# The Strand Magazine/Volume 5/Issue 28/The Queer Side of Things

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The Queer Side of Things.
T was all old Joe Wilkings's notion, every ounce of it: you see, there never was anybody anywhere to compare with old Joe for "go." He was goey, was old Joe—but I'll tell you. Old Joe had been laid up with rheumatism and gout—ah! and asthma, that's more—for a matter of eleven weeks; pretty bad he'd been too, and everybody had said he would never pull through, being, you see, ninety-seven, and a wooden leg in, that he'd lost in the Crimean War; at least, not the wooden one, for he'd found that in the loft over the stable years ago and taken to it.
Well, old Joe was sunning himself in his wicker chair in the front garden, propped up with pillows and things; and he'd just finished his beef-tea, when he begins to chuckle so, in an internal kind of manner, that the last drop going down got startled and separated from the others on ahead, and tried to turn back, and got in a panic, so that it nearly choked old Joe, who got purple in the face, and had to be thumped.
He'd no sooner got right than he began to chuckle again, but luckily that last drop had got further down now, and wedged in among its comrades, so that it only heard the chuckles faintly, and kept quiet this time.
"Whatever is the matter, grandfather?" said Kate.
"Matter?" said old Joe. "Nothing's the matter. You don't understand the ways of young 'uns, nor their methods neither. When youth chuckles, it's a sign of good spirits and healthy. If you must know, I was thinking we might have a picnic—just like we used to have sixty years back———"
"Ah! that would be nice," said Kate.
"Not you," said old Joe. "No young 'uns in it—they're too slow. No; I and Georgie Worble, and his aunt Susan, and her mother, and—"
"Why," said Kate, "Mr. Worble hasn't walked from one room to another without assistance for———"
"I know—seven years," said old Joe, "and he's seventy-six; and his aunt Susan's seventy-one; and his aunt Susan's mother's ninety-two, and bedridden—but I tell you what: it's all fudge and the undue influence of imagination—that's the whole story. Georgie W. can get up if he likes; and his aunt Susan's bronchitis and paralytic strokes are all fudge; and as to her mother being bedridden—pooh! we'll just see; and if she doesn't dance just as well as me———"
"Dance!"
"Ah—we'll have a dance, of course—we used to have a dance always; finished up with a dance. I've been thinking—and I don't mind telling you—that this imagination and fudge is making us all old before our time; and I'm not going to stand any more of it, and that's all about it."
With that old Joe Wilkings waved his stick and jumped up—that's what he did; and he ninety-seven years and nine weeks! Talk about greyness!
​Kate stared, and all the neighbours stared, and Mrs. Widdlcombe's pug next door stared so that its eyes nearly fell out, as old Joe trotted quickly out of the garden and down the street, and trotted up Mr. Worble's steps, and tapped at the door like a boy that means to run away; and when they opened the door, up he ran to old Worble's room, and toddled in.
"Old Joe trotted quickly out of the garden."
And now comes in old Joe Wilkings's other remarkable quality—his influence over others. It was all the outcome of his wonderful determination—the influence of mind over matter. He could bamboozle anyone, could Joe—it was for all the world like magic.
Old Worble was drooping over the fire in his big chair, into which he had been put hours before.
What did old Joe do but go right up and slap him on the back in that hearty way that old Worble went as near screaming as his weak state would let him!
"Get up, Georgie Worble," shouted old Joe, "and come round with me to Sam Waggs to arrange about that picnic!"
Old Worble crooned and doddered, and feebly repeated "Picnic?"
Ah, picnic, young 'un; and you've just hit it. But GET UP, I say!"
And, if you'll believe it, the third time old Joe Wilkings shouted "Get up" in that voice of his, a-staring straight at Worble all the time, old Worble did slowly get up and stood, doddering, but without support.
"Don't you stand a-doddering at me like that as if you were a decrepit old idiot instead of a boy; but just reach down your hat and bustle along," said old Joe; and if Worble, after looking feebly and hopelessly up at the hat on the high peg—the hat he had not worn for years—didn't hop up on a wooden chair and fetch it down, and dash it on his head, and then toddle downstairs and into the street arm-in-arm with old Joe!
