The Unlucky Shilling

F you are a newsvender and tobacconist in a small way of business you will, in all probability, be addicted to the backing of horses. There are no published statistics on the point, and I confess I do not know why it should be so, but so I have found it in my experience.

Mr. William Crall, who had a small shop in the neighborhood of the Euston Road, was an interesting instance of this combination. He was an energetic and conversational little man, rather proud that the cut-price people had not touched him; he had a strong personal connection—customers with whom he was on friendly terms, customers to whom the social charm of Mr. William Crall meant more than the saving of a farthing on the ounce. In spite of the fact that he frequently made a bet, there were many vices that Crall did not possess. There are, I believe, many men who put an occasional half-crown on a horse that yet would think twice about murdering their mothers; and there are a few gratuitous reformers about who would do well to remember the fact.

Mr. Crall might even have laid claim to a few humble virtues. Above his shop lived two old ladies, his aunts, who owed to their nephew the life of leisure that they devoted entirely to good works and to disapproving of their nephew. It was due to this latter propensity, perhaps, that Mr. Crall found the society of the shop preferable to that of the upstairs parlor. It was a comfortable looking, old-fashioned, dingy little shop, with quaint jars for the mixtures, that had secrets in their composition known only to Mr. Crall; and it was further served by a boy whose moral and intellectual shortcomings were Mr. Crall's eternal despair. Mr. Crall's manner ranged upward from stern severity in dealing with the boy, through formal politeness in supplying the wants of casual visitors, to complete affability in converse with old customers.

Among those who regularly frequented the shop was a young gentleman whose visiting card (printed while he waited) correctly described him as Mr. Ferdinand Hammer. His air of partial elegance was rather marked. In him the formalities of fashion were gently tempered by a touch of romance and the exigencies of a small income. The character of the large pearl in the necktie was distinctly impugned by the paper cuff -protectors; the frock-coat was admirable but for the slight shininess under the forearm; the pattern of the waistcoat was exuberant, and suggested a personality breaking away from a convention; the black hair was unduly hyacinthine. As a rule, he looked in twice a week at the tobacconist's for an ounce of No. 3. This was the mildest of the three mixtures compounded and sold by Mr. Crall. It was believed by Mr. Crall that the boy was addicted to stealing this mixture, and he frequently expressed a wish that he might catch him at it.

On a Saturday evening, in the Summer, Mr. Crall, with his waistcoat undone, was standing in his doorway, instilling confidence into the general public by smoking one of his own full-flavored Manilas, when to him entered Mr. Ferdinand Hammer.

"Good evening, sir," said Crall, with cordiality, backing into his shop and behind his counter. "And how is the world treating you, Misterrammer?"

Mr. Hammer took a seat on a cask and said that he must not complain, though undoubtedly the weather kept hot. He had a flower in his buttonhole and appeared jauntier than usual.

"Don't happen to have heard anything?" asked Crall.

"1 did hear South Wind mentioned for the Cup, if you fancy a long-priced one. It's at twenties, I believe. They were speaking of it over at the Capital."

"Ah! And there's other attractions over at the Capital, so I'm told."

"They draw a very fair glass of bitter," said Hammer, with a very poor assumption of indifference.

"They do, when Missammond ain't too busy talking to attend to you. It was all I could do to get served the other night."

"Miss Hammond is a lady that I respect, and I should say that her class was altogether above her work; she was born to a very different style of life. All the same, I've never heard anyone complain that she didn't do her duty before."

"That's only my chaff," said Crall. "Don't take things as they ain't meant, Misterrammer. We all know as you're a prime favorite in that quarter."

"People know more things about you than you know yourself, seems to me," said Hammer, with an air of ripe but saddened experience. The conversation lingered a little longer on the fascinating subject of the barmaid at the Capital, and then strayed back to racing again. Mr. Crall gave it as his opinion that South Wind would be worth backing on the day if the wind really was from the South then.

