Part 20 (1/2)

Somehow Tilda divined that Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer were in high spirits this morning, and it was with reasonable confidence that, after they had moored below locks and breakfasted, she sought Sam--who had withdrawn to the bows with his account book--and inquired how the performance had gone off.

”There was a small misunderstandin' at the close,” he answered, looking up and pausing to moisten the lead of his pencil, ”owin' to what the bills said about carriages at ten-thirty. Which the people at Tizzer's Green took it that carriages was to be part of the show, an' everyone to be taken 'ome like a lord. There was a man in the gallery, which is otherwise back seats at threppence, got up an' said he'd a-come on that contrack, an' no other. Mortimer made 'im a speech, and when that wouldn' do I copped 'im on the back o' the neck.”

”An' after that, I s'pose, there was a free fight?”

”No,” said Sam; ”you 'd be surprised how quiet 'e took it. 'E was unconscious.”

She eyed him thoughtfully.

”It don't seem like you, neither,” she said, ”to strike a man so 'ard, first blow.”

”You're right, there; it _ain't_ like me, an' I felt sorry for the fella'. But I 'ad to relieve my feelin's.”

”What was the matter with yer feelin's?”

”'Arrowed--fairly 'arrowed.” Sam shot an uneasy glance aft towards the cabin top where Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer sat amicably side by side, he conning a part while she mended a broken string on her guitar. Beyond them, stretched on the after deck with 'Dolph for company, Arthur Miles leaned over the gunwale, apparently studying the boat's reflection in the water. ”Between you an' me,” Sam confessed, ”I can't get no grip on play-actors; an' I'm sorry I ever took up with 'em.” He consulted his accounts. ”He cleared three pound twelve an' nine las' night--but 'ow?

That Mortimer carried on something 'ateful. There was 'is wife--you wouldn' think it in ordinary life, but, dressed up, she goes to your 'eart; an' she wore, first an' last, more dresses than you could count.

First of all she 'it a little tambourine, an' said she was a gipsy maid.

'I'm a narch little gipsy,' she said, 'an' I never gets tipsy'--”

”Why _should_ she?”

”'But I laugh an' play,' she said, 'the whole o' the day, such a nartless life is mine, ha, ha!' which wasn' none of it true, except about the drink, but you could see she only done it to make 'erself pleasant. An' then she told us ow' when they rang a bell somebody was goin' to put Mortimer to death, an' 'ow she stopped that by climbin' up to the bell and 'angin' on to the clapper. Then in came Mortimer an'

sang a song with 'er--as well 'e might--about 'is true love 'avin' 'is 'eart an' 'is 'avin' 'ers, an' everyone clappin' an' stampin' an'

ancorein' in the best of tempers. Well, an' what does the man do after an interval o' five minutes, but dress hisself up in black an' call 'er names for 'avin' married his uncle? This was too much for the back seats, an' some o' them told 'im to go 'ome an' boil 'is 'ead. But it 'ad no effect; for he only got worse, till he ended up by blackin' 'is face an' smotherin' 'er with a pillow for something quite different.

After that he got better, an' they ended up by playin' a thing that made everybody laugh. I didn' 'ear it, but took a walk outside to blow off steam, an' only came back just as the fuss began about the carriages.

Fact is, missy, I can't abear to see a woman used abuseful.”

”That's because you 're in love,” said Tilda. ”But, if you'll listen to me, women ain't always what you take 'em for.”

”Ain't they?” he queried. ”I'd be sorry to believe that; though 'twould be 'elpful, I don't mind tellin' you.”

”I've known cases--that is, if you _want_ to be cured--”

”I do, an' I don't,” he groaned. But it was clear that in the main he did not; for he changed the subject hastily. ”See 'ere, would you mind takin' 'old o' the book an' checkin' while I counts out the money.

Total takin's--four, three, three--less 'ire of 'all, four-an'-six--”

”I can read figures an' print,” owned Tilda, ”but 'andwriting's too much for me; an' yours, I dare say, isn' none o' the best.”

”I've improved it a lot at the night school. But what is it puzzlin'

you?” he asked, looking up as he counted.

She held out the book, but not as he had handed it. The light breeze had blown over two or three of its leaves, covering the page of accounts.

”Oh, _that?_” he stammered, and a blush spread to his ears. ”I didn'

mean you to see--”