Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “If you was only three foot taller and six or seven stone ‘eavier,” said the palpitating boatswain, “I should know wot to do with you.

  “I assure you—” began Bassett.

  “If you say another word,” declared Mr. Walters, in grating accents, “I’ll take you by the scruff of your little neck and drop you in the river. And if you tell any more lies about my young woman to a living soul I’ll tear you limb from limb, and box your ears arter-wards.”

  With a warning shake of the head at the gasping Bassett he turned to Miss Jelks, but that injured lady, with her head at an alarming angle, was already moving away. Even when he reached her side she seemed unaware of his existence, and it was not until the afternoon was well advanced that she deigned to take the slightest notice of his abject apologies.

  “It’s being at sea and away from you that does it,” he said humbly.

  “And a nasty jealous temper,” added Miss Jelks.

  “I’m going to try for a shore-berth,” said her admirer. “I spoke to Mr. Vyner — the young one — about it yesterday, and he’s going to see wot he can do for me. If I get that I shall be a different man.”

  “He’d do anything for Miss Joan,” said the mollified Rosa thoughtfully, “and if you behave yourself and conquer your wicked jealous nature I might put in a word for you with her myself.”

  Mr. Walters thanked her warmly and with a natural anxiety regarding his future prospects, paid frequent visits to learn what progress she was making. He haunted the kitchen with the persistency of a blackbeetle, and became such a nuisance at last that Miss Hartley espoused his cause almost with enthusiasm.

  “He is very much attached to Rosa, but he takes up a lot of her time,” she said to Robert Vyner as they were on their way one evening to Tranquil Vale to pay a visit to Captain Trimblett.

  “I’ll get him something for Rosa’s sake,” said Robert, softly. “I shall never forget that she invited me to breakfast when her mistress would have let me go empty away. Do you remember?”

  “I remember wondering whether you were going to stay all day,” said Joan.

  “It never occurred to me,” said Mr. Vyner in tones of regret. “I’m afraid you must have thought me very neglectful.”

  They walked on happily through the dark, cold night until the lighted windows of Tranquil Vale showed softly in the blackness. There was a light in the front room of No. 5, and the sound of somebody moving hurriedly about followed immediately upon Mr. Vyner’s knock. Then the door opened and Captain Trimblett stood before them.

  “Come in,” he said heartily. “Come in, I’m all alone this evening.”

  He closed the door behind them, and, while Mr. Vyner stood gazing moodily at the mound on the table which appeared to have been hastily covered up with a rather soiled towel, placed a couple of easy chairs by the fire. Mr. Vyner, with his eyes still on the table, took his seat slowly, and then transferring his regards to Captain Trimblett, asked him in a stern vein what he was smiling at Joan for.

  “She smiled at me first,” said the captain.

  Mr. Vyner shook his head at both of them, and at an offer of a glass of beer looked so undecided that the captain, after an uneasy glance at the table, which did not escape Mr. Vyner, went to the kitchen to procure some.

  “I wonder,” said Robert musingly, as he turned to the table, “I wonder if it would be bad manners to—”

  “Yes,” said Joan, promptly.

  Mr. Vyner sighed and tried to peer under a corner of the towel. “I can see a saucer,” he announced, excitedly.

  Miss Hartley rose and pointing with a rigid fore-finger at her own chair, changed places with him.

  “You want to see yourself,” declared Mr. Vyner.

  Miss Hartley scorned to reply.

  “Let’s share the guilt,” continued the other. “You shut your eyes and raise the corner of the towel, and I’ll do the ‘peeping’.”

  The return of the unconscious captain with the beer rendered a reply unnecessary.

  “We half thought you would be at number nine,” he said as the captain poured him out a glass.

  “I’m keeping house this evening,” said the captain, “or else I should have been.”

  “It’s nice for you to have your children near you,” said Joan, softly.

