OTHER MEN'S SHOES.

Auckland Star, Volume LVII, Issue 144, 19 June 1926, Page 34

OTHER MEN'S SHOES.

By MAT WYNNE.

CHAPTER XXIII

Black Liz, cursing and whining, shrank back, trying to wriggle free -of that detaining hand. But Tilda meant to have her say first—and she had it. Black Liz listened to a highly coloured sketch of her own past, and squirmed and cursed furiously. But it was no use, Tilda had the last word before she allowed the other to escape. She knew Black Liz would do. no more spying on the kid upstairs. The woman's mouth was shut fast enough, with the dread lest this sturdy young woman, with muscular arms and burning speech should be repeating a story to Ivy Court at large. Tilda went her way reeling that she had done a good evening's work. She could afford to wait now for Ginger to play his part. Ginger, being a man, would not be rushing things. It meant waiting till to-morrow evening. Quite right! Tilda's day with the pickles was a trying one. She could not be the same saucy, devil-may-care young woman that she was as a rule. It seemed remarkably easy to quarrel with her own shadow! —and, before evening her own closest pals were giving her a wide berth.

" Tilda's got the fair old _mp," was Lottie Elton's summing up. *' Comes of bavin' too many blokes. Serve 'er right! She'll get done in one of these days if she's not careful?" Tildaheard and smiled.. It was the superior smile of a girl who knew the speaker had never possessed a bloke in her life!

And she herself was not wasting time hanging around after hours that evening. Straight home she went and set the supper. It was a cold night— bitter, raw cold to eat into the marrow, but it was warm enough in the little unaired, overcrowded room which fairly reeked of the onions Tilda lavishly flung into the stew. Alf would be hungry—so would George. And George appreciated Tilda's cooking. The stew was extra tasty in consequence. But there was a small furrow between Tilda's brows as she heard the men entering below.

There was plenty of talking going on, and . . yes, she could guess right away what the shouting meant.

Alf had bee,n visiting the Peacock. He did not often indulge that x way, though this was the second time of late that he had come in fuddled. Last time he excused himself on the plea of having to treat Orator Bill. Tilda slopped the contents of the saucepan into a large pie dish, and set it on the table. It was all rough and ready here, seeing she was at work all day. Then she waited: The two men entered boisterously. It was Alf who wanted to be noisy, George was restraining him. The latter shot a quick look at Tilda as he kicked-to the door. • "Alf's bocn meetiii' a friend or two," he explained, '"and wanted to drink to your, "ealth. We all had to 'blidge. I hope you don't mind mc comin' in ?" " Chuck it," grunted Alf, "an' set down. Supper ready. Same old stew. That's Tilda's great idea. I don' mind. Give mc mc pint of bitter an' it'll wash it all down. Stands to sense the girl can't do everythink. She's the goods. Ha, ha. You can get on wif your weddin' scwin', Tilda. It's all goin' to be fixed up. I'm the chap to look after things. Don't say I don't put my sister first."

"You stop it, Alf," smiled Tilda, taking her cue from Ginger's whispered hints. "The stew's good, enough. Look at George. . He's got no grouse agains' it, have you, Georgie" And she laid her hand on Ginger's shoulder. Alf stared suspiciously, and muttered. Ginger had taken that hand and squeezed it as he looked up into the girl's face: "You wait till I get the 'appy 'omc. Tilda," he began. But Alf interrupted with an oath, banging his fist on the table: . "You stop.it, Ginger," he threatened, "hands off. Tilda's not the goods for you. ' You can" fetch round ydur own Judy. I tell you Tilda's booked. She's marryin" a torf. You-know 'im— so do I. Heard of Algernon?" "Pooh!" mocked Ginger, "Who's Algernon? Where's Algernon? Why, he's cut his hook. Left 'is., job. Left 'is b'longings. Left 'is rent unpyde. A swell mobsman, that was what Algernon was. You won't see 'im again. "Won't I," snorted Alf, as his sister slipped into her seat. "Won't I? You don't know everythink, Ginger. Why. I see Algernon this very day. I'll sae'im to-morrow, an' the next day. too. Got a cracked 'cad, has but it's the sorter crack to let common sense in. 'E'llmarry Tilda—and Tilda shall marry 'im.' Wot's wrong wif Tilda? Ain't she i handsome enough to make a Duchess? Ain't she clever enough to entertain Royalty same as them other Labour M.P.'s wives? Course she, is! And a Duchess she'll be, wif di'monds in her 'air and silks an' satins to dress 'er. I tell you it's all for Tilda, my sister Tilda." - • Tilda's face was flushing, her eyes sparkled, even though she laughed. "None of your nonsense, Alf,".she advised, "I'll be marrying ' Gedrg-i here. Algernon's gone. ' 'E won't be round again, and I ain't taki'n' on- as any eld maid." -.-.,. ...

