Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison

by Arthur Morrison

  “‘What?’ says the missis. ‘Why, I thought you was a-goin’ to buy him!’ For ye see she ‘adn’t tumbled to the racket yet.

  “‘Never you mind,’ says I; ‘you git yer bonnet an’ do what I tell you.’

  “So the missis gits her bonnet an’ puts a string on Rhymer the Second (which looked anythink but a winner by this time, you may bet) an’ goes off to the p’lice-station. She’d got her tale all right, o’ course, from me, all about the stray dawg that had bin follerin’ ‘er, an’ seemed so ‘ungry, pore thing, an’ wouldn’t go away, an’ that she was ‘arf afraid of. So they took ‘im in, o’ course, as dooty bound, an’ put ‘im along of the other strays, an’’omemissis she come ‘orne without ‘im.

  “Well, Sam gives a sort o’ casual eye to the p’lice-station, an’ next mornin’ ‘e sees a bobby go off with the strays what had been collected — about ‘arf-a dozen of ‘em — with our little chap among ‘em, to the Dawgs’ ‘Ome. Now, in understandin’ my little business speculation, you must remember that this was in the thick o’ the muzzlin’ rage, when the p’lice was very strict an’ the Dawgs’ ‘Ome was full enough to bust. I knowed the ropes o’ the thing, an’ I knowed pretty well what ‘ud ‘appen. The little dawg ‘ud be took in among the others in the big yard where they keep all the little ‘uns, a place cram jam full o’ other dawgs about ‘is size an’ condition, so as it ain’t allus easy to tell t’other from which. There ‘e’d stop for three days — no less an’ no more, unless ‘e was claimed or bought. If ‘e wasn’t either claimed or bought at the end o’ three days, into the oven ‘e went, an’ there was an end of ‘im. Mind you, in ordinary the good ‘uns ‘ud be picked out an’ nursed up an’ what not, an’ sold better; but these busy days there was no time an’ no conveniences for that, an’ they ‘ad to treat all alike. So that I was pretty sure anyway that the Sutton swell ‘ad made ‘is visit long ago, an’, o’ course, found nothink. So next day I says to the missis, ‘Missis, I’ve got another job for you. There’s a pore little lost dawg at the Dawgs’ ‘Ome I want ye to buy. You’ll git him for about five bob. ‘E looks pretty much off colour, I expect— ‘arf starved, with a touch o’ mange; an’ ‘e’s a fox-terrier.’

  “When the missis tumbled to it at last I thought she’d ha’ bust ‘erself a-laughin’. ‘Lor’, Bill,’ she says, ‘you — well there — you are! I never guessed what you was a-drivin’ at!’

  “‘All right,’ says I, ‘you know now, anyway. Pitch your mug a bit more solemn than that an’ sling out alter the dawg. An’ mind,’ I says, ‘mind an’ git the proper receipt for the money in the orfice.’

  “‘Cos why? That’s lor. I knowed all that afore I begun the speculation. You go an’ buy a dawg, fair an’ honest, at the Dawgs’ ‘Orne, an’ get a receipt for yer money, an’ that dawg’s yourn — yourn straight an’ legal, afore all the judges of England, no matter whose that dawg might ha’ bin once. That’s bin tried an’ settled long ago. Now you see my arrangement plain enough, don’t ye?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I think I do. A little rough on the original owner, though, wasn’t it?”

  “Business — nothink but business! Why, bless ye, I’d ha’ bin in the workus long enough ago if I ‘adn’t kep’ a sharp eye to business. An’, tor’, honesty’s the best policy, as this ‘ere speculation shows ye plain. If I’d ha’ bin dishonest an’ stole that dawg an’ kep’ it, what good would it ha’ bin to me? None at all. I couldn’t ha’ showed it, I couldn’t ha’ sold it for more’n a song, an’ if I ‘ad, why, it ‘ud ha’ bin spotted an’ I’d ha’ bin ‘ad up. Well, six months’ ‘ard ain’t what I keep shop for, an’ it ain’t business. But playin’ the honest, legal, proper game I made a bit, as you’ll see.

  “The missis she goes off to the Dawgs’ ‘Orne. Mind you, they didn’t know ‘er. She only took the dawg to the p’lice, an’ the p’lice took ‘im to the ‘orne. So the missis goes to the ‘orne with ‘er tale all ready, an’ ‘Please, I want a little dawg,’ she says, ‘a nice, cheap little dog for me an’ my ‘usband to make a pet of. I think I’d like one o’ them little white ‘uns,’ she says; ‘I dunno what they call ‘em, but I mean them little white ‘uns with black marks.’ She can pitch it in pretty innocent, can the missis, when she likes.

