Deep Waters, the Entire Collection

“I’ve only got two cheeks, mind,” he said, slowly.

Mr. Ricketts sighed. “I wish you’d got a blinking dozen,” he said, wistfully. “Well, so long. Be good.”

He walked into the Blue Lion absolutely free from that sense of shame which Mr. Purnip had predicted, and, accepting a pint from an admirer, boasted noisily of his exploit. Mr. Billing, suffering both mentally and physically, walked slowly home to his astonished wife.

“P’r’aps he’ll be ashamed of hisself when ‘e comes to think it over,” he murmured, as Mrs. Billing, rendered almost perfect by practice, administered first aid.

“I s’pect he’s crying his eyes out,” she said, with a sniff. “Tell me if that ‘urts.”

Mr. Billing told her, then, suddenly remembering himself, issued an expurgated edition.

“I’m sorry for the next man that ‘its you,” said his wife, as she drew back and regarded her handiwork.

“‘Well, you needn’t be,” said Mr. Billing, with dignity. “It would take more than a couple o’ props in the jaw to make me alter my mind when I’ve made it up. You ought to know that by this time. Hurry up and finish. I want you to go to the corner and fetch me a pot.”

“What, ain’t you going out agin?” demanded his astonished wife.

Mr. Billing shook his head. “Somebody else might want to give me one,” he said, resignedly, “and I’ve ‘ad about all I want to-night.”

His face was still painful next morning, but as he sat at breakfast in the small kitchen he was able to refer to Mr. Ricketts in terms which were an eloquent testimony to Mr. Purnip’s teaching. Mrs. Billing, unable to contain herself, wandered off into the front room with a duster.

“Are you nearly ready to go?” she inquired, returning after a short interval.

“Five minutes,” said Mr. Billing, nodding. “I’ll just light my pipe and then I’m off.”

“‘Cos there’s two or three waiting outside for you,” added his wife.

Mr. Billing rose. “Ho, is there?” he said, grimly, as he removed his coat and proceeded to roll up his shirt-sleeves. “I’ll learn ‘em. I’ll give ‘em something to wait for. I’ll–”

His voice died away as he saw the triumph in his wife’s face, and, drawing down his sleeves again, he took up his coat and stood eyeing her in genuine perplexity.

“Tell ‘em I’ve gorn,” he said, at last.

“And what about telling lies?” demanded his wife. “What would your Mr. Purnip say to that?”

“You do as you’re told,” exclaimed the harassed Mr. Billing. “I’m not going to tell ‘em; it’s you.”

Mrs. Billing returned to the parlour, and, with Mr. Billing lurking in the background, busied herself over a china flower-pot that stood in the window, and turned an anxious eye upon three men waiting outside. After a glance or two she went to the door.

“Did you want to see my husband?” she inquired.

The biggest of the three nodded. “Yus,” he said, shortly.

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Billing, “but he ‘ad to go early this morning. Was it anything partikler?”

“Gorn?” said the other, in disappointed tones. “Well, you tell ‘im I’ll see ‘im later on.”

He turned away, and, followed by the other two, walked slowly up the road. Mr. Billing, after waiting till the coast was clear, went off in the other direction.

He sought counsel of his friend and mentor that afternoon, and stood beaming with pride at the praise lavished upon him. Mr. Purnip’s co-workers were no less enthusiastic than their chief; and various suggestions were made to Mr. Billing as to his behaviour in the unlikely event of further attacks upon his noble person.

He tried to remember the suggestions in the harassing days that followed; baiting Joe Billing becoming popular as a pastime from which no evil results need be feared. It was creditable to his fellow-citizens that most of them refrained from violence with a man who declined to hit back, but as a butt his success was assured. The night when a gawky lad of eighteen drank up his beer, and then invited him to step outside if he didn’t like it, dwelt long in his memory. And Elk Street thrilled one evening at the sight of their erstwhile champion flying up the road hotly pursued by a foeman half his size. His explanation to his indignant wife that, having turned the other cheek the night before, he was in no mood for further punishment, was received in chilling silence.

“They’ll soon get tired of it,” he said, hopefully; “and I ain’t going to be beat by a lot of chaps wot I could lick with one ‘and tied behind me. They’ll get to understand in time; Mr. Purnip says so. It’s a pity that you don’t try and do some good yourself.”

Mrs. Billing received the suggestion with a sniff; but the seed was sown. She thought the matter over in private, and came to the conclusion that, if her husband wished her to participate in good works, it was not for her to deny him. Hitherto her efforts in that direction had been promptly suppressed; Mr. Billing’s idea being that if a woman looked after her home and her husband properly there should be neither time nor desire for anything else. His surprise on arriving home to tea on Saturday afternoon, and finding a couple of hard-working neighbours devouring his substance, almost deprived him of speech.

