Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “I wonder what that beauty will have to tell your husband,” said Mrs. Cluffins, as they sat together one day some three months after the Curlew’s departure.

  “I should hope that he has forgotten that nonsense,” said Mrs. Gannett, reddening; “he never alludes to it in his letters.”

  “Sell it,” said Mrs. Cluffins peremptorily. “It’s no good to you, and Hobson would give anything for it almost.”

  Mrs. Gannett shook her head. “The house wouldn’t hold my husband if I did,” she remarked with a shiver.

  “Oh, yes it would,” said Mrs. Cluffins; “you do as I tell you, and a much smaller house than this would hold him. I told C. to tell Hobson he should have it for five pounds.”

  “But he mustn’t,” said her friend in alarm.

  “Leave yourself right in my hands,” said Mrs. Cluffins, spreading out two small palms, and regarding them complacently. “It’ll be all right, I promise you.”

  She put her arm round her friend’s waist and led her to the window, talking earnestly. In five minutes Mrs. Gannett was wavering, in ten she had given away, and in fifteen the energetic Mrs. Cluffins was en route for Hobson’s, swinging the cage so violently in her excitement that the parrot was reduced to holding on to its perch with claws and bill. Mrs. Gannett watched the progress from the window, and with a queer look on her face sat down to think out the points of attack and defence in the approaching fray.

  A week later a four-wheeler drove up to the door, and the engineer, darting upstairs three steps at a time, dropped an armful of parcels on the floor, and caught his wife in an embrace which would have done credit to a bear. Mrs. Gannett, for reasons of which a lack of muscle was only one, responded less ardently.

  “Ha, it’s good to be home again,” said Gannett, sinking into an easy-chair and pulling his wife on his knee. “And how have you been? Lonely?”

  “I got used to it,” said Mrs. Gannett softly.

  The engineer coughed. “You had the parrot,” he remarked.

  “Yes, I had the magic parrot,” said Mrs. Gannett.

  “How’s it getting on?” said her husband, looking round. “Where is it?”

  “Part of it is on the mantelpiece,” said Mrs. Gannett, trying to speak calmly, “part of it is in a bonnet-box upstairs, some of it’s in my pocket, and here is the remainder.”

  She fumbled in her pocket and placed in his hand a cheap two-bladed clasp-knife.

  “On the mantelpiece?” repeated the engineer, staring at the knife; “in a bonnet-box!”

  “Those blue vases,” said his wife.

  Mr. Gannett put his hand to his head. If he had heard aright one parrot had changed into a pair of vases, a bonnet, and a knife. A magic bird with a vengeance.

  “I sold it,” said Mrs. Gannett suddenly.

  The engineer’s knee stiffened inhospitably, and his arm dropped from his wife’s waist. She rose quietly and took a chair opposite.

  “Sold it!” said Mr. Gannett in awful tones. “Sold my parrot!”

  “I didn’t like it, Jem,” said his wife. “I didn’t want that bird watching me, and I did want the vases, and the bonnet, and the little present for you.”

  Mr. Gannett pitched the little present into the corner of the room.

  “You see it mightn’t have told the truth, Jem,” continued Mrs. Gannett. “It might have told all sorts of lies about me, and made no end of mischief.”

  “It couldn’t lie,” shouted the engineer passion-ately, rising from his chair and pacing the room. “It’s your guilty conscience that’s made a coward of you. How dare you sell my parrot?”

  “Because it wasn’t truthful, Jem,” said his wife, who was somewhat pale.

  “If you were half as truthful you’d do,” vociferated the engineer, standing over her. “You, you deceitful woman.”

  Mrs. Gannett fumbled in her pocket again, and producing a small handkerchief applied it deliberately to her eyes.

  “I — I got rid of it for your sake,” she stammered. “It used to tell such lies about you. I couldn’t bear to listen to it.”

  “About me!” said Mr. Gannett, sinking into his seat and staring at his wife with very natural amazement. “Tell lies about me! Nonsense! How could it?”

  “I suppose it could tell me about you as easily as it could tell you about me?” said Mrs. Gannett. “There was more magic in that bird than you thought, Jem. It used to say shocking things about you. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Do you think you’re talking to a child or a fool?” demanded the engineer.

