Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “You’ll ‘ave fresh air of a night when the hatch is took off,” said Bill. “Don’t you worry, I’ve thought of everything.”

  The arrangements being concluded, they waited until Simpson relieved the mate at the helm, and then trooped up on deck, half-pushing and half-leading their reluctant victim.

  “It’s just as if he was going on a picnic,” said old Ned, as the boy stood unwillingly on the deck, with a stone bottle in one hand and some biscuits wrapped up in an old newspaper in the other.

  “Lend a ‘and, Bill. Easy does it.”

  Noiselessly the two seamen took off the hatch, and, as Tommy declined to help in the proceedings at all, Ned clambered down first to receive him. Bill took him by the scruff of the neck and lowered him down, kicking strongly, into the hold.

  “Have you got him?” inquired Bill.

  “Yes,” said Ned in a smothered voice, and, depositing the boy in the hold, hastily clambered up again, wiping his mouth.

  “Been having a swig at the bottle?” inquired Bill.

  “Boy’s heel,” said Ned very shortly. “Get the hatch on.”

  The hatch was replaced, and Bill and his fellow conspirator, treading quietly and not without some apprehension for the morrow, went below and turned in. Tommy, who had been at sea long enough to take things as he found them, curled up in the corner of the hold, and with his bottle as a pillow fell asleep.

  It was not until eight o’clock next morning that the master of the Sunbeam discovered that he was a boy short. He questioned the cook as he sat at breakfast. The cook, who was a very nervous man, turned pale, set the coffee-pot down with a thump which upset some of the liquor, and bolted up on deck. The skipper, after shouting for him in some of the most alluring swear words known on the high seas, went raging up on deck, where he found the men standing in a little knot, looking very ill at ease.

  “Bill,” said the skipper uneasily, “what’s the matter with that damned cook?”

  “‘E’s ‘ad a shock, sir,” said Bill, shaking his head, “we’ve all ‘ad a shock.”

  “You’ll have another in a minute,” said the skipper emotionally. “Where’s the boy?”

  For a moment Bill’s hardihood forsook him, and he looked helplessly at his mates. In their anxiety to avoid his gaze they looked over the side, and a horrible fear came over the skipper. He looked at Bill mutely, and Bill held out a dirty piece of paper.

  The skipper read it through in a state of stupefaction, then he handed it to the mate, who had followed him on deck. The mate read it and handed it back.

  “It’s yours,” he said shortly.

  “I don’t understand it,” said the skipper, shaking his head. “Why, only yesterday he was up on deck here eating his dinner, and saying it was the best meat he ever tasted. You heard him, Bob?”

  “I heard him, pore little devil!” said the mate.

  “You all heard him,” said the skipper.

  “Well, there’s five witnesses I’ve got. He must have been mad. Didn’t nobody hear him go overboard?”

  “I ‘eard a splash, sir, in my watch,” said Bill.

  “Why didn’t you run and see what it was?” demanded the other.

  “I thought it was one of the chaps come up to throw his supper overboard,” said Bill simply.

  “Ah!” said the skipper, biting his lip, “did you? You’re always going on about the grub. What’s the matter with it?”

  “It’s pizon, sir,” said Ned, shaking his head. “The meat’s awful.”

  “It’s as sweet as nuts,” said the skipper. “Well, you can have it out of the other tank if you like. Will that satisfy you?”

  The men brightened up a little and nudged each other.

  “The butters bad too, sir,” said Bill.

  “Butter bad!” said the skipper frowning, “how’s that, cook?”

  “I ain’t done nothing to it, sir,” said the cook helplessly.

  “Give ’em butter out o’ the firkin in the cabin,” growled the skipper. “It’s my firm belief you’d been ill-using that boy, the food was delicious.”

  He walked off, taking the letter with him, and, propping it up against the sugar-basin, made but a poor breakfast.

  For that day the men lived, as Ned put it, on the fat of the land, in addition to the other luxuries figgy duff, a luxury hitherto reserved for Sundays, being also served out to them. Bill was regarded as a big-brained benefactor of the human race; joy reigned in the foc’sle, and at night the hatch was taken off and the prisoner regaled with a portion which had been saved for him. He ate it ungratefully, and put churlish and inconvenient questions as to what was to happen at the end of the voyage.

