“You never heard sich a shindy o’ cheerin’ as we give Mr. Taff-Pilcher arter that speech; we cheered him louder than we’d ha’ cheered the hairyplane itself if it had ha’ come, an’ he was a greater favourite than ever—twice as popular as if it had come. But them Codham chaps was nasty about it, o’ course. Sniffed an’ snarled an’ sneered, they did, an’ said there was no flies on oad Taff-Pilcher, an’ a sixpenny telegram came a mighty deal cheaper than a hairyplane. Fair sickenin’ to hear ’em, it was; you wouldn’t believe people could be so ungrateful.
“It made the Padfield chaps pretty wild, an’ they went at the tug-o’-war that savage that they pulled the Codham team over right bang-off the first pull, as soon as Mr. Taff-Pilcher give the word, an’ the crowd cheered louder ’n ever. Then they crossed over for the second pull, but this time the Codham chaps was all ready, an’ wouldn’t be done on the rush. It was a long pull an’ a tough pull, and it went agin Padfield. That made things ekal, an’ the crowd went half frantic when they crossed again for the last pull. This time Mr. Taff-Pilcher quite see what a lot depended on him, and he started ’em very slow and impartial. He had all sorts of a long trouble in gettin’ the red rag on the rope ’zactly over the mark, an’ then when he give warnin’ to take a strain it got off again an’ he had to begin afresh; an’ so on for a minute or two, till at last Jim Bartrip, the biggest chap on the Codham side, he slipped up, an’ ‘Pull!’ bawls Mr. Taff-Pilcher at the top of his voice, jist in the nick o’ time. Lor’! Them Codham chaps jist come over hand over hand like a row o’ sacks, Jim Bartrip a-blowin’ an’ a-cussin’ an’ a-scufflin’ to get his feet under him, an’ everybody on the field howlin’ an’ dancin’ like mad.
“Well, there’s no satisfyin’ some people. The row them Codham chaps made over losin’ that tug-o’-war was positive disgraceful, an’ there might almost ha’ been a fight if most o’ the crowd hadn’t been Padfield people. Codham chaps was allus bad losers. They even tried booin’ Mr. Taff-Pilcher when he give away the prizes, but that only made the cheers twice as loud, an’ at last he was chaired off the field an’ all the way to the station. It was the greatest day ever he had in Padfield, an’ if the election had been the day after he’d ha’ been our member now.
“Well, the prize for the tug-o’-war was a side o’ bacon, an’ the team was eight. Bedlow, the landlord here, was one o’ the team, an’ late in the evenin’ they brought the side o’ bacon here to divide; and with that came trouble. There hadn’t never been a side o’ bacon given for a prize before, an’ it never struck nobody there’d be any difficulty in cuttin’ it in eight parts—an’ p’r’aps there mightn’t ha’ been if they hadn’t called in Huxon, the butcher, to advise. But Huxon was that professional an’ scientific there was no doin’ anythink with him. It was agin all the rules, it seemed, to divide a side o’ bacon into eight parts. You could divide it into three parts, or five parts, or nine or thirteen; but anythin’ else ’ud be unconstitootional. An’ what was more, all them parts was different sizes. It was no good argufyin’ with Huxon; no amount o’ argufyin’ ’ud bring Huxon to go agin the principles of a lifetime.
“‘There’s fore-end, middle, an’ gammon,’ he said, obstinit as pig itself. ‘Or there’s hock, an’ collar, an’ two streakies, an’ back, an’ ribs, an’ loin, an’ flank, an’ gammon, an’ corner. An’ you can cut your collar in two, an’ your loin in two, an’ your back in two, an’ your streaky in three. An’ that’s the way pigs is made, an’ pigs is bacon, an’ you can’t cut ’em different, whichever way you go, nohow an’ notsoever!’
“Not only was there no argufyin’ with Huxon, but he got that excited what between sports day an’ laws o’ the trade an’ wettin’ the occasion that presently there was no shuttin’ him up, and at closin’ time he had to be shoved out forcible, an’ went off up the street, shoutin’, ‘There’s hock, an’ collar, an’ two streakies, an’ back, an’ ribs, an’ loin, an’ flank, an’ gammon,’ an’ all the rest of it at the top of his voice.
