Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “I should have thought the sea was the worst place in the world for a man of your profession,” remarked Knight, after listening to one or two episodes.

  The doctor stroked a very fine moustache. “Why?” he inquired.

  “No practice,” was the reply.

  “You’re wrong,” said Maloney. “It’s what I come to sea for. Suppose I was ashore and you had got to lose a leg, say. Would you come to me?”

  “I would not,” said Knight bluntly.

  “Exactly,” said Maloney, nodding. “But you’ve got no choice here. That’s where I have you. If you get anything wrong with you, you don’t turn over the Medical Directory and pick out your man; you come to me. And you can’t upset my diagnosis. That’s a great thing. That’s a comforting thing.”

  “For whom?” inquired Peplow seriously.

  “All of us,” said Maloney, lowering his voice as two of the ladies passed. “If you pass away because I treat you for muscular rheumatism by removing your appendix, it’s much better for your peace of mind — to say nothing of my own — you shouldn’t know that but for a pardonable error you might have lived another fifty years.”

  Mr. Peplow shuddered. “Are you an Irishman?” he inquired thoughtfully.

  The other shook his head. “Not since my grandfather,” he replied. “When I was born the brogue got mislaid. Besides, I am too serious-minded for an Irishman.”

  “I never have any use for a doctor,” said Knight casually, “but if I had I should choose a man of some age.”

  “I’m just the right age,” said Maloney. “Thirty; just young enough to be interesting, and just old enough to know how to.”

  He strolled off with a smile, and dropping into a chair between Miss Seacombe and Miss Blake, just vacated by Mrs. Jardine, at once proceeded to justify his statement.

  “Who shipped that chap?” demanded Knight, turning to Pope.

  “Carstairs,” was the reply. “He said that he reminded him of you. Jolly chap; knows his job, too. He’s got a splendid lot of instruments; I have seen them.”

  “You’ll see them again,” said Knight solemnly. “Mark my words if you don’t.

  What a romantic end to a useful and well-spent life, to be buried at sea a thousand miles from land!”

  It was a matter for congratulation that when they emerged from the shelter of the Isle of Wight they found the Channel as smooth as the proverbial mill-pond. The evening air was bracing and just cool enough to make the change to the warm dining-room acceptable. Half-way through the meal Mr. Pope paid a heartfelt tribute to the cook, warmly seconded by Mr. Peplow.

  “It must be a beautifully built ship,” said Miss Flack; “there is absolutely no motion.”

  “And not at all stuffy,” said Mrs. Jardine.

  “It is difficult to realise that we are at sea,” said Pope, looking around.

  “It is a difficulty that time will solve,” said the doctor. “I had the same difficulty myself once, and twelve hours later I thought that I was in a boat-swing that fancied itself a roundabout.”

  “Did it — did it upset your digestion?” inquired Miss Flack delicately.

  “It did not,” said the doctor. “It upset my head.”

  “Vertigo,” explained Pope, with a wise nod.

  “Edge of the fore-scuttle,” corrected the doctor, “and one of the hands who was coming up at the time. He got a very interesting case of concussion. He’d have been in bed till the end of the voyage if the second mate hadn’t taken the case out of my hands. He used a counter-irritant in the shape of two clumps on the head. I did think of sending an account of the case to the Lancet.”

  Miss Flack looked mystified. “How interesting!” she murmured, and turned with some relief to help herself to trifle.

  The next two days passed with equal serenity, a condition of things for which, judging from their remarks, his gratified guests seemed to hold Carstairs responsible. Reading, conversation, and games made the time pass pleasantly enough, the devotion of Mr. Knight to law books of a singularly uninviting appearance calling for much surprised comment. It was whispered — by the admiring Mrs. Ginnell — that he was going to read for the Bar on his return to England, but after one morning during which a lot of silly people, including several old enough to know better, walked round and round the ship in line for the pleasure of passing him on tiptoe and saying “H’sh!” as they approached, he threw up his studies in disgust.

