Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Beautiful day,” said the customer; “makes one feel quite young again.”

  “What do you want?” inquired Miss Kybird.

  Mr. Nugent turned to a broken cane-chair which stood by the counter, and, after applying severe tests, regardless of the lady’s feelings, sat down upon it and gave a sigh of relief.

  “I’ve walked from London,” he said, in explanation. “I could sit here for hours.”

  “Look here — —” began the indignant Miss Kybird.

  “Only people would be sure to couple our names together,” continued Mr. Nugent, mournfully.

  “When a handsome young man and a good-looking girl — —”

  “Do you want to buy anything or not?” demanded Miss Kybird, with an impatient toss of her head.

  “No,” said Jack, “I want to sell.”

  “You’ve come to the wrong shop, then,” said Miss Kybird; “the warehouse is full of rubbish now.”

  The other turned in his chair and looked hard at the window. “So it is,” he assented. “It’s a good job I’ve brought you something decent to put there.”

  He felt in his pockets and, producing a silver-mounted briar-pipe, a battered watch, a knife, and a few other small articles, deposited them with reverent care upon the counter.

  “No use to us,” declared Miss Kybird, anxious to hit back; “we burn coal here.”

  “These’ll burn better than the coal you buy,” said the unmoved customer.

  “Well, we don’t want them,” retorted Miss Kybird, raising her voice, “and I don’t want any of your impudence. Get up out of our chair.”

  Her heightened tones penetrated to the small and untidy room behind the shop. The door opened, and Mr. Kybird in his shirt-sleeves appeared at the opening.

  “Wot’s the row?” he demanded, his little black eyes glancing from one to the other.

  “Only a lovers’ quarrel,” replied Jack. “You go away; we don’t want you.”

  “Look ‘ere, we don’t want none o’ your nonsense,” said the shopkeeper, sharply; “and, wot’s more, we won’t ‘ave it. Who put that rubbish on my counter?”

  He bustled forward, and taking the articles in his hands examined them closely.

  “Three shillings for the lot — cash,” he remarked. “Done,” said the other.

  “Did I say three?” inquired Mr. Kybird, startled at this ready acceptance.

  “Five you said,” replied Mr. Nugent, “but I’ll take three, if you throw in a smile.”

  Mr. Kybird, much against his inclinations, threw in a faint grin, and opening a drawer produced three shillings and flung them separately on the counter. Miss Kybird thawed somewhat, and glancing from the customer’s clothes to his face saw that he had a pleasant eye and a good moustache, together with a general air of recklessness much appreciated by the sex.

  “Don’t spend it on drink,” she remarked, not unkindly.

  “I won’t,” said the other, solemnly; “I’m going to buy house property with it.”

  “Why, darn my eyes,” said Mr. Kybird, who had been regarding him closely; “darn my old eyes, if it ain’t young Nugent. Well, well!”

  “That’s me,” said young Nugent, cheerfully; “I should have known you anywhere, Kybird: same old face, same old voice, same old shirt-sleeves.”

  “‘Ere, come now,” objected the shopkeeper, shortening his arm and squinting along it.

  “I should have known you anywhere,” continued the other, mournfully; “and here I’ve thrown up a splendid berth and come all the way from Australia just for one glimpse of Miss Kybird, and she doesn’t know me. When I die, Kybird, you will find the word ‘Calais’ engraven upon my heart.”

  Mr. Kybird said, “Oh, indeed.” His daughter tossed her head and bade Mr. Nugent take his nonsense to people who might like it.

  “Last time I see you,” said Mr. Kybird, pursing up his lips and gazing at the counter in an effort of memory; “last time I see you was one fifth o’ November when you an’ another bright young party was going about in two suits o’ oilskins wot I’d been ‘unting for ‘igh and low all day long.”

  Jack Nugent sighed. “They were happy times, Kybird.”

  “Might ha’ been for you,” retorted the other, his temper rising a little at the remembrance of his wrongs.

  “Have you come home for good? inquired Miss Kybird, curiously. Have you seen your father? He passed here a little while ago.”

  “I saw him,” said Jack, with a brevity which was not lost upon the astute Mr. Kybird. “I may stay in Sunwich, and I may not — it all depends.”