“Poor things,” said his wife, after the guests had gone; “they did enjoy it. It’s cheered ‘em up wonderful. You and Mr. Purnip are quite right. I can see that now. You can tell him that it was you what put it into my ‘art.”

“Me? Why, I never dreamt o’ such a thing,” declared the surprised Mr. Billing. “And there’s other ways of doing good besides asking a pack of old women in to tea.”

“I know there is,” said his wife. “All in good time,” she added, with a far-away look in her eyes.

Mr. Billing cleared his throat, but nothing came of it. He cleared it again.

“I couldn’t let you do all the good,” said his wife, hastily. “It wouldn’t be fair. I must help.”

Mr. Billing lit his pipe noisily, and then took it out into the back-yard and sat down to think over the situation. The ungenerous idea that his wife was making goodness serve her own ends was the first that occurred to him.

His suspicions increased with time. Mrs. Billing’s good works seemed to be almost entirely connected with hospitality. True, she had entertained Mr. Purnip and one of the ladies from the Settlement to tea, but that only riveted his bonds more firmly. Other visitors included his sister- in-law, for whom he had a great distaste, and some of the worst-behaved children in the street.

“It’s only high spirits,” said Mrs. Billing; “all children are like that. And I do it to help the mothers.”

“And ‘cos you like children,” said her husband, preserving his good- humour with an effort.

There was a touch of monotony about the new life, and the good deeds that accompanied it, which, to a man of ardent temperament, was apt to pall. And Elk Street, instead of giving him the credit which was his due, preferred to ascribe the change in his behaviour to what they called being “a bit barmy on the crumpet.”

He came home one evening somewhat dejected, brightening up as he stood in the passage and inhaled the ravishing odours from the kitchen. Mrs. Billing, with a trace of nervousness somewhat unaccountable in view of the excellent quality of the repast provided, poured him out a glass of beer, and passed flattering comment upon his appearance.

“Wot’s the game?” he inquired.

“Game?” repeated his wife, in a trembling voice. “Nothing. ‘Ow do you find that steak-pudding? I thought of giving you one every Wednesday.”

Mr. Billing put down his knife and fork and sat regarding her thoughtfully. Then he pushed back his chair suddenly, and, a picture of consternation and wrath, held up his hand for silence.

“W-w-wot is it?” he demanded. “A cat?”

Mrs. Billing made no reply, and her husband sprang to his feet as a long, thin wailing sounded through the house. A note of temper crept into it and strengthened it.

“Wot is it?” demanded Mr. Billing again. “It’s—it’s Mrs. Smith’s Charlie,” stammered his wife.

“In—in my bedroom?” exclaimed her husband, in incredulous accents. “Wot’s it doing there?”

“I took it for the night,” said his wife hurriedly. “Poor thing, what with the others being ill she’s ‘ad a dreadful time, and she said if I’d take Charlie for a few—for a night, she might be able to get some sleep.”

Mr. Billing choked. “And what about my sleep?” he shouted. “Chuck it outside at once. D’ye hear me?”

His words fell on empty air, his wife having already sped upstairs to pacify Master Smith by a rhythmical and monotonous thumping on the back. Also she lifted up a thin and not particularly sweet voice and sang to him. Mr. Billing, finishing his supper in indignant silence, told himself grimly that he was “beginning to have enough of it.”

He spent the evening at the Charlton Arms, and, returning late, went slowly and heavily up to bed. In the light of a shaded candle he saw a small, objectionable-looking infant fast asleep on two chairs by the side of the bed.

“H’sh!” said his wife, in a thrilling whisper. “He’s just gone off.”

“D’ye mean I mustn’t open my mouth in my own bedroom?” demanded the indignant man, loudly.

“H’sh!” said his wife again.

It was too late. Master Smith, opening first one eye and then the other, finished by opening his mouth. The noise was appalling.

“H’sh! H’sh!” repeated Mrs. Billing, as her husband began to add to the noise. “Don’t wake ‘im right up.”

“Right up?” repeated the astonished man. “Right up? Why, is he doing this in ‘is sleep?”

He subsided into silence, and, undressing with stealthy care, crept into bed and lay there, marvelling at his self-control. He was a sound sleeper, but six times at least he was awakened by Mrs. Billing slipping out of bed—regardless of draughts to her liege lord—and marching up and down the room with the visitor in her arms. He rose in the morning and dressed in ominous silence.

“I ‘ope he didn’t disturb you,” said his wife, anxiously.

