Light Freights

“Everybody ‘eld their breaths that evening in the school room when Mrs. Pawlett got up on the platform and took a slip of paper from one of the judges. She stood a moment waiting for silence, and then ‘eld up her ‘and to stop what she thought was clapping at the back, but which was two or three wimmen who ‘ad ‘ad to take their crying babies out trying to quiet ‘em in the porch. Then Mrs. Pawlett put ‘er glasses on her nose and just read out, short and sweet, that the prize of three sovereigns and a metal teapot for the best-kept cottage garden ‘ad been won by Mr. Robert Pretty.

“One or two people patted Bob on the back as ‘e walked up the middle to take the prize; then one or two more did, and Bill Chambers’s pat was the ‘eartiest of ‘em all. Bob stopped and spoke to ‘im about it.

“You would ‘ardly think that Bob ‘ud have the cheek to stand up there and make a speech, but ‘e did. He said it gave ‘im great pleasure to take the teapot and the money, and the more pleasure because ‘e felt that ‘e had earned ‘em. He said that if ‘e told ‘em all ‘e’d done to make sure o’ the prize they’d be surprised. He said that ‘e’d been like Ralph Thomson’s pig, up early and late.

“He stood up there talking as though ‘e was never going to leave off, and said that ‘e hoped as ‘is example would be of benefit to ‘is neighbours. Some of ‘em seemed to think that digging was everything, but ‘e could say with pride that ‘e ‘adn’t put a spade to ‘is garden for three years until a week ago, and then not much.

“He finished ‘is remarks by saying that ‘e was going to give a tea-party up at the Cauliflower to christen the teapot, where ‘e’d be pleased to welcome all friends. Quite a crowd got up and followed ‘im out then, instead o’ waiting for the dissolving views, and came back ‘arf an hour arterwards, saying that until they’d got as far as the Cauliflower they’d no idea as Bob was so per-tikler who ‘e mixed with.

“That was the last Flower Show we ever ‘ad in Claybury, Mrs. Pawlett and the judges meeting the tea-party coming ‘ome, and ‘aving to get over a gate into a field to let it pass. What with that and Mrs. Pawlett tumbling over something further up the road, which turned out to be the teapot, smelling strong of beer, the Flower Show was given up, and the parson preached three Sundays running on the sin of beer-drinking to children who’d never ‘ad any and wimmen who couldn’t get it.”

PRIVATE CLOTHES

At half-past nine the crew of the Merman were buried in slumber, at nine thirty-two three of the members were awake with heads protruding out of their bunks, trying to peer through the gloom, while the fourth dreamt that a tea-tray was falling down a never-ending staircase. On the floor of the forecastle something was cursing prettily and rubbing itself.

“Did you ‘ear anything, Ted?” inquired a voice in an interval of silence.

“Who is it?” demanded Ted, ignoring the question. “Wot d’yer want?”

“I’ll let you know who I am,” said a thick and angry voice. “I’ve broke my blarsted back.”

“Light the lamp, Bill,” said Ted.

Bill struck a tandsticker match, and carefully nursing the tiny sulphurous flame with his hand, saw dimly some high-coloured object on the floor.

He got out of his bunk and lit the lamp, and an angry and very drunken member of Her Majesty’s foot forces became visible.

“Wot are you doin’ ‘ere?” inquired Ted, sharply, “this ain’t the guard-room.”

“Who knocked me over?” demanded the soldier sternly; “take your co—coat off lik’ a man.”

He rose to his feet and swayed unsteadily to and fro.

“If you keep your li’l’ ‘eads still,” he said gravely, to Bill, “I’ll punch ‘em.”

By a stroke of good fortune he selected the real head, and gave it a blow which sent it crashing against the woodwork. For a moment the seaman stood gathering his scattered senses, then with an oath he sprang forward, and in the lightest of fighting trim waited until his adversary, who was by this time on the floor again, should have regained his feet.

“He’s drunk, Bill,” said another voice, “don’t ‘urt ‘im. He’s a chap wot said ‘e was coming aboard to see me—I met ‘im in the Green Man this evening. You was coming to see me, mate, wasn’t you?”

