“Wot a delicious smell o’ roses!” he ses, out loud.
He stood in the middle o’ the road nearly opposite where the keeper was hiding, and sniffed so that you could ha’ ‘eard him the other end o’ the village.
“It can’t be roses,” he ses, in a puzzled voice, “be-cos there ain’t no roses hereabouts, and, besides, it’s late for ’em. It must be Mr. Cutts, the clever new keeper.”
He put his ‘ead over the fence and bid ‘im good evening, and said wot a fine night for a stroll it was, and asked ‘im whether ‘e was waiting for Frederick Scott’s aunt. Mr. Cutts didn’t answer ‘im a word; ‘e was pretty near bursting with passion. He got up and shook ‘is fist in Bob Pretty’s face, and then ‘e went off stamping down the road as if ‘e was going mad.
And for a time Bob Pretty seemed to ‘ave all the luck on ‘is side. Keeper Lewis got rheumatic fever, which ‘e put down to sitting about night arter night in damp places watching for Bob, and, while ‘e was in the thick of it, with the doctor going every day, Mr. Cutts fell in getting over a fence and broke ‘is leg. Then all the work fell on Keeper Smith, and to ‘ear ‘im talk you’d think that rheumatic fever and broken legs was better than anything else in the world. He asked the squire for ‘elp, but the squire wouldn’t give it to ‘im, and he kept telling ‘im wot a feather in ‘is cap it would be if ‘e did wot the other two couldn’t do, and caught Bob Pretty. It was all very well, but, as Smith said, wot ‘e wanted was feathers in ‘is piller, instead of ‘aving to snatch a bit o’ sleep in ‘is chair or sitting down with his ‘ead agin a tree. When I tell you that ‘e fell asleep in this public-’ouse one night while the landlord was drawing a pint o’ beer he ‘ad ordered, you’ll know wot ‘e suffered.
O’ course, all this suited Bob Pretty as well as could be, and ‘e was that good-tempered ‘e’d got a nice word for everybody, and when Bill Chambers told ‘im ‘e was foolhardy ‘e only laughed and said ‘e knew wot ‘e was about.
But the very next night ‘e had reason to remember Bill Chambers’s words. He was walking along Farmer Hall’s field — the one next to the squire’s plantation — and, so far from being nervous, ‘e was actually a-whistling. He’d got a sack over ‘is shoulder, loaded as full as it could be, and ‘e ‘ad just stopped to light ‘is pipe when three men burst out o’ the plantation and ran toward ‘im as ‘ard as they could run.
Bob Pretty just gave one look and then ‘e dropped ‘is pipe and set off like a hare. It was no good dropping the sack, because Smith, the keeper, ‘ad recognised ‘im and called ‘im by name, so ‘e just put ‘is teeth together and did the best he could, and there’s no doubt that if it ‘adn’t ha’ been for the sack ‘e could ‘ave got clear away.
As it was, ‘e ran for pretty near a mile, and they could ‘ear ‘im breathing like a pair o’ bellows; but at last ‘e saw that the game was up. He just man-aged to struggle as far as Farmer Pinnock’s pond, and then, waving the sack round his ‘ead, ‘e flung it into the middle of it, and fell down gasping for breath.
“Got — you — this time — Bob Pretty,” ses one o’ the men, as they came up.
“Wot — Mr. Cutts?” ses Bob, with a start. “That’s me, my man,” ses the keeper.
“Why — I thought — you was. Is that Mr. Lewis? It can’t be.”
“That’s me,” ses Keeper Lewis. “We both got well sudden-like, Bob Pretty, when we ‘eard you was out. You ain’t so sharp as you thought you was.”
Bob Pretty sat still, getting ‘is breath back and doing a bit o’ thinking at the same time.
“You give me a start,” he ses, at last. “I thought you was both in bed, and, knowing ‘ow hard worked Mr. Smith ‘as been, I just came round to ‘elp ‘im keep watch like. I promised to ‘elp you, Mr. Cutts, if you remember.”
“Wot was that you threw in the pond just now?” ses Mr. Cutts.
“A sack,” ses Bob Pretty; “a sack I found in Farmer Hall’s field. It felt to me as though it might ‘ave birds in it, so I picked it up, and I was just on my way to your ‘ouse with it, Mr. Cutts, when you started arter me.”
“Ah!” ses the keeper, “and wot did you run for?”
Bob Pretty tried to laugh. “Becos I thought it was the poachers arter me,” he ses. “It seems ridikilous, don’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” ses Lewis.