“You’ve done it,” replied Mr. Billing. “You’ve upset everything now. Since I joined the Purnip lot everybody’s took advantage of me; now I’m going to get some of my own back. You wouldn’t ha’ dreamt of behaving like this a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, Joe!” said his wife, entreatingly; “and everybody’s been so happy!”

“Except me,” retorted Joe Billing. “You come down and get my breakfast ready. If I start early I shall catch Mr. Bill Ricketts on ‘is way to work. And mind, if I find that steam-orgin ‘ere when I come ‘ome to-night you’ll hear of it.”

He left the house with head erect and the light of battle in his eyes, and, meeting Mr. Ricketts at the corner, gave that justly aggrieved gentleman the surprise of his life. Elk Street thrilled to the fact that Mr. Billing had broken out again, and spoke darkly of what the evening might bring forth. Curious eyes followed his progress as he returned home from work, and a little later on the news was spread abroad that he was out and paying off old scores with an ardour that nothing could withstand.

“And wot about your change of ‘art?” demanded one indignant matron, as her husband reached home five seconds ahead of Mr. Billing and hid in the scullery.

“It’s changed agin,” said Mr. Billing, simply.

He finished the evening in the Blue Lion, where he had one bar almost to himself, and, avoiding his wife’s reproachful glance when he arrived home, procured some warm water and began to bathe his honourable scars.

“Mr. Purnip ‘as been round with another gentleman,” said his wife.

Mr. Billing said, “Oh!”

“Very much upset they was, and ‘ope you’ll go and see them,” she continued.

Mr. Billing said “Oh!” again; and, after thinking the matter over, called next day at the Settlement and explained his position.

“It’s all right for gentlemen like you,” he said civilly. “But a man. like me can’t call his soul ‘is own—or even ‘is bedroom. Everybody takes advantage of ‘im. Nobody ever gives you a punch, and, as for putting babies in your bedroom, they wouldn’t dream of it.”

He left amid expressions of general regret, turning a deaf ear to all suggestions about making another start, and went off exulting in his freedom.

His one trouble was Mr. Purnip, that estimable gentleman, who seemed to have a weird gift of meeting him at all sorts of times and places, never making any allusion to his desertion, but showing quite clearly by his manner that he still hoped for the return of the wanderer. It was awkward for a man of sensitive disposition, and Mr. Billing, before entering a street, got into the habit of peering round the corner first.

He pulled up suddenly one evening as he saw his tenacious friend, accompanied by a lady-member, some little distance ahead. Then he sprang forward with fists clenched as a passer-by, after scowling at Mr. Purnip, leaned forward and deliberately blew a mouthful of smoke into the face of his companion.

Mr. Billing stopped again and stood gaping with astonishment. The aggressor was getting up from the pavement, while Mr. Purnip, in an absolutely correct attitude, stood waiting for him. Mr. Billing in a glow of delight edged forward, and, with a few other fortunates, stood by watching one of the best fights that had ever been seen in the district. Mr. Purnip’s foot-work was excellent, and the way he timed his blows made Mr. Billing’s eyes moist with admiration.

It was over at last. The aggressor went limping off, and Mr. Purnip, wiping his bald head, picked up his battered and dusty hat from the roadway and brushed it on his sleeve. He turned with a start and a blush to meet the delighted gaze of Mr. Billing.

“I’m ashamed of myself,” he murmured, brokenly—“ashamed.”

“Ashamed!” exclaimed the amazed Mr. Billing. “Why, a pro couldn’t ha’ done better.”

“Such an awful example,” moaned the other. “All my good work here thrown away.”

“Don’t you believe it, sir,” said Mr. Billing, earnestly. “As soon as this gets about you’ll get more members than you want a’most. I’m coming back, for one.”

Mr. Purnip turned and grasped his hand.

“I understand things now,” said Mr. Billing, nodding sagely. “Turning the other cheek’s all right so long as you don’t do it always. If you don’t let ‘em know whether you are going to turn the other cheek or knock their blessed heads off, it’s all right. ‘Arf the trouble in the world is caused by letting people know too much.”

HUSBANDRY

Dealing with a man, said the night-watchman, thoughtfully, is as easy as a teetotaller walking along a nice wide pavement; dealing with a woman is like the same teetotaller, arter four or five whiskies, trying to get up a step that ain’t there. If a man can’t get ‘is own way he eases ‘is mind with a little nasty language, and then forgets all about it; if a woman can’t get ‘er own way she flies into a temper and reminds you of something you oughtn’t to ha’ done ten years ago. Wot a woman would do whose ‘usband had never done anything wrong I can’t think.

