Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “Not much,” ses Ginger, shaking his ‘ead.

  “Lend it to me, mate,” ses Bill, stretching out his ‘and. “You can easy get another ship. Ah, I wish I was you; I’d be as ‘appy as ‘appy if I hadn’t got a penny.”

  “I’m very sorry, Bill,” ses Ginger, trying to smile, “but I’ve already promised to lend it to a man wot we met this evening. A promise is a promise, else I’d lend it to you with pleasure.”

  “Would you let me be ‘ung for the sake of a few pounds, Ginger?” ses Bill, looking at ‘im reproach-fully. “I’m a desprit man, Ginger, and I must ‘ave that money.”

  Afore pore Ginger could move he suddenly clapped ‘is hand over ‘is mouth and flung ‘im on the bed. Ginger was like a child in ‘is hands, although he struggled like a madman, and in five minutes ‘e was laying there with a towel tied round his mouth and ‘is arms and legs tied up with the cord off of Sam’s chest.

  “I’m very sorry, Ginger,” ses Bill, as ‘e took a little over eight pounds out of Ginger’s pocket. “I’ll pay you back one o’ these days, if I can. If you’d got a rope round your neck same as I ‘ave you’d do the same as I’ve done.”

  He lifted up the bedclothes and put Ginger inside and tucked ‘im up. Ginger’s face was red with passion and ‘is eyes starting out of his ‘ead.

  “Eight and six is fifteen,” ses Bill, and just then he ‘eard somebody coming up the stairs. Ginger ‘eard it, too, and as Peter Russet came into the room ‘e tried all ‘e could to attract ‘is attention by rolling ‘is ‘ead from side to side.

  “Why, ‘as Ginger gone to bed?” ses Peter. “Wot’s up, Ginger?”

  “He’s all right,” ses Bill; “just a bit of a ‘eadache.”

  Peter stood staring at the bed, and then ‘e pulled the clothes off and saw pore Ginger all tied up, and making awful eyes at ‘im to undo him.

  “I ‘ad to do it, Peter,” ses Bill. “I wanted some more money to escape with, and ‘e wouldn’t lend it to me. I ‘aven’t got as much as I want now. You just came in in the nick of time. Another minute and you’d ha’ missed me. ‘Ow much ‘ave you got?”

  “Ah, I wish I could lend you some, Bill,” ses Peter Russet, turning pale, “but I’ve ‘ad my pocket picked; that’s wot I came back for, to get some from Ginger.”

  Bill didn’t say a word.

  “You see ‘ow it is, Bill,” ses Peter, edging back toward the door; “three men laid ‘old of me and took every farthing I’d got.”

  “Well, I can’t rob you, then,” ses Bill, catching ‘old of ‘im. “Whoever’s money this is,” he ses, pulling a handful out o’ Peter’s pocket, “it can’t be yours. Now, if you make another sound I’ll knock your ‘ead off afore I tie you up.”

  “Don’t tie me up, Bill,” ses Peter, struggling.

  “I can’t trust you,” ses Bill, dragging ‘im over to the washstand and taking up the other towel; “turn round.”

  Peter was a much easier job than Ginger Dick, and arter Bill ‘ad done ‘im ‘e put ‘im in alongside o’ Ginger and covered ’em up, arter first tying both the gags round with some string to prevent ’em slipping.

  “Mind, I’ve only borrowed it,” he ses, standing by the side o’ the bed; “but I must say, mates, I’m disappointed in both of you. If either of you ‘ad ‘ad the misfortune wot I’ve ‘ad, I’d have sold the clothes off my back to ‘elp you. And I wouldn’t ‘ave waited to be asked neither.”

  He stood there for a minute very sorrowful, and then ‘e patted both their ‘eads and went downstairs. Ginger and Peter lay listening for a bit, and then they turned their pore bound-up faces to each other and tried to talk with their eyes.

  Then Ginger began to wriggle and try and twist the cords off, but ‘e might as well ‘ave tried to wriggle out of ‘is skin. The worst of it was they couldn’t make known their intentions to each other, and when Peter Russet leaned over ‘im and tried to work ‘is gag off by rubbing it up agin ‘is nose, Ginger pretty near went crazy with temper. He banged Peter with his ‘ead, and Peter banged back, and they kept it up till they’d both got splitting ‘eadaches, and at last they gave up in despair and lay in the darkness waiting for Sam.

