Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “I’ll look after that, ma’am,” said Mrs. Porter, with a glare at the startled Richard.

  “She’s very forgiving,” said Prudence. “She kissed him just now.”

  “Did she, though,” said the admiring Mrs. Truefitt. “I wish I’d been here.”

  “I can do it agin, ma’am,” said the obliging Mrs. Porter.

  “If you come near me again—” said the breathless Richard, stepping back a pace.

  “I shouldn’t force his love,” said Mrs. Truefitt; “it’ll come back in time, I dare say.”

  “I’m sure he’s affectionate,” said Prudence.

  Mr. Catesby eyed his tormentors in silence; the faces of Prudence and her mother betokened much innocent enjoyment, but the austerity of Mrs. Porter’s visage was unrelaxed.

  “Better let bygones be bygones,” said Mrs. Truefitt; “he’ll be sorry by-and-by for all the trouble he has caused.”

  “He’ll be ashamed of himself — if you give him time,” added Prudence.

  Mr. Catesby had heard enough; he took up his hat and crossed to the door.

  “Take care he doesn’t run away from you again,” repeated Mrs. Truefitt.

  “I’ll see to that, ma’am,” said Mrs. Porter, taking him by the arm. “Come along, Joe.”

  Mr. Catesby attempted to shake her off, but in vain, and he ground his teeth as he realised the absurdity of his position. A man he could have dealt with, but Mrs. Porter was invulnerable. Sooner than walk down the road with her he preferred the sallies of the parlour. He walked back to his old position by the fireplace, and stood gazing moodily at the floor.

  Mrs. Truefitt tired of the sport at last. She wanted her supper, and with a significant glance at her daughter she beckoned the redoubtable and reluctant Mrs. Porter from the room. Catesby heard the kitchen-door close behind them, but he made no move. Prudence stood gazing at him in silence.

  “If you want to go,” she said, at last, “now is your chance.”

  Catesby followed her into the passage without a word, and waited quietly while she opened the door. Still silent, he put on his hat and passed out into the darkening street. He turned after a short distance for a last look at the house and, with a sudden sense of elation, saw that she was standing on the step. He hesitated, and then walked slowly back.

  “Yes?” said Prudence.

  “I should like to tell your mother that I am sorry,” he said, in a low voice.

  “It is getting late,” said the girl, softly; “but, if you really wish to tell her — Mrs. Porter will not be here to-morrow night.”

  She stepped back into the house and the door closed behind her.

  THE CHANGING NUMBERS

  The tall clock in the corner of the small living-room had just struck eight as Mr. Samuel Gunnill came stealthily down the winding staircase and, opening the door at the foot, stepped with an appearance of great care and humility into the room. He noticed with some anxiety that his daughter Selina was apparently engrossed in her task of attending to the plants in the window, and that no preparations whatever had been made for breakfast.

  Miss Gunnill’s horticultural duties seemed interminable. She snipped off dead leaves with painstaking precision, and administered water with the jealous care of a druggist compounding a prescription; then, with her back still toward him, she gave vent to a sigh far too intense in its nature to have reference to such trivialities as plants. She repeated it twice, and at the second time Mr. Gunnill, almost without his knowledge, uttered a deprecatory cough.

  His daughter turned with alarming swiftness and, holding herself very upright, favoured him with a glance in which indignation and surprise were very fairly mingled.

  “That white one — that one at the end,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an appearance of concentrated interest, “that’s my fav’rite.”

  Miss Gunnill put her hands together, and a look of infinite long-suffering came upon her face, but she made no reply.

  “Always has been,” continued Mr. Gunnill, feverishly, “from a — from a cutting.”

  “Bailed out,” said Miss Gunnill, in a deep and thrilling voice; “bailed out at one o’clock in the morning, brought home singing loud enough for half-a-dozen, and then talking about flowers!”

  Mr. Gunnill coughed again.

  “I was dreaming,” pursued Miss Gunnill, plaintively, “sleeping peacefully, when I was awoke by a horrible noise.”

  “That couldn’t ha’ been me,” protested her father. “I was only a bit cheerful. It was Benjamin Ely’s birthday yesterday, and after we left the Lion they started singing, and I just hummed to keep ’em company. I wasn’t singing, mind you, only humming — when up comes that interfering Cooper and takes me off.”

