Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Yes — smoking — in — drawing-room.”

  His first strong impression was that it was a case for the Psychical Research Society, but this romantic view faded in favour of a simple solution, propounded by Mr. Cox with much crisp-ness, that Mrs. Berry was leaving the realms of fact for those of romance. His actual words were shorter, but the meaning is the same.

  “I’ll go home and ask to see you,” he said, fiercely; “that’ll bring things to a head, I should think.”

  “And she’ll say I’ve gone back to London, perhaps,” said Mr. Piper, gifted with sudden clearness of vision. “You can’t show her up unless you take me with you, and that’ll show us up. That’s her artfulness; that’s Susan all over.”

  “She’s a wicked, untruthful woman,” gasped Mr. Cox.

  “I never did like Susan,” said Mr. Piper, with acerbity, “never.”

  Mr. Cox said he could easily understand it, and then, as a forlorn hope, sat down and wrote a long letter to his wife, in which, after dwelling at great length on the lamentable circumstances surrounding the sudden demise of Mr. Piper, he bade her thank Mrs. Berry for her well-meant efforts to ease his mind, and asked for the immediate dispatch of the money promised.

  A reply came the following evening from Mrs. Berry herself. It was a long letter, and not only long, but badly written and crossed. It began with the weather, asked after Mr. Cox’s health, and referred to the writer’s; described with much minuteness a strange headache which had attacked Mrs. Cox, together with a long list of the remedies prescribed and the effects of each, and wound up in an out-of-the-way corner, in a vein of cheery optimism which reduced both readers to the verge of madness.

  “Dear Uncle Joseph has quite recovered, and, in spite of a little nervousness — he was always rather timid — at meeting you again, has consented to go to the White Horse to satisfy you that he is alive. I dare say he will be with you as soon as this letter — perhaps help you to read it.”

  Mr. Cox laid the letter down with extreme care, and, coughing gently, glanced in a sheepish fashion at the goggle-eyed Mr. Piper.

  For some time neither of them spoke. Mr. Cox was the first to break the silence and — when he had finished — Mr. Piper said “Hush.”

  “Besides, it does no good,” he added.

  “It does me good,” said Mr. Cox, recommencing.

  Mr. Piper held up his hand with a startled gesture for silence. The words died away on his friend’s lips as a familiar voice was heard in the passage, and the next moment Mrs. Berry entered the room and stood regarding them.

  “I ran down by the same train to make sure you came, uncle,” she remarked. “How long have you been here?”

  Mr. Piper moistened his lips and gazed wildly at Mr. Cox for guidance.

  “‘Bout— ‘bout five minutes,” he stammered.

  “We were so glad dear uncle wasn’t hurt much,” continued Mrs. Berry, smiling, and shaking her head at Mr. Cox; “but the idea of your burying him in the geranium-bed; we haven’t got him clean yet.”

  Mr. Piper, giving utterance to uncouth noises, quitted the room hastily, but Mr. Cox sat still and stared at her dumbly.

  “Weren’t you surprised to see him?” inquired his tormentor.

  “Not after your letter,” said Mr. Cox, finding his voice at last, and speaking with an attempt at chilly dignity. “Nothing could surprise me much after that.”

  Mrs. Berry smiled again.

  “Ah, I’ve got another little surprise for you,” she said, briskly. “Mrs. Cox was so upset at the idea of being alone while you were a wanderer over the face of the earth, that she and I have gone into partnership. We have had a proper deed drawn up, so that now there are two of us to look after things. Eh? What did you say?”

  “I was just thinking,” said Mr. Cox.

  SAM’S BOY

  It was getting late in the afternoon as Master Jones, in a somewhat famished condition, strolled up Aldgate, with a keen eye on the gutter, in search of anything that would serve him for his tea. Too late, he wished that he had saved some of the stale bread and damaged fruit which had constituted his dinner.

  Aldgate proving barren, he turned up into the quieter Minories, skilfully dodging the mechanical cuff of the constable at the corner as he passed, and watching with some interest the efforts of a stray mongrel to get itself adopted. Its victim had sworn at it, cut at it with his stick, and even made little runs at it — all to no purpose. Finally, being a soft-hearted man, he was weak enough to pat the cowering schemer on the head, and, being frantically licked by the homeless one, took it up in his arms and walked off with it.

