Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  Neither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up his courage, he took the box of matches, and striking one, went downstairs for a candle.

  At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strike another; and at the same moment a knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be scarcely audible, sounded on the front door.

  The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage. He stood motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded through the house.

  “What’s that?” cried the old woman.

  “What’s that?” cried the old woman, starting up.

  “A rat,” said the old man in shaking tones— “a rat. It passed me on the stairs.”

  His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the house.

  “It’s Herbert!” she screamed. “It’s Herbert!”

  She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm, held her tightly.

  “What are you going to do?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “It’s my boy; it’s Herbert!” she cried, struggling mechanically. “I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go. I must open the door.

  “For God’s sake don’t let it in,” cried the old man, trembling.

  “You’re afraid of your own son,” she cried, struggling. “Let me go. I’m coming, Herbert; I’m coming.”

  There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing, and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman’s voice, strained and panting.

  “The bolt,” she cried, loudly. “Come down. I can’t reach it.”

  But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house, and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the same moment he found the monkey’s paw, and frantically breathed his third and last wish.

  The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back, and the door opened. A cold wind rushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife gave him courage to run down to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road.

  BILL’S PAPER CHASE

  Sailormen ‘ave their faults, said the night watchman, frankly. I’m not denying of it. I used to ‘ave myself when I was at sea, but being close with their money is a fault as can seldom be brought ag’in ’em.

  I saved some money once — two golden sovereigns, owing to a ‘ole in my pocket. Before I got another ship I slept two nights on a doorstep and ‘ad nothing to eat, and I found them two sovereigns in the lining o’ my coat when I was over two thousand miles away from the nearest pub.

  I on’y knew one miser all the years I was at sea. Thomas Geary ‘is name was, and we was shipmates aboard the barque Grenada, homeward bound from Sydney to London.

  Thomas was a man that was getting into years; sixty, I think ‘e was, and old enough to know better. ‘E’d been saving ‘ard for over forty years, and as near as we could make out ‘e was worth a matter o’ six ‘undered pounds. He used to be fond o’ talking about it, and letting us know how much better off ‘e was than any of the rest of us.

  We was about a month out from Sydney when old Thomas took sick. Bill Hicks said that it was owing to a ha’penny he couldn’t account for; but Walter Jones, whose family was always ill, and thought ‘e knew a lot about it, said that ‘e knew wot it was, but ‘e couldn’t remember the name of it, and that when we got to London and Thomas saw a doctor, we should see as ‘ow ‘e was right.

  Whatever it was the old man got worse and worse. The skipper came down and gave ‘im some physic and looked at ‘is tongue, and then ‘e looked at our tongues to see wot the difference was. Then ‘e left the cook in charge of ‘im and went off.

  The next day Thomas was worse, and it was soon clear to everybody but ‘im that ‘e was slipping ‘is cable. He wouldn’t believe it at first, though the cook told ‘im, Bill Hicks told him, and Walter Jones ‘ad a grandfather that went off in just the same way.

  “I’m not going to die,” says Thomas “How can I die and leave all that money?”

  “It’ll be good for your relations, Thomas,” says Walter Jones.

  “I ain’t got any,” says the old man.

  “Well, your friends, then, Thomas,” says Walter, soft-like.

  “Ain’t got any,” says the old man ag’in.

  “Yes, you ‘ave, Thomas,” says Walter, with a kind smile; “I could tell you one you’ve got.”

  Thomas shut his eyes at ‘im and began to talk pitiful about ‘is money and the ‘ard work ‘e’d ‘ad saving of it. And by-and-by ‘e got worse, and didn’t reckernise us, but thought we was a pack o’ greedy, drunken sailormen. He thought Walter Jones was a shark, and told ‘im so, and, try all ‘e could, Walter couldn’t persuade ‘im different.

  He died the day arter. In the morning ‘e was whimpering about ‘is money ag’in, and angry with Bill when ‘e reminded ‘im that ‘e couldn’t take it with ‘im, and ‘e made Bill promise that ‘e should be buried just as ‘e was. Bill tucked him up arter that, and when ‘e felt a canvas belt tied round the old man’s waist ‘e began to see wot ‘e was driving at.

