Sawn Off Part 22

"What is the good of talking like this?" said Max, leaning over to whisper to his visitor.

"Hey? What's the good? A deal--does you good. I say, Max, I've often thought that you might be tempted to get me killed--by accident, of course. It is tempting, I know. You'd feel as if the old slate with the nasty writing on was wiped clean with a sponge. But it would be so ugly for such a good man to be exposed to such a temptation, and uglier still to add the crime of side-blow murder to his other sins. So do you know what I've done to save you from temptation?"

There was a curious malignity of expression in the old man's face as, with a chuckling laugh, he asked his question and saw its effect.

"No! What?" exclaimed Max, in agony.

"Well, I've written it all down neatly on paper--not on a slate; and I've deposited it with my will."

"Where?"

"Ah, yes, that's another thing. Where it would be opened and read directly I was dead. Ha! ha! ha! Max, what an _expose_ that would be!

But don't be nervous, man, and look so white. It wouldn't be a hanging matter." Max stretched across the table, and laid his hand upon his visitor's lips; but the old man thrust his chair back, gave the hand a sharp rap with his stick, and Max shrank back in his chair.

"It isn't, I say, a hanging matter. But I say, Max, old fellow, I should look sharp after that boy Fred. Don't let him get into temptation. Like father, like son. Now, Tom--"

"Curse Tom!" cried Max, biting his nails.

"Not I," laughed the old man. "He isn't so bad; and you curse him quite often enough, you know. Ah, Max, what a blessing and relief it must be to you that you have reformed so, and become such a good, pious man!"

Max raised his hands.

"One of those dear, good creatures," chuckled the old fellow, "who go through life saying `Have mercy upon us miserable sinners,' and then feel so happy. Not a bit of the Pharisee about you, Max--all humble Publican. I say, why don't you build a church or a chapel? That's the proper thing to do. `Publican' put me in mind of it. It's what the brewers and distillers do. Make fortunes out of the vice and misery of the people, and then buy a seat in the heavenly Parliament by building a church--"

"My dear Hopper," began Max.

"And endowing it."

"Will you listen to me, Hopper?"

"They think they can cheat G.o.d with their sham repentance. Ha! ha!

ha!--it's a rare joke, 'pon my word. Now, you know, Max, I'm just such a fool in my way, for I get thinking He'd have more respect for an honest old reprobate like me. But we shall see, Max, when we die--when we die; when you die, and the gravedigger puts you to bed with a shovel."

A spasm seemed to shoot across the other's face at these last words.

"I am an out-and-out bad one, you know, Max. I never go to chapel and hold the plate--never dip a little out of it, Max, in the vestry!"

"Man, are you the Devil?" muttered Max.

"Yes, if you like."

"Then you are not deaf!" cried Max triumphantly.

"Honestly; but I can read your lips as well as your heart, my dear friend. Devil? Because I know about that ugly bit of forgery for which you ought to have served your time."

"Will you be silent?" cried Max, with an agonised look at the door.

"No," said the other coolly. "Devil because I saw through the Uncle Rounce business? Perhaps I am," he continued, as he saw Max wince, "for I never believed in the Excelsior game--to go up higher--because it's so cold. I'm not a pure-minded man, Max, but would rather stay in the valley, and lay my head on the nice, pleasant, plump young woman's breast--so comfortable and cosy and warm. Eh, you dog--eh?"

He poked Max with his stick as he spoke, and then chuckled at the other's horrified air.

"I'm no cackle-spinner, like you, Max; I never went through the world saying it was all vanity and vexation of spirit, and a vale of tears; and howled hymns, declaring that I was sick of it, and wanted to die and get out of it as soon as I could, because it was such a wicked, wretched place. I never told people I had a call, like you did; and played shepherd in a white choker, and went and delivered addresses to the lost lambs outside the fold."

"They'll hear you in the outer office," cried Max vainly, for Hopper went on:--

"Because I was always a wolf, and liked the world, and thought it very beautiful, and loved it; and when I caught a lost lamb I took him and ate him right off, because it was my nature. Not like you, my gentle shepherd, who, of course without any vanity or self-interest, coaxed the lambs into the fold; and when you killed one, you had him nicely dressed with mint sauce. Eh, Max? mint sauce--the tap out of the barrels that they take into the bank."

"Are you mad?" exclaimed Max, at last.

"Mad as a hatter," said the old fellow, grinning; "that's why I chose the wrong way. Not like you. Ah, Max, when we both die, what a beautiful plump cherub you'll make up aloft there, and what an ugly old sinner I shall be down below! How sorry you'll be for me, won't you?"

"Pray, let us bring this interview to an end," gasped Max.

"No hurry," said Hopper. "I told you I was bilious when you were spinning that bunch of seals of yours. This is all bile. I'm getting rid of it. I shall be better afterwards. I have not had a go at you for a twelvemonth. I haven't half done yet. I'm not a pithy man, like you--more pith than heart--but long-winded. Ah, I'm a wicked old wretch, ain't I, and always turned a deaf ear to what was good?"

"But I am busy," pleaded Max.

"So am I," said Hopper, chuckling, and giving a box on the table a poke with his stick--"busy giving you a taste of my bile.--What have you got there, my pious old saint? `Donations for the debt fund of St Ursula's Church.' Ah! that's a pretty respectable way of doing things--that is.

Church in debt. Built up, I'll be bound, with fal-lals and fancy work and stained gla.s.s, and a quire inside--twenty-four sheets to wrap up singing men and boys. Now, look here, Max: if I built a place and hadn't money to pay for it, you'd call me a rogue."

"Shall we try and transact the bit of business you came about?" said Max humbly.

"Presently," said Hopper, who was now wound up, and determined to go on.

"Ah, Max, you don't know what a wicked old man I've grown," he continued, with a sly twinkle in his eye. "But you see I can preach morality--my fashion."

"We shall never agree upon such points," said Max wearily.

"Of course not, till you convert me, Max. I'm a brand for the burning, Max. Why don't you try and save me? Teach me to sing some of those nice hymns you know by heart--`Fain would I leave this weary world.'

Bah! How many would fain? Who made it weary? Who filled the beautiful world full of diseases and death and wickedness? Humbugs, sir--humbugs.

I'm an old worldling, and I was put here in the world, and the longer I live the more beautiful I find it; and I don't want to leave it, even to carry your secret with me, friend Max Shingle. I mean to live as long as I can, taking my share of the bad as bitter to make the good sweet; and when it's time to set sail for the other land, I mean to go like a man, and say `Thank G.o.d for it all. Amen!' There's a wicked old reprobate for you, Max. Why don't you try to convert this old scoundrel, eh? Ah! I'm a bad one--a regular bad one--hopelessly lost.

And now I've got rid of all my bile, and feel better, get out your cheque-book."

Max rose with a sigh, unlocked the iron safe in the corner, and took out a cheque-book and laid it upon a table.

"I can very ill spare this, John Hopper," he said. "Five pounds are five pounds now."

"Always were, stupid!" said the old fellow. "Dear me, how much better I can hear to-day! Got rid of all that bile," he added, considering.

"But don't you draw that for five pounds. Make it ten."

"Ten pounds!" gasped Max.

"Yes. Five extra for your conscience. You don't suppose your poor conscience is going to preach to you, as it has to-day, for nothing?"

"But--" commenced Max.

"Ten pounds, you goodly saint--you man after Heaven's own heart--you halo-promised piece of piety and man of heavenly manna!" cried Hopper.

"Make it ten pounds directly, O smooth-faced piece of benignity, or I shall want twenty in less than a minute."