“O’course that’s the chap—I’ve been a-thinkin’ o’ that chap, myself,” Dan pursued, with a wider grin. “But what’s his name? These here genelmen o’ the jury are that unfriendly suspicious, they won’t swallow the pig story wi’out the chap’s name. What is it?”
Joe Barstow stared and sweated in an agony of mental travail. “Bill!” he burst out at length.
“His name’s Bill,” repeated Dan, solemnly, turning to the company with an airy gesture and a bow of the gravest importance. “Joe’s friend be the celebrated person o’ the name o’ Bill. A party with sich a name as that wouldn’t bother to hey another, I suppose, Joe, would he?”
“I dunno,” said Joe, sulkily. “That jar’s mine, howsomdever; I do remember that.”
“’Tis a comfort to know it, for a good memory’s a great blessin’. Havin’ that partikler blessin’ by you, no doubt you remember the pig’s birthday? Because ’tis the recollection o’ this here honorable jury that your last latter o’ pigs were all sold to Sam Prentice here in Hadleigh.”
“That jar o’ rum’s mine, I tell ’ee,” repeated Joe, fiercely dogged.
“An’ you aren’t no more sartin about the pig than ‘Lijah Weeley about the cow?”
“I’m sartin’ ’tis my rum,” growled Joe. And Elijah Weeley, gathering courage, broke in again.
“Touchin’ the Red Cow,” he said, “that be a pardonable mistake anybody might make, fair day an’ all, after a nap. An’ now ’tis brought to my mind there was a pig in the business, but ’twere a pig I bought at Rochford market this very day. An’ howsomdever it came about bein’ hard to explain at sich short notice, ’taren’t no mistake when I say, in round numbers, that rum’s mine.”
“S’posin’ that’s so,” queried Dan, “how would you treat all your friends here in regard to that rum?”
Elijah Weeley glanced at the crowd about him with some uneasiness. “Oh!” he said airily, “I’d give a friend a glass, o’ course.”
“I’d give all my friends two glasses,” ex, claimed Joe, bidding like a politician, but with the wildest miscalculation of the jar’s capacity.
“Well, well,” said Elijah. “When I said a glass I was a-puttin’ of it figuratively, as you might say. I’d do the han’some thing, surely.”
“Then this here trouble’s settled,” proclaimed Dan Fisk. “Takin’ it as the jar belongs to either one o’ you, and you’re both ekally horspitable—well, here’s all your mutual friends, an’ we’ve on’y got to order in the glasses and the water, an’ the dispute passes away harmonious along o’ the rum.”
The rivals received this amiable proposal with uneasy indignation, and joined forces against it instantly.
“Certainly not!” said Elijah.
“Not me!” said Joe.
“Why not?” demanded Dan.
“’Twouldn’t be proper,” said Elijah.
“Course not,” agreed Joe.
“If I stood drinks out o’ my jar,” explained Elijah, “Joe Barstow ’ud go an’ say it was his treat.”
“An’ if I treated my friends out o’ my jar,” pursued Joe, “’Lijah Weeley ’ud go arl over Essex a-bragging as he’d stood drinks round—a thing he never did in his life.”
With that the proceedings fell into riotous confusion and a conflict of a hundred suggestions, from which in a little while Dan Fisk once more emerged triumphant.
“There’s nothin’ for it, neighbors,” he announced, “but Cunning Murrell. Cunning Murrell an’ his copper charm’ll settle this. Nobody here can tell whether Joe or ’Lijah is tellin’ truth, least of all Joe and ’Lijah ’emselves, after such a busy fair-day. We’ll take ’em now to look at Master Murrell’s copper charm, an’ see which be the truth-teller.”
The suggestion was received with general favor, except, oddly enough, by the claimants themselves, who began, with uneasy alarm and much labor, to invent the beginnings of objections and excuses. But they and their objections were swept away together by the enthusiasm of the majority, who—feeling by now some proprietary interest in the rum—were quite willing to add the further interest of a performance of Murrell’s necromancy, at no expense to themselves. Wherefore, the whole company, with Dan Fisk and the jar at their head, emerged into the street, now dark, and turned into the lane where stood Cunning Murrell’s cottage.
The way was short—eighty yards, perhaps—though long enough to produce a change in the demeanor of the company, which, starting hilarious, tailed out and quieted, and at last halted before Murrell’s door in respectful silence. For that was the manner of all toward the witch-finder, and indeed a large part of the grin had vanished even from Dan Fisk’s face as he clicked the latch.
