Striking Hard

  Produced by David Widger

  DEEP WATERS

  By W.W. JACOBS

  STRIKING HARD

  "You've what?" demanded Mrs. Porter, placing the hot iron carefully onits stand and turning a heated face on the head of the family.

  "Struck," repeated Mr. Porter; "and the only wonder to me is we've stoodit so long as we have. If I was to tell you all we've 'ad to put up withI don't suppose you'd believe me."

  "Very likely," was the reply. "You can keep your fairy-tales for themthat like 'em. They're no good to me."

  "We stood it till flesh and blood could stand it no longer," declared herhusband, "and at last we came out, shoulder to shoulder, singing. Thepeople cheered us, and one of our leaders made 'em a speech."

  "I should have liked to 'ave heard the singing," remarked his wife. "Ifthey all sang like you, it must ha' been as good as a pantermime! Do youremember the last time you went on strike?"

  "This is different," said Mr. Porter, with dignity.

  "All our things went, bit by bit," pursued his wife, "all the money wehad put by for a rainy day, and we 'ad to begin all over again. What arewe going to live on? O' course, you might earn something by singing inthe street; people who like funny faces might give you something! Whynot go upstairs and put your 'ead under the bed-clothes and practise abit?"

  Mr. Porter coughed. "It'll be all right," he said, confidently. "Ourcommittee knows what it's about; Bert Robinson is one of the bestspeakers I've ever 'eard. If we don't all get five bob a week more I'lleat my 'ead."

  "It's the best thing you could do with it," snapped his wife. She tookup her iron again, and turning an obstinate back to his remarks resumedher work.

  Mr. Porter lay long next morning, and, dressing with comfortableslowness, noticed with pleasure that the sun was shining. Visions of agood breakfast and a digestive pipe, followed by a walk in the fresh air,passed before his eyes as he laced his boots. Whistling cheerfully hewent briskly downstairs.

  It was an October morning, but despite the invigorating chill in the airthe kitchen-grate was cold and dull. Herring-bones and a disorderlycollection of dirty cups and platters graced the table. Perplexed andangry, he looked around for his wife, and then, opening the back-door,stood gaping with astonishment. The wife of his bosom, who should havehad a bright fire and a good breakfast waiting for him, was sitting on abox in the sunshine, elbows on knees and puffing laboriously at acigarette.

  "Susan!" he exclaimed.

  Mrs. Porter turned, and, puffing out her lips, blew an immense volume ofsmoke. "Halloa!" she said, carelessly.

  "Wot--wot does this mean?" demanded her husband.

  Mrs. Porter smiled with conscious pride. "I made it come out of my nosejust now," she replied. "At least, some of it did, and I swallowed therest. Will it hurt me?"

  "Where's my breakfast?" inquired the other, hotly. "Why ain't thekitchen-fire alight? Wot do you think you're doing of?"

  "I'm not doing anything," said his wife, with an aggrieved air. "I'm onstrike."

  Mr. Porter reeled against the door-post. "Wot!" he stammered. "Onstrike? Nonsense! You can't be."

  "O, yes, I can," retorted Mrs. Porter, closing one eye and ministering toit hastily with the corner of her apron. "Not 'aving no Bert Robinson todo it for me, I made a little speech all to myself, and here I am."

  She dropped her apron, replaced the cigarette, and, with her hands on herplump knees, eyes him steadily.

  "But--but this ain't a factory," objected the dismayed man; "and, besides--I won't 'ave it!"

  Mrs. Porter laughed--a fat, comfortable laugh, but with a touch ofhardness in it.

  "All right, mate," she said, comfortably. "What are you out on strikefor?"

  "Shorter hours and more money," said Mr. Porter, glaring at her.

  His wife nodded. "So am I," she said. "I wonder who gets it first?"

  She smiled agreeably at the bewildered Mr. Porter, and, extracting apaper packet of cigarettes from her pocket, lit a fresh one at the stubof the first.

