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“But–” exclaimed the astonished James.

“Quick!” she said, sharply. “Go into the back room and undress, then nip into his room and get into bed. And mind, be fast asleep all the time.”

Still holding the bewildered Mr. Flynn by the coat, she led him into the house and waved him upstairs, and stood below listening until a slight creaking of the bed announced that he had obeyed orders. Then she entered the parlour.

“He’s fast asleep,” she said, softly; “and mind, I won’t ‘ave him disturbed. It’s the first real sleep he’s ‘ad for nearly a week. If you promise not to wake ‘im you may just have a peep.”

“We won’t disturb him,” said the doctor, and, followed by his companion, noiselessly ascended the stairs and peeped into the room. Mr. Flynn was fast asleep, and not a muscle moved as the two men approached the bed on tip-toe and stood looking at him. The doctor turned after a minute and led the way out of the room.

“We’ll call again,” he said, softly.

“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Scutts. “When?”

The doctor and his companion exchanged glances. “I’m very busy just at present,” he said, slowly. “We’ll look in some time and take our chance of catching him awake.”

Mrs. Scutts bowed them out, and in some perplexity returned to Mr. Flynn. “I don’t like the look of ’em,” she said, shaking her head. “You’d better stay in bed till Bill comes ‘ome in case they come back.”

“Right-o,” said the obliging Mr. Flynn. “Just step in and tell my landlady I’m ‘aving a chat with Bill.”

He lit his pipe and sat up in bed smoking until a knock at the front door at half-past eleven sent him off to sleep again. Mrs. Scutts, who was sitting downstairs, opened it and admitted her husband.

“All serene?” he inquired. “What are you looking like that for? What’s up?”

He sat quivering with alarm and rage as she told him, and then, mounting the stairs with a heavy tread, stood gazing in helpless fury at the slumbering form of Mr. James Flynn.

“Get out o’ my bed,” he said at last, in a choking voice.

“What, Bill!” said Mr. Flynn, opening his eyes.

“Get out o’ my bed,” repeated the other. “You’ve made a nice mess of it between you. It’s a fine thing if a man can’t go out for ‘arf a pint without coming home and finding all the riffraff of the neighbourhood in ‘is bed.”

“‘Ow’s the pore back, Bill?” inquired Mr. Flynn, with tenderness.

Mr. Scutts gurgled at him. “Outside!” he said as soon as he could get his breath.

“Bill,” said the voice of Mrs. Scutts, outside the door.

“Halloa,” growled her husband.

“He mustn’t go,” said Mrs. Scutts. “Those gentlemen are coming again, and they think he is you.”

“WHAT!” roared the infuriated Mr. Scutts.

“Don’t you see? It’s me what’s got the pore back now, Bill,” said Mr. Flynn. “You can’t pass yourself off as me, Bill; you ain’t good-looking enough.”

Mr. Scutts, past speech, raised his clenched fists to the ceiling.

“He’ll ‘ave to stay in your bed,” continued the voice of Mrs. Scutts. “He’s got a good ‘art, and I know he’ll do it; won’t you, Jim?”

Mr. Flynn pondered. “Tell my landlady in the morning that I’ve took your back room,” he said. “What a fortunit thing it is I’m out o’ work. What are you walking up and down like that for, Bill? Back coming on agin?”

“Then o’ course,” pursued the voice of Mrs. Scutts, in meditative accents, “there’s the club doctor and the other gentleman that knows Bill. They might come at any moment. There’s got to be two Bills in bed, so that if one party comes one Bill can nip into the back room, and if the other Bill–party, I mean–comes, the other Bill–you know what I mean!”

Mr. Scutts swore himself faint.

“That’s ‘ow it is, mate,” said Mr. Flynn. “It’s no good standing there saying your little piece of poetry to yourself. Take off your clo’es and get to bed like a little man. Now! now! Naughty! Naughty!”