"Now, Mr. Crall," said Hammer, with superiority, "that's simply superstition, and nothing else."

"Call it what you like; I'm sure I don't care. But it's good enough for me to go by, anyhow. There's feelings as you can trust, though you can't argue about them. A stranger came here Tuesday and asked me for a packet tobacco that I don't stock. I sold him some of one of my own instead, and he put down a shilling. As soon as I saw that coin I knew it was an unlucky one. There was nothing particular about it to look at; so far as that went, it was just like any other shilling. The man that gave it to me was as ordinary as you could wish, too. But all the same, I felt the bad luck all through that shilling and all over it. I laughed at myself for the idea, but I couldn't get rid of it; so I put the coin in my waistcoat pocket instead of the till, and decided to keep it twenty-four hours and see what happened. That's a fair test, Misterrammer, ain't it? Well, since then one of my best regular customers has died, a man that owed me two ten has gone bankrupt, a horse I had backed ran absolute last, and that damned boy has broken another gas-globe. You can't get away from that, can you? I don't sleep to-night until I have passed that coin on to someone else." "For a sensible business man you surprise me," said Mr. Hammer. "All that would have happened just the same if you had never seen the shilling. The coin has nothing to do with it."

"If you think that, perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me change for it," said Crall, drawing his shilling from his pocket.

"Certainly," said Hammer, and did so.

Then other customers came in, and Mr. Ferdinand Hammer slipped the suspected coin into his ticket pocket, picked up his ounce of No. 3 and went out. For the time being Hammer thought no more of the absurd superstition of his tobacconist, his heart being very full of that golden-haired lady, Miss Hammond. The first syllable in their respective surnames seemed in itself to be a link between them. Hammer seldom, if ever, made use of his ticket pocket. But his transaction with Mr. Crall was bound to be brought to his recollection sooner or later, for the simple reason that a clerk on thirty shillings a week cannot put a shilling aside without feeling that it has been put.

He turned almost instinctively to the bar where for inadequate salary Miss Amaryllis Hammond consented to lend the charm of her existence, coupled with a good deal of hard work. Ferdinand Hammer was not an intemperate man, and his very moderate thirst had already been supplied that night, but a further and prolonged conversation with Miss Hammond seemed to him imperative. This impatience, for he had arranged to take her for a walk in Regent's Park on the following morning, shows the depth and reality of Mr. Hammer's feelings, and demands our sympathy.

Amaryllis—which is a beautiful name—was very busy when Ferdinand entered. Smiles fluttered over her face, and she danced from one customer to another, rattling out the absolutely correct change, hearing and carrying out many complicated orders, and yet finding time to make the retort demanded by etiquette to each of her admirers.

"No time to talk to you to-night, Mr. Johnson. This is our busy night, you know. . . . Sovereign? Five's nine's, one's ten's, ten's twenty, thank you, sir. . . . In one minute. Do have a little patience or you'll make me cross. . . . Scotch yours? . Yes, and you'd have a high color, too, if you worked as hard as I do. Three bitters; right. And a small Bass? Thank you. . . . I am sorry about that cork; they do fly so funny. . . . See you at Buckingham Palace next time I'm calling there. . . . Eightpence halfpenny and three-and-a-half's a shilling. . . . Yes, I've spoke to our boss myself about them lemons. . . . Gin-and-ginger? Right."

A temporary lull came at last, and Ferdinand stepped forward. At the other end of the counter an oldish gentleman still lingered. He had a shiny hat, a large watch-chain, a fat cigar, a glass of port, and other signs of opulence. Miss Hammond was leaning over the counter and speaking to him in a subdued tone of voice. Ferdinand wondered why the old fool couldn't see that he was de trop and move off. And then, to his surprise, he heard the old fool, who did not take the trouble to lower his voice, say: "All right; go and give the young man what he wants, my dear, and then come back."

