Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “If we could only pack ’em both ‘ome by train,” continued the skipper.

  “That’s an expense,” said the mate.

  “It ‘ud be worth it,” said the other.

  “An’ they wouldn’t do it,” said the mate, “neither of ’em.”

  “I’ve seen women having rows afore,” said the skipper, “but then they could get away from each other. It’s being boxed up in this little craft as does the mischief.”

  “S’pose we pretend the ship’s not seaworthy,” said the mate.

  “Then they’d stand by us,” said the skipper, “closer than ever.”

  “I b’leeve they would,” said the mate. “They’d go fast enough if we’d got a case o’ small-pox or anything like that aboard, though.”

  The skipper grunted assent.

  “It ‘ud be worth trying,” said the mate. “We’ve pretended to have a quarrel. Now just as we’re going into port let one of the hands, the boy if you like, pretend he’s sickening for small-pox.”

  “How’s he going to do it?” inquired the skipper derisively.

  “You leave it to me,” replied the other. “I’ve got an idea how it’s to be done.”

  Against his better judgment the skipper, after some demur, consented, and the following day, when the passengers were on deck gazing at the small port of Summercove as they slowly approached it, the cook came up excitedly and made a communication to the skipper.

  “What?” cried the latter. “Nonsense.”

  “What’s the matter?” demanded Mrs. Bunnett, turning round.

  “Cook, here, has got it into his head that the boy’s got the smallpox,” said the skipper.

  Both women gave a faint scream.

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Bunnett, with a pale face.

  “Rubbish,” said Mrs. Fillson, clasping her hands nervously.

  “Very good, mum,” said the cook calmly. “You know best, o’ course, but I was on a barque once what got it aboard bad, and I think I ought to know it when I see it.”

  “Yes; and now you think everything’s the small-pox,” said Mrs. Bunnett uneasily.

  “Very well, mum,” said the cook, spreading out his hands. “Will you come down an’ ‘ave a look at’im?”

  “No,” snapped Mrs. Bunnett, retreating a pace or two.

  “Will you come down an’ ‘ave a look at ‘im, sir,” inquired the cook.

  “You stay where you are, George,” said Mrs. Bunnett shrilly, as her husband moved forward. “Go farther off, cook.”

  “And keep your tongue still when we get to port,” said the mate. “Don’t go blabbing it all over the place, mind, or we sha’n’t get nobody to work us out.”

  “Ay, ay,” said the cook, moving off. “I ain’t afraid of it — I’ve given it to people, but I’ve never took it myself yet.”

  “I’m sure I wish I was off this dreadful ship,” said Mrs. Fillson nervously. “Nothing but unpleasantness. How long before we get to Summercove, Cap’n Bunnett?”

  “‘Bout a ‘our an’ a ‘arf ought to do it,” said the skipper.

  Both ladies sighed anxiously, and, going as far aft as possible, gazed eagerly at the harbour as it opened out slowly before them.

  “I shall go back by train,” said Mrs. Bunnett “It’s a shame, having my holiday spoilt like this.”

  “It’s one o’ them things what can’t be helped,” said her husband piously.

  “You’d had better give me a little money,” continued his wife, “I shall get lodgings in the town for a day or two, till I see how things are going.”

  “It ‘ud be better for you to get straight back home,” said the skipper.

  “Nonsense,” said his wife, sharply. “Suppose you take it yourself, I should have to be here to see you were looked after. I’m sure Mrs. Fillson isn’t going home.”

  Mrs. Fillson, holding out her hand to Mr. Fillson, said she was sure she wasn’t.

  “It’d be a load of our minds if you did go,” said the mate speaking for both.

  “Well, we’re not going for a day or two at any rate,” said Mrs. Bunnett, glancing almost amiably at Mrs. Fillson.

  In face of this declaration, and in view of the the persistent demands of the ladies, both men, with a very ill grace furnished them with some money.

  “Don’t say a word about it ashore mind,” said the mate, avoiding his chief’s indignant gaze.

