THE VIGIL
I’m the happiest man in the world,” said Mr. Farrer, in accents of dreamy tenderness.
Miss Ward sighed. “Wait till father comes in,” she said.
Mr. Farrer peered through the plants which formed a welcome screen to the window and listened with some uneasiness. He was waiting for the firm, springy step that should herald the approach of ex-Sergeant-Major Ward. A squeeze of Miss Ward’s hand renewed his courage.
“Perhaps I had better light the lamp,” said the girl, after a long pause. “I wonder where mother’s got to?”
“She’s on my side, at any rate,” said Mr. Farrer.
“Poor mother!” said the girl. “She daren’t call her soul her own. I expect she’s sitting in her bedroom with the door shut. She hates unpleasantness. And there’s sure to be some.”
“So do I,” said the young man, with a slight shiver. “But why should there be any? He doesn’t want you to keep single all your life, does he?”
“He’d like me to marry a soldier,” said Miss Ward. “He says that the young men of the present day are too soft. The only thing he thinks about is courage and strength.”
She rose and, placing the lamp on the table, removed the chimney, and then sought round the room for the matches. Mr. Farrer, who had two boxes in his pocket, helped her.
They found a box at last on the mantelpiece, and Mr. Farrer steadied her by placing one arm round her waist while she lit the lamp. A sudden exclamation from outside reminded them that the blind was not yet drawn, and they sprang apart in dismay as a grizzled and upright old warrior burst into the room and confronted them.
“Pull that blind down!” he roared. “Not you,” he continued, as Mr. Farrer hastened to help. “What do you mean by touching my blind? What do you mean by embracing my daughter? Eh? Why don’t you answer?”
“We—we are going to be married,” said Mr. Farrer, trying to speak boldly.
The sergeant-major drew himself up, and the young man gazed in dismay at a chest which seemed as though it would never cease expanding.
“Married!” exclaimed the sergeant-major, with a grim laugh. “Married to a little tame bunny-rabbit! Not if I know it. Where’s your mother?” he demanded, turning to the girl.
“Upstairs,” was the reply.
Her father raised his voice, and a nervous reply came from above. A minute later Mrs. Ward, pale of cheek, entered the room.
“Here’s fine goings-on!” said the sergeant major, sharply. “I go for a little walk, and when I come back this—this infernal cockroach has got its arm round my daughter’s waist. Why don’t you look after her? Do you know anything about it?”
His wife shook her head.
“Five feet four and about thirty round the chest, and wants to marry my daughter!” said the sergeant-major, with a sneer. “Eh? What’s that? What did you say? What?”
“I said that’s a pretty good size for a cockroach,” murmured Mr. Farrer, defiantly. “Besides, size isn’t everything. If it was, you’d be a general instead of only a sergeant-major.”
“You get out of my house,” said the other, as soon as he could get his breath. “Go on Sharp with it.”
“I’m going,” said the mortified Mr. Farrer. “I’m sorry if I was rude. I came on purpose to see you to-night. Bertha—Miss Ward, I mean—told me your ideas, but I couldn’t believe her. I said you’d got more common sense than to object to a man just because he wasn’t a soldier.”
“I want a man for a son-in-law,” said the other. “I don’t say he’s got to be a soldier.”
“Just so,” said Mr. Farrer. “You’re a man, ain’t you? Well, I’ll do anything that you’ll do.”
“Pph!” said the sergeant-major. “I’ve done my little lot. I’ve been in action four times, and wounded in three places. That’s my tally.”
“The colonel said once that my husband doesn’t know what fear is,” said Mrs. Ward, timidly. “He’s afraid of nothing.”
“Except ghosts,” remarked her daughter, softly.
“Hold your tongue, miss,” said her father, twisting his moustache. “No sensible man is afraid of what doesn’t exist.”
“A lot of people believe they do, though,” said Mr. Farrer, breaking in. “I heard the other night that old Smith’s ghost has been seen again swinging from the apple tree. Three people have seen it.”
“Rubbish!” said the sergeant-major.
“Maybe,” said the young man; “but I’ll bet you, Mr. Ward, for all your courage, that you won’t go up there alone at twelve o’clock one night to see.”
