Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Good nursing is the principal thing,” said his mother. “I nursed my pore dear ‘usband all through his last illness. He couldn’t bear me to be out of the room. I nursed my mother right up to the last, and your pore Aunt Jane went off in my arms.”

  Mr. Wilks raised himself on his elbow and his eyes shone feverishly in the lamplight. “I think I’ll get a ‘ospital nurse to-morrow,” he said, decidedly.

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Silk. “It’s no trouble to me at all. I like nursing; always did.”

  Mr. Wilks lay back again and, closing his eyes, determined to ask the doctor to provide a duly qualified nurse on the morrow. To his disappointment, however, the doctor failed to come, and although he felt much better Mrs. Silk sternly negatived a desire on his part to get up.

  “Not till the doctor’s been,” she said, firmly. “I couldn’t think of it.”

  “I don’t believe there’s anything the matter with me now,” he declared.

  “‘Ow odd— ‘ow very odd that you should say that!” said Mrs. Silk, clasping her hands.

  “Odd!” repeated the steward, somewhat crustily. “How do you mean — odd?”

  “They was the very last words my Uncle Benjamin ever uttered in this life,” said Mrs. Silk, with dramatic impressiveness.

  The steward was silent, then, with the ominous precedent of Uncle Benjamin before him, he began to talk until scores of words stood between himself and a similar ending.

  “Teddy asked to be remembered to you as ‘e went off this morning,” said Mrs. Silk, pausing in her labours at the grate.

  “I’m much obliged,” muttered the invalid.

  “He didn’t ‘ave time to come in,” pursued the widow. “You can ‘ardly believe what a lot ‘e thinks of you, Mr. Wilks. The last words he said to me was, ‘Let me know at once if there’s any change.’”

  Mr. Wilks distinctly felt a cold, clammy sensation down his spine and little quivering thrills ran up and down his legs. He glared indignantly at the back of the industrious Mrs. Silk.

  “Teddy’s very fond of you,” continued the unconscious woman. “I s’pose it’s not ‘aving a father, but he seems to me to think more of you than any-body else in the wide, wide world. I get quite jealous sometimes. Only the other day I said to ‘im, joking like, ‘Well, you’d better go and live with ‘im if you’re so fond of ‘im,’ I said.”

  “Ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Wilks, uneasily.

  “You’ll never guess what ‘e said then,” said Mrs. Silk dropping her dustpan and brush and gazing at the hearth.

  “Said ‘e couldn’t leave you, I s’pose,” guessed the steward, gruffly.

  “Well, now,” exclaimed Mrs. Silk, clapping her hands, “if you ‘aven’t nearly guessed it. Well, there! I never did! I wouldn’t ‘ave told you for anything if you ‘adn’t said that. The exact words what ‘e did say was, ‘Not without you, mother.’”

  Mr. Wilks closed his eyes with a snap and his heart turned to water. He held his breath and ran-sacked his brain in vain for a reply which should ignore the inner meaning of the fatal words. Something careless and jocular he wanted, combined with a voice which should be perfectly under control. Failing these things, he kept his eyes closed, and, very wide-awake indeed, feigned sleep. He slept straight away from eleven o’clock in the morning until Edward Silk came in at seven o’clock in the evening.

  “I feel like a new man,” he said, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

  “I don’t see no change in your appearance,” said the comforting youth.

  “‘E’s much better,” declared his mother. “That’s what comes o’ good nursing; some nurses would ‘ave woke ‘im up to take food, but I just let ‘im sleep on. People don’t feel hunger while they’re asleep.”

  She busied herself over the preparation of a basin of arrowroot, and the steward, despite his distaste for this dish, devoured it in a twinkling. Beef-tea and a glass of milk in addition failed to take more than the edge off his appetite.

  “We shall pull ‘im through,” said Mrs. Silk, smiling, as she put down the empty glass. “In a fortnight he’ll be on ‘is feet.”

