Sailors' Knots (Entire Collection). W. W. Jacobs

      “I've reasoned with you,” continued Mr. Hatchard, “I've argued with you, and I've pointed out the error of your ways to you, and it's all no good.”

      “Oh, be quiet, and don't talk nonsense,” said his wife.

      “Talking,” continued Mr. Hatchard, “as I said before, is no good. Deeds, not words, is what is wanted.”

      He rose suddenly from his chair and, taking one of the vases from the mantelpiece, dashed it to pieces on the fender. Example is contagious, and two seconds later he was in his chair again, softly feeling a rapidly growing bump on his head, and gazing goggle-eyed at his wife.

      “And I'd do it again,” said that lady, breathlessly, “if there was another vase.”

      Mr. Hatchard opened his mouth, but speech failed him. He got up and left the room without a word, and, making his way to the scullery, turned on the tap and held his head beneath it. A sharp intake of the breath announced that a tributary stream was looking for the bump down the neck of his shirt.

      He was away a long time—so long that the half-penitent Mrs. Hatchard was beginning to think of giving first aid to the wounded. Then she heard him coming slowly back along the passage. He entered the room, drying his wet hair on a hand-kerchief.

      “I—I hope I didn't hurt you—much?” said his wife.

      Mr. Hatchard drew himself up and regarded her with lofty indignation.

      “You might have killed me,” he said at last, in thrilling tones. “Then what would you have done?”

      “Swept up the pieces, and said you came home injured and died in my arms,” said Mrs. Hatchard, glibly. “I don't want to be unfeeling, but you'd try the temper of a saint. I'm sure I wonder I haven't done it before. Why I married a stingy man I don't know.”

      “Why I married at all I don't know,” said her husband, in a deep voice.

      “We were both fools,” said Mrs. Hatchard, in a resigned voice; “that's what it was. However, it can't be helped now.”

      “Some men would go and leave you,” said Mr. Hatchard.

      “Well, go,” said his wife, bridling. “I don't want you.”

      “Don't talk nonsense,” said the other.

      “It ain't nonsense,” said Mrs. Hatchard. “If you want to go, go. I don't want to keep you.”

      “I only wish I could,” said her husband, wistfully.

      “There's the door,” said Mrs. Hatchard, pointing. “What's to prevent you?”

      “And have you going to the magistrate?” observed Mr. Hatchard.

      “Not me,” was the reply.

      “Or coming up, full of complaints, to the ware-house?”

      “Not me,” said his wife again.

      “It makes my mouth water to think of it,” said Mr. Hatchard. “Four years ago I hadn't a care in the world.”

      “Me neither,” said Mrs. Hatchard; “but then I never thought I should marry you. I remember the first time I saw you I had to stuff my handkerchief in my mouth.”

      “What for?” inquired Mr. Hatchard.

      “Keep from laughing,” was the reply.

      “You took care not to let me see you laugh,” said Mr. Hatchard, grimly. “You were polite enough in them days. I only wish I could have my time over again; that's all.”

      “You can go, as I said before,” said his wife.

      “I'd go this minute,” said Mr. Hatchard, “but I know what it 'ud be: in three or four days you'd be coming and begging me to take you back again.”

      “You try me,” said Mrs. Hatchard, with a hard laugh. “I can keep myself. You leave me the furniture—most of it is mine—and I sha'n't worry you again.”

      “Mind!” said Mr. Hatchard, raising his hand with great solemnity. “If I go, I never come back again.”

      “I'll take care of that,” said his wife, equably. “You are far more likely to ask to come back than I am.”

      Mr. Hatchard stood for some time in deep thought, and then, spurred on by a short, contemptuous laugh from his wife, went to the small passage and, putting on his overcoat and hat, stood in the parlor doorway regarding her.

      “I've a good mind to take you at your word,” he said, at last.

      “Good-night,” said his wife, briskly. “If you send me your address, I'll send your things on to you. There's no need for you to call about them.”

      Hardly realizing the seriousness of the step, Mr. Hatchard closed the front door behind him with a bang, and then discovered that it was raining. Too proud to return for his umbrella, he turned up his coat-collar and, thrusting his hands in his pockets, walked slowly down the desolate little street. By the time he had walked a dozen yards he began to think that he might as well have waited until the morning; before he had walked fifty he was certain of it.

      He passed the night at a coffee-house, and rose so early in the morning that the proprietor took it as a personal affront, and advised him to get his breakfast elsewhere. It was the longest day in Mr. Hatchard's experience, and, securing modest lodgings that evening, he overslept himself and was late at the warehouse next morning for the first time in ten years.

      His personal effects arrived next day, but no letter came from his wife, and one which he wrote concerning a pair of missing garments received no reply. He wrote again, referring to them in laudatory terms, and got a brief reply to the effect that they had been exchanged in part payment on a pair of valuable pink vases, the pieces of which he could have by paying the carriage.

      In six weeks Mr. Hatchard changed his lodgings twice. A lack of those home comforts which he had taken as a matter of course during his married life was a source of much tribulation, and it was clear that his weekly bills were compiled by a clever writer of fiction. It was his first experience of lodgings, and the difficulty of saying unpleasant things to a woman other than his wife was not the least of his troubles. He changed his lodgings for a third time, and, much surprised at his wife's continued silence, sought out a cousin of hers named Joe Pett, and poured his troubles into that gentleman's reluctant ear.

      “If she was to ask me to take her back,” he concluded, “I'm not sure, mind you, that I wouldn't do so.”

      “It does you credit,” said Mr. Pett. “Well, ta-ta; I must be off.”

      “And I expect she'd be very much obliged to anybody that told her so,” said Mr. Hatchard, clutching at the other's sleeve.

      Mr. Pett, gazing into space, said that he thought it highly probable.

      “It wants to be done cleverly, though,” said Mr. Hatchard, “else she might get the idea that I wanted to go back.”

      “I s'pose you know she's moved?” said Mr. Pett, with the air of a man anxious to change the conversation.

      “Eh?” said the other.

      “Number thirty-seven, John Street,” said Mr. Pett. “Told my wife she's going to take in lodgers. Calling herself Mrs. Harris, after her maiden name.”

      He went off before Mr. Hatchard could recover, and the latter at once verified the information in part by walking round to his old house. Bits of straw and paper littered the front garden, the blinds were down, and a bill was pasted on the front parlor window. Aghast at such determination, he