Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  The second mate coughed, but Bill could see as ‘e was a bit pleased.

  “The feeling came over me,” says Bill, “that when I leave the sea for good I’d like to ‘ave something o’ yours to remember you by, sir. And it seemed to me that if I ‘ad your — mattress I should think of you ev’ry night o’ my life.”

  “My wot?” says the second mate, staring at ‘im. “Your mattress, sir,” says Bill. “If I might make so bold as to offer a pound for it, sir. I want something wot’s been used by you, and I’ve got a fancy for that as a keepsake.” The second mate shook ‘is ‘ead. “I’m sorry, Bill,” ‘e says, gently, “but I couldn’t let it go at that.”

  “I’d sooner pay thirty shillin’s than not ‘ave it, sir,” says Bill, ‘umbly.

  “I gave a lot of money for that mattress,” says the mate, ag’in. “I forgit ‘ow much, but a lot. You don’t know ‘ow valuable that mattress is.”

  “I know it’s a good one, sir, else you wouldn’t ‘ave it,” says Bill. “Would a couple o’ pounds buy it, sir?”

  The second mate hum’d and ha’d, but Bill was afeard to go any ‘igher. So far as ‘e could make out from Jimmy, the mattress was worth about eighteen pence — to anybody who wasn’t pertiklar.

  “I’ve slept on that mattress for years,” says the second mate, looking at ‘im from the corner of ‘is eye. “I don’t believe I could sleep on another. Still, to oblige you, Bill, you shall ‘ave it at that if you don’t want it till we go ashore?”

  “Thankee, sir,” says Bill, ‘ardly able to keep from dancing, “and I’ll ‘and over the two pounds when we’re paid off. I shall keep it all my life, sir, in memory of you and your kindness.”

  “And mind you keep quiet about it,” says the second mate, who didn’t want the skipper to know wot ‘e’d been doing, “because I don’t want to be bothered by other men wanting to buy things as keepsakes.”

  Bill promised ‘im like a shot, and when ‘e told me about it ‘e was nearly crying with joy.

  “And mind,” ‘e says, “I’ve bought that mattress, bought it as it stands, and it’s got nothing to do with Jimmy. We’ll each pay a pound and halve wot’s in it.”

  He persuaded me at last, but that boy watched us like a cat watching a couple of canaries, and I could see we should ‘ave all we could do to deceive ‘im. He seemed more suspicious o’ Bill than me, and ‘e kep’ worrying us nearly every day to know what we were going to do.

  We beat about in the channel with a strong ‘ead-wind for four days, and then a tug picked us up and towed us to London.

  The excitement of that last little bit was ‘orrible. Fust of all we ‘ad got to get the mattress, and then in some way we ‘ad got to get rid o’ Jimmy. Bill’s idea was for me to take ‘im ashore with me and tell ‘im that Bill would join us arterwards, and then lose ‘im; but I said that till I’d got my share I couldn’t bear to lose sight o’ Bill’s honest face for ‘alf a second.

  And, besides, Jimmy wouldn’t ‘ave gone.

  All the way up the river ‘e stuck to Bill, and kept asking ‘im wot we were to do. ‘E was ‘alf crying, and so excited that Bill was afraid the other chaps would notice it.

  We got to our berth in the East India Docks at last, and arter we were made fast we went below to ‘ave a wash and change into our shoregoing togs. Jimmy watched us all the time, and then ‘e comes up to Bill biting ‘is nails, and says:

  “How’s it to be done, Bill?”

  “Hang about arter the rest ‘ave gone ashore, and trust to luck,” says Bill, looking at me. “We’ll see ‘ow the land lays when we draw our advance.”

  We went down aft to draw ten shillings each to go ashore with. Bill and me got ours fust, and then the second mate who ‘ad tipped ‘im the wink followed us out unconcerned-like and ‘anded Bill the mattress rolled up in a sack.

  “‘Ere you are, Bill,” ‘e says.

  “Much obliged, sir,” says Bill, and ‘is ‘ands trembled so as ‘e could ‘ardly ‘old it, and ‘e made to go off afore Jimmy come on deck.