Murrell himself opened the door, and stood, small and gray and severe, on the threshold, demanding the meaning of the visit. The little room behind him, lighted by a solitary candle and hung thick with bunches of dried herbs, was a fitting background—the most mysterious chamber in the little world of South Essex.
Dan Fisk posed the jar on his knee and explained the dispute, though now with something short of his native facetiousness.
Cunning Murrell heard him through, and then said sharply: “So now you come to ask o’ my curis arts which o’ they men be sayin’ truth? With a copper charm you hear of?”
“Aye, Master Murrell, sir; as ’tis said, sir.”
The old man gazed for a moment hard and sharp in Dan Fisk’s face. Then he said: “Come you two in,” and turned into the room.
There was a scuffling of feet, and Murrell turned again. “Not all o’ that rabble,” he said.
“’Tis Joe Barstow an’ Elijah Weeley I want, an’ Dan Fisk. Give me that jar.”
Joe and Elijah lumbered sheepishly in, each propelled by a hand of Dan. Cunning Murrell took something from a drawer in a dark corner, and, without looking at it, extended it behind him as he shut the drawer.
“Take you the charm first, Elijah Weeley,” he said. “Take it in your hand an’ carry it to the light.”
Elijah took a small disc of copper, convex on its brighter side, and held it near the candle on the mantelpiece. Murrell stood apart, gazing on the floor, with his hand across his forehead.
“Look you on the metal very close, Elijah Weeley,” he said. “D’ye see anything?”
“Oh, aye, yes, Master Murrell, sir,” answered Elijah, his face within an inch of the object, and his eyes protruding half the distance. “Aye, Master Murrell. Stands to reason I can see it—’tis natural I should.”
“And why natural?”
“Why, Master Murrell? Why, ’cos ’tis my rum, you see.”
“Oh, that be your reason, eh? Well, an’ what is ’t you see?”
“What is ’t, Master Murrell, sir?”
“Aye, what is it?”
“Oh, it’s a—a—what you might call a sort o’ peculiar kind o’ thing, so to say. Very peculiar.”
“Ah, I make no doubt o’ that,” the old man replied, with ungenial tone. “Describe that peculiar thing, Elijah Weeley,” he added, still gazing on the floor.
“That, sir—that, Master Murrell, is easier said than done as you might say, not meanin’ no harm, sir. But stands to reason I can see it, Master Murrell, consekens ’o that bein’ my rum. That’s argyment, now, ain’t it?”
“Aye, ’tis argyment, but not information. If you can see it, Elijah Weeley, tell me what ’tis you see. Is it like a horse, for instance?”
“Well, sir, as to that, Master Murrell, ’tis most likely you’d be right, sir, ben’t it?”
“Aye, it is, Elijah Weeley. Go on.”
“Why, sir, that bein’ so, sir, Master Murrell, sir, you be right an’ most wonderful scientific, sartin to say, an’ now I come to look at it ’tis most powerful like a boss—quite wonderful; more like than most real hosses, as you might say.”
“Wo
nderful! Elijah Weeley—wonderful! Give Joe Barstow the charm. Can you see a hoss, Joe Barstow?”
“Aye, yes, Master Murrell, sartenly,” answered that politician eagerly, almost before he had snatched the charm. “Two on ’em!” he proceeded bidding higher again. “Two on ’em, with saddles!”
“With saddles?” exclaimed Murrell, raising his eyes and reaching Joe in a stride. “Saddles? What’s this you’re looking at, Joe Barstow?”
“Lookin’ at? Why, the charm, Master Murrell, sir! The charm!”
“The charm? That? Why, ’tis the lid o’ my darter’s copper kettle, put by for a new rim an’ handle! I must ha’ took it by mistake. An’ you saw hosses in it! Two hosses with saddles! ’Twould seem to me this here kettle lid be as good a charm as any with the likes o’ you, Joe Barstow an’ Elijah Weeley. It tell plain enough that you be liars both! An’ ’tis a kettle-lid! Hosses and saddles. Oh, ’tis shameful to reflect on the depravity of the age! To think that two grown men should walk about the face of this earth with lies that any kettle-lid can contradict!”
Terrible in his righteous wrath, the old man shook his head in the cowed faces of Joe and Elijah, seized the jar of rum, pushed it into a cupboard, and locked the door on it.