“I thought I ordered you out of my house just now,” said the sergeant-major, glaring at him.
“Going into action,” said Mr. Farrer, pausing at the door, “is one thing —you have to obey orders and you can’t help yourself; but going to a lonely cottage two miles off to see the ghost of a man that hanged himself is another.”
“Do you mean to say I’m afraid?” blustered the other.
Mr. Farrer shook his head. “I don’t say anything,” he remarked; “but even a cockroach does a bit of thinking sometimes.”
“Perhaps you’d like to go,” said the sergeant-major.
“I don’t mind,” said the young man; “and perhaps you’ll think a little better of me, Mr. Ward. If I do what you’re afraid to do—”
Mrs. Ward and her daughter flung themselves hastily between the sergeant-major and his intended sacrifice. Mr. Farrer, pale but determined, stood his ground.
“I’ll dare you to go up and spend a night there alone,” he said.
“I’ll dare you,” said the incensed warrior, weakly.
“All right; I’ll spend Wednesday night there,” said Mr. Farrer, “and I’ll come round on Thursday and let you know how I got on.”
“I dare say,” said the other; “but I don’t want you here, and, what’s more, I won’t have you. You can go to Smith’s cottage on Wednesday at twelve o’clock if you like, and I’ll go up any time between twelve and three and make sure you’re there. D’ye understand? I’ll show you whether I’m afraid or not.”
“There’s no reason for you to be afraid,” said Mr. Farrer. “I shall be there to protect you. That’s very different to being there alone, as I shall be. But, of course, you can go up the next night by yourself, and wait for me, if you like. If you like to prove your courage, I mean.”
“When I want to be ordered about,” said the sergeant-major, in a magnificent voice, “I’ll let you know. Now go, before I do anything I might be sorry for afterwards.”
He stood at the door, erect as a ramrod, and watched the young man up the road. His conversation at the supper-table that night related almost entirely to puppy-dogs and the best way of training them.
He kept a close eye upon his daughter for the next day or two, but human nature has its limits. He tried to sleep one afternoon in his easy-chair with one eye open, but the exquisite silence maintained by Miss Ward was too much for it. A hum of perfect content arose from the feature below, and five minutes later Miss Ward was speeding in search of Mr. Farrer.
“I had to come, Ted,” she said, breathlessly, “because to-morrow’s Wednesday. I’ve got something to tell you, but I don’t know whether I ought to.”
“Tell me and let me decide,” said Mr. Farrer, tenderly.
“I—I’m so afraid you might be frightened,” said the girl. “I won’t tell you, but I’ll give you a hint. If you see anything awful, don’t be frightened.”
Mr. Farrer stroked her hand. “The only thing I’m afraid of is your father,” he said, softly.
“Oh!” said the girl, clasping her hands together. “You have guessed it.”
“Guessed it?” said Mr. Farrer.
Miss Ward nodded. “I happened to pass his door this morning,” she said, in a low voice. “It was open a little way, and he was standing up and measuring one of mother’s nightgowns against his chest. I couldn’t think what he was doing it for at first.”
Mr. Farrer whistled and his face hardened.
“That’s not fair play,” he said at last. “All right; I’ll be ready for him.”
“He doesn’t like to be put in the wrong,” said Miss Ward. “He wants to prove that you haven’t got any courage. He’d be disappointed if he found you had.”
“All right,” said Mr. Farrer again. “You’re an angel for coming to tell me.”
“Father would call me something else, I expect,” said Miss Ward, with a smile. “Good-bye. I want to get back before he wakes up.”
She was back in her chair, listening to her father’s slumbers, half an hour before he awoke.
“I’m making up for to-morrow night,” he said, opening his eyes suddenly.
His daughter nodded.
“Shows strength of will,” continued the sergeant-major, amiably. “Wellington could go to sleep at any time by just willing it. I’m the same way; I can go to sleep at five minutes’ notice.”
“It’s a very useful gift,” said Miss Ward, piously, “very.”
Mr. Ward had two naps the next day. He awoke from the second at twelve-thirty a.m., and in a somewhat disagreeable frame of mind rose and stretched himself. The house was very still. He took a small brown-paper parcel from behind the sofa and, extinguishing the lamp, put on his cap and opened the front door.