If people had stared when old Joe came out of his garden, what did they do now when he and old Worble went dancing down the street arm-in-arm, both of 'em chuckling like mad and chattering like magpies?
At the corner they met old Peter Scroutts in a bath-chair. Peter had a paralyzed leg, and was so feeble that he could hardly wink his eye, and so deaf that it was all he could do to hear with an ear-trumpet as big as the cornucopia belonging to the wooden young lady over the provision stores.
"Just you step out and walk!" roared old Joe in the ear-trumpet. And the queer thing is that old Peter did begin to get out; and not only began, but went on; and stood on the pavement; and then took Joe's arm; and the three went careering down the street together!
The whole place came out to stare open-mouthed at those three old boys bouncing down the street together.
Half-way down old Joe Wilkings stopped with a jerk, and turned on old Peter.
"What, in the name of goodness, do you want with that trumpet machine?" he roared. "A young 'un like you! Lookee here—let's get rid of it." And Joe snatched the ear-trumpet out of his hand, and jerked it over a shed into the field behind. It was a good long jerk; and most of the young men of the place would have been proud to do it.
"Can hear just as well as I can; that's what you can do! Can't he, young George?"
Old Peter looked dazed; but old Joe stood nodding at him so decisively that old George took it up and nodded decisively ​too; and they were so convincing about the matter that old Peter began to believe he could hear; and from that moment, if you'll believe me, he did hear quite comfortably!
"The three went careering down the street."
Then the inhabitants collected in little knots, and talked the matter over; and decided that there must be something wrong, in the witchcraft line; and shook their heads doubtfully; but those three old boys trotted into the "Bun and Bottle" and ordered—ah! and drank off—a pint of beer apiece; a thing they had not done those ten years. Drank it off at a draught, if you'll believe me.
Well, then they went the round and beat up all the old folks of that place to bid them to the picnic. Those old people stared, and shook their heads, and scoffed; but old Joe Wilkings hadn't talked to them for five minutes before they were up on their feet and trotting about as if they were acrobats, though perhaps it's hard to believe.
"Aunt Susan's mother."
"We'll have a row on the river," said old Joe; "and then we'll picnic on the bank, and see who can climb trees best; and then we'll have a room at an hotel, and finish up with a dance, and just show 'em how it ought to be done."
I tell you he had to busy himself, had old Joe, to keep them up to it; for as soon as he had been away from any one of them them a few hours that one would begin to collapse again, and think he or she was as weak as ever: but Joe wouldn't allow this; all day long he was here and there among them applying the spur, bullying them into getting up and dancing, and roaring with indignation at the idea of their being old. He made them practise their steps, and while those who possessed crutches were doing it, he sneaked off with the crutches and concealed them. ​He wouldn't even allow them sticks, wouldn't old Joe—not he.
Old Worble's aunt Susan got quite young and skittish; and as for old Worble's aunt Susan's mother, who was bedridden, up she had to get on old Joe Wilkings's third visit, and had to toddle across the room. He drilled her—kept on at it; he was there twice a day; and every time she had to get out of bed and toddle across the room. Had to live in her dressing-gown, and could get no peace for the life of her; but, bless you, in ten days she had begun to believe that she had never been bedridden at all, and that it was all fancy! And all in consequence of that strange influence of old Joe Wilkings; that awful determination of his.
Then there were the provisions to prepare for that picnic; and old Joe would insist upon the old folks preparing them. He wouldn't have any young people in it—not he. He was here, there, and everywhere, compelling them to superintend the cooking of the joints and pies—for he was not going to have any beef-tea or arrowroot or pap at the picnic, but all good solid food for robust people.
Well, the eventful day came; and there were the old folks collected at the railway station with their hampers and bags. The whole population of younger folks had turned out to see them off; but not a single one of them was to go, for old Joe wouldn't have anyone under the age of sixty-five, as he said children were always a trouble at an outing. And, what's more, his word seemed to be law, and that was the long and the short of it.