  It is a matter of history that Mr. Wilks was on his feet at five o’clock the next morning, and not only on his feet but dressed and ready for a journey after such a breakfast as he had not made for many a day. The discourtesy involved in the disregard of the doctor’s instructions did not trouble him, and he smirked with some satisfaction as he noiselessly closed his door behind him and looked at the drawn blinds opposite. The stars were paling as he quitted the alley and made his way to the railway station. A note on his tumbled pillow, after thanking Mrs. Silk for her care of him, informed her that he was quite well and had gone to London in search of the missing captain.

  Hardy, who had heard from Edward Silk of the steward’s indisposition and had been intending to pay him a visit, learnt of his departure later on in the morning, and, being ignorant of the particulars, discoursed somewhat eloquently to his partner on the old man’s devotion.

  “H’m, may be,” said Swann, taking off his glasses and looking at him. “But you don’t think Captain Nugent is in London, do you?”

  “Why not?” inquired Hardy, somewhat startled. “If what Wilks told you is true, Nathan Smith knows,” said the other. “I’ll ask him.”

  “You don’t expect to get the truth out of him, do you?” inquired Hardy, superciliously.

  “I do,” said his partner, serenely; “and when I’ve got it I shall go and tell them at Equator Lodge. It will be doing those two poor ladies a service to let them know what has really happened to the captain.”

  “I’ll walk round to Nathan Smith’s with you,” said Hardy. “I should like to hear what the fellow has to say.”

  “No, I’ll go alone,” said his partner; “Smith’s a very shy man — painfully shy. I’ve run across him once or twice before. He’s almost as bashful and retiring as you are.”

  Hardy grunted. “If the captain isn’t in London, where is he?” he inquired.

  The other shook his head. “I’ve got an idea,” he replied, “but I want to make sure. Kybird and Smith are old friends, as Nugent might have known, only he was always too high and mighty to take any interest in his inferiors. There’s something for you to go on.”

  He bent over his desk again and worked steadily until one o’clock — his hour for lunching. Then he put on his hat and coat, and after a comfortable meal sallied out in search of Mr. Smith.

  The boarding-house, an old and dilapidated building, was in a bystreet convenient to the harbour. The front door stood open, and a couple of seamen lounging on the broken steps made way for him civilly as he entered and rapped on the bare boards with his stick. Mr. Smith, clattering down the stairs in response, had some difficulty in concealing his surprise at the visit, but entered genially into a conversation about the weather, a subject in which he was much interested. When the ship-broker began to discuss the object of his visit he led him to a small sitting-room at the back of the house and repeated the information he had given to Mr. Wilks.

  “That’s all there is to tell,” he concluded, artlessly; “the cap’n was that ashamed of hisself, he’s laying low for a bit. We all make mistakes sometimes; I do myself.”

  “I am much obliged to you,” said Mr. Swann, gratefully.

  “You’re quite welcome, sir,” said the boarding-master.

  “And now,” said the visitor, musingly— “now for the police.”

  “Police!” repeated Mr. Smith, almost hastily. “What for?”

  “Why, to find the captain,” said Mr. Swann, in a surprised voice.

  Mr. Smith shook his head. “You’ll offend the cap’n bitter if you go to the police about ‘im, sir,” he declared. “His last words to me was, ‘Smith, ‘ave this kept quiet.’”

  “It’ll be a little job for the police,” urged the shipbroker. “They don’t have much to do down here; they’ll be as pleased as possible.”

  “They’ll worry your life out of you,
sir,” said the other. “You don’t know what they are.”

  “I like a little excitement,” returned Mr. Swann. “I don’t suppose they’ll trouble me much, but they’ll turn your place topsy-turvy, I expect. Still, that can’t be helped. You know what fools the police are; they’ll think you’ve murdered the captain and hidden his body under the boards. They’ll have all the floors up. Ha, ha, ha!”

  “‘Aving floors up don’t seem to me to be so amusing as wot it does to you,” remarked Mr. Smith, coldly.

  “They may find all sorts of treasure for you,” continued his visitor. “It’s a very old house, Smith, and there may be bags of guineas hidden away under the flooring. You may be able to retire.”

  “You’re a gentleman as is fond of his joke, Mr. Swann,” returned the boarding-master, lugubriously. “I wish I’d got that ‘appy way of looking at things you ‘ave.”

