Deep Waters, the Entire Collection. William Wymark Jacobs
a serpent,” said Mr. Mott, struggling for breath. “I—I’m surprised at you. You go out before you get hurt.”
“Not without the mantelpiece,” said Mr. Hurst, with a distorted grin.
“A viper!” said Mr. Mott, with extreme bitterness. “If you are not out in two minutes I’ll send for the police.”
“Florrie wouldn’t like that,” said Mr. Hurst. “She’s awfully particular about what people think. You just trot upstairs and tell her that a gentleman wants to see her.”
He threw himself into Mr. Mott’s own particular easy chair, and, crossing his knees, turned a deaf ear to the threats of that incensed gentleman. Not until the latter had left the room did his features reveal the timorousness of the soul within. Muffled voices sounded from upstairs, and it was evident that an argument of considerable length was in progress. It was also evident from the return of Mr. Mott alone that his niece had had the best of it.
“I’ve done all I could,” he said, “but she declines to see you. She says she won’t see you if you stay here for a month, and you couldn’t do that, you know.”
“Why not?” inquired Mr. Hurst.
“Why not?” repeated Mr. Mott, repressing his feelings with some difficulty. “Food!”
Mr. Hurst started.
“And drink,” said Mr. Mott, following up his advantage. “There’s no good in starving yourself for nothing, so you may as well go.”
“When I’ve seen Florrie,” said the young man, firmly.
Mr. Mott slammed the door, and for the rest of the day Mr. Hurst saw him no more. At one o’clock a savoury smell passed the door on its way upstairs, and at five o’clock a middle-aged woman with an inane smile looked into the room on her way aloft with a loaded tea-tray. By supper- time he was suffering considerably from hunger and thirst.
At ten o’clock he heard the footsteps of Mr. Mott descending the stairs. The door opened an inch, and a gruff voice demanded to know whether he was going to stay there all night. Receiving a cheerful reply in the affirmative, Mr. Mott secured the front door with considerable violence, and went off to bed without another word.
He was awakened an hour or two later by the sound of something falling, and, sitting up in bed to listen, became aware of a warm and agreeable odour. It was somewhere about the hour of midnight, but a breakfast smell of eggs and bacon would not be denied.
He put on some clothes and went downstairs. A crack of light showed under the kitchen door, and, pushing it open with some force, he gazed spellbound at the spectacle before him.
“Come in,” said Mr. Hurst, heartily. “I’ve just finished.”
He rocked an empty beer-bottle and patted another that was half full. Satiety was written on his face as he pushed an empty plate from him, and, leaning back in his chair, smiled lazily at Mr. Mott.
“Go on,” said that gentleman, hoarsely. Mr. Hurst shook his head.
“Enough is as good as a feast,” he said, reasonably. “I’ll have some more to-morrow.”
“Oh, will you?” said the other. “Will you?”
Mr. Hurst nodded, and, opening his coat, disclosed a bottle of beer in each breast-pocket. The other pockets, it appeared, contained food.
“And here’s the money for it,” he said, putting down some silver on the table. “I am determined, but honest.”
With a sweep of his hand, Mr. Mott sent the money flying.
“To-morrow morning I send for the police. Mind that!” he roared.
“I’d better have my breakfast early, then,” said Mr. Hurst, tapping his pockets. “Good night. And thank you for your advice.”
He sat for some time after the disappearance of his host, and then, returning to the front room, placed a chair at the end of the sofa and, with the tablecloth for a quilt, managed to secure a few hours’ troubled sleep. At eight o’clock he washed at the scullery sink, and at ten o’clock Mr. Mott, with an air of great determination, came in to deliver his ultimatum.
“If you’re not outside the front door in five minutes, I’m going to fetch the police,” he said, fiercely.
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