 Section 3 of Stories by English Authors, London, by Various. This Liberlox recording is in the public domain. The Black Poodle by F. Anstey Part 2 I know it was wrong. It even came unpleasantly near dog-stealing. But I was a desperate man. I saw Lillian gradually slipping away from me. I knew that nothing short of this could ever recall her. I was sorely tempted. I had gone far on the same road already. It was the old story of being hung for a sheep. And so I fell. Surely some who read this will be generous enough to consider the peculiar state of the case and mingle a little pity with their contempt. I was dining in town that evening and took my purchase home by a late train. His demeanor was grave and intensely respectable. He was not the animal to commit himself by any flagrant indiscretion. He was gentle and tractable too, and in all respects an agreeable contrast in character to the original. Still it may have been the after-dinner workings of conscience, but I could not help fancying that I saw a certain look in the creature's eyes, as if he were aware that he was required to connive at a fraud, and rather resented it. If he would only be good enough to back me up. Fortunately, however, he was such a perfect facsimile of the outward bingo that the risk of detection was really inconsiderable. When I got him home I put Bingo's silver collar around his neck, congratulating myself on my forethought in preserving it, and took him in to see my mother. She accepted him as what he seemed without the slightest misgiving. But this, though it encouraged me to go on, was not decisive. This furious poodle would have to encounter the scrutiny of those who knew every tuft on the genuine animal's body. Nothing would have induced me to undergo such an ordeal as that of personally restoring him to the curries. We gave him supper and tied him up on the lawn where he howled dolefully all night and buried bones. The next morning I wrote a note to Mrs. Curry expressing my pleasure at being able to restore the lost one, and another to Lillian containing only the words, Will you believe now that I am sincere? Then I tied both round the poodle's neck and dropped him over the wall into the Colonel's garden just before I started to catch my train to town. I had an anxious walk home from the station that evening. I went round by the longer way, trembling the whole time, lest I should meet any of the Curry household, to which I felt myself entirely unequal just then. I could not rest until I knew whether my fraud had succeeded, or if the poodle to which I had entrusted my fate had basely betrayed me. That my suspense was happily ended as soon as I entered my mother's room. You can't think how delighted those poor Currys were to see Bingo again, she said at once. And they said such charming things about you, Algie, Lillian particularly, quite affected she seemed, poor child, and they wanted you to go round and dine there and be thanked to-night. But at last I persuaded them to come to us instead, and they're going to bring the dog to make friends. Oh, and I met Frank Travers, he's back from circuit again now, so I asked him in, too, to meet them. I drew a deep breath of relief. I had played a desperate game, but I had one. I could have wished to be sure that my mother had not thought of bringing in Travers on that of all evenings, but I hoped that I could defy him after this. The Colonel and his people were the first to arrive, he and his wife being so effusively grateful that they made me very uncomfortable indeed. Lillian met me with downcast eyes and the faintest possible blush, but she said nothing just then. Five minutes afterwards, when she and I were alone together in the Conservatory, where I had brought her on pretense of showing a new begonia, she laid her hand on my sleeve and whispered, almost shyly, Mr. Weatherhead, Algernon, can you ever forgive me for being so cruel and unjust to you? And I replied that, upon the whole, I could. We were not in the Conservatory long, but before we left it, beautiful Lillian Roseblade had consented to make my life happy. When we re-entered the drawing room, we found Frank Travers, who had been told the story of the recovery, and I observed his jaw fall as he glanced at our faces and noted the triumphant smile, which I have no doubt, mine wore, and the tender dreamy look in Lillian's soft eyes. Poor Travers, I was sorry for him, although I was not fond of him. Travers was a good type of rising young common law barrister, tall, not bad-looking, with keen dark eyes, black whiskers, and the mobile forensic mouth, which can express every shade of feeling, from deferential ascent to cynical incredulity, possessed too of an endless flow of conversation that was decidedly agreeable, if a trifling too laboriously so. He had been a dangerous rival, but all that was over now he saw it himself at once, and during dinner sank into dismal silence, gazing pathetically at Lillian and sighing almost obtrusively between the courses. His stream of small talk seemed to have been cut off at the main. You've done a kind thing, Weatherhead, said the Colonel. I can't tell you all that dog is to me, and how I missed the poor beast. I'd quite given up all hope of ever seeing him again, and all the time there was Weatherhead, Mr. Travers, quietly searching all London till he found him. I shan't forget it. It shows a really kind feeling. I saw by Travers' face that he was telling himself he would have found fifty bingos in half the time, if he had only thought of it. He smiled a melancholy ascent to all the Colonel said, and then began to study me with an obviously depreciatory air. You can't think, I heard Mrs. Currie telling my mother, how really touching it was to see poor bingo's emotion at seeing all the old familiar objects again. He went up and sniffed them all in turn, quite plainly recognizing everything, and he was quite put out to find that we had moved his favourite ottoman out of the drawing-room. But he is so penitent too, and so ashamed of having run away. He kept under a chair in the hall all the morning. He wouldn't come in here either, so we had to leave him in your garden. He's been sadly out of spirits all day, said Lillian. He hasn't bitten one of the trade's people. Oh, he's all right, the rascal, said the Colonel, cheerily. He'll be after the cats again as well as ever in a day or two. Ah, those cats, said my poor innocent mother. Halje, you haven't tried the airgun on them again lately, have you? They're worse than ever. I troubled the Colonel to pass the claret. Travers laughed for the first time. That's a good idea, he said, in that carrying bar-mess voice of his. An airgun for cats. Ha-ha! Make good bags, eh, weatherhead? I said that I did very good bags, and felt I was getting painfully red in the face. Oh, Halje is an excellent shot, quite a sportsman, said my mother. I remember, oh, long ago, when we lived at Hannersmith. He had a pistol, and he used to strew crumbs in the garden for the sparrows, and shoot at them out of the pantry window. He frequently hit one. Well, said the Colonel, not much impressed by these sporting reminiscences. Don't go rolling over our bingo by mistake, you know, weatherhead my boy. Not but what you've sort of write after this. Only don't. I wouldn't go through it all twice for anything. If you really won't take any more wine, I said hurriedly, addressing the Colonel and Travers, suppose we all go out and have our coffee on the lawn. It will be cooler there. For it was getting very hot indoors, I thought. I left Travers to amuse the ladies. He could do no more harm now, and taking the Colonel aside, I seized the opportunity, as we strolled up and down the garden path, to ask his consent to Lillian's engagement to me. He gave it cordially. There's not a man in England, he said, that I'd sooner see her married to, after today. You're a quiet, steady young fellow, and you've a good kind heart. As for the money, that's neither here nor there. Lillian won't come to you without a penny, you know? But really, my boy, you can hardly believe what it is to my poor wife and me to see that dog. Why, bless my soul, look at him now. What's the matter with him, eh? To my unutterable horror, I saw that that miserable poodle, after begging unnoticed at the tea table for some time, had retired to an open space before it, where he was industriously standing on his head. We gathered round and examined the animal curiously, as he continued to balance himself gravely in his abnormal position. Good gracious John, cried Mrs. Currie, I never saw Bingo do such a thing before in his life. Very odd, said the Colonel, putting up his glasses. Never learned that from me. I tell you what I fancy it is, I suggested wildly. You see, he was always a sensitive, excitable animal, and perhaps the sudden joy of his return has gone to his head. Upset him, you know? They seemed disposed to accept this solution, and indeed I believe they would have credited Bingo with every conceivable degree of sensibility. But I felt myself that if this unhappy animal had many more of these accomplishments, I was undone. For the original Bingo had never been a dog of parts. It's very odd, said Travers, reflectively, as the dog recovered his proper level. But I always thought that it was half the right ear that Bingo had lost. So it is, isn't it? said the Colonel. Left, eh? Well, I thought myself it was the right. My heart almost stopped with terror. I had altogether forgotten that. I hastened to set the point at rest. Oh, it was the left, I said positively. I know it because I remember so particularly thinking how odd it was that it should be the left ear and not the right. I told myself this should be positively my last lie. Why odd? asked Frank Travers with his most offensive socratic manner. My dear fellow, I can't tell you, I said