Part 31 (1/2)
”Ess; a Metsican,” splutters Joe, getting purple in the face under the impression of a contradiction. ”That's what I said--Metsican. Used to call him Black Peter. I've seen him eat rattlesnake. Swallow him clean down. Like this, he would--_Gollop!_” Here Mr. Wells goes off into a quiet chuckle of scepticism, one finger crooked over his pipe-stem, his sightless eyes blinking at the coals. ”Great big bull of a feller.
'Normous chest. Legs o' granite. Used ter fight wi' bar o' iron. Ho! Ho!
Weighed half a hunded. Tremenjus weapon! If he hit you, you know--_dash_!--out go your brains. Ho! ho! He was fond o' me. If I saw him sulky, or anythin', up I'd go, an' 'What's matter?' I'd say. Peter'd say, 'So-a-so.' 'Oh blow,' I'd say, and walk off. He looked up to me.
R'spected me. Peter was always behind me in action. Always. Never let me be killed. Never! _Bang! Crack!_ Brain any man who come near me. Fond o'
me.”
Joe, we gather, was fourteen years at sea without ever coming home. He was a pirate in the China seas for years. He was in the Baltic during the Crimea. He has been to the bottom of the sea two or three times. He has fought hand-to-hand with many a shark. He has been s.h.i.+pwrecked a score of times. The experience of St. Paul in a good cause hardly exceeds for suffering the experience of Old Joe in a bad one. For six days and seven nights he and seven others were tossed about the sea without food in a row-boat. Two of the men died, and were eaten by the rest, with the exception of Joe, who could not stomach cannibalism for all he was such a terrible fellow. Then they were picked up by the famous _Alabama_, and Joe fought in the great American War of North _versus_ South.
”I was put in prison,” he says, with a roar of laughter. ”Two years. In Allybammer. Two years in dungeon. In the Harbour there. Allybammer Harbour.”
”Alabama, he means,” whispers Mr. Wells. ”You've heard of Alabama, I dare say? Somewhere in Ameriky, isn't it? Ah! Well, that's what Joe means--Alabama.”
”Two years!” laughed Joe; and then, with a great roar of delight, he adds, ”Went off my nut! In dungeon. Clean off my nut!”
”What Joe means,” whispers Mr. Wells, slowly and dogmatically, ”is that, while he was in prison in Alabama Harbour, he lost his reason: 'Off his nut' is slang for losing his reason. Now, I dare say that that is true.
I shouldn't be surprised if it was.”
”Then I went Canada,” bellows Joe, striking a fresh match. ”Buff'lo hunter! Ho! Ho! Fought the Injuns. Red Injuns. Killed hundreds. _Slis.h.!.+
C-r-r-r-r! Bang! Das.h.!.+ Gurrrr!_ Hundreds. Red Injuns! I killed hundreds myself. Ho! Ho! I dashed their brains out. Ho! Ho! Injuns. Red Injuns!”
It is some time before he grows really calm after ill.u.s.trating with tremendous energy his ferocity against the poor Red Indians. Even Mr.
Wells grows enthusiastic, and, sucking his pipe-stem, chuckles proudly over Joe's enormous valour.
But what a fall it is when Joe resumes his life. From being a pirate, a fighter, and a buffalo-hunter, he becomes--think of it!--a pastrycook.
He leaves the magnificent society of Jack Armstrong, and Black Peter, and Red Indians, to mix with the commonplace citizens of London--as a pastrycook! He makes buns. He makes sponge cakes. Think of it--he makes jam-puffs!
But romance could not leave Joe, even while he toiled before a London oven.
There was a fire on the premises, and Joe did astonis.h.i.+ng things. After being rescued he walked calmly back, through sheets of fire, to fetch the cash-box from the parlour. ”Never afraid of anythin'--fire, water, gunpowder, sword, arrows--nothin'! No fear. Always brave. Ho! Ho!
Brave's lion.”
”Tell the genneman,” shouted Mr. Wells, ”what became of the shop.”
”Ho, business failed,” roars Joe. ”Pastry-cook I was. Came down--_smash_! Lost everythin'. Every penny! Ho! Ho! But what's odds?
Happy and jolly! Nothin' wrong. I'm a'right. What's odds?”
”Your old missus is dead, ain't she, Joe?” shouts Mr. Wells.
”Ess,” answers Joe cheerfully. ”Gone. Dead.” He points towards the floor with a twitching finger, and stabs downward. ”Dead. Years ago. Gone.”
”And what about your boy?” asks Mr. Wells.
”No good,” roars Joe, in half a rage. ”He's no good. No good 't all.
Brought him up like genneman. No good.” He laughs again, shakes himself in his chair, and strikes another match.
”He was selling things in the street when the clergyman found him,” says Mr. Wells behind his pipe. ”Had a little tray strapped on to his shoulders, and two sticks to keep him standing. Collar-studs, tie-clips, bootlaces, matches--you know. You've often seen trays like that, I dare say. Well, that was what Joe was doing when the clergyman found him. Not this clergyman, you understand. The one before, Father Vivian. He's now a bishop. Out somewhere in Africa. That's his photograph on the wall over there. He sent us a picture-postcard the other day. Little black woolly-headed baby with no clothes on! I haven't seen it myself, because my eyes are bad; but they all laugh at it, and I dare say it's funny enough. A nice man Father Vivian was. A genneman. He's a bishop now, but he don't forget his old friends, do he?”