Keeping Watch

by W. W. Jacobs

young men writing tome, can I?'

  "'No, I s'pose not,' I ses.

  "'Thank you,' she ses, putting 'er little 'and on my arm. 'I knew thatyou were sensible. I've often watched you when I've been sitting aloneon the schooner, longing for somebody to speak to. And I'm a good judgeof character. I can read you like a book.'

  "She turned and looked up at me. Beautiful blue eyes she'd got, withlong, curling lashes, and teeth like pearls.

  "'Father is so silly,' she ses, shaking her 'ead and looking down; 'andit's so unreasonable, because, as a matter of fact, I don't like youngmen. Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn't mean that. I didn't mean to berude.'

  "'Rude?' I ses, staring at her.

  "'Of course it was a rude thing for me to say,' she ses, smiling;'because you are still a young man yourself.'

  "I shook my 'ead. 'Youngish,' I ses.

  "'Young!' she ses, stamping 'er little foot.

  "She gave me another look, and this time 'er blue eyes seemed large andsolemn. She walked along like one in a dream, and twice she trippedover the planks and would 'ave fallen if I hadn't caught 'er round thewaist.

  "'Thank you,' she ses. 'I'm very clumsy. How strong your arm is!'

  "We walked up and down agin, and every time we went near the edge of thejetty she 'eld on to my arm for fear of stumbling agin. And there wasthat silly cook standing about on the schooner on tip-toe and twistinghis silly old neck till I wonder it didn't twist off.

  "'Wot a beautiful evening it is!' she ses, at last, in a low voice. 'I'ope father isn't coming back early. Do you know wot time he is cominghome?'

  "'About twelve,' I ses; 'but don't tell 'im I told you so.'

  "'O' course not,' she ses, squeezing my arm. 'Poor father! I hope he isenjoying himself as much as I am.'

  "We walked down to the jetty agin arter that, and sat side by sidelooking acrost the river. And she began to talk about Life, and wot astrange thing it was; and 'ow the river would go on flowing down to thesea thousands and thousands o' years arter we was both dead andforgotten. If it hadn't ha' been for her little 'ead leaning agin myshoulder I should have 'ad the creeps.

  "'Let's go down into the cabin,' she ses, at last, with a little shiver;'it makes me melancholy sitting here and thinking of the "might-have-beens."'

  "I got up first and 'elped her up, and, arter both staring hard at thecook, wot didn't seem to know 'is place, we went down into the cabin.It was a comfortable little place, and arter she 'ad poured me out aglass of 'er father's whisky, and filled my pipe for me, I wouldn't ha'changed places with a king. Even when the pipe wouldn't draw I didn'tmind.

  "'May I write a letter?' she ses, at last.

  "'Sartainly,' I ses.

  "She got out her pen and ink and paper, and wrote. 'I sha'n't be long,'she ses, looking up and nibbling 'er pen. 'It's a letter to mydressmaker; she promised my dress by six o'clock this afternoon, and Iam just writing to tell her that if I don't have it by ten in themorning she can keep it.'

  "'Quite right,' I ses; 'it's the on'y way to get things done.'

  "'It's my way,' she ses, sticking the letter in an envelope and lickingit down. 'Nice name, isn't it?'

  "She passed it over to me, and I read the name and address: 'Miss MinnieMiller, 17, John Street, Mile End Road.'

  "'That'll wake her up,' She ses, smiling. 'Will you ask Joe to take itfor me?'

  "'He--he's on guard,' I ses, smiling back at 'er and shaking my 'ead.

  "'I know,' she ses, in a low voice. 'But I don't want any guard--onlyyou. I don't like guards that peep down skylights.'

  "I looked up just in time to see Joe's 'ead disappear. Then I nippedup, and arter I 'ad told 'im part of wot I thought about 'im I gave 'imthe letter and told 'im to sheer off.

  "'The skipper told me to stay 'ere,' he ses, looking obstinate.