  “I’m not joking, Smith,” said the other, quietly.

  Mr. Smith pondered and, stealing a side-glance at him, stood scraping his foot along the floor.

  “There ain’t nothing much to tell,” he grumbled, “and, mind, the worst favour you could do to the cap’n would be to put it about how he was done. He’s gone for a little trip instead of ‘is son, that’s all.”

  “Little trip!” repeated the other; “you call a whaling cruise a little trip?”

  “No, no, sir,” said Mr. Smith, in a shocked voice, “I ain’t so bad as that; I’ve got some ‘art, I hope. He’s just gone for a little trip with ‘is old pal Hardy on the Conqueror. Kybird’s idea it was.”

  “Don’t you know it’s punishable?” demanded the shipbroker, recovering.

  Mr. Smith shook his head and became serious. “The cap’n fell into ‘is own trap,” he said, slowly. “There’s no lor for ‘im! He’d only get laughed at. The idea of trying to get me to put little Amelia Kybird’s young man away. Why, I was ‘er god-father.”

  Mr. Swann stared at him, and then with a friendly “good morning” departed. Half-way along the passage he stopped, and retracing his steps produced his cigar-case and offered the astonished boarding-master a cigar.

  “I s’pose,” said that gentleman as he watched the other’s retreating figure and dubiously smelt the cigar; “I s’pose it’s all right; but he’s a larky sort, and I ‘ave heard of ’em exploding. I’ll give it to Kybird, in case.”

  To Mr. Smith’s great surprise his visitor sat down suddenly and began to laugh. Tears of honest mirth suffused his eyes and dimmed his glasses. Mr. Smith, regarding him with an air of kindly interest, began to laugh to keep him company.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Captain Nugent awoke the morning after his attempt to crimp his son with a bad headache. Not an ordinary headache, to disappear with a little cold water and fresh air; but a splitting, racking affair, which made him feel all head and dulness. Weights pressed upon his eye-lids and the back of his head seemed glued to his pillow.

  He groaned faintly and, raising himself upon his elbow, opened his eyes and sat up with a sharp exclamation. His bed was higher from the floor than usual and, moreover, the floor was different. In the dim light he distinctly saw a ship’s forecastle, untidy bunks with frouzy bedclothes, and shiny oil-skins hanging from the bulkhead.

  For a few moments he stared about in mystification; he was certainly ill, and no doubt the forecastle was an hallucination. It was a strange symptom, and the odd part of it was that everything was so distinct. Even the smell. He stared harder, in the hope that his surroundings would give place to the usual ones, and, leaning a little bit more on his elbow, nearly rolled out of the bunk. Resolved to probe this mystery to the bottom he lowered himself to the floor and felt distinctly the motion of a ship at sea.

  There was no doubt about it. He staggered to the door and, holding by the side, looked on to the deck. The steamer was rolling in a fresh sea and a sweet strong wind blew refreshingly into his face. Funnels, bridge, and masts swung with a rhythmical motion; loose gear rattled, and every now and then a distant tinkle sounded faintly from the steward’s pantry.

  He stood bewildered, trying to piece together the events of the preceding night, and to try and understand by what miracle he was back on board his old ship the Conqueror. There was no doubt as to her identity. He knew every inch of her, and any further confirmation that might be required was fully supplied by the appearance of the long, lean figure of Captain Hardy on the bridge.

  Captain Nugent took his breath sharply and began to realize the situation. He stepped to the side and looked over; the harbour was only a little way astern, and Sunwich itself, looking cold and cheerless beyond the dirty, tumbling seas, little more than a mile distant.

  At the sight his spirits revived, and with a hoarse cry he ran shouting towards the bridge. Captain Hardy turned sharply at the noise, and recognizing the intruder stood peering down at him in undisguised amazement.

  “Put back,” cried Nugent, waving up at him. “Put back.”

  “What on earth are you doing on my ship?” inquired the astonished Hardy.

  “Put me ashore,” cried Nugent, imperiously; “don’t waste time talking. D’ye hear? Put me ashore.”

  The amazement died out of Hardy’s face and gave way to an expression of anger. For a time he regarded the red and threatening visage of Captain Nugent in silence, then he turned to the second officer.

