FullReads

“Lend me the box, Sol,” he said, jovially, as he took it from him. “I’m going to ‘and ’em round. This is my treat, mates. Pore old Henry Wig-gett’s treat.”

He passed the box round, Mr. Ketchmaid watching in helpless indignation as the customers, discarding their pipes, thanked Mr. Wiggett warmly, and helped themselves to a threepenny cigar apiece. Mr. Clark was so particular that he spoilt at least two by undue pinching before he could find one to his satisfaction.

Closing time came all too soon, Mr. Wiggett, whose popularity was never for a moment in doubt, developing gifts to which his friend had never even alluded. He sang comic songs in a voice which made the glasses rattle on the shelves, asked some really clever riddles, and wound up with a conjuring trick which consisted in borrowing half a crown from Mr. Ketchmaid and making it pass into the pocket of Mr. Peter Smith. This last was perhaps not quite so satisfactory, as the utmost efforts of the tailor failed to discover the coin, and he went home under a cloud of suspicion which nearly drove him frantic.

“I ‘ope you’re satisfied,” said Mr. Wiggett, as the landlord, having shot the bolts of the front door, returned to the bar.

“You went a bit too far,” said Mr. Ketchmaid, shortly; “you should ha’ been content with doing what I told you to do. And who asked you to ‘and my cigars round?”

“I got a bit excited,” pleaded the other.

“And you forgot to tell ’em you’re going to start to-morrow to live with that niece of yours in New Zealand,” added the landlord.

“So I did,” said Mr. Wiggett, smiting his forehead; “so I did. I’m very sorry; I’ll tell ’em tomorrow night.”

“Mention it casual like, to-morrow morning,” commanded Mr. Ketchmaid, “and get off in the arternoon, then I’ll give you some dinner besides the five shillings as arranged.”

Mr. Wiggett thanked him warmly, and, taking a candle, withdrew to the unwonted luxury of clean sheets and a soft bed. For some time he lay awake in deep thought and then, smothering a laugh with the bed-clothes, he gave a sigh of content and fell asleep.

To the landlord’s great annoyance his guest went for a walk next morning and did not return until the evening, when he explained that he had walked too far for his crippled condition and was unable to get back. Much sympathy was manifested for him in the bar, but in all the conversation that ensued Mr. Ketchmaid listened in vain for any hint of his departure. Signals were of no use, Mr. Wiggett merely nodding amiably and raising his glass in response; and when, by considerable strategy, he brought the conversation from pig-killing to nieces, Mr. Wiggett deftly transferred it to uncles and discoursed on pawn-broking.

The helpless Mr. Ketchmaid suffered in silence, with his eye on the clock, and almost danced with impatience at the tardiness of his departing guests. He accompanied the last man to the door, and then, crimson with rage, returned to the bar to talk to Mr. Wiggett.

“Wot d’y’r mean by it?” he thundered.

“Mean by what, Sol?” inquired Mr. Wiggett, looking up in surprise.

“Don’t you call me Sol, ‘cos I won’t have it,” vociferated the landlord, standing over him with his fist clenched. “First thing to-morrow morning off you go.”

“Off?” repeated the other in amazement. “Off? Whereto?”

“Anywhere,” said the overwrought landlord; “so long as you get out of here, I don’t care where you go.”

Mr. Wiggett, who was smoking a cigar, the third that evening, laid it carefully on the table by his side, and regarded him with tender reproach.

“You ain’t yourself, Sol,” he said, with conviction; “don’t say another word else you might say things you’ll be sorry for.”

His forebodings were more than justified, Mr. Ketchmaid indulging in a few remarks about his birth, parentage, and character which would have shocked an East-end policeman.

“First thing to-morrow morning you go,” he concluded, fiercely. “I’ve a good mind to turn you out now. You know the arrangement I made with you.”