Ex Libris 
 C. K. OGDEN 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Jttethttcn'0 grolonial librarg 
 
 THE HOLE IN THE WALL
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 TALES OF MEAN STREETS 
 A CHILD OF THE JAGO 
 TO LONDON TOWN 
 CUNNING MURRELL
 
 THE HOLE 
 IN THE WALL 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR MORRISON 
 
 THIRD EDITION 
 
 METHUEN & CO. 
 
 36 ESSEX STREET W. C. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 I 903 
 Colonial Library
 
 19o3 
 
 TO 
 MRS. CHARLES EARDLEY-WILMOT
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. Stephen's tale 
 
 11. IN BLUE GATE 
 
 III. Stephen's tale 
 
 IV. Stephen's tale 
 V. IN the highway 
 
 VI. Stephen's tale 
 
 VII. Stephen's tale 
 
 VIII. Stephen's tale 
 
 IX. Stephen's tale 
 
 X. Stephen's tale 
 
 XI. Stephen's tale 
 
 XII. IN the club-room 
 
 XIII. Stephen's tale 
 
 XIV. Stephen's tale 
 XV. Stephen's tale 
 
 XVI. Stephen's tale 
 
 XVII. IN BLUE GATE 
 
 XVIII. ON THE COP . 
 
 XIX. ON THE COP . 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 i8 
 
 30 
 
 44 
 
 60 
 
 68 
 
 81 
 
 96 
 
 104 
 
 III 
 
 124 
 
 140 
 
 156 
 167 
 176 
 
 185 
 200 
 222 
 229 
 
 vu
 
 viii THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 CHA1>. 
 
 
 XX. 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 XXI. 
 
 IN THE KAR-PARLOL'K 
 
 XXII. 
 
 ON THE COP . 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 ON THE COP . 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ON THE COP . 
 
 XXV. 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Stephen's tale 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 IN THE BAR-PARLOUK 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Stephen's tale 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 STEPHENS TALE 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Stephen's tale 
 
 241 
 
 248 
 
 257 
 276 
 
 284 
 
 295 
 
 308 
 
 3i8 
 327 
 340 
 346
 
 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 MY grandfather was a publican — and a 
 sinner, as you will see. His public- 
 house was the Hole in the Wall, on the river's 
 edge at Wapping ; and his sins — all of them 
 that I know of — are recorded in these pages. 
 He was a widower of some small substance, 
 and the Hole in the Wall was not the sum of 
 his resources, for he owned a little wHarf on the 
 river Lea. I called him Grandfather Nat, not 
 to distinguish him among a multitude of grand- 
 fathers — for indeed I never knew another of 
 my own — but because of affectionate habit; a 
 habit perhaps born of the fact that Nathaniel 
 Kemp was also my father's name. My own is 
 Stephen. 
 
 To remember Grandfather Nat is to bethink 
 me of pear-drops. It is possible that that 
 
 A
 
 2 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 particular sort of sweetstuff is now obsolete, 
 and I cannot remember how many years have 
 passed since last I smelt it ; for the pear-drop 
 was a thing that could be smelt farther than 
 seen, and oftener ; so that its smell — a rather 
 fulsome, vulgar smell I now believe — is almost 
 as distinct to my imagination while I write as 
 it was to my nose thirty years ago. For pear- 
 drops were an unfailing part of the large bag- 
 ful of sticky old-fashioned lollipops that my 
 grandfather brought on his visits, stuffed into 
 his overcoat pocket, and hard to get out 
 without a burst and a spill. His custom was 
 invariable, so that I think I must have come 
 to regard the sweets as some natural pro- 
 duction of his coat pocket ; insomuch that at 
 my mother's funeral my muddled brain scarce 
 realised the full desolation of the circumstances 
 till I discovered that, for the first time in my 
 experience, my grandfather's pocket was void 
 of pear-drops. But with this new bereave- 
 ment the world seemed empty indeed, and I 
 cried afresh. 
 
 Associated in my memory with my grand- 
 father's bags of sweets, almost more than with 
 himself, was the gap in the right hand where
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 3 
 
 the middle finger had been ; for it was 
 commonly the maimed hand that hauled out the 
 paper bag, and the gap was plain and singular 
 against the white paper. He had lost the 
 finger at sea, they told me ; and as my notion 
 of losing a thing was derived from my experi- 
 ence in mislaying the elephant from my Noah's 
 ark, or dropping a marble through a grating, 
 I was long puzzled to guess how anything like 
 that could have happened to a finger. Withal 
 the circumstance fascinated me, and added 
 vastly to the importance and the wonder of 
 my grandfather in my childish eyes. 
 
 He was perhaps a little over the middle 
 height, but so broad and so deep of chest 
 and, especially, so long of arm, as to seem 
 squat. He had some grey hair, but it was 
 all below the line of his hat-brim ; above that 
 it was as the hair of a young man. So that I 
 was led to reason that colour must be washed 
 out of hair by exposure to the weather; as 
 perhaps in his case it was. I think that his 
 face was almost handsome, in a rough, hard- 
 bitten way, and he was as hairy a man as I 
 ever saw. His short beard was like curled 
 wire; but I can remember that long after I
 
 4 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 had grown to resent being kissed by women, 
 being no longer a baby, I gladly climbed his 
 knee to kiss my grandfather, though his 
 shaven upper-lip was like a rasp. 
 
 In these early days I lived with my mother 
 in a little house of a short row that stood on a 
 quay, in a place that was not exactly a dock, nor 
 a wharf, nor a public thoroughfare ; but where 
 people from the dock trying to find a wharf, 
 people from a wharf looking for the dock, 
 and people from the public thoroughfare in 
 anxious search of dock and wharves, used to 
 meet and ask each other questions. It was 
 a detached piece of Blackwall which had got 
 adrift among locks and jetties, and was liable 
 to be cut off from the rest of the world at any 
 moment by the arrival of a ship and the con- 
 sequent swinging of a bridge, worked by two 
 men at a winch. So that it was a common- 
 place of my early childhood (though the sight 
 never lost its interest) to observe from a 
 window a ship, passing as it were up the 
 street, warped into dock by the capstans on the 
 quay. And the capstan-songs of the dock- 
 men — Shannadore, Mexico is cove7'ed with Snow, 
 Hurrah for the Black Ball Line, and the like
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 5 
 
 — were as much my nursery rhymes as Little 
 Boy Blue and Sing a Song Sixpence. These 
 things are done differently nowadays ; the 
 cottages on the quay are gone, and the neigh- 
 bourhood is a smokier place, where the work is 
 done by engines, with no songs. 
 
 My father was so much at sea that I re- 
 member little of him at all. He was a ship's 
 officer, and at the time I am to tell of he was 
 mate of the brig Juno, owned by Viney and 
 Marr, one of the small shipowning firms that 
 were common enough thirty years ago, though 
 rarer now ; the sort of firm that was made by 
 a pushing skipper and an ambitious shipping 
 clerk, beginning with a cheap vessel bought 
 with money raised mainly by pawning the ship. 
 Such concerns often did well, and sometimes 
 grew into great lines ; perhaps most of them 
 yielded the partners no more than a com- 
 fortable subsistence ; and a good few came 
 to grief, or were kept going by questionable 
 practices which have since become illegal — 
 sometimes in truth by what the law called 
 crime, even then. Viney had been a ship's 
 officer — had indeed served under Grandfather 
 Nat, who was an old skipper. Marr was the
 
 6 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 business man who had been a clerk. And the 
 firm owned two brigs, the J21110 and another ; 
 though how much of their value was clear 
 property and how much stood for borrowed 
 money was matter of doubt and disagreement 
 in the conversation of mates and skippers 
 along Thames shore. What nobody disagreed 
 about, however, was that the business was run 
 on skinflint principles, and that the vessels 
 were so badly found, so ill-kept, and so 
 grievously under-manned, that the firm ought 
 to be making money. These things by the 
 way, though they are important to remember. 
 As I was saying, I remember little of my 
 father, because of his long voyages and short 
 spells at home. But my mother is so clear and 
 so kind in my recollection that sometimes I 
 dream of her still, though she died before I 
 was eight. 
 
 It was while my father was on a long voyage 
 with the Juno that there came a time when 
 she took me often upon her knee, asking if I 
 should like a little brother or sister to play 
 with ; a thing which I demanded to have 
 brought, instantly. There was a fat woman 
 called Mrs. Dann, who appeared in the house-
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 'J 
 
 hold and became my enemy. She slept with 
 my mother, and my cot was thrust into another 
 room, where I lay at night and brooded — 
 sometimes wept with jealousy thus to be 
 supplanted ; though I drew what consolation 
 I might from the prospect of the promised 
 playmate. Then I could not go near my 
 mother at all, for she was ill, and there was a 
 doctor. And then ... I was told that 
 mother and baby-brother were gone to heaven 
 together ; a thing I would not hear of, but 
 fought savagely with Mrs. Dann on the land- 
 ing, shouting to my mother that she was not 
 to die, for I was coming. And when, wearied 
 with kicking and screaming — for I fought with 
 neighbours as well as with the nurse and the 
 undertaker, conceiving them to be all in league 
 to deprive me of my mother — when at last the 
 woman from next door took me into the bed- 
 room, and I saw the drawn face that could 
 not smile, and my tiny brother that could not 
 play, lying across the dead breast, I so be- 
 haved that the orood soul with me blubbered 
 aloud ; and I had an added grief in the re- 
 flection that I had kicked her shins not half an 
 hour before. I have never seen that good
 
 3 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 woman since ; and I am ashamed to write that 
 I cannot even remember her name. 
 
 I have no more to say of my mother, and of 
 her funeral only so much as records the least 
 part of my grief. Some of her relations came, 
 whom I cannot distinctly remember seeing at 
 any other time : a group of elderly and hard- 
 featured women, who talked of me as ' the 
 child,' very much as they might have talked 
 of some troublesome article of baggage ; and 
 who turned up their noses at my grandfather : 
 who, for his part, was uneasily respectful, 
 calling each of them ' mum ' very often. I 
 was not attracted by my mother's relations, 
 and I kept as near my grandfather as possible, 
 feeling a vague fear that some of them might 
 have a design of taking me away. Though 
 indeed none was in the least ambitious of that 
 responsibility. 
 
 They were not all women, for there was one 
 
 quiet little man in their midst, who, when not 
 
 eating cake or drinking wine, was sucking the 
 
 bone handle of a woman's umbrella, which he 
 
 I 
 carried with him everywhere, indoors and out. 
 
 He was in the custody of the largest and 
 
 grimmest of the ladies, whom the others called
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE g 
 
 Aunt Martha. He was so completely in her 
 custody that after some consideration I judged 
 he must be her son ; though indeed he seemed 
 very old for that. I now believe him to have 
 been her husband ; but I cannot remember to 
 have heard his name, and I cannot invent him 
 a better one than Uncle Martha. 
 
 Uncle Martha would have behaved quite 
 well, I am convinced, if he had been left alone, 
 and would have acquitted himself with perfect 
 propriety in all the transactions of the day ; but 
 it seemed to be Aunt Martha's immovable belief 
 that he was wholly incapable of any action, 
 even the simplest and most obvious, unless 
 impelled by shoves and jerks. Consequently 
 he was shoved into the mourning carriage — we 
 had two — and jerked into the corner opposite 
 to the one he selected ; shoved out — almost on 
 all fours — at the cemetery ; and, perceiving him 
 entering the little chapel of his own motion, 
 Aunt Martha overtook him and jerked him in 
 there. This example presently impressed the 
 other ladies with the expediency of shoving 
 Uncle Martha at any convenient oppor- 
 tunity ; so that he arrived home with us at 
 last in a severely jostled condition, faithful
 
 lo THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 to the bone-handled umbrella through every- 
 thinor. 
 
 Grandfather Nat had been liberal in pro- 
 vision for the funeral party, and the cake and 
 port wine, the gin and water, the tea and the 
 watercress, occupied the visitors for some 
 time; a period illuminated by many moral 
 reflections from a rather fat relation, who 
 was no doubt, like most of the others, an 
 aunt. 
 
 ' Ah well ' ; said the Fat Aunt, shaking 
 her head, with a deep sigh that suggested 
 repletion ; ' ah well ; it 's what we must all 
 come to ! ' 
 
 There had been a deal of other conversation, 
 but I remember this remark because the Fat 
 Aunt had already made it twice. 
 
 *Ah, indeed,' assented another aunt, a thin 
 one ; ' so we must, sooner or later.' 
 
 * Yes, yes ; as I often say, we 're all mortal.' 
 *Yes, indeed!' 
 
 * We 've all got to be born, an' we 've all got 
 to die.' 
 
 'That's true!' 
 
 * Rich an' poor — just the same.* 
 *Ah!'
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE ii 
 
 *In the midst of life we're in the middle 
 of it.' 
 
 • Ah yes ! ' 
 
 Grandfather Nat, deeply impressed, made 
 haste to refill the Fat Aunt's glass, and to 
 push the cake-dish nearer. Aunt Martha 
 jerked Uncle Martha's elbow toward his glass, 
 which he was neglecting, with a sudden nod 
 and a frown of pointed significance — even 
 command. 
 
 'It's a great trial for all of the family, I 'm 
 sure,' pursued the Fat Aunt, after applications 
 to glass and cake-dish ; ' but we must bear up. 
 Not that we ain't had trials enough, neither.' 
 
 *No, indeed,' replied Aunt Martha with a 
 snap at my grandfather, as though he were 
 the trial chiefly on her mind ; which Grand- 
 father Nat took very humbly, and tried her 
 with watercress. 
 
 'Well, she's better off, poor thing,' the Fat 
 Aunt went on. 
 
 Some began to say 'Ah!' again, but Aunt 
 Martha snapped it into 'Well let's hope so !'— 
 in the tone of one convinced that my mother 
 couldn't be much worse off than she had been. 
 From which, and from sundry other remarks
 
 12 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 among the aunts, I gathered that my mother 
 was held to have hurt the dignity of her 
 family by alliance with Grandfather Nat's. I 
 have never wholly understood why ; but I 
 put the family pride down to the traditional 
 wedding of an undoubted auctioneer with 
 Aunt Martha's cousin. So Aunt Martha said 
 ' Let 's hope so 1 ' and, with another sudden 
 frown and nod, shoved Uncle Martha toward 
 the cake. 
 
 * What a blessing the child was took too ! ' 
 was the Fat Aunt's next observation. 
 
 ' Ah, that it is ! ' murmured the chorus. 
 But I was puzzled and shocked to hear such 
 a thing said of my little brother. 
 
 * And it s a good job there 's only one left.' 
 The chorus agreed again. I began to feel 
 
 that I had seriously disobliged my mother's 
 relations by not dying too. 
 
 * And him a boy ; boys can look after them- 
 selves.' This was a thin aunt's opinion. 
 
 ' Ah, and that 's a blessing,' sighed the Fat 
 Aunt ; * a great blessing.' 
 
 'Of course,' said Aunt Martha. 'And it's 
 not to be expected that his mother's relations 
 can be burdened with him.'
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 13 
 
 'Why, no indeed!' said the Fat Aunt, very 
 decisively. 
 
 * I 'm sure it wouldn't be poor Ellen's wish 
 to cause more trouble to her family than she 
 has!' And Aunt Martha, with a frown at the 
 watercress, gave Uncle Martha another jolt. 
 It seemed to me that he had really eaten all 
 he wanted, and would rather leave off; and I 
 wondered if she always fed him like that, or 
 if it were only when they were visiting. 
 
 ' And besides, it 'ud be standing in the 
 child's way,' Aunt Martha resumed, 'with so 
 many openings as there is in the docks here, 
 quite handy.' 
 
 Perhaps it was because I was rather dull 
 in the head that day, from one cause and 
 another ; at any rate I could think of no other 
 openings in the docks but those between the 
 ships and the jetties, and at the lock-sides, 
 which people sometimes fell into, in the dark ; 
 and I gathered a hazy notion that I was ex- 
 pected to make things comfortable by going 
 out and drowning myself. 
 
 'Yes, of course it would,' said the Fat Aunt. 
 
 ' It stands to reason,' said a thin one. 
 
 'Anybody can see that,' said the others.
 
 14 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 'And many a boy's gone out to work no 
 older.' 
 
 ' Ah, and been members o' Parliament after- 
 wards, too.' 
 
 The prospect of an entry into Parliament 
 presented so stupefying a contrast with that 
 of an immersion in the dock that for some 
 time the ensuing conversation made little 
 impression on me. On the part of my 
 mother's relations it was mainly a repetition 
 of what had gone before, very much in the 
 same words ; and as to my grandfather, he 
 had little to say at all, but expressed himself, 
 so far as he might, by furtive pats on my 
 back ; pats increasing in intensity as the talk of 
 the ladies pointed especially and unpleasingly 
 to myself. Till at last the food and drink 
 were all gone. Whereupon the Fat Aunt 
 sighed her last moral sentiment, Uncle Martha 
 was duly shoved out on the quay, and I was 
 left alone with Grandfather Nat. 
 
 ' Well Stevy, ol' mate,' said my grandfather, 
 drawing me on his knee ; ' us two 's left alone ; 
 left alone, ol' mate.' 
 
 I had not cried much that day — scarce at 
 all in fact, since first meeting my grandfather
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 15 
 
 in the passage and discovering his empty 
 pocket — for, as I have said, I was a little dull 
 in the head, and trying hard to think of many 
 things. But now I cried indeed, with my face 
 against my grandfather's shoulder, and there 
 was something of solace in the outburst ; and 
 when at last I looked up I saw two bright 
 drops hanging in the wiry tangle of my grand- 
 father's beard, and another lodged in the 
 furrow under one eye. 
 
 ''Nough done, Stevy,' said my grandfather ; 
 * don't cry no more. You '11 come home along 
 o' me now, won't ye? An' to-morrow we'll 
 go in the London Dock, where the sugar is.' 
 
 I looked round the room and considered, 
 as well as my sodden little head would permit. 
 I had never been in the London Dock, which 
 was a wonderful place, as I had gathered 
 from my grandfather's descriptions : a paradise 
 where sugar lay about the very ground in 
 lumps, and where you might eat it if you 
 would, so long as you brought none away. 
 But here was my home, with nobody else to 
 take care of it, and I felt some muddled sense 
 of a new responsibility. ' I 'm 'fraid I can't 
 leave the place, Gran'fa' Nat,' I said, with a
 
 i6 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 dismal shake of the head. 'Father mieht 
 
 o 
 
 come home, an' he wouldn't know, an' ' 
 
 ' An' so — an' so you think you 've got to 
 stop an' keep house ? ' my grandfather asked, 
 bending his face down to mine. 
 
 The prospect had been oppressing my 
 muzzy facukies all day. If I escaped being 
 taken away, plainly I must keep house, and 
 cook, and buy things and scrub floors, at any 
 rate till my father came home ; though it 
 seemed a great deal to undertake alone. So 
 I answered with a nod and a forlorn sniff. 
 
 ' Good pluck ! good pluck ! exclaimed my 
 grandfather, exultantly, clapping his hand 
 twice on my head and rubbing it vigorously. 
 ' Stevy, ol' mate, me an' you '11 get on capital. 
 I knowed you 'd make a plucked 'un. But you 
 won't have to keep house alone jest yet. No. 
 You an' me '11 keep house together, Stevy, 
 at the Hole in the Wall. Your father won't 
 be home a while yet ; an' I '11 settle all about 
 this here place. But Lord ! what a pluck for 
 a shaver ! ' And he brightened wonderfully. 
 
 In truth there had been little enough of 
 courage in my poor little body, and Grand- 
 father Nat's words brought me a deal of relief.
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 17 
 
 Beyond the vague terrors of loneliness and 
 responsibility, I had been troubled by the 
 reflection that housekeeping cost money, and I 
 had none. For though my mother's half-pay 
 note had been sent in the regular way to Viney 
 and Marr a week before, there had been 
 neither reply nor return of the paper. The 
 circumstance was unprecedented and un- 
 accountable, though the explanation came 
 before very long. 
 
 For the present, however, the difficulty was 
 put aside. I put my hand in my grandfather's, 
 and, the door being locked behind us and the 
 key in his pocket, we went out together, on 
 the quay, over the bridge and into the life 
 that was to be new for us both. 
 
 B
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IN BLUE GATE 
 
 WHILE his mother's relations walked 
 out of Stephen's tale, and left his 
 grandfather in it, the tales of all the world 
 went on, each man hero in his own. 
 
 Viney and Marr were owners of the brig 
 Juno, away in tropic seas, with Stephen's 
 father chief mate ; and at this time the tale 
 of Viney and Marr had just divided into two, 
 inasmuch as the partners were separated and 
 the firm was at a crisis — the crisis responsible 
 for the withholding of Mrs. Kemp's half-pay. 
 No legal form had dissolved the firm, indeed, 
 and scarce half a mile of streets lay between 
 the two men ; but in truth Marr had left his 
 partner with uncommon secrecy and expedition, 
 carrying with him all the loose cash he could 
 get together ; and a man need travel a very 
 little way to hide in London. So it was that 
 Mr. Vinev, left alone to bear the firm's 
 
 IS
 
 IN BLUE GATE 19 
 
 burdens, was loafing, sometimes about his 
 house in Commercial Road, Stepney, some- 
 times in the back streets and small public- 
 houses hard by ; pondering, no doubt, the 
 matter contained in a paper that had that 
 afternoon stricken the colour from the face of 
 one Crooks, ship-chandler, of Shadwell, and 
 had hardly less disquieted others in related 
 trades. While Marr, for the few days since 
 his flight no more dressed like the business 
 partner in a ship-owning concern, nor even like 
 a clerk, but in serge and anklejacks, like a 
 foremast hand, was playing up to his borrowed 
 character by being drunk in Blue Gate. 
 
 The Blue Gate is gone now — it went with 
 many places of a history only less black 
 when Ratcliff Highway was put to rout. As 
 you left High Street, Shadwell, for the High- 
 way — they made one thoroughfare — the Blue 
 Gate was on your right, almost opposite an 
 evil lane that led downhill to the New Dock. 
 Blue Gate Fields, it was more fully called, 
 though there was as little of a field as of a 
 gate, blue or other, about the place, which 
 was a street, narrow, foul and forbidding, 
 leading up to Back Lane. It was a bad and a
 
 20 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 dangerous place, the worst in all that neigh- 
 bourhood : worse than Frederick Street — 
 worse than Tiger Bay. The sailor once 
 brought to anchor in Blue Gate was lucky 
 to get out with clothes to cover him — lucky 
 if he saved no more than his life. Yet sailors 
 were there in plenty, hilarious, shouting, drunk 
 and drugged. Horrible draggled women 
 pawed them over for whatever their pockets 
 might yield, and murderous ruffians were ready 
 at hand whenever a knock on the head could 
 solve a difficulty. 
 
 Front doors stood ever open in the Blue 
 Gate, and some houses had no front doors at 
 all. At the top of one of the grimy flights of 
 stairs thus made accessible from the street, 
 was a noisy and ill-smelling room ; noisy 
 because of the company it held ; ill-smelling 
 partly because of their tobacco, but chiefly 
 because of the tobacco and the liquor of 
 many that had been there before, and because 
 of the aged foulness of the whole building. 
 There were five in the room, four men and 
 a woman. One of the men was Marr, though 
 for the present he was not using that name. 
 He was noticeable amid the group, being
 
 IN BLUE GATE 21 
 
 cleaner than the rest, fair-haired, and dressed 
 like a sailor ashore, though he lacked the sun- 
 burn that was proper to the character. But 
 sailor or none, there he sat where many had 
 sat before him, a piece of the familiar prey of 
 Blue Gate, babbling drunk and reasonless. 
 The others were watchfully sober enough, 
 albeit with a great pretence of jollity ; they 
 had drunk level with the babbler, but had 
 been careful to water his drink with gin. As 
 for him, he swayed and lolled, sometimes 
 on the table before him, sometimes on the 
 shoulder of the woman at his side. She was 
 no beauty, with her coarse features, dull eyes 
 and towzled hair, her thick voice and her 
 rusty finery ; but indeed she was the least 
 repulsive of that foul company. 
 
 On the victim's opposite side sat a large- 
 framed bony fellow, with a thin, unhealthy 
 face that seemed to belong to some other 
 body, and dress that proclaimed him long- 
 shore ruffian. The woman called him Dan, 
 and nods and winks passed between the two, 
 over the drooping head between them. Next 
 Dan was an ugly rascal with a broken nose ; 
 singular in that place, as bearing in his dress
 
 22 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 none of the marks of waterside habits, crimpery 
 and the Highway, but seeming rather the 
 commonplace town rat of Shoreditch or White- 
 chapel. And, last, a blind fiddler sat in a 
 corner, fiddling a flourish from time to time, 
 roaring with foul jest, and rolling his single 
 white eye upward. 
 
 ' No, I wo'nav another,' the fair-haired man 
 said, staring about him with uncertain eyes. 
 'Got bishness 'tend to. I say, wha' pubsh 
 this? 'Tain' Brown Bear, ish't? Ish't Brown 
 Bear ? ' 
 
 ' No, you silly,' the woman answered play- 
 fully. ' 'Tain't the Brown Bear ; you 've come 
 'ome along of us.' 
 
 ' O ! Come home — come home ... I shay 
 — this won' do ! Mus'n' go 'ome yet — get 
 collared y'know ! ' This with an owlish wink 
 at the bottle before him. 
 
 Dan and the woman exchanged a quick 
 look ; plainly something had gone before that 
 gave the words significance. * No,' Marr went 
 on, * mus'n' go 'ome. I 'm sailor man jus' 
 'shore from hng Juno in from Barbadoes. . . . 
 No, not Juno, course not. Dunno Juno. 
 Tain' Juno. D'year .-* 'Tain' Jwio, ye know,
 
 IN BLUE GATE 23 
 
 my ship. Never heard o' Juno. Mine's 
 'nother ship. ... I say, wha'sh name my 
 ship ? ' 
 
 'You're a rum sailor-man,' said Dan, 'not 
 to know the name of your own ship ten 
 minutes together. Why you 've told us about 
 four different names a'ready.' 
 
 The sham seaman chuckled feebly. 
 
 ' Why, I don't believe you 're a sailor at all, 
 mate,' the woman remarked, still playfully. 
 ' You 've just bin a-kiddin' of us fine ! ' 
 
 The chuckle persisted, and turned to a 
 stupid grin. * Ha, ha! Ha, ha! Have it 
 y'r own way.' This with a clumsily stealthy 
 grope at the breast pocket — a movement that 
 the others had seen before, and remembered. 
 ' Have it y'r own way. But I say ; I say, 
 y'know ' — suddenly serious — ' you 're all right, 
 ain't you ? Eh ? All right, you know, eh ? 
 I s — say — I hope you 're— orright ? ' 
 
 * Awright, mate ? Course we are ! ' And 
 Dan clapped him cordially on the shoulder. 
 
 'Awright, mate?' shouted the blind man, 
 his white eye rolling and blinking horribly at 
 the ceiling. ' Right as ninepence ! An' a 
 'a'penny over, damme ! '
 
 24 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 ' We're awright,' o-rowJed the broken-nosed 
 man, thickly. 
 
 * We don't tell no secrets,' said the woman. 
 
 • Thash all very well, but I was talkin' about 
 the Juno, y'know. Was'n I talkin' about 
 Juno}' A look of sleepy alarm was on the 
 fair man's face as he turned his eyes from 
 one to another. 
 
 'Ay, that's so,' answered the fellow at his 
 side. * hngjuno in from Barbadoes.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Thash where you 're wrong- ; she aini 
 in — see ? ' Marr wagged his head, and leered 
 the profoundest sagacity. ' She ami in. 
 What's more, 'ow d'you know she ever will 
 come in, eh? 'Ow d'ye know that? Thash 
 one for ye, ole f'ler ! Whar'll ye bet me she 
 ever gets as far as — but I say, I say ; I say, 
 y'know, you 're all right, ain't you ? Qui' sure 
 you 're orrigh' ? ' 
 
 There was a new and a longer chorus of 
 reassurance, which Dan at last ended with : 
 'Go on; xh^Juno ain't ever to come back; is 
 that it ? ' 
 
 Marr turned and stared fishily at him for 
 some seconds. ' Wha'rr you mean ? ' he de- 
 manded, at length, with a drivelling assumption
 
 IN BLUE GATE 25 
 
 of dignity. ' Wha'rr you mean? N — never 
 come back? Nishe remark make 'spectable 
 shipowner! Whassor' firm you take us for, 
 eh?' 
 
 The bHnd fiddler stopped midway in a 
 flourish and pursed his Hps silently. Dan 
 looked quickly at the fiddler, and as quickly 
 back at the drunken man. Marr's attitude 
 and the turn of his head being favourable, 
 the woman quietly detached his watch. 
 
 • Whassor' firm you take us for ? ' he re- 
 peated. ' D'ye think 'cause we 're — 'cause I 
 
 come here — 'cause I come 'ere an' ' he 
 
 stopped foolishly, and tailed off into nothing, 
 smiling uneasily at one and another. 
 
 The woman held up the watch behind him 
 — a silver hunter, engraved with Marr's chief 
 initial — a noticeably large letter M. Dan saw 
 it, shook his head and frowned, pointed and 
 tapped his own breast pocket, all in a moment. 
 And presently the woman slipped the watch 
 back into the pocket it came from. 
 
 * 'Ere, 'ave another drink,' said Dan hospi- 
 tably. ''Ave another all round for the last, 
 'fore the fiddler goes. 'Ere, y'are, George, 
 reach out.'
 
 26 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 ' Eh ? ' ejaculated the fiddler. ' Eh ? I ain't 
 ofoin' ! Didn't the orenelman ask me to come 
 along? Come, I'll give y' a toon. I'll give 
 y' a chant as '11 make yer 'air curl ! ' 
 
 'Take your drink, George,' Dan insisted, 
 'we don't want our 'air curled.' 
 
 The fiddler groped for and took the drink, 
 swallowed it, and twangled the fiddle-strings. 
 ' Will y'ave Blackjack ? ' he asked. 
 
 * No,' Dan answered with a rising voice. 
 ' We won't 'ave Black Jack, an' what's more 
 we won't 'ave Blind George, see."^ You cut 
 your lucky, soon as ye like ! ' 
 
 * A Wright, awright, cap'en,' the fiddler re- 
 monstrated, rising reluctantly. * You 're 'ard 
 on a pore blind bloke, damme. Ain't I to get 
 nothin' out o' this 'ere ? I ask ye fair, didn't 
 the genelman tell me to come along?' 
 
 Marr, ducking and lolling over the table, 
 here looked up and said, ' Whassup ? Fiddler 
 won' go ? Gi'm twopence an' kick'm down- 
 stairs. 'Ere y'are ! ' and he pulled out some 
 small change between his fingers, and spilt it 
 on the table. 
 
 Dan and the broken-nosed man gathered it 
 up and thrust it into the blind man's hand.
 
 IN BLUE GATE 27 
 
 'This ain't the straight game,' he protested, in 
 a hoarse whisper, as they pushed him through 
 the door-way. * I want my reg'lars out o' that 
 lot. D'ye 'ear ? I want my reg'lars ! ' 
 
 But they shut the door on him, whereupon 
 he broke into a torrent of curses on the land- 
 ing ; and presently, having descended several 
 of the stairs, reached back to let drive a thump 
 at the door with his stick ; and so went off 
 swearing into the street. 
 
 Marr sniggered feebly. * Chucked out 
 fiddler,' he said. * Whash we do now? I 
 won' 'ave any more drink. I 'ad 'nough. . . . 
 Think I '11 be gett'n' along . . . Here, what 
 you after, eh.-* ' 
 
 He clapped his hand again to his breast 
 pocket, and turned suspiciously on the woman. 
 'You keep y'r hands off,' he said. 'Wha' wan' 
 my pocket ? ' 
 
 ' A Wright, mate,* the woman answered 
 placidly. ' I ain't a touchin' yer pockets. 
 Why look there— yer watchguard's 'angin' ; 
 you'll drop that presently an' say it's me, I 
 s'pose ! ' 
 
 ' You 'd better get away from the genelman 
 if you can't behave yourself civil,' interposed
 
 28 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 Dan, pushing the woman aside and getting 
 between them. ' 'Ere, mate, you got to 'ave 
 another drink along o' me. I '11 turn her out 
 arter the fiddler, if she ain't civil.' 
 
 * I won' 'ave another drink,' said Marr, 
 thickly, struggling unsteadily to his feet and 
 dropping back instantly to his chair. * I won' 
 'avanother.' 
 
 * We '11 see about that,' replied Dan. * 'Ere, 
 you get out,' he went on, addressing the woman 
 as he hauled her up by the shoulders. ' You 
 get out ; we 're goin' to be comf table together, 
 us two an' 'im. Out ye go!' He thrust her 
 toward the door and opened it. ' I 'm sick o' 
 foolin' about,' he added in an angry undertone ; 
 'quick 's the word.' 
 
 ' O no, Dan — don't,' the woman pleaded, 
 whispering on the landing. * Not that way ! 
 Not again ! I '11 get it from him easy in a 
 minute ! Don't do it, Dan ! ' 
 
 ' Shut yer mouth ! I ain't askin' you. You 
 shove off a bit.' 
 
 ' Don't, Dan ! ' 
 
 But the door was shut. 
 
 ' I tell ye I won'avanother ! ' came Marr's 
 voice from within.
 
 IN BLUE GATE 29 
 
 The woman went down the stairs, her gross 
 face drawn as though she wept, though her 
 eyes were dry. At the door she looked back 
 with something Hke a shudder ; and then 
 turned her steps down the street. 
 
 The two partners in Viney and Marr were 
 separated indeed ; but now it was by some- 
 thing more than half a mile of streets.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 STEPHENS TALE 
 
 I HAD never been home with Grandfather 
 Nat before. I fancy that some scruples of 
 my mother's, in the matter of the neighbour- 
 hood and the character of the company to be 
 seen and heard at the Hole in the Wall, had 
 hitherto kept me from the house, and even 
 from the sugary elysium of the London Dock. 
 Now I was going there at last, and something 
 of eager anticipation overcame the sorrow of 
 the day. 
 
 We went in an omnibus, which we left in 
 Commercial Road. Here my grandfather 
 took order to repair my disappointment in the 
 matter of pear-drops ; and we left the shop 
 with such a bagful that it would not go into 
 the accustomed pocket at all. A little way 
 from this shop, and on the opposite side of the 
 way, stood a house which my mother had 
 more than once pointed out to me already; 
 
 30
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 31 
 
 and as we came abreast of it now, Grandfather 
 Nat pointed it out also. * Know who Hves 
 there, Stevy ? ' he asked. 
 
 * Yes,' I said ; ' Mr. Viney, that father's ship 
 belongs to.' 
 
 There was a man sitting on the stone 
 baluster by the landing of the front steps, 
 having apparently just desisted from knocking 
 at the door. He was pale and agitated, and he 
 slapped his leg distractedly with a folded paper. 
 
 * Why,' said my grandfather, ' that 's Crooks, 
 the ship-chandler. He looks bad ; wonder 
 what's up ? ' 
 
 With that the door opened, and a servant- 
 girl, in bonnet and shawl, emerged with her 
 box, lifting and dragging it as best she might. 
 The man rose and spoke to her, and I supposed 
 that he was about to help. But at her answer 
 he sank back on the balustrade, and she hauled 
 the box to the pavement by herself. The man 
 looked worse than ever, now, and he moved 
 his head from side to side ; so that it struck me 
 that it might be that his mother also was dead ; 
 perhaps to-day ; and at the thought all the 
 flavour went from the pear-drop in my mouth. 
 
 We turned up a narrow street which led us
 
 32 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 to a part where the river plainly was nearer at 
 every step ; for well I knew the curious smell 
 that grew as we went, and that had in it 
 something of tar, something of rope and junk, 
 something of ship's stores, and much of a 
 blend of unknown outlandish merchandise. 
 We met sailors, some with parrots and 
 accordions, and many with undecided legs ; 
 and we saw more of the hang-dog fellows who 
 were not sailors, though they dressed in the 
 same way, and got an inactive living out of 
 sailors, somehow. They leaned on posts, they 
 lurked in foul entries, they sat on sills, smoking; 
 and often one would accost and hang- to a 
 passing sailor, with a grinning, trumped-up 
 cordiality that offended and repelled me, child 
 as I was. And there were big, coarse women, 
 with flaring clothes, and hair that shone with 
 grease ; though for them I had but a certain 
 wonder ; as for why they all seemed to live 
 near the docks ; why they all grew so stout ; 
 and why they never wore bonnets. 
 
 As we went where the street grew fouler 
 and more crooked, and where dark entries and 
 many turnings gave evidence of the complica- 
 tion of courts and alleys about us, we heard a
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 33 
 
 hoarse voice crooning a stave of a sea-song, 
 with the low scrape of a fiddle striking in here 
 and there, as it were at random. And pre- 
 sently there turned a corner ahead and faced 
 toward us a blind man, with his fiddle held 
 low aeainst his chest, and his face lifted 
 upward, a little aside. He checked at the 
 corner to hit the wall a couple of taps with the 
 stick that hung from his wrist, and called 
 aloud, with fouler words than I can remember 
 or could print : ' Now then, damn ye ! Ain't 
 there ne'er a Christian sailor-man as wants a 
 toon o' George? Who'll 'ave a toon o' 
 George ? Ain't ye got no money, damn ye ? 
 Not a brown for pore blind George ? What 
 a dirty mean lot it is ! Who '11 'ave a 
 'ornpipe ? Who '11 'ave a song o' pore George? 
 , . . . O damn y' all ! ' 
 
 And so, with a mutter and another tap of 
 the stick, he came creeping along, six inches 
 at a step, the stick dangling loose again, an 
 the bow scraping the strings to the song : — 
 
 Fire on the fore-top, fire on the bow. 
 Fire on the main-deck, fire down below ! 
 
 Fire 1 fire 1 fire down below ! 
 
 Fetch a bucket o' water ; fire down below !
 
 34 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 The man's right eye was closed, but the left 
 was horribly wide and white and rolling, and 
 it quite unpleasantly reminded me of a large 
 china marble that lay at that moment at the 
 bottom of my breeches pocket, under some 
 uniform buttons, a key you could whistle on, a 
 brass knob from a fender, and a tangle of 
 string. So much indeed was I possessed with 
 this uncomfortable resemblance in later weeks, 
 when I had seen Blind George often, and 
 knew more of him, that at last I had no choice 
 but to fling the marble into the river ; though 
 indeed it was something of a rarity in marbles, 
 and worth four ' alleys ' as big as itself. 
 
 My grandfather stopped his talk as we drew 
 within earshot of the fiddler ; but blind men's 
 ears are keen beyond the common. The bow 
 dropped from the fiddle, and Blind George 
 sang out cheerily : ' Why 'ere comes Cap'en 
 Nat, 'ome from the funeral ; and got 'is little 
 grandson what 'e 's goin' to take care of an' 
 bring up so moral in 'is celebrated 'ouse o' 
 call ! ' All to my extreme amazement : for 
 what should this strange blind man know of 
 me, or of my mother's funeral ? 
 
 Grandfather Nat seemed a little angry.
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 35 
 
 'Well, well,' he said, 'your ears are sharp, 
 Blind George ; they learn a lot as ain't your 
 business. If your eyes was as good as your 
 ears you 'd ha' had your head broke 'fore this 
 — a dozen times ! ' 
 
 * If my eyes was as good as my ears, Cap'en 
 Nat Kemp,' the other retorted, 'there's many 
 as wouldn't find it so easy to talk o' breakin' 
 my 'ed. Other people's business ! Lord ! I 
 know enough to 'ang some of 'em, that 's what 
 I know ! I could tell you some o' your 
 business if I liked, — some as you don't know 
 yourself. Look 'ere ! You bin to a funeral. 
 Well, it ain't the last funeral as '11 be wanted 
 in your family; see? The kid's mother's 
 gone ; don't you be too sure 'is father 's safe ! 
 I bin along o' some one you know, an' 'e 
 don't look like lastin' for ever, 'e don't ; 'e ain't 
 in 'ealthy company.' 
 
 Grandfather Nat twitched my sleeve, and 
 we walked on. 
 
 ' Awright ! ' the blind man called after us, in 
 his tone of affable ferocity. * Awright, go 
 along ! You '11 see things, some day, near as 
 well as I can, what 's blind ! ' 
 
 'That's a bad fellow, Stevy,' Grandfather
 
 36 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 Nat said, as we heard the fiddle and the song 
 begin again. ' Don't you Hsten to neither his 
 talk nor his songs. Somehow it don't seem 
 nat'ral to see a blind man such a bad 'un. 
 But a bad 'un he is, up an' down.' 
 
 I asked how he came to know about the 
 funeral, and especially about my coming to 
 Wapping — a thing I had only learned of 
 myself an hour before. My grandfather said 
 that he had probably learned of the funeral 
 from somebody who had been at the Hole in 
 the Wall during the day, and had asked the 
 reason of the landlord's absence ; and as to 
 myself, he had heard my step, and guessed its 
 meaning instantly. 'He's a keen sharp 
 rascal, Stevy, an' he makes out all of parties' 
 business he can. He knew your father was 
 away, an' he jumped the whole thing at once. 
 That 's his way. But I don't stand him ; he 
 don't come into my house barrin' he comes a 
 customer, which I can't help.' 
 
 Of the meaning of the blind man's talk I 
 understood little. But he shocked me with a 
 sense of insult, and more with one of surprise. 
 For I had entertained a belief, born of Sunday- 
 school stories, that blindness produced saintly
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 37 
 
 piety, — unless it were the piety that caused 
 the blindness — and that in any case a virtu- 
 ous meekness was an essential condition of 
 the affliction. So I walked in doubt and 
 cogitation. 
 
 And so, after a dive down a narrower street 
 than any we had yet traversed (it could scarce 
 be dirtier), and a twist through a steep and 
 serpentine alley, we came, as it grew dusk, to 
 the Hole in the Wall. Of odd-looking river- 
 side inns I can remember plenty, but never, 
 before or since, have I beheld an odder than 
 this of Grandfather Nat's. It was wooden and 
 clap-boarded, and, like others of its sort, it 
 was everywhere larger at top than at bottom. 
 But the Hole in the Wall was not only top- 
 heavy, but also most alarmingly lopsided. 
 By its side, and half under it, lay a narrow 
 passage, through which one saw a strip of the 
 river and its many craft, and the passage 
 ended in Hole-in-the-Wall Stairs. All of the 
 house that was above the ground floor in this 
 side rested on a row of posts, which stood near 
 the middle of the passage ; and the burden of 
 these posts, twisted, wavy, bulging, and shape- 
 less, hung still more toward the opposite
 
 38 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 bulldinu^ ; while the farther side, bounded by 
 a later brick house, was vertical, as though a 
 great wedge, point downward, had been cut 
 away to permit the rise of the newer wall. 
 And the effect was as of a reeling and toppling 
 of the whole construction away from its neigh- 
 bour, and an imminent downfall into the passage. 
 And when, later, I examined the side looking 
 across the river, supported on piles, and 
 bulging and toppling over them also, I decided 
 that what kept the Hole in the Wall from 
 crashing into the passage was nothing but its 
 countervailing inclination to tumble into the 
 river. 
 
 Painted large over the boards of the front, 
 whose lapped edges gave the letters ragged 
 outlines, were the words THE HOLE IN 
 THE WALL; and below, a little smaller, 
 NATHANIEL KEMP. I felt a certain 
 pride, I think, in the importance thus given 
 the family name, and my esteem of my grand- 
 father increased proportionably with the size 
 of the letters. 
 
 There was a great noise within, and Grand- 
 father Nat, with a quick look toward the 
 entrance, grunted angrily. But we passed up
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 39 
 
 the passage and entered by a private door 
 under the posts. This door opened directly 
 into the bar parlour, the floor whereof was two 
 steps below the level of the outer paving ; and 
 the size whereof was about thrice that of a 
 sentry-box. 
 
 The din of a quarrel and a scufile came from 
 the bar, and my grandfather, thrusting me into 
 a corner, and giving me his hat, ran out with a 
 roar like that of a wild beast. At the sound 
 the quarrel hushed in its height. * What 's 
 this ? ' my grandfather blared, with a thump 
 on the counter that made the pots jump. 
 ' What sort of a row 's this in my house ? 
 Damme, I '11 break y' in halves, every mother's 
 son of ye ! ' 
 
 I peeped through the glass partition, and 
 saw, first, the back of the potman's head (for 
 the bar- floor took another drop) and beyond 
 that and the row of beer-pulls, a group of 
 rough, hulking men, one with blood on his 
 face, and all with an odd look of sulky guilt. 
 
 * Out you go ! ' pursued Grandfather Nat, 
 ' every swab o' ye ! Can't leave the place 
 not even to go to — not for nothin', without 
 a row like this, givin' the house a bad
 
 40 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 name! Go on, Jim Crute! Unless I'm to 
 chuck ye ! ' 
 
 The men had begun filing out awkwardly, 
 with nothing but here and there : * Awright, 
 guv'nor ' — ' Awright, cap'en.' ' Goin', ain't I ? ' 
 and the like. But one big ruffian lagged 
 behind, scowling and murmuring rebelliously. 
 
 In a flash Grandfather Nat was through the 
 counter-wicket. With a dart of his long left 
 arm he had gripped the fellow's ear and spun 
 him round with a wrench that I thought had 
 torn the ear from the head ; and in the same 
 moment had caught him by the opposite wrist, 
 so as to stretch the man's extended arm, elbow 
 backward, across his own great chest ; a 
 posture in which the backward pull against 
 the elbow joint brought a yell of agony from 
 the victim. Only a man with extraordinarily 
 long arms could have done the thing exactly 
 like that. The movement was so savagely 
 sudden that my grandfather had kicked open 
 the door and flung Jim Crute headlong into 
 the street ere I quite understood it ; when 
 there came a check in my throat and tears in 
 my eyes to see the man so cruelly handled. 
 
 Grandfather Nat stood a moment at the
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 41 
 
 door, but it seemed that his customer was 
 quelled effectually, for presently he turned 
 inward again, with such a grim scowl as I had 
 never seen before. And at that a queer head 
 appeared just above the counter — I had 
 supposed the bar to be wholly cleared — and a 
 very weak and rather womanish voice said, in 
 tones of over-inflected indignation : * Serve 
 'em right, Cap'en Kemp, I 'm sure. Lot o' 
 impudent vagabones ! Ought to be ashamed 
 o' theirselves, that they ought. Pity every 
 'ouse ain't kep' as strict as this one is, that's 
 what I say ! ' 
 
 And the queer head looked round the vacant 
 bar with an air of virtuous defiance, as though 
 anxious to meet the eye of any so bold as to 
 contradict. 
 
 It was anything but a clean face, on the 
 head, and it was overshadowed by a very 
 greasy wideawake hat. Grubbiness and un- 
 healthy redness contended for mastery in the 
 features, of which the nose was the most 
 surprising, wide and bulbous and knobbed all 
 over; so that ever afterward, in any attempt 
 to look Mr. Cripps in the face, I found myself 
 wholly disregarding his eyes, and fixing a
 
 42 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 fascinated gaze on his nose ; and I could never 
 recall his face to memory as I recalled another, 
 but always as a Nose, garnished with a fringe 
 of inferior features. The face had been 
 shaved — apparently about a week before ; 
 and by the sides hung long hair, dirtier to 
 look at than the rest of the apparition. 
 
