Night Watches

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

“Oh, Bill!” She Gasped. “and by Daylight, Too!”

“I'd Pretty Well Swear he Ain't the Same Dog.”

“You—you Had Better Let Me Take Care of That.”

“I Hope They Won't Meet 'er, Pore Thing,” he Ses.

Mrs. Ward and Her Daughter Flung Themselves Hastily.

I Got out at Last by Playing a Game on Her.

BACK TO BACK

Mrs. Scutts, concealed behind the curtain, gazed at the cab in uneasy amazement. The cabman clambered down from the box and, opening the door, stood by with his hands extended ready for any help that might be needed. A stranger was the first to alight, and, with his back towards Mrs. Scutts, seemed to be struggling with something in the cab. He placed a dangling hand about his neck and, staggering under the weight, reeled backwards supporting Mr. Scutts, whose other arm was round the neck of a third man. In a flash Mrs. Scutts was at the door.

Mr. Scutts raised his head sharply and his lips parted; then his head sank again, and he became a dead weight in the grasp of his assistants.

“He's all right,” said one of them, turning to Mrs. Scutts.

A deep groan from Mr. Scutts confirmed the statement.

“What is it?” inquired his wife, anxiously.

“Just a little bit of a railway accident,” said one of the strangers. “Train ran into some empty trucks. Nobody hurt—seriously,” he added, in response to a terrible and annoyed groan from Mr. Scutts.

With his feet dragging helplessly, Mr. Scutts was conveyed over his own doorstep and placed on the sofa.

“All the others went off home on their own legs,” said one of the strangers, reproachfully. “He said he couldn't walk, and he wouldn't go to a hospital.”

“Wanted to die at home,” declared the sufferer. “I ain't going to be cut about at no 'ospitals.”

The two strangers stood by watching him; then they looked at each other.

“I don't want—no—'ospitals,” gasped Mr. Scutts, “I'm going to have my own doctor.”

“Of course the company will pay the doctor's bill,” said one of the strangers to Mrs. Scutts, “or they'll send their own doctor. I expect he'll be all right to-morrow.”

“I 'ope so,” said Mr. Scutts, “but I don't think it. Thank you for bringing of me 'ome.”

He closed his eyes languidly, and kept them closed until the men had departed.

“Can't you walk, Bill?” inquired the tearful Mrs. Scutts.

Her husband shook his head. “You go and fetch the doctor,” he said, slowly. “That new one round the corner.”

“He looks such a boy,” objected Mrs. Scutts.

“You go and fetch 'im,” said Mr. Scutts, raising his voice. “D'ye hear!”

“But—” began his wife.

“If I get up to you, my gal,” said the forgetful Mr. Scutts, “you'll know it.”

“Why, I thought—” said his wife, in surprise.

Mr. Scutts raised himself on the sofa and shook his fist at her. Then, as a tribute to appearances, he sank back and groaned again. Mrs. Scutts, looking somewhat relieved, took her bonnet from a nail and departed.

The examination was long and tedious, but Mr. Scutts, beyond remarking that he felt chilly, made no complaint. He endeavoured, but in vain, to perform the tests suggested, and even did his best to stand, supported by his medical attendant. Self-preservation is the law of Nature, and when Mr. Scutts's legs and back gave way he saw to it that the doctor was underneath.

“We'll have to get you up to bed,” said the latter, rising slowly and dusting himself.

Mr. Scutts, who was lying full length on the floor, acquiesced, and sent his wife for some neighbours. One of them was a professional furniture-remover, and, half-way up the narrow stairs, the unfortunate had to remind him that he was dealing with a British working man, and not a piano. Four pairs of hands deposited Mr. Scutts with mathematical precision in the centre of the bed and then proceeded to tuck him in, while Mrs. Scutts drew the sheet in a straight line under his chin.

“Don't look much the matter with 'im,” said one of the assistants.

“You can't tell with a face like that,” said the furniture-remover. “It's wot you might call a 'appy face. Why, he was 'arf smiling as we, carried 'im up the stairs.”

“You're a liar,” said Mr. Scutts, opening his eyes.

“All right, mate,” said the furniture-remover; “all right. There's no call to get annoyed about it. Good old English pluck, I call it. Where d'you feel the pain?”

“All over,” said Mr. Scutts, briefly.

His neighbours regarded him with sympathetic eyes, and then, led by the furniture-remover, filed out of the room on tip-toe. The doctor, with a few parting instructions, also took his departure.

“If you're not better by the morning,” he said, pausing at the door, “you must send for your club doctor.”

Mr. Scutts, in a feeble voice, thanked him, and lay with a twisted smile on his face listening to his wife's vivid narrative to the little crowd which had collected at the front door. She came back, followed by the next-door neighbour, Mr. James Flynn, whose offers of assistance ranged from carrying Mr. Scutts out pick-a-back when he wanted to take the air, to filling his pipe for him and fetching his beer.

