The Lady of the Barge, W. W. Jacobs [feel good books to read txt] 📗

manner as possible, was to hint to her that they were after her money. He was so vague and so delicate that Mrs. Pullen misunderstood him, and fancying that he was trying to borrow half a crown, made him a present of five shillings.

It was evident to the slower-going Mr. Miller that his rival’s tongue was giving him an advantage which only the ever-watchful presence of the carpenter and his wife prevented him from pushing to the fullest advantage. In these circumstances he sat for two hours after breakfast one morning in deep cogitation, and after six pipes got up with a twinkle in his slow eyes which his brother dealers had got to regard as a danger signal.

He had only the glimmering of an idea at first, but after a couple of pints at the Bell everything took shape, and he cast his eyes about for an assistant. They fell upon a man named Smith, and the dealer, after some thought, took up his glass and went over to him.

“I want you to do something for me,” he remarked, in a mysterious voice.

“Ah, I’ve been wanting to see you,” said Smith, who was also a dealer in a small way. “One o’ them hins I bought off you last week is dead.”

“I’ll give you another for it,” said Miller.

“And the others are so forgetful,” continued Mr. Smith.

“Forgetful?” repeated the other.

“Forget to lay, like,” said Mr. Smith, musingly.

“Never mind about them,” said Mr. Miller, with some animation. “I want you to do something for me. If it comes off all right, I’ll give you a dozen hins and a couple of decentish-sized pigs.”

Mr. Smith called a halt. “Decentish-sized” was vague.

“Take your pick,” said Mr. Miller. “You know Mrs. Pullen’s got two thousand pounds⁠—”

“Wiggett’s going to have it,” said the other; “he as good as told me so.”

“He’s after her money,” said the other, sadly. “Look ’ere, Smith, I want you to tell him she’s lost it all. Say that Tidger told you, but you wasn’t to tell anybody else. Wiggett’ll believe you.”

Mr. Smith turned upon him a face all wrinkles, lit by one eye. “I want the hins and the pigs first,” he said, firmly.

Mr. Miller, shocked at his grasping spirit, stared at him mournfully.

“And twenty pounds the day you marry Mrs. Pullen,” continued Mr. Smith.

Mr. Miller, leading him up and down the sawdust floor, besought him to listen to reason, and Mr. Smith allowed the better feelings of our common human nature to prevail to the extent of reducing his demands to half a dozen fowls on account, and all the rest on the day of the marriage. Then, with the delightful feeling that he wouldn’t do any work for a week, he went out to drop poison into the ears of Mr. Wiggett.

“Lost all her money!” said the startled Mr. Wiggett. “How?”

“I don’t know how,” said his friend. “Tidger told me, but made me promise not to tell a soul. But I couldn’t help telling you, Wiggett, ’cause I know what you’re after.”

“Do me a favour,” said the little man.

“I will,” said the other.

“Keep it from Miller as long as possible. If you hear anyone else talking of it, tell ’em to keep it from him. If he marries her I’ll give you a couple of pints.”

Mr. Smith promised faithfully, and both the Tidgers and Mrs. Pullen were surprised to find that Mr. Miller was the only visitor that evening. He spoke but little, and that little in a slow, ponderous voice intended for Mrs. Pullen’s ear alone. He spoke disparagingly of money, and shook his head slowly at the temptations it brought in its train. Give him a crust, he said, and somebody to halve it with⁠—a homemade crust baked by a wife. It was a pretty picture, but somewhat spoiled by Mrs. Tidger suggesting that, though he had spoken of halving the crust, he had said nothing about the beer.

“Half of my beer wouldn’t be much,” said the dealer, slowly.

“Not the half you would give your wife wouldn’t,” retorted Mrs. Tidger.

The dealer sighed and looked mournfully at Mrs. Pullen. The lady sighed in return, and finding that her admirer’s stock of conversation seemed to be exhausted, coyly suggested a game of draughts. The dealer assented with eagerness, and declining the offer of a glass of beer by explaining that he had had one the day before yesterday, sat down and lost seven games right off. He gave up at the seventh game, and pushing back his chair, said that he thought Mrs. Pullen was the most wonderful draught-player he had ever seen, and took no notice when Mrs. Tidger, in a dry voice charged with subtle meaning, said that she thought he was.

“Draughts come natural to some people,” said Mrs. Pullen, modestly. “It’s as easy as kissing your fingers.”

Mr. Miller looked doubtful; then he put his great fingers to his lips by way of experiment, and let them fall unmistakably in the widow’s direction. Mrs. Pullen looked down and nearly blushed. The carpenter and his wife eyed each other in indignant consternation.

“That’s easy enough,” said the dealer, and repeated the offense.

Mrs. Pullen got up in some confusion, and began to put the draughtboard away. One of the pieces fell on the floor, and as they both stooped to recover it their heads bumped. It was nothing to the dealer’s, but Mrs. Pullen rubbed hers and sat down with her eyes watering. Mr. Miller took out his handkerchief, and going to the scullery, dipped it into water and held it to her head.

“Is it better?” he inquired.

“A little better,” said the victim, with a shiver.

Mr. Miller, in his emotion, was squeezing the handkerchief hard, and a cold stream was running down her neck.

“Thank you. It’s all right now.”

The dealer replaced the handkerchief, and sat for some time regarding her earnestly. Then the carpenter and his wife displaying manifest signs of impatience, he took his departure, after first inviting himself for another game of draughts the following night.

He walked home with the air of a conqueror, and thought exultingly that the two thousand pounds were his. It was a deal after his own heart, and not the least satisfactory part