MY LANDLADY’S STORY.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIII, Issue IX, 26 August 1899, Page 10

MY LANDLADY’S STORY.

THE HARD CASE OF MR. BUMPUS. By Douglas Grant. "You ain't what 1 should call a great eater, sir,” 1 nodded assent over my newspaper, while Mrs. J oppies folded the table napkin with her usual deliberation. “No, you ain't what I should call a great eater. Why, I've 'ad gentlemen a-staying in these rooms as would eat three times what you eat. Reg'lar gorments. Y'ou couldn’t never satisfy 'em. No more a butcher’s shop couldn't. But you ain't that sort. sir. Nor the Little Gentlemen upstairs, he ain't. Truth is truth. The Little Gentlemen ain't a gorment. I knows what he is—he’s a schoolmaster. That’s what the Little Gentlemen is, though he do talk with a voice that big it crowds you out of the room on to the landin’. No, he ain't a gorment, the Little Gentlemen ain't, but what he do 'ave he do ’ave.” I said that I was glad to hear it was no worse. "No, it ain't no worse than that, sir. What the Little Gentlemen do 'ave he do 'ave. But he ain’t nothin’ to Mr. Bumpus what used to 'ave these rooms. A tall gentlemen Mr. Bumpus were, with sandy whiskers, in the Post Office, and bald on the top. Truth is truth. He were the regia rest gentleman I ever 'ad •However are you always so regia r. Mr. Bumpus?’ I used to say. ’However would you get your letters reglar if 1 weren't reglar, Mrs. Jopples?’ That's what he reglar used to answer. And nobody wouldn't believe what that man couldn't eat. Two pork chops and three eggs, not to say sassages. That were his breakfast reglar, unless it were 'am and eggs and mutting chops. He were reglar in all his 'abits, were Mr. Bumpus, reglar to the last.” At this point Mrs. Jopples had packed all the dinner dishes on the tray, and her voice had suddenly become very solemn. "Then this Mr. Bumpus died?” I asked, hoping to make an end. “Not to say died." replied Mrs. Jopples, as she glaneed severely at two blots of grease on the tablecloth: "not to go so far as to say died. He were too reglar in his habits, were Mr. Bumpus, not to speak of his dinner on Sunday, which were a cut off of the joint and a rolly-poly and a happle-tart along of cheese and a bottle of ale. Which he paid me a sixpence hextra. that bein' his ’abit.” "Then he didn't die.” Mrs. Jopples did not reply for a moment. All her attention was directed to the careful folding of the table cloth. She used her chin in the operation, as well as her two hands. "No. sir." she replied at length. "I shouldn't go for to say die. To my thinkin 'it were worse than that. Truth is truth. What aksffially happened" (here she whispered mysteriously) "were this: Mr. Bumpus were carried off. reglarly carried off. and married." Mrs. Jopples glared at me as if I were the author of this unholy deed. "Was he ill?" I asked. “Yes. sir. He were that ill he forgot to stick the side hairs aerost his bald top that mornin', which it were his 'abit. ‘Here is the keb.’ I says, ’and whatever are you lookin’ so white for. Mr. Bumpus?' The pore gentleman were a-restlin' with his gloves, which was lavender and tight. •I feels white. Mrs. Jopples.’ he says, very solemn, ‘I feels white.’ ‘And you a-goin' to the halter to meet your bride?’ I says, with a old shoe ready to 'eave over his ’ead. ‘Yes, I'm goin' to the halter to meet my bride. Mrs. Jopples.’ and he smiled that melancholic it gave me a turn. "Then he didn't want to get married ?” “No. sir. Not no more than the child what was never born. Mr. Bumpus didn’t. I see his white face yet, and him a-wavin' of his ’and when the keb druv off. Truth is truth. I was all of a tremble, which the shoe in my pocket was the one I was married in myself. And there was Jopples a-gr'inin’ over the banisters when 1 come in from the door. •Whatever are you a-laughin’ at?’ I savs. ‘An old titan like you ought to know better.’ ‘Ain’t I not allowed to laugh?’ he says. ‘No, you ain’t, Joseph Jopples.’ I says, 'not at a funeral, you ain’t’ ”