“But I dare say you'll be up and about in a couple o' days,” he concluded. “You wouldn't look so well if you'd got anything serious the matter; rosy, fat cheeks and——”

“That'll do,” said the indignant invalid. “It's my back that's hurt, not my face.”

“I know,” said Mr. Flynn, nodding sagely; “but if it was hurt bad your face would be as white as that sheet-whiter.”

“The doctor said as he was to be kep' quiet,” remarked Mrs. Scutts, sharply.

“Right-o,” said Mr. Flynn. “Ta-ta, old pal. Keep your pecker up, and if you want your back rubbed with turps, or anything of that sort, just knock on the wall.”

He went, before Mr. Scutts could think of a reply suitable for an invalid and, at the same time, bristling with virility. A sinful and foolish desire to leap out of bed and help Mr. Flynn downstairs made him more rubicund than ever.

He sent for the club doctor next morning, and, pending his arrival, partook of a basin of arrowroot and drank a little beef-tea. A bottle of castor-oil and an empty pill-box on the table by the bedside added a little local colour to the scene.

“Any pain?” inquired the doctor, after an examination in which bony and very cold fingers had played a prominent part.

“Not much pain,” said Mr. Scutts. “Don't seem to have no strength in my back.”

“Ah!” said the doctor.

“I tried to get up this morning to go to my work,” said Mr. Scutts, “but I can't stand! couldn't get out of bed.”

“Fearfully upset, he was, pore dear,” testified Mrs. Scutts. “He can't bear losing a day. I s'pose—I s'pose the railway company will 'ave to do something if it's serious, won't they, sir?”

“Nothing to do with me,” said the doctor. “I'll put him on the club for a few days; I expect he will be all right soon. He's got a healthy colour—a very healthy colour.”

Mr. Scutts waited until he had left the house and then made a few remarks on the colour question that for impurity of English and strength of diction have probably never been surpassed.

A second visitor that day came after dinner—a tall man in a frock-coat, bearing in his hand a silk hat, which, after a careful survey of the room, he hung on a knob of the bedpost.

“Mr. Scutts?” he inquired, bowing.

“That's me,” said Mr. Scutts, in a feeble voice.

“I've called from the railway company,” said the stranger. “We have seen now all those who left their names and addresses on Monday afternoon, and I am glad to say that nobody was really hurt. Nobody.”

Mr. Scutts, in a faint voice, said he was glad to hear it.

“Been a wonder if they had,” said the other, cheerfully. “Why, even the paint wasn't knocked off the engine. The most serious damage appears to be two top-hats crushed and an umbrella broken.”

He leaned over the bed-rail and laughed joyously. Mr. Scutts, through half-closed eyes, gazed at him in silent reproach.

“I don't say that one or two people didn't receive a little bit of a shock to their nerves,” said the visitor, thoughtfully. “One lady even stayed in bed next day. However, I made it all right with them. The company is very generous, and although of course there is no legal obligation, they made several of them a present of a few pounds, so that they could go away for a little change, or anything of that sort, to quiet their nerves.”

Mr. Scutts, who had been listening with closed eyes, opened them languidly and said, “Oh.”

“I gave one gentleman twen-ty pounds!” said the visitor, jingling some coins in his trouser-pocket. “I never saw a man so pleased and grateful in my life. When he signed the receipt for it—I always get them to sign a receipt, so that the company can see that I haven't kept the money for myself—he nearly wept with joy.”

“I should think he would,” said Mr. Scutts, slowly—“if he wasn't hurt.”

“You're the last on my list,” said the other, hastily. He produced a slip of paper from his pocket-book and placed it on the small table, with a fountain pen. Then, with a smile that was both tender and playful, he plunged his hand in his pocket and poured a stream of gold on the table.

“What do you say to thir-ty pounds?” he said, in a hushed voice. “Thirty golden goblins?”

“What for?” inquired Mr. Scutts, with a notable lack of interest.

“For—well, to go away for a day or two,” said the visitor. “I find you in bed; it may be a cold or a bilious attack; or perhaps you had a little upset of the nerves when the trains kissed each other.”

“I'm in bed—because—I can't walk-or stand,” said Mr. Scutts, speaking very distinctly. “I'm on my club, and if as 'ow I get well in a day or two, there's no reason why the company should give me any money. I'm pore, but I'm honest.”

“Take my advice as a friend,” said the other; “take the money while you can get it.”

He nodded significantly at Mr. Scutts and closed one eye. Mr. Scutts closed both of his.

“I 'ad my back hurt in the collision,” he said, after a long pause. “I 'ad to be helped 'ome. So far it seems to get worse, but I 'ope for the best.”