  He awoke on the fourth day at sea to find his bunk out of the horizontal and a floor which was never in the same place for two seconds together. He shaved himself carefully and, grinning with anticipation, went on deck. The fresh morning air, with a touch of rain in it, was delightful, but the sea was of a dirty brown and the sky overcast. The deck looked wet and desolate; the bows rose and fell again with a resounding slap.

  “Dirty weather?” he inquired of the boatswain, who was passing.

  “Not yet, sir,” was the reply, “but I fancies as we shall get it in the Bay. If I was you, sir, I should eat all I could stow away to-day.”

  “Oh, I’m all right,” said Knight sharply. “I was thinking of the others — the ladies.”

  Mr. Tam nodded, and turned to gaze with some interest at Miss Mudge, who, appearing hastily from the companion, passed them in a series of little tottering runs. Between runs she stood swaying to and fro in an effort to regain her balance and gazing with much distaste at the tumbling seas. The boatswain, with a deprecatory glance at Knight, stepped up to her and steadied her with a powerful arm about her waist. She turned with a faint scream.

  “All right,” he said reassuringly, “I’ve got you; you’re quite safe.”

  “Safe!” repeated Miss Mudge. “You’re choking the life out of me. I thought the machinery had got hold of me.”

  “I thought you was going to fall,” said the boatswain, letting out a reef. “Is that better?”

  Miss Mudge’s head dropped to his shoulder and her eyes half closed. He led her to a seat and sat down, still supporting her, until an angry bark from the bridge sent him about his business. Deprived of his support, moral and physical, the girl rose and, steering an erratic course for the companion, disappeared below.

  Seats at the breakfast-table began to empty before the conclusion of the performance. The dining-saloon had suddenly become stuffy and odorous, the smell of fried engine oil being particularly noticeable. Bulkheads creaked, and articles on the table became endowed with movement.

  “We shall have to have the fiddles rigged for lunch, I expect,” said Tollhurst.

  “There is a little bit of a sea on,” said Pope, as he arose and assisted Mrs. Ginnell to the door. “Perhaps I had better help you to your cabin.”

  The couple disappeared, followed with longing eyes by Markham. The under stewards, jealous of his authority, watched him gloatingly. Pale of face and compressed of lip he stuck to his post wondering whether he could endure to the end.

  “I feel unwell,” said Carstairs, rising suddenly. “And I don’t care who knows it,” he added, looking at the grinning faces before him. “Markham, you are feeling it, too. You had better get to your bunk. There will be quite enough left to — to look after — the survivors.”

  He vanished with some precipitancy, followed by the butler. Mrs. Jardine, the only lady left, rose from her chair and with an undisturbed mien went off to the drawing room. The men went up to the smoke-room and lit cigarettes. Through the doorway on the leeward side they caught glimpses of white-topped seas scurrying past. Mr. Peplow, to observe them better, left the smoke-room and did a stately cake-walk to the side, where he remained, heedless of the rain and spray.

  “We are going right into it,” observed the doctor returning from a visit to the doorway.

  Talwyn stared at him disagreeably. “Going into it? We are in it, aren’t we?” he demanded.

  “Not on the edge of it yet,” replied the doctor cheerfully.

  Talwyn grunted and, regarding his cigarette with some disfavour,
threw it away. Then, muttering something in his pocket-handkerchief, he got up and went out. Within ten minutes the doctor was alone.

  The wind increased as the day wore on, and at luncheon Mrs. Jardine, his only companion, rose before the meal was finished and, with a look equally compounded of surprise and indignation, quitted the saloon. By next morning it was blowing a gale, which continued with unabated violence throughout the day.

  It was not until the day after that that Mr. Knight, who had been keeping body and soul together with judicious doses of brandy and water, swung his feet over the edge of the bunk and lowered himself slowly to the floor. His neglected watch had stopped, and he was even in some doubt as to the day of the week. He opened the door, and, clutching at anything that offered support, made his way to Mr. Peplow’s cabin, and sank exhausted on the velvet settee.

  “Halloa!” said Mr. Peplow feebly, turning a dull eye on him. “What do you want?”

  “Bright and entertaining society,” retorted Knight, with weak ferocity.

