John Boxer, because you can’t do it,” said Mrs. Gimpson, in a voice trembling with passion.
“O’ course, if people like being deceived they must be,” said Mr. Boxer; “we’ve all got to live, and if we’d all got our common sense fortune-tellers couldn’t. Does he tell fortunes by tea-leaves or by the colour of your eyes?”
“Laugh away, John Boxer,” said Mrs. Gimpson, icily; “but I shouldn’t have been alive now if it hadn’t ha’ been for Mr. Silver’s warnings.”
“Mother stayed in bed for the first ten days in July,” explained Mrs. Boxer, “to avoid being bit by a mad dog.”
“Tchee—tchee—tchee,” said the hapless Mr. Boxer, putting his hand over his mouth and making noble efforts to restrain himself; “tchee—tch
“I s’pose you’d ha’ laughed more if I ‘ad been bit?” said the glaring Mrs. Gimpson.
“Well, who did the dog bite after all?” inquired Mr. Boxer, recovering.
“You don’t understand,” replied Mrs. Gimpson, pityingly; “me being safe up in bed and the door locked, there was no mad dog. There was no use for it.”
“Well,” said Mr. Boxer, “me and Mary’s going round to see that old deceiver after supper, whether you come or not. Mary shall tell ‘im I’m a friend, and ask him to tell her everything about ‘er husband. Nobody knows me here, and Mary and me’ll be affectionate like, and give ‘im to understand we want to marry. Then he won’t mind making mischief.”
“You’d better leave well alone,” said Mrs. Gimpson.
Mr. Boxer shook his head. “I was always one for a bit o’ fun,” he said, slowly. “I want to see his face when he finds out who I am.”
Mrs. Gimpson made no reply; she was looking round for the market-basket, and having found it she left the reunited couple to keep house while she went out to obtain a supper which should, in her daughter’s eyes, be worthy of the occasion.
She went to the High Street first and made her purchases, and was on the way back again when, in response to a sudden impulse, as she passed the end of Crowner’s Alley, she turned into that small by-way and knocked at the astrologer’s door.
A slow, dragging footstep was heard approaching in reply to the summons, and the astrologer, recognising his visitor as one of his most faithful and credulous clients, invited her to step inside. Mrs. Gimpson complied, and, taking a chair, gazed at the venerable white beard and small, red-rimmed eyes of her host in some perplexity as to how to begin.
“My daughter’s coming round to see you presently,” she said, at last.
The astrologer nodded.
“She—she wants to ask you about ‘er husband,” faltered’ Mrs. Gimpson; “she’s going to bring a friend with her—a man who doesn’t believe in your knowledge. He—he knows all about my daughter’s husband, and he wants to see what you say you know about him.”
The old man put on a pair of huge horn spectacles and eyed her carefully.
“You’ve got something on your mind,” he said, at last; “you’d better tell me everything.”
Mrs. Gimpson shook her head.
“There’s some danger hanging over you,” continued Mr. Silver, in a low, thrilling voice; “some danger in connection with your son-in-law. There,” he waved a lean, shrivelled hand backward and for-ward as though dispelling a fog, and peered into distance—“there is something forming over you. You—or somebody—are hiding something from me.”
Mrs. Gimpson, aghast at such omniscience, sank backward in her chair.
“Speak,” said the old man, gently; “there is no reason why you should be sacrificed for others.”
Mrs. Gimpson was of the same opinion, and in some haste she reeled off the events of the evening. She had a good memory, and no detail was lost.
“Strange, strange,” said the venerable Mr. Silver, when he had finished. “He is an ingenious man.”
“Isn’t it true?” inquired his listener. “He says he can prove it. And he is going to find out what you meant by saying you were afraid of making mischief.”
“He can prove some of it,” said the old man, his eyes snapping spitefully. “I can guarantee that.”
“But it wouldn’t have made mischief if you had told us that,” ventured Mrs. Gimpson. “A man can’t help being cast away.”
“True,” said the astrologer, slowly; “true. But let them come and question me; and whatever you do, for your own sake don’t let a soul know that you have been here. If you do, the danger to yourself will be so terrible that even I may be unable to help you.”
Mrs. Gimpson shivered, and more than ever impressed by his marvellous powers made her way slowly home, where she found the unconscious Mr. Boxer relating his adventures again with much gusto to a married couple from next door.
“It’s a wonder he’s alive,” said Mr. Jem Thompson, looking up as the old woman entered the room; “it sounds like a story-book. Show us that cut on your head again, mate.”
The obliging Mr. Boxer complied.
“We’re going on with ‘em after they’ve ‘ad sup-per,” continued Mr. Thompson, as he and his wife rose to depart. “It’ll be a fair treat to me to see old Silver bowled out.”
Mrs. Gimpson sniffed and eyed his retreating figure disparagingly; Mrs. Boxer, prompted by her husband, began to set the table for supper.
It was a lengthy meal, owing principally to Mr. Boxer, but it was over at last, and after that gentleman had assisted in shutting up the shop they joined the Thompsons, who were waiting outside, and set off for Crowner’s Alley. The way was enlivened by Mr. Boxer, who had thrills of horror every ten yards at the idea of the supernatural things he was about to witness, and by Mr. Thompson, who, not to be outdone, persisted in standing stock-still at frequent intervals until he had received the assurances of his giggling better-half that he would not be made to vanish in a cloud of smoke.
By the time they reached Mr. Silver’s abode the party had regained its decorum, and, except for a tremendous shudder on the part of Mr. Boxer as his gaze fell on a couple of skulls which decorated the magician’s table, their behaviour left nothing to be desired. Mrs. Gimpson, in a few awkward words, announced the occasion of their visit. Mr. Boxer she introduced as a friend of the family from London.
“I will do what I can,” said the old man, slowly, as his visitors seated themselves, “but I can only tell you what I see. If I do not see all, or see clearly, it cannot be helped.”
Mr. Boxer winked at Mr. Thompson, and received an understanding pinch in return; Mrs. Thompson in a hot whisper told them to behave themselves.
The mystic preparations were soon complete. A little cloud of smoke, through which the fierce red eyes of the astrologer peered keenly at Mr. Boxer, rose from the table. Then he poured various liquids into a small china bowl and, holding up his hand to command silence, gazed steadfastly into it. “I see pictures,” he announced, in a deep voice. “The docks of a great city; London. I see an ill-shaped man with a bent left leg standing on the deck of a ship.”
Mr. Thompson, his eyes wide open with surprise, jerked Mr. Boxer in the ribs, but Mr. Boxer, whose figure was a sore point with him, made no response.
“The ship leaves the docks,” continued Mr. Silver, still peering into the bowl. “As she passes through the entrance her stern comes into view with the name painted on it. The—the—the–”
“Look agin, old chap,” growled Mr. Boxer, in an undertone.
“The North Star,” said the astrologer. “The ill-shaped man is still standing on the fore-part of the ship; I do not know his name or who he is. He takes the portrait of a beautiful young woman from his pocket and gazes at it earnestly.”
Mrs. Boxer, who had