Odd Craft, Complete by W.W. Jacobs

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"Do you mean to tell me," said the latter, "that he's been and upset the
wrong man?"

Mr. Drill shook his head. "That's the puzzle," he said, softly.

He smiled over at Miss Gunnill, but that young lady, who found him
somewhat mysterious, looked away and frowned. Her father sat and
exhausted conjecture, his final conclusion being that Mr. Sims had
attacked the first policeman that had come in his way and was now
suffering the agonies of remorse.

He raised his head sharply at the sound of hurried footsteps outside.
There was a smart rap at the street door, then the handle was turned, and
the next moment, to the dismay of all present, the red and angry face of
one of Mr. Cooper's brother-constables was thrust into the room.

Mr. Gunnill gazed at it in helpless fascination. The body of the
constable garbed in plain clothes followed the face and, standing before
him in a menacing fashion, held out a broken helmet and staff.

"Have you seen these afore?" he inquired, in a terrible voice.

"No," said Mr. Gunnill, with an attempt at surprise. "What are they?"

"I'll tell you what they are," said Police-constable Jenkins,
ferociously; "they're my helmet and truncheon. You've been spoiling His
Majesty's property, and you'll be locked up."

"Yours?" said the astonished Mr. Gunnill.

"I lent 'em to young Sims, just for a joke," said the constable. "I felt
all along I was doing a silly thing."

"It's no joke," said Mr. Gunnill, severely. "I'll tell young Herbert
what I think of him trying to deceive me like that."

"Never mind about deceiving," interrupted the constable. "What are you
going to do about it?"

"What are you?" inquired Mr. Gunnill, hardily. "It seems to me it's
between you and him; you'll very likely be dismissed from the force, and
all through trying to deceive. I wash my hands of it."

"You'd no business to lend it," said Drill, interrupting the constable's
indignant retort; "especially for Sims to pretend that he had stolen it
from Cooper. It's a roundabout sort of thing, but you can't tell of Mr.
Gunnill without getting into trouble yourself."

"I shall have to put up with that," said the constable, desperately;
"it's got to be explained. It's my day-helmet, too, and the night one's
as shabby as can be. Twenty years in the force and never a mark against
my name till now."

"If you'd only keep quiet a bit instead of talking so much," said Mr.
Drill, who had been doing some hard thinking, "I might be able to help
you, p'r'aps."

"How?" inquired the constable.

"Help him if you can, Ted," said Mr. Gunnill, eagerly; "we ought all to
help others when we get a chance."

Mr. Drill sat bolt upright and looked very wise.

He took the smashed helmet from the table and examined it carefully. It
was broken in at least half-a-dozen places, and he laboured in vain to
push it into shape. He might as well have tried to make a silk hat out
of a concertina. The only thing that had escaped injury was the metal
plate with the number.

"Why don't you mend it?" he inquired, at last.

"Mend it?" shouted the incensed Mr. Jenkins. "Why don't you?"

"I think I could," said Mr. Drill, slowly; "give me half an hour in the
kitchen and I'll try."

"Have as long as you like," said Mr. Gunnill.

"And I shall want some glue, and Miss Gunnill, and some tin-tacks," said
Drill.

"What do you want me for?" inquired Selina.

"To hold the things for me," replied Mr. Drill.

Miss Gunnill tossed her head, but after a little demur consented; and
Drill, ignoring the impatience of the constable, picked up his bag and
led the way into the kitchen. Messrs. Gunnill and Jenkins, left behind
in the living-room, sought for some neutral topic of discourse, but in
vain; conversation would revolve round hard labour and lost pensions.
From the kitchen came sounds of hammering, then a loud "Ooh!" from Miss
Gunnill, followed by a burst of laughter and a clapping of hands. Mr.
Jenkins shifted in his seat and exchanged glances with Mr. Gunnill.

[Illustration: "From the kitchen came sounds of hammering."]

"He's a clever fellow," said that gentleman, hopefully. "You should hear
him imitate a canary; life-like it is."

Mr. Jenkins was about to make a hasty and obvious rejoinder, when the
kitchen door opened and Selina emerged, followed by Drill. The snarl
which the constable had prepared died away in a murmur of astonishment as
he took the helmet. It looked as good as ever.

