by Tom Gallon
CHAPTER V
AN HONEST SAILOR-MAN
Philip Chater sat over the fire late that night, in a futile endeavourto see his new position clearly, and to decide upon the best course ofaction for him to adopt. Try as he would, however, the thing resolveditself merely into this: that Dandy Chater was dead, and that he(Philip), together with possibly one other man, alone knew of hisdeath; that Philip Chater was accepted by every one—even the mostintimate—as the real Dandy; that, in that capacity, he was alreadyengaged to be married—had left a girl crying in the wood, that veryday, whose name he did not know, but who obviously regarded him withconsiderable tenderness; and that there was, in addition, a certainPatience Miller, whom he was to have married, and who, up to thepresent, was not accounted for in the least.
“Altogether—a pretty state of affairs!” he muttered to himself, as hesat brooding over the fire. “Why, I don’t even know whether I’m rich orpoor, or in what my property consists; I may meet Dandy Chater’sdearest friend to-morrow, and cut him dead; and, equally on the sameprinciple, embrace my tailor, and hail him as a brother! I can’tdisclose my real identity, for the question would naturally beasked—‘If you are not Dandy Chater, where is he?’ and I should have totell them that he was dead—murdered—and I don’t know by whom. No;there’s not the slightest doubt that you are in a very tight place,Phil, my boy, and your only chance is to go through with the business.”
His thoughts strayed—and pleasantly, too—to the girl of more thanaverage height, with the eyes that had looked so frankly into his own;he found himself remembering, with something very like a sentimentalsigh, that she had held his hands, and had kissed him on the lips;remembered, too, with some indignation, that the man she supposed sheloved had arranged to take another woman to London, on that very nightof his death, and to marry her.
“The late Dandy Chater,” he said, softly—“twin-brother of mine, inmore than ordinary meaning of the word—either you are a much malignedman, or you were a most confounded rascal. And it’s my pleasing duty todiscover, by actual experience, whether you were saint or sinner. And Idon’t like the job.”
Inclination, no less than the actual necessity for following out thatpart of the tangled skein of his affairs, led his thoughts, on thefollowing day, in the direction of Madge Barnshaw. Yet, for an engagedman, he was placed in a decidedly awkward position, inasmuch as that hedid not even know where the lady lived. Having recourse to her letter,he found it headed—“The Cottage, Bamberton.”
“Now—where on earth is ‘The Cottage’ situated,” muttered Philip tohimself in perplexity, as he surveyed the letter. “As a matter of fact,she ought to have supplied me with a map, showing exactly how far awayit was, and the best method of reaching it. Let me see; what shall Ido? I know; I must sound the individual who is thirsting for myblood—Harry.”
Acting upon this resolution, he rang the bell, and requested that theyoung man should be sent to him. On his appearance, a brilliant ideastruck Philip Chater, and he said, airily—“I am going to see MissBarnshaw. I think I’ll drive.”
Harry, whose eyes had been respectfully cast in the direction of thefloor, gave a visible start, and looked up in perplexity at his master.“Drive, sir?” he stammered.
“What an ass I am!” thought Philip. “She probably lives within sight ofthis place; and the man will think I’m mad.” Aloud he said—“No-no;what on earth am I thinking about? I mean, I’ll go for a drive—now;and call on Miss Barnshaw this afternoon.” He got up, and crossed theroom restlessly; stopped, and spoke to the servant over hisshoulder—spoke at a venture.
“By the way, Harry—I suppose you’ll be thinking of getting married oneof these days—eh?”
There was so long a pause, that he looked round in astonishment at theother man. Somewhat to his discomfiture, the servant was gazingfrowningly at the carpet, and tracing out the pattern on it with thepoint of his boot. Looking up at his master, still with that frown uponhis face, he said slowly—“Don’t see as it matters, one way or another,Master Dandy, to anybody but myself. I don’t see any likelihood of itat present. What time might you be ready to drive, Master Dandy?”
Very wisely, Philip decided to leave the matter alone. It was in hismind—in the earnest desire which filled him to do something tostraighten out one of the many tangled things Dandy Chater had leftbehind him—to say something to this young man, in reference to thelove affair at which he only guessed; but so many other matters claimedhis attention, and demanded to be straightened out, that he decided toleave the thing alone for the present. Therefore he said, somewhatabruptly—“Very well; I have no wish to interfere. And, after all, Ishall not drive.”
