OTHER MEN'S SHOES.

Auckland Star, Volume LVII, Issue 138, 12 June 1926, Page 36

OTHER MEN'S SHOES.

By MAT WYNNE

CHAPTER XXI. Tilda was quick to recover her presence of mind. She could see enough of her lover's face to realise that his mood was a desperate one. " You'd better come inside," she said sullenly. " "iThat's tne use of lettin' all the street know our business? But don't forget! I'm not puttin' up with any bullyin' from you, Ginger." He followed her silently into the house and up into the grimy little sitting-room. Tilda re-lighted the lamp, and turned to face him. She had had time to make her decision. ■ " Now you may as well look pleasant, George," she said, with a nervous laugh. " I'm not in the mood for no ragin' and teasin'. I get that from Alf. Wot's your trouble?" " You," said Ginger George, gloomily. "And that's a fac'." Tilda laughed again. She was a born flirt and George's sufferings were balm to her. She liked to feel her power. "Stupid!" she mocked. "I never see such a chap. Your face is worse than a wet week. And all about nuffin. Here I am—all on mc lonesome—and might be indoors for a month of Sundays wifout you coming along to take mc to the picshurs. You oughter be asbymed of yourself." Ginger flushed. "That's the way you talk," he retorted threateningly, "but you can't go back on what yer said yourself. Give mc the 1 go-by proper, you did—all for a chap who" didn't want you. Where's Algernon ?" Tilda shrugged her shoulders and then came nearer. "Are you goin' to play the gyme ?" she asked. He stiffened, changing colour like a girl- . "Wot gymc?" he asked. She gave a nervous giggle. "Stupid!" she repeated. "Well, then, are you my bloke or not?" "Yus!" he snarled, "I am. Now—you arsked for it." He caught her in his arms, kissing her again and again, with a fierceness which scared yet pleased her. "That's enough," she declared, breaking free at last. "Now we're friends. But—no tantrums again, George. If you can't trust your girl, why, you'd better clear." "It was you told mc to go," he argued, "but I'm satisfied. If Algernon cornea interferin' again I'll knock 'is 'cad off." Tilda nodded. "Stryght," she asked suddenly, "where is Algernon?" Ginger looked surprised. "Wot's the gyme?" he asked suspiciously. Tilda came nearer. "He's gone," she replied, "that's orl." "Good riddance to bad rubbidge," retorted Ginger, with satisfaction. "Not that 'c was a bad fellah. Where's 'c gone ?" "That's wot I want to know," said Tilda. "No, you needn't get your fevvers up, old bean. You're my bloke— add you'll play the gyme. Algernon's hopped it. But he ain't gone, as I might say, honest. Some one's bad a gyme on—and Algernon's the objec'. Alf knows. Alf's a deep 'un. , He's all for Algernon—and what a torf he is—but 'c's got a gyme up his sleeve. If Alf liked 'c could tell you all about the story of Algernon—an' I'm goin' to find onE" "Coo!" scoffed George, "not likely. Let sleepin' dogs lie. If you're goin' t' be mc Judy, why, I'm all right with things. We'll be round at the picshurs to-morrow, Tilda, and—wots to stop mc rentin' a " "That's orl right for to-morrow," replied Tilda. "But to-night's to-night. You've gotta help mc. I'm worried. Algernon may hey been a torf, but he was a pal too. You can't get windy over my hay-in' a pal or two, Ginger. So there y'are. Algernon's been courtin' a gel in Ivy Court—an' there's been queer doin's. I don't say as Al's got knocked on the head. I don't say Alf ain't play in' stryght; but, what I wanter know is, wot it's aU about, and where Algernon is. He's left his lodgin' wif his rent not paid and his clothes an' stuff.all about. He's not in horspital, an' he's not at the plice ttytion. There y'are complete, George. You find Algernon an' we'll arst him to be best man at the weddin'." The suspicion faded from Ginger George's eyes.. This sounded straight enough. | He was' yielding to Delilah's witching glances. He was her bloke. He was going to take her at her word and trust his Tilda. Meantime, he had his job on. Algernon—the dreaded rival, who had nevertheless shown himself such a good fellow—was missing. Frankly—and jealousy apart—Ginger liked Delcourt. And he had suspected Alf before. What was the latter's game? He meant to find out. Apart from Tilda's request,' he would like to find out. Tilda, was the spur to a purpose easily inspired. "You leave it to mc, girlie," he said, hugging the smiling Tilda again. "I'll find out the story. Alfll'tell mc after a visit to the Peacock. Don't you blyme mc if I hey to fill him up a bit. Then well . get Alf talkin'. Leave it to mc." It's a 'cold night—an' to-morrow it may bo colder. That's the time. I'll stand 'AH treat after work, and well'be home t osupper. We'll work it between ua, don't worry." Tilda laughed. It