Deep Waters, the Entire Collection

Her husband, who was by this time busy under the scullery-tap, made no reply. He came from it spluttering, and, seizing a small towel, stood in the door-way burnishing his face and regarding his wife with a smile which Mr. Purnip himself could not have surpassed. He sat down to supper, and between bites explained in some detail the lines on which his future life was to be run. As an earnest of good faith, he consented, after a short struggle, to a slip of oil-cloth for the passage; a pair of vases for the front room; and a new and somewhat expensive corn-cure for Mrs. Billing.

“And let’s ‘ope you go on as you’ve begun,” said that gratified lady. “There’s something in old Purnip after all. I’ve been worrying you for months for that oilcloth. Are you going to help me wash up? Mr. Purnip would.”

Mr. Billing appeared not to hear, and, taking up his cap, strolled slowly in the direction of the Blue Lion. It was a beautiful summer evening, and his bosom swelled as he thought of the improvements that a little brotherliness might effect in Elk Street. Engrossed in such ideas, it almost hurt him to find that, as he entered one door of the Blue Lion, two gentlemen, forgetting all about their beer, disappeared through the other.

“Wot ‘ave they run away like that for?” he demanded, looking round. “I wouldn’t hurt ‘em.”

“Depends on wot you call hurting, Joe,” said a friend.

Mr. Billing shook his head. “They’ve no call to be afraid of me,” he said, gravely. “I wouldn’t hurt a fly; I’ve got a new ‘art.”

“A new wot?” inquired his friend, staring.

“A new ‘art,” repeated the other. “I’ve given up fighting and swearing, and drinking too much. I’m going to lead a new life and do all the good I can; I’m going—”

“Glory! Glory!” ejaculated a long, thin youth, and, making a dash for the door, disappeared.

“He’ll know me better in time,” said Mr. Billing. “Why, I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I want to do good to people; not to hurt ‘em. I’ll have a pint,” he added, turning to the bar.

“Not here you won’t,” said the landlord, eyeing him coldly.

“Why not?” demanded the astonished Mr. Billing.

“You’ve had all you ought to have already,” was the reply. “And there’s one thing I’ll swear to—you ain’t had it ‘ere.”

“I haven’t ‘ad a drop pass my lips began the outraged Mr. Billing.

“Yes, I know,” said the other, wearily, as he shifted one or two glasses and wiped the counter; “I’ve heard it all before, over and over again. Mind you, I’ve been in this business thirty years, and if I don’t know when a man’s had his whack, and a drop more, nobody does. You get off ‘ome and ask your missis to make you a nice cup o’ good strong tea, and then get up to bed and sleep it off.”

“I dare say,” said Mr. Billing, with cold dignity, as he paused at the door—“I dare say I may give up beer altogether.”

He stood outside pondering over the unforeseen difficulties attendant upon his new career, moving a few inches to one side as Mr. Ricketts, a foe of long standing, came towards the public-house, and, halting a yard or two away, eyed him warily.

“Come along,” said Mr. Billing, speaking somewhat loudly, for the benefit of the men in the bar; “I sha’n’t hurt you; my fighting days are over.”

“Yes, I dessay,” replied the other, edging away.

“It’s all right, Bill,” said a mutual friend, through the half-open door; “he’s got a new ‘art.”

Mr. Ricketts looked perplexed. “‘Art disease, d’ye mean?” he inquired, hopefully. “Can’t he fight no more?”

“A new ‘art,” said Mr. Billing. “It’s as strong as ever it was, but it’s changed—brother.”

“If you call me ‘brother’ agin I’ll give you something for yourself, and chance it,” said Mr. Ricketts, ferociously. “I’m a pore man, but I’ve got my pride.”

Mr. Billing, with a smile charged with brotherly love, leaned his left cheek towards him. “Hit it,” he said, gently.

“Give it a smack and run, Bill,” said the voice of a well-wisher inside.

“There’d be no need for ‘im to run,” said Mr. Billing. “I wouldn’t hit ‘im back for anything. I should turn the other cheek.”

“Whaffor?” inquired the amazed Mr. Ricketts.

“For another swipe,” said Mr. Billing, radiantly.

In the fraction of a second he got the first, and reeled back staggering. The onlookers from the bar came out hastily. Mr. Ricketts, somewhat pale, stood his ground.

“You see, I don’t hit you,” said Mr. Billing, with a ghastly attempt at a smile.

He stood rubbing his cheek gently, and, remembering Mr. Purnip’s statements, slowly, inch by inch, turned the other in the direction of his adversary. The circuit was still incomplete when Mr. Ricketts, balancing himself carefully, fetched it a smash that nearly burst it. Mr. Billing, somewhat jarred by his contact with the pavement, rose painfully and confronted him.

“I’ve only got two cheeks, mind,” he said, slowly.

Mr. Ricketts sighed. “I wish you’d got a blinking dozen,” he said, wistfully. “Well, so long. Be good.”

He walked into the Blue Lion absolutely free from that sense of shame which Mr. Purnip had predicted, and, accepting a pint from an admirer, boasted noisily of his exploit. Mr. Billing, suffering both mentally and physically, walked slowly home to his astonished wife.

“P’r’aps he’ll be ashamed of hisself when ‘e comes to think it over,” he murmured, as Mrs. Billing, rendered almost perfect by practice, administered first aid.

“I s’pect he’s crying his eyes out,” she said, with a sniff. “Tell me if that ‘urts.”

Mr. Billing told her, then, suddenly remembering himself, issued an expurgated edition.

“I’m sorry for the next man that ‘its you,” said his wife, as she drew back and regarded her handiwork.

“‘Well, you needn’t be,” said Mr. Billing, with dignity. “It would take more than a couple o’ props in the jaw to make me alter my mind when I’ve made it up. You ought to know that by this time. Hurry up and finish. I want you to go to the corner and fetch me a pot.”

“What, ain’t you going out agin?” demanded his astonished wife.

Mr. Billing shook his head. “Somebody else might want to give me one,” he said, resignedly, “and I’ve ‘ad about all I want to-night.”

His face was still painful next morning, but as he sat at breakfast in the small kitchen he was able to refer to Mr. Ricketts in terms which were an eloquent testimony to Mr. Purnip’s teaching. Mrs. Billing, unable to contain herself, wandered off into the front room with a duster.

“Are you nearly ready to go?” she inquired, returning after a short interval.

“Five minutes,” said Mr. Billing, nodding. “I’ll just light my pipe and then I’m off.”

“‘Cos there’s two or three waiting outside for you,” added his wife.

Mr. Billing rose. “Ho, is there?” he said, grimly, as he removed his coat and proceeded to roll up his shirt-sleeves. “I’ll learn ‘em. I’ll give ‘em something to wait for. I’ll–”

His voice died away as he saw the triumph in his wife’s face, and, drawing down his sleeves again, he took up his coat and stood eyeing her in genuine perplexity.

“Tell ‘em I’ve gorn,” he said, at last.

“And what about telling lies?” demanded his wife. “What would your Mr. Purnip say to that?”

“You do as you’re told,” exclaimed the harassed Mr. Billing. “I’m not going to tell ‘em; it’s you.”