  His friend made no reply, but, turning away, closed his eyes and tried to forget his troubles in sleep. Knight, lying on the settee, listened drearily to the creaking of timbers, the distant crash of crockery from the stewards’ pantry, and the monotonous sound of the bilge as it washed to and fro. The door opened and the horrible reek of a cigar assailed his nostrils. He turned a languid head to see Maloney standing in the doorway.

  “Just had a look into your cubby-hole,” he said, entering. “Thought perhaps you had gone overboard.”

  “Take — it — away,” said Knight.

  The doctor looked puzzled. “Oh, the cigar!” he said, with a laugh. “I’ll hold it outside the door. It’s one of Pope’s best. He has just given me the box. Says he never wants to see one again.”

  “What’s — time?” inquired Knight, with an effort.

  “Just gone four. Are you going to get up?”

  “Where are — the — others?” inquired Knight.

  “All in bed except two,” was the reply. “I’ve had my hands full, I can tell you. There’s still a big sea running. Miss Seacombe describes it as mountainous.”

  “Is — is she up?” inquired Knight, starting.

  “And Mrs. Ginnell,” said Maloney. “Both made an effort and got up to breakfast. Slight relapse after breakfast, but turned up to lunch. They’ve got ten times the pluck of the men. I’ve got ’em both up on deck wrapped up in shawls in lounge chairs.”

  Knight groaned, and putting his feet to the floor got up and looked out at the porthole. With another groan he returned to the settee.

  “Don’t you worry about them,” said Maloney gently; “they’re all right. I’m reading poetry to them.”

  “Poetry?” gasped Knight.

  “Keats,” said the other, nodding. “It’s Miss Seacombe’s favourite. After dinner I’m going to give her some of my own. I shall tell her it’s Shelley. There’s one little thing of mine—”

  “Oh, go to blazes!” moaned the indignant Knight. “Are they strapped in their chairs?”

  “They are not,” said the doctor. “If you had ever heard me read poetry you would not ask me that question. Why not make an effort and get up and come and hear me? It’s only a question of will-power.”

  “Go away,” said Knight.

  “Talk to yourself firmly. Say over six times: ‘I will be a man; I will not lie about like a dying duck in a thunderstorm in pink pyjamas with blue stripes undone at the neck.’”

  “This — is the doctor — Freddie,” observed Knight bitterly.

  “Send him away,” faltered Mr. Peplow.

  “It’s curing you I would be,” said the doctor.” Trying to shame you into your trousers. I cured a man of the sea-sickness once by sitting on his diaphragm. It was the indignity of the thing that he didn’t like. In the wild desire to kill one of the best doctors in England he forgot all about his illness.”

  Knight closed his eyes.

  “Well, I must be going,” continued Maloney. “I mustn’t keep the ladies waiting. I suppose you haven’t got a voice lozenge about you?”

  He took two or three sharp puffs at his cigar, which had nearly gone out, and vanished in a cloud of malodorous smoke.

  There was a long silence, broken only by a faint moan from Mr. Peplow. Then Knight, fired by the story of the owner of the outraged diaphragm, rose unsteadily to his feet, and tottered back to his cabin. A small figure, lying on its back on his settee with its knees drawn up, eyed him wanly.

  “Albert!” exclaimed the astonished Knight.

  The boy pointed a trembling finger at a siphon of soda which was rolling about on the floor with a broken plate and some dry biscuits. As a defence it seemed incomplete.

  “Then I had — to — lay down,” said Albert, with a shudder.

  He turned over on his left side, drew his knees up to his chin, and composed himself to slumber. By a great effort Knight managed to retrieve a couple of biscuits and the soda and cut his foot on the broken plate. A stiff peg of brandy and soda, together with the biscuits, helped to revive him. He took his clothes from the floor and, with trembling fingers, proceeded to dress himself.

  He gained the deck with some difficulty and, swaying with weakness, stood holding on to a rail. After the atmosphere below the strong, clean air was delicious, and he did his best to ignore the heaving seas and a couple of performing fishing-boats. Slowly and carefully he made his way aft to the sheltered spot where Maloney was reading to his fair patients.

