Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “What are you?” inquired Mr. Gunnill, hardily. “It seems to me it’s between you and him; you’ll very likely be dismissed from the force, and all through trying to deceive. I wash my hands of it.”

  “You’d no business to lend it,” said Drill, interrupting the constable’s indignant retort; “especially for Sims to pretend that he had stolen it from Cooper. It’s a roundabout sort of thing, but you can’t tell of Mr. Gunnill without getting into trouble yourself.”

  “I shall have to put up with that,” said the constable, desperately; “it’s got to be explained. It’s my day-helmet, too, and the night one’s as shabby as can be. Twenty years in the force and never a mark against my name till now.”

  “If you’d only keep quiet a bit instead of talking so much,” said Mr. Drill, who had been doing some hard thinking, “I might be able to help you, p’r’aps.”

  “How?” inquired the constable.

  “Help him if you can, Ted,” said Mr. Gunnill, eagerly; “we ought all to help others when we get a chance.”

  Mr. Drill sat bolt upright and looked very wise.

  He took the smashed helmet from the table and examined it carefully. It was broken in at least half-a-dozen places, and he laboured in vain to push it into shape. He might as well have tried to make a silk hat out of a concertina. The only thing that had escaped injury was the metal plate with the number.

  “Why don’t you mend it?” he inquired, at last.

  “Mend it?” shouted the incensed Mr. Jenkins. “Why don’t you?”

  “I think I could,” said Mr. Drill, slowly; “give me half an hour in the kitchen and I’ll try.”

  “Have as long as you like,” said Mr. Gunnill.

  “And I shall want some glue, and Miss Gunnill, and some tin-tacks,” said Drill.

  “What do you want me for?” inquired Selina.

  “To hold the things for me,” replied Mr. Drill.

  Miss Gunnill tossed her head, but after a little demur consented; and Drill, ignoring the impatience of the constable, picked up his bag and led the way into the kitchen. Messrs. Gunnill and Jenkins, left behind in the living-room, sought for some neutral topic of discourse, but in vain; conversation would revolve round hard labour and lost pensions. From the kitchen came sounds of hammering, then a loud “Ooh!” from Miss Gunnill, followed by a burst of laughter and a clapping of hands. Mr. Jenkins shifted in his seat and exchanged glances with Mr. Gunnill.

  “He’s a clever fellow,” said that gentleman, hopefully. “You should hear him imitate a canary; life-like it is.”

  Mr. Jenkins was about to make a hasty and obvious rejoinder, when the kitchen door opened and Selina emerged, followed by Drill. The snarl which the constable had prepared died away in a murmur of astonishment as he took the helmet. It looked as good as ever.

  He turned it over and over in amaze, and looked in vain for any signs of the disastrous cracks. It was stiff and upright. He looked at the number: it was his own. His eyes round with astonishment he tried it on, and then his face relaxed.

  “It don’t fit as well as it did,” he said.

  “Well, upon my word, some people are never satisfied,” said the indignant Drill. “There isn’t another man in England could have done it better.”

  “I’m not grumbling,” said the constable, hastily; “it’s a wonderful piece o’ work. Wonderful! I can’t even see where it was broke. How on earth did you do it?”

  Drill shook his head. “It’s a secret process,” he said, slowly. “I might want to go into the hat trade some day, and I’m not going to give things away.”

  “Quite right,” said Mr. Jenkins. “Still — well, it’s a marvel, that’s what it is; a fair marvel. If you take my advice you’ll go in the hat trade to-morrow, my lad.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Gunnill, whose face as he spoke was a map of astonishment. “Not a bit. I’ve seen him do more surprising things than that. Have a go at the staff now, Teddy.”

  “I’ll see about it,” said Mr. Drill, modestly. “I can’t do impossibilities. You leave it here, Mr. Jenkins, and we’ll talk about it later on.”

  Mr. Jenkins, still marvelling over his helmet, assented, and, after another reference to the possibilities in the hat trade to a man with a born gift for repairs, wrapped his property in a piece of newspaper and departed, whistling.

  “Ted,” said Mr. Gunnill, impressively, as he sank into his chair with a sigh of relief. “How you done it I don’t know. It’s a surprise even to me.”

  “He is very clever,” said Selina, with a kind smile

  Mr. Drill turned pale, and then, somewhat emboldened by praise from such a quarter, dropped into a chair by her side and began to talk in low tones. The grateful Mr. Gunnill, more relieved than he cared to confess, thoughtfully closed his eyes.

