Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Nothin’, sir,” said the cook. “Only we thought—”

  “Get out at once,” vociferated the mate, rising.

  “Stay where you are,” said the skipper, sharply.

  “George!” said the mate, in the squeaky voice in which he chose to personate the skipper.

  “Bring him round, Zingall,” said the skipper, irritably. “I’ve had enough o’ this. I’ll let ‘im know who’s who.”

  With a confident smile Zingall got up quietly from the locker, and fixed his terrible gaze on the mate. The mate fell back and gazed at him open-mouthed.

  “Who the devil are you staring at?” he demanded, rudely.

  Still holding him with his gaze, Zingall clapped his hands together, and stepping up to him blew strongly in his face. The mate, with a perfect scream of rage, picked him up by the middle, and dumping him heavily on the floor, held him there and worried him.

  “Help!” cried Zingall, in a smothered voice; “take him off!”

  “Why don’t you bring him round?” yelled the skipper, excitably. “What’s the good of playing with him?”

  Zingall’s reply, which was quite irrelevant, consisted almost entirely of adjectives and improper nouns.

  “Blow in ‘is face agin, sir,” said the cook, bending down kindly.

  “Take him off!” yelled Zingall; “he’s killing me!”

  The skipper flew to the assistance of his friend, but the mate, who was of gigantic strength and stature, simply backed, and crushed him against a bulkhead. Then, as if satisfied, he released the crestfallen Zingall, and stood looking at him.

  “Why — don’t — you — bring — him — round?” panted the skipper.

  “He’s out of my control,” said Zingall, rising nimbly to his feet. “I’ve heard of such cases before. I’m only new at the work, you know, but I dare say, in a couple of years’ time—”

  The skipper howled at him, and the mate, suddenly alive again to the obnoxious presence of the crew, drove them up the companion ladder, and pursued them to the forecastle.

  “This is a pretty kettle o’ fish,” said Bradd, indignantly. “Why don’t you bring him round?”

  “Because I can’t,” said Zingall, shortly. “It’ll have to wear off.”

  “Wear off!” repeated the skipper.

  “He’s under a delusion now,” said Zingall, “an’ o’ course I can’t say how long it’ll last, but whatever you do don’t cross him in any way.”

  “Oh, don’t cross him,” repeated Bradd, with sarcastic inflection, “and you call yourself a mesmerist.”

  Zingall drew himself up with a little pride. “Well, see what I’ve done,” he said. “The fact is, I was charged full with electricity when I came aboard, and he’s got it all now. It’s left me weak, and until my will wears off him he’s captain o’ this ship.”

  “And what about me?” said Bradd.

  “You’re the mate,” said Zingall, “and mind, for your own sake, you act up to it. If you don’t cross him I haven’t any doubt it’ll be all right, but if you do he’ll very likely murder you in a fit of frenzy, and — he wouldn’t be responsible. Goodnight.”

  “You’re not going?” said Bradd, clutching him by the sleeve.

  “I am,” said the other. “He seems to have took a violent dislike to me, and if I stay here it’ll only make him worse.”

  He ran lightly up on deck, and avoiding an ugly rush on the part of the mate, who had been listening, sprang on to the ladder and hastily clambered ashore.

  The skipper, worn and scared, looked up as the bogus skipper came below.

  “I’m going to bed, George,” said the mate, staring at him. “I feel a bit heavy. Give me a call just afore high water.”

  “Where are you goin’ to sleep?” demanded the skipper.

  “Goin’ to sleep?” said the mate, “why, in my state-room, to be sure.”

  He took the empty bottle from the table, and opening the door of the state-room, closed it in the face of its frenzied owner, and turned the key in the lock. Then he leaned over the berth, and, cramming the pillow against his mouth, gave way to his feelings until he was nearly suffocated.

  Any idea that the skipper might have had of the healing effects of sleep were rudely dispelled when the mate came on deck next morning, and found that they had taken the schooner out without arousing him. His delusion seemed to be stronger than ever, and pushing the skipper from the wheel he took it himself, and read him a short and sharp lecture on the virtues of obedience.