 My grandfather gave no more than a glance 
 in the direction of this little man, passed the 
 counter and rejoined me, pulling off his coat 
 as he came. Something of my tingling eyes 
 and screwed mouth was visible, I suppose, for 
 he stooped as he rolled up his shirt-sleeves 
 and said : ' Why, Stevy boy, what 's amiss ? ' 
 
 ' You — you — hurt the man's ear,' I said, 
 with a choke and a sniff; for till then Grand- 
 father Nat had seemed to me the kindest man 
 in the world. 
 
 Grandfather Nat looked mightily astonished. 
 He left his shirt-sleeve where it was, and 
 thrust his fingers up in his hair behind, through 
 the grey and out at the brown on top. 
 ♦What?' he said. 'Hurt 'im? Hurt 'im? 
 Why, s'pose I did ? He ain't a friend o' yours, 
 is he, young 'un ? ' 
 
 I shook my head and blinked. There was
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 43 
 
 a gleam of amusement in my grandfather's 
 orrim face as he sat in a chair and took me 
 between his knees. ' Hurt 'im ?' he repeated. 
 'Why, Lord love ye, Pd get hurt if I didn't 
 hurt some of 'em, now an' then. They're a 
 rough lot — a bitter bad lot round here, an' it 's 
 hurt or be hurt with them, Stevy. I got to 
 frighten 'em, my boy — an' I do it, too.' 
 
 I was passing my fingers to and fro in the 
 matted hair on my grandfather's arm, and 
 thinking. He seemed a very terrible man 
 now, and perhaps something of a hero ; for, 
 young as I was, I was a boy. So presently I 
 said, ' Did you ever kill a man, Gran'fa' Nat.-^'
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 MANY small matters of my first few 
 hours at the Hole in the Wall were 
 impressed on me by later events. In par- 
 ticular I remember the innocent curiosity with 
 which I asked : ' Did you ever kill a man, 
 Gran'fa' Nat ? ' 
 
 There was a twitch and a frown on my 
 grandfather's face, and he sat back as one at a 
 moment's disadvantage. I thought that per- 
 haps he was trying to remember. But he 
 only said, gruffly, and with a quick sound like 
 a snort : ' Very nigh killed myself once or 
 twice, Stevy, in my time,' and rose hastily from 
 his chair to reach a picture of a ship that was 
 standing on a shelf. 'There,' he said, 'that's 
 d new 'un, just done ; pretty picter, ain't it ? 
 An' that there,' pointing to another hanging 
 on the wall, 'that's the Jtmo, what your 
 father 's on now.' 
 
 I had noticed that the walls, both of the bar
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 45 
 
 and of the bar-parlour, were plentifully hung 
 with paintings of ships ; ships becalmed, ships 
 in full sail, ships under bare spars; all with 
 painful blue skies over them, and very even- 
 waved seas beneath ; and ships in storms, with 
 torn sails, pursued by rumbustious piles of 
 sooty cloud, and pelted with lengths of scarlet 
 lightning. I fear I should not have recog- 
 nised my father's ship without help, but that 
 was probably because I had only seen it, 
 months before, lying in dock, battered and 
 dingy, with a confusion of casks and bales 
 about the deck, and naked yards dangling 
 above ; whereas in the picture (which was a 
 mile too small for the brig) it was booming 
 along under a flatulent mountain of clean white 
 sail, and bulwarks and deck-fittings were gay 
 with lively and diversified colour. 
 
 I said something about its being a fine ship, 
 or a fine picture, and that there were a lot of 
 them. 
 
 * Ah,' he said, 'they do mount up, one arter 
 another. It's one gentleman as did 'em all — 
 him out in the bar now, with the long hair. 
 Sometimes I think I 'd rather a-had money ; 
 but it 's a talent, that 's what it is ! '
 
 46 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 The artist beyond the outer bar had been 
 talking to the potman. Now he coughed and 
 said : ' Ha — um ! Cap'en Kemp, sir ! Cap'en 
 Kemp ! No doubt as you 've 'eard the noos 
 to-day ? * 
 
 * No,' said Grandfather Nat, finishing the 
 rolhng of his shirt-sleeves as he stepped 
 down into the bar ; * not as I know on. 
 What is it?' 
 
 ' Not about Viney and Marr ? ' 
 
 ' No. What about 'em ? ' 
 
 Mr. Cripps rose on his toes with the im- 
 portance of his information, and his eyes 
 widened to a moment's rivalry with his nose. 
 * Gone wrong,' he said, in a shrill whisper that 
 was as loud as his natural voice. * Gone 
 wrong. Unsolvent. Cracked up. Broke. 
 Busted, in a common way o' speakin'.' And 
 he gave a violent nod with each synonym. 
 
 * No,' said Grandfather Nat; 'surely not 
 Viney and Marr ? ' 
 
 * Fact, Cap'en ; I can assure you, on 'igh 
 a'thority. It's what I might call the uni- 
 versal topic in neighbourin' circles, an' a 
 gen'ral subjick o' local discussion. You 'd 
 'a 'eard it 'fore this if you 'd bin at 'ome.'
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 47 
 
 My grandfather whistled, and rested a hand 
 on a beer-pull. 
 
 ' Not a stiver for nobody, they say,' Mr. 
 Cripps pursued, 'not till they can sell the 
 wessels. What there was loose Marr 's bolted 
 with ; or, as you might put it, absconded ; 
 absconded with the proceeds. An' gone 
 abroad, it 's said.' 
 
 * I see the servant gal bringin' out her box 
 from Viney's just now,' said Grandfather Nat. 
 ' An' Crooks the ship-chandler was on the steps, 
 very white in the gills, with a paper. Well, 
 well ! An' you say Marr 's bolted ? ' 
 
 ' Absconded, Cap'en Kemp ; absconded 
 with the proceeds ; 'opped the twig. Viney 
 says 'e 's robbed 'im as well as the creditors, 
 but I 'ear some o' the creditors' observation is 
 "gammon." An' they say the wessels is 
 pawned up to their r'yals. Up to their 
 r'yals ! ' 
 
 * Well,' commented my grandfather, * I 
 wouldn't ha' thought it. The Juno was that 
 badly found, an' they did everything that cheap, 
 I thought they made money hand over fist' 
 
 ' Flyin' too 'igh, Cap'en Kemp, flyin' too 
 'igh. You knowed Viney long 'fore 'e ele-
 
 48 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 vated hisself into a owner, didn't you ? What 
 was he then ? Why 'e was your mate one 
 voy'ge, wasn't he ? ' 
 
 * Ay, an' more.' 
 
 * So I 've 'eard tell. Well arter that surely 
 'e was flyin' too 'igh ! An' now Marr's ab- 
 sconded with the proceeds ! ' 
 
 The talk in the bar went on, being almost 
 entirely the talk of Mr. Cripps ; who valued 
 himself on the unwonted importance his news 
 gave him, and aimed at increasing it by saying 
 the same thing a great many times ; by saying 
 it, too, when he could, in terms and phrases 
 that had a strong flavour of the Sunday paper. 
 But as for me, I soon ceased to hear, for 1 
 discovered something of greater interest on 
 the shelf that skirted the bar-parlour. It was 
 a little model of a ship in a glass case, and it 
 was a great marvel to me, with all its standing 
 and running rigging complete, and a most 
 ingenious and tumultuous sea about it, made 
 of stiff calico cockled up into lumps and ridges, 
 and painted the proper colour. Much better 
 than either of the two we had at home, for 
 these latter were only half-models, each no- 
 thing but one-half of a little ship split from
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 49 
 
 stem to stern, and stuck against a board, 
 on which were painted sky, clouds, sea- 
 gulls, and (in one case) a lighthouse ; an ex- 
 asperating make-believe that had been my 
 continual disappointment. But this was alto- 
 gether so charming and delightful and real, 
 and the little hatches and cuddy-houses so 
 thrilled my fancy, that I resolved to beg of my 
 grandfather to let me call the model my own, 
 and sometimes have the glass case off. So I 
 was absorbed while the conversation in the 
 bar ranged from the ships and their owners to 
 my father, and from him to me ; as was plain 
 when my grandfather called me. 
 
 * Here he is,' said my grandfather, with a 
 deal of pride in his voice, putting his foot on 
 a stool and lifting me on his knee. ' Here he 
 is, an' a plucked 'un ; ain't ye, Stevy?' He 
 rubbed his hand over my head, as he was fond 
 of doing. * Plucked ? Ah ! Why, he was 
 agoin' to keep house all by hisself, with all the 
 pluck in life, till his father come home! 
 Warn't ye, Stevy boy ? But he 's come along 
 o' me instead, an' him an' me's goin' to keep 
 the Hole in the Wall together, ain't we.-* 
 Pardners : eh, Stevy ? ' 
 
 D
 
 50 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 I think I never afterwards saw my grand- 
 father talking so famiharly with his customers. 
 I perceived now that there was another in the 
 bar in addition to Mr. Cripps ; a pale, quiet, 
 and rather ragged man who sat in an obscure 
 corner with an untouched glass of liquor by 
 him. 
 
 *Come,' said my grandfather, 'have one 
 with me, Mr. Cripps, an' drink the new 
 pardner's health. What is it .-* An' you — you 
 drink up too, an' have another.' This last order 
 Grandfather Nat flung at the man in the 
 corner, just in the tones in which I had heard 
 a skipper on a ship tell a man to * get forr'ard 
 lively ' with a rope fender, opposite our quay 
 at Blackwall. 
 
 * I 'm sure 'ere 's wishin' the young master 
 every 'ealth an' 'appiness,' said Mr. Cripps, 
 beaming on me with a grin that rather 
 frightened than pleased me, it twisted the nose 
 so. * Every 'ealth and 'appiness, I 'm sure ! ' 
 
 The pale man in the corner only looked up 
 quickly, as if fearful of obtruding himself, 
 gulped the drink that had been standing by 
 him, and receiving- another, put it down un- 
 tasted where the first had stood.
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 51 
 
 ' That ain't drinkin' a health,' said my grand- 
 father, angrily. * There — that 's it ! ' and he 
 pointed to the new drink with the hand that 
 held his own. 
 
 The pale man lifted it hurriedly, stood up, 
 looked at me and said something indistinct, 
 gulped the liquor and returned the glass to 
 the counter ; whereupon the potman, without 
 orders, instantly refilled it, and the man carried 
 it back to his corner and put it down beside 
 him, as before. 
 
 I began to wonder if the pale man suffered 
 from some complaint that made it dangerous to 
 leave him without a drink close at hand, ready 
 to be swallowed at a moment's notice. But 
 Mr. Cripps blinked, first at his own glass and 
 then at the pale man's ; and I fancy he thought 
 himself unfairly treated. 
 
 Howbeit his affability was unconquerable. 
 He grinned and snapped his fingers playfully 
 at me, provoking my secret indignation ; since 
 that was what people did to please babies. 
 
 * An' a pretty young gent 'e is too,' said Mr. 
 Cripps, ' of considerable personal attractions. 
 Coin' to bring 'im up to the trade, I s'pose, 
 Cap'en Kemp ? '
 
 52 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 'Why, no,' said Grandfather Nat, with some 
 dignity. * No. Something better than that, 
 I 'm hopin'. Pardners is all very well for a 
 bit, but Stevy's goin' to be a cut above his 
 poor old gran'father, if I can do it. Eh, boy ? ' 
 He rubbed my head again, and I was too shy, 
 sitting there in the bar, to answer. ' Eh, boy ? 
 Boardin' school an' a gentleman's job for this 
 one, if the old man has his way.' 
 
 Mr. Cripps shook his head sagaciously, and 
 could plainly see that I was cut out for a 
 statesman. He also lifted his empty glass, 
 looked at it abstractedly, and put it down 
 again. Nothing coming of this, he compli- 
 mented my personal appearance once more, 
 and thought that my portrait should certainly 
 be painted, as a memorial in my future days of 
 
 ofreatness. 
 
 This notion seemed to strike my grandfather 
 rather favourably, and he forthwith consulted 
 a slate which dangled by a string ; during his 
 contemplation of which, with its long rows of 
 strokes, Mr. Cripps betrayed a certain anxious 
 discomfort. 'Well,' said Grandfather Nat at 
 length, ' you are pretty deep in, you know, an' 
 it might as well be that as anything else. But
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 53 
 
 what about that sign ? Ain't I ever goin' to 
 get that ? ' 
 
 Mr. Cripps knitted his brows and his nose, 
 turned up his eyes and shook his head. * It 
 ain't come to me yet, Cap'en Kemp,' he said ; 
 * not yet. I 'm still waiting for what you 
 might call an inspiration. But when it comes, 
 Cap'en Kemp — when it comes ! Ah ! you '11 
 'ave a sign then ! Sich a sign ! You '11 'ave 
 sich a sign as '11 attract the 'ole artistic feelin' 
 of Wapping an' surroundin' districks of the 
 metropolis, I assure you. An' the signs on 
 the other 'ouses — phoo!' Mr. Cripps made a 
 sweep of the hand, which I took to indicate 
 generally that all other publicans, over- 
 whelmed with humiliation, would have no 
 choice but straightway to tear down their own 
 signs and bury them. 
 
 * Umph ! but meanwhile I haven't got one 
 at all,' objected Grandfather Nat; 'an' they 
 have.' 
 
 * Ah, yes, sir — some sort o' signs. But done 
 by mere jobbers, and poor enough too. My 
 hart, Cap'en Kemp — I respect my hart, an' I 
 don't rush at a job like that. It wants con- 
 ception, sir, a job like that — conception. The
 
 54 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 common sort o' sign 's easy enough. You go 
 at it, an' you do it or hexicute it, an' when it 's 
 done or hexicuted — why there it is. A ship, 
 maybe, or a crown, or a Turk's 'ed or three 
 cats an' a fryin' pan. Simple enough — no 
 plannin', no composition, no invention. But a 
 'ole in a wall, Cap'en Kemp — it takes a hartist 
 to make a picter o' that ; an' it takes study, 
 an' meditation, an' invention ! ' 
 
 'Simplest thing o' the lot,' said Captain Nat. 
 *A wall, an' a hole in it. Simplest thing o' 
 the lot ! ' 
 
 *As you observe, Cap'en Kemp, it may 
 seem simple enough ; that 's because you 're 
 thinkin' o' subjick, instead o' treatment. A 
 common jobber, if you '11 excuse my sayin' it, 
 'ud look at it just in that light — a wall with a 
 'ole in it, an' e 'd give it you, an' p'rhaps you 'd 
 be satisfied with it. But I soar 'igher, sir, 
 'igher. What I shall give you '11 be a 'ole in 
 the wall to charm the heye and delight the 
 intelleck, sir. A dramatic 'ole in the wall, sir, 
 a hepic 'ole in the wall ; a 'ole in the wall as 
 will elevate the mind and stimilate the noblest 
 instinks of the be'older. Cap'en Kemp, I 
 don't .'esitate to say that my 'ole in the wall,
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 55 
 
 when you get It, will be — ah ! it '11 be the 
 moral palladium of Wapping ! ' 
 
 * When I get it,' my grandfather replied with 
 a chuckle, 'anything might happen without 
 surprisin' me. I think p'rhaps I might be so 
 startled as to forget the bit you 've have on 
 account, an' pay full cash.' 
 
 Mr. Cripps's eyes brightened at the hint. 
 ' You 're always very 'andsome in matters o' 
 business, Cap'en Kemp,' he said, ' an' I always 
 say so. Which reminds me, speakin' of 'and- 
 some things. This morning goin' to see my 
 friend as keeps the mortuary, I see as 'and- 
 some a bit o' panel for to paint a sign as ever 
 I come across. A lovely bit o' stuff to be sure 
 — enough to stimilate anybody's artistic in- 
 vention to look at it, that it was. Not dear 
 neither — particular moderate in fact. I 'm . 
 afraid it may be gone now ; but if I 'd 'a 'ad 
 the money ' 
 
 A noise of trampling and singing without 
 neared the door, and with a bang and a stagger 
 a party of fresh customers burst in and swept 
 Mr. Cripps out of his exposition. Two were 
 sun-browned sailors, shouting and jovial, but 
 the rest, men and women, sober and villainous
 
 56 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 in their mock jollity, were land-sharks plain 
 to see. The foremost sailor drove against Mr. 
 Cripps, and having almost knocked him down, 
 took him by the shoulders and involved him in 
 his flounderings ; apologising, meanwhile, at 
 the top of his voice, and demanding to 
 know what Mr. Cripps would drink. Where- 
 upon Grandfather Nat sent me back to 
 the bar -parlour and the little ship, and 
 addressed himself to business and the order 
 of the bar. 
 
 And so he was occupied for the most of the 
 evening. Sometimes he sat with me and 
 taught me the spars and rigging of the model, 
 sometimes I peeped through the glass at the 
 business of the house. The bar remained 
 pretty full throughout the evening, in its 
 main part, and my grandfather ruled its 
 frequenters with a strong voice and an iron 
 hand. 
 
 But there was one little space partitioned 
 off, as it might be for the better company : 
 which space was nearly always empty. Into 
 this quieter compartment I saw a man come, 
 rather late in the eveninci:, furtive and a little 
 flustered. He was an ugly ruffian with a
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 57 
 
 broken nose ; and he was noticeable as being the 
 one man I had seen in my grandfather's house 
 who had no marks of seafaring or riverside 
 hfe about him, but seemed merely an ordinary 
 London blackguard from some unmaritime 
 neighbourhood. He beckoned silently to 
 Grandfather Nat, who walked across and con- 
 ferred with him. Presently my grandfather 
 left the counter and came into the bar-parlour. 
 He had something in his closed hand, which 
 he carried to the lamp to examine, so that I 
 could see it was a silver watch ; while the 
 furtive man waited expectantly in the little 
 compartment. The watch interested me, for 
 the inward part swung clean out from the case, 
 and hung by a single hinge, in a way I had 
 never seen before. I noticed, also, that a 
 large capital letter M was engraved on the 
 back. 
 
 Grandfather Nat shut the watch and strode 
 into the bar. 
 
 ' Here you are,' he said aloud, handing it to 
 the broken-nosed man. 'Here you are. It 
 seems all right — good enough watch, I should 
 say.' 
 
 The man was plainly disconcerted— frightened,
 
 58 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 indeed — by this public observation ; and 
 answered with an eager whisper. 
 
 * What ? ' my grandfather repHed, louder 
 than ever ; * want me to buy it ? Not me. 
 This ain't a pawnshop. I don't want a 
 watch ; an' if I did, how do I know where 
 you got it ? * 
 
 Much discomposed by this rebuff, the fellow 
 hurried off. Whereupon I was surprised to 
 see the pale man rise from the corner of the 
 bar, put his drink, still untasted, in a safe place 
 on the counter, beyond the edge of the parti- 
 tion, and hurry out also. Cogitating this 
 matter in my grandfather's arm-chair, presently 
 I fell asleep. 
 
 What woke me at length was the loud voice 
 of Grandfather Nat, and I found that it was 
 late, and he was clearing the bar before shut- 
 ting up. I rubbed my eyes and looked out, 
 and was interested to see that the pale man 
 had come back, and was now swallowing his 
 drink at last before going out after the rest. 
 Whereat I turned again, drowsily enough, to 
 the model ship. 
 
 But a little later, when Grandfather Nat and 
 I were at supper in the bar-parlour, and I was
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 59 
 
 dropping to sleep again, I was amazed to see 
 my grandfather pull the broken-nosed man's 
 watch out of his pocket and put it in a tin cash- 
 box. At that I rubbed my eyes, and opened 
 them so wide on the cash-box, that Grand- 
 father Nat said, ' Hullo, Stevy ! Woke up 
 with a jump ? Time you was in bed.'
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN THE HIGH W A V 
 
 THE Hole in the Wall being closed, its 
 customers went their several ways ; the 
 sailors, shouting and singing, drifting off with 
 their retinue along Wapping Wall toward 
 Ratcliff; Mr. Cripps, fuller than usual of free 
 drinks— for the sailors had come a long voyage 
 and were proportionably liberal — scuffling off, 
 steadily enough, on the way that led to Lime- 
 house ; for Mr. Cripps had drunk too much 
 and too long ever to be noticeably drunk. 
 And last of all, when the most undecided of 
 the stragglers from Captain Nat Kemp's bar 
 had vanished one way or another, the pale, 
 quiet man moved out from the shadow and 
 went in the wake of the noisy sailors. 
 
 The night was dark, and the streets. The 
 lamps were few and feeble, and angles, alleys 
 and entries were shapes of blackness that 
 seemed more solid than the walls about them. 
 
 60
 
 IN THE HIGHWAY 6i 
 
 But instead of the silence that consorts with 
 ofloom, the air was racked with human sounds ; 
 sounds of quarrels, scuffles, and brawls, far 
 and near, breaking out fitfully amid the general 
 buzz and whoop of discordant singing that 
 came from all Wapping and Ratcliff where 
 revellers rolled into the open. 
 
 A stone's throw on the pale man's way was 
 a swing bridge with a lock by its side, spanning 
 the channel that joined two dock-basins. The 
 pale man, passing along in the shadow of the 
 footpath, stopped in an angle. Three police- 
 men were coming over the bridge in company 
 — they went in threes in these parts — and the 
 pale man, who never made closer acquaintance 
 with the police than he could help, slunk down 
 by the bridge-foot, as though designing to 
 make the crossing by way of the narrow lock ', 
 no safe passage in the dark. But he thought 
 better of it, and went by the bridge, as soon 
 as the policemen had passed. 
 
 A little farther and he was in Ratcliff High- 
 way, where it joined with Shadwell High 
 Street, and just before him stood Paddy's 
 Goose. The house was known by that name 
 far beyond the neighbourhood, among people
 
 62 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 who were unaware that the actual painted sign 
 was the White Swan. Paddy's Goose was 
 still open, for its doors never closed till one ; 
 though there were a few houses later even 
 than this, where, though the bars were cleared 
 and closed at one, in accordance with Act of 
 Parliament, the doors swung wide again ten 
 minutes later. There was still dancingf within 
 at Paddy's Goose, and the squeak of fiddles 
 and the thump of feet were plain to hear. 
 The pale man passed on into the dark beyond 
 its lights, and soon the black mouth of Blue 
 Gate stood on his right. 
 
 Blue Gate gave its part to the night's noises, 
 and more ; for a sudden burst of loud screams 
 — a woman's — rent the air from its innermost 
 deeps ; screams which affected the pale man 
 not at all, nor any other passenger ; for it 
 might be murder or it might be drink, or 
 sudden rage or fear, or a quarrel ; and what- 
 ever it might be was common enough in Blue 
 Gate. 
 
 Paddy's Goose had no monopoly of music, 
 and the common plenty of street fiddlers was 
 the greater as the early houses closed. Scarce 
 eighty yards from Blue Gate stood Blind
 
 IN THE HIGHWAY 63 
 
 George, fiddling his hardest for a party dancing 
 in the roadway. Many were looking on, drunk 
 or sober, with approving shouts ; and every 
 face was ghastly phosphorescent in the glare 
 of a ship's blue-light that a noisy negro 
 flourished among the dancers. Close by, a 
 woman and a man were quarrelling in the 
 middle of a group ; but the matter had no 
 attention till of a sudden it sprang into a fight, 
 and the man and another were punching and 
 wrestling in a heap, bare to the waist. At 
 this the crowd turned from the dancers, and 
 the negro ran yelping to shed his deathly light 
 on the new scene. 
 
 The crowd howled and scrambled, and a 
 drunken sailor fell in the mud. Quick at the 
 chance, a ruffian took him under the armpits 
 and dragged him from among the trampling 
 feet to a near entry, out of the glare. There 
 he propped his prey, with many friendly words, 
 and dived among his pockets. The sailor was 
 dazed, and made no difficulty ; till the thief 
 got to the end of the search in a trouser 
 pocket, and thence pulled a handful of silver. 
 With that the victim awoke to some sense of 
 affairs, and made a move to rise ; but the other
 
 64 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 sprang up and laid him over with a kick on 
 the head, just as the pale man came along. 
 The thief made off, leaving a few shillings and 
 sixpences on the ground, which the pale man 
 instantly gathered up. He looked from the 
 money to the man, who lay insensible, with 
 blood about his ear ; and then from the man 
 to the money. Then he stuffed some few of 
 the shillings into the sailor's nearest pocket 
 and went off with the rest. 
 
 The fight rose and fell, the crowd grew, 
 and the blue light burned down. In twenty 
 seconds the pale man was back again. He 
 bent over the bleeding sailor, thrust the rest 
 of the silver into the pocket, and finally 
 vanished into the night. For, indeed, though 
 the pale man was poor, and though he got a 
 living now in a way scarce reputable : yet he 
 had once kept a chandler's shop. He had 
 kept it till neither sand in the sugar nor holes 
 under the weights would any longer induce it 
 to keep him; and then he had fallen wholly 
 from respectability. But he had drawn a line 
 — he had always drawn a line. He had never 
 been a thief; and, with a little struggle, he 
 remembered it now.
 
 IN THE HIGHWAY 65 
 
 Back in Blue Gate the screams had ceased. 
 For on a black stair a large bony man shook 
 a woman by the throat, so that she could 
 scream no more. He cursed in whispers, and 
 threatened her with an end of all noise if she 
 opened her mouth again. * Ye stop out of it 
 all this time,' he said, ' an' when ye come ye 
 squall enough to bring the slops from Arbour 
 Square ! ' 
 
 ' O ! O ! ' the woman gasped. * I fell on it, 
 Dan! I fell on it! I fell on it in the dark!' . . . 
 
 There was nothing commoner in the black 
 streets about the Highway than the sight of 
 two or three men linked by the arms, stagger- 
 ing, singing and bawling. Many such parties 
 went along the Highway that night, many 
 turned up its foul tributaries ; some went 
 toward and over the bridge by the lock that 
 was on the way to the Hole in the Wall. 
 But they were become fewer, and the night 
 noises of the Highway were somewhat abated, 
 when a party of three emerged from the mouth 
 of Blue Gate. Of them that had gone before 
 the songs were broken and the voices un- 
 melodious enough ; yet no other song sung 
 
 E
 
 66 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 that night in the Highway was so wild as the 
 song of these men — or rather of two of them, 
 who sang the louder because of the silence of 
 the man between them ; and no other voices 
 were so ill-governed as theirs. The man on 
 the right was large, bony and powerful ; he 
 on the left was shorter and less to be noticed, 
 except that under some rare and feeble lamp 
 it might have been perceived that his face was 
 an ugly one, with a broken nose. But what 
 reveller so drunk, what drunkard so insensible, 
 what clod so silent as the man they dragged 
 between them ? His feet trailed in the mire, 
 and his head, hidden by a ragged hat, hung 
 forward on his chest. So they went, reeling 
 ever where the shadows were thickest, toward 
 the bridge ; but in all their reelings there was 
 a stealthy hasting forward, and an anxious out- 
 look that went ill with their song. The song 
 itself, void alike of tune and jollity, fell off 
 altogether as they neared the bridge, and here 
 they went the quicker. They turned down by 
 the bridge foot, though not for the reason the 
 pale man had, two hours before, for now no 
 policeman was in sight ; and soon were gone 
 into the black shadow about the lock-head. . . .
 
 IN THE HIGHWAY 67 
 
 It was the deep of the night, and as near 
 quiet as the Highway ever knew; with no 
 more than a cry here or there, a distant fiddle, 
 and the faint hum of the wind in the rigging 
 of ships. Off in Blue Gate the woman sat on 
 the black stair, with her face in her hands, 
 waiting for company before returning to the 
 room where she had fallen over something in 
 the dark.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 HIGH under the tiles of the Hole in 
 the Wall, I had at first a night of 
 disturbed sleep. I was in my old familiar 
 cot, which had been brought during the 
 evening, on a truck. But things were strange, 
 and, in particular, my grandfather, who slept 
 on the opposite side of the room, snored so 
 amazingly, and with a sound so unlike any- 
 thing I had ever heard before, that I feared 
 he must be choking to death, and climbed out 
 of bed, once, to see. There were noises from 
 without too, sometimes of discordant singing, 
 sometimes of quarrels ; and once, from a 
 distance, a succession of dreadful screams. 
 Then the old house made curious sounds of 
 its own ; twice I was convinced of stealthy 
 steps on the stair, and all night the very 
 walls creaked aloud. So for long, sleepy as 
 I was, I dozed and started and rolled and lay 
 
 6S
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 69 
 
 awake, wondering about the little ship in the 
 bar-parlour, and Mr. Cripps, and the pale 
 man, and the watch with the M on it. Also 
 I considered again the matter of my prayers, 
 which I had already discussed with Grand- 
 father Nat, to his obvious perplexity, by 
 candle-light. For I was urgent to know if I 
 mu6t now leave my mother out, and if I might 
 not put my little dead brother in ; being very 
 anxious to include them both. My grand- 
 father's first opinion was, that it was not the 
 usual thing ; which opinion he expressed with 
 hesitation, and a curious look of the eyes that 
 I wondered at. But I argued that God could 
 bless them just as well in heaven, as here ; 
 and Grandfather Nat admitted that no doubt 
 there was something in that. Whereupon I 
 desired to know if they would hear if I said 
 in my prayers that I was quite safe with him, 
 at the Hole in the Wall ; or if I should rather 
 ask God to tell them. And at that my grand- 
 father stood up and turned away, with a rub 
 and a pat on my head, toward his own bed ; 
 telling me to say whatever I pleased, and not 
 to forget Grandfather Nat. 
 
 So that now, having said what I pleased,
 
 70 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 and having well remembered Grandfather Nat, 
 and slept and woke and dozed and woke again, 
 I took solace from his authority and whispered 
 many things to my little dead brother, whom 
 I could never play with : of the little ship 
 in the glass case, and the pictures, and 
 of how I was going to the London Dock 
 to-morrow ; and so at last fell asleep soundly 
 till morninof. 
 
 Grandfather Nat was astir early, and soon 
 I was looking from the window by his bed at 
 the ships that lay so thick in the Pool, tier on 
 tier. Below me I could see the water that 
 washed between the slimy piles on which the 
 house rested, and to the left were the narrow 
 stairs that terminated the passage at the 
 side. Several boats were moored about these 
 stairs, and a waterman was already looking out 
 for a fare. Out in the Pool certain other boats 
 caught the eye as they dodged about among 
 the colliers, because each carried a bright 
 fire amidships, in a brazier, beside a man, two 
 small barrels of beer, and a very large hand- 
 bell. The men were purlmen. Grandfather 
 Nat told me, selling liquor — hot beer chiefly, 
 in the cold mornings — to the men on the
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 71 
 
 colliers, or on any other craft thereabout. It 
 struck me that the one thing lacking for 
 perfect bliss in most rowing boats was just 
 such a brazier of cosy fire as the purl-boat 
 carried ; so that after very little consideration 
 I resolved that when I grew up I would not 
 be a sailor, nor an engine-driver, nor any one 
 of a dozen other things I had thought of, but 
 a purlman. 
 
 The staircase would have landed one direct 
 into the bar-parlour but for an enclosing door, 
 which strangers commonly mistook for that of 
 a cupboard. A step as light as mine was 
 possibly a rarity on this staircase ; for, coming 
 down before my grandfather, I startled a lady 
 in the bar-parlour who had been doing some- 
 thing with a bottle which involved the removal 
 of the cork ; which cork she snatched hastily 
 from a shelf and replaced, with no very favour- 
 able regard of myself; and straightway dropped 
 on her knees and went to work with a brush 
 and a dustpan. She was scarce an attractive 
 woman, I thought, being rusty and bony, slack- 
 faced and very red-nosed. She swept the 
 carpet and dusted the shelves with an air of 
 angry contempt for everything she touched,
 
 ^2 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 and I got into the bar out of her way as soon 
 as I could. The potman was flinging sawdust 
 about the floor, and there, in the same corner, 
 sat the same pale, ragged man that was there 
 last night, with the same full glass of liquor 
 — or one like it — by his side : like a trade 
 fixture that had been there all nio-ht. 
 
 When Grandfather Nat appeared, I learned 
 the slack-faced woman's name. * This here 's 
 my little gran'son, Mrs. Grimes,' he said, 'as is 
 goin' to live here a bit, 'cordin' as I mentioned 
 yesterday.' 
 
 ' Hindeed?' said Mrs. Grimes, with a glance 
 that made me feel more contemptible than the 
 humblest article she had dusted that morning. 
 'Hindeed? Then it'll be more work more 
 pay, Cap'en Kemp.' 
 
 ' Very well, mum,' my grandfather replied. 
 ' If you reckon it out more work ' 
 
 *Ho!' interjected Mrs. Grimes, who could 
 fill a misplaced aspirate with subtle offence ; 
 ' reckon or not, I s'pose there 's another bed 
 to be made? An' buttons to be sewed ? An' 
 plates for to be washed ? An' dirt an' litter 
 for to be cleared up everywhere ? To say 
 nothink o' crumbs— which the biscuit-crumbs
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 73 
 
 in the bar-parlour this mornin' was thick an' 
 shameful ! ' 
 
 / had had biscuits, and I felt a reprobate. 
 ' Very well, mum,' Grandfather Nat said, peace- 
 ably ; ' we '11 make out extry damages, mum. 
 A few days '11 give us an idea. Shall we leave 
 it a week an' see how things go ? ' 
 
 ' Ham I to consider that a week's notice, 
 Captain Kemp?' Mrs. Grimes demanded, 
 with a distinct rise of voice. * Ham I or ham 
 I not ? ' 
 
 ' Notice ! ' My grandfather was puzzled, and 
 began to look a trifle angry. * Why damme, 
 who said notice ? What ' 
 
 * Because notice is as easy give as took, 
 Cap'en Kemp, as I 'd 'ave you remember. An' 
 slave I may be though better brought up than 
 slave-drivers any day, but swore at vulgar 
 I won't be, nor trampled like dirt an' litter 
 beneath the feet, an' will not endure it 
 neither!' And with a great toss of the head 
 Mrs. Grimes flounced through the staircase 
 door, and sniffed and bridled her way to the 
 upper rooms. 
 
 Her exit relieved my mind ; first, because I 
 had a wretched consciousness that I was
 
 74 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 causing all the trouble, and a dire fear that 
 Grandfather Nat might dislike me for it ; and 
 second, because when he looked angry I had 
 a fearful foreboding vision of Mrs. Grimes 
 being presently whirled round by the ear and 
 flung into the street, as Jim Crute had been. 
 But it was not long ere I learned that Mrs. 
 Grimes was one of those persons who grumble 
 and clamour and bully at everything and every- 
 body on principle, finding that, with a con- 
 cession here and another there, it pays very 
 well on the whole ; and so nag along very 
 comfortably through life. As for herself, as 
 I had seen, Mrs. Grimes did not lack the 
 cunning to carry away any fit of virtuous 
 indignation that seemed like to push her 
 employer out of his patience. 
 
 My grandfather looked at the bottle that 
 Mrs. Grimes had recorked. 
 
 'That rum shrub,' he said, 'ain't properly 
 mixed. It works in the bottle when it's left 
 standing, an' mounts to the cork. I notice it 
 almost every morning.' 
 
 The day was bright, and I resigned myself 
 with some impatience to wait for an hour or
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 75 
 
 two till we could set out for the docks. It 
 was a matter of business, my grandfather 
 explained, that he must not leave the bar 
 till a fixed hour — ten o'clock ; and soon I 
 beg-an to make a dim g-uess at the nature of 
 
 o o 
 
 the business, though I guessed in all innocence, 
 and suspected not at all. 
 
 Contrary to my evening observation, at 
 this early hour the larger bar was mostly 
 empty, while the obscure compartment at the 
 side was in far greater use than it had been 
 last night. Four or five visitors must have 
 come there, one after another : perhaps half 
 a dozen. And they all had things to sell. 
 Two had watches — one of them was a woman ; 
 one had a locket and a boatswain's silver call ; 
 and I think another had some silver spoons. 
 Grandfather Nat brought each article into 
 the bar-parlour, to examine, and then returned 
 it to its owner ; which behaviour seemed to 
 surprise none of them as it had surprised the 
 man last night ; so that doubtless he was a 
 stranger. To those with watches my grand- 
 father said nothing but ' Yes, that seems all 
 right,' or 'Yes, it's a good enough watch, no 
 doubt.' But to the man with the locket and
 
 76 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 the silver call he said, * Well, if ever you want 
 to sell 'em you might get eight bob ; no 
 more'; and much the same to him with the 
 spoons, except that he thought the spoons 
 mi^ht fetch fifteen shillin<Ts. 
 
 Each of the visitors went out with no more 
 ado ; and as each went, the pale man in the 
 larger bar rose, put his drink safely on the 
 counter, just beyond the partition, and went 
 out too ; and presently he came back, with 
 no more than a glance at Grandfather Nat, 
 took his drink, and sat down again. 
 
 At ten o'clock my grandfather looked out 
 of the bar and said to the pale man : ' All 
 right — drink up.' 
 
 Whereupon the pale man — who would have 
 been paler if his face had been washed — 
 swallowed his drink at last, flat as it must 
 have been, and went out ; and Grandfather 
 Nat went out also, by the door into the 
 passage. He was gone scarce two minutes, 
 and when he returned he unlocked a drawer 
 below the shelf on which the little ship stood, 
 and took from it the cash box I had seen last 
 night. His back was turned toward me, and 
 himself was interposed between my eyes and
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE ']^ 
 
 the box, which he rested on the shelf; but I 
 heard a jingHng that suggested spoons. 
 
 So I said, ' Did the man go to buy the 
 spoons for you, Gran'fa' Nat ? ' 
 
 My grandfather looked round sharply, with 
 something as near a frown as he ever directed 
 on me. Then he locked the box away hastily, 
 with a gruff laugh. 'You won't starve, Stevy,' 
 he said, * as long as wits finds victuals. But 
 see here,' he went on, becoming grave as he 
 sat and drew me to his knee ; * see here, 
 Stevy. What you see here's my business, 
 private business ; understand 1 You ain't a 
 tell-tale, are you ? Not a sneak ? ' 
 
 I repudiated the suggestion with pain and 
 scorn ; for I was at least old enough a boy 
 to see in sneakery the blackest of crimes. 
 
 * No, no, that you ain't, I know,' Grand- 
 father Nat went on, with a pinch of my chin, 
 though he still regarded me earnestly. * A 
 plucked 'un's never a sneak. But there 's one 
 thing for you to remember, Stevy, afore all 
 your readin' an' writin' an' lessons an' what 
 not. You must never tell of anything you 
 see here, not to a soul — that is, not about me 
 buyin' things. I 'm very careful, but things
 
 78 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 don't always go right, an' I might get In 
 trouble. I 'm a straight man, an' I pay for 
 all I have in any line o' trade ; I never stole 
 nor cheated not so much as a farden all my 
 life, nor ever bought anything as I knew was 
 stole. See ? ' 
 
 I nodded gravely. I was trying hard to 
 understand the reason for all this seriousness 
 and secrecy, but at any rate I was resolved to 
 be no tale-bearer ; especially against Grand- 
 father Nat. 
 
 * Why,' he went on, justifying himself, I 
 fancy, more for his own satisfaction than for 
 my information ; * why, even when it 's on'y 
 just suspicious I won't buy — except o' course 
 through another party. That's how I guard 
 myself, Stevy, an' every man has a right to 
 buy a thing reasonable an' sell at a profit if 
 he can ; that 's on'y plain trade. An' yet 
 nobody can't say truthful as he ever sold me 
 anything over that there counter, or anywhere 
 else, barrin' what I have reg'lar of the brewer 
 an' what not. I may look at a thing or pass 
 an opinion, but what's that? Nothin' at all. 
 But we've got to keep our mouths shut, 
 Stevy, for fear o' danger ; see .'* You wouldn't
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 79 
 
 like poor old Grandfather Nat to be put in 
 gaol, would ye ? ' 
 
 The prospect was terrible, and I put my 
 hands about my grandfather's neck and vowed 
 I would never whisper a word. 
 
 ' That 's right, Stevy,' the old man answered, 
 ' I know you won't if you don't forget yourself 
 — so don't do that. Don't take no notice, not 
 even to me.' 
 
 There was a knock at the back door, which 
 opened, and disclosed one of the purlmen ; 
 who had left his boat in sight at the stairs, 
 and wanted a quart of gin in the large tin 
 can he brought with him. He was a short, 
 red-faced, tough-looking fellow, and he needed 
 the gin, as I soon learned, to mix with his 
 hot beer to make the purl. He had a short 
 conversation with my grandfather when the 
 gin was brought, of which I heard no more 
 than the words 'high water at twelve.' But 
 as he went down the passage he turned, 
 and sang out : ' You got the news, Cap'en, 
 o' course ? ' 
 
 • What ? Viney and Marr ? ' 
 
 The man nodded, with a click and a twitch 
 of the mouth. Then he snapped his fingers,
 
 8o THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 and jerked them expressively upward. After 
 which he ejaculated the single word 'Marr,' 
 and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. By 
 which I understood him to repeat, with no 
 waste of language, the story that it was all 
 up with the firm, and the junior partner had 
 bolted. 
 
 'That,' said Grandfather Nat, when the man 
 was gone — ' that 's Bill Stagg, an' he 's the 
 on'y purlman as don't come ashore to sleep. 
 Sleeps in his boat, winter an' summer, does 
 Bill Stagg. How 'd you like that, Stevy ? ' 
 
 I thought I should catch cold, and perhaps 
 tumble overboard, if I had a bad dream ; and 
 I said so. 
 
 'Ah well, Bill Stagg don't mind. He was 
 A.B. aboard o' me when Mr. Viney was my 
 mate many years ago, an' a good A.B. too. 
 Bill Stagg, he makes fast somewhere quiet at 
 night, an' curls up snug as a weevil. Mostly 
 under the piles o' this here house, when the 
 wind ain't east. Saves him rent, ye see ; so 
 he does pretty well.' 
 
 And with that my grandfather put on his 
 coat and reached the pilot cap that was his 
 everyday wear.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 WE walked first to the head of the stairs, 
 where opened a wide picture of the 
 Thames and all its traffic, and where the walls 
 were plastered with a dozen little bills, each 
 headed 'Found Drowned,' and each with the 
 tale of some nameless corpse under the 
 heading. 
 
 'That's my boat, Stevy,' said my grand- 
 father, pointing to a little dinghy with a pair 
 of sculls in her ; ' our boat, if you like, seeing 
 as we 're pardners. Now you shall do which 
 you like ; walk along to the dock, where the 
 sugar is, or come out in our boat.' 
 
 It was a hard choice to make. The glory 
 and delight of the part ownership of a real boat 
 dazzled me like another sun in the sky ; but I 
 had promised myself the docks and the sugar 
 for such a long time. So we compromised ; the 
 docks to-day and the boat to-morrow, 
 F
 
 82 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 Out in the street everybody seemed to know 
 Grandfather Nat. Those who spoke with him 
 commonly called him Captain Kemp, except a 
 few old acquaintances to whom he was Captain 
 Nat. Loafers and crimps gazed after him and 
 nodded together ; and small ship-chandlers 
 gave him good morning from their shop-doors. 
 
 A hundred yards from the Hole in the Wall, 
 at a turn, there was a swing bridge and a lock, 
 such as we had by the old house in Blackwall. 
 At the moment we came in hail the men were 
 at the winch, and the bridge began to part in 
 the middle ; for a ship was about to change 
 berth to the inner dock. 'Come, Stevy,' said 
 my grandfather, ' we '11 take the lock 'fore they 
 open that. Not afraid if I 'm with you, are 
 you ?' 
 
 No, I was not afraid with Grandfather Nat, 
 and would not even be carried. Though the 
 top of the lock was not two feet wide, and was 
 knotted, broken and treacherous in surface 
 and wholly unguarded on one side, where 
 one looked plump down into the foul dock- 
 water ; and though on the other side there 
 was but a slack chain strung through loose 
 iron stanchions that staggered in their sockets.
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 83 
 
 Grandfather Nat gripped me by the collar 
 and walked me before him ; but relief tempered 
 my triumph when I was safe across ; my feet 
 never seemed to have twisted and slipped and 
 stumbled so much before in so short a dis- 
 tance — perhaps because in that same distance 
 I had never before recollected so many tales 
 of men drowned in the docks by falling off 
 just such locks, in fogs, or by accidental 
 slips. 
 
 A little farther along, and we came upon 
 Ratcliff Highway. I saw the street then 
 for the first time, and in truth it was very 
 wonderful. I think there could never have 
 been another street in this country at once 
 so foul and so picturesque as Ratcliff Highway 
 at the time I speak of. Much that I saw I 
 could not understand, child as I was ; and 
 by so much the more was I pleased with it 
 all, when perhaps I should have been shocked. 
 From end to end of the Highway and beyond, 
 and through all its tributaries and purlieus 
 everything and everybody was for, by, and 
 of, the sailor ashore ; every house and shop 
 was devoted to his convenience and incon- 
 venience ; in the Highway it seemed to me
 
 84 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 that every other house was a tavern, and In 
 several places two stood together. There 
 were shops full of slops, sou'westers, pilot- 
 coats, sea-boots, tin pannikins, and canvas 
 kit-bags like giants' bolsters ; and rows of big 
 knives and daggers, often engraved with 
 suggestive maxims. A flash of memory recalls 
 the favourite : * Never draw me without cause, 
 never sheathe me without honour.' I have 
 since seen the words 'cause' and 'honour' 
 put to uses less respectable. 
 
 The pawn-shops had nothing in them that 
 had not come straight from a ship — sextants 
 and boatswain's pipes being the choice of the 
 stock. And pawn-shops, slop-shops, tobacco- 
 shops — every shop almost — had somewhere in 
 its window a selection of those curiosities that 
 sailors make abroad or bring home ; little ship- 
 models mysteriously erected inside bottles, 
 shells, albatross heads, saw-fish snouts, and 
 bottles full of sand of different colours, in- 
 geniously packed so as to present a figure or 
 a picture when viewed from without. 
 
 Men of a dozen nations were comingr or 
 going in every score of yards. The best 
 dressed, and the worst, were the negroes;
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 85 
 
 for the black cook who was flush went in for 
 adornments that no other sailor-man would 
 have dreamed of; a white shirt, a flaming 
 tie, a black coat with satin facings — even a 
 white waistcoat and a top hat. While the 
 cleaned-out and shipless nigger was a sad 
 spectacle indeed. Then there were Spaniards, 
 swart, long-haired, bloodshot-looking fellows, 
 whose entire shore outfit consisted commonly 
 of a red shirt, blue trousers, ankle-jacks with 
 the brown feet visible over them, a belt, a 
 big knife, and a pair of large gold earrings. 
 Big, yellow-haired, blue-eyed Swedes, who 
 were full pink with sea and sun, and not 
 brown or mahogany- coloured, like the rest; 
 slight, wicked-looking Malays ; lean, spitting 
 Yankees, with stripes, and felt hats, and sing- 
 song oaths ; sometimes a Chinaman, petti- 
 coated, dignified, jeered at ; a Lascar, a Greek, 
 a Russian ; and everywhere the English Jack, 
 rolling of gait — sometimes from habit alone, 
 sometimes for mixed reasons — hard, red-necked, 
 waistcoatless, with his knife at his belt, like 
 the rest : but more commonly a clasp-knife 
 than one in a sheath. To me all these 
 strangely bedight men were matter of delight
 
 86 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 and wonder ; and I guessed my hardest whence 
 each had come last, what he had brought in 
 his ship, and what strange and desperate 
 adventures he had encountered on the way. 
 And wherever I saw bare, hairy skin, whether 
 an arm, or the chest under an open shirt, there 
 were blue devices of ships, of flags, of women, 
 of letters and names. Grandfather Nat was 
 tattooed like that, as I had discovered in the 
 morning, when he washed. He had been a 
 fool to have it done, he said, as he flung the 
 soapy water out of window into the river, and 
 he warned me that I must be careful never 
 to make such a mistake myself; which made 
 me sorry, because it seemed so gallant an 
 embellishment. But my grandfather explained 
 that you could be identified by tattoo-marks, 
 at any length of time, which might cause 
 trouble. I remembered that my own father 
 was tattooed with an anchor and my mother's 
 name ; and I hoped he would never be 
 identified, if it were as bad as that. 
 
