Captains All and Others

But Charlie Tagg ‘ad got better things to do than to dream, and ‘e sat up in bed arf the night thinking out a new plan he’d thought of to get that money. When ‘e did fall asleep at last ‘e dreamt of taking a little farm in Australia and riding about on ‘orseback with the Sydney gal watching his men at work.

In the morning he went and hunted up a shipmate of ‘is, a young feller named Jack Bates. Jack was one o’ these ‘ere chaps, nobody’s enemy but their own, as the saying is; a good-’arted, free-’anded chap as you could wish to see. Everybody liked ‘im, and the ship’s cat loved ‘im. He’d ha’ sold the shirt off ‘is back to oblige a pal, and three times in one week he got ‘is face scratched for trying to prevent ‘usbands knocking their wives about.

Charlie Tagg went to ‘im because he was the only man ‘e could trust, and for over arf an hour he was telling Jack Bates all ‘is troubles, and at last, as a great favour, he let ‘im see the Sydney gal’s photygraph, and told him that all that pore gal’s future ‘appiness depended upon ‘im.

“I’ll step round to-night and rob ‘em of that seventy-two pounds,” ses Jack; “it’s your money, and you’ve a right to it.”

Charlie shook his ‘ead. “That wouldn’t do,” he ses; “besides, I don’t know where they keep it. No; I’ve got a better plan than that. Come round to the Crooked Billet, so as we can talk it over in peace and quiet.”

He stood Jack three or four arf-pints afore ‘e told ‘im his plan, and Jack was so pleased with it that he wanted to start at once, but Charlie persuaded ‘im to wait.

“And don’t you spare me, mind, out o’ friendship,” ses Charlie, “because the blacker you paint me the better I shall like it.”

“You trust me, mate,” ses Jack Bates; “if I don’t get that seventy-two pounds for you, you may call me a Dutchman. Why, it’s fair robbery, I call it, sticking to your money like that.”

They spent the rest o’ the day together, and when evening came Charlie went off to the Cooks’. Emma ‘ad arf expected they was going to a theayter that night, but Charlie said he wasn’t feeling the thing, and he sat there so quiet and miserable they didn’t know wot to make of ‘im.

“‘Ave you got any trouble on your mind, Charlie,” ses Mrs. Cook, “or is it the tooth-ache?”

“It ain’t the toothache,” ses Charlie.

He sat there pulling a long face and staring at the floor, but all Mrs. Cook and Emma could do ‘e wouldn’t tell them wot was the matter with ‘im. He said ‘e didn’t want to worry other people with ‘is troubles; let everybody bear their own, that was ‘is motto. Even when George Smith offered to go to the theayter with Emma instead of ‘im he didn’t fire up, and, if it ‘adn’t ha’ been for Mrs. Cook, George wouldn’t ha’ been sorry that ‘e spoke.

“Theayters ain’t for me,” ses Charlie, with a groan. “I’m more likely to go to gaol, so far as I can see, than a theayter.”

Mrs. Cook and Emma both screamed and Sarah Ann did ‘er first highstericks, and very well, too, considering that she ‘ad only just turned fifteen.

“Gaol!” ses old Cook, as soon as they ‘ad quieted Sarah Ann with a bowl o’ cold water that young Bill ‘ad the presence o’ mind to go and fetch. “Gaol! What for?”

“You wouldn’t believe if I was to tell you.” ses Charlie, getting up to go, “and besides, I don’t want any of you to think as ‘ow I am worse than wot I am.”

He shook his ‘cad at them sorrowful-like, and afore they could stop ‘im he ‘ad gone. Old Cook shouted arter ‘im, but it was no use, and the others was running into the scullery to fill the bowl agin for Emma.

Mrs. Cook went round to ‘is lodgings next morning, but found that ‘e was out. They began to fancy all sorts o’ things then, but Charlie turned up agin that evening more miserable than ever.

“I went round to see you this morning,” ses Mrs. Cook, “but you wasn’t at ‘ome.”

“I never am, ‘ardly,” ses Charlie. “I can’t be—it ain’t safe.”

“Why not?” ses Mrs. Cook, fidgeting.

“If I was to tell you, you’d lose your good opinion of me,” ses Charlie.