impatiently. Everything seems odd when you come to think at all about it. Algernon, said Lillian later on, will you tell Aunt Mary and Mr. Travers and me how it was you came to find Bingo? Mr. Travers is quite anxious to hear all about it. I could not very well refuse. I sat down and told the story all my own way. I painted blag rather bigger and blacker than life and described an exciting scene in which I recognized Bingo by his collar in the streets and claimed and bore him off then and there in spite of all opposition. I had the inexpressible pleasure of seeing Travers grinding his teeth with envy as I went on and feeling Lillian's soft slender hand glide silently into mine as I told my pale in the twilight. All at once, just as I reached the climax, we heard the poodle barking furiously at the hedge which separated my garden from the road. There's a foreign-looking man staring over the hedge, said Lillian. Bingo always did hate foreigners. There certainly was a swarthy man there and though I had no reason for it then, somehow my heart died within me at the sight of him. Don't be alarmed, sir, cried the Colonel. The dog won't bite you unless there's a hole in the hedge anywhere. The stranger took off his small straw hat with a sweep. Ah, I am not afraid, he said, and his accent proclaimed him a Frenchman. He is not enraged at me. May I ask, is it permit to speak with Mr. Vesered? I felt I must deal with this person alone, for I feared the worst. And, asking them to excuse me, I went to the hedge and faced the Frenchman with the frightful calm of despair. He was a short stout little man with blue cheeks, sparkling black eyes, and a vivacious walnut-colored countenance. He wore a short black alpaca coat and a large white cravat with an immense oval malachite brooch in the centre of it, which I mentioned because I found myself staring mechanically at it during the interview. My name is Weatherhead and I began with the bearing of a detected pickpocket. Can I be of any service to you? A great service, he said emphatically. You can restore to me the poor which I see there. Nemesis had called at last in the shape of a rival claimant. I staggered for an instant, then I said, Oh, I think you are under a mistake, that dog is not mine. I know it, he said. There has been little mistake, so the dog is not to you, you give him back to me, eh? I tell you, I said, that poodle belongs to the gentleman over there, and I pointed to the colonel, seeing that it was best now to bring him into the affair without delay. You are wrong, he said doggedly, the poodle is my poodle, and I was direct to you. It is your name on Zekat. And he presented me with that fatal card which I had been foolish enough to give to Blag as a proof of my identity. I saw it all now, the old villain had betrayed me, and to earn a double reward had put the real owner on my track. I decided to call the colonel at once and attempt to brazen it out with the help of his sincere belief in the dog. Eh, what's that? What's it all about? said the colonel, bustling up, followed at intervals by the others. The Frenchman raised his hat again. I do not want to make a trouble, he began, but there is little mistake. My word of honor, sir, I see my own poodle in your garden. Then I appear to this gentleman to restore him, he refer me to you. You must allow me to know my own dog, sir, said the colonel, why I've had him from a pup. Bingo, old boy, you know your name, don't you? But the brute ignored him altogether and began to leap wildly at the hedge in frantic efforts to join the Frenchman. It needed no Solomon to decide his ownership. I tell you you have got the wrong poodle, it is my own dog, my azore. He remember me well, you see, I lose him, it is three, four days. I see a notice that he is found and then I go to the address, they tell me, oh he is reclaiming, he is gone, this a stranger who has advertised, they show me the placard, I follow here and then I arrive, I see my poodle in the garden before me. But look here, said the colonel impatiently, it's all very well to say that, but how can you prove it? I give you my word that the dog belongs to me. You must prove your claim, eh, Travers? Yes, said Travers, judicially, mere assertion is no proof, it's oath against oath at present. Attend an instant, your poodle, was he highly trained, had he some talents, a dog with tricks, eh? No, he's not, said the colonel, I don't like to see dogs taught to play the fool, there's none of that nonsense about him, sir. Ah, remark him well then, azore, mon choux, dance donc un peu. And on the foreigners whistling a lively air, that infernal poodle rose on his hind legs and danced solemnly about half way around the garden. We, inside, followed his movements with dismay. Why, dash it all, cried the disgusted colonel, he's dancing along like a de-deed mount-a-bank, but it's my bingo for all that. You are not convinced? You shall see more. Azore, ici, pour bismarque, azore. The poodle barked ferociously. Pour gambetta, he wagged his tail and began to leap with joy. Meurs pour la patrie, and the two accomplished animal rolled over as if killed in battle. Where could bingo have picked up so much French? cried Lilian incredulously. Or so much French history, added that serpent travers. Shall I command him to jump or reverse himself? inquired the obliging Frenchman. We've seen that, thank you, said the colonel gloomily. Upon my word, I don't know what to think. It can't be that it's not my bingo after all. I'll never believe it. I tried a last desperate stroke. Will you come round to the front, I said to the Frenchman, I'll let you in, and we can discuss the matter quietly. Then, as we walked back together, I asked him eagerly what he would take to abandon his claims and let the colonel think this poodle was his after all. He was convinced that the dog was the pride of his life. It seems to be the mission of black poodles to serve as domestic comforts of this priceless kind, that he would not part with him for twice his weight in gold. Figur, he began, as we joined the others, that this gentleman here, as offer me money, falls a dog. He agrees that it is too late. He agrees that it is to me, and you see, there well, then, there is no more to be said. Why, weatherhead, have you lost your faith too? said the colonel. I saw it was no good. All I wanted now was to get out of it creditably and get rid of the Frenchman. I'm sorry to say, I replied, that I'm afraid I've been deceived by the extraordinary likeness. I don't think, on reflection, that that is bingo. What do you think, travers? asked the colonel. Well, since you asked me, said travers, with quite unnecessary dryness, I never did think so. Nor I, said the colonel. I thought from the first that was never my bingo, why bingo would make two of that beast? And Lillian and her aunt both protested that they had had their doubts from the first. Zen, you permit that I remove him? said the Frenchman. Certainly, said the colonel, and after some apologies on our part for the mistake, he went off in triumph with the detestable poodle frisking after him. When he had gone, the colonel laid his hand kindly on my shoulder. Don't look so cut up about it, my boy, he said. You did your best. There was a sort of likeness to anyone who didn't know bingo as we did. Just then the Frenchman again appeared at the hedge. A thousand pardons, he said, but I find this upon my dog. It is not me. Suffer me to restore it, this and many compliments. It was bingo's collar. Travers took it from his hands and brought it to us. This was on the dog when you stopped that fellow, didn't you say? He asked me. One more lie. And I was so weary of falsehood. Yes, I said reluctantly, that was so. Very extraordinary. That's the wrong poodle beyond the doubt, but when he's found he's wearing the right dog's collar. Now how do you account for that? My good fellow, I said impatiently, I'm not in the witness box. I can't account for it. It's mere coincidence. But look here, my dear weatherhead, argued to Travers, whether in good faith or not I never could quite make out. Don't you see what a tremendously important link it is? Here's a dog who, as I understand the facts, had a silver collar, with his name engraved on it, around his neck, at the time he was lost. Here's that identical collar turning up soon afterward around the neck of a totally different dog. We must follow this up. We must get at the bottom of it as we are sure to find out, either the dog himself or what's become of him. Just try to recollect exactly what happened. There's a good fellow. This is just the sort of thing I like. It was the sort of thing I did not enjoy at all. You must excuse me tonight, Travers, I said uncomfortably. You see just now it's rather a source subject for me, and I'm doing very well. I was grateful just then for a reassuring glance of pity and confidence from Lillian's sweet eyes which revived my drooping spirits for the moment. Yes, we'll go into it tomorrow, Travers, said the Colonel, and then hello, why there's that confounded Frenchman again. It was indeed he came prancing back delicately with a malicious lament on his wrinkled face. Once more, I returned to apologize, he said. My Pouls as permit himself the grave in discretion to make a very big hole at the bottom of the garden. I assured him that it was of no consequence. Perhaps he replied, looking steadily at me through his keen half-shot eyes, you will not say that when you regard the hole. And you others, I speak to you. Sometimes one loses a something which is quite near all the time. It is ver drôle, eh? My verne. Ha ha ha! And he ambled off with an aggressively fiendish laugh that chilled my blood. What the deuce did he mean by that, eh? Said the Colonel, frankly? Don't know, said Travers. Suppose we go and inspect the hole. But before that I had contrived