Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Dry?” said Annis. She put her little hand on his coat-sleeve.

  “Oh, you’re soaking,” she said in dismay. “The idea of me letting you sit about in that state!”

  “That sleeve is the worst,” said the skipper, whom circumstances had made artful. “It’s all right here.”

  He brushed his hand down his coat.

  “That’s a good thing,” said Annis politely.

  “Um, but not here,” said the skipper, squeezing the lapel of his coat.

  Annis touched his coat lightly.

  “You’re very wet,” she said severely; “you ought not to sit about in such things. Wait a moment. I’ll get you a great-coat of my father’s.”

  She sped lightly up the stairs, and returning with a long, heavy coat, held it out to him.

  “That’ll keep you dry,” she remarked as the skipper, after a few slight remonstrances, began to put it on. She held the other sleeve up for him and watched, with the satisfaction of a philanthropist, as he buttoned it up. Then she opened the door.

  “You’ll give my respects to Mrs. Gething?” said the skipper.

  “Certainly. She’ll be sorry she wasn’t in. Are you staying here long?”

  “About three days.”

  Annis pondered.

  “She’s going out to-morrow,” she said tentatively.

  “I shall be in the town the day after on business,” said the skipper. “If it wouldn’t be troubling you I might look in. Good-bye.”

  He shook hands confusedly, wondering whether he had gone too far; and, as the door closed behind him, put his hands in Captain Gething’s pockets and went off in a brown study. Slowly and distinctly as he went along the various things grouped themselves together in his mind, and he began to think aloud.

  “She knew her mother was out when she met me,” he said slowly. “She knew that other fellow was here; but one would have thought — Lovers’ tiff,” he said suddenly and bitterly; “and doing the pleasant to me to make him smart a bit. He’ll be round to-morrow when the mother’s out.”

  He went back dejectedly to his ship, and countermanding the tea with which the zealous Henry was about to indulge him, changed his clothes and sat down to smoke.

  “You’ve got a bit wet,” said the mate. “Where’d you get the coat?”

  “Friend,” said the other. “Had it lent to me. You know that Captain Gething I told you to look out for?”

  “I do,” said the other eagerly.

  “Let the crew know that the reward is raised to five pounds,” said the skipper, drawing strongly at his pipe.

  “If the reward is riz to five pounds the cook’ll be ‘ung for murder or som’think,” said Henry. “It’s no use lookin’ to the crew for ‘elp, sir — not a bit.”

  The skipper deigned no reply, and his message having been conveyed to the foc’sle, a scene of intense animation prevailed there.

  “I’m goin’ to have a go now,” said Dick emphatically. “Five pounds is worth picking up.”

  “I only ‘ope as you won’t ‘ave the treat I ‘ad,” said the cook feelingly.

  “Wot we want,” said fat Sam, “is one o’ them things people ‘ave in the City — one o’ the ‘er what d’yer call ‘ems.”

  “‘Ansom keb?” suggested the cook.

  “‘Ansom keb be damned!” said Sam scornfully.

  “One of them things wot ‘as a lot o’ people in, I mean.”

  “Tramcars,” said the cook, who was all at sea. “But you couldn’t take a tramcar all over the country, Sam.”

  “If anybody was to ask me, I should say you was a silly fool,” said Sam impatiently. “I mean one o’ them things people puts their money in.”

  The wondering cook had got as far as “automatic mach—” when Henry jostled him into silence.

  “Wot are you gettin’ at?” said Dick. “Why don’t you talk plain?”

  “‘Cos I can’t remember the word,” said Sam angrily; “but a lot o’ people gets together and goes shares.”

  “You mean a syndikit,” said Dick.

  “That’s the word,” said Sam, with relief.

  “Well, wot’s the good of it?” said Dick.

  “This way,” said Sam; “we make up a syndikit and divide the money when ‘e’s found. It ‘ud be a cruel thing, Dick, if, just as you’d spotted your man, I wos to come along and snap ‘im up under your werry nose, for instance—”

  “You’d better try it,” said Dick grimly.

