“Some people are hard to please,” said the other warmly.
Mr. Burge started and eyed him thoughtfully, and then as Mr. Higgs after some hesitation walked into the shop to turn the gas out, stood in the doorway watching him. A smothered sigh as he glanced round the shop bore witness to the state of his feelings.
The jeweller hesitated again in the parlour, and then handing Brother Burge his candle turned out the gas, and led the way slowly upstairs to the room which had been prepared for the honoured visitor. He shook hands at the door and bade him an effusive good-night, his voice trembling despite himself as he expressed a hope that Mr. Burge would sleep well. He added casually that he himself was a very light sleeper.
To-night sleep of any kind was impossible. He had given up the front room to his guest, and his own window looked out on an over-grown garden. He sat trying to read, with his ears alert for the slightest sound. Brother Burge seemed to be a long time undressing. For half an hour after he had retired he could hear him moving restlessly about his room.
Twelve o’clock struck from the tower of the parish church, and was followed almost directly by the tall clock standing in the hall down-stairs. Scarcely had the sounds died away than a low moaning from the next room caused the affrighted jeweller to start from his chair and place his ear against the wall. Two or three hollow groans came through the plaster, followed by ejaculations which showed clearly that Brother Burge was at that moment engaged in a terrified combat with the Powers of Darkness to decide whether he should, or should not, rifle his host’s shop. His hands clenched and his ear pressed close to the wall, the jeweller listened to a monologue which increased in interest with every word.
“I tell you I won’t,” said the voice in the next room with a groan, “I won’t. Get thee behind me — Get thee — No, and don’t shove me over to the door; if you can’t get behind me without doing that, stay where you are. Yes, I know it’s a fortune as well as what you do; but it ain’t mine.”
The listener caught his breath painfully.
“Diamond rings,” continued Brother Burge in a suffocating voice. “Stop it, I tell you. No, I won’t just go and look at ’em.”
A series of groans which the jeweller noticed to his horror got weaker and weaker testified to the greatness of the temptation. He heard Brother Burge rise, and then a succession of panting snarls seemed to indicate a fierce bodily encounter.
“I don’t — want to look at ’em,” said Brother Burge in an exhausted voice. “What’s — the good of — looking at ’em? It’s like you, you know diamonds are my weakness. What does it matter if he is asleep? What’s my knife got to do with you?”
Brother Higgs reeled back and a mist passed before his eyes. He came to himself at the sound of a door opening, and impelled with a vague idea of defending his property, snatched up his candle and looked out on to the landing.
The light fell on Brother Burge, fully dressed and holding his boots in his hand. For a moment they gazed at each other in silence; then the jeweller found his voice.
“I thought you were ill, Brother,” he faltered.
An ugly scowl lit up the other’s features. “Don’t you tell me any of your lies,” he said fiercely. “You’re watching me; that’s what you’re doing. Spying on me.”
“I thought that you were being tempted,” confessed the trembling Mr. Higgs.
An expression of satisfaction which he strove to suppress appeared on Mr. Burge’s face.
“So I was,” he said sternly. “So I was; but that’s my business. I don’t want your assistance; I can fight my own battles. You go to bed — I’m going to tell the congregation I won the fight single-’anded.”
“So you have, Brother,” said the other eagerly; “but it’s doing me good to see it. It’s a lesson to me; a lesson to all of us the way you wrestled.”
“I thought you was asleep,” growled Brother Burge, turning back to his room and speaking over his shoulder. “You get back to bed; the fight ain’t half over yet. Get back to bed and keep quiet.”
The door closed behind him, and Mr. Higgs, still trembling, regained his room and looked in agony at the clock. It was only half-past twelve and the sun did not rise until six. He sat and shivered until a second instalment of groans in the next room brought him in desperation to his feet.