to draw near it myself in deadly fear lest the Frenchman's last words had contained some innuendo which I had not understood. It was light enough still for me to see something at the unexpected horror of which I very nearly fainted. That thrice accursed poodle which I had been insane enough to attempt to foist upon the Colonel must, it seems, have buried his supper the night before, very near the spot in which I had laid bingo, and in his attempts to exhume his bone had brought the remains of my victim to the surface. There the corpse lay on the very top of the excavations. Time had not, of course, improved its appearance, which was ghastly in the extreme, but still plainly recognizable by the eye of affection. It's a very ordinary hole I gasped, putting myself before it and trying to turn them back. Nothing in it, nothing at all. Except one Algernon Weatherhead Esquire, they whispered Travers, jocosely in my ear. No, but persisted the Colonel advancing. Look here has the dog damaged any of your shrubs. No, no I cried piteously. Quite the reverse. Let's all go indoors now, it's getting so cold. See, there is a shrub or something uprooted, said the Colonel, still coming nearer that fatal hole. Why, hello, look there. What's that? Lillian, who was by his side, gave a slight scream. Uncle, she cried, it looks like, like bingo. The Colonel turned suddenly upon me. Do you hear, he demanded in a choked voice, you hear what she says. Can't you speak out? Is that our bingo? I gave it up at last. I only longed to be allowed to crawl away under something. Yes, I said in a dull whisper, as I sat down heavily on a garden seat. Yes, that's bingo. Misfortune. Shoot him. Quite an accident. There was a terrible explosion after that. They saw at last how I had deceived them and put the very worst construction upon everything. Even now I writhe impotently at times, and my cheeks smart and tingle with humiliation, as I recall that scene, the Colonel's very plain speaking, Lillian's passionate reproaches and contempt, and her ant's speechless prostration of disappointment. I made no attempt to defend myself. I was not perhaps the complete villain they deemed me, but I felt dully that, no doubt, it all served me perfectly right. Still I do not think I am under any obligation to put their remarks down in black and white here. Travers had vanished at the first opportunity, whether out of delicacy or the fear of breaking out into unseasonable mirth, I cannot say. And shortly afterward the others came to where I sat, silent, with bowed head, and bade me a stern and final farewell. And then, as the last gleam of Lillian's white dress vanished down the garden path, I laid my head down on the table among the coffee-cups, and cried like a beaten child. I got leave as soon as I could, and went abroad. The morning after my return I noticed, while shaving, that there was a small square marble tablet placed against the wall of the Colonel's garden. I got my opera glass and read, and pleasant reading it was, the following inscription, in affectionate memory of B-I-N-G-O, secretly and cruelly put to death in cold blood by a neighbor and friend. June 1881 If this explanation of mine ever reaches my neighbor's eyes, I humbly hope they will have the humanity, either to take away or tone down that tablet. They cannot conceive what I suffer when curious visitors insist, as they do every day, on spelling out the words from our windows and asking me countless questions about them. Sometimes I meet the curries about the village, and as they pass me with averted heads I feel myself growing crimson. Travers is almost always with Lillian now. He has given her a dog, a fox terrier, and they take ostentatiously elaborate precautions to keep it out of my garden. I should like to assure them here that they need not be under any alarm. I have shot one dog. End of Section 3 Section 4 of Stories by English Authors, London by Various This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. That Brute Simmons by Arthur Morrison Simmons's infamous behaviour toward his wife is still matter for profound wonderment among the neighbours. The other women had all along regarded him as a model husband and certainly Mrs. Simmons was a most conscientious wife. She toiled and slaved for that man as any woman in the whole street would have maintained far more than any husband had a right to expect. And now this was what she got for it. Perhaps he had suddenly gone mad. Before she married Simmons, Mrs. Simmons had been the widowed Mrs. Ford. Ford had got a birth as donkey man on a trap steamer and that steamer had gone down with all hands off the cape. A judgment the widow woman feared long years of contumacy which had culminated in the wickedness of taking to the sea and taking to it as a donkey man an immeasurable fall for a capable engine fitter. Twelve years as Mrs. Ford had left her still childless and childness she remained as Mrs. Simmons. As for Simmons he, it was held was fortunate in that capable life. He was a moderately good carpenter and joiner but no man of the world and he wanted one. Nobody could tell what might not have happened to Tommy Simmons if there had been no Mrs. Simmons to take care of him. He was a meek and quiet man with a boyish face and sparse limp whiskers. He had no vices, even the pipe departed him after his marriage and Mrs. Simmons had ingrafted on him diverse exotic virtues. He went solemnly to chapel every Sunday under a tall hat and put a penny one returned to him for the purpose out of his weeks wages in the plate. Then Mrs. Simmons overseeing he took off his best clothes and brushed them with solicitude and pains. On Saturday afternoons he cleaned the knives, the forks, the boots, the kettles and the windows patiently and conscientiously. On Tuesday evenings he took the clothes to the mangling and on Saturday nights he attended Mrs. Simmons in her marketing to carry the parcels. Mrs. Simmons' own virtues were native and numerous. She was a wonderful manager. Every penny of Tommy's thirty-six or thirty-eight shillings a week was bestowed to the greatest advantage and Tommy never ventured to guess how much of it she saved. Her cleanliness in House Wivery was distracting to behold. She met Simmons at the front door whenever he came home and then and there he changed his boots for slippers dancing himself painfully on alternate feet on the cold flags. This was because she scrubbed the passage and doorstep turned about with the wife of the downstairs family and because the stair carpet was her own. She vigilantly supervised her husband all through the process of cleaning himself after work so as to come between her walls and bashes. And if in spite of her diligence a spot remained to tell the tale she was at pains to impress the fact on Simmons' memory and to set forth at length all the circumstances of his ungrateful selfishness. In the beginning she had always escorted him to the ready-made clothes shop and had selected and paid for his clothes for the reason that men are such perfect fools and shopkeepers do as they like with them. But she presently improved on that she found a man selling cheap remnants at a street corner and straightway she conceived the idea of making Simmons's clothes herself. Decision was one of her virtues and a suit of uproarious check-tweeds was begun that afternoon from the pattern furnished by an old one. It was finished by Sunday when Simmons, overcome by astonishment at the feet was endued in it and pushed off to chapel ere he could recover his senses. The things were not altogether comfortable, he found. The trousers hung tight against his shins but hung loose behind his heels and when he sat it was on a wilderness of hard folds and seams. Also his waistcoat collar tickled his nape but his coat collar went straining across from shoulder to shoulder while the main garment bagged generously below his waist. Use made a habit of his discomfort but it never reconciled him to the chaff of his shopmates. For as Mrs. Simmons elaborated successive suits, each one modeled on the last, the formal accidents of her design developed into principles and grew even bolder and more hideously pronounced. It was vain for Simmons to hint, as hint he did, that he shouldn't like her to overwork herself tailoring being bad for the eyes and there was a new tailor in the Mile End Road very cheap where oh yes she retorted you're very considerate I'd dare say, sit in there act now live and lie before your own wife Thomas Simmons as though I couldn't see through you like a book. A lot you care about your overwork in me as long as your turn served thrown away money like dirt in the streets on a lot of swindlin' tailors and me workin' and slavin' here to keep a penny and this is my return for it. Anyone that think you could pick up and I believe I'd be thought better of if I laid in bed all day like some would that I do. So that Thomas Simmons avoided the subject nor even murmured when she resolved to cut his hair so his placid fortune endured for years. Then there came a golden summer evening when Mrs. Simmons betook herself with a basket to do some small shopping where she and Thomas Simmons was left at home. He washed and put away the tea-things and then fell to meditating on a new pair of trousers finished that day and hanging behind the parlor door. There they hung in all their decent innocence of shape in the seat and they were shorter of leg longer of waist and wilder of pattern than he had ever worn before. Down them the small devil of original sin awoke and clamored in his breast. He was ashamed of it, of course, for well he knew the gratitude he owed his wife for those same trousers among other blessings. Still there the small devil was and the small devil was fertile in base suggestions and could not be kept from hinting at the new crop of workshop