Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

“On the fourth morning, when we was only about three days from Sandy Hook, the skipper got out o’ bed wrong side, an’ when he went on deck he was ready to snap at anybody, an’ as luck would have it, as he walked a bit forrard, he sees Joe a-sticking his phiz over the side looking at the sarpint.

  “‘What the d —— are you doing?’ shouts the skipper, ‘What do you mean by it?’

  “‘Mean by what, sir?’ asks Joe.

  “‘Putting your black ugly face over the side o’ the ship an’ frightening my sea-sarpint!’ bellows the skipper, ‘You know how easy it’s skeered.’

  “‘Frightening the sea-sarpint?’ ses Joe, trembling all over, an’ turning very white.

  “‘If I see that face o’ yours over the side agin, my lad,’ ses the skipper very fierce, ‘I’ll give it a black eye. Now cut!’

  “Joe cut, an’ the skipper, having worked off some of his ill-temper, went aft again and began to chat with the mate quite pleasant like. I was down below at the time, an’ didn’t know anything about it for hours arter, and then I heard it from one o’ the firemen. He comes up to me very mysterious like, an’ ses, ‘Bill,’ he ses, ‘you’re a pal o’ Joe’s; come down here an’ see what you can make of ‘im.’

  “Not knowing what he meant, I follered ‘im below to the engine-room, an’ there was Joe sitting on a bucket staring wildly in front of ‘im, and two or three of ’em standing round looking at ‘im with their ‘eads on one side.

  “‘He’s been like that for three hours,’ ses the second engineer in a whisper, ‘dazed like.’

  “As he spoke Joe gave a little shudder; ‘Frighten the sea-sarpint!’ ses he, ‘O Lord!’

  “‘It’s turned his brain,’ ses one o’ the firemen, ‘he keeps saying nothing but that.’

  “‘If we could only make ‘im cry,’ ses the second engineer, who had a brother what was a medical student, ‘it might save his reason. But how to do it, that’s the question.’

  “‘Speak kind to ‘im, sir,’ ses the fireman. ‘I’ll have a try if you don’t mind.’ He cleared his throat first, an’ then he walks over to Joe and puts his hand on his shoulder an’ ses very soft an’ pitiful like:

  “‘Don’t take on, Joe, don’t take on, there’s many a ugly mug ‘ides a good ‘art,’

  “Afore he could think o” anything else to say, Joe ups with his fist an’ gives ‘im one in the ribs as nearly broke ’em. Then he turns away ‘is ‘ead an’ shivers again, an’ the old dazed look come back.

  “‘Joe,’ I ses, shaking him, ‘Joe!’

  “‘Frightened the sea-sarpint!’ whispers Joe, staring.

  “‘Joe,’ I ses, ‘Joe. You know me, I’m your pal, Bill.’

  “‘Ay, ay,’ ses Joe, coming round a bit.

  “‘Come away,’ I ses, ‘come an’ git to bed, that’s the best place for you.’

  “I took ‘im by the sleeve, and he gets up quiet an’ obedient and follers me like a little child. I got ‘im straight into ‘is bunk, an’ arter a time he fell into a soft slumber, an’ I thought the worst had passed, but I was mistaken. He got up in three hours’ time an’ seemed all right, ‘cept that he walked about as though he was thinking very hard about something, an’ before I could make out what it was he had a fit.

  “He was in that fit ten minutes, an’ he was no sooner out o’ that one than he was in another. In twenty-four hours he had six full-sized fits, and I’ll allow I was fairly puzzled. What pleasure he could find in tumbling down hard and stiff an’ kicking at everybody an’ everything I couldn’t see. He’d be standing quiet and peaceable like one minute, and the next he’d catch hold o’ the nearest thing to him and have a bad fit, and lie on his back and kick us while we was trying to force open his hands to pat ’em.

  “The other chaps said the skipper’s insult had turned his brain, but I wasn’t quite so soft, an’ one time when he was alone I put it to him.

  “‘Joe, old man,’ I ses, ‘you an’ me’s been very good pals.’

  “‘Ay, ay,’ ses he, suspicious like.

  “‘Joe,’ I whispers, ‘what’s yer little game?’

  “‘Wodyermean?’ ses he, very short.

  “‘I mean the fits,’ ses I, looking at ‘im very steady, ‘It’s no good looking hinnercent like that, ‘cos I see yer chewing soap with my own eyes.’

