Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “He walked up and down smoking ‘is pipe and pretending not to notice Henery Walker, wot ‘ad moved farther along the fence, and was staring at some drabble-tailed-looking geraniums as if ‘e’d seen ’em afore but wasn’t quite sure where.

  “‘Admiring my geraniums, Henery?’ ses Bob at last.

  “‘Where’d you get ’em?’ ses Henery, ‘ardly able to speak.

  “‘My florist’s,’ ses Bob, in a off-hand manner.

  “‘Your wot? asks Henery.

  “‘My florist,’ ses Bob.

  “‘And who might ‘e be when ‘e’s at home?’ asked Henery.

  “‘‘Tain’t so likely I’m going to tell you that,’ ses Bob. ‘Be reasonable, Henery, and ask yourself whether it’s likely I should tell you ‘is name. Why, I’ve never seen sich fine geraniums afore. I’ve been nursing ’em inside all the summer, and just planted ’em out.’

  “‘About two days arter I threw mine over my back fence,’ ses Henery Walker, speaking very slowly.

  “‘Ho,’ ses Bob, surprised. ‘I didn’t know you ‘ad any geraniums, Henery. I thought you was digging for gravel this year.’

  “Henery didn’t answer ‘im. Not because ‘e didn’t want to, mind you, but because he couldn’t.

  “‘That one,’ ses Bob, pointing at a broken geranium with the stem of ‘is pipe, ‘is a “Dook o’ Wellington,” and that white one there is wot I’m going to call “Pretty’s Pride.” That fine marigold over there, wot looks like a sunflower, is called “Golden Dreams.”’

  “‘Come along, Henery,’ ses Bill Chambers, bursting, ‘come and get something to take the taste out of your mouth.’

  “‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a flower for your button-’ole,’ ses Bob, perlitely, ‘but it’s getting so near the Flower Show now I can’t afford it. If you chaps only knew wot pleasure was to be ‘ad sitting among your innercent flowers, you wouldn’t want to go to the public-house so often.’

  “He shook ‘is ‘ead at ’em, and telling his wife to give the ‘Dook o’ Wellington’ a mug of water, sat down in the chair agin and wiped the sweat off ‘is brow.

  “Bill Chambers did a bit o’ thinking as they walked up the road, and by and by ‘e turns to Joe Gubbins and ‘e ses:

  “‘Seen anything o’ George English lately, Joe?’

  “‘Yes,’ ses Joe.

  “‘Seems to me we all ‘ave,’ ses Sam Jones.

  “None of ’em liked to say wot was in their minds, ‘aving all seen George English and swore pretty strong not to tell his secret, and none of ’em liking to own up that they’d been digging up their gardens to get money as ‘e’d told ’em about. But presently Bill Chambers ses:

  “‘Without telling no secrets or breaking no promises, Joe, supposing a certain ‘ouse was mentioned in a certain letter from forrin parts, wot ‘ouse was it?’

  “‘Supposing it was so,’ ses Joe, careful too; ‘the second ‘ouse counting from the Cauliflower.’

  “‘The ninth ‘ouse, you mean,’ ses Henery Walker, sharply.

  “‘Second ‘ouse in Mill Lane, you mean,’ ses Sam Jones, wot lived there.

  “Then they all see ‘ow they’d been done, and that they wasn’t, in a manner o’ speaking, referring to the same letter. They came up and sat ‘ere where we’re sitting now, all dazed-like. It wasn’t only the chance o’ losing the prize that upset ’em, but they’d wasted their time and ruined their gardens and got called mad by the other folks. Henery Walker’s state o’ mind was dreadful for to see, and he kep’ thinking of ‘orrible things to say to George English, and then being afraid they wasn’t strong enough.

  “While they was talking who should come along but George English hisself! He came right up to the table, and they all sat back on the bench and stared at ‘im fierce, and Henery Walker crinkled ‘is nose at him.

  “‘Evening,’ he ses, but none of ’em answered im; they all looked at Henery to see wot ‘e was going to say.

  “‘Wot’s up?’ ses George, in surprise.

  “‘Gardens,’ ses Henery.

  “‘So I’ve ‘eard,’ ses George.

  “He shook ‘is ‘ead and looked at them sorrowful and severe at the same time.

