divine, who eschewed clerical garments 
 and boldly preached in his work-a-day clothes, had no effect 
 on the old man. He was accustomed to pulverised versions of 
 Holy Writ. They had been launched at his head frequently
 
 SUTCLIFFE'S RETURN 129 
 
 during some fifteen years of married life, and had become 
 innocuous from iteration. He continued to smoke stolidly. 
 His wife came across the kitchen and stood before him sniffing. 
 
 Now there is something very exasperating in a sniff, judi- 
 ciously administered, and with proper accentuation. The old 
 man opened his eyes, took his pipe from his lips and said, " Shut 
 it, Missis." 
 
 "I won't shut it," the woman returned, quickly mollified at 
 the effect of her battery; "I ain't goin' to shut it. W'y here's 
 Capting Saundisson, as good a man as ever stepped, willin' to 
 marry the gell, or, says he, 'Pay me that fif-ety pound you owe 
 me.' Though, p'raps 'ee won't feel that way egspecially 
 now." 
 
 Sutcliff e woke up at once, eyeing this plotter with impatience. 
 "What do you mean?" he cried. 
 
 "A-h-h-h-h!" said Mrs. Sutcliff e dolorously. 
 
 "Hold your noise!" he returned. "I won't have the lass 
 worried. Lumme! you make a big song about your God- 
 fearin' an' your chapel-goin', but you're worse than a bloomin* 
 Turk, an' so's Saunderson if he thinks I'm goin' to sell the lass." 
 
 "Owe no man anything," cried Mrs. Sutcliffe austerely. 
 
 "Blatherskites!" 
 
 "No, George, not blatherskites, nor any other heathenish 
 worrud. It's ondecent, it's on-christian. Tell me where you 
 find it writ? It's not in Gawd's 'Oly Book. It's an infidel 
 worrud a worrud as you have picked up amongst the Turks 
 an' other naked seviges." 
 
 The old man watched her with weary eyes. 
 
 "It's almost a pity we can't pick up some other of their 
 customs whiles we are about it," he said. 
 
 "An' wot might they be?" Mrs. Sutcliffe questioned with a 
 sniff of intense interest; for she, like many other estimable
 
 130 THE ISSUE 
 
 females, evinced keen interest in scandalous revelations. They 
 gave her the opportunity of tasting emotions to which, other- 
 wise, she was a stranger, and enabled her, also, to air her own 
 peculiar morality with fitting diatribes. 
 
 "They chuck old wimmen an' them as has tongues, into the 
 Bos'prus," said Sutcliffe with a far away gleam of merriment. 
 "That's what they do, Missis." 
 
 "Haigh!" shrieked Mrs. Sutcliffe, but standing severely 
 still. "Haigh! how long, O Lawd! How long! Haigh! an' 
 to think it's come to this after fifteen years of scrudgin' ; fifteen 
 years of slavin'. George Sutcliffe," she continued slowly, and 
 shaking a prophetic forefinger at her silent lord and master, 
 "the day will come when you'll be sorry for them worruds 
 an' will say " 
 
 "Oh Lord! give us a rest," sighed the old man wistfully. 
 "If this isn't as bad as a gale o' wind in a leaky ship as the 
 sayin' is I don't know." 
 
 "There is no peace, saith my Gawd, fer the wicked," said 
 his wife. 
 
 Captain Sutcliffe rose from his chair. The fire had gone 
 out, so also had his pipe. The paraffin lamp burnt low, with 
 a gurgling noise in its throat. The house was pervaded with 
 an atmosphere of bickering and misery, impossible to dis- 
 associate from the figures of forlorn weariness and nagging the 
 two presented. 
 
 "I'm goin' out," said the Captain, moving towards the door. 
 
 "You'd best not." 
 
 "What's to hinder me?" 
 
 "Susie." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe's voice dropped. Her husband stood in the 
 doorway watching her with angry eyes. 
 
 "Susie?" he cried. "What do you mean? T'hell wiv you
 
 SUTCLIFFE'S RETURN 131 
 
 an' your naggin' you'll drive a man mad. Wheer's the 
 lass?" 
 
 "Gone." 
 
 "Gone wheer to?" 
 
 "To her lover, likely as not." 
 
 Sutcliffe closed the door and stood confronting her with a 
 new sternness. 
 
 "What do you mean? Speak straight, wumman!" he 
 rapped out. "Do you hear me wheer's the lass?" 
 
 "I turned her out. I could do nothin' else. All the vil- 
 lage is talkin' of her an' her disgraceful goin's on. I won't 
 'ave it in my house." 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe's courage returned now the worst was said. 
 The sound of her own voice acted as an incentive; she tossed 
 her head sniffing aloud in self-justification. 
 
 "You turned the lass out? Out . . . of . . , 
 your house. All the village ... is ... talkin' of 
 her. You what did you do, wumman ? " 
 
 "I turned her out that's wot I did, George. I speak it 
 plain, don't I?" 
 
 "You . . . turned out . . . t'lass?" The old man 
 spoke now in a slow, dazed fashion, as though repetition were 
 necessary to enable him to grasp the horrid truth. "You 
 turned out . . . my lil Susie? Is that it, Missis?" 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe quailed beneath his stern, set face, and shrank 
 backward into the room. She was entirely unused to the sound 
 of anger. For years she had ruled this house with the terror 
 of her tongue, and even now lashed out at the whisper of 
 restraint. 
 
 "The gell's no better than she ought to be," she retorted, 
 hoping by a show of spirit to regain her ascendancy. But her 
 judgment was awry; this last taunt was too much for the old
 
 i 3 2 THE ISSUE 
 
 man. He caught her by the throat, shaking her to and fro in 
 his still powerful grip. 
 
 "You lie you you wumman! You lie," he shouted. "T'lass 
 is pure as the angels pure as Gawd's holy angels. It's you 
 wumman you who ain't fit to hold a candle to her. Wheer 
 is she gone? Tell me that you you croakin', squawkin' 
 gospel-puncher. Wheer is she gone ? " 
 
 In an access of rage he flung her from him and sat down on 
 the bench near the door, trembling like a child. 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe cowered on the floor. "When thine enemy 
 smiteth thee," she groaned, "turn thou " 
 
 "Have done, wumman! You an* your Bible. Have done!" 
 Sutcliffe shouted as he rose and stood over her. "You've been 
 the curse of my life the curse of my life do you hear ? For 
 years you've come betwixt me an' peace. Susie is all that's 
 kept me here . . . an' now . . . an' now she's gone. 
 My Gawd! she's gone, an' I go too. Wumman wumman! 
 do you know what this means to me?" 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe dragged herself towards him, scared at the 
 novelty of his stern, hard tones. 
 
 "George," she moaned; "George, I've tried to do my duty 
 by the gell. I've tried " 
 
 Sutcliffe broke in without remorse. 
 
 "It means a little worrud o' four letters, wumman. A 
 worrud you're over fond of slingin' about you. It means Hell 
 an' nothin' else. Before it was Hell tempered wiv Heaven. 
 Now it's the whole bottomless pit, wiv never a gleam of light. 
 Do you understand? Am I plain, wumman? That is what 
 it means to to George Sutcliffe." 
 
 He stood fingering the latch, ready to go. "She wanted 
 help," he continued; "you give her worruds. She wanted 
 guidance; you give her argiments. She wanted love; you
 
 SUTCLIFFE'S RETURN 133 
 
 give her tex's, an' thought I were none the wiser. Lord! Lord I 
 it's a cold, harrd worrld. A crewl worrld, an' I must see about 
 findin' her. My lil' Susie my lil' Susie." 
 
 He lifted the latch. "I think you understan' me," he said, 
 pausing on the threshold. "I think I've put it straight, as the 
 sayin' is?" 
 
 Mrs. Sutcliffe made no response. She lay in a heap on the 
 floor, weeping silently.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE SEARCH 
 
 OUTCLIFFE stepped out into the street and stood look- 
 ^ ing about him. 
 
 Where should he go; how hide the misery gnawing 
 at his vitals; how carry himself erect before the gaping village? 
 How? Thank God, the fog had fallen; the steaming yellow 
 mist was a pillar of cloud to the forlorn old man plodding, with 
 stern eyes, towards the park. Again, where should he go? 
 Which way of all the multitude should he take ? In which, of 
 all the teeming townlets, commence his search? There are 
 70,000 people hereabout; 70,000 think of it, and Susie some- 
 where hid among them. Pshaw! where should he begin? In 
 Abbeyville her own village? Chut! foolishness; she would 
 not be there, or the wagging gossips would have brought him 
 news. At his sister's ? Impossible she would have sent him 
 word. At Shornecombe the little village near which Jack 
 Elliott lived? Absurd, impossible; for that would but give 
 colour to his wife's suspicions. At Riverton, Salcombe, Tunley, 
 any of a score of places up or down the line? Maybe but 
 where should he begin? 
 
 A cart rumbled heavily down the village street behind him. 
 He stood aside to let it pass. A great white miller's waggon 
 emerged from the fog, and four steaming dapple-grey horses, 
 in the full, jingling panoply of burnished harness, drew past. 
 A Riverton cart no other. Chance decided it. He would 
 go to Riverton. Riverton had police who might help him.
 
 THE SEARCH 135 
 
 Help him to what? To find Susie? Impossible. He could 
 not tell them she was gone. As soon would he dream of climbing 
 up beside yon vanishing miller, and lay his heart bare im- 
 possible, all impossible. 
 
 So he trudged on through the fog, his brain quick with hopes, 
 fears, thoughts, phantasies; quicker than he ever remembered 
 in all the gray misery of those years which had rolled so slowly 
 since Lucy's death. Thus he came to the top of the alley, and 
 struck out down the highroad, going towards Riverton. 
 
 "On a job like this, as the sayin* is," he repeated aloud. 
 "On a job like this, I'll walk an' walk an' walk. Maybe 
 if I walk long enough, and look, I'll find the lil' lass. Maybe I'll 
 find her so. " 
 
 Morning saw him still afoot, quietly plodding the streets 
 of Riverton and visiting from house to house. All his acquaint- 
 ances met him in turn that day. Now he would knock at a door, 
 and entering slowly, would glance around for signs of the lass, 
 and seeing none, would sit down a while to chat in his kindly 
 fashion with the inmates. 
 
 "A cold blow, skipper," was the formula did he chance on 
 one of his own sex and calling. "The fog will rise wiv the sun 
 belike your opinion, skipper ? Ah, so I thought so I thought. 
 Must have been a power of trouble on the river, as the savin' is, 
 a night like this. Indeed, indeed, you're right. I am well in 
 out of it. Only just in time though. The Tantalus is like 
 her skipper gettin* old, mate; old an' slow. She's not what 
 she was in 'stays,' not by chalks. Can't be sure which way 
 she'll come like us all, mate ; like us all. " 
 
 At some houses the children would trot out to greet him. 
 Then he was at his best. "What ho! sonny," he would say, 
 "that's the time of day, is it? An' how goes the schoolin' 
 -don't love it? No ah, there's a brave boy, on to my
 
 136 THE ISSUE 
 
 knee an' look about you. Now in that pocket of yours 
 what's in it ? Marbles, I'll go bail. An' a top an' a lump 
 o' chalk. Lumme! I might have known it. We're all alike 
 fair copies of each other, aren't we, Missis ? " 
 
 " Eigh ! for the day when we were young. No bigger troubles 
 than the lack of apples, sugar an' the like. Happy days, 
 Missis. Eigh! but you should have seen my lil' Susie in those 
 days. When I come home from a voyage, there she is, standin' 
 on top of the sofy lookin' down the street for daddy. My 
 worrd I was proud those times. Oh! I was proud. Never 
 home wivout some fal-lal for the lil' lass, something bright an' 
 pretty as she'd cotton to, and tuck away wiv her little fists. An' 
 then on to my foot, ride a cock horse such a little curly- 
 headed imp. An' the prettiness of her; Lord, the prettiness 
 of her! The pictur' of this lil' thing of yours, the dancin', blue- 
 eyed, merry monkey. Eigh! the prettiness of her maybe you 
 remember her, Missis ? " 
 
 "Not very well? Aye, indeed, we're a long way separate 
 now, an' it's expensive travellin'. You haven't set eyes on her 
 some while I'm sure. No? Ah, I might have known it 
 indeed I might have known it. " 
 
 After this the conversation always flagged, the old man's 
 face grew grayer and the children ceased to interest him. Then 
 he would seek for an opportunity to escape, and having found it, 
 trudge slowly to the next stopping place; and thus, at length, 
 he came upon some news. 
 
 Which friend had told him, he did not know; whether in the 
 street or house, he cared nothing. Someone had seen the lass 
 in Abbeyville. In her own village. It seemed absurd; still, 
 the words had been spoken and to Abbeyville Sutcliffe was 
 going. 
 
 The trains were late; all traffic was uncertain by reason of the
 
 THE SEARCH 137 
 
 fog. The evening was well advanced ere he reached his 
 destination, the village blacksmith's home. 
 
 Tony Crow was the village blacksmith; a great and brawny 
 six-footer, with the chest and arms of a Hercules, the limp legs 
 of a Mexican cow-boy, the face of a prize-fighter, and the soul 
 of a little child for innocence. 
 
 Tony Crow's wife was the last to see the lil' lass in Abbey- 
 ville. So much the old man had gleaned. Now he crossed 
 the muddy road and stood beside the door knocking to gain 
 admittance. This place was not Riverton, and here, he had 
 scant need for secrecy. His question went straight home as he 
 paused on the threshold: 
 
 "The Missis has seen my lil' Susie?" 
 
 The blacksmith threw wide the door and gripped him by 
 the hand. "Socks!" he cried, "so ah'm hearin'. Missis! it's 
 Cap'n George. Eigh! but you look weary set dahn, man 
 set dahn. " 
 
 "The lil' Lass, Missis," Sutcliffe reiterated turning directly 
 to the wife and ignoring the preferred hospitality. 
 
 " Law, Capting, don't look like that. Come in an' rest. I'll 
 tell you all I know. " 
 
 "Aye, that's good of you, Missis. You see I'm up a bit 
 early the lass didn't expect me yet; an' there bein' this bother, 
 as the sayin' is, why there it is. " 
 
 "Law, yes a course. It's easy to see how the mistake 
 come about. You bein' at sea so much, an' Susie without any 
 sort o' " 
 
 "But you've seen her, Missis ?" Sutcliffe questioned, unheed- 
 ing her ponderous explanation. 
 
 "Tell Cap'n George wheer you see her," cried Tony Crow 
 with boisterous effusion. "Socks! that's what he wants t'be 
 at."
 
 i 3 8 THE ISSUE 
 
 "I'm comin' to it, Tony, surelie. Didn't I tell you all about 
 it, an* Mrs. Slowboy, the passon's wife. You know I did. 
 Capting, I'm comin' through the pawk in the evenin* when I 
 
 99 
 
 Sutcliffe stopped her with a gesture. 
 
 "Which evening, Missis? Do you happen to know which 
 evening?" 
 
 "Was it three days agone, Tony or four or five days agone ? " 
 
 "Eigh! the wumman!" 
 
 "It must have been a week, Capting. Lawst Friday week 
 as was; for I mind I'm comin' back through the pawk from 
 seein' Mrs. Timses' baby, as is that weak an' pulin' as never 
 was, though the cause ain't hid under a ton o' bricks, as maybe 
 you know, Capting. An' I see someone sittin' on the sea-wall. 
 A gell it was. Your gell, Capting. I know becose I crossed 
 the grass an' spoke to her. 'Waitin' fer someone ?' I says. 'No,' 
 she says. 'It's gettin* damp, Susie,' I says. 'I know it,' she 
 says; 'I'm comin' home direckly.' 
 
 "I left her then, Capting an' when I look back through the 
 pawk gates, she's still there, sittin' up agenst the skyline on the 
 sea-wall an' that's the lawst as anyone see of her. " 
 
 The skipper's face had fallen. A gray pallor crept over 
 the tan as he listened. He stayed to put one more question. 
 
 "You didn't say anythin' else, maybe?" 
 
 "Nary a word, Capting. I had no call to." 
 
 "Thank you, Missis. " 
 
 George Sutcliffe moved stiffly towards the door. 
 
 "I think I'll be movin' on," he said. "I'm obliged for what 
 you've told me. You see I'll be havin' a letter from her to- 
 morrow. She don't expect me before then. It's useless 
 worryin', on a job like that, as the sayin' is. " 
 
 "Stay an' have a sup o' grub, Cap'n," said Tony, who was
 
 THE SEARCH 139 
 
 quite aware of the whole circumstances. " Stay an' have a sup, 
 an' a poipe, there's a man. " 
 
 But Sutcliffe was already on the steps preparing to resume 
 his search. He turned at the sound of the blacksmith's invita- 
 tion. 
 
 "Nay, I must be movin' on. I've arranged for a place in 
 Riverton, wheer I'm shiftin'. Susie is goin' to live wiv me 
 there. You see, the lil' lass is better eddicated than me 
 . . . an' the wife. She didn't they didn't ezactly hit it off. 
 I think I've put it straight, Tony, as the sayin' is. I think 
 you understand me a job like that ? " 
 
 He closed the door he had held behind him, and moving 
 slowly, came into the road. 
 
 "The lil' lass!" he moaned. "The lil' lass wheer shall I 
 find her?" 
 
 Once more he was alone with his misery. Once more the 
 gray fog-blanket wrapped his movements in seclusion. Once 
 more the street echoed to his tread as he headed wearily down 
 the village. He passed the smithy, the beer house at the corner, 
 and came to the pier where he had landed twenty-four hours 
 earlier. 
 
 "Eigh! the crewl, hard worrld the crewl, cold worrld!" 
 The words fell without volition as he searched for a place 
 where he might sit down to think. 
 
 The door of the piermaster's sail loft stood ajar. A good 
 room wherein to shelter from the damp, dull fog. The pier- 
 master's retriever lay chained and growling furtively at the 
 entrance. 
 
 "Jacob! Jacob good dog. Lie down, old son. It's me 
 it's me." He passed in quietly, the dog wagging an effusive 
 welcome. He sat down to think. 
 
 "That string's broke," he whispered, leaning forward with
 
 i 4 o THE ISSUE 
 
 his hands about the dog's neck. "Eh, Jacob, old boy, the old 
 man's weary weary of life. The UP lass my lil' Susie, as 
 used to tuck her little fists about your neck, Jacob she's 
 gone, an' Gawd alone knows where to find her. " 
 
 Sutcliffe's head sank low on his arms, the dog moaned in 
 sympathy; then the piermaster came to close the door, and 
 silence reigned unbroken.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 SAUNDERSON PLAYS A TRUMP 
 
 AGAIN a solitary figure plodding the quiet roads and 
 tortuous lanes. Another day. Muggy skies, steam- 
 ing hedgerows, dripping trees, mud, slush image, the 
 country Swinfleet way. 
 
 A silent figure, somewhat bent, clad in dark blue cloth and 
 peaked blue cap; with straggly, curled ringlets hanging about 
 his ears; gray, thin, identical on either side, a cleanshaven face. 
 A man with shining, scarred visage, the colour of new ma- 
 hogany; a firm, set mouth and sad, gray-blue eyes image, an 
 old-school Thames skipper. George Sutcliffe. 
 
 Sutcliffe on the third day of his wanderings now approaching 
 Swinfleet with Susie's belated letter in his pocket. He might 
 have taken train; but to do so he must have waited an hour 
 or more. He had grown accustomed to walking and preferred it. 
 He was alone thus. The other way meant clacking tongues; 
 questions, answers, misery. 
 
 Everyone knew this business; only he denied it. Susie was 
 missing ; his wife had turned her out ; now he sought her. The 
 people, the poor people, looked and said, "Aye, it's easy seen 
 there's been a mistake the lass is safe no doubt." Their 
 sympathy hurt him. The girl was missing; he knew they 
 knew it, but persisted in his silent course working out the prob- 
 lem in his own dull fashion. 
 
 Now all that was past. Susie was with her aunt at Swinfleet 
 and he was going to meet her. Mud, slush, puddled cart ruts; 
 
 141
 
 i 4 2 THE ISSUE 
 
 unholy stones waiting to be ground into mother earth; a shower 
 of drops from the trees "Eh, a breeze comin' up. Lawd 
 send a clearance of the weather." 
 
 He plodded on, his eyes bent on the ground; his garments 
 splashed and foul; his coat wet, the gray ringlets dripping 
 moisture. Hark! A cart approached, tearing through the 
 mud with the squirm and splutter of a torpedo boat on the 
 measured mile. He glanced around. A cart from Abbey- 
 ville Saunderson the driver. 
 
 "What ho! skipper. Lumme! but this is wonderful luck." 
 The horse was almost on its haunches with the energy of 
 Saunderson's check. Sutcliffe lifted his bent back and looked 
 at the big man making room for him to mount. 
 
 "Aye," he said, "maybe it's luck maybe it's not, a job like 
 that. No, I'll not get up I'd rather walk." 
 
 Saunderson did not urge the point. He dismounted instead, 
 and, throwing the reins over his arm, moved on beside the cart. 
 
 "I heard you were out here," he said, "wiv Susie an' so 
 I made the best of my way to see you. How's the lass ? " 
 
 Sutcliffe paused. His companion immediately brought 
 the horse to a standstill, and the two men faced each other. 
 
 "That's not what you want with me," Sutcliffe remarked. 
 " Speak out man to man. What is it you do want ? " 
 
 "You know what it is I'm after you know as well as I do 
 that it's Susie I want. I've asked you to help me gain her 
 I've done many things for you, an' I look for some sort of kind- 
 ness in return. Man," he continued, his deep voice rolling 
 in the quiet lane, "can't you see I love her? Can't you see I 
 would give my soul case to have her do you want me to put 
 it all in writin' am I to be forever on the beg " 
 
 Sutcliffe drew himself stiffly upright. He lifted his hand for 
 silence. "I look for nothing," he said, "only that Susie shall
 
 SAUNDERSON PLAYS A TRUMP 143 
 
 wed who she loves. If she loves you, then I give her to you; 
 without that I will never give you my help." 
 
 "It's a dangerous game you're playin'," Saunderson argued, 
 his anger rising. "I could double you up easy as crackin* 
 eggs. I could turn you into the gutter. If I wished I could 
 put a light to the old house down by the river an' burn every 
 stick. You couldn't touch me. It's mine mine. Bought 
 an' paid for in hard-earned gold, wiv the savin's of years, you 
 understand ? " 
 
 But Sutcliffe did not quail. His thin lips became a trifle 
 more compressed, his eyes took a colder gleam. "Aye," he 
 said, "you could do that." 
 
 "But I don't want to do it. Lumme! d'you think I'm 
 yearnin' to botch my hand ? I love Susie an' I look for your 
 help." 
 
 "Her mother tried to help you didn't seem to come off 
 though," Sutcliffe sneered. 
 
 "Her mother's a fool," Saunderson retorted. "She's got 
 no tact. Look here, George, I don't wish to quarrel wiv you 
 it isn't sense. Stand aside an' don't interfere. Give me the 
 chance I want, an' you'll find me gentle as a kid. Is it a 
 bargain ? " 
 
 "Nay, I can make no bargains, on a job like that. It's my 
 lil' Susie that has to be consulted, not me. But I don't mind 
 telling you, that if you win her I shall be surprised. Susie 
 isn't a changeable sort; you know she's pledged to Elliott 
 you know it as well as I do." 
 
 Saunderson stood a moment in thought; his eyes fixed on 
 the old man's face. 
 
 " Aye," he said, " so I've heard. Well I must be gettin' back." 
 
 ' ' You take it as I mean ? " Sutcliffe questioned. ' ' You under- 
 stand I wouldn't force her?"
 
 144 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Yes, I understand." 
 
 "Then there's nothing more to be said?" 
 
 "No; it don't seem like it." Saunderson fumbled in his 
 pocket, staring at the steaming horse as though he expected 
 that weary animal could help him with his subject. Then 
 again his glance rested on Sutcliffe. 
 
 "You've come from Riverton I s'pose you've heard the 
 news?" he blurted. 
 
 "About Dunscombe?" 
 
 "No Elliott." 
 
 Sutcliffe's eyes fell. He looked about him in wistful suppli- 
 cation. 
 
 "I know nothing," he said, "'cept that the lass was driven 
 from her home. What about him ?" 
 
 "They are searchin' for him down yonder in the town. They 
 say he had a hand in Dunscombe's murder." 
 
 "They say what?" 
 
 The question rang in a new tone as Sutcliffe stepped nearer. 
 Saunderson repeated the gossip, adding: 
 
 "I know nothin'. I tell you what is said down Riverton 
 way aye, an' in Abbeyville, too, for that matter. But I tell 
 you more. They won't find him. They will never find him, 
 not if they look till Kingdom come." 
 
 "What do you mean ? Speak straight man speak straight." 
 
 "It's a thing I always do, George Sutcliffe. But sometimes 
 it's wise to hedge a bit, as you might say 'specially when 
 you're speakin' to the father of the gell he was goin' to marry. 
 It might ease the shock, you see." 
 
 Sutcliffe made a gesture of impatience. "Go on," he cried, 
 "go on." 
 
 "I was down at the pier this mornin'," Saunderson resumed. 
 "They had a boat there cut in half. It was the boat Jack
 
 SAUNDERSON PLAYS A TRUMP 145 
 
 Elliott borrowed when he ran from the hounds. There was a 
 coat tucked under the thwart Jack Elliott's coat; an* in it 
 was a letter. I have it here. Maybe you'll know the writin'." 
 
 He held a crumpled, water-stained note towards his com- 
 panion. "Steady!" he said. "I've broke it to you. There's 
 no comfort to be got out of it. Jack Elliott's down the 
 cellar." 
 
 Sutcliffe gripped at the shaft and remained speechless. 
 Saunderson watched him in despair until he opened the en- 
 velope; then again he searched his face, but the old man only 
 swayed to and fro like one on the verge of suffocation. The 
 letter was Susie's. It was addressed to Elliott now Elliott 
 was dead. Sutcliffe glanced up, a pathetic figure, shrunken, 
 weary of battle, full of the anguish of years. He opened his 
 lips to speak yet the words said nothing of his torture: "The 
 lil' lass," he whispered. " Gawd help the lil' lass." 
 
 "I brought it to you," Saunderson explained, "because it 
 seemed best for you to break it. George, you are the only one 
 that can break it. If I could help, I'd do it willin' but I can't, 
 I can't." 
 
 Sutcliffe made no response for some minutes, then he ex- 
 tended his hand: "I believe you," he said. "Eigh! the lil' 
 lass." 
 
 Saunderson made no effort to continue the conversation; 
 he grasped the proffered hand, remounted his cart, gathered up 
 the reins and drove off towards Riverton. The old man 
 passed on at once, murmuring as he went: "Eigh! the lil' 
 lass! Terr'ble, terr'ble the crewl, hard worrld." 
 
 In half an hour he had arrived at the small latticed gate 
 Elliott had so recently left. His sister, hearing footsteps, came 
 to the porch and looked out. She advanced down the path 
 to meet him.
 
 I 4 6 THE ISSUE 
 
 "George!" she cried. "Oh, I'm glad to see you, brother. 
 Indeed, I'm glad to see you." 
 
 Sutcliffe stumbled miserably on the steps. His hand strayed 
 aimlessly to meet hers: "How is she?" he whispered. 
 
 "Shockin', shockin'. Never a smile since that night; scarce 
 a word an' when me an' Tom come in, she's lyin' on the floor 
 like the dead." 
 
 "Wheer is she, sister?" 
 
 "Upstairs sittin' in the winda, starin' at the trees." 
 
 "Take me up. I want to see her. " 
 
 "Nay, I'll call her down. Maybe it'll rouse 1 her. Make 
 her cry, George there's nothin' like a cry for cheerin' one up. 
 It will do her more good than all the med'cins in the phar- 
 macy. " 
 
 She bustled to the foot of the stairs; ascended noisily and 
 opened the girl's door. Sutcliffe took off his cap and stood 
 looking into the crown. 
 
 "Carey's wheer I bought it," he remarked inconsequently; 
 "eighteen pence is what it cost." He hung it carefully against 
 the wall where no peg was. The cap slipped to the floor. 
 "Lumme!" he whispered, glancing around, "I'm goin' blind 
 on a job like that. " 
 
 The jubilant voice of his sister sounded on the staircase as 
 he entered the kitchen. A moment later Mrs. Surridge fol- 
 lowed with her arm about the girl's waist. 
 
 "There you are," she cried: "Father's come to see you. 
 Go an' talk, my pretty there's nothin' like talk for cheerin' 
 one up 'cept maybe a cry. " The latter was an afterthought 
 as she closed the door upon them. 
 
 The girl entered with a stoney gaze that cut Sutcliffe to the 
 heart. He moved forward to meet her. 
 
 "My HI' Susie, " he whispered. "My HI' Susie. "
 
 SAUNDERSON PLAYS A TRUMP 147 
 
 Then, almost before the words had died, she lay in his arms, 
 her face pillowed on his breast, sobbing pitifully. 
 
 Late that night when all the household was in bed, Sutcliffe 
 paced the room as he would have paced the deck of his vessel 
 on a stormy night ; but with a different species of trouble chasing 
 sleep from his eyes. He had heard of Dunscombe's death, but 
 had not stayed to investigate the matter as others had. The 
 news Saunderson had given him, coupled with Susie's pale 
 face and altered manner, struck him a double blow. 
 
 The old man quailed before the miserable sequence of events. 
 His thoughts wandered from one anguish to another Susie's 
 flight, the difficulty with his wife and Saunderson, Dunscombe's 
 murder, and the rumours of Elliott's guilt, his flight and death. 
 Sutcliffe was growing impervious to further torture; he could 
 only moan dumbly like an overwhipped slave at the triangles. 
 And so, as the dawn peeped in, it found him standing near 
 the diamond-paned lattice, holding something aloft and strok- 
 ing it tenderly. 
 
 "To think it's come to this," he murmured. "Eigh! such 
 a bright lil' lass always ready to meet her father an' tuck 
 away the fal-lals he brought her. Such a lil' sunbeam. Eigh! 
 the crewl, hard worrld. Strick down just when the old man 
 wanted her most. Gawd's hand, sir? Aye so I've heard, 
 so I've heard; but, beggin' to differ, I'm not wiv you on a job 
 like that. " 
 
 It was a long lock of the girl's bright hair, a piece cut years 
 ago that he was fondling in the growing light.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 SUTCLIFFE SEEKS A REPLY 
 
 A MAN'S action is never complete in itself. It does not 
 die even if he dies of its effect. A man may cut his 
 throat well, there remain results, ramifications passing all 
 comprehension, to others. 
 
 To put it plainly, some one must attend the inquest and see 
 to the funeral; some one must wind up the estate, if by 
 chance there be an estate, and if there be none, some one may 
 be compelled to adopt the children and as a side issue, it may 
 not be convenient for some one. We can scarcely place any 
 limit to the possibilities in such a case, but we may be very 
 sure that we who are left must attend the reckoning. So in this 
 matter of Susie and Jack. 
 
 Elliott had acted from a very complete recognition of the 
 situation as it faced him in a moment of scare. He had taken 
 a definite line of action after consideration of those other actions 
 which had so complicated matters, and he had started across 
 the water to solemnise as speedily as possible a marriage already 
 consummated. He had acted from the highest motives but 
 for some reason it was Susie who would presently have to pay. 
 
 "Heaven never helps the man who will not act," Sophocles 
 tells us, and to that dictum one may be permitted to add, and 
 it seldom helps those who do. 
 
 We always pay. In blood, in tears, in some sort we are 
 compelled to pay, and we can either stand aside and take it 
 smiling, or we can put on the gloves and bend for fighting. At 
 
 148
 
 SUTCLIFFE SEEKS A REPLY 14$ 
 
 present Susie knew nothing of either necessity but it was at 
 hand. 
 
 It banged on the door one afternoon while the family were 
 discussing the ramifications. Mrs. Surridge had views on the 
 subject, but she also had convictions as to the personality 
 behind a commonplace rat-a-plan. She immediately sprang 
 from her chair: "That's a quality knock," she announced' 
 "sakes alive! how's my collar?" 
 
 Sutcliffe examined the articles in question with a critical eye 
 and shook his head: "It's not so clean as it were," he said 
 "but it'll pass." 
 
 But by this time Mrs. Surridge had returned from a peeping 
 expedition to the small window in the passage and stood on 
 tiptoe before the glass of an American clock ticking gamely 
 on the mantelshelf. 
 
 "You're worse than Tom, George, an' that's the truth. 
 You open the door while I get straight. It's the parson come 
 over to interfere. I don't hold with interferin' in family matters. 
 Take him into the parlour an' talk till I'm ready. " 
 
 Sutcliffe obeyed, but Surridge made use of the opportunity 
 to escape, and it devolved on the skipper to do the honours. 
 Mr. Oakley being admitted presently found himself installed 
 in a most treacherous chair and Sutcliffe, seated on the extreme 
 edge of another, confronting him. The vicar regarded this 
 phenomenon, gravely, over raised finger tips spread like an 
 inverted V beneath his chin. He seemed to be taking the man 
 in as from one situated at an immense distance. It was a 
 position crying to the cartoonist for pencil and sketch block. 
 But Mr. Oakley had no humour. He was a serious man, thin 
 and ascetic, with black hair, large nose, and no chin one of 
 those persons with whom nature has dealt unfairly and who 
 deals in commonplace as a result.
 
 150 THE ISSUE 
 
 Mrs. Surridge had no opinion of his perspicacity. She ques- 
 tioned how any one could know anything of struggles and 
 poverty "when he lives in a blessed man-sion an' has five 
 maids to attend his wants beside a fat buttons an' a long-jawed 
 coachman." His wife, too, troubled Mrs. Surridge more 
 than she would readily express. It seemed that "she got on her 
 nervous system," though how she effected that feat was not 
 apparent. 
 
 On this occasion Mrs. Surridge entered the room like a 
 gust of wind, and the door snapped behind her. The collar 
 and apron she wore bristled with a perfect battery of turrets 
 and angles. She appeared as though about to make an onslaught 
 on the thin, black-coated form seated there in fear of a break- 
 down, but she only extended her hand and said: 
 
 "La! to think it was you, Mr. Oakley, " and after a moment's 
 pause: "I hope you will excuse me for keepin' you waitin' 
 but being single-handed one is apt to get caught, as you yourself 
 may know. " 
 
 The vicar smiled. 
 
 "Indeed I do," he said, "such things often happen, but w r e 
 become used to them as, with God's help, we become used to 
 even greater troubles." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge sat down and folded her hands across the bat- 
 tery. Her society manner was a quaint mixture of reticence 
 and boldness. When speaking to her social superior her tongue 
 had a knack of finding h's where none exist although at other 
 times she rarely made a blunder with the aspirate. But now she 
 was obviously at a disadvantage. There was a queer tighten- 
 ing at the corner of her mouth and a sparkle in her eyes which 
 told of an attempt at restraint to which Mrs. Surridge was 
 almost a stranger. 
 
 "Hindeed, sir," she replied, "has we get older we do."
 
 SUTCLIFFE SEEKS A REPLY 151 
 
 "That is not a kind remark," said the vicar from his im- 
 measurable distance, "still, we will not retaliate for, as far as 
 I am concerned, it is more or less true. " 
 
 Mrs. Surridge smoothed her lap and tried to make amends 
 by becoming conversational. " The weather's perfeckly awful," 
 she announced, "an' Tom's got a litter of young pigs hout in 
 the yard. They come Monday week, most tryin', at twelve 
 o'clock hat night. It's not often hi see Tom put out, but them 
 pigs fair made him ache. " 
 
 The vicar regarded the incident as trivial. He knew nothing 
 of pigs and was concerned with a much deeper problem, to wit, 
 the rumours current in Abbeyville. He looked up with a sigh 
 and said: "Yes, the winter seems to be setting in early. These 
 are the equinoctials, I suppose eh, Sutcliffe ? " 
 
 The old man recognised that the question was addressed to 
 him. "Maybe that's what it is, sir," he said, "but they be 
 main damp and muggy." 
 
 "Old Moore's what hi call a prophet," Mrs. Surridge inter- 
 jected at this; "'some gales an' much rain,' is what he puts 
 down for the month an' we've had 'em. But there's worse 
 to come: 'A crown-ed head will be taken next month an' the 
 level-ooshionary movement his to be follad by dire heffects for 
 the capat'lists,' come October." 
 
 "Nonsense, nonsense, Mrs. Surridge!" the vicar objected, 
 but without a smile. "No one has power to foretell these or 
 any events. It is the veriest mockery and should be sup- 
 pressed." 
 
 But the battery remained undisturbed. 
 
 "Last month," it asserted breathlessly, "he had 'trouble 
 in the hager-i-cultoral districts an' scarcity o' fodder.' Con- 
 sequency is, Farmer Thompson's killed 'is beasts for want of 
 pasture, an' Tom's struggles to keep the guv'nor's sheep, an
 
 152 THE ISSUE 
 
 the trouble with our hown fowls an' pigs was bringin' him to a 
 shadda. If that ain't proof hi don't know what is." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge paused and smoothed the battery with both 
 hands, but the vicar perceived his opportunity and stepped 
 along at his ease. 
 
 "I came," he said, "to speak on a different question a very 
 delicate question, if I may so express it." 
 
 "Hi knew it," said Mrs. Surridge, and sat back defiant in 
 her chair. 
 
 "There are some ugly rumours in Abbeyville," he proceeded, 
 and paused. 
 
 "There al-ways is rumours hin a village," said Mrs. Surridge. 
 
 " But these seem possible. I am sorry to say it but so it is." 
 
 "They al-ways is probable else what's the good of passin' 
 'em along?" 
 
 "They say," the vicar proceeded, "that Susie has " 
 
 "Hi don't think we need henter into that, eh, brother?" 
 Mrs. Surridge snapped, glancing at Sutcliffe for confirmation. 
 
 " No need at all. Susie were driven from home by my wife 
 an' Susie's here," he replied tersely. 
 
 " But, if you prevent me taking the only steps I can to clear 
 the girl's character don't you see that you injure her and give 
 impetus to the rumour itself. In justice to Susie you should 
 
 "The whole thing's a lie," Sutcliffe broke out with sudden 
 passion, "a lie put about by my wife for her own ends. I 
 don't know what those ends are. I don't ask. I only know 
 it's a lie an' I won't have Susie worried to answer." 
 
 To Sutcliffe the suggestion of refutation was equivalent, per- 
 haps, to admission. He had additionally the poor man's sense 
 of distrust in justice, and took the opportunity of expressing it. 
 
 "I suppose," said the vicar, from that immense distance which
 
 SUTCLIFFE SEEKS A REPLY 153 
 
 yawned between them, "I suppose you understand that if 
 this is not refuted sorry as I shall be personally Susie must 
 give up her position at the schools?" 
 
 "That I understand." 
 
 "And you won't prevent it you won't aid me to clear her 
 
 "There is nothing to clear," said Sutcliffe. But the tone 
 said more than the words. 
 
 Mr. Oakley seemed to recognise this, for he turned to Mrs. 
 Surridge with a deprecatory inflection: 
 
 "Believe me," he said. "I have no wish to press this matter 
 unduly. It was for Susie's sake I spoke. I have known her 
 so long and now everything must end. Her school life, her 
 study, her salary it is the greatest pity the greatest pity." 
 He rose and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, a gaunt 
 figure in black with narrow eyes and a preposterous nose. He 
 looked down upon Mrs. Surridge sitting so ill at ease at his 
 feet and marked her labouring breath and air of determination. 
 "I hoped," he said, "to get you to help me, Mrs. Surridge, but 
 it seems impossible." 
 
 "Quite impossible," came from the pursed lips. "Quite." 
 
 "And in the other matter?" 
 
 "I don't know what hit is." 
 
 "I wish to persuade your brother to go back to his wife 
 will you aid me in this ? " 
 
 "I'd as lief not, Mr. Oakley. Capting Sutcliffe his the best 
 judge of his own affairs." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge was on surer ground here. The battery be- 
 came more regular in its movements, the lips took a less rigor- 
 ous line. "In a gen'ral way," she went on in explanation of 
 her position, "I don't holt with a man leavin' his wife or con- 
 trairiwise not so long as they are what you might call hevenly
 
 i S 4 THE ISSUE 
 
 matched. But when one or the other has the temper of a 
 washerwoman hon a wet day it's better to part an' have done 
 with it." 
 
 "Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder," 
 said the vicar solemnly. But he sighed at the dictum. 
 
 Mrs. Surridge flicked the notion to the winds, for she knew 
 her brother's wife both before and after marriage. 
 
 "In a gen'ral way, that's true, sir," she admitted, "but what 
 had the Lord to do with Mary Wyatt marryin' Capting 
 Sutcliffe?" 
 
 "Mrs. Surridge, I think you go farther than you intend. I 
 think you " 
 
 " Not hi," said the lady, and proceeded to hammer the why. 
 "Didn't she just hogle her way into my brother's defections? 
 Who set her on to that, sir? Pride and laziness nothin' 
 else." 
 
 "Not quite as bad as that, sister," Sutcliffe remarked in his 
 slow fashion, the heat all vanished with the new topic. "I 
 ask her, you mind." 
 
 "A course you did. What else could you expect? Why, 
 if a woman sets her heart on a man's home he's done he've 
 got to ask her." 
 
 "Still," the vicar persisted, "that is no reason why your 
 brother should throw her off. It may be an easy method of 
 ridding one's self of an unpleasant companion ; but it is against 
 God's law. Only a certain section of the community permit 
 it or condone it. Depend upon it no man can offend the law 
 with impunity. It will have fruit, Sutcliffe, it will have fruit." 
 
 The old man moved restlessly in his chair. He gripped at 
 the horsehair cover, sitting balanced on the extreme edge. 
 "Sir," he said, "I'm not good at arguments. I know very 
 little about anythin' bar ships an' the fag-ends of ship owners,
 
 SUTCLIFFE SEEKS A REPLY 155 
 
 but I put it this way two people can't run one ship oetween 
 'em they will put her on the rocks; an' two people can't pull 
 opposite ways at a gell's strings wi'out harming the gell. That 
 I know. I left my wife. Right. Why did I leave her? 
 because we pulled opposite ways. Because she never behaved 
 square to the lass. Because of what happened the other night. 
 
 "Sir, " he went on with grim suggestion of the thing as it 
 appeared to him, "is it a mother's duty to force a gell into the 
 streets? Is that what I'm to expect of my wife while I'm 
 afloat? Sir, it's impossible. I'll never go back." 
 
 "A man's a man, sir," Mrs. Surridge interposed as her brother 
 drew breath, "he's not a hen to he plucked an' worrited till 
 he's got no feathers to heft." 
 
 The vicar looked up with a pained expression. He was 
 baffled by the vigour of the defence. "I hoped to induce you 
 to side with me," he said, "but I confess I see no chance of it. 
 I must leave the matter to your brother's conscience." 
 
 "My brother's conscience will, I hope, be found flavoured 
 with reason," she returned as the battery showed further signs 
 of agitation. "Why hif I treated Tom as that woman has 
 treated Captain Sutcliffe, I should expect to find myself spread 
 out to keep the top of a pigsty warm an' small blame to Tom 
 for chuckin' me." 
 
 The vicar smiled. The difficulty of "chucking" Mrs. Sur- 
 ridge was so obvious that even the gravity of his cause dis- 
 appeared at the suggestion ; for Tom was a small man and his 
 wife as one of the daughters of Anak. He moved towards the 
 door under the new influence. 
 
 "Well, well," he cried, "I must leave it. I am sorry, for I 
 wished to help you and to help Susie but it seems impossible." 
 He paused hat in hand. And about the banns ?" he questioned. 
 
 "Banns!" Sutcliffe interjected, "what banns?"
 
 156 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Susie's." 
 
 Sutcliffe started to his feet. "Susie's banns?" he cried. 
 "Do you mean the lass had arranged " 
 
 Mrs. Surridge interposed with a quiet glance. "I should 
 have told you, brother," she said, "I meant to tell you but 
 the gell bein' so queer an' everythin' so hurried, clean put it out 
 of my head. Before she were driven out it was arranged that 
 they should be basked. Susie was to have been wed some time 
 after you came home if so be you had no subjections but 
 bein' driven out Elliott wanted to take her to Riverton " 
 
 "Elliott!" 
 
 Sutcliffe swayed unsteadily before them. He stood with 
 outstretched hands, his lips moving, the words falling in gusty 
 sentences, uneven, broken: "My head's turnin' . . . my 
 head's gone . . . dull an' stoopid, like my life ... a 
 job like that! My Susie's banns up an' wiv Elliott! Lord! 
 go easy on the lass." 
 
 The vicar approached. He seemed at that moment to 
 arrive, as it were, in the same plane. He placed one hand on 
 the old man's shoulder, touching him gently. "Steady, my 
 friend," he whispered. "God will comfort you if you ask 
 him." 
 
 Sutcliffe faced about with sudden scorn. "Aye," he said, 
 " so I've heerd. So I've heerd. " 
 
 Mr. Oakley refused to take offence. " What is it ? " he ques- 
 tioned. 
 
 " It's this, " said the old man. " Elliott's down the cellar. " 
 
 " You mean he is drowned ? " the clergyman asked, uncertain 
 of the metaphor, and very pale. 
 
 "Aye, sir drowned, drowned. P'raps cut in half. God 
 knows a job like that. Gone where many a good man's 
 gone, an' Susie'll have to pay."
 
 SUTCLIFFE SEEKS A REPLY 157 
 
 "Then surely you will let me do what I can to clear her name 
 surely in face of this " 
 
 " Clear her name ? " 
 
 "Unless that is done her life at the schools must end. Don't 
 you see it, Sutcliffe ? Isn't it plain ? " 
 
 "Do you think there's anythin' to clear does it strike you 
 so ? You know her. " 
 
 " As far as I am concerned no. But I have managers to con- 
 sider and the welfare of the schools. I " 
 
 "An' my Susie is like to harm it?" 
 
 The vicar waved his hand. "The world," he announced, 
 "is very censorious; we cannot afford to offend it. Certain 
 matters require " 
 
 " Then damn the world, " Sutcliffe broke out. 
 
 "If you persist in talking in that fashion, I must go," said 
 the clergyman. 
 
 "How else am I to talk? You tell me Susie must clear her 
 character clear it when it's snow! You tell me Susie's banns 
 are up. I tell you Elliott's charged wiv killin' Dunscombe, 
 that he's run an' is down the cellar. You tell me Gawd will 
 comfort me an' you throw Susie out as though she's as 
 though," he broke off, fumbling for words, "as though you are 
 Gawd Almighty, an' can judge " 
 
 "That is blasphemy, Sutcliffe," said the vicar sternly. "I 
 will not hear it. " 
 
 "Beggin' to differ, sir," the old man interrupted, "I'm not 
 wiv you, on a job like that. How it will be looked upon when 
 they come to the open book, I can't say. But I don't think it 
 will be chalked up against me, as the sayin' is. " 
 
 Mr. Oakley moved toward the door, his face very white and 
 pained. "I am sorry, " he said, "I hoped to be able to aid you 
 and to aid the girl; but "
 
 i 5 8 THE ISSUE 
 
 " Just so but ? " said the old man. 
 
 "I can do no more." 
 
 "More can't I." 
 
 They made no attempt to stay his exit and he passed 
 from the house wearing still the pained expression which had 
 dawned at Sutcliffe's outbreak. 
 
 Mrs. Surridge viewed his exit with distinct pleasure. 
 "Thank goodness for that," she remarked after closing the 
 door. "Now we can mend the china with our own cement. " 
 
 Sutcliffe made no response. He stood looking out through 
 the window at the sodden landscape. From the fields where 
 Tom Surridge worked, came the hum of a threshing machine 
 and the steady drone of an engine. Plover whirled and 
 screamed in a newly ploughed field, searching the ruts for food 
 until the crack of a distant rifle scared them and they hurried 
 in a covey up wind. 
 
 Mrs. Surridge advanced and laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 "What about this Elliott, George," she questioned, "is it 
 true?" 
 
 "Aye, sister it's true enough. " 
 
 "Then she'll have to be told." 
 
 "Leave it to me, " he returned. "Maybe she'll take it better 
 from the old man a job like that. "
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE DIFFICULTY OF BELIEF 
 
 BUT Sutcliffe did not speak. The days passed on and he 
 saw Susie so obviously waiting for news that he could 
 not bring himself to drive hope from her. There was no 
 knowing, he decided, in a case of this kind. The lad may 
 be down the cellar, but we have no proof only guesswork and 
 the talk of folk down river way. Sutcliffe appraised this at its 
 full value and found it unwise to express an opinion. 
 
 In his heart he prayed that it might be so. The Coroner's 
 verdict stood as a bar against marriage. He argued that Susie 
 might get over death by drowning, but death by the rope, 
 which seemed possible, was death and damnation rolled in 
 one. No girl could hope to make headway against it. 
 
 So Sutcliffe sailed without having spoken, and Susie sat 
 down to watch and wait in the chilling silence which had come 
 upon her since Jack had disappeared. 
 
 She had visited Riverton twice and on each occasion had 
 returned with a passivity of manner which completely non- 
 plussed Mrs. Surridge; a passivity which curiously wore off 
 as the days went by. To-day it had been arranged that she was 
 to go once more to Riverton, and Mrs. Surridge saw that she 
 smiled at breakfast. She noted, too, the sunniness of eyes 
 which once had been always sunny. 
 
 Life at eighteen cannot forever be sombre, nor can it long 
 remain, tearful. Youth is strong. One is not overwhelmed 
 at the first blow, nor perhaps, by the second. Hope climbs
 
 i6o THE ISSUE 
 
 amidst the black clouds which surround us. The silver lining 
 of which we are always prattling lies somewhere behind. 
 Indubitably this must be so. Something will happen. Nothing 
 can be blacker than the present besides, when you think of 
 it, are we not all children of circumstance who manage more 
 or less adroitly to adapt ourselves to the conditions in which 
 we move ? If this were not so then to-morrow half the world 
 would be on its deathbed, unable to face the peril with which 
 it is surrounded. 
 
 The day was brilliant. September had gone out with the 
 roar of a lion and sunny October had stepped down to beguile 
 the birds into the belief that spring was again at hand. The 
 air rang with countless songsters. The rooks, awakened from 
 their lethargy, winged heavily to and fro the elms carrying 
 twigs and pieces of down. But the trees belied what the birds 
 proclaimed so noisily; for the long, hot summer had left the 
 leaves no nourishment. The autumn colouring did not 
 appear. The leaves fell, sere and withered, like old men at 
 the end of a difficult battle with life. 
 
 And so it came about, that when Tom Surridge made his 
 entry with the trap, Susie looked so bright that even Mrs. Sur- 
 ridge was deceived. She decided that things were moving in 
 the right direction. Apparently they were for the two started 
 in great spirits and the few short miles seemed as twenty to the 
 girl's impetuosity. 
 
 She told herself that to-day there would be letters. To-day 
 it was impossible that she could be disappointed. To-day 
 
 well, if She brushed the notion aside and, as they clattered 
 
 down High Street, persuaded her uncle to allow her to walk. 
 She desired to be alone at the post office alone with her letters. 
 
 Susie moved briskly towards her goal, hope prancing beside 
 her. She came to the steps, entered the swinging doors and
 
 THE DIFFICULTY OF BELIEF 161 
 
 stood once more at the long counter watching. The demeanour 
 of the clerks was nonchalant with those other applicants. She 
 wondered whether they guessed the importance of letters, 
 whether they would recognise the importance at all events of 
 hers. But they did not guess. They saw a bright and flushed 
 face, dancing eyes, and beautiful hair a pretty girl in point of 
 fact, asking for letters. Everyone desires letters. All human- 
 ity is agreed on this question in the abstract gaze of a post office 
 official. They require, simply letters. The man stared at 
 her through the grille. 
 
 "What name?" 
 
 "Sutcliffe Susie Sutcliffe." 
 
 The clerk turned out a bundle and examined them swiftly; 
 "Sutcliffe? No, nothing for you." 
 
 Then hope died. 
 
 The girl swayed at the counter and became white to the tips 
 of her ears. She had relied on receiving news. Jack must 
 have written. What could be the reason of this silence? 
 What must she do? The look of concern on the clerk's face 
 gave her strength. She looked up to whisper: "Are you 
 sure?" 
 
 "I will look again. " 
 
 He did so. Susie watching with terrible earnestness until 
 he had finished, saw him again glance up and his lips form the 
 words: "No, there are none at present. " 
 
 Still she watched him. Her brain was dizzy. The office 
 furniture seemed to be moving before her eyes. Someone on 
 the left was laughing over in the corner a man was coming 
 out of the telephone box. He was shutting the door with an 
 air of absurd importance. It came into Susie's mind that 
 she was on the verge of laughter, then she caught the clerk's 
 gaze and it steadied her. It seemed that she must say some-
 
 162 THE ISSUE 
 
 thing, that the situation demanded it. And again came a 
 whispered question: 
 
 "This is the General, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How long do you keep letters that are addressed 'to be 
 called for?' " 
 
 " A month, perhaps more. It depends. " 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "We send them to the dead letter office to be returned." 
 
 The girl was so white, so still, and yet so beautiful, that the 
 man went out of his way to give further information. He 
 turned up a register and examined it, asking further particulars 
 as he searched: 
 
 ' ' When did you expect your letter ? Any time this|or last week 
 hum. No; I'm sorry to disappoint you. We have returned 
 no letter in the interval you name. " 
 
 Thus it was over. The hope-conjured silver lining sank 
 through space. Nothing remained but clouds clouds brim 
 full of angry mutterings; charged with despair and a curious 
 medley of belief, disbelief, anger, trust, love, wonder. 
 
 Where should she go ? It mattered little where she went 
 Jack had forgotten to write. What should she do? It was 
 immaterial what she did Jack had not kept his promise; he 
 had forgotten her position, forgotten the stigma of disgrace 
 that had fallen upon her forgotten . . . forgotten . . . 
 and she was 
 
 Susie crept wistfully into the sunshine. The air revived 
 her. She laughed a little; breathed more freely; but how 
 changed, how cold the world appeared! The wind was chill, 
 the streets bleak; the passers on the pavement unduly boister- 
 ous. She shivered, than drawing her cloak about her, went 
 back to meet her uncle.
 
 THE DIFFICULTY OF BELIEF 163 
 
 She was standing at the appointed place, gazing absently 
 at the shops, when a man approached. She knew the step 
 and tried ineffectually to draw apart; but something chained 
 her to the spot; a lethargy, a reluctance, a passive immobility 
 she could not overcome. She was powerless to make the neces- 
 sary effort, and, on turning, saw Saunderson watching intently 
 all her movements. 
 
 She met his glance with the tired air of one who has not 
 strength for dispute. She wished he would go away, and leave 
 her in peace. She recoiled from the thought of speech with 
 any one at this moment; yet, despite her reluctance, felt 
 irresistibly drawn towards him. He reached out and took her 
 hand. 
 
 "Susie," he whispered, "I'm glad to see you again. What 
 are you doin' in Riverton ? " 
 
 She replied with strange promptitude: "Waiting for Uncle 
 he is to drive me back," and as she spoke she wondered 
 whether Jack could by any chance hear her voice. 
 
 Saunderson's eyes were fixed upon her, reading her face, 
 searching for the signals he hoped to find; but he said: 
 
 "You look ill: aren't you well, Lass?" 
 
 "Yes I am quite well. " 
 
 "Take care of yourself, Susie. You are not strong may I 
 stay till Uncle comes?" 
 
 She looked up with a little shiver of dread. "If you wish 
 to," she replied. 
 
 "If I wish to! Susie, you know I wish to. You know I 
 would never leave you if you gave me the right to stay by." 
 Then after a pause, and as the girl made no response. "When 
 are you comin' back to Abbeyville. The place is fair stale 
 wivout you." 
 
 The man spoke with an intensity that was strange consider-
 
 164 THE ISSUE 
 
 ing their relations. It was a risky question; but Susie did not 
 notice it. She was concerned with the indefiniteness of her 
 knowledge about Jack Jack, who had promised to write, who 
 had promised to call her to him and rivet that marriage which 
 had been so strangely interrupted Jack, who had forgotten 
 . ; . forgotten. 
 