“Dear me,” said the visitor; “how sad! I suppose it has been coming on for a long time. Most of these back cases do. At least all the doctors say so.”

“It was done in the collision,” said Mr. Scutts, mildly but firmly. “I was as right as rain before then.”

The visitor shook his head and smiled. “Ah! you would have great difficulty in proving that,” he said, softly; “in fact, speaking as man to man, I don't mind telling you it would be impossible. I'm afraid I'm exceeding my duty, but, as you're the last on my list, suppose—suppose we say forty pounds. Forty! A small fortune.”

He added some more gold to the pile on the table, and gently tapped Mr. Scutts's arm with the end of the pen.

“Good afternoon,” said the invalid.

The visitor, justly concerned at his lack of intelligence, took a seat on the edge of the bed and spoke to him as a friend and a brother, but in vain. Mr. Scutts reminded him at last that it was medicine-time, after which, pain and weakness permitting, he was going to try to get a little sleep.

“Forty pounds!” he said to his wife, after the official had departed. “Why didn't 'e offer me a bag o' sweets?”

“It's a lot o' money,” said Mrs. Scutts, wistfully.

“So's a thousand,” said her husband. “I ain't going to 'ave my back broke for nothing, I can tell you. Now, you keep that mouth o' yours shut, and if I get it, you shall 'ave a new pair o' boots.”

“A thousand!” exclaimed the startled Mrs. Scutts. “Have you took leave of your senses, or what?”

“I read a case in the paper where a man got it,” said Mr. Scutts. “He 'ad his back 'urt too, pore chap. How would you like to lay on your back all your life for a thousand pounds?”

“Will you 'ave to lay abed all your life?” inquired his wife, staring.

“Wait till I get the money,” said Mr. Scutts; “then I might be able to tell you better.”

He gazed wistfully at the window. It was late October, but the sun shone and the air was clear. The sound of traffic and cheerful voices ascended from the little street. To Mr. Scutts it all seemed to be a part of a distant past.

“If that chap comes round to-morrow and offers me five hundred,” he said, slowly, “I don't know as I won't take it. I'm sick of this mouldy bed.”

He waited expectantly next day, but nothing happened, and after a week of bed he began to realize that the job might be a long one. The monotony, to a man of his active habits, became almost intolerable, and the narrated adventures of Mr. James Flynn, his only caller, filled him with an uncontrollable longing to be up and doing.

The fine weather went, and Mr. Scutts, in his tumbled bed, lay watching the rain beating softly on the window-panes. Then one morning he awoke to the darkness of a London fog.

“It gets worse and worse,” said Mrs. Scutts, as she returned home in the afternoon with a relish for his tea. “Can't see your 'and before your face.”

Mr. Scutts looked thoughtful. He ate his tea in silence, and after he had finished lit his pipe and sat up in bed smoking.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said his wife.

“I'm going out,” said Mr. Scutts, in a voice that defied opposition. “I'm going to 'ave a walk, and when I'm far enough away I'm going to 'ave one or two drinks. I believe this fog is sent a-purpose to save my life.”

Mrs. Scutts remonstrated, but in vain, and at half-past six the invalid, with his cap over his eyes and a large scarf tied round the lower part of his face, listened for a moment at his front door and then disappeared in the fog.

Left to herself, Mrs. Scutts returned to the bedroom and, poking the tiny fire into a blaze, sat and pondered over the willfulness of men.

She was awakened from a doze by a knocking at the street-door. It was just eight o'clock, and, inwardly congratulating her husband on his return to common sense and home, she went down and opened it. Two tall men in silk hats entered the room.

“Mrs. Scutts?” said one of them.

Mrs. Scutts, in a dazed fashion, nodded.

“We have come to see your husband,” said the intruder. “I am a doctor.”

The panic-stricken Mrs. Scutts tried in vain to think.

“He-he's asleep,” she said, at last.

“Doesn't matter,” said the doctor.

“Not a bit,” said his companion.

“You—you can't see him,” protested Mrs. Scutts. “He ain't to be seen.”

“He'd be sorry to miss me,” said the doctor, eyeing her keenly as she stood on guard by the inner door. “I suppose he's at home?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Scutts, stammering and flushing. “Why, the pore man can't stir from his bed.”

“Well, I'll just peep in at the door, then,” said the doctor. “I won't wake him. You can't object to that. If you do—”

Mrs. Scutts's head began to swim. “I'll go up and see whether he's awake,” she said.

She closed the door on them and stood with her hand to her throat, thinking. Then, instead of going upstairs, she passed into the yard and, stepping over the fence, opened Mr. Flynn's back door.

“Halloa!” said that gentleman, who was standing in the scullery removing mud from his boots. “What's up?”