Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “The men don’t like it,” objected the mate.

  “Damn the men,” said the skipper politely, “and as to starving the chap, there’s a water-bottle full o’ water in my state-room, to say nothing of a jug, and a bag o’ biscuits under the table.”

  The mate walked off whistling, and the skipper, by no means so easy in his mind as he pretended to be, began to consider ways and means out of the difficulty which he foresaw must occur when they reached port.

  “What sort o’ looking chap is he?” he inquired of the cook.

  “Big, strong-looking chap,” was the reply.

  “Look as though he’d make a fuss if I sent you and Bill down below to gag him when we get to the other end?” suggested the skipper.

  The cook said that judging by appearances “fuss” would be no word for it.

  “I can’t understand him keeping so quiet,” said the skipper, “that’s what gets over me.”

  “He’s biding ‘is time, I expect,” said the cook comfortingly. “He’s a ‘ard looking customer, ‘sides which he’s likely sea-sick.”

  The day passed slowly, and as night approached a sense of mystery and discomfort overhung the vessel. The man at the wheel got nervous, and flattered Bill into keeping him company by asking him to spin him a yarn. He had good reason for believing that he knew his comrade’s stock of stories by heart, but in the sequel it transpired that there was one, of a prisoner turning into a cat and getting out of the porthole and running up helmsmen’s backs, which he hadn’t heard before. And he told Bill in the most effective language he could command that he never wanted to hear it again.

  The night passed and day broke, and still the mysterious passenger made no sign. The crew got in the habit of listening at the companion and peeping through the skylight; but the door of the state-room was closed, and the cabin itself as silent as the grave. The skipper went about with a troubled face, and that afternoon, unable to endure the suspense any longer, civilly asked the mate to go below and investigate.

  “I’d rather not,” said the mate, shrugging his shoulders.

  “I’d sooner he served me and have done with it,” said the skipper. “I get thinking all sorts of awful things.”

  “Well, why don’t you go down yourself,” said the mate. “He’d serve you fast enough, I’ve no doubt.”

  “Well, it may be just his artfulness,” said the skipper; “an’ I don’t want to humour him if he’s all right. I’m askin’ it as a favour, Bob.”

  “I’ll go if the cook’ll come,” said the mate after a pause.

  The cook hesitated.

  “Go on, cook,” said the skipper sharply; “don’t keep the mate waiting, and, whatever you do, don’t let him come up on deck.”

  The mate led the way to the companion, and, opening it quietly, led the way below, followed by the cook. There was a minute’s awful suspense, and then a wild cry rang out below, and the couple came dashing madly up on deck again.

  “What is it?” inquired the pallid skipper.

  The mate, leaning for support against the wheel, opened his mouth, but no words came; the cook, his hands straight by his side and his eyes glassy, made a picture from which the crew drew back in awe.

  “What’s — the — matter?” said the skipper again.

  Then the mate, regaining his composure by an effort, spoke.

  “You needn’t trouble to fasten the companion again,” he said slowly.

  The skipper’s face changed from white to grey, “Why not?” he asked in a trembling voice.

  “He’s dead,” was the solemn reply.

  “Nonsense,” said the other, with quivering lips.

  “He’s shamming or else fainting. Did you try to bring him round?”

  “I did not,” said the mate. “I don’t deceive you. I didn’t stay down there to do no restoring, and I don’t think you would either.”

  “Go down and see whether you can wake him, cook,” said the skipper.

  “Not me,” said the cook with a mighty shudder.

  Two of the hands went and peeped furtively down through the skylight. The empty cabin looked strangely quiet and drear, and the door of the state-room stood ajar. There was nothing to satisfy their curiosity, but they came back looking as though they had seen a ghost.

  “What’s to be done?” said the skipper, helplessly.

  “Nothing can be done,” said the mate. “He’s beyond our aid.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about him,” said the skipper.

  “Well, the best thing you can do when we get to Plymouth is to bolt,” said the mate. “We’ll hide it up as long as we can to give you a start. It’s a hanging matter.”