  “We’ll smuggle you ashore all right,” said Bill, “none of us are going to sign back in this old tub. I’ll take you aboard some ship with me — Eh?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” said Tommy untruthfully.

  To the wrath and confusion of the crew next day their commanding officer put them back on the old diet again. The old meat was again served out, and the grass-fed luxury from the cabin stopped. Bill shared the fate of all leaders when things go wrong, and, from being the idol of his fellows, became a butt for their gibes.

  “What about your little idea now?” grunted old Ned, scornfully, that evening as he broke his biscuit roughly with his teeth, and dropped it into his basin of tea.

  “You ain’t as clever as you thought you was, Bill,” said the cook with the air of a discoverer.

  “And there’s that pore dear boy shut up in the dark for nothing,” said Simpson, with somewhat belated thoughtfulness. “An’ cookie doing his work.”

  “I’m not going to be beat,” said Bill blackly, “the old man was badly scared yesterday. We must have another sooicide, that’s all.”

  “Let Tommy do it again,” suggested the cook flippantly, and they all laughed.

  “Two on one trip’ll about do the old man up,” said Bill, regarding the interruption unfavourably. “Now, who’s going to be the next?”

  “We’ve had enough o’ this game,” said Simpson, shrugging his shoulders, “you’ve gone cranky, Bill.”

  “No, I ain’t,” said Bill; “I’m not going to be beat, that’s all. Whoever goes down they ‘ll have a nice, easy, lazy time. Sleep all day if he likes, and nothing to do. You ain’t been looking very well lately, Ned.”

  “Oh?” said the old man coldly.

  “Well, settle it between you,” said Bill carelessly, “it’s all one to me, which of you goes.”

  “Ho, an’ what about you?” demanded Simpson.

  “Me?” inquired Bill in astonishment. “Why, I’ve got to stay up here and manage it.”

  “Well, we’ll stay up and help you,” said Simpson derisively.

  Ned and the cook laughed, Simpson joined in. Bill rose, and going to his bunk, fished out a pack of greasy cards from beneath his bedding.

  “Larst cut, sooicide,” he said briefly. “I’m in it.”

  He held the pack before the cook. The cook hesitated, and looked at the other two.

  “Don’t be a fool, Bill,” said Simpson.

  “Why, do you funk it?” sneered Bill.

  “It’s a fool’s game, I tell you,” said Simpson.

  “Well, you ‘elped me start it,” said the other. “You’re afraid, that’s what you are, afraid. You can let the boy go down there, but when it comes to yourselves you turn chicken-’arted.”

  “All right,” said Simpson recklessly, “let Bill ‘ave ‘is way; out, cookie.”

  Sorely against his better sense the cook complied, and drew a ten; Ned, after much argument, cut and drew seven; Simpson, with a king in his fist, leaned back on the locker and fingered his beard nonchalantly. “Go on, Bill,” he said, “see what you can do.”

  Bill took the pack and shuffled it. “I orter be able to beat seven,” he said slowly. He handed the pack to Ned, drew a card, and the other three sat back and laughed boisterously.

  “Three!” said Simpso
n. “Bravo, Bill! Ill write your letter for you; he’d know your writing. What shall I say?”

  “Say what you like,” retorted Bill, breathing hard as he thought of the hold.

  He sat back, sneering disdainfully, as the other three merrily sat down to compose his letter, replying only by a contemptuous silence when Simpson asked him whether he wanted any kisses put in. When the letter was handed over for his inspection he only made one remark.

  “I thought you could write better than that, George,” he said haughtily.

  “I’m writing it for you,” said Simpson.

  Bill’s hauteur vanished, and he became his old self again. “If you want a plug in the eye, George,” he said feelingly, “you’ve only got to say so, you know.”

  His temper was so unpleasant that half the pleasure of the evening was spoiled, and instead of being conducted to his hiding-place with quips and light laughter, the proceedings were more like a funeral than anything else. The crowning touch to his ill-nature was furnished by Tommy, who upon coming up and learning that Bill was to be his room-mate, gave way to a fit of the most unfeigned horror.