The young people shook their heads forebodingly, and said they didn't know what on earth would come of it all, that they didn't; and they only hoped uncle and aunt and grandfather would come back all right!
But the train came in, and in hopped the old parties, and away they went.
Old Joe Wilkings had his work cut out now, with a vengeance and all: for as soon as they had got away from the younger folks who usually took care of them, they began to think it was all over with them and to give way; but Joe Wilkings roared and shouted at them, and chuckled and threatened until he had brought them all round again. There wasn't to be a single bathchair, or crutch, or even a stick.
"Over she had to go somehow."
Then they got out at the station they had settled on; and old Joe insisted on their carrying the hampers among them down to the river: and, what's more, he chose a way across the fields where there were a lot of stiles to get over; and he made 'em do it, if you'll credit it. Old George Worble's aunt Susan's mother pretended she couldn't, and sat down and wept: but Joe Wilkings had her on her feet again in a twinkling; and over she had to go somehow.
Then old Peter Scroutts began to give way and grizzle for his bath-chair and ear-trumpet, but when old Joe threatened to fight him if he went on about that nonsense, why, he just had to behave himself.
Our doctor had made up his mind that something dreadful was bound to come of the whole thing, and sneaked after them by the next train; but when Joe caught him following them, he was so angry and furious about it, that the doctor was afraid he would have an apoplectic fit unless he went away as Joe commanded him to. So he retired; and ​subsequently dressed himself as a rustic, and smeared his face so that he might not be recognised, and hung about the party, offering to carry things, and so on. But if old Joe Wilkings did not spot him after all; and got in such a rage that the doctor thought it best to retreat while he had a whole skin, and get back safely home.
So you see old Joe was a terrible fellow, and that determined it's awful to think about.
"Very nearly drowned."
Well, they went on the river, and they rowed little races among themselves; and old Ben Jumper and old Tobias Budd upset their boat, skylarking—both of 'em being just turned eighty—and went in, and were very nearly drowned. However, they were hauled out and made to run about, and taken into a cottage, and rubbed down, and dressed up in borrowed clothes; and with a good jorum of brandy-and-water apiece, why, in half an hour they were as right as trivets, if you'll believe me!
The cold collation was a great success; and then the old boys had a smoke, and were all as jolly as sand-boys. But, suddenly, one of 'em looked round and said, "Why, where's old Joe Wilkings?" And after ten minutes, when old Joe did not turn up, all those old folks began to shake their heads doubtfully and dismally, and the old boys dropped their pipes, and the old ladies began to weep and whinnick.
"Old Joe Wilkings―after lunch."
For old Joe Wilkings, being wild-like with merriment, had gone in pretty heavily for the champagne and stuff, and had got a bit mixed, as you might say, and he had gone off a little way to get some dry wood to make a fire to boil the kettle over, and then he hadn't seemed to be able to recollect which was his way back; and had wandered and wandered off in quite the wrong direction; and at last he had got drowsy and fallen asleep in a dry ditch with his wooden leg on the lower rail of a fence; and then a local policeman ​who didn't know him had taken charge of him and trotted him off to Winklechurch, which was the nearest village.
And those old people at the picnic got more and more depressed and feeble and helpless; and some of 'em broke down completely, and wept and doddered; for you see the influence of old Joe Wilkings's determination was rapidly giving out. And at last, after the doctor had waited anxiously at the railway station for them, and hour after hour went by without any signs of them, he decided to look them up at any cost; and at eleven that night he found them all sitting there on the bank of the river that depressed and helpless you can't imagine. Not a single one of them all had had the courage to move, and their fright and despair were perfectly fearful. And a nice trouble he had to get them home—had to send for flys, and bathchairs, and litters, and goodness alone knows what all!
