Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “It can’t be done,” said the skipper cheerfully.

  “It’s agin the lor, sir,” said Ephraim Biddle solemnly.

  “What! Taking my own ship out?” said the skipper in affected surprise. “How was I to know they were there? I’m not going back; ‘tain’t likely. As they’ve made their beds so they must lay on ’em.”

  “They ain’t got no beds,” said George Scott hastily. “It ain’t fair to punish the gals for us, sir.”

  “Hold your tongue,” said the skipper sharply.

  “It’s agin the lor, sir,” said Biddle again. “If so be they’re passengers, this ship ain’t licensed to carry passengers. If so be as they’re took out agin their will, it’s abduction — I see the other day a chap had seven years for abducting one gal, three sevens — three sevens is — three sevens is, well, it’s more years than you’d like to be in prison, sir.”

  “Bosh,” said the skipper, “they’re stowaways, an’ I shall put ’em ashore at the first port we touch at — Plymouth.”

  A heartrending series of screams from the stow-aways rounded his sentence, screams which gave way to sustained sobbing, as the schooner, catching the wind, began to move through the water.

  “You’d better get below, my gals,” said Biddle, who was the eldest member of the crew, consolingly.

  “Why don’t you make him take us back?” said Jenny Evans, the biggest of the three girls, indignantly.

  “‘Cos we can’t, my dear,” said Biddle reluctantly; “it’s agin the lor. You don’t want to see us put into prison, do you?”

  “I don’t mind,” said Miss Evans tearfully, “so long as we get back. George, take us back.”

  “I can’t,” said Scott sullenly.

  “Well, you can look for somebody else, then,” said Miss Evans with temper. “You won’t marry me. How much would you get if you did make the skipper put back?”

  “Very likely six months,” said Biddle solemnly.

  “Six months would soon pass away,” said Miss Evans briskly, as she wiped her eye.

  “It would be a rest,” said Miss Williams coaxingly.

  The men not seeing things in quite the same light, they announced their intention of having nothing more to do with them, and crowding together in the bows beneath two or three blankets, condoled tearfully with each other on their misfortunes. For some time the men stood by offering clumsy consolations, but tired at last of repeated rebuffs and insults went below and turned in, leaving the satisfied skipper at the wheel.

  The night was clear and the wind light. As the effects of his libations wore off the skipper had some misgivings as to the wisdom of his action, but it was too late to return, and he resolved to carry on.

  Looking at all the circumstances of the case he thought it best to keep the wheel in his own hands for a time, and the dawn came in the early hours and found him still at his post.

  Objects began to stand out clearly in the grow-ing light, and three dispirited girls put their heads out from the blankets and sniffed disdainfully at the sharp morning air. Then after an animated discussion they arose, and casting their blankets aside, walked up to the skipper and eyed him thoughtfully.

  “As easy as easy,” said Jenny Evans confidently, as she drew herself up to her full height, and looked down at the indignant man.

  “Why, he isn’t any bigger than a boy,” said Miss Williams savagely.

  “Pity we didn’t think of it before,” said Miss Davies. “I s’pose the crew won’t help him?”

  “Not they,” said Miss Evans scornfully. “If they do, we’ll serve them the same.”

  They went off, leaving the skipper a prey to gathering uneasiness, watching their movements with wrinkled brow. From the forecastle and the galley they produced two mops and a broom, and he caught his breath sharply as Miss Evans came on deck with a pot of white paint in one hand and a pot of tar in the other.

  “Now, girls,” said Miss Evans.

  “Put those things down,” said the skipper in a peremptory voice.

  “Sha’n’t,” said Miss Evans bluntly. “You haven’t got enough on yours,” she said, turning to Miss Davies. “Don’t spoil the skipper for a ha’porth of tar.”

  At this new version of an old saw they laughed joyously, and with mops dripping tar and paint on the deck, marched in military style up to the skipper, and halted in front of him, smiling wickedly.

  Then the heart of the skipper waxed sore faint within him, and, with a wild yell, he summoned the trusty crew to his side.

  The crew came on deck slowly, and casting furtive glances at the scene, pushed Ephraim Biddle to the front.