  The hapless master of the Fearless wiped his clammy brow. “I can’t think he’s dead,” he said slowly. “Who’ll come down with me to see?”

  “You’d better leave it alone,” said the mate kindly, “it ain’t pleasant, and besides that we can all swear up to the present that you haven’t touched him or been near him.”

  “Who’ll come down with me?” repeated the skipper. “I believe it’s a trick, and that he’ll start up and serve me, but I feel I must go.”

  He caught Bill’s eye, and that worthy seaman, after a short tussle with his nerves, shuffled after him. The skipper brushing aside the mate, who sought to detain him, descended first, and entering the cabin stood hesitating, with Bill close behind him.

  “Just open the door, Bill,” he said slowly.

  “Arter you, sir,” said the well-bred Bill.

  The skipper stepped slowly towards it and flung it suddenly open. Then he drew back with a sharp cry and looked nervously about him. The bed was empty.

  “Where’s he gone?” whispered the trembling Bill.

  “The other made no reply, but in a dazed fashion began to grope about the cabin. It was a small place and soon searched, and the two men sat down and eyed each other in blank amazement.

  “Where is he?” said Bill at length.

  The skipper shook his head helplessly, and was about to ascribe the mystery to supernatural agencies, when the truth in all its naked simplicity flashed upon him, and he spoke. “It’s the mate,” he said slowly, “the mate and the cook. I see it all now; there’s never been anybody here. It was a little job on the mate’s part to get the ship. If you want to hear a couple o’ rascals sized up, Bill, come on deck.”

  And Bill, grinning in anticipation, went.

  CHOICE SPIRITS

  The day was fine and the breeze so light that the old patched sails were taking the schooner along at a gentle three knots per hour. A sail or two shone like snow in the offing, and a gull hovered in the air astern. From the cabin to the galley, and from the galley to the untidy tangle in the bows, there was no sign of life to benefit by the conversation of the skipper and mate as they discussed a wicked and mutinous spirit which had become observable in the crew.

  “It’s sheer, rank wickedness, that’s what it is,” said the skipper, a small, elderly man, with grizzled beard and light blue eyes.

  “Rank,” agreed the mate, whose temperament was laconic.

  “Why, when I was a boy you wouldn’t believe what I had to eat,” said the skipper; “not if I took my Bible oath on it, you wouldn’t.”

  “They’re dainty,” said the mate.

  “Dainty!” said the other indignantly. “What right have hungry sailormen to be dainty? Don’t I give them enough to eat? Look! Look there!”

  He drew back, choking, and pointed with his forefinger as Bill Smith, A.B., came on deck with a plate held at arm’s length, and a nose disdainfully elevated. He affected not to see the skipper, and, walking in a mincing fashion to the side, raked the food from the plate into the sea with his fingers. He was followed by George Simpson, A.B., who in the same objectionable fashion wasted food which the skipper had intended should nourish his frame.

  “I’ll pay ’em for this,” murmured the skipper.

  “There’s some more,” said the mate.

 
Two more men came on deck, grinning consciously, and disposed of their dinners. Then there was an interval — an interval in which everybody fore and aft, appeared to be waiting for something; the something being at that precise moment standing at the foot of the foc’sle ladder, trying to screw its courage up.

  “If the boy comes,” said the skipper in a strained, unnatural voice, “I’ll flay him alive.”

  “You’d better get your knife out, then,” said the mate.

  The boy appeared on deck, very white about the gills, and looking piteously at the crew for support. He became conscious from their scowls that he had forgotten something, and remembering himself, stretched out his skinny arms to their full extent, and, crinkling his nose, walked with great trepidation to the side.

  “Boy!” vociferated the skipper suddenly.

  “Yessir,” said the urchin hastily.

  “Comm’ere,” said the skipper sternly.

  “Shove your dinner over first,” said four low, menacing voices.

  The boy hesitated, then walked slowly towards the skipper.

  “What are you going to do with that dinner?” demanded the latter grimly.

  “Eat it,” said the youth modestly.

  “What d’yer bring it on deck for, then?” inquired the other, bending his brows on him.