He turned it over and over in amaze, and looked in vain for any signs of
the disastrous cracks. It was stiff and upright. He looked at the
number: it was his own. His eyes round with astonishment he tried it on,
and then his face relaxed.

"It don't fit as well as it did," he said.

"Well, upon my word, some people are never satisfied," said the indignant
Drill. "There isn't another man in England could have done it better."

"I'm not grumbling," said the constable, hastily; "it's a wonderful piece
o' work. Wonderful! I can't even see where it was broke. How on earth
did you do it?"

Drill shook his head. "It's a secret process," he said, slowly. "I
might want to go into the hat trade some day, and I'm not going to give
things away."

"Quite right," said Mr. Jenkins. "Still--well, it's a marvel, that's
what it is; a fair marvel. If you take my advice you'll go in the hat
trade to-morrow, my lad."

"I'm not surprised," said Mr. Gunnill, whose face as he spoke was a map
of astonishment. "Not a bit. I've seen him do more surprising things
than that. Have a go at the staff now, Teddy."

"I'll see about it," said Mr. Drill, modestly. "I can't do
impossibilities. You leave it here, Mr. Jenkins, and we'll talk about it
later on."

Mr. Jenkins, still marvelling over his helmet, assented, and, after
another reference to the possibilities in the hat trade to a man with a
born gift for repairs, wrapped his property in a piece of newspaper and
departed, whistling.

"Ted," said Mr. Gunnill, impressively, as he sank into his chair with a
sigh of relief. "How you done it I don't know. It's a surprise even to
me."

"He is very clever," said Selina, with a kind smile

Mr. Drill turned pale, and then, somewhat emboldened by praise from such
a quarter, dropped into a chair by her side and began to talk in low
tones. The grateful Mr. Gunnill, more relieved than he cared to confess,
thoughtfully closed his eyes.

"I didn't think all along that you'd let Herbert outdo you," said Selina.

"I want to outdo him," said Mr. Drill, in a voice of much meaning.

Miss Gunnill cast down her eyes and Mr. Drill had just plucked up
sufficient courage to take her hand when footsteps stopped at the house,
the handle of the door was turned, and, for the second time that evening,
the inflamed visage of Mr. Jenkins confronted the company.

"Don't tell me it's a failure," said Mr. Gunnill, starting from his
chair. "You must have been handling it roughly. It was as good as new
when you took it away."

Mr. Jenkins waved him away and fixed his eyes upon Drill.

"You think you're mighty clever, I dare say," he said, grimly; "but I can
put two and two together. I've just heard of it."

"Heard of two and two?" said Drill, looking puzzled.

"I don't want any of your nonsense," said Mr. Jenkins. "I'm not on duty
now, but I warn you not to say anything that may be used against you."

"I never do," said Mr. Drill, piously.

"Somebody threw a handful o' flour in poor Cooper's face a couple of
hours ago," said Mr. Jenkins, watching him closely, "and while he was
getting it out of his eyes they upset him and made off with his helmet
and truncheon. I just met Brown and he says Cooper's been going on like
a madman."

"By Jove! it's a good job I mended your helmet for you," said Mr. Drill,
"or else they might have suspected you."

Mr. Jenkins stared at him. "I know who did do it," he said,
significantly.

"Herbert Sims?" guessed Mr. Drill, in a stage whisper.

"You'll be one o' the first to know," said Mr. Jenkins, darkly; "he'll be
arrested to-morrow. Fancy the impudence of it! It's shocking."

Mr. Drill whistled. "Nell, don't let that little affair o' yours with
Sims be known," he said, quietly. "Have that kept quiet--if you can."

Mr. Jenkins started as though he had been stung. In the joy of a case he
had overlooked one or two things. He turned and regarded the young man
wistfully.

"Don't call on me as a witness, that's all," continued Mr. Drill. "I
never was a mischief-maker, and I shouldn't like to have to tell how you
lent your helmet to Sims so that he could pretend he had knocked Cooper
down and taken it from him."

[Illustration: "Don't call on me as a witness, that's all," continued Mr.
Drill.]

