by Tom Gallon
CHAPTER X
A BODY FROM THE RIVER
Captain Peter Quist, for some two or three days after his parting withPhilip Chater, roamed about uneasily, in his search for a desirablecircus which might happen to be for disposal, and which might possessthe additional advantage of having attached to it a fat lady or two,who might not object to show herself, for a consideration, to a curiouspublic. On more than one occasion, he entered into negotiations withgentlemen—usually hoarse as to voice, and inflamed as tocountenance—who appeared, at first, to possess the very thing hewanted; whereupon, “toothfuls” were exchanged, and much conversationensued.
But the guileless captain always discovered, when it came to actualbusiness, that the “circus” consisted of a caravan or two, in a stateof advanced dilapidation, up a yard; that the horses (if there had everbeen any) were long since dead, or engaged in agricultural pursuits;that the clowns had long since left off being funny, and taken, for themost part, to itinerant preaching; that the fat ladies had retired frombusiness—married the man who took the money at the doors—and startedpublic-houses.
Some three or four days of such hopeless interviewing having reducedthe Captain to a state of despondency, he cast about in his mind forsomething which should restore him to his usual condition of placidcheerfulness; and, having imbibed somewhat freely of his favouritebeverage, and being then on the outskirts of those narrow andstraggling little streets beyond the actual town of Woolwich,discovered that the river drew him, like a magnet—probably from thefact of his legs being somewhat unsteady, and causing him, for thatreason, to imagine that they were sea-going, like his mind.
Wandering down some slippery stone steps, leading to a causeway ofcobble-stones, and doing so at the imminent risk of his life, owing tohis condition, the Captain precipitated himself on to the shoulders ofa little man, who was seated on the top of a wooden post, with his chinpropped in his hands, and who was gazing in a melancholy fashion at thewater. The Captain, having saved both himself and the little man, byclasping him affectionately round the neck, broke into profuseapologies. And, indeed, they were necessary; for the little man—whowas very shabby, and had no linen that was visible, but whose whiskershad a bedraggled air of having once been fashionable—was almostspeechless with rage and fright; and danced about on the causeway,shaking his fist, and threatening—in a thin piping voice, and withmany oaths—his vengeance upon the Captain.
“’Ere—’old ’ard, guv’nor—’old ’ard,” exclaimed the Captain. “Thiscomes of gettin’ into bad company; I’m surprised at a man of yourhage, usin’ all them naughty words; w’erever did yer learn ’em,mess-mate? It wasn’t my fault, Mister; the steps was a slide—an’these ’ere stones is all bumps; an’ w’en a man comes from a slide tobumps—sudden-like—I puts it to you that ’e ain’t responsible for’isself. An’ I ’umbly asks yer pardon.”
The little man, appearing somewhat appeased, sat down on his postagain, and meditatively pulled at his whiskers—glancing round now andthen at the Captain, as though apprehensive of his indulging in someother gymnastic performance. The Captain, for his part, being of apeaceful nature, began to make, overtures of friendliness—the more sothat he had a dim notion in his brain that he had seen the little manon a previous occasion.
However, as the little man remained obstinately silent, despite all theCaptain’s conversational overtures, that gentleman turned his attentionto the boats, several of which were moored near at hand, with a mansitting near by, smoking, and keeping an eye upon them. This man, as afamiliar spirit, the Captain accosted.
“Nice boats you’ve got ’ere,” said the Captain, casually.
“Ah”—responded the man, looking the Captain up and down—“the boats isall right.” By which he seemed to imply that somebody else was not.
“I suppose a man might ’ire a boat—eh?” was the Captain’s next enquiry.
“Do you fink they’re on this ’ere river for the kids to look at—or topervide me with amoosement in bailin’ of ’em out?” asked the man,indignantly.
The Captain, meekly repudiating the idea that any such thought was inhis mind, carried his enquiry a little further, by asking if he might“’ire one for a hour or so.”
“Can yer row?” asked the man, after a pause.
“Can I what?” shouted the Captain.
The man coolly repeated his question, and went on placidly smoking. TheCaptain, when he had recovered his breath, spoke with an unnaturalcalmness.