  “It’s a very good idea o’ yours, Sam,” said the cook. “I’ll join it.”

  “You’d better come in, Dick,” said Sam.

  “Not me,” said Dick; “it’s five pounds I’m after.”

  “We shall beworkin’ agin you, you know, me an’ the cook an’ the boy,” said Sam anxiously.

  “Ho!” said Henry, “don’t think I’m takin’ a ‘and, cos I’m not.”

  “Werry good, then,” said Sam, “the — the —— what d’ye call it, Dick?”

  “Syndikit,” said Dick.

  “The syndikit is me and the cook, then,” said Sam. “Give us your ‘and, cook.”

  In this informal way the “Captain Gething Search Company” was founded, and the syndicate, thinking that they had a good thing, began to hold aloof from their fellows, and to confer darkly in remote corners. They expended a shilling on a popular detective story entitled, “On the Trail,” and an element of adventure was imported into their lives which brightened them considerably.

  The following day the skipper spent hard at work with the cargo, bustling about with feverish energy as the afternoon wore on and left him to imagine his rival tête-à-tête with Annis. After tea a reaction set in, and, bit by bit the mate, by means of timely sympathy, learnt all that there was to know. Henry, without a display of anything, except, perhaps, silence, learnt it too.

  “It’s in your favor that it’s your own craft,” said the mate; “you can go where you like. If you find the father, she might chuck the other feller.”

  “That isn’t my object in finding him,” said the skipper. “I just want to find him to oblige her.”

  He set off the following afternoon followed by the stealthy glances of the crew, who had heard something from Henry, and, first getting his beard trimmed at a barber’s, walked along to call on Mrs. Gething. She was in, and pleased to see him, and hearing that his crew were also searching, supplied him with another photograph of the missing captain.

  “Miss Gething well?” inquired the skipper as, after accepting an invitation to a cup of tea, he noticed that she only laid for two.

  “Oh, yes; she’s gone to London,” said Mrs. Gething. “She’s got friends there, you know.”

  “Mr. Glover,” said the skipper to himself with dismal intuition. “I met a friend here the day before yesterday,” he said aloud.

  “Oh, yes — Mr. Glover,” said the old lady; “a man in a very good position. He’s very nice, isn’t he?”

  “Splendid,” murmured the skipper vaguely.

  “He would do anything for her,” said the fond mother. “I’m sure it’s quite touching the way he looks after her.”

  “Going to be married soon?” queried the skipper.

  He knew it was a rude question for a comparative stranger to ask, but he couldn’t help it.

  “When my husband is found,” said the old lady, shaking her head sadly. “She won’t marry till then.”

  The skipper sat back in his chair, and pushing his plate from him, pondered over this latest piece of information. It seemed at first an excellent reason for not finding Captain Gething, but the idea had hardly occurred to him before he dismissed it as unworthy, and manfully resolved to do his best. For an hour he sat listening to the somewhat prosy talk of the old lady, and then — there being no sign of Annis’s return — he silently departed and made his way back to the Seamew.

  CHAPTER VI.

  To the cook’s relief he found that the Seamew’s next voyage was to a little port on the West Coast nam
ed Cocklemouth, calling at the garrison town of Bymouth on the way. He told Sam that it was a load off his mind, and showed clearly by his manner that he expected the syndicate at least to accept his story. They spent most of their time in the galley, where, secure from money-grubbing eavesdroppers, they matured their plans over the washing of potatoes and the scouring of saucepans. “On the Trail” was remarkably clever, and they obtained many helpful suggestions from it, though the discovery that Henry had got hold of it, and had marked all the most valuable passages in lead pencil, caused them much anxiety.

  The syndicate were the first to get ashore the evening they arrived at Bymouth. They had come to the conclusion in their deliberations that the only possible place in which a retired mariner would spend his evenings was a public-house, and they resolved to do them thoroughly.

  “The worst of it,” said Sam, as they walked slowly together to the town, “is the drinkin’. Arter I’ve ‘ad five or six pints, everybody looks to me like Cap’n Gething.”