If the house was quiet, the little street seemed dead. He closed the door softly and stepped into the darkness. In terms which would have been understood by “our army in Flanders” he execrated the forefathers, the name, and the upbringing of Mr. Edward Farrer.
Not a soul in the streets; not a light in a window. He left the little town behind, passed the last isolated house on the road, and walked into the greater blackness of a road between tall hedges. He had put on canvas shoes with rubber soles, for the better surprise of Mr. Farrer, and his own progress seemed to partake of a ghostly nature. Every ghost story he had ever heard or read crowded into his memory. For the first time in his experience even the idea of the company of Mr. Farrer seemed better than no company at all.
The night was so dark that he nearly missed the turning that led to the cottage. For the first few yards he had almost to feel his way; then, with a greater yearning than ever for the society of Mr. Farrer, he straightened his back and marched swiftly and noiselessly towards the cottage.
It was a small, tumble-down place, set well back in an overgrown garden. The sergeant-major came to a halt just before reaching the gate, and, hidden by the hedge, unfastened his parcel and shook out his wife’s best nightgown.
He got it over his head with some difficulty, and, with his arms in the sleeves, tried in vain to get his big hands through the small, lace-trimmed wristbands. Despite his utmost efforts he could only get two or three fingers through, and after a vain search for his cap, which had fallen off in the struggle, he made his way to the gate and stood there waiting. It was at this moment that the thought occurred to him that Mr. Farrer might have failed to keep the appointment.
His knees trembled slightly and he listened anxiously for any sound from the house. He rattled the gate and, standing with white arms outstretched, waited. Nothing happened. He shook it again, and then, pulling himself together, opened it and slipped into the garden. As he did so a large bough which lay in the centre of the footpath thoughtfully drew on one side to let him pass.
Mr. Ward stopped suddenly and, with his gaze fixed on the bough, watched it glide over the grass until it was swallowed up in the darkness. His own ideas of frightening Mr. Farrer were forgotten, and in a dry, choking voice he called loudly upon the name of that gentleman.
He called two or three times, with no response, and then, in a state of panic, backed slowly towards the gate with his eyes fixed on the house. A loud crash sounded from somewhere inside, the door was flung violently open, and a gruesome figure in white hopped out and squatted on the step.
It was evident to Sergeant-Major Ward that Mr. Farrer was not there, and that no useful purpose could be served by remaining. It was clear that the young man’s courage had failed him, and, with grey head erect, elbows working like the sails of a windmill, and the ends of the nightgown streaming behind him, the sergeant-major bent his steps towards home.
He dropped into a walk after a time and looked carefully over his shoulder. So far as he could see he was alone, but the silence and loneliness were oppressive. He looked again, and, without stopping to inquire whether his eyes had deceived him, broke into a run again. Alternately walking and running, he got back to the town, and walked swiftly along the streets to his house. Police-Constable Burgess, who was approaching from the other direction, reached it at almost the same moment, and, turning on his lantern, stood gaping with astonishment. “Anything wrong?” he demanded.
“Wrong?” panted the sergeant-major, trying to put a little surprise and dignity into his voice. “No.”
“I thought it was a lady walking in her sleep at first,” said the constable. “A tall lady.”
The sergeant-major suddenly became conscious of the nightgown. “I’ve been—for a little walk,” he said, still breathing hard. “I felt a bit chilly—so I—put this on.”
“Suits you, too,” said the constable, stiffly. “But you Army men always was a bit dressy. Now if I put that on I should look ridikerlous.”
The door opened before Mr. Ward could reply, and revealed, in the light of a bedroom candle, the astonished countenances of his wife and daughter.
“George!” exclaimed Mrs. Ward.
“Father!” said Miss Ward.
The sergeant-major tottered in and, gaining the front room, flung himself into his arm-chair. A stiff glass of whisky and water, handed him by his daughter, was swallowed at a gulp.
“Did you go?” inquired Mrs. Ward, clasping her hands.
The sergeant-major, fully conscious of the suspicions aroused by his disordered appearance, rallied his faculties. “Not likely,” he said, with a short laugh. “After I got outside I knew it was no good going there to look for that young snippet. He’d no more think of going there than he would of flying. I walked a little way down the road—for exercise—and then strolled back.”