  “I thought it would taste better on deck, sir,” said the boy.

  “Taste better!” growled the skipper ferociously. “Ain’t it good?”

  “Yessir,” said the boy.

  “Speak louder,” said the skipper sternly. “Is it very good?”

  “Beautiful,” said the boy in a shrill falsetto.

  “Did you ever taste better wittles than you get aboard this ship?” demanded the skipper, setting him a fine example in loud speaking.

  “Never!” yelled the boy, following it.

  “Everything as it should be?” roared the skipper.

  “Better than it should be,” shrilled the craven

  “Sit down and eat it,” commanded the other.

  The boy sat on the cabin skylight, and, taking out his pocket-knife, began his meal with every appearance of enjoyment, the skipper, with his elbows on the side, and his legs crossed, regarding him serenely.

  “I suppose,” he said loudly, after watching the boy for some time, “I s’pose the men threw theirs overboard becos they hadn’t been used to such good food?”

  “Yessir,” said the boy.

  “Did they say so?” bawled the other.

  The boy hesitated, and glanced nervously forward. “Yessir,” he said at length, and shuddered as a low, ominous growl came from the crew. Despite his slowness the meal came to an end at last, and, in obedience to orders, he rose and took his plate forward, looking entreatingly at the crew as he passed them.

  “Come down below,” said Bill, “we want to have a talk with you.”

  “Can’t,” said the boy. “I’ve got my work to do. I haven’t got time to talk.”

  He stayed up on deck until evening, and then, the men’s anger having evaporated somewhat, crept softly below, and climbed into his bunk. Simpson leaned over and made a clutch at him, but Bill pushed him aside.

  “Leave him alone,” said he quietly, “we’ll take it out of him to-morrow.”

  For some time Tommy lay worrying over the fate in store for him, and then, yielding to fatigue, turned over and slept soundly until he was awakened some three hours later by the men’s voices, and, looking out, saw that the lamp was alight and the crew at supper, listening quietly to Bill, who was speaking.

  “I’ve a good mind to strike, that’s what I’ve a good mind to do,” he said savagely, as, after an attempt at the butter, he put it aside and ate dry biscuit.

  “An’ get six months,” said old Ned. “That won’t do, Bill.”

  “Are we to go a matter of six or seven days on dry biscuit and rotten taters?” demanded the other fiercely. “Why, it’s slow sooicide.”

  “I wish one of you would commit sooicide,” said Ned, looking wistfully round at the faces, “that ‘ud frighten the old man, and bring him round a bit.”

  “Well, you’re the eldest,” said Bill pointedly.

  “Browning’s a easy death too,” said Simpson persuasively, “you can’t have much enjoyment in life at your age, Ned?”

  “And you might leave a letter behind to the skipper, saying as ‘ow you was drove to it by bad food,” said the cook, who was getting ex-cited.

  “Talk sense!” said the old man very shortly.

  “Look here,” said Bill suddenly, “I tell you what we can do: let one of us pretend to commit suicide, and write a letter as Slushey here ses, saying as ‘ow we’re gone overboard sooner than be starved to death. It ‘ud scare the old man proper; and p’raps he’d let us start on the other meat without eating up this rotten stuff first!”

  “How’s it to be done!” asked Simpson, staring.

  “Go an’ ‘ide down the fore ‘old,” said Bill “There’s not much stuff down there. We’ll take off the hatch when one of us is on watch to-night, and — whoever wants to — can go and hide down there till the old man’s come to his senses. What do you think of it, mates?”

  “It’s all right as an idea,” said Ned slowly, “but who’s going?”

  “Tommy,” replied Bill simply.

  “Blest if I ever thought of him,” said Ned admiringly, “did you, cookie?”

  “Never crossed my mind,” said the cook.

  “You see the best o’ Tommy’s going,” said Bill, “is that the old man ‘ud only give him a flogging if he found it out. We wouldn’t split as to who put the hatch on over him. He can be there as comfortable as you please, do nothing, and sleep all day if he likes. O’ course we don’t know anything about it, we miss Tommy, and find the letter wrote on this table.”