Harry hesitated for a moment, as though he would have said somethingmore; but finally turned, and left the room. In a few moments hereturned, however, and announced—
“Miss Vint to see you, sir.”
Momentarily wondering whether this might not be some one else who lovedhim, Philip requested that the lady might be shown in; and therefluttered into the room an elderly lady—small, and thin, anddry-looking; indeed, she gave one the impression, from her appearance,of having lain by unused for a long time, so dusty was her aspect. Shehad hair of no decided colour, and features of no decided form; and herclothing—even her gloves—were of a neutral tint, as though, from longpreservation, whatever of original colour they had possessed had longsince faded out of them. But, with something of sprightliness, she camerapidly up to Philip, and seized his hand in both her own.
“My dear Mr. Chater—shall I, under the special circumstances, say—mydear Mr. Dandy?——”
“My dear lady,” replied Philip, lightly—“say what you will.”
“How good of you!” she exclaimed, and squeezed his hand once more. “Thedear girl has but just told me all about it; and I hurried over atonce, to offer my congratulations——”
“Now I wonder,” thought Philip—“which dear girl she means?”
“For I felt that I must not lose a moment. Madge has not confided inme, as she might have done, and I have had to guess many things formyself. But I must say, Mr. Dandy”—she shook a rallying forefinger athim—“that you are the shyest lover I have ever known.”
“Indeed—I am very sorry—” he began; but she checked him at once.
“Well—we’ll forgive you; only I had been given to understand that youwere very different—that’s all. However—that is not what I came tosay. Standing in the position I do, as regards Madge, I feel that Imust make some formal acknowledgment of the matter. Therefore, I wantyou to dine with us—let me see—to-morrow night?”
“I shall be delighted,” replied Philip, mechanically. “By the way—whatis to-morrow?”
“Tuesday, of course,” she responded, with a little laugh. “Ah—love’syoung dream! I suppose all days are alike to you—eh?”
The mention of that day had brought to his mind a certain appointmenthe had. He remembered the hoarse whisper of the Shady ’un in his ear,in the coffee-house in Woolwich—“Toosday-ten-thirty sharp.”
“I’m afraid,” he said, slowly—“I’m afraid I can’t manage to cometo-morrow. I—I have to be in London; a—a business appointment. I’mextremely sorry. Could you—pray forgive the suggestion—could youarrange for some other evening—or could you bring—Madge—here?”
“I had quite set my heart on to-morrow,” said the old woman, in aninjured tone.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” replied Philip again. “But I shall be coming into see Madge, and we can make arrangements. If you are going back now,”he added, “please let me walk with you.”
“Thank you—but I am going down to the village,” she replied, as shebacked towards the door.
She was gone, before he could quite make up his mind what to do or say;he watched her through the window helplessly, as she walked away fromthe house.
“Done again!” he muttered, savagely. “I thought I should be able tofind ou
t where the cottage was. Well—I must trust to luck, I suppose;I haven’t committed any very great errors yet.”
It seemed possible, however, that he might commit an error which wouldlead to his undoing, in this matter of the appointment at “The ThreeWatermen.” In the first place, if, as he suspected, the man responsiblefor the death of Dandy Chater was the man known as “the Count,” itwould be obviously impossible for Philip Chater to keep theappointment. Yet, on the other hand, Philip was determined to know moreof the surroundings and associates of the late Dandy Chater than heknew already; indeed, to do so was absolutely necessary. He had set hisfeet upon that road which was plainly marked “Deception”; and,wheresoever it might lead, there must be no turning back now. As DandyChater he stood before them all; as Dandy Chater he must stand while helived, or until the cheat was discovered. Philip Crowdy was as dead asthough he had never existed.
“There’s another man, too, with whom I am supposed to be incompany—Ogledon, I think the name was; I wonder who _he_ is? However,I’ll go to London—and I’ll attend this meeting, if it be possible.”
Early next morning saw him on his way to the station—this time withsome pomp and ceremony, for he drove a smart dog-cart, and was attendedby Harry. The occupants of other vehicles, passing him, were respectfulor familiar, according to their grade; and he answered all salutationsdiscreetly.
