Teddy Mills, amid encouraging murmurs, dropped into the box the sum of sixteen shillings and sevenpence; a large part of it would be due, next Monday, for rent, but a week’s rent is not a thing to bother about when you are starting a revolution.
Billy Snider’s contribution was rather less, and Joe Budd was discovered to have suddenly fallen asleep. Being with much difficulty aroused he promised to see about it tomorrow; and, showing signs of unpleasant irritation, was allowed to lapse into slumber once more. Sotcher produced a sixpence and three pennies with much solemnity.
“I ain’t so fortunate as you, comrades,” he explained, “in bein’ able to contribute quite so liberal, but sich as it is it is my all, an’ give freely. All the more credit to me, p’raps you’ll say, comrades, but no—I don’t claim no more merit than anybody else ’ere. There it is, give freely. Doubts ’ave been cast on the tanner, though only by slaves of the capitalist, sich as barmen. This is our capital, comrades, in this ’ere box, an’ all money as comes in goes to it; an’ what anybody wants he takes. We won’t vote, for majority tyranny is the worst of all tyrannies, but I suggest we begin by gettin’ in a little beer.”
The suggestion was agreed to, and with the advent of the beer, Joe Budd’s nap terminated with as much suddenness as it had begun. “I like your speechmakin’,” observed Billy Snider, over the beer, to Sotcher. “You put it fust rate. That about monopolies, you know. That’s my principles, but I couldn’t ha’ put it so ’andsome. An’ that about free contrack, too, an’ changin’ your mind when you like.”
“One o’ the first principles of Anarchy,” remarked Sotcher. “Free contrack between man an’ man, perpetual subjeck to revision an’ cancellation. It is forbidden now by the rule of the brutal majority.”
“Yes—I know that,” observed Snider, “an I’ve suffered for it. I went a-bookmakin’ once, to Alexander’s Park Races. I did very well an’ made a ’ole lot o’ contracks, layin’ the odds; but when I’d got my satchel pretty full o’ the backers’ money, an’ they was lookin’ at the ’orses, an’ I ’ad time to think things over, why, I changed my mind about the contracks, same as anybody might do, an’ started to go ’ome. Why not? But the brutal majority treated me shameful. Chucked me into a pond, they did, an’ I ’adn’t got more’n about a quarter of a suit o’ clothes to go ’ome in.”
“All owin’ to the rotten system o’ s’ciety,” commented Sotcher. “The rule o’ the majority’s just as bad as any other rule; but there’s to be no rule an’ no majority now—no commerce an’ profit-huntin’; free exchange, free everything!”
“That’s what I’ve been lookin’ for for a long time,” said Joe Budd fervently, and finished his pot.
It is impossible to set going an entirely new system of life without a little friction, and the friction began at bed-time. There was only one bed in the place, and Billy Snider, having with much foresight discovered this fact in time, went to bed first, unostentatiously. When this treachery became apparent, Joe Budd’s righteous indignation was worthy of the occasion. He took the slumbering betrayer of the rights of man by a leg and an arm, and hauled him out on the floor.
“D’ye call this equal rights,” he demanded. “You sleepin’ comf’table in a bed, an’ us on the floor? Ought to be ashamed o’ yerself. You ain’t got no more rights in that bed than we ’ave; an’ as I pulled you out I’m goin’ to sleep in it.” Which he did.
In the morning it was perceived that Billy Snider had risen early and gone out.
“Gone on a job,” commented Sotcher. “Hope he’ll bring back something good.”
At this moment Joe Budd, whose hand had strayed carelessly over the edge of the money-box as it lay on its shelf, uttered a gasp, and pulled down the box bodily. It was empty Joe Budd’s opinion of Billy Snider when he pulled him out of bed was mere flattery to the opinion he expressed now. He kept at it so long that at length Teddy Mills took up a pair of boots that were partly mended and set to work to finish them. The sight of Teddy’s industry somewhat calmed Joe, and presently he asked: “How long’ll you be getting them done?”
“Not more’n a quarter of an hour,” Teddy estimated.
“Right,” returned Joe, sitting down and feeling for his pipe. “I’ll take ’em ’ome for you.”