jibes that would spring at Tommy's first public appearance in such things. Pitch them in the dust bin, said the small devil at last, it's all they're fit for. Simmons turned away in sheer horror of his wicked self and for a moment thought of washing the tea-things over again by way of discipline. Then he made for the back room but saw from the landing that the front door was standing open, probably the fault of the child downstairs. Now a front door standing open was a thing that Mrs. Simmons would not abide. It looked low. So Simmons went down that she might not be wroth with him for the thing when she came back. And as he shut the door he looked forth into the street. A man was loitering on the pavement and prying curiously about the door. His face was tanned. His hands were deep in the pockets of his unbraced blue trousers. And well back on his head he wore the high-crowned peaked cap topped with a knob of wool which is affected by Jack ashore about the docks. He lurched a step nearer to the door and Mrs. Ford ain't in, is she? He said. Simmons stared at him for a matter of minutes and then said eh? Mrs. Ford as was then. Simmons now ain't it? He said this with a furtive leer that Simmons neither liked nor understood. No, said Simmons. She ain't in now. You ain't her husband, are ye? Yes. The man took his pipe from his mouth and grinned silently and long. Blimey, he said at length. You look like the sort of bloke she'd like. And with that he grinned again. Then, seeing that Simmons made ready to shut the door, he put a foot on the sill and a hand against the panel. Don't be in a hurry, matey. He said, I've come here to have a little talk with you, man to man, you see? And he frowned fiercely. Tommy Simmons felt uncomfortable but the door would not shut. So he parleyed. What you want, he asked. I don't know you. Then, if you'll excuse the liberty, I'll interloose myself in a manner of speaking. He touched his cap with a bob of mock humility. I'm Bob Ford, he said. Come back out a kingdom come, so to say. Me as went down with the Moulton safe dead five years gone. I come to see my wife. During this speech, Thomas Simmons's jaw was dropping lower and lower. At the end of it, he poked his fingers up through his hair, looked down at the mat, then up at the fan light, then out into the street, then hard at his visitor. But he found nothing to say. Come to see my wife, the man repeated. So now we can talk it over as man to man. Simmons slowly shut his mouth and led the way upstairs mechanically, his fingers still in his hair. A sense of the state of affairs sank gradually into his brain and the small devil woke again. Suppose this man was Ford. Suppose he did claim his wife. Would it be a knockdown blow? Would it hit him out? Or not? He thought of the trousers, the tea-things, the mangling, the knives, the kettles, and the windows. And he thought of them in the way of a back slider. On the landing Ford clutched at his arm and asked in a hoarse whisper how long for she's back. About an hour I expect, Simmons replied, having first of all repeated the question in his own mind, and then he opened the parlor door. Ah! said Ford, looking about him. You've been pretty comfortable, them chairs and things, jerking his pipe toward them. Wasers mine, that is to say, speakin' straight and man to man. He sat down, puffing meditatively at his pipe, and presently well, he continued, here I am again, old Bob Ford, dead and done for, gone down in the mulled ton. Only I ain't done for, see? And he pointed the stem of his pipe at Simmons's waistcoat. I ain't done for, cause why? Conscants of being picked up by an old German sailor-nuch and took to Frisco for the mast. I've had a few years and knockin' about since then, and now, looking hard at Simmons, I've come back to see my wife. She, she don't like smoking near, said Simmons, as it were at random. No, I bet she don't, Ford answered, taking his pipe from his mouth and holding it low in his hand. I know, Anna, how'd you find her? Do she make you clean the windows? Well, Simmons admitted, uneasily, I, I do, help her, sometimes, of course. Ah, and the knives too, I bet, and the blooming kittles. I know why he rose and bent to look behind Simmons's head. Help me, I believe she cuts your hair. Well, I'm damned. Just what she would do, too. He inspected the blushing Simmons from diverse points of vantage. Then he lifted a leg of the trousers hanging behind the door. I bet a trifle, he said. She made easier trucks. Nobody else would do them like that. Dammit, they're worse than what you've got on. The small devil began to have the argument all its own way. If this man took his wife back, perhaps he'd have to wear those trousers. Ah, Ford pursued. She ain't got no milder. And my Davy, what a jor. Simmons began to feel that this was no longer his business. Plainly, Anna was this other man's wife, and he was bound in honour to acknowledge the fact. The small devil put it into him as a matter of duty. Well, said Ford suddenly, time's short and this ain't business. I won't be hard on you, matey. I ought properly to stand on my rights, but seein' as you're a well-meaning young man, so to speak, you'll settle and live in ear quiet and matrimonial. I'll... this with a burst of generosity. Dammit. Yes, I'll compound the felony and take me oak. Come, I'll name a figure as man to man, fussed and last, no less and no more. Five pounds does it. Simmons hadn't five pounds. He hadn't even five pence. And he said so. And I wouldn't think a comin' between a man and his wife, he added, not on no account. It may be rough on me, but it's a duty. I'll look it. No, said Ford hastily, clutching Simmons by the arm. Don't do that. I'll make it a bit cheaper, say three quid. Come, that's reasonable, ain't it? Three quid ain't much compensation for me goin' away forever. Where the stormy winds do blow, so to say, and never as much as seein' me own wife again, for better nor worse. Between man and man, now three quid, and I'll shut. That's fair, ain't it? Of course, it's fair, Simmons replied effusively. It's more unfair. It's noble. Downright noble, I call it. But I ain't going to take a mean advantage of your good artedness, Mr. Ford. She's your wife, and I oughtn't to accumb between you. I apologize. You stop and have your proper rights. It's me as ought to shunt, and I will. And he made a step toward the door. Hold on, quote Ford, and got between Simmons and the door. Don't do things rash. Look what a loss it'll be to you, with no ome to go to, nobody to look after ye and all that. It'll be dreadful. Say, a couple. There, we won't quarrel. Just a single quid between man and man, and I'll stand a pot out of the money. You can easy raise a quid. The clock at pretty night do it. A quid does it, and I'll—there was a loud double-knock at the front door. In the east end a double-knock is always for the upstairs lodgers. Ooz that, asked Bob Ford apprehensively. I'll see, said Thomas Simmons, in reply, and he made a rush for the staircase. Bob Ford heard him open the front door. Then he went to the window, and just below him he saw the crown of a bonnet. It vanished, and born to him from within the door there fell upon his ear the sound of a well-remembered female voice. Where ye goin' now, with no at? Ask the voice sharply. All right, Anna, there's somebody upstairs to see you, Simmons answered. And as Bob Ford could see a man went scuttling down the street in the gathering dusk. And behold, it was Thomas Simmons. Ford reached the landing in three strides. His wife was still at the front door, staring after Simmons. He flung into the back room, threw open and dropped from the wash-house roof into the backyard, scrambled desperately over the fence, and disappeared into the gloom. He was seen by no living soul. And that is why Simmons' base desertion under his wife's very eyes, too, is still an astonishment to the neighbors. End of Section Four Section Five of Stories by English Verse 6 A Rose of the Ghetto a Rose of the Ghetto by Israel Zangwill a Rose of the Ghetto by Israel Zangwill One day it occurred to Libelle that he ought to get married. He went to Sugarman, the Shadchan forthwith, I have the very thing for you, said the great marriage broker. Is she pretty? asked Libelle. has a boot and shoe warehouse," replied Shibberman enthusiastically. "'Then there ought to be a dowry with her,' said Label, eagerly. "'Certainly a dowry, a fine man like you. How much do you think it will be? Of course it is not a large warehouse, but then you could get your boots at trade price and your wife's perhaps for the cost of the leather. When could I see her? I will arrange for you to call next Sabbath afternoon. You won't charge me more than a sovereign? Not a Grushenmore, such a pious maiden. I'm sure you will be happy. She has so much way of the country,' meaning breeding. And of course, five percent on the dowry? Hmm, well, I don't mind. Perhaps they won't give a dowry,' he thought with a consolatory sense of outwitting the shod-shun. On the Saturday Label went to see the dabsil, and on the Sunday he went to see Sugarman the shod-shun. "'But your maiden squints,' he cried resentfully. "'An excellent thing,' said Sugarman, a wife who squints can never look her husband straight in the face and overwhelm him. Who would quail before a woman with a squint?' I could endure the squint,' went on Label dubiously, but she also stammers. Well, what is better in the event of a quarrel? The difficulty she has in talking will keep her far more silent than most wives. You had best secure her while you have the chance.' But she halts on the left leg,' cried Label, exasperated. Got in him, do you mean to say you do not see where an advantage it is to have a wife unable to accompany you in all your goings?' Label lost patience. "'Why, the girl is a hunchback,' he protested