JERRY BUNDLER
It wanted a few nights to Christmas, a festival for which the small market town of Torchcster was making extensive preparations. The narrow streets which had been thronged with people were now almost deserted; the cheap-jack from London, with the remnant of breath left him after his evening’s exertions, was making feeble attempts to blow out his naphtha lamp, and the last shops open were rapidly closing for the night.
In the comfortable coffee-room of the old Boar’s Head, half a dozen guests, principally commercial travellers, sat talking by the light of the fire. The talk had drifted from trade to politics, from politics to religion, and so by easy stages to the supernatural. Three ghost stories, never known to fail before, had fallen flat; there was too much noise outside, too much light within. The fourth story was told by an old hand with more success; the streets were quiet, and he had turned the gas out. In the flickering light of the fire, as it shone on the glasses and danced with shadows on the walls, the story proved so enthralling that George, the waiter, whose presence had been forgotten, created a very disagreeable sensation by suddenly starting up from a dark corner and gliding silently from the room. “That’s what I call a good story,” said one of the men, sipping his hot whisky. “Of course it’s an old idea that spirits like to get into the company of human beings. A man told me once that he travelled down the Great Western with a ghost and hadn’t the slightest suspicion of it until the inspector came for tickets. My friend said the way that ghost tried to keep up appearances by feeling for it in all its pockets and looking on the floor was quite touching. Ultimately it gave it up and with a faint groan vanished through the ventilator.”
“That’ll do, Hirst,” said another man.
“It’s not a subject for jesting,” said a little old gentleman who had been an attentive listener. “I’ve never seen an apparition myself, but I know people who have, and I consider that they form a very interesting link between us and the afterlife. There’s a ghost story connected with this house, you know.”
“Never heard of it,” said another speaker, “and I’ve been here some years now.”
“It dates back a long time now,” said the old gentleman. “You’ve heard about Jerry Bundler, George?”
“Well, I’ve just ‘eard odds and ends, sir,” said the old waiter, “but I never put much count to ‘em. There was one chap ‘ere what said ‘e saw it, and the gov’ner sacked ‘im prompt.”
“My father was a native of this town,” said the old gentleman, “and knew the story well. He was a truthful man and a steady churchgoer, but I’ve heard him declare that once in his life he saw the appearance of Jerry Bundler in this house.”.
“And who was this Bundler?” inquired a voice.
“A London thief, pickpocket, highwayman—anything he could turn his dishonest hand to,” replied the old gentleman; “and he was run to earth in this house one Christmas week some eighty years ago. He took his last supper in this very room, and after he had gone up to bed a couple of Bow Street runners, who had followed him from London but lost the scent a bit, went upstairs with the landlord and tried the door. It was stout oak, and fast, so one went into the yard, and by means of a short ladder got onto the window-sill, while the other stayed outside the door. Those below in the yard saw the man crouching on the sill, and then there was a sudden smash of glass, and with a cry he fell in a heap on the stones at their feet. Then in the moonlight they saw the white face of the pickpocket peeping over the sill, and while some stayed in the yard, others ran into the house and helped the other man to break the door in. It was difficult to obtain an entrance even then, for it was barred with heavy furniture, but they got in at last, and the first thing that met their eyes was the body of Jerry dangling from the top of the bed by his own handkerchief.”
“Which bedroom was it?” asked two or three voices together.
The narrator shook his head. “That I can’t tell you; but the story goes that Jerry still haunts this house, and my father used to declare positively that the last time he slept here the ghost of Jerry Bundler lowered itself from the top of his bed and tried to strangle him.”
“That’ll do,” said an uneasy voice. “I wish you’d thought to ask your father which bedroom it was.”
“What for?” inquired the old gentleman.
“Well, I should take care not to sleep in it, that’s all,” said the voice, shortly.
“There’s nothing to fear,” said the other. “I don’t believe for a moment that ghosts could really-hurt one. In fact my father used to confess that it was only the unpleasantness of the thing that upset him, and that for all practical purposes Jerry’s fingers might have been made of cottonwool for all the harm they could do.”
“That’s all very fine,” said the last speaker again; “a ghost story is a ghost story, sir; but when a gentleman tells a tale of a ghost in the house in which one is going to sleep, I call it most ungentlemanly!”