  “‘So I ‘eard, and I couldn’t believe my ears till I went and looked for myself,’ he ses, ‘and wot I want to say is this: you know wot I’m referring to. If any man ‘as found wot don’t belong to him ‘e knows who to give it to. It ain’t wot I should ‘ave expected of men wot’s lived in the same place as me for years. Talk about honesty,’ ‘e ses, shaking ‘is ‘ead agin, ‘I should like to see a little of it.’

  “Peter Smith opened his mouth to speak, and ‘ardly knowing wot ‘e was doing took a pull at ‘is beer at the same time, and if Sam Jones ‘adn’t been by to thump ‘im on the back I b’lieve he’d ha’ died there and then.

  “‘Mark my words,’ ses George English, speaking very slow and solemn, ‘there’ll be no blessing on it. Whoever’s made ‘is fortune by getting up and digging ‘is garden over won’t get no real benefit from it. He may wear a black coat and new trousers on Sunday, but ‘e won’t be ‘appy. I’ll go and get my little taste o’ beer somewhere else,’ ‘e ses. ‘I can’t breathe here.’

  “He walked off before any one could say a word; Bill Chambers dropped ‘is pipe and smashed it, Henery Walker sat staring after ‘im with ‘is mouth wide open, and Sam Jones, who was always one to take advantage, drank ‘is own beer under the firm belief that it was Joe’s.

  “‘I shall take care that Mrs. Pawlett ‘ears o’ this,’ ses Henery, at last.

  “‘And be asked wot you dug your garden up for,’ ses Joe, ‘and ‘ave to explain that you broke your promise to George. Why, she’d talk at us for years and years.’

  “‘And parson ‘ud preach a sermon about it,’ ses Sam; ‘where’s your sense, Henery?’

  “‘We should be the larfing-stock for miles round,’ ses Bill Chambers. ‘If anybody wants to know, I dug my garden up to enrich the soil for next year, and also to give some other chap a chance of the prize.’

  “Peter Smith ‘as always been a unfortunit man; he’s got the name for it. He was just ‘aving another drink as Bill said that, and this time we all thought ‘e’d gorn. He did hisself.

  “Mrs. Pawlett and the parson came ‘ome next day, an’ ‘er voice got that squeaky with surprise it was painful to listen to her. All the chaps stuck to the tale that they’d dug their garden up to give the others a chance, and Henery Walker, ‘e went further and said it was owing to a sermon on unselfishness wot the curate ‘ad preached three weeks afore. He ‘ad a nice little red-covered ‘ymn-book the next day with ‘From a friend’ wrote in it.

  “All things considered, Mrs. Pawlett was for doing away with the Flower Show that year and giving two prizes next year instead, but one or two other chaps, encouraged by Bob’s example, ‘ad given in their names too, and they said it wouldn’t be fair to their wives. All the gardens but one was worse than Bob’s, they not having started till later than wot ‘e did, and not being able to get their geraniums from ‘is florist. The only better garden was Ralph Thomson’s, who lived next door to ‘im, but two nights afore the Flower Show ‘is pig got walking in its sleep. Ralph said it was a mystery to ‘im ‘ow the pig could ha’ got out; it must ha’ put its foot through a hole too small for it, and turned the button of its door, and then climbed over a four-foot fence. He told Bob ‘e wished the pig could speak, but Bob said that that was sinful and unchristian of ‘im, and that most likely if it could, it would only call ‘im a lot o’ bad names, and ask ‘im why he didn’t feed it properly.

  “There was quite a crowd on Flower Show day following the judges. First of all, to Bill Chambers’s astonishment and surprise, they went to ‘is place and stood on the ‘eaps in ‘is garden judging ’em, while Bill peeped at ’em through the kitchen winder ‘arf-crazy. They went to every garden in the place, until one of the young ladies got tired of it, and asked Mrs. Pawlett whether they was there
to judge cottage gardens or earthquakes.

  “Everybody ‘eld their breaths that evening in the school room when Mrs. Pawlett got up on the platform and took a slip of paper from one of the judges. She stood a moment waiting for silence, and then ‘eld up her ‘and to stop what she thought was clapping at the back, but which was two or three wimmen who ‘ad ‘ad to take their crying babies out trying to quiet ’em in the porch. Then Mrs. Pawlett put ‘er glasses on her nose and just read out, short and sweet, that the prize of three sovereigns and a metal teapot for the best-kept cottage garden ‘ad been won by Mr. Robert Pretty.

  “One or two people patted Bob on the back as ‘e walked up the middle to take the prize; then one or two more did, and Bill Chambers’s pat was the ‘eartiest of ’em all. Bob stopped and spoke to ‘im about it.