  “There’s another letter for you this morning,” said the mate, as the skipper came out of his state-room buttoning up his waistcoat.

  “Another what?” demanded the other, turning pale.

  The mate jerked his thumb upwards. “Old Ned has got it,” he continued, “I can’t think what’s come over the men.”

  The skipper dashed up on deck, and mechanically took the letter from Ned and read it through. He stood for some time like a man in a dream, and then stumbled down the foc’sle, and looked in all the bunks and even under the table, then he came up and stood by the hold with his head on one side. The men held their breath.

  “What’s the meaning of all this?” he demanded at length, sitting limply on the hatch, with his eyes down.

  “Bad grub, sir,” said Simpson, gaining courage from his manner; “that’s what we’ll have to say when we get ashore.”

  “You’re not to say a word about it?” said the other, firing up.

  “It’s our dooty, sir,” said Ned impressively.

  “Look here now,” said the skipper, and he looked at the remaining members of the crew entreatingly. “Don’t let’s have no more suicides. The old meat’s gone now, and you can start the other, and when we get to port I’ll ship in some fresh butter and vegetables. But I don’t want you to say anything about the food being bad, or about these letters when we get to port. I shall simply say the two of ’em disappeared, an’ I want you to say the same.”

  “It can’t be done, sir,” said Simpson, firmly.

  The skipper rose and walked to the side. “Would a fi’pun note make any difference?” he asked in a low voice.

  “It ‘ud make a little difference,” said Ned cautiously.

  The skipper looked up at Simpson. On the face of Simpson was an expression of virtuous arithmetical determination.

  The skipper looked down again. “Or a fi’pun note each?” he said, in a low voice. “I can’t go beyond that.”

  “Call it twenty pun and it’s a bargain, ain’t it, mates?” said Simpson.

  Ned said it was, and even the cook forgot his nervousness, and said it was evident the skipper must do the generous thing, and they’d stand by him.

  “Where’s the money coming from?” inquired the mate as the skipper went down to breakfast, and discussed the matter with him. “They wouldn’t get nothing out of me!”

  The skylight was open; the skipper with a glance at it bent forward and whispered in his ear.

  “Wot!” said the mate. He endeavoured to suppress his laughter with hot coffee and bacon, with the result that he had to rise from his seat, and stand patiently while the skipper dealt him some hearty thumps on the back.

  With the prospect of riches before them the men cheerfully faced the extra work; the cook did the boy’s, while Ned and Simpson did Bill’s between them. When night came they removed the hatch again, and with a little curiosity waited to hear how their victims were progressing.

  “Where’s my dinner?” growled Bill hungrily, as he drew himself up on deck.

  “Dinner!” said Ned, in surprise; “why, you ain’t got none.”

  “Wot?” said Bill ferociously.

  “You see the skipper only serves out for three now,” said the cook.

  “Well, why didn’t you save us some?” de-manded the other.

  “There ain’t enough of it, Bill, there ain’t in-deed,” said Ned. “We have to do more work now, and there ain’t enough even for us. You’ve got biscuit and water, haven’t you?”

  Bill swore at him.

  “I ‘ve ‘ad enough o’ this,” he said fiercely. “I’m coming up, let the old man do what he likes. I don’t care.”

  “Don’t do that, Bill,” said the old man persuasively. “Everything’s going beautiful. You was quite right what you said about the old man. We was wrong. He’s skeered fearful, and he’s going to give us twenty pun to say nothing about it when we get ashore.”

  “I’m going to have ten out o’ that,” said Bill, brightening a little, “and it’s worth it too, I get the ‘orrors shut up down there all day.”

  “Ay, ay,” said Ned, with a side kick at the cook, who was about to question Bill’s method of division.

  “The old man sucked it all in beautiful,” said the cook. “He’s in a dreadful way. He’s got all your clothes and things, and the boy’s, and he’s going to ‘and ’em over to your friends. It’s the best joke I ever heard.”

  “You’re a fool!” said Bill shortly, and lighting his pipe went and squatted in the bows to wrestle grimly with a naturally bad temper.