The soldier looked up stupidly, and gripping hold of the injured Bill by the shirt, staggered to his feet again, and advancing towards the last speaker let fly suddenly in his face.

“Sort man I am,” he said, autobiographically. “Feel my arm.”

The indignant Bill took him by both, and throwing himself upon him suddenly fell with him to the floor. The intruder’s head met the boards with a loud crash, and then there was silence.

“You ain’t killed ‘im, Bill?” said an old seaman, stooping over him anxiously.

“Course not,” was the reply; “give us some water.”

He threw some in the soldier’s face, and then poured some down his neck, but with no result. Then he stood upright, and exchanged glances of consternation with his friends.

“I don’t like the way he’s breathing,” he said, in a trembling voice.

“You always was pertikler, Bill,” said the cook, who had thankfully got to the bottom of his staircase. “If I was you—”

He was not allowed to proceed any further; footsteps and a voice were heard above, and as old Thomas hastily extinguished the lamp, the mate’s head was thrust down the scuttle, and the mate’s voice sounded a profane reveillé.

“Wot are we goin’ to do with it?” inquired Ted, as the mate walked away.

“I’m, Ted,” said Bill, nervously. “He’s alive all right.”

“If we put ‘im ashore an’ ‘e’s dead,” said old Thomas, “there’ll be trouble for somebody. Better let ‘im be, and if ‘e’s dead, why we don’t none of us know nothing about it.”

The men ran up on deck, and Bill, being the last to leave, put a boot under the soldier’s head before he left. Ten minutes later they were under way, and standing about the deck, discussed the situation in thrilling whispers as opportunity offered.

At breakfast, by which time they were in a dirty tumbling sea, with the Nore lightship, a brown, forlorn-looking object on their beam, the soldier, who had been breathing stertorously, raised his heavy head from the boot, and with glassy eyes and tightly compressed lips gazed wonderingly about him.

“Wot cheer, mate?” said the delighted Bill. “‘Ow goes it?”

“Where am I?” inquired Private Harry Bliss, in a weak voice.

“Brig Merman,” said Bill; “bound for Byster-mouth.”

“Well, I’m damned,” said Private Bliss; “it’s a blooming miracle. Open the winder, it’s a bit stuffy down here. Who—who brought me here?”

“You come to see me last night,” said Bob, “an’ fell down, I s’pose; then you punched Bill ‘ere in the eye and me in the jor.”

Mr. Bliss, still feeling very sick and faint, turned to Bill, and after critically glancing at the eye turned on him for inspection, transferred his regards to the other man’s jaw.

“I’m a devil when I’m boozed,” he said, in a satisfied voice. “Well, I must get ashore; I shall get cells for this, I expect.”

He staggered to the ladder, and with unsteady haste gained the deck and made for the side. The heaving waters made him giddy to look at, and he gazed for preference at a thin line of coast stretching away in the distance.

The startled mate, who was steering, gave him a hail, but he made no reply. A little fishing-boat was jumping about in a way to make a sea-sick man crazy, and he closed his eyes with a groan.

Then the skipper, aroused by the mate’s hail, came up from below, and walking up to him put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“What are you doing aboard this ship?” he demanded, austerely.

“Go away,” said Private Bliss, faintly; “take your paw off my tunic; you’ll spoil it.”

He clung miserably to the side, leaving the incensed skipper to demand explanations from the crew. The crew knew nothing about him, and said that he must have stowed himself away in an empty bunk; the skipper pointed out coarsely that there were no empty bunks, whereupon Bill said that he had not occupied his the previous evening, but had fallen asleep sitting on the locker, and had injured his eye against the corner of a bunk in consequence. In proof whereof he produced the eye.

“Look here, old man,” said Private Bliss, who suddenly felt better. He turned and patted the skipper on the back. “You just turn to the left a bit and put me ashore, will you?”

“I’ll put you ashore at Bystermouth,” said the skipper, with a grin. “You’re a deserter, that’s what you are, and I’ll take care you’re took care of.”

“You put me ashore!” roared Private Bliss, with a very fine imitation of the sergeant-major’s parade voice.