  A little delighted exclamation from Mrs. Ginnell and a smile from Miss Seacombe greeted his arrival. Mutual congratulations were exchanged.

  “He had better have your chair,” said Miss Seacombe to the reader.

  The doctor rose, and Knight, having by dint of skilful balancing taken the chair without mishap, bestowed a smile, right and left, on his fair companions. It was returned with interest, and Mrs. Ginnell, taking possession of his left hand, patted it affectionately.

  “He has got the turn now, I think,” said the doctor, regarding him with a professional eye. “I have done my part; all he wants now is careful nursing.”

  Knight, still weak and dizzy, looked at the volume of poems in the other’s hand and smiled maliciously.

  “Page fifty-seven,” said Maloney, thrusting it into his hand, “fourth line. Take it easy to begin with and don’t strain your voice. It’s time I went off and looked after the other poor sufferers.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  A SOMEWHAT disillusioned Mrs. Jardine appeared at the breakfast-table next morning, but until the ship arrived at Gibraltar most of the company preferred to take their meals in their cabins. Flying visits to the deck were made by one or two members, but like the trial-flights of fledglings they were of short duration, Mr. Pope on one occasion having to suffer the indignity of being helped back to his nest by Albert.

  The stability of Gibraltar gave universal satisfaction, and it was felt that Great Britain had deserved well of her citizens by acquiring it. Delightful to know that when you put your foot down there was something there to meet it.

  The Rock left behind, they came in for an unbroken spell of fine weather. Port after port helped to break the monotony of life on shipboard, and Carstairs noted with pleasure the good-fellowship prevailing between his guests. Only Knight and Peplow, conferring apart, had occasion to describe the smiling good-nature of Lady Penrose and Mrs. Jardine as barefaced duplicity.

  “They have never paid me so much attention,” said Knight bitterly.

  Mr. Peplow groaned.

  “I’m a sort of human magnet,” continued his friend. “Yesterday afternoon the smoke-room was empty and I took Winifred in to see me smoke a cigarette. Lady Penrose came in to witness the performance two minutes later, and within a quarter of an hour I was the centre of an admiring circle of five.”

  “And Talwyn was with me,” said Mr. Peplow. “That is to say, he was boring Effie with his conversation, and I went to the rescue.”

 
“And when you are boring her he comes to the rescue,” said Knight. “The whole fact of the matter is, this ship is too small; but even ashore I get a large following. That chap Tollhurst is trying to make himself amiable to Lady Penrose. He hangs about her like a shadow, and when she is not on guard over me he takes over her duties. Wonder where Talwyn picked him up?”

  Mr. Peplow shook his head. “Don’t matter where he was picked up,” he murmured, “trouble is, he is here.”

  “What is it?” asked Maloney, sauntering up. “A mothers’ meeting? or a Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Society? Why aren’t you in the smoke-room? Pope is doing card-tricks. He is standing with his eyes shut to show there is no deception, while we draw cards. The opportunity was too much for my politeness. He has muffed two tricks already.”

  “You have set a bad example,” said Knight, as Miss Blake, followed by Talwyn, slipped furtively out of the smoke-room and went forward.

  Mr. Peplow followed his friend’s glance, and in a careless fashion started to move off.

  “No,” said the doctor, shaking his head. “Better not.”

  Mr. Peplow drew himself up and stared at him.

  “Wrong tactics,” said the unmoved doctor. “Let her get fed up with him.”

  Mr. Peplow, fiery red in colour, turned and looked appealingly at Knight.

  “And miss you,” continued Maloney. “Cake is a nice thing, but one can have too much of it. Let her go without it for a day.”

  “I don’t understand you,” said Peplow, with great dignity. “Cake!”

  “Or anything else sweet and wholesome,” replied the doctor, looking him over. “You be guided by me. I’ve seen a lot of this sort of thing. Taken a hand in it, too, when I was young. Oh, I know just what’s going on, and watching it gives me a lot of quiet pleasure in the few moments I can snatch from my duties. It’s no use getting stuffy; I can’t help having an observant eye, any more than I can help interfering in lost causes. All big natures are like that.”