  The weather was dirty that day and there was a bit o’ sea running, consequently all ‘ands was on deck, and a boy about sixteen wot used to ‘elp the steward down aft was lookin’ arter Thomas. Me and Bill just run down to give a look at the old man in time.

  “I am going to take it with me, Bill,” says the old man.

  “That’s right,” says Bill.

  “My mind’s — easy now,” says Thomas. “I gave it to Jimmy — to — to — throw overboard for me.”

  “Wot?” says Bill, staring.

  “That’s right, Bill,” says the boy. “He told me to. It was a little packet o’ banknotes. He gave me tuppence for doing it.”

  Old Thomas seemed to be listening. ‘Is eyes was open, and ‘e looked artful at Bill to think what a clever thing ‘e’d done.

  “Nobody’s goin’-to spend-my money,” ‘e says. “Nobody’s”

  We drew back from ‘is bunk and stood staring at ‘im. Then Bill turned to the boy.

  “Go and tell the skipper ‘e’s gone,” ‘e says, “and mind, for your own sake, don’t tell the skipper or anybody else that you’ve thrown all that money overboard.”

  “Why not?” says Jimmy.

  “Becos you’ll be locked up for it,” says Bill; “you’d no business to do it. You’ve been and broke the law. It ought to ha’ been left to somebody.”

  Jimmy looked scared, and arter ‘e was gone I turned to Bill, and I looks at ‘im and I says “What’s the little game, Bill?”

  “Game?” said Bill, snorting at me. “I don’t want the pore boy to get into trouble, do I? Pore little chap. You was young yourself once.”

  “Yes,” I says; “but I’m a bit older now, Bill, and unless you tell me what your little game is, I shall tell the skipper myself, and the chaps too. Pore old Thomas told ‘im to do it, so where’s the boy to blame?”

  “Do you think Jimmy did?” says Bill, screwing up his nose at me. “That little varmint is walking about worth six ‘undered quid. Now you keep your mouth shut and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Then I see Bill’s game. “All right, I’ll keep quiet for the sake
of my half,” I says, looking at ‘im.

  I thought he’d ha’ choked, and the langwidge ‘e see fit to use was a’most as much as I could answer.

  “Very well, then,” ‘e says, at last, “halves it is. It ain’t robbery becos it belongs to nobody, and it ain’t the boy’s becos ‘e was told to throw it overboard.”

  They buried pore old Thomas next morning, and arter it was all over Bill put ‘is ‘and on the boy’s shoulder as they walked for’ard and ‘e says, “Poor old Thomas ‘as gone to look for ‘is money,” he says; “wonder whether ‘e’ll find it! Was it a big bundle, Jimmy?”

  “No,” says the boy, shaking ‘is ‘ead. “They was six ‘undered pound notes and two sovereigns, and I wrapped the sovereigns up in the notes to make ’em sink. Fancy throwing money away like that, Bill: seems a sin, don’t it?”

  Bill didn’t answer ‘im, and that afternoon the other chaps below being asleep we searched ‘is bunk through and through without any luck, and at last Bill sat down and swore ‘e must ha’ got it about ‘im.

  We waited till night, and when everybody was snoring ‘ard we went over to the boy’s bunk and went all through ‘is pockets and felt the linings, and then we went back to our side and Bill said wot ‘e thought about Jimmy in whispers.

  “He must ha’ got it tied round ‘is waist next to ‘is skin, like Thomas ‘ad,” I says.

  We stood there in the dark whispering, and then Bill couldn’t stand it any longer, and ‘e went over on tiptoe to the bunk ag’in. He was tremblin’ with excitement and I wasn’t much better, when all of a sudden the cook sat up in ‘is bunk with a dreadful laughing scream and called out that somebody was ticklin’ ‘im.

  I got into my bunk and Bill got into ‘is, and we lay there listening while the cook, who was a terrible ticklish man, leaned out of ‘is bunk and said wot ‘e’d do if it ‘appened ag’in.