“Pooh! nonsense!” said the old gentleman, rising; “ghosts can’t hurt you. For my own part, I should rather like to see one. Good night, gentlemen.”
“Good night,” said the others. “And I only hope Jerry’ll pay you a visit,” added the nervous man as the door closed.
“Bring some more whisky, George,” said a stout commercial; “I want keeping up when the talk turns this way.”
“Shall I light the gas, Mr. Malcolm?” said George.
“No; the fire’s very comfortable,” said the traveller. “Now, gentlemen, any of you know any more?”
“I think we’ve had enough,” said another man; “we shall be thinking we see spirits next, and we’re not all like the old gentleman who’s just gone.”
“Old humbug!” said Hirst. “I should like to put him to the test. Suppose I dress up as Jerry Bundler and go and give him a chance of displaying his courage?”
“Bravo!” said Malcolm, huskily, drowning one or two faint “Noes.” “Just for the joke, gentlemen.”
“No, no! Drop it, Hirst,” said another man.
“Only for the joke,” said Hirst, somewhat eagerly. “I’ve got some things upstairs in which I am going to play in the Rivals—knee-breeches, buckles, and all that sort of thing. It’s a rare chance. If you’ll wait a bit I’ll give you a full-dress rehearsal, entitled, ‘Jerry Bundler; or, The Nocturnal Strangler.’”
“You won’t frighten us,” said the commercial, with a husky laugh.
“I don’t know that,” said Hirst, sharply; “it’s a question of acting, that’s all. I’m pretty good, ain’t I, Somers?”
“Oh, you’re all right—for an amateur,” said his friend, with a laugh.
“I’ll bet you a level sov. you don’t frighten me,” said the stout traveller.
“Done!” said Hirst. “I’ll take the bet to frighten you first and the old gentleman afterwards. These gentlemen shall be the judges.”
“You won’t frighten us, sir,” said another man, “because we’re prepared for you; but you’d better leave the old man alone. It’s dangerous play.”
“Well, I’ll try you first,” said Hirst, springing up. “No gas, mind.”
He ran lightly upstairs to his room, leaving the others, most of whom had been drinking somewhat freely, to wrangle about his proceedings. It ended in two of them going to bed.
“He’s crazy on acting,” said Somers, lighting his pipe. “Thinks he’s the equal of anybody almost. It doesn’t matter with us, but I won’t let him go to the old man. And he won’t mind so long as he gets an opportunity of acting to us.”
“Well, I hope he’ll hurry up,” said Malcolm, yawning; “it’s after twelve now.”
Nearly half an hour passed. Malcolm drew his watch from his pocket and was busy winding it, when George, the waiter, who had been sent on an errand to the bar, burst suddenly into the room and rushed towards them.
“‘E’s comin’, gentlemen,” he said breathlessly.
“Why, you’re frightened, George,” said the stout commercial, with a chuckle.
“It was the suddenness of it,” said George, sheepishly; “and besides, I didn’t look for seein’ ‘im in the bar. There’s only a glimmer of light there, and ‘e was sitting on the floor behind the bar. I nearly trod on ‘im.”
“Oh, you’ll never make a man, George,” said Malcolm.
“Well, it took me unawares,” said the waiter. “Not that I’d have gone to the bar by myself if I’d known ‘e was there, and I don’t believe you would either, sir.”
“Nonsense!” said Malcolm. “I’ll go and fetch him in.”
“You don’t know what it’s like, sir,” said George, catching him by the sleeve. “It ain’t fit to look at by yourself, it ain’t, indeed. It’s got the—What’s that?”
They all started at the sound of a smothered cry from the staircase and the sound of somebody running hurriedly along the passage. Before anybody could speak, the door flew open and a figure bursting into the room flung itself gasping and shivering upon them.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” demanded Malcolm. “Why, it’s Mr. Hirst.” He shook him roughly and then held some spirit to his lips. Hirst drank it greedily and with a sharp intake of his breath gripped him by the arm.
“Light the gas, George,” said Malcolm.
The waiter obeyed hastily. Hirst, a ludicrous but pitiable figure in knee-breeches and coat, a large wig all awry and his face a mess of grease paint, clung to him, trembling.
“Now, what’s the matter?” asked Malcolm.
“I’ve seen it,” said Hirst, with a hysterical sob. “O Lord, I’ll never play the fool again, never!”