  Miss Gunnill shivered, and with her pretty cheek in her hand sat by the window the very picture of despondency. “Why didn’t he take the others?” she inquired.

  “Ah!” said Mr. Gunnill, with great emphasis, “that’s what a lot more of us would like to know. P’r’aps if you’d been more polite to Mrs. Cooper, instead o’ putting it about that she looked young enough to be his mother, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  His daughter shook her head impatiently and, on Mr. Gunnill making an allusion to breakfast, expressed surprise that he had got the heart to eat any-thing. Mr. Gunnill pressing the point, however, she arose and began to set the table, the undue care with which she smoothed out the creases of the table-cloth, and the mathematical exactness with which she placed the various articles, all being so many extra smarts in his wound. When she finally placed on the table enough food for a dozen people he began to show signs of a little spirit.

  “Ain’t you going to have any?” he demanded, as Miss Gunnill resumed her seat by the window.

  “Me?” said the girl, with a shudder. “Breakfast? The disgrace is breakfast enough for me. I couldn’t eat a morsel; it would choke me.”

  Mr. Gunnill eyed her over the rim of his teacup. “I come down an hour ago,” he said, casually, as he helped himself to some bacon.

  Miss Gunnill started despite herself. “Oh!” she said, listlessly.

  “And I see you making a very good breakfast all by yourself in the kitchen,” continued her father, in a voice not free from the taint of triumph.

  The discomfited Selina rose and stood regarding him; Mr. Gunnill, after a vain attempt to meet her gaze, busied himself with his meal.

  “The idea of watching every mouthful I eat!” said Miss Gunnill, tragically; “the idea of complaining because I have some breakfast! I’d never have believed it of you, never! It’s shameful! Fancy grudging your own daughter the food she eats!”

  Mr. Gunnill eyed her in dismay. In his confusion he had overestimated the capacity of his mouth, and he now strove in vain to reply to this shameful perversion of his meaning. His daughter stood watching him with grief in one eye and calculation in the other, and, just as he had put himself into a position to exercise his rights of free speech, gave a pathetic sniff and walked out of the room.

  She stayed indoors all day, but the necessity of establishing his innocence took Mr. Gunnill out a great deal. His neighbours, in the hope of further excitement, warmly pressed him to go to prison rather than pay a fine, and instanced the example of an officer in the Salvation Army, who, in very different circumstances, had elected to take that course. Mr. Gunnill assured them that only his known antipathy to the army, and the fear of being regarded as one of its followers, prevented him from doing so. He paid instead a fine of ten shillings, and after listening to a sermon, in which his silver hairs served as the text, was permitted to depart. His feeling against Police-constable Cooper increased with the passing of the days. The constable watched him with the air of a proprietor, and Mrs. Cooper’s remark that “her husband had had his eye upon him for a long time, and that he had better be careful for the future,” was faithfully retailed to him within half an hour of its utterance. Convivial friends counted his cups for him; teetotal friends more than hinted that Cooper was in the
employ of his good angel.

  Miss Gunnill’s two principal admirers had an arduous task to perform. They had to attribute Mr. Gunnill’s disaster to the vindictiveness of Cooper, and at the same time to agree with his daughter that it served him right. Between father and daughter they had a difficult time, Mr. Gunnill’s sensitiveness having been much heightened by his troubles.

  “Cooper ought not to have taken you,” said Herbert Sims for the fiftieth time.

  “He must ha’ seen you like it dozens o’ times before,” said Ted Drill, who, in his determination not to be outdone by Mr. Sims, was not displaying his usual judgment. “Why didn’t he take you then? That’s what you ought to have asked the magistrate.”

  “I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an air of cold dignity.

  “Why,” said Mr. Drill, “what I mean is — look at that night, for instance, when — —”

  He broke off suddenly, even his enthusiasm not being proof against the extraordinary contortions of visage in which Mr. Gunnill was indulging.

  “When?” prompted Selina and Mr. Sims together. Mr. Gunnill, after first daring him with his eye, followed suit.