 She had fallen again into the apathy which had marked her 
 attitude on those days following her lover's departure, before 
 her father had arrived. 
 
 "I shall never return to Abbeyville, " she answered at length, 
 speaking like a child who has learned a lesson but does not 
 understand its application. 
 
 "There are worse places than Abbeyville to live in, Susie." 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 "Then why not come back. I might be able to help you if 
 you gave me the chance the right. Why don't you come 
 back?" 
 
 Susie stood fidgetting with her cloak. The weight oppressed 
 her; she buttoned and unbuttoned the fastenings; then she 
 looked up: " Oh, because I'm a girl, I suppose. Only men can 
 do as they will. " 
 
 Saunderson breathed hard. He touched the restless hand 
 and she became still. 
 
 "Give me the chance," he whispered, "give me the chance 
 to guard you; then you may go, an' do what you will. " 
 
 "Do you mean that?" 
 
 "You know I do. Susie, you know I mean it. " 
 
 She did not see his face; she was staring down the street, 
 marking the throng and bustle of the busy world; noting the 
 haste, the rush, and purpose on the people's faces, and wonder- 
 ing whether they knew that Jack had forgotten to write; 
 whether they would care if they did know; whether it would
 
 THE DIFFICULTY OF BELIEF 165 
 
 make them sympathetic or disdainful. Then she became aware 
 that Saunderson was still watching, and she spoke: 
 
 "Nonsense," she said, "you only think you mean it." 
 
 "Susie, before God I " 
 
 "That is the way with men, before marriage," she inter- 
 rupted, with a touch of scorn. 
 
 "Susie hear me 
 
 "But afterwards," she resumed with steady apathy, "after- 
 wards, they forget. They are all alike in that. They for- 
 get." 
 
 Saunderson tried to take her hand, but the noise of approach- 
 ing wheels had attracted her attention. She saw her uncle 
 driving up the street, and in a moment had turned to meet 
 him. 
 
 "Law! Susie!" cried the little man, as he jumped to the 
 pavement, "how white you are to be sure. You've done too 
 much walking. I shouldn't a let you. " 
 
 She looked up cheerily: "Thanks, I am all right. I can rest 
 on the way back. Besides, what does it matter?" 
 
 Surridge watched her in mute astonishment. 
 
 "What the old woman, your auntie, my dear, will say if she 
 sees you like that, Law only knows, " said Tom with conviction. 
 "I shouldn't have allowed it. Why!" he continued, as he 
 reached forward to gather up the reins, "if that ain't Jim 
 Saunderson. " 
 
 "Drive on," Susie cried sharply, "I am tired." 
 
 Surridge stared, then waving his hand he turned the horse 
 towards home. 
 
 "Were you speakin' to him, Susie?" 
 
 "He came up. I I couldn't get away," she stammered. 
 
 Tom noted the tell-tale face with a quiet chuckle. 
 
 "Law!" he said, "why should you? There's no harm in a
 
 166 THE ISSUE 
 
 gell speakin' to a man. 'Sides, he's a fine-built chap, so Auntie 
 says, an' has been won'erful good to father. " 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 The question rang so suddenly that Tom gave the mare an 
 unnecessary flick which sent her spinning resentfully onward, 
 faster than was wise in the streets. 
 
 "What do I mean?" he cried between vigorous "Whoahs. " 
 and "Steady there," and a judicious tightening of the reins. 
 "Why, bless the gell, what do it sound like?" 
 
 "I always thought," Susie returned, "that father disliked 
 Saunderson. " 
 
 "Not more than I do, Susie. Woah then! Gently does it, 
 or we shall have you all of a lather Susie, " Tom went on, a 
 curious dread depicted on his face, as it suddenly dawned upon 
 him that he was breaking one of his wife's most particular 
 injunctions, "I'm all adrift. P'raps I'm wrong also it was 
 someone at Abbeyville, an' his name began with a S. We'll say 
 no more about it. " 
 
 Susie made no further remark. She understood the niceties 
 of the position, for Tom Surridge was a small, meek man, and 
 his wife, as all Swinfleet knew, was much larger. It was easy 
 to see that he had blundered, though why she was being kept 
 in ignorance, was beyond her comprehension at this moment. 
 She was concerned much more with the ineffaceable fact that 
 Jack had forgotten to write, that Jack, with her kisses on his 
 face, the remembrance of her passionate appeal to be taken 
 with him ringing in his ears, that Jack had forgotten. Or, 
 had he forgotten? Had something happened? Was there 
 any truth in the report that he was in love with that girl ? She 
 pushed the suggestion from her. It was impossible. He 
 might have forgotten to write, but the other was absurd. She 
 decided that it would be better to wait. It came into her
 
 THE DIFFICULTY OF BELIEF 167 
 
 mind, too, that she might question her father on his return 
 about Saunderson and Jack. 
 
 Late that evening, while they were all sitting around the fire 
 after supper, Tom left his place and went out to see to the pigs 
 and poultry before shutting the house for the night. When 
 they were alone, Mrs. Surridge turned to the girl and said: 
 
 "So you saw Jim Saunderson in town to-day?" 
 
 Susie replied in the affirmative, but evinced no desire to con- 
 tinue the conversation. 
 
 "A fine built chap, that," Mrs. Surridge expatiated, "a per- 
 feck galliator, Susie. I wouldn't be surprised if he finds it 
 lonesome at Abbeyville now somebody's away?" 
 
 "Men," the girl averred with a scarcely veiled sneer, "have 
 the knack of adapting themselves to circumstances. New 
 faces are always an attraction." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge came over and put her arms about the girl's 
 neck. "Then don't you think we might take a leaf out of their 
 book ? " she questioned. 
 
 Susie sat in silence, her lips closed, her eyes concentrated on 
 the glowing fire. But she saw nothing more pertinent than 
 the figure of a man moving down the river in a boat; passing 
 the piers, passing the shipping, and rowing, always rowing 
 out into the distant fog. Some sparks shot out across the hearth 
 the coal sank in the grate ; then Mrs. Surridge's voice fell upon 
 her ears again. "That's letters for someone," she was saying. 
 "Leastways, it used to be letters in my time, I remember. " 
 
 Susie looked up with a sudden question. " Don't you think 
 it means that the night is getting frosty?" 
 
 "La! what a material thing it is," Mrs. Surridge droned, 
 " with no more seltiment about it than a whipped babby. Why, 
 Susie, when I was your age, sparks fleckin' out of the fire set
 
 i68 THE ISSUE 
 
 me thinkin' an' dreamin' by the hour. If it didn't mean letters 
 from one, it meant letters from another. Off with the old love, 
 on with the new, Susie. That was my motta, an' I kept the 
 lads dancin', I warrant. Why, if you can't make 'em dance 
 before you're wed, you may be sure you'll stand precious little 
 chance after." 
 
 Susie remained quite still. In her mind there moved a 
 curious medley of boats and ships and dancing mannikins. 
 Something appealed to her risible faculties and she smiled; 
 then again instantly fell into the old calm attitude of waiting. 
 Mrs. Surridge sat back hi her chair watching the pale, set face. 
 She knew from Susie's remarks some time since, that she ex- 
 pected to hear from Jack, and knew from her husband of the 
 changed tone when he again picked her up in Riverton. She 
 drew her own conclusions, but like many a kindly chatterer, 
 desired to know definitely whether there had been any news. 
 For, as Sutcliffe said, "one never can swear a man's down the 
 cellar until the body's found." That was true. It was an 
 axiom which even Mrs. Surridge could understand. So far 
 only a boat, a coat, and Susie's note had been discovered. If 
 a letter had come it would be prima facie evidence that Jack 
 had not been drowned. She leaned forward now and whis- 
 pered the question direct: 
 
 "Did you get any news from you know who, to-day, 
 Susie?" 
 
 The girl's lips quivered. She grew quickly very white. "No, 
 Auntie." 
 
 " Did you expect one, deary ? Was it very impertant ? " 
 
 Susie rose, her face flushing, her breast heaving, her eyes 
 staring: "Don't! don't!" she begged. "He was to have been 
 my husband and now " 
 
 Mrs. Surridge stood beside her, taking the poor scared eyes
 
 THE DIFFICULTY OF BELIEF 169 
 
 to her breast; soothing her as she would a child, and mumbling 
 all the while a paltry flow of quaint advice: 
 
 "La, Susie! don't take on; don't fret there's a deary. It'll 
 spoil your bright eyes and bring down the corners of your mouth 
 give you more lines than bringin' up a fam'ly. Sho! Bless 
 us an' keep us there's just as good fish in the sea as ever was 
 catched."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 A CURTAIN LECTURE 
 
 IT'S my belief," said Mrs. Surridge to the room generally, 
 but to her husband in particular, "that the pretty 
 lamb is frettin' her soul to fritters." 
 
 There was no response; the room was in darkness and Tom 
 sleeping noisily, with his face to the wall. His evident im- 
 munity from earthly worries, struck his wife in the light of 
 sacrilege. She could not sleep for anxiety about Susie; why, 
 therefore, should he? She twisted uneasily from side to side, 
 earnestly seeking oblivion and wrecking the symmetry of the 
 bed. At last, turning on her back she expostulated with her 
 silent lord. 
 
 "Tom!" she cried. 
 
 Tom only snored the louder. 
 
 " Tom! . . . Sakes! what a bugil you have to be sure." 
 
 "Dang they pigs!" said Tom from the pillows. 
 
 "'Tain't the pigs, Tom it's me." 
 
 This should have been sufficient even in these days of strong 
 womanhood and jeering comments on the powers of a sex 
 once called chivalrous. Tom should have risen to the occasion. 
 But he did not rise. He grunted inaudibly instead; for he was 
 a small man and very weary. 
 
 "I never see anyone sleep like you, Surridge," said his wife 
 again. "If you were a toper there would be some excuse for 
 it, but you couldn't sleep heavier." 
 
 "The pigs is all comferable, Mary. I see to 'em afore I 
 locked up likewise the fowils." 
 
 170
 
 A CURTAIN LECTURE 171 
 
 "I said to-night," returned his wife, "that unless a lass made 
 her man jump afore she's wed, she might holla for him to 
 jump afterwards, with no more effect than the bustin* of a 
 blood wessel." 
 
 Surridge made no reply. It was evident from the sounds 
 that he had again fallen asleep. The moonlight peeped in 
 through the lattice, throwing elongated diamonds across the 
 white bed covering. Mrs. Surridge sat up and surveyed her 
 husband. 
 
 "It's my belief," she asserted, "that you have a diseage." 
 Tom turned on his side and groaned a reply: "Sometimes I 
 think it's a pity I ain't stone deaf," he retorted. 
 
 "You are worse than that." 
 
 Surridge lifted himself on his elbow, now fully awakened. 
 
 "What's wrong, Missis? Ain't you near done talkin'?" he 
 cried. 
 
 "It's my belief," said Mrs. Surridge, realising that at last 
 she had succeeded in overcoming his lethargy, "it's my belief 
 that the pretty lamb is fritterin' her soul to fretters." 
 
 "What pretty lamb?" he questioned. "We haven't got 
 any lamb as I know of." 
 
 "It's a diseage you've got, Tom there's no two ways about 
 that, an' its name is deaf an ' stoopid." 
 
 "Why can't you talk sense if you must talk?" he cried with 
 a groan. 
 
 "You used to think I talked sense," Mrs. Surridge replied, 
 shaking the bed in her agitation. "You used to say I talked 
 like honey droppin' from the comb." 
 
 Tom became mindful of an increasing desire for sleep; he 
 also recognised that until he had got to the bottom of this 
 trouble, he would have no chance; he replied, therefore, with 
 an evasion:
 
 1 72 THE ISSUE 
 
 "So you did, Mary an' I can't say I've ever had cause to 
 alter them words." 
 
 "That's the sweetest thing you've said for months," cried 
 Mrs. Surridge as she administered a caress. "It's about 
 Susie." 
 
 Tom withdrew to the farthest limit of the bed. "Oh, about 
 Susie," he said, " what about her?" 
 
 "She's pining for letters from that Jack Elliott." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "An* from all we can find out, Elliott's dead." 
 
 Tom sighed, but remained otherwise silent. His wife 
 resumed: 
 
 "She musn't be let pine, Tom. She's too good to be 
 throwed away single all her life. It would be shockin'." 
 
 "So it would," he assented with sympathy. 
 
 "Jim Saunderson is a fine figure of a man, Tom an' most 
 attentive, I'm sure." 
 
 "Too podgy about the waist," said Tom decisively, "an' I 
 don't like the wein that shows in his forehead, ner his eyes, 
 ner " 
 
 "You never did like a big man so far as I can remember," 
 Mrs. Surridge threw out. 
 
 Tom was silent. He was a small man, a perfect whipper- 
 snapper, to speak correctly, and Mrs. Surridge had remarked 
 upon it before. So he lay silent, waiting for the end of things. 
 
 "I call Jim Saunderson a fine figure of a man. He'd do 
 any woman credit, he would." 
 
 "Susie may have so'thin' to say about that, Mary." 
 
 "You leave it to me." 
 
 "An* suppose Jack Elliott ain't dead suppose " 
 
 "Don't be a hass, Tom. Susie mustn't wait on Elliott 
 for reasons. You take the tip from me if I want you to back
 
 A CURTAIN LECTURE 173 
 
 me up I'll look at you, otherwise, let it be to me. Why, Saun- 
 derson is the very man to make her a good husband. 
 
 "'Sides," she continued, "Susie couldn't marry Jack Elliott 
 now, not even if he were back again not respectable, she 
 couldn't. Jack's livin' under a shadda murder may not have 
 been done by him, but," Mrs. Surridge pursed her lips, speak- 
 ing with decision, "it's what is fastened on him, an' no gell can 
 wed a man with a shadda an' be happy." 
 
 Tom breathed heavily. He never felt more inclined to 
 expostulate in his life, but he was sleepy, and desired above all 
 things to be at liberty to turn his face to the wall. He consented 
 without words. 
 
 "You know as well as me, Tom," his wife continued cheerily, 
 "that I don't hold with choppin' an' changin' your lovers. But 
 this is not what you might call an ordinally case in fact it's 
 extre-ordinally. There's been murder done, an' there's no 
 sayin' who's done it but, it's cloaked on Elliott. An' even if 
 Elliott conies back, which I consider impossible, he mustn't wed 
 Susie. In f ack he mustn't be let have the chance ; Susie must 
 be tied up to once." 
 
 Tom grunted sleepily, but it was sufficient acknowledgment 
 to induce Mrs. Surridge to continue her remarks. Indeed, 
 had he consented to grunt at appropriate intervals, she would 
 have talked indefinitely, for, like Micky Doolan, she loved 
 nothing better than the sound of her own arguments. 
 
 "An* seein' Susie must wed some other body," she asserted 
 to the room in general, " Saunderson would be the very man for 
 my money. He's just the right height, an' build, an' has 
 settled down with a bit of savings put by. He's a man only, 
 it must be done judicious; no forcin' the gell, Tom no Tom! 
 
 " Blest if he ain't asleep again. Sakes ! " she cried after survey- 
 ing him on raised elbow; " the way some men do sleep is so'thin' 
 crewl. It's a diseage that's what I call it. "
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 ZULU SUPPLIES A PARALLEL 
 
 SUSIE'S reading of the prophecy of the sparks was nearer 
 the truth than she imagined when suggesting it. Day 
 after day passed; the weather became steadily colder; 
 winter was at hand, winter and silence the silence of death. 
 
 Jack had not written. At first it seemed possible that his 
 letters had been lost; but with time there came questioning 
 doubts. All the letters could not have been lost, for instance. 
 The idea was manifestly absurd. And if he had not written 
 why? Was it that he had forgotten? The notion passed her 
 mind in many forms. Only those who have waited quite under- 
 stand the sting of it. This craving for news was slowly eating 
 into the girl's life. Cynicism found voice no man, she told 
 herself, could forget so soon. 
 
 Yet, despite her torture, it was only at intervals that she 
 relapsed into the apathetic condition which had so alarmed 
 her friends. Indeed no one could long remain dull in a house 
 containing such a bundle of good nature as Mrs. Surridge. 
 
 If she thought the girl looked more than usually wan, she 
 took her by the sleeve and laughed and joked until Tom was 
 "fair 'mazed with the tack of the old woman," as he expressed 
 it. He was careful naturally to keep this view of the case for 
 communication to the pigs and fowls which he visited at odd 
 intervals during his meal hours. At this time it was not at all 
 unusual to hear ringing peals of laughter issuing from the 
 kitchen, and to see the door slowly open in order that Tom
 
 ZULU SUPPLIES A PARALLEL 175 
 
 might emerge to give his opinion to the pigs. This done he 
 would return, winking solemnly, and sit down to finish his 
 dinner or his pipe, and ruminate on the inexplicable aspect 
 of affairs, until it was time to trudge back to his work. 
 
 Before many days had elapsed Susie discovered that her 
 uncle drove frequently into Riverton, and found him willing to 
 call at the post office. She discovered also the drift of her aunt's 
 remarks on the manly beauty of Jim Saunderson, and so, hav- 
 ing established a primitive code, would wait an opportunity of 
 putting her questions without that lady's knowledge. 
 
 "Did you call, Uncle?" 
 
 "Aye, Susie." 
 
 "Anything for me?" 
 
 "Nothin', Susie." 
 
 Sometimes the dearth of news was passed simply from one to 
 the other in silence. The girl, watching her chances, would look 
 across the table with her pretty forehead puckered over raised 
 brows; and Tom would gaze solemnly into his plate or cup, 
 and frown and shake his head as though he saw the devil lurk- 
 ing there. After this he usually rose and went out to talk with 
 the piglings. It was his safety valve. Some men work off 
 their steam by swearing, but Surridge leaned over the sty doors 
 in silent meditation on the prolific generosity of mother pigs. To 
 them he could give his opinions free of restraint. To give them 
 to Mrs. Surridge was to produce a curtain lecture of the Caudle 
 brand. Tom preferred a lecture from the pigs. 
 
 Thus the time passed until, one day, nearly two months 
 after Jack's departure, Surridge returned from Riverton with 
 a companion seated beside him in the trap. 
 
 Susie had been a long while standing near the gate in antici- 
 pation of her uncle's coming, wondering with great round eyes 
 what the day held in store for her, wondering whether by chance
 
 i 7 6 THE ISSUE 
 
 a letter was on its way to greet her whether Jack had written, 
 whether he would write, whether he had ever intended to write. 
 Then, on looking up, she saw the trap and the second figure. 
 At once she imagined it to be her father, returned earlier by a 
 few days than had been expected. But closer inspection re- 
 vealed no clean-shaven face nor stooping back. It revealed 
 a taller, bigger man, a man with a beard Jim Saunderson. 
 
 For a moment the girl meditated feigning sickness, but 
 relented on recognising the absurdity of such a course. She 
 stood her ground therefore, and met her uncle's evident disap- 
 proval with all the sang-froid she could muster. Then, leading 
 the way within, stood a minute telegraphing, and fled to her 
 room. 
 
 There were no letters. Again were there no letters. 
 
 Susie threw herself across the bed foot. She lay prone upon 
 her back, staring at the ceiling, marking the lines in the old 
 oak beam; counting the cracks, the holes, the wonderful maze 
 of minute holes all no larger than pin-pricks in the wood. 
 
 There were no letters. She questioned why she was left in 
 this horrible suspense ? Why had he not written ? Would he 
 ever write? Would he? Would he? Surely he could do 
 so if he chose. She could have found a way. Anyone 
 who so desired it could find a way. Why then had Jack not 
 found it? 
 
 A long while she lay thus, her eyes dry, her face flushed, 
 her brain aching with the tension. She desired above all things 
 an answer to this question, "Why ?" But it eluded her. In 
 vapouring shapes, high among the shadows behind the old 
 beams, it stole about, mocking, laughing, refusing capture. 
 Two months had passed! She whispered it with a tense expres- 
 sion . . . two months, and he had promised to call her to 
 him at once. Yet no word had come. A silence, deep as the
 
 ZULU SUPPLIES A PARALLEL 177 
 
 silence of the fields, had fallen upon his movements. It had 
 crept into her life. A silence filled with dread, straining her 
 nerves, banishing sleep making her doubt the actuality of 
 accomplished facts. Yet did she pause to consider, they stood 
 out, a hideous array, droning a song whose burden was desertion. 
 How trite a tale for her friends to read; how stale, how paltry, 
 how humiliating ! She, who had held so high a head, who had 
 spoken always of love as the sole necessity in marriage and 
 now they could sneer, all of them, pointing out her indiscre- 
 tions with the finger of unctuous scorn. 
 
 She turned from the difficult problem of finding an answer, 
 and hiding her face found herself crying without tears: " Oh, 
 
 it is cruel cruel! I cannot bear it. I cannot " She 
 
 started at the knowledge the words conveyed and again faced 
 the ceiling. 
 
 The maze met her. Cracks leading to nothing. Holes that 
 were uncountable. Marks that led nowhither and amidst it 
 all a wonderful legend, a legend which bid her hope, which bid 
 her wait. Which whispered of something more something 
 she could not trace high up there, amidst the plaster or the 
 beams or the crevices that would not stay filled. 
 
 Again a voice, not her own, but her aunt's, calling from the 
 stair-foot, bade her come down to tea. 
 
 The notion appalled her. The commonplace necessity of the 
 thing echoed like a laugh in her brain. But she rose at once, 
 wondering at the simplicity which had suggested abstinence. 
 She crossed the room and came to the door, calling as she 
 moved: "Yes, yes, coming, Auntie," then, turning, stood 
 before the glass. 
 
 What flushed cheeks, what frightened eyes, what a tumbled 
 
 head! Could it be herself, or had she had she She 
 
 used to be self-possessed, self-reliant. People had said so.
 
 178 THE ISSUE 
 
 Now her self-control had vanished and self-reliance was going 
 also. 
 
 Like steam thrown into a fog, it melted and disappeared. 
 Against her will the thought crept like a shadow Jack had 
 forgotten. 
 
 In the kitchen they were waiting for her. She bustled about 
 composing her features and arrived with cold eyes, white cheeks 
 and statuesque pose; silent, watching, searching their faces. 
 Tea was spread and Saunderson stood near the fire talking ; but 
 as she entered he crossed over and took her hand. Tom Surridge 
 noting her scared expression hastened into the yard on a 
 fancied errand to the pigs. 
 
 "La!" cried Mrs. Surridge as she became aware of her hus- 
 band's departure; "I never see such a man. If they were his 
 own children, he couldn't do more for 'em. " 
 
 Susie considered the mattter from an immense distance. She 
 gathered the meaning of his exit and set herself to act as though 
 no question throbbed in her brain; as though no thought had 
 stolen upon her and refused to be dismissed. She laughed 
 softly the ghost of laughter merely, and was astonished to 
 notice how they stared. Then her uncle returned,. He found 
 that they had not waited. His wife presided at the table whence 
 she dispensed tea and smiles; and, most curious phase of all, 
 Susie seemed to be entering into the fun of the thing with as 
 much zest as her aunt. 
 
 Surridge took his place in silence. He understood women 
 collectively as little as his wife understood him. He only saw 
 that his guest was the recipient of all the favours of the party, 
 and frowned and shook his head quite unguardedly. 
 
 "I didn't bring no letters, " he thought. "I never signalled I 
 did. What's come to the gell, I can't think, no more than Zulu 
 can."
 
 ZULU SUPPLIES A PARALLEL 179 
 
 Zulu was the sow. 
 
 " Seems to me I'd best let things went, " he said aloud. 
 
 "What things, Tom?" 
 
 "Zulu's number four have got her ear cut," he replied, 
 steadily returning his wife's gaze. 
 
 "Oh how did that come?" 
 
 "She were friendly with Jacob from the lower sty an 
 Zulu's put her nose in ; wants her to take up with old Tammas. 
 It ain't fair on Jacob, so he's split her ear." 
 
 "Tom!" cried his wife with mock severity; "you're a dis- 
 grace to any Christian woman, with your stories an' your 
 fencies 'a-done! " 
 
 She laughed heartily as she spoke, utterly oblivious of the 
 fable's application; Then, noticing Susie's flushed cheeks, 
 shook her head and started a new subject as though to the 
 manner born. So they continued, laughing and chatting until, 
 tea having come to an end, Mrs. Surridge rose and, signing to 
 her husband, left the room. Saunderson at once crossed over 
 and stood by the girl. 
 
 "Have you thought any more about coming back to Abbey- 
 ville?" he questioned. 
 
 Susie looked up. Her face betrayed no astonishment, no 
 anger; it might have been the veriest trifle that he had sug- 
 gested in those ringing tones he knew so well how to use. She 
 said: 
 
 "No," and then, "why should I?" 
 
 " Can't you do anything for my sake; can't you can't you ? " 
 he reiterated. 
 
 Again the answer fell without a vestige of self-consciousness, 
 utterly cold, unutterably pathetic: "No why should I?" 
 
 Saunderson caught her by the hand, staring into her beauti- 
 ful eyes, his face flushed, his voice trembling with emotion.
 
 180 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Because I love you, Susie. Because I love you and would 
 die to see you happy." 
 
 She drew back with a sudden movement and cried with 
 vehemence: 
 
 "Love! Nonsense! There is no such thing; there never 
 was never will be. Yet, once, I believed in love; but that 
 was long ago . . . long ago do you understand? long 
 long ago." 
 
 She spoke with such passion, clasping and unclasping her 
 hands, that Saunderson, watching and abashed, could only 
 gaze in silence; hungrily, as one who would dare all for the 
 sake of simple possession; who had it in mind to catch that 
 frail, palpitating soul in his arms and hold her there till she 
 promised to comply with his desire. But he retained his self- 
 control by a strong effort and continued to urge his cause. 
 
 "Susie," he begged, "you don't know how I want to help 
 you; how I would do anything on earth to make you think 
 better of me. I would go on my knees to you if I thought it 
 would do me any good; I would lie down an' let you kick me 
 with your little shoe if I thought you would be any prouder of 
 me but it wouldn't help me it wouldn't help me Susie! 
 what shall I do what shall I say?" 
 
 "Say? Nothing. Words mean so much sometimes." 
 
 Saunderson drew back a pace; his eyes took a new tinge. 
 
 "No," he cried, "I won't go on my knees to you because 
 it would make you despise me that's why. A woman de- 
 spises a man that treats her always with honey. Very well 
 I don't go on my knees to you; but I stand here now an' tell 
 you that presently you'll wed Jim Saunderson; that you'll wed 
 him whether you love him or not because you won't be able 
 to help yourself." 
 
 He advanced a step nearer, extending his arms: "Come,"
 
 ZULU SUPPLIES A PARALLEL 181 
 
 he cried, "don't try to fight me; don't try to drive me away. 
 It isn't any use. I don't ask for too much love I don't ask 
 for too many kisses. I ask for you. Come, child it will be 
 easier than fighting me easier easier. Oh, God love you, 
 come to me. There's nothin' I won't do for you nothin' 
 nothin' " 
 
 His appeal left her entirely unmoved. She faced him; 
 looked into his eyes, noted his gestures but there the matter 
 ended; oblivion stepped in, and that cold, methodical, precise 
 speech which so annoyed him, came to her aid. 
 
 "I have no wish to be married," she said at length. "I 
 don't think you can say that I encouraged you. I don't " 
 
 "Encouraged me!" Saunderson laughed grimly. It seemed 
 such an excellent joke encouraged him he was uncertain 
 whether she deliberately designed to anger and insult him, or 
 whether His voice leaped upon his thoughts. 
 
 "Encourage me! Aye, if 'go to hell' is encouragement 
 then you have encouraged me not else." 
 
 She took no notice; his violence escaped her; she said very 
 quietly: "I am sorry." 
 
 "So am I." 
 
 "And I hope you will forget all about this this conver- 
 sation; and that I " 
 
 "No!" he cried vehemently. "I'll not do that either. I'll 
 remember it all the days of my life and so will you." Then, 
 in a softer voice, as though alarmed at his own passion: "Susie, 
 is there nothin' I can do to make you love me ? Is there nothin' 
 nothin'?" 
 
 She looked up now with a little shiver. " Only leave me alone," 
 she begged. "Only that." 
 
 He swung round at once. "It's a thing I can do," he an- 
 nounced over his shoulder.
 
 i8a THE ISSUE 
 
 He passed Mrs. Surridge and her husband on the threshold, 
 nodded grimly and left the house. The two came into the 
 kitchen. 
 
 "Well," said Tom, with a gasp of dismay, "if that ain't 
 so'thin', I don't know what is. Never a word same as if 
 we might be flies in his tea flick! an' he's gone." 
 
 He stood staring at Susie in unfeigned amazement. His 
 wife caught the look, heard his remarks and turned upon him 
 with a sharp question: 
 
 "What's wrong now?" 
 
 Tom was about to reply, but he detected advice written in 
 Mrs. Surridge's manner, and fell into a new key: 
 
 "Why, Zulu's got holt of number four, an' she's givin' her 
 hop-scotch," he replied, and vanished in the direction of the 
 sties. 
 
 That night Tom found himself, by chance, alone in the 
 kitchen with Susie. His wife had gone out with a neighbour. 
 Coming in, he had discovered the girl sitting in the arm chair 
 staring into the fire, an open book lying unheeded on her lap. 
 Tom approached at once: 
 
 "You didn't mistake me, Susie?" he asked. 
 
 "How, Uncle?" 
 
 "Why in that signallin' business about the letters." 
 
 "No, why?" the question leaped eagerly as the girl sprang 
 upright. "Why did you bring any?" 
 
 "No don't worry, Susie." He spoke quickly, noting her 
 tell-tale face. "No. There weren't any. But I thought you 
 mistook my meanin', you looked so gay, so blithe, you know." 
 
 Gay blithe?" 
 
 Tom glanced about; the house was very silent. He de- 
 termined to get at the bottom of this matter. He leaned for-
 
 ZULU SUPPLIES A PARALLEL 183 
 
 ward speaking in low tones; "Do you care for yon chap, 
 Susie?" 
 
 " Saunderson ? " 
 
 "Aye." 
 
 Susie lifted her hands as though she weighed the question. 
 " Care for him ? I am afraid of him nothing else." 
 
 "That's cur'us," said Tom. "I thought you liked him 
 amazin'." 
 
 The girl answered in a resigned and pathetic tone: "Is 
 that why you told us the story about Zulu and Jacob ? Yes 
 yes, I understood. Why is it all so dreadfully difficult ? Why 
 am I left to struggle with him alone. I hate him. Uncle, 
 where is Jack where is Jack?" 
 
 She propounded the sentence so suddenly; in such quick, 
 nervous accents, that Tom was flustered. He forgot, alto- 
 gether, his wife's instructions. "I don't know," he said. 
 
 "Tell me tell me! Will he write? Will he write?" Her 
 voice broke with the sound of weeping, and Tom hastened to 
 stay it. 
 
 "Of course he'll write. A course he will. Maybe he's 
 doin' it now. If 't'were me, Susie, he would be. Law! how 
 could he help it. Why he couldn't now, could he ? " 
 
 Susie swayed to and fro, moaning dumbly, searching for a 
 loophole. "He promised ... he promised. It's two 
 months . . . two whole months since then and " 
 
 "Law! a course it is," Tom repeated, and strayed across to 
 put his hand on her shoulder. "You see," he explained, "he's 
 gone to Franch. It's a long way so I'm told. It takes a 
 while to get to Franch; weeks it takes then " 
 
 She cried out suddenly with laughter and tears: "No, no! 
 Oh! indeed, it would not take a day." 
 
 Tom withdrew his hand. He was more astray than ever.
 
 184 THE ISSUE 
 
 "I wouldn't wonder," he remarked in desperation, "if it weren't 
 Franch after all. Maybe it was China." 
 
 Susie fell back into the chair and relapsed into a fit of 
 laughter and tears. The tears blinded her; the laughter 
 choked her, or she would have seen Tom's face of utter dis- 
 may as he hastened to fetch restoratives. 
 
 He knew of only one. He had seen his mother use it years 
 ago, and searched for the materials. 
 
 He came back after a lapse of minutes, armed with a large 
 sponge filled with water. The screams filled the kitchen; 
 Susie lay with her head bowed low on the arm of the chair. She 
 could not have been better placed. Surridge looked upon this 
 simple fact as the direct intervention of Providence, and cush- 
 ioned the sponge carefully in the curve of her cheek and ear. 
 
 The girl sprang erect, laughing now and struggling with a 
 desperation that alarmed the little man. The laugh went 
 through him; filled his ears. He shrank back appalled, and 
 at the same moment the door opened to admit his wife. She 
 stood a moment surveying the scene, and woman-like, grasped 
 its meaning. 
 
 '"Stericks," she remarked. "An' Tom playin' the fool. 
 'A-done! Susie! An' Tom, you drop that sponge." 
 
 She took the girl in her arms as she spoke; glared at her 
 husband, who instantly beat a retreat, and the trouble was 
 ended. 
 
 Thereafter, Tom made no further attempts at consolation. 
 The ways of women were quite ridiculous. He was awake the 
 best part of the night, listening to instructions from his wife. 
 
 On the whole he considered it much easier to rule Zulu and 
 her progeny.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE METHODS or THE SCORCHER 
 
 AGAIN the old brig Tantalus lay at her moorings off 
 Riverton, waiting turn to discharge cargo into the 
 Black Diamond hulk; and Sutcliffe was within ken of his 
 crowding troubles. 
 
 The "Scorcher," a name which the executor of Dunscombe's 
 affairs had already earned, had been on the prowl all day; 
 peering into lockers, store-rooms, galley, hold, and cabin 
 everywhere, indeed, where a man's nose may sniff or his eyes 
 obtain a vision. It was as natural for him to suspect a lie as 
 it is for most Thames skippers to tell one. He came from an 
 up-river wharf, where he had been manager, with the reputation 
 of never having believed the truth when he heard it. A state- 
 ment more damaging among the shrewd casuists he ruled than 
 any plain expression of villainy. 
 
 His creed was : All men are born liars, but a bargee is a more 
 gratuitous species of liar than any others of the tribe." In 
 dealing with them, and the riverside fraternity, he made a 
 mental reservation "These men are liars," and he treated 
 them consistently. 
 
 Already there were those who prophesied trouble with the 
 hands as a result of the new management; but then, there are 
 always croakers in a camp where one digger is placed in author- 
 ity over brother diggers. As a digger has been found the 
 hardest taskmaster for kindred diggers, so the small ship- 
 owner, the small shopkeeper, have been found the most un- 
 
 185
 
 1 86 THE ISSUE 
 
 relenting, the most pettifogging of drivers in civilised gold- 
 seeking. 
 
 It was whispered that the "Scorcher," whose real name was 
 Michael Jones, came from " Taffy-land," and the riverside 
 wags had many stories of his early boyhood. These, in any 
 other community, might have redounded to his credit 
 but not here, where it is considered derogatory for a master 
 to have had his beginnings at the pitside, where, apparently, 
 he had wandered barefoot, collecting heaps of pickings for 
 barter. 
 
 On this day Sutcliffe's life was a burden for him. His voy- 
 age had not been a success, and the "Scorcher" had not failed 
 to comment on the fact. The old man had hoped to get home 
 at once to assure himself that all was as well with the lil' lass, 
 as her letters had given him to understand. Also it is a skipper's 
 prerogative to land as soon as his ship is securely moored. 
 Sutcliffe therefore felt distinctly aggrieved at his master's lack 
 of consideration. 
 
 It was eight o'clock when at length he arrived at the pic- 
 turesque cottage near the woods, and discovered Susie awaiting 
 his arrival. A hand went out the old signal and in a mo- 
 ment the girl was in his arms. 
 
 "Eh!" the lil' lass," he cried. "It's good to see you blithe 
 again. Eh! it's good thank Gawd for it. Why, bless my 
 soul," he continued, holding back and viewing her with pride 
 and delight gleaming in his eyes; if it were'n' that you're a 
 bit thinner an' whiter, I'd say you are the same as ever you 
 were down at the old home." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge who had been a witness to the meeting, and 
 now stood by beaming massively upon them, broke in at once : 
 "Sakes!" she cried. "She's as fit as fit: gettin' as plump as 
 a parterige in September colour all right, eyes bright as you
 
 THE METHODS OF THE SCORCHER 187 
 
 want; don't you worry about that. I say there'll be weddin* 
 bells ringin' shortly that's the least I expect, brother." 
 
 Tom Surridge, who had been hovering behind his wife's 
 more substantial identity, slunk out through the kitchen at 
 these words. He was a tender-hearted man, and knowing what 
 he knew, viewed the dubious marriage proposals in the light 
 of sacrilege only he called it by a different name as he went 
 out to take counsel with the pigs. 
 
 Susie smiled and hastened to turn the conversation into a 
 new channel. 
 
 "How late you are," she said. "We have been expecting 
 you all day." 
 
 "Since dinner time we have," Mrs. Surridge chimed, as 
 they trooped in to prepare supper. 
 
 A gray shadow stole over the old man's face. The recol- 
 lection of certain difficulties in which he had become involved, 
 smote him, and he fell back on a recitation of the most prom- 
 inent. He spoke slowly again; in the ringing tones of one 
 who recognises that he is hemmed in, beaten on all issues, and 
 must surrender. 
 
 "I couldn't get out before, lass. It's almost a wonder I'm 
 here now, as the sayin' is. There's the new Guv'nor aboard 
 all day pokin' his nose into every corner of the ship: worse 
 than Dunscombe, he is, in that way an' as for takin' you at 
 your word, why, he don't an' there's an end." 
 
 Sutcliffe sank into an armchair before the fire and spread his 
 hand to the blaze; he watched them over his shoulder, laying 
 the cloth. 
 
 "We were onlucky on the trip home, you see. Had a 
 accident. It's many a day since I were ashore with the old 
 brig; but I got caught, fair an' square, as the sayin' is, about 
 half ebb."
 
 i88 THE ISSUE 
 
 Susie stayed her help and stood watching her father as he 
 remembered. He said, still in the slow, thrashed voice: 
 
 "Last voyage when we're at home, I says to the Guv'nor, 
 'Sir, our sails are gettin' pretty percurious; we'll be wantin' 
 a new fit out from keel to truck before long.' 
 
 "'Sho!' says he, 'why what's wrong wiv 'em. They don't 
 look bad.' 
 
 "'No, sir,' I answer, 'but it ain't always the things as look 
 best, that are best, on a job like that.' 
 
 "'They'll have to stand, Sutcliffe; there's no two ways 
 about that,' says he. 'Why, look at last voyage,' he says, 
 'ten days from Hull to the Pool. Lawd! wheer do you 
 think the money's to come from while you an' your crew 
 are eatin' your heads off at sea? Damn it, Sutcliffe, you 
 must shake a bit more out of the Tantalus or, she won't be 
 wo'th her keep.' 
 
 " 'Give me the kites, sir,' says I, 'an' the brig will show some 
 of 'em the road yet. But who can do anythin' in the way of a 
 passage, wiv the likes of that ?' An' I walked him acrost to the 
 main hatch wheer Micky Doolan's at work on the leech of 
 our stay-f ores'l ; wheer it's double, you understand, an' I took 
 it in hand an' tore it across as easy as eatin' peas wiv a spoon 
 him watchin' me all the time. 'If that ain't proof, sir,' says 
 I; 'Lumme! if I know what is.' 
 
 "'Chucks!' says he. 'Dry rot that's what that is. Why 
 in thunder do you leave your sails stowed wet ? Hold on ! don't 
 tear any more it's got to stand.' 
 
 "'Beggin' to differ, sir,' says I, 'that's not sun rot it's rot 
 from age. Dunscombe bought these sails off a salvage case 
 when they ought to have been condemned.' 
 
 "An' wiv that, Susie, the Scorcher turns on his heel an' will 
 hardly look at me the rest of the day. So we sailed an' got
 
 THE METHODS OF THE SCORCHER 189 
 
 caught in a breeze comin' down the Maplins; lost our rags;* 
 drove ashore an' there you are, as the sayin' is." 
 
 Susie stood white and trembling before her father; her hand 
 moving irresolutely about his neck. He put out his arm and 
 drew her to him with a touch of the old buoyant hope; the hope 
 now so nearly dead. 
 
 " Sho! " he whispered, " how nervous you've grown. Why 
 bless us, there's nothin' in that there's no harm done. Why, 
 the Maplins are soft as a baby's lips; wouldn't hurt a soul, 
 not in calm weather," he reserved, "let alone a ship." His 
 voice fell again, he mumbled under his breath gazing intently 
 at the fire: "Maybe the old brig's a bit cleaner about the gar- 
 bage streaks, an' keel; maybe she's a trifle hogged,f but she's 
 none the worse for that. They all get hogged wiv time like 
 old men crooked by heavy loads long borne long borne a 
 job like that." 
 
 Susie stood fondling the gray ringlets, petting the creased 
 brow, smoothing the collar of his coat; but she made no effort 
 to speak. Her eyes had followed his ; she, too, stared into the fire. 
 
 Mrs. Surridge came boisterously into the gap, flourishing 
 her potato masher like a club. "Sakes alive!" she cried, 
 "don't you go playin' any tricks, brother 'taint' safe, not at 
 your age. An' as for that Scorcher chap, I wish I had his 
 dirty face under this masher of mine. If I wouldn't give him 
 ecollomy, I don't know, " she concluded with a vigorous slam 
 as she placed the saucepan lid on the stove. But Sutcliffe was 
 not to be warned; he failed to notice the girl's silence. He felt 
 her touch; her face was withheld. 
 
 "I don't know," he said; "maybe the Guv'nor is not so black 
 as he's painted. He's got some heart an' that is more than you 
 can say for Dunscombe. " 
 
 * Sails, f Hog-backed, i. e., no longer straight but raised in the middle.
 
 1 90 THE ISSUE 
 
 Mrs. Surridge produced a dish wherein to turn the potatoes: 
 "Heart?" she cried indignantly, "the man that can act as 
 you've said, hasn't a heart it's a flip-jack, fried tough as 
 leather. " 
 
 Sutcliffe smiled. "Sho!" he replied. "I'm rememberin' 
 Dunscombe. There's no one that can be a patch on Duns- 
 combe. He was not only mean he was cruel, cowardly cruel 
 into the bargain. " 
 
 "No, Susie," he resumed as they drew up to the table in 
 response to Mrs. Surridge's invitation, and Tom came back 
 from his visit to the pigs, "no you may reckon on the old man 
 bein' kereful not to run onnecessary risks, for the sake of all. 
 But sooner or later trouble is bound to come out of this business 
 an' I would rather you were prepared on a job like 
 that." 
 
 The girl found voice to question eagerly : ' " How, Father ? " 
 and Sutcliffe continued: 
 
 "I'll tell you, lass but it has to do wiv natural causes; 
 causes that are bound to come, because they have to do wiv old 
 age alone. 
 
 "I've been skipper of the Tantalus this fifteen year or more. 
 Man an' boy I've known her thirty. She can't be for many 
 years a top of that ; it's not in reason, because she's worn. So, 
 because she's old and don't pay, or get lost, as maybe she ought, 
 it don't pay to do much in the way of repairs. A bit longer 
 the Lawd alone knows when on a job like that an' the old lady 
 will have to be lost or sold foreign ; an' I will have coiled down the 
 strings for the last time about her taffrail aft. 
 
 "No," he went on sadly, "it ain't easy to look forward to 
 a thing like that; but it will come . . . an' it will have to 
 be faced. It's comin'. I know that from a word the Scorcher 
 dropped to-day. I'm askin' for a new mains'l an' fore-stays'l,
 
 THE METHODS OF THE SCORCHER 191 
 
 in place of them we blowed away in the breeze. Says he, 
 'You'll have to do wiv the old sails out of the Bluebell we'll 
 patch 'em up for you, an' next time you have the chance, Sut- 
 
 cliffe, why ' He stops an' looks at me out of his small eyes. 
 
 'What?' says I, 'down the cellar wiv her?' 'No fool!' he says. 
 'Make a clean sweep of it then we can come on the club for a 
 refit, an' sell her afterward.' " 
 
 Mrs. Surridge strove to turn the conversation; she laughed 
 boisterously at nothing in particular, made an observation 
 which verged on idiocy; but Sutcliffe could not see; he con- 
 tinued in his grave, worn tones: 
 
 "You see, it's like this when a ship has been runnin' thirty 
 years or more, an' has paid as the old brig must a paid in times 
 gone by, she don't stand at anythin' on her owner's books. 
 She has wiped out her cost a long while. But now steam's come 
 in she don't pay, freights are cut, she's slow an' it don't pay to 
 reclass her. So they just keep her joggin', or moor her in the 
 thick of the traffic, or wait till the Gov'ment drops alongside an' 
 condemn her. Then they must make a move ; so they sell her 
 to the Dutchmen hoist a dirty flag across her starn in place 
 of a clean one stick in a crew of Dutch chysers an' run her 
 in her old trade. There's no alteration made, nothin' done 
 to her; but now she can run on as before and wait for the end 
 wiv a crew of Dutchmen instead of her own. Nothin' else 
 nothin' a job like that. " 
 
 Susie steadied her eyes and looked across at her father: 
 "Better to be sold than that she should be a death trap to 
 you. The risk is so dreadful and yet I shall be sorry yes, 
 I shall be sorry. " 
 
 "Not more than I will, Susie. Eh! not more than I will. 
 It's a weary while since I had what you might call happiness 
 on board of her; but it will be like cuttin' the old man's arm
 
 j 9 a THE ISSUE 
 
 off, or his leg when she goes. Aye, I'd as lief she went down 
 the cellar, as the sayin' is; it would be easier." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge assumed a gaiety she did not feel and sprang 
 into the conversation with an assertion of her belief. "She's 
 not goin' down the cellar, brother. An' as for callin' yourself 
 old why, it's suttinly nothin' more or less than a libel. 
 ShockinM shockinM an' me sittin' beside you only two year 
 behind. Have another cut of the hand, George or do you 
 like the knuckil best?" 
 
 "Take another glawss o' ale, George," said Tom, as he 
 pushed the jug across the table. "You're a bit down on your 
 luck, mate that's what you are. " 
 
 "Six hours bumpin' on the sands ain't goin' to make a man 
 feel ezactly as bright as it'll make the old brig's copper," 
 Sutcliffe returned. "Eh! sister I'm not what I was. Fifty- 
 five years is what I am; forty-five of 'em spent trapsin' up an' 
 down the old river for somebody else's benefit. Forty-five years, 
 Susie gatherin' what? How do I stand? A'most broke 
 a'most broke." His eyes took a far away look as he spoke. 
 The sad gray-blue eyes that saw no one present; marked 
 nothing of the danger with which his words were charged; 
 looked only into the past as he toyed with his glass. 
 
 "Fifty years on the old river brings a man alongside the 
 passon for the second time on some other body's shoulder. 
 Fifty years of river life is three-score an' ten ashore . . . 
 an' what has the old man gathered, as the sayin' is, durin' 
 that spell ? 
 
 "Nowt, Susie. Nowt beyond maybe a debt or so. Debts 
 are heavy to wipe off when a man has got over his prime. I'm 
 over my prime long over; an' I've been hit still, there's 
 been other things more worth thinkin' of, on a job like that. 
 There was Lucy Gawd rest her bright soul an' the 1U' lass.
 
 THE METHODS OF THE SCORCHER 193 
 
 Aye, the HI' lass came to take the place of her that left me. 
 But Susie an' Gawd alone know the mis'ry of my life since she 
 was took. Eh ! if we could only look ahead as we can look back. 
 If when Gawd has some new move on the board for us, he'd 
 give us a sight of what lies ahead what a crowd of poor devils 
 would never take that move, never never. 
 
 "Sho! what are we talkin' of? Dreamin', Susie, that's 
 what I call it dreamin' an' playin' the fool. " 
 
 Supper was over. They all rose, and Susie moved across to 
 Sutcliffe's side. She put her arms about his neck and kneeling 
 beside him, kissed him on the forehead. 
 
 "Don't trouble dear," she begged. "Don't worry about 
 the future. You couldn't help things going as they have. 
 No one could. And as for the debts, " she rallied her forces, 
 speaking brightly, "why we will work hard and pay them off. 
 You and I. Oh! you little know what I can do, or how strong 
 and clever I I " 
 
 She broke off abruptly, stammered, and fell into silence. For 
 a moment it seemed as though the cord of her memory had 
 snapped then, laughing a little hysterically, she fled to her 
 room.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 IN LTMTNE 
 
 NIGHT had fallen on the quiet village nestling so sleepily 
 in the hollow of the Kentish hills, a soft, still night, 
 with a young moon creeping through the skeleton trees across 
 the way. 
 
 The tired world was already adrowse. Scarcely a sound came 
 from the tiny hamlet straggling up the road where the two 
 men had gone soon after supper. Susie was in bed, but sleep 
 would not come. 
 
 Something not to be accounted for had happened to the 
 beams and ceiling overhead, or was it the cracks or those minute 
 pinholes or the stained blotches moving in that wilderness of 
 white plaster? She could not understand it. It puzzled her 
 extremely. She felt the necessity for a closer examination 
 and crept from her bed to carry out the desire; then, straight- 
 way loosing the thread, discovered that she moved to her aunt's 
 room. 
 
 Mrs. Surridge was preparing for rest and had not heard 
 the door open. She started and came forward at the sight of a 
 blanched face and white-robed figure, standing framed by the 
 darkness of the passage. 
 
 "La, Susie!" she cried, "how you do startle a body. Sakes 
 alive! what's the matter now?" 
 
 The girl came in, closed the door, and stood leaning against 
 the foot of the bed. She spoke slowly, reiterating her sentences 
 in a fashion that was quite novel. 
 
 194
 
 IN LIMINE 
 
 195 
 
 "I want to talk to you, Auntie. I want to talk to you. I 
 can't sleep until I have talked to you. " 
 
 Mrs. Surridge moved forward and took her hand drawing 
 her across the room. "You'll catch your death, niece an' 
 what else could one expect, with you standin' there with hardly 
 a cover for your pretty shoulders. La, Susie! don' be a ninny," 
 she hurried on, as the girl flushed crimson; "they are pretty 
 pretty as picters, an' white an' warm with sweet flesh an' 
 blood which is more than you can say about picters an' such." 
 
 She wrapped the soft girlish figure in a shawl, then with a 
 quick, impulsive gesture, bent down and kissed her neck. 
 
 "Sakes alive! how you do burn. Your neck's afire, child 
 your neck's afire." 
 
 "Don't, please don't," Susie begged, struggling in her 
 strong grasp. 
 
 "It's good for gells to know they're beautiful, 'specially when 
 they're near to marriage," her aunt insisted. "It'll come, 
 Susie. La! it's bound to come. Sho! deary, don't take on 
 it's only your aunt fondlin' you because she loves you an' has 
 no chick of her own to see settled." 
 
 " You are very kind. Indeed I am grateful," Susie returned, 
 clinging to her impulsively, "but I want to ask you something." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge pushed her to a seat on the bed. "Aye, 
 dear}' an' what's that?" 
 
 " Father was saying, when I came through the kitchen a 
 while ago, something about a debt or some debts that he had. 
 He was talking to Uncle, and when I passed he stopped. At 
 supper, too, he spoke of the difficulty of paying debts when men 
 grow old. He seemed much put out much put out. What 
 is it all about ? Can you tell me ? " 
 
 Mrs. Surridge at once grew grave. She faced the girl with 
 a warning note in her voice. "It's as well you asked me,
 
 196 THE ISSUE 
 
 Susie for all the horses on the farm wouldn't drag it out of 
 George it's foolishness, that's what I call it." 
 "What is? and why is it foolishness?" 
 "Because, Susie, it's a debt that you could wipe out." 
 The girl faced her with sudden energy. "That I could wipe 
 out?" she questioned. "I I have no money." 
 "You have what is worth much more." 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "What I say yourself, child, your own pretty self." 
 "Who would take me in payment?" Susie demanded with 
 bitter sarcasm. 
 
 "Jim Saunderson would, an' thankful." 
 "Oh don't! don't! don't!" 
 
 The girl's cry was so heart-breaking that for a moment even 
 the match-making instinct of this quaint bundle of interference 
 quailed before it. But Mrs. Surridge had decided that it was 
 necessary Susie should marry. She had decided that it w T ould 
 be unwise to allow her to wait longer for Elliott. She went 
 farther and announced to Tom that such a proceeding would 
 be followed by "the Lord knows what all," and Tom, duly im- 
 pressed and only vaguely guessing at her meaning, agreed. 
 Mrs. Surridge continued therefore to urge her plan. 
 
 "If it were possible," she remarked, "to sit still an' see you 
 frettin' your soul to fritters, I'd say no more. But it ain't. 
 Besides, I holt that one man's as good as another in this case. 
 You don't know how you'll come to love him an' then there's 
 father to remember, deary. That's what I look at." 
 
 Susie sat rocking slowly to and fro, her cheeks aflame. " Does 
 Father owe this money to Jim Saunderson?" she threw out. 
 "He has for a long while, an' now he asks for it." 
 "And does he know of this this proposal?" 
 "La!" cried Mrs. Surridge breaking in with ready apology.
 
 IN LIMINE 197 
 
 "A course he does only we don't put it like that. Why, 
 everybody knows of the debt an' the payment that's asked 
 same as if it had been in the papers." 
 
 "He has never said anything to me," Susie faltered fearlessly. 
 
 "That's why I tell you, deary. Bless the gell, you know 
 father would be sold up before he'd say a word. That's what 
 is troubling him you know that, surely." 
 
 For some minutes there was a dead silence in the little room. 
 Susie cowered against the bed-rail, her breast heaving convul- 
 sively. Her breath came in quick, uncertain gasps; her fingers 
 twined and intertwined. A strange look crept into her eyes. 
 She faced her aunt, speaking swiftly: "Have you heard any- 
 thing of Jack?" 
 
 "There's rumours, Susie," Mrs. Surridge admitted, caught 
 napping by the question. 
 
 " Rumours of what ? Speak! Tell me or I shall go mad." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge hedged. "There's no sayin' for certain. 
 Sakes it's " 
 
 "Is he safe?" 
 
 "I don't know. No one knows." 
 
 "Is he dead?" 
 
 The girl's voice rang with terrible earnestness. She started 
 to her feet and seizing her aunt by the shoulders, gazed into 
 her face with quivering lips; an awful terror dancing in her 
 eyes. Mrs. Surridge tried to avoid the question. Her wits 
 were a chaos under the catechism. But Susie held her trans- 
 fixed as she reiterated the sentence: "Is he dead?" 
 
 "Don't look like that. Susie! it cuts me like a knife. Aye, 
 aye maybe it's that. It is God's will deary that " 
 
 She stopped speaking. Susie had fallen back on the bed as 
 she caught the full meaning of the broken sentences. She sat 
 rocking to and fro with quick, nervous movement. "He is
 
 198 THE ISSUE 
 
 dead!" she cried out, "dead dead! God has taken him from 
 me He had no right. He was mine he was mine." 
 
 "Child! Child! Susie, my deary!" her aunt protested 
 aghast. 
 
 "Dead! dead! He should have lived and I have blamed 
 him. Oh! he was mine he was mine. Why have you taken 
 my husband away? My husband do you understand? 
 Dead! dead! Oh God! why? " 
 
 "Susie! Have patience have patience." 
 
 "Patience!" she broke out, swaying, hot with passion and 
 excitement. "You don't understand. He was my lover. 
 Long ago we were to have been married; long ago it was all 
 arranged. Jack!" the girl's voice took a tender inflection at 
 the mention of his name, "I loved you, dear I loved you 
 always. We grew up together. We were lovers always al- 
 ways. They let me think you had forgotten, and now they say 
 you are dead and that God has taken you because it was better 
 
 "Susie, I never said it you know me better." Mrs. Sur- 
 ridge vainly attempted to .stay the storm she had raised. She 
 leaned forward trying to catch the girl in her arms, but Susie 
 sprang back. 
 