“ So that was the end of Mr Bumpus ?” “ Lor’ bless you, sir, that were only the beginnin*. He never knew he were born until he were married, Mr Bumpus didn’t. ’Cos why ? ’Cos he never meant no more than friendship, he bein’ a man of reglar 'abits. I dessay he had passed his word. Leastways the old woman said if he didn't marry her daughter she would bring him into the court, there bein’ letters and a ring. And you know what that means when you're in the Post Office, sir. Mr Bumpus would have lost his job. It was lose his job or marry the gal, she bein' high-complected, and her ginger hair done up like a teapot.”

" Then you have seen the girl ?” “ Yes, sir; all I wants to see of her. They live Brixton way, and the first Bank ’Oliday after he was married. Mr Bumpus came here for his outing, a-bringing of his wife with him. 1 think I see him a-setting on that chair where you are now, sir, and the gal were on the sofer, which I never asked her to take off her 'at. ‘ Many a happy hour I have spent in this here chair,’ says Mr Bumpus, ‘ and the old clock ticks along just as it used to tick, and the stuffed bird under the glass shade. These were the happy days.’ ‘ But I am sure you're happy now. George,’ says the gal. ‘ Leastways. you ought to be, now you’re married.’ ‘ That’s all right,’ he says. ' 1 ain't makin' no complaint, but you can’t cook a chop like Mrs Jopples done.’ Them were his very words—■you can't cook a ehop like Mrs Jopples done.’ ‘ Chops isn't everything,’ she says, a-tossing of her head. ‘No, they ain’t,’ Mr Bumpus says very solemn. ‘ there's sassages. I ain’t never got sassages browned like Mrs Jopples browned 'em since I had ’em off that table.’ Them was his very words, he bein' a scholard what could read the outside of letters like a bool:.”

“ It doesn’t sound as if it were a happy marriage, Mrs Jopples." “ My idear is, sir, that it were all sound without a ha'porth of sense to it. Mr Bumpus, you see, were a musicianer. leastways, he thought he could sing. And that ginger-haired gal could tickle a little toon out of a planner. ‘ Maria r is a fine ’companyist,' he says to me one night. ‘ Very good. Mr Bumpus.’ I says, ‘ but don’t you go to let her 'company you too far. Gals never knows where to stop.’ Truth is truth. I never could a-bear Mr Bumpus's singing, no more Jopples couldn’t. ‘ He’s at it again.’ Joseph would say ‘ a-growling like a menagerie.’ Then we would have a little sparrin’ match. ‘ You’re jealous. Joseph Jopples,’ I would say. ‘ ’Cos why ? ’Cos you ain’t got chest-notes like them.’ Then he would up and say : ‘ If I had notes in my chest like them. Sarah Jopples. Td lock 'em up and sit on the lid.’ ”

I laughed. “And do you ever hear from the young people now ?”

“Not never a word. sir. ’Cos why ? ’Cos Mr Bumpus have bolted. Yes. sir, reglarly bolted. No later that last Monday the woman as done his shirts come to me and she says. ‘ Where is Mr Bumpus ?’ she says as sharp as mustard. ‘ I ain’t got ’im under a glass shade,’ I says. ‘ Wish yer had.’ she says. ' then I should sell ’im for all he’s worth. Which it ain’t much. Why. he’s sloped, regarly sloped.’ ‘ Not Mr Bumpus !’ ‘ Yes, Air Bumpus, and took every stick. Leastways, he’s left the door and half of Brixton ahammerin’ at it for their money.’ Yes, sir. it were a bad finish. But what could you expect of a ginger-haired gal what couldn’t brown sassages ? It were bound to come to a slope. Yes. sir. thank you, sir.”

She was gone, and the clock on the mantelpiece, beloved of the errant Mr Bumpus, ticked audibly.