wasn't exactly a romantic way of getting what she wanted, but it would "do." The feeling was growing on her till it became conviction that Robert Fexton was in danger. Once rescue Algernon, and .things could shape themselves—how she did not yet quite understand. Alf- returned so late that Tilda had already gone to bed before her brother got in. She felt sure there was no news for her, nor did she 'ask for- any . next morning. It was Sunday, too—_ day of "rest"— the wearing of best clothes, and the walking, out with an admiring bloke! On this particular Sunday her programme was varied! • * . W > After midday dinner—and Sunday's dinner was a weekly landmark—Tilda went out. Alf had been quite ready to take some faked message to Ginger, and Tilda herself intended to pay a visit to Ivy Court. She wanted to find. out about Nonnie Grenvane, the washed-out wisp of a girl who Algernon had had the bad taste to prefer to her! Nonnie was alone when her most unexpected visitor arrived, and she started up in dismay at sight of her. To gentle, refined Honor Grenvane /this handsome, truculent factory lass was a most alarming personality. Tilda's glance, too, as she surveyed her was distinctly contemptuous. "Where's your da_?" she asked. "He came round to pur plyce last night and talked a deal of nonsense.'You know Bob Fexton, don't you ?"

Honor blushed hotly. There had been I a meaning note in the other girl's speech. "Yes," she faltered; then: "he—he has been very kind to mc and to my little brother." "Has he?"' retorted Tilda, her arms akimbo, "well that's not wot I've come to talk about. Wot I wanter know is— where is Alg—l mean Robert Fexton?" Honor's puzzled stare faded into a look* of tremulous anxiety. , "Robert Fexton?" she echoed. "Oh, I don't know, indeed I do not. I expected— I mean I had hoped he—he would be coming—" She hesitated, flushing and nervous. Poor child! how she had been looking for that friend of hers, praying he might come—because she was' afraid. All yesterday she had watched —but he had not come—and last evening Higgerley had arrived in his motor car, and brought flowers, fruit, wine. Yes, the cruel bribe of wine for the father who could not resist the temptation. Earlier in the afternoon Grenvane had been so much kinder to his daughter—he had surprised her in tears and tried to comfort her, even saying that he would not force her to anything against her will. She had almost extracted the promise that Higgerley should be sent away, but such promises had been forgotten when the tempter arrived, and poor little Honor had sobbed herself to sleep, praying wildly for deliverance from that nightmare marrage—and for the coming of her tfue lover. All day she had watched, too, picturing '"Bob's" merry face and kindly eyes. He was so joyous, this "Bob"—so full of life and hope, from th c first hour of their acquaintance little Honor had given him her heart. He had come into her life like some gallant, splendid knight of old, lifting her out of dreary and sordid surroundings. His courtesy was so wonderful, his sympathy so eager —and oh, she loved him. Now, instead of her knight, came this bold-faced girl, handsome, but swaggering, with hands set on hips and her sturdy figure filling the doorway. And Tilda was no fool, either. She read this shy little girl's secret before half that faltering speech was made, and bit her lip. Evidently the kid did not know where Robert Fexton was. Evidently, too, she loved him. Tilda would have liked to scoff at the little fool, of whom she was secretly jealous—but it couldn't be done, Honor's wide eyes and frightened manner, her patent distress, touched a chord in Tilda Togskin's heart, which awakened her more. generous impulses. After all, she, Tilda, was not actually in love with this mysterious gentleman factory hand. Ginger George held her wavering affections, and had won a stronger claim on them by his jealous raging. Tilda had been thriUed by Ginger's violence, and melted at his fury. She liked to arouse passion in a man. She gloried in finding a master. But, against this victory of Ginger's came the girlish love of romance found so strongly developed in those who live unromantic lives. She had recognised "the gentleman" in Algernon, and had set herself to win him. His resistance only added to her huntress* instinct. She had resolved to conquer—and had failed. The mystery had grown too. Algernon was a kind of fairy prince masquerading in a pickle factory. Ambition had. awakened, and Tilda had trampled her own softer feelings down in a sudden hunger to be a "lady." Again Algernon had refused to help her to the honour, and now, he had vanished. A nice quandary for Tilda! Here was Ginger, the lover who appealed to her, the lover who thundered his claim, with clenched