  "That's the worst of a woman," said her husband, avoiding her eye andaddressing a sanitary dustbin of severe aspect; "they do things withoutthinking first. That's why men are superior; before they do a thing theylook at it all round, and upside down, and--and--make sure it can bedone. Now, you get up in a temper this morning, and the first thing youdo--not even waiting to get my breakfast ready first--is to go on strike.If you'd thought for two minutes you'd see as 'ow it's impossible for youto go on strike for more than a couple of hours or so."

  "Why?" inquired Mrs. Porter.

  "Kids," replied her husband, triumphantly. "They'll be coming 'ome fromschool soon, won't they? And they'll be wanting their dinner, won'tthey?"

  "That's all right," murmured the other, vaguely.

  "After which, when night comes," pursued Mr. Porter, "they'll 'ave to beput to bed. In the morning they'll 'ave to be got up and washed anddressed and given their breakfast and sent off to school. Then there'sshopping wot must be done, and beds wot must be made."

  "I'll make ours," said his wife, decidedly. "For my own sake."

  "And wot about the others?" inquired Mr. Porter.

  "The others'll be made by the same party as washes the children, andcooks their dinner for 'em, and puts 'em to bed, and cleans the 'ouse,"was the reply.

  "I'm not going to have your mother 'ere," exclaimed Mr. Porter, withsudden heat. "Mind that!"

  "I don't want her," said Mrs. Porter. "It's a job for a strong, healthyman, not a pore old thing with swelled legs and short in the breath."

  "Strong--'ealthy--man!" repeated her husband, in a dazed voice."Strong--'eal---- Wot are you talking about?"

  Mrs. Porter beamed on him. "You," she said, sweetly.

  There was a long silence, broken at last by a firework display ofexpletives. Mrs. Porter, still smiling, sat unmoved.

  "You may smile!" raved the indignant Mr. Porter. "You may sit theresmiling and smoking like a--like a man, but if you think that I'm goingto get the meals ready, and soil my 'ands with making beds and washing-up,you're mistook. There's some 'usbands I know as would set about you!"

  Mrs. Porter rose. "Well, I can't sit here gossiping with you all day,"she said, entering the house.

  "Wot are you going to do?" demanded her husband, following her.

  "Going to see Aunt Jane and 'ave a bit o' dinner with her," was thereply. "And after that I think I shall go to the 'pictures.' If you 'avebloaters for dinner be very careful with little Jemmy and the bones."

  "I forbid you to leave this 'ouse !" said Mr. Porter, in a thrillingvoice. "If you do you won't find nothing done when you come home, andall the kids dirty and starving."

  "Cheerio!" said Mrs. Porter.

  Arrayed in her Sunday best she left the house half an hour later. Aglance over her shoulder revealed her husband huddled up in a chair inthe dirty kitchen, gazing straight before him at the empty grate.

  He made a hearty breakfast at a neighbouring coffee-shop, and, returninghome, lit the fire and sat before it, smoking. The return of the fourchildren from school, soon after midday, found him still wrestling withthe difficulties of the situation. His announcement that their motherwas out and that there would be no dinner was received at first instupefied silence. Then Jemmy, opening his mouth to its widest extent,acted as conductor to an all-too-willing chorus.

  The noise was unbearable, and Mr. Porter said so. Pleased with thetribute, the choir re-doubled its efforts, and Mr. Porter, vociferatingorders for silence, saw only too clearly the base advantage his wife hadtaken of his affection for his children. He took some money from hispocket and sent the leading treble out marketing, after which, with theassistance of a soprano aged eight, he washed up th
e breakfast things andplaced one of them in the dustbin.

  The entire family stood at his elbow as he cooked the dinner, andwatched, with bated breath, his frantic efforts to recover a sausagewhich had fallen out of the frying-pan into the fire. A fourfold sigh ofrelief heralded its return to the pan.

  "Mother