  “But you must have a doctor,” said Mrs. Bunnett.

  “I know of a doctor here,” said the mate; “that’s all arranged for.”

  He moved away for a little private talk with the skipper, but that gentleman was not in a conversational mood, and a sombre silence fell upon all until they were snugly berthed at Summercove, and the ladies, preceded by their luggage on a trolly, went off to look for lodgings. They sent down an hour later to say that they had found them, and that they were very clean and comfortable, but a little more than they had intended to give. They implored their husbands not to run any unnecessary risks, and sent some disinfectant soap for them to wash with.

  For three days they kept their lodgings and became fast friends, going, despite their anxiety, for various trips in the neighbourhood. Twice a day at least they sent down beef-tea and other delicacies for the invalid, which never got farther than the cabin, communication being kept up by a small boy who had strict injunctions not to go aboard. On the fourth day in the early morning they came down as close to the ship as they dared to bid farewell.

  “Write if there’s any change for the worse,” cried Mrs. Bunnett.

  “Or if you get it, George,” cried Mrs. Fillson anxiously.

  “It’s all right, he’s going on beautiful,” said the mate.

  The two wives appeared to be satisfied, and with a final adieu went off to the railway station, turning at every few yards to wave farewells until they were out of sight.

  “If ever I have another woman aboard my ship, George,” said the skipper, “I’ll run into something. Who’s the old gentleman?”

  He nodded in the direction of an elderly man with white side whiskers who, with a black bag in his hand, was making straight for the schooner.

  “Captain Bunnett?” he inquired sharply.

  “That’s me, sir,” said the skipper.

  “Your wife sent me,” said the tall man briskly, “My name’s Thompson — Dr. Thompson. She says you’ve got a case of small-pox on board which she wants me to see.”

  “We’ve got a doctor,” said the skipper and mate together.

  “So your wife said, but she wished me particularly to see the case,” said Dr. Thompson. “It’s also my duty as the medical officer of the port.”

  “You’ve done it, George, you’ve done it,” moaned the panic-stricken skipper reproachfully.

  “Well, anybody can make a mistake,”, whispered the mate back; “an’ he can’t touch us, as it ain’t small-pox. Let him come, and we’ll lay it on to the cook. Say he made a mistake.”

  “That’s the ticket,” said the skipper, and turned to assist the doctor to the deck as the mate hurried below to persuade the indignant boy to strip and go bed.

  In the midst of a breathless silence the doctor examined the patient; then, to the surprise of all, he turned to the crew and examined them one after the other.

  “How long has this boy been ill?” he de-manded.

  “About four days,” said the puzzled skipper.

  “You see what comes of trying to hush this kind of thing up,” said the doctor sternly. “You keep the patient down here instead of having him taken away and the ship disinfected, and now all these other poor fellows have got it.”

  “What?” screamed the skipper, as the crew broke into profane expressions of astonishment and self-pity. “Got what?”

  “Why, the small-pox,” said the doctor. “Got it in its worst form too. Suppressed. There’s not one of them got a mark on him. It’s all inside.”

  “Well, I’m damned,” said the skipper, as the crew groaned despai
ringly.

  “What else did you expect?” inquired the doctor wrathfully. “Well, they can’t be moved now; they must all go to bed, and you and the mate must nurse them.”

  “And s’pose we catch it?” said the mate feelingly.

  “You must take your chance,” said the doctor; then he relented a little. “I’ll try and send a couple of nurses down this afternoon,” he added. “In the mean time you must do what you can for them.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the skipper brokenly.

  “All you can do at present,” said the doctor as he slowly mounted the steps, “is to sponge them all over with cold water. Do it every half-hour till the rash comes out.”

  “Very good,” said the skipper again. “But you’ll hurry up with the nurses, sir!”

  He stood in a state of bewilderment until the doctor was out of sight, and then, with a heavy sigh, took his coat off and set to work.

  He and the mate, after warning off the men who had come down to work, spent all the morning in sponging their crew, waiting with an impatience born of fatigue for the rash to come out. This impatience was shared by the crew, the state of mind of the cook after the fifth sponging calling for severe rebuke on the part of the skipper.