  “You’re not going ‘ome?” said Mr. Kybird.

  “No.”

  The shopkeeper stood considering. He had a small room to let at the top of his house, and he stood divided between the fear of not getting his rent and the joy to a man fond of simple pleasures, to be obtained by dunning the arrogant Captain Nugent for his son’s debts. Before he could arrive at a decision his meditations were interrupted by the entrance of a stout, sandy-haired lady from the back parlour, who, having conquered his scruples against matrimony some thirty years before, had kept a particularly wide-awake eye upon him ever since.

  “Your tea’s a-gettin’ cold,” she remarked, severely.

  Her husband received the news with calmness. He was by no means an enthusiast where that liquid was concerned, the admiration evoked by its non-inebriating qualities having been always something in the nature of a mystery to him.

  “I’m coming,” he retorted; “I’m just ‘aving a word with Mr. Nugent ‘ere.”

  “Well, I never did,” said the stout lady, coming farther into the shop and regarding the visitor. “I shouldn’t ‘ave knowed ‘im. If you’d asked me who ‘e was I couldn’t ha’ told you — I shouldn’t ‘ave knowed ‘im from Adam.”

  Jack shook his head. “It’s hard to be forgotten like this,” he said, sadly. “Even Miss Kybird had forgotten me, after all that had passed between us.”

  “Eh?” said Mr. Kybird.

  “Oh, don’t take any notice of him,” said his daughter. “I’d like to see myself.”

  Mr. Kybird paid no heed. He was still thinking of the son of Captain Nugent being indebted to him for lodging, and the more he thought of the idea the better he liked it.

  “Well, now you’re ‘ere,” he said, with a great assumption of cordiality, “why not come in and ‘ave a cup o’ tea?”

  The other hesitated a moment and then, with a light laugh, accepted the offer. He followed them into the small and untidy back parlour, and being requested by his hostess to squeeze in next to ‘Melia at the small round table, complied so literally with the order that that young lady complained bitterly of his encroachments.

  “And where do you think of sleeping to-night?” inquired Mr. Kybird after his daughter had, to use her own expressive phrase, shown the guest “his place.”

  Mr. Nugent shook his head. “I shall get a lodging somewhere,” he said, airily.

  “There’s a room upstairs as you might ‘ave if you liked,” said Mr. Kybird, slowly. “It’s been let to a very respectable, clean young man for half a crown a week. Really it ought to be three shillings, but if you like to ‘ave it at the old price, you can.”

  “Done with you,” said the other.

  “No doubt you’ll soon get something to do,” continued Mr. Kybird, more in answer to his wife’s inquiring glances than anything else. “Half a crown every Saturday and the room’s yours.”

  Mr. Nugent thanked him, and after making a tea which caused Mr. Kybird to congratulate himself upon the fact that he hadn’t offered to board him, sat regaling Mrs. Kybird and daughter with a recital of his adventures in Australia, receiving in return a full and true account of Sunwich and its people up to date.

  “There’s no pride about ‘im, that’s what I like,” said Mrs. Kybird to her lord and master as they sat alone after closing time over a glass of gin and water. “He’s a nice young feller, but bisness is bisness, and s’pose you do
n’t get your rent?”

  “I shall get it sooner or later,” said Mr. Kybird. “That stuck-up father of ‘is ‘ll be in a fine way at ‘im living here. That’s wot I’m thinking of.”

  “I don’t see why,” said Mrs. Kybird, bridling. “Who’s Captain Nugent, I should like to know? We’re as good as what ‘e is, if not better. And as for the gell, if she’d got ‘all Amelia’s looks she’d do.”

  “‘Melia’s a fine-looking gal,” assented Mr. Kybird. “I wonder — —”

  He laid his pipe down on the table and stared at the mantelpiece. “He seems very struck with ‘er,” he concluded. “I see that directly.”

  “Not afore I did,” said his wife, sharply.

  “See it afore you come into the shop,” said Mr. Kybird, triumphantly. “It ‘ud be a strange thing to marry into that family, Emma.”

  “She’s keeping company with young Teddy Silk,” his wife reminded him, coldly; “and if she wasn’t she could do better than a young man without a penny in ‘is pocket. Pride’s a fine thing, Dan’l, but you can’t live on it.”

