Ship's Company, the Entire Collection

“I done wot I could,” said Mr. Kidd, simply. “Pore Joe! Nobody could ha’ had a better pal. Nobody!”

“Always ready to lend a helping ‘and to them as was in trouble, he was,” said Mr. Brown, looking round.

“‘Ear, ‘ear!” said a voice.

“And we’ll lend ‘im a helping ‘and,” said Mr. Kidd, energetically. “We can’t do ‘im no good, pore chap, but we can try and do something for ‘er as is left behind.”

He moved slowly to the door, accompanied by Mr. Brown, and catching the eye of one or two of the men beckoned them to follow. Under his able guidance a small but gradually increasing crowd made its way to the “Red Lion.” For the next three or four days the friends worked unceasingly. Cards stating that a Friendly Lead would be held at the “Red Lion,” for the benefit of the widow of the late Mr. Joseph Gibbs, were distributed broadcast; and anecdotes portraying a singularly rare and beautiful character obtained an even wider circulation. Too late Wapping realized the benevolent disposition and the kindly but unobtrusive nature that had departed from it for ever.

Mr. Gibbs, from his retreat across the water, fully shared his friends’ enthusiasm, but an insane desire—engendered by vanity—to be present at the function was a source of considerable trouble and annoyance to them. When he offered to black his face and take part in the entertainment as a nigger minstrel, Mr. Kidd had to be led outside and kept there until such time as he could converse in English pure and undefiled.

“Getting above ‘imself, that’s wot it is,” said Mr. Brown, as they wended their way home. “He’s having too much money out of us to spend; but it won’t be for long now.”

“He’s having a lord’s life of it, while we’re slaving ourselves to death,” grumbled Mr. Kidd. “I never see’im looking so fat and well. By rights he oughtn’t to ‘ave the same share as wot we’re going to ‘ave; he ain’t doing none of the work.”

His ill-humour lasted until the night of the “Lead,” which, largely owing to the presence of a sporting fishmonger who had done well at the races that day, and some of his friends, realized a sum far beyond the expectations of the hard-working promoters. The fishmonger led off by placing a five-pound note in the plate, and the packed audience breathed so hard that the plate-holder’s responsibility began to weigh upon his spirits. In all, a financial tribute of thirty-seven pounds three and fourpence was paid to the memory of the late Mr. Gibbs.

“Over twelve quid apiece,” said the delighted Mr. Kidd as he bade his co-worker good night. “Sounds too good to be true.”

The next day passed all too slowly, but work was over at last, and Mr. Kidd led the way over London Bridge a yard or two ahead of the more phlegmatic Mr. Brown. Mr. Gibbs was in his old corner at the “Wheelwright’s Arms,” and, instead of going into ecstasies over the sum realized, hinted darkly that it would have been larger if he had been allowed to have had a hand in it.

“It’ll ‘ardly pay me for my trouble,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s very dull over ‘ere all alone by myself. By the time you two have ‘ad your share, besides taking wot I owe you, there’ll be ‘ardly anything left.”

“I’ll talk to you another time,” said Mr. Kidd, regarding him fixedly. “Wot you’ve got to do now is to come acrost the river with us.”

“What for?” demanded Mr. Gibbs.

“We’re going to break the joyful news to your old woman that you’re alive afore she starts spending money wot isn’t hers,” said Mr. Kidd. “And we want you to be close by in case she don’t believe us.

“Well, do it gentle, mind,” said the fond husband. “We don’t want ‘er screaming, or anything o’ that sort. I know ‘er better than wot you do, and my advice to you is to go easy.”

He walked along by the side of them, and, after some demur, consented, as a further disguise, to put on a pair of spectacles, for which Mr. Kidd’s wife’s mother had been hunting high and low since eight o’clock that morning.

“You doddle about ‘ere for ten minutes,” said Mr. Kidd, as they reached the Monument, “and then foller on. When you pass a lamp-post ‘old your handkerchief up to your face. And wait for us at the corner of your road till we come for you.”

He went off at a brisk pace with Mr. Brown, a pace moderated to one of almost funeral solemnity as they approached the residence of Mrs. Gibbs. To their relief she was alone, and after the usual amenities thanked them warmly for all they had done for her.

“I’d do more than that for pore Joe,” said Mr. Brown.

“They—they ‘aven’t found ‘im yet?” said the widow.

Mr. Kidd shook his head. “My idea is they won’t find ‘im,” he said, slowly.

“Went down on the ebb tide,” explained Mr. Brown; and spoilt Mr. Kidd’s opening.

“Wherever he is ‘e’s better off,” said Mrs. Gibbs.

“No more trouble about being out o’ work; no more worry; no more pain. We’ve all got to go some day.

“Yes,” began Mr. Kidd; “but—

“I’m sure I don’t wish ‘im back,” said Mrs. Gibbs; “that would be sinful.”

“But ‘ow if he wanted to come back?” said Mr. Kidd, playing for an opening.

“And ‘elp you spend that money,” said Mr. Brown, ignoring the scowls of his friend.

Mrs. Gibbs looked bewildered. “Spend the money?” she began.

“Suppose,” said Mr. Kidd, “suppose he wasn’t drownded after all? Only last night I dreamt he was alive.”

“So did I,” said Mr. Brown.

“He was smiling at me,” said Mr. Kidd, in a tender voice. “‘Bob,’ he ses, ‘go and tell my pore missis that I’m alive,’ he ses; ‘break it to ‘er gentle.’”

“It’s the very words he said to me in my dream,” said Mr. Brown. “Bit strange, ain’t it?”

“Very,” said Mrs. Gibbs.

“I suppose,” said Mr. Kidd, after a pause, “I suppose you haven’t been dreaming about ‘im?”

“No; I’m a teetotaller,” said the widow.

The two gentlemen exchanged glances, and Mr. Kidd, ever of an impulsive nature, resolved to bring matters to a head.

“Wot would you do if Joe was to come in ‘ere at this door?” he asked.

“Scream the house down,” said the widow, promptly.

“Scream—scream the ‘ouse down?” said the distressed Mr. Kidd.

Mrs. Gibbs nodded. “I should go screaming, raving mad,” she said, with conviction.

“But—but not if ‘e was alive!” said Mr. Kidd.

“I don’t know what you’re driving at,” said Mrs. Gibbs. “Why don’t you speak out plain? Poor Joe is drownded, you know that; you saw it all, and yet you come talking to me about dreams and things.”

Mr. Kidd bent over her and put his hand affectionately on her shoulder. “He escaped,” he said, in a thrilling whisper. “He’s alive and well.”

“WHAT?” said Mrs. Gibbs, starting back.

“True as I stand ‘ere,” said Mr. Kidd; “ain’t it, George?”

“Truer,” said Mr. Brown, loyally.

Mrs. Gibbs leaned back, gasping. “Alive!” she said. “But ‘ow? ‘Ow can he be?”

“Don’t make such a noise,” said Mr. Kidd, earnestly. “Mind, if anybody else gets to ‘ear of it you’ll ‘ave to give that money back.”