Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  The skipper locked up the cabin, and then calling on one of the shore hands to keep an eye on the forecastle, left it open for the convenience of the small passenger. Harry, Charlie, and the cook stepped ashore. The skipper and mate followed, and the latter, looking back from some distance, called his attention to the desolate little figure sitting on the hatch.

  “I s’pose he’ll be all right,” said the skipper, uneasily; “there’s food and a bed down the fo’c’s’le. You might just look round to-night and see he’s safe. I expect we’ll have to take him back to London with us.”

  They turned up a small road in the direction of home and walked on in silence, until the mate, glancing behind at an acquaintance who had just passed, uttered a sharp exclamation. The skipper turned, and a small figure which had just shot round the corner stopped in mid-career and eyed them warily. The men exchanged uneasy glances.

  “Father,” cried a small voice.

  “He — he’s adopted you now,” said the skipper, huskily.

  “Or you,” said the mate. “I never took much notice of him.”

  He looked round again. Master Jones was following briskly, about ten yards in the rear, and twenty yards behind him came the crew, who, having seen him quit the ship, had followed with the evident intention of being in at the death.

  “Father,” cried the boy again, “wait for me.”

  One or two passers-by stared in astonishment, and the mate began to be uneasy as to the company he was keeping.

  “Let’s separate,” he growled, “and see who he’s calling after.”

  The skipper caught him by the arm. “Shout out to him to go back,” he cried.

  “It’s you he’s after, I tell you,” said the mate. “Who do you want, Billy?”

  “I want my father,” cried the youth, and, to prevent any mistake, indicated the raging skipper with his finger.

  “Who do you want?” bellowed the latter, in a frightful voice.

  “Want you, father,” chirrupped Master Jones.

  Wrath and dismay struggled for supremacy in the skipper’s face, and he paused to decide whether it would be better to wipe Master Jones off the face of the earth or to pursue his way in all the strength of conscious innocence. He chose the latter course, and, a shade more erect than usual, walked on until he came in sight of his house and his wife, who was standing at the door.

  “You come along o’ me, Jem, and explain,” he whispered to the mate. Then he turned about and hailed the crew. The crew, flattered at being offered front seats in the affair, came forward eagerly.

  “What’s the matter?” inquired Mrs. Hunt, eyeing the crowd in amazement as it grouped itself in anticipation.

  “Nothing,” said her husband, off-handedly.

  “Who’s that boy?” cried the innocent woman.

  “It’s a poor little mad boy,” began the skipper; “he came aboard—”

  “I’m not mad, father,” interrupted Master Jones.

  “A poor little mad boy,” continued the skipper, hastily, “who came aboard in London and said poor old Sam Brown was his father.”

  “No — you, father,” cried the boy, shrilly.

  “He calls everybody his father,” said the skipper, with a smile of anguish; “that’s the form his madness takes. He called Jem here his father.”

  “No, he didn’t,” said the mate, bluntly.

  “And then he thought Charlie was his father.”

  “No, sir,” said Mr. Legge, with respectful firmness.

  “Well, he said Sam Brown was,” said the skipper.

  “Yes, that’s right, sir,” said the crew. “Where is Sam?” inquired Mrs. Hunt, looking round expectantly.

  “He deserted the ship at Withersea,” said her husband.

  “I see,” said Mrs. Hunt, with a bitter smile, “and these men have all come up prepared to swear that the boy said Sam was his father. Haven’t you?”

  “Yes, mum,” chorused the crew, delighted at being understood so easily.

  Mrs. Hunt looked across the road to the fields stretching beyond. Then she suddenly brought her gaze back, and, looking full at her husband, uttered just two words —

  “Oh, Joe!”

  “Ask the mate,” cried the frantic skipper.

  “Yes, I know what the mate’ll say,” said Mrs. Hunt. “I’ve no need to ask him.”

  “Charlie and Harry were with Sam when the boy came up to them,” protested the skipper.

  “I’ve no doubt,” said his wife. “Oh, Joe! Joe! Joe!”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, during which the crew, standing for the most part on one leg in sympathy with their chief’s embarrassment, nudged each other to say something to clear the character of a man whom all esteemed.