Brother Burge was in the toils again, and the jeweller despite his fears could not help realizing what a sensation the story of his temptation would create. Brother Burge was now going round and round his room like an animal in a cage, and sounds as of a soul wrought almost beyond endurance smote upon the listener’s quivering ear. Then there was a long silence more alarming even than the noise of the conflict. Had Brother Burge won, and was he now sleeping the sleep of the righteous, or —— Mr. Higgs shivered and put his other ear to the wall. Then he heard his guest move stealthily across the floor; the boards creaked and the handle of the door turned.
Mr. Higgs started, and with a sudden flash of courage born of anger and desperation seized a small brass poker from the fire-place, and taking the candle in his other hand went out on to the landing again. Brother Burge was closing his door softly, and his face when he turned it upon the jeweller was terrible in its wrath. His small eyes snapped with fury, and his huge hands opened and shut convulsively.
“What, agin!” he said in a low growl. “After all I told you!”
Mr. Higgs backed slowly as he advanced.
“No noise,” said Mr. Burge in a dreadful whisper. “One scream and I’ll — What were you going to do with that poker?”
He took a stealthy step forward.
“I — I,” began the jeweller. His voice failed him. “Burglars,” he mouthed, “downstairs.”
“What?” said the other, pausing.
Mr. Higgs threw truth to the winds. “I heard them in the shop,” he said, recovering, “that’s why I took up the poker. Can’t you hear them?”
Mr. Burge listened for the fraction of a second. “Nonsense,” he said huskily.
“I heard them talking,” said the other recklessly. “Let’s go down and call the police.”
“Call ’em from the winder,” said Brother Burge, backing with some haste, “they might ‘ave pistols or something, and they’re ugly customers when they’re disturbed.”
He stood with strained face listening.
“Here they come,” whispered the jeweller with a sudden movement of alarm.
Brother Burge turned, and bolting into his room clapped the door to and locked it. The jeweller stood dumbfounded on the landing; then he heard the window go up and the voice of Brother Burge, much strengthened by the religious exercises of the past six months, bellowing lustily for the police.
For a few seconds Mr. Higgs stood listening and wondering what explanation he should give. Still thinking, he ran downstairs, and, throwing open the pantry window, unlocked the door leading into the shop and scattered a few of his cherished possessions about the floor. By the time he had done this, people were already beating upon the street-door and exchanging hurried remarks with Mr. Burge at the window above. The jeweller shot back the bolts, and half-a-dozen neighbours, headed by the butcher opposite, clad in his nightgown and armed with a cleaver, burst into the passage. A constable came running up just as the pallid face of Brother Burge peered over the balusters. The constable went upstairs three at a time, and twisting his hand in the ex-burglar’s neck-cloth bore him backwards.
“I’ve got one,” he shouted. “Come up and hold him while I look round.”
The butcher was beside him in a moment; Brother Burge struggling wildly, called loudly upon the name of Brother Higgs.
“That’s all right, constable,” said the latter, “that’s a friend of mine.”
“Friend o’ yours, sir?” said the disappointed officer, still holding him.
The jeweller nodded. “Mr. Samuel Burge the Converted Burglar,” he said mechanically.
“Conver — —” gasped the astonished constable. “Conver
ted burglar? Here!”
“He is a preacher now,” added Mr. Higgs.
“Preacher?” retorted the constable. “Why it’s as plain as a pikestaff. Confederates: his part was to go down and let ’em in.”
Mr. Burge raised a piteous outcry. “I hope you may be forgiven for them words,” he cried piously.
“What time did you go up to bed?” pursued the constable.
“About half-past eleven,” replied Mr. Higgs.
The other grunted with satisfaction. “And he’s fully dressed, with his boots off,” he remarked. “Did you hear him go out of his room at all?”
“He did go out,” said the jeweller truth-fully, “but — —”
“I thought so,” said the constable, turning to his prisoner with affectionate solicitude. “Now you come along o’ me. Come quietly, because it’ll be the best for you in the end.”
“You won’t get your skull split open then,” added the butcher, toying with his cleaver.
The jeweller hesitated. He had no desire to be left alone with Mr. Burge again; and a sense of humour, which many years’ association with the Primitive Apostles had not quite eradicated, strove for hearing.
