Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  A little later smoke issued from the tiny cowl over the fo’c’sle and rolled in a little pungent cloud to the Kentish shore. Then a delicious odour of frying steak rose from below, and fell like healing balm upon the susceptible nostrils of the skipper as he stood at the helm.

  “Is Mrs. Bunker getting up?” inquired the mate, as he emerged from the fo’c’sle and walked aft.

  “I believe so,” said the skipper. “There’s movements below.”

  “‘Cos the steak’s ready and waiting,” said the mate. “I’ve put it on a dish in front of the fire.”

  “Ay, ay!” said the skipper.

  The mate lit his pipe and sat down on the hatchway, slowly smoking. He removed it a couple of minutes later, to stare in bewilderment at the unwonted behaviour of the dog, which came up to the captain and affectionately licked his hands.

  “He’s took quite a fancy to me,” said the delighted man.

  “Love me love my dog,” quoted Bill waggishly, as he strolled forward again.

  The skipper was fondly punching the dog, which was now on its back with its four legs in the air, when he heard a terrible cry from the fo’c’sle, and the mate came rushing wildly on deck.

  “Where’s that —— —— dog?” he cried.

  “Don’t you talk like that aboard my ship. Where’s your manners?” cried the skipper hotly.

  “ —— the manners!” said the mate, with tears in his eyes. “Where’s that dog’s manners? He’s eaten all that steak.”

  Before the other could reply, the scuttle over the cabin was drawn, and the radiant face of Mrs. Bunker appeared at the opening.

  “I can smell breakfast,” she said archly.

  “No wonder, with that dog so close,” said Bill grimly. Mrs. Bunker looked at the captain for an explanation.

  “He’s ate it,” said that gentleman briefly. “A pound and a ‘arf o’ the best rump steak in Wapping.”

  “Never mind,” said Mrs. Bunker sweetly, “cook some more. I can wait.”

  “Cook some more,” said the skipper to the mate, who still lingered.

  “I’ll cook some bloaters. That’s all we’ve got now,” replied the mate sulkily.

  “It’s a lovely morning,” said Mrs. Bunker, as the mate retired, “the air is so fresh. I expect that’s what has made Rover so hungry. He isn’t a greedy dog. Not at all.”

  “Very likely,” said Codd, as the dog rose, and, after sniffing the air, gently wagged his tail and trotted forward. “Where’ she off to now?”

  “He can smell the bloaters, I expect,” said Mrs. Bunker, laughing. “It’s wonderful what intelligence he’s got. Come here, Rover!”

  “Bill!” cried the skipper warningly, as the dog continued on his way. “Look out! He’s coming!”

  “Call him off!” yelled the mate anxiously. “Call him off!”

  Mrs. Bunker ran up, and, seizing her chaperon by the collar, hauled him away.

  “It’s the sea air,” said she apologetically; “and he’s been on short commons lately, because he’s not been well. Keep still, Rover!”

  “Keep still, Rover!” said the skipper, with an air of command.

  Under this joint control the dog sat down, his tongue lolling out, and his eyes fixed on the fo’c’sle until the breakfast was spread. The appearance of the mate with a dish of steaming fish excited him again, and being chidden by his mistress, he sat down sulkily in the skipper’s place, until pushed off by its indignant owner.

  “Soft roe, Bill?” inquired the skipper courteously, after he had served his passenger.

  “That’s not my plate,” said the mate pointedly, as the skipper helped him.

  “Oh! I wasn’t noticing,” said the other, reddening.

  “I was, though,” said the mate rudely. “I thought you’d do that. I was waiting for it. I’m not going to eat after animals, if you are.”

  The skipper coughed, and, after effecting the desired exchange, proceeded with his breakfast in sombre silence.

  The barge was slipping at an easy pace through the water, the sun was bright, and the air cool, and everything pleasant and comfortable, until the chaperon, who had been repeatedly pushed away, broke through the charmed circle which surrounded the food and seized a fish. In the confusion which ensued he fell foul of the tea-kettle, and, dropping his prey, bit the skipper frantically, until driven off by his mistress.

  “Naughty boy!” said she, giving him a few slight cuffs. “Has he hurt you? I must get a bandage for you.”