 "No, you don't say it, but others do, and you half mean it. 
 God ! I am tired of hearing of what God has done. It is always 
 God God, every time anything happens that hurts us. Mother 
 quavered of God till my heart was sick. If a neighbour was 
 drowned, it was God's will; not the fault of a crazy ship. If 
 a girl went wrong, it was God's will; not her own. If the fac- 
 tory smoke stifled us, it was God's will, not the direction of the 
 wind. Oh! I am sick to death of the nonsense. I am sick 
 to death of it all." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge listened, still protesting her amazement:
 
 IN LIMINE 199 
 
 "Child! I am sorry to hear you say so; indeed, T would not 
 have believed it possible from what I've seen of you. Sit still, 
 deary don't take on. It's weary work, I know but you'll 
 take comfort, in time you will." 
 
 Silence fell in the little room. Susie remained with her face 
 buried in her hands; swaying, terribly in earnest. Suddenly 
 she lifted her head and a question leaped from her lips: 
 
 "How do you know that what you say is true?" 
 
 "Because his boat was found." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Cast up on the mud, top of Sea Beach. It was the Garter 
 Pier boat that he'd borrowed." 
 
 "How do you know? Did anyone see him?" Susie cried 
 instantly. 
 
 "His coat was found tied up in a bundle an' jammed under 
 the seat. There was a letter in the pocket." 
 
 "Give it to me! Give it to me! It is mine it must be 
 mine," she wailed in agony. 
 
 "It was yours, Susie. You sent it to him. Steady, Susie 
 there's no sort of comfort to be got from that." She searched 
 in her pocket and handed the note which she had obtained from 
 her brother before he went out, and in pursuance of her plan 
 of intervention. It was a little, crumpled, water-stained note 
 the girl had written only a few days before Jack's last visit. 
 She seized it eagerly; spreading it out with fingers that shook. 
 
 "Dear Jack, please, please come out to see me " The 
 
 words struck her. She moved to and fro, moaning, dumb 
 with pain. Then checking her grief, caught at her aunt's arm 
 and whispered in hot expectation: "How do you know 
 How do you know he is " 
 
 In Mrs. Surridge's mind only one fact loomed of any im- 
 portance. The girl must not be allowed to wait for Elliott.
 
 200 THE ISSUE 
 
 She replied in even tones, the tones of one who did not at all 
 recognise the nature of what was said: "Father tells me his 
 boat was cut pretty nigh in half, Susie. He can't " 
 
 " Cut in half. What do you mean ? " 
 
 "There's been an accident, child. He's towin' down river 
 an' suthin' happened. The steamer has come astern, an' it's 
 all over. " 
 
 The brusque recital of so grim a tragedy, given almost in 
 Sutcliffe's own words, forced a picture of the circumstances 
 into the girl's quicker brain. She had heard of these things; 
 knew much of the swift and noiseless deaths of the river men; 
 had seen the groups standing over stranded remains, whispering 
 details of the end. The picture burned before her, and she 
 clasped her hands over her eyes, striving to shut it out. She 
 remained so still, so stricken with the pain of living that her aunt 
 grew alarmed. She marvelled at what she could not compre- 
 hend; approached and began to speak. But Susie started 
 backward, her voice ringing with terror. 
 
 "Don't touch me! Don't touch me! Let me think. Hor- 
 rible . . . horrible!" 
 
 She sprang to her feet and faced her aunt. "How long 
 have you known this?" she demanded. 
 
 " Maybe a month. Don't fret don't fret there's a deary. " 
 
 "A month!" 
 
 The exclamation fell like a bolt from heaven on plain, matter- 
 of-fact Mrs. Surridge. She gasped with apprehension. Susie's 
 voice sounded again: "Why was I not told?" 
 
 "We dared not tell you, " she whimpered. 
 
 "And so you let me think he had forgotten. Kind . . . 
 kind." 
 
 "We were afraid it would kill you, child we were afraid," 
 Mrs. Surridge moaned.
 
 IN LIMINE 201 
 
 "Better so," she returned with hot, dry eyes. "Better so. 
 Why should I live if Jack is dead? What use am I alone? 
 Always we were one always we were together. Oh! my 
 dear, why did you not have mercy on me and tell me you were 
 dead. I would have come I would have come. " 
 
 She fell back among the pillows moaning pitifully. Mrs. 
 Surridge cried, too, and strove to assure herself that she had 
 acted for the best. She touched Susie's lips, attempting to 
 soothe her with caresses. 
 
 "There's others beside Jack that love you," she whispered. 
 
 The girl started as though she had been struck. Her eyes 
 flashed anger. "Jim Saunderson!" she cried. 
 
 Mrs. Surridge quailed. "Not alone," she gasped, "there's 
 us: father, uncle, an' me what would we do, deary?" 
 
 ' ' You are laughing at me. Everyone is laughing at me. Oh ! 
 you are cruel! cruel!" 
 
 Suddenly she leaped from the bed and stood tugging at the 
 buttons of her nightdress. In a moment the flimsy fastenings 
 were torn asunder and the dress flung to the ground. 
 
 "I can't breathe, I shall suffocate!" she cried with a curious 
 laugh. "What does it matter to you whether I live or die? 
 It doesn't matter nothing matters. " 
 
 "Susie! Susie!" Mrs. Surridge was aghast at the sight. 
 She strove to speak but words failed her; she could only reiterate, 
 "You know we all love you. " 
 
 The girl faced her with impetuous scorn. " Oh, yes . . . 
 I forgot. You all love me and so, I am to be sold. Do you 
 think that sounds consistent ? I am to be sold ? " 
 
 She leaned forward clasping her head with trembling hands, 
 her hair streaming like a flood of gold about her shoulders, 
 her breast heaving, her white skin aglow in the lamplight. Her 
 eyes, flashing over crimson cheeks, looked out through a frame
 
 202 THE ISSUE 
 
 of glorious hair. "They are pretty shoulders, aren't they?" 
 she laughed, suddenly sarcastic. "A pretty breast, too. And 
 all to be sold all to be sold. You said so, mind! Of course 
 I'm pretty. Do you think if I weren't pretty anyone would 
 bother about me? Come, tell me how much is this debt. 
 Tell me so that I may have some idea of my value. " 
 
 Mrs. Surridge could only gasp: "Oh, Lawd! the gell's mad. 
 What can I do ? What can I do ? " 
 
 "You won't tell me," the voice went on, scathingly: "of 
 course not. Is it likely? You, who tell me everything ? Then 
 I must guess. What is it now ? twenty pounds ? thirty ? 
 forty ? fifty ? You won't say. I might have known it. Well, 
 but there couldn't be a bigger debt than that. Fifty pounds! 
 Why, that's not much for a beautiful girl is it? A gentle 
 girl, too and loving. Trust me, I would never grow old 
 or querulous or practise nagging." Then again in the old 
 key: "Auntie, I am beautiful, am I not ? It isn't all a mistake, 
 is it? Tell me, tell me." 
 
 The words poured out in a hot and babbling stream. The 
 girl stood erect, blazing with scorn, indignation, contempt; 
 without a vestige of self-consciousness, intent on her demand 
 to be told. 
 
 "You're a little fool!" Mrs. Surridge snorted as she hastened 
 toward her with a wrap. "Have done with your nonsense. " 
 
 Susie's mood changed instantly. She came over, meekly 
 awaited her aunt's assistance, drew the proffered cloak about 
 her, and huddled down into a corner of the bed. 
 
 "Now you are cross," she pleaded. "Don't be cross it 
 is no use. Oh! I wish I could cry I used to be able to cry. 
 My head is splitting; my eyes are burning why have you set me 
 on fire?" 
 
 She leaned forward and her aunt took her head on her broad
 
 IN LIMINE 203 
 
 bosom, soothing her as she would a child. "La! " she crooned, 
 glancing anxiously at the clock. "La, there there rest 
 quiet, poor dear, rest quiet there's a lamb. I wish," she 
 continued, sotto voce, as she strained her ears to catch the 
 sound of approaching footsteps: "I wish them guzzlers no 
 harm, but the Lawd look sideways on 'em if they ain't in 
 sharp." She drew the cloak about the girl's shoulders, but- 
 toning it as she spoke. Susie sat beside her gazing into vacancy, 
 silent, despondent ; then, turning with a quick movement, she 
 pointed across the room. 
 
 " I see him, Auntie. You are quite wrong. Jack is not dead. " 
 
 The name fell with so much decision that, almost involun- 
 tarily, Mrs. Surridge followed the girl's glance with a question. 
 
 "Where, Susie?" 
 
 "There, pulling pulling in that small boat. Look! how 
 tiny it is. Can he be safe can he be safe ? " 
 
 "A course he can. He's a sailor an' knows how to manage." 
 
 "But the sea is wide so wide and so lonely. If any 
 wind comes that little boat is no use. " 
 
 "Let's hope it'll stay cawlm," Mrs Surridge returned. A 
 conviction that the girl was mad had penetrated slowly to her 
 brain. She argued that she must humour her, eke out the 
 time until her husband returned and do all in her power to pre- 
 vent excitement. The girl's reply fell on her ears. 
 
 "Because," she was saying, "if anything happened to Jack, 
 it would all go wrong because, you see, I am his wife. " 
 
 " Susie, don't you fret, " came the reply, "no thin' can hap- 
 pen to men they are born percurious so it can't. " 
 
 "That isn't true. You know that isn't true. You said your- 
 self that Jack was dead. " 
 
 Mrs. Surridge retreated. "Perhaps I made a blunder," she 
 suggested.
 
 204 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Now you are telling lies. But it does not matter. I can 
 see now. Oh! I can see quite plainly. S-h-h-h! the wind is 
 rising. Listen! Oh, Jack! Jack!" She broke off abruptly, 
 and stood pointing into the darkness. 
 
 " Sit quiet, Susie, sit quiet there's a dear, " cried Mrs. Sur- 
 ridge in an access of fear. 
 
 "Look at the long wave rolling toward him. Oh! it is 
 awful! He will be swamped. Jack Jack! Auntie, can't 
 you see?" 
 
 " A course I can see," she replied, simulating discovery. 
 
 "Of course you can if only you know where to look. Any 
 one could but first they must have been through the fires. 
 See how misty it has grown and how the spray drives down 
 the wind." She held up one hand as though searching for 
 signs of a breeze. "Look!" she cried, "it is quite damp 
 and now I can't see him. Where is he? Jack! Jack!" 
 
 The cry came from the girl's heart as she stretched out her 
 arms calling for her lover. Mrs. Surridge gripped her tightly 
 round the waist. "Stay quiet!" she cried. "Maybe he'll 
 come again. " 
 
 Instantly the girl sat still. A solemn hush fell upon the 
 room and for a space the harsh voice of the small American 
 clock was the only note of unrest in all the lonely house. Susie 
 reclined in her aunt's arms. For a moment she appeared to 
 sleep; then, again alert and eager, she sprang upright. 
 
 " Shall I tell you how I know he is not dead ? " she questioned. 
 
 Mrs. Surridge groaned. "La! yes anything for a quiet 
 life. Talk maybe, it will give you repose. " 
 
 "It all happened so long ago ... it is difficult to 
 remember. It was before we were married, and Jack and I 
 had been down river. Then of course we had to come back 
 . . . but the moon was up and Jack was tired of rowing.
 
 IN LIMINE 205 
 
 So he took me in his arms and we drifted, just as we have 
 drifted ever since . . . and all the time we came nearer a 
 great swirl in the current a long way out at sea. 
 
 "Jack said it was the Gat . . . and that people die when 
 they come there. But if they loved each other and were 
 married they went past quite safely but if they loved each other 
 and there had been no time for a wedding . . . then they 
 would be sucked down in the water. I didn't think that fair; 
 do you ? Because if there had not been time, you know it could 
 not have been their fault. But of course we got by quite easily, 
 for I had gone to sleep . . . and . . . and my 
 husband was with me. " 
 
 "Your husband, child!" Mrs. Surridge started at the words; 
 but Susie continued with the calm insistence of one telling a 
 history which was common to the world. 
 
 "Yes; didn't you know that we are married?" 
 
 Mrs. Surridge sighed as the girl sprang again to a sitting 
 posture. "I could not forget such a thing, Auntie." 
 
 " No women mostly remember marriage, one way or another, 
 all the days of their lives." 
 
 Susie settled back in comfort and resumed with quick, ner- 
 vous repetition. "No, no; I shall never forget. It was all so 
 sweet . . . only the time was short very short. They 
 had turned me out; there was no where to go besides the man 
 was chasing me. Where could I go ? Only to Jack only to 
 Jack. 
 
 "It was a good thing he was there," she continued after a 
 slight pause, during which she had listened intently. "If 
 he had not been there I don't know what I should have done. 
 Gone mad or gone bad mad bad: which is it? Oh! how 
 these things puzzle me . . . and my head is splitting. I 
 can't think properly. Tell me where ought a girl to go
 
 206 THE ISSUE 
 
 when she is turned out and there has'nt been time for a proper 
 wedding ? Ought she to go to him ? He is her husband, you 
 know. God made him her husband as He makes everything. 
 No, that isn't right He only allows it. Ha, ha, ha, ha," she 
 broke into laughter, her voice thrilling weirdly. Then, sud- 
 denly, without a moment's pause, she started from her aunt's 
 arms and ran to the window. Someone was approaching the 
 cottage. She drummed on the glass, crying out: "Yes, dear, 
 I knew you would come. I have been waiting so long . . . 
 so long. Oh, Jack! my darling, don't stay away! Have 
 mercy! Have mercy!" 
 
 Mrs. Surridge regained her side, and caught her round the 
 waist. " Steady, Susie, " she cried. "It isn't Jack it's father 
 an' uncle. Will you have 'em in to shame you ?" 
 
 "I tell you it is Jack. He has been away so long that I 
 nearly died. Let me see him! Let me see him! Jack! they 
 are trying to keep me from you. Help! Help!" 
 
 She struggled violently in her aunt's arms. The two men 
 were standing at the door beneath the window. In dread lest 
 she should be overpowered, Mrs. Surridge thought of a means 
 of calming her. 
 
 "Susie!" she cried. "Listen. I'm wrong. It's not father. 
 It's Jack right enough. But you can't see him like this. 
 Child, you've forgot your dress. " 
 
 The lie sufficed. In an instant the girl was standing trying 
 with trembling fingers to unbutton her cloak. Mrs. Surridge 
 caught up the night-dress and handed it to her. "Put this 
 on, " she whispered, " put this on, and then we'll see Jack. " 
 
 Susie's face flushed with pleasure. She gathered the dress 
 in her hand and slipping it over her head, stood with pleading 
 gesture struggling with the buttons. "Help me, help me," 
 she begged. "I didn't think."
 
 IN LIMINE 207 
 
 By the time their preparations were effected the men had 
 entered and Susie was gazing expectantly at the door; watching, 
 listening, swift to interpret sounds. "Why doesn't he come 
 up? Why is he waiting?" she cried. 
 
 "If you'll stand still an' don't offer to move, I will go an' 
 call him." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge went outside and held the door closed behind 
 her on gaining her promise. 
 
 "George," she whispered over the bannisters; "come up 
 here." 
 
 Sutcliffe mounted slowly. "What is it, sister?" he ques- 
 tioned. 
 
 "The gell's mad. There's no holdin' her. She thinks 
 you're Jack Elliott an' she wants to see you." 
 
 Sutcliffe took a sudden grip on the rail. "You've told her 
 then?" he asked with grim brevity. 
 
 "Aye she forced it out of me. " 
 
 "Best have left it to me," he groaned, "a job like that." 
 
 "Steady, brother. God give you strength. Come in an' see 
 her. Maybe it'll rouse her. S-h-h-! She's movin'." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge opened the door as she spoke and re-entered 
 the room. And as Sutcliffe advanced from the landing Susie 
 hurried toward him with outstretched hands. Her voice 
 rang plaintively in the quiet house. 
 
 "Jack!" she whispered. "Jack, my darling, why have you 
 been so long away ? " 
 
 She paused faltering, uncertain, and staring with startled 
 eyes Sutcliffe was standing now in full light of the lamp. He 
 waited in silence. 
 
 "You are not Jack," she breathed." You are not Jack. 
 His hair was dark; yours is white. He was tall and straight; 
 you are bent. "
 
 208 THE ISSUE 
 
 She broke off abruptly. A quiver ran through her frame. 
 She clasped her hands across her eyes. 
 
 "Susie!" Sutcliffe cried with a deep sobbing breath. "My 
 lil' Susie." 
 
 She took down her hands to gaze. Her lips quivered. She 
 cried with passion: "They said you were Jack. Go away! 
 Send Jack to me! Send him to me!" 
 
 "Lass he's gone." 
 
 "Gone?" 
 
 The question fell with an awful insistence. She started for- 
 ward, and seizing her father by the wrists, stared into his ashen 
 face. 
 
 "Do you tell me he is gone," she whispered, "gone 
 without one word without one look without one kiss? I 
 don't believe it. He would never leave me so never never! 
 Oh God! call him back to me call him back!" 
 
 And the cord snapped. The girl broke into a passion of 
 tears and fell at her father's feet begging for mercy.
 
 COe Beginning of tbe <nD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SAUNDERSON MOVES 
 
 E evening was closing in. Far away, behind the hills, 
 A the setting sun tinged the sky with streaks of gold and 
 crimson; the woods lay in a bath of purple and the 
 high elms, standing like sentinels beside the cottage, shivered 
 as the cool wind swept down the valley. 
 
 Susie was sitting in her window seat. Some weeks had 
 elapsed since she had been struck down by the torture of that 
 night spent in Mrs. Surridge's room. During the early stages 
 her life had trembled in the balance, she had been face to face 
 with death; but nature had brought her, pale and wan, from 
 the conflict. The girl who never before had known a day's 
 illness, whose life had been spent in the free country air, who 
 had delighted always in abundant exercise, early hours, and 
 simple fare, was not easily cast down. But the factor which 
 most aided her at this time has yet to be stated. Her mind was 
 now at rest. 
 
 Jack was dead. There was no longer any room for dalliance 
 with hope. Hope died in that terrible hour when Mrs. Sur- 
 ridge had explained. The certitude of his death, the precise 
 statements she had heard, the letter she had written, now 
 
 209
 
 2io THE ISSUE 
 
 treasured, water-stained beneath her pillow, left her no loophole 
 by which she might presently escape; nothing remained but a 
 commonplace surrender to the forces by which she was hemmed. 
 And now she turned with redoubled affection towards that father 
 who had tended her so faithfully through life. Her father 
 needed her. Her father's future remained in her hands. 
 
 Time, rolling on leaden wheels, had seen many weary days 
 and nights at the girl's bedside; the old man constant in his 
 attention, jealous of his vigil. For the doctor, noting the effect 
 of his quiet presence, had left him entirely master of the sick 
 room, despite Mrs. Surridge's wish to take watch and watch 
 with him. 
 
 And so, he was rewarded early one morning, " at low water," 
 as he afterward explained: "by a voice from the bed, just a 
 quiet whisper of a voice as wouldn't a been heard above the 
 squawkin' of a block at sea. 
 
 "It come to me while I'm lookin' out of the window, thinkin' 
 it's tide time an' the craft are all swung athwart Reach, lookin' 
 for the flood to come up. Eh! it's a pretty sight at dawn, the 
 river glintin' yellow, the lights winkin' dim, the ships all brimful 
 of life, but so quiet; so near to death just like my Susie just 
 like my Susie. Then her voice breaks in upon me soft, so 
 weary soft 'Father,' nothin' more, an' I turned round. 
 
 "The ebb's done, you see; done this half hour, an' the flood's 
 come up good an' strong. It's the springs, you'll remember; 
 an' when they do come along, they bustle that sharp, that you 
 have to spry wiv your helium, as the sayin' is. 
 
 "Lawd! if I wasn't proud, knock me down for an old fool 
 that isn't fit to havecharge of a craft in any waters; but I couldn't 
 say as much. You take my meanin' a job like that ? " 
 
 They had taken his meaning and given him a full share of 
 praise, a thing he deprecated with a phrase. "As though a
 
 SAUNDERSON MOVES *n 
 
 man wanted sleep," he said, "when life's in the scales wiv 
 time. " 
 
 Now Sutcliffe had sailed. Some days before his departure 
 Susie had attempted to discover whether her aunt's remarks 
 as to his debts, had any basis in fact; but she had failed alto- 
 gether to extort any proof. Her father had maintained a ban- 
 tering demeanour, unutterably foreign to him, and the girl, 
 reading between the lines with the quick instinct of womanly 
 love and intuition, knew that her aunt had spoken the truth. 
 
 She had been sitting watching the sunset and wondering 
 how she could best serve her father, when the cottage door 
 opened and she heard her uncle scrubbing his shoes on the 
 mat. Her own door was ajar, the passage outside, in semi- 
 darkness. Tom paused on the threshold to ask, under his 
 breath, "Where's Susie?" 
 
 Mrs. Surridge replied: "Upstairs, lyin' down." 
 
 "Asleep?" 
 
 "She was asleep when I looked in just now what's wrong?" 
 
 "I've seen that Saundisson, an' " 
 
 "Hush! come into the kitchen " 
 
 Their whispers ascended the stairs; then her aunt's voice 
 grew louder. It was evident the conversation waxed in interest. 
 Susie moved from her nook in the window and leaned over the 
 bannisters. Her name was mentioned coupled with Saunder- 
 son's as she crept downward. 
 
 "Saundisson claims the gell or the money," said Tom Sur- 
 ridge angrily. "I don't hold with such nigger's courtin'. It 
 ain't manly. " 
 
 " Susie mustn't wait about she must be woke up, " his wife 
 retorted. 
 
 Surridge made no reply; he was evidently nonplussed at find- 
 ing himself in antagonism with his wife.
 
 212 THE ISSUE 
 
 "If George can't find the money, " she resumed, "why don't 
 he say so an' tell the gell of his trouble. I told her somethin' 
 of it six weeks ago this blessed day an' " 
 
 "An' a nice muss you made of it, mother," Tom replied 
 with a rare outburst. Susie could almost see her aunt's aston- 
 ishment. She remained a moment listening, and the voice again 
 took up its burden. 
 
 "You're as bad as George, Tom. La! why can't you let it 
 alone you men are all a fair image of each other; you don't 
 understand gells any better than you can boil potatoes. Saun- 
 disson's a fine built man, an' unless I'm a mile out, Susie will 
 be his wife before many weeks have passed an' as comferable as 
 a hen with a new brood of chicks. " 
 
 Tom groaned, "I don't know. I don't like him. " 
 
 "He's too big an' fine for your fancy, Tom," Mrs. Surridge 
 laughed; "I can't remember you ever likin' a big man. " 
 
 "I don't know about that; I do know as Saundisson's goin' 
 to sell up. O law! My law!" He paused with a gasp as a 
 light step sounded on the steps and Susie entered, saying in her 
 still voice: 
 
 "What is he going to sell up, Uncle ? " 
 
 She stood so quietly, with such white, drawn lips that Tom 
 meditated an escape. He moved toward the door, muttering: 
 "Who's sayin' anythin' about sellin' up? Seems to me you've 
 been dreamin' an' them pigs! O law! Hearken to Zulu 
 
 number four's gettin' " he broke off in dismay; for Susie 
 
 had intercepted his passage to the door, and now paused with her 
 hand on the lock. 
 
 "Never mind Zulu," she said; "but tell me what Jim Saund- 
 erson is going to do ? " 
 
 Tom looked at his wife; but that lady's lips were firmly 
 closed. He could see no help in her eyes. It was useless to deny
 
 SAUNDERSON MOVES 
 
 any longer what he had said. The girl read him like a book. 
 He drew near the table. 
 
 "Saundisson has got father in a hole," he blurted, "an* he's 
 puttin' on the screw twistin' him, same as you'd twist a cow's 
 tail you wanted to hustle. " Then amazed at his own effrontery, 
 he gazed in astonishment at the calm lips putting a further 
 question. 
 
 "Has he asked for the money then?" 
 
 "Law! Susie, that's a trifle a trifle. He says, 'pay me 
 or,' law . . . 'or I sell the house.'" 
 
 Susie took a long breath, but stood firm. "Where is Mother ? 
 Is she still there?" she questioned. 
 
 " He's turned her out. She's gone but no one knows where 
 she's gone. In Abbeyville they say Saundisson chucked her 
 along of her behaviour to you, Susie." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge intervened with a sigh: "Ah! There's heart 
 for you, Tom. " 
 
 Tom snorted. 
 
 "That's what I call heart, " his wife emphasised. "I doubt 
 that if he had the power to squeeze her also, she would have 
 been squeezed an' all for the sake of - " 
 
 "Jim Saunderson may have done it for my sake, Auntie," 
 Susie returned, "and he may have done it simply because 
 Mother is no further use to him. I shall always be inclined 
 to doubt Jim Saunderson's motives." 
 
 "Hear that, Mother? Law! isn't that what I say?" Tom 
 cried in triumph. Mrs. Surridge took no notice of her husband ; 
 she turned to the girl. 
 
 "You are wrong," she said. "Why look how good he was 
 when you were ill. Do you think a man's all bad as can act 
 as he has?" 
 
 "No, I don't say that he has no good in him. We all have
 
 214 THE ISSUE 
 
 a little good. Still, sometimes it is so hidden by the bad that 
 it hardly appears. But," she turned to her uncle, "do you 
 know when this this sale is to take place ? Have you heard 
 anything ? " 
 
 "It's threatened for the next time father's at home, Susie," 
 Tom replied with some hesitation. 
 
 The girl took a deep breath. "Then we have a fortnight to 
 to find the money." 
 
 "That's it, Susie; to a hair it is." 
 
 "And need be in no hurry," Susie continued. "And a 
 fortnight is a long time. I shall write to a friend of mine 
 who may be able to help. So we will say nothing about it to 
 anyone, please and now we can have tea. I am so thirsty, 
 Auntie, I could drink oh, I don't know what I could 
 drink." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge approached with persuasion written in every 
 line of her comely face. She whispered: "Who is your friend, 
 Susie ? Is it Mr. Oakley ? Is it ? " 
 
 "No. I could not ask him now. Come let us have tea. " 
 
 Tom waited to hear no more. He glanced shamedly into the 
 girl's face, stared at his wife, and disappeared in the direction 
 of the sties. 
 
 An hour later Susie was sitting again in her room gazing 
 through the window. Twilight still lingered in the sou 'west, 
 a tinge only, very soft, very indefinite, blending with the light 
 of the stronger moon. The pure, cold rays flooded the land 
 and fell shivering through the panes, throwing elongated dia- 
 monds across the floor. Trembling patches of light, blurred 
 and misty, mingled with the darker spaces shadowed by the 
 walls; a naked arm of wistaria moved gently without, throwing 
 unstable lines across the sill. The infinite peace and solemnity 
 of the scene sank into the girl's heart. It led her away from the
 
 SAUNDERSON MOVES 215 
 
 weary episodes of recent days, bidding her remember what had 
 been. 
 
 She grew strong and confident as she sat there staring into 
 the subtle light. Thoughts came and went in silence. With- 
 out volition, without the smallest effort of will, the past swam 
 down the stream of memory. She lived, as the Old live, in 
 the recollection of what had been, and the pictures came un- 
 asked. 
 
 Far through the night she perceived her room in the old 
 home in Abbeyville, A pretty window, draped in white dimity, 
 overlooked the river. It was dark out there, and the light on 
 the Point blazed like a brazier, throwing recurrent flashes 
 across her. A moment it was hidden : ah, a barge was crossing 
 her line of vision; its sails shut out the glare. 
 
 Farther in the distance a double tier of lamps burned steadily; 
 they shivered in the waters almost to the garden foot. Hark! 
 A bugle call. "Lights out" on the training ship. The young- 
 sters were going to bed. How beautiful it was ; how full of peace 
 that outlook in the home of her childhood. Downstairs, stand- 
 ing on the sofa in childish expectancy, she had waited for 
 her father's arrival; outside, at the edge of the garden, in later 
 years she had waited and watched for the first indication of the 
 black-sailed brig, moving from the shadowy reaches beyond; 
 the reaches from whence her father always came with treasures, 
 and she had assumed the right to search his pockets in the full 
 knowledge that treasures were there. In that old home she 
 had received them; an infinite variety of keepsakes, all 
 stored now, all unreachable, telling the story of a father's 
 devotion and her increasing years. 
 
 Everything she loved was in that house. There were her 
 pictures, her books, her trinkets. All he and she held dear 
 was congregated within the four walls of the old weather-board
 
 216 THE ISSUE 
 
 house where her father had suffered without a whisper of com- 
 plaint during those years of her step-mother's reign. There 
 he had lived, struggling in the meshes of growing debts and 
 diminishing wages, for interminable years for her sake. All 
 for her sake. A weary task. An unending sacrifice. And 
 now, when life was nearly spent, when he was drifting slowly 
 with the ebbing tide, now, Saunderson stepped forward and 
 said, "Pay me what you owe." 
 
 What could she do? How could she help. Compared with 
 his great record, she could do but little in truth. Her future 
 she had no future. Jack was dead. It lay with her to save her 
 father. In honour nothing else remained. Yet, how could she 
 aid him ? 
 
 By appealing to Saunderson's generosity? 
 
 As well appeal to the unending procession of stars and bid 
 them wait her convenience; as well appeal to the rolling tide 
 and beg mercy for some drowning wretch lying on sands already 
 half submerged. For Saunderson knew no mercy, compassion, 
 self-denial, nor any of the kindred virtues, and Susie was aware 
 of it. 
 
 There was but one way in which she could be of service, one 
 way in which she could rescue her father from the clutches of 
 his enemy. It was the way practised by women in all ranks 
 and grades of life her surrender. Tom Surridge's words 
 filled her ears: "Saunderson claims the gell or the money." 
 
 Terse, unutterably terse, but definite terms. 
 
 The night had grown in silence. A faint whisper rustled in 
 the trees; the wistaria nodded and beckoned before the window. 
 Far away in the distant valley an engine shrieked and the dull 
 roar of a train droned sleepily in the stillness. A blackbird 
 awakened from his sleep, flew to an uppermost bough and piped 
 a dozen stanzas in antiphone with his mate. The peaceful moon
 
 SAUNDERSON MOVES 217 
 
 shining with the light of a dead world, peered through the deep- 
 set window and glanced across the quiet room. 
 
 It searched amidst the white bed- wrappings; tinged the 
 farther wall with a picture of waving branches, twigs, and cling- 
 ing ivy, and fell lovingly on the figure of a young girl, kneeling 
 with hidden face among the draperies at the bed-foot. And 
 something of the ineffable purity of its glance was reflected in 
 her suppliant attitude, as she paused [there, bowed in silent 
 prayer before the Throne of God.
 
 CHAPTER n 
 
 CONDITIONAL 
 
 A GAIN some hours had sped; hours full of unrest; full of 
 -tT\ halting action, fear, hope; then the news of Saunder- 
 son's presence at Abbeyville came and Susie knew that 
 she could delay no longer. In a sense she was glad that 
 she knew ; for action could take the place of inaction ; decision of 
 indecision. Sutcliff e was still away. It had become imperative 
 that she should move at once, if she would effect his salvation. 
 She was glad of the certainty, and for the moment, revelled in 
 the knowledge that at length she could be of some service. 
 
 Early one afternoon, she started across country for Abbey- 
 ville. It was the first time she had ventured on those hallowed 
 paths since Jack had gone. She knew the way blindfold. It 
 was the hunting ground of her childhood; a way she had 
 learned to tramp in many a ramble; the way she had traversed 
 with her lover that night when he had accompanied her across 
 the woods to Swinfleet. Then, as in those earlier days, Jack 
 had been at her side to beguile the time with love and kisses. 
 Now Jack was dead, and she moved in silence across a wintry 
 land, a land peopled by memories, alone and in dread. 
 
 It was bitter to traverse it thus; bitter to recognise the cause 
 of her loneliness; bitter to remember the errand that 
 took her again to Abbeyville. She set her mind resolutely, 
 determined to forget. Vain, all vain. Memory stood between 
 her and oblivion. As well as attempt to stem the tide of Father 
 Thames as to hush the voices whispering of what had been. 
 
 218
 
 CONDITIONAL 219 
 
 Here, by the cross-roads, barely four months ago, she had 
 parted from her lover, and for the last time watched him out of 
 sight. The last ? Aye, for on that other occasion he had fled 
 in the dead of the night; while a dense fog had curtained the 
 land, and she lay dazed with the agony of his departure. 
 
 What an array of fateful incident jostled and surged about 
 her. How monstrous the procession of stern events. Cheek 
 by jowl with illness; cheek by jowl with death all past all 
 done with, and only memory alive. It was hateful, torturing 
 a phantasy from which she could not escape. 
 
 She came to the woods, walking quickly down the winding, 
 rutted way. Here, on the right, was the copse in which Jack 
 had taken her in his arms and asked her to be his wife. That 
 was long ago . . . long ago. There, at the verge of the 
 clearing, the woman had intervened; they had turned back; 
 she had grown tired; Jack had made a bed of leaves and sheltered 
 her with his arms long ago . . . long ago. There, 
 in that gorse-strewn dell, they had talked and planned and 
 dreamed of a transcendant future. Now Jack was dead yet 
 she remained, lingering sadly to aid her father. 
 
 Without his presence the world would soon have lacked 
 hers. Without the recognition of his enduring faithfulness, 
 no such ordeal would have been possible. Susie would have 
 gone the way of many a sufferer. Quietly, without remorse, 
 she would have entered the Silent Courts through the dark ave- 
 nue she knew so well; but now that mode of freedom, paltry and 
 jarring with a hateful cowardice, no longer existed. Her 
 father lived. She stood in the gap between him and beggary; 
 for, to him, and to all men of Sutcliffe's type, the "House" 
 remains anathema. 
 
 This Susie knew only too well. She knew, too, that should 
 he gain an inkling of her intention, he would prevent it. After
 
 220 THE ISSUE 
 
 all, she argued, did it matter whom she married? Jack was 
 dead. His death freed her to do as she willed. Other women 
 had married men whom they hated why not ? It was in the 
 nature of things that people could not always do as they wished 
 unless they were rich. Then it mattered very little what 
 they did. She found herself wondering what would have 
 been Mr. Oakley's attitude had she been rich. The question 
 crossed her in so many ways; but always the answer remained 
 steadfast: "In that case, he would have continued my friend. " 
 
 She waited a long while sitting on a felled trunk near the 
 pond at the Shorncombe end of the woods. The thoughts 
 troubled her. The proximity of those well-remembered paths 
 grew as a burden from which she could not escape. She was 
 appalled at the trend of her fancies: Jack was dead. She 
 was moving to save her father. Nothing else mattered. 
 
 It was growing dusk when she at length passed from the 
 shady footway and entered on the long village streets. These 
 she traversed without interruption, and striking down the 
 highroad, came to a narrow turning, a footway leading to the 
 river. A tortuous, railed-in path, along the verge of old chalk 
 cuttings, took her to the bush-grown dell they called the Spin- 
 ney the place of all others, consecrated in her memory to 
 Jack. She crossed the turf and stood a moment among the 
 trees, and the trees spoke to her, bidding her welcome with 
 sad, soft voices. Out there was the river. Beside her the 
 bushes. Above her the voices. She flung herself at the foot of 
 the trees, grovelling in the grass. 
 
 "It is mine! It is mine! Nobody must touch it it was 
 for me alone. See, here are the crosses he cut: those were for 
 kisses. Here is my name twined with his: that was for luck. 
 This branch he broke away from yonder: it was for me to lean 
 against. It is mine mine mine. Jack made it for me.
 
 CONDITIONAL 221 
 
 Now Jack is gone and I am alone. I do not want it. I can 
 never want it again. 
 
 "Oh! give me strength. God help me and teach me how 
 to pray! When I was little I prayed for everything. Then 
 mother came and I could pray no more. Now I cannot pray. 
 I am miserable heartbroken fallen. I have done wrong. 
 I have done nothing right and I am afraid ... I am 
 afraid of myself . . . and so I ask for help. Oh, God, 
 give me strength teach me what I must do." 
 
 Her voice echoed amidst the trees and the trees looked down 
 through leafless arms, murmuring, cajoling, whispering of the 
 one great certitude death. She looked up, sobbing with the 
 burden of a sorrow too heavy to be borne. She lay exhausted on 
 the turf, staring out upon the winding river, and always the 
 one answer came to her: the only certainty is death, there is 
 no other none. 
 
 The violence of her grief had brought exhaustion, but the 
 night restored her. She rested after a time upon her arm, 
 watching the familiar scene. The quiet solemnity of the still even- 
 ing; the whispering, friendly trees, leaning out with that strange 
 answer; the glinting river with its load of moving shipping, and 
 her own desire for guidance, brought the relief she craved. 
 She was less breathless, less excited, less fearful now. She 
 sat a long while staring into the night, and the night soothed 
 her as only Nature can soothe her children. The future faded 
 from her vision. Just a short, and perhaps stormy, interval 
 
 awaited her then Something moved on the path close 
 
 at hand. She stood up and the denial of that whispered 
 answer, all unrecognised as it was, confronted her. 
 
 Tony Crow paused on the grass before her. Tony Crow 
 the village blacksmith, the man of many inches and the heart 
 of a little child he bore the denial. He said in his strangely
 
 222 THE ISSUE 
 
 mixed dialect: "Ah thowt ah saw sommat flutterin' abaht 
 t'trees. Socks! ah'm praad t'see ye, lassie." 
 
 Susie shook indecision to the winds and advanced to meet 
 him. 
 
 "I didn't notice you," she cried. "Have you been here 
 long? I came over to to look at the old place again. You 
 see " 
 
 " Then it's weel ah commed this way, " he interrupted. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because you could na get in. Susie, the bums are in t'owd 
 house. What is father doin'?" 
 
 She replied with scarcely a quaver: "That is curious, for 
 I came over on purpose to arrange it. You see Father is away. 
 Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Saunderson, Tony ? " 
 
 " He's on t'sea- wall. Gone to look round V Bluebell. Hewull 
 be comin' back presently ah knaw. Socks! " he added shuffling 
 with his feet on the gravel, "but ah'm glad t'hear you c'n 
 settle it. Ye may have perceivet thot ah have no great love 
 for Saundisson ah weesh ah had the power, if ah wud not 
 bring him oop wi a rahnd turn ah'm dommed, an' thot's 
 Yerkshur. Gude nicht, lassie. " 
 
 He disappeared down the path, his long legs moving swiftly, 
 his arms swinging, his head erect and menacing. But Susie 
 did not see. Indeed she scarcely heard his words, that other 
 phrase, unspeakable and degrading, rang in her brain: "the 
 bums are in the old house." Anger mastered her. For a 
 while as she walked toward the river her thoughts were in 
 tumult; but again the cool night air soothed her and she recog- 
 nised the futility of battle, the uselessness of strife, the neces- 
 sity for calm and unimpassioned thought. She reached the sea- 
 wall and stood looking out into the dying afterglow. 
 
 How long she paused there, how long the pictures of her
 
 CONDITIONAL 223 
 
 past life flashed before her, she did not know. The only recog- 
 nised fact was the heavy and irregular sound made by Saun- 
 derson as he advanced to meet her. Then his voice, with that 
 curious, ringing tone, so thrilling and yet so hateful, fell on her 
 ears: "Susie, I didn't think to see you here." 
 
 She approached the object of her visit at once: "Father is 
 still away," she announced: "he was unable to come and so 
 
 "Father has never wanted to come, Susie, so far as I can 
 make out," he broke in with a touch of anger. 
 
 "Don't say that don't say that. He has had so much 
 trouble or he would have paid you. " 
 
 "I won't disbelieve you," he replied with a tinge of sarcasm; 
 "still he might have arranged to answer my letters." 
 
 "Your letters?" 
 
 "Several all unanswered." 
 
 "Father is a poor scholar; he can't write well or read 
 much." She faltered the fact as if in extenuation, but 
 Saunderson pushed it aside with a brusque gesture. He said 
 roughly: 
 
 "He might have shown em to those who can. " 
 
 "You don't know him. Indeed, indeed you don't. He 
 could not do that. He never tells strangers of his affairs." 
 
 " He need not have done that either," Saunderson returned, 
 still with the tinge of sarcasm. 
 
 Susie paused; she knew they only fenced with words, and 
 wished unutterably that he would say what he had to say 
 what she knew he would say, presently, when this fencing, this 
 stupidity was over. She looked up and discovered his eyes 
 were fixed upon her. He was holding out his hand advan- 
 cing to take hers. He was speaking also. 
 
 "Father might have shown them to you, Susie," he said
 
 224 THE ISSUE 
 
 and reached her side. She watched him, and the question 
 moved on her lips: 
 
 "And now it is too late?" 
 
 "It is too late unless unless " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Unless you care to change your mind, maybe." 
 
 The girl was conscious of one thing during this dialogue. 
 The suggestion was hers; the sentences were hers; but beyond 
 yawned a gulf. She had no volition in the matter. The con- 
 versation went on the lines made inevitable by the man with 
 whom she spoke. She turned towards him and again words 
 fell from her lips: 
 
 " You know I would save him if I could." 
 
 "Then you shall!" he nearly shouted. 
 
 She lifted her hand and he drew back as though ashamed of 
 his vehemence. 
 
 "You know I do not love you . . . you know " 
 
 "I know that I love you," he continued swiftly. 
 
 "That I love " she essayed and paused. 
 
 "Never mind your love," he broke in with rough eloquence; 
 "think of me. Think of the old man. Think of the smoothin' 
 down of difficulties for all. Love! You needn't do much 
 lovin'. I can do all that I love you enough for forty. I 
 love you so as no woman was ever loved before. I love you 
 with a love that burns the soul-case out of me. I'm fair sick 
 with longin', with waitin' an' playin' the fool. Come to me, 
 Susie!" he moved a step nearer, speaking more softly, "come 
 an' even if you don't love me, it makes no sort of difference. I 
 love you an' your love for me will come." 
 
 The girl shrank before the passion of his appeal. The 
 words appalled her. She could not speak. She found his 
 fingers gripping hers, drawing her to him and a sudden
 
 CONDITIONAL 225 
 
 lethargy overcame her. She found herself sinking in his 
 arms. 
 
 "You are mine mine," he whispered in her ear. "My 
 Gawd, Susie, you are mine!" 
 
 His passion aroused her, she struggled violently for freedom, 
 crying aloud her conditions. "Stay! You must prove 
 yourself worthy of my trust you must you must! How 
 dare you attempt to hold me! Stand back or I will never 
 speak to you again." 
 
 He released her instantly. He was stung by the quick hard 
 tones; but still he watched her; still looked hungrily into her 
 quivering face. 
 
 "What must I do?" he asked at length. "Tell me what 
 I must do. " 
 
 She faced him, striving to speak without hurry. "You have 
 put some one in the old house. It was ungenerous; you must 
 send them away send them at once." 
 
 "If you wish it," he replied. 
 
 "You will give me a receipt for this money?" 
 
 "I will, Susie when you are mine." 
 
 "I will marry you. You promise never to make any further 
 claim on him you promise that before God?" 
 
 "Never, Susie before Gawd I promise it. But it's on one 
 condition, you understand that." 
 
 "I understand," she returned without a tremor; "that I am 
 to be your wife." 
 
 "That's your promise?" he questioned, half in doubt. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When to-morrow ? " 
 
 "That is impossible. You must give notice. The day 
 after, if you wish at the registry office in Riverton. You 
 understand? and you will bring the papers?"
 
 226 THE ISSUE 
 
 "I will I will." 
 
 "I told you that I do not love you that I " 
 
 He broke in with a swift sentence. "No matter." 
 
 "And you have heard about about " Susie paused, a 
 
 sudden tremor filled her voice, and Saunderson picked up the 
 phrase: 
 
 "About Jack Elliott? Of course I have." 
 
 "You know that I was driven from home by my mother 
 and that " 
 
 "Susie, I know all." 
 
 She pursued the subject with calm intonation ; but with pulses 
 that leaped and throbbed and burned: "And you would marry 
 me no matter what had happened " 
 
 Again the hurried and passionate tones of the man overcame 
 her own. He cried out with sudden vehemence: "I would 
 marry you, Susie, if you told me you slept that night in the 
 gutter. I'd marry you if you told me you're Elliott's wife. I'd 
 marry you no matter what had been. Why? Because I love 
 you because I'm mad, a fool wiv longin' fair dizzy wiv the 
 strain of waitin' so now you have me on the hip." 
 
 Susie shuddered involuntarily. Her face was ashen, her 
 voice scarcely reached a whisper. 
 
 "I think," she said, "there is nothing more to speak of." 
 
 "Except what time will you meet me in Riverton?" 
 
 "Eleven o'clock. Will that do?" 
 
 "It will do if you say so. Everything will do only look 
 at me an' say you're glad to be able to square this trouble ; that 
 you will come to love me with tune; that you don't hate me 
 now say it, Susie." 
 
 She faced him, looking very white; her voice tremulous and 
 full of tears: "I am glad " she said, then halted. 
 
 " Jim," he suggested.
 
 CONDITIONAL 227 
 
 "I am glad we have been able to arrange it and but you 
 will bring the papers. I shall not many you until I have the 
 papers." 
 
 "No further, lass?" he questioned, watching her closely; 
 "can't get on with it any further yet? Well . . . I'll 
 bring the papers. I'll wait, Susie. I would do more than that 
 to get your love. You understand me. You know there is 
 nothin' I wouldn't do to get you nothin' nothin' on all 
 God's earth. Come . . . kiss me . . . Susie; let us 
 begin all over again." 
 
 She looked round helplessly, averting her face. "Oh! I 
 can't," she begged. "Not yet not yet." 
 
 He drew back with a touch of disappointment. "I'll wait," 
 he said. Then suddenly broke out; "Susie, do you know what 
 this means to me? Do you guess? No; you can't. But I'll 
 tell you. It means strength it means power it means hap- 
 piness. With you to help me I'll climb high. With your love 
 to aid me my stumblin' block goes. I'm not educated as you 
 are we will work an' push forward. I will lead these sweated 
 workers. I'll help them get their deserts a fuller wage; a 
 stronger position. The masters shall come to know 
 there's somethin' in Win'bag Saunderson after all and you 
 will help me? Susie! say you will help me." 
 
 "I will try," she faltered. 
 
 " I ask no more," he replied.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 TOM'S DEFENCE 
 
 IT WAS the morning of the sacrifice. The morning of 
 the day named after the one-eyed god of Scandinavian 
 mythology whose wisdom is proverbial Wednesday, and 
 the country lying under a pall of clouds which had shrouded 
 the sky since sunrise. 
 
 Susie had been up for hours watching the falling rain and 
 waiting to speak to her uncle. Tom Surridge usually journeyed 
 to Riverton on Wednesday and on this occasion the girl was to 
 accompany him. She had preferred her request so eagerly on 
 the night she returned from Abbeyville, that Surridge, noting 
 her white and pleading glance, promised to go, "come wet or 
 fine." He had wondered in his simple and passive fashion 
 what made her so earnest. But there his curiosity ended, for 
 Susie had made him promise that he would not divulge her 
 secret, and he, being mindful of another occasion, attempted 
 nothing in the way of comfort. Thus, it was not until they were 
 ready to start, that Mrs. Surridge was made cognisant of the 
 intended trip. 
 
 She was instantly loud in her expression of the folly of all 
 mankind, and her husband in particular, when presently Tom 
 ventured to side with Susie. "Sakes! child, you'll catch your 
 death," she asserted. 
 
 A wistful expression crept into the girl's eyes, but she smiled 
 and moved towards the door. Mrs. Surridge recognised that 
 her arguments had no weight. She shook her head sadly 
 
 228
 
 TOM'S DEFENCE 229 
 
 "Well, if you must go, put on a jacket under your rain cloak : 
 you shan't go unless." 
 
 "Thanks, don't bother about me, Auntie see, I am quite 
 warm." 
 
 She held forth her hand, and Mrs. Surridge caught it in her 
 own: "Some people," she remarked, "fair stagger a person with 
 their onaccountable contrariness. If it's hot, you're like a 
 blessed icicle; if it's cold and rainin' an' miserable as a wash'us 
 with no winda, you're burnin' like the sun through a presim. 
 Go along! Put on your coat I have no patience with you." 
 
 Half an hour later Susie was seated beside her uncle and 
 the trap was carrying them fast toward Riverton. The girl 
 was strangely silent, and Tom, to make his abstraction less 
 apparent, had found it necessary to bestow so many orders and 
 flicks of the whip on the mare, that his patient servitor felt 
 distinctly ill-used and resentful. By the time they reached 
 the cross roads at the top of the hill Susie found courage to 
 say: 
 
 "Will you be very busy to-day, Uncle? Could you put the 
 horse up somewhere for an hour ? " 
 
 Tom instantly forgot the worries of driving. "I can put her 
 up if you want me to," he answered. "I can't say as I have a 
 power o' work to do. What is it you want ? " 
 
 " I am going to be married," she returned more distinctly. 
 
 Tom gulped with astonishment. He replaced the whip in its 
 socket and rapped out crescendo variations of his most useful 
 swear- word. "Law! Oh, law! My law!" Then with an 
 incredible twist, "Married?" 
 
 "Yes and I want you to help me." 
 
 "Susie, you're jokin' surelie you're jokin'." 
 
 "Indeed, I'm not." 
 
 "Then then you ought to be," Tom said this with huge deci-
 
 2 3 o THE ISSUE 
 
 sion; but reading in her eyes that this opinion carried no weight, 
 he fell back on entreaty. "Why, where's father, an' auntie, 
 an' the white dress an' fal-lals, Susie? Wheer's any of the 
 things they have at a weddin' ? An' who's it to be ? " 
 
 "Jim Saunderson, Uncle." 
 
 " Susie, I'm goin' back. I can't listen to sech things. There 
 would be ructions if I did. An' what my old woman, your 
 auntie, my dear, would say, goodness onlie knows. Why, 
 earthquakes, an' wars, an' sudden deaths would be a fool to it. 
 Whoa, mare! Whoa!" 
 
 He checked the trap as he spoke and sat watching the girl's 
 face. She half -rose, pushing aside the apron. "If you go 
 back I shall walk," she said very distinctly. "Let me get down 
 please." 
 
 "You can't walk, child it's as wet as wet, an' we are more 
 than two miles from Riverton." 
 
 She put her hand on his arm with a caressing gesture: "Then 
 drive on there's a good, kind uncle. I must go. I have 
 promised. It will make no difference." 
 
 Tom Surridge groaned and gave the mare a cut that sent her 
 onward with renewed vigour. "Of all the trapesin's I've ever 
 been on," he remarked uncomfortably, "this is the licker. 
 Why, what's the use of me at a weddin'? I don't know any- 
 thin' about weddin's. I've only been at one myself, as I know 
 of, an' the old woman dragged me through that by the scruff, as 
 you might say. Law! what's the use of havin' me? Why it's 
 no use you might as well have Zulu to see you straight as 
 me." 
 
 "There will be nothing for you to do, except witness," she 
 urged, "you can't refuse you won't refuse." 
 
 "Refuse!" he cried in great perturbation, and again, "wit- 
 ness! Why, what do I know about witnessin' an' such?
 
 TOM'S DEFENCE 231 
 
 Nuthin'. Less than nothin'. Wait a bit, my deary; don't you 
 go an' make a blessed hash of it . . . an' what about the 
 letters if they come ? " 
 
 She faced him with cold decision. "No letters can come 
 now; or, if they do, you must keep them." 
 
 He made no further remark. The girl's quiet insistence 
 effectually silenced him. He held his peace as was his custom 
 when worsted by the severer oratory of his wife. 
 
 It was but little short of eleven o'clock when the trap woke 
 the echoes of the quiet, wide street in which is situated the River- 
 ton registry office. As they approached, Saunderson emerged 
 from the shelter of an adjoining archway and came to meet 
 them. He was dressed in his most dazzling war-paint. A blue, 
 braided, peak cap; a blue reefer suit, velvet collar and an elabor- 
 ate vista of shirt front adorned his heavy frame. About his 
 shoulders, as a protection from the inclement weather, hung a 
 yellow oilskin coat. His face and beard dripped moisture 
 and his bushy hair shone with oil and trickling rivulets of 
 rain. He came forward and saluted Susie with a quick sen- 
 tence, then turned toward the door of an adjacent bar. Here 
 he engaged a room and ordered refreshments. They stood in 
 a circle about the small table and Saunderson produced a 
 bundle of papers. 
 
 "I brought them with me as promised. Look at them: 
 bill o' sale, receipt, George Sutcliffe's paper given to me when 
 he had the money, int'rest papers all square an' regular. 
 Turn them over, Susie; turn them over an' see if they are 
 right." 
 
 She examined them with trembling fingers. They were her 
 purchase money; the price of her father's liberty; the price of her 
 beauty. In a few hours she would have redeemed them. She 
 folded them slowly and handed them to her uncle.
 
 23* THE ISSUE 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "They are what you promised: 
 hadn't we better go ? " 
 
 Saunderson moved over and took her hand. "You'll give 
 me better thanks than that, Susie?" he whispered, drawing 
 her to him. She submitted passively to his caresses, but the 
 power of the man's arms frightened her. She drew back. 
 Saunderson did not appear to notice the action. He was 
 flushed. The vein in his forehead throbbed noticeably. So 
 they passed over to the registry office, and in fifteen minutes 
 Susie emerged, a bride of nineteen, leaning on the arm of 
 a man whose years outnumbered hers by more than two to 
 one. 
 
 Saunderson moved briskly down to the trap with the air of one 
 on whom the world smiled. His eyes twinkled as he made 
 ready to mount. 
 
 "Now," he said, "If Mr. Surridge will favour us with his 
 company, he'll drive us down to the pier. I want you to look 
 at the schooner you've not seen her yet, Susie. I would like 
 to show her." 
 
 Surridge discovered no enthusiasm in the matter. He was 
 ill at ease and had no wish to examine the beauties of the Blue- 
 bell; but he desired to keep within reach of Susie, and consented. 
 They drove in silence to the pier. Here Saunderson alighted 
 and taking the girl in his arms, lifted her to the pavement and 
 hailed a boat which seemed to have been waiting his orders. 
 His voice rang with pride. ,' 
 
 "Now, my sons," he cried "up alongside wiv her. Look 
 slippy. It's almost high water. This way, Susie hold on to 
 me come on. Uncle, there's a boy lookin' after the horse. 
 This way this way." 
 
 In ten minutes they were standing on board the schooner 
 and Tom was staring at the flapping canvas. Presently he
 
 TOM'S DEFENCE 233 
 
 approached Saunderson with a question which had gradually 
 assumed shape: 
 
 " What's them things bangin' for ? Why don't you tie 'em up ?" 
 
 The skipper replied with a grim touch of humour: " Because 
 we're goin' to use 'em." Then in a shout to the men forward: 
 "Heave short there!" 
 
 Susie drew near. She understood by the orders and the 
 noise forward, what was impending, and dared hope for further 
 respite. "You are sailing, then," she whispered. "I didn't 
 know; but, you will put us ashore first you will give me time 
 to get my things. It has been so hurried I could not bring them 
 with me." 
 
 Saunderson caught her in his arms. "Never you mind 
 about your things," he laughed, "we're goin' where there's 
 things in plenty an' the money to buy them is in my pocket." 
 
 Surridge turned on him with a flash: "It's not honest 
 work. It's a cruel business; it's kidnappin' that's what it is. 
 Why, if I'd known what you were leadin' me to, I'd not have 
 come. I'd have seen the lass dead first." He shouted the 
 words as he danced on the deck, snapping his fingers hi Saun- 
 derson's face, but the big man only laughed. 
 
 "Don't you make a song about nothin'. Susie's my wife, 
 not yours," he cried. 
 
 Susie slipped over and laid her hand on Tom's arm. "Never 
 mind me," she faltered, "it's only a little sooner than I 
 thought. Leave us: I am quite safe with Jim." 
 
 Tom Surridge pushed her back. "You hold your tongue!" 
 he cried. "I'm not going ashore without you I'll see him to 
 
 to " He turned to Saunderson, shouting: "You're 
 
 a big chap an' I'm a little un. But I don't stand by an' see 
 this. Let Susie come with me let her come an' get her 
 things."
 
 234 
 
 THE ISSUE 
 
 "I'll see you in flames first." 
 
 "That settles it." 
 
 As Surridge said this he darted straight at his big opponent 
 and aimed a blow at his head. Saunderson saw him coming 
 and caught him under the ear before he could reach. 
 