  “You ungrateful little devil,” burst out Mr. Legge, at length; “arter the kind way the skipper treated you, too.”

  “Did he treat him kindly?” inquired the captain’s wife, in conversational tones.

  “Like a fa — like a uncle, mum,” said the thoughtless Mr. Legge. “Gave ‘im a passage on the ship and fairly spoilt ‘im. We was all surprised at the fuss ‘e made of ‘im; wasn’t we, Harry?”

  He turned to his friend, but on Mr. Green’s face there was an expression of such utter scorn and contempt that his own fell. He glanced at the skipper, and was almost frightened at his appearance.

  The situation was ended by Mrs. Hunt entering the house and closing the door with an ominous bang. The men slunk off, headed by Mr. Legge; and the mate, after a few murmured words of encouragement to the skipper, also departed. Captain Hunt looked first at the small cause of his trouble, who had drawn off to some distance, and then at the house. Then, with a determined gesture, he turned the handle of the door and walked in. His wife, who was sitting in an armchair, with her eyes on the floor, remained motionless.

  “Look here, Polly — ,” he began.

  “Don’t talk to me,” was the reply. “I wonder you can look me in the face.”

  The skipper ground his teeth, and strove to maintain an air of judicial calm.

  “If you’ll only be reasonable — ,” he remarked, severely.

  “I thought there was something secret going on,” said Mrs. Hunt. “I’ve often looked at you when you’ve been sitting in that chair, with a worried look on your face, and wondered what it was. But I never thought it was so bad as this. I’ll do you the credit to say that I never thought of such a thing as this.... What did you say?... What?”

  “I said ‘damn!’” said the skipper, explosively.

  “Yes, I’ve no doubt,” said his wife, fiercely. “You think you’re going to carry it off with a high hand and bluster; but you won’t bluster me, my man. I’m not one of your meek and mild women who’ll put up with anything. I’m not one of your—”

  “I tell you,” said the skipper, “that the boy calls everybody his father. I dare say he’s claimed another by this time.”

  Even as he spoke the handle turned, and the door opening a few inches disclosed the anxious face of Master Jones. Mrs. Hunt, catching the skipper’s eye, pointed to it in an ecstasy of silent wrath. There was a breathless pause, broken at last by the boy.

  “Mother!” he said, softly.

  Mrs. Hunt stiffened in her chair and her arms fell by her side as she gazed in speechless amazement. Master Jones, opening the door a little wider, gently insinuated his small figure into the room. The skipper gave one glance at his wife and then, turning hastily away, put his hand over his mouth, and, with protruding eyes, gazed out of the window.

  “Mother, can I come in?” said the boy.

  “Oh, Polly!” sighed the skipper. Mrs. Hunt strove to regain the utterance of which astonishment had deprived her.

  “I... what... Joe... don’t be a fool!”

  “Yes, I’ve no doubt,” said the skipper, theatrically. “Oh, Polly! Polly! Polly!”

  He put his hand over his mouth again and laughed silently, until his wife, coming behind him, took him by the shoulders and
shook him violently.

  “This,” said the skipper, choking; “this is what — you’ve been worried about —— This is the secret what’s—”

  He broke off suddenly as his wife thrust him by main force into a chair, and standing over him with a fiery face dared him to say another word. Then she turned to the boy.

  “What do you mean by calling me ‘mother’?” she demanded. “I’m not your mother.”

  “Yes, you are,” said Master Jones.

  Mrs. Hunt eyed him in bewilderment, and then, roused to a sense of her position by a renewed gurgling from the skipper’s chair, set to work to try and thump that misguided man into a more serious frame of mind. Failing in this, she sat down, and, after a futile struggle, began to laugh herself, and that so heartily that Master Jones, smiling sympathetically, closed the door and came boldly into the room.

  The statement, generally believed, that Captain Hunt and his wife adopted him, is incorrect, the skipper accounting for his continued presence in the house by the simple explanation that he had adopted them. An explanation which Mr. Samuel Brown, for one, finds quite easy of acceptance.

