A Master Of Craft. William Wymark Jacobs
woman of early middle age, dressed in a style to which the inhabitants of the row had long been unaccustomed. The practised eye of the skipper at once classed her as “rather good-looking.”
“Captain Barber’s in the garden,” she said, smiling. “He wasn’t expecting you’d be up just yet.”
The skipper followed her in silence, and, after shaking hands with the short, red-faced man with the grey beard and shaven lip, who sat with a paper on his knee, stood watching in blank astonishment as the stranger carefully filled the old man’s pipe and gave him a light. Their eyes meeting, the uncle winked solemnly at the nephew.
“This is Mrs. Church,” he said, slowly; “this is my nevy, Cap’n Fred Flower.”
“I should have known him anywhere,” declared Mrs. Church; “the likeness is wonderful.”
Captain Barber chuckled—loudly enough for them to hear.
“Me and Mrs. Church have been watering the flowers,” he said. “Give ‘em a good watering, we have.”
“I never really knew before what a lot there was in watering,” admitted Mrs. Church.
“There’s a right way and a wrong in doing everything,” said Captain Barber, severely; “most people chooses the wrong. If it wasn’t so, those of us who have got on, wouldn’t have got on.”
“That’s very true,” said Mrs. Church, shaking her head.
“And them as haven’t got on would have got on,” said the philosopher, following up his train of thought. “If you would just go out and get them things I spoke to you about, Mrs. Church, we shall be all right.”
“Who is it?” enquired the nephew, as soon as she had gone.
Captain Barber looked stealthily round, and, for the second time that evening, winked at his nephew.
“A visitor?” said Flower.
Captain Barber winked again, and then laughed into his pipe until it gurgled.
“It’s a little plan o’ mine.” he said, when he had become a little more composed. “She’s my housekeeper.”
“Housekeeper?” repeated the astonished Flower.
“Bein’ all alone here,” said Uncle Barber, “I think a lot. I sit an’ think until I get an idea. It comes quite sudden like, and I wonder I never thought of it before.”
“But what did you want a housekeeper for?” enquired his nephew. “Where’s Lizzie?”
“I got rid of her,” said Captain Barber. “I got a housekeeper because I thought it was time you got married. Now do you see?”
“No,” said Flower, shortly.
Captain Barber laughed softly and, relighting his pipe which had gone out, leaned back in his chair and again winked at his indignant nephew.
“Mrs. Banks,” he said, suggestively.
His nephew gazed at him blankly.
Captain Barber, sighing good-naturedly at his dulness, turned his chair a bit and explained the situation.
“Mrs. Banks won’t let you and Elizabeth marry till she’s gone,” said he.
His nephew nodded.
“I’ve been at her ever so long,” said the other, “but she’s firm. Now I’m trying artfulness. I’ve got a good-looking housekeeper—she’s the pick o’ seventeen what all come here Wednesday morning—and I’m making love to her.”
“Making love to her,” shouted his nephew, gazing wildly at the venerable bald head with the smoking-cap resting on one huge ear.
“Making love to her,” repeated Captain Barber, with a satisfied air. “What’ll happen? Mrs. Banks, to prevent me getting married, as she thinks, will give her consent to you an’ Elizabeth getting tied up.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of breach of promise cases?” asked his nephew, aghast.
“There’s no fear o’ that,” said Captain Barber, confidently. “It’s all right with Mrs. Church she’s a widder. A widder ain’t like a young girl she knows you don’t mean anything.”
It was useless to argue with such stupendous folly; Captain Flower tried another tack.
“And suppose Mrs. Church gets fond of you,” he said, gravely. “It doesn’t seem right to trifle with a woman’s affections like that.”
“I won’t go too far,” said the lady-killer in the smoking-cap, reassuringly.
“Elizabeth and her mother are still away, I suppose?” said Flower, after a pause.
His uncle nodded.
“So, of course, you needn’t do much love-making till they come back,” said his nephew; “it’s waste of time, isn’t it?”
“I’ll just keep my hand in,” said Captain Barber, thoughtfully. “I can’t say as I find it disagreeable. I was always one to take a little notice of the sects.”
He got up to go indoors. “Never mind about them,” he said, as his nephew was about to follow with the chair and his tobacco-jar; “Mrs. Church likes to do that herself, and she’d be disappointed if anybody else did it.”
His nephew followed him to the house in silence, listening later on with a gloomy feeling of alarm to the conversation at the supper-table. The rôle of gooseberry was new to him, and when Mrs. Church got up from the table for the sole purpose of proving her contention that Captain Barber looked better in his black velvet smoking-cap than the one he was wearing he was almost on the point of exceeding his duties.
He took the mate into his confidence the next day, and asked him what he thought of it. Fraser said that it was evidently in the blood, and, being pressed with some heat for an explanation, said that he meant Captain Barber’s blood.
“It’s bad, any way I look at it,” said Flower; “it may bring matters between me and Elizabeth to a head, or it may end in my uncle marrying the woman.”
“Very likely both,” said Fraser, cheerfully. “Is this Mrs. Church good-looking?”
“I can hardly say,” said Flower, pondering.
“Well, good-looking enough for you to feel inclined to take any notice of her?” asked the mate.
“When you can talk seriously,” said the skipper, in great wrath, “I’ll be pleased to answer you. Just at present I don’t feel in the sort of temper to be made fun of.”
He walked off in dudgeon, and, until they were on their way to London again, treated the mate with marked coldness. Then the necessity of talking to somebody about his own troubles and his uncle’s idiocy put the two men on their old footing. In the quietness of the cabin, over a satisfying pipe, he planned out in a kindly and generous spirit careers for both the ladies he was not going to marry. The only thing that was wanted to complete their happiness, and his, was that they should fall in with the measures proposed.
CHAPTER IV
At No. 5 Liston Street, Poppy Tyrell sat at the open window of her room reading. The outside air was pleasant, despite the fact that Poplar is a somewhat crowded neighbourhood, and it was rendered more pleasant by comparison with the atmosphere inside, which, from a warm, soft smell not to be described by comparison, suggested washing. In the stone-paved yard beneath the window, a small daughter of the house hung out garments of various hues and shapes, while inside, in the scullery, the master of the house was doing the family washing with all the secrecy and trepidation of one engaged in an unlawful task. The Wheeler family was a large one, and the wash heavy, and besides misadventures to one or two garments, sorted out for further consideration, the small girl was severely critical about the colour, averring sharply that she was almost ashamed to put them on the line.
“They’ll dry clean,” said her father, wiping his brow with the upper part of his arm, the only part which was dry; “and if they