 "Stand back, fool!" he shouted savagely; "d'ye think I'm 
 to be stopped by a whipper-snapper like you? Lumme! I 
 could kill you." 
 
 Surridge was lifted off his feet by the blow. He rolled 
 across the deck half -stunned and leaned against the rigging; 
 but in a moment he returned to the encounter. He shouted 
 aloud his contempt. 
 
 "Whipper-snapper I may be fool I may be; but, by law! 
 I ain't a coward." He snatched an iron belaying pin from the 
 rail. "If arms can't do it," he asserted, "maybe this here 
 poker can." 
 
 He was under Saunderson's guard before the skipper realised 
 what was to be the new mode of attack. "On the shins is a 
 a good place for niggers! " he yelled, dancing briskly to and fro; 
 "I shouldn't wonder if it's the best for you!" Two smart 
 blows on the legs followed, then Saunderson landed a heavy 
 thump on the little man's head. 
 
 "O law!" he gasped, jumping about and watching his 
 opportunity to reach the skipper's arm, "O law! my crust is 
 about as hard as the old woman's pies. O law! that ain't 
 nothin'. How's that, eh, Guv'nur ? " He brought the belay- 
 ing pin down with crushing force, and Saunderson leaped back 
 with a yell of pain. His arm dropped limp at his side. He 
 stood feeling it, and Surridge paused in speechless concern. 
 "You've got it," he remarked at length. "If this here poker 
 ain't a beauty, I don't know. Come on, Susie." He was 
 bleeding profusely from the blows he had received, but appeared
 
 TOM'S DEFENCE 235 
 
 quite unconscious of his hurts. He was entirely occupied with 
 the result of his strategy. 
 
 Saunderson's answer was terrible. One moment he danced 
 in an agony of pain, then his eyes blazed. "It's broke!" he 
 yelled, and a torrent of oaths fell. Then : " Take that ! 
 Gawd! take that," he shouted, and Surridge lay at his feet 
 insensible. 
 
 He turned to the crew with an angry roar: "Avast heav'in! 
 Lay aft here an' get this drunken fool ashore! Get him ashore 
 an' look slippy back. We're losin' the tide we're losin' the 
 tide." 
 
 The men knew Saunderson. They knew his strength, his 
 violence if opposed, and consulting their own personal safety, 
 did his bidding with the alacrity born of fear. Thus, in less 
 than half an hour, the Bluebell was slipping quietly down 
 Reach; moving amidst the tangled traffic under the eye of a 
 skipper half drunk with pain and mortification; while Susie, a 
 wife of scarcely an hour's standing, lay on the cabin settee, too 
 dazed to know what was happening. 
 
 It was eloquent of the persistence, the dogged and bull-like 
 obstinacy of this man, that although he was undoubtedly suf- 
 fering intensely, he had no thought of then goingashore to see a 
 doctor. To do so meant detention; the possible flight of Susie; 
 any one of the many dangers he saw on the horizon of his fears. 
 Undrilled, undisciplined, with the tags and headlines of modern 
 newspapers to guide him; without self-control, without creed, 
 without any of the eld restraining influences ; with wits sharpened 
 by a staccato educational system and the voices of highly placed 
 democrats as his tutors, he perceived only the necessity for 
 movement ; for a resolute persistence in the plan he had mapped 
 out for his future. Nothing else would avail him. The 
 Bluebell must sail. She must leave Riverton for many reasons.
 
 236 THE ISSUE 
 
 Susie was his wife. Therefore he must sail. Bye and bye, 
 he told himself, he would be able to land somewhere mean- 
 while he must "grin and bear it." He had accomplished 
 more difficult tasks in his life. He would accomplish this. 
 
 A few miles below Riverton stands one of the forts in the 
 second line of Thames defence. A low granite circle, with 
 grim, iron-studded masks, conceals the guns and men. A 
 signal-man stood on the verge of the battery waving flags. 
 Some of the garrison were out with their launch, laying mines. 
 But Saunderson did not see her; he was occupied with the 
 pressing details of his position, until a voice rang out close 
 under the Bluebell's bows: "Hard a-starboard! hard over. 
 Where the devil are you going?" Then as he glanced under 
 the mainsail, he discovered the uniforms of the R. E's, and 
 heard the officer shout, "Full speed astern, Quartermaster 
 both engines." 
 
 Saunderson jammed his wheel over and by the aid of the 
 double evolution, the schooner scraped past without mishap. 
 He crept down to leeward and hailed the officer in extenuation: 
 
 "I'm fair dizzy wiv pain, sir. I've broke my arm." 
 
 ' ' Broken your arm, eh ? Then get ashore and see the Medico, 
 You are dangerous." 
 
 "At the battery, sir?" 
 
 "Aye." 
 
 "Right, sir an' thankee." He turned to the men, address- 
 ing them in a series of shouts. "Let your fore yard run sharp 
 up, Mate. Haul in on your port braces. Down jib an' light 
 stay-s'ls. Stand by to down kellick." 
 
 Susie was seated in the cabin, listlessly cognisant of the 
 ship-board turmoil, until the sound of running halliards and 
 the rush of the cable awoke her. Then in a moment she moved 
 to the companion-way and stood looking about.
 
 TOM'S DEFENCE 237 
 
 The anchor was down. The wind flattened the sails against 
 the masts. They clung black and rigid agaidst the spars and 
 rigging, holding the vessel aslant with her head pointed toward 
 the Essex shore. The Mate, with another, was holding a boat 
 alongside and Saunderson stood on the rail near the short ladder. 
 He caught Susie's glance and cried out cheerily that he was 
 going ashore to see a doctor and would be back again in no tune. 
 Five minutes later the splash of oars told her they were gone. 
 
 She crept to the side and stood watching the vanishing boat. 
 In the distance were other boats. Riverton loomed in a yellow 
 and red haze, far on the horizon. A boy leaned over the bul- 
 wark forward. He was whistling "The Little Alabama Coon."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE SEA-WALL 
 
 THE news of Susie's marriage was echoed in Abbeyville 
 within an hour of the Bluebell's departure. Mrs. Crow 
 had been in Riverton on a shopping expedition and the lack of 
 material for gossip had brought her into the waterside streets, 
 where she espied the tokens of a melee outside a public house 
 near the entrance to the pier. 
 
 This was altogether too obvious a chance of gaining know- 
 ledge of other people's affairs to be missed. She stepped 
 within and was speedily put in possession of the facts by the 
 battered Surridge, who told her what had happened and begged 
 her to see her husband. 
 
 Mrs. Crow lost no time. She returned at once to the village 
 and watered the streets with the news. Tony paused in the 
 midst of his work and gazed at his wife who presently stood 
 before him hot and flustered. 
 
 " Socks! " he cried. " Wha telled ye ? " 
 
 "Tom Surridge hisself. He's beat so'thin' cruel same 
 a'most as if he'd bin hit wi a bloomin engine." 
 
 "Gotten it bad then, Missis? Puir Tammas! Teddy 
 gude lad, drap t'tongs; shut oot t'fire. Ah'm finishet fer t'day." 
 
 He stood a moment in silence, struggling to think while 
 the boy babbled incoherently the details of his work. 
 
 " Wheer's Sutcliffe ?" he questioned at length. " Dost knaw 
 whither Tantalus has come home?" 
 
 "Nay; she's at sea, Tony." 
 
 238
 
 THE SEA-WALL 239 
 
 "Does t'owd man knaw Susie's wed t'yon sluckit skeeper?" 
 
 "No; he don't know no more than Adam." 
 
 "Then ah'm dommed if ah'm not left t'fix it masen." 
 
 With this enigmatical rejoinder he closed and locked the 
 smithy door and accompanied by his wife went home to think it 
 out. This operation was difficult of accomplishment. Any- 
 thing in the form of mental argument was impossible with Tony 
 Crow he required assistance always. Indeed he would rather, 
 any time, manipulate half a ton of red-hot metal, than consider 
 for a dozen minutes. He gave voice to his ideas after cau- 
 tiously shutting the door. 
 
 "When ah see Sutcliffe last, he said to me, 'Tony,' he says 
 'there's trouble in the wind thou'lt look after t'lass whiles I'm 
 awa.' An' I promiset. Noo she's wed Missis, what will I 
 beat?" 
 
 "It's a pecurious business, Tony all through it is," Mrs. 
 Crow returned sententiously ; "him hav'in a shadda an' all." 
 
 The blacksmith sprang round with sudden energy: "Shadda, 
 wumman! What shadda? Have ah been cacklin' in ma 
 sleep, or wha telled ye of me suspeecions ?" 
 
 "La! how you do jump down a person's throat. I don't 
 know what you're drivin' at. Everybody knows what I speak 
 of there's no sort of secret about it. What do you mean 
 you an' your suspicions?" 
 
 Tony drew his hand across his forehead. He stared at his 
 wife with dull eyes. "Socks! is thot aa'?" he exclaimed, then 
 added after a short pause. "Noo, lissen. Ah'm goin' in 
 t' Riverton t' find Susie an' t'find summat else. Nay, Missis 
 ah'm sayin' no more, for ah don't want t'village abaht ma heels. 
 Just you remember what ah said ah'm goin' t'Riverton t'find 
 Susie." 
 
 He had divested himself of his grimy apron and had donned
 
 240 THE ISSUE 
 
 a less picturesque jacket; then, discovering there was sufficient 
 time to catch a train, set off without more ado and in less than 
 an hour was standing on the sea-wall below the town. 
 
 He had already interviewed the loungers who congregate 
 about the piers at the waterside, and had tested the truth of the 
 report. The Tantalus had not arrived, might not arrive for 
 days, and the Bluebell had spread her wings and sailed soon 
 after high water. He could do nothing as far as Susie was con- 
 cerned. Had he been a man to whom money is no object, 
 he might have chartered a tug and followed; but Tony Crow's 
 resources were strictly meagre. He paid for his information 
 in glasses of "four ale" and came down the sea-wall until he 
 arrived at the place of Dunscombe's murder. Here he halted 
 and commenced again to search for that trifle which hitherto 
 he had not been able to find. Yet this was the third occasion 
 on which he had been, as he termed it, "fossikin 5 abaht t'deetch 
 seekin' eevidence." 
 
 He stood in the neighbourhood of the scene of Dunscombe's 
 murder. The police had searched it. Many unofficial persons 
 had searched it, scrambling about the banks, peering into the 
 rushes, but nothing had transpired. Tony's heresy as to the 
 value of police investigation was exemplified by his persistence. 
 They were all "silly, feckless loons," in his estimation. The 
 fact that they had issued a warrant for Elliott's arrest was 
 sufficient proof, in his mind, of their arrant stupidity. He be- 
 lieved in none of their theories, because they were all bound 
 in one terse sentence Jack Elliott. 
 
 Tony knew that Elliott had not done this thing. He knew 
 it vaguely, as a dog knows it will get some meat if it sits and 
 begs; but the faculty of reason was as conspicuously absent in 
 the one case as in the other. Hence he had been "fossiking," 
 and, so far, had gained no information.
 
 THE SEA-WALL 241 
 
 He groaned sorrowfully as he climbed again to the sea-wall. 
 His fruitless attempt to rescue Susie stung him. He knew the 
 old man so well; knew that he trusted him, and would have 
 walked into any species of danger to do the girl a service; 
 for he, in common with many others, was aware of the trouble 
 that had crept into Sutcliffe's life since his second marriage, 
 and of the old man's unutterable folly in borrowing of Saunder- 
 son to meet his wife's extravagance. He knew, too, of Saunder- 
 son's fierce love for the girl, and how it had run unchecked by 
 the fact that she was affianced to Elliott. 
 
 He recollected his meeting with Susie that night in the park; 
 how queerly she had spoken; how unlike she had been to the 
 blithe lassie he had known for years. He cursed his glib tongue 
 for having given her information of Saunderson's whereabouts. 
 He might have known that trouble would come of it; for 
 he knew Saunderson as few others in that circle knew him. 
 
 He stood a moment resting on a curious implement, a self- 
 wrought tool which he had used in his fruitless " fossiking," 
 when a short laugh brought him suddenly to attention. A tall, 
 dark-eyed woman, with a mop of frowsy, straw-coloured hair, 
 stood on the river side of the embankment, watching him. She 
 climbed the pathway and spoke with a quiet air of conscious 
 superiority. 
 
 " You are Mr. Crow, the Abbeyville blacksmith," she said. 
 "The people call you Tony Crow and they say you are a man 
 who wouldn't hurt a fly." 
 
 The blacksmith v stared; a twinkle came into his small eyes 
 as he took in the situation. "Ah'm aal ye say, Missis except 
 thot ah don't knaw abaht t'flee if ah coomed under ma hammer." 
 
 "And in that case, Mr. Crow?" she laughed. 
 
 "In thot case ah doot it would be smashet." 
 
 Again the woman laughed; then looking him straight in the
 
 242 THE ISSUE 
 
 face she said: "You are certainly explicit, for a man. Cha! 
 why do I waste time. You know the Bluebell you know 
 Saunderson: perhaps you can tell me why the Bluebell is 
 anchored down yonder, by the fort." 
 
 Tony stared down the Reach, following the woman's finger. 
 He looked up again; she no longer smiled, but watched him 
 with a settled frown. He stammered: "T' Bluebell anchored? 
 Nay, it seems t'me, ye knaw more abaht it than ah do masen. 
 Maybe ye knaw Susie, an' t'owd man Sutcliff e ; maybe if ye telled 
 me a sma' bit abaht your'sen, ah could be more expleecit." 
 
 She faced him with an imploring gesture: "If you will answer 
 my question, and aid me in discovering what I have so long 
 missed, I will tell you who I am." 
 
 "Nay, fair play's a jewel. Ah'm clean oot o' t'runnin'. 
 Maybe ye'll be askin' me why Susie took oop wi' yon sluckit 
 skeeper why Tammas Surritch came hame wi a bashet eye 
 why " 
 
 The woman turned on him with a sharp question: "What 
 skipper?" 
 
 "Skeeper o' I 1 Bluebell Saundisson " 
 
 "Saunderson! Susie! What do you mean ?" 
 
 Tony relapsed into silence. He was flabbergasted; his wits 
 were a chaos. "What for should ah tell ye?" he ques- 
 tioned. 
 
 "Oh! you will, you will." The woman broke into a wail of 
 anguish; she held out her hands begging him to speak. "See! 
 it is most important that I should know. Cha ! it is important 
 also for this this girl Susie, as you call her. See! I have 
 traced him here. Months ago I should have found him, but a 
 man I met told me he had gone north, to the Tyne, and I have 
 wasted time and money trying to find him there. Now I come 
 back and I hear he has sailed. I have found out several things
 
 THE SEA-WALL 243 
 
 about him; but he has sailed and I must wait. But he shall 
 not go free; he is mine he shall not go free! " 
 
 Tony was aghast at the sudden transition; he waited in some 
 trepidation, then broke out; "Steady, Missis! There's so'thin' 
 adreeft ah can see thot plain. Maybe if ye would begin at the 
 beginnin' an' go on, loike, we would come at summat." 
 
 "Begin at the beginning! Man, that would take a week. 
 Tell me, what is this Susie to Saunderson ? " 
 
 "His wife since noon." 
 
 "His wife. I am his wife." 
 
 Tony leaped forward hoarse with excitement. "Well ah'm 
 dommed," he shouted. "Then it's beegamy." 
 
 Mrs. Saunderson laughed viciously. "May she have as 
 nice a time as I had," she returned. 
 
 " Nay Missis, thot's not pretty talk. Ye don't mean it. It's 
 jealously thot makes ye talk like thot. T'lass is as pure as the 
 angels pure as the hooly angels, get t'next fra where yew 
 will." 
 
 But she took no heed; she was moving to and fro stamping 
 her feet and gesticulating as the words fell from her lips. 
 
 "Why should I interfere? Have I not suffered enough? 
 Have I not borne enough ? Did he treat me kindly ? Did his 
 love last ? His love ! God forgive me for so degrading the word. 
 Love? Passion, blind, overwhelming, unreasoning passion. 
 He tired of me quickly be sure of that. And now he has won 
 this Susie of yours, you would have me interfere. I can't 
 interfere. I won't why should I ? I won't, and why should 
 I?" 
 
 "Steady, Missis '."Tony cried again. "Think it oot. Thot's 
 no your'sen thot's talkin' thot's " 
 
 She interrupted with a movement of disdain. "Man, don't 
 I know him? Am I not his wife? Psha! seven years ago I
 
 *44 THE ISSUE 
 
 knew him. I was Lilly Barker then, and I married him down 
 in dear old Plymouth. He deserted me when my child was 
 born. I have not seen him since ; but recently my father died and 
 left me some money, so I made up my mind to find him . . . 
 for he is my husband, you see, and I thought to get him to take 
 me back for I loved him. Money sometimes helps as you 
 know; but now I find him with another love a chit of a girl. 
 Well, let him tire of her as he tired of me; let him break her 
 freshness, as he has broken mine then, perhaps he may be less 
 unwilling to come back to the wife he deserted and to her 
 money." 
 
 Tony held up his hand begging for consideration: "Steady, 
 Missis," he cried; "ye've got it straight ah can see thot. But, 
 suppose t'lass don't love your husband. Suppose she's stole 
 fra her man, an' wed against her will. Suppose aal this, 
 Missis an' than, dom ma een, ye'll step in wi Tony an' save 
 her?" 
 
 "Explain explain. I don't understand," she cried. 
 
 "Eexplain! Eigh! thot's easy. We're coomin' to it noo 
 we're beginnin' t'fetch Saundisson's sluckit neck under ma 
 hammer. See Susie was t'have been wed three months agone; 
 but Saundisson draws his line across t'bargain. Dunscombe 
 was murdered ye may have heard oo't. Ye did gude; then 
 Susie's man is blamet an' he runs like a foo', an' Saundisson 
 puts t'bums in Sutcliffe's house at Abbeyville. Sutcliffe is 
 t'lass's father. T'save him Susie promised t'wed Saundisson. 
 She was marriet t'day an' t'papers t'owd man gave when he 
 borrowit o' Saundisson were handed to puir Tammas. Thot's 
 how it stands an' ah'm goin' dahn t'fetch t'lass back hame fra 
 t' Bluebell." 
 
 A great deal of this speech was incomprehensible to the 
 woman in her excited condition. Jealousy, too, struggled
 
 THE SEA-WALL 445 
 
 hard for supremacy. She faced him with thin, unbelieving 
 lips: " Will you swear she never, never angled for him or made 
 love to him ? Will you swear it ? " 
 
 "Nay, Missis. It's no case for swearin'. There's Tony 
 Crow's word take it or leave it." 
 
 "I prefer not to believe it; it is impossible." 
 
 "Nay, there's nowt impossible." 
 
 "Then I cannot help you, if you like that better," she returned 
 with an ugly laugh. 
 
 Tony moved toward the path, preparing to go: "Noo, 
 we're coomin' at it noo there's no banes aboot it; an', if ye've 
 no objection, Missis, ah'll just say how yon deceession o' yours 
 looks t'me. It's puir selfishness, an' obstreperousness; nothin' 
 else, foreby a smaa' touch o' jealousy. An' ah say thot the 
 wumman thot will stand by, an' see a lass taen t'her death, is na 
 wumman but a child an' she should be treated loike a child 
 wi'a simple spankin' an' thot, Missis, is more Yerkshire." 
 
 He turned on his heel without further ado and walked swiftly 
 down the sea-wall to the Garter Pier. Here he paused a 
 moment and glanced round as though he still expected the 
 woman to be following. But she remained where he had left 
 her; silhouetted boldly against the skyline. Tony concluded 
 that she intended to abide by her decision, and having hailed a 
 boat and bargained for speed, he clambered into the stern sheets 
 and started at once for the Bluebell.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE SLUCKIT-SASSER 
 
 FROM the Garter Pier to the fort off which the Bluebell 
 lay is a distance of three miles; and, viewed in the 
 light of Tony's horror of the water, it was no easy 
 task he had set himself. His education at the forge of a York- 
 shire smithy had not given him the faculty of balance necessary 
 for jumping about in rowing boats. In this matter his feelings 
 were something akin to those of "puir Tammas," they differed 
 only in the form. Surridge was concerned chiefly with the 
 feckless blundering which resulted so often in collisions; Tony, 
 with the instability of everything afloat, and the danger he saw 
 of his own great height tempting a boat to turn turtle. 
 
 Hence he sat crouched low in the shallow wherry and kept a 
 nervous and constant watch from beneath his drawn-down cap 
 on every babbling wavelet crossing their track. Tony Crow 
 seated in a boat in mortal fear of being capsized, and Tony 
 Crow holding a kicking horse to be shod outside the smithy 
 doors, were distinctly separate individuals. 
 
 But despite his fears, they flashed rapidly down the tide and 
 "in a quarter less than no time," as he observed afterwards, 
 they were close to the anchored vessel. She lay head to wind, 
 tugging restlessly at her cable, her black sails whanging in the 
 breeze. 
 
 Arrived alongside, Tony grasped one of the shrouds and 
 clambered to his feet. His head was level with the rail. He 
 appeared curiously uncertain how to proceed. Then the sight 
 
 246
 
 THE SLUCKIT-SASSER 247 
 
 of Susie hurrying to meet him, brought him up the side with the 
 quaint action of a big retriever, and as though he feared his 
 weight would bring the schooner over. He landed on deck and 
 wiped the perspiration from his forehead. 
 
 "Socks!" he exclaimed; "ah would not be a sailor-man, not 
 for dumps. Ah loike summat undah ma feet thot will-na go 
 ricketty-rock for aal the world loike a babby's cradle. Where's 
 Saundisson?" 
 
 Susie stood before him in obvious wonderment. She cried 
 out nervously; "What is it, Tony? Why are you here ? What 
 do you want with my husband ? " 
 
 Tony gasped for breath. "He's no your husband, lass," 
 he blurted, and again mopped his face. 
 
 The girl stared. She remained a moment without speech, 
 then, tapping with her foot on the deck: "What do you mean ? 
 tell me what you mean?" 
 
 "What do't sound loike, lass?" 
 
 "Tony, Tony!" she reiterated sharply; "tell me what you 
 mean, I I have a right to know." Again the foot stamping 
 angrily on the planks. 
 
 The blacksmith watched her with a miserable attempt at 
 jocularity. "Eigh! t' cur'us ways o' wimmen," he cried. 
 "T'hear 'em talk, wi' tears in their een tears at their heart 
 an' a life o' tears before them t'hear 'em struggle in t'meshes, 
 strivin' t'defend their man, when there's just no defence at aa! 
 Eigh! it's just peetifu' peetifu'." The girl writhed under the 
 sting of his words and he went on more slowly: "Ah coomed 
 down here in yon sluckit-sasser [boat] t' tell ye what ah've 
 heard an' t'see your man. Ah telled ye, Susie, plain Yerk- 
 shire, Saundisson is no your husband. An' ah thowt maybe 
 ye'd got a bit love left fer yon vanishet chap o' yours Jack, 
 Susie. Dom ma een! There! Sho!"
 
 248 THE ISSUE 
 
 Tony Crow started across the deck in great perturbation; 
 for Susie was weeping bitterly, and Tony had that in his heart 
 which comes to strong men in place of tears, and wanted space 
 wherein to vent it. 
 
 The sound of approaching oars struck them as they stood 
 thus. Susie dried her eyes and crossed to where the black- 
 smith leaned against the fiferail. "I hate Saunderson," she 
 cried under her breath; and again, "I hate him." 
 
 "Socks! Thot's ma Susie, noo." 
 
 "And I love Jack. Oh, Tony, can't you understand?" 
 
 "Ah can ah can," He caught her hand, wringing it in 
 triumph. "Leave it t' me. Yon's Saundisson comin' do 
 as ah bid you when t'time comes." 
 
 Silence ensued. In the silence a boat drew alongside and 
 Saunderson's head appeared above the gangway. He saw the 
 blacksmith instantly and his face grew livid. His arm was in 
 splints, hanging from his neck in a sling. He crossed the deck 
 to meet them, growling out: "You'd best get ashore. I've 
 lost enough time wiv one sort o' foolin' an' another you'd 
 best leave." 
 
 "Ah've no detained ye, Cap'n," Tony returned with studied 
 politeness. "Ah want just a sma' bit talk wiv ye, then ah'm 
 done." 
 
 Saunderson halted beside them, striving ineffectually to 
 read their faces. 
 
 "Well," he suggested, "get a long wiv it. I'm losing the 
 tide." 
 
 " Ye've marriet Susie the morn?" 
 
 "I have an' got my arm broke since." 
 
 " Thot's bad. Maybe ye telled her you were wed before ? " 
 
 Saunderson floundered with words. He plucked at his 
 neckerchief with a hand that twitched, facing them, staring into
 
 THE SLUCKIT-SASSER 
 
 249 
 
 their eyes, frowning miserably incompetent as an actor. He 
 shouted fiercely: "What in flames d'ye mean? What is it to 
 you if a man was married before if his wife's dead ? My wife 
 is dead: what more do you want?" 
 
 "Your wife is no dead, Jeames Saundisson." 
 
 "You lie. I say you lie!" he reiterated. 
 
 "Steady, Cap'n. Fer a corpse ah conseeder her weel preser- 
 vet." 
 
 He interjected again: "Lie! lie!" and stood to listen. 
 
 "Tall, Cap'n. Fluffity hair, summat loike straw in colour." 
 
 Saunderson struggled vainly with speech; he stammered, 
 but Tony Crow, masterful and very strong in the possession of 
 facts, continued his indictment. 
 
 "Wumman o' abaht thirty more or less; queer bluey een, 
 wi a bit sparkle in 'em when she's vexet." 
 
 Still no reply and Saunderson gazing dully at Susie. 
 
 "Met her up by t'deetch, wheer Dunscombe coom oot wrong 
 end first. Sittin' in t'grass, watchin' t'Bluebell lookin' fer 
 her husband thot's wheer she was, Cap'n." 
 
 The skipper made an attempt at bluster; but he could only 
 repeat in a thin voice: "I say it's a lie a lie from one end to 
 another." Then with sudden violence: "Lumme! you 
 shouldn't stand there sayin' what you are, if I was master of my 
 second arm. Get ashore. I'm losin' the tide." 
 
 Tony Crow approached speaking with grim emphasis: 
 "Ah'm game to meet ye, Cap'n, when t'other arm is in its 
 place ; but, whiles you're in t' shop,* tongues will have t' do dooty 
 instead. Yon wumman's your wife marriet in Plymouth 
 seven year agone. Name o' Leely Leely Barker." 
 
 Saunderson was white with passion, but he controlled himself 
 to shout: "Goon goon." 
 
 *Engineering term for under repairs.
 
 2so THE ISSUE 
 
 "Deserted six year, Cap'n; treated cruel; deserted wi a baby 
 in arms an' never seen since. Dom ma een! is aa t'yarn a 
 lee?" 
 
 Saunderson moved his lips to speak; he passed his hand 
 across his face and found it wet. He stared into his palm and 
 dried it on his coat. Something must be said; something 
 efficacious; something pertinent. A cry fell on his ears and he 
 looked up. Susie had given utterance to that cry. He moved 
 towards her holding forth his hand; intent on exculpation; 
 intent on gaining her sympathy yet he only said: "I thought 
 she was dead; they told me she was dead. I never loved her. 
 Gawd help me! I never loved her. Do you believe me? 
 Do you believe me?" 
 
 "I don't know what to believe. Oh! it is horrible." 
 
 Again a pause while Saunderson gazed with intense longing 
 into her face and remembered that if this was true, the end of 
 all things was at hand; that Susie could be his no more. 
 
 "Lass!" he cried piteously, "I don't believe it. I have the 
 proof of her death. I know she died. Gawd love you, will 
 you not take my word against this this " 
 
 He stumbled in his speech and the oath died in his throat, 
 at the sight of her mute appeal. 
 
 "Can you prove it?" she cried aloud. She looked directly 
 into his face, waiting in tearless misery for his answer. But 
 the answer halted and Tony Crow broke in without re- 
 morse. 
 
 " Coom," he cried. " Yonder she stands t'speak for hersen." 
 
 Saunderson put him aside with a motion of contempt. 
 "Pish! Seven years ago I married Lilly Barker. But she 
 died as I'm a livin' soul, she died." 
 
 "Desertet, Cap'n wi' a babby in arms." 
 
 "She's dead!" he shouted in anger.
 
 THE SLUCKIT-SASSER 251 
 
 "A matter o' deescription, Cap'n; but it don't get awa wi the 
 livin' wumman on t' bank." 
 
 Saunderson moved across to the scuttle and covered his face 
 with one hand. He was weak with pain and dazed by the rapid 
 course of the morning's events. He had won. Some hours 
 ago, he had won. Susie was his wife. She was ready at last 
 to stay with him. He had won and now, in the hour of his 
 triumph, that other woman whom he had never loved; that 
 woman, draggle-tailed and with miserable eyes, whom he be- 
 lieved to be dead, had returned, and he was No, it could 
 
 not be it could not be; yet the news bore the impress of truth. 
 Truth! Chks! it was what was it? He looked up and 
 caught Susie's tearful glance. The sight fevered him and 
 again he sprang to his feet hoping against hope; battling with 
 dread; praying for respite. 
 
 "Susie! Susie! you'll not take sides against me. You'll stay 
 by me now an' let them prove their words you'll not make a 
 fool of me before my hands. Gawd love you, I've treated you 
 fair an' square. I know nothin' of what this man says. I did 
 all I promised in that business of the house. I did it because 
 you asked me; because I love you; because I love no other. 
 
 "Susie!" he went on passionately, his face a dull crimson 
 and the pulse in his forehead throbbing and articulate, "I 
 never loved another. I love you ; you are my wife. Trust me 
 I didn't know I had another I swear it." 
 
 She turned to him with a quick movement. "Will you come 
 ashore and see this woman?" 
 
 "I can't. I daren't. If the guv'nor happens to hear of all 
 this delay, I'm done." 
 
 "Then I must," Susie returned. 
 
 " Don't Gawd love you, don't make a fool of me. Trust 
 me till we come back. Trust me till then."
 
 252 THE ISSUE 
 
 He looked straight into her eyes, his voice ringing with pathos. 
 He moved forward begging for consideration and the influence 
 he exercised would have done its work had not Tony interfered 
 with a sharp reminder of the position. 
 
 "Don't you be a foo', Lass!" he threw out. "Get ashore 
 an' let t'beaks settle it." 
 
 "Yes," she replied. "That will be the best way." 
 
 They moved to the gangway. Saunderson followed plucking 
 at the neckerchief he wore, shouting with annoyance, passionate, 
 humiliated, and threatening reprisals on Tony Crow. 
 
 "I'll be even wiv you! S'elp me! I'll be even wiv you. 
 
 Interfering playing the goat wiv lies an' " he broke off, 
 
 and the sentence died in a spatter of oaths as he watched them 
 climbing the rail. 
 
 The blacksmith made haste with his charge and gingerly 
 following her, took a seat in the boat. He spoke with an 
 assurance he did not feel as he remarked: "Noo, Susie, ye're 
 weel out o' thot mess. So set firm an' don't get skearet; fer 
 if there's one thing ah'm in doot abaht, it's puddlin' arahnd 
 in a sluckit-sasser o' this descreeption. Ah ca' it fair temptin' 
 o' Proveedence nowt else." 
 
 And on the schooner's deck Saunderson moved with twitching 
 muscles, going toward his cabin. "It's the curse," he an- 
 nounced grimly quiet. ' ' Gawd give me time. ' '
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 TOOTH AND NAIL 
 
 THE river swirled beneath leaden skies. Clouds charged 
 to the zenith, leaping from the horizon in dusky shapes, 
 grim, fantastic, blurring the landscape. They loomed 
 grandly over a world inexplicably pestered by blinding squalls 
 of hail and sleet. The wind moaned with the voice of a com- 
 plaining legion. It swept over the shivering Essex marshes 
 shouting and vengeful ; telling, in gusts, in sudden shrieks, and 
 whirling onslaughts, of its triumph farther east, farther north, 
 where no coast line sheltered sluggard craft and the gulls could 
 skim no longer. It struck the water, and the water smoked; 
 the leaping waves were shorn of their crests; a seething spume 
 ran blindly downward, hissing, twisting, clipped of its might. 
 
 The river swirled onward. It rolled seaward, carrying on 
 its bosom the grime and filth of a thousand gutters. Like a 
 turgid torrent, swollen, dim, and very vast, it moved toward 
 the portals of the great estuary; swollen, lashed, and hugely 
 masterful it passed down the dim Reaches and met its mother 
 crying as a child cries, with pain; moaning as an infant moans, 
 searching for rest. 
 
 The afternoon waned. 
 
 Here and away the breath of far-off steamers hung in dusky 
 blotches about the horizon ; here, under the low hills sheltering 
 Mucking Bight, a group of small fry lay with folded wings and 
 bowed rigging, watching the turmoil; far down Sea Reach a few 
 black-sailed barges leaped the combing seas; for the rest the 
 
 253
 
 254 THE ISSUE 
 
 waters were bare of sails. Night approached a wild night, 
 full of presage; crammed with tokens a child might read. 
 A fiery gleam escaped the charging clouds. The river took up 
 the challenge and ran in strips of blood. A light appeared smirk- 
 ing solemnly amidst the gloom; about it clamoured the gulls ; 
 about it, too, rose a column of spray, white, scintillating, tinged 
 with rainbow hues. It marked the edge of the sands, bobbing 
 gravely. Beyond was chaos. 
 
 The Bluebell moved in mid-channel. She heeled with her 
 lee rail awash. One man was shadowed amidst the sprays 
 forward a dim and fantastic figure clad in gleaming oilskins; 
 another lounged at the wheel. 
 
 A ray of light, circular and very intense, marked the binnacle. 
 The glare fell on Saunderson, lighting his face, lighting the 
 moving spokes, tinging the folds of his coat with touches of 
 fire. Beyond, the shadows grew blacker, more intense, and 
 the track, so luminous and angry with movement under the 
 stern, trailed off into nothingness. 
 
 Saunderson was at the schooner's wheel, steering with one 
 hand; the other was hidden beneath the folds of his oilskin. He 
 had stood thus, almost without relief, since they got under way 
 off the Forts. Once or twice he had shouted for the mate and 
 gone below to renew his vigour with the aid of rum. And so, 
 by the time the Bluebell had reached the Chapman, he had 
 worked himself into that reckless, devil-may-care attitude, 
 which is so productive of disaster on the crowded river and 
 ocean highways. 
 
 He did not see the matter from this point of view. He saw 
 himself, rather, in the light of a man cheated of his rights; 
 deluded, humiliated, maligned. His pride had suffered the 
 severest conceivable blow. He had told the mate that he was 
 about to be married and that his wife would accompany him.
 
 TOOTH AND NAIL 255 
 
 The mate had met him, and he, with those other grinning 
 chysers, had witnessed Tom Surridge's attempt; had seen the 
 fight and subsequent trouble, and had held aloof. 
 
 He cursed them all, Tom Surridge, the mate, the crew, and 
 Tony Crow; but most of all he cursed his wife, that ancient 
 flame of his, whom he had only won by marriage, years ago in 
 Plymouth. He saw himself, in his mind's eye, again at the 
 Western seaport, and, following the shadows of the past, pic- 
 tured the hilly country where he had wooed her. Now he was 
 in the woods behind old Barker's farm ; now on the Hoe listening 
 to the band and praying for quiet. How difficult it had been to 
 win her; what obstacles he had surmounted. Old Barker! 
 Chks! he was a fool. Suspicions desires for another match 
 a man of the sea. They had forced his hand. He had married 
 her without love married her of sheer pique. Then came 
 those months of degradation, so he termed it now, a growing 
 hatred of the tie he had formed, and, his charter accomplished, 
 the opportunity to sneak away and find distraction in other 
 fields. 
 
 Distance brought oblivion. Lilly Barker died. He swore 
 it. Holding grimly to the wheel and staring at the elusive 
 Lubber's Point,* he swore it. Thereafter all remembrance of 
 her vanished. He had found other pleasures, newer loves, less 
 persistent tongues; but this time, and the next, and the next, 
 all through a bewildering chaos of faces he had carefully 
 avoided the binding ties of marriage. 
 
 All these had passed as the swallows pass with the approach 
 of winter. All these had sunk as a stricken ship sinks beside 
 the rocks which have ground out her soul. All these had 
 vanished, now in misery, now in suffering, now to form other 
 
 *A line set vertically within the compass to mark the position of the ship's 
 head.
 
 256 THE ISSUE 
 
 friendships, and he had swum triumphant down the stream 
 of passion until, once more, he came to his old surroundings; 
 the county of his birth, and fought his way to the position of 
 skipper under Dunscombe. 
 
 Here fate had smiled on his growing madness for the fair 
 daughter of poor George Sutcliffe; here fate had dallied with him 
 pausing, beckoning, urging, until he was completely immeshed 
 in the new labyrinth; and here, after succumbing a second time 
 to marriage, while the cup of joy was at his lips ; the blow had 
 fallen. Someone had said that his wife, the woman with the 
 haggard eyes, who pined always for a return of the endear- 
 ments of her early wedded life, had come back that she 
 searched for him. 
 
 He stood at the wheel cursing grimly. No other man would 
 have attempted the task he had set himself; few would have 
 been physically competent. But Saunderson was inured to 
 hardship from infancy; his muscles were like iron; his nerve, 
 in all except one phase, adamant. 
 
 A squall which had been growing to windward now burst 
 on the hard-pressed schooner. The skipper luffed with the 
 precision of an old-time yachtsman, and brought her to the wind, 
 her canvas roaring. Far up in the night blocks clanged, booms 
 leaped, shackles jingled. A deluge smote them; rain, hail, 
 spray, stung the slanting decks. But Saunderson took these 
 matters as part of the general turmoil in which he had become 
 involved; and as though Nature strove to sympathise and con- 
 dole with him on his sombre outlook. He glanced up and 
 shouted unmoved: 
 
 "Down tawps'l! Clew up and make it fast." 
 
 The loosened sail flapped with the roar of thunder. Two 
 hands, flattened and fantastic, stole from the sheerpole, climbed 
 the rigging, footed the ropes, smothered it, and crept back.
 
 TOOTH AND NAIL 257 
 
 The squall hummed far in the solitude of the Kentish hills, up- 
 rooting trees, removing loose tiles, bothering the cattle; but 
 Saunderson had returned to the pictures of his past, a phantom 
 procession moving slowly in his brain. 
 
 He was standing on the Bluebell's deck listening to Micky 
 Doolan's meandering history of the Gat. A calm reigned. 
 He saw it, marked the oily heave of the swell, heard the monot- 
 onous slatting of the sails; watched that cloud bank rising over 
 the Maplins tinged with flickering points of light which flashed 
 and died as loose powder flashes and dies, noiseless, in- 
 scrutable. 
 
 Now he fought with Elliott on the Stormy Petrel's deck. He 
 was winning. He would have won; but there came a lurch 
 coincident with a blow and he tripped tripped, and Elliott 
 won instead. Paltry! Unthinkable. The result of that 
 asinine collision of his for which he suffered. 
 
 What did Elliott want down there anyway ? Was the Gat a 
 place wherein a man should go fooling about looking for 
 derelicts? No; he swore it. His voice rose to a shout. Any 
 
 man would keep out of the Gat who knew it's cursed 
 
 Aye, but Elliott did not know. And now he was in the shadow 
 of it down the cellar, where all vanished who saw what he 
 had seen. Gawd! He faced the blackness, drinking in the 
 moisture which trickled down his cheeks. He faced it whimp- 
 ering, acknowledging that he was hemmed. 
 
 Again he leaned over the wheel searching the binnacle. The 
 Lubber's Point swam ridiculously buoyant. It evaded his custody. 
 It refused to obey his desires. Chks! the sails guided him, 
 towering in the darkness, round and intensely sombre. He 
 asked himself why had these incidents happened; to what end 
 had he given out that Elliott was down the cellar; to what end 
 had he married Susie, committed bigamy, and brought himself
 
 258 THE ISSUE 
 
 within reach of the law ? The answer echoed remorselessly in 
 his brain. 
 
 A silent cabin; a stifling and intense weight of fear; the loneli- 
 ness of a man who acknowledged a force he could not compre- 
 hend. A vision of the courts and a weeping, middle-aged 
 woman forever pressing at his heels. This, when he had 
 counted on Susie's love and aid; this, when he had so generously 
 foregone Sutcliffe's debt; this, and the triumph of Tony Crow 
 and all the clacking busybodies. 
 
 A shout echoed above the turmoil, snapping his thoughts like 
 a slammed door: 
 
 "See that steamer, Skipper?" 
 
 Saunderson had seen nothing for some time beyond the motiey 
 puppet procession which thronged his brain. He left the 
 wheel and gazed under the foot of the mainsail. 
 
 A flashing vista of lights, tier upon tier, pierced the darkness, 
 crossing obliquely the schooner's track. Saunderson returned 
 to the helm and swiftly put it down. He hailed the watch with a 
 shout, masterful, supremely alert: "Ready about!" And 
 again: "Is our light burning?" 
 
 A voice swept up with the spray :"Na-a gone out. Boy's 
 trimmin' it." 
 
 "Then blow your horn!" 
 
 A few wheezy gasps struggled into being. A snort, as of 
 anger, broke from the steamer's whistle. Then, as the Blue- 
 bell turned on her heel, while the canvas roared in the gale, 
 the lights grew swiftly blinding. High above the paltry 
 schooner they pierced the blackness, staring with an eye of 
 supreme disdain; overlooking her, pointing her disorder. 
 Blocks stood out, sails appeared where no sails had been. They 
 fluttered helplessly; ropes dangled; the wet decks shone under 
 a shower of silver spray. A voice shouted: "Schooner ahoy!
 
 TOOTH AND NAIL 259 
 
 What vessel is that? Why the devil are you without lights?" 
 Other remarks, less complimentary, less pertinent, followed 
 then a touch, a lurch sliding, swift, almost an escape, and the 
 steamer swept by. 
 
 Saunderson smiled grimly. His mood matched his environ- 
 ment. Peril? Chks! He seized the binnacle lamp and 
 flashed it on the bow and growled her name: "The Lon- 
 doner goin' like a torpedo boat in the thick of the traffic. 
 Lumme! I'd slow you down if I had my way." 
 
 The steamer's engines were churning the water into a mill- 
 race. She moved astern at full speed. Her crew were pre- 
 paring to lower a boat. Again a voice rose: "Any damage 
 skipper ? Want assistance ? " 
 
 Saunderson, smarting under fancied injuries, blind to his own 
 iniquities, shouted truculently into the void. "Na! To hell 
 wiv you an' your assistance! Why can't you keep your eyes 
 skinned? I want no help from the likes " 
 
 The schooner filled on the starboard tack. She heeled over, 
 careening toward the black Essex shores and hissed out of 
 sight. Saunderson's eye fell on the crew huddled in group to 
 leeward. He roared at the mate, bidding him take the wheel 
 while he and others examined the damaged gear. 
 
 "Keep your luff!" he ordered. "Don't let her fall rampin* 
 full till I see how the strings will stand." 
 
 He moved away, fumbling with one hand, staring at the splin- 
 tered rail, manosuvring his men with the judgment of one born 
 to command. W T ith the aid of a few knots and some shortened 
 spans the rigging was made trustworthy. The damage had 
 been trifling. Indeed in the reflected light of his misery, it 
 appeared a paltry business; a thing too inconsiderable to require 
 mention. He returned to the wheel, giving his orders with a 
 snap.
 
 260 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Ready about. Down jib while we're in the wind! Snug 
 your main tawps'l on the cap. Make it fast." He put the 
 helm over and shouted. "Hard a-lee!" then stood watching 
 the flare on Chapman Head as the Bluebell bowed the seas 
 swinging towards the open Channel. 
 
 The canvas roared. Booms whanged, sheets jerked. The 
 men's voices, whimpering in a long drawn minor howl, sounded 
 amidst the clatter then, after a space, silence; the comparative 
 silence of a gale swishing high overhead; booming in the 
 rounded canvas, twanging on the tight wire shrouds. The 
 silence of a weather shore and Saunderson again occupied with 
 his puppets. 
 
 His thoughts rested on Susie. A few nights ago he had held 
 her in his arms and she had promised to be his wife; had 
 promised to help him in that struggle for fame which was 
 with him a passion only second in intensity to that he held for 
 her. Now Susie was lost to him; another woman had usurped 
 her place. Could that other woman aid him? No she could 
 not aid him he had no love for her. He recognised that her 
 manner annoyed him that she fawned upon him like a sick 
 snake. If she had returned if she had returned, he must 
 endure it. Must. He was very certain on that point. He 
 reiterated the fact with a semi-drunken gravity that matched 
 to mimicry the profound and implacable gloom of the night. 
 Must. He looked into the compass and said aloud, 
 "Must!" then halted as other questions clamoured. Could 
 he climb with her at his elbow ? Could he reach that dizzy Eldor- 
 rado which appealed so wonderfully to his imagination, with 
 her? Could he? And what about the law courts? If she 
 had returned it was bigamy ? If ? He knew she had returned. 
 The likeness sketched by Tony Crow stuck in his mental vis- 
 ion: "Tall, fmffity yellow hair, blue een wi' a bit sparkle when
 
 TOOTH AND NAIL 261 
 
 she's vexit " ; he knew that description. Knew it. Must abide 
 by the consequences. Must must. The knowledge was 
 purgatory. 
 
 His thoughts whirled like the spindriff slashing over the 
 weather rail to sting his face; they whirled, criss-cross, far 
 out of reach, leading him to heights he could not scale; to 
 depths he dared not plumb. He swayed at his post. His head 
 swam. His arm gave him pain. Chks! a pull at the mm 
 bottle put him on his feet. He steered with one hand. 
 
 Far ahead, glimmering faintly amidst the shadows brooding 
 over Southend, a signal flashed ; then a train of sparks followed 
 by a shower of coloured lights fell in symmetrical curves 
 through the night. But Saunderson did not see it. 
 
 There are moment's in all men's lives when every detail is 
 worthy of consideration; when, if the grip is relaxed in the 
 smallest degree, by the most insignificant trifle, that trifle is 
 sufficient to spell ruin. Saunderson had arrived at this mo- 
 ment. By slow and tortuous stages he had arrived at that 
 point when every outside circumstance required his watchful 
 care if he would win. But, shrewd as he was, he had not the 
 wit to know it. He could see his hand; he could see the bin- 
 nacle, he could see the deck at his feet; but beyond was nothing- 
 ness, vacuity, shadowed by a fate which made havoc of men's 
 lives and against which it was useless to fight. 
 
 Had he seen that signal he would have known that a heavy 
 and inadequately manned collier, whose owners are a byword 
 for cheese-paring, was blundering up river, and he would have 
 kept himself ready for eventualities. But the man had lost 
 all sense of danger. The rum bottle was an illusive fillip; 
 in its train were shadows more sombre, more stupifying than 
 those he battled. He stood at the wheel steering carelessly, 
 his thoughts centred on himself, his plans, and Susie.
 
 a6a THE ISSUE 
 
 The wind moaned. Another squall was flaring to the 
 zenith. The clouds raced past a bleary vacancy where the 
 young moon sank like a dim sickle, low in the west. Sometimes 
 the sails fluttered and roared; sometimes they bellied full and 
 round with only the hum of tension and the pattering fall of 
 reef-points to mark the steady drone of the gale. 
 
 The mate and two of the watch consulted. Under other 
 circumstances they would have been in bed; but Saunderson's 
 navigation effectually kept sleep from their eyes. The schooner 
 raced to windward a blow on the bluff of the bow sounded 
 and the spray drenched them where they stood. 
 
 "She'll be aback," said the mate. 
 
 "He's takin' the hull bloomin' river fer his bloomin' course," 
 the third hand asserted in a dreary monotone. 
 
 The mate took the bit in his teeth. The crew straggled 
 aft in a body to expostulate. A man before the mast exper- 
 iences sufficient hardship, sufficient discomfort, sufficient of all 
 unpalatable things on God's earth at the hands of niggard 
 owners for that is his birthright; it is written on his articles. 
 But this was rank and premeditated suicide. Saunderson was 
 drunk of two sources excitement and rum. The men knew 
 only of the rum. 
 
 Hence, when, after an interminable period occupied in a 
 persistent chase of the elusive Lubber's Point, Saunderson 
 became aware that the schooner was yawing horribly, he put 
 the helm down, discarded once more the compass, and stood 
 gravely regarding the sleeping canvas canvas that hummed 
 with the roll of drums. Saunderson's eyes fell. They took 
 in the group of the three, standing in the shadow of the main- 
 sail. 
 
 "What d'ye want?" he yelled with sudden passion. "Get 
 for'ud! Get on the lookout! "
 
 TOOTH AND NAIL 263 
 
 The men hung fire. Indecision had them by the shoulders 
 and Saunderson swore with consummate fluency, until his eyes 
 fell on the racing compass card and the wheel buzzed. Some- 
 thing smote the schooner broad on the bow. A sea green, 
 tempestuous spitting at the mainsail. Swis-s-sh! It passed 
 to leeward. The squall broke over them. 
 
 The Bluebell lay down to it, burying her lee rail to the hatch 
 coamings. She leaped at the angry waters as a steeplechaser 
 leaps at the hedges and ditches spanning his path. A sheet 
 parted. The chain tied a dozen knots about the sheave-hole and 
 a sail whanged, somewhere high in the blackness. Saunder- 
 son struggled with the wheel, easing it down with knee and one 
 hand, gripping the spokes; luffing hugely determined. 
 
 " Let go jib an' stay-s'l halliards. Let go snug 'em down! " 
 He shouted the order unabashed at the fury of the buzzing 
 wind. He added: "Down wiv 'em, my sons. Lively 's the 
 word." 
 
 The mate faced him, truculent of aspect. "No man can 
 cross that deck," he announced. "They should a bin in 
 afore." 
 
 "For'ud an' get 'em in now." 
 
 "For'ud yerself." 
 
 The skipper watched with ponderous gravity. "There's 
 only one word that puts that into English," he said; "it's 
 'mutiny.' " 
 
 "You're drunk, Skipper." 
 
 The schooner heeled again. In the argument Saunderson 
 had forgotten the wheel. The sails were full; bellying black 
 against the sky. The mainsail stooping thirstily caught the 
 water as with a scoop and poured it forth like a cascade. Skip- 
 per and mate both gripped the wheel. They moved the spokes 
 tenderly, as a surgeon handles a hurt, edging down the helm.
 
 264 THE ISSUE 
 
 They strove to bring the vessel gently to the wind, but before 
 the compass had swung three points an ominous crack sounded 
 high aloft the foretopmast trembled, lurched, leaned out, and 
 clattered to the deck. 
 
 "Ease off your booms! Down peaks!" 
 
 Somebody moved to obey. The foresheet whizzed; the 
 main refused. In a moment the schooner rushed up into the 
 wind's eye with all her blocks and canvas thundering. The 
 mate made a trumpet of his hands. 
 
 "Hard up! Hard up!" he shouted. "She'll be in irons 
 with this tide under her bow. Stand back, Skipper give me 
 hold." 
 
 Saunderson argued. He pointed truculently at the fallen 
 spars: "Clear away wreck!" he growled, "clear away, an' 
 be damned!" Then again a voice leaped insistent, ringing 
 the tale of a new hazard. 
 
 "Ahoy! Ahoy! See that steamer?" 
 
 A man climbed to leeward and peered under the draggled 
 mainsail. "Where away?" he yelled. 
 
 "Clost abeam!" 
 
 The mate saw. He moved towards the rigging shouting: 
 "All up! She's done. Aft, my sons out boat." 
 
 The voices mingled in a shout: "Steamer ahoy! ahoy! 
 Hard a-starboard hard over!" they spoke very clearly, very 
 concisely; with the strained passion of men whose lives were in 
 the balance. 
 
 The squall had spent its fury; the gale garnered its forces 
 under Leigh hills, fetching breath for further effort. The 
 disabled schooner hung in the wind, her head drooping, her 
 sails shivering. As a horse, finding himself riderless on the 
 outskirts of a fight stands whinnying for his master, so the 
 Bluebell hung faltering, trembling, and in fear.
 
 TOOTH AND NAIL 265 
 
 The men engaged in launching the boat looked up. Within 
 fifty yards two dim lights winked in the blinding rain; a red 
 blotch and a green; high overhead a faint smudge swung in 
 the fork where in well-ordered vessels a mast-head light burns. 
 In five minutes, unless they could lower the boat, the whole 
 crew would be in "Kingdom Come." 
 
 "Out knives cut her away. See the plug's in. Oars? 
 Two of 'em. Bailer? Gawd! its' nowhere. Painter for'ud 
 out wi' her! Hell! look slippy." 
 
 A sound like the rustle of a thousand tons of straw grew into 
 the night. The steamer moved out of the murk a ponderous 
 thing throwing a wave. She butted. A sea leaped the schoon- 
 er's deck, and the men thrown from their feet, spluttered; hold- 
 ing hazardously to ropes. Some one swore loudly in a thin 
 falsetto. Then, amidst a hail of falling gear and the noise of 
 splintered woodwork, the steamer drew astern. 
 
 And with her movement came the end. For some the end 
 of all things, the "Kingdom Come" of the river; for others a 
 more protracted fate. ^ 
 
 Still the river swirled madly beneath leaden skies.
 
 Part I 
 $aunDet0on 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE PROPHECY OF OLD MOORE 
 
 DUSK was falling on the picturesque village by the river 
 when a cart clattered noisily across the wharf and 
 drew up before the smithy door. Tony Crow, hearing 
 the sound of wheels and scenting a job, came quickly 
 forward. "Socks!" he exclaimed as a man sprang to 
 the ground and moved to meet him, "Socks, if it ain't 
 Micky Doolan 'an ah thowt maybe t'were a bruken tire." 
 
 Micky gripped him by the arm, excitement written large in 
 every feature. "Whisht!" he cried. "Have ye heard the news ?" 
 
 The blacksmith slapped his thigh and rolled a warning 
 look at his friend. "News," he said, "is loike the papers 
 made oop o' lies wi a jorum o' detail ta gie it the semblance o' 
 truth. Ah never trust news, an' ah take sma' heed o' clack." 
 
 He turned oracularly to face the small boy who stood blink- 
 ing before the forge. "Teddy!" he cried, "ah heerd t'factry 
 horn blowed this five minutes. Ah don't want to be haulet 
 oop under t'act. Scoot! Shop's shut." 
 
 The boy found his jacket and departed winking monstrously. 
 
 "That boy," said Tony when they were alone and he had 
 closed the door, "is late fra t'Boord Schule. He'd worm a 
 
 267
 
 2 68 THE ISSUE 
 
 secret oot o' a dommed axle-tree an' sell it fer cigarettes. Noo, 
 Micky, oot wi't." 
 
 The two men drew together in the red glow of a fire which 
 still leaped and spluttered under bellows slowly becoming 
 exhausted. Micky produced a paper and stood holding it in 
 hand. 
 
 "Ut's the curse," he announced with the solemnity of one 
 who sees that he has prophesied correctly. "I told him how 
 ut would be an' now she's dhown the cellar ye mark that ?" 
 
 "Doon t'cellar wha's putten awa noo?" 
 
 "The Bluebell, my son the Bluebell an' all her crew." 
 
 "Socks!" Tony Crow ejaculated standing unmoved, "f Blue- 
 bell art sure, mon ? Sure ? " 
 
 "Listhen," Micky returned and began to turn his paper 
 
 "A message from Port Victoria," he remarked in paren- 
 thesis. "I copied ut from a telegraft lyin' in the Scorcher's 
 office. Ut's this: 
 
 " 'Schooner Bluebell of Riverton, official number 56784, 
 sunk in collision with steamer unknown, east of Chapman. 
 Fate of crew uncertain. Some if not all drowned. Further 
 particulars later.' " 
 
 The blacksmith took the paper and holding it gingerly with 
 an unsoiled corner of his apron, examined it before the fire. 
 "Well, ah'm dommed!" he remarked at length and punched 
 an unoffending thigh. 
 
