Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “None,” said the mate solemnly; “they’ve vanished like smoke.”

  “Is it certain,” asked Annis, addressing, him, “that it was my father?”

  The mate looked at the skipper and pushed his cap back. “We had no reason to think otherwise,” he said shortly. “It’s a mystery to me altogether. He can’t have gone home by train because he had no money.”

  “It couldn’t have been my father,” said Annis slowly. “Somebody has been deceiving you. Good-night. I will come round in the morning; it is getting late.”

  “Where are you going?” inquired the mate.

  “She’s going to look for a hotel,” said the skipper, answering for her.

  “It’s late,” said the mate dubiously, “and this isn’t much of a place for hotels. Why not take her to the woman where her father has been staying? You said she seemed a decent sort.”

  “It’s a poor place,” began the other.

  “That’ll do,” said Annis decidedly; “if it was good enough for my father it is good enough for me. If it wasn’t my father I may learn something about him. Is it far?”

  “Two miles,” said the mate.

  “We’d better start at once, then,” said the skipper, moving a step or two by way of example.

  “And perhaps you’ll walk down too,” said Annis to the mate.

  It went to the mate’s heart to do it, but he was a staunch friend. “No, I think I’ll turn in,” he said, blushing at his rudeness; “I’m tired.”

  He lifted his cap awkwardly and descended. Annis, with her head at an uncomfortable altitude, set off with the skipper.

  “I’m sorry the mate wouldn’t come,” said the latter stiffly.

  After this they went on in silence along the quiet road, Miss Gething realizing instinctively that the man by her side had got a temper equal to at least a dozen of her own. This made her walk a little closer to him, and once, ever so lightly, her hand brushed against his. The skipper put his hands in his jacket pockets.

  They reached the late habitation of the mysterious Captain Gething without another word having been spoken on the journey. The mews was uninviting enough by daylight, by night it was worse. The body of a defunct four-wheeler blocked up half the entrance, and a retriever came out of his kennel at the other end and barked savagely.

  “That’s the house,” said Wilson, indicating it— “number five. What’s the matter?”

  For Miss Gething, after making little dabs with her handkerchief at lips which did not require the attention, was furtively applying it to eyes which did.

  “I’m tired,” she said softly— “tired and disappointed.”

  She hesitated a moment, and then before Wilson had quite made up his mind what to do, moved proudly away and knocked at the door of number five. It was opened after some delay by an untidy woman in crackers and a few other things, who having listened to the skipper’s explanation, admitted Miss Gething to her father’s room. She then saw the skipper to the door again, and having wished him a somewhat grim good-night, closed the door.

  He walked back as sharply as he could to the schooner, his mind in a whirl with the events of the evening, and as he neared the quay broke into a run, in awkward imitation of a small figure approaching from the opposite direction.

  “You little vagabond!” he panted, seizing him by the collar as they reached the schooner together.

  “A’right,” said Henry; “‘ave it your own way then.”

  “Drop him overboard,” said the mate, who was standing on the deck.

  Henry indulged in a glance of contempt — made safe by the darkness — at this partisan, and with the air of one who knows that he has an interesting yarn to spin, began at the beginning and worked slowly up for his effects. The expediency of brevity and point was then tersely pointed out to him by both listeners, the highly feminine trait of desiring the last page first being strongly manifested.

  “I can’t make head or tail of it,” said the skipper, after the artist had spoilt his tale to suit his public. “He’s taken fright at something or other. Well, we’ll go after him.”

  “They’re getting away at about one,” said the mate; “and suppose he won’t come, what are you going to do then? After all, it mightn’t be her father. Damned unsatisfactory I call it!”

  “I don’t know what to do,” said the bewildered skipper; “I don’t know what’s best.”

  “Well, it ain’t my business,” said Henry, who had been standing by silently; “but I know what I should do.”

  Both men leaned forward eagerly.

  “I may be a young vagabond,” said Henry, enjoying to the full this tribute to his powers— “p’raps I am. I may be put to bed by a set of grinning idiots; I may—”

  “What would you do, Henry?” asked the skipper very quietly.

