A Master Of Craft

“Making love to her,” shouted his nephew, gazing wildly at the venerable bald head with the smoking-cap resting on one huge ear.

“Making love to her,” repeated Captain Barber, with a satisfied air. “What’ll happen? Mrs. Banks, to prevent me getting married, as she thinks, will give her consent to you an’ Elizabeth getting tied up.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of breach of promise cases?” asked his nephew, aghast.

“There’s no fear o’ that,” said Captain Barber, confidently. “It’s all right with Mrs. Church she’s a widder. A widder ain’t like a young girl she knows you don’t mean anything.”

It was useless to argue with such stupendous folly; Captain Flower tried another tack.

“And suppose Mrs. Church gets fond of you,” he said, gravely. “It doesn’t seem right to trifle with a woman’s affections like that.”

“I won’t go too far,” said the lady-killer in the smoking-cap, reassuringly.

“Elizabeth and her mother are still away, I suppose?” said Flower, after a pause.

His uncle nodded.

“So, of course, you needn’t do much love-making till they come back,” said his nephew; “it’s waste of time, isn’t it?”

“I’ll just keep my hand in,” said Captain Barber, thoughtfully. “I can’t say as I find it disagreeable. I was always one to take a little notice of the sects.”

He got up to go indoors. “Never mind about them,” he said, as his nephew was about to follow with the chair and his tobacco-jar; “Mrs. Church likes to do that herself, and she’d be disappointed if anybody else did it.”

His nephew followed him to the house in silence, listening later on with a gloomy feeling of alarm to the conversation at the supper-table. The rôle of gooseberry was new to him, and when Mrs. Church got up from the table for the sole purpose of proving her contention that Captain Barber looked better in his black velvet smoking-cap than the one he was wearing he was almost on the point of exceeding his duties.

He took the mate into his confidence the next day, and asked him what he thought of it. Fraser said that it was evidently in the blood, and, being pressed with some heat for an explanation, said that he meant Captain Barber’s blood.

“It’s bad, any way I look at it,” said Flower; “it may bring matters between me and Elizabeth to a head, or it may end in my uncle marrying the woman.”

“Very likely both,” said Fraser, cheerfully. “Is this Mrs. Church good-looking?”

“I can hardly say,” said Flower, pondering.

“Well, good-looking enough for you to feel inclined to take any notice of her?” asked the mate.

“When you can talk seriously,” said the skipper, in great wrath, “I’ll be pleased to answer you. Just at present I don’t feel in the sort of temper to be made fun of.”

He walked off in dudgeon, and, until they were on their way to London again, treated the mate with marked coldness. Then the necessity of talking to somebody about his own troubles and his uncle’s idiocy put the two men on their old footing. In the quietness of the cabin, over a satisfying pipe, he planned out in a kindly and generous spirit careers for both the ladies he was not going to marry. The only thing that was wanted to complete their happiness, and his, was that they should fall in with the measures proposed.

CHAPTER IV

At No. 5 Liston Street, Poppy Tyrell sat at the open window of her room reading. The outside air was pleasant, despite the fact that Poplar is a somewhat crowded neighbourhood, and it was rendered more pleasant by comparison with the atmosphere inside, which, from a warm, soft smell not to be described by comparison, suggested washing. In the stone-paved yard beneath the window, a small daughter of the house hung out garments of various hues and shapes, while inside, in the scullery, the master of the house was doing the family washing with all the secrecy and trepidation of one engaged in an unlawful task. The Wheeler family was a large one, and the wash heavy, and besides misadventures to one or two garments, sorted out for further consideration, the small girl was severely critical about the colour, averring sharply that she was almost ashamed to put them on the line.

“They’ll dry clean,” said her father, wiping his brow with the upper part of his arm, the only part which was dry; “and if they don’t we must tell your mother that the line came down. I’ll show these to her now.”

He took up the wet clothes and, cautiously leaving the scullery, crossed the passage to the parlour, where Mrs. Wheeler, a confirmed invalid, was lying on a ramshackle sofa, darning socks. Mr. Wheeler coughed to attract her attention, and with an apologetic expression of visage held up a small, pink garment of the knickerbocker species, and prepared for the worst.

“They’ve never shrunk like that?” said Mrs. Wheeler, starting up.

“They have,” said her husband, “all by itself,” he added, in hasty self-defence.

“You’ve had it in the soda,” said Mrs. Wheeler, disregarding.

“I’ve not,” said Mr. Wheeler, vehemently. “I’ve got the two tubs there, flannels in one without soda, the other things in the other with soda. It’s bad stuff, that’s what it is. I thought I’d show you.”

“It’s management they want,” said Mrs. Wheeler, wearily; “it’s the touch you have to give ‘em. I can’t explain, but I know they wouldn’t have gone like that if I’d done ‘em. What’s that you’re hiding behind you?”

Thus attacked, Mr. Wheeler produced his other hand, and shaking out a blue and white shirt, showed how the blue had been wandering over the white territory, and how the white had apparently accepted a permanent occupation.

“What do you say to that?” he enquired, desperately.

“You’d better ask Bob what he says,” said his wife, aghast; “you know how pertickler he is, too. I told you as plain as a woman could speak, not to boil that shirt.”

“Well, it can’t be helped,” said Mr. Wheeler, with a philosophy he hoped his son would imitate. “I wasn’t brought up to the washing, Polly.”

“It’s a sin to spoil good things like that,” said Mrs. Wheeler, fretfully. “Bob’s quite the gentleman—he will buy such expensive shirts. Take it away, I can’t bear to look at it.”

Mr. Wheeler, considerably crestfallen, was about to obey, when he was startled by a knock at the door.

“That’s Captain Flower, I expect,” said his wife, hastily; “he’s going to take Poppy and Emma to a theatre to-night. Don’t let him see you in that state, Peter.”

But Mr. Wheeler was already fumbling at the strings of his apron, and, despairing of undoing it, broke the string, and pitched it with the other clothes under the sofa and hastily donned his coat.

“Good-evening,” said Flower, as Mr. Wheeler opened the door; “this is my mate.”

“Glad to see you, sir,” said Mr. Wheeler.

The mate made his acknowledgments, and having shaken hands, carefully wiped his down the leg of his trousers.

“Moist hand you’ve got, Wheeler,” said Flower, who had been doing the same thing.

“Got some dye on ‘em at the docks,” said Wheeler, glibly. “I’ve ‘ad ‘em in soak.”

Flower nodded, and after a brief exchange of courtesies with Mrs. Wheeler as he passed the door, led the way up the narrow staircase to Miss Tyrell’s room.

“I’ve brought him with me, so that he’ll be company for Emma Wheeler,” said the skipper, as Fraser shook hands with her, “and you must look sharp if you want to get good seats.

“I’m ready all but my hat and jacket,” said Poppy, “and Emma’s in her room getting ready, too. All the children are up there helping her.”

Fraser opened his eyes at such a toilet, and began secretly to wish that he had paid more attention to his own.

“I hope you’re not shy?” said Miss Tyrell, who found his steadfast gaze somewhat embarrassing.

Fraser shook his head. “No, I’m not shy,” he said, quietly.

“Because Emma didn’t know you were coming,” continued Miss Tyrell, “and she’s always shy. So you must be bold, you know.”

The mate nodded as confidently as he could. “Shyness has never been one of my failings,” he said, nervously.