  For the ensuing four days things went on smoothly enough. The weather being fair, the watch at night was kept by the men, and regularly they had to go through the unpleasant Jack-in-the-box experience of taking the lid off Bill. The sudden way he used to pop out and rate them about his sufferings and their callousness was extremely trying, and it was only by much persuasion and reminder of his share of the hush-money that they could persuade him to return again to his lair at daybreak.

  Still undisturbed they rounded the Land’s End. The day had been close and muggy, but towards night the wind freshened, and the schooner began to slip at a good pace through the water. The two prisoners, glad to escape from the stifling atmosphere of the hold, sat in the bows with an appetite which the air made only too keen for the preparations made to satisfy it.

  Ned was steering, and the other two men having gone below and turned in, there were no listeners to their low complaints about the food.

  “It’s a fool’s game, Tommy,” said Bill, shaking his head.

  “Game?” said Tommy, sniffing. “‘Ow are we going to get away when we get to Northsea?”

  “You leave that to me,” said Bill. “Old Ned seems to ha’ got a bad cough,” he added.

  “He’s choking, I should think,” said Tommy, leaning forward. “Look! he’s waving his hand at us.”

  Both sprang up hastily, but ere they could make any attempt to escape the skipper and mate emerged from the companion and walked towards them.

  “Look here,” said the skipper, turning to the mate, and indicating the culprits with his hand; “perhaps you’ll disbelieve in dreams now.”

  “‘Strordinary!” said the mate, rubbing his eyes, as Bill stood sullenly waiting events, while the miserable Tommy skulked behind him.

  “I’ve heard o’ such things,” continued the skipper, in impressive tones, “but I never expected to see it. You can’t say you haven’t seen a ghost now, Bob.”

  “‘Strordinary!” said the mate, shaking his head again. “Lifelike!”

  “The ship’s haunted, Ned,” cried the skipper in hollow tones. “Here’s the sperrits o’ Bill and the boy standing agin the windlass.”

  The bewildered old seaman made no reply; the smaller spirit sniffed and wiped his nose on his cuff, and the larger one began to whistle sof
tly.

  “Poor things!” said the skipper, after they had discussed these extraordinary apparitions for some time. “Can you see the windlass through the boy, Bob?”

  “I can see through both of ’em,” said the mate slyly.

  They stayed on deck a little longer, and then coming to the conclusion that their presence on deck could do no good, and indeed seemed only to embarrass their visitors, went below again, leaving all hands a prey to the wildest astonishment.

  “Wot’s ‘is little game?” asked Simpson, coming cautiously up on deck.

  “Damned if I know,” said Bill savagely.

  “He don’t really think you’re ghosts?” suggested the cook feebly.

  “O’ course not,” said Bill scornfully. “He’s got some little game on. Well, I’m going to my bunk. You’d better come too, Tommy. We’ll find out what it all means tomorrer, I’ve no doubt.”

  On the morrow they received a little enlightenment, for after breakfast the cook came forward nervously to break the news that meat and vegetables had only been served out for three. Consternation fell upon all.

  “I’ll go an’ see ‘im,” said Bill ravenously.

  He found the skipper laughing heartily over something with the mate. At the seaman’s approach he stepped back and eyed him coolly.

  “Mornin’, sir,” said Bill, shuffling up. “We’d like to know, sir, me an’ Tommy, whether we can have our rations for dinner served out now same as before?”

  “Dinner?” said the skipper in surprise. “What do you want dinner for?”

  “Eat,” said Bill, eyeing him reproachfully.

  “Eat?” said the skipper. “What’s the good o’ giving dinner to a ghost? Why you’ve got nowhere to put it.”

  By dint of great self-control Bill smiled in a ghastly fashion, and patted his stomach.

  “All air,” said the skipper turning away.

  “Can we have our clothes and things then?” said Bill grinding his teeth. “Ned says as how you’ve got ’em.”

  “Certainly not,” said the skipper. “I take ’em home and give ’em to your next o’ kin. That’s the law, ain’t it, Bob?”

  “It is,” said the mate.

  “They’ll ‘ave your effects and your pay up to the night you committed suicide,” said the skipper.