  “I know what I’m talking about,” said Mr. Kybird, impatiently. “I know she’s keeping company with Teddy as well as wot you do. Still, as far as money goes, young Nugent ‘ll be all right.”

  “‘Ow?” inquired his wife.

  Mr. Kybird hesitated and took a sip of his gin and water. Then he regarded the wife of his bosom with a calculating glance which at once excited that lady’s easily kindled wrath.

  “You know I never tell secrets,” she cried.

  “Not often,” corrected Mr. Kybird, “but then I don’t often tell you any. Wot would you say to young Nugent coming into five ‘undred pounds ‘is mother left ‘im when he’s twenty-five? He don’t know it, but I do.”

  “Five ‘undred,” repeated his wife, “sure?”

  “No,” said the other, “I’m not sure, but I know. I ‘ad it from young Roberts when ‘e was at Stone and Dartnell’s. Five ‘undred pounds! I shall get my money all right some time, and, if ‘e wants a little bit to go on with, ‘e can have it. He’s honest enough; I can see that by his manner.”

  Upstairs in the tiny room under the tiles Mr. Jack Nugent, in blissful ignorance of his landlord’s generous sentiments towards him, slept the sound, dreamless sleep of the man free from monetary cares. In the sanctity of her chamber Miss Kybird, gazing approvingly at the reflection of her yellow hair and fine eyes in the little cracked looking-glass, was already comparing him very favourably with the somewhat pessimistic Mr. Silk.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Mr. Nugent’s return caused a sensation in several quarters, the feeling at Equator Lodge bordering close upon open mutiny. Even Mrs. Kingdom plucked up spirit and read the astonished captain a homily upon the first duties of a parent — a homily which she backed up by reading the story of the Prodigal Son through to the bitter end. At the conclusion she broke down entirely and was led up to bed by Kate and Bella, the sympathy of the latter taking an acute form, and consisting mainly of innuendoes which could only refer to one person in the house.

  Kate Nugent, who was not prone to tears, took a different line, but with no better success. The captain declined to discuss the subject, and, after listening to a description of himself in which Nero and other celebrities figured for the purpose of having their characters whitewashed, took up his hat and went out.

  Jem Hardy heard of the new arrival from his partner, and, ignoring that gentleman’s urgent advice to make hay while the sun shone and take Master Nugent for a walk forthwith sat thoughtfully considering how to turn the affair to the best advantage. A slight outbreak of diphtheria at Fullalove Alley had, for a time, closed that thoroughfare to Miss Nugent, and he was inclined to regard the opportune arrival of her brother as an effort of Providence on his behalf.

  For some days, however, he looked for Jack Nugent in vain, that gentleman either being out of doors engaged in an earnest search for work, or snugly seated in the back parlour of the Kybirds, indulging in the somewhat perilous pastime of paying compliments to Amelia Kybird. Remittances which had reached him from his sister and aunt had been promptly returned, and he was indebted to the amiable Mr. Kybird for the bare necessaries of life. In these circumstances a warm feeling of gratitude towards the family closed his eyes to their obvious shortcomings.

  He even obtained work down at the harbour through a friend of Mr. Kybird’s. It was not of a very exalted nature, and caused more strain upon the back than the intellect, but seven years of roughing it had left him singularly free from caste prejudices, a freedom which he soon discovered was not shared by his old acquaintances at Sunwich. The discovery made him somewhat bitter, and when Hardy stopped him one afternoon as he was on his way home from work he tried to ignore his outstretched hand and continued on his way.

  “It is a long time since we met,” said Hardy, placing himself in front of him.

  “Good heavens,” said Jack, regarding him closely, “it’s Jemmy Hardy — grown up spick and span like the industrious little boys in the school-books. I heard you were back here.”

  “I came back just before you did,” said Hardy. “Brass band playing you in and all that sort of thing, I suppose,” said the other. “Alas, how the wicked prosper — and you were wicked. Do you remember how you used to knock me about?”

  “Come round to my place and have a chat,” said Hardy.

