It was while I was absorbed in this delectable spectacle, that I heard a strained little voice behind me, and turned to behold Mr. Cripps greeting my grandfather.
“Good mornin’, Cap’en Kemp, sir,” said Mr. Cripps. “I been a-lookin’ at the noo Blue Crosser — the Emily Riggs. She ought to be done, ye know, an’ a han’some picter she’d make; but the skipper seems busy. Why, an’ there’s young master Stephen, I do declare; ‘ow are ye, sir?”
As he bent and the nose neared, I was seized with a horrid fear that he was going to kiss me. But he only shook hands after all — though it was not at all a clean hand that he gave.
“Why, Cap’en Kemp,” he went on, “this is what I say a phenomenal coincidence; rather unique, in fact. Why, you’ll ‘ardly believe as I was a thinkin’ o’ you not ‘arf an hour ago, scarcely! Now you wouldn’t ‘a’ thought that, would ye?”
There was a twinkle in Grandfather Nat’s eye. “All depends,” he said.
“Comin’ along from the mortuary, I see somethink—”
“Ah, something in the mortuary, no doubt,” my grandfather interrupted, quizzically. “Well, what was in the mortuary? I bet there was a corpse in the mortuary.”
“Quite correct, Cap’en Kemp, so there was; three of ‘em, an’ a very sad sight; decimated, Cap’en Kemp, by the watery element. But it wasn’t them I was—”
“What! It wasn’t a corpse as reminded you of me? That’s rum. Then I expect somebody told you some more about Viney and Marr. Come, what’s the latest about Viney an’ Marr? Tell us about that.”
Grandfather Nat was humorously bent on driving Mr. Cripps from his mark, and Mr. Cripps deferred. “Well, it’s certainly a topic,” he said, “a universal topic. Crooks the ship-chandler’s done for, they say — unsolvent. The Minerva’s reported off Prawle Point in to-day’s list, an’ they say as she’ll be sold up as soon as she’s moored. But there — she’s hypotenused, Cap’en Kemp; pawned, as you might say; up the flue. It’s a matter o’ gen’ral information that she’s pawned up to ‘er r’yals — up to ‘er main r’yals, sir. Which reminds me, speakin’ o’ r’yals, there’s a timber-shop just along by the mortuary—”
“Ah, no doubt,” Grandfather Nat interrupted, “they must put ‘em somewhere. Any news o’ the Juno?”
“No, sir, she ain’t reported; not doo Barbadoes yet, or mail not in, any’ow. They’ll sell ‘er too, but the creditors won’t get none of it. She’s hypotenused as deep as the other — up to her r’yals; an’ there’s nothin’ else to sell. So it’s the gen’ral opinion there won’t be much to divide, Marr ‘avin’ absconded with the proceeds. An’ as regards what I was agoin’ to—”
“Yes, you was goin’ to tell me some more about Marr, I expect,” my grandfather persisted. “Heard where he’s gone?”
Mr. Cripps shook his head. “They don’t seem likely to ketch ‘im, Cap’en Nat. Some says ‘e’s absconded out o’ the country, others says ‘e’s ‘idin’ in it. Nobody knows ‘im much, consequence o’ Viney doin’ all the outdoor business — I only see ‘im once myself. Viney, ‘e thinks ‘e’s gone abroad, they say; an’ ‘e swears Marr’s the party as ‘as caused the unsolvency, ‘avin’ bin a-doin’ of ‘im all along; ‘im bein’ in charge o’ the books. An’ it’s a fact, Cap’en Kemp, as you never know what them chaps may get up to with the proceeds as ‘as charge o’ books. The paper’s full of ‘em every week — always absconding with somebody’s proceeds! An’ by the way, speakin’ o’ proceeds—”
This time Captain Nat made no interruption, but listened with an amused resignation.
“Speakin’ o’ proceeds,” said Mr. Cripps, “it was bein’ temp’ry out o’ proceeds as made me think o’ you as I come along from the mortuary. For I see as ‘andsome a bit o’ panel for to paint a sign on as ever I come across. It was—”
“Yes, I know. Enough to stimilate you to paint it fine, only to look at it, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yes, Cap’n Kemp, so it was.”
“Not dear, neither?”