  “Take those mops away from ’em,” said the skipper haughtily.

  “Don’t you interfere,” said Miss Evans, looking at them over her shoulder.

  “Else we’ll give you some,” said Miss Williams bloodthirstily.

  “Take those mops away from ’em!” bawled the skipper, instinctively drawing back as Miss Evans made a pass at him.

  “I don’t see as ‘ow we can interfere, sir,” said Biddle with deep respect.

  “What!” said the astonished skipper.

  “It would be agin the lor for us to interfere with people,” said Biddle, turning to his mates, “dead agin the lor.”

  “Don’t you talk rubbish,” said the skipper anxiously. “Take ’em away from ’em. It’s my tar and my paint, and — —”

  “You shall have it,” said Miss Evans reassuringly.

  “If we touched ’em,” said Biddle impressively, “it’d be an assault at lor. ‘Sides which, they’d probably muss us up with ’em All we can do, sir, is to stand by and see fair play.”

  “Fair play!” cried the skipper dancing with rage, and turning hastily to the mate, who had just come on the scene. “Take those things away from ’em, Jack.”

  “Well, if it’s all the same to you,” said the mate, “I’d rather not be drawn into it.”

  “But I’d rather you were,” said the skipper sharply. “Take ’em away.”

  “How?” inquired the mate pertinently.

  “I order you to take ’em away,” said the skipper. “How, is your affair.”

  “I’m not goin’ to raise my hand against a woman for anybody,” said the mate with decision. “It’s no part o’ my work to get messed up with tar and paint from lady passengers.”

  “It’s part of your work to obey me, though,” said the skipper, raising his voice; “all of you. There’s five of you, with the mate, and only three gells. What are you afraid of?”

  “Are you going to take us back?” demanded Jenny Evans.

  “Run away,” said the skipper with dignity. “Run away.”

  “I shall ask you three times,” said Miss Evans sternly. “One — are you going back? Two — are you going back? Three —— —”

  In the midst of a breathless silence she drew within striking distance, while her allies taking up a position on either flank of the enemy, listened attentively to the instructions of their leader.

  “Be careful he doesn’t catch hold of the mops,” said Miss Evans, “but if he does the others are to hit him over the head with the handles. Never mind about hurting him.”

  “Take this wheel a minnit, Jack,” said the skipper, pale but determined.

  The mate came forward and took it unwillingly, and the skipper, trying hard to conceal his trepidation, walked towards Miss Evans and tried to quell her with his eye. The power of the human eye is notorious, and Miss Evans showed her sense of the danger she ran by making an energetic attempt to close the skipper’s with her mop, causing him to duck with amazing nimbleness. At the same moment another mop loaded with white paint was pushed into the back of his neck. He turned with a cry of rage, and then realising the odds against him flung his dignity to the winds and dodged with the agility of a schoolboy. Through the galley and round the masts with the avenging mops in mad pursuit, until breathless and exhausted he suddenly sprang on to the side and climbed frantically into the rigg
ing.

  “Coward!” said Miss Evans, shaking her weapon at him.

  “Come down,” cried Miss Williams. “Come down like a man.”

  “It’s no good wasting time over him,” said Miss Evans, after another vain appeal to the skipper’s manhood. “He’s escaped. Get some more stuff on your mops.”

  The mate, who had been laughing boisterously, checked himself suddenly, and assumed a gravity of demeanour more in accordance with his position. The mops were dipped in solemn silence, and Miss Evans approaching regarded him significantly.

  “Now, my dears,” said the mate, waving his hand with a deprecating gesture, “don’t be silly.”

  “Don’t be what?” inquired the sensitive Miss Evans raising her mop.

  “You know what I mean,” said the mate hastily. “I can’t help myself.”

  “Well, we’re going to help you,” said Miss Evans. “Turn the ship round.”

  “You obey orders, Jack,” cried the skipper from aloft.

  “It’s all very well for you sitting up there in peace and comfort,” said the mate indignantly. “I’m not going to be tarred to please you. Come down and take charge of your ship.”