 He looked up at Micky Doolan as though he expected some 
 further statement, but the Irishman was moving about the 
 smithy jubilant and bent only on advertising the degree of 
 accuracy he had attained in prophecy, and as though in 
 some measure he was responsible for the strange fact of ful- 
 filment. 
 
 "Ut wass bound to come," he cried out, "ut followed quoit
 
 THE PROPHECY OF OLD MOORE 269 
 
 natural quoit. Bill Jeffries, ye'll remember, wass the first to 
 coil dhown his ropes. Ut happened as we came up river from 
 the Gat off Thames Haven. Seems he got jammed in the 
 gear or wass thryin' to save the cat ; but annyway he got pretty 
 nigh cut in half before we could move to help him. He's wan 
 the first but ut's a beginnin'. 
 
 " There followed Jem Walters, the cook, ye'll moind, who wass 
 knocked overboard when the Deerstalker gibed in a breeze off 
 Margate. 
 
 "Nothin' in that, ye'll say. A common enough happenin'. 
 Good. But ye'll moind that Jem Walters wass in the Bluebell 
 too that night in the Gat. Well, he's quiet now an' will shpoil 
 no man's grub this soide av Kingdom Come. Two, my son," 
 he announced, and stood a moment eyeing the blacksmith's 
 gaunt form, looking through him with the gravity of a seer. 
 
 "An 5 now there's this," he went on, suddenly marching to 
 emphasise his opinion. "The Bluebell's down the cellar an' 
 her crew are in Kingdom Come. Ye moind that? Well, 
 Saunderson wass skipper av the Bluebell that noight in the Gat, 
 an' now he's dhown the cellar three. Three ye moind within 
 a spatterin' of months, an' yet they say 
 
 "Arroo! arroo! If I could get since into their heads. If I 
 could get them to look at ut square. If I could make them see 
 wid my eyes in a manner of shpakin' I'd " 
 
 "Socks!" said Tony Crow with sudden energy, "you've 
 gotten a bee in yer bonnet, ma mon. Aal the crew's not gone. 
 T'paper says so. Bide a wee. Dinnot gae so fast. Ah doot 
 Win'bag's no the man ta gae anywheer wi' oot a fecht. Wha 
 telled ye he's doon t'cellar?" 
 
 "Who ? No one. But I know, I know." 
 
 "Man," said the blacksmith with a large emphasis, "ye 
 knaw too much or too leetle ah'm no sure which. But, if it's
 
 270 THE ISSUE 
 
 no odds, ah'll wait till ah see Win'bag's corpse afore ah admeet 
 he's a deed un. 
 
 "Also, Mike Doolan," he proceeded in slow commentary on 
 the position as it appeared to him, "it seems t'me ye stand in 
 some peeril yourseP. Ah've heard you were on VBluebdl 
 likewise thot you were mate." 
 
 Micky Doolan accepted the position at once. "Thrue bill," 
 he said, "I wass." 
 
 "Weel," the blacksmith suggested, "ah'm no gaein' t' pro- 
 phecy; but ah'd be carefu' verra carefu' wi' them sluckit- 
 sassers ah see ye bashin' arahnd in. Seems t'me it don't want 
 a curse t'get a mon turnit into fish-meat these tunes ner a 
 blessin' neither. Therefore " 
 
 " Arrah! give ut a rest," Micky Doolan interjected. " I know 
 whhat I know, an' I know we're goin' to see soights we never 
 thought to see if Win'bag's not dhown the cellar. Fer if," 
 he threw out, negligently twisting a thumb to indicate Riverton, 
 "if there's anny truth in a whisper I heard bey ant . . . 
 Elliott's on his way back an' " 
 
 "Elliott!" the blacksmith shouted standing threateningly 
 over this spinner of yarns which appeared to fall true. " Gae 
 on gae on!" 
 
 "Nay; if you take it like that, I'm done," said the Irish- 
 man. 
 
 He turned on his heel advertising an annoyance he scarcely 
 felt. " But if," he added, "you care to prove my words, get out 
 an' see Tom Surridge maybe he won't tell yez anny lies." 
 
 "Tom Surridge?" Tony Crow ejaculated, still very red and 
 resentful. 
 
 "Aye; he's drivin' in from Riverton to meet yez with the 
 letters. See?" 
 
 He moved from the smithy door, crossed the street and got
 
 THE PROPHECY OF OLD MOORE 271 
 
 himself into the Southern Trader. The landlord welcomed 
 him with the enthusiasm of one who perceives a customer 
 who guarantees the production of clack. 
 
 For some minutes the blacksmith considered the information 
 thrust thus enigmatically upon him; then he, too, passed out 
 into the village street and made towards the Riverton road. 
 
 If there was any truth in Micky Doolan's statements it was 
 evident that he might expect to meet Tom Surridge at any 
 moment. He decided as he trudged slowly up Slave Alley that 
 it was very necessary to meet ; essential, in point of fact, if he 
 were to carry out that trust of his with regard to Susie. 
 
 He came to the cross roads and stood peering into the dark. 
 A cart or two lumbered heavily by, then came the sound of a 
 trotting horse and the noise of iron-tired wheels. "Tom Sur- 
 ridge for money," said the blacksmith, and stood to intercept 
 him. 
 
 The little man would have driven past if Tony had per- 
 mitted it, but at the sound of that big, bass voice the horse 
 was on his haunches and Tom crying excitedly : 
 
 "Tony Crow, as I'm alive! Get up, man. Get up. I were 
 comin' for you by law ! I were comin' for you." 
 
 The blacksmith mounted and drew the apron about him. 
 "Weel," he said, "thot's strange; fer ah were comin' t' you, 
 masen." 
 
 "Luck!" said Tom Surridge, busy turning into the North- 
 dean and Swinfleet Lane. 
 
 "Mike Doolan," Tony decided, grim of attitude. 
 
 "An' he's told you about the letter?" 
 
 "Trust him." 
 
 Surridge fumbled in his pocket and passed it to his friend:
 
 272 THE ISSUE 
 
 "It's from Elliott right enough Elliott who were given out to 
 be down the cellar. What d'ye make o' that, Tony?" 
 
 The blacksmith took the envelope gingerly between finger 
 and thumb and held it to the lamp. 
 
 "What d'ye make of it ? " Surridge demanded again. 
 
 "Dom ma een!" said Tony Crow emphatically punching the 
 thing in his palm, "an' thot's Yerkshur," he added as though 
 explanation had been necessary. 
 
 Surridge shuffled on the high seat beside him and flicked 
 at the mare. " O law! O law! " he cried. " To think as that 
 letter should 'a come a'ter all. " 
 
 "If you was to swear, Tammas," said Tony Crow, "t'ud do 
 ye a power o' gude." 
 
 "Maybe; but I'm thinkin' it mought result in a habit, an' 
 swearin' is the wunnerfullest thing fer puttin' my old woman's 
 back up as ever was. Talk about cats! Why arched backs 
 ain't in it. It's a matter o' spinal diseage that's what it is." 
 
 "Tammas," said the blacksmith, "ah'm coomin' t' Swinfleet. 
 Ah've gotten a word t' say t' Susie." 
 
 It was quite dark when at length they drew rein before the 
 old-world cottage at the back of Swinfleet village. Tom had 
 been anxiously expected both by Susie and his wife. The 
 latter rushed without ceremony to the door at the sound of his 
 coming and was immediately doleful at the plight of her spouse. 
 
 "Sakes alive!" she cried, "if you ain't chilled to the blessed 
 bone an' in for prelature rhumatics, I don't know. Come in, 
 Tom where have you bin? WTiat? Mr. Crow, too Tony 
 Crow I do declare. Come in both of you an' get your hands 
 warm. It's as cold as a blessed church with the roof off. 
 Take your uncle's coat, Susie there's a dear." 
 
 Tom walked into the passage beside the girl. His air was 
 important; his eyes curiously shy of meeting hers. He slid up
 
 THE PROPHECY OF OLD MOORE 273 
 
 to her, speaking solemnly. "Susie," he whispered, "I've got 
 so'thin' to say to you." 
 
 Susie halted. The fact of Tony's appearance and the late- 
 ness of the hour had already made their mark. She looked up 
 with quick intuition. "There's no further trouble, is there?" 
 she questioned. 
 
 "No no trouble. Only joy this time. Why what d'ye 
 want most of all on this here hearth, Susie ? " He made the sig- 
 nal relative to the receipt of a letter. 
 
 "Nonsense," she faltered. 
 
 "True as gospel, Susie." 
 
 The girl faced him, white to the lips. It seemed that she 
 was about to faint. 
 
 "Pluck up," he begged. "It's from foreign it's all right. 
 O law! harken to them pigs." 
 
 He drew the letter cautiously from his pocket and thrusting 
 it within her hand made for the door. "Read it," he urged. 
 "O law! he's all right; it's from foreign. Bless us an' keep us! 
 there's Zulu goin' for number four givin' her hopscotch, she is. 
 Read it upstairs." 
 
 He vanished at once, perturbation showing in every line of his 
 kindly face as he went on a fancied errand to the sties. Mrs. 
 Surridge entered the kitchen a moment later and discovered 
 the blacksmith standing before the fire alone. She cried out, 
 scandalised at the fact: "Sakes alive! Where's Tom an' 
 Susie? Why what has took the man out there now?" The 
 sound of hoggish welcome had announced the fact of Tom's 
 occupation. 
 
 "If that man ain't a fair miracle," she decided, "I don't 
 know. Why what's the trouble, Tony ? ' ' 
 
 "Nay, Missis, there's no trouble," said Tony as he rubbed 
 his hands before the blaze.
 
 274 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Tom don't go pig soothin' unless," Mrs. Surridge announced 
 emphatically. Then glancing about, "An' where in the name 
 of all blessed prophets is Susie?" 
 
 Tony chuckled. 
 
 " Ah doot it's yon letter thot's done it," he said. 
 
 "What letter?" 
 
 "T' letter Tammas bringet fra Elliott." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge leaned forward in absolute dismay. 
 
 "A letter from Elliott?" she gasped. 
 
 " Thot's it, Missis. T' a nail it is." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge gathered up her skirts preparing to depart. 
 She turned to the blacksmith with a set expression of disquietude 
 "Old Moore's right," she asserted. "Wars an' rumours of 
 wars; danger to a crow-ned head an' trouble in the ager-i- 
 culteral districts. If this ain't the trouble he speaks of I 
 don't know."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 TONY PRODUCES His LINK 
 
 TONY GROW and Tom Surridge stood with their backs 
 to the fire, smoking pipes, with the air of men on whom 
 the world weighed heavily. They were silent. Their hands 
 were pocketed. They stared at the blue fumes moving 
 spirally up there amidst the beams and hooks and sides of 
 bacon. It seemed necessary to watch something, so they 
 watched the smoke. 
 
 For perhaps fifteen minutes they remained engrossed; then 
 Mrs. Surridge whisked into the kitchen and silence gave place 
 to sound. 
 
 "To think," said the lady with a dolorous inflection, "to 
 think as that letter has come too late by a handful of days! " 
 
 The two men regarded her with solemn eyes; but they made 
 no comment. Mrs. Surridge took their silence in the light of 
 an affront and stumbled headlong into an account of what 
 had passed. 
 
 "I went up to find Susie," she announced, "an' there she 
 is leanin' out o' winda, searchin' the sky for rays of comfort. 
 
 " 'Rays there may be,' I said, 'but they're all mixed up with 
 rhumatics an' the like out there come in!' An' I took her by 
 the solders, an' shut the winda. 
 
 " 'Susie,' I says, 'take heart, my deary, take heart there's 
 a pretty.' And she slid into my arms like a babby lookin' for 
 
 the breast, an' Sho! Tom, stand quiet there's a man; 
 
 and don't look as though you wanted to eat me." 
 
 275
 
 276 THE ISSUE 
 
 "I never moved," Surridge asserted with an injured air. 
 
 "No; but you might have moved. You've got no more 
 synthapy than a tomato, for all you look so red." 
 
 Tom strayed across and put his hand on his wife's shoul- 
 der. "How's the lass?" he questioned. "How do she take 
 it?" 
 
 Mrs. Surridge fell into his arms and wept for some minutes 
 without audible response. At length she looked up. 
 
 "The blessed child's frettin' her soul to fritters," she decided, 
 taking up the cudgels anew, "an* who's to wonder at it? Not 
 I, Tom, nor you, Mr. Crow, I'm sure. Well, there old Moore's 
 right. There is trouble in the ager-i-culteral districts, an' 
 much good may it do him." 
 
 Surridge glanced appealingly at his friend, but meeting with 
 no encouragement turned once more to his wife. 
 
 "An' what about this letter, Missis? Do it say anything?" 
 he questioned. 
 
 Mrs. Surridge threw her arms about his neck, administering 
 a caress to hide her emotion. 
 
 "Say!" she exclaimed, "it says a many things; it's pages long 
 an' it tells of all that happened after he took an' run." She 
 broke away and continued energetically, ticking off the points 
 on the fingers of her left hand: 
 
 "First he took the Garter Pier boat as was said. Then he 
 hooked a steamer and clumb on board. Then conies an 
 accident as was said. His boat is smashed in half; but him, 
 bein' on board the steamer, takes no harm. Then the steamer 
 people finds him an' they put him in irons on the bridge 
 handcuffs, Tom an' Susie never a bit the wiser. So there he 
 stands, like Cazebianker, until another steamer comes sneakin' 
 out o' the fog an' hits them so as they all have to swim for 
 their blessed lives."
 
 TONY PRODUCES HIS LINK 277 
 
 "Swim?" Surridge ejaculated as his wife paused for breath, 
 "Where did he swim to?" 
 
 "To a ship that took him to South Amelica three months 
 on the voyage an' never a chance of sendin' his letter. An' 
 now he's on one of them Pacific boats comin' home quick as 
 snails after rain. An 'what are you goin' to do about it?" 
 
 Again she halted, breathless and agitated of mien; then 
 having in a measure regained her composure, she looked at 
 Tom, and sighed. 
 
 "What are you goin' to do about it? That's what I want to 
 know." 
 
 Tom watched Tony Crow. 
 
 "It's a ke-nundrum," he asserted and fell into silence. 
 
 "It's aa thot," Tony acquiesced, following suit. 
 
 "Eh! Tom," Mrs. Surridge broke out, a reminiscence of 
 what she had read rushing in, " it's a good letter a letter with a 
 heart, an' I must say you never writ me the like; but there, 
 you never had to fly for your life on your blessed wedding day, 
 as Jack had, which makes all the diffalence." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge sighed, so also did Tom. "There won't be 
 no chance o' sleep," he averred, "not fer a month o' Sundays." 
 
 His wife seemed to divine his thoughts: "It's enough to 
 undermile her institution," she said, "the way you let that girl 
 be worried. I wonder at you; indeed I do." 
 
 "What could I do?" Tom questioned pertinently. 
 
 "What did you drive her into Riverton for an' marry her to 
 a person old enough to be her father, without so much as a 
 woman of her own sect to see her straight ? I would have seen 
 Saundisson dead and in his blessed coffin with the grass growin' 
 green on top of him first." 
 
 "I couldn't do more than I did, Mother. Why what could I 
 do? She said if I didn't drive her she'd walk: so what could I
 
 278 THE ISSUE 
 
 do? Besides," he continued, gaining confidence in the 
 knowledge of Tony's presence; "as far as I can mind, you 
 always were for her marrying Saundisson. 'A fine figure of a 
 man,' says you. 'I don't like him,' says I. 'I don't mind you 
 ever likin' a big man, Tom,' says you, an' there I left it." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge turned to view him. She took in his parts 
 critically and they struck her as being incomplete. "Tom," 
 she said; "I always said that you had a diseage, an' that their 
 name is deaf an' stoopid. I ask Mr. Crow: What do you 
 think of a man as would let a gell go away with sakes alive! 
 I can't name him an' him with a wife, or maybe two wives in 
 diffalent parts of the country, an' likely as not a family to keep 
 in each. I ask you, Tony, for I know you won't lie." 
 
 "Nay, Missis," said the blacksmith with his great laugh; 
 "I don't know thot ah'm qualified t'geeve ye an answer. Wim- 
 min's curus cattle t'handle; ye never know where to have them. 
 Ah'm no sayin' owt against 'em, or Susie, ye'll mind; but on 
 t' whole ah would not hanker after t'job." 
 
 "But the gell's married, an' here's Saundisson with another 
 wife," Mrs. Surridge expostulated. "What are you goin' to do 
 about that?" 
 
 Tony Crow apparently had no idea, so she turned once more 
 to her husband, speaking sarcastically. 
 
 "Tom, you're on the Cauncel,* an' know all about the law 
 an' such. What happens to a man that marries two women 
 both of them livin' at the same time ? An' what happens to the 
 gell, number two, that is?" 
 
 Torn thrust his fingers through his hair, regarding her with 
 grave anxiety. "Don't ast me," he blurted; then with a sud- 
 den inspiration: "Why, she gets quit of him, I reckon." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge laughed. "You're a pretty Cauncellor!" 
 
 *The village council.
 
 TONY PRODUCES HIS LINK 279 
 
 she cried. "No wonder folks say the rates have riz. Why, 
 how do you do your business ? " 
 
 "Take the tip from them as know, or ast the clerk," Tom 
 answered glibly. 
 
 "An' who's the clerk?" 
 
 "Mr. Sherren." 
 
 "T'lawyer man?" Tony interjected. 
 
 "Aye; he's a lawyer right enough." 
 
 "Then wi' your permission, Missis, we'll take a run rahndan' 
 see him. Strike t'iron whiles it's hot, Tammas; thot's ma motta. 
 It's no his office, or his hours; but ah've often worket overtime 
 fer him, an' ah'm thinkin' he'll not take it amiss if we look him 
 up. Come on." He linked his arms with Surridge and 
 dragged him away. 
 
 An hour later they returned from their conference and 
 found Mrs. Surridge busily engaged preparing supper and Susie 
 helping gaily. Tony crossed over and took the girl's hand. 
 
 "Ah'm glod t'see ye," he remarked. "Noo listen: we've 
 catched oor hare an' we're goin' to eat him. Tammas! oot wi 
 yon paper." He rubbed his hands jubilantly and took a seat. 
 Surridge pulled an envelope from his pocket, opening it with 
 shaking fingers. 
 
 "We ast him," he explained, "to put it down so that it would 
 be clearer. So he writ it. Susie, it's all right; it's as right as 
 seven peas in a pod." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Read it read it," he answered. "It's for you an' Mr. 
 Sherren says, 'Bring the gell to my office to-morra an' we'll see 
 what can be done.' So to-morra you'll have to jaunt as far as 
 Riverton." 
 
 Susie took the paper, and opening it read aloud: 
 
 " 'A man by marrying another woman while his first wife is
 
 ago THE ISSUE 
 
 alive, commits bigamy, and is liable to prosecution and penal 
 servitude for not exceeding seven years, and not less than three 
 years, with, or without, hard labour; unless his first wife had 
 been continually absent from him for the space of seven years 
 before the date of his second marriage, and he did not know 
 that his first wife was living.' " 
 
 "Hot for Saundisson!" cried Tom rubbing his hands. 
 "Law! I wouldn't be in Saundisson's shoes for money." 
 
 "Haud on, Tammas! Wait fer t'ither part. Socks! thot's 
 wheer Susie gets t'pull o' Saundisson by t' skeen of her teeth," 
 he added sotto voce. 
 
 Susie continued breathlessly: " ' The position of the woman 
 who married him when his first wife was living is as follows: 
 
 " ' The marriage ... so far as she is concerned . . . 
 would be a nullity and void.' ' 
 
 Tony interjected, "Meanin' you're no married at aa, Lass 
 think on 't!" 
 
 Susie glanced over and resumed: "'She would be . . . 
 at ... liberty to marry who and when she pleased 
 *..,. . and ... by so doing . . . she would not 
 commit . . . any offence . . . against the law.' Oh, 
 Auntie!" 
 
 Mrs. Surridge caught her in her arms, patting her back. 
 "That," she asserted, "is what I call a clear prescription. 
 Puddles in the road couldn't be clearer not though you've 
 walked through 'em," she added reflectively. She moved 
 across the kitchen and placed a hot pie on the table. "Come 
 along it's gettin' cold. Cold pastry is like a fog; it gets on your 
 chest." 
 
 Then all took chairs and Tom cried vociferously: "An' 
 to-morra you're to see him an' take action to give the beggar 
 his doo. Hooray, Susie!"
 
 TONY PRODUCES HIS LINK 281 
 
 "I'll see Mr. Sherren," she replied, a dim smile lighting her 
 features; "but I don't know about taking action. I think per- 
 haps it would be better to wait until Jack comes home." 
 
 "Thot's a sensible plan," said Tony as he reached for the 
 bread. "Specially as things have tumbled oot. Ye see," he 
 went on as the others awaited his explanation: "ah've seen 
 Mrs. Saundisson since I were here last an' ah've seen Micky 
 Doolan. There's been trouble dahn river wi V Bluebell." 
 
 Mrs. Sum'dge broke in with a dolorous inflection. "Ah! 
 I always said that he'd come to a bad end; what else can you 
 expect from a man with a passel of wives ? " 
 
 " One's mostly enough, Missis," Tony asserted with a laugh, 
 " Meanin,' as ah said before, no offence to anyone here present." 
 
 Having extricated himself thus from the possibility of any 
 subtle meaning, he proceeded at his leisure : "As ah was sayin', 
 Mrs. Saundisson number one has telled me so'thin'. T'Bltiebell 
 is dahn the cellar run into by a sluckit steamer an' sunk." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge turned a quick glance on the blacksmith. 
 "An' Saundisson?" she questioned. 
 
 "Nay, Saundisson is safe. Never fear. He's not t'be lost 
 in a colleesion not he. He's in hospital, or t'Sailor's Home, or 
 some ither place where he'll be mendet free of charge." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge groaned. 
 
 Tony went on with the air of a prophet: "Noo, Mrs. 
 Saundisson has got a bit money savit; an' her husband will be 
 sackit by yon Scorcher chap thot's a moral. Weel, Saundis- 
 son bein' seek, an' oot at elbows wi the Guv'nor, it's safe to say 
 he'll allow his wife t'keep him an' we'll see sights. How? 
 Weel, ye knaw as weel as ah do masen, thot Win'bag's pullin' 
 the strings in t'Cementies strike doon Riverton way an' thot 
 it's a fact t'Masters ken as weel. Therefore Saundisson will no 
 find it a light an' easy job t'get another berth, an' therefore
 
 282 THE ISSUE 
 
 he'll join the fight thot's a moral. Ah don't say anythin* 
 against t'strike, or for it; but ah knaw Win'bag wull be in the 
 thick of it, when he's clear o' t'hospital." 
 
 "An* his hands bein' full," Mrs. Surridge beamed, "he 
 won't have no time to think about Susie or " 
 
 "Nay, Missis, dinnot mistake me. Ah never said thot. 
 Saundisson is a man thot can juggle with two balls at once. Ye 
 must be kereful. Don't let her run ony reesks. A man wi a 
 broken arm ain't dead. Meanwhile, Susie, you write t'Jack. 
 Tell him ah've seen Dolly Crassley, a gell thot knows so'thin* 
 or ah'm dreamin'. Say he's t'coom hame as quick as God 
 Almichty will allow, an' ye con say this too Tony's gotten a 
 bar, maybe two bars forged thot'll fit graund rahnd t'neck o' 
 Dunscombe's murderer. Tell .him that, Susie, wi gude luck fra 
 Tony Crow." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge leaned forward, her eyes wide with interest. 
 "What do you mean?" she questioned. 
 
 The blacksmith put his hand in his pocket and produced a 
 small oval box with a crown in beaten brass on the cover. His 
 face was puckered with the strain of reticence. "Ah," mean he 
 replied, "thot Mrs. Saundisson picket oop yon box an' haunded 
 it t'me. 'It's a box ah loove weel,' says I. 'Ah saw ye searchin' 
 fer so'thin' the day ah metyebyt'deetch,'saysshe, 'is thot it?' 
 'It is,' ah said, 'an' thankee. I wouldn't lose it fer dumps.' " 
 Tony replaced the treasure and looked at his friends. "Mrs. 
 Surritch," he said, "ah'd been fossikin' fer thot box here an' 
 away, fer months. Ah'd been fossikin' till ah was seek wi 
 shame at ma blindness an' then eigh! fer t'curus way o' 
 Proveedence Mrs. Saundisson found it. 
 
 "Why curus?" he resumed with a note of pride; "because 
 thot box was in t'pocket o' t'man wha killet Dunscombe nowt 
 less."
 
 TONY PRODUCES HIS LINK 283 
 
 A long sigh escaped Mrs. Surridge as she, with the others, 
 leaned forward quick with expectancy: "Tell us! Tell us!" 
 they cried. "It wasn't Elliott it couldn't have been it 
 couldn't " 
 
 Tony Crow rose slowly from his seat. "Nay," he replied, 
 "it was na Elliott; but ah doot the weesdom o' clack sae ah'll 
 get me hame." 
 
 But to Susie, as he stood with her a moment preparing for his 
 walk, Tony whispered a sentence that sent the blood leaping 
 in the girl's cheek. "Ah thowt it recht t'tell ye, Lass," he 
 added as a final shaft, "seein' ye're like ta be in some doot as 
 t'the facks." 
 
 And this time the girl's cheeks paled.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE STRIKE 
 
 DECEMBER, bleak, rigorous, chilling the world with an 
 early touch of frost. Gales from the northeast; 
 gales from the west; black unholy gales from the south- 
 east; then the inevitable fog cloaking the land while nature 
 garnered her forces anew. Sometimes the days were full of 
 steam and sullen earth-sweat: then came a burst of wind to 
 sweep the poison germs to sea. Sometimes an interval of 
 crisp, dry weather, and mankind sniffing the freshness, dreamed 
 of skating; then more fog and mire and foul atmosphere, with 
 the tall factory chimneys belching grime and smoke into the 
 heavy air, and no breath of wind astir to lift it off the town. 
 
 The river running beneath leaden skies, took the tint and 
 appeared as a swirling torrent of mud driven shamedly from 
 the streets of the great city beyond. Sometimes the banks and 
 seawalls were hard and crisp and rimed with frost; sometimes 
 soft as a quagmire and nearly impassable. 
 
 Riverton in December has many characteristics, but these 
 being the chief suffice. No man having lived a winter in the 
 town would venture to dispute them; but, during the winter 
 here portrayed, additional features were hideously prominent. 
 
 Gangs of gaunt and hungry workers thronged the streets; 
 knots of haggard and unkempt women congregated in groups 
 about the stagnant thoroughfares. Crowds of sullen, embit- 
 tered men and women, workers and loafers, short and tall 
 starving and well fed, crowded the common; and standing shiver. 
 
 284
 
 THE STRIKE 285 
 
 ing under the bare trees, hung on the words which fell from the 
 lips of impassioned orators, as though they expected to see the 
 millennium accomplished in answer to their fervid spoutings. 
 
 Away in grim back streets; before factory, workshop, and 
 foundry gates; before the entrance to numberless wharves, 
 building yards, gridirons, docks; before big yards and little 
 yards; before iron-studded gates and ricketty trellis; before 
 the office of the man who rode to town in his brougham, and 
 the office of the man who footed it thither with anxious eyes, 
 stood little groups of men with books and sometimes bludgeons, 
 waiting to persuade the would-be workers, and those blacklegs 
 who had continued their toil during these troubles, to desist. 
 
 These were on picket duty. 
 
 Farther afield, uptown, the wives and daughters of manufact- 
 urers, tradespeople, and other small gentry who had nothing 
 to do with the business on hand, were mustered under the 
 banner of some wily Samaritan, to eke out the fight with pres- 
 ents of soup, clothing, and food; forgetting altogether in the 
 flush of action and pity, that their president was using them 
 and the strikers, as a lever by which he might presently climb 
 to that paltry city office, of which he was enamoured. Forget- 
 ting also, that when men or dogs fall out it is wise to hustle 
 them into a back yard, devoid of brick-bats, and let them fight 
 it out in comfortabfe seclusion. 
 
 Now all these things had come to pass, because the masters 
 had fallen under the ban of the trades unions, and a strike 
 was in full swing. 
 
 Prominent among those who had banded together for the 
 better working of this effective mode of suicide, was a league 
 of waterside labourers; the boatmen, lightermen, barge skippers, 
 and all the fraternity. They were named the "Rivermen's 
 Union," and their watchword was "Regeneration of the
 
 286 THE ISSUE 
 
 Masses." How this was to be accomplished, none of the 
 speakers were agreed. Every man had his own theory, and 
 the personal equation was a very strong factor in the genesis 
 of his belief. 
 
 Saunderson was one of the leaders. As Tony Crow had 
 predicted, the minute incident which had the honour of being 
 the primary cause of all the trouble, was his discharge after the 
 Bluebell catastrophe. The Scorcher had made no question of 
 the matter; union or no union, strike or no strike, Saunderson 
 was ordered to go. 
 
 That this was only a peg whereon to hang the gage of war, 
 most men admitted; including some of the more thoughtful 
 strikers. But Saunderson held other views. To him it meant 
 simply an individual triumph over the Scorcher; the triumph 
 of the worker as placed in opposition to the master; the triumph 
 of labour as set in antagonism with capital. Saunderson's 
 name was on everyone's lips; his personality carried all before 
 him ; his energy, his vigour, his decision were the stepping stones 
 by which he mounted. He was eloquent in his rough and 
 untutored fashion, and quickly caught the ear of those who had 
 come out in sympathy only. 
 
 The man was as indefatigable in his pursuit of the masters 
 as he had been indefatigable in his pursuit of Susie. He was 
 as unscrupulous in his methods of attempting to bring the 
 masters to his feet as he had been unscrupulous in his endeav- 
 ours to gain Susie's love and companionship. For the nonce 
 his earlier occupation was suspended. Just now he was bent 
 on revenge, pure and simple ; with visions of the fame he would 
 acquire when his toils were accomplished. 
 
 The Scorcher had behaved to him as no man should behave 
 to a brother man. His wife, the woman of lachrymose aspect 
 and tiresome methods of attempting to regain his affections,
 
 THE STRIKE 287 
 
 was an effectual shield against the want and misery suffered by 
 his sympathisers. For Mrs. Saunderson had discovered her 
 husband in hospital and had been so assiduous in her care, 
 then and afterward, that for a while he surrendered his manly 
 strength and beauty to her keeping not, indeed, that he suf- 
 fered remorse, but on the more sordid ground, that she had 
 money and could aid him. 
 
 As she had said to Tony Crow, "Money works wonders." 
 It had. But one cannot live permanently on the principle and 
 not suffer for the indiscretion; yet this is what the patient 
 woman, who had told the blacksmith of her troubles, was doing; 
 and she was doing it simply because Saunderson was her hus- 
 band; the man she had loved in her girlhood; and because the 
 bitterness of her anger was all eclipsed by his helpless plight, 
 and she was able to win his smiles now that she could aid 
 him. 
 
 Thus had Saunderson lived for six weeks since the strike 
 commenced, and had suffered nothing of the starving anguish 
 which had been the lot of his followers. These things come 
 but rarely to the leader. Saunderson was a leader. Only one 
 was higher than he in organising and carrying out the details 
 of processions, picketting, and stump oratory and he was 
 the secretary of one of the London labour guilds, and in receipt 
 of a snug income. 
 
 The wolf may attack the stragglers in a flock of sheep; the 
 enemy may bayonet the worn-out rank and file ; but the shepherd 
 and the general must escape unscathed; else, how on the face 
 of God's earth is the work of leading to be done ? 
 
 It is one of the laws of civilisation, and even those theoristic 
 humanitarians who aim at regenerating the masses by provid- 
 ing pap and the piano for every British infant; who would 
 pantaloon the naked savage and smother vice and drinking by
 
 288 THE ISSUE 
 
 Act of Parliament, are not averse to wobble their comfortable 
 carcasses under its gracious and inspiriting protection. 
 
 These things all happened in the year of our Lord, 19 , 
 but on the 2oth of December, when the worn year was stag- 
 gering like an old man, heavy with the weight of days ; when the 
 world had approached within sound of carols and laughter of 
 Christmas, sterner events were in train. 
 
 Disaffection was beginning to appear. Strike pay had 
 become marvellously scarce. The gaunt-eyed men, with their 
 pinched in waists and their jaunty, devil-may-care stride, 
 were beginning to melt away from the general's care and 
 showed a tendency to go over to the master's citadel. 
 
 The grim misery of a sodden earth; the cries of the starving 
 children; the patient look of suffering in the women's eyes, 
 and their own aching, vacuous misery, which no bowls of soup, 
 nor promiscuous, charity-found loaf could assuage, were driv- 
 ing them thither. 
 
 What was to be done? Obviously something strong; some- 
 thing efficacious; something that should strike terror into the 
 hearts of those grinders of human souls the masters. 
 
 A meeting of the well-fed leaders and their following was 
 convened at Riverton. The former jaunted thither in han- 
 soms, the others crawled there painfully on foot. 
 
 This panacea, that panacea ; this proposal, the other proposal, 
 were submitted duly and with excessive circumlocution to the 
 followers, who sat or stood in silence, glaring hungrily at each 
 other. 
 
 A deputation to the masters: would that avail? Sha! it 
 would but indicate their extremity. An appeal to the other 
 Unions for help ? That would take time, and they were starv- 
 ing. 
 
 A procession, with a band and boxes to collect subscriptions?
 
 THE STRIKE 289 
 
 Take it away! A flea-bite on so huge a carcass, who would 
 feel it. Take it away! 
 
 Double the pickets ? Give us a rest ! Take it away ! Take 
 it away! 
 
 Obviously something must be done or the movement would 
 collapse of sheer inanition. Who was there fit to lead this 
 halting crew? Where was the man born to lead who would 
 now step into the gap and put life into these dullards ? 
 
 Saunderson was that man. 
 
 A hoarse murmur of excitement grew in the secluded river- 
 side grounds when it was seen that Saunderson was on his legs. 
 The faces looked up at him; pale, gaunt, with stubbly beards 
 and heavily lined eyes; men who thought, men who shouted; 
 men with visions, men, stolid, apathetic; a sea of white faces 
 with wistful, roving eyes; with savage eyes searching the 
 unresponsive sky for a sign ; waiting mute to be told what they 
 must do how. A chill wind swept through the ragged ranks; 
 the river babbled in ears dulled by the hum of machines. They 
 stared before them and saw the tall, smokeless chimneys hold- 
 ing lean fingers to heaven; pointing a signal they could not read. 
 They stared to the left where lay a dim vista of slum-land 
 perched on the river wastes; houses huddled together, dark, 
 full of smells, the kennels which sheltered them by night. A 
 pestilential neighbourhood this, abounding in beer shops, 
 pawn shops, gin-palaces, places of amusement for the sanscu- 
 lotte of our cities. They turned to the right and their eyes fell 
 on other houses; houses surrounded by trees, sleek lawns, 
 gravelled drives the Masters' land, standing high out of the 
 river fog; high, where the air could move and the sun could 
 laugh. The faces looked up. Voices mingled in a shout. 
 Saunderson, who knew them, whom they knew, was on his legs, 
 standing bareheaded and bowing to the plaudits which wel-
 
 2Qo THE ISSUE 
 
 corned him. They shouted their joy, and he lifted his 
 hand. 
 
 "Fellow- workers!" he roared from his eminence on the cart- 
 tail; his great bass voice lashing them with its earnest vigour. 
 " Fellow- workers an' Sons of Toil! Let me have a say." 
 
 He threw away his hat and rolled back his cuffs as he faced 
 his audience. They cheered, and the uproar grew boisterous 
 when it was seen that the London Labour Secretary had resigned 
 his place. Saunderson vociferated, waving his arms to mark 
 his points: "You are all like sheep without a shepherd," he 
 asserted in the brazen tones of the demagogue; "you have 
 played follow-me-leader till your leaders are stuck fast in the 
 bog, and some of you are for caving in. 
 
 "Hold on a bit I'll go alone. 
 
 "What d'ye say to me for a leader? What d'ye say if I 
 show you how to win ? to win on every point to win all along 
 the line? an' to beat those Gawd-forsaken fossils, the Aristoc- 
 racy? They tread on you." (Groans.) " They starve you !" 
 (Shouts and groans.) "They grind you and polish off your 
 wives an' children in the mill of perdition!" (Loud shouts 
 and yells of execration.) "Why should they revel in vice an' 
 pleasure ? Why should they tread us in the ground while they 
 roll over it in the gilded coaches our labour has found them? 
 Shall I tell you why ? Shall I ? " 
 
 The shouts rose: "Go on! Go on, Win'bag! Let's have 
 it. No more foolin'." The noise abated and he resumed: 
 
 " Down river, on the Medway saltin's, in frost and snow, in 
 rain or fine we dig their clay, we load their barges; an' in frost 
 or snow, gale or shine we run it up to their wharves, bucket it, 
 drive their cranes, fill the trollies. You know as well as I do 
 what this means. Sometimes it means somethin' more. Some- 
 times a poor devil gets caught an' comes out wrong end first
 
 THE STRIKE 291 
 
 good! it's all one to the masters; it's all in the day's work; 
 one chap less in the world to cry for a job it's nothing to 
 anyone. 
 
 "That's one bit; now comes another. The masters build 
 houses on land they own; we've got to take them the wages 
 they pay us goes back as rent. They hold shares in the pubs 
 and gin-shops, the co-operatives the wages they pay us goes 
 back in dividends. Ten years in their factories fills a man's 
 lungs wiv dust; he caves in, dies: what conies to his wife an' 
 children? Are they helped are they? God knows they 
 aren't. God knows they go on the rates or starve. What 
 odds? No odds a bloomin' workin' man the less to talk. 
 
 Sometimes a chap gets up an' makes a row in Parliament 
 about all this. He makes a thunderin' row, because, perhaps, 
 some poor devil has been nipped between the buffers, or a 
 crew's got drowned because of rotten sails, or a dozen has got 
 blown to Kingdom Come by a patched up boiler good! 
 There's a row. The Guv'ment side listen. They see it looks 
 like an adverse vote they say, 'That's bad.' They say, 
 'That's a damned bad case; it's the worst we've heard of; what 
 shall we do to remedy such a outrageous state of affairs ?' Then 
 up jumps another gent Guv'ment side he shakes his old 
 head, wags his pot belly, an' says he: 'His Majesty's Guv'ment 
 accept the position. They will do somethin' to ameliorate the 
 lot of these poor workers.' And, in the papers you see how the 
 remark was received with cheers sheers, my sons, is what 
 they mean sheers. The gent turns round to his mates at 
 this an' winks the other eye. He holds up his hand: 'His 
 Majesty's Guv'ment propose/ says he, 'to establish a Royal 
 Commission to look into the facks of this terrible case. The 
 names of the gentlemen who'll serve shall be made known to 
 the House wivout delay.'
 
 2 Q2 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Then he sits down. So does the Commission. It stays 
 sittin' like a hen on a china egg. Nothin' comes of it only, 
 mind this! only, the Commission has scotched the row. The 
 chap that made the row is dead, or sent up to the House of 
 Lords, or made into an archangel, an' ask I you: Why does 
 all this happen ? Why does it happen ? Speak up who knows 
 
 A shout of encouragement went up. Saunderson thrashed 
 his chest with his clenched fists. "I'll tell you why," he 
 roared. "My sons, I'll tell you why! 
 
 "It's because those chaps who do the speechifyin', who do 
 the promisin', are all members of some firm or other lookin' 
 to draw their dividends; an' if it don't pay to alter things, 
 things don't get altered. Vested interests stand in the way. 
 Political economy stands in the way. Says the big pots: 'If 
 we alter things our dividends will wait. We can't stand that, 
 give 'em a Commission.' 
 
 "Mates! I say we find them in soldiers, we find them in 
 sailors, we find them in servants, we find them in the sluts that 
 fill our streets an' what do they give us in return?" He 
 dropped his voice just low enough to give the effect. ' ' My sons ! 
 they give us a Commission." (Tremendous shouting and 
 Saunderson expanding his chest to the breeze.) 
 
 The noise abated and he resumed: "I say, what if I lead 
 you to win off these? Will you listen to me? Answer like 
 true men, as Gawd is your Maker." The cheers rose, they 
 filled the sodden air, and those few constables who were on the 
 ground were hustled backward by the mob. 
 
 Again Saunderson shouted, holding up his hand for silence : 
 "Listen then: I understand your meaning. You take me to 
 lead. Very well; if my plan don't meet wiv your approval 
 after I've told you, shout me down. I'll take a back seat."
 
 THE STRIKE 293 
 
 The crowd yelled with one voice: "Goon! Goon!" 
 
 "Hold on a bit! What has happened ? I '11 tell you. We've 
 fought a good fight and we've been out nigh on two months. 
 Two months of starvin', two months of misery, two months of 
 Hell's own weariness an' now some of us have gone in! 
 Some of us have started suckin' the blood of the others; some 
 of us are worthy of the death of that cursed traitor Judas, an' 
 some more of us want to follow suit. 
 
 "What are we comin' to, fellow workers? Are we a nation 
 of Judases? Are we a nation of Blacklegs?" (Howls and 
 groans of execration.) " Gawd forbid. I say, Gawd forbid, 
 an' I know he will forbid." The cheers broke out; they rose 
 high, bidding him proceed. 
 
 "Boys! If we stick together we've won our fight. I tell 
 you now here, that we have won our fight an' that we're at 
 the back of a great and splendid victory! Are we goin' to 
 give in then ? Are we goin' to the masters wiv our tails between 
 our legs, to curry to 'em and ask them to take us back ? Why 
 should we? I say there's every sign showin' that we could 
 want that we've won. The Board o' Trade are to step in an' 
 force the masters to accept the arbitration for which we have 
 fought an' starved an' died! It's as good as settled; but 
 there must be no waverih', no blood-sucking. We must stick 
 together; you must follow me!" 
 
 Again the cheers and cries broke long and loud across the 
 desolate riverside common. At the end Saunderson was seen 
 holding up his hands. " Wait !" he shouted. "Hold on a bit! 
 Keep your breath, my sons! You'll want it all to-night. 
 To-night, did I say?" 
 
 "Yaas! Yaas! To-night, Win'bag. To-night an' no more 
 foolin'." 
 
 "To-night it shall be. To-night at eight o'clock we meet
 
 294 THE ISSUE 
 
 for our constitooshional ! To-night we'll march to the tune 
 of the cries of the masters. To-night we'll carry torches 
 alight! flamin'! burnin'! To-night we'll give 'em all the 
 scare they want, an' to-morrow the strike will be done." 
 
 A dull roar of applause greeted the man as he clambered 
 from the cart tail and forced his way through the crowd. He 
 waved his arms shouting as he went: "At eight o'clock! 
 At eight o'clock! By the statue in the square." 
 
 And the crowd yelled their irresponsive reply: "To-night! 
 To-night! Gawd help the mawsters!" 
 
 It all sounded so feasible ; it all sounded so just, so equitable 
 to these poor starving wretches. The banks were loaded with 
 gold ; in the masters' houses were fires, food, servants, comfort. 
 The shops had victuals; they had worked God! they had 
 worked; why should they starve? Why, also, should their 
 wives and little ones starve, suffer, die? They should not 
 suffer; as there is a God, so also is there an end to all 
 things. 
 
 It was a wolfishly hungry, a stern and determined crowd 
 that met at eight o'clock that night, when the year was within 
 earshot of the annual carols and messages of peace and good- 
 will. A crowd that knew its wants, boasted in a leader, stood 
 shoulder to shoulder, and had developed enthusiasm. A dan- 
 gerous crowd to tamper with had the police been quadrupled. 
 Citizen meeting citizen in the ominous and brooding gloom, 
 expressed the dictum of all who had effects. "There's trouble 
 brewing to-night. Why have they not sent for help? They 
 have found a leader. Law and order has none, and patience 
 is the watchword of the civic dignitaries. Patience! and the 
 rats are swimming the stream." 
 
 The night was black and still. Heavy clouds obscured the 
 stars. Respectability remained indoors wanning its toes in
 
 THE STRIKE 295 
 
 comfort before the blazing fires; nursing the theories of respec- 
 tability patience, arbitration, bowls of soup, charity things 
 appreciated by the indigent, fought for by loafers, demanded 
 by the Hooligan, but scarcely the ultima thule of those who 
 desire to hedge labour with a ring fence through which they 
 may strike at all outsiders. It was warm in the houses. Fires 
 were a luxury, nearly a necessity to those who snuggled by 
 them. A bitter night, said Respectability, upon which to be 
 abroad. Only a fool would be out on such a night. 
 
 Hark! 
 
 A drum many drums, the blare and din of a tin-pot band, 
 playing hideously the Funeral March. What was it ? Respec- 
 tability, shrugging its shoulders, nursing its theories, listened 
 and answered : 
 
 "The men on strike taking their constitutional." 
 
 That was true. But this time with a leader, with a man to 
 tell them what they must do, how they must do it, when. The 
 midnight march of the unemployed had begun. 
 
 When the hunger-driven wolves espy sleek horses running 
 before the sleigh in distant Russia, they take no heed of the fire- 
 arms of those who ride behind. They dash onward with snap- 
 ping jaws and yelps of famine to revel in the hot blood of their 
 victims, and know no halt except to whet their appetites on 
 the carcasses of those of their comrades who have fallen. So 
 with the human wolf when lashed by hunger. The first small 
 fracas serves but to whet the appetite for blood and plunder. 
 Then the crowd goes mad and rushes forward heedless and 
 drunk with passion. 
 
 As the band headed up the street, followed by the motley 
 crew of strikers marching to the tune of the Funeral March, a 
 braggart dare-devil, a fool of more exalted rank, stood in the 
 entrance of an hotel; his inner man warm, his outer man non-
 
 296 THE ISSUE 
 
 existent, jeering at the misery, and inartistic semblance of the 
 squalid procession. 
 
 He and many others had grown accustomed to these silent 
 protests. They had happened so often. Nothing had resulted ; 
 never would result. The thing was a picture of the unappeas- 
 able strivings of the sansculotte; a cartoon showing the idiocy, 
 the flagrant apostacy of a Government who had given to Things 
 an education and forgotten to fill their bellies. The braggart 
 shouted his disdain, speaking with a gesture of contempt and 
 instantly almost before the senseless words had died on the 
 night, a score of gaunt men had dashed from the ranks and 
 rolled him in the mud. 
 
 But the business did not end there. 
 
 From the hotel came the click of knives and forks, the din of 
 popping bottles, laughing voices Respectability enjoying 
 high-priced Christmas cheer, and murmuring the messages of 
 peace and good will in luxurious content. A lean giant sprang 
 forward. He beckoned with his hand, calling to the stragglers: 
 "What ho, mates! Here's grub an' to spare! Lay yer sides to 
 it! Cotton on to it! Get outside it!" And instantly, as if 
 by magic, the procession halted ; the hotel was filled ; a fighting, 
 struggling mob overflowed the doors. 
 
 Those who could not enter broke through the windows and 
 seized the things that came their way. Some hustled the 
 screaming barmaids and scared waiters into another room; 
 others ransacked the till. Some rolled casks of beer and spirits 
 into the street; others passed out the more accessible bottles; 
 and all who could get within the enchanted circle, drank and 
 raved as though indeed the millennium had come. 
 
 Barrels of costly wine and spirit were trundled into the 
 street, and for those who had no pots, a copious stream ran 
 down the gutter for men and boys to lap. Close at hand were
 
 THE STRIKE 297 
 
 several shops: bakers, jewellers, grocers, and the like. The 
 contagion of plunder ran through the ranks of desperate 
 men, as the ripples run over the river's surface before a 
 breeze. 
 
 They were hungry take and eat. They were thirsty take 
 and drink. They lacked money take the jewels. The 
 feeble barriers were torn down. Men clambered into the 
 higher places and threw the goods broadcast to those who could 
 not come near. Gawd! take and eat. Gawd! take and 
 remember your starvin' folks at home. 
 
 The wolves were at work on the sleek carcasses of the horses 
 now; their blood thrilled, it burned in veins long accustomed 
 to a turgid stream; gin, whisky, port, brandy, beer all had 
 helped to fire that thrill; all had helped to madden them. 
 Their eyes were aflame; their hearts were aflame, and the flick- 
 ering glare of the torches shone on a mob whose wisdom had 
 set before the aching misery of their lives. 
 
 And these things had grown while the civic dignitaries 
 bandied terms; while the appalling arbitrament of starvation 
 aided men dallying with fate from behind the cover of their 
 banking accounts. 
 
 The handful of police who attempted to stem the storm, 
 had been driven early from the scene. Who was there left to 
 interfere? The civic dignitaries, warming their toes before 
 comfortable fires? Who was to lead? The dainty civic 
 dignitaries ? Someone should send for a magistrate. Someone 
 should read the riot act. Someone should send to the Tommies, 
 lying in barracks at the other end of the town. Chut! The 
 last post had sounded; the Tommies had received no orders 
 and the watchword of the civic dignitaries was Patience. 
 
 So the mob having gotten them a leader or two, and having 
 tasted the fruits of unalloyed triumph, started again behind
 
 298 THE ISSUE 
 
 the band which now played the Funeral March in turn with 
 " See the Conquering Hero Comes." 
 
 A sullen tramp of many feet echoed through the night. A 
 flare of torches and the voices of hundreds, singing snatches 
 of wholly irrelevant songs. Frightened women peered from 
 behind drawn blinds; through the chinks of half -opened shut- 
 ters. Groups of hurrying townsfolk raced homeward, and the 
 hoarse shout of the leaders, who had caught at the military 
 words of command, rang on the still air. 
 
 "By your left, turn!" 
 
 A thousand or more passed to the left at the junction of 
 four main streets, and proceeded at quick time to the top of 
 the road. They followed the band. The rest, marching 
 under the blood-red banner of the Mercantile Marine, bore 
 also to the left in obedience to the quaint command: "Hard 
 a-starboard! Full speed ahead!" 
 
 These were the Regenerators of the Masses, and they swung 
 along jauntily in the blaze of torch light to the tune of an old 
 sea-song. They chanted in a minor key : 
 
 "The times are hard and the wages low; 
 Leave her Johnny, leave her; 
 The fo'c'sle's a hell where the slime does grow 
 It's time for us to leave her!" 
 
 Saunderson led here. His destination was the wide, modern 
 road of Riverton, where so many of the masters lived. The 
 Scorcher had taken up his abode in Dunscombe's nondescript 
 mansion. The Scorcher was a man who had lived, hitherto, 
 solely under the permit of the Regenerators. Now they had 
 determined to make an end of him, of his house, and of his 
 ways. 
 
 A swarthy crew was by this time busy wrecking the wharf 
 and offices which once had owned Dunscombe as their lord.
 
 THE STRIKE 
 
 299 
 
 These others marching to the tune of "Leave her, Johnny, 
 leave her," had the more delicate duty allotted to them, of 
 "breaking the masters in the strongholds of their vice." 
 
 A hansom came clattering down the road carrying a man and 
 his wife in evening attire. They met the band. The horse 
 reared. A group of sweating warriors turned aside. They 
 caught the animal, unharnassed him, threw the driver from his 
 perch, and bundled the pair into an adjacent garden. 
 
 "Gawd! You'd go to pawties an' theatres an' there's 
 men an' women stawvin'! Chuck 'im aat over the bushes 
 wiv 'im! Easy on the lidy! Pawss 'er aat gently no lawks! 
 We're aat to fight men!" 
 
 A jehu who drove "nobs" in evening dress, was of necessity 
 a blackleg. "Dahn wi 'im. Chuck 'im aat!" Presently he 
 lay stunned under the wall; the cab was dismantled; the horse 
 flying through the night into the country beyond. 
 
 Again the words of command. 
 
 " Steady helium ! Full speed ahead ! " and the flushed crew 
 were on their way once more. Torches flared. The band 
 brayed hideously. Drums rattled; and behind came the jaunty 
 waterside labourers shouting their dreary shanty. The 
 Scorcher's house came in sight. A yell of triumph went up 
 to heaven. The word was shouted. "Down wi' the gates! 
 Razzee the lot! Watermen to the front! Cementies for- 
 ward!" 
 
 On one side of the road lay Dunscombe's old home, a other, 
 shining from the windows of the lighthouse; on the gleam 
 behind a lane of weeping willows, stood several large houses, 
 tenanted by masters. 
 
 The mob divided with swift precision. They broke through 
 the flimsy railings, uttering loud and persistent yells of triumph. 
 A gang of burly river-men streamed into the symmetrical garden
 
 300 THE ISSUE 
 
 passed the shivering Venus, and thundered on the door to break 
 it in. 
 
 Upstairs lights flashed. The shrieks of maids and children 
 sounded shrill above the din. 
 
 "Break it down! Ram it! Fetch that plank, someone. 
 Flames! how firm it stands! Easy on the women! Get a hold 
 of the Scorcher nothin' else I" 
 
 The door stood sufficiently long to enable the Scorcher to 
 escape. He fled incontinently, carrying his women folk 
 through a gate at the foot of the garden. Then it fell, and the 
 greedy mob entered sweating to find their vengeance balked. 
 
 A roar of baffled rage sounded in the house; but few were in 
 the mood for shouts alone. The men dispersed fapidly; some 
 to the bedrooms, some to the basement and study, where lay 
 the safe. But this was locked and none had the wit or time to 
 open it. Shouts rang high through the house: 
 
 "Wreck the furniture! Light a bonfire in the dining room 
 empty that oil about!" Then, one more enterprising than 
 the rest stole through the upper rooms turning on the gas, and 
 presently the house stood vacant of all but flames. 
 
 A dense mass of stone -throwing men surged in the roadway, 
 bent on the less obtrusive amusement of wrecking glass. They 
 were shouting, singing, mad with class-rage as they viewed the 
 comfort of the masters in close comparison with their own un- 
 doubted misery. They wanted now no leaders. They had taken 
 grip firmly on the bit of opportunity. Their appetites were 
 whet; the smell of food stung them to further violence. 
 
 Who could stay their idiocy. Not Saunderson, skulking 
 unabashed in the background. Not he of the London labour 
 guild and the snug salary. The train was laid; the match 
 applied; leaders were no longer a necessity in the forefront. 
 
 Dull clouds of smoke issued from the house that once was
 
 THE STRIKE 301 
 
 Dunscombe's. The fairy castle he had so laboriously erected, 
 that he had screwed and sweated and cheated to obtain, stood 
 now clad in a new garb. Flames issued from door and window ; 
 fiery tongues of flame leaped across the garden. Higher, 
 fiercer, redder they grew. The roar of human voices died 
 momentarily as all turned to gaze upon the conflagration. The 
 men, busy wrecking with brickbats the symmetry of other 
 houses, paused to look. And in the silence that fell, a new 
 sound broke upon the pregnant air. 
 
 The blare of bugle calls in the barracks; and close at hand 
 the rhythmic beat of galloping horses. 
 
 The civic dignitaries had acted at last. The cavalry were 
 out. Who led now ? Not Saunderson. Not he of the London 
 guild. They had heard while the roar of the fight and the fire 
 had seemed to baffle all hearing and they had taken steps 
 accordingly. 
 
 A swift shout, a shout of fear, loud, intense, went up through 
 the night: "Ware Swaddies!" And the dense mass began 
 to melt like smoke before a breeze. Down street; up street; 
 across walls, through gardens anywhere, everywhere, out of 
 the way of that charging, jingling troop. 
 
 But two or three thousand men cannot stampede with safety, 
 or effectually in a moment. Those who had made most noise, 
 who were on the outskirts of the mob, who had been busy 
 hurling stones they were able to escape; but the mass stood in 
 savage dread, waiting to meet that from which they could not 
 fly. 
 
 The jingle of accoutrements, and the gallop of the horses, 
 grew insistently. A shuddering groan ran down the street. 
 The human block hung poised, impotent with the weight of its 
 own indetermination. The charging horsemen were upon 
 them.
 
 302 THE ISSUE 
 
 Sabres flashed, scabbards clanked, and the burnished steel 
 shone in the light of the blazing house. 
 