“No — not to say dear, seein’ ‘ow prices is up. If I’d ‘ad—”
“Well, well, p’raps prices’ll be down a bit soon,” said Grandfather Nat, grinning and pulling out a sixpence. “I ain’t good for no more than that now, anyhow!” And having passed over the coin he took my hand and turned away, laughing and shaking his head.
Seeing that my grandfather wanted his sign, it seemed to me that he was losing an opportunity, and I said so.
“What!” he said, “let him buy the board? Why, he’s had half a dozen boards for that sign a’ready!”
“Half a dozen?” I said. “Six boards? What did he do with them?”
“Ate ‘em!” said Grandfather Nat, and laughed the louder when I stared.
VIII. — STEPHEN’S TALE
I FOUND it quite true that one might eat the loose sugar wherever he judged it clean enough — as most of it was. And nothing but Grandfather Nat’s restraining hand postponed my first bilious attack.
Thus it was that I made acquaintance with the Highway, and with the London Docks, in their more picturesque days, and saw and delighted in a thousand things more than I can write. Port was drunk then, and hundreds of great pipes lay in rows on a wide quay where men walked with wooden clubs, whacking each pipe till the “shive” or wooden bung sprang into the air, to be caught with a dexterity that pleased me like a conjuring trick. And many a thirsty dock-labourer, watching his opportunity, would cut a strip of bread from his humble dinner as he strolled near a pipe, and, absorbed in the contemplation of the indefinite empyrean, absently dip his sippet into the shive-hole as he passed; recovering it in a state so wet and discoloured that its instant consumption was imperative.
And so at last we came away from the docks by the thoroughfare then called Tanglefoot Lane; not that that name, or anything like it, was painted at the corner; but because it was the road commonly taken by visitors departing from the wine-vaults after bringing tasting-orders.
As we passed Blue Gate on our way home, I saw, among those standing at the corner, a coarse-faced, untidy woman, talking to a big, bony-looking man with a face so thin and mean that it seemed misplaced on such shoulders. The woman was so much like a score of others then in sight, that I should scarce have noted her, were it not that she and the man stopped their talk as we passed, with a quick look, first at my grandfather, and then one at the other; and then the man turned his back and walked away. Presently the woman came after us, walking quickly, glancing doubtfully at Grandfather Nat as she passed; and at last, after twice looking back, she turned and waited for us to come up.
“Beg pardon, Cap’en Kemp,” she said in a low, but a very thick voice, “but might I speak to you a moment, sir?”
My grandfather looked at her sharply. “Well,” he said, “what is it?”
“In regards to a man as sold you a watch las’ night—”
“No,” Grandfather Nat interrupted with angry decision, “he didn’t.”
“Beg pardon, sir, jesso sir— ‘course not; which I mean to say ‘e sold it to a man near to your ‘ouse. Is it brought true as that party — not meanin’ you, sir, ‘course not, but the party in the street near your ‘ouse — is it brought true as that party’ll buy somethink more — somethink as I needn’t tell now, sir, p’raps, but somethink spoke of between that party an’ the other party — I mean the party as sold it, an’ don’t mean you, sir, ‘course not?”
It was plain that the woman, who had begun in trepidation, was confused and abashed the more by the hard frown with which Captain Nat regarded her. The frown persisted for some moments; and then my grandfather said: “Don’t know what you mean. If somebody brought anything of a friend o’ yours, an’ your friend wants to sell him something else, I suppose he can take it to him, can’t he? And if it’s any value, there’s no reason he shouldn’t buy it, so far as I know.” And Grandfather Nat strode on.
The woman murmured some sort of acknowledgment, and fell back, and in a mo
ment I had forgotten her; though I remembered her afterward, for good reason enough.
In fact, it was no later than that evening. I was sitting in the bar-parlour with Grandfather Nat, who had left the bar to the care of the potman. My grandfather was smoking his pipe, while I spelled and sought down the narrow columns of Lloyd’s List for news of my father’s ship. It was my grandfather’s way to excuse himself from reading, when he could, on the plea of unsuitable eyes; though I suspect that, apart from his sight, he found reading a greater trouble than he was pleased to own.
“There’s nothing here about the Juno, Grandfather Nat,” I said. “Nothing anywhere.”