  “Do your duty, Jack,” said the skipper, who was polishing his face with a handkerchief. “They won’t touch you. They daren’t. They’re afraid to.”

  “You’re egging ’em on,” cried the mate wrath-fully. “I won’t steer; come and take it yourself.”

  He darted behind the wheel as Miss Evans, who was getting impatient, made a thrust at him, and then, springing out, gained the side and rushed up the rigging after his captain. Biddle, who was standing close by, gazed earnestly at them and took the wheel.

  “You won’t hurt old Biddle, I know,” he said, trying to speak confidently.

  “Of course not,” said Miss Evans emphatically.

  “Tar don’t hurt,” explained Miss Williams.

  “It’s good for you,” said the third lady positively. “One — two —— —”

  “It’s no good,” said the mate as Ephraim came suddenly into the rigging; “you’ll have to give in.

  “I’m —— if I will,” said the infuriated skipper.

  Then an idea occurred to him, and puckering his face shrewdly he began to descend.

  “All right,” he said shortly, as Miss Evans advanced to receive him. “I’ll go back.”

  He took the wheel; the schooner came round before the wind, and the willing crew, letting the sheets go, hauled them in again on the port side.

  “And now, my lads,” said the skipper with a benevolent smile, “just clear that mess up off the decks, and you may as well pitch them mops overboard. They’ll never be any good again.”

  He spoke carelessly, albeit his voice trembled a little, but his heart sank within him as Miss Evans, with a horrible contortion of her pretty face, intended for a wink, waved them back.

  “You stay where you are,” she said imperiously, “we’ll throw them overboard — when we’ve done with them. What did you say, Captain?”

  The skipper was about to repeat it with great readiness when Miss Evans raised her trusty mop. The words died away on his lips, and after a hopeless glance from his mate to the crew and from the crew to the rigging, he accepted his defeat, and in grim silence took them home again.

  PICKLED HERRING

  There was a sudden uproar on deck, and angry shouts accompanied by an incessant barking; the master of the brig Arethusa stopped with his knife midway to his mouth, and exchanging glances with the mate, put it down and rose to his feet.

  “They’re chevying that poor animal again,” he said hotly. “It’s scandalous.”

  “Rupert can take care of himself,” said the mate calmly, continuing his meal. “I expect, if the truth’s known, it’s him’s been doin’ the chevying.”

  “You’re as bad as the rest of ’em,” said the skipper angrily, as a large brown retriever came bounding into the cabin. “Poor old Rube! what have they been doin’ to you?”

  The dog, with a satisfied air, sat down panting by his chair, listening quietly to the subdued hub-bub which sounded from the companion.

  “Well, what is it?” roared the skipper, patting his favourite’s head.

  “It’s that blasted dawg, sir,” cried an angry voice from above. “Go down and show ‘im your leg, Joe.”

  “An ‘ave another lump took out of it, I s’pose,” said another voice sourly. “Not me.”

  “I don’t want to look at no legs while I’m at dinner,” cried the skipper. “O’ course the dog’ll bite you if you’ve been teasing him.”

  “There’s nobody been teasing ‘im,” said the angry voice again. “That’s the second one ‘e’s bit, and now Joe’s goin’ to have ‘im killed — ain’t you, Joe?”

  Joe’s reply was not audible, although the infuriated skipper was straining his ears to catch it.

  “Who’s going to have the dog killed?” he demanded, going up on deck, while Rupert, who evidently thought he had an interest in the proceedings, followed unobtrusively behind.

  “I am, sir,” said Joe Bates, who was sitting on the hatch while the cook bathed an ugly wound in his leg. “A dog’s only allowed one bite, and he’s ‘ad two this week.”

  “He bit me on Monday,” said the seaman who had spoken before. “Now he’s done for hisself.”

  “Hold your tongue!” said the skipper angrily. “You think you know a lot about the law, Sam Clark; let me tell you a dog’s entitled to have as many bites as ever he likes, so as he don’t bite the same person twice.”

  “That ain’t the way I’ve ‘eard it put afore,” said Clark, somewhat taken back.

  “He’s the cutest dog breathing,” said the skipper fondly, “and he knows all about it. He won’t bite either of you again.”

