[Illustration: “‘I like fools better
than lords.’”]
[Illustration: ALF’S DREAM]
“I’ve just been drinking a man’s
health,” said the night watchman, coming slowly
on to the wharf and wiping his mouth with the back
of his hand; “he’s come in for a matter
of three ’undred and twenty pounds, and he stood
me arf a pint—arf a pint!”
He dragged a small empty towards him, and after planing
the surface with his hand sat down and gazed scornfully
across the river.
“Four ale,” he said, with a hard laugh;
“and when I asked ’im—just for
the look of the thing, and to give ’im a hint—whether
he’d ’ave another, he said ‘yes.’”
The night watchman rose and paced restlessly up and
down the jetty.
“Money,” he said, at last, resuming his
wonted calm and lowering himself carefully to the
box again—“money always gets left
to the wrong people; some of the kindest-’arted
men I’ve ever known ’ave never had a ha’penny
left ’em, while teetotaler arter teetotaler wot
I’ve heard of ’ave come in for fortins.”
It’s ’ard lines though, sometimes, waiting
for other people’s money. I knew o’
one chap that waited over forty years for ’is
grandmother to die and leave ’im her money;
and she died of catching cold at ’is funeral.
Another chap I knew, arter waiting years and years
for ’is rich aunt to die, was hung because she
committed suicide.
It’s always risky work waiting for other people
to die and leave you money. Sometimes they don’t
die; sometimes they marry agin; and sometimes they
leave it to other people instead.
Talking of marrying agin reminds me o’ something
that ’appened to a young fellow I knew named
Alf Simms. Being an orphan ’e was brought
up by his uncle, George Hatchard, a widowed man of
about sixty. Alf used to go to sea off and on,
but more off than on, his uncle ’aving quite
a tidy bit of ’ouse property, and it being understood
that Alf was to have it arter he ’ad gone.
His uncle used to like to ’ave him at ’ome,
and Alf didn’t like work, so it suited both
parties.
I used to give Alf a bit of advice sometimes, sixty
being a dangerous age for a man, especially when he
’as been a widower for so long he ’as
had time to forget wot being married’s like;
but I must do Alf the credit to say it wasn’t
wanted. He ’ad got a very old ’ead
on his shoulders, and always picked the housekeeper
’imself to save the old man the trouble.
I saw two of ’em, and I dare say I could ’ave
seen more, only I didn’t want to.
Cleverness is a good thing in its way, but there’s
such a thing as being too clever, and the last ’ousekeeper
young Alf picked died of old age a week arter he ’ad
gone to sea. She passed away while she was drawing
George Hatchard’s supper beer, and he lost ten
gallons o’ the best bitter ale and his ’ousekeeper
at the same time.
It was four months arter that afore Alf came ’ome,
and the fust sight of the new ’ousekeeper, wot
opened the door to ’im, upset ’im terrible.
She was the right side o’ sixty to begin with,
and only ordinary plain. Then she was as clean
as a new pin, and dressed up as though she was going
out to tea.