“So Bedlow shut the door an’ told the rest o’ the team they was there as his friends till the pint was settled, for the sake o’ the licence. And they put the side o’ bacon on the table an’ sat all round it for about two hours, plannin’ out the cuts, till it turned out as nobody particular wanted the hock an’ the whole team was in competition for the gammon. That made a wuss confusion than ever, an’ in the middle of it there came a loud tap at the winder, an’ everybody jumped. Bedlow jumped highest, ’cos of his licence though he made sure the p’liceman must be in bed long ago. But when they shoved up the winder there was a chap standin’ outside all muffled up in jerseys an’ sweaters an’ sich with his head all tied up in ear-flaps an’ what-not, an’ a big pair o’ glass goggles all over his face.
“‘Come and hold my hairyplane,’ says the chap. ‘It’s in a field along here, an’ the wind’s gettin’ up!’
“‘What?’ says Bedlow.
“‘Didn’t expect me, I s’pose,’ says the chap. ‘I’m late, that’s all. I ought to ha’ been here this afternoon, but my sky-hooks give way and jammed my wind-sifter. My name’s Walker.’
“Them eight big chaps was that amazed you might ha’ blown ’em all over with a pea-shooter.
“‘We—we thought you wasn’t comin’,’ says Bedlow.
“‘Oh, I allus turn up, sooner or later,’ says the chap. ‘I don’t stop as long as I can get my engine to go an’ my sky-hooks to hold firm. The repairs kep’ me hours an’ hours. But can you chaps pull—hard?’
“‘Rather!’ says Bedlow.
“‘Quite sure?’ says Mr. Walker.
“‘Well, we won the tug-o’-war today, anyhow,’ says Bedlow.
“‘That’s your sort,’ says Mr. Walker. Come along quick, ’fore the hairyplane gets damaged. I’ve got my mechanic with me, but it wants all the lot of us to hold it down safe.’
“They all went bundlin’ out in the dark, an’ he took ’em along the road to Wicks’s little three-cornered meddy with the oad stack in it Half-way they met another muffled-up chap with goggles.
“‘Here, Jones,’ says Mr. Walker, ‘you ought to ha’ kep’ with the hairyplane. Is she all right?’
“‘Yes, sir,’ says the man—‘all right as yet. But she lifts awful with every puff o’ wind, an’ she’ll want a lot o’ holding.’
“‘All right, Jones, we’ll hold it,’ says Mr. Walker. ‘Look here, four of you come with me, and the other four go with my man round to the other side o’ the field.’
“So they split out, an’ each party went along the outside o’ the hedge, till Mr. Walker gropes about an’ finds a rope.
“‘Here y’are,’ he says. ‘Stop on this side o’ the hedge an’ catch hold o’ this. Get behind each other an’ take a good hold—you’ll have some hard pullin’ presently. But don’t pull till I give you the word. I’m goin’ over with my man to see the tackle’s all right.’
“With that he climbs over the hedge an’ disappears in the dark. Presently they could hear him a-shoutin’ to his man an’ callin’ out orders, an’ after a little he comes back to his side o’ the hedge an’ calls out, ‘All ready, Jones?’
“‘Yes, sir,’ sings out Jones, over at the other side o’ the field. ‘I’ll cast off as soon as they pull.’
“‘Right,’ says Mr. Walker. ‘All you chaps ready, both sides? Pull!’
“With that they pulled like all possessed, Mr. Walker steadying the rope on his side o’ the hedge an’ encouragin’ ’em.
“‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘keep a steady draw on her. She’s pullin’ now, ain’t she?’
“‘Aye, that she is,’ says Bedlow, hangin’ on for all he was worth. ‘I shouldn’t ha’ thought there could be sich a wind a night like this.’
“‘Oh, any sort of a little breeze is terrific, once it gets under a hairyplane,’ says Mr. Walker. ‘All right, steady; don’t jerk. Just a s
teady, even pull’s what’s wanted. This hairyplane o’ mine’s worth thousands, and I wouldn’t have it damaged on any account. Hang on tight; the insurance company pays big salvage for a job like this.’
“‘H-how much?’ says Bedlow, gaspin’ an’ pullin’.