  Mrs. Gannett shook her head feebly. She still kept the handkerchief to her eyes, but allowed a portion to drop over her mouth.

  “I should like to hear one of the stories it told about me, if you can remember them,” said the engineer with bitter sarcasm.

  “The first lie,” said Mrs. Gannett in a feeble but ready voice, “was about the time you were at Genoa. The parrot said you were at some concert gardens at the upper end of the town.”

  One moist eye coming mildly from behind the handkerchief saw the engineer stiffen suddenly in his chair.

  “I don’t suppose there even is such a place,” she continued.

  “I — b’leve — there — is,” said her husband jerkily. “I’ve heard — our chaps — talk of it.”

  “But you haven’t been there?” said his wife anxiously.

  “Never!” said the engineer with extraordinary vehemence.

  “That wicked bird said that you got intoxicated there,” said Mrs. Gannett in solemn accents, “that you smashed a little marble-topped table and knocked down two waiters, and that if it hadn’t been for the captain of the Pursuit, who was in there and who got you away, you’d have been locked up. Wasn’t it a wicked bird?”

  “Horrible!” said the engineer huskily.

  “I don’t suppose there ever was a ship called the Pursuit,” continued Mrs. Gannett.

  “Doesn’t sound like a ship’s name,” murmured Mr. Gannett.

  “Well, then, a few days later it said the Curlew was at Naples.”

  “I never went ashore all the time we were at Naples,” remarked the engineer casually.

  “The parrot said you did,” said Mrs. Gannett.

  “I suppose you’ll believe your own lawful hus-band before that damned bird?” shouted Gannett, starting up.

  “Of course I didn’t believe it, Jem,” said his wife. “I’m trying to prove to you that the bird was not truthful, but you’re so hard to persuade.”

  Mr. Gannett took a pipe from his pocket, and with a small knife dug with much severity and determination a hardened plug from the bowl, and blew noisily through the stem.

  “There was a girl kept a fruit-stall just by the harbor,” said Mrs. Gannett, “and on this evening, on the strength of having bought three-penny-worth of green figs, you put your arm round her waist and tried to kiss her, and her sweetheart, who was standing close by, tried to stab you. The parrot said that you were in such a state of terror that you jumped into the harbour and were nearly drowned.”

  Mr. Gannett having loaded his pipe lit it slowly and carefully, and with tidy precision got up and deposited the match in the fireplace.

  “It used to frighten me so with its stories that I hardly knew what to do with myself,” continued Mrs. Gannett. “When you were at Suez — —”

  The engineer waved his hand imperiously.

  “That’s enough,” he said stiffly.

  “I’m sure I don’t want to have to repeat what it told me about Suez,” said his wife. “I thought you’d like to hear it, that’s all.”

  “Not at all,” said the engineer, puffing at his pipe. “Not at all.”

  “But you see why I got rid of the bird, don’t you?” said Mrs. Gannett. “If it had told you untruths about me, you would have believed them, wouldn’t you?”

  Mr. Gannett took his pipe from his mouth and took his wife in his extended arms. “No, my dear,” he said brokenly, “no more than you believe all this st
uff about me.”

  “And I did quite right to sell it, didn’t I, Jem?”

  “Quite right,” said Mr. Gannett with a great assumption of heartiness. “Best thing to do with it.”

  “You haven’t heard the worst yet,” said Mrs. Gannett. “When you were at Suez — —”

  Mr. Gannett consigned Suez to its only rival, and thumping the table with his clenched fist, forbade his wife to mention the word again, and desired her to prepare supper.

  Not until he heard his wife moving about in the kitchen below did he relax the severity of his countenance. Then his expression changed to one of extreme anxiety, and he restlessly paced the room seeking for light. It came suddenly.

  “Jenkins,” he gasped, “Jenkins and Mrs. Cluffins, and I was going to tell Cluffins about him writing to his wife, I expect he knows the letter by heart.”

  MONEY-CHANGERS

  “‘Tain’t no use waiting any longer,” said Hairy Pilchard, looking over the side of the brig towards the Tower stairs. “‘E’s either waiting for the money or else ‘e’s a spending of it. Who’s coming ashore?”