  Then that fool of a mate kept us there while ‘e made a little speech. Twice Bill made to go off, but ‘e put ‘is ‘and on ‘is arm and kept ‘im there while ‘e told ‘im ‘ow he’d always tried to be liked by the men, and ‘ad generally succeeded, and in the middle of it up popped Master Jimmy.

  He gave a start as he saw the bag, and ‘is eyes opened wide, and then as we walked forward ‘e put ‘is arm through Bill’s and called ‘im all the names ‘e could think of.

  “You’d steal the milk out of a cat’s saucer,” ‘e says; “but mind, you don’t leave this ship till I’ve got my share.”

  “I meant it for a pleasant surprise for you, Jimmy,” says Bill, trying to smile.

  “I don’t like your surprises, Bill, so I don’t deceive you,” says the boy. “Where are you going to open it?”

  “I was thinking of opening it in my bunk,” says Bill. “The perlice might want to examine it if we took it through the dock. Come on, Jimmy, old man.”

  “Yes; all right,” says the boy, nodding ‘is ‘ead at ‘im. “I’ll stay up ‘ere. You might forget yourself, Bill, if I trusted myself down there with you alone. You can throw my share up to me, and then you’ll leave the ship afore I do. See?”

  “Go to blazes,” says Bill; and then, seeing that the last chance ‘ad gone, we went below, and ‘e chucked the bundle in ‘is bunk. There was only one chap down there, and arter spending best part o’ ten minutes doing ‘is hair ‘e nodded to us and went off.

  Half a minute later Bill cut open the mattress and began to search through the stuffing, while I struck matches and watched ‘im. It wasn’t a big mattress and there wasn’t much stuffing, but we couldn’t seem to see that money. Bill went all over it ag’in and ag’in, and then ‘e stood up and looked at me and caught ‘is breath painful.

  “Do you think the mate found it?” ‘e says, in a ‘usky voice.

  We went through it ag’in, and then Bill went half-way up the fo’c’s’le ladder and called softly for Jimmy. He called three times, and then, with a sinking sensation in ‘is stummick, ‘e went up on deck and I follered ‘im. The boy was nowhere to be seen. All we saw was the ship’s cat ‘aving a wash and brush-up afore going ashore, and the skipper standing aft talking to the owner.

  We never saw that boy ag’in. He never turned up for ‘is box, and ‘e didn’t show up to draw ‘is pay. Everybody else was there, of course, and arter I’d got mine and come outside I see pore Bill with ‘is back up ag’in a wall, staring ‘ard at the second mate, who was looking at ‘im with a kind smile, and asking ‘im ‘ow he’d slept. The last thing I saw of Bill, the pore chap ‘ad got ‘is ‘ands in ‘is trousers pockets, and was trying ‘is hardest to smile back.

  THE WELL

  I.

  Two men stood in the billiard-room of an old country house, talking. Play, which had been of a half-hearted nature, was over, and they sat at the open window, looking out over the park stretching away beneath them, conversing idly.

  “Your time’s nearly up, Jem,” said one at length, “this time six weeks you’ll be yawning out the honeymoon and cursing the man — woman I mean — who invented them.”

  Jem Benson stretched his long limbs in the chair and grunted in dissent.

  “I’ve never understood it,” continued Wilfred Carr, yawning. “It’s not in my line at all; I never had enough money for my own wants, let alone for two. Perhaps if I were as rich as you or Croesus I might regard it differently.”

  There was just sufficient meaning in the latter part of the remark for his cousin to forbear to reply to it. He continued to gaze out of the window and to smoke slowly.

  “Not being as rich as Croesus — or you,” resumed Carr, regarding him from beneath lowered lids, “I paddle my own canoe down the stream of Time, and, tying it to my friends’ door-posts, go in to eat their dinners.”

  “Quite Venetian,” said Jem Benson, still looking out of the window. “It’s not
a bad thing for you, Wilfred, that you have the doorposts and dinners — and friends.”

  Carr grunted in his turn. “Seriously though, Jem,” he said, slowly, “you’re a lucky fellow, a very lucky fellow. If there is a better girl above ground than Olive, I should like to see her.”

  “Yes,” said the other, quietly.

  “She’s such an exceptional girl,” continued Carr, staring out of the window. “She’s so good and gentle. She thinks you are a bundle of all the virtues.”