  Jack shook his head. “They’re expecting me in to tea,” he said, with a nod in the direction of Mr. Kybird’s, “and honest waterside labourers who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow — when the foreman is looking — do not frequent the society of the upper classes.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Hardy, politely.

  “Well, I’m not very tidy,” retorted Mr. Nugent, glancing at his clothes. “I don’t mind it myself; I’m a philosopher, and nothing hurts me so long as I have enough to eat and drink; but I don’t inflict myself on my friends, and I must say most of them meet me more than half-way.”

  “Imagination,” said Hardy.

  “All except Kate and my aunt,” said Jack, firmly. “Poor Kate; I tried to cut her the other day.”

  “Cut her?” echoed Hardy.

  Nugent nodded. “To save her feelings,” he replied; “but she wouldn’t be cut, bless her, and on the distinct understanding that it wasn’t to form a precedent, I let her kiss me behind a waggon. Do you know, I fancy she’s grown up rather good-looking, Jem?”

  “You are observant,” said Mr. Hardy, admiringly.

  “Of course, it may be my partiality,” said Mr. Nugent, with judicial fairness. “I was always a bit fond of Kate. I don’t suppose anybody else would see anything in her. Where are you living now?”

  “Fort Road,” said Hardy; “come round any evening you can, if you won’t come now.”

  Nugent promised, and, catching sight of Miss Kybird standing in the doorway of the shop, bade him good-bye and crossed the road. It was becoming quite a regular thing for her to wait and have her tea with him now, an arrangement which was provocative of many sly remarks on the part of Mrs. Kybird.

  “Thought you were never coming,” said Miss Kybird, tartly, as she led the way to the back room and took her seat at the untidy tea-tray.

  “And you’ve been crying your eyes out, I suppose,” remarked Mr. Nugent, as he groped in the depths of a tall jar for black-currant jam. “Well, you’re not the first, and I don’t suppose you’ll be the last. How’s Teddy?”

  “Get your tea,” retorted Miss Kybird, “and don’t make that scraping noise on the bottom of the jar with your knife. It puts my teeth on edge.”

  “So it does mine,” said Mr. Nugent, “but there’s a black currant down there, and I mean to have it. ‘Waste not, want not.’”

  “Make him put that knife down,” said Miss Kybird, as her mother entered the room. Mrs. Kybird shook her head at him. “You two are always quarrelling,” she said, archly, “just like a couple of — couple of — —”

  �
�Love-birds,” suggested Mr. Nugent.

  Mrs. Kybird in great glee squeezed round to him and smote him playfully with her large, fat hand, and then, being somewhat out of breath with the exertion, sat down to enjoy the jest in comfort.

  “That’s how you encourage him,” said her daughter; “no wonder he doesn’t behave. No wonder he acts as if the whole place belongs to him.”

  The remark was certainly descriptive of Mr. Nugent’s behaviour. His easy assurance and affability had already made him a prime favourite with Mrs. Kybird, and had not been without its effect upon her daughter. The constrained and severe company manners of Mr. Edward Silk showed up but poorly beside those of the paying guest, and Miss Kybird had on several occasions drawn comparisons which would have rendered both gentlemen uneasy if they had known of them.

  Mr. Nugent carried the same easy good-fellowship with him the following week when, neatly attired in a second-hand suit from Mr. Kybird’s extensive stock, he paid a visit to Jem Hardy to talk over old times and discuss the future.

  “You ought to make friends with your father,” said the latter; “it only wants a little common sense and mutual forbearance.”

  “That’s all,” said Nugent; “sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? No, all he wants is for me to clear out of Sunwich, and I’m not going to — until it pleases me, at any rate. It’s poison to him for me to be living at the Kybirds’ and pushing a trolley down on the quay. Talk about love sweetening toil, that does.”

  Hardy changed the subject, and Nugent, nothing loath, discoursed on his wanderings and took him on a personally conducted tour through the continent of Australia. “And I’ve come back to lay my bones in Sunwich Churchyard,” he concluded, pathetically; “that is, when I’ve done with ’em.”

  “A lot of things’ll happen before then,” said Hardy.

  “I hope so,” rejoined Mr. Nugent, piously; “my desire is to be buried by my weeping great-grandchildren. In fact, I’ve left instructions to that effect in my will — all I have left, by the way.”