“‘Seven an’ three-quarters percent,’ says Mr. Walker. ‘You can work it all out while you’re pullin’. There’s eight of you. Divide seven an’ three quarters by eight, an’ that’ll give you each man’s percentage. Steady on! Keep pullin’, an’ don’t slide into the ditch. You’re doin’ splendid. I don’t wonder you won the tug-o’-war today. I’d like to have a team o’ chaps like you pullin’ for me always.’
“It was past one in the mornin’ when they came out, an’ Mr. Walker kep’ on encouragin’ em’ an’ workin’ out percentages till it was very near two and they was half dead. Then he said:—
“‘Keep steady, and I’ll go and see how she’s gettin’ on. P’r’aps me an’ my man can hang the sky-hooks on the safety-valve an’ give you a bit of a rest. But don’t stop pullin’ till I tell you.’
“He called out to Jones an’ went off to meet him. Bedlow and the other chaps hung on somehow an’ waited, but they heard no more of him. After a bit Bedlow sings out:—
“‘Mr. Walker! Mr. Walker!’
“Not a word of answer did they get, but presently the voice of Sam Gill from the other side o’ the field callin’ out most pathetic:—
“‘Mr. Walker! We can’t stick this here much longer!’
“And Bedlow cries out again:—
“‘Mr. Walker! Flesh an’ blood can’t stand this no more. Is them sky-hooks hung on the safety-valve? Can’t we take a rest?’
“Then they heard Sam Gill again complainin’ most molloncholy in the distance, an’ presently says Bill Wood behind Bedlow:—
“‘This here hairyplane’s easin’ up. It don’t pull half as hard as it did. P’r’aps the sky-hooks is hung on the safety-valve.’
“And once more they heard Sam Gill across the field:—
“‘D’ye hear, Mr. Walker? We’re a-goin’ to let go!’
“With that the rope went all slack, an’ they stood up and shouted across the hedge to Sam Gill. It was just beginning to get a little grey in the sky, and things wasn’t so pitch dark.
“‘I can’t see no hairyplane,’ says Bill Wood.
“‘I can’t see nothin’ at all,’ says Bedlow.
“An’ they couldn’t. ’Cause why? There was nothin’ there. There was no hairyplane an’ no Mr. Walker, an’ no Jones. Nothing but a precious long rope with half o’ the Padfield tug-o’-war team at each end of it!
“They got over the hedge an’ met in the middle o’ the field, and then they all got a presentiment at once.
“‘Them Codham chaps!’ says four of ’em, and ‘That side o’ bacon!’ says all eight. And with that they runned headlong. But it were too late. There was the gas still aburnin’ an’ the winder an’ the door open, but the side o’ bacon were gone, an’ nobody in Padfield ever see it again. And it was only when he went to draw some water in the mornin’ that Bedlow found out that that there precious long rope they’d all a-been pullin’ on was the rope out of his own well.
“There’s been more’n one fight since then when Codham chaps ha’ called out: ‘Mr. Walker! Can’t we have a rest?’ on market-days or what-not. An’ there was one in the bar o’ this very house when Jim Bartrip, the big chap as slipped in the Codham team, came in an’ told Huxon that if he didn’t know how to divide a side o’ bacon into eight fair parts he could teach him, havin’ seen it done quite lately.
“‘How?’ asks Huxon, very disputatious.
“‘Cut it all up in rashers an’ count ’em out, you silly chump,’ says Jim Bartrip.
“And arter all the aggeravation what I’ve been tellin’ you, I should think you’d see why a Padfield man don’t want no Codham chap to ask him about hairyplanes.”
LIES UNREGISTERED
First published in Lippincott’s Magazine, October 1912
I.
Ikey Cohen’s spieler was reached through the mosat innocent door in the world—a door that in the evening, when it was chiefly used, you would swear must be either that of the sponge-merchant’s on one side or the slop-tailor’s on the other. As a matter of fact, each of these establishments had its door at the end farthest from this, the portal that separated the two, and admitted the frequenters of Ikey Cohen’s spieler to the room, mysteriously placed somewhere behind, where they lost their money at faro and chemin de fer.