  “That night at the Crown,” said Mr. Drill, awkwardly. “You know; when you thought that Joe Baggs was the landlord. You tell ’em; you tell it best. I’ve roared over it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re driving at,” said the harassed Mr. Gunnill, bitterly.

  “H’m!” said Mr. Drill, with a weak laugh. “I’ve been mixing you up with somebody else.”

  Mr. Gunnill, obviously relieved, said that he ought to be more careful, and pointed out, with some feeling, that a lot of mischief was caused that way.

  “Cooper wants a lesson, that’s what he wants,” said Mr. Sims, valiantly. “He’ll get his head broke one of these days.”

  Mr. Gunnill acquiesced. “I remember when I was on the Peewit,” he said, musingly, “one time when we were lying at Cardiff, there was a policeman there run one of our chaps in, and two nights afterward another of our chaps pushed the policeman down in the mud and ran off with his staff and his helmet.”

  Miss Gunnill’s eyes glistened. “What happened?” she inquired.

  “He had to leave the force,” replied her father; “he couldn’t stand the disgrace of it. The chap that pushed him over was quite a little chap, too. About the size of Herbert here.”

  Mr. Sims started.

  “Very much like him in face, too,” pursued Mr. Gunnill; “daring chap he was.”

  Miss Gunnill sighed. “I wish he lived in Little-stow,” she said, slowly. “I’d give anything to take that horrid Mrs. Cooper down a bit. Cooper would be the laughing-stock of the town.”

  Messrs. Sims and Drill looked unhappy. It was hard to have to affect an attitude of indifference in the face of Miss Gunnill’s lawless yearnings; to stand before her as respectable and law-abiding cravens. Her eyes, large and sorrowful; dwelt on them both.

  “If I — I only get a chance at Cooper!” murmured Mr. Sims, vaguely.

  To his surprise, Mr. Gunnill started up from his chair and, gripping his hand, shook it fervently. He looked round, and Selina was regarding him with a glance so tender that he lost his head completely. Before he had recovered he had pledged himself to lay the helmet and truncheon of the redoubtable Mr. Cooper at the feet of Miss Gunnill; exact date not specified.

  “Of course, I shall have to wait my opportunity,” he said, at last.

  “You wait as long as you like, my boy,” said the thoughtless Mr. Gunnill.

  Mr. Sims thanked him.

  “Wait till Cooper’s an old man,” urged Mr. Drill.

  Miss Gunnill, secretly disappointed at the lack of boldness and devotion on the part of the latter gentleman, eyed his stalwart frame indignantly and accused him of trying to make Mr. Sims as timid as himself. She turned to the valiant Sims and made herself so agreeable to that daring blade that Mr. Drill, a prey to violent jealousy, bade the company a curt good-night and withdrew.

  He stayed away for nearly a week, and then one evening as he approached the house, carrying a carpet-bag, he saw the door just opening to admit the fortunate Herbert. He quickened his pace and arrived just in time to follow him in. Mr. Sims, who bore under his arm a brown-paper parcel, seemed somewhat embarrassed at seeing him, and after a brief greeting walked into the room, and with a triumphant glance at Mr. Gunnill and Selina placed his burden on the table.

  “You — you ain’t got it?” said Mr. Gunnill, leaning forward.

  “How foolish of you to run such a risk!” said Selina.

  “I brought it for Miss Gunnill,” said the young man, simply. He unfastened the parcel, and to the astonishment of all present revealed a policeman’s helmet and a short boxwood truncheon.

  “You — you’re a wonder,” said the gloating Mr. Gunnill. “Look at it, Ted!”

  Mr. Drill was looking at it; it may be doubted whether the head of Mr. Cooper itself could have caused him more astonishment. Then his eyes sought those of Mr. Sims, but that gentleman was gazing tenderly at the gratified but shocked Selina.

  “How ever did you do it?” inquired Mr. Gunnill.

  “Came behind him and threw him down,” said Mr. Sims, nonchalantly. “He was that scared I believe I could have taken his boots as well if I’d wanted them.”

  Mr. Gunnill patted him on the back. “I fancy I can see him running bare-headed through the town calling for help,” he said, smiling.

  Mr. Sims shook his head. “Like as not it’ll be kept quiet for the credit of the force,” he said, slowly, “unless, of course, they discover who did it.”