  “You would ‘ardly think that Bob ‘ud have the cheek to stand up there and make a speech, but ‘e did. He said it gave ‘im great pleasure to take the teapot and the money, and the more pleasure because ‘e felt that ‘e had earned ’em. He said that if ‘e told ’em all ‘e’d done to make sure o’ the prize they’d be surprised. He said that ‘e’d been like Ralph Thomson’s pig, up early and late.

  “He stood up there talking as though ‘e was never going to leave off, and said that ‘e hoped as ‘is example would be of benefit to ‘is neighbours. Some of ’em seemed to think that digging was everything, but ‘e could say with pride that ‘e ‘adn’t put a spade to ‘is garden for three years until a week ago, and then not much.

  “He finished ‘is remarks by saying that ‘e was going to give a tea-party up at the Cauliflower to christen the teapot, where ‘e’d be pleased to welcome all friends. Quite a crowd got up and followed ‘im out then, instead o’ waiting for the dissolving views, and came back ‘arf an hour arterwards, saying that until they’d got as far as the Cauliflower they’d no idea as Bob was so per-tikler who ‘e mixed with.

  “That was the last Flower Show we ever ‘ad in Claybury, Mrs. Pawlett and the judges meeting the tea-party coming ‘ome, and ‘aving to get over a gate into a field to let it pass. What with that and Mrs. Pawlett tumbling over something further up the road, which turned out to be the teapot, smelling strong of beer, the Flower Show was given up, and the parson preached three Sundays running on the sin of beer-drinking to children who’d never ‘ad any and wimmen who couldn’t get it.”

  PRIVATE CLOTHES

  At half-past nine the crew of the Merman were buried in slumber, at nine thirty-two three of the members were awake with heads protruding out of their bunks, trying to peer through the gloom, while the fourth dreamt that a tea-tray was falling down a never-ending staircase. On the floor of the forecastle something was cursing prettily and rubbing itself.

  “Did you ‘ear anything, Ted?” inquired a voice in an interval of silence.

  “Who is it?” demanded Ted, ignoring the question. “Wot d’yer want?”

  “I’ll let you know who I am,” said a thick and angry voice. “I’ve broke my blarsted back.”

  “Light the lamp, Bill,” said Ted.

  Bill struck a tandsticker match, and carefully nursing the tiny sulphurous flame with his hand, saw dimly some high-coloured object on the floor.

  He got out of his bunk and lit the lamp, and an angry and very drunken member of Her Majesty’s foot forces became visible.

  “Wot are you doin’ ‘ere?” inquired Ted, sharply, “this ain’t the guard-room.”

  “Who knocked me over?” demanded the soldier sternly; “take your co — coat off lik’ a man.”

  He rose to his feet and swayed unsteadily to and fro.

  “If you keep your li’l’ ‘eads still,” he said gravely, to Bill, “I’ll punch ’em.”

  By a stroke of good fortune he selected the real head, and gave it a blow which sent it crashing against the woodwork. For a moment the seaman stood gathering his scattered senses, then with an oath he sprang forward, and in the lightest of fighting trim waited until his adversary, who was by this time on the floor again, should have regained his feet.

  “He’s drunk, Bill,” said another voice, “don’t ‘urt ‘im. He’s a chap wot said ‘e was coming aboard to see me — I met ‘im in the Green Man this evening. You was coming to see me, mate, wasn’t you?”

  The soldier looked up stupidly, and gripping hold of the injured Bill by the shirt, staggered to his feet again, and advancing towards the last speaker let fly suddenly in his face.

  “Sort man I am,” he said, autobiographically. “Feel my arm.”

  The indignant Bill took him by both, and throwing himself upon him suddenly fell with him to the floor. The intruder’s head met the boards with a loud crash, and then there was silence.

  “You ain’t killed ‘im, Bill?” said an old seaman, stooping over him anxiously.

  “Course not,” was the reply; “give us some water.”

  He threw some in the soldier’s face, and then poured some down his neck, but with no result. Then he stood upright, and exchanged glances of consternation with his friends.

  “I don’t like the way he’s breathing,” he said, in a trembling voice.

  “You always was pertikler, Bill,” said the cook, who had thankfully got to the bottom of his staircase. “If I was you—”

  He was not allowed to proceed any further; footsteps and a voice were heard above, and as old Thomas hastily extinguished the lamp, the mate’s head was thrust down the scuttle, and the mate’s voice sounded a profane reveillé.