  "'You do as you're told,' I ses. 'I'm in charge, and I take fullresponsibility. I shall lock the gate arter you. Wot are you worryingabout?'

  "'And here's a shilling, Joe, for a bus fare,' ses the gal, smiling.'You can keep the change.'

  "Joe took off 'is cap and scratched 'is silly bald 'ead.

  "'Come on,' I ses; 'it's a letter to a dressmaker. A letter that mustgo to-night.'

  "'Else it's no use,' ses the gal. 'You don't know 'ow important it is.'

  "'All right,' ses Joe. ''Ave it your own way. So long as you don'ttell the skipper I don't mind. If anything 'appens you'll catch it too,Bill.'

  "He climbed ashore, and I follered 'im to the gate and unlocked it. Hewas screwing up 'is eye ready for a wink, but I give 'im such a lookthat he thought better of it, and, arter rubbing his eye with 'is fingeras though he 'ad got a bit o' dust in it, he went off.

  "I locked the gate and went back to the cabin, and for some time we sattalking about fathers and the foolish ideas they got into their 'eads,and things o' that sort. So far as I remember, I 'ad two more goes o'whisky and one o' the skipper's cigars, and I was just thinking wot abeautiful thing it was to be alive and 'ealthy and in good spirits,talking to a nice gal that understood wot you said a'most afore you saidit, when I 'eard three blows on a whistle.

  "'Wot's that?' I ses, starting up. 'Police whistle?'

  "'I don't think so,' ses Miss Butt, putting her 'and on my shoulder.'Sit down and stay where you are. I don't want you to get hurt, if itis. Let somebody I don't like go.'

  "I sat down agin and listened, but there was no more whistling.

  "'Boy in the street, I expect,' ses the gal, going into the state-room.'Oh, I've got something to show you. Wait a minute.'

  "I 'eard her moving about, and then she comes back into the cabin.

  "'I can't find the key of my box,' she ses, 'and it's in there. Iwonder whether you've got a key that would open it. It's a padlock.'

  "I put my 'and in my pocket and pulled out my keys. 'Shall I come andtry?' I ses.

  "'No, thank you,' she ses, taking the keys. 'This looks about the size.What key is it?'

  "'It's the key of the gate,' I ses, 'but I don't suppose it'll fit.'

  "She went back into the state-room agin, and I 'eard her fumbling at alock. Then she came back into the cabin, breathing rather hard, andstood thinking.

  "'I've just remembered,' she ses, pinching her chin. 'Yes!'

  "She stepped to the door and went up the companion-ladder, and the nextmoment I 'eard a sliding noise and a key turn in a lock. I jumped tothe foot of the ladder and, 'ardly able to believe my senses, saw thatthe hatch was closed. When I found that it was locked too, you mightha' knocked me down with a feather.

  "I went down to the cabin agin, and, standing on the locker, pushed theskylight up with my 'ead and tried to lookout. I couldn't see the gate,but I 'eard voices and footsteps, and a little while arterwards I seethat gal coming along the wharf arm in arm with the young man she 'adtold me she didn't like, and dancing for joy. They climbed on to theschooner, and then they both stooped down with their hands on theirknees and looked at me.

  "'Wot is it?' ses the young man, grinning.

  "'It's a watchman,' ses the gal. 'It's here to take charge of thewharf, you know, and see that nobody comes on.'

  "'We ought to ha' brought some buns for it,' ses the young man; 'look atit opening its mouth.'

  "They both laughed fit to kill themselves, but I didn't move a muscle.

  "'You open the companion,' I ses, 'or it'll be the worse for you. D'yehear? Open it !'

  "'Oh, Alfred,' ses the gal, 'he's losing 'is temper. Wotever shall wedo?'

  "'I don't want no more nonsense,' I ses, trying to fix 'er with my eye.'If you don't let me out it'll be the worse for you.'

  "'Don't you talk to