  Captain Trimblett assented. “And it’s nice to be able to give up the sea,” he said with a grateful glance at Vyner. “I’m getting old, and that last bout of malaria hasn’t made me any younger.”

  “The youngsters seem to get on all right with Mrs. Chinnery,” said Robert, eying him closely.

  “Splendidly,” said the Captain. “I should never have thought that she would have been so good with children. She half worships them.”

  “Not all of them,” said Mr. Vyner.

  “All of ’em,” said the captain.

  “Twins, as well?” said Mr. Vyner, raising his voice.

  “She likes them best of all,” was the reply.

  Mr. Vyner rose slowly from his chair. “She is a woman in a million,” he said impressively. “I wonder why—”

  “They’re very good girls,” said the captain hastily. “Old Sellers thinks there is nobody like them.”

  “I expect you’ll be making a home for them soon,” said Robert, thoughtfully; “although it will be rather hard on Mrs. Chinnery to part with them. Won’t it?”

  “We are all in the hands of fate,” said the captain gazing suddenly at his tumbler. “Fate rules all things from the cradle to the grave.”

  He poured himself out a little more beer and lapsing into a reminiscent mood cited various instances in his own career, in confirmation. It was an interesting subject, but time was pressing and Mr. Vyner, after a regretful allusion to that part, announced that they must be going. Joan rose, and Captain Trimblett, rising at the same moment, knocked over his beer and in a moment of forgetfulness snatched the towel from the table to wipe it up. The act revealed an electro-plated salad-bowl of noble proportions, a saucer of whitening and some pieces of rag.

  THE CASTAWAYS

  This novel was first published in 1916. It is in the romantic, humorous vein of Jacobs’ previous novels and once again features a nautical theme. This time, however, the characters spend much of their time in a yacht, rather than on land.

  The story concerns Carstairs, a clerk that inherits a fortune and decides to travel the world. Joining him on his yacht is a fellow clerk, who acts as his secretary, as well as two young men that hope that Carstairs’ new-found position might help them to gain access to the young women they are in love with – and whose formidable guardian, Lady Penrose, is intent on keeping out of their hands.

  Cover of the first edition

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  Title page of the first edition

  Jacobs in later years

  CHAPTER I

  MR. WILLIAM POPE closed his ledger with a slam and, slipping from his stool, locked the drawer of his desk and returned the key to his pocket. It was just one o’clock, and there was an ebb and flow of clerks returning from, and going to, lunch. It had been an everyday scene to Mr. Pope for thirty years; he looked forward to another ten and then a pension, which he fondly hoped to enjoy for thirty more. He walked slowly across the big room and, putting his head round a glass and mahogany screen, eyed with clerkly disapproval the industry of a man working there.

  “One o’clo
ck, Carstairs,” he said sharply. Mr. Carstairs turned a lean, cleanshaven face on his friend and smiled amiably.

  “Just coming,” he said, blotting his work. “I had no idea it was so late.”

  Mr. Pope grunted. “I should know it in the dark,” he declared, “without a watch. I believe you like work, Carstairs.”

  The other shook his head. “Just a habit,” he said slowly. “There’s not much to like about it. Come along, before you faint.”

  He led the way out of the bank into the crowded, sunlit street, and, seizing an opportunity, darted across the road. Mr. Pope, with a finer sense of his dignity, waited until the traffic was held up, and crossed ponderously. “One of these days — —” he began.

  “I know,” said his friend,” but I feel like a boy to-day. Twenty-five years dropped from my shoulders this morning and left me a boy of twenty.”

  “Pity the grey hairs didn’t drop too,” remarked Mr. Pope.

  “One thing at a time,” said the other. “And, after all, I haven’t got many.”

  He stopped at the entrance to the Beech Tree, and, pushing through the swing-doors, led the way up to the dining-room, and to the end table they usually occupied. Mr. Pope seated himself with a sigh of content, and, placing a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez across his nose, studied the menu.