But here Sotcher interposed. “Don’t you bother, comrade,” he said; “they mightn’t know you. I’ll take ’em ’ome.”
“No,” replied Joe, taking his pipe from his mouth and looking very squarely into Sotcher’s eyes. “I bet you won’t.”
Sotcher let it stand at that, and resigned himself to watch Teddy’s work. When it was done, and the largest sum that could possibly be charged was decided on, Joe Budd was given precise directions to find the chandler’s shop where the boots were due, and departed with them under his arm.
“Comrade Joe Budd,” observed Sotcher, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling, “is a noble soul, as every friend o’ the social revolution must be. But from the point o’ view o’ the group, p’raps it’s a pity ’e took them boots ’ome.”
“Why,” asked Teddy, “’e won’t stick to the money, will ’e?”
“Stick to it? No—not stick to it; not stick to it long, anyway. But ’e’s a noble, impulsive soul, an’ liable to get thirsty very sudden. An’ ’e deals very free an’ large, as regards thirst.”
But Mr. Budd’s thirst was destined to be unrelieved as yet. In five minutes he burst into the room in a state of exacerbated ill-temper, and exhibited strong signs of a desire to catch Teddy Mills by the throat. Teddy took up a position behind a table, with dodging-room on either hand.
“What d’ye mean?” demanded Joe Budd. “What d’ye mean by sendin’ me out for nothin’? The chap at the chandler’s shop’s been an’ took it off your bill, an’ ’e says you owe ’im one an’ ninepence ha’penny besides!”
“Does ’e?” Teddy answered blankly. “It’s very likely. My wife used to run a bill with ’im, but I didn’t know ’ow it stood.”
Here Mr. Budd was aware of something very like a chuckle from Sotcher.
“What?” he exclaimed, turning his wrath in a new direction; “laughin’, was ye? Laughin’ at me? Call that liberty, I s’pose? All right—gimme that ’at.”
Sotcher’s hat was a sad thing, but he wore it indoors and out as an expression of contempt for social forms. Joe Budd snatched it from his head, and drove out the dent in the crown with a punch of his fist.
“You take a liberty with me,” he said, “an’ I’ll take one with you—that’s equal rights. I’ll expropriate this ’ere ’at, an’ swop it for the clock on the mantelpiece—that’s free exchange; and if I ’ave any o’ your lip you’ll get a free punch on the nose!”
And therewith, carrying the clock under his arm, Mr. Joe Budd walked out for the day.
It was a dull day’s work for Teddy Mills, spite of Sotcher’s eloquence. Sotcher explained that little difficulties were inevitable in the early stages of so glorious an undertaking as theirs, but that things would go more smoothly every hour. Late in the evening Joc Budd returned, very red in the face, a trifle thick in the voice, but noisy and argumentative withal.
He took the money-box from the shelf and shook it contemptuously. “Empty, o’ course,” he said. “You two ain’t donc much for this ’ere community today, but I will.”
He dropped a pawn-ticket into the box, and put it down before them. “That’s the ticket for the clock,” he pursued; “all there is in the box. Seems to me you expect me to keep this ’ere show goin’ all by myself. Well, any’ow I done my share today—where’s my supper?”
He glared from Teddy Mills to Sotcher, and back to Teddy again. But with that his attention was drawn in another direction by the stealthy entrance of Billy Snider.
Snider slid in quietly, though with an elaborate air of careless indifference. Joe sprang up and seized him by the arm. “Where’s that m
oney?” demanded the outraged Budd.
“Money? What money?” asked Billy, with much innocent surprise.
“What money? You know what money; all the money; the money in the box!”
Billy Snider wriggled uncomfortably and looked from one to another. “In the box? Oh, that? Well, I wanted it, you know, so I just took it—like we arranged.”
“Like we—like we—Why, you took it all!”
“Yes, I know. I wanted it all.”
Joe Budd wasted no more words, but swung Billy Snider across the room, and pushed him backward over the table. “You turn out yer pockets,” he commanded, “or I’ll tear ’em out o’ your trousers an’ bash you arterwards. Go on! Turn ’em inside out!”