  “I know you’re a good sort, George Smith,” he said, leniently, “nobody could wish for a better, but while I’m master of this here ship it don’t become you to take things upon yourself in the way you do.”

  “But you don’t understand,” said the skipper, trying to conquer his temper. “Now look me in the eye, George.”

  “Who are you calling George?” said the mate sharply.

  “Well, look me in the eye, then,” said the skipper, waiving the point.

  “I’ll look at you in a way you won’t like in a minute,” said the mate, ferociously.

  “I want to explain the position of affairs to you,” said the skipper. “Do you remember Cap’n Zingall what was aboard last night?”

  “Little dirty-looking man what kept staring at me?” demanded the mate.

  “Well, I don’t know about ‘is being dirty,” said the skipper, “but that’s the man. Do you know what he did to you, Geo—”

  “Eh!” said the mate, sharply.

  “He mesmerised you,” said the skipper, hastily. “Now keep quite calm. You say you’re Benjamin Bradd, master o’ this vessel, don’t you?”

  “I do,” said the mate. “Let me hear anybody say as I ain’t.”

  “Yesterday,” said the skipper, plucking up courage and speaking very slowly and impressively, “you were George Smith, the mate, but my friend, Captain Zingall, mesmerised you and made you think you were me.”

  “I see what it is,” said the mate severely. “You’ve been drinking; you’ve been up to my whisky.”

  “Call the crew up and ask ’em then,” said Bradd, desperately.

  “Call ’em up yourself, you lunatic,” said the mate, loudly enough for the men to hear. “If anybody dares to play the fool with me I won’t leave a whole bone in his body, that’s all.”

  In obedience to the summons of Captain Bradd the crew came up, and being requested by him to tell the mate that he was the mate, and that he was at present labouring under a delusion, stood silently nudging each other and eyeing him uneasily.

  “Well,” said the latter at length, “why don’t you speak and tell George he’s gone off his ‘ead a bit?”

  “It ain’t nothing to do with us, sir,” said Bill, very respectfully.

  “But, damn it all, man,” said the mate, taking a mighty grip of his collar, “you know I’m the cap’n, don’t you?”

  “O’ course I do, sir,” said Bill.

  “There you are, George,” said the mate, releasing him, and turning to the frantic Bradd; “you hear that? Now, look here, you listen to me. Either you’ve been drinking, or else your ‘ead’s gone a little bit off. You go down and turn in, and if you don’t give me any more of your nonsense I’ll overlook it for this once.”

  He ordered the crew forward again, and being desirous of leaving some permanent mark of his command on the ship, had the galley fresh painted in red and blue, and a lot of old stores, which he had vainly condemned when mate, thrown overboard. The skipper stood by helplessly while it was done, and then went below of his own accord and turned in, as being the only way to retain his sanity, or, at any rate, the clearness of head which he felt to be indispensable at this juncture.

  Time, instead of restoring the mate to his senses, only appeared to confirm him in his folly, and the skipper, after another attempt to convince him, let things drift, resolving to have him put under restraint as soon as they got to port.

  They reached Tidescroft in the early afternoon,
but before they entered the harbour the mate, as though he had had some subtle intuition that this would be his last command, called the crew to him and read them a touching little homily upon their behaviour when they should land. He warned them of public-houses and other dangers, and reminded them affectingly of their duties as husbands and fathers. “Always go home to your wife and children, my lads,” he continued with some emotion, “as I go home to mine.”

  “Why, he ain’t got none,” whispered Bill, staring.

  “Don’t be a fool, Bill,” said the cook, “he means the cap’n’s. Don’t you see he’s the cap’n now.”

  It was as clear as noonday, and the agitation of the skipper — a perfect Othello in his way — was awful. He paced the deck incessantly, casting fretful glances ashore, and, as the schooner touched the side of the quay, sprang on to the bulwarks and jumped ashore. The mate watched him with an ill-concealed grin, and then, having made the vessel snug, went below to strengthen himself with a drop of the skipper’s whisky for the crowning scene of his play. He came on deck again, and, taking no heed of the whispers of the crew, went ashore.

  Meantime, Captain Bradd had reached his house, and was discussing the situation with his astonished spouse. She pooh-poohed the idea of the police and the medical faculty as being likely to cause complications with the owners, and, despite the remonstrances of her husband, insisted upon facing the mate alone.