Miss Hammond accordingly turned her attention to Ferdinand, and she did not seem by any means pleased to see him.

"Thought we'd finished with you for one evening," she said. "What's it to be?"

Ferdinand was wounded. "A glass of stout and bitter, if you're sure you've got the time to draw it," he answered, with marked sarcasm.

She handed it to him without a word, and the weak-kneed Ferdinand instantly repented. "Sorry I let my temper get the better of me," he said. "That old fool the other end of the counter's a bit on my nerves, you see."

Miss Hammond observed that it was no consequence. She was going to St. Paul's on Sunday morning with the gentleman at the other end of the counter; he was an old friend of her family, and she did not care to stay and hear him insulted. If Mr. Hammer would take her advice he would let that be his last drink for the night.

Mr. Hammer made voluble attempts to explain further, but Miss Hammond declined to hear him. She strolled humming in a leisurely and indifferent way to the other end, and leaning over the counter, resumed her conversation with the old friend of the family. What she said to him must have amused him, for he went into a roar of genial laughter. The very horrid thought flashed across Ferdinand's mind that possibly he might be the subject of their mirth. If he had been quite certain of that he would have made a row about it, he would, indeed; he would have made it dashed unpleasant for that old fool. But the old fool was not very old, and had a look of being quite able to take care of himself; also, Ferdinand could not be quite sure that the offense had been committed. Perhaps he took the wiser course in finishing his drink and walking out.

He walked fast, with the sense of all the wrongs that he had suffered burning in his head. Miss Hammond had forsaken him, broken her word to him with regard to Sunday, joined with his rival in turning him to contempt, and insulted him by the perfectly unfounded suggestion that he had been drinking to excess. He felt murderous; he pined and panted to have a row with somebody. A minute later fate indulged his needs in this respect—indulged them, as he felt afterward, almost too freely.

He was crossing the road, and paying, perhaps, too little attention to what he was doing, when he and a bicycle and a bicyclist became instantaneously mixed up in a heap in the road. The accident had happened in all its beautiful completeness before Ferdinand had even had the time to see that it might happen. He was not seriously injured, but he acquired a variety of minor hurts; he was bruised and sore; his hands were cut and bleeding; his hat was accordeon pleated; his clothes were damaged and muddy. As he struggled to his feet he was collared at once by a second cyclist.

"Got yer!" said the second cyclist, a man with red hair and a bullet head. "I saw yer myself put your stick in his spokes to throw him over, and now yer'll have to pay for it. Yer've 'ad it pretty stiff already, and yer going to get it stiffer now. Yer taller-faced monkey, I'd like to take yer on myself. Jest yer attempt ter stir afore the copper gits yer nime and address and I'll brike yer 'ead off."

The first cyclist, who had now arisen from the road, came forward and also took a hand. He was bleeding from the nose, and he was also sarcastic—a combination that some less gifted men might have found difficult. He said that for his part he was glad it had happened. He had heard that there was that type of blackguard about, but he had not believed it; he was pleased to see a specimen. It was not, in his opinion, much of a specimen to look at, but he was a collector of curiosities and thankful for what he had got. He asked politely from the crowd if a photographer was present.

And then the policeman came up and made a fourth at the little whist-party. He took every name and address within reach impartially. He moved the crowd on. He also expressed it as his impartial and unofficial view that it was six of one and half-a-dozen of the other, and altogether behaved as a model policeman should.

Mr. Ferdinand Hammer made his way home to his boarding-house with pain and emotion. The maid who let him in looked at him curiously and watched him suspiciously as he climbed lamely up the stairs. He went straight to his own room; there he contemplated the wreckage of his clothing with despair in his heart. After a little decision he concluded that it would brush off better when it was dry, and feeling that active life was beyond him, crept into bed and went to sleep. In the morning the wreck of what had once been tailoring looked even worse than it had the night before. With a hard brush, a sponge and a needle and thread he did his best. The hat he gave up—with the air of one who faces the situation—as hopeless. Then he descended to breakfast, and was a little surprised to see that he was treated by the ladies of the establishment with a marked coldness. The reason dawned on him afterward when the proprietress requested the pleasure of a few moments' conversation with him.