 In the street oyster-stalls stood, and baked- 
 potato cans ; one or two sailors were buying, 
 and one or two fiddlers, but mostly the 
 customers were the gaudy women, who seemed
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 87 
 
 to make a late breakfast in this way. Some 
 had not stayed to perform a greater toilet than 
 to fling clothes on themselves unhooked and 
 awry, and to make a straggling knot of their 
 hair; but the most were brilliant enough in 
 violet or scarlet or blue, with hair oiled and 
 crimped and hung in thick nets, and with 
 bright handkerchiefs over their shoulders — 
 belcher yellows and kingsmen and blue billies. 
 And presently we came on one who was 
 dancing with a sailor on the pavement, to 
 the music of one of the many fiddlers who 
 picked up a living hereabout ; and she wore 
 the regular dancing rig of the Highway — 
 short skirts and hio;h red morocco boots with 
 brass heels. She covered the buckle and 
 grape-vined with great precision, too, a con- 
 trast with her partner, whose hornpipe was 
 unsteady and vague in the figures, for indeed 
 he seemed to have ' begun early ' — perhaps 
 had not left off all night. Two more pairs 
 of these red morocco boots we saw at a place 
 next a public house, where a shop front had 
 been cleared out to make a dancing room, 
 with a sort of buttery-hatch communicating 
 with the tavern ; and where a flushed sailor
 
 SS THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 now stood with a pot in each hand, roaring for 
 a fiddler. 
 
 But if the life and the picturesqueness of the 
 Highway in some sort disguised its squalor, 
 they made the more hideously apparent the 
 abomination of the by-streets : which opened, 
 filthy and menacing, at every fifty yards as we 
 went. The light seemed greyer, the very air 
 thicker and fouler in these passages ; though 
 indeed they formed the residential part whereof 
 the Highway was the market-place. The 
 children who ran and tumbled in these places, 
 the boy of nine equally with the infant crawling 
 from doorstep to gutter, were half naked, shoe- 
 less, and disguised in crusted foulness ; so that 
 I remember them with a certain sickening, 
 even in these latter days ; when I see no such 
 pitiably neglected little wretches, though I 
 know the dark parts of London well enough. 
 
 At the mouth of one of these narrow streets, 
 almost at the beginning of the Highway, 
 Grandfather Nat stopped and pointed. 
 
 It was a forbidding lane, with forbidding 
 men and women hanging about the entrance ; 
 and far up toward the end there appeared to 
 be a crowd and a fight ; in the midst whereof
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 89 
 
 a half-naked man seemed to be rushing from 
 side to side of the street. 
 
 ' That 's the Blue Gate,' said my grandfather, 
 and resumed his walk. 'It's dangerous,' he 
 went on, ' the worst place hereabout — perhaps 
 anywhere. Wuss'n Tiger Bay, a mile. You 
 must never go near Blue Gate. People get 
 murdered there, Stevy — murdered — many 's a 
 man ; sailor-men mostly ; an' nobody never 
 knows. Pitch them in the Dock sometimes, 
 sometimes in the river, so 's they 're washed 
 away. I 've known 'em taken to Hole-in-the- 
 Wall Stairs at night.' 
 
 I gripped my grandfather's hand tighter, 
 and asked, in all innocence, if we should see 
 any, if we kept a watch out of window that 
 night. He laughed, thought the chance scarce 
 worth a sleepless night, and went on to tell 
 me of something else. But I overheard later 
 in a bar conversation a ghastly tale of years 
 before ; of a murdered man's body that had 
 been dragged dripping through the streets at 
 night by two men who supported its arms, 
 staggering and shouting and singing, as though 
 the three were merely drunk ; and how it was 
 dropped in panic ere it was brought to the
 
 90 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 waterside, because of a collision with three live 
 sailors who really were drunk. 
 
 One or two crimps' carts came through from 
 the docks as we walked, drawn by sorry 
 animals, and piled high with shouting sailors 
 and their belongings — chief among these the 
 giant bolster-bags. The victims went to their 
 fate gloriously enough, hailing and chaffing the 
 populace on the way, and singing, each man as 
 he list. Also we saw a shop with a window 
 full of parrots and monkeys ; and a very sick 
 kangaroo in a wooden cage being carried in 
 from a van. 
 
 And so we came to the London Dock at 
 last. And there, in the sugar-sheds, stood more 
 sugar than ever I had dreamed of in my wildest 
 visions — thousands of barrels, mountains of 
 sacks. And so many of the bags were rat- 
 bitten, or had got a slit by accidentally running 
 up against a jack-knife ; and so many of the 
 barrels were defective, or had stove themselves 
 by perverse complications with a crowbar; 
 that the heavy, brown, moist stuff was lying in 
 heaps and lumps everywhere ; and I supposed 
 that it must be called ' foot-sugar ' because you 
 couldn't help treading on it.
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 91 
 
 It was while I was absorbed in this delect- 
 able spectacle, that I heard a strained little 
 voice behind me, and turned to behold Mr. 
 Cripps greeting my grandfather. 
 
 'Good mornin', Cap'en Kemp, sir,' said Mr. 
 Cripps. * I been a-lookin' at the noo Blue 
 Grosser — the Emily Riggs. She ought to be 
 done, ye know, an' a han'some picter she 'd 
 make ; but the skipper seems busy. Why, 
 an' there's young master Stephen, I do 
 declare ; 'ow are ye, sir ? ' 
 
 As he bent and the nose neared, I was seized 
 with a horrid fear that he was going to kiss me. 
 But he only shook hands, after all — though it 
 was not at all a clean hand that he gave. 
 
 'Why, Gap'en Kemp,' he went on, 'this is 
 what I say a phenomenal coincidence ; rather 
 unique, in fact. Why, you '11 'ardly believe as 
 I was a thinkin' o' you not 'arf an hour ago, 
 scarcely ! Now you wouldn't 'a' thought that, 
 would ye ? ' 
 
 There was a twinkle in Grandfather Nat's 
 eye. * All depends,' he said. 
 
 ' Comin' along from the mortuary, I see 
 somethink ' 
 
 * Ah, something in the mortuary, no doubt,'
 
 92 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 my grandfather interrupted, quizzically. ' Well, 
 what was in the mortuary ? I bet there was a 
 corpse in the mortuary.' 
 
 * Quite correct, Cap'en Kemp, so there was ; 
 three of 'em, an' a very sad sight ; decimated, 
 Cap'en Kemp, by the watery element. But it 
 wasn't them I was ' 
 
 'What! It wasn't a corpse as reminded 
 you of me? That's rum. Then I expect 
 somebody told you some more about Viney 
 and Marr. Come, what's the latest about 
 Viney an' Marr? Tell us about that.' 
 
 Grandfather Nat was humorously bent on 
 driving Mr. Cripps from his mark, and Mr. 
 Cripps deferred. ' Well, it 's certainly a topic,' 
 he said, ' a universal topic. Crooks the ship- 
 chandler 's done for, they say — unsolvent. 
 The Minerva s reported off Prawle Point in 
 to-day's list, an' they say as she '11 be sold up 
 as soon as she 's moored. But there — she 's 
 hypotenused, Cap'en Kemp ; pawned, as you 
 might say; up the flue. It's a matter o' 
 gen'ral information that she's pawned up to 
 'er r'yals — up to 'er main r'yals, sir. Which 
 reminds me, speakin' o' r'yals, there 's a timber- 
 shop just along by the mortuary '
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 93 
 
 *Ah, no doubt,' Grandfather Nat inter- 
 rupted, ' they must put 'em somewhere. Any 
 news o' the Juno ? ' 
 
 * No sir, she ain't reported ; not doo Bar- 
 badoes yet, or mail not in, any'ow. They '11 sell 
 'er too, but the creditors won't get none of it. 
 She's hypotenused as deep as the other — up 
 to her r'yals ; an' there 's nothin' else to sell. 
 So it 's the gen'ral opinion there won't be much 
 to divide, Marr 'avin' absconded with the 
 proceeds. An' as regards what I was agoin' 
 
 to ■ 
 
 'Yes, you was goin' to tell me some more 
 about Marr, I expect,' my grandfather persisted. 
 ' Heard where he 's gone ? ' 
 
 Mr. Cripps shook his head. 'They don't 
 seem likely to ketch 'im, Cap'en Nat. Some 
 says 'e 's absconded out o' the country, others 
 says 'e's 'idin' in it. Nobody knows 'im much, 
 consequence o' Viney doin' all the outdoor 
 business — I on'y see 'im once myself. Viney, 
 'e thinks 'e 's gone abroad, they say ; an' 'e 
 swears Marr's the party as is caused the 
 unsolvency, 'avin' bin a-doin' of 'im all along ; 
 'im bein' in charge o' the books. An' it's a 
 fact, Cap'en Kemp, as you never know what
 
 94 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 them chaps may get up to with the proceeds 
 as as charge o' books. The paper's full of 
 em every week — always absconding with some- 
 body's proceeds! An' by the way, speakin' 
 o' proceeds ' 
 
 This time Captain Nat made no interruption, 
 but listened with an amused resignation. 
 
 'Speakin' o' proceeds,' said Mr. Cripps, *it 
 was bein' temp'ry out o' proceeds as made 
 me think o' you as I come along from the 
 mortuary. For I see as 'andsome a bit o' 
 panel for to paint a sign on as ever I come 
 across. It was ' 
 
 *Yes, I know. Enough to stimilate you to 
 paint it fine, only to look at it, wasn't it ? ' 
 
 * Well, yes, Cap'n Kemp, so it was.' 
 
 'Not dear, neither?' 
 
 ' No — not to say dear, seein' 'ow prices is 
 up. If I 'd 'ad ' 
 
 'Well, well, p'raps prices '11 be down a bit 
 soon,' said Grandfather Nat, grinning and 
 pulling out a sixpence. ' I ain't good for no 
 more than that now, anyhow ! ' And having 
 passed over the coin he took my hand and 
 turned away, laughing and shaking his head. 
 
 Seeing that my grandfather wanted his
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 95 
 
 sign, it seemed to me that he was losing an 
 opportunity, and I said so. 
 
 ' What ! ' he said, ' let him buy the board ? 
 Why he 's had half a dozen boards for that 
 sign a'ready ! ' 
 
 ' Half a dozen ? ' I said. * Six boards ? 
 What did he do with them ? ' 
 
 ' Ate 'em ! ' said Grandfather Nat, and 
 laughed the louder when I stared.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 I FOUND it quite true that one might eat 
 the loose sugar wherever he judged it 
 clean enough — as most of it was. And 
 nothing but Grandfather Nat's restraining 
 hand postponed my first bilious attack. 
 
 Thus it was that I made acquaintance with 
 the Highway, and with the London Docks, 
 in their more picturesque days, and saw and 
 delighted in a thousand things more than I 
 can write. Port was drunk then, and hundreds 
 of great pipes lay in rows on a wide quay 
 where men walked with wooden clubs, whack- 
 ing each pipe till the * shive ' or wooden bung 
 sprang into the air, to be caught with a 
 dexterity that pleased me like a conjuring 
 trick. And many a thirsty dock-labourer, 
 watching his opportunity, would cut a strip of 
 bread from his humble dinner as he strolled 
 near a pipe, and, absorbed in the contempla- 
 
 96
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 97 
 
 tion of the indefinite empyrean, absently dip 
 his sippet into the shive-hole as he passed ; 
 recovering it in a state so wet and discoloured 
 that its instant consumption was imperative. 
 
 And so at last we came away from the 
 docks by the thoroughfare then called Tangle- 
 foot Lane ; not that that name, or anything 
 like it, was painted at the corner ; but because 
 it was the road commonly taken by visitors 
 departing from the wine-vaults after bringing 
 tasting-orders. 
 
 As we passed Blue Gate on our way home, 
 I saw, among those standing at the corner, 
 a coarse-faced, untidy woman, talking to a 
 big, bony-looking man with a face so thin 
 and mean that it seemed misplaced on such 
 shoulders. The woman was so much like a 
 score of others then in sight, that I should 
 scarce have noted her, were it not that she 
 and the man stopped their talk as we passed, 
 with a quick look, first at my grandfather, and 
 then one at the other ; and then the man 
 turned his back and walked away. Presently 
 the woman came after us, walking quickly, 
 glancing doubtfully at Grandfather Nat as 
 she passed ; and at last, after twice looking 
 G
 
 98 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 back, she turned and waited for us to come 
 up. 
 
 * Beg pardon, Cap'en Kemp,' she said in a 
 low, but a very thick voice, ' but might I 
 speak to you a moment, sir ? ' 
 
 My grandfather looked at her sharply. 
 ' Well,' he said, * what is it ? ' 
 
 * In regards to a man as sold you a watch 
 las' nioht ' 
 
 ' No,' Grandfather Nat interrupted with 
 angry decision, 'he didn't.' 
 
 ' Beg pardon, sir, jesso sir — 'course not ; 
 which I mean to say 'e sold it to a man near to 
 your 'ouse. Is it brought true as that party — 
 not meanin' you, sir, 'course not, but the party 
 in the street near your 'ouse — is it brought 
 true as that party '11 buy somethink more — 
 somethink as I needn't tell now, sir, p'raps, 
 but somethink spoke of between that party an' 
 the other party — I mean the party as sold it, 
 an' don't mean you, sir, 'course not '^ ' 
 
 It was plain that the woman, who had 
 begun in trepidation, was confused and abashed 
 the more by the hard frown with which 
 Captain Nat regarded her. The frown per- 
 sisted for some moments; and then my grand-
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 99 
 
 father said : ' Don't know what you mean. 
 If somebody bought anything of a friend o' 
 yours, an' your friend wants to sell him some- 
 thing else, I suppose he can take it to him, 
 can't he? And if it's any value, there's no 
 reason he shouldn't buy it, so far as I know.' 
 And Grandfather Nat strode on. 
 
 The woman murmured some sort of acknow- 
 ledgment, and fell back, and in a moment 
 I had forgotten her ; though I remembered 
 her afterward, for good reason enough. 
 
 In fact, it was no later than that evening. 
 I was sitting in the bar-parlour with Grand- 
 father Nat, who had left the bar to the care 
 of the potman. My grandfather was smoking 
 his pipe, while I spelled and sought down the 
 narrow columns of Lloyd's List for news of 
 my father's ship. It was my grandfather's 
 way to excuse himself from reading, when he 
 could, on the plea of unsuitable eyes ; though 
 I suspect that, apart from his sight, he found 
 reading a greater trouble than he was pleased 
 to own. 
 
 ' There 's nothing here about the Jtmo, 
 Grandfather Nat,' I said. * Nothing any- 
 where.'
 
 loo THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said my grandfather, ' La Guaira 
 was the last port, an' we must keep eyes on 
 the list for Barbadoes. Maybe the mail's late.' 
 Most of Lloyd's messages came by mail at 
 that time. 'Let's see,' he went on; 'Belize, 
 La Guaira, Barbadoes ' ; and straightway began 
 to fiofure out distances and chances of wind. 
 
 Grandfather Nat had been considering 
 whether or not we should write to my father 
 to tell him that my mother was dead, and he 
 judged that there was little chance of any 
 letter reaching the Juno on her homeward 
 passage. 
 
 ' Belize, La Guaira, Barbadoes,' said Grand- 
 father Nat, musingly. 'It's the rough season 
 thereabout, an' it 's odds she may be blown 
 out of her course. But the mail ' 
 
 He stopped and turned his head. There 
 was a sudden stamp of feet outside the door 
 behind us, a low and quick voice, a heavy 
 thud against the door, and then a cry — a 
 dreadful cry, that began like a stifled scream 
 and ended with a cjursfle. 
 
 Grandfather Nat reached the door at a 
 bound, and as he flung it wide a man came 
 with it and sank heavily at his feet, head and
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE loi 
 
 one shoulder over the threshold, and an arm 
 flung out stiffly, so that the old man stumbled 
 across it as he dashed at a dark shadow 
 without. 
 
 I was hard at my grandfather's heels, and 
 in a flash of time I saw that another man was 
 risinof from over the one on the doorsill. But 
 for the stumble Grandfather Nat would have 
 had him. In that moment's check the fellow 
 spun round and dashed off, striking one of 
 the great posts with his shoulder, and nearly 
 going down with the shock. 
 
 All was dark without, and what I saw was 
 merely confused by the light from the bar- 
 parlour. My grandfather raised a shout and 
 rushed in the wake of the fugitive, toward 
 the stairs, and I, too startled and too excited 
 to be frightened yet, skipped over the stiff 
 arm to follow him. At the first step I trod 
 on some object which I took to be my grand- 
 father's tobacco-pouch, snatched it up, and 
 stuffed it in my jacket pocket as I ran. 
 Several men from the bar were running in 
 the passage, and down the stairs I could hear 
 Captain Nat hallooing across the river. 
 
 * Ahoy ! ' came a voice in reply. ' What 's
 
 I02 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 up ? * And I could see the fire of a purl-boat 
 coming" in. 
 
 ' Stop him, Bill ! ' my grandfather shouted. 
 'Stop him! Stabbed a man! He's got my 
 boat, and there 's no sculls in this damned 
 thing ! Gone round them barges 1 ' 
 
 And now I could distinguish my grand- 
 father in a boat, paddling desperately with a 
 stretcher, his face and his shirt-sleeves touched 
 with the light from the purlman's fire. 
 
 The purl-boat swung round and shot off, 
 and presently other boats came pulling by, 
 with shouts and questions. Then I saw 
 Grandfather Nat, a black form merely, climb- 
 ing on a barge and running and skipping 
 along the tier, from one barge to another, 
 calling and directing, till I could see him no 
 more. There were many men on the stairs 
 by this time, and others came running and 
 jostling ; so I made my way back to the bar- 
 parlour door. 
 
 It was no easy thing to get in here, for a 
 crowd was orathering-. But a man from the 
 bar who recognised me made a way, and as 
 soon as I had pushed through the crowd of 
 men's legs I saw that the injured m.an was
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 103 
 
 lying on the floor, tended by the potman ; 
 while Mr. Cripps, his face palHd under the 
 dirt, and his nose a deadly lavender, stood by, 
 with his mouth open and his hands dangling 
 aimlessly. 
 
 The stabbed man lay with his head on a 
 rolled-up coat of my grandfather's, and he 
 was bad for a child to look at. His face had 
 gone tallowy ; his eyes, which turned (and 
 frightened me) as I came in, were now directed 
 steadily upward ; he breathed low and quick, 
 and though Joe the potman pressed cloths 
 to the wound in his chest, there was blood 
 about his lips and chin, and blood bubbled 
 dreadfully in his mouth. But what startled 
 me most, and what fixed my regard on his 
 face despite my tremors, so that I could scarce 
 take my eyes from it, was the fact that, pale- 
 ness and blood and drawn cheeks notwith- 
 standing, I saw in him the ugly, broken-nosed 
 fellow who had been in the private compart- 
 ment last night, with a watch to sell ; the 
 watch, with an initial on the back, that now 
 lay in Grandfather Nat's cash-box.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 SOMEBODY was gone for a doctor, it was 
 said, but a doctor was not always easy 
 to find in Wapping. Mrs. Grimes, who was 
 at some late work upstairs, was not disturbed 
 at first by the noise, since excitement was not 
 uncommon in the neighbourhood. But now 
 she came to the stairfoot door, and peeped 
 and hurried back. For myself, I squeezed 
 into a far corner and stared, a little sick ; for 
 there was a deal of blood, and Joe the potman 
 was all dabbled, like a slaughterman. 
 
 My grandfather returned almost on the 
 doctor's heels, and with my grandfather were 
 some river police, in glazed hats and pilot 
 coats. The doctor puffed and shook his head, 
 called for cold water, and cloths, and turpentine, 
 and milk. Cold water and cloths were ready 
 enough, and turpentine was easy to get, but 
 ere the milk came it was useless. The doctor 
 
 104
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 105 
 
 shook his head and puffed more than ever, 
 wiped his hands and pulled his cuffs down 
 gingerly. I could not see the man on the 
 floor, now, for the doctor was in the way ; but I 
 heard him, just before the doctor stood up. The 
 noise sent my neck cold at the back ; though 
 indeed it was scarce more than the noise made 
 in emptying a large bottle by up-ending it. 
 
 The doctor stood up and shook his head. 
 •Gone,' he said. 'And I couldn't have done 
 more than keep him alive a few minutes, at 
 best. It was the lung, and bad — two places. 
 Have they got the man ? ' 
 
 'No,' said Grandfather Nat, ' nor ain't very 
 likely, I 'd say. Never saw him again, once 
 he got behind a tier o' lighters. Waterside 
 chap, certain ; knows the river well enough, 
 an' these stairs. I couldn't ha' got that boat 
 o' mine off quicker, not myself 
 
 'Ah,' said one of the river policemen, 'he's 
 a waterside chap, that's plain enough. Any 
 other 'ud a-bolted up the street. Never said 
 nothing, did he — this one.-*' He was bending 
 over the dead man ; while the others cleared 
 the people back from the door, and squeezed 
 Mr. Cripps out among them.
 
 io6 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 ' No, not a word,' answered Joe the potman. 
 * Couldn't. Tried to nod once when I spoke 
 to 'im, but it seemed to make 'im bleed 
 faster.' 
 
 ' Know him, Cap'en Nat .'' ' asked the ser- 
 geant. 
 
 ' No,' answered my grandfather, ' I don't 
 know him. Might ha' seen him hanging about 
 p'raps. But then I see a lot doin' that.' 
 
 I wondered if Grandfather Nat had already- 
 forgotten about the silver watch with the M 
 on it, or if he had merely failed to recognise 
 the man. But I remembered what he had 
 said in the morning, after he had bought the 
 spoons, and I reflected that I had best hold 
 my tongue. 
 
 And now voices without made it known that 
 the shore police were here, with a stretcher; 
 and presently, with a crowding and squeezing 
 in the little bar-parlour that drove me deeper 
 into my corner and farther under the shelf, the 
 uncomely figure was got from the floor to the 
 stretcher, and so out of the house. 
 
 It was plain that my grandfather was held 
 in good regard by the police ; and I think that 
 his hint that a drop of brandy was at the
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 107 
 
 service of anybody who felt the job unpleasant 
 miorht have been acted on, if there had not 
 been quite as many present at once. When 
 at last they were gone, and the room clear, he 
 kicked into a heap the strip of carpet that the 
 dead man had lain on ; and as he did it, he 
 perceived me in my corner. 
 
 ' What — you here all the time, Stevy ? ' he 
 said. * I thought you 'd gone upstairs. Here 
 — it ain't right for boys in general, but you 've 
 got a turn ; drink up this.' 
 
 I believe I must have been pale, and indeed 
 I felt a little sick now that the excitement was 
 over. The thing had been very near, and the 
 blood tainted the very air. So that I gulped 
 the weak brandy and water without much 
 difficulty, and felt better. Out in the bar 
 Mr. Cripps's thin voice was raised in thrilling 
 description. 
 
 Feeling better, as I have said, and no longer 
 faced with the melancholy alternatives of cry- 
 ing or being ill, I bethought me of my grand- 
 father's tobacco-pouch. ' You dropped your 
 pouch, Gran'father Nat,' I said, ' and I picked 
 it up when I ran out.' 
 
 And with that I pulled out of my jacket
 
 io8 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 pocket — not the pouch at all ; but a stout 
 buckled pocket-book of about the same size. 
 
 * That ain't a pouch, Stevy,' said Grandfather 
 Nat; 'an' mine's here in my pocket. Show 
 me.* 
 
 He opened the flap, and stood for a moment 
 staring. Then he looked up hastily, turned 
 his back to the bar, and sat down. ' Whew ! 
 Stevy ! ' he said, with amazement in his eyes 
 and the pocket-book open in his hand ; ' you 're 
 in luck ; luck, my boy. See ! ' 
 
 Once more he glanced quickly over his 
 shoulder, toward the bar; and then took in 
 his fingers a folded bunch of paper, and opened 
 it. ' Notes ! ' he said, in a low voice, drawing 
 me to his side. 'Bank of England notes, 
 every one of 'em ! Fifties, an' twenties, an' 
 tens, an' fives ! Where was it.-* ' 
 
 I told him how I had run out at his heels, 
 had trodden on the thing in the dark, and had 
 slipped it into my pocket, supposing it to be 
 his old leather tobacco-pouch, from which he 
 had but just refilled his pipe ; and how I had 
 forgotten about it, in my excitement, till the 
 people were gone, and the brandy had quelled 
 my faintness.
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 109 
 
 'Well, well,' commented Grandfather Nat, 
 ' it 's a wonderful bit o' luck, anyhow. This is 
 what the chap was pulling away from him 
 when I opened the door, you can lay to that ; 
 an' he lost it when he hit the post, I '11 
 wager ; unless the other pitched it away. 
 But that's neither here nor there. . . . What's 
 that?' He turned his head quickly. 'That 
 stairfoot door ain't latched again, Stevy. Made 
 me jump : fancied it was the other.' 
 
 There was nothing else in the pocket-book, 
 it would seem, except an old photograph. It 
 was a faded, yellowish thing, and it repre- 
 sented a rather stout woman, seated, with a 
 boy of about fourteen at her side ; both very 
 respectably dressed in the fashion of twenty 
 years earlier. Grandfather Nat put it back, 
 and slipped the pocket-book into the same 
 cash-box that had held the watch with the M 
 engraved on its back. 
 
 The stairfoot door clicked again, and my 
 grandfather sent me to shut it. As I did so 
 I almost fancied I could hear soft footsteps 
 ascending. But then I concluded I was mis- 
 taken ; for in a few moments Mrs. Grimes 
 was plainly heard coming downstairs, with an
 
 no THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 uncommonly full tread ; and presently she pre- 
 sented herself. 
 
 'Good law, Cap'en Kemp,' exclaimed Mrs. 
 Grimes, with a hand clutching at her chest, 
 and her breath a tumultuous sigh ; * Good law ! 
 I am that bad ! What with extry work, an' 
 keepin' on late, an' murders under my very 
 nose, I cannot a-bear it — no ! ' And she sank 
 into a chair by the stairfoot door, letting go 
 her brush and dust-pan with a clatter. 
 
 Grandfather Nat turned to get the brandy- 
 bottle again. Mrs. Grimes's head drooped 
 faintly, and her eyelids nearly closed. Never- 
 theless I observed that the eyes under the lids 
 were very sharp indeed, following my grand- 
 father's back, and traversing the shelf where 
 he had left the photograph ; yet when he 
 brought the brandy, he had to rouse her by a 
 shake.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 I WE NT to bed early that night — as soon 
 as Mrs. Grimes was gone, in fact. My 
 grandfather had resolved that such a late 
 upsitting as last night's must be no more than 
 an indulgence once in a way. He came up 
 with me, bringing the cash-box to put away in 
 the little wall-cupboard against his bed-head 
 where it always lay, at night, with a pistol by 
 its side. Grandfather Nat peeped to see the 
 pocket-book safe once more, and chuckled as 
 he locked it away. This done, he sat by my 
 side, and talked till I began to fall asleep. 
 
 The talk was of the pocket-book, and what 
 should be done with the money. Eight 
 hundred pounds was the sum, and two five- 
 pound notes over, and I wondered why a man 
 with so much money should come, the evening 
 before, to sell his watch. 
 
 * Looks as though the money wasn't his, 
 
 111
 
 112 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 don't it ? ' commented Grandfather Nat. 
 'Though anyhow it's no good to him now. 
 You found it, an' it's yours, Stevy.' 
 
 I remembered certain lessons of my mother's 
 as to one's proper behaviour toward lost 
 property, and I mentioned them. But Grand- 
 father Nat clearly resolved me that this was 
 no case in point. * It can't be his, because 
 he's dead,' Captain Nat argued; 'an' if it's 
 the other chap's — well, let him come an' ask 
 for it. That 's fair enough, you know, Stevy. 
 An' if he don't come — it ain't likely he will, is 
 it ? — then It 's yours ; and I '11 keep it to help 
 start you in life when you grow up. I won't 
 pay it into the bank — not for a bit, anyhow. 
 There 's numbers on bank notes : an' they 
 lead to trouble, often. But they 're as good 
 one time as another, an' easy sent abroad later 
 on, or what not. So there you are, my boy ! 
 Eight hundred odd to start you like a gentle- 
 man, with as much more as Grandfather Nat 
 can put to it. Eh .? ' 
 
 He kissed me and rubbed his hands in my 
 curls, and I took the occasion to communicate 
 my decision as to being a purlman. Grand- 
 father Nat laughed, and patted my head down
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 113 
 
 on the pillow ; and for a little I remembered 
 no more. 
 
 I awoke in an agony of nightmare. The 
 dead man, with blood streaming from mouth 
 and eyes, was dragging my grandfather down 
 into the river, and my mother with my little 
 dead brother in her arms called me to throw 
 out the pocket-book, and save him ; and throw 
 I could not, for the thing seemed glued to my 
 fingers. So I awoke with a choke and a cry, 
 and sat up in bed. 
 
 All was quiet about me, and below were the 
 common evening noises of the tavern ; laughs, 
 argumentation, and the gurgle of drawn beer ; 
 thouoh there was less noise now than when I 
 had come up, and I judged it not far from 
 closing time. Out in the street a woman was 
 singing a ballad ; and I got out of bed and 
 went to the front room window to see and 
 to hear ; for indeed I was out of sorts and 
 nervous, and wished to look at people. 
 
 At the corner of the passage there was a 
 small group who pointed and talked together 
 — plainly discussing the murder ; and as one 
 or two drifted away, so one or two more 
 came up to join those remaining. No 
 
 H
 
 114 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 doubt the singing woman had taken this pitch 
 as one suitable to her ware — for she sang and 
 fluttered at length in her hand one of the 
 versified last dying confessions that even so 
 late as this were hawked about Ratcliff and 
 Wapping. What murderer's ' confession ' the 
 woman was singing I have clean forgotten ; 
 but they were all the same, all set to a doleful 
 tune which, with modifications, still does duty, 
 I believe, as an evening hymn ; and the 
 burden ran thus, for every murderer and any 
 murder : — 
 
 Take warning by my dreadful fate ^ 
 
 The truth I can't deny ; 
 This dreadful crime that I are done 
 
 I are condemned to die. 
 
 The singular grammar of the last two lines 
 I never quite understood, not having noticed 
 its like elsewhere ; but I put it down as a 
 distinguishing characteristic of the speech of 
 murderers. 
 
 I waited till the woman had taken her 
 ballads away, and I had grown uncommonly 
 cold in the legs, and then crept back to bed. 
 But now I had fully wakened myself, and sleep 
 was impossible. Presently I got up again, and
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 115 
 
 looked out over the river. Very black and 
 mysterious it lay, the blacker, it seemed, for 
 the thousand lights that spotted it, craft and 
 shore. No purlmen's fires were to be seen, 
 for work on the colliers was done long ago, 
 but once a shout and now a hail came over the 
 water, faint or loud, far or near ; and up the 
 wooden wall I leaned on came the steady sound 
 of the lapping against the piles below. I 
 wondered where Grandfather Nat's boat — our 
 boat — lay now ; if the murderer were still 
 rowing in it, and would row and row right 
 away to sea, where my father was, in his ship ; 
 or if he would be caught, and make a dying 
 confession with all the ' haves ' and ' ams ' 
 replaced by * ares ' ; or if, indeed, he had 
 already met providential retribution by drown- 
 ing. In which case I doubted for the safety 
 of the boat, and hoped Grandfather Nat would 
 buy another. And my legs growing cold 
 again, I retreated once more. 
 
 I heard the customers being turned into the 
 street, and the shutters going up ; and then I 
 got under the bed-clothes, for I recalled the 
 nightmare, and it was not pleasant. It grew 
 rather worse, indeed, for my waking fancy
 
 ii6 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 enlarged and embellished it, and I longed to 
 hear the tread of Grandfather Nat ascendinof 
 the stair. But he was late to-night. I heard 
 Joe the potman, who slept off the premises, 
 shut the door and go off up the street. 
 For a few minutes Grandfather Nat was 
 moving about the bar and the bar-parlour; 
 and then there was silence, save for the noises 
 — the clicks and the creaks — that the old house 
 made of itself. 
 
 I waited and waited, sometimes with my 
 head out of the clothes, sometimes with no 
 more than a contrived hole next my ear, listen- 
 inor. Till at last I could wait no long-er, for the 
 house seemed alive with stealthy movement, 
 and I shook with the indefinite terror that 
 comes, some night or another, to the most 
 unimaginative child. I thought, at first, of 
 calling to my grandfather, but that would seem 
 babyish ; so I said my prayers over again, held 
 my breath, and faced the terrors of the staircase. 
 The boards sang and creaked under my bare 
 feet, and the black about me was full of dim 
 coloured faces. But I pushed the door and 
 drew breath in the honest lamp-light of the 
 bar-parlour at last.
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 117 
 
 Nobody was there, and nobody was in the 
 bar. Could he have gone out ? Was I alone 
 in the house, there, where the blood was still 
 on the carpet? But there was a slight noise 
 from behind the stairs, and I turned to look 
 farther. 
 
 Behind the bar-parlour and the staircase 
 were two rooms, that projected immediately 
 over the river, with their frames resting on the 
 piles. One was sometimes used as a parlour 
 for the reception of mates and skippers, though 
 such customers were rare ; the other held 
 cases, bottles and barrels. To this latter I 
 turned, and mounting the three steps behind 
 the staircase, pushed open the door ; and was 
 mightily astonished at what I saw. 
 
 There was my grandfather, kneeling, and 
 there was one half of Bill Stagg the purlman, 
 standing waist-deep in the floor. For a moment 
 it was beyond me to guess what he was stand- 
 ing on, seeing that there was nothing below but 
 water; but presently I reasoned that the tide 
 was high, and he must be standing in his boat. 
 He was handing my grandfather some small 
 packages, and he saw me at once and pointed. 
 Grandfather Nat turned sharply, and stared.
 
 ii8 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 and for a moment I feared he was angry. 
 Then he grinned, shook his finger at me, and 
 brought it back to his Hps with a tap. 
 
 ' All right — my pardner,' he whispered, and 
 Bill Stagg grinned too. The business was 
 short enough, and in a few seconds Bill Stagg, 
 with another grin at me, and something like 
 a wink, ducked below. My grandfather, with 
 noiseless care, put back in place a trap-door — 
 not a square, noticeable thing, but a clump of 
 boards of divers lengths that fell into place 
 with as innocent an aspect as the rest of the 
 floor. This done, he rolled a barrel over the 
 place, and dropped the contents of the pack- 
 ages into a row of buckets that stood near. 
 
 ' What 's that. Grandfather Nat ? ' I ventured 
 to ask, when all was safely accomplished. 
 
 My grandfather grinned once more, and 
 shook his head. 'Go on,' he said, 'I'll tell 
 you in the bar-parlour. May as well now as 
 let ye find out.' He blew out the light of his 
 candle and followed me. 
 
 'Well,' he said, wrapping my cold feet in 
 my nightgown as I sat on his knee, ' What 
 brought ye down, Stevy ? Did we make a 
 noise ? '
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 119 
 
 I shook my head. * I — I felt lonely,' I 
 said. 
 
 * Lonely ? Well, never mind. An' so ye 
 came to look for me, eh ? Well, now, this is 
 another one o' the things as you mustn't talk 
 about, Stevy — a little secret between ourselves, 
 bein' pardners,' 
 
 ' The stuff in the pail, Gran'fa Nat ? ' 
 
 'The stuff in the pail, an' the hole in the 
 floor. You 're sure you won't get talkin', an' 
 get your poor old gran'father in trouble ? ' 
 
 Yes, I was quite sure ; though I could 
 not see as yet what there was to cause 
 trouble. 
 
 'The stuff Bill Stagg brought, Stevy, is 
 'bacca. 'Bacca smashed down so hard that a 
 pound ain't bigger than that match-box. An' 
 I pitch it in the water to swell it out again ; 
 see?' 
 
 I still failed to understand the method of its 
 arrival. ' Did Bill Stagg steal it, gran'father ? ' 
 I asked. 
 
 Grandfather Nat laughed. * No, my boy,' he 
 said; 'he bought it, an' I buy it. It comes 
 off the Dutch boats. But it comes a deal 
 cheaper takin' it in that way at night-time.
 
 I20 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 There 's a big place I '11 show you one day, 
 Stevy — big white house just this side o' 
 London Bridge. There 's a lot o' gentlemen 
 there as wants to see all the 'bacca that comes 
 in from abroad, an' they take a lot o' trouble 
 over it, and charge too, fearful. So they're 
 very angry if parties — same as you an' me — 
 takes any in without lettin' 'em know, an 
 payin' 'em the money. An' they can get you 
 locked up.' 
 
 This seemed a very unjust world that I 
 had come into, in which Grandfather Nat 
 was in danger of such terrible penalties for 
 such innocent transactions — buying a watch, 
 or getting his tobacco cheap. So I said : 
 ' I think people are very wicked in this 
 place.' 
 
 * Ah ! ' said my grandfather, * I s'pose none 
 of us ain't over orood. But there — I 've told 
 you about it now, an' that 's better than lettin' 
 you wonder, an' p'raps go asking other people 
 questions. So now you know, Stevy. We 've 
 got our little secrets between us, an' you've 
 got to keep 'em between us, else — well, you 
 know. Nothing about anything I buy, nor 
 about what I take in there,' — with a jerk of
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 121 
 
 the thumb — ' nor about 'bacca in buckets o' 
 water.' 
 
 ' Nor about the pocket - book, Gran'fa' 
 Nat?' 
 
 ' Lord no. 'Specially not about that. You 
 see, Stevy, pardners is pardners, an' they must 
 stick together, eh ? We '11 stick together, won't 
 we? ' 
 
 I nodded hard and reached for my grand- 
 father's neck. 
 
 ' Ah, that we will. What others like to 
 think they can ; they can't prove nothing, nor 
 it wouldn't be their game. But we're 
 pardners, an' I 've told you what — well, what 
 you might ha' found out in a more awkward 
 way. An' it ain't so bad a thing to have a 
 pardner to talk to, neither. I never had one 
 till now — not since your gran'mother died, that 
 you never saw, Stevy ; an' that was twenty 
 year ago. I been alone most o' my life — not 
 even a boy, same as it might be you. 'Cause 
 M'hy ? When your father was your age, an' 
 older, I was always at sea, an' never saw him, 
 scarcely ; same as him an' you now.' 
 
 And indeed Grandfather Nat and I knew 
 each other better than my father knew either
 
 122 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 of us. And so we sat for a few minutes talking 
 of ourselves, and once more of the notes in 
 the pocket-book upstairs ; till the tramp of 
 the three policemen on the beat stayed in the 
 street without, and we heard one of the three 
 coming down the passage. 
 
 He knocked sharply at the bar-parlour 
 door, and Grandfather Nat put me down and 
 opened it. 
 
 'Good evenin', Cap'en Kemp,' said the 
 policeman. 'We knew you was up, seein' a 
 bit o' light.' Then he leaned farther in, and 
 in a lower voice, said : ' He ain't been exactly 
 identified yet, but it 's thought some of our 
 chaps knows 'im. Know if anything 's been 
 picked up ? ' 
 
 My heart gave a jump, as probably did my 
 grandfather s. ' Picked up ? ' he repeated. 
 ' Why, what ? What d'ye mean ? ' 
 
 ' Well, there was nothing partic'lar on the 
 body, an' our chaps didn't see the knife. We 
 thought if anybody about 'ad picked up any- 
 thing, knife or what not, you might 'ear. So 
 there ain't nothing?' 
 
 ' No,' Grandfather Nat answered blankly. 
 ' I 've seen no knife, nor heard of none.'
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 123 
 
 * All right, Cap'en Kemp — if you do hear of 
 anything, give us the tip. Good night ! ' 
 
 Grandfather Nat looked oddly at me, and I 
 at him. I think we had a feeling that our 
 partnership was sealed. And so with no more 
 words we went to bed.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 I HAD never seen either of the partners 
 in the firm of Viney and Marr : as I 
 may have said already. On the day after the 
 man was stabbed at our side door I saw them 
 both. 
 
 That morning the tide was low, and Hole-in- 
 the-Wall Stairs ended in a causeway in the 
 midst of a little flat of gravel and mud. So, 
 since the mud was nowhere dangerous, and 
 there was no deep water to fall into, I was 
 allowed to go down the steps alone and play 
 on the foreshore while Grandfather Nat was 
 busy with his morning's affairs ; the two or 
 three watermen lying by the causeway under- 
 taking to keep an eye on me. And there I took 
 my pleasure as I would, now raking in the wet 
 pebbles, and heaving over big stones that often 
 pulled me on to all-fours, now climbing the 
 stairs to peep along the alley, and once or 
 
 124
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 125 
 
 twice running as far as the bar-parlour door to 
 report myself to Grandfather Nat, and inform 
 him of my discoveries. 
 
 The little patch of foreshore soon rendered 
 up all its secrets, and its area grew less by 
 reason of the rising tide ; so that I turned to 
 other matters of interest. Out in mid-stream 
 a cluster of lighters lay moored, waiting for 
 the turn of the tide. Presently a little tug 
 came puffing and fussing from somewhere 
 alongshore, and after much shoving and haul- 
 ing and shouting, scuffled off, trailing three of 
 the lighters behind it ; from which I con- 
 jectured that their loads were needed in a 
 hurry. But the disturbance among the rest 
 of the lighters was not done with when the 
 tug had cleared the three from their midst ; 
 for a hawser had got foul of a rudder, and 
 two or three men were at work with poles and 
 hooks, recrimination and forcible words, to get 
 things clear. Though the thing seemed no 
 easy job ; and it took my attention for some 
 time. 
 
 But presently I tired of it, and climbed the 
 steps to read the bills describing the people 
 who had been found drowned. There were
 
 126 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 eleven of the bills altogether, fresh and clean ; 
 and fragments of innumerable others, older and 
 dirtier, were round about them. Ten men 
 and one woman had been picked up, it would 
 seem, and all within a week or two, as I 
 learned when I had spelled out the dates. I 
 pored at these bills till I had read them 
 through, being horribly fascinated by the 
 personal marks and peculiarities so baldly set 
 forth ; the scars, the tattoo marks, the colour 
 of the dead eyes ; the clothes and boots and 
 the contents of the pockets — though indeed 
 most of the pockets would seem to have been 
 empty. The woman — they guessed her age 
 at twenty-two — wore one earring ; and I en- 
 tangled myself in conjectures as to what had 
 become of the other. 
 
 I was disturbed by a shout from the cause- 
 way. I looked and saw Bill Stagg in his 
 boat. * Is your gran'father there.-*' shouted 
 Bill Stagg. * Tell him they ve found his 
 boat.' 
 
 This was joyful news, and I rushed to carry 
 it. ' They 've found our boat. Grandfather 
 Nat,' I cried. ' Bill Stagg says so!' 
 
 Grandfather Nat was busy in the bar, and
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 127 
 
 he received the information with calmness. 
 'Ah,' he said, 'I knew it 'ud turn up some- 
 where. Bill Stagg there .-* ' And he came 
 out leisurely in his shirt sleeves, and stood at 
 the head of the stairs. 
 
 * P'lice galley found your boat, cap'en,' Bill 
 Stagg reported. * You '11 have to go up to the 
 float for it.' 
 
 ' Right. Know where it was ? ' 
 
 'Up agin Elephant stairs' — Bill Stagg 
 pointed across the river — ' turned adrift and 
 jammed among the lighters.' 
 
 Grandfather Nat nodded serenely. Bill 
 Stagg nodded in reply, shoved off from the 
 causeway and went about his business. 
 
 The hawser was still foul among the lighters 
 out in the stream, and a man had pulled over 
 in a boat to help. I had told my grandfather 
 of the difficulty, and how long it had baffled 
 the lightermen, and was asking the third of a 
 string of questions about it all, when there was 
 a step behind, and a voice : ' Good mornin', 
 Cap'en Nat.' 
 
 My grandfather turned quickly. ' Mr. 
 Viney ! ' he said. 'Well . . . Good mornin'.' 
 
 I turned also, and I was not prepossessed
 
 128 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 by Mr. Viney. His face — a face no doubt 
 originally pale and pasty, but too long- sun- 
 burned to revert to anything but yellow in 
 these later years of shore-life — his yellow face 
 was ever stretched in an uneasy grin, a grin 
 that might mean either propitiation or malice, 
 and remained the same for both. He had the 
 watery eyes and the goatee beard that were 
 not uncommon among seamen, and in total I 
 thought he much resembled one of those same 
 hanor-doof fellows that stood at corners and 
 leaned on posts in this neighbourhood, making 
 a mysterious living out of sailors ; one of them, 
 that is to say, in a superior suit of clothes that 
 seemed too good for him, I suppose he may 
 have been an inch taller than Grandfather Nat ; 
 but in the contrast between them he seemed 
 very small and mean. 
 
 He offered his hand with a stealthy gesture, 
 rather as though he were trying to pick my 
 grandfather's waistcoat pocket ; so that the 
 old man stared at the hand for a moment, 
 as if to see what he would be at, before he 
 shook it. 
 
 ' Down in the world again, Cap'en Nat,' 
 said Viney, with a shrug.
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 129 
 
 'Ay, I heard,' answered Captain Nat. 
 ' I 'm very sorry ; but there — perhaps you '11 
 be up again soon. . . .* 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 ' I come to ask you about something,' Viney 
 proceeded, as they walked away toward the 
 bar-parlour door. * Something you '11 tell me, 
 bein' an old shipmate, if you can find out, I 'm 
 sure. Can we go into your place ? No, 
 there's a woman there.' 
 
 * Only one as does washin' up an' such. I '11 
 send her upstairs if you like.' 
 
 ' No, out here 's best ; we '11 walk up and 
 down ; people get hangin' round doors an' 
 keyholes in a place like that. Here we can 
 see who's near us.' 
 
 ' What, secrets ? * 
 
 * Ay.' Viney gave an ugly twist to his grin. 
 ' I know some o' yours — one big 'un at any 
 rate, Cap'en Nat, don't I ? So I can afford to 
 let you into a little 'un o' mine, seein' I can't 
 help it. Now I 'd like to know if you 've seen 
 anything of Marr.' 
 
 * No, — haven't seen him for months. Bolted, 
 they tell me, an' — well you know better'n me, 
 I expect.' 
 
