Odd Craft, Complete

“I think it’s very hard if I’m not to hear it,” said Mrs. Dutton, with her most fascinating air.

Mr. Stiles gave her a significant glance, and screwing up his lips nodded in the direction of Mr. Burton.

“At any rate, you were in the chimney with me, sir,” said that unfortunate.

“Ah!” said the other, severely. “But what was I there for, my man?”

Mr. Burton could not tell him; he could only stare at him in a frenzy of passion and dismay.

“What were you there for, Admiral Peters?” inquired Mrs. Dutton.

“I was there, ma’am,” said the unspeakable Mr. Stiles, slowly—“I was there to save the life of Burton. I never deserted my men–never. Whatever scrapes they got into I always did my best to get them out. News was brought to me that Burton was suffocating in the chimney of the Sultan’s favourite wife, and I–”

“Sultan’s favourite wife!” gasped Mrs. Dutton, staring hard at Mr. Burton, who had collapsed in his chair and was regarding the ingenious Mr. Stiles with open-mouthed stupefaction. “Good gracious! I—I never heard of such a thing. I am surprised!”

“So am I,” said Mr. Burton, thickly. “I—I–”

“How did you escape, Admiral Peters?” inquired the widow, turning from the flighty Burton in indignation.

Mr. Stiles shook his head. “To tell you that would be to bring the French Consul into it,” he said, gently. “I oughtn’t to have mentioned the subject at all. Burton had the good sense not to.”

The widow murmured acquiescence, and stole a look at the prosaic figure of the latter gentleman which was full of scornful curiosity. With some diffidence she invited the admiral to stay to supper, and was obviously delighted when he accepted.

In the character of admiral Mr. Stiles enjoyed himself amazingly, his one regret being that no discriminating theatrical manager was present to witness his performance. His dignity increased as the evening wore on, and from good-natured patronage of the unfortunate Burton he progressed gradually until he was shouting at him. Once, when he had occasion to ask Mr. Burton if he intended to contradict him, his appearance was so terrible that his hostess turned pale and trembled with excitement.

Mr. Burton adopted the air for his own use as soon as they were clear of Mrs. Dutton’s doorstep, and in good round terms demanded of Mr. Stiles what he meant by it.

“It was a difficult part to play, George,” responded his friend. “We ought to have rehearsed it a bit. I did the best I could.”

“Best you could?” stormed Mr. Burton. “Telling lies and ordering me about?”

“I had to play the part without any preparation, George,” said the other, firmly. “You got yourself into the difficulty by saying that I was the admiral in the first place. I’ll do better next time we go.”

Mr. Burton, with a nasty scowl, said that there was not going to be any next time, but Mr. Stiles smiled as one having superior information. Deaf first to hints and then to requests to seek his pleasure elsewhere, he stayed on, and Mr. Burton was soon brought to realise the difficulties which beset the path of the untruthful.

The very next visit introduced a fresh complication, it being evident to the most indifferent spectator that Mr. Stiles and the widow were getting on very friendly terms. Glances of unmistakable tenderness passed between them, and on the occasion of the third visit Mr. Burton sat an amazed and scandalised spectator of a flirtation of the most pronounced description. A despairing attempt on his part to lead the conversation into safer and, to his mind, more becoming channels only increased his discomfiture. Neither of them took any notice of it, and a minute later Mr. Stiles called the widow a “saucy little baggage,” and said that she reminded him of the Duchess of Marford.

“I used to think she was the most charming woman in England,” he said, meaningly.

Mrs. Dutton simpered and looked down; Mr. Stiles moved his chair a little closer to her, and then glanced thoughtfully at his friend.

“Burton,” he said.

“Sir,” snapped the other.

“Run back and fetch my pipe for me,” said Mr. Stiles. “I left it on the mantelpiece.”

Mr. Burton hesitated, and, the widow happening to look away, shook his fist at his superior officer.

“Look sharp,” said Mr. Stiles, in a peremptory voice.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Mr. Burton, whose wits were being sharpened by misfortune, “but I broke it.”

“Broke it?” repeated the other.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Burton. “I knocked it on the floor and trod on it by accident; smashed it to powder.”

Mr. Stiles rated him roundly for his carelessness, and asked him whether he knew that it was a present from the Italian Ambassador.

“Burton was always a clumsy man,” he said, turning to the widow. “He had the name for it when he was on the Destruction with me; ‘Bungling Burton’ they called him.”

He divided the rest of the evening between flirting and recounting various anecdotes of Mr. Burton, none of which were at all flattering either to his intelligence or to his sobriety, and the victim, after one or two futile attempts at contradiction, sat in helpless wrath as he saw the infatuation of the widow. They were barely clear of the house before his pent-up emotions fell in an avalanche of words on the faithless Mr. Stiles.

“I can’t help being good-looking,” said the latter, with a smirk.

“Your good looks wouldn’t hurt anybody,” said Mr. Burton, in a grating voice; “it’s the admiral business that fetches her. It’s turned ‘er head.”

Mr. Stiles smiled. “She’ll say ‘snap’ to my ‘snip’ any time,” he remarked. “And remember, George, there’ll always be a knife and fork laid for you when you like to come.”

“I dessay,” retorted Mr. Burton, with a dreadful sneer. “Only as it happens I’m going to tell ‘er the truth about you first thing to-morrow morning. If I can’t have ‘er you sha’n’t.”

“That’ll spoil your chance, too,” said Mr. Stiles. “She’d never forgive you for fooling her like that. It seems a pity neither of us should get her.”

“You’re a sarpent,” exclaimed Mr. Burton, savagely—“a sarpent that I’ve warmed in my bosom and–”

“There’s no call to be indelicate, George,” said Mr. Stiles, reprovingly, as he paused at the door of the house. “Let’s sit down and talk it over quietly.”

Mr. Burton followed him into the room and, taking a chair, waited.

“It’s evident she’s struck with me,” said Mr. Stiles, slowly; “it’s also evident that if you tell her the truth it might spoil my chances. I don’t say it would, but it might. That being so, I’m agreeable to going back without seeing her again by the six-forty train to-morrow morning if it’s made worth my while.”

“Made worth your while?” repeated the other.

“Certainly,” said the unblushing Mr. Stiles. “She’s not a bad-looking woman—for her age—and it’s a snug little business.”

Mr. Burton, suppressing his choler, affected to ponder. “If ‘arf a sovereign—” he said, at last.

“Half a fiddlestick!” said the other, impatiently. “I want ten pounds. You’ve just drawn your pension, and, besides, you’ve been a saving man all your life.”

“Ten pounds?” gasped the other. “D’ye think I’ve got a gold-mine in the back garden?”

Mr. Stiles leaned back in his chair and crossed his feet. “I don’t go for a penny less,” he said, firmly. “Ten pounds and my ticket back. If you call me any more o’ those names I’ll make it twelve.”

“And what am I to explain to Mrs. Dutton?” demanded Mr. Burton, after a quarter of an hour’s altercation.

“Anything you like,” said his generous friend. “Tell her I’m engaged to my cousin, and our marriage keeps being put off and off on account of my eccentric behaviour. And you can say that that was caused by a splinter of a shell striking my head. Tell any lies you like; I shall never turn up again to contradict them. If she tries to find out things about the admiral, remind her that she promised to keep his visit here secret.”

For over an hour Mr. Burton sat weighing the advantages and disadvantages of this proposal, and then—Mr. Stiles refusing to seal the bargain without—shook hands upon it and went off to bed in a state of mind hovering between homicide and lunacy.