“Think of the sermon it’ll make,” he said encouragingly to the frantic Mr. Burge, “think of the congregation!”
Brother Burge replied in language which he had not used in public since he had joined the Apostles. The butcher and another man stood guard over him while the constable searched the premises and made all secure again. Then with a final appeal to Mr. Higgs who was keeping in the background, he was pitched to the police-station by the energetic constable and five zealous assistants.
A diffidence, natural in the circumstances, prevented him from narrating the story of his temptation to the magistrates next morning, and Mr. Higgs was equally reticent. He was put back while the police communicated with London, and in the meantime Brother Clark and a band of Apostles flanked down to his support.
On his second appearance before the magistrates he was confronted with his past; and his past to the great astonishment of the Brethren being free from all blemish with the solitary exception of fourteen days for stealing milk-cans, he was discharged with a caution. The disillusioned Primitive Apostles also gave him his freedom.
THE MADNESS OF MR. LISTER
Old Jem Lister, of the Susannah, was possessed of two devils — the love of strong drink and avarice — and the only thing the twain had in common was to get a drink without paying for it. When Mr. Lister paid for a drink, the demon of avarice masquerading as conscience preached a teetotal lecture, and when he showed signs of profiting by it, the demon of drink would send him hanging round public-house doors cadging for drinks in a way which his shipmates regarded as a slur upon the entire ship’s company. Many a healthy thirst reared on salt beef and tickled with strong tobacco had been spoiled by the sight of Mr. Lister standing by the entrance, with a propitiatory smile, waiting to be invited in to share it, and on one occasion they had even seen him (him, Jem Lister, A.B.) holding a horse’s head, with ulterior motives.
It was pointed out to Mr. Lister at last that his conduct was reflecting discredit upon men who were fully able to look after themselves in that direction, without having any additional burden thrust upon them. Bill Henshaw was the spokesman, and on the score of violence (miscalled firmness) his remarks left little to be desired. On the score of profanity, Bill might recall with pride that in the opinion of his fellows he had left nothing unsaid.
“You ought to ha’ been a member o’ Parliament, Bill,” said Harry Lea, when he had finished.
“It wants money,” said Henshaw, shaking his head.
Mr. Lister laughed, a senile laugh, but not lacking in venom.
“That’s what we’ve got to say,” said Henshaw, turning upon him suddenly. “If there’s anything I hate in this world, it’s a drinking miser. You know our opinion, and the best thing you can do is to turn over a new leaf now.”
“Take us all in to the Goat and Compasses,” urged Lea; “bring out some o’ those sovrins you’ve been hoarding.”
Mr. Lister gazed at him with frigid scorn, and finding that the conversation still seemed to centre round his unworthy person, went up on deck and sat glowering over the insults which had been heaped upon him. His futile wrath when Bill dogged his footsteps ashore next day and revealed his character to a bibulous individual whom he had almost persuaded to be a Christian — from his point of view — bordered upon the maudlin, and he wandered back to the ship, wild-eyed and dry of throat.
For the next two months it was safe to say that every drink he had he paid for. His eyes got brighter and his complexion clearer, nor was he as pleased as one of the other sex might have been when the self-satisfied Henshaw pointed out these improvements to his companions, and claimed entire responsibility for them. It is probable that Mr. Lister, under these circumstances, might in time have lived down his taste for strong drink, but that at just that time they shipped a new cook.
He was a big, cadaverous young fellow, who looked too closely after his own interests to be much of a favourite with the other men forward. On the score of thrift, it was soon discovered that he and Mr. Lister had much in common, and the latter, pleased to find a congenial spirit, was disposed to make the most of him, and spent, despite the heat, much of his spare time in the galley.
“You keep to it,” said the greybeard impressively; “money was made to be took care of; if you don’t spend your money you’ve always got it. I’ve always been a saving man — what’s the result?”
The cook, waiting some time in patience to be told, gently inquired what it was.