  “We won’t ‘ave no drinkin’,” said the cook. “We’ll do wot the feller did in that story. ‘Ave you got sixpence about you?”

  “Wot for?” inquired Sam carefully.

  “Workin’ expenses,” replied the cook, dwelling fondly on the phrase.

  “That’ll be thruppence each, then,” said Sam, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “Sixpence each,” said the cook. “Now do you know what we’re goin’ to do?”

  “Chuck money away,” hazarded Sam as he reluctantly drew a sixpence from his pocket and handed it to the cook. “Where’s your sixpence?”

  The cook showed it to him, and Sam, whose faith in human nature had been largely shaken by a perusal of the detective story referred to, bit it critically.

  “We can’t go into pubs without drinkin’ in the ordinary way,” said the cook, “so we’re goin’ in to sell bootlaces, like the chap in the book did. Now do you see?”

  “Why not try something cheaper first?” growled Sam— “measurin’ footmarks, or over-’earing fellers talking? It’s just like you, cookie, doin’ expensive things.”

  Under the cook’s glance of silent scorn he became first restive and then abusive, winding up finally by demanding his money back.

  “Don’t you be a fool!” said the cook coarsely. “You leave it to me.”

  “And get tied up in a chair with my own bootlaces p’raps,” said the irritated seaman.

  The cook, affecting not to hear him, looked out for a boot-shop, and having found one, walked in, followed by the discontented Sam, and purchased a shilling’s-worth of laces.

  “Wot am I to say?” demanded Sam surlily, as they stood outside, and the cook hung half a dozen laces over his arm.

  “You needn’t say anything,” replied the cook. “Just walk in an’ ‘old ’em up in the people’s faces, an’ if anybody offers you a drink you may ‘ave it.”

  “Thank you for nothin’,” said Sam, with prophetic insight.

  “You take all the pubs this side of the ‘igh Street an’ I’ll take the other,” said the cook. “And if you look as cheerful as you look now you ought to take a lot o’ money.”

  He turned away, and with a farewell caution against drinking, set off. The stout seaman, with a strong distaste for his job, took the laces in his hand and bent his steps in the direction of a small but noisy tavern in the next street. The public bar was full, and Sam’s heart failed him as he entered it, and, bearing the cook’s instructions in mind, held up his wares to the customers. Most of them took no notice, and the only man who said anything to him was a red-nosed sergeant of marines, who, setting his glass with great deliberation on the counter, gazed fixedly at a dozen laces crawling over his red sleeve. His remarks, when he discovered their connection with Sam, were of a severe and sweeping character, and contained not the slightest reference to a drink.

  In the next bar he met a philanthropist who bought up his whole stock-in-trade. The stout seaman was utterly unprepared for such kindness, and stood looking at him dumbly, his lips all a-tremble with naughty words.

  “There, there,” said his benefactor kindly. “Never mind about thanking me.”

  Sam obeyed him easily, and departing in silence, went off raving to the nearest boot-shop to buy more laces. Taught by experience, he put some of his new stock in his pocket, and with a couple of pairs in his hand, entered the next tavern on his beat.

  The bar was pretty full, but he pushed his way in, and offering his wares in a perfunctory fashion, looked round carefully for any signs of Captain Gething.

  “Outside!” said a smart barmaid with a toss of her head as she caught sight of him.

  “I’m goin’, miss,” said Sam, blushing with shame. Hitherto most barmaids had treated him with kindness, and in taverns where his powers were known, usually addressed him as “sir.”

  “Down on your luck, mate?” said a voice as he turned to go.

  “Starvin’, sir,” said Sam, who was never one to trouble about appearances.

  “Sit down,” said his new friend, with a nod at the barmaid, who was still regarding the seaman in a hostile fashion.

  Sam sat down and mentally blessed the reservation regarding free drinks as his benefactor turned to the bar and gave his order. His eyes beamed softly with a mixture of gratitude and amusement as his new friend came back with a pint of ale and half a loaf of bread.

  “Get through that, old chap,” said the man as he handed him the bread; “and there’s some more where that came from.”