fists and curses, whilst, somewhere in the background, was Algernon the mysterious, who had seemingly drifted into a danger zone, and might even be in peril of his life through her brother's machinations. Half guilty, wholly perplexed, Tilda had acted on impulse in bribing Ginger George to save the man she had intended to marry. Now, once again, her generosity was quickened by sight of her little rival's weakness and distress. Tilda was strong, and prided herself on her strength. She could fight her own battles. and a lover's too. Honor Grenvane was different. And the kid was alone, frightened, breaking her heart for the bloke of whom Tilda had hoped to rob her. With the memory of Ginjrer George's savage kisses, and the thrill of them, Tilda leaned forward and caught Honor's cold hand. "You kid," she said, "I s'pose you think you love 'im, eh Moses! What fooli we girls are. What fools!" There was rough sympathy in the words. All the truculence had gone from Tilda's manner. She drew Honor nearer, and the latter, worn out by fear and dread, suddenly burst into a passion of tears. "Oh, do help mc," she pleaded, "do be kind. Indeed, I love Bob with all my heart. He does love mc, I know he does. I don't know why he hasn't come; but . . . but I want him. Will you, help mc, please help mc! I've nobody at all—and I am afraid." Tilda gulped, feeling her own eyes wet as she stooped and kissed the white, tear-stained face. "Yon Kid," she repeated. "Wot brutes some fellahs are. And there's something wrong around 'ere. There, keep up your pecker, Kid, and don't swaller no more salt water than you're 'bliged. I'm orf to find Algernon for you, and welcome. He he ain't the sort of bloke for the likes of mc, and I've promised Ginger, see ? You wyte quiet and don't let that dad of yours bully yer. Come round to mc if things get 'ot. I'll stand by yer." It pleased her to hear Honor's sobbing gratitude, and thanks. It pleased her to know she was playing the game, and she didn't mince matters either, when going-out quickly on to the landing she nearly fell over Black Liz's crouching figure. Pulling the mean spy to her feet Tilda set her up against the wall. "So that's your skunk's gyme, is it?" she- said, cheerfully. "But you didn't reckon two could ply at it, eh? Come to that; you see," you've gotta deal now wif Tilda Togskins, who knows something of your parst "istory." CHAPTER XXII. 'Fexton did not answer that question at once. He was swiftly summing up the situation. It was a critical one, and he knew it. These men were desperadoes—probably more actively vicious than the men meeting in the underground saloon of the Cat and Fiddle. "Send for Tom Burr himself," he replied at last. "And he will be able to explain better than I can do. I have a message of importance for him, but it is. an .entirely personal matter." The men looked at each other and drew aside. After a brief consultation, they returned. "You can't give us the slip, young feller," said one, threateningly. "And, if you try, it'll be the wuss for you. My mate'il wait here. Try hollering— and that ends it." «

Fexton had no intention of halloaing. He realised he was not going to make any fancy dash tor liberty, especially with feet and hands braced up so He waited alone in the dark, reflecting rather dismally that he might have contrived a meeting with Burr in a less hazardous fashion. No use, however, to cry over spilt milk! He waited with the resignation of a stoic —and was rewarded presently by the coming of Burr. Tom looked ill and haggard. His eyes were unfriendly—with a glint of accusation in them. "Well," he asked gruffly, "so it's you? Spying, eh?" "I had to find you," answered Fexton. "And I knew where to do so. Can I speak to you alone?" The other men muttered. "Wot I want to know," said the one, "is how the chap knew where to find you, Burr? He's not one of the club." Burr looked anxious. He heard the significance of the threat. To tell the truth, he had often wished he had never met the company who haunted the Cat and Fiddle. But it was—or seemed to him—too late to break away. "He's a durned skunk," was his answer, "who's been tracking mc. I didn't know he'd ever seen mc come this way." "Worse luck for him." replied the second man, drily, "he will have many regrets. Now, you shall speak to'him." Burr stared down at the man at his feet. "Well?" he queried. "More lies?"' Fexton returned glance for glance. "I have found Rosie Blaylock," he replied. "She is safe and unharmed. 