Odd Craft, Complete

“Yes,” ses the landlord; “and if he ever hits you agin you’ll know I’m speaking the truth.”

Ginger sat back all of a heap and tried to think. “Is Miss Tucker going to keep company with ‘im agin, then?” he ses, in a faint voice.

“No,” ses the landlord; “you can make your mind easy on that point.”

“Well, then, if I walk out with ‘er I shall ‘ave to fight Bill all over agin,” ses Ginger.

The landlord turned to ‘im and patted ‘im on the shoulder. “Don’t you take up your troubles afore they come, my lad,” he ses, kindly; “and mind and keep wot I’ve told you dark, for all our sakes.”

He put ‘im down at the door of ‘is lodgings and, arter shaking ‘ands with ‘im, gave the landlady a shilling and told ‘er to get some beefsteak and put on ‘is face, and went home. Ginger went straight off to bed, and the way he carried on when the landlady fried the steak afore bringing it up showed ‘ow upset he was.

It was over a week afore he felt ‘e could risk letting Miss Tucker see ‘im, and then at seven o’clock one evening he felt ‘e couldn’t wait any longer, and arter spending an hour cleaning ‘imself he started out for the Jolly Pilots.

He felt so ‘appy at the idea o’ seeing her agin that ‘e forgot all about Bill Lumm, and it gave ‘im quite a shock when ‘e saw ‘im standing outside the Pilots. Bill took his ‘ands out of ‘is pockets when he saw ‘im and came toward ‘im.

“It’s no good to-night, mate,” he ses; and to Ginger’s great surprise shook ‘ands with ‘im.

“No good?” ses Ginger, staring.

“No,” ses Bill; “he’s in the little back-parlour, like a whelk in ‘is shell; but we’ll ‘ave ‘im sooner or later.”

“Him? Who?” ses Ginger, more puzzled than ever.

“Who?” ses Bill; “why, Webson, the landlord. You don’t mean to tell me you ain’t heard about it?”

“Heard wot?” ses Ginger. “I haven’t ‘card any-thing. I’ve been indoors with a bad cold all the week.”

“Webson and Julia Tucker was married at eleven o’clock yesterday morning,” ses Bill Lumm, in a hoarse voice. “When I think of the way I’ve been done, and wot I’ve suffered, I feel ‘arf crazy. He won a ‘undered pounds through me, and then got the gal I let myself be disgraced for. I ‘ad an idea some time ago that he’d got ‘is eye on her.”

Ginger Dick didn’t answer ‘im a word. He staggered back and braced ‘imself up agin the wall for a bit, and arter staring at Bill Lumm in a wild way for pretty near three minutes he crawled back to ‘is lodgings and went straight to bed agin.

ODD CHARGES

Seated at his ease in the warm tap-room of the Cauliflower, the stranger had been eating and drinking for some time, apparently unconscious of the presence of the withered ancient who, huddled up in that corner of the settle which was nearer to the fire, fidgeted restlessly with an empty mug and blew with pathetic insistence through a churchwarden pipe which had long been cold. The stranger finished his meal with a sigh of content and then, rising from his chair, crossed over to the settle and, placing his mug on the time-worn table before him, began to fill his pipe.

The old man took a spill from the table and, holding it with trembling fingers to the blaze, gave him a light. The other thanked him, and then, leaning back in his corner of the settle, watched the smoke of his pipe through half-closed eyes, and assented drowsily to the old man’s remarks upon the weather.

“Bad time o’ the year for going about,” said the latter, “though I s’pose if you can eat and drink as much as you want it don’t matter. I s’pose you mightn’t be a conjurer from London, sir?”

The traveller shook his head.

“I was ‘oping you might be,” said the old man. The other manifested no curiosity.

“If you ‘ad been,” said the old man, with a sigh, “I should ha’ asked you to ha’ done something useful. Gin’rally speaking, conjurers do things that are no use to anyone; wot I should like to see a conjurer do would be to make this ‘ere empty mug full o’ beer and this empty pipe full o’ shag tobacco. That’s wot I should ha’ made bold to ask you to do if you’d been one.”

The traveller sighed, and, taking his short briar pipe from his mouth by the bowl, rapped three times upon the table with it. In a very short time a mug of ale and a paper cylinder of shag appeared on the table before the old man.

“Wot put me in mind o’ your being a conjurer,” said the latter, filling his pipe after a satisfying draught from the mug, “is that you’re uncommon like one that come to Claybury some time back and give a performance in this very room where we’re now a-sitting. So far as looks go, you might be his brother.”

The traveller said that he never had a brother.

We didn’t know ‘e was a conjurer at fust, said the old man. He ‘ad come down for Wickham Fair and, being a day or two before ‘and, ‘e was going to different villages round about to give performances. He came into the bar ‘ere and ordered a mug o’ beer, and while ‘e was a-drinking of it stood talking about the weather. Then ‘e asked Bill Chambers to excuse ‘im for taking the liberty, and, putting his ‘and to Bill’s mug, took out a live frog. Bill was a very partikler man about wot ‘e drunk, and I thought he’d ha’ had a fit. He went on at Smith, the landlord, something shocking, and at last, for the sake o’ peace and quietness, Smith gave ‘im another pint to make up for it.

“It must ha’ been asleep in the mug,” he ses.

Bill said that ‘e thought ‘e knew who must ha’ been asleep, and was just going to take a drink, when the conjurer asked ‘im to excuse ‘im agin. Bill put down the mug in a ‘urry, and the conjurer put his ‘and to the mug and took out a dead mouse. It would ha’ been a ‘ard thing to say which was the most upset, Bill Chambers or Smith, the landlord, and Bill, who was in a terrible state, asked why it was everything seemed to get into his mug.

