Cunning Murrell by Arthur Morrison Read Free Book Online Page A

Prentice remarked.
    “Rotgut an’ belly-wengeance,” Fisk assented.
    “Nothen moer;” and he smelt it contemptuously.
    “It do seem that the way to brew sixpenny for fair day be to take
thruppenny an’ double it with watter. That’s bad as what oad Sim Cloyse’s
wife used to brew, an’ we arl knowed that!”
    “I den’t know it,” Lingood said. “She’ve been dead nigh twenty year.”
    “Ah, you’re a young ‘un. Oad Sim Cloyse’s missis, she were twice as near
as oad Sim were real Dutch. She coon’t bear to see nobody eat nor drink, she
coon’t. Why, when oad Sim kep’ fowls (he took ‘em off the widdar Mead for
rent) she swore he’d ruined hisself. ‘What’s the good o’ giv’n’ they fowls
corn?’ she said. ‘They onny eat it!’”
    Dan Fisk took a pull or two at his pipe, so as not to interfere with the
laugh, which was prolonged by Banham, who had heard the story before, but
wished to be polite.
    “Well,” Dan resumed, “when Sim Cloyse took the Ploughboy, along there by
the Pest’us, afore he made his money, he putt his missis to mind it, an’
there were precious little trade. Fust night—‘Well,’ says Sim, ‘what
ha’ yow took?’ ‘Nut a farden,’ says she; ‘nut one.’ Nex’ night Sim kims in
an’ draws hisself a pint o’ six. ‘How’s trade?’ says Sim. ‘Wusser’n
yesterday,’ she says, ”cause yow’ve bin an’ drunk a pint o’ six without
payin’ for it, an’ if yow’re ruined it’ll sarve ye right!’ An’ Sim never
drunk no more o’ her beer. Well, night arter that he kims agen, an’ he says,
‘Trade better?’ he says. ‘Wusser’n ever,’ she says, with a snap; ‘look at
that there winder!’ An’ there were the biggest winder arl smashed to shivers.
‘Why, how’s that?’ says Sim. ‘Why,’ says she, ‘the fust customer kim in
to-day. He had a pint o’ thruppeny. When he’d a-gulped it, he went pale as
pudden, an’ his eyes turns up into his head. Then he goes red, an’ his eyes
kims down agen, an’ he swore and ranted, an’ hulled the mug through the
winder an’ tore off like Bedlam.’ ‘Yow don’t say!’ says Sim. ‘Well, praise be
he den’t hev a pint o’ six, or he’d ha’ knocked the house down!’”
    Dan Fisk sucked hard at his pipe again, and squinted joyously. Two great
thumps on the steps without checked the general guffaw, and an obscure man in
a corner took the opportunity to say: “When the bahloon fell at Barl’n’ in
eighteen twenny-eight—”
    But with that the door burst open, and Roboshobery Dove, with a third
great thump of his wooden leg, came in in state. For he was a person of
consequence in the parlour of the Castle, and his downsittings and uprisings
were considered with respect. He was a man of travel—or at least he had
sailed in a King’s ship as a boy; he was also a man of some little substance,
for he did no work but such as pleased his leisure in his little garden; and
there was the wooden leg. It was the practice and tradition to account for
his left leg as lost in his country’s service, and indeed it was in a
seafight that the knee was smashed. But an ill-wisher, if Roboshobery had had
one, might have declared with truth that the fight was a common
fisherman-smuggler affray of the usual murderous sort, with a crew of
Dutchmen, off the Great Sunk.
    “Good evenin’. Master Dove,” cried Fisk. “We knowed your footstep!”
    “Neighbours ahoy!” Dove answered, with his customary salute, as he stumped
across to a vacant seat by Banham. His green smock was gone, and in its place
he wore his Sunday coat—blue, with brass buttons.
    Preferring the rum he had ordered in the bar before the divers pots pushed
toward him, Roboshobery Dove, his wooden leg extended to the middle of the
floor, hauled at a long twist-knotted cord till a massy silver watch emerged
from his fob. This he took by the bow, gravely banged it three times,
edgewise, on