Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Does he know ’em?” inquired the mate.

  “He knows where to find ’em,” said the other. “I told him they’d either be in the ‘Duke’s Head’ or the ‘Town o’ Berwick.’ But he’d find ’em wherever they was. Ah, even if they was in a coffee pallis, I b’leeve that man ‘ud find ’em.”

  “They’re steady chaps,” objected the mate, but in a weak fashion, being somewhat staggered by this tribute to Mr. Dibbs’ remarkable powers.

  “My lad,” said the skipper, “it’s Dibbs’ business to mix sailors’ liquors so’s they don’t know whether they’re standing on their heads or their heels. He’s the most wonderful mixer in Christendom; takes a reg’lar pride in it. Many a sailorman has got up a ship’s side, thinking it was stairs, and gone off half acrost the world instead of going to bed, through him.”

  “We’ll have a easy job of it, then,” said the mate. “I b’leeve we could ha’ managed it without that, though. ‘Tain’t quite what you’d call sport, is it?”

  “There’s nothing like making sure of a thing,” said the skipper placidly. “What time’s our chaps coming aboard?”

  “Ten thirty, the latest,” replied the mate. “Old Sam’s with ’em, so they’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll turn in for a couple of hours,” said the skipper, going towards his berth. “Lord! I’d give something to see old Berrow’s face as his chaps come up the side.”

  “P’raps they won’t git as far as that,” remarked the mate.

  “Oh, yes they will,” said the skipper. “Dibbs is going to see to that. I don’t want any chance of the race being scratched. Turn me out in a couple of hours.”

  He closed the door behind him, and the mate, having stuffed his clay with the coarse tobacco, took some pink note-paper with scalloped edges from his drawer, and, placing the paper at his right side, and squaring his shoulders, began some private correspondence.

  For some time he smoked and wrote in silence, until the increasing darkness warned him to finish his task. He signed the note, and, having put a few marks of a tender nature below his signature, sealed it ready for the post, and sat with half-closed eyes, finishing his pipe. Then his head nodded, and, placing his arms on the table, he too slept.

  It seemed but a minute since he had closed his eyes when he was awakened by the entrance of the skipper, who came blundering into the darkness from his stateroom, vociferating loudly and nervously.

  “Ay, ay!” said Joe, starting up.

  “Where’s the lights?” said the skipper. “What’s the time? I dreamt I’d overslept myself. What’s the time?”

  “Plenty o’ time,” said the mate vaguely, as he stifled a yawn.

  “Ha’-past ten,” said the skipper, as he struck a match, “You’ve been asleep,” he added severely.

  “I ain’t,” said the mate stoutly, as he followed the other on deck. “I’ve been thinking. I think better in the dark.”

  “It’s about time our chaps was aboard,” said the skipper, as he looked round the deserted deck. “I hope they won’t be late.”

  “Sam’s with ’em,” said the mate confidently, as he went on to the side; “there ain’t no festivities going on aboard the Good Intent, neither.”

  “There will be,” said his worthy skipper, with a grin, as he looked across the intervening brig at the rival craft; “there will be.”

  He walked round the deck to see that everything was snug and ship-shape, and got back to the mate just as a howl of surprising weirdness was heard proceeding from the neighbouring stairs.

  “I’m s’prised at Berrow allowing his men to make that noise,” said the skipper waggishly. “Our chaps are there too, I think. I can hear Sam’s voice.”

  “So can I,” said the mate, with emphasis.

  “Seems to be talking rather loud,” said the master of the Thistle, knitting his brows.

  “Sounds as though he’s trying to sing,” said the mate, as, after some delay, a heavily-laden boat put off from the stairs and made slowly for them. “No, he ain’t; he’s screaming.”

  There was no longer any doubt about it. The respectable and greatly-trusted Sam was letting off a series of wild howls which would have done credit to a penny-gaff Zulu, and was evidently very much out of temper about something.

  “Ahoy, Thistle! Ahoy!” bellowed the waterman, as he neared the schooner. “Chuck us a rope?-quick!”

  The mate threw him one, and the boat came alongside. It was then seen that another waterman, using impatient and deplorable language, was forcibly holding Sam down in the boat.

  “What’s he done? What’s the row?” demanded the mate.

