The Lady of the Barge and Others, Entire Collection

“And old Wiggett?” persisted Mrs. Tidger.

“Smoke his pipe,” was the reply. “Why, what’s the matter, Polly?”

Mrs. Tidger sniffed derisively. “You men are all alike,” she snapped. “What do you think Ann wears that pink bodice for?”

“I never noticed she ‘ad a pink bodice, Polly,” said the carpenter.

“No? That’s what I say. You men never notice anything,” said his wife. “If you don’t send them two old fools off, I will.”

“Don’t you like ‘em to see Ann wearing pink?” inquired the mystified Tidger.

Mrs. Tidger bit her lip and shook her head at him scornfully. “In plain English, Tidger, as plain as I can speak it,”—she said, severely, “they’re after Ann and ‘er bit o’ money.”

Mr. Tidger gazed at her open-mouthed, and taking advantage of that fact, blew out the candle to hide his discomposure. “What!” he said, blankly, “at ‘er time o’ life?”

“Watch ‘em to-morrer,” said his wife.

The carpenter acted upon his instructions, and his ire rose as he noticed the assiduous attention paid by his two friends to the frivolous Mrs. Pullen. Mr. Wiggett, a sharp-featured little man, was doing most of the talking, while his rival, a stout, clean-shaven man with a slow, oxlike eye, looked on stolidly. Mr. Miller was seldom in a hurry, and lost many a bargain through his slowness—a fact which sometimes so painfully affected the individual who had outdistanced him that he would offer to let him have it at a still lower figure.

“You get younger than ever, Mrs. Pullen,” said Wiggett, the conversation having turned upon ages.

“Young ain’t the word for it,” said Miller, with a praiseworthy determination not to be left behind.

“No; it’s age as you’re thinking of, Mr. Wiggett,” said the carpenter, slowly; “none of us gets younger, do we, Ann?”

“Some of us keeps young in our ways,” said Mrs. Pullen, somewhat shortly.

“How old should you say Ann is now?” persisted the watchful Tidger.

Mr. Wiggett shook his head. “I should say she’s about fifteen years younger nor me,” he said, slowly, “and I’m as lively as a cricket.”

“She’s fifty-five,” said the carpenter.

“That makes you seventy, Wiggett,” said Mr. Miller, pointedly. “I thought you was more than that. You look it.”

Mr. Wiggett coughed sourly. “I’m fifty-nine,” he growled. “Nothing‘ll make me believe as Mrs. Pullen’s fifty-five, nor anywhere near it.”

“Ho!” said the carpenter, on his mettle—“ho! Why, my wife here was the sixth child, and she– He caught a gleam in the sixth child’s eye, and expressed her age with a cough. The others waited politely until he had finished, and Mr. Tidger, noticing this, coughed again.

“And she—” prompted Mr. Miller, displaying a polite interest.

“She ain’t so young as she was,” said the carpenter.

“Cares of a family,” said Mr. Wiggett, plumping boldly. “I always thought Mrs. Pullen was younger than her.”

“So did I,” said Mr. Miller, “much younger.”

Mr. Wiggett eyed him sharply. It was rather hard to have Miller hiding his lack of invention by participating in his compliments and even improving upon them. It was the way he dealt at market-listening to other dealers’ accounts of their wares, and adding to them for his own.

“I was noticing you the other day, ma’am,” continued Mr. Wiggett. “I see you going up the road with a step free and easy as a young girl’s.”

“She allus walks like that,” said Mr. Miller, in a tone of surprised reproof.

“It’s in the family,” said the carpenter, who had been uneasily watching his wife’s face.

“Both of you seem to notice a lot,” said Mrs. Tidger; “much more than you used to.”

Mr. Tidger, who was of a nervous and sensitive disposition, coughed again.

“You ought to take something for that cough,” said Mr. Wiggett, considerately.

“Gin and beer,” said Mr. Miller, with the air of a specialist.

“Bed’s the best thing for it,” said Mrs. Tidger, whose temper was beginning to show signs of getting out of hand.

Mr. Tidger rose and looked awkwardly at his visitors; Mr. Wiggett got up, and pretending to notice the time, said he must be going, and looked at Mr. Miller. That gentleman, who was apparently deep in some knotty problem, was gazing at the floor, and oblivious for the time to his surroundings.

“Come along,” said Wiggett, with feigned heartiness, slapping him on the back.

Mr. Miller, looking for a moment as though he would like to return the compliment, came back to everyday life, and bidding the company good-night, stepped to the door, accompanied by his rival. It was immediately shut with some violence.

“They seem in a hurry,” said Wiggett. “I don’t think I shall go there again.”

“I don’t think I shall,” said Mr. Miller.

After this neither of them was surprised to meet there again the next night, and indeed for several nights. The carpenter and his wife, who did not want the money to go out of the family, and were also afraid of offending Mrs. Pullen, were at their wits’ end what to do. Ultimately it was resolved that Tidger, in as delicate a manner as possible, was to hint to her that they were after her money. He was so vague and so delicate that Mrs. Pullen misunderstood him, and fancying that he was trying to borrow half a crown, made him a present of five shillings.

It was evident to the slower-going Mr. Miller that his rival’s tongue was giving him an advantage which only the ever-watchful presence of the carpenter and his wife prevented him from pushing to the fullest advantage. In these circumstances he sat for two hours after breakfast one morning in deep cogitation, and after six pipes got up with a twinkle in his slow eyes which his brother dealers had got to regard as a danger signal.

He had only the glimmering of an idea at first, but after a couple of pints at the “Bell” everything took shape, and he cast his eyes about for an assistant. They fell upon a man named Smith, and the dealer, after some thought, took up his glass and went over to him.

“I want you to do something for me,” he remarked, in a mysterious voice.

“Ah, I’ve been wanting to see you,” said Smith, who was also a dealer in a small way. “One o’ them hins I bought off you last week is dead.”

“I’ll give you another for it,” said Miller.

“And the others are so forgetful,” continued Mr. Smith.

“Forgetful?” repeated the other.

“Forget to lay, like,” said Mr. Smith, musingly.

“Never mind about them,” said Mr. Miller, with some animation. “I want you to do something for me. If it comes off all right, I’ll give you a dozen hins and a couple of decentish-sized pigs.”

Mr. Smith called a halt. “Decentish-sized” was vague.

“Take your pick,” said Mr. Miller. “You know Mrs. Pullen’s got two thousand pounds—”