 I
 
 130 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 * I don't know,' Viney replied with emphasis. 
 * I ought to know, but I don't. See here now. 
 Less than a week ago he cleared out, an' then 
 I filed my petition. He might ha' been gone 
 anywhere — bolted. Might be abroad, as would 
 seem most likely. In plain fact he was only 
 coming down in these parts to lie low. See ? 
 Round about here a man can lie low an' snug, 
 an' safer than abroad, if he likes. And he had 
 money with him — all we could get together. 
 See ? ' And Viney frowned and winked, and 
 glanced stealthily over his shoulder. 
 
 'Ah,' remarked Captain Nat, drily, 'I see. 
 An' the creditors ' 
 
 ' Damn the creditors ! See here, Cap'en 
 Nat Kemp. Remember a man called Dan 
 Webb ? ' 
 
 Captain Nat paled a little, and tightened 
 his lips. 
 
 ' Remember a man called Dan Webb ? ' 
 Viney repeated, stopping in his walk and 
 facing the other with the uneasy grin un- 
 changed. ' A man called Dan Webb, aboard 
 o' the Florence along o' you an' me ? 'Cause 
 I do, anyhow. That's on'y my little hint — 
 we re good friends altogether, o' course,
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 131 
 
 Cap'en Nat ; but you know what it means. 
 Well, Marr had money with him, as I said. 
 He was to come to a quiet anchorage here- 
 about, got up like a seaman, an' let me know 
 at once.' 
 
 Captain Nat, his mouth still set tight, 
 nodded, with a grunt. 
 
 ' Well, he didn't let me know. I heard 
 nothing at all from him, an' it struck me rather 
 of a heap to think that p'raps he 'd put the 
 double on me, an' cleared out in good earnest. 
 But yesterday I got news. A blind fiddler 
 chap gave me some sort o' news.' 
 
 Captain Nat remembered the meeting at 
 the street corner in the evening after the 
 funeral. ' Blind George ? ' he queried. 
 
 * Yes, that was all the name he gave me ; 
 a regular thick 'un, that blind chap, an' a flow 
 o' language as would curl the sheathing off a 
 ship's bottom. He came the evening before, 
 it seems, but found the place shut up — servant 
 gal took her hook. Well now, he 'd done all 
 but see Marr down here at the Blue Gate — 
 he 'd seen him as clear as a blind man could, ' 
 he said, with his ears : an' he came to me to 
 give me the tip an' earn anything I 'd give him
 
 132 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 for it. It amounted to this. It was plain 
 enouo-h Marr had come along- here all right, 
 an' pitched on some sort o' quarters ; but it 
 was clear he wasn't fit to be trusted alone in 
 such a place at all. For the blind chap found 
 him drunk, an' in tow with as precious a pair 
 o' bully-boys as Blue Gate could show. Not 
 only drunk, neither, but drunk with a slack 
 jaw — drunk an' gabbling, drunk an' talkin' 
 business — my business — an' lettin' out all there 
 was to let, — this an' that an' t'other an' Lord 
 knows what ! It was only because of his 
 drunken jabber that the blind man found out 
 who he was.' 
 
 ' And this was the day before yesterday ? ' 
 asked Captain Nat. 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 Captain Nat shook his head. * If he was 
 like that the day before yesterday,' he said, 
 ' in tow with such chaps as you say, — well, 
 whatever he had on him ain't on him now. 
 An' it 'ud puzzle a cleverer man than me to 
 find it. You may lay to that.' 
 
 Viney swore, and stamped a foot, and swore 
 again. 'But see,' he said, 'ain't there a 
 chance."* It was in notes, all of it. Them
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 133 
 
 chaps '11 be afraid to pass notes. Couldn't 
 most of it be got back on an arrangement to 
 cash the rest ? You can find 'em if you try, 
 with all your chances. Come — I '11 pay fair 
 for what I get, to you an' all.' 
 
 ' See how you 've left it,' remarked Captain 
 Nat ; and Viney swore again. * This was all 
 done the day before yesterday. Well, you 
 don't hear of it yourself till yesterday, an' now 
 you don't come to me till to-day.' 
 
 Viney swore once more, and grinned twice 
 as wide in his rage. * Yes,' he said, * that 
 was Blind George's doing. I sent him back 
 to see what he could do, an' ain't seen him 
 since. Like as not he 's standing in with the 
 others.' 
 
 ' Ay, that 's likely,' the old man answered, 
 * very likely. Blind George is as tough a lot 
 as any in Blue Gate, for all he 's blind. You 'd 
 never ha' heard of it at all if they 'd ha' greased 
 him a bit at first. I expect they shut him out, 
 to keep the plant to themselves ; an' so he 
 came to you for anything he could pick up. 
 An' now ' 
 
 Viney cursed them all, and Blind George 
 and himself together ; but most he cursed
 
 134 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 Marr ; and so talking, the two men walked 
 to and fro in the passage. . . . 
 
 * -ss- * * * 
 
 I could see that Viney was angry, and grow- 
 ing angrier still. But I gave all my attention 
 to the work at the fouled hawser. The man 
 in the boat, working patiently with a boat- 
 hook, succeeded suddenly and without warning, 
 so that he almost pitched headlong into the 
 river. The rope came up from its entangle- 
 ment with a spring and a splash, flinging some 
 amazing great object up with it, half out of 
 water ; and the men gave a cry as this thing 
 lapsed heavily to the surface. 
 
 The man in the boat snatched his hook 
 again and reached for the thing as it floated. 
 Somebody threw him a length of line, and 
 with this he made it fast to his boat, and 
 began pulling toward the stairs, towing it. 
 I was puzzled to guess what the object might 
 be. It was no part of the lighter's rudder, 
 for it lay in, rather than on, the water, and 
 it rolled and wallowed, and seemed to tug 
 heavily, so that the boatman had to pull 
 his best. I wondered if he had cauQht some 
 curious water-creature — a porpoise perhaps,
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 135 
 
 or a seal, such as had been flung ashore 
 in a winter storm at Blackwall a year be- 
 fore. 
 
 Viney and Grandfather Nat had turned their 
 steps toward the stairs, and as they neared, my 
 grandfather, lifting his eyes, saw the boatman 
 and his prize, and saw the watermen leaving 
 their boats for the foreshore. With a quick 
 word to Viney he hastened down the stairs ; 
 and Viney himself, less interested, followed 
 half way down, and waited. 
 
 The boatman brought up alongside the 
 foreshore, and he and another hauled at the 
 tow-rope. The thing in the water came in, 
 rolling and bobbing, growing more hideously 
 distinct as it came ; it checked at the mud and 
 stones, turned over, and with another pull lay 
 ashore, staring and grey and streaming : a 
 dead man. 
 
 The lips were pulled tight over the teeth, 
 and, the hair being fair, it was the plainer 
 to see that one side of the head and forehead 
 was black and open with a great wound. The 
 limbs lay limp and tumbled, all ; but one leg 
 fell aside with so loose a twist that plainly 
 it was broken ; and I heard, afterward, that it
 
 136 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 was the leg that had caused the difficulty with 
 the hawser. 
 
 Grandfather Nat, down at the waterside, 
 had no sooner cauofht sigrht of the dead face 
 than with wide eyes he turned to Viney, and 
 shouted the one word ' Look ! ' Then he went 
 and took another view, longer and closer ; and 
 straightway came back in six strides to the 
 stairs, whereon Viney was no longer stand- 
 ing, but sitting, his face tallowy and his grin 
 faded. 
 
 * See him ? ' cried Grandfather Nat in a 
 hushed voice. 'See him! It's Marr him- 
 self, if I know him at all ! Come — come 
 and see ! ' 
 
 Viney pulled his arm from the old man's 
 grasp, turned, and crawled up a stair or two. 
 ' No,' he said faintly, ' I — I won't, now — I 
 — they'd know me p'raps, some of them.' 
 His breath was short, and he gulped. * Good 
 God,' he said presently, 'it's him — it's him 
 sure enouofh. And the clothes he had on. . . . 
 But . . . Cap'en — Cap'en Nat; go an' try his 
 pockets. — Go on. There's a pocket-book — 
 leather pocket-book . . . Go on ! ' 
 
 ' What 's the good ? ' asked Captain Nat,
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 137 
 
 with a lift of the eyebrows, and the same 
 low voice. * What 's the good ? I can't fetch 
 it away, with all them witnesses. Go yourself, 
 an' say you 're his pardner ; you 'd have a 
 chance then.' 
 
 ' No — no. I — it ain't good enough. You 
 know 'em ; I don't. I '11 stand in with you 
 — give you a hundred if it 's all there ! Square 
 'em — you know 'em ! ' 
 
 * If they 're to be squared you can do it as 
 well as me. There'll be an inquest on this, 
 an' evidence. I ain't going to be asked what 
 I did with the man's pocket-book. No. I 
 don't meddle in this, Mr. Viney. If it ain't 
 good enough for you to get it for yourself, 
 it ain't good enough for me to get it for 
 you.' 
 
 ' Kemp, I '11 go you halves — there ! Get 
 it, an' there's four hundred for you. Eight 
 hundred an' odd quid, in a pocket-book. 
 Come, that's worth it, ain't it? Eight hundred 
 an' odd quid — in a leather pocket-book ! An' 
 I '11 go you halves.' 
 
 Captain Nat started at the words, and stood 
 for a moment, staring. ' Eight hundred ! ' he 
 repeated under his breath. ' Eight hundred
 
 138 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 an' odd quid. In a leather pocket-book. 
 Ah ! ' And the stare persisted, and grew 
 thoug'htful. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Viney, now a little more 
 himself. * Now you know ; and it 's worth it, 
 ain't it? Don't waste time — they're turning 
 him over themselves. You can manage all 
 these chaps. Go on ! ' 
 
 'I'll see if anything 's there,' answered 
 Captain Nat. 'More I can't; an' if there's 
 nothinor that's an end of it.' 
 
 He went down to where the men were 
 bending over the body, to disengage the tow- 
 line. He looked again at the drawn face under 
 the gaping forehead, and said something to the 
 men ; then he bent and patted the soddened 
 clothes, now here, now there ; and at last felt 
 in the breast-pocket. 
 
 Meantime Viney stood feverishly on the 
 stairs, watching ; fidgeting nervously down 
 a step, and then down another, and then 
 down two more. And so till Captain Nat 
 returned. 
 
 The old man shook his head. ' Cleaned 
 out,' he reported. 'Cleaned out, o' course. 
 Hit on the head an' cleaned out, like many
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 139 
 
 a score better men before him, down these 
 parts. Not a thing in the pockets anywhere. 
 Fhmped clean.' 
 
 Viney's eyes were wild. 'Nothing at all 
 left?' he said. 'Nothing of his own .^ Not 
 a watch, nor anything ? ' 
 
 ' No, not a watch, nor anything.' 
 
 Viney stood staring at space for some 
 moments, murmuring many oaths. Then he 
 asked suddenly, 'Where's this blind chap? 
 Where can I find Blind George ? ' 
 
 Grandfather Nat shook his head. ' He 's all 
 over the neighbourhood,' he answered. 'Try 
 the Highway; I can't give you nearer than 
 that.' 
 
 And with no more counsel to help him, 
 Mr. Viney was fain to depart. He went 
 grinning and cursing up the passage and so 
 toward the bridge, without another word or 
 look. And when I turned to my grand- 
 father I saw him staring fixedly at me, lost 
 in thought, and rubbing his hand up in his 
 hair behind, through the grey and out at the 
 brown on top.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 IN THE CLUB-ROOM 
 
 BY the side of the bills stuck at the corner 
 of Hole-in-the-Wall Stairs— the bills 
 that had so fascinated Stephen — a new one 
 appeared, with the heading ' Body Found.' It 
 particularised the personal marks and descrip- 
 tion of the unhappy Marr ; his * fresh com- 
 plexion,' his brown hair, his serge suit and his 
 anklejacks. The bill might have stood on 
 every wall in London till it rotted, and never 
 have given a soul who knew him a hint to 
 guess the body his : except Viney, who knew 
 the fact already. And the body might have 
 been buried unidentified ere Viney would have 
 shown himself in the business, were it not for 
 the interference of Mr. Cripps. For industry 
 of an unprofitable kind was a piece of Mr. 
 Cripps's nature ; and, moreover, he was so 
 regular a visitor at the mortuary as to have 
 grown an old friend of the keeper. His per- 
 
 140
 
 IN THE CLUB-ROOM 141 
 
 sistent prying among the ghastly Hers-in-state, 
 at first on plea of identifying a friend — a con- 
 tingency likely enough, since his long-shore 
 acquaintance was wide — and later under the 
 name of friendly calls, was an indulgence that 
 had helped him to consideration as a news- 
 monger, and twice had raised him to the 
 elevation of witness at an inquest ; a distinc- 
 tion very gratifying to his simple vanity. He 
 entertained high hopes of being called witness 
 in the case of the man stabbed at the side door 
 of the Hole in the Wall ; and was scarce seen 
 at Captain Nat's all the next day, preferring 
 to frequent the mortuary. So it happened 
 that he saw the other corpse that was carried 
 thence from Hole-in-the-Wall Stairs. 
 
 'There y'are,' said the mortuary-keeper. 
 ' There 's a fresh 'un, just in from the river, 
 unknown. You dunno 'im either, I expect.' 
 
 But Mr. Cripps was quite sure that he did. 
 Curious and eager, he walked up between the 
 two dead men, his grimy little body being all 
 that divided them in this their grisly reunion. 
 * I do know 'im,' he insisted, thoughtfully. 
 ' Leastways I 've seen 'im somewheres, I 'm 
 sure.' The little man gazed at the dreadful
 
 142 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 head, and then at the rafters : then shut his 
 eyes with a squeeze that drove his nose into 
 amazing lumps and wrinkles ; then looked 
 at the head again, and squeezed his eye- 
 lids together once more ; and at last started 
 back, his eyes rivalling his very nose itself for 
 prominence. * Why ! ' he gasped, ' it is ! It is, 
 s 'elp me! ... It's Mr. Marr, as is pardners 
 with Mr. Viney ! I on'y see 'im once in my 
 life, but I '11 swear it 's 'im ! . . . Lord, what a 
 phenomenal go ! ' 
 
 And with that Mr. Cripps rushed off incon- 
 tinent to spread the news wherever anybody 
 would listen. He told the police, he told the 
 loafers, he told Captain Nat and everybody in 
 his bar ; he told the watermen at the stairs, 
 he shouted it to the purlmen in their boats, 
 and he wriggled into conversation with perfect 
 strangers to tell them too. So that it came 
 to pass that Viney, being called upon by the 
 coroner's officer, was fain to swallow his re- 
 luctance and come forward at the inquest. 
 
 That was held at the Hole in the Wall 
 twenty-four hours after the body had been 
 hauled ashore. The two inquests were held 
 together, in fact, Marr's and that of the broken-
 
 IN THE CLUB-ROOM 143 
 
 nosed man, stabbed in the passage. Two 
 inquests, or even three, in a day, made no 
 uncommon event in those parts, where perhaps 
 a dozen might be held in a week, mostly end- 
 ing with the same doubtful verdict — Found 
 Drowned, But here one of the inquiries 
 related to an open and witnessed murder, and 
 that fact gave some touch of added interest 
 to the proceedings. 
 
 Accordingly a drifting group hung about the 
 doors of the Hole in the Wall at the appointed 
 time, — just such an idle, changing group as had 
 hung there all the evening after the man had 
 been stabbed ; and in the midst stood Blind 
 George with his fiddle, his vacant white eye roll- 
 ing upward, his mouth full of noisy ribaldry, and 
 his fiddle playing punctuation and chorus to all 
 he said or sang. He turned his ear at the sound 
 of many footsteps leaving the door near him. 
 
 * There they go!' he sang out ; ' there they go, 
 twelve on 'em ! ' And indeed it was the jury 
 going off to view the bodies. ' There they 
 go, twelve good men an' true, an' bloomin' 
 proud they are to fancy it ! Got a copper for 
 Blind George, gentlemen } Not a brown for 
 pore George ? . . . Not them ; not a brass farden
 
 144 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 amonor the 'ole dam ofood an' lawful lot. . . . 
 Ahoy! ain't Gubbins there, — the good an' 
 lawful pork-butcher as 'ad to pay forty bob 
 for shovin' a lump o' fat under the scales? 
 Tell the crowner to mind 'is pockets ! ' 
 
 The idlers laughed, and one flung a copper, 
 which Blind George snatched almost before it 
 had fallen. * Ha ! ha!' he cried, 'there's a 
 toff somewhere near, I can tell by the sound 
 of his money ! Here goes for a stave ! ' And 
 straightway he broke into : — 
 
 O they call me Hanging Johnny, 
 With my hang, boys, hang I 
 
 The mortuary stood at no great distance, 
 and soon the jury were back in the club-room 
 over the bar, and at work on the first case. 
 The police had had some difficulty as to identi- 
 fication of the stabbed man. The difficulty 
 arose not only because there were no relations 
 in the neighbourhood to feel the loss, but as 
 much because the persons able to make the 
 identification kept the most distant possible 
 terms with the police, and withheld informa- 
 tion from them as a matter of principle. 
 Albeit a reluctant ruffian was laid hold of who
 
 IN THE CLUB-ROOM 145 
 
 was induced sulkily to admit that he had 
 known the deceased to speak to, and lodged 
 near him in Blue Gate ; that the deceased was 
 called Bob Kipps ; that he was quite lately 
 come into the neighbourhood ; and that he 
 had no particular occupation, as far as witness 
 knew. It needed some pressure to extract 
 the information that Kipps, during the short 
 time he was in Blue Gate, chiefly consorted 
 with one Dan Ogle, and that witness had 
 seen nothing of Ogle that day, nor the day 
 before. 
 
 There was also a woman called to identify — 
 a woman more reluctant than the man ; a 
 woman of coarse features, dull eyes, towzled 
 hair, and thick voice, sluttish with rusty finery. 
 Name, Margaret Flynn ; though at the back 
 of the little crowd that had squeezed into the 
 court she was called Musky Mag. It was 
 said there, too, that Mag, in no degree one of 
 the fainting sort, had nevertheless swooned 
 when taken into the mortuary — gone clean 
 off with a flop ; true, she explained it, after- 
 ward, by saying that she had only expected to 
 see one body, but found herself brought face 
 to face with two ; and of course there was the 
 
 K
 
 146 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 other there — Marr's. But it was held no such 
 odds between one corpse and two that an 
 outer-and-outer like Mag should go on the 
 faint over it. This was reasonable enough, 
 for the crowd. But not for a woman who had 
 sat to drink with three men, and in a short 
 hour or so had fallen over the battered corpse 
 of one of them, in the dark of her room ; who 
 had been forced, now, to view the rent body 
 of a second, and in doing it to meet once again 
 the other, resurrected, bruised, sodden and 
 horrible ; and who knew that all was the work 
 of the last of the three, and that man in peril 
 of the rope : the man, too, of all the world, in 
 her eyes — . . . 
 
 Her evidence, given with plain anxiety and 
 a nervous unsteadiness of the mouth, added 
 nothing to the tale. The man was Bob 
 Kipps ; he was a stranger till lately — came, 
 she had heard tell, from Shoreditch or Hox- 
 ton ; saw him last a day or two ago ; knew 
 nothing of his death beyond what she had 
 heard ; did not know where Dan Ogle was 
 (this very vehemently, with much shaking of 
 the head) ; had not seen him with deceased — 
 but here the police inspector handed the
 
 IN THE CLUB-ROOM 147 
 
 coroner a scribbled note, and the coroner having 
 read it and passed it back, said no more. 
 Musky Mag stood aside ; while the inspector 
 tore the note into small pieces and put the 
 pieces in his pocket. 
 
 Nathaniel Kemp, landlord of the house, 
 told the story of the murder as he saw it, 
 and of his chase of the murderer. Did not 
 know deceased, and should be unable to 
 identify the murderer if he met him again, 
 havingf seen no more than his fig-ure in the 
 dark. 
 
 All this time Mr. Cripps had been standing, 
 in eager trepidation, foremost among the little 
 crowd, nodding and lifting his hand anxiously, 
 strenuous to catch the coroner's officer's atten- 
 tion at the dismissal of each witness, and 
 fearful lest his offer of evidence, made a dozen 
 times before the coroner came, should be for- 
 gotten. Now at last the coroner's officer con- 
 descended to notice him, and being beckoned, 
 Mr. Cripps swaggered forward, his greasy 
 widewake crushed under his arm, and his face 
 radiant with delighted importance. He 
 bowed to the coroner, kissed the book with a 
 flourish, and glanced round the court to judge
 
 148 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 how much of the due impression was yet 
 visible. 
 
 The coroner signified that he was ready- 
 to hear whatever Mr. Cripps knew of this 
 matter. 
 
 Mr. Cripps ' threw a chest,' stuck an arm 
 akimbo, and raised the other with an oratorical 
 sweep so large that his small voice, when it 
 came, seemed all the smaller. ' Hi was in the 
 bar, sir,' he piped, * the bar, sir, of this 'ouse, 
 bein' long acquainted with an' much respectin' 
 Cap'en Kemp, an' in the 'abit of visitin' 'ere in 
 the intervals of the pursoot of my hart. Hem ! 
 Hi was in the bar, sir, when my attention was 
 attracted by a sudden noise be'hind, or as I 
 may say, in the rear of, the bar-parlour. Hi 
 was able to distinguish, gentlemen of the jury, 
 what might be called, in a common way o' 
 speakin', a bump or a bang, sich as would be 
 occasioned by an unknown murderer criminally 
 shoving his un'appy victim's 'ed agin the back- 
 door of a public-'ouse. Hi was able to dis- 
 tinguish it, sir, from a 'uman cry which follered : 
 a 'uman cry, or as it might be, a holler, sich as 
 would be occasioned by the un'appy victim 
 'avin' 'is 'ed shoved agin the back-door afore-
 
 IN THE CLUB-ROOM 149 
 
 said. Genelmen, I 'esitated not a moment. 
 I rushed forward.' 
 
 Mr. Cripps paused so long to give the state- 
 ment effect that the coroner lost patience. 
 ' Yes,' he said, 'you rushed forward. Do you 
 mean you jumped over the bar ? ' 
 
 For a moment Mr. Cripps's countenance 
 fell ; truly it would have been more imposing 
 to have jumped over the bar. But he was on 
 his oath, and he must do his best with the 
 facts. 'No, sir,' he explained, a little tamely, 
 'not over the bar, but reether the opposite 
 way, so to speak, towards the door. I rushed 
 forward, genelmen, in a sort of rearwards 
 direction, through the door, an' round into the 
 alley. Immediate as I turned the corner, 
 genelmen, I be'eld with my own eyes the 
 unknown murderer ; I see 'im a-risin' from 
 over 'is un'appy victim, an' I see as the 
 criminal tragedy had transpired. I — I rushed 
 forward.' 
 
 The sensation he looked for being slow in 
 coming, another rush seemed expedient ; but 
 it fell flat as the first, and Mr. Cripps struggled 
 on, desperately conscious that he had nothing 
 else to say.
 
 I50 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 * I rushed forward, sir ; seein' which the 
 miscreant absconded — absconded, no doubt 
 with — with the proceeds ; an' seein' Cap'en 
 Kemp abscondin' after him, I turned an' be'eld 
 the un'appy victim — the corpse now in custody, 
 sir — a-layin' in the bar-parlour, 'elpless an' — 
 an' decimated. . . . I — rushed forward.* 
 
 It was sad to see how Httle the coroner was 
 impressed ; there was even something in his 
 face not unhke a smile ; and Mr. Cripps was 
 at the end of his resources. But if he could 
 have seen the face of Musky Mag, in the little 
 crowd behind him, he might have been con- 
 soled. She alone, of all who heard, had fol- 
 lowed his rhetoric with an agony of attention, 
 word by word : even as she had followed the 
 earlier evidence. Now her strained face was 
 the easier merely by contrast with itself when 
 Mr. Cripps was in full cry ; and a moment 
 later it was tenser than ever. 
 
 *Yes, yes, Mr. Cripps,' the coroner said ; 
 ' no doubt you were very active, but we don't 
 seem to have increased the evidence. You 
 say you saw the man who stabbed the deceased 
 in the passage. Did you know him at all ? 
 Ever see him before ? '
 
 IN THE CLUB-ROOM 151 
 
 Here, mayhap, was some chance of an effect 
 after all. Mr. Cripps could scarce have dis- 
 tinguished the murderer from one of the posts 
 in the alley ; but he said, with all the signi- 
 ficance he could give the words : ' Well, sir, I 
 won't go so far as to swear to 'is name, sir ; no, 
 sir, not to 'is name, certainly not.' And there- 
 with he made his sensation at last, bringing 
 upon himself the twenty-four eyes of the jury 
 all together. 
 
 The coroner looked up sharply. ' Oh,' he 
 said, 'you know him by sight then? Does 
 he belong to the neighbourhood 1 ' 
 
 Now it was not Mr. Cripps who had said he 
 knew the murderer by sight, but the coroner. 
 Far be it from him, thought the aspirant for 
 fame, to contradict the coroner, and so baulk 
 himself of the credit thus thrust upon him. 
 So he answered with the same cautious 
 significance and a succession of portentous 
 nods. ' Your judgment, sir, is correct ; quite 
 correct.' 
 
 * Come then, this is important. You would 
 be able to recognise him again, of course ? ' 
 
 There was no retreat — Mr. Cripps was in 
 for it. It was an unforeseen consequence of
 
 152 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 the quibble, but since plunge he must he 
 plunged neck and crop. ' I 'd know 'im any- 
 where,' he said triumphantly. 
 
 There was an odd sound in the crowd 
 behind, and a fall. Captain Nat strode across, 
 and the crowd wondered ; for Musky Mag 
 had fainted again. 
 
 The landlord lifted her, and carried her to 
 the stairs. When the door had closed behind 
 them, and the coroner's officer had shouted the 
 little crowd into silence, the inquest took a 
 short course to its end. 
 
 Mr. Cripps, in the height of his consequence, 
 beo-an to feel serious misa-ivinofs as to the issue 
 of his stumble beyond the verities ; and the 
 coroner's next words were a relief 
 
 ' I think that will be enough, Mr. Cripps,' 
 the coroner said ; ' no doubt the police will be 
 glad of your assistance.' And with that he 
 gave the jury the little summing up that the 
 case needed. There was the medical evid- 
 ence, and the evidence of the stabbing, and 
 that evidence pointed to an unmistakable con- 
 clusion. Nobody was in custody, nor had the 
 murderer been positively identified, and such 
 evidence as there was in this respect was for
 
 IN THE CLUB-ROOM 153 
 
 the consideration of the poHce. He thought 
 the jury would have no difficulty in arriving 
 at a verdict. The jury had none ; and the 
 verdict was Murder by some Person or Persons 
 unknown. 
 
 The other inquest gave even less trouble. 
 Mr. Henry Viney, shipowner, had seen the 
 body, and identified it as that of his partner 
 Lewis Marr. Marr had suddenly disappeared 
 a week ago, and an examination of his accounts 
 showed serious defalcations, in consequence of 
 which witness had filed his petition in bank- 
 ruptcy. Whether or not Marr had taken 
 money with him witness could not say, as 
 deceased had entire charge of the accounts ; but 
 it seemed more likely that embezzlement had 
 been going on for some time past, and Marr had 
 fled when detection could no longer be averted. 
 This might account for his dressing, and pre- 
 sumably seeking work, as a sailor. 
 
 The divisional surgeon of police had ex- 
 amined the body, and found a large wound on 
 the head, fully sufficient to have caused death, 
 inflicted either by some heavy, blunt instru- 
 ment, or by a fall from a height on a hard 
 substance. One thigh was fractured, and
 
 154 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 there were other wounds and contusions, but 
 these, as well as the broken thigh, were clearly 
 caused after death, while the body was drift- 
 ing in the water. The blow on the head might 
 have been caused by an accident on the river- 
 side, or it might have been inflicted wilfully 
 by an assailant. 
 
 Then there was the evidence of the man 
 who had found the body foul of a rudder and 
 a hawser, and of the police who had found 
 nothing on the body. And there was no more 
 evidence at all. The coroner having sym- 
 pathised deeply with Mr. Viney, gave the jury 
 the proper lead, and the jury with perfect 
 propriety returned the open verdict that the 
 doctor's evidence and the coroner's lead 
 suggested. The case, except for the circum- 
 stances of Marr's flight, was like a hundred 
 others inquired upon thereabout in course of a 
 few weeks, and in an hour it was in a fair way 
 to be forgotten, even by the little crowd that 
 clumped downstairs to try both cases all over 
 again in the bar of the Hole of the Wall. 
 
 To the coroner, the jury, and the little crowd, 
 these were two inquests with nothing to con- 
 nect them but the accident of time and the
 
 IN THE CLUB-ROOM 155 
 
 convenience of the Hole in the Wall club- 
 room. But Blind George, standing in the 
 street with his fiddle, and getting the news 
 from the club-room in scraps between song 
 and patter, knew more and guessed better.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 STEPHENS TALE 
 
 I FOUND it a busy morning at the Hole 
 in the Wall, that of the two inquests. I 
 perceived that, by some occult understanding, 
 business in one department was suspended ; 
 the pale man idled without, and nobody came 
 into the little compartment to exhibit valuables. 
 Grandfather Nat had a deal to do in making 
 ready the club-room over the bar, and then 
 in attending the inquests. And it turned out 
 that Mrs. Grimes had settled on this day in 
 particular to perform a vast number of extra 
 feats of housewifery in the upper floors. Not- 
 withstanding the disturbance of this additional 
 work, Mrs. Grimes was most amazingly 
 amiable, even to me ; but she was so persistent 
 in requiring, first the key of one place, then of 
 another, nexf of a chest of drawers, and again 
 of a cupboard, that at last my grandfather dis- 
 tractedly gave her the whole bunch, and told 
 
 166
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 157 
 
 her not to bother him any more. The bunch 
 held all she could require — indeed I think it 
 comprised every key my grandfather had, 
 except that of his cash-box — and she went 
 away with it amiable still, notwithstanding the 
 hastiness of his expressions ; so that I was 
 amazed to find Mrs. Grimes so meek, and 
 wondered vaguely and childishly if it were 
 because she felt ill, and expected to die shortly. 
 
 Mr. Cripps was in the bar as ^oon as the 
 doors were open, in a wonderful state of effer- 
 vescence. He was to make a o^reat fio-ure 
 at the inquest, it appeared, and the pride and 
 glory of it kept him nervously on the strut, till 
 the coroner came, and Mr. Cripps mounted to 
 the club-room with the jury. He was got up 
 for his part as completely as circumstances 
 would allow ; grease was in his hair, his hat 
 stood at an angle, and his face exhibited an 
 unfamiliar polish, occasioned by a towel. 
 
 For my own part, I sat in the bar-parlour 
 and amused myself as I might. Blind George 
 was singing in the street, and now and again 
 I could hear the guffaw that signalised some 
 sally that had touched his audience. Above, 
 things were quiet enough for some while, and
 
 158 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 then my grandfather came heavily downstairs 
 carrying a woman who had fainted. I had not 
 noticed the woman among the people who 
 went up, but now Grandfather Nat brought 
 her through the bar, and into the parlour ; and 
 as she lay on the floor just as the stabbed man 
 had lain, I recognised her face also ; for she 
 was the coarse-faced woman who had stopped 
 my grandfather near Blue Gate with vague 
 and timid questions, when we were on our way 
 from the London Dock. 
 
 Grandfather Nat roared up the little stair- 
 case for Mrs. Grimes, and presently she de- 
 scended, amiable still ; till she saw the coarse 
 woman, and was asked to help her. She 
 looked on the woman with somethinof of sur- 
 prise and something of confusion ; but carried 
 it off at once with a toss of the head, a hieh 
 phrase or so — ' likes of 'er — respectable woman' 
 — and a quick retreat upstairs. 
 
 I believe my grandfather would have brought 
 her down again by main force, but the woman 
 on the floor stirred, and began scrambling up, 
 even before she knew where she was. She 
 held the shelf, and looked dully about her, 
 with a hoarse ' Beg pardon, sir, beg pardon.'
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 159 
 
 Then she went across toward the door, which 
 stood ajar, stared stupidly, with a look of some 
 dawning alarm, and said again, ' Beg pardon, 
 sir — I bin queer ' ; and with that was gone into 
 the passage. 
 
 It was not long after her departure ere the 
 business above was over, and the people came 
 tramping and talking down into the bar, filling 
 it close, and giving Joe the potman all the 
 work he could do. The coroner came down 
 by our private stairs into the bar-parlour, 
 ushered with great respect by my grandfather ; 
 and at his heels, taking occasion by a desper- 
 ately extemporised conversation with Grand- 
 father Nat, came Mr. Cripps. 
 
 There had never been an inquest at the 
 Hole in the Wall before, and my grandfather 
 had been at some exercise of mind as to the 
 proper entertainment of the coroner. He had 
 decided, after consideration, that the gentleman 
 could scarce be offended at the offer of a little 
 lunch, and to that end he had made ready with 
 a cold fowl and a bottle of claret, which Mrs. 
 Grimes would presently be putting on the 
 table. The coroner was not offended, but he 
 would take no lunch ; he was very pleasantly
 
 i6o THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 obliged by the invitation, but his lunch had 
 been already ordered at some distance ; and 
 so he shook hands with Grandfather Nat and 
 went his way. A circumstance that had no 
 small effect on my history. 
 
 For it seemed to Mr. Cripps, who saw the 
 coroner go, that by dexterous management tlie 
 vacant place at our dinner-table (for what the 
 coroner would call lunch we called dinner) 
 might fall to himself. It had happened once 
 or twice before, on special occasions, that he 
 had been allowed to share a meal with Captain 
 Nat, and now that he was brushed and oiled for 
 company, and had publicly distinguished himself 
 at an inquest, he was persuaded that the occasion 
 was special beyond precedent, and he set about 
 to improve it with an assiduity and an innocent 
 cunning that were very transparent indeed. So 
 he was affectionately admiring with me, deferen- 
 tially loquacious with my grandfather, and very 
 friendly with Joe the potman and Mrs. Grimes. 
 It was a busy morning, he observed, and he 
 would be glad to do anything to help. 
 
 At that time the houses on Wapping Wall 
 were not encumbered with dust-bins, since the 
 river was found a more convenient receptacle
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE i6i 
 
 for rubbish. Slops were flung out of a back 
 window, and kitchen refuse went the same 
 way, or was taken to the river stairs and 
 turned out, either into the water or on the 
 foreshore, as the tide might chance. Mrs. 
 Grimes carried about with her in her dustings 
 and sweepings an old coal-scuttle, which held 
 hearth-brushes, shovels, ashes, cinders, potato- 
 peelings, and the like ; and at the end of her 
 work, when the brushes and shovels had been 
 put away, she carried the coal-scuttle, some- 
 times to the nearest window, but more often 
 to the river stairs, and flung what remained 
 into the Thames. 
 
 Just as Mr. Cripps was at his busiest and 
 politest, Mrs. Grimes appeared with the old 
 coal-scuttle, piled uncommonly high with ashes 
 and dust and half-burned pipe-lights. She set 
 it down by the door, gave my grandfather his 
 keys, and turned to prepare the table. In- 
 stantly Mr. Cripps, watchful in service, pounced 
 on the scuttle. 
 
 * I '11 pitch this 'ere away for you, mum,' he 
 said, 'while you're seein' to Cap'en Kemp's 
 dinner ' ; and straightway started for the stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Grimes's back was turned at the moment, 
 
 L
 
 i62 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 and this gave Mr. Cripps the start of a yard or 
 two ; but she flung round and after him like a 
 maniac ; so that both Grandfather Nat and I 
 stared in amazement. 
 
 ' Give me that scuttle ! ' she cried, snatching 
 at the hinder handle. ' Mind your own busi- 
 ness, an' leave my things alone ! ' 
 
 Mr. Cripps was amazed also, and he stuttered, 
 • I — I — I — on'y — on'y ' 
 
 * Drop it, you fool ! ' the woman hissed, so 
 suddenly savage that Mr. Cripps did drop it, 
 with a start that sent him backward against a 
 post ; and the consequence was appalling. 
 
 Mr. Cripps was carrying the coal-scuttle by 
 its top handle, and Mrs. Grimes, reaching after 
 it, had seized that at the back ; so that when 
 Mr. Cripps let go, everything in the scuttle 
 shot out on the paving-stones ; first, of course, 
 the ashes and the pipe-lights ; then on the top 
 of them, crowning the heap — Grandfather 
 Nat's cash-box ! 
 
 I suppose my grandfather must have re- 
 covered from his astonishment first, for the 
 next thing I remember is that he had Mrs. 
 Grimes back in the bar-parlour, held fast by 
 the arm, while he carried his cash-box in the
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 163 
 
 disengaged hand. Mr. Cripps followed, be- 
 wildered but curious ; and my grandfather, 
 pushing his prisoner into a far corner, turned 
 and locked the door, 
 
 Mrs. Grimes, who had been crimson, was 
 now white ; but more, it seemed to me, with 
 fury than with fear. My grandfather took the 
 key from his watch-guard and opened the box, 
 holding it where the contents were visible to 
 none but himself He gave no more than a 
 quick glance within, and re-locked it ; from 
 which I judged — and judged aright — that the 
 pocket-book was safe. 
 
 'There's witnesses enough here,' said my 
 grandfather, — for Joe the potman was now 
 staring in from the bar — * to give you a good 
 dose o' gaol, mum. 'Stead o' which I pay 
 your full week's money and send you packin' ! ' 
 He pulled out some silver from his pocket. 
 * Grateful or not to me don't matter, but I 
 hope you '11 be honest where you go next, for 
 your own sake.' 
 
 'Grateful! Honest!' Mrs. Grimes gasped, 
 shaking with passion. ' 'Ear 'im talk I 
 Honest! Take me to the station now, and 
 bring that box an' show 'em inside it I Go on I '
 
 i64 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 I felt more than a little alarmed at this 
 challenge, having regard to the history of the 
 pocket-book; and I remembered the night 
 when we first examined it, the creaking door, 
 and the soft sounds on the stairs. But Grand- 
 father Nat was wholly undisturbed ; he counted 
 over the money calmly, and pushed it across 
 the little table. 
 
 'There it is, mum,' he said, *an' there's 
 your bonnet an' shawl in the corner. There 's 
 nothing else o' yours in the place, I believe, 
 so there's no need for you to go out o' my 
 sight till you go out of it altogether. That 
 you 'd better do quick. I '11 lay the dinner 
 myself 
 
 Mrs. Grimes swept up the money and began 
 fixing her bonnet on her head and tying the 
 strings under her chin, with savage jerks and 
 a great play of elbow ; her lips screwing nerv- 
 ously, and her eyes blazing with spite. 
 
 ' Ho yus ! ' she broke out — though her rage 
 was choking her — as she snatched her shawl. 
 * Ho yus! A nice pusson, Cap'en Nat Kemp, 
 to talk about honesty an' gratefulness — a nice 
 pusson ! A nice teacher for young master 
 'opeful, I must say, an' 'opin' 'e '11 do ye
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 165 
 
 credit! It ain't the last you'll see o' me, 
 Captain Nat Kemp ! . . . Get out o' my way, 
 you old lickspittle ! ' 
 
 Mr. Cripps got out of it with something like 
 a bound, and Mrs. Grimes was gone with a 
 flounce and a slam of the door. 
 
 Scold as she was, and furious as she was, I 
 was conscious that something in my grand- 
 father's scowl had kept her speech within 
 bounds, and shortened her clamour ; for few 
 cared to face Captain Nat's anger. But with 
 the slam of the door the scowl broke, and he 
 laughed. 
 
 * Come,' he said, ' that's well over, an' I owe 
 you a turn, Mr. Cripps, though you weren't 
 intending it. Stop an' have a bit of dinner. 
 And if you 'd like something on account to buy 
 the board for the sign — or say two boards if 
 you like — we'll see about it after dinner.' 
 
 It will be perceived that Grandfather Nat 
 had no reason to regret the keeping of his cash- 
 box key on his watchguard. For had it been 
 with the rest, in Mrs. Grimes's hands, she need 
 never have troubled to smuorp-le out the box 
 among the ashes, since the pocket-book was no 
 such awkward article, and would have gone in
 
 i66 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 her pocket. Mrs. Grimes had taken her best 
 chance and failed. The disorders caused by 
 the inquests had left her unobserved, the keys 
 were in her hands, and the cash-box was left 
 in the cupboard upstairs ; but the sedulous Mr. 
 Cripps had been her destruction. 
 
 As for that artist, he attained his dinner, 
 and a few shillings under the name of advance ; 
 and so was well pleased with his morning's 
 work.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 A POLICEMAN brought my grandfather 
 a bill, which was stuck against the bar 
 window with gelatines ; and just such another 
 bill was posted on the wall at the head of 
 Hole-in-the-Wall Stairs, above the smaller 
 bills that advertised the found bodies. This 
 new bill was six times the size of those below ; 
 it was headed ' Murder ' in grim black capitals, 
 and it set forth an offer of fifty pounds reward 
 for information which should lead to the 
 apprehension of the murderer of Robert 
 Kipps. 
 
 The offer sfave Grandfather Nat occasion 
 for much solemn banter of Mr. Cripps ; banter 
 which seemed to cause Mr. Cripps a curious 
 uneasiness, and time and again stopped his 
 eloquence in full flood. He had been at the 
 pains to cut from newspapers such reports of 
 the inquest as were printed ; and though they 
 
 167
 
 i6S THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 sadly disappointed him by their brevity, and 
 all but two personally affronted him by dis- 
 regarding his evidence and himself altogether, 
 still he made great play with the exceptional 
 two, in the bar. But he was quick to drop the 
 subject when Captain Nat urged him in 
 pursuit of the reward. 
 
 * Come,' my grandfather would say, 'you're 
 neglecting your fortune, you know. There 's 
 fifty pound waitin' for you to pick up, if you '11 
 only go an' collar that murderer. An' you 'd 
 know him anywhere.' Whereupon Mr. Cripps 
 would look a little frightened, and subside. 
 
 I did not learn till later how the little 
 painter's vanity had pushed him over bounds 
 at the inquest, so far that he committed himself 
 to an absolute recognition of the murderer. 
 The fact alarmed him not a little, on his return 
 to calmness, and my grandfather, who under- 
 stood his indiscretion as well as himself, and 
 enjoyed its consequences, in his own grim way, 
 amused himself at one vacant moment and 
 another by setting Mr. Cripps's alarm astir 
 again. 
 
 * You're throwing away your luck,' he would 
 say, perhaps, ' seein' you know him so well by
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 169 
 
 sight. If you 're too well-off to bother about 
 fifty pound, give some of us poor 'uns a run 
 for it, an' put us on to him. I wish I 'd been 
 able to see him so clear.' For in truth Grand- 
 father Nat well knew that nobody had had so 
 near a chance of seeing the murderer's face as 
 himself; and that Mr. Cripps, at the top of 
 the passage — perhaps even round the corner — 
 had no chance at all. 
 
 It was because of Mr. Cripps's indiscretion, 
 in fact — this I learned later still — that the 
 police were put off the track of the real criminal. 
 For after due reflection on the direful com- 
 plications whereinto his lapse promised to fling 
 him, that distinguished witness, as I have 
 already hinted, fell into a sad funk. So, 
 though he needs must hold to the tale that he 
 knew the man by sight, and could recognise 
 him again, he resolved that come what might, 
 he would identify nobody, and so keep clear 
 of further entanglements. Now the police 
 suspicions fell shrewdly on Dan Ogle, a 
 notorious ruffian of the neighbourhood. He 
 had been much in company of the murdered 
 man of late, and now was suddenly gone from 
 his accustomed haunts. Moreover, there was
 
 I70 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 the plain ag^itation of the woman he consorted 
 with, Musky Mag, at the inquest : she had 
 fainted, indeed, when Mr. Cripps had been 
 so positive about identifying the murderer. 
 These things were nothing of evidence, it was 
 true ; for that they must depend on the 
 witness who saw the fellow's face, knew him 
 by sight, and could identify him. But when 
 they came to this witness with their inquiries 
 and suggestions the thing went overboard at a 
 breath. Was the assassin a tall man ? Not 
 at all — rather short, in fact. Was he a heavy- 
 framed, bony fellow ? On the contrary, he was 
 fat rather than bony. Did Mr. Cripps ever 
 happen to have seen a man called Dan Ogle, 
 and was this man at all like him ? Mr. 
 Cripps had been familiar with Dan Ogle's 
 appearance from his youth up (this was true, 
 for the painter's acquaintance was wide and 
 diverse) but the man who killed Bob Kipps 
 was as unlike him as it was possible for any 
 creature on two legs to be. Then, would 
 Mr. Cripps, if the thing came to trial, swear 
 that the man he saw was not Dan Ogle ? Mr. 
 Cripps was most fervently and desperately 
 ready and anxious to swear that it was not,
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 171 
 
 and could not by any possibility be Dan Ogle, 
 or anybody like him. 
 
 This brought the police inquiries to a fault ; 
 even had their suspicions been stronger and 
 better supported, it would have been useless 
 to arrest Dan Ogle, supposing they could find 
 him ; for this, the sole possible witness to 
 identity, would swear him innocent. So they 
 turned their inquiries to fresh quarters, looking 
 among the waterside population across the 
 river — since it was plain that the murderer 
 had rowed over — for recent immigrants from 
 Wapping. For a little while Mr. Cripps was 
 vexed and disquieted with invitations to go 
 with a plain-clothes policeman and 'take a 
 quiet look ' at some doubtful character ; but of 
 course with no result, beyond the welcome one 
 of an occasional free drink ordered as an 
 excuse for waiting at bars and tavern-corners ; 
 and in time these attentions ceased, for the 
 police were reduced to waiting for evidence to 
 turn up ; and Mr. Cripps breathed freely once 
 more. While Dan Ogle remained undisturbed, 
 and justice was balked for a while ; for it 
 turned out in the end that when the police 
 suspected Dan Ogle they were right, and
 
 172 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 when they went to other conjectures they 
 were wrong. 
 
 All this was ahead of my knowledge at the 
 moment, however, as, indeed, it is somewhat 
 ahead of my story ; and for the while I did no 
 more than wonder to see Mr. Cripps abashed 
 at an encouragement to earn fifty pounds ; for 
 he seemed not a penny richer than before, and 
 still impetrated odd coppers on account of 
 the sign-board of promise. 
 
 Once or twice we saw Mr. Viney, and on 
 each occasion he borrowed money of Grand- 
 father Nat. The police were about the house 
 a good deal at this time, because of the 
 murder, or I think he might have come 
 oftener. The first time he came I heard him 
 telling my grandfather that he had got hold of 
 Blind George, that Blind George had told him 
 a good deal about the missing money, and that 
 with his help he hoped for a chance of saving 
 some of it. He added, mysteriously, that it 
 had been ' nearer hereabouts than you might 
 think, at one time ' ; a piece of news that my 
 grandfather received with a proper appearance 
 of surprise. But was it safe to confide in 
 Blind George } Viney swore for answer, and
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 173 
 
 said that the rascal had stipulated for such a 
 handsome share that it would pay him to play 
 square. 
 