  He laughed frankly and joyously, but the other man did not join him. “Strong sense — of right and wrong, though,” continued Carr, musingly. “Do you know, I believe that if she found out that you were not—”

  “Not what?” demanded Benson, turning upon him fiercely, “Not what?”

  “Everything that you are,” returned his cousin, with a grin that belied his words, “I believe she’d drop you.”

  “Talk about something else,” said Benson, slowly; “your pleasantries are not always in the best taste.”

  Wilfred Carr rose and taking a cue from the rack, bent over the board and practiced one or two favourite shots. “The only other subject I can talk about just at present is my own financial affairs,” he said slowly, as he walked round the table.

  “Talk about something else,” said Benson again, bluntly.

  “And the two things are connected,” said Carr, and dropping his cue he half sat on the table and eyed his cousin.

  There was a long silence. Benson pitched the end of his cigar out of the window, and leaning back closed his eyes.

  “Do you follow me?” inquired Carr at length.

  Benson opened his eyes and nodded at the window.

  “Do you want to follow my cigar?” he demanded.

  “I should prefer to depart by the usual way for your sake,” returned the other, unabashed. “If I left by the window all sorts of questions would be asked, and you know what a talkative chap I am.”

  “So long as you don’t talk about my affairs,” returned the other, restraining himself by an obvious effort, “you can talk yourself hoarse.”

  “I’m in a mess,” said Carr, slowly, “a devil of a mess. If I don’t raise fifteen hundred by this day fortnight, I may be getting my board and lodging free.”

  “Would that be any change?” questioned Benson.

  “The quality would,” retorted the other. “The address also would not be good. Seriously, Jem, will you let me have the fifteen hundred?”

  “No,” said the other, simply.

  Carr went white. “It’s to save me from ruin,” he said, thickly.

  “I’ve helped you till I’m tired,” said Benson, turning and regarding him, “and it is all to no good. If you’ve got into a mess, get out of it. You should not be so fond of giving autographs away.”

  “It’s foolish, I admit,” said Carr, deliberately. “I won’t do so any more. By the way, I’ve got some to sell. You needn’t sneer. They’re not my own.”

  “Whose are they?” inquired the other.

  “Yours.”

  Benson got up from his chair and crossed over to him. “What is this?” he asked, quietly. “Blackmail?”

  “Call it what you like,” said Carr. “I’ve got some letters for sale, price fifteen hundred. And I know a man who would buy them at that price for the mere chance of getting Olive from you. I’ll give you first offer.”

  “If you have got any letters bearing my signature, you will be good enough to give them to me,” said Benson, very slowly.

  “They’re mine,” said Carr, lightly; “given to me by the lady you wrote them to. I must say that they are not all in the best possible taste.”

  His cousin reached forward suddenly, and catching him by the collar of his coat pinned him down on the table.

  “Give me those letters,” he breathed, sticking his face close to Carr’s.

  “They’re not here,” said Carr, struggling. “I’m not a fool. Let me go, or I’ll raise the price.”

  The other man raised him from the table in his powerful hands, apparently with the intention of dashing his head against it. Then suddenly his hold relaxed as an astonished-looking maid-servant entered the room with letters. Carr sat up hastily.

  “That’s how it was done,” said Benson, for the girl’s benefit as he took the letters.

  “I don’t wonder at the other man making him pay for it, then,” said Carr, blandly.

  “You will give me those letters?” said Benson, suggestively, as the girl left the room.

  “At the price I mentioned, yes,” said Carr; “but so sure as I am a living man, if you lay your clumsy hands on me again, I’ll double it. Now, I’ll leave you for a time while you think it over.”

  He took a cigar from the box and lighting it carefully quitted the room. His cousin waited until the door had closed behind him, and then turning to the window sat there in a fit of fury as silent as it was terrible.

  The air was fresh and sweet from the park, heavy with the scent of new-mown grass. The fragrance of a cigar was now added to it, and glancing out he saw his cousin pacing slowly by. He rose and went to the door, and then, apparently altering his mind, he returned to the window and watched the figure of his cousin as it moved slowly away into the moonlight. Then he rose again, and, for a long time, the room was empty.