From the main Whitechapel High Street you turned into a street of new warehouses and shops, which had been a notorious slum a few years ago, and in the first turning to the right you found the door of Ikey Cohen’s spieler. It was the most expressionless and respectable-looking door in the street, with the button of an electric bell let so unobtrusively into the shadowy part of the frame that in the dusk you would overlook it if you were not in the habit of using it. And, indeed, if you were not in the habit, you wasted your time at this door, unless you went with a recognizable customer of the place. For every presser of that button was carefully “piped” from the skylight, and his admission or exclusion depended on the observation so made.
This was in the evening; for Ikey Cohen’s spieler was kept for the accommodation of gamblers of small amounts, who worked during the day to earn them; and although gamblers came who never worked during the day or at any other time, they were not sufficiently profitable to cause the table to open in daylight.
Just such a customer it was who swaggered up the street at nine of a fine night when the sponge-merchant’s had been long shut and the slop-tailor’s already had half the shutters in their places. Naty Green wore his bowler hat very close over his right eye; his Newmarket coat flung wide in the breeze, and his tie, albeit a trifle dirty, flamed with all the colore that could be got for a shilling in Whitechapel High Street.
Naty Green stopped at the respectable door and pressed the button. The door opened quietly and quickly closed behind him. A thick-set, close-cropped man in rubber-soled canvas shoes was dimly visible.
“Moey Marks here?” asked Naty Green.
“Yes.”
Naty Green swore a long and ready sentence. “I want to pop a bit down,” he grumbled. “You’ll have to put it on for me.”
“You get somebody else,” replied the thick-set man. “You know the guv’nor don’t like me playin’.”
“Somebody else? Where’s somebody else as won’t stick to the lot if he plays the stakes, just as much as Moey Marks hisself? An’ what could I say, with him there? Be a pal. You’re the only straight bloke in the shop, s’elp me.”
“An’ if I have to nip off to the door while the stakes is down an’ some one snorks ’em, ’ow’s that?”
“I’ll take my chance. Here y’ are—’alf a james, a bob a time. Put ’em where you like—I shan’t grumble.”
The thick-set man hesitated, with a frown on his none too pleasing face. “You know the guv’nor don’t like me cuttin’ in, ’avin’ to see to things an’ all,” he grumbled, reluctantly extending his hand; “an’ you’ll lose it, like the rest, if you keep on long enough.”
“That’s my lookout. Wait a bit. I’ll go in first.”
The meaning of this conversation would have been clear enough to any eavesdropper from the faro-den beyond the passage. It was simply that Naty Green had “sold himself” to Moey Marks, and for that reason dared not gamble in his presence. It was a common enough procedure when a punter was totally cleared out. A night or two back, Naty Green, having put his last sixpence on the wrong card, had withdrawn from the table, with a long, complicated, and dazzling succession of curses, concluding with an offer to sell himself for a sovereign. Moey Marks, flush at the moment, and a man of enterprise, confident in Naty Green’s inability to keep any money he mi
ght possess off a gaming-table, took the offer on the spot and paid the money; and now, by the terms implied in the bargain, whenever Moey Marks might observe Naty Green gambling, it was his privilege to seize his winnings as often as they might turn up.
It was an interesting invention, and the only righteous force that operated in Ikey Cohen’s spieler. It led to dodgings and lurkings and watchings and scoutings, but it did keep a gambler’s money in his pocket sometimes when no other earthly invention would have done so.
So Naty Green walked into Ikey Cohen’s spieler, and presently Bill Hooker, door-keeper and retired pugilist, followed through the long passage and past the two doors which it was his duty to bar in case of a raid.
Now, Bill Hooker was no beauty. Thick of neck and shoulder, bullet-headed and beetle-browed naturally, his earlier trade had marked him with no improvements. Seen in profile, his nose descended perpendicularly from his forehead as far as an unimportant tip, and seen from the front it spread away indefinitely into his cheek-bones. His ears, thickened and thickened again by many grievous punches, had long years ago grown tired of recovering their natural proportions, and now remained thick for the rest of Bill Hooker’s life; and an odd scar or two seamed the leathery hide of his face. On the whole, he looked a sad ruffian; and yet in the crowd of faces that night to be seen in Ikey Cohen’s spieler, Bill Hooker’s offered something like a pleasant relief. Among the rest were no broken noses, thick ears, or bullet heads, but the sleekest head in the crowded room had about it something of repulsion of which Bill Hooker’s was innocent.
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 171