  A slight shade fell on the good-humoured countenance of Mr. Gunnill, but it was chased away almost immediately by Sims reminding him of the chaff of Cooper’s brother-constables.

  “And you might take the others away,” said Mr. Gunnill, brightening; “you might keep on doing it.”

  Mr. Sims said doubtfully that he might, but pointed out that Cooper would probably be on his guard for the future.

  “Yes, you’ve done your share,” said Miss Gunnill, with a half-glance at Mr. Drill, who was still gazing in a bewildered fashion at the trophies. “You can come into the kitchen and help me draw some beer if you like.”

  Mr. Sims followed her joyfully, and reaching down a jug for her watched her tenderly as she drew the beer. All women love valour, but Miss Gunnill, gazing sadly at the slight figure of Mr. Sims, could not help wishing that Mr. Drill possessed a little of his spirit.

  She had just finished her task when a tremendous bumping noise was heard in the living-room, and the plates on the dresser were nearly shaken off their shelves.

  “What’s that?” she cried.

  They ran to the room and stood aghast in the doorway at the spectacle of Mr. Gunnill, with his clenched fists held tightly by his side, bounding into the air with all the grace of a trained acrobat, while Mr. Drill encouraged him from an easy-chair. Mr. Gunnill smiled broadly as he met their astonished gaze, and with a final bound kicked something along the floor and subsided into his seat panting.

  Mr. Sims, suddenly enlightened, uttered a cry of dismay and, darting under the table, picked up what had once been a policeman’s helmet. Then he snatched a partially consumed truncheon from the fire, and stood white and trembling before the astonished Mr. Gunnill.

  “What’s the matter?” inquired the latter. “You — you’ve spoilt ’em,” gasped Mr. Sims. “What of it?” said Mr. Gunnill, staring.

  “I was — going to take ’em away,” stammered Mr. Sims.

  “Well, they’ll be easier to carry now,” said Mr. Drill, simply.

  Mr. Sims glanced at him sharply, and then, to the extreme astonishment of Mr. Gunnill, snatched up the relics and, wrapping them up in the paper, dashed out of the house. Mr. Gunnill turned a look of blank inquiry upon Mr. Drill.

  “It wasn’t Cooper’s number on the helmet,” said that gentleman.

  “Eh?” shouted Mr. Gunnill.

  “How do
you know?” inquired Selina.

  “I just happened to notice,” replied Mr. Drill. He reached down as though to take up the carpet-bag which he had placed by the side of his chair, and then, apparently thinking better of it, leaned back in his seat and eyed Mr. Gunnill.

  “Do you mean to tell me,” said the latter, “that he’s been and upset the wrong man?”

  Mr. Drill shook his head. “That’s the puzzle,” he said, softly.

  He smiled over at Miss Gunnill, but that young lady, who found him somewhat mysterious, looked away and frowned. Her father sat and exhausted conjecture, his final conclusion being that Mr. Sims had attacked the first policeman that had come in his way and was now suffering the agonies of remorse.

  He raised his head sharply at the sound of hurried footsteps outside. There was a smart rap at the street door, then the handle was turned, and the next moment, to the dismay of all present, the red and angry face of one of Mr. Cooper’s brother-constables was thrust into the room.

  Mr. Gunnill gazed at it in helpless fascination. The body of the constable garbed in plain clothes followed the face and, standing before him in a menacing fashion, held out a broken helmet and staff.

  “Have you seen these afore?” he inquired, in a terrible voice.

  “No,” said Mr. Gunnill, with an attempt at surprise. “What are they?”

  “I’ll tell you what they are,” said Police-constable Jenkins, ferociously; “they’re my helmet and truncheon. You’ve been spoiling His Majesty’s property, and you’ll be locked up.”

  “Yours?” said the astonished Mr. Gunnill.

  “I lent ’em to young Sims, just for a joke,” said the constable. “I felt all along I was doing a silly thing.”

  “It’s no joke,” said Mr. Gunnill, severely. “I’ll tell young Herbert what I think of him trying to deceive me like that.”

  “Never mind about deceiving,” interrupted the constable. “What are you going to do about it?”