Harry walked in, and said, “I want to see Mr. Shipsides.”
A little old man, in a dirty apron, behind the counter looked at him, and said, “Private door; knock twice.”
Harry thought that was odd; but he went out and knocked twice, and presently a woman came and asked him what he wanted.
“Mr. Shipsides,” said Harry.
“Oh!” says she, “are you a friend of his?”
“Yes,” says Harry, not knowing what else to say at the moment.
“Then,” said the woman, “p’r’aps you’ll tell me when you saw him last, for I haven’t seen him for a week; and he’s been and let himself in unbeknown to me, and taken his box out somehow, and we want to summons him for the rent.”
When Harry saw how the land lay—that’s his sailor way of putting it, and I’ve caught lots of sailor expressions from him—he altered his tack—that’s another—and told the woman that he wanted money of Mr. Shipsides too; and at last he got her to talk freely, and she told him that the fellow was very little better than a swindler, and she went upstairs and brought down a lot of letters and showed them to Harry, and told him they had all come that week for the fellow—and what did he think she ought to do?
They were all in different female handwritings, and two were in Miss Ward’s, which Harry recognized.
“It’s my belief,” said the woman, “he’s a regular bad ’un, and has been imposing on a lot of young women, and he ought to be ashamed of himself, for, after he’d left, a poor woman came here after him and said she was his wife and was in service, and she wanted him to come to her missus and explain as she was married, as she was going to be turned away through circumstances which, being a respectable married woman, ought not to count against her.”