Odd Craft, Complete

“You stole Dicky Weed’s watch,” ses John Biggs. “I ‘ad my suspicions of you all along. You’re a thief, Bob Pretty. That’s wot you are.”

“Prove it,” ses Bob Pretty. “You ‘eard wot the conjurer said the other night, that the last time he tried ‘e failed, and ‘ad to give eighteenpence to the man wot the watch ‘ad belonged to.”

“That was by way of a joke like,” ses the conjurer to John Biggs. “I can always do it. I’m going to do it now. Will somebody ‘ave the kindness to lend me a watch?”

He looked all round the room, but nobody offered—except other men’s watches, wot wouldn’t lend ‘em.

“Come, come,” he ses; “ain’t none of you got any trust in me? It’ll be as safe as if it was in your pocket. I want to prove to you that this man is a thief.”

He asked ‘em agin, and at last John Biggs took out ‘is silver watch and offered it to ‘im on the understanding that ‘e was on no account to fire it into Bob Pretty’s pocket.

“Not likely,” ses the conjurer. “Now, everybody take a good look at this watch, so as to make sure there’s no deceiving.”

He ‘anded it round, and arter everybody ‘ad taken a look at it ‘e took it up to the table and laid it down.

“Let me ‘ave a look at it,” ses Bob Pretty, going up to the table. “I’m not going to ‘ave my good name took away for nothing if I can ‘elp it.”

He took it up and looked at it, and arter ‘olding it to ‘is ear put it down agin.

“Is that the flat-iron it’s going to be smashed with?” he ses.

“It is,” ses the conjurer, looking at ‘im nasty like; “p’r’aps you’d like to examine it.”

Bob Pretty took it and looked at it. “Yes, mates,” he ses, “it’s a ordinary flat-iron. You couldn’t ‘ave anything better for smashing a watch with.”

He ‘eld it up in the air and, afore anybody could move, brought it down bang on the face o’ the watch. The conjurer sprang at ‘im and caught at ‘is arm, but it was too late, and in a terrible state o’ mind ‘e turned round to John Biggs.

“He’s smashed your watch,” he ses; “he’s smashed your watch.”

“Well,” ses John Biggs, “it ‘ad got to be smashed, ‘adn’t it?”

“Yes, but not by ‘im,” ses the conjurer, dancing about. “I wash my ‘ands of it now.”

“Look ‘ere,” ses John Biggs; “don’t you talk to me about washing your ‘ands of it. You finish your trick and give me my watch back agin same as it was afore.”

“Not now he’s been interfering with it,” ses the conjurer. “He’d better do the trick now as he’s so clever.”

“I’d sooner ‘ave you do it,” ses John Biggs. “Wot did you let ‘im interfere for?”

“‘Ow was I to know wot ‘e was going to do?” ses the conjurer. “You must settle it between you now. I’ll ‘ave nothing more to do with it.”

“All right, John Biggs,” ses Bob Pretty; “if ‘e won’t do it, I will. If it can be done, I don’t s’pose it matters who does it. I don’t think anybody could smash up a watch better than that.”

John Biggs looked at it, and then ‘e asked the conjurer once more to do the trick, but ‘e wouldn’t.

“It can’t be done now,” he ses; “and I warn you that if that pistol is fired I won’t be responsible for what’ll ‘appen.”

“George Kettle shall load the pistol and fire it if ‘e won’t,” ses Bob Pretty. “‘Aving been in the Militia, there couldn’t be a better man for the job.”

George Kettle walked up to the table as red as fire at being praised like that afore people and started loading the pistol. He seemed to be more awkward about it than the conjurer ‘ad been the last time, and he ‘ad to roll the watch-cases up with the flat-iron afore ‘e could get ‘em in. But ‘e loaded it at last and stood waiting.

“Don’t shoot at me, George Kettle,” ses Bob. “I’ve been called a thief once, and I don’t want to be agin.”

“Put that pistol down, you fool, afore you do mischief,” ses the conjurer.

“Who shall I shoot at?” ses George Kettle, raising the pistol.

“Better fire at the conjurer, I think,” ses Bob Pretty; “and if things ‘appen as he says they will ‘appen, the watch ought to be found in ‘is coat-pocket.”

“Where is he?” ses George, looking round.

Bill Chambers laid ‘old of ‘im just as he was going through the door to fetch the landlord, and the scream ‘e gave as he came back and George Kettle pointed the pistol at ‘im was awful.

“It’s no worse for you than it was for me,” ses Bob.

“Put it down,” screams the conjurer; “put it down. You’ll kill ‘arf the men in the room if it goes off.”

“Be careful where you aim, George,” ses Sam Jones. “P’r’aps he’d better ‘ave a chair all by hisself in the middle of the room.”

It was all very well for Sam Jones to talk, but the conjurer wouldn’t sit on a chair by ‘imself. He wouldn’t sit on it at all. He seemed to be all legs and arms, and the way ‘e struggled it took four or five men to ‘old ‘im.

“Why don’t you keep still?” ses John Biggs. “George Kettle’ll shoot it in your pocket all right. He’s the best shot in Claybury.”

“Help! Murder!” says the conjurer, struggling. “He’ll kill me. Nobody can do the trick but me.”

“But you say you won’t do it,” ses John Biggs. “Not now,” ses the conjurer; “I can’t.”

“Well, I’m not going to ‘ave my watch lost through want of trying,” ses John Biggs. “Tie ‘im to the chair, mates.”

“All right, then,” ses the conjurer, very pale. “Don’t tie me; I’ll sit still all right if you like, but you’d better bring the chair outside in case of accidents. Bring it in the front.”

George Kettle said it was all nonsense, but the conjurer said the trick was always better done in the open air, and at last they gave way and took ‘im and the chair outside.

“Now,” ses the conjurer, as ‘e sat down, “all of you go and stand near the man woe’s going to shoot. When I say ‘Three,’ fire. Why! there’s the watch on the ground there!”

He pointed with ‘is finger, and as they all looked down he jumped up out o’ that chair and set off on the road to Wickham as ‘ard as ‘e could run. It was so sudden that nobody knew wot ‘ad ‘appened for a moment, and then George Kettle, wot ‘ad been looking with the rest, turned round and pulled the trigger.

There was a bang that pretty nigh deafened us, and the back o’ the chair was blown nearly out. By the time we’d got our senses agin the conjurer was a’most out o’ sight, and Bob Pretty was explaining to John Biggs wot a good job it was ‘is watch ‘adn’t been a gold one.

“That’s wot comes o’ trusting a foreigner afore a man wot you’ve known all your life,” he ses, shaking his ‘ead. “I ‘ope the next man wot tries to take my good name away won’t get off so easy. I felt all along the trick couldn’t be done; it stands to reason it couldn’t. I done my best, too.”

ADMIRAL PETERS

Mr. George Burton, naval pensioner, sat at the door of his lodgings gazing in placid content at the sea. It was early summer, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers; Mr. Burton’s pipe was cold and empty, and his pouch upstairs. He shook his head gently as he realised this, and, yielding to the drowsy quiet of his surroundings, laid aside the useless pipe and fell into a doze.

He was awakened half an hour later by the sound of footsteps. A tall, strongly built man was approaching from the direction of the town, and Mr. Burton, as he gazed at him sleepily, began to wonder where he had seen him before. Even when the stranger stopped and stood smiling down at him his memory proved unequal to the occasion, and he sat staring at the handsome, shaven face, with its little fringe of grey whisker, waiting for enlightenment.

“George, my buck,” said the stranger, giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder, “how goes it?”