“Seen what?” said the others.
“Him—it—the ghost—anything!” said Hirst, wildly.
“Rot!” said Malcolm, uneasily.
“I was coming down the stairs,” said Hirst. “Just capering down—as I thought—it ought to do. I felt a tap—”
He broke off suddenly and peered nervously through the open door into the passage.
“I thought I saw it again,” he whispered.
“Look—at the foot of the stairs. Can you see anything?”
“No, there’s nothing there,” said Malcolm, whose own voice shook a little. “Go on. You felt a tap on your shoulder—”
“I turned round and saw it—a little wicked head and a white dead face. Pah!”
“That’s what I saw in the bar,” said George. “‘Orrid it was—devilish!”
Hirst shuddered, and, still retaining his nervous grip of Malcolm’s sleeve, dropped into a chair.
“Well, it’s a most unaccountable thing,” said the dumbfounded Malcolm, turning round to the others. “It’s the last time I come to this house.”
“I leave to-morrow,” said George. “I wouldn’t go down to that bar again by myself, no, not for fifty pounds!”
“It’s talking about the thing that’s caused it, I expect,” said one of the men; “we’ve all been talking about this and having it in our minds. Practically we’ve been forming a spiritualistic circle without knowing it.”
“Hang the old gentleman!” said Malcolm, heartily. “Upon my soul, I’m half afraid to go to bed. It’s odd they should both think they saw something.”
“I saw it as plain as I see you, sir,” said George, solemnly. “P’raps if you keep your eyes turned up the passage you’ll see it for yourself.”
They followed the direction of his finger, but saw nothing, although one of them fancied that a head peeped round the corner of the wall.
“Who’ll come down to the bar?” said Malcolm, looking round.
“You can go, if you like,” said one of the others, with a faint laugh; “we’ll wait here for you.”
The stout traveller walked towards the door and took a few steps up the passage. Then he stopped. All was quite silent, and he walked slowly to the end and looked down fearfully towards the glass partition which shut off the bar. Three times he made as though to go to it; then he turned back, and, glancing over his shoulder, came hurriedly back to the room.
“Did you see it, sir?” whispered George.
“Don’t know,” said Malcolm, shortly. “I fancied I saw something, but it might have been fancy. I’m in the mood to see anything just now. How are you feeling now, sir?”
“Oh, I feel a bit better now,” said Hirst, somewhat brusquely, as all eyes were turned upon him.
“I dare say you think I’m easily scared, but you didn’t see it.”
“Not at all,” said Malcolm, smiling faintly despite himself.
“I’m going to bed,” said Hirst, noticing the smile and resenting it. “Will you share my room with me, Somers?”
“I will with pleasure,” said his friend, “provided you don’t mind sleeping with the gas on full all night.”
He rose from his seat, and bidding the company a friendly good-night, left the room with his crestfallen friend. The others saw them to the foot of the stairs, and having heard their door close, returned to the coffee-room.
“Well, I suppose the bet’s off?” said the stout commercial, poking the fire and then standing with his legs apart on the hearthrug; “though, as far as I can see, I won it. I never saw a man so scared in all my life. Sort of poetic justice about it, isn’t there?”
“Never mind about poetry or justice,” said one of his listeners; “who’s going to sleep with me?”
“I will,” said Malcolm, affably.
“And I suppose we share a room together, Mr. Leek?” said the third man, turning to the fourth.
“No, thank you,” said the other, briskly; “I don’t believe in ghosts. If anything comes into my room I shall shoot it.”
“That won’t hurt a spirit, Leek,” said Malcolm, decisively.
“Well the noise’ll be like company to me,” said Leek, “and it’ll wake the house too. But if you’re nervous, sir,” he added, with a grin, to the man who had suggested sharing his room, “George’ll be only too pleased to sleep on the door-mat inside your room, I know.”
“That I will, sir,” said George, fervently; “and if you gentlemen would only come down with me to the bar to put the gas out, I could never be sufficiently grateful.”
They went out in a body, with the exception of Leek, peering carefully before them as they went George turned the light out in the bar and they returned unmolested to the coffee-room, and, avoiding the sardonic smile of Leek, prepared to separate for the night.
“Give me the candle while you put the gas out, George,” said the traveller.