"Don't you be a fool," retorted Alt', splashing his fork in the gravy. "I tell you solemn, Algernon's ere. He's got a cracked *cad. Ts own bloomin'' fault! Sue Bertain'll tell you the symo. We 'ad a round—-a bit of a flare, up, an' over he goes, knockin' his brains pretty nearly out on the floor. - *B's safe as houses is Algernon—and it's a scoop. Special license, pityin' friend—sympathiser; gettin" her own 'cart broke over the job. Leave it to you, Tilda. You'll be movin,' around. When it's fixed well be leavin' the Alley. You'll leave pickles an' start iwearin' a coronet: Snakes! It's w_th ia bit of'plarinin'." v " "That's onuff nonsense," replied Tilda, tartly. "You eat up yoiir supper;, an' I'll make you a cupVtea. You've bee:i boozin'. "Wot's put coronets inter your Jiead?" It's just fool-talk." She didn't look at George—but *she was wondering if the latter understood the allusion to Mrs. Bertain's. It didn't do to press Alf for too clear an account, but Tilda knew how many beans made fire. She. could have, tolcL you off the reel'that Alf and Algernon* had had,a scrap and that the latter 3ay injured at Sue Bertain's in Quirk Street. She hoped Ginger would not grasp these facts, top. He didn't seem to be listening too intently. His stew absorbed his attention. • Ginger was evidently hungry!

1 Not,so Alf! He was opening a hottle of beer, and regardless of feeble protest began to drink. He was getting excited —but not quarrelsome.. Instead, he seemed to be triumphing, over some success, s He drank huskily to Tilda's health, and then took up his challenge. "Fool talk is it, mc girl?" he asked. "Fool talk. Say it agyne? I'll say it. Fool talk. That's all you know. I'm

a cute bird. No mistakin' what I'm after. Ever seen that phiz before? Ever seen 'im now?"

He tugged at an envelope in an inner pocket and flung it across to his sister. Inside was a photo cut from the stiff pages of an illustrated weekly.' Alf, leering, set his two elbows on the table —more properly one elbow was planted firmly in the centre of his stew —and watched Tilda as she jerked out the paper. Yes—she might gape! Eyes and mouth might well open to their fullest extent. Some game this. Alf Togskins was no fool, and he had spent hours as well as money before he collected the photo of the Duke of Delcourt in hunting kit, standing beside his horse just'outside his castle gates.

"Well?" repeated Alf, "ever seen that uan'sum gent before? Duke of Delcourt. That's what's written plain., Duchess of. Delcourt—that might be written plainer. No mistake. I set by Algernon when tae fever went to ..'is noddle and heard him give 'is orders for the motor to fetch along 'er ladyship. Swank! Should say so. And that's Al-ger-non . . .

who's goin' to marry my sister Tilda."

No, 'c can't, burst forth Ginger.