“But—my nightgown?” said the wondering Mrs. Ward.
“Put it on to frighten the constable,” said her husband.
He stood up and allowed her to help him pull it off. His face was flushed and his hair tousled, but the bright fierceness of his eye was unquenched. In submissive silence she followed him to bed.
He was up late next morning, and made but a poor breakfast. His after-dinner nap was disturbed, and tea was over before he had regained his wonted calm. An hour later the arrival of a dignified and reproachful Mr. Farrer set him blazing again.
“I have come to see you about last night,” said Mr. Farrer, before the other could speak. “A joke’s a joke, but when you said you would come I naturally expected you would keep your word.”
“Keep my word?” repeated the sergeant-major, almost choking with wrath.
“I stayed there in that lonely cottage from twelve to three, as per agreement, waiting for you,” said Mr. Farrer.
“You were not there,” shouted the sergeant-major.
“How do you know?” inquired the other.
The sergeant-major looked round helplessly at his wife and daughter.
“Prove it,” said Mr. Farrer, pushing his advantage. “You questioned my courage, and I stayed there three hours. Where were you?”
“You were not there,” said the sergeant-major. “I know. You can’t bluff me. You were afraid.”
“I was there, and I’ll swear it,” said Mr. Farrer. “Still, there’s no harm done. I’ll go there again to-night, and I’ll dare you to come for me?”
“Dare?” said the sergeant-major, choking. “Dare?”
“Dare,” repeated the other; “and if you don’t come this time I’ll spread it all over Marcham. To-morrow night you can go there and wait for me. If you see what I saw—”
“Oh, Ted!” said Miss Ward, with a shiver. “Saw?” said the sergeant-major, starting. “Nothing harmful,” said Mr. Farrer, calmly.
“As a matter of fact, it was very interesting.”
“What was?” demanded the sergeant-major.
“It sounds rather silly, as a matter of fact,” said Mr. Farrer, slowly. “Still, I did see a broken bough moving about the garden.”
Mr. Ward regarded him open-mouthed.
“Anything else?” he inquired, in a husky voice.
“A figure in white,” said Mr. Farrer, “with long waving arms, hopping about like a frog. I don’t suppose you believe me, but if you come to-night perhaps you’ll see it yourself. It’s very interesting.
“Wer—weren’t you frightened?” inquired the staring Mrs. Ward.
Mr. Farrer shook his head. “It would take more than that to frighten me,” he said, simply. “I should be ashamed of myself to be afraid of a poor thing like that. It couldn’t do me any harm.”
“Did you see its face?” inquired Mrs. Ward, nervously.
Mr. Farrer shook his head.
“What sort of a body had it got?” said her daughter.
“So far as I could see, very good,” said Mr. Farrer. “Very good figure —not tall, but well made.”
An incredible suspicion that had been forming in the sergeant-major’s mind began to take shape. “Did you see anything else?” he asked, sharply.
“One more,” said Mr. Farrer, regarding him pleasantly. “One I call the Running Ghost.”
“Run—” began the sergeant-major, and stopped suddenly.
“It came in at the front gate,” pursued Mr. Farrer. “A tall, well-knit figure of martial bearing—much about your height, Mr. Ward—with a beautiful filmy white robe down to its knees—”
He broke off in mild surprise, and stood gazing at Miss Ward, who, with her handkerchief to her mouth, was rocking helplessly in her chair.
“Knees,” he repeated, quietly. “It came slowly down the path, and half way to the house it stopped, and in a frightened sort of voice called out my name. I was surprised, naturally, but before I could get to it—to reassure it—”
“That’ll do,” said the sergeant-major, rising hastily and drawing himself up to his full height.
“You asked me,” said Mr. Farrer, in an aggrieved voice.
“I know I did,” said the sergeant-major, breathing heavily. “I know I did; but if I sit here listening to any more of your lies I shall be ill. The best thing you can do is to take that giggling girl out and give her a breath of fresh air. I have done with her.”
EASY MONEY
A lad of about twenty stepped ashore from the schooner Jane, and joining a girl, who had been avoiding for some ten minutes the ardent gaze of the night-watchman, set off arm-in-arm. The watchman rolled his eyes and shook his head slowly.
