Light Freights. William Wymark Jacobs

‘e couldn’t move.

      “‘Spare ‘im,’ she ses, crying.

      “‘Lea’ go o’ my legs, mum,’ ses Sam.

      “‘Come on, Sam,’ ses Ginger; ‘come to the police.’

      “Old Sam made a desperit effort, and Mrs. Reddish called ‘im a crool monster, and let go and ‘id ‘er face on ‘er husband’s shoulder as they all moved out of the parlour, larfing like a mad thing with hysterics.

      “They moved off slowly, not knowing wot to do, as, of course, they knew they daren’t go to the police about it. Ginger Dick’s temper was awful; but Peter Russet said they mustn’t give up all ‘ope—he’d write to Ted Reddish and tell ‘im as a friend wot a danger ‘e was in. Old Sam didn’t say anything, the loss of his nevy and twenty-five pounds at the same time being almost more than ‘is ‘art could bear, and in a slow, melancholy fashion they walked back to old Sam’s lodgings.

      “‘Well, what the blazes is up now?’ ses Ginger Dick, as they turned the corner.

      “There was three or four ‘undered people standing in front of the ‘ouse, and women’s ‘eads out of all the winders screaming their ‘ardest for the police, and as they got closer they ‘eard a incessant knocking. It took ‘em nearly five minutes to force their way through the crowd, and then they nearly went crazy as they saw the wild man with ‘alf the winder-blind missing, but otherwise well and ‘arty, standing on the step and giving rat-a-tat-tats at the door for all ‘e was worth.

      “They never got to know the rights of it, Beauty getting so excited every time they asked ‘im ‘ow he got on that they ‘ad to give it up. But they began to ‘ave a sort of idea at last that Ted Reddish ‘ad been ‘aving a game with ‘em, and that Mrs. Reddish was worse than wot ‘e was.”

      A GARDEN PLOT

      The able-bodied men of the village were at work, the children were at school singing the multiplication-table lullaby, while the wives and mothers at home nursed the baby with one hand and did the housework with the other. At the end of the village an old man past work sat at a rough deal table under the creaking signboard of the Cauliflower, gratefully drinking from a mug of ale supplied by a chance traveller who sat opposite him.

      The shade of the elms was pleasant and the ale good. The traveller filled his pipe and, glancing at the dusty hedges and the white road baking in the sun, called for the mugs to be refilled, and pushed his pouch towards his companion. After which he paid a compliment to the appearance of the village.

      “It ain’t what it was when I was a boy,” quavered the old man, filling his pipe with trembling fingers. “I mind when the grindstone was stuck just outside the winder o’ the forge instead o’ being one side as it now is; and as for the shop winder—it’s twice the size it was when I was a young ‘un.”

      He lit his pipe with the scientific accuracy of a smoker of sixty years’ standing, and shook his head solemnly as he regarded his altered birthplace. Then his colour heightened and his dim eye flashed.

      “It’s the people about ‘ere ‘as changed more than the place ‘as,” he said, with sudden fierceness; “there’s a set o’ men about here nowadays as are no good to anybody; reg’lar raskels. And if you’ve the mind to listen I can tell you of one or two as couldn’t be beat in London itself.

      “There’s Tom Adams for one. He went and started wot ‘e called a Benevolent Club. Threepence a week each we paid agin sickness or accident, and Tom was secretary. Three weeks arter the club was started he caught a chill and was laid up for a month. He got back to work a week, and then ‘e sprained something in ‘is leg; and arter that was well ‘is inside went wrong. We didn’t think much of it at first, not understanding figures; but at the end o’ six months the club hadn’t got a farthing, and they was in Tom’s debt one pound seventeen-and-six.

      “He isn’t the only one o’ that sort in the place, either. There was Herbert Richardson. He went to town, and came back with the idea of a Goose Club for Christmas. We paid twopence a week into that for pretty near ten months, and then Herbert went back to town agin, and all we ‘ear of ‘im, through his sister, is that he’s still there and doing well, and don’t know when he’ll be back.

      “But the artfullest and worst man in this place—and that’s saying a good deal, mind you—is Bob Pretty. Deep is no word for ‘im. There’s no way of being up to ‘im. It’s through ‘im that we lost our Flower Show; and, if you’d like to ‘ear the rights o’ that, I don’t suppose there’s anybody in this place as knows as much about it as I do—barring Bob hisself that is, but ‘e wouldn’t tell it to you as plain as I can.

      “We’d only ‘ad the Flower Show one year, and little anybody thought that the next one was to be the last. The first year you might smell the place a mile off in the summer, and on the day of the show people came from a long way round, and brought money to spend at the Cauliflower and other places.

      “It was started just after we got our new parson, and Mrs. Pawlett, the parson’s wife, ‘is name being Pawlett, thought as she’d encourage men to love their ‘omes and be better ‘usbands by giving a prize every year for the best cottage garden. Three pounds was the prize, and a metal tea-pot with writing on it.

      “As I said, we only ‘ad it two years. The fust year the garden as got it was a picter, and Bill Chambers, ‘im as won the prize, used to say as ‘e was out o’ pocket by it, taking ‘is time and the money ‘e spent on flowers. Not as we believed that, you understand, ‘specially as Bill did ‘is very best to get it the next year, too. ‘E didn’t get it, and though p’r’aps most of us was glad ‘e didn’t, we was all very surprised at the way it turned out in the end.

      “The Flower Show was to be ‘eld on the 5th o’ July, just as a’most everything about here was at its best. On the 15th of June Bill Chambers’s garden seemed to be leading, but Peter Smith and Joe Gubbins and Sam Jones and Henery Walker was almost as good, and it was understood that more than one of ‘em had got a surprise which they’d produce at the last moment, too late for the others to copy. We used to sit up here of an evening at this Cauliflower public-house and put money on it. I put mine on Henery Walker, and the time I spent in ‘is garden ‘elping ‘im is a sin and a shame to think of.

      “Of course some of ‘em used to make fun of it, and Bob Pretty was the worst of ‘em all. He was always a lazy, good-for-nothing man, and ‘is garden was a disgrace. He’d chuck down any rubbish in it: old bones, old tins, bits of an old bucket, anything to make it untidy. He used to larf at ‘em awful about their gardens and about being took up by the parson’s wife. Nobody ever see ‘im do any work, real ‘ard work, but the smell from ‘is place at dinner-time was always nice, and I believe that he knew more about game than the parson hisself did.

      “It was the day arter this one I’m speaking about, the 16th o’ June, that the trouble all began, and it came about in a very eggstrordinary way. George English, a quiet man getting into years, who used when ‘e was younger to foller the sea, and whose only misfortin was that ‘e was a brother-in-law o’ Bob Pretty’s, his sister marrying Bob while ‘e was at sea and knowing nothing about it, ‘ad a letter come from a mate of his who ‘ad gone to Australia to live. He’d ‘ad letters from Australia before, as we all knew from Miss Wicks at the post-office, but this one upset him altogether. He didn’t seem like to know what to do about it.

      “While he was wondering Bill Chambers passed. He always did pass George’s ‘ouse about that time in the evening, it being on ‘is way ‘ome, and he saw George standing at ‘is gate with a letter in ‘is ‘and looking very puzzled.

      “‘Evenin’, George,’ ses Bill.

      “‘Evenin’,’ ses George.

      “‘Not bad news, I ‘ope?’ ses Bill, noticing ‘is manner, and thinking it was strange.

      “‘No,’ ses George. ‘I’ve just ‘ad a very eggstrordinary letter from Australia,’ he ses, ‘that’s all.’

      “Bill