  “‘Why,’ says the man, ‘I expect you mean a fox-terrier. Well, we’ve got plenty o’ them. Come this way, mum, an’ look at ‘em.’

  “So ‘e takes ‘er along to the yard where the little ‘uns was, an’ she looks through the bars an’ pretty soon she spots our little dawg not far off, lookin’ as bad as any of ‘em. ‘There,’ says she, ‘that’s the sort o’ little dawg I was a-thinking of, if ‘e wouldn’t come too dear — that one there that looks so ‘ungry, pore thing. I’d keep ‘im well fed, I would,’ she says.

  “Well, it was all right about the price, an’ she got ‘im for the five bob, an’ got the receipt too, all reg’lar an’ proper, in the orfice. ‘You ain’t chose none so bad, mum,’ says the keeper, lookin’ ‘im over. ‘‘E’s a very good little dawg is that, only out o’ condition. If we ‘adn’t bin so busy we’d ha’ put ‘im into better trim, an’ then ‘e’d ha’ bin dearer.’

  “‘Oh,’ says the missis, ‘then I couldn’t ‘ave afforded to buy ‘im; so I’m glad you didn’t.’

  “‘Well,’ says the man, ‘there’s no character with ‘im, o’ course, but I shouldn’t be surprised if ‘e was a pedigree dawg.’ ‘E knowed a thing or two, did that keeper.

  “So ye see the little dawg was mine, proper an’ legal. Bein’ mine, I could afford to treat ‘im well, an’ precious soon, what with a dose or two o’ stuff, careful feeding, plenty o’ exercise, an’ proper care o’ the coat, Rhymer the Second was as bright an’ ‘andsome as ever. Only we called ‘im Twizzler for reasons o’ business, as you’ll understand. An’ ‘e comes on so prime that I registers ‘im, an’ next show just round ‘ere I enters ‘im for every class ‘e’d go in — open class, novice dass, an’ limit class. And blowed if ‘e didn’t take fust in all of ‘em, an’ a special too! But there— ‘e couldn’t but win, sich a beauty as ‘e was; ‘e ketches the judge’s eye at once. After all the bad ‘uns ‘ad bin sent out o’ the ring it was all done — the judge couldn’t leave off lookin’ at ‘im. So there it was arter all — all the fusts for ‘Mr. W. Wragg’s Twizzler, pedigree unknown. Not for Sale.’

  “Well, that was pretty good, but there was more to come. Just afore the show closed I was a-lookin’ round with Sam, when one o’ the keepers comes up with a message from the sec’t’ry. ‘There’s a gent carryin’ on like one o’clock,’ says the keeper, ‘about your fox-terrier. Swears it’s ‘is as was stole from ‘im awhile back, an’ the sec’t’ry would like you to step over.’

  “O’ course, I was all ready, with the receipt snug an’ ‘andy in my pocket, an’ I goes over bold as brass. There was the sec’t’ry with ‘is rosette, an’ another chap with ‘is, an’ a p’liceman an’ a keeper, an’ there was the toff with gig-lamps an’ a red face, a-shakin’ of his fist an’ rantin’ an’ goin’ on awful. ‘I tell you that’s my dawg,’ ‘e says; ‘the most valuable animal in my kennels, stole while ‘e was bein’ exercised! Someone shall go to gaol over this!’ ‘e says. ‘Show me the man as entered it!’

  “‘All right, guv’nor,’ says I, calm an’ peaceful, ‘that’s me; I entered ‘im. Little dawg o’ mine called Twizzler. What was you a-sayin’ about ‘im?’

  “‘Why, the dog’s mine, I tell you, you rascal! Stolen in February! And you’ve changed his name! What—’

  “‘Steady on, guv’nor,’ I says, quiet an’ dignified. ‘You’re excited an’ rather insultin’. I ain’t changed any dawg’s name. ‘E ‘adn’t got no name when I bought ‘im, an’ I give ‘im the one ‘e’s got now. An’ as to ‘is bein’ your dawg — well, ‘e ain’t, ‘cos ‘e’s mine.’

  “‘Then how did you come by him?’ he says, madder than ever.

  “‘Bought ‘im, sir,’ I says, ‘reg’lar an
’ proper an’ legal. Bought ‘im for five shillin’s.’

  “Five shillings!’ roars the toff. ‘Why, that dog’s worth a hundred and fifty pounds! Here, where’s a policeman? I’ll give him in charge! I’ll see this thing through; I’ll—’

  “‘Five bob was the price, guv’nor,’ says I, quiet an’ genelmanly. ‘Though I’ve no doubt you understand ‘is value better than what I do. An’ ‘ere’s my receipt,’ I says, ‘that makes me ‘is owner honest an’ legal before any judge in England!’ An’ I pulls out the paper.

