Sailor's Knots (Entire Collection)

“They’re going to amuse theirselves, I expect,” ses Sam—“music-’alls and such-like.”

Mr. Goodman shook his ‘ead at ‘em.

“Music-’alls ain’t so bad as some people try to make out,” ses Sam.

“Look ‘ere; I took some drink to see what the flavor was like; suppose you go to a music-’all to see wot that’s like?”

“It seems on’y fair,” ses Peter’s uncle, considering.

“It is fair,” ses Sam, and twenty minutes arterwards they was sitting in a music-’all drinking each other’s ‘ealths and listening to the songs— Mr. Goodman with a big cigar in ‘is mouth and his ‘at cocked over one eye, and Sam beating time to the music with ‘is pipe.

“‘Ow do you like it?” he ses.

Mr. Goodman didn’t answer ‘im because ‘e was joining in the chorus with one side of ‘is mouth and keeping ‘is cigar alight with the other. He just nodded at ‘im; but ‘e looked so ‘appy that Sam felt it was a pleasure to sit there and look at ‘im.

“I wonder wot Peter and Ginger is doin’?” he ses, when the song was finished.

“I don’t know,” ses Mr. Goodman, “and, wot’s more, I don’t care. If I’d ‘ad any idea that Peter was like wot he is I should never ‘ave wrote to ‘im. I can’t think ‘ow you can stand ‘im.”

“He ain’t so bad,” ses Sam, wondering whether he ought to tell ‘im ‘arf of wot Peter really was like.

“Bad!” ses Mr. Goodman. “I come up to London for a ‘oliday—a change, mind you—and I thought Peter and me was going to ‘ave a good time. Instead o’ that, he goes about with a face as long as a fiddle. He don’t drink, ‘e don’t go to places of amusement—innercent places of amusement —and ‘is idea of enjoying life is to go walking about the streets and drinking cups o’ tea.”

“We must try and alter ‘im,” ses Sam, arter doing a bit o’ thinking.

“Certainly not,” ses Mr. Goodman, laying his ‘and on Sam’s knee. “Far be it from me to interfere with a feller-creature’s ideas o’ wot’s right. Besides, he might get writing to ‘is sister agin, and she might tell my wife.”

“But Peter said she was dead,” ses Sam, very puzzled.

“I married agin,” ses Peter’s uncle, in a whisper, ‘cos people was telling ‘im to keep quiet, “a tartar—a perfect tartar. She’s in a ‘orsepittle at present, else I shouldn’t be ‘ere. And I shouldn’t ha’ been able to come if I ‘adn’t found five pounds wot she’d hid in a match-box up the chimbley.”

“But wot’ll you do when she finds it out?” ses Sam, opening ‘is eyes.

“I’m going to ‘ave the house cleaned and the chimbleys swept to welcome her ‘ome,” ses Mr. Goodman, taking a sip o’ whiskey. “It’ll be a little surprise for her.”

They stayed till it was over, and on the bus he gave Sam some strong peppermint lozenges wot ‘e always carried about with ‘im, and took some ‘imself. He said ‘e found ‘em helpful.

“What are we going to tell Peter and Ginger?” ses Sam, as they got near the ‘ouse.

“Tell ‘em?” ses Mr. Goodman. “Tell ‘em the truth. How we follered ‘em when they got off the bus, and ‘ave been looking for ‘em ever since. I’m not going to ‘ave my ‘oliday spoilt by a teetotal nevvy, I can tell you.”

He started on Peter, wot was sitting on his bed with Ginger waiting for them, the moment he got inside, and all Ginger and Peter could say didn’t make any difference.

“Mr. Small see you as plain as what I did,” he ses.

“Plainer,” ses Sam.

“But I tell you we come straight ‘ome,” ses Ginger, “and we’ve been waiting for you ‘ere ever since.”

Mr. Goodman shook his ‘ead at ‘im. “Say no more about it,” he ses, in a kind voice. “I dessay it’s rather tiresome for young men to go about with two old ones, and in future, if you and Peter keep together, me and my friend Mr. Small will do the same.”