  And all this time Sam was sitting in the Red Lion, waiting for them. He sat there quite patient till twelve o’clock and then walked slowly ‘ome, wondering wot ‘ad happened and whether Bill had gone.

  Ginger was the fust to ‘ear ‘is foot on the stairs, and as he came into the room, in the darkness, him an’ Peter Russet started shaking their bed in a way that scared old Sam nearly to death. He thought it was Bill carrying on agin, and ‘e was out o’ that door and ‘arf-way downstairs afore he stopped to take breath. He stood there trembling for about ten minutes, and then, as nothing ‘appened, he walked slowly upstairs agin on tiptoe, and as soon as they heard the door creak Peter and Ginger made that bed do everything but speak.

  “Is that you, Bill?” ses old Sam, in a shaky voice, and standing ready to dash downstairs agin.

  There was no answer except for the bed, and Sam didn’t know whether Bill was dying or whether ‘e ‘ad got delirium trimmings. All ‘e did know was that ‘e wasn’t going to sleep in that room. He shut the door gently and went downstairs agin, feeling in ‘is pocket for a match, and, not finding one, ‘e picked out the softest stair ‘e could find and, leaning his ‘ead agin the banisters, went to sleep.

  It was about six o’clock when ‘e woke up, and broad daylight. He was stiff and sore all over, and feeling braver in the light ‘e stepped softly upstairs and opened the door. Peter and Ginger was waiting for ‘im, and as he peeped in ‘e saw two things sitting up in bed with their ‘air standing up all over like mops and their faces tied up with bandages. He was that startled ‘e nearly screamed, and then ‘e stepped into the room and stared at ’em as if he couldn’t believe ‘is eyes.

  “Is that you, Ginger?” he ses. “Wot d’ye mean by making sights of yourselves like that? ‘Ave you took leave of your senses?”

  Ginger and Peter shook their ‘eads and rolled their eyes, and then Sam see wot was the matter with ’em. Fust thing ‘e did was to pull out ‘is knife and cut Ginger’s gag off, and the fust thing Ginger did was to call ‘im every name ‘e could lay his tongue to.

  “You wait a moment,” he screams, ‘arf crying with rage. “You wait till I get my ‘ands loose and I’ll pull you to pieces. The idea o’ leaving us like this all night, you old crocodile. I ‘eard you come in. I’ll pay you.”

  Sam didn’t answer ‘im. He cut off Peter Russet’s gag, and Peter Russet called ‘im ‘arf a score o’ names without taking breath.

  “And when Ginger’s finished I’ll ‘ave a go at you,” he ses. “Cut off these lines.”

  “At once, d’ye hear?” ses Ginger. “Oh, you wait till I get my ‘ands on you.”

  Sam didn’t answer ’em; he shut up ‘is knife with a click and then ‘e sat at the foot o’ the bed on Ginger’s feet and looked at ’em. It wasn’t the fust time they’d been rude to ‘im, but as a rule he’d ‘ad to put up with it. He sat and listened while Ginger swore ‘imself faint.

  “That’ll do,” he ses, at last; “another word and I shall put the bedclothes over your ‘ead. Afore I do anything more I want to know wot it’s all about.”

  Peter told ‘im, arter fust calling ‘im some more names, because Ginger was past it, and when ‘e’d finished old Sam said ‘ow surprised he was at them for letting Bill do it, and told ’em how they ought to ‘ave prevented it. He sat there talking as though ‘e enjoyed the sound of ‘is own voice, and he told Peter and Ginger all their faults and said wot sorrow it caused their friends. Twice he ‘ad to throw the bedclothes over their ‘eads because o’ the noise they was making.

  “Are you going — to undo — us?” ses Ginger, at last.

  “No, Ginger,” ses old Sam; “in justice to myself I couldn’t do it. Arter wot you’ve said — and arter wot I’ve said — my life wouldn’t be safe. Besides which, you’d want to go shares in my mone
y.”

  He took up ‘is chest and marched downstairs with it, and about ‘arf an hour arterward the landlady’s ‘usband came up and set ’em free. As soon as they’d got the use of their legs back they started out to look for Sam, but they didn’t find ‘im for nearly a year, and as for Bill, they never set eyes on ‘im again.