  “I wish the nurses ‘ud come, George,” he said, as they sat on the deck panting after their exertions; “this is a pretty mess if you like.”

  “Seems like a judgment,” said the mate wearily.

  “Hulloa, there,” came a voice from the quay.

  Both men turned and looked up at the speaker.

  “Hulloa,” said the skipper dully.

  “What’s all this about small-pox?” demanded the newcomer abruptly.

  The skipper waved his hand languidly towards the fo’c’sle.

  “Five of ’em down with it,” he said quietly. “Are you another doctor, sir?”

  Without troubling to reply their visitor jumped on board and went nimbly below, followed by the other two.

  “Stand out of the light,” he said brusquely. “Now, my lads, let’s have a look at you.”

  He examined them in a state of bewilderment, grunting strangely as the washed-out men submitted to his scrutiny.

  “They’ve had the best of cold sponging,” said the skipper, not without a little pride.

  “Best of what?” demanded the other.

  The skipper told him, drawing back indignantly as the doctor suddenly sat down and burst into a hoarse roar of laughter. The unfeeling noise grated harshly on the sensitive ears of the sick men, and Joe Burrows, raising himself in his bunk, made a feeble attempt to hit him.

  “You’ve been sold,” said the doctor, wiping his eyes.

  “I don’t take your meaning,” said the skipper, with dignity.

  “Somebody’s been having a joke with you,” said the doctor. “Get up, you fools, you’ve got about as much small-pox as I have.”

  “Do you mean to tell me — —” began the skipper.

  “Somebody’s been having a joke with you, I tell you,” repeated the doctor, as the men, with sundry oaths, half of relief, half of dudgeon, got out of bed and began groping for their clothes. “Who is it, do you think?”

  The skipper shook his head, and the mate, following his lead, in duty bound, shook his; but a little while after, as they sat by the wheel smoking and waiting for the men to return to work the cargo out, they were more confidential. The skipper removed his pipe from his mouth, and, having eyed the mate for some time in silence, jerked his thumb in the direction of the railway station. The mate, with a woe-begone nod, assented.

  THE CABIN PASSENGER

  The captain of the Fearless came on to the wharf in a manner more suggestive of deer-stalking than that of a prosaic shipmaster returning to his craft. He dodged round an empty van, lurked behind an empty barrel, flitted from that to a post, and finally from the interior of a steam crane peeped melodramatically on to the deck of his craft.

  To the ordinary observer there was no cause for alarm. The decks were a bit slippery but not dangerous except to a novice; the hatches were on, and in the lighted galley the cook might be discovered moving about in a manner indicative of quiet security and an untroubled conscience.

  With a last glance behind him the skipper descended from the crane and stepped lightly aboard.

  “Hist,” said the cook, coming out quietly. “I’ve been watching for you to come.”

  “Damned fine idea of watching you’ve got,” said the skipper irritably. “What is it?”

  The cook jerked his thumb towards the cabin.

  “He’s down there,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  “The mate said when you came aboard you was just to go and stand near the companion and whistle ‘God Save the Queen’ and he’ll come up to you to see what’s to be done.”

  “Whistle!” said the skipper, trying to moisten his parched lips with his tongue. “I couldn’t whistle just now to save my life.”

  “The mate don’t know what to do, and that was to be the signal,” said the cook. “He’s down there with him givin’ ‘im drink and amoosin’ im.

  “Well, you go and whistle it,” said the skipper.

  The cook wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Ow does it go?” he inquired anxiously, “I never could remember toones.”

  “Oh, go and tell Bill to do it?” said the skipper impatiently.

  Summoned noiselessly by the cook, Bill came up from the forecastle, and on learning what was required of him pursed up his lips and started our noble anthem with a whistle of such richness and volume that the horrified skipper was almost deafened with it. It acted on the mate like a charm, and he came from below and closed Bill’s mouth, none too gently, with a hand which shook with excitement. Then, as quietly as possible, he closed the companion and secured the fastenings.