“After what I’ve larned of you, I misdoubt much how you came by that jar,” he said, “an’ ’twould be abettin’ your wickedness to let it out o’ my charge; an’ so I do my duty, in face o’ the wickedness o’ these times. Take them two out with you, Dan Fisk; I want no such characters as them in my house!”
This was certainly the last occasion on which anybody had the temerity to inquire for the copper charm. And it was months ere the jar was seen again; when it was observed to be a jar of rum no longer; for Cunning Murrell was using it to carry horse medicine, a thing in which he drove a thriving trade.
DOBBS’S PARROT
First published in The Strand Magazine, Jan 1907
Bill Wragg, dealer in dogs, birds, and guinea-pigs, began business in the parrot line, with a capital of nothing and no parrots. The old rascal hinted so much when I got from him the tale of his champion terrier, Rhymer the Second, which you may read elsewhere. But I observed for long a certain reluctance to talk with any particularity of this affair of parrot-dealing. From this I judged that it must have been a transaction of uncommon—well, say acumen—even for Bill Wragg; and so I found it, when at last he made his confession.
“Beginnin’ business without capital,” said Bill Wragg, wiping his pipe with a red-spotted handkerchief, “is all a matter o’ credit, o’ course. Lots o’ people begin on credit, an’ do very well; an’ different people get their credit different ways. I begun on credit, an’ I got my credit from perfick strangers, quite easy.
“I was frightful ’ard up, just then—stony-broke, in fact. I’d been lookin’ out for odd jobs ’ere an’ there, an’ gettin’ precious few of ’em. Last job I’d had was down Wappin’ way, givin’ a hand at a foreign animal shop, where the reg’lar chap was away ill. The guv’nor, he give me a suit o’ clothes to begin with, ’cause he said mine ’ud disgrace the shop, an’ so they would. The new clothes wasn’t new altogether—a sailor-bloke had died in ’em a fortnight afore, at a crimp’s; but they was all right, an’ I took it mighty generous o’ the guv’nor, till the end o’ the week, an’ then ’e stopped ’em out o’ my wages. Well, I’d been gone away from that job a long time, an’ there didn’t seem another job to be had; so, bein’ stony-broke, as I just said, I thought I might as well set up for myself.
“It was the clothes that give me the idea to begin with—them bein’ of a seafarin’ sort; just the sort o’ things a man might wear as was bringin’ ’ome a parrot. An’ what put the idea into movin’ shape was me passin’ a little coal-office—one o’ them little shanties where a clerk sits all day to take orders. I knew that place, consequence of a friend o’ mine ’avin’ done a little business there about a dawg with the clerk; it was a careless bit o’ business as might ha’ got my friend in trouble, if the clerk ’adn’t gone an’ died almost at once. Well, this clerk’s name was Dobbs, an’ rememberin’ that, I thought I see my way to raisin’ a bit o’ credit.
“I just went into the office all gay an’ friendly, an’ ‘Good arternoon,’ I says to the noo clerk. ‘Good arternoon. Is Mr. Dobbs in?’
“‘No,’ says he, ‘Mr. Dobbs is dead. Been dead six months.’
“‘Dead?’ says I. ‘What? Dead? My dear ol’ pal Dobbs? No, it can’t be true,’ I says.
“‘It is true,’ says the chap. ‘Anyway, I see the funeral, an’ I’ve got his job.’
“‘Well, now,’ I says, ‘whoever’d a’ believed it? Poor ol’ Dobbs! When I went on my last voyage I left him as well an ’arty as ever I see anybody! This is a awful shock for me,’ I says.
“The clerk was rather a dull-lookin’ sort o’ chap, with giglamps, an’ he just nodded his head.
“‘Quite a awful shock,’ I says. ‘Why, I brought ’ome a parrot for ’im! A lovely parrot—talks like a—like a angel, an’ whistles an toon you like. I come here to sec him about it! It’s a awful shock.’
“‘Yes,’ says Giglamps, ‘it was rather sudden.’
