by W. W. Jacobs
Old Jem Lister, of the Susannah, was possessed of two devils--the loveof strong drink and avarice--and the only thing the twain had in commonwas to get a drink without paying for it. When Mr. Lister paid for adrink, the demon of avarice masquerading as conscience preached ateetotal lecture, and when he showed signs of profiting by it, the demonof drink would send him hanging round public-house doors cadging fordrinks in a way which his shipmates regarded as a slur upon the entireship's company. Many a healthy thirst reared on salt beef and tickledwith strong tobacco had been spoiled by the sight of Mr. Lister standingby the entrance, with a propitiatory smile, waiting to be invited in toshare it, and on one occasion they had even seen him (him, Jem Lister,A.B.) holding a horse's head, with ulterior motives.
It was pointed out to Mr. Lister at last that his conduct was reflectingdiscredit upon men who were fully able to look after themselves in thatdirection, without having any additional burden thrust upon them. BillHenshaw was the spokesman, and on the score of violence (miscalledfirmness) his remarks left little to be desired. On the score ofprofanity, Bill might recall with pride that in the opinion of hisfellows he had left nothing unsaid.
"You ought to ha' been a member o' Parliament, Bill," said Harry Lea,when he had finished.
"It wants money," said Henshaw, shaking his head.
Mr. Lister laughed, a senile laugh, but not lacking in venom.
"That's what we've got to say," said Henshaw, turning upon him suddenly."If there's anything I hate in this world, it's a drinking miser. Youknow our opinion, and the best thing you can do is to turn over a newleaf now."
"Take us all in to the Goat and Compasses," urged Lea; "bring out someo' those sovrins you've been hoarding."
Mr. Lister gazed at him with frigid scorn, and finding that theconversation still seemed to centre round his unworthy person, went upon deck and sat glowering over the insults which had been heaped uponhim. His futile wrath when Bill dogged his footsteps ashore next day andrevealed his character to a bibulous individual whom he had almostpersuaded to be a Christian--from his point of view--bordered upon themaudlin, and he wandered back to the ship, wild-eyed and dry of throat.
For the next two months it was safe to say that every drink he had hepaid for. His eyes got brighter and his complexion clearer, nor was heas pleased as one of the other sex might have been when theself-satisfied Henshaw pointed out these improvements to his companions,and claimed entire responsibility for them. It is probable that Mr.Lister, under these circumstances, might in time have lived down histaste for strong drink, but that at just that time they shipped a newcook.
He was a big, cadaverous young fellow, who looked too closely after hisown interests to be much of a favourite with the other men forward. Onthe score of thrift, it was soon discovered that he and Mr. Lister hadmuch in common, and the latter, pleased to find a congenial spirit, wasdisposed to make the most of him, and spent, despite the heat, much ofhis spare time in the galley.
"You keep to it," said the greybeard impressively; "money was made to betook care of; if you don't spend your money you've always got it. I'vealways been a saving man--what's the result?"
The cook, waiting some time in patience to be told, gently inquired whatit was.
"'Ere am I," said Mr. Lister, good-naturedly helping him to cut acabbage, "at the age of sixty-two with a bank-book down below in mychest, with one hundered an' ninety pounds odd in it."
"One 'undered and ninety pounds!" repeated the cook, with awe.
"To say nothing of other things," continued Mr. Lister, with joyfulappreciation of the effect he was producing. "Altogether I've got alittle over four 'undered pounds."
The cook gasped, and with gentle firmness took the cabbage from him asbeing unfit work for a man of such wealth.
"It's very nice," he said, slowly. "It's very nice. You'll be able tolive on it in your old age."
Mr. Lister shook his head mournfully, and his eyes became humid.
"There's no old age for me," he said, sadly; "but you needn't tellthem," and he jerked his thumb towards the forecastle.
"No, no," said the cook.
"I've never been one to talk over my affairs," said Mr. Lister, in a lowvoice. "I've never yet took fancy enough to anybody so to do. No, mylad, I'm saving up for somebody else."
"What are you going to live on when you're past work then?" demanded theother.
Mr. Lister took him gently by the sleeve, and his voice sank with thesolemnity of his subject: "I'm not going to have no old age," he said,resignedly.
"Not going to live!" repeated the cook, gazing uneasily at a knife byhis side. "How do you know?"