furiously. "'My dear Label,' said the marriage broker, deprecatingly shrugging his shoulders and spreading out his palms. You can't expect perfection.' Nevertheless Label persisted in his unreasonable attitude. He accused Sugarman of wasting his time, of making a fool of him. "'A fool of you?' echoed Shardchan indignantly. "'When I give you a chance of a boot and shoe manufacturer's daughter, you will make a fool of yourself if you refuse. I daresay her dowry would be enough to set you up as a master tailor. At present you are compelled to slave away as a cutter. For thirty shillings a week it is most unjust. If you only had a few machines you would be able to employ your own cutters, and they can be got so cheap nowadays.' This gave Label pause, and he departed without having definitely broken the negotiations. His whole week was befogged by doubt. His work became uncertain. His chalk marks lacked their usual decision, and he did not always cut his coat according to his cloth. His aberrations became so marked that Pretty Rose Green, the sweater's eldest daughter, who managed the machine in the same room, divined with all a woman's intuition that he was in love. "'What is the matter?' she said, in rallying Yiddish, when they were taking their lunch of bread and cheese and ginger beer amid the clatter of machines whose serfs had not yet knocked off work. "'They are proposing me a match,' he answered solemnly. "'A match!' ejaculated Rose. "'Thou?' she had worked by his side for years, and familiarity bred the second person singular. Label dotted his head and put a mouthful of Dutch cheese into it. "'With whom?' asked Rose. Somehow he felt ashamed. He gurgled the answer into the stone ginger beer bottle, which he put to his thirsty lips, with Lea Volkovich. "'Lea Volkovich?' gasped Rose. "'Lea, the boot-and-chew-manufacturer's daughter?' Label hung his head. He scarce knew why he did not dare to meet her gaze. His droop said, yes. There was a long pause. "'And why dost thou not have her?' said Rose. It was more than an inquiry. There was contempt in it, and perhaps even peak.' Label did not reply. The embarrassing silence reigned again and reigned long. Rose broke it at last. "'Is it that thou likest me better?' she asked. Label seemed to see a ball of lightning in the air. It burst, and he felt the electric current strike. The shock threw his head up with a jerk so that his eyes gazed into a face whose beauty and tenderness were revealed to him for the first time. The face of his old acquaintance had vanished. This was a cajoling, coquettish, smiling face, suggesting undreamed of things. "'New yes,' he replied, without perceptible pause. New good!' she rejoined as quickly. And in the ecstasy of that moment of mutual understanding, Label forgot to wonder why he had never thought of Rose before. Afterward he remembered that she had always been his social superior. The situation seemed too dreamlike for explanation to the room just yet. Label lovingly passed a bottle of ginger beer, and Rose took a sip with a beautiful air of plighting troughs, understood only of those two. When Label co-offed the remnant it intoxicated him. The relics of the bread and cheese were the ambrosia to his nectar. They did not dare kiss. The suddenness of it all left them bashful, and the smack of lips would have been like a canon pill announcing their engagement. There was a subtler sweetness in this sense of a secret, apart from the fact that neither cared to break the news to the master Taylor, a stern little old man. Label's chalk marks continued indecisive that afternoon, which shows how correctly Rose had connected them with love. Before he left that night, Rose said to him, Art thou sure thou wouldst not rather have Lea Volkovich? Not for all the boots and shoes in the world, replied Label vehemently, and I, protested Rose, would rather go without my own than without thee. The landing outside the workshop was so badly lighted that their lips came together in the darkness. Nay, nay, thou must not yet, said Rose, thou art still courting Lea Volkovich. For art thou knowest, Sugerman the Shadjan may have entangled thee beyond redemption. Not so, asserted Label, I have only seen the maiden once. Yes, but Sugerman has seen her father several times, persisted Rose, for so misshapen a maiden his commission would be large. Thou must go to Sugerman tonight and tell him that thou canst not find it in thy heart to go on with the match. Kiss me, and I will go, pleaded Label. Go, and I will kiss thee, said Rose, resolutely. And when shall we tell thy father, he asked, pressing her hand, as the next best thing to her lips, as soon as thou art free from Lea? But will he consent? He will not be glad, said Rose, frankly, but after mother's death, peace be upon her, the rule passed from her hands into mine. Ah, that is well, said Label. He was a superficial thinker. Label found Sugerman at supper. The great Shadjan offered him a chair, but nothing else. Hospitality was associated in his mind, with special occasions only, and involved lemonade and stuffed monkeys. He was very put out, almost, to the point of indigestion, to hear of Label's final determination, and plied him with reproachful inquiries. You don't mean to say that you give up a boot and shoe manufacturer merely because his daughter has round shoulders, he exclaimed incredulously. It is more than round shoulders. It is a hump, cried Label, and suppose, see how much better off you will be when you get your own machines. We do not refuse to let camels carry our burdens because they have humps. But a wife is not a camel, said Label, with a sage air, and a cutter is not a master tailor, retorted Sugerman. Enough, enough, cried Label. I tell you I would not have her if she were a machine warehouse. There sticks something behind, persisted Sugerman, unconvinced. Label shook his head. Only her hump, he said, with a flash of humor. Moses Mendelson had a hump, expostulated Sugerman reproachfully. Yes, but he was a heretic, rejoined Label, who was not without reading. And then he was a man. A man with two humps could find a wife for each. But a woman with a hump cannot expect a husband in addition. Guard your tongue from evil, coathed Shadshan angrily. If everybody were to talk like you, Leia Volkovich would never be married at all. Label shrugged his shoulders and reminded him that hunchbacked girls who stammered and squinted and halted on left legs were not usually led under the canopy. Nonsense stuff, cried Sugerman angrily. That is because they do not come to me. Leia Volkovich has come to you, said Label, but she shall not come to me. And he rose, anxious to escape. Instantly Sugerman gave a sigh of resignation. Be it so, then I shall have to look out for another. That's all. No, I don't want any, replied Label quickly. Sugerman stopped eating. You don't want any, he cried. But you came to me for one. I know, stammered Label, but I've altered my mind. One needs Hillel's patience to deal with you, cried Sugerman. But I shall charge you all the same for my trouble. You cannot cancel an order like this in the middle. No, no, you can't play fast and loose with Leia Volkovich, but you shall not make a fool of me. But if I don't want one, said Label, sullenly. Sugerman gazed at him with a cunning look of suspicion. Didn't I say there was something sticking behind? Label felt guilty. But whom have you got in your eye, he inquired desperately. Perhaps you may have someone in yours, naively answered Sugerman. Label gave a hypocritic long-drawn, I wonder if Rose Green, where I worked, he said and stopped. I fear not, said Sugerman. She is on my list. Her father gave her to me some months ago, but he is hard to please. Even the maiden herself is not easy, being pretty. Perhaps she has waited for someone, suggested Label. Sugerman's keen ear caught the note of complacent triumph. You have been asking her yourself, he exclaimed in horror-stricken accents. And if I have, said Label defiantly, You have cheated me, and so has Eliphaz Green. I always knew he was tricky. You have both defrauded me. I did not mean to, said Label mildly. You did mean to. You had no business to take the matter out of my hands. What right had you to propose to Rose Green? I did not, cried Label, excitedly. Then you asked her father. No, I have not asked her father yet. Then how do you know she will have you? I know, stammered Label, feeling himself somehow a liar as well as a thief. His brain was in a whirl. He could not remember how the thing had come about. Certainly he had not proposed, nor could he say that she had. You know she will never have you, repeated Sugerman reflectively. And does she know? Yes, in fact, he blurted out. We arranged it, together. Ah, you both know. And does her father know? Not yet. Ah, then I must get his consent, said Sugerman decisively. I thought of speaking to him myself. Yourself, echoed Sugerman in horror. Are you unsound in the head? Why, that would be worse than the mistake you have already made. What mistake? asked Label, firing up. The mistake of asking the maiden herself. When you quarrel with her after your marriage, she will always throw it in your teeth that you wish to marry her. Moreover, if you tell a maiden you love her, her father will think you ought to marry her as she stands. Still, what is done is done, and he sighed regretfully. And what more do I want? I love her. You piece of clay, cried Sugerman, contemptuously. Love will not turn machines much less by them. You must have a dowry. Her father has a big stocking. He can well afford it. Label's eyes lit up. There was really no reason why he should not have bread and cheese with his kisses. Now, if you went to her father, pursued the Shadshan, the odds are that he would not even give you his daughter, to say nothing of the dowry. After all, it is a