  “Wot are we goin’ to do with it?” inquired Ted, as the mate walked away.

  “I’m, Ted,” said Bill, nervously. “He’s alive all right.”

  “If we put ‘im ashore an’ ‘e’s dead,” said old Thomas, “there’ll be trouble for somebody. Better let ‘im be, and if ‘e’s dead, why we don’t none of us know nothing about it.”

  The men ran up on deck, and Bill, being the last to leave, put a boot under the soldier’s head before he left. Ten minutes later they were under way, and standing about the deck, discussed the situation in thrilling whispers as opportunity offered.

  At breakfast, by which time they were in a dirty tumbling sea, with the Nore lightship, a brown, forlorn-looking object on their beam, the soldier, who had been breathing stertorously, raised his heavy head from the boot, and with glassy eyes and tightly compressed lips gazed wonderingly about him.

  “Wot cheer, mate?” said the delighted Bill. “‘Ow goes it?”

  “Where am I?” inquired Private Harry Bliss, in a weak voice.

  “Brig Merman,” said Bill; “bound for Byster-mouth.”

  “Well, I’m damned,” said Private Bliss; “it’s a blooming miracle. Open the winder, it’s a bit stuffy down here. Who — who brought me here?”

  “You come to see me last night,” said Bob, “an’ fell down, I s’pose; then you punched Bill ‘ere in the eye and me in the jor.”

  Mr. Bliss, still feeling very sick and faint, turned to Bill, and after critically glancing at the eye turned on him for inspection, transferred his regards to the other man’s jaw.

  “I’m a devil when I’m boozed,” he said, in a satisfied voice. “Well, I must get ashore; I shall get cells for this, I expect.”

  He staggered to the ladder, and with unsteady haste gained the deck and made for the side. The heaving waters made him giddy to look at, and he gazed for preference at a thin line of coast stretching away in the distance.

  The startled mate, who was steering, gave him a hail, but he made no reply. A little fishing-boat was jumping about in a way to make a sea-sick man crazy, and he closed his eyes with a groan.

  Then the skipper, aroused by the mate’s hail, came up from below, and walking up to him put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “What are you doing aboard this ship?” he demanded, austerely.

  “Go away,” said Private Bliss, faintly; “take your paw off my tunic; you’ll spoil it.”

  He clung miserably to the side, leaving the incensed sk
ipper to demand explanations from the crew. The crew knew nothing about him, and said that he must have stowed himself away in an empty bunk; the skipper pointed out coarsely that there were no empty bunks, whereupon Bill said that he had not occupied his the previous evening, but had fallen asleep sitting on the locker, and had injured his eye against the corner of a bunk in consequence. In proof whereof he produced the eye.

  “Look here, old man,” said Private Bliss, who suddenly felt better. He turned and patted the skipper on the back. “You just turn to the left a bit and put me ashore, will you?”

  “I’ll put you ashore at Bystermouth,” said the skipper, with a grin. “You’re a deserter, that’s what you are, and I’ll take care you’re took care of.”

  “You put me ashore!” roared Private Bliss, with a very fine imitation of the sergeant-major’s parade voice.

  “Get out and walk,” said the skipper contemptuously, over his shoulder, as he walked off.

  “Here,” said Mr. Bliss, unbuckling his belt, “hold my tunic one of you. I’ll learn ‘im.”

  Before the paralysed crew could prevent him he had flung his coat into Bill’s arms and followed the master of the Merman aft. As a light-weight he was rather fancied at the gymnasium, and in the all too brief exhibition which followed he displayed fine form and a knowledge of anatomy which even the skipper’s tailor was powerless to frustrate.

  The frenzy of the skipper as Ted assisted him to his feet and he saw his antagonist struggling in the arms of the crew was terrible to behold. Strong men shivered at his words, but Mr. Bliss, addressing him as “Whiskers,” told him to call his crew off and to come on, and shaping as well as two pairs of brawny arms round his middle would permit, endeavoured in vain to reach him.

  “This,” said the skipper, bitterly, as he turned to the mate, “is what you an’ me have to pay to keep up. I wouldn’t let you go now, my lad, not for a fi’ pun’ note. Deserter, that’s what you are!”

  He turned and went below, and Private Bliss, after an insulting address to the mate, was hauled forward, struggling fiercely, and seated on the deck to recover. The excitement passed, he lost his colour again, and struggling into his tunic, went and brooded over the side.