"I went to a orsepittle in London," said Mr. Lister. "I've been to twoor three altogether, while the money I've spent on doctors is more thanI like to think of, and they're all surprised to think that I've livedso long. I'm so chock-full o' complaints, that they tell me I can't livemore than two years, and I might go off at any moment."
"Well, you've got money," said the cook, "why don't you knock off worknow and spend the evenin' of your life ashore? Why should you save upfor your relatives?"
"I've got no relatives," said Mr. Lister; "I'm all alone. I 'spose Ishall leave my money to some nice young feller, and I hope it'll do 'imgood."
With the dazzling thoughts which flashed through the cook's brain thecabbage dropped violently into the saucepan, and a shower of coolingdrops fell on both men.
"I 'spose you take medicine?" he said, at length.
"A little rum," said Mr. Lister, faintly; "the doctors tell me that itis the only thing that keeps me up--o' course, the chaps down there"--he indicated the forecastle again with a jerk of his head--"accuse meo' taking too much."
"What do ye take any notice of 'em for?" inquired the other,indignantly.
"I 'spose it is foolish," admitted Mr. Lister; "but I don't like beingmisunderstood. I keep my troubles to myself as a rule, cook. I don'tknow what's made me talk to you like this. I 'eard the other day you waskeeping company with a young woman."
"Well, I won't say as I ain't," replied the other, busying himself overthe fire.
"An' the best thing, too, my lad," said the old man, warmly. "It keepsyou stiddy, keeps you out of public-'ouses; not as they ain't good inmoderation--I 'ope you'll be 'appy."
A friendship sprang up between the two men which puzzled the remainderof the crew not a little.
The cook thanked him, and noticed that Mr. Lister was fidgeting with apiece of paper.
"A little something I wrote the other day," said the old man, catchinghis eye. "If I let you see it, will you promise not to tell a soul aboutit, and not to give me no thanks?"
The wondering cook promised, and, the old man being somewhat emphatic onthe subject, backed his promise with a home made affidavit of singularpower and profanity.
"Here it is, then," said Mr. Lister.
The cook took the paper, and as he read the letters danced before him.He blinked his eyes and started again, slowly. In plain black and whiteand nondescript-coloured finger-marks, Mr. Lister, after a generalstatement as to his bodily and mental health, left the whole of hisestate to the cook. The will was properly dated and witnessed, and thecook's voice shook with excitement and emotion as he offered to hand itback.
"I don't know what I've done for you to do this," he said.
Mr. Lister waved it away again. "Keep it," he said, simply; "whileyou've got it on you, you'll know it's safe."
From this moment a friendship sprang up between the two men whichpuzzled the remainder of the crew not a little. The attitude of the cookwas as that of a son to a father: the benignancy of Mr. Lister beautifulto behold. It was noticed, too, that he had abandoned the reprehensiblepractice of hanging round tavern doors in favour of going inside anddrinking the cook's health.
For about six months the cook, although always in somewhat straitenedcircumstances, was well content with the tacit bargain, and then, bit bybit, the character of Mr. Lister was revealed to him. It was not a nicecha
racter, but subtle; and when he made the startling discovery that awill could be rendered invalid by the simple process of making anotherone the next day, he became as a man possessed. When he ascertained thatMr. Lister when at home had free quarters at the house of a marriedniece, he used to sit about alone, and try and think of ways and meansof securing capital sunk in a concern which seemed to show no signs ofbeing wound-up.
"I've got a touch of the 'art again, lad," said the elderly invalid, asthey sat alone in the forecastle one night at Seacole.
"You move about too much," said the cook. "Why not turn in and rest?"
Mr. Lister, who had not expected this, fidgeted. "I think I'll go ashorea bit and try the air," he said, suggestively. "I'll just go as far asthe Black Horse and back. You won't have me long now, my lad."
"No, I know," said the cook; "that's what's worrying me a bit." "Don'tworry about me," said the old man, pausing with his hand on the other'sshoulder; "I'm not worth it. Don't look so glum, lad."
"I've got something on my mind, Jem," said the cook, staring straight infront of him.
"What is it?" inquired Mr. Lister.
"You know what you told me about those pains in your inside?" said thecook, without looking at him.
Jem groaned and felt his side.
"And what you said about its being a relief to die," continued theother, "only you was afraid to commit suicide?"