"Wouldn't look at all well," said Mr. Gunnill, nodding his head sagely.

Mr. Jenkins breathed hard and looked from one to the other. It was plain
that it was no good reminding them that he had not had a case for five
years.

"When I say that I know who did it," he said, slowly, "I mean that I have
my suspicions."

"Don't call on me as a witness, that's all,' continued Mr. Drill."

"Ah," said Mr. Drill, "that's a very different thing."

"Nothing like the same," said Mr. Gunnill, pouring the constable a glass
of ale.

Mr. Jenkins drank it and smacked his lips feebly.

"Sims needn't know anything about that helmet being repaired," he said at
last.

"Certainly not," said everybody.

Mr. Jenkins sighed and turned to Drill.

"It's no good spoiling the ship for a ha'porth o' tar," he said, with a
faint suspicion of a wink. "No," said Drill, looking puzzled.

"Anything that's worth doing at all is worth doing well," continued the
constable, "and while I'm drinking another glass with Mr. Gunnill here,
suppose you go into the kitchen with that useful bag o' yours and finish
repairing my truncheon?"

THE PERSECUTION OF BOB PRETTY

The old man sat on his accustomed bench outside the Cauliflower. A
generous measure of beer stood in a blue and white jug by his elbow, and
little wisps of smoke curled slowly upward from the bowl of his
churchwarden pipe. The knapsacks of two young men lay where they were
flung on the table, and the owners, taking a noon-tide rest, turned a
polite, if bored, ear to the reminiscences of grateful old age.

Poaching, said the old man, who had tried topics ranging from early
turnips to horseshoeing--poaching ain't wot it used to be in these 'ere
parts. Nothing is like it used to be, poaching nor anything else; but
that there man you might ha' noticed as went out about ten minutes ago
and called me "Old Truthfulness" as 'e passed is the worst one I know.
Bob Pretty 'is name is, and of all the sly, artful, deceiving men that
ever lived in Claybury 'e is the worst--never did a honest day's work in
'is life and never wanted the price of a glass of ale.

[Illustration: "Poaching," said the old man, "ain't wot it used to be in
these 'ere parts."]

Bob Pretty's worst time was just after old Squire Brown died. The old
squire couldn't afford to preserve much, but by-and-by a gentleman with
plenty o' money, from London, named Rockett, took 'is place and things
began to look up. Pheasants was 'is favourites, and 'e spent no end o'
money rearing of 'em, but anything that could be shot at suited 'im, too.

He started by sneering at the little game that Squire Brown 'ad left, but
all 'e could do didn't seem to make much difference; things disappeared
in a most eggstrordinary way, and the keepers went pretty near crazy,
while the things the squire said about Claybury and Claybury men was
disgraceful.

Everybody knew as it was Bob Pretty and one or two of 'is mates from
other places, but they couldn't prove it. They couldn't catch 'im nohow,
and at last the squire 'ad two keepers set off to watch 'im by night and
by day.

Bob Pretty wouldn't believe it; he said 'e couldn't. And even when it
was pointed out to 'im that Keeper Lewis was follering of 'im he said
that it just 'appened he was going the same way, that was all. And
sometimes 'e'd get up in the middle of the night and go for a fifteen-
mile walk 'cos 'e'd got the toothache, and Mr. Lewis, who 'adn't got it,
had to tag along arter 'im till he was fit to drop. O' course, it was
one keeper the less to look arter the game, and by-and-by the squire see
that and took 'im off.

All the same they kept a pretty close watch on Bob, and at last one
arternoon they sprang out on 'im as he was walking past Gray's farm, and
asked him wot it was he 'ad in his pockets.

"That's my bisness, Mr. Lewis," ses Bob Pretty.

Mr. Smith, the other keeper, passed 'is hands over Bob's coat and felt
something soft and bulgy.

"You take your 'ands off of me," ses Bob; "you don't know 'ow partikler I
am."

He jerked 'imself away, but they caught 'old of 'im agin, and Mr. Lewis
put 'is hand in his inside pocket and pulled out two brace o' partridges.

"You'll come along of us," he ses, catching 'im by the arm.

"We've been looking for you a long time," ses Keeper Smith, "and it's a
pleasure for us to 'ave your company."