“It wouldn’t be much to lose,” ses Mrs. Cook, firing up.

Charlie didn’t answer ‘er. When he did speak he spoke to the old man, and he was so down-’arted that ‘e gave ‘im the chills a’most, He ‘ardly took any notice of Emma, and, when Mrs. Cook spoke about the shop agin, said that chandlers’ shops was for happy people, not for ‘im.

By the time they sat down to supper they was nearly all as miserable as Charlie ‘imself. From words he let drop they all seemed to ‘ave the idea that the police was arter ‘im, and Mrs. Cook was just asking ‘im for wot she called the third and last time, but wot was more likely the hundred and third, wot he’d done, when there was a knock at the front door, so loud and so sudden that old Cook and young Bill both cut their mouths at the same time.

“Anybody ‘ere o’ the name of Emma Cook?” ses a man’s voice, when young Bill opened the door.

“She’s inside,” ses the boy, and the next moment Jack Bates followed ‘im into the room, and then fell back with a start as ‘e saw Charlie Tagg.

“Ho, ‘ere you are, are you?” he ses, looking at ‘im very black. “Wot’s the matter?” ses Mrs. Cook, very sharp.

“I didn’t expect to ‘ave the pleasure o’ seeing you ‘ere, my lad,” ses Jack, still staring at Charlie, and twisting ‘is face up into awful scowls. “Which is Emma Cook?”

“Miss Cook is my name,” ses Emma, very sharp. “Wot d’ye want?”

“Very good,” ses Jack Bates, looking at Charlie agin; “then p’r’aps you’ll do me the kindness of telling that lie o’ yours agin afore this young lady.”

“It’s the truth,” ses Charlie, looking down at ‘is plate.

“If somebody don’t tell me wot all this is about in two minutes, I shall do something desprit,” ses Mrs. Cook, getting up.

“This ‘ere—er—man,” ses Jack Bates, pointing at Charlie, “owes me seventy-five pounds and won’t pay. When I ask ‘im for it he ses a party he’s keeping company with, by the name of Emma Cook, ‘as got it, and he can’t get it.”

“So she has,” ses Charlie, without looking up.

“Wot does ‘e owe you the money for?” ses Mrs. Cook.

“‘Cos I lent it to ‘im,” ses Jack.

“Lent it? What for?” ses Mrs. Cook.

“‘Cos I was a fool, I s’pose,” ses jack Bates; “a good-natured fool. Anyway, I’m sick and tired of asking for it, and if I don’t get it to-night I’m going to see the police about it.”

He sat down on a chair with ‘is hat cocked over one eye, and they all sat staring at ‘im as though they didn’t know wot to say next.

“So this is wot you meant when you said you’d got the chance of a lifetime, is it?” ses Mrs. Cook to Charlie. “This is wot you wanted it for, is it? Wot did you borrow all that money for?”

“Spend,” ses Charlie, in a sulky voice.

“Spend!” ses Mrs. Cook, with a scream; “wot in?”

“Drink and cards mostly,” ses Jack Bates, remembering wot Charlie ‘ad told ‘im about blackening ‘is character.

You might ha’ heard a pin drop a’most, and Charlie sat there without saying a word.

“Charlie’s been led away,” ses Mrs. Cook, looking ‘ard at Jack Bates. “I s’pose you lent ‘im the money to win it back from ‘im at cards, didn’t you?”

“And gave ‘im too much licker fust,” ses old Cook. “I’ve ‘eard of your kind. If Charlie takes my advice ‘e won’t pay you a farthing. I should let you do your worst if I was ‘im; that’s wot I should do. You’ve got a low face; a nasty, ugly, low face.”

“One o’ the worst I ever see,” ses Mrs. Cook. “It looks as though it might ha’ been cut out o’ the Police News.”

“‘Owever could you ha’ trusted a man with a face like that, Charlie?” ses old Cook. “Come away from ‘im, Bill; I don’t like such a chap in the room.”

Jack Bates began to feel very awk’ard. They was all glaring at ‘im as though they could eat ‘im, and he wasn’t used to such treatment. And, as a matter o’ fact, he’d got a very good-’arted face.