. Poor Ginger! He had seen Tilda's quick "blushes, her dawning smile, her admiring glance at the picture, and he guessed what'sort of struggle'was going on! Tilda was human after all—and—confident that Algernon might be won by the trickery of combined wits—was picturing what that winning would mean. A Duchess! A real Duchess, living in a castle and riding in a motor car. Dazzling pictures of diamonds and fur coats, bowing servants, and boundless luxury filled our Tilda's vision—-to the exclusive, alas! of poor despairing Ginger, who, watching, guessed with the keen intuition of a lover what that little dimpling smile meant. Tilda was yielding to the whisper of ambition. A most alluring whisper which banished other whispers of true love for Ginger George, and loyalty to little Nonnie Grenvanc. A Duchess! The wife of a real life Duke! A handsome young man too, gay and merry, easily—er—ruled. And to live in a castle! To keep servants galore . . . and wear a diamond crown. Surely . . no sacrifice could be too great to attain such a goal.

Tilda looked up and met Gingers passionate glance. Her checks crimsoned, but 'her laugh was impatient.

"There's no need to eat mc, George," she protested, "jus' because I was likin' to look at a friend's portrait. He's all right, is Algernon. I knew what sort of breed he was. No mistyke. He's a proper duke. An', after all, he ain't gone away. Pore old Algernon! You oughtcr he ashymed of yourself, Alf Togskins." She spoke the last words sharply, whilst, rising, she pushed back liter chair. , , - J . , " You might have told mc before where the pore chap lay sick," she added complainingly. " A pretty sort of plyce for any decent fellow to be a-bed. I'll be round there in the mornin'." She spoke her mind out, forgetting Ginger, and bit her lip as he came up to say good-night. He hadn't a "word to say—good or bad—but he took his kiss masterfully. This evening there was no response on the girl's part. She even shrank away, whilst Alf snarlingly told him to keep off the grass. Tilda was not the goods for him. George didn't contradict. He looked at Tilda and she looked away—down on the table where the Duke of Delcourt's photo lay. ," Time I was mo.vin'," said George, |and away he stumbled. Hi*" seemed ■shakier on his pins now than Alf, though he had had nothing stronger ! than tea with his supper. Tilda picked up the photo when he had gone and made some excuse to go off to bed. Her mood was uncertain and -prickly. S'je thought hard' of Castles and diamonds and fur coats. . . whilst Alf, alone in' the dirty little sitting-room, dreamed of the day when he should be Prime Minister. Their dreams might have been less golden had either of them followed Ginger George as he turned briskly in the direction of Quirk Street, hurrying on till he stopped before the door of Ma Bertain's house. For Ginger George had a sound maxim about not waiting for the piorrow when a job is crying to be done overnight. And his business seemed to him of the greatest importance. Possibly Robert Fexton—alias Algernon—alias the Duke of Delcourt—might think so^too! CHAPTER XXIV. Noel Fexton opened his eyes. Stiff and chilled though he was in his uncomfortable position, he had actually dozed off—-worn out by anxiety' and emotion. An electric torch-light was flashed in his face, and a hand gripped his shoulder. "You'll have to come along quietly," said a husky voice in his ear. "You'll only make it bad for yourself, mister, if you start hollerin*. We ain't- taking any risks." Fexton struggled up. He was dazed and stupid with the unrefrcshing sleep, his brain worked slowly. "Has;. Burr come back?" he asked peering forward to discern the faces of the men beside him. These were the two who had trapped him in the house opposite the Cat and Fiddle, and his heart misgave-him.

"It's near on midnight," one of them replied,, with an oath, "and Burr won't be back.now. There's only one reading of. that. He's left you for us to deal with. The Chief— decide. We ain't kindly-disposed to the chap who spies on honest men who have cause to complain of their treatment by those who should know better. Come along, mister. We'll leave it to the Chief."

There was no choice about it.. Fcxton had to obey. And he knew what he was up against. He had attended hundreds of such meetings, had even spoken at several of them in his younger days. But he had learned to avoid them for years. They were not Socialists seeking reform, but men who, being raised their hand against every kind of law. Mingled in their ranks, however, was many a Tom Burr. Men who had gone under and become derelict through ill-fortune and their own weakness— and, without being active!/ vicious, were bitter or despairing.