Nearly all his money on ‘is back, he said, and what little bit ‘e’s got over he’ll spend on ‘er. And three months arter they’re married he’ll wonder wot ‘e ever saw in her. If a man marries he wishes he ‘adn’t, and if he doesn’t marry he wishes he ‘ad. That’s life.
Looking at them two young fools reminds me of a nevy of Sam Small’s; a man I think I’ve spoke to you of afore. As a rule Sam didn’t talk much about ‘is relations, but there was a sister of ‘is in the country wot ‘e was rather fond of because ‘e ‘adn’t seen ‘er for twenty years. She ‘ad got a boy wot ‘ad just got a job in London, and when ‘e wrote and told ‘er he was keeping company with the handsomest and loveliest and best ‘arted gal in the whole wide world, she wrote to Sam about it and asked ‘im to give ‘is nevy some good advice.
Sam ‘ad just got back from China and was living with Peter Russet and Ginger Dick as usual, and arter reading the letter about seven times and asking Ginger how ‘e spelt “minx,” ‘e read the letter out loud to them and asked ‘em what they thought about it.
Ginger shook his ‘ead, and, arter thinking a bit, Peter shook his too.
“She’s caught ‘im rather young,” ses Ginger.
“They get it bad at that age too,” ses Peter. “When I was twenty, there was a gal as I was fond of, and a regiment couldn’t ha’ parted us.”
“Wot did part you then?” ses Sam.
“Another gal,” ses Peter; “a gal I took a fancy to, that’s wot did it.”
“I was nearly married when I was twenty,” ses Ginger, with a far-away look in his eyes. “She was the most beautiful gal I ever saw in my life; she ‘ad one ‘undred pounds a year of ‘er own and she couldn’t bear me out of her sight. If a thump acrost the chest would do that cough of yours any good, Sam—”
“Don’t take no notice of ‘im, Ginger,” ses Peter. “Why didn’t you marry ‘er?”
“‘Cos I was afraid she might think I was arter ‘er money,” ses Ginger, getting a little bit closer to Sam.
Peter ‘ad another turn then, and him and Ginger kept on talking about gals whose ‘arts they ‘ad broke till Sam didn’t know what to do with ‘imself.
“I’ll just step round and see my nevy, while you and Peter are amusing each other,” he ses at last. “I’ll ask ‘im to come round to-morrow and then you can give ‘im good advice.”
The nevy came round next evening. Bright, cheerful young chap ‘e was, and he agreed with everything they said. When Peter said as ‘ow all gals was deceivers, he said he’d known it for years, but they was born that way and couldn’t ‘elp it; and when Ginger said that no man ought to marry afore he was fifty, he corrected ‘im and made it fifty-five.
“I’m glad to ‘ear you talk like that,” ses Ginger.
“So am I,” ses Peter.
“He’s got his ‘ead screwed on right,” ses Sam, wot thought his sister ‘ad made a mistake.
“I’m surprised when I look round at the wimmen men ‘ave married,” ses the nevy; “wot they could ‘ave seen in them I can’t think. Me and my young lady often laugh about it.”
“Your wot?” ses Sam, pretending to be very surprised.
“My young lady,” ses the nevy.
Sam gives a cough. “I didn’t know you’d got a young lady,” he ses.
“Well, I ‘ave,” ses his nevy, “and we’re going to be married at Christmas.”
“But—but you ain’t fifty-five,” ses Ginger.
“I’m twenty-one,” ses the nevy, “but my case is different. There isn’t another young lady like mine in the world. She’s different to all the others, and it ain’t likely I’m going to let ‘er be snapped up by somebody else. Fifty-five! Why, ‘ow I’m to wait till Christmas I don’t know. She’s the prettiest and handsomest gal in the world; and she’s the cleverest one I ever met. You ought to hear ‘er laugh. Like music it is. You’d never forget it.”
“Twenty-one is young,” ses Ginger, shaking his ‘ead. “‘Ave you known ‘er long?”
“Three months,” ses the nevy. “She lives in the same street as I do. ‘Ow it is she ain’t been snapped up before, I can’t think, but she told me that she didn’t care for men till she saw me.”
“They all say that,” ses Ginger.