She knew, so she informed him, what young men were. At the same time there were limits. Doubtless he knew better than she did what state he had come home in the night before. She did not wish to allude to it, and of course she only knew what she had been told. But she had to say, and she was sure he could not blame her, that if anything of the sort happened again she would have to ask him to find rooms elsewhere. Yes, certainly; she quite believed that it was the accident of being run down by a bicycle that accounted for his coming home with his clothes in that state and climbing up the stairs by holding on to the banisters; she believed it, and she would do her best to get the other ladies to believe it. But as a Christian woman she felt it her duty to say that if he found it growing on him at all he would do far better to take the blue ribbon at once; which, in her opinion, was no disgrace and the only manly thing to do.

It was hard on Ferdinand Hammer, and he protested with all the spirit that was not yet crushed out of him. But he seemed to be cursed with an unhappiness in dialectics, and—as is so often with the absolutely innocent—his protests did not carry conviction with them. How could they, when he declared in one breath that he had never been drunk in his life—which was perfectly true—and in the next that he was prepared to make up a drinking match with any man in the house for a pound a side, to see which could stand most—a bet which he would most certainly have lost?

After that interview with the proprietress he felt absolutely broken and only anxious to get away somewhere beyond the ken of man—Margate, for instance. Margate was too much for his finances, but there was no reason why he should not get a day in the country. He returned to his room to select a pair of suitable and yellow boots, and incidentally gave a little attention to the frock-coat that he had worn the night before. As he was handling it, a shilling rolled out of the ticket pocket, and suddenly Mr. Ferdinand Hammer remembered.

The convert is ever the most enthusiastic believer, and if Mr. Hammer had been slow to recognize the mystical properties of the unlucky shilling he believed in them now with a faith that would have made Crall's superstition seem almost like rationalism. At the same time he became very angry with Crall, the cause of all this misery. He opened the window to hurl the shilling forth, then checked himself, and not from motives of economy. It was Crall who had, through the medium of that cursed shilling, alienated the love of Miss Hammond, caused him to be run down by a bicycle, and put him in a position that had been misunderstood and forfeited him the respect of the establishment where he lived. Crall should suffer for it. The tobacconist did not open on Sunday—his aunts objected to it—but on Monday there would be a chance to return him his shilling privily; in all probability he would not recognize it; and the unluckiness of that shilling would descend on Crall once more. Ferdinand's spirits returned at the thought, and he went forth in quest of the country with quite a jaunty air.

It did not desert him until he had reached the booking office, taken his return for Epping Forest neighborhood, and then discovered that he had come out without his purse. After that he gave it up. He went home at once, with the sarcasms of the booking clerk ringing in his ears, and incontinently and unusually, considering the time of the day, went to bed again. He had an instinctive feeling that he was safer there than anywhere else. He lay there and tried to imagine the many and horrible misfortunes that were in store for Crall when the shilling was once more in his possession. Hammer's only fear was that Crall might once more have the instinctive warning and refuse to take it. He did little sums, too, in his head, to calculate how much in hard cash the unlucky shilling had cost him. And from this his thoughts, naturally enough, turned to another and more serious loss—to the sudden and abominable defection of Miss Hammond.

He recalled that Miss Hammond had told him she might have married long ago, but that she preferred her independence then; she had mentioned that it was a gentleman rather older than herself and possessed of considerable means. Could she have been speaking the truth? The idea had never occurred to him before. Could it be that the once rejected had returned and that this time Miss Hammond was less devoted to her independence? His train of thought was broken by a tap at the door. "What is it?" he called.