Billy Snider glanced towards the other comrades, but saw no encouragement. Very grudgingly he extracted several shillings and a few coppers from one trouser pocket and put them on the table.
“Go on! Out with the rest!”
With another reluctant effort, Billy added some more shillings; but Joe, with a preference for quicker business, thrust his fingers into his victim’s waistcoat pockets with no reluctance whatever, and there found three sovereigns!
“Three quid!” cried Joe. “Look at that! An’ last night ’e ’adn’t got fifteen bob to pay into the funds!”
He released Billy and turned from one comrade to another a look of grieved surprise. “Seems to me I’ve bin made a victim of in this ’ere business,” he said. “You’re all in it, I b’lieve. Well, well—I won’t appoint myself treasurer, ’cos that ’ud be officialism an’ authority, an’ agin the sacred principles of anarchy; I won’t be treasurer, but I will take care o’ the money. Where’s my supper?” he proceeded, with a sudden burst of wrath. “’Ere you, Mr. Bloomin’ Jawmedead, take that, an’ get my supper!”
It was Sotcher who was addressed, and “that” was a vigorous bang in the eye. Sotcher staggered and gasped, and, with a tender hand over the bruised feature began a noisy protest based on the rights of sovereign humanity.
“Rights?” retorted Joe Budd; “it’s equal rights for all, ain’t it? Very well, I’ve punched you in the eye—you’ve got just as much right to punch me. Goin’ to? Eh? Ain’t you? ’Cos if you ain’t, go an’ get my supper. That’s voluntary co-operation, that is. ‘Anarchy is order’ is what you told me yerself, an’ I’m goin’ to ’ave my orders carried out ’ere. I ain’t agoin’ to belong to a free community an’ be done out o’ my rights. This ’ere’s a brother’ood of free initiative, whether you like it or no!”
Late that night, when Joe Budd had retired in state to the bed that had been Teddy’s, Billy Snider suggested the propriety of a simultaneous attack on the common oppressor. But Sotcher, still tenderly fingering the black eye, was sure that his principles would never permit him to participate in an act involving the Tyranny of the Majority.
And in the morning it was found that Billy Snider had risen early again. He had not interfered with the box this time, for the pawn-ticket lay undisturbed. But Joe Budd, swathed in a blanket, came downstairs in a typhoon of violent language, to announce that his clothes were all gone, with the money in the pockets.
Now it chanced that Joe Budd’s was the best suit of clothes in the house, while Sotcher’s would never have paid for carrying off. But although Sotcher’s clothes were left, and not a rag the worse, it was observed that he paled instantly at the announcement of Billy’s second evasion, and clapped his hands to his pockets. There were some seconds of agonized and contorted investigation, and then the orator straightway vanished into the outer street; whence he returned in five minutes in company with that foe of all his dearest principles—a policeman.
“I’ve bin robbed in this ’ouse,” Sotcher complained clamorously. “I’ve bin robbed o’ two pound one an’ four in this ’ouse, an’ I’ll ’ave the for of somebody! That’s the master o’ the ’ouse, constable, an’ ’is name’s Mills. Ain’t ’e responsible? I’ve bin robbed in this ’ouse, I tell you, an’ I won’t stand it. ’E’s responsible in the eye o’ the lor! Two pound one an’ four was in my pockets, an’ while there’s for an’ magistrates an’ p’lice in the country I mean to ’ave my rights. There’s the man o’ the ’ouse, constable!”
Boys came running, and women with aprons over their heads: and the Rodd Street revolution wound up ignobly in a street row of the most ordinary Bethnal Green type, the centre whereof was marked by the towering helmet of the policeman, about which swirled the excited forms of Teddy Mills, Alfred Sotcher, and a large and violent man in a blanket. While in the distance was perceived the rapidly approaching form of Mrs. Mills, who had heard rumors of strange doings at the home she had left temporarily, with a view of giving her husband a salutary shock, and was now most vigorously resolved to go and investigate matters for herself.
THE CHAMBER OF LIGHT: A FANTASY
IF I cannot tell a tale of a haunted house in which I have lived, nor even of one in which I have passed a night of trembling adventure (and indeed neither experience has been my fortune), I at least know enough of the strange case of Missel Hall to be able to present it in its completeness, or at any rate in as much of its completeness as will ever be known, and with an accuracy to which, I believe, few other persons could pretend.