  “Now you go in the kitchen,” she said, looking from the window. “Here he comes. You see how I’ll settle him.”

  The skipper looked out of the window and saw the unhappy victim of Captain Zingall slowly approaching. His wife drew him away, and, despite his remonstrances, pushed him into the next room and closed the door.

  She sat on the sofa calmly sewing, as the mate, whose hardihood was rapidly failing him, entered Her manner gave him no assistance whatever, and coming sheepishly in he took a chair.

  “I’ve come home,” he said at last

  “So I see, Ben,” said Mrs. Bradd, calmly.

  “He’s told her,” said the mate to himself.

  “Children all right?” he inquired, after another pause.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Bradd, simply. “Little Joe’s boots are almost off his feet, though.”

  “Ah,” said the mate, blankly.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to come, Ben,” said Mrs. Bradd after a pause. “I want you to change a five-pound note Uncle Dick gave me.”

  “Can’t do it,” said the mate, briefly. The absence of Captain Bradd was disquieting to a bashful man in such a position, and he had looked forward to a stormy scene which was to bring him to his senses again.

  “Show me what you’ve got,” said Mrs. Bradd, leaning forward.

  The mate pulled out an old leather purse and counted the contents, two pounds and a little silver.

  “There isn’t five pounds there,” said Mrs. Bradd, “but I may as well take last week’s housekeeping while you’ve got it out.”

  Before the mate could prevent her she had taken the two pounds and put it in her pocket. He looked at her placid face in amazement, but she met his gaze calmly and drummed on the table with her thimble.

  “No, no, I want the money myself,” said the mate at last. He put his hands to his head and began to prepare for the grand transformation scene. “My head’s gone,” he said, in a gurgling voice. “What am I doing here? Where am I?”

  “Good gracious, what’s the matter with the man?” said Mrs. Bradd, with a scream. She snatched up a bowl of flowers and flung the contents in his face as her husband burst into the room. The mate sprang to his feet, spluttering.

  “What am I doing here, Cap’n Bradd?” he said in his usual voice.

  “He’s come round!” said Bradd, ecstatically. “He’s come round. Oh, George, you have been playing the fool. Don’t you know what you’ve been doing?”

  The mate shook his head, and stared round the room. “I thought we were in London,” he said, putting his hand to his head. “You said Cap’n Zingall was coming aboard. How did we get here? Where am I?”

  In a hurried, breathless fashion the skipper told him, the mate regarding him the while with a stare of fixed incredulity.

  “I can’t understand it,” he said at length. “My mind’s a perfect blank.”

  “A perfect blank,” said Mrs. Bradd, cheerfully. It might have been accident, but she tapped her pocket as she spoke, and the outwitted mate bit his lip as he realised his blunder, and turned to the door. The couple watched him as he slowly passed up the street.

  “It’s most extraordinary,” said the skipper; “the most extraordinary case I ever heard of.”

  “So it is,” said his wife, “and what’s more extraordinary still for you, Ben, you’re going to church on Sunday, and what’s more extraordinary even than that, you are going to put two golden sovereigns in the plate.”

  TWIN SPIRITS

  The “Terrace,” consisting of eight gaunt houses, faced the sea, while the back rooms commanded a view of the ancient little town some half mile distant. The beach, a waste of shingle, was desolate and bare except for a ruined bathing machine and a few pieces of linen drying in the winter sunshine. In the offing tiny steamers left a trail of smoke, while sailing-craft, their canvas glistening in the sun, slowly melted from the sight. On all these things the “Terrace” turned a stolid eye, and, counting up its gains of the previous season, wondered whether it could hold on to the next. It was a discontented “Terrace,” and had become prematurely soured by a Board which refused them a pier, a band-stand, and illuminated gardens.

  From the front windows of the third storey of No. 1 Mrs. Cox, gazing out to sea, sighed softly.

  The season had been a bad one, and Mr. Cox had been even more troublesome than usual owing to tightness in the money market and the avowed preference of local publicans for cash transactions to assets in chalk and slate. In Mr. Cox’s memory there never had been such a drought, and his crop of patience was nearly exhausted.