“I thought you’d know me a mile off,” ses Mr. Cutts. “I should ha’ thought the smell o’ roses would ha’ told you I was near.”
Bob Pretty scratched ‘is ‘ead and looked at ‘im out of the corner of ‘is eye, but he ‘adn’t got any answer. Then ‘e sat biting his finger-nails and thinking while the keepers stood argyfying as to who should take ‘is clothes off and go into the pond arter the pheasants. It was a very cold night and the pond was pretty deep in places, and none of ’em seemed anxious.
“Make ‘im go in for it,” ses Lewis, looking at Bob; “‘e chucked it in.”
“On’y Becos I thought you was poachers,” ses Bob. “I’m sorry to ‘ave caused so much trouble.”
“Well, you go in and get it out,” ses Lewis, who pretty well guessed who’d ‘ave to do it if Bob didn’t. “It’ll look better for you, too.”
“I’ve got my defence all right,” ses Bob Pretty. “I ain’t set a foot on the squire’s preserves, and I found this sack a ‘undred yards away from it.”
“Don’t waste more time,” ses Mr. Cutts to Lewis.
“Off with your clothes and in with you. Anybody’d think you was afraid of a little cold water.”
“Whereabouts did ‘e pitch it in?” ses Lewis.
Bob Pretty pointed with ‘is finger exactly where ‘e thought it was, but they wouldn’t listen to ‘im, and then Lewis, arter twice saying wot a bad cold he’d got, took ‘is coat off very slow and careful.
“I wouldn’t mind going in to oblige you,” ses Bob Pretty, “but the pond is so full o’ them cold, slimy efts; I don’t fancy them crawling up agin me, and, besides that, there’s such a lot o’ deep holes in it. And wotever you do don’t put your ‘ead under; you know ‘ow foul that water is.”
Keeper Lewis pretended not to listen to ‘im. He took off ‘is clothes very slowly and then ‘e put one foot in and stood shivering, although Smith, who felt the water with his ‘and, said it was quite warm. Then Lewis put the other foot in and began to walk about careful, ‘arf-way up to ‘is knees.
“I can’t find it,” he ses, with ‘is teeth chattering.
“You ‘aven’t looked,” ses Mr. Cutts; “walk about more; you can’t expect to find it all at once. Try the middle.”
Lewis tried the middle, and ‘e stood there up to ‘is neck, feeling about with his foot and saying things out loud about Bob Pretty, and other things under ‘is breath about Mr. Cutts.
“Well, I’m going off ‘ome,” ses Bob Pretty, getting up. “I’m too tender-’arted to stop and see a man drownded.”
“You stay ‘ere,” ses Mr. Cutts, catching ‘old of him.
“Wot for?” ses Bob; “you’ve got no right to keep me ‘ere.”
“Catch ‘old of ‘im, Joe,” ses Mr. Cutts, quick-like.
Smith caught ‘old of his other arm, and Lewis left off trying to find the sack to watch the struggle. Bob Pretty fought ‘ard, and once or twice ‘e nearly tumbled Mr. Cutts into the pond, but at last ‘e gave in and lay down panting and talking about ‘is loryer. Smith ‘eld him down on the ground while Mr. Cutts kept pointing out places with ‘is finger for Lewis to walk to. The last place ‘e pointed to wanted a much taller man, but it wasn’t found out till too late, and the fuss Keeper Lewis made when ‘e could speak agin was terrible.
“You’d better come out,” ses Mr. Cutts; “you ain’t doing no good. We know where they are and we’ll watch the pond till daylight — that is, unless Smith ‘ud like to ‘ave a try.”
“It’s pretty near daylight now, I think,” ses Smith.
Lewis came out and ran up and down to dry ‘imself, and finished off on ‘is pocket-�
��andkerchief, and then with ‘is teeth chattering ‘e began to dress ‘imself. He got ‘is shirt on, and then ‘e stood turning over ‘is clothes as if ‘e was looking for something.
“Never mind about your stud now,” ses Mr. Cutts; “hurry up and dress.”
“Stud?” ses Lewis, very snappish. “I’m looking for my trowsis.”
“Your trowsis?” ses Smith, ‘elping ‘im look.
“I put all my clothes together,” ses Lewis, a’most shouting. “Where are they? I’m ‘arf perished with cold. Where are they?”
“He ‘ad ’em on this evening,” ses Bob Pretty, “‘cos I remember noticing ’em.”
“They must be somewhere about,” ses Mr. Cutts; “why don’t you use your eyes?”