“Ah,” said my grandfather, “La Guaira was the last port, an’ we must keep eyes on the list for Barbadoes. Maybe the mail’s late.” Most of the Lloyd’s messages came by mail at that time. “Let’s see,” he went on; “Belize, La Guaira, Barbadoes”; and straightway began to figure out distances and chances of wind.
Grandfather Nat had been considering whether or not we should write to my father to tell him that my mother was dead, and he judged that there was little chance of any letter reaching the Juno on her homeward passage.
“Belize, La Guaira, Barbadoes,” said Grandfather Nat, musingly. “It’s the rough season thereabout, an’ it’s odds she may be blown out of her course. But the mail—”
He stopped and turned his head. There was a sudden stamp of feet outside the door behind us, a low and quick voice, a heavy thud against the door, and then a cry — a dreadful cry, that began like a stifled scream and ended with a gurgle.
Grandfather Nat reached the door at a bound, and as he flung it wide a man came with it and sank heavily at his feet, head and one shoulder over the threshold, and an arm flung out stiffly, so that the old man stumbled across it as he dashed at a dark shadow without.
I was hard at my grandfather’s heels, and in a flash of time I saw that another man was rising from over the one on the doorsill. But for the stumble Grandfather Nat would have had him. In that moment’s check the fellow spun round and dashed off, striking one of the great posts with his shoulder, and nearly going down with the shock.
All was dark without, and what I saw was merely confused by the light from the bar-parlour. My grandfather raised a shout and rushed in the wake of the fugitive, towards the stairs, and I, too startled and too excited to be frightened yet, skipped over the stiff arm to follow him. At the first step I trod on some object which I took to be my grandfather’s tobacco-pouch, snatched it up, and stuffed it in my jacket pocket as I ran. Several men from the bar were running in the passage, and down the stairs I could hear Captain Nat hallooing across the river.
“Ahoy!” came a voice in reply. “What’s up?” And I could see the fire of a purl-boat coming in.
“Stop him, Bill!” my grandfather shouted. “Stop him! Stabbed a man! He’s got my boat, and there’s no sculls in this damned thing! Gone round them barges!”
And now I could distinguish my grandfather in a boat, paddling desperately with a stretcher, his face and his shirt-sleeves touched with the light from the purlman’s fire.
The purl-boat swung round and shot off, and presently other boats came pulling by, with shouts and questions. Then I saw Grandfather Nat, a black form merely, climbing on a barge and running and skipping along the tier, from one barge to another, calling and directing, till I could see him no more. There were many men on the stairs by this time, and others came running and jostling; so I made my way back to the bar-parlour door.
It was no easy thing to get in here, for a crowd was gathering. But a man from the bar who recognised me made a way, and as soon as I had pushed through the crowd of men’s legs I saw that the injured man was lying on the floor, tended by the potman; while Mr. Cripps, his face pallid under the dirt, and his nose a deadly lavender, stood by, with his mouth open and his hands dangling aimlessly.
* * * * *
The stabbed man lay with his head on a rolled-up coat of my grandfather’s, and he was bad for a child to look at. His face had gone tallowy; his eyes, which turned (and frightened me) as I came in, were now directed steadily upward; he breathed low and quick, and though Joe the potman pressed cloths to the wound in his chest, there was blood about his lips and chin, and blood bubbled dreadfully in his mouth. But what startled me most, and what fixed my regard on his face despite my tremors, so that I could scarce take my eyes from it, was the fact that, paleness and blood and drawn cheeks notwithstanding, I saw in him the ugly, broken-nosed fellow who had been in the private compartment last night, with a watch to sell; the watch, with an initial on the back, that now lay in Grandfather Nat’s cash-box.
IX. — STEPHEN’S TALE
SOMEBODY had gone for a doctor, it was said, but a doctor was not always easy to find in Wapping. Mrs. Grimes, who was at some late work upstairs, was not disturbed at first by the noise, since excitement was not uncommon in the neighbourhood. But now she came to the stairfoot door, and peeped and hurried back. For myself, I squeezed into a far corner and stared, a little sick; for there was a deal of blood, and Joe the potman was all dabbled, like a slaughterman.