 On the last of these visits I again overheard 
 some scraps of their talk, and this time it was 
 angrier. I judged that Viney wanted more 
 money than my grandfather was disposed to 
 give him. They were together in the back 
 room where the boxes and bottles were — the 
 room into which I had seen Bill Stagg's head 
 and shoulders thrust by way of the trap-door. 
 My grandfather's voice was low, and from time 
 to time he seemed to be begging Viney to 
 lower his ; so that I wondered to find Grand- 
 father Nat so mild, since in the bar he never 
 twice told a man to lower his voice, but if 
 once were not enough, flung him into the 
 street. And withal Viney paid no heed, but 
 talked as he would, so that I could catch his 
 phrases again and again. 
 
 ' Let them hush as is afraid — I ain't,* he 
 said. And again : ' O, am I ? Not me. . . . 
 It's little enough for me, if its does; not the 
 rope, anyway.' And later, ' Yes, the rope, 
 Cap'en Kemp, as you know well enough ; the 
 rope at Newgate Gaol. . . . Dan Webb, aboard
 
 174 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 o' the Florence. . . . The Florence that was 
 piled up on the Little Dingoes in broad day. 
 . , . As you was ordered o' course, but that 
 don't matter. . . . That 's what I want now, 
 an' no less. Think it lucky I offer to pay 
 back when I get — . . . Well, be sensible — 
 . . . I 'm friendly enough. . . . Very well.' 
 
 Presently my grandfather, blacker than 
 common about brow and eyes, but a shade 
 paler on the cheek, came into the bar-parlour 
 and opened the trade cash-box — not the one 
 that Mrs. Grimes had hidden among the 
 cinders, but a smaller one used for gold and 
 silver. He counted out a number of sovereigfns 
 — twenty, I believe — put the box away, and 
 returned to the back room. And in a few 
 minutes, with little more talk, Mr. Viney was 
 gone. 
 
 Grandfather Nat came into the bar-parlour 
 again, and his face cleared when he saw me, 
 as it always would, no matter how he had been 
 ruffled. He stood looking in my face for a 
 little, but with the expression of one whose 
 mind is eng^afjed elsewhere. Then he rubbed 
 his hand on my head, and said abstractedly, 
 and rather to himself, I fancied, than to me :
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 175 
 
 * Never mind, Stevy ; we got it back before- 
 hand, forty times over.' A remark that I 
 thought over afterward, in bed, with the re- 
 flection that forty times twenty was eight 
 hundred. 
 
 But Mr. Viney's talk in the back room 
 brought most oddly into my mind, in a way 
 hard to account for, the first question I put to 
 my grandfather after my arrival at the Hole in 
 the Wall : ' Did you ever kill a man, Grand- 
 father Nat?'
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 THE repeated multiplication of twenty by 
 forty sent me to sleep that night, and 
 I woke with that arithmetical exercise still 
 running in my head. A candle was alight in 
 the room — ours was one of several houses in 
 Wapping Wall without gas — and I peeped 
 sleepily over the bed-clothes. Grandfather 
 Nat was sitting with the cash-box on his 
 knees, and the pocket-book open in his hand. 
 He may just have been counting the notes 
 over again, or not ; but now he was staring 
 moodily at the photograph that lay with them. 
 Once or twice he turned his eyes aside, and 
 then back again to the picture, as though 
 searching his memory for some old face ; then 
 I thought he would toss it away as something 
 valueless ; but when his glance fell on the 
 fireless grate he returned the card to its place 
 and locked the box. 
 
 176
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 177 
 
 When the cash-box was put away in the 
 little cupboard at his bed-head, he came across 
 and looked down at me. At first I shut my 
 eyes, but peeped. I found him looking on me 
 with a troubled and thoughtful face ; so that 
 presently I sat up with a jump and asked 
 him what he was thinking about. 
 
 * Fox's sleep, Stevy ?' he said, with his hand 
 under my chin. 'Well, boy, I was thinking 
 about you. I was thinking it 's a good job 
 your father's coming home soon, Stevy; 
 though I don't like parting with you.' 
 
 Partine with me ? I did not understand. 
 Wouldn't father be going away again soon ? 
 
 'Well I dunno, Stevy, I dunno. I 've been 
 thinking a lot just lately, that's a fact. This 
 place is good enough for me, but it ain't a 
 good place to bring up a boy like you in ; not 
 to make him the man I want you to be, 
 Stevy. Somehow it didn't strike me that 
 way at first, though it ought to ha' done. It 
 ought to ha' done, seein' it struck strangers 
 — an' not particular moral strangers at 
 that.' 
 
 He was thinking of Blind George and 
 Mrs, Grimes. Though at the moment I 
 M
 
 178 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 wondered if his talk with Mr. Viney had 
 set him doubting. 
 
 ' No, Stevy,' he resumed, ' it ain't giving 
 you a proper chance, keeping you here. You 
 can't get lavender water out o' the bilge, 
 an' this part 's the bilge of all London. I 
 want you to be a better man than me, 
 Stevy,' 
 
 I could not imagine anybody being a better 
 man than Grandfather Nat, and the prospect 
 of leaving him oppressed me dismally. And 
 where was I to go ? I remembered the terrible 
 group of aunts at my mother's funeral, and a 
 shadowy fear that I might be transferred to 
 one of those virtuous females — perhaps to 
 Aunt Martha — put a weight on my heart. 
 * Don't send me away, Gran'fa' Nat ! ' I 
 pleaded, with something pulling at the corners 
 of my mouth ; * I haven't been a bad boy yet, 
 have I ? ' 
 
 He caught me up and sat me on his fore- 
 arm, so that my face almost touched his, and 
 I could see my little white reflection in his 
 eyes. 'You're the best boy in England, 
 Stevy,' he said, and kissed me affectionately. 
 ' The best boy in the world. An' I wouldn't
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 179 
 
 let go o' you for a minute but for your own 
 good. But see now, Stevy, see ; as to goin' 
 away, now. You 'll have to go to school, my 
 boy, won't you.-* An' the best school we 
 can manage — a gentleman's school ; boardin' 
 school, you know. Well, that'll mean goin' 
 away, won't it? An' then it wouldn't do for 
 you to go to a school like that, not from here, 
 you know — which you '11 understand when you 
 get there, among the others. My boy — my 
 boy an' your father's — has got to be as good 
 a gentleman as any of 'em, an' not looked 
 down on because o' comin' from a Wapping 
 public like this, an' sent by a rough old chap 
 like me. See ? ' 
 
 I thought very hard over this view of things, 
 which was difficult to understand. Who should 
 look down on me because of Grandfather Nat, 
 of whom I was so fond and so proud.-* Grand- 
 father Nat, who had sailed ships all over the 
 world, had seen storms and icebergs and 
 wrecks, and who was treated with so much 
 deference by everybody who came to the Hole 
 in the Wall? Then I thoucrht again of the 
 aunts at the funeral, and remembered how 
 they had tilted their chins at him ; and I
 
 i8o THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 wondered, with forebodings, if people at a 
 boarding school were like those aunts. 
 
 ' So I 've been thinking, Stevy, I 've been 
 thinking,' my grandfather went on, after a 
 pause. 'Now, there's the wharf on the Cop. 
 The work's gettin' more, and Grimes is gettin' 
 older. But you don't know about the wharf 
 Grimes is the man that manages there for me ; 
 he's Mrs. Grimes's brother-in-law, an' when 
 his brother died he recommended the widder 
 to me, an' that 's how she came : an' now she 's 
 gone; but that's neither here nor there. 
 Years ago Grimes himself an' a boy was 
 enough for all the work there was ; now there 's 
 three men reg'lar, an' work for more. Most 
 o' the lime comes off the baro^es there for the 
 new gas-works, an' more every week. Now 
 there 's business there, an' a respectable 
 business — too much for Grimes. An' if your 
 father '11 take on a shore job — an' it 's a hard 
 life, the sea — here it is. He can have a share 
 — have the lot if he likes — for your sake, 
 Stevy ; an' it '11 build up into a good thing. 
 Grimes '11 be all right — we can always find a 
 job for him. An' you can go an' live with 
 your father somewhere respectable an' con-
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE i8i 
 
 venient ; not such a place as Wapping, an' 
 not such people. An' you can go to school 
 from there, like any other young gentleman. 
 We'll see about it when your father comes 
 home.' 
 
 ' But shan't I ever see you, Gran'fa' Nat ? ' 
 •See me, my boy? Ay, that you will — if 
 you don't grow too proud — that you will, an' 
 great times we'll have, you an' your father 
 an' me, all ashore together, in the holidays, 
 won't we ? An' I '11 take care of your own 
 little fortune— the notes— till you 're old enough 
 to have it. I 've been thinking about that, too.' 
 Here he stood me on my bed and playfully 
 pushed me back and forward by the shoulders. 
 ' I 've been thinking about that, an' if it was 
 lyin' loose in the street I 'd be puzzled clean to 
 say who 'd really lost it, what with one thing 
 an' another. But it aint in the street, an' it 's 
 yours, with no puzzle about it. But there — 
 lie down, Stevy, an' go to sleep. Your old 
 grandfather's holdin' forth worse 'n a parson, 
 eh ? Comes o' bein' a lonely man an' havin' 
 nobody to talk to, except myself, till you come. 
 Lie down an' don't bother yourself We must 
 wait till your father comes home. We '11 keep
 
 i82 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 watch for the Jiuio in the List, — she ought to 
 ha' been reported at Barbadoes before this. 
 An' we must run down to Blackwall, too, an' 
 see if there 's any letters from him. So go 
 to sleep now, Stevy — we 'II settle it all — we '11 
 settle it all when your father comes home ! ' 
 
 So I lay and dozed, with words to send me 
 to sleep instead of figures : till they made a 
 tune and seemed to dance to it. * When father 
 comes home : when father comes home : we '11 
 settle it all, when father comes home ! ' And 
 presently, in some unaccountable way, Mr. 
 Cripps came into the dance with his ' Up to 
 their r'yals, up to their r'yals : the wessels is 
 deep in, up to their r'yals ! ' and so I fell 
 asleep wholly. 
 
 In the morning I was astir early, and 
 watching the boats and the shipping from 
 the bedroom window ere my grandfather had 
 ceased his alarming snore. It was half an 
 hour later, and Grandfather Nat was busy 
 with his razor on the upper lip that my cheeks 
 so well remembered, when we heard Joe the 
 potman at the street door. Whereat I took 
 the keys and ran down to let him in ; a feat
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 183 
 
 which I accompHshed by aid of a pair of steps, 
 much tugging at heavy bolts, and a supreme 
 wrench at the big key. 
 
 Joe brought Lloyds List in with him every 
 morning from the early newsagent's in Cable 
 Street. I took the familiar journal at once, 
 and dived into the midst of its quaint narrow 
 columns, crowded with italics, in hope of news 
 from Barbadoes. For I wished to find for 
 myself, and run upstairs, with a child's import- 
 ance, to tell Grandfather Nat. But there was 
 no news from Barbadoes — that is, there was 
 no news of my father's ship. The name 
 Barbadoes stood boldly enough, with reports 
 below it, of arrivals and sailings, and one of 
 an empty boat washed ashore ; but that was all. 
 So I sat where I was, content to wait, and to 
 tell Grandfather Nat presently, offhand from 
 over my paper, like a politician in the bar, that 
 there was no news. Thus, cutting the leaves 
 with a table-knife, my mind on my father's 
 voyage, it occurred to me that I could not 
 spell La Guaira, the name of the port his ship 
 was last reported from ; and I turned the paper 
 to look for it. The name was there, with only 
 one message attached, and while I was slowly
 
 i84 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 conning the letters over for the third time, I 
 was suddenly aware of a familiar word beneath 
 — the name of thejtmo herself. And this was 
 the notice that I read : 
 
 LA GUAIRA, Sep, I. 
 
 The Jitno (brig) of London, Beecher, from 
 this for Barbadoes, foundered N of Magarita. 
 Total loss. All crew saved except first mate. 
 Master and crew landed Margarita.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 I CAN NOT remember how I reached 
 Grandfather Nat. I must have dimbed 
 the stairs, and I fancy I ran into him on 
 the landing; but I only remember his grim 
 face, oddly grey under the eyes, as he sat 
 on his bed and took the paper in his hand. I 
 do not know even what I said, and I doubt 
 if I knew then ; the only words present to my 
 mind were * all crew saved except first mate ' ; 
 and very likely that was what I said. 
 
 My grandfather drew me between his knees, 
 and I stood with his arm about me and his 
 bowed head against my cheek. I noticed 
 bemusedly that with his hair fresh-brushed 
 the line between the grey and the brown at 
 the back was more distinct than common ; 
 and when there was a sudden clatter in the 
 bar below I wondered if Joe had smashed 
 something, or if it were only a tumble of the 
 
 186
 
 i86 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 pewters. So we were for a little ; and then 
 Grandfather Nat stood up with a sound 
 between a sigh and a gulp, looking strangely 
 askant at me, as though it surprised him to 
 find I was not crying. For my part I was 
 dimly perplexed to see that neither was he ; 
 though the grey was still under his eyes, and 
 his face seemed pinched and older. 'Come, 
 Stevy,' he said, and his voice was like a 
 groan ; ' we '11 have the house shut aeain.' 
 
 I cannot remember that he spoke to me 
 any more for an hour, except to ask if I 
 would eat any breakfast, which I did with no 
 great loss of appetite ; though indeed I was 
 trying very hard to think, hindered by an odd 
 vacancy of mind that made a little machine 
 of me. 
 
 Breakfast done, my grandfather sent Joe 
 for a cab to take us to Blackwall. I was a 
 little surprised at the unaccustomed convey- 
 ance, and rather pleased. When we were 
 ready to go, we found Mr. Cripps and two 
 other regular frequenters of the bar waiting 
 outside. I think Mr. Cripps meant to have 
 come forward with some prepared condolence ; 
 but he stopped short when he saw my grand-
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 187 
 
 father's face, and stood back with the others. 
 The four-wheeler was a wretched vehicle, 
 reeking of strong tobacco and stale drink ; 
 for half the employment of such cabs as the 
 neighbourhood possessed was to carry drunken 
 sailors, flush of money, who took bottles and 
 pipes with them everywhere. 
 
 Whether it was the jolting of the cab — 
 Wapping streets were paved with cobbles — 
 that shook my faculties into place ; whether 
 it was the association of the cab and the 
 journey to Blackwall that reminded me of my 
 mother's funeral ; or whether it was the mere 
 lapse of a little time, I cannot tell. But as 
 we went, the meaning of the morning's news 
 grew on me, and I realised that my father 
 was actually dead, drowned in the sea, and 
 that I was wholly an orphan ; and it struck 
 me with a sense of self-reproach that the fact 
 afflicted me no more than it did. When my 
 mother and my little brother had died I had 
 cried myself sodden and faint ; but now, heavy 
 of heart as I was, I felt curiously ashamed 
 that Grandfather Nat should see me tearless. 
 True, I had seen very little of my father, but 
 when he was at home he was always as kind
 
 i88 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 to me as Grandfather Nat himself, and led 
 me about with him everywhere ; and last 
 voyage he had brought me a little boomerang, 
 and only laughed when I hove it through a 
 window that cost him three shillines. Thus 
 I pondered blinkingly in the cab ; and I set 
 down my calmness to the reflection that my 
 mother would have him always with her now, 
 and be all the happier in heaven for it ; for 
 she always cried when he went to sea. 
 
 So at last we came in sight of the old quay, 
 and had to wait till the bridge should swing 
 behind a sea-beaten ship, with her bulwarks 
 patched with white plank, and the salt crust 
 thick on her spars. I could see across the 
 lock the three little front windows of our 
 house, shut close and dumb ; and I could hear 
 the quick chanty from the quay, where the 
 capstan turned : — 
 
 Of I served my time on the Black Ball Line, 
 Hurrah for the Black Ball Line I 
 
 From the South Sea north to the sixty-nine, 
 ILurrah Jor the Black Ball Line ! 
 
 And somehow with that I cried at last. 
 
 The ship passed in, the bridge shut, and
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 189 
 
 the foul old cab rattled again till it stopped 
 before the well-remembered door. The house 
 had been closed since my mother was buried, 
 Grandfather Nat paying the rent and keeping 
 the key on my father's behalf; and now the 
 door opened with a protesting creak and a 
 shudder, and the air within was close and 
 musty. 
 
 There were two letters on the mat, where 
 they had fallen from the letter-flap, and both 
 were from my father, as was plain from the 
 writing. We carried them into the little 
 - parlour, where last we had sat with the 
 funeral party, and my grandfather lifted the 
 blind and flung open the window. Then he 
 sat and put one letter on each knee. 
 
 ' Stevy,' he said, and again his voice was 
 like a groan ; ' look at them postmarks. Ain't 
 one Belize?' 
 
 Yes, one was Belize, the other La Guaira ; 
 and both for my mother. 
 
 'Ah, one's been lyin' here; the other must 
 ha' come yesterday, by the same mail as 
 brought the news.' He took the two letters 
 again, turned them over and over, and shook 
 his head. Then he replaced them on his
 
 I90 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 knees and rested his fists on his thighs, just 
 above where they lay. 
 
 * I don't know as we ought to open 'em, 
 Stevy,' he said wearily. ' I dunno, Stevy, 
 I dunno.' 
 
 He turned each over once more, and shut 
 his fists again. ' I dunno, I dunno . . , Man 
 an' wife, between 'emselves . . . Wouldn't do 
 it, living . . . Stevy boy, we '11 take 'em home 
 an' burn 'em.' 
 
 But to me the suggestion seemed incom- 
 prehensible — even shocking. I could see no 
 reason for burning my father's last message 
 home. ' Perhaps there 's a little letter for me, 
 Gran'father Nat,' I said. * He used to put one 
 in sometimes. Can't we look ? And mother 
 used to read me her letters too.' 
 
 My grandfather sat back and rubbed his 
 hand up through his hair behind, as he would 
 often do when in perplexity. At last he said, 
 'Well, well, it's hard to tell. We should never 
 know what we 'd burnt, if we did . . . We '11 
 look, Stevy . . . An' I '11 read no further than 
 I need. Come, the Belize letter's first . . . 
 Send I ain't doin' wrong, that 's all.' 
 
 He tore open the cover and pulled out the
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 191 
 
 sheets of flimsy foreign note-paper, holding 
 them to the light almost at arm's length, as 
 long-sighted men do. And as he read, slowly 
 as always, with a leathery forefinger following 
 the line, the grey under the old man's eyes 
 grew wet at last, and wetter. What the letter 
 said is no matter here. There was talk of me 
 in it, and talk of my little brother — or sister, 
 as it might have been for all my father could 
 know. And again there was the same talk 
 in the second letter — the one from La Guaira. 
 But in this latter another letter was enclosed, 
 larger than that for my mother, which was in 
 fact uncommonly short. And here, where the 
 dead spoke to the dead no more, but to the 
 living, was matter that disturbed my grand- 
 father more than all the rest. 
 
 The enclosure was not for me, as I had 
 hoped, but for Grandfather Nat himself; and 
 it was not a simple loose sheet folded in with 
 the rest, but a letter in its own smaller envelope, 
 close shut down, with the words ' Capn. Kemp ' 
 on the face. My grandfather read the first 
 few lines with increasing agitation, and then 
 called me to the window. 
 
 * See here, Stevy,' he said, ' it 's wrote small,
 
 192 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 to c^et it in, an' I 'm slow with it. Read it 
 out quick as you can.' 
 
 And so I read the letter, which I keep 
 still, worn at the folds and corners by the old 
 man's pocket, where he carried it afterward. 
 
 Dear Father, — Just a few lines private 
 hoping they find you well. This is my 
 hardest trip yet, and the queerest, and I 
 write in case anything happens and I don't 
 see you again. This is for yourself, you 
 understand, and I have made it all cheerful 
 to the Mrs., specially as she is still off 
 her health, no doubt. Father, the Jtino 
 was not meant to come home this trip, and 
 if ever she rounds Blackwall Point again it 
 will be in spite of the skipper. He had his 
 first try long enough back, on the voyage out, 
 and it was then she was meant to go ; for she 
 was worse found than ever I saw a ship — even 
 a ship of Viney's ; and not provisioned for 
 more than half the run out, proper rations. 
 And I say it plain, and will say it as plain to 
 anybody, that the vessel would have been 
 piled up or dropped under and the insurance 
 paid months before you get this if I had not
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 193 
 
 pretty nigh mutinied more than once. He 
 said he would have me in irons, but he shan't 
 have the chance if I can help it. You know 
 Beecher. Four times I reckon he has tried 
 to pile her up, every time in the best weather 
 and near a safe port — foreign. The men 
 would have backed me rip;ht through — some 
 of them did — but they deserted one after 
 another all round the coast, Monte Video, 
 Rio and Bahia, and small blame to them, and 
 we filled up with half-breeds and such. The 
 last of the ten and the boy went at Bahia, so 
 that now I have no witness but the second 
 mate, and he is either in it or a fool — I think 
 a fool : but perhaps both. Not a man to back 
 me. Else I might have tried to report or 
 something, at Belize, though that is a thing 
 best avoided of course. No doubt he has o-ot 
 his orders, so I am not to blame him, perhaps. 
 But I have got no orders — not to lose the 
 ship, I mean — and so I am doing my duty. 
 Twice I have come up and took the helm 
 from him, but that was with the English 
 crew aboard. He has been quiet lately, and 
 perhaps he has given the job up ; at any rate 
 I expect he won't try to pile her up again — 
 
 N
 
 194 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 more likely a quiet turn below with a big 
 auger. He is still mighty particular about 
 the long-boat being all right, and the falls 
 clear, etc. If he does it I have a notion it 
 may be some time when I have turned in ; I 
 can't keep awake all watches. And he knows 
 I am about the only man aboard who won't 
 sign whatever he likes before a consul. You 
 know what I mean ; and you know Beecher 
 too. Don't tell the Mrs. of course. Say this 
 letter is about a new berth or what not. No 
 doubt it is all right, but it came in my head 
 to drop you a line, on the off chance, and a 
 precious long line I have made of it. So no 
 more at present from — Your Affectionate Son, 
 
 Nathaniel. 
 P.S. I am in half a mind to go ashore at 
 Barbadoes, and report. But perhaps best not. 
 That sort of thing don't do. 
 
 While I read, my grandfather had been 
 sitting with his head between his hands, and 
 his eyes directed to the floor, so that I could 
 not see his face. So he remained for a little 
 while after I had finished, while I stood in 
 troubled wonder. Then he looked up, his
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 195 
 
 face stern and hard beyond the common : and 
 his was a stern face at best. 
 
 ' Stevy,' he said, ' do you know what that 
 means, that you 've been a-readin' ? ' 
 
 I looked from his face to the letter, and 
 back again. * It means — means ... I think 
 the skipper sank the ship on purpose.' 
 
 'It means Murder, my boy, that's what 
 it means. Murder, by the law of England! 
 "Feloniously castin' away an' destroyin' ; " 
 that's what they call the one thing, though 
 I 'm no lawyer-man. An' it means prison ; 
 though why, when a man follows orders faith- 
 ful, I can't say ; but well I know it. An' 
 if any man loses his life thereby it's Murder, 
 whether accidental or not; Murder an' the 
 Rope, by the law of England, an' bitter well 
 I know that too ! O bitter well I know it ! ' 
 
 He passed his palm over his forehead and 
 eyes, and for a moment was silent. Then 
 he struck the palm on his knee and broke 
 forth afresh. 
 
 'Murder, by the law of England, even if 
 no more than accident in God's truth. How 
 much the more then this here, when the one 
 man as won't stand and see it done goes down
 
 196 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 in his berth ? O, I Ve known that afore, too, 
 with a gimlet through the door-frame ; an' I 
 know Beecher. But orders is orders, an' it 's 
 them as gives them as is to reckon with. I 've 
 took orders myself. . . . Lord ! Lord ! an' 
 I 've none but a child to talk to ! A little 
 child ! . . . But you 're no fool, Stevy. See 
 here now, an' remember. You know what's 
 come to your father .-* He's killed, wilful; 
 murdered, like what they b^ng people for, 
 at Newgate, Stevy, by the law. An' do you 
 know who 's done it ? ' 
 
 I was distressed and bewildered, as well as 
 alarmed by the old man's vehemence. ' The 
 captain,' I said, whimpering again. 
 
 ' Viney ! ' my grandfather shouted. ' Henry 
 Viney, as I might ha' served the same way, 
 an' I wish I had ! Viney and Marr 's done it ; 
 an' Marr's paid for it already. Lord, Lord!' 
 he went on, with his face down in his hands 
 and his elbows on his knees. ' Lord ! I see 
 a lot of it now ! It was what they made out o' 
 the insurance that was to save the firm ; an' 
 when my boy put in an' stopped it all the 
 voyage out, an' more, they could hold on no 
 longer, but plotted to get out with what they
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 197 
 
 could lay hold of. Lord ! it 's plain as print, 
 plain as print ! Stevy ! ' He lowered his hands 
 and looked up. ' Stevy ! that money 's more 
 yours now than ever. If I ever had a doubt 
 — if it don't belong to the orphan they've 
 made — but there, it 's sent you, boy, sent you, 
 an' any one 'ud believe in Providence after 
 that.' 
 
 In a moment more he was back at his 
 earlier excitement. ' But it 's Viney 's done 
 it,' he said, with his fist extended before him. 
 ' Remember, Stevy, when you grow up, it 's 
 Viney 's done it, an' it's Murder, by the law 
 of England. Viney has killed your father, 
 an' if it was brought against him it 'ud be 
 Murder ! ' 
 
 'Then,' I said, 'we'll go to the police 
 station and they will catch him.' 
 
 My grandfather's hand dropped. *Ah 
 Stevy, Stevy,' he groaned, ' you don't know, 
 you don't know. It ain't enough for that, an' 
 if it was — if it was, I can't ; I can't — not with 
 you to look after. I might do it, an' risk all, 
 if it wasn't for that . . . My God, it's a 
 judgment on me — a cruel judgment! My 
 own son — an' just the same way — ^just the
 
 .98 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 same way ! . . . I can't, Stevy, not with you 
 to take care of. Stevy, I must keep myself 
 safe for your sake, an' I can't raise a hand to 
 punish Viney. I can't Stevy, I can't ; for I 'm 
 a guilty man myself, by the law of England — 
 an' Viney knows it ! Viney knows it ! Though 
 it wasn't wilful, as God 's my judge ! ' 
 
 Grandfather Nat ended with a groan, and 
 sat still, with his head bowed in his hands. 
 Again I remembered, and now with something 
 of awe, my innocent question : ' Did you ever 
 kill a man. Grandfather Nat ?' 
 
 Still he sat motionless and silent, till I could 
 endure it no longer : for in some way I felt 
 frightened. So I went timidly and put my 
 arm about his neck. I fancied, though I was 
 not sure, that I could feel a tremble from his 
 shoulders ; but he was silent still. Never- 
 theless I was oddly comforted by the contact, 
 and presently, like a dog anxious for notice, 
 ventured to stroke the grey hair. 
 
 Soon then he dropped his hands and spoke. 
 * I shouldn't ha' said it, Stevy ; but I 'm all 
 shook an' worried, an' I talked wild. It was 
 no need to say it. but there ain't a soul 
 alive to speak to else, an' somehow I talk
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 199 
 
 as it might be half to myself. But you know 
 what about things I say — private things— don't 
 you? Remember?' He sat erect again, and 
 raised a forefinger warningly, even sternly. 
 'Remember, Stevy ! . . . But come — there's 
 things to do. Give me the letter. We '11 
 get together any little things to be kep', 
 papers an' what not, an' take 'em home. An' 
 I '11 have to think about the rest, what 's best 
 to be done ; sell 'em, or what. But I dunno, 
 I dunno!'
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 IN BLUE GATE 
 
 IN her den at the black stair-top in Blue 
 Gate, Musky Mag lurked, furtive and 
 trembling, after the inquests at the Hole in 
 the Wall. Where Dan Ogle might be hiding 
 she could not guess, and she was torn between 
 a hundred fears and perplexities. Dan had 
 been seen, and could be identified ; of that she 
 was convinced, and more than convinced, since 
 she had heard Mr. Cripps's testimony. More- 
 over she well remembered at what point in 
 her own evidence the police-inspector had 
 handed the note to the coroner, and she was 
 not too stupid to guess the meaning of that. 
 How could she warn Dan, how help or screen 
 him, how put to act that simple fidelity that 
 was the sole virtue remaining in her, all the 
 greater for the loss of the rest-f* She had no 
 money ; on the other hand she was confident 
 that Dan must have with him the whole 
 
 200
 
 IN BLUE GATE 201 
 
 pocket-book full of notes which had cost two 
 lives already, and now seemed like to cost the 
 life she would so gladly buy with her own ; for 
 they had not been found on Kipps's body, nor 
 in any way spoken of at the inquest. But then 
 he miaht fear to chancre them. He could 
 scarcely carry a single one to the receivers 
 who knew him, for his haunts would be 
 watched ; more, a reward was offered, and no 
 receiver would be above making an extra fifty 
 pounds on the transaction. For to her tor- 
 tured mind it seemed every moment more 
 certain that the cry was up, and not the police 
 alone, but everybody else was on the watch 
 to give the gallows its due. She was uneasy 
 at having no message. Doubtless he needed 
 her help, as he had needed it so often before ; 
 doubtless he would come for it if he could, but 
 that would be to put his head in the noose. 
 How could she reach him, and give it ? Even 
 if she had known where he lay, to go to him 
 would be to lead the police after her, for she had 
 no doubt that her own movements would be 
 watched. She knew that the boat wherein he 
 had escaped had been found on the opposite 
 side of the river, and she, like others, judged
 
 202 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 from that that he might be lurking in some 
 of the waterside rookeries of the south bank ; 
 the more as it was the commonest device of 
 those ' wanted ' in RatcHff or Wapping to ' go 
 for a change' to Rotherhithe or Bankside, 
 and for those in a Hke predicament on the 
 southern shores to come north in the same 
 way. But again, to go in search of him were 
 but to share with the poHce whatever luck 
 might attend the quest. So that Musky Mag 
 feared alike to stay at home and to go abroad ; 
 longed to find Dan, and feared it as much ; 
 wished to aid him, yet equally dreaded that he 
 should come to her or that she should otq to 
 
 o 
 
 him. And there was nothing to do, therefore, 
 but to wait and listen anxiously ; to listen for 
 voices, for footsteps, even for creaks on the 
 stairs ; for a whistle without that might be a 
 signal ; for an uproar or a sudden hush that 
 might announce the coming of the police into 
 Blue Gate ; even for a whisper or a scratching 
 at door or window wherewith the fugitive 
 might approach, fearful lest the police were 
 there before him. But at evening, when the 
 place grew dark, and the thickest of the gloom 
 drew together, to make a monstrous shadow
 
 IN BLUE GATE 203 
 
 on the floor, where once she had fallen over 
 something in the dark — then she went and sat 
 on the stair-head, watching and dozing and 
 waking in terror. 
 
 So went a day and a night, and another day. 
 The corners of the room grew dusk again, and 
 with the afternoon's late light the table flung 
 its shadow on that same place on the floor ; 
 so that she went and moved it toward the 
 wall. 
 
 As she set it down she started and crouched, 
 for now at last there was a step on the stair — 
 an unfamiliar step. A woman's, it would seem, 
 and stealthy. Musky Mag held by the table, 
 and waited. 
 
 The steps ceased at the landing, and there 
 was a pause. Then, with no warning knock, 
 the door was pushed open, and a head was 
 thrust in, covered by an old plaid shawl ; a 
 glance about the room, and the rest of the 
 figure followed, closing the door behind it ; 
 and, the shawl being flung back from over the 
 bonnet, there stood Mrs. Grimes, rusty and 
 bony, slack-faced and sour. 
 
 Mrs. Grimes screwed her red nose at the 
 woman before her, jerked up her crushed
 
 204 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 bonnet, and plucked her rusty skirt across her 
 knees with the proper virtuous twitch. Then 
 said Mrs. Grimes : ' Where 's my brother Dan?' 
 For a moment Musky Mag disbeHeved eyes 
 and ears together. The visit itself, even more 
 than the question, amazed and bewildered her. 
 She had been prepared for any visitor but 
 this. For Mrs. Grimes's relationship to Dan 
 Ogle was a thing that exemplary lady made 
 as close a secret as she could, as in truth was 
 very natural. She valued herself on her 
 respectability ; she was the widow of a decent 
 lighterman, of a decent lightering and wharf- 
 working family, and she called herself ' house- 
 keeper' (though she might be scarce more 
 than charwoman) at the Hole in the Wall. 
 She had never acknowledgred her lawless 
 brother when she could in any way avoid it, 
 and she had, indeed, bargained that he should 
 not come near her place of employment, lest 
 he compromise her ; and so far from seek- 
 inor him out in his lods^incrs, she even had a 
 way of failing to see him in the street. What 
 should she want in Blue Gate at such a time 
 as this, asking thus urgently for her brother 
 Dan ? What but the reward ? For an instant
 
 IN BLUE GATE 205 
 
 Mag's fears revived with a jump, though even 
 as it came she put away the fancy that such 
 might be the design of any sister, however 
 respectable. 
 
 'Where's my brother Dan?' repeated Mrs. 
 Grimes, abruptly. 
 
 * I — I don't know, mum,' faltered Mag, husky 
 and dull. ' I ain't seen 'im for — for — some 
 time.' 
 
 ' O nonsense. I want 'im particular. I 
 got somethink to tell 'im important. If you 
 won't say where 'e is, go an' find 'im.' 
 
 *I wish I could, mum, truly. But I can't.' 
 
 * Do you mean 'e 's left you ? ' Mrs. 
 Grimes bridled high, and helped it with a 
 haughty sniff. 
 
 * No, mum, not quite, in your way of speak- 
 in', I think, mum. But 'e 's — 'e 's just gone 
 away for a bit.' 
 
 ' Ho. In trouble again, you mean, eh ?* 
 ' O no mum, not there,' Mag answered 
 readily ; for, with her, ' trouble ' was merely a 
 genteel name for gaol. ' Not there — not for a 
 long while.' 
 
 * Where then ? ' 
 
 'That's what I dunno, mum ; not at all,'
 
 2o6 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 Mrs. Grimes tightened her lips and glared ; 
 plainly she believed none of these denials. 
 * P'raps 'e 's wanted/ she snapped, ' an' keepin' 
 out o' the way just now. Is that it ? ' 
 
 This was what no torture would have made 
 Mag acknowledge ; but, with all her vehem- 
 ence of denial, her discomposure was plain 
 to see. * No, mum, not that,' she declared, 
 pleadingly. * Reely 'e ain't, mum — reely 'e 
 ain't ; not that ! ' 
 
 ' Pooh ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Grimes, seating her- 
 self with a flop. * That 's a lie, plain enough. 
 'E 's layin' up somewhere, an' you know it. 
 What harm d' ye suppose I 'm goin' to do 'im ? 
 'E ain't robbed me — leastways not lately. I 
 got a job for 'im, I tell you — money in 'is 
 pocket. If you won't tell me, go an' tell 'im; 
 cro on. An' I '11 wait.' 
 
 'It's Gawd's truth, mum, I don't know 
 where 'e is,' Mag protested earnestly. *'Ark! 
 there 's some one on the stairs ! They '11 'ear. 
 Go away, mum, do. I '11 try an' find 'im an' 
 tell 'im — s 'elp me I will ! Go away — 
 they 're comin' ! ' 
 
 In truth the footsteps had reached the stair- 
 top, and now, with a thump, the door was
 
 IN BLUE GATE 207 
 
 thrust open, and Blind George appeared, his 
 fiddle under his arm, his stick sweeping be- 
 fore him, and his white eye rolling at the 
 ceiling. 
 
 * Hullo ! ' he sung out. ' Lady visitors ! Or 
 is it on'y one } 'Tain't polite to tell the lady to 
 go away, Mag! Good afternoon, mum, good 
 afternoon! ' He nodded and grinned at upper 
 vacancy, as one might at a descending angel ; 
 Mrs. Grimes, meanwhile, close at his elbow, 
 preparing to get away as soon as he was clear 
 past her. For Blind George's keenness of 
 hearing was well-known, and she had no mind 
 he should guess her identity. 
 
 'Good afternoon, mum!' the blind man 
 repeated. • Havin' tea ? ' He advanced 
 another step, and extended his stick. • What ! ' 
 he added, suddenly turning. ' What ! Table 
 gone ? What 's this } Doin' a guy } Clearin' 
 out?' 
 
 ' No, George,' Mag answered. ' I only 
 moved the table over to the wall. 'Ere it is 
 — come an' feel it.' She made a quick gesture 
 over his shoulder, and Mrs. Grimes hurried 
 out on tip-toe. 
 
 But at the first movement Blind George
 
 2o8 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 turned sharply. 'There she goes,' he said, 
 making for the door. ' She don't Hke me. 
 Timid Httle darHn' ! Hullo, my dear!' he 
 roared down the stairs. 'Hullo! you never 
 give me a kiss ! I know you ! Won't you say 
 good-bye ? ' 
 
 He waited a moment, listening intently; but 
 Mrs. Grimes scuttled into the passage below 
 without a word, and instantly Blind George 
 supplemented his endearments with a burst of 
 foul abuse, and listened again. This expedient 
 succeeded no better than the first, and Mrs. 
 Grimes was gone without a sound that might 
 betray her identity. 
 
 Blind George shut the door. 'Who was 
 that ? ' he asked. 
 
 *0, nobody partic'lar,* Mag answered with 
 an assumption of indifference. * On'y a woman 
 I know — name o' Jane. What d' you want ? ' 
 
 • Ah, now you 're come to it.' Blind 
 George put his fiddle and bow on the table 
 and groped for a chair. ' Fust,' he went 
 on, * is there anybody else as can 'ear ? 
 Eh ? Cracks or crannies or peepholes, eh ? 
 'Cause I come as a pal, to talk private 
 business, I do.'
 
 IN BLUE GATE 209 
 
 ' It 's all right, George ; nobody can hear. 
 What is it ? ' 
 
 ' Why,' said the blind man, catching her 
 tight by the arm, and leaning forward to 
 whisper; 'it's Dan, that's what it is. It's 
 Dan ! ' 
 
 She was conscious of a catching of the 
 breath and a thump of the heart ; and Blind 
 George knew it too, for he felt it through the 
 arm. 
 
 * It's Dan,' he repeated. * So now you know 
 if it 's what you 'd like listened to.' 
 
 * Go on,' she said. 
 
 * Ah. Well, fust thing, all bein' snug, 'ere 's 
 five bob ; catch 'old.' He slid his right hand 
 down to her wrist, and with his left pressed 
 the money into hers. 'All right, don't be 
 frightened of it, it won't 'urt ye ! Lord, I bet 
 Dan 'ud do the same for me if I wanted it, 
 though 'e is a bit rough sometimes. I ain't 
 rich, but I got a few bob by me ; an' if a pal 
 ain't to 'ave 'em, who is ? Eh ? Who is ? ' 
 
 He grinned under the white eye so ghastly 
 a counterfeit of friendly good-will that the 
 woman shrank, and pulled at the wrist he 
 held. 
 o
 
 2IO THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 ' Lord love ye,' he went on, holding tight to 
 the wrist, ' I ain't the bloke to round on a pal 
 as is under a cloud. See what I mii/ht 'a' 
 done, if I 'd 'a' wanted. I might 'a' gone an' 
 let out all sorts o' things, as you know very 
 well yerself, at the inquest — both the inquests. 
 But did I } Not me. Not a bit of it. That 
 ain't my way. No ; I lay low, an' said nothing. 
 What arter that ? Why there 's fifty quid 
 reward offered, fifty quid — a fortune to a pore 
 bloke like me. An' all I got to do is to go 
 and say "Dan Ogle" to earn it — them two 
 words an' no more. Ain't that the truth .f* 
 D'y' hear, ain't that the truth ? ' 
 
 He tugged at her wrist to extort an answer, 
 and the woman's face was drawn with fear. 
 But she made a shift to say, with elaborate 
 carelessness, ' Reward } What reward, George.'* 
 I dunno nothin' about it.' 
 
 ' Gr-r-r ! ' he growled, pushing the wrist 
 back, but gripping it still. ' That ain't 'and- 
 some, not to a pal it ain't ; not to a faithful 
 pal as comes to do y' a good turn. You know 
 all about it well enough ; an' you needn't 
 think as I don't know too. Blind, ain't I .'* 
 Blind from a kid, but not a fool ! You ought
 
 IN BLUE GATE 211 
 
 to know that by this time — not a fool. Look 
 'ere ! ' — with another jerk at the woman's arm 
 — 'look 'ere. The last time I was in this 'ere 
 room there was me an' you an' Dan an' two 
 men as is dead now, an' post-mortalled, an' 
 inquested an' buried, wasn't there ? Well, 
 Dan chucked me out. I ain't bearin' no 
 malice for that, mind ye — ain't I just give ye 
 five bob, an' ain't I come to do ye a turn ? 
 I was chucked out, but ye don't s'pose I 
 dunno what 'appened arter I was gone, do 
 ye .? Eh ? ' 
 
 The room was grown darker, and though 
 the table was moved, the shadow on the floor 
 took its old place, and took its old shape, 
 and grew ; but it was no more abhorrent than 
 the shadowy face with its sightless white 
 eye close before hers, and the hand that 
 held her wrist, and by it seemed to feel the 
 pulse of her very mind. She struggled to 
 her feet. 
 
 ' Let go my wrist,' she said. * I '11 light a 
 candle. You can 00 on.' 
 
 ' Don't light no candle on my account,' he 
 said, chuckling, as he let her hand drop. * It's 
 a thing I never treat myself to. There's
 
 212 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 parties as is afraid o' the dark, they tell me — 
 I 'm used to it.' 
 
 She lit the candle, and set it where it lighted 
 best the place of the shadow. Then she 
 returned and stood by the chair she had been 
 sitting in. 'Go on,' she said again. 'What's 
 this good turn you want to do me ? * 
 
 •Ah,' he replied, 'that's the pint!* He 
 caught her wrist again with a sudden snatch, 
 and drew her forward. ' Sit down, my gal, 
 sit down, an' I '11 tell ye comfortable. What 
 was I a-sayin' ? Oh, what 'appened arter I 
 was gone ; yes. Well, that there visitor was 
 flimped clean, clean as a whistle ; but fust — 
 eh ? — fust ! ' Blind George snapped his jaws, 
 and made a quick blow in the air with his 
 stick. 'Eh? Eh? Ah, well, never mind! 
 But now I '11 tell you what the job fetched. 
 Eight 'undred an' odd quid in a leather pocket- 
 book, an' a silver watch ! Eh ? I thought 
 that 'ud make ye jump. Blind, ain't I ? Blind 
 from a kid, — but not a fool ! ' 
 
 'Well now,' he proceeded, 'so far all right. 
 If I can tell ye that, I can pretty well tell ye 
 all the rest, can't I ? All about Bob Kipps 
 goin' off to sell the notes, an' Dan watchin'
 
 IN BLUE GATE 213 
 
 'im, bein' suspicious, an' catchin' 'im makin' a 
 bolt for the river, an' — eh?' He raised the 
 stick in his left hand again, but now point 
 forward, with a little stab toward her breast. 
 'Eh? Eh? Like that, eh? All right— 
 don't be frightened, I 'm a pal, I am. It 
 served that cove right, I say, playin' a trick on 
 a pal. I don't play a trick on a pal. I come 
 'ere to do 'im a good turn, I do. Don't I ? 
 — Well, Dan got away, an' good luck to 'im. 
 'E got away, clear over the river, with the 
 eight 'undred quid in the leather pocket-book. 
 An' now 'e 's a-layin' low an' snug, an' more 
 good luck to 'im, says I, bein' a pal. Ain't 
 that right ? ' 
 
 Mag shuffled uneasily. * Go on,' she said, 
 * if you think you know such a lot. You 
 ain't come to that good turn yet that you 
 talk so much about.' 
 
 •Right! Now I'll come to it. Now you 
 know I know as much as anybody — more 'n 
 anybody 'cept Dan, p'rhaps a bit more'n 
 what you know yourself; an' I kep' it quiet 
 when I might 'a' made my fortune out of it ; 
 kep' it quiet, bein' a faithful pal. An' bein' a 
 faithful pal an' all I come 'ere with five bob
 
 214 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 for ye, bein' all I can afford, 'cos I know 
 you 're a bit short, though Dan 's got plenty — 
 got a fortune. Why should you be short, an' 
 Dan got a fortune ? On'y 'cos you want a pal as 
 you can trust, like me ! That 's all. 'E can't 
 come to you 'cos o' showin' 'isself. You can't 
 2fO to 'im 'cos of beino- watched an' follered. 
 So I come to do ye both a good turn goin' 
 between, one to another. Where is 'e?' 
 
 Mag was in some way reassured. She 
 feared and distrusted Blind George, and she 
 was confounded to learn how much he knew : 
 but at least he was still ignorant of the essen- 
 tial thing. So she said, ' Knowin' so much 
 more'n me, I wonder you dunno that too. 
 Any'ow /don't' 
 
 ' What ? Yotc dunno. Dunno where 'e is ? ' 
 
 *No, I don't; no more'n you.' 
 
 ' O that 's all right — all right for anybody 
 else ; but not for a pal like me — not for a 
 pal as is doin' y' a good turn. Besides, 
 it ain't you on'y ; it 's 'im. 'Ow '11 'e get on 
 with the stuff? 'E won't be able to change it, 
 an' 'e'll be as short as you, an' p'rhaps get 
 smuorored with it on 'im. That 'ud never do ; 
 an' I can get it changed. What part o' Rother-
 
 IN BLUE GATE ^15 
 
 hithe is It, eh? I can easy find 'im. Is it 
 Dockhead ? ' 
 
 ' There or anywhere, for all I know. I tell 
 ye, George, I dunno no more'n you. Let go 
 my arm, go on.' 
 
 But he gave it another pull — an angry 
 one. 'What? What?' he cried. ' If Dan 
 knowed as you was keepin' 'is ol' pal George 
 from doin' 'im a good turn, what 'ud 'e do, eh ? 
 'E 'd give it you, my beauty, wouldn't 'e ? 
 Eh? Eh?' He twisted the arm, ground his 
 teeth, and raised his stick menacingly. 
 
 But this was a little too much. He was a 
 man, and stronger, but at any rate he was 
 blind. She rose and struggled to twist her 
 arm from his grasp. * If you don't put down 
 that stick, George,' she said, *if you don't put 
 it down an' let go my arm, I '11 give it you 
 same as Bob Kipps got it — s 'elp me I will ! 
 I 11 give you the chive — I will ! Don't you 
 make me desprit ! ' 
 
 He let go the wrist and laughed. * Whoa, 
 beauty ! ' he cried ; * don't make a rumpus with 
 a faithful pal! If you won't tell me I s'pose 
 you won't, bein' a woman ; whether it 's bad 
 for Dan or not, eh ? '
 
 2i6 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 * I tell you I can't, George ; 1 swear 
 solemn I dunno no more 'n you — p'rhaps 
 not so much. 'E ain't bin near nor sent 
 nor nothing, since — since then. That's 
 gospel truth. If I do 'ear from 'im I '11 — 
 well then I '11 see.' 
 
