A Master Of Craft. William Wymark Jacobs
to attract her attention, and with an apologetic expression of visage held up a small, pink garment of the knickerbocker species, and prepared for the worst.
“They’ve never shrunk like that?” said Mrs. Wheeler, starting up.
“They have,” said her husband, “all by itself,” he added, in hasty self-defence.
“You’ve had it in the soda,” said Mrs. Wheeler, disregarding.
“I’ve not,” said Mr. Wheeler, vehemently. “I’ve got the two tubs there, flannels in one without soda, the other things in the other with soda. It’s bad stuff, that’s what it is. I thought I’d show you.”
“It’s management they want,” said Mrs. Wheeler, wearily; “it’s the touch you have to give ‘em. I can’t explain, but I know they wouldn’t have gone like that if I’d done ‘em. What’s that you’re hiding behind you?”
Thus attacked, Mr. Wheeler produced his other hand, and shaking out a blue and white shirt, showed how the blue had been wandering over the white territory, and how the white had apparently accepted a permanent occupation.
“What do you say to that?” he enquired, desperately.
“You’d better ask Bob what he says,” said his wife, aghast; “you know how pertickler he is, too. I told you as plain as a woman could speak, not to boil that shirt.”
“Well, it can’t be helped,” said Mr. Wheeler, with a philosophy he hoped his son would imitate. “I wasn’t brought up to the washing, Polly.”
“It’s a sin to spoil good things like that,” said Mrs. Wheeler, fretfully. “Bob’s quite the gentleman—he will buy such expensive shirts. Take it away, I can’t bear to look at it.”
Mr. Wheeler, considerably crestfallen, was about to obey, when he was startled by a knock at the door.
“That’s Captain Flower, I expect,” said his wife, hastily; “he’s going to take Poppy and Emma to a theatre to-night. Don’t let him see you in that state, Peter.”
But Mr. Wheeler was already fumbling at the strings of his apron, and, despairing of undoing it, broke the string, and pitched it with the other clothes under the sofa and hastily donned his coat.
“Good-evening,” said Flower, as Mr. Wheeler opened the door; “this is my mate.”
“Glad to see you, sir,” said Mr. Wheeler.
The mate made his acknowledgments, and having shaken hands, carefully wiped his down the leg of his trousers.
“Moist hand you’ve got, Wheeler,” said Flower, who had been doing the same thing.
“Got some dye on ‘em at the docks,” said Wheeler, glibly. “I’ve ‘ad ‘em in soak.”
Flower nodded, and after a brief exchange of courtesies with Mrs. Wheeler as he passed the door, led the way up the narrow staircase to Miss Tyrell’s room.
“I’ve brought him with me, so that he’ll be company for Emma Wheeler,” said the skipper, as Fraser shook hands with her, “and you must look sharp if you want to get good seats.
“I’m ready all but my hat and jacket,” said Poppy, “and Emma’s in her room getting ready, too. All the children are up there helping her.”
Fraser opened his eyes at such a toilet, and began secretly to wish that he had paid more attention to his own.
“I hope you’re not shy?” said Miss Tyrell, who found his steadfast gaze somewhat embarrassing.
Fraser shook his head. “No, I’m not shy,” he said, quietly.
“Because Emma didn’t know you were coming,” continued Miss Tyrell, “and she’s always shy. So you must be bold, you know.”
The mate nodded as confidently as he could. “Shyness has never been one of my failings,” he said, nervously.
Further conversation was rendered difficult, if not impossible, by one which now took place outside. It was conducted between a small Wheeler on the top of the stairs and Mrs. Wheeler in the parlour below. The subject was hairpins, an article in which it appeared Miss Wheeler was lamentably deficient, owing, it was suggested, to a weakness of Mrs. Wheeler’s for picking up stray ones and putting them in her hair. The conversation ended in Mrs. Wheeler, whose thin voice was heard hotly combating these charges, parting with six, without prejudice; and a few minutes later Miss Wheeler, somewhat flushed, entered the room and was introduced to the mate.
“All ready?” enquired Flower, as Miss Tyrell drew on her gloves.
They went downstairs in single file, the builder of the house having left no option in the matter, while the small Wheelers, breathing hard with excitement, watched them over the balusters. Outside the house the two ladies paired off, leaving the two men to follow behind.
The mate noticed, with a strong sense of his own unworthiness, that the two ladies seemed thoroughly engrossed in each other’s company, and oblivious to all else. A suggestion from Flower that he should close up and take off Miss Wheeler, seemed to him to border upon audacity, but he meekly followed Flower as that bold mariner ranged himself alongside the girls, and taking two steps on the curb and three in the gutter, walked along for some time trying to think of something to say.
“There ain’t room for four abreast,” said Flower, who had been scraping against the wall. “We’d better split up into twos.”
At the suggestion the ladies drifted apart, and Flower, taking Miss Tyrell’s arm, left the mate behind with Miss Wheeler, nervously wondering whether he ought to do the same.
“I hope it won’t rain,” he said, at last.
“I hope not,” said Miss Wheeler, glancing up at a sky which was absolutely cloudless.
“So bad for ladies’ dresses,” continued the mate.
“What is?” enquired Miss Wheeler, who had covered some distance since the last remark.
“Rain,” said the mate, quite freshly. “I don’t think we shall have any, though.”
Miss Wheeler whose life had been passed in a neighbourhood in which there was only one explanation for such conduct, concluded that he had been drinking, and, closing her lips tightly, said no more until they reached the theatre.
“Oh, they’re going in,” she said, quickly; “we shall get a bad seat.”
“Hurry up,” cried Flower, beckoning.
“I’ll pay,” whispered the mate.
“No, I will,” said Flower. “Well, you pay for one and I’ll pay for one, then.”
He pushed his way to the window and bought a couple of pit-stalls; the mate, who had not consulted him, bought upper-circles, and, with a glance at the ladies, pushed open the swing-doors.
“Come on,” he said, excitedly; and seeing several people racing up the broad stone stairs, he and Miss Tyrell raced with them.
“Round this side,” he cried, hastily, as he gave up the tickets, and, followed by Miss Tyrell, quickly secured a couple of seats at the end of the front row.
“Best seats in the house almost,” said Poppy, cheerfully.
“Where are the others?” said Fraser, looking round.
“Coming on behind, I suppose,” said Poppy glancing over her shoulder.
“I’ll change places when they arrive,” said the other, apologetically; “something’s detained them, I should think. I hope they’re not waiting for us.”
He stood looking about him uneasily as the seats behind rapidly filled, and closely scanned their occupants, and then, leaving his hat on the seat, walked back in perplexity to the door.
“Never mind,” said Miss Tyrell, quietly, as he came back. “I daresay they’ll find us.”
Fraser bought a programme and sat down, the brim of Miss Tyrell’s