cheek of you to aspire so high. As you told me from the first, you haven't saved a penny. Even my commission you won't be able to pay till you get the dowry. But if I go, I do not despair of getting a substantial sum, to say nothing of the daughter. Yes, I think you had better go, said Label, eagerly. But if I do this thing for you, I shall want a pound more, rejoined Sugerman. A pound more, echoed Label, in dismay. Why? Because Rose Green's hump is of gold, replied Sugerman, or raculally. Also, she is fair to see, and many men desire her. But you have always your five percent on the dowry. It will be less than Volkovitch's, explained Sugerman. You see, Green has other and less beautiful daughters. Yes, but then it settles itself more easily. Say, five shillings? Elifah's Green is a hard man, said the Shadshan instead. Ten shillings is the most I will give. Twelve and six pence is the least I will take. Elifah's Green haggles, so will I. So terribly. They split the difference, and so eleven and three pence represented the predominance of Elifah's Green's stinginess over Volkovitch's. The very next day Sugerman invaded the Green workroom. Rose bent over her seams, her heart fluttering. Label had duly apprised her of the roundabout manner in which she would have to be won, and she had acquiesced in the comedy. At the least it would save her the trouble of father taming. Sugerman's entry was brusque and breathless. He was overwhelmed with joyous emotion. His blue bandana trailed agitatedly from his coat tail. At last, he cried, addressing the little white-haired master tailor, I have the very man for you. Yes, grunted Elifah's, unimpressed. The monosyllable was packed with emotion. It said, have you really the face to come to me again with an ideal man? He has all the qualities that you desire, began the Shadshan, in a tone that repudiated the implications of the monosyllable. He is young, strong, God-fearing. Has he any money? grumpily interrupted Elifah's. He will have money, replied Sugerman, unhesitatingly when he marries. Ah, the father's voice relaxed, and his foot lay limp on the treadle. He worked one of his machines himself and paid himself the wages, so as to enjoy the profit. How much will he have? I think he will have fifty pounds, and the least you can do is to let him have fifty pounds, replied Sugerman, with the same happy ambiguity. Elifah's shook his head on principle. Yes, you will, said Sugerman, when you learn how fine a man he is. The flush of confusion and trepidation already on Lible's countenance became a rosy glow of modesty, for he could not help overhearing what was being said, owing to the lull of the Master Taylor's machine. Tell me, then, rejoined Elifah's. Tell me first if you will give fifty to a young, healthy, hard-working, God-fearing man, whose idea it is to start as a Master Taylor on his own accord, and you know how profitable that is. To a man like that, said Elifah's, in a burst of enthusiasm, I would give as much as twenty-seven pounds ten. Sugerman groaned inwardly, but Lible's heart leapt with joy, to get four months' wages at a stroke. With twenty-seven pounds ten he could certainly procure several machines, especially on the installment system. Out of the corners of his eyes he shot a glance at Rose, who was beyond earshot. Unless you can promise thirty, it is a waste of time mentioning his name, said Sugerman. Well, well, who is he? Sugerman bent down, lowering his voice into the Father's ear. What? Lible cried Elifah's, outraged. Said Sugerman, or he will overhear your delight and ask more. He has his nose high enough as it is. But, but, but, but, but, but, sputtered the bewildered parent, I know Lible myself, I see him every day. I don't want a shajjan to find me a man I know, a mere hand in my own workshop. Your talk has neither face nor figure, answered Sugerman sternly. It is just the people one sees every day that one knows least. I warrant that if I had not put it into your head, you would never have dreamt of Lible as a son-in-law. Come now, confess. Elifah's grunted vaguely, and the shajjan went on triumphantly. I thought as much. And yet where could you find a better man to keep your daughter? He ought to be content with her alone, grumbled her father. Sugerman saw the signs of weakening and dashed in full strength. It's a question of whether he will have her at all. I have not been to him about her yet. I waited your approval of the idea. Lible admired the verbal accuracy of these statements, which he had just caught. But I didn't know he would be having money, murmured Elifah's. Of course you didn't know. That's what the shajjan is for, to point out the things that are under your nose. But where will he be getting this money from? From you, said Sugerman, frankly. From me? From whom else? Are you not his employer? It has been put by for his marriage day. He has saved it. He has not spent it, said Sugerman, impatiently. But do you mean to say he has saved fifty pounds? If he could manage to save fifty pounds out of your wages, he would be indeed a treasure, said Sugerman. Perhaps it might be thirty. But you said fifty. Well, you came down to thirty, retorted the shajjan. You cannot expect him to have more than your daughter brings. I never said thirty, Elifah's reminded him. Twenty-seven-ten was my last bid. Very well. That will do as a basis for negotiations, said Sugerman, resignedly. I will call upon him this evening. If I were to go over and speak to him now, he would perceive you are anxious, and raise his terms, and that will never do. Of course you will not mind allowing me a pound more for finding you so economical, son-in-law. Not a penny more. You need not fear, said Sugerman, resentfully. It is not likely I shall be able to persuade him to take so economical a father-in-law, so you will be none the worse for promising. Be it so, said Elifah's, with a gesture of weariness, and he started his machine again. Twenty-seven pounds ten. Remember, said Sugerman, above the whir. Elifah's nodded his head, whirring his wheel-work louder. And paid before the wedding, mined. The machine took no notice. Before the wedding, mined, repeated Sugerman. Before we go under the canopy. Go now, go now, grunted Elifah's, with a gesture of impatience. It shall all be well. And the white-haired head bowed immovably over its work. In the evening Rose extracted from her father the motive of Sugerman's visit, and confessed that the idea was to her liking. But dost thou think he will have me, little father? She asked, with cajoling eyes. Anyone would have my Rose. Ah, but libel is different. So many years he has sat at my side and said nothing. He has had his work to think of. He is a good, saving youth. At this very moment Sugerman is trying to persuade him. Not so. I suppose he will want much money. Be easy, my child. And he passed his discoloured hand over her hair. Sugerman turned up the next day and reported that libel was unobtainable under thirty pounds. And Elifah's, weary of the contest, called over libel. Till that moment carefully absorbed in his scientific chalk marks. And mentioned a thing to him for the first time. I am not a man to bargain, Elifah said. And so he gave the young man his tawny hand, and a bottle of rum sprang from somewhere, and work was suspended for five minutes, and the hands all drank amid surprise. Sugerman's visits had prepared them to congratulate Rose. But libel was a shock. The formal engagement was marked by even greater junketing, and at last the marriage day came. Libel was resplendent in a diagonal frock coat cut by his own hand, and Rose stepped from the cab a medley of flowers, fairness, and white silk. And behind her came two bridesmaids, her sisters, a trio that glorified the spectator's strewn pavement outside the synagogue. Elifah's looked almost tall in his shiny high hat and frilled shirt front. Sugerman arrived on foot, carrying red-socked little ebonyzer tucked under his arm. Libel and Rose were not the only couple to be disposed of, for it was the thirty-third day of the omer, a day fruitful in marriages. But at last their turn came. They did not, however, come in their turn, and their special friends among the audience wondered why they had lost their precedence. After several later marriages had taken place, a whisper began to circulate. The rumour of a hitch gained ground steadily, and the sensation was proportionate, and indeed the Rose was not to be picked without a touch of the thorn. Gradually the facts leaked out and a buzz of talk and comment ran through the waiting synagogue. Elifah's had not paid up. At first he declared he would put down the money immediately after the ceremony, but the wary Sugerman, schooled by experience, demanded its instant delivery on behalf of his other client. Hard pressed Elifah's produced ten sovereigns from his trouser's pocket, and tendered them on account. These Sugerman disdainfully refused, and the negotiations were suspended. The bridegroom's party was encamped in one room, the bride's in another, and after a painful delay Elifah sent an emissary to say that half the amount should be forthcoming, the extra five pounds in a bright new Bank of England note. Leibel, instructed and encouraged by Sugerman, stood firm. And then arose a hubbub of voices, a chaos of suggestions. Friends rushed to and fro between the camps, some emerging from their seats in the synagogue to add to the confusion. But Elifah's had taken his stand upon a rock. He had no more ready money. Tomorrow the next day he would have some. And Leibel, pale and dogged, clutched tighter at those machines that were slipping away momentarily from him. He had not yet seen his bride that morning, and so her face was shadowy compared with the tangibility of those machines. Most of the other maidens were married women by now, and the situation was