  “‘Soap,’ ses Joe, in a nasty sneering way, ‘you wouldn’t reckernise a piece if you saw it.’

  “Arter that I could see there was nothing to be got out of ‘im, an’ I just kept my eyes open and watched. The skipper didn’t worry about his fits, ‘cept that he said he wasn’t to let the sarpint see his face when he was in ’em for fear of scaring it; an’ when the mate wanted to leave him out o’ the watch, he ses, ‘No, he might as well have fits while at work as well as anywhere else.’

  “We were about twenty-four hours from port, an’ the sarpint was still following us; and at six o’clock in the evening the officers puffected all their arrangements for ketching the creetur at eight o’clock next morning. To make quite sure of it an extra watch was kept on deck all night to chuck it food every half-hour; an’ when I turned in at ten o’clock that night it was so close I could have reached it with a clothes-prop.

  “I think I’d been abed about ‘arf-an-hour when I was awoke by the most infernal row I ever heard. The foghorn was going incessantly, an’ there was a lot o’ shouting and running about on deck. It struck us all as ‘ow the sarpint was gitting tired o’ bread, and was misbehaving himself, consequently we just shoved our ‘eds out o’ the fore-scuttle and listened. All the hullaballoo seemed to be on the bridge, an’ as we didn’t see the sarpint there we plucked up courage and went on deck.

  “Then we saw what had happened. Joe had ‘ad another fit while at the wheel, and, NOT KNOWING WHAT HE WAS DOING, had clutched the line of the foghorn, and was holding on to it like grim death, and kicking right and left. The skipper was in his bedclothes, raving worse than Joe; and just as we got there Joe came round a bit, and, letting go o’ the line, asked in a faint voice what the foghorn was blowing for. I thought the skipper ‘ud have killed him; but the second mate held him back, an’, of course, when things quieted down a bit, an’ we went to the side, we found the sea-sarpint had vanished.

  “We stayed there all that night, but it warn’t no use. When day broke there wasn’t the slightest trace of it, an’ I think the men was as sorry to lose it as the officers. All ‘cept Joe, that is, which shows how people should never be rude, even to the humblest; for I’m sartin that if the skipper hadn’t hurt his feelings the way he did we should now know as much about the sea-sarpint as we do about our own brothers.”

  MRS. BUNKER’S CHAPERON

  Matilda stood at the open door of a house attached to a wharf situated in that dreary district which bears the high-sounding name of “St. Katharine’s.”

  Work was over for the day. A couple of unhorsed vans were pushed up the gangway by the side of the house, and the big gate was closed. The untidy office which occupied the ground-floor was deserted, except for a grey-bearded “housemaid” of sixty, who was sweeping it through with a broom, and indulging in a few sailorly oaths at the choking qualities of the dust he was raising.

  The sound of advancing footsteps stopped at the gate, a small flap-door let in it flew open, and Matilda Bunker’s open countenance took a pinkish hue, as a small man in jersey and blue coat, with a hard round hat exceeding high in the crown, stepped inside.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Bunker, ma’am,” said he, coming slowly up to her.

  “Good evening, captain,” said the lady, who was Mrs. only by virtue of her age and presence.

  “Fresh breeze,” said the man in the high round hat. “If this lasts we’ll be in Ipswich in no time.”

  Mrs. Bunker assented.

  “Beautiful the river is at present,” continued the captain. “Everything growing splendid.”

  “In the river?” asked the mystified Mrs. Bunker.

  “On the banks,” said
the captain; “the trees, by Sheppey, and all round there. Now, why don’t you say the word, and come? There’s a cabin like a new pin ready for you to sit in — for cleanness, I mean — and every accommodation you could require. Sleep like a humming-top you will, if you come.”

  “Humming-top?” queried Mrs. Bunker archly.

  “Any top,” said the captain. “Come, make up your mind. We shan’t sail afore nine.”

  “It don’t look right,” said the lady, who was sorely tempted. “But the missus says I may go if I like, so I’ll just go and get my box ready. I’ll be down on the jetty at nine.”

  “Ay, ay,” said the skipper, smiling, “me and Bill’ll just have a snooze till then. So long.”

  “So long,” said Matilda.

