Short Cruises | Page 6

not there bring Ted Stokes back with
you," she said at last, "and if he says you're George, I'll let you in."
The window closed and the light disappeared. Mr. Henshaw waited for
some time, but in vain, and, with a very clear idea of the reception he
would meet with at the hands of Mr. Stokes, set off to his lodging.
If anything, he had underestimated his friend's powers. Mr. Stokes,
rudely disturbed just as he had got into bed, was the incarnation of
wrath. He was violent, bitter, and insulting in a breath, but Mr.
Henshaw was desperate, and Mr. Stokes, after vowing over and over
again that nothing should induce him to accompany him back to his
house, was at last so moved by his entreaties that he went upstairs and
equipped himself for the journey.
"And, mind, after this I never want to see your face again," he said, as
they walked swiftly back.
Mr. Henshaw made no reply. The events of the day had almost
exhausted him, and silence was maintained until they reached the house.
Much to his relief he heard somebody moving about upstairs after the
first knock and in a very short time the window was gently raised and
Mrs. Henshaw looked out.
"What, you've come back?" she said, in a low, intense voice. "Well, of
all the impudence! How dare you carry on like this?"
"It's me," said her husband.

"Yes, I see it is," was the reply.
"It's him right enough; it's your husband," said Mr. Stokes. "Alfred Bell
has gone."
"How dare you stand there and tell me them falsehoods!" exclaimed
Mrs. Henshaw. "I wonder the ground don't open and swallow you up.
It's Mr. Bell, and if he don't go away I'll call the police."
Messrs. Henshaw and Stokes, amazed at their reception, stood blinking
up at her. Then they conferred in whispers.
"If you can't tell 'em apart, how do you know this is Mr. Bell?" inquired
Mr. Stokes, turning to the window again.
"How do I know?" repeated Mrs. Henshaw. "How do I know? Why,
because my husband came home almost directly Mr. Bell had gone. I
wonder he didn't meet him."
"Came home?" cried Mr. Henshaw, shrilly. "Came home?"
"Yes; and don't make so much noise," said Mrs. Henshaw, tartly; "he's
asleep."
The two gentlemen turned and gazed at each other in stupefaction. Mr.
Stokes was the first to recover, and, taking his dazed friend by the arm,
led him gently away. At the end of the street he took a deep breath, and,
after a slight pause to collect his scattered energies, summed up the
situation.
[Illustration: Taking his dazed friend by the arm 025]
"She's twigged it all along," he said, with conviction. "You'll have to
come home with me tonight, and to-morrow the best thing you can do
is to make a clean breast of it. It was a silly game, and, if you remember,
I was against it from the first."

MIXED RELATIONS
THE brig Elizabeth Barstow came up the river as though in a hurry to
taste again the joys of the Metropolis. The skipper, leaning on the
wheel, was in the midst of a hot discussion with the mate, who was
placing before him the hygienic, economical, and moral advantages of
total abstinence in language of great strength but little variety.
"Teetotallers eat more," said the skipper, finally.
The mate choked, and his eye sought the galley. "Eat more?" he
spluttered. "Yesterday the meat was like brick-bats; to-day it tasted like
a bit o' dirty sponge. I've lived on biscuits this trip; and the only tater I
ate I'm going to see a doctor about direckly I get ashore. It's a sin and a
shame to spoil good food the way 'e does."
"The moment I can ship another cook he goes," said the skipper. "He
seems busy, judging by the noise."
"I'm making him clean up everything, ready for the next," explained the
mate, grimly. "And he 'ad the cheek to tell me he's
improving--improving!"
"He'll go as soon as I get another," repeated the skipper, stooping and
peering ahead. "I don't like being poisoned any more than you do. He
told me he could cook when I shipped him; said his sister had taught
him."
The mate grunted and, walking away, relieved his mind by putting his
head in at the galley and bidding the cook hold up each separate utensil
for his inspection. A hole in the frying-pan the cook modestly attributed
to elbow-grease.
The river narrowed, and the brig, picking her way daintily through the
traffic, sought her old berth at Buller's Wharf. It was occupied by a deaf
sailing-barge, which, moved at last by self-interest, not unconnected
with its paint, took up a less desirable position