He walked up and down, peering about, and as for Lewis he was ‘opping round ‘arf crazy.
“I wonder,” ses Bob Pretty, in a thoughtful voice, to Smith— “I wonder whether you or Mr. Cutts kicked ’em in the pond while you was struggling with me. Come to think of it, I seem to remember ‘earing a splash.”
“He’s done it, Mr. Cutts,” ses Smith; “never mind, it’ll go all the ‘arder with ‘im.”
“But I do mind,” ses Lewis, shouting. “I’ll be even with you for this, Bob Pretty. I’ll make you feel it. You wait till I’ve done with you. You’ll get a month extra for this, you see if you don’t.”
“Don’t you mind about me,” ses Bob; “you run off ‘ome and cover up them legs of yours. I found that sack, so my conscience is clear.”
Lewis put on ‘is coat and waistcoat and set off, and Mr. Cutts and Smith, arter feeling about for a dry place, set theirselves down and began to smoke.
“Look ‘ere,” ses Bob Pretty, “I’m not going to sit ‘ere all night to please you; I’m going off ‘ome. If you want me you’ll know where to find me.”
“You stay where you are,” ses Mr. Cutts. “We ain’t going to let you out of our sight.”
“Very well, then, you take me ‘ome,” ses Bob. “I’m not going to catch my death o’ cold sitting ‘ere. I’m not used to being out of a night like you are. I was brought up respectable.”
“I dare say,” ses Mr. Cutts. “Take you ‘ome, and then ‘ave one o’ your mates come and get the sack while we’re away.”
Then Bob Pretty lost ‘is temper, and the things ‘e said about Mr. Cutts wasn’t fit for Smith to ‘ear. He threw ‘imself down at last full length on the ground and sulked till the day broke.
Keeper Lewis was there a’most as soon as it was light, with some long hay-rakes he’d borrowed, and I should think that pretty near ‘arf the folks in Clay-bury ‘ad turned up to see the fun. Mrs. Pretty was crying and wringing ‘er ‘ands; but most folks seemed to be rather pleased that Bob ‘ad been caught at last.
In next to no time ‘arf-a-dozen rakes was at work, and the things they brought out o’ that pond you wouldn’t believe. The edge of it was all littered with rusty tin pails and saucepans and such-like, and by-and-by Lewis found the things he’d ‘ad to go ‘ome without a few hours afore, but they didn’t seem to find that sack, and Bob Pretty, wot was talking to ‘is wife, began to look ‘opeful.
But just then the squire came riding up with two friends as was staying with ‘im, and he offered a reward of five shillings to the man wot found it. Three or four of ’em waded in up to their middle then and raked their ‘ardest, and at last Henery Walker give a cheer and brought it to the side, all heavy with water.
“That’s the sack I found, sir,” ses Bob, starting up. “It wasn’t on your land at all, but on the field next to it. I’m an honest, ‘ardworking man, and I’ve never been in trouble afore. Ask anybody ‘ere and they’ll tell you the same.”
Squire Rockett took no notice of ‘im. “Is that the sack?” he asks, turning to Mr. Cutts.
“That’s the one, sir,” ses Mr. Cutts. “I’d swear to it anywhere.”
“You’d swear a man’s life away,” ses Bob. “‘Ow can you swear to it when it was dark?”
Mr. Cutts didn’t answer ‘im. He went down on ‘is knees and cut the string that tied up the mouth o’ the sack, and then ‘e started back as if ‘e’d been shot, and ‘is eyes a’most started out of ‘is ‘ead.
“Wot’s the matter?” ses the squire.
Mr. Cutts couldn’t speak; he could only stutter and point at the sack with ‘is finger, and Henery Walker, as was getting curious, lifted up the other end of it and out rolled a score of as fine cabbages as you could wish to see.
I never see people so astonished afore in all my born days, and as for Bob Pretty, ‘e stood staring at them cabbages as if ‘e couldn’t believe ‘is eyesight.
“And that’s wot I’ve been kept ‘ere all night for,” he ses, at last, shaking his ‘ead. “That’s wot comes o’ trying to do a kindness to keepers, and ‘elping of ’em in their difficult work. P’r’aps that ain’t the sack arter all, Mr. Cutts. I could ha’ sworn they was pheasants in the one I found, but I may be mistook, never ‘aving ‘ad one in my ‘ands afore. Or p’r’aps somebody was trying to ‘ave a game with you, Mr. Cutts, and deceived me instead.”