1 came here to bring you the news and to ask you to go to her." Burr started violently, the dusky colour rising to his cheeks. "It's a lie," he repeated, but his voice broke, his eyes searched the features of the man lying there. "You can prove my words for yourself," said the other, without a trace of resentment, "if you go to Crayston Street, Barford* Road. Rosie is there. She was saved by a merciful Providence from the hands of the villain who so nearly trapped her. There is no reason why she should be ashamed to accept your offer of marriage. Go to Crayson Street first, Burr, if you feel it is impossible for you to believe mc. Then, return and help mc. You see what has happened. Your friends—" Burr looked at the other two men. "See here," he said, huskily. "You're going to let this chap come along with mc. He's no pol'ce spy. He . . he . ." His tones faltered. He could not yetquite' believe that Fexton was an honest man. Doubts and suspicions tormented him. But he had said Rosie was safe' The other men—very different characters to poor Tom—shook their heads. "It will have to be left to the Chief" one of them retorted, "the fallow was on the watch. The tale cf the girl's likely trumped up. We don't want the police round the Cat and Fiddle. You know why. The Chief will deal with the chap. You let be." Burr paced up and down in his restless excitement. He could not come to a decision. Over and again he had intended to "chu_ck" coming to this so-called club of malcontents. Their crooked dealings and fiery propaganda jarred and dismayed him, though in the first horror of his despair on coming to London he had been ready to fall a victim to any such snare as these men laid for the unwary. Now —he did not know his own mind. If this Mr. Hartford were straight he ought to be thoroughly ashamed of himself —and do all in his power to get him out of the clutches of this gang. But he hardly could believe he was straight. Yet he had told him where Rosie was. He had said Rosie was safe. Tom's pulses bounded. If that were true . . Why! His joy would be delirious, his gratitude unbounded. He must prove the tale. He must go to this .address. Meantine —this Mr. Hartford . . was in an ugly hole. Those two men were the worst of the gang—in fact, the Chief bad excluded them from the meeting owing to their wild doings the week before. They would be eager to bo of service to quondam mates and re-establish themselves in their old quarters. He came back at last to Fexton. "I'm going, Mr. Hartford," he said. "I'll be back before long. In the morning at latest you'll be free of this. I'll have to see the Chief after I've been to Barford Road." Fexton groaned. "See here Burr," he replied, "I've done my best for you and the girl you love. You will be ashamed later of your suspicions. H you have any generosity in you, you'll take mc with you to find Rosie Blaylock." The other men laughed derisively. "There's more than one to be consulted there, mine friend," drawled the foreigner. "You walk in where it is not always so easy to walk out—nest cc pas?" "That's right," said Burr, grasping an excuse. 'Til see the Chief when I get back. Nothing can be done now. You'll have to wait." It seemed inevitable, but Fexton found himself devoutly wishing that he had not been so impetuous in his search for this suspicious lover. The situation was an ugly one—and he did not like what he heard Burr arranging with his captors. "I'll be back this side of midnight if it's all straight," promised the young farmer. "And settle with the chief before he goes. If not —well!—it's not my business any longer." It was the grim significance of those last words which Fexton did not like. Burr did not linger after settling things. He was on thorns to be off. No conveyance could carry him quickly enough to his goal. Rosie! Rosie! The very thought that he would see her so 60on thrilled him with indescribable fear, hope, rapture. If only he could find the girl . . he loved . ready to welcome him. In the meantime, Ruth had returned to Park Lane with Lady Helvetia to find Noel gone. She did not like to ask questions of the butler, in fact Lady Helvetia claimed all her attention. The poor lady had had a severe heart attack and the doctor had-ordered her to bed and impressed on Ruth that perfect quiet was essential. It was a relief to the anxious girl when the patient herself insisted that a trained nurse—an old friend in whom Lady, Helvetia had far more confidence than'any doctor—■ should be sent for. It was late in the afternoon before Nurse Edith arrived, and Ruth was free. Then, going downstairs, she made her inquiries. There was a wild little flutter at her heart as she picked up Diana Mendrayle's card. So this had been the mysterious visitor. What message had she brought? Presentiment, swift and subtle, oppressed Ruth. • It had been a momentous day, from the time when Noel had taken her hands and forestalled his words by that one magical glance. He had in effect told her he loved her, and the knowledge had transformed life for the lonely girl.