I remember a young feller telling me about a row he ‘ad with ‘is wife once. He ‘adn’t been married long and he talked as if the way she carried on was unusual. Fust of all, he said, she spoke to ‘im in a cooing sort o’ voice and pulled his moustache, then when he wouldn’t give way she worked herself up into a temper and said things about ‘is sister. Arter which she went out o’ the room and banged the door so hard it blew down a vase off the fireplace. Four times she came back to tell ‘im other things she ‘ad thought of, and then she got so upset she ‘ad to go up to bed and lay down instead of getting his tea. When that didn’t do no good she refused her food, and when ‘e took her up toast and tea she wouldn’t look at it. Said she wanted to die. He got quite uneasy till ‘e came ‘ome the next night and found the best part of a loaf o’ bread, a quarter o’ butter, and a couple o’ chops he ‘ad got in for ‘is supper had gorn; and then when he said ‘e was glad she ‘ad got ‘er appetite back she turned round and said that he grudged ‘er the food she ate.

And no woman ever owned up as ‘ow she was wrong; and the more you try and prove it to ‘em the louder they talk about something else. I know wot I’m talking about because a woman made a mistake about me once, and though she was proved to be in the wrong, and it was years ago, my missus shakes her ‘ead about it to this day.

It was about eight years arter I ‘ad left off going to sea and took up night-watching. A beautiful summer evening it was, and I was sitting by the gate smoking a pipe till it should be time to light up, when I noticed a woman who ‘ad just passed turn back and stand staring at me. I’ve ‘ad that sort o’ thing before, and I went on smoking and looking straight in front of me. Fat middle-aged woman she was, wot ‘ad lost her good looks and found others. She stood there staring and staring, and by and by she tries a little cough.

I got up very slow then, and, arter looking all round at the evening, without seeing ‘er, I was just going to step inside and shut the wicket, when she came closer.

“Bill!” she ses, in a choking sort o’ voice.

“Bill!”

I gave her a look that made her catch ‘er breath, and I was just stepping through the wicket, when she laid hold of my coat and tried to hold me back.

“Do you know wot you’re a-doing of?” I ses, turning on her.

“Oh, Bill dear,” she ses, “don’t talk to me like that. Do you want to break my ‘art? Arter all these years!”

She pulled out a dirt-coloured pocket-’ankercher and stood there dabbing her eyes with it. One eye at a time she dabbed, while she looked at me reproachful with the other. And arter eight dabs, four to each eye, she began to sob as if her ‘art would break.

“Go away,” I ses, very slow. “You can’t stand making that noise outside my wharf. Go away and give somebody else a treat.”

Afore she could say anything the potman from the Tiger, a nasty ginger- ‘aired little chap that nobody liked, come by and stopped to pat her on the back.

“There, there, don’t take on, mother,” he ses. “Wot’s he been a-doing to you?”

“You get off ‘ome,” I ses, losing my temper.

“Wot d’ye mean trying to drag me into it? I’ve never seen the woman afore in my life.”

“Oh, Bill!” ses the woman, sobbing louder than ever. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

“‘Ow does she know your name, then?” ses the little beast of a potman.

I didn’t answer him. I might have told ‘im that there’s about five million Bills in England, but I didn’t. I stood there with my arms folded acrost my chest, and looked at him, superior.

“Where ‘ave you been all this long, long time?” she ses, between her sobs. “Why did you leave your happy ‘ome and your children wot loved you?”

The potman let off a whistle that you could have ‘eard acrost the river, and as for me, I thought I should ha’ dropped. To have a woman standing sobbing and taking my character away like that was a’most more than I could bear.

“Did he run away from you?” ses the potman.

“Ye-ye-yes,” she ses. “He went off on a vy’ge to China over nine years ago, and that’s the last I saw of ‘im till to-night. A lady friend o’ mine thought she reckernized ‘im yesterday, and told me.”

“I shouldn’t cry over ‘im,” ses the potman, shaking his ‘ead: “he ain’t worth it. If I was you I should just give ‘im a bang or two over the ‘ead with my umberella, and then give ‘im in charge.”

I stepped inside the wicket—backwards—and then I slammed it in their faces, and putting the key in my pocket, walked up the wharf. I knew it was no good standing out there argufying. I felt sorry for the pore thing in a way. If she really thought I was her ‘usband, and she ‘ad lost me– I put one or two things straight and then, for the sake of distracting my mind, I ‘ad a word or two with the skipper of the John Henry, who was leaning against the side of his ship, smoking.

“Wot’s that tapping noise?” he ses, all of a sudden. “‘Ark!”