“P’r’aps you’re fond o’ dumb animals, sir,” ses the conjurer. “Do you ‘appen to notice your coat-pocket is all of a wriggle?”

He put his ‘and to Bill’s pocket and took out a little green snake; then he put his ‘and to Bill’s trouser-pocket and took out a frog, while pore Bill’s eyes looked as if they was corning out o’ their sockets.

“Keep still,” ses the conjurer; “there’s a lot more to come yet.”

Bill Chambers gave a ‘owl that was dreadful to listen to, and then ‘e pushed the conjurer away and started undressing ‘imself as fast as he could move ‘is fingers. I believe he’d ha’ taken off ‘is shirt if it ‘ad ‘ad pockets in it, and then ‘e stuck ‘is feet close together and ‘e kept jumping into the air, and coming down on to ‘is own clothes in his hobnailed boots.

“He ain’t fond o’ dumb animals, then,” ses the conjurer. Then he put his ‘and on his ‘art and bowed.

“Gentlemen all,” he ses. “‘Aving given you this specimen of wot I can do, I beg to give notice that with the landlord’s kind permission I shall give my celebrated conjuring entertainment in the tap-room this evening at seven o’clock; ad—mission, three-pence each.”

They didn’t understand ‘im at fust, but at last they see wot ‘e meant, and arter explaining to Bill, who was still giving little jumps, they led ‘im up into a corner and coaxed ‘im into dressing ‘imself agin. He wanted to fight the conjurer, but ‘e was that tired ‘e could scarcely stand, and by-and-by Smith, who ‘ad said ‘e wouldn’t ‘ave anything to do with it, gave way and said he’d risk it.

The tap-room was crowded that night, but we all ‘ad to pay threepence each—coining money, I call it. Some o’ the things wot he done was very clever, but a’most from the fust start-off there was unpleasantness. When he asked somebody to lend ‘im a pocket-’andkercher to turn into a white rabbit, Henery Walker rushed up and lent ‘im ‘is, but instead of a white rabbit it turned into a black one with two white spots on it, and arter Henery Walker ‘ad sat for some time puzzling over it ‘e got up and went off ‘ome without saying good-night to a soul.

Then the conjurer borrowed Sam Jones’s hat, and arter looking into it for some time ‘e was that surprised and astonished that Sam Jones lost ‘is temper and asked ‘im whether he ‘adn’t seen a hat afore.

“Not like this,” ses the conjurer. And ‘e pulled out a woman’s dress and jacket and a pair o’ boots. Then ‘e took out a pound or two o’ taters and some crusts o’ bread and other things, and at last ‘e gave it back to Sam Jones and shook ‘is head at ‘im, and told ‘im if he wasn’t very careful he’d spoil the shape of it.

Then ‘e asked somebody to lend ‘im a watch, and, arter he ‘ad promised to take the greatest care of it, Dicky Weed, the tailor, lent ‘im a gold watch wot ‘ad been left ‘im by ‘is great-aunt when she died. Dicky Weed thought a great deal o’ that watch, and when the conjurer took a flat-iron and began to smash it up into little bits it took three men to hold ‘im down in ‘is seat.

“This is the most difficult trick o’ the lot,” ses the conjurer, picking off a wheel wot ‘ad stuck to the flat-iron. “Sometimes I can do it and sometimes I can’t. Last time I tried it it was a failure, and it cost me eighteenpence and a pint o’ beer afore the gentleman the watch ‘ad belonged to was satisfied. I gave ‘im the bits, too.”

“If you don’t give me my watch back safe and sound,” ses Dicky Weed, in a trembling voice, “it’ll cost you twenty pounds.”

“‘Ow much?” ses the conjurer, with a start. “Well, I wish you’d told me that afore you lent it to me. Eighteenpence is my price.”

He stirred the broken bits up with ‘is finger and shook his ‘ead.

“I’ve never tried one o’ these old-fashioned watches afore,” he ses. “‘Owever, if I fail, gentle-men, it’ll be the fust and only trick I’ve failed in to-night. You can’t expect everything to turn out right, but if I do fail this time, gentlemen, I’ll try it agin if anybody else’ll lend me another watch.”

Dicky Weed tried to speak but couldn’t, and ‘e sat there, with ‘is face pale, staring at the pieces of ‘is watch on the conjurer’s table. Then the conjurer took a big pistol with a trumpet-shaped barrel out of ‘is box, and arter putting in a charge o’ powder picked up the pieces o’ watch and rammed them in arter it. We could hear the broken bits grating agin the ramrod, and arter he ‘ad loaded it ‘e walked round and handed it to us to look at.

“It’s all right,” he ses to Dicky Weed; “it’s going to be a success; I could tell in the loading.”

He walked back to the other end of the room and held up the pistol.

“I shall now fire this pistol,” ‘e ses, “and in so doing mend the watch. The explosion of the powder makes the bits o’ glass join together agin; in flying through the air the wheels go round and round collecting all the other parts, and the watch as good as new and ticking away its ‘ardest will be found in the coat-pocket o’ the gentleman I shoot at.”

He pointed the pistol fust at one and then at another, as if ‘e couldn’t make up ‘is mind, and none of ‘em seemed to ‘ave much liking for it. Peter Gubbins told ‘im not to shoot at ‘im because he ‘ad a ‘ole in his pocket, and Bill Chambers, when it pointed at ‘im, up and told ‘im to let somebody else ‘ave a turn. The only one that didn’t flinch was Bob Pretty, the biggest poacher and the greatest rascal in Claybury. He’d been making fun o’ the tricks all along, saying out loud that he’d seen ‘em all afore—and done better.