  “And wot about them as ‘asn’t been bit yet, sir?” inquired the cook.

  “Don’t halloo before you’re hurt,” advised the skipper. “If you don’t tease him he won’t bite you.”

  He went down to his dinner, followed by the sagacious Rupert, leaving the hands to go forward again, and to mutinously discuss a situation which was becoming unbearable.

  “It can’t go on no longer, Joe,” said Clark firmly; “this settles it.”

  “Where is the stuff?” inquired the cook in a whisper.

  “In my chest,” said Clark softly. “I bought It the night he bit me.”

  “It’s a risky thing to do,” said Bates.

  “‘Ow risky?” asked Sam scornfully. “The dog eats the stuff and dies. Who’s going to say what he died of? As for suspicions, let the old man suspect as much as he likes. It ain’t proof.”

  The stronger mind had its way, as usual, and the next day the skipper, coming quietly on deck, was just in time to see Joe Bates throw down a fine fat bloater in front of the now amiable Rupert. He covered the distance between him-self and the dog in three bounds, and seizing it by the neck, tore the fish from its eager jaws and held it aloft.

  “I just caught ‘im in the act!” he cried, as the mate came on deck. “What did you give that to my dog for?” he inquired of the conscience stricken Bates.

  “I wanted to make friends with him,” stammered the other.

  “It’s poisoned, you rascal, and you know it,” said the skipper vehemently.

  “Wish I may die, sir,” began Joe.

  “That’ll do,” said the skipper harshly. “You’ve tried to poison my dog.”

  “I ain’t,” said Joe firmly.

  “You ain’t been trying to kill ‘im with a poisoned bloater?” demanded the skipper.

  “Certainly not, sir,” said Joe. “I wouldn’t do such a thing. I couldn’t if I tried.”

  “Very good then,” said the skipper; “if it’s all right you eat it, and I’ll beg your pardon.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to eat after a dog,” said Joe, shuffling.

  “The dog’s as clean as you are,” said the skipper. “I’d sooner eat after him than you.”
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br />   “Well, you eat it then, sir,” said Bates desperately. “If it’s poisoned you’ll die, and I’ll be hung for it. I can’t say no fairer than that, can I?”

  There was a slight murmur from the men, who stood by watching the skipper with an air of unholy expectancy.

  “Well, the boy shall eat it then,” said the skipper, “Eat that bloater, boy, and I’ll give you sixpence.”

  The boy came forward slowly, and looking from the men to the skipper, and from the skipper back to the men, began to whimper.

  “If you think it’s poisoned,” interrupted the mate, “you oughtn’t to make the boy eat it. I don’t like boys, but you must draw the line somewhere.”

  “It’s poisoned,” said the skipper, shaking it at Bates, “and they know it. Well, I’ll keep it till we get to port, and then I’ll have it analysed. And it’ll be a sorry day for you, Bates, when I hear it’s poisoned. A month’s hard labour is what you’ll get.”

  He turned away and went below with as much dignity as could be expected of a man carrying a mangled herring, and placing it on a clean plate, solemnly locked it up in his state-room.

  For two days the crew heard no more about it, though the skipper’s eyes gleamed dangerously each time that they fell upon the shrinking Bates. The weather was almost tropical, with not an air stirring, and the Arethusa, bearing its dread secret still locked in its state-room, rose and fell upon a sea of glassy smoothness without making any progress worth recording.

  “I wish you’d keep that thing in your berth, George,” said the skipper, as they sat at tea the second evening; “it puts me in a passion every time I look at it.”

  “I couldn’t think of it, cap’n,” replied the mate firmly; “it makes me angry enough as it is. Every time I think of ’em trying to poison that poor dumb creature I sort o’ choke. I try to forget it.”

  The skipper, eyeing him furtively, helped himself to another cup of tea.

  “You haven’t got a tin box with a lid to it, I s’pose?” he remarked somewhat shamefacedly.

  The mate shook his head. “I looked for one this morning,” he said. “There ain’t so much as a bottle aboard we could shove it into, and it wants shoving into something — bad, it does.”