  “I didn’t think all along that you’d let Herbert outdo you,” said Selina.

  “I want to outdo him,” said Mr. Drill, in a voice of much meaning.

  Miss Gunnill cast down her eyes and Mr. Drill had just plucked up sufficient courage to take her hand when footsteps stopped at the house, the handle of the door was turned, and, for the second time that evening, the inflamed visage of Mr. Jenkins confronted the company.

  “Don’t tell me it’s a failure,” said Mr. Gunnill, starting from his chair. “You must have been handling it roughly. It was as good as new when you took it away.”

  Mr. Jenkins waved him away and fixed his eyes upon Drill.

  “You think you’re mighty clever, I dare say,” he said, grimly; “but I can put two and two together. I’ve just heard of it.”

  “Heard of two and two?” said Drill, looking puzzled.

  “I don’t want any of your nonsense,” said Mr. Jenkins. “I’m not on duty now, but I warn you not to say anything that may be used against you.”

  “I never do,” said Mr. Drill, piously.

  “Somebody threw a handful o’ flour in poor Cooper’s face a couple of hours ago,” said Mr. Jenkins, watching him closely, “and while he was getting it out of his eyes they upset him and made off with his helmet and truncheon. I just met Brown and he says Cooper’s been going on like a madman.”

  “By Jove! it’s a good job I mended your helmet for you,” said Mr. Drill, “or else they might have suspected you.”

  Mr. Jenkins stared at him. “I know who did do it,” he said, significantly.

  “Herbert Sims?” guessed Mr. Drill, in a stage whisper.

  “You’ll be one o’ the first to know,” said Mr. Jenkins, darkly; “he’ll be arrested to-morrow. Fancy the impudence of it! It’s shocking.”

  Mr. Drill whistled. “Nell, don’t let that little affair o’ yours with Sims be known,” he said, quietly. “Have that kept quiet — if you can.”

  Mr. Jenkins started as though he had been stung. In the joy of a case he had overlooked one or two things. He turned and regarded the young man wistfully.

  “Don’t call on me as a witness, that’s all,” continued Mr. Drill. “I never was a mischief-maker, and I shouldn’t like to have to tell how you lent your helmet to Sims so that he could pretend he had knocked Cooper down and taken it from him.”

  “Wouldn’t look at all well,” said Mr. Gunnill, nodding his head sagely.

  Mr. Jenkins breathed hard and looked from one to the other. It was plain that it was no good reminding them that he had not had a case for five years.

  “When I say that I know who did it,” he said, slowly, “I mean that I have my suspicions.”

  “Don’t call on me as a witness, that’s all,’ continued Mr. Drill.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Drill, “that’s a very different thing.”

  “Nothing like the same,” said Mr. Gunnill, pouring the constable a glass of ale.

  Mr. Jenkins drank it and smacked his lips feebly.

  “Sims needn’t know anything about that helmet being repaired,” he said at last.

  “Certainly not,” said everybody.

  Mr. Jenkin
s sighed and turned to Drill.

  “It’s no good spoiling the ship for a ha’porth o’ tar,” he said, with a faint suspicion of a wink. “No,” said Drill, looking puzzled.

  “Anything that’s worth doing at all is worth doing well,” continued the constable, “and while I’m drinking another glass with Mr. Gunnill here, suppose you go into the kitchen with that useful bag o’ yours and finish repairing my truncheon?”

  THE PERSECUTION OF BOB PRETTY

  The old man sat on his accustomed bench outside the Cauliflower. A generous measure of beer stood in a blue and white jug by his elbow, and little wisps of smoke curled slowly upward from the bowl of his churchwarden pipe. The knapsacks of two young men lay where they were flung on the table, and the owners, taking a noon-tide rest, turned a polite, if bored, ear to the reminiscences of grateful old age.

  Poaching, said the old man, who had tried topics ranging from early turnips to horseshoeing — poaching ain’t wot it used to be in these ‘ere parts. Nothing is like it used to be, poaching nor anything else; but that there man you might ha’ noticed as went out about ten minutes ago and called me “Old Truthfulness” as ‘e passed is the worst one I know. Bob Pretty ‘is name is, and of all the sly, artful, deceiving men that ever lived in Claybury ‘e is the worst — never did a honest day’s work in ‘is life and never wanted the price of a glass of ale.