The waiter handed it to him and extinguished the gas, and at the same moment all distinctly heard a step in the passage outside. It stopped at the door, and as they watched with bated breath, the door creaked and slowly opened. Malcolm fell back open-mouthed, as a white, leering face, with sunken eyeballs and close-cropped bullet head, appeared at the opening.
For a few seconds the creature stood regarding them, blinking in a strange fashion at the candle. Then, with a sidling movement, it came a little way into the room and stood there as if bewildered.
Not a man spoke or moved, but all watched with a horrible fascination as the creature removed its dirty neckcloth and its head rolled on its shoulder. For a minute it paused, and then, holding the rag before it, moved towards Malcolm.
The candle went out suddenly with a flash and a bang. There was a smell of powder, and something writhing in the darkness on the floor. A faint, choking cough, and then silence. Malcolm was the first to speak. “Matches,” he said, in a strange voice. George struck one. Then he leapt at the gas and a burner flamed from the match. Malcolm touched the thing on the floor with his foot and found it soft. He looked at his companions. They mouthed inquiries at him, but he shook his head. He lit the candle, and, kneeling down, examined the silent thing on the floor. Then he rose swiftly, and dipping his handkerchief in the water-jug, bent down again and grimly wiped the white face. Then he sprang back with a cry of incredulous horror, pointing at it. Leek’s pistol fell to the floor and he shut out the sight with his hands, but the others, crowding forward, gazed spell-bound at the dead face of Hirst.
Before a word was spoken the door opened and Somers hastily entered the room. His eyes fell on the floor. “Good God!” he cried. “You didn’t—”
Nobody spoke.
“I told him not to,” he said, in a suffocating voice. “I told him not to. I told him—”
He leaned against the wall, deathly sick, put his arms out feebly, and fell fainting into the traveller’s arms.
FALSE COLOURS
Of course, there is a deal of bullying done at sea at times,” said the night-watchman, thoughtfully. ‘The men call it bullying an’ the officers call it discipline, but it’s the same thing under another name. Still, it’s fair in a way. It gets passed on from one to another. Everybody aboard a’most has got somebody to bully, except, perhaps, the boy; he ‘as the worst of it, unless he can manage to get the ship’s cat by itself occasionally.
“I don’t think sailor-men mind being bullied. I never ‘eard of its putting one off ‘is feed yet, and that’s the main thing, arter all’s said and done.
“Fust officers are often worse than skippers. In the fust place, they know they ain’t skippers, an’ that alone is enough to put ‘em in a bad temper, especially if they’ve ‘ad their certifikit a good many years and can’t get a vacancy.
“I remember, a good many years ago now, I was lying at Calcutta one time in the Peewit, as fine a barque as you’d wish to see, an’ we ‘ad a fust mate there as was a disgrace to ‘is sects. A nasty, bullying, violent man, who used to call the hands names as they didn’t know the meanings of and what was no use looking in the dictionary for.
“There was one chap aboard, Bill Cousins, as he used to make a partikler mark of. Bill ‘ad the misfortin to ‘ave red ‘air, and the way the mate used to throw that in ‘is face was disgraceful. Fortunately for us all, the skipper was a very decent sort of man, so that the mate was only at ‘is worst when he wasn’t by.
“We was sitting in the fo’c’s’le at tea one arter-noon, when Bill Cousins came down, an’ we see at once ‘e’d ‘ad a turn with the mate. He sat all by hisself for some time simmering, an’ then he broke out. ‘One o’ these days I’ll swing for ‘im; mark my words.’
“‘Don’t be a fool, Bill,’ ses Joe Smith.
“‘If I could on’y mark ‘im,’ ses Bill, catching his breath. ‘Just mark ‘im fair an’ square. If I could on’y ‘ave ‘im alone for ten minutes, with nobody standing by to see fair play. But, o’ course, if I ‘it ‘im it’s mutiny.’
“‘You couldn’t do it if it wasn’t, Bill,’ ses Joe Smith again.
“‘He walks about the town as though the place belongs to ‘im,’ said Ted Hill. ‘Most of us is satisfied to shove the niggers out o’ the way, but he ups fist and ‘its ‘em if they comes within a yard of ‘im.’
“‘Why don’t they ‘it ‘im back?’ ses Bill. ‘I would if I was them.’