  LAWYER QUINCE

  Lawyer Quince, so called by his neighbours in Little Haven from his readiness at all times to place at their disposal the legal lore he had acquired from a few old books while following his useful occupation of making boots, sat in a kind of wooden hutch at the side of his cottage plying his trade. The London coach had gone by in a cloud of dust some three hours before, and since then the wide village street had slumbered almost undisturbed in the sunshine.

  Hearing footsteps and the sound of voices raised in dispute caused him to look up from his work. Mr. Rose, of Holly Farm, Hogg, the miller, and one or two neighbours of lesser degree appeared to be in earnest debate over some point of unusual difficulty.

  Lawyer Quince took a pinch of snuff and bent to his work again. Mr. Rose was one of the very few who openly questioned his legal knowledge, and his gibes concerning it were only too frequent. Moreover, he had a taste for practical joking, which to a grave man was sometimes offensive.

  “Well, here he be,” said Mr. Hogg to the farmer, as the group halted in front of the hutch. “Now ask Lawyer Quince and see whether I ain’t told you true. I’m willing to abide by what he says.”

  Mr. Quince put down his hammer and, brushing a little snuff from his coat, leaned back in his chair and eyed them with grave confidence.

  “It’s like this,” said the farmer. “Young Pascoe has been hanging round after my girl Celia, though I told her she wasn’t to have nothing to do with him. Half an hour ago I was going to put my pony in its stable when I see a young man sitting there waiting.”

  “Well?” said Mr. Quince, after a pause.

  “He’s there yet,” said the farmer. “I locked him in, and Hogg here says that I’ve got the right to keep him locked up there as long as I like. I say it’s agin the law, but Hogg he says no. I say his folks would come and try to break open my stable, but Hogg says if they do I can have the law of ’em for damaging my property.”

  “So you can,” interposed Mr. Hogg, firmly. “You see whether Lawyer Quince don’t say I’m right.”

  Mr. Quince frowned, and in order to think more deeply closed his eyes. Taking advantage of this three of his auditors, with remarkable unanimity, each closed one.

  “It’s your stable,” said Mr. Quince, opening his eyes and speaking with great deliberation, “and you have a right to lock it up when you like.”

  “There you are,” said Mr. Hogg; “what did I tell you?”

  “If anybody’s there that’s got no business there, that’s his look-out,” continued Mr. Quince. “You didn’t induce him to go in?”

  “Certainly not,” replied the farmer.

  “I told him he can keep him there as long as he likes,” said the jubilant Mr. Hogg, “and pass him in bread and water through the winder; it’s got bars to it.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Quince, nodding, “he can do that. As for his folks knocking the place about, if you like to tie up one or two of them nasty, savage dogs of yours to the stable, well, it’s your stable, and you can fasten your dogs to it if you like. And you’ve generally got a man about the yard.”

  Mr. Hogg smacked his thigh in ecstasy.

  “But—” began the farmer.

  “That’s the law,” said the autocratic Mr. Quince, sharply. “O’ course, if you think you know more about it than I do, I’ve nothing more to say.”

  “I don’t want to do nothing I could get into trouble for,” murmured Mr. Rose.

  “You can’t get into trouble by doing as I tell you,” said the shoemaker, impatiently. “However, to be quite on the safe side, if I was in your place I should lose the key.”

  “Lose the key?” said the farmer, blankly.

  “Lose the key,” repeated the shoemaker, his eyes watering with intense appreciation of his own resourcefulness. “You can find it any time you want to, you know. Keep him there till he promises to give up your daughter, and tell him that as soon as he does you’ll have a hunt for the key.”

  Mr. Rose regarded him with what the shoemaker easily understood to be speechless admiration.

  “I — I’m glad I came to you,” said the farmer, at last.

  “You’re welcome,” said the shoemaker, loftily. “I’m always ready to give advice to them as require it.”

  “And good advice it is,” said the smiling Mr. Hogg. “Why don’t you behave yourself, Joe Garnham?” he demanded, turning fiercely on a listener.

  Mr. Garnham, whose eyes were watering with emotion, attempted to explain, but, becoming hysterical, thrust a huge red handkerchief to his mouth and was led away by a friend. Mr. Quince regarded his departure with mild disdain.

  “Little things please little minds,” he remarked.

  “So they do,” said Mr. Hogg. “I never thought — What’s the matter with you, George Askew?”

  Mr. Askew, turning his back on him, threw up his hands with a helpless gesture and followed in the wake of Mr. Garnham. Mr. Hogg appeared to be about to apologise, and then suddenly altering his mind made a hasty and unceremonious exit, accompanied by the farmer.