  “Go back an’ fetch Miss Gething, o’ course,” said the boy, “an’ take her down to the ship. That’ll settle it.”

  “By Jove! the boy’s right,” said the mate— “if there’s time.”

  But the skipper had already started.

  “You’re a very good boy, Henry,” said the mate approvingly. “Now go down and watch the Frolic again, and as soon as she starts getting under way run back and let us know. If she passes before he comes back I’ll hail her and try and find out what it all means.”

  Meantime the skipper, half walking, half running, went on his way to Overcourt, arriving at Stagg’s Gardens in a breathless condition. Number five was fast asleep when he reached it and began a violent thumping upon the door.

  “Who’s there? What do you want?” demanded a shrill voice as the window was thrown up and a female head protruded.

  “I want to see that young lady I brought here a little while ago,” said the skipper— “quick.”

  “What, at this time o’ night!” said the lady. “Be reasonable, young man, if you are sweethearting.”

  “Something important,” said the skipper impatiently.

  “Can’t you tell me what it is?” said the lady, who felt that she was in a position to have her curiosity satisfied.

  “Tell her I’ve got news of her father,” said the skipper, restraining himself with difficulty.

  The head disappeared and the window was closed. After what seemed an hour to the impatient man, he heard a step in the passage, the door opened, and Annis stood before him.

  With a very few words they were walking together again down the road, Annis listening to his story as they went. It was a long way, and she was already tired, but she refused the offer of her companion’s arm with a spirit which showed that she had not forgotten the previous journey. As they neared the Seamew the skipper’s spirits sank, for the mate, who was watching, ran out to meet them.

  “It’s no use,” he said sympathetically; “she’s under way. Shall we hail her as she goes by?”

  The skipper, leaving Annis unceremoniously on the quay, sprang aboard and peered anxiously down the river. The night was starlit, and he could just discern a craft coming slowly towards them.

  “Hoist a couple of lanterns, Jack, and call the crew up quickly,” he cried to the mate.

  “What for?” said the other in astonishment.

  “You light ’em,” cried the skipper excitedly. “Henry, help me off with these hatches.”

  He was down on his knees with the boy unfastening them, while the mate, having lit a lantern, ran forward to rouse the men. The Frolic was now but twenty yards astern.

  “Ahoy! schooner, ahoy!” bawled Wilson, running suddenly to the side.

  “Halloa!” came a hoarse voice.

  “Are you full up?” shouted the master of the Seamew.

  “No,” came the roar again.

  “Drop your anchor and come alongside,” shouted the skipper, “I’ve got to stay here another week, and I’ve got a dozen barrels o’ herring must be in London before then.”

  The Frolic was abreast of them, and he held his breath with suspense.

  “It won’t take
you half an hour,” he shouted anxiously.

  The grating of the cable was music in his ears as it ran out, and hardly able to believe in the success of his scheme he saw the crew taking in the sail they had just begun to set. Ten minutes later the Frolic was rubbing against his side.

  The hatches were off the Seamew, and a lantern swinging in her hold shed a sickly light upon the sleepy faces of her crew. The mate was at the foc’sle whispering instructions to Annis.

  “Look alive,” said the master of the Frolic, “I’ll just take ’em on deck for the present.”

  He came fussily to the side to superintend, gazing curiously at Annis, who was standing watching the operations.

  “What a nice ship!” she said. “May I come on board?”

  “You’re quite welcome if you don’t get in the way,” was the reply.

  Accepting this qualified permission, Annis stepped on board and walked quietly round the deck. At the companion she paused and looked round. Everybody was busy; and trembling with nervousness, she hesitated a moment and then descended into the dark cabin.

  “That you, captain?” said a voice. “What are we stopping for?”

  Annis made no reply.

  “Who is it?” said the voice again.

  “Hush!” said Annis.

  “Oh, all right,” said Mr. Tillotson shortly. “What’s wrong?”