Then had come the visitor—Lady Helvetia's illness—and now the dismaying s hour of waiting. And Ruth could not i wait. She felt sure something was 1 wrong. Some sympathetic chord rang i its warning to her heart. She could .not ! rest. There was a telephone number on Mrs. Mendrayle's card and she rang it up. Yes—Mrs. Mendrayle was at home. She had been going north, but owing to a taxi accident had returned. It was she who spoke. Ruth, blushing at her ; own temerity, put the question. Mr.— : Mr. Hartford was wanted urgently. : Could Mrs. Mendraylc give any clue as to where be had gone? The speaker knew he had left home as a result of her call. There was a pause —then the response. j ''You are Mr. Hartford's secretary?" Ruth hesitated, then answered in the affirmative. What did it matter? And Mrs. Mendrayle was giving an address— without a name. No. 4, Crayson S_, Barford Road—on private business. With a few disconnected words of thanks, Ruth rang off. What was she going to do? Would Mr. Hartford—Noel—resent her interference? Would he believe in this hideous presentiment? The latter was growing stronger, too —and it was getting late. Ruth acted as nine girls out of ten would have done. Dressing quickly, she called a taxi and gave that . address. At least she would learn if a] visitor had come there. And she was sure the business was connected with Rosie Blaylock. The door was opened by a thin, tiredlooking woman, with the kindest of ' faces. She did not appear over eager ' to open to* a visitor, but seemed relieved to see the lady outside. j "You'll have come about the girl," she! said. " ', Ruth jumped swiftly to a conclusion. ' "Rosie Blaylock," " she said. The; woman nodded. "I don't know who you are—but ; you're a lady," she said. "And I'm glad j you've come. The poor child was just ] going off—Heaven knows where. I was out this afternoon when a gentleman ] called—he seemed to have frightened! Rosie to death. Leastways, when I , came in she'd packed up her bits and ' was just off, saying she dared not wait as someone was fetching her lover to her from home. She had worked herself up to a frenzy pretty near; but she's not gone, and I was just going to try to talk sense to her when your knock came. She's in the back room if you'll walk through." And Ruth obeyed. No need to ques- ; tion so far. Evidently Noel had been here—and had gone in search of Tom. Man-like, too, he had bungled the busi-1 ness, and, but for Ruth's coming, might have missed his object. If only she could ; help now when they had gone thus far: in their object. Ruth could hardly' believe she should really find Rosie there in that back room—yet it was pretty wayward, sorrowing Rosie who stood there, dressed in coat and hat, ! cowering back as though she wanted, to hide. • , She gave a little cry of pitiful welcome and relief at sight of Ruth, and the latter went to her at once, putting her arms about her. "You poor little Rose-girl," she whis-_ pered. "You poor little lass."

Rosie clung to her, sobbing out the I story of Noel Fexton's coming, and how, j after, he had gone for Tom. She had had a panic, fearing her lover would come and murder her. She was terrified of the meeting, and j refused to listen to Ruth's urging that j Tom would be her thankful, welcoming J lover. ! " She won't stay here, Miss," said ! Rosic-s kind protectress, joining the two girls. " She'll be up and out as soon as your back's turned and what shall I be doing? I can't keep her by force." "You don't know. Tom! He couldn't forgive mc," sobbed Rosie. " I'm sure Mr. Hartford's a saint, being so good to mc, but Tom could never forgive." " There's only one thing to be done," said poor Ruth. " You must come back with mc to Park Lane, Rosie, and hear what Mr. Hartford has to say when he returns. He won't be long—and he will be able to tell you just what Tom says. Won't you come, dear —with mc?" And Rosie came. Sobbing her gratitude, contradicting herself a dozen imes, but ready to yield to this quietly letermined friend. It was not an hour ifter they had left the house in Crayion Street that Tom Burr arrived—to >c greeted with the news that Rosie Blaylock was no longer there! (To be continued next Saturday.)