FINE FEATHERS Mr. Jobson awoke with a Sundayish feeling, probably due to the fact that it was Bank Holiday. He had been aware, in a dim fashion, of the rising of Mrs. Jobson some time before, and in a semi-conscious condition had taken over a large slice of unoccupied territory. He stretched himself and yawned, and then, by an effort of will, threw off the clothes and springing out of bed reached for his trousers. He was an orderly man, and... more...

THE CHANGELING Mr. George Henshaw let himself in at the front door, and stood for some time wiping his boots on the mat. The little house was ominously still, and a faint feeling, only partially due to the lapse of time since breakfast, manifested itself behind his waistcoat. He coughed—a matter- of-fact cough—and, with an attempt to hum a tune, hung his hat on the peg and entered the kitchen. Mrs. Henshaw had just finished dinner.... more...

THE CHANGELING MR. GEORGE HENSHAW let himself in at the front door, and stood for some time wiping his boots on the mat The little house was ominously still, and a faint feeling, only partially due to the lapse of time since breakfast, manifested itself behind his waistcoat. He coughed—a matter-of-fact cough—and, with an attempt to hum a tune, hung his hat on the peg and entered the kitchen. Mrs. Henshaw had just finished dinner.... more...

SKILLED ASSISTANCE The night-watchman, who had left his seat on the jetty to answer the gate-bell, came back with disgust written on a countenance only too well designed to express it. "If she's been up 'ere once in the last week to, know whether the Silvia is up she's been four or five times," he growled. "He's forty- seven if he's a day; 'is left leg is shorter than 'is right, and he talks with a stutter. When she's with 'im you'd think... more...

STEPPING BACKWARDS "Wonderful improvement," said Mr. Jack Mills. "Show 'em to me again." Mr. Simpson took his pipe from his mouth and, parting his lips, revealed his new teeth. "And you talk better," said Mr. Mills, taking his glass from the counter and emptying it; "you ain't got that silly lisp you used to have. What does your missis think of 'em?" "She hasn't seen 'em yet," said the other. "I had 'em put in at dinner- time. I ate my... more...

CHAPTER I The ancient port of Sunwich was basking in the sunshine of a July afternoon. A rattle of cranes and winches sounded from the shipping in the harbour, but the town itself was half asleep. Somnolent shopkeepers in dim back parlours coyly veiled their faces in red handkerchiefs from the too ardent flies, while small boys left in charge noticed listlessly the slow passing of time as recorded by the church clock. It is a fine church, and... more...

STRIKING HARD "You've what?" demanded Mrs. Porter, placing the hot iron carefully on its stand and turning a heated face on the head of the family. "Struck," repeated Mr. Porter; "and the only wonder to me is we've stood it so long as we have. If I was to tell you all we've 'ad to put up with I don't suppose you'd believe me." "Very likely," was the reply. "You can keep your fairy-tales for them that like 'em. They're no good to me." "We... more...

THE BEQUEST R. Robert Clarkson sat by his fire, smoking thoughtfully. His lifelong neighbour and successful rival in love had passed away a few days before, and Mr. Clarkson, fresh from the obsequies, sat musing on the fragility of man and the inconvenience that sometimes attended his departure. His meditations were disturbed by a low knocking on the front door, which opened on to the street. In response to his invitation it opened slowly,... more...

THE BOATSWAIN'S MATE   Mr. George Benn, retired boat-swain, sighed noisily, and with a despondent gesture, turned to the door and stood with the handle in his hand; Mrs. Waters, sitting behind the tiny bar in a tall Windsor-chair, eyed him with some heat. "My feelings'll never change," said the boatswain. "Nor mine either," said the landlady, sharply. "It's a strange thing, Mr. Benn, but you always ask me to marry you after the third... more...

THE CASTAWAY Mrs. John Boxer stood at the door of the shop with her hands clasped on her apron. The short day had drawn to a close, and the lamps in the narrow little thorough-fares of Shinglesea were already lit. For a time she stood listening to the regular beat of the sea on the beach some half-mile distant, and then with a slight shiver stepped back into the shop and closed the door.   The little shop with its wide-mouthed bottles... more...