  “Give ‘im another five minutes, Harry,” said another seaman persuasively; “it ‘ud be uncommon ‘ard on ‘im if ‘e come aboard and then ‘ad to go an’ get another ship’s crew to ‘elp ‘im celebrate it.”

  “‘Ard on us, too,” said the cook honestly. “There he is!”

  The other glanced up at a figure waving to them from the stairs. “‘E wants the boat,” he said, moving aft.

  “No ‘e don’t, Steve,” piped the boy. “‘E’s waving you not to. He’s coming in the waterman’s skiff.”

  “Ha! same old tale,” said the seaman wisely. “Chap comes in for a bit o’ money and begins to waste it directly. There’s threepence gone; clean chucked away. Look at ‘im. Just look at ‘im!”

  “‘E’s got the money all right,” said the cook; “there’s no doubt about that. Why, ‘e looks ‘arf as large again as ‘e did this morning.”

  The crew bent oyer the side as the skiff approached, and the fare, who had been leaning back in the stern with a severely important air, rose slowly and felt in his trousers’ pocket.

  “There’s a sixpence for you, my lad,” he said pompously. “Never mind about the change.”

  “All right, old slack-breeches,” said the waterman with effusive good-fellowship, “up you get.”

  Three pairs of hands assisted the offended fare on board, and the boy, hovering round him, slapped his legs vigorously.

  “Wot are you up to?” demanded Mr. Samuel Dodds, A.B., turning on him.

  “Only dusting you down, Sam,” said the boy humbly.

  “You got the money all right, I s’pose, Sammy?” said Steve’ Martin.

  Mr. Dodds nodded and slapped his breastpocket.

  “Right as ninepence,” he replied genially. “I’ve been with my lawyer all the arternoon, pretty near. ‘E’s a nice feller.”

  “‘Ow much is it, Sam?” inquired Pilchard eagerly.

  “One ‘undred and seventy-three pun seventeen shillings an’ ten pence,” said the heir, noticing with much pleasure the effect of his announcement.

  “Say it agin, Sam,” said Pilchard in awed tones.

  Mr. Dodds, with a happy laugh, obliged him. “If you’ll all come down the foc’s’le,” he continued, “I’ve got a’ bundle o’ cigars an’ a drop o’ something short in my pocket.”

  “Let’s ‘ave a look at the money, Sam,” said Pilchard when the cigars were alight.

  “Ah, let’s ‘ave a look at it,” said Steve.

  Mr. Dodds laughed again, and producing a small canvas-bag from his pocket, dusted the table with his big palm, and spread out a roll of banknotes and a little pile of gold and silver. It was an impressive sight, and the cook breathed so hard that one note fluttered off the table. Three men dived to recover it, while Sam, alive for the first time to the responsibilities of wealth, anxiously watched the remainder of his capital.

  “There’s something for you to buy sweets with, my lad,” he said, restored to good humour as the note was replaced.

  He passed over a small coin, and regarded with tolerant good-humour the extravagant manifestation of joy on the part of the youth which followed. He capered joyously for a minute or two, and then taking it to the foot of the steps, where the light was better, bit it ecstatically.

  “How much is it?” inquired the wandering Steve. “You do chuck your money about, Sam.”

  “On’y sixpence,” said Sam, laughing. “I expect if it ‘ad been a shillin’ it ‘ud ha’ turned his brain.”

  “It ain’t a sixpence,” said the boy indignantly. “‘It’s ‘arf a suvrin’.”

  “‘Arf a wot?” exclaimed Mr. Dodds with a sudden change of manner.

  “‘Arf a suvrin’,” repeated the boy with nervous rapidity; “and thank you very much, Sam, for your generosity. If everybody was like you we should all be the better for it. The world ‘ud be a different place to live in,” concluded the youthful philosopher.

  Mr. Dodd’s face under these fulsome praises was a study in conflicting emotions. “Well, don’t waste it,” he said at length, and hastily gathering up the remainder stowed it in the bag.

  “What are you going to do with it all, Sam?” inquired Harry.

  “I ain’t made up my mind yet,” said Mr. Dodds deliberately. “I ‘ave thought of ‘ouse property.”

  “I don’t mean that,” said the other. “I mean wot are you going to do with it now, to take care of it?”

