Sailor's Knots (Entire Collection)

“I never ‘ave no luck,” ses Bob; “but if Henery Walker will draw fust, I’ll draw second. Somebody must begin.”

“O’ course they must,” ses Henery, “and if you’re so anxious why don’t you ‘ave fust try?”

Bob Pretty tried to laugh it off, but they wouldn’t ‘ave it, and at last he takes out a pocket-’andkerchief and offers it to Smith, the landlord.

“All right, I’ll go fust if you’ll blindfold me,” he ses.

“There ain’t no need for that, Bob,” ses Mr. Smith. “You can’t see in the bag, and even if you could it wouldn’t help you.”

“Never mind; you blindfold me,” ses Bob; “it’ll set a good example to the others.”

Smith did it at last, and when Bob Pretty put his ‘and in the bag and pulled out a paper you might ha’ heard a pin drop.

“Open it and see what number it is, Mr. Smith,” ses Bob Pretty. “Twenty-three, I expect; I never ‘ave no luck.”

Smith rolled out the paper, and then ‘e turned pale and ‘is eyes seemed to stick right out of his ‘ead.

“He’s won it!” he ses, in a choky voice. “It’s Number I. Bob Pretty ‘as won the prize.”

You never ‘eard such a noise in this ‘ere public-’ouse afore or since; everybody shouting their ‘ardest, and Bill Chambers stamping up and down the room as if he’d gone right out of his mind.

“Silence!” ses Mr. Smith, at last. “Silence! How dare you make that noise in my ‘ouse, giving it a bad name? Bob Pretty ‘as won it fair and square. Nothing could ha’ been fairer. You ought to be ashamed o’ yourselves.”

Bob Pretty wouldn’t believe it at fust. He said that Smith was making game of ‘im, and, when Smith held the paper under ‘is nose, he kept the handkerchief on his eyes and wouldn’t look at it.

“I’ve seen you afore to-day,” he says, nodding his ‘ead. “I like a joke as well as anybody, but it ain’t fair to try and make fun of a pore, ‘ard-working man like that.”

I never see a man so astonished in my life as Bob Pretty was, when ‘e found out it was really true. He seemed fair ‘mazed-like, and stood there scratching his ‘ead, as if he didn’t know where ‘e was. He come round at last, arter a pint o’ beer that Smith ‘ad stood ‘im, and then he made a little speech, thanking Smith for the fair way he ‘ad acted, and took up the hamper.

“‘Strewth, it is heavy,” he ses, getting it up on his back. “Well, so long, mates.”

“Ain’t you—ain’t you going to stand us a drink out o’ one o’ them bottles?” ses Peter Gubbins, as Bob got to the door.

Bob Pretty went out as if he didn’t ‘ear; then he stopped, sudden-like, and turned round and put his ‘ead in at the door agin, and stood looking at ‘em.

“No, mates,” he ses, at last, “and I wonder at you for asking, arter what you’ve all said about me. I’m a pore man, but I’ve got my feelings. I drawed fust becos nobody else would, and all the thanks I get for it is to be called a thief.”

He went off down the road, and by and by Bill Chambers, wot ‘ad been sitting staring straight in front of ‘im, got up and went to the door, and stood looking arter ‘im like a man in a dream. None of ‘em seemed to be able to believe that the lottery could be all over so soon, and Bob Pretty going off with it, and when they did make up their minds to it, it was one o’ the most miserable sights you ever see. The idea that they ‘ad been paying a pint a week for Bob Pretty for months nearly sent some of ‘em out of their minds.

“It can’t be ‘elped,” ses Mr. Smith. “He ‘ad the pluck to draw fust, and he won; anybody else might ha’ done it. He gave you the offer, George Kettle, and you, too, Henery Walker.”

Henery Walker was too low-spirited to answer ‘im; and arter Smith ‘ad said “Hush!” to George Kettle three times, he up and put ‘im outside for the sake of the ‘ouse.

When ‘e came back it was all quiet and everybody was staring their ‘ardest at little Dicky Weed, the tailor, who was sitting with his head in his ‘ands, thinking, and every now and then taking them away and looking up at the ceiling, or else leaning forward with a start and looking as if ‘e saw something crawling on the wall.

“Wot’s the matter with you?” ses Mr. Smith.

Dicky Weed didn’t answer ‘im. He shut his eyes tight and then ‘e jumps up all of a sudden. “I’ve got it!” he says. “Where’s that bag?”