“Joe Smith grunted. ‘Well, why don’t you?’ he asked.
“‘’Cos I ain’t a nigger,’ ses Bill.
“‘Well, but you might be,’ ses Joe, very softly. ‘Black your face an’ ‘ands an’ legs, and dress up in them cotton things, and go ashore and get in ‘is way.’
“‘If you will, I will, Bill,’ ses a chap called Bob Pullin.
“Well, they talked it over and over, and at last Joe, who seemed to take a great interest in it, went ashore and got the duds for ‘em. They was a tight fit for Bill, Hindoos not being as wide as they might be, but Joe said if ‘e didn’t bend about he’d be all right, and Pullin, who was a smaller man, said his was fust class.
“After they were dressed, the next question was wot to use to colour them with; coal was too scratchy, an’ ink Bill didn’t like. Then Ted Hill burnt a cork and started on Bill’s nose with it afore it was cool, an’ Bill didn’t like that.
“‘Look ‘ere,’ ses the carpenter, ‘nothin’ seems to please you, Bill—it’s my opinion you’re backing out of it.’
“‘You’re a liar,’ ses Bill.
“‘Well, I’ve got some stuff in a can as might be boiled-down Hindoo for all you could tell to the difference,’ ses the carpenter; ‘and if you’ll keep that ugly mouth of yours shut, I’ll paint you myself.’
“Well, Bill was a bit flattered, the carpenter being a very superior sort of a man, and quite an artist in ‘is way, an’ Bill sat down an’ let ‘im do ‘im with some stuff out of a can that made ‘im look like a Hindoo what ‘ad been polished. Then Bob Pullin was done too, an’ when they’d got their turbins on, the change in their appearance was wonderful.
“‘Feels a bit stiff,’ ses Bill, working ‘is mouth.
“‘That’ll wear off,’ ses the carpenter; ‘it wouldn’t be you if you didn’t ‘ave a grumble, Bill.’
“‘And mind and don’t spare ‘im, Bill,’ ses Joe. ‘There’s two of you, an’ if you only do wot’s expected of you, the mate ought to ‘ave a easy time abed this v’y’ge.’
“‘Let the mate start fust,’ ses Ted Hill. ‘He’s sure to start on you if you only get in ‘is way. Lord, I’d like to see his face when you start on ‘im.
“Well, the two of ‘em went ashore arter dark with the best wishes o’ all on board, an’ the rest of us sat down in the fo’c’s’le spekerlating as to what sort o’ time the mate was goin’ to ‘ave. He went ashore all right, because Ted Hill see ‘im go, an’ he noticed with partikler pleasure as ‘ow he was dressed very careful.
“It must ha’ been near eleven o’clock. I was sitting with Smith on the port side o’ the galley, when we heard a ‘ubbub approaching the ship. It was the mate just coming aboard. He was without ‘is ‘at; ‘is necktie was twisted round ‘is ear, and ‘is shirt and ‘is collar was all torn to shreds. The second and third officers ran up to him to see what was the matter, and while he was telling them, up comes the skipper.
“‘You don’t mean to tell me, Mr. Fingall,’ ses the skipper, in surprise, ‘that you’ve been knocked about like that by them mild and meek Hindoos?’
“‘Hindoos, sir?’ roared the mate. ‘Certainly not, sir. I’ve been assaulted like this by five German sailor-men. And I licked ‘em all.’
“‘I’m glad to hear that,’ ses the skipper; and the second and third pats the mate on the back, just like you pat a dog you don’t know.
“‘Big fellows they was,’ ses he, ‘an’ they give me some trouble. Look at my eye!’
“The second officer struck a match and looked at it, and it cert’n’y was a beauty.
“‘I hope you reported this at the police station?’ ses the skipper.
“‘No, sir,’ ses the mate, holding up ‘is ‘ead. ‘I don’t want no p’lice to protect me. Five’s a large number, but I drove ‘em off, and I don’t think they’ll meddle with any British fust officers again.’
“‘You’d better turn in,’ ses the second, leading him off by the arm.
“The mate limped off with him, and as soon as the coast was clear we put our ‘eads together and tried to make out how it was that Bill Cousins and Bob ‘ad changed themselves into five German sailor-men.
“‘It’s the mate’s pride,’ ses the carpenter. ‘He didn’t like being knocked about by Hindoos.’