  Annis hesitated, waiting to hear another voice, but in vain. She fancied that she heard another person breathing, but that was all.

  “Father!” she cried, suddenly. “It’s me! Annis! Where are you?”

  There was a great shout from the other side of the cabin, and in the gloom she saw something spring up and come towards her. Something which caught her in a mighty grasp and crushed her soft face against a long, stiff beard. Laughing and crying together she put her arms about its neck and clung to it convulsively.

  “There, there, my lass!” said Captain Gething at last.

  “We only stopped you by a miracle,” said Annis hysterically. “The Seamew is alongside, and why you wanted to run away again I don’t know.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Captain Gething wearily.

  “You can understand that I wouldn’t take you into danger,” said Annis tenderly. “Put your coat on and come with me.”

  Without another word Captain Gething did as he was bid. He stopped, as though to speak to Tillotson, and then thinking better of it, followed his daughter on deck.

  “I’m not coming with you, cap’n,” he said as that ardent mariner passed them rolling a barrel along the deck.

  “A’ right,” said the other briefly; “you won’t get your money back.”

  In a shamefaced fashion Captain Gething, still holding his daughter’s arm, stepped on board the Seamew and shook hands with its master. By the time he was half through his story there was a burning desire on the part of the skipper to go down and have a look at Tillotson — a desire peremptorily checked by Annis, who had an erroneous opinion concerning that gentleman’s identity, and the Frolic having taken in its herrings, sheered off with a friendly good-night. The crew of the Seamew watched her until she had her anchor up, and then, at the impatient suggestion of Henry, who was stage managing, went below.

  “Are you satisfied now?” inquired Wilson in a low voice, as Captain Gething, with a wisdom born of years, went slowly below.

  “Quite,” breathed Annis softly.

  “I’m not,” said Wilson, in tones full of meaning.

  Miss Gething smiled, and leaning against the side surveyed, with some interest, the dark water and the sleeping town. She did not move when Wilson came and stood by her, and when he took her hand, made no protest.

  “I’m not satisfied — yet,” said Wilson, raising her hand to his lips.

  His eye caught the two lanterns which were burning somewhat garishly, and crossing over, he took them down and blew them out. He turned suddenly at the sound of a smothered laugh, a moment too late. Annis Gething had gone below.

  THE BROWN MAN’S SERVANT.

  CHAP I.

  The shop of Solomon Hyams stood in a small thoroughfare branching off the Commercial Road. In its windows unredeemed pledges of all kinds, from old-time watches to seamen’s boots, appealed to all tastes and requirements. Bundles of cigars, candidly described as “wonderful,” were marked at absurdly low figures, while silver watches endeavored to excuse the clumsiness of their make by describing themselves as “strong workmen’s.” The side entrance, up a narrow alley, was surmounted by the usual three brass balls, and here Mr. Hyams’ clients were wont to call. They entered as optimists, smiled confidently upon Mr. Hyams, argued, protested shrilly, and left the establishment pessimists of a most pronounced and virulent type.

  None of these things, however, disturbed the pawnbroker. The drunken client who endeavored to bail out his Sunday clothes with a tram ticket was accommodated with a chair, while the assistant went to hunt up his friends and contract for a speedy removal; the old woman who, with a view of obtaining a higher advance than usual, poured a tale of grievous woe into the hardened ears of Mr. Hyams, found herself left to the same invaluable assistant, and, realizing her failure, would at once become cheerful and take what was offered. Mr. Hyams’ methods of business were quiet and unostentatious, and rumor had it that he might retire at any time and live in luxury.

  It was a cold, cheerless afternoon in November as Mr. Hyams, who had occasional hazy ideas of hygiene, stood at his door taking the air. It was an atmosphere laden with soot and redolent of many blended odors, but after the fusty smell of the shop it was almost health-giving. In the large public-house opposite, with its dirty windows and faded signboards, the gas was already being lit, which should change it from its daylight dreariness to a resort of light and life.