  “So long,” repeated the amorous skipper, and turning round to bestow another ardent glance upon the fair one at the door, crashed into the waggon.

  The neighbouring clocks were just striking nine in a sort of yelping chorus to the heavy boom of Big Ben, which came floating down the river, as Mrs. Bunker and the night watchman, staggering under a load of luggage, slowly made their way on to the jetty. The barge, for such was the craft in question, was almost level with the planks, while the figures of two men darted to and fro in all the bustle of getting under way.

  “Bill,” said the watchman, addressing the mate, “bear a hand with this box, and be careful, it’s got the wedding clothes inside.”

  The watchman was so particularly pleased with this little joke that in place of giving the box to Bill he put it down and sat on it, shaking convulsively with his hand over his mouth, while the blushing Matilda and the discomfited captain strove in vain to appear unconcerned.

  The packages were rather a tight squeeze for the cabin, but they managed to get them in, and the skipper, with a threatening look at his mate, who was exchanging glances of exquisite humour with the watchman, gave his hand to Mrs. Bunker and helped her aboard.

  “Welcome on the Sir Edmund Lyons, Mrs. Bunker,” said he. “Bill, kick that dawg back.”

  “Stop!” said Mrs. Bunker hastily, “that’s my chapperong.”

  “Your what?” said the skipper. “It’s a dawg, Mrs. Bunker, an’ I won’t have no dawgs aboard my craft.”

  “Bill,” said Mrs. Bunker, “fetch my box up again.”

  “Leastways,” the captain hastened to add, “unless it’s any friend of yours, Mrs. Bunker.”

  “It’s chaperoning me,” said Matilda; “it wouldn’t be proper for a lady to go a v’y’ge with two men without somebody to look after her.”

  “That’s right, Sam,” said the watchman sententiously. “You ought to know that at your age.”

  “Why, we’re looking after her,” said the simple-minded captain. “Me an’ Bill.”

  “Take care Bill don’t cut you out,” said the watchman in a hoarse whisper, distinctly audible to all. “He’s younger nor what you are, Sam, an’ the wimmen are just crazy arter young men. ‘Sides which, he’s a finer man altogether. An’ you’ve had ONE wife a’ready, Sam.”

  “Cast off!” said the skipper impatiently. “Cast off! Stand by there, Bill!”

  “Ay, ay!” said Bill, seizing a boat-hook, and the lines fell into the water with a splash as the barge was pushed out into the tide.

  Mrs. Bunker experienced the usual trouble of landsmen aboard ship, and felt herself terribly in the way as the skipper divided his attentions between the tiller and helping Bill with the sail. Meantime the barge had bothered most of the traffic by laying across the river, and when the sail was hoisted had got under the lee of a huge warehouse and scarcely moved.

  “We’ll feel the breeze directly,” said Captain Codd. “Then you’ll see what she can do.”

  As he spoke, the barge began to slip through the water as a light breeze took her huge sail and carried her into the stream, where she fell into line with other craft who were just making a start.

  At a pleasant pace, with wind and tide, the Sir Edmund Lyons proceeded on its way, her skipper cocking his eye aloft and along her decks to point out various beauties to his passenger which she might otherwise have overlooked. A comfortable supper was spread on the deck, and Mrs. Bunker began to think regretfully of the pleasure she had missed in taking up barge-sailing so late in life.

  Greenwich, with its white-fronted hospital and background of trees, was passed. The air got sensibly cooler, and to Mrs. Bunker it seemed that the water was not only getting darker, but also lumpy, and she asked two or three times whether there was any danger.

  The skipper laughed gaily, and diving down into the cabin fetched up a shawl, which he placed carefully round his fair companion’s shoulders. His right hand grasped the tiller, his left stole softly and carefully round her waist.

  “How enjoyable!” said Mrs. Bunker, referring to the evening.

  “Glad you like it,” said the skipper, who wasn’t. “Oh, how pleasant to go sailing down the river of life like this, everything quiet and peaceful, just driftin’” —

  “Ahoy!” yelled the mate suddenly from the bows. “Who’s steering? Starbud your hellum.”

  The skipper started guiltily, and put his helm to starboard as another barge came up suddenly from the opposite direction and almost grazed them. There were two men on board, and the skipper blushed for their fluency as reflecting upon the order in general.