 'Will ye tell 'im, then? 'Ere, tell'im this. 
 Tell 'im he mustn't go tryin' to sell them notes, 
 or 'e '11 be smugged. Tell 'im I can put 'im in 
 the way o' gettin' money for 'em — 'ard quids, 
 an' plenty on 'em. Tell 'im that, will ye? 
 Tell 'im I 'm a faithful pal, an' nobody can do 
 it but me. I know things you don't know 
 about, nor 'im neither. Tell 'im to-night. 
 Will ye tell 'im to-night ?' 
 
 ''Ow can I tell 'im to-niorht? I'll tell 'im 
 right enough when I see 'im. I s'pose you 
 want to make your bit out of it, pal or not.' 
 
 * There y'are ! ' he answered quickly. ' There 
 y'are ! If you won't believe in a pal, look at 
 that ! If I make a fair deal, man to man, with 
 them notes, an' get money for 'em instead o' 
 smuggin' — quids instead o' quod — I '11 'ave 
 my proper reg'lars, won't I ? An' proper 
 reg'lars on all that, paid square, 'ud be more 'n 
 I could make playin' the snitch, if Dan '11 be
 
 IN BLUE GATE 217 
 
 open to reason. See? You won't forget, 
 eh?' He took her arm again eagerly, above 
 the elbow. ' Know what to say, don't ye ? 
 Best for all of us. 'E mustn't show them 
 notes to a soul, till 'e sees me. /'w 'is pal. 
 / got the little tip 'ow to do it proper — see? 
 Now you know. Gimme my fiddle. 'Ere 
 we are. Where 's the door ? All right — don't 
 forget ! ' 
 
 Blind George clumped down the black stair, 
 and so reached the street of Blue Gate. At 
 the door he paused, listening till he was 
 satisfied of Musky Mag's movements above ; 
 then he walked a few yards along the dark 
 street, and stopped. 
 
 From a black archway across the street a 
 man came skulking out, and over the road- 
 way to Blind George's side. It was Viney. 
 • Well ? ' he asked eagerly, * What 's your 
 luck ? ' 
 
 Blind George swore vehemently, but quietly. 
 'Precious little,' he answered. 'She dunno 
 where 'e is. I thought at first it was kid, 
 but it ain't. She ain't 'eard, an' she dunno. 
 I couldn't catch hold o' the other woman, an' 
 she got away an' never spoke. You see 'er
 
 2i8 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 again when she came out, didn't ye? Know 
 'er ? • 
 
 ' Not me — she kept her shawl tighter about 
 her head than ever. An' if she hadn't it ain't 
 Hkely I 'd know her. What now ? Stand 
 watch again? I 'm sick of it.' 
 
 'So am I, but it's for good pay, if it 
 comes off. Five minutes might do it. You 
 get back, an' wait in case I tip the whistle.' 
 
 Viney crept growling back to his arch, and 
 Blind GeorQ^e went and listened at Mag-'s 
 front door for a few moments more. Then 
 he turned into the one next it, and there 
 waited, invisible, listening still. 
 
 Five minutes went, and did not do it, and 
 ten minutes went, and five times ten. Blue 
 Gate lay darkling in evening, and foul shadows 
 moved about it. From one den and another 
 came a drawl and a yaup of drunken singing ; 
 a fog from the river dulled the lights at the 
 Highway end, and slowly crept up the narrow 
 way. It was near an hour since Viney and 
 Blind George had parted, when there grew 
 visible, coming through the mist from the 
 Highway, the uncertain figure of a stranger : 
 drifting dubiously from door to door, staring in
 
 IN BLUE GATE 219 
 
 at one after another, and wandering out toward 
 the gutter to peer ahead in the gloom. 
 
 Blind George could hear, as well as another 
 could see, that here was a stranger in doubt, 
 seeking somebody or some house. Soon the 
 man, middle-sized, elderly, a trifle bent, and 
 all dusty with lime, came in turn to the door 
 where he stood ; and at once Blind George 
 stepped full against him with an exclamation 
 and many excuses. 
 
 'Beg pardon, guv'nor! Pore blind chap! 
 'Ope I didn't 'urt ye! Was ye wantin' any- 
 body in this 'ouse ?' 
 
 The limy man looked ahead, and reckoned 
 the few remaining doors to the end of Blue 
 Gate. 'Well,' he said, 'I fancy it's 'ere or 
 next door. D' ye know a woman o' the name 
 o' Mag— Mag Flynn?' 
 
 * I 'm your bloke, guv'nor. Know 'er ? 
 Rather. Up 'ere — I '11 show ye. Lord love 
 ye, she's an old friend o' mine. Come on 
 ... I should say you 'd be in the lime trade, 
 guv'nor, wouldn't you?' I smelt it pretty 
 stroncf, an' I '11 never for^ret the smell o' lime. 
 Why, says you? Why, 'cos o' losin' my 
 blessed sight with lime, when I was a inno-
 
 220 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 cent kid. Fell on a slakin'-bed, guv'nor, an' 
 blinded me blessed self; so I won't forget the 
 smell o' lime easy. Ain't you in the trade, 
 now? Ain't I right?' He stopped midway 
 on the stairs to repeat the question. * Ain't I 
 right ? Is it yer own business or a firm ? ' 
 
 * Ah well, I do 'ave to do with lime a good 
 bit,' said the stranger, evasively. 'But go on, 
 or else let me come past.' 
 
 Blind George turned, and reaching the 
 landing, thumped his stick on the door and 
 pushed it open. *'Ere y'are,' he sang out. 
 * 'Ere 's a genelman come to see ye, as I found 
 an' showed the way to. Lord love ye, 'e 'd 
 never 'a' found ye if it wasn't for me. But 
 I 'm a old pal, ain't I ? A faithful old pal ! ' 
 
 He swung his stick till he found a chair, 
 and straightway sat in it, like an invited 
 guest. ' Lord love ye, yes,' he continued, 
 rolling his eye and putting his fiddle across 
 his knees ; * one o' the oldest pals she 's got, 
 or 'im either.' 
 
 The new comer looked in a puzzled way 
 from Blind George to the woman, and back 
 again. 'It's private business I come about,* 
 he said, shortly.
 
 IN BLUE GATE 221 
 
 * All right, guvnor,' shouted Blind George, 
 heartily. ' Out with it! We're all pals 'ere! 
 Old pals ! ' 
 
 'You ain't my old pal, anyhow,' the limy 
 man observed. 'An' if the room's yours, 
 we '11 go an' talk somewheres else.' 
 
 'Get out, George, go along,' said Mag, with 
 some asperity, but more anxiety. ' You clear 
 out, go on.' 
 
 * O, all right, if you 're goin' to be unsociable,' 
 said the hddler, rising. ' Damme, / don't want 
 to stay — not me. I was on'y doin' the 
 friendly, that 's all ; bein' a old pal. But 
 I 'm off all right — I 'm off. So long ! ' 
 
 He hugged his fiddle once more, and 
 clumped down into the street. He tapped 
 with his stick till he struck the curb, and 
 then crossed the muddy roadway; while 
 Viney emerged again from the dark arch to 
 meet him. 
 
 'All right,' said Blind George, whispering 
 huskily. ' It 's business now, I think — business. 
 You come on now. You '11 'ave to foller 
 'em if they come out together. If they don't 
 — well you must look arter the one as does.'
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 ON THE COP 
 
 WHEN the limy man left Blue Gate he 
 went, first, to the Hole in the Wall, 
 there to make to Captain Kemp some small 
 report on the wharf by the Lea. This did 
 not keep him long, and soon he was on his 
 journey home to the wharf itself, by way of 
 the crooked lanes and the Commei'cial 
 Road. 
 
 He had left Blue Gate an hour and more 
 when Musky Mag emerged from her black 
 stairway, peering fearfully about the street ere 
 she ventured her foot over the step. So she 
 stood for a few seconds, and then, as one 
 chancing a great risk, stepped boldly on the 
 pavement, and, turning her back to the High- 
 way, walked toward Back Lane. This was 
 the nearer end of Blue Gate, and, the corner 
 turned, she stopped short, and peeped back. 
 Satisfied that she had no follower, she crossed 
 
 222
 
 ON THE COP 223 
 
 Back Lane, and taking every corner, as she 
 came to it, with a Hke precaution, threaded the 
 maze of small, ill-lighted streets that lay in 
 the angle between the great Rope Walk and 
 Commercial Road. This wide road she 
 crossed, and then entered the dark streets 
 beyond, in rear of the George Tavern ; and 
 so, keeping to obscure parallel ways, some- 
 times emerging into the glare of the main 
 road, more commonly slinking in its darker 
 purlieus, but never out of touch with it, she 
 travelled east ; following in the main the later 
 course of the limy man, who had left Blue 
 Gate by its opposite end. 
 
 The fog, that had dulled the lights in 
 Ratcliff Highway, met her again near Lime- 
 house Basin ; but, ere she reached the church, 
 she was clear of it once more. Beyond, the 
 shops grew few, and the lights fewer. For a 
 little while decent houses lined the way : the 
 houses of those last merchants who had no 
 shame to live near the docks and the works 
 that brought their money. At last, amid a 
 cluster of taverns and shops that were all for 
 the sea and them that lived on it, the East 
 India Dock orates stood dim and tall, flanked
 
 224 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 by vast raking walls, so that one might suppose 
 a Chinese city to seethe within. And away 
 to the left, the dark road that the wall over- 
 shadowed was lined on the other side by hedge 
 and ditch, with meadows and fields beyond, 
 that were now no more than a vast murky 
 gulf; so that no stranger peering over the 
 hedge could have guessed aright if he looked 
 on land or on water, or on mere black 
 vacancy. 
 
 Here the woman made a last twist : turninof 
 down a side street, and coming to a moment's 
 stand in an archway. This done, she passed 
 through the arch into a path before a row of 
 ill-kept cottages ; and so gained the marshy 
 field behind the Accident Hospital, the 
 beginning of the waste called The Cop. 
 
 Here the great blackness was before her 
 and about her, and she stumbled and laboured 
 on the invisible ground, groping for pits and 
 ditches, and standing breathless again and 
 again to listen. The way was so hard as to 
 seem longer than it was, and in the darkness 
 she must needs surmount obstacles that in 
 daylight she would have turned. Often a 
 ditch barred her way ; and when, after long
 
 ON THE COP 225 
 
 search, a means of crossing was found, it was 
 commonly a plank to be traversed on hands 
 and knees. There were stagnant pools, too, 
 into which she walked more than once ; and 
 twice she suffered a greater shock of terror : 
 first at a scurry of rats, and later at quick 
 footsteps following in the sodden turf — the 
 footsteps, after all, of nothing more terrible 
 than a horse of inquiring disposition, out at 
 grass. 
 
 So she went for what seemed miles : though 
 there was little more than half a mile in a line 
 from where she had left the lights to where at 
 last she came upon a rough road, seamed with 
 deep ruts, and made visible by many whitish 
 blotches where lime had fallen, and had there 
 been ground into the surface. To the left 
 this road stretched away toward the lights of 
 Bromley and Bow Common, and to the right 
 it rose by an easy slope over the river wall 
 skirting the Lea, and there ended at Kemp's 
 Wharf. 
 
 Not a creature was on the road, and no 
 
 sound came from the black space behind her. 
 
 With a breath of relief she set foot on the 
 
 firmer ground, and hurried up the slope. 
 
 p
 
 ^26 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 From the top of the bank she could see 
 Kemp's Wharf just below, with two dusty 
 lighters moored in the dull river ; and beyond 
 the river the measureless, dim Abbey Marsh. 
 Nearer, among the sheds, a dog barked angrily 
 at the sound of strange feet. 
 
 A brieht lisfht came from the window of 
 the little house that made office and dwelling 
 for the wharf-keeper, and something less of 
 the same light from the open door ; for there 
 the limy man stood waiting, leaning on the 
 door-post, and smoking his pipe. 
 
 He grunted a greeting as Mag came down 
 the bank. ' Bit late,' he said. * But it ain't 
 easy over the Cop for a stranger.' 
 
 * Where ? ' the woman whispered eagerly. 
 ' Where is he ?' 
 
 The limy man took three silent pulls at his 
 pipe. Then he took it from his mouth with 
 some deliberation, and said : ' Remember what 
 I said ? I don't want 'im 'ere. I dunno what 
 'e 's done, an' don't want ; but if 'e likes to 
 come 'idin' about, I ain't goin' to play the 
 informer. I dunno why I should promise as 
 much as that, just 'cos my brother married 'is 
 sister. She ain't done me no credit, from
 
 ON THE COP 227 
 
 what I ear now. Though she 'ad a good 
 master, as I can swear; 'cos 'e's mine too.' 
 
 ' Where is he ? ' was all Mag's answer, again 
 in an anxious whisper. 
 
 ' Unnerstand?' the limy man went on. * I 'm 
 about done with the pair on 'em now, but I 
 ain't goin' to inform. 'E come 'ere a day or 
 two back an' claimed shelter ; an' seein' as I 
 was goin' up to Wappin' to-night, 'e wanted 
 me to tell you where 'e was. Well, I 've done 
 that, an' I ain't goin' to do no more ; see ? 'E 
 ain't none o' mine, an' I won't 'ave part nor 
 parcel with 'im, nor any of ye. I keep myself 
 decent, I do. I shan't say 'e 's 'ere an' I shan't 
 say 'e ain't ; an' the sooner 'e goes the better 
 'e '11 please me. See ? ' 
 
 •Yes Mr. Grimes, sir; but tell me where 
 he is ! ' 
 
 The limy man took his pipe from his mouth, 
 and pointed with a comprehensive sweep of 
 the stem at the sheds round about. ' You can 
 go an' look in any o' them places as ain't 
 locked,' he said off-handedly. 'The dog's 
 chained up. Try the end one fust.' 
 
 Grimes the wharfinger resumed his pipe, and 
 Mag scuffled off to where the light from the
 
 228 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 window fell on the white angle of a small 
 wooden shelter. The place was dark within, 
 dusted about with lime, and its door stood 
 inward. She stopped and peered. 
 
 ' All right,' growled Dan Ogle from the 
 midst of the dark. * Can't ye see me now y' 
 'ave come ? ' And he thrust his thin face and 
 big shoulders out through the opening. 
 
 * O Dan ! ' the woman cried, putting out her 
 hands as though she would take him by the 
 neck, but feared repulse. ' O Dan ! Thank 
 Gawd you 're safe, Dan ! I bin dyin' o' fear 
 for you, Dan ! ' 
 
 ' G-r-r-r ! ' he snorted. ' Stow that ! What 
 I want s money. Got any ? '
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 ON THE COP 
 
 IT was at a bend of the river-wall by the 
 Lea, in sight of Kemp's Wharf, that Dan 
 Ogle and his sister met at last. Dan had 
 about as much regard for her as she had for 
 him, and the total made something a long 
 way short of affection. But common interests 
 brought them together. Mrs. Grimes had 
 told Mag that she knew of something that 
 would put money in Dan's pocket ; and, as 
 money was just what Dan wanted in his 
 pocket, he was ready to hear what his sister 
 had to tell : more especially as it seemed 
 plain that she was unaware — exactly — of the 
 difficulty that had sent him into hiding. 
 
 So, instructed by Mag, she came to the Cop 
 on a windy morning, where, from the top of 
 the river-wall, one might look east over the 
 Abbey Marsh, and see an unresting and 
 unceasing press of grey and mottled cloud 
 
 229
 
 230 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 hurrying up from the flat horizon to pass over- 
 head, and vanish in the smoke of London to 
 the West. Mrs. Grimes avoided the wharf; 
 for she saw no reason why her brother-in-law, 
 her late employer's faithful servant, should 
 witness her errand. She climbed the river- 
 wall at a place where it neared the road at its 
 Bromley end, and thence she walked along the 
 bank-top. 
 
 Arrived where it made a sharp bend, she 
 descended a little way on the side next the 
 river, and there waited. Dan, on the look-out 
 from his shed, spied her be-ribboned bonnet 
 from afar, and went quietly and hastily under 
 shelter of the river-wall toward where she 
 stood. Coming below her on the tow-path, he 
 climbed the bank, and brother and sister stood 
 face to face ; unashamed ruffianism looking 
 shabby respectability in the eyes. 
 
 ' Umph,' growled Dan. * So 'ere y 'are, my 
 lady.' 
 
 'Yes,' the woman answered, ''ere I am; an' 
 there you arc — a nice respectable sort of party 
 for a brother ! ' 
 
 'Ah, ain't I? If I was as respectable as 
 my sister I might get a job up at the Hole in
 
 ON THE COP 231 
 
 the Wall, mightn't I ? 'Specially as I 'ear as 
 there's a vacancy through somebody gettin' 
 the sack over a cash-box ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Grimes glared and snapped. * I s'pose 
 you got that from 'im,' she said, jerking her 
 head in the direction of the wharf. 'Well, I 
 ain't come 'ere to call names — I come about 
 that same cash-box ; at any rate I come about 
 
 what 's in it Dan, there 's a pile o' bank 
 
 notes in that box, that don't belong to Cap'en 
 Nat Kemp no more 'n they belong to you or 
 me ! Nor as much, p'raps, if you '11 put up a 
 good way o' gettin' at 'em ! ' 
 
 ' You put up a way as wasn't a good un, 
 seemin'ly,' said Dan. ' 'Ow d' ye mean they 
 don't belong to Kemp ? ' 
 
 ' There was a murder at the Hole in the 
 Wall ; a week ago.' 
 
 * Eh ? ' Dan's jaw shut with a snap, and 
 his eye was full of sharp inquiry. 
 
 * A man was stabbed against the bar-parlour 
 door, an' the one as did it got away over the 
 river. One o' the two dropped a leather 
 pocket-book full o' notes, an' the kid — Kemp's 
 grandson — picked it up in the rush when 
 nobody see it. I see it, though, afterward,
 
 2^12 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 -^ J- 
 
 when the row was over. I peeped from the 
 stairs, an' I see Kemp open it an' take out 
 notes — bunches of 'em — dozens ! ' 
 
 * Ah, you did, did ye ? ' Dan observed, 
 staring hard at his sister. * Bunches o' bank 
 notes — dozens. See a photo, too ? Likeness 
 of a woman an' a boy .'* 'Cos it was there.' 
 
 Mrs. Grimes stared now. 'Why, yes,' she 
 said. ' But — but 'ow do you come to know ? 
 Eh ? . . . Dan ! . . . Was you — was you ' 
 
 ' Never mind whether I was nor where I 
 was. If it 'adn't been for you I 'd a had them 
 notes now, safe an' snug, 'stead o' Cap'en Nat. 
 You lost me them ! ' 
 
 •I did?' 
 
 * Yes, you. Wouldn't 'ave me come to the 
 Hole in the Wall in case Cap'en Nat might 
 guess I was yer brother — bein' so much like 
 ye ! Like you ! Gr-r-r ! 'Ope I ain't got 
 a face like that ! ' 
 
 ' Ho yes ! You 're a beauty, Dan Ogle, 
 ain't ye ? But what 's all that to do with the 
 notes ? ' Mrs. Grimes's face was blank with 
 wonder and doubt, but in her eyes there was 
 a growing and hardening suspicion. * What 's 
 all that to do with the notes ? '
 
 ON THE COP 233 
 
 'It's all to do with 'em. 'Cos o' that I let 
 another chap bring a watch to sell, 'stead o' 
 takin' it myself. An' 'e come back with a fine 
 tale about Cap'en Nat offerin' to pay 'igh for 
 them notes ; an' so I was fool enough to let 'im 
 take them too, 'stead o' goin' myself. But I 
 watched 'im, though — watched 'im close. 'E 
 tried to make a bolt — an' — an' so Cap'en Nat 
 got the notes after all, it seems, then ? ' 
 
 ' Dan,' said Mrs. Grimes retreating a step ; 
 ' Dan, it was you ! It was you, an' you 're 
 hiding for it ! ' 
 
 The man stood awkward and sulky, like a 
 loutish schoolboy, detected and defiant. 
 
 'Well,' he said at length, ' s'pose it was? 
 You ain't got no proof of it ; an' if you 'ad — 
 . . . What 'a' ye come 'ere for, eh ? ' 
 
 She regarded him now with a gaze of odd 
 curiosity, which lasted through the rest of their 
 talk ; much as though she were convinced of 
 some extraordinary change in his appearance, 
 which nevertheless eluded her observation. 
 
 ' I told you what I come for,' she answered, 
 after a pause. ' About gettin' them notes 
 away from Kemp — the old wretch ! ' 
 
 *Umph! Old wretch. 'Cos 'e wanted to
 
 234 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 keep 'is cash-box, eh ? Well, what 's the 
 
 game ? 
 
 Mrs. Grimes in no way abated her intent 
 gaze, but she came a little closer, with a 
 sidling step, as if turning her back to a 
 possible listener. * There was two inquests 
 at the Hole in the Wall,' she said; 'two on 
 the same day. There was Kipps, as lost the 
 notes when Cap'en Kemp got 'em. An' there 
 was Marr the shipowner — an' it was 'im as lost 
 'em first ! ' 
 
 She took a pace back as she said this, look- 
 ing for its effect. But Dan made no answer. 
 Albeit his frown grew deeper and his eye 
 sharper, and he stood alert, ready to treat his 
 sister as friend or enemy according as she 
 might approve herself. 
 
 ' Marr lost 'em first,' she repeated, *an' I can 
 very well guess how, though when I came 
 here I didn't know you was in it. How did 
 I know, thinks you, that Marr lost 'em first ? 
 I got eyes, an' I got ears, an' I got common 
 sense ; an' I see the photo you spoke of — Marr 
 an' 'is mother, most likely ; anyhow the boy 
 was Marr, plain, whoever the woman was. It 
 on'y wanted a bit o' thinkin' to judge what
 
 ON THE COP 235 
 
 them notes had gone through. But I didn't 
 dream you was so deep in it ! Lor, no wonder 
 Mag was frightened when I see 'er ! ' 
 
 Still Dan said nothing, but his eyes seemed 
 brighter and smaller — perhaps dangerous. 
 
 So the woman proceeded quickly: 'It's all 
 right! You needn't be frightened of my 
 knowin' things ! All the more reason for your 
 gettin' the notes now, if you lost 'em before. 
 But it's halves for me, mind ye. Ain't it 
 halves for me ? ' 
 
 Dan was silent for a moment. Then he 
 growled, 'We ain't got 'em yet,' 
 
 ' No, but it 's halves when we do get 'em ; 
 or else I won't say another word. Ain't it 
 halves ? ' 
 
 Dan Ogle could afford any number of 
 promises, if they would win him information. 
 ' All right,' he said. ' Halves it is, then, 
 when we get 'em. An' how are we goin' to 
 doit?' 
 
 Mrs. Grimes sidled closer again. ' Marr 
 the shipowner lost 'em first,' she said, 'an' 
 he was pulled out o' the river, dead an' 
 murdered, just at the back o' the Hole in the 
 Wall. See ? '
 
 236 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 * Well ? • 
 
 ' Don't see it ? Kemp's got the pocket- 
 book.' 
 'Yes.' 
 
 * Don't see it yet ? Well ; there 's more. 
 There 's a room at the back o' the Hole in the 
 Wall, where it stands on the piles, with a trap- 
 door over the water. The police don't know 
 there 's a trap-door there. I do.' 
 
 Dan Ogle was puzzled and suspicious. 
 * What 's the good o' that ? ' he asked. 
 
 * I didn't think you such a fool, Dan Ogle. 
 There 's a man murdered with notes on him, 
 an' a photo, an' a watch — you said there was a 
 watch. He's found in the river just behind 
 the Hole in the Wall. There's a trap-door — 
 secret — at the Hole in the Wall, over the 
 water ; just the place he might 'a' been 
 dropped down after he was killed. An' Kemp 
 the landlord's got the notes an' the pocket- 
 book an' the photo all complete ; an' most 
 likely the watch too, since you tell me he 
 bought it; an' Viney could swear to 'em. 
 Ain't all that enough to hang Cap'en Nat 
 Kemp, if the police was to drop in sudden on 
 the whole thing .•* '
 
 ON THE COP 237 
 
 Dan's mouth opened, and his face cleared 
 a Httle. ' I s'pose,' he said, ' you mean you 
 might put it on to the police as it was Cap'en 
 Nat did it ; an' when they searched they 'd 
 find all the stuff, an' the pocket-book, an' the 
 watch, an' the likeness, an' the trap-door ; an' 
 that 'ud be evidence enough to put 'im on the 
 string ? ' 
 
 'Of course I mean it,' replied Mrs. Grimes, 
 with hungry spite in her eyes. 'Of course 
 I mean it ! An' dearly I 'd love to see it done, 
 too ! Cap'en Nat Kemp, with 'is money an' 
 'is gran'son 'e 's goin' to make a gentleman of, 
 an' all ! " 'Ope you '11 be honest where you go 
 next," says Cap'en Kemp, "whether you're 
 grateful to me or not ! " Honest an' grateful ! 
 I '11 give 'im honest an' grateful ! ' 
 
 Dan Ogle grinned silently. ' No,' he said, 
 *you won't forgive 'im, I bet, if it was only 
 'cos you began by makin' such a pitch to 
 marry 'im ! ' A chuckle broke from behind 
 the grin. * You 'd rather hang him than get 
 his cash-box now, I '11 swear ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Grimes was red with anger. * I would 
 that ! ' she cried. ' You 're nearer truth than 
 you think, Dan Ogle! An' if you say too
 
 238 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 much you '11 lose the money you 're after, for 
 I '11 go an' do it ! So now ! ' 
 
 Dan clicked his tongue derisively. * Thought 
 you'd come to tell me how to get the stuff,' 
 he said. ''Stead o' that you tell me how to 
 hang Cap'en Nat, very clever, an' lose it. I 
 don't see that helps us.' 
 
 *Go an' threaten him.* 
 
 * Threaten Cap'en Nat?' exclaimed Dan, 
 glaring contempt, and spitting it. ' Oh yes, 
 I see myself! Cap'en Nat ain't that sort o' 
 mug. I 'm as 'ard as most, but I ain't 'ard 
 enough for a job like that : or soft enough, 
 for that 's what I 'd be to try it on. Lor' 
 lumme ! Go an' ask any man up the Highway 
 to face Cap'en Nat, an' threaten him ! Ask 
 the biggest an' toughest of 'em. Ask Jim 
 Crute, with his ear like a blue-bag, that he 
 chucked out o' the bar like a kitten, last week ! 
 "Cap'en Nat," says I, "if you don't gimme 
 eight hundred quid, I '11 hit you a crack ! " 
 Mighty fine plan that ! That 'ud get it, 
 wouldn't it .'* Ah, it 'ud get something ! ' 
 
 ' I didn't say that sort of threat, you fool ! 
 You 've got no sense for anything but bashing. 
 There 's the evidence that 'ud hang him ; go
 
 ON THE COP 239 
 
 an' tell him that, and say he shall swing for it, 
 if he doesn't hand over ! ' 
 
 Dan stared long and thoughtfully. Then 
 his lip curled again. ' Pooh ! ' he said. ' I 'm 
 a fool, am I ? O ! Anyhow, whether I am 
 or not, I 'm a fool's brother. Threaten Cap'en 
 Nat with the evidence, says you! What 
 evidence? The evidence what he's got in 
 his own hands ! S'pose I go, like a mug, an' 
 do it. Fust thing he does, after he 's kicked 
 me out, is to chuck the pocket-book an' the 
 likeness on the fire, an' the watch in the river. 
 Then he changes the notes, or sells 'em abroad, 
 an' how do we stand then ? Why you 're a 
 bigger fool than I thought you was! . . . 
 What 's that .? ' 
 
 It was nothing but a gun on the marsh, 
 where a cockney sportsman was out after 
 anything he could hit. But Dan Ogle's nerves 
 were alert, and throughout the conversation 
 he had not relaxed his watch toward London ; 
 so that the shot behind disturbed him enough 
 to break the talk. 
 
 'We've been here long enough,' he said. 
 'You hook it. rU see about Cap'en Nat. 
 Your way's no good. I'll try another, an'
 
 240 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 if that don't come off — well, then you can hang 
 him if you like, an' welcome. But now hook 
 it, an' shut your mouth till I 've had my go. 
 'Nough said. Don't go back the way you 
 come.'
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 Y father's death wrought in Grandfather 
 Nat a chano-e that awed me. He 
 looked older and paler — even smaller. He 
 talked less to me, but began, I fancied, to talk 
 to himself. Withal, his manner was kinder 
 than before, if that were possible ; though it 
 was with a sad kindness that distressed and 
 troubled me. More than once I woke at night 
 with candle-light on my face, and found him 
 gazing down at me with a grave doubt in his 
 eyes ; whereupon he would say nothing, but 
 pat my cheek, and turn away. 
 
 Early one evening as I sat in the bar- 
 parlour, and my grandfather stood moodily at 
 the door between that and the bar, a man came 
 into the private compartment whom I had seen 
 there frequently before. He was, in fact, the 
 man who had brought the silver spoons on the 
 morning when I first saw Ratcliff Highway, 
 Q
 
 242 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 and he was perhaps the most regular visitor to 
 the secluded corner of the bar. This time he 
 slipped quietly and silently in at the door, and, 
 remaining- just within it, out of sight from the 
 main bar, beckoned ; his manner suggesting 
 business above the common. 
 
 But my grandfather only frowned grimly, 
 and stirred not as much as a finder. The man 
 beckoned again, impatiently ; but there was no 
 favour in Grandfather Nat's eye, and he 
 answered with a growl. At that the man 
 grew more vehement, patted his breast-pocket, 
 jerked his thumb, and made dumb words with 
 a great play of mouth. 
 
 * You get out ! ' said Grandfather Nat. 
 
 A shade of surprise crossed the man's face, 
 and left plain alarm behind it. His eyes 
 turned quickly toward the partition which hid 
 the main bar from him, and he backed instantly 
 to the door and vanished. 
 
 A little later the swing doors of the main bar 
 were agitated, and an eye was visible between 
 them, peeping. They parted, and disclosed 
 the face of that same stealthy visitor but lately 
 sent away from the other door. Reassured, as 
 it seemed, by what he saw of the company
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 243 
 
 present, he came boldly in, and called for a 
 drink with an elaborate air of unconcern. 
 But, as he took the glass from the potman, 
 I could perceive a sidelong glance at my 
 grandfather, and presently another. Captain 
 Nat, however, disregarded him wholly ; while 
 the pale man, aware of he knew not what 
 between them, looked alertly from one to the 
 other, ready to abandon his long-established 
 drink, or to remain by it, according to cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 The man of the silver spoons looked in- 
 differently from one occupant of the bar to the 
 next, as he took his cold rum. There was the 
 pale man, and Mr. Cripps, and a sailor, who 
 had been pretty regular in the bar of late, and 
 who, though noisy and apt to break into dis- 
 jointed song, was not so much positively drunk 
 as never wholly sober. And there were two 
 others, regular frequenters both. Having well 
 satisfied himself of these, the man of the silver 
 spoons finished his rum and walked out. 
 Scarce had the door ceased to swing behind 
 him, when he was once more in the private 
 compartment, now with a knowing and secure 
 smile, a cough and a nod. For plainly he
 
 244 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 supposed there must have been a suspicious 
 customer in the house, who was now gone. 
 
 Grandfather Nat let fall the arm that rested 
 against the door frame, ' Out you go ! ' he 
 roared. ' If you want another drink the other 
 bar's good enough for you. If you don't I 
 don't want you here. So out you go ! ' 
 
 The man was dumbfounded. He opened 
 his mouth as though to say something, but 
 closed it again, and slunk backward. 
 
 ' Out you go ! ' shouted the unsober sailor in 
 the large bar. ' Out you go ! You 'bey orders, 
 see ? Lord, you 'd better 'bey orders when it 's 
 Cap'en Kemp ! Ah, I know, I do ! ' And he 
 shook his head, stupidly sententious. 
 
 But the fellow was gone for good, and the 
 pale man was all eyes, scratching his cheek 
 feebly, and gazing on Grandfather Nat. 
 
 ' Out he goes ! ' the noisy sailor went on. 
 'That's cap'en's orders. Cap'en's orders or 
 mate's orders, all 's one. Like father, like son. 
 Ah, I know ! ' 
 
 * Ah,' piped Mr. Cripps, *a marvellious fine 
 orficer Cap'en Kemp must ha' been aboard 
 ship, I 'm sure. Might you ever ha' sailed 
 under 'im.'*'
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 245 
 
 * Me ? * cried the sailor with a dull stare. 
 ' Mc ? Under him ? . . . Well no, not under 
 hi7n. But cap'en's orders or mate's orders, all 's 
 one.' 
 
 * P'raps,' pursued Mr. Cripps in a lower 
 voice, with a glance over the bar, * p'raps 
 you 've been with young Mr. Kemp — the 
 late ? ' 
 
 'Him?' This with another and a duller 
 stare. 'Him? Um ! Ah, well — nevermind. 
 Never you mind, see ? You mind your own 
 business, my fine feller ! ' 
 
 Mr. Cripps retired within himself with no 
 delay, and fixed an abstracted gaze on his 
 half-empty glass. I think he was having a 
 disappointing evening ; people were disagree- 
 able, and nobody had stood him a drink. 
 More, Captain Nat had been quite impractic- 
 able of late, and for days all approaches to the 
 subject of the sign, or the board to paint it on, 
 had broken down hopelessly at the start. A s 
 to the man just sent away, Mr. Cripps seemed, 
 and no doubt was, wholly indifferent. Captain 
 Nat was merely exercising his authority in his 
 own bar, as he did every day, and that was 
 all.
 
 246 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 But the pale man was clearly uneasy, and 
 that with reason. For, as afterwards grew 
 plain, the event was something greater than it 
 seemed. Indeed, it was nothing less than the 
 end of the indirect traffic in watches and silver 
 spoons. From that moment every visitor to 
 the private compartment was sent away with 
 the same peremptory incivility ; every one, 
 save perhaps some rare stranger of the better 
 sort, who came for nothing but a drink. So 
 that, in course of a day or two, the private 
 compartment went almost out of use ; and the 
 pale man's face grew paler and longer as the 
 hours went. He came punctually every morn- 
 ing, as usual, and sat his time out with the 
 stagnant drink before him, till he received my 
 grandfather's customary order to ' drink up ' ; 
 and then vanished till the time appointed for 
 his next attendance. But he made no more 
 excursions into the side court after sellers of 
 miscellaneous valuables. From what I know 
 of my grandfather's character, I believe that 
 the pale man must have been paid regular 
 waofes ; for Grandfather Nat was not a man to 
 cast off a faithful servant, though plainly the 
 man feared it. At any rate there he remained
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 247 
 
 with his perpetual drink ; and so remained 
 until many things came to an end together. 
 
 There was a certain relief, and, I think, an 
 odd touch of triumph in Grandfather Nat's face 
 and manner that night as he kissed me, and 
 bade me good-night. As for myself, I did not 
 realise the change, but I had a vague idea that 
 my grandfather had sent away his customer on 
 my account ; and for long I lay awake, and 
 wondered why.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 IN THE BAR-PARLOUR 
 
 STEPHEN was sound asleep, and the Hole 
 in the Wall had closed its eyes for the 
 night. The pale man had shuffled off, with 
 his doubts and apprehensions, toward the 
 Highway, and Mr. Cripps was already home 
 in Limehouse. Only the half-drunken sailor 
 was within hail, groping toward some later 
 tavern, and Captain Nat, as he extinguished 
 the lamps in the bar, could hear his song in 
 the distance : — 
 
 The grub was bad an^ the pay was low. 
 
 Leave her, Johnny, leave her I 
 So hump your duds an' ashore you go 
 
 For it's time for us to leave her 1 
 
 Captain Nat blew out the last light in the 
 bar and went into the bar-parlour. He took 
 out the cash-box, and stood staring thought- 
 fully at the lid for some seconds. He was 
 turning at last to extinguish the lamp at his
 
 IN THE BAR-PARLOUR 249 
 
 elbow, when there was a soft step without, 
 and a cautious tap at the door. 
 
 Captain Nat's eyes widened, and the cash- 
 box went back under the shelf. The tap was 
 repeated ere the old man could reach the door 
 and shoot back the bolts. This done, he took 
 the lamp in his left hand, and opened the door. 
 
 In the black of the passage a man stood, 
 tall and rough. Just such a figure Captain 
 Nat had seen there before, less distinctly, and 
 in a briefer glimpse ; for indeed it was Dan 
 Ogle. 
 
 ' Well ? ' said Captain Nat. 
 
 'Good evenin', cap'en,' Dan answered, with 
 an uncouth mixture of respect and familiarity. 
 * I jist want five minutes with you.' 
 
 * O, you do, do you ? ' replied the landlord, 
 reaching behind himself to set the lamp on the 
 table. ' What is it ? I 've a notion I 've seen 
 you before.' 
 
 'Very like, cap'en. It's all right; on'y 
 business.* 
 
 * Then what 's the business ? ' 
 
 Dan Ogle glanced to left and right in the 
 gloom of the alley, and edged a step nearer. 
 ' Best spoke of indoors,' he said, hoarsely.
 
 250 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 • Best for you an' me too. Nothin' to be 
 
 afraid of — on'y business.' 
 
 'Afraid of? Phoo! Come in, then.* 
 
 Dan complied, with an awkward assumption 
 
 of jaunty confidence, and Captain Nat closed 
 
 the door behind him. 
 
 * Nobody to listen, I suppose? ' asked Ogle. 
 
 * No, nobody. Out with it ! ' 
 
 'Well, cap'en, just now you thought you'd 
 seen me before. Quite right ; so you have. 
 You see me in the same place — ^just outside 
 that there door. An' I borrowed your boat.' 
 
 * Umph ! ' Captain Nat's eyes were keen 
 and hard. * Is your name Dan Ogle ? ' 
 
 'That's it, cap'en.' The voice was con- 
 fident, but the eye was shifty. 'Now you 
 know. A chap tried to do me, an' I put his 
 lio-ht out. You went for me, an' chased me, 
 but you stuck your hooks in the quids right 
 enouo-h.' Dan OMe tried a grin and a wink, 
 but Captain Nat's frown never changed. 
 
 'Well, well,' Dan went on, after a pause, 
 'it's all right, anyhow. I outed the chap, an' 
 you took care o' the ha'pence ; so we helped 
 each other, an' done it atween us. I just come 
 along to-night to cut it up.'
 
 IN THE BAR-PARLOUR 251 
 
 ' Cut up what ? ' 
 
 'Why, the stuff. Eight hundred an' ten 
 quid in notes, in a leather pockLt-book. 
 Though I ain't particular about the pocket- 
 book.' Dan tried another grin. 'Four hundred 
 an' five quid '11 be good enough for me : though 
 it ought to be more, seein' I got it first, an' 
 the risk an' all.* 
 
 Captain Nat, with a foot on a chair and a 
 hand on the raised knee, relaxed not a shade 
 of his fierce gaze. ' Who told you,' he asked 
 presently, 'that I had eight hundred an' ten 
 pound in a leather pocket-book?' 
 
 'O, a little bird — ^just a pretty little bird, 
 cap'en.' 
 
 'Tell me the name o' that pretty little bird.' 
 
 ' Lord lumme, cap'en, don't be bad pals ! 
 It ain't a little bird what '11 do any harm ! It 's 
 all safe an' snug enough between us, an' I 'm 
 doin' it on the square, ain't I ? I knowed 
 about you, an' you didn't know about me ; but 
 I comes fair an' open, an' says it was me as 
 done it, an' I on'y want a fair share up between 
 pals in a job together. That 's all right, ain't 
 it?' 
 
 ' Was it a pretty little bird in a bonnet an'
 
 252 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 a plaid shawl ? A scraggy sort of a little bird 
 with a red beak? The sort of little bird as 
 likes to feather its nest with a cash-box — one 
 as don't belong to it? Is that your pattern o' 
 pretty little bird ? ' 
 
 'Well, well, s'pose it is, cap'en ? Lord, 
 don't be bad pals ! I ain't, am I ? Make 
 thines straioht, an' I '11 take care she don't 
 go a pretty-birdin' about with the tale. I '11 
 ofuarantee that, honourable. You ain't no 
 need be afraid o' that.' 
 
 • D'ye think I look afraid ? * 
 
 ' Love ye, cap'en, why I didn't mean that ! 
 There ain't many what 'ud try to frighten you. 
 That ain't my tack. You 're too hard a nut 
 for that, anybody knows.' Dan Ogle fidgeted 
 uneasily with a hand about his neck-cloth ; while 
 the other arm hung straight by his side. ' But 
 look here, now, cap'en,' he went on ; 'you 're a 
 straight man, an' you don't round on a chap 
 as trusts you. That 's right, ain't it ? ' 
 
 * Well ? ' Truly Captain Nat's piercing stare, 
 his unwavering frown, were disconcerting, 
 Dan Ogle had come confidently prepared to 
 claim a share of the plunder, just as he would 
 have done from any rascal in Blue Gate.
 
 IN THE BAR-PARLOUR 253 
 
 But, in presence of the man he knew for his 
 master, he had had to begin with no more 
 assurance than he could force on himself; 
 and now, though he had met not a word of 
 refusal, he was reduced well-nigh to pleading. 
 But he saw the best opening, as by a flash of 
 inspiration ; and beyond that he had another 
 resource, if he could but find courage to use 
 it. 
 
 * Well ? ' said Captain Nat. 
 
 * You 're the sort as plays the square game 
 with a man as trusts you, cap'en. Very well. 
 I've trusted you. I come an' put myself in 
 your way, an' told you free what I done, an' I 
 ask, as man to man, for my fair whack o' the 
 stuff. Bein' the straight man you are, you'll 
 do the fair thing.' 
 
 Captain Nat brought his foot down from 
 the chair, and the knee from under his hand ; 
 and he clenched the hand on the table. But 
 neither movement disturbed his steady gaze. 
 So he stood for three seconds. Then, with 
 an instant dart, he had Dan Ogle by the 
 hanging arm, just above the wrist. 
 
 Dan sprang and struggled, but his wrist 
 might have been chained to a post. Twice
 
 254 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 he made offer to strike at Captain Nat's face 
 with the free hand, but twice the blow fainted 
 ere it had well begun. Tall and powerful 
 as he was, he knew himself no match for 
 the old skipper. Pallid and staring, he 
 whispered hoarsely : * No cap'en — no ! Drop 
 it! Don't put me away! Don't crab the 
 deal ! D' y' 'ear ' 
 
 Captain Nat, grim and silent, slowly drew 
 the imprisoned fore-arm forward, and plucked 
 a bare knife from within the sleeve. There 
 was blood on it, for his grip had squeezed arm 
 and blade together. 
 
 ' Umph ! ' growled Captain Nat ; * I saw that 
 in time, my lad ' ; and he stuck the knife in 
 the shelf behind him. 
 
 'S'elp me, cap'en, I wasn't meanin' any- 
 think— s'elp me I wasn't,' the ruffian pleaded, 
 cowerinof but vehement, with his neckerchief 
 to his cut arm. ' That 's on'y where I carry it, 
 s'elp me — on'y where I keep it ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, I 've seen it done before ; but it 's an 
 awkward place if you get a squeeze,' the 
 skipper remarked drily. ' Now you listen to 
 me. You say you've come an' put yourself 
 in my power, an' trusted me. So you have —
 
 IN THE BAR-PARLOUR 255 
 
 with a knife up your sleeve. But never mind 
 that — I doubt if you 'd ha' had pluck to use it. 
 You killed a man at my door, because of eight 
 hundred pound you 'd got between you ; but 
 to get that money you had to kill another man 
 first.' 
 
 'No, cap'en, no * 
 
 * Don't try to deny it, man ! Why it 's 
 what's saving you! I know where that money 
 come from — an' it 's murder that got it. Marr 
 was the man's name, an' he was a murderer 
 himself; him an' another between 'em ha' 
 murdered my boy ; murdered him on the high 
 seas as much as if it was pistol or poison. He 
 was doin' his duty, an' it 's murder, I tell you — 
 murder, by the law of England ! That man 
 ought to ha' been hung, but he wasn't, an' he 
 never would ha' been. He 'd ha' gone free, 
 except for you, an' made money of it. But 
 you killed that man, Dan Ogle, an' you shall 
 go free for it yourself; for that an' because I 
 won't sell what you trusted me with about 
 this other.' 
 
 Captain Nat turned and took the knife from 
 the shelf. * Now see,' he went on. 'You've 
 done justice on a murderer, little as you meant
 
 256 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 it ; but don't you come tryin' to take away the 
 orphan's compensation — not as much as a 
 penny of it ! Don't you touch the compensa- 
 tion, or I'll give you up! I will that! Just 
 you remember when you 're safe. The man 
 lied as spoke to seein' you that night by the 
 door ; an' now he 's gone back on it, an' so 
 you've nothing to fear from him, an' nothing 
 to fear from the police. Nothing to fear from 
 anybody but me ; so you take care, Dan 
 Ogle! . . . Come, enough said!' 
 
 Captain Nat flung wide the door and pitched 
 the knife into the outer darkness. * There 's 
 your knife ; go after it ! '
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 ON THE COP 
 
 WHEN Viney followed the limy man 
 from Musky Mag's door he kept him 
 well in view as far as the Hole in the Wall, 
 and there waited. But when Grimes emerged, 
 and Viney took up the chase, he had scarce 
 made three-quarters of the way through the 
 crooked lanes toward the Commercial Road, 
 when, in the confusion and the darkness of 
 the turnings, or in some stray rack of fog, the 
 man of lime went wholly amissing. Viney 
 hurried forward, doubled, and scoured the 
 turnings about him. Drawing them blank, 
 he hastened for the main road, and there 
 consumed well nigh an hour in profitless 
 questing to and fro ; and was fain at last to 
 seek out BHnd George, and confess himself 
 beaten. 
 
 But Blind George made a better guess. 
 After Viney 's departure in the wake of Grimes, 
 
 K
 
 258 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 he had stood patiently on guard in the black 
 archway, and had got his reward. For he 
 heard Musky Mag's feet descend her stairs ; 
 noted her timid pause at the door; and ear- 
 watched her progress to the street corner. 
 There she paused again, as he judged, to see 
 that nobody followed ; and then hurried out 
 of earshot. He was no such fool as to attempt 
 to dog a woman with eyes, but contented him- 
 self with the plain inference that she was on 
 her way to see Dan Ogle, and that the man 
 whom Viney was following had brought news 
 of Dan's whereabouts ; and with that he turned 
 to the Highway and his fiddling. So that 
 when he learned that the limy man had called 
 at the Hole in the Wall, and had gone out of 
 Viney's sight on his way east. Blind George 
 was quick to think of Kemp's Wharf, and to 
 resolve that his next walk abroad should lead 
 him to the Lea bank. 
 
 The upshot of this was that, after some 
 trouble, Dan Ogle and Blind George met on 
 the Cop, and that Dan consented to a business 
 interview with Viney. He was confident 
 enough in any dealings with either of them 
 so long as he cockered in them the belief that
 
 ON THE COP 259 
 
 he still had the notes. So he said very little, 
 except that Viney might come and make any 
 proposal he pleased ; hoping for some chance- 
 come expedient whereby he might screw out a 
 little on account. 
 
 And so it followed that on the morning after 
 his unsuccessful negotiation with Captain Nat, 
 Dan Og^le found himself face to face with 
 Henry Viney at that self-same spot on the 
 bank-side where he had talked with Blind 
 George. 
 