  The cook leaned forward and regarded his col-league favourably; then he pursed his lips, and nodded significantly at an upper bunk from which the face of Tommy, pale and scared, looked anxiously down.

  “Halloa!” said Bill, “have you heard what we’ve been saying?”

  “I heard you say something about going to drown old Ned,” said Tommy guardedly.

  “He’s heard all about it,” said the cook severely. “Do you know where little boys who tell lies go to, Tommy?”

  “I’d sooner go there than down the fore ‘old,” said Tommy, beginning to knuckle his eyes. “I won’t go. I’ll tell the skipper.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Bill sternly. “This is your punishment for them lies you told about us to-day, an’ very cheap you’ve got off too. Now, get out o’ that bunk. Come on afore I pull you out.”

  With a miserable whimper the youth dived beneath his blankets, and, clinging frantically to the edge of his berth, kicked convulsively as he was lifted down, blankets and all, and accommodated with a seat at the table.

  “Pen and ink and paper, Ned,” said Bill.

  The old man produced them, and Bill, first wiping off with his coat-sleeve a piece of butter which the paper had obtained from the table, spread it before the victim.

  “I can’t write,” said Tommy sullenly.

  The men looked at each other in dismay.

  “It’s a lie,” said the cook.

  “I tell you I can’t,” said the urchin, becoming hopeful, “that’s why they sent me to sea becos I couldn’t read or write.”

  “Pull his ear, Bill,” said Ned, annoyed at these aspersions upon an honourable profession.

  “It don’t matter,” said Bill, calmly. “I’ll write it for ‘im; the old man don’t know my fist.”

  He sat down at the table, and, squaring his shoulders, took a noisy dip of ink, and scratching his head, looked pensively at the paper.

  “Better spell it bad, Bill,” suggested Ned.

  “Ay, ay,” said the other. “‘Ow do you think a boy would spell sooicide, Ned?”

  The old man pondered. “S-o-o-e-y-s-i-d-e,” he said slowly.

  “Why, that’s th
e right way, ain’t it?” inquired the cook, looking from one to the other.

  “We mustn’t spell it right,” said Bill, with his pen hovering over the paper. “Be careful, Ned.”

  “We’ll say killed myself instead,” said the old man. “A boy wouldn’t use such a big word as that p’raps.”

  Bill bent over his work, and, apparently paying great attention to his friends’ entreaties not to write it too well, slowly wrote the letter.

  “How’s this?” he inquired, sitting back in his seat.

  “‘Deer captin i take my pen in hand for the larst time to innform you that i am no more suner than heat the ‘orrible stuff what you kall meet i have drownded miself it is a moor easy death than starvin’ i ‘ave left my clasp nife to bill an’ my silver wotch to it is ‘ard too dee so young tommie brown.’”

  “Splendid!” said Ned, as the reader finished and looked inquiringly round.

  “I put in that bit about the knife and the watch to make it seem real,” said Bill, with modest pride; “but, if you like, I’ll leave ’em to you instead, Ned.”

  “I don’t want ’em,” said the old man generously.

  “Put your cloes on,” said Bill, turning to the whimpering Tommy.

  “I’m not going down that fore ‘old,” said Tommy desperately. “You may as well know now as later on — I won’t go.”

  “Cookie,” said Bill calmly, “just ‘and me them cloes, will you? Now, Tommy.”

  “I tell you, I’m not going to,” said Tommy.

  “An’ that little bit o’ rope, cookie,” said Bill, “it’s just down by your ‘and. Now, Tommy.”

  The youngest member of the crew looked from his clothes to the rope, and from the rope back to his clothes again.

  “How’m I goin’ to be fed?” he demanded sullenly, as he began to dress.

  “You’ll have a stone bottle o’ water to take down with you an’ some biskits,” replied Bill, “an’ of a night time we’ll hand you down some o’ that meat you’re so fond of. Hide ’em behind the cargo, an’ if you hear anybody take the hatch off in the day time, nip behind it yourself.”

  “An’ what about fresh air?” demanded the sacrifice.