Sam shook ‘ands with ‘im, and though Peter tried his ‘ardest to make ‘im alter his mind it was no good. His uncle patted ‘im on the shoulder, and said they’d try it for a few days, at any rate, and Ginger, wot thought it was a very good idea, backed ‘im up. Everybody seemed pleased with the idea except Peter Russet, but arter Sam ‘ad told ‘im in private wot a high opinion ‘is uncle ‘ad got of ‘im, and ‘ow well off he was, ‘e gave way.

They all enjoyed the next evening, and Sam and Mr. Goodman got on together like twin brothers. They went to a place of amusement every night, and the on’y unpleasantness that happened was when Peter’s uncle knocked a chemist’s shop up at a quarter-past twelve one night to buy a penn’orth o’ peppermint lozenges.

They ‘ad four of the ‘appiest evenings together that Sam ‘ad ever known; and Mr. Goodman would ‘ave been just as ‘appy too if it hadn’t ha’ been for the thoughts o’ that five pounds. The more ‘e thought of it the more unlikely it seemed that ‘is wife would blame it on to the sweep, and one night he took the match-box out of ‘is pocket and shook his ‘ead over it till Sam felt quite sorry for ‘im.

“Don’t take up your troubles afore they come,” he ses. “Orsepittles are dangerous places.”

Mr. Goodman cheered up a bit at that, but he got miserable agin the next night because ‘is money was getting low and he wanted another week in London.

“I’ve got seven shillings and fourpence and two stamps left,” he ses. “Where it’s all gone to I can’t think.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” ses Sam. “I’ve got a pound or two left yet.”

“No, I ain’t going to be a burden on you,” ses Mr. Goodman, “but another week I must ‘ave, so I must get the money somehow. Peter can’t spend much, the way he goes on.”

Sam gave a little cough.

“I’ll get a pound or two out of ‘im,” ses Mr. Goodman.

Sam coughed agin. “Won’t he think it rather funny?” he ses, arter a bit.

“Not if it’s managed properly,” ses Mr. Good-man, thinking ‘ard. “I’ll tell you ‘ow we’ll do it. To-morrow morning, while we are eating of our breakfast, you ask me to lend you a pound or two.”

Sam, what ‘ad just taken up ‘is glass for a drink, put it down agin and stared at ‘im.

“But I don’t want no money,” he ses; “and, besides, you ‘aven’t got any.”

“You do as I tell you,” ses Mr. Goodman, “and when you’ve got it, you hand it over to me, see? Ask me to lend you five pounds.”

Sam thought as ‘ow the whiskey ‘ad got to Mr. Goodman’s ‘ead at last. ‘Owever, to pacify ‘im he promised to do wot ‘e was told, and next morning, when they was all at breakfast, he looks over and catches Mr. Goodman’s eye.

“I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask a favor of you?” he ses.

“Certainly,” ses Peter’s uncle, “and glad I shall be to oblige you. There is no man I’ve got a greater respect for.”

“Thankee,” ses Sam. “The fact is, I’ve run a bit short owing to paying a man some money I owed ‘im. If you could lend me five pounds, I couldn’t thank you enough.”

Mr. Goodman put down ‘is knife and fork and wrinkled up ‘is forehead.

“I’m very sorry,” he ses, feeling in ‘is pockets; “do you want it to-day?”

“Yes; I should like it,” ses Sam.

“It’s most annoying,” ses Mr. Goodman, “but I was so afraid o’ pickpockets that I didn’t bring much away with me. If you could wait till the day arter to-morrow, when my money is sent to me, you can ‘ave ten if you like.”

“You’re very kind,” ses Sam, “but that ‘ud be too late for me. I must try and get it somewhere else.” Peter and Ginger went on eating their breakfast, but every time Peter looked up he caught ‘is uncle looking at ‘im in such a surprised and disappointed sort o’ way that ‘e didn’t like the look of it at all.