“‘Sudden ain’t the word,’ I says; ‘it’s positive catastrophageous. An’ what am I to do with that beautiful parrot? I can’t take it away with me; the new skipper wouldn’t stand it—’e’s a terror. Besides I couldn’t bear to be reminded of poor ol’ Dobbs every time I see ’is lovely ploomage or ’card ’im talk—talks just like Dan Leno, does that bird. What am I to do with it? I’m a lonely sort o’ chap, an’ haven’t got a soul in the world to give it to, now poor old Dobbs is gone. If I only knowed a nice kind ’ome for it, I’d—but hold on,’ I says, all of a sudden, ‘how about you? Will you have it? Eh? I don’t believe you’d treat such a ’andsome bird unkind, would you? I’ll give ’im to you, an’ welcome, if you’ll take care of ’im. ’E’s a valuable bird, too, but o’ course, I don’t want to make money out of ’im. Come, you shall have him!’
“I could see old Giglamps was gettin’ interested, thinkin’ he was in for a ’andsome present. ‘Hem!’ he says, ‘it’s very kind of you, an’ of course I’ll have the bird with pleasure, an’ take every care of him; very kind of you indeed, I’m sure it is.’
“‘That’s all right,’ I says, ‘it’s nothing to me, so long as pore Peter gets a good ’ome. Peter’s his name,’ I says. ‘I’ll go an’ fetch him along ’ere. Got a cage?’
“‘Why, no,’ says he, ‘I ain’t got a cage.’
“‘Must ’ave a cage,’ says I. ‘The one he’s in now don’t belong to me. Must ’ave a cage. What are you going to do about it?’
“‘I dunno,’ says Giglamps, lookin’ ’elpless.
“‘A good parrot cage comes a bit dear, to buy new,’ I says. ‘But there’s a fine secondhand one you might get cheap just over in Walworth. I’ll mind the office while you go.’
“‘No,’ he says, ‘I can’t leave the place.’ Of course, I knowed that well enough—it was part o’ the game. ‘I can’t leave the place,’ says he. ‘I s’pose you couldn’t see about it?’
“Well,’ says I, thoughtful like, ‘I’m a bit busy, but p’raps I might. It’s a fine cage, an’ worth a price; but, properly managed, I might try and get it for five bob, though I expect it’ll be more. Anyhow,’ I says, ‘give me the five bob, an’ if I have to pay any more I’ll trust you for it till I come back.’
“So I just puts out my hand casual, and in drops the five bob. So I went out that much to the good in credit.”
Here I fear I exhibited something positively like a grin. “Credit or cash?” I queried.
“Credit, I said, sir,” Bill replied, virtuously. “Cash an’ credit’s the same thing with a man o’ business like me. I went out with that five bob, an’ I put in threepence of it for a small drink that I wanted very bad arter bein’ without so long. I had
my drink, an’ I thought things over, an’ I made up my mind that ten bob was just twice as useful as five to start business with, and there was just such another office of the same coal company only a penny tram ride off, that might be good for another crown. So I took that penny tram ride, and found the other office. It was a much smarter, brisker lookin’ chap at this place, I found; but I went at him the same way—askin’ for Dobbs.
“‘Dobbs?’ says the new chap. ‘No; he used to be up at the next office along the road there, but he’s dead now.’
“‘Dead?’ says I. ‘What, my old pal Dobbs?’ And I did it all over again for the new chap. I think the trouble was worth the money and more, but a man mustn’t be afraid o’ work when he’s beginnin’ business with no capital. So I did it all again very careful, an’ when I came to off erin’ him the parrot he was ready enough.
“‘Why, rather,’ he says, ‘I’ll have him. I’m very fond o’ birds. A parrot’s just what I want.’
“‘All right,’ says I, ‘you shall have him an’ welcome. I’ll fetch him along here.’ So I starts round to go, and pitches back the old question from the door. ‘Got a cage?’ says I.
“This time I got a bit of a surprise. ‘Cage?’ says he; ‘oh, yes—I’ve got a cage—got a stunner that belonged to my aunt. A parrot’s just what I wanted to put in it. Here it is.’
“An’ he went into the little cubby-hole at the back an’ dragged out a fust-rate brass cage as good as new. It wasn’t what I’d expected, a coincidence like that, but it don’t do to be took aback at little changes o’ luck. ‘All right,’ says I, ‘that’ll do.’ An’ I laid ’old o’ the cage an’ slung out with it.
“Some chaps mightn’t have the presence o’ mind for that, havin’ only the five bob in their minds, but a man o’ business is got to be ekal to anything as comes along, an’ this ’ere cage was worth a sight more’n the five bob, anyhow. So there I was, a business man at large, with the rest o’ five bob an’ a fust-class brass parrot-cage, on credit, to begin business with.
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 156