  He sat down opposite, and taking a long pull at the pewter, watched with a kind smile to see the famished seaman eat. He noted as a strange fact that starving men nibble gently at the outside crust first, and then start on small, very small, mouthfuls of crumb, instinct rather than reason probably warning them of the dangers of a surfeit.

  For a few minutes Sam, with one eye on the pewter and the other on the door, struggled to perform his part. Then he rose, and murmuring broken thanks, said he would take some home to his wife and children.

  “Never mind your wife and children,” said his benefactor, putting down the empty pewter. “You eat that up and I’ll give you a couple of loaves to take home to them.”

  “My ‘art’s too full to eat,” said Sam, getting a little nearer the door.

  “He means his stomach,” said a stern but youthful voice which the unhappy seaman knew only too well. He turned smartly and saw the face of Henry peering over the partition, and beside it the grinning countenance of Dick.

  “He was on our ship this afternoon,” continued his youthful tormentor as he scrambled still higher up the partition, and getting one arm over, pointed an accusing finger at Sam, who had been pushed back into his seat. “We gave him a lovely dinner, an’ arter he’d eat it he went off on the quiet in one of our chaps’ clothes.”

  “That’s right, mates,” said the delighted Dick, nodding at the audience.

  “One of our chaps named Sam,” went on Henry— “one of the best an’ kindest ‘earted chaps that ever breathed.”

  “Regular brick he is,” assented Dick.

  “Fine, big ‘ansome man, he is,” said Henry, “and this chap’s got his clothes on.”

  The customers gazed sternly at Sam as he sat open-mouthed listening to these fulsome but untimely praises. In every gathering there is sure to be one or two whose self-imposed mission it is to right wrongs, and one of this type present at once suggested returning the clothes to the rightful owner. His suggestion was adopted with enthusiasm, and a dozen men closed round the hapless Sam.

  “Outside, gentlemen, please,” said the barmaid hastily.

  They went out in a cluster, the stout seaman in the centre fighting like a madman, and nearly overturning three soldiers who were passing. Two of them were named Murphy and one O’Sullivan, and the riot that ensued took three policemen and a picket to subdue. Sam, glad of a chance to get away, only saw the beginning of it, and consumed by violent indignation, did not pause until he had placed half
a dozen streets between himself and the scene of his discomfiture.

  He had no intention of breaking faith with the cook, but he had a pint and thought that circumstances justified it. Then he walked slowly up and down the street a little while, debating whether he should continue the search or return to the schooner. For a time he strolled on aimlessly, and then, resolving not to be defeated by the impertinences of Dick and the boy, paused before a high-class tavern and went in. Two or three well-dressed men, whose behavior contrasted favorably with that of the vulgar crew he had just left, shook their heads, but not unkindly, and he was about to leave when a big, black-bearded man entered.

  “That’s a poor game,” said the big man, glancing at the laces.

  “Yes, sir,” said Sam humbly.

  “You look as if you thrive on it,” said the man, somewhat sternly.

  “It’s only looks, sir,” said Sam, shaking his head as he walked to the door.

  “Drink, I s’pose,” said the other.

  “No, sir,” said Sam.

  “When did you taste food last?” continued the other.

  “Yesterday morning,” said Sam, clearing a soft piece of bread from his teeth with his tongue.

  “Could you take something?” inquired the other.

  Sam smiled expectantly and took a seat. He heard his new friend order a pot, and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, tried to think of something nice to say as he drank it. Then his blood froze in his veins, and his jaw dropped as the other came from the counter and held out half a loaf.

  “There, my man,” he said kindly, “put that inside you.”

  Sam took it and tried to put it into his pocket, and repeating his old tale about taking it home to the children, rose to depart.

  “You eat that, and I’ll give you a couple of loaves to take home to them,” said the other.

  The bread fell from Sam’s nerveless fingers and rolled on to the floor. A bystander picked it up, and wiping it on his coat, returned it to him.

  “Go on,” said the big man, taking a deep draught of his beer— “eat away.”

  “I must see my children eat first,” said Sam in a broken voice.