Early next morning saw him on his way to the station—this time with some pomp and ceremony, for he drove a smart dog-cart, and was attended by Harry. The occupants of other vehicles, passing him, were respectful or familiar, according to their grade; and he answered all salutations discreetly.
“I’m beginning to like this,” he said, as he leant back in the corner of a first-class carriage, and lit a cigar. “I wish I knew how much money there was in the bank, or what property I had generally; I must make enquiries. At present, things are decidedly pleasant—and there’s an element of danger about the business that gives it a flavour. There’s that girl, too—Madge; but I’m not sure that I quite like that. I’ve taken a kiss from her lips that was never meant for me; and yet”—he shook his head over it, and sighed heavily—“I’m very much afraid that I’m a little bit in love with her; I know, at any rate, that I dread very much seeing those eyes change from tenderness to contempt—from kindness to reproach or scorn. Well—we must hope for the best.”
Cheerfully hoping for the best, he made his way to Woolwich, as night was coming on, and headed for the little public-house by the river. Being still doubtful, however, what course to pursue, he paced a little side street near at hand for some time, trying to make up his mind whether to put in an appearance at “The Three Watermen,” at the time appointed, or not. He was so deep in his reflections, that he failed to notice one or two lurking figures, in the shadow of the houses, on the opposite side of the way; until another figure—not by any means a lurking one, but one which took up a great deal of the pavement, with a rolling gait, and roared very huskily a stave of a song as it came along—lurched towards him; when, in an instant, the lurking figures became very active.
Two of them darted across the road, and bolted in front of the rolling figure; another ran swiftly behind, and embraced the singer with much tenderness round the neck. Before Philip had had time to take in the situation completely, the four figures formed one struggling heap upon the pavement, with the central one—the singer, but roaring out quite another tune now—making lively play with fists and feet.
Philip Chater rushed in to the rescue; seized one assailant—dragged him to his feet—preparatory to immediately knocking him off them; and looked round to see how the battle was progressing. The man who had been attacked—and whose musical tendencies were stronger, apparently, than any alarm he might reasonably be expected to feel—had collared one of his opponents round the neck, in return for the delicate attention bestowed upon himself, and was hammering away lustily at him, making the blows keep time to the tune of “The Death of Nelson,” the first bars of which he solemnly chanted, while he performed his pleasing duty.
The man who had been so unexpectedly knocked down had got to his feet, and, together with the third member of the gang, had bolted away; presently the stranger, tiring of his exercise, and having got, perhaps, as far through the tune as memory served him, released his victim’s head, although still keeping a tight hold on his collar. Philip, being close beside him when he did this, saw revealed, in the features of this footpad of the streets, the Shady ’un.
“Now—you bloomin’ pirate!” exclaimed the musical one, shaking his man until it seemed as though he must shake him altogether out of his dilapidated clothes—“wot d’yer mean by runnin’ a decent craft down like that, in strange waters—eh? An’ to land a man like that, w’en ’e’s a bit water-logged—leastways, we’ll call it water-logged, for the sake of argyment. If it ’adn’t ’ave been for this ’ere gent, I don’t know—” Here the man, turning for a moment towards Philip, stopped in amazement, and almost let his victim go. The Shady ’un, too, was regarding Philip curiously.
“Look ’ere, Mr. Chater,” began the Shady ’un, with a whine—“you’ll swear as ’ow I’m a ’ard workin’ man, as just stepped forward for to ’elp this gen’leman, as was set on by two thieves—won’t yer, Mr. Chater?”
“’Ere—’old ’ard,” broke in the man who held him. “Who the dooce are you a callin’ ‘Mr. Chater’? I’d ’ave you know that this ’ere gent is a mess-mate o’ mine—an’ ’is name ain’t Chater at all; it’s Crowdy—good ole Phil Crowdy—if so be as ’e’ll excuse the liberty I takes. You an’ yer bloomin’ Chater! W’y—they’ll be a callin’ yer the Dook o’ Wellin’ton nex’, Phil.” As he spoke, he stretched out his disengaged hand, and grasped that of Philip Chater.
Philip hurriedly interposed, when he saw that the Shady ’un was about to speak. “It’s all right, Captain,” he said; “I certainly know this man, and there may have been a mistake. Don’t you think—pray pardon the suggestion—that he’s had a pretty good thumping, whether he deserved it or not?”