“‘Ere am I,” said Mr. Lister, good-naturedly helping him to cut a cabbage, “at the age of sixty-two with a bank-book down below in my chest, with one hundered an’ ninety pounds odd in it.”
“One ‘undered and ninety pounds!” repeated the cook, with awe.
“To say nothing of other things,” continued Mr. Lister, with joyful appreciation of the effect he was producing. “Altogether I’ve got a little over four ‘undered pounds.”
The cook gasped, and with gentle firmness took the cabbage from him as being unfit work for a man of such wealth.
“It’s very nice,” he said, slowly. “It’s very nice. You’ll be able to live on it in your old age.”
Mr. Lister shook his head mournfully, and his eyes became humid.
“There’s no old age for me,” he said, sadly; “but you needn’t tell them,” and he jerked his thumb towards the forecastle.
“No, no,” said the cook.
“I’ve never been one to talk over my affairs,” said Mr. Lister, in a low voice. “I’ve never yet took fancy enough to anybody so to do. No, my lad, I’m saving up for somebody else.”
“What are you going to live on when you’re past work then?” demanded the other.
Mr. Lister took him gently by the sleeve, and his voice sank with the solemnity of his subject: “I’m not going to have no old age,” he said, resignedly.
“Not going to live!” repeated the cook, gazing uneasily at a knife by his side. “How do you know?”
“I went to a orsepittle in London,” said Mr. Lister. “I’ve been to two or three altogether, while the money I’ve spent on doctors is more than I like to think of, and they’re all surprised to think that I’ve lived so long. I’m so chock-full o’ complaints, that they tell me I can’t live more than two years, and I might go off at any moment.”
“Well, you’ve got money,” said the cook, “why don’t you knock off work now and spend the evenin’ of your life ashore? Why should you save up for your relatives?”
“I’ve got no relatives,” said Mr. Lister; “I’m all alone. I ‘spose I shall leave my money to some nice young feller, and I hope it’ll do ‘im good.”
With the dazzling thoughts which flashed through the cook’s brain the cabbage dropped violently into the saucepan, and a shower of cooling drops fell on both men.
“I ‘spose you take medicine?” he said, at length.
“A little rum,” said Mr. Lister, faintly; “the doctors tell me that it is the only thing that keeps me up — o’ course, the chaps down there “ — he indicated the forecastle again with a jerk of his head— “accuse me o’ taking too much.”
“What do ye take any notice of ’em for?” inquired the other, indignantly.
“I ‘spose it is foolish,” admitted Mr. Lister; “but I don’t like being misunderstood. I keep my troubles to myself as a rule, cook. I don’t know what’s made me talk to you like this. I ‘eard the other day you was keeping company with a young woman.”
“Well, I won’t say as I ain’t,” replied the other, busying himself over the fire.
“An’ the best thing, too, my lad,” said the old man, warmly. “It keeps you stiddy, keeps you out of public-’ouses; not as they ain’t good in moderation — I ‘ope you’ll be ‘appy.”
A friendship sprang up between the two men which puzzled the remainder of the crew not a little.
The cook thanked him, and noticed that Mr. Lister was fidgeting with a piece of paper.
“A little something I wrote the other day,” said the old man, catching his eye. “If I let you see it, will you promise not to tell a soul about it, and not to give me no thanks?”
The wondering cook promised, and, the old man being somewhat emphatic on the subject, backed his promise with a home made affidavit of singular power and profanity.
“Here it is, then,” said Mr. Lister.
The cook took the paper, and as he read the letters danced before him. He blinked his eyes and started again, slowly. In plain black and white and nondescript-coloured finger-marks, Mr. Lister, after a general statement as to his bodily and mental health, left the whole of his estate to the cook. The will was properly dated and witnessed, and the cook’s voice shook with excitement and emotion as he offered to hand it back.
“I don’t know what I’ve done for you to do this,” he said.
Mr. Lister waved it away again. “Keep it,” he said, simply; “while you’ve got it on you, you’ll know it’s safe.”
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 206