  JERRY BUNDLER

  It wanted a few nights to Christmas, a festival for which the small market town of Torchcster was making extensive preparations. The narrow streets which had been thronged with people were now almost deserted; the cheap-jack from London, with the remnant of breath left him after his evening’s exertions, was making feeble attempts to blow out his naphtha lamp, and the last shops open were rapidly closing for the night.

  In the comfortable coffee-room of the old Boar’s Head, half a dozen guests, principally commercial travellers, sat talking by the light of the fire. The talk had drifted from trade to politics, from politics to religion, and so by easy stages to the supernatural. Three ghost stories, never known to fail before, had fallen flat; there was too much noise outside, too much light within. The fourth story was told by an old hand with more success; the streets were quiet, and he had turned the gas out. In the flickering light of the fire, as it shone on the glasses and danced with shadows on the walls, the story proved so enthralling that George, the waiter, whose presence had been forgotten, created a very disagreeable sensation by suddenly starting up from a dark corner and gliding silently from the room. “That’s what I call a good story,” said one of the men, sipping his hot whisky. “Of course it’s an old idea that spirits like to get into the company of human beings. A man told me once that he travelled down the Great Western with a ghost and hadn’t the slightest suspicion of it until the inspector came for tickets. My friend said the way that ghost tried to keep up appearances by feeling for it in all its pockets and looking on the floor was quite touching. Ultimately it gave it up and with a faint groan vanished through the ventilator.”

  “That’ll do, Hirst,” said another man.

  “It’s not a subject for jesting,” said a little old gentleman who had been an attentive listener. “I’ve never seen an apparition myself, but I know people who have, and I consider that they form a very interesting link between us and the afterlife. There’s a ghost story connected with this house, you know.”

  “Never heard of it,” said another speaker, “and I’ve been here some years now.”

  “It dates back a long time now,” said the old gentleman. “You’ve heard about Jerry Bundler, George?”

  “Well, I’ve just ‘eard odds and ends, sir,” said the old waiter, “but I never put much count to ’em. There was one chap ‘ere what said ‘e saw it, and the gov’ner sacked ‘im prompt.”

  “My father was a native of this town,” said the old gentleman, “and knew the story well. He was a truthful man and a steady churchgoer, but I’ve heard him declare that once in his life he saw the appearance of Jerry Bundler in this house.”.

  “And who was this Bundler?” inquired a voice.

  “A London thief, pickpocket, highwayman — anything he could turn his dishonest hand to,” replied the old gentleman; “and he was run to earth in this house one Christmas week some eighty years ago. He took his last supper in this very room, and after he had gone up to bed a couple of Bow Street runners, who had followed him from London but lost the scent a bit, went upstairs with the landlord and tried the door. It was stout oak, and fast, so one went into the yard, and by means of a short ladder got onto the window-sill, while the other stayed outside the door. Those below in the yard saw the man crouching on the sill, and then there was a sudden smash of glass, and with a cry he fell in a heap on the stones at their feet. Then in the moonlight they saw the white face of the pickpocket peeping over the sill, and while some stayed in the yard, others ran into the house and helped the other man to break the door in. It was difficult to obtain an entrance even then, for it was barred with heavy furniture, but they got in at last, and the first thing that met their eyes was the body of Jerry dangling from the top of the bed by his own handkerchief.”

  “Which bedroom was it?” asked two or three voices together.

  The narrator shook his head. “That I can’t tell you; but the story goes that Jerry still haunts this house, and my father used to declare positively that the last time he slept here the ghost of Jerry Bundler lowered itself from the top of his bed and tried to strangle him.”

  “That’ll do,” said an uneasy voice. “I wish you’d thought to ask your father which bedroom it was.”

  “What for?” inquired the old gentleman.

  “Well, I should take care not to sleep in it, that’s all,” said the voice, shortly.

  “There’s nothing to fear,” said the other. “I don’t believe for a moment that ghosts could really-hurt one. In fact my father used to confess that it was only the unpleasantness of the thing that upset him, and that for all practical purposes Jerry’s fingers might have been made of cottonwool for all the harm they could do.”