Bob Pretty said 'e wouldn't go, but they forced 'im along and took 'im
all the way to Cudford, four miles off, so that Policeman White could
lock 'im up for the night. Mr. White was a'most as pleased as the
keepers, and 'e warned Bob solemn not to speak becos all 'e said would be
used agin 'im.

"Never mind about that," ses Bob Pretty. "I've got a clear conscience,
and talking can't 'urt me. I'm very glad to see you, Mr. White; if these
two clever, experienced keepers hadn't brought me I should 'ave looked
you up myself. They've been and stole my partridges."

Them as was standing round laughed, and even Policeman White couldn't
'elp giving a little smile.

"There's nothing to laugh at," ses Bob, 'olding his 'ead up. "It's a
fine thing when a working man--a 'ardworking man--can't take home a
little game for 'is family without being stopped and robbed."

"I s'pose they flew into your pocket?" ses Police-man White.

"No, they didn't," ses Bob. "I'm not going to tell any lies about it;
I put 'em there. The partridges in my inside coat-pocket and the bill in
my waistcoat-pocket."

"The bill?" ses Keeper Lewis, staring at 'im.

"Yes, the bill," ses Bob Pretty, staring back at 'im; "the bill from Mr.
Keen, the poulterer, at Wick-ham."

He fetched it out of 'is pocket and showed it to Mr. White, and the
keepers was like madmen a'most 'cos it was plain to see that Bob Pretty
'ad been and bought them partridges just for to play a game on 'em.

"I was curious to know wot they tasted like," he ses to the policeman.
"Worst of it is, I don't s'pose my pore wife'll know 'ow to cook 'em."

"You get off 'ome," ses Policeman White, staring at 'im.

"But ain't I goin' to be locked up?" ses Bob. "'Ave I been brought all
this way just to 'ave a little chat with a policeman I don't like."

"You go 'ome," ses Policeman White, handing the partridges back to 'im.

"All right," ses Bob, "and I may 'ave to call you to witness that these
'ere two men laid hold o' me and tried to steal my partridges. I shall
go up and see my loryer about it."

He walked off 'ome with his 'ead up as high as 'e could hold it, and the
airs 'e used to give 'imself arter this was terrible for to behold. He
got 'is eldest boy to write a long letter to the squire about it, saying
that 'e'd overlook it this time, but 'e couldn't promise for the future.
Wot with Bob Pretty on one side and Squire Rockett on the other, them two
keepers' lives was 'ardly worth living.

Then the squire got a head-keeper named Cutts, a man as was said to know
more about the ways of poachers than they did themselves. He was said to
'ave cleared out all the poachers for miles round the place 'e came from,
and pheasants could walk into people's cottages and not be touched.

He was a sharp-looking man, tall and thin, with screwed-up eyes and a
little red beard. The second day 'e came 'e was up here at this 'ere
Cauliflower, having a pint o' beer and looking round at the chaps as he
talked to the landlord. The odd thing was that men who'd never taken a
hare or a pheasant in their lives could 'ardly meet 'is eye, while Bob
Pretty stared at 'im as if 'e was a wax-works.

"I 'ear you 'ad a little poaching in these parts afore I came," ses Mr.
Cutts to the landlord.

"I think I 'ave 'eard something o' the kind," ses the landlord, staring
over his 'ead with a far-away look in 'is eyes.

"You won't hear of much more," ses the keeper. "I've invented a new way
of catching the dirty rascals; afore I came 'ere I caught all the
poachers on three estates. I clear 'em out just like a ferret clears
out rats."

"Sort o' man-trap?" ses the landlord.

"Ah, that's tellings," ses Mr. Cutts.

"Well, I 'ope you'll catch 'em here," ses Bob Pretty; "there's far too
many of 'em about for my liking. Far too many."

"I shall 'ave 'em afore long," ses Mr. Cutts, nodding his 'ead.

[Illustration: "I shall 'ave 'em afore long,' ses Mr. Cutts."]

"Your good 'ealth," ses Bob Pretty, holding up 'is mug. "We've been
wanting a man like you for a long time."