  Billy Jones watched the proceedings with interest, not untempered by envy. If he had only been a dog! The dog passed in the man’s arms, and, with a whine of ecstasy, insisted upon licking his ear. They went on their way, the dog wondering between licks what sort of table the man kept, and the man speculating idly as to a descent which appeared to have included, among other things, an ant-eater.

  “‘E’s all right,” said the orphan, wistfully; “no coppers to chivvy ‘im about, and as much grub as he wants. Wish I’d been a dog.”

  He tied up his breeches with a piece of string which was lying on the pavement, and, his hands being now free, placed them in a couple of rents which served as pockets, and began to whistle. He was not a proud boy, and was quite willing to take a lesson even from the humblest. Surely he was as useful as a dog!

  The thought struck him just as a stout, kindly-looking seaman passed with a couple of shipmates. It was a good-natured face, and the figure was that of a man who lived well. A moment’s hesitation, and Master Jones, with a courage born of despair, ran after him and tugged him by the sleeve.

  “Halloa!” said Mr. Samuel Brown, looking round. “What do you want?”

  “Want you, father,” said Master Jones.

  The jolly seaman’s face broke into a smile. So also did the faces of the jolly seaman’s friends.

  “I’m not your father, matey,” he said, good-naturedly.

  “Yes, you are,” said the desperate Billy; “you know you are.”

  “You’ve made a mistake, my lad,” said Mr. Brown, still smiling. “Here, run away.”

  He felt in his trouser pocket and produced a penny. It was a gift, not a bribe, but it had by no means the effect its donor intended. Master Jones, now quite certain that he had made a wise choice of a father, trotted along a yard or two in the rear.

  “Look here, my lad,” exclaimed Mr. Brown, goaded into action by intercepting a smile with which Mr. Charles Legge had favoured Mr. Harry Green, “you run off home.”

  “Where do you live now?” inquired Billy, anxiously.

  Mr. Green, disdaining concealment, slapped Mr. Legge on the back, and, laughing uproariously, regarded Master Jones with much kindness.

  “You mustn’t follow me,” said Sam, severely; “d’ye hear?”

  “All right, father,” said the boy, dutifully.

  “And don’t call me father,” vociferated Mr. Brown.

  “Why not?” inquired the youth, artlessly.

  Mr. Legge stopped suddenly, and, putting his hand on Mr. Green’s shoulder, gaspingly expressed his inability to go any farther. Mr. Green, patting his back, said he knew how he felt, because he felt the same, and, turning to Sam, told him he’d be the death of him if he wasn’t more careful.

  “If you don’t run away,” said Mr. Brown, harshly, as he turned to the boy, “I shall give you a hiding.”

  “Where am I to run to?” whimpered Master Jones, dodging off and on.

  “Run ‘ome,” said Sam.

  “That’s where I’m going,” said Master Jones, following.

  “Better try and give ‘im the slip, Sam,” said Mr. Legge, in a confidential whisper; “though it seems an unnatural thing to do.”

  “Unnatural? What d’ye mean?” demanded his unfortunate friend. “Wot d’ye mean by unnatural?”

  “Oh, if you’re going to talk like that, Sam,”
said Mr. Legge, shortly, “it’s no good giving you advice. As you’ve made your bed, you must lay on it.”

  “How long is it since you saw ‘im last, matey?” inquired Mr. Green.

  “I dunno; not very long,” replied the boy, cautiously.

  “Has he altered at all since you see ‘im last?” inquired the counsel for the defence, motioning the fermenting Mr. Brown to keep still.

  “No,” said Billy, firmly; “not a bit.”

  “Wot’s your name?”

  “Billy,” was the reply.

  “Billy wot?”

  “Billy Jones.”

  Mr. Green’s face cleared, and he turned to his friends with a smile of joyous triumph. Sam’s face reflected his own, but Charlie Legge’s was still overcast.

  “It ain’t likely,” he said impressively; “it ain’t likely as Sam would go and get married twice in the same name, is it? Put it to yourself, ‘Arry — would you?