  It was empty when Mrs. Benson came in some time later to say good-night to her son on her way to bed. She walked slowly round the table, and pausing at the window gazed from it in idle thought, until she saw the figure of her son advancing with rapid strides toward the house. He looked up at the window.

  “Good-night,” said she.

  “Good-night,” said Benson, in a deep voice.

  “Where is Wilfred?”

  “Oh, he has gone,” said Benson.

  “Gone?”

  “We had a few words; he was wanting money again, and I gave him a piece of my mind. I don’t think we shall see him again.”

  “Poor Wilfred!” sighed Mrs. Benson. “He is always in trouble of some sort. I hope that you were not too hard upon him.”

  “No more than he deserved,” said her son, sternly. “Good night.”

  II.

  The well, which had long ago fallen into disuse, was almost hidden by the thick tangle of undergrowth which ran riot at that corner of the old park. It was partly covered by the shrunken half of a lid, above which a rusty windlass creaked in company with the music of the pines when the wind blew strongly. The full light of the sun never reached it, and the ground surrounding it was moist and green when other parts of the park were gaping with the heat.

  Two people walking slowly round the park in the fragrant stillness of a summer evening strayed in the direction of the well.

  “No use going through this wilderness, Olive,” said Benson, pausing on the outskirts of the pines and eyeing with some disfavour the gloom beyond.

  “Best part of the park,” said the girl briskly; “you know it’s my favourite spot.”

  “I know you’re very fond of sitting on the coping,” said the man slowly, “and I wish you wouldn’t. One day you will lean back too far and fall in.”

  “And make the acquaintance of Truth,” said Olive lightly. “Come along.”

  She ran from him and was lost in the shadow of the pines, the bracken crackling beneath her feet as she ran. Her companion followed slowly, and emerging from the gloom saw her poised daintily on the edge of the well with her feet hidden in the rank grass and nettles which surrounded it. She motioned her companion to take a seat by her side, and smiled softly as she felt a strong arm passed about her waist.

  “I like this place,” said she, breaking a long silence, “it is so dismal — so uncanny. Do you know I wouldn’t dare to sit here alone, Jem. I should imagine that all sorts of dreadful things were hidden behind the bushes and trees, waiting to spring out on me. Ugh!”

  “You’d better let me take you in,” said her companion tenderly; “the well isn’t always wholesome
, especially in the hot weather.

  “Let’s make a move.”

  The girl gave an obstinate little shake, and settled herself more securely on her seat.

  “Smoke your cigar in peace,” she said quietly. “I am settled here for a quiet talk. Has anything been heard of Wilfred yet?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Quite a dramatic disappearance, isn’t it?” she continued. “Another scrape, I suppose, and another letter for you in the same old strain; ‘Dear Jem, help me out.’”

  Jem Benson blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air, and holding his cigar between his teeth brushed away the ash from his coat sleeves.

  “I wonder what he would have done without you,” said the girl, pressing his arm affectionately. “Gone under long ago, I suppose. When we are married, Jem, I shall presume upon the relationship to lecture him. He is very wild, but he has his good points, poor fellow.”

  “I never saw them,” said Benson, with startling bitterness. “God knows I never saw them.”

  “He is nobody’s enemy but his own,” said the girl, startled by this outburst.

  “You don’t know much about him,” said the other, sharply. “He was not above blackmail; not above ruining the life of a friend to do himself a benefit. A loafer, a cur, and a liar!”

  The girl looked up at him soberly but timidly and took his arm without a word, and they both sat silent while evening deepened into night and the beams of the moon, filtering through the branches, surrounded them with a silver network. Her head sank upon his shoulder, till suddenly with a sharp cry she sprang to her feet.

  “What was that?” she cried breathlessly.

  “What was what?” demanded Benson, springing up and clutching her fast by the arm.

  She caught her breath and tried to laugh.

  “You’re hurting me, Jem.”

  His hold relaxed.

  “What is the matter?” he asked gently.

  “What was it startled you?”

  “I was startled,” she said, slowly, putting her hands on his shoulder. “I suppose the words I used just now are ringing in my ears, but I fancied that somebody behind us whispered ‘Jem, help me out.’”