 A wild shout, half of fear, half of bravado, sounded from 
 those wretches, who, unable themselves to escape, sought to 
 stem the racing tide with a volley of brickbats. And then the 
 clang and clash of battle, the dull thud of sabres used flat, an 
 indiscriminate turmoil ; and at its height, the rumbling boom of 
 an explosion, while all men held their hands to see the wreck of 
 Dunscombe's house. 
 
 The flames died suddenly amidst the roar. When next 
 they leaped aloft, a skeleton mansion stood roofless and window- 
 less, with tottering walls amidst the blaze.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 FINEM RESPICE 
 
 A SULLEN December morning broke at length across 
 the battered town. Knots of men and women stood 
 talking with bated breath in squalid streets. Strong 
 patrols of police drafted hurriedly during the night from 
 neighbouring towns, tramped the pavement. In barracks the 
 disgusted Tommies lay under arms. The town hall cells were 
 full to overflowing; so also were the hospital wards, where a 
 score or more of the wounded were couched, thanking their 
 gods for the change. But among them all was no leader. 
 
 The damage to property along the river front was terrible. 
 Several yards had been fired, the wharves were wrecked, 
 offices ransacked, blacklegs mauled, and barges sunk. In one 
 street all the shops were windowless. Property had melted into 
 thin air; everything had fallen in the fiery crucible of class- 
 war. 
 
 Elsewhere in the town business houses remained closed. 
 Respectability nursed terror within doors and watched, cur- 
 iously, the magistrates going under protection, to the town hall. 
 But there was scant necessity for anxiety now. Last night the 
 men had been beaten heavily and decisively. The morning 
 saw a wavering crowd, a crowd trusting no one, dreading each 
 sound; a crowd without leaders vanquished. 
 
 A hurried meeting was called early in the afternoon. Saun- 
 derson spoke again, urging them vehemently to stand firm. 
 The day's sentences, so he assured them, had been light. It 
 
 33
 
 3 04 THE ISSUE 
 
 was a proof of the awe in which they were held by the masters. 
 Masters and Magistrates were all one. They dreaded the 
 power of the unions. They dreaded interference by the Board 
 of Trade. Most of the prisoners had been dismissed with a 
 paltry fine, a fine the unions had paid as they would pay the rest, 
 and to-morrow the others would come out in a similar manner. 
 He begged them to stand firm. But the men shook their heads; 
 they argued: 
 
 "No use, Win'bag; the chaps are goin' in." 
 
 Saunderson grew impatient: "Who says so, lies!" he cried. 
 
 "Naa Gawd's trewth. Hear their nairnes: Margots, 
 Tom Boosy, Sutcliffe, an' others." 
 
 "Sutcliffe?" 
 
 "Ya-as." 
 
 "Gawd look askant on the blacklegs. He's another of 
 ours." 
 
 The meeting broke up without any arrangement having been 
 come to. In silence, in apathy, it melted away, like ice before 
 a fire, and Saunderson went moodily to his home. The end 
 was in sight. He sat down to brood. 
 
 What had been the use of it all ? He asked himself whether 
 he had benefited by the course of recent events, whether he was 
 any nearer the goal of his ambitions, whether he had obtained 
 an adequate revenge on the Scorcher ? Again, he asked himself 
 whether Susie would hear his name, see the reports of his 
 speeches, and recognise his daring with a thrill of pride ? Would 
 she? Chks! he was beaten. Beaten. Susie would never 
 hear, or, if she did Gawd! what a crew of shufflers to lead. 
 What a jelly-like, quivering brand of humanity. He could 
 make men as fine out of a little cement and water. Dummies, 
 dummies every one as pulseless and invertebrate as a worm. 
 
 John Burns, Ben Tillett, Tom Mann a score of men he
 
 FINEM RESPICE 305 
 
 knew had climbed to fame over the bent backs of the starving 
 strikers; so he argued bending over the fire. Why could not 
 he do the same? They had been successful; why then was it 
 impossible for him to win success? 
 
 He sat in the light of a dying day, glaring hungrily into the 
 past; searching amidst the tangled skein of a life more than 
 half spent, for the cause of his failure for the reason of that 
 unsuccess which had recently so horribly dogged him. In the 
 North he had moved forward without pause. He had been 
 immune from the disasters so common to men of his calling. 
 He had made money and the fair sex had looked upon him 
 with smiling eyes; he had known love. 
 
 His success continued when again he came to the Thames. 
 He was skipper, and, for a time, was lucky in his ventures. 
 He still made money: now his money was gone; he was without 
 employment; he had lost Susie. Never before had he loved; 
 now he loved but could not gain his love. His friends, the 
 agitators, men of standing, men of position and assured income, 
 men who had egged him on, stood aside. They flouted him 
 openly and attributed the disasters through which they moved 
 to his foolhardy bravado, to his unconsidered action. His! 
 The knowledge shook him. The failure was his it was 
 appalling. He could not fathom it dogged, shadowed 
 devilish! It was what was it? Luck? Fate? What was 
 it? 
 
 The questions leaped again in his brain and he set himself 
 to search the incidents minutely from the beginning. The night 
 in the Gat rose before him. The voice, the sheeny and tran- 
 sient moonlight, flickering, dazzling. Chks! He had no need 
 for search. He told himself, leaning forward and watching 
 the shadows, that he knew precisely what was wrong. There, 
 at his right hand stood the cause of all his futile struggles.
 
 306 THE ISSUE 
 
 Always it was present. Forever it jogged the wires, sounded 
 alarms, whispered in his ears intangible, inexplicable the 
 Curse of the Gat. 
 
 He rose unsteadily from his seat and glancing about the still 
 room searched amidst the cups for rum for his courage. 
 Then, as he poured the spirit into a glass, a chill blast swept 
 in from the street and he knew the door was opening. He 
 turned to look. His wife entered. She moved over and sat on 
 the horsehair sofa. Saunderson watched her, and tossing off the 
 rum, growled: "Lumme! why can't you speak? Why are 
 you crawlin' round like a sick snake ? You give a man the fair 
 hump." 
 
 Mrs. Saunderson sighed; she replied in a broken voice: "I 
 did not mean to startle you. I wish I could help you more than 
 I do." 
 
 He stared at her through bloodshot eyes. An idea took 
 him and he cried out: "You can. Sit down there. No no 
 lights. I want to speak. On your answer depends my future 
 D'you take on?" 
 
 " Oh Jim! Come away from this place come away. Never 
 mind anything, only come away and let us start life afresh." 
 
 "Wiv you?" he questioned brutally. "Stow it." 
 
 She seemed not to hear, and continued: "There is a dense 
 fog again black and grim as the misery that is on the people. 
 The strike has broken down. Men are going back to work 
 and others are being found to take the places of those who won't 
 return." 
 
 Saunderson snorted angrily: "The cursed blacklegs!" 
 
 She took no heed but extended her arms with an appealing 
 gesture. "Come with me, Jim. Now when everything else 
 has failed, I ask you to come back with me to Cornwall. 
 There's father's little farm. We can work it. Dear! look
 
 FINEM RESPICE 307 
 
 kindly, forget your troubles, and I will forget all that has 
 been." 
 
 Saunderson sat gloomily silent, gazing at the small fire 
 whereon a kettle sang, the only cheerful note in all that sombre 
 room. His wife crossed over and kneeled beside him. 
 
 " Jim," she whispered, "what are you thinking of? Is it the 
 old house, where I was a girl, and you came to show me what 
 love is ? Do you remember the lovely grassy slopes the woods 
 where we so often rested ; the woods, where you took me in your 
 arms and called me your pretty Lily your gentle, white Lily ? 
 Do you remember how angry father was when he found I had 
 been there with you, and how we laughed at him and you said 
 you loved me and wanted to be married to-morrow. Do you 
 remember it all? Dear, come back to it! Come back with 
 me and let us forget all the misery we have gone through." 
 
 Saunderson scarcely heard. In thought he had been stroll- 
 ing down the sea-wall at Abbeyville, where, one night, two 
 months ago, he had met Susie and caught her to him as she 
 promised to be his. His blood flamed at the recollection. A 
 sentence fell on his ears could he go back to Cornwall to the 
 little farm, and rest with his wife? Could he? Could he 
 return to this while the possibility of gaining Susie still lay 
 before him? Scarcely. Yet, it should be as he had said. 
 He would tell her his trouble his fear, and let her decide. 
 Then if she too admitted the power of the curse, he recognised 
 that it would be useless to continue fighting; he would go away 
 and have done with it. He turned quickly and found his wife's 
 arm about him. He shook her off, speaking roughly: "On 
 you depends what follows. Sit down. I can't talk free wiv 
 you clawin' round my neck: Sit down." 
 
 She sprang from her knees and settled in another chair. 
 She was stung to the quick by his brutal repulsion. "Go on!"
 
 308 THE ISSUE 
 
 she cried with a queer, hard laugh. "Don't spare me. My 
 feelings need not concern you." 
 
 Saunderson, engrossed with his own inexplicable doubts, 
 continued without perceiving what a shock his words had 
 caused. He said: "When I came round into the Thames 
 eight months ago, a queer thing happened to me. We got 
 becalmed in the Deeps nigh to Fisherman's Gat, an' had to 
 down mud-hook or drive ashore. So we anchored." 
 
 He spoke with the air of a baffled man, searching amidst a 
 life crammed with incidents for the particular key he required; 
 he fell again into the river argot, his rich bass voice filling the 
 room: "It's not a nice place to be kickin' about in. The 
 tide runs bad. There's sands almost all round you, an' 
 Micky Doolan, he's been tellin' me of the curse an' run of 
 luck that followed the Flying Cloud after she came under it. 
 But, there's no wind, an' we're not a steamboat, so we've got 
 to lie an' chance it. We lay an' chanced it. 
 
 "Then comes a thunder squall, rippin' an' tearin' everything 
 that's loose from its hold an' the Bluebell breaks her sheer an' 
 drifts slow as flames, she drifts across to the Gat. Did she 
 touch? Aye, she did touch: for how long? For three mortal 
 hours. Chks! is there any luck to come out of a deal like 
 that?" 
 
 Saunderson leaned forward with his face in his hands. The 
 subject fascinated him. He saw the scenes of which he spoke; 
 marked their inevitable movement; the gradual absorption of 
 self in greater issues unrolling somewhere somewhere far 
 away, remote, out of the ken of men lacking knowledge. He 
 rubbed his brow and continued: 
 
 "Afterward, we floated. Then, while I'm sittin' on the 
 companion, fhe stroke of eight bells comes across the Deeps 
 from a steamer goin' north. I turned to look. There's a
 
 FINEM RESPICE 309 
 
 queer kind of sheen hangin' across the path of the Gat close 
 to loo'ard of wheer we're anchored. I don't mind comin' 
 across that sheen anywheer bar the Gat. I don't mind it an' 
 Micky Doolan, he don't mind it either. Ya-as it was curious 
 curious. I got up an' stood watchin'. The steamer dies 
 away in the haze an' " He paused, to examine the shad- 
 ows near the fender, then taking up his glass he tossed off 
 the remaining spirit and resumed: 
 
 "An' while I'm lookin' somethin' happened. What was it ? 
 Some one singing out a queer cry: what could it be? A chap 
 fallen from yonder silent death ? It's all likely yaas, it's all 
 likely. 
 
 "What did I do? What would any man do? I took the 
 boat an' scullied seaward. I pulled a mile maybe two. 
 There's a dark patch further out. I sculled some more an' 
 came down to it. There's nothin' there bar a water sodden 
 hatch, covered with grass an' slime green loaded wiv barn- 
 acles. Been there for ages. An' out seaward there's the glint 
 of the Gat, an' the the " 
 
 Again Saunderson sank into silence, and sitting with his 
 chin resting in his hands, gazed steadfastly into the glowing 
 embers. He seemed to have entirely forgotten the presence of 
 his wife, sitting also silent, and watching him with a new-born 
 anger gleaming in her eyes. His voice rose in a growling 
 monotone, as though in answer to some spoken question: 
 "What did I do? What would anyone do? I came back 
 aboard an' there's Micky Doolan waitin' fer me. 'It's the 
 Curse, Skipper; he says, 'the Curse of the Gat, an' you're come 
 under it.' That's what he says; but," he shouted savagely, 
 waving his clenched fist; "that mate ain't judge an' jury; he's 
 not omnipotent, as you might say, although yaas I know 
 I know "
 
 3 io THE ISSUE 
 
 He stopped speaking, and drawing his chair nearer the fire, 
 sat moodily staring into the flames. His wife watched him 
 unmoved. He resumed after a lengthy silence, in muttering, 
 broken sentences. 
 
 "The voyage ended bad; I know it. Goin' up Sea Reach, 
 we get run down by a drunken collier, an' one of the chaps is 
 drowned. Bill Jeffries it was a good chap. A chap wiv a 
 wife an' four chidren all left to stawve by Dunscombe. Fair, 
 ain't it? As though Bill Jeffries had anything to do wiv it. 
 Yaas, it's fair fair as flames. 
 
 "Then comes the Stormy Petrel do: A derelict in the Gat, 
 you mind, an' Elliott's bent on gettin' hold of her. We got 
 hold of her yaas, oh yaas, we got hold of her; but there's a 
 row first. Then Dunscombe's killed an' an' you're come 
 back. Eh? Shhh! Who in flames is that ?" 
 
 He rose from his seat and with the unsteady gait of one on 
 the verge of sleep, crept noiselessly to the door and flung it 
 wide. 
 
 The fog steamed silently in, filling the room with moisture. 
 He stood peering into the murk and growling savagely: "Who's 
 there? Who's there?" 
 
 His wife's voice fell on his ears speaking in hard, ringing 
 tones; with disdain. " Shut the door, Jim. Really you haven't 
 the nerve of a cat." 
 
 Saunderson turned and looked at her. "Lumme!" he 
 growled; "I'd almost forgot you're there." 
 
 "So it seems." 
 
 He moved over threateningly. "What d'you mean?" he 
 cried. 
 
 "You were asking me to decide a question for you," she 
 evaded; "a rather momentous question." 
 
 Saunderson regarded her passive attitude with annoyance.
 
 FINEM RESPICE 311 
 
 He crossed the room, found the bottle of rum, and, leaning 
 against the door, took a lengthy pull. " Yes," he said, "I did. 
 It's this. You're better educated than me you maybe know. 
 It's this. Can a curse spoke scores of years ago work harm 
 on them as has had the misfortune aye! for that's what it 
 was, as Gawd made me to cross the path of it ? Answer me 
 that an' I'm done." 
 
 "I don't believe in such things." 
 
 He leaped upright, calling out in fierce agitation: "Eh! 
 Lumme, that's the best word you've given me yet. You don't 
 believe it possible?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Nor other folk?" 
 
 "Only ignorant people." 
 
 "Then you can't damn a man body an' soul for years on 
 end?" 
 
 She replied with a shudder he could not see in the dim-lit 
 room: "Men are more frequently damned by their past lives. 
 By the trouble they bring on themselves, by their own wicked 
 actions." 
 
 "What in flames d'ye mean?" 
 
 He stood up scowling with rage. His wife rose to confront 
 him. She spoke without a tremor: "Don't be foolish, Jim. 
 Learn to control yourself or drink less. The spirit is too much 
 for your head." 
 
 She answered so coolly, with such a hard, metallic ring in 
 her voice, that Saunderson could only stare in amazement. 
 
 Was this the terror-struck wife he had spurned? Was this 
 the lachrymose woman he had bullied and who had never dared 
 to retaliate? Scarcely. Chks! what was in the wind now? He 
 waited in silence for further speech. She watched him with 
 anger-laden eyes, yet her voice quivered. "I came here and
 
 3 i2 THE ISSUE 
 
 found you in trouble. I nursed you through your illness for 
 you were poor. I found you money. I slaved for you. I bore 
 silently every reproach, thinking you might grow kinder 
 that your love would come back. I bore your brutal passions, 
 your violence; I bore all hoping you would see I had no 
 malice, no thought of the past; and now I ask you to come 
 away from this misery, and you turn on me like a tiger like 
 the wild beast that you are like a savage." 
 
 Her voice fell into a sneering key: "My arms are claws, are 
 they? Very well: find softer. I am lean and scraggy, am 
 I? Very well: find plumpness. I shall trouble you no more 
 with my caresses. I am going home." 
 
 She passed quietly to the door, opened it, and let herself out ; 
 but Saunderson took no heed. Already he was immersed in 
 thought, steeped to the ears in a new picture that had unfolded 
 before him. His courage had returned. Like a spring long 
 sealed and dammed by frost it broke forth at the first touch 
 of sun and overwhelmed him. Fear of the unseen no longer 
 throbbed at his vitals.. For the moment it was gone, and he 
 was sane sane and free from dread. She knew. Aye! she 
 knew! He grew bold as he recollected her sneering laugh. 
 Curses! Ghosts! they were not never had been. He swore 
 it, facing the fire : glaring hungrily at the image he saw there 
 of Susie; Susie with the golden hair and gentle speech. God! 
 if it could have been if it could have been! If he had 
 known 
 
 He sat a long while brooding and in silence over this thought. 
 The room was very dim. The kettle had ceased to sing, the 
 fire was dying slowly. The untrimmed lamp burned low with 
 a gurgling noise in its throat. Very still, very sombre was the 
 night. 
 
 A footstep thumped the pavement outside, and he glanced
 
 FINEM RESPICE 313 
 
 up. It drew near, halted at the door, and a postman's knock 
 echoed in the silence. He rose and opened. 
 
 "A letter and a telegram." said the man. "The wire 
 wouldn't have come sooner by messenger." 
 
 Saunderson received the information and his correspondence 
 without a sign. "Right," he said; "have a drink?" 
 
 "Can't stop, Cap'n. Big round just begun. Night's play- 
 ing the dooce with the patrols." 
 
 Saunderson closed the door and sat down to examine his 
 letter. It came from a friend a barge owner in a small 
 way who offered him the command of his second vessel. 
 The telegram was concise; it ran thus: 
 
 "Black George sails to-morrow day tide. 
 
 "SNUFFLrs, MATE, LIMEHOUSE." 
 
 So to-morrow, day-tide. Toward dusk, then, the Reindeer 
 might be expected off Riverton. Saunderson's vision had 
 fallen from that new thought. The telegram occupied him. 
 
 Sutcliffe had been appointed temporarily to the Reindeer. 
 He was a blackleg one of those who stood in the path of his 
 leader's advancement; one of those of whom it had been de- 
 cided to make an example. He was a man who happened also 
 to be his leader's personal enemy, a man who had cheated him 
 of his hardly earned gold; a man of whom he had spoken to 
 his wife in terms of the plainest meaning. Chks! His wife 
 where was she? Would she return? Would she see? And 
 if she did? What then? 
 
 Late that night Saunderson quitted finally the lonely cottage 
 and betook himself to a meeting of those stalwart Regenerators 
 of the Masses who still held rosy visions of winning the strike. 
 It was the last time he met them ; the last time he ever put foot 
 to the floor of the home wherein his wife had nursed him back 
 to strength.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 SNUFFLES 
 
 A BOAT lay idly beside the Garter Pier and for two hours 
 a man had appeared to doze in her stern sheets with 
 his head wrapped in the folds of a heavy coat. But during 
 all that period he had watched the swollen river running 
 muddily seaward; watched the fading daylight, the swirling 
 tide, the dwindling distance, the growing, snake-like causeway. 
 
 Far out into the dim river it meandered like a giant centipede, 
 shining with the gleam of slime and ooze. It held between its 
 crooked legs the trailing refuse of the towns, straw, sticks, rags, 
 tin cans; making with them little whirlpools of eddying scum, 
 stirring the muddy depths; ruffling the surface with moving 
 beads of foam. 
 
 Beyond the causeway the tide swept downward, pulseless, 
 inert, but very swift It roared past the mooring buoys and 
 they twisted and rolled back upon tightened cables like giants 
 in pain. It hissed past the hulks moored so thickly in mid 
 stream, carrying seaward the garbarge from their decks, the 
 groans of the cables, and the shouts of their crews. It heard the 
 jumbled roar of cranes swinging coal, of winches clattering, 
 of ice churned and pulverised in the shoots of the fish carriers 
 noises like groans, noises like sighs, with a note of despair, of 
 hope, bouyant, boastful, inextricably tangled tangled as are 
 the lives of men. 
 
 Above the causeway there towered the high sea-wall; a thing 
 of mud and clay, impossible as a promenade, picturesque and
 
 SNUFFLES 315 
 
 very English, as a sticky means of communication with the 
 down-river Forts. Beside it stood the Garter Pier Hotel, 
 lonely, isolated, staring at the hospital, as the hospital again 
 stared at the fort. Nothing else, only the marshes, the ditches, 
 a far-off range of hills, and the steaming marshland breath. 
 It curled white over the farther fields at sunset. Gates stood 
 up in it. A mill appeared in the middle distance floating and 
 without a base, its wings revolving with the inflexible purpose 
 of all driven things. Reeds stood up in it, swaying heavy heads, 
 wet, shining. Then the mist marched forth. It surged about 
 the distant landmarks, mounted the sea-wall, and flowing 
 stealthily north met a companion mist creeping from compan- 
 ion marshes, unseen down there where the centipede pier 
 pointed a crooked finger over the river. And, as if the mist 
 had been the signal for which he waited, the man in the boat 
 uncovered his head and looked about without concern. He 
 stood up. Saunderson's heavy frame loomed hugely in the 
 haze. Very big and silent he appeared as he paused there 
 shading his eyes and staring into the blur of masts, still 
 shadowed against the smoke and fog of the upper Reach. 
 
 He moved from the boat and the frail craft shivered; the 
 bubbles floated seaward in shoals. The pier held him; its 
 straggly legs trembled under his march; the planks quivered. 
 He passed up the steps where a board like a sign announced 
 the fact of the causeway's extreme length, and the Garter Pier 
 hotel opened its maw and swallowed him. 
 
 Later, he came out accompanied by two stalwarts: two of 
 those who owed a grudge to the turn of events; who believed, 
 with Saunderson, in the inevitable mastery of the Cause. And 
 creeping over the slimy centipede, the trio came to the boat. 
 The boat took them in; she marked the fact by sinking some 
 further inches, by gripping the tide, by the absence of irres-
 
 3 i 6 THE ISSUE 
 
 ponsible movement. Henceforth the man was her master and 
 she slid forth, obedient, willing to be coaxed, cajoled, ordered 
 by him sitting in the stern, by Saunderson, the man of destiny 
 no longer troubled visibly by the shadows of a tortured 
 mind. 
 
 He commanded now the boat of one of the river pickets. 
 They moved out through the steaming mist, crept past shadowy 
 hulks, and noted the roar of the tide under the bows of a bluff 
 merchantman of the Ballarat days. They swept on, angling 
 to pass the buoys, slow against the tide, swiftly with it; always 
 enveloped in shadow, always silent, until they had obtained an 
 offing, and could move at leisure. 
 
 Across the water lay a police launch, snugly moored under 
 the stern of a hulk ; but the trio no longer feared her espionage 
 she was asleep, hidden in the dusk and smother of night. 
 Riverton, with its silent wharves and deserted factories, was 
 asleep also in that smother. Official Riverton, which had done 
 its duty, bragged now in the clubs and drawing rooms of its 
 prowess. The back of the strike was broken. The beggar 
 crowd was beaten. Starvation was the one medicine it under- 
 stood starvation, the panacea of Capital when dealing with 
 Labour; backed perhaps with a touch of the spur if the crowd 
 became intractable starvation had won. But official Riverton, 
 gloating over its triumphs, gloating over the verve of the new 
 men imported to keep the machines humming, to keep the 
 bank accounts on the upward trend, forgot what the police had 
 also forgotten; that in times of dissension between masters 
 and men, two forces often come into being the opportunity 
 of revenge; the chance of paying off private scores under the 
 banner of the fight. 
 
 Ostensibly the picket's boat moved out to seek the Reindeer 
 because she was one of the Scorcher's vessels and was manned
 
 SNUFFLES 317 
 
 by blacklegs. In reality Saunderson's grudge against Sutcliffe 
 was at the bottom of the whole business. 
 
 Had it not been for Saunderson, no pickets would have ven- 
 tured out that night ; but he found men whose hearts were dead 
 and whose shoulders writhed under the blows of fate; he found 
 them, nursed them, helped them out of the till of the Cause, 
 and they accompanied him, believing in him, swearing by him. 
 They could do no more. 
 
 The boat came round in answer to a touch of the rudder; 
 then, paddling easily, they lay full in the track of downward 
 vessels. The tide was at half ebb, the river crowded with 
 barges floating lazily with boomed out sails and flapping jibs. 
 Now and again a steamer came swiftly out of the haze and left 
 them wallowing in her swell; then, as darkness grew, little 
 gleaming eyes, red, green, white, sprang into being, marking 
 the driving shipping. The wheezy fog-horns redoubled their 
 cries; the weird shrieks of hidden sirens filled the night with 
 jets of sound. 
 
 Still the boat with its silent occupants moved stealthily zigzag 
 on the face of the waters. Several black-sailed Burmah-men, 
 with Invicta painted on the luff of their mainsails, passed like 
 wraiths in the darkness. These sail at all times; nothing short 
 of collision or dismasting stops them ; but the Reindeer was not 
 there. A snorting collier lashing the foam with her half- 
 merged screw, steered wildly into the void, waking the echoes 
 with an unholy scream. Barges followed. In groups, singly, 
 in pairs, lashed together, they passed onward, but none showed 
 the signal which "Snuffles, Mate, Limehouse," had arranged. 
 
 The boat drove onward carrying her dogged crew. They 
 listened to the clank of chains and heard the swish of the leather 
 scoop and the shout of a skipper, under Coalhouse, digging for 
 sand. They passed a buoy winking a dim challenge to dis-
 
 3 i8 THE ISSUE 
 
 aster on the point a death trap of the river this and swept 
 onward, rowing sometimes to search a vessel, sometimes 
 driving idly with oars alert to move; never answering a hail, 
 nor taking a tow until the tide was spent and they were some- 
 where off Thames Haven. 
 
 A gloomy outlook on any dark night in all truth; but with 
 the haze in their eyes, the raw air down their throats, and the 
 profound and unspeakable solitude of the open river to point 
 their misery, their lot was sufficiently desperate to atone for the 
 clamour they raised when the World's End Tavern stood at 
 hand. But Saunderson was obdurate. Nothing could shake 
 the grim tenacity with which he fastened on a scheme when 
 once it was planned. He moved from his seat, fumbled in the 
 stern sheets and produced a bottle of rum. The men passed 
 it from hand to hand, descanting on their chief's sagacity ; then 
 lay back to wait for the flood. 
 
 When this came, they started once more to sweep the Reach 
 toward Riverton. They moved methodically, from point to 
 point; they no longer "drove" with the tide, but steered accur- 
 ately for those anchorages where downward barges might be 
 found at rest. 
 
 They searched about the paraffin jetty, off West Blyth, 
 under Hope Point, across the river, below the powder maga- 
 zine, but the Reindeer remained unfound. The crew became 
 weary. They growled together, arguing the possibilities: 
 "Have we missed her?. . . Surelie she's got this far. . . 
 Looks as though she haven't . . . Steady! there's a era wft 
 over there pull port oar! What's that on the skirt of the tide 
 under Coal'us?" 
 
 "Wot is it? It's three lights, an' the middle 'un's green." 
 
 "Chks! it's the Reindeer. Go easy no bloomin' larks! 
 Snuffles has done 'is bit."
 
 SNUFFLES 319 
 
 They moved swiftly forward and in five minutes had brought 
 to under the Reindeer's bow. Saunderson crawled aft. The 
 mate met him in the shadow of the mainsail. " 'Ad a doin' ? 
 he questioned. Saunderson brushed trivialities aside; he said: 
 
 "All right by your lights, I see." 
 
 "Yaas; but old George ain't 'ere." 
 
 "Oh '.how's that?" 
 
 " Done a bolt: 'ow could I odds it? Some bloomin' female 
 come 'er 'anky-panky on 'im, an' 'ee cleared." 
 
 Saunderson stood very still; he eyed Snuffles up and down. 
 "What sort of female?" he questioned. 
 
 "Tall, dawk eyes, fluffity 'air." 
 
 "Ah" Saunderson clutched at his neckerchief, fighting the 
 leaping words tall, dark, fluffity hair! Again he saw them; 
 again that frowsy picture of a gaunt, unhappy woman swam 
 before his eyes. He turned suddenly on the mate: " Get your 
 lights in." Then, after a pause: "Who's here?" 
 
 "Tom Boosy." 
 
 "Did did she tackle him?" 
 
 "Ya-as; but Tom's wife's stawvin' an' 'ee says, t'Hell 
 wi the pickets: blackleg or no blackleg, I'm goin',' an' 'ee 
 come." 
 
 "Right ! You keep handy an' don't let the chaps on board. 
 Tom Boosy'll do as well as another to skear 'em. They're 
 all blacklegs; we'll teach 'em " 
 
 He went forward, climbed through the hatch, and passed 
 into the hold. The mate stood on guard above the cabin 
 scuttle. 
 
 The voices of the night sobbed eerily high up about the 
 hounds of the mast. The river swirled and eddied moving 
 Londonward. Drops of moisture fell pattering to the deck 
 from the canvass fluttering in the breeze. Once or twice a
 
 3 2 THE ISSUE 
 
 grinding squeal echoed in the stillness; then Saunderson 
 emerged sweating from the hold. The mate crossed to meet 
 him. "Wot abaht 'im dahn aft?" he questioned. 
 
 "What about him?" Saunderson echoed. "Get you into 
 the boat." 
 
 Snuffles argued: "Why you ain't fer leavin' 'im are 
 you?" 
 
 "Why not? He's a blackleg, ain't he? Let him get out 
 as he likes. He's got his boat what more do you expect me 
 to do for him?" 
 
 "It's murder," said the mate, "or precious nigh to't an' 
 I ain't goin' to 'ave no 'and in that." 
 
 Saunderson swore. He urged under his breath : "He has his 
 boat he has his boat; she won't go in a minute. Get you 
 into mine." 
 
 The mate objected still. He shook his head, saying: "I'm 
 not on. I'll go an' ca' 'im." 
 
 Again a savage oath rang out as Saunderson saw confronting 
 him the thwarting influence, the intentional hindrance that 
 baffled him always. His anger took shape as the mate turned 
 nonchalantly, insolently, to go aft, and he moved behind and 
 struck him heavily under the ear. "Lie down, dawg!" he 
 growled. "Do as you're bid." 
 
 Snuffles lay down and Saunderson hastened to the boat. He 
 spoke with a snarl. "Cast off!" he cried. "She's got her 
 belly full out of it." 
 
 The stalwarts stood up to receive him: "Wheer's Snuffles?" 
 they questioned. 
 
 "Stayin' to get the skipper into the boat." 
 
 "Right! We don't want to be seen shove off." 
 
 They moved out into the darkness and the darkness covered 
 them.
 
 SNUFFLES 321 
 
 Like a blanket it shrouded their actions, hid their passage, 
 and masked the stirring waters until Riverton stole out of the 
 gloom to give them welcome. 
 
 But Saunderson had forgotten that Snuffles, too, had been 
 one of those who manned the Bluebell that night in the Gat.
 
 Part 
 C&e Red aauntlet 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 A WOMAN PASSES 
 
 NIGHT had fallen. A chill winter's night with the wind 
 moaning fitfully through the tall spars and soot-black 
 rigging of a cluster of barges lying within Limehouse 
 basin. Long ago they had hauled down, sailed or towed down; 
 now they waited for the dock gates to open waited in readiness 
 to spread their wings and pass out among the lights, the tugs, 
 the steamers, thronging the crowded Reach which was their 
 home. 
 
 Among them, lying gunwale to gunwale with several dumb 
 barges* was the Red Gauntlet, a powerful Essexman com- 
 manded by the whilom leader of the Riverton strike. Their 
 crews were still ashore, taking a final drink at a bar not far 
 distant; but Saunderson had not joined them. He moved 
 under a shadow The strike had failed he had pinned his 
 faith upon success. It was dead dead at the hands of men who 
 should have kept it alive. He had no desire for their company. 
 The hope kindled, momentarily, by his wife's words, was dead 
 also. He had lost trust in all judgment save his own, and his 
 own he doubted. He argued that there were some things no 
 
 *Barges having no masts propelled by oars. 
 323
 
 324 THE ISSUE 
 
 one can understand. He hobbled amidst scenes requiring the 
 assistance of a well-balanced brain, and full mental equipment. 
 He hobbled as a man armed with a crutch hobbles in a race. 
 He had lost. He recognised it, but, as a handicap, he recog- 
 nised there must be a reason. 
 
 He sat in the companion smoking moodily, his mind bent on 
 the efforts which had failed. He searched his actions but found 
 no guile in anything he had done. He worked on a skein ex- 
 ceedingly difficult to disentangle; twisting, passing, dipping; 
 all in the process of exculpation self-exculpation. He saw 
 nothing abhorrent in his course; nothing wanton. It was the 
 outcome of life, of circumstance. He knew of no discipline 
 but the discipline of brute force; knew of no influence, human 
 or divine; had never learned the necessity for self-control and 
 restraint. These things were not taught in the schools through 
 which he graduated. The Act passes them by. The "pay- 
 ment by result" system, has no use for them. Teachers wish- 
 ing to protest, conscientiously, against the inclusion of Doctrine, 
 are allowed to protest. They receive absolution at the hands 
 of a new Pope a multifarious concern with many heads, much 
 given to the wagging of tongues across the floor of a House 
 where all alike are irresponsible. The scholars are held up 
 like toast on a fork, to see if they are done ; then passed over to 
 the table of life with a smirk of satisfaction. The exponent of 
 the Rights of Man shouts his grievance in the courts, in the park ; 
 and the papers, pandering for pennies and halfpennies, acclaim 
 him Martyr "God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world." 
 
 Saunderson saw many things as he sat there smoking and 
 troubled by the grievous inequality of wealth; but he saw them 
 through spectacles so blurred, so out of focus, that only a dis- 
 torted picture was possible. A moral squint, a mental twist, 
 was the result. He it was who suffered. He it was who was
 
 A WOMAN PASSES 325 
 
 misunderstood, maligned, laughed at. If he had learned how 
 if Susie had been near to aid him if the Bluebell had never 
 come under the curse, supposing always that a curse was a thing 
 tangibly possible. Chks! the might-have-beens stretched out 
 into the distance like a herd of jackals, all clamouring for food 
 while he stood watching with an empty sack. 
 
 A voice rolled out of the silence as he sat there staring into 
 the past, searching the future. He listened intently. The 
 cry sounded again a commonplace hail: "Red Gauntlet 
 ahoy!" 
 
 He rose to shout, "Hello! " and the answer came back to him. 
 
 "Bring yer boat to the steps. There's some one awskin' 
 fer you." 
 
 He considered the matter but a moment. He saw himself 
 in the midst of an appalling trend of circumstances, yet had 
 nothing to urge why he should not go ashore to answer the 
 summons of a friend. The matter stood concisely in his brain. 
 Any action he might take could not alter his future. The end 
 was fixed, immutable, perhaps implacable a matter arranged 
 by powers of which he had no conception. For some reason 
 they were antagonistic to his advancement ; to his movement up 
 that ladder he had set himself to climb. It was useless to argue ; 
 useless to contend; he was weary of the whole business un- 
 utterably weary. 
 
 He stepped into the boat, sculled ashore, and ascending the 
 steps stood looking for signs of a visitor. No one appeared. 
 Far up the quay a man walked; farther still, puppets worked 
 in the docks, puppets who shouted, hurrying like driven dogs, 
 struggling in the light of glaring arc lamps to earn their mead 
 of paltry shillings. They deserved their fate. He argued 
 that they should have joined issue with him; then would they 
 have been masters and not slaves. Near at hand was silence.
 
 326 THE ISSUE 
 
 The clustered barges rubbed sides like sheep on a cold night. 
 Across the way were lonely capstans, a flagstaff; the dock 
 gatemen's cottages. The place seemed utterly vacant. 
 Saunderson growled angrily. He turned to retrace his foot- 
 steps, then a soft voice, calling from a dark angle of the shed, 
 whispered his name. 
 
 He recognised the tones instantly and twisted about with 
 sudden passion. It was a woman's voice the voice of his 
 wife. 
 
 "You!" he cried approaching. "What d'you want wiv me 
 now?" 
 
 She held up her hands whispering: "I have come to warn 
 you. I have come to warn you." 
 
 "To warn me? How much more of your foolin' d'you ex- 
 pect me to stand?" he shouted the questions angrily, and again 
 she lifted her hand. 
 
 " Hist ! Speak quietly. Wait till that man is out of hearing." 
 
 He stood mute, listening to the failing steps. They died, 
 and Mrs. Saunderson resumed: "There's been an 'accident' 
 down river," she whispered; " and now the Reindeer has been 
 lifted they find she was scuttled. Who were the men that 
 did this, Jim?" 
 
 He glanced about, marking the heavy solitude and his reply 
 fell softly under his breath: "I suppose you don't want me to 
 answer that. I suppose you know else what " 
 
 "I do know. God help me, I know too, that some of her 
 crew were drowned drowned." 
 
 He swayed unsteadily on the wet stones. A sentence es- 
 caped him. "Ah! they were bigger fools than I took them 
 for." Then, after a tense pause: " An' you'll give information ?" 
 
 She looked up with a laugh, imperious, incongruous: "Why 
 should I? Besides, I could not give evidence. Even if I
 
 A WOMAN PASSES 327 
 
 could, why should I ? No, I came here to warn you nothing 
 more." 
 
 Saunderson watched her with a dogged frown. He ques- 
 tioned her motives. He could not comprehend them; they 
 were a sealed book Sanscrit. "You ain't fond of me," he 
 suggested. "Why don't you fix me off an' have done wiv it?" 
 
 "Because I loved you, Jim; because you were my lover in 
 days long past; because I am your wife and cannot do it." 
 
 "You expect me to swallow that?" he growled, still watching 
 with that set frown. "You think I'm fool enough to take that 
 in ? What's to prevent me chuckin' you an' all you know into 
 the dock an' finishin' the business?" he threw out the sug- 
 gestion in bluster and without thought. 
 
 She faced him scornfully. "Your own cowardice, Jim 
 nothing else." 
 
 "My cowardice!" he shouted, clutching her arm. "Chks! 
 you don't know me. Who's to hear you; who's to know I've 
 put you away down the cellar? It's dark. There's no one 
 about. How am I to trust you now you know such a thunderin' 
 sight of knowledge ? Eh, answer me that ? " 
 
 She struggled free and confronted him with passionate eyes: 
 "You dare not do it because you are afraid of things unseen. 
 You dare not do it because, when I am dead, I shall haunt 
 you you will never be free. Waking or sleeping your coward 
 mind will tremble before the memory of the woman you cursed 
 with your love, with your life, and your miserable unbelief do 
 you understand?" 
 
 He faced her in silence. 
 
 "On the river, when it is dark, I shall be at your side as you 
 steer your vessel. In your sleep I shall be with you flitting 
 unseen; in lonely roads and silent anchorages I shall be near 
 you driving you to the hell you are always talking of. Come
 
 328 THE ISSUE 
 
 exercise your strength. Put me down the cellar. You dare 
 not. Pah! big man, you are a coward." 
 
 Saunderson shrank back. He was appalled by her vehe- 
 mence. The sweat stood cold on his brow. He leaned 
 against the shed-side without a word in self-defence, without a 
 sentence in self-justification. Mrs. Saunderson saw her ad- 
 vantage and moved near, speaking very slowly. 
 
 "I came to see and to warn you, because I loved you once, 
 and because I thought you might wish to leave. But now I 
 see that you will not do so, that you will continue as you began. 
 Stay, the air is prophetic to-night eh, Jim? You agree? 
 Good: then I will prophesy. You see it is so much easier to 
 act when one knows what is inevitable inevitable, mind. You 
 can't shirk fate. You can't get rid of the consequences of 
 your wicked actions. They follow you. That is why men 
 call them the inevitable. You know what that American says ? 
 No? Well, I'll tell you: 
 
 " 'If wrong you do, if false you play 
 In summer among the flowers, 
 You must atone, you shall repay, 
 In winter among the showers.' " 
 
 She broke off and for a moment appeared to meditate de- 
 parture, then with a swift turn drew nearer, lifting one finger. 
 
 "Listen," she said, "you will win that girl you think you 
 love so well you will win her and you will die. But you will 
 win her first. What matters what comes afterward or how 
 soon? Death! What is death if you have had what you have 
 sought so long eh, Jim?" 
 
 Again she broke off with that abrupt laugh he found so 
 appalling, and took a step again in his direction. 
 
 "But many things will happen before that so take heart, 
 big man. I shall not be here to annoy you with my love. I
 
 A WOMAN PASSES 329 
 
 shall not be here to hinder you. Why? Listen, I will tell 
 you." 
 
 She leaned forward gazing into his downcast face. 
 
 "Jim," she whispered close in his ear, "I am going on a long 
 journey to-night. I shall never see you again." 
 
 He started backward uncertain of her meaning. 
 
 "Do you remember how you left me last time?" she ques- 
 tioned in a new tone, the banter gone. " Do you? There was 
 a child then. It died, Jim. I was glad it died, because I was 
 alone and miserable. Now there would be a child again. But 
 I do not wish to see it. I can never want to see children again. 
 So I am going away and you will be free to run your course 
 alone. Will you say good-bye ? Will you wish me luck on my 
 journey? It isn't much to ask; but the road is difficult. Wish 
 me luck, Jim, for the sake of what has been." 
 
 She faced him, holding out her hand; but the pleading 
 intonation had done its work. He no longer feared. He drew 
 away with an oath. 
 
 "Luck!" he shouted almost fiercely. "Why should I wish 
 you luck? You've been my curse You've been my curse. 
 I wish to Gawd I'd never set eyes on you." He advanced 
 toward her with a gesture so menacing that, holding high 
 her hand, she retreated slowly toward the dock-sill. 
 
 "Push me!" she cried in bitter sarcasm. "We are alone, 
 big man. It will save that girl you think you love, for then, 
 Jim, you will have killed your wife and unborn child." 
 
 Again he sprang back and remained watching. "You've 
 been my curse my curse!" he reiterated. 
 
 "Passion is your curse," she mouthed. "Psh! I fancy you 
 understand." 
 
 Saunderson stood in the shadow of a shed. He noticed the 
 lamplight dancing in the pavement pools and saw that the
 
 330 THE ISSUE 
 
 water rilled up the stones. In one place oil had fallen. Here 
 the water bore no sign of movement, but it threw a slimy stain 
 upon the concrete, like the track of snails, slugs, worms. He 
 lifted his gaze and saw that he was alone. 
 
 Far up the path a figure moved. 
 
 He might have pursued this woman, beaten her, thrown her 
 into the dock, or done any of the hundred and one things his 
 superior strength permitted; but he did not do so. He re- 
 turned to the barge instead. There was rum in the locker. 
 His courage ebbed. It was of the sort that requires the aid of 
 stimulants. 
 
 He slunk into the narrow cabin like a whipped cur and made 
 for the liquor. Hah! A draught revived him. He lighted 
 his pipe and took a seat on the companion stairs. The clock 
 at the dock-head struck the hour twelve sonorous strokes, 
 and silence ensued. The dying fire cracked and fell in with a 
 crash. 
 
 Saunderson rose from his seat and approached the stove. 
 He kicked it, growling furtively of the noise, and the cinders 
 leaped into a blaze. He examined the cabin; it was narrow, 
 stifling. He was alone. Nothing moved. He decided that 
 he required air air and freedom to think. He crept to the 
 stair-head and stood leaning over the half-drawn scuttle. 
 
 The night was black now, with a misty misery of thin, cold 
 rain. The nearer electric lights loomed in sullen splotches, 
 blinking like giant cats in the stagnant air. The wind sobbed 
 eerily through the rigging towering so high into nothingness; 
 everywhere were voices, everywhere shadows shadows that 
 moved, gesticulated, spoke. Reiterating the words he had 
 heard, "You will win that girl you think you love you 
 will win her," he asked himself how that could be possible 
 while his wife lived, and a further sentence leaped in the gray
 
 A WOMAN PASSES 33 1 
 
 water scintillating under the lamp "You will die." Die? 
 Of course he would die. He admitted it, gripping hands on 
 the edge of the scuttle. All men die once. His end was doubly 
 assured doubly. He was certain of that. No other certitude 
 appeared. He groaned aloud, praying that he had never met 
 this woman that she had died as had been said that Susie 
 had loved him Susie who could have helped, who could have 
 aided him in that climb he desired. "If," he argued it with 
 
 clenched teeth, "if that woman had " and stopped with a 
 
 sudden thrill. ' ' Hist ! what's that ? " 
 
 He leaped to his feet as a shriek rent the air. The noise of 
 splashing water fell on his ears; the shouts of a score of people. 
 All the mob from the neighbouring bars was afoot racing to- 
 ward the dock gates. He stood in abject terror, his knees 
 trembling. Someone had fallen overboard. Someone was 
 drowning. Who? He listened intently, clutching at the 
 scuttle, and the truth came to him; came in a burst of reve- 
 lation, dazzling, blinding, pointing the meaning of her words. 
 He sprang from the companion-way, shouting his apprehension 
 to the winds: 
 
 "Mates ahoy! Ahoy! Where on Gawd's earth's a livin' 
 soul! Ahoy! "Ahoy!" 
 
 He climbed the sides of a high dumb barge and looked below. 
 It was tenantless. He jumped a watery stretch and landed 
 safely on another vessel's deck, still giving tongue to fear: 
 "Ahoy! Ahoy!" 
 
 A growl sounded in a cabin near at hand: "Wot's wrong? 
 Wot's wrong then?" 
 
 "Is that Tom Chudleigh?" 
 
 "Yaas." 
 
 "Come an' swear to me. Man! get your lamp an' see it's 
 me."
 
 332 
 
 THE ISSUE 
 
 "There's no manner o' doubt abaht that. Win'bag. Yer 
 lungs is proof. Wot's wrong ? " 
 
 Saunderson slid to the barge's deck and sat down shuddering. 
 
 "Got a drink aboard?" he gasped. "I'm fair dead wiv 
 skear. There's someone fallen into the dock. I couldn't get 
 nigh her. You see me, Tom you see me ?" 
 
 "I see you right enough, mate. Take a swill at this." 
 
 The man's courage revived at the taste of rum and with the 
 knowledge that he was no longer alone. The skipper eyed him 
 curiously: 
 
 "We'd best get acrost an' see if we can do anythin'," he 
 remarked. 
 
 "Aye; I'll go wiv you. You'll bear me out where I was 
 when it happened." 
 
 "Right; I'll bear you out." 
 
 By the time they had rowed to the steps and come to the 
 bridge at the far end of the lock, Saunderson had recovered. 
 He strode with a jaunty air. The cries of the people, still 
 gathering from the farther shipping, had no terrors for him. 
 He hastened, with his friend, and came to the bridge where 
 stood a dismal group of men and women, leaning over the dock 
 sill. 
 
 A limp bundle of humanity was being lifted from a boat 
 which lay beneath. Saunderson pressed forward. He helped 
 to clear a space, then kneeled on the stones in search. 
 
 A woman neatly dressed in black; tall, well developed, 
 with fluffity, bedraggled hair, rested at his feet Mrs. Saunder- 
 son, her long journey already ended.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE FREEDOM OF A SLAVE 
 
 LIKE the wolf when held at bay, so Saunderson stood his 
 ground and fought his fight with that grim tenacity of 
 purpose which is so characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon race 
 when hard beset. 
 
 A glance into this man's face should have been enough to 
 indicate his temperament. The eyes alone were sufficient to 
 betray him, yet, when he stood to give evidence at the inquest 
 on his wife's body, his rough eloquence so warped the minds 
 of twelve good men, that in the end he found himself the re- 
 cipient of a sympathetic rider, in addition to the usual finding. 
 This was as balm to the man's soul; and some small compen- 
 sation for the harassing period he had endured "since the poor 
 Missis had gone under." 
 
 In this fashion then, the inquest had ended and Saunderson 
 still was free. He alone comprehended the importance of the 
 fact; and as he strode down the lonely road from Benfleet to 
 Thames Haven, the haunting dread of the past few days kept 
 him silent company. 
 
 In sullen self-communion he recognised the steady drift of 
 circumstance, all tending to hamper his future movements, if 
 not his freedom. Sooner or later the incendiarism and other 
 "accidents" arising out of the strike would fasten upon him and 
 he would be compelled to fight for his life. Again, if these 
 matters leaked, how easy it would be to implicate him in still 
 darker troubles. At present he revelled in a jury's sympathy, a 
 
 333
 
 334 THE ISSUE 
 
 coroner's paternal blessing; but if matters fell into another 
 groove if? Rumour lies in ruts like the rain in a furrowed 
 roadway, only until some heavier wheel disturbs the channel 
 and draws the water in its train. What, he asked himself with 
 outspread hands, what if that weightier wheel came down the 
 path and left him to drown in the following torrent ? 
 
 The sands were running out. The man's tether was tighten- 
 ing. It gripped about his middle, chafing him, causing him 
 trouble at the girth. He saw these things and acknowledged 
 his danger, but argued that there must yet remain some glimpse 
 of luck ; a taste, a sip, to accompany him on that journey which 
 now loomed as inevitable in his mind. 
 
 He questioned how was it to end ? By drowning, by strand- 
 ing, collision how? The Flying Scud's crowd had gone all 
 possible ways. The Bluebell's crew had followed: first the 
 man, Jeffries, through absurdly struggling to save a cat, then 
 the cook, knocked overboard by a gibing boom, and now 
 Snuffles this last again through an oversight, a monstrous and 
 inexplicable reversion of irony by his own act.- And there 
 remained Micky Doolan, the boy, and Saunderson himself. 
 Micky Doolan, too, who curiously had already survived one 
 disaster. It was strange. He could not fathom it. He 
 pushed the matter from him and moved resolutely towards the 
 Haven. 
 
 The night was shutting down under a heavy pall of cloud 
 when he reached the end of his walk. A quarter of a mile dis- 
 tant the Red Gauntlet awaited him. Her tall spars and soot- 
 black sails stood out against the farther horizon as though 
 carved in ebony; the delicate rigging black, taut, like gossamer 
 threads on a silver shield. He could see the mate waving an 
 answer to his summons, and as he paused there with fear grip- 
 ping at his heart, his thoughts took shape. He raised his cap
 
 THE FREEDOM OF A SLAVE 535 
 
 and wiping the beads of sweat from his brow, announced his 
 intention to start afresh free from the conditions in which he 
 moved, free from the shadows which haunted him now that his 
 wife was dead, with tenfold, force. 
 
 The noise made by the boat, as she took the stones, aroused 
 him from his brooding. He walked quickly down the 
 causeway stepped on board, and sat down to watch their 
 progress. The ebb was nearly spent when they reached the 
 barge; but there was sufficient wind to enable them to creep 
 over the tide, perhaps to reach the outer channels, so Saunder- 
 son decided to proceed, and went below. 
 
 The windlass pawls were clinking merrily when he returned 
 to the deck and looked out across the darkening waters towards 
 Hope Point. He remained a while examining the sky to wind- 
 ward, then turning to aid the mate, his eye chanced on a black- 
 sailed brig, stealing slowly seaward on the farther shore. It 
 was the Tantalus, the vessel once commanded by Sutcliffe. 
 
 In an instant the whole trend of thought was changed. The 
 moment he sighted that dark sail-blotch lying against the Ken- 
 tish hills, he was a different being; love, jealousy, disappoint- 
 ment paramount; caution nowhere. He recapitulated his 
 troubles. There was the vessel whose skipper had defrauded 
 him of fifty pounds. There, perhaps on her deck, was the 
 man who had refused to coerce his daughter, the girl he loved, 
 who was his wife. His anger grew. There was the man who 
 had gone blacklegging; whom he had tried to catch; who had 
 helped to break the back of the strike and bring about its 
 leader's discomfiture. 
 
 Again his thoughts reverted to Susie. His wife's words rang 
 in his ears. She had prophesied concerning his end. "You 
 will win her and you will die, but you will win her first." Was 
 this the opportunity of which she spoke? The old man was
 
 336 THE ISSUE 
 
 away, Susie alone at Swinfleet that he knew. It meant but 
 a few hours delay. His wife was dead. Susie was his wife. 
 He asked himself, dare he lose the time required to fetch her, 
 and sat immersed in thought until the heavyfooted mate dis- 
 turbed him. 
 
 "Anchor's short, skipper," he remarked and stooped to 
 overhaul the main sheet. Saunderson rose. They proceeded 
 to get under way. 
 
 Darkness closed in upon them as they moved into slack 
 water. The lights crept out white, green, red; a profusion 
 of signals, swimming in shadow, curtained in mist, indicative 
 of the dangers abounding at the river's exit. 
 
 The tall, dark sails of the Red Gauntlet shivered in the heavy 
 air. She crept onward like a wraith, slowly but with infinite 
 certainty, until the Jenkin was at hand and the more turbulent 
 waters of the estuary washed her decks. 
 
 A gray, wet morning found them at anchor near the eastern 
 entrance to the Swatch, and Saunderson rowing hurriedly to 
 Port Victoria. A short journey thence by the early train, took 
 him into the country at the back of Swinfleet woods ; and again, 
 by the same means, at one o'clock he was standing on the Med- 
 way terminus with a telegram to swell the coffers of His Maj- 
 esty's postal service. Then out into the thin, white rain; across 
 the misty pier; splashing down the sodden ladder, dogged, 
 persistent, without any thought but the thought of Susie's 
 beauty; without any desire, but the desire for her presence; 
 and so, onward in his boat, sculling over the muddy tide and 
 hastening to regain his vessel. 
 
 He had forgotten his dread, the closing in of those forces 
 which hemmed him, the death of his wife. He had forgotten 
 the scuttling of the barge and the misery of those nights when 
 darkness reigned, and in the solitude of his lonely cabin he saw
 
 THE FREEDOM OF A SLAVE 337 
 
 himself beckoned invisibly in the path of the curse. He had 
 forgotten all. The girl's bright face and gentle form hovered 
 before him in the gray seascape Susie, his wife, his panacea, 
 who would cure him of his anguish. Her laughter rang in his 
 ears. Her smiles were smiles for him. He saw nothing else, 
 only Susie Susie with the sweet eyes and prettily rounded form; 
 Susie with the golden hair, soft, white hands, and gentle speech. 
 She was with him during the slow journey through the rain, as 
 she had been with him during the chill night just past. He 
 pictured her in his arms once more, and listening to the honeyed 
 dreams, his quick brain working out the ways and means, he 
 laughed and swore and rowed with the joy of joys ringing in his 
 ears; thinking only of the nearness of his happiness, of his 
 escape, and all means of tracing him obliterated. 
 
 He was confronted on every hand by the results of his evil 
 passions, yet passion held supreme control. He was face to 
 face with an ignominious and horrible death by hanging, yet 
 the passions which had run so long unchecked held him in 
 bondage. He stood on the brink of a precipice from which the 
 ground was crumbling, yet hope whispered of certain triumph, 
 of the life he would live "out foreign," and kept his thoughts 
 from dangerous topics until he found himself on board the Red 
 Gauntlet. 
 
 The vessel lay at her lonely anchorage precisely as he had 
 left her. The mate slept in his bunk and a smoke-black riding 
 lamp swinging aloft, stood as a signal to the preoccupation of 
 her crew.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 MRS. SURRIDGE GIVES ADVICE 
 
 FEBRUARY. A cold, gray dawn staring through the 
 cloud-rack far in the southeast; staring at the naked 
 trees, the muddy roads, the dripping hedgerows; ting- 
 ing the mist with a touch of primrose which fell upon the cottage 
 at Swinfleet with a fleeting gleam; then, again a falling, misty 
 veil and the steaming earth was gray ; the space where the dawn 
 had shown, shut in, a thing of the past, gray with time gray 
 as the smoke driving steadily across the woods from distant 
 Riverton factories. 
 
 All this without; but within the latticed window, a pretty 
 vision all flushed and rumpled with sleep, staring through 
 dancing eyes at the grayness Susie, awakened by the first touch 
 of dawn, searching the skies for signs of the weather. 
 