“If I’ve ‘ad it said to me once, I’ve ‘ad it said twenty times,” ses Peter, nodding.
“They do it to flatter,” ses old Sam, looking as if ‘e knew all about it. “You wait till you are my age, Joe; then you’ll know; why I should ha’ been married dozens o’ times if I ‘adn’t been careful.”
“P’r’aps it was a bit on both sides,” ses Joe, looking at ‘is uncle. “P’r’aps they was careful too. If you only saw my young lady, you wouldn’t talk like that. She’s got the truthfullest eyes in the world. Large grey eyes like a child’s, leastways sometimes they are grey and sometimes they are blue. It seems to depend on the light somehow; I ‘ave seen them when they was a brown-brownish-gold. And she smiles with ‘er eyes.”
“Hasn’t she got a mouth?” ses Ginger, wot was getting a bit tired of it.
“You’ve been crossed in love,” ses the nevy, staring at ‘im. “That’s wot’s the matter with you. And looking at you, I don’t wonder at it.”
Ginger ‘arf got up, but Sam gave him a look and ‘e sat down agin, and then they all sat quiet while the nevy went on telling them about ‘is gal.
“I should like to see ‘er,” ses his uncle at last.
“Call round for me at seven to-morrow night,” ses the young ‘un, “and I’ll introduce you.”
“We might look in on our way,” ses Sam, arter Ginger and Peter ‘ad both made eyes at ‘im. “We’re going out to spend the evening.”
“The more the merrier,” ses his nevy. “Well, so long; I expect she’s waiting for me.”
He got up and said good-bye, and arter he ‘ad gorn, Sam and the other two shook their leads together and said what a pity it was to be twenty-one. Ginger said it made ‘im sad to think of it, and Peter said ‘ow any gal could look at a man under thirty, ‘e couldn’t think.
They all went round to the nevy’s the next evening. They was a little bit early owing to Ginger’s watch ‘aving been set right by guess-work, and they ‘ad to sit in a row on the nevy’s bed waiting while ‘e cleaned ‘imself, and changed his clothes. Although it was only Wednesday ‘e changed his collar, and he was so long making up ‘is mind about his necktie that ‘is uncle tried to make it up for him. By the time he ‘ad finished Sam said it made ‘im think it was Sunday.
Miss Gill was at ‘ome when they got there, and all three of ‘em was very much surprised that such a good-looking gal should take up with Sam’s nevy. Ginger nearly said so, but Peter gave ‘im a dig in the back just in time and ‘e called him something under ‘is breath instead.
“Why shouldn’t we all make an evening of it?” ses Ginger, arter they ‘ad been talking for about ten minutes, and the nevy ‘ad looked at the clock three or four times.
“Because two’s company,” ses Mrs. Gill. “Why you was young yourself once. Can’t you remember?”
“He’s young now, mother,” ses the gal, giving Ginger a nice smile.
“I tell you wot we might do,” ses Mrs. Gill, putting ‘er finger to her forehead and considering. “You and Joe go out and ‘ave your evening, and me and these gentlemen’ll go off together somewhere. I shall enjoy an outing; I ain’t ‘ad one for a long time.”
Ginger said it would be very nice if she thought it wouldn’t make ‘er too tired, and afore Sam or Peter could think of anything to say, she was upstairs putting ‘er bonnet on. They thought o’ plenty to say while they was sitting alone with Ginger waiting for ‘er.
“My idea was for the gal and your nevy to come too,” ses pore Ginger. “Then I thought we might lose ‘im and I would ‘ave a little chat with the gal, and show ‘er ‘ow foolish she was.”
“Well, you’ve done it now,” ses Sam. “Spoilt our evening.”
“P’r’aps good will come out of it,” ses Ginger. “If the old lady takes a fancy to us we shall be able to come agin, and then to please you, Sam, I’ll have a go to cut your nevy out.”
Sam stared at ‘im, and Peter stared too, and then they looked at each other and began to laugh till Ginger forgot where ‘e was and offered to put Sam through the winder. They was still quarrelling under their breath and saying wot they’d like to do to each other when Mrs. Gill came downstairs. Dressed up to the nines she was, and they walked down the street with a feeling that everybody was looking at em.