“I’m beginning to like this,” he said, as he leant back in the cornerof a first-class carriage, and lit a cigar. “I wish I knew how muchmoney there was in the bank, or what property I had generally; I mustmake enquiries. At present, things are decidedly pleasant—and there’san element of danger about the business that gives it a flavour.There’s that girl, too—Madge; but I’m not sure that I quite like that.I’ve taken a kiss from her lips that was never meant for me; andyet”—he shook his head over it, and sighed heavily—“I’m very muchafraid that I’m a little bit in love with her; I know, at any rate,that I dread very much seeing those eyes change from tenderness tocontempt—from kindness to reproach or scorn. Well—we must hope forthe best.”
Cheerfully hoping for the best, he made his way to Woolwich, as nightwas coming on, and headed for the little public-house by the river.Being still doubtful, however, what course to pursue, he paced a littleside street near at hand for some time, trying to make up his mindwhether to put in an appearance at “The Three Watermen,” at the timeappointed, or not. He was so deep in his reflections, that he failed tonotice one or two lurking figures, in the shadow of the houses, on theopposite side of the way; until another figure—not by any means alurking one, but one which took up a great deal of the pavement, with arolling gait, and roared very huskily a stave of a song as it camealong—lurched towards him; when, in an instant, the lurking figuresbecame very active.
Two of them darted across the road, and bolted in front of the rollingfigure; another ran swiftly behind, and embraced the singer with muchtenderness round the neck. Before Philip had had time to take in thesituation completely, the four figures formed one struggling heap uponthe pavement, with the central one—the singer, but roaring out quiteanother tune now—making lively play with fists and feet.
Philip Chater rushed in to the rescue; seized one assailant—draggedhim to his feet—preparatory to immediately knocking him off them; andlooked round to see how the battle was progressing. The man who hadbeen attacked—and whose musical tendencies were stronger, apparently,than any alarm he might reasonably be expected to feel—had collaredone of his opponents round the neck, in return for the delicateattention bestowed upon himself, and was hammering away lustily at him,making the blows keep time to the tune of “The Death of Nelson,” thefirst bars of which he solemnly chanted, while he performed hispleasing duty.
The man who had been so unexpectedly knocked down had got to his feet,and, together with the third member of the gang, had bolted away;presently the stranger, tiring of his exercise, and having got,perhaps, as far through the tune as memory served him, released hisvictim’s head, although still keeping a tight hold on his collar.Philip, being close beside him when he did this, saw revealed, in thefeatures of this footpad of the streets, the Shady ’un.
“Now—you bloomin’ pirate!” exclaimed the musical one, shaking his manuntil it seemed as though he must shake him altogether out of hisdilapidated clothes—“wot d’yer mean by runnin’ a decent craft downlike that, in strange waters—eh? An’ to land a man like that, w’en’e’s a bit water-logged—leastways, we’ll call it water-logged, for thesake of argyment. If it ’adn’t ’ave been for this ’ere gent, I don’tknow—” Here the man, turning for a moment towards Philip, stopped inamazement, and almost let his victim go. The Shady ’un, too, wasregarding Philip curiously.
“Look ’ere, Mr. Chater,” began the Shady ’un, with a whine—“you’llswear as ’ow I’m a ’ard workin’ man, as just stepped forward for to’elp this gen’leman, as was set on by two thieves—won’t yer, Mr.Chater?”
“’Ere—’old ’ard,” broke in the man who held him. “Who the dooce areyou a callin’ ‘Mr. Chater’? I’d ’ave you know that this ’ere gent is amess-mate o’ mine—an’ ’is name ain’t Chater at all; it’s Crowdy—goodole Phil Crowdy—if so be as ’e’ll excuse the liberty I takes. You an’yer bloomin’ Chater! W’y—they’ll be a callin’ yer the Dook o’Wellin’ton nex’, Phil.” As he spoke, he stretched out his disengagedhand, and grasped that of Philip Chater.
Philip hurriedly interposed, when he saw that the Shady ’un was aboutto speak. “It’s all right, Captain,” he said; “I certainly know thisman, and there may have been a mistake. Don’t you think—pray pardonthe suggestion—that he’s had a pretty good thumping, whether hedeserved it or not?”