“We thought it was that, but we had to wait nearly another hour afore the two came aboard, to make sure. There was a difference in the way they came aboard, too, from that of the mate. They didn’t make no noise, and the fust thing we knew of their coming aboard was seeing a bare, black foot waving feebly at the top of the fo’c’s’le ladder feelin’ for the step.
“That was Bob. He came down without a word, and then we see ‘e was holding another black foot and guiding it to where it should go. That was Bill, an’ of all the ‘orrid, limp-looking blacks that you ever see, Bill was the worst when he got below. He just sat on a locker all of a heap and held ‘is ‘ead, which was swollen up, in ‘is hands. Bob went and sat beside ‘im, and there they sat, for all the world like two wax figgers instead o’ human beings.
“‘Well, you done it, Bill,’ ses Joe, after waiting a long time for them to speak. ‘Tell us all about it.’
“‘Nothin’ to tell,’ ses Bill, very surly. ‘We knocked ‘im about.’
“‘And he knocked us about,’ ses Bob, with a groan. ‘I’m sore all over, and as for my feet—’
“‘Wot’s the matter with them?’ ses Joe.
“‘Trod on,’ ses Bob, very short. ‘If my bare feet was trod on once they was a dozen times. I’ve never ‘ad such a doing in all my life. He fought like a devil. I thought he’d ha’ murdered Bill.’
“‘I wish ‘e ‘ad,’ ses Bill, with a groan; ‘my face is bruised and cut about cruel. I can’t bear to touch it.’
“‘Do you mean to say the two of you couldn’t settle ‘im?’ ses Joe, staring.
“‘I mean to say we got a hiding,’ ses Bill. ‘We got close to him fust start off and got our feet trod on. Arter that it was like fighting a windmill, with sledge-hammers for sails.’
“He gave a groan and turned over in his bunk, and when we asked him some more about it, he swore at us. They both seemed quite done up, and at last they dropped off to sleep just as they was, without even stopping to wash the black off or to undress themselves.
“I was awoke rather early in the morning by the sounds of somebody talking to themselves, and a little splashing of water. It seemed to go on a long while, and at last I leaned out of my bunk and see Bill bending over a bucket and washing himself and using bad langwidge.
“‘Wot’s the matter, Bill?’ ses Joe, yawning and sitting up in bed.
“‘My skin’s that tender, I can hardly touch it,’ ses Bill, bending down and rinsing ‘is face. ‘Is it all orf?’
“‘Orf?’ ses Joe; ‘no, o’ course it ain’t. Why don’t you use some soap?’
“‘Soap,’ answers Bill, mad-like; ‘why, I’ve used more soap than I’ve used for six months in the ordinary way.’
“That’s no good,’ ses Joe; ‘give yourself a good wash.’
“Bill put down the soap then very careful, and went over to ‘im and told him all the dreadful things he’d do to him when he got strong agin, and then Bob Pullin got out of his bunk an’ ‘ad a try on his face. Him an’ Bill kept washing and then taking each other to the light and trying to believe it was coming off until they got sick of it, and then Bill, ‘e up with his foot and capsized the bucket, and walked up and down the fo’c’s’le raving.
“‘Well, the carpenter put it on,’ ses a voice, ‘make ‘im take it orf.’
“You wouldn’t believe the job we ‘ad to wake that man up. He wasn’t fairly woke till he was hauled out of ‘is bunk an’ set down opposite them two pore black fellers an’ told to make ‘em white again.
“‘I don’t believe as there’s anything will touch it,’ he says, at last. ‘I forgot all about that.’
“‘Do you mean to say,’ bawls Bill, ‘that we’ve got to be black all the rest of our life?’
“‘Cert’nly not,’ ses the carpenter, indignantly, ‘it’ll wear off in time; shaving every morning ‘ll ‘elp it, I should say.’
“‘I’ll get my razor now,’ ses Bill, in a awful voice; ‘don’t let ‘im go, Bob. I’ll ‘ack ‘is head orf.’
“He actually went off an’ got his razor, but, o’ course, we jumped out o’ our bunks and got between ‘em and told him plainly that it was not to be, and then we set ‘em down and tried everything we could think of, from butter and linseed oil to cold tea-leaves used as a poultice, and all it did was to make ‘em shinier an’ shinier.