“P’raps, my man, you takes me for a omnibus conductor,” he said. “Bringround one of them boats, an’ steady ’er w’ile I gits in—will yer?”
The man, seeing that the Captain really meant business, knocked theashes out of his pipe, got into one of the boats, and slowly pushed itfrom where it was moored until it bumped against the causeway. TheCaptain, in his delight at the prospect of being once more afloat,suddenly remembered the little man with the faded whiskers, who had satall this time, absolutely unmoved, on his post.
“’Ere—mess-mate—let bygorns be bygorns—an’ come an’ ’ave a blow.” Heclutched the little man by the arm, in a jocular fashion, and made asif to pull him towards the boat.
It unfortunately happened, however, that the little man was nearlyasleep; being pulled from his seat with such violence, and sounexpectedly, he had only a dim idea of what was happening, and ofwhere he was. Realising, however, that he was in the grip of a strongerman, he suddenly flung himself fiercely upon the Captain, driving thatgentleman backwards towards the boat. The Captain, for his part, in anendeavour to protect himself, made a rough-and-tumble of it, andtwisted the little man clean off his legs. Moreover, he twisted him toofar; and, being very unsteady on his legs himself, fairly rolled withhim off the causeway into the boat.
The man in charge of the boat—being, probably, very glad to get rid ofthem; and feeling, perhaps, that they had better be left to settlewhatever differences they might have in their own fashion, immediatelyshoved the boat off; so that, by the time the Captain got his head outof the bottom of the boat, and sat up to look at his passenger, theywere well out into the stream.
“This comes of keepin’ bad company,” murmured the Captain, ruefullyrubbing the back of his head. “However, I asked you to come fer ablow—and you’ve come accordin’; but you needn’t ’ave bin in sich a’urry, an’ come with sich a rush.”
With these words, the Captain took the oars, and dexterously pulledinto the stream, out of the way of a lumbering barge—exchanging alittle light and airy badinage with the man in charge of that craft asit passed him. The little man, who had been so unceremoniously takenfor an airing, appeared to take the matter in good part; picked up hisdilapidated silk hat from the bottom of the boat—put it on—and sat,grimly silent, watching the Captain.
“It’s a nice arternoon fer a row,” said the Captain pleasantly, as hepulled sturdily. “Ain’t yer glad you come alonger me, mess-mate?”
The little man murmured something uncomplimentary, and then was silent.The Captain, who began to feel the sobering effects of the breeze andthe exercise, smiled upon him benignly, and pulled harder. After a longpause, the little man, who had been staring at him intently, nodded hishead three or four times, and spoke again.
“I thought I’d seen you before,” he said, in his thin piping voice.“Now I’m sure of it. It was on Tuesday—and you were with that infernalChater.”
The Captain almost dropped his oars in his astonishment. “Why—so itwas!” he exclaimed. “You was a sittin’ at the table; I’d seed yer justafore the light went out.”
The little man, for some unknown reason, began to tremble; looked allabout him, indeed, as though contemplating making a sudden exit fromthe boat. “What do you want with me?” he asked, in a whining voice.
“I don’t want nothink with yer,” replied the Captain, staring at him.“Thought you might like a turn on the river, in a friendly way—that’sall.”
“
Don’t tell lies!” ejaculated the other. “I can tell you this: youwon’t get any good out of me. I’m only a poor old man, who’s beenunfortunate, and has fallen on evil days. If you think you’ll makeanything out of me, you’re much mistaken. What do you want with me?”
The Captain looked at him in amazement; the little man’s terrorappeared so strong. “W’y—wot do you take me for?” he asked.
“Oh—I know what you are,” cried the little man, wagging his head.“You’re a split—a detective—a policeman. I know what you are.”
The Captain stood up in the boat, and put himself in a fightingattitude. “Say that again—and I’ll knock you out of the boat!” heshouted. “I’d ’ave yer know that I’m a decent sailor-man—an’ a captainat that. ’Oo are you a callin’ a policeman?”
“The Shady ’un said so,” replied the little man, tremulously.
“That Shady gent said a good many things as ’e’ll ’ave to answer for,”said the Captain, sitting down again. “W’y, if I’d wanted to run yerin, I reckon I could ’ave picked yer up under my arm, an’ done it easy,without ’irin’ a boat for it——’Ullo—wot’s that?”