  “Go to sleep,” says Walter Jones; “you’re dreamin’. Who d’you think would want to tickle you?”

  “I tell you,” says the cook, “somebody come over and tickled me with a ‘and the size of a leg o’ mutton. I feel creepy all over.”

  Bill gave it up for that night, but the next day ‘e pretended to think Jimmy was gettin’ fat an’ ‘e caught ‘old of ‘im and prodded ‘im all over. He thought ‘e felt something round ‘is waist, but ‘e couldn’t be sure, and Jimmy made such a noise that the other chaps interfered and told Bill to leave ‘im alone. For a whole week we tried to find that money, and couldn’t, and Bill said it was a suspicious thing that Jimmy kept aft a good deal more than ‘e used to, and ‘e got an idea that the boy might ha’ ‘idden it somewhere there. At the end of that time, ‘owever, owing to our being short-’anded, Jimmy was sent for’ard to work as ordinary seaman, and it began to be quite noticeable the way ‘e avoided Bill.

  At last one day we got ‘im alone down the fo’c’sle, and Bill put ‘is arm round ‘im and got im on the locker and asked ‘im straight out where the money was.

  “Why, I chucked it overboard,” he says. “I told you so afore. What a memory you’ve got, Bill!”

  Bill picked ‘im up and laid ‘im on the locker, and we searched ‘im thoroughly. We even took ‘is boots off, and then we ‘ad another look in ‘is bunk while ‘e was putting ’em on ag’in.

  “If you’re innercent,” says Bill, “why don’t you call out? — eh?”

  “Because you told me not to say anything about it, Bill,” says the boy. “But I will next time. Loud, I will.”

  “Look ‘ere,” says Bill, “you tell us where it is, and the three of us’ll go shares in it. That’ll be two ‘undered pounds each, and we’ll tell you ‘ow to get yours changed without getting caught. We’re cleverer than you are, you know.”

  “I know that, Bill,” says the boy; “but it’s no good me telling you lies. I chucked it overboard.”

  “Very good, then,” says Bill, getting up. “I’m going to tell the skipper.”

  “Tell ‘im,” says Jimmy. “I don’t care.”

  “Then you’ll be searched arter you’ve stepped ashore,” says Bill, “and you won’t be allowed on the ship ag’in. You’ll lose it all by being greedy, whereas if you go shares with us you’ll ‘ave two ‘undered pounds.”

  I could see as ‘ow the boy ‘adn’t thought o’ that, and try as ‘e would ‘e couldn’t ‘ide ‘is feelin’s. He called Bill a red-nosed shark, and ‘e called me somethin’ I’ve forgotten now.

  “Think it over,” says Bill; “mind, you’ll be collared as soon as you’ve left the gangway and searched by the police.”

  “And will they tickle the cook too, I wonder?” says Jimmy, savagely.

  “And if they find it you’ll go to prison,” says Bill, giving ‘im a clump o’ the side o’ the ‘ead, “and you won’t like that, I can tell you.”

  “Why, ain’t it nice, Bill?” says Jimmy, holding ‘is ear.

  Bill looked at ‘im and then ‘e steps to the ladder. “I’m not going to talk to you any more, my lad,” ‘e says. “I’m going to tell the skipper.”

  He went up slowly, and just as ‘e reached the deck Jimmy started up and called ‘im. Bill pretended not to ‘ear, and the boy ran up on deck and follered ‘im; and arter a little while they both came down again together.

  “Did you wish to speak to me, my lad?” says Bill, ‘olding ‘is ‘ead up.

  “Yes,” says the boy, fiddling with ‘is fingers; “if you keep your ugly mouth shut, we’ll go shares.”

  “Ho!” says Bill, “I thought you throwed it overboard!”

  “I thought so, too, Bill,” says Jimmy, very softly, “and when I came below ag’in I found it in my trousers pocket.”

  “Where is it now?” says Bill.

  “Never mind where it is,” says the boy; “you couldn’t get it if I was to tell you. It’ll take me all my time to do it myself.”