  “He’s all right,” he said to the skipper breathlessly. “He’s a prisoner. He’s ‘ad four goes o’ whisky, an’ he seems inclined to sleep.”

  “Who let him go down the cabin,” demanded the skipper angrily. “It’s a fine thing I can’t leave the ship for an hour or so but what I come back and find people sitting all round my cabin.”

  “He let hisself darn,” said the cook, who saw a slight opening advantageous to himself in connection with a dish smashed the day before, “an’ I was that surprised, not to say alarmed, that I dropped the large dish and smashed it.”

  “What did he say?” inquired the skipper.

  “The blue one, I mean,” said the cook, who wanted that matter settled for good, “the one with the place at the end for the gravy to run into.”

  “What did he say?” vociferated the skipper.

  “‘E ses,’ ‘ullo,’ he ses, ‘you’ve done it now, old man,’” replied the truthful cook.

  The skipper turned a furious face to the mate.

  “When the cook come up and told me,” said the mate, in answer, “I see at once what was up, so I went down and just talked to him clever like.”

  “I should like to know what you said,” muttered the skipper.

  “Well, if you think you can do better than I did you’d better go down and see him,” retorted the mate hotly. “After all, it’s you what ‘e come to see. He’s your visitor.”

  “No offence, Bob,” said the skipper. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ o’ horse racin’,” continued the mate, with an insufferable air, “and I never ‘ad no money troubles in my life, bein’ always brought up proper at ‘ome and warned of what would ‘appen, but I know a sheriff’s officer when I see ‘im.”

  “What am I to do?” groaned the skipper, too depressed even to resent his subordinate’s manner, “it’s a judgment summons. It’s ruin if he gets me.”

  “Well, so far as I can see, the only thing for you to do is to miss the ship this trip,” said the mate, without looking at him. “I can take her out all right.”

  “I won’t,” said the skipper, interrupting fiercely.

  “
Very well, you’ll be nabbed,” said the mate.

  “You’ve been wanting to handle this craft a long time,” said the skipper fiercely. “You could ha’ got rid of him if you’d wanted to. He’s no business down my cabin.”

  “I tried everything I could think of,” asseverated the mate.

  “Well, he’s come down on my ship without being asked,” said the skipper fiercely, “and damme he can stay there. Cast off.”

  “But,” said the mate, “s’pose — —”

  “Cast off,” repeated the skipper. “He’s come on my ship, and I’ll give him a trip free.”

  “And where are you and the mate to sleep?” Inquired the cook, who was a man of pessimistic turn of mind and given to forebodings.

  “In your bunks,” said the skipper brutally. “Cast off there.”

  The men obeyed, grinning, and the schooner was soon threading her way in the darkness down the river, the skipper listening somewhat nervously for the first intimation of his captive’s awakening.

  He listened in vain that night, for the prisoner made no sign, but at six o’clock in the morning, when the Fearless, coming within sight of the Nore, began to dance like a cork upon the waters, the mate reported hollow groans from the cabin.

  “Let him groan,” said the skipper briefly, “as holler as he likes.”

  “Well, I’ll just go down and see how he is,” said the mate.

  “You stay where you are,” said the skipper sharply.

  “Well, but you ain’t going to starve the man?”

  “Nothing to do with me,” said the skipper ferociously; “if a man likes to come down and stay in my cabin that’s his business. I’m not supposed to know he’s there, and if I like to lock my cabin up and sleep in a fo’s’c’le what’s got more fleas in than ten other fo’c’s’les put together, and what smells worse than ten fo’c’s’les rolled into one, that’s my business.”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to berth for’ard too,” grumbled the other. “He can’t touch me. I can go and sleep in my berth.”

  “You’ll do what I wish, my lad,” said the skipper.

  “I’m the mate,” said the other darkly.

  “And I’m the master,” said the other; “if the master of a ship can stay down the fo’c’s’le, I’m sure a tuppeny-ha’penny mate can.”