  “A little,” said Codd, looking at his hand, which was bleeding profusely. “There’s a little linen in the locker down below, if you wouldn’t mind tearing it up for me.”

  Mrs. Bunker, giving the dog a final slap, went below, and the two men looked at each other and then at the dog, which was standing at the stern, barking insultingly at a passing steamer.

  “It’s about time she came over,” said the mate, throwing a glance at the sail, then at the skipper, then at the dog.

  “So it is,” said the skipper, through his set teeth.

  As he spoke he pushed the long tiller hastily from port to starboard, and the dog finished his bark in the water; the huge sail reeled for a moment, then swung violently over to the other side, and the barge was on a fresh tack, with the dog twenty yards astern. He was wise in his generation, and after one look at the barge, made for the distant shore.

  “Murderers!” screamed a voice; “murderers! you’ve killed my dog.”

  “It was an accident; I didn’t see him,” stammered the skipper.

  “Don’t tell me,” stormed the lady; “I saw it all through the skylight.”

  “We had to shift the helm to get out of the way of a schooner,” said Codd.

  “Where’s the schooner?” demanded Mrs. Bunker; “where is it?”

  The captain looked at the mate. “Where’s the schooner?” said he.

  “I b’leeve,” said the mate, losing his head entirely at this question, “I b’leeve we must have run her down. I don’t see her nowhere about.”

  Mrs. Bunker stamped her foot, and, with a terrible glance at the men, descended to the cabin. From this coign of vantage she obstinately refused to budge, and sat in angry seclusion until the vessel reached Ipswich late in the evening. Then she appeared on deck, dressed for walking, and, utterly ignoring the woebegone Codd, stepped ashore, and, obtaining a cab for her boxes, drove silently away.

  An hour afterwards the mate went to his home, leaving the captain sitting on the lonely deck striving to realise the bitter fact that, so far as the end he had in view was concerned, he had seen the last of Mrs. Bunker and the small but happy home in which he had hoped to install her.

  A HARBOUR OF REFUGE

  A waterman’s boat was lying in the river just below Greenwich, the waterman resting on his oars, while his fare, a small, perturbed-looking man in seaman’s attire, gazed expectantly up the river.

  “There she is!” he cried suddenly, as a small schooner came into view from behind a big steamer. “Take me alongside.”

  “Nice little thing she is too,” said the waterman, watching the other out of the corner of his eye as he bent to his oars. “Rides the water like a duck. Her cap’n knows a thing or two, I’ll bet.”

  “He knows watermen’s fares,” replied the passenger coldly.

  “Look out there!” cried a voice from the schooner, and the mate threw a line which the passenger skilfully caught.

  The waterman ceased rowing, and, as his boat came alongside the schooner, held out his hand to his passenger, who had already commenced to scramble up the side, and demanded his fare. It was handed down to him.

  “It’s all right, then,” said the fare, as he stood on the deck and closed his eyes to the painful language in which the waterman was addressing him. “Nobody been inquiring for me?”

  “Not a soul,” said the mate. “What’s all the row about?”

  “Well, you see, it’s this way,” said the master of the Frolic, dropping his voic
e. “I’ve been taking a little too much notice of a little craft down Battersea way — nice little thing, an’ she thought I was a single man, dy’e see?”

  The mate sucked his teeth.

  “She introduced me to her brother as a single man,” continued the skipper. “He asked me when the banns was to be put up, an’ I didn’t like to tell him I was a married man with a family.”

  “Why not?” asked the mate.

  “He’s a prize-fighter,” said the other, in awe-inspiring tones; “‘the Battersea Bruiser.’ Consequently when he clapped me on the back, and asked me when the banns was to be, I only smiled.”

  “What did he do?” inquired the mate, who was becoming interested.

  “Put ’em up,” groaned the skipper, “an’ we all went to church to hear ’em. Talk o’ people walking over your grave, George, it’s nothing to what I felt — nothing. I felt a hypocrite, almost. Somehow he found out about me, and I’ve been hiding ever since I sent you that note. He told a pal he was going to give me a licking, and come down to Fairhaven with us and make mischief between me and the missis.”