  It was some little time before they could settle down again after this, but ultimately they got back in their old position, and the infatuated Codd was just about to wax sentimental again, when he felt something behind him. He turned with a start as a portly retriever inserted his head under his left arm, and slowly but vigorously forced himself between them; then he sat on his haunches and panted, while the disconcerted Codd strove to realise the humour of the position.

  “I think I shall go to bed now,” said Mrs. Bunker, after the position had lasted long enough to be unendurable. “If anything happens, a collision or anything, don’t be afraid to let me know.”

  The skipper promised, and, shaking hands, bade his passenger good-night. She descended, somewhat clumsily, it is true, into the little cabin, and the skipper, sitting by the helm, which he lazily manoeuvred as required, smoked his short clay and fell into a lover’s reverie.

  So he sat and smoked until the barge, which had, by the help of the breeze, been making its way against the tide, began to realise that that good friend had almost dropped, and at the same time bethought itself of a small anchor which hung over the bows ready for emergencies such as these.

  “We must bring up, Bill,” said the skipper.

  “Ay, ay!” said Bill, sleepily raising himself from the hatchway. “Over she goes.”

  With no more ceremony than this he dropped the anchor; the sail, with two strong men hauling on to it, creaked and rustled its way close to the mast, and the Sir Edmund Lyons was ready for sleep.

  “I can do with a nap,” said Bill. “I’m dog-tired.”

  “So am I,” said the other. “It’ll be a tight fit down for’ard, but we couldn’t ask a lady to sleep there.”

  Bill gave a non-committal grunt, and as the captain, after the manner of his kind, took a last look round before retiring, placed his hands on the hatch and lowered himself down. The next moment he came up with a wild yell, and, sitting on the deck, rolled up his trousers and fondled his leg.

  “What’s the matter?” inquired the skipper.

  “That blessed dog’s down there, that’s all,” said the injured Bill. “He’s evidently mistook it for his kennel, and I don’t wonder at it. I thought he’d been wonderful quiet.”

  “We must talk him over,” said the skipper, advancing to the hatchway. “Poor dog! Poor old chap! Come along, then! Come along!” He patted his leg and whistled, and the dog, which wanted to get to sleep again, growled like a small thunderstorm.

  “Come on, old fellow!” said the skipper enticingly. “Come along, come on, then!”

  The dog came at last, and then the skipper, ins
tead of staying to pat him, raced Bill up the ropes, while the brute, in execrable taste, paced up and down the deck daring them to come down. Coming to the conclusion, at last, that they were settled for the night, he returned to the forecastle and, after a warning bark or two, turned in again. Both men, after waiting a few minutes, cautiously regained the deck.

  “You call him up again,” said Bill, seizing a boat-hook, and holding it at the charge.

  “Certainly not,” said the other. “I won’t have no blood spilt aboard my ship.”

  “Who’s going to spill blood?” asked the Jesuitical Bill; “but if he likes to run hisself on to the boat-hook “ —

  “Put it down,” said the skipper sternly, and Bill sullenly obeyed.

  “We’ll have to snooze on deck,” said Codd.

  “And mind we don’t snore,” said the sarcastic Bill, “‘cos the dog mightn’t like it.”

  Without noticing this remark the captain stretched himself on the hatches, and Bill, after a few more grumbles, followed his example, and both men were soon asleep.

  Day was breaking when they awoke and stretched their stiffened limbs, for the air was fresh, with a suspicion of moisture in it. Two or three small craft were, like them selves, riding at anchor, their decks wet and deserted; others were getting under way to take advantage of the tide, which had just turned.

  “Up with the anchor,” said the skipper, seizing a handspike and thrusting it into the windlass.

  As the rusty chain came in, an ominous growling came from below, and Bill snatched his handspike out and raised it aloft. The skipper gazed meditatively at the shore, and the dog, as it came bounding up, gazed meditatively at the handspike. Then it yawned, an easy, unconcerned yawn, and commenced to pace the deck, and coming to the conclusion that the men were only engaged in necessary work, regarded their efforts with a lenient eye, and barked encouragingly as they hoisted the sail.

  It was a beautiful morning. The miniature river waves broke against the blunt bows of the barge, and passed by her sides rippling musically. Over the flat Essex marshes a white mist was slowly dispersing before the rays of the sun, and the trees on the Kentish hills were black and drenched with moisture.