  “Look ‘ere,” exclaimed the infuriated Mr. Brown, “don’t you interfere in my business. You’re a crocodile, that’s wot you are. As for you, you little varmint, you run off, d’ye hear?”

  He moved on swiftly, accompanied by the other two, and set an example of looking straight ahead of him, which was, however, lost upon his friends.

  “‘E’s still following of you, Sam,” said the crocodile, in by no means disappointed tones.

  “Sticking like a leech,” confirmed Mr. Green. “‘E’s a pretty little chap, rather.”

  “Takes arter ‘is mother,” said the vengeful Mr. Legge.

  The unfortunate Sam said nothing, but strode a haunted man down Nightingale Lane into Wapping High Street, and so to the ketch Nancy Bell, which was lying at Shrimpett’s Wharf. He stepped on board without a word, and only when he turned to descend the forecastle ladder did his gaze rest for a moment on the small, forlorn piece of humanity standing on the wharf.

  “Halloa, boy, what do you want?” cried the skipper, catching sight of him.

  “Want my father, sir — Sam,” replied the youth, who had kept his ears open.

  The skipper got up from his seat and eyed him curiously; Messrs. Legge and Green, drawing near, explained the situation. Now the skipper was a worldly man; and Samuel Brown, A.B., when at home, played a brass instrument in the Salvation Army band. He regarded the boy kindly and spoke to him fair.

  “Don’t run away,” he said, anxiously.

  “I’m not going to, sir,” said Master Jones, charmed with his manner, and he watched breathlessly as the skipper stepped forward, and, peering down the forecastle, called loudly for Sam.

  “Yes, sir,” said a worried voice.

  “Your boy’s asking after you,” said the skipper, grinning madly.

  “He’s not my boy, sir,” replied Mr. Brown, through his clenched teeth.

  “Well, you’d better come up and see him,” said the other. “Are you sure he isn’t, Sam?”

  Mr. Brown made no reply, but coming on deck met Master Jones’s smile of greeting with an icy stare, and started convulsively as the skipper beckoned him aboard.

  “He’s been rather neglected, Sam,” said the skipper, shaking his head.

  “Wot’s it got to do with me?” said Sam, violently. “I tell you I’ve never seen ‘im afore this arternoon.”

  “You hear what your father says,” said the skipper — (“Hold your tongue, Sam.) Where’s your mother, boy?”

  “Dead, sir,” whined Master Jones. “I’ve on’y got ‘im now.”

  The skipper was a kind-hearted man, and he looked pityingly at the forlorn little figure by his side. And Sam was the good man of the ship and a leading light at Dimport.

  “How would you like to come to sea with your father?” he inquired.

  The grin of delight with which Master Jones received this proposal was sufficient reply.

  “I wouldn’t do it for everybody,” pursued the skipper, glancing severely at the mate, who was behaving foolishly, “but I don’t mind obliging you, Sam. He can come.”

  “Obliging?” repeated Mr. Brown, hardly able to get the words out. “Obliging me? I don’t want to be obliged.”

  “There, there,” interrupted the skipper. “I don’t want any thanks. Take him forrard and give him something to eat — he looks half-starved, poor little chap.”

  He turned away and went down to the cabin, while the cook, whom Mr. Brown had publicly rebuked for his sins the day before, led the boy to the galley and gave him a good meal. After that was done Charlie washed him, and Harry going ashore, begged a much-worn suit of boy’s clothes from a foreman of his acquaintance. He also brought back a message from the foreman to Mr. Brown to the effect that he was surprised at him.

  The conversation that evening after Master Jones was asleep turned upon bigamy, but Mr. Brown snored through it all, though Mr. Legge’s remark that the revelations of that afternoon had thrown a light upon many little things in his behaviour which had hitherto baffled him came perilously near to awaking him.

  At six in the morning they got under way, the boy going nearly frantic with delight as sail after sail was set, and the ketch, with a stiff breeze, rapidly left London behind her. Mr. Brown studiously ignored him, but the other men pampered him to his heart’s content, and even the cabin was good enough to manifest a little concern in his welfare, the skipper calling Mr. Brown up no fewer than five times that day to complain about his son’s behaviour.

  “I can’t have somersaults on this ‘ere ship, Sam,” he remarked, shaking his head; “it ain’t the place for ’em.”