 A soft, steamy morning; very gray, very sad, very English; 
 a white-robed figure, very soft, very trim, with laughing eyes 
 and glorious hair, but no sadness greeting the day which 
 would see Jack's return; thanking the sun-god for his gift of 
 light. 
 
 No darkness lingered now en her horizon. No hint of tears 
 in all that cold, gray dawn. Jack was coming. His letter, 
 folded at her bosom, told her with scandalous brevity that to- 
 morrow he would be with her. To-morrow ? Already it was 
 to-day. True some hours, minutes, must elapse; but what of 
 that? A bagatelle, a thing to live through with laughter as 
 companion. Hours, minutes, trouble, danger who thought 
 
 338
 
 MRS. SURRIDGE GIVES ADVICE 339 
 
 of these at such a time? Not Susie. The parted lips, the 
 gleaming eyes, the fleeting dimples, all proclaimed her happi- 
 ness. Night was gone. The sun had risen. Her lover was 
 coming home. 
 
 And so ail through the day, smiling joyously at her aunt's 
 droll speeches, flushing crimson at every unexpected sound; 
 watching Tom's exits sty-ward, when at meal times he found the 
 English language so unutterably deficient of words, until the 
 afternoon began to wane, the mists grew thicker, and it was time 
 to go down to the finger post at the end of the village to await 
 Jack's coming. 
 
 A mutiny of all subservient things occured at this. Hat 
 pins, usually so pointed, refused to pierce the straw. A jacket, 
 generally admitted to be useless unless furnished with two 
 arms, appeared in silent protest with one. Buttons, intended 
 by confiding makers to be a means of fastening, inexorably 
 shook their heads and stayed unfast. An extraordinary and 
 mutinous state of affairs until Mrs. Surridge came to the rescue 
 and Susie was coaxed and patted into her fractious garments. 
 
 "La, la! there's a dear," so ran her aunt's expostulations, 
 "Buttons? Child, your fingers shake like a passel of wag- 
 wants.* Sleeves? Your jacket has all the sleeves you want at 
 present. Hatpins? La! when I was a gell an' wanted to pin 
 my hat, I pinned my hat an' not my blessed crown. La! La! 
 was ever such a pretty bundle of confusion? Why, Susie, I 
 do declare you make me spry again. For two pins I'd come 
 myself; but there's your uncle, child, an' we must look after 
 our men, if we don't want someone else to do it for us and 
 then well, there, I'm sure you understand." 
 
 She caught the girl round the waist and kissed her gleaming 
 eyes as Susie leaned there upon her motherly breast.
 
 340 THE ISSUE 
 
 "I do, I do," she whispered. "Auntie, you're a gem." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge shook her head and continued her aid un- 
 moved. "Maybe," she remarked after due reflection, "but 
 it's a gem as needs a deal of polishing. A gem that has got 
 roughed with work as would have lined a duchess. The 
 quality have means of keeping young powder, cause-meticks, 
 an' such like; but I have only had brown Windsor. Heigho! 
 What we all come to! Pretty, ami? Now you get along an' 
 don't try to addle an old woman's head with seltimental 
 speeches. I'm done, Susie; you're beginning. I'm wore 
 out, stale as a mildewed trotter; you're fresh as paint an' twice 
 as wholesome. There? Get away before I want to keep you 
 by me for a model. Get away there's a lamb." 
 
 The evening had shut in and it was quite dark by the time 
 Susie reached the lamp set midway between the crossroads 
 and paused to await her lover. 
 
 The trees standing sentry beside the pathway shook their 
 lean fingers as the soughing wind went past; a scattered fall 
 of rain rushed up the valley and the dead leaves swept eddying 
 across the road; then silence, the silence which inevitably 
 follows in the track of a storm and in the silence, footsteps 
 thumping the sodden way. 
 
 A man came out of the darkness. The lamp at the apex of 
 the roads threw a soft glare upon him. He walked with a 
 stride; he was tall and wore what appeared to be a slouched 
 hat. He came directly toward the lamp. It could be no one 
 else it must be Jack. 
 
 A pretty vision with flushed cheeks and dancing eyes stood 
 there in the shadows, beckoning him on. A trim, girlish 
 figure all curves and dimples now moving with parted lips and 
 heaving breast to meet him. A word stole into the silence 
 a man's name, breathed softly as a kiss:
 
 MRS. SURRIDGE GIVES ADVICE 341 
 
 "Jack?" 
 
 And the answer came out to meet her: "Susie!" and again, 
 "My Susie!" 
 
 The two met midway on the road's smooth surface and in a 
 moment they were as one; strained breast to breast, lip to lip 
 not two but one, and the agony of the past forgotten. 
 
 A shiver ran through the trees towering there far into the 
 night. But the man did not hear it, he had drawn back and 
 was looking into the girl's pale face. "How could I leave you, 
 lass?" he questioned. 
 
 "Ohi Jack, how did I let you go?" 
 
 Quick, half-sobbing utterances these, then again a pause, 
 heartwrung, timorous, as though the voices of the night, the 
 plaint of a sunless land and the swift rustle of the unburied 
 leaves were the sounds which entranced them solely. A pause 
 the man filled by putting back the tumbled hair, soothing it 
 with an unsoft hand, watching the leaping colour with eyes 
 that roved in shame; mindful only of that unwise flight of his 
 which had fallen so heavily on the girl. "Susie!" he looked 
 wistfully into her eyes," How can I put it ? How can I explain ? " 
 
 "Don't, darling only kiss me." 
 
 rf ' I was a fool, Susie. I was a fool!" he reiterated. 
 
 "Then there were two of us," she decided. "Kiss me and 
 forget." 
 
 He drew her to him, crying out passionately: "God love 
 you! I can never forget I can never forget." 
 
 "Now you are looking grave," she pleaded with wistful, up- 
 turned face. 
 
 "Can you forgive me, Susie?" he urged, again holding back 
 and watching her clear, dark eyes. 
 
 "Have I ever blamed you, my husband?" 
 
 He caught her in his arms, kissing her vehemently. "No,
 
 342 THE ISSUE 
 
 no," he cried, "you are too good to throw my foolishness in my 
 teeth; but the sting isn't easily wiped out for all that. A man 
 must prove himself. Words are like the froth on a glass of 
 beer, all bubbles, Susie, all bubbles to be blown away by the 
 first puff. A man must act." 
 
 She reached up and put her arms about his neck. "My 
 dear," she urged, "are you the only one who slipped? Haven't 
 I made mistakes? You remember my letter, dear. I told 
 you what had happened. I told you all: can you forgive me 
 and still call me your wife?" 
 
 He cried out with a gust of passion: "I came back to call 
 you wife. Forgive! God love you, what have I to forgive? 
 Nothing. Less than nothing. Your mistake was the result 
 of mine, your trouble the result of my pig-headedness. Susie, 
 I meant to get across the water, to get somewhere where we 
 could be married and to call you over at once. But my plans 
 fell awry. I couldn't send for you." 
 
 "Dear, I know it now I know it. At first " 
 
 He broke in with a quick note: "Aye; but it all came from 
 my false step. I had no right to run and yet, you remember, 
 I had no other chance of undoing the wrong I had done. Fear 
 of death stared me in the face. I though they would hinder 
 our marriage. Susie, I am telling you now what I have learned 
 with time. It seems almost like an excuse ; but you know we 
 were in front of two puzzles and I thought my only chance of 
 winning the second was by getting time. 
 
 "It sounded all right; but it fell all wrong. I knew it 
 directly I saw my boat was gone; I knew it more certainly 
 when we were hustling through the fog and that silent death 
 came smashing into us; I knew it better when they picked me 
 up and carried me away to Montevideo. Trust me, I saw it 
 all then. I saw what a fool I had been. It was just ghastly.
 
 MRS. SURRIDGE GIVES ADVICE 343 
 
 Every day we were going farther away, every day the possi- 
 bility of our marriage was put back two. My dear, I got to 
 curse the sunrise. The sea maddened me. 
 
 "Tssss! Never a sail, lass, all the way out. Never a 
 chance of sending a line days, weeks, months of solitude, till 
 we reached the Plata and I was free to join a boat for home. 
 It was on that passage I learned to see straight. Anyone 
 would. Even a fool. And so I came back to Abbeyville. I 
 came back to tie the knot we'd left untied, Susie and then 
 "His voice took a sterner note. He ceased and, drawing 
 the girl close in his arms, questioned: "You can bear it? 
 You are brave now, sweet?" 
 
 "I can bear anything, Jack. We are together." 
 
 A tremulous answer, and almost tearful voice; then her 
 head nestled on his shoulder and again he smoothed the tumbled 
 hair with that unsoft hand she seemed to find so gentle. 
 
 "We've got to face it," he announced at length. "Duns- 
 combe wasn't killed by me I need not tell you that but 
 the warrant is still out against me. I must surrender and 
 stand my trial if need be, and Saunderson will be 
 charged." 
 
 She looked up swiftly at this : ' ' Then you believe that too ? " 
 
 "Tony Crow's evidence, so the lawyer says, would hang a 
 dozen Saundersons." 
 
 The girl's eyes filled, she buried her face, crying out: " Oh! 
 it is awful awful! Jack, how could I 
 
 And again he soothed her. "Forget, forget!" he begged. 
 "There is nothing else to do, only to forget and settle down 
 to fight." 
 
 "See here," he continued, speaking with young assurance, 
 "I have arranged everything. This morning before it was 
 light I came into Abbeyville and got into the place Tony had
 
 344 THE ISSUE 
 
 fixed up for me. I am going to stay there so as to be near you, 
 Susie, while we are working up the evidence. 
 
 "Tony Crow has been at it ever since I ran, but he tells me 
 that it was only the other day that he came upon what he 
 wanted. It appears that the day before Dunscombe's murder, 
 he had asked Saunderson to take a small box to one of the 
 Riverton shops for repairs. Saunderson forgot to leave it. It 
 was in his pocket that night on the sea-wall, and there he lost it. 
 
 "That with the evidence of the girl, Dolly Crassley, will be 
 sufficient to clear me. Mr. Sherren is certain of the result and 
 so am I. There can be no doubt about it, for you see Saunder- 
 son had been discharged the night Dunscombe met me. How 
 do we know? Bless you, the servant girl at Dunscombe'r 
 house heard the man threaten to finish his master. Oh! it 
 is all certain enough. We need not fear. You need not fear, 
 Susie. Why, Saunderson is on his way to Maiden now. But 
 he may never reach Maiden, for the police are after him and if 
 he gets there they will take him on his arrival. Then I shall 
 surrender and Saunderson will be charged." 
 
 He stood there so confident in his power to accomplish these 
 matters that Susie bowed to the influence and smiled back at the 
 eyes watching so passionately her own. At that moment it 
 seemed that the fight was accomplished, that Jack was free, 
 and their bridal day already on the horizon. Youth is so lusty, 
 so full of hope and these two were young and in love. And 
 as if in confirmation of the notion which ran through Susie's 
 mind, there came the man's deep voice as he stood there read- 
 ing her eyes. "And then, Susie," he questioned. "And 
 then?" 
 
 She met his look, a crimsoning flush adding to the beauty 
 which was undeniably hers: "I am ready, darling, when you 
 are ready to take me."
 
 MRS. SURRIDGE GIVES ADVICE 345 
 
 Far in the darkness overhead the trees sighed; then a swift 
 gust swept down the valley showering upon them their wealth 
 of leaves. Susie shivered and clung to her lover's arm as they 
 moved for shelter. "Come in, come in," she begged. 
 "Again there is rain and I am afraid." 
 
 "Afraid now? Nonsense, lass. We are safe and you are 
 mine." 
 
 They crossed quickly out of the road and entered the garden. 
 And as they came up the path the cottage door opened and Mrs. 
 Surridge appeared, standing in the glare of the lamp with Tom, 
 on tiptoe, peeping over her shoulder. 
 
 "Where they hev got to I can't think no more than Adam." 
 Mrs. Surridge expostulated, "Susie'll catch her death." 
 
 "No she won't," her husband decided truculently. "I 
 don't mind you catchin' your death when I was walkin' out 
 wi' you. Leave 'em alone." 
 
 At this the truant couple strolled into sight and halted at 
 the door. 
 
 "La! " cried Mrs. Surridge with hands uplifted and astonish- 
 ment written visibly in her expressive face, "La! if it isn't Mr. 
 Elliott." 
 
 "Z 1 if you didn't know that all along!" said Tom with a 
 chuckle. "Come in, Jack; come in an' welkim." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge moved ponderously to the front holding out 
 one hand. And with the other pressed over a noticeable 
 fluctuation in the region of her bodice she beamed a massive 
 and unqualified approval. "Welcome's the word," she an- 
 nounced with an air, "from every one here plesent. Good 
 luck and welcome: that's my wishes and many of 'em. Get 
 in, Tom, doey get in!"
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 SAUNDERSON'S LUCK CHANGES 
 
 SEVERAL days had passed and the time coincided with 
 ^ that pause made by Saunderson in the Swatch. A 
 cold, bleak day; but within the cottage at Swinfleet 
 a voice singing merrily as Susie went about her morning tasks. 
 Breakfast was over, and presently, at dusk to be precise, Jack 
 would again be with her. Therefore she sang until from the 
 window she espied a boy dressed in the nondescript uniform 
 of the country telegraph service coming down the garden 
 path. 
 
 He knocked on the door and stood whistling. The singing 
 ceased as the girl opened to him. The boy stopped whistling 
 and said in an inquiring banter: "Susie Sutcliffe?" and 
 followed it up with a request for a match. He produced a 
 cigarette and a telegram simultaneously and motioned with 
 one hand to indicate his desire. 
 
 Susie closed the door without heeding him. She held an 
 envelope between finger and thumb, staring at it with the vague 
 suspicion of persons unaccustomed to the receipt of telegraphic 
 dispatches. A thought came to fluster her. Was it from 
 Jack? Was it possible that Jack would be unable to come? 
 She tore the cover open with a sudden earnestness and saw that 
 it was not from Jack; that it came from Port Victoria a place 
 of which she had no knowledge. She saw, too, that it was 
 signed by Micky Doolan, the mate of the Tantalus. All this 
 she gathered in the first flush of fear and almost before her brain 
 
 346
 
 SAUNDERSON'S LUCK CHANGES 
 
 347 
 
 had grasped the meaning of the written words. She turned to 
 read again. The message ran thus: 
 
 "Accident down river. Father hurt bad. Come at once 
 to Port Victoria. Boat waiting to take you off to Tantalus. 
 Urgent. "MICKT DOOLAN, Mate." 
 
 Susie stood a moment questioning what she must do. The 
 telegram announced definitely that her father was ill per- 
 haps dying. Her uncle on whom she could rely was away on a 
 distant portion of the farm ; her aunt gone on an errand to the 
 village ; Jack was at Riverton with the lawyers. Thus the girl 
 was alone in the house with a vision of her father's death to 
 fluster her. 
 
 She glanced swiftly at the clock and saw that it would be 
 possible to catch the train. The knowledge steadied her. She 
 decided that she must go. There was no alternative. The 
 telegram appealed with the force of a command. 
 
 She rose at once and hastened to her room whence shortly 
 she emerged dressed for the journey. With a little shiver of 
 apprehension she took the telegram and scribbled a short note 
 at the foot of it; then having fastened the cottage door and 
 deposited the key in its usual hiding place when all were out on 
 different errands, she starred for the station. 
 
 The sun had set behind a gloomy bank of clouds when at 
 length Susie alighted on the dreary platform which terminates 
 the line crossing the Hundred of Hoo. The trains had met 
 badly, a condition of affairs she might have expected, but she 
 felt only heart-sick at the additional loss of time. Her father, 
 she remembered, might be dying. Nothing else appealed. 
 
 A light breeze from the southeast chased a low and smoke- 
 like scud across the darkening heavens. The wind moaned in
 
 348 THE ISSUE 
 
 fitful gusts, shaking the high railway pier which abuts on the 
 Medway's bank and whistled shrilly amidst the slime and sea- 
 weed clinging to the gaunt legs which carried it. Susie moved 
 out into the gloom searching for the promised boat. At the 
 verge of the shed a man stood viewing the passengers crossing 
 to the Sheerness ferry. When all had passed he approached 
 the girl. 
 
 "Lookin' fer the Tantalus boat?" he questioned gruffly. 
 Susie came towards him at once: "Yes; are you sent to fetch 
 me ? Oh! how is my father please, please tell me." 
 
 "Father ain't no better ner 'ee ain't no wuss, so fur as I can 
 mike aat," the man replied. " M'ybe we'd best get on board. 
 I'm abaat sick o' diddlin' 'ere. It's cruel cold, an' that's the 
 truth." 
 
 "Tell me," she pleaded, undeterred, "that that he isn't 
 dead." 
 
 The man eyed her with stolid unconcern: "Dead?" he 
 ejaculated, "Naa, 'ee ain't dead; but 'ee's powerful sick." 
 
 Susie made no further remark but hastened to the end of the 
 pier. Here a grim flight of steps yawned over the blackness 
 and she halted uncertain. 
 
 The man looked at her. 'You wite 'ere," he said, " 'old on 
 to the rilin' an' I'll fetch me glim to show the road." 
 
 He descended the ladder and climbed into the boat. Far 
 away and very dim he appeared to the watching girl. The 
 lamp threw a faint blurr and the man moved about a boat 
 which rocked, muzzling the ladder's side. The man glanced 
 up. At the top of the steps a shadow flitted. The whole 
 business was a nuisance, a nuisance which, now that he faced 
 it, seemed a trifle flustering. He had been sent to fetch this 
 girl and had been ordered to say that her father was very sick 
 dying, if need be, in order to get her to accompany him.
 
 SAUNDERSON'S LUCK CHANGES 349 
 
 Hitherto he had been inclined to swear at what seemed to be a 
 wild goose chase for some other person's benefit. But now that 
 he had seen the girl he discovered that she awed him. She 
 was young, stupidly young for such a business. She required 
 protection, and yet, there stood the fact that she required no 
 pressing. He could not make her out. She seemed more of a 
 "lidy" than that sort usually were. She was dressed in black 
 and was undoubtedly much frightened. Well, if the skipper 
 had a fancy for ladies it was all right. He had to fetch her. 
 He had to interfere in nothing. Right, he wouldn't interfere; 
 but he made up his mind, as he mounted like a dim octopus 
 from the depths, that he would call her Miss. So there was 
 no longer any question in his mind. She must be Miss. 
 
 He helped her down the slimy steps without comment, and 
 did not speak again, until the pier had long vanished and they 
 were afloat on the shimmering waters waters black and inky 
 as a bath of oil; oil that reflected greasy strokes of light and 
 hissed alongside with the noise of moving straw. Only once 
 during their tedious journey did Susie break the silence; she 
 begged to know how far they had still to go. The mate rested 
 on his oars. He spoke more kindly. 
 
 "Not fur, Missy. It's bin a tidy pull; but we's more ner 
 hawlf w'y there." 
 
 Susie shivered and drew her cloak more closely about her. 
 The man looked up with sudden anxiety. 
 
 "Are ye cold?" he questioned; "'ere; tike my oilskin; 'tain't 
 werry soft, an' there's no frills abaat it as I know of, but it's 
 a good un fer keepin' aat the cold. It's turned a'mighty thick 
 an' the wind's dyin'." 
 
 He handed the coat and helped to wrap it about 
 her shoulders; then sitting back to his oars continued mys- 
 teriously:
 
 350 THE ISSUE 
 
 "If this gime ain't to yer fancy, Missy; w'y you look t'Bill 
 Marley an' 'ee'll be there." 
 
 Susie faced him abruptly. "What do you mean?" she 
 cried. 
 
 "If you dawn't know, I'm suttin' sure I dawn't, Missy." 
 
 "But indeed I don't understand you." 
 
 "Lumme!" he returned, then began to sing softly: 
 
 " If I 'ad a mide as was so fair, 
 
 O! U-ri-o; 
 
 D'ye think I'd leave 'er to tear 'er 'air, 
 Wen we're bound to the Ri-o Grande.' " 
 
 "Oh! don't, don't," she cried; "it isn't kind when I'm in 
 such trouble." Her voice rang with the echo of tears, and she 
 leaned forward a mere beggar for his mercy. 
 
 The man shut his jaws with a snap, gave an extra pull at the 
 oars and turning to her whispered: "Lumme, I oughter known 
 better, sling it, and mind wot I sez just now." He backed 
 hard on his starboard scull and turned the boat's head towards 
 a vessel which seemed to have sprung out of the night and 
 suddenly taken its place beside them. He stood up, clutching 
 at the shrouds. " Jump aat," he cried; "ketch holt o' my arm 
 an' go steady." 
 
 Susie accepted his proffered help and glanced around. 
 
 "But this is not the Tantalus," she cried; "she isn't big 
 enough this is a barge." 
 
 "That's all right, don't you worrit, Missy. The Tantalus 
 lies furder dahn; we couldn't fetch her in the boat strite! 
 No lawks!" 
 
 The girl's heart stood still. Her voice thrilled with fear as 
 she cried out: "Are you sure of what you say? Are you? 
 Where is my father? Tell me tell me."
 
 SAUNDERSON'S LUCK CHANGES 351 
 
 "If this ain't a go, lumme!" said the man. "Jump aboord 
 an' we'll run 'e dahn to father in a brice of shikes." 
 
 Susie had no option in the matter, she was compelled to 
 obey. The man spoke roughly, but that, she knew from her 
 voyages with her father, was the language of the bargee. She 
 guessed, too, from what he had said, that perhaps he was kinder 
 than appeared; so putting her hand in his she looked him in 
 the face and said: 
 
 "I believe what you say. I will trust you. Where shall I 
 go?" 
 
 He led her aft and taking her to the scuttle, pointed down the 
 stairs, "Right, Missy," he returned, "you trust me. There's 
 no one dahn below if I was you I'd go dahn then we'll up 
 mud'ook an' aw'y," 
 
 "How far have we to go?" 
 
 "None so fur. You go into the kebbin' an' rest warm." 
 
 Susie did as she was ordered, and immediately the scuttle 
 was drawn and fastened.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 MRS. SURRIDGE MOVES 
 
 EARLY in the afternoon of the same day Elliott and Tony 
 Crow were seated in Mr. Sherren's sanctum. The 
 two men had come in from Abbeyville to compare 
 notes with Dolly Crossley and Micky Doolan and to prepare 
 their evidence for the lawyer. They had been so engaged since 
 twelve o'clock and Mr. Sherren sitting there giving directions 
 to a junior rubbed his hands pleasantly over the web he was 
 weaving around Saunderson. In the midst of it an altercation 
 arose in the outer office; and as it appeared to increase the 
 lawyer paused and struck a gong. A clerk opened the door 
 and looked in. 
 
 "What is all that racket about, Johnson? Kindly see that 
 silence is kept," said the master. 
 
 The clerk looked aggrieved, "I'm afraid, sir," he replied, 
 "we can scarcely prevent it. There is a person outside who 
 appears to be under some misapprehension. We can' t get rid 
 of her." 
 
 "Who is she?" 
 
 "A country person, sir; tall and fat and " 
 
 "That's a lie, young man tall and fat indeed!" cried an 
 excited voice from the doorway. "Trim and tidy an' respect- 
 able that's the prescription an' don't you forget it." 
 
 Tony Crow winked at his friend. "Socks!" he cried, 
 "yon'sMrs. Surritch." 
 
 "Mrs. Who?" the lawyer questioned. 
 
 35 2
 
 MRS. SURRIDGE MOVES 353 
 
 "Mrs. Surritch, sir Tammas' old woman; Susie's uncle." 
 
 Mr. Sherren glanced at the blacksmith and gathering more 
 from his look than from the lucidity of his reply, turned to the 
 clerk and desired him to show the lady in. 
 
 Mrs. Surridge waited no second invitation. In a moment 
 she had bustled in, glared at the clerk, and stood to confront 
 the "lawyer-man." 
 
 "Beggin' your pardon, sir, for the hintaluption," she gasped 
 as she searched among her skirts and rolled the aspirate to the 
 front; "I don't hold with hintalupting anybody; but there is 
 times when it's to be excuged, an' this, hin my opinion, is one 
 of them. Jack, my dear, this telegraft came while me an' Tom 
 are hout, and Susie's to home alone. An' what's the result? 
 Why, Susie's gone to see after him, as is nateral." 
 
 She crossed over and handed the telegram as she spoke; 
 then, having assured herself that her petticoats were in order, 
 sank into a chair and proceeded to fan her heated face. 
 
 "Gone to look after him?" Elliott repeated fingering the 
 paper in some perplexity. 
 
 "Hit's what you might have expected of her, seein' it's 
 Susie an' beggin' your pardon for the trouble I'm giving," 
 she continued without pause, "an' there would a bin no excuse 
 for it, onlie, she says, 'Tell Jack', she says, 'an' he will folia.' 
 So here I ham drove in in farmer Stokeses' milk cart an' 
 jilted to a blessed jelly with springs that are more like sakes 
 alive! What's wrong with you, Jack?" 
 
 This exclamation was caused by Elliott's sudden shout of 
 dismay as he read the message. " Good God! " he cried again, 
 "this is Saunderson's work Saunderson, do you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 " Saunderson ! " Mrs. Surridge reiterated rising and glanc- 
 ing hastily about her.
 
 354 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Saunderson sent that wire," Elliott asserted moving to- 
 ward the lawyer, who had risen also. 
 
 "Nonsense, Jack, you're wrong all wrong," Mrs. Surridge 
 objected. "It's poor George as is hurt. It's writ plain as 
 sucking pigs, an' Susie's gone to nuss him." 
 
 Elliott stood like one dazed. The blacksmith approached 
 and touched him on the back, "Haund ower t' telegraft t' Mr. 
 Sheeron, Jock; haund it ower there's a man." 
 
 The lawyer adjusted his pince-nez and taking the message 
 read as follows: 
 
 "SuSIE SUTCLIFFE, 
 
 c/o Surridge, Ivy Farm, Swinfleet, 
 
 "Accident down river. Father hurt bad. Come at once 
 to Port Victoria. Boat waiting to take you off to Tantalus. 
 Urgent. MICKY DOOLAN, Mate." 
 
 "Micky Doolan?" Mr. Sherran accentuated glancing 
 over his glasses. "Why surely that is the man we have been 
 talking to?" 
 
 Elliott broke out with a gust of passion at this; "It's a lie, 
 a lie!" he cried. "Not a word is true. Saunderson sent 
 that wire." 
 
 "Steady, my lad," said the lawyer. 
 
 But Elliott was moving up and down the office in ungovern- 
 able anger. "Again I have made a hash of it!" he cried out. 
 "Again he has got to windward and left me. Micky Doolan 
 is not mate of the Tantalus. He left last voyage and Saunder- 
 son sent that message to get the girl." 
 
 He gathered up his cap and reached for the telegram, but 
 the lawyer intervened. "One moment," he said. "We will 
 send for Doolan. He is going down river to meet a ship, you 
 say. Very well stop him." He paused and looked at the 
 blacksmith. "Perhaps," he resumed, "you will go down to 
 the pier and stop him?"
 
 MRS. SURRIDGE MOVES 355 
 
 Tony Crow rose at once. "Ah will," he replied. "Mean- 
 while ah hope your honour will be able t' fix oop a way t' collar 
 the lot." 
 
 As he left the office the lawyer turned to Mrs. Surridge. 
 "When did the girl start?" he questioned. 
 
 Elliott, who had been silently examining the telegram for 
 some time, found voice at this. "She caught the midday train, 
 sir: that's certain from what she has written on the form. 'I am 
 going,' she says, 'by the next train to see him. I will bring him 
 home if I can. Tell Jack and if I can't return ask him to 
 follow me.' And, sir, from the telegram I see that it was re- 
 ceived at 11:30. She could do it easily. Excuse me, I'm 
 off." 
 
 "Stay!" cried the lawyer sharply, "don't court the lock-up. 
 I warned you this morning that the warrant for your arrest is 
 still in existence. Take this card, and if anyone stops you 
 show it you understand?" 
 
 "You are very good, sir, and I thank you," he replied. 
 
 "Never mind that but tell me what are your plans." 
 
 "As for that, sir, I'm going to overhaul the Red Gauntlet. 
 It's easy as child's-play now we know where Saunderson is. 
 You remember Micky Doolan saw him leaving Thames Haven 
 last night very well; the tide wouldn't let him get farther than 
 the Medway and as the telegram is stamped Port Victoria, he's 
 lying in the Swatch. If Susie left by the train we expect, she 
 would reach Port Victoria about three o'clock, that's a certainty; 
 then there's the row down to the Swatch where the Gauntlet's 
 lying that would take another hour. Sir, she's scarcely 
 there yet. She can't reach much before we can overhaul them 
 with the Stormy Petrel. I'll have them if I die for it. I'll 
 find them if it's the last day's work I do on God's earth. Sir, 
 I'm off."
 
 356 THE ISSUE 
 
 The lawyer crossed over and took Elliott by the hand. 
 
 "Good," he decided. "And I think possibly I, too, may 
 have helped in this matter. The fact is I gave instructions to 
 the river police to keep in touch with the Red Gauntlet. They 
 are not far away. Look out for them as you go down. And 
 now, good luck. Let me hear as soon as you return. Mean- 
 while I will see the police again and arrange with them in the 
 matter of your warrant. Outside you will find a cab. Take 
 it and get along as fast as you can." 
 
 They left the office at once and drove to the pier. Here they 
 found Tony Crow waiting outside the gate through which they 
 must pass. 
 
 " Gude for ye, Jack, lad," he cried as he joined them and 
 hurried to the steps where lay a boat in readiness. "Gude 
 for ye, ma son. Ah'm coomin' wi' ye masen, an' odds the 
 sluckit-sasser business. Wha wouldn't? Socks! Ah'm think- 
 in' ah've getten t' flee, under ma hammer noo. All awa, lad! 
 Ower wi' us t' yonder tuggie. Eigh! Jack too. Eigh! 
 Missis Surritch, what like d'ye ca' it noo?" 
 
 He gripped one after the other by the hand, shaking them 
 effusively. His face was a-pucker with smiles. There was 
 no fear of failure in Tony's heart. He spoke and acted as one 
 who has triumphed, who at the end of a race was first past the 
 tape. 
 
 They came to the Stormy Petrel's ladder and bestowed them- 
 selves on her bridge, where Micky Doolan stood waiting to 
 give the signal to weigh anchor. Mrs. Surridge, who found 
 herself now for the first time afloat, and without her husband, 
 approached the skipper with anxiety written in every line of 
 her kindly features. "Capting Doolan," she whispered, 
 "what Tom would think if so be he knew where I wuz, I can't 
 imagine no more than Adam. It seems to me that I should go.
 
 MRS. SURRIDGE MOVES 357 
 
 There's no other woman of her own sect to see her straight. 
 It's my dooty an' I'll go through with it if I die." 
 
 Micky Doolan unfastened the wheel lashing and: stood 
 ready to start. "Ut's good av ye to come," he announced, 
 "an' as fer Tom Surridge, why he'd say the same if you ask 
 me." 
 
 Mrs. Surridge hastened to fill the ensuing pause. "To 
 think," she exclaimed, "as that poor lamb's bin dissuaded to 
 go an' meet that himage that well, there, what can a per- 
 son call a chap with a passel o' wives like that? Sakes alive! 
 he ain't a man. He's a Norman that's what he is." 
 
 Elliott came along the main deck calling to them: "All 
 ready there, Micky?" 
 
 "Aye, Jack all ready." 
 
 "Go straight for the Nore. Don't think of anything else. 
 We must overhaul them. Let her away." 
 
 Then turning abruptly he rejoined the crew and busied him- 
 self aiding them to stow the anchor. Mrs. Surridge watched 
 him tearfully. 
 
 "Well," she remarked in tones that quivered, "if that ain't 
 what I call affection, I don't know nothing about it. Some 
 folks," she went on, addressing Tony Crow and the skipper 
 in turn, "some folks say there aint' no sich thing. But I say 
 it's what's at the back o' that. Ever since he were that high," 
 Mrs. Surridge measured some three feet from the deck, "he've 
 just wushupped the ground the gell trod on. An' now he's 
 goin' to save her. Ah, Tony Crow, you may laugh, but Old 
 Moore's right. Danger to a crow-ned head ; wars an' rumours 
 o' wars, wid trouble in the ager-i-culteral districs come Decem- 
 ber. All of which has come to pass. And if that plophet," 
 she concluded with a touch of regret, "had only spotted how 
 things would run in Febuary, I'd say as the King might do
 
 358 THE ISSUE 
 
 wuss than bear him in mind next time he's ladling out them 
 barrownices." 
 
 A voice from the men engaged forward brought her remarks 
 to a close and the skipper turned to the engine-room gong 
 which he smote with his heel. 
 
 "All away it is!" he cried. "Full speed, my son full 
 speed!" 
 
 Then with a roll of machinery and a sudden hiss of foam 
 the Stormy Petrel moved from her anchorage and headed down 
 river. 
 
 The day was fast closing in. Dark banks of cloud lay heavily 
 massed on the horizon. The wind was failing and when at 
 length they reached the Jenkin the night was fully come. But 
 now the moon crept through the eastern banks and hung there 
 red and angry to mark the driving scud. A stern night; a 
 night of presage and warning to all those huddled craft lying 
 at pause waiting the tide which should free them. 
 
 A gale was growing out there on the heaving sea; a hint of 
 the power, couched and dormant as yet, but flaunting hourly 
 its approach, raced across the moon's red face until with the 
 passage of time it had mounted from those strangling banks 
 and looked down in misty serenity on the twisting lane of 
 waters winding there towards London. 
 
 But the Stormy Petrel's crew heeded nothing of this. They 
 moved onward, staring into the sheen, searching the river with 
 tireless eyes, swearing, commenting. Now and again they 
 came upon an outward bound vessel lying with flapping sails 
 and groaning rudder in the lap of the swell. If she chanced to 
 be a barge they steered to examine her; if not they passed un- 
 heeding.
 
 MRS. SURRIDGE MOVES 359 
 
 Each man of the crew was on the look out. No one thought 
 of sleep. Even the cantankerous firemen forgot to agitate for 
 fewer hours, for Elliott had been among them and told his 
 story. As nothing succeeds like success, so, conversely, noth- 
 ing is so damnable as failure. And, following the law, on Wind- 
 bag Saunderson there fell a growing chorus of promised ven- 
 geance. The unsuccessful leader of the strike! The bully of 
 the river! The man of destiny and the murderer of Dunscombe 
 the thing was plain. Saunderson lay in the toils. 
 
 It was nearly six o'clock when they steamed past the Nore 
 and turned to search the Medway anchorage. As time crawled 
 on Elliott's misery increased. Susie must be with this man 
 now. It was impossible to conceive any further respite. The 
 mist was denser here; but what of that? The wind which 
 should help the Red Gauntlet had failed; again, what of that? 
 Was there not a tide ? Was it not possible to a man of Saunder- 
 son's tenacity to hide somewhere in this labyrinthic maze of 
 channels, creeks, and backwaters? to hide, to bide his time, 
 and to creep away under cover of that same mist ? True. But 
 in this matter Elliott in common with the rest had failed to 
 pierce the man's depth. They knew nothing of the force that 
 dogged him and, had they known, would not have appreciated 
 its value. A river man is what he appears to be. His life, his 
 trend, his actions are of the surface. One does not suspect 
 depths, and subtlety of thought is a thing distinguished from 
 subtlety of action. The former is undiscussed, the latter ad- 
 mitted but scarcely understood. 
 
 At this moment the things which stood out were plain for all 
 men to read, and the rest had no part among a race who speak 
 their minds when they have anything to say, and act on the 
 spur when anything is to be done. 
 
 Therefore they walked the bridge and main deck growling and
 
 360 THE ISSUE 
 
 promising one to the other what would happen to "Win'bag" 
 when they met, until a bright glare springing up on their eastern 
 horizon brought all to a halt. 
 
 They had turned the vessel some time earlier and were now 
 "sweeping" the river going toward the Nore. The moon was 
 momentarily hidden and the estuary rolled blacker for her 
 absence. A voice broke the silence: 
 
 "Ut's a boatman's signal. Arroo! if ut wass the Rid Gaunt- 
 let, glory be, Amin. Let her away!" 
 
 Elliott approached the skipper, "Steady, Micky!" he cried, 
 "Maybe it's the police. Steer for her, my son; steer for her." 
 
 "Whisht! I'd clane forgot them. Right; we'll take a look." 
 
 He put the wheel over and the tug headed for the Oaze. 
 The flare had vanished yet they crept on in silent expectation, 
 waiting, as Micky said, "fer the end av things," and straining 
 their eyes with the elusive light. 
 
 Then again the flare grew bright and they saw a small blotch 
 lying on the swell; a little smudge of grayness thrown into 
 bolder relief by the flaming oil. There was no longer need for 
 doubt. It was a boat, possibly the boat for which they searched, 
 the boat which had tracked Saunderson thus far on his journey. 
 
 The Stormy Petrel crashed on without pause. They passed 
 a barge lying under the tail of the sands and hailed her: 
 
 "What d'ye make of yonder light?" 
 
 "A boatman wanting a pluck belike." 
 
 "Aye, so I thought." 
 
 "A dirty night's lying behind that swell, skipper." 
 
 "You're right. S'long." 
 
 "So long, matee." 
 
 They crept onward and in five minutes were slowing engines 
 besides the flare which again burned to mark the position. 
 Then a voice came out to greet them: "Tug ahoy! "
 
 MRS. SURRIDGE MOVES 361 
 
 " Hello ! What boat is that ? " 
 
 "Thames police. Where are you bound? Give us a pull 
 up." 
 
 "Aye, my sons. Jump aboard. We were lookin' fer yez 
 jump aboard." 
 
 The crew clustered about them as they reached the deck; 
 their questions fell in a rugged stream : 
 
 "Hast seed the Red Gauntlet?" 
 
 "Wheer in Gawd's name is the Red Gauntlet?" 
 
 "What of Saunderson?" 
 
 Then Elliott came forward and displayed the card he had 
 received and the inspector took up the halting answer. 
 
 "So you are Jack Elliott! Ah! it's well you have that note, 
 lad. The Red Gauntlet? Yes. She's away for Maiden 
 bound up the Black Deep as fast as the wind will let her. We 
 can do no good here. They will stop her when she arrives." 
 
 "Saunderson will never go to Maiden," Elliott broke in with 
 a gust of passion. "He has stolen the girl away from her 
 home. He will never go there now he knows we are after 
 him." 
 
 "Stolen the girl again? Ah! then that's what he was 
 doing lying around in the Swatch this twelve hours. Good. 
 We can save the girl if the skipper here is game to run a bit 
 outside his owner's orders; but the man will have to be ashore 
 before we can touch him." 
 
 "Is that so?" Elliott questioned. 
 
 "With my powers I can go no farther." 
 
 "Begorra!" Micky Doolan asserted, "thin I don't think 
 much av yer warrant annyway. Whhat'll we be afther?" 
 
 "Get him ashore, my lad. Persuade him to land." The 
 inspector came near and tapped him on the shoulder. "Per- 
 suade him to land, cap'n, and you shall see what you shall see."
 
 362 THE ISSUE 
 
 Micky Doolan took his meaning and struck vigorously at his 
 own outstretched palm. "We will that," he cried. "Arroo! 
 lave ut to us, sorr lave ut to us an' say where you want me to 
 stheer." 
 
 "Let her away for the Deeps, my son," he returned, "for 
 at dusk the Red Gauntlet was flapping along this side of the 
 Mouse, heading for Barrow Deep." 
 
 A chorus of noisy speech drifted up from the men waiting 
 beneath the bridge as Micky sprang to the wheel and punched 
 the gong. 
 
 "Sorr, you're the foinest man I've seen this soide av Kilk- 
 kenny," he announced. "Full speed, me son, let her out." 
 
 The Stormy Petrel swept across the estuary, wallowing with 
 the sullen splash that accompanies a rolling vessel. No one 
 spoke now. Each man knew that it was but a question of 
 minutes before they came up with the chase; and each man 
 hugged his own pet theory of punishment. 
 
 The night was less dark. A misty sheen lay across the 
 distant sands, hazy, white, indefinite in the eye of a scud- veiled 
 moon ; the swell showed up in serried lines of shadow, like the 
 ranks of an army moving across a sun-lit plain. The song of 
 the surf came down to greet them; the drone of the pulsing 
 engines, the flap of paddles incessantly churning the gray river 
 these were sounds accompanying them as they came within 
 range of that green light swinging so slowly across the Channels.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 BILL MARLEY 
 
 MEANWHILE the Red Gauntlet was under way and 
 Saunderson, standing silent at the wheel, steered for 
 the Deeps. 
 
 For twenty-four hours he had lived a new life; hope had 
 returned to him, he had dreamed dreams, seen visions and 
 imagined that his luck was changing his luck, the thing which 
 had baffled him all these months, had changed. Susie was on 
 board. He had won. With Susie he argued that his life, his 
 future was safe. He swore it as he watched her coming along- 
 side, swore it, as, without any great persuasion, he saw her 
 descend into the cabin. At that moment he walked on air. 
 But as they picked up anchor and started toward the goal he 
 had in view, a new thought came to trouble him. He had 
 overshot the mark. Hours had elapsed, and the conditions so 
 favourable when he formed his plans, had already taken a new 
 turn to baffle him. 
 
 Two facts presented themselves as he came from his stealthy 
 pause in the Swatch. The wind was failing and Fisherman's 
 Gat lay full in his track. 
 
 The signals flaunting in the gray dome overhead pointed 
 with remorseless irony to a dying breeze; the scud moving so 
 swiftly from the southeast; the hollow lap of the undriven 
 wavelets; the whang and flutter of sails towering far into the 
 night all were indications a tyro could hardly misinterpret, 
 certainly no sailor could misread. 
 
 363
 
 364 THE ISSUE 
 
 A calm awaited them. A calm, a forced detention perhaps 
 in the vicinity of the Gat itself. It was a hindrance of which 
 he had not dreamed, a thing altogether small and too un- 
 worthy to have required anticipation. And yet it faced him. 
 
 At first these matters loomed only vaguely in the man's 
 imagination. They had appeared as untoward incidents too 
 disagreeable to contemplate with serenity; but with time, 
 they grew, and when presently the barge drew past the light 
 sweeping from the Nore and he learned precisely how slow was 
 their progress, the rememberance of Susie's presence and the 
 aid she could give him, were nearly obliterated by fear fear 
 induced solely by the fact of a failing breeze. 
 
 He stood on now in sullen hope; passively watching Dame 
 Nature's signals and marking the flight of time. Nothing he 
 could do would alter the conditions. He dared not turn tail 
 and run for the Medway and he dared not anchor for fear of 
 pursuit. Thus, in the tardy hour of his triumph, when circum- 
 stance had appeared to smile more favourably upon him, he 
 found himself again thrust into the position he dreaded perhaps 
 more than all on earth. 
 
 He stamped on the deck, thinking grimly of his monstrous 
 luck. A recollection crossed him and he swore. The mate, a 
 noisy, truculent, and uncivil ruffian, a man not likely to be troub- 
 led with a delicate conscience, had manifested signs of dis- 
 approval while they were getting under way. What had come 
 to him, Saunderson could not guess. It was curious. Chks! 
 He threw the incident to the winds and giving his attention 
 again to the compass, watched until they crept like a phantom 
 to a position opposite the Mouse. 
 
 Night brooded heavily on the face of the waters; a solemn 
 night, turgid, lacking breath, and painted at intervals by the 
 green flare flung by the lightship. It was quiet too; quiet as
 
 BILL MARLEY 365 
 
 the buoys marking the Channel: nothing could have been less 
 opportune and to a man of Saunderson's type, nothing more 
 appalling. The scud raced through space revealing fleeting 
 gleams of moonlight. There was wind coming, a whole pot- 
 ful from the 'southeast meanwhile there must first ensue a 
 calm. 
 
 The wind slowly failed. The lightship seemed chained 
 abeam. They sagged onward a mile, perhaps two, with 
 whanging sprit and flapping sails, then at about midnight 
 there came the knowledge that the remaining hours of darkness 
 must be passed within sight of the sands. 
 
 Saunderson's mental torture increased as he stood there 
 steering, gazing furtively at the puny wavelets, noting his 
 distances, and recognising the steady drift of events. It was 
 monstrous. It was devilish. Why had he been thus singled 
 out, marked down, and pursued ? What had he done to de- 
 serve it? He had done nothing nothing. He called God 
 to witness that what had happened had not been of his ordering. 
 Events had grown precisely as this calm was growing He had 
 no volition in the matter. No one had volition the thing 
 was an accident, beyond his control ; fashioned perhaps by the 
 very force which now conspired to lay him by the heels. What 
 could he do? What could anyone do? Nothing nothing. 
 
 He stared into the depths, muttering, questioning, listening; 
 until a faint cry fell upon his ears. Far off it sounded, far off 
 and resonant, like the clang of a distant gong. He glanced 
 about, and for an instant his pulses throbbed to the memory of 
 another cry; then in an instant, and with a flush of joy, he 
 recollected Susie's presence in the cabin. It was Susie who 
 cried to him; Susie, his wife, before whose presence the chimeras 
 which so oppressed him would disappear. She was his. He 
 argued that his other wife being dead, Susie was his wife.
 
 366 THE ISSUE 
 
 She had come without any protest; she would forget the past, 
 and presently would love him. And he ? There was no need 
 to wait. His love was hers; he had given it in blood, in 
 tears, in sweat, in gold he had given it and she was his. No 
 other living soul could claim her now. 
 
 A swell heavier than those hitherto encountered, interrupted 
 the seething thoughts. The barge lurched far to windward 
 and fell back in the trough with a dismal clang. Saunderson 
 stared into the murk; the noise jarred his nerves. He shouted 
 to the mate to pass the lee vang forward and watched to see it 
 done. 
 
 Marley executed the order, then, leaning against the rail, 
 looked at his commander. 
 
 "Simes to me," he remarked, "we'd best dahn kellick 
 there ain't enough wind to blow aw'y a mosqueta." 
 
 "I don't anchor here," Saunderson replied gruffly. 
 
 "W'y not, Skipper?" 
 
 "What in flames is that t' you." 
 
 The mate stared. "'Tain't much suttin'ly," he returned. 
 Then crossing the deck he lounged against the vang fall, and 
 commenced whistling one of the only tunes he knew : 
 
 "We're bound to the Rio Grande." 
 
 Saunderson bore this for some time; but when Marley 
 entered on the fifth stanza, he grew impatient. "Stow that!" 
 he shouted. "Who in thunder wants to hear about U-rio?" 
 
 The mate chuckled. "You're as bad as a south-Spainer, 
 Skip," he cried out. "None of 'em can stand w'istlin' in a 
 cawlm. They s'y it brings ill luck." 
 
 Saunderson cast his eyes up wind. "Luck an' you be ever- 
 lastingly damned!" he roared. "What d' you know about 
 such things?" 
 
 The mate maintained his careless attitude. The sound of
 
 BILL MARLEY 367 
 
 wrath appeared to amuse him, still he looked up to explain. 
 " Don't know as I know a lot," he said; "but I mind a cise as 
 struck me funny. We're goin' round the 'Orn. I'm in a 
 Yank, a reg'lar 'ot un; an' just as we're drawrin' dahn to 
 Staten Island, we drop inta one of them smokin' souf-easters. 
 Blow! Lumme, it'ud a blowed the roof off a cive fer three 
 d'ys it would. Then comes a cawlm, just fer all the world 
 like this, an' we lie slammin' abaat fer a tosty spell. 
 
 "There's a cove at the w'eel one d'y, w'istlin' a toon to pawss 
 aw'y the time. The old man come on deck. Gor'me! 'ee's 
 a lush-bag, that skipper 'ee'd a drunk the Trider dry in a 
 'our. Simes us if 'ee'd 'ad a skeer sometime; anyway up 
 'ee comes to the bloke at the w'eel, an' splits 'is scull open wi 
 a knuckle-duster. 
 
 "The cove lies dahn. 'Ee don't ever get up any more, an' 
 the skipper, wot wi the drink an' the skeer, goes flamin' dotty, 
 an' that night, wen it's uz dawk uz the inside of a drine, 'ee 
 tikes a walk aat into the sea, an' drahns." 
 
 The mate chuckled at the rememberance. He came a pace 
 nearer and continued: "Shikes! 'ee were a beauty, 'ee were. 
 Too bad to drahn, 'ee were. 'Ung floatin' abaat fer three 
 d'ys on end, then the mate aats boat an' limbers 'un to a old 
 anchor shackle, an' 'ee slumps." 
 
 Saunderson watched his companion, but made no sign. He 
 noted that Marley was already occupied with their near ap- 
 proach to the sands, and was content to follow his gaze. 
 
 The Mouse lay glinting in the tricky moonlight. A wreath 
 of foam curled high across the barrier. Saunderson fumbled 
 with the wheel, growling over his shoulder: "Ease off your 
 sheets! Let 'em flow. We'll run her in an' take her up the 
 Swin." 
 
 The mate laughed aloud. He shouted in disdain. "Take
 
 3 68 THE ISSUE 
 
 'er up the Swin will yer? Where's the wind to mike us 
 run?" 
 
 "There's a breeze comin' up. The moon's scoffing the 
 dirt." The skipper held his hand aloft feeling for the breeze 
 for which he prayed. Marley did as he was ordered; but the 
 Red Gauntlet sagged on unheeding. He commented on the fact 
 gruffly, as one who had predicted precisely what was happening. 
 
 "Tole ye so. Simes uz if our luck's goin' to shove us a top 
 of the san's. Better let go the mud'ook, Skipper, an' go an' 
 look a\vfter yer disy dahn aft." 
 
 A noise had reached the mate's ears while they argued. 
 Saunderson remained staring up channel in the direction of 
 the Gat. He seemed to have forgotten, but the mate urged the 
 matter with a tinge of impatience. "Skipper," he cried; 
 "wot abaht 'er dahn aft. I don't want nothin' to do wi it; 
 but square's square, an' if it ain't square w'y it's round, an' 
 that's strite." 
 
 Saunderson turned on him with an oath: "Get you out of 
 this. She's my wife, " he growled. 
 
 "Gam!" said the mate. "'Oo are you gettin' at. An' 
 she come aboord t' find 'er father. Garn! skipper try it on 
 Spuds." 
 
 Spuds was the dog who hung close at Marley's heels, growl- 
 ing furtively at ever lurch. Saunderson turned to look at his 
 mate. He measured himself against this new force; this 
 inexplicable and obtrusive addition to his burdens, and found 
 he confronted a man as heavy as himself, as tall; a man who 
 had the look of one who understood the use of his hands. He 
 had nothing to say, but Marley added with ready sarcasm: 
 "She might be yer wife, b' the w'y ye treat 'er. Locked up in 
 the bloomin' kebbin uz if she'd pison the Thames b' lookin' 
 at it. Let 'er aat. Cawn't ye 'ear 'er bellerin' ? "
 
 BILL MARLEY 369 
 
 Saunderson turned impatiently forward. "Let go the 
 anchor; wind in on your brails," he ordered. "We're goin' 
 down tide straight for the sands." 
 
 "A course we are," said the mate. "In another minute we 
 look like bein' a bloomin' beacon on the san's. Ho, yus; 
 I'll dahn kellick right enough. Then we'll 'ave yer dicky bird 
 up, an' 'ear 'er cheep." He went forward at once and Saunder- 
 son unfastened the scuttle and descended. He decided that 
 he must gain Susie's sympathy, persuade her to aid him; then 
 together they might face the mate with a refutation of his 
 suggestions. The noise of his approach aroused the girl, and 
 she rose to stand beside the cabin table. Saunderson halted 
 at the foot of the ladder to watch. 
 
 She was very beautiful. Her flushed face and dancing eyes; 
 the ruffled, golden hair straying about her forehead, and the 
 easy pose of her graceful figure, made a picture which instantly 
 drove from the man's mind those troublesome questions which 
 would not allow him rest. Again he only saw Susie; again 
 her beauty intervened and put to flight his dread; again, as he 
 watched her, his wife's words recurred: "You will win her 
 and you shall die." He had won. He advanced to meet her 
 with outstretched arms. 
 
 "Susie," he cried in quick, half-gasping tones; "I had to lie 
 to get you here because I could not stay. My wife is dead. 
 You are my wife. Come over and talk. You look fair lovely, 
 lass. Come over an' talk." 
 
 The girl made no answer; she shrank into the farthest 
 corner of the cabin, watching him in terror. Saunderson 
 halted near the stove. 
 
 "Come," he begged. "All is fair in love an' you know I 
 love you. I did what you asked me about father. I married 
 you. You promised to come to love me wiv time. Now my
 
 370 THE ISSUE 
 
 wife is dead an' you are my wife. Don't you see I can claim 
 you? Can't you understand that at last you will be able to 
 come to me wivout talk from any living soul? Can't you see 
 it? You're not sorry Gawd's life, you're not sorry? Susie, 
 I've put it plainly come over an' talk." 
 
 He paused, extending his arms for her; but the girl's courage 
 had returned. She broke into the pause without hesitation. 
 
 "I am not your wife," she cried; "you have lied to me, you 
 have cheated me; you have done everything to wreck my life, 
 and now " 
 
 Saunderson's voice leaped upon hers, overlapping it, drown- 
 ing it. "Stop!" he shouted. "Don't say a word more until 
 you've remembered what happened first. Stop! You too played 
 me a dirty trick. Susie, you made game of me before my 
 mates; you refused to trust me when I begged for time but I 
 love you. Child! I love you and I'm ready to forget all, if 
 you will agree to play it square in future. Wait! Let me say 
 my say. It isn't every man that would do as much; but I do 
 it, an' I do it because I love you. Lass! you can score my face 
 if you will ; you can wipe your pretty shoes on my chest if you 
 want to; you can do as you like with me only don't speak 
 hastily; don't say things we may wish forgotten. Gawd love 
 you, Susie; if I can't make you happy, I'll die," he reiterated 
 the sentence very solemnly. "I mean it; I'll die." 
 
 Twice she had attempted to break in on his words; but on 
 each occasion he raised his voice and she was compelled to 
 listen. Now, as he paused, she turned upon him with an 
 angry gesture. "Silence!" she cried. "How dare you talk 
 to me of love. I am not your wife, and even if I were, do you 
 think I would consent to live with the man who killed Duns- 
 combe?" 
 
 She flung the words at him with such headlong passion, that
 
 BILL MARLEY 371 
 
 for a moment he failed to grasp their meaning. Then his face 
 darkened his eyes took a savage glint, and he moved slowly 
 toward the table like a man on the edge of a seizure. "What's 
 that you say?" he mumbled slowly, "what's that you say?" 
 
 She turned on him with a voice that rang sharply in the 
 small cabin: "I say that Tony has discovered it all. I say 
 that Jack has returned. Tha A Jack, who was accused of the 
 murder you committed, has come home that he will be set 
 free and that you will be arrested when you reach Maiden 
 if not before." 
 
 "Ah-h-h!" 
 
 The man breathed through drawn nostrils. He stood like 
 a pointer scenting game, quietly stiffening. He gripped the 
 table edge with both hands and waited in silence, searching 
 her with his eyes. 
 
 At length, moving stealthily towards her and speaking with 
 obvious difficulty. "Wait!" he ordered, and for a moment 
 maintained the silence. Then again, still very intent on the 
 cowering figure he faced, watching the tears that welled 
 
 "So you have heard that, have you? An' I have to thank 
 Tony Crow for it too. Tony Crow seems bent on botching 
 his hand and mine. 
 
 " Arrest me will they ? At Maiden is it ? Nay, lass, they 
 will never arrest Jim Saunderson. Mark me!" he continued, 
 his voice growing in power as his brain took grip of the situa- 
 tion, "mark what I tell you. They will never take me any- 
 where. Whish-h-h! Elliott has come home has he? I am 
 to be taken at Maiden am I? Susie, you don't know me. 
 Flames! What d' you think I am? A fool?" 
 
 The man's voice rose, but there was no snap in it. His 
 face became flushed and white in turn, but he crept towards 
 the girl, staring at her, begging with his eyes.
 
 372 THE ISSUE 
 
 "Come here!" he whispered. "No; I'll not hurt you. 
 You're my wife. I'm done." 
 