  Mr. Hyams, who was never in a hurry to light up his own premises, many of his clients preferring the romantic light which comes between day and night for their visits, was about to leave the chilly air for the warmth inside, when his attention was attracted by a seaman of sturdy aspect stopping and looking in at his window. Mr. Hyams rubbed his hands softly. There was an air of comfort and prosperity about this seaman, and the pawnbroker had many small articles in his window, utterly useless to the man, which he would have liked to have sold him.

  The man came from the window, made as though to pass, and then paused irresolute before the pawn-broker.

  “You want a watch?” said the latter genially. “Come inside.”

  Mr. Hyams went behind his counter and waited.

  “I don’t want to buy nothing, and I don’t want to pawn nothing,” said the sailor. “What do you think o’ that?”

  Mr. Hyams, who objected to riddles, especially those which seemed to be against business, eyed him unfavorably from beneath his shaggy eyebrows.

  “We might have a little quiet talk together,” said the seaman, “you an’ me; we might do a little bit o’ business together, you an’ me. In the parler, shall we say, over a glass o’ something hot?”

  Mr. Hyams hesitated. He was not averse to a little business of an illicit nature, but there rose up vividly before him the picture of another sailor who had made much the same sort of proposal, and, after four glasses of rum, had merely suggested to him that he should lend him twenty pounds on the security of an I.O.U. It was long since, but the memory of it still rankled.

  “What sort of business is it?” he inquired.

  “Business that’s too big for you, p’raps,” said the sailor with a lordly air. “I’ll try a bigger place. What’s that lantern-faced swab shoving his ugly mug into the daylight for?”

  “Get off,” said the pawnbroker to the assistant, who was quietly and unobtrusively making a third.

  “Mind the shop. This gentleman and I have business in the parlor. Come this way, sir.”

  He raised the flap of the counter, and led the way to a small, untidy room at the back of the shop. A copper kettle was boiling on the fire, and the table was already laid for
tea. The pawnbroker, motioning his visitor to a dingy leather armchair, went to a cupboard and produced a bottle of rum, three parts full, and a couple of glasses.

  “Tea for me,” said the seaman, eyeing the bottle wistfully.

  The pawnbroker pricked up his ears. “Nonsense,” he said, with an attempt at heartiness, “a jolly fellow like you don’t want tea. Have some o’ this.”

  “Tea, confound yer!” said the other. “When I say tea, I mean tea.”

  The pawnbroker, repressing his choler, replaced the bottle, and, seating himself at the table, reached over for the kettle, and made the tea. It was really a pleasing picture of domestic life, and would have looked well in a lantern slide at a temperance lecture, the long, gaunt Jew and the burly seaman hobnobbing over the blameless teapot. But Mr. Hyams grew restless. He was intent upon business; but the other, so far as his inroads on the teapot and the eatables gave any indication, seemed to be bent only upon pleasure. Once again the picture of the former sailor rose before Mr. Hyams’ eyes, and he scowled fiercely as the seaman pushed his cup up for the fourth time.

  “And now for a smoke,” said his visitor, as he settled back in his chair. “A good ‘un, mind. Lord, this is comfort! It’s the first bit o’ comfort I’ve ‘ad since I come ashore five days ago.”

  The pawnbroker grunted, and producing a couple of black, greasy-looking cigars, gave one to his guest. They both fell to smoking, the former ill at ease, the latter with his feet spread out on the small fender, making the very utmost of his bit of comfort.

  “Are you a man as is fond of asking questions?” he said at length.

  “No,” said the pawnbroker, shutting his lips illustratively.

  “Suppose,” said the sailor, leaning forward intently— “suppose a man came to you an’ ses — there’s that confounded assistant of yours peeping through the door.”

  The pawnbroker got up almost as exasperated as the seaman, and, after rating his assistant through the half-open door, closed it with a bang, and pulled down a small blind over the glass.

  “Suppose a man came to you,” resumed the sailor, after the pawnbroker had seated himself again, “and asked you for five hundred pounds for something. Have you got it?”