  He had in his earlier days attempted to do a little work, but his health had suffered so much that his wife had become alarmed for his safety. Work invariably brought on a cough, and as he came from a family whose lungs had formed the staple conversation of their lives, he had been compelled to abandon it, and at last it came to be understood that if he would only consent to amuse himself, and not get into trouble, nothing more would be expected of him. It was not much of a life for a man of spirit, and at times it became so unbearable that Mr. Cox would disappear for days together in search of work, returning unsuccessful after many days with nerves shattered in the pursuit.

  Mrs. Cox’s meditations were disturbed by a knock at the front door, and, the servants having been discharged for the season, she hurried downstairs to open it, not without a hope of belated lodgers — invalids in search of an east wind. A stout, middle-aged woman in widow’s weeds stood on the door-step.

  “Glad to see you, my dear,” said the visitor, kissing her loudly.

  Mrs. Cox gave her a subdued caress in return, not from any lack of feeling, but because she did everything in a quiet and spiritless fashion.

  “I’ve got my Uncle Joseph from London staying with us,” continued the visitor, following her into the hall, “so I just got into the train and brought him down for a blow at the sea.”

  A question on Mrs. Cox’s lips died away as a very small man who had been hidden by his niece came into sight.

  “My Uncle Joseph,” said Mrs. Berry; “Mr. Joseph Piper,” she added.

  Mr. Piper shook hands, and after a performance on the door-mat, protracted by reason of a festoon of hemp, followed his hostess into the faded drawing-room.

  “And Mr. Cox?” inquired Mrs. Berry, in a cold voice.

  Mrs. Cox shook her head. “He’s been away this last three days,” she said, flushing slightly.

  “Looking for work?” suggested the visitor.

  Mrs. Cox nodded, and, placing the tips of her fingers together, fidgeted gently.


  “Well, I hope he finds it,” said Mrs. Berry, with more venom than the remark seemed to require. “Why, where’s your marble clock?”

  Mrs. Cox coughed. “It’s being mended,” she said, confusedly.

  Mrs. Berry eyed her anxiously. “Don’t mind him, my dear,” she said, with a jerk of her head in the direction of Mr. Piper, “he’s nobody. Wouldn’t you like to go out on the beach a little while, uncle?”

  “No,” said Mr. Piper.

  “I suppose Mr. Cox took the clock for company,” remarked Mrs. Berry, after a hostile stare at her relative.

  Mrs. Cox sighed and shook her head. It was no use pretending with Mrs. Berry.

  “He’ll pawn the clock and anything else he can lay his hands on, and when he’s drunk it up come home to be made a fuss of,” continued Mrs. Berry, heatedly; “that’s you men.”

  Her glance was so fiery that Mr. Joseph Piper was unable to allow the remark to pass unchallenged.

  “I never pawned a clock,” he said, stroking his little grey head.

  “That’s a lot to boast of, isn’t it?” demanded his niece; “if I hadn’t got anything better than that to boast of I wouldn’t boast at all.”

  Mr. Piper said that he was not boasting.

  “It’ll go on like this, my dear, till you’re ruined,” said the sympathetic Mrs. Berry, turning to her friend again; “what’ll you do then?”

  “Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Cox. “I’ve had a bad season, too, and I’m so anxious about him in spite of it all. I can’t sleep at nights for fearing that he’s in some trouble. I’m sure I laid awake half last night crying.”

  Mrs. Berry sniffed loudly, and Mr. Piper making a remark in a low voice, turned on him with ferocity.

  “What did you say?” she demanded.

  “I said it does her credit,” said Mr. Piper, firmly.

  “I might have known it was nonsense,” retorted his niece, hotly. “Can’t you get him to take the pledge, Mary?”

  “I couldn’t insult him like that,” said Mrs. Cox, with a shiver; “you don’t know his pride. He never admits that he drinks; he says that he only takes a little for his indigestion. He’d never forgive me. When he pawns the things he pretends that somebody has stolen them, and the way he goes on at me for my carelessness is alarming. He gets worked up to such a pitch that sometimes I almost think he believes it himself.”