The boat, travelling slowly, had struck something—struck it softly,but sufficiently to send a slight quiver through its timbers. TheCaptain, backing water at once, peered over the side; dipped an oardeep, and swung the boat’s head round with a sturdy pull; leaned over,and caught at something bobbing near the surface of the water. Hiscarelessness had gone in a moment; he was the quick, masterful man,used to a boat, and used to matters of life and death.
“Sit tight there,” he commanded. “’Ere—ketch this oar; that’s it—keepher steady. There’s a body ’ere!”
The mention of that seemed to stir something in the little man; hebecame all attention, in a moment, and watched the other’s movementswith alert eyes.
“Can’t get ’im into the boat,” said the Captain, in a low voice. “’E’sdead—bin dead days, I should think. Throw me that line there.”
The little man obeying promptly, the Captain, leaning over the edge ofthe boat, made the line fast to that grim thing bobbing alongside; andthen turned the boat’s head for the shore, and pulled hard. The littleman in the stern was so interested in that grisly passenger, that hemust needs go to the very end of the boat, at the imminent risk oflosing his silk hat—and peer at the thing as it came along behind,making a wake in the water as it swept through it.
They happened, by this time, to be quite clear of the town, and to havecome to a spot where the bank was low and flat, and where it was easyto run the boat ashore. This the Captain did, and together they leaptout—hauled the boat up—and afterwards hauled in the body.
As it came in on the line, hand over hand—seeming, in theirimagination, to assist the operation horribly, by crawling up over thedank mud, the Captain and the little man bent forward together, to lookat it; and started back, as one man, at the sight of the swollen,distorted features. For it was the body of Dandy Chater.
Dandy Chater—born to such good and prosperous things—having hisbeginnings in such fair and unclouded circumstances—to have come tothis at last! Well for him, surely, that the mother, at whose knee hehad lisped his childish supplications to Heaven, was dead, before thisthing fronted the world, and grinned back at it so horribly! To befound like this—muddy—soiled—broken—awful—dead—by two strangers,far away from the fair and pleasant places through which he hadwandered in his innocent boyhood!
The Captain—raising his head from the contemplation of what hebelieved to be the features of his dead friend Philip Crowdy—wasconfronted by the startled eyes of the little man with the fadedwhiskers. For a long minute, they stared at each other in silence; thethoughts of each were busy—for each had something to hide.
For his part, Captain Peter Quist—whatever his personal grief may havebeen—bore in remembrance certain words impressed strongly upon him bythe supposed Philip Crowdy; an injunction laid upon him not to revealwho he was, or that he was living under another name. The Captain—goodhonest fellow that he was—had a very sincere regard for his friend;and, believing that he had, in a moment of indiscretion, got mixed upwith some queer people, was glad to feel that he could bury theknowledge of it in his own breast, as surely as the dead man would beburied in his grave. Sorrowing for him as he did, and bitterly vengefulas he felt, in his heart, at the mere suspicion that there had beenfoul play, he yet had the philosophic feeling that it did not matternow, as the man was dead; and the gentle thought that it would be avile thing to defame one no longer able to defend himself.
The little man—who was, of course, no other than the Dr. Cripps of“The Three Watermen”—had equally strong reasons for preservingsilence. With that scene in the upper room of the little public-housestill clearly before his mental vision, he saw, in this tragedy, thevengeance of some member or members of the gang—a vengeance promptedby fear that Dandy Chater had betrayed them. Being himself remarkablyclosely connected with that gang, he saw his own head in peril, if anystir were raised about this business. Therefore, it will be seen thatthe two men had equally strong reasons for saying nothing about theidentity of the man who lay dead between them.
The Captain, however, being, in his sober moments, a cautious man,looked attentively at the other, and said slowly—“Bad business—this’ere. Do you ’appen to know the gent?”
“No—never saw him in my life. How the devil should I?” stammeredCripps, with his teeth chattering.
“Nor me,” said the Captain. After a long pause, he asked—“Wot are weagoin’ to do with ’im?”