A voice from the other side of the door said that Mrs. Arch—that was the name of the proprietress—had sent to know if he felt any better, and would he like a cup of tea and a little dry toast?

Then he recognized the position. By going to bed he had provided further and almost undisputable proof of his intemperance the night before. Nothing that he could say would carry conviction with it now. He hated changes, but he felt that his only course was to find another boarding-house. Exiled from home, deserted by love, damaged in reputation, lamed and shaken, with a ruined wardrobe and a prospect of having to pay for the repairs to the bicycle that had ruined it, Ferdinand Hammer felt that never again would he disbelieve in any sort or kind of superstition. The lesson had been sharp and severe, and he made up his mind to profit by it.

At nine o'clock on the following morning Mr. William Crall, having been exasperated by the two old ladies, his aunts, at whom he was unable to swear, was having a few words with the boy, with whom no such restriction existed. If the boy could not come at the right time in the morning he need not come at all. He would be no loss. Mr. Crall was assured that he could get six boys in ten minutes by putting his head out of the window and whistling for them, at half the wages that he was now paying, and worth double the money. The boy had all Sunday with nothing to do, and there was no call for him to go on doing it on Monday morning when he ought to be at work. If he couldn't move those shutters just a very little bit faster he might get a clip on the side of the head that would hurry him to some purpose.

And then Mr. Crall suddenly dropped the dictatorial manner and changed to the utmost geniality, for an old customer, Mr. Hammer, to wit, entered. "This is an unexpected pleasure, Misterrammer, and so early in the morning, too. Run through that little lot already?"

"No," said Hammer. "The fact is that I was walking part of the way into the city this morning, and I found myself out of lights. Just give me a box, will you?" He put a carefully selected shilling down on the counter.

"Not got a copper, I suppose?" asked Crall, glancing into his till.

"Afraid not," said Ferdinand. Could it be that Crall suspected the true nature of the shilling that had been offered him? His next words dispelled the fear.

"It's all right," he said, handing out sixpence and five pennies. "Only I happen to be rather short of coppers this morning. It would be no matter if I had anybody except that good-for-nothing young blackguard that I could send for change. Trust him with a sixpence and you'll never see it again! I wish you could persuade your people in the city to take him. I'd part with him, and give him a character, too. I'd give him a character for being as lazy, dirty, stupid and dishonest as any two other boys in the kingdom put together."

All this was said in the full hearing of the boy. Hammer expected that under this series of insults the boy would get cheeky and leave. He was also well aware that this would be a nuisance to Mr. Crall, in spite of his assertions to the contrary. If the boy threw down his work and went, that would mean that the unlucky shilling was already getting to work on Mr. Crall, and that would be a comforting thought for Hammer during his day in the city.

But the boy went on with his work, absolutely unperturbed, polishing the brass and humming under his breath that there was only one girl in the world for him. He was used to these little compliments by now. Ferdinand was disappointed; but his faith in the unluckiness of the shilling was strong, and he turned to leave the shop, with a conviction that there was still misery in store for Crall.

"One moment before you go," said Mr. Crall. "You know what I said about that unlucky shilling the other day?"

"Yes," said Hammer. "You gave it to me."

"Begging your pardon, Misterrammer, that's just what I didn't do. I meant to get you to change it, but the shilling that I changed was not the unlucky shilling at all. The day being hot, I put on a different waistcoat, and that happened to have a shilling in the pocket as well, and the whole thing slipped my memory—but there,  you see?"

Mr. Hammer said that he saw.

"As for the real unlucky shilling," Mr. Crall continued, "one of my old Mr. ladies up stairs wanted a subscription to the missionaries, and I thought that was a good chance to work it off. Perhaps it will change its character in a good cause."

Mr. Ferdinand Hammer said that perhaps it would, and went out. He is going to read a paper on senseless superstitions next week at a small literary society of which he is a member. The same date has been fixed for the marriage of Miss Hammond to an old friend of her family.