growing desperate. From the female camp came terrible rumors of bridesmaids in hysterics, and a bride that tore her wreath in a passion of shame and humiliation. Elifah's sent word that he would give an IOU for the balance, but that he really could not muster any more current coin. Sugerman instructed the ambassador to suggest that Elifah's should raise the money among his friends. And the short spring day slipped away. In vain the minister, a prized of the block, lengthened out the formulae for the other pairs and blessed them with more reposeful unction. It was impossible to stave off the Leibel green item indefinitely, and at last Rose remained the only orange wreath spinster in the synagogue. And then there was a hush of solemn suspense that swelled gradually into a steady rumble of babbling tongues as minute succeeded minute, and the final bridal party still failed to appear. The latest bulletin pictured the bride as in a dead faint. The afternoon was waning fast. The minister left his post near the canopy, under which so many lives had been united, and came to add his white tie to the forces for compromise. But he fared no better than the others. Incensed at the obstinacy of the antagonists, he declared he would close the synagogue. He gave the couple ten minutes to marry in or quit. Then chaos came, and pandemonium, a frantic babble of suggestion and exhortation from the crowd. When five minutes had passed, a legatee from Eliphaz announced that his side had scraped together twenty pounds, and that this was their final bid. My bell wavered. The long day's combat had told upon him. The reports of the bride's distress had weakened him. Even Sugerman had lost his cockshorness of victory. A few minutes more, and both commissions might slip through his fingers. Once the parties left the synagogue, it would not be easy to drive them there another day. But he cheered on his man still. One could always surrender at the tenth minute. At the eighth, the buzz of tongues faltered suddenly to be transposed into a new key, so to speak. Through the gesticulating assembly swept that murmur of expectation which crowds know when the procession is coming at last. By some mysterious magnetism all were aware that the bride herself, the poor hysteric bride, had left the paternal camp, was coming in person to plead with her mercenary lover. And as the glory of her and the flowers and the white draperies loomed upon Laibel's vision, his heart melted in worship, and he knew his citadel would crumble in ruins at her first glance, at her first touch. Was it fair fighting? As his troubled vision cleared, and as she came nigh unto him, he saw to his amazement that she was speckless and composed, no trace of tears dimmed to the fairness of her face. There was no disarray in her bridal wreath. The clock showed the ninth minute. She put her hand appealingly on his arm, while a heavenly light came into her face, the expression of a Joan of Arc animating her country. Do not give in, Laibel, she said. Do not have me. Do not let them persuade thee. By my life thou must not. Go home. So, at the eleventh minute, the vanquished Eliphaz produced the balance, and they all lived happily ever afterward. End of Section 5. Section 6 of Stories by English Authors, London. All that follows was spoken in a small tavern, a stone's throw from cheap side, the day before I left London. It was spoken in a dull voice, across a greasy tablecloth, and amid an atmosphere so thick with the reek of cooking, that one longed to change it for the torrid street again to broil in an ampler firmus. Old Tom Pickford spoke, who had been a clerk for 52 years in Tweedy's India warehouse, and in all that time has never been out of London. But when he takes a holiday, spends it in hanging about Tweedy's, and observing that unlovely place of business from the outside. The dust, if not the iron, of Tweedy's has entered into his soul, and Tweedy's young men know him as the mastodon. He is a thin bald septuagenarian with sloping shoulders, and a habit of regarding the pavement when he walks so that he seems to steer his way by instinct rather than sight. In general he keeps silence while eating his chop, and on this occasion there was something unnatural in his utterance, a divorce of manner between the speaker and his words, such as one would expect in a symbol disclaiming under stress of the God. I fancied it had something to do with a black necktie that he wore, instead of the blue bird's eye cravat familiar to Tweedy's, and with his extraordinary conduct in refusing today the chop that the waiter brought, and limiting his lunch to cheese and lettuce. Having pulled the lettuce to pieces, he pushed himself back a little from the table, looked over his spectacles at me, and then at the tablecloth, and began in a dreamy voice. Old Gabriel is dead. I heard the news at the office this morning, and went out and bought a black tie. I am the oldest man in Tweedy's now, older by six years than Sam Collins, who comes next. So there is no mistake about it. Sam is looking for the place. I saw it in his eye when he told me, and I expect he'll get it. But I'm the oldest clerk in Tweedy's. Only God Almighty can alter that, and it's very satisfactory to me. I don't care about the money. Sam Collins will be stuck up over it like enough. But he'll never write a hand like Gabriel's, not if he lives to be 100. And he knows it, and knows I'll be there to remind him of it. Gabriel's was a beautiful fist, so small, too, if he chose. Why, once in his spare hours, he rode out all the psalms with the headings on one side of a folio sheet, and had it framed and hung up in his parlor, not at Shepherd's Bush. He died in the night. Oh, yes, quite easily. He was down at the office all yesterday, and spoke to me as brisk as a bird. They found him dead in his bed this morning. I seem cut up about it. Well, not exactly. Ah, you noticed that I refused my chalk today. Bless your soul, that's not on Gabriel's account. I am well on in years, and I suppose it would be natural of me to pity old men and expect pity. But I can't. No, it's only the young that I pity. If you must know, I didn't take the chop today because I haven't the money in my pocket to pay for it. You see, there was this black tie that I gave 18 pence for. But, but something else happened this morning that I'll tell you about. I came down in a bus, as usual. You remember what muggy weather it was, up to 10 o'clock, though you wouldn't think it to feel the heat now. Well, the bus was packed inside and out. At least there was room for just one more inside when we pulled up by Charing Cross. And there he got in, a boy with a stick and a bundle in a blue handkerchief. He wasn't more than 13, bound for the docks, you could tell in a glance. And by the way he looked about, you could tell as easily that in stepping outside Charing Cross station, heat set foot on London Stones for the first time. God knows how it struck him, the slush and drizzle, the ugly shopfronts, the horses slipping in the round mud, the crowd on the pavement pushing him this side and that. The poor little chap was standing in the middle of it with dazed eyes like a hares. When the bus pulled up, his eyelids were pink and swollen but he wasn't crying, though he wanted to. Instead, he gave a gulp as he came on board with stick and bundle and tried to look brave as a lion. I'd have given worlds to speak to him but I couldn't. On my word, sir, I should have cried. It wasn't so much the little chap's look, but to the knot of his bundle there was tied a bunch of cottage flowers, sweet Williams, boy's love, and a rose or two. And the sight and smell of them in that stuffy omnibus were like tears on thirsty eyelids. It's the young that I pity, sir. For Gabriel in his bed up at Shepherd's Bush, there's no more to be said as far as I can see. And as for me, I'm the oldest clerk in Tweedy's, which is very satisfactory. It's the young faces set toward the road along which we have traveled that trouble me. Sometimes, sir, I lie awake in my lodgings and listen, and the whole of this London seems filled with the sound of children's feet running. And I can sob aloud. You may say that it is only selfishness and what I really pity is my own boy-head. I dare say you're right. It's certain that as I kept glancing at the boy and his sea kit and his bunch of flowers, my mind went back to the January morning, 65 years back, when the coach took me off for the first time from the village where I was born to a London charity school. I was worse off than the boy in the omnibus, for I had just lost father and mother. Yet it was the sticks and stones and flower beds that I mostly thought of. I went round and said goodbye to the lilacs and told them to be in flower by the time I came back. I said to the rose bush, you must be as high as my window next May. You know, you only missed it by three inches last summer. Then I went to the cowhouse and kissed the cows one by one. They were to be sold by auction the very next week, but I guessed nothing of it and ordered them not to forget me. And last I looked at the swallows' nests under the thatch, the last year's nests, and told myself that they would be filled again when I returned. I remembered this and how I stretched out my hands to the place from the coach top, and how at Reading where we stopped I spent the two shillings that I possessed in a coconut and a bright clasped knife, and how when I opened it the nut was sour, and how I cried myself to sleep and woke in London. The young men in Tweety's though, they respect my long standing there, make fun of me at times because I never take a holiday in the country. Why, sir, I dare not. I should wander back to my old village and, well, I know how it would be then. I should find it smaller and meaner. I should search about for the flowers and