"Well?" said Mr. Lister.
"It used to worry me," continued the cook, earnestly. "I used to say tomyself, 'Poor old Jem,' I ses, 'why should 'e suffer like this when hewants to die? It seemed 'ard.'"
"It is 'ard," said Mr. Lister, "but what about it?"
The other made no reply, but looking at him for the first time, surveyedhim with a troubled expression.
"What about it?" repeated Mr. Lister, with some emphasis.
"You did say you wanted to die, didn't you?" said the cook. "Now supposesuppose----"
"Suppose what?" inquired the old man, sharply. "Why don't you say whatyou're agoing to say?"
"Suppose," said the cook, "some one what liked you, Jem--what liked you,mind--'eard you say this over and over again, an' see you sufferin' and'eard you groanin' and not able to do nothin' for you except lend you afew shillings here and there for medicine, or stand you a few glasses o'rum; suppose they knew a chap in a chemist's shop?"
"Suppose they did?" said the other, turning pale.
"A chap what knows all about p'isons," continued the cook, "p'isons whata man can take without knowing it in 'is grub. Would it be wrong, do youthink, if that friend I was speaking about put it in your food to putyou out of your misery?"
"Wrong," said Mr. Lister, with glassy eyes. "Wrong. Look 'ere, cook--"
"I don't mean anything to give him pain," said the other, waving hishand; "you ain't felt no pain lately, 'ave you, Jem?"
"Do you mean to say!" shouted Mr. Lister.
"I don't mean to say anything," said the cook. "Answer my question. Youain't felt no pain lately, 'ave you?"
"Have--you--been--putting--p'ison--in--my--wittles?" demanded Mr.Lister, in trembling accents.
"If I 'ad, Jem, supposin' that I 'ad," said the cook, in accents ofreproachful surprise, "do you mean to say that you'd mind?"
"MIND," said Mr. Lister, with fervour. "I'd 'ave you 'ung!"
"But you said you wanted to die," said the surprised cook.
Mr. Lister swore at him with startling vigour. "I'll 'ave you 'ung," herepeated, wildly.
"Me," said the cook, artlessly. "What for?"
"For giving me p'ison," said Mr. Lister, frantically. "Do you think youcan deceive me by your roundabouts? Do you think I can't see throughyou?"
The other with a sphinx-like smile sat unmoved. "Prove it," he said,darkly. "But supposin' if anybody 'ad been givin' you p'ison, would youlike to take something to prevent its acting?"
"I'd take gallons of it," said Mr. Lister, feverishly.
The other sat pondering, while the old man watched him anxiously. "It'sa pity you don't know your own mind, Jem," he said, at length; "still,you know your own business best. But it's very expensive stuff."
"How much?" inquired the other.
"Well, they won't sell more than two shillings-worth at a time," saidthe cook, trying to speak carelessly, "but if you like to let me 'avethe money, I'll go ashore to the chemist's and get the first lot now."
Mr. Lister's face was a study in emotions, which the other tried in vainto decipher.
Then he slowly extracted the amount from his trousers-pocket, and handedit over with-out a word.
"I'll go at once," said the cook, with a little feeling, "and I'll nevertake a man at his word again, Jem."
He ran blithely up on deck, and stepping ashore, spat on the coins forluck and dropped them in his pocket. Down below, Mr. Lister, with hischin in his hand, sat in a state of mind pretty evenly divided betweenrage and fear.
The cook, who was in no mood for company, missed the rest of the crew bytwo public-houses, and having purchased a baby's teething powder andremoved the label, had a congratulatory drink or two before going onboard again. A chatter of voices from the forecastle warned him that thecrew had returned, but the tongues ceased abruptly as he descended, andthree pairs of eyes surveyed him in grim silence.
"What's up?" he demanded.
"Wot 'ave you been doin' to poor old Jem?" demanded Henshaw, sternly.
"Nothin'," said the other, shortly.
"You ain't been p'isoning 'im?" demanded Henshaw.
"Certainly not," said the cook, emphatically.
"He ses you told 'im you p'isoned 'im," said Henshaw, solemnly, "and 'egive you two shillings to get something to cure 'im. It's too late now."
"What?" stammered the bewildered cook. He looked round anxiously at themen.
They were all very grave, and the silence became oppressive. "Where ishe?" he demanded.