  Mr. Quince raised his eyebrows and then, after a long and meditative pinch of snuff, resumed his work. The sun went down and the light faded slowly; distant voices sounded close on the still evening air, snatches of hoarse laughter jarred upon his ears. It was clear that the story of the imprisoned swain was giving pleasure to Little Haven.

  He rose at last from his chair and, stretching his long, gaunt frame, removed his leather apron, and after a wash at the pump went into the house. Supper was laid, and he gazed with approval on the home-made sausage rolls, the piece of cold pork, and the cheese which awaited his onslaught.

  “We won’t wait for Ned,” said Mrs. Quince, as she brought in a jug of ale and placed it by her husband’s elbow.

  Mr. Quince nodded and filled his glass.

  “You’ve been giving more advice, I hear,” said Mrs. Quince.

  Her husband, who was very busy, nodded again.

  “It wouldn’t make no difference to young Pascoe’s chance, anyway,” said Mrs. Quince, thoughtfully.

  Mr. Quince continued his labours. “Why?” he inquired, at last.

  His wife smiled and tossed her head.

  “Young Pascoe’s no chance against our Ned,” she said, swelling with maternal pride.

  “Eh?” said the shoemaker, laying down his knife and fork. “Our Ned?”

  “They are as fond of each other as they can be,” said Mrs. Quince, “though I don’t suppose Farmer Rose’ll care for it; not but what our Ned’s as good as he is.”

  “Is Ned up there now?” demanded the shoemaker, turning pale, as the mirthful face of Mr. Garnham suddenly occurred to him.

  “Sure to be,” tittered his wife. “And to think o’ poor young Pascoe shut up in that stable while he’s courting Celia!”

  Mr. Quince took up his knife and fork again, but his appetite had gone. Whoever might be paying attention to Miss Rose at that moment he felt quite certain that it was not Mr. Ned Quince, and he trembled with anger as he saw the absurd situation into which the humorous Mr. Rose had led him. For years Little Haven had accepted his decisions as final and boasted of his sharpness to neighbouring hamlets, and many a cottager had brought his boots to be mended a whole week before their time for the sake of an interview.

  He moved his chair from the table and smoked a pipe. Then he rose, and putting a couple of formidable law-books under his arm, walked slowly down the road in the direction of Holly Farm.

  The road was very quiet and the White Swan, usually full at this hour, was almost deserted, but if any doubts as to the identity of the prisoner lingered in his mind they were speedily dissipated by the beh
aviour of the few customers who crowded to the door to see him pass.

  A hum of voices fell on his ear as he approached the farm; half the male and a goodly proportion of the female population of Little Haven were leaning against the fence or standing in little knots in the road, while a few of higher social status stood in the farm-yard itself.

  “Come down to have a look at the prisoner?” inquired the farmer, who was standing surrounded by a little group of admirers.

  “I came down to see you about that advice I gave you this afternoon,” said Mr. Quince.

  “Ah!” said the other.

  “I was busy when you came,” continued Mr. Quince, in a voice of easy unconcern, “and I gave you advice from memory. Looking up the subject after you’d gone I found that I was wrong.”

  “You don’t say so?” said the farmer, uneasily. “If I’ve done wrong I’m only doing what you told me I could do.”

  “Mistakes will happen with the best of us,” said the shoemaker, loudly, for the benefit of one or two murmurers. “I’ve known a man to marry a woman for her money before now and find out afterward that she hadn’t got any.”

  One unit of the group detached itself and wandered listlessly toward the gate.

  “Well, I hope I ain’t done nothing wrong,” said Mr. Rose, anxiously. “You gave me the advice; there’s men here as can prove it. I don’t want to do nothing agin the law. What had I better do?”

  “Well, if I was you,” said Mr. Quince, concealing his satisfaction with difficulty, “I should let him out at once and beg his pardon, and say you hope he’ll do nothing about it. I’ll put in a word for you if you like with old Pascoe.”

  Mr. Rose coughed and eyed him queerly.

  “You’re a Briton,” he said, warmly. “I’ll go and let him out at once.”

  He strode off to the stable, despite the protests of Mr. Hogg, and, standing by the door, appeared to be deep in thought; then he came back slowly, feeling in his pockets as he walked.

  “William,” he said, turning toward Mr. Hogg, “I s’pose you didn’t happen to notice where I put that key?”