Sailors Knots | Page 6

door-step, and 'er
face, as I got down out o' that cab with Kumbo 'anging on to my arm
was something too awful for words. It seemed to rise up slow-like from
near the door- step, and to go on rising till I thought it 'ud never stop.
And every inch it rose it got worse and worse to look at.
[Illustration: She stood blocking up the doorway with her 'ands on her
'ips.]
She stood blocking up the doorway with her 'ands on her 'ips, while I
explained, with Kumbo still 'anging on my arm and a crowd collecting
behind, and the more I explained, the more I could see she didn't
believe a word of it.
She never 'as believed it. I sent for Mr. Alfredi to come and take
Kumbo away, and when I spoke to 'im about Rupert he said I was
dreaming, and asked me whether I wasn't ashamed o' myself for
carrying off a pore black gal wot 'ad got no father or mother to look
arter her. He said that afore my missis, and my character 'as been under
a cloud ever since, waiting for Rupert to turn up and clear it away.

HOMEWARD BOUND
Mr. Hatchard's conversation for nearly a week had been confined to
fault- finding and grunts, a system of treatment designed to wean Mrs.
Hatchard from her besetting sin of extravagance. On other occasions
the treatment had, for short periods, proved successful, but it was quite
evident that his wife's constitution was becoming inured to this physic
and required a change of treatment. The evidence stared at him from
the mantelpiece in the shape of a pair of huge pink vases, which had
certainly not been there when he left in the morning. He looked at them
and breathed heavily.

"Pretty, ain't they?" said his wife, nodding at them.
"Who gave 'em to you?" inquired Mr. Hatchard, sternly.
His wife shook her head. "You don't get vases like that given to you,"
she said, slowly. "Leastways, I don't."
"Do you mean to say you bought 'em?" demanded her husband.
Mrs. Hatchard nodded.
"After all I said to you about wasting my money?" persisted Mr.
Hatchard, in amazed accents.
Mrs. Hatchard nodded, more brightly than before.
"There has got to be an end to this!" said her husband, desperately. "I
won't have it! D'ye hear? I won't--have--it!"
"I bought 'em with my own money," said his wife, tossing her head.
"Your money?" said Mr. Hatchard. "To hear you talk anybody 'ud think
you'd got three hundred a year, instead o' thirty. Your money ought to
be spent in useful things, same as what mine is. Why should I spend my
money keeping you, while you waste yours on pink vases and having
friends in to tea?"
Mrs. Hatchard's still comely face took on a deeper tinge.
"Keeping me?" she said, sharply. "You'd better stop before you say
anything you might be sorry for, Alfred."
"I should have to talk a long time before I said that," retorted the other.
"I'm not so sure," said his wife. "I'm beginning to be tired of it."
"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.
[Illustration: Taking one of the vases from the mantelpiece, he dashed it
to pieces on the fender.]
"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