Fexton looked round the crowded saloon, as .he was thrust forward by his captors, to where an oldish man, with a lean, worried face, stood on a low platform. Here, he was—branded as police spy by men for whese salvation he had prayed. It was an' irony of fate which struck.the idealist hard. The "Chief" was still speaking, and the two men who guarded Fexton waited for him to conclude. • It was the usual thin wail of unjust accusation against all better placed in life than themselves, and as Fexton listened he realised more and more plainly how. unjns.t. such class bitterness was. He was learning lessons as he .stood there, realising the experiences of past lortg weeks, which had already merged, into months. When it was over the clock was ' striking twelve, and the company ready to disperse, when the whisper spread through the room.

A spy! A spy for the police, caught listening so that he might accuse honest men of disloyalty and treason. The Chicf —more worried and wearied still, yet almost spiteful in his resentment —beckoned for Fexton to step upon the platform. "A spy!" ran the murmurs. "A spy! Wantin'" to set the coppers on us! Wantin' to wipe us out! A spy!" There were some ugly names called, and ugly threats made. The chief called for order, but there was some evil spirit of savagery ready to ripen and flame amongst the ranks. The two unruly members were telling a highlycoloured tale of what Fexton's game was. There might be trouble. The chief himself realised that, and sweated over it. He was a coward when it came to talk of violence. He talked loudly—yet at heart was a whiner. Only his own tragic history gave him the authority he possessed. He was no born ruler —and his lieutenants swept him along the paths he dreaded. "There may be truth in the tale, but I doubt it," he shouted. "Keep steady lads. We're not going to be fooled. Some folk • arc always ready to cry "Wolf!' We'll see to this. You —char, —you —what's your tale? What was your game?" "He's a police spy," yelped the foreigner, "you can't let him go. It's him or us. You can ship him to —" He did not conclude—but laughed significantly. "No murder," snarled the chief, paling. "And likely as not it's a mare's nest. You tell your own tale, fellow. What's your name?" "Lord Snookc, torf," chaffed a youngster, giggling, and was silenced by an older man. Fexton hesitated. Was he going to givti the name of Hartford? Was he to masquerade—or tell the truth? The situation was critical, the camp divided, It might end in a fight.

"I came to see Tom Burr," he said aloud, "on private business. I'd seen him here before—and I guessed the rest. I've been to such meetings, too, but they didn't concern mc. I wanted to fetch Burr to the girl who is waiting for him. Wasn't that enough?"

He spoke clearly, facing the suspicious audience without flinching, but a voice was raised at once.

"No," it yelped, "it's not enough. What meetings did you attend? You b'long to the bloomin' West End. What's your name? Cough it up, mister, cough it up. You're not sneakin' out so smoove! We want fac's. What's your name?"

Fexton's hands clenched. He was unprepared—irresolute. It would need a genius greater than his own to gauge what effect his next words might have.

If he told them he was the Duke's cousin—Noel Hartford—he would be lying. Lying in a crisis where truth seemed essential. Yet his lips were sealed. He had given his word, gripped hands on a compact to sink his own individuality fora year. And Fexton was sensitive as the most highly bred aristocrat in any matter of honour.

■ A growl which held threat warned him that he must give his answer. Should he call himself by the title he had adopted when he slipped those unwary feet of' his into another man's shoes? Then, all at once, from the other end of the gas-lit saloon, .came' a call—in well-known tones. .

"What—Noel? Noel Fexton. Why— danged to it!—what's all this foolery? Mates! Don't you know Noel Fexton —the chap who fought.the authorities up in Liverpool last year and got a thousand men decent work at a fair wage? What's wrong with Fexton— our No-el?"

The murmurs around rose to a clamour. Some of the men—those poor Tom Burrs of unhappy circumstances— began to cheer and laugh, as, through the crowd, a man forced his way. A big, brown-faced North country man, who reached the platform, and was up on it, too, with an ugly word for the black-eyed foreigner who tried to pull him hack. The tide was turning.