I knew wot it was. It was the handle of that umberella ‘ammering on the gate. I went cold all over, and then when I thought that the pot-man was most likely encouraging ‘er to do it I began to boil.

“Somebody at the gate,” ses the skipper.

“Aye, aye,” I ses. “I know all about it.”

I went on talking until at last the skipper asked me whether he was wandering in ‘is mind, or whether I was. The mate came up from the cabin just then, and o’ course he ‘ad to tell me there was somebody knocking at the gate.

“Ain’t you going to open it?” ses the skipper, staring at me.

“Let ‘em ring,” I ses, off-hand.

The words was ‘ardly out of my mouth afore they did ring, and if they ‘ad been selling muffins they couldn’t ha’ kept it up harder. And all the time the umberella was doing rat-a-tat tats on the gate, while a voice— much too loud for the potman’s—started calling out: “Watch-man ahoy!”

“They’re calling you, Bill,” ses the skipper. “I ain’t deaf,” I ses, very cold.

“Well, I wish I was,” ses the skipper. “It’s fair making my ear ache. Why the blazes don’t you do your dooty, and open the gate?”

“You mind your bisness and I’ll mind mine,” I ses. “I know wot I’m doing. It’s just some silly fools ‘aving a game with me, and I’m not going to encourage ‘em.”

“Game with you?” ses the skipper. “Ain’t they got anything better than that to play with? Look ‘ere, if you don’t open that gate, I will.”

“It’s nothing to do with you,” I ses. “You look arter your ship and I’ll look arter my wharf. See? If you don’t like the noise, go down in the cabin and stick your ‘ead in a biscuit-bag.”

To my surprise he took the mate by the arm and went, and I was just thinking wot a good thing it was to be a bit firm with people sometimes, when they came back dressed up in their coats and bowler-hats and climbed on to the wharf.

“Watchman!” ses the skipper, in a hoity-toity sort o’ voice, “me and the mate is going as far as Aldgate for a breath o’ fresh air. Open the gate.”

I gave him a look that might ha’ melted a ‘art of stone, and all it done to ‘im was to make ‘im laugh.

“Hurry up,” he ses. “It a’most seems to me that there’s somebody ringing the bell, and you can let them in same time as you let us out. Is it the bell, or is it my fancy, Joe?” he ses, turning to the mate.

They marched on in front of me with their noses cocked in the air, and all the time the noise at the gate got worse and worse. So far as I could make out, there was quite a crowd outside, and I stood there with the key in the lock, trembling all over. Then I unlocked it very careful, and put my hand on the skipper’s arm.

“Nip out quick,” I ses, in a whisper.

“I’m in no hurry,” ses the skipper. “Here! Halloa, wot’s up?”

It was like opening the door at a theatre, and the fust one through was that woman, shoved behind by the potman. Arter ‘im came a car-man, two big ‘ulking brewers’ draymen, a little scrap of a woman with ‘er bonnet cocked over one eye, and a couple of dirty little boys.

“Wot is it?” ses the skipper, shutting the wicket behind ‘em. “A beanfeast?”

“This lady wants her ‘usband,” ses the pot-man, pointing at me. “He run away from her nine years ago, and now he says he ‘as never seen ‘er before. He ought to be ‘ung.”

“Bill,” ses the skipper, shaking his silly ‘ead at me. “I can ‘ardly believe it.”

“It’s all a pack o’ silly lies,” I ses, firing up. “She’s made a mistake.”

“She made a mistake when she married you,” ses the thin little woman. “If I was in ‘er shoes I’d take ‘old of you and tear you limb from limb.”

“I don’t want to hurt ‘im, ma’am,” ses the other woman. “I on’y want him to come ‘ome to me and my five. Why, he’s never seen the youngest, little Annie. She’s as like ‘im as two peas.”

“Pore little devil,” ses the carman.

“Look here!” I ses, “you clear off. All of you. ‘Ow dare you come on to my wharf? If you aren’t gone in two minutes I’ll give you all in charge.”

“Who to?” ses one of the draymen, sticking his face into mine. “You go ‘ome to your wife and kids. Go on now, afore I put up my ‘ands to you.”

“That’s the way to talk to ‘im,” ses the pot-man, nodding at ‘em.

They all began to talk to me then and tell me wot I was to do, and wot they would do if I didn’t. I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. When I reminded the mate that when he was up in London ‘e always passed himself off as a single man, ‘e wouldn’t listen; and when I asked the skipper whether ‘is pore missus was blind, he on’y went on shouting at the top of ‘is voice. It on’y showed me ‘ow anxious most people are that everybody else should be good.