  “‘Well, just look here,’ says the sec’t’ry, ‘don’t let’s have any wrangling. Theres a misunderstanding somewhere. You two gentlemen come into my office and see if it can’t be settled.’ ‘Cos, you see, a little crowd was a-gettin’ round, an’ the sec’t’ry he see well enough ‘ow I stood. So we walks over to the orfice, me leadin’ the dawg along o’ me, an’ the toff puffin’ an’ blusterin’ an’ goin’ on like steam.

  “‘Come,’ says the sec’t’ry, pleasant an’ cordial, ‘you two gentlemen have a cigar with me, and a whisky and soda,’ ‘e says; ‘and let’s see if this little matter can’t be settled in a friendly way,’ ‘e says.

  “‘Well,’ says I, ‘I’m agreeable enough. Only what can I do, when this ‘ere genelman comes a-kickin’ up a row an’ claimin’ my dawg, what I’ve bought legal an’ above-board? I can only tell honest ‘ow I bought ‘im, an’ show my legal receipt as proves what I say. I’m civil enough to the genelman,’ I says, ‘ain’t I?’

  “‘Oh yes, o’ course,’ says the sec’t’ry. ‘D’ye mind lettin’ me look at that receipt again? No doubt we’ll come to an arrangement.’

  “‘There’s the receipt, sir,’ I says; ‘I’m quite willin’ to trust it to you as an honourable genelman,’ I says.

  “So the sec’t’ry ‘as another look at the receipt, an’ ‘Just excuse us a moment, Mr. Wragg,’ he says, an’ ‘e goes aside with the toff an’ begins talkin’ it over quiet, while I lit up an’ ‘ad my whisky an’ soda. I should think it was a bob cigar. I could just ‘ear a word ‘ere an’ there— ‘No help for it,’ ‘That’s how it stands legally,’ ‘Think yourself lucky,’ an’ so on. An’ at last they comes over an’ the sec’t’ry says, ‘Well, Mr. Wragg,’ he says, ‘there’s no doubt the dog’s legally yours, as you say, but this gentleman’s willing to buy him of you, and give you a good profit on your bargain. What do you say?’

  “‘Why,’ I says, ‘‘e ain’t for sale. You can see it plain enough on the catalogue.’

  “‘Oh yes, of course, I know that,’ says the sec’t’ry. ‘But we’re men of the world here, men of business — none more so than yourself, I’m sure — and we can make a deal, no doubt. What do you say to twenty pounds?’

  “‘What?’ says I. ‘Twenty pound? An’ the genelman ‘isself said the dawg was worth a hundred an’ fifty this very minute? Is it likely?’ says I. ‘Ad ‘im there, I think. ‘It ain’t reasonable,’ I says.

  “‘H’m!’ says the sec’t’ry. ‘He certainly did say something about the dog being valuable. But just think. It can’t be worth much to you, with no pedigree.’

  “‘It’s worth jist what it ‘ll fetch to me,’ I says, ‘an’ no less.’

  “‘Just so,’ the sec’t’ry says, ‘but nobody’ll give you much for it with no pedigree, except this gentleman. And, remember, you got it cheap enough.’

  “‘Well, I dunno about cheap,’ I says, ‘‘E’s bin a deal of trouble to bring on an’ git in condition,’ I says.

  “‘Come, then,’ says the sec’t’ry, ‘put your own price on ‘im. Now!’

  “‘I don’t want to be ‘ard on the gent,’ I says, ‘an’ seeing ‘e’s took sich a fancy to the little dawg I’ll do ‘im a favour. I’ll make a big reduction on the price ‘e put on ‘im ‘isself. A hundred pound buys ‘im.’

  “When ‘e ‘eard that the toff bounces round an’ grabs ‘is ‘at. ‘I won’t be robbed twice like that,’ ‘e says, ‘if I lose five hundred dogs.’ An’ I begun to think I might ha’ ventured a bit too ‘igh. ‘I won’t submit to it,’ says ‘e.

  “‘Wait a moment,’ says the sec’t’ry, soothin’ like. ‘Mr. Wragg’s open to reason, I’m sure. You see, Mr. Wragg, the gentleman won’t go anything like as high, and if he won’t, nobody will. You won’t take twenty. Let’s say thirty, an’ finish the business.’

  “Well, we goes on ‘agglin’ till at last we settles it at fifty.

  “‘All right,’ I says, when I see it wouldn’t run to no more. ‘‘Ave it yer own way. I don’t want to stand in the way of a genelman as is took sich a fancy to a little dawg — I’m so sentimental over a dawg myself,’ I says.