My grandfather returned almost on the doctor’s heels, and with my grandfather were some river police, in glazed hats and pilot coats. The doctor puffed and shook his head, called for cold water, and cloths, and turpentine, and milk. Cold water and cloths were ready enough, and turpentine was easy to get, but ere the milk came it was useless. The doctor shook his head and puffed more than ever, wiped his hands and pulled his cuffs down gingerly. I could not see the man on the floor, now, for the doctor was in the way; but I heard him, just before the doctor stood up. The noise sent my neck cold at the back; though indeed it was scarce more than the noise made in emptying a large bottle by upending it.
The doctor stood up and shook his head. “Gone,” he said. “And I couldn’t have done more than keep him alive a few minutes, at best. It was the lung, and bad — two places. Have they got the man?”
“No,” said Grandfather Nat, “nor ain’t very likely, I’d say. Never saw him again, once he got behind a tier o’ lighters. Waterside chap, certain; knows the river well enough, an’ these stairs. I couldn’t ha’ got that boat o’ mine off quicker, not myself.”
“Ah,” said one of the river policemen, “he’s a waterside chap, that’s plain enough. Any other ‘ud a-bolted up the street. Never said nothing, did he — this one?” He was bending over the dead man; while the others cleared the people back from the door, and squeezed Mr. Cripps out among them.
“No, not a word,” answered Joe the potman. “Couldn’t. Tried to nod once when I spoke to ‘im, but it seemed to make ‘im bleed faster.”
“Know him, Cap’en Nat?” asked the sergeant.
“No,” answered my grandfather. “I don’t know him. Might ha’ seen him hanging about p’raps. But then I see a lot doin’ that.”
I wondered if Grandfather Nat had already forgotten about the silver watch with the M on it, or if he had merely failed to recognise the man. But I remembered what he had said in the morning, after he had bought the spoons, and I reflected that I had best hold my tongue.
And now voices without made it known that the shore police were here, with a stretcher; and presently, with a crowding and squeezing in the little bar-parlour that drove me deeper into my corner and farther under the shelf, the uncomely figure was got from the floor to the stretcher, and so out of the house.
It was plain that my grandfather was held in good regard by the police; and I think that his hint that a drop of brandy was at the service of anybody who felt the job unpleasant might have been acted on, if there had not been quite as many present at once. When at last they were gone, and the room clear, he kicked into a heap the strip of carpet that the dead man had lain on; and as he did it, he perceived me in my corner.
“What — you here all the time, Stevy?” he said. “I thought you’d gone upstairs. Here — it ain’t right for boys in general, but you’ve got a turn; drink up th
is.”
I believe I must have been pale, and indeed I felt a little sick now that the excitement was over. The thing had been very near, and the blood tainted the very air. So that I gulped the weak brandy and water without much difficulty, and felt better. Out in the bar Mr. Cripps’s thin voice was raised in thrilling description.
Feeling better, as I have said, and no longer faced with the melancholy alternatives of crying or being ill, I bethought me of my grandfather’s tobacco-pouch. “You dropped your pouch, Gran’father Nat,” I said, “and I picked it up when I ran out.”
And with that I pulled out of my jacket pocket — not the pouch at all; but a stout buckled pocket-book of about the same size.
“That ain’t a pouch, Stevy,” said Grandfather Nat; “an’ mine’s here in my pocket. Show me.”
He opened the flap, and stood for a moment staring. Then he looked up hastily, turned his back to the bar, and sat down. “Whew! Stevy!” he said, with amazement in his eyes and the pocket-book open in his hand; “you’re in luck; luck, my boy. See!”
Once more he glanced quickly over his shoulder, toward the bar; and then took in his fingers a folded bunch of paper, and opened it. “Notes!” he said, in a low voice, drawing me to his side. “Bank of England notes, every one of ‘em! Fifties, an’ twenties, an’ tens, an’ fives! Where was it?”
I told him how I had run out at his heels, had trodden on the thing in the dark, and had slipped it into my pocket, supposing it to be his old leather tobacco-pouch, from which he had but just refilled his pipe; and how I had forgotten about it, in my excitement, till the people were gone, and the brandy had quelled my faintness.
“Well, well,” commented Grandfather Nat, “it’s a wonderful bit o’ luck, anyhow. This is what the chap was pulling away from him when I opened the door, you can lay to that; an’ he lost it when he hit the post, I’ll wager; unless the other pitched it away. But that’s neither here nor there...What’s that?” He turned his head quickly. “That stairfoot door ain’t latched again, Stevy. Made me jump: fancied it was the other.”
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 134