"I don't want any of your impidence, my man," ses the keeper. "I've
'eard about you, and nothing good either. You be careful."

"I am careful," ses Bob, winking at the others. "I 'ope you'll catch all
them low poaching chaps; they give the place a bad name, and I'm a'most
afraid to go out arter dark for fear of meeting 'em."

Peter Gubbins and Sam Jones began to laugh, but Bob Pretty got angry with
'em and said he didn't see there was anything to laugh at. He said that
poaching was a disgrace to their native place, and instead o' laughing
they ought to be thankful to Mr. Cutts for coming to do away with it all.

"Any help I can give you shall be given cheerful," he ses to the keeper.

"When I want your help I'll ask you for it," ses Mr. Cutts.

"Thankee," ses Bob Pretty. "I on'y 'ope I sha'n't get my face knocked
about like yours 'as been, that's all; 'cos my wife's so partikler."

"Wot d'ye mean?" ses Mr. Cutts, turning on him. "My face ain't been
knocked about."

"Oh, I beg your pardin," ses Bob; "I didn't know it was natural."

Mr. Cutts went black in the face a'most and stared at Bob Pretty as if 'e
was going to eat 'im, and Bob stared back, looking fust at the keeper's
nose and then at 'is eyes and mouth, and then at 'is nose agin.

"You'll know me agin, I s'pose?" ses Mr. Cutts, at last.

"Yes," ses Bob, smiling; "I should know you a mile off--on the darkest
night."

"We shall see," ses Mr. Cutts, taking up 'is beer and turning 'is back on
him. "Those of us as live the longest'll see the most."

"I'm glad I've lived long enough to see 'im," ses Bob to Bill Chambers.
"I feel more satisfied with myself now."

Bill Chambers coughed, and Mr. Cutts, arter finishing 'is beer, took
another look at Bob Pretty, and went off boiling a'most.

The trouble he took to catch Bob Pretty arter that you wouldn't believe,
and all the time the game seemed to be simply melting away, and Squire
Rockett was finding fault with 'im all day long. He was worn to a
shadder a'most with watching, and Bob Pretty seemed to be more prosperous
than ever.

Sometimes Mr. Cutts watched in the plantations, and sometimes 'e hid
'imself near Bob's house, and at last one night, when 'e was crouching
behind the fence of Frederick Scott's front garden, 'e saw Bob Pretty
come out of 'is house and, arter a careful look round, walk up the road.
He held 'is breath as Bob passed 'im, and was just getting up to foller
'im when Bob stopped and walked slowly back agin, sniffing.

"Wot a delicious smell o' roses!" he ses, out loud.

He stood in the middle o' the road nearly opposite where the keeper was
hiding, and sniffed so that you could ha' 'eard him the other end o' the
village.

"It can't be roses," he ses, in a puzzled voice, "be-cos there ain't no
roses hereabouts, and, besides, it's late for 'em. It must be Mr. Cutts,
the clever new keeper."

He put his 'ead over the fence and bid 'im good evening, and said wot a
fine night for a stroll it was, and asked 'im whether 'e was waiting for
Frederick Scott's aunt. Mr. Cutts didn't answer 'im a word; 'e was
pretty near bursting with passion. He got up and shook 'is fist in Bob
Pretty's face, and then 'e went off stamping down the road as if 'e was
going mad.

And for a time Bob Pretty seemed to 'ave all the luck on 'is side.
Keeper Lewis got rheumatic fever, which 'e put down to sitting about
night arter night in damp places watching for Bob, and, while 'e was in
the thick of it, with the doctor going every day, Mr. Cutts fell in
getting over a fence and broke 'is leg. Then all the work fell on Keeper
Smith, and to 'ear 'im talk you'd think that rheumatic fever and broken
legs was better than anything else in the world. He asked the squire for
'elp, but the squire wouldn't give it to 'im, and he kept telling 'im wot
a feather in 'is cap it would be if 'e did wot the other two couldn't do,
and caught Bob Pretty. It was all very well, but, as Smith said, wot 'e
wanted was feathers in 'is piller, instead of 'aving to snatch a bit o'
sleep in 'is chair or sitting down with his 'ead agin a tree. When I
tell you that 'e fell asleep in this public-'ouse one night while the
landlord was drawing a pint o' beer he 'ad ordered, you'll know wot 'e
suffered.

