Chapter 14
THE THIRD GHOST_(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_
There only remained now my serious verse, of which I turned out anenormous quantity. It won a ready acceptance in many quarters, notablythe _St. Stephen's Gazette_. Already I was beginning to oust fromtheir positions on that excellent journal the old crusted poetesses whohad supplied it from its foundation with verse. The prices they paid onthe _St. Stephen's_ were in excellent taste. In the musical world,too, I was making way rapidly. Lyrics of the tea-and-muffin typestreamed from my pen. "Sleep whilst I Sing, Love," had brought me in anastonishing amount of money, in spite of the music-pirates. It was onthe barrel-organs. Adults hummed it. Infants crooned it in their cots.Comic men at music-halls opened their turns by remarking soothingly tothe conductor of the orchestra, "I'm going to sing now, so you go tosleep, love." In a word, while the boom lasted, it was a littlegold-mine to me.
Thomas Blake was as obviously the man for me here as Sidney Price hadbeen in the case of my Society dialogues. The public would findsomething infinitely piquant in the thought that its most sentimentalditties were given to it by the horny-handed steerer of a canal barge.He would be greeted as the modern Burns. People would ask him how hethought of his poems, and he would say, "Oo-er!" and they would hailhim as delightfully original. In the case of Thomas Blake I saw myearnings going up with a bound. His personality would be a nobleadvertisement.
He was aboard the _Ashlade_ or _Lechton_ on the Cut, so I wasinformed by Kit. Which information was not luminous to me. Furtherinquiries, however, led me to the bridge at Brentford, whence startsthat almost unknown system of inland navigation which extends toManchester and Birmingham.
Here I accosted at a venture a ruminative bargee. "Tom Blake?" herepeated, reflectively. "Oh! 'e's been off this three hours on a tripto Braunston. He'll tie up tonight at the Shovel."
"Where's the Shovel?"
"Past Cowley, the Shovel is." This was spoken in a tired drawl whichwas evidently meant to preclude further chit-chat. To clinch things, heslouched away, waving me in an abstracted manner to the towpath.
I took the hint. It was now three o'clock in the afternoon. Judging bythe pace of the barges I had seen, I should catch Blake easily beforenightfall. I set out briskly. An hour's walking brought me to Hanwell,and I was glad to see a regular chain of locks which must haveconsiderably delayed the _Ashlade_ and _Lechton_.
The afternoon wore on. I went steadily forward, making inquiries as toThomas's whereabouts from the boats which met me, and always hearingthat he was still ahead.
Footsore and hungry, I overtook him at Cowley. The two boats were inthe lock. Thomas and a lady, presumably his wife, were ashore. On the_Ashlade_'s raised cabin cover was a baby. Two patriarchal-lookingboys were respectively at the _Ashlade_'s and _Lechton_'s tillers.The lady was attending to the horse.
The water in the lock rose gradually to a higher level.
"Hold them tillers straight!" yelled Thomas. At which point I salutedhim. He was a little blank at first, but when I reminded him of ourlast meeting his face lit up at once. "Why, you're the mister wot----"
"Nuppie!" came in a shrill scream from the lady with the horse."Nuppie!"
"Yes, Ada!" answered the boy on the _Ashlade_.
"Liz ain't tied to the can. D'you want 'er to be drownded? Didn't Itell you to be sure and tie her up tight?"
"So I did, Ada. She's untied herself again. Yes, she 'as. 'Asn't she,Albert?"
This appeal for corroboration was directed to the other small boy onthe _Lechton_. It failed signally.
"No, you did not tie Liz to the chimney. You know you never, Nuppie."
"Wait till we get out of this lock!" said Nuppie, earnestly.
The water pouring in from the northern sluice was forcing the tillersviolently against the southern sluice gates.
"If them boys," said Tom Blake in an overwrought voice, "lets themtillers go round, it's all up with my pair o' boats. Lemme do it,you----" The rest of the sentence was mercifully lost in the thump withwhich Thomas's feet bounded on the _Ashlade_'s cabin-top. He madeLiz fast to the circular foot of iron chimney projecting from theboards; then, jumping back to the land, he said, more in sorrow than inanger: "Lazy little brats! an' they've '_ad_ their tea, too."
Clear of the locks, I walked with Thomas and his ancient horse, tryingto explain what I wanted done. But it was not until we had tied up forthe night, had had beer at the Shovel, and (Nuppie and Albert beingsafely asleep in the second cabin) had met at supper that myinstructions had been fully grasped. Thomas himself was inclined to bediffident, and had it not been for Ada would, I think, have let myoffer slide. She was enthusiastic. It was she who told me of thecottage they had at Fenny Stratford, which they used as headquarterswhilst waiting for a cargo.
"That can be used as a permanent address," I said. "All you have to dois to write your name at the end of each typewritten sheet, enclose itin the stamped envelope which I will send you, and send it by post.When the cheques come, sign them on the back and forward them to me.For every ten pounds you forward me, I'll give you one for yourself. Inany difficulty, simply write to me--here's my own address--and I'll seeyou through it."
"We can't go to prison for it, can we, mister?" asked Ada suddenly,after a pause.
"No," I said; "there's nothing dishonest in what I propose."
"Oh, she didn't so much mean that," said Thomas, thoughtfully.
They gave me a shakedown for the night in the cargo.
Just before turning in, I said casually, "If anyone except me cashedthe cheques by mistake, he'd go to prison quick."
"Yes, mister," came back Thomas's voice, again a shade thoughtfullymodulated.
Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel Page 17