“Wot bag?” ses Mr. Smith, staring at ‘im. “The bag with the papers in,” ses Dicky.

“Where Bob Pretty ought to be,” ses Bill Chambers. “On the fire.”

“Wot?” screams Dicky Weed. “Now you’ve been and spoilt everything!”

“Speak English,” ses Bill.

“I will!” ses Dicky, trembling all over with temper. “Who asked you to put it on the fire? Who asked you to put yourself forward? I see it all now, and it’s too late.”

“Wot’s too late?” ses Sam Tones.

“When Bob Pretty put his ‘and in that bag,” ses Dicky Weed, holding up ‘is finger and looking at them, “he’d got a bit o’ paper already in it—a bit o’ paper with the figger I on it. That’s ‘ow he done it. While we was all watching Mr. Smith, he was getting ‘is own bit o’ paper ready.”

He ‘ad to say it three times afore they understood ‘im, and then they went down on their knees and burnt their fingers picking up bits o’ paper that ‘ad fallen in the fireplace. They found six pieces in all, but not one with the number they was looking for on it, and then they all got up and said wot ought to be done to Bob Pretty.

“You can’t do anything,” ses Smith, the landlord. “You can’t prove it. After all, it’s only Dicky’s idea.”

Arf-a-dozen of ‘em all began speaking at once, but Bill Chambers gave ‘em the wink, and pretended to agree with ‘im.

“We’re going to have that hamper back,” he ses, as soon as Mr. Smith ‘ad gone back to the bar, “but it won’t do to let ‘im know. He don’t like to think that Bob Pretty was one too many for ‘im.”

“Let’s all go to Bob Pretty’s and take it,” ses Peter Gubbins, wot ‘ad been in the Militia.

Dicky Weed shook his ‘ead. “He’d ‘ave the lor on us for robbery,” he ses; “there’s nothing he’d like better.”

They talked it over till closing-time, but nobody seemed to know wot to do, and they stood outside in the bitter cold for over arf an hour still trying to make up their minds ‘ow to get that hamper back. Fust one went off ‘ome and then another, and at last, when there was on’y three or four of ‘em left, Henery Walker, wot prided himself on ‘is artfulness, ‘ad an idea.

“One of us must get Bob Pretty up ‘ere to-morrow night and stand ‘im a pint, or p’r’aps two pints,” he ses. “While he’s here two other chaps must ‘ave a row close by his ‘ouse and pretend to fight. Mrs. Pretty and the young ‘uns are sure to run out to look at it, and while they are out another chap can go in quiet-like and get the hamper.”

It seemed a wunnerful good idea, and Bill Chambers said so; and ‘e flattered Henery Walker up until Henery didn’t know where to look, as the saying is.

“And wot’s to be done with the hamper when we’ve got it?” ses Sam Jones.

“Have it drawed for agin,” ses Henery. “It’ll ‘ave to be done on the quiet, o’ course.”

Sam Jones stood thinking for a bit. “Burn the hamper and draw lots for everything separate,” ‘e ses, very slow. “If Bob Pretty ses it’s ‘is turkey and goose and spirits, tell ‘im to prove it. We sha’n’t know nothing about it.”

Henery Walker said it was a good plan; and arter talking it over they walked ‘ome all very pleased with theirselves. They talked it over next day with the other chaps; and Henery Walker said arterwards that p’r’aps it was talked over a bit too much.

It took ‘em some time to make up their minds about it, but at last it was settled that Peter Gubbins was to stand Bob Pretty the beer; Ted Brown, who was well known for his ‘ot temper, and Joe Smith was to ‘ave the quarrel; and Henery Walker was to slip in and steal the hamper, and ‘ide the things up at his place.

Bob Pretty fell into the trap at once. He was standing at ‘is gate in the dark, next day, smoking a pipe, when Peter Gubbins passed, and Peter, arter stopping and asking ‘im for a light, spoke about ‘is luck in getting the hamper, and told ‘im he didn’t bear no malice for it.

“You ‘ad the pluck to draw fust,” he ses, “and you won.”

Bob Pretty said he was a Briton, and arter a little more talk Peter asked ‘im to go and ‘ave a pint with ‘im to show that there was no ill-feeling. They came into this ‘ere Cauliflower public-’ouse like brothers, and in less than ten minutes everybody was making as much fuss o’ Bob Pretty as if ‘e’d been the best man in Claybury.

“Arter all, a man can’t ‘elp winning a prize,” ses Bill Chambers, looking round.