  “So the toff, he pulls out ‘is cheque-book an’ writes out a cheque on the spot. ‘There,’ says the sec’t’ry, ‘that little misunderstanding’s settled, an’ I congratulate you two gentlemen. You’ve made a very smart bargain, Mr. Wragg, an’ you’ve got a dog, sir, that I hope will repay you well!’

  “An’ so the toff went off with the little dawg, an’ I went off with the fifty quid, both well pleased enough. An’ the dawg did pay ‘im well, as you can remember. ‘E was a lucky chap, was that toff. I never see sich a good dawg bought so cheap before. I ought to ha’ got more for ‘im, I think — but there, I am so sentimental about a dawg!”

  CHARLWOOD WITH A NUMBER

  MR. ROBERT CHARLWOOD’S house was the curiosity of its neighbourhood. It was a comfortable and well-conditioned house enough, standing in ground of its own, topmost on the hill of a high London suburb. But Mr. Charlwood had crowned the house (and consequently the hill) with curious superstructures, square, pointed, domed, ribbed, zinc-covered, pierced with apertures of weird design; structures some of which, it was reported, had been observed, in the twilight and dark of clear evenings, to shift and turn about on their axes, by the operation of no visible agency. Also there was a strange and contorted construction, like a pile of vast canisters, which clung irregularly to one side of the house, and was alleged to be a covered staircase leading from Mr. Charlwood’s study to the roof. All of which prodigies were explained by the simple fact that Mr. Charlwood was an astronomer.

  It might be said — it was said, in fact — that Mr. Charlwood was not so much a great as a persistent astronomer; I have heard it more than hinted, indeed, that he was not a great astronomer at all. Such rumours as these never disturbed him, however, because he never heard them; for he was an astronomical hermit. A more than middle-aged, quite well-to-do, and not particularly ascetic hermit, but a hermit nevertheless. He wrote and printed a great many capital letters after his name, of which few people could guess the precise significance. These letters cost him a good number of guineas a year, for they were the initials of all sorts of societies, membership in which was strictly confined to any gentlemen who would pay the subscriptions. Some came quite reasonable, considering the number of letters, and the dearest were only five guineas per annum. I heard of one, indeed, which gave you four initials for a guinea, but this was a very common affair, and I believe Mr. Charlwood’s letters of honour averaged out at fourteen and ninepence apiece, taking one with another; a far more respectable price, though not at all excessive.

  He was the author of many contributions to the chief scientific journals, their inability to print which — for reasons they carelessly left unexplained — caused great regret to the editors; and his lecture explaining eclipses, before the Parson’s Green Debating Society, greatly stirred that learned body. On one occasion a daily newspaper had actually printed a letter from him giving the time and particulars of the appearances of a curious light in the sky, thought possibly to have been a manifestation of the Aurora Borealis; and there is every reason to believe that the same newspaper would also have published his account of his observation, through his large telescope, of an extraordinary ascending flight of meteors, if he had sent it; and he would undoubtedly have sent it but for a certain misgiving ensuing on his descent from the observatory and his recep
tion of a report that the kitchen chimney had been on fire. “It’s a mercy the fire-engines haven’t been here, sir,” his housekeeper said; “the sparks were enough to bring ‘em five miles.”

  It was to the management of this Mrs. Page, his housekeeper, that Mr. Charlwood owed the equable regularity of his life. He was wholly unconscious of the debt, and by years of use and habit he had grown to regard his household as a sort of unchanging, preordained Planetary System. Mrs. Page, the cook, the two housemaids, and the parlourmaid were all elderly and long-established servants, and so was the gardener and odd-man. They revolved decorously and punctually about himself, the sun of the system; the resulting phenomena of shaving-water, breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, dusting, firefighting and lawn-mowing occurring with the exact and mechanical precision of the tides, the seasons, and the phases of the moon. There was an occasional eclipse, in the form of a chimney-sweeping or spring cleaning, and the kitchenmaid and the boot-boy came and went and changed erratically; but Mr. Charlwood saw little of them, and regarded them merely as irresponsible comets, with irregular orbits, striking in from outer space and away again, with no material disturbance to the solid planets about him. So he went his unchanging way, sleeping, rising, shaving, eating, reading, writing, astronomising, all to the tick of the clock, and one day and the next were as like as two full moons. Mrs. Page, visibly and invisibly, inspired and regulated the system throughout, and the smallest change in the exact order of the daily round would have affected Mr. Charlwood much as an astral catastrophe would have affected the tables in the Nautical Almanac. For many years, however, Mrs. Page saw that nothing so offensive as change of the smallest sort occurred in the Charlwood system.