Henshaw and the others exchanged glances. "He's gone mad," said he,slowly.
"Mad?" repeated the horrified cook, and, seeing the aversion of thecrew, in a broken voice he narrated the way in which he had beenvictimized.
"Well, you've done it now," said Henshaw, when he had finished. "He'sgone right orf 'is 'ed."
"Where is he?" inquired the cook.
"Where you can't follow him," said the other, slowly.
"Heaven?" hazarded the unfortunate cook. "No; skipper's bunk," said Lea.
"Oh, can't I foller 'im?" said the cook, starting up. "I'll soon 'ave'im out o' that."
"Better leave 'im alone," said Henshaw. "He was that wild we couldn't donothing with 'im, singing an' larfin' and crying all together--Icertainly thought he was p'isoned."
"I'll swear I ain't touched him," said the cook.
"Well, you've upset his reason," said Henshaw; "there'll be an awful rowwhen the skipper comes aboard and finds 'im in 'is bed.
"'Well, come an' 'elp me to get 'im out," said the cook.
"I ain't going to be mixed up in it," said Henshaw, shaking his head.
"Don't you, Bill," said the other two.
"Wot the skipper'll say I don't know," said Henshaw; "anyway, it'll besaid to you, not----"
"I'll go and get 'im out if 'e was five madmen," said the cook,compressing his lips.
"You'll harve to carry 'im out, then," said Henshaw. "I don't wish youno 'arm, cook, and perhaps it would be as well to get 'im out afore theskipper or mate comes aboard. If it was me, I know what I should do."
"What?" inquired the cook, breathlessly.
"Draw a sack over his head," said Henshaw, impressively; "he'll screamlike blazes as soon as you touch him, and rouse the folks ashore if youdon't. Besides that, if you draw it well down it'll keep his arms fast."
The cook thanked him fervently, and routing out a sack, rushed hastilyon deck, his departure being the signal for Mr. Henshaw and his friendsto make preparations for retiring for the night so hastily as almost tosavour of panic.
The cook, after a hasty glance ashore, went soft
ly below with the sackover his arm and felt his way in the darkness to the skipper's bunk. Thesound of deep and regular breathing reassured him, and without unduehaste he opened the mouth of the sack and gently raised the sleeper'shead.
"Eh? Wha----" began a sleepy voice.
The next moment the cook had bagged him, and gripping him tightly roundthe middle, turned a deaf ear to the smothered cries of his victim as hestrove to lift him out of the bunk. In the exciting time which followed,he had more than one reason for thinking that he had caught a centipede.
"Now, you keep still," he cried, breathlessly. "I'm not going to hurtyou."
He got his burden out of bed at last, and staggered to the foot of thecompanion-ladder with it. Then there was a halt, two legs stickingobstinately across the narrow way and refusing to be moved, while afurious humming proceeded from the other end of the sack.
Four times did the exhausted cook get his shoulder under his burden andtry and push it up the ladder, and four times did it wriggle and fightits way down again. Half crazy with fear and rage, he essayed it for thefifth time, and had got it half-way up when there was a suddenexclamation of surprise from above, and the voice of the mate sharplydemanding an explanation.
"What the blazes are you up to?" he cried.
"It's all right, sir," said the panting cook; "old Jem's had a drop toomuch and got down aft, and I'm getting 'im for'ard again."
"Jem?" said the astonished mate. "Why, he's sitting up here on thefore-hatch. He came aboard with me."
"Sitting," began the horrified cook; "sit--oh, lor!"
He stood with his writhing burden wedged between his body and theladder, and looked up despairingly at the mate.
"I'm afraid I've made a mistake," he said in a trembling voice.
The mate struck a match and looked down.
"Take that sack off," he demanded, sternly.
The cook placed his burden upon its feet, and running up the ladderstood by the mate shivering. The latter struck another match, and thetwain watched in breathless silence the writhings of the strangecreature below as the covering worked slowly upwards. In the fourthmatch it got free, and revealed the empurpled visage of the master ofthe Susannah. For the fraction of a second the cook gazed at him inspeechless horror, and then, with a hopeless cry, sprang ashore and ranfor it, hotly pursued by his enraged victim. At the time of sailing hewas still absent, and the skipper, loth to part two such friends, sentMr. James Lister, at the urgent request of the anxious crew, to look forhim.
THE WHITE CAT