  “Plate of mulligatawny,” he said slowly, “boiled silverside, tankard of bitter.”

  He ate his meal with enjoyment, and then, lighting a cigar and ordering coffee, disposed himself for conversation. Carstairs, who had eaten but little, answered in such an abstracted fashion that Mr. Pope, in a fit of pique, closed his mouth with his cigar and lapsed into silence.

  “I’m sorry,” said Carstairs, turning, with a slight laugh. “I was thinking.”

  “Think away,” said his friend coldly.

  “Thinking of the many times I have eaten in this place,” said Carstairs. “Day after day, year after year. It has all passed like a dream.”

  “Best way for a lunch to pass,” said Pope, with feeling. “If you had poor Hall’s digestion—”

  “I mean the whole thing,” said Carstairs. “The morning train, the day’s work. For twenty-five years, rain or shine, I have been shut up in that office taking care of other people’s money. Now I am my own master. I can stay in bed all day, or go to the North Pole if I like.”

  Mr. Pope took his cigar from his mouth and regarded him thoughtfully. “You had better stay in bed all day,” he said at length. “Or perhaps two or three days would be better.”

  “This is my last day at the office,” said Carstairs. “I can hardly realise it.”

  “Don’t try to,” said Pope anxiously.

  “To-morrow morning I shall go birds’- nesting.”

  “What — in October?” stammered the unhappy Pope.

  “Or a motor run,” said Carstairs, hiding a smile. “If it’s a day like this it will be splendid. I’ll ask for a day’s leave for you. I bought a ripping car yesterday.”

  Mr. Pope stifled a groan. “We had better be getting back,” he said, rising.

  “Back!” said the other. “Why, we have got twenty-five minutes yet. Sit down and discuss where we shall go. You needn’t be alarmed; I am not going to drive. What do you say to Brighton? Run down to lunch, spend a couple of hours by the sparkling sea, and then home to dinner and a theatre.”

  Mr. Pope turned and looked long and hard at his friend. “Look here, Carstairs,” he said at last, “do you know what you are talking about?”

  “About a motor run,” said the other.

  “In your own car?” pursued Pope.

  Carstairs nodded.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Bought it.”

  Mr. Pope sighed, but pursued his cross examination. “How much?”

  “Nine hundred and twenty-five pounds,” was the reply.

  There was a long pause, during which Mr. Pope tried hard to get his voice under control.

  “Where did you get the money?” he asked at last, in fairly even tones.

  “Ah, now you’re getting to business,” said Carstairs, smiling broadly. “It was left to me by an uncle I haven’t seen since I was ten. He went to Australia sheep-shearing. Judging by the amount I’m rather afraid he must have been shearing his fellow men as well.”

  Pope, still looking doubtful, cleared his throat.

  “Much?” he inquired.

  Carstairs nodded. “I’m afraid to tell you the amount,” he said quietly. “You might ask me to go and see a doctor.”

  “How much?” demanded the other.

  “Or fall off your chair.”

  “How much?” repeated the other severely.

  “We don’t know exactly,” said Carstairs, fumbling in his pocket, “but in this letter from my lawyers they say about thirty thousand a year.”

  Conversation in the room was suspended until the echoes of Mr. Pope’s exclamation had died away. With a trembling hand he took the letter and read it, and then for the first time in many years he had a glass of water with his lunch. After which he congratulated Mr. Carstairs.

  “But you’ve known this some time,” he said reproachfully.

  “About three weeks,” said Carstairs. “But I wanted to be absolutely certain before I said anything about it.”

  “What are you going to do with it all?” demanded the amazed Pope.

  Carstairs pretended to consider. “I shall keep a few fowls, I think,” he said at last, “and the motor.”

  Mr. Pope shook his head gloomily. “It’ll be thrown away on you,” he said. “You never have had any idea of real enjoyment. You’d have been much better off if the old man had left you five hundred a year. You’ve got simple tastes.”