One thing that ‘elped to spoil the evening was that Mrs. Gill wouldn’t go into public’ouses, but to make up for it she went into sweet-stuff shops three times and ‘ad ices while they stood and watched ‘er and wondered ‘ow she could do it. And arter that she stopped at a place Poplar way, where there was a few swings and roundabouts and things. She was as skittish as a school-gal, and arter taking pore Sam on the roundabout till ‘e didn’t know whether he was on his ‘eels or his ‘ead, she got ‘im into a boat-swing and swung ‘im till he felt like a boy on ‘is fust v’y’ge. Arter that she took ‘im to the rifle gallery, and afore he had ‘ad three shots the man took the gun away from ‘im and threatened to send for the police.
It was an expensive evening for all of them, but as Ginger said when they got ‘ome they ‘ad broken the ice, and he bet Peter Russet ‘arf a dollar that afore two days ‘ad passed he’d take the nevy’s gal for a walk. He stepped round by ‘imself the next arternoon and made ‘imself agreeable to Mrs. Gill, and the day arter they was both so nice and kind that ‘e plucked up ‘is courage and offered to take Miss Gill to the Zoo.
She said “No” at fust, of course, but arter Ginger ‘ad pointed out that Joe was at work all day and couldn’t take ‘er ‘imself, and that ‘e was Joe’s uncle’s best pal, she began to think better of it.
“Why not?” ses her mother. “Joe wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t be so silly as to be jealous o’ Mr. Ginger Dick.”
“Of course not,” ses the gal. “There’s nothing to be jealous of.”
She let ‘er mother and Ginger persuade ‘er arter a time, and then she went upstairs to clean herself, and put on a little silver brooch that Ginger said he ‘ad picked up coming along.
She took about three-quarters of an hour to get ready, but when she came down, Ginger felt that it was quite worth it. He couldn’t take ‘is eyes off ‘er, as the saying goes, and ‘e sat by ‘er side on the top of the omnibus like a man in a dream.
“This is better than being at sea,” he ses at last.
“Don’t you like the sea?” ses the gal. “I should like to go to sea myself.”
“I shouldn’t mind the sea if you was there,” ses Ginger.
Miss Gill turned her ‘ead away. “You mustn’t talk to me like that,” she ses in a soft voice. “Still—”
“Still wot?” ses Ginger, arter waiting a long time.
“I mean, if I did go to sea, it would be nice to have a friend on board,” she ses. “I suppose you ain’t afraid of storms, are you?”
“I like ‘em,” ses Ginger.
“You look as if you would,” ses the gal, giving ‘im a little look under ‘er eyelashes. “It must be nice to be a man and be brave. I wish I was a man.”
“I don’t,” ses Ginger.
“Why not?” ses the gal, turning her ‘ead away agin.
Ginger didn’t answer, he gave ‘er elbow a little squeeze instead. She took it away at once, and Ginger was just wishing he ‘adn’t been so foolish, when it came back agin, and they sat for a long time without speaking a word.
“The sea is all right for some things,” ses Ginger at last, “but suppose a man married!”
The gal shook her ‘ead. “It would be hard on ‘is wife,” she ses, with another little look at ‘im, “but—but–”
Ginger pinched ‘er elbow agin.
“But p’r’aps he could get a job ashore,” she ses, “and then he could take his wife out for a bus-ride every day.”
They ‘ad to change buses arter a time, and they got on a wrong bus and went miles out o’ their way, but neither of ‘em seemed to mind. Ginger said he was thinking of something else, and the gal said she was too. They got to the Zoological Gardens at last, and Ginger said he ‘ad never enjoyed himself so much. When the lions roared she squeezed his arm, and when they ‘ad an elephant ride she was holding on to ‘im with both ‘ands.
“I am enjoying myself,” she ses, as Ginger ‘elped her down and said “whoa” to the elephant. “I know it’s wicked, but I can’t ‘elp it, and wot’s more, I’m afraid I don’t want to ‘elp it.”
She let Ginger take ‘er arm when she nearly tripped up over a peppermint ball some kid ‘ad dropped; and, arter a little persuasion, she ‘ad a bottle of lemonade and six bath-buns at a refreshment stall for dinner.