  “I wonder at you teaching ‘im such things,” said the mate, in grave disapprobation.

  “Me?” said the hapless Sam, trembling with passion.

  “He must ‘ave seen you do it,” said the mate, letting his eye rove casually over Sam’s ample proportions. “You must ha’ been leading a double life altogether, Sam.”

  “That’s nothing to do with us,” interrupted the skipper, impatiently. “I don’t mind Sam turning cart-wheels all day if it amuses him, but they mustn’t do it here, that’s all. It’s no good standing there sulking, Sam; I can’t have it.”

  He turned away, and Mr. Brown, unable to decide whether he was mad or drunk, or both, walked back, and, squeezing himself up in the bows, looked miserably over the sea. Behind him the men disported themselves with Master Jones, and once, looking over his shoulder, he actually saw the skipper giving him a lesson in steering.

  By the following afternoon he was in such a state of collapse that, when they put in at the small port of Withersea to discharge a portion of their cargo, he obtained permission to stay below in his bunk. Work proceeded without him, and at nine o’clock in the evening they sailed again, and it was not until they were a couple of miles on their way to Dimport that Mr. Legge rushed aft with the announcement that he was missing.

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” said the skipper, as he came up from below in response to a hail from the mate.

  “It’s a fact, sir,” said Mr. Legge, shaking his head.

  “What’s to be done with the boy?” demanded the mate, blankly.

  “Sam’s a unsteady, unreliable, tricky old man,” exclaimed the skipper, hotly; “the idea of going and leaving a boy on our hands like that. I’m surprised at him. I’m disappointed in Sam — deserting!”

  “I expect ‘e’s larfing like anything, sir,” remarked Mr. Legge.

  “Get forrard,” said the skipper, sharply; “get forrard at once, d’ye hear?”

  “But what’s to be done with the boy? — that’s what I want to know,” said the mate.

  “What d’ye think’s to be done with him?” bawled the skipper. “We can’t chuck him overboard, can we?”

  “I mean when we get to Dimport?” growled the mate.

  “Well, the men’ll talk,” said the skipper, calming down a little, “and perhaps Sam’s wife’ll come and take him. If not, I suppose he’ll have to go to the workhouse. Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with me. I wash my hands of it al
together.”

  He went below again, leaving the mate at the wheel. A murmur of voices came from the forecastle, where the crew were discussing the behaviour of their late colleague. The bereaved Master Jones, whose face was streaky with the tears of disappointment, looked on from his bunk.

  “What are you going to do, Billy?” inquired the cook.

  “I dunno,” said the boy, miserably.

  He sat up in his bunk in a brown study, ever and anon turning his sharp little eyes from one to another of the men. Then, with a final sniff to the memory of his departed parent, he composed himself to sleep.

  With the buoyancy of childhood he had forgotten his trouble by the morning, and ran idly about the ship as before, until in the afternoon they came in sight of Dimport. Mr. Legge, who had a considerable respect for the brain hidden in that small head, pointed it out to him, and with some curiosity waited for his remarks.

  “I can see it,” said Master Jones, briefly.

  “That’s where Sam lives,” said his friend, pointedly.

  “Yes,” said the boy, nodding, “all of you live there, don’t you?”

  It was an innocent enough remark in all conscience, but there was that in Master Jones’s eye which caused Mr. Legge to move away hastily and glance at him in some disquietude from the other side of the deck. The boy, unconscious of the interest excited by his movements, walked restlessly up and down.

  “Boy’s worried,” said the skipper, aside, to the mate; “cheer up, sonny.”

  Billy looked up and smiled, and the cloud which had sat on his brow when he thought of the coldblooded desertion of Mr. Brown gave way to an expression of serene content.

  “Well, what’s he going to do?” inquired the mate, in a low voice.

  “That needn’t worry us,” said the skipper.

  “Let things take their course; that’s my motto.”

  He took the wheel from Harry; the little town came closer; the houses separated and disclosed roads, and the boy discovered to his disappointment that the church stood on ground of its own, and not on the roof of a large red house as he had supposed. He ran forward as they got closer, and, perching up in the bows until they were fast to the quay, looked round searchingly for any signs of Sam.