 Dan was surly ; first because it was policy 
 to say little, and to seem intractable, and 
 again because, after the night's adventure, it 
 came natural. ' So you 're Viney, are you ? ' 
 he said. 'Well, I ain't afraid o' you. I 
 know about you. Blind George told me 
 your game.' 
 
 * Who said anything about afraid ? ' Viney 
 protested, the eternal grin twitching nervously 
 in his yellow cheeks. ' We needn't talk about 
 beine afraid. It seems to me we can work 
 together.' 
 
 *0, does it? How?* 
 
 'Well, you know, you can't change 'em.* 
 
 • What ? '
 
 26o THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 ' O, damn it, you know what I mean. The 
 money — the notes.' 
 
 * O, that's what you mean, is it? Well, 
 s'pose I can't ?' 
 
 ' Well — of course — if you can't — eh ? If 
 you can't, they might be so much rags, 
 eh?' 
 
 ' P'raps they might — if\ can't' 
 
 ' But you know you can't,' retorted the other, 
 with a spasm of apprehension. ' Else you 'd 
 have done it and — and got farther off.' 
 
 ' Well, p'raps I might. But that ain't all 
 you come to say. Go on.' 
 
 Viney thoughtfully scratched his lank cheek, 
 peering sharply into Dan's face. ' Things 
 bein' what they are,' he said, reflectively, 
 ' they 're no more good to you than rags ; not 
 so much.' 
 
 ' All right. S'pose they ain't ; you don't 
 think I 'm a-goin' to make you a present of 
 'em, do you ? ' 
 
 • Why no, I didn't think that. I '11 pay- 
 reasonable. But you must remember that 
 they're no good to you at all— not worth 
 rag price ; so whatever you got 'ud be clear 
 profit.*
 
 ON THE COP 261 
 
 * Then how much clear profit will you give 
 me?' 
 
 Viney's forefinger paused on his cheek, and 
 his gaze, which had sunk to Dan Ogle's waist- 
 coat, shot sharply again at his eyes. 'Ten 
 pound,' said Viney. 
 
 Dan chuckled, partly at the absurdity of the 
 offer, partly because this bargaining for the 
 unproducible began to amuse him. * Ten 
 pound clear profit for me,' he said, 'an' eight 
 hundred pound clear profit for you. That's 
 your idea of a fair bit o' trade ! ' 
 
 * But it was mine first, and — and it 's no 
 good to you — you say so yourself!' 
 
 ' No ; nor no good to you neither — 'cause 
 why? You ain't got it!' Dan's chuckle 
 became a grin. * If you 'd ha' said a hundred, 
 now ' 
 
 'What?' 
 
 ' Why, then I 'd ha' said four hundred. 
 That 's what I 'd ha' said ! ' 
 
 ' Four hundred ? Why, you 're mad ! Be- 
 sides I haven't got it — I 've got nothing till 
 I can change the notes ; only the ten.' 
 
 Dan saw the chance he had hoped for. ' I '11 
 make it dirt cheap,' he said, ' first an' last, no
 
 262 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 less an' no more. Will you give me fifty down 
 for 'em when you 've got 'em changed ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I will.' Viney's voice was almost too 
 eager. 
 
 ' Straight ? No tricks, eh ? '' 
 
 Viney was indignant at the suggestion. He 
 scorned a trick. 
 
 ' No hoppin' the twig with the whole lot, an' 
 leavin' me in the cart ? ' 
 
 Viney was deeply hurt. He had never 
 dreamed of such a thing. 
 
 ' Very well, I '11 trust you. Give us the 
 tenner on account.' Dan Ogle stuck out his 
 hand carelessly ; but it remained empty. 
 
 ' I said I 'd give fifty when they 're changed,* 
 grinned Viney, knowingly. 
 
 * What ? Well, I know that ; an' not play 
 no tricks. An' now when I ask you to pay 
 first the ten you 've got, you don't want to do 
 it ! That don't look like a chap that means 
 to part straight and square, does it ? ' 
 
 Viney put his hand in his pocket. 'All 
 right,' he said, ' that 's fair enough. Ten now 
 an' forty when the paper 's changed. Where 's 
 the paper ? ' 
 
 *0, I ain't got that about me just now,'
 
 ON THE COP ^63 
 
 Dan replied airily. ' Be here to-morrow, same 
 time. But you can give me the ten now.' 
 
 Viney's teeth showed unamiably through his 
 grin. 'Ah,' he said ; ' I '11 be here to-morrow 
 with that, same time ! ' 
 
 ' What ? ' It was Dan's honour that smarted 
 now. * What ? Won't trust me with ten, 
 when I offer, free an' open, to trust you with 
 forty? O, it's off then. I'm done. It's 
 enough to make a man sick.' And he turned 
 loftily away. 
 
 Viney's grin waxed and waned, and he 
 followed Dan with his eyes, thinking hard. 
 Dan stole a look behind, and stopped. 
 
 * Look here,' Viney said at last. * Look 
 here. Let 's cut it short. We can't sharp 
 each other, and we're wasting time. You 
 haven't got those notes.* 
 
 Dan half-turned, and answered in a tone 
 between question and retort. * O, haven't I ? ' 
 he said. 
 
 ' No ; you haven't. See here ; I '11 give 
 you five pound if you '11 show 'em to me. 
 Only show 'em.' 
 
 Dan was posed. * I said I hadn't got 'em 
 about me,' he said, rather feebly.
 
 264 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 * No ; nor can't get 'em. Can you ? Cut it 
 short.' 
 
 Dan looked up and down, and rubbed his 
 cap about his head. * I know where they are,' 
 he sulkily concluded. 
 
 ' You know where they are, but you can't 
 get 'em,' Viney retorted with decision. ' Can 
 I get 'em ? ' 
 
 Dan glanced at him superciliously. * You .**' 
 he answered. ' Lord, no.' 
 
 * Can we get 'em together ? ' 
 
 Dan took to rubbing his cap about his head 
 again, and staring very thoughtfully at the 
 ground. Then he came a step nearer, and 
 looked up. ' Two might,' he said, * if you 'd 
 see it through. With nerve.' 
 
 Viney took him by the upper arm, and drew 
 close. 'We're the two,' he said. 'You know 
 where the stuff is, and you say we can get it. 
 We '11 haggle no more. We 're partners and 
 we '11 divide all we get. How 's that ? ' 
 
 * How about Blind George ? ' 
 
 'Never mind Blind George — unless you 
 want to make him a present. / don't. 
 lUind George can fish for himself. He's 
 shoved out. We'll do it, and we'll keep
 
 ON THE COP 265 
 
 what we get. Now where are the notes? 
 Who 's got them ? ' 
 
 Dan Ogle stood silent a moment, consider- 
 ing. He looked over the bank toward the 
 London streets, down on the grass at his feet, 
 and then up at an adventurous lark, that sang 
 nearer and still nearer the town smoke. Last 
 he looked at Viney, and made up his mind. 
 ' Who 's got 'em ? ' he repeated ; * Cap'en Nat 
 Kemp's got 'em.' 
 
 ' What ? Cap'en ' 
 
 'Cap'en Nat Kemp's got 'em.' 
 
 Viney took a step backward, turned his foot 
 on the slope, and sat back on the bank, staring 
 at Dan Ogle. ' Cap'en Nat Kemp ? ' he said. 
 ' Cap'en Nat Kemp ? ' 
 
 ' Ay ; Cap'en Nat Kemp. The notes, an' 
 the leather pocket-book ; an' the photo ; an' 
 the whole kit. Marr's photo, ain't it, with his 
 mother ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' Viney answered. 'When he was a 
 boy. He wasn't a particular dutiful son, but he 
 always carried it : for luck, or something. But 
 — Cap'en Kemp ! Where did /le get them ? ' 
 
 Dan Ogle sat on the bank beside Viney, 
 facing the river, and there told him the tale
 
 266 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 he had heard from Mrs. Grimes. Also he 
 told him, with many suppressions, just as 
 much of his own last night's adventure at the 
 Hole in the Wall as made it plain that 
 Captain Nat meant to stick to what he had 
 got. 
 
 Viney heard it all in silence, and sat for a 
 while with his head between his hands, think- 
 ing, and occasionally swearing. At last he 
 looked up, and dropped one hand to his 
 knee. ' I 'd have it out of him by myself,' 
 he said, ' if it wasn't that I want to lie low 
 a bit.' 
 
 Dan grunted and nodded. ' I know,' he 
 replied, ^The. Jttno. I know about that.' 
 
 Viney started. * What do you know about 
 that ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Pretty well all you could tell me. I hear 
 things, though I am lyin' up ; but I heard 
 before, too. Marr chattered like a poll- 
 parrot.' 
 
 Viney swore, and dropped his other hand. 
 * Ay ; so Blind George said. Well, there 's 
 nothing for me out of the insurance, and I 'm 
 going to let the creditors scramble for it them- 
 selves. There 'd be awkward questions for
 
 ON THE COP 267 
 
 me, with the books in the receiver's hands, 
 and what not. So I 'm not showing for a bit. 
 Though,' he added, thoughtfully, ' I don't 
 know that I mightn't try it, even now.' 
 
 Dan's eyes grew sharp. ' We 're doin' this 
 together, Mr. Viney,' he said. ' You 'd better 
 not go tryin' things without me ; I mightn't 
 like it. I ain't a nice man to try games on 
 with ; one 's tried a game over this a'ready, 
 mind.' 
 
 * I 'm trying no games,' Viney protested. 
 ' Tell us your way, if you don't want to hear 
 about mine.' 
 
 Dan Oele was sittinof with his chin on his 
 doubled fists, gazing thoughtfully at the muddy 
 river. ' My way 's rough,' he replied, ' but it 's 
 thorough. An' it wipes off scores. I owe 
 Cap'en Nat one.' 
 
 Viney looked curiously at his companion. 
 ' Well ? ' he said. 
 
 ' An* there 'd be more in it than eight 
 hundred an' ten. P'raps a lump more.' 
 
 'How?' Viney's eyes widened. 
 
 * Umph.' Dan was silent a moment. Then 
 he turned and looked Viney in the eyes. * Are 
 you game.'** he asked. 'You ain't a faintin'
 
 268 THE HOLE liN THE WALL 
 
 sort, are you ? You oughtn't to be, seein' you 
 was a ship's officer.' 
 
 Viney's mouth closed tight. ' No,' he said ; 
 * I don't think I am. What is it ? ' 
 
 Dan Ogle looked intently in his face for a 
 few seconds, and then said : ' Only him an' the 
 kid sleeps in the house.' 
 
 Viney started. ' You don't mean breaking 
 in?' he exclaimed. *I won't do that; it's too 
 — too ' 
 
 * Ah, too risky, of course,' Dan replied, with 
 a curl of the lip. ' But I don't mean breakin' 
 in. Nothing like it. But tell me first ; s'pose 
 breakin' in wasnt risky ; s'pose you knew 
 you'd get away safe, with the stuff. Would 
 you do it then?' And he peered keenly at 
 Viney's face. 
 
 Viney frowned. 'That don't matter,' he 
 said, *if it ain't the plan. S'pose I would?' 
 
 ' Ha-ha ! that 'II do ! I know your sort. 
 Not that I blame you about the busting — it 
 'ud take two pretty tough 'uns to face Cap'en 
 Nat, I can tell you. But now see here. Will 
 you come with me, an' knock at his side door 
 to-night, after the place is shut?* 
 
 • Knock ? And what then ?'
 
 ON THE COP 269 
 
 ' I '11 tell you. You know the alley down to 
 the stairs ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Black as pitch at night, with a row o' posts 
 holding up the house. Now when everybody 's 
 gone an' he 's putting out the lights, you go 
 an' tap at the door.' 
 
 * Well ? ' 
 
 'You tap at the door, an' he'll come. 
 You 're alone — see ? I stand back in the 
 dark, behind a post. He never sees me. 
 "Good evenin'," says you. "I just want a 
 word with you, if you'll step out." And so 
 he does.' 
 
 * And what then ? ' 
 
 'Nothing else — not for you; that's all your 
 job. Easy enough, ain't it ? ' 
 
 Viney turned where he sat, and stared 
 fixedly at his confederate's face. 'And then 
 — then — what ' 
 
 ' Then I come on. He don't know I 'm 
 there — behind him.' 
 
 Viney's mouth opened a little, but with no 
 grin ; and for a minute the two sat, each 
 looking in the other's face. Then said Viney, 
 with a certain shrinking : ' No, no ; not that.
 
 270 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 It's hanging, you know; it's hanging — for 
 both.' 
 
 Dan laughed — an ugly laugh, and short. It 
 ain't hanging for that,' he said ; ' it 's hanging 
 for gettin' caught. An' where 's the chance o' 
 that.'* We take our own time, and the best 
 place you ever see for a job like that, river 
 handy at the end an' all ; an' everything 
 settled beforehand. Safe a job as ever I see. 
 Look at me. I ain't hung yet, am I ? But 
 I 've took my chances, an' took 'em when it 
 wasn't safe, like as this is.' 
 
 Viney stared at vacancy, like a man in a 
 brown study ; and his dry tongue passed slowly 
 along his drier lips. 
 
 ' As for bein' safe,' Dan went on, * what 
 little risk there is, is for me. You 're all right. 
 We don't know each other. Not likely. How 
 should you know I was hidin' there in the 
 dark when you went to speak to Cap'en Nat 
 Kemp ? Come to that, it might ha' been you 
 outed instead o' your friend what you was 
 talkin' so sociable with. An' there's more 
 there than what's in the pocket-book. Re- 
 member that. There's a lump more than 
 that.'
 
 ON THE COP 271 
 
 Viney rubbed his mouth with the back of 
 his hand. ' How do you know ? ' he asked, 
 huskily. 
 
 ' How do I know? How did I know about 
 the pocket-book an' the notes? I ain't been 
 the best o' pals with my sister, but she couldn't 
 ha' been there all this time without my hearing 
 a thing or two about Cap'en Nat ; to say 
 nothing of what everybody knows as knows 
 anything about him. Money? O' course 
 there 's money in the place ; no telling how 
 much ; an' watches, an' things, as he buys. 
 P'raps twice that eight hundred, an' more.' 
 
 Viney's eyes were growing sharper — grow- 
 ing eager. * It sounds all right,' he remarked, 
 a little less huskily. 'Especially if there's 
 more in it than the eight hundred. But — 
 but — are you — you know — sure about it ? ' 
 
 * You leave that to me. I '11 see after my 
 department, an' yours is easy enough. Come, 
 it 's a go, ain't it ? ' 
 
 * But perhaps he '11 make a row — call out, or 
 something.' 
 
 ' He ain't the sort o' chap to squeal ; an' if 
 he was he wouldn't — not the way I 'm goin' to 
 do it. You '11 see.'
 
 272 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 ' An' there 's the boy — what about him ?* 
 'O, the kid? Upstairs. He's no account, 
 after we've outed Cap'en Nat. No more 'n 
 a tame rabbit. An' we'll have all night to 
 turn the place over, if we want it — though we 
 shan't. We '11 be split out before the potman 
 comes : fifty mile apart, with full pockets, an' 
 nobody a ha'porth the wiser.' 
 
 Viney bit at his fingers, and his eyes lifted 
 and sank, quick and keen, from the ground 
 to Ogle's face, and back again. But it was 
 enough, and he asked for no more persuasion. 
 Willing murderers both, they set to planning 
 details : what Viney should say, if it were 
 necessary to carry the talk with Captain Nat 
 beyond the first sentence or so ; where they 
 must meet ; and the like. And here, on 
 Viney's motion, a change was made as re- 
 garded time. Not this immediate night, but 
 the night following, was resolved on for the 
 stroke that should beggar the Hole in the 
 Wall of money and of life. For to Viney it 
 seemed desirable, first, to get his belongings 
 away from his present lodgings, for plain 
 reasons ; so as to throw off Blind George, and 
 so as to avoid flight from a place where he was
 
 ON THE COP 273 
 
 known, on the very night of the crime. This 
 it were well to do at once ; yet, all unprepared 
 as he was, he could not guess what delays 
 might intervene ; and so for all reasons Captain 
 Nat and the child were reprieved for twenty- 
 four hours. 
 
 Thus in full terms the treaty was made. 
 Dan Ogle, shrink as he might from Captain 
 Nat face to face (as any ruffian in Blue Gate 
 would), was as ready to stab him in the back 
 for vengeance as for gain. For he was con- 
 scious that never in all his years of bullying 
 and scoundrelism had he cut quite so poor a 
 figure in face of any man as last night in face 
 of Captain Nat. As to the gain, it promised 
 to be large, and easy in the getting ; and for 
 his sister, now that she could help no more, — 
 she could as readily be flung out of the 
 business as Blind George. The opportunity 
 was undeniable. A better place for the 
 purpose than the alley leading to the head 
 of Hole-in-the-Wall Stairs could never have 
 been planned. Once the house was shut, 
 and the potman gone, no more was needed 
 than to see the next police patrol go by, and 
 the thing was done. Here was the proper 
 s
 
 274 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 accomplice too : a man known to Captain 
 Nat, and one with whom he would readily 
 speak ; and, in Ogle's eyes, the business was 
 no more than a common stroke of his trade, 
 with an uncommon prospect of profit. As 
 for Viney, money was what he wanted, and 
 here it could be made, as it seemed, with 
 no great risk. It was surer, far, than going 
 direct to Captain Nat and demanding the 
 money under the old threat. That was a 
 little outworn, and, indeed, was not so sub- 
 stantial a bogey as it might seem in the 
 eyes of Captain Nat, for years remorseful, 
 and now apprehensive for his grandchild's 
 sake ; for the matter was old, and evidence 
 scarce, except Viney's own, which it would 
 worse than inconvenience him to give. So 
 that a large demand might break down ; while 
 here, as he was persuaded, was the certainty 
 of a greater gain, which was the main thing. 
 And if any shadow of scruple against direct 
 and simple murder remained, it vanished in 
 the reflection that not he, but Ogle, would 
 be the perpetrator, as well as the contriver. 
 For himself, he would but be opening an 
 innocent conversation with Kemp. So Viney
 
 ON THE COP 275 
 
 told himself; and so desire and conscience 
 are made to run coupled, all the world over, 
 and all time through. 
 
 All being appointed, the two men separated. 
 They stood up, they looked about them, over 
 the Lea and over the ragged field ; and they 
 shook hands.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 ON THE COP 
 
 IT was morning still, as Viney went away 
 over the Cop ; and, when he had vanished 
 beyond the distant group of little houses, Dan 
 Ogle turned and crept lazily into his shelter : 
 there to make what dinner he might from the 
 remnant of the food that Mag had brought 
 him the evening before ; and to doze away the 
 time on his bed of dusty sacks, till she should 
 bring more in the evening to come. He would 
 have given much for a drink, for since his 
 retreat to Kemp's Wharf the lime had pene- 
 trated clothes and skin and had invaded his 
 very vitals. More particularly it had invaded 
 his throat ; and the pint or so of beer that 
 Mae brought in a bottle was not enough to do 
 more than aggravate the trouble. But no 
 drink was there, and no money to buy one ; 
 else he mi"ht well have ventured out to a 
 public-house, now that the police sought him 
 
 87«
 
 ON THE COP 277 
 
 no more. As for Grimes of the wharf (who 
 had been growing daily more impatient of 
 Dan's stay), he offered no better relief than a 
 surly reference to the pump. So there was 
 nothing for it but to sit and swear; with the 
 consolation that this night should be his last 
 at Kemp's Wharf 
 
 Sunlight came with the afternoon, and 
 speckled the sluggish Lea ; then the shadow 
 of the river wall fell on the water and it was 
 dull again ; and the sun itself grew duller, 
 and lower, and larger, in the haze of the town. 
 If Dan Ogle had climbed the bank, and had 
 looked across the Cop now, he would have seen 
 Blind George, stick in hand, feeling his way 
 painfully among hummocks and ditches in 
 the distance. Dan, however, was expecting 
 nobody, and he no longer kept watch on all 
 comers, so that Blind George neared unnoted. 
 He gained the lime-strewn road at last, and 
 walked with more confidence. Up and over 
 the bank, and down on the side next the river, 
 he went so boldly that one at a distance would 
 never have guessed him blind ; for on any 
 plain road he had once traversed he was never 
 at fault ; and he turned with such readiness at
 
 278 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 the proper spot, and so easily picked his way 
 to the shed, that Dan had scarce more warn- 
 ing than could bring him as far as the door, 
 where they met. 
 
 * Dan ! ' the blind man said ; ' Dan, old pal ! 
 ' It's you I can hear, I '11 bet, ain't it ? Where 
 are ye ? ' And he groped for a friendly 
 grip. 
 
 Dan Ogle was taken by surprise, and a little 
 puzzled. Still, he could do no harm by hear- 
 ing what Blind George had to say ; so he 
 answered : * All right. What is it ? ' 
 
 Guided by the sound. Blind George straight- 
 way seized Dan's arm ; for this was his way of 
 feeling a speaker's thoughts while he heard his 
 words. ' He 's gone,' he said, 'gone clean. Do 
 you know where ? ' 
 
 Dan glared into the sightless eye and shook 
 his captured arm roughly. * Who ? ' he asked. 
 
 * Viney. Did you let him have the stuff? ' 
 'What stuff? When?' 
 
 'What stuff? That's a rum thing to ask. 
 Unless — O ! ' George dropped his voice and 
 put his face closer. * Anybody to hear ? ' he 
 whispered. 
 
 •No.'
 
 ON THE COP 279 
 
 * Then why ask what stuff? You didn't let 
 him have it this morning, did you ? ' 
 
 ' Dunno what you mean. Never see him 
 this morning.* 
 
 Blind George retracted his head with a jerk, 
 and a strange look grew on his face : a look of 
 anger and suspicion ; strange because the great 
 colourless eye had no part in it. * Dan,' he 
 said, slowly, ' them ain't the words of a pal — 
 not of a faithful pal, they ain't. It's a damn 
 lie!' 
 
 * Lie yourself !' retorted Dan, thrusting him 
 away. * Let go my arm, go on ! ' 
 
 * I knew he was coming,' Blind George went 
 on, ' an' I follered up, an' waited behind them 
 houses other side the Cop. I want my whack, 
 I do. I beared him coming away, an' I called 
 to him, but he scuttled off. I know his step 
 as well as what another man 'ud know his 
 face. I 'm a poor blind bloke, but I ain't a 
 fool. What 's your game, telling me a lie like 
 that?' 
 
 He was standing off from the door now, 
 angry and nervously alert. Dan growled, and 
 then said : * You clear out of it. You come to 
 me first from Viney, didn't you ? Very well,
 
 2So THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 you 're his pal in this. Go an' talk to him 
 about it.' 
 
 ' I 've been — that *s where I 've come from. 
 I 've been to his lodgings in Chapman Street, 
 an' he 's gone. Said he 'd got a berth aboard 
 ship — a lie. Took his bag an' cleared, soon 
 as ever he could get back from here. He 's 
 on for doing me out o' my whack, arter I put 
 it all straight for him — that's about it. You 
 won't put me in the cart, Dan, arter all I done ! 
 Where 's he gone ? ' 
 
 * I dunno nothing about him, I tell you,' 
 Dan answered angrily. * You sling your hook, 
 or I '11 make ye ! ' 
 
 ' Dan,' said the blind man, in a voice between 
 appeal and threat ; ' Dan, I didn't put you 
 away, when I found you was here ! ' 
 
 * Put me away ? You ? You can go an' try 
 it now, if you like. I ain't wanted ; they won't 
 have me. An' if they would — how long 'ud 
 you last, next time you went into Blue Gate.-* 
 Or even if you didn't go, eh ? How long 
 would a man last, that had both his eyes to 
 see with, eh ? ' And indeed Blind George 
 knew, as well as Dan himself, that London 
 was unhealthy for any traitor to the state and
 
 ON THE COP 281 
 
 liberty of Blue Gate. * How long would he 
 last? You try it.' 
 
 'Who wants to try it? I on'y want to 
 know ' 
 
 ' Shut your mouth, Blind George, an' get 
 out o' this place ! ' Ogle cried, fast losing 
 patience, and making a quick step forward. 
 * Go, or you '11 be lame as well as blind, if I 
 get hold o' ye ! ' 
 
 Blind George backed involuntarily, but his 
 blank face darkened and twisted devilishly, 
 and he gripped his stick like a cudgel. * Ah, 
 I 'm blind, ain't I ? Mighty bold with a blind 
 man, ain't ye? If my eyes was like yours, or 
 you was blind as me, you 'd ' 
 
 ' Go ! ' roared Dan furiously, with two quick 
 steps. ' Go ! ' 
 
 The blind man backed as quickly, fiercely 
 brandishing his stick. * I '11 go — just as far as 
 suits me, Dan Ogle ! ' he cried. ' I ain't goin' 
 to be done out o' what 's mine ! One of ye 's 
 got away, but I '11 stick to the other ! Keep 
 off! I '11 stick to ye till — keep off! ' 
 
 As Dan advanced, the stick, flourished at 
 random, fell on his wrist with a crack, and in a 
 burst of rage he rushed at the blind man, and
 
 282 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 smote him down with blow on blow. Blind 
 George, beaten to a heap, but cowed not at all, 
 howled like a wild beast, and struck madly 
 with his stick. The stick reached its mark 
 more than once, and goaded Ogle to a greater 
 fury. He punched and kicked at the plunging 
 wretch at his feet : who, desperate and un- 
 flinching, with his mouth spluttering blood and 
 curses, never ceased to strike back as best he 
 
 might. 
 
 At the noise Grimes came hurrying from his 
 office. For a moment he stood astonished, 
 and then he ran and caught Dan by the arm. 
 • I won't have it ! ' he cried. * If you want to 
 ficrht you go somewhere else. You — why — ■ 
 why, damme, the man's blind!' 
 
 Favoured by the interruption, Blind George 
 crawled a little off, smearing his hand through 
 the blood on his face, breathless and battered, 
 but facing his enemy still, with unabashed 
 malevolence. For a moment Ogle turned 
 anorily on Grimes, but checked himself, and 
 let fall his hands. ' Blind ? ' he snarled. ' He '11 
 be dead too, if he don't keep that stick to his- 
 self ; that 's what he '11 be ! ' 
 
 The blind man got on his feet, and backed
 
 ON THE COP 283 
 
 J 
 
 away, smearing the grisly face as he went. 
 * Ah ! hold him back ! ' he cried, with a double 
 mouthful of oaths. ' Hold him back for his 
 own sake ! I ain't done with you, Dan Ogle, 
 not yet ! Fight ? Ah, I '11 fight you — an' fight 
 you level ! I mean it ! I do ! I '11 fight you 
 level afore I 've done with you ! Dead I '11 be, 
 will I ? Not afore you, an' not afore I 've paid 
 you ! ' So he passed over the bank, threaten- 
 ing fiercely. 
 
 * Look here,' said Grimes to Ogle, * this ends 
 this business. I 've had enough o' you. You 
 find some other lodgings.' 
 
 'AH right,' Ogle growled. 'I'm going: 
 after to-night.' 
 
 * I dunno why I was fool enough to let you 
 come,' Grimes pursued. 'An' when I did, I 
 never said your pals was to come too. I re- 
 member that blind chap now ; I see him in 
 Blue Gate, an' I don't think much of him. An' 
 there was another chap this morning. Up to 
 no good, none of ye ; an' like as not to lose 
 me my job. So I '11 find another use for that 
 shed, see ? ' 
 
 'AH right,' the other sulkily repeated. *I 
 tell ye I 'm going : after to-night.'
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 ON THE COP 
 
 ONCE he had cut clear from his lodgings 
 without delay and trouble, Viney fell 
 into an insupportable nervous impatience, 
 which grew with every minute. His reasons 
 for the day's postponement now seemed wholly 
 insufficient : it must have been, he debated 
 with himself, that the first shock of the sug- 
 gestion had driven him to the nearest excuse 
 to put the job off, as it were a dose of bitter 
 physic. But now that the thing was resolved 
 upon, and nothing remained to do in pre- 
 paration, the suspense of inactivity became 
 intolerable, and grew to torment. It was no 
 matter of scruple or compunction ; of that he 
 never dreamed. But the enterprise was 
 dangerous and novel, and, as the vacant hours 
 passed, he imagined new perils and dreamed a 
 dozen hangings. Till at last, as night came 
 on, he began to fear that his courage could not 
 
 284
 
 ON THE COP 285 
 
 hold out the time ; and, since there was now 
 no reason for delay, he ended with a resolve 
 to get the thing over and the money in his 
 pockets that same night, if it were possible. 
 And with that view he set out for the 
 Cop. , . , 
 
 Meantime no nervousness troubled his con- 
 federate ; for him it was but a good stroke of 
 trade, with a turn of revenge in it; and the 
 penniless interval mattered nothing — could be 
 slept off, in fact, more or less, since there was 
 nothing else to do. 
 
 The sun sank below London, and night 
 came slow and black over the marshes and the 
 Cop. Grimes, rising from the doorstep of his 
 office, knocked the last ashes from his pipe and 
 passed indoors. Dan Ogle, sitting under the 
 lee of his shed, found no comfort in his own 
 empty pipe, and no tobacco in his empty 
 pocket. He rose, stretched his arms, and 
 looked across the Lea and across the Cop. 
 He could see little or nothing, for the dark was 
 closing on him fast. * Blind man's holiday,' 
 muttered Dan Ogle ; and he turned in for a 
 nap on his bed of sacks.
 
 286 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 A sulky red grew up into the darkening 
 western sky, as though the extinguished sun 
 were singeing all the world's edge. So one 
 saw London's nimbus from this point every 
 night, and saw below it the scattered spangle 
 of lights that were the suburban sentries 
 of the myriads beyond. The Cop and the 
 marshes lay pitch-black, and nothing but the 
 faint lap of water hinted that a river divided 
 them. 
 
 Here, where an hour's habit blotted the 
 great hum of London from the consciousness, 
 sounds were few. The perseverance of the 
 lapping water forced a groan now and again 
 from the moorings of an invisible barge lying 
 by the wharf; and as often a ghostly rustle 
 rose on the wind from an old willow on the 
 farther bank. And presently, more distinct 
 than either, came a steady snore from the shed 
 where Dan Ogle lay. . . . 
 
 A rustle, that was not of any tree, began when 
 the snore was at its steadiest ; a gentle rustle 
 indeed, where something, some moving shadow 
 in the black about it, crept over the river wall. 
 Clearer against a faint patch, which had been 
 white with lime in daylight, the figure grew to
 
 ON THE COP 287 
 
 that of a man ; a man moving in that murky- 
 darkness with an amazing facility, address, and 
 quietness. Down toward the river-side he 
 went, and there stooping, dipped into the water 
 some small coarse bag of cloth, that hung in 
 his hand. Then he rose, and, after a listening 
 pause, turned toward the shed whence came the 
 snore. 
 
 With three steps and a pause, and three 
 steps more, he neared the door : the stick he 
 carried silently skimming the ground before 
 him, his face turned upward, his single eye 
 rolling blankly at the sky that was the same 
 for him at night or noon ; and the dripping 
 cloth he carried diffused a pungent smell, as of 
 wetted quicklime. So, creeping and listening, 
 he reached the door. Within, the snore was 
 regular and deep. 
 
 Nothingf held the door but a latch, such as is 
 lifted by a finger thrust through a hole. He 
 listened for a moment with his ear at this hole, 
 and then, with infinite precaution, inserted his 
 finger, and lifted the latch. . , . 
 
 Up by the George Tavern, beyond Stepney, 
 Henry Viney was hastening along the Com-
 
 288 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 mercial Road to call Dan Ogle to Immediate 
 business. Ahead of him by a good distance, 
 Musky Mag hurried in the same direction, 
 bearing food in a saucer and handkerchief, and 
 beer in a bottle. But hurry as they might, 
 here was a visitor well ahead of both. , . , 
 
 The door opened with something of a jar, 
 and with that there was a little choke in the 
 snore, and a moment's silence. Then the snore 
 began again, deep as before. Down on his 
 knees went Dan Ogle's visitor, and so crawled 
 into the deep of the shed. 
 
 He had been gone no more than a few 
 seconds, when the snore stopped. It stopped 
 with a thump and a gasp, and a sudden buffet- 
 ing of legs and arms ; and in the midst arose a 
 cry : a cry of so hideous an agony that Grimes 
 the wharf-keeper, snug in his first sleep fifty 
 yards away, sprang erect and staring in bed, 
 and so sat motionless for half a minute ere he 
 remembered his legs, and thrust them out to 
 carry him to the window. And the dog on the 
 wharf leapt the length of its chain, answering 
 the cry with a torrent of wild barks. 
 
 Floundering and tumbling against the frail
 
 ON THE COP 289 
 
 boards of the shed, the two men came out at 
 the door in a struggHng knot : Ogle wrestHng 
 and striking at random, while the other, cunning 
 with a life's blindness, kept his own head safe, 
 and hung as a dog hangs to a bull. His 
 hands gripped his victim by ear and hair, 
 while the thumbs still drove at the eyes the 
 mess of smoking lime that clung and dripped 
 about Ogle's head. It trickled burning through 
 his hair, and it blistered lips and tongue, as he 
 yelled and yelled again in the extremity of his 
 anguish. Over they rolled before the door- 
 way ; and Ogle, snatching now at last instead 
 of striking, tore away the hands from his 
 face. 
 
 * Fight you level, Dan Ogle, fight you level 
 now ! ' Blind George gasped between quick 
 breaths. 'Hit me now you're blind as me! 
 Hit me! Knock me down ! Eh?' 
 
 Quickly he climbed to his feet, and aimed a 
 parting blow with the stick that hung from his 
 wrist. * Dead ? ' he whispered hoarsely. ' Not 
 afore I 've paid you ! No ! ' 
 
 He might have stayed to strike again, but 
 his own hands were blistered in the struggle, 
 and he hastened off toward the bank, there to
 
 290 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 wash them clear of the slaking lime. Away 
 on the wharf the dog was yelping and choking 
 on its chain like a mad thing. 
 
 Screaming still, with a growing hoarseness, 
 and writhing where he lay, the blinded wretch 
 scratched helplessly at the reeking lime that 
 scorched his skin and seared his eyes almost to 
 the brain. Grimes came running in shirt and 
 trousers, and, as soon as he could find how 
 matters stood, turned and ran again for oil. 
 ' Good God ! ' he said. * Lime in his eyes ! 
 Slaking lime! Why — why — it must be the 
 blind chap! It must! Fight him level, he 
 said — an' he's blinded him!' . . . 
 
 There was a group of people staring at the 
 patients' door of the Accident Hospital when 
 Viney reached the spot. He was busy enough 
 with his own thoughts, but he stopped, and 
 stared also, involuntarily. The door was an 
 uninteresting object, however, after all, and he 
 turned : to find himself face to face with one 
 he well remembered. It was the limy man he 
 had followed from Blue Gate to the Hole in 
 the Wall, and then lost sight of. 
 
 Grimes recognised Viney at once as Ogle's
 
 ON THE COP 291 
 
 visitor of the morning. ' That 's a pal o' 
 yourn just gone in there,' he said. 
 
 Viney was taken aback. * A pal ? ' he asked. 
 ' What pal ? ' 
 
 'Ogle — Dan Ogle. He's got lime in his 
 eyes, an' blinded.' 
 
 'Lime? Blinded? How?* 
 
 ' I ain't goin' to say nothing about how — I 
 dunno, an' 'tain't my business. He 's got it, 
 anyhow. There 's a woman in there along of 
 him — his wife, I b'lieve, or something. You 
 can talk to her about it, if you like, when she 
 comes out. I 've got nothing to do with it.' 
 
 Grimes had all the reluctance of his class to 
 be ' mixed up ' in any matter likely to involve 
 trouble at a police-court ; and what was more, 
 he saw himself possibly compromised in the 
 matter of Ogle's stay at the Wharf. But 
 Viney was so visibly concerned by the news 
 that soon the wharf-keeper relented a little — 
 thinking him maybe no such bad fellow after 
 all, since he was so anxious about his friend. 
 'I've heard said,' he added presently in a 
 lower tone, ' I 've heard said it was a blind chap 
 done it out o' spite ; but of course I dunno ; 
 not to say myself; on'y what I heard, you see.
 
 292 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 I don't think they '11 let you in ; but you might 
 see the woman. They won't let her stop long, 
 'specially takin' on as she was.' 
 
 Indeed it was not long ere Musky Mag 
 emerged, reluctant and pallid, trembling at the 
 mouth, staring but seeing nothing. Grimes 
 took her by the arm and led her aside, with 
 Viney. 'Here's a friend o' Dan's,' Grimes 
 said, not unkindly, giving the woman a shake 
 of the arm. 'He wants to know how he's 
 gettin' on.' 
 
 'What's 'nucleate?' she asked hoarsely, 
 with a dull look in Viney 's face. 'What's 
 'nucleate ? I heard a doctor say to let 'im rest 
 to-ni2:ht an' 'nucleate in the mornin'. What 's 
 'nucleate ? ' 
 
 'Some sort o' operation,' Grimes hazarded. 
 
 * Did they say anything else ? ' 
 
 ' Blinded,' the woman answered weakly. 
 
 * Blinded. But the pain 's eased with the oil.' 
 
 ' What did he say ? ' interposed Viney, fullest 
 of his own concerns. ' Did he say some one 
 did it?' 
 
 ' He told me about it — whispered. But I 
 shan't say nothing; nor him, not till he comes 
 out.'
 
 ON THE COP 293 
 
 * I say — he mustn't get talkin' about it,' 
 Viney said, anxiously. ' It — it '11 upset things. 
 Tell him when you see him. Here, listen.' 
 He took her aside out of Grimes's hearing. 
 ' It wouldn't do,' he said, * it wouldn't do to 
 have anybody charged or anything just now. 
 We 've got something big to pull off. I say — 
 I ought to see him, you know. Can't I see 
 him ? But there — some one might know me. 
 No. But you must tell him. He mustn't go 
 informing, or anything like that, not yet. Tell 
 him, won't you ? ' 
 
 • Chargin' ? Informin' ? ' Mag answered, with 
 contempt in her shaking voice. * 'Course 'e 
 wouldn't go informin', not Dan. Dan ain't that 
 sort — 'e looks arter hisself, 'e does ; 'e don't go 
 chargin' people. Not if 'e was dyin'.' 
 
 Indeed Viney did not sufficiently understand 
 the morals of Blue Gate : where to call in the 
 aid of the common enemy, the police, was a 
 foul trick to which none would stoop. In Blue 
 Gate a man inflicted his own punishments, and 
 to ask aid of the police was worse than mean 
 and scandalous : it was weak ; and that in a 
 place where the weak 'did not last,' as the 
 phrase went. It was the one restraint, the sole
 
 294 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 virtue of the place, enduring to death ; and 
 Hke some other virtues, in some other places, 
 it had its admixture of necessity ; for every- 
 body was ' wanted ' in turn, and to call for the 
 help of a policeman who might, as likely as not, 
 begin by seizing oneself by the collar, would 
 even have been poor policy : bad equally for 
 the individual and for the community. So 
 that to resort to the law's help in any form was 
 classed with ' narking ' as the unpardonable sin. 
 
 ' You 're sure o' that, are you ? ' asked Viney, 
 apprehensively. 
 
 ' Sure ? 'Course I 'm sure. Dunno what 
 sort o' chap you take 'im for. ' E 's no nark. 
 An' besides — 'e can't. There's other things, 
 an' ' 
 
 She turned away with a sigh that was near 
 a sob, and her momentary indignation lapsed 
 once more into anxious grief. 
 
 Viney went off with his head confused and 
 his plans in the melting-pot. Ogle's scheme 
 was gone by the board, and alone he could 
 scarce trust himself in any enterprise so 
 desperate. What should he do now ? Make 
 what terms he might with Captain Nat."* 
 Need was pressing ; but he must think.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 I HAVE said something of the change in 
 my grandfather's habits after the news 
 of the loss of xh^Jtmo and my father's death; 
 something but not all. Not only was he 
 abstracted in manner and aged in look, but 
 he grew listless in matters of daily life, and 
 even doubtful and infirm of purpose : an 
 amazing thing in him, whose decision of 
 character had made his a corner of the world 
 in which his will was instant law. And with 
 it, and through it all, I could feel that I was 
 the cause. ' It ain't the place for you, Stevy, 
 never the place for you,' he would say, wistful 
 and moody ; wholly disregarding my protests, 
 which I doubt he even heard. * I 've put one 
 thing right,' he said once, thinking aloud, as 
 I sat on his knee ; ' but it ain't enough ; it 
 ain't enough.' And I was sure that he was 
 thinking of the watches and spoons. 
 
 295
 
 296 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 As to that matter, people with valuables 
 had wholly ceased from coming to the private 
 compartment. But the pale man still sat in 
 his corner, and Joe the potman still supplied 
 the drink he neglected. His uneasiness grew 
 less apparent in a day or so ; but he remained 
 puzzled and curious, though no doubt well 
 enough content with this, the most patent 
 example of Grandfather Nat's irresolution. 
 
 As for Mr. Cripps, that deliberate artist's 
 whole practice of life was disorganised by 
 Captain Nat's indifference, and he was driven 
 to depend for the barest necessaries on the 
 casual generosity of the bar. In particular he 
 became the client of the unsober sailor I have 
 spoken of already : the disciplinarian, who had 
 roared confirmation of my grandfather's orders 
 when the man of the silver spoons got his 
 dismissal. This sailor was old in the ways of 
 Wapping, as in the practice of soaking, it 
 would seem, and he gave himself over to no 
 crimp. Being ashore, with money to spend, 
 he preferred to come alone to the bar of The 
 Hole in the Wall, and spend it on himself, 
 getting full measure for every penny. Beyond 
 his talent of ceaselessly absorbing liquor with-
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 297 
 
 out becoming wholly drunk, and a shrewd 
 eye for his correct change, he exhibited the 
 single personal characteristic of a very demon- 
 strative respect for Captain Nat Kemp. He 
 would confirm my grandfather's slightest order 
 with shouts and threats, which as often as not 
 were only to be quelled by a shout or a 
 threat from my grandfather himself; a thing 
 of instant effect, however. ' Ay, ay, sir ! ' the 
 man would answer, and humbly return to his 
 pot. * Cap'en's orders ' he would sometimes 
 add, with a wink and a hoarse whisper to a 
 chance neighbour. ' Always 'bey cap'en's 
 orders. Knowed 'em both, father an son.' 
 
 So that Mr. Cripps's ready acquiescence in 
 whatever was said loudly, and in particular his 
 own habit of blandiloquence, led to a sort of 
 agreement between the two, and an occasional 
 drink at the sailor's expense. 
 
 But, meantime, his chief patron was grown 
 so abstracted from considerations of the neces- 
 sities of genius, so impervious to hints, so 
 deaf to all suggestion of grant-in-aid, that 
 Mr. Cripps was driven to a desperate and 
 dramatic stroke. One morning he appeared 
 in the bar carrying the board for the sign ;
 
 298 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 no tale of a board, no description or account 
 of a board, no estimate or admeasurement of 
 a board ; but the actual, solid, material board 
 itself. 
 
 By what expedient he had acquired it did 
 not fully appear, and, indeed, with him, cash 
 and credit were about equally scarce. But 
 upon one thing he most vehemently insisted : 
 that he dared not return home without the 
 money to pay for it. The ravening creditor 
 would be lying in wait at the corner of his 
 street. 
 
 Mr. Cripps's device for breaking through 
 Captain Nat's abstraction succeeded beyond 
 all calculation. For my grandfather laid 
 hands on Mr. Cripps and the board together, 
 and hauled both straightway into the skippers' 
 parlour at the back. 
 
 'There's the board,' he said with decision, 
 ' an' there 's you. Where 's the paints an' 
 brushes ? ' 
 
 Mr. Cripps's stock of paints was low, it 
 seemed, or exhausted. His brushes were at 
 home and — his creditor was at the corner of 
 the street. 
 
 * If I could take the proceeds* — Mr. Cripps
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 299 
 
 began ; but Grandfather Nat interrupted. 
 'Here's you, an' here's the board, an' we'll 
 soon get the tools : I '11 send for 'em or buy 
 new. Here, Joe! Joe '11 get 'em. You say 
 what you want, an' he '11 fetch 'em. Here 
 you are, an' here you stick, an' do my sign- 
 board ! ' 
 
 Mr. Cripps dared not struggle for his liberty, 
 and indeed a promise of his meals at the 
 proper hours reconciled him to my grand- 
 father's defiance of Magna Charta. So the 
 skippers' parlour became his studio ; and there 
 he was left in company with his materials, a 
 pot of beer, and a screw of tobacco. I much 
 desired to see the painting, but it was ruled 
 that Mr. Cripps must not be disturbed. I 
 think I must have restrained my curiosity for 
 an hour at least, ere I ventured on tip-toe to 
 peep through a little window used for the 
 passing in and out of drinks and empty 
 glasses. Here my view was somewhat ob- 
 structed by Mr. Cripps's pot, which, being 
 empty, he had placed upside down in the 
 opening, as a polite intimation to whomsoever 
 it might concern ; but I could see that Mr. 
 Cripps's labours having proceeded so far as
 
 300 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 the selection of a convenient chair, he was 
 now taking relaxation in profound slumber. 
 So I went away and said nothing. 
 
 When at last he was disturbed by the arrival 
 of his dinner, Mr. Cripps regained conscious- 
 ness with a sudden bounce that almost de- 
 posited him on the floor. 
 
 'Conception,' he gasped, rubbing his eyes, 
 * conception, an' meditation, an' invention, is 
 what you want in a job like this ! ' 
 
 'Ah,' replied my grandfather grimly, 'that's 
 all, is it? Then common things like dinner 
 don't matter. Perhaps Joe 'd better take it 
 away ? ' 
 
 But it seemed that Mr. Cripps wanted his 
 dinner too. He had it ; but Grandfather Nat 
 made it clear that he should consider medita- 
 tion wholly inconsistent with tea. So that, 
 in course of the afternoon, Mr. Cripps was 
 fain to paint the board white, and so earn a 
 liberal interval of rest, while it dried. And 
 at night he went away home without the price 
 of the board, but, instead, a note to the effect 
 that the amount was payable on application 
 to Captain Kemp at the Hole in the Wall, 
 Wapping. This note was the production,
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 301 
 
 after three successive failures, of my own pen, 
 and to me a matter of great pride and delight ; 
 so that I was sadly disappointed to observe 
 that Mr. Cripps received it with emotions of 
 a wholly different character. 
 
 Next morning Mr. Cripps returned to 
 durance with another pot and another screw 
 of tobacco. Grandfather Nat had business 
 in the Minories in the matter of a distiller's 
 account ; and for this reason divers injunctions, 
 stipulations, and warnings were entered into 
 and laid upon Mr. Cripps before his departure. 
 As for instance : — 
 
 It was agreed that Mr. Cripps should remain 
 in the skippers' parlour. 
 
 Also (after some trouble) that no exception 
 should be made to the foregoing stipulation, 
 even in the event of Mr. Cripps feeling it 
 necessary to go out somewhere to study a 
 brick wall (or the hole in it) from nature. 
 
 Nor even if he felt overcome by the smell 
 of paint. 
 
 Agreed, however : that an exception be 
 granted in the event of the house being on 
 fire. 
 
