“She’s that fond o’ me, Jack—bless her,” Billy would say.
“Ah, she do love me, Bill—bless ’er old ’art,” Jack would reply.
It was a long and weary business getting the Avalanche into dock. And it was a long and weary time before Bill and Jack were allowed to go ashore—for Jack had joined the crew of the Avalanche. But the day of emancipation did eventually arrive. And more exultant mariners never left a ship. Neither of these happy-go-lucky sons of Neptune could remember the number of his house in Belt Alley, but each could swear to the external appearance of it. So they chartered a four-wheeler, and as they drove down the alley each had his eye on the window.
“Stop!” shouted Bill, “that’s my ’ouse.”
“An’ mine,” echoed Jack, thinking that affairs were now culminating towards a coincidence. A blind was pulled suddenly down, and cabby thought he heard boys practising with a pistol in the back-yard. The mariners heard nothing. They were both knocking at the same door. There was no answer. They knocked again. Still no answer. They broke the door down. On the floor lay a plump, red-faced girl, shot through the heart, a pistol in her hand. Both exclaimed at the same moment,—
“Polly!”
On searching her boxes, they found that she had piously preserved copies of the certificates of her marriage to each—together with vouchers for two other unions since contracted.
XVIII.
JOHN PHILP, MASTER CARPENTER.
About ten years ago Mr. Landor was the lessee and manager of the Lugubreum Theatre, and John Philp was his master carpenter. In those days the staple of the Lugubreum entertainment was melodrama, preceded by farce. Mr. Landor found Philp, who was about thirty-five years of age, exceedingly useful. He was quick, intelligent, and ingenious. He had been brought up to the stage-carpentering business from his earliest days, and had omitted to soak his faculties in gin, as is too often the practice with gentlemen of his profession. Philp’s powers of invention were indeed notorious, and many famous contrivances, without which certain celebrated sensational scenes must have miserably failed, could be traced to his suggestions. He was, withal, a modest, cheery-little fellow, much beloved by his associates, and greatly respected by his employer, who regarded him as one of his most valuable allies.
John Philp lived in a part of old Camberwell, that had not then been disturbed by the invasion of the speculative builder. He rented a substantially built little cottage of five rooms, with quite a large garden in the back. Philp’s gardening was, it must be admitted, of a somewhat theatrical kind. He had erected a flagstaff painted in stripes, on the top of which was a weather-cock of his own contrivance—an indicator which to the very last he believed told him what way the wind blew. At the end of the garden was a formidable grotto—the effect of which was somewhat marred by the introduction of pieces of coloured glass. On the side walk were placed two wooden pedestals, also painted in various bright colours; upon these stood statuettes of his favourite great men. Upon one was William Shakespear—copied from the famous work once erected in Garrick’s Villa, and now standing in the British Museum. And upon the other was Mr. Dion Boucicault, appealing to the dog Tatters—an animal which is often alluded to in the Shaughraun, but never appears in that interesting production.