The keepers on’y stared at ‘im.
“You ought to be more careful,” ses Bob. “Very likely while you was taking all that trouble over me, and Keeper Lewis was catching ‘is death o’ cold, the poachers was up at the plantation taking all they wanted. And, besides, it ain’t right for Squire Rockett to ‘ave to pay Henery Walker five shillings for finding a lot of old cabbages. I shouldn’t like it myself.”
He looked out of the corner of ‘is eye at the squire, as was pretending not to notice Henery Walker touching ‘is cap to him, and then ‘e turns to ‘is wife and he ses:
“Come along, old gal,” ‘e ses. “I want my breakfast bad, and arter that I shall ‘ave to lose a honest day’s work in bed.”
DIXON’S RETURN
Talking about eddication, said the night-watchman, thoughtfully, the finest eddication you can give a lad is to send ‘im to sea. School is all right up to a certain p’int, but arter that comes the sea. I’ve been there myself and I know wot I’m talking about. All that I am I owe to ‘aving been to sea.
There’s a saying that boys will be boys. That’s all right till they go to sea, and then they ‘ave to be men, and good men too. They get knocked about a bit, o’ course, but that’s all part o’ the eddication, and when they get bigger they pass the eddication they’ve received on to other boys smaller than wot they are. Arter I’d been at sea a year I spent all my fust time ashore going round and looking for boys wot ‘ad knocked me about afore I sailed, and there was only one out o’ the whole lot that I wished I ‘adn’t found.
Most people, o’ course, go to sea as boys or else not at all, but I mind one chap as was pretty near thirty years old when ‘e started. It’s a good many years ago now, and he was landlord of a public-’ouse as used to stand in Wapping, called the Blue Lion.
His mother, wot had ‘ad the pub afore ‘im, ‘ad brought ‘im up very quiet and genteel, and when she died ‘e went and married a fine, handsome young woman who ‘ad got her eye on the pub without thinking much about ‘im. I got to know about it through knowing the servant that lived there. A nice, quiet gal she was, and there wasn’t much went on that she didn’t hear. I’ve known ‘er to cry for hours with the ear-ache, pore gal.
Not caring much for ‘er ‘usband, and being spoiled by ‘im into the bargain, Mrs. Dixon soon began to lead ‘im a terrible life. She was always throwing his meekness and mildness up into ‘is face, and arter they ‘ad been married two or three years he was no more like the landlord o’ that public-’ouse than I’m like a lord. Not so much. She used to get into such terrible tempers there was no doing anything with ‘er, and for the sake o’ peace and quietness he gave way to ‘er till ‘e got into the habit of it and couldn’t break ‘imself of it.
They ‘adn’t been married long afore she ‘ad her cousin, Charlie Burge, come in as barman, and a month or two arter that ‘is brother Bob,
who ‘ad been spending a lot o’ time looking for work instead o’ doing it, came too. They was so comfortable there that their father — a ‘ouse-painter by trade — came round to see whether he couldn’t paint the Blue Lion up a bit and make ’em look smart, so that they’d get more trade. He was one o’ these ‘ere fust-class ‘ousepainters that can go to sleep on a ladder holding a brush in one hand and a pot o’ paint in the other, and by the time he ‘ad finished painting the ‘ouse it was ready to be done all over agin.
I dare say that George Dixon — that was ‘is name — wouldn’t ha’ minded so much if ‘is wife ‘ad only been civil, but instead o’ that she used to make fun of ‘im and order ‘im about, and by-and-by the others began to try the same thing. As I said afore, Dixon was a very quiet man, and if there was ever anybody to be put outside Charlie or Bob used to do it. They tried to put me outside once, the two of ’em, but they on’y did it at last by telling me that somebody ‘ad gone off and left a pot o’ beer standing on the pavement. They was both of ’em fairly strong young chaps with a lot of bounce in ’em, and she used to say to her ‘usband wot fine young fellers they was, and wot a pity it was he wasn’t like ’em.
Talk like this used to upset George Dixon awful. Having been brought up careful by ‘is mother, and keeping a very quiet, respectable ‘ouse — I used it myself — he cert’nly was soft, and I remember ‘im telling me once that he didn’t believe in fighting, and that instead of hitting people you ought to try and persuade them. He was uncommon fond of ‘is wife, but at last one day, arter she ‘ad made a laughing-stock of ‘im in the bar, he up and spoke sharp to her.
“Wot?” ses Mrs. Dixon, ‘ardly able to believe her ears.
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 189