 Further : this with more trouble : that one
 
 302 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 pot of beer before dinner is enough for any 
 man seriously bent on the pursuit of art. 
 
 Moreover : that the board must not be 
 painted white again. 
 
 Lastly : that the period of invention and 
 meditation be considered at an end ; and that 
 sleep on Mr. Cripps's part be regarded as an 
 acknowledgment that meals are over for the 
 day. 
 
 These articles being at length agreed and 
 confirmed, and Mr. Cripps having been duly 
 witnessed to make certain marks with charcoal 
 on the white board, as a guarantee of good 
 faith, Grandfather Nat and I set out for the 
 Minories. 
 
 His moodiness notwithstanding, it was part 
 of his new habit to keep me near him as much 
 as possible, day and night, with a sort of 
 wistful jealousy. So we walked hand in hand 
 over the swing bridge, past Paddy's Goose, 
 into the Highway, and on through that same 
 pageant of romance and squalor. The trades- 
 men at their doors saluted Grandfather Nat 
 with a subdued regard, as I had observed 
 most people to do since the news of the 
 Junos wreck. Indeed that disaster was very
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 305 
 
 freely spoken of, all along the water-side, as 
 a deliberate scuttling, and it was felt that 
 Captain Nat could lay his bereavement to 
 something worse than the fair chance of the 
 seas. Such things were a part of the daily 
 talk by the Docks, and here all the familiar 
 features were present ; while it was especially 
 noted that nothing had been seen of Viney 
 since the news came. He meant to lie safe, 
 said the gossips ; since, as a bankrupt, he 
 stood to gain nothing by the insurance. 
 
 One tradesman alone, a publican just beyond 
 Blue Gate, greeted my grandfather noisily, 
 but he was thoughtless with the pride of 
 commercial achievement. For he was en- 
 larging his bar, a large one already, by the 
 demolition of the adjoining shop, and he was 
 anxious to exhibit and explain his designs. 
 
 ' Why, good mornin' Cap'en,' cried the 
 publican, from amid scaffold poles and brick- 
 dust. ' You 're a stranger lately. See what 
 I'm doin'? Here: come in here an' look. 
 How's this, eh.-* Another pair o' doors just 
 over there, an' the bar brouoht round like 
 so, an' that for Bottle an' Jug, and throw the 
 rest into Public Bar. Eh .>* *
 
 304 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 The party wall had already been removed, 
 and the structure above rested on baulks and 
 beams. The bar was screened off now from 
 the place of its enlargement by nothing but 
 canvas and tarpaulin, and my grandfather and 
 his acquaintance stood with their backs to 
 this, to survey the work of the builders. 
 
 Waiting by my grandfather's side while he 
 talked, I was soon aware that business was 
 brisk in the bar beyond the canvas ; and I 
 listened idly to the hum of custom and debate. 
 Suddenly I grew aware of a voice I knew — 
 an acrid voice just within the canvas. 
 
 ' Then if you 're useless, I ain't,' said the 
 voice, 'an' I shan't let it drop.' And indeed 
 it was Mrs. Grimes who spoke. 
 
 I looked up quickly at Grandfather Nat, 
 but he was interested in his discussion, and 
 plainly had not heard. Mrs. Grimes's declara- 
 tions drew a growling answer in a man's voice, 
 wholly indistinct ; and I found a patch in the 
 canvas, with a loose corner, which afforded a 
 peep-hole. 
 
 Mrs. Grimes was nearest, with her back to 
 the canvas, so that her skirts threatened to 
 close my view. Opposite her were two
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 305 
 
 persons, in the nearest of whom I was sur- 
 prised to recognise the coarse-faced woman I 
 had seen twice before : once when she came 
 asking confused questions of Grandfather Nat 
 about the man who sold a watch, and once 
 when she fainted at the inquest, and Mrs. 
 Grimes was too respectable to stay near her. 
 The woman looked sorrowful and drawn about 
 the eyes and cheeks, and she held to the arm 
 of a tall, raw-boned man. His face was 
 seamed with ragged and blistered skin, and 
 he wore a shade over the hollows where now, 
 peeping upward, I could see no eyes, but shut 
 and sunken lids ; so that at first it was hard 
 to recognise the fellow who had been talking 
 to this same coarse-faced woman by Blue 
 Gate, when she left him to ask those questions 
 of my grandfather ; and indeed I should never 
 have remembered him but that the woman 
 brought him to my mind. 
 
 It was this man whose growling answer I 
 had heard. Now Mrs. Grimes spoke again. 
 'All my fault from the beginning?' she said. 
 * O yes, I like that : because I wanted to keep 
 myself respectable ! My fault or not, I shan't 
 wait any longer for you. If I ain't to have it, 
 u
 
 3o6 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 you shan't. An' if I can't get the money I can 
 get something else.' 
 
 The man growled again and swore, and beat 
 his stick impotently on the floor. ' You 're a 
 fool,' he said. 'Can't you wait till I 'm a bit 
 straight ? You an' your revenge ! Pah ! 
 When there 's money to be had ! ' 
 
 * Not much to be had your way, it seems, 
 the mess you 've made of it ; an' precious 
 likely to do any better now, ain't you? An' 
 as to money — well there 's rewards given ' 
 
 Grandfather Nat's hand fell on my cap, and 
 startled me. He had congratulated his friend, 
 approved his plans, made a few suggestions, 
 and now was ready to resume the walk. He 
 talked still as he took my hand, and stood thus 
 for a few minutes by the door, exchanging 
 views with the publican on the weather, the 
 last ships in, and the state of trade. I heard 
 one more growl, louder and angrier than the 
 others, from beyond the screen, and a sharper 
 answer, and then there was a movement and 
 the slam of a door ; and I got over the step, 
 and stretched my grandfather's arm and my 
 own to see Mrs, Grimes go walking up the 
 street.
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 307 
 
 When we were free ot the publican, I told 
 Grandfather Nat that I had seen Mrs. Grimes 
 in the bar. He made so indifferent a reply- 
 that I said nothing of the conversation I had 
 overheard ; for indeed I knew nothing of its 
 significance. And so we went about our 
 business.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 ON our way home we were brought to a 
 stand at the swing bridge, which lay 
 open to let through a ship. We were too late 
 for the perilous lock ; for already the capstans 
 were going, and the ship's fenders were 
 squeaking and groaning against the masonry. 
 So we stood and waited till fore, main, and 
 mizzen had crawled by ; and then I was sur- 
 prised to observe, foremost and most im- 
 patient among the passengers on the opposite 
 side, Mr. Cripps. 
 
 The winches turned, and the bridge swung ; 
 and my surprise grew, when I perceived that 
 Mr. Cripps made no effort to avoid Grand- 
 father Nat, but hurried forward to meet him. 
 
 * Well,' said my grandfather gruffly, ' house 
 on fire } ' 
 
 ' No, sir — no. But I thought * 
 
 ' Sign done.-*'
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 309 
 
 * No, Cap'en, not done exactly. But I just 
 got curious noos, an' so I come to meet you.' 
 
 ' What 's the news ? ' 
 
 ' Not p'raps exactly as you might say noos, 
 sir, but information — information that's been 
 transpired to me this mornin'. More or less 
 unique information, so to say, — uncommon 
 unique; much uniquer than usual' 
 
 With these repetitions Mr. Cripps looked 
 hard in my grandfather's eyes, as one does 
 who wishes to break news, or lead up to a 
 painful subject. * What 's it all about ? ' asked 
 Grandfather Nat. 
 
 * The Juno.' 
 
 * Well ? ' 
 
 * She was scuttled wilful, Cap'en Kemp, 
 scuttled wilful by Beecher. It 's more 'n 
 rumour or scandal : it 's plain evidence.' 
 
 My grandfather looked fixedly at Mr. 
 Cripps. ' What 's the plain evidence .-* ' he 
 asked. 
 
 ' That chap that 's been so much in the bar 
 lately,' Mr. Cripps answered, his eyes wide 
 with the importance of his discovery. ' The 
 chap that soaks so heavy, an' shouts at any one 
 you order out. He was aboard the Juno on
 
 3IO THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 the voyage out, an' he deserted at Monte 
 Video to a homeward bound ship.' 
 
 'Then he doesn't know about the wreck.' 
 I thought my grandfather made this objection 
 almost eagerly. 
 
 * No, Cap'en ; but he deserted 'cos he said 
 he preferred bein' on a ship as was meant to 
 come back, an' one as had some grub aboard 
 — him an' others. Beecher tried to pile 'em 
 up time an' again; an' says the chap— Conolly's 
 his name — says he, anything as went wrong 
 aboard the Juno was Beecher's doin' ; which 
 was prophesied in the foc'sle a score o' times 
 'fore she got to Monte Video. An' — an* 
 Conolly said more.' Mr. Cripps stole another 
 sidelong glance at Grandfather Nat. * Con- 
 fidential to me this mornin', Conolly said 
 more.' 
 
 ' What ? ' 
 
 • He said it was the first officer, your son, 
 Cap'en, as prevented the ship bein' piled up 
 on the voyage out, an' all but knocked Beecher 
 down once. An' he said they was near fightin' 
 half the time he was with 'em, an' he said — 
 surprisin' solemn too — solemn as a man could 
 as was half drunk— that after what he 'd seen
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 311 
 
 an' heard, anything as happened to the first 
 mate was no accident, or anything Hke it. 
 That 's what he said, cap'en, confidential to 
 me this mornin'.' 
 
 We were walking along together now ; and 
 Mr. Cripps seemed puzzled that his informa- 
 tion produced no more startling effect on my 
 grandfather. The old man's face was pale and 
 hard, but there was no sign of surprise ; which 
 was natural, seeing that this was no news, as 
 Mr. Cripps supposed, but merely confirmation. 
 
 * He said there was never any skipper so 
 partic'ler about the boats an' davits bein' kep' 
 in order as Beecher was that trip,' Mr. Cripps 
 proceeded. ' An' he kep' his own life-belt 
 wonderful handy. As for the crew, they kep' 
 their kit-bags packed all the time ; they could 
 see enough for that. An' he said there was 
 some as could say more 'n he could.' 
 
 We came in view of the Hole in the Wall, 
 and Mr. Cripps stopped short. * He don't 
 know I 'm tellin' you this,' he said. ' He came 
 in the skippers' room with a drink, an' got 
 talkin' confidential. He's very close about it. 
 You know what sailors are.' 
 
 Grandfather Nat frowned, and nodded.
 
 312 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 Indeed nobody knew better the common 
 sailor-man's horror of complications and ' land- 
 shark ' troubles ashore : of anything that 
 might lead to his being asked for responsible 
 evidence, even for his own protection. It 
 gave impunity to three-quarters of the iniquity 
 practised on the high seas. 
 
 * An' then o' course he 's a deserter,' Mr. 
 Cripps proceeded. * So I don't think you 'd 
 better say I told you, cap'en — not to him. 
 You can give information — or I can — an' then 
 they '11 make him talk, at the Old Bailey ; 
 an' they'll bring others.' 
 
 Grandfather Nat winced, and turned away. 
 Then he stopped again and said angrily : 
 ' Damn you, don't meddle ! Keep your mouth 
 shut, an' don't meddle.' 
 
 Mr. Cripps's jaw dropped, and his very 
 nose paled. ' But — but — ' he stammered, 
 'but, Cap'en, it's murder! Murder agin 
 Beecher an' Viney too ! You '11 do something, 
 when it 's your own son ! Your own son. An' 
 it 's murder, Cap'en ! ' 
 
 My grandfather went two steps on his way, 
 with a stifled groan. ' Murder ! ' he muttered, 
 * murder it is, by the law of England ! '
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 313 
 
 Mr. Cripps came at his heels, very blank in 
 the face. Suddenly my grandfather turned on 
 him again, pale and fierce. * Shut your mouth, 
 d' ye hear ? Stow your slack jaw, an' mind 
 your own business, or I '11 ' 
 
 Grandfather Nat lifted his hand ; and I 
 believe nothing but a paralysis of terror kept 
 Mr. Cripps from a bolt. Several people 
 stopped to stare, and the old man saw it. So 
 he checked his wrath and walked on. 
 
 ' I '11 see that man,' he said presently, 
 flinging the words at Mr. Cripps over his 
 shoulder. And so we reached the Hole in 
 the Wall. 
 
 Mr. Cripps sat speechless in the bar and 
 trembled, while Grandfather Nat remained 
 for an hour in the skippers' parlour with 
 Conolly the half-drunken. What they said 
 one to another I never learned, nor even if 
 my grandfather persuaded the man to tell him 
 anything; though there can be no doubt he 
 did. 
 
 For myself, I moved uneasily about the 
 bar-parlour, and presently I slipped out into the 
 alley to gaze at the river from the stair-head. 
 I was troubled vaguely, as a child often is who
 
 314 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 strives to analyse the behaviour of his elders. 
 I stared some while at the barges and the 
 tugs, and at Bill Stagg's boat with its cage 
 of fire, as it went in and about among the 
 shipping; I looked at the bills on the wall, 
 where new tales of men and women Found 
 Drowned displaced those of a week ago ; and 
 I fell again into the wonderment and conjecture 
 they always prompted ; and last I turned up 
 the alley, though whether to look out on the 
 street or to stop at the bar-parlour door, I had 
 not determined. 
 
 As I went, I grew aware of a tall, florid 
 man with thick boots and very large whiskers, 
 who stood at the entry, and regarded me 
 with a wide and ingratiating smile. I had 
 some cloudy remembrance of having seen 
 him before, walking in the street of Wappino- 
 Wall ; and, as he seemed to be cominor to 
 
 o 
 
 meet me, I went on past the bar-parlour door 
 to meet him. 
 
 * Ah ! ' he said with a sliorht ekmce toward 
 the door, 'you're a smart fellow, I can see.' 
 And he patted my head and stooped. ' Now 
 I 've got something to show you. See 
 there ! '
 
 STEPHHN^S TALE 315 
 
 He pulled a watch from his pocket and 
 opened it. I was much interested to see that 
 the inward part swung clear out from the 
 case, on a hinge, exactly as I had seen happen 
 with another watch on my first evening at 
 the Hole in the Wall. * That 's a rum trick, 
 ain't it ? ' observed the stranger, smiling wider 
 than ever. 
 
 I assented, and thanked him for the 
 demonstration. 
 
 'Ah,' he replied, 'you 're as clever a lad as 
 ever I see ; but I lay you never see a watch 
 like that before ? ' 
 
 ' Yes I did,' I answered heartily. ' I saw one 
 once.' 
 
 ' No, no,' said the florid man, still toying 
 with the watch, ' I don't believe that — it 's 
 your gammon. Why, where did you see 
 one?' 
 
 He shot another stealthy glance toward the 
 bar-parlour door as he said it, and the glance 
 was so unlike the smile that my sleeping 
 caution was alarmed. I remembered how my 
 grandfather had come by the watch with the 
 M on the back ; and I remembered his re- 
 peated warnings that I must not talk.
 
 3i6 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 * Why where did you see one?' asked 
 
 the stranger. 
 
 ' In a man's hand,' I said, with stolid 
 truth. 
 
 He looked at me so sharply through his 
 grin that I had an uncomfortable feeling that 
 I had somehow let out the secret after all. 
 But I resolved to hold on tight. 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ' he laughed, ' in a man's hand, 
 of course ! I knew you was a smart one. 
 Mine hasn't got any letter on the back, you 
 see.' 
 
 ' No,' I answered with elaborate indifference; 
 *no letter.' And as I spoke I found more 
 matter of surprise. For if I had eyes in my 
 head — and indeed I had sharp ones — there 
 was Mrs. Grimes in a dark entry across the 
 street, watching this grinning questioner and 
 me. 
 
 'Some have letters on the back,' said the 
 questioner. ' Mine ain't that sort. What 
 sort ' 
 
 Here Joe the potman dropped, or knocked 
 over, something in the bar-parlour ; and the 
 stranger started. 
 
 • I think I 'm wanted indoors,' I said.
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 317 
 
 moving off, glad of the interruption. ' Good- 
 bye!' 
 
 The florid stranger rose and walked off at 
 once, with a parting smile. He turned at the 
 corner, and went straight away, without so 
 much as a look toward the entry where Mrs. 
 Grimes was. I fancied he walked rather like 
 a policeman.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 IN THE BAR-PARLOUR 
 
 DAN OGLE, blinded and broken, but 
 silent and saving his revenge : Musky- 
 Mag, stricken and pitiable, but faithful even if 
 to death : Henry Viney, desperate but fearful, 
 and urgently needy : these three skulked at 
 bay in dark holes by Blue Gate. 
 
 Sullen and silent to doggedness. Ogle would 
 give no word to the hospital doctors of how 
 his injury had befallen ; and in three days he 
 would brook confinement no longer, but rose 
 and broke away, defiant of persuasion, to grope 
 into the outer world by aid of Mag's arm. 
 Blind George was about still, but had scarcely 
 been near the Highway except at night, when, 
 as he had been wont to boast, he was as good 
 as most men with sound eyes. It was thought 
 that he spent his days over the water, as would 
 be the way of one feeling the need of tem- 
 porary caution. It did not matter : that could 
 
 318
 
 IN THE BAR-PARLOUR 319 
 
 rest a bit. Blind George should be paid, and 
 paid bitter measure ; but first the job in hand, 
 first the scheme he had interrupted ; first the 
 money. 
 
 Here were doubt and difficulty. Dan Ogle's 
 plan of murder and comprehensive pillage 
 was gone by the board ; he was next to help- 
 less. It was plain that, whatever plan was 
 followed, Viney must bear the active part ; and 
 Dan Ogle raved and cursed to find his partner 
 so unpractised a ruffian, so cautious and doubt- 
 ful a confederate. 
 
 Mrs. Grimes made the matter harder, and 
 it was plain that the thing must be either 
 brought to a head or wholly abandoned, if only 
 on her account. For she had her own idea, 
 with her certain revenge on Captain Nat, 
 and a contingent reward; furthermore, she 
 saw her brother useless. And things were 
 brought to a head when she would wait 
 no more, but carried her intrigue to the 
 police. 
 
 Nothing but a sudden move would do now, 
 desperate as it might be ; and the fact screwed 
 Viney to the sticking-place, and gave new 
 vigour to Ogle's shaken frame. After all, the
 
 320 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 delay had not been great — no more than a few 
 days. Captain Nat suspected nothing, and the 
 chances lay that the notes were still in hand, 
 as they had been when Ogle's sister last saw 
 them ; for he could afford to hold them, and 
 dispose of them at a later and safer time. The 
 one danger was from this manoeuvre of Mrs. 
 Grimes : if the police thought well enough of 
 her tale to act without preliminary inquiry, 
 they might be at the Hole in the Wall with a 
 search-warrant at any moment. The thing 
 must be done at once — that very night. 
 
 Musky Mag had never left Dan's side a 
 moment since she had brought him from the 
 hospital ; now she was thrust aside, and bidden 
 to keep to herself. Viney took to pen, ink 
 and paper; and the two men waited im- 
 patiently for midnight. 
 
 It was then that Viney, with Ogle at his 
 elbow, awaited the closing of the Hole in the 
 Wall, hidden in the dark entry, whence Mrs. 
 Grimes had watched the plain-clothes police- 
 man fishing for information a few hours earlier. 
 The customers grew noisier as the hour 
 neared ; and Captain Nat's voice was heard 
 enjoining order once or twice, ere at last it
 
 IN THE BAR-PARLOUR 321 
 
 was raised to clear the bar. Then the com- 
 pany came out, straggling and staggering, 
 wrangling and singing, and melted away into 
 the dark, this way and that. Mr. Cripps 
 went east, the pale pensioner west, each 
 like a man who has all night to get home 
 in ; and the potman, having fastened the 
 shutters, took his coat and hat, and went 
 his way also. 
 
 There was but one other tavern in si^ht, 
 and that closed at the same time as the Hole 
 in the Wall ; and since none nearer than 
 Paddy's Goose remained open till one, 
 Wapping Wall was soon dark and empty. 
 There were diamond-shaped holes near the 
 top of the shutters at the Hole in the Wall, 
 and light was visible through these : a sign 
 that Captain Nat was still engaged in the bar. 
 Presently the light dulled, and then dis- 
 appeared : he had extinguished the lamps. 
 Now was the time — while he was in the bar- 
 parlour. Viney came out from the entry, 
 pulling Ogle by the arm, and crossed the 
 street. He brought him to the court entrance, 
 and placed his hand on the end post. 
 
 'This is the first post in the court,' Viney 
 
 X
 
 322 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 whispered. ' Wait here while I go. We both 
 know what's to do.' 
 
 Viney tip-toed to the bar-parlour door, and 
 tapped. There was a heavy footstep within, 
 and the door was flung open. There stood 
 Captain Nat with the table-lamp in his hand. 
 ' Who 's that ? ' said Captain Nat. ' Come into 
 the light.' 
 
 Viney took a deep breath. 'Me,' he 
 answered. ' I '11 come in ; I 've got something 
 
 to say.' 
 
 He went in side-foremost, with his back 
 ao-ainst the door-post, and Captain Nat turned 
 slowly, each man watching the other. Then 
 the landlord put the lamp on the table, and 
 shut the door. ' Well,' he said, ' I '11 hear you 
 say it.' 
 
 There was something odd about Captain 
 Nat's eyes : something new, and something 
 that Viney did not like. Hard and quiet ; not 
 anger, it would seem, but something indefin- 
 able — and worse. Viney braced himself with 
 another inspiration of breath. 
 
 'First,' he said, 'I'm alone here, but I've 
 left word. There 's a friend o' mine not far off, 
 waiting. He 's waiting where he can hear the
 
 IN THE BAR-PARLOUR 323 
 
 clock strike on Shadwell Church, just as you 
 can hear it here ; an' if I 'm not back with him, 
 safe an' sound, when it strikes one, he 's going 
 to the poHce with some papers I 've given him, 
 in an envelope. 
 
 ' Ah. An' what papers ? ' 
 
 * Papers I 've written myself. Papers with 
 a sort of private log in them — not much like 
 the one they showed 'em at Lloyd's — of the 
 loss of the Florence years enough ago, when a 
 man named Dan Webb was killed. Papers 
 with the names of most of the men aboard, an' 
 hints as to where to find some of 'em : Bill 
 Stagg, for instance, A.B. They may not want 
 to talk, but they can be made.' 
 
 Captain Nat's fixed look was oddly im- 
 passive. * Have you got it on the papers,' he 
 said, in a curiously even voice, as though he 
 recited a lesson learned by rote ; ' have you 
 got it on the papers that Dan Webb had got 
 at the rum, an' was lost through bein' drunk .'* ' 
 
 * No, I haven't ; an' much good it 'ud do ye 
 if I had. Drunk or sober he died in that 
 wreck, an' not a man aboard but knew all 
 about that. I 've told you, before, what it is 
 by law : Murder. Murder an' the Rope.'
 
 324 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 'Ay,' said Captain Nat in the same even 
 voice, though the tones grew in significance as 
 he went on. ' Ay, you have ; an' you made 
 me pay for the information. Murder it is, an' 
 the Rope, by the law of England.' 
 
 * Well, I want none of your money now ; I 
 want my own. I '11 go back an' burn those 
 papers, — or give 'em to you, if you like — an' 
 you '11 never see me again, if you '11 do one 
 thing — not with your money.' 
 
 'What?' 
 
 * Give me my partner's leather pocket-book 
 and my eight hundred and ten pounds that 
 was in it. That's first an' last of my business 
 here to-night, an' all I 've got to say.' 
 
 For a moment Captain Nat's impassibility 
 was disturbed, and he looked sharply at Viney. 
 * Ha ! ' he said, ' what 's this ? Partner's pocket- 
 book ? Notes ? What ? ' 
 
 ' I 've said it plain, an' you understand me. 
 Time 's passing, Cap'en Kemp, an' you 'd better 
 not waste it arguing ; one o'clock '11 strike 
 before long. The money I came an' spoke 
 about when they found Marr in the river ; you 
 had it all the time, an' you knew it. That 's 
 what I want : nothing o' yours, but my own
 
 IN THE BAR-PARLOUR 325 
 
 money. Give me my own money, an' save 
 your neck.' 
 
 Captain Nat compressed his lips, and folded 
 his arms. ' There was a woman knew about 
 this,' he said slowly, after a pause, 'a woman 
 an' a man. They each took a try at that 
 money, in different ways. They must be 
 friends o' yours.' 
 
 ' Time 's going, Cap'en Kemp, time 's going ! 
 Listen to reason, an' give me what 's my own. 
 I want nothing o' yours ; nothing but my own. 
 To save you ; and — and that boy. You 've got 
 a boy to remember : think o' the boy ! ' 
 
 Captain Nat stood for a little, silent and 
 thoughtful, his eyes directed absently on Viney, 
 as though he saw him not ; and as he stood so 
 the darkness cleared from his face. Not that 
 moment's darkness only, but all the hardness 
 of years seemed to abate in the old skipper's 
 features, so that presently Captain Nat stood 
 transfigured. 
 
 * Ay,' he said at last, ' the boy— I '11 think o' 
 the boy, God bless him ! You shall have your 
 money, Viney : though whether it ought to be 
 yours I don't know. Viney, when you came in 
 I was ready to break you in pieces with my
 
 326 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 bare hands — which I could do easy, as you 
 know well enough.' He stretched forth the 
 great knotted hands, and Viney shrank before 
 them. * I was ready to kill you with my hands, 
 an' would ha' done it, for a reason I '11 tell you 
 of, afterwards. But I 've done evil enough, an' 
 I '11 do no more. You shall have your money. 
 Wait here, an' I '11 fetch it.' 
 
 ' Now no — no tricks, you know ! ' said Viney, 
 a little nervously, as the old man turned to- 
 ward the staircase door. 
 
 • Tricks ? ' came the answer. * No. An end 
 of all tricks.' And Captain Nat tramped 
 heavily up the stair.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 MY grandfather was uncommonly silent 
 all that day, after his interview with 
 Conolly. He bade me good night when I 
 went to bed, and kissed me ; but he said no 
 more, though he sat by my bed till I fell 
 asleep, while Joe attended the bar. 
 
 I had a way, now and again, of waking 
 when the bar was closed — perhaps because 
 of the noise ; and commonly at these times I 
 lay awake till Grandfather Nat came to bed, 
 to bid him good-night once more. It was so 
 this night, the night of nights. I woke at the 
 shouting and the stumbling into the street, 
 and lay while the bar was cleared, and the 
 doors banged and fastened. 
 
 My grandfather seemed to stay uncommonly 
 long ; and presently, as the night grew stiller, 
 I was aware of voices joined in conversation 
 below. I wondered greatly who could be 
 
 327
 
 328 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 talking with Grandfather Nat at this hour, 
 and I got out of bed to hsten at the stair-head. 
 It could not be Bill Stagg, for the voices were 
 in the bar-parlour, and not in the store-place 
 behind ; and it was not Joe the potman, for 
 I had heard him go, and I knew his step 
 well. I wondered if Grandfather Nat would 
 mind if I went down to see. 
 
 I was doubtful, and I temporised ; I began 
 to put on some clothes, listening from time 
 to time at the stair-head, in hope that I might 
 recognise the other voice. But indeed both 
 voices were indistinct, and I could not dis- 
 tinguish one from the other. And then of a 
 sudden the stair-foot door opened, and my 
 grandfather came upstairs, heavy and slow. 
 
 I doubted what he might say when he saw 
 my clothes on, but he seemed not to notice it. 
 He brought a candle in from the landing, 
 and he looked strangely grave — grave with a 
 curious composure. He went to the little 
 wall-cupboard at his bed-head, and took out 
 the cash-box, which had not been downstairs 
 since the pale man had ceased work. ' Stevy 
 my boy,' he said, 'have you said your 
 prayers ? '
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 329 
 
 •Yes, grandfather.' 
 
 « An' didn't forget Gran'father Nat ? * 
 
 'No, grandfather, I never forget you.' 
 
 'Good boy, Stevy.' He took the leather 
 pocket-book from the box, and knelt by my 
 side, with his arm about me. ' Stevy,' he 
 said, 'here's this money. It ain't ours, Stevy, 
 neither yours nor mine, an' we 've no right to 
 it. I kept it for you, but I did wrong ; an' 
 worse, I was leadin' you wrong. Will you 
 give it up, Stevy?' 
 
 ' Why, yes, grandfather.* Truly that was 
 an easy enough thing to say ; and in fact I 
 was in some way pleased to know that my 
 mother had been right, after all. 
 
 * Right, Stevy ; be an honest boy always, 
 and an honest man — better than me. Since 
 I was a boy like you, I 've gone a long way 
 wrong, an' I 've been a bad man, Stevy, a bad 
 man some ways, at least. An' now, Stevy, 
 I 'm goin' away — for a bit. Presently, when 
 I 'm gone, you can go to the stairs an' call 
 Bill Stagg — he'll come at once. Call Bill 
 Stagg — he '11 stay with you to-night. You 
 don't mind Bill Stagg, do you ? ' 
 
 Bill Stagg was an excellent friend of mine,
 
 330 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 and I liked his company ; but 1 could not 
 understand Grandfather Nat's going away. 
 Where was he going, and why, so late at 
 nioht ? 
 
 ' Never mind that just now, Stevy. I 'm 
 going away — for a bit ; an' whatever happens 
 you'll always say prayers night an' mornin' 
 for Gran'father Nat, won't you? An be a 
 good boy. 
 
 There was something piteous now in my 
 grandfather's hard, grave face. ' Don't go, 
 grandfather,' I pleaded, with my arm at his 
 neck, 'don't go! Grandfather Nat! You're 
 not — not going to die, are you ? ' 
 
 'That's as God wills, my boy. We must 
 all die some day.' 
 
 I think he was near breaking down here ; 
 but at the moment a voice called up the 
 stairs. 
 
 'Are you coming?* said the voice. 
 'Time's nearly up!' And it frightened me 
 more than I can say to know this second voice 
 at last for Viney's, 
 
 But my grandfather was firm again at once. 
 'Yes,' he cried, 'I'm coming! ... No more 
 to do, Stevy — snivelling's no good.' And
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 331 
 
 then Grandfather Nat put his hands clumsily 
 together, and shut his eyes hke a Httle 
 child. ' God bless an' save this boy, whatever 
 happens. Amen,' said Grandfather Nat. 
 
 Then he rose, and took from the cash-box 
 the watch that the broken-nosed man had 
 sold. 'There's that, too,' he said musingly. 
 * I dunno why I kep' it so long.' And with 
 that he shut the cash-box, and strode across 
 to the landinsf. He looked back at me for 
 a moment, but said nothing ; and then 
 descended the stairs. 
 
 Bewildered and miserably frightened, I 
 followed him. I could neither reason nor cry 
 out, and I had an agonised hope that I was 
 not really awake, and that this was just such 
 a nightmare as had afflicted me on the night 
 of the murder at our door. I crouched on the 
 lower stairs, and listened. . . . 
 
 ' Yes. I 've got it,' said my grandfather, 
 answering an eager question. * There it is. 
 Look at that — count the notes.' 
 
 I heard a hasty scrabbling of paper. 
 
 * Right ? ' asked my grandfather. 
 
 'Quite right,' Viney answered; and there 
 was exultation in his voice.
 
 332 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 ' Pack 'em up — put 'em safe in your pocket. 
 Quite safe? There's the watch, too; I paid 
 for that.' 
 
 *0, the watch? Well, all right, I don't 
 mind having" that too, since you 're pressing. 
 . . . You might ha' saved a deal of trouble, 
 yours an' mine too, if you 'd done all this 
 before.' 
 
 ' Yes, you 're right ; but I clear up all now. 
 You 've got the notes all quite safe, have 
 you ? ' 
 
 'All safe.* There was the sound of a slap 
 on a breast-pocket. 
 
 * And the watch ? ' 
 *Ay; and the watch.' 
 
 * Good ! ' . . . 
 
 I heard a bounce and a gasp of terror ; 
 and then my grandfather's voice again. 
 ' Come ! Come, Viney ! We '11 be quits to 
 the end. We 're bad men both, an' we '11 go 
 to the police together. Bring your papers, 
 Viney ! Tell 'em about the Florence an' Dan 
 Webb, an' I '11 tell 'em about the. Juno an' my 
 boy! I've got my witnesses — an' I'll find 
 more — a dozen to your one! Come, Viney! 
 I '11 have justice done now, on both of us!'
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 333 
 
 I could stay no longer. Viney was 
 struggling desperately, reasoning, entreating. 
 I pushed open the staircase door, but neither 
 seemed to note me. My grandfather had 
 Viney by arm and collar, and was shaking him, 
 face downward. 
 
 ' I '11 go halves, Kemp— I '11 go halves,' 
 Viney gasped hoarsely. ' Divide how you 
 like — but don't, don't be a fool ! Take five 
 hundred ! Think o' the boy ! ' 
 
 ' I 've thought of the boy, an' I 've thought 
 of his father! God '11 mind the boy you've 
 made an orphan ! Come ! ' 
 
 My grandfather flung wide the door, and 
 tumbled Viney up the steps into the court. 
 The little table with the lamp on it rocked 
 from a kick, and I saved it by sheer instinct, 
 for I was sick with terror. 
 
 I followed into the court, and saw my 
 grandfather now nearly at the street corner, 
 hustling and dragging his prisoner. ' Dan ! 
 Dan!' Viney was crying, struggling wildly. 
 *Dan! I've got it! Draw him off me, Dan I 
 Go for the kid an' draw him off! Go foi 
 the kid on the stairs ! ' 
 
 And I could see a man come groping
 
 334 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 between the wall and the posts, a hand feeling 
 from one post to the next, and the stick in the 
 other hand scraping the wall. I ran out to 
 the farther side of the alley. 
 
 Viney's shout distracted my grandfather's 
 attention, and I saw him looking anxiously 
 back. With that Viney took his chance, and 
 flung himself desperately round the end post. 
 His collar went with a rip, and he ran. For 
 a moment my grandfather stood irresolute, 
 and I ran toward him. ' I am safe here,' I 
 cried. ' Come away, grandfather ! ' 
 
 But when he saw me clear of the groping 
 man, he turned and dashed after Viney ; while 
 from the bar-parlour I heard a curse and a 
 crash of broken glass. I vaguely wondered 
 if Viney's confederate were smashing windows 
 in the partition; and then I ran my hardest 
 after Grandfather Nat. 
 
 Viney had made up the street toward 
 the bridge and Ratcliff Highway, and 
 Captain Nat pursued with shouts of ' Stop 
 him ! ' Breathless and unsteady, I made slow 
 progress with my smaller legs over the rough 
 cobble-stones, which twisted my feet all ways 
 as I ran. But I was conscious of a gathering
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 335 
 
 of other cries ahead, and I struggled on, with 
 throbbing head and bursting heart. Plainly 
 there were more shouts as I neared the corner, 
 and a running of more men than two. And 
 when the corner was turned, and the bridge 
 and the lock were before me, I saw that the 
 chase was over. 
 
 Three bull's-eye lanterns were flashing to 
 and fro, pointing their long rays down on the 
 black dock-water, and the policemen who 
 directed them were calling to dockmen on the 
 dark quay, who cried back, and ran, and called 
 
 agam. 
 
 * Man in ! ' cried one and another, hurrying 
 in from the Highway. 'Fell off the lock. 
 * No, he cut his lucky, an' headered in !' ' He 
 didn't, I tell ye!' 'Yes, he did!' 'Why I 
 
 see 'im !' 
 
 I could not see my grandfather ; and for 
 a moment my thumping heart stood still and 
 sick with the fear that it was he who was 
 drowning in the dock. Then a policeman 
 swung his lantern across to the opposite side, 
 and in the passing flash Grandfather Nat's 
 figure stood hard and clear for an instant and 
 no more. He was standing midway on the
 
 336 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 lock, staring and panting, and leaning on a 
 stanchion. 
 
 With a dozen risks of being knocked into 
 the dock by excited onlookers, I scrambled 
 down to the lock and seized the first stanchion. 
 It creaked and tottered in my hand, but I 
 went forward, gripping at the swaying chain 
 and keeping foothold on the slippery, uneven 
 timbers I knew not how. Sometimes the 
 sagging chain would give till I felt myself 
 pitching headlong, only to be saved by the 
 check of the stanchion against the side of 
 the socket ; and once the chain hung so low, 
 where it had slipped through the next 
 stanchion-eye, that I had no choice but to 
 let go, and plunge in the dark for the next 
 upright — it might have been to plunge into 
 space. ' Grandfather Nat ! Grandfather Nat !' 
 went up my little voice among the cries of 
 men. * I am coming. Grandfather Nat ! ' 
 
 I reached him somehow at last, and caught 
 tight at his wrist. He was leaning on the 
 stanchion still, and staring at the dark water. 
 'Here I am, grandfather,' I said, 'but I am 
 frightened. Stay with me, please ! ' 
 
 For a little while he still peered into the
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE i,2>7 
 
 gloom. Then he turned and said quietly : 
 ' I 've lost him, Stevy. He went over — here.' 
 
 By the sweep of his hand I saw what had 
 happened, though I could scarce realise the 
 whole matter then and there. As I presently 
 learnt, however, Viney was running full for the 
 bridge, with Captain Nat shouting behind him, 
 when he saw the lanterns of the three police- 
 men barring the bridge as they came on their 
 beat from the Highway. To avoid them 
 he swung aside and made for the lock, with 
 his pursuer hard at his heels. Now a lock 
 of that sort joins in an angle or mitre at the 
 middle, where the two sides meet like a 
 valve, pointing to resist the tide ; so that the 
 hazardous path along the top turns off sharply 
 mid-way. Flying headlong, with thought of 
 nothing but the avenger behind him, Viney 
 overran the angle, meeting the low chain full 
 under his knees ; and so was gone, with a yell 
 and a splash. 
 
 Grandfather Nat took me by the collar, and 
 turned me round. 'We'll get back, Stevy,' 
 he said. * Go on, I '11 hold you tight.' 
 
 And so in the pitchy dark I went back 
 along the way I had come, walking before my 
 
 Y
 
 338 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 grandfather as I had done when first I saw 
 that lock. The dockmen had flung random 
 life-buoys, and now were groping with drags 
 and hooks. Some judged that the man must 
 have gone under like a stone ; others thought 
 it quite likely that a good swimmer might have 
 got away quietly. And everybody wished 
 to know who the man was, and why he was 
 
 runnmg. 
 
 To all such questions my grandfather made 
 the same answer. ' It was a man I wanted, 
 wanted bad, for the police. You find him, 
 dead or alive, an' I '11 identify him, an' say the 
 rest in the proper place; that's all.' Only 
 once he amplified this answer, and then he 
 said : ' You can judge he was as much afraid 
 o' the police as he was o' me, or more. Look 
 where he went, when he saw 'em on the 
 bridge ! ' And again he repeated : ' I '11 say 
 the rest when he 's found, not before ; an' 
 nobody can make me.' 
 
 He was calm and cool enough now, as I 
 could feel as well as hear, for my hand was 
 buried in his, while he pushed his way 
 stolidly through the little crowd. As for 
 myself, I could neither think, nor speak, nor
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 339 
 
 laugh, nor cry, though dizzily conscious of an 
 impulse to do all four at once. I had Grand- 
 father Nat again, and now he would not go 
 away : that I could realise : and I cluno- with 
 all my might to as much of his hand as I 
 could grip.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 BUT I was to have neither time to gather 
 my wits nor quiet to assort my emotions: 
 for the full issue of that night was not yet. 
 Even as we were pushing through the little 
 crowd, and even as my grandfather parried 
 question with answer, a new cry arose, and at 
 the sound the crowd began to melt : for it was 
 the cry of ' Fire.' 
 
 A single shout at first, and then another, 
 and then a clamour of three together, and a 
 beat of running feet. Men about us started 
 off, and as we rounded the corner, one came 
 running back on his tracks. ' Cap'en Kemp, 
 it 's your house ! ' he cried. * Your house, 
 Cap'en Kemp! The Hole in the Wall! The 
 Hole in the Wall ! ' 
 
 Then was dire confusion. I was caught in 
 a whirl of running men, and I galloped and 
 stumbled along as I might, dragging dependent
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 341 
 
 from my grandfather's hand. Somewhere 
 ahead a wavering light danced before my 
 eyes, and there was a sudden outburst of loud 
 cracks, as of a hundred carters' whips ; and 
 then — screams ; screams without a doubt. 
 Confusedly my mind went back to Viney's 
 confederate, groping in at the bar-parlour 
 door. What had he done ? Smashed glass ? 
 Glass.'* It must have been the lamp: the 
 lamp on the little table by the door, the lamp 
 I had myself saved but ten seconds earlier ! 
 
 Now we were opposite the Hole in the Wall, 
 and the loud cracks were joined with a roar of 
 flame. Out it came gushing at the crevices 
 of doors and shutters, and the corners of doors 
 and shutters shrivelled and curled to let out 
 more, as though that bulging old wooden 
 house were a bursting reservoir of long-pent 
 fire that could be held in no more. And still 
 there were the screams, hoarser and hoarser, 
 from what part within was not to be guessed. 
 
 My grandfather stood me in a doorway, up 
 two steps, and ran toward the court, but that 
 was impassable. With such fearful swiftness 
 had the fire sprung up and over the dry old 
 timber on this side, where it had made its
 
 342 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 beginning, that already a painted board on 
 the brick wall opposite was black and smoking 
 and glowering red at the edges ; and where I 
 stood, across the road, the air was hot and 
 painful to the eyes. Grandfather Nat ran 
 along the front of the house to the main door, 
 but it was blazing and bursting, and he turned 
 and ran into the road, with his arm across his 
 eyes. Then, with a suddenly increased roar, 
 flames burst tenfold in volume and number 
 from all the ground floor, and, where a shutter 
 fell, all within glowed a sheer red furnace. 
 The spirit was caught at last. 
 
 And now I saw a sight that would come 
 again in sleep months afterwards, and set me 
 screaming in my bed. The cries, which had 
 lately died down, sprang out anew amid the 
 roar, nearer and clearer, with a keener agony ; 
 and up in the club-room, the room of the 
 inquests — there at a window appeared the 
 Groping Man, a dreadful figure. In no dark- 
 ness now, but ringed about with bright flame 
 I saw him : the man whose empty, sightless 
 eye-pits I had seen scarce twelve hours before 
 through a hole in a canvas screen. The shade 
 was gone from over the place of the eyes, and
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 343 
 
 down the seared face and among the rags of 
 blistered skin rolled streams of horrible great 
 tears, forced from the raw lids by scorching 
 smoke. His clothes smoked about him as he 
 stood — groping, groping still, he knew not 
 whither; and his mouth opened and closed 
 with sounds scarce human. 
 
 Grandfather Nat roared distractedly for a 
 ladder, called to the man to jump, ran forward 
 twice to the face of the house as though to 
 catch him, and twice came staggering back 
 with his hands over his eyes, and flying embers 
 singeing his hair and his coat. 
 
 The blind man's blackened hands came 
 down on the blazing sill, and leapt from the 
 touch. Then came a great crash, with a single 
 second's dulling of the whole blaze. For an 
 instant the screaming, sightless, weeping face 
 remained, and then was gone for ever. The 
 floor had fallen. 
 
 The flames went up with a redoubled roar, 
 and now I could hold my place no longer for 
 the heat. People were flinging water over the 
 shutters and doors of the houses facing the 
 fire, and from the houses adjoining furniture 
 was being dragged in hot haste. My grand-
 
 344 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 
 father came and carried me a few doors farther 
 along the street, and left me with a chandler's 
 wife, who was out in a shawl and a man's 
 overcoat over a huddle of flannel petticoats. 
 
 Now the fire engines came, dashing through 
 the narrow lanes with a clamour of hoarse 
 cries, and scattering the crowd this way and 
 that. The Hole in the Wall was past aid, 
 and all the work was given to save its neigh- 
 bours. For some while I could distinguish 
 my grandfather among the firemen, heaving 
 and hauling, and doing the work of three. 
 The police were grown in numbers now, and 
 they had cleared the street to beyond where I 
 stood, so that I could see well enough ; and in 
 every break in the flames, in every changing 
 shadow, I saw again the face of the Groping 
 Man, even as I can see it now as I write. 
 
 Floor went upon floor, till at last the poor 
 old shell fell in a heap amid a roar of shouts 
 and a last leap of fire, leaving the brick wall 
 of the next house cracking and black and 
 smoking, and tagged with specks of dying 
 flame. And then at last my grandfather, black 
 and scorched, came and sat by me on a step, 
 and put the breast of his coat about me.
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 345 
 
 And that was the end of the Hole in the 
 Wall : the end of its landlord's doubts and 
 embarrassments and dangers, and the begin- 
 ning of another chapter in his history — his 
 history and mine.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 
 
 LITTLE remains to say ; for with the 
 smoking sticks of the Hole in the 
 Wall the tale of my early days burns itself 
 out. 
 
 Viney's body was either never found or 
 never identified. Whether it was discovered 
 by some person who flung it adrift after 
 possessing himself of the notes and the watch : 
 whether it was held unto dissolution by mud, 
 or chains, or waterside gear : or whether 
 indeed, as was scarce possible, it escaped with 
 the life in it, to walk the world in some place 
 that knew it not, I, at any rate, cannot tell. 
 The fate of his confederate, at least, was no 
 matter of doubt. He must have been driven 
 to the bar by the fire he had raised, and there, 
 bewildered and helpless, and cut off from the 
 way he had come, even if he could find 
 it, he must have scrambled desperately till 
 
 346
 
 STEPHEN'S TALE 347 
 
 he found the one open exit — the club-room 
 stairs. 
 
 But of these enough. Faint by contrast 
 with the vivid scenes of the night, divers 
 disconnected impressions of the next morning 
 remain with me : all the fainter for the sleep 
 that clutched at my eyelids, spite of my 
 anxious resolution to see all to the very end. 
 Of a coarse, draggled woman of streaming 
 face and exceeding bitter cry, who sat in- 
 consolable while men raked the ruins for a 
 thing unrecognisable when it was found. Of 
 the pale man, who came staring and choking, 
 and paler than ever, gasping piteously of his 
 long and honest service, and sitting down on 
 the curb at last, to meditate on my grand- 
 father's promise that he should not want, if he 
 would work. And of Mr. Cripps, at first blank 
 and speechless, and then mighty loquacious in 
 the matter of insurance. For works of art 
 would be included, of course, up to twenty 
 pounds apiece ; at which amount of proceeds 
 — with a discount to Captain Kemp — he would 
 cheerfully undertake to replace the lot, and 
 throw the signboard in. 
 
 Mrs. Grimes was heard of, though not seen ;
 
 348 THE HOLE IN THE WALL 
 but this was later. She was long understood 
 to have some bitter grievance against the 
 police, whom she charged with plots and con- 
 spiracies to defeat the ends of justice ; and I 
 think she ended with a savage assault on a 
 plain-clothes constable's very large whiskers, 
 and twenty-one days' imprisonment. 
 
 The Hole in the Wall was rebuilt in brick, 
 with another name, as I think you may see it 
 still- or could, till lately. There was also 
 another landlord. For Captain Nat Kemp 
 turned to enlarging and improving his wharf, 
 and he bought lighters, and Wapping saw him 
 no more. As for me, I went to school at last. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Edinburgh : Printed by T. and A. Constablb
 
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