  “Simple things cost the most, I believe,” said Carstairs. “My car doesn’t make nearly such an important noise as a second-hand one at fifty pounds. A ten-guinea suit of clothes escapes observation, whereas one at twenty-five shillings attracts attention wherever it goes.”

  Mr. Pope, who was not listening, raised his finger for the waiter. “Two glasses of the best and oldest port you’ve got. I want to see what it feels like to stand treat to a man with thirty thousand a year,” he said, after the waiter had departed. “You’ll drop all your old friends now.”

  “Of course,” said Carstairs simply. “I shall begin with you — after I have drunk the port.” Mr. Pope clinked glasses, and then with a gentle sigh sipped his wine.

  “You’ll have to be careful,” he said, after a long silence. “There are heaps of people who will be anxious to help you spend that money. You’re too easy-going by half to be trusted with it. I can see you investing it in all sorts of wild-cat schemes, not because you believe in them, but because you will be unable to say ‘ No.’”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Carstairs.

  “I’m certain of it,” said his friend vehemently. “You’ve got no knowledge of the world, and you have a trust in human nature that I can only describe as child-like. I shouldn’t be surprised if you lost everything you’ve got in five years.”

  “I reckoned ten,” said Carstairs, “but I dare say you are nearer the mark. However, I will relieve your mind by telling you that I am taking measures to prevent it. I am engaging a man to look after my affairs, and if I crack up in a few years he will be responsible. I shall practically leave things in his hands.”

  “Leave things in his hands?” gasped the amazed Pope. “And suppose he lets you down?”

  “He won’t,” said Carstairs.

  The other looked at him with unaffected concern. “Don’t do it,” he said earnestly. “Don’t do it.”

  “I must,” said Carstairs. “I can’t be bothered with business matters. I might as well stay on at the bank. It’s no use, Pope, I’m quite determined.”

  “You must be crazy,” said Pope at last. “What do you know about him? How long have you known him?”

  “Long enough to know he is all right,” said the other. “But you know him
better than I do.”

  “I!” said Pope, starting. “I don’t know anybody I’d trust to that extent. Who is it?”

  “His name is William Pope,” said Carstairs.

  Mr. Pope’s expression changed suddenly, and his mouth broke into tremulous smiles. Then his face began to harden again.

  “It’s no use,” said Carstairs, who had been watching him closely. “It’s a favour to myself. You’ve got a very clear head for business, and a stronger way of dealing with people than I have.”

  Mr. Pope shook his head.

  “And you know what things are better than I do,” pursued Carstairs. “You can help me to keep my end up. There’s an air about you, Pope, that I haven’t got. I want some of your moral support. I want you to tell my lies for me, and intervene between myself and people who want to help me spend my money.”

  “If you put it that way—” began the other, wavering.

  “It’s the only way to put it,” said Carstairs. “It’s a pure matter of business; friendship doesn’t count at all. We’ll have a contract drawn up by my solicitors all shipshape and proper, and then I shall be able to enjoy my money while you have all the trouble of it.”

  Pope turned in his chair and extended his hand.

  “That’s settled,” said Carstairs, “and I’m willing to give you the pleasure again of paying for a wealthy friend’s port to celebrate it.”

  Mr. Pope held up to the waiter a beckoning finger that seemed to have increased in size and importance since the last order. He turned an eye on a clock that no longer had any message for him, and, raising his glass, toasted “Our very good healths.”

  The return to the office was effected without hurry. Haste was all very well for men whose horizon was bounded by streets and the regular performance of mechanical duties; free men with the pleasant places of the world before them could afford to take their time. In front of the very entrance of the bank Mr. Pope, pleasantly conscious of being twenty-five minutes late, loitered to purchase a buttonhole. His appearance was so dignified that the colleague who had been impatiently awaiting his return in order to go to his own lunch ventured on no greater reproach than a sniff.