  “That ‘ud be worse than the licking,” said the mate sagely.

  “Ah! and she’d believe him afore she would me, too, an’ we’ve been married seventeen years,” said the skipper mournfully.

  “Perhaps that’s” — began the mate, and stopped suddenly.

  “Perhaps what?” inquired the other, after waiting a reasonable time for him to finish.

  “H’m, I forgot what I was going to say,” said the mate. “Funny, it’s gone now. Well, you’re all right now. You’d intended this to be the last trip to London for some time.”

  “Yes, that’s what made me a bit more loving than I should ha’ been,” mused the skipper. “However, all’s well that ends well. How did you get on about the cook? Did you ship one?”

  “Yes, I’ve got one, but he’s only signed as far as Fairhaven,” replied the mate. “Fine strong chap he is. He’s too good for a cook. I never saw a better built man in my life. It’ll do your eyes good to look at him. Here, cook!”

  At the summons a huge, close-cropped head was thrust out of the galley, and a man of beautiful muscular development stepped out before the eyes of the paralyzed skipper, and began to remove his coat.

  “Ain’t he a fine chap?” said the mate admiringly. “Show him your biceps, cook.”

  With a leer at the captain the cook complied. He then doubled his fists, and, ducking his head scientifically, danced all round the stupefied master of the Frolic.

  “Put your dooks up,” he cried warningly. “I’m going to dot you!”

  “What the deuce are you up to, cook?” demanded the mate, who had been watching his proceedings in speechless amazement.

  “Cook!” said the person addressed, with majestic scorn. “I’m no cook; I’m Bill Simmons, the ‘Battersea Bruiser,’ an’ I shipped on this ere little tub all for your dear captin’s sake. I’m going to put sich a ‘ed on ‘im that when he wants to blow his nose he’ll have to get a looking-glass to see where to go to. I’m going to give ‘im a licking every day, and when we get to Fairhaven I’m going to foller ‘im ‘ome and tell his wife about ‘im walking out with my sister.”

  “She walked me out,” said the skipper, with dry lips.

  “Put ’em up,” vociferated the “Bruiser.”

  “Don’t you touch me, my lad,” said the skipper, dodging behind the wheel. “Go an’ see about your work — go an’ peel the taters.”

  “Wot!” roared the “Bruiser.”

  “You’ve shipped as cook aboard my craft,” said the skipper impressively. “If you lay a finger on me it’s mutiny, and you’ll get twelve months.”

  “That’s right,” said the mate, as the pugilist (who had once had fourteen days for bruising, and still held it in wholesome remembrance) paused irresolute. “It’s mutiny, and it’ll also be my painful duty to get up the shotgun and blow the top of your ugly ‘ed off.”

  “Would it be mutiny if I was to dot YOU one?” inquired the “Bruiser,” in a voice husky with emotion, as he sidled up to the mate.

  “It would,” said the other hastily.

  “Well, you’re a nice lot,” said the disgusted “Bruiser,” “you and your mutinies. Will any one of you have a go at me?”

  There was no response from the crew, who had gathered round, and were watching the proceedings with keen enjoyment.

  “Or all of yer?” asked the “Bruiser,” raising his eyebrows.

  “I’ve got no quarrel with you, my lad,” the boy remarked with dignity, as he caught the new cook’s eye.

  “Go and cook the dinner,’” said the skipper; “and look sharp about it. I don’t want to have to find fault with a young beginner like you; but I don’t have no shirkers aboard — understand that.”

  For one moment of terrible suspense the skipper’s life hung in the balance, then the “Bruiser,” restraining his natural instincts by a mighty effort, retreated, growling, to the galley.

  The skipper’s breath came more freely.

  “He don’t know your address, I s’pose,” said the mate.

  “No, but he’ll soon find it out when we get ashore,” replied the other dolefully. “When I think that I’ve got to take that brute to my home to make mischief I feel tempted to chuck him overboard almost.”

  “It is a temptation,” agreed the mate loyally, closing his eyes to his chief’s physical deficiencies. “I’ll pass the word to the crew not to let him know your address, anyhow.”

