George Fenn - Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

“Wrong!” said Sam.

“Then where is it?”

“Fooled it away.”

“Yes, of course. But I didn’t expect it, Sam; I didn’t, indeed.”

“All your fault,” said Sam.

“Yes, for trusting you,” said Mrs Jenkles, bitterly. “Nice life we lead: you with the worst horse and the worst cab on the rank, and me with the worst husband.”

“Is he, Sally?” said Sam, with a twinkle of the eye.

“Yes,” said Mrs Jenkles, angrily; “and that makes it all the worse, when he might be one of the best. Oh, Sam,” she said, pitifully, “do I ever neglect you or your home?”

“Not you,” he said, throwing down his pipe, and looking round at the shining tins, bright fireplace, and general aspect of simple comfort and cleanliness. “You’re the best old wife in the world.”

And he got up and stood behind her chair with his arms round her neck.

“Don’t touch me, Sam. I’m very, very much hurt.”

“Well, it was all your fault, little woman,” he said, holding the comely face, so that his wife could not look round at him.

“And how, pray?” said she.

“Didn’t you send me up to see that poor woman as Ratty knocked down?”

“Yes; but did you go?”

“To be sure I did – you told me to go.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me you had been?”

“Didn’t like to,” said Sam.

“Such stuff!” cried Mrs Jenkles. “But what’s that got to do with it?”

Sam remained silent.

“What’s that got to do with it, Sam?”

Silence still.

“Now, Sam, you’ve got something on your mind, so you’d better tell me. Have you been drinking?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Sam, “and I don’t mean to again.”

“Then I’m very sorry for what I said.”

“I know that,” said Sam.

“But what does it all mean?”

“Well, you see,” said Sam, “I’ve been a fool.”

And after a little more hesitation, he told all about his visit.

Mrs Jenkles sat looking at the fire, rubbing her nose with her thimble, both she and Sam heedless that the potatoes were burning.

“You’ve been took in, Sam, I’m afraid,” she said at last.

“Think so?” he said.

“Well, I hope not; but you’ve either been took in, or done a very, very kind thing.”

“Well, we shall see,” he said.

“Yes, we shall see.”

“You aint huffy with me?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Mrs Jenkles; “but I shall go up and see them.”

“Ah, do,” said Sam.

“Yes, I mean to see to the bottom of it,” said Mrs Jenkles. “I haven’t patience with such ways.”

“They can’t help being poor.”

“I don’t mean them; I mean those people they’re with. I couldn’t do it.”

“Not you,” said Sam. “But I say, don’t Mr Lacy go next week?”

“Yes.”

“And the rooms will be empty?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Jenkles. “I have put the bill up in the window; he said he didn’t mind.”

Sam Jenkles went and sat down in his chair with an air of relief and looked at his wife.

Mrs Jenkles looked at Sam, as if the same idea was in both hearts. Then she jumped up suddenly.

“Oh, Sam, the potatoes are spoiling!”

They were, but they were not spoilt; and Sam Jenkles made a very hearty meal, washing it down with the pint of beer which he termed his allowance.

“Ah!” he said, speaking like a man with a load off his mind, “this here’s a luxury as the swells never gets – a regular good, hot, mealy tater, fresh from the fire. It’s a wonderful arrangement of nature that about taters.”

“Why?” said Mrs Jenkles, as she emptied the brown coat of another potato on her husband’s plate. “What do you mean?”

“Why, the way in which roast potatoes and beer goes together. Six mouthfuls of tater, and then a drink of beer to get rid of the dryness.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so fond of talking about beer, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles.

“All right, my dear,” said Sam; and he finished his supper, retook his place by the fireside, filled his pipe, glanced at the Dutch clock swinging its pendulum to and fro; and then, as he lit the tobacco – “Ah! this is cheery. Glad I aint on the night shift.”

Mrs Jenkles was very quiet as she bustled about and cleared the table, before once more taking her place on the other side of the fire.

“Ratty went first-rate to-day,” said Sam, after a few puffs.

But Mrs Jenkles did not take any notice; she only made her needle click, and Sam kept glancing at her as he went on smoking. At last she spoke.

“I shall go up and see those people, Sam, for I’m afraid you’ve been taken in. Was she a married woman.”

“Yes,” said Sam; “I saw her ring. But I say, you know, ’taint my fault, Sally,” he said, plaintively. “I was born a soft un.”

“Then it’s time you grew hard, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, bending over her work. “Thirty shillings takes a deal of saving with people like us.”

“Yes,” said Sam, “it do, ’specially when you has so many bad days to make up.”

“You ought not to have to pay more than twelve shillings a day for that cab, Sam.”

“I told the gov’nor so, and he said as it oughter be eighteen, and plenty would be glad to get it at that.”

Mrs Jenkles tightened her mouth, and shook her head.

“Oh! I say, Sally,” said Sam, plaintively, “I’ve been worried about that money; and now it was off my mind, I did think as it was all right. You’ve reglarly put my pipe out.”

Mrs Jenkles rose, took a splint from the chimney-piece, lit it, and handed it to her husband.

“No,” he said, rubbing his ear with the stem of his pipe, “it aint that, my dear; I meant figgeratively, as old Jones says.”

Mrs Jenkles threw the match into the fire, and resumed her work for a few minutes; then glanced at the clock, and put away her work.

“Yes, Sam, I shall go to Upper Holloway to-morrow, and see what I think.”

“Do, my lass, do,” said Sam, drearily. Then, in an undertone, as he tapped his pipe-bowl on the hob, “Well, it’s out now, and no mistake. Shall we go to bed?”

Fin Rea stood gazing down for a few moments, and then said – “No, indeed, I can’t, Mr Mervyn. Pray go.”

“Oh, Mr Mervyn,” said Tiny, softly, “don’t tease her any more.”

“It is hard to refuse such a request,” said the newcomer; “but, as trespassers, you must leave me to administer punishment. And, besides, I owe Miss Fin here a grudge. She has been laughing at me, I hear.”

“I’ll never do so any more, Mr Mervyn – I won’t indeed,” cried Fin; “only let me off this time.”

“Jump, you little gipsy, jump,” cried Mr Mervyn.

“It’s too high – I daren’t,” cried Fin.

“I have seen you leap down from a place twice as high, my little fawn. Now, then, jump at once.”

Fin looked despairingly round for a few moments, then made a piteous grimace, and lastly sprang boldly down into the strong arms, which held her as if she had been a child.

“Now,” said Mr Mervyn, “about the mistletoe?”

“Mr Mervyn, pray. Oh, it’s too bad. I…”

“Don’t be frightened, little one,” he said, tenderly, as he retained her with one hand, to smooth her breeze-blown hair with the other. “There, come along; let me help you down.”

But Fin started from him, like the fawn he had called her, and sprang down the great bank.

“Mind my soup,” shouted Mr Mervyn; and only just in time, for it was nearly overset. Then he helped Tiny down, blushing and vexed; but no sooner were they in the lane, than Fin clapped her hands together, and exclaimed —

“Oh, Mr Mervyn, don’t go and tell everybody what a rude tomboy of a sister Tiny is blessed with. I am so ashamed.”