nests and listen for the music that I knew sixty-five years ago and remember, and they would not be discoverable. Also, every face would stare at me for all the faces I know are dead. Then I should think I had missed my way and come to the wrong place, or worse, that no such spot ever existed, and I have been cheating myself all these years, that in fact I was mad all the while and have no stable reason for existing. I, the oldest clerk in Tweety's. To be sure there would be my parents' headstones in the churchyard, but what are they if the churchyard itself has changed? As it is, with three hundred pounds per annum and enough laid by to keep him if I fail, an old bachelor has no reason to grumble. But the sight of that little chap's nose-gay and the thought of the mother who tied it there made my heart swell as I fancy the earth must swell when rain is coming. His eyes filled once and he brushed them under the pretense of pulling his cap forward and stole a glance round to see if anyone had noticed him. The other passengers were busy with their own thoughts, and I pretended to stare out of the window opposite, but there was the drop sure enough on his hand as he laid it on his lap again. He was bound for the docks and thence for the open sea, and I, that was bound for Tweety's only, had to get out at the top of Cheapside. I know the bus conductor, a very honest man, and in getting out I slipped half a crown into his hand to give to the boy with my blessing at his journey's end. When I picture his face, sir, I wish I had made it five shillings and gone without a new tie and dinner altogether. End of Section 6. Section 7 of Stories by English Authors London by Various. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Omnibus by Quiller Couch. All that follows was spoken in a small tavern a stone's throw from Cheapside the day before I left London. It was spoken in a dull voice across a greasy tablecloth and amid an atmosphere so thick with the reek of cooking that one longed to change it for the torrid street again to broil in an ampler firmus. Old Tom Pickford spoke, who had been a clerk for 52 years in Tweety's East India warehouse and in all that time has never been out of London. But when he takes a holiday spends it in hanging about Tweety's and observing that unlovely place of business from the outside. The dust, if not the iron of Tweety's, has entered into his soul and Tweety's young men know him as the mastodon. He is a thin bald septuagenarian with sloping shoulders and a habit of regarding the pavement when he walks so that he seems to steer his way by instinct rather than sight. In general he keeps silence while eating his chop and on this occasion there was something unnatural in his utterance, a divorce of manner between the speaker and his words, such as one would expect in a symbol disclaiming under stress of the god. I fancied it had something to do with a black necktie that he wore instead of the blue bird's eye cravat familiar to Tweety's and with his extraordinary conduct in refusing today the chop that the waiter brought and limiting his lunch to cheese and lettuce. Having pulled the lettuce to pieces he pushed himself back a little from the table, looked over his spectacles at me and then at the tablecloth and began in a dreamy voice. Old Gabriel is dead. I heard the news at the office this morning and went out and bought a black tie. I am the oldest man in Tweety's now, older by six years than Sam Collins who comes next. So there is no mistake about it. Sam is looking for the place. I saw it in his eye when he told me and I expect he'll get it. But I'm the oldest clerk in Tweety's. Only God almighty can alter that and it's very satisfactory to me. I don't care about the money. Sam Collins will be stuck up over it like enough. But he'll never write a hand like Gabriel's not if he lives to be a hundred and he knows it and knows I'll be there to remind him of it. Gabriel's was a beautiful fist so small too if he chose. Why once in his spare hours he wrote out all the Psalms with the headings on one side of a folio sheet and had it framed and hung up in his parlor not at Shepherd's Bush. He died in the night. Oh yes quite easily. He was down at the office all yesterday and spoke to me as brisk as a bird. They found him dead in his bed this morning. I seem cut up about it. Well not exactly. You noticed that I refused my chalk today. Bless your soul that's not on Gabriel's account. I am well on in years and I suppose it would be natural of me to pity old men and expect pity but I can't. No it's only the young that I pity. If you must know I didn't take the chop today because I haven't the money in my pocket to pay for it. You see there was this black tie that I gave 18 pence for but but something else happened this morning that I'll tell you about. I came down in a bus as usual. You remember what muggy weather it was up to 10 o'clock. No you wouldn't think it to feel the heat now. Well the bus was packed inside and out. At least there was room for just one more inside when we pulled up by Charing Cross and there he got in a boy with a stick and a bundle in a blue handkerchief. He wasn't more than 13 bound for the docks you could tell in a glance. And by the way he looked about you could tell as easily that in stepping outside Charing Cross station heat set foot on London Stones for the first time. God knows how it struck him. The slush and drizzle. The ugly shop fronts. The horses slipping in the round mud. The crowd on the pavement pushing him this side and that. The poor little chap was standing in the middle of it with dazed eyes like a hares. When the bus pulled up his eyelids were pink and swollen but he wasn't crying though he wanted to. Instead he gave a gulp as he came on board with stick and bundle and tried to look brave as a lion. I'd have given worlds to speak to him but I couldn't. On my word sir I should have cried. It wasn't so much the little chap's look but to the knot of his bundle there was tied a bunch of cottage flowers. Sweet Williams boys love and a rose or two and the sight and smell of them in that stuffy omnibus were like tears on thirsty eyelids. It's the young that I pity sir. For Gabriel in his bed up at Shepherd's Bush there's no more to be said as far as I can see and as for me I'm the oldest clerk in Tweety's which is very satisfactory. It's the young faces set toward the road along which we have traveled that trouble me. Sometimes sir I lie awake in my lodgings and listen and the whole of this London seems filled with the sound of children's feet running and I can sob aloud. You may say that it is only selfishness and what I really pity is my own boyhead. I dare say you're right. It's certain that as I kept glancing at the boy and his sea kit and his bunch of flowers my mind went back to the January morning 65 years back when the coach took me off for the first time from the village where I was born to a London charity school. I was worse off than the boy in the omnibus for I had just lost father and mother. Yet it was the sticks and stones and flower beds that I mostly thought of. I went round and said goodbye to the lilacs and told them to be in flower by the time I came back. I said to the rose bush you must be as high as my window next May you know you only missed it by three inches last summer. Then I went to the cowhouse and kissed the cows one by one. They were to be sold by auction the very next week but I guessed nothing of it and ordered them not to forget me. And last I looked at the swallow's nests under the thatch the last year's nests and told myself that they would be filled again when I returned. I remembered this and how I stretched out my hands to the place from the coach top and how at Reading where we stopped I spent the two shillings that I possessed in a coconut and a bright clasped knife and how when I opened it the nut was sour and how I cried myself to sleep and woke in London. The young men in Tweedies though they respect my longstanding there make fun of me at times because I never take a holiday in the country. Why sir I dare not I should wander back to my old village and well I know how it would be then I should find it smaller and meaner I should search about for the flowers and nests and listen for the music that I knew 65 years ago and remember and they would not be discoverable. Also every face would stare at me for all the faces I know are dead. Then I should think I had missed my way and come to the wrong place or worse that no such spot ever existed and I have been cheating myself all these years that in fact I was mad all the while and have no stable reason for existing. I the oldest clerk in Tweedies to be sure there would be my parents headstones in the churchyard but what are they if the churchyard itself has changed. As it is with 300 pounds per annum and enough laid by to keep him if I fail an old bachelor has no reason to grumble. But the sight of that little chap's nose gay and the thought of the mother who tied it there made my heart swell as I fancy the earth must swell when rain is coming. His eyes filled once and he brushed them under the pretense of pulling his cap forward and stole a glance round to see if anyone had noticed him. The other passengers were busy with their own thoughts and I pretended to stare out of the window opposite. But there was the drop sure enough on his hand as he laid it on his lap again. He was bound for the docks and thence for the open sea and I that was bound for Tweedies only had to get out at the top of cheapside. I know the bus conductor a very honest man and in getting out I slipped half a crown into his hand to give to the boy with my blessing at his journey's end. When I picture his face sir I wish I had made it five shillings and gone without a new tie and dinner all together. End of section seven.