  Bob Pretty’s worst time was just after old Squire Brown died. The old squire couldn’t afford to preserve much, but by-and-by a gentleman with plenty o’ money, from London, named Rockett, took ‘is place and things began to look up. Pheasants was ‘is favourites, and ‘e spent no end o’ money rearing of ’em, but anything that could be shot at suited ‘im, too.

  He started by sneering at the little game that Squire Brown ‘ad left, but all ‘e could do didn’t seem to make much difference; things disappeared in a most eggstrordinary way, and the keepers went pretty near crazy, while the things the squire said about Claybury and Claybury men was disgraceful.

  Everybody knew as it was Bob Pretty and one or two of ‘is mates from other places, but they couldn’t prove it. They couldn’t catch ‘im nohow, and at last the squire ‘ad two keepers set off to watch ‘im by night and by day.

  Bob Pretty wouldn’t believe it; he said ‘e couldn’t. And even when it was pointed out to ‘im that Keeper Lewis was follering of ‘im he said that it just ‘appened he was going the same way, that was all. And sometimes ‘e’d get up in the middle of the night and go for a fifteen-mile walk ‘cos ‘e’d got the toothache, and Mr. Lewis, who ‘adn’t got it, had to tag along arter ‘im till he was fit to drop. O’ course, it was one keeper the less to look arter the game, and by-and-by the squire see that and took ‘im off.

  All the same they kept a pretty close watch on Bob, and at last one arternoon they sprang out on ‘im as he was walking past Gray’s farm, and asked him wot it was he ‘ad in his pockets.

  “That’s my bisness, Mr. Lewis,” ses Bob Pretty.

  Mr. Smith, the other keeper, passed ‘is hands over Bob’s coat and felt something soft and bulgy.

  “You take your ‘ands off of me,” ses Bob; “you don’t know ‘ow partikler I am.”

  He jerked ‘imself away, but they caught ‘old of ‘im agin, and Mr. Lewis put ‘is hand in his inside pocket and pulled out two brace o’ partridges.

  “You’ll come along of us,” he ses, catching ‘im by the arm.

  “We’ve been looking for you a long time,” ses Keeper Smith, “and it’s a pleasure for us to ‘ave your company.”

  Bob Pretty said ‘e wouldn’t go, but they forced ‘im along and took ‘im all the way to Cudford, four miles off, so that Policeman White could lock ‘im up for the night. Mr. White was a’most as pleased as the keepers, and ‘e warned Bob solemn not to speak becos all ‘e said would be used agin ‘im.

  “Never mind about that,” ses Bob Pretty. “I’ve got a clear conscience, and talking can’t ‘urt me. I’m very glad to see you, Mr. White; if these two clever, experienced keepers hadn’t brought me I should ‘ave looked you up myself. They’ve been and stole my partridges.”

  Them as was standing round laughed, and even Policeman White couldn’t ‘elp giving a little smile.

  “There’s nothing to laugh at,” ses Bob, ‘olding his ‘ead up. “It’s a fine thing when a working man — a ‘ardworking man — can’t take home a little game for ‘is family without being stopped and robbed.”

  “I s’pose they flew into your pocket?” ses Police-man White.

  “No, they didn’t,” ses Bob. “I’m not going to tell any lies about it; I put ’em there. The partridges in my inside coat-pocket and the bill in my waistcoat-pocket.”

  “The bill?” ses Keeper Lewis, staring at ‘im.

  “Yes, the bill,” ses Bob Pretty, staring back at ‘im; “the bill from Mr. Keen, the poulterer, at Wick-ham.”

  He fetched it out of ‘is pocket and showed it to Mr. White, and the keepers was like madmen a’most ‘cos it was plain to see that Bob Pretty ‘ad been and bought them partridges just for to play a game on ’em.

  “I was curious to know wot they tasted like,” he ses to the policeman. “Worst of it is, I don’t s’pose my pore wife’ll know ‘ow to cook ’em.”

  “You get off ‘ome,” ses Policeman White, staring at ‘im.

  “But ain’t I goin’ to be locked up?” ses Bob. “‘Ave I been brought all this way just to ‘ave a little chat with a policeman I don’t like.”

  “You go ‘ome,” ses Policeman White, handing the partridges back to ‘im.

  “All right,” ses Bob, “and I may ‘ave to call you to witness that these ‘ere two men laid hold o’ me and tried to steal my partridges. I shall go up and see my loryer about it.”