Well, then they had to find old Joe Wilkings, and mighty anxious they were about him; and a nice tramp they had up hill and down dale before they discovered him; and when they did, they found him rolled up in a shawl on the policeman's hearthrug, for, of course, Mr. Podder, the policeman, was not going to lock up the likes of an old boy of his age. Joe Wilkings had recovered a bit now, and he was that pugnacious he wanted to fight Mr. Podder and all those that had come to find him; and what should he do but put his back against Mr. Podder's parlour-wall (smashing the glass of the chromo of "Little Red Riding-Hood" that was hanging up), and invite the lot to "Come on."
However, they quieted him down and got him home at last; and when he'd got home he was that dismal and depressed from the reaction that he sat in his arm-chair all day and did nothing but grumble and burst into tears, for, you see, he'd overdone it, and it was bound to tell upon him. But after that all his natural pluck and determination got hold of him again, and if he wasn't mad to have that dance that they had been balked of!
Out he went to beat up all the old folks again; but most of 'em were ill in bed—none the better for that picnic, I can tell you, though, luckily, it had been a lovely day and night, as warm as toast, so that they hadn't come to much harm beyond the exhaustion.
The younger people of the houses where he called met him with black looks enough, you may be sure, but old Joe Wilkings wasn't the sort to be daunted by that sort of thing; and bless me if he didn't succeed in getting at most of those old parties again, and even getting some of them out of bed and putting them through their paces as before.
Dr. Pillikin.Mr. SarmeMr. Weazle.
It was really getting serious, so Mr. Sarme, the vicar, and Mr. Weazle, the curate, and Doctor Pillikin (who lived in the house with the brown shutters then, before he moved next door to the stores) went and tried to get him out of the houses and make him keep quiet; but old Joe roared at them that way that they were glad to get away home again in despair.
Ah, he was a plucky one, was old Joe!
Well, he persevered and kept at it until he had persuaded all those old parties to get ​up a dance in the schoolroom; they were to have printed programmes, and champagne, and everything in style—for Joe had a bit of money, and was as free as you like with it, and meant to stand a good deal more than his share of the expenses.
Then the vicar and Doctor Pillikin consulted with the squire—the squire and the vicar being justices of the peace—whether they hadn't better give old Joe in charge and lock him up out of harm's way; for he was getting a regular firebrand, don't you see; and they were afraid he'd be the death of those old folks. But, after they'd consulted, they couldn't hit on any legal excuse for charging him—(not that that little obstacle mostly stands in the way of justices of the peace)—and they had to give that up.
When the day arrived for the ball-for they called it a "ball" now, bless you—all the young people agreed together to lock the old parties in their rooms to prevent them going; but bless me if old Peter Scroutts and old George Worble, and one or two other desperate characters didn't manage to get out somehow, being so under the influence of Joe; and when the hour came for the dance, there they were at the schoolroom!
And they—about nine of them—began dancing too, and a regular strange kind of a hobble it was, as ever was seen: but at last the squire and the vicar and Doctor Pillikin went down with the sergeant and a constable and pretended that a new Act had been passed making it illegal to dance after nine o'clock, and cleared the hall, with Joe dinging away at 'em the whole time, and made the old folks go home.
Next day Joe Wilkings was going to do all manner of things—going up to London to consult a solicitor in Lincoln's Inn, and appeal to the High Courts, and give the squire and the rest of 'em penal servitude at Botany Bay, and all manner; but he'd caught such a cold at that ball that he had to take to his bed again, in spite of all his determination; and when he got up again after three weeks he had lost the use of his one leg, and was so weak he hadn't the heart to do anything. He was in a bad way for a long time, but they say he's getting better again now; and I've heard tell that the squire and that lot are beginning to get nervous again, as there's no knowing when he'll break out.
"Gerring better again." }}
He's a tough one, is old Joe Wilkings, and, if you'll believe me, he'll make it hot for 'em yet!
J. F. Sullivan. ​ ​ ​
TWO PROFILE VIEWS OF A REMARKABLE POTATO.
A POTATO MASHER.
Found at Preston, and Photographed by Mr. Luke Berry, of Chorley.
The above Photograph of a curious potato was taken by the late Mr. Fox, and sent to us by Mr. J. S. Clarke, of New Wandsworth.
VEGETABLE ODDITIES.