  “Done?” said the waterman, in disgust. “Done? He’s ‘ad a small lemon, an’ it’s got into his silly old head. He’s making all this fuss ‘cos he wanted to set the pub on fire, an’ they wouldn’t let him. Man ashore told us they belonged to the Good Intent, but I know they’re your men.”

  “Sam!” roared the skipper, with a sinking heart, as his glance fell on the recumbent figures in the boat; “come aboard at once, you drunken disgrace! D’ye hear?”

  “I can’t leave him,” said Sam, whimpering.

  “Leave who?” growled the skipper.

  “Him,” said Sam, placing his arms round the waterman’s neck. “Him an’ me’s like brothers.”

  “Get up, you old loonatic!” snarled the waterman, extricating himself with difficulty, and forcing the other towards the side. “Now, up you go!”

  Aided by the shoulders of the waterman and the hands of his superior officers, Sam went up, and then the waterman turned his attention to the remainder of his fares, who were snoring contentedly in the bottom of the boat.

  “Now, then!” he cried; “look alive with you! D’ye hear? Wake up! Wake up! Kick ’em, Bill!”

  “I can’t kick no ‘arder,” grumbled the other waterman.

  “What the devil’s the matter with ’em?” stormed the master of the Thistle, “Chuck a pail of water over ’em, Joe!”

  Joe obeyed with gusto; and, as he never had much of a head for details, bestowed most of it upon the watermen. Through the row which ensued the Thistle’s crew snored peacefully, and at last were handed up over the sides like sacks of potatoes, and the indignant watermen pulled back to the stairs.

  “Here’s a nice crew to win a race with!” wailed the skipper, almost crying with rage. “Chuck the water over ’em, Joe! Chuck the water over ’em!”

  Joe obeyed willingly, until at length, to the skipper’s great relief, one man stirred, and, sitting up on the deck, sleepily expressed his firm conviction that it was raining. For a moment they both had hopes of him, but as Joe went to the side for another bucketful, he evidently came to the conclusion that he had been dreaming, and, lying down again, resumed his nap. As he did so the first stroke of Big Ben came booming down the river.

  “Eleven o’clock!” shouted the excited skipper.

  It was too true. Before Big Ben had finished, the neighbouring church clocks commenced striking with feverish haste, and hurrying feet and hoarse cries were heard proceeding from the deck of the GOOD INTENT.

  “Loose the sails!” yelled the furious Tucker. “Loose the sails! Damme, we’ll get under way by ourselves!”

  He ran forward, and, assisted by the mate, hoisted the jibs, and then, running back, cast off from the brig, and began to hoist the mainsail. As they disengaged themselves from the tier, there was just sufficient sail for them to advance against the tide; while in front of them the Good Intent, shaking out sail after sail, stood boldly down the river.

  “This was the way of it,” said Sam, as he stood before the grim Tucker at six o’clock the next morning, surrounded by his mates. “He came into the ‘Town o’ Berwick,’ where we was, as nice a spoken little chap as ever you’d wish to see. He said he’d been a-looking at the GOOD INTENT, and he thought it was the prettiest little craft ‘e ever seed, and the exact image of one his dear brother, which was a missionary, ‘ad, and he’d like to stand a d
rink to every man of her crew. Of course, we all said we was the crew direckly, an’ all I can remember after that is two coppers an’ a little boy trying to giv’ me the frog’s march, an’ somebody chucking pails o’ water over me. It’s crool ‘ard losing a race, what we didn’t know nothink about, in this way; but it warn’t our fault?-it warn’t, indeed. It’s my belief that the little man was a missionary of some sort hisself, and wanted to convert us, an’ that was his way of starting on the job. It’s all very well for the mate to have highstirriks; but it’s quite true, every word of it, an’ if you go an’ ask at the pub they’ll tell you the same.”

  MATED

  The schooner Falcon was ready for sea. The last bale of general cargo had just been shipped, and a few hairy, unkempt seamen were busy putting on the hatches under the able profanity of the mate.

  “All clear?” inquired the master, a short, ruddy-faced man of about thirty-five. “Cast off there!”

  “Ain’t you going to wait for the passengers, then?” inquired the mate.

  “No, no,” replied the skipper, whose features were working with excitement. “They won’t come now, I’m sure they won’t. We’ll lose the tide if we don’t look sharp.”