  The morning passed quietly, the skipper striving to look unconcerned as the new cook grimly brought the dinner down to the cabin and set it before him. After toying with it a little while, the master of the Frolic dined off buttered biscuit.

  It was a matter of much discomfort to the crew that the new cook took his duties very seriously, and prided himself on his cooking. He was, moreover, disposed to be inconveniently punctilious about the way in which his efforts were regarded. For the first day the crew ate in silence, but at dinner-time on the second the storm broke.

  “What are yer looking at your vittles like that for?” inquired the “Bruiser” of Sam Dowse, as that able-bodied seaman sat with his plate in his lap, eyeing it with much disfavour. “That ain’t the way to look at your food, after I’ve been perspiring away all the morning cooking it.”

  “Yes, you’ve cooked yourself instead of the meat,” said Sam warmly. “It’s a shame to spoil good food like that; it’s quite raw.”

  “You eat it!” said the “Bruiser” fiercely; “that’s wot you’ve go to do. Eat it!”

  For sole answer the indignant Sam threw a piece at him, and the rest of the crew, snatching up their dinners, hurriedly clambered into their bunks and viewed the fray from a safe distance.

  “Have you ‘ad enough?” inquired the “Bruiser,” addressing the head of Sam, which protruded from beneath his left arm.

  “I ‘ave,” said Sam surlily.

  “And you won’t turn up your nose at good vittles any more?” inquired the “Bruiser” severely.

  “I won’t turn it up at anything,” said Sam earnestly, as he tenderly felt the member in question.

  “You’re the only one as ‘as complained,” said the “Bruiser.” “You’re dainty, that’s wot you are. Look at the others — look how they’re eating theirs!”

  At this hint the others came out of their bunks and fell to, and the “Bruiser” became affable.

  “It’s wonderful wot I can turn my ‘and to,” he remarked pleasantly. “Things come natural to me that other men have to learn. You ‘d better put a bit of raw beef on that eye o’ yours, Sam.”

  The thoughtless Sam clapped on a piece from his plate, and it was only by the active intercession of the rest of the crew that the sensitive cook was prevented from inflicting more punishment.

  From this time forth the “Bruiser” ruled the roost, and, his temper soured by his trials, ruled it with a rod of iron. The crew, with the exception of
Dowse, were small men getting into years, and quite unable to cope with him. His attitude with the skipper was dangerously deferential, and the latter was sorely perplexed to think of a way out of the mess in which he found himself.

  “He means business, George,” he said one day to the mate, as he saw the “Bruiser” watching him intently from the galley.

  “He looks at you worse an’ worse,” was the mate’s cheering reply. “The cooking’s spoiling what little temper he’s got left as fast as possible.”

  “It’s the scandal I’m thinking of,” groaned the skipper; “all becos’ I like to be a bit pleasant to people.”

  “You mustn’t look at the black side o’ things,” said the mate; “perhaps you won’t want to need to worry about that after he’s hit you. I’d sooner be kicked by a horse myself. He was telling them down for’ard the other night that he killed a chap once.”

  The skipper turned green. “He ought to have been hung for it,” he said vehemently. “I wonder what juries think they’re for in this country. If I’d been on the jury I’d ha’ had my way, if they’d starved me for a month!”

  “Look here!” said the mate suddenly; “I’ve got an idea. You go down below and I’ll call him up and start rating him. When I’m in the thick of it you come and stick up for him.”

  “George,” said the skipper, with glistening eyes, “you’re a wonder. Lay it on thick, and if he hits you I’ll make it up to you in some way.”

  He went below, and the mate, after waiting for some time, leaned over the wheel and shouted for the cook.

  “What do you want?” growled the “Bruiser,” as he thrust a visage all red and streaky with his work from the galley.

  “Why the devil don’t you wash them saucepans up?” demanded the mate, pointing to a row which stood on the deck. “Do you think we shipped you becos we wanted a broken-nosed, tenth-rate prize-fighter to look at?”

  “Tenth-rate!” roared the “Bruiser,” coming out on to the deck.

  “Don’t you roar at your officer,” said the mate sternly. “Your manners is worse than your cooking. You’d better stay with us a few trips to improve ’em.”