  “Why, keep it in my pocket,” said Sam, staring.

  “Well, if I was you,” said Harry impressively, “I should ask the skipper to take care of it for me. You know wot you are when you’re a bit on, Sam.”

  “Wot d’yer mean?” demanded Mr. Dodds hotly.

  “I mean,” said Harry hastily, “that you’ve got sich a generous nature that when you’ve ‘ad a glass or two you’re just as likely as not to give it away to somebody.”

  “I know what I’m about,” said Mr. Dodds with conviction. “I’m not goin’ to get on while I’ve got this about me. I’m just goin’ round to the ‘Bull’s Head,’ but I sha’n’t drink anything to speak of myself. Anybody that likes to come t’ave anything at my expense is welcome.”

  A flattering murmur, which was music to Mr. Dodds’ ear, arose from his shipmates as they went on deck and hauled the boat alongside. The boy was first in her, and pulling out his pockethandkerchief ostentatiously wiped a seat for Mr. Dodds.

  “Understand,” said that gentleman, with whom the affair of the half-sovereign still rankled, “your drink is shandygaff.”

  They returned to the brig at eleven o’clock, Mr. Dodds slumbering peacefully in the stern of the boat, propped up on either side by Steve and the boy.

  His sleep was so profound that he declined to be aroused, and was hoisted over the side with infinite difficulty and no little risk by his shipmates.

  “Look at ‘im,” said Harry, as they lowered him down the forecastle. “What ‘ud ha’ become of ‘im if we hadn’t been with ‘im? Where would ‘is money ha’ been?”

  “He’ll lose it as sure as eggs is heggs,” said Steve, regarding him intently, “Bear a hand to lift ‘im in his bunk, Harry.”

  Harry complied, their task being rendered somewhat difficult by a slight return of consciousness in Mr. Dodds’ lower limbs, which, spreading themselves out fanwise, defied all attempts to pack them in the bunk.

  “Let ’em hang out then,” said Harry savagely, wiping a little mud from his face. “Fancy that coming in for a fortin.”

  “‘E won’t ‘ave it long,” said the cook, shaking his head.

  “Wot ‘e wants is a shock,” said Harry. “‘Ow’d it be when he wakes up to tell ‘im he’s lost all ‘is money?”

  “Wot’s the good o’ telling ‘im,” demanded the cook, “when ‘e’s got it in his pocket?”

  “Well, let’s take it out,” said Pilchard. “I’ll hide it under my piller, and
let him think he’s ‘ad his pocket picked.”

  “I won’t ‘ave nothing to do with it,” said Steve peremptorily. “I don’t believe in sich games.”

  “Wot do you think, cook?” inquired Harry.

  “I don’t see no ‘arm in it,” said the cook slowly, “the fright might do ‘im good, p’raps.”

  “It might be the saving of ‘im,” said Harry. He leaned over the sleeping seaman, and, gently inserting his fingers in his breast-pocket, drew out the canvas bag. “There it is, chaps,” he said gayly; “an’ I’ll give ‘im sich a fright in the morning as he won’t forget in a ‘urry.”

  He retired to his bunk, and placing the bag under his pillow, was soon fast asleep. The other men followed his example, and Steve extinguishing the lamp, the forecastle surrendered itself to sleep.

  At five o’clock they were awakened by the voice of Mr. Dodds. It was a broken, disconnected sort of voice at first, like to that of a man talking in his sleep; but as Mr. Dodds’ head cleared his ideas cleared with it, and in strong, forcible language straight from the heart he consigned the eyes and limbs of some person or persons unknown to every variety of torment, after which, in a voice broken with emotion, he addressed himself in terms of heart-breaking sympathy.

  “Shut up, Sam,” said Harry in a sleepy voice. “Why can’t you go to sleep?”

  “Sleep be ‘anged,” said Mr. Dodds tearfully. “I’ve lorst all my money.”

  “You’re dreamin’,” said Harry lightly; “pinch yourself.”

  Mr. Dodds, who had a little breath left and a few words still comparatively fresh, bestowed them upon him.

  “I tell you you haven’t lorst it,” said Harry. “Don’t you remember giving it to that red-’aired woman with a baby?”