  He turned aside to give an order just as a buxom young woman, accompanied by a loutish boy, a band-box, and several other bundles, came hurrying on to the jetty.

  “Well, here we are, Cap’n Evans,” said the girl, springing lightly on to the deck. “I thought we should never get here; the cabman didn’t seem to know the way; but I knew you wouldn’t go without us.”

  “Here you are,” said the skipper, with attempted cheerfulness, as he gave the girl his right hand, while his left strayed vaguely in the direction of the boy’s ear, which was coldly withheld from him. “Go down below, and the mate’ll show you your cabin. Bill, this is Miss Cooper, a lady friend o’ mine, and her brother.”

  The mate, acknowledging the introduction, led the way to the cabin, where they remained so long that by the time they came on deck again the schooner was off Limehouse, slipping along well under a light wind.

  “How do you like the state-room?” inquired the skipper, who was at the wheel.

  “Pretty fair,” replied Miss Cooper. “It’s a big name for it though, ain’t it? Oh, what a large ship!”

  She ran to the side to gaze at a big liner, and as far as Gravesend besieged the skipper and mate with questions concerning the various craft. At the mate’s suggestion they had tea on deck, at which meal William Henry Cooper became a source of much discomfort to his host by his remarkable discoveries anent the fauna of lettuce. Despite his efforts, however, and the cloud under which Evans seemed to be labouring, the meal was voted a big success; and after it was over they sat laughing and chatting until the air got chilly, and the banks of the river were lost in the gathering darkness. At ten o’clock they retired for the night, leaving Evans and the mate on deck.

  “Nice gal, that,” said the mate, looking at the skipper, who was leaning moodily on the wheel.

  “Ay, ay,” replied he. “Bill,” he continued, turning suddenly towards the mate. “I’m in a deuce of a mess. You’ve got a good square head on your shoulders. Now, what on earth am I to do? Of course you can see how the land lays?”

  “Of course,” said the mate, who was not going to lose his reputation by any display of ignorance. “Anyone could see it,” he added.

  “The question is what’s to be done?” said the skipper.

  “That’s the question,” said the mate guardedly.

  “I feel that worried,” said Evans, “that I’ve actually thought of getting into collision, or running the ship ashore. Fancy them two women meeting at Llandalock.”

  Such a sudden light broke in upon the square head of the mate, that he nearly whistled with the brightness of it.

  “But you ain’t engaged to this one?” he cried.

  “We’re to be married in August,” said the skipper desperately. “That’s my ring on her finger.”

  “But you’re going to marry Mary Jones in September,” expostulated the mate. “You can’t marry both of ’em.”

  “That’s what I say,” replied Evans; “that’s what I keep telling myself, but it don’t seem to bring much comfort. I’m too soft-’earted where wimmen is concerned, Bill, an’ that’s the truth of it. D’reckly I get alongside of a nice gal my arm goes creeping round her before I know what it’s doing.”

  “What on earth made you bring the girl on the ship?” inquired the mate. “The other one’s sure to be on the quay to meet you as usual.”

  “I couldn’t help it,” groaned the skipper; “she would come; she can be very determined when she likes. She’s awful gone on me, Bill.”

  “So’s the other one apparently,” said the mate.

  “I can’t think what it is the gals see in me,” said the other mournfully. “Can you?”

  “No, I’m blamed if I can,” replied the mate frankly.

  “I don’t take no credit for it, Bill,” said the skipper, “not a bit. My father was like it before me. The worry’s killing me.”

  “Well, which are you going to have?” inquired the mate. “Which do you like the best?”

  “I don’t know, an’ that’s a fact,” said the skipper. “They ‘ve both got money coming to ’em; when I’m in Wales I like Mary Jones best, and when I’m in London it’s Janey Cooper. It’s dreadful to be like that, Bill.”

  “It is,” said the mate drily. “I wouldn’t be in your shoes when those two gals meet for a fortune. Then you’ll have old Jones and her brothers to tackle, too. Seems to me things’ll be a bit lively.”

  “I hev thought of being took sick, and staying in my bunk, Bill,” suggested Evans anxiously.

  “An’ having the two of ’em to nurse you,” retorted Bill. “Nice quiet time for an invalid.”