  He walked off ‘ome with his ‘ead up as high as ‘e could hold it, and the airs ‘e used to give ‘imself arter this was terrible for to behold. He got ‘is eldest boy to write a long letter to the squire about it, saying that ‘e’d overlook it this time, but ‘e couldn’t promise for the future. Wot with Bob Pretty on one side and Squire Rockett on the other, them two keepers’ lives was ‘ardly worth living.

  Then the squire got a head-keeper named Cutts, a man as was said to know more about the ways of poachers than they did themselves. He was said to ‘ave cleared out all the poachers for miles round the place ‘e came from, and pheasants could walk into people’s cottages and not be touched.

  He was a sharp-looking man, tall and thin, with screwed-up eyes and a little red beard. The second day ‘e came ‘e was up here at this ‘ere Cauliflower, having a pint o’ beer and looking round at the chaps as he talked to the landlord. The odd thing was that men who’d never taken a hare or a pheasant in their lives could ‘ardly meet ‘is eye, while Bob Pretty stared at ‘im as if ‘e was a wax-works.

  “I ‘ear you ‘ad a little poaching in these parts afore I came,” ses Mr. Cutts to the landlord.

  “I think I ‘ave ‘eard something o’ the kind,” ses the landlord, staring over his ‘ead with a far-away look in ‘is eyes.

  “You won’t hear of much more,” ses the keeper. “I’ve invented a new way of catching the dirty rascals; afore I came ‘ere I caught all the poachers on three estates. I clear ’em out just like a ferret clears out rats.”

  “Sort o’ man-trap?” ses the landlord.

  “Ah, that’s tellings,” ses Mr. Cutts.

  “Well, I ‘ope you’ll catch ’em here,” ses Bob Pretty; “there’s far too many of ’em about for my liking. Far too many.”

  “I shall ‘ave ’em afore long,” ses Mr. Cutts, nodding his ‘ead.

  “Your good ‘ealth,” ses Bob Pretty, holding up ‘is mug. “We’ve been wanting a man like you for a long time.”

  “I don’t want any of your impidence, my man,” ses the keeper. “I’ve ‘eard about you, and nothing good either. You be careful.”

  “I am careful,” ses Bob, winking at the others. “I ‘ope you’ll catch all them
low poaching chaps; they give the place a bad name, and I’m a’most afraid to go out arter dark for fear of meeting ’em.”

  Peter Gubbins and Sam Jones began to laugh, but Bob Pretty got angry with ’em and said he didn’t see there was anything to laugh at. He said that poaching was a disgrace to their native place, and instead o’ laughing they ought to be thankful to Mr. Cutts for coming to do away with it all.

  “Any help I can give you shall be given cheerful,” he ses to the keeper.

  “When I want your help I’ll ask you for it,” ses Mr. Cutts.

  “Thankee,” ses Bob Pretty. “I on’y ‘ope I sha’n’t get my face knocked about like yours ‘as been, that’s all; ‘cos my wife’s so partikler.”

  “Wot d’ye mean?” ses Mr. Cutts, turning on him. “My face ain’t been knocked about.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardin,” ses Bob; “I didn’t know it was natural.”

  Mr. Cutts went black in the face a’most and stared at Bob Pretty as if ‘e was going to eat ‘im, and Bob stared back, looking fust at the keeper’s nose and then at ‘is eyes and mouth, and then at ‘is nose agin.

  “You’ll know me agin, I s’pose?” ses Mr. Cutts, at last.

  “Yes,” ses Bob, smiling; “I should know you a mile off — on the darkest night.”

  “We shall see,” ses Mr. Cutts, taking up ‘is beer and turning ‘is back on him. “Those of us as live the longest’ll see the most.”

  “I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to see ‘im,” ses Bob to Bill Chambers. “I feel more satisfied with myself now.”

  Bill Chambers coughed, and Mr. Cutts, arter finishing ‘is beer, took another look at Bob Pretty, and went off boiling a’most.

  The trouble he took to catch Bob Pretty arter that you wouldn’t believe, and all the time the game seemed to be simply melting away, and Squire Rockett was finding fault with ‘im all day long. He was worn to a shadder a’most with watching, and Bob Pretty seemed to be more prosperous than ever.

  Sometimes Mr. Cutts watched in the plantations, and sometimes ‘e hid ‘imself near Bob’s house, and at last one night, when ‘e was crouching behind the fence of Frederick Scott’s front garden, ‘e saw Bob Pretty come out of ‘is house and, arter a careful look round, walk up the road. He held ‘is breath as Bob passed ‘im, and was just getting up to foller ‘im when Bob stopped and walked slowly back agin, sniffing.