The question was answered for them, in an abrupt and startling manner;for another face—that of a very dirty, keen-eyed, ragged-headedurchin, whose bare feet had brought him silently over the muddybank—was obtruded between them, and stared down into the face of thedead man. Before either of them had time to say a word, the urchinleapt to his feet again, with a cry, and scudded away in the directionof the nearest houses.
“That’s done it,” murmured the Captain, in a resigned voice; “we’ll’ave a policeman ’ere, in no time.” Then, a sudden thought strikinghim, he looked at the little man, and asked slowly—“Wot’s your opinionof ’ookin’ it, mess-mate?”
Dr. Cripps appearing to be too dazed fully to comprehend the situation,the Captain took him by the shoulders—gave him a shake or two—andstated the case.
“We can’t do no good by stoppin’ ’ere,” he said. “We shall only be’awled up at the hinquest, an’ asked awkward questions. Nobody ain’tseen us—’cept that young limb—an’ I doubt if ’e knows us again.Therefore—wot I ses is—into the boat with yer—an’ let’s cut ourlucky!”
Cripps appearing to grasp this point, after some difficulty, they leftthe dead man on the shore, and pushed off the boat, and made forWoolwich. Going, without further mishap, up the stream, they landed atthe causeway from which they had so unceremoniously started—apparentlygreatly to the surprise and satisfaction of the man to whom the boatbelonged.
“Got back, yer see,” said the Captain, carelessly, as he stepped on tothe causeway, and gave a hand to the little man.
“So I see,” replied the man, pocketing the money which the Captainhanded to him. “’Ad a nice row?”
“Oh—so-so,” responded the Captain. “I should like to give you an ’int,young man,” he added. “W’en you’re a shovin’ orf a boat nex’ time, itwouldn’t be a bad idea to give a man a chance of settin’ down fust. Itain’t wot you’d call a ’ealthy style of rowin’, w’en you starts on theback of yer neck; it don’t some’ow give yer as good a chance, as if yerstarted sittin’ down, with a proper ’old on the oars. _Good_-arternoon!”
But, although the Captain was jocular, his heart was heavy; rememberingthe hiding and dodging process through which he had passed, in thecompany of the supposed Philip Crowdy, he began to see some dreadfultragedy—some foul play, which had caused the death of his friend. Yet,being but a simple seafaring man, and having a great dread of
the powerof the law, he saw himself in unheard-of difficulties, if he so much asattempted to stir in the matter. For had he not found the body—andthen fled from it?
“From the look of that there body,” muttered the Captain to himself, ashe strolled along, in the gathering twilight of the streets—“it’s binin the water a day or two—in fact, it might ’ave bin longer, if Ididn’t know as ’ow I’d seen poor old Phil on’y three days back. An’ tothink as ’e was that strong an’ ’earty—an’ now!”
The Captain did not finish his sentence; he shuddered, at theremembrance of that awful staring thing he had left on the muddy bankof the Thames; and—feeling somewhat faint—looked about for a house ofrefreshment.
When he emerged, after imbibing several glasses of his favourite tonic,the world wore a brighter aspect; and the honest Captain, swaggeringalong the pavement, with an occasional lurch, as though a heavy gale ofwind had struck him—had clean forgotten all about unpleasant bodies,or the chances and changes of this mortal life; had clean forgotten, infact, anything but that the world was a good place, and decent rum athing to be thankful for.
Now it happened, by some unlucky chance, that Philip Chater—drawn, bystrong influence, to the scene of the tragedy which had been so vividlystamped upon his mind—came, that night, to Woolwich; merely wanderingaimlessly, with no settled plan as to the future, or, indeed, as to thenext hour. And it happened, too, that, walking slowly along a darkstreet, and coming to the corner of it, he cannoned against a man, whowas rolling along swiftly, chanting a song in a very loud and very deepvoice.
It was the Captain; and that gentleman no sooner caught sight ofPhilip, than his song stopped, in the very middle of a note; indeed,the note turned to a shriek, and Peter Quist, beating off the supposedapparition with both hands, backed away from it unsteadily; and then,recovering power of definite motion, fairly turned tail, and ran as iffor his life—leaving Philip alone, at the corner of the street,staring after him in blank amazement.