O' course, all this suited Bob Pretty as well as could be, and 'e was
that good-tempered 'e'd got a nice word for everybody, and when Bill
Chambers told 'im 'e was foolhardy 'e only laughed and said 'e knew wot
'e was about.

But the very next night 'e had reason to remember Bill Chambers's words.
He was walking along Farmer Hall's field--the one next to the squire's
plantation--and, so far from being nervous, 'e was actually a-whistling.
He'd got a sack over 'is shoulder, loaded as full as it could be, and 'e
'ad just stopped to light 'is pipe when three men burst out o' the
plantation and ran toward 'im as 'ard as they could run.

[Illustration: "Three men burst out o' the plantation."]

Bob Pretty just gave one look and then 'e dropped 'is pipe and set off
like a hare. It was no good dropping the sack, because Smith, the
keeper, 'ad recognised 'im and called 'im by name, so 'e just put 'is
teeth together and did the best he could, and there's no doubt that if it
'adn't ha' been for the sack 'e could 'ave got clear away.

As it was, 'e ran for pretty near a mile, and they could 'ear 'im
breathing like a pair o' bellows; but at last 'e saw that the game was
up. He just man-aged to struggle as far as Farmer Pinnock's pond, and
then, waving the sack round his 'ead, 'e flung it into the middle of it,
and fell down gasping for breath.

"Got--you--this time--Bob Pretty," ses one o' the men, as they came up.

"Wot--Mr. Cutts?" ses Bob, with a start. "That's me, my man," ses the
keeper.

"Why--I thought--you was. Is that Mr. Lewis? It can't be."

"That's me," ses Keeper Lewis. "We both got well sudden-like, Bob
Pretty, when we 'eard you was out. You ain't so sharp as you thought you
was."

Bob Pretty sat still, getting 'is breath back and doing a bit o' thinking
at the same time.

"You give me a start," he ses, at last. "I thought you was both in bed,
and, knowing 'ow hard worked Mr. Smith 'as been, I just came round to
'elp 'im keep watch like. I promised to 'elp you, Mr. Cutts, if you
remember."

"Wot was that you threw in the pond just now?" ses Mr. Cutts.

"A sack," ses Bob Pretty; "a sack I found in Farmer Hall's field. It
felt to me as though it might 'ave birds in it, so I picked it up, and I
was just on my way to your 'ouse with it, Mr. Cutts, when you started
arter me."

"Ah!" ses the keeper, "and wot did you run for?"

Bob Pretty tried to laugh. "Becos I thought it was the poachers arter
me," he ses. "It seems ridikilous, don't it?"

"Yes, it does," ses Lewis.

"I thought you'd know me a mile off," ses Mr. Cutts. "I should ha'
thought the smell o' roses would ha' told you I was near."

Bob Pretty scratched 'is 'ead and looked at 'im out of the corner of 'is
eye, but he 'adn't got any answer. Then 'e sat biting his finger-nails
and thinking while the keepers stood argyfying as to who should take 'is
clothes off and go into the pond arter the pheasants. It was a very cold
night and the pond was pretty deep in places, and none of 'em seemed
anxious.

"Make 'im go in for it," ses Lewis, looking at Bob; "'e chucked it in."

"On'y Becos I thought you was poachers," ses Bob. "I'm sorry to 'ave
caused so much trouble."

"Well, you go in and get it out," ses Lewis, who pretty well guessed
who'd 'ave to do it if Bob didn't. "It'll look better for you, too."

"I've got my defence all right," ses Bob Pretty. "I ain't set a foot on
the squire's preserves, and I found this sack a 'undred yards away from
it."

"Don't waste more time," ses Mr. Cutts to Lewis.

"Off with your clothes and in with you. Anybody'd think you was afraid
of a little cold water."

"Whereabouts did 'e pitch it in?" ses Lewis.

Bob Pretty pointed with 'is finger exactly where 'e thought it was, but
they wouldn't listen to 'im, and then Lewis, arter twice saying wot a bad
cold he'd got, took 'is coat off very slow and careful.

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