“‘It’s no good, I tell you,’ ses the carpenter, ‘it’s the most lasting black I know. If I told you how much that stuff is a can, you wouldn’t believe me.’
“‘Well, you’re in it,’ ses Bill, his voice all of a tremble; ‘you done it so as we could knock the mate about. Whatever’s done to us’ll be done to you too.’
“‘I don’t think turps’ll touch it,’ ses the carpenter, getting up, ‘but we’ll ‘ave a try.’
“He went and fetched the can and poured some out on a bit o’ rag and told Bill to dab his face with it. Bill give a dab, and the next moment he rushed over with a scream and buried his head in a shirt what Simmons was wearing at the time and began to wipe his face with it. Then he left the flustered Simmons an’ shoved another chap away from the bucket and buried his face in it and kicked and carried on like a madman. Then ‘e jumped into his bunk again and buried ‘is face in the clothes and rocked hisself and moaned as if he was dying.
“‘Don’t you use it, Bob,’ he ses, at last
“‘’Tain’t likely,’ ses Bob. ‘It’s a good thing you tried it fust, Bill.’
“‘’Ave they tried holy-stone?’ ses a voice from a bunk.
“‘No, they ain’t,’ ses Bob, snappishly, ‘and, what’s more, they ain’t goin’ to.’
“Both o’ their tempers was so bad that we let the subject drop while we was at breakfast. The orkard persition of affairs could no longer be disregarded. Fust one chap threw out a ‘int and then another, gradually getting a little stronger and stronger, until Bill turned round in a uncomfortable way and requested of us to leave off talking with our mouths full and speak up like Englishmen wot we meant.
“‘You see, it’s this way, Bill,’ ses Joe, soft-like. ‘As soon as the mate sees you there’ll be trouble for all of us.’
“‘For all of us,’ repeats Bill, nodding.
“‘Whereas,’ ses Joe, looking round for support, ‘if we gets up a little collection for you and you should find it convenient to desart.’
“‘’Ear, ‘ear,’ ses a lot o’ voices. ‘Bravo, Joe.’
“‘Oh, desart is it?’ ses Bill; ‘an’ where are we goin’ to desart to?’
“‘Well, that we leave to you,’ ses Joe; ‘there’s many a ship short-’anded as would be glad to pick up sich a couple of prime sailor-men as you an’ Bob.’
“‘Ah, an’ wot about our black faces?’ ses Bill, still in the same sneering, ungrateful sort o’ voice.
“‘That can be got over,’ ses Joe.
“‘Ow?’ ses Bill and Bob together.
“‘Ship as nigger cooks,’ ses Joe, slapping his knee and looking round triumphant.
“It’s no good trying to do some people a kindness. Joe was perfectly sincere, and nobody could say but wot it wasn’t a good idea, but o’ course Mr. Bill Cousins must consider hisself insulted, and I can only suppose that the trouble he’d gone through ‘ad affected his brain. Likewise Bob Pullin’s. Anyway, that’s the only excuse I can make for ‘em. To cut a long story short, nobody ‘ad any more breakfast, and no time to do anything until them two men was scrouged up in a corner an’ ‘eld there unable to move.
“‘I’d never ‘ave done ‘em,’ ses the carpenter, arter it was all over, ‘if I’d know they was goin’ to carry on like this. They wanted to be done.’
“The mate’ll half murder ‘em,’ ses Ted Hill.
“‘He’ll ‘ave ‘em sent to gaol, that’s wot he’ll do,’ ses Smith. ‘It’s a serious matter to go ashore and commit assault and battery on the mate.’
“‘You’re all in it,’ ses the voice o’ Bill from the floor. ‘I’m going to make a clean breast of it. Joe Smith put us up to it, the carpenter blacked us, and the others encouraged us.’
“‘Joe got the clothes for us,’ ses Bob. ‘I know the place he got ‘em from, too.’
“The ingratitude o’ these two men was sich that at first we decided to have no more to do with them, but better feelings prevailed, and we held a sort o’ meeting to consider what was best to be done. An’ everything that was suggested one o’ them two voices from the floor found fault with and wouldn’t ‘ave, and at last we ‘ad to go up on deck with nothing decided upon, except to swear ‘ard and fast as we knew nothing about it.