  “This man is not one of the crew, Mr. Prowle?” he said, in a puzzled voice.

  “No, sir,” said Mr. Prowle.

  “How did he get aboard here?”

  Captain Nugent answered the question himself. “I was crimped by you and your drunken bullies,” he said, sternly.

  “How did this man get aboard here? repeated Captain Hardy, ignoring him.

  “He must have concealed ‘imself somewhere, sir,” said the mate; “this is the first I’ve seen of him.”

  “A stowaway?” said the captain, bending his brows. “He must have got some of the crew to hide him aboard. You’d better make a clean breast of it, my lad. Who are your confederates?”

  Captain Nugent shook with fury. The second mate had turned away, with his hand over his mouth and a suspicious hunching of his shoulders, while the steward, who had been standing by, beat a hasty retreat and collapsed behind the chart-room.

  “If you don’t put me ashore,” said Nugent, restraining his passion by a strong effort, “I’ll take proceedings against you for crimping me, the moment I reach port. Get a boat out and put me aboard that smack.”

  He pointed as he spoke to a smack which was just on their beam, making slowly for the harbour.

  “When you’ve done issuing orders,” said the captain, in an indifferent voice, “perhaps you’ll explain what you are doing aboard my crag.”

  Captain Nugent gazed at the stern of the fast-receding smack; Sunwich was getting dim in the distance and there was no other sail near. He began to realize that he was in for a long voyage.

  “I awoke this morning and found myself in a bunk in vow fo’c’s’le,” he said, regarding Hardy steadily. “However I got there is probably best known to yourself. I hold you responsible for the affair.”

  “Look here my lad,” said Captain Hardy, in patronizing tones, “I don’t know how you got aboard my ship and I don’t care. I am willing to believe that it was not intentional on your part, but either the outcome of a drunken freak or else a means of escaping from some scrape you have got into ashore. That being so, I shall take a merciful view of it, and if you behave yourself and make yourself useful you will not hear anything more of it. He has something the look of a seafaring man, Mr. Prowle. See what you can make of him.”

  “Come along with me, my lad,” said the grinning Mr. Prowle, tapping him on the shoulder.

  The captain turned with a snarl, and, clenching his huge, horny fist, let drive full in the other’s face and knocked him off his feet.

  “Take that man for’ard,” cried Captain Hardy, sharply. “Take him for’ard.”

  Half-a-dozen
willing men sprang forward. Captain Nugent’s views concerning sailormen were well known in Sunwich, and two of the men present had served under him. He went forward, the centre of an attentive and rotating circle, and, sadly out of breath, was bestowed in the forecastle and urged to listen to reason.

  For the remainder of the morning he made no sign. The land was almost out of sight, and he sat down quietly to consider his course of action for the next few weeks. Dinner-time found him still engrossed in thought, and the way in which he received an intimation from a good-natured seaman that his dinner was getting cold showed that his spirits were still unquelled.

  By the time afternoon came he was faint with hunger, and, having determined upon his course of action, he sent a fairly polite message to Captain Hardy and asked for an interview.

  The captain, who was resting from his labours in the chart-room, received him with the same air of cold severity which had so endeared Captain Nugent himself to his subordinates.

  “You have come to explain your extraordinary behaviour of this morning, I suppose?” he said, curtly.

  “I have come to secure a berth aft,” said Captain Nugent. “I will pay a small deposit now, and you will, of course, have the balance as soon as we get back. This is without prejudice to any action I may bring against you later on.”

  “Oh, indeed,” said the other, raising his eyebrows. “We don’t take passengers.”

  “I am here against my will,” said Captain Nu-gent, “and I demand the treatment due to my position.”

  “If I had treated you properly,” said Captain Hardy, “I should have put you in irons for knocking down my second officer. I know nothing about you or your position. You’re a stowaway, and you must do the best you can in the circumstances.”

  “Are you going to give me a cabin?” demanded the other, menacingly.

  “Certainly not,” said Captain Hardy. “I have been making inquiries, and I find that you have only yourself to thank for the position in which you find yourself. I am sorry to be harsh with you.”