  “That’s all very fine,” said the last speaker again; “a ghost story is a ghost story, sir; but when a gentleman tells a tale of a ghost in the house in which one is going to sleep, I call it most ungentlemanly!”

  “Pooh! nonsense!” said the old gentleman, rising; “ghosts can’t hurt you. For my own part, I should rather like to see one. Good night, gentlemen.”

  “Good night,” said the others. “And I only hope Jerry’ll pay you a visit,” added the nervous man as the door closed.

  “Bring some more whisky, George,” said a stout commercial; “I want keeping up when the talk turns this way.”

  “Shall I light the gas, Mr. Malcolm?” said George.

  “No; the fire’s very comfortable,” said the traveller. “Now, gentlemen, any of you know any more?”

  “I think we’ve had enough,” said another man; “we shall be thinking we see spirits next, and we’re not all like the old gentleman who’s just gone.”

  “Old humbug!” said Hirst. “I should like to put him to the test. Suppose I dress up as Jerry Bundler and go and give him a chance of displaying his courage?”

  “Bravo!” said Malcolm, huskily, drowning one or two faint “Noes.” “Just for the joke, gentlemen.”

  “No, no! Drop it, Hirst,” said another man.

  “Only for the joke,” said Hirst, somewhat eagerly. “I’ve got some things upstairs in which I am going to play in the Rivals — knee-breeches, buckles, and all that sort of thing. It’s a rare chance. If you’ll wait a bit I’ll give you a full-dress rehearsal, entitled, ‘Jerry Bundler; or, The Nocturnal Strangler.’”

  “You won’t frighten us,” said the commercial, with a husky laugh.

  “I don’t know that,” said Hirst, sharply; “it’s a question of acting, that’s all. I’m pretty good, ain’t I, Somers?”

  “Oh, you’re all right — for an amateur,” said his friend, with a laugh.

  “I’ll bet you a level sov. you don’t frighten me,” said the stout traveller.

  “Done!” said Hirst. “I’ll take the bet to frighten you first and the old gentleman afterwards. These gentlemen shall be the
judges.”

  “You won’t frighten us, sir,” said another man, “because we’re prepared for you; but you’d better leave the old man alone. It’s dangerous play.”

  “Well, I’ll try you first,” said Hirst, springing up. “No gas, mind.”

  He ran lightly upstairs to his room, leaving the others, most of whom had been drinking somewhat freely, to wrangle about his proceedings. It ended in two of them going to bed.

  “He’s crazy on acting,” said Somers, lighting his pipe. “Thinks he’s the equal of anybody almost. It doesn’t matter with us, but I won’t let him go to the old man. And he won’t mind so long as he gets an opportunity of acting to us.”

  “Well, I hope he’ll hurry up,” said Malcolm, yawning; “it’s after twelve now.”

  Nearly half an hour passed. Malcolm drew his watch from his pocket and was busy winding it, when George, the waiter, who had been sent on an errand to the bar, burst suddenly into the room and rushed towards them.

  “‘E’s comin’, gentlemen,” he said breathlessly.

  “Why, you’re frightened, George,” said the stout commercial, with a chuckle.

  “It was the suddenness of it,” said George, sheepishly; “and besides, I didn’t look for seein’ ‘im in the bar. There’s only a glimmer of light there, and ‘e was sitting on the floor behind the bar. I nearly trod on ‘im.”

  “Oh, you’ll never make a man, George,” said Malcolm.

  “Well, it took me unawares,” said the waiter. “Not that I’d have gone to the bar by myself if I’d known ‘e was there, and I don’t believe you would either, sir.”

  “Nonsense!” said Malcolm. “I’ll go and fetch him in.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like, sir,” said George, catching him by the sleeve. “It ain’t fit to look at by yourself, it ain’t, indeed. It’s got the — What’s that?”

  They all started at the sound of a smothered cry from the staircase and the sound of somebody running hurriedly along the passage. Before anybody could speak, the door flew open and a figure bursting into the room flung itself gasping and shivering upon them.