Arthur Agsworthy had gripped Fexton's hand. Noel returned the clasp thankfully enough. Here was the friend in need to whom, maybe, he would be owing his ife.

' But the company was not satisfied yet, since honest men were in the minority.

Again tho insistent cry of the majority prevailed.

Fexton must speak for himself. If he were the young Socialist, who, here in London, remained still unknown— why had he not proclaimed the fact? Still came the question—what was his game?

Fexton looked down on the crowd of faces, upraised, varying with expressions of suspicion, mockery, goodwill—even amusement!

He drew a long breath. The question ol identity had been solved for him. His conscience was clear. A sense of unutterable relief, too, came to him. Would the masquerade end . . after the denoueAll depended on the happenings of the next few hours. He was still in danger. Yet he was no longer afraid.

. Friendly voices had cried his name and helped to send the warm blood of enthusiasm tingling th.-ough bis veins. He would have something to say to these men who hovered so near to their own blacker ruin in the hour of despair. For such he could preach—hope.

"Yes," he said. "I am Noel Fexton. I am the man who helped a thousand friends to honest work in Liverpool. That's the whole case, friends. 11l spend my life if T may in helping friends to honest work. I'll not be coward enough to waste one breath in weakening them by preaching a hopeless doctrine of rebellion and despair. We've got to be honest. That's why I stepped over, nearly three months ago in to the opposite camp. I've been learning things I never knew. I found I was.ignorant where I believed I was wise. I made sure of facts—and had to call them fiction. I'm talking to you straight,"—he flung out his arm towards thfc audience—"l'm talking to vou'of things as they are. I've been behind the scenes and found that the life of at least one aristocrat—whose name is high up in the peerage—is that of no idler and debauchee as some of you chaps picture the lives of his class.

"I have been in his shoes—and found his work too hard for mc! I used to consider I gave my life . to the people. The people with the bi? P. But I found an English Duke playing quite as fine a part without making any talk abou* it. Down where he lives he's:the father of tenants and cottagers', honest working men and women who love and trust him! He doesn't go about with the face of a grumbler who talks of putting the world right, but "he's a joyous boy as well as a strong man in setting his corner in the sunshine. That's what I've learned. It took mc time—and I tell you I didst fit my job. The people didn't trust mc. They wanted someone to look up to—instead of a pal to shake hands with. They missed the man who'was friend and master. I tell you again—his shoes don't fit mc. He's trying°to wear mine—clown East. One day you may hear what he's made of the "job, but he [can't have made such a mess as I have.

(Now —I have the right to ,go._ty. wajr-r. ,to find the man I honour, and give up the task I can't fulfil." This time the clamour rose to a roar. They had listened, those men, in sheer amazement at an astounding tale. The gift of the orator held them as well as his words. Now, they were answering— not as one man—rbut with all the confusion, of lawless beings. Some—those Tom Burrs —had listened and taken the world of hope to themselves, they could cheer the honest speaker and wonder over his tale. But the darker characters were left to snarl and mock, echoing the shout that this Noel Fexton—the man with two faces — j should not be left to go and betray them. I The.chief wavered. Some of the more fiery spirits reached the platform. Two of the lights had been turned out. . when i the piercing note of a whistle startled all into momentary silence, and a man's stentorian tones were heard echoing from the door which had been flung I open. i "Silence!" snouted the voice. 'You know mc, mates! I'm Tom Burr. I've come here . . for the chap whocalls himself Noel Hartford. The man up there on the platform. If you try to stop him coming I" give you warning. There's a. cordon' of police round the house —and' | only one way to prevent yourselves being arrested. I've the Inspector's promise that his men shall leave the place and let all go free to-night so long as Mr. j Hartford comes out safe. Now—are you ■going to play square?" Silence, then a voice cried the challenge. "It's a lie! There's no police. Up on the platform, mates, and bring down the police- spy!" (To be continued on Saturday next.) Mr. W. B. Luke, Willesden Magistrate: An engagement ritfg. is in the nature of ! common property : when the parties are { married.

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