“Well—p’raps ’e ’as,” replied the Captain, somewhat reluctantly. “Butlet me give you a word of advice, my friend,” he added to the abjectShady ’un. “W’en nex’ you tries to ’elp anybody, wot’s bein’ runover—or run through—by a couple of thieves, don’t show your kindnessof ’eart by a thumpin’ ’im in the wes’kit; to a man o’ my figger, it_ain’t_ exactly a kindness. An’ don’t call gentlemen out of theirnames—’cos you’ll find——”
“That’s all right, Captain,” interrupted Philip; “this man knows me asMr. Chater.” To the Shady ’un, who had been that moment released, hewhispered quickly—“Get off as fast as you can—and think yourselflucky.”
The man needed no second bidding, and in a moment Philip Chater and theman whom he had addressed as the Captain were left standing alone inthe street. The Captain was a big, burly individual, with a roundgood-tempered face, surrounded by a fringe of dark whiskers; whatevertemporary exaltation he might have been labouring under, before theattack upon him, he was now perfectly sober, and looked at his friendwith considerable gravity, and with a slowly shaking head.
“My boy—far be it from the likes o’ me to interfere with a mess-mate,or with ’is little fancies—but I don’t like this ’ere sailin’ underfalse colours. I did know a ’ighly respectable ole gal, wot called’erself the Queen o’ Lambeth; but she lived in a retirin’ way, in alunatic asylum. W’y, if so be as your name is Crowdy—w’y, I ask, callyourself by such a common name as Chater?”
“I can’t explain now,” said Philip, hurriedly. “A number of strangethings have happened, since last I saw you. You mustn’t think badly ofme, old friend; but, for the present, I _am_ sailing under falsecolours, and am known to all the world as Chater. Moreover, I mustimpress upon you to forget that you ever knew any one of the name ofCrowdy, or that he ever sailed with you, on board the good ship‘Camel,’ from Australia for England. Come—forget all about me, for thepresent—and tell me about yourself, and when you sail again.” Heglanced at his watch, as he spoke, and found that it was exactly teno’clock. “I have half an hour to spare, Captain; where shall we go, fora chat?”
“W’y—to tell the truth, I’m a cruisin’ in strange waters, an’ ’avelost my bearings a bit,” replied the Captain, looking about him w
ith apuzzled air. “If so be as you knew of a place, where the grog wasn’twatered over much, with a locker for a man to rest ’isself on, it mightbe better than the streets—eh?”
Accordingly, they set out together, to find a house of refreshment; andpresently came upon one, in a quiet street, with a tinybar—empty—round a corner. Here they called for what the Captaintermed “a toothful,” and were soon deep in conversation.
“You haven’t told me yet when you sail again,” said Philip, when he hadparried the other’s questions as much as possible. “I suppose you’ll bequite glad to get on board again.”
“Well—not exactly,” replied the Captain—whose name, by the way, wasPeter Quist. “I’m a thinkin’ of givin’ it up altogether. Yer see—it’sthis way,” he added, confidentially. “I’ve put by a bit of money, an’I’m thinkin’ of settlin’ down ashore. The sea’s been my business—an’ Iwant somethin’ else for my pleasure. I’m a thinkin’,” he went onslowly, pulling meditatively at his whiskers—“I’m a thinkin’ of goin’in for the showman line, with a dash of the circus. I was always fondof ’osses—an’ I believe as fat ladies and two-’eaded babbies isprofitable—always supposin’ as Mrs. Quist don’t get spiteful about thefat ladies. I’m now a lookin’ out for anybody as ’as got a goodsecond-’and circus to dispose of, with a fat lady or two goin’ cheap.”
“Well,” said Philip, laughing, “I hope you’ll succeed. But what bringsyou into this part of the world?”
“I come down ’ere, to see a man I thought ’ad got wot I wanted. I’veput up at a nice little place, down near the river; I was makin’ forit, w’en I run foul of them land-sharks.”
“What place is it?” asked Philip.
“Well, Mr. Crowdy—leastways, I should say—Mr. Chater—they calls it‘The Three Watermen.’”