  Evans made a gesture of despair.

  “How would it be,” said the mate, after a long pause, and speaking very slowly; “how would it be if I took this one off your hands.”

  “You couldn’t do it, Bill,” said the skipper decidedly. “Not while she knew I was above ground.” “Well, I can try,” returned the mate shortly. “I’ve took rather a fancy to the girl. Is it a bargain?”

  “It is,” said the skipper, shaking hands upon it. “If you git me out of this hole, Bill, I’ll remember it the longest day I live.”

  With these words he went below, and, after cautiously undoing W. H. Cooper, who had slept himself into a knot that a professional contortionist would have envied, tumbled in beside him and went to sleep.

  His heart almost failed him when he encountered the radiant Jane at breakfast in the morning, but he concealed his feelings by a strong effort; and after the meal was finished, and the passengers had gone on deck, he laid hold of the mate, who was following, and drew him into the cabin.

  “You haven’t washed yourself this morning,” he said, eyeing him closely. “How do you s’pose you are going to make an impression if you don’t look smart?”

  “Well, I look tidier than you do,” growled the mate.

  “Of course you do,” said the wily Evans. “I’m going to give you all the chances I can. Now you go and shave yourself, and here — take it.”

  He passed the surprised mate a brilliant red silk tie, embellished with green spots.

  “No, no,” said the mate deprecatingly.

  “Take it,” repeated Evans; “if anything’ll fetch her it’ll be that tie; and here’s a couple of collars for you; they’re a new shape, quite the rage down Poplar way just now.”

  “It’s robbing you,” said the mate, “and it’s no good either. I ain’t got a decent suit of clothes to my back.”

  Evans looked up, and their eyes met; then, with a catch in his breath, he turned away, and after some hesitation went to his locker, and bringing out a new suit, bought for the edification of Miss Jones, handed it silently to the mate.

  “I can’t take all these things without giving you something
for ’em,” said the mate. “Here, wait a bit.”

  He dived into his cabin, and, after a hasty search, brought out some garments which he placed on the table before his commander.

  “I wouldn’t wear ’em, no, not to drown myself in,” declared Evans after a brief glance; “they ain’t even decent.”

  “So much the better,” said the mate; “it’ll be more of a contrast with me.”

  After a slight contest the skipper gave way, and the mate, after an elaborate toilette, went on deck and began to make himself agreeable, while his chief skulked below trying to muster up courage to put in an appearance.

  “Where’s the captain?” inquired Miss Cooper, after his absence had been so prolonged as to become noticeable.

  “He’s below, dressin’, I b’leeve,” replied the mate simply.

  Miss Cooper, glancing at his attire, smiled softly to herself, and prepared for something startling, and she got it; for a more forlorn, sulky-looking object than the skipper, when he did appear, had never been seen on the deck of the Falcon, and his London betrothed glanced at him hot with shame and indignation.

  “Whatever have you got those things on for?” she whispered.

  “Work, my dear — work,” replied the skipper.

  “Well, mind you don’t lose any of the pieces,” said the dear suavely; “you mightn’t be able to match that cloth.”

  “I’ll look after that,” said the skipper, reddening. “You must excuse me talkin’ to you now. I’m busy.”

  Miss Cooper looked at him indignantly, and, biting her lip, turned away, and started a desperate flirtation with the mate, to punish him. Evans watched them with mingled feelings as he busied himself with various small jobs on the deck, his wrath being raised to boiling point by the behaviour of the cook, who, being a poor hand at disguising his feelings, came out of the galley several times to look at him.

  From this incident a coolness sprang up between the skipper and the girl, which increased hourly. At times the skipper weakened, but the watchful mate was always on hand to prevent mischief. Owing to his fostering care Evans was generally busy, and always gruff; and Miss Cooper, who was used to the most assiduous attentions from him, knew not whether to be most bewildered or most indignant. Four times in one day did he remark in her hearing that a sailor’s ship was his sweetheart, while his treatment of his small prospective brother in-law, when he expostulated with him on the state of his wardrobe, filled that hitherto pampered youth with amazement. At last, on the fourth night out, as the little schooner was passing the coast of Cornwall, the mate came up to him as he was steering, and patted him heavily on the back.