 He seemed to relapse into a species of lethargy. He had 
 forgotten their position; he had forgotten the sullen mate 
 banging with ropes on the hatches ; his thoughts were whirling 
 amidst the scenes through which he had come. He marked 
 the fact that it was for Dunscombe he was to be arrested, and 
 into the back of his mind there stole a hint of the irony of the 
 situation he who was wanted for the passing of Snuffles. 
 And Tony Crow had set this matter in train. Tony Crow, 
 the man who had taken Susie from him when he had won her. 
 He glanced up and caught the girl's eyes fixed upon him, and 
 in a moment the desire to stand well in her remembrance 
 mastered him. 
 
 "So you think I killed Dunscombe, do you ?" he questioned 
 evenly. "Wrong, Susie, wrong. I didn't touch Dunscombe; 
 but I know who did." 
 
 "Then you are accessory and equally to blame," she rapped 
 out. 
 
 "And I'm not accessory," he articulated grimly. 
 
 "If you knew it you " 
 
 "Wait! I didn't know." 
 
 She faced him in silence and he went on: 
 
 "I had my suspicions; but I didn't know, not till I met yon 
 singed man, Tom Goram, in hospital. Ever heard his name ? " 
 
 Susie signalled assent. 
 
 "Very well, the singed man's dying. He was hurt that 
 night when Dunscombe's house fell. An' he told me. I'm 
 called in to see him. So he told me. And it's taken down, 
 signed, and witnessed. It's evidence." 
 
 His voice leaped a moment to the old key: "Tom Goram 
 he killed Dunscombe an' if Dunscombe had served me as
 
 BILL MARLEY 373 
 
 he served Tom Goram, I'd have killed him too killed him if 
 I swung for it. Why? Why? Gawd's truth, because he 
 made a cripple of Tom Goram and a slut of his wife that's 
 why, if you ask me, Susie." 
 
 She looked up, her face quivering, but Saunderson went 
 on without heeding: 
 
 "You think I didn't know of Tony's fossikin' and suspicions," 
 he jeered. "Chks! d'ye think I'm a fool? Think I have no 
 eyes? But I had lost the box the blacksmith gave me and I 
 wanted to find who had it that's why I couldn't speak, you 
 understand ? 
 
 "Well, Tom Goram had it. He'd stole it. And, if it's 
 news to you, he dropped it the night Dunscombe met his death 
 dropped it nigh the ditch." 
 
 The man's voice had grown in strength. He spoke with 
 renewed grip, facing this matter which it seemed necessary to 
 explain; but behind the tone there lay a touch of self-pity very 
 difficult to recognise and keep silence. The girl essayed to 
 speak, then with a swift turn broke into tears. 
 
 "It is terrible," she faltered, "and it may not be true how 
 am I to know ? " 
 
 "As Gawd is my Maker," he cried out, "it is the truth. I 
 tell you because I want you to judge me fair; because I wouldn't 
 have you so ready to fling hard words at the man who is your 
 husband." 
 
 Again he relapsed into silence, his brain busy with the 
 sequence of events as they appeared. Dunscombe's death, 
 Elliott's flight, his own marriage with Susie, his wife's return. 
 Tony Crow, too, had added his quota. It seemed that he had 
 set the police on his track and that meant, that meant 
 Aye, it meant all things to Saunderson, but for another happen- 
 ing; it meant arrest, sentence, death, but on another count.
 
 374 THE ISSUE 
 
 He glanced swiftly about the cabin and caught the girl's eyes 
 resting on him. The thread snapped. He advanced a step 
 to meet her. 
 
 "Come here, Susie," he whispered. "Let me hold you 
 once. It's the end, Lass. Say one word to me an' I'll go 
 away to where I came from. Tell me that you would have got 
 to love me if if it hadn't been for this this " 
 
 He mouthed a sentence but no sound came. Susie gazed, 
 half fascinated. 
 
 "I can't," she shuddered. "It is awful awful." 
 
 "Have pity! Gawd love you, have pity." 
 
 The plaint touched her sense of justice. If he suffered now 
 what had been the lot of those against whom he fought. She 
 cried out abruptly: 
 
 "Had you pity? Had you pity on Jack, on father, on any- 
 one? Had you " 
 
 "Wait!" his voice leaped into the old key. "Had they any 
 for me ? Did father care two straws what came of me so long 
 as he had my money? Did Elliott care? Did they stand by 
 me or did they fight me? Chks! Elliott has returned. What 
 odds? No odds, for you are my wife. You dare not fight 
 me you dare not go back on me now." 
 
 He moved towards her, holding out his hands, but she 
 retreated, urging him to leave her. "I can't," she cried. "I 
 am not your wife. You married me when your wife was 
 alive; therefore I am not your wife." 
 
 He scarcely heard. He continued to move after her. 
 
 "Susie, for Gawd's sake don't shrink from me. I can't 
 hurt you. I can't crunch you in my arms, for you are my wife 
 an' I love you. Understand what that means ? Chks ! They've 
 got their nails into me," he pointed with his finger, " one there 
 there's no wind; another there we're at anchor; another
 
 BILL MARLEY 375 
 
 there the Gat's ahead of me. It's the curse, lass. Gawd 
 love you, say a word to help me one " 
 
 The girl broke into a passion of tears and Saunderson caught 
 her in his arms. The dull eyes, so heavy with the weight of his 
 sins, so heavy with the knowledge of what was before him, stared 
 mistily at this girl, lying shuddering and weeping in his grasp. 
 
 "I loved you I loved you," he cried, fierce with triumph. 
 The words fell in a rugged stream. They fell hot, striking her 
 with hammer-like blows. The man's agony mastered him and 
 he cried out again: " It was for you I fought, for you I suffered, 
 for you, as Gawd is my Judge. If I had seen you first, before 
 she came, it would have been different. Have pity! One word 
 can't? Ahi the odds are against me. Always were. The 
 curse, Susie the curse : 
 
 A despairing cry broke from the girl's lips as he leaned over 
 her, crushing her to him, marking the leaping colour, the 
 frightened eyes; then a footstep sounded on the deck overhead, 
 the scuttle was flung back, and the mate descended. Susie's 
 voice had reached him while he was still busy with the sails and 
 instantly recognising there was trouble afoot, he left his work 
 and came aft. 
 
 "Naa then, skipper!" he shouted. "Fair pl'y's a jewel. 
 Drop it an' come on deck." 
 
 Saunderson set the half-fainting girl on the settee and turned 
 to face the new force. There was in his eyes the look of a tiger 
 when he turns from his mate to fight an enemy lurking in the 
 background; but he moved up the ladder averting his gaze, 
 without answer,' and came to the boat trailing astern. He 
 stooped to unfasten the painter and again the mate stood be- 
 side him, hampering his movements, questioning his motives. 
 He desired to know precisely what the skipper intended, and 
 Saunderson looked up with a growl.
 
 376 THE ISSUE 
 
 "She's going ashore. There's bin some mistake," he 
 announced. 
 
 "Oh! An' 'oo's goin' to tike 'er?" 
 
 "You are." 
 
 Marley swore vigorously that he had no intention of playing 
 the goat any longer. He added the information that it was 
 twelve miles or more to Southend and that the tide still ebbed. 
 He expressed it as his opinion that the skipper had gone balmy, 
 soft in the tater; but Saunderson took no heed. He lashed the 
 boat amidships and proceeded to unbuckle his belt. He held 
 it out to the mate, saying; 
 
 "It's yours if you land her safe, mind at Southend. It's 
 yours wiv what's in it." 
 
 The mate stared. 
 
 "'Ow do I know wot's in it?" he questioned at length. 
 
 Saunderson moved to the binnacle. "I'll show you," he 
 said. 
 
 Then he unfastened the leather strap about a thin, flat bag, 
 and opened it. "See?" he remarked. "Gold. One, two, 
 three, four pound some odd shillin's. I have no use for it 
 d'you take on?" 
 
 Marley watched him out of small eyes. " It's a gime I don't 
 like," he said. "Wot's be'ind it all ? I don't want to be pulled 
 up fer no kidnappin' gime. Wot abaat the gell?" 
 
 " Go an' ask her. Here, take this. Give it to her an 'tell 
 her she's to give that loose gold same as I counted out to you 
 when you've landed her, safe safe, mind!" he growled the 
 iteration. "The distance is nothing. The night's quiet 
 smooth as oil. The tide won't hurt you, under the Sands. 
 I'll wait here till you come back. What do you say?" 
 
 Marley considered the matter from this new standpoint. 
 He turned on his heel and approached the cabin.
 
 MARLEY 377 
 
 "If the gell says yes," he decided, "I'm there." 
 
 Saunderson moved forward. He stood in the shadow of 
 the mast awaiting the result. He knew what that would be. 
 
 Susie would go. He would be left alone alone to Chks! 
 
 the mate was coming up the steps. He saw him stoop over 
 the boat. Already? 
 
 He muttered grimly that they intended to lose no time 
 not a minute; then stood gripping the brails, marking their 
 movements, fearful lest even now something should happen to 
 mar the plan he had formed to mar it! Pish! Susie came up 
 the ladder. She approached the rail, looked into the boat, 
 and stared up the misty sea. Saunderson found voice to shout 
 at this an order to the mate: "Get a spare coat blanket 
 somethin' to wrap her in. It's cold." 
 
 Marley obeyed. He returned laden and Susie stepped into 
 the boat. She huddled down amidst the wraps. The mate 
 followed her. He took his seat, shipped his sculls, pushed off. 
 They moved out into the gray-white sheen. 
 
 Saunderson stood alone now by the mainmast watching the 
 circling ripples.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 A CHALLENGE 
 
 AN HOUR Saunderson stood like one fascinated by the 
 seascape; a sentinel on duty with no knowledge of 
 what that duty was. 
 
 The silence whelmed him. A certain number of minutes 
 ago there had not been silence; but now the silence had come 
 and it whelmed him. 
 
 Out there a boat moved steadily over the tide. In it was 
 the mate taking home again that girl whose presence had be- 
 come a burden; whom he had sent ashore lest further trouble 
 should ensue; lest by chance her presence prevented him mov- 
 ing out of the danger zone, carrying into effect that plan he had 
 formed. Plan ? What plan had he ? Had he a plan, or was 
 it 
 
 Saunderson passed down the companion stairs and lifted to 
 lips his medicine. 
 
 Again an hour had sped. Saunderson acknowledged it; 
 yet something hindered him; something, the gist of which was 
 lost as that boat was becoming lost. He was unable to decide 
 what it was. It appeared that he desired to move out, to pro- 
 ceed across that turgid stream and escape from the forces by 
 which he was hemmed. 
 
 But the river chained him. The calm, his fears, his irreso- 
 lution chained him and he remained inert. Once he told him- 
 
 378
 
 A CHALLENGE 379 
 
 self he could have moved ; now he was somnolently content to 
 question whether if he moved any result would ensue. 
 
 The river gurgled in his ears. It played about the leeboard, 
 stirring it, throwing up little rills. The sound annoyed him. 
 
 It interfered with the sequence of his thoughts, prevented 
 him seeing precisely how fast the boat moved out there amidst 
 the oily stretches. He crossed over and discovered that a dead 
 dog had fouled the chain. He leaned over with a boat hook 
 and laboriously pushed it away. Again there was silence. 
 
 The boat faded from sight. Her outline could be seen now 
 only when the Mouse swang round; then for a moment it 
 stood out upon the greenish sheen, like a log amidst the grass. 
 He marvelled at its immobility and remembered that it was 
 distant, distant as those acts of his which had borne such curi- 
 ous fruit. He wondered why men called it fruit, why so much 
 depended on what we do, why the boat hung there so long, a 
 mere blotch to pester him; why that greenish tinge recurred so 
 frequently and persistently. 
 
 The river ran steadily onward throwing little whirlpools with 
 a vortex of mud mud like smoke which rose steadily from noth- 
 ing. As he had risen from the dregs of humanity, from the 
 scum of life seething in the whirlpools of our cities, so the mud 
 rose from the river's depths, without apparent cause, without 
 any object but to smudge the seascape. Without volition, as 
 in his case, so it drifted into silence drifted on the path he 
 trod, to oblivion, forgetfulness, death. Toward the one cer- 
 tain event all men must face. 
 
 Saunderson faced it now. He stared into depths more pro- 
 found than those over which he leaned; but irresolution chain- 
 ed him. He could not think nor decide; yet he shouted
 
 380 THE ISSUE 
 
 aloud that it was the one thing to do, and straightway fell into 
 vacuity. 
 
 His medicine revived him. 
 
 - * 
 
 When next he came on deck the boat had vanished. He 
 missed it with a thrill of anguish, discovering for the first time 
 that he was alone. The silence became intrusive. It stepped out 
 of the void, as that triangle of lights down there was coming from 
 the void, passed down the shimmering distance, and fell upon 
 hun like a cloak; as presently the shadow which accompanied 
 the triangle would fall upon him like a cloak. 
 
 The man rose and moved towards the companion. The 
 small clock in the cabin skylight raced abominably. It spoke 
 of the flight of time. It cried out to him with an idiotic beat 
 which coincided strangely with his beating heart. It annoyed 
 hun. He crossed over and silenced it forever. 
 
 He crept into the cabin, deciding that he must wait, that it 
 was necessary the mate should have time to rejoin him, and 
 lifted again his medicine. 
 
 But he did not drink. A sound crept in upon him a 
 long and dismal cry like the hoot of an owl. But Saunderson 
 knew that no owl cried there. He knew definitely where that 
 sound had birth, and paused there, bottle raised, a look of 
 horrible dread covering his features. 
 
 He set the bottle down, a swift movement, and slid up the 
 companion; but here he went slowly, lifting his head by de- 
 grees from the scuttle as though he would see this thing which 
 came to pester him, see it and smash it as he had smashed the 
 clock. 
 
 A triangle of lights approached; the apex of which was 
 white. The steady flap of paddles increased in volume; on 
 one wheel was a loose float grinding in a fashion which indi-
 
 A CHALLENGE 381 
 
 cates either carelessness or cheeseparing. To Saunderson 
 there was but one meaning to it all. This boat which called 
 with the voice of an owl and rattled with a float in her star- 
 board sponson was the Stormy Petrel; the vessel on which he 
 had fought Elliott that night at the edge of the Gat, the vessel 
 owned by the firm which once had acknowledged Dunscombe 
 as its lord Dunscombe for whose murder it appeared he 
 stood charged. 
 
 Saunderson moved into the shadow of the mizzen and stood 
 watching. He acknowledged that this tug was the Stormy 
 Petrel and questioned audibly what it wanted there; but 
 remained irresolute, staring at the swirling river until the flap- 
 ping ceased and a voice cried out the voice of Micky 
 Doolan: 
 
 "Red Gauntlet there! What ho there! Red Gauntlet." 
 
 Again Saunderson relapsed into that lethargy which had 
 troubled him. His mind had been occupied with the trend 
 of events, with the stealthy approach of that thing which dog- 
 ged him, but with Micky's voice a new danger sprang. Micky 
 Doolan in the Stormy Petrel? Ah! in that case he had botched 
 his hand. Micky Doolan Tony Crow, Jack Elliott they 
 were one and Elliott had returned. He acknowledged the 
 fatuity of waiting, yet waited growling and apprehensive of 
 action. 
 
 A voice came up to him from the boat rowing now to board 
 him. Who's voice? Chks! what odds. The thing ap- 
 proached manned by a crowd. A crowd he counted them as 
 they drew near: one, two, three, four, five, six. Six men from 
 the Stormy Petrel? Ssss! his fancy played with him. It 
 could not be. The tug had not six men in addition to the 
 black watch. Saunderson waited there, elbows on the guard, 
 searching the river for an answer; but the river had no answer
 
 382 THE ISSUE 
 
 to give. It ran by gurgling and aswirl with eddying garbage 
 and no hint of the truth appeared. 
 
 The boat fell alongside in the waist. The noise of oars 
 tumbling inboard and the hum of voices as men climbed the 
 rail awoke him and he lurched forward, truculent and vicious 
 to meet them. 
 
 "Who's that?" he growled, "an' what d'ye want?" 
 
 A group of figures gathered round him and one touched him 
 on the shoulder. 
 
 "Wheer's t' lass?" said a voice and Tony Crow towered 
 before him. 
 
 "The lass what lass?" 
 
 "Susie Sutcliffe the lass ye stole from her home wi' lies 
 an' blather." 
 
 Saunderson measured the group about him and answered 
 without pause. 
 
 "The lass is not here; she's gone." 
 
 "Gone wheer?" 
 
 "Home." 
 
 "Look, ma sons," the blacksmith ordered; "see if he lies." 
 Then as two moved away to obey he turned banteringly on the 
 skipper. 
 
 "Cap'n Saundisson!" he said, "ah'm praad t' greet ye. 
 Ah've bin lookin' for ye ta keep yon promise o' yourn." 
 
 Saunderson moved with an oath, but the men pressed in 
 upon him and he was powerless. He knew now what had 
 happened. These men, whereof Tony Crow was the spokes- 
 man, had tracked him down and meant to take him. He 
 acknowledged that he was hemmed in, beaten; but with the 
 advent of opposition his brain regained power. He took grip 
 of the situation, searching for means of escape; but the burly 
 blacksmith pressed in upon him, pinning him down to answer.
 
 A CHALLENGE 383 
 
 "Ah'm waitin', " he cried, "Ah'm no fu' ta the heilt wi' 
 patience. Will ye fetcht? Or am I ta hit ye cowardly?" 
 
 "I'll fight you when an' where you like." 
 
 "Right; then we'll get ashore wi oot any more clack." 
 
 "Ashore?" 
 
 "Aye; on the sands yonder." 
 
 Saunderson turned and stared across the misty strip of 
 intervening sea. A notion came to him. The sands were 
 nearer the shore by a mile than where they lay. If he could 
 reach them might he not also reach the farther stretch the 
 Maplins, beyond which were the Essex marches, the Crouch, 
 Burnham, Maiden and a score of places abounding with river 
 craft and means of exit. Would he land on the sands yonder 
 and fight? Aye, would he. He gave the answer with a rush 
 of passion and instantly the men moved for the boat. 
 
 He climbed into the stern sheets with Micky Doolan, Tony 
 Crow, and two others. They started for the Mouse. 
 
 And as they moved shoreward another boat, which had left 
 the Stormy Petrel while they talked, came to the sands and 
 landed her burden. 
 
 But Saunderson knew nothing of this. He sat there staring 
 into the sheen the sheen which hung wavering over the sands, 
 and beyond
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE ISSUE 
 
 A LONELY stretch of unclaimed terrain, perhaps a mile 
 in length and nearly as broad, lay in the eye of the 
 moon where they landed. The swell rolled up to meet it 
 and died in a splutter of thickened foam far up the slope. 
 Little terraces of ridged sand marked the efforts of the waves, 
 but beyond the line of refuse the bank was smooth and curved 
 as a turtle's back. 
 
 In the near distance a light revolved. Thrice each minute 
 it grew bright and as often waned the pale, green glare of the 
 Mouse shining through the mistiness. It lighted the sands with 
 recurrent flashes and threw unstable shadows of the group 
 struggling to beach their boat. Farther afield a second signal 
 winked in solemn loneliness marking the presence of the Oaze. 
 Between it and the sands it guarded, half curtained in the fitful 
 light, lay the two vessels, the Red Gauntlet and the tug; and in 
 the farther channel, moored at the edge of the Swin was a 
 wherry. About them all the gulls swerved and fought for 
 food uncovered by the ebb. 
 
 Saunderson stood alone. It seemed at that moment that 
 chance opened a door for him. The men were busy with the 
 boat unaccountably slow in their movements; he examined 
 the distance and found it a solitude. Before him lay that means 
 of exit of which he had dreamed; a means by which even now 
 he might evade the issue. His pulses stirred. He moved 
 stealthily up the slope. The voices of the men waned. Tony 
 
 384
 
 THE ISSUE 385 
 
 Crow stooped, apparently deep in the measurements of the 
 Queensberry ring and Saunderson passed unheeding. He 
 laughed in his sleeve as he noted their dilatory movements. 
 Perhaps Tony Crow, after all, was not aching for that fight 
 he had challenged. Chks! the men were behind him. He 
 leaped forward at a run. 
 
 The tricky light favoured him and for a while no sound 
 broke the stillness beyond the dull thud of his heavy passage. 
 Then a cry rang out, sharp, tense, and instantly he redoubled 
 his efforts. 
 
 The men were gathering in pursuit. He knew this without 
 pausing to see. They were hurrying fast in his tracks but the 
 advantage lay now with him. Already he had come well in 
 view of the farther channel, and there, as though arranged by 
 Providence to succour him, lay a wherry, quiescent at the edge 
 of the sands. Only a narrow strip of water intervened. He 
 could wade it on his head. Who could have left a boat in 
 such a position? He laughed aloud. The question tickled 
 him; but it was one he could leave for those others to solve. 
 The boat was there and he would use her. 
 
 He came down the slope panting and at speed. In two 
 minutes he would be in the water, in two more he would be on 
 board. He shouted his triumph then suddenly, swiftly drew 
 rein. 
 
 Three forms rose from the dark line marking the edge of 
 high water and stood to hold him. 
 
 "Stand in the King's name!" 
 
 The voice rang harshly in that dreary solitude. The men 
 advanced; but Saunderson had already turned and was moving 
 heavily back in his tracks. His jocularity died. He knew 
 now why he had been permitted to land, why the men had 
 remained so long fiddling with the boat; knew and cursed the
 
 386 THE ISSUE 
 
 strategy which had drawn him on; but still he kept his head 
 and ran as he had not run since he was a boy. A mad rage 
 took possession of him. Somehow he would escape. No man 
 should take him. Least of all would he surrender. If he 
 must die he would die fighting fighting as a man. 
 
 He came to the top of the sands and looked about him. The 
 men were no longer visible. He stumbled upon a hollow and 
 instantly crouched low to garner his forces. His breath failed 
 him; the sweat poured down his face; his knees trembled 
 from his unaccustomed effort. He lay with his chin on his 
 arms, panting, watching, and in silence. 
 
 And as he rested, twisting in his mind the small and in- 
 considerable details of his flight, the crunch of sand arrested 
 his attention and he lifted his head. 
 
 A man came slowly down the bank before him. He was 
 alone. Saunderson cowered still deeper in the shadow. The 
 footsteps approached. He saw that of necessity he must be 
 discovered and rose at once to meet who came. He had re- 
 gained his breath. Some one barred his passage. He stood 
 measuring the distance, balanced, ready to spring; but the 
 man halted and a voice fell upon the pause. 
 
 "What ho! Win'bag Saunderson as I'm a living soul. 
 Stand out, man! stand out!" 
 
 It was Elliott who paused there in the sheeny light to mock 
 him; Elliott who was winning again as he always won; Elliott 
 who had returned to give him into the hands of his enemies. 
 The knowledge stung him. Elliott! The man preferred by 
 the girl; the man of men he hated. The strength of his en- 
 mity outweighed his discretion. He sprang forward with a snarl. 
 
 "Aye," he shouted, "Win'bag Saunderson, game to fight 
 you as he's always fought you face to face, man to man ; but 
 now for that boat instead of the Flames! d'ye take on ?"
 
 THE ISSUE 387 
 
 Elliott took off his coat and tossed it aside. 
 
 "Take on?" he cried. "God! that's what I'm here for. It's 
 what I've lived for. It's what you are here for. Boat? Aye, 
 if you can beat me, Win'bag, you shall have the boat. If I 
 beat you I'll come and see you swing. You've fought me fair, 
 have you? God's truth stand out and begin what's never 
 been your game. Stand out!" 
 
 The two men rapidly stripped to the waist. They stood 
 now barebacked and without shoes, marking their distance on 
 the soft sand. And the swinging glare from the Mouse fell 
 upon them, painting them green. 
 
 A faint cry came over the sea and Elliott half turned to 
 listen. Saunderson saw his advantage and instantly leaped 
 upon him. "Lie down, dawg!" he growled and struck him 
 heavily. Elliott swayed, but kept his feet and dodging the 
 savage skipper hooked with his left as he passed, and Saunder- 
 son measured his length on the sand. 
 
 "Get up! Fight fair," Elliott shouted, sparring back with 
 the calmness born of practised combat. "Fight fair!" he 
 reiterated as the other lurched to his feet. Then again as his 
 opponent rushed in he stepped aside and struck him to his 
 knees. 
 
 Saunderson rose more slowly now. He stood to draw his 
 enemy on, and for a moment, the recollection of a former en- 
 counter crossed his mind. Then Elliott had beaten him. Now 
 if he were beaten again the end was at hand. He stepped 
 backward, his fists raised, working in a circle to tempt this man 
 to close. But Elliott had no intention of closing; he knew 
 precisely what risks he incurred and danced lightly in Saunder- 
 son's track, keeping him always at arm's length. 
 
 A short interval at these tactics told Saunderson the younger 
 man must win, unless he could reach in and stop him. He
 
 388 THE ISSUE 
 
 moved circumspectly waiting. A cloud drew across the 
 moon; the light behind became dim. It was an opportunity 
 the skipper could scarcely miss. He instantly checked his pace 
 and darted under his opponent's guard. Two heavy blows 
 reached Elliott; but again he sprang away and cut the skipper 
 smartly over the eyes. Twice he struck before the man could 
 recover, then with a sudden swing reached his temple and again 
 Saunderson measured the sands. 
 
 The moon peeped out touching the scene with a passing gleam. 
 From the edge of the tide came the monotonous cry of the 
 gulls sweeping the ebbing channels for scraps. From the 
 nebulous haze the winking light of the Oaze mocked at the 
 efforts of this man who would recognise nothing, who could 
 learn nothing that would upset the theories in which he was 
 steeped and yet must be taught. A moment the moon stood 
 over them deepening the shadows, then the scud swept up and 
 its face was dim. 
 
 Saunderson still lay prone upon his back. He raged at his 
 ineptitude yet failed to comprehend the reason of it. He 
 breathed more heavily now and noted the fact that Elliott 
 stood there, cool and scarcely marked, to watch him, and he 
 turned laboriously on his elbow. 
 
 "The boat's still there, Win'bag!" came the phrase aimed 
 to taunt him. "What d'you say? Getting tired?" 
 
 "Tired!" 
 
 Saunderson lurched to his feet. He was bleeding profusely 
 and trembling from those efforts of his which had failed. 
 
 "Tired?" he reiterated, "Lumme! no; not while I can see. 
 Stand out!" 
 
 "Right." 
 
 Elliott advanced without flurry. He was as calm and unflus- 
 tcred as his enemy was distressed. They faced each other
 
 THE ISSUE 389 
 
 again, the younger man sparring back, the elder rushing wildly 
 in chase. 
 
 A blow fell on Saunderson's breast. He drew a long, sob- 
 bing breath and leaped forward swearing. Then Elliott 
 tripped and instantly his foe was upon him delivering his stock 
 of blows. They fell swiftly and for a moment it appeared that 
 Elliott would be gripped; but again, with marvellous dex- 
 terity, he evaded the big man's clutches and springing aside 
 delivered that deadly upper cut which so distressed his heavy 
 opponent. Saunderson's advantage disappeared. He bent 
 a moment to regain breath and Elliott stood to greet him. 
 
 They faced each other in dogged anger. Thuds fell which 
 seemed to shake the stillness as the scud up there seemed to 
 shake the moon. A moment the river was gleaming in its 
 lustre; again it ran solemn and swift in the grayness. The 
 noise of laboured breath and vicious oaths filled the night with 
 jets of sound. A procession of leaping and half -naked figures 
 mocked these two grim fighters from the sands. The men closed. 
 They stood at grip Elliott quiet and firmly planted, Saunder- 
 son wrecking his strength in futile bluster, swaying, panting. 
 A minute they remained thus, poised against the skyline, then 
 one moved from his feet, rose high in air, and fell with a thud 
 a sickening sound, heavy, squelching, nerveless. 
 
 A brief gleam stole through the cloud rack and lighted the 
 scene. Elliott halted there, panting from his exertions; but 
 he stood. Saunderson lay breathless at his feet. 
 
 Five minutes he remained as though stunned; then, dizzily 
 and with infinite stealth, he edged toward his enemy's leg. 
 But Elliott saw him and leaped back. 
 
 "Get up, man. Fight fair!" he shouted, and the gulls 
 swerved high about them, screaming over the discoveries by 
 which they lived. Saunderson maintained silence.
 
 390 THE ISSUE 
 
 "The boat's mine, Win'bag; another minute and the chaps 
 will he here. Are you game?" 
 
 The taunt sufficed. Saunderson reached his feet. He 
 reeled where he stood, but shouted as he had always shouted: 
 "Come on! I'm wiv you. Gawd's love! I'm wiv you to the 
 end." 
 
 Neither man sparred now. Each faced his foe and strove 
 by sheer weight of muscle to crush him. But Saunderson's 
 sense of aim was gone. He pummelled the air. His blows 
 fell on space and with each lunge Elliott dodged and cut him 
 under the guard. The Skipper was vanquished, he was breath- 
 less, he ached in every limb, he was blind. His age, his habits, 
 his weight, all made him an easy prey for this force which had 
 returned to destroy him; yet still he contended, foot to foot, 
 eye to eye, striving with the dumb patience of the brutes to 
 fence the shower that rained upon him. 
 
 Then, suddenly, Elliott closed and once more gripped his 
 man by the middle. A yell of anger left Saunderson's lips as 
 he moved from the ground: "Gawd! Not that not that!" 
 
 Quicker this time, more swiftly through the darkness, and 
 again he lay prone. 
 
 He remained where he fell and for an hour the swinging 
 glare from the lightship stole over the pah-, painting them 
 green. 
 
 
 
 An hour, then once again the boats crept over the face of the 
 waters carrying a man sunk in that lethargy against which he 
 was unable to fight.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 THE Two WHO SOWED 
 
 SAUNDERSON lay on the settee within the small cabin 
 which was his home. 
 
 The police who remained on board imagined that he 
 slept, but he did not sleep; he was aware of his bonds and 
 with a subtlety that had newly come to him, sought how even 
 at this hour he might regain his freedom. 
 
 For some time he lay there considering this matter. There 
 were men on deck. He could hear them walking to and fro 
 six steps this way, six that. The monotony of it annoyed him. 
 He desired at that moment to silence them, yet remained 
 quiescent until the rattle of a chain told him some vessel had 
 come to anchor close at hand. It now occurred to him that he 
 should go on deck and see whether they had left him a clear 
 berth. It was his prerogative, yet still he remained there 
 couched, ruminating, twiddling with the handcuffs with which 
 he was bound. 
 
 He strove to draw them from his wrists, covertly, under 
 shelter of the table; and again rested. He acknowledged 
 after a while that a belaying pin or the windlass lever was nec- 
 essary to enable him to accomplish his desire and to reach 
 either he must gain the deck. But while those men walked it 
 was impossible that he acknowledged, shaking his head, 
 hugely alert. Then, suddenly as it appeared, the tramping 
 ceased. Voices rose up there in the darkness; men called one 
 to the other from a distance. "What vessel is that? Where
 
 392 THE ISSUE 
 
 are you bound? Got a drink on board?" Answers came 
 back, muffled, perplexing Saunderson could not define the 
 answers. 
 
 He heard the men approach the skylight and recognised that 
 they looked down upon him. He knew that one hauled a boat 
 alongside. He knew too that one or more presently crossed 
 the deck, opened the scuttle and descended. He discovered 
 that a bullseye shone across the cabin, that someone flashed 
 it close in his face; but he remained undisturbed, silent. A 
 dead man would have given no greater sign than did Saunderson. 
 
 A pause ensued. One whispered to the other. A voice 
 said: "Oh, he's breathing right enough," the ghost of a voice; 
 but Saunderson heard and understood. Then followed the 
 movement of men crossing the cabin, ascending the stairs, 
 shutting and locking the scuttle; again, after a minute, the 
 noise of shipped oars, of rowing, and Saunderson sat erect. 
 
 The men were gone. All of them? He questioned this 
 madness and set about discovering the answer. He mounted 
 the small table, lifted the skylight, and peered out. The decks 
 seemed empty. Across the river he caught sight of the boat 
 moving toward an anchored barge. 
 
 Chks! Did they suppose he was dead? Did they imagine 
 
 the mauling he had received was sufficient to Chks! with 
 
 hands made clumsy by the manacles, he unscrewed the sky- 
 light and, pushing it free of the clamp, let it fall backward upon 
 its twin. 
 
 Now at length it was possible to move farther. 
 
 A box placed on the table gave him further easement. He 
 clambered out and wriggled snakewise along the deck; then, 
 standing in the shadow cast by the mast, examined the outlook. 
 
 The decks held no one. The small forecastle was empty' 
 a light burning in it beside the stove. Saunderson moved more
 
 THE TWO WHO SOWED 393 
 
 freely. He approached the windlass lever and raising his 
 hands brought the swivel crashing on the iron once, twice, 
 thrice, and with a wrench he was free. He babbled of the fact 
 as he moved to further effort. A glance told him that if he 
 hove in cable as men usually heave it, the noise would bring 
 those men back in ten minutes. He leaned over the pall rack 
 considering this and presently, with the help of a few rope 
 yarns, had the things fast, silent as the night. 
 
 Again he babbled like a child of his strategy and swiftly 
 wound up the anchor. So, he no longer lay still. The tide 
 carried him outward, farther each moment from that vessel 
 lying there with his captors on board. 
 
 He glanced up river and found that the barge was sunk in 
 the haze. Already? He leaped responsive, chattering still 
 of the idiocy of those thirsty souls who had captured him and 
 given him his freedom. The light air helped him when pres- 
 ently he had made sail. He leaned there by the wheel, grimly 
 fingering the spokes. 
 
 The Red Gauntlet sagged down river like a wraith, carrying 
 this man to the harvest. 
 
 The turgid night oppressed him. In face of that mist and 
 streaming scud; within sound of those rolling breakers dis- 
 olving in spume at the edge of the sands, he could not think. 
 He desired thought. In that fashion alone was it possible to 
 arrange those matters which cried so clamorously for decision. 
 The barge drove in the fairway, there were no other vessels 
 about. He told himself she would take no harm and crept into 
 the cabin seeking the silence which had become imperative 
 if decision were to be come at. But here the lamp burned low 
 with a gurgling noise in its throat that sounded like a laugh,
 
 394 THE ISSUE 
 
 a hideous, still-born laugh dead at its birth. Saunderson 
 examined the thing with eyes which denoted his extremity and 
 announced that it cried out for oil. He essayed to trim it, 
 unsteadily, with shaking hands like a man in a palsy. He 
 found a can of paraffin, unscrewed the lamp, filled it, lighted 
 it and left the drum where it stood, on the edge of the table. It 
 held five gallons. 
 
 Now, at length, it appeared that he had compelled a silence 
 which was absolute. He crossed the deck and sitting before 
 the stove asked" himself what next he must do. 
 
 But now the silence troubled him. It marked his loneliness. 
 It pointed to the inevitable approach of that fate which dogged 
 him and for which he was unprepared. He leaned forward, 
 staring into the fire and struggling to shut out the teeming 
 fancies. Something he had decided to do. What was it? 
 The idea evaded him. It passed from his brain, leaving a 
 curious sense of aloofness which in itself was sufficient to cause 
 him unrest. What was wrong ? Why could he not decide ? 
 
 He glanced up the swift, scared look of one who sees shad- 
 ows where no shadows exist. 
 
 The visions of the night were upon him, his brain clogged 
 with ideas, tag-ends of sentences, conversations all in frag- 
 ments, broken up and mixed like the debris shovelled into a 
 destructor. 
 
 He searched about for means by which he might piece these 
 things together, and in the midst of a silence like the silence of 
 death a persistent noise assailed his ears. 
 
 He lifted his face to gaze furtively over his shoulder and the 
 mate's dog, who had approached to search the fender for 
 scraps, fled up the steps at sight of the man's awakening. 
 
 Saunderson leaned forward. "It's the dawg," he said. 
 Then again; "Spuds! here boy come here." But the animal,
 
 THE TWO WHO SOWED 395 
 
 dreading a kick, only ran the faster, whining with fright. 
 Saunderson groaned. The dog had turned from him now, 
 when in his mental agony even the companionship of a brute 
 would have been welcome to aid him in blotting out the past. 
 
 He drew his hands across his bruised and swollen face and 
 instantly the fanciful procession commenced anew. 
 
 Thought maddened him. He could not discover the end. 
 It approached, playing with him as a cat plays with the bird it 
 has maimed. How would it take him? When would it take 
 him? He muttered hoarsely: "I'm not fit. Gawd! I'm not 
 fit. My hand was forced. Men starvin ' ; women in the gutter. 
 Masters suckin' their blood fillin' their purses wiv gold stolen 
 from the sweat of men stolen by competition, stolen by quibble 
 stolen by devilry. How could I help it? I couldn't help 
 it. Lies! I say I couldn't " 
 
 He glanced over his shoulder and sprang to his feet, crying 
 out : " Who spoke ? Who's there ? Who says I did it for self ? 
 Lies! No one spoke. Nothin's there. Shadows an' dark- 
 ness darkness an' shadows an' lies." 
 
 He returned to his seat and sat there glaring uneasily into 
 space, then crept to the locker and discovered his medicine. 
 It seemed at that moment that he had nearly forgotten it; but 
 now he took it and, stealing cautiously backward, climbed 
 the steps and reached the deck. 
 
 The Red Gauntlet still lay there, sagging broadside with the 
 tide, silent as though a plague had struck her and left her 
 peopled by the ghosts of her crew. Saunderson stood watching, 
 facing sands where the swell rolled a misty foam-cloud into 
 the night. It hung wavering in the tricky moonlight, singing 
 the requiem of the sea, red with the shade of the Maplin, white 
 under the eye of the moon. He stared into the sheen and his 
 wife's words rang in his brain:
 
 396 THE ISSUE 
 
 "On the river when it is dark, I will be with you. In your 
 sleep I shall be at your side, flitting unseen. In lonely roads or 
 silent anchorages I shall be near you, driving you to that hell 
 you are always talking of." 
 
 The memory struck him with a frenzy and he leaped from 
 the hatches to search for a boat. A boat should be fast astern 
 the one boat the Red Gauntlet carried. He would use her 
 and row away from this place which was accursed. 
 
 He came aft and stood in search; but no boat was there, for 
 the mate by some chance had not returned. He acknowledged 
 the fact, admitting that it cut him off from escape. Alone, 
 deserted alike by God and man, he was left to meet that end 
 of which he had dreamed and could not fathom. A moment 
 he stood examining the shadows, shouting his fears into the 
 void, questioning why he was debarred this one chance of 
 escape? 
 
 But the river had no answer to give. It ran past him, gurgl- 
 ing and carrying on its bosom the garbage of a great town; it 
 swept seaward, down the channels, across the sands, out to- 
 wards the profound and restless sea. 
 
 Again Saunderson left the deck and crept into his small 
 cabin. He slammed the scuttle upon his solitude and sat down 
 nursing his medicine. 
 
 And suddenly, despite the fact that an hour had elapsed, 
 a noise awoke the brooding man. The sea had grown strangely 
 still, the swell no longer troubled him and the noise continued 
 a sliding, grinding scrape, as of a boat drawn down a shingly 
 beach. 
 
 Saunderson no longer dozed over the fire. He reached the 
 deck shouting his fears: "What now? What now?" Ah, he.
 
 THE TWO WHO SOWED 397 
 
 might have known it. He had reached the tail of the sands, 
 the sands of which he had been dreaming. 
 
 The Red Gauntlet no longer sagged in the midst of the channel ; 
 she lay quivering and full of strange thrills, edging her way 
 like a bird in a bath of dust, preparing for rest. 
 
 Saunderson moved about the deck as a man distraught. 
 Forward, aft, amidships, he laboured with a pole, seeking to 
 force his way into deeper water. He hauled the sheets to wind- 
 ward and stood watching. The sails flapped dismally, the 
 barge rolled; but no wind stirred, and overhead the scud 
 raced. 
 
 It was a travesty of all expected things. He shouted his 
 contempt, his challenge, his unspeakable disdain; then, tired 
 by the violence of his passion, crept into the cabin and closed 
 the scuttle. Again he drank of his medicine. He was weary 
 very weary. He averred as he sat watching before the stove 
 that never before had he been so weary. His eyes closed. For 
 a while the man slept. 
 
 A sound awakened him and he leaned back against the 
 lockers. 
 
 The lamp swinging up there in the skylight as the barge 
 rolled, cast shadows on the white wood deck. The table, the 
 stove, a pendant oilskin, all swaying slowly, threw their images 
 across him and crawled about as though imbued with life. 
 
 Saunderson sat watching, his eyes drawn, his muscles twitch- 
 ing. Each shadow was a living soul. Each tricky phantasy of 
 light some companion he had known. He leaped up with a 
 shout of fear. Great drops of sweat stood on his forehead. 
 "Take 'em away!" he cried out. "Gawd! take 'em away." 
 
 But the motley array of haggard men and women streamed
 
 39 8 THE ISSUE 
 
 past and stood drawn up in line to mock him. Saunderson 
 recognised this and crept backward to bestow himself, huddled 
 and mouthing, beside the cabin table. It seemed necessary that 
 he leave them room to move. 
 
 "They're come," he announced with thin lips, "they're come 
 to see me finish. Shhh! How many of 'em ?" He paused to 
 
 count: "One, two, three, four, five" but the number 
 
 stretched indefinitely and Saunderson drew back with a 
 leer. "We'll call it five," he said, "five, all gibberin' like 
 fools. 
 
 "Stand back! Stand back! Shhh! There's Lucy, an' 
 there's Jo Polly her name was. Mary, you slut! I never 
 chucked you 'twere your fault. Jenny, you there? Smilin' 
 still waitin' to see me swing ? Stay! I'm not goin' to swing. 
 It's the Gat the curse. Whish! stand back! Jenny, come 
 here, come here, for Gawd's sake an' talk to me. Won't ? 
 I might have known it. Shhh! they're asleep; they'd best stay 
 asleep forever." 
 
 He crawled to the table, avoiding the moving shadows and 
 with a madman's stealthy movement obtained the can of 
 paraffin. 
 
 He withdrew the cork, searched for a knife, and set himself 
 to chew the stopper smaller. This done he again fitted it to 
 the mouth of the can, tipped it and secured it on the table. 
 When tilted with an eye to effect a slow stream dribbled to the 
 deck. Saunderson remarked it and drew back gibbering and 
 pointing and begging for silence. 
 
 "They're all asleep," he whispered; "no one can wake 'em 
 now. Lucy's lyin' down cawn't keep her head up. Mary! 
 you slut, sit down. Hush! d'ye mind what ye did wiv your 
 babby? Laid on it. I say you did! No more squawkin' 
 I say you did. Stand back, you shiverin' fool!"
 
 THE TWO WHO SOWED 399 
 
 He drew away from the shadow again and watched the 
 dripping oil. As the barge ambled under the influence of the 
 flood, so the paraffin ran over the table edge on either side the 
 stove. It stole across the cabin deck in growing rivulets. It 
 trickled now this way, now that, until it had saturated not only 
 the deck but the man, sitting there and counting his silent 
 guests. 
 
 But Saunderson heeded nothing of this. He saw his puppets 
 slowly stained and sodden and pushed the oil across to where 
 he saw them sleeping. 
 
 "Shhh!" he mouthed. "Lilly, you'll never look me in the 
 face again wiv them red eyes. You're goin' on a long journey 
 my gell. You told me that before; but now you're back an' 
 who's that you've got beside you? Snuffles! What's that 
 you're tellin' him? Get your eyes off him. Yaas, I own up. 
 I done it. You'll shake your finger at me, will you? Slut! 
 I say you're goin' on a long journey again. Maybe you'll 
 never come back you nor, him nor " 
 
 He clambered to the stove and pushed a piece of paper 
 through the bars. "I've got a way to finish you off!" he 
 hissed, his voice leaping. "You an' him an' all the crew. 
 Go down to hell an' burn. Go down an' burn. Gawdl" 
 
 Something sizzled in the fender. A light crept out. It 
 danced like summer lightning, like the lightning he had seen 
 
 out there where Whirr! A blaze of fire encircled him. 
 
 He rolled in it. He could not shake it off. He screamed and 
 lurching up the ladder reached the deck. The blanket roared 
 about him. Flames crackled in his hair. He leaped out to 
 stifle them. 
 
 A sudden plunge; a hiss of steam; a voice in the darkness 
 and silence. The silence of the wide estuary beset with moving 
 ships; the silence of the cold and pitiless moon shrouded in
 
 400 THE ISSUE 
 
 fleecy cloudlets; the silence of the great unknown from whence 
 no sound has ever come to warn us. 
 
 A breeze stirred on the face of the waters and the Red Gaunt- 
 let moving before it drove now towards London, curiously 
 lighted. 
 
 Meanwhile the Stormy Petrel flapped up river under Elli- 
 ott's guidance seeking the boat wherein Susie moved home- 
 ward. 
 
 For an hour they had zigzagged there in the mist, skirting 
 the Maplins, and the lights of Southend had grown bright; 
 but the boat remained unfound. At the pier where for a while 
 they paused, they learned that no one had landed since nine 
 o'clock; certainly no girl had come ashore. It seemed pos- 
 sible therefore that they had passed the boat somewhere mist- 
 hidden, and turned at once to sweep the seaward horizon. 
 They went slowly now, with frequent pauses to listen, and out 
 of the sheen came the cry of the gulls; the note of passing 
 steamers, and the dulled bray of the lightships shouting their 
 warnings. 
 
 Of wind there was scarcely a breath. A night of turgid 
 placidity reigned, with a mist which would rapidly develop 
 into fog with sunrise. The steaming breath of the marshes 
 lay over them and somewhere out there where the mists seemed 
 denser Susie sat in an open boat. 
 
 Elliott marched the bridge, alert, keen to retrieve; the crew 
 with Micky Doolan at the wheel had eyes for nothing but their 
 quest. Somewhere between Southend and the Red Gauntlet 
 the girl would be found. Of that they made no question. A 
 sailor given orders to reach a certain place and having to con- 
 tend against certain natural forces would move in one way
 
 THE TWO WHO SOWED 401 
 
 only. Marley would skirt the sands. By doing this he would 
 "cheat the tide" and save himself labour; that was abun- 
 dantly certain. Only a fool moves against forces when he may 
 harness them to his service, and Marley was no fool. 
 
 Elliott, Micky Doolan, and all those who were with them had 
 no qualms on the subject. The only hindrance was the mist, 
 and to give their passage a trifle more definition, they made 
 music on their horn. That at all events was distinctive enough 
 as those know who have writhed under the torture; but to 
 these men horns speak a language. They can say off hand: 
 "Ah the Antwarp boat" or "The Londoner at it again" or 
 "Hear the Storm Cock crowin', matee?" 
 
 And so with the Stormy Petrel. She carried an instrument 
 of doleful intonation; a thing which gave out a dirge-like, 
 sorrowing yell that no river man having once heard would ever 
 mistake in the future. 
 
 They played upon it now in that haze and fleeting mist; 
 lying sometimes idly to gather response, then again moving 
 forward, searching the shadows and so at length arrived once 
 more in the Warp and came to a pause on the measured mile 
 which lies off Shoeburyness. But Susie still lay somewhere 
 in that haze with which they were shrouded. 
 
 Anxiety gripped them now. They questioned what it 
 boded. Was this chap Marley all right? Could they trust 
 him? And the answers came in vague contractions; some 
 knew him and decided, twisting their words: "Marley! hoyuss; 
 'ee's all right"; but halted at further explanation: "Marley 
 was yass, there's no two ways abaat that Marley 's all right; 
 but he's bin doin' a bit o' South Spainin' lately an' " the 
 vague intangibility droned on mouthing of the degeneracy of 
 all those who come under foreign influence. 
 
 Again they moved. The night was perhaps less dark. The
 
 402 THE ISSUE 
 
 mist hanging over the sands was whiter, more reflective of the 
 moon standing there, high in the south. The song of the surf 
 rolled to greet them, the dull drone of the engines sang in their 
 ears, and out there rang a sound which had newly come into 
 being. 
 
 Micky Doolan punched the gong one stroke, emphasising 
 it with "Sthop!" Then after a moment with pricked ears: 
 "Whisht! did ye hear that?" 
 
 "I hear the surf," Elliott admitted. "Get her along." 
 "You're wrong," the skipper decided; "ut's a fog horn a 
 hand trumpet, my son, that's what ut was." 
 "Well, and what then?" 
 
 "Then oh! as fer that, well, an' isnt' it loikely that Bill 
 Marley has a trumpet wid him in the boat, annvways?" 
 
 Elliott moved over at this and the two faced the sands. 
 " Out there ut wass," Micky explained. 
 
 "Then that's it agin?" Elliott suggested as a small note 
 came down to them. 
 "Ut is." 
 
 "Go for it, my son, and give them our horn." 
 The Stormy Petrel's cry moaned over the waters. It reached 
 the dim solitudes where the gulls and the sand pipers hold 
 revel and again as they paused came the new note, a cry idiotic 
 and supremely absurd, like the bleat of a sheep astray on the 
 marshes. But it sufficed; because, to these men, when you are 
 unable to see the loom of the bleater, you may assume that he 
 lies very near the water and that a boat holds him. 
 
 Elliott sprang to the gong and punched it for full speed. 
 "It's the boat," he cried. "The boat as sure as guns. Get 
 her along!" 
 
 The skipper called down to the engine room, headed still 
 farther over, then seized the whistle cord and blew a long, weird
 
 THE TWO WHO SOWED 403 
 
 call. And as they stood listening there came the notes of a 
 song ringing curiously in the stillness: 
 
 " 'If I had a maid as was so fair, 
 
 Ho! U-rio. 
 D'ye ye think I'd leave her to tear her hair.' " 
 
 It was the song of the old-time packets and Elliott recog- 
 nised it at once. But Micky Doolan recognised something 
 more; the song was not only the song of the packet rats, but 
 it was the song of a chum. A snatch of a new chanty rolled in 
 their ears and both men held their breath to listen. : 
 
 " 'The times are hard and the wages low 
 
 Leave her, Johnny, leave her; 
 The fo'c'sle's a hell where the slime does grow 
 Oh! It's time for us to leave her.' " 
 
 "Hear that?" Micky Doolan questioned boisterously* 
 "Hear ut? Mother av God! ut's Bill Marley." 
 
 But Elliott only paced to and fro the bridge. He spoke in 
 a small voice. "Let her away, let her away!" he urged. 
 
 The moonlight streamed through the scud as they stood 
 gazing up river, and a small black blotch showed amidst the 
 flashing waters. Both saw it. They pointed simultaneously. 
 The dancing, black blotch was a boat. 
 
 "Gad, man! give her wings." 
 
 "Wings ut is, sorr." 
 
 Elliott turned away. He descended to the main deck and 
 came into the bows, asking himself whether Susie was there 
 whether after all he would win her whether Saunderson had 
 spoken straight when he said where the girl was, or whether 
 this was only a further instance of the man's cunning the 
 thing which had baffled him all these months. 
 
 The tug crashed onward. He noticed that the water toss- 
 ing under the forefoot was alive with tiny sparks, green, blue,
 
 4 o 4 THE ISSUE 
 
 iridescent, fiery. A curious fact, too, that bowboard over which 
 he leaned used to carry the name in white letters; now they 
 were yellow and only part of it appeared. Storm hah! 
 symbolic. He asked again who was in that boat and strove 
 to pierce the tantalising sheen; but his eyes were blurred, 
 blurred as were his thoughts. He must wait. 
 
 In five minutes they had drawn so near that a man's figure 
 came into view, standing erect, waving his arms. Why the 
 devil did he play the fool and risk Susie's life? Cha! Was 
 Susie there? Was anyone there beside that madman? The 
 words of a song droned on his ears: 
 
 " 'One lime duck, an' a cockey two 
 
 Leave 'er, Johnny, leave 'er; 
 Is all that is left of 'er bloomin' crew 
 O! 'twer time for us to leave 'er.' " 
 
 The accent of Seven Dials. " Odds take the fool, who wants 
 to hear about " 
 
 "The gell ain't there!" growled a fireman all sooty and 
 reeking with sweat. "Onlie Bill's there. Hell!" 
 
 He turned and walked aft, disconsolate. 
 
 Elliott searched the boat: "Only Bill? Who was Bill? 
 Two figures were there two. His impatience grew. He 
 lifted his voice to shout: "Who's there? In God's name, 
 who's there?" 
 
 "Bill Marley an' the mide. Stidy steamboat dahn't run 
 us dahn!" 
 
 "Go easy Micky! Port! Port a bit." Elliott faced 
 ahead. He saw and cried out joyfully: "Susie! My God 
 it's Susie." 
 
 A voice came out of the shimmering waste, tremulously 
 questioning: "Is that Jack? Is it?" Then in more definite 
 tones: "Is that Jack Elliott?"
 
 THE TWO WHO SOWED 405 
 
 "Aye, lad! Stop her, Micky. Stop her." 
 
 The boat fell alongside and Marley grabbed at the rope 
 which was thrown. "Lumme!" he growled, "if this don't 
 beat a sun-dahner's breckfust, tell me. A stroke astarn, skip! 
 So! Stop 'er. Naa then, Missy, give me yer 'and. This 
 yer steambat's a disy fer jumpin' an' 'er' commodation ladder 
 ain't the pawler steps. Stidy! Naa then, jump's the word." 
 
 The girl sprang lightly up the side as the tug lurched down 
 and in a moment she was in Jack's arms: 
 
 "God love you, lass! God love you!" he cried, holding 
 her close. 
 
 "Oh! Jack, Jack my husband " 
 
 The group melted away. Some one swore vigorously in a thin 
 falsetto. Micky Doolan sprang at him with an expressionless 
 face. He pointed at the forecastle ladder and the figure disap- 
 peared. Then the skipper ascended the bridge ladder, examin- 
 ing the rungs with keen interest. "Be the skin av their teeth," 
 he remarked, "an' the luck av the divil. Arroo! Mrs. 
 Surridge. Arroo! Tony Crow ye long galoote. Ar " 
 
 A breeze stirred the face of the waters and the Stormy 
 Petrel moving with renewed freedom passed on toward Lon- 
 don, braying on a horn that aped the note and diction of a 
 cock crowing to greet the rising sun.
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 A GALE drove over the cold North Sea the gale for 
 which Saunderson had prayed. 
 
 For four days it raged with the hand of a master, 
 lashing the sands with a switch that left the air alive with 
 hisses. The sands laughed. They drew back their lips and 
 showed teeth. The power they fought was afflicted by a mon- 
 strous indecision. Sometimes if flowed across them, some- 
 times yelped at their feet. It gathered force out there in the 
 grayness and swept down upon them to blot them from their 
 place; then died in a splutter of foam and mist and twisting 
 eddies. The sands laughed aloud. The Gat was knee deep 
 in feathers plucked from the breast of its enemy. 
 
 The lightships watched, bending like trees on a wind-swept 
 plain. They called to each other with their flags: "All right, 
 Black Deeps? All well, Edinburgh? Tongue, Mouse, 
 Prince what especially of the Tongue, lurching farthest 
 amidst the spume ? " And the answer came back through the 
 buffettings, the groans, and the turmoil of the sea: "All well. 
 We stand. All well. Seen the Tender ?* 
 
 On the third day the watchers on the Red Kentish Knockf 
 espied a body floating in the trough of the waves, and calling to 
 each other the men told of the trouble that would fall on the 
 homes ashore when the roll-call of the gale was read. But 
 they knew not that none would weep for the dead they saw, 
 for they knew not Saunderson, and it was he who drove about 
 
 Trinity boat. fA lightship. 
 
 406
 
 EPILOGUE 407 
 
 in the whirling spume and presently came to ground on the 
 northern sands. 
 
 Here he lay who had wrought so much suffering. Unsought, 
 unwept, unburied; his brawny limbs naked to the driving 
 seas, he lay there the man of destiny; a product of modern 
 civilisation; brainy, full of subtle argument, crammed to the 
 eyes with distorted fact believing nothing; believing all 
 things. 
 
 The Gat received him. It bared its teeth to give him wel- 
 come. The shells rilled up and formed terraces about him. 
 He stared wide-eyed into the sheen.
 
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