  “Where is it?” says Bill, ag’in. “I’m goin’ to take care of it. I won’t trust you.”

  “And I can’t trust you,” says Jimmy.

  “If you don’t tell me where it is this minute,” says Bill, moving to the ladder ag’in, “I’m off to tell the skipper. I want it in my ‘ands, or at any rate my share of it. Why not share it out now?”

  “Because I ‘aven’t got it,” says Jimmy, stamping ‘is foot, “that’s why, and it’s all your silly fault. Arter you came pawing through my pockets when you thought I was asleep I got frightened and ‘id it.”

  “Where?” says Bill.

  “In the second mate’s mattress,” says Jimmy. “I was tidying up down aft and I found a ‘ole in the underneath side of ‘is mattress and I shoved it in there, and poked it in with a bit o’ stick.”

  “And ‘ow are you going to get it?” says Bill, scratching ‘is ‘ead.

  “That’s wot I don’t know, seeing that I’m not allowed aft now,” says Jimmy. “One of us’ll ‘ave to make a dash for it when we get to London. And mind if there’s any ‘ankypanky on your part, Bill, I’ll give the show away myself.”

  The cook came down just then and we ‘ad to leave off talking, and I could see that Bill was so pleased at finding that the money ‘adn’t been thrown overboard that ‘e was losing sight o’ the difficulty o’ getting at it. In a day or two, ‘owever, ‘e see it as plain as me and Jimmy did, and, as time went by, he got desprit, and frightened us both by ‘anging about aft every chance ‘e got.

  The companion-way faced the wheel, and there was about as much chance o’ getting down there without being seen as there would be o’ taking a man’s false teeth out of ‘is mouth without ‘is knowing it. Jimmy went down one day while Bill was at the wheel to look for ‘is knife, wot ‘e thought ‘e’d left down there, and ‘ed ‘ardly got down afore Bill saw ‘im come up ag’in, ‘olding on to the top of a mop which the steward was using.

  We couldn’t figure it out nohow, and to think o’ the second mate, a little man with a large fam’ly, who never ‘ad a penny in ‘is pocket, sleeping every night on a six
‘undered pound mattress, sent us pretty near crazy. We used to talk it over whenever we got a chance, and Bill and Jimmy could scarcely be civil to each other. The boy said it was Bill’s fault, and ‘e said it was the boy’s.

  “The on’y thing I can see,” says the boy, one day, “is for Bill to ‘ave a touch of sunstroke as ‘e’s leaving the wheel one day, tumble ‘ead-first down the companion-way, and injure ‘isself so severely that ‘e can’t be moved. Then they’ll put ‘im in a cabin down aft, and p’raps I’ll ‘ave to go and nurse ‘im. Anyway, he’ll be down there.”

  “It’s a very good idea, Bill,” I says.

  “Ho,” says Bill, looking at me as if ‘e would eat me. “Why don’t you do it, then?”

  “I’d sooner you did it, Bill,” says the boy; “still, I don’t mind which it is. Why not toss up for it?”

  “Get away,” says Bill. “Get away afore I do something you won’t like, you blood-thirsty little murderer.”

  “I’ve got a plan myself,” he says, in a low voice, after the boy ‘ad ‘opped off, “and if I can’t think of nothing better I’ll try it, and mind, not a word to the boy.”

  He didn’t think o’ nothing better, and one night just as we was making the Channel ‘e tried ‘is plan. He was in the second mate’s watch, and by-and-by ‘e leans over the wheel and says to ‘im in a low voice, “This is my last v’y’ge, sir.”

  “Oh,” says the second mate, who was a man as didn’t mind talking to a man before the mast. “How’s that?”

  “I’ve got a berth ashore, sir,” says Bill, “and I wanted to ask a favour, sir.”

  The second mate growled and walked off a pace or two.

  “I’ve never been so ‘appy as I’ve been on this ship,” says Bill; “none of us ‘ave. We was saying so the other night, and everybody agreed as it was owing to you, sir, and your kindness to all of us.”