The house is fairly large, as one might expect from its title; yet not altogether so large as one may sometimes see a “hall,” for, indeed, the name is given rather loosely in Essex to almost any house of the least pretension. Wherefore it must be remembered that Missel Hall is not such a hall as some I have seen—like a quarter of a mile of Park Lane with a terrace before it—nor is it a mere farmhouse, like Tarpots Hall. It was, and is, no more nor less than a comfortably large house, just large enough for its advancing ends to be called wings. It stood in a comparatively bare part of the commonly well-grown county of Essex, and on a slight elevation, which looked across a little common, or heath, that was unusually flat for that same county, which the ignorant stranger believes to be flat everywhere.
When I called the house comfortably large, I meant that, and nothing more. That is to say, so far as size might give comfort, Missel Hall had it; but so far as a plague of ghosts and their terrors might abolish comfort, Missel Hall was the most uncomfortable house in the county. Once more I pick my words with care. The Hall was the most uncomfortable house in the county, before it received its last tenants; soon after their arrival the more active troubles ceased, and the whole ghostly peculiarities of the place settled down into one—silent and weird. There was a room which had a light of its own.
It was not a mere point of light—a ghostly candle, “corpse-light,” or anything of that sort—but a wan, sickly luminousness that filled the whole apartment. It is to be presumed that it persisted night and day, though bright daylight made it imperceptible; for as soon as the light began to fail, and even at midday, when a heavy thundercloud turned noon to twilight, the pale light grew visible through the one window of the haunted room, and persisted, through night or storm, till full sunlight outstared it.
To see the house from the heath, standing black and desolate like a rock against the evening sky, with its one eye of unearthly light, was uncanny enough, but perhaps the effect was heightened when other windows showed the warm light of common lamps; for the contrast was striking, and no stranger could have passed without a twinge of surprise and wonder at the spectral light of the single high window in the east wing. I have heard people confess to a chilliness of scalp and spine at the sight. There was never another house in Essex bedevilled exactly in this way, though I think I remember to have heard some talk of a case rather like it in a western county.
But this strange light, as I have said, was not seen till after the arrival of the last tenants of Missel Hall. Before then the whole place had been given over to ghostly disturbances of many sorts; with the arrival of the Quilter family these suddenly ceased, and were immediately succeeded by this, a pheno
menon wholly unprecedented, and, it would seem, less capable of explanation than any that had gone before.
The house was an old one, and hitherto all its ghostly appointments had been strictly correct and according to proper fashion and precedent. In course of time, it is true, they had grown so numerous as to make the house difficult to live in, for persons of any nerves but the strongest, and in the end they had caused the place to stand empty for some years; but there was nothing irregular—everything was perfectly in good form and (blessed phrase) comme il faut. There were:
Rappings.
Rumblings.
Shrieks with bumps.
Shrieks plain.
Furniture ill-used.
Ghosts with large eyes.
Dogs without heads.
Heads with nothing else.
Eyes unappropriated.
Demoniac laughter.
A smell of Sulphur.
Do. Brimstone (without treacle).
All being, as you will perceive, phenomena of well established respectability and proved credence, as the learned are aware, from the writings of Cornelius Agrippa and Mr. Stead. There were other manifestations also, a little outside the limits of the regular schedule, though not so far from it as the strange light in the east wing. Thus it was testified by Mrs. Emma Skinner, a charwoman employed to clean the premises, that on shortly returning to a room where she had just completed her work, she found mysterious inscriptions scrawled with the points of ghostly fingers on windows, sideboards, mantelpiece, floor, walls—and in short wherever she had forgotten to dust, and that mocking laughter followed her as she fled in terror, the sounds intensifying to an appalling uproar, in the midst of which the horrified Emma believed she could distinguish her own Christian name, preceded by the exclamation “Whoa!” as though to call her back. Needless to say she did not pause in her flight, and arrived at last at the house of Mr. Benton, the agent for the property, breathless, and only so far capable of speech as to demand brandy and water and a week’s pay in lieu of notice.
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 160